Finding Sgt. Kent

by Raymond Hutson

  I told him I’d seen an old woman, who couldn’t talk, who I thought was my grandmother, but who the fuck really knew for sure. I told him I didn’t trust my own understanding of anything, not even the stuff I thought I saw happen—that my entire life had been flipped on its head.

  “So, you understand that you have trouble trusting, and that it’s a problem.”

  “I guess so, if you’re wrong.”

  “No. This is important. The well-adjusted person, Robert, knows when they shouldn’t trust a situation, when it’s something they’ve experienced before as unreliable.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “You’ve been so long in the land of bad surprises that your default position has become one of constant disbelief.”

  “It’s kept me alive.” I almost added sir.

  “That’s true, certainly when you were at war. And war taught you that life isn’t worth much. Not even your own.” He returned to his chair, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thus, it’s a short jump to losing your self-esteem.” He opened his eyes. “Do you see where this is going?”

  “Like I don’t think I’m really worth having?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I was worth something in the Army. I think guys were glad I was there. I covered them. We covered each other.”

  “Because you trusted each other. But you don’t think you’re worth anything here, do you?”

  “Doesn’t feel like it. What I can do, nobody needs. If I could be like everybody else, get married, have a kid, buy a house, do all that without feeling like a phony, would do whatever it took.”

  He shifted in the chair. “Look. A plumber walks through a house, he looks at the fixtures. A doctor goes to a restaurant, he’s sizing up the health of the people at the next table. People fall back to how they’re trained, how they look at the world. You just came out of a career where you constantly looked for threat. Most of the time it’s not going to be there.”

  I wondered what I looked like, looking for threat. Vacant. Foolish even.

  “You have to trust, to make good things happen. Some people call it faith.”

  “And what if people lie?”

  “What if they do? You get your feelings hurt. You move on. It’s not like Kabul where a lie can get you killed.” He scratched a few lines on his pad and looked up, pushed some new prescriptions across the desk. “Life is like a swimming pool, Robert. But you’re not the lifeguard anymore. Get in the damn water. Swim.”

  –––

  That afternoon I drove up Sprague, over to Trent, and stopped at Big R. Growing up we had one in Colville, got my school clothes there. I don’t know what to do when I go in a mall department store. A guy can’t tell where the teen clothes end and serious, adult clothes start. And what is really serious, anyway? Half of it feeling like toilet paper.

  I picked out four pairs of jeans, one in olive, and a half dozen shirts, two of them with little pearl snaps. I might want to watch Cheryl throw darts at the Big Horn, and it would pay to look the part. I bought some gloves, a six-pack of blue underwear, a down vest, a denim vest, and a hat.

  “Your house burn down?” a red-haired bopper of a girl sniped at checkout.

  “Something like that.” I handed her cash and walked out with two big sacks in my hands. “It’s my birthday,” I called back as I pushed out the door. It was time I bought some civilian clothes, even if Cheryl wound up not wanting me. I stopped at my bank on the way home and made a withdrawal.

  I packed my books, the rest of my clothes, and a loose box of kitchenware in the next hour. I stared at Jennifer’s portfolio for a long time, wondered how I could get it back to her. Finally, I walked it down to the office and the manager said he’d give it to her if she ever showed up, but he doubted it. I didn’t even know her last name and didn’t think to ask him.

  I went back and sat on the futon in my empty apartment, placed Cheryl’s card next to me and stared at my cell.

  I punched in her number. It rang seven, eight, nine times, and I wondered what to say if an answering machine picked up, or if the number was disconnected—if she was gone, too.

  “Harbour Ranch.” She sounded out of breath.

  “Hi.” And it seemed incredible that she was talking to me, on the phone. “I’d like to rent cabin number two.”

  She hesitated. “I’m sorry. That cabin’s taken.”

  “Really?”

  “The rest of the units are quite nice.”

  “I’d really like to stay in cabin two.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s not available.”

  “For how long?”

