The Buffalo Soldier

by Chris Bohjalian

  Have you been drinking?

  What?

  Terry realized he had misjudged Hammond: This man had some spine after all. Please don’t answer my questions with questions of your own, okay, Mr. Hammond? he said. Now, let’s try this again: Have you been drinking?

  It’s not even nine A.M.!

  Are you telling me no?

  He ran his hands through his hair, aggravated. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and Terry could see what he guessed were permanent ink stains on the man’s palms and under his nails. He probably ran a press at one of the printers in the city.

  I didn’t have anything this morning, but I drank a few beers last night.

  How many?

  Oh, I don’t know. Two. Maybe three.

  When did you have the last one?

  About four-thirty.

  In the morning? He’d asked it reflexively. He realized now that Hammond had most certainly meant in the morning.

  Yup.

  What time did you start?

  Drinking? I don’t remember.

  Terry guessed he had had a hell of a lot more than two or three beers. You slept? he asked.

  Oh, a bit, Hammond answered. But if you think you smell beer, I have to believe it’s because my brother spilled some on my coat. On the sleeve.

  Uh-huh. Please step out of your car.

  What?

  I will ask you one more time politely: Exit your car. Please.

  Hammond shook his head, but he swung his legs—baggy blue jeans the color of moonstone, leather work boots that looked as worn as an old baseball glove—onto the ground.

  Now recite the alphabet for me, Terry said.

  In English or in French?

  You’re asking me questions again, Mr. Hammond. Please—

  You really think I’m drunk? I can’t believe this!

  You were going seventy-one miles per hour in a fifty-mile zone. And you have acknowledged to me that you were drinking almost till sunrise. That’s all I think.

  Seventy-one?

  Seventy-one.

  Fine, he said. We’ll start in English. Then I’ll be happy to—

  Mr. Hammond, I am very happy you can speak French, but you are making your life a lot more difficult than you need to. Okay?

  May I sing it?

  I am going to presume that question was not meant to be flip, because I have been asked it before. Yes, you may.

  He nodded, buried his hands in the pockets of his parka, and proceeded to sing the alphabet accurately and with a slight Quebecois accent.

  Thank you, Mr. Hammond. That wasn’t so hard now, was it? Now I would like you to raise one foot slowly, keeping it parallel to the surface of the road. You are to keep your hands at your sides, focus your eyes on the toe of your boot, and count rapidly to thirty.

  Then can I go into the field and pee?

  Terry glared at him, and a small part of him was relieved that this time he had left his baton in the cruiser. Given how he was feeling today, this last question might have put him over the edge.

  I am not interested in the state of your bladder, Mr. Hammond, he said, enunciating each word slowly. And if I hear one more thing about it, I am going to put you in the cruiser and you are going to be using the bathroom at the county jail.

  Hammond smiled, placed his hands at his sides, and looked down at his boot. He lifted his right leg and he counted quickly to thirty. When he was done, Terry checked the inspection tag on the front windshield of the Subaru and saw the car wasn’t due until March.

  Let me see your directional now, please, he said to Hammond.

  I promise you, my directional hasn’t been drinking, Hammond told him, but he opened his car door, turned on the ignition, and flipped the directional to the right and the left. Both worked, and Terry signaled for him to shut off his engine.

  I’m only going to issue you a speeding ticket this morning, Mr. Hammond, he said, handing him the paper and returning to him his license and registration. I believe you have had more than two beers, but I also believe you are not impaired and are fully capable of controlling your vehicle. I believe—

  Spare me your speeches. I was speeding, first time ever, and you’re treating me like a criminal. Making me stand by the road, recite the alphabet. Ordering me to act like an ostrich. What’s the deal with that?

  I urge you to watch yourself, sir—

  And all this sir shit. Please. It’s the creepiest sarcasm I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard some pretty creepy sarcasm in my life. He then turned away from Terry and started to duck back into his car without signing the traffic complaint.

