Dog Tags (31 page)

“How can it be?” Amos asked, a white-haired fool but in his voice iron and rich sorrow. “How can men do this?”

No one answered. Soon Rosalie said, “He called up. I told him the baby was in the hospital. I said the baby might die. He said goddamn and hung up. Then after dark I kept hearing noises. I thought about calling the police but it didn't seem right. I mean, I don't like him but he's my husband.” Benny stared. It didn't seem right. He drank. “I got scareder and scareder and I had no place to go, and when I couldn't stand it I called a taxi and came here. Can I stay? I can sleep on the floor.”

“You should never have left the hospital,” he said.

“I can't afford the hospital,” she said. “He'd just get madder.”

“And had suffered many things,” Benny said thickly, tired and tipsy and his bones heavy, “of many physicians, and had spent all that she had, and was nothing bettered, but rather grew worse.” He hoped his chest would not tighten. This was his birthday and he deserved a fine cigar. He had begun to feel like another man and a worse: the drowned sailor perhaps, sights and sounds approaching him slowly through a vinous murk. Lover or liver. Please espleen. Muzzily he stared at Rosalie; she sat straighter and an odd spark leapt the gap. The wine, he decided, had restored her color. A merry-go-round jingled in his head, rages and lusts, sprays of life's shrapnel, old photos, victims, but instead of horses and swans they were riding limbless babes and blinded crones. “You can stay here,” he said.

Carol started to speak, but held off. Jacob said, “Of course.” Amos said, “A sleeping draught.” Benny had not heard the phrase in years, perhaps ever. Sarah was with them again and said, “Walt Coughlin. He was something.”

“He's still something,” Rosalie said, “but not the same thing.”

Sarah said, “Oh,” and then to the others, “Joe sends his love,” and to Benny, “where's Walt now?”

“Around and about,” Benny said. “Drinking a bit. I may do the same.” There goes the birthday ball. Why is this night different from all other nights?

“I remember Joey,” Rosalie said. “He was nice.”

“I'd like my dessert,” Benny said. “Dessert and coffee, and pass that bottle back.” Maybe I could sleep with Rosalie. A deep inner logic there.

“We can put you in with Sarah,” Carol said to her. In a dark blue cardigan out at the elbows bald Benny sold bubblegum.

The cake was almond mocha and a lone candle burned bravely. No song was sung. Properly doped, Rosalie slumbered upstairs. “So, happy birthday,” Jacob said softly, “anyway.” A mazel tov here, a l'chayim there. Benny's fumy mind pinched tiny thoughts: the baby would die; Joe might be a father; where was Coughlin. “Hell,” he said. “I was going to have a good time and drink. When I was drunk enough I was going to play the fiddle.”

“Life is too dramatic,” Amos said.

“Life is a farce,” Benny said, “played by understudies.” Carol's eyes held his, a long look. “I'm sorry I'm a doctor,” he said. And sorry I married, and sorry I fathered. A lie for a lie and a truth for a truth.

“We're all sorry at times,” Amos sighed.

Benny sipped coffee and resolved to cheer up. “Brandy,” he said. “Sarah, m'love. The good stuff, and the clean glasses.”

“She's a pretty girl,” Sarah said. “She told me she loved being a cheerleader, and she was a drum majorette, and when she won the beauty contest she hoped she could twirl someday on television. She wanted to win a national title.”

“Marchioness,” Benny laughed, and was ashamed. And your own vie de bâton, old sport?

Later they were happier and the party was almost a party. Benny smoked a cigar and rolled his shoulders when his chest tightened, but a third brandy eased him and his mind recommenced its familiar race. Jacob reminisced about 57359, and Benny told them that life was like that. He told them about the soldiers he had survived with, and about Lin and Ou-yang. He did not mention the girl from Harrisburg. “Even the people I see every day—we don't connect, they hardly exist, it's all bits and pieces, loose ends, unfinished business. Nothing ever …
coalesces
.”

Never mind. Tomorrow they would see his lake, and they could fish. He did not tell them of his other lakes, the savory trout sizzling and pink mist rising off still green waters, or about his ketch or his variable crew. He agreed not to fiddle but riffled sleeves for the old quartet, and Sarah mocked him, and they sat heavy with food and drink and the past while the German dance soared and swooped. Benny thought he might like to die listening to it, and Sylvia was almost asleep, and Carol kept her own counsel, pensive, and Benny thought again that she looked well—no, she looked good, worthy of love. That tore his mind from the music, and he tasted the familiar bile, the old, ferocious, bitter rage of sheiks at defiled wells, at poisoned oases, the desert of his sex life, mile upon mile of gritty respectability and all the starry dead nights lost forever. Whose fault? He knew: no marriage is singular. And no one would ever hurt her, no one, he would see to that.

