Souvenir

by James R Benn

  Bright light like the white phosphorus shells that rained down over them in that little village, the one they took right after Hartman got killed. WP. Willie Peter. The Germans must have wanted to burn them out, or maybe that’s all they had left. Incendiary shells exploding into white-hot flame. Clay saw them bursting all around, in the street, on walls, houses, vehicles, setting everything on fire. Not the bright yellow and cherry red of regular fire, but a furious stark white incandescence. He had crawled under a tank out in the main square. One shell fell through the roof of a small thatched stone house opposite the tank. It exploded inside the house, and the screams told him a full squad had taken refuge inside. The screams didn’t last long, but the fire did, burning everything away except the stone. Clay stayed under the tank all night, and in the morning when he dared to look inside the stone house, nothing was left but the stone floor and walls. Inside were burned bones, blackened metal and a thick, gooey layer of grease. The stone house had been well built, and acted like a cauldron as the phosphorus burned itself out, igniting flesh and fat, the commonest of common graves, eight men melted into a single substance. He had gagged then, the stench worse than anything he had ever smelled, ever imagined, ever wanted to think about. He felt it coming back, but determined to stay here, to deliver the message to his son, not to be drawn back into ancient history. Clenching his teeth, to keep the odor from reaching farther down his throat, he brought up his hand.

  “I told you, you’re too young to smoke.”

  “You sell ’em, why do you care who smokes ’em?”

  Chris turned away, working the compacted grease loose inside the trap. Clay watched him, angry at the comment and unable to argue with the logic. Chris scraped a corner of the trap and lifted out the oldest, bottom-most layer of grease, soft and gray, dripping thickly off the large metal spatula. He ladled it into the can, tapping the spatula on the edge to get it all off. The liquid squish of the grease falling into the bucket released a cloying, dense odor that seeped into your skin, eyes, mouth and nostrils. Chris drew up his tee shirt, holding the thin cotton fabric to the ridge of his nose.

  The Graves Registration unit had used shovels, and it had made that same sound as they dumped it into a big steel drum. Clay turned, walked out of the room, out the back entrance, and fell to his knees, as he had that day in the village, and vomited. The odor of the grease ran through his body, forcing everything out, doubling him up on the gravel next to the garbage cans. He felt the acidic bile at the back of his throat, the smell of the grease twisting through him, leaving him gasping for air as he sat up and cleaned his lips with his handkerchief.

  There wasn’t a day that went by that Clay didn’t think about the war. There was always some fragment of memory, a thought that brought him back, once in a while it was even something funny. But this hadn’t happened in years. Right after the war, it was every night, in his dreams. He’d scared Addy half to death, digging a foxhole in the bed with his hands, screaming as the nightmare shells burst all around him. Some nights, when he could feel it coming, feel the memories pressing against the inside of his skull, ready to burst out, he’d sleep in the big chair in the living room, feet up on the hassock, and he’d feel safe. Alone. Unable to frighten anyone, unable to do sleeping harm.

  When Chris came along, the nightmares seemed to fade away. He had a family. A tavern to run. Money to earn. Ashtrays to clean. Cigarette machines to fill. Numbers slips to pack in a bag. There was an order to everything, and it calmed him. If the ashtrays got dirty, it meant he’d be cleaning them tomorrow. When people bought cigarettes, he’d be there tomorrow with a new supply. Sometimes he felt giddy with the joy of an endless string of known tomorrows.

  The pack of Winstons was still in his hand. He got up, spat, and lifted the lid of the garbage can to throw away the soiled handkerchief and the cigarettes. As he was about to drop them, he noticed the tax stamp. Virginia. One of his own.

  Addy was there at five, like always. Pulled over alongside the bright yellow paint on the curb, the no parking zone by the corner perfect for her. A spot always waiting when she came to pick up Chris, and one that required her to stay in the car, motor running. A tentative, apologetic honk on the horn to announce herself, and she’d sit patiently, waiting for her son.

