We stopped at a store on the way to the airport so that I could get two duffel bags and fill one of them with toiletries and clothes. The store was too big and sterile, and the shirts seemed like they were made of less fabric than they used to be. In fact, everything seemed to be TV props of the real thing, brighter and slicker, but also flimsy and insubstantial. Disposable. Anne geared up as well, just with more clothes and double the toiletries. I paid for everything.
Standing out in the parking lot, I transferred the remaining contents of the battered metal toolbox to the empty duffel. An early fall rain was coming, and streamers of cool air whipped past me, carrying fine droplets and the scent of electricity.
I borrowed Anne’s cell phone as we drove towards the airport and dialed Henry’s number from memory. Anne kept glancing at me as she drove, then looking away as if she weren’t curious.
“Henry, it’s Abe. I’m coming to see you tonight. Yep. That’s right. You’re still as sharp as you ever were. See you tonight.” I handed the phone back.
“What did he say?”
“He said he’d be ready for us.”
“You didn’t warn him about the bags, that they were going to his house.”
“I didn’t have to, he knew as soon as he heard my voice. We haven’t spoken in thirty years, and all of a sudden I call him out of the blue and say I’m on my way to his house?” I looked out of the rain-flecked window and watched the thunderheads flicker with internal lights overhead. “No matter what else he might be, Henry’s still the smartest man I ever met.”
As with most daytime showers, the sun was still shining between the thin clouds, painting the gray cotton with summits of liquid gold. A faint rainbow shone in the distance, seeming to pace the car as I watched out of the speckled window.
“Abe, what’s going on?”
I shrugged. “Let’s hope Henry can tell us both. And that we get there in time to hear it.”
“I hope the bags do show up. I owe them for my grandfather.”
“Yeah, that’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about. That shot with my gun was pretty impressive.”
She shrugged and looked away.
“I’m serious. Tell me about it.”
“Not much to tell. My grandfather taught me to shoot, and then had me enrolled in classes and signed up for competitions pretty much the whole time I was growing up. I was at the range every weekend when my friends were all at the mall, which did wonders for my social status. He even insisted I learn some hand to hand stuff from his Army training, which seemed pretty pointless. I asked what it was all for, and he said that in his day, men were better behaved, but now he figured I needed to be able to explain to a date that no means no. Preferably while I was driving him to the emergency room.”
I had to laugh at that. Getting grabby with Patty’s granddaughter would have led to quite the exciting evening for her dates, just not in the way they imagined.
“That’s a great idea, but I don’t think that’s really why he did it. I think that the old bastard knew all along that you had his gift. He was preparing you to do what he used to do, if it came down to that. Patty was pretty good in a scrape himself, but of course he got his training from the Brits at Achnacarry with the rest of us. Maybe he didn’t go through the whole course, but he did enough.”
“Achnacarry?”
“Scotland. It’s where all of us were trained, back in the ‘40s. The British had real commandos and we didn’t, so Uncle Sam pulled a bunch of us from the 34th Infantry and gave us to the Brits to train. Your grandfather and the Professor showed up at the end. They were more honorary Rangers than anything else. We had four head-kickers plus those two, whom we were assigned to protect.”
“My grandfather was in for his nose, right? Why Henry?”
“Doesn’t do much good to find the bad stuff if you don’t know what it is or what to do about it when you get there. Didn’t Patrick ever tell you any of this?”
“He didn’t like to talk about it.”
“Me neither to tell the truth.”
“Oh. Sorry.” And just like that, she turned on the radio and dropped it. I was both surprised and grateful for the gesture.
Austin Straubel International Airport was originally named for the first aviator from Brown County to die in the war, back in 1942. I didn’t know if the stream of people that swirled around us like we were a rock in a current knew that, but it was kind of a big deal back then. No matter what branch you served in, or where you lived or fought, he was one of us. It was satisfying to see him remembered, as if that remembrance were for us as well.
Of course, the noble history of the airport didn’t make up for the reality of modern air travel. We spent the next five hours in a cramped flying bus full of people studiously ignoring the undignified accommodations and each other.
I received fifteen cents worth of soda in a tiny plastic cup while trying to keep my knees from rubbing the seat in front of me. It was like being in a dog kennel one size too small, but without the ability to lie down.
I remembered taking trips with Maggie back in the ‘60s to visit friends, and it seems like with so many other things, in my memory those trips were more elegant and comfortable. Of course, fewer people could afford to do it back then, so I guess I shouldn’t complain.
Coming out of the airport into the soft, fragrant night air of North Carolina was worth the ordeal. I took a deep swig of the heavy air and felt my shoulders and face relax right away. It was warmer here, as if even the seasons were more relaxed.