  We’re not done here, Terry heard himself saying, his voice losing the controlled edge he had cultivated over the years—he sounded almost whiny—and he reached for the man’s shoulder, planning to turn him back toward him or at least regain his attention. Instantly Hammond wheeled around, a movement as balletic as it was violent, complete and utter reflex, no thought, and his elbow hit Terry’s stomach like a punch. It doubled the trooper over and momentarily caused him to lose his breath. But it was just a moment, and when Terry looked up Hammond was staring at him in horror: He couldn’t believe what he had just done. Accidentally or on purpose, it no longer mattered, he had just knocked the wind out of a state trooper, and Terry could see in his deer-in-the-headlights dark eyes that Hammond knew instantly the magnitude of the mistake he had made.

  He drew his sidearm—astonished that he had climbed so quickly the ladder of force, but convinced he hadn’t a choice because his baton was back in his cruiser—and with his free hand threw Hammond against the back door of his Subaru. He was furious—furious that he had been challenged, furious that he had been caught off-guard and humiliated, furious that he had allowed a minor speeding violation to escalate into this—and there was a long second where he was tempted to swing Hammond’s head into the edge of the open front door. Crack open the son of a bitch’s skull.

  In the distance he heard a rumble, however, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a massive eighteen-wheel milk tanker approaching from the south. This reminder of the rest of the world—the world other than he and Francis B. Hammond, an overweight pressman who had allowed a chip on his shoulder to get himself slammed against the side of his car but whose body was now as limp as a marionette—settled him just enough that he understood this was at least as much his fault as it was Hammond’s. He should never have allowed this to go this far. That didn’t mean, of course, that he didn’t have every right to bust Hammond: He did. Oh, for sure he did. But he realized he wasn’t about to.

  You just assaulted a police officer, he said as he slid his sidearm back into its holster. You should be under arrest.

  His head was pounding, and he could feel his pulse thrumming in his neck and his ears.

  I’m not going to arrest you, however, because...because it’s the day after Christmas. Let’s leave it at that.

  The milk tanker slowed, the driver turned to watch the spectacle at the side of the road, and then it was past. The pavement was still trembling beneath its weight when Terry released Hammond and backed away, and told him there would be a gas station open in Vergennes if his bladder could make it another ten or fifteen minutes, but otherwise he should just go and use the woods. Then he retreated to his cruiser and watched Hammond drive away, only then realizing he hadn’t gotten the man’s signature on the traffic complaint.

  WHEN HE FINALLY returned to the barracks, he couldn’t bear to begin the paperwork he found waiting for him on his desk, and so he decided he would phone his mother instead. He’d been meaning to call her all morning. Yesterday when he’d spoken to his family—his mother and Leah and Russell had all gotten on the phone for at least a moment—Russell had sounded pretty hammered. He wanted to be sure now that his brother hadn’t gotten into any trouble.

  He was surprised when Russell answered the phone, but also a little relieved: It meant the man had had the common sense to understand he was too drunk to drive, and had spent the n
ight at their mom’s.

  I am mighty impressed to find you in Saint J., he said. What kept you from trying to weave your way home?

  You want me to say it was good judgment, Russell said, his voice low and tired.

  That would be nice. Unexpected but nice.

  His brother yawned. I just fell asleep and no one bothered to wake me.

  Passed out, eh?

  No, I fell asleep. There’s a difference.

  Where?

  In my truck, he said, and he laughed. Leah and Rick found me, and carted me back inside. It seems I couldn’t find my keys in my pocket, and I never made it down the damn driveway.

  You are one very lucky son of a bitch. You could have killed someone, you know, you could have—

  I have a headache, Sergeant Sheldon. Spare me this morning’s lecture.

  This is serious.

  You think everything is serious.

  He rubbed his eyes: He still had his headache, too. You working today? he asked Russell.

  I was supposed to. Soda and the mail, people got to have it.

  You call in sick?

  Do I have two moms? Is that what I got for Christmas? A second mom?

