by Tobias Wolff
When Captain King finished talking he turned the men over to Hooper for transportation to their posts. Two of them, both privates, were from Hooper’s company, and these he allowed to ride with him in the cab of the truck while everybody else slid around in back. One was a cook named Porchoff, known as Porkchop. The other was a radio operator named Trac who’d supposedly managed to airlift himself out of Saigon during the fall of the city by hanging on to the skids of a helicopter. That was the story, anyway. Hooper didn’t believe it. When he tried to picture his son Woody at the same age, eight or nine, doing that, dangling over a burning city by his fingertips, he had to smile.
Trac didn’t talk about it. Nothing about him suggested a hard past except perhaps the deep, sickle-shaped scar above his right eye. To Hooper there was something familiar about this scar. One night, watching Trac play the pinball machine in the company rec room, he was overcome with the certainty that he’d seen him before somewhere—astride a water buffalo in some reeking paddy or running alongside Hooper’s APC with a bunch of other kids begging money, holding up melons or a bag full of weed or a starving monkey on a stick.
Though Hooper had the windows open, the cab of the truck smelled strongly of aftershave. Hooper noticed that Trac was wearing orange Walkman earphones under his helmet liner. They were against regulations but Hooper said nothing. As long as Trac had his ears plugged he wouldn’t be listening for trespassers and end up blasting away at some squirrel cracking open an acorn. Of all the guards only Porchoff and Trac would be carrying ammunition, because they’d been assigned to the battalion communications center, which was tied into the division mainframe computer. The theory was that an intruder who knew his stuff could get his hands on highly classified material. That was how it had been explained to Hooper, who thought it was a load of crap. The Russians knew everything anyway.
Hooper let out the first two men at the PX and the next two at the parking lot outside the main officers’ club, where lately there’d been several cars vandalized. As they pulled away, Porchoff leaned past Trac and grabbed Hooper’s sleeve. “You used to be a corporal,” he said.
Hooper shook his hand loose and said, “I’m driving a truck, in case you didn’t notice.”
“How come you got busted?”
“None of your business.”
“I’m just asking,” Porchoff said. “So what happened, anyway?”
“Cool it, Porkchop,” said Trac. “The man doesn’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“Cool it yourself, fuckface.” Porchoff looked at Trac. “Was I addressing you?”
Trac said, “Man, you must’ve been eating some of your own food.”
“I don’t believe I was addressing you,” Porchoff said. “In fact, I don’t believe you and me have been properly introduced. That’s another thing I don’t like about the army, the way people you haven’t been introduced to feel perfectly free to get right in your face and unload whatever shit they’ve got in their brains. It happens all the time. But I never heard anyone say ‘cool it’ before. You’re a real phrasemaker, fuckface.”
“That’s enough,” Hooper said.
Porchoff leaned back and said, “That’s enough,” in a falsetto voice. A few moments later he started humming to himself.
Hooper dropped off the rest of the guards and turned up the hill toward the communications center. There were chokeberry bushes along the gravel drive, with white blossoms going gray in the dusky light. Gravel sprayed up under the tires and rattled against the floorboards. Porchoff stopped humming. “I’ve got a cramp,” he said.
Hooper pulled up next to the gate and turned off the engine, then looked over at Porchoff. “Now what’s your problem?” he said.
“I’ve got a cramp,” Porchoff repeated.
“For Christ’s sake,” Hooper said. “Why didn’t you say something before?”
“I did. I went on sick call but the doctor couldn’t find it. It keeps moving around. It’s here now.” Porchoff touched his neck. “I swear to God.”
“Keep track of it,” Hooper told him. “You can go on sick call again in the morning.”
“You don’t believe me,” Porchoff said.
The three of them got out of the truck. Hooper counted out the ammunition to Porchoff and Trac and watched as they loaded their clips. “That ammo’s strictly for show,” he said. “Forget I even gave it to you. If you run into a problem, which you won’t, use the phone in the guard shack. You can work out your own shifts.” Hooper opened the gate and locked the two men inside. They stood watching him, faces in shadow, black rifle barrels poking over their shoulders. “Listen,” Hooper said, “nobody’s going to break in here, understand?”
