The Last Good Kiss (46 page)

beer, then we drove north into the mountains. I drank

and he watched all the way to the cabin, where I

hooked our cars together again. On the way back

down, I hit a couple of bars in Columbia Falls and

Kalispell, then every one after that on the way to

Cauldron Springs. The big man never complained. He

just sat in the car sipping 7-Up and scratching Fireball's

head. By the time I parked in front of his house, it was

late afternoon, and I was drunk as a coot. When I

opened the door of the El Camino, Catherine Trahearne nearly took it off with her Porsche. She locked all four brakes and slid to a stop in front of us, then leaped

out and raced to help Trahearne out of the pickup.

"How are you feeling?" she crooned. "You should

have let me come to the hospital, you know."

"I'm fine. " Traheame sighed heavily as she fussed

over him. "Just fine. A little tired, though. Maybe I'll

take a little nap."

"Is that nap? Or nip?" I asked as I climbed out.

Trahearne gave me a sad, tired smile as he shook his

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head, but Catherine looked at me with such intense

anger that it nearly sobered me. Nothing like a little

naked hatred to get a drunk's attention. "Sleep tight," I

added stupidly as she eased Trahearne up the stairs.

When they disappeared through the front door, I

went around to help Fireball out. He nosed across the

lawn slowly, looking for a bush. Not to pee on,

though-to hide behind. Having to squat like a mere

puppy embarrassed him no end. Finally, he found a bit

of ragged evergreen shrubbery and he lowered himself

behind it.

"What the hell are we doing here, dog?" I asked. But

he didn't know either. He finished his business, then

came back to curl up in the shade beside my feet. I

leaned against my fender and went on with my beer.

Catherine came out of the house and walked down

toward me, the short pleated skirt of her tennis dress

fluffing as she bounced hurriedly down the stairs.

"You're looking particularly lovely today," I offered.

She was, too. The summer weeks of tennis had

darkened her tan without drying her skin, and deep red

highlights glowed in her cheeks. She smelled of perfume and lady-sweat, of coconut oil and sunshine.

"Damn fine," I added, hefting my beer can in toast

as a warm flicker of old desire kindled inside my belly.

She stopped in front of me and slapped the beer can

out of my hand. It clattered against the gravel driveway

and spewed a froth of foam across the road.

"What the hell do you think you're trying to do?"

she asked, breathless with anger.

"He's had all the tender loving care he can stand," I

said as I tried to swallow my own anger.

"What the hell do you know about it?" she demanded.

"Almost everything there is to know about it," I

said. "He hired me to keep him dry, and I just wanted

to see if he's got the guts."

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"Alcoholism is a disease!" she screamed at me. "It

has nothing to do with guts. "

"Well, h e hired me, not you," I said.

"You're not even doing it for him," she said, "you're

doing it for her." I didn't bother to deny it. "Oh, the

goddamned bitch," she hissed. Rage flattened her lips

and stretched the skin tightly across the bones of her

face until they seemed to glow like a mummy's skull

through parchment. Fine white lines glimmered hotly

at the corners of her eyes, her temples, and along her

jawline. She hissed a silent curse, stomped her foot,

then ran over to her Porsche and roared away in a cloud

of gravel and dust.

I went around and got another beer and watched her

leave. She made the tum onto the highway with a very

nicely executed four-wheel drift. Halfway back to

town, her brake lights flared as she locked the wheels

and skidded to a stop in the middle of the highway,

where she sat for several minutes. Then, slowly and

deliberately, she turned around and drove back toward

the house.

"Please accept my apology," she said as she stopped

the car beside me. "I'm truly sorry. "

"Don't apologize," I said as she stepped out, "it's a

sign of weakness. "

Her anger came back i n a single swift rush, but she

gulped it down, and sweetly asked, "What?"

"That's what John Wayne says," I said. "I can't

remember which movie but I know he said it. "

"He's your hero, is he?" she said.

"Only fools have heroes," I said.

"I see, " she said, smiling slowly. "I always make the

mistake of underestimating you, don't I?"

"That's better than overestimating me, isn't it?"

"I'm not certain of that," she said, "but I'm certainly

sorry. "

"Forget it," I said. "It's a fool's errand, and I'm

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probably doing it foolishly. It's the only way I know.

Pride and guts-that's the only thing that will work for

Trahearne. "

"When the going gets tough, the tough get going?"

she asked slyly.