  Trying to sound a little firmer. “Until the management says it’s vacant. Why are you so set on cabin two?”

  “I stayed in it once,” I said. “Have really good memories.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. They all have the same view.”

  “Can’t you just move them out?”

  “How long do you need a room?” Exasperated. I think she was getting ready to hang up.

  “Until your dad gets curious about me, I guess.”

  A long pause, then, cautiously, “Robert?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Jesus. You had me going!” She moved the phone away for a moment and laughed. “I’ve never heard you on the phone.”

  “Is the room really taken?”

  “Of course not. You still have the key, don’t you?”

  “Hanging from my rearview mirror. I’m surprised you trusted me.”

  “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

  “No. I just thought people had to earn that.”

  “If people had to earn trust, it wouldn’t be trust, would it?” She gave me a few seconds to absorb that. “How long can you—I mean, how many days do you have off?”

  “I thought I might rent it for a month.”

  “Can you get that much time off?”

  “I don’t have a job.” It sounded so lame. I could feel her expression fall. “What I mean is, between my retirement and the disability from my knee, I do okay.”

  “I can’t charge you.”

  “Of course you can. I’m paying rent here, I might as well pay it there. Lot quieter.” I was afraid I sounded pushy, losing her. “Think about it, anyway. I could help out more. I’d try to stay out of your way.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I thought I might want to go hunting.”

  Cheryl asked if I’d ever gone hunting. Pheasant, or ducks?

  “Hunted deer when I was a kid.”

  “Deer season doesn’t start until late October.”

  “I was thinking about mountain lion, actually.”

  “They haven’t caught it yet.” Her voice grew stolid. “As soon as you get in its territory, the cat is hunting you, you know. Not like deer.”

  “Familiar enough.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Last seven years of my life.”

  “Do you miss that?”

  “I think I can live without it. I know this is one thing I can do, though.”

  “We should talk about it,” she said. “When do you think you can get here?”

  “Tonight, if you like. Tomorrow afternoon. It’s up to you.”

  “I’ll make you lunch.”

  –––

  I left the following morning, sun rising as I crossed the Idaho state line. I didn’t have a rifle, and I thought it might seem odd if I showed up with one I’d never opened or sighted in. I decided it would be best if I used one of hers. If there were more rifles on her ranch; but of course there were. It was a ranch, wasn’t it? But then borrowing one of hers seemed presumptuous too.

  I must have debated for an hour or more. Then I wondered what I should say, what came first, and where I should park my car. In front of cabin two seemed good enough. And I’d said I could stay a month, and she didn’t say anything exactly to suggest that wasn’t okay, but then maybe she didn’t want to hurt my feelings, or didn’t know how to say she was going to need some ti
me to herself, and, Shit, maybe she didn’t say anything because she was afraid of me, the scary murderous vet, afraid to contradict anything, and she wasn’t going to be there at all, just the whole place locked up, SWAT team watching me from the barn. I invited myself. How much ruder could a guy get?

  She’d kissed me, but I didn’t know if that meant I should try to kiss her. The Army gave you little placards to use to communicate. Sometimes even a translator. Maybe I should just mumble Pashtu the whole time. This is really stupid, I thought. I am really, really sticking my fucking neck way too far out here.

  And then I thought of Zilker. I might get my feelings hurt. I was thirty-six, for fuck’s sake.

  11

  From Highway 200 I took the Los Rios Road turnoff and, for a moment, didn’t recognize the next intersection. It had been dark, after all, and I was drunk and too stupid to make notes the next day.

  On a hunch, I turned on East Park Road, narrow and convoluted, and then after a hundred feet or so stopped and stared at the wall of trees. I shouldn’t do this, I thought. Cheryl had no idea the kind of shit I was capable of, and it would be a matter of time before I had another nightmare, or blow-up, or she figured out I really didn’t have a clue how the world works now. She has friends, probably soccer moms, and how the hell will she explain me? Or maybe she could just keep me out here, hidden in the woods. Will she trust me around Danielle? She could do so much better. Maybe she just wanted a bigger barn cat. So fucking stupid; I don’t belong there. Isn’t that what I’ve spent my life doing: looking for what doesn’t belong?

