Michael Langlois - Bad Radio

It would scout something out, and come back and jab Henry in the palm with its fangs, and then he would tell us what Mr. Careful saw, more or less. At first it was plenty creepy, but for some reason, we eventually came to look at the little wooden scout as a pet or a mascot.

Maybe it was the fact that each one of us donated blood to it, but it always felt friendly, like it was completely on our side, the way your dog would be.

I put my other hand, palm up, next to the first and the spider stepped lightly from one to the other, the tips of its legs barely denting my skin. It moved just as fluidly as I recalled. “Hey there, Mr. Careful.” I smiled down at it.

Henry held out his hand, and Mr. C leapt gracefully between us. “After you called to say you were coming up here to visit, I went to my desk to get my old notebooks and things from Warsaw, and I saw the matchbox that we kept him in, and got him out.” He looked at Mr. C thoughtfully. “I haven’t thought about him in years.”

“Brings back a lot of memories.” Very few of them good.

“That it does.” He got up and his knees cracked like old sticks. “Good night, Abe.”

“Good night, Henry.” I drowsed that night, but I didn’t sleep. Every sound drew my attention to the big windows overlooking the porch, and out into the night.

The sun woke me, spilling cheerful light through the windows and across my face as I lay tangled up in my blankets on the couch. The night had been a fitful mix of half-remembered dreams and anxious watchfulness. Getting up was a relief.

Savory smells and the subtle sounds of breakfast cooking revealed that I wasn’t the only one up. Warm thoughts of coffee and eggs hurried my steps as I grabbed both of my bags and padded across the chilly wooden floor to the hall bathroom to take a shower.

Ten minutes of scalding hot water did an acceptable job of substituting for several hours of sleep, driving off the last of the night’s tension.

After dressing and repacking my old clothes, I knelt on the bathroom floor and unzipped the second duffle. Inside were two old familiar things, both of which I had salvaged from my house as it burned down around me.

The first was a leather holster that was stiff and shiny with age, the worn surface covered with a fine network of cracks and lines. A long strip that started with a metal ring and ended in a six-inch tube went against the outer thigh of my right leg, attached by a leather strap meant to go around your belt and snap shut, and another stout strap at the bottom that went around my leg. I buckled it on a little clumsily. It had been a long time. I stood and knelt a few times, getting the tightness right and making sure that the old leather was still sturdy. It was.

The second item was an eighteen-inch-long steel rod that was an inch-and-a-half in diameter. The bottom four inches were wrapped in sweat-darkened leather over crosscuts in the metal underneath.

A two-inch piece that was the same diameter as the shaft was welded to the side where the wrap ended, giving it the appearance of a tonfa, except that the short side handle was cut off square instead of rounded, and much too short.

I hadn’t had any desire to get fancy at the time, I just cut two pieces off of a thirty-foot section of steel construction stock and welded them together.

I wrapped my hand around the grip and squeezed the leather until it creaked. The heft of it felt good to me, although it would be uncomfortably heavy to any other man. I had kept it oiled and wrapped, but the metal had still developed a dark patina over the years.

Its metallic smell was at once familiar and disquieting for the memories it carried. I slipped the end through the metal ring on the holster and down into the snug leather tube at the bottom. Unlike the single belt loop that most batons or nightsticks were carried with, this rig would keep the weapon in place regardless of whether I was running, climbing, or even inverted.

Of course it was uncomfortable and awkward as all hell, but with bags around, I figured I could live with it one more time. I rolled up the empty duffel and stuck it in my clothes bag, then followed my nose to the kitchen.

When I walked in, Anne was already seated, and Henry was putting a big bowl of grits down on the table. The bowl stopped in midair as his eyes went from my face to my leg and back again. “Sleep well?” The bowl thumped down.

“Like a baby. Cranky and two hours at a time.”

He put an empty plate and a cup of coffee in front of me. “Like a big, ugly baby.”

“Granted. Morning, Anne.”

“What are you wearing on your leg?”

“It’s for my Teddy Roosevelt impression. Hey, you mentioned that Patty taught you to shoot. Can you handle my.45?”

She shrugged. “Yes, but I’m better with a nine or a.38. The recoil on the.45 is more than I like.” She grinned at me. “Because I’m so dainty.”

“Well,” said Henry, “I’m sure I can find you something that will better suit a lady of your refinement after breakfast.” If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“Thank you, Henry.”

Conversation drifted into small talk as we ate, as each of us tried to hold on to the pleasant mood of the morning. While Anne and Henry got acquainted, I mostly kept quiet and ate.

I can’t remember the last time I had real grits, but it was surely too long ago. They were creamy and buttery in just the right way and went perfectly with the fried eggs and thick slices of bacon that Henry served on top of them.

I was on my second plate when we heard the crunch of tires on gravel outside. “That would be Leon and his friend,” said Henry.

They came into the kitchen full of energy and testosterone. Both wore Marine BDUs, whose pixilated pattern of light and dark brown patches mixed with the occasional rectangle of blue looked strange and futuristic to me.

Leon dropped into a seat and was already reaching for a plate before he spoke. “Everybody, this is my buddy Carlos.”

“Hey.” Carlos gave me a friendly nod, then turned to Anne with a big smile. “And hello to you, sweet thing. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He was young, handsome, and obviously having fun. Anne rolled her eyes and laughed as he took her hand and kissed the back of it.

I turned to Henry. “Yeah, they’re Marines all right. Rangers have more class.” He laughed and slapped my palm.

“You got that right.”

“Just like the Army to call in the Marines when things get tough,” said Leon with a grin.

Carlos just shook his head sadly. “Some things will never change.”

The two men promptly settled in and inhaled the remaining six eggs, half pound of bacon, and pot of grits in five minutes flat.

“Still hungry?” asked Henry, who was apparently used to it.

“Nah, we had breakfast on the way here.”

“Of course you did.”

When we were done cleaning up the kitchen, Henry led us all outside. The morning air smelled green and fresh, and the sky was a deep clear blue. About a hundred yards behind his house was a square building made out of sheet metal on a wooden frame. It was about the size of a barn and it looked old. He opened the big padlock on the front door and let us inside, flipping on the overhead fluorescent lights as he entered.

Walking in, I was hit with the smell of machine oil and concrete dust. Two large worktables stood in the middle of the floor, and a desk was pushed into one corner. Four full-sized metal filing cabinets stood against another wall, and wooden shelves lined the entirety of the remaining two, the top shelves filled with books and binders, the bottom shelves stacked with boxes and small crates.

“Wait for me by that table there,” Henry said, indicating the larger of the two tables in the middle of the room. “I just need to get a few things.” He walked across the room in the slow, measured gait of the elderly and began pulling boxes off of a shelf.