TWO O’CLOCK, EASTERN WARTIME

by John Dunning

  Even from there he could see it was deserted. On a whim he broke into a run and reached it, out of breath, a few minutes later. There was a sign, U.S. FOREST SERVICE/NO TRESPASSING, but the rickety iron stair was open. He started up, crisscrossing to the top, and as he cleared the trees the tower began to quiver. Suddenly he was wrapped in a heavy droning sound, and as he turned he saw a formation of warplanes coming straight at him out of the south. He pushed up the door and stepped into the small square room as the planes roared over—fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, heading north on some maneuver, so close he could see the faces of the pilots and feel the breath of their engines. The tailgunner waved and gave him a Churchill victory sign, and this gesture lifted his heart; he took it as an omen, his spirit soared, and his trouble seemed swept away in the rush.

  He stood with his hands on the rail, looking over the earth. He knew he had come far; it didn’t surprise him to see nothing he knew to the north or east. Far away lay the turquoise expanse of the Atlantic. He crossed the room and looked south and the forest stretched on like the sea, empty and vast. But in the vastness he saw a wisp of smoke curling. It looked no more than two or three miles away. He clattered down the stair and started across the break. It was the first sign he’d seen of life on the ground.

  ( ( ( 20 ) ) )

  A CHANGE in the air blew the smoke across her face and brought her out of a dream. The old man sat cross-legged in the middle of the clearing, feeding sticks to the fire. He’s gone crazy again, she thought. He was like a seesaw, bobbing between clarity and insanity, and a fire in the heat of the day in the middle of summer was a sure sign of madness.

  He showed no awareness that she was awake. She suspected he knew, for he missed damn little in that part of his brain that sifted his muddy thoughts and made them clear. He threw his logs on the fire and seemed satisfied; then he unsnapped his canteen from the canvas pouch that held it to his belt and plunged the steel shell deep in the hot coals. She could hear the water sloshing inside it, as if somehow he’d made water appear after she’d watched him drink the last of it yesterday. She herself had had nothing to drink for almost a full day now. The heat had been ruthless, at least in the high nineties even in the shade of the trees. All day yesterday she had defied the sapping effect of it: the water pouring out of her, drenching the dress under her arms, between her breasts, across her back, and down her flat belly to chafe her between her legs. At five o’clock they had crossed that sunny stretch and her skin had gone suddenly dry and was hot even to her own touch. You could fry an egg on me, she would tell Jack. What a crazy tale she would tell Dulaney, if she ever saw him again.

  The old man prodded the canteen with a stick, smothering it with coals. She heard him speak—“That’s the ticket there”—but this small effort made him cough. He cursed a bellow that made it worse, and for long moments he sat back and struggled for air. A hundred times she had heard that rasping sound he made. He wouldn’t live much longer and he knew it, and she knew it and it made her sad even in her own desperate sickness.

  She closed her eyes. Oh God, Jesus, was she sick! Maybe she was dying. She knew she had dehydrated; her father had told her the symptoms from his days at hot labor in the sun. The real danger came when the skin got dry, nature’s way of telling you you’ve got no more juice to spare. That’s when you’ve got to lie down in the shade where it’s cool, bathe your face and arms with cold water, drink slowly, and suck some salt to get the monkey off your back. But the water was gone and the shade was no relief and there was no salt. Last night had been an agony, a torture filled with dreams of monsters and death, and a shadowy killer who taunted her from some misty place just out of sight.

  Dulaney had been in her dreams but he hadn’t been able to help her. He would be frantic with worry: she could see him tearing up the world looking for her. Wish I could help you, sweetheart: can’t even sit up and ask that nutty old man what he’s doing. What a shame it would be to die like this. Almost certainly the old man will die as well, leaving no one to tell what happened to us. Another mystery for Jack to carry, another puzzle to bedevil him.

