by Glen Carter
Rutter stayed inside the vehicle, which he usually did, working out the coordinates and such. Back home, growing up, Rutter could count his friends on a hand with amputated fingers. Doody was one of them, mostly out of pity. Rutter’s old man was a diesel mechanic and Billy was his helper, fetching tools and the like, even though he couldn’t tell a strap wrench from a spatula.
* * * * *
“Got laid off,” he said one day. “I got downsized.”
Kallum knew Billy’s dad was booked two weeks out. An eleven-year-old, fired by his own father. “Shit happens, Billy.”
“I guess.”
He couldn’t shake the kid that summer. Always five knocks at the door. Shave and a haircut. Always, just in time for breakfast, which Kallum guessed the kid never got at home.
“More pancakes, Billy?”
“Another stack, Mrs. Doody. Please and thank you.”
He wasn’t a bad kid, and he was really smart, which Kallum didn’t mind. Maybe too smart for the big dumb bullies of Harbour Rock. Definitely too small, since they were always at him.
“What happened to your eye, Billy?”
“Gotta run faster, Mrs. Doody.”
“You be sure to do that.”
One morning after breakfast. Hanging on the porch. Billy pulled out a pocket knife. “A blue shark is beached up at Sibley’s Cove. Let’s go cut it open. See what’s inside.”
“Maybe old Crocker’s missing dog,” Kallum snickered.
Twenty minutes later, at Sibley’s Cove, they found it. Bigger than them. On the beach just beyond reach of a lazy lop. Without a word, Billy went to work. He jabbed the knife, releasing a whoosh of air. Stuck it again and again, right to the hilt. Sliced the thing into ribbons while pointing out the liver and stomach and all kinds of gooey stuff. A few minutes into it, he tugged out a pink blob.
“Yuck,” Kallum said. “What is it?”
Billy tossed the sack in the water with a plop. “A baby.”
“Shit, Billy.”
“Dead’s dead,” said Billy. “Mom’s sister had a kid. Stillborned. Buried the little retard in a shoebox in the backyard.”
Kallum swallowed something sliding up his throat.
“Sharks are the most efficient predators in the ocean,” Billy recited, wide-eyed. “God made ’em for killing. They’re my favourite.”
“Didn’t make this one too good.”
“Nope. Wanna eat a hunk? The Japs love it.”
Beach rocks hot on his bare knees, a rotten smell drifted to Kallum’s nostrils. “You first.”
Billy slid the sharp little knife across flesh, and a sliver fell away. He popped it into his mouth, chewing like it was candy. “Still fresh,” he said, smacking his lips. “Your turn.”
With a groan, Kallum puked a mash of pancakes and blueberry sauce on his sneakers.
“Guess not,” Billy laughed.
The wadi a few miles back had no eviscerated shark or rocky beach. Just a small tepid pool and a few date palms. But the recollection of that childhood morning with Billy and his knife made First Lieutenant Kallum Doody queasy again. So did being parked like they were. Doody wouldn’t feel right until the Humvee was moving. He grabbed a pair of binos and scanned the horizon. The sun cast long shadows on a barren landscape. Everything got a long moment’s look. “Finish up, lads,” he said edgily.
“You boys be careful not to pee on yourselves.” Chongo laughed on a lungful of tobacco smoke. “It’ll be a while before you get to change your panties.”
“Fuck you.” Morgan turned a dark yellow stream toward the big Chicano.
Oakley did the same. The two of them laughing like a couple of kids. “You outgunned now, motherfucker,” Oakley grunted.
Chongo kicked dirt. “Outgunned my ass.”
