Souvenir (13 page)

Clay wrung his hands, massaging his arthritic knuckles. He knew Chris was good at his job, and a big part of that was being an interrogator. Chris could keep at him, advancing and retreating, but always coming back to the question until he found a way to ask it that Clay couldn’t deny. He needed to steer the conversation away from mothers and fathers and the world before the war. After the war, that was his world. Why did Chris need to push him back, back into the past, where the killing and the dead lived? Why couldn’t he live out his years here, up on Buckwheat Hill, have a cup of coffee with his son, talk about baseball, maybe?

“What else do you remember, besides the train station? How about the airport?”

“Yeah,” said Chris, accepting this bit of offered memory. “Markham Municipal Airport. We used to drive out there and watch the planes. You’d let me sit in your lap and help you drive out on those back roads.”

“I forgot that part. We had an old Studebaker back then.” Clay could see the bright red finish, the chrome steering wheel, and could feel Chris on his lap, tiny legs dangling over his, small hands gripping the wheel. The window was down, he had one arm resting on it, and the warm breeze swept over them. He smiled, glad to have the memory back.

“Did you ever drive on your father’s lap?” Chris asked.

Clay got up. Goddamn it! Things were so much easier when Chris was a child. He could tell him stories, put him on his lap, watch Piper Cubs land and take off, it was all wonderful. If he wanted more, it was always more of what Clay had to give, which was fine with him. But Chris turned some sort of corner when he was fourteen or so. He started wanting more of what Clay didn’t have. Money, new cars, cool clothes, whatever was beyond reach, more than Chris should reasonably expect out of life, that’s what he wanted. Clay had no concept of that desire. He was alive, made a living, had a good wife. Period. It was enough.

He was Chris’ father, had done everything he knew how to do to raise him, but still that wasn’t enough. More, more, more. A grown man now, and Chris was still following after him, wanting to claim his birthright. If he only knew.

Clay turned away, faced the stove. He had to put that thought away. He took a deep breath. Calm down, speak naturally, remember who you are.

“Nope. Too damn busy on the farm for that.” Clay poured himself more coffee. He didn’t offer any to Chris. He leaned against the counter and raised the cup to his lips. It was the dregs of the pot, gritty and acidic on his tongue.

“You’ve never wanted to go back?”

“No reason to. Everyone’s dead by now, the place is probably a development, worse than this place. We used to be able to see clear down to the Polish Cemetery.”

“What was it like?”

“Looking at the Polish Cemetery?”

“Jesus Christ! Talking to you is a waste of time.”

“Chris, be reasonable, will you?”

“I know more about Bob and what he did in the war from working with him than I do about you. I saw how you reacted at the funeral yesterday, it had to have an effect on you. What was that like, how did you feel?”

Clay felt his stomach drop out. The funeral was a blur except for the volleys and the airplane. That march across the open field and the Me-109s were more vivid, more real in his mind. He wanted to scream at Chris, tell him about the bodies cut in half, arms flying through the air, dead men, screaming men, still in his head, clearer every day. Six decades of self-discipline took over, and he said nothing. Nothing was best, since one thing would lead to another and then everything he ever did would be open to inspection, judgment, penalty. Nothing is best.

Seconds passed. Chris watched his father, waiting. Clay stared out the window.

“Forget it. It’s almost seven, I gotta get up to Hartford.” Chris took his cup to the sink and dumped the coffee. He clipped on his holster and badge, put on his jacket, and stood in front of his father. They were eye to eye now, no more looking up to see his face at a great height. Clay could see the muscles along Chris’ jaw clench and unclench, and the raw power of an angry armed man flowed over him.

“We have our own secrets, Dad, but at least they’re between us, something we have in common. Didn’t Mom ever ask you about your childhood, the farm, the war? All those forbidden things you won’t talk about, doesn’t it drive her crazy? How can you cut that part of yourself off from everyone else?”

It wasn’t the first time he had heard this from Chris, but his son had never asked him about Addy that way before. What was he supposed to say, that she was a good woman, accepted him as who he was, didn’t ask useless questions, so why do you? Addy’s acceptance of him was a cocoon. Chris’ questions came like wasp stings.

“It wasn’t pretty. But what’s done is done. Far as I’m concerned, my life started when I moved here, met your mother. You’re part of that, why isn’t that enough for you?” Clay spoke in a whisper, his voice nearly quivering, every effort expended to keep a lid on it, not let anything else out.

“Ever since I was old enough to put things together, I’ve felt there was a missing piece you kept from me. Don’t I deserve to know everything about my father? Is it something terrible? Do you think I’ll be ashamed of you?”

“You’ve known me all your life, Chris, what more do you want? Do you think I’m a terrible person?”

Clay felt his voice break, tried to keep the challenge in his tone, but afraid the question had come out wrong, as if he really wanted an answer. But Chris wasn’t picking up on nuances now. Even a trained police interrogator misses things arguing with his father.

“People don’t start their lives at twenty-two, a lot goes on before that. And you’re capable of terrible things. Believe me, I know.”

“Yep, that you do.”

Chris started to say something. Clay saw the anger flash in his face, the same anger that he wore as a younger man but now kept in check, fastened away, clipped down like his gun and badge. Then the flash was gone, and Chris turned away, resting his hands on the sink.

“Good-bye,” Clay said as he left the room.

Chris took a deep breath, and exhaled, shaking his head. So many missing pieces to his father’s life. He grew up hard, nearly alone, and went off to fight a war, but hardly spoke of either. The war, he could understand. But what happened before that? What else happened after that he didn’t know about? What he did know hinted at dark possibilities.

He stared at the countertop. The glass his father had left stood alone. It had come out of the cupboard clean. There would be no other prints on it, only his father’s.

Why not?

