The Last Road Home (26 page)

C
HAPTER
53

O
ne morning after physical therapy, the nurse gave me a note for an appointment with a new doctor. When I found the office, it was in the Mental Health Ward. I had to force myself to knock.

“Enter,” came a female voice.

When I opened the door, a dark-haired, blue-eyed lady navy officer sat facing me. The nameplate on the desk read Lieutenant Heaney. Not knowing if I was supposed to salute or not, I raised my right hand to my brow. “Corporal Hurley reporting, ma'am.”

She smiled. “No formalities necessary in my office, Corporal. Have a seat.” She nodded toward the chair. A file was open on her desk. She opened it and looked at me. “My name is Lieutenant Heaney, and I'm a psychologist. I see you were in a scout sniper unit. That must have been pretty dangerous duty.” Her voice had a scratch to it.

I eased into the chair, suspicious. “Sometimes.”

“How are you doing with your recovery? I understand you have a chest wound. Are you in pain?”

My hand moved to my left side. “You know what the marine corps says, ma'am: Pain is just weakness leaving the body.”

She smiled. “I also know marines can be full of shit on occasion.” She was a little bit of a woman from what I could see; her face, nose, cheekbones, and chin were sharp, accented by the way the sides of her brown hair swept behind her ears. I guessed her to be in her early thirties. “How about your mental recovery? Combat troops don't often come home without bringing some of it with them. How are you doing with that?”

I didn't say anything.

She waited until the silence got uncomfortable. Lieutenant Heaney closed the file and pushed back in her chair. “How about we go get a cup of coffee?” We walked to the twenty-four-hour canteen on the lower floor of the hospital. She paid for the coffee. I held a plastic red chair for her at one of the blue Formica-topped tables. “Your file says you're from North Carolina, Corporal. How'd you come to be in the marine corps?” While her lips smiled, her eyes searched.

“It's Lance Corporal.”

“Sorry. Why the marine corps?”

“Wanted to meet John Wayne.”

She chuckled. “Still want to meet him?”

I watched as a marine private cleaned a tall window along the far wall. He used a long stick and spray. “Not so much.” The private had only one arm.

“In your file, nurses say they've found you sleeping under your bed. Any particular reason you do that?”

“Need a vacation sometimes.”

“From what?”

I spread my fingers on the tabletop, then flexed them into fists. “Everything.”

Lieutenant Heaney sat back. “What kind of everything?”

“Seeing faces in my sleep, hearing stuff that isn't there. You know, everything.”

“Soldiers often don't get to see the faces of the enemy. I guess it must have been different in your work, huh? I would imagine being a sniper is more personal.”

“Some.” Huy's face appeared in my mind.

“Why did you become a sniper? I'm pretty sure you had to volunteer for it.”

“Extra pay.” I set the coffee cup down too hard.

“Did you like it?”

I stared at her. Was there something in that file from Snake? “It was a job.”

“So is shoveling horse shit. You're not answering my question.”

“Sometimes.” I pushed my chair back from the table.

She laid her hands out flat. “You always talk so much?”

I sipped the last of my coffee. “Not always.”

She waited for more, holding my eyes, then let out a breath. “Listen, Ray, I can try to help. But all I can do is help you help yourself. You've got to want to come back from where you were.” She started to fold her arms, but stopped and leaned across the table. “Let me put it to you this way, Corporal Hurley—sorry, Lance Corporal. War doesn't end with a period, just a comma. When you survive, demons often come to live with you, and it's possible many won't go away. You can learn to put them in their proper place, find a way to cope when they haunt you, and if you'll give me a chance, I'll try my best to help you.”

This little woman had no idea what she was asking. But maybe she was the log I had been waiting for. We met every morning at eleven o'clock. I told her about Snake and Mo. I told her the story about Snake getting his boot caught on the trip wire. I told her all kinds of stories.

After a week, she held up her hand. “Enough with the bullshit, Ray. It's not that I don't enjoy your little war adventures, but they aren't why we're here. We've got to get down to what's in your head, what scares the shit out of you so much you want to sleep under your bed, what makes you wake up screaming. So, stop with all the extraneous crap. Horror doesn't like the light of day, Ray, and if you're going to get better, we need to put some sun on it.”

I felt like a kid whose momma had spanked his ass good. It made me mad. If she wanted it, I'd see how she liked it. I intentionally tried to shake her calmness. I put it all out there: the gore of up-close killing, what a man's face looked like when you shot his eye out, what a rush I got hunting other men. I even told her about Huy, and what a child looks like with his arms severed and insects are crawling in his mouth and eye sockets. I expected her to curl up and cry. But she never budged. She wanted it all and she wanted it out loud, refusing to let me have any silent gaps, even when I needed them worse than she did. Lieutenant Heaney insisted it was important that I speak the words. When the ice started to thaw, the spigot opened, and it poured out.

A few weeks later, she surprised me. “Your file says you have no next of kin. How come?”

The war was one thing, but my before life was something else. “Just worked out that way.”

Lieutenant Heaney picked up an orange ball she kept on her desk and threw it at me. “Don't even try it. We're done with that Silent Sam stuff. I want to know what happened to your family.”

