Theory of War

by Joan Brady

  There are always standard signals and standard shoutings for standard accidents:

  ‘Ease her back.’

  ‘Coupling won’t give.’

  ‘That’s it – slow – slow now – slow—’

  A thousand tons of stibnite creeps back half an inch. More signals. The cars part. College collapses into Jonathan’s arms, and in the red light of the lantern – a trick of the spectrum that in another mood gives us rainbows – the blood that pumped out of him was black. They carried him to the nearby caboose. A tired little doctor from Mogul peered down through a lorgnette.

  ‘Morphine,’ the doctor said and slipped a needle under College’s skin. (‘I’ll bet you didn’t know we could inject morphine all those years ago,’ Atlas said.) ‘Take this bottle,’ the doctor went on to Jonathan. ‘If it gets bad, pour a little on your bandana and place it over his mouth and nose.’ The doctor’s lorgnette was made of shell with gold trim. The conductor wired for right of way to Cheyenne.

  The train bumped and jiggled as gently as possible at only fifteen miles an hour: this, too, was standard procedure. In the caboose, his body wrapped in Jonathan’s frock coat, College breathed in and out, in and out, then a pause; in and out, in and out, then a pause. Jonathan counted: ‘One – and – two – and—’ He listened intently. ‘Three – and – four – and—’ Twice during the trip College broke into a high-pitched scream. Terrified by what such an inhuman sound had to mean, Jonathan pressed his dampened bandana over College’s nose and mouth. As they neared Cheyenne station, College opened his eyes, coughed and made a snatch at Jonathan’s sleeve. ‘Johnny,’ he cried. ‘Is that you?’

  Jonathan reached for the doctor’s bottle again.

  College held tight to the sleeve. ‘No, not that – Talk to me. Don’t leave me. Is there something wrong with me? For Christ’s sake, speak! I hate silence. It scares the – Oh, shit. Speak to me. It’s too quiet, Johnny.’

  ‘You’re going to – to be all right – just fine,’ Jonathan began, now as terrified by the lack of pain as he had been before by the intensity of it. ‘Everything will be – all right. We’re taking you to the best doctor in Cheyenne, where there’s a bed waiting for you, a bed with linen sheets on it, no, not linen, silk—’ He listened in agony to this babble of his, this nonsense out of his own mouth, learned from College, meaningless as ever, helpless now, useless, a waste, but whenever he paused, College begged him to keep on. So he kept on.

  At Cheyenne station, the train at a standstill, the trip over at last, College sighed and said, ‘Turn me on my left side, Johnny.’

  Jonathan hesitated. ‘Don’t you mean your right side?’ he asked gently. ‘The left – that’s where the silence is. Don’t you mean—’

  ‘The left side, Johnny. Turn me on my—’

  Jonathan eased him over, talking all the time.

  College pulled his knees to his chest, tucked his hands beneath his chin. ‘Oh, do be quiet,’ he said then. And his breathing stopped.

  10

  My grandfather could write a little. He’d scratched letters in the dirt of the Stokes’ sod hut, but he had in fact never written on a piece of paper. It was one of the many secrets about himself that he’d hidden from College; it shamed him deeply, as illiteracy shames anybody who suffers from it, and he’d hidden it with all the guile and cunning of Atlas hiding from Claire how much drink he got down himself during the day. It was only with immense difficulty that Jonathan filled out the forms to authorize shipment of College’s body back east. He sent on College’s clothes, too, a bundle of letters and just under $300 in cash. He kept back only the pearl-handled Smith & Wesson, partly for sentimental reasons and partly because a revolver didn’t fit in with his picture of life at the Malloy’s Landing establishment on the coast of Maine. When the train carrying the casket left Cheyenne, he made his way to a saloon called the Bowie Jack at the edge of town.

  ‘What fascinates me is the absolute indifference of the universe,’ Atlas said into my microphone. ‘We go around feeling special somehow – you know what I mean – more dear to nature than the rest of creation. Dogs probably feel the same way. Bugs, too. Even viruses, if they can feel at all. So here you are fighting a virus – the flu maybe, or maybe something far worse – and the fact of the matter is, nature doesn’t give a damn which of you wins. You or the virus: she watches but she calls no odds. She is completely impartial. It makes people mad as hell – especially sick people.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I said.

