Chuck Logan - Homefront

Despite her show of annoyance, Kit went fast into sleep, tucked in happy with her risen bunny. Broker and Nina stepped carefully down the stairs. As they walked into the kitchen, their eyes met once, then glanced away. It was mutual.

The laughing jag at the sink had exhausted the requirement to talk. And the loud drifting silence dwarfed mere language. Broker thinking how the vectors of their lives had flashed in tangents, fiercely independent; now they had been united during this crisis. The big dangling question: Now what?

The wrong word might betray a lurch of hope or fear, precipitate an avalanche. Tip her back into the darkness.

For months they’d moved in a clumsy deliberate weighted dance around each other, two deep-sea divers in old hard suits. They’d bump surfaces, but their skin remained remote, not really touching, covered by layers of protection. Air hoses trailing, getting tangled.

And that was also in the signal of their eyes. Careful now, kicking off the deep-sea weights. Could be danger in ascending too fast.

So they treaded forward, side by side, through the tactile silence. They were coming up from a great depth. Still braced for the riptides, undertows, and threats…

…that had coiled and thrashed in the close shadow of madness.

Griffin had built a plywood platform in one corner of the office off the kitchen that supported a queen-size futon. The bed was covered with a lush green-and-orange quilt of vaguely Polynesian design. Bolsters and pillows to match. The colors were an exception to the stern North Vietnamese blacks, browns, and grays that Griffin favored. A souvenir perhaps, left behind from some forgotten amorous interlude. The bed beckoned now, a shallow protected place. They rambled there.

Still no words.

Nothing needy or hungry. Slow moves with no wasted motion. Nina striped off her clothes efficiently-the precocious birthday girl unwrapping a present. Chaste almost, until you saw the grinning skull-and-crossbones tattoo on her right shoulder. And the scars.

Two pairs of jeans mingled on the floor, socks, underwear; his shirt, her blouse. Chilly on the porch. Goose bumps. An almost adolescent scramble to get under the sheets and quilt.

Christ. How long? More than a year.

Since he’d strayed with Jolene Sommer.

Their first kiss was tentative, gentle. Cautiously, they found each other with a slow innate mastery of all things physical. They did it almost weightless, hummingbirds guarded on a bed of eggshells. She was especially wary, having lost control and not sure she had regained it.

Broker was making love with a woman who matched him scar for scar. His fingertips grazed the slick braille on her hips, her butt, her shoulder, her legs. And the one he couldn’t claim; the cesarean below her navel. Her birth canal had been scarred by fragments of the Kalashnikov round that had clipped her hip. After Kit’s difficult birth, the doctor told them they would be taking chances having another child.

Still no words. A final perfect fit of hope and fear. They took courage for granted, were less honest about being stubborn.

What was she thinking behind her green eyes? Probably what he was thinking: What happens now that we’re getting through this crisis?

Will we go back to who we were before?

Will we be changed?

Slowly she fingered the pack of cigarettes and lighter from her jeans, put one in her mouth, and lit it. Then she held it to his lips. He puffed but did not inhale, watched the smoke curl up to the tongue-and-groove ceiling. He remembered the Vietnamese connection. ARVN soldiers jotting on slips of paper, then burning them in the predawn. An airstrip at Phu Bai, Broker watching, waiting for the helicopters that would take them in. Smoke was the prayer language of the dead.

No words.

Harry Griffin passed a fitful night that was not altogether unpleasant. Sometimes, like now, when he’d get excited, this auxiliary energy kicked in. He woke up, ready; electric in the dark. And it seemed as if all twenty-five years of his sobriety surrounded him like a thick magnifying lens. Images from his past life jumped up huge, in aching detail.

Four-thirty A.M. He got out of bed, went into the kitchen, and heated water, ground coffee, put a filter in the Chemex coffeemaker.

Waiting for the water to boil, he went into the living room and sat on a cushion in front of the fireplace. He folded his legs in a half lotus, shut his eyes, and tried the TM trick: let his runaway thoughts stream away like rising bubbles. Tried to calm down.

Didn’t work. He startled when the teakettle shrieked, boiling over. So much for the tricks. He got up, poured the water into the ground coffee, and slit the cellophane on a fresh pack of Luckies. Since he couldn’t get his night horse back in the barn, he settled down to ride it out with coffee and cigarettes.

Sitting at a stool at his kitchen snack bar, he held out his right hand, thick-veined, bone prominent, absolutely steady. Vividly he remembered the last person he’d killed. Ten years ago, when he got talked into that last-minute hunting trip in Maston County…

Coming in on a dead run toward the shots and screams, seeing Chris Deucette, sixteen, working the bolt, ejecting the spent cartridge, then aiming the deer rifle at his stepdad, Bud Maston. Maston lying in the snow, already bleeding. Supposedly Harry’s buddy…

Felt again the smooth reflex swing, his own 3006 coming up.

Safety clicking off…

Snap shot, peep sight, eighty yards.

Easy.

The Maston County prosecutor didn’t even convene a grand jury. Called it self-defense.

The Viet Cong and North Vietnamese he’d slain were just numbers on a time card. A job. Didn’t bother him. None of them did, not even that whole family in Truc Ki, the night that stealth had required he use the knife. Broker had puked and walked away, struggling to believe there were still rules even down in the bottom sewer of guerrilla war.

Nothing he could remember bothered him.

Griffin curled his fingers into a fist.

It was the one he couldn’t remember…

That night, after the war; blacked-out drunk, walking the Cass

Corridor in Detroit, maybe a lingering scent of sweat and perfume from a stripper at the Willis Show Bar. Or maybe the hooker in Anderson’s Gardens down the street. Had his.38 jammed in his waistband because he sure as hell found it there in the morning with four rounds fired…trouble easy to find…all the jive punks on the street, flipping gang signs, pulling up their fucking shirts, showing off their 9-millimeters…

It was that single image of a zombie homicidal clown that haunted him; a mindless drunk composed of reflexes staggering around in the night. Reason he’d called Broker in Minnesota, got in his old cherry ’57 Chevy, and driven to the frozen North. Reason he’d sobered up with Broker’s help. Got to keep that jokester locked up…

Griffin squashed out his cigarette in the full ashtray and watched the sun rise thin over the lake. Okay. Be honest. Maybe the last one did get to him, the kid. There’d been a woman in St. Paul he thought he might marry, even start a family. Maybe Broker was right. He’d run away. After that scene in the woods, he’d quit his newspaper job and migrated up here. Do some honest work with his hands where there were fewer people.

Fewer people to hurt.

But there were exceptions. And possibly Gator Bodine was one them.

Quarter past nine Saturday morning Gator was dipping his toast in an egg yolk at Lyme’s Cafe, looking at a picture on the front page of USA Today -soldiers in chocolate-chip camo riding a tank all covered with red dust.