Trac nodded. Porchoff just looked at him.
“Okay,” Hooper said. “I’ll drop by later. Me and the captain.” Captain King wasn’t about to go anywhere, but Trac and Porchoff didn’t know that. Hooper behaved better when he thought he was being watched and he supposed the same was true of everyone else.
He climbed back inside the truck, started the engine, and gave the V sign to the men at the gate. Trac gave the sign back and turned away. Porchoff didn’t move. He stayed where he was, fingers laced through the wire. He looked about ready to cry. “Damn,” Hooper said, and hit the gas. Gravel clattered in the wheel wells. When Hooper reached the main road a light rain began to fall, but it stopped before he’d even turned the wipers on.
Hooper and Captain King sat on adjacent bunks in the guardhouse, which was empty except for them and a bat that was flitting back and forth among the dim rafters. As on Monday and Tuesday nights, Captain King had brought along an ice chest filled with little bottles of Perrier water. From time to time he tried pressing one on Hooper, whose refusals made Captain King apologetic. “It’s not a class thing,” he said, looking at the bottle in his hand. “I don’t drink this fancy stuff because I went to the Point or anything like that.” He leaned down and put the bottle between his bare feet. “I’m allergic to alcohol,” he said. “Otherwise I’d probably be an alcoholic. Why not? I’m everything else.” He smiled at Hooper.
Hooper lay back and clasped his hands behind his head and stared up at the mattress above him. “I’m not much of a drinker myself,” he said. He knew that Captain King wanted him to explain why he refused the Perrier, but there was really no reason in particular.
“I drank eggnog one Christmas when I was a kid and it almost killed me,” Captain King said. “My arms and legs swelled up to twice their normal size. The doctors couldn’t get my glasses off because my skin was all puffed up around them. You know how a tree will grow around a rock? It was like that. A few months later I tried beer at some kid’s graduation party and the same thing happened. Pretty strange, eh?”
“Yes sir,” Hooper said.
“I used to think it was all for the best. I have an addictive personality and you can bet your bottom dollar I would’ve been a problem drinker. No question about it. But now I wonder. If I’d had one big weakness like that maybe I wouldn’t have had all these little pissant weaknesses instead. I know that sounds like bull-pucky, but look at Alexander the Great. Alexander the Great was a boozer. Did you know that?”
“No sir,” Hooper said.
“Well, he was. Read your history. So was Churchill. Churchill drank a bottle of cognac a day. And of course Grant. You know what Lincoln said when someone complained about Grant’s drinking?”
“Yes sir. I’ve heard the story.”
“He said, ‘Find out what brand he uses so I can ship a case to the rest of my generals.’ Is that the way you heard it?”
“Yes sir.”
Captain King nodded. “I’m beat,” he said. He stretched out and assumed exactly the position Hooper was in. It made Hooper uncomfortable. He sat up and put his feet on the floor.
“Married?” Captain King asked.
“Yes sir.”
“Kids?”
“Yes sir. One. Woodrow.”
“Oh my God, a boy,” Captain King
said. “They’re nothing but trouble, take my word for it. They’re programmed to hate you. It has to be like that, otherwise they’d spend their whole lives moping around the house. Just the same, it’s no fun when it starts. I have two, and neither one can stand me. Breaks my heart. Of course I was a worse father than most. How old is your boy?”
“Sixteen or seventeen,” Hooper said. He put his hands on his knees and looked at the floor. “Seventeen. He lives with my wife’s sister in Spokane.”
Captain King turned his head and looked at him. “Sounds like you’re not much of a dad yourself.”
Hooper began to lace his boots up.
“I’m not criticizing,” Captain King said. “At least you were smart enough to get someone else to do the job.” He yawned. “You need me for anything? You want me to make the rounds with you?”
“I’ll take care of things, sir.”
“Fair enough.” Captain King closed his eyes. “If you need me just shout.”