I got up and left. It was two days before I went back.

She folded her hands on the desk, the look on her face unsympathetic. “Are you ready to talk to me, Ray?”

I glared at her. “My granddaddy's dog, Grady, got run over when I was six. Grady was crying from the pain, so my daddy shot him in the head while I watched. That was the last time I cried around my daddy.”

Her face scrunched, but she quickly caught herself. “I'm sorry, Ray, but what's that got to do with your next of kin?”

“I ain't finished. When I was eight, my parents were killed in a car wreck while my daddy was hauling a load of moonshine whiskey. The car caught fire and burned him and my momma alive. I guess he wasn't satisfied with just killing the dog.”

I could see a hint of color change in her eyes. She blinked a couple of times.

“Then, when I was fourteen, my granddaddy died, and I was left to look after Grandma.” I let the silence sit between us. “Two years later, my grandma died because I didn't have sense enough to understand how sick she was.”

Harder blinking. She intertwined her fingers. “Is that it?”

“No. I killed two men in a drug deal when I was sixteen.”

Lieutenant Heaney made no move to say anything. I wondered how she liked me now.

“The only other person I've ever cared about is a black girl. I can't be with her because of the hate it'd bring. Plus, I killed her brother and she don't know it. That's why I don't have any next of kin.” I got up and left.

* * *

I went to Lieutenant Heaney's office on the last Friday in December. When I entered, I sensed something. “What's wrong?”

“Lance Corporal Hurley, I'm sorry to tell you this, but I've been transferred.”

“When?”

“I leave Monday.” She was all military business. “You've done so well, Lance Corporal, I'm sure you won't let this stop your progress.”

This was the person I'd trusted with my soul. “So now it's ‘Lance Corporal'?” The window slammed down; I'd seen this movie before. I stood up and saluted. “Well, good luck to you, Lieutenant Heaney.” I turned to leave.

I heard her chair scrape. “Wait.” She came behind and grabbed my elbow, pulled me around, and put her arms around my neck. “Don't let up, Ray. Make your peace.” Her eyes were wet on my skin.

For three days, I refused to do anything but sit on my bunk. Once again, it was up to me to root hog or die. The flashbacks were regular. I found myself unable to stand in long lines or be in the middle of any kind of crowd. Certain smells, like wet ground or fishy food, could put me right back in the jungle. Anger was quick to come, and when it did, my first reaction was to punish the offender. I trained myself to, instead of wanting to hurt somebody, go to the physical therapy lab, work myself into a sweat, and drive out the poison. Peace was a hard place to find.

C
HAPTER
54

I
n January of 1969, the medical staff felt I was sufficiently recovered to return to duty. I sat on an airplane in Yokota, Japan, and watched snow swirl outside the window, wondering what it would feel like to be in the States again. Fourteen hours later, I landed in Chicago, where it was also snowing, but more like a blizzard. Flights were grounded the rest of the day, and I spent an uncomfortable night in O'Hare Airport slouched in a plastic chair, watching the people around me. Some were dressed normally, and usually nodded a greeting at my marine uniform. Others wore an assortment of flowered shirts and dirty jeans, and stared at me like I'd killed their child. None of them offered a “thank you.”

After a two-hour flight and a three-hour bus ride the next day, I was in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, on a cold, sunny afternoon. I reported in and was assigned to live in a common barracks, given desk duty, and ordered to have weekly follow-up medical evaluations. After a couple of visits to the docs, this major suggested I go over to the VA, said I could probably get some benefits since I only had one lung. “No disrespect, sir, but I'd rather eat something that came out of another man's ass than bother with those people.” He scratched his marine-cut gray hair and let out a chuckle.

After six months, the marine corps concluded I was unsuitable for regular duty and discharged me on June 19, 1969. Nobody said thank you then either. They gave me a check for two thousand dollars to cover back pay and unused leave. I cashed it at the bank, bought a used Chevrolet truck from a car dealer, a Remington 30.06 rifle from a pawn shop, a fifth of Jack Daniel's, and headed home.

It was close to midnight when I pulled into the yard. I shut off the engine and took a pull from the half-empty whiskey bottle. I waited for the parade and marching band to welcome me home. They never showed. Instead, a familiar loneliness waited, like a shadow hiding behind the house. I was scared to death to open the truck door.

I sipped on the bourbon. The old house seemed so much smaller than I remembered. Grandma waved from the porch and I could smell frying chicken and biscuits in the air. Fancy was sitting on the steps in her red dress, constantly tucking it under her legs, and Sally Mule was in the barn. Things had come full circle. I'd hoped coming back here would let me find that beginning and somehow change it. I took a deep breath, flipped the door handle, and stepped to the ground.

Grass and weeds were grown up everywhere. One of the porch steps broke when I put my weight on it, and a hinge on the screen door pulled loose. I sat down on a straw-bottomed chair, and remembered other nights spent sitting in this very spot.

