Life During Wartime

Mingolla stared at him, trying to put his presence together with the arm in the mural, with everything else.

‘Chopper can’t get here for a while, man,’ said Eddie, settling back on his haunches. ‘But you be fine.’

Sebo gazed off into the sky, wetted his lips.

Eddie took out a packet of C-ration cookies. He split one of the cookies in half, licked the filling of white icing. Offered one to Mingolla, then to Debora and Ruy. They all refused. ‘Don’t know what you’re missin’,’ said Eddie. ‘These ol’ sugar things make ya tranquil. Ain’t that so, Bobby Boy?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Yeah,’ said Eddie. ‘Cool ya right down, these fuckers. Just the thing after a firefight.’ He grinned, winked, his face cinching into lines of wily good humor. ‘Maybe they lemme do a commercial once I get home, man. I say, “Suckin’ the middles out these doobies got me through the great war.” How ’bout that?’

‘Probably sell a million,’ said Mingolla. He looked around at the village, the sad gray wreckage, still holding a faint smell of animals and men. The ghost of a smell. Wind feathered the thatch, making the shadows tremble.

‘Razors,’ said Bobby Boy dreamily. ‘Man, they cut so smooth you cain’t even feel ’em. Cain’t even feel when you hangin’ open. Don’t know you bad off till blood’s comin’ in your eye. Man, you can make somebody think twice ’bout hookin’ wit’cha if you gotta razor, man. ’Cause he don’t want nothin’ to touch him he cain’t feel how bad it is. Razors,’ said Bobby Boy. Smooth.’

His lazy tone of voice gave Mingolla a shiver.

‘Don’t be talkin’ that shit!’ said Eddie. ‘Fuck! Boy never had no dealin’s with razors. He just stoned and like hearin’ hisself talk mighty. You bullshit to the bone, Bobby Boy.’ He licked the icing from another cookie. ‘To the bone!’

‘Maybe,’ said Bobby Boy. ‘But I know ’bout razors now, see. From thinkin’ ’bout ’em, I know ’em. Gonna get me one when I get home.’

‘Fuckin’ retard,’ said Eddie, and winked at Mingolla again. ‘Hey, Bobby Boy! ’Member when we first come to this ol’ village?’

Bobby Boy turned to him, the movement slow and distracted. He ejected an ampule from a dispenser in his hand, popped it under his nose, and breathed deep. His face seemed to lengthen, grow leaner.

‘Hear what I say, Bobby Boy?’ Eddie asked.

‘Yeah, I ’member.’

‘That was ol’ Bobby Boy’s baptism of fire,’ said Eddie. ‘He didn’t know what to make of this shit. He be poppin’ Sammy every coupla minutes, screamin’ and blowin’ holes in the smoke. Then when he calm down a little, he wanders into one of them huts. He’s gone for like minutes, y’know, and finally he comes back, he says, “Somethin’ fuckin’ weird’s in there, man,” he says. “What’s that?” I ax him, and he say, “There’s this beaner, man, he’s sittin’ there. Gotta hole in his forehead, and his brain, it’s sittin’ there in his fuckin’ lap.” He gawks at me. Like he’s holdin’ it, y’know. Like he’s wantin’ to put it back in. Y’oughta come see, man.” And I say to him, “Bullshit, man! Ain’t nothin’ make a wound like that.”’Course I know the caseless ammo these rifles fire, man, they blow a shallow hole. I seen this kinda shit plenty of times. I just woofin’ with ol’ Bobby Boy. And he gets real upset. “Man,” he say. “Man, I’m tellin’ the goddamn truth. Dude’s sittin’ there with his fuckin’ brain in his fuckin’ lap.” And I tell him, “Naw, Sammy’s got you all confused.” Well, lemme tell ya, ol’ Bobby Boy, he’s screamin’, tellin’ me how weird it is, how it’s true, and meantime, I give the signal to my man Rat to torch the goddamn hut. And when the hut goes up, I thought Bobby Boy was gonna bust out in tears. “I seen it,” he says, “I swear I did.” We had the boy believin’ he was crazy for ’most a week. That was really fresh, that was. ’Member all that, man?’

Bobby Boy nodded and said gravely, ‘I was a fool.’

Eddie chuckled. ‘Sometime the boy come close to makin’ sense, don’t he? Yeah, well. We all fools to be sittin’ ’round in the middle of this mess.’

‘Hey,’ said Sebo. ‘Hey, lady.’

