by Glen Carter
The doctor wrote something. “Is being different so horrible?”
“Yeah,” Samuel replied. “All the other kids get to be stupid. Do stupid stuff. They don’t have to worry.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you worry about?”
“Why I’m like this,” Samuel said. “Ricky Mack makes the Cross every time I pass him. Hate that prick.”
“Ricky Mack’s not important.”
“His mom and dad are drug addicts. That’s why he’s a ward of the state.”
“So?”
“Father Oscar says I’m an old soul.” Which meant he was for sure much older. He asked Father Oscar once about being a grown-up.
“One day, with God’s guidance, you’ll be a man.” Father Oscar had given the only answer he could. His big dusty books were the same. The Bible had a line, When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. Samuel didn’t recall childish ways. No ga-ga moments.
“Are you religious?” he asked the shrink in his boyish voice.
“You mean do I believe in God?”
“The Almighty.”
“I do believe in a higher power. Call it God, if that fits.”
Samuel nodded. He was still working on the God thing. The question had been a dalliance. “Spirituality and religion,” he said. “A drug for the masses. Yada, yada.”
The doctor jotted something in his notebook.
“Let me guess. ‘Patient rambles about God and universe.’”
“No one said anything about the universe. Are we talking about God or astronomy?”
Samuel checked himself. “God created the universe and then became the universe.”
“A true pantheist.”
Samuel would look the word up. He was full of curiosity. That was why he was here. Needing answers. Hoping for the right questions. He sat forward. “But if God created the universe, who or what created God?”
“A question for theologians, I suppose.”
“Or Stephen Hawking.”
Eyebrows were raised.
“Which brings us to what?”
“Why I wonder about this stuff.”
A smile. “You’re a curious boy.”
“Father Oscar says the same,” Samuel replied. “He’s got a hotline to God.”
“What did God tell him?”
“That I needed to see a shrink. Sorry.”
“You’re forgiven.” The psychiatrist checked his notes. “Father Oscar says you’re not eating these days.”
Spaghetti was an exception, but truthfully, not today. Samuel checked the clock.
The doctor ignored it. “Is that because of the visions?”
“Nostradamus had visions. He ate.”
“Not exactly visions. Prophecies.”
“Schizophrenics eat plenty. They have visions.”
“No. Hallucinations. And you’re not schizophrenic.”
“That’s a weight off my shoulders.” Samuel jumped up and walked to the window. “Is that your car?”
“Yes, it is.”
“What kind is it?”
“BMW. You know the brand?”
“Know they’re lots of money.”
“Is that important?”
“Hell no. Father Oscar says labels are bullshit. They mean nothing. Except phoniness and surrender.”
“Surrender to what?”
“To the judgment of others. Bet you park her outside a big house full of expensive stuff.”
“I enjoy nice stuff. Is that so bad?”
Samuel turned. “Depends on what you have to surrender to get it.”
“Come sit.”
Samuel sat.
A long moment was spent. Samuel could have rambled on forever. But what would have been the point? He felt so alone, sitting there like that, wanting to scream at the man for his blunt shrink instruments.
“It’s unusual to see cynicism in someone so young,” the doctor said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a boy like you.”
“There’s that judgment I was talking about.”
“Does it bother you?”
“You can do better than that.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“No, it doesn’t bother me, and yes, you are that obvious.”
“I’ll try to do better. Sorry I haven’t met your expectations.”
Samuel scored one for the shrink. “What were we talking about?” he asked.
“Your deceased friends.”
Samuel tried to say something, but suddenly he couldn’t breathe. His eyes snapped shut. In his mind, ghosts rode iron horses and lightning pierced a black sky. Far away, there were the screams of men, in so much pain he could have cried. The vision ended abruptly. Samuel opened his eyes and hoped the psychiatrist hadn’t noticed.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Samuel said, unable to control the tremor in his voice. “Am I crazy, doc?”
“No,” the doctor chuckled. “But I do believe you need to talk to someone.”
“And that would be you.”
“Yes, Samuel. That would be me. Do you mind if I begin recording?”
Samuel nodded slowly. Twelve years old. With a soul that had travelled a million miles to the cosmos and back.
Kallum Doody, the soldier
The Gulf War
2
Twelve years previously
Iraq
29° 3’ 56.7828’’ N
46° 24’ 22.5000’’ E
It was the sand that really pissed him off, which was a pain in the ass since the damn country was basically made of it. Sand as far as his goggles could see. Heaving up and falling away like an ocean swell. Just like home, Kallum Doody thought, but minus the salty air and seaweed. He had legs for it, knees like gimbals, rolling and pitching beneath a killing Arab sun.
Right about now, back in Harbour Rock, they’d already have a load of fish aboard. He’d be stowing the gear, looking forward to getting in. His old man would have Merle Haggard blasting in the wheelhouse. Not worrying about getting his head blown off in a bloody war.
0900. They were running jackrabbit quick. The faster the better, Doody told himself, which he did all the time, like some nervous little twitch. Check the gear, the water in his canteen. Whatever. Surviving was in the small shit. Even the serial number of his weapon was inked on his brain. Two guys had been slapped with Article 15s after swapping their rifles at the rack. It was a stupid thing to do.
