The war is over. The county is crowded with fresh-faced young men with stubble for hair, eyes bright with the joy of being home, and being alive. But they are also weary, and wary. And I wonder, like I did with Jack when he returned, what they saw—what deep, unexplainable wounds they’ve suffered. Of course, we all read about the things that happened in this war, horrible things that make our own tragedies seem small, and I am sorry for any of these young men who have to keep such secrets.
There are also those who do not return. I see their families at social gatherings, eyeing the survivors with longing, and I feel for them too, because now I know about senseless loss, and what it feels like.
But outside, the fields are ablaze with the green flames of abundance. Everything is more lush than ever, the livestock so fat they seem to smile. As though the earth is celebrating peace in the best possible way—by creating.
A few weeks ago, I was alone in the barn, trying to doctor the hoof on an old cow, when Bob appeared. A man in a suit followed behind him. Not a western suit, either. He wore a city suit, with one of those hats they wear in cities, with a brim that doesn’t curl up, but dips down in the front and is flat as a flapjack the rest of the way around.
“Blake, this fella came around asking about Jack. I thought you might be able to tell him more than I can.”
I took the blade of my knife and lanced the infected spot, right in the split of the hoof. The wound opened, pouring blood onto the straw. The cow flinched and let out a short, surprised “moo,” but her reaction was nothing like the stranger’s. His face suddenly got longer, and a lighter shade. His mouth twisted, and he turned his head to one side. He was determined not to show that he was bothered by this operation, and he kept trying to look back at it. But each time he saw the blood and pus, he turned away, and he finally just walked a few feet toward the other side of the barn. Bob and I exchanged a discreet smile.
I poured some disinfectant over the wound and lowered her hoof back to the ground, then stood and wiped my hands on my dungarees.
“Well, I don’t know if I can help you any more than my brother here,” I said. “I don’t know where Jack is. I’m Blake, by the way.”
I held a hand out to the man. He shook it, trying not to hesitate or look down at what might be on it.
“Benson,” he said. “Ben Benson.”
“Really? Ben Benson?”
He looked puzzled, as if there was nothing unusual about that.
“Well, urn…like I said, I don’t know much.” I paused. “You interested in some lunch? I’m just about to go in and eat.”
He thought about it, glancing once more at my hand, then at his watch. “All right.”
“I’m going to get back to what I was doin’,” Bob said.
I nodded.
“Thank you, Bob,” Benson said.
Ben Benson and I sat munching sandwiches and baked beans.
“When was the last time you saw Jack?” Benson asked.
I swallowed a bite and wiped the corner of my mouth. “Sorry to ask, Mr. Benson, but who is it that you work for?”
“Oh, I didn’t mention that? Yes. I’m with the AIS,” Benson answered. When he saw that I had no idea what this was, he spelled it out. “Army Investigative Services.”
“Oh.” I nodded, wondering what the army would want with Jack. “No uniform?”
“I’m not actually in the army,” Benson said. “I just work for them.”
“I see.” I took another bite of my sandwich and chewed it up good before addressing his question. “Well, Mr. Benson, Jack disappeared the day his son George drowned in the reservoir out in the north pasture, in the fall of last year…September.”
“And you haven’t seen or heard anything from him since?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“That seems to be a pattern with him,” he said.
I was surprised to find that I took offense to this statement, not because it wasn’t true, but because of his condescending tone. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, the reason I’m looking for him is because he deserted.”
“Deserted?” I shook my head, thinking it was odd that they would be looking for him thirty years later, and wondering how it would possibly take them this long to find him. “When?”
“Back in ’39, about the time the war started.” Benson took a big swig of lemonade and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “The reason it took us so long to track him down is that he enlisted under a false name.”
I took a minute to absorb this information. I must have looked shocked, because Benson sort of chuckled, shaking his head.
“You didn’t know any of this?”
“Hell no,” I said. “I didn’t even know he’d reenlisted. He was in the army in the first war, but we didn’t know where he was during the thirties.” I looked down at my plate and shook my head. “I’ll be damned.”
“He was in from ’34 until he deserted,” Benson said, wiping his mouth again, very thoroughly.
“I’ll be damned,” I said again. “The goddam army.”
“Bob’s wife said that Jack was something of a scoundrel,” Benson said.
The hair on my neck rose a little at the mention of Helen, but I tried not to show it. “Well…she’s got her own way of seeing things,” I said.
Benson studied me, thinking as he scooped a forkful of beans into his mouth. Then he took a small notepad and pencil from his jacket and set the notebook down on the table. He flipped it open and began writing. “Well, Blake, I might be out again soon, to do a more thorough investigation. But it may not be necessary. It doesn’t appear that any of you know much. Bob took me out to the house where Jack lived, and we didn’t find anything out there. And I talked to Rita, but she didn’t seem to know much either. Your brother seems to have kept a lot of secrets from you folks.” He tore the sheet from his pad and handed it to me. “But here’s the number where I’ll be for the next few days. That’s my home address. If you think of anything that might help us, or if you hear from Jack, please let me know.”
I took the paper and set it to the side. I sensed that he didn’t trust me, and this offended me. Benson thanked me for lunch, then headed for the door. I got up to see him out.
“Good luck, Mr. Benson,” I said.
“Pleasure to meet you. Don’t hesitate to contact me.”
He left and was halfway down the walk when a question occurred to me, and I called to him.
“Hey, Benson, what name did he use?”
He stopped and turned. “Westford. David Westford,” he said. “Guy in St. Louis. When I first saw this guy, I knew it wasn’t your brother. Nobody that fat could ever get into the army.” He looked down, as if considering whether he should go on; then he walked back toward me, stopping a few feet away. “This Westford fella, when we first found him, claimed he didn’t know any Jack Arbuckle, that the guy must have picked his name at random. We didn’t have any reason to doubt him, but of course we followed up on it. It turns out the two of them had a little scam going. Your brother was a supply officer, in charge of distributing parts and supplies to different units. He was smuggling stuff—nothing big, but a lot of it—parts and small equipment, out to this Westford fella, who has a heavy equipment and parts business out there in St. Louis.” Benson eyed me, gauging whether any of this information seemed to set anything off with me, probably looking for some sign of guilt.
“You never met this Westford character?” he asked.
I thought about telling him the truth, or telling him that I met Westford on the train to Omaha some twenty years back, but I finally decided I didn’t want this guy snooping around any more than he had to. I shook my head.
He nodded, pushing his lips up toward his nose.
“Well, I’ll be on my way.” He waved.
“So long.”
When he stepped out of the yard, Pup ran up to him, trying to get him to play. The dog raised up and kicked his front paws through the air, as if he was swimming. Benson danced backward, holding his hands out in front of him, holding Pup away, then moved toward his car.
Mutt was back out in a pasture somewhere, with her own kind. During feeding that previous winter, after we’d tried to get her to be a sheep, we’d find Mutt standing off to one side of the flock, as if she was guarding them. We tried to run her back into the flock, but she would charge them, just as Pup had taught her. It took a couple of months, but she must have gotten lonely enough to join them, probably thinking that she’d have to settle for their company, even though she was a dog.
Benson was almost to his car when he stopped one more time. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just have to ask one more thing, out of curiosity.”
I walked into the yard, so he didn’t have to shout. “Okay.”
“Mrs. Arbuckle there…Rita…”
“Yeah? What about her?”
“I was very confused talking to her. I didn’t want to ask, though, didn’t want to offend her. Is she your wife, or Jack’s?”
I smiled. “Neither,” I said.