Soldier Boy

by Glen Carter

  “Gotta go,” Kallum slurred.

  “Not so fast.” Abe pointed a stubby finger at the door.

  Billy Rutter walked in with Sarah Vanderson.

  * * * * *

  Kallum was a happy drunk. Most of the time. Until there was a reason not to be.

  “Cock of the walk,” Abe said, squinting across the bar to where Rutter and Sarah were sipping their drinks and locked in conversation, with not even enough respect to give them a nod. Kallum fought to control his temper. Abe was saying something that he didn’t hear because Rutter was whispering in Sarah’s ear. She was laughing. Friends, my ass.

  “Careful, buddy,” Abe said. “She’s playing you.”

  “Play all she wants,” Kallum replied. “What’s the score?”

  “Rutter’s running for a touchdown.”

  “The Patriots.”

  “Couldn’t tell ya.”

  Rutter had sold her a bill of goods. Told Sarah half a story, and she had gobbled it up. Then she had taken that self-righteous, rich-bitch attitude and slapped him aside. Kallum deserved better. By any measure, he was a catch. Good-looking and well-liked. Women weren’t beating down his door, but he could pick and choose. The Doody family had a long respectable history in this town. What gave Sarah Vanderson the damn right to disrespect the name? She’d have to be set straight. He had a gutful of beer on board, and now was as good a time as any.

  Abe called out to him.

  But he was already gone.

  Weaving across the dance floor, bumping into people and oblivious to the curses. His plan was simple. Elbow up to their table and lay it all out. For both of them. If Rutter played the tough guy, he’d shut him down. That was the way it was going to be.

  Until a wheelchair rolled up and blocked his path.

  Kallum stopped with a lopsided grin.

  “Hi, stranger.” The girl in the chair smiled back. “What’s the rush?”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled, and like a balloon spewing air, his anger leaked away. Julie Babb brought up a palsied hand, which Kallum took warmly. “I heard you were back,” he said.

  “Your mom said you might be here.”

  “Moms hold the secrets of the universe. Especially the whereabouts of their ne’er-do-well sons.” Her arms were so small. Like a child’s. Her legs, too, planted in that chair.

  “You look good, Kallum.”

  Jesus. What could he say? You too, Julie. She was a prom queen once, but Kallum didn’t like to think about that. About the night Rory Prichard put her in that chair. He shrugged, and then wheeled her to a table away from people. “How’s your dad and mom?”

  “Fine. They say hi,” said Julie.

  “Hi, back.”

  She was so frail, folded into the wheelchair, like she was part of the conveyance. How long had it been? Eighteen months, maybe two years. The last time he had seen Julie was in court. Her tears were unstoppable that day. Rory Prichard, on the other hand. Even from the defence table, that hunk of bat guano wasn’t done. His snickering when she couldn’t remember details. About the night he nearly beat her to death.

  “How many times did the defendant allegedly strike you? Was it five or six times?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  The sanctimonious bastard of a defence lawyer had stood behind his client, hands on his shoulders like a doting parent. “Did the defendant have two hands on the bat, or did he swing it with one?”

  “I didn’t see.”

  “What do you mean, didn’t see? Do you mean you didn’t see the bat or didn’t see my client?”

  “I didn’t see,” Julie repeated from the witness box. “There was blood in my eyes.”

  Prichard was the big hitter on the home team. Knew his way around a piece of white ash, which was heavier, but had a sweet spot that you didn’t find with aluminum.

  “So, it’s possible, according to your own testimony,” the lawyer went on, “that Mister Prichard wasn’t the one assaulting you. It was dark. Anyone could have been behind the school. There was blood in your eyes. You didn’t see.”

  “It was Rory.”

  “Miss Babb. How can you be so sure?”

  “’Cause I know his voice.”

  “So, he spoke to you. What did he say?”

  “He didn’t say nothin’. It was the way he laughed.”

  Prichard didn’t look up once when Kallum was on the stand.

