The Sarge walked next to Martin. He was old and instead of guts in his belly he had whiskey. He had been in the war too long. The Sarge hated Martin. He hated him because Martin was beautiful.
And he hated Martin because he didn’t approve of Lt.
Mitchum being in love with Martin. Lt. Mitchum was popular.
He was the platoon leader. He was tall and handsome with blond hair and a wonderful smile. He wasn’t like the other men. Martin could talk to him. It didn’t bother Lt. Mitchum that Martin was different.
Brambles of nicotine lacerated Harry’s breath and a powerful sense of trespass came over him, reading this dead boy’s innermost thoughts. He sipped lukewarm coffee and forced his eyes back to the orange letters glowing on the screen.
They started to climb the hill. The old Sarge carried a heavy pack and he fell down. Martin picked him up. Sarge pushed him away. “Don’t touch me, you faggot,” said the Sarge.
Martin forgave the Sarge, who was old and afraid of everything.
But it was true. Martin loved men. You couldn’t tell by looking at him. He had the body of a Greek athlete. But he didn’t always look that way. He had been born 284 / CHUCK LOGAN
without all the muscles in one of his legs. As a boy he limped and other boys teased him. But he had an operation because of a new technology that could grow synthetic muscles. The new muscles were stronger than ordinary muscles. Now Martin was the strongest man in the platoon.
Martin didn’t lie about who he was. He was up-front and now all the men knew the two things that he liked above all else. He liked to fight and he liked to suck dicks. But he’d only go out with someone he was in love with.
Martin was in love with Lt. Mitchum. Martin had showed Mitchum how not to be afraid of who he was. They ran naked together through the jungle.
Martin saw Lt. Mitchum come up the hill. It excited him to watch him. Martin loved the way he walked and the way the sunlight outlined his handsome face. He loved the way the sweat ran down over his muscles. Martin pretended his fingers were the sweat, touching Mitchum all over.
Mitchum came up to Martin and squeezed his shoulder.
“We’re in for a rough night,” he said. “The enemy is very strong here and we have to defend the most dangerous part of the hill.”
They smiled at each other. They would die for each other.
There was no greater love.
That night, Martin could feel how afraid they all were. Even Lt. Mitchum. They could hear the enemy moving around in the dark. Getting closer. It was the blackest night there ever was.
Then the enemy came. They fought and fought but there were too many of them and the other men were so scared they couldn’t speak. Finally, even Lt. Mitchum was too scared to even fight. They ran away, even Lt. Mitchum. Martin wouldn’t run. Even though the other men despised him, even though his heart was broken that Lt. Mitchum had left him.
Somebody had
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to stay and keep the enemy from getting to the top of the hill.
Martin was hurt. He was shot in many places. The bullets had torn his new muscles all to shreds and he was a cripple again. But he wouldn’t leave. Even though they’d all betrayed him.
He had to go on. He had to finish what he’d started.
He cried out in his pain. In hatred for Lt. Mitchum who’d let him down, who had betrayed him.
Only one man was so ashamed that he came back. The old Sarge. Together they held the hill and saved the company.
But Martin was dying of his wounds. He was dying in Sarge’s arms. There was no love left in Martin. He’d used it all up fighting. All he had left was hate and pain for Lt. Mitchum.
The old Sarge kissed him as he died and swallowed all of Martin’s hate.
Harry read Chris’s warrior fantasy three times and with each reading he descended another rung into a private hell and the rifle kicked and Chris spun in his awkward snowshoe jig. Eyes wide open, crucified upon the thorns.
Trying to be strong, Miss Loretta said.
The Polaroid suggested a partner. Could this be some kind of al-legory? A love letter? The reference to Mitch Hakala was transparent.
Unrequited? Maybe from Chris’s end. Couldn’t see Mitch…
No. The answer was in the slime somewhere between Karson and Emery…
Something else. Something Chris said that night in front of the fireplace. Harry shook his head as his brain cranked. Metal thoughts grinding, out of oil. Too many cigarettes. Too much coffee.
He took the last of the coffee and sat on the porch steps. Out there, people were stirring in their peaceful beds with nothing more complicated in their heads than picking up their toothbrushes and making coffee. Soon they’d be watching morning television. Linda Margoles would take a shower and
286 / CHUCK LOGAN
would draw a sponge along her smooth skin. Dorothy would sit in her roomy kitchen, butter toast, and listen to public radio.
Usually when Harry looked inside himself, he saw locked doors.
Do not enter signs.
He knew Chris better now. Knew what it was like to be different, to move off to the side in the shower stall when they got to snapping towels. To be frightened by the escalating chorus of giggles that formed up the pack. Be an artist. Mom’s wishbone hope.
Calling me chicken, Ma. Fairy. Gotta fight ’em. At the bus stop. In the parking lot. Gotta stand up when everybody is ass in the grass.
Hurt people out there. Americans. The more they scream the stronger I get…
Harry stood up, poisoned with fatigue. He turned and started back into the lodge. The muscles below his left shoulder blade lit up. Danger.
Harry spun. Larry Emery stood
