by Mike Bogin
“It’s not my turn,” Dilip disagreed adamantly. “What did you do? I am the driver. You are the manager, you operate that thing.”
The teenagers whispered between them and laughed.
Stephen looked at the hoist, looked at Dilip, and then put his hands on his hips. The thing was a death trap.
“You all don’t know what you’re doing,” one of the kids sniggered.
“We’re new,” Dilip responded. “Our regular vans are different.”
“Shoot, that don’t look so hard,” the kid told him.
“You ever driven one?” Stephen demanded.
“No,” he admitted. “Drove a backhoe plenty of times. That lift don’t look real hard.”
Stephen looked over to Dilip and back at the kids. “Want to try working this?”
The kids dropped their bikes and hopped right up on the trailer without hesitation. Looking down at Stephen, the talkative kid asked, “What you gonna pay?”
Stephen looked in his wallet before offering five dollars.
“For getting it off the trailer?”
“Off the trailer, up the pole, then screwing in our equipment. Won’t take five minutes.”
The second teenager stepped up. “Twenty.” He could tell when the other guy was over a barrel.
Dilip and Stephen walked around to the front of the truck, away from the two boys. They had forty-five dollars between them.
“We’ll pay ten and see. If it goes right, we’ve got ten more poles to service.” The boys could put their bikes in the back and ride along in the truck between poles.
“Twenty for this one. If it takes five minutes, we’ll do the rest for ten apiece. A hundred-twenty bucks for all eleven. If it takes five minutes.”
Stephen nodded and the first kid hopped aboard while his friend pulled out the built-in ramps.
Dilip got on his phone and searched for an ATM.
*****
Spencer had ground out the first bigger stumps then turned the machine over to Mouse. Now, XMercy leaned into the handles to drive the grinder forward. Mouse was already spent, squatting with her head hung between her legs, sweat running rivulets down her neck, sopping rings under her arms. Spencer wanted them far away from the concertina wire while he happily strung the razor-sharp Slinkies along in two runs set six to eight feet apart through the underbrush. He separated them enough so that a thief couldn’t throw a sheet of plywood over them and cross over unscathed. Once he had trip lines installed and had them tied in to harmless homemade bang grenades, anyone wanting to steal the weed crop was going to need to work really hard to get it.
By noon, the entire area was cleared and ready to be raked smooth. Spencer rigged a pallet behind the Polaris, carried it across to the far end of new ground, and rode on it while Mouse pulled slowly forward, dragging the rich soil into smooth flat lines. They were soon moving in an efficient partnership; he was enjoying the surfing, relishing how his balance and agility were coming along. Mouse paid attention to how he planned the security wire, even allowing for a safe spot to bring in the water lines later on. She saw the logic of using double rows at the back and along the forest side; on the slope side, one line was plenty. Nobody could get down that grade without getting torn up in the wire.
XMercy was concerned about the deer, worried even about the feral pig population that seemed to be getting worse.
Spencer asked her, “How many cat skeletons have you ever seen in trees?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Animals learn fast,” he assured her. “They might get nicked, but they won’t get caught.” The greenhouses were secure on three sides. When the plants were maturing, either he or Mouse could set out trip wires along the front. A two-dollar spool of three-pound monofilament would do the trick.
He and XMercy kept the self-propelled grinder balanced and let it power itself back up the ramps and onto the trailer. Spencer counted two broken teeth.
“Not many stones in the soil, at least not near the top; the high water table keeps the ground soft so that anything heavy sinks deep,” he explained.
XMercy took the first shower then rushed back down to the rental yard in Beckley to get there before they closed at six. While Spencer put away the ATV, Mouse showered next. She was standing in the doorway calling him, wearing nothing but a white towel she held wrapped around her petite chest. It covered only down to her slim thighs. When he heard her, he came around the trailer then turned his face away.
“Your turn,” she called out, using her unoccupied hand to agitate the water out of her short hair. “I left you a clean towel over the shower rod.”
