the Buffalo Soldier (2002)

by Bohjalian, Chris

  It's fine, she said.

  And you wouldn't mind my dropping in again, right, Alfred?

  He shrugged--no, he wouldn't mind--without looking up from his hot chocolate, and she could see that his fingers were wrapped tightly around the mug.

  If it was all right with you, I'd arrive here about three-thirty, maybe quarter to four, and that would give me a chance to see Alfred up on the horse before the sun sets.

  And then we'd have an early dinner, Laura said.

  Well, we can eat whenever you normally would--whenever Sergeant Sheldon gets home.

  I believe he'll be home his normal time Wednesday night. We can probably eat around six-thirty or seven.

  Good. Let me bring some bread or something from that nice bakery in Durham. I could do that, at least.

  You could, but you needn't, Laura said. It's our pleasure to have you.

  Well, thank you. In the meantime, there was something I was hoping you could...help me with. Maybe help me smooth over.

  Here comes the hammer blow, Laura thought to herself, here comes the beginning of the hurt. The first piece of news that something is wrong, direly wrong, and I have managed to miss all the signs. No, it will be worse than that: I will have seen the indications and I will have to live with the reality that I saw them and chose to ignore them. She wondered if it would have something to do with the horse and her willingness to allow the boy to ride without formal lessons--maybe that fall and the bump on his head--but then she decided it wouldn't be that because Louise seemed so pleased with Alfred's involvement with Mesa. The hurt would begin someplace else.

  Yes? she asked simply when the woman paused, waiting for her to say something.

  Louise turned to the boy as he was putting down his mug of hot chocolate on the place mat and said, I think Alfred wants to tell you about it.

  Clearly this was the last thing in the world that Alfred wanted to do, and he sat there without saying a word.

  Alfred? Laura asked, but he ignored her as he had ignored Louise, and stared out the window at the sky and the skeletal-looking branches on the trees near their house.

  Remember what we agreed, Louise said. You need to be a grown-up here, you need to take some responsibility. I can help, but you need to get the ball rolling.

  She could almost see the conflict on the boy's face: There was something he wanted desperately to tell her, but there was something even more powerful that was compelling him to remain silent. He wouldn't look at either of the women, and he wouldn't look away from the window.

  Go ahead, Alfred, Laura said to him at last. You know the last thing I want is for us to have secrets.

  Slowly he turned to meet her eyes, and for a second she thought he was going to open up and explain to her what was troubling him--what was troubling Louise--but then he pressed his palms flat on the armrests on the chair, pushed himself to his feet, and walked right past her and the social worker, across the kitchen floor, and then up the stairs to his room.

  Laura started to stand up to go after him, but Louise shook her head, and so--despite her faith that she knew what was best for the boy and that meant going to him that very moment--she sat back in her chair and waited for this other woman to speak.

  WHEN HE HAD shut the door and it had been completely quiet upstairs for easily a minute or a minute and a half, she asked Louise, What is it you want him to tell me? What's happened?

  The younger woman widened her eyes and started to push her dark hair back behind her ears, her thumbs bouncing over the silver balls there like they were a line of speed bumps on the road. Well, it's your husband. I need to get in the middle of this, and I'm not happy about that, but not getting in the middle would be worse. It would--

  What's happened?

  This morning, it seems, Sergeant Sheldon--

  Terry, please. Call him Terry, and call me Laura.

  You know, I do that with Alfred. Around Alfred, you're both just Terry and Laura. I mean that as a compliment.

  Go on.

  This morning, before he left for work, Terry and Alfred had a bit of a misunderstanding. You don't know this about Alfred, but he's a bit of a food hoarder.

  A what?

  A food hoarder. He hoards food. You know, hides it. A lot of foster kids do, it's actually pretty common. It usually only happens the first time a child leaves his biologic home, especially when there's been some serious privation. But there are also the kids like Alfred, kids who've had some real bad luck over the years and been shuttled around more than anyone deserves. They squirrel away snacks, too, so when they have to go someplace new, they have some comfort food with them to help them get through the first couple of days.