They were a tight crew. Bunked together, shared lies, and generally watched each other’s six o’clock. Everyone hated the food, which made Doody long for his mom’s cooking. The meaty stews and her famous pan-fried cod. Morgan told him he was all skin and skull and that he should kill a sheep or something and fucking eat, because he was starting to look like a ragged-ass hodgie. Kallum didn’t like that kind of talk. They weren’t here to disrespect people. They’d do what they came for and leave. Every generation owed its share. He was just paying his. Sarah understood. His mother was another matter. Her face said it all when he told her he was going. Harbour Rock didn’t have many sons clambering to get to Bush’s war. Kallum Doody and Billy Rutter were the only two, and when they said goodbye, they’d had to shake a hundred hands before boarding the Greyhound. That morning, his buddies Abe and Sully were like fenceposts in a field of storm-blown wheat. They’d watch over things while he was gone. The schooner still needed a load of work. That was Abe’s department. Both promised to keep an eye on Sarah. They stepped up to him. One before the other. Hard faces. Abe jerked Kallum into a rough hug. “Watch your back.”
It was a strange thing to say. Enemies came at you head-on. Friends normally had your back. Sully lowered his face in the general direction of Kallum’s feet, said something under his breath, and slapped him on the shoulder.
Billy watched it all but got only nods from the two men. And the others.
Kallum’s mother and father were next. Three heads together, his mom started to say something, but what more could she say? His father was stoic. “Drag Saddam’s ass outta there, you’ll wear that badge of honour the rest of your days. Wish I was going with you.”
“Love ya, old man,” Kallum had said, watching the awkwardness in his father’s face.
Pleman nodded, stiff as a wharf post.
Then there was Sarah. They hadn’t slept all night. He’d held her tight after making love. The moonlight drenched them as they lay naked on the bed while she quietly sang.
“Soldier boy, oh, my little soldier boy, I’ll be true to you.”
“What’s that, babe?”
“You were my first love, and you’ll be my last love.”
Sarah had laughed. “Wherever you go, my heart will follow. It’s our song now. Soldier boy.”
“I’ll sing it to the guys in the shower.”
“Not a good idea.”
She had turned serious then, as a cloud draped the moon, casting them into blackness. She found his face and placed warm lips on his. “It’s you and me, Kallum. Don’t be a hero. Promise.”
The statement hung there. She was right. Two souls, one destiny. Kallum decided then and there to be the best Marine there was. A bulletproof warrior. He owed that to Sarah, to his parents, but mostly to her.
“No hero. I promise.”
The next morning at the bus, someone snapped a picture of the two of them, Kallum’s jaw clenched tight while she quietly soaked his shirt. There was an ahhh from the crowd. The mayor started to say something but clammed up when his wife shot him a look.
Then they were gone.
Billy didn’t speak as the bus rolled away. He folded his arms and pressed his forehead against the window and steamed up the glass.
“Where were your folks?”
“Dad’s on a carb job,” Billy replied flatly. “Mom had a hard night.”
“Shit happens.”
“Yeah.” Billy scowled. “Shit happens.”
* * * * *
Rutter was a charity case, and for a while Kallum did what he could for the guy. Especially with women. Now and then, when there was a spare female in Kallum’s stable, he’d do what buddies did. “I think the redhead likes you, Billy Boy.”
“She’s from the gulch. I can do better. Don’t call me Billy Boy.”
Kallum eventually tired of it. He had his own things going. They pulled apart, then. Two moons sucked into separate orbits.
A couple of years later, one August morning. His mot
her fussing over the stove. Kallum’s father was reading the paper. There was a knock at the door. It was Billy, with a fistful of pamphlets and a cheesy smile. Crisp white shirt and a clip-on tie. Kallum gave him the once-over, expecting to see a vacuum cleaner or encyclopedias. He said, “Don’t know what you’re selling, but if you’re hungry, you’re right on time.”
Kallum’s father pulled out a chair, and like old times, his mom reached for another plate.
“Thanks, Mrs. Doody, but haven’t got time.”
Kallum looked past Rutter to a guy lazing at the tailgate of a pickup. Rutter held up one of the pamphlets. A man smiled back at him through the gloss. He had a name Kallum didn’t recognize and a three-word slogan that fit perfectly beneath his square jaw. Rutter started his spiel. Kallum folded his arms and smiled so wide he thought his face would split.
