Four Years from Home

by Larry Enright

  Harry believed that everything happened for a reason, that nothing was an accident, that our fate was our own doing. I always thought he was full of crap, yet there it was looming before us — the infamous Kokosing River trestle bridge from which Harry had supposedly fallen and drowned. We walked until we were standing under it and stopped. It was pretty high up and if Harry had been stupid enough to try and walk across it he could easily have slipped and fallen into the river. There were plenty of rocks he could have hit his head on. And he could have been knocked unconscious and drowned while he was carried away by the vicious current. And his body definitely could have washed up way downstream in the farmlands of Ohioland where I was sure there were cannibals and vultures to devour it. It all made perfect sense to me.

  “What are you thinking about?” Beth asked. This abruptly ended my logical extrapolations.

  “Nothing.”

  She faced me and pulled close, way too close. Thank God for heavy jackets. “Kiss me,” she whispered, looking up at me and closing her eyes.

  Sometimes my plans are so well thought out in advance that I can’t imagine why I haven’t been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for them, sometimes they are made and adapted on the fly and I pat myself on the back for being so resourceful, and sometimes I just do things based on the “what the hell” theory. Those don’t usually work out so well. So I kissed her.

  Our mouths seemed to fit together perfectly and I felt myself drawn into her like I had never been to any woman. I was waving good-bye forever to Bonnie Shoedel by the time she finally let go, and I had already rewritten the buddy’s code so that only “never squealing” and “never messing with a buddy’s car” were mandatory. “Never stealing his girl” had become a non-binding rule, more of a guideline actually. I looked into her eyes. There was not even a glimmer of a doubt there — impossibly, she believed I was Harry. I closed my eyes…

  In that split second, I thought of a million lies I could have told her that would end up with us in bed together, but I knew I didn’t need any of them. She wanted me and I wanted her. It was that simple. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut and make love to her. Or, I could have told her the truth.

  “I’m not Harry.” And… I’m an idiot.

  “What?” Beth’s look modulated through several emotional states, beginning with oddly amused and ending with uncomprehending.

  “I’m not Harry. I’m his brother, Tom.” She looked at me dumbfounded while the diarrhea of truth continued to spew forth from the lips that would never again kiss Beth’s, recounting the sad tale of Harry’s demise, starting with the fateful call from Kenyon, to my crazy impersonation of Harry, to my finally meeting her. When I was done, I looked down at my feet like the ten-year-old caught with a Playboy magazine in his room. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  “Why are you doing this?” she cried again and again as she beat on my chest with her clenched fists, “Why are you lying to me like this?”

  I took her hands and held them. “I’m not lying… now. Beth, I’m not Harry. I’m sorry.”

  “No,” she shook her head. “No, you’re Harry. You’re lying. Why? Why are you lying to me? Why?”

  I tried to pull her close to hug her and calm her, but she pushed me backwards. “Don’t you touch me. Don’t you ever touch me again. I can’t believe I ever loved you, and if this is the way you want to get out of our relationship then fine. You… you bastard!” She turned and ran back along the river and up the path towards school.

  I opened my eyes. Well, so much for the truth. I needed to take another path or risk losing her forever. I exhaled slowly.

  Beth was smiling up at me. “So what did they say?”

  “Who? Oh, my parents…” My hands were sweating and I felt a chill on the back of my neck. I didn’t want to lie to her and I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t remember ever having been in this kind of pickle before. I shrugged and laughed nervously. “Well, the fact of the matter is I didn’t tell them.” I ran the banner of a misleading truth up the flagpole and waited for the expectant salute or flag burning.

  Beth frowned at me. “You spent all that time at home and never said a word about it?”

  Avoidance. Stop, drop and roll. Duck and cover. “I’ll call them when we get back to the house,” I grinned stupidly. “It will be easier for them, I think. Let’s go back now. I’m cold.”

  Sliding her hand behind my neck, Beth pulled my face close to hers. “Do you love me?”

  There was no point in lying about this one. “Yeah, I do.”

