Sherman Alexie: Flight

“Are you going to talk?” Art asks for the third time.

“Fuck you,” Junior says.

Art shoots him in the face and Junior drops. He’s gone.

“You got blood on me,” Elk says to Art.

“We all got blood on us,” Art says.

He’s right about that.

Art looks at me. I stare back. And then I spin around and vomit all over the place.

Art killed that guy so easily. You don’t kill that easily unless you’ve done it lots of times before. I wonder who taught Art how to shoot people with a real gun.

And all of this just makes me vomit some more.

When I look up, Elk and Horse smirk at me.

“What’s wrong with you, FBI?” Elk asks. “It’s not like this is your first one.”

“What?” I ask.

“Don’t play dumb,” he says. “I know what you did. I saw you.”

Elk smiles. I hate that smile. He knows me.

Have I killed somebody out here on the reservation? Why don’t I remember it? Maybe Hank Storm killed people. But then I remember the bank. I’m not any better than these men. I’m not any better than the real Hank Storm.

I am Hank Storm, too.

“Don’t worry about Hank,” Art says. “He isn’t himself tonight.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I am most definitely not the old Hank Storm. I’m a whole different kind of Hank.”

“What are we going to do about Junior’s body?” Elk asks.

“Let him rot,” Art says.

“He’s a traditionalist,” Elk says. “His soul won’t get to Heaven if we don’t bury him the Indian way.”

“Why do you care?” Art asks.

“Because I was taught to,” Elk says. He’s thinking hard. Then he surprises me. “Why don’t you guys get going,” he says. “We’ll bury him the right way.”

Horse grunts in agreement.

Elk and Horse tortured Junior and delivered him to his murderers. But now they are going to bury him with respect. I don’t understand people.

“All right,” Art says. “But I need something else first.”

“What?” Elk asks.

Art looks hard at me. “Shoot Junior,” he says.

“What?” I ask.

“Shoot Junior,” Art says again.

“He’s already dead.”

“Shoot him,” Art says and points his gun at me. “Or I’ll shoot you.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “He’s already dead. You can’t kill him twice.”

“I want your bullet in him,” Art says. “I want us to be in this one together.”

“But that’s not respectful, is it?” I ask Elk. “That’s not the Indian thing to do, is it?”

“You’re not Indian,” Elk says.

“Shoot him,” Art says. “Now.”

Scared, I pull out my pistol and stand over Junior’s body. He looks so young. He’s a kid. Like me. I aim my gun at his chest. At his heart.

I can’t do this. It somehow seems worse to shoot a dead body than to shoot a living man. Justice made killing make sense. But it doesn’t make sense, does it?

I’m going crazy. I am crazy. I want somebody to tell me that I’m not real.

“Shoot him,” Art says.

I close my eyes and pull the trigger.

Maybe you can’t kill somebody twice for real, but it sure hurts your heart just the same.

WHEN I OPEN MY eyes, I’m in a hospital room. For a moment I wonder if I’m back to being myself, to being Zits, but then I see Art sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed. I’m still trapped inside Hank Storm. But then I wonder if I’ve always been Hank Storm and was only Zits in a nightmare. Maybe I didn’t shoot up that bank full of people. I hope I’m just the man who shot an already dead guy in the face. Jesus, what kind of sick consolation can that be?

“Hey, Hank,” Art says. “Welcome back.”

“Where have I been?” I ask.

“Asleep.”

I just stare at him.

“How you feeling?” he asks.

Fucked by time, I think, and fucked by memory.

“Art,” I say, “you have no idea where my brain is right now.”

“You’re talking about that thing back on the reservation?” Art asks.

Not really, I think, but I might as well talk about that awful shit, too.

“Yeah,” I say. “The last thing I remember was standing over that guy, and—”

I can’t finish the sentence.

“After you did what I told you to do,” Art says, “you passed out.”

Can you blame me? I want to get out of bed and run away from Art, but I’m too weak.

“What happened after I passed out?” I ask.

“I thought you’d gone mental,” he says, “but it turns out you had some virus.”

“I’m sick?”

“Yeah. After you passed out, I shoved you into the car and drove fast. I barely got you to the hospital in time. I thought you were going to die.”

I think about Elk and Horse.

“What happened to those two other guys?” I ask.

“I left them there,” Art says. “They had stuff to do.”

“How long have I been out?” I ask.

“Three days.”

“Wow,” I say.

“Yeah, the doctors thought you maybe damaged your brain with that fever.”

“Am I going to be okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, the docs say you’ll be here a few more days; then they’re sending you back to D.C. You’re going to work a desk until you get strong again.”

“Listen,” I say. “About last night—”

“Just shut up about it,” Art says. “We don’t need to talk about it anymore. We’re at war. We’re soldiers. And soldiers have to do some tough things. That’s why we’re soldiers. And some of the things we have to do, they hurt us, you know? They hurt us inside.”

Art’s eyes fill with tears. But he doesn’t even notice he’s crying. He just keeps talking.

“In order to fight evil, sometimes we have to do evil things,” he says.

Art gasps for breath. I don’t think he’s ever said these things before. I don’t think he’ll ever say them again.

“I believe that what we did the other night was necessary,” he says. “Horrible and necessary. Do you understand that?”

Art and Justice fight on opposite sides of the war but they sound exactly like each other. How can you tell the difference between the good guys and the bad guys when they say the same things?

“I’m scared of you, Art,” I say.

“Oh, kid,” he says, “I’d never hurt you. Never. I love you, man. So many people love you.”

Three beautiful boys and a beautiful woman walk into the room. I don’t know who they are, but they know me.

“Daddy! Daddy!” the boys scream and jump on the bed with me. They jump on me.

I’m a father.

“Okay, okay,” Art says, and pulls the kids off me. “Your daddy is sick. You got to give him some room.”

“Uncle Art, Uncle Art!” the kids shout. “Do you have any toys for us?”

They call him Uncle Art.

This guy and I are best friends. This guy loves me. He loves my children. He loves my wife. This guy is part of my family.

Yes, this is the loving man who shot another man in the face.

“Hey, kids,” Art says, “why don’t we head to the cafeteria and let your mom and dad have a little time alone?”

My kids cheer as their Uncle Art, the killer, takes them downstairs for chocolate pudding.

After they’re gone, the beautiful woman leans over me. She is my wife and I don’t know her.

“Oh, Hank,” she says. “It’s so good to see you awake.”

“Yes,” I say.

“Are you contagious?” she asks.

If you can catch crazy, I’m a walking epidemic.

“It’s only a virus,” I say. “I don’t think you can catch what I have.”

“Maybe I want to,” she says.

I can’t believe this woman is my wife. She is beautiful. Black hair, blue eyes, pale skin. She is maybe the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in person.