by Andrew Smith
I was finished talking to Sergeant Stuart.
I bit the inside of my cheek and folded my arms across my chest.
Sergeant Stuart began searching the van, pulling open drawers and cupboards, dumping out towels, socks, underwear—all our clothes—looking for what, I had no idea. Maybe he was thinking of restraining me somehow, or looking for the starter fob for the van. Maybe he thought my buddy was small enough to hide in a cupboard. But at least he didn’t notice there were girls’ clothes mixed in with mine. Or if he did notice it, his reaction didn’t show it.
Sergeant Stuart finally stopped when he opened the cupboard just above my head.
He said, “Whiskey. You boys like to drink whiskey together?”
Stuart waved the bottle in front of my face, tilting it, so he could see how much had been taken from the bottle. Not much.
He put the whiskey on the counter in front of me. I tried not to look at him. I heard the clinking of cups, and then Sergeant Stuart put two coffee mugs beside the bottle of whiskey and sat down next to me, so close that our legs touched.
“This is what we do in the army, boy. It will make us better friends.”
Without saying anything, Sergeant Stuart uncapped the bottle and poured whiskey into both cups. Then he spun one around so its handle pointed to me.
“Have a drink, soldier.”
I grimaced. “I . . . I don’t really drink this stuff, Sergeant Stuart.”
“Bullshit. Somebody does. Maybe it’s just your little buddy who’s been hitting on this? Ha-ha!”
Stuart lifted his cup and took a swallow.
Then he said, “Drink.”
I took a sip. It burned inside my nose, but at least it covered the smell coming from Sergeant Stuart’s clothes.
Sergeant Stuart emptied his cup and refilled it. He poured more into mine, too.
• • •
In ten minutes, we were drunk.
“Drunk” for Sergeant Stuart meant be became a little more emotional and loud, a little more dangerous and stupid.
“Drunk” for me meant the van was spinning, and I was about to fall out of my chair. I also needed to pee and was extremely stupid.
“What the hell is that?” Sergeant Stuart pointed at the paintball rifle standing in the corner near my bed.
“A paintball gun,” I said.
“I know that. I know what paintball guns are, boy. Why do you have a paintball gun?”
I said, “Um. We like to play. Me. And my little buddy.”
Sergeant Stuart squinted, like he was trying to filter what I’d said, to somehow determine if I was fucking with him or not. He looked back and forth, alternating between the paintball gun and me. Then he got this look of understanding that seemed to say, Yeah, I bet these two little faggots like to chase each other around and play paintball.
Sergeant Stuart took another gulp, then nodded his chin at me so I’d at least pretend to take a sip too.
Knock, knock, knock.
The knocking on the door—the second time in all of eternity someone had knocked on the door of our van—came soft and unthreatening. I knew it had to be Mel.
Sergeant Stuart nearly jumped out of his clothes. He jerked his arm across the table, knocking over his cup of whiskey and spilling it onto my lap.
From outside, Mel called, “Arek? Arek? I’m back. Let me in.”
I was simultaneously relieved and terrified.
Sergeant Stuart grinned widely and said, “I knew the little feller wouldn’t want to stay out there alone for long.”
I felt a little sick when Sergeant Stuart got up and went to the door.
He pushed the door open, and then stood there for a moment, staring down at Mel. Then he looked at me. His eyes were dead.
Sergeant Stuart turned back to Mel, smiled, and said, “Well, I’ll be. So you’re not faggots after all. And aren’t you just about the prettiest little Asian girl I ever saw? Come in! Come in! This is even better than I thought!”
The Lifeboat
Sergeant Stuart had no immediate plans to leave Mel and me alone.
He drank whiskey at the small table beside me and stared, unblinking, at Mel, who sat on my bed. The sergeant kept mentioning that he wanted to take a shower, and he even talked about where he would sleep. It was like we were trapped in the Max Beckmann painting The Night, and Mel and I could do nothing more than helplessly observe whatever our intruder chose to do to us.
