Heart Stealers

by Patricia McLinn

  “You’re a good girl, I know that. I like that.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure, and I’ll respect it.”

  Her smile was million-watt, brightening up the dreary room. “All right. You can take me home.”

  Johnny stared after her as she left to go to work. Intending to follow, he poured a cup of coffee first. Just as he was leaving the entry, the front door opened and a figure stumbled through it.

  It was Zorro. His face was pale, his eyes glazed. The nurse behind the desk asked, “Are you in need of assistance, sir?”

  He shook his head, his eyes locking on Johnny. “I came to see my buddy.” Zorro stood erect, toughing out whatever had happened. To anyone else, he looked fairly normal. Johnny could tell he was in pain. “Can we talk someplace?”

  Quickly, Johnny dragged his friend back into the clinic to an empty examining room.

  “What’s going on, man?” Johnny asked when they were alone.

  Zorro sank onto a chair. His face was stark white and his hands shook as he unzipped his Blisters jacket and pulled down the sleeve. On his arm, Johnny saw red seeping onto a grungy T-shirt.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “Just a little scratch. You gotta fix me up, buddy.”

  “I’ll call the doctor.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s from a gun.”

  “A gun?”

  “Yeah. Had a little encounter with the Fifty-Second Street gang that I hadn’t planned on. The bastards were armed.”

  “Zorro, gunshot wounds have to be reported.”

  “I know, man. That why I came here. You can fix it.” He glanced around the room. “You got all the stuff here.”

  “Zorro, I could lose my job if I take care of you.”

  “Hey, Tonto, it’s me. Your best friend. Ain’t nobody else gotta know.” Zorro grimaced with pain. “The bullet’s out. Just clean it up, patch it back together, and nobody’ll know.”

  That was true. Kurt would be with Mitch for a while. Dr. Sloan wouldn’t be here until seven when Kurt got off.

  He looked at Zorro’s pale face and was transported back to another time Zorro’s face had been pale.

  Johnny had been thirteen, Zorro a year older. A big lug had tackled Johnny and was pummeling him. Zorro had jumped on the bully’s back and had been brutally beaten until two of the Blisters knocked the other guy out....

  “Why’d ya do it?” Johnny had asked.

  “He was hurtin’ my main man,” Zorro had told him, with blood oozing from his lips. “I gotta help my bro....”

  Now Johnny took in Zorro’s chalk white complexion and closed eyes as he battled the pain. Aw, hell, he really didn’t have any choice. Not when his buddy needed him.

  Slowly, Johnny walked to the supplies cabinet.

  * * *

  On Thursday of the following week, Mitch watched Cassie’s eyes twinkle as she passed out pictures to each student and to him. Despite the strain she was feeling, her demeanor in class gave no clue to the turmoil inside her.

  She’s so good at hiding her feelings.

  It takes one to know one.

  “I want you all to pretend you’re five years old.” She grinned and Mitch’s stomach clenched. “For some of you, that won’t be too hard.”

  Good-natured boos sounded around the room. From everyone except Battaglia. As the unit progressed, he’d become more and more withdrawn. Today, he wouldn’t meet Cassie’s eyes; instead, he stared blankly at the picture or the wall or his desk. His posture was ready-to-snap tense.

  “I’ve given you each a toy,” she continued. “Think about what you—as a five-year-old—would do with it.”

  She gave them a minute of thinking time.

  “Okay, Tara, you first.”

  Tara grinned. “I got a gun and holster. I’m gonna strap it on and shoot my boyfriend, Dave, between the eyes for teasing me about my outfit today.” She indicated her totally black shoes, stockings, skirt and blouse, accented by black lipstick.

  Laughter around the room.

  Mitch hadn’t looked at his toy.

  “Joe?”

  DeFazio raised mutinous eyes to her. “I got a tomahawk. I’d like to split somebody’s skull open.”

  Preferably mine, Mitch thought.

  Ignoring the innuendo, Cassie moved on. “Johnny?”

  “I pass.”

  Cassie hesitated. “Okay, what’s your toy so we can do it, anyway?”

  “GI. Joe.”

