The Matter With Morris

by David Bergen

  Martin was cremated. Lucille demanded this. Bizarrely, she spoke of an article she’d read recently, about the discovery in ice of a prehistoric man, killed violently five thousand years earlier during a battle. An arrowhead had been found lodged in his shoulder. She said, “I want my son’s ashes.” And they had done exactly this. But first, after arriving at the funeral home from the ramp ceremony, they opened the casket and looked at Martin for the last time. His body had been prepared in Afghanistan and then been shipped to Winnipeg. He was in uniform. His face was flattened slightly, and at first Morris didn’t recognize him. Then he leaned forward and kissed his son’s forehead, his cheek, and laid his head against his chest. “Martin,” he whispered. The rest of the family held hands after they’d all said goodbye. Lucille told Morris later that she had looked for the hole in Martin’s jaw but couldn’t find it. She said that she had wanted to crawl into the casket and lie with him. “But Meredith would have gone nuts. And Jake. He wouldn’t have understood.” And so they remained, resolute, said their goodbyes, and reluctantly turned away.

  Martin had both a military funeral and a smaller memorial service. The military funeral was attended by close to one thousand people and Morris was astounded by the tributes and the respect Martin was paid. The padre who led the service spoke of honouring the fallen, and at some point during the service, as Morris held Lucille’s hand, he became aware that the army had become Martin’s family. What a good boy he had been. He was aware too of the sameness—the cohesion, the hardware, the perfection—of these men and women, which contrasted so greatly with his dead son, no longer able to wear the uniform of his country.

  The memorial service, held two days later, was small, intended for family and close friends. Samuel flew up from Idaho. A few members of the Canadian Forces attended. They sat near the back and approached the family after the service, out on the parking lot. One of the men introduced himself as a soldier from Martin’s company. He shook hands with Morris. Lucille, much to Morris’s surprise, hugged him. Libby was the only family member to speak at the service. She was graceful, both in how she carried herself and in the manner she spoke, as if she were wearing Martin’s death lightly. Her tone was even and calm and she told stories about Martin. She said that no sister could ask for a better big brother than Martin. “Once, when I was going out on my first date, at fifteen, he came into my room and told me that I should trust myself, that I was a beautiful strong girl, and that I should know what I wanted before I acted.” Libby laughed and said, “I knew what he was trying to talk about.” She blushed and paused, moved aside a strand of hair that had fallen over her eyes. “Then he said, ‘Boys can be greedy, Libby. They want to have sex. I should know. I’m a boy.’ And then he hugged me. He was wise. And carefree. He didn’t know that certain conversations might be difficult, that there were rules.” Here, Libby made little quotation marks with her fingers as she said “rules” and she smiled. “I would like to be as honest and forthright as Martin was. He was so spirited, so fervent, so curious. If only I could be half of what he was.”

  Libby’s mouth, when she spoke, twisted slightly, as if she were suffering, but she did not cry. She looked at Morris and Lucille and Meredith and Jake, and she said that they had all been well loved by their brother and son and uncle. “Aren’t we lucky?”

  Morris wondered if Libby’s strength came from her naiveté, the fact that she might be too young to truly understand the severity of the moment. But no, this was not true. Over the next week, Libby broke down and was inconsolable. Too much had been asked of her.

  In the weeks that followed, Morris became clinically obsessed with bullets and rounds and M16s and C7s. When he could not sleep nights, he carried out research. He read that the C7 gas-powered rifle has a 51-cm (20-inch) cold hammer-forged barrel with a flash suppressor, a bayonet lug, a TRIAD 1TM MIL-STD-1913 accessory mount, and “coloured furniture to break up the weapon outline.” Coloured furniture? As if the rifle were something one bought at Urban Barn and then plunked down in front of the fireplace? As well, he researched the bullet that had killed Martin. He thought it might be a 5.56 x 45 mm, manufactured in the States, though he couldn’t be sure. He read: “When the bullet impacts at high velocity and yaws in tissue, fragmentation creates a rapid transfer of energy which can result in massive wounding and hydrostatic shock effects.”