  A few times this fall I thought things had disappeared, but I assumed it was just me, she heard herself saying, and she remembered vividly opening the box of Twinkies one morning in October when she was making Alfred his lunch before school, and seeing there was only one wrapped cake remaining when she was quite sure that the night before there'd been two or even three. And then there was the afternoon she'd spent easily ten or fifteen minutes in search of the can opener with the white handle--the one she reserved solely for cat food cans--before finally giving up and deciding it wasn't a big deal if the family used the same can opener for refried beans and pineapple slices that they used for the seafood supper she fed to the cats.

  It's never a lot, Louise continued. But Alfred has taken a little. You know, things like Hostess cupcakes. Canned peaches, I think he said. And the only reason it's a problem--

  You can't believe either Terry or I would care if he took some canned peaches!

  No, of course not. But there was a misunderstanding. This morning Alfred had the small things he'd procured (she smiled for Laura when she used the word) spread out on the floor in his bedroom when Sergeant Shel--Terry--walked in. And Terry saw the food and Alfred's backpack, and he suspected the worst.

  The worst? What exactly would that be?

  He thought Alfred was going to run away.

  She nodded, and allowed the notion to seep in.

  He said he wasn't, and I believe him, Louise went on. He has no history of running away.

  Except that Saturday a couple months ago when he just upped and went to Burlington to see that little Vietnamese girl.

  No, that wasn't running away, and I think you know that. That was just a...a badly planned and executed play date or visit.

  How did you hear about this? Was it Alfred who said something, or did Terry call you this morning?

  Your husband? He didn't call me. He and Alfred had an exchange, and--

  And Alfred told you about it.

  Yes.

  And not me.

  It isn't like that, there were--there are--circumstances.

  She resolved that she would not sink into that place where she wanted (no, needed, there'd been a time when she'd needed) to curl up in her nightgown in bed, unmoving, the sheets around her pulled up to her face and her ears. But it was getting harder. Everyone around her these days had information for her: her husband with his news that he had had a drink with some tramp in a bar, Emily with her belief that something was bothering Terry, and now this social worker with the reconnaissance that something was going on between Terry and Alfred, and neither had chosen to tell her. If only the world could be just her and the boy--no, she didn't mean that, she loved Terry and didn't want to lose him--if only the world could be just her and the boy and her husband and the time they spent alone as a family. She and Alfred looking at photos. Using a dime-store loom to make a Kwanzaa mat. All three of them getting the Christmas tree that still stood in the den.

  The thing is, Louise was explaining, and she turned her attention as best she could back to the younger woman, Terry thinks you're fragile. That's pretty clear. He made Alfred swear not to tell you what happened. That's why neither of the men in your life mentioned their squabble this morning.

  Squabble. I can't tell whether you're trying to make this more or less of
an issue with that word. Tell me, please, exactly what Alfred told you.

  Okay, Louise said, and the caseworker proceeded to construct for Laura a short motion picture, beginning with the instant when Terry surprised Alfred in his bedroom, to the moment when he had the boy empty his pockets and accused him of stealing money. She tried to sit perfectly still as Louise spoke, unmoving, afraid if she did more than breathe, the reality of what she was hearing would cause her to flinch and then she would be undone. And she would not allow that to happen, not in front of this person who worked for the state. So long as she merely listened, however, not even nodding, she knew she could remain poised and concerned: A good foster mother. A good mom.

  Anyway, Louise said as she finished, I don't believe Alfred would have told me if Terry hadn't thought he'd been taking dollar bills from your purse and whatever cookie jar you keep in this kitchen. The only reason the story even slipped out is because Alfred has plenty of money right now from the time he spends taking care of your neighbors' horse.

