the Buffalo Soldier (2002)

by Bohjalian, Chris

  Russell drained the beer and then rested the bottle on the floor beside him. She's a mighty nice woman, and you two got a lot of years together. A lot of history. I ought to go up to Cornish tomorrow and fix you two back up. Be the peacemaker.

  I don't think so.

  You don't want your sweet-tempered younger brother to be your marital ambassador?

  No. I don't want that.

  Well, I presume you know what you're doing.

  I'm not doing anything. She kicked me out.

  With reason.

  Point noted.

  Really, this is a woman who takes in all kinds of strays for a living: Dogs. Cats. Now kids. It's just what she does. You must have fucked up in a truly major way for her to kick you out.

  When Russell had called from Saint Johnsbury and said he thought he'd use his day off to come see how his older brother was doing, Terry had supposed that he was being sent here by their mother. She remained worried about him--him and Laura, to be precise, given the reality that she'd called Laura at least as many times as she'd called him since New Year's Day--and he guessed that she wanted to get a sense both of where he was living and whether he and Laura might reconcile.

  Thank you, Russell, for that analysis.

  You want to give me the details?

  Not particularly.

  Shit, we all know you're seeing someone. I'd bet my truck it's that girl you met up at deer camp.

  You'd be risking a lot on a gut feeling.

  Laura told Mom you fessed up the other day! And unless you been screwin' around far more than anybody ever realized, it has to be that girl. What's her name? he asked, and he snapped his fingers twice as if that would help him remember.

  Phoebe.

  Phoebe what?

  I really don't want to talk about this, Russell, okay? There's more to it than you know--or anyone knows.

  Suit yourself. It seems to me--

  It seems to me the last time we talked about this was at Mom's on Thanksgiving, and that conversation did not have a particularly good end.

  Hey, I'd had too much to drink that afternoon.

  I understand.

  I'm sorry.

  I know you are.

  Want to know what I was going to say--or do you know that, too?

  Fine, go ahead.

  I think this has something to do with the boy.

  Alfred? Why in the name of God would you think this has anything at all to do with Alfred?

  He shrugged. You drop a new element into a relationship, and who the hell knows what will happen. Look at me and Nicole, he said, referring to the young nurse he'd been dating for close to half a year.

  What about you and Nicole?

  She got a puppy, and it's made things a hell of a lot more difficult. Her apartment always smells like puppy shit, and she constantly wants to take the thing outside and walk it. She won't even spend the night at my place these days because of that damn little dog, he went on, before glancing toward the kitchen. You got more of these? he asked, and he motioned down toward the bottle on the floor.

  In the refrigerator.

  He rose from the chair and said, Incidentally, you'll be happy to know it's a shelter dog. Hound dog and beagle, I believe. Pretty cute, even if he has screwed up my sex life.

  A puppy and a little boy are not the same thing.

  No, a little boy is a much bigger deal. That's my point. You see the chaos a dog has caused? Well, just imagine what a kid can do. Especially that kid.

  He rubbed his eyes for a long moment and pressed his fingertips against the bridge of his nose. His head hurt, at least in part because the clouds hadn't rolled in until mid-afternoon, and so he'd spent the day squinting against the snow and the sun in his cruiser. But Russell, he knew, was making his headache worse. Almost automatically he wanted to defend the boy and defend his wife, but he lacked the energy tonight and so he said simply, Laura's and my problems have nothing to do with Alfred. Okay?

  You seen him since you left? Russell asked from the kitchen, after opening the beer and tossing the cap into the metal wastepaper basket.

  I'm going to try and see him next week. Go watch a riding lesson or something.

  Big of you.

  Give me a break, Russell, when would I have seen him lately?

  People figure these things out. Divorced dads--

  Laura and I are not divorced. And I am not the boy's dad.

  You got that right.

  Now, what does that mean?

  I don't know. Maybe it's just that you treat him like he's Laura's kid. Not yours.

  I believe you've seen the two of us together exactly one time.