  At this point, he went upstairs and climbed into bed and prayed that Lucille and his daughters would never know these facts. He wondered what “hydrostatic shock” was. And that word “yaw.” In the morning, when he was alone again, almost against his will, he looked up “hydrostatic shock” and discovered that it referred to remote neural damage. The bullet was “light and fast” and so effective that it immediately shut down the organs of the animal.

  Morris went outside and stood on the front porch in his bathrobe and slippers and watched the sparrows flit from bush to bush, clinging to the bare branches, singing crazily, the happy little brainless fuckers.

  The next day he phoned the recruiting centre in Winnipeg and asked to speak to someone who could help him with some research on a book he was writing on Afghanistan. He said that he was Arnold Thompson, and he was an American from the Midwest. He was passed off to various people and had finally gotten some answers from an officer who appeared to be impressed that an American writer would be calling. He said that he was researching elements of the Canadian Forces, specifically types of weapons, and comparing this to the United States military.

  “That’s fine, Mr. Thompson. How can I help?”

  “What kind of guns do your men use?” he asked.

  “A C7 rifle. It’s a variation of the M16 that the Americans use.”

  “I assume it’s fairly basic, not hard to learn to fire.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Can the gun discharge accidentally?”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Is it possible that the C7 rifle could just happen to fire, without being aimed or the trigger pulled?”

  “The rifle has a safety. When the safety is on, the rifle will not fire, sir.”

  “When would the safety be off?”

  “Well, there are situations. During a firefight, for example, the soldier obviously releases the safety, otherwise he would not be able to shoot.”

  “How about on patrol? Is the safety on?”

  “On patrol, the men walk with their rifles in the cradled position. In that case the safety would be on.” The officer paused, then said, “Is there a specific question, sir, a situation that you might be referring to?”

  “Only hypothetical,” Morris said. His mouth was dry. In truth, he wanted to hang up, but he pressed on. “Let’s say there’s a group of men on patrol. How many would there be?”

  “Eight to ten men in a section.”

  “And they all know each other?”

  “Very well.”

  “Would any of these men know the word ‘yaw’?” Morris spelled the word.

  “I don’t understand the question, sir.”

  “It’s all right, forget that. So these men all know each other. Is it possible for a rifle to fire accidentally during a patrol? For example, the safety isn’t on and the finger’s on the trigger, and there’s a scare of some sort, and one soldier makes a mistake and pulls the trigger and shoots the man beside him, the round yaws through the jaw and up into the brain and the injured party suffers hydrostatic shock. And dies. Is that possible?”

  Silence. He waited. Then the officer said, “Who are you, sir? Can I pass you over to someone who is more qualified to answer that question?”

  “No,” he said. “That’s fine. Thank you.” And he hung up.

  He was breathing quickly. He studied the phone, waiting for it to ring. Certainly the army was adept at tracing phone calls, of chasing down pranksters or the mourning parents of sons who were fallen soldiers. But the phone didn’t ring. No one called him back.

  Two months later, an official letter arrived from the
Canadian Forces National Investigation Service announcing that an investigation into the death of Martin Schutt was taking place and that a Private Tyler Goodhand had been charged with manslaughter and negligent performance of duty. The letter stated that this was simply a charge and that guilt had not yet been proven. The investigation would determine this. There was no apology, nor was there any offering of comfort, nor was there any description of the event. Just a simple statement.

