I stayed at the lieutenant’s place for about a week. I lost my job, but no harm done. I got enough money saved to live without a problem for about six months, I think.
The lieutenant talked to me about his visit with Sergeant Gomez and her sister, and he kept apologizing. I told him to stop. Then he asked if I had a way to get in touch with Dodge, and I lied. Told him I had no idea.
Dodge’s gone dark, anyway. He hasn’t replied in a week and seems less and less interested in catching up. He doesn’t even mention his visa anymore. Just news from Tunisia. I can’t follow everything he’s talking about, but I still liked hearing from him.
The lieutenant also told me about some of Zahn’s troubles. Like he was telling me about a Marine in the platoon with bad foot rot, and implying I should go take a look. Maybe offer some antifungal cream and give a quick class on the importance of changing your socks. Like he thinks I’m his corpsman again, or like he wants me to be.
Then he introduced me to this pretty college girl I think he’s dating, and she seemed nice. I used my truck to help them move this wreck of an old sailboat into a covered workspace near the harbor. She reminded me of Gomez a little bit, with her hair tied back in braids and covered with a red bandanna. While we maneuvered the sailboat into place, she offered me all kinds of advice about Lizzy. Said I ought to drop in on her just to clear the air. The lieutenant said the same thing. But I told them it would have to wait. Some other time. I had to get back down to Houma to see my dad.
I’m in my bedroom now, packing. It’s a haul up to Missouri to see Zahn, and there’s no coming back if I forget something, so I’m making sure I have everything I need for a long visit. My dad’s out in the hallway, right outside my door. I can feel him there, thinking about whether to knock. He’s pulling out all the air, just by standing there. The room is shrinking. I feel the door straining at the hinges, ready to break into a thousand splinters.
He walks away, and the floorboards talk about it as he passes.
He goes out to the porch, and as the screen door bounces shut, I feel the house tilt in his direction. This is a house full of gossiping ghosts and I’m fucking tired of it.
He walks out across the lawn, out to the shed to work on his tractor. It’s too cold for that nonsense, too late at night, and for some reason I finally have it in mind to tell him so. So I march outside. I’m halfway to the shed before I notice the trauma bag in my right hand.
I drop the bag, leave it where it is, and wander over to the oak tree to have a quiet sit. The lights are on in the shed, and I listen to my dad work. A little after midnight he comes out, wipes his hands on his pants, and starts toward the house. He stops when he sees me and squints to make sure. He waves, stiff and awkward, before walking up and standing over me with his hands on his hips and his dark eyebrows furrowed. He doesn’t say anything.
“Wanted to make sure you were okay,” I tell him after a minute.
“I’m fine, Les.” He sits down and puts his hand on my shoulder. He inhales deep and holds it, like he’s gonna say something. But he doesn’t. He just lets it out and sits there with me.
“He stayed on the ground for six hours, Dad,” I say after a while. “He laid there, and no one could get to him. They had to call in another team and use line charges to clear a lane twenty meters wide. Bombs everywhere.”
After a while, sitting there in the quiet, I tell him the rest.
“Stout. He rolled over. Everyone says I imagined it, but I saw it. He was probably conscious. Knowing it was bad, but thinking I was on my way, even. Thinking he might pass out for a minute, but that I’d get there. Put tourniquets on his arms and legs. He died thinking he’d wake up in Germany. But he didn’t. Just bled to death, right there on that hot fucking asphalt, too. Not even in the dirt. Just a stain.”
That’s all I tell him. We sit there for a while longer, and the whole time he has his hand on my shoulder. He doesn’t ask me any questions. He doesn’t say a word.