I'd Walk with My Friends If I Could Find Them (13 page)

“So you're saying we're burning more than our shit?” Wintric says.

“Will do more damage than these Taliban jerk-offs.”

“No offense, LT,” Wintric says. “I hear you, but it could be a flu.”

“Damn, Ellis. You're making sense to me. You're an optimist. They need you at West Point. Stay with it, man. Stay with it.”

The next two days, nothing. Dust and distant helicopters and heat. Scan horizon, clean weapons, sweat, scan horizon, drink water, scan horizon, sweat, repeat; a two-hour argument on Stallone versus Schwarzenegger, an hour on Liddell versus Ortiz, an hour dispute on the hottest porn star followed by a half-hour debate on who among them would let a woman stick her fingers up his ass. Two yes, one no, one “has experience.”

“This one's for everyone,” the LT says. “Five division-one football teams don't have
university
in the name of the schools they represent. Go.”

Silence.

“Three you should get, being in the military.”

“Shit, LT, don't help. Service academies.”

“There's three. Other two?” The LT coughs into his fist.

Big Dax scratches his neck. “Football's for pussies. Except Peyton Manning and Jonathan Vilma. Jets are two and oh, baby.”

Torres stands and raises his rifle. “I think better when I'm aiming.”

“You'd make a hell of a tight end, Big Dax. Tell me when you all want a hint.”

“I like that Tennessee orange,” says Big Dax. “We need Peyton on the Jets, LT.”

“Jets need Elway,” Torres says. “The greatest ever. First answer, LT, Georgia Tech.”

“One more to go. Not bad.”

“In Georgia you get free school if you've served, right?” Wintric says.

“I don't know,” the LT says. “A few states . . .”

“Yeah, Texas, Illinois, Georgia. G.I. Bill or not. Doesn't matter. It's in the constitution or something. That's what I've heard.”

“You going to school?”

“Sure. I'll move to Texas,” Wintric says.

“What you majoring in?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really,” the LT says.

“The Citadel?” Torres says.

“No.”

“Virginia Tech?” says Big Dax.

“No. It's actually a mouthful: Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University. Think gold helmets.”

“Seven months left here,” says Wintric. “A few more months at Carson, then my commitment's up. Drive to Texas with my papers.”

“Austin?”

“Is there water near there?”

“Yep,” the LT says. “Lake Travis. It's right there. They'll make you a longhorn. The other obnoxious orange, Big Dax.”

“They call it burnt,” Big Dax says. “And I don't like to talk about Texas. Too many crazies.”

“Sounds good, LT,” Wintric says. “Lake Travis, huh?”

“Supposed to be nice.”

Several moments of silence as the wind picks up. Wintric has rarely considered Texas, and as he does now he pictures long-horned bulls, the Dallas Cowboys' blue star, Emmitt Smith, oil dikes bobbing.
Lake Travis,
he thinks,
right there,
and he tries to imagine the lake, but all that appears is a replica of Lake Almanor without the pine trees.

Big Dax runs through his mental catalogue of gold helmets.
Notre Dame, Florida State, Colorado, UCLA, Purdue? Wyoming?

Torres lowers his rifle.

“I'm ready for a hint,” he says.

“Big Dax?”

“Fine,” Big Dax says.

“Doug Flutie,” the LT says.

“Doug Flutie?” Torres says.

“Boston College,” Big Dax says.

The next day, during a cloudless afternoon, and Big Dax notices a child in the far distance, but he doesn't yet realize it's a girl. He's been on watch for two hours and nothing, and now this kid, a wide-open dirt plain, wind, and a heart he now hears inside him. Two hours since his last cigarette and he feels it in his blood. A mongoose darts across the road, surprising him, and he thinks about the little nondescript mammal tearing up cobra after cobra.
Do they ever lose?
Then his back tattoo. He had asked for a boa constrictor, but for thirty-three dollars outside Fort Benning you get what you get, so he sports a green creature along his vertebrae that appears more eel than snake. He's nicknamed it Snake.

Again the child, now walking toward them.

“We got any candy left?” Big Dax says to no one in particular, and no one answers.

Big Dax thinks he sees the kid wave, but no, just a child in a white shawl and pink pants, ten, maybe twelve years old. She walks alone, holding something round.

