Authors: Sandra Kitt
“That could be fun.”
“Yeah. And we’ll grab some dinner somewhere, and—”
“Tonight?”
Gail’s face fell. “I can’t tonight. I was thinking maybe tomorrow?”
Leah shook her head. “End of the year production meeting. I’ll probably be at the office until after six. How about the day after tomorrow? It’s my last offer,” Leah teased quietly.
But Gail was deep in thought. “I’d really like to, but …”
Leah’s smile was tired. “You have a date that won’t wait.”
Gail sighed and shrugged.
Leah didn’t suggest that her sister might cancel the date. She patted Gail’s hand. “Thanks anyway for the offer. It was a nice idea.”
“We can still do something together over the holidays,” Gail coaxed with her most persuasive manner. She stood up from the side of the bed. “It’s almost time to get up anyway. Why don’t you take a shower? You’ll feel much better. I’ll go make some hot chocolate. It’s cold in here!” she declared, hugging herself as she left the room.
It took a little longer for Leah to pull herself together and out of the bed that morning. She had to first gather all the parts of herself that had been scattered in the night.
Now Leah stared at her reflection, looking deeply into the dark centers of her eyes. For a brief moment there was a sort of veil that held the residue of the dream; the only difference was that in that light at the end of the long corridor she’d heard her name called. It had echoed back to her … in Jason’s voice.
In the quiet darkness of his apartment the energy of the day lingered for Jason. The residual adrenaline pumped into his brain, jumbling all the events together.
He’d had a bad day at the precinct. One of the kids he’d been working with through family court had been shot dead by a shop owner. The proprietor said the kid was trying to rob his store. Jason had not only gone to the morgue to see the boy’s body, but had been asked by his supervising officer to notify the family that, two days before Christmas, their son was dead.
Maybe the kid was dead because of Christmas, although that was only Jason’s guess. The boy had been sixteen, with no money to buy gifts for his family or even his new son. The family would have no tree or decorations. Jason could put the two bits of information together and figure out how all of it would have to end.
Then a game that he’d coached that week on Riker’s Island had broken out into a brawl between the two teams. All future games had been suspended until further notice. A report had come in about a seventeen-year-old mother who had apparently grown tired of the responsibility of her child and of herself. She had drowned the infant in the kitchen sink and then had slit her own wrists. But she was going to live.
Slack, born Jerome Findlay, had tried to choke a male attendant at the group home where he’d been assigned and housed. There was no place for Slack to go for the holidays. There was no one who wanted him. The fragments of his family had been divided up among many of the city’s social agencies: jail, state hospital, foster care … Potter’s Field. Jason tried to find someone to take charge of the sixteen-year-old, even for one night. But Jason knew that Slack was too difficult, too hostile. Too prone to unpredictable violence. He had found several hours to go and spend with Slack, trying to talk him into staying cool. It worked, but it had only been a stopgap measure. Jason still believed that if he could just find the right combination of time and activities, of attention for the boy, that Slack might still be turned around.
All the tragedies of the day made Jason also remember Vietnam and all the children he’d seen die there.
’Nam had been desperate and frightening and surreal. Of course, there had been atrocities all the time on all sides. But he’d never been able to get used to the way children were used. As shields and messengers, as decoys and bounty. As disposable commodities in a situation that was not of their making. He would always remember the first time his unit had come upon a small roadside village, mostly bombed out and devastated. But in this village all the young men were away fighting in the war. Area guerrilla activity was still known to be fierce, and protected by sympathizers. These people’s lives had already been so invaded, so violated, that now, as the unit approached, they just sat waiting without movement or sound or expectations. Old men and women … and the children. Whatever happened to them happened. There were no longer good guys or bad guys. There were only, always, the soldiers. The old people and children sat squatted with distended stomachs from lack of food and proper diet.