  She felt a shadow on her face and her eyes flicked open. The old man was leaning over her with the canteen in his hands. Jesus, that must burn, she thought; then she saw that the fire was out and she knew time had passed and she had slept through it. The old man said, “Here, drink this,” but she couldn’t sit up and do it. “Here,” he said, gesturing. His face was not the crazy face but the other one, with the kind, decent streak she had seen in him almost from the start. The crazy man had taunted her and drank all the water but the gentleman had returned and brought water for her. The crazy man had shouted and pushed her down in the dirt but the gentleman now hesitated to touch her without permission, even when he could see she needed help. She encouraged him with a weak smile. “If you could just raise me up . . . just a little.”

  His hand behind her neck was gentle. He lifted her so tenderly and held the canteen with the slightest tremor. The water was awful. She heaved emptily, then clutched his hand and tried to drink it all. He pushed her away. “Not too much now, I’ll give you some more in a while.” He did, and she screwed up her face as she drank. “It’s creek water,” he said. “Flows down from the swamp, so I had to boil it else you’d be sicker’n you are.”

  The water ran through her. Beads of sweat appeared on her arms and she felt it in her hair. “You’re a goddamn crazy woman,” he said, and she couldn’t not laugh, even though it hurt. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “A pot calling the kettle black.” She laughed again and said, “Maybe I was. That makes us a real pair, doesn’t it?”

  Then she said, “Actually, Tom, I think you’re fine,” and he drew back as if shocked at her intimate tone of voice. She said his name again. “Tom’s a good name. I was gonna marry a boy once, a boy named Tom.”

  He continued to shy away. She said, “My name’s Holly. I think we’ve earned the right to use first names. And thanks for the water.”

  He nodded curtly. “You’ll be needing some more. I got only the one canteen and it’s a fair walk to fetch it, so I’d better get going.”

  “Don’t forget to come back.”

  She was feeling better now. Time to plan what she should do next. Maybe he’d go off in the trees and kill himself. If that’s what he did, it was out of her hands. She had tried hard to save him and had almost killed herself doing it. But it would be hard to take if he killed himself because of her. Maybe this was her payback; by getting sick she had given his life just enough purpose to keep him going.

  If he went off now and did it anyway, what could she do? It wasn’t her fault: with an old man like that, there was never a single cause. He was pretty well finished, he had said as much last night. His lungs were shot, he couldn’t work anymore, he’d never have the woman he loved except as a friend; he got around as well as he did only through tenacity and guts. He was determined not to give in to the ravages of age and the chronic effects of what had been done to him in the war, and on his good days he was still mostly okay. But she knew he had times when his mind slipped away, when he wasn’t sure what century he was in, and if he did kill himself it wouldn’t be her doing. She told herself this but she knew she had shocked him yesterday, enough to push him off the edge.

  She had meant to shock him but the sudden bluntness of her approach had shocked even her. With her first look at his face she knew it was all or nothing. He hadn’t heard March Flack’s name in six years, and here was this girl young enough to be his daughter, for Christ’s sake, demanding answers. She thew questions at him like a cop.

  “We know you were out there that night, sir. Mrs. Flack saw you.”

  His face was pale and she knew she had been right, Mrs. Flack was her ace in the hole. She stood in the doorway, just out of his reach, ready to leap away at any sudden move, or fight him if he managed to grab her.

  “Mrs. Flack was there that night.”

  “No. She had nothing to do with i
t.”

  “We talked to her, sir. We know she was there.”

  He stepped backward and was gone inside the house. The door was open and she came inside, just close enough to see what he was doing. He was standing in the room in a dazed state. His eyes were open but he had a see-nothing look that worried her. I’ve shocked him crazy, she thought, but suddenly he said, “You’ve got it all wrong about Pauline. She never did anything.” She tried to smile, to encourage him and keep him going, but a sudden movement made her leap back to the doorway. It was nothing: he had gone to the window and was staring out at the forest.

  “Sir, would you please just talk to me?”