  Is that yes?

  Yes, I called in sick. You can sleep easy.

  Look, would you rather I didn’t worry about you?

  I’m fine, okay? I had too much to drink yesterday, but I won’t do it today. Okay? I’m clean, my truck’s clean.

  He shuddered at his brother’s use of the word clean, since he thought they were only talking about beer. He realized Russell was protesting too much, and if he was pulled over for speeding or even something as simple as a broken taillight, he’d probably wind up busted once again for possession.

  Good, he said, but he was unable to muster the enthusiasm he imagined his brother wanted to hear.

  You sound like you’ve had a pretty bad morning yourself.

  You’ve got that right.

  The two of us should take a day off together next month and go to the Outdoor Show, Russell suggested.

  Maybe.

  Not maybe, definitely! We’ll go to Saint Albans and spend the day ogling camping gear and guns. I know you need a new hunting jacket.

  We’ll see. Mom around?

  Is indeed, Russell said, and while his brother called their mother to the phone, he stared at the photos on his desk of Laura and the girls, and worried that a better man would have brought in a picture of Alfred by now.

  “[They lack] habits of thrift, economy, or...responsibility, and they are, with few exceptions, thieves and liars.”

  MAJOR THOMAS ANDERSON, TENTH REGIMENT,

  UNITED STATES CAVALRY,

  TESTIFYING ON THE QUALITY OF THE AFRICAN-AMERICAN SOLDIER TO THE SUBCOMMITTEE ON THE REORGANIZATION OF THE ARMY, JANUARY 2, 1878,

  45TH CONGRESS, 2ND SESSION

  Laura

  The boy sat beside her on the couch, and she told him all that she could remember about any picture he chose. He balanced each photo album on his knees, and when they had finished with one, he would place it gently on the floor and she would hand him another. Once she got up to get a cup of hot tea, and once he rose off the couch to go to the bathroom, but otherwise they never left the small room with the woodstove. Though it was nearly lunchtime, neither of them had bothered to get dressed yet. And when they were through—when they had flipped through the acetate-covered pages of five photo albums—he asked if there were more.

  Outside it had been snowing for well over two hours, and the ground was a down comforter of white.

  There are, she answered, but all the pictures in them were taken before the girls were born. They’re photos of Terry and me, and the different cats we’ve had over the years. I’m afraid they’d be pretty boring. She reached over and stroked the back of his neck and his head for a long moment, quite certain that she had not derived pleasure like this from these photos—from anything—in a very long time. She wasn’t exactly sure why that was, but she thought it was because she was sharing these memories with a person who’d never met Hillary and Megan before, and so she was almost telling their stories from scratch. She was reciting the anecdotes as if they were fresh and new, and she was sharing them with a person who was not listening just for her sake. Alfred was there beside her, hanging on her every description, because he was interested in her children. He wanted to know who they were, and if she didn’t understand completely his reasons, that didn’t matter. He wasn’t treating her like she was an emotional invalid, and he wasn’t doing her a favor.

  She took back her hand and he looked at her and started to smile.

  What’s funny? she asked.

  Your hair, he said.

  My hair?

  It’s been a mess ever since you took out your headband. It looks like it did in that picture Terry took when you just woke up. The time the girls brought you breakfast in bed. Mother’s Day, right?

  And that’s funny? My hair amuses you?

  No, but you were just rubbing and rubbing my head, and I bet my hair looks the same as before you started. Neat and tidy. Same as when I wake up in the morning. See, my hair always looks fine. It looks fine when I go to bed at night, and it looks fine when I wake up in the morning. I never looked at it that way before. But yours? Yours is—

  A rat’s nest, I know, she said, trying her best to keep a straight face.

  Just not neat.

  And you like that.

  I just think it’s funny.

  You do, do you? she asked in mock outrage, and then she placed both her hands on his head and—despite his squeals that she was tickling him and she had to stop—used her fingers like scalp massagers and did her very best to mess up his hair.