I watched her, too, trying to see if there was any clue Mel tried to give me about where she’d put the pistol, or if she had a plan, but I was too drunk and too confused to figure out anything.
“So, what are you two?” Sergeant Stuart said, waving an index finger between Mel and me, as though it would serve as some sort of divining rod to help him determine the nature of our relationship.
Mel answered, “I don’t know what you mean. We came from a place in Iowa. We got tired of living in a hole, and we wanted to look for his fathers, so we left. That was over a month ago.”
Sergeant Stuart smirked.
“Fathers?” Sergeant Stuart asked.
I felt my stomach turn. My dads had told me about how before-the-hole people—men, especially—often disapproved of boys loving boys, or girls loving girls, although they had never told me the kinds of names people like Sergeant Stuart used to describe those commitments.
“I have two fathers,” I said.
“Ha! I knew it! I thought you looked like a faggot the first time I saw you,” Sergeant Stuart said. He grinned and slapped his knee, proud of himself for figuring out at first glance that I was a faggot.
I looked at Mel, shrugged, and shook my head.
“If you say so,” I said.
Sergeant Stuart took his cap off and combed his fingers through his long greasy hair. Shakily he poured himself more whiskey. Sergeant Stuart was confused.
“So, you two—” Sergeant Stuart squinted again, his way of trying to figure out the absolute truth, of receiving the pure data. He asked me, “So you never stuck your dick in her?”
I didn’t answer. I said, “I really need to pee. I’m going out.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Sergeant Stuart said, waving his arms like he was trying to extinguish invisible flames. Then he turned to Mel and slurred, “It must be pretty sad for you, being out here all alone like this with a faggot.”
Mel said, “I don’t know what that is.”
Sergeant Stuart shook his head. “What’s wrong with you people? How could you live this long and not know about faggots? Hasn’t anyone taught you anything about right and wrong? About the destruction of our society? About the way the world is? A faggot. An un-American abomination-of-God faggot. That’s a sick motherfucker who only gets hard-ons for other boys.”
Mel raised her eyebrows and looked at me. Her eyes were wet. I thought she was almost smiling.
“Arek’s not a faggot,” she said.
I stood up, and all the blood rushed down from my head. It was like I’d dumped out a full bucket of all my contents onto my feet. I nearly tumbled into Sergeant Stuart. “I need to pee.”
I went to the door, fumbled with the safety latch on it, and fell down the steps.
Sergeant Stuart said, “Wait! You can’t go out there. Get back in here!”
Sergeant Stuart attempted to stand, then sat back down. Then he pushed himself up again.
By that time, Mel was already in the doorway.
I was on my hands and knees, in the grass at Davy Crockett Campground.
Mel said, “I’ll keep an eye on him. It’s okay.”
“But he’s a faggot,” Sergeant Stuart, who was not very clever, pointed out.
Mel stepped down and slid her hand under my arm to help me up.
“Are you okay?” she whispered.
I didn’t know if I was okay, but I did know how shitty I felt for putting us in this situation. “I’m sorry, Mel. He made me drink.”
The knees of my pajama bottoms had holes in them.
/> Mel said, “It’s okay. We’ll be okay.”
Then she kissed me on the mouth.
Mel guided me along toward the front of the van just as Sergeant Stuart appeared in the open doorway, watching us.
I stumbled forward and peed on the post that held up the Davy Crockett Campground sign, the one that promised all sorts of camping, hiking, boating, swimming, and fishing fun—all with multiple exclamation points, just like the Last Dance of the Year! posters at Henry A. Wallace Middle School. And as I peed on the sign, I thought, Fuck Davy Crockett Campground, and fuck the stupid decision that brought us here. Fuck Sergeant Stuart. Rattlesnakes and monsters are better than Sergeant Stuart.
I heard the heavy thuds of his boots as Sergeant Stuart stepped down from the trailer.
