by David Poyer
“Yeah? What’re you pushing?” Hector asks him.
“Mira, chicos, we’re not dealing with no dummy here. Hector’s smarter than he looks.” José dips into a side pocket of the car door. “Know what this is?”
The pale crystals are twisted into baggies. Hector regards them without emotion. He doesn’t need to nod.
Mahmou’ leans forward from the back seat, eager to talk. “This shit put you on Cloud Thirty. People take one hit, they can’t stop. They gotta come back for more.”
Lebo adds, wiping his nose, “Yeah, we in the D. The whole Shore up to Delaware. We don’ deal, yo? We the middleman. Shit come in, we break it down. Stretch it a little bit, then farm it out to the hitters, the ones put they asses on the street.”
José looks on, smiling and nodding. Hector likes this, his willingness to let his squad have their say. There’s more of a team feeling here. The kind you have when there’s a good NCO in charge. When everybody trusts everybody else to have their back.
But he remembers, too, what the foreman used to do for a joke. Catching seagulls, and hanging them up on the Line. Chuckling as they flapped and struggled, heading through the shit-smeared, blood-smeared hole in the wall that led straight to Death.
“Huh. What about the cops?” he asks.
José chuckles. “Nobody out there no more. Ain’t no money left to pay cops. Don’t worry about that.
“But, see, there’s other boys. Bad ones, they like the money, like our product. And we need somebody to maintain discipline. Some chingado thinks about flipping, he got to be convinced that ain’t good for his health.”
He leans over and taps Hector’s knee. “We need a guy can handle a tire thumper, ain’t afraid to use a gun, either. It ain’t easy, we all got to chingarle mucho. But it pays. It pays very good. Buena onda? An’ we have fun, too.” In the back seat, Lebo snickers.
“I don’t know,” Hector says.
José puts his one arm around him. “Veteran like you, war hero. An hermano we can trust. A carnal from the Line. You done your service. Now it’s time to get on your hustle. Wey?”
“I don’t know,” Hector says again. The idea of something that pays better than Seth appeals, but he’s not sure he wants to get involved in this.
The boss looks puzzled, like he’s surprised Hector doesn’t jump at the offer. But just pats his knee again, then sits up. Says over his shoulder to the others, “Hand that up here, let him take a look.” Twisting to take it, José grunts as Lebo slides something heavy up to them between the seats. “Maybe this’ll change your mind.”
Hector weighs the thing in his hands, astonished.
It is black and ugly and heavy and looks exactly like what it is: a machine designed to kill as many people as quickly and cheaply as possible.
It’s his old Pig. Well, not his, but from the same litter. He clears it without conscious thought, locking the bolt to the rear and putting it on safe. His hands move swift and sure. He flips up the top cover and checks the feed tray.
“Full auto, 7.62, gas-operated long-stroke piston, six hundred fifty rounds a minute,” he mutters.
Behind them Lebo chuckles as Hector tilts the machine gun toward the light to inspect the bolt face. It’s not just clean, it looks unfired. “Where the fuck you get this?” he breathes, but it’s obvious. A painted armory number has been half obliterated from the buttstock.
“M&Ms selling off their shit.” José leans back, smiling at Hector as he runs his hands over the gun. “And we got plenty ammo. Yeah, you like, I can see that.
“See, we goin’ first-class now. With you backing us up, nobody gonna give us any shit.” He makes a graceful flipping-off gesture. “Well, you take some time, think about it. We your people, wey? You know we will never give you up or let you down. Not too many you can say that about.”
“Yeah … yeah, I’ll think about it,” Hector says.
Mahmou’ reaches up and tries to give him some kind of handshake Hector doesn’t recognize. They all laugh. Good-naturedly, as far as he can tell.
“Okay, good talk.” José hands him a card. It reads Mardelva Poultry Supplies. Then nods regally to Lebo, who gets out and opens the door for Hector. José leans out to call after him, “We be in touch, okay.”
“Here’s your phone back,” Lebo says. Then lowers his voice. “It’s a good deal, man. He is not shitting you, it’s very few people he lets in.”