He poured a brandy, knocked it back, said “Ah” and poured another. “Easy there,” Amos said. “Once a year,” Benny said, and Carol hm'd, and he dispensed the jolliest of smiles. “It's beginning to feel more like a party,” he said. “You know, I may retire soon.”

“We all should,” Jacob said.

“I mean from medicine.” Sylvia came awake and stared. “I don't really care any more who lives and who dies. If half the world dropped dead tomorrow, I wouldn't care. I might even rejoice.”

Jacob asked gently, “Which half?”

Benny grinned and cringed. “All right. The other half. But I'd still like to take a few years off. Read. I'd like to read. Good stuff. The Bible. The Iliad. The black ships, and the straight-shafted spears. And the Greek plays. Not to be born is the best for man. That's Carol's racket, right, baby?”

“Shut up,” she said. “I'm a technical adviser and not a commissar.”

“Ah, there's the rub,” he said, but Sarah fought back: “What's so great about the Iliad and the Bible? I mean with Vietnam and all.”

“Ha!” Benny cried. “He that begetteth a fool doeth it to his sorrow. The Iliad, my girl, is all about Vietnam.”

“A lot of good it does,” she said, and once more Benny was alone, too old to be young, too foolish to be old.

And then, as it will, the doorbell rang, and this time he knew it was for him, knew too that he was somewhat drunk, and sniffed up a great cool breath, felt his nostrils flare, his eyes gleam, the blood beat hard—Cuchulainn! Cuchulainn, with the one eye starting out of his face and the top of his head a mass of flames, and he was twenty-two again with all to win and all to lose. “Sit still,” he said, and sprang to his feet; “keep out of it,” and he stretched, stood tall, smiled fiercely, and strode forth haloed by fire. Snarling aloud as the door clapped to, he crowded Coughlin back along the walk, hustled him hard, whacked, walloped, thumped and rammed him, swatted the revolver free with one hairy hand, plucked it from flight with the other, cold-cocked and pistol-whipped good old Walt Coughlin, blacked the eyes, broke the nose, split the lip, boxed the ears blowing the drums, dodged a shower of straight white teeth, inverted the son of a bitch, bounced him thrice on the spattered flags, ripped off the ears and scaled them across the lake, and panted for a moment, intoxicated, licking the taste of salt from his own lips. Then he drained the man of blood, gave the liver and lights to charity, flensed and rendered him, and ground the bones for good light bread. Immediately the war ended, the sick were well, and lovers were not separated.

He opened the door boldly enough, and peered out into the moist night, and yessir it was Walt Coughlin, red of eye and weaving in place but the pistol was a fact. It blurred, twinned; Benny scowled. Godlike he advanced. Truth to tell, he slipped. With sacerdotal dignity he flung the storm door outward and strode, and his heel skidded cleanly on the worn aluminum sill. Flailing backward he groped for the knob, which evaded him; as his left hand slapped the floor, the storm door sprang back and bruised his shins. “Ow,” he said. He swore, and bulled himself upright. He fought his way out and glared at Coughlin. What to say? Coughlin, you are under arrest? He sensed that Coughlin was drunker than he was, a minor but appreciable blessing. The evening rocked gently.

Baleful, squinting, Coughlin peered back, swaying; khaki trousers, denim jacket, a swatch of white hair silky limp down one temple. He spoke in a snarling twang: “Is my wife here?”

Benny shook his head earnestly. “No.”

“Satchwell said he brought her here.” He waggled the pistol and said, “Urf.”

“You're drunk,” Benny said. Coughlin too blurred and twinned.

“Had a few,” Coughlin nodded. They breathed at each other.

“I slipped,” Benny said. His tongue seemed swollen, and the night light very yellow. He swayed; so did Coughlin, and Benny was mildly seasick. “Stand still,” he said.

“My wife is here,” Coughlin said.

“The hospital,” Benny said. “We sent her to the hospital.”

Coughlin said, “Hospital.”