  Russell wandered around the living room, picking up the Hummel figurines and putting them down, and gazing for long moments into the blackness outside the large windows and the sliding glass doors.

  And he was too quiet. That wasn't like you, either.

  You make it sound like you'll never see him again.

  It seems to me if you and Laura split up, the boy goes back to wherever it is he came from. Don't you think so?

  I don't know.

  Well, I can see you're all broken up by the possibility, Russell said, and he turned toward him with a smirk on his face. Of course, it's probably no big deal to the kid, either. Right? He's probably used to being dumped.

  You are one prize asshole when you drink, do you know that? Do us both a favor and don't finish that one, okay?

  Russell looked at the beer, saw it was still two-thirds full, and chugged what was left in a couple of seconds. I got some news for you, he said when he was done, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his flannel shirt.

  I can't wait.

  Tomorrow's not really my day off.

  Don't tell me you were--

  Nope. I quit.

  Quit.

  Well, fired, too, maybe. I guess you could say it was a mutual thing. The dispatcher claimed I had beer on my breath yesterday when I brought in my truck--

  You were drinking while you were driving? Are you crazy?

  I had one beer when I was done with the route.

  Yeah, right.

  Truly.

  This the first time they ever catch you drinking?

  They didn't catch me doing anything.

  This the first time they ever accuse you of drinking?

  Nah. They've been all over me for a couple months now.

  Second time? Third?

  He wandered back into the kitchen and left the empty bottle in the sink. I think I will have another one, thank you very much.

  This the second time they nail you? he called into the other room, raising his voice a notch to be heard.

  Third. But who's counting?

  Apparently they are, Terry said when his brother returned to the living room. Mom know?

  Nope.

  Nicole?

  Yup.

  What does she think?

  Russell took a long swallow and then puffed out his cheeks. Sometimes, Terry thought, his brother looked like the vast majority of people he busted: unkempt, uncivil, and just a little bit dangerous. I don't care what she thinks, he said.

  She dump you?

  He grinned again. What was it you said to me a couple minutes ago? Let's see: There's more to it than you know. I like that, I like it a lot. So let's try it out: Terry, there's more to it than you know. How's it feel?

  I didn't mean to be evasive. I just didn't want to talk about it.

  Well, neither do I, Russell said, and he sat down across from him at the table.

  You keep this up, and someday you're going to run out of places to work in Saint Johnsbury, he told him. He thought the job with the bottler was his brother's third in five years.

  Then maybe I'll move here. Join you in this fine corner of the state. It's warmer. A little less snow. And I'd get to be near you, he said, his voice dripping with feigned sweetness. Maybe I'll even hang around here for a couple of days. Spend some quality time with you.

 
; Terry quickly reminded himself that his brother wasn't a bad sort when he was sober: a little irritating and a tad insecure, but he certainly wasn't malevolent. It was only when he started to drink that he went from slightly annoying to completely detestable. Consequently, he figured the best thing he could do right now would be to get some real food into him and keep him from getting any more drunk than he already was. The last thing he wanted was for his brother to decide to dig in his heels and stay here any longer than necessary--especially with Phoebe arriving tomorrow night.

  I have some pork chops and barbecue sauce in the refrigerator, and there's some Minute Rice in the cabinet, he said, consciously ignoring his brother's last remark. Why don't we make ourselves some dinner? You can set the table.

  I can, can I?

  You can if you want to eat, he said, and he stood. Russell took a long swallow of his beer and then pushed himself to his feet, too. He wondered if he should call Nicole the moment Russell passed out, and insist that she reconcile with his brother: He wouldn't, but that didn't stop him from wishing there was a way he could be sure that Russell would get lost in the morning.

  IN THE NIGHT he dreamt of Laura, and he was with her in Cornish and they were happy. When he awoke he was briefly disoriented, unsure where he was and unaware that his children--his daughters--were dead. Then he saw the placement of the windows in the room and he remembered, his contentment withered, and he wanted nothing more than to hold Laura and be held by her.

  In the living room he heard Russell snoring and he shuddered. He wished he were home; he wished he were better with Alfred; he wished the roots that linked him to Phoebe Danvers were slender, their flowers incapable of efflorescence.