Hector nods. He stands by his rusted-out junker, watching as the tinted windows slide down for the three to wave a casual farewell.
The windows rise again, smoothly, soundlessly, and the Caddy backs down the drive, shells and grass crackling under the big tires.
Too late, he remembers they didn’t return his pistol.
* * *
TURNS out his tire isn’t actually bad. The shimmy was just loose wheel nuts. He should have torqued them down harder. That’s a relief. Then his mother needs bread and ice and milk from the store. He takes a detour on the way to go by Mirielle’s one last time before he gives up.
And a gray sedan’s parked in front. He pulls in, sits for a minute, then climbs the step up to the porch and knocks.
When she comes to the door he almost doesn’t recognize her. She’s heavier and looks tired. Her hair’s cut short and she’s in a stained blouse and blue pants like a nurse’s scrubs. Miri stands there staring, as if he’s a stranger. Her hands creep up to her mouth, then she hugs herself.
“¿Héctor, eres tú?”
He nods. “Sí. It’s me.”
“You’re back. For good?”
“Done with the war. Yeah. I’m home now.”
“I’m glad you’re back safe. And how … how is your mother? Your sisters?”
He says they are good.
She glances at him, then away, biting her lip. Hector can’t read her. A baby’s crying back in the house. “How’s your mom and dad?” he asks her.
“They’re all right,” she says. But she keeps looking away, to the side, up, not really meeting his eyes.
“Well, hey, can we talk?” he says at last.
She sighs, still hugging herself, as if she’s cold. At last she glances back into the house again, then pushes the screen door open and steps out. She even walks differently, more heavily. “Let’s sit on the glider. Like we used to.”
He backs away to let her out, then follows her to the creaking old wooden glider. She strides sluggishly, as if burdened. He remembers how she used to bustle along the corridor at high school, confident, head up, books hugged to her chest. Yeah, and he remembers sitting here in this glider with her, like she says: the evening sky an amazing red over the bay, the smell of jasmine, the chirping music of cicadas, the manic wander of fireflies. And the kisses, how horny he used to get. But she’d guide his hands away when he got too close to the prize.
The glider creaks dangerously as it takes their weight, and he glances up at the rusty anchor bolts.
They don’t say anything for a little bit. He takes her hand, but it lies limp and lifeless in his.
“We’re all grown up now, aren’t we, Hector,” she says. She doesn’t sound happy about it. But at least she’s not asking if he’s killed anyone.
Which he’s grateful for. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“Sorry I didn’t answer your letters.”
“You blocked my calls too.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t … there was a lot going on.” She still doesn’t meet his gaze.
“So what’s going on? I heard you were down with your aunt in Virginia.”
“Yeah, we … my mom and I were there for a while.”
Hector pushes the swing into motion with a boot against the pillar, but she says no, don’t, it makes her sick. So he lets it sway to a stop. He’s puzzled. Can’t read the situation. Finally he pulls the rosary out of his pocket. The red plastic one she sent him, after he lost the first one in the assault on Taipei. He holds it out. “You want this back?”
“No. No, you can kee
p it.”
“It kept me safe. Like you said it would.”
“That’s good, Hector.” She looks away.
“Mir, what’s wrong? I thought you’d be glad to see me.”
She shakes her head. Is she angry? Are those tears? He tries to put an arm around her, but she pushes it away.
“Maybe I better show you something,” she says. “You should come in.”
The front door creaks and slams. He follows her through the cramped living room. A Virgin of Guadalupe candle flickers. A smell like sour milk fills the air.
Her mother’s in the kitchen, changing a baby on the bare rickety table. She gives them a sharp glance as she tapes the sides of the diaper. She thrusts the baby at Mirielle, grabs a bag of cracked corn, and goes out the back door. Excited clucking rises back there. But in the kitchen it’s quiet, except for quiet snuffling from the baby, who looks eagerly about him, or her, with wide, alert brown eyes. Fastening at last on Hector, the new thing in the room.
“That your sister’s kid?”
“No, Hector. He’s why I din’t answer your texts.”
