by T. C. Boyle
Tow Head is Wild Turkey’s friend, and he isn’t doing too well, Wild Turkey thinks, though he’s never really been doing too well. He has a big, robust head and brow, but very small shoulders and a wilting torso that makes his whole appearance vaguely downcast and disconcerting to Wild Turkey, like his body has failed the promise of his martial features. This gives Tow Head a puzzled, frustrated mien. He’s a good guy, really, always says just what he means, which is why Wild Turkey has agreed to go shooting in the freezing cold even though it’s the last thing he really wants to do.
Beside him, Tow Head bops and twitches in his seat. He’s like this here in the States, Wild Turkey knows, always a little nervous, never quite holding still or maintaining visual focus on any one thing. He talks very fast (he’s talking now, Wild Turkey realizes) and pauses only occasionally to acknowledge the conversant, though not in a way that requires any response. He always has a lot of conversational energy, and jumps from one subject to another according to his inscrutably associative thought. In Iraq he wasn’t like this, at least not while Wild Turkey knew him there. When they first met, and Tow Head realized they were both from Kansas, from even adjacent tiny towns, he looked as happy as a small boy. It’s this look that Wild Turkey has kept in mind, when he was giving away all his military pay and set aside the amount for this rifle, which Tow Head, in their previous conversations, always circled back to the subject of.
Wild Turkey hadn’t heard from Tow Head for some time when he saw the flyer at the library for the Wounded Hero Arts Share event. This was two weeks ago. The reading was held in one of the public library’s anonymous meeting rooms, plastic chairs set up in solemn rows facing a podium. Tow Head was the featured reader. Wild Turkey went by himself and sat far to one side, where there was a chance Tow Head might not see him, beside a covered piano.
Wild Turkey didn’t know that Tow Head liked to write, and spent the time while several middle-aged women went through the introductions wondering if this was actually supposed to be some kind of effort at therapy, or if this was a preexisting interest of Tow Head’s, or, if it wasn’t, if Tow Head could possibly parse his own answer to that question now. Finally Tow Head got up and took the podium and began to read in a deep, affectless voice.
It was a story, sort of, though really it was just a long description of a man making a wooden guitar amplifier from scratch in his garage, which eventually disintegrated into a sort of list of instructions, but in the third person. As Tow Head’s voice settled further into its low timbre and the instructions became repetitive, the sum effect became markedly sinister, almost sexual in its fixated self-surety, until the description of the main character’s coating and recoating and recoating again of lacquer on the amplifier’s wooden exterior seemed distinctly violent. Before he began, Tow Head had mentioned that the story was about a veteran home from Iraq. Or maybe Wild Turkey only thought he’d said this when really he hadn’t.
This was more or less a true story, Wild Turkey knew; Tow Head had told him about fabricating from scratch a wooden electric guitar amplifier in his garage in Kansas, or attempting to fabricate one—now in the library, as in the original recitation, Tow Head reached the point where he fucks up the interior wiring—though Tow Head had begun the reading (this Wild Turkey does remember) by stating the story was fiction. In his uncomfortable plastic chair Wild Turkey wondered at this strange disavowal of the experience, wondered if it really was fiction or if he’d just said it was, or if, ultimately, Tow Head even knew anymore. This experience of the wooden amplifier had presumably happened at least three times, Wild Turkey realized: once in actuality, once in Tow Head’s recitation of the story to Wild Turkey in Baghdad, and once in the re-creation of this, his fiction writing—like a matryoshka doll of experience, understandably involuted, confused.
In fact, sitting in that little meeting room in the public library, Wild Turkey was having a very similar experience of confusion due to the particular arrangement of chairs. These same chairs, in this very same formation, were used in the fake/real base near the fake village in Arizona, in the fake (real?) chapel area for the fake/simulated funeral service that they were all required to attend during the exercise. Presumably this was held in order to prepare the men for attending the same thing in reality, in the Shit. They’d been very thorough, Wild Turkey remembered, with a chaplain and soldiers speaking and eulogies that managed to work in vague references to the details of the casualty.
