
Contents

Becoming Something Else
Sanity
Obligation
Keeping a Promise
Light
Returning a Favour
Something Else Comes To Call

Copyright 2010 by Donald Stilwell
All rights reserved
Edited by Gina Minar
Cover design by Travis Pennington
Epub production by John Potter
OBLIGATION
Donald Stilwell
OBLIGATION
A story of Honor and Love, and the depths of both, as only the human heart can know
For Alicia,
If there were no you, there would be no reason for me
Hero
John took aim when the first of them got within eight hundred yards. He pressed back, aiming for the center. There was no time to change the dope, just press. John's rifle bucked and he was unable to determine if his round had hit or not, it was a long way. He worked the bolt of his Remington and fired again. It wasn't precision marksmanship when firing upon a swelling mass so far away. The enemy was clumped close together and he was taking dead aim at the middle of it. John worked the bolt until all of his rounds were gone. Now he was loading them combat style one at a time; bolt open, throw a round; bolt open, throw a round; over and over until spent.
Will was beside John, firing his M-16 into the folds and pockets of the massive swarm. John couldn't keep up with them, there were just too many. The platoon John and Will were assigned to was pinned down below them. John was close to the end of his ammunition when the first mortar round dislodged a Buick sized piece of earth close by.
"Go Will, get the fuck out of here," John screamed.
"Not today, Anderson," Will replied.
The second mortar hit; both men felt the sting of the blast as pieces of earth rained down upon them.
"Do you have any ammo?" John was on his side yelling to Will with his face pressed tightly to the earth.
Will was as flat as a man his size could be, "Do you?"
"Yes, and I'm going to keep shooting these greasy fuckers until I'm out; now one of two things are going to happen here Will, and both are pretty shitty. I have the rifle, I have the ammo, I'm the shooter. You'd be lucky to hit me from where you're lying, so get the fuck out of here."
Will had been partnered with John Anderson for ten months. He had been through the newly structured sniper/observer school with him before that. They had been on countless missions, just the two of them, and had seen some pretty hairy shit. Through all of it, John had been Will's brother. No color difference divided them, and when one of the other guys, perhaps a white soldier, born and raised in a state where white men had owned black men not so long ago, made a questionable remark, it was John, not Will, who introduced them to a life with a few less teeth. Will was raised in a house with four sisters. John was the only brother he had ever known. Will would not abandon his brother now.
"You stay; I stay, simple as that John."
"Fine, then listen to me, go below and get our boys on the right path out. They think the shits coming from everywhere. Lead them east; I'll be in route as soon as I'm empty."
Will hesitated, John urged, "Son of a bitch, Will, go!"
Will reached out and touched his friend and partner on the arm. He squeezed it once then ran away from the fire to assist their platoon.
John Anderson focused all of his attention on the tree line where the big guns were hidden. With resolve even he was unaware he'd had up until that point, he found the one responsible for the most trauma. His figure as an enemy was recognizable through the scope and not much else. He loaded the next mortar shell, the one that undoubtedly would be dialed in closer to John's unit. John breathed out, took aim - god damn it was a long ways away - and fired. The man didn't budge. He wasn't hit, and John cursed quietly. One more baby, give me one more second, John thought to himself. The man had loaded the shell, pulled back hard, the mortar was away.
John took aim again, let out a breath, and smoothed back the trigger just as his father had taught him so long ago. It was a fine pull; the enemy fell lifeless some thousand yards away. No more mortars, he thought. Some of his men, Will, would survive. John had never been a religious man. He had shared himself with very few people, but those closest to him knew they had been loved. John held no hope for the future. His future had been determined by a belief he held dearly. Seconds, perhaps just one, remained.
John relaxed and closed his eyes and pictured his wife's face; she was standing before him, her hair radiating the sun's warmth, her smile genuine and far reaching, her love and strength finding him thousands of miles from where he had last touched her. It wasn't so bad, he thought with his final breath. Her love was all around him and would surely follow him into the dark.
Matty
For as long as I can remember, I knew three things.
1). My brother Matty and I had always shared a room.
2). Matty was not like other kids.
3). I was supposed to look out for Matty.
Matty was eleven and I was ten when we moved to San Jose, California. The walls in our bedroom were the color blue all little boys know and grow accustomed to.
It was a typical Saturday morning. The house was quiet. After helping Matty put on his socks, I pulled down two bowls from the cabinet while Matty grabbed the cereal box from atop the fridge. Cereal poured, we sat down next to one another on the shag carpet. Bugs Bunny was having his way with the less intellectually gifted Elmer Fudd.
Matty didn't speak for the first thirty minutes. The cereal, the cartoons, this manner of being was consuming enough. Our mother would be home that afternoon. Since our father had died, she had found two jobs to keep the family together. A picture of our dad in his uniform adorned the top of the television. Next to it lay a velvet lined box with a medal inside. Matty thought the medal was handsome. It was light blue with numerous stars.
Our mother used to look at the medal and cry at night. Matty and I would lie silently in our beds, close our eyes, and try not to hear what was only a room away. It was better now. For the first couple months, she was incapable of saying or hearing my father's name spoken aloud. Now she would speak of him from time to time and explain to us that we should be proud of him, for he had given his life in defense of his country. I wouldn't understand what that meant for some time to come.
It had been a year since the older man in the uniform had come to our house, had said the words that made our mother collapse. We had lived on base then.
We were still in California; however, the new home, the new city, seemed a world away.
I finished my cereal and made sure Matty finished his. The only cartoons Matty liked were over. After washing out our bowls, I helped Matty dress in his outdoor clothes. To look at us from a distance, you would only notice two lean and athletic looking boys; we got that from our father. Up close, the subtleties were apparent. Matty didn't talk much. What few words he said that were recognizable were the things he favored. "Juice, milk, hot dog, outside".
The rest of his speech was a litany of sounds strung together which resembled more a long ago tribe speak rather than English.
This Saturday was not unlike any other Saturday. I grabbed the football in one hand, took Matty's hand in the other, and then headed for the park. On our way, I would lob the football to Matty. Sometimes he would catch it, other times not. It was still early, only a few other kids inhabited the field.
Jeff and Paul, brothers who resembled each other not at all, were ready to join in on the game of catch. Before my father had died, he had taught me a few things about fighting -- where to hit a guy to make it hard for him to breathe, where to strike to make the eyes water and therefore render him blind for a couple seconds. He had cautioned against doing these things unless it was absolutely necessary. He added, sometimes, through no fault of your own, it would be.
Some choices are made for you, before you're even born; I know this now, as I knew it then. Jeff had learned this the hard way. Jeff and Paul lived three houses down from Matty and me. A month ago, when we had first moved in, our mother suggested we go outside, explore the new neighborhood, and make some friends. Jeff, along with his younger brother Paul, were the first to make our acquaintance. Jeff and I sized each other up as all boys and men do. I introduced myself, as well as my brother Matty. Upon hearing my brother's name, Jeff laughed and remarked, "Matty? Like Madeline? Parents think you were a girl?"
Matty was incapable of explaining that his name was short for Matthew. It didn't matter to me at the time that Matty took no ill will from any remark meant to hurt or disrespect him. Understanding such a gesture was beyond his capability. It wasn't beyond mine.
Jeff never finished that chuckle. I had socked Jeff squarely in the mouth and the fight was on. We worked things out the way boys did during my childhood. Hurt feelings, interrupted by brief physical combat, soon replaced by handshakes. In no time we were all friends. After Jeff had cleaned himself up, and I had made sure Matty was alright, I explained to both boys the untitled affliction that plagued my brother. The doctors had no name for it then. They told my mom he was retarded, or had some form of retardation. She didn't buy that, but didn't know what else to do. Matty went to a special class, with kids no one knew what to do with. I saw my mother cry when she believed I wasn't watching. It was only when she was alone with Matty. He looked so much like my dad, you just wanted him to talk to you, engage in a conversation about anything. He didn't, he wouldn't, he couldn't.
While explaining all of this to two relative strangers, and kids at that, my mind flashed to the way my Mom would hold Matty sometimes, hold him as long as he would allow it. I thought of her this way, and with brilliant clarity, I remembered her face, and how it would be eclipsed with sadness.
I recalled the facts about Matty were merely observations of two people who loved him. Everything about him was just a guess, because nobody, even the doctors, actually knew. His affliction, and my mother's process of acceptance, was never further than the next stranger's insensitive remark, or lingering glance. As a boy, I only knew one way to protect Matty, and for now it seemed to work. Like children do, I stuffed the memory back into the closet next to all of the others, both long ago, and newly formed, and continued on with the promise of new adventure.
Today was exceptional, sunny but cold, perfect football weather. An hour had passed to find the rest of the neighborhood boys engaged in the game that had begun with two. I played, only after making sure Matty was seated near the field and was occupied. Today, I had brought along a special comic book for him. Matty seemed to enjoy the pictures, and would look at the book over and over while I played. In the end the day had belonged to me. The opposing team would later blame it on my getting first picks; I insisted my quarter-backing abilities were the key. Game over, we walked the two blocks home, me dirty and tired, Matty just hungry.
The house was still ours. Mom would return home soon; however, neither of us could wait. I turned on the gas, lit the burner, and instructed Matty to pull the hot dogs from the fridge. Matty was good in the kitchen. Matty would generally fetch the items. I, in turn, would prepare them. There were no buns so I pulled four slices of Wonder bread from the loaf Matty had handed me. Matty was a bread and dog man, while I enjoyed mine with ketchup and mustard. There was only one Coke left. I let Matty have it. I was fine with milk. The dogs gone, I wiped both of our faces and watched Matty smile. The Saturdays of childhood were a magical thing.
Matty was a better cleaner than I. Somewhere along the way, Mom had taught Matty to wipe the crumbs into his hand and deposit them into the trash. I still believed the crumb swipe off the table and onto the floor was an acceptable measure of clean. We were racing back out the door when our mother returned.
She walked us back inside, obviously some mothering business to attend to.
"You two eat something today?"
"Yes mom, we had cereal for breakfast and hot dogs for lunch." I spoke on our behalf.
Our mother looked us over. I never said anything, but I knew she looked at Matty differently than me. Matty looked more like our dad; I didn't know if that made her love him more or not. I hoped not.
"I wish I was here more, boys. I hate not being here to feed you."
"It's okay Mom we understand." I said it as if I actually meant it. I watched my mom walk to the fridge, her step that of someone much older than her thirty-three years.
"Do we need anything boys?"
I confessed we had drank the last coke and added that the milk might need replacing as well. I stood by as Matty was pulled in close by our mother. She lingered a moment, kissing the top of his head, while simultaneously pushing the hair back from his brow.
She held a hand out to me then, bringing me to her as well. "You're both growing up too fast." She kissed both of us, then gave us a couple of dollars and a short list for the corner store. As we left, she told us to be careful and to get one candy each with the money that was left.
I purchased soda, milk, bread, peanut butter, and bologna. As instructed, I picked out a candy for each of us. Matty's was a Hershey's bar, and mine was a jaw breaker, larger than the opening of my mouth would accommodate.
I placed the groceries on the kitchen table and then went to ask permission to ride bikes. I found my mom asleep and left her as such. Matty helped put the few grocery items away, and then we walked quietly out of the house.
Bike secured, I put Matty on the back half of the seat; his feet rested on the make shift pegs my father had built for us. We rode to the northern most portion of the neighborhood. There we found Jeff, Paul, and Timmy, all riding their bikes off of a make shift jump. Timmy was another kid from the block; he was ten, and his father was a cop. Timmy told us he had heard his father talking about a rope swing some older boys had built over at Meadows creek. Everyone knew of Meadows, it was a medium size stream where once in a while you could catch a trout if you were lucky, and in the summer months it offered a reprieve from the heat. In the fall and winter months it went vacant except for the hippies who ate granola and smoked dope. He'd heard his dad say that too.
In a flash we were on our way, intrigued by the idea of swinging high above the stream. In ten minutes or so we had arrived. As promised, there was a thick rope tied to a tall eucalyptus tree. An older boy was swinging from one side to the other. It looked dangerous, but fun all the same.
Everyone grounded their bikes and took in the spectacle the older boys had created.
A tall lank blond boy was flying across the chasm some forty feet above the nearly dried up stream. He shouted as he went, running off the twenty feet or so of dirt pulling hard and traversing the unknown. I was hooked.
The boys looked to one another, each mustering the courage it would take to employ little boy nerve into the big boy world. "Who's going first?" The words were Jeff's. I said I would go, if the older kids would let me have a turn.
Jeff did the asking. The bigger kids seemed all too ready to allow the younger boys a shot at this heroic endeavor.
While I was talking Timmy into watching Matty for a minute, Jeff took my place at the rope. He held it; it was larger in his hands than it had appeared when the older boys were going. He walked to the edge and looked down.
Down seemed something altogether different as well. It was too much for him. I watched as Jeff gave the rope back to the older kid, thanked him, and walked away. I shrugged.
"What's up?"
"No way man, look over the edge, it's too far. What if I don't make it across? I'll be stuck until I drop."
I agreed. "Yep, it's a long way down; I don't blame you for backing out."
Jeff took this as an insult. "If you're so tough, you try it."
I looked to Timmy, "You'll watch Matty for me while I go?"
Timmy shook his head in the affirmative.
I took Matty's hand. He looked at me and then looked away. "I'm going to swing on the rope, Matty. I'll only be gone two seconds. You stand with Timmy while I'm gone, and I'll be right back."
Matty said the word rope a couple of times, nothing more.
I grabbed Timmy's t-shirt. "Don't say you're going to watch him if you're not."
Timmy pulled back and told me to relax. "Yes, Kevin, I will watch him. Just hurry up, I wanna try too."
I looked to Matty one last time, made sure Timmy was right next to him, then ran for the rope.
The older boy gave me some advice. I held on tight, pulled the rope back as far as it would go, then ran for the edge. In a second I was flying. No thoughts interrupt a moment like this - it's just sheer panic and sheer joy. I was on the other side before I knew it.
I had let go a tick too late. My butt hit the hard dirt before my feet had a chance to get under me. It didn't matter, I was laughing like a crazy man.
I never heard Timmy yell.
I was told later that Matty tried to follow me. He moved faster than anyone had ever seen him move before. He ran to the edge and jumped. I didn't see my older brother fall to the rocks and shallow water below.
His was an unfinished life and the fault was my own.
Matty's funeral was three days later. All of the kids from the neighborhood were there. My mother was dressed in black, as was I. She didn't speak to anyone. She remained seated, staring at the medium sized casket which held her first son. My presence offered no relief, only a reminder of her loss.
When the words had all been spoken and the casket lowered, I looked to my mom. I wanted to say something that would help. Nothing would. We sat there a long time. Somewhere in the middle of the service my grandfather pulled up beside me. He took my hand and whispered something about leaving. I would have none of it.
My mother was all that I had. I was all that she had. I wasn't going to leave her. Through her trembling and tears, she told me I should go. I cried then. Told her I wouldn't leave her. In the end, I didn't, at least not yet.
We returned to our modest home. I stood by the front door, while she spoke with my grandfather.
She walked to me, attempted to place the key in the lock but she couldn't. I took it from her, opened the door, and she walked past me into her room and shut the door.
I poured a glass of milk, sat down at the kitchen table, looked to the chair opposite mine, thought of him and cried. I put the glass in the sink, still mostly full.
I walked past my mother's room. I listened, and she was quiet now; somehow she had learned to cry without making a sound.
I entered the room where Matty and I slept. I looked around. My wall was filled with pictures of sports heroes. Matty's held a few pictures of animals, a rainbow, and the sun. I sat on my bed, and looked to his. It was neatly made, the blue comforter with giraffes and lions on it folded back perfectly from his pillow. His favorite stuffed animal was sitting in its familiar spot just left of the pillow. On the small nightstand between our beds were two pictures.
One was of Matty and me being held by our father when we were little, the second, a recent picture of Matty and me, my arm around his shoulders while we played at the beach. Matty loved water. He could swim for hours and never grow tired of it.
I stood, walked to his bed, and I sat down.
I was tired; I ached with tired.
I laid my head on Matty's pillow. I turned my face so I could smell him. The pillow held the scent of Johnson's baby shampoo. That was Matty alright. I covered my face with the pillow then, covered it and bled it through with my tears.
In my dream he was alive and he was perfect.
There were no gestures displaying abnormality, no walking in circles, no conversation to shadows.
Matty looked at me. He held me in a victorious hug and told me he loved me. He asked me things, all sorts of things. I would answer, then he would tell me things, the way older brothers do.
It was warm out; we walked side by side in a field of endless green. We reached a stream where he said we had to part. I told him how sorry I was for letting him down, for not watching him as I should. Matty dismissed it all with a smile, a real smile.
"Did you love me?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"That's all that matters, Kevin."
In the dream he left me that way. I pulled back to this place, this time, he a perfect boy in a perfect place. I would always try and remember him that way.
Mom was never the same.
I saw her, coming, going, always in her room, always the door shut. I figured the hurt would pass, it had to. In the end she was my mom, and that would win out. We would have each other, and someday we would be alright.
The day never came.
You learn at some point in life, if you live long enough, that some hurt never heals. Some pain whittles away what resolve you were born with and in the end there's nothing left to replace it.
Grandfather
My grandfather, Grandpa Joe, my father's dad, took me in. My mother was placed in a care home. I don't know whose idea it was, but she was incapable of caring for herself anymore. I was eleven. What help I could offer was never enough. Once again, I had failed the person I loved most.
Grandpa Joe was a big man. He had been on his own since his wife, my grandmother, had passed. That was about the same time I was born. He lived in the country. His was a ranch house, with property all around, and a large work shed and barn in the back.
He had been a Marine, like my father.
My first day with him he said some things I never forgot.
"I don't know much about kids. What I know I'll teach you, the rest you'll have to figure out for yourself, like we all do."
At least he was honest.
My new room was much bigger than my last.
It was mostly wood, a wood floor, wood walls; a large round rug took up a good portion of the floor. The bed was bigger too. There was a desk to one side, a lamp atop it with a shade made of what appeared to be animal hide. My grandfather said it was mine to do with what I pleased; his only word of caution was to keep it clean.
I brought what few things I had. My pictures I placed beside the bed. I didn't talk much that first day, it didn't matter; Grandpa didn't seem much one for talking either.
That night he made steak, baked potatoes, and green beans. He drank beer, while my glass held milk. My mom couldn't afford steak.
We usually ate a dinner of hamburger helper or hot dogs. I looked the piece of meat over before cutting into it.
"You don't like steak?" He said the words while chewing a large bite of the charred flesh.
"Don't ever remembering having it before," I replied.
"Uh-huh. Well eat it before it gets cold, there's nothing worse than a cold steak."
I ate as instructed; when my grandfather had finished his meal, he sat his plate in the sink. He pulled a second beer from the fridge and then sat back down. He watched me without really intending to.
"You look a lot like your mother."
The words were a statement of fact, nothing more; I did look like my mother.
"I guess so."
"You want to watch T.V.?"
My grandfather was as new to this as I. He took his beer with him and headed for the living room; I followed close behind.
I still considered myself a stranger in this place. I felt about as comfortable as anyone would in my position. He found a football game on and remarked about the two teams. I liked football. I sat there quietly, trying not to disturb him.
I glanced over at him from time to time. He would offer a half-hearted grin. When he spoke it sounded like something had been left behind in his throat from dinner. There was a grating. Even when he spoke in conversational tones, his voice was deep and rough; it fit the exterior.
"You need anything Kevin?" he said while only half taking me in.
"No, I'm good," I responded.
He didn't say anything else; I was comfortable with that. We sat there like two old men. The game played on; he drank while I sat quiet.
When the game ended, I left him for my room, his room. I poured over the wall devoted to books.
Shelves were built right into the wall which held an extraordinary number of them, mostly westerns, some on Military history, others on philosophy, a few on the world in general. Some were very old, with titles such as The Iliad and The Old Man and the Sea. I pulled down a large book with the picture of a fierce looking Indian on the cover. Apparently, my grandfather enjoyed reading.
I fell asleep with the Indian book at my side.
The next morning I woke with the sun. The window behind my bed caught all of the light in the morning. The curtain covering it shielded only a tiny fraction of those penetrating rays.
I walked out into the main portion of the house like a thief, my footsteps barely audible to my own ears. I located my grandfather through the kitchen window. I noticed his flannel shirt first. It was draped over the fence near the chopping stump. He was amassing a pile of dry walnut from his efforts. His grey t-shirt was sweated through with the exertion of it, even though the temperature couldn't have been a degree over 60.
I decided to roam the house. Throughout I found pictures of me and my brother and others of my dad when he was a kid. Many were of he and my grandfather playing sports, hunting, fishing, hanging out. It would appear, at least from the pictures, that my grandfather loved my father very much. In every photograph, he was smiling the way someone smiles when he is truly happy.
Other pictures were of my dad in his military uniform. There was a boot camp photo where he was in dress uniform. Others were of him in camos; he was tanned, strong, smiling. There was a picture of my mom and dad on their wedding day. She looked so young.
Another room held pictures of my grandmother, she as a young lady, many of her all by herself, various poses, some smiling, some laughing, all very beautiful. It was obvious grandpa loved her too.
I must have been in there for some time; I turned to find him standing behind me.
"Your grandmother was a beautiful woman."
I agreed.
"You're not going to hurt anything here. You look all you like."
I felt as if I should say something. I felt somehow I had trespassed into his private things. It didn't matter; he had already left. I followed the path my grandfather had taken.
I found him outside, called to him. "I need Johnson shampoo."
My grandfather looked befuddled.
"You asked me last night if I needed anything. I need Johnson's shampoo."
I sat in the passenger seat of my grandfather's brown Chevy pick-up. We were driving into town, apparently to buy my shampoo. I was the one befuddled now. I believed my grandfather would have blown me off, told me to use what was there. Instead, he told me to grab my coat and meet him in the barn.
A minute later we were driving.
I watched as the neighborhoods came into view and then passed. They were neighborhoods like the one I had lived in just weeks before - back when Matty was alive and my mother still loved me.
I closed my eyes tight, willing away the tears which pressed along my eyelids and made my head hurt with the effort to restrain them. My grandfather noticed and asked if I was okay.
I didn't trust myself to speak. My grandfather knew what was wrong. He had lived with his own pain for too many years. It was always near, like a neighbor you can't tell politely enough to leave you alone.
My grandfather was a tough guy. You could tell just by looking at him. I had seen plenty of older men in my time. They were bald, stooped, and fat.
My grandfather was none of those, He was tall and lean. The muscles in his arms still popped when he worked or picked something up. His hair was gray, but it was combed in the same style as the pictures I had seen of him as a much younger man. His voice was deep, gravely, like he yelled a lot when he was young. He looked at the road and spoke. His eyes didn't leave the road ahead, but his voice, his thoughts, were in another place all together.
"I want to tell you some things, Kevin. If it's too much, well you just say so and I won't say no more. Okay?"
I nodded, "Okay."
"When your father died. . ." He paused. "When he died, a part of me, the biggest part died along with him. I hurt so bad I didn't want to live anymore."
I looked at my grandpa then; there was a visible change in his face. His hand was holding the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles revealing the strain.
"That boy, your father, was, will always be the best thing I ever did."
My grandfather took a quick swipe at his eyes.
"Even now, Kevin, not a day goes by that I don't think about him - remember him from when he was your age, remember all of the things we used to do, remember that smile of his."
I tried to imagine my dad at eleven years old, my grandfather when he was my dad's age before he died.
"And after your grandma passed, after that, I, wanted to protect him, wanted. . ."
I doubted my grandfather had ever told another living soul what he was telling me now. It wasn't his way. I knew that as I knew tomorrow would bring another sunrise.
"I wanted to make sure his life was protected, safe, perfect."
He looked out his window and rubbed his face again.
"The problem, Kevin, is everybody has their own will, their own thoughts on how things should be, when your father joined the Marines that was against my will."
I remembered my dad had pictures of grandfather in his uniform. He had said more than once he was a Marine because it honored him. I didn't know what that meant at the time and was unsure now.
"Oh, I know why he joined; he wanted to make me proud. Thing is, I was proud from the day he was born. He was a great kid, like you, and he was an even better man, better than I ever was. I promise you that."
Grandfather grew quiet then. A minute passed before he spoke again.
"Then he goes off to goddamned Vietnam."
My grandfather's face was changing; sadness was being replaced with something else, something that soured his thoughts. He looked to me then, asked if he should stop. I didn't want him to, and yet wanted him to all at the same time. I shook my head, and he continued.
"Your father died protecting the people he cared about. He believed the lives of the men in his platoon were just as, if not more, valuable than his own, his choice, his belief. And my loving him, my wanting to protect him and have him here made not a difference in the world."
My grandfather was talking about my father, but I believed he was also talking about Matty and me.
"Do you understand what I'm saying, Kevin?"
I was crying then. I tried to hide my face in my hands the way most boys do to shield their embarrassment.
My grandfather pulled me to his side. I buried my face in his chest and cried until I could cry no more.
We drove the rest of the way in silence.
When we returned, I put away the few items he'd purchased then shut myself away in the room he was providing. I sat down heavily, looking to the walls, the ceiling. I had finished crying but my face was still hot, my eyes burning little coals. I was just what my grandfather needed, a soft, blubbering kid. I was no good for anyone.
He asked me to come out for dinner, and I refused. I wasn't hungry, just tired, lonely, and afraid. I had spoken to God before. My dad had taught me how before he went away. Side by side we had kneeled. He explained to me you could talk to God in any position; however, the traditional approach was on your knees.
I knew my dad had been a soldier, a Marine. Now I knew in some small way how he had died. My earliest memories of him were always of a tall, handsome man in uniform. I remember watching him when he would clean his rifle. I was a little kid, but still I found it fascinating. It was a big rifle with a scope on top. He was very proud of it and took great care to make sure it was clean.
I was almost eight years old when he left for the last time. I asked him if he ever got scared. He answered as he always did. Honestly. He said he got scared all the time, but when he was really scared he just thought about me, Matty, and my mom. He said he asked God to watch over us when he couldn't and it made him feel better, less afraid.
I moved beside the bed, my knees planted firmly against the floor. I placed both hands together, breathed out, and bowed my head. I was talking as if he were in the room with me; I hoped it was okay.
My prayers were that of a little frightened boy.
I missed my dad, missed my mom, and missed Matty. Everyone I ever loved was gone in one fashion or another.
I remember asking God to watch over my mom, to make her feel better so we could be together again. I must have repeated my request for her ten times. I ended the prayer without asking anything for myself.
It would be that way most of my life.
When morning came, I found that I was actually hungry. I looked for my grandfather and found him in his familiar spot, chopping more firewood. We must have a barn full of it somewhere I thought.
I rummaged through the fridge and found a tin of homemade biscuits and a large slice of ham. I didn't heat either one, just took them to the table and ate. Finished, I grabbed a coat and walked to where my grandfather was splitting wood.
"Can I try?" I said the words while looking at the axe.
"You ever split wood before?"
I admitted that I hadn't.
My grandfather handed me the axe. It was heavier than I would have imagined.
"Not much to it really, you take aim, lift it overhead, then swing it down. Do me a favor, though huh? Try a practice swing or two before you launch into it for real."
He sat a short log atop the chopping block for me to swing at. I wanted to prove I could be of some use around here - take away at least one of his burdens. I aimed, placing the working end of the blade atop the log. I took a firm grip, raised the axe overhead, then brought it down with all I had. The sharp edge of the blade buried into the thick log. It remained there, hardly the outcome I had hoped for.
My grandfather said it was a good first go, especially for a kid, he said when he was a boy he could barely pull the axe overhead. I doubted that was true. My grandfather looked as if he'd always been about six-foot-five. My grandfather took the axe from me, lifted the axe and wood together overhead, and swung them back down.
The wood split as easily as they all did when he was the one doing the splitting.
"Will I ever be strong?"
My grandfather put the axe aside and put on his work shirt.
"That depends. Do you aspire to be strong?"
I asked my grandfather what aspire meant. After he told me I answered "Yes, sir."
My grandfather smiled at that. He told me to follow him. We walked side by side to the barn.
I hadn't noticed what was in the barn before now. The last time I had been here was when my dad was still alive. That was some time ago.
The floor was dirt, but it was dried hard and swept clean. It was the cleanest dirt I'd ever seen if there were such a thing. Hanging from a high wooden rafter was an old heavy bag, the kind boxers hit. Right next to it was a much smaller bag hanging from a length of cord. Next to that were weights in all sizes and configurations. I was gaining some insight as to my grandfather's shape and size.
"How old are you again, boy?"
My grandfather knew how old I was; he said it to be funny.
"I'm eleven."
"I suppose that's about the right age."
My grandfather handed me an oversized pair of boxing gloves. They smelled like dry leather. The insides were stained from prior years of sweat soak. I put them on.
"These were your father's. Did he ever teach you anything about fighting?"
"Yes sir."
"Show me what you know kid, punch the bag"
My grandfather stood behind the bag. He was holding it with his upper body leaned out just enough to watch me punch. I pulled back my right hand and let the bag have it. I followed that with a couple lefts and more rights. I was spent a minute later, my breaths coming in short ragged gasps. My grandfather let go of the bag and stepped around to stand in front of me.
"Take off the gloves."
I did as he asked.
"Put your hands up like this, left in front, right cocked back. Blade your stance so your left foot is up front."
I followed his example.
"Now tuck your chin. Your chin is the sun in your fighting universe, Kevin. Someone hits you on the chin, it's lights out, understand?"
I didn't, but I said I did.
"Good. Now breathe. When you throw a punch, breathe out tightening your stomach."
He extended the word breathe as he said it. I remember it calmed me the way he spoke when talking about the fighting arts. He enjoyed this and it showed.
My grandfather threw quick short punches in front of him. He moved to an internal rhythm, his body swaying left or right depending upon the punch he threw. He did this with what appeared to be very little effort. He spoke to me as he went, explaining the nuances of each blow delivered.
Though I wouldn't know the word to describe it at the time, I would say later that my grandfather looked formidable.
I went to put on the gloves again; he stopped me.
"Put your hands up like I showed you."
I did. I even remembered to put my left foot up further than my right.
"Good, that looks good. Now hit me."
My grandfather put his hands up in front of his chest, palms out toward me, open so they were flat.
"Go ahead, boy, hit my hands. Start slow; remember to breathe out when you punch, left first, then right, left, right. Nice. Move a little now, follow me around the room."
It was the first time I thought of something other than my guilt. For the next hour or so I followed him around the room. In the end I was more tired than I could ever remember being, hungrier too.
He looked at me differently now, and that felt good as well. I felt something resembling pride.
Over dinner that night we discussed boxing as a whole. He explained things he knew, pointing out the similarities between boxing and certain punches and movements from Karate. He qualified his knowledge and the extent to which he was providing me with by always detailing the defensive nature of acquiring such a skill.
"Most men fight out of anger. Most know very little about what it takes to be a good fighter and more about a simple ignorant need to hurt something. Any idiot can hurt somebody, it takes no skill. If you take anything from me take this, the man out of control reacts, the man in control acts. No matter what you learn, you're only as good as your mind will allow you to be."
It was a lot for an eleven year old, but it was necessary. He was teaching me as he had taught my father. I remember him, so calm, so in control. I never once saw him get mad. He disciplined Matty and I. He was disciplined himself, but he never reacted out of anger, not one time.
In the weeks that followed, I insisted on training every day. It closed the door to things less tolerable and gave me something to look forward to.
Sundays were for my mom.
My grandfather would drive me to the care home every Sunday afternoon. He would park, tell me to take all the time I needed, and wait in the truck. He had come in the first time. Since then, he waited for me.
She was sitting there, near a window, her shape small, covered by a macramé throw. Grandfather made sure I had flowers for her every time I visited.
It had been three months since the incident. Three months since our lives had changed. I stepped through the doorway, called out to her. She didn't respond. She never did.
There was a chair next to where she was seated. I sat down and placed the flowers down next to her on the ledge underneath the window. She didn't look at me, didn't shift in her seat. She stared, looking through a window at what I wasn't sure. The first few times I came, I just sat next to her and cried. After that I would just look at her, try to figure out where she was inside her own head. She was more as Matty had been now. Maybe that was it. Maybe she had found a way to be with him. I wanted to be there too.
Lately I talked to her. I told her of the things Grandfather had taught me - was teaching me. I was sad. I was still only eleven, twelve in another month. You couldn't look at the person who used to hold you, kiss you, tell you how much they loved you, see them now as a shell of the former, and not be sad. I prayed so hard for her, prayed every single night that she would just wake up. The prayers were not unlike those I use to say for Matty. All I ever wanted was for him to talk to me, for him to tell me how he felt about stuff. He was gone now, and in a way, so was my mom. So I did what anyone would do in the same circumstance. I hugged her, talked to her, and pretended she was alright, pretended any day now she would leave behind her new world and return to mine.
My grandfather was reading a sports magazine when I returned to the truck. He stopped asking how she was doing. I guess he knew my face would be different if she had spoken. He drove with the radio playing country music, the windows down, and with no expectations.
School would be starting in less than a week.
I had jumped a grade when I was younger. I would be entering junior high now, 7th grade.
My grandfather had made a special trip to the school, completed the forms, and made sure I had my schedule.
The kids I knew from the old neighborhood wouldn't be attending my new school. That was good and bad. Memories are strange things. Some make you laugh, others make you cry; I had too many of the latter.
I had been smallish for most of my life.
That had passed with the last few months.
I was thicker now. My grandfather had purchased me all new clothes. I felt strong. I wanted to stay with him. I wanted to work on the farm, split logs, which I was now capable of, train in the barn, and just be around him. I didn't want to meet new kids, didn't want to answer anyone's questions. Matty's death had made the paper. People would know, and people would say things.
I was young, but I knew a few things about a few things - an expression I borrowed from my grandfather.
I understood the way of school, the society formed there and its pecking order. I would be looked upon as something different, a bad kid who let his brother die. I didn't want to be anyone's target.
My grandfather had cautioned me about using my new learned skills. He wanted no trouble from me and made me promise not to fight.
"Words, Kevin, they're only words. Let them roll off of you like water off a duck's back. Fight when given no other option."
I asked to stay home. I explained to him that I really didn't mind solitude. I had him; I had my books.
Grandfather would have none of it.
The school year began and I found myself walking alone. I had never had to think of the things I now had to think about. I had always been fairly popular, at least in my own mind. I felt strange now, out of place. I found my first classroom and chose a seat near the back.
The others arrived. Ten girls, fifteen boys, most of them laughing and playing grabass, at least that's what my Grandfather called it when kids were screwing around. The teacher called the students' names one by one, waiting for the customary "here" or "present." I felt anxious awaiting the sound of my name.
I answered "here" as quickly as I could.
The day had elapsed without incident.
The last class of the day was P.E.
Before Matty died, I loved sports, loved to play them, loved to organize them, and now they seemed irrelevant and unnecessary.
The gym teacher was a barrel-chested man clad in navy blue gym shorts, white polo shirt, and black cord-slung whistle. He was busy lining up the boys and girls according to size.
The gym teacher spoke. "What you see ahead of you is my very own obstacle course. I designed it, I helped build it, and I will help you master it." The coach walked everyone through it. I had barely paid attention as the man went on about the course. It seemed ridiculous to me how much importance he placed on the students' ability to record a good time. He must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm, for he selected me to go first.
He looked to his clipboard. "What's your name son?"
"Kevin."
"Kevin what?"
"Kevin Anderson, sir."
Something flicked in his eyes, or did it? He must have known, must have read about Matty and Meadows Creek.
He walked me to the start line, whispered something about this is what happens when you screw around in his class.
I felt myself growing hot.
He blew his whistle and I began.
As I took off at the six foot wall, I heard the teacher yell to another kid. In an instant another boy, Stone, he had called him, pulled up alongside me and jumped the wall.
I got over it, but not as the other kid had. Next were a series of monkey bars. The kid was through them as I hit the first one. It was like this till the end. He waited for me. The last obstacle was a solid steel pole which we were supposed to climb twenty feet into the air.
There were two poles side by side. The kid looked at me, his hands already finding their place on the pole high above his head. I grabbed on and started pulling. We were going at about the same pace. The only difference was, the kid, Stone, was not using his legs. He was making his way up the pole using nothing but his arms. He reached the top, slid down fast, and ran to the finish. I was well behind him.
The coach spoke so everyone could hear.
"When you can run the course like Stone, perhaps then you can let your attention wander. Until that day, stay focused."
Great, first day, and I had already made a teacher's list of screw-ups. I walked at the rear of the class back to the locker room. The kid who had been sent out to defeat me waited. He held out his hand, said his name was Peter.
I walked past him, not slowing or acknowledging his attempt at niceties.
"C'mon, man, I wrestle for the guy. If I would have shit on his order he would have killed me."
I stopped then. The kid had a goofy smile; he reminded me of someone. He put the hand up again, and this time I shook it.
"I'm Kevin."
"I know," he said still smiling, and added, "everyone does."
"I guess the teacher had made that pretty clear, didn't he?"
"No, man, your brother's story was all over the news. Everyone knew you were coming here."
I felt my hands start to clench, my face growing hotter.
"Shitty thing man, I'm sorry."
There it was. Everyone knew. I looked at the kid, Peter. I waited for some stupid remark, something to flash across his face. I would end that for him in a hurry. I could knock a kid out now, I was sure of it.
Peter didn't say anymore, didn't look any way. He just turned and walked away.
Grandfather was waiting for me outside the school.
"How was the first day?" He spoke as he pulled from the curb.
"Fine."
"Sounds fine, make any friends?"
He was looking for reaction, watching me in between watching the road ahead.
"One kid, Peter I think his name was, he's okay."
"Anybody give you any problems?"
"No."
I would keep the gym teacher thing to myself, no sense opening that issue up for discussion. In the end he would find out it was my lack of respect that earned me the class screw up prize. I didn't think my grandfather had much use for people without respect.
I already had homework. One of my new teachers had assigned an essay. The topic was "Who I Am." I didn't know what to say. My life to this point was a series of hurting and failing the ones I loved. I didn't want to do the assignment. So I didn't. Instead, I changed clothes and ran out to the barn. My grandfather was working on his truck. He asked if I'd done my homework. I lied, said I didn't have any.
He walked in as I was jumping rope.
"You're getting pretty good at that."
I put the rope away, asked him if he'd hold the bag for me.
We had fallen into a comfortable state of being. He taught me things, all kinds of things. I watched him all the time - watched the way he worked, fixed things that needed fixing, looked after me without making a big deal about it. And I told him things about my life. I felt bad for lying to him earlier. While I hit the bag, I made amends.
"Grandpa, I kinda do have some homework."
"You do?"
"Yeah, it's a paper I gotta write, except, well I don't know what to say."
"Well, what's it about?"
"It's about me."
"An autobiography, huh? Tough one."
I stopped punching. "I don't know what to write. Up till now, everything has been, well, you know."
"Look, Kevin, times are going to present themselves when you will be faced with hard decisions, tough circumstances - God knows you've already faced enough of them. When those times come, you gotta ask yourself."
"Ask myself what?"
"What kind of person you are."
"I don't know what kind of person I am."
"You know what a survivor is, Kevin?"
I thought about it, "Somebody who has an accident and comes out alright?" I hoped that was right.
He smiled. "That's a good example. You're a survivor Kevin, cause no matter what life throws at you, you keep coming. You get knocked down, yet you stand up every time."
I didn't feel like a survivor; I felt small and insignificant.
"I'll make you a deal, Kevin. You run inside, get that paper done, then we'll finish up here and go out for dinner."
"I still don't know what to write."
"Write about who you are Kevin, about the people who made you that way, you'll be all right."
I walked inside dreading what awaited me.
An hour later I was finished. I wrote of my mom, my dad, my grandpa, and Matty. I filled the page with memories of the people I loved and what had happened to them. I cried in the middle of it and had to stop to wipe my eyes dry.
In the end I felt sad and tired. I wasn't sure if this was what the teacher was looking for; I didn't care. I wouldn't be doing it again.
When it was finished, I walked out of my room to find my grandfather showered and dressed. His usual flannel shirt and jeans were swapped for a pair of slacks and a sport coat.
"What's going on?" I asked.
My grandfather handed me a pair of pants similar to his and a new sweater.
"We're going someplace special, Kevin. Change out and meet me at the truck."
My grandfather drove into the heart of downtown. He pulled up in front of a restaurant where you could see flames raising high from a series of different places inside.
When I got out of the truck, I noticed him give his key to a man in a black suit. I didn't know what to think. Once inside we were led through a maze of tables. I believe my grandfather knew the people who worked there because they were all very friendly and quickly brought drinks to our table. My grandfather said he knew the owner of the place from his time in the Marines. He said he had served with the man. It wasn't long before a short thick man with a black moustache stood before our table. He smiled when he spoke and looked at my grandfather approvingly.
"You clean up real nice you old war horse." The words held nothing but good intention. He smiled wider and turned to me, "And this must be Kevin?"
I shook the man's hand and returned his smile. It was impossible not to.
"We have everything here young Kevin. Anything you want, you got; it's on me."
My grandfather didn't raise a hand, didn't attempt to overturn the man, who I found out later was named "Gino," on his generous offer. He just watched me as I watched Gino.
"So what do you like Kevin?"
I said the first thing that popped into my head. "I like steak."
"Ahhh, just like your grandfather huh? Well, alright my friend, I'll have my chef fix you up a steak you won't ever forget. You want some French fries with that or a baked potato?"
"French fries would be great." I felt a little embarrassed; he was treating me as if I were his best paying customer instead of a penniless kid.
"Marty!" Gino screamed to a man in chef's attire. On the second attempt the man looked up.
"Yes, boss?"
"You throw on a porterhouse and some fries for my new friend Kevin here."
The man smiled. "You got it boss."
Gino returned his gaze to my grandfather, exchanged pleasantries, shook his hand a second time, and then left.
Twenty minutes later I was treated to the best meal thus far in my life. The steak on my plate was roughly the size of a dictionary, not an abridged edition mind you, the kind you find in college. Next to it sat a mound of hot fresh French fries. A second drink was brought to me when my first expired. It was hard for me to take it all end - the food, the treatment, the atmosphere.
My grandfather's plate resembled my own except for a side of vegetables. I wasn't sure what I was drinking, but it was the best thing I had ever tasted. I believe Gino called it a Roy Rodgers.
I had only finished half of the steak. It was delicious, just too much. Gino had the remaining portion wrapped for me to take home. We both sat there, stuffed. My grandfather asked if I wanted some ice cream. I would have puked for sure. When the conversation subsided, I asked him why? What had I done to deserve this special place and this special meal?
"You're my grandson, Kevin, that's reason enough."
I felt silly again, sitting there with that dumb smile on my face; it was a great night, a great experience - one I wouldn't soon forget.
The following day in class, the teacher who had assigned the writing exercise announced we would be reading our reports, our autobiographies, aloud.
This was to be our first oral report. She had left that out when assigning the paper because she wanted honest writing. I shrunk in my chair, felt sick to my stomach. No way, no way could I read my paper out loud, in front of twenty five strangers, well twenty four; I knew Peter Stone.
The teacher went on to explain the second part of the exercise. We were to hand our paper up to the front, after crossing out our names. She was going to assign each of us a number, that way she could grade the paper later. She would hand the papers back out to the class; no one would read their own work. Her idea, as she waxed on, was for each of us to guess who the person was by the description given in the report.
I felt hot all over. My words had been personal and not for other kids to read or hear.
I was feeling sicker by the minute. My steak from the night before suddenly rose to the surface.
My grandfather's words came to mind and I tried to relax.
Most of the papers read were of vacations, favorite pets, television shows, and hobbies. I couldn't tell one from the next. When it had been my turn to read, the kid who wrote it used his name every other sentence. It wasn't hard to figure out who the author was.
Next, I heard the first sentence of my essay read aloud.
My face lost feeling; my hands grew cold. The teacher had been looking down and reading something on her desk. She stopped, looked up, and scanned the room.
I didn't look at the girl reading my story. I didn't look at anybody. Some kid I didn't know started making crying noises. He emphasized the gesture by rubbing at his eyes, twisting his fists into them as they did in the silent movies. The teacher called out his name, Jimmy it was, and told him to stop at once.
Kids can be cruel.
When the girl finished reading my paper, the teacher said that would be enough for today. The bell rang a minute later. I was asked to stay behind.
The teacher apologized. She apologized for Jimmy, apologized for having my paper read aloud, and then said something about never believing a boy my age would have had that much hardship. I accepted her words and walked out.
On the way to my locker I was met by Peter. As luck would have it, his locker was right next to mine. I know he felt like saying something. It was obvious he was that kind of kid, a peacemaker. Before he began, I told him it was okay and that he didn't need to say anything.
I was opening my locker when the sounds came.
Jimmy the crier was at it again. He walked past me making exaggerated eye rubbing gestures and singing a chorus of what was supposed to be a baby crying.
Peter wrestled with Jimmy and knew he was a tough kid. He hoped he could shut him up before things got worse.
"Jimmy, lay off man, you're being an asshole."
"Screw you, Stone. You sticking up for this little faggot?"
I noticed a few things about Jimmy then. He had red hair and a face full of freckles. On some it would be considered cute, gingerish. On Jimmy, it just looked mean. I didn't know what kind of a life this Jimmy had, and I didn't care. He was a bully and his day was about to end really, really, bad.
I took in my surroundings. The ring around the three of us was growing tighter and tighter - a slew of kids forming up to witness a new kid get his ass kicked.
Jimmy looked angry, real angry. I couldn't figure out why. I had been at this school two days. I hadn't done anything to this guy, hadn't even spoken to him. What was true in this place, this time, remains true throughout history and all over the world.
Sometimes people just don't like you.
"Hear what I called you, faggot?"
My grandfather was going to be pissed.
I didn't say anything; I didn't even flinch. Jimmy was agitated. He was the mad one out of his own stupidity. He would move or he wouldn't.
I made a final attempt to adhere to my grandfather's wishes. I closed my locker and started to walk away.
Jimmy wouldn't allow it to happen. He had heard my words, knew the pain I felt; he figured me weak. I ignored him and continued walking.
Jimmy moved in the same manner he spoke, graceless. His hands came toward me as I figured they would. He wanted to push me hard. That was his downfall. I had spent the past two months training like a boxer.
I had jumped rope, hit the heavy bag, shadow boxed, and sparred with a man twice my size.
Jimmy was not my grandfather; Jimmy wasn't anything. Pain is like anything else. You live with it or you don't. It kills you, or it doesn't. I felt covered in pain, engulfed by it. I wanted to give it to somebody else.
Jimmy made a mistake.
It was the most common amongst bullies. He believed he would never encounter someone stronger, faster, or meaner than himself.
I hit Jimmy harder than I'd ever hit anything in my life.
I doubt he saw it coming. His arms were still outstretched, still trying to find that piece of me to push down, to dominate. My right hand, hardened from the bag, my arm, shoulders, and back, strengthened from splitting wood, all came together in perfect harmony.
I found that magic spot my grandfather had told me about. Jimmy was out in less than a heartbeat. His legs folded under him. His body made a wet smacking sound as it hit the cold concrete. The hate formerly present on his ugly face was no longer there. The other kids just looked at me. There was lots of sound, most of it unintelligible to me, as I walked through them.
Peter walked beside me.
"Jesus dude, where'd you learn to do that?"
I didn't feel like talking, and I didn't feel good about what had just happened. I thought I would. I thought briefly there would be some relief, some letting go of the bad stuff I was always feeling. There wasn't.
I walked to the office. Peter was still beside me.
"What are you doing, Kevin?"
"I'm going to tell them what happened."
Peter looked at me as if I were nuts.
"Going to do what? Look, before you admit to kicking Jimmy's ass, maybe you should wait and see if he just lets it go."
"It's not about him doing anything. My grandfather and I kind of have a deal."
"At least let me tell them. I saw the whole thing. Jimmy hit you first."
I thanked Peter, but I told him that I'd be alright. He was a good guy. A half hour later my grandfather was at the school. I had already admitted my part in the fight to the vice-principal. My suspension slip was in my hand as my grandfather entered the V.P.'s office. He looked big in the small space. He was big.
He shook the V.P.'s hand, looked to me, and then sat down. The vice-principal told my grandfather of the day's earlier events. He was direct and to the point, explaining school policy, and how fighting would not be tolerated. I was asked to step out of the office so they could discuss my punishment in private.
I walked out of that office knowing I was done. This would be my last screw up in a long line of them. I wondered where I would live now.
"Your grandson has quite a punch on him." The V.P. was smiling as he said the words. "The boy he fought, Jimmy Rittle, has a history of bullying. This is his sixth school in four years. He's as mean a kid as I've seen in my fifteen years of administrating."
"What happened? My grandson will tell me. I just want to know if you know."
"We spoke to several kids who witnessed the fight. Well, it wasn't really a fight. Jimmy pushed Kevin. Kevin punched him once. End of story. Kids said Jimmy went down like a sack of dirt. Best thing for him really, maybe he'll leave the other kids alone now."
"And what about Kevin, what happens to him?"
"Kevin walked right into my office after it was over. Said he hit a kid and that I should call you. Said you'd be very disappointed in him. He wanted you to know right away. I don't know how you teach an eleven year old honor, sir."
"I don't know either. He came to me that way."
The V.P. nodded. "I have to send him home with you today. Tomorrow he's free to return. Nothing will be placed in his file."
My grandfather walked out of the office a minute or two later. He didn't look any different. Perhaps he was saving the anger for when we got in the truck.
We walked to the parking lot in silence. Somewhere along the way, my grandfather put his hand on my shoulder. I tensed at first; his hand was strong. I thought maybe he was going to pinch me, maybe throw me down. He did neither. He looked down at me and smiled. I don't know why, but I felt like crying. I didn't.
On the drive home he asked simply, "You okay?"
I said that I was. He never said another word about it. That was my grandpa. If it didn't need saying, he didn't say it. More and more I was starting to feel like a man. Next week I would turn twelve. I didn't know if my grandfather knew. It didn't matter. For me, it was better if he didn't know.
I went to school the next day, and Jimmy wasn't there. It was a day filled with glances and "way to goes" from the kids who had either seen or heard of what happened. It was obvious Jimmy was disliked across the board.
Peter
Peter and I started to hang out. He was a funny guy, an easy kid to get along with. Talking to him made me feel like I did back when my life was normal.
He asked if I had any plans after school. I told him about my grandfather, the boxing lessons he gave me, the ranch he owned.
Peter lived two blocks from school. His was a home like most other homes. He told me of the kids that lived on his block. I didn't know any of them.
On the ride home that night, I spoke of Peter to my grandfather. He seemed pleased that I'd made a friend. He asked me what kind of a kid Peter was? I wasn't sure, I said. "A normal one I guess."
My grandfather laughed at this.
The next day I invited Peter up to my grandfather's.
An hour after school, Peter came riding up the drive on his bike. I was surprised he found the place. Peter told me he rode his bike everywhere. Peter said he never knew his father, and his mother worked until seven or eight at night. It was stay at home and be tormented by his older brother or ride around the city. Peter knew the city pretty well.
We walked around the property. Peter was amazed by all the land, the barn, the shed. He said he never knew anyone who had lived on a ranch.
I told him about Matty. I explained the circumstances that brought me to my grandfather's place. Peter listened. When I was through I didn't leave room for him to respond. I got up and ran to the barn, told him he should follow.
Once inside I guided Peter through the stations of fire. That's what grandpa called them. I thought that sounded pretty cool. Peter watched as I demonstrated my lethal abilities. After kicking the shit squarely out of the heavy bag, Peter remarked, "No wonder you knocked Jimmy out."
I felt that trickle of pride again - the way I did whenever my grandfather approved of something I'd done.
I was showing Peter how to face the bag when my grandfather walked in. We stopped, looked to him, and then I introduced Peter. My grandfather shook his hand as men did. Peter was handling it all very well. Grandpa was very tall, and looked very mean, at least to the outside world. Peter just stood there with that goofy smile and grinned. My grandfather smiled back.
"Can you teach Peter to fight, Grandpa?"
My grandfather looked at the two of us standing there, two children reaching out to manhood. He rubbed his face, took another look at Peter. I was about to say something else.
"If Peter's folks say it's alright, then sure, he can come train with you."
Peter quickly spoke for his mother and said she wouldn't mind at all. My grandfather came up with another plan.
"I'll drive you home tonight. I'll speak with your mother. She says it's alright, then it's alright. Okay?"
That's how it began. Peter's mother agreed easily enough. In fact, she barely seemed to care at all. The next day after school Peter showed up again, this time in sweat pants and a t-shirt. My grandfather asked Peter what he knew about fighting. Peter said he had wrestled for two years, but other than that, not much.
My grandfather showed him the basics, just as he had for me. It was weird for me at first. I was blindsided by two distinct feelings. One, I felt a little jealous that my grandfather was teaching another kid the same things he had taught me. Two, I felt some satisfaction as to how far I had come since those first lessons. I would get over both issues. Peter was a good guy, so was my grandfather. As the night progressed, I was convinced my life would get no better than this.
Peter didn't miss a night all that week. My grandfather made himself available to us. His knowledge was something of infinite proportion. When he spoke, you felt as if you were being given the secrets of the universe. I know Peter felt the same way.
Friday came as I knew it would. It was my birthday. I had made it, twelve years old. I walked out to the truck, my grandfather already waiting with the engine on. During the ride to school I wondered if he would say something. He didn't.
