Water Dogs (5 page)

Boak said it was a cracker way to end the battle. Littlefield said he couldn’t agree more. Tying was not part of the paintballer’s credo. But when Gendron Knight came out on his snowmobile to reiterate the time issue, there was no room for discussion. That’s when the snow began to fly; the storm was starting, little light pellets landing on Bennie’s eyelashes. They all put their hats and masks back on and trudged to Gendron’s shack to return the guns.

Within the hour, Bennie and Littlefield and Julian were bullshitting at Julian’s. Through the window near the end of the bar, they could see the snow falling—now a heavy sugar snow churning in the gusts of wind. The sun hadn’t gone down yet, though the light outside was dark blue.

Julian was officially off duty, but he was keeping an eye on things and helping collect empty glasses for the bartender. Helen was finishing her lunch shift in the kitchen—they stopped serving at three, but Bennie knew she had to Saran-wrap food containers, wipe down the stove and counters, and prep for the dinner shift before leaving, when she would drive back to his place, where he’d heat up the beef stew.

The beer made Bennie feel warmer, but his fingers were still numb. They’d just ordered their second round when Boak and Shaw and LaBrecque entered the bar. They’d taken off their white snowsuits. Each had a thin layer of snow on his head.

“Good battle today,” said Littlefield. With the stubble, dark eyes, and angular features, Littlefield sometimes looked vaguely canine—especially when he was about to start an argument. Bennie knew the pleasantries were fleeting.

Boak brushed the snow off his black wool jacket, hesitating before saying, “Yup.”

“Three pints for these boys,” said Littlefield.

They didn’t seem to know how to respond to the gesture, but each stepped closer to the tap. They stared at the Bruins game above the liquor bottles. Once they had the pints in hand, Littlefield stood and motioned for Julian and Bennie to stand, too. “A toast,” he said, looking at Boak and Shaw and LaBrecque. “To your good fortune.”

Boak smiled tightly. “You’re the lucky one, friend,” he said. Everyone drank. Then Littlefield suggested they all go back to the snowfields to finish the game. Shaw and Boak were interested. Bennie stayed
quiet, wanting someone, Julian perhaps, to offer resistance. LaBrecque was nodding, his eyes fixed on Littlefield, and it seemed they knew each other from another context. Fishing? Logging? Construction? Dealing pot? If they didn’t like each other, Bennie didn’t notice, but Littlefield had plenty of enemies. Littlefield told them they could easily break in to Gendron’s woodshed, get the guns, play for an hour, and see who came out ahead.

Just as he said this, Helen walked through the kitchen doors, toward the bar. She was untying her apron, a slick of sweat on her forehead, a small stripe of tomato sauce on her temple, her hair pulled away from her face. At the sight of her, everyone seemed to take it easy.

She tossed the apron at Bennie and smiled. “I can’t wait to fall asleep on your couch. I’m completely wiped.”

“Can I meet you later? Littlefield and I are going for a walk,” he said, glancing over at the others, who didn’t seem to be listening. “Out in the woods.”

She was quiet, and then she said, “You know it’s snowing, right? I think that storm is coming over from the White Mountains.”

“It’ll be a short walk, then.”

He wasn’t sure if Helen had seen the mask atop Shaw’s head and the bag of paintballs still tied to Littlefield’s belt, but she shrugged and said, “Well, I’m headed back to my place, then. Try not to drive into a ditch, okay?” When she took the apron off his lap he tried to catch her eyes but didn’t; she’d already turned and was on her way to the kitchen.

The men tipped back their glasses of beer and rezipped their coveralls. “We’ll meet here after the game,” said Littlefield. LaBrecque was the first out the door, and the rest followed.

They dropped Julian off at his house so he could get more clothes, and Bennie and Littlefield went back to the Manse and bundled up, too. They had less than an hour of light left, and the wind was picking up. The temperature was dropping.

Everyone met back at the Dutchman, where Littlefield climbed the fence and broke into Gendron’s office. When he came back with an armful of guns, Bennie felt a new surge of energy. His hands had warmed up. Littlefield tossed the gear over the fence. They walked as a group to the quarry.

The air in the dark purple woods was thick with quiet snow. They labored through the drifts, barely able to see each other, the wind cold on Bennie’s face. Even though Keep’s Quarry and the forest surrounding it was less than a quarter-mile from the road, it took them a half hour. With snow covering the thicket, every few steps someone’s feet would get tangled in brambles. The wind gusted in the trees and the shadows dulled as it got darker, and they had to pay close attention to the branches that hung down by their eyes. Everyone was winded and sweating. When they finally got to the woods, they stood in a circle and Littlefield said that he, Bennie, and Julian would take the far side. When the urchiners lined up on the near side, Bennie could see them, faintly, through the snow.

Littlefield signaled the restart by raising his arm. The urchiners jogged three abreast along the rim of the quarry, out of range. Littlefield turned to Julian and Bennie and said, “We only have an hour. Bennie and I will head up to the north edge, and we’ll try to flush them out in your direction, Julian. You stay put—we’ll get them out in view.”

Bennie’s legs felt weak. He said, “How about if Julian goes with you and I stay.”

“But he’s a better shot than you,” said Littlefield.

Julian shrugged. “Whatever, man. Let’s try it. Let’s kill these fuckers.”

Littlefield looked at Bennie, sternly, and asked, “What are you, tired?”

“I think … I’d just rather hole up right here,” said Bennie.

Littlefield shook his head. “All right, Julian. Let’s go. Just don’t fall asleep on us, Ben. Quit being a pussy and make sure you blast away when the time comes.”