  Arga blurted out, “I know, Ms. Smith. I’ll dress Johnny’s doll with my camouflage outfit and he can crawl through the jungle shootin’ at people.”

  Mitch twisted the picture in his hands.

  Cassie went through an array of toys: a battleship, an army tank, bows and arrows, a machine gun. Then she called on Mitch.

  He stared down at the lifelike toy. “A grenade.” For a minute, he was somewhere else. It was hot. Humid. Stinking.

  The grenade felt heavy in his hand. He grasped it lightly, counted to ten, pulled the pin and threw it fifty feet.

  “Captain?”

  His throat was dry and his hands clammy. “Ah...I...I’d throw it at the enemy.”

  Cassie stared at him for a minute. He looked away.

  “All right, everybody, what’s the point of all this?”

  Jen said, “These toys are all war toys.”

  “There’s only one way to play with them, isn’t there?” Cassie asked. “How? To do what?”

  “To hurt somebody else,” said Amy.

  Youngblood shook his head. “Yeah, but there ain’t no harm in ‘em. We all played with these as kids.”

  “Well, let’s see,” Cassie answered. “I’ve got a short movie that takes a stand on that issue. “It’s called Toys. It’s only eight minutes long. Let’s watch it and see what you think. Make sure you consider it in the context of our war unit.”

  She turned the lights off, then started the DVD. On the screen appeared several small children—about the age of seven. They were in a store, watching a display of toys that revolved on a turnstile. The kids were oohing and ahhing over the antics of the toys: a lion that roared, a clown that jiggled, Barbies and Kens posed side by side.

  After the opening, the children’s attention was drawn to another display. Army toys. War toys. G.I. Joes in uniform, tanks, guns, an ambulance, medical equipment, spotlights, helicopters. The kids in the movie stared at them.

  Suddenly the action froze. The sound stopped. The lights in the store dimmed to nighttime.

  And the toys came alive.

  Mitch watched as one Joe, on his belly, inched his way up a hill. Another army doll waved flags for an incoming helicopter, which landed right on the scene. Explosions went off, and the unforgettable sound of discharging guns echoed around them. There was the shriek of a siren. A scream. One Joe was suddenly blown apart by a grenade. Another was stuck in the neck with a toy bayonet. At that point, the students in Cassie’s class flinched and a couple groaned.

  These are toys, Mitch told himself. Not soldiers. Not real men. Not his buddies. Still, when a chopper flew over the dolls’ heads, Mitch grabbed the edge of the desk to keep himself from diving to the floor for cover.

  He tried to concentrate on the screen. A blast of machine-gun fire ripped through the air; several toys went down. The camera focused on one plastic body turning over in a puddle. The water would be slimy, Mitch knew. It was tepid. It tasted rank.

  He swallowed hard and licked his lips.

  A quiet descended, the camera panned the entire, demolished area.

  Then it was over.

  The camera went back to the kids in the toy store. The music resumed, and the children stared at fully intact toys, exactly as they’d been before the freeze frame. The battle had happened only in the minds of little kids. It had happened only in their imagination.

  But to Mitch, the toys’ war was as real as if it had happened yesterday.

  * * *

/>   Twelve hours later, the war was even more real. Mitch was on his belly, in the jungle, making his way through five-inch-deep water. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back. Something was biting him in the ankle, but he had to stay calm. Separated from his squad when it had been attacked, he needed to find his way quietly. It was dark. The U.S. had the advantage during the day with their advanced equipment, but the Viet Cong ruled the night. They knew this land in the dark, and he didn’t. Gulping for air, he inched along. It was then that he heard it—the unmistakable click of a semiautomatic behind him. Mitch turned and screamed, No, No, No...

  He sat up in bed with a start, waking from the nightmare that he’d lived twenty-five years ago in a jungle in Asia. His breath came in gasps and he was dripping with sweat. “No, no, no...” he said aloud several times before it sunk in where he was.

  He looked down. His hands were fisted in the sheet. The rest of the bed was a tangled mess. He hadn’t had the dream in months. Damn, he thought he had this under control. It was the freakin’ war unit in class these two weeks that had gotten to him. Of all the rotten luck. Why had he ever consented to work with Cassie Smith and her dirty dozen?

