Souvenir

by James R Benn

  “Get up,” Jake said with as much harshness as he could muster. “Get up!”

  He slapped him, trying to shock him back to here, now, to the reality of what had just happened. It was terrible, but it was the real world, the only one Jake knew, the place they all had to be right now. It was either here or maybe so deep inside the kid would never find his way back. He pulled him up and dragged him by the collar off the road, away from the blood, into fresh white snow. He thrust the replacement down to his knees, pushed his face into the snow, working it back and forth, cleaning the blood away, praying for the cold to shock the kid’s brain into letting go, letting him come back to now. He pulled him out of the snow, grasping him by his hair. Snow slid off his face, pink riveluts running down his temple. He gasped, spitting out snow, choking and spitting. Good.

  “What’s your name?” Jake asked again, yelling into the kid’s face.

  “Cooper, sir.”

  “Do I look like a fucking officer to you?” Jake studied the face in front of him, looked into the brown eyes and saw the freckles dotting his cheeks. The kid didn’t think Jake was an officer, he was just a kid who had been brought up to say sir and ma’am. Jake was twenty-two but probably looked like a real grown up man to this kid.

  “No, no.” He was afraid. Everything had gone wrong and now he was covered in blood and this guy was yelling at him.

  “Okay, Coop. Relax. I’m Jake. C’mon, we gotta get outta here.” He took him by the elbow and helped him up. Big Ned and Miller were behind him. Miller had Cooper’s M1 and had snow cleaned it too. Tuck trotted up, Cooper’s helmet in hand, clean and glistening wet. Shorty had an overcoat slung over his arm, taken off a G.I. who got hit in the back of the skull as he lay in the snow. There was not a mark on it. They all gathered around Cooper, undid his web belt and took off his pack. Miller unbuttoned the overcoat and Big Ned grabbed it by the shoulders and pulled it off, throwing it into the snow. Cooper’s mittens came off too, replaced by a dead man’s pair. They dressed him, like five mothers sending a first grader out in a snowstorm, even buttoning his coat back up and buckling the web belt. Cooper let them do everything, relief at being alive showing on his face, a stunned half-smile leaving him looking delirious. Jake watched Cooper’s eyes dart about as he tried to take in what was happening, to enjoy this attention that had seemed improbable when he first got down off the truck. Everyone heard stories of guys up on the line ignoring replacements, not learning their names, sending them out on point, giving them all the dirty jobs, using them to save their own lives. This wasn’t anything like that. Cooper had been transformed before their eyes, from hapless replacement to impervious survivor. When they were done, Tuck stood in front of Cooper with his helmet, put it on his head, and patted it. Then Shorty stepped in front of him and gave it a pat, then Big Ned, Jake, Miller last. They all wanted a touch of Cooper’s luck, the guy who stood there, men on either side of him mangled and killed, and stayed on his feet.

  “Where’s Clay?” Jake looked around. Except for medics tending the wounded and a few G.I.s helping the less seriously hurt down the road, they were almost alone. Up ahead, two halftracks burned, mortar rounds exploding as they heated up. The trail end of the column disappeared as the road descended into another patch of woods. Jake saw Clay, unmoving, kneeling over the dead replacement. His head was bowed, and he held his rifle by the stock, butt on the ground, and was slowly hitting it against his helmet. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap….

  Tuck and Shorty led Cooper down the road, and Big Ned stood behind him to block the view in case he turned around. Jake wasn’t sure if he had seen his buddies up close, but there was no need to, no need to lose your cherry over guys you knew. They had all seen bodies ripped open, the mysterious workings of the inner sanctum laid bare, organs, intestines, bones, flesh, thick veins and arteries, all steaming in the cold, the last bits of human warmth drifting off into cold air. Jake and the rest of them knew too that if Cooper was indeed a lucky charm, and managed to live for weeks or just a couple of days, he’d see his share, puke his guts out the first time he saw a man, G.I. or Kraut, alive enough to beg to be shot as he watched his intestines slide out of his gut, a shrapnel wound dissecting him like a scalpel, opening him up for inspection without inflicting a mortal wound, or at least an immediate one. If he were really lucky, he’d live long enough not to puke the next time, and get to decide if it was a crime or a mortal sin or a good deed to kill a guy like that. Then, if Cooper really were pure gold, a walking rabbit’s foot, he’d still be around one day when he’d walk by a wounded guy and not give a shit. Shoot him in the head, or ignore him, let his pleading and crying bounce off his back, it wouldn’t matter, not one fucking bit. Killing and indifference, one and the same.

