The Year We Left Home (9 page)

It was one of Vietnam’s bad jokes, one he didn’t think Deb would appreciate, that hostile territory was called Indian country.

Sometimes he thought she liked his being white just so she could hold on to her grudges.

On the rez there was poverty, etc. Alcoholism, diabetes, hypertension, everything that came of eating the white man’s food, following the white man’s ways. The house Deb grew up in had neither running water nor electricity and sure, that was rough, but part of him wondered why it was so much worse than living in tipis or lodges or whatever they’d had a thousand years before there was an America. Of course the problem was more complicated. It was a soul-sickness having to do with shame, scorn, and the humiliation of having lost a war and yes, he knew something about all that.

When were you a tribe and when weren’t you? Did Norwegian count? His Indian name: Ray White Rat, Junior.

“Hey,” he said quickly, since the other two were stirring, ready to get up from the table. “I got a little surprise.”

They looked at him without curiosity. He wasn’t famous for his surprises. Elton said, “I’m going back over to Craig’s.”

“It won’t take but a minute.” Ray got up and went into the bedroom, his and Deb’s room, navigating through the landscape of piled-up clothes and burdened chairs, finding his knapsack on the floor of the closet. “OK, outside.”

They didn’t want to go outside. What was the deal, anyway? They complained and dragged ass. It was barely dark by now. This far north was practically the land of the midnight sun. Not really dark enough but it was going to have to do, since they wouldn’t let him wait and do anything right. Deb and Elton straggled out. “Now don’t look,” he instructed them. They weren’t looking. Big whoop.

The yard was long and narrow, with unimpressive wire fencing separating them from the neighbors on three sides. Somebody who’d lived here before had constructed a porch on the back end of the house,
a homemade thing roofed in corrugated white plastic and supported on a pair of three-by-five posts. Deb and Elton loitered here, bored and ready to go back inside.

“One second,” he told them, hustling down to the far end of the yard, past the puny garden. Wishing he’d managed to smoke a little marahoochie. Half a joint still in his shirt pocket. Deb not approving of it in general, and especially not around Elton. Like the kid was some drug virgin. Please.

“One more . . . second,” he called back to them, digging in the knapsack. He wanted to start with something big, wake them up, make them finally pay attention. He’d already carried out a bucket of sand he could use to anchor the loading tube. Now he broke open the cellophane pack, considered his choices. Giant Comet. Mad Dog. Sky Titan Triple Break. Dominator. They all sounded pretty good. The shells were packaged in fancy paper with tiny, gaudy patterns of lightning bolts and planets and whirligigs, funny, somebody going to all that trouble for something destined to be blown to smithereens. He picked the Giant Comet, loaded it so the fuse extended. “OK, watch this . . .”

It took three tries with his lighter to get it lit, from dampness probably. He had to squat down to get a good look and wouldn’t it be bad form to lose an eye or a hand once he finally got it going but he stepped back in plenty of time. There was a sizzle and then WOOSH it was out of sight, spitting its way up into the sky so high he couldn’t track it, a blue spurt, then a fountain of red above it and higher still a pop, and a green-gold starburst, and Jesus CHRIST it was big, like county fair big. He wasn’t expecting that and his heart flopped inside him. What was left of the shell fell back harmlessly, floating cinders. Deb and Elton yelped and screeched, scared, sure, but then happy at the hugeness, the beautiful spectacle of it.

He took a little mock bow.

Elton came over to check it out. “What was that shit?”

“You liked it?”

“Let me do the next one.”

Deb yelled at them to be careful, and they yelled back Sure, sure. It felt good to ignore her, the two of them in silent agreement because this was what women did, they were natural killjoys. Ray showed him how to load the shell. “Now back off, give it room and watch yourself when it comes down. Jeez, your mom’ll scalp me if you get hurt.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Elton too excited, getting too close when he lit the thing and Ray had to yank him back, WOOSH.

This one was red and white and blue, a spray of glitter and sparks high overhead.
Oh say can you see.
Fourth of July just an excuse for some good old sky magic. Doors slammed. Neighbors came out to see what the hell was going on. A mild cheering. Everybody liking the show. The Triple Break, three separate BANGETY-BANG white waterfalls. They shot off some smaller bottle rockets and percussive pieces, a cluster of booming and popping white lights. The air had a gunpowder smell. Smoke drifted along the ground.