No, he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right. A violation of state regulations, for one thing. But, that could be finessed. What wasn’t right was a son investigating his father. Then again, it wasn’t right for a father to withhold himself as much as his did.

He took a small plastic bag from a drawer, stuck two fingers inside the glass, lifting it up and dropping it into the bag. He walked out the back door.

Clay heard Chris pull the unmarked Crown Vic cruiser out of the driveway, and down Dexter Avenue toward the highway. He thought he heard the
chirp
of tires peeling out, anger and frustration pressing down on the accelerator, the last word in the argument. My son the state police detective, and he’s just aching to solve the mystery of his old man. Good luck with that one, kid.

Clay stood in the kitchen, alone. Alone. It was best this way. What else could he do? Terror and shame knocked at the door every day of his life, and he had held off this long. A little while longer, and he could rest.

He waited in the kitchen, listening for the bedroom door to open. The ticking of the clock filled the empty room, and the rest of the house was in silence. He felt his skin prickle, and he strained to hear the muffled sounds of Addy preparing for the day.

Tick tock, tick tock.

Clay knew, before the next second passed, that he was utterly alone. Knew it as a man knows when he steps on a mine, the hard feel of steel under his foot, and everything around him takes on an otherworldly cast, mocking him with what he once took for granted. You will never again have this, this normalcy, the reliability of love and companionship.

He stood and stepped away from the table, advancing to the bedroom, his hand on the wall, steadying him. He opened the door. The curtains were still drawn, and Addy’s head rested on the pillow, eyes closed, one hand out of the covers, as if she were about to throw them off and get up.

Clay took her hand, felt the coldness.

“Oh, Addy, oh Addy.”

He fell to the side of the bed, clutching her hand, willing warmth back into it.

Chapter Seven

1945

“Momma! Momma!”

Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up was all Jake could think as he ducked below the window to put a fresh clip in his M1, holding the bolt back and slipping it in, bright brass and steel gleaming as wisps of smoke drifted up from the over-heated receiver.

“Momma—ahhh!” Cooper cried as he writhed on the floor. Everyone was firing as fast as they could, but Jake could still hear him. Shut the fuck up, goddamn you sonuvabitch!

Jake gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut for a second as bullets struck the wall behind him, scattering plaster and dust across his back. Noise surrounded him, the heavy, steady stammer of the BAR’s automatic fire from upstairs, where Big Ned and Miller had a good field of fire. Jake was downstairs with Shorty, Tuck and Clay, each of them firing through the three windows and smashed door of the farmhouse. Cooper, through it all, screaming for his mother, legs thrashing on the floor, holding his belly as dark red blood seeped between his fingers, his head arched back as if he were trying to get as far away from the pain as he could.

Jake swung his arms, hoisting the M1 up onto the shattered window frame and saw blurs of white moving out of the woods, darting between small folds of ground between the fir trees and the village. If you could even call it that. He focused on one, squeezed the trigger twice, hoping as much for the sound to drown out Cooper as for a hit. The German went down, Cooper kept on, momma, momma, momma.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Jake chanced a glance at the barn, off to their right. It was burning, but he still heard rifle fire. Two squads had hunkered down in there last night. Two other squads had taken over the two small, single story houses that straddled the one road in this tiny village. Jake could hear shooting, the clear fast crack of M1s coming from those houses, but he couldn’t see anyone, couldn’t tell how many.

He ducked down and popped up on the other side of the window, two more shots, then down again. Don’t give them a target. His breath came faster and faster. Up again, this time four Krauts running right at the house, rifles in one hand and grenades in the other. They were yelling as they came, strange words shrill in the clear air. Everyone fired at them in the same second, screaming their heads off too, as fear tore roars from their throats, as loud and hot as their gun barrels. Jake thought he heard Cooper join in, lending his awful shrieks to the struggle.

The four Germans were cut down, tumbling forward on their own momentum, arms and legs flailing wildly, bodies spinning, their screamed oaths reduced to silence, replaced by the grunted, exhaled acknowledgement of pain and death. Grenades slipped from limp hands, two exploding among the downed men, shrapnel ripping into lifeless flesh, decorating their white camouflage winter smocks with holes of charred black and red. Two other grenades bounced forward, exploding in front of the house, yards short of their target.

Jake heard Clay drop his rifle, saw him reach his hand up to his cheek. As fast as he dropped it, Clay had the weapon in his hand again and turned his face toward Jake. He held his eyes wide open, making sure he could still see, presenting his face like a child hurt on the playground. Am I okay? He felt blood but not pain. Clay knew that in the frenzy of firing and killing, fear could numb a wound, and maybe his face was shot through, ripped open, teeth and jaw visible and naked.

Jake rubbed a dirty thumb over Clay’s bloody cheek, felt a tiny sliver of metal, pulled it out and flicked it away. Nothing, just a piece of spent shrapnel. They both went back to their work. Clay could feel the sticky blood from his cheek as he rested it against the stock of the M1, sought a target in the tree line, and fired, once, twice, take a chance, three times, then down.

Fucking Krauts were everywhere. No warning, no bombardment, not even mortars. A dawn charge from the tree line, a horde of white-clad demons whooping and yelling, firing from the hip, going for the sudden shock, hoping to overrun the platoon that held the village. Jake had seen one of those first wild shots hit Cooper, as he walked by the window, in one side and out the other. Before Cooper hit the floor everyone else was at a window, trying to stem the tide of Germans with a wall of rifle fire. Not a moment to spare for mercy or morphine, so it was momma, momma, momma, over and over and over. Each man knew how much time it would take to crawl to Cooper, get out a morphine syrette, hold him down, jam it in. He’d probably grab at you, ask you if he was going to be okay. Two, three, maybe four minutes, and there wasn’t a second to spare, not with beaucoup Krauts swarming down the hill.