by Aaron Polson
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he muttered.
During dinner on Monday night, Albert watched his son poke the meatloaf on his plate for the fifteenth time before saying anything. “Not hungry?”
The boy looked up, his face washed with a white frown. He shrugged and dropped his eyes back to the plate. His fork jabbed into the meatloaf again. “Not really.” He dropped the fork with a clatter on his plate. “Look, can I be excused?” His eyes swelled, rimmed with pink, prompting Albert to nod. Owen pushed from the tabled, grabbed his plate, and carried it into the kitchen.
Albert leaned closer to his wife. “I’m worried about him.”
“It’s a phase.” She grinned before taking another bite, and her green eyes danced. “I think he was a little upset because Lonnie is still sick.”
Albert looked at his hands and rubbed a thumb across the opposite palm. “I wish they wouldn’t have gone to Jantz’s place.” He took a sip of water, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples with both hands. “I’m glad the city has decided to tear it down.” His eyes opened Meghan’s smile. “Demolition starts next week, and the new lot should be up before the end of the school year.”
Meghan nodded and took another bite. They sat in silence for a moment while she chewed. Eventually she set her fork down and studied Albert’s face. “I know that place carries some bad memories. Why don’t you lie down, let that headache melt away a little?”
“The dishes.”
“I’ll handle the dishes. Go lie down.”
Albert obeyed, leaving his dinner plate on the counter next to that of his son. After staggering upstairs, he stood at the foot of his bed in the dark room, pushed off both shoes, and flopped onto the comforter fully clothed. His eyes drifted shut.
He remembered that little house when its whitewash was fresh and the old man spat at trespassers. Elroy Jantz was a squat, shriveled man with black eyes and a quick temper. They’d teased him before—throwing rocks at his windows, even breaking one once. But Elroy Jantz’s garden had the best bait worms in town, and the promise of fat, wriggling things pulled the young Albert to that black garden with his own partner in crime, a thick boy with blonde hair named Ralph Chapman. Their parents warned them away from that old hermit’s place—said he was strange and dangerous, but the boys were twelve years old and invincible.
In Albert’s memory, Ralph swelled fat and whitish-pink, just like the worms. The swollen Ralph poked a hand toward Albert and called his name, “Albert…Albert…Albert…”
“…Albert?”
He started awake and looked into Meghan’s green eyes. “Megs…”
“You were out cold. Thought you might like to shower or at least change before bed.” She pulled her t-shirt over her head and started on the bra clasp.
Albert rose, blinking heavily, trying to shake the malaise from his limbs. He watched Meghan’s muscled back and pressed his hands against her skin.
“Oh, feeling frisky?”
He spun his wife, pressed his lips against hers, and forced his wriggling tongue into her mouth. They tumbled into bed. After they made love, Albert lay with her pressed against his naked body for a time, sucking in her sweet scent, trying to forget the memories.
A week burned away, and Owen sat at the kitchen table, scribbling small robots on scrap bits of notebook paper. Albert slipped in through the front door, dropped his briefcase next to an old wooden desk, and sat down next to the boy. Owen wore a pale, unresponsive scowl.
“Hey, buddy,” Albert said.
Owen cast a quick glance at his father, muttered “hey,” and dropped his eyes back to the paper. His hands worked quickly, spreading dark doodles across the white page. Albert began to notice a different pattern to Owen’s robots. Instead of fighting each other, the usual motif, Owen had rendered a handful of large worms poking from the ground and devouring his creations.
“Looks interesting.” Albert smiled as he spoke, trying to engage his son in conversation.
Owen shrugged. “Guess so.”
Albert watched the boy work for a few more minutes before the silence ate at him. He moved to the stairs, glanced back at his son, and hurried to his bedroom. Slipping from his suit felt freeing; Albert was always happy to shed his work clothes and throw on a pair of shorts and a worn t-shirt. He took a deep breath and sat on the bed for a moment. The room darkened slightly, and Albert turned to the doorway.
“Hi.” Meghan moved from the doorway and plopped on the corner of the mattress.
“Hey.” A moment passed. “Is Owen okay?”