“What’s this one?” Elton demanded, and Ray said he didn’t exactly know, but there was a way to find out. It turned out to be a flare that shot up, whizzbang, and landed in the yard behind theirs, a little too close to the house for comfort. Nobody was home so it didn’t matter. Then the loading tube fell over sideways when they lit the next shell and that might have turned out bad, then the fuse fizzled. Tricky shit but no harm done and that’s what counted.

“Where’d you get this stuff?” Elton, impressed in spite of himself, forgetting his fat-boy coolness.

“Ah, downtown.” Same guy he bought his pot from. There was no reason to advertise that. He felt for the joint in his shirt pocket. It was criminal not to be under the influence.

Dark enough now that Deb couldn’t see him from the back porch. He fired the joint with his back turned to Elton, a feeble attempt at hiding, then he thought that was stupid, and because they were having such a good time being guys together, the way they almost never did, he passed it over to Elton, who sucked it down like a champ.

Ray dawdled a little, letting the pot do its thing. He was loose, expansive, peaceful, ready to appreciate the full potential and possibilities
of this here beautiful light show. That magic holy high, the pure mindlessness of it. Him and Elton both with a case of the stoned giggles. Slaphappy, trying to get the launcher positioned exactly right.

“I got it,” Ray told him, and he did, he could handle it, it was nothing new. Plenty of times back in the good old war, they’d light up all kinds of shit while lit up. Ordnance, tracer rounds, phosphorous grenades. Every day a twisted Fourth of July, or some big stoned carnival, with the other side getting prizes for knocking you over. Some guys, the most serious burnouts, were way way into speed, had eyes like fried eggs, skin that had stopped sweating, skin like chalk. Some guys smoked heroin packed into cigarettes. He tried that once but it just made him fall asleep. He never saw one goddamn Vietcong. It was just ready, aim, fire, miss everything. Big whomping rockets shook the ground. You couldn’t tell who launched them, your side or theirs, but if one of them hit you, made you go up in the air and come down like snow, what the hell did it matter?

He didn’t like to admit it, but aside from the getting-shot-at part, and the whole obscenity of the war itself, he’d actually kind of liked the army. It was the closest he’d come to a tribe.

They got the fuse going and the rocket fizzed and whizzed, climbed and broke open into the biggest brightest sizzling silver star he’d ever seen. A little murmer of ooh and aah came from the people watching, but then they were silent. The star broke apart into long tails of white shimmer, drifting down and down, bright, perfect, gone.

Then they started running out of luck. He didn’t notice right away. Still lost in the admiration of it all.

“Sir? Sir?”

Elton? But he was gone. Sidling away all casual toward the house and then, total chickenshit that he was, probably right out the front door. Nope, this was the Man, strolling up the driveway like he was an invited guest.

“Sir? I need to talk to you.”

Ray put on a smile, though it was too dark for the officer of the law to see it. But a smile rearranged your posture, made it less likely you’d
get punched out or arrested or some other bad shit. You were just a harmless, well-meaning citizen, lacking any criminal intent. That was when he realized he was holding his lighter in one hand and a big ass rocket in the other.

The cop sounded pissed off. You could tell he was tired of chasing down a bunch of stupid fireworks. “All right. You want to give me the rest of your toys?”

“Ah . . .” Ray looked at the rocket in his hand, frowning, trying to suggest that the hand was an independent agent or third party, nothing he was responsible for. “Yeah, sure.”

“All of them, smart guy.”

“This is all that’s left.” Could he smell the pot on him? He could see the headlines now. Police hero busts drugs and explosives ring. Fuck it. Really.

The cop took the rocket, shone a flashlight around the yard, looking. Nothing but the peeled and charred paper scraps, leftover wrappings, and his stupid, slug-infested garden.

“You want to tell me where this came from?”

“Some guy, guy on a corner selling it.”

“Let’s take a hike, you and me.”

He stopped to light a cigarette, hoping it would cover up the pot smell, and followed the cop down the driveway to the street. Deb was watching from the kitchen and he tried to make his walk slow and uncaring. Gave her a little wave, a tip of his imaginary hat. He heard the back door shut.