  “So, Mister Doody,” the prosecutor said. “Everyone was having a good time. Did that mean alcohol was involved?”

  “It was the prom. Everyone was in a party mood.”

  “Yes or no, please.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you asked Miss Babb to dance.”

  “We were friends.”

  “Yes or no, Mister Doody.”

  “We had a scuff.”

  The prosecutor gave him a quick little nod. “And what was the reaction of Mister Prichard?”

  Kallum had stared at the top of Prichard’s head. The man wouldn’t even look him in the eye. Cowards were like that. “Prichard didn’t like it. He said he’d kill me if I . . .”

  The defence lawyer leapt up. “Objection. Hearsay.”

  The prosecutor looked sourly at opposing counsel. “Suffice it to say, Mister Prichard didn’t much like you dancing with his date. At least that’s what he indicated through his words and actions.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What happened next, Mister Doody?”

  “They left.”

  “Mister Prichard and Miss Babb. They left. Together.”

  “Out the back door of the gymnasium. Prichard’s a smoker.”

  “What did you do then?”

  Kallum looked around the court. The faces. Julie. Her parents. Waiting. Go ahead, Kallum. What did you do then?

  “I didn’t do anything,” Kallum replied. “I watched them leave.”

  The prosecutor made him repeat it so the jury could hear him. He turned to Julie. “We presume time elapsed before you became worried about Miss Babb.”

  “Objection. Putting words in the witness’s mouth.”

  “Sustained.”

  “I got worried about Julie,” Kallum said. “I left the dance.”

  “Go on.”

  “When I got outside, I saw Prichard’s car parked there. I heard Julie screaming. I ran to the car and saw her on the ground with Prichard standing over her with a bat. When Prichard saw me, he swung. A bunch of times.”

  “Were you struck?”

  “No. I’m pretty fast.”

  “Then?”

  “I went after him.”

  “You disarmed him.”

  “I did what I had to do to stop him from hitting Julie. He was going to kill her.”

  “Objection, your honour.”

  “Sustained. Stay to the facts you know, Mister Doody.”

  Kallum nodded. “Julie was hysterical. There was blood all over her. She was trying to get away, but Prichard didn’t look like he was done, so . . .”

  “Go on, Mister Doody.”

  “So, I punched his lights out.”

  “You mean you fought him.”

  “It wasn’t much of a fight,” Kallum said. “I hit him a few times, and he went down, struck his head on the pavement, and he didn’t get up. Good thing, too.”

  “That’s enough for now, Mister Doody.”

  It was nowhere near enough. Kallum had wanted to jump from the witness box and finish what he’d started that night. Prichard had spent a week in intensive care with bleeding on the brain. But the blows from his bat had crushed Julie’s spine. Prichard got ten years; Julie got life.

  Kallum ordered a beer while they sat. Julie told him no
thanks. He wondered how she could sit there smiling at him. On the night of the prom, he had made her promise to dance with him. She was thrilled, and Kallum had made a show of it, sweeping her around the dance floor while Prichard fumed on the margins of the room.

  Julie had never blamed him in any way; in fact, they said Julie Babb owed Kallum her life. That made it worse, since he felt as guilty as Prichard, the shit bag, whose buttons he was happily pushing from the dance floor. Sarah was right; he wasn’t fit.

  The beer came, and Kallum drained half the glass while Julie watched.

  “I wanna say something,” she said, holding him with gentle eyes.

  She had left town quickly after Prichard was sent to prison. To some rehab facility where they put her body back together. She was home for the first time since. Sitting in front of him in that damn wheelchair.

  Go ahead. Let me have it.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Julie said. “Nobody ever blamed you. Not me, no one.”

  The beer boosted his courage to hear what she had to say. He suddenly realized that was why she was here.

  Your mom said you might be here.

  “I’m sorry,” Kallum said. “So goddamn sorry.”

  “You saved my life.”