  In the morning, he presumed, he would feel better. But he wasn't sure, and he pressed his face into his pillow and tried to find again that dream in his sleep where he was happy and his life wasn't riddled by tragedy and mistake.

  "He had a brother in Philadelphia who was a carpenter. We didn't have much money, but we decided someday we would use what we had and go east."

  VERONICA ROWE (FORMERLY POPPING TREES),

  WPA INTERVIEW,

  MARCH 1938

  *

  Laura

  At breakfast Alfred surprised her. Out of the blue the boy said, I'll probably never know who my dad was, but I think I've found my great-great-great-grandfather.

  She lifted her eyes from her tea to try to read the child's face. See if this was a setup for a punch line of some sort. She thought Alfred looked content, but there was nothing in his countenance to suggest that this was a joke.

  Go on, she said.

  I mean, it's probably not true. But it could be.

  And that is?

  Sergeant George Rowe. I think we could be related.

  She nodded. Is this a hunch or something more? she asked. She understood why he might want to believe he was descended from the cavalry soldiers he'd grown interested in, but she didn't see any link other than the fact that he was black. Moreover, she wondered if this notion might be a harbinger of a more profound wish: the desire to know who his father was, and where his mother was now.

  A little of both, he answered. It hit me the other day at the riding ring when Heather said I must have riding in my blood. Well, Sergeant Rowe was a great rider, too, and after he left the Army, he moved to Philadelphia. He had a brother there. He married a Comanche woman, and they settled down in the very same city where my mom was born ninety years later.

  I guess it's possible, she said, though she knew the odds were infinitesimal.

  I know it sounds crazy when I say it out loud. But when I keep it to myself, it seems like it's true.

  The world is filled with crazy things that are true, she said. Trust me, I know. Then she rested her hand on top of his, tenderly rubbing her thumb against the soft spot between his own thumb and forefinger, and looked him squarely in the eyes and asked, Do you want us to try and track down your mother? See how she's doing? Maybe even see if we can discover who your father was? My feelings won't be hurt if you want us to make an effort. It might be fun.

  He seemed to mull the idea over for a moment, before shaking his head. Maybe when I'm older, he answered, gazing down at their fingers, but not now. Right now...

  Go on.

  I want to stay here.

  Oh, Alfred, of course, she said reflexively, surprised and then moved--she felt a small, rapturous swell building inside her--by the honesty and affection in his short answer. I didn't mean I would ever want you to leave.

  I like it here, he went on as if she hadn't spoken, and I don't need to know anything else.

  She slid her chair beside his and pulled his head to her chest. She squeezed him against her and smiled, and buried her face in the sweet smell of the shampoo that lingered in his hair.

  HER MOTHER STILL wrote her letters. They talked on the phone and on rare occasions her mother would send her an e-mail from the computer her father kept in his study, but her mother's favorite way of communicating with her was to write long, handwritten letters every second or third week. Sometimes it was on hotel stationery and sometimes it began on one of the Humane Society note cards she received as thanks for the contributions that she, too, made to the organization, before continuing on white copy paper that she took from her husband's computer printer. The letters were usually long and chatty, and filled with misspellings--an indication of neither her mother's intelligence nor her education, but merely of her entitled disregard for convention. People (especially her daughter) knew what she meant, and she needn't waste time, therefore, looking up words in the dictionary.

  Laura had no idea how many correspondents actually wrote back to her mother--or how often--but she didn't believe there were many. She imagined her mother's friends most likely responded by telephone, and in some cases via e-mail, which her father would then print out and deliver like a letter.

  In the mail today was one of those notes from her mother, and Laura discovered it in the mailbox when she came home from the animal shelter at almost the same moment that she saw Alfred emerge from the Heberts' paddock on Mesa. She'd had an afternoon meeting today, and so Paul had met the boy at the bus stop. Now as she stood beside her car with her mail in her hands, Alfred rode across the street to her, the horse's hooves rhythmic and loud on the pavement, and she noticed that the animal's eyes were watching the exhaust from her idling car.