Meghan slipped one hand on Albert’s back and rubbed the knotted muscles between his shoulders. “You’re tense. Carrying too much extra weight.”
“What’s up with Owen?”
Meghan’s hand dropped. She moved it to Albert’s knee. “Lonnie’s been sick all week. I think Owen is just a little worried about his friend. Maybe you two should go see him after dinner tonight.” She patted his leg, stood, and walked out of the bedroom.
Albert pressed the Bowman’s doorbell, and waited in silence next to his son. Owen had brightened slightly at the prospect of visiting his best friend, but the trip to Lonnie’s house had been quiet, almost tense. When the door clicked open, Albert sighed long and slow. A well-etched face greeted them.
“Yes?” Lonnie’s mom was a plump woman, middle-aged with too many worry lines around her eyes. She brightened a bit upon spotting Owen. “Oh, Owen. Lonnie will be happy to see you. Come in.”
Owen moved closer to his father as they crossed the threshold. The Bowman’s house smelled of flowers and Lysol. “Dad, come with me,” he whispered to his father.
“Sure, buddy.” Albert unconsciously reached for his son’s hand.
“Lonnie? You have company,” his mother announced at a bedroom door. The odor of disinfectant swelled from the dark interior, overwhelming the hint of flowers. She reached into the room and flicked a switch, illuminating the room.
Lonnie, his face washed like a bleached desert, lay under a thin blanket on his bed. His cheeks had collapsed some, lost some of their childish blubber in just one week. Under the blanket, his body shifted like a loose pile of bones. His mouth opened as if he would speak, but no sound came.
Albert staggered, seeing his old friend in Lonnie’s eyes: Ralph, sick and fading, pale and dying, just like Lonnie Bowman. Ralph ballooned in his memory and blocked out the lamp. Some things were better left in the ground. “Owen, I…” He retreated into the hallway and blew out the sick air. “Owen, I’m going to wait in the kitchen. You two probably want to talk.”
The boy turned to his father, nodded, and stepped closer to what remained of his friend.
Mrs. Bowman offered Albert a glass of water, and he sat sipping in silence. For her part, Mrs. Bowman bustled about the kitchen, finishing dinner dishes and scrubbing the stove top. She tried to ignore his presence, but seemed haunted by something. The silence grew, Albert fidgeted on his stool until he finally broke.
“What does the doctor think, you know, about Lonnie’s condition?” he asked, blushing and embarrassed like he was a child again.
She stopped her bustle. “Doc Wilson doesn’t know what to think. His tests come back showing anemia and all sorts of malnutrition, but he can’t find any cause. He has these pink marks, swollen in places—little lines, but the doctor doesn’t know what they are.” She laid the dishtowel on the counter, and shook her head lightly. “I don’t know what to do—”
“What to do about what?” Owen stood at the entrance to the hallway, cradling a white cube under his arm.
Albert turned. “Nothing buddy. We were just talking. You ready?”
Owen nodded.
Mrs. Bowman pinched her face into a forced smile. “Thanks for coming. Really. I’m sure it meant so much to Lonnie.” She paused for a moment, took a breath, and steadied herself. “He’ll be back in school before you know it.”
Father and son sat next to each other in Albert’s car, both riding in silence and star
ing ahead into the dark night. Something writhed in Albert’s memory, and every few minutes he would glance at the Styrofoam box resting on his son’s lap. His hands tightened on the steering wheel until the question burned from his mouth.
“What’s in the box, buddy?”
Owen opened the lid slightly. “Just the worms. The ones we dug out of old Jantz’s garden.” He pushed the lid shut. “I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry about going there, lying…”
Albert closed his eyes for a moment, stuffing his memories further into his brain. He sighed. “It’s okay, Owen.” He directed the car into their driveway.
“I think some of the worms got out.”
“What?”
“Some of them got out.” Owen pulled open the box again. “Only about half of them are left.”
“I made him leave them in the garage. For the night at least.” Albert thrust his hands under his head and closed his eyes. He tried to relax as Meghan contorted during her nightly yoga routine. “I think we should dump them in the morning.”