But Wild Turkey had later found, after Googling the name on the fake funeral program, that the service was in fact held for a real soldier, for a real person who’d been killed in Iraq (IED), which made the fake funeral not so much a simulation of a memorial service (as the officers insisted) but a reenactment of it, a doubling, technically a recurrence. It was unclear if the ranking organizers (let alone the chaplain and the volunteer eulogizers) of the fake/real base near the fake village even knew that it was a real person they were memorializing: the fact that the biographical information on the fake funeral program didn’t match what Wild Turkey could find about the real soldier killed in action suggested that they didn’t know. This also brought up the possibility of sheer coincidence, of the chance that the master designers of the fake Iraq experience had chosen by accident the name of a victim of the real Iraq experience in order to simulate the loss of a real person. The whole thing was very similar, Wild Turkey felt, to the real video of the execution they’d received on their comms link that was supposedly of the fake execution he’d watched through the night optics the night before.
In the library Tow Head finished up, getting to the point that functioned as the end of the story, where the main character finally completes the wooden electric guitar amplifier only to realize that he does not, in fact, own an electric guitar, or even know how to play. In the applause afterward, Tow Head had caught sight of Wild Turkey and waved, compelling Wild Turkey to stay for the reception afterward, where Tow Head hatched the shooting-range plan.
Now they’re parked at the edge of the wide field that serves as the range, and Wild Turkey is leaning against the side of the truck, watching Tow Head carefully reload the rifle, bobbing his head to the pulsing techno music coming from the huge boom box he’s set up by his feet on the little shooting platform. This is really a skeet range, and Tow Head has insisted that Wild Turkey sling the clay pigeons out into the white plane of the snowed-over field and washed-out winter sky. They have only one of the cheap plastic hand-throwers, so for an hour now Wild Turkey has made the strange side-armed motion, skipping the bright orange clay disks out onto the currents of air. Tow Head is an excellent shot. He’s hit each one, the disks wobbling or splitting cleanly in half, their flight turned to mere gravity. He seems to be enjoying himself.
The landscape does in fact resemble Normandy in winter, which is fitting for the rifle, though since Wild Turkey has never actually seen Normandy in winter he supposes it really just resembles what he thinks it would look like. He wants it to look like Normandy in the snow for Tow Head, though, even if it did, Tow Head wouldn’t know it.
Tow Head is ready again and Wild Turkey flicks away his cigarette and steps forward. “Ready,” Tow Head says, then, “Pull!” and Wild Turkey whips his arm, sending the clay disk high into the air. Tow Head fires, missing, but at the sound of the rifle’s report a raft of geese rise into the air from some hidden tufts in the field, their winged shapes very dark against the air. Wild Turkey realizes Tow Head is screaming before he realizes that Tow Head is firing, though the two actions are concurrent. But Tow Head is screaming and Tow Head is firing, and firing, and firing, until Wild Turkey hears the small metallic clink of the ammunition cartridge going empty and there are no more birds in the air. Then Tow Head is running out into the field, slipping, falling down, getting up, still running, still yelling, though now laughing too, the techno music throbbing very loudly and finally Tow Head reaches the area of bloodied snow where he has expertly dropped what must be at least ten birds and Wild Turkey can see
him lifting the rifle, holding it at either end above his head like he’s wading a river, and Tow Head is dancing and laughing wildly, the sound rising and rising in joy, and Wild Turkey, watching, loves him, loves him, loves him.
This is six months before Tow Head, who has this day refrained from his usual running obsession with the possibility that he suffered an undiagnosed TBI at some forgotten point during his deployment, will use the replica rifle to shoot himself through his cheekbone, perhaps purposefully making his theory impossible to ever disprove or confirm.
Wild Turkey jars awake. He’s in his position, last in the tactical column, crouched against a low mud wall in a residential compound in Ramadi. The target, Wild Turkey knows (the drone’s heat imaging burned into the inside of his eyelids), is sleeping in the small house just ahead. The team pads forward quietly in its line. They pause, waiting for the radio signal.
Inside the house, Wild Turkey mentally recites, there will be two civilians (a middle-aged male and a female, presumably his wife) and the target, whom they’ve previously claimed is a cousin but who is actually a low-level messenger between militias. All are asleep. The operational information has been confirmed, according to the radio clearance an hour earlier, presumably by more drone imaging.
