Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

“What’s that tube out of his mouth for?”

“James, the sarge isn’t breathing entirely on his own yet.”

The nurse moved a chair for him, and he sat beside the bed and took Sarge’s hand. A bubble traveled up the drip in the sarge’s wrist. “Sarge.”

The sarge’s very blue eyes, free-floating in their sockets, drifted toward James and stopped. Sarge made a ticking noise with his tongue against his palate.

“Do you see me?”

The sarge clicked his tongue again, tsk tsk, as if he were scolding a kid, tsk tsk. The lips white and cracked, flaking.

James leaned close and looked down into the sarge’s eyes. Eyelashes shellacked together by tears, radiating out in a burst, as in a child’s drawing. Beautiful blue eyes. If they were a woman’s you couldn’t stop looking at them.

“What’s that sound he’s making?” he asked, but the nurse had gone. “What are you trying to say, Sarge?” He wiped his own tears and sucked and spat in the brown waste can full of swabs and slimy tissue papers. “I just came by,” James said. “Just to say hi. See if you need anything. Shit like that.”

Every few seconds, that ticking sound. Was it Morse code? “Sarge, I forgot my Morse code,” he said.

Two nurses came in and moved James aside and drew the tube from between Sarge’s lips and stuck another tube deep down his throat. The tube made a scouring and sucking noise and the numbers on the monitor rose rapidly—121, 130, 145, 162, 184, 203. After a minute they replaced the tube and the sarge was able to breathe again and the numbers descended slowly.

“Goddamn,” James said.

“We’re keeping his lungs clean,” one of the nurses said.

“You didn’t even say hello,” James said.

“Hello, Sarge,” the nurse said, and they departed and James sat down again and took the sarge’s hand.

The sarge’s eyes floated there burning and pleading. Everything coming out of his eyes. James wept like a barking dog. The reality and the Tightness pouring off him, the purity of weeping, just crying, and who gives a shit—this is bigger than any of your games. The tears ran backward from the sarge’s eyes over his temples and into his ears, but he made no sound other than by clicking his tongue.

“This is James, Doctor,” the nurse said. She’d come back with a happy-looking medical man. “James is from Sergeant Harmon’s unit.”

“How we doing today, Sergeant?”

“What happened?” James said.

“What do you mean?”

“What happened? What happened? How’d he get hurt?”

The doctor said, “What happened to you, Sarge?”

The sarge moved his flaking lips and clicked his tongue. “He makes that noise,” James said. “Can you hear it?” “What happened to you, Sarge? Do you remember? We talked about

it yesterday?”

The sarge timed the movement of his lips with his machine’s exhalations, and he said, “I—I — ” or moved his lips so it looked like that’s what he said.

“Remember what we talked about? We said you might’ve got hit with

a flare? Hit in the back?” “I thought he got hit in the middle, the belly, I thought—” “The flare entered below the solar plexus and headed up the spine, as

far as we can tell. Laid him open all up his backbone.” “He got hit with a flare?” “Correct.” ‘You mean a flare. A signal flare.” “Correct. Lotta damage. Muscle, lung, spine. Spinal cord all the way

up to the second vertebra. Lotta damage, huh, Sarge?”

Moving his lips. Trying to produce sounds with the saliva in his throat, trying to shape a statement. As far as James could make it out, the message was, “I’m a mess.”

The lines for the phones ran ten deep, but there were three other phones just for the use of officers at the Officers’ Club, and he went there. After he’d dialed for the operator he kept his right hand on the butt of his new pistol and locked eyes with anyone who got near. He had all three phones to himself.

He gave the operator Stevie’s number, an unforgettable series of digits, he’d dialed it hundreds of times thousands of years ago, in high school.

Her mom answered—”Hello?”—sleepy and maybe frightened. He hung up. A captain brought him a Budweiser. These guys weren’t so bad. He

took his hand off his gun and lit a smoke, and then called home. “What time is it there?” his mother said. “I don’t know. In the afternoon.” “James, what did you decide? On the business of staying on? What

did you decide about it?”

“I put a little extension on my visit here.” “Why would you want to stay on? Don’t you realize you’ve done your

service to your country? As much as anybody ever has.” “Yeah… It felt like it wasn’t over yet.” “Don’t you dare sign away for no more of it after this one.” “I been shirking my duties. They might not even want me no more.” “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised. You’re probably shell-shocked.” “Suppose they cut me loose —maybe I could come to Phoenix.” “Well, yes, yes, hon. Where else would you think of to go to?” “I don’t know. Some island maybe.” “What do you mean, a island? We don’t live on a island.” “How’s everybody? How’s Burris?” “Burris takes drugs!”

Jesus. “Don’t swear!” “Jeez. Jeez. What kind of drugs?” “Whatever kind he gets his hands on.” “How old is he?” “He’s not even twelve!” “What a little punk. Well—well—what do you hear from Bill Junior?

Anything?” “Bill Junior was away almost a month.” “Away where?” “Away. Away. Away is all.” James paused to take the last drag and put out his cigarette. “You

mean jail?” “One on drugs, and another off to jail!” “What for?” “I don’t know. Some of this and some of that. He got in jail one week

after New Year’s Day and didn’t get loose till February tenth. They had him for three weeks. He had to plead guilty and get two years’ suspended sentence or they’d-a kept him and kept him. These folks are tired of the misbehavior.”

“Is he in Arizona?” “Yep. Suspended sentence. If he strays in his behavior they’ll put him in Florence with your Dad. Like father, like son.” “Ain’t that sweet.”

“Don’t be smart about it. The Holy Spirit’s been battering away at the souls of the men in this family for generations. But do you think he’s ever made so much as a dent?”

“Yeah—you know what? Maybe the Holy Spirit ain’t so holy.” “What on earth do you mean?” “You been to Oklahoma, ain’t you, and Arizona. And that’s all.” “What do you mean by saying that?” “I don’t know. Just you need to get around a little more, before you

start talking about the Holy Spirit.” “James, do you go to church?” “No.” “James, do you pray?” “To who?” His mother began to weep. “Woman, let me tell you about the Holy Spirit. He’s crazy.” “James,” she said. He really felt nothing, neither sorrow nor satisfaction, but he said to

her, “Mom, okay, sorry ‘bout that. I’m sorry.” “Will you pray? Will you pray with me now, son?” “Go ahead.” “Dear Lord, dear Redeemer, dear Father in Heaven,” she said, and

he removed the receiver from his ear thinking if the Holy Spirit ever came to South Vietnam, he’d probably get his balls shot off.

Over at the bar he saw men drinking whiskey from glasses with ice. An officer in fatigues stared down at his fingers while they shredded his cocktail napkin.

At this moment he thought suddenly of Sergeant Harmon: Oh, my Lord. He wanted water. “Son,” his mother said, “are you still there?” The dry, cracked lips—thirsty, parched. Signaling with his tongue. “Thanks for the prayer, Ma,” he said, and hung up the phone. He tipped his beer and drank it away and sucked out every last drop.