33

At the very moment, at Fort Sill, in the state of Oklahoma, Addison’s intelligence and lineage were being questioned by a large man with no hair, sporting a tattoo of a pit bull on his right bicep.

“Were you born in a barn? Have you never made a bed? Didn’t your parents teach you anything? This isn’t rocket science, Gardner. Now do it again and do it right.”

“No, sir, I was not born in a barn. Yes, sir, I have made a bed. Yes, sir, my parents taught me a great deal. Sir, I would be happy to remake my bed, sir. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to get it right, sir.”

“And what kind of name is Addison anyway? That sounds like a girl’s name.”

Addison cursed his parents underneath his breath.

Addison Gardner had been in the army less than a week and was giving serious thought to renouncing his citizenship, fleeing the country to a banana republic, and seeking political asylum.

That very morning, in the midst of a pleasant dream about his mother’s cooking, which he desperately missed, he had been wakened at two in the morning and made to walk ten miles in the rain carrying a sixty-pound rucksack. The bald man had been right beside him the entire way, pointing out his many shortcomings, prophesying his quick and gruesome demise should he ever encounter an enemy.

“I’ve got a little daughter at home who could kick your butt.”

Addison didn’t doubt it for a minute. His daughter probably looked just like him—bald and tattooed.

In his eighteen sheltered years, Addison had never met anyone like his sergeant. He had grown up in the comfortable confines of a minister’s home, and had gone to church every Sunday; there he had been taught that Jesus loved him, and not just him, but everyone, including baby lambs, which Jesus carried on his shoulder, if the picture in the basement classroom of Harmony Friends Meeting could be believed. Now to meet the living, breathing personification of Satan, to come face-to-face with the Antichrist, the seven-headed beast of Revelation, was to realize Dale Hinshaw had been right after all, that evil did exist in the world and that he, Addison Gardner, was now trapped in its clutches.

After the hike, they had returned to the barracks and been given fifteen minutes to shower, shave, and clean their quarters, which apparently wasn’t long enough, given the reaction of their sergeant, who ordered them to do push-ups, then clean the floor with Q-tips.

That night before falling asleep, Addison studied both his feet, hoping against hope they weren’t covered in blisters, but instead cancerous lesions requiring amputation that would lead to his subsequent discharge from the United States Army. Unfortunately, each of his fellow soldiers was similarly afflicted, and Addison thought it unlikely they all had cancer.

He lay in bed thinking of his friends back in Harmony, who at that moment were likely at the town park sitting on their car hoods, or at the Dairy Queen. Most of them would be going away to college, which hadn’t seemed all that appealing back in the winter when he’d decided to join the military, but now seemed a most pleasant prospect and one he wished he’d considered a bit more carefully. He thought about their house in Harmony, then remembered it wasn’t theirs any longer, so he wondered about their new home, which he hadn’t seen, and probably wouldn’t live to see.

He’d written home every week, as ordered by his sergeant, to report he was doing fine, was making friends, and thoroughly enjoying himself. That, too, was ordered by his sergeant.

“You think your parents want to hear that you’re tired and homesick and miss your mommy and wish you could come home? No, they don’t, so don’t tell them that. Tell them you’re fine, meeting nice people, and having the time of your life. Or you’ll do push-ups until your arms fall off.”

Addison had written his last letter in code, using every third letter to say his life was in jeopardy, the food was terrible, and to meet him outside the gate with a getaway car, false ID, and a thousand dollars in unmarked bills. All to no avail. His parents wrote back to tell him how proud they were of him, how happy they were that all was well, and to keep in touch. One evening, certain he would be dead within the next few weeks, he wrote a will leaving everything to his brother, whom, to his great surprise, he missed with all his heart.

He hadn’t told anyone his father was a minister, which he feared would seem unmanly. Instead, he invented an entire family out of whole cloth, including a father who was a special agent for the FBI, a mother who was a martial arts instructor, and a brother who lived in Wyoming and worked as a cowboy. While he was at it, he added a sister to his family, a cheerleader at Duke, who might come visit him any day now and bring her cheerleader friends. It was the last family member, the imaginary one, that elevated his status. He had clipped a picture from Sports Illustrated, with a cheerleader in the distant, fuzzy background, and had passed it around his platoon.

“That’s my sister right there. Heather. She doesn’t have a boyfriend. She says the football players are too immature, that she wants to date a real man. She might be here at graduation.”

His popularity soared. Now he just needed an attractive young woman to attend his graduation, posing as his sister. Amanda Hodge, Ellis and Miriam’s niece, had grown into quite a looker, and was the perfect age, but was probably too honest for such deception. It didn’t much matter anyway; he’d be dead of blisters by the time graduation rolled around.

He had spent the last two years complaining about Harmony, how small and boring it was, how everyone was stupid, how he couldn’t wait to leave and never come back. His father laughed and said he’d felt the same way when he was Addison’s age, which was his father’s response to every complaint. Addison didn’t believe his father had ever been his age, that the pictures of him that age were phony. The boy in the pictures had hair, for instance, and was skinny, and looked nothing like his dad.

But now, a few weeks into basic training, he wasn’t so sure. Now his parents seemed a little wiser, a bit more interesting than he had once thought, more competent. He felt bad for creating a whole new family when his old family had been perfectly fine, certainly better than most. They worked hard, paid their bills, volunteered at the Corn and Sausage Days, and helped their elderly parents. He hoped no one would ask his father about his work as a special agent for the FBI. He didn’t want his parents to know he’d lied about them, that what they did, until now, had seemed insufficient to him.

He couldn’t wait to see them. He’d give the army four years, see a bit of the world, then go back to Indiana and get his degree. Maybe move back to Harmony and become a guidance counselor at the high school and when kids complained about how boring and stupid everyone was, how they couldn’t wait to leave town, he would nod and say, “I felt the same way when I was your age.” Then he would tell them to do what they must, since some lessons couldn’t be taught, only learned.