Debora looked over at him. ‘Yes?’

‘C’mere, lady.’ Sebo’s face was shiny with sweat, his grin was without mirth. ‘Hurt so bad, I need me some sweet talkin’. C’mere and talk at me, huh?’

‘Wouldn’t be doin’ that, woman,’ said Eddie. ‘Old Sebo, he just wanna grab holda your jaloobies. That’s all he be wantin’. Sebo, he get horny when he hurt.’

‘Me, too,’ said Bobby Boy; he reached out a hand toward Debora, moved the hand around, like an artist gauging the balance of different sections of his work.

‘Cut that shit out,’ said Mingolla.

Bobby Boy turned his stunned moonboy gaze on him. ‘What say?’

‘Hey!’ Eddie gave him a shove. ‘Lowrate, will ya, cool? You got that dingy Spec Four redhead bitch for postholin’, man. Leave these folks be.’

‘She lookin’ nice,’ said Bobby Boy in the same tone he had used to talk about razors.

‘C’mere, lady,’ said Sebo. ‘Little talk ain’t gonna hurt nobody.’

‘Got somethin’ better to do with my tongue than talk to her,’ said Bobby Boy.

Ruy got to his feet, menacing Bobby Boy. This is insupportable,’ he said, and then, to Eddie: ‘Can’t you control him?’

Eddie shrugged.

A smile melted up from Bobby Boy’s face. ‘Thank ya, Jesus,’ he said. ‘This here’s Bobby Boy Macklin praisin’ your name for givin’ me this scrawny bastard to mess over.’

‘I tol’ you to lowrate, man,’ said Eddie anxiously, and Mingolla, realizing that Bobby Boy was very much on the edge, set himself for a fight. No way was he going to try to influence Bobby Boy: Ruy must know how hard it was to influence someone behind Sammy.

‘Sebo!’ Eddie maneuvered himself between Ruy and Bobby Boy. ‘Know what I’s just thinkin’ ’bout? ’Member that ol’ girlfriend of yours, one who wrote you the letter ’cusin’ you of bein’ a killer?’ He gave Mingolla a friendly elbow. ‘We wrote her back, faked the colonel’s signature, and tol’ her Sebo was a fuckin’ hero, went ’round feedin’ the starvin’ kids and all. Shit! Woman wrote back, sounded like she ’bout ready to air mail her snatch to ol’ Sebo.’

‘Get outta my way, Eddie,’ said Bobby Boy. ‘I’m gonna crumble this Frito.’

‘Fuck you are!’ Eddie glanced around wildly as if hoping to light on a solution. ‘Know what, man? Know what we can do? We can run a game!’ He shouted to some soldiers gathered by the wreckage of the next hut. ‘Where that prisoner at? Bring his ass!’

One of the soldiers grabbed a shadowed figure lying on the ground, hauled him up, and hustled him over. Flung him down. A kid of about eighteen, skinny, long black hair flopping in his eyes. Crop of pimples straggling across his chin. He was shirtless, his ribs showing. On his right shoulder was a bloodstained bandage.

‘How ’bout it, Bobby Boy?’ said Eddie. ‘Sebo? How ’bout a game?’

‘Yeah, I s’pose,’ said Bobby Boy sulkily.

‘Awright!’ said Sebo, sitting up straighter.

Bobby Boy punched the kid in his injured shoulder, and the kid cried out, rolled away.

‘Bastard!’ said Debora. ‘Leave him alone!’

Bobby Boy stared at her and made a throaty sound that might have been a laugh.

‘Listen up, lady,’ said Eddie. ‘Bobby Boy will fuck with you, so you better let him have his fun.’

She looked to Mingolla, and he shook his head.

Some of the soldiers moved off along the street, planting what appeared to be large seeds, covering them with dirt, patting it smooth. Planting lots of seeds.

Bobby yanked the kid up to a sitting position. ‘What’s your name, Frito?’

The kid spread his hands in helplessness. ‘No entiendo.’

‘Somebody ask him in Spanish,’ said Bobby Boy.

Mingolla did the duty.

‘Manolo Caax.’ The kid looked around hopelessly at the others, then lowered his eyes.

‘Cash… huh! The beaner’s named for fuckin’ money,’ said Bobby Boy as if this were the height of insanity.

Sebo giggled, his eyes glassy from painkillers. ‘I’m bettin’ on ol’ Frito,’ he said, ‘I do believe Frito’s got what