The Singing Marine - Kit Reed, ebook
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
KIT REEDTHE SINGING MARINEIt's so hot in August in that part of Virginia that dogs die standing up andeven insects stick to the asphalt. Flies buzz in place. Embedded, an overturnedstag beetle waves its legs helplessly. The singing Marine has to move fast tokeep his boondockers from sinking in and gluing him to the spot.He may be singing to take his mind off what's just happened -- the tragedy, oris it disgrace that probably marks the end of his life in the service. Theaccident -- his platoon. How many men has he lost, and how can a man facingcourt martial ever hope to love the general's daughter?Putting one boot in front of the other, he goes along as if understanding is aplace you can get to on foot, and as he goes, the song just keeps unfurling. "Mymother m-m-m . . ."If anybody asked what he was singing he would look up, surprised; who,me?But he sings, ". . . m-m-m-m-murdered me . . ."The road gets stickier. Heat mirages shimmer in the middle distance and rise upin front of him, thick and troublesome as cream of nothing soup.Fuddled by the dense air, the Marine bows his head against the heat and goesinto the dim rural drugstore. He is not aware he's being followed."What's that you're singing?"The Marine blinks. "Say what?"It is a woman's voice. "Mister, the song."Exploding afterimages of sunlight stud the dimness, so he does not immediatelysee the speaker. "Ma'am?"The voice blurs suggestively. "Sit down, Lieutenant."He blunders against a large shape -- leatherette booth, he thinks. He can stillleave. "Ma'am, you don't want me to sit with you."The woman's hand closes on his arm and pulls him down. "You don't know what Iwant until I tell you.""You haven't told me your name."It becomes clear she isn't going to. He hears the sound she makes inside herclothes as she crosses her legs; he can't stop blinking. He thinks he can smellthe warm air rising from the hollow at her throat.What he says next, he says because he can't help himself. The old threnodyalways bubbles up at times like this, when he thinks he's close -to what? Hecan't say. He just begins. "I was born of blood and reborn in violence. If youcan't handle either, you don't want me sitting with you."She leans across the table. "You haven't told me what you were singing.""It's an old thing. I used to think it was sad, but now . . ." He's hurtled intoa complicated thought that he can't finish. There's no way to tell her he hasbigger problems now. Instead he tells the old story: born late to a childlesscouple, mother dead in childbirth, wicked stepmother Gerda and the inevitablemurder, if it was a murder. His father was away; he, was never able to get thetruth from his frantic half sister: "You were sitting by the door and your headcame off; what can I tell you, your head came off." They buried him under thelinden tree, Marline and the stepmother, but he rose up, or something did,leached of memory and stark blind crazy with love; he thinks that was him flyingoverhead and singing, singing:"My mother murdered me;"My father grieved for me;"My sister, little Marline,"Wept under the linden tree . . ."The woman snaps, "I thought it was an almond tree.""All depends where you're coming from," he says, blinking until her outlinesemerge from the dimness -- wedge-shaped face as beautifully defined as a cat'smuzzle, long hair falling over long white arms and that neatly composed faceveiling her intentions; he thinks she may be beautiful -- too early to tell."Whatever it is, I can't seem to get rid of the song.""You're still singing?"He says in some bewilderment, "It sings me."Even in the shadows the sudden, attentive tilt of her head is apparent. "Andwhat do you think it means?"But he slaps both hands flat on the table. "Enough. The stepmother got crushedin a rockfall. I came back. When being home got too hard, I joined up. That'sall you need to know.""Yes," she says, perhaps too quickly. "It is.""So if you don't mind . . .""You haven't ordered."There is nothing on the menu that he wants. This isn't a bar, where you canorder something deep enough to disappear into; it's an old-fashioned pharmacywith a soda fountain and this is high noon, not the dead of night that lets yougo home with the lovely woman who found you. When he goes outside, it will stillbe hot and bright. "It's not my kind of place."As he stands she rises with him; they could be executing the first movement inan elegant pas de deux. "It's not mine either," she says, drawing her long handsdown his arms. "Let me take you someplace where it's cool."Emerging from the air-conditioned drugstore, he is staggered by the heat. Whenhe looks for the woman, she is several paces ahead. "Where are we