Veteran Avenue

by Mark Pepper

  John shook his head. ‘I’ll have bad dreams if I eat now.’

  ‘Bad like my father?’ she asked.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Don’t you dream about being back in combat?’

  ‘Sometimes. I suppose like any soldier who’s seen active service.’

  ‘Where were you apart from the Persian Gulf?’ she asked as she started putting the food away in an enormous fridge.

  ‘Bosnia in ninety-three as part of UNPROFOR; Rwanda in ninety-four; Bosnia again – Sarajevo – in ninety-five after the Dayton Peace Agreement as part of IFOR.’

  ‘Oh, John ...’ She shook her head. ‘Those places. You must have seen some terrible things.’

  Though it wasn’t a subject he had ever talked about, with Virginia he felt ready. What stopped him was just how much there was to come out, and how depressing it would be for a person already in deep mourning. So he shrugged it off.

  ‘There’s a lot of wickedness out there. Listen, Virginia, you must be shattered, don’t stay up on my account.’

  ‘I am tired,’ she said. ‘But if I don’t have a strong drink I won’t sleep.’

  From the sideboard she selected a bottle of Canadian Club and a can of Seven-Up, and mixed them together in two long glasses. John looked around the room as she did so. Light and airy, stools at a breakfast counter, recessed spots in the ceiling. It reminded him of kitchens in every American sitcom. Virginia handed him his drink.

  ‘To Donnie,’ he said, raising his glass.

  She smiled. ‘My big brother. May he find peace at last.’

  They both drank, then she led him through to a spacious living room. On the floor was the thickest carpet John had ever sunk his feet into. Virginia flopped into a white leather sofa and patted the cushion beside her. He sat down and scanned some photographs on a high mantelpiece above a marble fireplace. There were several of Donnie and Virginia growing up; two of an attractive brunette who John assumed to be the late Mrs Chester; a shot of Virginia with Robert De Niro; one of Donnie in uniform; but none of Dodge, not even as a civilian. John’s desire to learn about the man grew tenfold.

  ‘So, John, what are your plans? Are you visiting with anyone else?’

  ‘No, you’re it.’

  ‘Oh. When’s your return flight?’

  ‘It’s open. My visa allows up to three months. Then you’ll have to marry me or I’ll be deported and blacklisted, never to return again.’

  She gave a wry smile. ‘You’re a little blasted, aren’t you.’

  ‘That’s rude, considering you hardly know me.’

  ‘Blasted.’

  ‘Oh, that, yes.’ He grinned and took a sip of his drink.

  ‘Do you like the States?’ she asked.

  ‘What I’ve seen of it. Actually, I feel very odd being here.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve spent time in a lot of countries but I’ve never felt I wanted to stay for very long. I noticed it the moment I stepped off the plane. I felt very calm yet somehow full of energy. I’m buzzing and relaxed at the same time, but they’re not at odds. It’s weird but it feels great, like the atmosphere really suits me. There’s an odd quality to it.’

  ‘That’s the air pollution.’

  ‘You’re not taking me seriously.’

  She replaced her smile with mock chagrin. ‘I’m sorry. Go on.’

  ‘No, you’re right, it sounds stupid. I just feel ... at home.’ He thought about it, and nodded to affirm the accuracy of his assessment. He looked at her and gave another nod. ‘Mmm, that’s exactly what I feel.’

  She offered a beautiful smile. ‘That’s nice.’

  Some mutual thought made them clink glasses, and, as they drank, their eyes met and locked – long enough for John to believe a connection had been confirmed. Virginia kicked off her shoes and pulled her legs onto the sofa, curling them beneath her.

  ‘Tell me about England,’ she said, her softer tones indicating he had not been mistaken.

  ‘Not much to say. I feel nothing special for the place. I don’t even have a British passport any more. After five years Legionnaires are offered French citizenship. It seemed rude not to accept.’

  ‘So why did you join the Legion? What was the problem with your family?’

  John stopped smiling and gazed down into his glass.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘None of my business.’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ he said. ‘I was an only child. For my parents that was one too many. I am a walking abortion.’