He doesn’t know what to say. He’s confused. Bewildered. Hers? What the fuck? He checks her hand, but there’s no ring.
Finally he holds out his hands. “Can I hold it?”
“You want to?” Her voice rises, like she doesn’t quite believe him.
But he wiggles his fingers, and at last, reluctantly, she slides the child into his arms. The baby doesn’t seem to mind. He looks up at Hector.
And it’s kind of like the same feeling he had that morning, with the wildflowers. Looking down into those eyes, which look straight at him. Straight into him. Accepting. Trusting.
Like they’re saying, You’re not so bad, wey.
Like they’re saying, It’s you and me now.
“Whose is he?” he murmurs, quietly, so as not to make the kid cry. “Not that asshole Mahmou’s? Tell me it isn’t fucking Mahmou’.”
“What? No. No! He never touched me, after you beat him up at Porky’s. No, you don’t know him. He’s not from here. Used to work at the Zone, but when everybody there got so sick, he didn’t stay.”
“He’s not here?”
“No, he … he really didn’t want a kid. Tried to make me get rid of it. I said no, I wasn’t going to do that. Even if I had to raise him all by myself. At least I’d have my mom to help.”
Hector feels lightheaded. He sways on his feet, and she reaches for the child. But he turns away, cradling the baby. Who’s still staring up at him, gaze as steady as a targeting laser.
And something’s loosening in him. Unlocking, it feels like, in his chest. It’s weird, like nothing he’s ever felt before. Like something hard’s melting, ice in the sun, or a lead brick in a blowtorch flame. He can’t look away from those eyes.
“Hey, Mirielle?” he mutters at last. “Want to get married?”
Her look turns flinty. “Don’ fuck with me, Hector. I don’ deserve that.”
It’s the first time he’s ever heard her use that word. “I’m not fucking with you! I’m asking serious, do you want to get married.”
“I got a baby now, Hector.”
“I might not mind having a son,” he says. Still looking down at the kid. Damn, he’s cuter by the minute. Is that a smile? “Holy shit, he’s smiling at me,” he says. “Look at that.”
“You are so weird, Hector. And you’re playing with me now.”
He goes to the screen door. Her mother’s crouching in the backyard with a chicken clamped between her knees, doing something to its beak. “Missus? Is it okay if Mirielle and I get married?”
She looks up with a hostile squint just like her daughter’s. Wrinkles her nose. Speaks, not to him, but past him, to her daughter. “¿Él tiene trabajo?” Then goes back to what she’s doing with the chicken.
“Yeah, I got work. Two job offers already,” Hector tells her. “Not sure which one I’m gonna take, but don’t worry about that.” He turns back to Mirielle. “I’m not shitting you. You want to get married, we can. Make a familia.” Even though half of him is standing off to the side, wondering what the fuck he’s doing here. Maybe, really screwing himself. Again.
Mirielle takes his arm and leads him back into the kitchen. She’s smiling now. Half disbelievingly, but still smiling. Leaning over the baby, which he’s still carrying, she gives Hector a kiss. Holds his arms. Whispers up to him, eyes shining, “Are you really serious?”
“Oh yeah. Been thinking about it for a while.”
“And … Teodoro? You’re not mad?”
That must be the baby’s name. It’s not bad. That’d be Ted, or Teddy, in American. “I’m not mad, Mir. For a long time, I din’t think I’d ever even get back. Can’t blame you for thinking the same thing.”
She holds his arms more tightly, smiling up, blinking back tears. “Hector, you are a saint.”
“Oh, I ain’t no fu—I ain’t no saint. Don’t say that. I been—I done things out there I’m not proud of.” He chokes back saying more, afraid of scaring her. Maybe someday. Or maybe never, maybe those are the things you don’t never talk to anyone about. Except maybe those who’ve been there.
The baby starts to fuss, and Mirielle scoops it up, so dexterously it’s as if she’s been a mother forever. Well, she had little sisters. He sits at the table and she brings him iced tea. It’s quiet here. It’s nice. He sits and drinks the tea, watching her bustle around. It’s almost as if they’re married already. “Want to stay for dinner?” she says brightly.