  I’d just slapped the shifter in reverse when a rusty truck grill rolled up behind me. I watched, in the mirror, a rotund fellow with a dirty cowboy hat climb out, stand on the running board a moment, then hobble to the side of my car. I dropped my face in my hands.

  “Señor Kent! I thought that was you.”

  Miguel.

  “Something wrong with your car? You need a push maybe?”

  He was so, so right. “No. I just wasn’t sure this was the right road.”

  “Sure it is! I follow you.” He turned back to his truck. I put my car back in first and rolled forward.

  I stopped in front of cabin two and unloaded my bags, opened the door. The bed was made up stiff and clean. The pillow looked new. A quart canning jar sat on the table stuffed with fresh daisies and a handwritten note, Welcome Back! A whole bunch of worry melted away, but I wondered if I deserved the flowers. If I could live up to them.

  I stowed my bag under the desk and washed my face before heading up to the house. Cheryl met me at the door, and she took my hands for a moment and gave me a quick hug. “How was your drive?”

  “It keeps getting easier.”

  “Was it ever hard?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t know why I said that.” I didn’t know. Maybe it was familiarity, or perhaps gradually understanding I really didn’t have to watch the shoulder for IEDs. Maybe it got a whole lot easier when Miguel blocked me in.

  Cheryl had set out a bowl of pretzels and two glasses of lemonade.

  “While I’m thinking about it.” I shoved a bank envelope across the table.

  She held it at arm’s length, prying the edge open with a thumbnail, and shoved it back. “I can’t take that.”

  I shoved it across again. “Sure you can. You’ve got a business to keep afloat.”

  She started to push. I put my hand on hers.

  “How about you keep it and let me know when I’ve exhausted the rent.”

  We stared at each other and she pulled the envelope slowly to her side. “I’ll let you know.”

  It was $2,000, but she didn’t open it. “Two kids on mountain bikes saw the cat last week. Swear it chased them.”

  “Where were they?”

  “Trailer park, middle of town.”

  “Don’t think I can go hunting in a trailer park. Definitely a PTSD kind of move.”

  She smiled and gestured at the ridgeline. “Anything you do has to happen up there.”

  We ate lunch. More steaks. Whole chest full of them, she said. Would be freezer-burnt if she didn’t use them. We talked for a while and I carried the dishes inside. I started to rinse them at the kitchen sink and she stopped me.

  “Later,” she said, and motioned for me to follow. We walked to the end of a hall, into a darkened bedroom, the odor of musk, powder, leather in the air. Her vanity sat near the door, half in the light, the silk poppy wedged in the mirror clip. “You have a rifle?”

  “Not yet.” I’d run into Missoula and pick something up at a pawn shop.

  She flipped on a closet light. “Take a look. See if there’s anything you can use.” She pushed a row of dresses out of the way and a gun rack appeared—about a dozen rifles, upright, a steel cable running the length of the trigger guards. She unlocked one end and pulled it through.

  Each a beautiful work, some of them blue and rich, the stocks burled walnut, glossy as a new car. I ran my fingers along them. I picked up a little lever-action Marlin.

  “You don’t want that.”

  “But it’s so cute.” I ran my fingertip over the crown of the muzzle. The stock had been cut down. “Twenty-two?”

  “Yeah. My gun. When I was about ten. Got a few rabbits with it.”

  I handed it to her reverently and she put it back. “Some of these look like they’ve never been shot.” There were a couple of Weatherby bolt-actions, one with a price tag on the trigger guard.

  “Dad bought a couple more, even after he had the stroke.”

  “I’d be afraid I’d scratch it up.”