  Chapter 10

  The woods, made sparse by the days of German shelling, were cold and quiet. The expected lull in the fighting had finally come, and while the Nazis regrouped and reloaded, Saunders was using the time to reposition his men. They had gotten beaten up pretty badly during the night and morale was low. Complaints, usually kept quiet, were heard in murmurs meant to be just out of the sergeant’s earshot, but close enough that he would get the message. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right that they should be the ones left behind to bear the brunt of the Nazi push, their only orders to slow down the assault enough to give the Allies time to get reinforcements to the regrouping area. Saunders and his men were expendable pawns and they all knew it. But Saunders wasn’t like them. He didn’t fear death. He just didn’t like it. It was just another punk to beat up. And he was going to make it damn miserable for those stinking Nazis.

  Kenyon, which had forever been an all-boys school, had finally entered the twentieth century in 1969 by building a coordinate college of women, thus doubling their enrollment and their yearly booty of doubloons and pieces of eight. But they built it apart from the main campus, on the other side of town, to keep it separate and distinct. Any fool could see that this was an interim move to appease the alumni, and that the ultimate goal of the campaign was to change Kenyon to a full-blown coed institution. It seemed like a convoluted step for a pirate to take, but I guess businessmen pirates are different when they are sailing the high seas of Ohioland and not the wilder waters of the Caribbean. Beth wanted to get a few things from her room in McBride, one of the girl’s dorms north of town, so we parted ways at Mrs. Hoople’s, agreeing that I would call home and then we’d have dinner with John Crowe Ransom.

  I opened the unlocked door to the Hoople house and went in, closing my eyes and taking in the smell of cinnamon. There was something comforting and reassuring about walking into a home filled with the smell of goodies baking. It reminded me of a time when things were a lot simpler and decisions were based more on what I wanted rather than on what I had to do. Somewhere around fifteen when I realized that things were changing, that my childhood was waving good-bye and I was being forced into becoming a responsible adult, I tried to stop it. I did everything in my power, pulled every string, called in every favor, and swore on every book I could lay my hands on that I wouldn’t grow up and become like them. I even went out of my way to do things that were insanely impractical and downright stupid for the sake of proving that I was doing things because I wanted to do them. Peter Pan would have been proud of me. Captain Hook, too. But even they grew up, didn’t they? I couldn’t remember. It was just another fairy tale during which I had fallen asleep.

  “I’m home,” I called out, heading upstairs to get cleaned up. I threw my jacket on the bed and collapsed in a chair. Beth’s faint scent was still with me when I cupped my hands over my face and inhaled. Dinner with her and Captain John would be nice. Maybe I could actually get to know her a little better, maybe him, too. Two good people, in my book, just a different goal in mind for each.

  Who was I kidding? A shower was really what I needed and I knew just where I could get one. So back down the stairs I went and to the kitchen. I poked my head in the doorway. “Hey, Mrs. H. I have to run over to Farr to get something.” Keep it vague. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings over having crappy, inadequate plumbing facilities. Mrs. Hoople looked a little tired when she turned from her cooking bu
t she had a smile for me anyway. She would definitely be the queen mother in my kingdom. But the cat? Well, that was another story.

  “Don’t be late now, dear. I’m making sticky buns. They’ll be out of the oven and cool in a half hour. If you come back too late, though, the icing will be hard, and you know how you don’t like that.”

  “I’ll be back long before that happens. Oh, and Beth is on her way over. We can have coffee and your delicious sticky buns together and then she and I are going out to dinner. How does that sound?” I called back on my way to the door. I stopped when I heard her shuffling after me.

  She was holding a towel and a shaving bag. “Why do you always have to be so secretive about this, Harry Ryan? Lord, after four years of sneaking over there to get your shower, you think I don’t know what you’re up to? I know you like your showers and you know I can’t afford to have one installed here. So I got you a Christmas present. I should have done this years ago, but there you have it.”

  I took the leather bag and clean towel and thanked her. “Nice job of gift wrapping.”

  “Yes, well, you know cats. He had other plans for that lovely wrapping paper.”

  So practical, so straightforward… I gave her a big hug and kissed her on the cheek.