Meghan stood and stretched, exhaling as her fingers extended to the ceiling. With a light sigh, she moved to the side of the bed, flipped up the comforter, and slipped in beside Albert. There was a purpose in her silence.
“Meghan?” Albert propped his head on one arm.
She closed her eyes. “Yes?”
“Don’t you think we should dump the worms in the morning?”
“Look, bub, I don’t think those worms have anything to do with Lonnie’s illness. They’re not hurting anybody here.” She opened her eyes slowly and turned to Albert. “As for Jantz—all that happened long ago. Ralph’s death wasn’t your fault or Elroy Jantz’s.” Meghan touched his face lightly with her hand. “That was all a long, long time ago.”
The weekend filled with rain, but on Monday morning Albert stood on the sidewalk in front of Elroy Jantz’s old house, a weary bungalow just blocks from the local high school. The old man was dead now, had been for the past eighteen months, but Albert still heard the threats—angry words that kept him away from that sidewalk for almost twenty-five years. He listened as the bulldozer growled angrily, creaking and clanking toward the small structure. His eyes seemed fixed on the house, but they saw a different time.
He remembered years before—a bright Saturday afternoon when he rode to Jantz’s house with his friend, Ralph. They crept through the old man’s back gate, slipped past the no trespassing sign into his vegetable garden, and pawed in the rich earth for the best bait worms in town. Jantz burst from his backdoor, spewing curses at the boys, catching Ralph by the collar before he could scramble to his feet and run.
“Mr. Roberds?”
The voice yanked Albert from his memory. “Yeah—yeah, what is it?”
The foreman stepped forward, handing him a phone. “Your wife, sir. Something about a friend of your boy…in the hospital.” His voice was ground under the cracking and rending of old wood as the bulldozer crushed the small house.
When Albert came home that evening, he checked the container of worms, verifying that they were still there.
Elroy Jantz came to visit Albert in his dreams that night. The old man’s pinched and grey face swelled before him, just as it had twenty-five years ago. Albert was a child again, a boy cowering before the gnarled man that held his best friend. He wanted to run, to hide, but the magnetic pull the old man held him locked to the moment.
“I’ve been watching you. You threw rocks—broke my window, trampled my garden, and now you boys want some worms, huh? Well, have some, have some.” He forced Ralph’s jaw open and shoved a wriggling thing inside. “Eat up, boys.”
The twelve-year-old Albert panicked, burned with terror upon seeing his friend’s wide, frightened eyes. He turned and ran, left his bike behind the old man’s fence and sprinted home, lungs exploding all the way. The old man yelled after Albert. He closed his eyes, but Jantz’s face swelled again, and a voice rose in his head. “Your turn’s comin’ boy. You’re next.”
Albert woke with a thick coat of sweat covering his head and arms. He heard a sound, maybe small feet working up the stairs, and then a click of a door. Albert rose, moved quickly from bed, out his door, and through the hallway to Owen’s room. Inside, the boy lay quiet and still. Albert turned back to his bedroom, and noticed a small smudge of mud on the carpet. He returned to bed and stared at the ceiling until dawn.
On Tuesday afternoon, Albert stepped out of the hospital into the bright sunshine. Lonnie had looked worn and grey, much like his memory of Ralph from all those years ago. Albert felt compelled to make the visit—he had to check Lonnie’s arms, see for himself all the unnatural pink lines under his skin. In the parking lot, a man stepped from behind a truck—just a pale shimmer of a man, a flicker in the afternoon sun. Elroy Jantz.
Albert’s breath caught in his throat, and he forced his eyes away. The air fell heavy on his bare skin, loaded and icy—enough that Albert shivered and drew the collar of his jacket about his neck. A quick gust of breeze whispered past his ear, and curiosity ripped his eyes back to the old man. He was gone, devoured by the grey air. A voice spoke in his head as Albert rushed to his car.
Elroy Jantz’s ghost chased Albert home. His anxiety grew as he sped through quiet, residential streets, knuckles whitening as he clutched the steering wheel. The worms had to go—maybe back to the lot that once held Jantz’s little house or dumped by the roadside out of town—but they had to go.