Sergeant Stuart walked right up behind me, just as I pulled up the front of my pajamas. He put his hand between my shoulder blades. “Don’t be afraid. We’re all friends now.” Then he patted me and said, “Come with me over there, boy, and let’s get my gun.”
Sergeant Stuart kept his hand on my back and pushed me along with him toward the river’s edge. I was dimly aware of Mel following a few paces behind us, but it wasn’t because I’d seen her—I could feel Mel was there, that she was looking at me, and Sergeant Stuart, too.
On the bank, Sergeant Stuart tripped in the grass and fell into me, leaning heavily across my shoulders and nearly toppling both of us.
He laughed. “This is what soldiers do! Ha-ha! That was good whiskey, boy. And, don’t worry, it doesn’t bother me too much if you’re a faggot. But that girl you got with you—she sure is hot. Haven’t you ever even wondered—been a little bit curious—about what it would be like to have sex with her? Ha-ha!”
Sergeant Stuart was an idiot.
Also, I had never heard anyone described as “hot,” unless it was in reference to the temperature, or a fever or something. But, like Sergeant Stuart’s use of the word “faggot,” I knew “hot” was something I never wanted to hear him say about Mel.
Finally, Sergeant Stuart took his filthy hand off my back.
He said, “Hey! I could have sworn I laid my rifle down right here.”
Sergeant Stuart stamped his feet into the ground, as though making some sort of attempt to force his rifle to materialize.
I turned and glanced back at Mel. She shook her head.
Mel had done something to Sergeant Stuart’s gun.
“Maybe it’s down that way.” I pointed farther out along the bank, nearer the edge of the water, where a low, flat dock extended out over the black surface of the river.
Sergeant Stuart almost fell down the bank. He caught his footing in the soft mud just at the river’s edge.
“I don’t see it. Where the fuck is my gun?”
“Do you think it could have slipped into the water?” I said.
“No.” Sergeant Stuart was angry, breathing hard. “Where the fuck is my gun? See if you can feel it out there in the water.”
“I—uh.”
“Go on. Feel around and see if it’s there.”
Sergeant Stuart grabbed my upper arm and pushed me toward the river.
“Just go in a little ways. Feel with your feet.”
I tried to resist, but Sergeant Stuart pushed harder. Then my feet slid out from under me in the slick mud, and Sergeant Stuart gave me a final shove forward.
I went face-first into the river. I kicked my feet down below me, but there was no bottom. I heard Mel calling my name from the bank, but there was nothing I could do except struggle to keep my head up and breathe.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Sergeant Stuart shouted at me.
I thought what I was doing was pretty obvious: I was trying not to drown in what turned out to be a very deep, and very determined, river.
The current pulled me out and around the end of the dock. I kicked and thrashed, trying to catch hold of anything I could use to keep my head up. I lost sight of where I’d gone into the river. The lights from the van disappeared behind a curtain of trees. Faintly I heard Sergeant Stuart cursing at me above my splashing and wheezing for air. I tried to kick myself toward the dock, but the river was too thick and strong.
Finally, my straining fingers caught something—an old rotting rope that came from the side of a boat, dangling from the eye of a plastic bumper that hung from the middle of the boat’s hull. I grabbed the rope with both hands and tried to pull myself up out of the water, but I slipped back down.
I heard the thuds of Sergeant Stuart’s boots drumming across the dock.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he said.
I pulled up again, this time trying to kick my leg over the edge of the boat’s hull. My pajamas were down around my knees, so it was like I’d been tied, but I managed to hook my right foot over the gunwale near the end of the boat.
I heaved myself over the edge, then immediately dropped with a painful crash down onto the boat’s deck. I coughed and spit, and then vomited a stomach full of river water and whiskey and macaroni and cheese all over the place. I was disoriented and nearly drowned.
“Is that you down in there? You didn’t happen to find my gun in the water when you were out there playing around, did you? Ha-ha!” Sergeant Stuart leaned over from the dock and peered down at me on the deck of the boat. “Here, let me help you, boy. Let me help you. Just a minute, here, and I’ll fix you up.”
