F. Wilson - Secret Histories

Korea tried to take over the south, we were sent in to kick their butts back above the thirty-eighth.”

Mr. Bainbridge wiped his mouth. “Which we did pretty easily, and that should

have been that. But some REMF ordered us above the thirty-eighth, and that’s when it got ugly. I remember—”

“Hold on there, Kurt,” Dad said, raising a hand. Then he turned to Jack. “What

you’ve just heard is a history lesson. Let’s leave it at that.”

Before Jack could protest, or ask what a REMF was, Mr. Bainbridge said, “Hey,

you hear what happened at Al Sumter’s wake?”

With no prospect of war stories, Jack had been about to retreat to his room. But

now he was al ears.

“I thought that was tonight,” Dad said.

“They had a viewing this afternoon. That freeholder, what’s his name?” He

snapped his fingers. “God, you see his name everywhere—”

Jack’s mouth felt as dry as pine needles. Final y he managed to say, “Mister

Haskins?”

He pointed to Jack. “You nailed it!” He smiled at Dad. “Good citizen you’ve got

there. Knows his civics.”

Jack decided to let him go on thinking that. No way could he tel him about

eavesdropping on Haskins and Steve’s father.

“But tel me,” Mr. Bainbridge went on, grinning. “Do you have any idea what the

hel a freeholder does?”

Jack shook his head. “Not real y.”

Mr. Bainbridge laughed. “Neither does anybody else!”

Jack wasn’t interested in what freeholders did. Who cared? He was interested in

the fate of just one of them. He had a premonition he needed

confirmed.

“What happened to him?”

“Keeled over dead, just like Sumter. Couldn’t bring him back. Seems like his

heart just stopped cold.”

Stopped cold … that was how Jack felt. Could it have been the klazen? Was there

real y such a thing?

“Wonder who’l be next?” Mr. Bainbridge said.

“What do you mean?” Jack asked.

“They say deaths come in threes. We’ve had Sumter, and now Haskins. Who’s

going to be the third?”

Jack must have looked as upset as he felt because his dad reached out and gave

his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“That’s just an old wives’ tale, Jack. And don’t worry, if there’s a third, it won’t be

anyone from this house.”

Jack hadn’t been worrying about that—the idea of anyone in his family dying

was, wel , unthinkable. He’d been worrying about Mr. Brussard. He didn’t want Steve to lose his father. But he couldn’t say that to Dad. How could he

explain something he didn’t understand himself?

He turned to Mr. Bainbridge. “Can I ask you something?”

Both Dad and Mr. Bainbridge looked at him expectantly.

“Go ahead,” Mr. Bainbridge said.

“Have you ever heard of a klazen?”

Both frowned. Dad shook his head. “You asked me about that this morning.” He

glanced at Mr. Bainbridge. “Kurt?”

Mr. Bainbridge shrugged. “Doesn’t ring a bel . What is it?”

“Wel … I heard the word and just wanted to know—”

“Hey, wait,” Mr. Bainbridge added. “I knew a Hans Klazen back in Mizzoo.

Dutchman. But that’s the only time I’ve heard the word.” He glanced at his watch. “Oops. Ev’l have dinner ready. Gotta go.”

He polished off his beer and handed Jack the empty. “Thanks for the brew,

sport.” Turning to Dad, he said, “You coming down to the VFW tonight for the

smoker?”

Jack knew that was a code word for the one night each month the VFW showed dirty movies.

Dad shook his head. “Not my thing.”

Mr. Bainbridge laughed. “Deadeye, you amaze me. After al we went through, how can you stil be a prude?”

Dad didn’t smile. “Just the way it is, I guess.”

Jack barely heard him. Deadeye? Mr. Bainbridge cal ed him Deadeye. Wasn’t that what they cal ed marksmen?

After their guest was gone, Dad headed upstairs to change out of his suit into something cooler. Jack fol owed.

“Why’d he cal you ‘Deadeye’?” he asked as his father unbuttoned his shirt.

“Did he?”

“Yeah. Does that mean you were a good shot in the army?”

He slipped out of his suit pants and hung them on a hanger. He was wearing light blue boxer shorts beneath.

“We don’t discuss the army or the war, remember?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts.”

“Walt told me he was in a mental hospital once.”

Dad gave him a sharp look. “When?”

“After the war.”

“No, I mean, when did he tel you?”

“Yesterday afternoon. Why was he in?”

“From what Kurt tel s me, he came home from ‘Nam saying he could heal people with a touch. The VA hospital in Northport diagnosed him as a

paranoid schizophrenic, but harmless. He joined a faith-healing tent show in the South, and Kurt was told some wild story about him real y curing people

until his drinking got him kicked off the tour. They say he’s harmless, but stil … keep your distance.”

Heal with a touch … was that why he wore gloves al the time?

As Jack watched his father hang up his pants, he spotted the metal box on the top shelf of the closet. He’d seen it a mil ion times but now it took on

special significance.

“What’s in the box?” He’d asked before but it never hurt to try again. “Nothing important.”

“You always say that.”

He pul ed off his undershirt and Jack spotted the scar where he’d had his appendix removed.

“That’s because the contents don’t change.”

Jack was sure now that Dad kept his marksman medals and other cool army stuff hidden there.

First chance he got, he was going to sneak a peek.

After dinner, Jack turned on the living room television and started switching through the channels. Cable TV had arrived in Johnson during the winter, and

Jack’s family had signed up the instant their street was wired. For as long as he could remember, Dad had been complaining about the poor reception

from their aerial. At last he had a cure.

The real y neat thing about cable TV was the remote that came with the box. Their living room set was an older model where you had to get up and

cross the room if you wanted to change the channel. Al he had to do now was stand back and press a button. He loved it.

An al -news channel cal ed CNN was on, showing some comments by President Reagan fol owed by a story on Hurricane Alicia. Tom stopped to watch

on his way out the door. Jack kept an eye on him in case he had some sort of vengeance in mind for the pistachio episode.

After a few minutes his brother said, “An al -news channel? Whose stupid idea was that? Won’t last a year—I guarantee it.” Then he turned to Jack.

“And don’t think you’re home free, numbnuts. I never forget. Reprisal is on the way. It’l hit when Miracle Boy least expects it.”

Jack waggled his hand. “Ooooh, I’m shaking.”

Tom’s mouth tightened into a thin line. He looked like he wanted to throw a punch. Jack readied himself for evasive maneuvers.

But Tom only pointed a finger and said, “It’s coming. Get ready.”

As he slammed out the front door, Jack resumed switching channels. He’d decided to skip Steve’s tonight and catch some TV—maybe Cheers and

Taxi. They were always good for a laugh.

“Hold it,” Dad said.

Jack jumped and looked around. He hadn’t heard him come in.

His father pointed to the set. “Go back one.”

Jack did and saw a man in a blue blazer, a light blue shirt, and a patterned yel ow tie sitting at a desk and talking to the camera. His hair looked funny: