Steven Womack: Way Past Dead

“No point in trying, babe. But don’t worry, we’re-”

Pop. Static. Crackle. Damn cell phone .

“Marsha!” I yelled.

“-sorry, the phone’s fritzing out on me. Listen, I gotta go. I don’t know how long the batteries are going to last.”

“Have you got a recharger?”

“Yeah,” she said through the ever-rising hiss. “Only we’re not sure if it works.”

“Marsh,” I said, almost desperately. Damn, I didn’t want her to go. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning. You got food, water, the essentials?”

She laughed. “Enough for a couple of days. We get real hungry, we’ll pop Evangeline in the microwave.”

“Well,” I said, “at least you’ve retained your sense of humor.”

“Who’s laughing?”

“Listen, babe. Keep your head down.”

“In your dreams, smart guy. And that’s Doctor Babe to you.”

“Okay, Dr. Babe. Listen, I–I-” I got stuck, couldn’t get the words out.

“Harry,” she said, “don’t get mushy on me. This isn’t a private line.”

“Yeah. So take care, will ya?”

“Yeah. See you soon.” She hung up.

I laid the phone down next to the CV joint, wondering for the first time if I’d ever see her again.

Lonnie pointed the remote control at the television and we got sound again. The station had cut away from the morgue to a conference room at the main police station downtown. I stared dumbly at the screen, exhausted, drained. As cameras flashed and reporters jostled for position, Chief of Police Harold Gleaves walked into the room and marched stiffly to a podium set up on a folding table.

“I’ve got a prepared statement for you,” he announced. Lonnie and I leaned forward in our chairs as he described for everyone what we’d all just seen and heard. After the short statement, hands flew up.

“Has the FBI been brought in?” one reporter yelled.

“No,” Chief Gleaves said firmly. “At this point in time, we’re considering this a local matter. The local FBI office has been notified, but for the time being, we have our own hostage negotiators on scene.”

“That won’t last long,” I said.

“Yeah,” Lonnie agreed. “The Fumbling Bunch of Idiots isn’t going to let this party go by without crashing it.”

I smiled. “Maybe they’ll bring in thuh Bew-row of Al-key-hol, Tabacky, and Far-arms.…”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “Bring in the BatFucks . That’ll do it. Then we can all kiss our asses goodbye.”

“God, you’re tacky,” I said.

“What about federal weapons charges?” a voice yelled. “And kidnapping charges?”

“As I said,” Chief Gleaves shot back, “as of this point in time-”

“Why do politicians always talk in cliches?” Lonnie interrupted. “As of this point in time …”

“Ssshh,” I hissed.

“-we have no proof other than the claims of the people involved that there are any illegal weapons on scene.”

“But they admitted it!” another reporter yelled back.

“If you’ll let me finish,” Gleaves instructed. I had to hand it to him; Chief Gleaves was cool. He was the first Nashville police chief to come to the job with academic credentials and a little professionalism, rather than just a hundred years on the beat and a lot of good ol’ boys on the council as pals.

“There have been no charges filed against these people yet. The last thing we are going to do is go in there and provoke a confrontation. I’m not going to have another Waco here.”

“That’s a switch,” Lonnie said. “Old Baltimore Sims would’ve welcomed the chance go in there shooting.”

Baltimore Sims was a North Nashville boy who’d come up out of the old city sheriff’s department in the days before city consolidation. He had only a tenth-grade education, but he’d served as Nashville police chief for over a decade before being forced to retire for having his picture taken with guys in black suits at Churchill Downs one too many times.

I leaned back in the chair, exhausted. We listened to the press conference rattle on for another minute or so, and when everybody started repeating themselves, Lonnie hit the mute button.

“Want another one?” Lonnie held up his empty beer can.

“No. Too tired. I’ve still got to drive home. Guess I ought to stop at Marsha’s first and make sure her place is okay.”

Lonnie got up and walked over to the refrigerator and swung the door open. The inside light chiseled ridges on his face while the blue flickering from the television danced on his back.

“You ever get the feeling the world’s going to hell?” I asked. My eyes burned and my mind became a muddled blur. I thought of Marsha, murdered cabdrivers, slaughtered convenience-store clerks. All innocent people just trying to eke out a living.

“It’s like a disease. Random chaos, violence. Where’d it come from?”

Lonnie smiled and shook his head, like boy, are you dense .… He walked over past me and picked up the television remote control, then pressed a couple of buttons and the picture changed to an old black-and-white film of GIs spraying napalm out of a flamethrower into a cave. A second or so later, some poor soul comes sprinting out, a ball of flame doing the hundred-yard dash to death, then collapses in a burning heap.

“Channel Twenty-six,” Lonnie said. “The War Channel, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. All you can stand.”

I stared at him for a moment. “There has to be a point here somewhere.”

Lonnie dropped the remote control on the top of the television, then flopped down in his chair. “You think we win wars because we’re good , man? You think we whip ass everywhere because freaking God’s on our side, and not on the other guy’s? That somehow we’re righteous …”

He threw a leg over the side of the chair and took a long swallow of the beer. “Hell, no. We won the war because we are the single most meanest motherthumpers in the world. We even beat the snot out of the Japanese and the Germans, who up until they pissed us off were themselves the meanest motherthumpers in the world. I mean, these people gave us the Rape of Nan-king and the Holocaust, for God’s sake, and we pummeled them into slop. You think we did that ’cause we’re the nice guys?”

“That’s different, man. It’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?” He leaned back, the can of beer cradled in his hands. “Violence is America, man. Just ask the Indians. See what they think of us. It’s genetic, encoded in the DNA. It’s where we’re from. It’s who we are.”

“I don’t believe that,” I said. “That’s lunacy.”

“So who’s arguing? Of course it’s lunacy. It’s also reality.…” His voice trailed off.

I stood up, suddenly very tired of Lonnie. I didn’t know whether it was his preaching, or the message he was delivering. Either way, I needed some air. “It’s late. I’ve got to go.”

“Yeah,” he said, staring ahead at the television.

“Thanks for the loan of the van.”

“No charge.”

“I filled up the tank.”

“Thanks.”

I stood there a second, then stepped over and opened the door. “Lonnie,” I said, turning back to him, “I’m really worried about her.”

“I know you are, man. Just hang in there. She’ll be okay. She’s a tough lady.”

“Thanks, buddy. Get some sleep. See you.”

“Yeah, you, too,” Lonnie said without getting up. “Watch yourself.”

As I stepped out into the darkness Lonnie turned the sound up on the television. I walked across the parking lot to my car, accompanied by the whistle of bombs dropping fifty years ago.