a bunch of guys playing soldier as they played cards, swore a lot, told jokes, talked about guns, deer hunting, battles, reenactments of Franklin, Chickamauga, Cold Harbor, generals good and bad, sang with a harmonica about rallying 'round the flag, boys… and Dennis dozed off.
A brogan nudged his ribs and he looked up to see the first sergeant standing over him. Dennis sat up right away. It was dark, the camp quiet, it had to be later than eight. He said, 'What time is it?' getting to his feet. The sergeant told him it was going on ten.
'We got more people than duty time, so the colonel's cut the watches in half. You're on perimeter ten to twelve.'
'Where's my post?'
'I'll take you. Pick up your rifle.'
He asked the first sergeant what he was supposed to do here. The sergeant said watch for Rebs sneaking up in the night to attack the camp or take prisoners. He said they liked to snatch pickets who weren't alert and ship them off to Andersonville to die of dysentery.
Dennis stood at the edge of the scrub looking across the pasture, way over to the dark mass of trees, seeing flickering pinpoints of light in there. Confederate campfires. And the music coming from the barn up on the slope might be the military ball, though the squeaky fiddles sounded more like bluegrass.
He had told the First Iowa soldier he had picket duty and the man said, 'Good.' Imagine you're at Brice's and you can feel the Johnny Rebs close by, you can smell 'em. You see something move out there, put your rifle on it. Get your mind to believe what you're doing, else why're you here. He didn't tell the soldier he didn't
Standing here in the scrub swinging his free hand at insects buzzing around him. He took the joint from his pocket and lit it, sucked on it hard to get a good draw and blew smoke at the bugs, hoping to send them off stoned. He wondered if Civil War soldiers smoked weed, the way they did in Vietnam. He wondered if they said 'this fucking war' like soldiers in war movies, more saying it in Vietnam war movies than World War Two flicks. He would have to ask Robert. Robert probably wouldn't know but would have an answer. Robert was the most in-control person he had ever met in his life. Like the way, in front of Arlen staring at him, he laid the gun on the kitchen table without looking at it. Just something that happened to be in his briefcase. The weed had his mind flashing on Robert highlights. Robert with Walter Kirkbride, wanting to be one of his colored fellas. Robert making whatever he did look easy. Robert taking his time, days, to build toward the crossroads, what it meant, before making his offer. Robert saying, 'No way could you ever be indicted on a drug charge, you'd be hidden from view. Your Dive-ORama accountant ever got picked up? You'd be shocked.' Robert saying, 'Man, if a daredevil couldn't handle that…'
The daredevil standing in the dark holding a ten-pound replica of a Civil War rifle. Not anywhere near an edge.
He walked off with the rifle toward faint lights showing in the civilian camp.
21
A LANTERN HUNG FROM THE TENT where the pie lady, smoking a cigarette, sat in a low- slung canvas chair at the edge of the awning. She watched him walk up to her, not smiling, not saying a word.
She was wearing lipstick.
She was wearing, he believed, eyeliner. Her hair was combed from a part and fell to her shoulders in a white shirt with a few buttons undone and a long skirt; but it didn't look period either.
He held out the joint, half of it left, and watched her look at it and then look up at his eyes before she took it, pinched it between her fingers and leaned forward in the scoop of canvas to the flame on the lighter he offered. She inhaled and held it, her body straight, before she blew out a cloud and sank back in the chair and smiled.
'You made it.'
'I'm on picket duty.'
'You mean right now?'
'At this moment, in the scrub.'
She said from down in her chair, 'You left your post for a piece of Naughty Child?'
There was an answer to that and he tried hard to think of what it was while she sat waiting to hear it. Finally all he did was smile.
She didn't, she kept looking at his eyes looking at hers.
'How'd it turn out?'
'The mister came up from his camp to pick up the pie and take it back. I told him it burned and I threw it away. He wanted to know where, so he could check on me, not trusting I even made the pie. I told him go on over to the Porta-Johns, it was in the second one to the left.'
'Did he check?'
'He thought about it.'
'Did you make the pie?'
'I rolled out the dough, got that far.'
Dennis propped his rifle against the table. He pulled a short straight camp chair over next to hers, sat down and took off his kepi, settling in with things to say to her.
'You didn't want him to have any Naughty Child.'
'I suppose.'
'I run into girls all the time,' Dennis said, 'feeling trapped in a situation they don't know how to get out of. They're young, they're divorced, they have kids and the former husbands are all behind in their child support. Some of 'em look at me, the girls, I can see 'em wondering if it might work this time.'
She said, 'What are you wondering, how to get out?'
'Not always.' He could feel the weed and was comfortable and wanted to talk. 'I've met girls-I always think of them as girls instead of young women because it's my favorite word. Girl.' He smiled.
'What's your least favorite?'
'Snot. What's yours?'
'Bitch. I get called it a lot.'
They could go off on that, but he wanted to make his point before he forgot what it was. 'I started to say, I've met girls I feel I could marry and we'd be happy and get along.'
'How do you know?'
'We can talk and like the same things. Being able to talk is important.'
She said, 'Tell me about it,' and said, 'What do you do, you meet all these girls?'
'For a living? Take a guess.'
She said, 'You're not a salesman,' and kept staring at him. 'You're not from around here, or anywhere close by. You're not in law enforcement.'
'Why do you say that?'
'I mean like a sheriff's deputy. You seem intelligent.'
'You don't think much of cops?'
She said, 'Having known a few.'
'Why'd you marry this hardcore Confederate?'
She said, 'I was going through one of my stupid periods. I started writing to a convict-he was related to a friend of mine and she got me into it. Girls do that, you know, write to convicts. They come to believe theirs is really a nice guy-look at the letters he writes. The idea is to make him see his good side and be comfortable with it.' She raised the joint to take a hit but then paused. 'Well, mine doesn't have a good side, and by the time I found out it was too late, we were married.'
'Leave,' Dennis said. 'Walk out.'
'I'm working up my nerve to file. What I'd love to do is move to Florida. Orlando. I hear it's the place to be, a lot going on.'
She was a country girl-Loretta-trying hard not to be, but stuck with who she was. Her goal, to live where there were theme parks.