  Lucille was wildly erratic. She raged and tore up the letter and threw it out and then pulled it from the garbage and carefully taped it back together as if she were repairing a broken vase. “What are we to believe?” she sobbed. “Was this a wilful act?” When she was calmer, she said that she was happy that this Tyler had been arrested. She hoped he would be found guilty and that he would be put in prison for a long time. And then, a few weeks later, as if resignation might heal her heart, she said that she had accepted that Martin’s death was an accident. “Of course it was,” Morris said, and he held her and whispered, “There, there.” But still she did not rest. She wrote letters to the men who were in Martin’s company. One soldier, Richard McCallum, a friend of Martin’s from Saskatchewan who had been in the same company, wrote a letter to Lucille. He said that he and Martin had often talked of dying, and they had talked of their fear and how to conquer that fear. He wrote: “It is wrong to think that Martin died for nothing, Mrs. Schutt. His death was an unfortunate accident. He talked about going home, about seeing his family again. He talked about love and women and how many children he was going to have. He always questioned our reason for being here, maybe too much, but if I were to choose someone to be by my side in a firefight, it would be Martin. He was very brave.” Lucille had shown Morris the letter, and as she handed it to him, she said, “Why does this make me feel even worse?” He read the letter and then looked up and said, “He’s trying, Lucille.” Lucille put the letter back into the envelope and tucked it away in a safe place, and to this day, if he had wanted to retrieve it, he would not have known where to find it.

  And then, close to a year after Martin died, Tyler Goodhand phoned the Schutt residence. Morris answered, and when he first said hello, there was no response. He said hello again, and a male voice said, very softly, “Is this Mr. Schutt?”

  Morris thought it was a solicitor and was about to hang up when the voice spoke again, more firmly this time. “Mr.Schutt?”

  “Yes, this is he.”

  “Mr. Schutt? Martin Schutt’s father?”

  “Yes. What do you want?” He thought it was probably a journalist, or a writer trying to get information on Martin’s death. This had happened once before, a cold call in the middle of the day from a man who was producing a documentary on the war in Afghanistan. Morris had turned the man away, said that he had nothing important to say, at least nothing that would be printable, and he’d hung up. But this was different; there was a tentative tone to the voice.

  “Mr. Schutt. Sir. My name is Tyler Goodhand. I was in Afghanistan with Martin.” There was a pause, and for a brief moment Morris did not know why he should recognize this name, but once he realized who was calling he sat down and held the phone in his lap and stared at it. He had trouble breathing. He could hear Tyler’s voice, and it came as if from a great distance. Morris lifted the phone and whispered, “How did you get this number?”

  No answer, and then, “Should I hang up, sir?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Sir. I want to say sorry for what I did. My name is Tyler Goodhand, and I’m the soldier who killed your son, Martin. I’m very sorry, sir.”

  “I know who you are,” Morris said. And he said nothing more, because he could not speak.

  “Do you really understand who I am, sir?” Tyler cleared his throat and continued. “It happened very quickly, Mr. Schutt, sir. It was my fault. We were returning on foot from our patrol, and I was walking about fifty feet from Martin. We were parallel, sir. I thought I heard something, that we were under fire, and I turned to see where the shots were coming from, and in doing that my finger pulled the trigger on my rifle and the rifle discharged. One round, that’s all, but that one round must have struck Martin. No, let me say that again, sir. I was afraid, you see, and I disengaged the safety. And because I had my finger on the trigger, it fired, and the round hit Martin. It killed him, sir. I killed him, sir.” And he stopped talking.

  And in that silence Morris heard his tinnitus, the squeal of a thousand baby bats.

  Tyler said, “Thank you, sir, for listening.”

  “Don’t call me ‘sir.’“

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “I’m not your officer. I’m not in the army. I don’t like the army.”

  “I understand. Mr. Schutt. Can I ask you a question, Mr.Schutt?”

  Morris wanted to hang up, to get rid of this boy. He sensed that if Tyler held on to him any longer and kept him on the line, then the conversation would spill over into a place where he didn’t want to go.

  But Tyler kept talking. “Did they tell you who I was? That my name was Tyler Goodhand? That I was the one who shot Martin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you want to contact me, sir? Did they give you my phone number and where I was located?”

  “Nothing. We got nothing.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think that’s right.”

  Morris laughed a short, harsh bark. “This isn’t about right and wrong here.”

