William Boyd - Stars and bars

“Did she say anything?” The general’s voice trembled, his dark eyes were bright with potential tears. “Anything at all? Anything she said. I’ve been looking all day. I can’t find her, you see.”

“Well…All she said was ‘Alvin, you bastard, I never want to see you again’, and ran off.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Just, ‘Alvin, you bastard’?”

“Yes. And ‘I never want to see you again’. You’re Alvin, I take it.”

To Henderson’s alarm he saw tears bulge at the lower lids of the general’s eyes and glide their way down the seams and fissures of his weatherbeaten face.

“I’ve got to find her,” he repeated, and took his bottom lip between his teeth.

“All the best of luck.” Henderson thought hard, trying to help. “She was in uniform. Won’t she have to report back to base at some point?”

The general clutched Henderson’s arm. “You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to help me find Mary.”

“Look, I’m terribly sorry for you, I really am. But there’s no way I—”

“ Please . You’re the only one.” Now he held both of Henderson’s shoulders. Henderson tried to ease himself free. Surely they wouldn’t end up grappling on the floor again?

“What can I do?” he said. “If it’s any consolation my girlfriend ran out on me too about five minutes later.”

“You see. Together we can find her!”

Gently Henderson prised off the general’s fingers from his shoulders.

“Really, there’s nothing I can do. I’ve got problems enough of my own. Massive problems. If only you knew—”

“ You’ve got to help me ,” the general said in a loud, cracking voice. Heads turned.

“No,” Henderson said. Poor guy, he thought. “I must go. I’m positive she’ll be back any moment.”

“WAAAH!” bawled the general, standing in the middle of the lobby as Henderson backed away.

“MWAH — WAAH — WAAH!” His hands hung limply at his sides, twitching as his shoulders heaved.

“What did you do to that man?” a shocked passer-by demanded.

The general blubbered noisily on. Receptionists scurried anxiously out from behind the long desk to lead him gently away into the trees. People glared hostilely at Henderson. Astonishingly, a few women had begun crying too — in sympathy, Henderson supposed. He felt unmanned, full of worry. Everyone wore preoccupied, troubled faces. If a general in uniform can cry like a baby, they seemed to be thinking, where does that leave the rest of us?

♦

His mind full of this baleful, admonitory image, Henderson drove back to Luxora Beach through the gathering dusk. He drove west, into the fire of the setting sun, which rinsed the few thin bars of cloud with a salmony golden light. He could feel a murky depression settling on his brain. He switched on the radio in search of distraction. Twanging guitars heralded a familiar tune.

She never said a single angry word to me,

Tho’ I cheated on her every gnat and day.

She smiled when I come home

No, she never raised a moan

An’ I laffed when I heard her ‘n’ the children pray.

§

Henderson remembered the tune from the Skaggsville Motor Hotel. He listened on with horrible fascination.

Tho’ he’s the happiest, meanest, full-time, signed up sinner

Don’ forget that he’s your only paw, Lord, forgive him for his sins, an’—

Henderson switched the radio off and drove to Luxora Beach in heavy doleful silence.

When he arrived in Luxora it was late. The main street, as ever, was devoid of traffic but there was the usual cluster of cars and pickups round the bar. The neon signs — the red bow, the blue rosette — shone cheerfully in the night. He stopped the pickup. Someone came out and he caught a glimpse of crowded figures, blurred by smoke, and the high excited voices of people having a good time. For a moment he felt like going in to join them, but he knew what a dampener his presence would be to the locals, so he started up and drove on down the lane to the Gage mansion.

The lights were on in Freeborn’s trailer, but the main house was quite dark. Henderson parked the pickup, got out, stretched. He stopped stretching when he saw that his own car wasn’t there any more, just one brick — a crude rebus — stood in its place. He sighed. Did this mean that Beckman was still prowling the wrong junction in Atlanta waiting for him to appear? Or had Duane decided to change cars for him?

He clumped up the front steps and into the hall. No music, ergo, no Duane. And probably no Bryant. He felt an odd relief at having to postpone that confrontation. He switched on some lights, and the TV for company, before wandering through to the kitchen in search of some food. To his considerable disquiet he realized he was treating the Gage mansion as though it were his home.

In the kitchen he found a barely warm loaf-thing, dark brown, as though made of meat. On closer inspection this turned out to be nuts, beans and pulses set in some sort of spongy dumpling. The fridge yielded a plastic box full of grated carrot. He cut a slice of nut loaf and added a spoonful or two of carrot. He was beginning to wish he’d stopped for a weaselburger in Luxora, but he was really too hungry to care.

He sat down at the frugal meal and started the long chew. He heard the sound of a car arriving, then Beckman sauntered in.

“Hi, Henderson. See you got back OK. Sorry to miss you, but I figured you were coming back anyways so it din’t matter none.”

“You mean you didn’t go into Atlanta at all?”

“You got it.”

Henderson thought of his two-hour wait at Peachtree and Edgewood. “Why not?”

“‘Cause you didn’t have no car, man. It wasn’t there this morning.”

“What do you mean it wasn’t there?” He felt the sense of baffling weakness descend on him which he now associated with life in Luxora Beach.

“I got up this morning, no car. Simple as that.”

“Duane?”

“Could be. I heard he was trying to get it fixed up and all.”

“But there was nothing wrong with the bloody thing!” He drummed his fingers on the table. The crying general, the disappearing car…These were like portents in a Shakespearean play. Beckman was talking again.

“Some cars are real dogs. I remember back in Quarig Tri we had an A.P. C. was a real mother. Always throwing tracks, breaking down. One day we woke up an’ it warn’t there. Just like yours. Seems the sarge got stoned with some chopper pilots, drove it off to the airfield. They picked it up — used one of them big fuckers, a Chinook — flew out over a jungle and dropped it off. Figured if Charlie Cong picked it up it’d do the war effort more good fouling things up for the gooks.” Beckman laughed at his anecdote, tucking his thin blond hair behind his ears, his eyelids fluttering like the wings of a hovering bird.

“Well hello,” Cora stood in the doorway, cigarette held beside her face. “My father would like to see you.”

So there were people at home, Henderson thought.

“Catch you later,” Beckman said. “Wait till you hear what happened next.”

Cora and Henderson walked up the stairs together.

“How do you get on with Beckman?”

“Fine, fine. He tells me all about life during the Vietnam war.”

“You do realize that he was never out there.”

“Sorry?”

“He was 4F. Because of his eyes. Nervous complaint.”

“No, I didn’t know. I was sure—” He felt obscurely shocked at this news. He didn’t know why. Nothing at the Gage mansion was what it appeared to be — he should have learnt that by now.

“Dr Dubrovnik get off OK? No ill-effects from your stroll in the lake? Walking on water takes some practice, I hear.”