by Barb Goffman
Jesus Christ. I’d killed her for nothing! Now I won’t have Christine. And I won’t have Keyser. They’ll send me to prison with no fishing or hunting or foot—
“Mama, Daddy, you there?” Jenna’s voice filled the room, tinny from the answering machine. “Oh well. I wanted to tell you that I felt real bad about being so hard-nosed about the guns, Daddy. I know how much they mean to you, and I decided putting a couple locks on the attic door would work, as long as we’re all vigilant. We’ll have to make sure the gun cabinets are locked up tight, too. Took me a bit of doing, but I’ve convinced David. So you can relax, Daddy. Everything’s going to be just fine. Hope you both have a wonderful night.”
I fell back into my La-Z-Boy with my mouth hung open. If I’d had even one gun left, I’d have shoved it in and pulled the trigger.
I thought a lot about whether to include this story in this collection. I feared that people would think I’m trying to make a statement about gun control. While I have strong views on the subject of guns (which I’m not revealing here), let me make plain that my agenda with “Have Gun—Won’t Travel” was nothing more than telling a good story. The idea for this story was sparked by a newspaper article about a man who spent $45 on photograph negatives (and other things) at a garage sale and later learned the negatives might have been from photographs taken by Ansel Adams, and possibly worth $200 million. That story got me thinking about what else could be sold at a garage sale, and this tale developed from there.
I offer my thanks to author Christina Freeburn for providing me telling details about her home of Keyser, West Virginia, where this story is set. Once I decided I wanted to have guns sold at a yard sale, I had to find a location where that could happen. And under West Virginia law, it’s possible (under certain conditions).
AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN’S AGREEMENT
West Point, New York. 1972.
“Holy mother of God! What have you done?”
I finished off the exclamation point at the end of “Beat Navy!,” which I’d just spray painted on the grass near where the bonfire would soon be lit. Next to the goat. It was warm for early December, but I could still see my breath in the moonlight as I turned and smiled at my roommate, Pete.
“Pretty cool, huh?” We were going to go down in cadet history as having pulled off the best prank ever!
Pete’s mouth hung open as he tried to form some words. What was his problem?
“How could you have done this?” Pete finally said. “You killed him. You killed Bill the Goat!”
I glanced down at the Navy mascot. His white coat, the grass beneath him, and the big N on the jacket the squids made him wear were stained red. The metallic smell of blood invaded my nose.
An hour ago I’d driven to the abandoned barn where Pete and I’d stashed the goat, alive, early this morning after driving all night back from Maryland. I painted its horns Army black and gold, then wrestled it again into the back of Pete’s station wagon to bring it to campus. It had been no small task sneaking that goat past the sentry. Killing it at the barn would have been a lot easier, but I hadn’t wanted to get blood all over Pete’s car.
“So? What are you so upset about?” I slipped the paint can into my coat pocket, pulled out Pete’s car keys, and tossed them to him. “It’s just a stupid animal. Besides it crapped all over the back of your car last night. You should be thrilled.”
Pete stared at me. “Thrilled? What the hell is wrong with you, Jack? The plan was to bring Bill back here, paint his horns, show him off, get a little glory before tomorrow’s Army-Navy game, and then return him. Alive!”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. It’s not like old Bill here hasn’t been goat-napped before. Where’s the glory in that? Now this”—I pointed a thumb at the carcass—“this will bring us fame beyond your imagination.”
“Fame? More like infamy.” Pete paced back and forth for a few moments, shaking his head. “It’s one thing to kill an animal for food, but to slit its throat for…for what? Fun? You think this is fun?”
“Yeah, I do. I never realized you were such a wuss, Pete.”
I surveyed my work. “Beat Navy!” in big gold letters. Right underneath: the stinking Navy goat. This was the coolest thing any cadet at West Point had ever done. How could Pete not get that?
I heard voices approaching and grabbed Pete’s arm. “Come on.” I yanked him behind some big bushes. “You can see for yourself how great everyone else is gonna think this is.”