I couldn’t see Sergeant Stuart, but I suspected he wasn’t too concerned with helping me.
I tried to sit up, so I could pull my pajama bottoms back on. I was too dizzy and fell back down onto the deck.
Then Sergeant Stuart threw something into the boat. It landed on top of my chest—the rope that had been securing the boat to the dock. Sergeant Stuart pushed the boat away from the dock with his boot.
He said, “Have a nice journey, boy. She can’t really want to be burdened with looking out for a faggot for the rest of her life, now can she? It wouldn’t be fair.”
The boat spun and drifted in the grasp of the wild river.
And again Sergeant Stuart said, “It wouldn’t be fair.”
I closed my eyes and blacked out.
On Civilization and Eggs
In the lower right foreground there is a lifeboat lifted on a wave.
The boat sits low in the water. I have counted and recounted all the people in the boat—at times there are thirty, at other times the number is twenty-eight or twenty-nine.
It is almost as though every time I look at it, the painting shows me something different about the world outside the hole. But there are two stories that always fascinate me, trapped in the image. First is the man in the ocean, barely holding his head above water while he desperately clutches an oar with both hands. I can see the strain in his grasp, can sense the cramping of his muscles, because he is only moments away from releasing his hold and succumbing to the frozen sea.
There is a woman leaning over the gunwale, talking to the man in the water. Her expression is enough to convince me she is telling him that everything is going to be good, and he should just hang on until things get better.
The second story belongs to a brown-haired woman seated in the middle of the crowded lifeboat. Her face is turned down, a deliberate effort to blind herself to the images around her—the sea, the sinking ship, the overturned lifeboats, people in the water. She has her hands pressed to her ears.
She is trying to block out the screams and cries.
All stories are true.
I think when Max Beckmann painted it, he had a premonition that he was drifting closer and closer to a hole.
• • •
I do not mean to make it sound as though for sixteen years I had never seen the sun or sky.
On the other hand, excursions outside the hole, with the exception of the rule-breaking ice-fishing trip I took with my fathers when I was thirteen, were generally tightly choreographed dances involving our special guns and wild sprinting dashes to the greenhouse, or to the chi
cken coop, or to pick apples and pears at the end of summer.
But every time I’d go out to help my mother, or sometimes Louis, in the greenhouse or with the chickens, there was always this unexplainable pall of fear that made me feel that I was entering an environment that stubbornly refused to offer any protections.
This was a natural thing for after-the-hole children like me and Mel to conclude, because there was never a day—and hardly a moment in our lives—when someone else, one of our before-the-hole shipmates, did not reaffirm the horrors and dangers of the world above us, without end.
Why would anyone ever want to leave the hole?
Although I could not answer this question, I was lured by the temptation of freedom and escape, by the earthy smell of the damp ground on a sunny and cold autumn morning, to do that thing that boys have forever been driven to do—to go away.
Every day, Louis and one of the boys would go up to the surface to gather the eggs from our henhouse. Robby or Dad would stand guard, and Louis would tend to the chickens. Occasionally I would be allowed to help Louis. This started about the time when I was nine years old.
And every time I’d go with Louis to pick up eggs and feed the chickens, he would recite a rhyme to me.
Higgledy piggledy my black hen,
She lays eggs for gentlemen.
Sometimes nine and sometimes ten,
Higgledy piggledy my black hen.
It became an entirely predictable thing, and Louis was a man of few words.
He learned the black hen nursery rhyme in his English class, after he came to America. I don’t think he ever stopped to consider what the words meant; as far as I could tell, Louis probably assumed “higgledy” and “piggledy” were real words—models that re-presented something from reality. And who would be able to tell him otherwise?
We had a black hen. She was big and mean, especially when sitting on her nest. I was afraid of her. On one of the first days I was allowed to help Louis with the chickens, he showed me how to use a small hand cultivator to rake out the nests.