  She gasped at his terminology.

  ‘True. I know because my father told me one night when he was too drunk not to lie. I’d asked why they’d never shown me any love. He didn’t try to deny it, just said they’d been all set to get divorced, then my mother got pregnant with me. Amazing how people can still screw when they hate each other’s guts. Anyway, they talked a lot about a termination, but she couldn’t do it. After I was born they stayed together for my sake, which was daft considering they never forgave me for it. There’s only one time I remember seeing any genuine concern from them. Nineteen seventy-eight. The infamous Oregon vacation.’

  ‘What happened?’

  John smiled queerly at the memory. ‘Maybe some other time. It’s late and it’s a long story.’

  ‘Okay. So you grew up and decided you wanted a career in the military.’

  He nodded. ‘My parents kicked up a fuss, said I was stupid, I’d only wind up getting killed in Northern Ireland. Really gave me a hard time, almost as if they cared. So I compromised. I chose a unit that doesn’t go anywhere near Northern Ireland. Eighteen years old, I traveled to the recruiting office at Fort Nugent in Paris. They sent me down to the Legion depot at Aubagne where I survived a fortnight of selection tests, then on to Castelnaudary for the toughest fifteen weeks of my life. Never seen my parents since, never wanted to. For all I know, they could be dead.’

  ‘They have no idea what happened to you?’ Virginia asked, equally shocked and fascinated.

  ‘No. They finally got what they wanted: I simply disappeared.’

  John knew there wasn’t much a person could say to that, so he quickly changed the subject.

  ‘What about you? Your life?’ he asked.

  ‘Dull by comparison.’

  ‘Well, I see De Niro on the mantelpiece so it can’t be that boring.’

  ‘Bob,’ she said. ‘I call him Bob.’

  ‘Naturally. Anything coming up?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve already drafted some sketches for a new movie I’m working on.’

  ‘So you’ll be at the Oscars next year – can I come?’

  She smiled and patted his thigh. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Any skeletons in the closet?’ he asked, and instantly cringed.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘Not really. A failed marriage eight years back, that’s all. I stupidly fell in love with an actor. He was already in love – with himself. Totally self-obsessed. He’s got nowhere.’

  ‘What about your mum? Do you mind me asking?’

  ‘No. She was a lovely woman. A pediatrician. She died six years ago of a brain tumor. My dad was devastated. He puts on a brave face but he’s not much better about it now.’ She sighed. ‘But … he copes. It’s just one more thing to add to all the crap that’s been going on in his head since the war.’

  John debated whether or not to pry, but his curiosity was immense. ‘What happened to your dad in Vietnam? Or is it just that he was there?’

  ‘I don’t know. He won’t say and I stopped asking a long time ago.’

  ‘Was he regular Army?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’ She finished her drink. ‘Refill?’

  John gave Virginia his glass, which she took through to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m in love,’ he muttered to himself, and couldn’t recall feeling quite this way before.

  She returned a minute later with more booze and sat down. Her expression had changed. She looked troubled. />
  ‘What’s up?’ John asked, taking his drink.

  ‘I was just thinking about Donnie.’

  John could only nod in sympathy.

  ‘We had no idea he was in South America. And to be mixed up with the drugs trade ...’ She shook her head, lost for words.

  ‘He wanted excitement,’ John said. ‘It’s not easy going back to Civvy Street after the Army, especially when you’ve seen action.’

  ‘But it’s not like he went to work in a car wash or a burger joint. He did close protection for some major Hollywood players. I know because I got him in. That’s got to be interesting, moving in those circles.’

  ‘Yes, but after being in combat, for some people interesting doesn’t cut it, only dangerous. The closest would have been if some stalker had come out of the crowd shooting at a film première, and after six months he’d obviously decided it wasn’t going to happen. He needed to be where guns were used for more than self-defense.’

  Virginia looked confused, and John returned her frown.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean after six months? My brother was a bodyguard for a lot longer than six months.’

  John must have cringed.

  ‘Wasn’t he?’ Virginia asked.