I went through the day a little bummed. I tried to convince myself it didn't matter. I tried not to think of the celebration and spectacle my mother would make of the day. She always made two cakes. One she would have waiting on the kitchen table in the morning before she left for work. The note she left always said the same thing.
Even though it was my day, I would always be her special gift. She had a rule also. The first cake was for me and me alone. With no one watching I should eat it however I saw fit. I smiled at the memory of my first cake eating habits. I would destroy that cake. I would shove it into my mouth with both hands, like a crazed groom. Then night would come. She would return home from work, exhausted. She wouldn't let it show. She always brought a beautifully wrapped present, and the second cake.
This one we sat down for. Well, I thought, that was then, this is now.
The day ended, and I walked to the curb. My grandfather was there, the truck parked in its familiar spot. So what if he didn't know, or forgot about my birthday. He never forgot about me.
I hopped up into the truck and waited for him to pull away. When he didn't, I asked if everything was alright.
"Just waiting for our second passenger."
Peter ran up to the truck then. He had a blue duffle bag with him. Peter didn't wait for me to open the door. He popped in beside me, bumping me into the middle of the bench seat.
My grandfather started the truck and pulled away.
Peter was grinning as he usually did. "Dude, you don't know how hard that was for me today."
I was still confused. "How hard what was for you?"
"Your birthday man, your grandpa asked my mom last night if I could come with you guys to your cabin."
I looked at my grandfather. He drove while trying to conceal a smile.
"You have a cabin, too?"
My grandfather looked somewhat confused now.
"You don't remember? I guess you were a little guy then. Anyway, yes, Kevin, we have a cabin."
My grandfather added, "Happy Birthday Kevin."
We drove the two hours or so, Peter making up games as we went and I barely able to stop smiling.
When we arrived, I noted the lack of other places next to ours. It was way, way in the woods. The drive to it after we turned off the main road seemed another ten miles. My grandfather led the way to the front door; it was solid. The entire place was made of logs and not much else. It was obvious this was his creation.
"Alright, boys, there's two rooms here, besides the living area. You'll be bunking upstairs in the loft."
Grandfather showed us exactly where to put Peter's bag. While dropping it off, I noticed he'd already brought clothes for me.
"When did you do all this Grandpa?"
"Yesterday, maybe the day before that, you were in school."
It was growing dark outside. My grandfather started a fire in the large rock fireplace. I scanned the room and noticed a long wrapped present sitting atop the kitchen table. Night fell. Dinner was a plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and homemade biscuits. My grandfather was an excellent cook. We sat there, the three of us, Grandpa looking at us as we exchanged stories from school. When the conversation grew lean, my grandfather brought forth a big chocolate cake. It was held in a pink box, obviously from a bakery. He removed it cautiously, his big hands posing a bit of trouble. Eventually, he tore the box into three parts.
He placed one candle in the top of the cake and told me I should wish for anything, no matter how big. I thought of my mom, said the words inside my own head to wish her recovery and a place back in my life.
I cut the cake. Grandpa said it was my day and I should have as big a piece as I wanted. I remember the pieces I cut were extreme to say the least. Neither Peter, nor myself, were able to finish the whole thing.
Peter and I cleared the table as my grandfather made coffee. A cup in hand, he pointed to the gift. He explained before opening, this was a true work of art, something to be cherished, not a child's gift, but a man's.
I thought about what it might be. As I unwrapped it, the smooth wood-grain came into view first, then the shiny black steel, and finally the scope. It was a rifle, just like the one my dad had always been so found of and had cleaned almost every day. I was shocked.
I had no idea how much it had cost, but I knew it was the most expensive thing I had ever been given. I looked at it. I just stood there staring. Peter spoke first.
"Wow. That is something, Kevin."
"Yeah," was all I could muster. I was afraid to pick it up.
My grandfather asked me if I liked it. I hugged him, held him real tight for a long time. He rubbed the top of my head and eased me back around to the rifle.
"It's a 64' Remington 700 series. The most accurate rifle made. I have one just like it, as did your father. If you like it, I'll show you how to shoot it.
I shook my head yes, still in awe of the rifle before me. I asked before picking it up. My grandfather showed me how to operate the bolt, how to check and make sure the weapon was not loaded. He then gave me instructions regarding the handling of any firearm.
His first rule was to treat every firearm as if it were loaded. The second was to never point a firearm at anything you weren't willing to destroy.
He was dead serious on both counts.
The following morning found all three of us atop a ridgeline. My grandfather had set up targets in one hundred yard increments. He explained all facets of marksmanship. He emphasized that proper breathing and trigger control were of highest importance. It was so much to take in, I remember feeling overwhelmed. It was another example of his endless stream of knowledge. I wondered as kids do, how someone learns that much?
Next, he showed me how to operate the scope. He performed what he called a cold bore shot. The first target was set up at one hundred yards. He said for this rifle that was "point blank" range.
I watched closely as he lay down upon the earth. He let his body become part of it. He moved into the rifle, pulled it in close to his right shoulder.
He started breathing very shallow, very slowly; he made no noise at all. He remained this way for several seconds, then crack! The shot was away. Peter and I were wearing hearing protection, but it was still loud. My grandfather worked the bolt, releasing the spent cartridge from the chamber. He quickly moved the bolt back into its original firing position, another round chambered and ready to go.
His body never moved. The action of his hand was independent from the rest of him. He must have done this a lot I remembered thinking. We walked the hundred yards to the target. The bullet had impacted just left and low of the tiny bull's-eye.
Grandpa explained the possible reasons the bullet had not been exactly in the middle of the bull's-eye. Cold barrel, flawed ammunition, or operator error. I would have disagreed with the last one. We walked back to our spot on the hill. Grandpa had marked the hole left by the first round. He said he would now fire a four round group, check that to make sure the scope and rifle were zeroed properly, and then it would be my turn.
The next four rounds had torn a jagged hole through the bull's-eye. Each round touched the others.
"Ready to try, Kevin?"
I moved into the rifle just as my grandfather had. I placed my cheek against the same spot behind the scope. I couldn't see anything at first. My grandfather explained cheek-weld. He told me we would have to place a pad where my cheek rested, build up the spot until my eye sat perfectly behind the scope giving me a perfect sight picture.
I moved about, fidgeting until I could see through the scope and find the target.
My hands were sweating though it was 60 degrees out. I noticed the crosshairs of the scope kept moving around the target.
I tried, but couldn't get it to rest on the bull's-eye.
My grandfather leaned down, told me it would take years of shooting before that became natural, said to breathe normally in and out. After doing this for several cycles, I should press the trigger back, just before the air entered my lungs again. He called it the respiratory pause.
The first shot startled me. The rifle kicked hard; my shoulder took the impact. My grandfather asked me how I thought I'd done. I told him how the kick had surprised me. He said the recoil would be like that unless I pulled the rifle in tight to my shoulder.
I did as instructed and the next two after that felt perfect. We walked down to check my target. One round was two inches away from the other three. The other three, however, were side by side.
My grandfather said something about not being surprised, that it ran in our blood. We spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon this way. Talking, shooting, checking targets. Grandfather knew more about shooting than I knew about anything.
After we'd finished, grandfather unfolded a large mat, took out a knapsack with long thin poles and brushes, and several different bottles of fluid. We cleaned my rifle under the afternoon sky. It was easy to see my father in my grandfather then. He had that same look of pride on his face when he cleaned the rifle, a look that could be described as respect. He spoke as we went along.
"Never put her away dirty, Kevin. She's a part of you now, a member of the family; you treat her as you would yourself."
I could imagine him saying those very same words to my dad. The hike back to the cabin was a good one. It had been a long day. Peter and I were both pretty beat. I stored my rifle in the place afforded to it inside the large safe.
Following this, we ate a simple meal of leftover fried chicken and biscuits, then washed up and called it a night.
I was sitting on one of the overstuffed mattresses in the loft when Peter removed his shirt. He turned and I noticed several large bruises in the shape of footprints on his back. I asked him how he'd gotten them. Peter quickly threw on a new t-shirt and then sat down on his bed.
"I don't like to talk about it."
I nodded, "That's okay, man, I just wondered."
I turned off the light between us. We lay there, each occupying space in the darkness. Peter spoke.
"My brother hits me. He's crazy, like for real crazy and when there's nothing else to hit, he hits me."
I hadn't met Peter's older brother. Peter never spoke of him. I doubt he would have mentioned him tonight had I not seen the marks.
"Why don't you tell your mom?"
"She's got enough to deal with. Anyway, if I did, and she said something to him, he'd probably kill me."
I would have laughed, but Peter wasn't kidding.
"Is there anything I can do?"
"No, man, there's nothing to do. He's three years older than me, about fifty pounds heavier, and nuttier than a shithouse rat."
I giggled at that one; I couldn't help it.
"A shithouse rat? Where did you get that from?"
Peter was laughing a little himself, "I thought I heard your grandpa say it."
I agreed it was something my grandfather would say.
We talked until the early morning hours. Peter's brother, David, faded from the conversation. It was the talk of young men, the foolishness of youth. A brotherhood forged by unusual circumstance and universal law.
Amidst the trials of adolescence, neither would ever find the other alone.
Without ever saying it, or admitting it, we had become as close as brothers, and to this end, we followed the path created by our hand. Right or wrong, stupid or not, and a lot of it was, we walked to the beat of our own design.
We dropped Peter off that following morning.
I got my first look at his brother then as I helped Peter carry his stuff into the house. David seemed a foot taller than Peter. It didn't help that his head was ginormous and his eyes were spun with the brush of the crazies. I would have introduced myself; however, I had already decided I disliked him. I said my goodbyes, heard David ask Peter if he was going to give me a kiss. It was a brief glimpse at Peter's particular brand of hell. The guy looked like an asshole and his manner of speech did nothing to betray it. I wanted to tell David he could walk over and kiss my dick; however, I knew that would only add to Peter's sufferings. I said nothing, walked away.
The next day, Peter was absent from school.
At my request, my grandfather drove me to Peter's house at the end of the day. Peter didn't answer the door, David did.
I asked for Peter, but David closed the door in my face while announcing his candy ass brother was not home.
I raged inside but left it there. When we arrived home, Peter was waiting on the front porch. His left eye was swollen and turning shades of purple and black. My grandfather handed him a frozen bag of peas, told him to place it over the eye. Peter and I walked the fence line, his speech one of indifference, my gut a blend of fire and ice.
David had cornered Peter after we left yesterday, made more remarks regarding Peter and I, called us "little fags" - all of this to encourage Peter to take a swing at him. Peter knew what he would get; however, he didn't care. He placed the fear of pain behind him and took his shot.
David beat on Peter for twenty minutes.
He chased him around the house. He wouldn't let him out the door until he had satisfied his primal urge to reduce his younger brother to the point of begging. But that was just it. Peter didn't beg. And when it got really bad, Peter just laughed. This induced more rage, more beating. Peter finally got his turn to run when David fell back from exhaustion.
I found out then David had hospitalized Peter on two occasions. They were younger. David had even less control then. I asked Peter why he didn't report David to the police. If his mom wouldn't listen, the police would have. Peter explained the process, the investigation. The police officer chucked it up to a sibling rivalry, brothers being brothers and all that. The police officer actually told Peter he should toughen up and learn to fight. Now Peter just avoided David whenever he could. But sometimes, sometimes you just couldn't.
The world could be an awful place.
I knew that first hand. People like Peter didn't deserve to be shit on by people like David.
"I'll talk to my grandfather; he'll know what to do."
"It will just get worse, man, just let me handle it."
"How could it get worse? You dead?"
"Seriously, pal, if I could just stay here for a night or two - let him get back to normal."
"I seriously doubt your brother has a place called normal within him. That fucking guy couldn't find normal with a road map."
Peter agreed. I told him he could stay. I knew grandpa would be all right with it. My grandfather agreed that Peter could stay; his only exception was Peter's mother would have to give her permission. We called Peter's house. There was no answer.
Later that night after training, my grandfather drove us to Peter's house so Peter could pick up some school clothes, and perhaps his mother would be available to give her blessing. Peter's mother was not at home. It was eight o'clock. Peter didn't have a key to his front door. When he knocked, David answered.
David only opened the door about two feet. He spoke through a mouthful of ice cream, "What do you want, fag?"
My grandfather was at the door with us. His presence didn't seem to change David's behavior in the slightest.
Peter was embarrassed. "I just want to get some clothes."
David mocked him, whined his sentence, "I just want to get some clothes. You're such a little pussy; get the fuck out of here."
My grandfather spoke then, "Why don't you let your brother in so he can get some of his things?"
David's face twisted, his words grew uglier, "Why don't you just fucking butt out?"
David really was crazy.
My grandfather tried again, "Let Peter in. You stand aside, let him in, then we'll be gone."
David smiled then. There was nothing funny about it, nothing funny about any of this. "I get it now. My little queer brother here is what? Sucking you off? Maybe sucking off your boy there too, right?"
"Boys go wait in the truck." The words were my grandfather's. I'd never heard my grandfather's voice quite like that before. The tone was calm, so eerily calm it was frightening. Peter and I walked back to the truck as requested.
"That's really scary old man." David tried to close the door, but he couldn't. David felt himself being lifted from the floor. The hand around his throat was strong, too strong to be removed. David tried to speak, but he couldn't.
His smile had vanished, there was something else in its place now, something David, up until right then had been unfamiliar with, fear. He hadn't breathed right in almost ten seconds, when the hand let go, David back-peddled into the wall. He was screaming now.
"Get the fuck out of my house!" The words blew out with the force of dandelion petals on a spring breeze. They were what were left of a bully's resolve, the resolve shaken to its core, now a mixture of fear and hope. This would have scared his brother, this mask of primal rage. It wasn't distracting this old man in the slightest.
David was caught again, this time with a sharp right hand to the midsection. David dropped, once again breathless, this time in a new and different manner than before. David was still clinging for breath, willing some air into his lungs when the hand was back, this time wrapped tightly into a thick wad of his hair. The hand pulled tight, his head snapping back leaving him feeling as if his neck might break. He felt himself rolled over and submitted as easily as one would a puppy.
"I ever hear of you hitting Peter again, ever speaking to him in a manner such as the one you used tonight, I'll come back. I'll climb right through your window and kill you in your sleep. I won't be so polite about it either; I'll wake you up with both my thumbs jammed into your empty eye holes. You know why they'll be empty?" The old man's face was more frightening than any Halloween mask David had ever seen. David was crying.
"I'll have already popped out your eyes with a spoon from your kitchen, perhaps the same spoon you were just shoveling ice cream with into that shithole of a mouth of yours."
David's hair was being pulled so hard it brought fresh tears to his eyes.
He would have made a sound; however, there was a knee on his already damaged gut leaving him void of that basic function.
"I should just kill you right now. Guys like you, there ain't no fixing that, you're just wired wrong."
David felt his head start to twist at an unusual angle. His body was still rooted to the ground by the large man atop him. His head was the only thing moving. He could see behind himself now. He was afraid. His bladder revealed this much. At the point where he knew he could take no more, the hands released. The old man stood, looked down at him. My grandfather then turned and walked out the door.
When my grandfather returned to the truck, he was still calm. His eyes had a certain movement to them; something had shifted within him that was certain. His outward manner betrayed nothing. All the way home we remained silent.
When we got to our house he told Peter he could stay as long as he liked. Peter stayed with us most weekends. He would return home every Monday, and most weeks ride home with me and grandpa on Fridays after school. He never spoke of David anymore, and he never missed school or arrived at my house with fresh bruises. David had become something of a non-issue. I never found out what my grandfather said to David that night. Whatever it was, it worked.
My mother still didn't know me. I was shifting through time as nothing more than a memory to her. On my fourteenth birthday, I was permitted to miss school. I spent most of that morning sitting beside her in her room. Somewhere along the way, since residing with my grandfather, I had gained a passionate appreciation for the written word.
Probably from studying him, each night when the sun had passed its shift onto the moon, my grandfather would build a small fire, ease into the brown leather chair next to it, and read.
He would be that way for at least an hour or two every evening. It was almost ritualistic in his pattern. He invited me to join him on most nights, and on most nights I would.
Tea, he loved it. Each night he brewed English breakfast, or Earl Grey, to enjoy with the reading. It would become one of my fondest memories of him.
On that morning I brought a book with me. I had done so for about a year now. Mom would sit, looking out a window, waiting for the ones she loved to return and I would read to her. I read all kinds of books. She didn't mind. If she did, she never said a thing. The sadness was always there, but in a different and tolerable way. She was there at least. I could still see her, even if she didn't talk with me. I read to her, talked to her, told her stories of grandfather, Peter, and myself. I told her everything, well almost everything. I didn't think she needed to hear all about the boxing lessons and shooting trips.
I relived many times with her, however, and all of them were warm with thought and merit.
On this day she appeared better. I spoke softly to her, brought forth a childhood memory of the two cakes she would bring. I admitted my greed and longing for the first one and the manner in which I would consume it. I was laughing with the mental picture when I noticed she was no longer staring out the window. She had shifted; it was slight, but undeniable. My mother was looking at me. I stared back at her, looked deeply into those soft green eyes of hers. "I'm here, Mom," I said through choked effort. "I love you."
She adjusted then, her head moving ever so slightly to regain focus on the window. I had been here every Sunday for two years without fail. In that time she had never moved and had never spoken. Now she had looked at me and I knew she had seen me, even if only for a second.
I didn't want to panic any of the staff or other residents, I just wanted my mother to look at me one more time, see me as she had moments ago. I dropped to my knees at her side, placed her frail hand on top of my head. I made the effort for her, stroked my hair with her hand, imagined her leaning forward and kissing the top of my head. I was praying for a second's worth of brilliance, a heartbeat of knowing where she would whisper to me, only for me, that she still loved me.
I hadn't cried in a long time. Living amongst men will do that to you. But today I gave in; I felt the world rest upon me as it had a few short years ago. My soul remained as frail as my mother's physical presence. When I'd finished, I stood, kissed her forehead and left. I wouldn't ask for any more miracles, and between my mother and I, no more would come. That had been the last gift she ever gave me. The following spring, she would be gone, and with her, the remainder of a child's heart.
My grandfather had waited in the truck. It was our standard practice. I didn't know how good I was at hiding defeat or sadness. I was no longer the little broken boy he had taken in three years prior, that I knew. He treated me like a man for the most part, and for that I was thankful.
"You ready to try something new?" He had posed the question easily enough; I agreed I was, though I had no idea what I was agreeing to.
My grandfather spoke while he drove; "How'd it go?"
I said I really didn't feel like talking about it. My grandfather didn't press, another trait of men.
"You're a smart young man, Kevin, smarter than I was at your age. That's why I want to show you one more thing; something to balance out the Neanderthal in you."
I laughed at that. We pulled off the main road and entered a long tree lined drive.
At the end of the road was a parking lot surrounded by grass and trees in every direction. It was a golf course, the first I'd ever seen outside of television.
"Golf, huh?" I said it while looking around.
"Yeah, golf. What do you think?"
"I didn't even know you played."
"Took it up after the war, needed something to calm my restless spirit, at least that's what your grandmother told me."
"Are you any good?"
"I'm okay."
Golf
My grandfather pulled a brown canvas bag from the bed of the truck and led me to a large field with yardage markers positioned every fifty yards.
I noticed the area where people hit from was fairly busy, men of all sizes and shapes swinging away at a stationary ball the size of an egg. It seemed many of them were having considerable difficulty with the endeavor.
"Hey grandpa, this looks easy."
He just smiled, "Does it?"
He had purchased a large bucket of balls and found a spot at the far end of the range where the crowd was thinner. He set his clubs down, handed me one, and took one for himself. In ten minutes my grandfather had explained the proper grip, stance, and sequence of swing. He spoke on the matter as he did with most things, with a vast store of knowledge. I was barely listening. How hard could it be? I mean, the ball was sitting still and you had this long club to whip at it. No problem.
My grandfather moved a ball into place, then. He took his stance, looked at the ball, and then looked to a target in the distance. He was speaking to me about what he was doing right up until the point where he hit it. The ball sailed out of sight, straight and high. This only confirmed my belief about how easy this was going to be.
He placed a ball down for me and moved away while telling me to keep my head still as I swung. "Swing it back and forth naturally without forcing the issue."
I liked the way the club felt in my hands. I was going to send this ball a mile.
I swung the club up and drove it back down like an axe handle; I felt the whoosh at the bottom of the swing as my club passed by the stationary ball without even a glance. I looked to my grandfather puzzled.
"Easy, huh Kevin?" He was smiling like he knew a secret I was just let in on. The game was not easy; in fact, it was the hardest thing I had ever tried.
We spent the next hour hitting those hundred or so balls - my grandfather's flying with precision and great distance, mine a hodgepodge of steak sized divots and twenty to fifty yard bombs. At the end of it, my hands were blistered and my smallish ego bruised. It didn't matter, I was hooked. As much as I enjoyed the boxing and the shooting, this was something different, something magical, a world removed from the ones I had known up until now.
When we were leaving, I asked when we would come again.
"You enjoyed yourself?"
"Yes, very much."
"Good, I'm glad to hear it; you think you might want to learn to really play the game?"
"Yes, I would."
"You see that it's not easy, and won't be for some time."
"I do, but I want to learn."
"Alright, then, I will teach you. You just let me know when you want to come back."
"Is tomorrow okay?"
"Sure it is. I'm guessing you're going to want to bring Peter along next time."
I hated to admit the thought hadn't even entered my mind; for reasons unknown to me at the time, I felt selfish on this new endeavor. I asked my grandfather if it would be alright if it were just between us, at least for a little while.
When we had returned home, I hauled my grandfather's clubs into the house for him.
I remembered him saying they needed to be cleaned after hitting, almost in the same way a rifle needed cleaning after firing. I took them to the kitchen and busied myself with the chore at the sink.
My grandfather sat at the table with a glass of milk and shared more of his knowledge on the topic.
He spoke of the legends of the game, living and dead, spun tales of the first courses of Scotland, and insisted of all the games in the world, this was the sport of Kings. That sounded just about right to me.
When I'd finished cleaning his clubs, I removed the one I had used on the driving range. I asked if I could take it outside with a couple of balls and knock it around. He said he would help me if I needed it; I declined any assistance, shooting more for a personal experience this time, hoping that by being alone I could unravel the mystery of making good contact.
With his blessings, I walked out into the field behind our home. I had thought of it that way for some time now: our home. I sat the balls down in a thinned patch of grass. There was enough property that I could swing away in any direction and worry myself not of the consequence. I laughed at that, given my efforts at the driving range. Perhaps the first walnut tree in front of me twenty yards should give pause, as for the rest they were pretty safe.
That's not the attitude I told myself. Not if you want to be great. I had worked hard to become an accomplished shooter and fighter, this would be no different. Due diligence and diligence due I said aloud, didn't make all that much sense, but I was feeling prolific in my state of prolixity so I cared not.
"All right, Kevin, let's try and remember what the old man had said, okay?" It was the first time I'd remembered talking to myself. This game really was an unusual beast.
I looked at the ball closely. I imagined I was seeing just one dimple on the ball. I breathed out, calmed my grip. Hold it like a bird you don't want to fly away, light enough not to kill it, and tight enough that it won't release out of your hands. Yes, that's what he had said; now swing, back and forth real natural.
My club impacted the grass a solid four inches behind the ball. The ball, along with six pounds of dirt and soil, traveled an amazing fifteen yards. The walnut tree was in no danger.
I stayed out there until darkness called me away. Eventually, I hit a couple of good shots. I actually had to run out into the field and search for several minutes to find two or three of the better ones. It made no sense at the time, none at all. I obviously had no aptitude for the game. I couldn't even get one of those balls to sail like my grandfather's had; like most things we love, the rhyme and reason seemed unnecessary at the time.
It had been three weeks since our first visit to the San Jose municipal golf course. In the days that followed I had read and committed to memory every lesson from a small soft cover book titled, Ben Hogan's Five Lessons: The modern fundamentals of golf.
My grandfather gave it to me out of his personal library, said it was the best book ever written about the golf swing by one of the best players ever to swing a stick.
The illustrations made it easy; each night in front of a mirror I would fix myself in the positions from the book. In very slow motion I would adopt the perfect stance, grip, and swing sequence frame by frame with what I saw.
After an hour or so of this each night, I would wake up the following morning to new and different soreness in muscles I didn't even know existed. I must be on the right track I thought.
On that third week, right after school, we drove to the course, this time to play. I was excited to say the least. I had hit a thousand balls in practice - for that I was sure - now I would be allowed to put it all to the test, on a real course. My grandfather had bought me a set of second hand clubs at a garage sale not far from our home. They were a mixed set, but he assured me they were fine quality all of them. I remember that day like it was yesterday. The air was cool with moisture, the grass and trees vibrant in their color and disposition, the sky above was a bright candid blue, not a cloud to mask the greatness I would display on this course of destiny.
We were on the first tee, just the two of us. We waited while a foursome in front of us walked to their tee shots. My grandfather was warming up, swinging two clubs at a time. I followed suit, but I didn't need to. My body felt loose and responsive.
It was time. I stepped to the tee markers and looked around. I placed the ball on top of the tee and pushed the tee into the ground just as grandpa had showed me. I stood behind the ball then and picked out a target in the distance.
After a couple of practice swings, I moved into position. I looked down the fairway and back to my teed ball. Jack Nicklaus be damned here comes the pain, I thought. With that I swung to beat the band, this ball was going to possess the hang time of a Ray Guy punt. Only it didn't. The ball barely cleared the end of the tee box, traveling, or rolling rather, a mere forty yards? What the hell?
My grandfather offered condolences, then striped one two hundred and fifty yards straight down the fairway. "It's a game of a lifetime," he said as I mustered through my next seven shots to achieve the distance of his first. We finished the nine holes right at darkness. I was beat. Between all the swings, ninety-six of them the card read, and carrying my bag of clubs, the experience had taken its toll.
My soul cleansed I would not be dissuaded.
It was my new passion and remained so through a full year.
I was fifteen now, taller, stronger, and as good a golfer as my grandfather. He had coached me through the tough times and through the arguments we had. If only his patience had not been so infinite I'm sure I would have played football or basketball instead. But he was strong and kind and direct. When I bitched, he offered no comfort - only the words of champions, "You get back what you put in. When you're done feeling sorry for yourself, we'll resume." Jesus that would piss me off. Somehow I knew he knew it; it was always enough to fire me up for more practice. It was what I dreamed of: the courses, the practice sessions, the competition; all of it held something for me that had never been before. I loved the game like I loved the man, with unyielding respect.
It hadn't taken long for everyone at the San Jose Municipal golf course to know who Joe Anderson's grandson was. My grandfather made it known his boy Kevin could take anyone who stepped onto the course. I thought his tactics a bit robust, so I let my clubs do the talking. That summer I set the junior course record with a 66. The adult course record was 63. It was something to shoot for.
In the time of my youth, high school golf teams were something of an oddity; sure you could find them at private schools, but not amongst the public ranks. Fortunately, there was the Northern California Junior Golf program.
My grandfather had paid my registration to be a member. I recall the tournament schedule arriving in the mail, the thrill of checking the listings and discussing with him the sites where I could compete.
We had picked six tournaments, all within an hour or so.
"You're excited about this, aren't you boy?"
"Yes, pops, I am, almost to the point of being nervous." I had taken to calling him pops six months earlier. Calling him grandpa seemed juvenile now that I was almost sixteen.
"You plan on winning any of those events?"
"I don't know, I hope to. I'll try my hardest anyway."
My grandfather smiled. "Kevin, someday when you're being interviewed by some reporter you give 'em that, 'I don't know, but I'll sure do my best routine,' okay? For me, however, you give me the truth, what's in your gut?"
"Yea, pops, I'm gonna kick some serious ass out there."
"That's my boy. Now c'mon, I've got something to show you."
I followed him out to the barn. Once inside he brought a package out from his locker; it was covered by a blanket.
"Go on, Kevin, reveal them."
I was a little nervous. His face was filled with pride. I didn't know what to expect. When I removed the blanket, a new one no less, I found a new set of clubs held by a new bag. The irons were Ben Hogan blades, Apex Irons; they were the best of the best at the time for serious players. The driver was vintage Tommy Armour, persimmon head with a green glass insert. They were beautiful and they were expensive.
"Look, Kevin, I had your name embroidered into the bag. Everyone's going to know the name of the kid hitting all those long drives."
"I don't know what to say," and I didn't. It was another example of his generosity, his love. I didn't take it for granted, not a second of it. He was without equal as a man and a grandfather.
"I'll pay you back, pops, I promise."
"Watching you play is all the payment I'll ever need, Kevin. You have a gift, use it son. Use it to take you places your father and I never saw."
"Okay." It was all I could say. I was really in a spot with the reference of him and my father. I was young and stupid as all young men are, but I felt things, and I believed I knew his heart. He was providing me a future as he had from the minute he took me in. He wanted so much for me, the way he had wanted for his son. I wouldn't let him down, not ever. I promised myself that right there and then. When the heat left my face, I changed the tide and asked if we could go to the course. He laughed like a kid himself, said of course we could and in the next few seconds we were off.
Somewhere along the way, Peter had figured out what I was doing. He was impressed, however not interested. He stuck with the boxing and encouraged me in my efforts.
It had happened one weekend when I had taken him to the yard to hit some balls. I was proficient enough at the time I felt comfortable teaching someone else. He gave it a try but it didn't click, not like it had for me. Strangely his lack of feeling for the sport came as a relief. It was the only thing I had which felt personal. I didn't mind the solitude that came with the game. I enjoyed being alone, hitting balls, working my swing, tweaking it with no watchful eye. It was spiritual in that way.
The course had become my church; I felt God amongst the tree lined fairways.
The tournament season began.
My grandfather drove me to my first event. I was still fifteen, six months shy of earning my driver's license. He asked if he should stay. I asked if it would be alright if I went this one alone.
My stomach was performing somersaults, and the idea of my biggest supporter watching me strike my first official tee shot was terrifying.
"You go on then, Kevin. Have fun." He said those words in the manner akin to his nature. No pressure, relaxed and friendly. I walked to the registration table, told the lady sitting there my name, and was handed my scorecard and a sleeve of balls along with a small sack of tees. I moved away feeling a little lost. Kids of all ages were everywhere. I found the driving range and an attendant passing out range balls.
My stomach was still knotted up when I took my first couple of practice swings. Breathe, Kevin, just breathe. Jesus you've done this and far harder things a hundred times.
I found the pattern and swung like nothing mattered, because in the grand scheme of things they didn't. In no time I was sending them straight and true. At my home course people on the range would actually stop what they were doing to watch me. Not here. Here everyone around me was good; it was like watching a pack of junior tour stars hit balls.
I sized up my competition. I searched out the ones I thought would be in my age bracket. You could tell the wealthy kids from the rest.
Their golf bags had the name of what country club their parents were members of, along with their names.
One kid was striping every single drive. He wasn't very big but he could hit the ball a ton. I was worrying about things for which I had no control. I stopped myself and got back to my own warm-up session.
A half hour later I was on the practice green finding the speed of the putts. The greens here were faster than where I played. It was a private course; I figured the place would be in immaculate shape.
The time was rapidly approaching. I had done what I could. Now it was time to let it unfold.
I watched the group before mine hit their tee shots. Three players, all in my bracket, sent their drives straight down the middle. I questioned my abilities. Had I moved too soon? Was I really ready for this? These kids looked and acted as if they had played since birth.
My name was called. I sucked back the nausea and strode confidently to the first tee. My playing partners were looking at me strangely. I introduced myself. One of them, a cocky shit said, "Yea, man, we know your name. We need to exchange scorecards." God damn it, I thought, already I had been embarrassed and we hadn't even hit our first shots.
Cocky shit was up first. He rifled one down the pipeline almost reaching the short par four. Next was the second in our group. He mishit his and sent it flying into the tree line on the left. It was my turn. I shook off the tension; stared breathing again, took aim, and fired. The ball left the face of my new driver like I prayed it would; I had sent it a mile.
The crowd behind the first tee let out a collective, "Ahhhh" as it moved past the first kid's drive on the fly.
I watched as my first competitive drive rolled into the greenside bunker, 304 yards from its starting point.
I wanted to give ol' cocky a look, but I thought better of it and walked on.
At the end of that first day I had shot a 76. I was two shots back of the leader in my age group. I could have done better and would do better, but it was the first time I had seen the course. I didn't know where to hit the ball half the time, and the greens were tricky.
Steve Limpkin, or ol'cocky as I had deemed him, held the lead with a 74, and rightfully so. His parents were members of the club. He played the course almost every day.
My grandfather arrived an hour before I finished.
He was standing there by the eighteenth green when I walked up to putt. He didn't wave or make a scene, just laid back in the shadows, but I knew he was there. He smiled as my final putt fell and gave a brief clap as spectators do. I felt as if I'd let him down. I knew there were two more days to the event, but I wanted to present him with good news for all of the time and money he had thrown in to back me.
"You looked great out there, Kevin. How'd it go?"
"Not great, pops. I'm in second. I shot a 76."
"A 76 on a course you've never seen before? Sounds pretty damn good to me son."
"A kid in my group shot 74, he's leading it."
"Two stroke deficit, huh? Sounds manageable."
"I'll try and do better tomorrow at Spring Valley. I know that course pretty well." The event was played one day at San Jose, one day at Spring Valley, and then one day back to San Jose if you made the cut.
"Remember this, my boy: you've only been playing this game for a year now. These other kids have spent years at it, growing up on private courses with all the advantages in the world. So whatever you end up doing out there, it will be great. You hear me? Great. Just have some fun for Christ's sake, you're a kid."
My grandfather always had the words to calm me or make me laugh. He was a serious guy who didn't take life all that seriously; it was a rare quality.
"What if I really skunk it, like shoot a hundred or something?"
"Then you shoot a hundred. What? You think I won't let you come home or something?"
"I just want you to be proud; I know this means something to you, even if you play like it's just for fun."
My grandfather stopped and turned to face me, making sure I was attentive. "I'm proud of you, Kevin - you. This game, or any other thing you may choose to do in your life, is secondary. You are what's important. You remind me so much of your father. He was the exact same way, always wondering if he was good enough or living up to my expectations. Let me say for the record, pal, you have exceeded any expectation I may have had. You're everything a father, or grandfather, could have ever hoped for in a son."
I didn't know what to say so I nodded and walked. He put an arm around my shoulder and smiled; it was a beautiful place this world.
The next morning came and I found myself more at peace. I was partnered with the same group as the day before. I didn't try to introduce myself again, just traded scorecards and thought about what lay ahead.
Spring Valley was a public course located in the foothills of Milpitas. I had played it twice before. I didn't really care for it all that much, but at least I knew where to hit the ball.
Ol' Cocky didn't have much to say, and our playing partner had shot himself out of the tournament on day one with an 89, less than great company for this second round. The starter called on us and we began. I nailed my drive and once again was at least twenty yards past the leader.
His attitude and ego surely had a problem with this, especially since it was proper etiquette to give acknowledgment to a well struck shot. Though he mumbled it more times than not, he was stuck saying good shot most of the day.
I had one truly memorable hole that day, and my grandfather was there to witness it. I had shaken off the first day jitters and asked him to stick around and see how things turned out.
It was the ninth hole - a 520 yard par five, with a must make tee shot of at least 200 yards of carry over water before reaching the fairway. Cocky and I had no problem making the fairway; our playing partner however, put three balls in the drink before finally resigning himself to the drop area across the lake.
From a less than spectacular spot in the left side of the fairway, I had two-hundred and fifty yards left to the front portion of the green. It wasn't the most difficult shot considering the fairways at Spring Valley were wide and flat, with a generous close cropping that allowed the ball to roll an extra twenty or thirty yards if you didn't spin it too much.
My problem was the tree line. I had just managed to roll my ball behind one of the biggest oak trees on the course. I would have to punch the ball low for the first hundred yards, draw it slight left, then hope it would raise up, gain enough carry to cover the distance, then run out to the front of the green - oh yea, and miss the two pool size bunkers to the left and right of the green's front opening. No problem.
I pulled my two-iron from the bag. Usually, if struck well, I could count on this club for approximately 190 to 200 yards. Today I was asking for 250 and a host of other unreasonable requests.
I lined up the shot, closed my stance, strengthened my grip slightly, and let it rip. Impact was a thing of daydreams. The clubhead transferred energy up the shaft to my hands which informed my brain that the shot was one of the best in my life thus far. The ball left on a string, low and powerful, hooking slightly, then touching down and rolling just onto the first cut of the green. I could hear people from behind the green clapping and shouting. I didn't mind, I was sure this type of shot was pulled off daily on the pro tour but out here, amongst the teenage set, it was a miracle.
I saw my grandfather conspiring amongst the other parents and onlookers as I strolled up like it was the 18th at the Masters, instead of the second day of the Mercury Junior Classic.
I was all smiles, and so was he.
All that was left was a forty foot uphill putt breaking from right to left. I walked the green, checking all of the angles. It was not a crazy difficult putt, but it would require commitment. You couldn't back out on it and leave it short. I chose my line, picked a spot some three feet to the right, and hit it. I watched along with the rest of the spectators as my ball rolled and rolled, until finally dunking center cut into the middle of the hole, an Eagle three. I jumped in the air as if I'd been shot. That putt had put me two under par for the day and only two over for the tournament; I was now leading the event.
I finished the day with a two under par 70.
I signed my card, handed Ol' Cocky his card which recorded his day at even par 72. We were tied going into the final round.
My grandfather had walked along the back nine watching my steady round stay steady. It felt good having him there.
The rules prohibited the parents from speaking with the players during their round, but it found no fault with clapping for a good shot, or giving a wink and a smile.
On the drive home my grandfather was unable to mask his pride. I knew there was one more day to go and that anything could happen. If he'd had his way, they would already be engraving my name on the winner's cup.
"You looked great out there, Kevin, great."
"Thanks, pops. I felt good, focused."
"People were asking about you, wondering where you'd come from, what club you belonged to. It was quite a stir."
"Really?" It was surprising to hear.
"It's a gift, my boy. You respect it. No one can believe you've only played a year."
"Did you fill them all in?"
"I might have said a word or two."
We both laughed after that one. My grandfather was notorious for boring the shit out of the other patrons of San Jose Muni with stories of my prowess.
The final day had me and Ol' Cocky together once again. As the leaders entering the final round, we teed off last. You'd have thought with the performance I'd turned in the previous day, and the distance I gained on him with every tee shot, he'd mellow out - well, far from it. His personality was a by-product of privilege and contempt. It was apparent he found me a nuisance and nothing more.
Tee shots away, our walk into the final eighteen began. For the first nine holes it was unclear who would be the victor. We exchanged the lead every couple of holes. One thing was clear: it was a two man race. Starting the back nine we were six shots beyond our nearest competitor.
It became a classic match play scenario. On the twelfth hole I spotted my grandfather and Peter in the gallery. It was energizing and a bit terrifying, the amount of people which had stayed to follow our match.
I didn't know any of them. Even fellow competitors were amongst them. On the fifteenth hole the match took a turn, and not for the better. Cocky had strung two perfect shots together on the short par five and was laying twenty feet away for an eagle.
I had snap-hooked a drive into the left tree line and was forced to punch my second back into the fairway. I was left with one hundred and eighty yards for my third. It's not the scenario you want when your rival has a good look at eagle.
I watched the flag; the yellow piece of cloth moving to the west gave me some indication as to the wind speed I would be dealing with.
It was similar to making a long distance shot with a rifle, you had to account for wind-speed and gauge your shot accordingly. I thought of just that for a moment - my grandfather over my shoulder, with hushed tones, advising me on how far to aim one way or the other to make the perfect shot. I heard in my head him telling me that in golf, just as in shooting, you only had one opportunity to get it right.
The gallery of onlookers faded away. I pulled a five iron, gripped down a half-inch, aimed the slightest bit left, and pulled the trigger. The ball took a lovely high flight, simmering in the sky for a second before fading into the front right portion of the green. It had looked good from where I stood when I hit it. Upon seeing it at green level, it was great. My ball came to rest a mere six inches from the cup, a kick-in birdie.
I smiled at Cocky as I said I would get mine out of his way. Birdie four on the card; it was up to him now to keep up. I watched with the rest of the folks at greenside as his putt traveled the twenty or so feet downhill left to right into the side of the cup.
He was up, the crowd was up, and the momentum was his for the moment.
On seventeen we matched pars. The eighteenth loomed ahead, a tough finishing hole, 440 yards, dogleg left. You had two options off the tee:
1.) Hit the driver and attempt to catch the sloped fairway, where a precise shot would roll you down to a spot approximately one hundred yards from the green or
2.) Hit a two or three iron into the middle where the landing area was generous, then take your chances with a long iron into the green.
He had the honors. He made the safe play, his ball coming to rest in the middle of the fairway, but a considerable ways from the green. It was up to me now.
I was juiced. I pulled my driver, took three practice swings at half speed, and breathed out slowly. I wouldn't try to steer the ball. That was the self-talk going on inside my head. I would pick a spot down the fairway, line up accordingly, and let it rip.
The ball came off the clubface hot. My finish was high and balanced, the outcome perfect. I had caught the slope. I had but a wedge left to the postage stamp sized green.
As we walked to our tee shots, I remember the feeling of pride I had as I walked a hundred yards past Cocky's drive to my ball's final resting place.
I stood off to the side as he hit. I remember thinking at the time that there was no way he could pull off the shot he needed. The small green was protected on both sides by trees; they had been planted there just for this purpose. The golfer daring enough to hit a driver would have no problem; a wedge could carry these impediments with enough spin to stick the green. The man back two hundred yards would face some tough choices.
I watched as my competitor pulled a fairway wood from his bag.
I remember being surprised by this. On the card he would have 230 yards left to the green, but with the elevation change, the green falling away and below, that number dwindled to a more likely 190 to 200.
It didn't matter what he did, it wasn't something I could control. He took at least seven or eight practice swings, double the amount he usually took. He was feeling it, he must have been. He knew his lead was only one, and the possibility of bogey from where he was lying was significant.
I turned away as he swung. I had my own shot to think about. I was standing there with my head down, taking calming breaths in and out as I heard the roar.
Somehow he had done it; his ball was on the middle of the green, maybe fifteen feet from the cup.
My earlier joy was caught dead center in my throat. There was nothing to do about it except make a good swing. It was an easy shot; I was sitting perfect - 92 yards from the flag.
I had a pitching wedge in my hands. The swing was a soft whoosh back and through, no more no less - easy as pie, except it was the final hole and I was one down.
I hit the shot as I had done many times on the range, only this time the result was different. My ball sailed the green. I was over the back by fifteen yards. My grandfather would later explain the dynamic of adrenaline.
There were no miracles for me on that day. I pitched the ball onto the green from a terrible lie in the rough and two putted for a bogey five. Cocky went on to beat me with a two putt par. When we shook hands after his final putt, he removed his hat like tour players do and said, "Nice playing out there. You're really good."
I was surprised by the warmth in his statement. It was as if someone entirely new had entered the kid's body. It was my first lesson in gamesmanship and a winning mindset. He wasn't the complete dick I had first perceived, just a kid who knew how to win.
Peter being Peter asked me to sign a ball for him, citing the value it would have in the future. I felt like an idiot, but I did it. On the drive home grandpa was both thoughtful and sympathetic. He knew I was bummed about the second place, but he remarked with wisdom and candor; "You love this sport, I can tell. I feel it through you when you're out there. Following you around today was one of the best days of my life. Maybe you don't realize it now because, well, you're a young man, but the way you play, it makes others feel good just watching you. You were a class act all the way.
Even when you knew you were beat, you met your opponent half way, head held high with the grace and manners of a gentleman."
Peter was seated between us looking at my trophy; I wasn't sure how he felt hearing my grandfather say those things. I felt uneasy in that moment, like maybe I should focus some attention on him.
My grandfather beat me to it; "It's like Peter with the boxing; he moves like a fighter, natural rhythm, perfect timing, no wasted movement. You're both very special boys."
Peter and I smiled at each other.
"So, boys, on this very special occasion where would you two like to eat? It's my treat, anywhere you want to go."
Peter had never been to the steak house downtown. I mentioned it, told him he'd love it, and there was no argument.
It was the perfect end to my first taste of tournament golf. As we sat there eating steak, my trophy on the table, Gino making a deal over it, inviting others to see the next Jack Nicklaus, I savored the moment. It was my place in the sun where so many days had been rained out.
It was the kind of memory you put away some place special, always there when you have a minute to spare or just need a reflection of something wonderful, my grandfather's pride, my best friend's laughter, and the world coming to a complete stop, if only for a second.
The following year and a half brought changes both great and small. I had grown six inches over the summer between my sixteenth and seventeenth year, leveling me out at 6'2". I looked my grandfather in the eye now, literally. He was the same rock of support, the firm hand and kind word, the fighter and the poet. He was everything everyman should aspire to be.
With my mother's leaving he had become everything, my entire world. The thing I would remember about him most was the limitless giving of self. Whatever issue I faced, what guidance I needed, he supplied in countless measure.
I was now in my final year of high school. Letters of interest were coming in from around the country regarding golf scholarships - schools I had never heard of and then some that were known by all.
I didn't want to think about that, all I really wanted was to continue on with the life I had led since age twelve. Me and pops, here on the ranch, our weekly round of golf together, meal times, nightly reading, and the tea.
Peter still came around, however less frequently. He had discovered girls. We both had, only he was taking on the practice of women the way I trained for golf, relentless.
One thing was for sure, I wasn't leaving. There were plenty of good schools close by; though my grandfather would never admit it, he needed me here. It was a big place and he wasn't getting any younger.
I had narrowed it down to two; it was a pretty obvious choice, given the prestige of the one. I would tell him over our next round of golf.
He had been after me ever since the letters started coming in. His lectures about education were as passionate as his lessons on golf or shooting or anything else he had cared for. It was his dream for me, and now I wouldn't have to burden him with money issues as my choice came with a full ride.
It was a crisp spring morning, a Saturday tee time we had held for the past year. It was a time I cherished as much as the talks and readings over Earl Gray. We teed off and took our stroll. With him there was no pressure, this was golf for golf's sake, a beautiful walk through the park.
By the turn, I had carded five birdies. He looked at me with a wry grin and spoke, "When did you get this good?"
"I don't know if good's got anything to do with it, maybe the company is just lucky."
"I've been called a lot of things kid, lucky was never one of them."
"I'm sure you have."
"I was thinking, Kevin, now that we have this pause in the action, given anymore thought to picking a school?"
His idea of a pause in the action was the fifty or so yard walk from the ninth green to the tenth tee box.
I smiled at him; "As a matter of fact---"
"Well, come on, boy, spit it out."
"How's Stanford sound to you, Pops?"
"It sounds pretty goddamn good, Kevin, pretty goddamn good."
"I thought you might like that. I was looking at San Jose as well, but you know, Stanford is Stanford, and they have their own golf course right on campus."
"How about when we get home we'll place that call, tell them you're in so we don't lose the spot."
"I don't think anyone is going to be sitting in the office on a Saturday, Pops."
"It doesn't hurt to check . . ."
My grandfather had stopped walking.
I turned to see him on his knees, his hands to his chest. I got to him as he was falling to the ground. I asked him what was wrong, but he'd already lost the ability to speak. I ran to the pro shop, told them to call an ambulance, and then ran back to my grandfather. He wasn't breathing. He had prepared me for everything except this. I held his head in my lap, talked to him, asked him to stay with me.
By the time the ambulance arrived, he was gone.
He was all the family I had left. I didn't cry sitting there holding him; I was in shock. People were everywhere around us, but I didn't see them. I heard more than once, "Are you alright?" No, no I wasn't.
Coping
They took him from me after a while. He was taken to the county coroner's office for an autopsy, but I was fairly sure what had got him.
He was seventy-one years old, and I'd never seen him sick a day in the whole time I was with him. I drove back to our home alone. I'd never felt so completely alone in my life. I parked the truck, his truck, in its familiar spot. I walked inside the house and called Peter. He was there before I'd had time to do anything, not that there was anything to do. I didn't hear him knock or enter. I was standing at the kitchen sink staring out the window at the place where my grandfather had chopped wood all those years.
I closed my eyes and I was eleven years old again. There he was, his work shirt laid over the fence, his gray t-shirt soaked with the labor of wood splitting, I, a frightened little kid not knowing what was going to happen next. I saw myself talking to him, he a big man smiling down at my thin frame. The walk to the barn and the first lessons of boxing, or rather my first lessons of life, were all present before me.
Peter caught me then. I was losing my bearing quickly. The tears began to spill with the overwhelming sense of memory lost. The man who had made me a man was no more, and I was drifting further away from everything I knew.
We stayed fixed to that spot for some time, two boys crying over the one man who had taught them so much.
My grandfather had died of a massive heart attack. The coroner released him to me following his findings.
On that same day, I was visited by a lawyer. Walter Moorenger was his name.
He sat with me at the kitchen table where so many happy times had been shared.
He spoke of my grandfather, said he was a strong man, a devoted man with great values and character. I didn't need anyone to tell me that. He read from a single sheet of paper, and in his words were a list of wishes and directives. My grandfather left me everything he had, this house, the cabin, his truck, and everything inside of all three. His life savings, which amounted to $110,000, was also mine. It didn't matter that I was still a few months shy of legal adulthood, I was all that left of our bloodline, I was his sole heir.
Before leaving, Mr. Moorenger handed me an envelope. With that he asked if he could be of any further service. When I said he couldn't, he was gone as swiftly as he had come.
I didn't know what to expect. I took the envelope to the chair by the fireplace, sat down, and opened it. It was a letter from my grandfather. The date in the top right hand corner was only two weeks old. I traced my fingers over those words prior to reading them.
They were his words, written by his hand, a last trace of the living being.
I read:
Dear Kevin,
If you're reading this, then the inevitable has happened. I hope my passing was peaceful and your feeling of loss tolerable. I did my very best by you. I hope you know that. You brought back everything I thought was lost to me with the passing of your father. You made every day special, and my heart swelled with pride every time I looked at you.
For my part, it was a selfish quest taking you in. I wanted to feel complete again. I wanted to give to you, my grandson, all of the knowledge and life experience I had never been able to give to your father. If that was wrong, then I apologize. In my time with you I found a happiness I never expected and the fulfillment of my life's dream for which I almost certainly didn't deserve. Second chances are rare, Kevin, so rare in fact, we may not even know when they present themselves, but I knew; everyday by your side I knew.
Now remember the old man who loved you and wanted only the best for you. Remember the talks, the rounds of golf, the tea by the fire, and remember this world is what you make of it. Limit your travels into sorrow and maximize the time spent in bliss. You're one of the good guys, Kevin; always remember that and you'll be fine.
Love,
Pops
My vision blurred each time I tried to read it. It took me ten tries before the tears subsided enough to get to the last word. When I'd finished, I sat there for a long time remembering everything he'd asked me to do. His request was an easy one to undertake. In my walk through the tunnels and landscapes of my mind, he was everywhere.
Not surprisingly, it was if I had categorized every detail from the moment I arrived here seven years ago. With minimal effort, I could pick from a vast array of memories - one suitable for any situation. He had been that good to me, that complete in his knowledge and understanding of the world and what it took to live in it. I was going to miss him for the rest of my life.
The phone woke me many hours later. I had fallen asleep in my grandfather's chair, the letter still within my grasp. I wasn't sure what time it was; it was still light out. Peter asked what time he should be over. I was still foggy, the new formed kink in my neck making it hard to concentrate.
"We have to go to the funeral home today. What time should I pick you up?"
I looked at the clock beside the kitchen phone. It was seven in the morning. I had slept the entire night in grandpa's chair.
"Give me ten minutes, I just gotta shower."
I hung up the phone and walked to the bathroom. In the mirror, my face was a mask of sadness. I had slept for fourteen hours and I looked as if I hadn't slept at all.
I was standing outside as Peter pulled up. Inside the car, we spoke of his final wishes. I read from the list left for me by Mr. Moorenger. When I'd reached the end, I looked to Peter and made a very obvious statement.
"You know Pop's wasn't a very religious guy."
After the transformation of David following some alone time with my grandfather, Peter believed Pops was God, so there was no convincing him of that statement.
"He wanted to be cremated, and that was all." He didn't attend church; however, he spoke to God. I admitted to hearing him do so on an occasion or two. His only wish was his ashes be spread over a golf course of my choosing.
"What about a service?"
"You mean like a wake?"
"Sure, you can ask his close friends up to the house, have some food catered in, you know nothing crazy, the way he would have liked it."
"I have another idea."
After meeting with the director of the funeral home and making arrangements, Peter and I drove to San Jose Municipal golf course, the same course where he had taught me to play, the same course where we had played a Saturday match for as long as I had been playing.
I spoke with the head pro, Mike Bertollochi, and explained my desire for a final get together in the clubhouse. It was the only place where my grandfather had spoken to people. Though he might not have been friends with everyone, everyone there knew him. I believed it was what he would have wanted for a last goodbye.
Mike's agreement came before I had said my final word. He would take care of everything. It would be held Saturday evening, when the final players finished their rounds.
I'd returned home following another emotional day. Peter asked me if I wanted him to stay. I declined respectfully.
Walking through my grandfather's house, my house now, I tried to clear the fog which found residence within my head. I felt sad and anxious.
There had been decisions to make, arrangements to attend to, all in a span of time when you most felt like crying and nothing more. It was a cruel joke, the end of life. It left the living with responsibility untold and unknown to that point, and then a tiny window of hours to perform what should never have to be performed.