We had to take a shuttle bus to get to the rental car center, which was a quick way to get to a slow moving line, where I rented the cheapest SUV they had.
I’m not a fan of SUVs for most things, since I expect a truck to work hauling manure and hay on the farm and I’m not interested in sharing cabin space with a hundred pounds of cow shit, but I figured the extra room and ground clearance couldn’t hurt for what lay ahead.
It took over an hour to reach Henry’s place from the airport, much of it down dark and deserted blacktop roads, past the outskirts of the small town of Linwood. The lonely plot of land that Henry had purchased after the war was situated on the edge of a large stand of pine trees far back from the highway.
The only indication that someone lived here was a break in the endless line of trees along the highway and a massive brick mailbox with an iron plate on top with the word “Monroe” stenciled on it in white paint.
He ended up living on the backside of nowhere for the same reason that I had moved back to the farm after the war. Walking through the destruction of Europe, literally climbing over chunks of masonry from buildings five hundred years old, or around the smoking remains of a newly built cafe, had changed the way we viewed civilization.
Buildings looked like pre-ruins when we got back, and the teeming masses that inhabited them seemed fragile and temporary. Only the mud and trees and hills seemed permanent and reliable.
I turned into Henry’s carefully raked, quarter-mile-long gravel driveway and stopped after about twenty yards, leaving the lights and engine running.
“Why are we stopping?” asked Anne.
“Because we don’t want to get shot.” After a few seconds of sitting in the dark, a powerfully built black man in dark sweatpants and a black T-shirt materialized out of the shadowy tree line to my left. He moved in that classic easy trot that spoke more of military service than the M9A1 pistol that he was holstering. I rolled the window down.
“You must be Abe.” He was fairly young, but he had a deep, wide voice. Beads of sweat stood out in his scalp-close hair. “Expecting anyone else?”
“Nope. And you are?”
“Leon Moss.” He reached into the car and shook my hand. His grip was hard and quick. “Henry is my great-uncle.”
“Nice to meet you, Leon. Want a ride up to the house?”
“No, thanks. I’m gonna check the perimeter a few more times and see what might come in behind you.”
“Okay, thanks.” We started rolling slowly up the drive, the gravel cracking and popping under the tires. When I looked into my rearview mirror, Leon was gone.
The old place looked much like the last time I saw it, decades ago. A huge oak tree dominated the front of the house, now just a black fractal silhouette against the floodlight over the porch.
The gravel drive went straight up to the tree where it became a wide circle around its trunk. I drove around until I was pointed back down the drive and then shut off the engine. Yellow light from two of the front windows painted long rectangles across the wooden porch, spilling out into the yard.
I walked around to the SUV’s rear hatch, listening to the crunch of my footsteps and the wind slithering through the oak’s high branches. Those small sounds underscored the thick silence. I put both of my duffels over one shoulder, and Anne’s over the other and then locked the car.
“Thanks, but I can carry my own bag,” said Anne as we walked to the porch.
“I got it.” I knocked on the door.
“I said I can carry it.” She yanked her duffel off of my shoulder and slung it over her own.
“Take mine, too, if you like carrying bags so much. I’m not that big a fan.”
The door swung open with a long creak from the steel spring bolted to the top of it, revealing Henry ‘The Professor’ Monroe. He looked pretty good to me for a man in his eighties. The deep wrinkles and sagging, parchment-thin skin did little to distract from his clear and steady gaze.
“Abraham. Come on in.” His smile was bright in his dark face, and warm.
We followed him into a small but neat kitchen. He wore gray work pants, heavy black shoes, and a sleeveless wife beater undershirt.
“It’s been a long time, Henry,” I said. Then I dropped my bags and hugged the guy.
“It’s great to see you, Abe.” He slapped me on the back a few times, and I’ll be damned if my eyes weren’t a little moist when we were done. We grinned at each other for a few moments in silence. “And who is this?” His voice was deep and measured, each word enunciated precisely in his round-edged mellow tones. It was this mannerism, more than his role as our portable scholar, that earned him his nickname.
“I’m Anne, sir. Pleased to meet you.”
“She’s Patrick’s granddaughter.”
“Is that right? Well, I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Anne.” Henry smiled and shook her hand with both of his. “Can I get you two some coffee?”
“Did you make it?”
“Leon put it on for me.”
“Then, yes.” We both chuckled at the old joke, which I was surprised still had the power to tickle me. Henry had burned enough coffee in the field to be the only man in the squad exempted from the task. Being the smart guy of the group, we all assumed he did it on purpose. He poured three big mugs of coffee from a battered old percolator and handed us each one. If Anne preferred cream or sugar, she didn’t say so. “Come on back into the den.”