  “I pissed him off.”

  “He’s a psychopath.”

  They sat undisturbed while Kallum sipped his beer and listened to her speak. Old friends catching up. She had a job at a women’s shelter in the city. She loved her apartment. There was even a man in her life. Things were good, she was happy.

  A song began that brought a smile to Julie’s lips. She looked at him mischievously. “Dance with me?”

  Kallum straightened, wiped sweaty hands on his jeans, and took a deep breath. He had no clue how to dance with a wheelchair. What the hell. In one swift motion, he scooped her out of the chair and carried her to the centre of the floor. She was so light as he swept and spun her to the music. Julie laughed in his arms, like the last time they danced. When her legs could move, and her spirit had soared a million miles high.

  4

  He was hungover. The engine exhaust wasn’t helping as he coiled rope on the back deck, fighting the urge to vomit.

  His father pulled something out of a paper bag and shoved it his way. “Mother made you a bacon sandwich. You want it now or later?”

  “Give it to the gulls.”

  “You’ll be looking for it soon enough.”

  The nets were piled neatly at Kallum’s feet along with other assorted gear. The hooks and gaffs were secured. The ice locker latched shut. The inflatable life raft and survival suits were nicely stowed.

  His father watched him with a smirk. “McGuire’s already got a load. Says the fishing is good about twenty miles out from Keepings Point. Whaddaya say?”

  “I say plug in the coordinates and I’ll untie her.”

  With that, Kallum’s father disappeared to the wheelhouse.

  Kallum jumped onto the dock and waited for a thumbs-up. Even with a whopper of a headache it was his favourite time of day. Sunlight scored the horizon like a line of crusted diamonds. The marine forecast showed nothing to worry about. Kallum was thankful. His head would come around, and then maybe he’d eat. A few seconds later, he turned at the sound of a car. He watched as it drove up. Something exotic. At the wheel was Sarah Vanderson.

  She put it in park and sat there, staring at him through the windshield.

  Kallum walked to the window, which lowered with a mechanical hum.

  “A little early, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “I haven’t had much sleep.”

  What was she doing? Here to lay on more punishment? Kallum turned to walk away.

  “Kallum.”

  He stopped.

  “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

  The door opened and then shut again. She was standing behind him now. Kallum listened to her breathing. The air was full of her scent. He turned.

  “Wrong about what?”

  “Wrong about you.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Here it is. I was wrong to believe so easily. I should have gotten your side of the story. I’m sorry. You deserved better.”

  “So, all of a sudden I’m not some murderous thug.”

  “My God, you saved that girl’s life.”

  Kallum would find out how she knew.

  “I watched you dance with her, Kallum. Saw how happy she was. I knew then I was wrong.”

  He stood silently. Wondering if she could hear the rush of blood to his brain. His father was grinning from the wheelhouse. “How did you find out?” Kallum said. “About what happened?”

  “Julie.”

  Julie and Sarah. Two women, as far apart as planets. “I don’t remember making introductions.”

  “You’d already left,” Sarah said. “And Billy took off, to take care of something back at the campaign headquarters, so I thought it would be nice to introduce myself.”

  “She’s been through a lot.”

  “She told me.”

  Kallum struggled with his next move, and with perfect timing his father chirped the boat’s horn. Sarah reached up and kissed him on the lips. Her warm mouth inviting more. At that moment, he wanted to cast off the lines without getting aboard. Instead, he whispered something in her ear.

  “I’ll be waiting,” she replied.

  Reluctantly, Kallum parted from her and set about slipping the lines. He jumped aboard, and neither of them broke eye contact until a hundred yards of water was between them.

  He pounded into the wheelhouse as his father was getting another update from McGuire off Keepings Point. He grabbed the bacon sandwich and stuffed half of it into his mouth. “Are we gonna get lucky, or what?” he asked, chewing noisily.

  “Looks like someone already has,” his father replied.