After they were both cleaned up and dressed, Mouse sat cross-legged on the sofa. “Good day,” she remarked aloud, not directing it particularly to Spencer. She massaged her arms, obviously enjoying the ache she had earned.
“Good day,” he agreed. Nothing was stopping them now from getting going on the frame for the new greenhouse.
Spencer wasn’t sure whether or not they were having a conversation. He was debating whether he ought to be there or if he should leave the trailer when she asked him how he got his nickname, MSJS.
“That’s easy,” he told her. “Master Sergeant Jonathan Spencer. MSJS.”
“What would happen if you got a promotion?”
He stood and pondered that for the first time. It had never before occurred to him. He was never going to be an E-9, even if they hadn’t fucked him over.
“SMJS, I suppose.”
The only way he could ever have been an E-9 would have meant leaving the field, moving inside to run day-to-day ops at sniper training school. Didn’t make sense to take him out of what he did best and have him doing a job he’d suck at. That wouldn’t stop command, of course, but it was a bad fit. Would have been.
“Why ‘Mouse’?” he asked.
She laughed. “From ‘church mouse,’ not because I’m little. See, my father is a minister, would you believe it? He made the rules and all through high school he made me be in my room by ten. Ten-thirty on weekends. Even when I was sixteen years old he stuck to that curfew.”
She shook at her damp hair and remembered aloud. “My bedroom had this window looking into our carport. There were bars on it, bars on the whole house, so once the door was closed he thought he had his little girl locked in tight. Uh-uh. Nope. See, on Wednesday nights, while he had Bible study and my mother, she was off visiting the old folks or something, some of my friends came over to the house and we sorted things out differently. This boy, Teddy, he wanted to be my boyfriend. Well, the Reverend wasn’t ever going to go for that. No sir! So Teddy, he drilled the lag bolts out of those bars and replaced them with plain rods with just lag heads that he painted white, like the bars. From then on, I got so I could pull out those pins and lower the bars without a peep. Quiet as a church mouse.”
“You look like Ellen,” he offered. “You know that?”
Mouse’s tone shifted. “Hey, I love a woman,” she told Spencer. “Doesn’t mean I love women. There’s a difference.”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s, you know, you’re always moving fast, high energy, and the blonde hair, cut short, and you’re all wiry and bouncing around. Good stuff.” He felt like he was digging himself in deeper.
“What, and if I’m a lesbian that’s not good?” Then she cracked a smile. “Fucking with you,” she teased.
XMercy came up the driveway with a bucket of KFC and sides just about at sunset. “I’m not cooking, thank you.”
She turned one of the wooden wire spools on its side and set them down beside the fire ring then sat down heavily onto one of the camp chairs and set out the meal.
“I had to wait on some men who were getting heated with Bobby,” XMercy related. “I guess they rented a hoist or something, and then
it wouldn’t go back on the trailer when they were done. Bobby went and left the store for an hour to rescue them, got things squared away, and these guys refused to pay $60 extra. Like that was Bobby’s problem.”
XMercy shook her head. “I finally unhitched the trailer and left the grinder in the equipment yard. Didn’t want to stiff Bobby the twelve bucks, so I tied the bills on the handles with a rubber band. They were still fussin’ when I drove out.
What is wrong with people?” she asked nobody in particular.
In the twilight they could still see down the meadow in the direction of the greenhouse and their newly cleared pad beside it. Spencer sat with his back against a rock and sucked the meat off a drumstick. He pushed himself upright and arranged kindling inside the fire ring before the bucket came around again.
While the chicken lasted, nobody spoke. They were too busy biting and nibbling around the bones. When it was gone and they had their fingers licked clean, Spencer took the bucket, tore it open, and lit it up to start the kindling.
XMercy handed out sporks. Spencer held the spork and his hand began to shake. For that second, he was back inside the segregation cell. He had to step away and then gripped his left fist around his right hand until the shaking subsided. PTSD.