  If he were really lucky.

  Chapter Five

  1964

  Wind blew rain against the window as Clay pressed his hand to it, feeling the coolness bleed into his palm. He wiped the condensation from the glass, rubbing his fingers over the red reversed letters that spelled out the Jake in Jake’s Tavern. It was after three o’clock and Chris should have been here by now.

  “Where the hell is he?” Clay said, low and quiet. He turned away from the window and straightened the chairs around the two round tables pushed up next to it. Some folks liked to sit there, watch the cars drive by, wave to people on the sidewalk, be seen drinking their Schlitz or Seven and Seven. Others liked to take up position at the bar, right behind the two tables, where they could hook their heels around the wooden stool legs and study their drinks.

  “Give the kid a break, Clay,” said Brick, wiping down the bar, dumping ashtrays as he went. “Maybe he’s got a girl.”

  Clay moved to the half dozen booths lining the opposite wall. Coat racks rose like flagpoles between the varnished oak backrests. Folks liked the booths too, a good place for conversation or serious drinking not on display for the neighborhood to see. Off duty cops from up the street liked the rear booths best, where they had a view of the whole room and an exit at their backs. So did Clay.

  He picked up the ashtrays from the tables, empting them as he went, knocking them on the inside of the metal trashcan he carried in one hand. Then he changed course, wiping down the heavy glass ashtrays with a damp rag and setting them back in the center of each table, until he reached the front of the room. He viewed his work, liking the neat cleanness of the ashtrays set dead center, exactly the same on each empty table. A rainy mid-afternoon was the best time to clean up, no customers to get in the way of a clean sweep. He stepped up to the window again, looking up and down the street and shaking his head.

  “Not girls I’m worried about.” He spoke to the glass. Brick had already moved off to the kitchen in back of the bar, a galley space really, hardly wide enough for two people not to get in each other’s way. Clay could hear him scraping grease from the small grill where they cooked up hamburgers for the lunch crowd. The grease trap would have to be cleaned out soon, not a job Clay wanted to do himself, or would give to Brick. It was just the job for a teenage kid earning a few bucks under the table working after school. But lately he couldn’t get Chris to do anything he wanted him to do. Everything was a struggle and a fight, and an overdue grease trap was going to be no exception. Now Chris was late, and Clay didn’t know if he should react like a boss or a father, or both, or exactly what the difference was supposed to be. What if Chris turned up his nose at cleaning out the trap, what was he supposed to do, fire him and then say see you later at the house?

  He shook his head, wondering how things had gotten so complicated. Last week, he’d blown up at Chris when he found him going through his cigar box. The one he kept in the small drawer in his dresser, crammed with tie clips and a few old cuff links. Chris had said he was looking for a tie clip, but he’d never put on a tie after that. It was the memories he was after. He had the small cigar box open, flicking the dried out Zippo, little sparks flying from the flint. A photograph, folded and creased, worn at the edges, had f
allen to the floor. Clay winced inwardly as he remembered his reaction. He yelled, pointed at Chris to get out, stop pawing through his stuff.

  “But who are these guys, Dad? Is one of them you?” Chris scooped up the photo from the floor, holding it close to his face, squinting. It was faded colors of white and gray, snow and seven men, cradling M1s and wearing their helmets like crowns.

  Clay had grabbed it away so quickly he’d been afraid it would rip.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he’d said to his son, and pushed him out of the bedroom, leaving the door open while he put everything back where it had been, carefully sliding the little drawer shut.