  A slight movement of his head told her he had heard her, but what to do now? . . . what to say? She had seen the power that Mrs. Flack’s name had with him but she didn’t know how hard to push it. Then he turned from the window and she saw such sadness in his eyes. Something about him broke my heart, she would tell Dulaney.

  And something told her he wouldn’t hurt her, and that’s where it began to change. He moved again, across the room to an old rolltop desk. Sat, took out a paper, and began to write. He put what he wrote in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote something on the outside. Came back across the room and put it flat on the table. “You got it wrong,” he said. “Pauline never did anything.” She felt an almost irrational reassurance in his eyes. He didn’t seem at all malicious or mean.

  He went into the far room. She heard some rummaging and when he returned he was fastening a wicked-looking knife to his belt. The sight of it brought back her wariness. She said, “What are you doing with that?” but he went on as if she weren’t there. At the sink he filled his canteen and now—lying on the ground, waiting for him to return— she couldn’t make sense of the canteen. Why would a man bent on killing himself fill up on water when he knows he’s not coming back?

  Habits die hard. You don’t go deep in the woods without water.

  Or maybe he just wasn’t sure yet.

  Suddenly he came toward her. She backed into the yard and around the car. He stopped for a moment and gave her a long plaintive look. “I’d like you to leave now,” he said. She shook her head. “I can’t do that. Maybe I would, though, if you’d talk to me first.” Then, so softly she barely heard it, he said, “There’s nothing for you to do here,” and that’s when the thought of suicide crossed her mind.

  She had to say something then, but all that came out was more of the same. This only annoyed him and made him cough, and she waited for that to end and then followed him out to the road.

  He went right, toward Harford’s house. His gait was ponderous and halfhearted, like a man marking time. He looked back and said, “Miss, you really must leave me alone now,” but she stopped where he did and watched him from the distance. He went on and the trees began to thin. Soon she saw buildings and she wondered, What now . . . am I going to follow him up to Harford’s front door? I will if I have to. Good afternoon, Mr. Harford, I’m sure you remember me, you killed my father but this isn’t about that. Just thought you’d like to know, this man needs help. If you care.

  The old man stopped at the edge of the field. He turned and she was standing about thirty yards behind him, and suddenly he lost his temper. “God damn you, have you no decency? Goddammit, can’t you go away and let an old man die in peace?” The woods fell into silence. She said, “Is that what you want to do, sir, die?” She knew the answer now, he had actually said it, and those few words had fused them together. If she left him now she might as well kill him herself.

  She started to speak but he spoke first. “You’ve got it wrong about Pauline.” She said, “I’m sure I have.” He looked at her curiously and she picked up that thought and went on with it. “I’m sure I have it wrong, that’s why I need to talk to you about it.” He shook his head and waved her off. He started walking, back toward her, and she moved away as he approached. That’s a hell of a thing, she thought: try getting a man’s confidence and every time he moves show him you’re afraid of him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said as he moved past her. “I’ve written it all down so it doesn’t matter what I say.”

  Again she fell in behind him and they went back the way they’d just come. She said, “Writing it down is fine, but stuff gets lost. Letters get misplaced. You’ve got to tend to the important things yourself, Mr. Griffin, you know that’s true.” He said something to the trees and she heard enough to piece it together. “What do you care?”

  But she did care, enough now to take a chance. She stepped up her pace until she was walking by his side. Her right arm brushed against his left and this contact startled him and made him shy away to the far edge of the road.

  “I need to see Pauline,” he said suddenly. “Is that your car?”

  She felt a surge of relief. “Yessir, I’d be happy to drive you.”

  Without another word he went to the car and got in. By the time she got it started he had his eyes closed and looked to be asleep.

  She turned into the road. So far, so good. But when she looked at him again his eyes were open. Don’t talk, she thought: do nothing to break his revery. Just hope he’ll be quiet for the half-hour ride to town.