I walked to my grandfather's study and plopped down in his desk chair. It was large and worn; the leather smelled the way leather did then, real. I looked around the room noticing just how many books he had owned. The collection was impressive.
A stranger would have believed him a scholar, a poet, a bibliophile at least. Nothing about this space truly reflected what the man had been in real life, the things he had seen and done. Perhaps he wanted it that way. He told me once, and only once, of his time in the war. Without fanfare or glorification, he painted the act of men killing other men for what it really was, horror.
"It changes you, Kevin, and the change can't be washed off or forgotten. It just becomes what it becomes. You can try and convince yourself you're no different for the act, make believe it was war therefore it will be forgiven, but it won't. It is what it is and that is that."
I remember how quiet he was following that talk. We sat there drinking tea, watching the fire, and saying very little. He was a proud man and it was something he was ashamed of. He didn't say as much, but I could tell.
As I scanned the room it became more obvious. The side of him inherent to those who are trained to fight, taught to kill, was masked. The concealment wasn't distinct, not to the casual onlooker, but to me it was glaring.
Everything else in his life was an attempt to rectify the past. The physicality of his being, the education of self with books of philosophy, history and poetry, the time and effort spent raising a young lost boy, all an effort at redemption, at peace in a world that seldom lets one forget.
I hoped with my whole heart he was granted that peace.
Hours ticked off the way they always do for the living. Time ceases for no man's burden. It's always moving, always traveling onward without reflection or even a second's pause.
The event held in honor of my grandfather was memorable. Those who called him friend, along with those who didn't, stopped by to share a story of the quiet giant.
More than once I heard a man, stranger or not, tell me of the pride in my grandfather's voice when he spoke of me. People I'd never even seen before walked up and shook my hand, explained how they felt like they already knew me. I thanked every one of them for remembering him.
I watched as they trickled in and out. It was the kind of thing he would have been pleased by, the lack of bullshit and the candor of friends. Amongst his peers he was respected.
I returned home that night to find the place as I'd left it. I'm not sure what I was expecting. I was alone now, and he wasn't coming back. I left everything the way he had lived it. I wouldn't be moving things or buying new things; it was perfect in its original form.
I put the pot on to boil and walked out into the living area. I built the fire and returned when the tea pot whistled. Cup in hand, I made my way back to find the fire hadn't caught.
I wadded up old newspaper for kindling and started again.
I sat still then and listened to the house. It was late summer, so there was no creaking from expansion or contraction. The cold was months away. The fire was never a necessity during this time of year, only a remedy for the soul. My eyes closed and I thought of him. I was far from being a child, but that didn't stop me from wishing or imagining.
Once more; isn't that what everyone says? One more day, one more hour to sit and look and talk and say all of the words that matter. It wasn't such a burden really, not for him and me. His natural disposition may have leaned toward stoicness, but his ready association with tranquility didn't interfere with his saying what was on his mind. He never failed me in that regard and I hoped now that I didn't fail him.
I opened my eyes and looked across at his chair. I told him how much I missed him then, how hard it was being without him. I was crying again, but they were easy tears. They were not like the first day, never again like the first day.
"What do I do now?" I spoke to the stillness surrounding me. I waited for an answer; however, none came. It was late. I was tired but not sleepy. I grabbed my flashlight and headed for the barn. As I pushed the sliding door east on its track, I was hit with the familiar smell of work and dirt. How many hours had I spent with my grandfather inside this handmade gym? How many conversations occurred that had everything to do with fighting, but more to do with life? I hit the aging, heavy bag; the length of cord and rope holding it creaked along the high beam with the force of my effort.
He was there behind it, holding it steady and looking around it to offer instruction and inspiration. He was in every drop of sweat and tired piece of equipment. For me, he would be, always.
I said my goodbyes and walked back inside.
The fire was barely an ember now. It didn't matter; I sat there staring into it, trying to feel something close to warmth. How much longer would I feel this way? My grandfather would be ashamed right now. He would question my intention, my actual process of grieving.
Was I feeling sad for the loss of him, 'cause if that was the case, I needed to shrug it off and get on with it, or was I just feeling sorry for myself, missing what he brought to the table, the load he made seem indescribably lighter?
A little of both, I supposed.
I washed out my cup and placed it near the sink. It was late now. I felt as if I might be able to get a little sleep. Laying there, resting on my back, my eyes looking straight above me, I couldn't turn off my thoughts - all kinds of thoughts, infuriating in their randomness and insequential order. Him, school, golf, Peter, the Marines ---
The Marines? Where had that come from? It became obvious then, maybe because I wasn't quite eighteen yet, and many stupid ideas and beliefs seem good at that age, but I made a gut decision; one of many I would make for the remainder of my life. I would honor him as my father had. It made perfect sense. The men in my family served their country. They placed themselves in harm's way to protect others, and why not? I was young, strong, and as capable as any. It was the first thing I had gotten right in a long time. Tomorrow morning I would drive to the recruiter's office and sign up.
Goodbye
Morning came and I was on my way. It felt good to have conviction, to believe something was right, or at the very least could be made right. It was something I could do for him, something I could do for my father.
Anderson is a very common name, the recruiter asked anyway. When I told him the names of the men in my family who had severed before me he smiled and spoke with reverence. That was it then, I would be leaving for San Diego the day after graduation.
I had earned enough credits to graduate early. The ceremony didn't matter to me. Who would take pictures and greet me after the hats had been tossed into the air?
No one. I received my diploma in the mail in a large manila envelope. I opened it and looked at it. It wasn't much of a document for the 3 ½ years I had put in to get it.
In my last weeks I made the final arrangements for the ranch. It was a lot of work. I wouldn't be here again for five months, and then it would only be for a week or so. I worked daily to keep my mind clear. I emptied it as I did the pantry of perishable goods.
Peter came around from time to time and helped. He was still my best friend. He still cared as he had when we were young, but it was I who had changed. I looked at him, at life differently now.
Everything was finished -- there were new locks to replace old, the windows had been covered, the barn and shed secured against any form of infestation, the grounds mowed and swept. All that was left was me.
Two nights before my departure I had Peter over one last time. It was in that space of minutes that I realized something curious about life and time. Time is only a non-issue when you're a kid. School days seem to pass with the patience of the gods. It isn't until you're near the end of these blessed days that you understand how valuable they really were.
It was like most childhood friendships. At some point they all end. That last night brought two friends to an unusual place. Each had history beyond their years.
We shared conversation into the late hours; we walked the places we walked as kids and spoke of the man who made us better. The time would not hold still. Like all moments this one was sure to pass.
"Bit of a stretch, isn't it Kev?"
"What's that?"
"The smartest guy I know joining the Marines, the dumbest guy you know going to college."
I had to smile at that. "Well, maybe you're not so dumb, and perhaps I'm not so smart."
"I'm going to miss you and this place."
"Me too."
Peter pulled me in, held me close and didn't let go. I felt the drying in my throat. Let it go with a sigh.
When Peter pulled back his bearing was right again.
We said our goodbyes, promised to keep in touch, everything the young say that disappears with the new light.
The last night was for me. It had been close to five months since my grandfather's passing, and I still saw him in every corner of that old house. Do the insane know they are insane? It was a question I had to ask, for every day I grew more at ease with speaking to his ghost out loud.
I would walk the grounds, sit at the kitchen table, and build the fire, all while holding up my end of a conversation with a man who no longer existed. I didn't care; I had stopped caring about many things since he left. I hadn't touched a golf club since that fateful Saturday, and I never responded to the offer received from Stanford.
I wasn't sure how he would feel about that. That was a lie, I knew damn well how he would feel about that, he would think I was an idiot. Somehow, I thought he would be able to look beyond himself and appreciate what I felt I had to do, what all men feel they have to do at some point in their lives.
I checked my watch; my bus would be leaving in seven hours. I should sleep. The thought left me as quickly as it had come. I wouldn't sleep tonight, I would sit, I would keep the fire burning, I would think of him and smile and cry and remember.
Marine
I was sitting remarkably still for a boy who found adulthood quite by accident. The bus rolled on, a steady stream of silver amongst the plethora of cars and trucks which passed it. The minutes found the hours in the way they do when there's nothing left to say and nothing left to do. I was tired, woefully so. My last night at the old house had been a sleepless one. Every time I closed my eyes the thoughts would retrieve whatever baggage I was trying to stow. Sleep never found me, and now I was here.
It was nearing midnight. The bus pulled into underground parking in the downtown Greyhound terminal in San Diego.
I recall looking from my seated position once more before exiting the bus. This was it I thought. The dreams I once had had vanished alongside of a man I had come to love more than anyone. He had done it, my father had done it, and now I would do it. I would step lightly onto the ground they had already treaded.
A marine was waiting outside the bus. He stood by a white cargo van, slid the door open, and waited. It was obvious what we were supposed to do; however, not everyone realized without being told. There were eleven of us. All young, most scared. With minimal instruction, everyone boarded the van and sat in silence. Again, without having to be told to do so. It seemed the thing to do. Head down, mouth shut, we were on our way to being Marines.
In twenty minutes we arrived. I watched the guard wave the van through with a very direct horizontal swipe of his right arm. His motion was precise.
We rolled through the grounds of what felt like a tourist attraction, except the guys beside me never spoke, and the driver's eyes never left the road directly in front of him. The van parked, and we were instructed to exit it, then enter a large yellow bus parked only six steps away. Odd I thought, why couldn't the van just drive us to our final destination, what was with all the hoo-haw on and off of vehicles? This bus was nearly full of young men like myself. We filled in the remaining seats with very little distraction. Again, the place felt strange, not really real, like at any minute. . .
A voice entered the bus in front of the man who owned it. He was large, black, and his hat, a "cover" I would soon learn, shielded his eyes from our view.
"Get off of my bus!"
He didn't have to say it twice but he did, several more times in fact.
The voice and the man followed us onto the concrete just outside the bus. In neat rows were painted yellow foot prints. The man whose voice pierced my tired soul advised we should find a set of foot prints and place our feet directly over them. As ordered, all of the boys formally on the bus were now standing on yellow foot prints, the toes pointing out at a 45 degree angle, with the heels touching.
Everyone scurried as fast as possible. With the screaming of the drill instructor and the chaos of so many bodies all trying to land on the nearest set of foot prints, it was a wonder no one ended up in the emergency room, or sick bay, as it would now be known.
Time is a measurement with which I am very familiar. I lived by it for the past eighteen years. Everyone I knew did as well, though some more or less than others.
To the man, and now men screaming at us to hurry it up, move our collective worthless asses, and my personal favorite, "unfuck ourselves," time was one thing we did not have enough of.
This first night passed in a bizarre smudge of haircuts, (head shaving) equipment gathering (your old shit in a box, the battle dress and cheap government Issue boxers and socks) in hand, and a nightmarish amount of paperwork. It was nearing four in the morning when we left the brightly lit building and marched/walked to our first barracks.
I was surprised, though I must admit pleasantly, when one of the drill instructors caught me doing push-ups behind my rack (bed) and ordered me to stop.
I had only been doing them as an assist to wakefulness, and did not understand why someone, a drill instructor no less, would discontinue the practice.
I should have been commended, offered up as an example of what to do with ten seconds of free time to the seventy or so others in my platoon. Instead, I was discouraged and left to feel like an insolent child. How hard could this be I ignorantly thought at the time. How hard in deed.
The first week passed with about as much exertion as a boy scout's meeting. Again, I was waiting for the hammer to fall. Could this be it? Don't get me wrong, waking up at 0500 hours was a bitch, and the food was terrible, but the overall sense of panic and mental and physical stress my grandfather had spoken of was nowhere to be found.
The second week began with a brief move from our barracks, to a barracks closer to the parade ground, or grinder, as it was termed by all that used it.
I remember this part especially well:
A sharp looking lieutenant, standing tall in front of us, with a speech of epic proportion, welcoming and thoughtful, expressed gratitude at our choice to become Marines, and guaranteed us acceptance no matter where we landed in the world. We were the finest fighting force on this earth. We were well on our way to becoming everything the recruiters had promised -- the few, the proud.
A moment of overwhelm and reflection passed over everyone. He was right. This guy was telling it straight.
At that moment of greatest self-satisfaction, of swelling so large the tears of my accomplishment almost rained down upon this god blessed land, the hammer finally fell. I recall the nice lieutenant saying a final word. Actually, it was two words. He had introduced three sturdy looking individuals, drill instructors all, but we had already had drill instructors. They were decent guys, doing their best to show us the way. They remained quiet and still, respectful of the lieutenant's speech. But the speech ended. Those last words hung in the air uninterrupted for a microsecond.
"Good luck." Hadn't that been the final words?
Those were the final peaceful encouraging words we would hear for the next five months. Without another sound the lieutenant had turned on his heel and disappeared. His goodtime love replaced with the hounds of hell.
Now, for some reason, one of the drill instructors, Sgt. Desky I believe it was, got my name confused with, "You fat piece of shit!"
I know this, because every time he called out to me or ordered me to do something, invariably, my true name was replaced with "fat piece of shit." This only struck me as odd due to the fact I was now 6'2" and stacked upon that frame was 220 pounds of hard earned muscle.
Perhaps with all good relationships, pet names had to be assigned, and "fat piece of shit" was more a term of endearment than an insult. Regardless, I was FPOS, and that was that.
The first day of real boot camp came and went in an insult driven, psychopathic raging, blur of confusion. Not a minute passed without punishment, either in the verbal threatening context, or the face-on-the-ground-pushing-the-earth-beneath-you form. It was all so surreal. Truly it was. One day you're learning to make your bed, march, salute, all within the reasonable caption of safety and sensibility, the next you're running and jumping at your own shadow.
These guys were not of this world. Somewhere in hell, a place as real it now seemed as Disneyland, a production line was shitting these sadists out. And it appeared they were limitless in production. You had your D.I.'s, the other platoon's D.I.'s. Everywhere you walked, looked, ran, shit, pissed, there were drill instructors, and not those pussies we were left with the first week of this ordeal. No, no, these were the ones you knew had to be somewhere, lurking, waiting, sharpening the edge of their mental and physical blades, awaiting the opportunity to lance you through, watch you break, hear your cries, illicit your puke.
We had been with the new D.I.'s less than a week when one of my platoon broke. We had all broken in one manner or another; I missed my home terribly, as did everyone here. This was different. This lad, recruit Duffin I think, had a total and complete meltdown, and no one was going to save him. Not for lack of trying, I mean we had learned we were a team, and a teammate does not get left behind, no matter what. We were on the way to evening chow when Desky, believing the platoon was out of step, or whatever he believed, stopped us to get bent.
Getting bent was an every twenty to thirty minute occurrence in the first weeks of Basic. You fucked up or you didn't, it didn't matter, and you were put on your face.
Push-ups, sit ups, bends and thrusts, mountain climbers, pole fuckers, running in place, it all added up to the same thing, discipline through pain compliance.
We had been bending for only a minute or so when Duffin stood up, threw his cover to the ground, and announced he was done. Everyone was left in the front leaning rest position while Duffin was given individualized instruction.
Duffin! Or Muffin, as Desky and the others often called him, was ordered to get back on the ground and assume the push up position. Duffin refused. In fact, he removed his outer blouse and threw that to the ground as well. Desky lost a fucking biscuit at this. His words rang through the compound:
"You unbelievable piece of dog shit! You slimy, retarded fucking worm, are you trying to upset me? Are you testing me, Muffin? Is that it? Is this a fucking game to you, princess? Cause if that's what it is, consider me Milton fucking Bradley! I've got games you've never heard of Muffin, games only you and I will play, and I god damned guarantee you, Muffin, you will not enjoy these fucking games! Now for the last time, and I sincerely mean the last fuck your mother time, get on your fucking face!"
Like the call of the wild heard by only the most rapacious, several more drill instructors joined the circle Desky had created all by himself. It was feeding time, and the lions were hungry. We had been in the upper part of the push up position, arms fully extended now for several minutes. My ass and back ached. Through it all, no one dared move or break down, for the wrath of one of these assholes would follow.
Duffin was in the middle of removing his pants when he was slammed to the ground by Desky.
"Get up and unfuck yourself, Muffin!"
Duffin ignored the order, just laid back and attempted to remove his boots.
Desky, along with two others, pulled Duffin to his feet. Duffin lost it, as if removing all of your clothes out here wasn't losing it enough. Duffin flailed, and in doing so hit Desky in the side of the face. The move knocked Desky's Campaign Cover, the holy grail of all hats in the Marine's arsenal, to the ground. Desky didn't flinch, didn't speak. He paused, bent over slowly, and picked up his cover, replacing it on his head as if it had never happened.
Duffin, as if expecting his young life was now over, began screaming. "I quit, I quit, I quit!" He repeated the phrase at least a hundred times while being dragged away by the other drill instructors. Desky didn't look back. He faced forward, told us to recover, and then marched us to the mess hall.
I decided that day Marine Corps Drill Instructors are not the type of guys who end up on Oprah, spilling their guts, blubbering about past failures and the dreams they had of one day succeeding.
These men train other men for war.
They do so with one goal in mind -- take a soft shell and harden it, harden it to the point it is unbreakable. Desky was no monster. He was a man. Not unlike so many other men, he tried to do a job and sometimes, through no fault of his own, he failed.
Time in this place was a misnomer. It was replaced with events. Certain events tested your ability to survive, others your ability to kill, and often times your ability to remain sane.
I saw it for what it was. I knew the world could be a fantastic place filled with joy and delight, as well as I knew it to be filled with hate and ignorance. Marines weren't sent to places where love ruled the land; they were perpetually playing a game on the dirty end of the field. It's conceivable I relayed this high powered perception of life in my testing process, because currently I was being led back to where basic training began.
The large and unremarkable building lay in front of me. The night where all of that paperwork and testing was administered seemed decades ago.
My senior drill instructor, Staff Sgt. Warren, turned to me and remarked, "You know why you're here Anderson?"
I answered as we had been instructed to do so, so long ago, in the third person, "The recruit admits he does not, sir."
Warren looked down, smiled, looked back up.
"You're being considered for military intelligence. Your test scores were high enough, and your ability to grasp abstract concepts and interpret foreign language satisfactory enough, they want to administer more tests."
My focus remained constant. I didn't react in any way, just answered, again as was custom, "Yes, sir."
Warren, the senior drill instructor, our host mother and father as was explained back in the beginning, was the only person who would cut you a moment's slack, the only man on base who would offer a smile or word of kindness during your entire stay here. He did that now.
"Look, Anderson, you're a smart guy. One of the smartest I've ever seen come through basic. I don't know why you didn't go to school first; perhaps you selected to refrain from the frontal lobotomy that comes with Lieutenant Bars upon graduation of OCS. I don't know. I don't care.
It pleases me one of our own, and in saying this I mean a kid with some fucking sense about him, is going to be on the side of the fence where common sense usually goes hand in hand with pink fucking elephants, you reading my lecture here son?"
Warren was maybe five to six years my senior and looked as if he could have graduated with my senior class. The words he used, along with the meaning he intended, would have fit someone much older.
The contrast broke my newly ingrained stoicness and for a brief second I smiled.
Warren smiled back, then added, "You secure that shit and get inside Anderson."
Without looking back, Warren remarked, "You smart enough to find your way back to barracks when you're done here?"
"Yes sir."
"Good." With that, he was gone. I walked inside the building having no idea what to expect.
The Test
Upon checkin, I was told I could stand on the wall, a common term for standing at attention or parade rest until someone instructed you to do otherwise. As was standard, I did so, opening and reading my Marine Corps Practical Handbook, or PRAC as it was known to recruits, while waiting at attention, left hand holding the book, right hand down at my side, thumb in line with the side of my BDU pant leg. I had barely covered the page on field dressings when a slight man wearing an all tan uniform waved me in. He waited, holding the door, until I made my way to him. Indoors, we were without covers; therefore, I didn't salute. I called him Sir as I moved to the side of him awaiting direction. I glanced at his black name tag. The name Joshua was inscribed, with a myriad of initials next to it.
"I'm Doctor Joshua, if you will follow me, please." The doctor smiled briefly. It was apparent he was not used to doing so, for the gesture looked forced, out of place on his smallish face. We walked for what seemed an eternity. His office was located at the end of a long grey hallway. He stepped inside without pause, asked me to do the same, and pointed at a gray steel chair with equally grey upholstery. I didn't look about the office, but saw everything. It was whitewash with a few framed documents adorning the otherwise bare walls.
Dr. Joshua was a naval doctor. However, he had the knack for limiting bullshit and practicing directness just like every Marine I had encountered in my short time here.
"Do you know why you're here, Anderson?"
"The recruit was told further testing, sir."
"Something like that. Outside of basic, you ever get into any fights? Let me preface that by adding, not a pushing match, or a slap fight with your best friend, but a knockdown, one guy left standing type of romp?"
"Yes sir."
"Win or lose?"
"Win, sir."
"How did you feel afterward?"
"Sir?"
"Easy question, Anderson. How did you feel at beating another boy, man? I'm sorry. Which would it have been?"
"A boy, sir."
"And that was a fight to the finish encounter?" The doctor framed the question as an interrogator would to a less than truthful suspect.
"He was a really angry boy."
"Fair enough. When you won, was it because he gave up, or did you render him incapable of continuing?"
"I knocked him out, sir, so I suppose incapable."
"So my original question, how did you feel when you saw a boy lying there at your hand?"
I thought of that day, the bullshit and filth spewed by Jimmy. I was caught off-guard by how an event from so long ago had made an eerily deep connection into my emotional response mechanism.
"I felt justified," I paused, "and sad."
Dr. Joshua scribbled something down on a notepad he was holding.
"Did you tell anybody what had happened?"
"It was in the middle of a school day so I didn't have to."
"Were you punished?"
"Not really, a day's suspension."
"And how about your guardians, how did they respond?"
An image of my grandfather flashed before me.
"Very well, as I recall. He asked if I was okay and left it at that."
"Must have been raised by a man who had encountered a few fights himself."
"Yes sir."
"What about now, Anderson? You enlisted in the Marine Corps, so I'm assuming fights don't scare you."
"No, sir, they don't."
"If I may digress just a bit, can you tell me why you felt sad?"
"I don't understand, sir."
"A moment ago, when asked about your boyhood fight, you mentioned you felt sad at beating up another kid. Can you elaborate?"
I'd already forgotten I'd said that. It was a random emotion that found light with the memory of Jimmy lying there, and how my grandfather would perceive me afterward. "Yes sir, well, the recruit was given instruction on fighting and a deal was made along with the lessons not to use my skills unless absolutely necessary. I felt guilty, or sad, at letting my grandfather down."
Dr. Joshua smiled again. I didn't look too closely. "Your grandfather sounds like a wise man."
I looked at him then and answered, "He was, sir."
Dr. Joshua placed his notepad on the desk and picked up the receiver of an ancient beige colored telephone. "I'm all done here, you can take him away."
Dr. Joshua returned the receiver to its cradle.
"Wait outside the door, Anderson. Someone will be here for you shortly."
"Yes sir."
As practiced, I removed myself from the chair with formal stiffness and turned smartly on my heel, leaving the doctor to whatever remained of his day.
Once outside of the office, I was greeted by a young Marine and led to another office, sort of. This one was even smaller than the last and seemed to be a good distance away from the rest of the offices in this building. I was instructed to wait inside, and did so. Time passed with no one entering, so once again I pulled the only literature I had from my camo pocket. I had read the PRAC cover to cover twice. Not unlike grade school, this place preserved the time honored tradition of asking permission to use a restroom, or head, as it was known here. With no intercom present, no button to push for outside assistance, I spoke openly, to the surrounding walls.
"The recruit requests permission to use the head."
A tall black man entered the viewing room alongside Dr. Joshua. He didn't say anything, and didn't move more than was necessary. He focused on the monitor which produced a detailed frame of a room close by.
I was led to the head by another young marine. He pointed to a door and walked away. I didn't hesitate with formalities, just found the nearest urinal and let loose. Piss concluded, I moved to a nearby sink to wash up. As was often the case on this base, there was no mirror to gander into as I ran the cold water over my hands. I figured the Corps didn't really see the point, we all had the same haircut, same uniform, same attitude, you could just look at the guy next to you and get the basic concept. I reflexively straightened as the first of two men walked in. My earlier belief of sameness was quickly eradicated.
Both were dressed in black combat fatigue without insignia or name plate.
I looked for a paper towel dispenser, found none, and moved to leave, wiping my hands together briskly as I went.
In another room, the tall black man nodded without looking at Dr. Joshua. The doctor spoke briefly into a handheld radio.
I didn't look either man directly in the eye. As was practice, I said the customary "by your leave gentlemen" and shifted out of their way to move past. It was all so ingrained now, the bowing down, the role of subordinate to everyone not in your platoon, not going by the first name, recruit. At first, I hated it. I felt somehow inferior and less than human at faking this position one spot up from duck shit on the things most-important-in-life list. One man, they resembled each other so completely I wouldn't have been able to tell you who flipped the knob lever counter clockwise on the door's deadbolt.
I don't remember thinking anything of it at the time, an honest mistake, also ingrained by habit, when one enters a bathroom, so I nodded and moved forward to unlock the door and exit the room. The man nearest the door bent slightly and pushed out forcefully with both hands. As I felt the action reverberate through me, I had an odd thought, Well this is weird? The thought lingered only as long as it took me to crash into the closest point behind me. The sink stopped my rearward momentum and bit sharply into my lower back. I heard the other one before I saw him. I ducked as my training dictated I should just as a large right hand sailed overhead.
In the time it takes to say "Why?" this mutual delivery of violence was unfolding. I didn't know why, didn't have time to ask; the party had fast-forwarded well beyond polite chit-chat.
A few months of Marine Corps Boot Camp, (psychological and physical torture) will do one of two things to a person.
1). Break them
2). Really piss them off
"Good morning America how are you? Don't you know me I'm your favorite son, I'm the one they call the city of New Orleans, and I'll be running 500 miles when the evening comes." The melody found me along with my true nature, the one handed down by a lineage of fighting men. I was afforded no opportunity to regain balance, no second's pause to recover a comfortable fighting stance, just the breath's beat to find the nearest piece of flesh to destroy.
One set of hands grabbed low and the other high, I remember that. What followed? Not a real mystery, but if quizzed a moment after it was all over, I wouldn't have recalled much.
The capable men began the lion's art of tactics. I knew we were going to the ground; it's what teams of attackers (predators) do. I found soft flesh on an otherwise sturdy individual. I heard his screams, and tasted his blood as the once powerful hands released their grip in an effort to replace what was already lost.
His partner was well trained. He didn't freak, didn't move to assist him, just let go his first position and rapidly moved to mount. It might have even worked had this been the old me, the one who believed in things and played golf and read books and drank tea.
He found his place as he was trained to do. His thighs felt strong and dependable. He pressed down making his real weight and perceived weight far heavier. I allowed it, let his confidence take him where the gym training had taken him many times before.
This is where he would begin in earnest, the beating, raining down lefts and rights to my unprotected face.
I bucked once, shot my hips and waist upward with enough momentum to carry him even further up my chest. He must have thought me an idiot, increasing his advantage to where he was now atop my throat. His screams matched that of his partner's. He leapt forward, throwing himself off of me as my teeth sank into the softest part of his inner thigh. I followed, teeth still burying, ripping, pulling. He was on his back now doing everything he could to wriggle away. I released him but not without malice.
My heart and mind were racing. This was permanent, this was exciting and dangerous and absurd, who the hell were these guys? What kind of test was this? What would they be serving in the mess hall tonight? I hope it's Italian. On Italian nights you get pizza and spaghetti, Christ the carbs are necessary with all the goddamned running we do. I stood, moved a fraction backward, and kicked to beat the band. In my head that famous Mexican sports announcer was screaming into the microphone, "GOAL!!!!" "GOAL!!!"
"Now it's a party, huh, boys? C'mon motherfuckers, let's do this shit!" Was I saying that gay crap out loud? Fighting will do that to a person, make you say the dumbest shit you've ever said in your life. I had divvied up the penalty kicks with random abandon. There was no chart of measure for this; the chaos theory was raining supreme. Another melody played, one for you, and one for you, another for you, and more for you. Okay, maybe there was a system in place.
Back in the observing room, Dr. Joshua's anxiety was not lost on the tall black man, "He's going to kill them, Will."
The room went black. My thoughts followed. I was panting. In the dark it was the only sound and it was troublesome. A voice came over an intercom.
"Recruit Anderson, recover." Without really meaning to, I came to attention. I didn't snap to attention as I would have any other time, but something real close to it.
Again with the training. I thought as I stood there completely disheveled, but in proper form. It worked. One minute I'm out of control treating this shitter like Khan's last conquest, the next I'm standing erect for inspection. I heard the door's lock disengage with a click and pop. The door itself opened noiselessly. Some Marine with a can of WD-40 had been to this location. The lights remained out, but ambient light poured over the recently fallen like Vermont maple syrup. They looked pretty bad, one crumpled mess next to another. I chose to keep all possibilities for the next instant available. Who knew what was next?
Another Marine was standing at the opening, a female this time.
"This way Anderson."
I followed her, if for no other reason than to be away from what had just transpired, and obviously it was what was expected, training, (brainwashing).
In another room, this one appointed with a table and two chairs, I was told to sit down and did so without question. The room dimmed as the door shut, leaving me and the table and chairs to get to know one another. An unknown amount of time passed in subdued lighting. I had all the objective symptoms of adrenaline rush/dump come and pass. I remember laughing, shaking uncontrollably, exhaustion, hunger, fatigue with the unending desire to lie down and sleep, but most of all, I felt relief, well at the end at least.
I was alive. I thought about the two men repeatedly. I tried my hardest to recreate the events of the last hours with some success.
I remembered the size of them, the quiet efficiency, the tempo of their assault, but for the life of me I couldn't recall their faces. Movement, speed and agility, I remembered that, they were strong and determined, and by my perception bent on hurting me. What did I do? You did what you had to, Kevin. Yeah, yeah I did that, didn't I? It was all so fast, so smudged together, eyes, noses, ears, thighs, and of course, heads. Heads you win, and tails? Well tails would mean you were ass out, or ass up. In any case, I acted as anyone would in a similar circumstance. I was presented with a threat, and I engaged said threat as I was trained to do so. No one trained you to kick and stomp the head of a downed man Kevin, that was all you pal.
In that room not so far away the doctor and the tall black man spoke, neither looking at the other, both focused on a video feed of the room Kevin now occupied.
Will spoke quietly, his eyes never leaving the image of Kevin. "Kid's got the heart of a lion, just like his father."
The doctor responded in kind, "Six months ago I would have disagreed and would have argued that anyone placed in that particular situation would fight to save their own life. Not anymore, not after the others. He is . . . different."
Will looked to Dr. Joshua then, a sober tone reflected upon his face, "You wanted to say monster."
The doctor nodded, "He did, at least by outward appearances seem to have a taste for it?"
Will found his way out without responding.
Will
Light was introduced into the small room and I adjusted in my chair, my back straightening, my head held high, eyes straight. I watched the tall black figure enter the room and take the seat across from me. What was next? I thought. This one going to unbutton his shirt to reveal a bomb, tell me I have to recite the Gettysburg Address or he'll press the button. He looked at me with something other than disregard, interest maybe, even a mingling of compassion.
When he spoke it was powerful, a voice filled with reason and intelligence, I hoped he wasn't here to kill me.
"I knew your father, Kevin. I served with him in Vietnam. You hungry?"
"Famished sir."
I watched as he unclipped a small portable radio from his beltline, said a few words into it, then placed it on the table. I was more or less back to the place I began prior to the bathroom brawl.
"I'm Will," he paused, "just so you have something to call me."
"Yes, sir."
Will understood it would be quite some time, if ever, that recruit Anderson referred to him as Will.
"You must have some questions?" Will looked at me again with a tilted frown of concern.
"The recruit does, sir. However, he feels it is unwise to ask."
"Please, you can ask me anything, Anderson."
"Sir, up until a few hours ago, the recruits drill instructors have always provided any information they deemed necessary for the recruit to know."
Will smiled before replying, "It's not an easy habit to break, it's been a hundred years but I still remember."
"Sir?"
"Speaking of yourself in the third person, the recruit this, the recruit that, draining but necessary, at least for Basic."
"Yes, sir."
"Okay, Anderson, I'm going to make you a deal." Will stood up to get the door before anyone had knocked. A tray loaded with meat, potatoes, and vegetables was brought in and placed before me. Alongside was a large slice of pumpkin pie, a carafe of milk, and one of juice. I tried not to stare at the food; however, my gut betrayed me, rumbling a familiar tune of longing.
Will digressed, "You know what, Anderson? I remembered something I left unattended. I will return, in say, twenty minutes."
"Yes sir. Sir?"
"Eat, Anderson." With that, Will was gone.
I hesitated only long enough to assure my position a solitary one. The food didn't resemble the slop I'd grown accustomed to. This looked fresh and hot. I cut the steak into large chunks, forked on top of that a pile of mashed potatoes, and stuck on top of that the corn and peas. It was a perfect bite, all food groups combined to resonate the song of love known only by the truly hungry. One bite after the other until like Christmas morn, it was gone. Ah, but the pie. I saved the milk to wash it down. It was a double portion, any other time it would have easily fed two grown men. I hurried through the first few bites and was finally satiated enough to enjoy the last. I drained the quart of milk, not caring that the last swallow shared space with my chin and blouse. I realized something just then that struck me odd, I hadn't had a single outside thought while eating that food.
A drive-by memory splashed blood red against my frontal lobe then, and I belched as my gut instantly soured.
Will walked in at that very moment.
He once again took a position across from me and spoke as if our earlier conversation hadn't ended, but rather had been paused in a parallel universe.
"Pretend for now, I am Will, and you are Kevin. Not much of a stretch. I am going to ask you a few questions and I want you to answer me with Kevin's mind and reason. Not recruit Anderson who has for the past several months been drilled to say, 'Yes, sir' or 'No, sir,' to every question asked. Can you do that for me, Kevin?"
"Yes, sir" Will smiled waiting. "Yes, Will. The recru---, I can do that."
"Good, Kevin."
Will leaned in a bit closer allowing his elbows to widen and his hands to flatten on the table top. He was a big man, an honestly built man, muscles hard and developed from years of training and hard work. He wore scars that had long since healed, and eyes which bore scars that might never heal.
"I said before I knew your father. It goes a tick deeper than that. Your father saved my life more than once. He was a good man, and a good friend. He spoke of you and your brother and mother every single day I knew him. He was something of a stranger to most of the guys in our unit. I didn't fault him for that. Some men realize early that if there's nothing to be said, then there's no reason to make shit up. He was serious when it was time to be serious and cool as watermelon on the fourth of July most other times. He knew things, Kevin, shit I won't know if I live to be a hundred. He knew the rifle the way most know wiping their own ass. It was second nature to him, and I've never seen anyone better.
He was the only hero I've ever met. I looked it up once, the word hero. It was defined as a remarkably brave person, someone who commits a truly brave and courageous act. He was, will always be to me, every word of that description, which leads me to you."
I was sitting there listening to this stranger pour on about my father. I hadn't known him the way this man knew him, and I felt ashamed.
I knew it was stupid. I was ten when he was killed, and eight the last time I saw him. The things I knew were so worn and faded. A few cloud shaped memories would float about haphazardly waiting their turn until a dream would bring forth a snap shot of a tall handsome man in a green uniform.
Will was finishing up, "I want to offer you an opportunity. Not because you're the son of a dead soldier I admired, but because you're the right person for the job."
"What would you have me do, sir?"
"Train first, no longer with your platoon, but with me, under my tutelage, and that of my associates."
"Permission to speak openly, sir?"
"Will and Kevin, remember? Please."
"The two men in the head, I don't understand, was that part of this?"
"Regrettably, Kevin, yes it was."
"So this isn't really for a position in Military Intelligence, is it, sir?"
"I don't know, Kevin. Smart people don't usually join the military."
I smiled at that.
"You up for a drive?" Will rose while saying the words.
"Yes, sir."
Will led me to a brown sedan parked outside. There was no one else waiting. He got into the driver's seat and motioned for me to get into the passenger side.
When he turned the key a loud blast of soul music erupted from the dashboard radio. It was a black singer crooning something about fire. I could tell Will wanted to sing along but didn't because I was in the car next to him. His shoulders bounced a little this way and that despite himself.
He didn't say another word until the song had concluded. When it ended, he snapped off the radio and spoke.
"Ohio Players, "Fire," gotta love that one."
I nodded.
"Never heard of them, have you, son?"
"I was raised mostly by my grandfather, sir. He listened to country."
Will tilted his head to the left then back to center, "Never acquired the taste for that particular sound."
"Sure, sir."
The drive led us to the other side of the base. Will parked in an almost abandoned lot adjacent to a multi-level brick building. There was plenty of room on either side of it. In fact, it was the only building occupying the area for at least a mile.
"We're here," Will said cheerfully.
I followed where he led, the whole while wondering exactly what I had gotten myself into, as if the day in day out grind of basic wasn't bad enough.
"Three floors, Kevin. All serve a purpose. First floor is for live fire/dry fire scenario training. Second floor is the gym, and third floor is housing. Questions?"
"How many others in this unit, sir?"
Will opened his eyes wider and made a slow pass around the room with an open hand. "Just you, Kevin."
"Not much of a unit sir."
"It wasn't meant to be. Without going into needless detail, I will offer this. What we do here in the next months, years perhaps, is a trial run, an experiment, if you prefer.
We either make history or fail and return to life as we knew it."
"Sounds rather ominous sir."
"If I told you the budget afforded this training, that would sound ominous. For you and me it's just going to be a lot of ass breaking work."
Will moved to the stairs signaling the question/answer period was over. Again, I followed, not an uneasy task after the previous three months of doing it in one fashion or another.
My room was simple in form and décor. There was no separation between the four walls. A full size bed, a desk and chair, a wall locker, a shelving unit filled with books and notepads, a small refrigerator, and a wash area complete with shower and toilet. I couldn't tell by first scan, but I was sure the room was equipped with audio/video feed as well.
"Everything you need you will find in one compartment or another. The days will start very early and end very late. This is a free one, (Will paused to check his watch). It's 1900 hours. You've been well fed, and I would hope, not too taxed by earlier events."
I shifted a bit, looked away momentarily.
"I will return at 0500. Clean up, and get some sack time. The adrenaline dump and heavy food should have done their magic by now. Be dressed and ready to roll out. I do not tolerate tardiness."
"Yes, sir."
I didn't ask where he was going or what I should wear in the morning.
I listened as his boots receded along the hall to parts unknown. I checked the wall locker first. It was filled with black camos and P.T. gear. There were two pairs of boots and two pairs of running shoes.
The uniform had no insignia, no patch or print to reflect it was Marine Corps issue in any way. I laid out a set of the black fatigues, along with socks and boots. I opened the fridge and was not surprised to see it was stocked with only water. I thumbed the texts along the wall and noted many familiar titles.
Books on strategy, war, combat techniques, philosophy, psychology, and various foreign languages. I turned on the shower to its hottest setting. It had been a long time since I had showered void any company. I stripped down, grabbed a toothbrush, and found a place directly underneath the scalding jets. Prior to this one, an average shower time for me had been approximately one to two minutes. A minute to scrub your ass and body clean, while fighting for a spot under a miniscule shower head while seventy other guys rallied for the same spot. Not anyone's favorite water sport. Well, anyone this side of prison.
I finished showering, using all of the hot water, then slowly dressed for bed. I didn't know anything, so I dressed in everything minus the boots. Those I strung loosely, prepared them right next to the bed should my wake-up come hours earlier than anticipated. Tricks played several times in basic were not lost on me here. I was used to standing at attention before entering the rack. The drill instructor on duty would finish the hygiene inspection, tell us we were all pussies, then give commands for us to get into bed.
Once there we would lie flat, still at attention, until the D.I. gave the final command, "Adjust." From experience we never felt fully safe, but at that point you were as relaxed as you ever were in this place. It was strange. The quiet, the utter loneliness after being surrounded by breathing, snoring, farting recruits. I let myself into bed that night without the usual fanfare.
My head hit the pillow and darkness took hold of light.
There was no alarm clock in my room. It didn't matter; I was awake a full half hour before my appointed time. No dreams last night; it was usually that way. I guessed utter exhaustion had something to do with it. I heard his steps before the faint rap fell upon my door.
Another experience I was no longer accustom to. I answered and he walked away while speaking. "I trust you slept well. You hungry?"
"Yes, sir."
"Young men are always hungry. That's good. You're going to need the calories. I don't want to drive a pickle too far up your ass this soon in the training with scary talks of sleep and food deprivation, so I won't. I'm going to need you fresh and alert. What I teach you should learn, so the boot camp antics cease here. What you take from me will eventually save your life so always, always, pay close attention. You feel shitty on a particular day, say, 'Hey, Will, I feel like monkey shit, can we take a break?' and a break will be taken. Good. good?
"Yes sir."
Will led me to, of all things, a kitchen. I was puzzled. I truly believed the first morning would start with me on a 30 degree slant getting water boarded for fourteen straight hours until I told secrets I didn't know existed.
"You know how to cook?"
"A little sir."
"I'm not going to ask you what you like. I promised to feed you, not that you could have it your way. Hand me two skillets from over there, and the eggs and ham from the fridge."
I did as I was instructed. Will looked competent in this setting, not that he was adorned in apron and puffy white hat, just comfortable in his surroundings.
"Every man should know how to cook a decent breakfast, Anderson. You ever make an omelet out on the ranch?"
"Scrambled mostly sir."
"Nothing wrong with that, it's just, an omelet takes a skilled hand. Anyone with one moderately functional hand and the common sense to wipe their own ass can scramble eggs. Let's aim for something artistic here."
Again the quizzical look overtook my features.
Will smiled before speaking, "The Samurai believed a warrior should do everything well. Did you know some of the greatest warriors of all time tended gardens, wrote poetry, played musical instruments? Perhaps just before, or just after they beheaded an enemy in a blood drenched duel, but that's beside the point. The relevant fact here is they were well rounded. Anyone can be taught to pull a trigger or take life. We call those douche bags three percenters."
"Sir, why three. . . ?"
"It is estimated, and how this statistic was formulated or hypothesized I am unsure, but regardless, it is believed in the community which measures these things that three percent of the human population is capable of killing without remorse, without provocation. And these three percentile are assigned the label psychopath. We are not these people, Kevin. We are gentlemen, we are educated, thoughtful, considerate in deed and clear in purpose and action. What we do, and you should know straight away the day will come when you will have to eliminate a threat, is for the greater good, to save lives."
I didn't say anything. I just stood there like a kid all over again on my grandfather's ranch.
Will was a smart man, intuitive. He closed the book on war and continued with the cooking lesson.
"One of the pleasures in life, a quality blade."
Will hefted the deadly looking kitchen utensil in his right hand, first holding it in a reverse fighting grip, then casually flicking it forward to sit in his hand ready to cut and chop. I watched as he cracked six eggs, separating the yolks from two of them, and placing three each in side by side Japanese styled bowls.
Next, he chopped the ham steak into finely cubed pieces, enough to make a small handful for each omelet. The pans were already warming on the fire, olive oil reaching a searing point in each. With the delicate touch of a sushi chef, Will peeled and chopped onion and garlic and placed it in the pans alongside the ham. He salt and peppered each, then minutes later poured the egg mixture into one of the pans. The lesson was back underway.
"Watch closely, now. The eggs will bubble along the rim. You have to monitor this and raise each edge as you tilt the uncooked portion into the now vacant spot."
Will did this several times, lifting a pocket of egg and tipping the pan just so until the uncooked egg filled in the gap. When the mix had begun to set evenly, he flipped the almost finished creation in half, folding it to reveal the perfect golden bottom. A minute later he slid it off the skillet onto a clean plate.
"Ready to give it a try?" Will said with his left hand pointing to the second pan.
"Yes, sir."
"Hold on Kevin, I'm not asking you to field strip your rifle here; I'm furnishing you with a necessary life skill that will delight and garner envy from those around you for the rest of your life. Now again, are you ready?"
Will was smiling a master's smile, looking down upon the novice student.
"I'm ready, sir." I breathed out, all of the sudden feeling a bit more pressure than before. I poured and watched as the eggs collided with the ham, onion, and garlic. I raised the pan as Will had; however, my mixture rode too high and some spilled out on the range top.
Will offered encouragement, "That's okay, son, just tip it a little less. Keep moving it now, next portion, there you go."
I looked at my dish, looked at his. Will's omelet could have been photographed and placed upon Good Housekeeping's best breakfast's edition. Mine resembled a dog's first crap in the morning.
"It's fine for your first time, Kevin, a valiant effort by anyone's measure, Rome and all that."
We ate, and I was thankful the taste didn't match the appearance.
Breakfast finished, Will asked another food question.
"You a coffee drinker?"
"I have. My grandfather and I always drank tea. Earl Grey, sir."
"Your grandfather a Brit?"
"No sir. He said coffee rots the gut."
Will laughed while standing up, "Your grandfather sounds like a wise man."
"He was, sir."
"I'm sorry, son. I'm sure he was a fine man."
I nodded.
"Tea is fine, but coffee is another art form you should know. I'm going to share another secret here, Kevin. It took me years to figure this out. Here in America we are way behind the curve in true coffee consumption. Had I not traveled everywhere on the planet, I may have always been ignorant to the true treasure I will bestow upon you now."
Again that feeling of "WTF" overtook me. The comparison to my grandfather was easy to reach, the build, the gait, the scars, the intense stare at times. The man had seen some shit but it hadn't ruined him, hadn't taken away his zest for other matters in life. When he spoke about things, so far food things, he was passionate and interesting. I already liked him and was compelled by what he had to say.
I viewed on as he brought together several items for display.
"Alright" He let out a focused sigh, "First, and foremost, are the beans. Fresh, whole beans, I prefer Columbian. Sometimes I'll enrich it with an espresso bean, or a Sumatra, or even Guatemalan, single origin of course, something to darken the blend, form a richer layer, but my first love is the smooth Columbian. Next, the grinder, a burr grinder gives the most consistent cut. You add a scoop of beans, grind them, and inhale."
Will did so and remarked, "Good Christ on Christmas morning, you getting that, Anderson?"
He put the cup of freshly ground beans under my nose. It did smell good, musk and caramel and a rich earthy aroma. Putting the beans aside, he brought forth what looked like a large glass beaker. French Press.
"Say what you will about the French, they got their coffee right."
I listened as Will spoke. I had no idea about the French. Guess Will had an opinion, though. Again my grandfather came to mind. He would have enjoyed this man's company. Four minutes later, exactly four minutes, Will was pouring the deep brown frothy mixture into two small cups.
"You don't need a lot when it's great, remember that."
Will sipped his first. He was relaxed, eyes closing, face calm and passive. He let out an exaggerated, ahhhhh, before returning his cup to the table.
I followed suit. The blend hit my mouth like a freight train. To that point, I had only ever had a cup of diner coffee which to me tasted like hot brown water. Folgers instant was the height of my coffee consuming experience. This was fantastic. I understood the drama which had preceded the actual tasting now.
Will gave me a look like, "Right?" and finished up.
"Tomorrow you get to make it."
If the coffee turned out like my omelet, Will would be less than pleased. He read my mind.
"I'll walk you through it, son. It will be fine."
I cleaned up as Will attended to other matters. When he returned, he had a yellow legal tablet with him. He laid it down before me and spoke.
"Three things. Number one, what you would fight for. Number two, what you would kill for, and number three, what you would die for. I'll leave you alone."
Will walked off and shut the door behind him. My initial perceptions of what lay before me were shattered. I would actually be forced to think during my time with Will. I stared at the legal pad, nothing coming to mind except a silly title for the journal. I wrote in bold capital letters atop the first page,
"MY MASTERS NOTEBOOK"
I skipped a beat in my mind, remembering all the times I had fought. Not so many real fights, but countless training sessions in which I faced odds unbelievable. I was unsure how much detail Will wanted, so I kept it as simple as the questions:
1). I would fight to protect myself and those I loved.
2). I would kill to protect myself and those I loved.
3). I would die protecting myself and those I loved.
Task complete, I looked upon the mostly empty page and sighed. I felt the burden of this particular assignment begin to fade away and was pleased at the words I had written.
Will returned and asked me to join him. We made our way down a flight of stairs to the gym floor. He sat me down on one of the training mats and handed me a bottle of water. Twisting the cap from one himself, he spoke.
"Hydration. Never take it for granted. When you feel thirsty, it's already too late. Drink at least ten bottles a day when you're with me. I will keep stock on hand on all levels of your new home. I'm sure you already checked your fridge."
I nodded that I had and continued to drink.
"Food is great, and without it you would die. Eventually. Takes a long time to starve to death, but water, a mere couple of days without it and shit starts to go south in a hurry. Horrible way to die."
Will's face revealed a hint of something, perhaps a reflection of almost dying himself, or watching someone die of dehydration. He snapped back quickly.
"Guess I could have told you, we'll workout first thing after breakfast and train afterward. From now on wear your PT gear to breakfast."
"Yes sir." Figures, I said internally.
We stood looking out over the large wood and brick area. It was outfitted with ropes and tires and pull-up bars and strange weights with handles attached.
"Let's see what kind of shape you're in, shall we?" Will offered with a smile.
I watched as Will pulled two jump ropes from a shelf. Blindly, he threw one to me.
"I won't ask you to do anything I wouldn't or couldn't do myself. At least not yet."
"Yes, sir."
"I believe today will be the day you drop the 'Yes, sir, No, sir' for a more colorful vernacular."
With that, Will began skipping rope. He began effortlessly, finding a pace that suited him. His feet were light, a true contradiction to the size heaped atop them. The rope moved in a whooshed tone akin to that which any skilled fighter would produce. I followed suit, got caught the first time and felt mild irritation at being unable to pull my feet up fast enough to miss the rope. I started again. This time, with focused effort, I kept the beat going. It would have been comforting had my feet lightly treaded the earth as Will's did. I looked like amateur hour compared to him. After five or so minutes, Will stopped and told me to do the same.
"That's it for the warm-up Kevin, ready to begin?"
I nodded and followed Will to a corner of the gym.
"Here's how it goes, I will perform the exercise, you follow. We get through a circuit, then we go through it again in stations without rest, thirty seconds each station, just watch for my movement, you'll know when to switch. There's just one rule, don't fall behind."
Will began with a straight barbell with maybe sixty or seventy pounds. He pressed the weight overhead for fifteen reps and moved on. Next was a squat movement while holding one of the handle bar weights which he called a kettlebell. When he popped up, he would swing the weight from between his legs to almost overhead and let it drop, squatting, starting the movement over.
Next was push-ups performed between gymnast rings which were suspended from the ceiling to hang about waist high. He followed that with box-jumps, then pull-ups, then weighted rotations from ground to shoulder height.
At the end of this he was breathing just hard enough for me to hear it but no harder. He talked as if he taken a brisk walk instead of this death march.
"Keep pushing, Anderson," he said through his own efforts.
I was falling behind in rep range, again feeling slight irritation at my lack of speed and stamina compared to his. He must have been at least thirty years older than I and he was kicking my ass. I pushed harder, grunting with the added strain of all out determination. Still my repetitions came much slower than his, and he was not disguising his distaste.
"I know it hurts, Kevin. Many things about this training are going to hurt. What you need to realize right now is none of that matters. There's a job to do so you do it, understand?"
I was on the verge of puking and was only capable of nodding. By the end of my first circuit I wanted to collapse.
Will looked at me and laughed in the way someone does when they know you've just eaten something unsavory.
"There's one," he said never losing the grin. "Now you know what you're doing so let's cut the bullshit and put forth some effort."
Will turned away and started over. This time he was pumping along like a maniac, forcing the weights this way and that as if they were merely toys. I didn't ask how many would follow; I really didn't want to know. We ran the course three more times, each subsequent go Will would encourage me with kindness.
"Did you do any physical training at all during your months of basic? Was I wrong about you Anderson? I can get you a tissue Anderson, I mean if you want to just stop altogether and have a good cry about it." And so on . . .
I believed it was over when he said time. I was wrong.
"Over here ladybug."
Another motivational name given to pump my weakened spirit.
"This will truly test your metal state. I mean, so far your efforts have been top shelf, so I would expect nothing less here." The tone was perfect sarcasm. Some shit Peter would have said after running the obstacle course in junior high. I would have laughed if I had the energy.
Will attached a length of tubing around my waist which was affixed to two lengths of surgical tubing which in turn were attached to the wall behind me.
"You run, Kevin. Run like your ass is on fire and the whole room is catching. You've got enough give here to make it thirty yards. You'll need to stretch it to forty to reach that tire. Each time out you must touch the tire. Ten sprints, no rest."
Will barked, "Move!" and I was off. He was out of his mind. The tubing would stretch to thirty-five, maybe thirty-six yards, nothing close to forty. That fucking tire might as well have been on the other side of the moon because I was not getting to it.
At the tenth sprint I fell to my knees and vomited what was left of my morning meal.
More kindness followed, "There you go, princess, you let the bad stuff go, Ol' Will knows how you feel. No shame in leaving morning chow on the floor."
I spat, the bile and acid lining my dry mouth hung to my lips. "Motherfucker," I breathed to myself.
"What's that, Anderson?"
"What's next, Will?" My attitude was as sour as the inside of my mouth.