It took five minutes for Rutter to explain why his man was such a great guy. When he was done: “Can we count on your support?”
“We?”
Rutter looked at him with earnest. “I’m chairman of the sign committee. Can we put one on your lawn?”
Kallum looked at his dad.
“Your man was the best damn school board trustee we ever had,” his father said. “Give me the biggest you got, William. And Bush, too, if you got one. Read my lips.”
They all laughed, then the guy at the truck grabbed a sledgehammer and went to work.
“Sure you won’t stay for a bite?” Kallum genuinely wanted to catch up with his old friend.
“Naw. I’ve got a hundred houses to get to.” Rutter nodded vaguely up the street. “That old bastard O’Regan will keep me on his porch half the morning.”
“He might need some convincing.”
“Friggin’ right,” Rutter chuckled. “The last sign in his front yard had Kennedy and Johnson’s mugs on it.” He grabbed a sign and held it while his cohort pounded it into the ground. Slapping sawdust, he said, “Now that we’ve turned your home into a stronghold of Republican support, we can always use another pair of hands.”
Kallum admired Rutter’s enthusiasm but laughed it off. “Do I look like the dude you want to see standing on your doorstep?”
“Absolutely. Come on, you won’t regret it.”
Rutter was by all appearances really into it. Kallum, on the other hand, was up to his neck in renovation hell. Mystic Blue was sucking him dry. Maybe a diversion wasn’t a bad idea. The blood sport of politics had kept his father entertained for years. Back in ’42 he’d met Richard Nixon at some restaurant in Cape Porpoise. Him and Pat vacationing up at Kennebunk Beach. “The minute I shook his hand, I knew he’d be president.” His dad always said the crook in Nixon was harder to spot.
Rutter was waiting.
Screw it. Why not? A few nights a week, drinking coffee and hanging out. How bad could it be? There’d probably be food involved, too. “I’ll think about it,” Kallum said. “But I’m not setting foot on O’Regan’s step.”
“Let me handle O’Regan.”
A couple of nights later, decision made, Kallum was out the door. The Republican campaign headquarters was located on Water Street, a quarter-mile of tourist joints and quaint little trolleys. Midway along the street, tucked between a pub and a candy shop, was the McMurdo Building, which once housed a marine equipment company. The date stamped in grey cement above the door said 1936. Large windows overlooked the sidewalk and were plastered with posters of the candidate. Kallum instinctively disliked the man, whom he’d never laid eyes on in the flesh. He pulled the handle and stepped inside. There were rows of desks covered with paper and telephones. Trash cans overflowed with pop bottles and pizza boxes. The walls were dotted with maps and charts. Groups of people huddled here and there, oblivious to anything outside their little clutches. There were several offices located on both sides of the command centre. Everyone was busy, most were on telephones. The receptionist eyed him. “You must be from the fisher’s union,” she said above the din.
“Excuse me?”
“With the campaign gift.”
She wanted money. Politicians always did. “No, ma’am,” Kallum replied.
She had square glasses on a long face. A hairstyle that might have been designed by a mathematician. A crop of jet black with pink tips. Kallum guessed she wasn’t from Harbour Rock.
“Let me guess.” She smiled. “A new recruit.” Before Kallum could respond, a clipboard appeared. She gestured toward a plastic chair. “We’ll need your information and signature at the bottom of page two. For the background check.” A pen was thrust at him.
None of this nonsense had been mentioned. Screw the background check. He was about to tell her that when a hand landed on his shoulder. “I’ll vouch for the big guy, Myrna.” It was Rutter. A big smile. The shirt and tie again.
Kallum’s eyes landed on the beauty standing next to him. He tried not to stare.
“Sarah Vanderson. Kallum Doody.”
Kallum took her hand. She had tiny, soft fingers with a grip that was unexpected. Large brown eyes. Thick dark hair draped her shoulders. Her full lips curled into a saucy grin. Kallum didn’t dare drop his eyes any lower, though he wanted to. He said something which he would never recall, but it generated a little laugh in her that he’d remember always.