  “Mom’s here,” Chris announced as he came out of the back room, throwing on his jacket. Clay was coming up from the basement with a case of Narragansett Ale. Chris didn’t meet his eyes. He could’ve been talking to Brick, one of the customers, or the walls. Clay set the case down on the floor and followed Chris outside. They hadn’t spoken a word since Clay had fled the kitchen. Chris had finished cleaning up, left the grill sparkling, emptied the trash, smiled at the customers he knew. This left Clay without resentment, but wide open to the shame and embarrassment he felt as he ran away from his own kid, felled by a random twenty year old memory. He couldn’t leave it like that, but he had no idea what to do, no concept of what he could possibly say to explain himself. He followed his son out the door, suffering with the small contentment of sharing the same space, breathing the same air, even if the connection went no farther than that.

  Chris opened the car door and got in. Clay leaned on the open door, keeping the connection open, three of them now together, the front seat of the Nash Rambler and the open door encompassing them, clarifying their relationship, defining Chris. Their boy, who they fed, clothed, employed, transported. Addy and Clay smiled across the gulf of their son, fidgeting in the front seat, his hand on the door handle.

  “My God,” said Addy, “what is that smell?” Her nose wrinkled as Chris leaned forward to turn on the radio and tune into his favorite station. The Beatles sang Twist and Shout through the static and Chris lowered the volume, hoping that would keep his mother from turning it off.

  “Me. I had to clean out the grease trap,” Chris said. His eyes stayed on the radio.

  “Well, those clothes will have to go in the wash, young man, and you scrub yourself when we get home. You smell like a greasy spoon.”

  “What’s for dinner?” Clay asked, not caring about food, but wanting to talk about something else, anything else.

  “Meat loaf. Clay, you look pale as a ghost. Are you all right?”

  Clay rubbed his face with his hand, trying to bring some life back into it. He was surprised it still showed, not happy that his face betrayed him so readily. Chris glanced up at him, then back to the radio. C'mon c'mon, c'mon, baby, now, come on and work it on out—

  “Yeah, fine. Tired and hungry is all. Chris did a great job today.”

  “Well, good,” Addy said. She moved her eyes from Clay to Chris, then back again, trying to signal Clay to tell Chris, not her. Clay understood what she meant, but what the hell was he supposed to do, repeat himself?

  A long black car drove past them, a Cadillac Deville, polished and gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Clay knew the car.

  “You’d better go,” he said. “I’ve got business coming. I’ll be home at seven.” He shut the door, patted the hood, and stepped back. He watched the Nash drive off, heard the rumbling noise that told him it would need a new muffler before long. It was a ’59, bought used last year, and it was going to start costing money. It was just for around town, but he wanted it to be in good shape for Addy. She deserved better. Clay looked to the Cadillac idling double-parked. The polish job looked a mile deep as it reflected the overhead sky. Last year’s model, it was sleek and lean, clean lines, classy. Addy would look good in that car, maybe a white convertible. He imagined them driving, top down, heading to the beach, sunglasses on, wind swirling over the windshield, cooling them in the summer sun and asphalt heat.

  A car door opened and slammed shut. The driver was out, a big fella in a green sharkskin suit. He opened the rear door for his passenger, a smaller man dressed in a black suit. Except for a stark white shirt, everything was black. Pointed toe shoes, tie, cufflinks, hair, mustache, even his eyes looked like black dots on white. He walked towards Clay, lo
oking into his eyes, searching for something. He stopped when he was nearly toe-to-toe. He was a couple of inches taller and tilted his head slightly. Clay smelled cologne, cigarette smoke, and sour wine.

  “Inside,” he said.

  “Sure, Mr. Fiorenza,” Clay said, and followed.

  Clay wasn’t surprised when they went inside and another well-built guy in a dark suit was standing by the back booth. Like the last time, the only time, Pasquale Fiorenza had come to Jake’s Tavern, he sent one of his men around the back first, to check out the place. Then he made his entrance. Mr. Fiorenza hadn’t made it to where he was today by walking into rooms without knowing what was on the other side of the door. Mr. Fiorenza sat in the last booth, facing the room. The dark suited guy sat on a bar stool facing the rear door. He didn’t order a drink.

  Clay slid into the booth, glancing at Brick, who shrugged, raised his eyebrows, and pulled a draft. Clay turned to Mr. Fiorenza, who sat with his hands up to his face. He looked tired. Clay was wary, uncertain of what the visit meant.

  “Can I get you anything, Mr. Fiorenza? Coffee?”