Will let out a shout and a chuckle, "Now I'm Will. The formalities have been washed away from your squeaky clean soul, have they, son? Shit, perhaps next go round I'll be dirty cocksucker, or that black sonofabitch, huh baby?"
Will was out of his mind I was sure.
Will walked me to another corner of the dungeon. Three bags of various dimensions were held in a line, two suspended, one was prone.
"I saved the best for last, Anderson. Judging by the way you handled yourself in the shitter the other day, fighting is something strange and new to you, so before we start, I'll show you a few things."
It took all the patience I had left not to attack him right then. Exhaustion mixed with intense physical pain will do that to a person. He was trying me that was all, seeing where the fault line ran along my psyche, what button pushed would reveal the weakest point. The heat flashed briefly and left me. I was too smart to fall for that ploy. I would maintain bearing and see this torture through.
Will pointed to the first bag, "Basic heavy bag. We'll drill this with straight jabs, hooks, elbows, forearms, and knee strikes."
Will applied each strike to the bag as he spoke. His fluidity was impressive and whatever daydream I had had about wanting to punch his sarcastic mouth dissipated.
"Second bag, the man bag, is for focused strikes. You have a head and torso just like a man here, work the strikes necessary to incapacitate an opponent. We all breathe and see the same way."
Will was still talking; however, I was back in that dirt floored barn, my grandfather showing me the ropes, explaining the very same principals. I felt his presence among us just then.
"Anderson! Son, are you with me here?"
I said that I was.
"Good, nice to have you back, last you have the hundred pound bitch. You'll notice there are no strings attached." Will pointed to the long solid bag like a model on the Price is Right, "I call her the bitch because you're going to get to know her intimately, and soon enough she'll be just like the wives most other Marines have, a heavy nagging pain in the ass."
Will looked to the first bag and with an open hand extended the way, "Three minutes on the first, two minutes on the second, and one minute on the last. And when you arrive at the bitch and all of your hope is gone, I'm looking for what's left. Not what you think you have son, what I think you have. We clear?"
"Yes, Will, we're clear." I wasn't sure what he was hoping for. I had already left breakfast in another corner of the room.
I began with straight jabs, and in the beginning the pain was tolerable. My shoulders and back were on fire from the exertion. Two minutes later when I was required to mix it up with knee strikes and elbows, my lungs burned hot and cried their very own siren song. Will was chattering as I carried on, "The samurai believed everyday would be their last. The Spartans believed death a glorious thing, to give until you had no more and then give that, your imagination will get you killed. Thinking you may die, allowing yourself to feel pain; a coward's pitiful attempt at saving themselves instead of finishing the job will kill you quicker than any enemy's blade."
I had moved to the second bag, the one with a face. I had so little left already, I pictured Will in the rubber faces place and continued.
"You have to let it all go, son, every day, every time out of the gate, let it go. It won't matter when you've already accepted death.
Understand we're all already dead. Every day that passes, you are dying. So let it go. No pain, no future, no past, nothing exists but right now, nothing but the job at hand."
The bitch was what was at hand, and I looked to Will for some guidance. My hands were firmly upon my knees, the bile surging to the top of my throat.
"Pick her up, son, pick her up and slam her down."
The words became my mantra. "Let it go" played in my head like an advertising jingle. I left it all on the bitch that morning, wrenching the bag up off the floor with a bear hug and slamming her down to the deck and doing it again and again until Will told me to mount. Once on top of the bitch I let fly, or rather dangle at this point, my forearm strikes to her unyielding surface. I had nothing left but contempt. My anger, passion, desire, drive, were all lost in that corner of the gym floor. I wasn't capable of speech because I had no breath, no rational thought because my mind was grayish oozing paste. I was surprised to find I didn't care, probably because I'd lost that capability.
My eyes focused on his face. He was saying something. His mouth was moving after all, but I just wasn't making it out. He pulled me upward and I resisted only with the minimal force left in me to collapse. He was still talking, and my ears allowed the distraction.
"Walk with me, son. You did good, real good, let's walk now, boy."
We, he, was walking for us. I was along for the ride. My feet found stride within the first what? Ten, twenty steps? Who knew?
"C'mon Anderson you with me now?"
"Holy shit Will." It was the first words I remember saying.
"Good Liberty, son, you were going on like a test monkey over there. You back with it now?"
"I am, Will." I think I smiled then because Will smiled back.
"That's enough for today, boy, that's enough for today."
I woke up sore. I blinked and turned my head from side to side. The room was dark. I fumbled for the light, found it on the second or third pass, and switched it on. My body was twitching in various spots. What had Will said about dehydration? There was a note taped to my door. It read, "DRINK" followed by, "Come to the kitchen after you've read this." I opened the small refrigerator, grabbed two bottles of water, and downed them one after the other. I didn't feel queasy until halfway through the second one.
I located Will hard at work slicing and dicing vegetables. He didn't turn around when I entered, just spoke ahead to the space in front of him. "The prodigal son returns. How was the nap? You drink as instructed?"
"Two bottles upon waking sir."
Will grinned as he transferred the mushrooms, peppers, and zucchini to the waiting skillet. Will always wore some form of grin or smile; it was a good quality in one so intimidating.
"You like fish?"
"Uh, sure" I couldn't remember the last time I'd had fish outside of a fish stick.
"Good thing. You need to cut out the red meat and get on board with the vegetables, fish, and chicken. And I don't mean KFC extra crispy."
"Yes sir."
I could smell the chopped vegetables begin to sizzle; my stomach groaned with hunger.
"You always that delicate? I mean your stomach?"
I felt shame immediately, followed closely by that simple desire to yell, "Fuck off." I answered only after a decent sized pause.
"I apologize for my earlier lack of bearing, I--
Will cut me off, a bigger than average grin replacing the serious grimace he had worn for the slight.
"Just screwing with you Anderson, that workout should have required a defibulator and several paramedics. You did well, a real solid first go. I'm proud of your efforts."
I breathed out, the shame fading and relaxation finding my shoulders. "Thank you, sir."
"Grab the big pot there and dish out a large helping of rice for both of us."
I was not surprised to find the rice was of the brown variety. Will brought the rest of the meal to the table. After putting everything down, he slid one of the Salmon filets onto his plate, then placed the other on mine. It smelled less fishy than I would have imagined.
"A light teriyaki glaze, it takes away some of the natural fish qualities." Will provided emphasis to the word "fish."
Will began eating without any formal interlude. He was taking good size bites of fish and rice as he spoke, "Let me give you the breakdown of the next couple weeks. We will continue on the path of hardening your disposition. Mental toughness is just as important as physical aptitude, in many cases more so. You're in good shape, and fortunately that will help expedite the process. I wasn't sure how much of our initial time together would be solely physical training. I'm very pleased at what I saw today. Like I said, a couple more weeks of blow outs like today and we will move on to the rest of your training."
Will put his fork down alongside his plate, leaned back, and exhaled, "It's a bad habit from the field, eating too fast, really screws with digestion. Now that I'm retired, I try with much effort to slow it down. Still, in this place, explaining the times to come." He cocked his head to the side and made a slight smack with his lips,
"The excitement takes me back, might as well be running through a jungle with one bullet left and twenty rice cookers chasing me."
I hadn't touched my food yet, I wanted to hear everything Will was saying. He caught on, encouraged me to eat and remained quiet until the meal was finished.
"You do like fish, excellent."
"It was really good, sir."
"Glad to hear it, seeing we have a few more meals to share before our time is over. What's your favorite dessert?"
I answered without hesitation "Chocolate ice cream." I hadn't had it since coming to this place; I salivated at the thought.
"Not anymore."
"Sir?"
"Shit makes you soft, son. All of it, pies, cakes, ice cream, shit is poison. Sugar and fat, you don't need either. The body needs what it needs. Good shit in, good shit out, and all that. You think these meals we share are in an effort to convince you I have a softer side? Perhaps confess to you one day in a moment of weakness I still wet the bed when there's thunder in the air?"
"Do you, sir?" It was the first funny line I had delivered since being in his company. Will thought so too gauging by his expression.
"No, son, I don't. I'm teaching you to survive, to burn cleanly. You're going to be tasked with some crazy shit. Your system needs to be rolling on frequency tuned greased rails, get me?"
Will turned and turned back, an apple was in the air between us, I having no idea where it came from.
"That's dessert. If you're still hungry, smear a teaspoon of peanut butter on it."
"Wow, thank you Will." My sarcasm wasn't lost on him.
"Now were getting it, like a couple of human beings exchanging thoughts and ideas, instead of one highly evolved human and his wonder chimp."
I ate the apple and Will talked. He was a good speaker, engaging, articulate, even when making gross references. He was easy to be around, not at all like any of the D.I's I had experienced. I was thankful for the opportunity to learn from him. The following day passed in the classroom, literally, a classroom. Will believed in letting the body heal. He said breaking it down over and over without recovery time left you weak. We sat across from one another, he teaching, me listening and taking notes.
It was unlike any class offered in high school, or any school for that matter. He was going over anatomy and wound ballistics. He had a full body reference chart, similar to those found in medical school, along with photographs of various wounds, both entry and exit. He had begun with blunt force trauma, moved on to edged weapons, and sewed it up cleanly with small caliber bullet wounds. It was fascinating. So many ways to hurt people, kill them. We are fragile creatures, I supposed that was part of the lesson. Will dispelled the myth of the quiet throat slash, where the assassin swoops in and runs a sharp blade across his victim's throat to stealthily gain entry on a vantage point. Will described it briefly, then aired a short video of horror, the kind which I never knew existed. The piece was grainy and shaky, as if the cameraman was either too scared, or too excited to hold the camera still. One man, beaten and crying, tied to a chair, two men beside and just to the rear of him. It was bizarre and surreal, and I couldn't peel my eyes away. One of the men pulled a pistol from his waistline and pointed it at the man's head. The man was sobbing, pleading for his life.
The second man acted so quickly I all but missed it. I was so focused on the gunman. In one fluid motion, the other brought a knife forth and ran it in a deep horizontal line across the begging man's throat. I was unsure what had happened until the sound came, and the blood. It was as horrifying as it was shocking.
The sound of air escaping that freshly opened void, as the man continued to cry out for the life which was rapidly passing. I felt my blood turn cold then, felt my face flush and anger sweep over me in an intense fold.
Will stopped the tape, "That's why we don't do that. I shouldn't say don't. We prefer not to. If you're in a life and death struggle and the other guy also has a knife and that's the target you have, then yes, you do it, but if there is another option, take it. Clear?"
I had questions. "Will, where is that from? What did that guy do to deserve that?"
"What I show you here is strictly for your education. They're not docudramas to ponder over the who's and why's. Okay?"
Will's face was stern, so I knew better than to ask further questions, "Yes, sir."
Will continued on, waxing poetically about what it really takes to break a neck, a leg, an arm, and so on.
Will pushed his chair aside and asked me to stand. I faced him, noted we were roughly the same height. "How would you break my neck from there?" Will asked as if requesting the time from a stranger. I answered that I didn't know. "C'mon, son, you've seen it in movies, right? Just grab my head on either side and give it a good twist, right?"
I smirked and replied, "I'm guessing not?"
"No. The head has a remarkable range of motion. Go ahead if you don't believe me, take my head into your hands and turn it either way you like.
I'm still reasonably limber, might even be able to see the crack of my own ass with your assistance."
As I chuckled, Will moved in and grabbed my head. That's all I truly registered.
A moment later I was on the deck, back turned to him, the feeling my spine was being pushed through my ribcage and my head was pointing at parts behind me I hadn't noticed till just then. Will let go and explained what had happened.
"Alright, first off, expect anything. From now on, it will serve you well in the field. Any hard feelings before we move on?"
I said there weren't any as I rubbed my twisted neck.
"Good, so here's the pattern of attack from the front. It's real easy from the rear, front can be tricky, especially with a strong target. Distraction, anything can be a distraction. I like humor, people feel safe when they laugh. You feel safe, Anderson?"
Still rubbing my stunned neck, "Not anymore, sir," I said.
Will smiled, "Good. The other subject is engaged, be it checking their watch, laughing, cursing you out, whatever, they speak or look away, they are engaged in something other than reacting to the threat they don't see coming. Second, the move in, you have to decide left or right. I'm okay right, lethal left. I move to the left of someone and their future is in my hands. I'm just that fast. I'm not saying that to impress you, son, but to impress upon you there are some fast deadly motherfuckers out there. You're going to be one of them. Three, after deciding what direction you like to engage from, the technique must follow without thought or hesitation. Mushi no mushi, right?"
I nodded, "Mind no mind. Yes sir."
"Excellent, Kevin, excellent, guess you didn't spend every waking moment chasing ass and eating Ding Dongs before coming here, huh, son?"
"No sir."
"This is the pattern, right hand takes hold of chin, left wraps around back of head, then twist counter-clockwise with greasy speed. Notice I didn't say hard, or violently, I said speed. Hard equals slow, rigid. Speed is speed, and that's what you want. Now, since your threat is now looking behind him while his feet are still facing north, allow his body to do what it is programmed to do in these off balanced moments, take him to the ground. Don't let him go, guide the motion, follow as a lion follows, ride his back and change only the position of your hands. Wrap your hands around his eyes just under the bridge of the forehead, and with your knee firmly between his shoulder blades, pull back with everything you have. The opposing forces will snap his neck as easily as dry tinder."
Will must have believed in the technique, used it a few times possibly, as we spent the next half hour going over it in slow motion, half motion, and full speed. Goddamn, he was fast. It was a frightening proposition thinking men like him walked alongside the innocent's every day. A wolf in sheep's clothing as it were.
Will walked with me to my room that evening. At my door he advised I keep a journal. I had already started one that first day. He never did comment on my answers to those first three questions. He said men who know themselves best cannot be fooled by others. Will said a lot of things, most of it sounded true.
I sat at the desk in my room and wrote down bullets of information from the day's lessons.
1). Wounds can be lethal and non-lethal. Being wounded is bad regardless of the latter statement.
2). Don't cut a man's throat unless there is no other target. Too noisy and bloody.
3). A punctured kidney is a desirable wound to employ, not to incur.
4). Distract to engage from the front, braking a man's neck is not so easy.
5). Attack from the back when available. Quiet, efficient, deadly.
6). Don't trust anyone.
7). Be prepared for anything.
8). Speed!
I pushed the tablet away and rubbed my eyes. I should sleep.
DAY THREE
I woke with a start. I had been thrashing about within the confines of eight, possibly nine attackers. They were all really pissed off, really ugly too, all southern boys with hate in their eyes and fucked up teeth. I had done well, shot four of them, all head shots. Then the gun jammed and I was without time or distance to right the malfunction. I didn't have any other weapons. My pistol out of play, I dropped it and went to fists. I smashed a nose in front of me, elbowed a mouthful of those dirty snagglepussed teeth to the side, then jumped back into the waiting arms of two of them. It was the perfect storm. I never stopped moving. I didn't think of my next move. I just reacted as Will had taught me. I was stomping a set of toes when the unthinkable happened. The head wound victims came back to life. All four of them were up, some with oozing gaping wounds, others with only partial heads left. One, the worst, had a canoe shaped divot right down the middle of his dirt born pathetic face.
His mouth was working angrily, gibberish dribbling forth along with broken teeth and purple gums. I screamed out when the first of them bit me. I couldn't really see him thank God, but the pain was immediate, white hot and paralyzing along the length of my neck and then my left triceps. They were pushing me down now, the weight of them gigantic and undeniable.
I was going to die. I was going to die underneath a mob of flesh eating rednecks. I awoke with my pillow clenched in my arms, my jaw tight and sore as if I'd been trying to tear through my pillow with my teeth. I was happy for the nightmares passing.
Will allowed me to prepare breakfast without any guidance. It wasn't hard. I grimaced when I saw what was laid out. Whole grain bread, four slices, and fruit. That could only mean one thing. Will didn't want me to leave a heap of meat and eggs on his gym floor. I brought the food over after toasting the bread. Will was writing something down on one of his legal tablets. He was what you might call "anal" about his processes.
"Ready for some more fun Anderson?"
I wasn't all that hungry. The dream residue along with Will's sardonic smile left me feeling a little edgy.
"Sure, sir, I'm always up for more fun time."
Will laughed as he tore a chunk of apple free from the core. "Good, today is nothing special, more fitness work. We'll incorporate the treadmill today, along with the weights. Give the bags and surgical tubing a rest. More of a recovery workout than anything else."
"Sounds good" I said the words knowing there would be nothing comfortable about the work ahead. Will never promised me a rose garden, just ass-breaking work.
"How fast can you run?"
I was standing on the treadmill. I thought about it, answered modestly. "I'm decent, pretty fast I guess."
"Compared to what?"
Will never let me just get by, he wanted the facts.
"I could run the three mile PT Test in the allotted time."
In Marine Corps basic training the goal perfect time for three miles was eighteen minutes, three six minute miles.
Not earth shattering, but pretty fast by any normal standard.
"Okay, glad to hear you can do what 90 percent of all recruits can do, now how about an all-out one minute effort? If you had to run for your life, or run after someone you desperately needed to catch. Then how fast could you run?"
"Like a cheetah Will, no-no, like a gazelle running from a cheetah, I'm as fast as the fastest land animal on the planet."
I regretted losing my tongue as soon as the words left my mouth. I was just so tired of it already. Constant stress, not knowing what was next, weird dreams, isolation; I would pay for the dumb remark.
Will didn't seem upset, he never did. He turned his face up to me and gave me that look someone gives when they're thinking, "No shit?" Then he said, "That is fantastic, son. Then today's training should really be a no-brainer." With that, the treadmill started its grind, the belt turning under me, quickly finding its way to five miles per hour.
"Warm up time, Anderson. Jog it out for two minutes at this pace. I'll yell time and you jump off, and meet me on the mat."
I jogged and breathed, tried to clear my mind for what was to come. I had no control over any of it so it didn't matter. Will yelled time and I was off.
"Push-ups for one minute begin!"
Push-ups were not a big deal for me. I had done thousands in my lifetime, literally.
I pushed the ground underneath me barely breaking a sweat.
Will interrupted my form, "Change your hand placement. From now on, change it up. Wide grip for twenty, narrow for twenty, one hand beneath and one to the side, etc, alright boy, back on the treadmill."
Will quickened the pace to six miles an hour. I was still jogging; however, I was forced to breathe for real this time following the push-ups.
A minute passed and Will yelled, "Off!"
"Twenty pound dumbbells, nothing for a strapping lad like yourself. Pick em up, squat em, then push them overhead at the top of the squat. One minute son, I'd say pace yourself; however, our goal is not to make you an aerobics instructor. We're creating a force here, a machine, now move!"
I was unsure how many I had done. I stopped counting at twenty-three as my mind was not computing all that well without oxygen.
"To the treadmill, move!"
I took a few long pulls of air before stepping onto the belt. The screen read eight miles an hour, a full sprint now. That was pretty damn quick to run for a full minute, at least it was now.
I was gassing out, and Will was screaming, "Pick 'em up and put 'em down, Kevin. Move your ass, cheetah. Whoooooaa!"
I knew I'd pay for my lapse of common sense. Will screamed like a madman, like he was jeering, or cheering a favorite team. I would have laughed at the sound had I had the air in my lungs to do so.
"Off, move!"
I was panting and wiping sweat from everywhere as Will explained the next drill.
"Pick up the twenties again, son. Curl them up to your shoulders and hold 'em there. Walk up the stairs and back down and when you get to the bottom, put 'em down, pick 'em back up and start over, simple drill son. Let's move."
My back was on fire. Shoulders pinched together, the twenties felt like twin hay bales. My legs still felt surprisingly fresh. I was phoning it in a bit on this one and Will noticed. What didn't he notice?
"Drop 'em, son. Over here, now!"
I ran over to Will, my guts a tangle with dread.
"Anytime you feel like taking a holiday on our time here, you can come on over to ol' Will for a refresher in what it is we're actually preparing you for, attack!"
I stood motionless.
"I said attack, Anderson."
I moved my hands up to protect my face, and bladed my body into a fighter's stance.
"We're not boxing, son. I said, 'Attack me.'"
Will's face had changed slightly. He appeared calm to anyone watching from outside our circle. To me he looked eager. I was fighting emotions from everywhere right now. I thought a split second too long, fucking amateur mistake again. Soon I would be looking into my own asshole or tasting the bleached rubber mat beneath us, and I wanted nothing more than to be back in bed facing the confederate zombies.
Will hadn't moved though, he was waiting on me. Fine, Will, I'm not doing this bullshit good enough, not up to your standards, then why not? I moved left. I didn't really understand why. I guess I was programmed to move left as well. I moved and he moved. I stuck a left jab out to find the open air where Will's face had been. I followed it with a front thrust kick and was not terribly astonished when my chin was introduced to a sharp downward elbow strike.
The pain was brief but radiating. I wanted to scream "Fuck!" but resisted. I was feeling a little better. My breathing was back to normal and I wasn't feeling the exhaustion I had felt just moments ago. Adrenaline. He was a big target, big and strong and old. That was it! Will was old, he would wear down before I would. He was intimidating, sure, had probably killed something human on every continent, sure, but he had disadvantages. His age was his weakness, but how?
How would I use that to my advantage?
I moved back and Will followed. Moved left, here he came. He covered every move I made, and hopefully, very soon would get bored with it. I feinted left again, but moved right. Bingo. I laid a roundhouse kick squarely across his left outer thigh. I felt him buckle under the weight of it and was momentarily exhilarated. Yes, motherfucker! I screamed inside. I was going to follow it up with a left hook and a triumphant "Tada!!!" However, I never got the chance. Will did some Will shit and laid me down hard. I felt the air whoosh out of me as my back and head smashed simultaneously to the mat. The mat was maybe an eighth of an inch thick, not much, not enough to save me from the starburst and double rainbow of pain shooting across my personal sky: "Skyrockets in flight, afternoon delight."
"Very nice son, that kick was outstanding, a real barn dropper, but your follow-up move was slow and predictable. We'll work on that later, ready to get back to the office?"
And that was all. Will was unlike anyone I had ever met; he was as unreadable as Sumerian. He was a machine covered in flesh.
He didn't help me up, said it was a bad habit to get into, might help up a threat one day (that was Will speak for another human being he intended on hurting) due to improper training, so I pulled myself up and stumbled back to the treadmill. Nine miles an hour was awaiting me.
DAY FOURTEEN
With each passing week I decided I would pour over the notes I had taken previously. There was some interesting shit in those notes. Some of it made me laugh, some made me reflect, and still some notes made me shake my head. It was fairly obvious a lot of this was written when my head was a jumbled mess of fatigue. For instance, one bullet read: When capable, beat the unholy dogshit out of Will. I tried to remember what exactly had occurred to illicit such a fond sentiment for my teacher. Well, it mattered little really. He was the sun right now and I his spring flower. I would grow as instructed and try not to die in the process.
Today had been a small victory of sorts.
For several days Will had been teaching me the fine art of close quarter combat when entering and clearing a room. We had run the drill dry, meaning no weapon in hand, or a red gun, over and over, at least a hundred times that first day. It was boring methodical work. That explained it best, work. I listened and watched as Will would enter a doorway (fatal funnel), quick scan the dead corners, another Willism for the corners left and right where a bad guy may hide with his own gun, and then smoothly but rapidly move through a room as if equipped with sonar.
Will didn't bump into things, didn't make unnecessary noise, and never gave up his position. It was a real feat for one so large. On my initial attempts I was clumsy and slow.
The room I entered didn't even have any furniture in it, just some tape and road cones, and several times I bumped into those, and they were orange for Christ's sake. Will didn't hurry any of it. He referred back to our first day together. He reiterated the need for me to get it, all of it. Will believed the best trained were those who pressed the basics, the fundamental components to whatever the task required.
By the numbers he would say, or, from the beginning, and then my favorite, "Slow is smooth and smooth is fast." I got to hear that every day.
By the end of that first CQB day I was drained. The strain of the search and the position of the body to maintain a solid balanced shooting platform was ass numbing. My legs, back, and head ached with the effort it required. By day three Will put the furniture back in the room and started over. Again, a whole new world, I was running into tables, knocking over lamps, basically shouting to whomever was listening, or waiting, that I would like to be shot now. Will never got lost, didn't become impatient, just worked the basics.
By the end of day three I had got it. Victory came on "live move" day. Will had been a part of many teams, had made entry into shithouses, farmhouses, airplanes, subways, and thatch huts. If it stood, Will had entered it, with guns up and nerves wired tight. He said there was a command for entry he never forgot. Always say, "Move!" never "Go" because go sounds too much like "no" and that could be confused. Move was the way in and would always serve the brain correct energy.
I was standing to the left of a doorway. Will was directly behind. He spoke in hushed tones, "You will enter the room, engage the threats, and then exit when the room is clear. You know what you gotta do, son. Now, let's do it."
I stood for just a breath. This one was on my own move, so I said a silent prayer and let go conscious thought, let the training rule the moment.
Upon entry I scanned the dead corners. My brain measured the first threats nine feet directly left, dead corner number one was flush with lethal encounters. I was already shooting before I knew it, two targets, both armed, one hostage in between. I didn't need to look over the top of my front sight to know, I had leveled both threats with a head shot each.
The flow continued until I was at the back corner of the room, ten threats neutralized, five hostages, or "no shoots" as Will called them still standing unharmed. I performed a back sweep on my way back to the front door, to ensure no threat had been left unattended.
Will greeted me as I walked out. He was smiling, "Good run."
I wasn't as sure, and said so. "Not so good. I got stuck in the middle, almost shot a no shoot."
Will looked at me sincerely, "You'll never be perfect. No one is. At the end of it, were the bad guys down and good guys up?"
"Yes sir."
"No one will ever ask for more."
It was like that with Will. Kill those who required killing, save the rest.
When I wasn't facing confrontational simulations, I was working out. Will's training regimen played on every fear a man might have. It was always a sturdy test of the soul.
Tomorrow would begin a new phase. I had so far learned the skills necessary to survive as a rookie member of any small arms unit. I could enter rooms efficiently, identify, and eliminate the threats while not shooting the innocents. I could wait patiently, without the need, or desire, to fidget. My stamina was ever evolving.
My cardiovascular fitness was improving with each workout, and I could kill a man (neutralize a threat) with my hands. Overall, I felt pretty proud of my progress. Not cocky, but satisfied. Will poured two cups of his famous brew. I had grown addicted. Each morning I looked forward to the coffee, craved it in fact. I praised it with aiding my sluggish mind when my body was still awash with the former day's brutalities.
"Bladework my boy" Will laid a long black plastic knife on the table between us. "Today starts your outside the box applications of force."
Will sat down and looked to the training knife, "Been cut many times with that tool, hypothetically of course."
Will took his first sip and sighed. "Pick it up, it's designed to feel and weigh close to the real thing. You'll get to know her quite intimately, I guarantee that."
I picked it up, turned it from side to side, quite unremarkable I thought silently.
"Well, alright, son. Will is hungry. Let's get the fire burning."
Breakfast was ham steak and over medium eggs with whole grain toast. Will had gotten better at telling me when the morning ahead required due regard for limited calories. Today must begin in the classroom.
Will had what appeared to be a wax figure, complete in every detail of man. He stood 5'10" tall, the national average, and must have weighed approximately 170 pounds. He was posed in a fighting stance; however, as Will demonstrated, he was flexible and could be manipulated. "I'd love to tell you what he cost, but I've no idea, expensive is all I was told, along with a 'don't fuck him up too bad if you can help it' clause. He's ours Kevin, and we'll fuck him up how we see fit."
Will demonstrated what he called "the thirteen strikes." He said it was a hybrid of the Filipino knife fighting technique, which most knife fighting originated from.
"They're not very big, and not all that smart, but goddamned can those little fuckers move, and dirty as the dirtiest sonofabitch you've ever met. You ever see one looking your way while holding a blade; you turn and run the other way. No shame in recognizing your limitations son."
Will showed me thirteen slashes and jabs with the training knife. He began slowly, so I could get a good look at where the knife cuts should end up on the body, then sped it up to show me what could end up as a monumental shitty situation. Finally, after demonstrating a number of times, marking the chest, eyes, thighs, face and groin, Will told me to move behind the figure. "I'm going to approach you, him, it, let's call him something."
"Bob," I said impulsively.
"Fine, Bob. I'm going to walk toward you and Bob here without really drawing any attention to that fact, watch and see if you know what I mean."
Will moved to a distance of about thirty feet. He had hid the knife. He started his walk, looking straight ahead and down a fraction. He seemed completely uninterested in Ol' Bob and me. Then he changed course in the blink of an eye. Before I could make out what had happened, rich red fluid (blood) was spraying in the air all around us. For a second I thought he must have missed the guy, Bob, and cut me. I flinched like a cobra was striking and in one manner of speak, it was. Will was moving past us while I was still checking my parts, and the knife was no longer visible.
Will was laughing, "You're okay, son. I didn't cut you, it's Bob. He was designed like a human, blood substitute filling his genetically engineered veins and all."
"Holy shit, Will, you could have told me. You got me jumping around like Chicken Little here with the blood red sky falling."
Some time ago I had taken to calling Will by his name. It seemed more appropriate, especially when he had made me shit my pants.
"Alright, alright, little surprises keep shit interesting. You need to run and change you're drawers?"
"I'm fine" I was still a little pissy.
"Glad to hear it, now come around here."
I looked at Bob. He was a mess. Everywhere Will had meant to cut, he had cut. The Bob doll was so life like. I examined the wounds closely, studied they're depth and lethality. Some of the gashes still oozed the fake blood. Bob didn't seem to be put off by the whole thing and that was good. A real person would have been troubled by this. Will was standing beside me and gave a lesson.
"First cut, left jugular." Will placed his index finger in the wound and pulled it out to reveal a half inch worth of red stain marking his finger tip. "This one really would have been enough. Within minutes he would have died from blood loss. The other wounds were something to keep him occupied and his heart beating rapidly, speed up the process. Remember, while they can think and speak, they can still harm you, perhaps not them, but some other do-gooder they alert to your presence."
I took in the totality of the damage and breathed out,
"Jesus Christ, Will, it was so fast. I didn't even notice you change to a real blade, or where the thing came from."
Will lifted his shirt half way up. Underneath, taped flat to his t-shirt, and hanging from a length of shoestring from his neck, was a black nylon scabbard. "It's my favorite place for it. I always carry my pistol on my right hip, and my fixed blade right here. No mix up when I need one or the other."
"Is that how I should do it?" I said while looking at the walking, talking, bringer of death.
"That's up to you, son. Some prefer a knife placed behind their back, others in a boot, still others in a pocket. This is me. As you witnessed, it is a fast go from here" Will tapped his chest.
I agreed that it was.
DAY SIXTY-ONE
Two months in Will's company had changed some things about me. I had lost the minimal body fat brought with me to the Marine Corps recruit depot. What was left was necessary. I didn't need a scale to know the difference. I had come to this place five months ago a solid 225 pounds. I stood before the mirror in underwear and guessed I was somewhere around 200 now. I had always been lean, but this was something else. I turned slowly and pulled my left arm across my torso to reveal my upper back. It was wider than before and defined. Muscles had separated into groups just like on the anatomy chart Will referred to during his targets of opportunity lectures. My stomach was flat and rippled. It had never spilled over my jeans, but prior to this, I had seen perhaps a two pack, maybe four. Now all of the abdominal muscles came to bear. My legs flexed and relaxed with every subtle move, the big muscles of my upper quads hard and defined, the calves cut like diamonds. It was a metamorphosis. And Will was the engineer. I felt stupid standing there admiring myself like a mythological Greek creature, so I did what any nineteen year old with newly formed muscles would do. I flexed to reveal even more muscle and grinned like an idiot.
The knock came during the final portion of my posedown. I was really letting the crowd have it, chest and traps bursting with my crab pose, the front row fainting with the awesomeness presented before them. Will opened the door just as I was coming out of it. I was flush with exertion and perspiring like a southern belle. Will didn't even look embarrassed, just amused.
"You still have energy enough to spank it, huh? Guess we'll just have to work harder, son."
Now I was embarrassed. Will believed I was in here tugging my meat and the inherent shame we all feel at such a revelation brought new heat to my face.
"What?" I said with indignation and disgust. "No, Will I was----"
Will raised a hand and cut me off mid-stride. "Son, I get it. It's a normal thing to do at your age, hell, at any age. Don't get all Penelope priss-pants on me now, finish punishing your monkey and meet me on the ground floor when you're done."
I tried to explain what had really been going on, but Will had already left. Better I suppose, the flexing in the mirror thing would have only sounded gayer, and Will would have had some smartass remark for that as well, something about me getting my rocks off trying to see my own ass or something. You really couldn't win with him in that arena.
We drove to a field far from the base. It was obviously government land, as we had driven through Marine Corps guarded gates, but this was not even close to the recruit depot. Will parked the car and shouldered a pack; he tossed one to me as well. "Hope you slept well last night, we got a lot of ground to cover here and much to learn."
Will grabbed two other bags. I knew from their shape and size what they were for. Will slung one, and again gave one to me. "Handle this one with a little more care than you do your pecker, she's fragile."
I didn't even try; just felt that familiar heat of shame. I whispered, "Goddamn it" and then stood silent as Will performed a final check of his gear before securing the car. He handed me a black wrist watch, along with some instruction, "Suunto Vector watch. Muted black color, tells time, altitude, barometric pressure, has an alarm and a compass. The backlight feature is also muted to not give you away in the night. It's exactly what you need in one small convenient package. It's already set to current time and date."
Will wore one as well. I had noticed it on his left wrist most days and had thought it looked pretty cool. I'd had no idea it was a tactical choice as well. I should have known. I said, "Thanks Will" and he simply nodded. He was humble and generous, just like my grandfather. It wasn't his way to give or do just for the praise. He set out and I followed. The lands surrounding us were not barren, however not alive either. Brown and tan and beige and more often than not, just plain dirt color. There were some greens, but those troubled patches were just as entrenched in despair.
"You ever been to Disneyland Kevin?"
I thought it an odd question but didn't say so. "No, sir."
"That's fine, cause for you, this is Disneyland."
We had trekked in about three miles when Will held up his right fist signaling the stop. He hunkered down real quiet and smooth and I followed. He draped the rifle bag over his cradled forearms as he drug himself along the dirt with elbows and inner thighs. At the final point, just this side of a crest, Will flattened all the way out. His body pressed the ground as if he were attempting to become something attached to nature itself. He made contact now with his eyes only. He had adjusted the bag so a small handle was secured to his right hand. Everything about the next five minutes was eerily deliberate.
When we finally reached the crest, Will remained silent and began the methodical removing of his weapon. It was a Remington 308 bolt action with a twenty inch fluted barrel. The whole thing was painted the same tones as our surroundings. Will edged his bag up before him and gently placed the rifle atop it. With his weapon ready, Will took five rounds from an ammunition pouch also within the bag, and loaded the rifle. Each round was handled carefully. There was no hurried movement and minimal noise.
Will eased up on the gun, flipping the scope covers off to allow sight through the menacing looking tube. Will's final move prior to finding his place amongst the gun was to hand me a spotting scope. With small hand gestures he furnished enough instruction that I knew to look down to the valley floor below. It was impressive. It was a town built right into the desert floor, complete with buildings, streets, vehicles, and people. I turned the knob allowing eye relief and focused in on the people first. They were not unlike my friend Bob -- very lifelike in appearance and dressed to fit the times.
Will spoke and the hushed tone startled me out of my trance, "Find the threat."
I looked at all the scope would allow. Without ranging it mechanically, I estimated we were six to seven hundred yards above and back from the town. I spotted several of the town's folk who resembled assholes every town has, but no threat appeared, and then I found him. He was dressed in all black and holding a pistol in his right hand. Further surveillance revealed a thin cylinder of some type in his other hand. He had to be the one. I gave Will the position of my guy. Will asked for temperature and wind speed. I was at a loss and Will handed me a green handheld device. "Krestel temp/wind meter. You'll need those things to dial in your final dope on a shot like this."
The device was easy to control and read. Three simple buttons pushed and the readings were immediate. "78 degrees, wind is varying between 12 and fifteen miles an hour."
Will asked for direction. I should have remembered that from my grandfather. I replied, "Directly behind us Will, a no-value wind."
Will gave me a slight smile. He must have known I had shot before and had been provided some training.
"Nice son, no value wind is the best wind." Will brought out a tiny handheld laser rangefinder. He held it steady and pressed a single button. "627 yards" Will said to himself quietly.
Will was working the elevation on his scope. He dialed until he reached the appropriate number of ¼ MOA Clicks. Will didn't ask for any further assistance. He found the rifle the way true riflemen do. He eased into her, pulled the stock in tight without jarring it, placed his right cheek upon the portion of the stock he had determined perfect through years of training, and breathed out to relax to the point of near coma. I didn't move, didn't speak -- I just watched through the spotting scope as the trigger was displaced for a moment in time, sending death and destruction six hundred yards away. The sound was piercing and the result immediate. The threat rocked on its stand as an eruption of red fluid burst from its chest.
"Hit," I said quietly as Will worked the bolt feeding a live round into the chamber.
Will eased back from the rifle as surely as he had cradled her. He motioned for me to follow him. When we were at a spot where the hillside would shield us from any onlookers he spoke: "That's kill town, my boy. It was designed specifically for us, for you. The way in was a lesson on the move.
Sometimes just being a part of it, seeing and feeling it is more beneficial than hearing it in a classroom."
I nodded in accordance with his statement. "So all of that below is for our training?" My face must have revealed the awe I felt.
"Crazy huh? Again, the people down there are state of the art voodoo hi-tech bullshit. I think they enlisted Hollywood's best monster makers to develop those threat and no threat targets for you."
"Will, you keep saying for me. No one else trains here? Seriously?"
Will shook his head in an easy back and forth pattern,
"Nope, just you my young friend. Like I said in the beginning, this is all experimental, and you are our number one guinea pig."
"Well that sounds fantastic when you phrase it like that, Will."
We recovered Will's rifle and made our way down the hill. It was amazing in its sheer size and complexity. Nothing was left undone; all facets of city life were present. It was eerie in form and texture. There were so many snapshots of real life, without any real life.
Will walked to the very end of the street and entered a small cement building. Inside were all of the items necessary for life in the classroom. I was not surprised to see a small kitchen complete with the instruments crucial to fine coffee making. Will laid his packs and weapons aside and asked me to brew a pot. Coffee in hand, Will began teaching, not as if every minute spent with him wasn't one lesson or another, but now he had his professor hat on and school was in session.
"Single man deployment."
Will devised a strategy for every conceivable operation I might be handed.
He said it all came down to proper planning, that and the right mindset and tools. "This is what sets you apart, Kevin," he said as a matter of fact. "No one will be with you, ever. It won't be enough that you are strong, or capable, or smart. The mind plays tricks on the wisest of men and the bravest. You will have to be accepting of this, and when the bad shit comes, and I don't mean other people, I mean the ghosts of those people who have died by your hand, then you have to have a strategy for that too."
I sat there listening and perhaps for the first time, hearing, exactly what Will was saying. This wasn't an exercise in "maybe," like other Marines face. Not a possibility of war, and the possibility they may have to fire their weapon in combat, and possibly take an enemy life, Will was stating a fact. I was being trained to kill people. And at some point I would be ordered to do so. The revelation was unpleasant to say the least.
Will had stopped talking. He was looking squarely at me.
"You have a question, son?"
I returned from thought, "Will," I paused, "what exactly are you training me to do?"
"I thought that was clear from the onset, son."
"I thought so too. I guess I didn't, wasn't really sure..."
I had lost my train of thought, stumbled over the last words.
"The United States of America, your home, my home, has some pretty unsavory enemies, Kevin. And they aren't all out there waving a Russian Kalashnikov. They're everywhere, and anywhere. We have tried to fight them using traditional means for a century now. It just doesn't work anymore, not that it ever did. And that's why you, and that's why me, and that's why all of this."
I sat there dumb.
"I wish it wasn't so, Kevin. I wish we could all live in peace and leave our doors unlocked and trust the man standing next to us. But wish as I may, it just isn't so and never will be. The world, our world, needs men like you and me. More so you as I am reaching rocking chair age and am of little help anymore."
I smiled briefly at Will's self-deprecating remark, knowing he was as fast and sure as any wild thing I had ever seen on television.
"People incapable or unwilling to protect themselves, to protect this land, need people like you, now they may never admit that, and they may like to believe an all-seeing, all-knowing being floats above keeping them safe, but you and I know better. You and those like you are the only thing keeping the wolf at bay."
Will awaited any further rebuttal I may have had. When it didn't come, he continued.
Following an hour of land navigation in theory, Will led me to the great outdoors and explained the nuances of the watch he had given me. We found course by direction and measured altitude with the accent/decent device programmed within the tiny computer. Will liked the open land. He moved along quite comfortably, as if the surrounding nothingness was more of a home to him than any ever built by human hands. The map he provided with lines and circles and numbers, nothing more, was unclear and seemed impossible to my novice eye.
"I'm only teaching you this as a back-up, Kevin," he had said. "Today we have GPS and every other imaginable tool, so the possibility of you actually using an old school topographical map like this one?" Will shrugged, "Highly unlikely. Perhaps one day you will show off for a girlfriend with one while camping, score some. 'Oh, Kevin, you're my wilderness man' ass with it, but probably little else. Still, why not plan for any outcome."
I smiled at him and he continued. Will had set up targets everywhere and known distances from those targets were areas of hide I had to find using my newly learned map reading skill set. It wasn't as hard as I'd first imagined. With practice, I had found nine out of the ten spots Will had constructed.
Many were simple and hasty, just enough room to wiggle in, take a shot and get out, all while concealed by natural foliage. Will offered no advice on the operation of a sniper rifle. He allowed me to take the first shot, a head shot on a bad guy holding an innocent 200 yards away, without instruction. We had zeroed the rifles at two hundred yards that morning. It was a straight forward shot from my position, no dope adjustment on the scope, and a no value wind still prevailed. I took a second to get comfortable, remembered everything my grandfather had ever taught me about shooting, and pressed without thought. The shot found its mark in less than a second, and Will had been pleased. The other targets had ranged anywhere from 50 to 650 yards. I'd scored all life ending hits. When I'd failed to find the last hide, Will pointed to a lofty place amongst an ancient tree. I had found it, but I had just failed to look up.
"It's a fatal flaw with most operators," Will had said, "No one ever looks up."
With the final shot taken, a 220 yard downhill shot into a parked van, eliminating a bomb wearing mannequin, with equally fake C-4 strapped to his chest, the day's events, at least in the field, were concluded. We humped the three miles back into kill town with darkness spilling upon our shoulders and the rooftops around us. I cooked a quick meal of chicken stir fry. We ate deliberately, as Will remarked there was more yet to be done.
Will changed clothes and suggested I do the same. It was a pleasant feeling, getting out of the dirt stained fatigues and pulling on fresh ones.
Will threw me a sweatshirt, told me to forgo the camo top for the night, explained the nights were cold up here. Dressed out, we hit the town.
Again that strange uncomfortable feeling that at any moment the places replica townsfolk would spring to life had the hairs on the back of my neck standing tall.
Will walked out in front of me and entered a bar. As soon as he stepped through the doors, the lights illuminated within. I was maybe a second behind.
The place was creepy. The lights revealed only a portion of its true identity. Pool tables in one section, a real wooden bar lining a wall, and tables and chairs everywhere. I had never been in a bar prior to that moment, but I was fairly sure this is what it would be like. The true to form counterfeit people were spread out everywhere. How expensive could they be I thought. There were so many of them.
Will had glided across the room. I set a line to follow him when my nightmare came to life, literally.
From the bar area, one of the replicas came to life. I shit a true silver dollar in that instant, and I faintly heard Will laughing as the thing attacked me.
He, it, had a beer bottle and was intent on smashing me over the head with it. It almost got its wish as I backpedaled into one of the other patrons, knocking it down and barely recovering myself.
"Come on, motherfucker!" the thing screamed. Holy shit, they were capable of speech?! I leapt right, then left without ever thinking of doing so.
I wouldn't have recalled that detail had Will not played the footage for me later, another nugget of fact he didn't disclose until after this scenario. After darting left, I reached out, grabbed the thing's hand with both of mine, twisted quickly down, then left, and flipped it easily over my right hip.
I heard an audible pop and subsequent scream as the thing hit the floor. What now, they feel pain? I was on full-fledged, butt puckered alert.
My mind raced ahead of my body as I scanned for more of them. Two more came to life from a pool table close by,
"Hey asshole, that was my friend you just fucked with."
Don't think, Kevin, don't listen, just react, act, whatever, let's keep it together The pool cue came whooshing through the air right for me. Too late to duck or sidestep, so I caught it in the high back, winced a second and enveloped it as Will had taught me. I slid along the stick and punched the thing in the throat, then quickly reapplied my right hand to its chin and pushed up and back, all while placing my right foot behind the thing's feet. He, it, crashed heavily to the floor, again a loud rush of air and resonance emitted from its mouth by way of compressed lungs. Number three was coming when Will called a halt.
"Good, good. Jesus Christ, he's gonna kill you guys. Stand down."
Will was all smiles as he stepped forward. "Nice work my boy, nice fucking work, not a moment's hesitation, okay, perhaps a moment when you filled your pants with fresh crap, but after that, remarkable."
I was breathing heavily. My eyes must have exposed the shock I still felt as Will was standing directly in front of me snapping his fingers and looking concerned. I took a long beat to recover, looked around at the two men I had just dispatched. They were dusting themselves off, both holding onto damaged body parts.
"Didn't tell us the kid was a fucking hair trigger, Will," one of them said while rubbing his wrist.
Will didn't change place, just remained by my side as he spoke, "What did you guys expect, I trained him."
With that Will made introductions, "Broken wrist guy"
Will paused, "Is it broken?" The man shook his head and said he didn't believe so.
"Okay, sprained wrist guy is Sasco, real solid operator when he's not lying in a pathetic heap crying his eyes out."
Sasco just smiled, and it was the kind of smile which transcended the need for further explanation, and simply stated, "I've known this prick for way too long."
Will turned a nudge, directing his attention to the one I'd punched in the neck, "Crushed larynx guy." Again Will paused a tick to confirm, again a response signaling emergency medical attention was not required. He continued, "Bruised ego guy is Simmons, another creature of the night they usually keep hidden under glass except in the case of war, and finally, the lucky man I saved from whatever brutality you were prepared to perpetuate on his unsuspecting ass."
"Hey kid, I'm Wright, Will here would pontificate us right into the next millennia if we let him." Wright put his hand out for me to shake. It was a firm grip, tough calloused hand, I expected nothing less.
"Alright," Will said when introductions had passed. "What did you guys think, Sasco?"
The one named Sasco spoke matter of fact, as if debriefing after a real world op. "He's fast Will, no doubt about that, and strong. His grip was solid, his direction, and redirection; it's obvious you've drilled him to dirt a time or two. My only question for young Mr. Anderson is why he allowed me off with just a warning?"
Will looked over at me. "What say you, Kevin?"
I was still a little blurred by the entire incident. My belief everything in the room was an inanimate object had had an undesirable effect on my thought and reasoning at this particular moment.
I answered, or began to answer too late for Sasco's liking as he responded for me, "Simple thought for you, Anderson. Little tip from the pros as it were. When unpredictable elements present themselves and a battle is eminent, finish your opponents, or enemies for a better word, surely and completely. You don't want that same motherfucker you just put down popping back to life after two or three of his buddies have decided to corral you."
I had been scolded, or counseled, as Will enjoyed putting it, enough times to understand the critique given was not to embarrass me but to further my development as a warrior. I nodded and thanked Sasco for the input.
Will gave the floor to Simmons. "What about you Symptom, what did you see?"
Simmons grinned a sheepish grin and commented, "Will, I gotta tell you, I didn't see much. I was fortunate to move back instead of forward when that first shot was delivered, or this conversation would have been taking place on the helicopter outta here." Simmons looked over to me. "You got skills, kid. Whatever old Will the pill here is doing with you, it's paying off. Good instincts, too. Don't ever lose that. It'll serve you well when the shit starts hitting fans from every direction around you."
"Thank you, sir" I managed.
"What about you, Wright? As you were the lucky number three in the observation post, what could have gone better?"
Wright looked completely focused. He had a hand to his chin, rubbing thoughtfully as he remarked, "Okay, first, don't take this the wrong way, kid." Wright sighed loudly as he used a thumb and index finger to push his eyebrows together. "Your initial reaction was justified. I get it, you thought everything in the room, in the whole damn city, was fake.
So the three of us come to life and you shit your pants, and truly, I suppose your recovery really wasn't bad either, but hesitation like that, even the briefest hesitation, can get you killed."
Wright glanced over at Will. "Am I wrong here, Will?"
Will shook his head and opened his right hand upward as a gesture to continue.
Wright coughed then began, "Train and train and then train some more. And when you can wake up at three in the morning, walk out into the freezing night and operate as if it were spring time in Albuquerque, then maybe, just maybe, you have it. You train this shit into your soul, kid. Reaction isn't good enough when lives are at stake, especially your own. You have to become action, pure and simple, and what I mean by that is this: You must become nature herself. You ever see a field of wheat, kid?"
I said that I had.
"Ever see the shit think before it moved left or right as the wind blew?"
I replied I hadn't.
"No, and you never will. Something happens in front of you then you happen, become the law of nature, that make sense?"
What made sense at this particular juncture were that these guys were no fucking joke. I didn't need to read their operational files to know they had lived the shit that scares the shit out of everyone else. I was in, baby, hook, line, and sinker.
Will thanked his old friends for their thoughts and then stood to announce what was to come. No one said a word as the instruction was brought before them. In a minute's time a portion of floor was cleared and mats brought forth. There was a lot of night left and for me that could mean only one thing. Train, train, and train some more.
I didn't remember falling asleep that night. The dream was evolving rapidly, however, and I was at its forefront. Will was just behind and to the left of me, Simmons to the right. Sasco and Wright brought up the rear.
"It's about to get real, kid" I heard one of them say. I was too juiced to decipher which voice had uttered the remark. Boom! An explosion of sound and then an orange/red ball of flame behind me, boom! There was another tidal wave of heat and sound to the side of me, not a heartbeat after. I couldn't hear anymore, and my vision was pinpoint. I scanned briefly, looking for my instructors. I thought I saw Will kneeling and stopped believing he must have given the command to hold up. I focused harder and realized Will was no longer complete. Will was vertical; however, his lower half was gone. Only his upper torso remained, and somehow, grotesque as it was, it had managed to stick perfectly upright in the wet earth below him.
I forced myself to scan beyond Will and located the others, a tangled mass of flesh and bone and blood. No one had survived no one but me. Will's head opened up and with it his final words, "It's up to you now, kid. Kill them all."
Will's remains split perfectly into equal sections then and fell to the ground with a sickening plop. I turned around in time to see the earth shifting and rising, its crust birthing mud brown creatures who were all equipped with equally unimaginable weaponry. I was breathing too much. My pulse was alive inside me, forcing my heart to pound to an impossible pace. I leveled my M-4 at the steaming mass of monsters and pulled the trigger. One round escaped the barrel and nothing more. I worked to clear the malfunction and my rifle changed shape, turning from a long black device of destruction to an oddly shaped walking stick, and then into a 7-iron.
"No! C'mon, no," I screamed out loud. I turned to run but couldn't. I was pumping my legs to beat the band but to no avail. The ground beneath me had turned to sludge, and I was helpless to escape it.
I was in a full unrecoverable state of panic. The creatures were closing in from all sides, and their faces, their eyes, held me in contempt. "Should have listened to your grandfather, Kevin" one of them said. I stopped crying then, realized just in that moment I had been crying and wiped violently at my face. They all laughed a horrific guttural choking from the murky depths of their swamp water filled lungs. "You weren't meant for this, Kevin. This is what men do, not little boys who play golf." Again, the awful mocking laughter returned.
My grandfather spoke then directly into my mind, his voice so clear and compassionate that I wanted to cry all over again. "Do it, son. I never wanted this for you, but I see now it's not something a man can deny. It was a part of me, and your father after me, and now you. Do what you were meant to do, Kevin. Kill them all."
I wasn't afraid anymore, and the part of him he always tried to deny, the biggest part, filled me with peace. They came, and I accepted it. They had me surrounded, but it didn't matter. Not one little bit did it matter, because I was everywhere, and what was truly me could not be contained. Before I awoke, feeling better than I had in all the days before this one, I listened and accepted my fate.
A year had passed in the company of Will. I was as hard as a man could be without breaking, and I knew this. Will had done his job, had molded and torn away and sculpted me into the near perfect warrior I now was. I was six months away from my twentieth birthday but felt much older. In my time amongst Will and his fighting elite, I had learned to fight with every weapon imaginable, some of which, on my own, I would never have even considered.
My hands were calloused, my wrists and forearms thickened, and my reaction time and coordination, unparalleled. For Will's part, he had been there every step of the way. Will had become mother, father, friend, and foe. Will was hated and Will was loved.
I didn't know it when the end came. Will didn't let on or give clues. He just walked me out to the rooftop of our own personal war building and sat down. The sky was black with night and the stars were few.
Will handed me a beer, opened one himself, and spoke,
"Special day son, enjoy."
It was the first I had ever had. I took a slow pull, grimaced.
Will laughed. "It's an acquired taste."
I started, "What's up, Will?"
Will looked straight ahead, "That's for the United States government to decide."