“Guys, where's our candy?” he asks.

Big Dax lifts his rifle and peers through the scope at this walking girl—no shoes, a soccer ball in hand.
But all alone?
A gust lifts her white shawl, and something silver, metallic, flashes. Another gust and he gets a peek at a silver vest. His insides pulse, then expand, and he calls out to Torres, “Scope her. Scope the girl.”

“Call it in, Ellis,” Torres yells.

The girl tosses the spotted ball to herself. Big Dax flips the safety off and his heartbeat throbs and he hears the LT on loudspeaker: “Estaad sho yaa saret fayr meykunam.”
Stop, or I'll shoot.
She strides toward them, all alone with the flat earth.

“Two hundred out,” Torres says.

“What did you see? Talk to me,” the LT shouts.

“Vest. Vest.”

“Vest?”

“Metal. It's not right. No one is here. It's metal.”

“What the fuck?”

“Vest?”

“Look!”

“No one is here.”

“Shit!”

“Where is everyone?”

“A girl?”

“There's a vest. Something's there, LT.”

The girl stops. Big Dax sees the silver glint under her shawl and her moving lips through his crosshairs. The girl has an odd lump of skin hanging from her jaw.

“Something there, LT,” Big Dax says.

“Got it.”

“Not right. Not good.”

“Easy,” says the LT. “Wait.”

“I see metal,” Torres says. “Silver something. It's not right. The girl isn't right.”

“Yes.”

“She's talking to herself.”

“Make the call.”

“Wait,” the LT says.

She walks toward them, alone. A soccer ball in her hands.

“Make the call, LT.”

“Warning shots one-fifty. Shoot at one hundred,” the LT says.

The girl shakes her head at something off to her right, then walks again. She keeps her gaze off to her right but walks straight. Torres raises his rifle and the girl stops again and touches her chest—
A skin-and-bones chest? A wired chest? Silver-strung explosives?

“Estaad sho yaa saret fayr meykunam.”

Wintric mimes opening his blouse over and over.

“Look here!” he yells.

Torres's voice: “Dax, your shot. One-fifty. Your shot. Your shot.”

“Warning shot,” LT says.

Big Dax peers through his scope, from the girl to the clear sky. Aiming high, he pulls the trigger and feels the rifle's kick as a bullet hurtles away. Back to the girl, who stares off at the openness, seemingly unaffected, her moving lips, the skin sac hanging off her face. He smells gunpowder.

Please,
Big Dax says to himself, then repeats out loud, “Please.”

Wintric has his rifle up; he peers through the scope, sees his bullet's trajectory from his barrel to the girl's chest.
A girl?
His mind works question and answer.
A girl. A girl? A girl.
He pictures his bullet tearing through her heart.

For a moment everything stops save the girl, standing still, turning the soccer ball in her hands, her small hands on the ball. They scope her and she turns the ball. Quiet.

Then, in one fluid motion, she drops the ball and sprints at the men, arms up in a
V.

“Estaad sho yaa saret fayr meykunam!”

“One-twenty-five,” Torres says. “One-ten. Fuck.” A pause. “One hundred. Your fucking shot, Dax. Now. Now.”

Big Dax sees the girl growing bigger and bigger; his weapon's crosshairs meet on her expanding chest. Torres's gun bursts and the girl still runs in long strides, uninjured.

Big Dax takes a quick breath and holds this afternoon, this moment, this white shawl, pink pants, glinting chest, bare feet. He fires.

Wintric exhales and squeezes the trigger.

The girl falls down, curled, and they hear the rifles' simultaneous report and smell the gunpowder and heat. Then quiet. No wind now. No talk. Everything has been swallowed. The girl's body jolts on the road, legs kicking, the soles of her bare feet exposed in the afternoon. Her legs jolt again, then still. Her bare feet. One heel digging at the road, then still. All quiet. Not calm. Quiet.

6

D
AX FLIES TO
Salt Lake City, rents a car, and drives past the salt flats, Bonneville, the state border, past Wendover and Wells, to Elko, Nevada. Alston, as lean as he was in high school but now sporting a shaved head and a
Janelle
tattoo on his left forearm, greets Dax in front of his mobile home on half an acre on the south side of town.