  A car came down the street, too fast, braking to a stop in front of the tavern, the sound jolting Clay from his thoughts. Chris got out of the back seat and sprinted to the door, his open jacket flapping behind him. Clay felt the irritation rise up, filling his mind, driving everything else out. That was a good fall waterproof jacket Addy had picked out for Chris at the start of school. Didn’t the kid have enough sense to zip it up in the rain?

  “Dad!” Chris said, before he was halfway through the door. “Brick! Take a look at Tony’s new car!”

  “What is it, kid?” Brick said, drying his hands as he walked around the bar.

  “A ’56 Dodge Coronet, two-tone. V-8. Look at those fins!”

  The car was black on the roof, hood and tail fenders. The rest was yellow, the colors demarcated by shining chrome. A thread of rust ran along the bottom by the rear wheel, and the exhaust showed blue smoke as the car sat in the road, jammed with teenagers. Tony rolled down the driver’s window, lifted his head hello to Chris’ father, and took off with enough acceleration to show the power under the hood but not enough to leave rubber. That would have been too blatant, insulting to the parent of a friend. Instead, Clay heard the squealing of tires on wet pavement after the car vanished from sight, up the hill, closer to the police station, which showed daring as well as consideration, not to mention deniability.

  “Where were you?” Clay said, pronouncing each word hard, stressing the importance of location, time, and relation, willing Chris to understand why each of them, or even only one of them, was important.

  “Out with Tony and the guys. He bought the car from a guy in Wallingford, we had to go get it.”

  “You,” said Clay, “were supposed to be here, at three. To work.”

  “Jeez, Dad, it’s only twenty after, don’t blow a gasket.”

  Chris turned away from his father, taking his jacket off and walking towards the back room.

  “Where’re your books?” Clay said to his back.

  “No homework tonight.” Chris kept walking.

  “Wouldn’t kill you to study some,” Clay said, raising his voice, going for the last word even as he knew it wouldn’t be. Talking with Chris was like boxing with a tar baby, every time you thought you landed a good one you only got more stuck, unable to make a clean break.

  “For what?” Chris opened the door to the back room, got rid of his jacket, and took a wooden push broom from against the wall. He started sweeping up in the bar, pushing dust, matches, cellophane from the tops of cigarette packs, crumpled bits of paper and the other debris of drinkers into a central pile.

  Brick was back behind the bar, counting out the change in the cash register, not wanting to be in the middle. He avoided both of them, trying to get things ready while there was time before the first of the day shifts got out and business picked up.

  “For your future, Chris. So you can make something of yourself. Do something more than make ball bearings at New Departure for the next forty years. No offense, Brick.” Clay glanced at Brick, who had done his forty with a two- year break when his Guard unit got called up for Korea.

  “Forty years?” Chris said, stopping and holding the broom handle up with one hand. “I’m not going to do the same thing for forty years, what’re you crazy?”

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” Clay said, advancing and raising his hand. Chris flinched and Clay tried to calm down, not make a fool of himself, or hurt Chris before he got things under control. He felt his hand hanging in the air and brought it down in an arc, grabbing the broom away from him, thankful there was something to latch onto. They both stood looking at each other, Chris surprised, his eyes wide open, ready to step back but not wanting to, not wanting to give ground. Clay, strangling the broom handle with one hand, trying to stop his forward movement, wishing his son was ten, or eight maybe, not fifteen and talking like such a punk, asking for trouble.

  “I’ll sweep up. You clean out the grease trap.”

  Chris swiveled on his heel, giving his father a clear berth as he walked to the kitchen. He stopped at the bar. “Sorry, Brick, I didn’t mean you.”

  “Don’t worry, kid, I know what you meant. No offense taken, either of you.” Brick closed the register and kept his head down, setting up beer glasses, giving them a final rub with a clean cloth to get the water marks off.