  Howdy, Alfred said to her, his common greeting this week when he was atop the big animal. His attempt at a cowpoke's accent sounded more Southern than Western, but the very notion that he would offer such a playful acknowledgment thrilled her, and she blew a kiss up to him with her fingers.

  How was school? she asked.

  Okay.

  Only okay?

  She could see the shoulders of his parka move ever so slightly. She had scheduled a meeting for the next day with his teacher, hoping that in person she could convince the woman to do what she had failed to make her do over the phone: move Alfred from the math group that was bogged down in squared numbers and factors into the more advanced one that was exploring elementary geometry. She was concerned now that she'd pushed too hard on the phone, however, and so it was possible that the woman had been needlessly defensive around Alfred today--perhaps even hostile.

  Maybe better than okay. We had a video about Mount Everest. I liked that.

  How was Ms. Logan?

  Okay. Her crabby self to some kids, but not to me.

  And math?

  Boring.

  Well, that's what Ms. Logan and I will talk about tomorrow. Have you eaten?

  Uh-huh. Paul and me--

  Paul and I.

  Paul and I had this peanut butter glop Emily made.

  I'm sure it wasn't glop.

  No, it was glop. That's what it was called. She said it was mostly peanut butter and cream cheese and Cool Whip. They got the recipe from some diner in Oklahoma.

  It actually sounds pretty tasty.

  It wa
s kind of like pudding, but you knew it was bad for you.

  She saw Paul emerging from the barn with a toolbox and a couple of two-by-fours. What's Paul working on?

  The outdoor manger. It's a little low.

  Mesa's complaining, is she?

  She doesn't complain about anything, he said, and he stroked the animal along her shoulder.

  You have much homework tonight?

  Enough. I'll be in in about an hour, I guess. Paul doesn't think it will take long. That okay?

  That's fine. I'll go start dinner, she said, and she watched the boy almost effortlessly back the horse up a couple of feet, and then turn her around and ride across the road to the Heberts'. She climbed back into her car and tossed the pile of mail onto the passenger seat beside her, and noticed for the first time that in addition to catalogs and bills and a letter from her mother, there was a piece of correspondence from the SRS office in Middlebury. She knew instantly it would be from Louise, and she slit open the envelope with her fingernail to read it that moment.

  It was brief and to the point. It was almost time to schedule a case review, and she saw no reason to wait until the end of February--when Alfred would have been with them for a full six months. She wanted to know if there was a day that might work for her in the coming weeks.

  Laura told herself there was nothing alarming or threatening about the letter, and she shouldn't read anything into it. She'd known this was coming since Alfred had come into their lives the Sunday of Labor Day weekend.

  Quickly she slid the SRS letter into her tote bag and then opened the note from her mother as well. She'd planned on reading it once she was inside and had taken her coat off, but she decided she would get it over with now, too. This way she could put the whole stack of mail in the den and not have to think about it until later, when dinner was made and cleaned up, and Alfred had bathed and gone to bed.

  The letter was short and not particularly newsy. Normally her mother would be sure to include her opinions on whatever ballet or show she'd seen most recently in Boston, and a reference to which books she'd just read. She'd have an observation about her father's health (which, in her mother's mind, was always fine, and the aches and pains that came with his age a mere sign of male hypochondria), and she might offer an anecdote she'd heard at a garden club meeting (and why, it seemed to her, Cornish, Vermont, could use such a club). Not this time. She got right to the point: She hadn't stopped thinking about her daughter and son-in-law's separation since Laura had called, and she was very sad for everyone involved--even the boy, who, both she and her father presumed, would now have to be placed in another foster home. Still, she held out hope for a reconciliation. If that wasn't meant to be, however, and her daughter needed to start fresh someplace new, she could always come home. In the meantime, Laura should let them know if she needed money--and, if so, how much. They would, of course, give her whatever she needed to get back on her feet, because they couldn't bear to think of her alone and worried about how she was going to make ends meet.