  I wasn’t really in the mood to be back in the cold again, so I jogged over to Farr Hall. It was snowing lightly as I had earlier predicted but, thankfully, there was no wind to speak of. I quickly scanned the list of professions needed in my kingdom to make sure meteorologist was not among them. Any weathermen would be retrained as garbage collectors. There was always a lot of crap to clean up.

  Gambier was quiet and almost picturesque. It seemed like such a safe little haven in a world so deeply troubled by violence and war. Nothing ever happened here. Mrs. Hoople had confirmed that. That was why it was so odd to see a police car sitting across the main drags in front of the post office, its lights off. Nothing ever happened here, except to Harry. Were the cops here for me? No, it was dinnertime and even cops ate dinner, maybe even dinner at the Alumni House. Maybe the cop lived in town. Maybe Gambier actually had one cop, maybe a deputy like Barney Fife from the Andy Griffith show who was allowed to carry an unloaded gun and only one bullet that he had to keep tucked away in his shirt pocket for emergencies. I couldn’t remember if he ever loaded that gun. I doubt it.

  I couldn’t tell if Barney was inside the car. It was too far away and too dark. But as I neared Farr, I saw why the cop car was there — a small group of twenty or so students, some holding signs, some holding candles, was gathered on the north end of Middle Path. I could hear them singing one of those protest songs, one I really despised.

  …Gonna lay down my sword and shield

  down by the river side

  and I ain’t gonna study war no more.

  What a dumb thing to do — drop your weapons by a river and leave yourself defenseless. What if the Finnerty gang came along, picked them up and beat the crap out of you with them? You couldn’t even run home to hide. The river would be blocking your escape. Anyone who was crazy enough to do that was suicidal in my book.

  Harry had done that once. Kids from a block over had invaded our neighborhood, starting an afternoon-long snowball fight. We had control of the fort in the McKinley’s back yard and the invaders were taking heavy casualties. But as the battle had worn on and more and more of them gave up and went home, Harry decided out of the clear blue that he felt sorry for the ones left behind to fight us. He convinced three of my best boys to join him and they put down their cardboard shields and iceballs and walked out of the fort with a white flag of truce. That left the gate wide open, and the Huns from Wainbell Avenue poured in behind them, grabbing the shields and iceballs. They slaughtered us. That’s what happens when you let the diplomats try and run the war.

  The week before Christmas, just a week before we heard about Harry, President Nixon had ordered the bombing of Hanoi by B-52s because the North Vietnamese had backed out of some peace talks. I guess Nixon was trying to convince them that talking was better than having the crap bombed out of you. The Post-Gazette was calling it the “Christmas bombings.” But I really couldn’t say I blamed the North for leaving. I couldn’t stand Henry Kissinger either. He reminded me more of a weasel than a diplomat, and I found that gravelly voice of his really annoying.

  The only two signs I could make out in the group of protesters were “Stop the bombing” and “Get out of Vietnam.” What did they know of war? They’d probably never beaten anyone up in their lives or ever fought to protect anything they held dear. If I said “Pork Chop Hill” to them, they’d probably think I was talking about the leftovers from last night’s dinner. They were just like all the other anti-war activists who lived in their little vacuum of false security and thought they could tell everyone around them, including the people protecting them, what to do. If they were so against war, they should go find themselves a country that hadn’t been founded on a war, had not started a war, and didn’t have a government of idiots that insisted on jumping into a war that we didn’t belong in and couldn’t possibly win. Good luck with that.

  Drawing up a battle plan, I slowed to a walk and crossed over to Middle Path. By the time I reached them, they had finished their obnoxious song and were standing quietly in a circle, their heads bowed, silently praying. One of them stepped into the middle of the circle and held up a piece of paper. The others looked up. One girl, holding a candle in front of her face, was crying. Reading by flashlight, the leader slowly intoned a list of names, following each name in the litany with “killed in action in Vietnam.”