Jason and his men had been looking for a small band of Vietcong known to be in the area. The only trouble in a country like this was that the enemy could look just like the people he and his men were trying to protect. But following the routine, the men searched the entire village, checked for ways they knew the guerillas had been known to hide and disguise themselves. It was clear after fifteen minutes that there were no fighters there. One of the men in Jason’s unit, however, had discovered a young girl half hidden among the squatted silent group of villagers. They’d been shielding her from the soldiers. But the men had been in and out of the jungle for too many weeks, and they knew. They could smell her. She might have been as old as fifteen but looked younger because she was so small.
“Hey! Look what we got here. Hey, you guys. Right here. She ain’t too dirty, neither,” the soldier joked, pulling the reluctant girl into the open.
“Lay off. Let’s just get the hell out of here,” Jason tried, nervous that there might yet be a trap. “Can’t you horny bastards see she’s just a kid?”
“So what? Hell, she’s got all the parts she needs, right?”
“Come on, man,” another began. “She could be your sister.”
Yet another of the soldiers grabbed the girl by the hair and shoved her into the dry, tall grass. “No gook could ever be my sister,” he said with a snort, pushing her to the ground, egged on by several of his buddies. A few of the men turned away to squat and smoke cigarettes; most waited their turn. Some of the men didn’t care one way or the other, but no one came to her aid. No one moved. She never wept, never struggled, but lay there silently as young men had their way.
The old looked down at their bare feet. The children fought in the dirt for scraps of rations thrown carelessly by some of the waiting soldiers. In the tall grass there was only grunting. Jason wandered off, not wanting to be a witness but doing nothing to stop it. Off in the distance he could hear the pop-pop of single-shot gunfire. Smoke appeared in the air all around him.
The last man, now finished, hitched up his pants and called the men together.
“Jesus, that was good,” he crowed as they all slowly moved out and continued beyond the village on their search.
Jason hung back. Slowly he had approached the dry grass, looking for the girl. Maybe she’d just get up and one of her people would take care of her. What Jason spotted first was the red of her blood. She was stretched out, eyes staring blankly into the space over her head. Her ragged pants had been pulled down around one ankle. Her top was pulled up to expose an undeveloped chest with rib bones pressing against her skin. Jason stood in a trance and watched the blood ooze from between her thin young legs. She was dead.
Jason turned away and was sick. He hadn’t helped her. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to help her. His mission, after all, was to stay alive. But he might have done something more than just be a soldier. He might as well have been one of the men who’d raped her.
Jason felt his pain increase, because the scene segued into one of a Christmas spent in ’Nam in a muddy trench. There had been no dinner to speak of, and the mere thought of family and presents, and goodwill toward men, seemed completely out of place. In his depression and loneliness of being away from home and surrounded by the constant fear of dying, Jason had found a young Vietnamese girl and spent the night with her. It was only because he needed so badly to believe that someone else felt as lost as he did. And if they were that vulnerable, too, maybe they could trust each other.
He’d fallen asleep afterward only to awaken and find her pointing his own gun at him. The Christmas truce of goodwill was over. One of his men looking for him that holiday morning had blown her brains out before the girl could figure out how to work the gun.
And, Jason finally thought, this time last year he had been helping Michael raise the Christmas tree in the living room of his mother’s house. Michael had said to him, “I’m real glad you’re here, Dad.”
Jason closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows on his bed. He was tired. And he was lonely. Why was he thinking about the precinct and dead children? In the dark Jason smoked until his throat burned. He tried to dim the nightmares in his head. But the nicotine wasn’t enough, and he got up and searched around his kitchen until he found a hall-full bottle of gin and one of scotch. He thought he wanted someone there with him, someone he could take to bed and hold and love—just for the night—to get him through the dreams. He thought of a half-dozen names and rejected them all. It was much better just to get drunk instead. Alone. Jason decided he didn’t want to see anybody he had feelings for tonight, because tomorrow’s hangover might wash them all away.
Christmas Eve at the precinct wasn’t much different than any other day of the year. There were still loud voices, protests from the holding pen, phones ringing. There had been a laughable attempt at decoration. Silvery streamers were hung on the wall behind the front desk. A Christmas tree, a “gift” from a friendly street dealer, stood brightly lit opposite the first-floor elevator. At least most of the men would get to go home early to be with their families.