We followed him down a short hallway, passing framed pictures of family on the walls, mostly kids in their Sunday clothes laughing into cameras. Our feet made comfortable and quiet thumping noises as we moved across the wooden floor. The house was an old pier and beam affair, without a foundation, so there were a couple of feet between us and the ground below, lending our steps a hollow sound.
Henry sat down with a grunt in his big easy chair and waved us to the overstuffed, Depression-era sofa to his right. There was a colorful hand knitted blanket draped across the back. Two big lamps and the wide windows looking out onto the front porch kept the room from being gloomy, as it might otherwise have been with the dark paneled walls and low ceiling. We sat down.
Henry waited patiently with an amused glint in his eye as Anne stared openly at his hands and forearms. At first glance they appeared to be terribly scarred. Long teardrop-shaped welts and rivulets ran down both forearms, getting denser towards his wrists and then merging to completely cover his hands. It looked like he had plunged them into a vat of hot cooking oil, which had splattered up both arms. Then, as you noticed that his hands were smooth and supple, the pattern seemed to reverse like an optical illusion, as if everything except that skin was burned, and that the youthful texture of his hands was what ran up his arms, splashing over the rest of his wrinkled, thin skin.
Anne looked up to see Henry watching her, and blushed in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”
“That’s all right. They’re marks worth staring at. When I first got them, I didn’t even know it. Even twenty years ago, I could just make out faint outlines. That’s when I had my first suspicions. But now that I’m an old man, they’re as plain as the nose on my face.”
“What happened?”
“Well, that’s a long story.”
“Don’t worry, I already know about Abe’s age. He told me.”
His eyes locked onto mine, and I could see a sadness there, and maybe some reproach. “Did he now? I guess he felt like there wasn’t much reason to keep it a secret any longer.” Like I said, he was a smart son of a bitch. He settled back in his chair. “Well, it’s still too long a story for tonight, but I’ll tell you a little. You ever take chemistry in school?”
“Some in high school, not much though.”
“You ever put sodium in water? To see the reaction?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You’d remember it if you had. It’s a popular demonstration of the volatility of alkali metals among high school and college educators. What you do is take a small piece of metallic sodium, just a tiny one, and drop it into some water. It’ll start burning, that little piece of metal, so hot and so fierce that it’ll come right to the surface and start skating and sizzling around, throwing fire and sparks. It’s so bright you can hardly look at it. Of course, if you use too much, it can blow up in your face.”
“Um, okay.”
“Well, back in the war, in Warsaw, Abe here fell into a big pool of … liquid. He fell about thirty feet straight down into this big dug-out pit, must have been twenty feet across and who knows how deep. He just dropped in like a stone.
“The next thing I know, there’s a light down there where he hit, dim at first but getting brighter. Then Abe breaks the surface just like that piece of sodium I told you about. That light? It was coming from him. It was so bright you could hardly look at it, and he was throwing sparks and sizzling like crazy, just burning on the surface.
“We thought it was phosphorus at first. So, he’s skating on the surface, burning like the sun, and he comes in a big circle right to the edge where I’m standing. So I reach in and grab him. I can’t look right at him because the fire is too bright, but my hands found him easy, due to the heat.
“I noticed two things right away when I touched him. My hands burned like hell, and that he was stark naked, the clothes burned right off him. So I slid my hands around until I found his wrists, and I hauled him out of the pool.
“As soon as I got him clear, the fire went out. Just like that. Also, he’s bone dry, and so are my hands and arms. It’s like the liquid was the fuel, and as soon as he came out, it burned up in an instant. But only what touched Abe burned. He was the catalyst. So there we were, him naked and unconscious, and me with my uniform sleeves burned off, and neither one of us with a mark on us to show for it. “
“Oh my God.” She looked at the both of us in amazement. “But, if he was on fire, like you say, he was burning so hot and bright you couldn’t even look, why did you grab him?”
Henry looked at her like she was from another planet, which I guess she was, as far as this was concerned. “Because one of us was in trouble. That’s what you do. The war made us family. Any one of us would have done it without hesitation. It just happened to be me because I was the closest. If I had been two more steps away, it would have been your grandfather, or any one of us. We watched out for each other, no matter what. Reaching into a fire is nothing, it never even crossed my mind not to.” That brought thoughts of Shadroe to my mind, but I pushed them away.
“What was it? What was in the pool?”
Henry hesitated, and then glanced at me. I just shrugged, so he answered. “It was blood. A giant pool, who knows how many feet deep, of human blood.”