Hooper went outside and lit a cigarette. It was almost midnight, well past the time appointed for inspecting the guards. As he walked toward the truck mosquitoes droned around his head. A breeze was rustling the treetops, but on the ground the air was hot and still.
Hooper took his time making the rounds. He visited all the guards except Porchoff and Trac and found everything in order. There were no problems. He started down the road toward the communications center but when he reached the turnoff he drove past. Warm, fragrant air rushed into his face from the open window. The road ahead was empty. Hooper leaned back and mashed the accelerator. The engine roared. He was moving now, really moving, past darkened barracks and bare flagpoles and bushes whose flowers blazed up in the glare of the headlights. Hooper grinned. He felt no pleasure but he grinned and pushed the truck as hard as it would go.
Hooper slowed down when he left the post. He was AWOL now. Even if he couldn’t find it in him to care much about that, he saw no point in calling attention to himself.
Drunk drivers were jerking their cars back and forth between lanes. It seemed like every half mile or so a police car with flashing lights had someone stopped by the roadside. Other cruisers sat idling behind billboards. Hooper stayed in the right lane and drove slowly until he reached his turn, then he gunned the engine again and raced down the pitted street that led to Mickey’s house. He passed a bunch of kids sitting on the hood of a car with cans of beer in their hands. The car door was open and Hooper had to swerve to miss it. As he went by he heard a blast of music.
When he reached Mickey’s block Hooper turned off the engine. The truck coasted silently down the street, and again Hooper became aware of the sound of crickets. He stopped on the shoulder across from Mickey’s house and sat listening. The thick, pulsing sound seemed to grow louder every moment. Hooper drifted into memory, his cigarette dangling unsmoked, burning down toward his fingers. At the same instant he felt the heat of the ember against his skin Hooper was startled by another pain, the pain of finding himself where he was. He roused himself and got out of the truck.
The windows were dark. Mickey’s Buick was parked in the driveway beside a car Hooper didn’t recognize. It didn’t belong to her husband and it didn’t belong to Briggs. Hooper glanced around at the other houses, then walked across the street and ducked under the hanging leaves of the willow tree in Mickey’s front yard. He knelt there, holding his breath to hear better, but there was no sound but the song of the crickets and the rushing of the air conditioner. Hooper got up and walked over to the house. He looked around again, then went into a crouch and moved along the wall. He rounded the corner of the house and was starting up the side toward Mickey’s bedroom when a circle of light burst around his head and a woman’s voice said, “Thou shalt not commit adultery.”
Hooper closed his eyes. There was a long silence. Then the woman said, “Come here.”
She was standing in the driveway of the house next door. When Hooper came up to her she stuck a pistol in his face and told him to raise his hands. “A soldier,” she said, moving the beam of light up and down his uniform. “All right, put your hands down.” She snapped the light off and stood watching Hooper in the flickering blue glow that came from the open door behind her. Hooper heard a dog bark twice and a man say, “Remember—nothing is too good for your dog. It’s ruff-ruff at the sign of the double R.” The dog barked twice again.
“I want to know what you think you’re doing,” the woman said.
Hooper said, “I’m not exactly sure.” He saw her more clearly now. She was thin and tall. She wore glasses with black frames, and she had on a blue bathrobe cinched at the waist with a leather belt. Shadows darkened the hollows of her cheeks. Under the hem of the bathrobe her feet were big and bare.
“I know what you’re doing,” she said. She pointed the pistol, a small silver automatic, at Mickey’s house. “You’re sniffing around that whore over there.”
Someone came to the door behind the woman. A deep voice called out, “Is it him?”
“Stay inside, Dads,” the woman answered. “It’s nobody.”
“It’s him!” the man shouted. “Don’t let him talk you out of it again!”
“What do you want with that whore?” the woman asked Hooper. Before he could answer, she said, “I could shoot you and nobody would say boo. You’re on my property now. I could say I thought you were my husband. I’ve got a restraining order.”
Hooper nodded.
“I don’t see the attraction,” she said. “But then I’m not a man.” She made a laughing sound. “You know something? I almost did it. I almost shot you. I was that close, but then I saw the uniform.” She shook her head. “Shame on you. Where is your pride?”
