Six snowmobiles are parked in a circle on the snow-covered ice, and in the center, a fire has been set. People stumble around in the snow, talking and laughing, and throwing beer cans in all directions. Portable stereos have been set up on the seats of two of the snowmobiles, and the loud music with its bass thump-thump-thump echoes and re-echoes across the ice. Lake Marie is one of the largest bodies of water in this part of the county, but they always set up camp right below my windows.
I watch for a while as they party on, and it seems to fall into a dreary routine, even when two of the black-suited figures start wrestling in the snow. More shouts and laughter, and then the fight breaks up and someone turns the stereos up even louder. Thump-thump-thump.
I switch off the night vision scope and return it to its case in the cellar, and then go to bed. Even with yellow foam rubber earplugs in my ears, the bass noise reverberates inside my skull. I put the pillow across my face and try to ignore the whispers inside of me, the ones that tell me to get used to it, that this will continue all winter, the noise and the littering and the aggravation, and when spring comes, they’ll just turn in their snowmobiles for boats, and they’ll be back out here all summer long.
And in addition to trying to ignore those whispers, I’m also trying to ignore the other whispers that tell me to return to the cellar, to unlock the other metal boxes.
Thump-thump-thump.
Chapter 35
At one session with Ron, we talk about the weather for a few minutes before our conversation drifts off into painful silence, and he pierces me with his gaze and says, “Tell me what’s wrong.”
In my mind I go through a half dozen versions of a nonsense story I can say, and then I skate to the edge of the truth. “I’m having a hard time adjusting, that’s all.”
“Adjusting to what?”
“Adjusting to my home,” I say, my hands clasped before me. “I never thought I would say this, but I’m really beginning to get settled, for the first time in my life. You ever been in the military, Ron?”
“No, but I know—”
I hold up my hand. “Yes, I know what you’re going to say. You’ve worked as a consultant and you’ve traveled with us and lectured to us, but you’ve never been one of us, Ron. Never. You’ll never know what it’s like, being ordered around, being told to go here and live in a place for a year and then uproot yourself and go halfway across the world to a place with a different language, customs, and weather, all within a week. You never really settle in, never really get into a place you call home.”
He swivels a bit in his black leather chair. “But that’s different now.”
“It sure is,” I say. “For once in my life there’s a place that I can call my own.”
There’s a pause as we look at each other, and Ron says, “But something is going on.”
“Something certainly is.”
“Tell me.”
And then I know I won’t, not everything, at least. A firewall has been set up between my sessions with Ron and the exact details of what is going on back at my home. If I let him know what’s really happening, I know that he’d make a certain report, and within the week, I’d be told to go somewhere else. If I was younger and not so dependent on a monthly check, I would put up a fight.
But now, no more fighting. I turn away for a moment and say, “An adjustment problem, I guess.”
“Adjusting to civilian life?”
“More than that,” I say. “Adjusting to living in Nansen. It’s a great little town, but…I still feel like an outsider.”
“That’s to be expected.”
“Sure, but I still don’t like it. I know it will take some time, but…well, I wish I was fitting in more, that’s all. I get the odd looks, the quiet little comments, the cold shoulders.”
Ron seems to choose his words carefully. “Is that proving to be a serious problem?”
Not even a moment of hesitation as I lie: “No, not at all.”
“And what do you plan on doing?”
An innocent shrug. “Not much. Just try to fit in, try to be a good neighbor.”
“That’s all?”
I firmly nod. “That’s all.”
Chapter 36
It takes a bit of research, but eventually I manage to put a name to the face of the man with the mustache who’s been dribbling his scent on my territory. Jerry Tompkins. A floor supervisor for a computer firm outside of Manchester, married with three kids, and an avid boater, snowmobiler, hunter, and general all-around regular guy. His family has been in Nansen for generations and his dad is one of the three selectmen who govern the town.
I use a couple of old skills and track him down, and pull my truck next to his in the snowy parking lot of a tavern on the outskirts of Nansen on a dark afternoon. The tavern is called Peter’s Pub and the windows are barred and blacked out.
I step out of my truck and call out to him as he walks to the entrance of the pub. He turns and glares at me. “What?”
“You’re Jerry Tompkins, aren’t you?”
“Sure am,” he says, hands in the pockets of his dark green parka. “And you’re the fella that’s living at the old Gerrish place.”
“Yes, and I’d like to talk to you for a second.”
His face is a bit rough, like he has spent a lot of time outdoors, in the wind and rain, and an equal amount indoors, with cigarette smoke and loud country music. He rocks back on his heels with a little smile and says, “Go ahead. You got your second.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Tell you what, Jerry, I’m looking for something.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’m looking for a peace treaty.”
He nods, squints. “What kind of treaty?”
“A peace treaty. Let’s cut out the snowmobile parties on the lake by my place and the trash dumped in the driveway and the hang-up phone calls. Let’s start fresh and just stay out of each other’s way. What do you say? Then, this summer, you can all come over to my place for a cookout. I’ll even supply the beer.”