Thankfully, Rutter took control of the conversation. Something about Sarah and a school in Switzerland. She was home for good now. Kallum knew of the family. The Vandersons had money. They lived in the big shack on the water that he and his father passed every time they headed out to pull traps. There was never any sign of life in the place, and Kallum had wondered whether anyone actually lived there. What in the hell was she doing with Billy Rutter?
“Sarah’s one of the phone volunteers,” Rutter said, as if reading his mind. “She just started, and we’re lucky to have her.”
Sarah smiled sweetly. “I drove by the other night and was mesmerized by the lights.”
“Like a moth,” Kallum said, wanting to kick himself for saying it.
“A big insect with wings? Nice.”
“Or a butterfly.”
She forgave him with another smile. “Just a girl looking for something to do.”
Kallum had some thoughts about that.
Rutter cleared his throat. Took the clipboard and pen from Myrna and led them to a desk at the centre of the room. “Don’t worry about the background check, just fill out the rest. They’ll need to know how to get in touch, but you’ll be spending most of your time with me on sign duty. Sarah’s working the phones, so stay out of her way.” With that, Rutter was gone.
Sarah pulled out a chair and sat. There was a stack of paper in a wire basket. She took a sheet and reached for the telephone.
Left to his own devices, Kallum pulled a chair over and sat next to her. He picked up the clipboard and squinted. How in the hell was anyone expected to fill blanks that small? His hands felt like meaty clubs.
After a minute, Sarah put the phone down. “Would you like me to do that for you?”
Kallum didn’t have to say a word.
She coaxed the pen from his fingers. “Is that Doody with a ‘y’?”
Kallum nodded. “Kallum with a ‘K.’”
“Weight?”
“A hundred ninety.”
“Height?”
“Six foot three.”
“Shirt size?”
Kallum was puzzled about that.
“You get a T-shirt with a slogan on it. It looks great when the TV crews stop by.”
“Large,” Kallum told her.
Sarah appraised him. “I would have guessed extra-large.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Boxers or briefs?”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
Sarah laughed, head back, exposing her b
eautiful throat. “Yes, I am. But for the record, I would have guessed boxers.”
“Are they my only two choices?”
“Funny.”
They finished the paperwork, and Kallum walked it over to Myrna. A steaming cup of coffee was waiting for him when he got back. He took a sip and nearly gagged.
“Sorry,” said Sarah. “Did you know the most expensive coffee in the world is made from elephant poop?”
“You don’t say.”
She summoned a know-it-all face, cute as a button. “Black Ivory Coffee, and it sells for about fifty bucks a cup.”
“You won’t find that around here. Not even a Starbucks. Cozy Corner does a good cappuccino, though.”
“Mmm.”
There was no sign of Rutter, and Kallum didn’t intend to dip his beak where he shouldn’t, but he was pretty sure she was fair game. “There’s a trawler on the way in,” Kallum said, unable to resist. “The Corner usually stays open for the crew. Can I offer you a cup of the best coffee in town?”
They wrote Rutter a note begging his forgiveness for clocking out early and promised to put in extra hours the night after. Then they walked out.
Turned out Rutter had already made his play, which to Kallum came as no surprise. Sarah said they made better friends. “No complications,” she explained. Kallum didn’t doubt it was entirely her decision. Though William was a great guy whom she admired for his dedication to something be believed in.
Kallum wanted to leap into the air and click his heels. Instead, he offered his jacket, which she took, draping it over her shoulders. They walked slowly past the little pub. Farther on, Kallum spied some fishermen lumbering into Cozy Corner. Their orders would be enormous. The cappuccinos might take a while. Kallum had a better idea, and a few minutes later at a table by the window, a glass of beer was placed in front of him and Spanish coffee for Sarah. The Black Duck was dimly lit and quiet, which he preferred at the moment. He nodded at the few tables where he knew people. They were staring, which he didn’t mind one little bit.