  John felt decidedly uncomfortable. He clearly possessed more of the facts than Donnie’s own flesh and blood.

  ‘That’s what he told us,’ Virginia said. ‘He was working security jobs abroad. London, Paris, Rome. He was with an international agency that got him contracts all over the world. Are you saying that’s not true?’

  ‘Damn,’ John said awkwardly. ‘I wish someone else could be telling you this.’

  ‘What? Telling me what exactly?’

  ‘Please remember I’m only the messenger.’

  ‘John ...?’

  ‘Donnie being in Colombia was something of a natural progression. He’d been working as a mercenary for years. He was in the former Yugoslavia a year before I first got there, training the Bosnians and then fighting with them. Ninety-five he was in Sierra Leone fighting the rebels. Zaire in ninety-six.’

  ‘Zaire? Doing what, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘Nothing, as it happens. President Mobutu had organized a huge mercenary force to regain some billion-pound gold mine lost to the Tutsi rebels. By early ninety-seven there’d still been no counter-offensive so Donnie left the region. We sent each other the odd email after that, but it was just hi, how are you doing, let’s meet up again one day.’

  ‘You didn’t know he was in South America?’

  ‘No, he became very scant on detail after Zaire. Now it’s obvious why.’

  Virginia absorbed the numbing truth of her brother’s last years.

  ‘This goes no further. My father can’t know any of this.’

  John nodded. ‘I understand.’

  ‘I’m going to bed. This day needs to end.’

  ‘Sorry about the revelations.’

  ‘Not your fault.’

  They finished their drinks and went upstairs. Virginia poked her head into her father’s room to check on him.

  ‘He’s sound,’ she whispered to John.

  ‘Will he dream?’ John asked.

  She shrugged, then pointed across the landing. ‘You’re in there. Bed’s made up. Bathroom’s next door along.’ She pecked his cheek. ‘Sweet dreams, sergent. Thanks for being there.’

  John felt his heart flutter and his face redden, and the tough Legionnaire was nowhere inside him.

  He had done a terrible thing last night. By physically assaulting his wife he had overstepped an invisible boundary. He could backtrack and never again venture across, but his mark was indelible, like the handprints of the stars forever set in concrete outside Grauman’s Chinese Theater. Larry had entered the dark world of spousal battery. In his job he had always despised violent husbands, now he was one.

  He was alone in the bedroom, sprawled fully-clothed on top of the duvet with a pounding headache. For all he knew, Hayley was still lying on the living-room floor. When the tin of beer had struck her forehead she had collapsed like a rag doll, and he had been reminded of Frank. For a long while he had simply stared at her, his sense of horror dulled by the alcohol. Later he had gingerly checked her pulse, half-expecting to find it absent – another domestic fatality – but she was alive. He had considered trying to wake her after that but was too frightened and in no mood for further upset – to see the pain of betrayal in her eyes. As it was, he had pulled his personal handgun from its concealed belt holster and perched back on the sofa with it. He had fondled the chromed Tanfoglio .45 for ten minutes, his mind filled with despair. Eventually he had stepped over his unconscious wife and gone to bed. Any less drunk, any less tired, he might have put the muzzle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  As he rolled off the bed, something ground hard against his ankle. He extracted the offending article from down his sock. Last night he had forgotten to remove it or simply hadn’t cared. He looked at the Tactical One-Hander in his palm, then thumbed the seven-inch blade from its housing. The steel flashed in the morning sun. He put the knife on his pillow and strained his ears for any sound in the apartment. It was silent. Perhaps Hayley had died during the night. Damage from head trauma did not always manifest itself at the time of the injury, and he had certainly delivered one hell of a missile with that tin; he had only taken a couple of mouthfuls from it.

  He hurried into the living room but she wasn’t there. She had picked herself up and skipped out. His Budweiser was on the carpet, its contents spilled into a stain. He angrily kicked it across the floor.

