Souvenir

by James R Benn

  “Pull back!” he yelled to Big Ned.

  Tuck and Shorty were blasting away at the machine-gun, each on their third clip. Bullets made a thrumming sound around them, steel wasps buzzing their ears. Snow flew up in clumps and pine bark rained on their heads. Miller fired a few shots, then dove behind a tree when the return fire grew ferocious.

  “Pull back,” said Miller, first to himself. It was like an incantation, magic words that would save his life. “Pull back!”

  “Not you, shithead!” Tuck yelled, “that’s for Big Ned.”

  “No, pull back, the lieutenant ordered it!” Miller ran.

  After Big Ned saw the first smoke grenade hit the ground in front of him, he rammed a fresh clip into the BAR and figured he’d wait until the second one, then go. More smoke, more cover, good plan. He fired, amazed at still being alive, wondering how many of those fuckers they had over there.

  The second smoke grenade hit, bouncing and rolling as smoke spewed out. He let the BAR hang from his neck and ran over to Little Ned, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up the slope into the tree line, not even thinking about the path. A trail of glistening red marked their leaving.

  They finally grouped together about five hundred yards back, deep in the darkening woods. They had found Miller, sitting on a tree stump, shivering. They ignored him. Jake was bandaging Red’s arm, Tuck was pulling wood splinters out of Shorty’s hand where a bullet had shattered his M1.

  Clay watched their rear. Big Ned had dragged Little Ned through the woods, and was frantically looking for branches to make a litter.

  “I ain’t leaving him here,” said Big Ned, to himself as much as the others.

  “He’s dead, buddy,” said Red, as if that settled everything.

  “I know he’s dead, I ain’t leaving him here. You guys go on if you want.”

  It wasn’t easy. They found pine branches to make a sled, instead of a litter. Clay had a length of rope and cut it into pieces to tie the branches together. Little Ned was shot up bad, and if it wasn’t for his clothing and web belt cinched tight, it would have been a lot harder. Miller looked away for most of it, then threw up. When they were done, Big Ned handed him the rope.

  “You pull.”

  “I can’t—”

  Red looked away as three M1s rose up, pointing at Miller’s gut and motioning him to move. He took the rope.

  “Tuck, take point,” said Red.

  They set off, trudging through the woods, hoping to get back to their lines before dark. Clay took the rear, and Jake followed Big Ned behind Little Ned. After an hour, Jake heard Big Ned talking to himself, whispering, the words rising and falling on currents of quiet anger. Straining to hear, he realized Big Ned wasn’t talking to himself, he was talking to Little Ned.

  Shit…what am I supposed to do…you stupid fuck…put up with you for five long months and what do I get? What a fucking stupid thing...almost got me killed too. I always told you…you crawled like a fucking recruit. Now I’m going to have some asshole like Miller here carry ammo for me and he’ll finish the job…point me out to some Kraut sniper…I’m fucking dead…thanks for nothing, shithead.

  The cursing continued into the night, after they made it through their lines. Clay and Jake brought Red to the Aid Station. Big Ned made Miller drag Little Ned back to Company HQ so Graves Registration could get him in the morning. Big Ned covered him with a tarp, pulled up an ammo crate, sat down and lit a cigarette. It started to snow. As the whiteness graced them both he started all over again.

  You fucking bastard.

  Chapter Two

  1964

  The wood frame of the screen door was warped, so as the delivery guy knocked, it clattered back and forth against the opening, twice as loud as it needed to be. The rattling hook added a metallic urgency as the knock came a second time.

  “Clay Brock?”

  “Hold your horses, I’m trying to open up in here.”

  Walking through the storeroom and unlatching the hook, his forehead furrowed in irritation. He opened the door for the delivery guy to wheel in his hand truck, top-heavy and wobbly, loaded with cases of cigarettes. Cartons of Raleighs, Luckies, Kools, Winstons, Chesterfields, and Old Golds. The delivery guy let the hand truck go and it fell forward with a clank as it hit the old wooden floorboards. The cases tottered like they might topple over, finally settling down, towering over the delivery guy as he watched them for signs of collapse. He pulled a pen from the front pocket of his blue jacket. Tri-State Brands was embroidered over the pocket, same thing on his cap.