  He yanked on the sheet. Pulling both hands in opposite directions, it ripped solidly down the middle. He stared at the shreds dangling in his hands.

  Cassie would say this was symbolic. And it was. His life had been ripped apart by the war and had been in shreds for years afterward.

  And he’d be damned if he let it go back to that.

  He was leaving Cassie’s class.

  For good.

  * * *

  The next day, she handed out the novel Fallen Angels.

  “You guys will love this book,” she told them. “It’s from the viewpoint of a kid just like you who enlists and ends up in Nam.”

  Taking his copy from Som, Mitch stared down at the picture on the cover and thought he might be sick. As Cassie told the kids about Richie, the main character, Mitch stared at the young, innocent faces of the men on the cover. They could have been his buddies. One looked like Silverstein, one a little like Thomas. The two black guys could have been twins for Markham and Stone. Of his entire squad, only Mitch had returned on two feet. Slowly, he traced the outline of one of the boy’s faces. Mitch’s chest constricted and his vision blurred. Sweat broke out on his brow. He had to turn the book over. For distraction, he glanced around the room, trying to focus on something else. His gaze landed on Battaglia. The boy was mesmerized by the picture. His hand also traced the face of one of the characters. Mitch stared at Johnny, watching his absorption. Empathizing with it. Why?

  “Okay, let’s read the first chapter now and then talk about it,” Cassie said to the kids. She noticed Johnny was absorbed in the book’s cover. Just as Mitch had been.

  Taking a seat on the floor next to Som, she opened her book and tried to read. What was going on with Mitch and Johnny? It wasn’t the gang thing—at least not just that. She decided to talk to both of them. Mitch had told her he wanted to see her after class, anyway, so she’d ask him then.

  It took about thirty minutes for everyone to finish the chapter. When they were done, she posed the question, “Why did Richie join the service?”

  Mike Youngblood, whom Cassie knew was giving careful thought to joining the marines when he graduated, said, “He didn’t have nothing better. He wanted to go to college, but he didn’t have no dough. Enlisting gave him food and a place to stay.”

  “And helped his mama and brother,” Som put in.

  Cassie listened to the kids, encouraging their discussion. They were seated in a circle on the floor. Mitch had taken the chair in back of them, but hadn’t said a word.

  “I think he’s a sicko. You gotta be crazy to join up.” This came from DeFazio, who, since a week ago Monday, had found every possible way to disrupt Cassie’s class.

  She was about to defuse his hostility when Johnny stood. His hands fisted at his sides and his eyes were black and blazing. “You got it backward, you dumb jerk. They aren’t crazy when they join, they’re crazy when they come back.”

  DeFazio stood, too. “Yeah, what makes you such an expert? I’m sick of you, Battaglia. You think you know everything.”

  Cassie stood between them. “Stop it, you guys, right now. I won’t have any name-calling in class. If you have a difference of opinion, you’ll have to settle it—”

  But Johnny wasn’t listening. “I know, you dumb shit,” he told DeFazio. “I know. You’re the one who doesn’t know anything.” Wildly, he looked around. No one spoke for seconds, then he spat out, “Screw this,” reached down, grabbed his jacket and bolted for the door.

  Cassie was about to go after him when she saw Mitch leap from the chair and head out. “Stay where you are. I’ll take care of this.”

  Mitch caught up to Battaglia in the hall just before he reached the exit—almost at the exact spot he’d tackled the kid the night Cassie got locked in the storage room. He grabbed a fistful of Battaglia’s shirt and yanked back. “Hold on, Battaglia.”

  Johnny swore and jerked his shoulders, trying to free himself. “Let me go.”

  Mitch’s fist tightened. “Not yet.” His voice was gentle, and his tone must have gotten through.

  Johnny stopped struggling. He sagged against the wall face first, his arms braced on the tile. Mitch let go of Johnny’s shirt and clapped a firm, fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Who do you know that was there?”

  Johnny buried his face deep in his arms and shook his head.

