Blood, Dreams, and Olive Drab (Pride & Promise) Page 7

The demon was gone from his once-sinister stare but there was still the hint of evil, and it seemed to Henry that the sergeant was still the kind of person you couldn’t trust. Welky sauntered out the door. His body was almost chiseled into two pieces as he disappeared into the dense white light.

  A honking horn blared outside which made Henry jump from his sleep. A thin layer of clammy sweat clung to his body as he lay panting heavily on his bed. Once more, he looked around the room with its dull deadly gray colors, but the crisp colors of his dream were no more. The wind whistled through the room and kicked up the fine layer of dust that was on the floor. The loud horn blew again. When the bus came to a noisy rattling stop outside, a cloud of dust caught up and swirled around it. The squealing brakes screeched, causing the hair of Henry’s arm to rise.

  "Morning, Henry," Ernie called. His short little legs stomped through the milky light of the doorway. "Oh, sorry, I thought you would be up," Ernie said. He stopped and waited just inside the doorway, anxiously tapping his foot.

  "Yeah, sorry, Ernie," Henry muttered. His breathing returned to normal and he sat up, running his fingers through his hair and massaging his temple. He stood up and kicked over the flask that sat on the floor near his cot. It clanked as it hit the floor.

  "Oh," Ernie said remorsefully. He lowered his head, looking away. He took off his cap and scratched his head.

  "Let’s get this over with," Henry said. He walked slowly across the floor to the lone black bag that sat on Welky’s cot. They both stood over the bag as they looked down into the abyss. Welky’s clean-shaven fat face poked past the zipper. His lips were purple. His face was blue and yellow like a fresh bruise. His bulbous red nose was pitted and looked like a strawberry sitting on his face. Henry had tried his best to button Welky’s jacket and buckle his pants to give him somewhat of a lasting dignity, but under the swelling of his drunken girth, there was no chance.

  "Sorry to hear about him," Ernie said awkwardly. He stood nervously wringing his dusty cap in his hands. Ernie’s hands were crossed in front of him, almost in a committed respect.

  "Yeah," Henry mumbled under his breath. "It happens," he said coldly. Ernie glanced at Henry from under his thick glasses. Henry reached over and took hold of the zipper clasp and started to pull it closed. Welky’s head sagged slightly as if his dead body was trying to show the rope burns on his neck. The burns were red and raw with splinters of rope sticking out like needles from the deep ugly ruts. Ernie winced. Henry pulled the zipper past his chin and over his forehead.

  "Ready?" Henry said to Ernie with a wry hateful smile.

  "Sure. Sure, Henry," Ernie shrugged.

  They grabbed the folds of the bag and lugged it off the cot and out the door. Respectfully, Ernie went to sit the bag down gently on the rear of the bus. Henry sneered and stepped forward, tucked himself under the bag, and tossed it roughly into the bus. It landed with a thud and a small cloud of dust rolled out from under the weight. With a somber eye and knitted brow, Ernie just stared at Henry who clapped his hands together and grinned.

  "See you next week, ole boy," Henry bellowed, nearly joyously. He patted Ernie on the back and strolled back inside, stopping as if he forgot something. Ernie stood flat-footed and gazed at Henry’s brazen repugnance. Henry riffled through his pockets. He pulled out a piece of paper from his breast pocket and crammed it into Ernie’s hand. "Make sure this gets to his family."

  Henry looked into Ernie’s eyes and for the first time he looked desperate. The young soldier’s eyes were weary, black, and deep with sorrow.

  "Okay, Henry. I’ll make sure." Ernie wasn’t sure whether he should feel sorry for Henry or be frightened by him.

  "Okay then." Henry snapped out of the dismal trance and smiled widely. His eyes were insanely happy again and the glint of fear was gone. "Adios, muchacho," Henry gaffed. He spun around and strode back into the morgue.

  Ernie stood dumbfounded with the letter still clasped in his hand. Then he shut and locked the door of the bus. The rickety vehicle chugged out of the narrow gorge of buildings spewing a few puffs of smoke from the tailpipe.

  .....