  “You Clay Brock?” he asked again, handing over the pen and a clipboard.

  “That’s what it says over the door. Clayton Brock, Permitee. Why are you so late? Where’s Petey?”

  “Dunno. Heard he had an accident. I’m new, don’t know the route too well.”

  He said all this while working a hunk of chewing gum, snapping it with every other bite, mouth wide open, displaying the gnawed white ball as it rolled around on his tongue. He spoke with disinterest, nonchalant about Petey, the late delivery, everything but his wad of gum.

  “Well, get to know it,” Clay said, signing and thrusting the clipboard back at him. “I needed to make my run in the morning to be back here for the lunch crowd. Now I’m screwed. What’s your name, anyway?”

  The delivery guy didn’t take the clipboard right away. He snapped, waited a beat, then took it, grabbing it forcefully, the sudden movement sharp in the small room. He clipped the pen, slowly and carefully, in his jacket pocket. He was young, twenty, maybe a couple of years older. Thin, wiry with some muscles, it was hard to tell with the jacket and work shirt. Thick dark hair showed beneath the baseball cap with the red Tri-State logo. A good looking Italian kid who thought a whole lot of himself. Not quite arrogant, but wishing for arrogance, making do with surly and bored for now.

  “Al” he said. “You got something else for me?”

  “Yeah, hang on.” Walking to his desk, Clay opened a bottom drawer, and took out a large, thick, worn manila envelope. He gave it to Al. Al took it from the bottom, held it in the palm of his hand as if weighing it. He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head, as if giving Clay his approval, letting him know he was a little impressed.

  “So who’s Jake?” Al asked.

  “Just the name of the place when I bought it. No sense paying for a new sign when everyone knows it as Jake’s Tavern.”

  “Yeah, makes sense.” Again, the appraising nod. “See you later.” Al turned and walked out, throwing open the screen door and letting it slam back and bounce noisily on his hand truck as he pulled it out behind him. Clay watched him unlock the back of the delivery truck, put the hand cart away, then lock up tight. He started up the truck, revved the engine, and backed down the driveway from the small parking area at the rear of the tavern. Barely room enough for Clay and Brick, who closed up most evenings, and for Cheryl, who worked lunches until her kids got out of school.

  If you went to Jake’s you parked on the street, or walked from your place. It was a neighborhood joint, on Mill Street, between the train tracks and Broad Street, the main road that cut across the top of the hill overlooking Meriden. Broad Street went places, to Wallingford or Middletown, aloof from the rest of the city with its churches, big houses and the tall World War One monument that stood at the middle of the intersection, doughboy at attention night and day. Down from Broad Street ran East Main, the library and city hall a few blocks away from Jake’s Tavern on Mill Street, a cramped, bent little street that didn’t even last a quarter mile before it ran out of room at the edge of the train tracks. Jake’s anchored the street on the north end. A few stores, big houses long ago subdivided into apartments, and narrow duplexes tumbled down the hill toward the train tracks. The closer you got, the dingier and grimier the homes became, and the walk up to Jake’s was a better way to spend the evening than listening to the rumble of freight cars. For Connecticut, Meriden was a big town or a very small city, depending on your pe
rspective. They called it the Silver City, for something not done here in decades, a richness long gone before Clay had stepped off the train, not a ten-minute walk from where he was right now.

  Clay locked the door, and sat down heavily on the ancient wooden banker’s chair by his desk. This really screwed him up. He gazed at the cases of cigarettes, knowing he should jump up and get started, but instead he sat and stared at them. He could do part of his route now, come back for the lunch crowd, then back out again and finish up. It meant a late night here, paying bills, checking the inventory, making orders. Keeping the place afloat.

  He laughed, almost out loud. The storeroom looked like a closet no one had cleaned out in a generation. His desk was an old roll top so warped and beat that it was permanently stuck in mid-roll. It looked like a mouth disgorging carbon paper, receipts, mail, tax forms, and other paperwork too depressing to think about. Empty kegs were stacked at the far end of the room, and dusty wooden shelves held cardboard boxes of glasses, cleaning supplies, snacks, and unknown things on the top shelf, their contents now long forgotten. Yeah, keep all this afloat. Who the hell would notice if it sank, remember it had even been here?