  “Stop here.”

  She pulled to the side of the road. “We were going to see Mrs. Flack.”

  “I’ve got something else to do first. Somewhere to go.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll take you there.”

  This seemed to amuse him. “Hell’s a far piece, honey.”

  She smiled to warm her blood. “I can make it.”

  “Then drive along the edge here. I’ll tell you what to do.”

  She had a terrible feeling but did what he said. In a while he motioned her off the road. “That’s where we’re going.”

  “There’s no road.”

  “Goddammit, my eyes are thirty years older than yours and I can see the goddamn road. What’s wrong with you?”

  She saw it then: more a trail than a road, with a bumpy access across the ditch. She couldn’t let him go: if he got out now she’d lose him. “I see the road.” She turned a sharp left but stopped short of the ditch. “Sir, I don’t think there’s anything down there.”

  “I know what’s down there.”

  She cursed in her mind, a word he’d be shocked to hear from her, then clattered over the ditch and let the single-rut path guide her into the woods. The way thickened and the trees looked impassable. But then it broke up and they came into a field.

  “There’s nothing here, sir. There’s nothing to see.”

  “Keep going. Into the thicket. Right there.”

  He opened the door and got out. So did she. He looked at her across the top of the car and his mind seemed to clear. “You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you? Wish I could say it’s been good knowing you.”

  “I’m not going to leave you.”

  “Then you’ll wish you had. You’ve got no water and that path doesn’t end. You hear what I’m saying, miss?” He took out his canteen and had a drink. “You’re probably getting thirsty now, I can see you already starting to soak through that pretty dress. You’d best let it go.”

  She followed him up to the woods. He turned and gave her a withering look. “You’d best let it go, miss. You need to learn the difference between patience and bullheadedness. If you want to know about March, I’ve left you all the answers you’ll be getting from me. Everything comes out in its own way. In its own time. You can’t force an old redwood to move. All you can do is cut it down.”

  He started off into the woods, and the madness began.

  Now it was over and they were sitting on the ground in the late afternoon of the following day. The last of his fires had burned low and the small clearing had filled with shadows. She supposed they were here at least for another night. Poor Jack, she thought. I will have much to atone for.

  “So, miss . . . how’re you feeling now?”

  “Better, thank you.”

  “I’ve seen men come right to
the edge of death from heatstroke. It varies from one body to the next, how quickly it claims you.” They were quiet for a while, then the old man said, “You’ve got a lot of spunk. You’re crazy as hell but you’ve got spunk.” He coughed and trembled in the effort to control his lungs.

  “This is the second time I’ve dropped out of sight,” she said. “People will start thinking I really am crazy.”

  “You are crazy, I told you that. One day you’ll learn, you can’t have an answer for everything. You’ll be as old as I am and goddamn shocked at how few answers you’ve finally got. You’ll feel your body and mind slipping away and nothing you can do about it. Maybe the end won’t seem quite so tragic then.”

  He sat for a few more minutes, then he began to stir. “I guess I’ll be going now.”

  This shocked her. He had become so clearheaded and now he was talking crazy again. She said, “So all of this is for nothing,” and there was a bitter edge to her voice that rankled him.

  “Who asked you to come? Who the hell asked you? Now shut up, just listen for once in your life and I’ll tell you how to get out of here.”

  He fidgeted under her eyes, withered in her seething rebuke. Her eyes charged trickery and his voice was a defensive half shout. “Goddammit, do you want to get out of here, or not?” She shouted back: “Oh, you crazy bastard. Jesus Christ, you make me mad! Jesus Christ!”

  He stood in the center of the clearing. “Go on, get mad, maybe that’ll carry you out of here. Don’t try to go back, you hear what I’m saying? It’s too far, you’ll just be in the same mess all over again. Keep going, push ahead. You’ll come to a place about half a mile south and that’s where you fork off. The western fork will take you down to a little hamlet.”