He guided his car into the driveway and waited as the garage door slowly rose, allowing a growing bar of muted daylight inside the dark space. The worm box rested on the workbench, and Albert snatched it quickly and tucked it under one arm. Meghan’s voice punched at him from inside the house as Albert turned back to his car.
“Albert!” she called again, almost shouting to snap his hypnosis.
He stopped and turned. “Yes?”
“Albert, I’ve tried to call all afternoon. Your phone—”
“I shut it off.” He backed a step toward the car. “I went to see Lonnie Bowman today.”
Meghan stepped into the garage, her face pale like fresh wax. “Oh. Albert, Owen came home sick today.” She pushed at her hair, an anxious gesture.
Albert blinked. The box felt heavy, and he dropped it on the hood of his car. “Sick?”
“He doesn’t look good. His arms…I’ve called Doc Wilson.”
The box seemed to throb. Albert pried off the lid and peered inside. He scanned the black earth, started clawing at the dirt, and only found a few, fat worms. He dropped the lid and dug a clump out with one fist, a writhing thing just visible between his fingers. “Not the boy…me…my turn…” he muttered before shoving the fistful into his mouth.
9: The Surgeon of An Khe
His name was Gerard Karnowski, and he hailed from Hoboken, New York. Legend held that some of the guys in the platoon tried to drop the nickname Carney—as in carnival sideshow freak—on him, but that happened before he was dubbed The Surgeon. Before he earned the name. I met The Surgeon during my time in-country, stationed with D Company, 1st Infantry, 22nd Regiment outside of An Khe, Republic of Vietnam. Regulars, by God.
During my first few weeks in the bush, we walked. We walked in the rain, in mud, orange creeping mud that sucked at your boots as a reminder that you walked on a foreign planet. The insects, especially the mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds, swarmed and buzzed, harassing us day and night. We sometimes walked in the thick, humid night to set up an ambush, waiting for the invisible enemy. When we weren’t walking, we dug into that red-orange mud, trying to create a small pocket of security in an alien jungle. While on patrol one day, I unexpectedly stumbled on The Surgeon at work.
He hunched over the body of a lone Viet Cong, a sniper killed by a foreword unit in our column. Our platoon commander, Lt. Terry Wucker, this scared twenty-two year old fresh out of ROTC, squatted under a tree with the radio operator, calling in the enemy KIA by the book. A few of the men fanned out to keep watch on the perimeter, s
ome whispered low, maintaining noise discipline, but I watched The Surgeon as he sliced into the dead flesh, removing the left eye from the body with the fluid motion of his bowie knife.
“What the hell is he doing,” I whispered to Tallman, a short-timer who had humped the boonies with The Surgeon for almost ten months. Tallman once said that ten months was long enough to sweat in Vietnamese for the rest of your life.
“Cutting the fucker’s eye out,” he said. “What the hell does it look like?” Curiosity, like strange but powerful gravity, pulled my eyes back to the body. The Surgeon’s hands worked quickly. His wide, flashing knife didn’t have the precision of a scalpel, but his fingers carried a swift and special skill.
“Why?”
“He collects them.” Tallman spat on the ground and rubbed his saliva into the dirt with the toe of his boot. “He fucking collects them,” he repeated, shaking his head.
I watched in silence as The Surgeon pulled a glass jam jar from his rucksack, a jar filled with clear fluid and a few floating horrible things—other eyes with small bits of flesh clinging to them, bobbing like bleached olives. After unscrewing the lid, he held the new eye in his palm, rinsed it with a splash of water from his canteen, and dropped it into the jar.
“Rumor is, they help him see,” Tallman said, laughing.
The Surgeon looked up and smiled at me as he rubbed the thick blood from his knife on a tuft of elephant grass. After he slipped the clean, glinting knife back into its scabbard and stood, I thought the man was a giant. He looked at me, and his mouth fell open in a wide grin.
When The Surgeon walked point, he wore the jar on a small leather cord around his neck like a special charm, and we never made contact with the enemy. He led us through dense underbrush, often hacking our way through the humming thickness of the jungle, but none of the grunts complained. He kept us safe.
