Shattered (11 page)

I was keeping one eye open for Sarge to arrive. So far no sign, but he'd come late the last time as well. Mac had told me that there were times when Sarge was here every night for weeks at a time. Then he wouldn't show up for even longer. I just hoped this wasn't the start of one of
those disappearing acts. It was okay if he didn't show up tonight, or even for a few days, but longer than that wouldn't work.

I'd started to wonder if I could get away with faking an interview. Who would know if I just pretended I talked to him? No … Mrs. Watkins was pretty smart and she'd see right through it. I really needed to interview him. I needed the marks. Strange … I also didn't want to disappoint Mrs. Watkins. I had no idea where that came from.

I picked up the tray that I'd loaded with dirty dishes. The weight caught me off guard and for a second I thought I was going to drop it. That wouldn't have been the same tragedy as dropping my mother's expensive imported dishes but it still wouldn't have been good.

Mac was already in the kitchen when I pushed through the door. He was standing at the sink and he had started to do the dishes.

“First I don't get to serve food and now I don't get to wash up. You trying to replace me?” I joked.

“Nope. Like you so much I'm thinking of doubling your salary. Wait … two times nothin' is still nothin', right?”

“I think so.”

“In that case, let's triple it!”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I set the tray down on the counter.

“You're pretty good with the guys,” Mac said. “You seem to know how to talk to them … and when it's better to just shut up.”

“I've had years of experience learning when to shut up,” I said. “Although I'd much rather be talking to somebody
tonight.” I'd told Mac about the assignment. I wasn't sure he approved of it, but he didn't tell me not to do it.

“Looks like Sarge is a no-show. If I see him around, you want me to tell him you want to talk?” Mac asked.

“I'd appreciate that.”

“'Course there's no guarantee that he'll talk to you,”

Mac warned.

“I just want to ask him a few questions.”

“Askin' don't mean you get any answers.”

“I'm not asking anything too personal, just stuff about being in the military.”

Mac shook his head. “No tellin' what's personal and what's not. No tellin' what put somebody on the streets. You just be careful about what you ask, okay?”

“I'll try. That's if I even get to see him.”

“Don't you worry. I always find that people, and things, turn up when you most need them.”

“Now you sound like some sort of minister again. I hope you're right.”

I took the last of the dishes off the tray and stacked them on the counter, ready to be washed.

“I'll go back for another load.”

I'd no sooner pushed through the door into the dining area than I saw him—Sarge! He was standing there in line waiting to be served. I put down the tray and picked up a serving spoon, inserting myself between two of the church ladies who were giving out the food.

“I'm going to help for a while,” I said. “That will speed things up a little.” That wasn't a complete lie. It would make the line move faster. The real reason of course was that I wanted an excuse to start talking to him. Besides, if
I gave him food he might be more willing to talk to me and answer my questions. It would be sort of an unofficial, unspoken trade.

Tonight's meal was chicken stew. It was thick, filled with potatoes and vegetables. It smelled really good. If there was any left at the end of the night I'd find out if it tasted as good as it smelled.

“Hi, how you doing?” I asked.

He looked up. “I'm doing well, Ian. And you?” “Good.” I took a deep breath. “I was sort of wondering if when you're through eating I could ask you a few questions.”

“Questions about what?” he asked suspiciously. “Nothing too personal … just a few questions … it's for a school assignment.”

“I'm not sure if I'm able to help with much to do with school, but we could talk. You come over when you're able to get free.”

“Thanks.” I gave him two extra big spoons of stew. I wanted to make sure he'd be eating for as long as possible.

I couldn't very well run off right away—although I wanted to. I continued to serve the next half-dozen people in line. As I kept serving I had one eye on the bowls and the other on Sarge. He walked over to the far corner and took a seat at a nearly empty table. He had his back to the wall, the way he'd sat before. He sat silently, eyes on his meal, eating. Lots of people focused only on their food, but I got the feeling he was lost in thought.

“There, I think we're caught up,” I said to one of the church ladies. All three nodded their heads and smiled
sweetly at me. They certainly were friendly. I put down my serving spoon.

I suddenly felt anxious. What exactly was I going to say? What was I going to ask? Besides, Mac had warned me, more than once, about asking anybody too many questions. What was it he had said—that he listened but didn't ask. Sarge looked up from his meal, saw me, smiled, and waved. I felt better.

I sat down on the bench across from him.

“You're not going to eat?” he asked.

“I'll eat later … if there's any left.”

“Now I feel badly,” he said. “I shouldn't have taken so much.”

“No, that's okay!” I exclaimed. “I can always eat later when I get home.”

“So, what did you want to talk about?” he asked. I couldn't help noticing that he smelled like alcohol. I'd never noticed that before. “Is it about being homeless?”

“No. It's about being in the armed forces.”

“Why would you want to talk to me about that?” he asked.

“Well, I thought … Mac told me … that he thought you used to be in the military,” I stammered, now feeling embarrassed.

“Why would he think that?”

“I guess because of what people call you sometimes.” “Sarge?” he said.

“I thought …
Mac
thought … that because they call you Sarge you were in the military, and I have to try to interview somebody who was in the army. I'm sorry for bothering you.” Feeling flustered I started to get up, but
he put a hand on my arm, holding me in place.

“You can interview me,” he said. “I was in the military.” “You were a sergeant?”

He nodded his head. “Special ops … I was trained in many things, including unarmed combat.”

“That's why you were able to take on those thugs so easily.”

“Technically I wasn't unarmed … I had an iron bar … but that's the idea behind the training.”

“I'd love to be able to do things like that, to be able to take care of myself,” I said.

