The Heart You Carry Home (32 page)

“And then there was music,” Ben said. “It was coming from the sack with Coleman. And I was dragging it, the music and the parts of Coleman.”

The CO nodded sympathetically. “And then?”

“I needed to cut the rope. Anything to cut the rope.”

“So you broke the fiddle?”

Ben nodded furiously.

“And you used the shards to cut the rope.”

Ben nodded.

“Quite ingenious, soldier. But it didn't work.”

Ben hung his head, and, all at once, he broke down.

“Do you see now?” the CO asked Becca, his voice blunt.

And of course she did. She saw that Ben had been trapped in a version of this room for a long time and that he wasn't even close to finding his way out. She saw that she was helpless to protect him. She hated the CO for showing her this. And the next thing she knew, she was sprinting at the old man with all her might, as though her anger were strong enough to knock him down. She was going to rip him open. She was going to break him.

But the CO was faster. His arm jutted out and caught her. His fingers dug into her shoulder until the pain made her cry out. And then the hogan was plunged into black. The CO forced Becca to her knees and then released his grip. When the lights rose, a new image played on the wall: a hospital bed and a man, his face washed out in grayish light, his body hooked to machines and tubes. A heart monitor beeped beside the bed.

Music rose out of the silence. It was a fiddle tune that Becca knew well. It was called “Sally in the Garden,” and Ben had played it often. The picture it evoked was not a garden, however, but an empty boat knocking against a deserted and rocky shore. Between the notes, Becca heard wind and saw a muddy sky. She'd never really understood why Ben loved this tune so much.

“This is it, Sergeant Thompson,” the CO said. “You are the last one.” He sounded almost giddy. “Pass this final test and Durga's heart is yours.”

“Why is he here?” Ben nodded at the hospital bed.

“He is your last challenge. He is the only thing between you and salvation.”

And then Becca realized that the man in the hospital bed was supposed to be Ben's dad.

The fiddle music was growing louder, only instead of notes, “Sally in the Garden” was composed of layers of sadness. You could peel away at those layers forever and still never reach the center. The heart of the song could not be touched, so it would never stop crying.

“It's not really your dad,” Becca told him. “He doesn't look anything like your dad.” But Ben just stared at the wall.

“What did you tell your dad before he died, Ben?” the CO asked.

Ben shook his head. His lower lip trembled.

The CO climbed off the pile of blankets and walked around Bull, who was now curled in a fetal position on the floor. He went to the bucket of black liquid and drank, long and deep. Then he lumbered to the hospital bed, his massive belly rising and falling to the tempo of the heart monitor. Light from the movie projection streamed out around him.

“I am your dad, Ben. I am dying. So what do you need to tell me?”

“You're . . .” Ben's lip continued trembling.

“Ben, let's go!” Becca pleaded. She pulled at his arm, but he shook her off.

“Come over here, son.”

Ben approached. The fiddle music grew louder.

“Son. What are your last words to me?” The CO's lips were inches from Ben's face. Ben was breathing faster now, shaking his head. “What are your last words, Sergeant? How do you honor me, your father, on my deathbed?”

A single note from the fiddle flew long and sharp across room. Ben clutched his chest as though he'd been hit. He mumbled something.

“What?” the CO demanded. He gagged, as though he was about to vomit, but then he swallowed deeply and stood taller. “Speak up, son.”

“Traitor!” Ben's voice was louder this time. The CO nodded with a crooked smile. “You're a traitor! To your family. To me! You loved that man. But what about me? I'm your son! But you didn't want me.” Ben shook his head furiously. “You only wanted your music. You only wanted him. If he made you sick, then you deserve to die!”

Becca gasped.

The CO shook his head. He suddenly looked very weak.

“I'm your son!” He grabbed the CO by the shoulders. The CO did not resist. He went limp beneath Ben's fury. Ben pushed him with what appeared to be all the strength he had left, and the CO dropped to his knees.

“I tried to honor you,” the commander said, his voice barely a scratch of sound. He looked pleadingly up at Ben.

“You. Left. Me.”

“I carried the heart for you. I built Kleos for you. All for you.” He sank over his knees. “But I left you, Willy. I did.”