  5

  Keepings Point was a finger of land that jutted five miles into the Atlantic, two hours by water south of Harbour Rock. Its northern coast was a glacial ridge of boulders and rocky cliffs, impossible to navigate unless you were a hiker with a death wish. Along its south coast, however, was a string of white sandy beaches, sprouted with dune grasses and hearty saltwater shrubs. In the spring and early summer, the warm waters of the Gulf Stream collided, without fail, with the cooler sea air that flowed south from Nova Scotia. The result was some of the thickest fog on the New England coast. Since summer was past its peak and the Bluenose air not quite so cold, fog wasn’t as big a deal. Not for the big shiny pleasure craft that set anchor, herded, really, within easy sight of those white sandy beaches, where when darkness fell, driftwood fires sparked to life.

  Theodore Vanderson was feeling wonderful with a fresh drink in his hand aboard his forty-four-foot Sea Ray. The anchors were holding steady on a sandy bottom, and he was listening to the waves lapping against her hull. Vanderson could have afforded a much bigger boat, but it would have meant hiring crew, and he preferred being his own captain. He enjoyed these moments, especially with his wife and daughter aboard. Though Sarah had other plans for the evening. Something about dinner and a boy. Vanderson didn’t like it, not one bit. The young men were already sniffing around, but good luck trying to get through him. Like that first boy. William Rutter the second. Pretentious snot. A ragged-ass town boy with not a pot to piss in, coming across like some Ivy League legatee. His father was a greasy mechanic, for Christ’s sake. Vanderson had nipped that one in the bud. Told the little wharf rat straight up to move on. Like some cowed mutt, the kid had offered to wash down the Sea Ray, and when he was done, Vanderson looked down his nose and passed him fifty bucks, which he stuffed into his back pocket. The ungrateful little bastard had a look in his eyes that Vanderson still couldn’t shake.

  It was movie nig
ht at sea. After dinner, they’d settle in and enjoy something romantic. The salads and wine were already set on the little table near the transom, and both of them were famished.

  Vanderson got up and flipped open the barbeque. Bloody steaks were taking too long. More heat. He reached for the knob. Strange that it was already on bust. The fifty-pound propane tank had been filled the day before, so that wasn’t the problem. Abruptly, the flame shot up. Then puffed out. The gas suddenly reignited, and Vanderson stumbled back.

  “Careful, honey,” said his wife.

  “Damn barbeque.” Puzzled, Vanderson bent down to inspect the burners. He traced his hand along the hose. Something wasn’t right. His fingers caught a nick in the smooth rubber just below the burners. He didn’t smell the propane, nor would he have caught the fumes of gasoline pooling in the engine compartment. Maybe because he was too close to the stench of scorched meat. What the hell?

  On the beach, not far away, another piece of bleached driftwood was thrown onto a fire. Two teenagers shared a joint, just getting into the buzz. Bottled water and trail mix at their feet. They wondered what dinner would be aboard that fancy yacht a couple hundred yards out. “Puss bags,” the boy said, like some incurable condition. “The meat’s on fire.”

  Suddenly, a blinding flash punched through the dark, and a second after that, a concussion rolled in with the force of a rogue wave. Flame and sparks licked the sky. Pieces of insulation fell like snow, and chunks of fibreglass thudded into the sand. A boom shattered the air.

  “Holy fuck,” the boy said, dropping the joint.

  * * * * *

  At 9:00 p.m., Sarah slammed the oven door shut and hoped for the best. She checked the temperature and stepped back. Through the window, the prime rib glistened with fatty juice on a blackening crust. In another oven, the potatoes and vegetables were warming, and on the stove, a pot was simmering with dark, rich gravy. So far so good, she thought, grabbing another bottle from the wine rack. She checked herself in a mirror by the door and stepped into the dining room, where a table for twenty was set for two.

  Kallum watched her from the great room. “Smells great.”

  “I hope it tastes as good as it smells.” Sarah handed him the bottle.