  ‘Sure you do. When people die – when somebody close to you dies – it’s much the same, don’t you think?’

  ‘Bottle of whiskey,’ Jonathan said to the bartender of the Bowie Jack.

  ‘How’ya doing, railroadman?’ said the bartender.

  ‘Just give me the bottle.’

  ‘You don’t look well—’

  ‘You want me to drink somewhere else?’

  The bartender shrugged; the rudeness of railroadmen was accepted – even expected – in those days much as the rudeness of Hollywood stars or British aristocrats is accepted today. Jonathan took his bottle to a table. In half an hour the bar’s walls swam. He passed out, sitting there, woke several hours later, bought another bottle. At four in the morning the bartender carried him upstairs and tucked him into bed, reluctant to lose the custom of any railroadman and especially of one so ready to spend.

  Jonathan woke at noon, mouth furred, stomach adrift. He had no idea where he was, and for all he cared he might have been in hell. He found his way down the narrow, dark stairs to the bar.

  ‘Feeling better?’ the bartender said.

  ‘Just give me a bottle.’

  He drank, passed out; awoke, drank and got carried upstairs and tucked into bed just as he had the night before.

  The next day it was well past noon before he maneuvered his way down the narrow stairs through a haze of nausea. Leaning on the bar for support, he saw what seemed to be clumps of something hanging from the bartender’s belt. He squinted at them. ‘What are those things?’ he said.

  ‘These? Genuine Indian scalps,’ said the bartender, delighted to have at last caught the attention of so important a customer. ‘This here one, see’ – he unbuckled the belt and flopped it up on the bar – ‘this here’s Red Eagle. Now I run into Red Eagle—’

  ‘Are you Bowie Jack? Guy that owns this joint?’

  ‘Yep. That’s me.’ His features looked as though they’d been yanked together in the middle of his face by his fishhook of a nose.

  Jonathan squinted at the puckered cheeks much as he’d squinted at the scalps. ‘They call you that because of them?’

  ‘Yep. I cut ’em off with my Bowie—’

  ‘How’d you do it?’ Jonathan said.

  ‘Whaddya mean?’

  ‘How do you scalp a head?’

  ‘Don’t you want to hear how I fought—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But most folks—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well,’ said Bowie Jack, bravely recovering his enthusiasm, ‘you slip the knife in at the back of the neck first, see?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Whaddya mean?’

  Jonathan sighed irritably. ‘Why not at the front of the head?’

  ‘Well, gee, ’cause it sticks, sorta – you know, like skin on lamb chop fat. The hair—’

  ‘Give me a bottle of whiskey.’

  ‘—don’t come off clean—’

  ‘Now, goddamn you!’

  Sitting at his table, my grandfather’s hands shook so badly he couldn’t pour the whiskey into his glass; he had to drink it from the bottle. Toward evening the bar filled up. He sat at his table alone in a sea of noise, forcing the alcohol down his throat as fast as he could. His aim was simple unconsciousness, but it seemed to be taking more effort to get there than it had in the previous two days.

  He bought a second bottle and set it on the table in front of him before he’d managed to finish off the first. He concentrated hard:
only an inch to go. He didn’t notice when the man in Galway chokers appeared. Why should he? There were lots of men around; he paid no attention to any of them, although his stomach lurched dangerously when Bowie Jack pounded the bar. ‘This here’s Preacher Spoonable,’ Bowie Jack said. ‘What do you say, boys? Want a little entertaining?’

  The preacher wore a black linen duster, a black, wide-brimmed hat; in one hand a Bible, in the other a horsewhip.

  ‘You can lay your Bible there, Preacher,’ Bowie Jack said. ‘Now, boys, I ain’t going to sell no liquor during a sermon. But it may run on some, so now’s your chance.’

  There was a general rush. The preacher bought, too. Jonathan tried to get to his feet, failed and half passed out – but only half. By the time he manipulated the bar back into focus, Bowie Jack had covered it with a sheet from the upstairs bed of my grandfather’s two oblivious nights, and the sermon had begun.