A couple of cadets came from the direction of the mess hall. Probably plebes. I didn’t recognize them.
“Holy crap!” the one with the orange hair said as they spotted the goat and rushed over. “It’s the Navy mascot.”
I nudged Pete and mouthed the word, “See?”
“I’m going to be sick,” the other plebe said as they bent over the goat. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”
“No one I know,” Carrot Top said. “You’d have to pretty warped to murder a goat.”
“We better tell someone,” the other plebe said. “I hope they catch whoever did this and shoot him. Psychotic bastard.”
“Shoot him and then expel him,” Carrot Top said as they ran off.
I swallowed hard. Psychotic? Warped? How did they not get how great this was? A prank worthy of the best college in the country. In the world. I should be adored for this, not reviled.
Pete stood and started walking away, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Hey, where are you going?”
He turned to me, his eyes hard and cold. “I’m going to the commandant. I’m going to tell him how we kidnapped Bill. I’m going to tell him everything.”
I sprang up and blocked his way. “Oh no, you’re not. Go cry in your girlie journal if you want, but keep your mouth shut. You’re not going to let your guilty conscience ruin my life.”
“You may not care about the honor code, Jack, but I do. Out of my way.”
“No. Look, I thought this would be funny. A joke. How was I to know that no one would get it?” He tried to push past me. “You can’t say anything, Pete. You can’t do that to me.”
“It’s all about you, huh, Jack?”
I saw my future slipping away and thought fast. “No, it’s about you, too. You spill your guts, and I’ll do the same. I’ll tell them how it was all your idea to go to Maryland. How we took your car. How you goaded me into it. Held the goat down while you had me do your dirty work.”
“You lying son of a—”
“They’ll believe me, Pete, once they see how distraught I am. Just you watch. Besides, I’m near the top of our class. I’ll get away with a slap on the wrist, and in the spring, I’ll get my commission. But you, old buddy, you’ll be silenced and expelled. Your life destroyed. How do you think your pop the colonel will feel about that?”
I held my breath. Would he buy it?
His face paled as the wind coming off the Hudson River picked up. He bought it. Now to close the deal.
“Look, neither of us has to pay for this…mistake,” I said. “You go clean out the wagon. I’ll wash my hands and pitch my shirt and the spray paint where no one will find them. And we’ll both keep our mouths shut. No one ever has to know.”
“I’ll know.” Pete chewed on his lower lip so long, I thought I’d lost him. But then he nodded his agreement. “Don’t ever speak to me again,” he said as he turned away. “Our friendship is over.”
I rolled my eyes. Like that was a big loss.
* * * *
Great Falls, Virginia. 2010.
As I stepped into the kitchen from the garage, the mingled scents of lemon and garlic made my stomach grumble. I scanned the Tuscan-style furnishings. No pots on the stove. No plates on the table. I knew I smelled food. Where the heck was Sandra? And more important, where was dinner?
The sound of the glass door off the deck sliding open answered my first question.
“Jack, there you are,” Sandra said, coming inside.
She looked just right in that yellow dress I like—the one that made other men eat their hearts out. Their wives might be old and dried up, but simply the sight of Sandra still excited me. You’d never know she just turned fifty.
“I was afraid you forgot about dinner,” she said.
“Dinner?”
She gave me her exasperated look, eyebrows shot to the sky, head tilted to the right. “Yes, dinner with my friend Deb and her husband. I reminded you this morning.”
Christ. The book club friend. She’d been pleasant enough the couple times I’d met her, but to have to eat dinner with her and her husband? I just put in a long day at the Pentagon, and now I had to spend the evening being polite and friendly.
Sandra pulled a glass bowl from the fridge. Looked like gazpacho. “C’mon. I’ve set out some bread and tapenade, and we have a nice bottle of Pinot open.”
I suppressed a sigh and stepped outside, glad for the privacy the battalion of trees in our backyard provided, despite the leaves that sometimes dropped into the pool. At least I didn’t always have to smile at annoying neighbors.