I was confused. "What are you saying, Will?" I had an idea but didn't want to admit or accept it. I knew this had to end at some point. I guess I'd just hoped that maybe they would forget about me and Will and I would just train until the end of time.
Will let a sigh go and spoke without looking in my direction. "We're done here, Kevin. I've given you all the tools I ever had and then some, time for you to spread your wings."
I couldn't believe it was over. I felt the warmth of dread fill my veins. "What if I'm not ready, Will? What happens then?"
Will looked at me then and spoke thoughtfully. "Remember this, son. Your training was designed to make you a best chance weapon.
All humans are flawed, all are fallible. You're no different. You're going to see things, do things that will fuck you up. When that time finds you," Will looked away again, and for a second I thought I saw true sadness in his eyes, "when you believe in your heart that you can take no more, and death seems a viable option, remember your time here, remember the bullshit old Will put you through. I've been wrong about a few things in my life, son, but I'm not wrong about you. Don't ever let them make me a liar." Will stood up and walked away without ever looking back.
I didn't know what to do, so I stood to follow him. I'd barely moved before being blocked by people I'd never seen before. I breathed out slowly and emptied my mind. Let them move first, let their actions dictate how bad this would get.
I heard Will's voice echo from the distance. The words themselves didn't matter. It was the tone of respect and love I would remember, it was a master saying goodbye to his student.
"Don't kill them Kevin, they're here to help."
Training was officially over.
Becoming Something Else
In an undisclosed location Kevin sat alone in a crowded coffee shop. He read a newspaper without reading it, and ate from a plate of food he couldn't taste.
Kevin sipped his coffee; the aroma was the only thing pleasant about it. He had a photograph, nothing more. He had finished his food and was about to leave when the man walked in and took a seat at a table just inside the front of the restaurant.
There was nothing remarkable about him as far as Kevin could tell. Soft in the middle, an extra fold to each cheek, he sweated for no apparent reason other than the excess luggage he couldn't set down.
Kevin accepted a third cup of coffee and asked for a glass of water. The man didn't look around, didn't notice Kevin sitting across from him, watching him.
Kevin was inclined to believe this wasn't the man at all, except that it was. A large plate was set down in front of the man. It held enough food for two, possibly three people. Kevin thought he would be here a while.
The man finished everything on his plate, or platter as Kevin would have described it. The time was growing near.
Kevin paid his bill and walked outside. The man presented himself a few minutes later. How odd, he thought, to be so unprepared.
The lack of vigilance reminded Kevin of something Will had said about humanity as a whole.
It was time. The man was alone. He was walking to a parking lot where people come and people go without ever really noticing anything except the size of their own asses.
Christ, was this really about to take place? Did he have the sack to do this shit for real? The people he answered to had summed it up in this way: "Marines fight wars Kevin, yours is just a little more personal." Personal my ass, he thought, it was downright private.
Kevin knew he shouldn't think this way but he did so anyway. Looking at him, he just couldn't see it. What in the world could this soft-in-the-middle man have done that was so bad that the government would want him dead?
Kevin pushed the thoughts aside and started his approach. The man was working a key into the driver's side door of a silver Volvo. Kevin was but a few footfalls away when the man turned around.
"Can I help you young man?"
Kevin was clothed like any other guy his age. His hair was shaggy by Marine Corps standard, his jeans were faded, and his Ocean Pacific t-shirt fit the community. He looked like a surf kid lost in the parking lot. It was what he was supposed to look like.
"Are you lost?" the man spoke very matter of factly, almost rudely. It was off-putting given his little Debbie snack cake exterior.
"I-----," Kevin was at a loss; he stood there looking at the man's mouth move.
"Son, are you okay? Of course you're not, just like every other little dope smoking terd, aren't you?"
Kevin muttered mostly to himself, "Okay."
The man laughed in the way one does when they have reached a level of annoyance where nothing else fits.
He began to scream at Kevin to get the fuck out of his face when he realized something bad was about to happen.
Kevin would later blame his face for the man's panicked reaction. He knew what the man had seen: blank, perfect, absence of anything - an emotion free, thousand yard stare into death - his own death coming in this case.
The man tried to scream, "Hel---!"
Kevin's right hand shot out in a straight, uninterrupted line. Its path was unencumbered right up until the point where the man's throat got in the way. It was instinct now, as natural to him as breathing, just as Will had taught it to be; the man fell at Kevin's feet clutching his ruptured windpipe. Kevin had done it. It was real now. This man beneath him would not stand up and dust himself off. This man would never get up again. Kevin had done what he had been trained to do, and in doing so, had drawn the line where there would be, could be no return.
Kevin looked down at the slumped figure. He had hurt him badly. The man was struggling for each breath, and the shock of what had transpired was visible in his eyes. Like wounded prey, his instincts were coming into play now as well. He wasn't a fighter, not in the sense that Kevin was. He was trying to crawl underneath his car. Kevin took a quick glance all around. Seeing no one in the immediate area, he fell atop the man and pulled him backward. It was so fast then. He put his right knee in the man's spine just under the spot where the top of the back meets the neck; he placed both hands around the struggling man's forehead and pulled back sharply. It was a lesson from so long ago, and it worked flawlessly.
Kevin could have checked for vitals, he supposed, but what was the point. Normal men, men who live outside of war, don't survive that type of brutality.
Kevin had killed his first man.
Years pass without measure.
Kevin was alone. Kevin was nearly always alone.
It was late, or early, depending upon your preference.
Kevin rubbed a hand over his face. His skin felt dry, slack. He hadn't slept in some time. His stomach hurt as it usually did. He sucked in, breathed out, the knot would not disappear. Kevin popped another antacid tablet in his mouth and chewed. His tongue found the particles embedded in his back teeth.
He had been doing the job four years now. Everywhere possible, anywhere they wanted him to go.
He appeared young; his heart knew better.
Killing had taken its toll. His grandfather had said it straight so many years ago, killing men was a horrible thing. The pain in his stomach grew in size. What began as a small hard knot, developed into a soured parasitic mass. Kevin belched to relieve the ache. He sat still, thought of water, in all forms. His head was in the game, loosely divided between the task at hand and the way water flows along the path of least resistance. Kevin had never lost in this arena. In part, from the performance of repetitious movement which fastened the idea of trying to fly, to just flying as a metaphor for learning, practicing, and perfecting the ability to deprive another human being of his life.
Kevin could pull a trigger, deploy a blade, break a neck, and stop a heartbeat the way grass can grow with abundant sunshine and water. He was as good at it as a single human being ever could be. It came with a price tag. Kevin paid early and paid often. He was sure he had an ulcer, and his dreams were a littered landscape of those who had passed by his hand.
Still, he didn't think he was an asshole.
Kevin was alone. It was okay though.
Who else would bare this burden?
God, he hoped. That was a hoot. Kevin had broken commandments, would break another fairly soon. It didn't matter. He dropped from his seated position to a more traditional one.
Eyes closed, Kevin spoke. His words were a whisper even to himself. Perhaps God would hear his prayer later this way. If he were paying attention now, Kevin knew he would be screwed.
The door next to his opened and closed.
It was a decent hotel. Still he could hear their voices.
The man he was sent to kill and also his friend for the evening. Kevin had loaded the silenced Glock sometime ago. Habit taught him to conduct a press check to make sure a round had chambered. It had.
Kevin holstered the weapon, put on a light jacket and walked to the door. He stood there listening. The man's bodyguard was sure to be standing his post just outside the door. Kevin breathed, let it go, and opened the door.
The man was formidable and bored. Kevin dealt with both issues. The door splintered. Kevin and the bodyguard spilled into the room. The subject listed in the assignment was more or less surprised. Kevin exercised the prejudice ordered by his government. His predilection for silenced weapons forged a close quiet relationship between he and the three men.
Kevin didn't puke until he was in a new hotel room forty minutes away. It found him this way. Images of death insulting living flesh. Kevin's justification was not his own, he had none. It was somebody else's business lent to his finely tuned hands.
Would he tell God that? His head rested upon his hand which rested upon the toilet seat. The bowl was full; he flushed. He stood, moved to the mirror and stared. His eyes were bloodshot. Why not, the male vomiting pattern was not unlike a car crash. Kevin rinsed his mouth, his nose, his face. His stomach empty, he walked to the room's sofa and lay down. He belched, tasted bile, swallowed and gagged. He realized after several seconds he was shaking. His head was hot, his core rotted lava, but still he shook. Breathe---- Breathe.
The spasms subsided. Kevin didn't drink, didn't take drugs, he puked. His stomach betrayed him, his soul agreed.
It was different in the beginning. Kevin used to cry. He wasn't sure if he hated himself or not.
Kevin had been trained to do things, so he did things.
There was no logic for him to apply. An application of well-respected fact would have been nice. It was the not knowing that pulled the already loosened ends. Every time he destroyed existence he felt further from God's intended beauty.
He knew that people did horrible things.
He himself did horrible things.
It stood to reason some of them should be punished. Was there a bell curve for what was intended and what was meant? Kevin already knew the answer.
Kevin was fooling himself if he believed he was acting as the hand of God. Kevin was the hand of other men, men unwilling, or incapable of the monstrous acts he portrayed.
Kevin had devised a procedure for the hours following a completed assignment. A couple had already been performed. Kevin kneeled beside the sofa and prayed.
"Forgive me, for I know not what I do. I have sinned, and for those sins I beg your forgiveness. I am an instrument put into service to protect the many from the few. I pray for the men's souls I took. I wish them a place in your kingdom. Allow me the peace I cannot find myself, in your name, amen."
Kevin's words and Kevin's thoughts often deviated course as one instinctively knew and accepted the truth, while the other held firm to false hope.
Kevin moved to the bed after showering.
Kevin was alone.
Kevin had been the property of the United States government for six years. He hadn't worn a uniform for five and a half of that. His days revolved around training, eating, reading, and sleeping. Sleep was invariably the hardest part.
He was a part of society, he supposed. He didn't have any friends, but he shopped where others shopped, ate where others ate, and dreamed of a better life, one that didn't involve killing other human beings.
He lived modestly. The dwellings to which he was assigned were moderate in all facets. It didn't matter. His needs were taken care of; his desire for more was never an issue. The only place he considered home was the one he had left behind. The memory of his grandfather always evoked so many emotions. He was a tough man, a loving and respectable man. He was everything Kevin wished he could have been.
Kevin carried the sins of his life right next to him wherever he went. When his grandfather had passed, he had made a decision in haste, a young man's curse. Now he paid for that decision every day.
His grandfather had always been there for him. Kevin still spoke to his ghost, mostly when the lights went out, always when he was alone. Nights were the worst. The darkness didn't scare Kevin. It was what it represented.
He often times carried out assignments at night. He was sure others did as well. Images appeared in shadowed places. Kevin never stayed in any one place for too long. He never became familiar with the shadows of a darkened house or apartment. Paranoia, Hyper-vigilance, whatever label you assigned it, it all read the same. Kevin slept like a field mouse amidst a thousand hungry owls.
Though the residences changed, his habits followed him to each place. Locked windows and doors, some form of fortification at any man door entrance, a handgun by the bed, one in the bathroom, a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun, with extended tube, by the bedroom door jam, and absolutely no lights on inside the dwelling at night. If someone were coming for him they would have to bring their own light.
He would read to fall asleep. His natural sleep pattern, the one developed by years of evolution, was destroyed. He counted on Socrates, Plato, sometimes Frost and Kipling to lessen his agitation, calm his mind to the point at least a couple of hours of sleep would somehow find their way to him. He took what he could get.
Kevin was eating breakfast when the page came. He set aside his oatmeal and replied. An hour later he was driving to an airport. Two hours after that he was in the air. His mind carried on conversations even he didn't care about. It was like this: fly to location, obtain weapons, carry out contract, pretend you didn't kill people for a living. Kevin was met by a friendly and given a packet.
He took a taxi to a hotel district, was dropped off somewhere in the middle, then walked to the assigned location.
Upon checkin he opened the packet, scanned the contents, and made preparations.
Kevin looked at the man's photograph.
That's all he ever really knew about any of them, besides what type of schedule they kept. Then the mission would be carried out, and sometimes the subject was prominent enough they would make the top headline, and a finely dressed news anchor would detail the man's past, his accomplishments, his business, whatever. Questions would lead to more questions that Kevin never seemed to have the answers for. He looked at the photograph for a long time. He seemed nice enough. Early fifties, trim, full head of hair, smiling as if the world smiled back.
Kevin laid the photograph aside and checked the weapon. He dismantled it, put it back together and pressed the trigger. He racked the slide several more times ensuring the internal hammer fell with each trigger press. Next he checked the schedule. Everything the man did on a weekly basis, day by day. It's never a smart thing, keeping a consistent schedule, especially when you pissed people off. How many of them knew, he wondered? What deemed you unfit to live anymore? Did anyone know the answer to that riddle?
Kevin wanted it over quickly. Tomorrow brought Tuesday. The man jogged the same trail in Dover Park every Tuesday. Kevin checked the map. Dover Park was only three miles from where he was now.
Kevin went over the possible outcomes while showering. He would try the park, do it there, and then get the hell out. He was anxious, he was always anxious. His stomach played its familiar tune.
Dover Park at 6 AM was not a popular place. Kevin understood this behavior. The guy ran to clear his head. The lack of people all around made it that much clearer.
Kevin was dressed in running attire; a smallish fixed blade dagger was concealed under a loose fitting t-shirt. Kevin decided against the firearm for this setting.
Kevin fell in behind the man and kept pace.
Kevin was an exceptional runner thanks to Will; it was part of his daily training. The man in front of him took long, loose strides. He was built like a distance runner, probably ate right too. The man pulled up, moved to the side of the trail, and placed two fingers on his throat. Kevin scanned everywhere quickly, knowing this was his chance. He was still checking his pulse when Kevin jogged up to him.
"Hey, I'm sorry to bother you, but do you have the time?" Kevin offered a look of self-deprecation at not having his own watch.
The man smiled and looked to his wrist.
Kevin moved as the man's eyes left his face. He punched him once in the throat, and again in the solarplexis. The stranger involuntarily lurched forward from the trauma, and was immediately knocked backward off of the trail with a front thrust kick. The man was still fighting for usable air when Kevin moved in to get behind him. In disbelief, Kevin watched as the man shuffled backward and started running again, though this time from his hands and knees. Kevin sprinted toward his prey, quickly scanning for other joggers before leaping atop the man's back. His luck held true, they remained the sole occupants in this area of the park.
Kevin felt the man's body give underneath him as they crashed to the hard-packed dirt. He was strong, and Kevin was sure the age old response of fight or flight assisted in the surge of adrenaline which was now coursing through the man's veins. Kevin delivered a sharp punch to the base of the man's neck, and felt him collapse under the weight of the blow.
Kevin had worn a medium sized towel around his neck for the run; he looped it around the subject's neck now.
With strength most have never known, Kevin found leverage and pulled backward with all he had. In a second, both he and his target were in the deepest brush which followed the outer fringe of the jogging trail. The man was still fighting. He held Kevin's arm, which had replaced the towel, willing it away from him.
The man begged with what was left of his ragged voice. He spoke of his children, told Kevin he didn't have to do this, choked out something about paying him. Kevin held steady. Well, the thing capable of this shit did, Kevin's mind was someplace else. It took possibly thirty seconds to end the stranger's life. Kevin had to be sure, and so he did what Will had taught him to do so long ago in that facility built for this purpose alone. Kevin broke the man's neck, and remained only long enough to ensure there could be no reviving him. After a couple of deep breaths to regain composure, Kevin looked long down both sides of the trail, and then ran. Kevin ran all the way back to the hotel.
Kevin changed, showered, left.
Kevin felt most at home in America's great Midwest, the heartland. Born and raised in California, the Midwest represented the world at an earlier time in history. People said hello to their neighbors, most always used ma'am and sir in a sentence, and rarely worried about such trivial matters as locking their doors. The air was different, and the feeling of ease around him sufficient enough to calm what was left of his tortured soul. He had traveled through every state in the union, but preferred Indiana.
Not far from the capital city of Indianapolis were a litter of smallish, Norman Rockwell style country towns where Kevin felt right at home. Terre Haute was the safest for him, as it was home to Indiana State University and a myriad of college kids from places far and wide.
Kevin, now twenty-seven years old, fit right in. He had never really looked his age, and still got carded whenever he ordered a beer. Not that he did that all that often.
Kevin had secured a residence on 7th street. A middle class neighborhood near the campus where many that worked or attended there resided. Kevin waved to his neighbors but didn't know any of them personally. When he traveled into the heart of the city he wore school logo tshirts and often carried some form of backpack. Some would be surprised if they got a glimpse of the contents of that backpack, others not. As mentioned, Indiana, the Midwest in general, held different standards for what constituted an emergency.
Why just the other day Kevin was enjoying a breakfast of home fries, scrambled eggs, and fresh ham steak when he noticed two good ol' boys standing in the front parking lot holding weapons. One an AR-15 style assault rifle, the other a compound hunting bow, equipped with a four pack of razor tipped arrows right near the grip. Kevin, startled for an instant, slung his backpack under the table and obtained his compact Kimber 1911, before realizing he had done so. The pistol was in his hand, and his thumb ready to disengage the safety, when he remembered where he was and who he was - at least to the folks at the Cracker Barrel restaurant. The boys outside were hunters. They were young and innocent, proud of their gear and quick to show it off to one another. Kevin replaced his own weapon slow and easy.
A brief scan of the room proved no one in the restaurant had witnessed his draw stroke. Kevin smiled at the immediate reaction he'd had to this perceived threat. Try grabassing those weapons in a parking lot anywhere in California or New York and see how the next several minutes go down. "Indiana," he said under his breath, "gotta love it."
It wasn't always bad. When the season was dry, which meant he wasn't killing on an every other week basis, Kevin actually enjoyed his life. He was free to travel, free to wake when he wanted, sleep when he wanted, and do all of the things most people have to wait for the weekends to do. It had been almost two months since his last engagement. He was delighted with his present circumstance. He wasn't a fool however. Kevin understood, sooner or later the call would once again come, and once again he would be given an order to violate the law, both men and God's.
Kevin was a realist, as real as they came. He took the good when the good was before him. It was deepening autumn, Kevin's favorite time of year in this part of the world. The leaves had turned, and all around him were the red and ambers and oranges of richest fall. Kevin turned his Jeep into the state owned Turkey Run Park. It was midweek and the park was nearly his alone. It was midmorning and the weather was perfect. A cold snap at night left the ground beneath him crunchy, and the air was alive with moisture and blessed chill.
Kevin wasn't keen on the heat, and humidity made his ever quiet disposition groan with despair. This, however, this was ideal. Kevin no longer needed a map of the trails. He had visited the park so many times it felt like home. He supposed it reminded him of the backwoods of his grandfather's ranch back in California. He walked, hiked, and ran the trails here, all the while allowing his mind to roam freely, to seek out and take pleasure in the memories of a past where nothing bad came to call, especially him. He thought of his friend Peter, his grandfather, and his mom and brother. Sometimes Will would sneak in there as well.
Often times, however, the memories of Will were too closely related to the jobs he carried out, so often he would push those thoughts aside and choose to run as a free man.
Much of the most desolate trails were under a layer of mud and water. Kevin didn't mind a bit. It was liberating, fun in a childish way to stomp the puddles with fleet feet, traversing the landscape like a modern day Hawkeye. Kevin knew from past trials he had been humping and sloshing around now for several hours. He stopped and shrugged loose his daypack. Under a landscape of freedom, Kevin munched an apple and poured small handfuls of raw almonds into his mouth. He could have been anywhere in the world at any given time in history, so complete was the isolation and wilderness that surrounded him. Several long, slow pulls of water and he was back at it. He breathed the air, so crisp and thick with life you could drink it. It had been a good morning.
Kevin was seated in the last row of the Indiana Theater. It was a throwback to the fifties, or perhaps not a throwback at all, just built in that time period and maintained without all the hoopla and fanfare of modern comforts. Kevin felt the vibration on his belt. It meant only one thing, back to reality.
Kevin had been watching the subject for three days. He was a careful man. He had lights turned on in front of his home during darkness, and parked his car in the garage when not in use. He looked over his shoulder and checked his surroundings before leaving his front door. Kevin respected the diligence of awareness. The man had no vices, wasn't an enthusiast of anything as far as he could tell.
He drove straight to his office, ate lunch at his desk, then come the end of the day he drove straight home and parked in the garage. He wouldn't leave again until the following morning.
Killing a man in his home comes with risks and disadvantages. This wasn't the movies where the bad guy knows the layout better than the homeowner himself, or simply finds an undetectable way into the home and sits comfortably in the man's favorite chair until said man arrives, ready to be shot upon entry, after a few cool obscure references about life and death and getting what's coming from the bad guy of course. This was real. And in the real world the man sometimes owns a gun, or a German Sheppard, or has a panic room set up and a way to fry you before you can make your way back out. No, killing a man in his own home sucks.
Kevin was getting antsy. His nerves were possibly not what they used to be. Almost eight years of ending existence can do that to a person. Fuck and fuck and fuck again, he thought. It was midnight. Kevin was once again set up in a place not visible to many, to no one he hoped. He was sick of it, so sick. His head was beginning to throb, and his stomach was turning. He wanted out of here, wanted to disappear altogether, go home and crash out in front of the television and pretend he delivered pizza for a living. Kevin decided against it once more. He drove to his hotel and spent the night tossing and turning, wishing for a different outcome upon waking.
His resolve was shattered on the fifth day. Exhausted by the man's unbendable schedule, Kevin disregarded his general rule and broke into the man's home. Kevin had jogged the neighborhood three out of the five days. It was clear that in this neighborhood people worked for a living. It was upper middle class, business people with mortgages to pay and places to get to.
As far as Kevin could tell, there was no old Mrs. Jones setting up shop directly across the way watering her azaleas for four hours at a go.
Kevin had made hopping the back fence a part of the jog this morning. He was up and over in a skip's toss. The place was pet less and that was a good start. Kevin found entry easy enough through a back bedroom slider. A quick pry of the screen, and push and shove on the window, and he was in. Kevin's heart hammered without direct need. The place was empty, just as he knew it should be.
That didn't prevent Kevin from checking every inch of it, to include garage and cabinets. Kevin was dressed in running gear, black track pants, well-worn Asics, and a dark grey hoodie. His Glock 19 was secured to his right hip by a snug belt under the waistline. Kevin was very mobile in this get up. He was well past annoyed knowing he would be sitting here for the better part of six hours. Kevin tried to relax as he made no permanent impression on his new surroundings. Kevin set up by the interior garage door. For his part, it was all over except for the crying.
Kevin was bemused when five-thirty came and went without any sign of his target. Well that just figures, doesn't it? I mean four days of Rolex like timing, and today, of all the days he decides to stop off at the do-drop-inn for some pancakes. Christ.
Kevin heard the hum and clatter of the electric garage door traveling along its predetermined path. He heard the man's Buick engine quietly accelerate and the final stage when the key turned left to signal its mission was past. A heartbeat of time and this would all be over. Kevin waited just inside the door. Just inside and to the right. When he walked in it would be quick and it would be quiet. He wouldn't let him suffer; he never did if he could help it.
No matter what they had done to deserve this absolute final judgment by his government, it wasn't Kevin's business to punish or torture.
There were others in place for that kind of shit, he was sure. For Kevin's part it was just a job. He didn't know why and to this point never considered asking.
Mind empty, body relaxed, all to come all to pass. The man didn't ever have to wonder what had happened to him, it was over that fast. Kevin put the silenced pistol near the man's temple and fired once. It was over in less than a second. Kevin lowered his weapon and was in the process of removing the suppressor when a second subject entered the room. He was maybe seven, perhaps eight years old. The man had a son.
Kevin's mind was empty no more. The child stood there, Kevin was sure, trying to process what he was seeing. Kevin had made the ultimate mistake, and now he was left with a horrific question to answer.
Kevin fled from the house while the child was still in shock. He'd left him there with a dead man at his feet, no, not a dead man, his father.
How much would he remember about him? What would he tell the police when they were eventually called to the scene? How screwed up would that boy be for the remainder of his life thanks to Kevin? Kevin ran only as far as he had to. His rental was not far, and darkness was everywhere. What had he done? What had he been doing?
Kevin woke with a start, a gun in his hand.
Will was seated in a chair opposite him. He had been silently reading up to this point.
"Will, what are you doing here?" Kevin's voice was not his normal pitch. His ordinary sleep pattern was consistently shallow; however, for nights now since the last job he had been self-medicating with heavy doses of Nyquil.
"I'm watching you," Will said without challenge, as if he'd done this every morning.
"Why? What? I haven't heard from you since--"
"You gave us a bit of a scare when you didn't answer the pages Kevin." Will remained seated, studying his brightest pupil.
Kevin nodded his head thick with cold medicine.
"Why didn't you answer the pages son?"
"Because I'm done" Kevin put down the gun, rubbed his head from both sides.
"You forget who you work for, son? They don't often accept resignation letters in this line of work."
"Leave me alone, Will. Go back to where you came from, I'll be fine."
"I'll help you, son."
"Help, help me do what? Kill some more, live with it? Done man, all done."
Will stood, turned, and then turned back, "You were designed to do what you do!"
"YOU MADE ME THIS!" Kevin screamed.
Will ignored the emotional response, remained steady. "I might have slapped a coat of paint on you, made you road ready, something else created you.'
"You ruined me." Kevin's voice softened.
"You believe you're the only one who bares this burden? Carries this particular cross?"
"You did this, Will, you---" Kevin's words were failing, he cried somewhere inside.
Will stared at Kevin while unbuttoning and removing his shirt. Pot marks, thickened skin, scribbles of discolored flesh, all the paintings of war.
"Kosovo, Beirut, Afghanistan, you think I don't see their faces, son? Hear them at night when I'm alone?"
"Why?" Kevin was in the middle of a soul's parting.
"We kill what needs to be killed! You think you're eliminating school teachers, doctors? ---- Terrorists Kevin... Monsters! ---- You, me, we protect those who cannot protect themselves!
Will had never married.
Will had no children.
Will fostered a relationship with himself and counted on no one else.
Will looked upon the thing which he had created. It was seated, bent, sobbing.
Will thought of the boy's father, the brave sniper from so long ago which he owed his very life to. Will's heart never lent to the frailty's of others. His was the ocean uncharted, the island left to itself as much out of loss as circumstance. It had been to this point--- unreachable.
Will pushed out a breath.
His hand found the top of Kevin's head.
The cables which enclosed Kevin's already teetering bearing snapped. He hugged Will's waist as a small child would and let it go. Finally, Kevin let it all go.
Sanity
After several months spent back at base by Will's side, Kevin really was finished. It had been a process. Mostly talking, Will's take on things, Will's point of view mixed with Kevin's. Kevin wouldn't have opened his wounds to another. No doctor could appreciate Kevin's particular brand of trauma, but Will could. In the end he was mostly healed, mostly repaired, mostly.
Will explained the operation in charge of Kevin's assignments never expected him to last longer than two, possibly three years. The fact he made it eight was incredible. Kevin's background while enlisted was sealed. His truth would never be revealed.
Kevin asked if there were more like him, more Will had trained, but Will wouldn't comment. Kevin knew there must have been.
Upon Kevin's discharge, the DD-214 was stamped Honorable. The background given with it was of a Marine who saw combat with an Infantry unit, had performed flawlessly as a sniper, and had spent the rest of his tour in security forces running errands for a two-star general. Kevin committed the false memories to heart as his days as a Marine came to a close. Kevin still had his inheritance to make a new life with. He left Will with a handshake and a promise to keep in touch. Kevin didn't believe that would be necessary, Will could always find him, of that he was sure. Will watched as Kevin drove away, again memories of the man who saved his life in a jungle long ago. He wasn't sure why he didn't tell Kevin the story of his father, the secrets of men.
Kevin stocked his Jeep full of the items necessary to survive for at least a month. He traveled the familiar path to the only place that ever truly felt like home.
He found the old steel and wood gate as he had left it.
Nothing had changed. Some overgrowth, some fields high with vegetation that was all. His world, the one left behind was dark, ugly, troubled. This place was none of those things. He drove the drive that filled his heart with good. His breathing was better, his mind clearer, his focus omniscient.
The house looked as it always had: big, rugged, capable.
He unlocked the front door and walked around. Everything was the same. The windows were intact, the firewood stacked neatly by the fireplace, the woodland creatures in the woods where they belonged.
For the first day, Kevin busied himself with putting away his supplies, chopping more firewood, and building a pull-up bar.
The trails through the woods would suffice for cardio, and the wood splitting and carrying of heavy items would take care of the unused muscle. Will had always maintained the pull-up was the most important upper body exercise. Kevin was capable of many pull-ups thanks to Will.
Kevin had enough money to live for years, the rest of his life if he spent wisely. His grandfather had seen to that. In his final days as a Marine, or his version of one, Kevin had considered the choices bore by young men.
He was nearing his 28th birthday. He had a full life yet to live.
Will had helped Kevin make right the wrong which he believed he'd done. Kevin had never known the true story of any of those he had eliminated, except for one.
The last man, the one Kevin believed a father, leaving a son to view his demise, bathe his young and rapidly forming psyche with blood, had not been a father at all.
He had been a monster, and the seven-year-old boy who had wandered into the house to find them had been Daniel Lee Hibley, recent abduction case reported several hours before the discovery of the man's remains. The man, it turned out, had been doing this for quite some time. Upon his death (extermination), his house had been searched, and evidence collected linked him to five separate cases of kidnapping, rape, and murder. The boy, Hibley, owed his life to Kevin. Will didn't go any further into what association the man had had with the United States government. What Will was allowed to reveal, Kevin could have discovered on the news. Kevin didn't watch much television. In the paper's he'd read where the boy had described the man with the gun, the one who ran from the house, as the biggest, scariest man he'd ever seen. Kevin guessed he was.
Kevin had skill sets few possess, and a garbage can full of memories no one would want. He looked at the vocations in line with his mindset, training and philosophy. The choice wasn't a hard one. After a few months, and a life without a body count, Kevin enrolled in the police academy. During his training, he applied with the Police Department in the town he grew up in. It was hardly the same town and for that matter, he was hardly the same man. Kevin had taken the written, oral, and physical exam, all while earning high marks in the academy. Kevin felt good about his chances. While awaiting the letters outlining new test dates and packets to be completed, Kevin would finish the academy and simply exist.
Over the months that followed, Kevin gained twenty solid pounds and slept better than he had in years. His life was a simple routine now, following the path he wished could have always been his, would have been his had he been smarter.
He spent his time studying for exams, running and hiking in the woods, and dining on meals he prepared. In his time away from the world, Kevin got a feeling for who he was. He decided he wasn't that bad of a guy.
The testing process was drawn out and rightfully so. He had finished the academy top of his class, and the position he applied for six months ago, was now his.
Today was his first day on the job. He had committed the sergeant's name to memory. He would ask for him at the front desk, and then begin his role as "new guy."
He had all of his gear with him in a large black duffle. His uniform was neatly pressed and hanging on a wooden hanger. Sgt. Sanser was a forty something man, grey at the temples, fit and capable. He shook Kevin's hand as men of his generation were taught to, firm, and with a full two seconds worth of eye contact. He turned and led Kevin to the locker room. Not surprised, Kevin's locker was a long way from the door. He quickly dressed, then found the Sergeant in the hall.
"Briefing starts in twenty minutes. Be ready every day fifteen minutes prior to the start of shift. For rooks like you, I would suggest thirty minutes. Your FTO will want you in line for a car before they're returned."
Kevin was no stranger to the phrase, "Yes, sir." He used it here every other sentence.
Kevin listened attentively to the sergeant's every word.
Kevin tracked his gaze as he called out to another officer walking down the main corridor.
"Stone," the sergeant bellowed, "got a newbie for you."
Kevin hadn't seen or heard from him in ten years. It could have been fifty, but Kevin would have known that walk, that smile, anywhere.
Peter's smile grew in size the closer he got to the pair.
Peter put both arms around Kevin and pulled him in. "The soldier returns."
Kevin returned the hug and exclaimed, "Holy shit, I guess they'll let anyone work here."
The sergeant shifted, and remarked, "You too know each other?"
"God damn, it's good to see you." Peter made no attempt to disguise his excitement at seeing his old friend.
Peter spoke to Sgt. Sanser never taking his eyes off of Kevin. "Sergeant, this is Kevin Anderson."
The sergeant looked at Kevin as if for the first time.
"The Kevin Anderson, the one you're always waxing poetic about during some cold ass grave shift?"
"The one and only."
Sanser looked to Kevin, an expression of mild reflection on his face. "Kid, according to Stone here, you're the baddest motherfucker on the planet."
Kevin felt himself blush, was annoyed he was without a clever retort.
"All right guys, I'll see you in briefing." With that, the sergeant was gone.
Peter was still looking Kevin over. "Why didn't you call?" Peter's inflection was some of sorrow for a long ago friend. Ten years had passed. Kevin was hardly the same man.
"I don't know man; I was everywhere all the time, head up my ass I suppose."
Peter smiled the smile of the kid that had trampled his ass on the obstacle course sixteen years earlier. Same innocent gape with the tint of cockiness.
"Sure pal, head up the ass I can believe."
Kevin laughed. Peter continued looking him over.
Peter led Kevin to the briefing room. They were the first ones in. With the passing minutes, the rest of B Squad walked in and took their seats.
Kevin was seated at the front of the room; the guys with the senior most rank were at the back. There were thirty patrol officers and four sergeants.
Sgt. Sanser stepped to the front of the room where an oak finished podium awaited him. In place, Sanser swept the room with a mid-length glance taking mental note of tonight's team.
Following that, he gave out beat assignments, checked for any bitches or gripes, no one had any, then introduced Kevin. Kevin was greeted with cat calls of "FNG" and "Rook."
With the initial and customary verbal hazing in the books, Kevin stood and introduced himself.
"I'm Kevin Anderson, 28 years old, and I'm just happy to be here."
From the crowd, "Fucking right you are new guy."
Kevin sat down and was immediately ordered to stand. Sanser informed Kevin it was customary for the senior officers to do a little first night grilling. Kevin was told to stand at the podium. An officer about Kevin's size, maybe two or three years older, spoke first.
"Twenty-eight? What the fuck you been doing the last six years rook?"
Kevin cleared his throat, "I served in the Marines."
The smallest officer in the room let out the familiar cry, "Uhhh-rahhh! I knew I smelled perfection in the air."
To that, a number of grunts and "Christ's!" rang out.
Of the police ranks, there were more than just a few Marines in the pack. The questions and answers played out for several minutes. The shift was informed of several in progress calls, the briefing room emptied.
Peter and Kevin drove to the worst part of town.
It was Kevin's first time in a police car, or "unit" as it was called.
Peter was driving and quickly showed Kevin how to use all of the gadgets inside.
There was silence, and then there wasn't.
"Christ, man, Kevin Anderson and Peter Stone back together again. What the fuck were the odds of that shit?"
Kevin figured Peter had gone on to do something far more glamorous than this. "You did graduate college, right?"
Peter nodded, "Yea, I graduated."
"What got you into this?"
"What do you mean?"
"I thought you would have gone on to med school, or engineering, some high paying, thought provoking system of payment."
"All right, I'll take your jab and right back at you. What brought you to the dirty end of the field?"
"Seemed like a natural transition. Saving people is saving people, right?"
"That what you did in the corps? Save people?"
Kevin's memory of the last ten years played a sound bite.
"I did a little of everything. Saving, protecting, cleaning up, you know."
Peter noticed the scar earlier but suppressed the urge to ask. It seemed an appropriate time. "The hibbidy on your face there, what happened?"
Kevin recalled Peter's fondness for calling everyday things, hibbidy, bibbidy, shibbidy, whatever rolled off the tongue at the moment. Kevin reflexively rubbed the two inch length of thickened tissue on his left cheek. A gift from Will during a training exercise where Will went left as fast as he always promised he could. "I had a cat."
Peter laughed, "A fucking cat did that, huh?"
"It was a big cat."
"Whatever, Kev, you tell me another time."
"Sure."
One night turned into the next. Kevin's transition into police work was not complicated. Talking to strangers, dealing with shitbirds, listening to bullshit, it all came to him as natural as warm water in a bath.
Peter felt comfortable with Kevin at his side. Peter had already been doing the job five years.
In his time on the force, he had seen officers come, and leave, with little influence on anything. Kevin would be known out here, to that, Peter had no doubt. It was their last shift together of the four day cycle, one more twelve hour stint, before four off. Kevin had shared what he could with Peter. The unofficial stuff remained closed. Peter asked questions till there were no more to ask. Peter had found his old sounding board a welcome relief. He told Kevin of his college romance resulting in his son, Ethan. He told Kevin of Ethan's mother's meltdown and subsequent departure from their lives. All in all, Peter had given Kevin the last ten years of his life in three twelve hour shifts. Kevin couldn't believe Peter had a son of his own. He was six years old and was ready to meet his uncle Kevin.
Peter was still driving, as was standard practice for the first week of a new hire's training. It was 0144 hours when Peter called off on the traffic stop. The lowered black Honda pulled to the right and stopped. Peter looked to Kevin, "You up to making contact on this one?" Kevin nodded in the affirmative and headed to the passenger side of the vehicle.
The windows were tinted in the same color as night. Kevin shined his flashlight into the back and passenger-side windows with little vantage.
Kevin called out, "Roll down your windows."
The passenger window crept down. Kevin noted two occupants. From just behind the passenger, Kevin lit up the vehicle's compartment. He ordered both subjects to place their hands on the dash while he spoke with them. The driver was Hispanic, the passenger white. Both were young, maybe 19, 20, at most. Both had tattoos visible on their arms and necks. Kevin had already guessed they were not on the dean's list at any school nearby. Kevin took I.D. from both individuals and walked back to the patrol unit. After running their names with dispatch, Kevin was advised the driver had a warrant for domestic violence. Peter gave Kevin brief instruction prior to Kevin's removing the driver from the vehicle. Kevin and Peter walked back to the vehicle together.
Both subjects were ordered to exit the vehicle, driver first, then passenger. While Kevin dealt with the driver, Peter kept eyes on the passenger.
Kevin walked the driver to the curbside. "You have a warrant for your arrest, turn around and place your hands behind your back."
The young man said something to the effect of "fucking bullshit" but complied nonetheless.
Handcuffed, searched, and placed in the backseat of the unit, Kevin walked to where Peter was standing and ordered the passenger out.
"Your friend had a warrant, and you don't have a license. We're towing the car, you can get going."
The man looked to the police car. "Warrant for what?"
Peter interrupted; spoke sharply, "You his fucking lawyer? Get the fuck out of here."
The passenger looked pissed, but thought better of responding.
When the passenger walked away, Kevin remarked, "Jesus, you a fucking tough guy now?"
Peter grinned. "Fucking dirtbags, all wanna play street lawyer, talk their fucking nonsense. I have zero patience for that bullshit anymore."
Peter and Kevin were driving their new friend to jail when they received a message over the MDT. It was the new guy's turn to buy the sergeant coffee. Peter pointed at the screen, "That's for you, buddy." Kevin typed back, requesting the sergeant's exact order. Kevin read the sergeant's response to Peter.
"Half caff, soy latte, with one sugar and a sprits of cinnamon. What am I, a fucking asshole? Coffee. Black. Hot....Jesus."
Peter laughed out loud to this, "He likes you, Kev.
I can tell."
Peter pulled into the 7-11 on Grand Ave., parked, and asked Kevin if he'd be alright obtaining the sergeant's drink order. Kevin smirked and then walked inside. The clerk looked wide awake. Coffee must be good, he thought.
Kevin placed the large black coffee on the counter while he fished out his wallet for a couple of ones. The clerk smiled. "It's on the house, officer."
Kevin knew not to accept gratuities, even as menial as a cup of Joe.
"Can't take it partner, how much?"
The clerk hesitated a second too long. Kevin heard the muffled grunt coming from the floor beneath him.
Kevin moved as the first round ripped past him.
Kevin drew and fired without ever having the thought of doing so. A second muzzle flash, followed by silence.
The man who had entered the store minutes before Kevin, the one who had just finished taping the store employee's hands and mouth seconds before Kevin entered, was now dead, a bent heap on the clerk's workstation, a liberal amount of blood and cerebral fluid loosened from a large hole in the back of his head.
Peter had witnessed the scene from the driver's seat.
His view had been partially blocked by an advertisement for Coor's light. Peter saw Kevin sit down a cup of coffee, pull out his wallet, drop the wallet, move laterally while drawing and firing his duty weapon, then scan for other threats. The action had unfolded faster than Peter could exit the patrol vehicle.
Peter was inside now, his weapon up.
Kevin was moving while giving commands. "Cover the clerk while I clear the store." Peter was going to say something, didn't.
Kevin was back moments later. "Bad guy was alone."
Peter holstered his weapon and checked on the store employee. The employee was unharmed. He'd pissed himself, but other than that was fine.
Kevin holstered his weapon, "You alright Pete?"
That was all Kevin said. Peter had seen men die before. He himself had never taken life, but he had witnessed it passing before his eyes, another's senseless crime, or the passing of an elderly soul.
This was not like the other times. Kevin moved different. Not like any man he had seen, too perfect, too natural. He would remember to ask about it later.
Shooting someone in the world where rules applied was a new experience for Kevin. The guy shot at him, he shot back. The guy doing wrong was killed as it should be. It was not so simple he found out later.
Kevin was driven to the main office, placed in a room; his weapon was taken from him and dismantled. His ammunition was counted, the items on his duty belt inventoried. He was interviewed by a detective in the department, and the district attorney.
Kevin was let go approximately eight hours after the shooting occurred.
He was told he would be on paid administrative leave until the findings were back from the investigation of his shooting.
Kevin found it hard to believe it was this convoluted. Fortunately for him, the store had just installed the latest gadget in mini-store security. A surveillance camera had recorded the entire event. Peter had had a chance to review it, as well as the sergeant responsible for Kevin that night.
Peter met with Kevin the next day at his residence. He wanted to go over some things before having him to his house.
"The shooting was perfect," Peter said.
Kevin had killed people where he felt sick afterward, many times. He didn't feel that way this time around. He knew the guy he killed in that store was going to kill that clerk, and he did his best to kill him. It was just. Kevin had no regrets, and felt odd at the procedure following an on-duty shooting; it was as if he were the criminal.
"I watched the video of the shooting. You were fast, Kevin, really fast. They teach you that in the Marines?"
Kevin answered honestly, "Yes, they did."
"Good, you did real good. I have no doubt we will be using that video to train recruits in the academy of the dangers out there, and how to deal with it professionally."
Kevin laughed, "Professionally? I like that."
"Seriously, Kevin, you're going to be all right. Back to work in a couple days. You need anything; you want to talk about it?"
Where was Peter eight years ago? "No buddy, I'm good."
"Good, well do you feel like meeting my son?"
Kevin and Peter drove to a single family home in the foothills. It was away from the clutter and noise of the city. It was probably the closest thing Peter could afford to the ranch where they spent so much time as boys.
Still in the city limits, this place resembled the home of Kevin's childhood. A single curving block to itself, lots of kids running around, neighbors that knew each other's names. Kevin parked in the driveway next to Peter. Once inside, Peter spoke briefly with a middle aged woman, obviously his son's babysitter then called Kevin forward. The lady passed Kevin in the hall. She reminded him of the pleasant faced house mother on Facts of Life. She smiled and was gone. Kevin walked the short hallway which led to the main living area. It was definitely an all boys' club here. There were pictures in frames of Peter in various uniforms of the profession, a wall devoted to the adventures of Peter and his son.
Spaced in appropriate spots were a television as large as the projection screen in a theatre and a large leather sofa and two recliners. Kevin remained standing until the little man came down the hall.
He was a good looking kid, slender, a growth of spiky blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a walk just like his father's.
"Kevin, this is my son, Ethan." Peter's face took on a new direction in the presence of his son; it was apparent he loved the boy deeply. His pride was filling the space around all three of them.
Kevin took a knee, "Hi Ethan, I'm Kevin."
Kevin put out his hand for Ethan to shake; Ethan bypassed the handshake and hugged Kevin. Kevin had never been around children, the gesture felt strange. Ethan pulled back and spoke.
"My dad told me all about when you and him were kids. He said you're the closest thing he ever had to a brother, besides his brother, and that I should call you Uncle Kevin. Is that alright?"
Kevin didn't know little kids spoke like that. "How old did you say he was?"
Peter laughed, "I know, he's something. Tell him how old you are, son."
"I'm six and a half."
Kevin looked to Peter, "Ah, yes, the halves. Do you remember when we thought older was better, my friend?"
Kevin redirected his gaze to Ethan. "Yes, Ethan, you can call me Uncle Kevin, or whatever else you come up with."
Ethan seemed pleased with that and smiled, "You want to go outside and play catch?"
Kevin told Ethan he would enjoy that very much. The three moved the introduction effortlessly into the backyard where Ethan found the nerf football his father had bought him. An hour passed with the three of them passing a foam football, laughing, and thinking nothing could be better at this time and place than the simplicity of it all.
When Kevin returned to work the following week, he was greeted with new found respect. No one called him the new guy any longer. His shooting had developed into something of mythic proportions. You would have believed he had slain five armed men instead of one.
At some points it was disconcerting. Kevin had never been comfortable with killing people. Now, in his new life with a false history following him, it was only slightly better - knowing firsthand what the dead man had been about and what his intentions for Kevin had been. Still, this new status amongst his peers left him feeling as if he'd cured cancer instead of eliminating an outcast of society.
Kevin had proven himself time and again as an Officer every other officer could count on. Through the days, weeks, and months, he had quickly become a favorite within his department.
It was for this reason he had been extended an opportunity to try out for the department's full-time SWAT team following his successful completion of his probationary phase.
Peter had also been selected for testing; however, his test came four years later than Kevin's. The old high school rivalries seemed to find them in adult life.
On the morning of the tests, Kevin woke early, his stomach a buzz with what lay ahead. He felt at home here. He felt this next step in his profession the right one for him. He met the guys on the team, fine men all of them. Every one of them fit, tactically sound, proven operators. In the end, they were guys you could count on when the shit hit the fan.
Kevin arrived early. Peter drove in mere seconds after him. Kevin grabbed a water bottle and jogged over to Peter's truck. "You ready there, mister?"
Peter was smiling, "As ready as I can be. You know I've tried to make the team on two other occasions."
Kevin didn't know.
"First time, I twisted my ankle on the run; second time, I missed a shot on the pistol course."
Kevin offered Peter some of his ju-ju---"You'll be fine Peter. You're a specimen, always have been, let's go rip this course a new ass."
"Easy for you to say Marine Sniper, you were brought up in this shit. You could be the SWAT team."
Kevin laughed at his friend, offered a few more words, then made his way to the table.
The senior team members had set up a long table at the north end of the testing facility. The place was fairly impressive by any standards, huge range floor, a state of the art shoot house, a five story repel tower, and an obstacle course to rival the one he had faced in boot camp.
Circling the encampment was a track with designated stations for push-ups, pull ups, sit ups, and dummy drag.
As Kevin approached the table one of the senior guys remarked, "Here's our shooter, how you feeling this morning, Anderson?"
Kevin smiled wide. "I feel like doing my best, sir."
Kevin provided the respect due to the senior team members. It was a part of this culture as it was in the corps. There were five officers testing for two positions. The first test was pull-ups while wearing twenty-five pounds of gear. The standard test model called for two, chin over the bar pull-ups. Since there were five guys, and only two spots, those testing were told to do as many as they could. In the end, they would all count.
Kevin watched as the first man jumped up on the bar. He was Kevin's age, several inches shorter, not a hint of body fat. He was capable of five.
Peter was fourth up. He was still lean, still very fit. He mustered ten. When he dismounted, the rest of the guys were clapping. He gave a mock bow and told Kevin good luck beating that one.
Kevin didn't know exactly how far to go with this. He was capable of fifty pull ups at a go. They were his favorite upper body exercise thanks to Will.
Kevin took his grip and hung in place awaiting the go signal. When it came time, Kevin performed twenty perfect pull-ups. One of the team members administering the test finally told him to get off the bar. The other members of the team were trying not to look impressed. The next station was a 880 yard run. Intermixed in the run were ten up-downs at ten different cones, a 165 pound dummy drag, and a sprint for home. The time allotted was four minutes and thirty seconds.
Three of the try outs came in at just under the 4:30. Peter dusted it at four flat; Kevin crushed it at three minutes and twelve seconds. The guys were scratching their heads when he finished. Everyone else came across the finish line as if they had run a marathon. Kevin, who had maintained a sprint throughout the course, took one deep breath and was normal.
The final P.T. portion was a 40-yard dash from a prone position while carrying a shotgun. The time to beat was eight seconds. Once again, Kevin and Peter had the fastest times. Following this were the shooting portions.
There were two courses of fire. One was a combat pistol course utilizing the department issued SWAT Pistol, a Springfield 1911 45. Second was a rifle course using the M-16 style assault rifle. Kevin had specialized training with both. Both were favorite weapon systems of his.
Peter was first up. He ran both courses flawlessly. His time was within guidelines and his hit count was 100 percent.
He was guaranteed one of the slots.
Kevin went next. Should he make the times and the hits the second opening was his. In this instance the others participating in the test would be dismissed.
Kevin was geared up, his course of fire before him. He remembered Will in that moment, the hours of instruction followed by days of performance. He had shot courses such as these thousands of times, had taken that training to the ends of the earth. This had consumed a major portion of his life and he flowed through it effortlessly.
The day ended with congratulations born of sweat and toil. Kevin and Peter were taken to the SWAT house and issued their sets of BDU's and load bearing vests. Both would be trained as entry personnel for the first six months.
Following that, they could try out for different assignments within the team.
As they walked back to their vehicles, the day behind them, each wore a mask of contentment. Kevin hadn't felt what he was currently feeling since he was a child. Peter felt the pride of diligence paying itself off.
"Guess I'll see you here tomorrow, team member."
Peter looked to his friend, felt the world at his feet.
"Yes, team member, you will see me here tomorrow."
Both laughed like kids. The dream was realized, the best job the department had to offer was theirs.
Kevin sang along with the radio while driving home. It was a beautiful spring day and his foreseeable future seemed brighter than the sky overhead. He walked inside throwing his keys to the kitchen countertop, and after pausing briefly to fish a Gatorade from the fridge, took his new gear into the living room. He dug it all out of the call out bag and placed it on the large coffee table. It was standard issue stuff. Good stuff, but nothing he hadn't seen before, and some not close to the level of some his previous employer had provided. He tried everything on. He made the adjustments to the load bearing vest, and placed items on the belt and vest where he liked them. It had been a good day. After fixing his gear, he secured it all in the large black bag the department provided. Next, he opened his weapons cases and got to work on dismantling and cleaning both firearms.
He worked at this in auto pilot. He had done this so many times it required very little of his attention.
Work done, Kevin put the call-out bag by the front door, the weapons by his bed. With all of the chores attended to, he put one of his grandfather's albums on, Marty West, Gunfighter Ballads, while he fixed himself dinner.
A plate of spaghetti, along with a fresh salad and French bread and Kevin was done for the day.
The next morning, Kevin rolled out of bed at 0500 hours. He showered quickly, dressed in P.T. gear and hit the road. The training day began at seven. Kevin and Peter had been briefed about their new responsibilities as the junior men on the team.
Each was tasked with chores at the house, prior to the rest of the team members arriving. Peter was already inside when Kevin pulled up. Gear in hand, Kevin walked through the door and greeted his friend.
"There's my boy. What's left to be done?"
"I don't know, man; I already cleaned the briefing area. You want to make coffee?"
Kevin stored his gear and found the coffee maker. Right next to that was the large tin of Folgers. Kevin learned about coffee from Will, prided himself on the virtue of a good cup. The Europeans had it right; America was still way behind the curve on coffee consumption. With some disdain Kevin brewed the generic swill for the rest of the team, while making a mental note to replace the Folger's with something more palatable tomorrow. The other members of the team began arriving. Some of the younger members, guys with less than a year or two themselves, walked into the house in the fashion of King Arthur.
"There's our new bitches" one of them exclaimed.
Peter wanted to say something; he had been with the department as long as the man who delivered the good natured insult. He thought better of it; he understood the unwritten rule about SWAT hazing. Soon he would be a senior member of the team and other newbies would follow for him to look upon with mock disdain. The team formed up outside as soon as the team leaders arrived. There were twenty-four members on the team. Two team leaders, and a team commander.
The alpha squad team leader, Sgt. Lampry, called the men to order.
"Any injuries to report since last training?"
No one raised a hand, no one spoke.
"Good, let's get going."
With that the unit began. The first portion of training was always cardio. Within the SWAT Ranks, the proof was easily found in the pudding. Call-outs lasted anywhere from an hour to four days. If your heart was weak, your endurance suffered along with the team members who depended on you for their lives. The first mile was a slow clip, the second faster, the third more in line with a sprint. Following the cardio session, the men found a piece of earth and began to push. Fifty push-ups down, everyone rolled onto their backs and began a series of sit-ups, flutter kicks and leg-raises. Finally, the men formed up at the pull-up bars, five sets of ten and the P.T. session was complete.
Back inside the SWAT house, the men took seats at the various stations in the briefing area. As the two newest members, Peter and Kevin were forced to stand, making themselves readily available should a ranked team member need anything.
Kevin could tell Peter was a bit cheesed by the whole process; he should have tried the Marines, he could have appreciated this level of embarrassment for what it truly was. Kevin was the gopher for Bravo team.