  “Who?” Mitch asked implacably.

  After a long long time, Johnny muttered, “My father.”

  “I thought it was something like that.” He squeezed the kid’s shoulder. “But he couldn’t have died over there.”

  “Not physically. His heart stopped beating when I was ten. It stopped feeling long before that.”

  Mitch swallowed hard. “I know.”

  The boy turned around, his black eyes brimming. “Yeah, sure.”

  “I do.”

  Battaglia’s eyes widened. When Mitch didn’t elaborate, Battaglia said, “You don’t know shit. You’re a phony.”

  Rage welled in Mitch. All the anger he kept so carefully buried started to surface. It was what happened every time he tried to talk about his time in Vietnam, which was why he had to keep everything in control. “I know,” he said, “because I was there, too.”

  Battaglia just stared at him.

  “I almost lost it when I got back, too. I was just luckier than your father.”

  The boy sank against the wall. His eyes never left Mitch’s face. Neither man moved for seconds. Then, slowly, Battaglia reached out and laid his hand on Mitch’s arm.

  Something inside of Mitch snapped. The constricting band around his emotions, tightened year after year by self-imposed loneliness, finally loosened. He reached out his own hand and slid it around the kid’s shoulders. “Come on, Johnny,” he said hoarsely. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

  Chapter Ten

  When Mitch and Johnny walked into Pepper’s at ten on a Thursday morning, the old man’s eyebrows almost skyrocketed off his face.

  Though the tension in Mitch’s neck knotted his muscles, inside he was calm. He chose a booth in an isolated corner, out of view from the restaurant. Mitch could see the doorway and counter, but Johnny could not.

  Pepper approached them. “What’ll ya have, gentlemen?”

  “Coffee.” Mitch looked at Johnny.

  “The same.” They were the first words the boy had spoken since his revelation. Mitch respected his privacy; he knew Johnny needed time to get back some of his control.

  After they were served, Mitch circled his mug with his hands, blew on the coffee and sipped. Johnny still stared out the window.

  “How old were you when he died?”

  “Ten.”

  “It was bad?”

  Johnny nodded.

  “You ever tell anybody about this?”

  “No.”r />
  “Not even Cassie?”

  He shook his head.

  “She wouldn’t have done this unit if she’d known.”

  Johnny looked at him then. “About you, either.”

  “What?”

  “If she’d known about you being in Vietnam, she wouldn’t have done the unit.”

  That gave Mitch food for thought. He filed the idea away to digest later. “What’d he do?”

  “In the war?”

  “Okay, start with that.”

  “He was a pilot. Mostly helicopters. Later, at home, when he got drunk, he’d talk. I remember a little. He said he was the most hated and appreciated man in Nam.”

  “Hated, because the birds brought us to the fighting. Appreciated, because they picked us up and took us out.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I was a paratrooper.”

  “No shit? You jumped from those planes?”

  “Yep.”

  Johnny drank some of his coffee. “You drafted?”

  Mitch shook his head. “My number in the lottery was high, so I didn’t have to go. You know what the lottery was?”

  “Yeah, when they drew birthdays to see who went into the army first.”

  “I enlisted,” Mitch said. “What about your father?”

  “His number was two.”

  Mitch stared at his coffee, searching for answers in the dark, bitter liquid. He raised his eyes when Johnny spoke.

  “What’d you mean when you said you were luckier than my father?”

  “I take it he was messed up when he came back.”

  “My mother says that. All I remember is the...” Johnny looked back out the window.

  Mitch held his tongue. Disclosure was hard.

  When the boy faced him again, his cheeks were ashen and his eyes were moist. “Most of the time he kept to himself. But sometimes, he got mad at nothing. He hit us. I was too little to protect my mother, but I tried.”

  Mitch ached for the young boy Johnny had been. “Did he ever get help?”

  “Like counseling?” Mitch nodded. “Not that I know of.” Johnny’s gaze leveled on Mitch. “Did you?”

  Thinking of the only sane decision he’d made in the first few years he was back, Mitch nodded. “My brother pushed it. Relentlessly. I went at first because...” God, the memory hurt.