Extra Indians. Eric Gansworth

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СКАЧАТЬ will be in the telephone book, Mr. and Mrs. Paul Montgomery. Just give us a ring to let us know when you’ll be coming a-calling, it will be so good to see you. Well, here comes one of those little kids from the school. This one is dressed up like Batman.

      Best to you,

      Liza Jean

      Tommy Jack McMorsey

      Yes, that was the letter that started it all. Funny that when I got home from North Dakota and the Big Antler Daily would run that story on me and the Japanese girl, I would be getting the same kind of looks around town I got when I returned from Vietnam thirty-three years ago to see my high school and college sweetheart married to someone else. I could have let it go with those original newspaper stories, where my name wasn’t even mentioned in the syndicated story, but some old boy down at the Big Antler Daily had to read a little more carefully and recognized my name in the full wire service report.

      This time, it wasn’t just “Guess who your girl is married to, Tommy Jack?” or “What kinds of things did you see and do over there, Tommy Jack?” their looks were saying at me. This time, the Morse code they were blinking at me with their eyes, even as I bought my quick picks and my dailies and my weeklies, had a different feel, similar, but just different enough. “How come you didn’t save that girl, Tommy Jack?” “Was she another one of those ladies you make time with on the road, Tommy Jack?” “Did you do something you didn’t want her talking about, Tommy Jack?” That last one was probably the one that got me the most. So I just wanted to get it all out in the open, that I tried to save that poor young woman, but then that stupid article got this whole other ball rolling.

      Who would have ever thought anyone read the Big Antler Daily besides the folks living in this pissant town, anyway? I never realized the larger syndicate works both ways, and once a story gets out there, well, it carries on. All I wanted to do was stop those people looking and whispering again, like they had over thirty years ago. A small town like this, it has got one big and long memory. I’ve never totally been the shy type, generally willing to do whatever it is that needs getting done, but I have also never gone much out of my way to draw attention, either, and those stares were working my nerves, all over again.

      You know how it is, they knew you probably killed some people in the war, and they just applied that knowledge onto you all the way around, even though they weren’t remotely involved. They never had to do and see the things I did and saw. They were sitting back home, watching the TV, maybe some of them even writing to me, because some of them did, hi-how-you-doing-get-back-safe kind of stuff, but what did they really think we were doing in the jungle, throwing mud balls? Pushing each other in the water? Maybe punching someone in the head if things were particularly bad? They were all well and nice when I made it home, even invited me to the occasional party they were having, once they realized I was back, but the looks were there. Did I do some of those things that were being hinted at in the newspapers and magazines, cutting off ears and wearing them as necklaces? The answer is no, but they thought what they wanted, anyway. Soon enough, this country will be at war again, with that crazy new president. Lord, did he have to come from this state? Seems like he’s trying to drag Iraq in, but no matter where it is he wages war, those young men and women are going to come home to some of those same looks, and I do not envy them one bit. The draft might be gone these days, but I don’t imagine any rich man’s son is eagerly signing up for the military right now, and anyone signing up now, you know that bastard has no other options.

      I returned to U.S. soil the very night I zeroed out, left the jungles, arrived back into the shipping depot in Oakland sometime later but it’s hard to remember those things—not because they were terrible or anything, just the opposite, but a jolt is still a jolt, however you cut it. The day before we zeroed, we had been out on patrol, and had been for a month. I had nearly forgotten I was scheduled to be coming home. This was unlike me, as I had been a day counter from day one. That was one of the last times I ever participated in a Fireball game and it was for sure the last time Fred did. He declined to play when I went to visit him at his reservation in New York. Though he didn’t think I noticed, I always pay attention to stuff like that. Just like I could remember everything that happened with the Japanese girl and was getting ready to tell it all and stop these looks around town.

      “Tommy Jack, they’re gonna be here soon. Are you dressed? I left a shirt and tie out for you, on the bed,” Liza Jean said the morning the TV crew was scheduled to arrive, coming from her bathroom, where she had checked her makeup for the thirtieth time since she put it on an hour or so before. That bathroom’s off our bedroom, but I was banished to use the one down the hall, years ago, because of splash concerns and poor aim. But in the hall bathroom, I can leave out my floss and sunblock and whatever magazines I want, and if there’s a little splash now and then, I don’t care. It cleans up.

      “A tie? What the hell for?” I asked, tying it anyway, knowing this was another argument I would lose if I chose to engage it.

      “Well, why are you doing this in the first place? I mean, Tommy Jack, if you want people to just go on believing something happened to you out there in Minnesota, then you might as well just call up those reporters and cancel this altogether, and we can get going to Cascabel now.”

      “And you’re thinking this here tie is going to change minds in ways that my speaking the truth doesn’t?”

      “Well, is it going to kill you to wear a tie?”

      “I’ve got it on.” She came back through, straightened it, kissed me on the cheek, then licked a paper towel and wiped her kiss from me. She ran through the living room, fluffing pillows, moving figurines an inch or two to the left or right, or forward or backward. I had no idea what she was doing, while I stuffed into jeans and tied up a nice pair of brown Rockports with both of the laces matching. She sat on the sofa, going through five or six positions, locking her knees, tucking her legs under, crossing them, leaning one arm on the sofa pillows, one over the cushion, watching her own reflection on the big-screen TV, imagining what she would look like when they finally broadcast this here interview. She was going to break a sweat before they even set up if she didn’t watch out, and it was likely to be hot enough under those lights without doing somersaults on the sofa.

      She has been arranging and rearranging the furniture, even the pictures on the wall, ever since that TV news show called me up about a month ago to see if they could interview me about that Japanese girl. I had to tell Liza Jean to relax when she started in about getting new curtains, just for the show. She could act like it was the Home and Garden channel coming to visit us all she wanted, but that was not about to change the fact that this concerned Detroit Lakes and nothing else. I wasn’t for sure why they thought it was interesting enough, but TV makes things way more real for some people than a newspaper clipping, so I understood a way to stop the clucking hens of Big Antler. And yes, secretly, I hoped the boy would be watching, and yes, even more secretly, I wished Shirley Mounter would, as well.

      “They’re here, Tommy Jack, are you ready?” Liza Jean said, looking out a side window as this van with a big satellite dish on top of it came down the road. One nice thing about living here—there are no ways for a sneak approach, not like those jungles where you might meet a bullet around the next set of bushes. West Texas is about as flat and wide open as you can get, like God just decided to iron this big patch in the middle of the country. They were still two roads over, riding the grid to the house, but they kicked up a rooster tail of dust that was visible for miles. They wanted to come a day early for preliminary work, which I nearly knew meant that they were up to something, but I agreed anyway. I had come this far, I might as well go the whole of it and see what we would see. “Do you think they’re gonna want some sweet tea?”

      “I don’t think it matters much to them,” I said. “They’ve probably got their own, but it might be nice to offer.”

      “Well, СКАЧАТЬ