In the twenty minutes it took Sgt. Lampry to go over the day's training, and field any bitches or complaints, Kevin had refilled twelve coffee cups, handed out fourteen bagels, and wiped the chin of two team mates. He smiled through it all. Again, Marine Corps boot camp made this seem like a summer day.
As briefing neared its conclusion, one member of the team, Ben Cooper, let an extraneous length of flatulence release for approximately the sixth time in a ten minute period. The smell of sulfur and heat induced spoiled eggs emanated from his raised posterior. Sgt. Lampry, who up until that time behaved as if Cooper had not polluted the entire house, offered the funniest remark I had ever heard up until that day. Without missing a beat, he stopped mid-sentence, looked to Cooper and said in a 'Are you fucking kidding delivery', "Son, you are creeping me out, and your shorts, way too tight around your balls." The room erupted in laughter as Cooper looked down to see if his shorts really were too tight. Sgt. Lampry raised his hands as if to say, "okay," then dismissed the team to gear up for movement drills. There were several groans from the audience.
Movement drills meant just that: full call-out gear, unloaded weapons, moving through the various places designated by the team leaders. Besides accurate shooting, it was the bread and butter of the SWAT team. It was akin to the Spartans' time honored training tradition "tree fucking" where the ranks would file together and in full gear, shield at the ready, push against an immovable tree until they could push no more. The training made them strong and unified, no army of their time was ever capable of pushing through their ranks in a head on attack.
Kevin and Peter were taught the basics of stealth and rapid movement. It was the same principals taught to Kevin long ago by Will. The only difference was now he would have a large group moving with him.
As everything else he would learn among the team, it came as easy as breathing. By day's end, Kevin was called into the team leader's office. Sgt. Lampry was seated behind his desk; he looked to Kevin, asked him to sit.
"I was watching you out there, Anderson. I get the feeling you've done this shit before."
"Yes sir."
"Well, tell me about it. Loosen up, son."
"I had some excellent training officers in the Corps, sir."
"I would say so." Sgt. Lampry was flipping through a folder. He read aloud: "Force Recon, designated marksmen, a dozen or so confirmed kills in the gulf, Silver Star, Bronze Star, and after ten years of exemplary service an Honorable discharge, that you, Anderson?"
Kevin thought briefly of his true confirmed kill count, "Yes, sir, I suppose it is."
"Yes, well, we don't usually get new members here with your type of experience and training."
Kevin nodded.
"Paulson is leaving the team for a position in Dicks. He's an Alpha team sniper. We'd like you to fill his spot."
Kevin had been on the team for one day. He had no leverage, no past deeds that would secure any right to a favor. He asked for one anyway.
"I accept, sir. There's just one thing."
"Speak."
"The other new team member, FTO Stone, he and I grew up together, trained together since we were very young. With a precision rifle he is every bit my equal if not better. I would request respectfully that he be assigned as my team mate."
Kevin was aware snipers of the new age did not work alone. They were paired in teams, sniper/observer. Both were trained on the rifle, both were trained in field craft and observing. It was not an extraordinary request.
Sgt. Lampry yelled past Kevin. Cooper's immense frame came shadowing the door.
"What's up, Sarge?"
"Tell Stone to get in here."
Sgt. Lampry shook his head while looking away as he heard Cooper's voice boom, "New bitch, Sergeant wants to see you now, and don't forget your knee pads."
The rest of the team took time out to chuckle and add their own slew of cat calls as Peter ran red faced toward the office. Peter arrived pissed off but in control. He looked to Kevin, looked back to the sergeant, believed somehow they had already fucked up.
"How'd you like to be a sniper, Stone?"
Peter smiled at Kevin while agreeing that he would like that very much.
"Good. Go by the armory, tell them I sent you, advise them you've been selected as the new sniper team, replacing Paulson and his observer. Make sure they give you deployment kits as well. Anderson, I have confidence you know what should be in one."
"Yes sir."
"Excellent, now get out of here."
When they walked out, Peter looked back, and then looked to Kevin; he acted as if he were awaiting the punch line. "We've been training for one day, what happened in there to get us the upgrade?"
Kevin slowed his pace but kept walking, "I'm not sure, Peter; he asked if I wanted to be a sniper. I said sure."
Peter laughed, "Is that because you're the coolest new kid to come along in a while, or because your donger is so long?"
Kevin laughed back and remarked it had to be his donger. Peter stopped his friend just before entering the armory. "What did you do in the Marine Corps, Kevin? Exactly?"
"What do you mean?"
"Stop playing coy dude, I'm not like that shit taster Cooper, which by the way is not far from taking a shot in the mouth, or his fuck pals Denburg or Watkins. I'm Stone, the guy who's known you almost your whole life so let's hear it, why are the two new guys being put in a sniper team position?"
"Didn't I already tell you this my brother, I was a sniper some of my time in the corps, perhaps that was it, or perhaps no one else wanted the slot. Not everyone wants to sit on the anthill a hundred yards away and stare through a scope for eight hours, you know?"
"You're so full of shit; you probably won the Wimbledon Cup while you were in. That it Kev, you some thousand yard shooting master?"
Peter was speaking with a tongue in cheek cadence but Kevin knew there was more to it, questions he would really like answered. Kevin just let him go on until they were inside collecting weapons and new gear. It could wait for another time, hopefully until they were very old men. Maybe then Kevin could unburden his load.
They had trained together almost every day for the past two months. Peter hadn't lost his knack for the scoped rifle. Because of Kevin's modified background, he was placed as primary marksman between them. Peter didn't mind. With Kevin he had nothing to prove.
The call-out came as most do, middle of the night, a couple of hours into the sleep cycle. Kevin looked to his pager; read the triple three's that were the standard text for a SWAT Call. He phoned into dispatch, was given a micro-brief: man armed with rifle, holding family hostage. He dressed in a hurry, grabbed his gear by the door and was on his way.
Peter woke his son. The boy stirred slightly, clearly not impressed by the need to get going.
"Daddy has to work, baby. I have to take you over to Janet's house." Janet was Peter's godsend. She never turned him down no matter the time of day or night.
Peter carried Ethan in a blanket. He was at Janet's house in less than five minutes. "I'll come by and get him as soon as we're clear."
Janet put Ethan to bed in the guest room used only by him. Her children were grown and moved away. She saw her grandchildren only a couple of times a year. Ethan made up for that.
Due to the nature of the call, responding members drove right to the crisis site. Kevin and Peter were quickly donning their gear when the team commander showed up.
"Alright, men, continue getting ready, but lend an ear. We have one white male subject, armed with a hunting rifle. He beat his girlfriend earlier in the night, broke her nose, possibly her jaw. Boyfriend called her at the hospital while patrol was taking her statement. Told her he was going to kill himself, but first he was going to kill her parents."
The Commander drew out a rough sketch of the neighborhood where the parents were being held on a white board. "Where are my sniper teams?"
Peter spoke up, "Alpha team here, sir."
"Alpha, I want you two to find a position out in front of the house. Tactically it's a fucking nightmare. Residential area, houses and street lights everywhere. You'll have to hide in plain sight. We got patrol blocking off the streets leading in, but we'll still have folks waking soon, heading out."
Peter and Kevin ran off into the night, Kevin with his weapon system still encased in the drag bag, Peter with his M-16 at the ready.
The command post where they'd briefed was approximately a ½ mile from the hot zone. Kevin led Peter to a large carpet of grass that intersected with a neighborhood park, and when the house came into sight, they low-crawled the rest of the way.
It was too dark to read house numbers. Both knew from the sketch it was the fourth house from the east end of the block, sitting on the north side. The commander had been right. To fully engage the front of the house they would have to lie in the open. The choices were too limited to count. Peter made a gesture with two fingers to a playground. It was two-thirty in the morning. Kids would not be an issue.
Slowly they continued the crawl. Several minutes later they found themselves sheltered moderately under a large twisting slide. There was just enough room underneath to house both of them.
Kevin set up shop while Peter kept eyes on the residence. He spoke quietly to Kevin as Kevin checked his dope. Kevin left the rifle zeroed at one hundred yards. This was considered point blank range for a Remington 308, sniper system. In the Marines his rifle, when he utilized one, was zeroed at four hundred yards.
The transition to a much closer proximity was one of necessity. In an urban environment you had to account for a hundred other factors. First and foremost was pinpoint accuracy. In war, shooting a man in the chest, stomach, leg, was every bit as good as a head shot. It took the soldier out of the battle. And if another of your enemy stepped in front of a shot which you took from eight hundred, or a thousand yards, oh well, shit happens. Should that happen here, and an innocent citizen loses his life, you were fucked.
The other important factor was the head shot. If the snipers' skills were necessary in the city limits, it generally meant the bad guy had a bomb, or a gun and one or more hostages he was willing to kill. To do that, his finger was already on a detonator switch, or a trigger, waiting to end someone's life. Cutting the power source, which in this context meant the immediate neutralization of the central nervous system, was only achieved by a well-placed head shot.
Kevin understood the reasons and the necessity for such close ranges. He knew the average police sniper shooting was approximately seventy yards. Knowledge in hand, this did nothing to detract from the fact from this range, when he placed the glass on the intended target, he felt like he was right next to the guy, could read his lips if he were speaking. Sometimes it could be unnerving.
Peter was relaying information to command: "Two story dwelling, yellow and white in color, four large windows on first level, two showing topside.
Lights are burning on the number one side, bottom level, window Charlie. I have no movement at this point."
Kevin had screwed back on his wind and elevation caps. His zero was set at one hundred yards. Peter had already ranged the house. They were eighty-two yards from the front door. The settings on the scope required no alterations.
Kevin flipped on the night vision; the house glowed grainy green in the scope. Now they waited. A sniper's vision was good in the glass for about twenty minutes at a time. Any more than that and the fatigue and eye strain put your reflex and ability at a diminished capacity. That was the reason for two-man teams. One rested while one kept vigilant.
The Bravo team had made their way to a position in the back or number three-side of the residence. They had forwarded their report, no activity as well.
An hour had passed with one sighting of the male subject in question. Kevin had seen him walk in front of the window. He looked outside quickly then disappeared.
Peter kept watch through the spotting scope; this was the game, hours of waiting, watching, and then an outcome. Sometimes peaceful, other times not.
"You remember the times in the woods around your grandpa's place, him leaving clues to a target, us trying to track and stalk it without him finding our location along the way?"
Kevin smiled, not removing his eye from the scope, "Little did he know he was training a couple of twelve-year-old snipers, huh?"
"Your grandfather knew exactly what he was doing."
"Yeah, I guess he did. It was what he knew, ya know? That was him, though, always passing on his knowledge."
Both said, "Great fucking guy" simultaneously.
Alpha and Bravo entry personnel were set up at points on both sides of the dwelling. The houses to either side, three deep in each direction, had been evacuated.
With the house surrounded, a team negotiator made a call. The man inside the house picked up. He was slurring his words, obviously upset and intoxicated.
The SWAT Team waited.
The man had told the negotiator he wanted to speak with his girlfriend, wanted her brought to the residence. There was no way that was happening. The trick was making the man inside believe it could happen if he cooperated.
Peter and Kevin lay patiently for two more hours. Kevin had seen the man pace in front of the window several times now. He had looked out to see where the cops were.
He was young, maybe twenty-one, a normal looking kid, upset and agitated. Kevin could see all of this through the scope as if he were standing in front of him.
A decision had been reached.
The man was not coming out. The girl's parents were possibly inside the residence, and they were not going to be let out. The man had not let the negotiator speak with either of them so it was unknown if they were in there, and if they were, if they were still alive.
The beaten girl was adamant her folks were inside the house. They were there on vacation to see her; they drove a white Buick Century. The Buick was parked outside. The girl knew her boyfriend owned several rifles. She had said he hunted often and kept the rifles in a safe in the bedroom. It was nearing five in the morning. People in the neighborhood would be waking up for work. In half an hour the area would be compromised, completely.
The time to act was now, before more innocent lives could be harmed. Entry was going to be made. At one point during the waiting game the man had closed the curtains to the first story windows. The sniper teams had no visual into the house.
The last call was placed.
The negotiator told the man this could all end peacefully. Other than the fight with his girlfriend, everything to this point would be an easy fix.
He told the man there were officers waiting outside of his house. All he had to do was walk outside, his hands held above his head. He would be driven to the police station where they could work this out in person. The man was crying on the phone, said his life was over; everything was fucked up because of him. He was crying and then he wasn't.
The man's voice turned into something opposite. It was angry, a sneer of forced words through clenched teeth.
"You tell your officers the first one I see, I kill. You got that mother fucker, you tell them that, tell them!"
The negotiator was going to say something else; he wasn't given the chance. The line hadn't disconnected, the man had just put it down. The negotiator could hear muffled pleas for help, a female voice crying.
Then he heard the man say, "I'll show that bitch."
Kevin and Peter saw it at the same time. Stillness replaced by glass disintegrating, shots echoing, shattering the early morning calm.
There was chatter on Kevin's headset. It was something to the effect of shots fired, and if the shooter presented himself to take the shot.
Peter spoke out loud, his eye still focused through the spotting scope, "Guy's got a rifle. He's shooting in the direction of one of the entry teams to the west. The team's pinned down. They can't see from their vantage. Take him Kevin, take him."
Kevin saw it too. His body responded to the threat. Two shots had been fired, the pause in between shots meant the shooter was using a bolt action rifle. Still, the only thing visible was the rifle's barrel; the shooter remained behind the curtains. Kevin lined up on the barrel, moved his rifle to where the shooter's torso should be and fired.
The shooting stopped, and except for the ringing in his ears the world was once again quiet.
Peter had witnessed the barrel fall in the window's jagged slot, beyond that there was no movement. He reported the shot taken by Kevin to command.
"Alpha Sierra One has a shot away, threat has stopped firing. Repeat, Alpha Sierra One has a shot away, movement has ceased."
Kevin's weapon bucked. He rapidly worked the action, a fresh round in the chamber. He focused intently, gauging the need for a follow-up shot.
He asked Peter, "Is he down?"
"I think so man, the rifle dropped the second you fired. It hasn't moved."
Kevin found the rifle in his sights; it was half in, half out of the window.
"Alpha provide cover, Bravo make entry." It was the commander ordering the entry units to take the house.
Kevin kept vigil through the glass; he watched the precision movements of the entry teams carrying out their order to move. Bravo worked expeditiously, one man breeched; the third in line tossed the flashbang.
The entire unit moved as one right on top of the explosion. In mere seconds they had infiltrated the residence. Cooper had been first in the door, and first to discover the remains of the shooter. Kevin heard the traffic over his headset, "Command--, Bravo team, I have one down, repeat, suspect is down."
"Command copies, one down. Ambulance is staging."
Peter looked over at Kevin in the fading darkness. "You got him man, you got him."
Bravo team finished their search. Reported two subjects taped up in the living room. Both were scared. One had been beaten, but still they were alive.
Paramedics were cleared to enter.
Kevin's shot had found its mark. The 168 grain boattail hollowpoint traveled the eighty-two yards in less than a second. The resulting damage was a through and through shot entering the upper torso and impacting the heart as the bullet traveled through. The aftermath was near instantaneous death. The man would have known he was shot, and not much else. This was the second man Kevin had killed in the line of duty.
Kevin was cleared of any wrong doing; his shot was deemed necessary to save the lives of his teammates, and therefore justifiable.
Kevin dealt with it the way he always did. It helped his conscience knowing firsthand his actions had saved others. He'd never had that before. In his past deeds knowing was never an option; he followed orders and that was all.
Taking life, however, was taking life.
It found him at night, in his bed, in his dreams.
The faces of men fallen by his hand.
The word of God said, "Thou shall not kill"
Kevin wrestled with it perpetually. How many men had killed other men in the name of God? So many Gods, everyman believing his the right one. In the end you didn't know until you knew. And then, would you know anything? Or would the world simply cease to exist.
Kevin did what he could, tried to live a good life, an honorable life. He helped those he could help and let the rest be. He spent time everyday thanking his God for every day. Prayers concluded, Kevin sat on the floor, his hands together in front of him, his breath reverberating in his throat traveling up into his nostrils. The sound it made helped his mind to clear. That was the goal after all. He had attempted meditation almost every day. Some days he was successful, other times his mind ran frantic with wayward thoughts and obligations. He was never good enough to make the time last more than ten or fifteen minutes. Still he remained. The thoughts would come, touching his brain with the insistency of a pesky fly. His only relief was trying over and over until the thoughts ran clear, mind with no mind.
Thinking about not thinking about anything was the same as thinking. That thought found him every time.
Tomorrow brought three days of freedom.
He had invited Peter and Ethan up to the cabin. A boy's getaway like his grandfather used to do for Peter and himself.
They made the journey together. Kevin listened intently as Ethan replayed the events at school on Friday. He was a remarkable kid, very mellow, very little fuss. He behaved like a small version of his father. That made sense; his father was all he had ever known. Peter was sitting shotgun in Kevin's jeep; Ethan was buckled safely in the back.
Kevin watched Peter's face from time to time as the boy would speak. He shifted in his seat to truly watch as his son spoke. It was a bond everyone should have in their life at least once.
Kevin had never really dated, never contemplated having kids. There was never time, and had there been it would have been a relationship built on lies. Kevin saw no value in that. Watching Peter, however, the way he and his son spoke and played and cared for each other, it left a small empty pocket. He felt a longing for something that was never meant to be his.
Ethan fell asleep an hour into the drive.
Peter turned back to face forward. Kevin remarked at the calmness, the maturity of his son.
"He's a good kid. I haven't been around many, but I'll bet they're not all like that one."
Peter smiled with satisfaction, "No my friend, not even close. He's a lot better boy than I ever was. I don't know where he gets it."
"You don't, huh?"
"Well okay, I guess he gets it from me, but I didn't want to take all of the credit. I think some kids just grow up knowing what's right, without a whole lot of coaxing."
"He's you, man. Back when you were his age, I bet you were just like that. Granted, I met you at what, 12, 13, and you were already spent by that point, blew your wad early, but I can imagine at seven or eight you were still a decent kid with some redeemable qualities."
"Thanks, chief. As I remember you weren't the spelling bee champ and eagle scout yourself."
"We're not talking about me, and actually I was the spelling bee champ, so suck it."
Peter laughed, "Look pal, that thing you did in the first grade where they spotted you the "c" and the "a" and somehow you came out with cat, doesn't count."
"Why can't you ever just let somebody be good at something without qualifying it? Bullshit."
The good hearted banter continued all the way to the cabin. Once they had arrived, Peter eased Ethan into wakefulness, "We're here, champ."
Kevin and Peter hauled in supplies while Ethan explored. Peter told him to stay within shouting distance. Ethan found everything in the way someone so young would. The tall trees, the rugged cabin, the greenery everywhere you looked. He pretended to be in the old west, a cowboy, or Indian looking for that night's dinner. He was climbing a nearby tree when his father called him down, told him to wash up.
Dinner was hamburgers and chips. Kevin had cooked them on the BBQ, and they were fantastic. Ethan ate relatively well for such a thin child. Another thing he had in common with his father.
Dinner finished, Peter gathered up wood for an outdoor fire. The pit they had built as boys was still there. The rocks surrounding it from which they had gathered from everywhere remained intact.
It was Ethan's first time trying s'mores. He ate three of them before his father got a bite of one.
Chocolate and melted marshmallows were a tapestry upon the boy's face and sleeves. Kevin laughed as Peter did his best to clean Ethan off.
Finally, Kevin and Peter drank coffee brewed over the fire, while Ethan enjoyed milk. The weather was perfect, cool with just a taste of breeze. The stars lined up the way they always do, the difference being you could actually see them from here.
Peter enjoyed the peacefulness, while his son asked his best friend about the various star patterns. It was what life was about. No work, no one trying to hurt someone else, no other people for that matter, just family, and a place to enjoy them.
The weekend went as all good times seem to.
They arrived back in town late that afternoon. Ethan had slept on the way back as he had on the way up, a child's gift.
After dropping Peter and Ethan off, Kevin drove to a favorite Chinese place. He secured an order of Sizzling rice soup, Mongolian beef, and steamed rice. As he waited for the order to be filled, he watched the other patrons. Couples on first dates, families with teenage children, and an older couple, they all seemed to be enjoying their food, enjoying this place. Kevin would look, catch himself staring, imagining what conversations were taking place, then look away.
There was something amiss within him today, perhaps it was the time spent with Peter and Ethan. Watching them interact, the joy they obtained from nothing more than each other's company, he felt, well, lonely.
It was stupid, he knew. He chose his life. He was responsible for each and every choice of his illfated, less than peace-filled existence. But still, he felt it.
On the drive back to his house he looked at his surroundings. He had noticed everything before, the tree lined streets, mothers and fathers pushing children in strollers, kids on bikes, dogs on leashes, and it was everywhere all the time he supposed. But today, it was in his head. He felt longing as he had known only as a small boy when his mother left him. Well, she hadn't really left, she had lost, and lost dearly, she had just stopped. Her heart had left, taken someplace where no more pain would find it, ever.
Kevin wiped a wet spot from his eye. He shook his head in utter confusion. "This is ridiculous," he said to the air around him. "What the hell is wrong with me?"
He knew, though, he always knew.
Kevin pushed further, the untangling of thoughts appearing and traveling between his soul and logic. He would be thirty-two in a month. He had nothing to show for his time on earth. No wife, not even a girlfriend. No kids, no family, no one.
Kevin softened in the middle then, his sob found that place that all grief knows, the one spot within all of us that swells and pulses, heaving and retreating until finally we push it down and lose our breath, or let it out to surprise us and leave us spent. Kevin didn't allow this spool of thread to unwind any further. He deafened the noise, stamped out the flame. He found something to listen to on the radio. He turned the song up, attempted to sing along. Still, the heart knows what it knows. It doesn't need us to tell it anything. That was God's design, a fully functioning monitor to the soul, complete with a million years of memory; no one hurts alone, though we believe pain a solitary figure. It finds us in more ways than we know. What blade runs through the heart of man and leaves his brother clean? It can't, and it never has.
Kevin was home. He gathered his food along with himself and walked inside. He put the food in the refrigerator; he was no longer hungry. Kevin splashed water on his face and took a glance in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. He wiped at them harder than necessary and then headed for bed. He looked at the ceiling seeing nothing but space. He was alone now, in every sense of the word. He moved his head, his eyes followed along, noting the various parts of his room. Shelves of books lined the walls, a painting or two, a photograph. His life, his personal tribute to God's work, was a lost thing, a being of habit, not really alive in the traditional sense, a creature of different goals, a frightened little man, covering himself with the shroud of sameness, of self-worth that had saved more like him, however might not save himself in the end.
It was momentary delusion, he assured himself. This was Ethan, that perfect little kid, so much like the father who adored him. Peter had loved someone very much. Had loved and talked, and dreamed of a life he would never know. That ended, but still he knew it, had experienced it, had conceived a child so much like himself, he could hold him and truly thank God for something. Can everyone say that? Could he?
Kevin let those thoughts roam around as they would if he agreed to it or not. He relieved himself from the prone position and walked to the living room. He found his duty belt, put it on, emptied his pistol, checked three times that it was without magazine or a round in the chamber, and then proceeded to train.
He drew the weapon from its holster slow at first, then faster with each repetition.
He watched in the mirror, making sure the draw stroke was fundamentally perfect. Convinced that it was, he checked his weapon again, then dry-fired.
He had his body armor draped over a hanger; the hanger was secured to a chin-up bar in the doorway. His grandfather had repeated the rules of gun safety so many times it was never an issue, safety first, every time, checking until you were sure. He knew the gun was empty; the body armor was yet another safety precaution. He had practiced his trigger control like this thousands of times. The front sight clear, target blurry, weapon up in the eye line, press.
The weapon held steady, no jerking, no extra movement; it was a discipline, an unnatural act made natural by years of dedicated practice.
Kevin checked the time. He had been at this for over an hour. He placed the magazine back into the weapon, racked the slide, checked to make sure a round had chambered then put the pistol back in the holster.
His world was righted by the simplicity of the activity. His mind clearer, he noticed his appetite had returned. He heated the soup first, ate, and then continued on until he'd had his fill. The meal was delicious. Once again, he believed he could be grateful for what he had.
It was Kevin's and Peter's team's time on duty.
They were no longer considered new guys. Since the shooting, both were received as any. Their membership amongst the proven was no longer in jeopardy, they were the proven. They moved their gear to the third range floor, the one utilized primarily by Sniper teams.
There were numerous shooting stations, distances out to six hundred yards, and a ten foot high beam of dirt and cement shielding their fire from those training on the range floors opposite to theirs.
They began as most days, checking their zeros with a cold bore shot of one hundred yards. After checking the targets, each fired a four round group.
After checking this and noting all was in working order, they carried on with the day's training.
Today was hostage work from impractical but possible positions of fire. Every sniper hopes for a spot in front of a threat where he can lay prone, utilize three points of contact on the rifle, and make it as steady as it can possibly be. Unfortunately, this just isn't realistic. More often than not, you were left standing behind a dilapidated fence, up on your toes, just trying to hold your aim and keep the threat in the scope.
Starting at fifty yards, Kevin took aim on a target showing a man and a child's face. The man held a gun to the boy's head, approximately one half of the man's face was visible, the boy's face was shown in its entirety. It was the type of training every law enforcement sniper team needed. This was their role; this was what they got paid to do. Kevin had already checked his zero; he was snuggled between two trash cans in a semi-contorted seated position. He brought one knee up, placed a sand bag on it, his left elbow on top of that. From there, he tried to find the most stable platform to fire his rifle from. As he found the man's right eye in the glass, he took notice his position was far from immutable.
The scope's reticle was bouncing in a pattern resembling a small figure eight around the man's eye. The power of the scope made the movement seem far greater than what it really was.
Kevin held firm, his breathing took its usual pace in these moments, in---out----in----out----fire.
Kevin worked the bolt, chambering a second round; he examined the target through the scope. The round had found its intended mark; the man would have been immediately incapacitated.
Kevin and Peter took turns working the possibilities from this position. After ten rounds each they moved to a new location one hundred yards out. Again a seated position, only this time they made it stable with the use of a camera tripod. Kevin extended the arms of the tripod while Peter checked his rifle. Peter took a large sandbag from his field kit, placed it on top of the tripod mount where the camera would have gone. Together, they adjusted the tripod until it was in a perfect place and height for Peter's seated station. Peter rested the rifle atop the sandbag, pressing downward until it grooved itself a sturdy notch. Afterward he moved in close, pulling the stock to his shoulder. After fine adjustments were made, all that was left was to lay his right cheek in its familiar position leaving a perfect eye line into the scope.
The target depicted four life-size faces, two on top two on bottom. The goal was to get away all four head shots in less than ten seconds, with each round entering a portion of the face which would cause immediate incapacitation.
A simple task for an accomplished marksman in a fixed prone position; from this position, however, a generous measure of skill was necessary. Peter found his target, started with the top left hand face, moved clockwise from there. He finished the drill with three seconds to spare.
Kevin watched through a spotting scope, all hits, all finding the spot between the nose and the mouth. It was the soft spot of the human face, the place where flesh was the only real impediment standing in the way of the cord which served as lifeline to the brain. It was taught, practiced, and counted on. Hit a man's skull, you never knew, the bullet does amazing things when faced with an obstacle. Limit those, and the chances of saving innocent life increased.
They were two and a half hours into a four hour block of training when Peter pulled up rubbing the base of his neck.
"Jesus, my head and neck are killing me." He rubbed as he spoke.
Kevin offered some Excedrin he kept in his kit bag. Peter took them, though he'd already took three Tylenol just prior to their training.
"Thanks, man. I don't know what's up, been having this pain for a week or two now, constant nagging shit."
"You see a doctor?"
"No, man, they're just headaches. I figure it's all the time behind the rifle. Neck gets sore, shit tightens up and the head follows suit."
"You should see a doctor," Kevin said as he watched his friend.
"Alright, mom, I will if it'll make you worry less." Peter laughed after his remark, but the pain remained.
"You want to pack it in?"
"No, no, just give me a minute, I'll be good as soon as the pills kick in, let's just get some water, huh?"
They moved to a shaded spot. Peter drank long swallows from a bottle of Gatorade, and then stretched out. Kevin removed the bolt from his rifle, punched the bore with some damp patches as his friend closed his eyes.
"You ever get these headaches before?" Kevin asked while running his third patch.
Peter didn't open his eyes, the darkness seemed to help. "As a kid, I think I got a few then, not since."
"Well, I'm sure it's probably just the training, but it never hurts to be sure, you see that doctor."
Peter was sure he and Ethan were the only things in Kevin's life resembling a family; he understood his friend's concern was genuine, but talking about it was beginning to freak him out a bit. He pretended the pain had subsided, moved to a seated position and suggested they carry on.
"Are you sure?" Kevin replaced the bolt.
"Yeah, man, I'm good. Let's get back at it."
When the training day had reached its end, Peter was in agony. He bid Kevin farewell and drove straight home. He stepped into the shower, his greatest desire some relief provided by hot water.
The relief sat upon a distant shore. He couldn't have seen it with his scope. He dried off, made a call to his physician.
Peter woke the next morning with his head pounding. It was as if the muscles in his neck had swollen and fused with the lining of his brain. The pain was enough that he had trouble focusing.
It had been like this before. Not exactly like this, but enough so that he had felt apprehensive. He didn't know what to make of it. The job he supposed. The way they trained day in and day out, all of the working out, the rifle up position and prone position with the head up for hours at a go. Must be it. He walked to the bathroom, retrieved the bottle of Ibuprofen. He had bought it last week, a bottle of fifty, now there were less than ten pills remaining. He shook his aching head, "Jesus, have I taken that many of these?"
The question troubled him. He had been healthy his entire life. Never got sick, ate right, worked out, didn't smoke or drink, and now these damn headaches, out of nowhere. He sat on the counter top and swallowed four tablets with a small gulp of water. He breathed out, tried to relax his neck and shoulders. The pain was ever present. It spread and would not retreat.
He called Kevin, explained he would have to miss training.
Kevin said he'd cover for him and asked what was up? Peter lied, said he had to do something at Ethan's school. Ethan, damn, he had forgotten to wake him.
Walking to Ethan's bedroom did nothing to ease the pain; each step brought a new throbbing. At one point he feared he might throw-up.
"Ethan, buddy, wake up, Daddy let you sleep a bit too late." Every word drove a sliver of glass into his head.
Ethan rolled out as he usually did; he got dressed without a word and met his father in the kitchen. Peter made him an English muffin the way he preferred it, with peanut butter and syrup. He told him he would have to eat it on the drive.
Peter donned his sunglasses and drove without talking. Ethan didn't seem to mind. He was a good kid. Peter was lucky. When they arrived in front of the school, Peter leaned over and kissed Ethan on top of the head. Ethan told his father he loved him then jumped out and ran to his class.
Peter drove straight to his doctor's office. His face must have revealed what his head was feeling. His doctor saw him within twenty minutes.
Peter explained the headaches, the duration of them, the onset with no warning, and the acceleration of their severity. Peter's doctor called over to the medical building where testing and lab work were performed. He had been Peter's doctor for a long time, he knew Peter rarely visited and when he did it had to be something truly making him feel like crap.
Peter gave blood and had a prescription for migraine medicine filled. He was scheduled for an MRI the following afternoon.
Peter took the meds and hoped for the best.
He picked up his son on time and began feeling a little better.
By the next morning the headache was back.
Obligation
Peter drove to the medical building feeling mild agitation. He had shit to do, and no time for this. Scan complete, Peter met with his doctor to go over the results.
It was four in the afternoon, almost closing time for his doctor he was sure. He had made arrangements prior with Janet to look after Ethan.
Peter sat there. The examination room was never a place of ease. He never knew if he should sit on the doctor's stool or up on the table. He felt like a fool sitting on the examination table before the doctor entered, so he generally opted for the stool.
The doctor entered, asked Peter to follow him to his office. Peter walked in in front of the doctor. It was the first time he had seen the private office. It was quite nice--rich wood grains and sturdy leather chairs--he thought briefly if the examination rooms were set up in this fashion people wouldn't have such a phobia of visiting. Peter was offered a seat and took it.
His doctor sat down behind his desk, removed his glasses. He placed a large manila folder in front of him. Anxiety began to creep into Peter's head along with the throbbing ache.
His doctor looked to the folder then to Peter, "What I have to say isn't easy."
Peter breathed in sharply, let a mask of bravery shield his true intention.
I received the results from your MIR a little while ago. You have a mass, Peter; it's formed at the base of your skull and moved upward."
The doctor stopped speaking, removed what looked to be a complicated x-ray.
"It's cancer, Peter. Your blood work confirms it."
The last things Peter heard was mass and cancer. The doctor went on explaining everything in medical terms, very technical vernacular for which Peter was sure made absolute sense. Peter felt the room spinning. His head was on fire as it had been for the past month. He wanted to scream, but the pain and his bearing wouldn't allow it. When Peter was capable of speech, he asked about his options.
"Sadly, Peter, there aren't any."
Peter felt cold, his face felt flush, his extremities frozen, he didn't know what to do. For the first time in his life he had no idea what to do next.
When he said the words, "how long" it felt as if he were an actor in a cheesy high school play. This couldn't be, could it?
"Best estimate, six weeks, maybe two months," The doctor said in a firm but gentle tone.
Peter didn't say anything else. He nodded, stood, shook the doctor's hand, and started to walk out.
"Peter, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
All Peter could muster was, "Me, too."
When he got to his truck the world lost its place, he fumbled his keys, righted himself, got inside the cab.
Peter looked about, spotted no one close by. He shook all over, one enormous tremor and he was gone. His sob caught in his throat. He wasn't thinking of himself, it was Ethan. All he could picture at that moment was the beautiful face of his only son. How could he explain --- the thought was too much, he doubled over and cried out loud.
Crying was replaced with sobbing and finally the aching words that bubbled from his lips, no---, no---.
When Peter made it home, he walked directly to Ethan's room. He knew Ethan was still playing at Janet's house. His mind was on fire in more than one way. Too many things to say, no time to say it all, no time left to make this right. Six weeks, six weeks and he would be dead and his boy would be alone.
Peter felt his legs collapse beneath him; he fell to his knees and laid his head on Ethan's comforter.
He reached out, pulling the bed spread to him. He cried again, wailed into this place where no one else would hear. He had to get this out now, couldn't allow Ethan to see him this way. The tears and the words compiled to form overwhelming grief. His guts felt vacant, moving, his heart was beating out of his chest, filling the room which held his boy--his whole life.
Would God hear any of this, would it matter? How many had fallen to their knees this very same way? This pain was a single prick of light amass a million suns. He felt no right to be angry with God, he felt weak in the solitude of despair, the depth of this selfish pity. He had been a strong man, had fought for things, believed in things, it was beside him now like a betraying friend laughing at him. He spoke to the walls around him, was sure they were the only thing listening, "What do I tell my son?" he screamed to the walls that surrounded him, "What do I tell my son?"
His head grew tighter, the pain a lemon in a vise, he didn't care, he dared it to take him now.
In the time elapsed, Peter sat back, his body heaving, his insides pulling to be free. It was too much, all too much. He didn't move from this position for some time. He let the tears dry where they lay. It was what it was, his life, so perfect with his son, his friends, his job, and now this. He had never felt this alone in his life. And now he would have to pick-up his boy, bring him home and make believe everything was alright.
He would hold his son as he had never held him before. He would make him his favorite dinner, read to him, tell him how much he loved him, how proud he was to be his father, then kiss him goodnight, as if it were any other night.
Peter let himself grieve for ten more minutes.
Following this; he got up, walked to the bathroom, washed his face, and looked into the mirror as if for the first time. He searched the eyes he had known since time began. They tracked the place in his head where the pain emanated. He stared, as if doing so would allow him to see the cancer behind his skin, buried not so deep behind the skull which protected his thoughts and dreams and concerns. His was still a place of disbelief. How? How does this happen to a man with so much left to do? With a small child to care for? He wouldn't let the words escape him. He already knew it wasn't fair, but was it ever? Did anyone deserve this? It was enough for now. He changed clothes, took more medicine to ease his head, then drove to Janet's.
Ethan was playing outside when he pulled up. He watched for a moment. The perfect little boy which had only known him, been his piece of this world, his true claim to existence. He pushed the thoughts aside; it would start the tears again, and now, in front of his son was not the time.
Janet gave Ethan a quick hug then waved to Peter. Ethan ran to his father's truck, opened the door, and jumped inside. His face was flush with the exertion of youthful play.
"Did you see me, Dad? Janet taught me how to cart-wheel today. I did it about a hundred times."
Right behind his eyes, the floodgate was moving, pushing forward. His face grew hot and his throat dry.
"Yes, buddy, I saw you and it looked great."
Ethan smiled; he beamed as most sons did with the praise of their fathers.
"Am I coming back tomorrow?"
"No, pal, tomorrow is for us. We're going someplace special."
Peter had already made up his mind to take Ethan to several destinations he had always meant to take him, but somehow always lacked the time. No excuses anymore, nothing would ever be more important than right now.
Ethan looked at his father intently, "Where are we going?"
Peter had a million places in mind, thought of the first one that popped into his head, "Disneyland, we're going to Disneyland."
Kevin was walking in darkness. The sky held the moon at bay, a prisoner of the abyss built of dust and vapor. He traveled on this way for an unknown period of time. Ahead he told himself, just a bit further.
He reached a hillside covered in long plush grass and coarse muted weeds. His legs felt the moisture in the land beneath him, he was getting closer.
It was before him now. A bright moving lake filled with fresh blue water, the surrounding shoreline a swirling drift of rock and grain and sand. He stopped there, letting the image unfold completely. He was sure if he moved too close the scene would vanish and he would be left entangled in a dismal imitation of solace. Something swept past him.
He didn't look behind him, kept his eyes toward the front. It was peace in all forms. No one was here; he told himself again, no one was here.
Light filtered in through the moonless sky. It was artificial, had to be, it was the middle of the night. Kevin squinted, kept vigil on the water ahead; he didn't want to leave this place.
Voices began stirring at the edge of the lands around him.
Kevin closed his eyes and pictured the lake, believed in the cool blue depths, washing away the sins of yesterday. When he opened his eyes the water was different, it had moved further away and was now shielded by shapeless forms. Kevin felt a familiar weight pressing down on his soul. His head hurt with the effort to conceal the truth, the empty lost place reserved for him in all worlds seen and unseen.
Kevin felt the sting as the first apparition passed through him. He was helpless to stop them. They found him this way. There was no escape, no refuge from past deeds. Only the truly insane could circumvent a conscience role in the retrieval of guilt. Kevin was not insane; his liberation was not to be found.
One by one the dead appeared.
His dead.
Kevin woke, his dream fading. It was still dark out. He hated that. When the ghosts came to call, he wished only for light.
His blankets were twisted around him, his body positioned at an angle that should have induced a headache. He reached for his pager, checked the time.
He hadn't had the dream in some time. He hoped it would pass as he sat up and rubbed away sleep.
He wouldn't return to bed.
Kevin walked to his kitchen, retrieved a bottle of Gatorade and took several short swallows.
His hands were cold, numb in places. That bothered him as well. His paranoia lent itself to thoughts such as these. What if someone were to break into his home as he slept? He would wake surely, but if his hands were numb when he needed them most, what then? Then you would be repaid, Kevin Anderson, then you would be repaid. He laughed in spite of himself. Kevin didn't believe that really.
He had done terrible things, yes, but he would never turn over his life because his trigger finger was not working properly. Kevin was trained to do one thing, win. If someone, anyone ever forced entry into his home he would not stop fighting until he, himself, or both were dead.
He had met people in his life that thought opposite, gave brief ridiculous statements such as, "If it's my time, then it's my time" or his all-time favorite, "I could never kill another human being." Well, if that "human being" was a low-life piece of shit hell bent on taking your life then Kevin had a certain pet phrase of his own, "Fuck 'em."
So many thoughts swam in and out, and all were engaging the same basic instinct. How could he be so different from the rest of the population?
Hemingway had said it; Orson Wells had his take, too. Men who hunted armed men lose their taste for anything else. And the citizens of this world, the sheep who sleep peacefully in their beds at night, do so only because men like him stand ready to do violence on their behalf. He was a necessity. People didn't want to admit it, and people cursed him every day for one thing or another. But let one of those same people hear glass break at the back of their home, it wouldn't be God they called to make the bad man go away, it was him, and those like him. Kevin hated to think that way. The self-righteous protector of all bullshit really wasn't his style, but he had seen enough violence, been forced to perpetrate enough violence, and had listened to enough insulting rhetoric slung at him and the others in his profession that sometimes he just couldn't help it.
Daylight was still two hours away.
Kevin showered, dressed in track pants and a sweatshirt, and hit the road. He would run for an hour, re-shower, and then head for the office.
Four days passed in a blink. Peter had spent the days watching his only child enjoy the best life had to offer to a ten year old. His thoughts were a wash of what was known, and what had to be done.
He had comprised a plan. His best friend would have to assist. He would have to make his case and pray Kevin would understand. It was impossible, he was sure. Kevin would look at him as if he had truly lost his mind, and in some ways he had.
Ethan was at school, it was nearing eight-thirty. Kevin would be up; he placed the call.
Kevin arrived a half an hour later. He hadn't seen his friend in over a week. He looked fit as always, fit and alive.
"Sit down. I need to tell you some things."
Kevin took place in one of the recliners, remarked at the comfort.
Peter sighed, paused a moment, started again. "I have cancer."
Kevin's smile removed itself completely. His face turned a shade of gray, his eyes softened. "Oh no, no, no, what are you talking about man, you're the healthiest guy I know."
Peter was unable to hold his gaze, "I found out last week, my headaches, there's a mass, they can't operate."
Kevin was standing, "Oh Christ, what are you telling me Peter?"
Peter looked up at his friend, "I'm dying, quickly."
"How long?" The word's had venom, Kevin was stationary.
"Six weeks."
Kevin sat back down. He put his head in his hands and started to shake. Peter leaned over to place a hand on his back. Peter heard the words barely reaching beyond Kevin's lips, "How?"
"The doctor gave no reason, said sometimes there isn't one."
"More tests, Peter, a second opinion. We'll find a specialist."
"I saw the x-rays, took all the tests, it is what it is."
Kevin felt like an asshole, he was reaching, reacting, while his friend was consoling him about his own impending death.
"What can I do?"
Peter heard the pleading in that sentence, refused to lose his bearing; he had one chance to ask what needed to be asked.
"I need you to end my life."
Kevin was speechless.
"Listen to me please. I've thought about this every minute of every day since I got the news. It's the only way."
Kevin began to speak; however, he was cut off.
"Let me say this, please. I waste away in a hospital bed, mind rotting, body melting away, my savings is gone and Ethan will have nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing." Peter had to stop and regain control of the words. "If I die on duty, Ethan gets everything--my life insurance, survivor benefits, the works--you and he will be set for the rest of his life."
It became clear to Kevin at that precise moment. Peter intended for Ethan to live with him. Ethan would become his responsibility, his child to raise, all of which was acceptable, all except for the part about him killing Peter.
"Peter, of course I will take care of Ethan, but I will have no part in harming you." Kevin couldn't even say the word kill.
"Then who Kevin? You are the only one that can do this. I know you've killed men before. Hell, I witnessed you kill two on duty. I saw you man, saw the way you operate, how many others? How many? I bet you've never told anyone, have you? You need to be that guy one more time, for me."
"No, Peter, no fucking way."
"Have I ever asked you for anything?"
"No you haven't. You feel this is a good one to start with? Jesus Christ."
"I can't go out like that." Peter was starting to cry. "You have to help me. Help me do this. Save me."
Kevin stood, pulled his dearest friend into his arms; they stood that way for some time, neither one speaking, just the sadness, the overwhelming unease.
"I can't kill you, Peter, not you. You're all the family I have."
Peter slowly pulled free, sat back down. "I'm going to die, Kevin. I'm going to die in a very ugly way. I can't do it. I can't have my son see me that way, remember me as a fading tragic memory."
Kevin was numb; he understood the words, found it hard to place them between he and his best friend. It was the difference between people like them and the rest of the world. It was the choice any warrior would make.
"How? How do you see this thing---"
Peter spoke softly; he laid it all out for Kevin, down to the smallest detail.
When he'd finished, Kevin nodded. Peter made him say it, made him promise.
Kevin promised.
Kevin drove the lengthy expanse of dirt and rock which led to the cabin of his childhood. Since that time it had been the scene of countless memories, mostly of him, Peter, and recently, Ethan. An old log structure equipped with the modern necessities, Kevin had visited whenever he could. It was surrounded by forest, his nearest neighbor two miles in either direction.
After leaving the Marines, he had spent his time between here and his home figuring out what lay ahead. He slept, ate, trained, read, and that was all.
His grandfather had taught him about survival here. What he could and couldn't count on. He had fired his first shot up here, made his first kill. He was seven then. Kevin unloaded the rear compartment of his jeep and walked inside. The place always smelled like home. Cool, alive, there was a taste of smoke from the large rock fireplace which was used nearly every night he spent here. He placed the few items he had brought on the small dining room table. He would be here two days. He wasn't hungry and doubted he would be. He spent the first morning walking alone in the woods.
The day brought clouds and mist and air thick with dew. He didn't notice. It was his favorite time of year, always had been. He walked and walked. His thoughts would not clear. He didn't want to be inside, didn't like the idea of being enclosed. He found a spot high above the mountain range. A few brief pulls and steps and he was sitting atop a piece of granite roughly the size of his jeep.
He sat still, his heartbeat the only sound in his ears. Below him lay the world as it was intended to be, as God had imagined.
What God? Kevin thought. The thought lingered though he didn't want it to. Kevin had always been a man of faith, a boy of faith for that matter. He attended church only three times. Kevin didn't believe his mistrust in organized religion would shield his heart from God, so he prayed, every day he prayed and thanked God for something. Now he was unsure and it weakened him, blemished his soul. His head and heart ached with the toll. Kevin looked around seeing none of the beauty. He walked back to the cabin.
Once inside Kevin turned the dial three times, pulled, and retrieved his grandfather's Remington. Only one person had ever seen this rifle.
It was crafted in 64', and it was untraceable.
The rifle was true, the only modification a Leopold ten power variable scope. Kevin rested it upon the earth as he had been taught so many years ago, his target a 5 x 6 piece of steel two-hundred yards away.
The rifle was zeroed for this distance. Habit trained him to check, so he unscrewed the wind and elevation caps, checked the settings, replaced the caps, and tightened them till they would turn no more.
The steel was clear through the glass. He adjusted his folded left arm underneath him, pulled the stock in tight to his shoulder and relaxed. The steel faded, the crosshairs took focus. He breathed, three counts in, three counts out, repeat, on his third cycle, just before taking air back into his lungs he depressed the trigger. Three and a half pounds of pressure brought the sickle shaped piece of metal to the end of its path.
There would be no need to find the target through the scope.
The sound of the bullet impacting steel made its way to Kevin's ears in less than a second. Kevin let go of the rifle, rolled onto his back and screamed.
Peter spent the morning arranging necessary documents. Not enough to draw suspicion, just so Kevin could find them. He left all of his possessions to his son. The benefactor of his life insurance was Kevin. He'd detailed a letter leaving Kevin as sole guardian of Ethan in the event of an untimely demise. Since hearing the words that changed everything, he started a journal, a short collection of thoughts, beliefs, and lessons he wished to pass on to his young son.
He looked it all over and felt the sadness. "An unfinished life" Wasn't that what Kevin had called his fallen brother's life, unfinished?
His time for personal grieving was over. His plan was in motion, his decision final. His son would be home in less than an hour. Peter had no delusions of the pain he would feel every time he looked at him. For Ethan it would be just another day in a series of many. He and his father hanging out, maybe playing catch, some dinner, then off to Janet's while dad went to work. Morning would come, his dad would pick him up, make him breakfast and off to school again, the cycle of his young life.
Only this was the end of that flawless, simple cycle.
Tomorrow, Ethan would be told his father had been killed in the line of duty. A few days after that, he would be handed a flag by a man in uniform. The man would tell him his father was very brave, and he died protecting people, and that he should be very proud.
Ethan would behave as he would expect his father would want him to. He would do his best not to cry, thank the man for the flag, then try to make sense of the life left ahead. Peter wanted to stop right there, but he couldn't. He thought briefly of a life without Ethan. How he would react if someone came to his door and told him his son was dead. Peter was weak. He hoped that his son was strong. He prayed that somehow his son possessed what he himself lacked.
When Ethan came through the front door, Peter was waiting for him. He ran from the place just inside the doorway and scooped him up. Ethan laughed as his dad spun him around. When he was put down, he hugged his father, hugged him for a long time.
Peter kneeled and looked into Ethan's eyes. "Is everything okay champ?"
"Yeah, I just love you Dad."
Hold on Peter, be strong. The words were spoken so often in this house. It was so commonplace for them, still it was different now, but only he knew it.
"I love you, too, son."
Peter followed Ethan into the kitchen. He watched his boy pour a glass of juice, asked him to pour him one.
Peter invited Ethan to sit at the dining table. They sat and drank their juice, Peter asked questions.
"If you could be anything in the world, what would you be?"
Ethan twisted his face the way boys do when they really think about something, "A tiger."
Peter laughed, "A tiger? Wow that would be cool."
"Wouldn't it, though? We've been learning about them in school. They're really neat, strong, fast, and great hunters."
"Okay, let's say you had to be something that required you to stay in your human form, what then?"
Ethan smiled at his dad, "Then I'd want to be you."
"Me huh, why me?"
"I don't know, Dad. You're just the best person I know."
Peter motioned for Ethan to come to him. He pulled him in close and rested his chin on Ethan's head, "You're the best person I know, too, kiddo."
Ethan pulled away to look at his father, "Even better than Uncle Kevin?"
"Yes, even better than Uncle Kevin."
The afternoon was spent this way. Peter took all that he could, not a single second was preoccupied in some unnecessary minor thought. All of his attention, every ounce of his energy and focus were where they should have been all of Ethan's life.
Peter pulled up to Janet's an hour later than was normal. Janet opened the front door before either had exited the car. She stood there in front of the doorway waiting for Ethan to come inside.
Peter had placed some cash in an envelope, said it was a bonus for all of the times he and Ethan appeared at odd hours.
Janet did her best to politely refuse the money. Peter was adamant; Janet said she'd just spend it on Ethan anyway. Peter hugged Janet. He thanked her for being so good to Ethan. Janet blushed like a school girl. One last, long hug for Ethan and Peter was off.
Peter drove the streets as he had for the past five years. His head hurt as it had for the past two months. He pulled into the parking lot of an old, rarely used church. The city had a million of them it seemed. He had never really noticed before now.
He found a long wooden bench in a side yard of the brick and mortar building.
He took a seat and prayed. He asked God's forgiveness for being a coward. He then asked that his son be kept safe and healthy. Peter had prayed many times for the boy. Always, he included health in the request. Finally, he asked God to give Kevin all of the courage he himself could not muster. Now, with everything else, his eyes burned from the tears that clouded them. The tears were consistent with images of the boy, and the thought of never holding him again.
Peter stood and walked to the cruiser. Its familiar lines, the horror it struck in some, the relief in others. He got in and drove. He checked his watch and noted the time. He placed his final call. Kevin picked up on the first ring.
"Are you in place?"
Kevin heard his best friend's voice and thought he sounded as he always did while wearing the uniform.
"I'm here."
"Good. I'll be there in two minutes."
Kevin began to choke. He had more to say, more than he ever had to say before. He reached through the phone; at least it felt as if he were. His heart was broken and his resolve was crumbling.
Peter knew it. The silence was crushing in its meaning. He had asked a friend to do what no friend should ever ask.
"Kevin?"
Kevin was doing what he could to remain level.
He breathed out slowly.
"Kevin, stay on task..... Keep your word."
Kevin was incapable of speech. He looked at the phone, and it held no comfort.
"Kevin."
"Yeah, Peter, I'm here.
Peter let himself think of it for a split second. Had anyone ever undertaken an obligation such as this?
Peter parked his cruiser and looked about. The area was as grey as his soul, all concrete and corrugation.
"This is the only way. I am dying, and you are saving me, saving my son." Peter didn't dare say his son's name. At this point hearing it spoken out loud would have left him stranded.
Kevin sniffed and cleared his throat. He finally spoke. "I'll keep him safe." It was all he could muster.
"You tell him no father ever loved his son more."
Peter was back inside his patrol car. He looked around one more time then keyed the mic.
"Control, 4L24, 10-37."
"4L24, go ahead," the dispatcher replied.
"I'll be out with one in the area of Chabot and Jennings."
"Control copies, out with one."
Peter stepped from his vehicle and walked to the front of it. He drew his service pistol as he had a thousand times in the course of his duties. This time there was no one to point it at.
Several hundred yards away, Peter's best friend was waiting in darkness. In less than a minute an all too familiar sound would crack the air around him.
Peter wouldn't hear it. For him, the world would have already ceased to exist.
Kevin spoke to no one. He was speaking to God, but he knew God was not listening, nor would he ever again. He found Peter through the scope. His eyes would not focus. His breathing was labored with the effort of it.
Peter lifted his pistol and fired three times. His target was not important, the gesture was.
Kevin knew he would never be the same man.
Peter let the pistol fall to his side and closed his eyes. On his lips his son's name.
Kevin kept his promise.