She turned to me, her mouth twisted in disgust. “Why would there be so much blood? How could there be that much blood?”
I told another lie. “We never found out. About then the demo charges we’d planted went off, and we got out as fast as we could.”
“You must have seen something. What were you doing when you fell?”
“I was trying to kill a man named Piotr Rafal Ostrowski. We were at an old train yard, long since bombed out of service by the Germans, and I had chased him up to the control room overlooking the tracks. We fought, he won. Then he threw me right out the window from three stories up.”
“Peter who?”
We heard the screen door creak open, then slap shut.
“Piotr. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Leon tromped into the room, bringing the scent of the night air and pine trees with him. “It’s all clear, Uncle Henry.”
Henry stood up creakily and clapped his nephew on the shoulder. “Thank you, Leon. I think we’ll be alright tonight.”
“Me and Carlos will be back tomorrow morning, early.”
“You don’t have to do that, we can handle it from here on out.”
Leon looked at Anne and myself, then back at his uncle. “No offense to your friends, but I don’t think so. If somebody is coming here to mess with you, they’re gonna be damn sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow. Nice to meet you folks.”
I could see the pride in Henry’s eyes as we waved good-bye. I knew what sort of trouble was coming to visit tomorrow and wished there was some way to keep Leon out of it.
Leon left and Henry got everyone settled for the night. Anne got the guest room, and I got the couch in the den. I listened to Anne moving around and making the zippers on her duffel bags sing. A little while later I heard the sharp snap of the light going off and then the creak of the bed as she settled down. Henry must have heard it, too, because a few minutes later he padded into the den and sat down in his easy chair. “Still up?”
“Looks like it.”
He sighed and rubbed his knees. “My joints act up at night. Everything but my hands. I guess that shows that there’s a blessing in everything if you look at it the right way.”
“I guess so. Of course, if you close the other eye, you see there’s a curse in everything, too. Is that because there’s good and evil in everything, or because everything is both good and evil depending on how you look at it?”
He shook his head. It was an old fireside conversation. “I like Patty’s granddaughter.”
“Me, too.”
“Seems a shame.”
“She insisted that I bring her along. She lost her grandfather to the bags. They killed him right in front of her, Henry.” I clenched my fists in my lap. “They’re here. All those years and miles, and they’re right back here with us. Can you believe that?”
“Oh, yes. And so can you. We knew it wasn’t over. We’ve been waiting all these years for the other shoe to drop, the both of us. Anne doesn’t care about ancient history, though. She doesn’t really even want revenge, I’d wager. Oh, there might be some of that in her heart, but mostly I imagine that she wants to know that there’s order in the world. Justice. She wants reassurance that things happen for a reason, that her world still makes sense the way it used to.”
“I know. I’d like a little reassurance on that score, too, come to think of it.”
He chuckled, his deep voice smooth in the moonlit room. “I think you and I both know better by now. It’s not that the universe doesn’t want justice, it’s that it doesn’t even know the concept. Like color to a blind man.”
“Maybe that’s what we’re here for, then. Maybe we, of all things in the universe, sow justice in a field that was never meant to have it.”
“Could be. In any case, you know that she wouldn’t be here right now if you didn’t want it, no matter what she said or who her grandfather was.”
“I need her, Henry. I can’t finish this without her.”
“Is it worth it, considering what might happen to her?”
I leaned forward on the couch, suddenly angry. “You tell me, Henry. You’ve been working on what happened that day for decades now. So you tell me. Is it worth sacrificing her for? And you and me besides? Shit, we just sat on those pieces all this time, heads in the sand, hoping it would all go away. Or maybe just hoping to die before anything else was required of us. Isn’t that what we were doing?”
He sighed a long, tired sigh. “Maybe we were. The question is, why aren’t you still? You gave up on us twenty years ago and went to hide down on your farm. You didn’t even come out to Frank’s funeral. And I’m pretty sure I know what you’ve been working yourself up to since Maggie died. Why are you here now?”
I thought about the kind of obligation that can never be denied. Ties that cannot be cut. “Patrick called me for help. I had to go. And when I got there I didn’t save him.” I met Henry’s eyes. “They killed one of us. I will endure for as long as it takes to teach the man responsible what that means.”
He nodded and I could see for a moment the old Henry, full of fire. “And then?”
“And then it will be finished. I’ll be done.”
We sat in silence for a little while, each lost in thoughts of the past and the friends who dwelled there.
“I came out here to show you something.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small dark object and put it into my hand. It was light, maybe as heavy as a spool of thread and as big as an unshelled walnut, and made of wood. I smiled as it uncurled in my open palm and stood up.
“Mr. C!”