In his ear, Wild Turkey hears the two blasts of static.
There is the sound of the steel ram battering the door open, the loud flash of the tactical stun grenade, the shadowy flow of the bodies in front of Wild Turkey funneling into the house, the shouted commands for the occupants to lie flat on the ground. From all corners of the house, from its four separate rooms, Wild Turkey hears the voices of the team confirming that the rooms are clear. “One female in northwest bedroom,” Wild Turkey hears someone tell him either over the radio or the night air. “Holding.”
There are several things that are wrong, Wild Turkey thinks, as he stares at the lone male lying facedown in front of him on the carpets of the main room. One is that this male is clearly not either of the males (not the target, and not the middle-aged man) from the assignment profile. Wild Turkey will have to go through the standard procedures to confirm this, but he can see, even in the dark, that the man in front of him is very, very old. The extraction clock in Wild Turkey’s head is ticking, ticking. The rest of the team stands, idly tensed, adjusting their equipment. Wild Turkey tells them he needs to go see about the female.
In the back bedroom, Specialist Freidel is standing inside the doorway, watching a teenage girl, who is naked, cower in the far corner.
“What the fuck?” Wild Turkey says.
Freidel shrugs. The girl in her crouch seems almost feral, eyes flashing. Wild Turkey, in his real-time catalog of the operation, struggles to age her, distracted by the combination of her child’s face, her dirty thighs, and half-hidden adolescent breasts.
“Did two men leave this house tonight?” Wild Turkey asks in half-hearted Arabic. “Where is your mother? Where is your father? Was there a houseguest tonight? Did he leave?”
The girl doesn’t answer, but winces sharply at Wild Turkey’s voice, showing her teeth.
“Bring her into the main room,” Wild Turkey says, frustrated. Freidel steps forward and grabs the naked girl by the upper arm. He begins to drag her but then she stands up, still resisting.
“I think they gave us the wrong fucking house,” Wild Turkey says (to whom?), and Freidel turns, or starts to turn, starts to say to Wild Turkey, “What?” when the naked girl rears back, sending one hand with its nails arcing over, digging into Freidel’s neck.
“Goddamn it,” Freidel says, or starts to say, as he turns and brings his weapon’s thick stock up and around possibly more swiftly than he means to, and there is a single sound, something like a crack, and the naked girl is on the floor at both Freidel’s and Wild Turkey’s feet. Her head is unmade: the upper left quadrant of her skull collapsed, blood very dark on the floor, a jagged-edged concavity with a fleck of white bone just visible in Wild Turkey’s flashlight here and there, the wound tangling with her hair.
“Fuck!” Friedel says.
“Fuck,” Wild Turkey says.
Wild Turkey helps drag the girl’s body out into the dirt-floored courtyard, thinking maybe he can radio for a medical addition to the extraction, once he gets clear just what the fuck is going on, but Wild Turkey can see—the girl’s complete limpness, eyes lolling with the dragging motion between whites and wide, black, fixed pupils; the lack of any rising or falling of the small breasts, now bared where she lies on her back in the pitch of the night and the dirt—that she is gone.
“What do we do with this?” Freidel says, voice taut with desperation, and Wild Turkey can feel the stares of the rest of the team, gathered near the doorway out to the courtyard.
Wild Turkey is not afraid. He can write the report exactly as it really happened, he knows, and it will more than likely simply be forgotten, lost, after a brief bureaucratic murmur, to the labyrinth of operational After Action Reports. They’d be more interested in how the team was given the wrong house, the wrong info from the drone, more interested in the failure to extract the messenger man than anything else. Even if the report caught the eye of some officer worried about exposure, all that would happen would probably be that Wild Turkey would be rotated back home, though he didn’t want to go back home. Wild Turkey knows all this, looking down at the naked girl with the ruined head, knows that he can report it or not report it, but he can’t leave the body as it is. Not to be found, and photographed. Not to be seen. This is when he says it, when he raises his eyes to Freidel’s and the others.
“Burn it,” he says.
“Burn it,” he says.
