It was not quite six-thirty, which made it almost ninethirty in Middletown, New York. If the man on the tape didn't or couldn't scam a copy of my zoi, then the only other name he had to work with was Roy Abbott. The day would be half over for a family of dairy farmers. I had written to the Abbotts about Roy's death, and spoken with them once. I didn't remember Mr. Abbott's first name, but the New York Information operator showed only seven Abbotts in Middletown, and she was happy to run through the list. I remembered his name when I heard it. She read off the number, then I hung up. I thought about what I would say and how I would say it. Hi, this is Elvis Cole, does anyone in your family want to kill me? Nothing seemed right and everything seemed awkward. Remember the day Roy came home in a box? I made another cup of coffee, then forced myself back to the phone. I called.
An older woman answered. 'Mrs. Abbott?' 'Yes, who is this?'
'My name is Elvis Cole. I served with Roy. I spoke with you a long time ago. Do you remember?'
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My hands shook. Probably from the coffee. She spoke to someone in the background, and Mr. Abbott came on the line. 'This is Dale Abbott. Who is this, please?' He sounded the way Roy described him plainspoken and honest, with the nasal twang of an upstate farmer. 'Elvis Cole. I was with Roy in Viemam. I wrote to you about what happened a long time ago, and then we spoke.' 'Oh, sure, I remember. Mama, this is that Ranger, the one who knew Roy. Yes, how are you, son? We still have that letter of yours. That meant a lot to us.' I said, 'Mr. Abbott, has anyone called recently, asking about Roy and what happened?' 'No. No, let me ask Mama. Has anyone called about Roy ?' He didn't cover the phone. He spoke to her as clearly as to me, as if the two conversations were one. Her voice was muffled in the background. He said, 'No, she says no, no one called. Should they have ?' When I dialed their number I didn't know what I would say. I hadn't wanted to tell them why I was calling or about Ben, but I found myself telling him all of it. Maybe it was my history with Roy, maybe the honest clarity in Dale Abbott's voice, but the words poured out of me as if I were giving confession, that I had lost a child named Ben Chenier to a man on the phone, that I was scared I would not be able to find Ben, or save him. Dale Abbott was quiet and encouraging. We spoke for the better part of an hour about Ben and Roy and many things: Roy's four younger sisters were married with families, three to farmers and one to a man who sold John Deere tractors. Three of the four had sons named after ' Roy, and one a son named after me. I had never known that. I had no idea. At one point, Mr. Abbott put on Roy's mom, and, while she spoke with me, he found the letter that I had written and came back on the line. He said, 'I've got your letter right here, that one you wrote. We made copies for all the girls, you know. They wanted copies.' 'No, sir. I didn't know that.' 'I want to read something you wrote. I don't know if you'll remember, but this meant a lot to me. This is you, now; this is you, writing: 'I don't have a family, so I liked hearing about Roy's. I told him that he was lucky to come from people like you and he agreed. I want you to know that he fought to the end. He was a Ranger all the way, and he did not quit. I am so sorry that I could not bring him home to you. I am so sorry I failed. ' Mr. Abbott's voice grew thick and he stopped reading. 'You didn't fail, son. You brought Roy home. You brought our boy home.' My eyes burned. 'I tried, Mr. Abbott. I tried so hard.' 'You did! You brought my boy back to us, and you did not fail. Now you go find this other little boy, and you bring him home, too. No one here blames you, son. Do you understand that? No one here blames you, and never did.' I tried to say something, but couldn't. Mr. Abbott cleared his throat, and then his voice was strong. 'I only have one more thing to say. What you wrote in your letter, that part about you not having a family, that's the only part wasn't true. You've been part of our family since the day Mama opened the mail. We don't blame you. Son, we love you. That's what a family does, doesn't it, love you no matter what? Up there in Heaven, Roy loves you, too.' I told Mr. Abbott that I had to go. I put down the phone, then brought the coffee out onto my deck. The lights in the canyon faded as the eastern sky grew bright. The cat crouched at the edge of my deck, his legs tucked tight underneath as he stared at something in the murky light below. I sat by him with my own legs dangling off the deck. I touched his back. 