Willy?
Becca thought. The soldier from Reno's story?

“I abandoned you.” The CO stared up at Ben, his teeth gritted. “‘Just put me in my grave. And give me your hand, Willy, I beg you. Once you've given me the fire I deserve, I'm never coming back.'” From the back of his fatigues, he produced a bowie knife.

Becca felt sick. “Do it, Willy.” The CO offered the knife to Ben. “I was afraid. Of your friendship. Of your love. Afraid of myself. I was ashamed. Oh God. I left you to be slaughtered!”

Slowly, Ben took the knife. Becca said his name and he turned, pointing the weapon at her. In that moment they were back in her childhood room and it wasn't a knife Ben was gripping in his fist but the fiddle. He was going to smash it over her. He was going to break her if he could. “Please don't,” she said.

“Come.” The CO spread his arms like he wanted a hug. “Purge the past. Save us both from despair. Your catharsis is my salvation.” He puffed out his stomach. The jagged scar bisected his hard, white belly like a crack across ice.

The music reached a crescendo, and it seemed as though the hogan was going to come crashing down.

Then a figure bounded between them. Bull pushed Ben over and grabbed the knife. The tackle seemed to have jarred Ben awake. He looked at Becca with a flicker of recognition and scrambled back beside her. The CO lumbered to his feet. He stood to his massive height like a beast rearing up on its hind legs. He spread his arms. “Come and claim my heart, Willy. I give it to you.”

Bull stepped in front of the CO and thrust the knife into his belly. The CO grunted, a burst of sound that gave way to a long and throttled groan. He fell to his knees, his arms still stretched wide. Then he fell forward. Bull hunched over the CO's body and pushed him onto his back. Becca gagged, but she managed to help Ben up and to the hogan door. When she glanced back, she had the distinct impression that a lion was ripping into a rhinoceros. Bull's hand was plunged deep into the CO's stomach, and blood poured onto the floor. “The heart,” Bull cried out. “Where's the heart?”

Becca shouldered Ben outside to find a line of hoplites facing the hogan, impassive. “Help!” she shouted. “The CO's been stabbed!” But the men did not move, though some of them had tears in their eyes.

Becca turned to Ben, who was naked and shivering violently beneath the cold dawn sky. “It's okay,” she said, folding her arms around him. She didn't believe this at all. But she kept saying it, over and over, as though her words might shelter them both.

B
EN CAME TO
in white sheets and a bright pool of sunshine. His mouth was dry and his tongue heavy as a rock. Becca slept in the chair beside the bed, her neck stretched back on the windowsill. For a moment, that was all he could see: the tendons of her throat, fine and taut like fiddle strings. How could she be this perfect? He thought of tiny fossils and petrified vertebrae, too perfectly formed to be accidents of nature—the reasons people believed in a creator. What forces had sculpted this throat. Ben touched her and she woke up. Suddenly, her head was pressed to his neck, her breath hot on his skin. He squeezed her as hard as he possibly could. If it was too hard, she gave no sign.

“Do you feel all right?” she asked, handing him some water. “You've been out for a couple of hours.”

He nodded. “Is there more?”

She refilled the cup and he saw that all of the beds in the infirmary were occupied. The men had gauze taped over their chests where they'd been branded. He looked down to see a small square taped over his own. Ben closed his eyes. “Is the CO alive?” he asked.

“He and Bull are still in the hogan. The guards are outside, waiting. Everybody's waiting.” She paused to let him drink. When he'd drained the cup, she said, “Do you know what happened . . . ?” Her voice was tentative, reluctant.

Ben closed his eyes, and in the blackness, he could see it all in detail: the flames, the soldier who was Coleman lying on the ground, the limbs scattered across the street. Ben had counted them, just as he had the day of the explosion and so many days since. Part of him—a significant part of him—was unhinged. And Becca had seen it all. He saw the hospital bed with his father. Finally, he saw the CO hold out the knife. The old man had called him by a dead soldier's name: Willy. It was as though the commander had offered himself up, but not to any goddess. Instead, he'd placed himself at the feet of a long-dead soldier—a mere mortal. How long, Ben wondered, had the CO been contemplating this exit? How long had he yearned for escape? And if Bull had not appeared, would Ben have been the one to set him free? He shuddered, imagining what it must have been like—the cut and the extraction.