“Don’t let him talk,” said the man in the doorway. He came down the steps, a tall white-haired man in striped pajamas. “There you are, you sonofabitch,” he said. “I’ll dance on your grave.”
“It isn’t him, Dads,” the woman said sadly. “It’s someone else.”
“So he says,” the man snapped. He started down the driveway, hopping from foot to foot over the gravel. The woman handed him the flashlight and he turned it on in Hooper’s face, then moved the beam slowly down to his boots. “Sweetie pie, it’s a soldier,” he said.
“I told you it wasn’t him,” the woman said.
“But this is a terrible mistake,” the man said. “Sir, I’m at a loss for words.”
“Forget it,” Hooper told him. “No hard feelings.”
“You are too kind,” the man said. He reached out and shook Hooper’s hand, then nodded toward the house. “Come have a drink.”
“He has to go,” the woman said.
“That’s right,” Hooper told him. “I was just on my way back to base.”
The man gave a slight bow with his head. “To base with you, then. Good night, sir.”
Captain King was still asleep when Hooper returned to the guardhouse. His thumb was in his mouth. Hooper lay in the next bunk with his eyes open. He was still awake at four in the morning when the telephone rang.
It was Trac calling from the communications center. He said that Porchoff was threatening to shoot himself—and him, if he tried to interfere. “This dude is mental,” Trac said. “You get me out of here, and I mean now.”
“We’ll be right there,” Hooper said. “Just give him lots of room. Don’t try to grab his rifle or anything.”
“Fat fucking chance,” Trac said. “Man, you know what he called me? He called me a gook. I hope he wastes himself. I don’t need no assholes with loaded guns declaring war on me, man.”
“Just hold on,” Hooper told him. He hung up and went to wake Captain King, because this was a mess and he wanted it to be Captain King’s mess and Captain King’s balls that got busted if anything went wrong. He walked over to Captain King and stood looking down at him. Captain King’s thumb had slipped out of his mouth. Hooper decided not to wake him after all. Captain King would probably refuse to come anyway, but if he did come he’d scre
w things up for sure.
A light rain had begun to fall. The road was empty except for one jeep coming toward him. Hooper waved at the two men in front as they went past, and they both waved back. He followed their lights in his mirror until they vanished behind him.
Hooper parked the truck halfway up the drive and walked the rest of the distance. The rain was falling harder now, tapping steadily on the shoulders of his poncho. Sweet, thick, almost unbreathable smells rose from the earth. He walked slowly, gravel crunching under his boots. When he reached the gate a voice to his left said, “Shit, man, you took your time.” Trac stepped out of the shadows and waited as Hooper tried to get the key into the lock. “Come on, man,” he said, and knelt with his back to the fence and swung the barrel of his rifle from side to side.
“Got it,” Hooper said. He took the lock off, and Trac pushed the gate open. “The truck’s down there,” Hooper told him. “Just past the turn.”
Trac’s face was dark under the hood of his glistening poncho. “You want this?” he asked, holding out his rifle.
Hooper looked at it. He shook his head. “Where’s Porchoff?”
“Around back,” Trac said. “There’s some picnic benches out there.”
“All right,” Hooper said. “I’ll take care of it. Wait in the truck.”
“Shit, man, I feel like shit,” Trac said. “I’ll back you up, man.”
“It’s okay,” Hooper told him. “I can handle it.”
“I don’t cut out on anybody.” Trac shifted back and forth.
“You aren’t cutting out,” Hooper said. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
Trac started down the drive. When he disappeared around the turn Hooper kept watching to make sure he didn’t double back. A stiff breeze began to blow, shaking the trees, sending raindrops rattling down through the leaves.
Hooper turned and walked through the gate into the compound. The forms of shrubs and pines were dark and indefinite in the slanting rain. He followed the fence to the right, squinting into the shadows, and saw Porchoff hunched over a picnic table. He stopped and called out, “Hey, Porchoff! It’s me—Hooper.”