  ‘Out here in Cheyenne’ – the preacher’s voice had the rhythmic lilt of any traveling evangelist – ‘a man’s hardly got time to piss behind the shed. You’re on the run, all of you, fast as you can go. Right? Then suddenly, right in the middle of the race – wham! –you’re dead.’ He paused, drank from the glass of whiskey beside him and went on. ‘Now let’s say you’ve been dead for a month. Funeral paid for. Buddies got new buddies – can’t no longer rightly remember your name. Down you go to hell. Who cares? Nobody. Right? You got vultures yanking the skin off your balls for eternity and who gives a damn?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Jonathan said. He struggled again to get himself upright, but again stumbled and fell back into his chair.

  ‘This here young man got it in one,’ the preacher shouted. ‘It’s Christ what cares. Tell you something more: I care. Me and Jesus. That’s why we’re going to fight for you boys. Right here. Right now. The winner’s prize: all the souls in this room, you and me, brothers – all of us. Let’s say we’re in this book.’ He patted his Bible. ‘Now, gents, the contenders. In this corner, one backwoods preacher, kind of old and dry.’ He drew back his sleeve to expose a skinny arm. He took another swig of whiskey, shadow-boxed a little and hefted his whip. ‘You, young man who doubts the Word,’ he said to Jonathan, ‘watch me.’ In a single flick of his horsewhip, he snatched the nearly empty bottle off Jonathan’s table and smashed it against the wall.

  ‘Now for a costume change.’ He turned, drew the sheet off his altar and draped it over his shoulders. ‘And in this corner’ – the sheet made a gown; he stood hand on hip and hip thrust out; there were guffaws from the bar – ‘Lucifer himself, boys. Beelzebub. Asmodeus. Mephistopheles. The Father of Lies and the Bitch of the Pit.’

  The stance was Fritzi and George all at once, male and female all at once. Nausea erupted at the back of Jonathan’s throat; he struggled to swallow it down. Men at the bar sang out raucously: ‘Take it off. Take it off.’

  ‘In good time, my dear sirs,’ the preacher said.

  The dance began.

  The devil swishes his tail beneath his gown, circles toward the Bible, flirts girlishly. Off with the sheet: the preacher, as himself, a pure-hearted man of God, picks up the Bible and begins to read. On with the sheet: the devil flirts more boldly. Off with the sheet: the preacher, uninterested, turns away. On with the sheet: the devil grows bolder still; hips sway, shoulders swing and – aha! at last! – the preacher takes notice. He puts down the book; he watches despite himself, prudish at first, then a little rakish, then lustful. The sex changes come faster and faster. My grandfather, nauseated, fascinated, clung to the edge of his chair. Man into woman: woman into man: borders meaningless: animal into vegetable. How can a snake swallow its tail? How can the jaws eat the jaws? the stomach digest itself? On with the sheet: the whore wraps her legs round the preacher. A hand snakes out to take hold of the Bible. The preacher draws back in alarm, struggles to disentangle himself. The whore tears off her drape and reveals the devil’s cloven hoof and tail.

  The fight begins in earnest.

  ‘Gouge him, Preacher. Gouge him!’ one man cried.

  ‘Get him in the balls,’ cried another.

  The devil conjured. The preacher picked glasses off tables with his horsewhip. The devil withdrew in defeat. Jonathan’s hands and face were wet with sweat; the audience stamped and cheered.

  ‘And you might well ask, boys,’ the preacher was saying, ‘why a poor, backwoods preacher should come to a saloon on a Saturday night and fight the devil for your souls. What the fuck do I care? Well, I’ll tell you: I fight for your souls because my friend Jesus died for them. But who fought for Him when He needed help? Huh? I’ll give you the answer to that one, boys. Nobody. Fight for Him? He couldn’t even get Peter to stay awake for Him.

  ‘How do you think He felt on the night before His crucifixion? He knew they were going to drive nails in His hands and feet and let Him hang in the sun until He dried out like one of the scalps around Bowie Jack’s waist. How do you think He felt? He was scared shitless, boys. Like you’d be. Like me. So what does a man do when he’s scared? He goes to his friend, doesn’t he? He says, “Peter,” he says, “I don’t want to take up much of your time, but you’re my friend, and I need you. Just keep me company tonight. Sit with me a little.” Well, you gotta say for Peter that he’d fished fishes and he’d fished souls all day, and a man gets tired. So he sits himself down to wait with Jesus, and – not meaning any harm by it – he nods off.