He rubs at the bristles along his chin. “Seems like a one-sided deal. Not too sure what I get out of it.”
“What’s the point of what you’re doing now?”
A furtive smile. “It suits me, that’s why.”
I feel like I’m beginning to lose it. “You agree with the peace treaty, we all win.”
“Still don’t see what I get out of it,” he says.
“That’s the purpose of a peace treaty,” I say. “You get peace.”
“Feels pretty peaceful right now.”
“That might change,” I say, instantly regretting the words.
His eyes darken. “You threatening me?”
A retreat, recalling my promise to myself when I came here. “No, not a threat, Jerry. What do you say?”
He turns and walks away, moving his head to keep me in view. “Your second got used up a long time ago, pal. And you better be out of this lot in another minute, or I’m going inside and coming out with a bunch of my friends. You won’t like that.”
No, I won’t, and it won’t be for the reason you believe.
If they did come out I’d be forced into old habits and old actions, and I had promised myself I wouldn’t do that. I can’t.
“You got it,” I say, backing away. “But remember this, Jerry. Always.”
“What’s that?”
“The peace treaty,” I say, going to the door of my pickup truck. “I offered.”
Chapter 37
Another visit to Ron’s, on a snowy day. The conversation sort of meanders along and I don’t know what gets into me, but I turn to the old mill windows and look outside and say, “What do people expect, anyway?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“You take a tough teenager from a small Ohio town, and you train him and train him and train him to do horrible and nasty things in the service of his country. Each year he gets older, each year he gets better, as you turn him into a very efficient hu
nter, a very efficient meat eater.”
I take a breath, everything pouring out. “Then, he’s betrayed. He makes a rough-and-ready deal. Apologies and arrangements are extended, they say thank you very much and send him back to the world of quiet vegetarians and expect him to start eating cabbages and carrots with no fuss or muss. Every year, hundreds of hunters like me get discharged and are sent back to the world of civilians. A hell of a thing, thinking you can send a hunter home without any problems, expect him to put away his tools and skills. Especially…especially after a betrayal.”
“Maybe that’s why we’re here,” he suggests.
“Oh, please,” I say. “Do you think this makes a difference?”
“Does it make a difference to you?”
I keep on looking out the window. “We’ve been seeing each other for about four months. Too soon to tell, I’d say. And I can’t speak for everybody else. Truth is, I wonder if this is meant to work, or if it’s meant to make some people feel less guilty. The people who did the hiring, training, betraying.”
“What do you think?”
I turn to him. “I think that for the amount of money you charge Uncle Sam, you ask too many damn questions.”
Chapter 38
At 2:00 a.m. I’m outside on the porch, again with the night vision scope in my hands. They’ve returned, and if anything, the music and the engines blare even louder. A fire burns merrily in the snow among the snowmobiles, and as they prance and holler, I wonder if some base parts of their brains are remembering thousand-year-old rituals, rituals as old as the ice fields or the savannas.
As I look at the dancing and drinking figures, that damnable whisper comes back. Go back down to the cellar. The long case at the other end of the cellar. Nice Remington Model 700 rifle with the same night vision scope, except this one has crosshairs. How can it hurt? Might make you feel better. Scan and track those characters down there. Put a crosshair across each one of their chests. Feel the weight of a 7.62mm NATO cartridge in your hand. Know that with a sound suppressor on the end of the rifle, you can take out that crew in a fistful of seconds, before anyone knows what happens.
Practice. Get your mind back into the realm of possibilities, of cartridges and windage and grains and velocities. Figure out what it would take. How long could it take, between the time you say “go” and the time you say “mission accomplished.”
Might make you feel better. Might make you sleep tonight.
“No,” I whisper back, switching off the scope. “Can’t do it. Can’t go back.”
I stay in the porch for another hour, and as my eyes adjust, I see more movements. I pick up the scope. A couple of snow machines move in, each with shapes on the seats, behind the driver. They pull up to the snowy bank and the people move quickly, intent on their work. Trash bags are tossed up on my land, about eight or nine, and to add a bit more fun, each bag is slit several times with a knife beforehand, so it can burst open and spew its contents when it hits. A few more hoots and hollers and the snowmobiles growl away, leaving trash and the still-flickering fire behind. I watch the lights as the snowmobiles roar across the lake, zigzag around the warning signs in the center, and finally disappear.
The night vision scope is in my lap. The whisper returns: You could have stopped it right there, with a couple of rounds through the snowmobile engines. Highly illegal but it would get their attention, right?
Right.
Chapter 39
In my next session with Ron, I get to the point. “What kind of reports are you sending south?”
I think I have surprised him. “Reports?”
“Sure. Stories about my progress, how I’m adjusting, that sort of thing.”
He pauses for a moment, and I know there must be a lot of figuring going on behind those smiling eyes. “Just the usual things, that’s all. That you’re doing fine.”
“Am I?”
“Seems so to me.”