XMercy and Mouse passed around the mashed potatoes, followed by the mac and cheese. Spencer had both on his plate when he sat back down. The empties also followed into the fire. After that, the three of them flopped out their legs in front of them, Spencer on the ground, XMercy on the low chair, and Mouse on their one rickety chaise lounge.
“Johnny, come in with me tomorrow,” XMercy suggested. “We can load up the supplies and get ready to get going on the greenhouse in a couple more days.”
Spencer was afraid of that. He was already feeling too loose, concentrating on getting his body right without thinking through other priorities.
“You know,” he explained slowly, “here I’m good.” How could he tell more? “It’s harder with more people. Sometimes I was getting confused, agitated, like I’m still there and not here.”
XMercy had been trying not to ask, not to make him talk about the war. “We’re proud of you. You know that, right Johnny?”
“I tried really hard,” he said honestly. “I tried to make myself like the sharpest knife or the best balanced and sighted weapon. I didn’t do it for me, not exactly, but more for what I could do. That must not make any sense.” How could they understand if they weren’t there?
XMercy and Mouse both let him talk, just talk.
“Sometimes I close my eyes and I see this kid. He’s wearing a red shirt, Manchester United, and he’s playing with a dirt clod like he’s dribbling a soccer ball off his toes. And then I pull the trigger. Because that was my orders. Following orders.”
His words hung in the air like smoke until he snapped their spell. “There was a lot of boredom, too,” he commented in an entirely different tone. “Lots of hours just trying to fill up time.” That was all that he was ready to say.
Following a quiet pause, XMercy reached down and put another log into the fire ring and then watched the sparks lift like fireflies and die into the dark.
“Mouse and I can make the trip in for supplies,” she told him. “You don’t need to come along.”
She started to hum, then broke softly into song: “By the light of the moon, we danced in the meadow, we sang and we danced by the light of the moon. Then the night birds chimed in and lent us a chorus, and down in the pond we were joined by a loon.”
Mouse followed in, improvising the next stanza with new lines, singing with passion and brutally out of key. “By the light of the moon, we danced in the meadow, we sang and we danced by the light of the moon. The hoot owl screeched from the top of a spruce tree, and I sound kinda like him whenever I croon.”
Then Spencer surprised them both and surprised himself even more. It had been at least twenty-five years since he and XMercy had last jammed together. He sang: “By the light of the moon, we danced in the meadow, we sang and we danced by the light of the moon. So resin your bow and get out your fiddle, and if the mood strikes you, come belt out a tune.”
XMercy squeezed Mouse’s forearm then stood up and rushed Spencer, clutching him in a bear hug before he could shy away. Her hearty laughter went a long way toward melting the years away.
When she sat back down, she remembered she had a joint in the pocket of the shirt she was wearing. She fished it out like she had won a prize, sucked along the seam, and lit it up, taking a deep draw, before passing it along to Mouse, who did likewise. When it came back to her, XMercy tilted it in Johnny’s direction then took it back. She seemed surprised when he held out his fingers to take it.
“Why, Johnny the Boy Scout smokes weed,” she teased. “Go slow. It’s real strong.”
“Might as well try it,” he replied. “Only live once.”
Mouse and XMercy watched him draw in a huge hit that he held in his lungs for at least twenty seconds before coughing out the thick smoke. He held his head stiffly and closed both eyes as it hit him, then all three cracked up.
“What did you dream life would be like, Johnny?” XMercy asked him, her tone deep and sincere. “What did you think you would become?”
Spencer stared at the joint, fixated, until XMercy kicked her toes at his ear. “I don’t remember dreaming,” he finally responded, at a loss for any more truthful answer.
“I didn’t think I’d be growing weed in the sticks,” XMercy laughed. “Or smoking it with little Johnny Spencer, that’s for sure!”
“Machu Picchu,” Mouse said after the joint was nearing gone. Nothing more, just “Machu Picchu,” straight out of nowhere, making them laugh more. XMercy crawled onto the chaise and snuggled up next to Mouse.