“If you're smart you just stay away from places where you might need those skills. Either that or join the army and get the training.”

I laughed.

“You think joining the army is funny?” he asked. “No, of course not!” I exclaimed. “I just never thought of it, that's all.”

“Maybe you should.”

This led straight into one of my questions. “Would you recommend the armed forces as a job for somebody to pursue?”

He thought for a moment. “I think there's a need for people to become part of the military. It is a career that involves honour … a job where you can help people.”

I got slightly out of my seat so I could pull a pen and piece of paper out of my back pocket. I unfolded the paper and flattened it out so I could read the rest of my questions.

“How long were you in the military?” “Almost twenty-four years.”

“Wow, that's a long time!”

“It didn't seem like it. One day I'm in military college and the next day I'm sitting here talking to you. The time just went.”

I looked at the next question. “Why did you decide to join the military?”

“I always knew what I was going to become. My father was in the military, and his father before him. I grew up on army bases.”

I scribbled down his answer.

“People often choose the same career as their parents.

What does your father do?” he asked.

“He's a businessman,” I said. He was more than just a businessman. He was the CEO of one of the biggest companies in the city. I just didn't want to mention that.

“Then perhaps you'll become a businessman too.” “Maybe,” I said, although I doubted it. I didn't know what I wanted to be but I was certain I wasn't following in the footsteps of either parent.

“Wouldn't be a bad job,” he said. “At least you could spend time with your family.”

Obviously he didn't know much about businessmen— or at least my father's style of being a businessman. I felt myself getting angry inside as I thought about my father always being at work. He really didn't have to be gone so often—he could spend more time with us if he wanted. The angry feelings surprised me. Usually it just didn't bother me any more.

“Me being gone on assignment in far-flung foreign countries was hard on my wife,” he said.

“I didn't know you had a wife.”

“I did … I guess I still do.”

I didn't know what to say to any of that. I felt embarrassed and sad and terrible for even bringing it up at all. I looked down at my paper.

“You know, when I decided to enlist, my father said something to me, something I will never forget. He said that I must go into this not expecting ever to be thanked. Not by the government, or civilians, and not even by the army itself. No one would ever recognize the nature of the sacrifices that I would make,” he said.

I scribbled down his answer, not even understanding it and not knowing if what he was saying made any sense.

“You said you were stationed in different places. Where?” I asked.

“We lived in bases across the country from one coast to the other, both when I was growing up and then when I enlisted myself. It's hard to move, leave behind friends, but it's the way of the military.”

“We're studying Canada's role as peacekeepers. Were you ever part of any peacekeeping missions?”

“I was,” he said. “I proudly wore the blue beret of the United Nations. It was a sacrifice for me, but more for my wife. I would be gone for three or six months or even longer.”

“That would be hard.”

“My wife had to make do without a husband for months on end. And of course there is always the worry … worry about something happening.”

“I was surprised by how many soldiers have been killed in peacekeeping missions,” I said.

He gave me a questioning look.

“I've been reading about it for my civics course. Canada has had over a hundred deaths,” I explained.

“And many more people injured or maimed for life. Legs blown off by land mines don't grow back.” He paused. “You've read about it. I've lived it. Seen the deaths, seen the injuries. People I served with, people who were my friends. But that is to be expected. A soldier must be willing to sacrifice his life for his country in times of war and there is a very thin line between peacekeeping and war … a very thin line.”

“Where were you stationed?” I asked.

“It seems like everywhere. Six months in Bosnia after the fall of Yugoslavia, Haiti, the Middle East on two missions, and finally in Rwanda.”

“Rwanda … in Africa,” I said, but I wasn't completely certain if it was there or in South America.

“Central Africa, the Great Lakes Region.” He slowly shook his head. “What a tragedy, what a great tragedy.”

“What was a tragedy?” I asked, wondering if a friend was killed there.

He looked up from his meal. He looked shocked … no, angry … no, hurt. “You don't know?”

“Sorry.”

“You know nothing about it … nothing about what happened there, do you?”

I shook my head.

He didn't answer. Slowly he pushed his plate—still half full—away from him. “I don't want to talk any more.” He rose to his feet and walked away.

I sat there dumbfounded, not knowing what to say or think or do. I just watched him walk out the door.

Ten

I GOT UP
and stumbled away, back toward the kitchen.

“What happened?” Mac asked from behind the counter. He was holding a tray of dirty dishes. Obviously he'd seen Sarge walk out.

“I don't know.”

I walked into the kitchen and Mac trailed behind me. “What did you say to him?” Mac asked.

“I didn't say anything … well, not much.”

“You must have said something.”

“He was upset because I didn't know about Rwanda.” “Wanda? Wanda who?”

“Not
Wanda. Rwanda
. The country.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, I've heard of it, it's in Africa.”

“He was upset because I didn't know what happened there,” I explained. “He said there was a tragedy … a
great
tragedy that happened.”

Mac shrugged. “Always one tragedy or another in Africa.” He set the tray down.

“But do you know what he was talking about … specifically?” I asked.

“No idea.”

“That wasn't fair that he got mad at me for not knowing something that
you
didn't even know about,” I complained.

“Bad example. I only know what happens around here. I don't watch the news, except to get the weather, and I only read the comics and sports sections in the papers,” Mac said. “If I want tragedy I don't have to look to Africa. All I gotta do is look outside my door.”

WHEN I GOT HOME
I went straight up to my room and looked in my backpack, grabbing my geography textbook. I jumped onto my bed and opened the book. I went straight to the back, to the index, flipped through, and scanned down until I found Rwanda listed—pages 159 to 161. I flipped back to the listed pages.