Keeping a Promise
The water ran over him without cure, one hand on his heart, the other over his mouth. He rocked forward and back, his eyes looking down, always down. Humans are flawed. Kevin was soul-less, lost to his race.
Not far off the phone would ring, then his pager.
In preparation, Kevin had taken leave. Those who worked closely with him believed he was out of town. It didn't matter. Everyone at the department knew the bond Kevin and Peter shared. They would find him, and several would come. The team commander had lost men before, had seen the result of those left behind. When one falls, all are damaged. He would know/believe this would be something altogether different.
The internal dialogue was rampant. Absent was the coordination of thought necessary to gauge time. Kevin stood in the shower a long time. No attempt was constructed at restoring clean. Clean was a state of being for the living. At some point hot water was replaced by cold. His head on fire, his skin unsympathetic, he remained. Too soon, too soon he thought. Kevin turned off the water and lowered himself to the floor, a towel beneath him; he laid adrift, his world a tiny space. In a room occupied solely by pain, Kevin let go, his wails of grief, a song the dead never hear.
Blackness and shadows were interrupted by light.
Kevin didn't know the time, didn't care. He hadn't left the bathroom, he was unsure if he ever would. His skin had dried at some point. He was seated now; his legs folded beneath him like a child.
There were things to be done. His pager had beeped consistently for the past several hours. It was odd, he thought. He was sure his team thought him on vacation, probably with a drink in his hand, sand beneath his feet, and ocean looming just ahead. No one would suspect, or believe Kevin the monster he actually was.
Officers were grieving, cursing the gods for taking such a fine man. They would put together the pieces, construct the crime scene, measure distances, wound patterns, trajectory of the flight of the lethal round. Officers would be sent out in teams to scourer the surrounding businesses, fields, and hillsides. They would call it an ambush, a direct assault against the entire police department, an act of domestic terrorism. Surrounding agencies would be notified, all would want to help, all would feel what all felt. Those who wear the badge know the reality of what they do. They don't speak of it, but they know. People hate the police. Until they need them. Police officers are killed for no other reason than being police officers.
Kevin rubbed his skin without feeling it. He cried until no more tears seemed possible. His head was the one thing he could feel; however, that was an abstract lesion as well. There would be more time for this. That was a thought he gave some consideration. This action had an everlasting reaction. Kevin didn't have to trouble himself with the idea of ever being free of this considerable burden.
His life, if you could have ever called it that, was an immeasurable lie, and piled upon the heaping rotting mountain of sin was the final act, the one he would not outrun. Somehow he had maintained a safe distance from the rest of them. Somehow his past performance walked itself to the park; shit on its own time, just a matter of training and discipline he supposed, like all animals capable of learning.
He had taught the dead to stay dead.
But they had been strangers.
Peter Stone was Kevin's best friend. Peter was Kevin's brother. Peter had never perpetrated a harmful ill-intentioned act in his entire life. He was an innocent soul, a strong man concealing a child's heart. Peter was a father. And now, Peter was a memory, a story to be told by those who knew him best.
There were no more prayers to be said.
Kevin wouldn't ask for anymore favors, he didn't believe anyone had ever listened anyway. How do you do it? How do you take a man like Peter, give him a disease untreatable, force a position of absolutes? Kevin had tainted so many lives, hurt so many men. What had Will told him, Monsters Kevin, you're killing monsters. Who was the monster now?
And these men, these monsters, didn't they have families? Didn't they have people who loved them despite their indulgencies and indiscretions?
Kevin was sure they did.
So that was it then, Kevin the fucking murdering asshole lives on, while Peter the good dies by his hand.
The world as we know it.
Oh Christ and Ethan, what about Ethan? He was supposed to look him in the eye and speak quietly of his father's passing, hold him and comfort him, tell him someday it would be alright. It wouldn't, Kevin knew that, it never would be alright, just another hole aligning itself with the rest that would follow. Each a different size and texture but none familiar, each its own gnawing greedy leach attaching a foothold to one's soul.
A thought interrupted, He could end it all now.
Ethan would mourn only one man, Kevin would simply be an afterthought. What was that kind old lady's name? Jenny? Julie? Janet, that was it, Janet. Ethan would receive a million dollars at least. When Kevin had joined on with the P.D. he had no family left, didn't know who to sign as beneficiary in the case of his own death. After meeting Ethan, he had made the choice. Janet would be a wall of support and Ethan would gain enough from his survivor benefits to last them both their lifetimes. Now he was talking, Kevin finally felt a lift, a moment of purpose. He walked to his bedroom, opened the nightstand drawer, removed the snub-nose 357 he kept there.
Kevin lay in his bed, the gun in his right hand. He was still naked. His skin was white and spotted in patches from the cold.
"Check the cylinder, asshole" he spoke to himself.
The words were the only sound in the dark space.
Kevin opened the cylinder, spun it slowly. Six perfect rounds, only one going to the dance, though.
Kevin found the trigger -- smooth, polished metal -- so familiar to his index finger, so natural, the meeting of the opposite particles of matter.
One pull, he thought, one eight pound squeeze and it all goes away. Never again will you hurt; never again will the dead find you in the dark. Pull it, pull it and become the dark.
Kevin pressed the cold steel muzzle to his temple. He worked it in for a second or two, had to get this right, one shot at glory.
Kevin had made a promise.
The days moved into light, then into dark, and into light as they always had. Nothing changes, everything changes. It was cloudy; his mind was as dark as the sky.
He had answered the page, finally. He had presented himself as he should. His commander spoke to him alone, in hushed even tones. Kevin didn't have to pretend to be grief stricken or surprised. He behaved as anyone who knew him would have expected. Ethan was with him; or rather he was with Ethan. They had been at Peter and Ethan's house since Kevin pulled himself together enough to pick Ethan up from Janet. Janet was inconsolable. She told Kevin she would keep Ethan as long as he needed.
Kevin thanked her for all that she'd already done, said he would be in touch, but in the end he took Ethan with him. Ethan had already been told by the time Kevin had arrived. Another screw up, he supposed, couldn't even be the one to break it to the kid. Kevin was there now, and he intended to pull himself out of his own vortex of guilt and self-pity and help Ethan. If Peter could see him now, he would be pissed.
It gave him a smear of comfort thinking of Peter's presence, a lingering of love for the boy. He called to him; Ethan had been in his room the entire night. Tomorrow was Peter's funeral. He needed to speak with Ethan, figure some things out.
Ethan moved down the hall, his light footsteps barely leaving a trace. He plopped down beside Kevin -- looked at him -- his eyes were red and swollen.
"I'm not going to tell you things that make no sense, like everything will be fine, and you'll get over this, cause you won't and it never will be. What I can do, all that I can really offer is to be here, always."
Ethan didn't say anything.
"Your father was my best friend and I would have done anything for him. He was the only family I had, now you're the only family I have."
Ethan's eyes welled up. New tears were forming. "Why did this happen to him, why my dad, why?"
Kevin was walking a narrow path here and the railing had already disappeared. Ethan folded over, his pain so fresh and complete. Kevin pulled him close, stroked his hair and whispered. He felt for the kid in a way no one else could. How old had he been when his father died, when his brother died, and then his mother left him forever as well.
Kevin was a poster child for loss.
"I'll help you, Ethan, every way that I can. I'll be here for you and you for me. We'll be okay, buddy. Someday we'll be okay."
Kevin repeated the soft soothing tones, kept vigil over the boy until finally his pain turned into exhaustion, and he slept.
Over three thousand cops showed up for Peter's funeral. Agencies from as far away as Texas had sent officers to show their respect. The line of cars and motorcycles lined the streets for a mile. Traffic was shut down for several miles in either direction of the church. Kevin was dressed in class "A" uniform, as was the rest of his department. He would have been one of the six carrying in Peter's casket if not for his obligation to Ethan. It wasn't his place anyway.
He held Ethan's hand as they moved through the crowded lobby, finding their way to the front of the church. Two seats were reserved for them. The team members who knew them best had little to offer. Nods and smiles were painted from sadness and grief. It was akin to being buried alive, the mass of officers, the huge picture of Peter in uniform above the casket, the draped flag; it all suffocated the senses when your emotions had already been depleted without reserve.
Kevin placed Ethan in front of him as the crowd thickened along the final pass of walkway.
They reached their seats, sat without comment.
Ethan was staring at the picture of his father. Peter's eyes were so much like his own. Of all the people in that church, Kevin was alone in his knowledge.
He felt like screaming. An urge poured through his veins to admit his part, ask for no quarter, beg only for shots to ring out and end his miserable existence. Instead, he held Ethan's hand and sat quietly.
Words increased the pain. Words of friendship, prayers and farewells, all were designed to give the survivors closure. Kevin didn't feel like it would ever be beyond him, he was sure Ethan mirrored his emotion.
All were dismissed; the casket was prepared for departure to its final resting place. Kevin and Ethan stood in front of the line as the casket was walked to the awaiting hearse.
A bugler played TAPS, the siren song when the man who serves to protect others dies in the line of duty. It was a reminder to all how fleeting life is, especially when you wear the uniform. Kevin's tears rained new.
At the cemetery, more words were said. The chief handed Ethan a folded flag and said "Bless your father for the commitment and bravery he has always shown." Ethan accepted it like a tiny soldier. His father would have been proud.
They remained until Ethan was ready to leave. He sat beside the freshly opened ground, looked into the space where his father would lie eternal. He had passed distraught some time ago. His little boy resolve had found a place, and for a moment at least he appeared at peace.
"I don't want to remember him like this."
Kevin moved to sit beside him. He put my arm around his thin shoulders.
"You remember the man who raised you and loved you above all others. Every day you talk to him. You talk and he will listen, he'll always be around, always help when you need him."
Ethan looked to Kevin and asked, 'How?'
"The body passes, Ethan. It happens to every one of us at some point, but the soul, the spirit of love, of support and kindness stays. You may not hear him at first, but I swear to you, he'll always be out there looking over you, keeping you safe."
Ethan looked back into the hole, at the casket, and then stood.
"Can we go now?"
"Sure."
Nights would again be the hardest. For Kevin they always had been. After putting Ethan to bed and staying with him until he slept, Kevin was now alone with his memories. He sat in the recliner that had belonged to Peter. He sat there and looked at the wall of pictures, the one's of Ethan growing up and of trips taken and laughs and hugs shared. Peter in uniform, probably his first day, so much younger and full of life. He searched the wall and saw a timetable of a good life, a great life. One photograph caught his eye. Of the countless times he had been over for football games and cook-outs and everything in-between, Kevin hadn't seen this picture before.
It was an old Polaroid, faded slightly, a rough edge. It was of Peter and him, skinny arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, the sun somewhere high in the sky. Kevin was squinting with one eye, attempting to hold the other open. It was in front of that old barn at his grandfather's place. They couldn't have been more than fourteen.
Kevin plucked the picture from the wall, examined it more closely, ran his finger along the edges. Where did it all go? Where does it go? Kevin held on to the picture as if doing so would bring Peter back.
He sat back down and looked at the faces of two little boys, a memory of better days, a brief glimpse of some future promise. All by the wayside now. All dreams must end, as all lives eventually do. It was the ultimate test of will he supposed.
Why do we go on? When the ones you loved leave you, what is left to remain for? Kevin didn't get it and doubted he ever would. So he put the thoughts aside, the bad ones anyway. He had this moment for now, and for the rest he had a child who needed him, and would for some time to come. Kevin's body took care of the rest. Sleep had never been an ally, but it had been necessary. Exhaustion crept in and took him from his struggles.
Morning broke through the kitchen's bay window. Kevin had fallen asleep in the recliner; he awoke with a head full of ache and the Polaroid still in his hand. He moved slowly to the kitchen sink, splashed water on his face and brewed some coffee. Sitting at the small table with his first cup of coffee, Kevin felt anxious.
He had made his choice the same moment he made that fateful promise.
He would resign his position with the Police Department. Kevin didn't need more reminding of the life he had had, of the time spent side by side with the one he eventually destroyed. He hadn't thought that far beyond it. He knew he would leave the force, the rest was still unknown. Ethan walked down the hall then, his pajamas wrinkled with disturbed sleep.
"Hey, pal."
"Hey."
"You want some breakfast?"
Ethan moved his head side to side.
"Okay, but you still need to eat, buddy, maybe a piece of toast or something, huh?"
"Toast would be okay."
Kevin bent down and kissed the top of Ethan's head as he moved toward the pantry. He returned with sourdough and wheat. To his surprise Ethan asked for sourdough. Toast buttered, both sat and ate quietly. Kevin tried not to watch too closely, but couldn't help it; he really wanted to minimize the pain Ethan was feeling. Still, there were no words that would do that.
"Anything you want to do today?"
"No."
Kevin wasn't going to push. All the time in the world, all the time he needed would be fine.
"I need to go to the store later. Will you come with me?"
Ethan shrugged.
"I know this sucks, pal, sucks as hard as anything in this world could suck. I just hope you know you can talk to me, about anything."
"Okay."
With that Ethan shuffled back down the hall to his bedroom and closed the door.
Kevin retired to his best friend's favorite chair. It had been his bed for the past few nights. He couldn't bring himself to lie in Peter's bed. Most nights were spent on Ethan's floor. He would read with him, talk about anything, then settle in there, just below his bed and wait until Ethan fell asleep. Ethan cried in his sleep sometimes, and Kevin tried not to hate himself.
After a week had passed Ethan was back in school. Kevin took the time apart to manage his life, the life left for him and Ethan. He had turned in his resignation. There were several half-hearted attempts to make him reconsider. None were that convincing. All knew the damage had been done and for that there was no coming back. Kevin had received Peter's survivor benefits.
He placed most of it into CD'S and diversified funds to grow over time and ensure Ethan a lifetime of security. Ethan would be able to do whatever he desired. Money would never be an issue.
All that was left was the raising of this little boy. Kevin knew he had to sell Peter's house. He didn't know how to tell Ethan, or how Ethan would react.
Kevin had already visited the same law firm that had sent Mr. Moorenger to see him so many years ago. He named Ethan his sole beneficiary entitling him to the house, cabin, and all of his savings.
Two more weeks had passed.
Ethan was eating again. His sleep was still disturbed, but the traits found in all little boys were slowly returning.
Kevin found the time with him satisfying in a way he could have never imagined. His fear of seeing only Peter in this boy, and therefore hating himself with each moment of guilt, was subsiding. Kevin kept Peter alive in stories and memory. He shared abundantly with the boy tales of his childhood and the friendship he and his father had known.
In these stories he intermixed the tragedy of his own loss and the capacity for healing and belief. It was during one of these stories he drove Ethan to his home. Ethan was unfamiliar with the place. His father had brought him here only once. The other times were spent at the cabin or at their home.
Kevin parked the jeep and walked to the open expanse between the house and the barn.
"You want to see something?"
Ethan nodded that he did.
Kevin walked to the barn and opened the large sliding doors. He moved inside with Ethan right behind him.
"This is where you and my dad learned to fight, isn't it?"
"Your dad told you about this place?"
"About a hundred times, he said it was the one place he always looked forward to being, said you and him would box and punch the heavy bags and tell stories till all hours of the night."
"Did he tell you about my grandfather?"
"Yes, he said he was the biggest man he had ever seen, said he was afraid of him, but in a good way, a way that taught him respect."
"My pops was a big man, but your dad wasn't afraid of anyone."
Ethan smiled just a little.
"You want to try?" Kevin held the heavy bag, looked out from behind it the way his grandfather once did.
Ethan walked over to the bag and studied it; he remarked that he didn't know what to do.
"You and your dad never messed around throwing punches?"
"My dad said he didn't want me to be like him, that I should use my head and learn as much as I could so I could be a doctor or an astronaut or something."
Fathers always wanted better for their sons. Every good dad wanted to protect his kids from the harm in society, the dirty end of the field as Peter liked to phrase it. He wasn't surprised by Ethan's statement.
Kevin was moving from around the bag, saying something to the effect of maybe they should just go in, when Ethan took a shot at the bag.
It was like staring into a mirror from twenty years ago, the broken little boy reaching out to something to make the hurt go away.
"I want to learn Uncle Kevin; I want to know the things my father knew."
Kevin stifled the impulse to cry. It was the most honest statement he had ever heard. The boy's eyes were sincere, his bearing far greater than any ten year olds should ever be. Kevin didn't speak, not yet anyway; he moved back to the bag and threw several short precise punches. The bag rocked as it always had, making its familiar creaking with the aging of the beams that held it. He looked to Ethan and explained what he had done. Children were so different from adults. They needed little explanation. They watched and repeated, little human computers.
After an hour or so, they emerged from the barn, both better for the time spent there. It was just possible things might one day be alright. They had remained throughout the night. The next morning, Kevin cooked scrambled eggs and toast. Ethan joined him without having to be woken up. The boy ate with purpose and seemed okay with the night spent in Kevin's home.
After breakfast, Ethan asked to walk around the grounds. Kevin gave him the guided tour. There were so many spots on that property that brought back memories and tales to relive. Kevin found it therapeutic, and Ethan didn't seem to mind.
It was during this walk Ethan brought back a memory that had been sealed since Kevin left. "Uncle Kevin?"
"Yes."
"I know I wasn't supposed to, but when you were asleep last night I walked around the house."
"Everything I have, you have. Of course it was okay if you walked around."
"I found a room with a bunch of trophies and stuff in it. A lot of them had little golfers on top of them."
His grandfather's den, all of his awards were stored there. Kevin should have put a lock on that door.
Kevin was momentarily miffed, but then thought to himself, Why? So Ethan found his old trophies, so what?
"Okay."
"Did you win those?"
"Yes, I did."
"You must be really good; there were a lot of them."
"It was a long time ago, buddy, and I was okay."
"I don't know why, I guess seeing your trophies made me remember, but my dad used to tell me you were better at golf than he'd ever been at anything. He said you could have played professionally if you'd wanted."
"Your dad was a very kind man; he liked to make other people feel good about themselves. In this case he may have been pulling your leg just a bit."
"My dad never lied to me, Uncle Kevin."
"You got me there, pal."
"Could you teach me?"
"Teach you? What? Golf?"
"I've seen guys do it on T.V. It looks easy."
Jesus, where had he heard that before? "You think so, huh?"
"Sure, you swing a club at the ball and the ball flies for a mile."
Kevin laughed out loud. "Sure it does, pal, sure it does."
"So we can try it then?"
"I don't know Ethan; I haven't held a club in fifteen years."
"But you won all of those trophies; it'll be easy for you."
"You learn that from your father?"
"What?"
"Persuasion."
"What's persuasion?"
"Never mind, c'mon, we'll give it a try."
Kevin found his old clubs right where he had left them all those years ago. At least he had cleaned them before retiring them to the den's closet.
Right next to his clubs were his first mismatched set. They were cut to fit him when he was just a year older than Ethan was now. He brought both sets out to the field near the barn.
"I'm going to warn you right now, what you see in the next few minutes may convince you never to ask about this silly game again."
Ethan knew Kevin was joking, so he stayed quiet and smiled, waited to see one of those little white balls fly into space.
Kevin took a 7-iron from his bag. The grip felt odd, hardened by time; he placed his hands upon it as he'd been taught as a child. He swung the club back and forth; his back gave pause, ached in places it never ached as a boy.
"Hit one, Uncle Kevin."
"I guess I have too, huh?"
Kevin threw a ball down in front of him. He set the clubface behind it and settled into his posture and swung. The ball took flight, a hundred and fifty or so yards straight down the field.
"Wow--, that was awesome, can I try?"
Some things in this world never leave you, no matter how you abandon them, or deny their place in your life. Kevin felt oddly amused by the ball's flight. Here, after fifteen years of forgetting, the swing which was his from birth he supposed was back like a jilted lover, upset, perhaps, but still accepting.
"Sure you can."
Kevin set a ball down for Ethan. He attempted to show him proper grip and stance, but it was no use; Ethan was a boy with little time for instruction. He was going to swing at it and that would do fine.
Ethan's first attempt saw the ball skitter ten yards, never leaving the safety of the ground. His second was no better.
"This isn't as easy as I thought it would be."
"It never is."
"Why didn't my ball fly like yours?"
"It will. My grandfather used to say this was a game of a lifetime. Do you know what that means?"
"Not really."
"Well, it means you can play it your whole life, and it takes time and patience to get good at it. A lot goes into swinging the club properly."
"Can you show me?"
"That's entirely up to you, pal. It would kinda be like we were both starting from the beginning."
"I don't think so, Uncle Kevin. I just saw you hit yours out of sight."
Kevin placed another ball down and took a rip. Again, the ball took off straight and true, landing no more than a few from the first -- crazy game.
Ethan actually listened to Kevin as he spoke of the basic fundamentals of the swing. He wasn't crazy about not hitting another ball for thirty minutes, as Kevin had him take thin divots in a straight line to build repetition, but when it came time to tee one up, Ethan was surprised, pleasantly, as the ball left his clubface and traveled seventy yards before touching down.
"Did you see that, Uncle Kevin?"
"I did, buddy. That was great."
Ethan hit balls until there were none left in the bag. After retrieving the ones hit, he brought them all back to the original spot and started over. On the third cycle Kevin finally had to call halt so they could grab some lunch.
The game had Ethan. Kevin had seen it before. For some the game grabs hold and never let's go, it was like that for Kevin. It was a connection; the silly game played with sticks and little white balls was opening a space big enough for both of them to crawl into.
That night Kevin made dinner at the house. A simple meal of spaghetti and French bread, Ethan filled the half hour with questions about golf, and whether his father had played. Kevin explained to him how his father was far too athletically gifted to settle on such an easy paced sport.
"It doesn't seem to easy-paced to me, it seems like it takes a lot of skill and effort."
"Well it does, it just doesn't seem that way to everyone. Your dad liked to run and jump and throw and you know, anything that needed speed and endurance he was in, the game didn't grab him like it did me."
"You think he would be upset because I like it?"
"I think your dad would be proud of you no matter what you chose to do."
The answer seemed to satisfy him.
After dinner Kevin built a fire as his grandfather always had. He dished out two bowls of chocolate ice cream and asked Ethan to join him by the fire.
He was a good kid, a really good kid. He was mature and composed and truly special. It was hard for Kevin to look at him, especially here in this house and not see his father in every movement.
"Ethan, would you be okay with maybe moving in here?"
He sat there quiet for a minute. Kevin was beginning to think it was just too soon when he said it would be fine.
"It's not going to be too weird for you?"
"Can I bring my stuff from my dad and mines house?"
"Of course you can."
Ethan didn't say much more, didn't try to fill the emptiness with unnecessary words.
He was a lot like Kevin in that regard. For a long time Kevin and Ethan sat there, watching the flames, submitting to silence.
The next couple of weeks saw Kevin moving what needed moving and placing Peter's house on the market. It sold quickly, the area being what it was and the price being a little less than fair market value. Like Kevin's grandfather had for him, Kevin drove Ethan to school and picked him up every day. It was Kevin's favorite task of the day; it was the in-between that found him at a loss. Kevin had never had this much free time, this much space to fill without a clear plan. It was during those free hours that memory came to call. Most people never really appreciate loneliness for what it is until they are completely alone. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad even if Kevin hadn't killed his best friend. He was there around every corner; Kevin swore if not for Ethan he would have ended his miserable existence long ago. Kevin was not afraid of dying, never had been, why would he be? He had seen death so many times. It was peace, the final chapter of unknowing; it seemed calm and serene, at least in its finality. Perhaps Kevin's perception was one of indifference and understanding, more than truth and wisdom. Whatever it was, one thing was undeniable. The dead have no thoughts, that pain is reserved for the living.
Had Kevin always thought this way? One random tracking thought leading into the next? All spiraling down into a cloud of blackness, thickened by an illusion that at some point an end would present itself that made sense, that revealed a peaceful repose? Really, was Kevin that deep a thinker or was he just nuts? He shook his head as if the action would rattle free all of the rhetoric from his brain.
Simple creatures, field mice with a capacity for remorse, all skittering about the maze of this world looking for the next serving of feel good, but alas, to some the feel good has run dry. If Kevin had a fondness for drink he would have gotten smashed then, but he didn't, never had, so instead he grabbed his clubs. Stupid things, how had he ever dreamed of a life where the most important moments were measured by how well he swung them?
Ethan loved it, though, as much as Kevin once had, so for Ethan, Kevin would try, would immerse himself back into a world where childhood memories ran thick and plentiful.
That day after school Kevin drove Ethan to the course of his childhood. It seemed smaller, dingier. As Kevin parked, he tried to recall what he felt for the place; the magic it had held not so long ago. It was the same place; save the new addition to the driving range, they had added a second level to hit balls from. The need to golf had found the nation. Ethan was overwhelmed. He had only hit in the field behind the house. Now, with all of these other players hitting balls and the distances measured out with different colored flags, and real greens and bunkers, well it was a moment he would remember, a good moment.
Kevin purchased the balls and walked him to the western end of the driving range. He had to smile at the sight of it now. It was the same spot from where Kevin had truly learned the intricacies of the game. This place had been left untouched. The same thick green trees held court to the right, the fence line as high as any Kevin had ever seen finding its way to the end of the range floor, and the golfers finishing up on the 7th green walking towards the eighth tee box. Ethan looked pleased; he asked so many questions it was hard to keep up.
"This is where it really begins Ethan."
"What's that, Uncle Kevin?"
"The relationship. Your acceptance of what will most likely always be a part of you. This game is different, pal. It's not something you play as a kid and forget, maybe watch on T.V. from time to time, it etches a place in your soul, it becomes a friend."
How much of that he really understood Kevin didn't know, but Ethan smiled as Kevin said it, so Kevin was sure that Ethan felt it. Kevin saw Ethan's eagerness was getting the best of him so he dumped the balls out near their spot.
"Ready to get to it?"
"Yes, I am."
It had been a little less than a month since he took his first swing; already he was forming a natural rhythm, a melody of movement that would be his and his alone. That's what the best in any sport, any field for that matter, have -- a measure of artistry already inside of them that no one could ever teach. Kevin watched and listened to the sound of the club tracing its way through the air. One after the next, each a different and yet similar song finding Kevin's ears, his soul. Kevin offered little advice.
Ethan didn't seem to mind, he was aware of his swing and not much more. The balls were finding the same place on a regular basis; he was good, very good for the short time involved. Would the adults stop to watch him hit soon?
When he had finished off the bucket, Kevin gave the praise he was due then led him to the putting green. Putting had been Kevin's favorite part of the game as a child. It was the easiest thing to master; at least that's what one believes as a child.
After some rudimentary tutelage, Ethan was ready. He had good hand eye coordination, he easily found pace and green speed.
In time, line and proper aim would follow. They played a game then, the one most children play with their elders. Kevin would pick a hole and putt to it, Ethan would try to get his ball closer if not in the hole. He was fiercely competitive. He wanted to win every time, even though he was new to the form, it didn't matter. By the ninth or tenth hole, Ethan was actually getting inside of Kevin sometimes; it was fun and required all of Kevin's concentration to beat Ethan.
Ethan would have known if Kevin let him win, so Kevin didn't.
On the drive home, Ethan offered future dates and contests, his was a new found love that beat brightly around him.
"When will I be able to beat you at the putting game, Uncle Kevin?"
"Beat me? You believe it's already time for that?"
"Well, I don't know. I think with a little practice I can come close."
"Try a lot of practice, smart guy."
Ethan whispered something along the lines of a lot of practice, his smile was non-faltering.
"You need anything while we're on the drive home?"
"I don't think so."
"Uncle Kevin?"
"Yes?"
"If I work my hardest at this, really try, could I be as good as you someday?"
"Yes, even better."
"You think so?"
"I do."
Kevin studied him; Ethan's face lit up thinking of it.
"You really like it, don't you?"
"I do, but there's something else I've been thinking about."
"Yeah, what's that?"
"What my dad said about you, how you were better at golf than he'd ever been at anything. I want to be that good, do you think he would know? I mean if I got that good?"
The question took Kevin away completely for a second. It wasn't unreasonable. It was a little boy's way of coping. He wanted to make his father proud of him, even in death. Kevin masked the shimmering pool forming in his lower eye lids by pretending to adjust the side view mirror. It hadn't been that long but damn, would there ever be a time the kid couldn't humble Kevin like this, reduce him to this weakened state.
"Yes, Ethan, I believe he would know."
"I thought so too, thanks."
The remainder of the drive was left in silence, both of them visiting memories unknown to the other.
As with most of Kevin's life, days and months passed in a swirl of guilt, pondering, and acceptance. He had known for some time he was unlike the rest of society. He had believed his life, as miserable as it was, would be over long before now. It was remarkable to him, standing there on the front porch of his grandfather's home that he was permitted to breathe the same air as the rest of those around him. How about karma? Was his mental anguish and psychological trauma all the lightning that would befall him? Surely something had to be coming for him.
Light
"Friday"
Kevin was standing there with his laboring thoughts when the silver Ford Taurus pulled into view. Besides Peter, he hadn't had a visitor at his grandfather's house, ever. He watched as a young woman in a business suit removed herself gracefully from the driver's seat. She was authoritive and pleasant all at the same time. Kevin held his spot as she looked around, possibly not seeing him standing on the porch. When her eyes found him, she startled, letting a short giggle escape her before quickly regaining composure.
"Wow, hi. I didn't see you there."
Her face was open, friendly, still Kevin wasn't sure what she wanted or represented.
"What can I do for you?" Kevin said the words a bit too cold. How many times in the line of duty had he approached strangers with questions and commands; he tried a smile to ease the grip of his earlier harshness.
"I'm special agent Collins with the FBI, I was --"
She was pulling something from her bag as she spoke; the time it was taking her to retrieve it seemed to embarrass her, "There we go damn things as big as a dictionary. I was hoping to ask you a few questions?"
Agent Collins presented her credentials; Kevin took half a glance at the black billfold; there was a serious looking picture of Agent Collins, along with a myriad of words declaring her a special agent.
"Am I under some sort of investigation?" Kevin worked hard to keep his face free of tension.
"No, no, not at all, I'm assigned to the Firearms Training Unit, and we are compiling data for a special report made available only to those in law enforcement."
"I see, how can I assist you?"
She was stuffing her creds back into her bag as she spoke. "I'll get right to it Mr. Anderson."
"Kevin."
"Kevin, thanks. We at the FBI have put together a report to help other agencies with ballistics and training, by talking with snipers from the United States who have been obligated to use deadly force in the course of their duties."
Kevin hadn't heard it put that way before, he thought to himself.
"Everything that happened during that call out should be documented," Kevin stated.
She smiled, a measure of unease creeping into her face.
"It was, and I read it, as I do with all cases such as this. It's just, the reports are fact based and concise, as they should be, but there's never any mention, or detailing of the intangibles."
Kevin stepped off of the porch and walked over to Agent Collins. As he got closer, he understood why she was the one sent to ask uncomfortable questions of a male dominated trade. She was pretty; moreover, she was gifted with the air of vulnerability. Kevin was positive the snipers she had questioned prior to this visit had invited her in, poured her drinks, and waxed on about the art and philosophy of their skill, the cunning it took to outwit and neutralize the bad guy.
"Intangibles?" Kevin said with half a grin.
"I won't take very much of your time. I promise, just a few questions and I'm out of here."
"The person you got my address from, did he tell you I'm no longer employed as a peace officer?"
"Yes, he did."
"Did he say why?"
"No Mr. Anders---Kevin, he didn't."
Kevin watched her face searching for any trace of deception. She was either being completely honest, or had been given formal classes in drama, along with federal law.
"There really isn't much to say, Agent Collins. It was---"
"Allison"
"I'm sorry?"
"My name is, Allison. Please. Agent Collins is just for introductions."
"Okay, Allison, I'm not sure what to tell you that you haven't already read in the report."
Kevin noted that everything she said following his last comment came from memory. She didn't open a notebook, or flip through a copy of the report, just spoke from the homework she'd obviously done.
"The shot you took that night was from seventy-two yards. You had been in place for approximately four hours with the only relief coming from your spotter. Kevin, can you remember how much sleep you'd had prior to the call out, and possibly what your mindset or state of awareness was at the time the incident unfolded?"
She didn't have any device to write down or record his answer. She just stood quietly waiting for his response.
"That's a good question. I really can't recall how much sleep I'd had, two, possibly three hours before the page came. As far as mindset, I'm afraid my answer won't be very original."
"Please."
"Soft focus."
"Soft focus?" she said curiously. "Can you elaborate, and yes that was an original response, not one I'd ever heard anyway."
Kevin relived the incident as he formed his answer: "Too much time in the glass, the scope, sorry, fixated on one spot and your mind starts playing tricks. Eye fatigue sets in quicker; your neck and back start to spasm. Tension in any form during those moments can ruin the outcome of what you've been sent there to do. I always tried to maintain overall focus by keeping both eyes open and taking in a larger picture of my surroundings. My mind, well, it took a backseat to the training, focus without focus, mind no mind."
Kevin felt ridiculous at this point carrying on like some 16th century Samurai pontificating on the blessed art of snipering through spiritual meditation. He knew he was sounding like a jackass and cut himself off. He didn't know what it was about this stranger that made him feel like saying so much, too much.
"I could have used you during firearms training at Quantico. My efforts, at least in the beginning, were more mind than anything else." Agent Collins laughed at her own remark, looked to the ground then back to him. She was blushing now, and the hue that found her cheeks suited her. She was prettier than Kevin had originally noted, she was actually quite beautiful.
"I'm sorry, uh---yes, just before or just after taking the shot; do you have any recollection of what you were thinking, anything specific?"
Kevin almost laughed at that one. "Yeah, I was thinking the bad guy was going to kill one of my teammates if I didn't stop him."
Somewhere between Kevin's original desire to laugh and his final answer, the reality of that moment found his mind and subsequently his expression altered.
He felt the weight of it, the toll it took, and takes forever thereafter. He was twisted inside and it was obvious his face revealed as much.
For an uncomfortable moment, Agent Collins stared at him, unblinking, without a word. When she spoke, her face expressed her desire to bolt. He didn't know how often Agent Collins was in the company of monsters, perhaps it had just hit her. Kevin felt even worse at causing her discomfort.
"I'm sorry, Kevin, it wasn't my intention to bring up bad memories. You've been a great help."
Her apologizing for his ineptitude as a human being did nothing to ease his regret of wearing his past deeds so close to the skin. He wanted to say something light hearted, something easy, but nothing came. Kevin stood there and nodded as an eight-year- old boy might after a spanking. For some stupid reason he couldn't help but think of holding her right then. Okay, perhaps not holding her, but allowing her to hold him. It dawned on him then the only woman who had ever felt anything for him, had ever told him she loved him was his mother. The thought, however brief, brought even more misery. Jesus, he had to move, turn, run, walk, something.
"Look, I'm not very good at this . . ."
As he spoke, Agent Collins listened, while Allison the bystander felt too many things to decide right then which was right. She had spoken with many men in the past year regarding their use of deadly force. Most of them had killed their intended targets, and most were happy to tell their tales. She was sure many had thought it might get them laid in the end.
Then there was this man, physically perfect, his frame immense without a trace of awkwardness, his hair and eyes the same shade of dark brown.
He looked like someone who could make your worst fears go away. His body, though now quite still, seemed alive and effortlessly propelled.
She noticed when he moved from the porch to stand by her his eyes never left hers; he was graceful and fluid, as if he'd grown up amongst things far more agile than human beings.
Despite the peripheral beauty, and the aura of fearlessness, Allison saw, or rather felt what could not be clothed over, or easily concealed. Kevin had shared with her the experience of taking another human being's life.
He did so because she had asked him to. He wasn't boastful or in any way proud of what he had done, and now he was apologizing for making her feel uncomfortable about the exchange. Allison felt like an idiot, ashamed at making him feel anymore guilt than he'd already experienced. A part of her wanted to pull him close, wanted to touch his face, look into those tortured eyes and whisper it would be okay. The other part, the sensible one, knew it was time to leave.
". . . if you'd like to come back another time, perhaps I could have something prepared, maybe we could eat something." Kevin then laughed internally at his comment. He hadn't really ever spent any time in the company of women.
Allison responded quickly, "Okay, again, I just, well, I have asked these questions a few times now, and sometimes you just forget how personal it really is. I'm sorry."
"It's me, Allison; I don't get out much, the great internalizer, I should study up on talking to people."
"I'm here through Sunday, maybe we could have dinner." The words had left her in a manner he had just described, talk about your soft focus, how about no focus, she just blurted it out and there it was hanging between them.
"Really? That would be great."
"I mean, if you're not busy, I don't want to---"
"No, dinner would be great, there's just someone else---"
"Oh god, I'm sorry. I should have known you'd be married."
"No, that's not it."
"Well a girlfriend then, of course, I'll just---"
"I have a little boy, no wife, no girlfriend."
"Oh, a little boy, how old?"
"He's ten, his name is Ethan, he's the son of my
best friend."
Before she could make any further, comments Kevin added: "Ethan's father died not too long ago, I look after him now."
"Wow, that's really nice." What else do you say to something like that Allison thought?
"He's a great kid. My suggestion was going to be that you come back tomorrow around six and I would fix us dinner. I've cooked for myself quite a few years; I'm really not too bad at that."
Allison noted the fact he looked down when offering himself any form of praise. There was a very big picture here and she was already fascinated by the few snapshots she had glimpsed. She wanted to come back, wanted to stay now in fact and just listen to him talk in that shy, slightly uncomfortable way. Most of the men she had known were very good at throwing a layer of concealer over their true feelings; Kevin seemed almost incapable of that.
"I would be delighted then, can I bring anything?"
"We have everything here, do you mind steak?"
"I'm from the heartland originally, steak would be fine."
He started to reach out to her then; to shake hands, touch her shoulder, something, then stopped himself,
"Tomorrow, then," was the best he could do.
Kevin stood there for a long time after Allison drove away.
He understood little about what had transpired here. It was nothing, right? He would prepare dinner as he did most nights for himself and Ethan, except there would be one more. People did this all the time. What would he talk about? She would ask, that's what people did over meals, they talked, and they asked questions of one another. Christ. What was he thinking? "So anyway Allison, I graduated high school, joined the Marines, killed folks for the better part of ten years, all on the down low, very, very, down low if you catch my drift, then I became a cop, killed a few more people. Oh yea, and Ethan's dad, the best friend I told you about, well he came to me one day with a proposition. So to help him out, I killed him too. More wine?
Kevin was perspiring while standing rooted to the small parcel of ground he'd inhabited; he would have called her to cancel had he been smart enough to have gotten her number. That's it, he thought, she's probably having the same self-talk about what a foolish idea it had been to accept his invitation. She would call later and say something had come up, or better yet, just not show at all. He was worrying needlessly.
It was getting late; Kevin grabbed his keys and drove into town to pick up Ethan. While driving home, Kevin explained about the visitor he'd had. He mentioned the possibility she might join them for dinner the following night. Ethan made little of it and merely said, "Okay," before the conversation turned to other topics.
Kevin sighed with relief when no questions regarding the stranger came. Instead, Ethan was quite content asking questions about his new passion.
Kevin fell asleep that night as he did frequently these days. In his recliner, lights on, book in hand.
Ethan kept a semi-regular sleep schedule, usually in bed by nine o'clock, out like a lamb by nine-fifteen. Kevin envied the boy.
He didn't know what time he'd lapsed into that state between being and not. It wasn't real sleep; he knew that; his body, his head, rebuked him most mornings with the dull aches and difficulties of someone much older than himself. On this particular night he dreamed of Peter. It wasn't so much of Peter, as Peter was there talking to him, telling him he should make every effort to be nice to the woman. He didn't call her by her name, just "the woman". Peter was sitting in a booth by himself and Kevin walked in. Without being told to, or invited, Kevin sat across from his dead friend and started talking.
Peter smiled, then pulled the hood from his black sweatshirt up around his head and donned a pair of black sunglasses. Kevin made a joke about the "Unabomber" ensemble and they both laughed. It was out of place for the context of the dream, but dreams were like that. Peter removed the garb and spoke quietly about love and what he believed Kevin and Ethan both needed.
Peter began: "Don't get me wrong, pal, you're doing a great job with him, as good as I ever did and the golf, Jesus he's really great, huh? That said, he, and you, well neither of you, has ever known a woman's love. It's incredible, you know. It's necessary.
Save him Kevin, one more time for me, and for yourself. Be nice to the woman, just be nice."
With that the dream changed sequence. Peter was up and out of the booth. Kevin was left sitting there with the other patrons staring at him, unspeaking.
And then he awoke.
It was still early; morning light was clearly an hour away at least. Kevin strode the worn hardwood path to his room and fell into bed. No more dreams remained.
"Saturday"
Kevin woke before Ethan; made him breakfast then asked if he'd like to go to the grocery store with him. Ethan declined, insisting he'd rather chip and putt around the yard if Kevin didn't mind. Kevin smiled at the boy and was off. If Allison did show up, he should be prepared. Kevin wasn't clear this morning. Something about seeing Peter in his dreams, watching him speak in that manner he always used when he believed something truly important, warmed and depressed him all at the same time.
He had mentioned steak to Allison. He had plenty in the freezer but he didn't think that would do. In the butcher aisle he found an attendant and requested filet mignon, good size portions. It was the best piece of meat he could think of and one he was equipped to prepare thoughtfully.
Next he found the produce aisle and selected three large potatoes, and several selections of vegetables. Finally, he moved to the bakery.
Back home he placed the items in the kitchen then went to the task of cleaning the house.
Kevin had always been clean, perhaps not inspection clean, surely clean enough for he and Ethan, still this was different. A woman was visiting and women, on the whole, were much cleaner than men.
Several hours passed. Kevin walked room to room making sure all was in order. He felt foolish really, what the hell did he care and what was he doing? If she showed up, and that was a big if, did he really need the hassle? Had he ever needed it? He was thirty-five years old now and had managed his entire life to provide and care for himself. There was Ethan now, but Ethan wanted for nothing as Kevin was sure he cared for the boy the very best that he could.
"It was necessary." Isn't that what Peter had said. Of all the ghosts that came to visit Kevin in his dreams, Peter was the only one he would listen to.
Kevin made little of it when six o'clock rolled around and Allison hadn't shown. No matter, he thought, her filet would be fine for lunch tomorrow.
Kevin was angry and he cursed himself for it. What had he expected, really? He was in the middle of removing the potatoes from the oven when Ethan exclaimed, "There's a car pulling up the drive."
Kevin felt a chill run the length of his spine and a flittering in the pit of his stomach. He looked to the wall clock, six-twenty.
He looked out the living room window and saw Allison, dressed in dark jeans, boots, and a gray V-neck sweater. She was adjusting a large pink box as she spotted him in the window and waved.
He opened the door for her and noticed not for the first time how beautiful she was. Her hair, flowing loosely around her shoulders this time, was several shades of light brown. The color, he noticed, complimented the radiant warm green of her eyes. She smiled sweetly, moving her gaze to Ethan. Kevin hadn't noticed Ethan moving into place right beside him.
She handed the box to him, "This is for you. I hope you like chocolate cake."
Ethan beamed, "I love chocolate cake." With that, Ethan took the box and walked quickly to the kitchen.
"I'm sorry I'm late, it took a while to find a bakery."
"Not at all, dinner's just about ready, and we both love chocolate cake, thank you."
Kevin showed Allison to the kitchen, pulled out a chair for her.
"Don't you need some help? I'd feel useless just sitting here watching you do all the work."
Kevin spoke softly, trying to shave the edge of abrasiveness his voice usually held, "You're our guest . . ."
Before Kevin could finish, Ethan chimed in, "Yeah, you're our guest, Just relax, can I get you something to drink?"
"Thank you, Ethan, I'd love some water."
Kevin watched the exchange, thought to himself if he didn't know better, Ethan was rapidly developing a crush on Agent Collins.
It was weird, but in a good way, Allison's presence in the house brought something that had been missing sense, well sense forever. She brought light. Kevin thought of flowers next to a hospital bed and quickly dismissed the vision.
Allison watched, taking in Kevin's aptness in the kitchen. He moved with the same grace she had noticed on their prior meeting. He seemed comfortable now, safe in his domain. He served the meal which looked and smelled incredible.
"I hope you like it. Is medium okay?"
Allison noticed the muscles of Kevin's forearm as he set the platter down before her. She cursed herself silently for missing his question. "I'm sorry?"
"Your filet, I cooked it medium, I hope that's okay?"
"Medium is perfect, thank you."
Ethan's light frame was in stark contrast to Kevin's intimidating stature. Regardless, the boy moved easily around him, bringing the bread and salad to the table, he did so without being asked. Kevin waited for Ethan to sit, and then asked if anyone needed anything else. Allison was finding it more and more difficult to believe there was no Mrs. Anderson.
"I'm fine, please sit down, I can't wait to try this."
Kevin sat, pleased by Allison's desire to try his cooking.
"Oh my god, this is sooo-- good," Allison said through a mouthful of filet mignon. "How did you get this so perfect?"
Kevin hadn't tried his yet, just watched as Allison took her first bite. He looked away before it got weird for her. "I sear it in the pan, then cover it with butter and salt and pepper and finish it in the oven. The butter really takes to it this way."
"Uh -- yeah, this is the best I've ever had."
Ethan smiled through his own mouthful watching Kevin watch Allison. He liked her already, she was pretty and funny.
"You're too kind," Kevin said as he tasted his first bite.
Allison popped another mouthful in and let go the pretense of any formal etiquette, "I hope I'm not disgusting you here, I'm on the road a lot lately, and I just don't get too many home-cooked meals."
"Well then, our kitchen is always open."
Kevin wanted to dig in to his meal as well but felt such admiration for this distraction, he couldn't. He took small bites as was necessary and watched her enjoy the food he had prepared.
He was delighted to see how much she truly enjoyed it. Her filet was almost gone when she looked up again to find him watching her.
Allison wiped her mouth and put her fork down, "Wow, I'm really sorry. Again, the food, it's just . . ."
"You looked so happy. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have stared." Kevin felt his face redden, he embarrassed her unnecessarily.
"I can't be the first person to tell you how good your cooking is?"
She must have thought he did this all the time, how could she know how wrong that assumption would be?
"Ethan might tell his friends I make a mean peanut butter and jelly. Other than that, you're the first."
"It's wonderful. You're very kind to take in a stranger like this."
"A stranger would never make it in the front door. My Uncle Kevin must really like you," Ethan said through a mouthful of food.
Kevin scratched his head and looked away; kids never had any trouble with the truth, no matter how it made others feel.
"Okay, buddy, let's not scare Allison off before she's finished her meal."
Allison looked to Ethan, "C'mon, you two seem quite at home entertaining guests, you must do this all the time."
Ethan answered before Kevin could intercept the remark.
"You're the first person Uncle Kevin's ever invited over, I mean besides my dad when he was alive."
Allison looked at Kevin thoughtfully; she didn't know what to say.
"He's right; we kind of stick together like a tiny wolf pack."
Ethan let out a quiet howl. The sound broke the tension, and Kevin and Allison both laughed.
The three of them finished their meal with no more distraction; Allison was content to eat everything on her plate, while Ethan and Kevin enjoyed the sight of her at their table. When the food was gone and dishes put away, Ethan excused himself to finish his homework. Kevin told him to come back out after he had showered for bed and they could have cake. Ethan rubbed his belly in an exaggerated circle and ran off.
Allison spoke first, "He's a great kid."
"The best," Kevin agreed.
"You want some coffee?"
"That sounds perfect. Can I help this time?"
"Sure."
Kevin handed the bag of Colombian to Allison, asking how strong she preferred her coffee. Allison felt the bag, taking in the fact it was whole bean.
"You grind your own beans? No instant Folgers?"
"Wow, what kind of a guy do you take me for? You must really think me a Neanderthal."
"Actually, I was beginning to think you're too good to be true."
"I would postpone any judgment until after you've tried the coffee."
Kevin poured a handful of beans into the grinder. After several seconds he poured the freshly ground beans into a French press, then put water on to boil. His aptitude for all things domestic did not go unnoticed by Allison. When the coffee was finished, Kevin moved to the fridge where he removed cream, then a small jade colored bowl of sugar. He had mixed the ingredients into two small China cups before pouring the hot coffee. Allison never took her eyes off of him. He was precise without being pretentious. She guessed he took the same care with everything he did.
Coffee poured, Kevin walked Allison outside where he placed the tray onto a small wooden table based in the center of the front porch. After making sure Allison was seated and required nothing more, Kevin took his own seat. He handed Allison her coffee, then took his own. "I hope you enjoy it" followed, and the two of them sat there looking into the gathering darkness.
The coffee was delicious, as she knew it would be.
Allison wasn't sure how many more compliments she could hoist upon Kevin before he thought her an embellisher, so she settled with one word.
"Perfect."
"I'm glad you like it. I enjoy it strong, that's why I use the press, preserves the bean's natural oil."
"Okay, seriously Kevin Anderson, where's the wife or the bevy of girlfriends? Your skills in the kitchen are beyond reasonable possibility and your manners are straight out of a bygone era."
"I'm trying too hard, huh?"
"That's just it; you don't seem to being trying at all. You are perfect void any conscious effort at all."
"You should see me in the morning, clumsy as an ox, and positively mannerless."
"I doubt that."
Kevin felt a little lightheaded. He was talking to this beautiful woman and enjoying every second of it, and moreover, she seemed to like him as well. It was too good to be true and he knew it. For the moment, anyway, he would push aside his doubts. It was one night, a couple more hours at best, he would allow himself this time, this exchange with another human being and believe at least for now that somehow he had done something to deserve it.
Allison didn't want to spoil the effortlessness of the evening. She looked around, taking in the gathering darkness; the land surrounding her seemed impossibly quiet as the sprawling city was only a mile or two beneath them. She managed an extended sigh when she turned her gaze upward.
From this vantage, the stars were remarkable, the night sky shedding any residue of the day's turn as light bearer.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Kevin remarked. "I never even noticed when I was a kid growing up here."
Allison removed her gaze from the sky overhead and focused on Kevin. "You grew up here? Nice childhood."
Kevin was unsure how much to bestow upon his guest at this point in time. Did it really matter, he supposed? Would he ever see her again after tonight?
"Allison, I know I mentioned this before, but I believe it bears repeating. I'm not especially apt at conversation. I wish I were, especially in times such as these. What I'm saying is, I'll tell you as much as you want to hear. When I hear you snoring, I'll stop, okay?"
Allison laughed while taking him in thoughtfully. His manner of seduction was unparalleled; did he really not understand how enticing he was? "Kevin, I seriously doubt anyone anywhere has ever labeled you as boring. I would love to hear all about you, don't leave out anything."
Kevin knew enough to know a one sided conversation was never compelling; therefore, he asked the first question.
"Where do you call home?"
Allison smiled. "I thought you were going to tell me about you?"
"We'd be done with that story before our coffee was finished; anyway, I've got a feeling your life is much more interesting than mine."
The smile continued. "Nice one." Allison took another sip of the wonderful coffee Kevin had served her. "I live in Portland, now. I grew up in Montana."
"Portland is beautiful. Did you request that?"
"Actually yes, my first assignment out of Quantico was New York. I hated it. When my three years was up, an opening became available and I took it."
"Why not go back to Montana?"
"That's the FBI's big rule, you can't go home."
"Not very accommodating of them, I'm sorry, what town did you grow up in? Did I miss that?"
"A Norman Rockwell type of place, Missoula, have you ever heard of it?"
Kevin thought for a moment, couldn't recall having to visit anyone in the night there, "Yes, but I've never been."
Allison laughed as she remarked, "Don't beat yourself up, not many people have, a medium sized population, but not wildly popular, unless you're an Elk of course."
"Now you, did you live here your whole life?"
"A good portion of it, my father was in the military. We lived on base in San Diego until I was ten."
"San Diego is nice. What brought you to Northern California?"
"My father was killed in the war. My mother, brother, and I moved here afterward."
"Kevin, I'm sorry, seems I'm always asking you something that brings back a bad memory."
"It was a long time ago, no need to apologize. We're just talking, right?"
"So moving from base to this beautiful place, how did you guys afford it?"
Kevin looked at Allison thoughtfully, "This was my grandfather's place; he left it to me when he passed. My mother, brother, and I lived in a much smaller place in town."
Kevin immediately felt guilt at what would come next and the answers he would be obligated to give. She couldn't know beforehand how much loss one person could be subjected to in so few years. Before she could continue, Kevin intervened,
"Your turn again, why the FBI?"
Instinctively, Allison thought she must have been teetering on the precipice of another series of difficult to answer or hear questions. She wanted to know about him, but allowed the deflection.
"I ask myself that same question all the time, and every time I come up with the same lame sounding answer."
Kevin waited.
"I have to answer, don't I?" Allison looked at him with eyes that begged for a reprieve.
"Only if you want to."
"Okay, here goes. I wanted to be part of the good guys, I wanted to do my part to ensure the--, Jesus I sound like a promo for a conservative political group." Allison breathed out and completed her thought, "I wanted to protect our way of life." Allison waited for the laughter, or the quick, "Wow, it's really getting late yawn" neither one came and she sighed a breath of appreciative relief.
Kevin straightened a bit in the wooden rocker. "I think that sounds very noble."
Allison quietly spoke, "Thank you." After a second, "Did you always want to be a police officer?"
Kevin expelled a breath with too much force, "No, actually, I once dreamed of playing professional golf."
Allison stared at him, "Golf? Really?"
"You don't like golf?" Kevin posed.
"No, not that at all, I just wouldn't pick you out as the golfing type."