The cop had his squad car pulled up to the curb, idling, parking lights on. He opened the front passenger door. “Get in.”

He dropped the cigarette to the curb. Front seat probably meant he was going to get a ticket or a fine, not a trip downtown. No big deal. He took in the leather seat, polished by a generation of cop butts, the ample legroom, the green dashboard light illuminating the blocky looking dash and gearshift and the cop radio making its static noises. Plymouth Gran Fury, he guessed, a 360 with a two-barrel carb.

The cop opened his door, got in, and switched the dome light on.
He had a heavy, gray face, an old dude who’d seen it all and didn’t like any of it.

“ID.”

He raised up off the seat to get to the wallet in his back pocket, extracted his driver’s license and handed it over. “Iowa,” the cop said. “You’re a long way from home.”

“That’s a fact.” Getting busted for kiddie shit. How stupid was that. So-and-so could screw up a wet dream, people used to say about somebody or other who never did anything right.

“What brings you all the way out here?” The cop was holding his license with one hand while he wrote with the other. It was just a question, but with judgment held in reserve, as if not staying in Iowa was some kind of suspicious circumstance.

“Ah, no good reason. Got out of the army, wanted to see the world. Nice town, Seattle. The three or four days a year it doesn’t rain.” This was pretty much the truth. He didn’t have too many good reasons for anything.

The cop either had no opinion about this or couldn’t be bothered to answer. “I got drafted,” Ray offered. “‘Greetings.’ I always thought I had a heart murmur, but the army doctor didn’t find it. So I was a lucky guy, huh?”

He wanted another cigarette. The street was quiet now that the fun was over. A steep slope climbed to the big intersection two blocks away, and the little houses gave the impression of struggling to keep from sliding downward. What was he doing here, anyway?

“Lucky,” the cop said. Conversation over.

“Yeah, guess the army has to have you a hundred percent healthy before they kill you off.”

The cop finished writing. He tore off a perforated card and handed it back with Ray’s license. “This is your citation. You’ll be notified of your court date in the mail.”

“Seriously?”

“Call the clerk of court in ten days, see if it gets dismissed. The only reason I’m not taking you in is I don’t feel like driving out of my way.
If you were old enough to be in the service, you’re old enough not to shoot off illegal explosives. And don’t give me any reason to come out here again. No more stupid stuff. You understand me?”

He guessed that meant the pot. “Yes, officer. Thank you.” Prick. He’d almost rather get arrested than have to kiss up.

The cop radio came to life, a woman’s garbled voice transmitting instructions to somebody answering back. Ray said quickly, “Hey, is it all right if I sit here a minute more, give the wife a chance to cool down?” He didn’t know why he said
wife,
except it sounded more convincing.

He could see the cop trying to decide, irritated again, like this went on all the time, people wanting one thing or another: a break, a favor, let this one slide. “You can sit here while I finish my log.”

“Thanks. Cigarette?” He shook one loose from his pack, held it out.

“You can sit but you can’t smoke.”

He put the pack away. He wondered if Deb was watching from the house. Probably not. Nothing he did, good or bad, made any difference to her anymore.

“Wish I’d never started. Two packs a day, that’s a real ball and chain.” He knew he should just keep quiet, he should always keep quiet, but he never did. “Didn’t hardly smoke at all before the army got its hooks in me. They shouldn’t make cigs so cheap at the PX. Bad policy. Healthwise.”

He waited for the cop to say something about that, yes or no or who gives a rip. The cop just kept writing. Ray laughed just so the echo of his voice wouldn’t be left hanging out there. “Yeah, then they ship your ass to the war and it’s a very, very funky place, and the last thing you want to do is give up on your cig habit and get the shaky nerves.”

In the house behind him, a light went on in the bathroom, then off again. It wasn’t his house. He was just living there for a while.

“Saigon,” he said, trying to make the word last in his mouth, taste it again. It tasted like a flower dipped in hot smoke. “Good old Saigon, now, that was like you died and went to sin heaven. Parties going on day and night. Pretty ladies. Card games, hootchy-kootchy, all the gin
in the world.” He’d only been there once and he’d got sick drunk. In his memory, rooms, faces, revolved around him like a kaleidoscope.