“Good.” I wait for a moment, letting my thoughts bounce around my head for a moment. “Then you can send them this message. I haven’t been a hundred percent with you during these sessions, Ron, not by a long shot. Guess it’s not in my nature to be so open. But you can count on this. I won’t lose it. I won’t go into a gun shop and come out and take down a bunch of civilians. I’m not going to start hanging around 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. I’m going to be all right.”
He smiles. “I’ve never had any doubt.”
“Sure you’ve had doubts,” I say, smiling back. “But that’s awfully polite of you to say, anyway.”
Chapter 40
On a bright Saturday, I track down the police chief of Nansen at one of the two service stations in town, Glen’s Gas & Repair. His cruiser, a dark blue, is parked near the pumps and is now a ghostly shade of white from the road salt used to keep the roads clear. I park at the side of the garage and in walking by the three service bays, I sense I’m being watched.
I look in to see people working on three cars that have their hoods up, and I also see a familiar uniform: black snowmobile jumpsuits. The chief is having a cup of coffee and he joins me outside to talk for a while. He’s overweight and wearing a heavy blue uniform jacket with a black Navy watchcap, but his face is open and friendly, and he nods in all the right places as I tell him my story.
“Not much I can do, I’m afraid,” he says, leaning against the door of his cruiser, one of two in the entire town. “I’d have to catch ’em in the act of trashing your place, and that means a surveillance, and that means overtime hours, which I don’t have.”
“Let’s be straight, chief,” I reply. “Any surveillance would be a waste of time. These guys, they aren’t thugs, right? For lack of a better phrase, they’re good ol’ boys, and they know everything that’s going on in Nansen, and they’d know if you were setting up a surveillance. And then they wouldn’t show up at my place.”
“You might think you’re insulting me, but you’re not,” he gently says. “That’s just the way things are done here. It’s a good town and most of us get along, and I’m not kept that busy, not at all.”
“I appreciate that, but also appreciate my problem,” I say. “I live here and I pay property taxes, and a group of men are harassing me. I’m looking for some assistance, that’s all, and a suggestion of what I can do.”
“You could move,” the chief says, lifting up his coffee cup.
“Hell of a suggestion.”
“Best one I could come up with. Look, friend, you’re new here, you’ve got no family, no ties. You’re asking me to take on some prominent families here just because you don’t get along with them. So why don’t you move on? Find someplace even smaller, hell, even find someplace bigger, where you don’t stand out that much. But face it. You don’t belong in Nansen, and it’s not going to get any easier.”
“Real nice folks,” I say, letting an edge of bitterness into my voice.
That doesn’t seem to bother the chief. “That they are. They work hard and play hard and pay taxes, and they look out for each other. I know those snowmobilers look like hell-raisers to you, but they’re more than that. They’re part of the community. Why, just next week, a bunch of them are going on a midnight snow run across the lake and into the mountains, raising money for the crippled children’s camp up at Lake Montcalm. People who don’t care about each other wouldn’t do that.”
“I just wish they didn’t care so much about me.”
He shrugs and says, “Look, I’ll see what I can do.…” But the tone of his voice and my little answering nod are only used to give each other the appropriate signals. He isn’t going to do a damn thing, and I understand that.
The chief clambers into his cruiser and drives off, and I walk past the open bays of the service station, hearing some snickers. I go around to my pickup truck and see the source of the merriment.
My truck, resting heavily on four flat tires.
Chapter 41
At night I wake up from another cold and bloody dream and lie there,
letting my thoughts drift into wonderful fantasies. By now I know who all of them are, where all of them live. I can go to their houses and take them out, every single one of them, and bring them back and bind them in the basement of my home, and rail at them.
I could tell them who I am and what I’ve done and what I can do, and all I would ask is that they leave me alone. That’s it. Just give me peace and solitude and everything will be all right. Just like I told Emily back in Serbia. Peace and quiet. That’s all I want.
It’s a wonderful fantasy. They would hear me out and nod and do what I said, but I know that I would have to do more to convince them. So I would go to Jerry Tompkins, the mustached one who enjoys marking his territory, and, to make my point, break a couple of his fingers, the popping noise echoing in the dark confines of my tiny basement.
Nice fantasy.
But it could never happen. I had made a promise.
I turn over and try to sleep, and wait for a long time for those engines to come back.
Such a happy retirement.
At Ron’s, our conversation drifts to this and that, and then I stare at him and say, “What’s the point?”
He’s resting comfortably in his chair, hands clasped over a little potbelly. “I’m sorry?”
“The point of our little sessions.”
His eyes meet mine unflinchingly from behind his glasses. “To help you adjust.”
“Adjust to what?”
“To civilian life.”
I shift some on the couch. “Let me get this straight. I work my entire life for this country, doing service for its people. I operate in an environment bounded by duty and loyalty, where there are clear goals and leaders, where things count. I travel far and wide, exposing myself to death and injury every week, making about a third of what I could in the private sector. At the very end, I’m betrayed. Four others…dead. All of this, and when I’m through, I’m told that I have to adjust, that I have to make allowances for civilians. But civilians, they don’t have to do a damn thing. Is that right?”
The End Page 9