  Mr. Fiorenza pulled his hands down his cheeks, stretching his lower eyelids until the wet, red inner lid showed. His eyeballs were bloodshot, not the crystal clear white they had seemed outside. His hands finally left his face, which returned to its normal hardness. The hands went flat on the table.

  “How long have we known each other, Mr. Brock?” Mr. Fiorenza was always businesslike and proper, an Old World formality draped over his shoulders like a black topcoat. He was Clay’s age, a few years younger maybe, but he was from another world. A world of Cadillacs and cufflinks, a world far away from the worn wooden floorboards of Jake’s Tavern.

  “More than fifteen years,” Clay said. Since that first visit fifteen years ago, he had seen Mr. Fiorenza a dozen times or so, mostly at Tri-State Brands, sometimes at baseball games at West Side Field, and once at City Hall, whispering with a councilman.

  “Seventeen years, this December,” he said. “Seventeen years ago I came to you and we made a deal, yes?”

  The answer was so obvious all Clay could do was nod his head. Sure, they had a deal. Clay ran numbers for him, used his tavern and his cigarette route to bring in business, and in return he got a piece of the action.

  “And this arrangement has been good for both of us, yes?”

  Another nod. Clay was sure it worked out well for Mr. Fiorenza. Everything did, or else he wouldn’t have made the deal. It worked out for Clay too, even though he felt the pressure with the cigarettes. He was in no position to complain, given how deep he was in. Playing the numbers was no big deal, everyone looked the other way. Running numbers, that was different. Serious, like tax evasion.

  “So, Mr. Brock, if that is true, what happened to my receipts yesterday?” Mr. Fiorenza leaned forward, whispering, getting his face close to Clay. Clay saw the jaw clench, the eyes widen, the signs of physical anger uncoiling beneath the expensive suit. He wanted to back up, get away from the smell of the man, but his back was against the booth, nowhere to go.

  “I gave them to Al,” Clay said, feeling thick and stupid. He knew something hadn’t been right about that guy. He shouldn’t have handed the receipts over to somebody he didn’t know. So obvious now, with this angry man poised across from him, looking like he wanted to leap over the table and strangle him. Mr. Fiorenza eased back and folded his hands in front of him, as if praying.

  “Al. Whenever have I sent a stranger to you?”

  “He was driving a Tri-State truck, had the uniform, said Petey had been in an accident—

  how is Petey? Is he okay?”

  “He was beaten, my truck was stolen, and this scum,” Mr. Fiorenza waved his hand in the air, dismissing the lowlife Al, “this scum, works his route, and takes the receipts. Finally, someone with an ounce of brains calls me to check. Someone who can think, lifts up the telephone, and ends this, but not before I have lost thousands.”

  “I should have…”

  “How much did they give you?”

  “What?”

  “How much!” Mr. Fiorenza’s right hand slammed down on the table, the sharp snap of flesh on wood rattling the glass ashtray, still clean and clear in the middle of the table. Clay took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to calm the man, figure out what he needed to say.

  “I didn’t know anything, it was just another delivery, another pickup. The guy was a little strange, he was late, but everything seemed normal.”

  “A little strange, and you think that normal? Mr. Brock, you are one of my most successful associates. The bar, the cigarettes, how you do business, very quietly, nothing to draw attention. This is very good. Someone as smart as you, you are fooled by this man? I am not sure.”

  “Why would I—”

  “Has anyone contacted you,” Mr. Fiorenza interrupted, “about our business?”

  “No, nobody,” said Clay. “Was anyone else?”

  “Never mind who. Several weeks ago I was made an offer on my business.”

  “Tri-State?”

  “Yes, and all the associated business that goes with it. The price was very low, and I have no desire to sell. But these people, they have a great desire.”

  “So, Al was one of them?”

  “See, Mr. Brock, you are very smart. Yes, Alphonse DePaoli, he is a ladro giovane, a boy who steals from his elders, who has no respect.” Mr. Fiorenza took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shook one loose from the pack so it stuck out an inch or so, and pulled it out with his lips. Old Golds, Clay noted absently as Mr. Fiorenza lit up with a gold cigarette lighter.