  ‘But, goddamnit, Jesus was a man like you and me, boys, and He had to die like a man. But He was a God, too. And what’s going to happen to you – you, me, all of us – what’s going to happen to us if even a God’s earthly friends can’t stay awake when He needs them?’ The preacher put down his whip and extended his arms to either side, fists clenched, stretching himself out upon the cross. ‘“Sleepest thou?” Jesus said to Peter. “Couldest not thou watch one hour?”’

  The preacher opened his hands. There in the middle of each palm was an open wound that dripped blood in spots down over the sheet that covered the altar.

  Jonathan heaved himself onto his feet and half feeling his way, stumbled outside. The sky was overcast. There were no stars, no moon. His legs seemed too loose at the knees for a steady gait, but the inside of his head had a glacial feel to it, as cold as the wind that had frozen eyelashes together above the town of Lenssen before the break-in-two, before the change in engine sound that heralded disaster – the sound that nobody heard. He stood in the light from the saloon door for a moment, gathering balance. He’d planned to go to the edge of town. In his drunkenness the edge of town seemed the proper place, but when he reached the crossroads, he could wait no longer. He took College’s Smith & Wesson out of his pocket, cocked it, put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  The blast he’d imagined rang in his head. It was some moments before he could bring himself, ears still singing, to explore the nape of his neck with his fingers. In the dark he ran his fingers over the pistol. Two chambers were empty, including the one he’d fired. The pistol needed oiling. He shook his head in abrupt fury. What’s a man want with a friend like College? Not around when you need him – no better than Peter, maybe not even as good; not just asleep when you needed him, dead when you needed him – coat too big, ugly coat, too, pistol only half loaded. Jonathan aligned the chambers, aimed, pulled the trigger: a bullet cracked into the wood of the boardwalk across the street from him.

  ‘Couldest thou not watch one hour?’ he said out loud, not knowing quite what he meant but aware despite himself that he was addressing not College or the preacher or Christ Himself, but the shiny, black eyes and curly mouth of that figure that lingered still, alive or dead, at the edge of his mind.

  11

  When I was twenty-one, still more or less able-bodied (at least on the surface), I landed a half-decent part in an off-Broadway production of a Shaw play, one of those minor character roles with a funny accent and a few laughs tied in. I was good at it. I know I was. But
on the first night I couldn’t walk right – it was the first serious omen of what I have become – I just couldn’t make my legs work. I went on anyway. I wasn’t important enough to have an understudy. But the furore afterwards! They said I’d turned the character into a cripple – which, all things considered, I guess I had. My GP sent me to a psychiatrist (not as dull-witted a one as they usually are), who said, ‘I’ve never run across an obsession so physically based’, and sent me to a neurologist. There were many tests, technological wonders most of them, painful, complex and like so many technological wonders, indecisive – all except for the Babinski, that is: painless, practical Babinski. It was Babinski that condemned me. Here is the simplicity of true genius: the doctor scrapes an ordinary pen or an ordinary key from an ordinary key-ring down the sole of the patient’s foot. If nothing happens: no motor disorder. If the big toe curls up: motor disorder. My big toe curled up. Perhaps that was the moment, the very instant – the borderland for me – toe curling upward in a neurologist’s office: maybe that was the moment this once able-bodied person became a cripple.

  At least from that moment on I was tainted. Not that the able-bodied don’t ever feel tainted, I don’t mean that. Everybody comes to it in the end, and a lot of them well before the end. Even Claire. After lunch and bologna sandwiches Atlas got called out on an emergency. He had to leave too fast for wheelchairs, so I stayed behind in his office. He hadn’t been gone more than a minute or two when she came in.

  ‘I’m glad I’ve got the chance to talk to you,’ she said. ‘I was afraid – I want you to do something for me. I want you to talk to him.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘What about?’

  ‘His drinking. What else?’

  I shifted uncomfortably. ‘Uh—’ I began and shifted again. ‘I don’t see—’

  ‘He wet his pants in the theater last week. We went to see – It’s a silly play, Barefoot in the Park, I don’t know why we went at all. It was a local production, not any good really. He just sat there and – I smelled it. That’s how I knew. I was so ashamed.’