  Jake’s Tavern. He had first seen it sometime after he started at New Departure, a ball bearing plant just a few blocks up on Pratt Street. He’d kept to himself mostly, no close friends at the plant, so it was a while before anyone invited him along for a beer after work. Then Jimmy Doyle did, and with a few of his buddies they walked down to Mill Street. An easy walk after a hard day on the factory floor, downhill, lunch pails swinging, their time their own. When they turned the corner, Clay knew he wouldn’t be getting a gold watch one day from New Departure. The sign said two things. Jake’s Tavern, and For Sale.

  He hadn’t blown his back pay when he got out of the army, like a lot of guys. He got a job the first day he was in town, and opened a bank account on the second, so the down payment wasn’t a problem. He always told the story about the sign like it was a smart business move, but he knew. He knew in a place deep inside him, almost lost to him, that this was Jake’s Tavern, and that sign was never coming down.

  He got up, pushing back on the chair so it moved on its wheels, hitting the wall behind him with a clatter. Little things like getting out of a chair were starting not to be hard, exactly, but not easy, either. Clay looked down at himself and wondered when he had gotten thicker, lower to the ground. He shook his head as he dialed the telephone on his desk and got Cheryl at home. He asked her to come in early and finish opening up for him. He hated calling her, since he knew she didn’t want to come in and would be sure to let him know what a burden it was. Since she made her real money in tips, and tipping customers were rare before lunch, all it meant to her was a lot of extra work for a little dough.

  “Clay, can’t you get someone else? I ain’t ready yet.”

  “C’mon, Cheryl, you know there isn’t anyone else. I’m real backed up here. Please?”

  He could hear the TV on in the background as the announcer intoned, “The Edge…of Night”. He knew he was in trouble. Cheryl loved her soaps, and if she started watching this one, he’d never get her in.

  “There’s a five-spot in it for you. I’ll leave it on the bar.”

  “Okay, Clay. I’ll be right over.” Cheryl knew the difference between business and pleasure. Pleasure didn’t pay the bills. It was one of the things Clay admired about her. He put down the phone and walked into the barroom, slapped a five-dollar bill on the bar and set an ashtray on top of it.

  Loading his station wagon, Clay felt something nag at his mind. Petey? Wonder if he was okay or not. Petey was a regular guy, an okay guy, someone you could shoot the breeze with for a while, and then he was gone, until the next time. Dependable, like a good alarm clock. But this Al character. A punk. The more Clay thought about him holding the envelope and looking at him, the less he liked it. Something wasn’t quite right with that one.

  He sorted the cartons into the order he needed, then shut the rear door. He checked the lock on the back door, got in the car and turned the key. It turned, turned, trying to start. He switched off. Easy, don’t flood it. It’s only a ‘58, for chrissakes, it shouldn’t be conking out this way. Clay slammed his hand against the steering wheel, feeling himself bounce on the bench seat, anger vibrating his body. He blew out air from his lungs and shook his head, like a swimmer breaking the surface of the water. He wanted to wrench the key forward and slam his foot on the gas, will the damn thing to start.

  He didn’t. He smoothed his hair, arched his head back, twisted his neck so it cracked. He reached up to the steering wheel, gently this time, to coax the car into starting. The Chevy Belair wagon was a good car for his job, lots of room for cigarettes and his tools. It was two-toned blue, and he kept it washed and waxed, nice and clean, the way he liked it. He ran his second business out of it, so it had to look good. It was his calling card.

  He turned the key again, and the engine started right away, no hesitation. One of life’s little pleasures, a car starting up when you need it to. The kind of thing you take for granted until it doesn’t happen. He backed down the narrow driveway, pulled out and headed for his first stop. City Hall, a couple of blocks away. He didn’t worry about parking tickets. He kept a delivery sign on his visor, which he always turned down when he double-parked. Besides, when you kept folks supplied with smokes, they generally cut you some slack. It wasn’t like you were coming to read their meters or bother them somehow. You made sure that they had a good supply of their favorite butts. All they had to do was dig down into the loose change, drop a few coins in, pull out the knob under their brand, and listen for the satisfying clump as the pack dropped down, and there they were, ready for another day, maybe more, maybe less.