"Make fun if you want to, but that's what character is

all about. "

"I'm sorry." She laughed and touched my arm. " I

just couldn't resist teasing you. You were so serious,

you know. "

"Drunks are always serious a t the wrong times," I

said.

"Do you think you can keep Trahearne dry for a

while?" .

"If he really means it, I can help, I guess," I said.

"It's worth a try."

"Perhaps I should come over later to prepare dinner

· for the two of you."

"Thanks," I said, "but we'll manage. "

"I'm being, as they say, invited out?"

"Something like that," I admitted.

"Perhaps you're right," she said. "Come over for a

drink after dinner."

"I'll see," I said.

"Of course. " She reached up to kiss the corner of my

mouth. "Take care of him for me. "

"I'll do my best," I said, and she nodded a s if she

knew I would. She went back to her car and drove

slowly around to Trahearne's mother's house. Once

again I loaded up with our baggage and toted it up the

stairs to the house.

Instead of napping, though, Trahearne was sitting in

his shorts and T-shirt at his desk, idly working the slide

of the .45 Colt automatic. A freshly poured glass of

neat whiskey sat at his elbow.

"Don't worry," he said as I set the bags down in the

living room, "I'm not about to blow my brains out. I

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prefer the slow suicide of drink." Then he lifted the

glass of whiskey. "And don't worry about this, either,"

he said as he put it back down. "Its presence comforts

me somehow. " He picked up the .45 again and spun his

chair to face me. The large automatic was almost

dwarfed by his huge hand. He let it dangle from his

fingers as if it were a broken wing. "You took that

house down in Colorado like a good soldier," he said.

"Were you?"

"It seemed like the only choice at the time," I said,

"the best way to stay alive."

"That's the big difference," he said quietly, "between your war and mine. You kids knew that if you survived the tour of duty, you'd survive the war. We all

knew we were going to be killed. That's the only way

we could go on-we accepted out deaths in advance

just so we could go on. But that's not the point, is it?"

"What's the point?" I asked as I sat down.

"What's the worst thing you did in the war?" he

asked suddenly.

It wasn't a casual question, and I didn't have a casual

answer.

"We were fighting through a village south of An Khe,

a hole in the road called Plei Bao Three," I said, "and I

grenaded a hooch and killed three generations of a

Vietnamese family. Both grandparents, their daughter,

and her three children."

"Were you a good soldier before that?" Traheame

asked.

"I guess so. "

"And afterwards?"

"There wasn't any afterwards," I said. "I was in the

stockade afterwards. A Canadian television news team

was covering the attack, and I made the evening news

the next day, so they had to lock me up."

"That's politics," Traheame said, waving his empty

hand at me, "not combat." After dismissing the central

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trauma of my adult life with a flip of his hand,

Trahearne went on. "I'm going to tell you something

I've never told anybody."

"Great," I said, but he didn't notice.

"When we landed at Guadalcanal, I wasn't much of a

Marine," he said. "I mean, I walked and talked and

fought like a Marine but it was all an act. I guess I

thought I was supposed to survive the damned war or

something-I don't know-but I was just going through

the motions, trying to look good. Then we were dug in

up on the Tenaru River, and the Japs pulled a night

banzai charge. We held, we held and kicked the shit out

of them, and I got some idea of what I was doing

wrong. After it was over, though, I worked it all out in

my mind.

"We were checking the bodies, the Jap bodies, and I

found this Jap enlisted man floating face up in the

shallows. There was just enough starlight to see that he

was alive, enough for him to see me. I leaned over and

shot him between the eyes with this .45.

"I guess I don't have to tell you what it looks like up

close, I guess you know, but I made myself watch,

made myself not flinch, and then I knew what the war

was about. It wasn't about politics or survival or any of

that shit, it was about killing without flinching, about

living without flinching. " Then he paused and tossed

the pistol onto a pile of loose papers. "That's how I've

lived ever since that night, and that's what's wrong. If

you can't flinch, you might as well be dead. "

"That was a long time ago," I said. "Maybe it's time

to stop blaming yourself. "

"Have you stopped blaming yourself for all those

dead civilians?" he asked quickly.

"Some. "

"You're lucky, then," he said sadly. " I can't stop. So

I'm going to give in to it. Listen, I know what sort of

sentimental nonsense my poetry is, and I know what

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sort of macho dreck my fiction is-l'm as phony as my

goddamned crazy mother-but I've learned something

out of these past few insane months, and I'm through

with all that other crap. And it's all your fault."