Soldier Boy
Page 1
Flanker Press Limited
St. John’s
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Carter, Glen, 1957-, author
Soldier boy : a novel of reincarnation, redemption, and revenge / Glen
Carter.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77117-684-2 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-77117-685-9 (EPUB).--
ISBN 978-1-77117-686-6 (Kindle).--ISBN 978-1-77117-687-3 (PDF)
I. Title.
PS8605.A7778S65 2018 C813’.6 C2018-904127-7
C2018-904128-5
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© 2018 by Glen Carter
All Rights Reserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well. For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll-free to 1-800-893-5777.
Printed in Canada
Cover Design by Graham Blair
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Canada
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We acknowledge the [financial] support of the Government of Canada. Nous reconnaissons l’appui [financier] du gouvernement du Canada. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing activities.
For Tina. We clutch our hearts. Achingly inspired.
By uncommon strength and courage.
I did not begin when I was born, nor when I was conceived. I have been growing, developing, through incalculable myriads of millenniums. All my previous selves have their voices, echoes, promptings in me. Oh, incalculable times again shall I be born.
— Jack London, The Star Rover
Prologue
The cab sluiced through water nearly as deep as the axles.
Tugging at tires. Swishing. A constant wet thrashing beneath the car. The driver nudged the steering wheel to keep them away from an overflowing ditch. Then blessed himself.
“Weather for high ground,” he said. “Flash floods sweep you up and carry you away.” He squinted through the windshield, laid his shoulder into the gearshift. “Got an uncle, been lost in that desert since I was a kid.”
His passenger wanted him to stop talking. She placed one hand on her belly, the other squeezing the armrest. She needed him to forget she was even there, tucked into the back seat.
Instead, a pair of eyes intruded from the rear-view mirror, two faceless orbs on the dashboard light. “You don’t look good, lady. Maybe I should take you to a hospital.”
It was too late for that. She’d already made the phone call. There was nowhere else she could go.
“Come home,” the voice had said at the other end.
“Something strange is happening.”
“I don’t understand.”
How could he understand? How would anyone? Even the doctor. He had scribbled a prescription, which she stuffed into her pocket and later tossed into the trash. It wasn’t nerves and she wasn’t crazy. At first she refused to believe she was having a child, until the sickness set in and her clothing tightened against her tummy. Then it became impossible to hide, so she collected her things while the others slept and quietly slipped away. As far as they were concerned, she’d run home. To deal with grief, and some matter with God. They’d whisper and cluck their tongues, and eventually she’d fade from their thoughts, and their prayers. Now she was coming back, and even the most compassionate among them would turn their backs. Of that, she was certain, as well.
She pressed her hand tighter, took in jagged little breaths of wet warm air, and thought about the night before in bed. Two words repeating in her head, as if spoken by someone lying next to her. It scared her so much she’d scooted beneath the blankets.
The wipers sloshed back and forth as the car pushed through the storm, past a long stretch of highway that rose and fell with the wind, until they crested a hill, and she saw it then. A moment later, she told the driver to stop.
Rain beat against the hood like a drum skin.
“The driveway’s a river,” the cabbie said. “I can’t get any closer.”
“I’ll get out here. Merci.”
“Are you sure?” His look doubted her sanity.
Anything but sure. She heard it in her voice. He would have heard it, too. Still, she pushed the door open and dipped her foot in an icy pool.
“Jesus, lady. I’ll take you back.”
She ignored him. Pulled herself out. Into a maelstrom that caught her breath.
Lightning flashed, and thunder shook the earth. For a fleeting second, she reconsidered. But the cab was already pulling away. She stood there at the end of the driveway. Waiting for what, she didn’t know. The Cross beckoned, shimmering gold that lanced the sky.
“I’m coming home,” she had said on the phone.
“I’m waiting.”
She took a step, but another contraction stopped her. More painful than the others. The doctor had said she was weeks away. How could he be so wrong? She swept her eyes across the front of the building. Could they see her? Would they lock the windows and barricade the doors?
Her Bible was full of forgiveness, and she had underlined a dozen passages. There was not much else in her suitcase. Her rosary. A passport and a few belongings. A stack of letters, which she’d wrapped with a yellow ribbon. They were written in English, because she had insisted, even though her parents had grumbled sourly.