  Marie lightly tapped on the door of the morgue. She peeked her head around the corner, looking for Henry. The milky sky shot thin beams of light through the window and a faint curtain of gold swept across the dust waves as they drifted through the room. A loud crashing noise came from the other room. The clatter of the metal smashing against the walls echoed everywhere as Marie dashed to the doorway to see Henry furiously kicking the buckets around. A few birds that were perched on the windowsill fluttered off, flapping furiously to get away from the commotion.

  "Henry," Marie said calmly. The clanging buckets drowned her voice out. "Henry!" she shouted. He stopped in the middle of a kick and turned his head towards her. His face was grizzled with a two-day-old beard and his hair was uncombed and fell across his eyes, sticking with sweat to his forehead.

  "Hello, Marie," he replied with a dazed look in his eyes.

  "Henry," Marie paused, "I heard about Welky. What an awful thing."

  "He was the scum of the earth." Henry forged through the scattering of buckets, nudging them angrily as he went.

  "Henry," Marie snapped, "he was still a human being!" She couldn’t believe her ears. She had never heard Henry insult anyone.

  "Barely." Henry walked out the front door and stood on the stoop. A fine mist started to drift across his face as he closed his eyes and looked skyward.

  "Henry," Marie joined him on the stoop. She wanted to reach out and hug him but he felt distant, as if they had just met. "Would you like to go down to the stream? We can play base-ball," she said with a forced sense of excitement.

  "No," Henry shrugged. He dug his hands into his pockets and peered across the street. "It’s not really base-ball anyway." Henry words felt like quick sharp stabs into Marie’s heart.

  "No. I guess not, but it's our form of base-ball," Marie said timidly.

  "It’s not real," Henry said slowly as he bent down and sneakily tried to pick up a few rocks from the ground. It began to drizzle. "Nothing here is real," he spoke and bolted to his feet.

  He hurled a couple rocks against the house across the street which narrowly missed the window where the two men were standing watching them. Henry cackled as they lunged sideways and momentarily vanished from the open window, then reappeared and stared hatefully at Henry. "Stop staring at me!" Henry shouted with venom. Slowly, the two men disappeared away from the open window, leaving only darkness.

  "I hate them," Henry muttered.

  "You don’t hate them," Marie bolstered.

  "Yes, I do!" Henry turned to Marie and screamed into her face. His eyes were large and black but empty of feeling like the mouth of a dreary cave. Marie’s lip started to quiver and she shrank back, putting her hands over her face. She turned and leaned against the wall thinking Henry didn’t mean that, he didn’t mean any of it. He was bitter and angry and resentful at his life. He couldn’t stop himself from yelling to cause her pain, too. Trouble was, he did mean it. He slouched and felt sickness in his chest.

  The rain started to fall harder now. He looked down at the dampening ground. The raindrops plunked down on his neck like fingertips tapping his skin. He couldn’t stop himself from screaming at Marie. Even while he was yelling, a voice in his head was telling him to stop, but it was no use. He bellowed until she cried, and then he felt hollowness inside.

  "Marie," Henry said and reached for her shoulder. The second his finger touched her, she pulled away like the wilting petals of a dying flower blossom. He feared that Marie despised him now and that fear brought him back, almost. He placed his hand on the small of her back and she seemed to melt. The tears from her eyes dripped off her chin and dotted the ground, mixing with the falling rain.

  "Why, Henry? Why?" she sobbed.

  "I don’t know, Marie. I don’t know. I’m sorry . . . ," he said bashfully. He felt less like a vengeful man and more like a stupid coy child. "I’
m sorry." His words pounded like thunder in his own head. He was numb and he still felt Marie’s sadness but his own head was clogged with emotions and he was lost.

  .....

  Late that night, Marie was drowsy and still confused, waking from a listless state of dense slumber. She felt Henry tossing in his sleep and mumbling, grumbling incoherently. He quickly sat up in bed. Marie was suddenly half worried and fearful.

  Henry stood up and disrobed, pulling his shirt over his head and dropping his pants to the ground. The room was dark and strange. Henry stood silently. Entirely naked, he walked casually from the room, leaving the door to the bedroom open. Then he walked through the kitchen.

  She could hear the creaking of the front door as he walked out of the café. Mary quickly got up and threw her light garment around herself. She went to the wide front window of the café, gazing out into the shadows of the sacred night.