Doody didn’t have any good idea where the hell they were. That was Rutter’s job, and right now he didn’t have a lot of faith, which was another pain in the ass. He scanned the horizon and calculated the firing arcs. Thankfully, there wasn’t much to fret over, which was right as rain, unless you were the Republican Guard out to bag a Humvee full of well-muscled Marines.
Doody rode bronco with the .50-cal at the top of the vehicle. Chongo was driving, and Rutter was next to him with the maps and radios. Morgan and Oakley had eyes peeled in the rear. The recon runs were the best way to acquire the big picture. The muckety-mucks at Centcom called it “ground truth.” The muckety-mucks who got paid to screw things up, like the geniuses who requisitioned jungle boots for a desert war. The men grumbled about those bozos when they had nothing else to yap about. Then there were the rumours, which were swapped like dog-eared baseball cards. The latest had the Republican Guard close to the border, stuffing their artillery shells with mustard gas. It was likely bullshit, but Doody had checked and rechecked his mask that morning.
The .50-cal spun left and right as Doody fixed on imaginary targets. That twitch again. They weren’t fighting yet, but men had already died. A week ago. He reported for the off-load just as a Blackhawk helicopter touched down, like some dark ang
el descending. There were three body bags aboard, without bullet holes or missing body parts. The poor sons of bitches had driven into a river and drowned. Shit like that swept through the FOB like dysentery. Everyone tucked in a little closer to whatever got them through. For some it was the chaplain. The others, well, that was another story.
Doody dipped his helmet. Plucked at a seaman’s prayer that seemed appropriate: Lay the roaring waves to rest . . . Then he checked their six o’clock, which was a monster column of dust. About twenty miles back they’d stumbled upon an abandoned village, a handful of crumbling huts and a dried up well. The villagers had left a ton of crap behind. Doody figured there was only so much room on the back of a camel. In one of the sandy hovels, a dagger was stabbed into the pages of some Holy book. Everyone cozied up to it.
“What’s it say?”
I against my brother, my brother and I against my cousin, and my cousin and I against the stranger.
“What the fuck does it mean?”
“It’s a warning.”
“For who?”
“Not the Iraqis.”
“Dagger’s mine.”
“Leave it.”
Sweat trickled down Doody’s back. He swept the dust from his lips and spat. The Humvee was a tin can on a tank chassis. Even with the wind in his face, it was a bake box. His body armour absorbed the heat, like it distributed the ballistic energy from bullets and shrapnel. He was soaked. Sawdust thirsty. The scrap of a fantasy of stripping down and really getting into the ride. Like back home. Gunning his ’68 convertible up the coast, with a cooler full of cold beer and howling at the top of his lungs. Sarah always gave him that look. Sweet Sarah, who’d pretend she was put off. Then, a minute later she’d be screaming louder than him. Doody wondered what she was doing at that moment. Whether she was thinking about him, on the other side of the planet, turning to dust in a country he could never have located on a map only a few months ago.
“The cradle of civilization,” she had informed him. “They invented the wheel and the plough. The Garden of Eden was there.”
“Where Eve seduced our boy Adam.”
“Stay away from the women, or else.”
“The forbidden fruit.”
“You got it.”
They’d started out with half a dozen Humvees at dawn. Fanned out along different vectors with jerry cans full of fuel. Radio chatter said two of the vehicles were already being towed home with broken driveshafts. The wrench-turners at maintenance would say it was a consequence of failing to understand the limitations of the equipment. And the goddamn sand, which clogged up everything that rolled, fired, or flew.
Something from the ’60s was playing in his headset. Doody couldn’t remember the lyrics. Oakley was better at it. Wailing like a banshee.
“Shut the fuck up,” Morgan squawked.
Oakley was putting everything into it.
Chongo jumped in, creating a mash that crashed the intercom.
Morgan and Oakley were assholes. But they were a laugh, which made up for it. Morgan was a bald bastard with a wolf’s eyes, a real lady-killer. A judge had given him two choices. Jail or the Marines. He’d signed up in cuffs and leg irons.
Oakley wasn’t the smartest. He had a face so flat he could bite the palm of his hand. They were always horsing around, putting the place up, so the guys didn’t sweat the boredom and the goddamn waiting to lock and load.
Doody lifted his goggles. Wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes. Get the job done. Go home. How good that was going to be. To get back to Sarah and his life. There were a million things he missed, but for the moment he had to focus on jobs one and two. Stay alive and in one piece.
The Humvee rumbled over another sandy crest, throwing him backwards. Hands grabbed the .50-cal. Oorah! Another half-mile and the sand gave way to a wide, stony plain dotted with crusted foothills that looked like an alien planet. Nothing of beauty seemed to grow here, but ugly flourished just dandy. The camel spiders were big as lobsters. And fast. Oakley had trapped one and had made a show of popping it into his cake hole.
Rutter killed the music.
“Fuck you doing, Billy?” Big Chongo, with a wavy low-slung hairline and a brow like granite.
Rutter ignored it. “Everything good up there, Doody?”