“Burn it,” he says.
He helps them prepare the body. He gets the jug of kerosene from the house’s tiny kitchen. He has Freidel get the bed sheets from the room they found her in. The sheets are stained with the blood that has spread on the floor. Freidel deposits them next to the body, which Wild Turkey is pouring the kerosene over. Wild Turkey straightens up. He’s holding the tactical phosphorous strobe grenade in his hand.
And does Wild Turkey smell, cut by the fumes of the kerosene, that rank, fetid waft from the girl’s bed sheets? Does he feel himself falling for just a second into that complex of faintly vaginal, excretory musk—does it seem familiar to him? And the girl’s naked body, shining with the wetness of the kerosene there on the ground before him—what is it that strikes him as so oddly sexual about it? Is it what he saw Freidel doing as Wild Turkey entered the room? Did he see Friedel wrestling with the girl—in what, an effort to restrain her? Did he hear him laughing?
Wild Turkey has the team clear the courtyard and prepare for egress to the extraction point. He will experience this night twice, have two simultaneous nights: the one that now occurs and the one that occurs on paper. He will be honest in his report, but in his honesty he will be no more able to separate what actually happened, for the most part, from the false implantation of memory, of narrative memory, which was coeval with the experience itself. And so the truth of the night will forever feel to Wild Turkey somewhere in between the fragmentation of experience and what he remembers: he will have both seen and not seen what he saw, what he smelled. All of this with one lone exception: the moment when the phosphorous strobe, nestled underneath the naked girl’s back and buried beneath the shroud of the soiled bed clothes, ignites, and shatters the night into pulses of pure white light, and the absence of it.
And already, as Wild Turkey watches (though the strobe cannot be watched, though “watching” the strobe would render him temporarily blind, as is the tactical strobe’s function), the team, and Wild Turkey along with it, is leaving, clearing the buildings in the neighboring compound just in case, only to discover empty room after empty room of desks, of broken chalkboards (the mistaken compound a school, apparently). Already they are clear of Ramadi’s outskirts and jogging into the field where the helicopter will briefly land and collect them; already they are back at the operations base,
going to sleep; already Wild Turkey is waking in mid-fuck with Jeannie; waking in the invigorated air of Merry’s room after a punch; already he is waking to the town’s lights buzzing with the edge of his pills. He wakes outside the courthouse with Jeannie even though his heart’s not really in it; he wakes on his second tour in Iraq, on a pile of rubble in Fallujah, the roar of heavy metal being pumped at the insurgents a toneless room of sound all around him, as he closes his eyes again and falls back into the city air’s approximation of Mrs. Budnitz’s rankness; he wakes on the adolescent night he loses his virginity to a sweet-faced girl named Helen, who, out of fear of it hurting too much, gets him off manually and only then, as Wild Turkey drifts on the edge of sleep, mounts him unexpectedly; he wakes in the overgrown baseball field outside the country school, remembering the spring afternoon he woke in the outfield years ago in the middle of a game, the air heavy and perfect with the rumor of rain; in the desert, in the lightning, in his crumbling duplex, in the field, in the many rooms of night, Wild Turkey wakes up, he wakes up, he wakes up.
DENIS JOHNSON
The Largesse of the Sea Maiden
FROM The New Yorker
Silences
AFTER DINNER, NOBODY went home right away. I think we’d enjoyed the meal so much we hoped Elaine would serve us the whole thing all over again. These were people we’ve gotten to know a little from Elaine’s volunteer work—nobody from my work, nobody from the ad agency. We sat around in the living room describing the loudest sounds we’d ever heard. One said it was his wife’s voice when she told him she didn’t love him anymore and wanted a divorce. Another recalled the pounding of his heart when he suffered a coronary. Tia Jones had become a grandmother at the age of thirty-seven and hoped never again to hear anything so loud as her granddaughter crying in her sixteen-year-old daughter’s arms. Her husband, Ralph, said it hurt his ears whenever his brother opened his mouth in public, because his brother had Tourette’s syndrome and erupted with remarks like “I masturbate! Your penis smells good!” in front of perfect strangers on a bus or during a movie, or even in church.