Kevin had an idea what she was alluding to, but let her say it. "I didn't know there was a golfing type."
Allison blushed, "Alright maybe type was the incorrect choice of words, how about physical characteristics not in direct correlation with one who golfs."
Kevin had to laugh out loud at that one, "Allison I must admit, that was the nicest, most politically correct way anyone has ever called me a knuckle-dragger.
Allison laughed herself, "Shit, is that what it came out sounding like? I didn't mean for it, what I meant was, you have the build of someone---"
Kevin cut her off, a smile still lingering on his lips, "of someone who breaks things, who feeds primarily from the bottom, who--"
It was Kevin's turn to be cut off as Allison leaned closer, put a hand on his thigh, "A build of someone who handles things others less formidable cannot."
Kevin leaned in as well, let Allison's hand remain where it was, "At least I sound like a knuckle-dragger with a heart."
Their faces were closer than they had been all night. Kevin could smell the faint trace of vanilla and jasmine emanating from Allison's exposed neckline. Allison became acutely aware of the warmth radiating from a male presence so dangerous and yet so gentle. It was heartbreaking. Allison kept her eyes on Kevin's face. She knew he wanted to kiss her. She wanted him to. It would be so easy, a relief really. One kiss, one perfect blend of heat and tenderness and desire, then another, then . . .
Ethan was calling from the doorway, "Can I have some cake now, please?"
Kevin felt the blood release through him from places it had begun to pool. He felt a buzzing around him; felt strangely out of body as he answered Ethan, "Sure, pal. Hold on, I'm coming."
Kevin found Allison's hand with his own, "Will you join us?"
Allison hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until that moment. She let him take her hand, and immediately liked what she felt. It was a big hand, the hand of someone who had worked and lived outdoors; it felt strong and purposeful, safe. He didn't let go until they were in the kitchen. Once there, he found a spot for her before attending to the cake.
Again the manners, the attentiveness, she was enjoying this way more than she had believed she would.
Kevin cut three equal pieces for all of them. Following this, he poured milk from a glass bottle; you hardly saw those anymore, she thought. The cake and milk were delicious, just as everything else had been.
Ethan finished his last bite and sighed heavily, "Thank you, Allison. The cake was terrific."
"Anytime Ethan, I'm glad you enjoyed it."
"Uncle Kevin, is Allison coming back tomorrow?" Ethan's face was filled with fondness as he asked his question.
"I don't know, buddy. I think she has to fly home tomorrow." Kevin turned his attention to Allison, "What time's your flight, Allison? If it's later, we'd love to have you back."
It was a spontaneous request, fueled as much by Ethan's innocence as Kevin's own desire not to let her go just yet. Kevin tried not to appear overly anxious as he awaited her response.
She looked at both of them; it was almost overwhelming, surreal at the very least. She had been a part of their lives for less than a few hours, yet she felt unmistakable dread at the proposition of losing them so quickly. "My flight leaves at four o'clock, could we have lunch?"
Ethan made his suggestion as Kevin sat amused, "How about a picnic, Uncle Kevin?"
"That sounds perfect, pal."
"Cool."
Ethan walked toward his bedroom, throwing out his goodnights as he went.
"You didn't have to do that, you know?" Allison said quietly as Ethan stepped out of the room.
"What? Inviting you back for a second meal? It's the least I could do, what if dinner was a fluke? I don't want you leaving here with an unrealistic image of me."
"Way too late for that, you have been the perfect host."
"You've made it all too easy. I'm not quite sure how to explain it. I just feel, I don't know, comfortable around you, familiar. Is that okay to say?"
Allison let her hand slide across the table, stopping only when it lightly touched Kevin's, "I was thinking the exact same thing."
Kevin watched her, felt the warmth of her hand, her eyes, and allowed it to spread throughout his body. It was electric, and it was something very unfamiliar to him. He had never felt this lost before; he was without reference for this most personal experience. The only true measure of comfort he had ever known had arose from his own company; it was always that way out of necessity. He had known women, a couple of them from long ago, but they were flawed creatures just as he was. They were momentary distractions from an abstract existence; Allison was something altogether different.
Allison noted with immeasurable delight that Kevin turned his hand over to accept hers. He was holding it with a tenderness she had never known; as if he believed she was something easily broken. His face softened as his gaze intensified. Allison's mind whirled with images and scenarios as the distance between them dissipated.
Everything was so quiet now, Kevin could hear the faint difference in Allison's breathing. She was so close and the scent of her was truly intoxicating. What was stopping him? He could have her; her actions were making that much clear. In the last few heartbeats her face had changed, had taken on a glow of anticipation, of something else, but what? Desire? Kevin was no master in this arena and he knew it. He wanted more than anything to make this moment last, freeze frame it for all time so he would have at least one good memory to call upon when the rest of them called out to him in the darkness.
"Allison, I'm not sure what. . ." He whispered to her.
Allison heard the sound of his voice. It felt far off; her heartbeat was too loud. She closed her eyes and willed it to calm. He was saying something, talking to her instead of kissing her; she was unsure what had happened. She opened her eyes and was relieved to find his face still close to hers.
"I want this to be perfect," he said.
At some point he had taken hold of her other hand. He held both of them now. She looked down to see this, noticed how easily his being enveloped hers.
He was tracing slow semi circles along the top of her hands with his thumbs, as he awaited her response.
"You tell me what you want, Kevin. Whatever it is I'm willing."
"I want to see you again; I want to get this right."
His face was right next to hers now. His cheek laid softly upon hers, his breathing warm upon her skin.
"I've never been close to anyone." He paused, "I need you to tell me this is okay."
Allison turned into him then, rested her parted lips upon his jawline, spoke softly into his ear, "It's okay. Of course it's okay."
Allison moved from her chair to be closer to him; the movement found her within his arms now. He stood, taking her with him. In one swift, effortless motion he swung her up into his embrace.
Hours passed in a bed he barely used, by the light of a distant grey moon. She clung to him like life itself as he let go the pain, shadows and nightmares of a lifetime alone. For now, for this one night, he was not alone. The sky's light changed colors through the bedroom curtains as night quietly passed into morning. Kevin sat still watching Allison sleep. She was folded into herself upon her left side. The image made Kevin think of a well-kept house cat, safe in the knowledge no outside predator would ever be allowed to harm her. She awoke as if she'd never really been asleep. Her shifting was graceful and slight; she turned to find him watching her. "What are you doing? Come back to me." She stretched her right arm out to find him.
"You looked so peaceful I didn't want to disturb you," Kevin said softly into her hair.
"Kevin Anderson, you are now the one person who can always disturb my peace."
He smiled at the way his name sounded leaving her lips. He held her from behind, pulling her into him while inhaling deeply. She startled then, "What time is it? Is Ethan up yet?"
"Relax, it's barely 5:30. Ethan sleeps till at least nine on the weekends."
Her body did relax then. She rolled to face him. "I don't want to give him a bad impression, have him think me some scarlet."
Kevin laughed at the antiquated term, "I think his opinion of you would suffer no ill-effect, but I understand your point."
"Should I go then?"
"Only if you promise to return."
"Of course I will. You did say you were feeding me again, right?"
At her car, Kevin held onto her as long as she would allow. He spent these last moments memorizing the smallest details of her face, body, smell. He was devouring her as a man would a sip of water in the desert.
She kissed him softly and spoke through slightly parted lips, "I'm not sure I can leave you."
He held fast, "Then don't."
"Only a few hours, right, and I need new clothes, a shower, a toothbrush, maybe a minute or two of sleep."
Kevin smiled at her warmly, "The practical side reveals itself."
She turned her face up to his, "Until last night I never knew anything else."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should."
In the next moment she was gone, driving away as she had come just a day before.
"Sunday"
Alum Rock Park had always been a favorite retreat for me. I had ran wild there with Peter when I was a boy, told crazy stories of Albino Zombies and played hide and seek behind massive trees, awaiting the perfect time to jump out and scare the piss out of my best friend. Even in high school this place was cherished for make-out sessions in the back seat and ghost stories to make one's skin crawl when the night fell along with the temperature.
Today it was the perfect spot for Ethan and I to entertain Allison before her departure to a home I'd never seen.
I had prepared a basket of sandwiches, cut up fruits, almonds, and cheeses. Ethan had decided lemonade would be a suitable drink, along with a massive hunk of left over cake. The day was cool and clean, and the sun was present but not unreasonable. I laid the blanket out and assisted Allison to her place amongst the treats. She laughed and smiled more than anyone I had ever known. It was inspiring to know people felt this way every day somewhere. She appeared completely at ease sharing this simple meal and time with us. Food nearly gone, Ethan peddled off to the lake's edge with bread crumbs for the ducks. Allison watched him run off and remarked again at what a good boy he was. We were alone.
I immediately pulled her close to me, kissed her as I had last night and thanked her for sharing herself with me one more time. She looked thoughtfully at me, said enough to let me know everything was as it should be, "Last night was the best night of my life, Kevin. I feel silly saying this, but I don't think I want to leave you."
I felt exactly the same way. "I don't want you to go, Allison. I believe the bureau would understand if you called in and resigned."
Allison smiled her smile and chuckled. "Just a courtesy call to say thanks for the last few years, but I'm all done?"
"Sure, people do it all the time," I said with mock sincerity.
"Maybe I should extend the professional courtesy of a two week notice, you know, let them find a replacement."
"Okay," I said, "but no more than that."
It was easy. I was using tone and inflection to sound light, but truthfully her staying would have been just fine with me. I felt truly alive for the first time in, well, forever.
Allison had moved to lay her head upon my chest when I saw them, three Hispanic males, all wearing the color red, all walking in a straight line toward Ethan. They were maybe a hundred yards away from me, perhaps twenty from Ethan when I stood up. I told her I would return shortly, and she asked what was wrong. To anyone not crazy, this may have seemed like three other park patrons out for a walk. For a former cop, one who has dealt with shitbag gangbangers, it seemed to be just what it was.
I saw, with little surprise, one of them push Ethan into the lake. They were laughing wildly as I broke into a sprint.
"There you go homie; feed them fucking ducks real close up. Norte bitch!" The shortest of them cheered loudly, unaware of what was closing in fast.
I wanted to shout out to Ethan, tell him it would be alright, I would be there in a second. I wanted this; however, I wanted to surprise these assholes almost as much.
"Oh shit, Holmes, look at this crazy white boy coming. Let's bolt homie." One of them had some sense, and attempted to use it, cutting a straight path for the parking lot fifty yards away. A second one, also tried to run, but was fat and not too swift in his getaway. His slung low, way too big, ridiculous clown jeans were hindering his escape as much as his overgrowth. The third, my pusher, stayed behind with his fists up, moving them in slow circles near his waistline. He was the tough guy, he was the one that was going to show me what happens when you mess with his crew. He was taller than the other two and skinny as a whip. He was maybe twenty years old, but tried to present himself much older, head shaved, tattoos of some homemade representation of gang life, with Roman numerals and somebody's name scribbled on his neck in
prison black ink. Wife beater tank with a red sweatshirt draped over his neck and shoulders, black dickie shorts cut to knee length, and long white tube socks which were stretched high to meet the bottom of the shorts awaited me. Yep, he was the quintessential shitbird in all its glory, pissed off at the world that he believed owed him something. Gang members, for the most part, were all the same. They based their strength on the simple fact that most people were afraid, and in numbers they could walk around and intimidate and persuade without consequence.
Today would be a fantastic life lesson for them.
I slowed as I came within striking distance. I noted a few things in that instant. Ethan was fine. He was already pulling himself up out of the water. The pusher was talking as they all do, some nonsense about how he was going to kill me. It was a truly scary speech, right up until the point where I smashed his mouth. One shot and he dropped. I knew from experience he would be out for a while. His circling hands, legs forward, upper body tilted back style had left him compromised for a straight right hand to the chin. I barely felt the impact, so flawless was the strike.
His chin folded under as his neck and head snapped forward, a disconnect of the brain stem, lights out.
I asked Ethan if he was okay while jogging toward the others. Ethan replied that he was, as he held himself to quiet the chill. I didn't look back at Allison. I knew what her reaction to this would be, what it would be to all normal folk.
Fatty hadn't made it halfway to the parking lot when I caught up with him. I could have done so many things, but chose the simplest, a front thrust kick to the back and he was down. He reached out to break his fall and slid heavily with the weight he carried. He yelled out to the other, the last, to shoot me.
It wasn't that kind, however, more like, "Blast this fucking fool, homie!"
Now, save that last request, that ignorant utterance to end my life because I was displeased with these three assholes harming my loved one, I would have spared ol' lunch box there, would have let him pick himself up at his leisure, but the hate smeared order for his associate to kill me left me void any charitable feelings at the moment. He could wait, I supposed. Even if he was allowed to run from the scene at a full gallop, he wouldn't make it far, and if shitbird number three was in possession of a firearm, which was highly likely, I needed to attend to him first.
He was manipulating the door lock of an ancient Chevy sedan when I pulled up close.
"You better back the fuck up Holmes!" he screamed as I walked into view.
"Why?" I asked with little emotion or pretense.
"You wanna get shot, fool. I will ice you motherfucker!" The words flew from him with such anger, such menace. They must all attend the same drama club, I thought.
"Shoot me? Ice me? Why so drastic? Perhaps we could just talk." My tone was mild and humble, my inflection that of one trying to soothe an injured animal. I was seconds away from ruining his hate filled mouth, but outwardly, I was a high school counselor.
"You're fucking crazy fool; get the fuck out of here." Again the screaming, Jesus Christ didn't these guys ever talk at a normal pitch or volume?
"Afraid I can't do that friend." I was slowly walking toward him, his hands still not visible. His homeboy, the chunky monkey, was back in his ear from afar, "Blast him Holmes. Don't listen to that motherfucker. Shoot his ass!"
I realized then he hadn't made it into the car. The gun was still in the car.
If not, if he'd already obtained the weapon, he'd be pointing it at me like they love to do -- gun held sideways, one handed, really solid shooting platform for assholes.
"You don't have it, do you?" My voice remained perfectly tranquil.
"I'll do it, motherfucker, one more fucking step, homie."
"You should stand there and take what's coming, you've earned it."
He tried with renewed interest to open the passenger side door. No disengage remote for these guys, they had to open the door the old fashioned way -- place key in lock -- not an easy task when all fine motor skills have abandoned you in a wave of panic induced adrenaline.
I ran at him and he tried to run. He slipped in his maddened state and I was quickly atop him. He was holding strong with the tough guy act right up until the point where I loosened his teeth. I didn't hit him anymore than was required. It all gets mixed up in the wash when you're having fun. I'd have guessed three, possibly four blows did the trick. One of those, along with his hysteria, disengaged the on switch. He was motionless when I left him.
Fats was on the move and really chugging it for one so large. I set out after him as Allison pulled the car up in front of me, her eyes pleading, and Ethan seated beside her. "Get in the car Kevin, please." I looked at her, saw her without seeing her. I wanted, needed, to catch that last man. He still had a dog in the fight, so to speak, and I needed to set it free. "Kevin!" she was much louder this time, not screaming, but close to it. Obviously, I must have appeared insane to her. I let it rinse over me, let the desire to hurt subside. She was still talking, still pleading when I let myself into the car. She took off out of the lot like we were the criminals.
I was sitting there still and in control as we hit the main road out.
"Jesus Christ, Kevin, what the hell was that about?"
I didn't speak, not immediately anyway. What I said now had to be reasonable, had to outweigh the last several minutes in her mind. She's seen me in my natural state, got to live amongst the apes in their native habitat. She was freaked out for sure. Who wouldn't be? My partners wouldn't be, but for her, for civilians, that was a frightening scene without a doubt. I took a breath, though it really wasn't necessary, more for her sake as normal people don't usually get into fights without having to take a few minutes to regulate their breathing, emotions, blood pressure, all non-factors for me, again something she didn't need to be aware of just yet.
I began: "I saw Ethan attacked by three subjects and I felt compelled to intervene. He's my responsibility, Allison, and though he's quite a tough little man in his own right," I ruffled Ethan's hair, a gesture to add levity to the moment, "three full grown men is a little much for any ten year old to take on."
"Thanks, Uncle Kevin," Ethan offered with a slight smile.
"You got it, pal, anytime." I said the words hoping it all sounded as innocent as I desired.
Allison was not so sure, and her thoughtful attention to the road ahead made that clear. She waited a beat or two before responding, "I don't know, Kevin. I get it, it was a really stupid thing to do, them pushing Ethan into the lake, but your reaction to it," she paused, "is that how you handle all situations where you feel someone has done something stupid?"
I tried to put myself in her shoes, perceive it through her eyes, and still was unable to see the wrong in my reaction. The world was on her side on this one, I was sure. I just wasn't built that way and never would be.
At this moment in time I wished for nothing more than to be alone. I didn't want to justify myself to her, or make excuses for righting a wrong. That's how the world got to be the fucked up place it is, people making excuses for others' bad behavior, turning the blind eye, etc. No, you hurt someone innocent, someone who never hurt anyone, then you get hurt in return, simple as that, eye for an eye. I couldn't tell her this, of course. Two minutes in time had wiped clean a wonderful night. A stupid act carried out by even stupider people. I made up something to conceal my truest sentiment, "Look, I apologize if my actions brought you discomfort. I saw them hurting him, and I responded. Call it training, or protective instinct, I just wanted to make sure he was safe."
Allison argued my point. She was really bothered by what she had witnessed, and I wasn't sure why? At least not to the extent she was carrying on. She was a federal agent, after all. She carried a firearm and in some cases I was sure had to enforce law, or serve a warrant, something where physical force might have to be administered.
"You could have kept him safe by pulling him from the water and then taking him home. I'm just not sure the rest of it was necessary."
I was still in control, externally. Inside I was turning a shade cooler. I replied with my calm intact. "And then what? So they push a little kid into the water, they don't know if he can swim, or if he hit his head, and on that particular day there is no one around to stop them. They laugh it off while the kid drowns, that a better scenario?"
Allison quickly responded, "That wasn't the case Kevin."
"No, Allison, not today, because we were there. But unchecked, that behavior continues. Without someone stepping in and saying enough, that nonsense continues without consequence to the idiots that perpetrate it."
"And you're that guy, aren't you? You alone are going to stamp out the evil in this world?"
The exchange was spiraling out of control. There wasn't going to be an easy out.
"When it comes to Ethan, yes."
Allison pulled into the drive and stopped. She was looking through the windshield and attempting to regain her composure. "I don't want to leave you like this," she said in softer tones.
I touched Ethan on the shoulder, asked him to say goodbye to Allison, and go inside. He was out of the car and up on the porch in a second. The conversation had gotten to be enough for him as well.
I got out of the car and walked around to the driver's side. I kneeled and placed both hands on the door. Looking at her, I wanted to say something to make it all alright, make it what it was the night before. Now my heart was beating.
"Look," she began. I interrupted her.
"You have to know something about me," I said while staring downward. "I don't know much about matters like this. I know what I believe in, I know what I will fight for, and that's about it. What happened out there, yes, that's me, that's what I do when someone hurts someone dear to me. You don't agree--"
It was her turn to interrupt, "I'm sorry, Kevin. I know how much Ethan means to you. I've known you for less than forty-eight hours. I had no right to judge you the way I did. I'm sorry, I get it, I see what matters to you, it's just a shock, that's all. I overreacted and I'm sorry for that. It scared me, the thought of you getting hurt scared me, and I reacted."
I smiled at her, "So it's not your love of gang members that made you hate me out there?"
She laughed as she reached out to touch my face. "No, Kevin, no misplaced sentiment for the gang members, and I didn't hate you. You scared me, just a little, and I freaked out. Forgive me?"
I answered by softly kissing her. I heard Ethan cheer from the front door, and we both laughed.
In the weeks that followed her leaving, I reflected on what had been up until that point, the most dangerous time in my life. I knew the world for what it was, at least what it always had been for me. I was sure in the elements, I was gifted and trained and acclimated to survive where many had perished. Now there was this. Will, my grandfather, neither had prepared me for Allison Collins. Every day we spoke on the phone. Each night she would call, or I would call her, and for an hour or more we would speak of our few hours together and the hours and days that would someday be ours. I was getting better at it, talking to a woman, listening, finding out what made her tick. To some degree it was like a training session. You asked questions, received answers, learned quickly what she responded to and what left her cold. Whatever I had been blessed with physically, mentally, in terms of the human struggle, and ways to end it, I had lost out on completely in this realm. At some point I had given up trying so hard. No mind works with almost everything you've been trained repeatedly to do when speaking to the one you want to be with, not such a great roadmap for success.
When I'd really cocked it up a couple of times, I'd chalked it up to my Neanderthal existence. Allison let it go to that point sometimes, other times not. When she debated and redebated, and made various references to why her argument was a cogent one and why I was misguided, uneducated on the topic at hand, or just plain old full of hot air, I would simply submit.
She couldn't know how many times I had won in the arena where someone walks away, and the other experiences their last breath. Giving in to a discussion, or matter of politics, did not hurt my feelings or undermined my manhood. I was a monster with a heart.
Our time apart was weighing heavily on her. I could tell. For me, it was almost a safety net. I enjoyed knowing she was alive and safe and there. Over the phone I could be whatever she needed me to be. In person, out in the open, well we saw how that worked out.
Ethan was growing up nicely. His attitude was so aligned with his father's it was if reincarnation truly existed. I watched him laugh and play and move about his day and it was enough for me. It was my obligation, but moreover it was an honor. Ever since the incident at the park he had been just a little different. His views about me, about what occurred, had left him with questions. Oh how the boy had questions. He asked about why they had done what they did, why I had done what I did, and how he could learn to be more like me. That last one had made me wince, and he noticed. I explained to him as best I could that some people, not all, not even most, but some people do bad things to other people for no other reason than they feel like it, they're wired wrong, don't understand right from wrong, and if they do, they chose to ignore it. Ethan was placated by my response to a point, said he understood not everyone was good, his father had told him that, but it was my actions that he wanted to know more about, how I learned to do the things I did. I attempted a brief explanation and he would have none of it. The kid was too much like his father. I poured him a glass of milk and tried to change the subject to golf. It was, after all, his passion.
"Uncle Kevin, I'm going to be eleven in two weeks. I know you think of me as just a kid, but I'm not."
I'd placed the milk back in the fridge, turned toward him, "I know, buddy. You're not a normal kid anyway." I smiled as I said it and he ignored the remark, continued on his path to enlighten me.
"My dad always tried to hide bad stuff from me. And he died. Someone bad killed him and I'll never know why--"
I hoped my face revealed nothing, wore the placid shield I urged it to, for inside me the barrel was rolling, toppling end over end as it bounced around my heart, into my spine, enveloping my guts and saturating them in white phosphorous. "Someone bad killed him." You don't know the half of it kid.
"I don't want to be this stupid kid who doesn't know anything, Uncle Kevin. I want to be strong, I want to be brave, I want to learn to fight. Fight like you fight."
I did my best to remain dispassionate in the light of his request. Peter would object to it, almost certainly, but what he was asking for was no different than two scared little boys asked of a man who sat in this same exact spot just a few decades prior.
I let go a sigh, "Look pal, I get it, you got pushed down by some jerk at the park--"
"Pushed into a lake Uncle Kevin."
"Okay, pushed into a lake. It was stupid and unfortunate, but even if you'd know all the kung-fu in the world at that point, what difference would it have made?"
Ethan thought for a second. "I would have seen it coming. If I'd known something, I would have known, and I could have defended myself, just like you did for me."
Ethan was not going to give up.
"What about your pops telling you he wanted you to use your head for something other than a punching bag?"
"That's what I'm saying, if you help me, it won't be some asshole's punching bag, I'll be able to fight back."
I tried to stifle the giggle, but couldn't, "Some assholes? Where'd you hear that language, buddy?"
"I'm sorry, Uncle Kevin, I just want to learn to fight. I don't want to be afraid."
I couldn't argue with that. What was the worst that could happen? Would he grow up to be like me? No, I thought not, he wanted what most little boys want that have been beaten down by a bully, some confidence back.
"Fine, you want to learn to defend yourself, I'm totally on board with that. But listen to me, okay? What I show you is, number one, between us. It's not for showboating with your friends, or becoming one of those 'butt holes' you described earlier. Got it?" He nodded and said yes. "And two, what you take from me is just what I called it, defense, as in defense of your life when someone attacks you, not if some kid from school calls you a 'girl', or tells you, 'nice face fart breath', or any silly shit like that, got it?"
Ethan was laughing now. I was sure the fart breath thing had cracked his serious veneer for the moment.
"I promise, Uncle Kevin. I swear I will only use what you show me if overwhelming odds oppose me."
Ethan was smiling, proud of himself for the witticism. What a smartass, same as his dad at that age without a doubt.
I tried to put off the lessons until after dinner, no dice. The kid's patience was comparable to a great white's when the blubber infused seal was overhead. We were out in the barn ten minutes after our agreement was sealed.
Ethan was dancing around the bag taking shots at it from all corners, moving his feet back and forth in an ALI-esqe shuffle before I was able to quiet him and his overzealous efforts. I called him to me, made a second deal with him on the spot. "The things I know, the things I'm willing to teach you, they come with a price."
He was barely listening, his body still moving in a side to side pattern, his eagerness to get on with it. "Ethan stop," I said with a muster of force.
His body came to an abrupt halt. My tone had been serious enough to illicit stillness. I began again, "This isn't golf, it isn't basketball, nothing about this is a game. The things we'll do out here are intended to do one thing. Do you know what that is?"
Ethan shook his head back and forth while answering, "no" His eyes were wide and his face was wearing a mask painted with equal parts excitement and dread.
"Stop a threat," I answered. "And to do that, to stop another person from hurting you, you have to hurt them. Understand?"
Ethan's understanding of this was so minimal he didn't know whether to answer yes or no. "It really doesn't matter if you understand right now, because I will repeat it countless times, at least on this point I will. Just remember this, use these tools only if forced to do so. Fight only if no other option applies. If I hear of you hurting someone, just because you can, then this all stops, we clear?"
Ethan was a bit shaken, and that was good, in fact that was perfect. He had to know how serious this was, and how serious I was about it.
For the next hour it was if time had reversed itself and me with it. Nothing ever really changes, I supposed. Not for men like myself, or my father, or his father, and now Ethan.
This time in his life, same as it was in mine, now to start anew. We are born and then we become. For some it is always unclear, and for others not. As we threw straight punches into the air, uppercuts, right and left hooks, I wondered, what would it be like if these things, and people who knew these things, were unnecessary. How much better off would the world be if men like me were obsolete, and not because a better system presented itself, but because the need not be at all. Not in my lifetime, and probably not in Ethan's. So for now I put aside the philosophy of why and walked toward the border's edge where the truth could still be seen, where men born with an instinct to protect taught the others cut from that cloth.
Time once again passed in its familiar pattern. A day turns into a week, a week into a month, and so on. Ethan had turned a year older, and I would soon as well. It was nearing the holidays. Thanksgiving had come and gone, and Christmas would soon be upon us. Allison and I remained in contact, but the fire we had started several months ago had burned down to an ember. I felt things for her I couldn't remember ever feeling for another, but the distance, and the struggle of operating inside the world of a normal human mind, where things outside of vigilance and protection, and paranoia, were often times too much for me to handle. It wasn't me I felt sorry for, as much as Ethan. He really liked Agent Collins. Whenever we spoke on the phone, he made sure to ring out a "tell her hi for me" blurb, and asked frequently when she would return. He'd have the rest of his life to figure out those types of questions.
For now it was my favorite time of the year, Ethan's too, as far as I could tell. He'd taken a break from golf with the changing season and forged ahead full throttle into self-defense training.
I had shared with him the very basic concepts of fighting and strategy. He was only eleven, after all. With this newest episode in his young life came the responsibility of responsibility. Say what you will about youth athletics, teach kids to kick a ball, great! He joins a team, runs about a field, goes for pizza on Fridays, everyone wins. Teach a kid to kick someone in the outer thigh, where knee joint separates upper leg from lower, not everyone's pleased. Teach him to kick deep into the middle, where air rushes out and knees buckle so a more appropriate position can be assumed to submit an assailant, well, now you're bordering on downright criminal, at least in the streets named society and reasonable.
Rain fell upon the old barn roof, sending a sprinkling of mist below. The temperature was perfect for this type of activity. Both Ethan and I were dressed in sweatpants and hoodies, and the sweat was forming nicely about the perimeter from an hour's worth of toil.
We finished with three, three minute bag drills, where one punched, kicked, and forearmed the heavy bag, while the other performed squats, push-ups, and shadow boxed. At the last go, Ethan fell back carefully upon the hard packed dirt floor. He was breathing moderately, his small chest lifting and falling with the exertion spent. I felt the weight of the world lift from atop my shoulders in these times of greatest effort. My soul damaged and sullied from a life's work, took pleasure and ease from physical labors, and it showed upon my face.
"Pancakes Uncle Kevin."
"What's that champ?" I had been dusting the mind's shelves as I went, but I was almost positive I heard the word pancake.
"I need pancakes, and I don't think I can get up until I have them." Ethan smiled as he made his pleading request.
"Then pancakes it shall be, tiny warrior." I'd used my best Scottish accent, and for my trouble received a giggle and a sneer.
"I'm not tiny, Uncle Kevin."
"No, I guess not, at least not as long as you're filling that groaning belly with pancakes and sausage."
"I didn't even think of sausage. Yea, Uncle Kevin, let's have sausage too, and maybe some scrambled eggs---"
"Whoa, I get it boy, you're hungry. You go wash up and I'll get it started."
"Alright Uncle Kevin."
With that he was up and running for the door. He made it all worthwhile, all bearable. Peter must have loved these types of mornings, I thought. I was finding peace through his existence. Just having him around made the difference. No brooding thoughts at all times of the day. The air seemed easier to breath, and the sun was just that much warmer on my face.
Christmas was weeks away and I had made it my mission to exercise no caution at making this place a winter wonderland. I would pick his brain at breakfast. I'm sure he had at least a few ideas at what a perfect Christmas should resemble.
Following our lumberjack breakfast, I led Ethan to a remote portion of the property where trees of all types abound. I selected one as did he for our trimming pleasure. It was what my grandfather had done for me when I was Ethan's age. It was a big place, easily accommodating two trees inside the main house. One would be positioned in the front room, a shrine of sorts to Christmas past, the other in the living area where the fires were lit and tea and coffee, and now cocoa were sipped at night.
Ethan picked a monster. It would be a day's task chopping it down. Mine was selected on the sensibility criteria, as it had to fit between Ethan, myself, the fireplace and the furniture. No such rules for Ethan.
At morning's end we had finished with the cutting and securing of two perfect ready to adorn trees. I, along with much effort from Ethan, loaded the two onto a small flatbed trailer I had attached to the jeep. We pulled into the main drive in time to see a stranger's car parked in front of the house. As with anything uninvited or unsolicited, the panic bell rang steadily inside my head. I had a Kimber 45 in the middle console of the jeep. I redirected Ethan's attention as I slipped it under my belt at the small of my back. I didn't need another confrontation in front of Ethan, especially not one where I had to shoot someone. The problem was this; our property was remote and secluded, at least by city standards. The road leading to the main house was secured by a sturdy fence and locked steel gate. Whoever drove this dark blue sedan, had no choice but to circumvent that lock, and in my mind that could mean only one thing.
I told Ethan to stay put as I inaudibly let myself out of the driver's side. I scanned in all directions, peered intently into any crevice where someone could hide. Nothing, and why would they, they left their vehicle parked in plain sight. Perhaps I was being paranoid. That was fine, paranoid kept you alive. I saw him then, a lean, tough looking figure moving easily around the south side of my home. He was dressed in jeans, work boots, and a down parka. Something about his face reminded me of war. I had released my grip on the pistol tucked at my back. He smiled and raised his hands high enough away from his body to show me he was not a threat.
Returning a Favor
"Kevin Anderson, how have you been hair trigger?" It was Simmons, Will's partner and assistant trainer from my days in his care. It had been, what? Fifteen years? The guy looked exactly as I remembered him, tough and no-nonsense. He continued, "Look, Kevin, I'm sorry to call on you like this. I'll replace your lock. You see, I parked in the most defenseless position I could find. I may be getting older but with that comes a dose of wisdom. Shit boy, you look good."
"You too, Simmons," I replied. "What brings you out here?"
"I wish it were good news, Kevin, I really do."
"Oh shit, is something wrong with Will?" I thought on that for a second. I hadn't seen or heard from Will in years, not since he had rescued me from myself on that last gig. I felt my stomach turn to ice with the news that might follow.
"That's just it, son, we don't know, well we do and we don't. Crazy shit is going on in the world and Will put himself right in the fucking middle of it."
I tried to ask more but Simmons cut me off, asked if we could talk inside. I had forgotten about Ethan still seated in the jeep. I called to him and he ran over to us. He seemed relieved. I made hasty introductions and asked Ethan to go wash up and play for a while. I led Simmons to the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, and settled in for what was coming.
"He went over as a contractor, you heard of these guys?"
I said that I had.
"Ever since the conflicts in the Middle East erupted, demand for high end operators who worked outside of the government sanctioned box had sky rocketed. Never before had professional soldiers been sought out and held in such lofty regard."
I could imagine Will right in the thick of it. Despite his age and the battle scars he already wore, I was sure he was geared up and standing by for more.
"All of us, Anderson. We all signed on. What else do you do? Work at McDonald's? Fuck." Simmons was holding onto his mug and looking at his hands. "This last go was a shit storm. The people over there, they all look the fucking same, the soldiers, the citizens, the bad guys, everyone looks the f-ing same. We are ramped up like nothing I've ever known. Will, being Will, he thrives on the shit, goes head first into mission with that thought no thought bullshit, guns up, --"
"Mind no mind" I corrected.
Simmons blinked, "Wha'd I say?"
"Thought no thought, same shit, sorry I interrupted."
"Yea, okay, mind no mind, shit no shit, whatever. You know him better than anyone. You, my friend, you were his baby, his creation, do you have any idea how much that man thought of you? Thought of your father?"
I didn't and said so. I knew he cared, was thoughtful and deliberate in his training of me. I was unsure how much more there was. Will was a man's man as they say.
"Oh Christ, kid, the stories we had to endure about the great John Anderson. No disrespect, Kevin, I'm sure your old man was a great guy, it's just when you hear any story repeated a thousand times, brought forth in biblical proportions, it gets old, and then you, the second coming, his boy, his protégé, Kevin Anderson. Shit kid, that man loved you like you were his own flesh and blood. Everything you ever did in training, every move you made as a cop, as a man, Will knew about it and bragged on it. Your ears must have been burning twenty-four hours a day."
I'd had no idea. I sat there for a moment taking it in. It was surprising and humbling.
"So here we are. I didn't know who else to turn to, so I looked you up."
"What do you need from me?"
"There's no easy way to ask this, and if I'm completely out of line, just say so and I'll be on my way."
I urged him on with my eyes.
"Will's been taken, captured by some seriously shitty people. Sasco's fucked up, took a piece of shrapnel from an IED. Wright is married with four kids. His head's no longer in it, not the way it would have to be for this shit. That leaves you and me."
"You want me to help you find Will overseas? Is that what you're asking? Sim, I don't know, I've been out of the game for years now. I've got Ethan, this place, do you even know where to look? Where to begin?"
Simmons removed a small folding electronic device from his coat pocket, opened it and pressed play. It was a grainy video of Will. In it, three men were around him. He was tied to a chair, his clothes were ripped and filthy. His face was marked and bloodied. One of them, the one capable of broken English, was urging Will to say something. Will was refusing and being beaten for his obstinance. The feed stopped with Will quietly stating, "You're all going to die" instead of the words he was being fed.
I asked Simmons to play the video again. I looked for clues in the background. The walls had a banner of sorts, the words were nothing I could understand, and I asked Simmons if he could translate them for me.
Simmons said they meant Taliban and Jihad.
Simmons had studied history, knew the beliefs and culture of those he fought. He provided me with a brief history lesson.
"Radical Islamists like the Taliban practice their faith, or hide behind it, in any way they deem fit. Islam is different than any other religion as it is highly decentralized. There is no principal authority or ruling body to uniformly interpret the Quran's principals; therefore, you have these bands of assholes, like the Taliban, or Islamic Jihad Organization, or countless other off-shoots, who kill innocent people without justification or provocation, and contribute their inappropriate behavior on an ideology. They interpret anyway they see fit to justify their cause, and right now their cause is to kill the infidels."
Simmons replaced the device, securing it in his jacket before continuing. "What makes it work so bloody successfully is this; these fuckers will kidnap and kill anyone. You don't have to be a soldier, or a high ranking official, all you have to be is in the wrong place. And they're smart. Don't let the desertscape dew-rags fool you. They understand, at least from a historical standpoint, that the United States of America has never effectively practiced no ransom/no negotiation policy, has never utilized swift and effective retribution. They perform acts of terrorism that are truly terrifying."
Simmons pulled the video player from his coat once more, "I wasn't going to show you this, Kevin. You've probably seen enough bad shit in your life to cover three lifetimes, but you really need to know what these people are capable of."
I watched in silence as a man dressed in an orange prison style jumpsuit, kneeling before his captures, was forced to remain that way, as a man dressed in all black, surrounded by others in this garb, read something to the camera. Again, the language was one I didn't understand. A minute of this passed, and then swiftly, the kneeling man was knocked down and the reader stabbed him in the neck with a large knife.
What followed turned me hot and cold at the same time. I was witnessing a beheading, one drenched in ignorance and utter hatred. The black clad man sawed his way through the other man's neck, a horrible sound escaping as the victim's airway was opened. It took what seemed like an eternity, until eventually, the lifeless body fell aside and the executioner lifted the freshly decapitated head and continued on with an ever frenzied chant of "Allah Akbar." The others around him joined in and the scene was madness. I was engorged with rage. My face was consumed by heat, and my heart was beating as if I'd run wind sprints. "Motherfuckers" was all I was capable of saying. Simmons looked at me thoughtfully.
"Tell me you can't do it, Kevin. I'll get it son. Soldiers know this shit may find them some day. Will would understand, believe me. He chose his path, always."
"How soon?"
Simmons breathed out and touched my arm. "Yesterday kid, yesterday."
Simmons left and I gathered myself to tell Ethan. What the fuck was I doing? I had made a promise to Peter, a last promise along with everything else. This was madness, and I knew it. It was a suicide mission that required a man with nothing left. I had it all. I didn't know who to turn to, I didn't know what to say. There were things in this life you owed. Things glaringly apparent that might not ever be repaid. Regret, that's what I had a lifetime of, misery, sadness, pain. I had all of that in spades. But now I had life, the best life I would ever know. The voice that knew no restraint spoke then. Ever the listener, ever the follower, it reaches through and beyond one's rational thought. It feeds on principal and honor and what is truly right, without regard for safety or comfort or happiness. It knows what is waiting, it knows better than anyone ever could.
"Will would save you Kevin" it said in hushed tones. "He already has." Again the voice, "Will would find you and kill every single man that had wronged you." I spoke to the invisibility that occupied me, "I know he would."
I made two phone calls.
Everything I had in this world had been placed in a living trust for Ethan. I knew all too well how people passed without ever knowing the end was near. No surprises for him. I had worked out every detail, followed every lawful procedure to ensure he would never be left without means.
Allison picked up just before my call would have gone to voice mail. She sounded rushed, and I tried to play it light. I explained to her an old friend had died a long way from home and I needed to attend to his last requests. Allison did what any decent person does in the face of such news. With minimal hesitation, she said she would fly out that evening. It was too much to ask, especially from one who knew me only fractionally. She arrived, looking beautiful, and was gracious and forgiving all at the same time. We spoke of the time at hand. I didn't let myself drift upon our memory, or release my will to her tenderness. What I was doing to her was wrong and I knew it. If the worst happened, which was almost a sure bet, then she would be tasked with a responsibility she never signed on for. Ethan would once again be alone.
I left them with a promise of soon returning. I drove away knowing in my heart I would never see either of them again.
Simmons was waiting for me on the airfield. He had secured us a spot on a cargo into Iraq. "All of the gear you requested is already on board," he said. "You need to know up front this is non-sanctioned Kevin.
No one, except a few very trustworthy individuals know where on this flight, and even they don't know where we'll be departing from it."
"It doesn't matter," I responded. "Half of everything I know in this world I learned from Will, and this here is a debt that needs to be paid. I'll be real clear Sim, either he's coming back with us, or I'm going to kill everyone that had something to do with him dying."
"You sound just like him Kevin."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
In the air we checked our gear, assured ourselves our equipment was at least right, even if we weren't. Simmons was hard to hear over the engine whine. He spoke of the jump off point, went over the land nav, possible insertion points, number of bad guys on site, probability of success, possibility Will was already dead. It all sounded unnecessary at this point. I had one thing in mind, one mission left to attend to and it didn't even matter if I got it right. What I'd viewed, what was happening, or already happened to Will left only one thing clear, one item of importance on my, "Things to do" list. When I hit the ground, when those rag wearing, chant bellowing murdering fucks revealed themselves; I was going to kill them all.
It was nearing midnight in this part of the world. Forty-five minutes to zero hour for Simmons and myself. I changed out, dressing first in polypropylene undergarments, prior to shrugging on my fatigues and free fall suit. We would be jumping, or rather falling in, HALO style, from a distance above ground of nearly 35,000 feet. My combat pack was last on. It housed my ammunition, M-4, pistol, and knives.
Simmons assisted in final adjustments, and after his own gear had been secured properly, we set to the task of breathing 100% oxygen to flush the nitrogen from our bloodstream.
It was dangerous; this type of insertion, but everything about this engagement was dangerous.
Ours was a mission of highest probability. Jumping in from high altitude at terminal velocity was the best chance to go undetected. This wasn't a case of drive up and order out. Two men in, maximum kill rate, three men out, that was the plan. There were no more words now.
Everything that had to be said had been. Two extremely well trained men were going to risk their lives to save their friend. It's just what it was, no more, no less.
Silence had a most pleasurable quality. It allowed for reflection, introspection, nothingness. With Will's teaching I had gotten pretty good at the latter. Simmons was good at it as well. In the cargo bay of this cumbersome craft, silence was defined as the deafening roar from twin engines roughly the size of motor homes. This form of silence was suddenly broken by the cargo bay's rear hatch opening.
The whining metallic click and subsequent hum would soon allow Simmons and I to be sucked free from the safety of the great craft, and once removed, glide effortlessly into the black beyond. I stowed the memories of all I'd left behind, and took an oxygen infused breath free of conscious thought. There was no need to pray, I was owed death many times over. If you could let go the real reason we were here, it was spectacular. The distance above the earth was vertigo inducing. The infinite sky and stratosphere beyond was inspiring, even to one so flawed as myself. Helmet and oxygen secure, I gave Simmons the thumbs up and semi-ran to the opening and jumped, leaving what was left of reasonableness and certainty behind.
We fell at an alarming rate, a terminal rate. Soon enough the ground sauntered up to greet us. The impact was something I'd forgotten about. It had been many years since I'd performed a jump of any kind, much less this daredevil tactic.
Ground underneath me, I began the task of readying myself for the night ahead. I had removed the unnecessary items, stowing them behind and under rock and brush which littered this rugged desert landscape. In the end I was left with the clothes on my back, load bearing vest, M-4 rifle, suppressor equipped, six twenty round magazines, a Kimber 1911 with crimson trace laser grips, two fixed blades, and several devices that went boom. Simmons was not going in with me. He was outfitted with long range kill power and night vision scope. He would be the only god that believed in me as I ran into the gates of hell.
We were side by side in the dark as Simmons made the adjustment to his rifle's dope. He spotted the building; an unimpressive dirt bound structure with four roaming guards, the closest of which was eight hundred yards away.
"Look Kevin," he said while studying his prey through the green grain glass, "I just want to say thank you. Guys like you, like us, were a dime a dozen. All we have is this, no one gets this shit, I'm not sure I do, I just know it's the right thing to do. Whatever happens, man, it was an honor knowing you."
I could have made light of it, remarked with a smartass retort about spooning one another before I ran in there. I thought better of it. I had always been uncomfortable with sincerity, feelings of gratitude or praise. I took one last deep breath and thanked him instead. I told him how much it had all meant to me, the skills I had learned and practiced over the course of a lifetime from him, and Will, and those like them.
I stood and eased away from his position. Once in the open, I ran and didn't look back. All that was left was what was necessary. My mind was empty of anything resembling a human being. I had been taught long ago to leave the thoughts that bind behind.
Worrying about life, death, what awaits you back home, or in the afterlife, none of it helped accomplish the mission. All it could do was hurt you, slow you down, when all you needed was immediacy.
No one would hear the death Simmons brought with him. A rack of the bolt, ejection of brass, that would be all. I was closing in on it unencumbered. Simmons had done his job, and killed all four. I only saw one of them. He was wearing the dark rags of this place, only now he was adorned with an ever darkening pool of blood right at the point where the heart followed.
Something else comes to call
"Here I come Will" I said to the opening in front of me. The rest of the world followed very different ideas of what constituted a secure structure. Not every hatch had a lock, or even a door for that matter. Simmons had used the resources at his disposal to recon this place from the air and ground. It hadn't been used for this purpose before, at least as far as anyone could tell. The U.S. Military was fed up with the bullshit perpetrated in the folds of this barren land, and in their determination to smoke out the badguys, the badguys adapted. No place was considered safe. Movement and concealment, caves and underground dwellings, structures that resembled burnt out farms and outposts, were utilized one day and abandoned the next. Simmons said we were lucky to track this place down, luckier still, that they had remained for more than a couple of days. Intelligence being what it was, I counted on nothing and prepared myself for the worst possible outcome. I had lied to people I cared about, but had made arrangements to secure their futures. I had made peace with all I could control, and was ready to give my life to save another, and if that was beyond scope, then rectify a great man's death the only way I knew how.
Ambient light was plentiful and made night vision pointless. I encountered no bell ringers out of doors, and surmised the folks waiting inside felt reasonably safe that four armed men walking the perimeter in this rural hut of sorts was security enough, first mistake.
I quickly ascertained the entry I had made initially was but a mud wall constructed to shield the main building from the harsh desert winds.
My next access point was a solid wood door without any form of security device. I had no idea how many awaited me inside, nor did I have a clue where Will would be kept. This was the unknown, the point of reference all operators know and speak of to their brethren. It's given many names: "fatal funnel", "point of no return", "the suck", it all translates easily enough, this is where good men die.
I steadied myself with one good expellation of air and walked through, rifle up, platform tested and true. I found the first of them in a dingy room drinking what must have been tea. They sat sluggish and unperplexed until the rounds found their skin and bodies beneath. They didn't have time to scream, but their falling made enough noise in this somber place. I continued on, addressing the next two that came shuffling out of a room with a cloth draped hatch.
The first had a weapon in hand, possibly an AK-47, but was unable to use it, as I presented him with a view he would have only enjoyed had I been on his side.
It was without equal, this real life first shooter game where no one would regain their life, no button to reset, no switch to pause. I was functioning as a machine would, if that machine had been programmed to kill everything in its path not resembling a US Soldier.
Pupils dilated, working heart rate a cacophony of white noise reverberating in every cell, I searched on. Gunfire erupted as I knew it eventually had to. My weapon was the only one silenced in this dungeon. The rounds impacted the ground and walls around me. I felt my body recoil as at least one of them punched my upper back. I fell with its weight, moved right, rolling tightly into a fighting ball, brought my rifle back around to bear and pressed diligently. Rounds left at an uncountable rate, the sound of clink, clink, clink, and brass littering my surroundings. The enemy gunfire ceased, and the voice of a screaming man filled the dirty smoke filled space we occupied.
My rifle was empty and I was still clearly in the fight. I transitioned from M-4 to pistol without ever consciously thinking of doing so. I was up and moving and in that time which feels like swimming in quicksand, however actually resembles light speed, I found him and killed him with a single gunshot to the frontal lobe. His suffering was over along with his sickening howls. I didn't linger near him, I was moving again. Never be in the last place they saw you, isn't that what Will had preached. I hastily did the math. I had killed six men, perhaps more with that barrage of fire I'd sent down the hall. As far as I could tell, there was only two rooms left. I didn't hear a thing until I was right upon them.
Will was bound and gagged. He was set upon his knees, probably in the last few seconds by one man, the last man. His aggressor was holding a large curved blade, his face was unmasked and unshaven. He wore his hate like a ceremonial mask, so complete his eyes seared with distaste and fury. He was the one capable of English, the one from the video.
"You will do what you will do. I do not fear you. I only waited so you could see this swine die before your eyes. He means something to you?"
He sounded educated and composed. Will must have been surprised by all of this, perhaps not. I wouldn't allow myself to glance away from this last tiny detail. I didn't hear anything the man was saying, to focused on the moment to care. He crouched at an impossible angle. Will was a big man, this one behind him was not. There was no way to shoot him without shooting Will as well. Will would have urged me to do it had he been capable of speech. He would have told me to kill them both, happy in the knowledge his captor and torturer had died as well.
I waited, and could have waited forever. I trained the front sight just to the right of Will's head, just brushing the outline of the other's face. He had Will by a handful of the rag that seized Will's mouth. How many hours had I held this position in training? Sights clear and on target, target blurred slightly, but always present. This wasn't training, however, and in my hands for not the first time was life and death. It didn't matter. The life I held was of a man who had trained me to do this very thing. Mind no Mind, no past no future, only what revealed itself in the moment, the outcome would be whatever it was meant to be.
He was still talking, had been the entire time I was standing here. He had made a choice, as all men do. He decided killing this man under his control more important than saving his own life. It was difficult to fight an enemy who thought little for their own safety.
He would have to move, maybe just a minute gesture, conceivably no more than a minor twitch and pull and he could slide the ominous looking blade across Will's throat, or plunge it into his back.
His speech had halted. I watched him prepare himself to end Will's life, and trade his own in the exact same moment. There was nothing subtle about it -- a closing of the eyes, a tilt of the head, and what began and ended in his throat was the inevitable "Allah Akbar."
Will felt it as well, and trusting his pupil would act without thought, lunged forward with all of the strength and resolve he had left. The blade traveled upward and through, the face of hatred transcended its conscious hold folding into a smear of astonishment as his prey eluded him, leaving the armed man free to eliminate one final obstacle.
There was no need for a second or third round to be fired. The man, along with his beliefs and desires, lay dead at Will's side.
I holstered my weapon and kneeled down to assist Will. I cut the trappings of this place from him and helped him to his feet. He asked me if there were others detained here. I thought that was just like Will, seven seconds from the end of his life and still working out a rescue strategy for others. I told him there weren't and insisted we should probably get a move on. Will didn't argue, and followed where I led.
The way out was slow going. Will had been bound for the duration of his time there. Simmons was up and moving our way at first sight. Together we mustered Will back to the rally point, where Simmons had set coordinates for a speedy evac out. It was amusing in that instant. I was sure Simmons hadn't even planned for this outcome.
On the flight out of darkness I was both relieved and overcome as I looked upon the man I had learned so much from. He slept, as the medication he'd been furnished with coursed through him, serving to heal and free him from the death that was so closely pressed atop him. Simmons was asleep as well, his face serene as the mission closed. I was where I always seemed to be, somewhere between life and death, wakefulness and sleep, light and dark.
THE END
Acknowledgments
After three years, several computer malfunctions (thanks, Ben), and a couple of stops and starts, the words, "The End" finally appeared before me. It happened late one night, and the feeling of pride and joy are something I can still conjure up if I really try. I've tried my hand at this a few times before. OBLIGATION is my first work to reach its end.
This project begins and ends with the story of Kevin. A flawed creature, attempting to make sense of the decisions he makes, and the consequences that follow. In writing Kevin, I knew I wanted to make him strong, both physically, and mentally, however in addition to this, I wanted him to carry the burden of those choices, and the almost unimaginable pain and suffering that would manifest itself in the heart and soul of any reasonable human being, who endured, or engaged, in his lifestyle.
For the few who really know me, you know this story is a big mixed bag of my own internal noise. Much of what is written is personal experience, lessons learned in many different places, and the treasured memories of a childhood that passed far too quickly. The rest is what I hoped you found to be an entertaining story.
For those of you familiar with Autism, I'm sure Matty's untitled affliction was not to trying a mystery. In 2004, my only child was diagnosed with Autism. As I write this, he is asleep in his bed, dreaming dreams he can never share. It is the saddest thing in this world, and I will not trouble you further with our burden. Know only that I miss him, even as he stands before me.
A special thanks to my wife's cousin, Gina. An English teacher of boundless skill and commitment I have no doubt. Without her tireless efforts, this book would read more like a madman's dreamscape, than the grammatically correct novel I present to you now. The cover art I owe to Danny, a teammate and partner for many years, who I both appreciate, and am proud to call friend. His technical knowledge and desire to help produced the perfect symbol to adorn my book. The Kindle version was created by John Potter who went the distance in taking this book from Word to a professional layout.
A special thanks to all of those who have sworn an oath and carry a gun for their paycheck. God bless you for all that you do, and the sacrifices you make every day.
To my partners, both past and present, it is my privilege to serve by your side. Honor, Courage, Sacrifice...
To Tommy and Alex, you two are like sons to me, and I am honored to have played some small part in your lives.
To John, without you, this story couldn't have been told. You will always be the brother I never had.
And finally to my wife, Alicia. You are the one thing that truly matters and the only thing I could not do without.
D-
Table of Contents