“All clear, Billy Boy.” Rutter hated that. Later, he’d tell him to cut the Billy Boy shit once and for all. Doody couldn’t help himself, since Rutter was a tough sell as team leader, with his fatigues just so, creases that could cut bread.
Intel said enemy units were spotted in their patrol zone. The intel boys with their satellites and spy planes. Those propeller-heads would shit themselves at the crack of a bullet. So far, the only thing they’d seen was a guy with a camel and a pair of goats. He’d waved. Probably the villager who left the dagger stabbed into the Holy book. Doody was good with it. The less excitement, the better. They’d be home in time for chow and a movie. He’d finish his cassette. Tell Sarah he missed her bad, like he always did, along with the soldiering stuff from the “front lines” with a bunch of hairy-arsed meatheads. He was working out every minute he could: had to stay hard to fight the fight. He was reading something literary, and was listening to some Italian opera singer, which would bring a smile to her face, since she had slipped the stuff into his rucksack when she thought he wasn’t looking. Sarah was always working on him, which was the way of women. Men were works in progress, which was the way of men. His dad had given him that little gift of wisdom early on. His father fished, his mother was a teacher. Doody could have gone either way, or more, but he had legs for the water, which was a rough, callused life that didn’t need a lot of grey matter. He wasn’t stupid by any stretch, but he wasn’t too smart for his own good, either. When he wasn’t at school, he crewed on his father’s trawler. Learned to set crab pots and to pull a net. How to dodge the bully cargo ships. His old man taught him as much as he could, but the skipper knew shag all about the business side of fishing.
“Get your ass outta bed, boy.” Doody could still hear him saying it. There was a couple thousand pounds left in some quota.
Half asleep. “Christ, old man.”
“Quota’s quota. I won’t leave it in the water. Let’s go.”
Kallum was two years earning a business diploma, but you didn’t have to be a captain of industry to know cents per pound for the fish wouldn’t even cover the diesel they’d burn.
The fishing licences would eventually come his way, but he had no interest in them. What he wanted was to skipper his own tour boat. There was a vast rugged coastline, seabird sanctuaries, and of course the whales, which made a spectacle of themselves chasing the capelin close in, with their breaches and tail slaps, soaking boatloads of paying tourists. That was the life, not splitting fish. The boat in his plan was a beauty named Mystic Blue. She was forty-five feet with lots of teak. A double mast and canvas sails. She was a Caribbean boat. Sailed north for a new owner twenty years ago. Outfitted for pleasure, then forgotten when the man died. Kallum got her for a song, and before kids and the tour business got in the way, Sarah and he planned to carve a year from their busy lives and sail toward some distant sunset. Then a maniac named Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. A pox on the bastard’s gold-plated palace.
Sarah had cooked a nice dinner before he shipped out. A CD played; some crooner she loved. She had him locked with her mesmerizing eyes, across a glass of wine.
“I’m worried, Kallum.”
“About what?”
“Bad people shooting at you. For one.”
It was a given, but he couldn’t lie to her, and he never had. “Hussein’s a prick and a tool.”
“But it’s not your fight.”
Kallum felt guilt for her fretting. He caressed her cheek. “He’s a threat to the whole planet, Sarah. Us, too. What do you think would happen if we
didn’t take guys like him out?”
“The world wouldn’t be safe for our children.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
“It scares me to death.”
Kallum smiled warmly. “It might sound hokey, babe, but I’ll be thinking a lot about that when we march into Baghdad. With Hussein gone, there’ll be one less asshole to worry about. A better place for our kids.”
“Sound as hokey as you want,” she said. “As long as you’re fighting for our children.” Sarah raised her glass. “Here’s to military wives and keeping the home fires burning.”
“Hear, hear,” Kallum replied.
Sarah would regret it with every breath for the rest of her days.
* * * * *
The sun was a blistering bastard that rippled dead air above the burning desert. The Humvee slowed and creaked to a stop. Stopping made them a static target, easy pickings. Doody booted the turret, hoping it wasn’t a blown shaft.
A blackened face appeared. Chongo rolled his eyes. “Rutter’s fuckin’ lost.”
Rutter and his goddamn navigation. A month ago, he’d steered them right into a perfect ambush zone. Tall cliffs on either side of a dried-up riverbed. It was so tight the convoy had to back out. Doody had been part of the debrief. Rutter was pissed at being written up, and for a while things had been tense, but screw it. You drop the ball like that, Marines got killed.
“Take a piss,” Doody yelled, knowing it was Billy’s call. “And be quick about it.”
Doors swung open. Morgan and Oakley dismounted and went immediately to their zippers.
“The privates and their privates,” Morgan laughed. “A match made in heaven.”
“I thee wed,” Oakley added.
The two of them were farm boys from the Midwest somewhere. Chicken shit in their fingernails. Fathers who had bled in Vietnam and demanded the same of their sons. They were big hearty boys with hands meant for controlling large machines. Jaws that could crush bone.
Chongo lit a cigarette. “Corn-fed huckabillies.”
Chongo was assistant manager of a Walmart who was banking on combat points to earn him the manager’s office. That was his wife’s take, anyway. There were two kids to feed. He taught Sunday school and was always saying something to God. He was a good man.