The Unit (22 page)

“Okay.”

When I say it, I try to convince myself that it’s a lie. I was never a POW before, but Mel and I are POWs now, and survival is all that matters. What I say under threat and duress doesn’t mean a thing. My words to him have only one interpretation:
I will survive you
. I know it and he probably knows it, too, but I need to keep my defiance in the background. I can’t push him too far in front of the others, but I can’t bend over, either.

“Okay then, kid. If you want me to help you, you’ll need to show some manners. Go back to your little circle jerk and maybe later I’ll show you how the big boys make things happen. Classes start as soon as I stop bleeding. Get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”

He picks up his rifle then he shakes his head.

“You talk to me like that in front of my men, and I’ll shoot you on the spot.”

“I know it.”

He squeezes his rifle and hesitates. I know I’m about an inch away from being executed. I nod at him, the most respect I can muster, and he nods back and takes his leave.

I fall back and sleep for a long, unknowable time.

Scott walks tall beside me. His face is cracked with blood lines, and it makes me want to cry, but he’s walking with purpose. I have the nonfunctional shotgun in the frozen claw of my right hand. My left arm is itching beneath its splint and bandages, and I hope the itching is a sign of healing, and not infection.

We walk without hesitation toward life or death. Scott is unarmed. I have two cold coins in my pocket, the coins Jerry took from the dead boy. The sky is a flat-bottomed, endless yellow cloud. If I saw it on television or on a picture postcard, I would say it was a
transitional
sky, the kind of sky that makes a person think, because it’s neither storm nor calm, but could certainly become either, in time. The world is frozen and glittering in the strange light. We’re half wet with perspiration and we have no idea what we’re walking into. Wind through the grass. So much rotten winter grass. I’ll be happy when the snow buries all the grass and footprints and empty cartridge cases and blood trails and corpses. I’ll breathe easier when the world can at least pretend to be clean and whole.

We walk the shoulder of the road, then straight up onto the pavement. Bootfalls on cracked asphalt. Flutters of wind in my ears, and we haven’t had our hair cut for weeks and we’re all dirty and aflutter.

The thought of Melanie makes both of my arms ache, and I’m about to start thinking about Jerry, too, so I push the fear mostly away and concentrate on the
now
. The mountain wind is tricky and we’re half frozen and it’s not easy to walk a straight line, but we walk in the approximate center of the road. The buildings of the town grow as we approach. It takes hours or minutes or seconds, but soon enough we’re walking on the main drag of Virginia City, Nevada.

We stop in front of the Bucket ’o Blood Saloon. Dark shapes move behind red curtains and I feel eyes watching us. Scott takes a side stance and puts his hands on his hips. I manage to sling the shotgun over my good shoulder. Scott turns to face me, and he gives me a hug. I’m too cold to feel it, but I hug him back with all the motherhood that’s ever been inside me. We stand on the main street of town and we present its inhabitants with a public display of mother-son affection. It’s brilliant of Scott, and heartfelt, and I love my son and my love is plain for all the world to see, no matter what the world has come to. It’s an offering of sorts, and an opportunity to say goodbye. We say the usual things. Love you. Love you, too. Proud of you, whatever happens. We hold each other in the cold hug that could be our last.

We stand under the weight of watching eyes. Scott pulls away and puts his arm around my shoulder. We’re both almost to a point beyond shivering, and I know we can’t possibly survive without shelter. There’s nothing left to do but throw ourselves on the mercy of whomever.

“Hello?” Scott calls.

“Anybody home?” I say.

I try to shout. The words don’t come out as loudly as I’d intended. But I don’t care how my voice sounds. We’re in the middle of the road and there’s no way we can avoid being in a crossfire, if a crossfire is what we are about to receive. May it not come to that, Lord, but if it does, it’s Your will, so please guide the bullets straight and true, and bless this bountiful crossfire to our bodies.