  “This act was a message to me, a message that caused me to think how I would proceed if I were in their shoes,” Mr. Fironeza went on. “I would contact associates like you, explain to you how it would be in your best interests to do business with me. Get information, learn about how we conduct our business. Then, pull something like this, intercept revenues, cause a disruption.” He blew out a stream of smoke right at Clay.

  “No one has done that.” Clay felt calm now that the cards were on the table. It was bad news, but at least he understood where he was, what was going on around him. He was in the middle of a war, something he could grasp, maybe even manage. They both sat silently for a minute, watching each other. Clay had passed a test, he knew that much.

  “All right, then,” Mr. Fiorenza said as he unfolded his hands and spread them open. “If anyone does, call me immediately. We will deal with them. One of the two men with me today will accompany the new driver. You will remember their faces?”

  “Yes,” said Clay, glancing at the man at the bar.

  “If one of them is not with the driver, give him nothing.”

  “What if he insists?”

  “That is your problem, Mr. Brock. And, for the rest of this week, there will be no percentage for you. We have to make up losses. I still have to pay the winning numbers.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Do not dare tell me what is fair,” said Mr. Fiorenza, holding up a finger, as if stilling a rowdy child. “Nothing is fair. Nothing.”

  He slid out of the booth and walked out, the cleats on the heels of his black shoes sharp on the floorboards as he passed. The guy at the bar followed him, nodding to Clay as he went.

  Clay couldn’t argue with the logic. Fair was a fairy tale.

  Chapter Six

  2000

  Clay poured coffee from the pot, enjoying the aroma and the look of the hot steam swirling up as the liquid filled his cup. He set the pot back down on the burner, stirred in a touch of sugar and carried his coffee cup to the kitchen table.

  Addy didn’t drink coffee anymore, so one day Clay had put away the Mr. Coffee and dug out their old aluminum coffee pot. It was with the camping gear, covered by a canvas tarp in the garage. It was beat up, dented, and scorched black on the bottom, but it had cleaned up pretty good, and it wasn’t some piece of plastic crap. It was real metal, something you didn’t plug
in, it worked indoors and out, and you could watch the coffee cooking up, water bouncing up against the little glass top over and over again until it turned dark black and smelled like heaven.

  He sipped the coffee. It was hot and strong, really hot, not like the lukewarm stuff that came out of those drip pots. He had to slurp in air with it to cool it down. It always brought back the memory of drinking coffee brewed up in mess kits. Nescafe, instant coffee in little plastic packs. You’d dig a small trench in the ground, and stick in one of those heating tabs that came in C Ration packs. Burned hot and bright, no smoke. Put your mess kit over that, and heat up your chow or water for coffee. Once in a while, he’d get some real coffee from the Company kitchen and throw it in with the water and let it boil up. But that was rare good luck, or from bartering souvenirs when they had them. Most times though, it was instant coffee, the water poured burning hot into an aluminum canteen cup and the Nescafe and sugar cubes stirred in. You’d burn your lip on the hot rim, because the coffee cooled down sooner than the metal. But it tasted good, hunkered down in a hole with your buddy, the warmth filling your stomach, while you waited for the sun to come up. The days were short that winter of ’44-’45, the nights long, cold and dark in the hills and forests of who-the-hell-knows-where.

  This past winter, as the last year of his century wound down, Clay would lie awake at night, listening to the hard wind outside, wondering how he had ever lived in that weather, with nothing but what he could carry and his buddy to sustain him. Once, he had gotten up early, before dawn, and quietly dressed in his winter coat, warm boots, gloves, scarf, and wool cap, then went outside. He’d stood in the driveway for a minute, wind blowing gusts of snow over the plowed blacktop. It hadn’t felt right. He walked past the garage, into the backyard. That felt better. Hard ground. He went to a thin strip of trees separating his back yard from the back yard that came up behind him, where the land sloped down toward the other house. He moved branches aside and ducked into the trees. Another time, another place, this is where he would have dug in. In the cover of the trees, with a clear view to his front, the row of houses behind his house the enemy lines. This is what it felt like, he reminded himself as he knelt in the snow, fifty-five long years ago. He had to stop himself from getting a shovel and chipping away at the frozen ground. He couldn’t really do it, the sound would wake Addy, and she’d think he was crazy, and probably be right on the money. He’d grunted as he got up. Made his way back to the house, inside, carefully hung everything up so Addy wouldn’t notice.