F. Wilson - Secret Histories

“Here. Sit.”

He noticed his gloves were leather. His hands had to be majorly hot and sweaty in those. As Jack seated himself, Walt leaned close and stared, his

gaze boring into him. It made Jack uncomfortable.

“What?”

“Just checking.”

“Checking what?”

“I thought you might be him, but you’re not.”

“What made you think—?”

“Don’t worry. I’l know him when I meet him.”

With that Walt scooted his rocker a foot farther away, as if afraid to stay too close.

Wel , he wasn’t cal ed Weird Walt for nothing.

Jack leaned back and started rocking. Not a bad way to spend a summer afternoon.

“What’s up, Mister Erskine?”

He laughed. “They cal ed my father ‘Mister Erskine.’ Cal me Walt. I wanna thang you for comin’ to my aid yesterday.”

Jack gave him a closer look. Barely lunchtime and already he had red eyes and slurred words. Jack felt a mixture of sorrow and distaste. And worry …

Steve Brussard could end up like this if he didn’t get a grip.

“I didn’t do anything,” Jack said. “Mrs. Clevenger did al the work.”

“Yeah, but you were there and you were on my side. Would’ve been just as easy for you and Weezy to join the crowd against me. But you two aren’t

herd members.”

“Yeah, wel …”

“Don’t minimize it, Jack. Look, I know what people think of me. I know I’m the town weirdo and the town drunk—I know I’m ‘Weird Walt.’ I’m a lot of

things, Jack, but I ain’t stupid.”

“I … I never thought you were.” Where was this going?

“An’ I’m not crazy. I know I act crazy, but I have very good reasons for what I do. Like these gloves.” He held up his hands. “I wear them so’s I don’t touch

anyone.”

“Yeah. Okay.” This was getting weird.

“An’ I don’t drink ‘cause I want to, I drink ‘cause I have to. I drink to survive.” Jack couldn’t help saying, “I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. Nobody can. Not even my buddies in ‘Nam.” “Is it something that happened in the war?”

Walt stared at him with a strange look in his eyes. Jack tried to identify it. The only word he could come up with was … lost.

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“I don’t talk about it. I used to, but I don’t anymore. It landed me in a mental hospital once. I don’t want to go back again.”

“My dad was in the Korean War. He won’t talk about that either.”

Walt looked away. “Lotta people like that. War changes you. Sometimes it’s something you did, sometimes it’s something that was done to you. Either

way, you don’t come back the same.”

Jack was thinking his dad seemed pretty normal—except for never talking about it. Jack would have loved to hear some war stories.

He thought of something he needed to know.

“You know, um, Walt. If you were a soldier and al , why’d you let a couple of punks like Teddy and his friend push you around?”

He shrugged. “I’m nonviolent.”

“But—”

“When I got drafted I said I wouldn’t fight but I’d be a medic.”

“So you spent the war fixing people up instead of shooting them down?”

“I don’t know about the fixing-up part. Mostly I just shot ‘em up with morphine so they could stand the pain and maybe stop screaming until dust-off.”

“Dust-off?”

“That was what we cal ed a medevac mission—when a chopper would come in and carry off the wounded.” He shook his head. “The things I saw … the

things I saw …” His voice became choked. “Maybe I shouldn’t have been a medic. If I’d been just a grunt back in sixty-eight, my life would be different now.

But it got ruined.”

Al this was making Jack a little uncomfortable. He wished he’d worn a watch so he could look at it.

“Um, I gotta run.”

Walt swal owed and smiled. “I know you do. Thanks for stoppin’ and listenin’ to me ramble. I just needed to talk to you. You did the right thing yesterday

and I wanted you to know that you didn’t do it for some useless, drunken lump of human protoplasm. That the guy you see on the outside is not the same

as the guy on the inside. Did I get that across?”

“Yeah, Walt,” he said, going down the porch steps. “Yeah, you did.”

He smiled through his beard. “Good. Because I owe you one, man. And don’t you forget it. Because I won’t.”

Jack hoped he’d never need to col ect.

6

After putting in his hours at USED, Jack stopped at the Connel house on the way home. He and Eddie were battling for high score in DonkeyKong.

Weezy came in just as Jack was handing the joystick back to Eddie.

“Hey, Weez. I need to borrow the cube tonight.”

She stopped in midstride and frowned. “Why?”

“Want to show Steve. He’s handy with gadgets. I want to see if he can open it. I can’t be the only one.”

“Gee … I don’t know.”

Jack felt a flash of irritation. “Don’t know what? You think I’m going to lose it or something?”

“No, I mean I don’t know if it’s a good idea to let it get around too much that we have it.”

“If that pyramid is as special as you think it is, I’l bet word of it is al around U of P by now.”

She sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She looked deep into his eyes. “You’l take good care of it, right?”

Jack put his hand over his heart. “Guard it with my life.”

“And you won’t tel anybody we found it with the body, right? ‘Cause they’l take it away.”

He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“I’m serious, Jack.”

“So am I. You’l have it back tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay, come upstairs. I need you to open it for me first.”

He fol owed her up to her room where he opened the cube and laid it on her desk. He watched her pul out a sheet of paper and trace the design on the

inside of the panels.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Just in case.”

“You’re acting like you might not get it back.”

“You think so?” she said without looking up.

When she was finished she snapped the cube back together, then wrapped it in a towel and put it in a shopping bag. She handed it to him.

“Don’t let it out of your sight.”

Jack shook his head as walked back downstairs. You’d think he was borrowing her first-born child.

7

After dinner, Jack took the bag of pistachios to his room but didn’t bother shel ing them right away. He needed to do something else first.

He put on Journey’s Escape —loud—and played a few runs of air bass to “Don’t Stop Believing.” Nodding his head in time, he placed the dried tepin

peppers in a cereal bowl and crushed them into flakes. Then, making sure no one was in sight, he crossed to the hal bathroom and added an ounce or

two of tap water.

Back in his room he mixed everything wel , then set it aside and started shel ing the pistachios. He’d done about ten when he heard a knock. Knowing it

wasn’t Tom—he never knocked—Jack placed the latest issue of Cerebus over the pepper bowl and left the pistachios on his desk.

“C’mon in.”

He turned down the music as Kate stepped through the door. Her gaze flicked to his desk where she spotted the pistachios.

She smiled. “Figure it’s safer to eat them in here, huh?”

“At least tonight. What’s up?”

Kate’s smile faded and she bit her lip. “I know I promised to find out for you, but I’m not sure I should tel you.”

“You mean about the murder ritual?” Jack felt his heart rate kick up. He’d been dying to hear this. “Go ahead. You can tel me.”