  So he didn't...confide in you, she said, regretting the words the moment they had escaped her mouth because she thought they made her sound pathetic: jealous, perhaps, of this woman a mere fourteen or fifteen years older than Alfred.

  No, it wasn't like that. It was like, Hey, I'm making a lot of money here, so why would Terry accuse me of taking some? Oops. The minute he said it, he knew he'd made a mistake of monster proportions.

  How do you think Terry wants to handle it now?

  She raised her eyebrows and offered Laura a small smile. You know, he's your husband. I should ask you that. But here's what does seem pretty clear. He doesn't want to tell you, at least not right now. And, like I said, he didn't call me this morning, so he probably isn't planning on telling me. The fact is, he's never called me, so I tend to doubt I'm tops on his list of people he would even think of talking to.

  But he might talk to Alfred some more.

  He might. He might also just opt for more discipline. In the meantime, somehow I want to get this out into the open so it doesn't get any worse. But you can't bring it up without getting Alfred in trouble with Terry, and I probably can't--

  Why not? she interrupted. Why can't you just tell Terry--maybe Terry and me together--the way you just told me? You said yourself it just slipped out. Alfred hadn't planned to mention it to anybody.

  Maybe. But Terry and Alfred don't have, you know, one of those father-son relationships for the ages. Terry might not believe that's exactly the way it happened--

  Their relationship isn't that bad!

  No, of course not. But it isn't great. That doesn't mean it couldn't become great. It could. But it isn't right now, that's just how it is. And so if I don't do this right, I could really screw things up. I guess that's why I want to have us all together in one room so we can deal with this honestly, clear it up, and then--she tossed her hand over her shoulder, as if she were tossing a ball behind her back--put it behind us.

  This, she thought to herself, focusing on a single word in Louise's last sentence, a euphemism for...what? For the fact that Terry believed Alfred was stealing from them and planned to run away? Or for the idea that the two of them, her husband and her foster child, didn't get along? Either way, she had a sense that she shouldn't share with Terry that she knew something had occurred that morning in Alfred's room.

  He's doing very well here, she said to Louise, hoping her voice didn't sound too defensive. You know that, don't you?

  Oh, yeah! My God, the kid's going to school every day and getting B's and C's on his report card. That's huge, Laura, that's huge! And you have to trust me: Your husband isn't the first foster father who thought his foster son was stealing from him. He might be the first who was wrong, but that's another story. No, my hope here is to get through this and, you know, build on it. Make things even better.

  So you're not going to take him away? she asked. The question was abrupt and unplanned, another reflex. It, too, was a chain of words she wished instantly she had never spoken, especially when Louise looked back at her--Louise's eyes anxious and worried, just the tiniest bob to her head as if she thought this woman in whose kitchen she was sitting was as unstable as a two-legged chair someone had propped against a wall--and then leaned forward and patted her, an invalid once more, softly on her knee.

  There, there, that pat said, you really are fragile. There, there.

  AT DINNER THAT night she watched Terry carefully as he ate. He was quiet, and in the past that meant something god-awful had occurred and he needed to be allowed to eat and listen and relax in the normalcy of a dinner with his family. Tonight, however, she was quite sure he'd had a calm day, and his silence had more to do with his fight with Alfred than anything he'd seen on the roads or in some poor battered woman's house. Consequently, she was unwilling to carry the load of their dinner conversation, and so she, too, ate without saying a word. The three of them sat as if they were strangers on stools at a diner, and she allowed the tension in the room to fester. Occasionally he glanced over at her--a further indication in her mind that his day indeed had been fine, and he was surprised that she wasn't babbling on about her morning at the shelter or their afternoon visit from the social worker--his eyes wary, and he would touch his mustache with his fingers with a fastidiousness that annoyed her.

  Meanwhile, Alfred ate. He looked at neither of them, and he continued to eat until there was absolutely no trace that the plate before him had once held a large square of spinach lasagna and a piece of garlic bread. She asked the boy if he wanted more and encouraged him to have seconds: She didn't want him to think her silence had anything to do with him or that she thought he had done something wrong. When she brought him his plate, refilled, she kissed him lightly on the top of his head.