  “I grew up in Edmonton, sir. Mr. Schutt. I’m twenty years old. I grew up in a suburb of Edmonton called Sherwood Park. My parents still live there. I have two sisters who are younger than me.”

  This was a child he was talking to. And what benefit were these biographical bits and pieces?

  “I’m being investigated, sir. I’m not on active duty anymore.”

  “We knew that you had been charged.”

  “Oh.” Silence, and then, “You’re probably glad about that.”

  “Nothing makes me glad these days, Tyler. But did I think you should be charged? Absolutely. I’m sorry, Tyler, but that’s what I think. In fact, this is very difficult, talking to you.”

  “No, no, you don’t have to be sorry. I should be charged. What I did was wrong.”

  Every day Morris had wanted to stand before the man who killed Martin and interrogate him. And now, here he was, listening to his voice, and contrary to what he’d just said, he felt pity for him.

  “Are you angry, sir?”

  “Well, simple fact is, Tyler, Martin’s not coming home.”

  “I didn’t know what you’d say.” Tyler paused, Morris waited, and then Tyler said, “We were friends, Mr. Schutt.”

  Morris tried to recall if Martin had ever mentioned Tyler’s name. He couldn’t remember.

  Tyler continued. “I wanted to call you sooner, but people said I shouldn’t. They said you wouldn’t want to talk, that it would be upsetting, that I would be invading your grieving space. I’m glad now that I didn’t listen, because I can tell that you don’t mind. I had to call, Mr. Schutt. I can’t sleep, and when I finally do sleep, I have nightmares. I had to call to hear your voice and to ask for your forgiveness. And for your wife’s forgiveness. Do you understand?”

  It was as if he were reading off a piece of paper, as if he’d prepared a speech beforehand, and yet it was so raw and honest and poorly laid out that Morris believed him. He said, “You didn’t mean to shoot Martin. I understand that. You made a mistake and now you are suffering. But I can’t help you not suffer. You want me to forgive you, but I can’t do that either. Not yet, anyway. Maybe at some point, but not yet.”

  Tyler said, “I understand, Mr. Schutt. Thank you. I can wait. I will wait.” And if there was any goodness to be found in this conversation, it was to be found in Tyler’s sudden relief, as if he had been staggering about with a great load and Morris had somehow eased him of that load, though it was not clear how or why. When Morris hung up, after giving Tyler permission to call again, and th
en wondering why he had given that permission, he felt the immensity of Tyler’s guilt upon his own shoulders and for two days the weight would not go away. He told Lucille about the conversation and she was astounded. “Who is the victim here, Morris?” she said. “He’s still alive, walking and talking and eating. He buys new shoes, he’ll marry and have children. So you felt sorry for him. Where does the responsibility lie?”

  “With all of us, Lucille.”

  “What, are you best friends suddenly? You’re going to adopt this Tyler Goodhand? Even his name mocks us. This is betrayal.”

  Was it? He thought that she might be right. He wondered what Martin would want, and he believed that if they could speak, Martin would say, “It’s okay, Dad. Talk to him.” But even the imagined equanimity of his son was an outrage.

  Three months after the first phone conversation, Tyler called Morris again, and perversely, after a moment of guilt, Morris felt pleased. Then anger, and then a confused pleasure once again as Tyler talked. He explained that he was at the base in Shilo, Manitoba. He worked in the kitchen during the day, surrounded by men who seemed to despise him. “Nobody really talks to me,” he said. “Except for my girlfriend, Kelly, who phones me every Friday night. And my parents. They visit me. The padre here, he’s all right. He talks to me and we play checkers sometimes in the evenings.” He said that he and Kelly planned to marry at some point. He had a Dodge Charger at home, sitting in the garage. He liked cars. He said that it was a good thing to be talking to Morris, it was amazing really how generous Morris was. But there was still Mrs. Schutt, and until he spoke with her and explained to her what had happened, he would not be able to rest. “Have you talked about me?” Tyler asked. “Did you tell Mrs. Schutt about our conversation?”