As Sandra began introductions, Deb—even pudgier than I remembered—stood. A scarecrow of a guy rose beside her. “Jack, you remember Deb. I’d like you to meet her husband, Peter.”
No way. No freaking way. His hair was gray and receding, and lines marred his face, but he otherwise hadn’t changed much. I grinned and said hello to the wife, then stuck my hand out at Pete. “You old goat.”
He smiled tightly—the kind of expression subordinates have after I’ve chewed them out and they have to take it. “Jack.” He shook my hand fast and hard. “It’s been a long time.”
“You two know each other?” Sandra said. “That’s wonderful. From where?”
“Back at the Academy.” I settled into my favorite deck chair as Sandra handed me a goblet of wine. A hint of citrus wafted from it. “Pete and I were in the same class.”
“What a small world,” Sandra said as she eased into her usual chair. “Deb, did you know about these two?”
Deb shook her head, eyeing her husband. “No. Peter didn’t mention it when he suggested this dinner. But then he never talks about those days. In fact, he doesn’t like to talk about his time in the Army at all.”
“Yeah, I heard you washed out after Nam,” I said. “How’d your old man feel about that?”
Sandra shot me a look, but I wanted to see how far I could push Pete.
His fists clenched. “I read about your nomination in the Post last week, Jack.” Pete’s voice was steady, but I’d scored a direct hit. “Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Quite an accomplishment.”
I let a big smile cross my face. “It’s nice when the president appreciates your work.”
“I bet it is.” Pete downed some of his wine. “Whoever would’ve thought you’d get so far in your career?”
“Jack’s going to be a four-star general.” Sandra beamed.
Deb offered congratulations while Pete chewed his lower lip. He was jealous! I nearly laughed.
“Big job,” Pete said. “You’ll be chief military adviser to the president?”
You bet your ass I will. “That’s right.”
“The Senate has to approve your nomination?” Pete asked.
“Yep.”
For a split second, I could’ve swore I saw a gleam in Pete’s eyes.
“Hmm,” he said. “Hope that goes okay.”
* * * *
The following Tuesday at fifteen hundred hours I stepped into the darkness of the Old Brogue Irish Pub, a few miles from my house. The place reeked of fried food. Pete had suggested it yesterday on the phone. Said it shouldn’t be crowded. We could talk. I wasn’t sure what he wanted to talk about, but I figured I’d hear him out.
I ordered a Guinness at the bar and spotted Pete. He wasn’t hard to find. There were only three people in there, besides the bartender. Pete had parked himself with his back to the wall at a table in the far corner. The other two patrons sat at the bar—two old guys arguing about the Washington Nationals as the game blared on an overhead TV.
I set my beer on Pete’s sticky table and sat. “Charming place.”
“It’ll do.” He leaned forward. “I’ve spent most of the past week thinking about you, Jack. You said you heard I…how’d you so delicately phrase it? Oh yeah, ‘washed out after Nam.’”
I smirked.
“Well, you should know that I’ve kept some tabs on you, too,” Pete said. “I may not have stayed in the Army, but I have plenty of friends who did. And I’ve heard the rumors.”
“Rumors?”
“The whispers about you. About the chances you’ve taken. The lives you’ve risked. And lost.”
“Aah.” I waved my hand at him. If he were a gnat, I’d have swatted him away. “Is this what you wanted to talk about? Lies made up by jealous personnel?”
“I heard about Desert Storm. You got promoted on the backs of innocent civilians. Dead civilians. Women. Children.”
My face began feeling hot. Who was this turd to talk about me?
“And then Afghanistan. You managed to deflect blame in that friendly-fire incident, but folks still know what you did.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” It took all my strength to keep my voice low, when I really wanted to push the table aside and punch his face in.
“I know you’re the same guy you were at the Academy. I could tell that from one evening at your house. You make excuses. You’ll do anything for glory. You don’t care who you hurt or who you have to scare or threaten to keep your secrets.”
