Stories (2011) (120 page)

“They ain’t got no respect for guv’ment property,” Cullen
said.

I got out my knife and cut the mule’s throat, and he was
still fresh enough blood flowed, and we put our mouths on the cut and sucked
out all we could. It tasted better than I would have figured, and it made us
feel a mite better too, but with there just bein’ the two of us, we didn’t
bother to start a fire and cook our fort.

We could hear them over there laughin’ and a cuttin’ up, and
I figure they had them some mescal, ‘cause after a bit, they was actually
singin’ a white man song, “Row, row, row you boat,” and we had to listen to
that for a couple of hours.

“Goddamn missionaries,” I said.

After a bit, one of them climbed over a dead horse and took
his breech-cloth down and turned his ass to us and it winked dead-white in the
moonlight, white as any Irishman’s ass. I got my rifle on him, but for some
reason I couldn’t let the hammer down. It just didn’t seem right to shoot some
drunk showin’ me his ass. He turned around and peed, kind of pushin’ his loins
out, like he was doin’ a squaw, and laughed, and that was enough. I shot that
sonofabitch. I was aimin’ for his pecker, but I think I got him in the belly.
He fell over and a couple of Apache come out to get him. Cullen shot one of
them, and the one was left jumped over the dead horses and disappeared behind
them.

“Bad enough they’re gonna kill us,” Cullen said, “but they
got to act nasty too.”

We laid there for a while. Cullen said, “Maybe we ought to
pray for deliverance.”

“Pray in one hand, shit in the other, and see which one
fills up first.”

“I guess I won’t pray,” he said. “Or shit. Least not at the
moment. You remember, that’s how we met. I was—”

“I remember,” I said.

* * * *

Well, we was waitin’ for them to surround us, but like Colonel Hatch said, you
can never figure an Apache. We laid there all night, and nothin’ happen. I’m
ashamed to say, I nodded off, and when I awoke it was good and daylight and
hadn’t nobody cut our throats or taken our hair.

Cullen was sittin’ with his legs crossed, lookin’ in the
direction of the Apache. I said, “Damn, Cullen. I’m sorry. I fell out.”

“I let you. They’re done gone.”

I sat up and looked. There was the horses, buzzards lightin’
on them, and there were a few of them big ole birds on the ground eyeballin’
our mule, and us. I shooed them, said, “I’ll be damn. They just packed up like
a circus and left.”

“Yep. Ain’t no rhyme to it. They had us where they wanted
us. Guess they figured they’d lost enough men over a couple of buffalo
soldiers, or maybe they saw a bird like Colonel Hatch was talkin’ about, and he
told them to take themselves home.”

“What I figure is they just too drunk to carry on, and woke
up with hangovers and went somewhere cool and shaded to sleep it off.”

“Reckon so,” Cullen said. Then: “Hey, you mean what you said
about me bein’ a top soldier and all?”

“You know it.”

“You ain’t a colonel or nothin’, but I appreciate it.
Course, I don’t feel all that top right now.”

“We done all we could do. It was Hatch screwed the duck. He
ought not have separated us from the troop like that.”

“Don’t reckon he’ll see it that way,” Cullen said.

“I figure not,” I said.

* * * *

We cut off chunks of meat from the mule and made a little fire and filled our
bellies, then we started walkin’. It was blazin’ hot, and still we walked. When
nightfall come, I got nervous, thinkin’ them Apache might be comin’ back, and
that in the long run they had just been fiinnin’ us. But they didn’t show, and
we took turns sleepin’ on the hard plains.

Next mornin it was hot, and we started walkin’. My back hurt
and my ass was draggin and my feet felt like someone had cut them off. I wished
we had brought some of that mule meat with us. I was so hungry, I could see
corn-bread walkin’ on the ground. Just when I was startin’ to imagine pools of
water and troops of soldiers dancin’ with each other, I seen somethin’ that was
a little more substantial.

Satan.

I said to Cullen, “Do you see a big black horse?”

“You mean, Satan?”

“Yep.”

“I see him.”

“Did you see some dancin’ soldiers?”

“Nope.”

“Do you still see the horse?”