“Oh, yes. He’s still around. Will be until we’re both gone, I imagine.”
Mr. C, or Mr. Careful as he was known to the squad, was a small wooden spider about three inches long and two inches wide. His head, thorax, and abdomen were all one piece of wood, carved by Henry with a pocketknife over a month of campfires. It was pretty crude. The shape was right, but there was no real detail carved into it.
The two eyes in the front, on the crown of its head, were the largest, and made from two sewing pins with round black plastic heads on them. The pins had been cut in half, and the steel shafts of the top halves had been pushed into the wood until only the round heads were showing for eyes.
The sharp bottom halves had been bent into gentle curves and pushed into the wood underneath the head for fangs. Those only stuck out about a half-inch or so. There were six more eyes around the top, but they were actually just dents pushed into the wood with the tip of a knife and colored in with a felt tip pen.
The legs were made out of matchsticks with the square edges whittled off until they were pretty round. Each leg was made up of three segments, a long one pushed into a hole in the body like a dowel, a short one in the middle, and a slightly longer one that was whittled down to a point at the end.
The ends where the segments met were wrapped in a tiny piece of cloth cut from one of Henry’s shirts, and then carefully wrapped again entirely in brown thread to make a joint. When Henry had first finished putting it together, the legs had stuck straight out from the sides of the body, like eight spokes.
We didn’t know what to think of the serious black man in our midst at that time, new as we were to both the army and each other, especially since Henry was the only black man some of us had ever met in person.
We’d been together in the field for months at that point, so he was no stranger, and make no mistake, any one of us would have taken a bullet for him without hesitation, but he was still an odd duck as far as we were concerned. So you can imagine our reaction when he came around to each of us in turn and asked for a drop of blood to smear on his little wooden spider.
It was Shad who agreed to do it first, of course, claiming that he wasn’t afraid of any voodoo, being from New Orleans and all. Henry told him it wasn’t voodoo, more than once, but Shad didn’t agree. To Henry, voodoo was a specific practice, to Shad it was anything that smacked of the supernatural. Once Shad pressed his pricked thumb on it, everyone had to do it. Nobody was going to be the guy who chickened out.
Henry drew some stuff on a square of cloth with a charred stick from the fire, wrapped the spider up and tied a string around the whole package, and then buried it. The next morning, there was a round hole about two inches wide with a tiny pile of dirt around it, where something had dug up out of that spot.
And there was Henry, as proud as I’ve ever seen him, beaming and holding that spider, dirty now, but with legs bent in a natural, very spider-like way, on his palm. I took a look at it, and I’m not ashamed to admit that when it spun in his hand to look at me, I jumped back with a high-pitched yell. Like a little girl, Shad couldn’t resist pointing out.
Close up you could see that it was just made of wood and cloth, but it moved with a kind of fluid grace and speed that even a real spider couldn’t match. Its legs bent at the joints without tearing the cloth, and the tips of the pins that made up its fangs flexed easily.
Over the next year of living outdoors and in the mud and the heat and the rain and everything else you could think of, that spider got dirty, but it never seemed to get worn or frayed. It was Shad who gave it the name, Mr. Careful. If you put your hand down to get it, the thing would skitter back until you stopped moving, then it would creep up real slow and get on your hand.
If Henry sent it into a building or over a wall, it would flash up to a corner and then ever so slowly peek over the top or into a window, for all the world looking like a nervous Peeping Tom. Shad found it hilarious, and started talking to it, telling it that it was too careful for its own good, like an old lady.
It would scout something out, and come back and jab Henry in the palm with its fangs, and then he would tell us what Mr. Careful saw, more or less. At first it was plenty creepy, but for some reason, we eventually came to look at the little wooden scout as a pet or a mascot.
Maybe it was the fact that each one of us donated blood to it, but it always felt friendly, like it was completely on our side, the way your dog would be.
I put my other hand, palm up, next to the first and the spider stepped lightly from one to the other, the tips of its legs barely denting my skin. It moved just as fluidly as I recalled. “Hey there, Mr. Careful.” I smiled down at it.
Henry held out his hand, and Mr. C leapt gracefully between us. “After you called to say you were coming up here to visit, I went to my desk to get my old notebooks and things from Warsaw, and I saw the matchbox that we kept him in, and got him out.” He looked at Mr. C thoughtfully. “I haven’t thought about him in years.”
“Brings back a lot of memories.” Very few of them good.
“That it does.” He got up and his knees cracked like old sticks. “Good night, Abe.”
“Good night, Henry.” I drowsed that night, but I didn’t sleep. Every sound drew my attention to the big windows overlooking the porch, and out into the night.