  I was sitting in the back pew of Saint Catherine’s again, trying not to pay attention to Mass but unable to ignore the Gregorian chant: Kyrie Eleison, killed in action in Vietnam. Christe Eleison, killed in action in Vietnam, Kyrie Eleison, killed in action in Vietnam. Carmen Ioli was hitting me in the chest with a two by four, yelling at me to get off their property. I cried out. I couldn’t remember the strategy of my attack plan. I was going to do something to the protesters; it involved the snow but I couldn’t remember what. Lieutenant Hanley was yelling and slapping me, “You’re hit! Get back behind the lines and find a medic! That’s an order, soldier!” But Sergeant Saunders never ran from anything. My hands became cold and clammy. I wasn’t sure I was even breathing anymore.

  One thing about throwing up — you know when the urge is too strong to resist and it’s just a matter of seconds before it happens. It’s when your mouth fills with saliva and you can’t swallow it anymore. I’ve been there many times before and I was nearly there then. I clasped my hand tightly over my mouth, turned away from the peace rally, and headed toward Farr Hall and the trash can that would soon smell of regurgitated mystery meat. Who knew? Maybe this was how they resupplied for the next day’s meal at the cafeteria.

  Fortunately for me, unfortunately for the food service people, I hadn’t quite reached the point of no return and the gripping sensation in my chest eased, and the urge to vomit left me by the time I got to Farr. But I didn’t feel well at all. I took the stairs two at a time and headed for Harry’s dorm room.

  The door to the bathroom was open on Harry’s suite mate’s side, and I could hear Stairway to Heaven playing so I took the liberty of checking it out. I stuck my head in first and did a quick reconnaissance. It looked more like a warehouse than a dorm room. There were stacks of neatly piled and shrink-wrapped records and books on the desk, a mini-mart of art supplies on the dresser, and a candy outlet in the open closet. Grabber, the spacey kid from the bookstore was busy sorting through the candy. He turned when he finally heard me call his name for the third time.

  “Dude, you freaking scared the shit out of me. Heh-heh.”

  “How’s business?” I counted five copies of Harry’s book on the desk.

  “Outstanding.” He followed my gaze to the books and asked, “Some Ryan signage on those would undoubtedly up the resale value.” He held a pen out in my direction, smiling, “Somet
hing fairly generic would be most fortuitous — that widens the market. Batchelder taught us that in Econ and he rocks.”

  I took the pen and set it down on the desk by the books. It was hard to imagine someone like Grabber running the U.S. economy one day, yet here he was in Dragburg, Ohio, in charge of a thriving black market. “I’m going to catch a quick shower first. That will give me time to think of something creative and make them really worth a pant-load.”

  “Heavy duty,” he nodded thoughtfully. “Something non-specific, yet creative.”

  With that I left Grabber to ponder the meaning of life amid a warehouse of stolen property. I hadn’t had a shower since my stay at the Alumni House so I took my time and enjoyed it — a double soaping, enough steam to fog the mirrors — my kind of medicine. I was feeling much better. A hot shower is a good time to think through things and get organized. Just let the water beat mindlessly down and it drowns out all confusion, leaving only essential thoughts. Give it enough time and it even washes away the complications of a tough day. It’s easy to lose track of time in a hot shower.

  I twisted the faucets off and grabbed my towel. Once I was preliminarily dry, I stepped out of the stall and found my watch – 6:00 p.m. I dressed with urgency. John Crowe Ransom was expecting us at six thirty. I hated rushing like that but I was determined that Beth and I were going to have a relaxing evening listening to pirate tales, drinking rum, and yo-ho-hoing into the wee hours. “From a good friend and lesser writer” — that’s how I would sign Harry’s book for him. I would have to remember not to use that one on Grabber’s copies.

  The battlefield is an ever-changing landscape that requires any successful plan to remain fluid. Static positions are the weakest and maintaining rapid movement capabilities the most critical. So said Erwin Rommel and, like General George Patton, I had read his book, the magnificent bastard. Dressed and feeling much better about life in general, despite the lack of progress in finding Harry and still feeling a bit rushed at the moment, I returned to Grabber’s room prepared to apply some “Ryan signage” and head back to Mrs. Hoople’s to pick up Beth.