round entered his body, the spurt of blood, the fall.
How the hell could he have made it so real? John
asked himself. It wasn’t just a memory, it was…a
hybrid. As if he’d done a computer search, he came up
with the right image, frozen in his brain.
He’s in a Humvee, looking up a street in some
shithole of a town. Three M-16 toting soldiers ahead,
not being careful because why should they? This town
is ours. They’re joking, shoving. One turns to share the
joke when he sees something. He lifts his weapon and
his mouth opens. Shouting a warning? Crack. His blood
spurts, a fountain that says an artery has been hit.
His shock at dying like that, the fact that he knew he
was dying, kept his face vivid in John’s memory. What
sickened him most then and now was how young the
boy was. Eighteen? Nineteen?
Rat-a-tat-tat. They’d answered fire with fire, and an
Iraqi tumbled in grotesque slow-motion from a rooftop
where he had been crouched. As dead as the young
National Guardsman who now sprawled in the street,
blood staining the packed earth.
There it was, simple. Images superimposing. He had
an explanation that still added up to crazy. Can’t tell
then from now. Counseling. Medications.
John seemed to hear a reassuring voice. He’d be fine
if he took his pills and bared his soul upon request to a
psychologist and in group sessions. The anger choked
him now as it had then. He didn’t want to remember.
He needed to do some old-fashioned grieving, needed
to adapt to an everyday reality that now seemed as
bizarre as the one he’d just left. Returning Civil War
veterans hadn’t had serotonin uptake inhibitors. They’d
just gone back to their farms, spent time outside staring
at the spangled night sky, letting earth that wasn’t bloodstained sift through their hands. John wasn’t a farmer, but the lodge had been working for him. What was
wrong with that?
Fiona and the two remaining girls went in at last,
their path having reached the shed although he could see
they’d have to do some shoveling to get the doors open.
John carried in armfuls of wood with the boys, filling
the bin on one side of the fireplace and forming stacks
on the hearth as well. Unable to bear the laughter and
high, excited voices as they all struggled out of winter
gear in front of the fire, he went back out alone to stow
the snow shovels, then stood for a minute gazing at the
woods leading down to the creek.
What would happen to the deer, with the snow so
high on the ground? Would they be able to find anything
to eat? If they were smart, they’d stay deep under the
trees where the snow hadn’t been able to pile up. But
there they’d be reduced to eating bark from the trunks
of firs and cedar. Maybe it was a good thing that this
storm had hit so early in the winter, while the wild
animals still carried the weight they’d gained through
the warm summer and mild autumn.
He turned and went in, glad not to see Fiona. Alone in
his own small apartment, he took a long, hot bath, sinking
under to release some of the tension gathered in his neck
and shoulders. He dressed, towel-dried his hair and went
to the kitchen to consider lunch and dinner menus.
Some kind of stir-fry for dinner, he decided. He’d
take chicken out to thaw. He had bags of vegetables in
the freezer, and enough rice to keep them from starving
damn near all winter long. It would be quick and easy,
not requiring any help.
For lunch…
He stiffened when he heard the door swing open
behind him. Without turning, he knew Fiona had come
in. Erin and Willow were the only other two who sometimes entered a room quietly. But they were less likely to track him down. Besides, his nose caught the scent
of gardenias, which meant she’d taken another bath
with one of the pearlescent beads.
“Thinking about lunch or dinner?” she asked.
“Dinner at the moment.” He faced her, careful to
keep his face expressionless. “I have frozen vegetables
to make stir-fry. We’ll have sandwiches for lunch.”
“You shouldn’t have to cook all our meals.”
“I prefer to stay busy.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip. “Can I help?”