“Yep, and he looks strong and rested. I figure he found a
water hole and some grass, the sonofabitch.”

Satan was trottin’ along, not lookin’ any worse for wear. He
stopped when he seen us, and I tried to whistle to him, but my mouth was so
dry, I might as well have been trying to whistle him up with my asshole.

I put my rifle down and started walkin’ toward him, holdin’
out my hand like I had a treat. I don’t think he fell for that, but he dropped
his head and let me walk up on him. He wasn’t saddled, as we had taken all that
off when we went to cut wood, but he still had his bridle and reins. I took
hold of the bridle. I swung onto his back, and then he bucked. I went up and
landed hard on the ground. My head was spinnin’, and the next thing I know,
that evil bastard was nuzzlin’ me with his nose.

I got up and took the reins and led him over to where Cullen
was leanin’ on his rifle. “Down deep,” he said, “I think he likes you.”

* * * *

We rode Satan double back to the fort, and when we got there, a cheer went up.
Colonel Hatch come out and shook our hands and even hugged us. “We found what
was left of you boys this mornin’, and it wasn’t a pretty picture. They’re all
missin’ eyes and balls sacks and such. We figured you two had gone under with
the rest of them. Was staked out on the plains somewhere with ants in your
eyes. We got vengeful and started trailin’ them Apache, and damn if we didn’t
meet them comin’ back toward us, and there was a runnin’ fight took us in the
direction of the Pecos. We killed one, but the rest of them got away. We just
come ridin’ in a few minutes ahead of you.”

“You’d have come straight on,” Cullen said, “you’d have seen
us. And we killed a lot more than one.”

“That’s good,” Hatch said, “and we want to hear your story
and Nate’s soon as you get somethin’ to eat and drink. We might even let you
have a swallow of whiskey. Course, Former House Nigger here will have to do the
cookin’, ain’t none of us any good.”

“That there’s fine,” I said, “but, my compadre here, he
ain’t The Former House Nigger. He’s Private Cullen.”

Colonel Hatch eyeballed me. “You don’t say?”

“Yes sir, I do, even if it hair lips the United States
Army.”

“Hell,” Hatch said. “That alone is reason to say it.”

* * * *

There ain’t much to tell now. We said how things was, and they did some
investigatin’, and damn if we wasn’t put in for medals. We didn’t never get
them, ‘cause they was slow about given coloreds awards, and frankly, I didn’t
think we deserved them, not with us breakin’ and runnin’ the way we did, like a
bunch of little girls tryin’ to get in out of the rain, leavin them men behind.
But we didn’t stress that part when we was tellin’ our story. It would have
fouled it some, and I don’t think we had much choice other than what we did. We
was as brave as men could be without gettin’ ourselves foolishly killed.

Still, we was put in for medals, and that was somethin’. In
time, Cullen made the rank of Top Soldier. It wasn’t just me tellin’ him no
more. It come true. He become a sergeant, and would have made a good one too,
but he got roarin’ drunk and set fire to a dead pig and got his stripes taken
and spent some time in the stockade. But that’s another story.

I liked the cavalry right smart myself, and stayed on there
until my time run out and I was supposed to sign up again, and would have too,
had it not been for them Chinese women I told you about at the first. But
again, that ain’t this story. This is the one happened to me in the year of
1870, out there on them hot West Texas plains. I will add a side note. The army
let me keep Satan when I was mustered out, and I grew to like him, and he was
the best horse I ever had, and me and him became friends of a sort, until 1872,
when I had to shoot him and feed him to a dog and a woman I liked better.

Before Deel Arrowsmith came back from the dead, he was
crossing a field by late moonlight in search of his home. His surroundings were
familiar, but at the same time different. It was as if he had left as a child
and returned as an adult to examine old property only to find the tree swing
gone, the apple tree cut down, the grass grown high, and an outhouse erected
over the mound where his best dog was buried.

As he crossed, the dropping moon turned thin, like cheap
candy licked too long, and the sun bled through the trees. There were spots of
frost on the drooping green grass and on the taller weeds, yellow as ripe corn.
In his mind’s eye he saw not the East Texas field before him or the dark rows
of oaks and pines beyond it, or even the clay path that twisted across the
field toward the trees like a ribbon of blood.