Both were dead now, and she missed them so much. She could never have returned to her village, not with the humiliation it would have brought to her family’s name. The damning looks at the market and the shuttered windows along the cobblestone passageways she skipped as a child. So, she had remained in America, and had disappeared. To a shelter run by Christians with large hearts. Until her phone call two nights ago. She had listened carefully to the voice, needing to hear what wasn’t in the words.
“God forgives,” he had said, because he truly believed it.
“Do you pray for me, Father?”
“Every day I pray for you.”
She had been special, once, even a miracle, when God had plucked her from the bottom of the sea. He’d had a reason for it. Then. She’d given her life to the church, praying that one day that reason would be revealed. Then, she’d been horribly tested and had faltered in a way that could not be forgiven.
Now, the angels were weeping. The rain their tears. The wind God’s lash.
She took a step toward a door at the side of the building. Higher ground. A tree was close, where she’d be safe. A pain suddenly split her abd
omen, and it took all her strength just to stand. She dropped the small case and clutched her stomach as another contraction took her to her knees. Phantom gunshots rattled through her. She hugged the dirt, tasted it, wanted to claw her way into the earth’s crust.
The air shimmered and a blinding white filled her head. Every molecule felt on fire. An apparition suddenly appeared. Running toward her. Slipping and falling. Calling her name and then, finally, at her side.
Push. Oh, Jesus. Push.
The baby was coming. Something wonderful. Something more.
Samuel Bolt, the boy
New Mexico
1
The priest nudged him through the open door.
“Are we here about an exorcist, Father?”
“Don’t be silly. You’re not possessed.”
“How do you know?”
“You’re a good boy. Satan’s got no time for you.”
The boy sniffed loudly. “It smells funny.”
“Funny, how?”
“Like Sister Beth’s polio boots.”
“Her burden.”
“Poor Sister Beth. Dragging around that bum leg.”
“God tests us, Samuel.”
“Like he’s testing me.” The boy backed into the priest’s legs. “Let’s go home, Father.”
The priest smiled with affection. “Soon.”
“You are aware what today is.”
“Yes, I am,” the priest replied. “Spaghetti day. With big fat meatballs. Your favourite.”
Satisfied, the boy looked about. With its fancy furniture, it didn’t seem like a doctor’s office. There was a big desk with a framed picture of a man in a white coat sticking a black kid in the arm. They were in a big tent full of cots. The kid’s face was all tears and snot.
“I don’t like needles,” the boy said.
“No needles today,” said the priest, smoothing his blond hair. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid. That’s for the little ones.”
“Like Ashton and Isaiah?”
“Yeah, and that new fat kid. He’s the worst. The little fool does nothing but cry.”
“You’re a good soul for caring.”
“Saint Samuel.”
The boy’s tense little muscles softened beneath the priest’s touch. His face brightened at the sight of a large, cushy chair. He launched himself into it. Legs and arms a sprawling mess. “Oorah,” he shouted. “Put your peckers back in your pants, the fire’s coming, it’s time to dance.” The boy laughed wildly, then in a flash turned serious as a schwack of spiders. “You ride shotgun on a Humvee, you appreciate something easy on the ass.”
The priest shushed. “No more war movies, Samuel.”
“Locked and loaded,” the boy cackled. “Gonna get us some.”
The priest shook his head. “Keep this up and you know what?”
“No spaghetti.”
“That’s correct.”
“Or spaghettini.”
“None.”
“And no spaghettoni or scialatelli.”
“Stop right now.”
“Or even scilatielli.”
The priest turned, stifling a chuckle.
The boy tossed back his head and opened his mouth. “Se un giorno io riuscissi a entrare . . .”
“Stop it, Samuel.”
“Nei sogni tuoi. Mi piacerebbe disengnare . . .”
“You’ll frighten the receptionist.”
The singing abruptly halted. “Sister Thomasina’s a lot more fun than you. She says I’m going to be a heartbreaker.”
“She’s convinced you are possessed,” the priest said.
“By the spirit of Our Lord.”
Man and boy made the sign of the Cross.
“Stick to your choir hymns.”
“Roger that.”
The doctor walked in then. Stooping to shake the priest’s hand. The boy studied him and decided he would have swayed like a sapling in a good wind.
The doctor smiled warmly. “You must be Samuel.”
“Samuel Bolt,” he replied, jerking to attention. “And this is one of my merry band, Friar Oscar. He has no appreciation for a fine soprano voice.”
The doctor nodded. “What a shame. I thought it was a stunning performance for a little boy.”