  He had to find her, patch things up. The problem was, he still didn’t feel in a very loving mood. Although he was desperately sorry, deeply ashamed, nothing fundamental had changed. He might apologize and mean it, but he knew he could easily react the same way again at the very slightest provocation. The old Larry was still locked away and no nearer to breaking out. He went through to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee, sat down with a large mug and sipped until the caffeine ordered his senses.

  Concluding his wife had fled to a friend’s house, he returned to the living room, opened their address book and began ringing the likely candidates. After years on the street he was attuned to distinguishing fact from fiction. The average person was a terrible liar. Intonation, body language, skin coloration – there was a host of unconscious tells. Over the phone he would have to rely on voice only.

  He rang around, but none of those who answered made him at all suspicious.

  Perhaps Hayley was at the cemetery, crying at her father’s grave, bemoaning her husband. It made him seethe to think so. The guy had been bones for over forty years. How did it help? He couldn’t imagine kneeling at Frank Dista’s headstone, blubbing his heart out. For one split second it crossed his mind that he might recover more quickly if he did, but he was a cop not an actress.

  Still holding the phone, he laid it gently back on the hook, a fresh thought dragging his movement. His eyes narrowed. There was one other person he might try. He lifted the handset, set it down again. What was the point? Hayley never spoke to her mother. Some disagreement thirty-odd years back had queered their relationship. Would she really have run home to Mommy?

  As a cop, he had learned not to discount anything. Humans were capable of amazing behavior at both ends of the moral spectrum. He found the number, picked up and punched the buttons.

  ‘Hello?’ said a female voice at the other end.

  ‘Mrs Olsen, this is Larry.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hayley’s husband. Is she there?’

  ‘Hayley got married?’

  Already he knew the call was wasted; there was no recognition in her voice. Dementia? The stress of the estrangement?

  ‘Yes, you were there,’ Larry said, referring to the one extremely strained and ultimately short-lived rapprochement between mother and daughter.

  ‘Was I?’ said Mrs Olsen. ‘Oh, yes, I remember. How are
you, Gary?’

  ‘Larry. My name’s Larry.’

  ‘Oh. You mean she and Gary got divorced?’

  He made a face at the phone. ‘No, Mrs Olsen, she married Larry not Gary.’

  ‘Oh, that is a shame. I liked Gary. He was a police officer, you know.’

  ‘I know. I’m that police officer. My name’s Larry. Is Hayley there?’

  ‘No, she’s at the UCLA.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he muttered. ‘No, she’s not, Mrs Olsen, she graduated years ago.’

  ‘Theater Studies. She studies Theater Studies.’

  Larry gave up. ‘Yeah, right, gotta go, Elvis Presley’s at the door.’

  There was a pause, then, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, the King’s dead. August sixteen, nineteen seventy-seven. I remember I was baking cookies when I heard the news.’

  ‘My mistake, it’s James Dean,’ he said, and hung up.

  So, Hayley had to be at the cemetery. There was nowhere else she could be. He would have to drop by there before his shift. Find her, make up with her, swear he’d never lay another finger on her, promise to get counselling. In fact, lie all he had to, just so long as his wife was back in their bed tonight, where she belonged.

  That morning, Hayley’s first view of the world transported her back to childhood. She was thoroughly disorientated. She awoke to a familiar room, but one that belonged to the past. Then a more bizarre thought: she was still a kid and had dreamt of a future yet to unfold. A scary time in which her hope had died and love did not exist.

  Gradually the truth overcame. She was an adult and that future was now.

  Her old posters were still tacked up. Dustin Hoffman as The Graduate; Charlie’s Angels; David Soul. She was filled with nostalgia and missed the naïve optimism of her youth, believing a future generation would be pinning Hayley Olsen to their walls. Her childhood had been far from happy, but at least her faith had been intact – one day she would be famous.

  She touched her injured forehead. The skin was not broken and the swelling had gone down overnight. Where the tin had hit there was now just a hard knot. She imagined the mirror would show her a nasty bruise.

  Her mother had been wonderful. There had been no sense of rebuke, no cold front; the difficult years had melted away. The small bungalow seemed like the home it once had been. Hayley got up and dressed and went into the kitchen.