  There was a .250 Savage 99. An M1 Garand. A lever-action .30-30 Winchester. “We took a lot of deer with that,” she said. “But never further than sixty or seventy yards. You won’t get that close to a cat.”

  Near the end, another bolt gun, battered, the stock one dense shade of walnut, flat and greased. It looked familiar. “Winchester 70?”

  “Very good.”

  “We had some at Fort Benning.” I picked it up, a 3-9x Leica scope already clamped on tight, the objective about three inches across.

  “Dad’s bear gun.”

  “Looks like he dropped it once or twice.”

  “Might have. He didn’t take family along when he was after a bear.”

  I squinted at the receiver and held it up to the light: .338 Winchester Magnum. “Will he mind?”

  “I think that’s the one he’d want you to use.”

  –––

  There were eighteen tarnished cartridges left in a desk drawer, in an oily, blue-and-yellow cardboard box from an earlier era. I drove into town the following morning and bought two more boxes, some ear plugs, and a package of five targets. In the afternoon, I paced off 400 yards, then drove a couple of hay bales down to the point I’d chosen, fixed a target in place while Cheryl coaxed the horses into the barn. I stood in the far side of a corral, barrel resting on a sack of feed slung over the top rail, an ancient pair of AO hearing protectors clamped over my head. In an hour I had a group of about three inches after dialing the crosshair as low as it could go. Whatever bear Cheryl’s father shot with that gun had been pretty damn close. He stepped out of his cabin briefly and watched but didn’t join us. I guess he wasn’t curious enough yet.

  –––

  It rained that evening and the following day. I spent the afternoon mucking stalls for the workout, until Cheryl discovered me there and said I was going to make Miguel feel inadequate. I showered and we ate, then sat on her porch for a while in two rockers.

  She leaned back and hovered there a second. “You’re not a bad-looking man, with your face in one piece.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What was it like? Over there.”

  I looked at her, maybe a little too critically.

  She steeled herself. “I’m serious. I really want to know.”

  “Afghanistan?” I didn’t know where to start. “That’s where I was last.”

  “Okay. Start there.”


  “Iraq you’ve seen on TV.” I hesitated. “Kind of like West Texas. Where I was, anyway. But Afghanistan . . . is like no place on earth I’ve ever been. The central highlands lead right up into the Himalayas.” I told her how it could look like New Zealand or like the badlands, and sandstorms could rock your Humvee, flip over a port-o-san, tear tent stakes out of the ground, and about the dirt everywhere, even between your teeth for days after. “But it was beautiful. Sometimes. Like a stained-glass window.” And I stopped.

  She looked at me almost like Zilker would look at me. “And sometimes it wasn’t.”

  “It wasn’t like at the end of the day you could savor it, soak it all up.” I pointed at her pasture. “Usually I was just stupid with exhaustion. I remember, when the whole thing started, somebody compared the Taliban to the IRA. The IRA, they said, was trying to bomb their way to the peace table. The Taliban just wanted to blow up the table. The people themselves were stuck in the middle.” The sun dropped out of the valley. “The war was just bigger than them,” I told her. “Any of them. Their world was their village, or their valley, and they grew to hate whoever was bringing the most recent misery to their valley.”

  The people were friendly, sometimes a deceit but mostly genuine—a kind of hospitality unknown in the Western world, I explained. But they had grown to hate the Russians, then the Taliban. After a while, we too wore out our welcome.

  I tried to describe what it felt like, looking out the back of a CH-47, the serrated peaks of the Hindu Kush, snow-crusted and unmarked by roads or towers, rivers bright with the sky’s image, the cold clarity of the air; even as I got older it left me wide-eyed. In Iraq I spent most of my time thinking about myself, trying not to get shot, just to see Colville again. And I told her about being married for a while, and how damned trivial everything Julia and her parents were caught up in seemed; life was a joke for them, and eventually I couldn’t wait to get back in. After that, I started paying attention—to the people we’d come, ostensibly, to save, and more so to the young men I was expected to keep alive.