  AFTER LUNCH ALFRED wanted to visit the horse, and Laura went with him. She tried to convince herself that she wasn’t joining him because she wanted reassurance that the animal wasn’t some wild beast with froth at the mouth, but as they tromped through the snow, she knew that was among the reasons she was going. Though the lump on his head had gone down a bit and his wrist was feeling a little better, she remembered well the image of the boy with the ice pack on his head. Nevertheless, she knew that Alfred had no plans to ride today, despite his desire to try out his new boots: There were already nine or ten inches of snow on the ground and the storm was showing no signs of slowing. Laura had heard on the weather that the storm would drop perhaps half a foot on their corner of the state at the most, but it was clear now that the earlier prediction was considerably wide of the mark. The moment she opened their front door, she could see that the air was thick with flakes the size and shape of small sprigs of parsley.

  Briefly she thought of Terry, and she experienced a sharp pang of worry when she imagined him out in the storm. There would be cars in ditches by now, and cars colliding with trees and telephone poles and other vehicles. There would be fender benders and serious accidents, and it was likely there were already people who’d been rushed to area hospitals. And Terry, no doubt, already had been by the side of motorists whose cars were at best lodged in drifts and at worst had become the sort of twisted wrecks—shattered windshields, flattened roofs—that gave her the shivers when she saw them at body shops or on the backs of flatbed trailers.

  Sometimes when she expressed her concerns to him he would point out that while snow certainly sent a great many cars off the road, it didn’t always lead to the bloodiest crashes. Speed did, and even those idiots slowed a bit in a snowstorm. He would also remind her that he was about as good as it got when it came to driving in snow, if only, he said, from years of practice.

  The horse nickered when she saw Alfred, and leaned over the front of the stall. She watched the boy feed the animal the baby carrots he’d begun buying weekly for Mesa with his own money, sometimes stroking her nose when she was done chewing. Soon he opened the stall door and led the horse out, and she was impressed by the way he effortlessly slipped what he called the noseband over the great creature’s muzzle and was capab
le of buckling the halter so close to one of the animal’s eyes. The horse seemed far more interested in her, she decided, than in the leather straps Alfred was placing around her head, or in the fact that she was tied now to a post in the center of the barn.

  Here, he said, and he took her hand, still in its mitten, and placed it against the small indentation between Mesa’s shoulder and neck, and told her what he knew about the prophet’s thumb.

  She noticed for the first time the wide ribbons of white that looked almost like stockings between the horse’s rear hooves and hocks, and the way her head sometimes seemed to move in slow motion. The mare seemed gentle and inquisitive, but she also seemed huge: bigger and healthier than the horses she occasionally saw, since most of those animals were neglected and starving and abused. A horse in their county had to be in a pretty sorry state before it came to the attention of the animal shelter.

  They’d been there a short while when both Paul and Emily joined them. The wind was not loud—there was really very little wind at all—but the snow had muffled the sound of the older couple’s footsteps as they trudged from the house to the barn, and Laura jumped when she saw them suddenly beside her. Alfred had already shoveled out the stall and was bent over using a metal pick to remove manure from Mesa’s hooves when they arrived. She had noticed that her body tensed whenever he stood or walked or crouched anywhere near the animal’s hind legs: She worried that the horse was going to kick back and crush the boy’s skull or, if he was lucky, merely smash in his jaw.

  Emily was wearing a long parka with a cotton scarf over her ears and what might have been the ugliest cowboy hat Laura had ever seen on her head. The straw was dyed green and the pink band along it was, essentially, an ad for a restaurant in Texas that specialized in something appalling called the ladies’ choice thirty-two-ounce steak.

  We didn’t mean to scare you, Emily said.

  You didn’t. Your hat did.

  It’s from Amarillo, Emily said, laughing. They do like their beef there.

  Apparently.

  Paul strolled over to Alfred, looked briefly at the hoof he was working on, and complimented the child on his work.