“The best.”
Everyone laughed.
“Be gone, Friar,” Samuel said. “Leave the wizard to his potions.”
The priest and the doctor exchanged a worried look, and then the door was softly shut.
Samuel sank into the chair and examined his fingernails.
A moment passed, while the doctor sat in a wingback chair the colour of dog poop. He shuffled around his notebook and uncapped his pen. “Do you know why you’re here, Samuel?”
“I have a fairly good idea.” Samuel replied, cracking his knuckles. “Why don’t you answer the question?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Then why did you ask?”
The doctor smiled weakly. “Let’s move on.”
Samuel gave him the biggest nod.
“Father Oscar says you’ve been having nightmares,” the doctor said.
It was true. That morning, he’d awakened screaming. So loud his throat hurt. One of the nuns had raced in with a cold cloth, soothing him with her soft words, and her eyes full of pity. It was the way she always looked at him. The others, too.
“Father Oscar’s a good man,” Samuel said. “Though he worries too much, and I’m very concerned about his drinking.”
The doctor clucked his tongue.
“He also swears like a longshoreman and has enormous farts.”
“And you spin quite the yarn.”
“I got plenty.”
Somewhere behind Samuel, a clock ticked. The doctor glanced at it, lightly stroking the arm of his chair. “Would you like to tell me about the nightmares?”
“Nope.”
“Can I ask you why not?”
“You could. Yup.”
A frown deepened. The doctor wrote something in his notebook. Adjusted wire-rimmed glasses. “Father Oscar also said you’re having other issues, son.”
“You’ve been talking a lot.”
“He’s concerned.”
“I appreciate the concern.”
“Well?”
The patient thought a moment. “Just things,” he replied.
“What kind of things?”
“Stuff,” Samuel said, tugging a lock of hair at his forehead.
“I’d like to know what you mean.”
“Scary stuff.”
“And?”
“Like a war movie.”
“Go on.”
“Soldiers and guns. Lots of bang-bang in the sand. Weird shit.”
The doctor nodded.
Samuel glanced around. There were shelves filled with books. Diplomas were hung here and there. “How long did you have to go to school to become a shrink?”
“Many years,” he replied curtly. “And I prefer psychiatrist.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
“Sometimes I can be a bit of an asshole,” Samuel said with a smile. “That’s what my buddies used to say.”
The psychiatrist leaned forward. “Buddies?”
“We watched each other’s back.”
“That’s what friends are for.”
“They were mostly assholes, too,” Samuel said. His smile vanished. “They’re all dead.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
Samuel watched while the doc stole a moment with his pen and paper.
“Stuff, you
said. Like you see in the movies.”
“It’s pretty complicated,” Samuel replied.
“Complicated how?”
Samuel sank deeply into the leather chair. “I’m there, and it’s really real. But I’m not me. That’s not possible, right?”
“The mind can conjure all kinds of things,” the doctor intoned. “What I think is you’re a very unusual boy. Really smart with a fantastic imagination.”
It was a bummer, being patronized like that. Like he was stupid. He was a lot smarter than the guy knew. Samuel jumped from the chair and dropped to the floor, doing push-ups. “I can do this all day. Wanna see, Doc?”
“Maybe you’d better sit.”
“How about a twenty-mile run? Get things pumping.”
“Samuel.”
“You think I’m pulling your leg.” Samuel stopped, got up, and plopped into the chair. “I’m not, you know.”
“How did your friends die?”
“I don’t know. They’re just dead.”
“And how does it make you feel?”
“Mad as hell,” Samuel said.
“Mad at who, Samuel?”
How should I know? “You must get some real wackos sitting in this chair,” he said. “I’d be really wigged out. You sleep at night?”
“Like a baby.”
“Lucky man.”
“Let’s talk about the anger. The death of your friends.”
Samuel pointed at the picture instead. “That kid must have been really pissed. You sticking him with that needle.”
“The little boy was dying of cholera,” the doctor replied. “I do work in Third World countries. Who are you mad at?”
Samuel dug fingernails into soft leather. “Mad at myself for being such a smarty-pants.”
The doctor gave him a sympathetic look. “It’s tough being so darn smart in those sneakers and Batman T-shirt.”
“That’s pretty well it,” Samuel said. “Should I go now?”
They both laughed.
Samuel thought for a moment, stared at his knees.
“It’s a pain.”
“Go on.”
“Being different from everyone else.”