  Two customers came in, locals from the neighborhood. Clay watched as they ordered beers. Brick served them, money changed hands, and two little slips of paper went into a cigar box under the counter. Couple of five dollar bets, big spenders. Nice and low key, like Clay liked it. Nobody made a fuss about it or made a big show of putting down their numbers. It went on when off-duty cops were in, but it was done so casually that it was part of the scenery, like the picture of the old Silver City Brewery on South Colony Street, hung up over the bar. The place was long shut down, but it was famous around town since Legs Diamond owned it during Prohibition, and had kept producing bootleg beer along with the soda pop that was supposedly keeping the brewery in business. This was a lot like Prohibition. Nobody wanted to embarrass their buddies on the force by breaking the law right out in the open, but everybody knew what was going on. What people didn’t know was how much of it was going on. Even with the share he gave Brick and Cheryl out of his cut, Clay ended up with a fistful of cash every week, plus, it brought customers into the bar. The number slips he collected on his rounds filling cigarette machines were all his. He didn’t have to divvy up that cut with anyone.

  Clay looked away from the customers, leaving them to their small beers and big dreams of hitting the numbers as he swept the floor, keeping his eyes down, piling up dirt from corners, under the booths, along the bar. He swept everything up he could, then turning the dustpan at a right angle to the thin line of dust left on the floor, swept it up again. He repeated the process one more time. Any job worth doing was worth doing right, that’s what he’d learned growing up. That was when jobs were hard to come by, and you were damn glad to get any work. Now there were plenty of jobs, but not enough good hard workers to fill them. How was that kid ever going to make it? All he wanted was a car when he turned sixteen, something with big fins and lots of chrome. Chris couldn’t see beyond the next hood ornament, while Clay worried what would happen once he got what he wanted. What would it be then? Drag races, drinking, an arrest, maybe an accident, maybe worse.

  The door opened and Clay went to put the broom away. Business, about to pick up, demanded his attention. Chris’ job was to get the place cleaned up for the after work crowd, then do whatever chores were needed. It was only for two hours, but Clay had talked Addy into letting Chris have the job. He’d get to spend time with his son, Chris would earn his spending money, and they’d know he wasn’t out getting in trouble with his pal Tony. A year older than Chris, Tony already had been in juvenile detention for a fistfight last summer that sparked a near riot at the A&W drive in. That convinced Addy, and she agreed, as long as Clay promised to keep Chris clear of any of his arrangements with Tri-State Brands.

  Clay leaned the broom against the wall, chuckling to himself. Yeah, I’m worried about Chris turning into a juvenile delinquent, but maybe I should be worried about my own problems with the law. He picked up Chris’ jacket, thrown in a wet heap on a folding chair. He hung it on the back of the chair, shaking his head at the carelessness of his so
n. Seeing a bulge in the pocket, Clay reached in, pulling out a half-empty pack of Winstons.

  “Damn!” he said, picking the folding chair up and slamming it on the floor. He stared at the chair for a minute, seething, and then walked into the kitchen, gripping the red and white pack in his hand.

  Chris had an apron on, and was scraping out the open grease trap, filling a metal can with the fatty yellow and brown sludge. It smelled like bad meat and burnt rancid butter, which wasn’t far off. The smell rose up into Clay’s nostrils and he felt like gagging. He took a deep breath but it was worse, more of the same awful odor crawling into his mouth and lungs. Clay was thrown off stride for a second, surprised at Chris already hard at work on the trap. He half expected to find him goofing off.

  Chris’ face wore a look of disgust as he grimaced at the sight of another hunk of aged grease dumped into the can. He looked at his father, not noticing the pack of cigarettes he held.

  “Yeah?”

  Clay fought to keep his stomach in control. The smell overpowered him, tried to open him up and spill him out. He felt his eyes water and his skin go clammy. He wanted to turn and run, but he had come in here for a reason. He had something to say. He was confused. What was happening? The cigarettes, he was going to tell Chris—what? That he was doing a good job, doing what he was told? Or was he?

  “Dad?” Caution edged into Chris’ voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “I…I told you…”

  The putrid smell rose up again, like a wave rolling over him. He didn’t understand what was happening, why everything was so off kilter, why he couldn’t make sense of anything.

  “Dad?”

  Then he knew. Knew what the smell was. Knew the difference between this smell, here and now in this kitchen, with his son kneeling on the floor, and that other smell, the one switching on the memory like pulling a light cord, filling the room with blinding white brightness.