“That's it,” Benny said, and nodded solemnly. “Where the baby is,” and he showed his teeth. “The baby may die. Roland.”

Coughlin grunted and aimed the pistol at Benny's chin. Benny dried suddenly. His bowels moiled, and he clenched. He tried to swallow. The night was altogether still. Too early in the year for crickets or peepers. “I had high school,” Coughlin said. “
Finished
high school.”

“Football,” Benny said. “I remember. Twenty pounds more, you could've been a professional.”

“Yah,” Coughlin said. “Pretty good. You remember.”

“The good old days.”

“Good old days.” Coughlin frowned. “Where was I?”

“Football.”

“Finished high school,” Coughlin said. “Four brown eyes do not make blue eyes.”

“Backward,” Benny said.

“What, backward?”

“Four blue eyes do not make brown eyes.”

“That's what I said,” Coughlin said.

“The baby may die,” Benny said again.

“Everybody dies,” Coughlin said. “I seen
girls
beaten to death.”

“I have an aunt,” Benny said, “with one blue eye and one brown.” He felt that he should speak carefully, but also that nothing would matter much. He must not disgrace himself. Style. A time for style. His bowels pressed; also his bladder. Breathing was not easy, but he knew he should be natural if not casual. Even airy. Perhaps help would come. He would spring for a branch.

Coughlin was considering. “One blue and one brown.”

Benny tried to remember what one did in these circumstances. Something from the cinema, perhaps. A man of his wide experience and proved courage.

“You,” Coughlin said abruptly, “have a Burble Heart.
I
have a Burble Heart.”

“Then don't shoot at me,” Benny said, profoundly and inexorably logical. It was astonishing that he felt no fear—and with the thought, fear swept him. Fear saturated him. He prickled, and his legs trembled. This had happened before. All of it.

Coughlin squinted at the pistol. “Maybe.” He lowered his hand; the pistol bumped his thigh and hung. “Bitch,” he said. “I don't even want her.”

“It's late,” Benny managed. “Why don't you go home now?” His voice, he noticed, arrived, or re-arrived, in tiny wind-borne brassy swells. He shut his eyes and reeled slightly. Tiny tinny tones and doublements, whywhy dodon't youyou gogo hohome. He swallowed with difficulty, and remembered that he was frightened. Why must he be full of drink at this grandest of life's moments? Nothing seemed
consecutive
.

“I had a good woman in Nam,” Coughlin said, and suddenly sniffled. “I was very happy there with that woman. Something,” he quavered, “has gone wrong. I just wanted a lil work and a fren or two and some sweet pussy from time to time.”

“That's ridiculous,” Benny said. “That's insulting to womankind. Besides,” he added reasonably, “you have that.”

“Wurff,” Coughlin breathed. “Buuuull …
shit
. Number ten, old buddy. She got it sewed up, old buddy.” Tears stood bright. “Gon siddown,” he said, and saddown on the blue flags; the pistol scraped and chinked, and Benny hoped woozily that the safety was firm. In the yellow wash Coughlin seemed onstage. “Have to
ask
,” Coughlin said. “Have to
beg
.” A sob. “Meimei was all over me like the
measles
.” Goggling he thrust the muzzle between his lips; he withdrew it, said, “Bang,” and snickered. Crafty and confidential, he offered the best deal in town: “How'd you like to buy a slightly used wife? Transmission a lil rough but up, uphol, up
hol
stery good as new. Not sure about one owner. Might have been a demonstrator,” he said roguishly, “but low mileage. Real low mileage.” Benny heard a crowd at the roadhouse, guffaws and backslaps; dim memories surged at him. Romeo turned television comic, life all gags. But he would not shoot, and Benny took heart.

“You stink,” he said. “You stink of drink, and you beat children and women. Don't you even care about Roland?” He flushed, and his skin prickled again; loons laughed in the night and this was not real. Beyond Coughlin the lawn swam, the parked cars undulated.

“You stink too,” Coughlin muttered, and flapped the pistol. “Ought to kill you.”

“Sure,” Benny said. Where was everybody? “Beat up a baby and kill an unarmed man.” He shifted a foot and staggered. “Whoo.”

“None of your god damn business,” Coughlin said. “And it's my baby.”

“But it
is
my business,” Benny said, “and you just told me it wasn't your baby.” Again the words returned from a great distance, slurred and musical, the remote echo of a belling stag.