“You better watch yourself, Pete.”
He lifted a manila folder off the wooden chair beside him, opened it up, and scattered a slew of papers on the table. Copies of newspaper articles about that damn goat. Some from 1972, but others from throughout that decade, and the ’80s, the ’90s. Even one dated last year. Jesus.
“You’re dragging out this old tale,” I said. “Who cares? You think you can scare me with this?”
He stubbed his finger at the most-recent article. “They’ve never given up trying to figure out who killed Billy. It’s been a black eye on the Academy all these years. And it’s been the memory that’s rotted my gut. I didn’t wash out after Nam. I left. I couldn’t bear to lead a platoon anymore, not when I didn’t truly have honor. You stole that from me, Jack.”
“Stole it?” I laughed. “Either you have honor, Pete, or you don’t. Don’t blame your failings on me.”
He sipped his beer and sat quietly for a moment. “You’re right,” he said. “My biggest mistake was letting you use my father against me. My fear of disappointing him. So I kept my mouth shut, broke the code, and lost my honor. And that’s on me.”
What a pansy.
He leaned in again. “But you murdered the Navy mascot. And that, Jack, is on you. You think the Senate will confirm your nomination if they learn what you did? Not in this day and age, old pal.”
“Dream on. You have no proof.”
He laughed. “I don’t need proof. The allegations would be enough to do you in. So do yourself a favor. Withdraw your nomination and retire. Save your wife the embarrassment of learning who you really are.” He stood and threw down a ten-dollar bill. It landed on top of the articles. “You can keep those. I have my own copies. You’ve got forty-eight hours, Jack. Do the right thing, or I’ll spill my guts.”
Pete brushed past me. I leapt up, grabbed his arm, and bent toward his ear. “You talk about honor. Well, we had an agreement all those years ago to keep our little prank between ourselves. You want to have honor? Honor that.”
He shook my hand away. “That’s the difference between us, Jack. You still think it was a harmless prank. I let you build your career on that dead goat. I let a man capable of that atrocity go on to rise through the ranks of our military. There’s no honor in that.”
Seething, I watched him walk away. When he neared the door, I followed him out.
Watched him get in his silver Lexus. Memorized his license plate.
Who had forty-eight hours, Pete?
* * * *
Four weeks later, I strode through a Senate hallway in my full dress uniform, my rack of fruit salad prominent on my chest. I’d earned every one of those medals and ribbons, and I wanted the whole world to see them.
The Committee on Armed Services had begun its hearing on my nomination early this morning, and things were proceeding just fine. As they should. No tough questions. No scandal like Pete had threatened. The senators had treated me with the respect I deserved. My future—and legacy—were secured.
It was too bad about Pete. But he’d brought it on himself. That terrible accident.
The post-lunch hallway was crowded. I shook a few hands and slapped some backs as I approached the hearing room. The afternoon session would begin in a couple minutes. I headed toward my seat.
As I strode up the aisle, I slowed. Who was that sitting at the other witness table? It looked like… No, it couldn’t be.
I walked closer. Deb?
I hadn’t seen her since the funeral. Sandra said she hadn’t been doing well. That she’d been holed up in her house, going through Pete’s things. Practically clinging to them. What was she doing here? Now?
She reached out for the pitcher of water on the table. I spotted a manila folder open in front of her. Jesus, those damn goat articles! My heart sped up. That dumb bitch was going to try to ruin me.
I forced myself to take some deep breaths. I’d faced tougher adversaries before. I’d just discredit her. She didn’t know anything. She had no proof.
“If you’ll all take your seats,” the committee chairman announced, “we’re about to reconvene.”
I glared at Deb while I pulled back my chair, and I noticed a few books laid out before her. Books with blank gold covers. They looked so familiar, but from where?
The chairman called the hearing to order, and as I settled into my seat, my memory clicked: Pete’s sissy journals from West Point. The ones I’d made fun of. The ones he’d written in every day about his dreams and his failures.