The Bucket ’o Blood Saloon has seen better days. White paint is flaking onto the graywood boardwalk. There’s a boarded-up fudge shop behind us. A knickknack shop and a camera shop and a coffee shop and the Ye Olde Café. Both sides of the street are lined with sagging boardwalks and the old, wooden store signs are swinging and banging around on their rusted chains, but there aren’t any tourists to tempt. And the signs seem to have taken on a new meaning. They’re saying, We regret… We regret to… We regret to inform you that we’re sorry, they say. Our deepest sympathies are with you. Maybe someday you’ll come again with money in your wallets and purses, and your smiling kiddies in tow, and you’ll eat and drink under sunny skies, your vacation budgets the only limitation to your pleasure, but don’t worry about that now, poor dears.

The front door of the saloon bangs open. A man steps onto the boardwalk. He’s not young, but he’s tall and strong-looking. He has a salt-and-pepper ponytail and a gray beard. He wears a holstered pistol at his side, but he doesn’t make any threatening movements. Scott looks up at the second-story windows. I follow his line of sight and see the muzzles of rifles and shotguns pointed at us.

“Come on over. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

The man’s voice is reasonable-sounding, with the depth of authority. It’s the voice of a broadcaster or a trial lawyer or a politician. Maybe it’s the voice of a good man, but there’s no way to tell, and no reason to assume it.

He gestures us forward. We walk shoulder to shoulder. The man is above us on the boardwalk and we look up into his face. His eyes are wide but unreadable, and he could be a saint or a he could be a lunatic. He’s older than I am. He’s an aging Baby Boomer but first impressions are what keep us alive, the less favorable the better, so I don’t trust him, not at all. I push a small giggle back down into my throat, and maybe it isn’t appropriate but I can no longer find the line between humor and hysteria.

“Mother and son, I take it?”

We nod. I’m trying not to smile like an idiot. Like a killer about to die.

“Yes, praise God. I see the family resemblance. I’m James Johnson, but people call me Pastor Jim.” He turns to the saloon and puts his hand on the doorknob. “We’ll get you warmed up and fed, just as soon as you put your weapon on the ground and let us search you.”

A man and a woman come out of the saloon. They’re the same general age as the ponytail man—Baby Boomers with wrinkles and gray hair and they’re no doubt packing varicose veins and cellulite and hemorrhoids and all of it. Not so long ago, it seemed like the whole U.S. economy was organized to treat the nasty little personal problems of aging Baby Boomers, but not anymore. Now they’re growing old with all the simple harshness that nature intended. The woman looks very tired and otherwise unwell. Her face is long and loose and it hangs from the front of her skull like a coating of wax.

The woman comes at me, holding her hands out for the shotgun. She puts her hands on it, like a blind woman trying to see what it is. I let go and she takes it. The wind steadily blows away what’s left of our warmth. The world smells like dried mud and dead grass and a coming snow. The barrels of the long guns above us don’t waver. Scotty’s arm is pressed against mine and he tenses it hard. I step in front of my son and let the overlooking muzzles track me. Scott sighs in my ear. “No, Mom,” he says, and he steps out beside me again.

The woman props my shotgun against the boardwalk, and she and the man search us. They unzip our coats and reach into our shirts and run their hands down our legs. They turn our pockets out, and the man clucks his tongue and takes Scott’s folding knife.

All hints of humor leave my hysteria, and I want to giggle like a madwoman. Pastor Jim opens his arms wide, as if he’s about to take flight. He smiles and his teeth are capped a hard, neon white, but his gums have a grayish tinge. The mountain wind blows harder and the clouds look serious, threatening, and I’m sure they carry snow. Pastor Jim stops smiling and shakes his head.

He turns his back and has a conversation with God. Apparently God has a lot on His mind, because it takes a while. Pastor Jim finally nods and turns back to face us.

“Look here, it’s lack of faith that got us into this predicament.” He looks into the sky and narrows his eyes. He waves at the men looking down on us, and they pull their weapons inside and close the window. “This time there’s room at the inn for everyone. Come inside and meet us, will you?”

