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.
10
The sun woke me, spilling cheerful light through the windows and across my face as I lay tangled up in my blankets on the couch. The night had been a fitful mix of half-remembered dreams and anxious watchfulness. Getting up was a relief.
Savory smells and the subtle sounds of breakfast cooking revealed that I wasn’t the only one up. Warm thoughts of coffee and eggs hurried my steps as I grabbed both of my bags and padded across the chilly wooden floor to the hall bathroom to take a shower.
Ten minutes of scalding hot water did an acceptable job of substituting for several hours of sleep, driving off the last of the night’s tension.
After dressing and repacking my old clothes, I knelt on the bathroom floor and unzipped the second duffle. Inside were two old familiar things, both of which I had salvaged from my house as it burned down around me.
The first was a leather holster that was stiff and shiny with age, the worn surface covered with a fine network of cracks and lines. A long strip that started with a metal ring and ended in a six-inch tube went against the outer thigh of my right leg, attached by a leather strap meant to go around your belt and snap shut, and another stout strap at the bottom that went around my leg. I buckled it on a little clumsily. It had been a long time. I stood and knelt a few times, getting the tightness right and making sure that the old leather was still sturdy. It was.
The second item was an eighteen-inch-long steel rod that was an inch-and-a-half in diameter. The bottom four inches were wrapped in sweat-darkened leather over crosscuts in the metal underneath.
A two-inch piece that was the same diameter as the shaft was welded to the side where the wrap ended, giving it the appearance of a tonfa, except that the short side handle was cut off square instead of rounded, and much too short.
I hadn’t had any desire to get fancy at the time, I just cut two pieces off of a thirty-foot section of steel construction stock and welded them together.
I wrapped my hand around the grip and squeezed the leather until it creaked. The heft of it felt good to me, although it would be uncomfortably heavy to any other man. I had kept it oiled and wrapped, but the metal had still developed a dark patina over the years.
Its metallic smell was at once familiar and disquieting for the memories it carried. I slipped the end through the metal ring on the holster and down into the snug leather tube at the bottom. Unlike the single belt loop that most batons or nightsticks were carried with, this rig would keep the weapon in place regardless of whether I was running, climbing, or even inverted.
Of course it was uncomfortable and awkward as all hell, but with bags around, I figured I could live with it one more time. I rolled up the empty duffel and stuck it in my clothes bag, then followed my nose to the kitchen.
When I walked in, Anne was already seated, and Henry was putting a big bowl of grits down on the table. The bowl stopped in midair as his eyes went from my face to my leg and back again. “Sleep well?” The bowl thumped down.
“Like a baby. Cranky and two hours at a time.”
He put an empty plate and a cup of coffee in front of me. “Like a big, ugly baby.”
“Granted. Morning, Anne.”
“What are you wearing on your leg?”
“It’s for my Teddy Roosevelt impression. Hey, you mentioned that Patty taught you to shoot. Can you handle my.45?”
She shrugged. “Yes, but I’m better with a nine or a.38. The recoil on the.45 is more than I like.” She grinned at me. “Because I’m so dainty.”
“Well,” said Henry, “I’m sure I can find you something that will better suit a lady of your refinement after breakfast.” If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.
“Thank you, Henry.”
Conversation drifted into small talk as we ate, as each of us tried to hold on to the pleasant mood of the morning. While Anne and Henry got acquainted, I mostly kept quiet and ate.
I can’t remember the last time I had real grits, but it was surely too long ago. They were creamy and buttery in just the right way and went perfectly with the fried eggs and thick slices of bacon that Henry served on top of them.
I was on my second plate when we heard the crunch of tires on gravel outside. “That would be Leon and his friend,” said Henry.
They came into the kitchen full of energy and testosterone. Both wore Marine BDUs, whose pixilated pattern