  Clay parked on a side street by City Hall. Plenty of spaces today. He picked one in the sun. It was a chilly autumn day, and it felt good to sit in the car for a minute and feel the warmth. As he relaxed, that vague unease crept back into his thoughts. Something wasn’t right. It stayed out at the far edge of his waking mind, the kind of warning that you usually didn’t recognize until it was too late. Clay remembered that feeling, remembered cultivating it, listening for it even when it wasn’t there. A long time ago, listening to that little voice meant life or death. Be careful. Watch that cellar window. Stay behind that tree. The signs that were too slight to be seen fully, the noises that were out there, beyond his range of hearing, gathering together and nagging at the border of his mind, calling out to him in a faint, tiny, faraway voice. Listen to me, listen to me. He had been careful, he had listened. He had watched the barn door, seen the snout of that Mauser. He did stay behind that tree, he could still feel the bark against his cheek, the thud of bullets.

  Jesus fucking Christ on the cross! Clay opened his eyes, found his hands gripping the steering wheel, white around the knuckles. He let his hands relax, dropping them to his lap and resisting the desire to bring them up to his face and bury it in them. Breathe. Look around, it’s Meriden, not anywhere else. He pulled the keys out of the ignition, stuffed them in his jacket pocket. He held out his right hand. It shook a little. Too much coffee, maybe.

  He got out, opened the rear door and grabbed the first box, arranged with an assortment of brands, extra Raleighs and Luckies. The Police Department was on the lower level, heavy smokers among that bunch. He crossed the street, whistling softly, a tune long ago forgotten but now in the forefront of his mind, pushing everything else out, demanding to be heard. He walked down a long hallway, his whistling echoing off the painted cinderblock walls and linoleum floors. The cigarette vending machine stood at the end of hall, a municipal worker bending down to grab his pack. He gave Clay a wave. Glad to see ya.

  Clay set down the box, took out his keys and opened the front of the machine, revealing rows for each brand, Camels already sold out. He broke open a carton, and dropped a handful of them down the slot.

  “Aw shit,” he said out loud, surprising himself. He looked around,
feeling foolish and guilty. They had done it again. This carton had Virginia tax stamps, not Connecticut. No accident there, Virginia had the lowest cigarette tax in the country. A big distributor could shave off a bundle in taxes by bringing a truckload up from the south. He’d bet some of the cartons had no tax stamp at all.

  Tri-State my ass. Not unless it was Virginia, North Carolina and Connecticut. There was nothing left to do, nothing he could do. He had hours of work to go, and he couldn’t worry about tax regulations. He filled every brand, not looking at the stacks of packs as he slid them down each row. If anyone said anything, he’d plead ignorance. Let ‘em talk to Al. He locked the machine and squatted to cover the single packs at the bottom of the box with empty cartons.

  “What’s new, Clay?”

  The voice came out of nowhere as Clay was starting to stand up with the cardboard box. A sharp jolt went through him like he had touched a frayed electrical cord. Dropping the box he turned, jerking his hands up to protect himself, or fight, or plead, he didn’t know which. He saw a uniform, and his eyes widened, a gasp escaping his lips, his hands nearly formed around the shape of a weapon he hadn’t held in almost twenty years. All in a second, a slowed-down second in which the blur of the uniform resolved into blue and the smile on the face peered out from the veil of panic that Clay’s brain had sent rushing through him.

  “Jesus, Bob, don’t sneak up on me like that, willya?” Clay dropped his hands, then brought one up to his heart. He smiled, willing the sweat to soak into his skin before it streamed down his temple. Make a joke. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Cripes, Clay, you look like you saw a ghost. You okay?” Bob put his hand on Clay’s shoulder, as if to steady him, like he might topple over any second. Was he swaying a little, or was that the room moving? Bob looked him in the eye, gave him the kind of look a cop couldn’t help giving. Penetrating, studying him.

  “Yeah, yeah, you just startled the hell out of me, that’s all, and then I got up too fast. I’m okay.” Clay gave a little embarrassed laugh, shook his head. I’m such a klutz.