  And then when dinner was through--when Alfred had finished the brownie she set before him for dessert--she reached for the boy's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze and asked him if he'd like to be excused. He nodded and went upstairs, and she began to clear the dishes from the table. For a moment she was alone with Terry, and she realized she was hoping he would bring up their child. Tell her his version of what had occurred that morning. But he wasn't about to, that was clear after a moment. And so she turned toward him from the spot by the dishwasher where she was standing and said--careful to make sure that although her voice might sound like many things to him, fragile would not be among them--You're excused, too, you know.

  He wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood. You need any help here? he asked.

  She almost answered automatically, Do I ever?, but she restrained herself. She looked at the pan and the plates and the pots in which she had boiled the spinach and cooked the sauce, and said instead, Sure. You can have the honors tonight. Then she went upstairs to Alfred's room to see if he wanted to watch television or play a game of Chinese checkers since there was no school the next day.

  "Both of the Indian girls had been coughing for days, and since Dr. McPherson was not going to visit them and Popping Trees was not about to visit the surgeon, Sergeant Rowe brought the children's plight to my attention; I, in turn, delegated it to my wife, who, like many women, has always been knowledgeable when it comes to certain basic cures."

  CAPTAIN ANDREW HITCHENS,

  TENTH REGIMENT, UNITED STATES CAVALRY,

  REPORT TO THE POST ADJUTANT,

  JULY 16, 1876

  *

  Phoebe

  I nearly busted open some idiot's head the day after Christmas, he was saying, that's what I mean. I'm just not...focused. The guy was arrogant, but he didn't deserve what he got.

  She rubbed her hand over the fur and muscle on his chest, massaging the tiny nipple there--the color of coffee, she thought, sweetened with cream--with the soft skin in her palm, and burrowed her head as deeply as she could into the small, comfortable valley just below his shoulder.

  You stopped him for speeding, she murmured simply. She was happy, and she wanted him to be happy, too. He overreacted, she c
ontinued, and then you did. It happens, it's not that complicated. You shouldn't be so hard on yourself.

  I shouldn't have been so hard on him.

  He hit you.

  Still...and tonight I get to go home and have dinner with some social worker with so much silver and steel in her ears that she probably sets off metal detectors a mile away. What fun.

  A part of her didn't want to ask about the boy because she didn't want their last few moments together to be centered on his family or his life back in Cornish, but the part of her that would be a mother before another year passed simply couldn't resist: She wondered--and, yes, worried--about this faceless child she'd never met. And so she closed her eyes and said, How is Alfred doing?

  Well, let's see. I keep my hunting rifles in a solid-steel Treadlok gun vault that's bolted to the floor. The key is hollow--nonduplicable. I keep the ammo locked in a separate sideboard in a separate room. Yet Monday night when I came home from work, I proceeded to remove what had been my father's Savage 99 and my own Browning A-Bolt from the gun case, rounded up my three boxes of shells, and then on Tuesday I took everything with me back to the barracks in Middlebury. The guns, the ammo. The works. I'm storing it all there. Only weapons at home from now on are that Sig Sauer--and he pointed at the handgun in his holster that dangled off the side of the chair beside the motel room desk--and the Remington 870 I keep in the trunk of the cruiser. And I'm pretty sure the lad doesn't even know the Remington exists. So I think that sums it up nicely, thank you very much. That is how little Alfred is doing.

  It's that bad?

  I caught him planning to run away. The last thing the world needs is a runaway ten-year-old with a bad attitude and his foster father's Browning A-Bolt at his side.

  I'm sorry. That's not good, she said, and she watched her fingernails--Casino Red today--carve an invisible line up his chest and his neck. She watched the small goose bumps appear on his skin. Is that why his social worker is coming to your house tonight?