  Henry was strolling out into the middle of the town plaza. He leaned forward against the limestone fountain which was gurgling a bit of water. His naked behind was lit by the subtle light of the night, then he walked through the plaza like a tourist on the first day of vacation. He wandered down to the canal and stood staring at the water. The full moon hung like an ornament at the far end of town and the canal seemed to flow into the pale hovering orb.

  Marie snuck out of the café, holding the door so it would not slam shut. The cobblestones felt damp under her bare feet as she scuttled across them. She quickened her gait as she followed after Henry. She stopped and ducked behind a hedge to part the branches and peer through the gaps in the foliage. Her heart was racing. She was mysteriously aroused but also terribly afraid, but she couldn’t look away.

  Henry started to walk down the face of the bank and into the waters of the canal. The moonlight was covering the water like a dusting of snow. Henry sank into the water and slow black ripples floated away from him. Oddly, the ducklings were in the water, too, linked together as they floated gingerly across the smooth face of the water like lily pads in a lagoon. Henry drifted out to them and started brushing his hands through the water, sending a slight current in their direction. They bobbed on the water like the creamy caps of a twilight tide.

  Marie could hear Henry laughing loudly now. His voice was shrill against the wounded awful night as it echoed and surged from the underside of the nearby bridge. Suddenly, Henry disappeared under the water as if he’d been shot.

  Curiously, Marie searched around the edge of the water, but he was gone. The water became tranquil, glassing over again, and he was still nowhere to be seen. She walked out from behind the hedge and carefully, almost frightfully scanned around the canal. Her heart skipped as she felt a tug on her robe and turned to see it snagged on a briar. She lifted the thread off the thorn and turned back around.

  Henry finally emerged from the water and was trying unsuccessfully to climb back up the slippery green slopes beside the bridge. Immediately, Marie dashed back through the plaza. She clung to the sides of the buildings, making sure to keep herself hidden by the shadows. She stopped at the door of the café and leaning from the building, she tried to see back through the darkness of the streets.

  She glanced around the corner for Henry. Surprisingly, he was sauntering lackadaisically through the square and listening closely, she could hear him whistling a tune she had heard before. She concentrated, trying to remember the song. Then the words whispered from her mouth: "I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy, a Yankee Doodle do or die," but that was all that she could recollect of the lyrics. She looked back up and Henry was walking towards her. His arms were tucked against his sides and his hands were resting on his upper thighs as if he had them in pockets.

  She scurried back inside and jumped into bed, then realized she had her nightshirt on. She twisted against the sheets and grabbed the length of her robe, trying to pull it out from under her. She heard the creaking of the front door and ripped the garment over her shoulders. She tossed it on the chair in the corner and quickly lay down, trying not to gasp for air.

  She opened one eye and watched as Henry marched back into the room. He pulled his trousers back on, slowly getting them up over his slimy wet legs. He pulled his shirt down over his head and uncurled the material as it, too, had bunched against his soggy skin. He climbed back into bed, never waking from his slumber.

  Marie could feel his wet body next to her arm, but she didn’t move. She was scared. This was the man she thought she knew, maybe even loved. But . . . but now he was roaming around naked in the wee hours of the night or screaming belligerently at her and drinking until he was so sauced that he couldn’t speak. He had become his own worst nightmare but it was her reality.

  "Henry," Marie said softly. She mouthed the word as she almost dared not disturb him. She touched him and felt his clothes clinging to his body. She patted him, not like a lover, but like an adult who pats an aging, fragile parent.

  "Ah," Henry shrieked. He flipped over and grabbed Marie by the shoulders. The light in the room was meager and bland but she could see the lunacy in his eyes. He was breathless, panting as he squeezed her relentlessly until his fingernails dug into the tender flesh of her shoulder.

  "Henry!" Marie cried out. "That hurts!" she whimpered with a sense of urgency. She tried to peel his hands from her shoulders, but he held her like a vice.

  "I’m sorry," he badgered. He tossed himself back over, curled into the fetal position, and started to cry. Marie could feel his body trembling. She reached out and her own hand shuddered as she touched his arm. He was crying hard enough that his entire body was convulsing with spasms.