He saw a field in France where there was a long, deep
trench, and in the trench were bloodied bodies, some of them missing limbs and
with bits of brains scattered about like spilled oatmeal. The air filled with
the stinging stench of rotting meat and wafting gun smoke, the residue of
poison gas, and the buzz of flies. The back of his throat tasted of burning
copper. His stomach was a knot. The trees were like the shadowy shades of
soldiers charging toward him, and for a moment, he thought to meet their
charge, even though he no longer carried a gun.

He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, shook his head. When he
opened them the stench had passed and his nostrils filled with the nip of early
morning. The last of the moon faded like a melting snowflake. Puffy white
clouds sailed along the heavens and light tripped across the tops of the trees,
fell between them, made shadows run low along the trunks and across the ground.
The sky turned light blue and the frost dried off the drooping grass and it
sprang to attention. Birds began to sing. Grasshoppers began to jump.

He continued down the path that crossed the field and split
the trees. As he went, he tried to remember exactly where his house was and how
it looked and how it smelled, and most important, how he felt when he was
inside it. He tried to remember his wife and how she looked and how he felt
when he was inside her, and all he could find in the back of his mind was a
cipher of a woman younger than he was in a long, colorless dress in a house
with three rooms. He couldn’t even remember her nakedness, the shape of her
breasts and the length of her legs. It was as if they had met only once, and in
passing.

When he came through the trees and out on the other side,
the field was there as it should be, and it was full of bright blue and yellow
flowers. Once it had been filled with tall corn and green bursts of beans and
peas. It hadn’t been plowed now in years, most likely since he left. He
followed the trail and trudged toward his house. It stood where he had left it.
It had not improved with age. The chimney was black at the top and the
unpainted lumber was stripping like shedding snakeskin. He had cut the trees
and split them and made the lumber for the house, and like everything else he
had seen since he had returned, it was smaller than he remembered. Behind it
was the smokehouse he had made of logs, and far out to the left was the
outhouse he had built. He had read many a magazine there while having his
morning constitutional.

Out front, near the well, which had been built up with
stones and now had a roof over it supported on four stout poles, was a young
boy. He knew immediately it was his son. The boy was probably eight. He had
been four years old when Deel had left to fight in the Great War, sailed across
the vast dark ocean. The boy had a bucket in his hand, held by the handle. He
set it down and raced toward the house, yelling something Deel couldn’t define.

A moment later she came out of the house and his memory
filled up. He kept walking, and the closer he came to her, standing framed in
the doorway, the tighter his heart felt. She was blond and tall and lean and
dressed in a light-colored dress on which were printed flowers much duller than
those in the field. But her face was brighter than the sun, and he knew now how
she looked naked and in bed, and all that had been lost came back to him, and
he knew he was home again.

When he was ten feet away the boy, frightened, grabbed his
mother and held her, and she said, “Deel, is that you?”

He stopped and stood, and said nothing. He just looked at
her, drinking her in like a cool beer. Finally he said, “Worn and tired, but
me.”

“I thought…”

“I didn’t write cause I can’t.”

“I know…but…”

“I’m back, Mary Lou.”

* * * *

They sat stiffly at the kitchen table. Deel had a plate in
front of him and he had eaten the beans that had been on it. The front door was
open and they could see out and past the well and into the flower-covered
field. The window across the way was open too, and there was a light breeze
ruffling the edges of the pulled-back curtains framing it. Deel had the
sensation he’d had before when crossing the field and passing through the
trees, and when he had first seen the outside of the house. And now, inside,
the roof felt too low and the room was too small and the walls were too close.
It was all too small.

But there was Mary Lou. She sat across the table from him.
Her face was clean of lines and her shoulders were as narrow as the boy’s. Her
eyes were bright, like the blue flowers in the field.

The boy, Winston, was to his left, but he had pulled his
chair close to his mother. The boy studied him carefully, and in turn, Deel
studied the boy. Deel could see Mary Lou in him, and nothing of himself.