“Uh, oh. No, thanks, got to get moving. Got to get my hustle on. If we’re gonna set up together.”
She flashes another smile. She even looks younger now, prettier. As if he’s given her some huge precious gift.
Her mother comes in, banging the screen door, and squints at him again. As if she can’t believe her eyes. “¿De verdad quieres casarte con mi hija?” Talking to him this time.
“Oh yeah,” he tells her. “Not right this second, I got to get some things straight first. But yeah. Yeah.”
“Este es un hombre loco,” she remarks to Mirielle, and makes an elaborate production of an uncaring shrug, an eye roll. There’s even a lip curl there, like she doesn’t believe a word.
Hector’s pretty sure about Mirielle. He’s even feeling okay about the kid. But he’s not so sure about this old witch. For sure, they’re going to have to get a place of their own.
* * *
HE has to drive a little ways up the neck before he gets any bars on his phone. It’s a cheap fucking thing anyway. He needs to get a real one, not this piece of crap from Dollar General.
He parks by the side of the road and sits holding it for a while. Looking at the two business cards on the seat beside him. Sweat trickles down his neck. It’s hot as hell out here, and the open windows don’t give any relief. There’s no breeze at all today. The cornstalks stand motionless, baking in the heat. At their feet, along the edge of the road, a few small blue flowers speckle the ragged grass.
Farmer Seth Industries, one of the cards reads.
The other, Mardelva Poultry Supplies.
He looks up at a blue enamel sky. Not even a cloud up there. As if all movement has left the world, and everything will stand still forever now.
Only the images move. They press into his mind, insistent, intrusive, pushing and elbowing. He lets them come, then pass, not dwelling on anything, just watching. Like a movie.
Birds flutter and squawk in the deep carmine light of the Hanging Room.
A dirty guy in ragged clothes hunches in a corner, playing spoons clickety-clack under his arm. His eyes dart like trapped flies. “Cigarettes is alls I needs,” he says over and over. “Five bucks for cigarettes is alls I needs.”
The robot cart bumps along. Then the wheels grind in plowed-up soil. Between the battered tubes of abandoned, broken mortars. The fertilizer stink of explosive. His gaze wanders among wrecked equipment, overturned, smoking boxes, piles of empty packing material
, tumbled bodies.
And helmetless, dark hair unraveled in the mud. Olive skin and a hawklike nose. A severed leg lies several yards away.
Another wave pushes up from the enemy line, growing from the soil up through the stumps and craters of the shattered jungle. Old men, kids, women. They lift their arms, pleading and crying.
A flag flutters above a burning city.
Small bodies lie in ragged lines. The boys are in blue rain slickers, the girls in pink. They all have the same colorful pencil boxes.
Beside his head something chuffs and clicks. His chest rises and falls with the noise. His lungs, inflating and deflating.
A bead curtain sways in the wind. The stars glitter through the colored glass, reflected and refracted from bead to sparkling bead.
The faces. There they are again. Pale and sweaty, splattered dark with gunsoot and mud and blood. He knows their names. He was one of them. They stare back, wavery, as if they’re underwater. But they aren’t calling to him anymore. Just watching, eyes empty.
He rubs his face.
The images pass. Others take their place.
He understands now. They’re not going to go away. They’re part of him. All the dead are part of him now. Like a heavy pack he’s going to have to carry, till the end of his tour.
“You just gonna have to wait a little bit,” Hector mutters at last. “But I’ll be along pretty soon.”
Then his hand steals out, almost without him noticing, and picks up the phone.
The Afterimage
Arlington, Virginia
WHEN Dan woke the windows were still dark. The bedside clock read 0500. Blair was snoring next to him. He lay watching the light grow, and trying to think of a reason to keep breathing.
They’d won the war. Maybe that was one reason. Simple curiosity, to see what happened after.
But his daughter was gone.
He was home. He and Blair were together again. They didn’t have to worry about being nuked in their beds. And that was good. But last night she’d told him what lay ahead. It would be hard, prolonged, and probably more vicious than any previous political campaign in American history.
