Tim O'Brien - The Nuclear Age

“Among the spirits,” Rafferty said, “we are presently well spiritualized, I would say.”

“I would say so.”

“To the spirits, then. To spirituality in all its diverse guises. To firewater.”

“And firesticks,” I said.

“Of course. Firesticks, too. But that comes later, does it not?”

“Later, I apologize.”

“Think nothing of it.” He bowed and smiled. “Firewater now, firesticks later. One must approach it with orderly spirit, must one not?”

“One must,” I said.

We drank vermouth on ice until the ice ran out. There was a winding-down feel to the occasion, a happy sort of sadness, and for a while we permitted ourselves the quiet to let it happen.

Later I felt myself smiling.

“You want the gist?” I said.

“Definitely. Couldn’t do without it.”

“The gist,” I said, “is I’m pretty damned fond of you.”

“That’s the gist?”

“That’s it.”

He looked at me. “I accept with pleasure. Finest gist ever spoken. I recommend we spiritualize it.”

“We shall,” I said.

There was no ice but I stood and made a speech about how we had become like brothers over the years, many scrapes, many untold thicknesses and thinnesses, and then Rafferty made his own speech, which was eloquent, and then we paused to remember our absent colleagues, which required solemnity and the last of the vermouth.

“To dear Tina,” Rafferty said, “and to Ollie, our honeymooning brethren. May they find joy in the overripened flesh.”

“Poignant,” I said.

“I thank you, sir. And to Nethro. And—let me think—and let us praise Ebenezer Keezer. May he stew in stir. May his darkest dreams come true.”

“And Sarah,” I said.

“Certainly. And God bless Sarah Strouch.”

I looked at my watch.

“So now?” I said. “I believe firesticks might be in order.”

“I believe so. Shit-faced, I believe.”

“The attic, then.”

“Most definitely,” said Rafferty. “The spirit most definitely beckons.”

It was a two-hour job. Earlier that morning, after Bloody Marys, we’d rented a van and tacked up curtains along the rear windows. The Gunmobile, Rafferty called it. We worked as a team, hauling the plywood crates down to the kitchen, then pausing for spiritual sustenance, then loading up the van.

I drove, Rafferty rode shotgun.

“Advance to the front,” he said loudly, “we must commence without compunction. Destiny, all that. Compunctionless. No more compunctions.”

I was intoxicated but not stupid. I took it slow up Roosevelt Boulevard, past a glitzy strip of neon along the Gulf side, both hands on the wheel, one eye closed, hitting the turn signal when I swung north onto Highway 1.

The road went dark after a mile or two. Rafferty switched on the radio and sang with The Doors.

After a time he put his head back.

“I am overindulged,” he said. “I am not well. I am the victim of impacted spirits.”

“Pull over?”

“No. Commence. Impacted upon.”

Then he chuckled and sang with the music. I measured the road with one eye. The hour was late and the universe was not entirely stable. To our left, I calculated, was the Gulf, the Atlantic to our right, but otherwise we were navigating a course between topographical unknowns. The Doors sang and Rafferty harmonized— We’re gonna set the night on firrrre . I concentrated on the center line.

The darkness was not altogether comforting, nor the unknowns, and I was down to one eye.

“How far?” I said.

“Firrre!” Rafferty sang, then shrugged. “I have no compunctions. Two miles, I would gauge. The running of guns is not—how shall we say it?—not yet an exact science.”

“An art,” I said.

“Quite so. Art. Artsy craft, even crafty craft. Could be a song in it.”

“There could.”

“Shall I sing?”

I took a bead on the center line.

“Firrre!” he sang.

There was no traffic. The road was flat and seamless, very narrow, and the sound of the engine mixed nicely with his baritone. The darkness amazed me. I thought about Sarah for a while, with something like passion, but then I decided it would be better to stop thinking. Then I thought about Ebenezer. This would not please him, I thought, nor Tina, nor Chekhov, so why then think about it?

Ahead was the smudge of Lower Sugar Loaf Key.

Deceleration, I thought, and I let it glide. I pulled off onto the shoulder, backed into a rest area at the Atlantic side, cramped the wheel, set the emergency brake, switched off the systems. Each operation demanded diligence.

For a few minutes we sat listening.

The blackout was total. Rafferty sat up straight beside me, holding his head.

“I detect no light,” he said soberly, “at the end of this particular tunnel.”

“Ready?”

“Of course. No light, no compunctions.”

Outside, there was a strange sort of silence, flying insects and tidal splashings along the roadbed. Commando vibrations: comportment was paramount. Dignity, I decided, and I felt brave and competent as we established a beachhead.

When the guns were unloaded, we took off our clothes and waded in with the first crate.

It rode low and heavy. Awkward but it floated. Close in, the water was warm and marshy-smelling, barely up to the knees, then cooling as we waded out. I had both eyes open. I could see birds and fireflies off in the mangrove. Vaguely, I wondered where the stars had come from; there were flashings, too, and reflections, but for once I felt powerful.

We steered the crate straight out.

When the water came thigh-high, we pried open the lid. The guns lay muzzle-to-stock, oiled and fleshy, overlapping, like tinned sardines.

“Such beauties,” Rafferty said. “You’ll have to grant the obvious. They are true, ball-breaking beauties.”

He touched a tooled barrel.

“Works of art,” he whispered.

Then he said, “Oh, well.”

We tipped the crate sideways and pushed it under and waited for final sinkage. There were soft bubbling noises. Presently a sheet of oil rose up and gathered in flecks of orphan light.

“In a way, you know,” Rafferty said, “it amounts to tragedy. Just in a certain way.”

“It’s a token,” I said.

“That’s what I mean. Tragedy. Fucking token.”

He ducked underwater. While he was gone I watched the oil spreading out, smooth and shiny. Even in the dark it had some color.

Rafferty came up smiling.

“Token,” he said, “I guess that’s something. Something positive, isn’t it?”

“I think it is,” I said.

“No compunctions?”

“None.”

There were fourteen crates altogether, then the ammunition. It was sobering labor. The footing was slippery with turtle grass and coral; in the mangrove to the east there was the nighttime babble of birds and reptiles and creatures I didn’t know. Mostly, we sank the crates whole. Once, though, we took turns disposing of the weapons individually, which was gratifying, standing naked in salt water and grasping a cool black barrel in both hands and using the shoulders as a pivot and spinning with the arms, then a howl and a snap of the wrists, then listening for the splash, and then saying, “Well done,” or saying, “Positive dynamics,” and then laughing.

Otherwise it was mechanical, just sinking guns. We inclined toward silence. We pressed the crates under and watched the bubbles. At one point, as we waited for a car to pass by, I found myself telling him about Chuck Adamson. Cold turkey, I said. Had to be a clean break. Too bad about Sarah—I did love her, I said—it just wasn’t our universe. Did he understand this? I shook my head and said I didn’t understand it myself, but did he understand? She was in the world. I was out of it. Did he understand this? She wanted engagement, I did not—was this understandable? Different universes, I said. Rafferty lay back in the shallows, floating faceup, and after a moment he said he understood, but he reckoned he would have to stick with her anyway, because he only knew about one universe, and here it was, and that was his way of looking at it. But he understood. Then he asked what my plans were and I told him I was trusting Adamson to work things out. “Just go,” I said, “anywhere but crazy.” Rafferty laughed and said crazy was a wonderful place not to go.