Scott steps up on the boardwalk and approaches Pastor Jim. He holds out his hand and they shake. Scott makes the introductions. I don’t know why he pretends to trust this man. He’s always had a very good BS detector, and I feel like I felt when he was a little boy, running up and starting conversations with strangers. I’d thought then that it was simple animal behavior, the naïve exuberance of the puppy, but now I see that it’s become a calculated thing, fully part of him, and also it’s a ploy. Only his mother can see the seams in the veneer of his friendly sincerity. My son can no longer bring himself to trust anyone. My sweet boy has become a cunning man, and he’s measuring Pastor Jim for a coffin, or a pat on the back, and I don’t know which.

We thump across the boardwalk and enter the saloon. It’s warm inside, but at first I can’t feel it. A fire roars in a cast-iron cookstove and a pot of stew is bubbling its rich promise into the world. The pain of thawing starts and I’m unsteady. My skin starts to itch from my top to my bottom. I sway on my feet for a while before I realize that we’re in a room crowded with people. They’re ordinary-seeming people gathered together in the saloon. Men and women of various ages and races sitting at tables and drinking glasses of wine and pints of beer. They stand from their tables and the people at the bar turn to greet us. Nods and lifted hands and tight little grins—the rituals of the all-important first impression.

Children peer from behind the adults and I try to smile at them. My face is frozen into what I hope is a pleasant grin, but what I fear is a grimace. So many people meeting us for the first time, and we’re among them and we’re not shooting at each other. The saloon is close with heat and breath, and people have been living without basic services for so long that I expect them to put out a powerful stench, but I catch whiffs of floral scents, perfume and deodorant and aftershave lotion. My own body smells like fear and grime and anger, and for the first time since the bombs fell, I feel unclean in comparison to others.

The drinkers clear two barstools at the shiny mahogany bar, but we remain standing. A young woman looks into my eyes and she seems to understand our lack of trust. She raises her eyebrows as if to say that everything will be okay. She looks at Scott in a different way entirely, and I feel both protective and relieved.

Pastor Jim makes a great show of putting on a white apron before he steps behind the bar.

“What’ll it be, folks?”

I want to be polite, but it’s been so long since I’ve been served that I don’t know what to say. We stand dumbly at the bar.

“Okay, then,” says Pastor Jim. “A shot of brandy for the lady and a whiskey for the young man.”

“No,” I say. My voice is rough. I sound like an old, heavy-smoking barfly. “Something nonalcoholic for me.”

He smiles and nods.

“The fruit of the vine and spirit of the still isn’t for everyone, and wise is the person who knows it.”

He points to the cookstove. A young woman in a long dress takes up a heating pad and wraps it around the handle of a tea kettle. She lifts it from the stove and brings it to Pastor Jim. He reaches for it and she’s careful to make sure his hand is protected by the heating pad. Their hands touch when they make the transfer and she’s very gentle and Pastor Jim smiles down at her and she blushes.

Pastor Jim pours a clean, hot stream into two mugs and rips open packages of instant hot chocolate and uses a silver spoon to mix it. He lifts a bottle of whiskey and looks at Scott and Scott grins and nods and he pours a generous shot into Scott’s mug. He mixes the drinks again with his spoon and slides the mugs in front of us.

I pick up the mug with no whiskey in it and hold it in my raw and itching hands. I breathe in the smell and the steam. I take a sip. It burns the roof of my mouth, but I immediately take another sip. It’s good and sweet and hot. My mouth tightens from the sudden blessing of sugar, and then I’m in heaven, sipping hot chocolate in the company of friendly seeming people.

Scott takes his mug and lifts it to Pastor Jim. He holds it like it’s the most precious thing he’s held in years. He takes a sip and he can’t help but sigh. It’s a loud sigh and he smacks his lips beneath a thick hot chocolate mustache. The people laugh and raise their glasses and we raise ours in return and we drink deeply, not fully trusting our new closeness to others, but not pushing away from them, either.

Dad talks tough but his face is a mess of half-dried blood. His wounds are rubbery like old ketchup and I watch him spitting dark blotches into his canteen cup.

“How are you, really?”

He stands up straight, but it takes a sad, long time for him to do it. He bends his destroyed face into a look of fake seriousness. It’s like he’s pretending to be a president or a king or something.