“Quebec,” Mouse said, a few minutes later. “Yeah, Quebec would be good.”
XMercy tried to picture Quebec but was interrupted. “Fuck. Mosquito!” She almost cried. It was so beautiful being outside at night, but the mosquitoes would be coming so soon. “We tried bug zappers, citronella, nothing works,” she said, annoyed by what she knew was coming. “DEET is disgusting. I even have to put it in my hair or they bite the top of my head and then I’m scratching the whole night long. Lord, why mosquitoes?”
Spencer struggled up to his feet and stood in front of the fire with his arms crossed in front of him. He threw his chin up high and announced in a terrible Russian accent, “I am Dimitri Vosilych.” He opened his arms and thumped his chest and repeated himself, “I am Dimitri Vosilych.”
“Not cool,” Mouse grumbled, touching her fingers to her neck but on the wrong side, away from the tattoo. “That is so not cool.” XMercy turned her face up and planted a kiss on Mouse’s DV. It was ok. He didn’t mean it. She liked the salty taste of Mouse’s skin and licked her way up the nape of Mouse’s neck to her earlobe, then bit and sucked at it. Mouse turned her head down, her lips meeting XMercy’s in a series of soft, languid kisses that sent Spencer off to bed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dawn glowed a soft golden pink through the trees. Spencer reached his arms down, held his toes and rolled his neck and head, feeling every unique sinew stretch and release as the forest around him came alive—a rustling, fluttering rebirth between the branches and within the ground cover. The finches and chipmunks ignored his presence while Spencer held one stylized pose then gracefully transitioned to the next, following the ritual routine to his Chi, connecting to the flow within and without, like the creek moving over smooth stones, tying himself to all living things.
XMercy rose early; Mouse, like the lazy crows, slept in. XMercy had decided to bake. Fresh bread and wild honey, Turkish apple tea. She cleaned up the remnants of the night before, plastic KFC sporks and fragments of colored paper in the fire ring, then opened the card table and let the sun warm her face.
&nbs
p; The metal sides reflected warmth when they sat down to eat. XMercy sliced still-warm brown bread, putting a thickly cut piece onto the plate she had chosen especially for each of them. The bread hinted of wood smoke, not enough to offend: rich and nutty, warm on the mouth, the honey sweetness just kissed by a sting. All three chewed in silence, smiles spreading between them. XMercy and Mouse giggled; Mouse pinched her cup and stuck out her pinkie when she took a sip of tea.
XMercy still had the supply list from the original greenhouse plus sticky notes about everything they wanted to modify and improve upon this time around. She wanted the steel poles set into concrete, then have the PVC slid down into the steel so the frame wouldn’t flex as much during the bad blows that would sometimes sweep down the canyon.
“Maybe it would be a good idea to add a rain flap,” Spencer suggested. He also sketched out how to go about framing in a solar-driven exhaust fan high up on the rear wall.
“Save the cardboard tubes from TP and paper towels,” he said. He also had a list prepared with easy-to-find supermarket items. “I’ll make some firecrackers out of them that’ll be heard in the next county if anybody comes through uninvited.”
XMercy couldn’t stand the idea of having a poor dog kept outside all year round, but Spencer still thought they ought to get one. “A good dog is better than alarms,” he repeated. But Mouse was allergic. No dog.
“Lowe’s, down in Beckley, has most everything,” Mouse told them after taking Spencer’s list. “What they don’t have, Ace will.”
“Don’t forget the monofilament fishing line,” Spencer added. “I don’t think that made the list.”
Mercy jumped up from the table, returning from the shed after a few minutes carrying two poles, one for fly-casting, the second equipped with a spinning reel, along with a tackle box and a creel that looked brand-new. She handed everything to Spencer, along with a map she fetched from the 4Runner’s glove compartment, declaring, “I have a taste for trout and you’ve got a job!”