The very idea sank Jason deeper into the hole of his depression. He had so little family left. He felt his stomach churn. It heaved every time he thought about all the holiday drinks he’d had so far that afternoon. It was the office party. He hadn’t been very sober to begin with from the night before. He should have forgotten about the scotch.
He’d lost two kids this week. Where the hell had he been? He was still feeling that there should have been something he could have done to prevent those deaths.
Jason sat slouched in his desk chair, his eyes bloodshot and tired. He hadn’t bothered to shave that morning, and no one had even noticed. Except maybe Joe. Joe had seen him like this before.
“Don’t you know it’s the season to be jolly and all that shit? Come on, man. Lighten up. It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake. No pun intended,” Joe cackled.
Jason didn’t look up from his methodical efforts to loop paper clips together into a chain. He dropped several of the clips, but thought better of trying to bend to retrieve them from the floor.
“Do you ever wonder if it matters, Joe? Do you ever say to yourself, what the hell are we doing here anyway?”
Joe sighed deeply and leaned back in his squeaky chair. “Here we go again,” he muttered. “Every time you get drunk you get philosophical. No, I don’t think about it ’cause it don’t matter. I don’t think I make a damn of a difference. What happens, happens, man. With or without us.”
Jason dropped more clips and in frustration tossed the link chain onto the already messy desk. “Then why bother? Why don’t we just sit back, let everyone handle their own problems? We could just sweep up the victims afterward. Save a lot of time and energy.”
Joe chuckled. “Now, that’s a great idea. I know a couple of people I’d like to get rid of.”
Jason glared at Joe’s sarcasm and slammed a drawer shut. “All right. So it was a stupid idea.”
Joe stopped laughing and sat forward. “Look, man. It’s just a job, not a calling. Simple. You win some and you lose some. Most people don’t give a shit what we’re trying to do. Hell, sometimes we don’t give a damn what we do. I put in my eight hours, and I collect my check.”
Jason stared at Joe. “So that’s the answer? Don’t take it seriously?”
“Sure, you can take it seriously. Just don’t take it home with you at night. You got to learn to turn it off when the buzzer sounds. Else you’re dead in the water, man. You’ll never reach retirement.”
“And that’s more important?”
“Damn straight.”
Jason knew that Joe was right. Maybe. Jason looked at his partner and envied him. The world was made for people like Joe: just the facts, thank you. The gray areas were for someone else to gnaw over.
Joe sighed in exasperation. He threw himself back against his chair, and the spring action threatened to topple him backward to the floor. But the chair held and Joe comfortably rocked. He shook his head at Jason.
“Come on, Jace. Why do you do this to yourself?”
“Do what?” he mumbled.
“Tear yourself up inside, man. Care too damn much. People get hurt when they care.”
Jason smiled at the irony. “That’s how I know I’m still alive, I guess. I can’t let go.”
Joe shook his head again. “You don’t need to have your guts turned inside out to know that. You thinking about those two stiffs from yesterday?”
Jason grimaced at the cold description.
“Too late. Can’t do nothing for them that’s dead and gone. You want to worry about something? How about how
not
to let it be you?”
Jason nodded absently. It was the only way to get off the subject. Joe just didn’t understand. He didn’t respond the same way.
“So what are you doing for Christmas? Not staying alone, are you?”
Jason blinked at him, and shook his head. Leah had asked that same question. She’d cared. “No. Soon as I get out of here I’m on the road to P.A. My sister’s.” He didn’t add that he planned on visiting Michael’s grave, maybe with Lisa. They didn’t have much to say to each other anymore, but they had a grief to share.
Joe suddenly sprang forward again, snapping his fingers sharply. “Almost forgot!”
From under his desk he pulled out a huge, gaily wrapped box. He put it on a vacant chair that was on casters and, with a push, sent the chair rolling toward Jason.
“This is from me and Nora. It’s a great gift. There’s a cooked turkey in there and everything.”