  "It’s okay, "Marie tried to comfort him. She laid her head flat across the center of his back. She could smell the pungent rotten smell of his canal-soaked shirt as she held herself closely to him. Henry was all she had. In a few minutes he stopped quaking and his body succumbed to a dismal uneasy sleep.

  Marie watched him until the tired blackness slipped into a raw, bright morn. She closed her eyes, but she never slept again that broken night.

  14

  Henry had not been sleeping well lately, at least at night. Most likely it was because of the hazy alcohol-induced naps he took during the heat of the midafternoon. He found his flask getting empty as the sun started its downward arc towards the far treetops. He often shuffled over to his cot and drifted to a strained, angry sleep. He tossed and turned as sweat beaded off his forehead and dampened his collar. But for a welcome change on this day, the images that sifted through his tormented sleep were not of war-torn soldiers or hateful sights, but rather a kindly gentle collage.

  .....

  A large bushy weeping willow stood in the middle of a wheat field. The thin stalks of grain flapped softly in the summer breeze as the branches of the willow shifted in the wind like the fur of a running sheep dog. The flabby arms of the tree swayed in the rhythm of the wheat and made a symphony of pleasant, beautiful dancing waves. The sky was a shell of blue, surrounding the day like a blanket of simplicity, bright and bold but soothingly lovely.

  Marie sat in a clearing at the base of the tree. A small red-and-white-checkered blanket was unfurled in the crunchy burnt grass. A feast was spread over the blanket and Marie sat gleaming with unfettered excitement with her hands clasped across her lap. Her face was clean and fresh, glowing a slight golden bronze. She blinked demurely a few times and her long black lashes were like open arms, greeting him with a wanting but sheepish glance.

  Henry walked through the high stalks of wheat, but the more he walked, it seemed that Marie was farther away. He started to run but he was caught in a quagmire. His feet were trudging through deep thick mud. Marie’s face began to lose its smile and she stood up and reached out her hands. Her fingertips were like the white cliffs of Dover to his vanishing ship. He couldn’t reach her. He could hear the thumping of his pounding heart in his head as he struggled. It began to drown out his thoughts, and his hopes, and all he could feel was a burning smoldering hatred.

 
.....

  Henry’s eyes popped open. He was staring into the cracked and broken ceiling. A few birds chattered on the windowsill and an owl began hooting off in the distant treetops. The haunting caw of a crow was calling in the breeze. He reached apprehensively towards his face and rubbed his thin chapped fingers over the scruff of his jaw. The bristles of his unshaven face were sharp against his hands. He got up and staggered across the room into the bathroom where a pale glow was filling the room. The meager light of day was trying to enter and a shaky light was reflecting off the white tiles. As Henry pulled the string attached to the lone light bulb in the room, a yellow flash cracked across the room and the paleness was shattered.

  Henry leaned against the pedestal sink and glared into the cracked mirror. His face looked horrible. His eyes were red and glassy. His cheeks sagged under the weight of the dark bags that enveloped his graven eyes that brooded deep and soulless. They had once been friendly and lit with a glint of happiness--now they were shifty and narrow. A dark shaggy beard covered his cheeks, crawling down his chin and over his neck like a wild thicket of thorns. His hair was mussed and greasy, looking like it had never been combed, or even washed.

  He looked down into the sink. He couldn’t stand to look at himself again. That reflection wasn’t the man he felt like inside, but then again, he wasn’t sure who that man was anymore. He turned on the faucet. It spewed forth a sickly yellow sludge and after a few seconds the water ran clear. He cupped his hands and let it gather in his gnarled pink palms, splashing it across his face. He looked up and his face was only inches from the mirror. He felt a sickness churning in the pit of his stomach, his mouth ran dry, and he was convinced his heart was beating too slowly. His hands began to shake. He stuck them quickly in his pants pockets, but he felt them tremble against his thighs.

  "I think I need to shave," he said out loud. His words were more to convince himself than to instruct.

  He reached into a small porcelain jar at the corner of the sink top. He ran a little bit of shaving cream over his face and reached for the straight razor and cautiously unfolded it. He turned it slightly and let the light catch the sharpness of the blade that shimmered with a white glare. The reflection climbed up and down the wall as he rotated the razor.