going?"Her tone is suggestive; she does not look back, but the words reach him."Someplace you already know."The Marine will remember the aftenoon as a bizarre, agonizing progress on foot,her striding ahead with those black gauze skirts flying and him struggling alongbehind, heading for the next town. No cars pass them but he understands that shewould not accept a ride. In the outskirts of the big town or small city, shestops at a marked bench just as the bus comes along. DEEP CAVERNS, the markersays. He is about to tell her he's never heard of the place when she turns onthe step and pulls him on board.So they ride out to the caverns side by side on the cracked leatherette backseat with engine fumes boiling up between their knees while the woman thinkswhatever she is thinking and the singing Marine finds that even the relentlessmonotony of the song cannot crowd out the mishap that separated him from hisplatoon last night and put him on this road. He is grieving for them. "What?""I said, when you get there, I want you to go inside for me."The thick fumes make his eyes water. "Ma'am?""I can't," she says. "You have to. Understand, you won't be sorry. In the end,I'll make you very happy.""You . . . want me to go into the caverns?""It's cool," she says. "Believe me, you won't be sorry.""You want me to go in and get . . .""The tinderbox. It's an old-fashioned fire-starter.""What would you want a thing like that for?"Her eyes glow. Something behind them begins to smoulder. "Just do what I say.Then you'll see. Get it and I'll start your fires.""I was on my way back to the base," he says.Her smile is touched with malicious humor. "What would you want to do a thinglike that for?"He chooses not to catch her tone. Instead he starts telling; like the song hesings, it's something he has to do because he needs to hear it. "I have toreport. I have to let them know it wasn't my fault. I have to forestall thecourt martial. It was my platoon. I. God, the sergeant!" He stops and startsagain. "We were on maneuvers near Ocracoke. He marched them into the marsh." Hedoes not tell her that the marsh gave way underneath them and half his men arestill out there somewhere, either mired to the knees or drowned in mud andconfusion; he does not tell her that in another few hours he will be AWOL. "Ihave to report. I do."Without even looking at him, she divines the rest. She knows what lies at hiscenter. She is brusque, almost matter-of-fact. "Your platoon's okay. They foundeveryone. It's in all the papers."His heart leaps up. "You're sure?"How cleverly she plays him. "TV this morning. Interviews.""But I'm not there.""Oh, you," she says. "They think you deserted."Maybe I have. It's too much to contemplate. "I have to go back and explain it.""Do this and you won't have to go back at all. You'll be rich enough to buy yourway out of anything."But when Taps sounds tonight the Marine will go back, slouching over thecauseway like the returning prodigal in his muddy fatigues and the boondockersthat won't stop squelching water. When he does, he will be richer. He knows thatwhen a beautiful woman you don't know asks you to do her a favor, you do whatshe asks soon enough, but you never, ever let her know what you'.re thinking.Right now he says, "I'll think about it.""No time for that. We're getting off."They are in the woods for more than an hour, during which the lieutenant's bootsget heavier in a geometric progression toward eternity. The heat is intolerable.Gnats crawl into his ears and clog his nostrils; mosquitos feed on the exposedback of his neck, sliding down the sweaty surface to feed on his most vulnerableparts. By the time the woman reaches the cave mouth and gestures, he's ready toplunge in without question: anything to escape the humidity that is pressingdown on him and steaming in his throat and in the space between his regulationcap and his skull.She turns as if she's already explained this: "You understand why I can't go inthere."He shakes his head. The shadowed opening at her back lures him; he wants tothrow himself down on the worn stone floor and sleep until December."The dogs."He blinks sweat out of his eyes, saying politely, "Ma'am?"She says impatiently, "I can't go in because of the dogs.""Dogs." Does he hear anything? Smell anything different? The place is still andif there's anything living inside, there is no hint of it. "Are you sure thereare dogs in there?"She turns that neatly feline face at an angle that makes it impossible for himto read her intentions. "Don't worry. There are only three of them. They havebig eyes." When she looks up again her eyes gleam. "And they have what you want.Watch out for the last one, though," she adds. "He can make yo...
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]