'What do you see, buddy?' His great black eyes were intent. His fur was cobl in the early-morning chill, but his heart beat strong in the warmth beneath. I bought this house not so many years after I came back from the war. That first week after escrow closed, I stripped the floors, spackled the walls, and began the process of making someone else's home into mine. I decided to rebuild the rail around the deck so I could sit with my feet dangling in space, so I was outside one day, working away, when the cat hopped onto the corner of my deck. He didn't look happy to see me. Here was this cat with his ears down and his head cocked, staring at me like I was yesterday's bad surprise. The side of his face was swollen with a dripping red wound. I remember saying, 'Hey, buddy, what happened to you?' He growled and his hair stood, but he didn't seem scared; he was cranky because he didn't like finding a stranger in his house. I brought out a cup of water, then went back to work. He ignored the cup at first, but after a while he drank. Drinking looked hard for him, so eating was probably worse. He was skanky and thin, and probably hadn't eaten in days. I took apart the tuna sandwich I was saving for lunch, and made a paste with the tuna and mayonnaise and a little water. He arched his back when I put the tuna paste near the cup. I sat against the house. The two of us watched each other for almost an hour. After a while, he edged toward the fish, then lapped at it without taking his eyes from me. The hole in the side of his head was yellow with infection, and appeared to be a bullet wound. I held out my hand. He growled. I did not move. The muscles in my shoulder and arm burned, but I knew that if I drew back we would lose the bond we were building. He sniffed, then crept closer. My scent had been mixed with the tuna, and the tuna was still on my fingers. He growled softly. I did not move. The choice was his. He tasted my finger with a tiny cat kiss, then turned to show me his side. That's a big step for cats. I touched the soft fur. He allowed it. We have been friends ever since, and he has been the most constant living creature in my life since that day on the deck. Even now, he still was;. this cat and Joe Pike. I stroked his back. 'I am so sorry I lost him. I won't lose him again.' The cat head-bumped my arm, then peered at me with his black mirror eyes. Seeing me, he purred. Forgiveness is everything.
A BAD DAY AT THE OFFICE
The five members of team 5-2 sat on the steel floor in the bay of the helicopter, the wind ripping up clouds of red dust. Cole grinned at the cherry, Abbott, a short, sturdy kid from Middletown, New York, waiting for Abbott's lurp hat to fly off. Cole nudged Abbott's leg. ''Your hat. ' ''What? '' They leaned close to each other and shouted over the roar of the turbine engine. They were still on the lift pad at Fire Base Ranger, the big rotor overhead spooling up as the pilots readied to launch. Cole touched his own faded, floppy lurp hat currently shoved under the right cheek of his ass. 'Your hat's going to blow off.' Abbott saw that none of the Rangers except him were wearing their hats so he snatched his off. Their sergeant, a twenty-year-old from Brownsville, Texas, named Luis Rodriguez, winked at Cole. Rodriguez was one week into his second tour. 'You think he's nervous?' Abbott's face tightened. 'I'm not nervous. '' Cole thought that Abbott looked like he was about to puke. Abbott was new meat. He had been in the bush on three training missions, but those were close to the Fire Base and held little chance of contact with the enemy. This was Abbott's first true Long Range Patrol mission. Cole patted Abbott's leg and grinned at Rodriquez. 'No way, Sergeant. This is Clark Kent with a Ranger scroll. He drinks danger for breakfast and wants more for lunch; he catches bullets in his teeth and juggles hand grenades for fun; he doesn't need this helicopter to fly to the fight, he just likes our company--' Ted Fields, also eighteen and from East Lansing, Michigan, encouraged Cole's rap. 'Hoo!'' Rodriguez and Cromwell Johnson, the radio operator, the nineteen-year-old son of a sharecropper from Mobile, Alabama, automatically echoed the grunt. I54
'Hoo!'
It was a Ranger thing. Hoo-Ah. Hoo for short.
They were all grinning at Abbott now, the whites of their eyes brilliant against the mottled paint that covered their faces. Here they were, the five of them--four with serious bush time plus the cherry--five young men wearing camouflage fatigues, their arms and hands and faces painted to match the jungle, packing Mi6s, as much amino, hand grenades, and claymore mines as they could carry, and the bare minimum of gear necessary to survive a one-week reconnaissance patrol in the heart of Indian Country.