He opened his eyes, eager to dislodge this awful picture. Becca was looking at him gravely. “How's King?” he asked.

“He's over his bout of heartburn.” This was a familiar and unwelcome voice. Ben propped himself up to see Reno lying a few beds over. He looked disastrous, his thin hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. Ben saw the kind—almost intimate—way that Becca observed him. He remembered what Bull had said to him in the desert. Becca and Reno. Something had happened, but whatever it was, Ben made up his mind right then to leave it alone.

“I didn't know you were awake,” Becca said.

“I wasn't going to miss the romantic reunion. Also, I was hoping for a thank-you?” He eyed Ben.

“You punched me in the face!” Ben retorted, which made Reno laugh. So Ben laughed too. Which made Becca smile. Seeing her, Ben felt that he would do anything—anything at all—to keep that smile on her face.

The infirmary door creaked open. Arne stood there, stiff and formal. He'd traded his blue jeans for olive-colored BDUs, typical battle dress. His hands were at his sides, his expression grim. Ben recognized this moment for precisely what it was: casualty notification.

“Bull has claimed the heart of Durga,” Arne said. “The CO is dead.”

M
UMMIFIED IN WHITE
blankets, the CO's body was carried through the desert on a stretcher made from animal hide. Bull walked directly behind, and, as near victor, Ben was awarded the third place in the procession. He refused to go without Becca, however, so she walked beside him. Reno also refused to leave her side, so he followed close. Next came King and Elaine, then the vets who lived at Kleos, and, after them, those who'd ridden in on their bikes. Some of the men had not been able to pull themselves from their infirmary beds and many of those in line looked far too sick to be standing, let alone marching. But they pressed onward without complaint, good soldiers that they were. The Hands of God women took up the rear. Last of all, like the tail of a desert snake, came Lucy and Jacob, holding hands.

The remaining hoplites beat large drums that they wore over their bellies like shields.
Thud . . . thud . . . thud.
The procession walked in step to the monotonous pounding. Heat draped around them like the flaps of a tent. Becca felt her scalp burning, wetness spreading across her back. She prayed for a cloud, for even the fleeting shadow of a bird. After a while, they passed the remains of the fire that she and Reno had driven by the day before. Becca could see it clearly now: blood on the ground, dried to a coppery brown, and animal bones scattered atop the pile of charred wood.

“Ritual sacrifice,” Reno whispered. “Four times a month they kill an animal in honor of Achilles and his companion, Patroclus. They say some kind of voodoo prayers over it.”

The drums beat heavy and slow. Wind rose up from the vastness and blew the sand around their feet. A black dot appeared on the horizon. At first, it seemed to be a trick of the light, but then it grew, as though pushing straight up from the earth. Finally, they gathered in a semicircle around an intricately stacked pile of logs. The structure stood at least ten feet high and was roughly the length and width of a canoe. “We built this,” Ben said, marveling at the odd edifice. “We cut down the trees ourselves.”

The hoplites hoisted the CO's shrouded body onto the logs and circled the pyre three times. The other men followed. Then the guards cut off locks of their hair and scattered them over the corpse. The other vets stepped up, one by one, and did the same. Becca wasn't sure what King would do when his turn came. He looked both indignant and despondent. Hurt. She ached for him—for the betrayal he must have felt after all these years of service to the CO. But at the appointed moment, King pulled his ponytail over his shoulder and cut it off. He pressed the gray clump to his heart and then threw it onto the pyre. Reno stepped up and pulled the scissors from the guard's hand. He snipped a few thin strands from his own head and did the same. Becca was surprised. But the CO had once been Reno's commanding officer. Maybe for that reason alone, the old man's death deserved to be honored.

The guards poured red wine from water skins over the pyre and the CO's body. Bull went last, walking fully around the structure, wetting the four corners with the wine. Behind him, the hoplites doused the structure with gasoline until the logs glistened and the blankets covering the CO's body were soaked through. When this action was complete, Bull stood before the pyre, surveying his flock. He had washed the CO's blood from his body, and around his neck he wore a leather pouch. Becca immediately recognized it as one of King's.