Bennie wanted to respond, but his brother and Julian were already jogging to the north edge of the quarry, past the same spot where hippies jumped from the ledges on hot summer days. Bennie walked over to the spruce trees, hunkered in the deep snow, rested his back against the largest tree, and watched his steaming breath. There was still enough light to distinguish the sky from the canopy above.

It wasn’t long before Bennie lost sight of Julian and Littlefield, which brought him some relief—he was fine letting Littlefield lead the charge. It was Littlefield’s game, really, and Bennie was happy to let him win or lose on his own. Once the others disappeared, Bennie knew his only responsibility was to keep from getting shot. He did what he expected Boak and Shaw were doing: he dug a little trench and holed up and then pointed his gun out in the direction where he expected LaBrecque to be. He thought of Helen, briefly—the way her nose would have crinkled up if he told her about these war games, in the storm—but then his focus returned to the shadowy gray forest and his cold body in the snow, his back against the spruce tree.

He could have called it off then, could have yelled loud enough to bring everyone in. He could have surrendered. It’s what he’d wanted to do, not only because he was getting cold again but because he was suddenly worried someone was going to fall down and get hurt. There was a brief window, before Littlefield and the urchiners got too far away, when he could have stopped the game. But he didn’t want to disappoint his brother—chances were, everyone would be fine and it wouldn’t be long before they were back at the bar, warming up and drinking beer—so he kept quiet.

After twenty minutes of silence Bennie saw from a distance through the billowing sugar snow two squat figures moving from one tree to the next, crouching, the black barrels of their guns raised and ready, pointing out from the trunks of each tree they hid behind. They were making a wide arc toward Bennie through the woods. The figures weren’t running but they seemed to be moving steadily. With his eyes wide open in the dusk, through the blowing snow he could see their silhouettes
blurring against the stands of spruce. He considered climbing the tree he was leaning against—they wouldn’t guess that in the faint light of the snowstorm with a Kingdom semiautomatic marker in his hand he’d be above them, in a tree—but the gorillas were getting too close and he didn’t have time. He tried to be a quiet rock beside the spruce tree. The urchiners continued to walk toward him in a nearly direct line, but they were still far enough away that through the snow he must have been invisible to them. Bennie kept his barrel raised, holding his breath.

He heard it first, then glanced quickly over his shoulder, behind the tree he was leaning against. A white blur, silent, sprinting across the top of the snowpack. A snowshoe hare.

He could see they were watching the hare, and the commotion gave Bennie enough time to lock in on Boak. For a split second he felt sorry, knowing how seriously Boak took the paintballer’s credo. Bennie squeezed his trigger and sludged Boak in the shoulder. He fell to his knees. “Man down!” Boak screamed.

Shaw charged, and Bennie jumped out of his trench, turned, and ran. Shaw was pumping shots; one hit a tree Bennie’s shoulder brushed against as he fled. The snow was deep but he felt fast; he felt daring and purposeful and somehow he felt certain he would elude Shaw. The ground beneath the snow was now flat and hard instead of bramble, so he was able to pick up speed. Bennie was high-stepping, sprinting toward the wide gray clearing in front of him. The snow was not as deep, he was getting faster, and he glanced back—Shaw was close, but he had stopped, he had his gun raised—and when Bennie returned his gaze to what was in front of him, his feet were free and he was falling.

There was a second of calm—the wind felt different, it was warmer, his legs were still churning, and he was falling with the snow. He felt light and unencumbered. There was nothing to be afraid of. He had no idea what would happen next. He thought he had picked up so much speed, he was flying. Flying away from Shaw. In the instant before hitting the ice at the bottom of the quarry, he was sure that Littlefield would be proud.

4

T
hey’d gotten into paintball because of hunting, and they’d only started hunting regularly after their father died. He’d been a hunter, and he’d also been their biathlon coach. Most people in Maine wouldn’t have any idea that there were kids of all ages who competed in a sport that combined cross-country skiing with shooting a rifle—and that these fledgling contests had begun in the late seventies. It had been William Littlefield, Sr.—known as Coach to everyone, including his children—who’d started the Saturday-afternoon races, which were still small-scale but were now happening everywhere: in Rumford, Ogunquit, Bethel, Waterville, Dover-Foxcroft, Brunswick, Bangor, Caribou,
Cumberland, Blue Hill, and on Mount Desert Isle. Pulling his three-year-old twins, Bennie and Gwen, behind him in a plastic sled, Coach had gotten Littlefield on skis at age five. In his twenties, ten years after Coach died, Bennie had earned his fastest times, and his shot was finally steady. Comparing the sport to paintball was difficult: the course was much larger, you followed a track on skis, the rifles were real, and the targets were smaller. It was one of those sports, like iceboating or falconry, that was basic in concept but tricky to execute. After a while—as he kept trying and trying to get better, without noticing any results—Bennie started thinking of biathlon as that well-balanced, perfectly nutritious dinner that took too long to prepare and didn’t taste very good. As Coach had said to Gwen and Littlefield and Bennie when all three were still competing: “You each have talent. But to win you need guts and heart.” It took Bennie a while to understand what Coach meant by this, and once he did, he quit, and he was the last of the three of them to stop racing. Like Littlefield, he started spending his Saturdays playing paintball instead.

Coach had been masochistic in his own training. After driving trucks at Camp Lejune, William Littlefield, Sr., trained his way onto the biathlon national team, and while he never competed in the Olympics, he finished thirty-fourth in the 1967 World Cup, cleaning all of his targets. He said if he hadn’t picked the wrong wax he might have made it onto the Olympic team. That was his story, and Bennie didn’t find much point in questioning it.