“First off,” he says, “you're still a big son of a bitch. Second, Janelle stayed up in Idaho, and there's nothing more to say about that. Third, I'm gonna let you talk about the war. Get it all out. No one's listening out here. Let's go inside and get to the tough shit first.”

Framed prints of large bucks and antelope hang on the walls inside. A dusty but clean smell hangs in the room, as if it's been recently vacuumed.

“Elko's got water and gold,” Alston says over beers. “You don't need anything else. Listen, a lot of people are going to freak the fuck out about losing their homes, losing their jobs, all that bullshit. Just wait. I don't feel sorry for them one bit. What do you expect, living in San Francisco or L.A.? You gonna spend a million bucks on a two-bedroom fixer? Big cities, they're not taking anything out of the ground that people want. Of course you gonna eventually be screwed. We got water and gold. Other places have one or the other. We got both. I'm never leaving. I paid one-fifty for this house. It's worth three hundred, easy. Okay, that was the icebreaker. Talk to me, man. Are you fucked up in the head? Are the movies true? You got all of your limbs, right?”

Alston pauses long enough for a sip.

“Talk to me, man. Look at your fucking forearms. What'd you do? I'm not joking, Dax. I want you to talk. All these guys and gals come back and they all say that they got no one to talk to, no one's gonna listen. I believe them. No one wants to hear the stories. Who has happy stories? You don't even have to go to war. No one has happy stories. Good jobs here, but where's the gold going? You'd think we'd keep a couple chunks for ourselves, but trucks leave every night at 2
A.M.
headed for somewhere that's not here, digging the gold, killing the mountains, dumping it in the trucks and hauling it away. Listen, I don't ask too many questions, but why is gold so damn important? Who's wearing gold these days? It's all platinum. Janelle wore gold. She loved that shit, but only with the turquoise in it. So fucking weird. No one makes the gold with the turquoise in it, it's all silver and turquoise, everyone knows that, but she loved the fucking gold and turquoise, which you can never find. Why? Because it looks like shit, that's why. And this thing on my arm? Best idea I ever had. Do you know how many girls I meet that see that tat but no wedding ring? It's amazing. They'll come up and say, ‘Was Janelle your mom?' And you know what I say? ‘Hell yes she was my mom, bless her goddamned soul.' They see that loyalty and it's pants-off time. Afterward we'll be laying there and they'll be stroking the fucking tattoo, and I know what they're thinking—‘This guy loves his mama. This guy's a keeper.' And what do I say? Nothing. That's what I say. You're in Elko, Dax.”

Another sip.

“Shit, it's good to see you, man. I want you to talk. I'm gonna sit here and listen. You don't want to say shit, fine, just tell me, but this is your chance, my friend. You can't go on no documentary and say no one wanted to listen. I'm listening. Please. I'll listen.”

“I don't know, A,” Dax says. “I feel good. Weird to be out, though.”

“Sure.”

“I hate having to decide what to wear every day. Don't have to think about that while you're in. I thought I'd love it, but it's a pain in the ass.”

“Freedom,” Alston says. “Fucking overrated.”

“I'm good,” Dax says. “I don't know what to say.”

“You a smoker now. I smell it on you. You ever have to stick the cigs in your nose like those dudes in Nam?”

“I don't know,” Dax says.

Silence while Alston leans back in his chair, eyes wide, then leans forward.

“Come on, man. Give me something. Give me the best and worst. We'll clear that shit out and go lose some money.”

“I'll have to think about it.”

“Nowhere to be. Think, but not too much. You don't get to the stuff I'm talking about by thinking.”

“Boring shit,” Dax says. “There's no best or worst.”

“Give them to me. I'll take them. Make it up. You got to talk about it.”

“That's not true.”

“That is true. It'll eat you, man.”

Dax exhales and glances at the wall.

“You a deer hunter or something now?” he says. “What's up with the bucks?”

“You forget how smart I am. You're not changing the subject.”

“You got all these deer on the walls, A. You're from Rutherford. Where's the mounted head? In the bedroom?”

“Stop that shit. Nobody's from anywhere. And you'll talk. I got too much beer for you not to talk.”