Inside, the house smelled musty, the odor of longtime emptiness mixed with a dose of sadness. I found a candle in the sewing machine drawer, lit it, and walked around. It was still the same as it was when I'd left, Grandma's bed covered with the quilt I'd laid across it four years ago, the kitchen table that had been privy to so many conversations still protected by the red-and-white-checked oilcloth. I listened for voices, but the only sounds came from little critters scurrying across the floor. I stood in my bedroom, the place where Fancy and I made love the first time, and the room I'd spent so many nights trying to make sense of my life. This house should have been where the world was safe and peaceful and things always worked out for the best.

I pulled some jeans and a T-shirt from my duffel bag, then carried my marine uniform to the trash barrel out back, dropped it in, soaked it with the remainder of the liquor, and held my lighter until the green clothes caught fire. I watched the last four years disappear.

The mesh screen on the porch suffered from neglect, the wire rusting and corners pulled away from missing nails. I gazed out above the dark treetops at a yellow summer moon, remembering days when my biggest concern was the weather. People had come home to this land from wars before. I hoped I would be the last.

I walked across the road to the edge of the woods where I first learned to become invisible. The stars winked a welcome home. “I thought for a while I was going to be with you, Grandma. In a lot of ways, I wish I was. I'm not sure I can do this life alone.”

When the sun came up, I made an inspection. I stood by the dry well. “Wish it was me down there, Lightning, instead of you.” I waited like I expected him to answer. The chicken house had fallen down, and the pack house was a pile of burnt rubble. The tobacco barn still stood, but honeysuckle vines and wisteria covered its sides and roof. I walked up the old horse path toward the Wilson farm. Kudzu and briars had reclaimed a lot of the trail, but the stumps Lightning, Fancy, and me sat on to tell ghost stories, and the place I got my first kiss, were still there. At the clearing, I could see Fancy running home across the clover field. Our childhood had been too short.

The fact that I'd killed three people before I was eighteen felt unreal even now. It was more unreal that I hadn't stopped there. I would have settled for that. It was a destiny I never wanted but seemed to want me. I'd just turned twenty-three, but felt so much older. I looked up and talked to the sky, hoping my words would make it all the way to Texas. “Is this what you meant by ‘you won't ever be the same,' Snake?”

I piddled until the sun was up full, then got in the Chevy and drove to Apex. It didn't appear a lot had changed through the countryside, but closer to town there were a couple of new gas stations and a 7-Eleven store where before there'd been just open fields. A café I'd never seen advertised a country breakfast, good ham, eggs, grits and biscuits, a thing I missed. Some of the voices at the other tables had a Yankee twang, another surprise. I sipped through four cups of coffee and read about Joe Frazier's upcoming fight with Jerry Quarry in the newspaper. By then, I figured Lawyer Stern's office would be open.

He stared like he was trying to place me at first, but after a couple of seconds he broke into a big smile. “Raeford Hurley! Good God, son, you've grown up. Look at you.” He grabbed my hand and shook hard. He'd got a little heavier. His bald head had wrinkles that started over his eyebrows and folded backward. “When did you get home?”

I smiled, embarrassed by his goings-on. “Last night. Figured to visit you first thing.” The only new item in his office was a picture of Governor Moore.

“Clemmy Stroud came to visit me last year, seemed to be worried that nobody had heard from you. She's the one that told me you were in Vietnam. How'd you make out over there?”

“Fine. The only hard part was keeping all that equipment running in the mud and jungle. I worked in the motor pool, and got hurt when a jack handle flew back and hit me in the chest. I was laid up awhile, and just forgot to write. No big deal.”

“I'm real happy you're home in one piece. From what I see on the news, a lot of boys aren't so lucky.” I didn't take the bait. We went to sit down. He offered a cup of coffee, but I passed on it. “What's on your mind this morning, Raeford?”

“I figure we're all up-to-date on our business, but wanted to make sure.”

“We are. You don't owe anything to anybody as far as I know.”

“That's good. If I decided to sell the farm, how would it work?”

He explained the process. “But I'm going to give you this piece of advice, Raeford. Folks are starting to move in here from all over. All of a sudden everybody wants to live out in the sticks. Couldn't hardly give land away a few years ago, but now it's getting to be right valuable. You might consider holding on to the place awhile to get the best price, or maybe sell part and keep the house.”

“I'll think about that. Would you mind going to the bank with me?”

We took our time walking down Main Street on a beautiful early warm morning. I enjoyed the noise of storekeepers opening their shops, cars moving up and down the street, folks standing and talking. Smells coming from a donut place we passed were much better than the stink of shit-fertilized paddy water and rotted vegetation imprinted on my brain. My ears still wanted to listen to the wind, and I cut my eyes around every blind corner.

At the bank, the man printed a statement of my account. I asked to take out a thousand. Mr. Stern reminded me to stop at the post office and let them know they could deliver mail.

The drugstore hadn't changed, and neither had the saleslady. She stared at me like she might be trying to remember my face, but then went about her business. It seemed a lifetime ago Fancy and me had sat on the curb outside eating ice cream. I wandered to the back where they still had comic books, and picked up a couple to sniff the paper. On the way out, I considered asking for a pack of Trojans just to watch her reaction, but got a chocolate cone instead.