Blackburn. Part 6

His sandy hair was trimmed above his ears and collar. Ernie's hair had always been trimmed like that.

Blackburn had never seen Ernie look s.h.a.ggy.

The Recruiter frowned, then gave a chuckle. "Well, it's better than most young men these days, Ernest.

Of course, it'll be cut shorter than that when you get to boot camp. More like mine." He ran a hand over his stubble.

Blackburn reached up and grasped the strands of hair hanging down on his forehead. He twisted them and looked past his hand at the Recruiter. "When I was thirteen I tried to grow it down to my waist," he said. "That was 1971. The sixties had just come to Kansas. That was the year the Student Union up in Lawrence burned."

The Recruiter's face turned stony. "I remember. I was at Fort Riley. Sure wanted to go over there and straighten things out. Looked for a while like we might get to."

Blackburn kept twisting his hair. "That was also the year Lieutenant Calley went to prison."

The Recruiter's eyes narrowed. "Are you here to sign up, son?"

Blackburn nodded. "Sure. Don't you remember?"

"Excuse me?"

Blackburn yanked out the twisted hairs and began to braid them. "This is what I wanted to do that year,"

he said. "I wanted to braid my hair and hide the braids in my coat. A long coat, like this one. This is Army surplus." He looked up from his braid. "The Army makes good coats."

The Recruiter scratched his jaw. "Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome." Blackburn looked back at his braid. "See, I figured that if anybody gave me any s.h.i.t, I'd whip out those braids and snap the son of a b.i.t.c.h in the face. Pop his eyes out."

The Recruiter opened a desk drawer and pulled out more brochures. "Now, just take a look at these opportunities," he said.

"Infantry," Blackburn said.

"Excuse me?"

"I want to be in the infantry," Blackburn said. "That's where the shooting is, right? I know how to shoot."

"Well, now, son," the Recruiter said, spreading the new brochures on the desk as if they were a deck of cards, "there isn't much shooting these days. We're at peace."

"I know. We lost the war two years ago." The Recruiter's nostrils flared. "We didn't lose anything," he said. His voice was low and hard.

"The communists took over South Vietnam," Blackburn said.

"The United States Army has never lost a war," the Recruiter said.

Blackburn considered. "I can respect that," he said. "If it's true, I can respect that a lot."

The Recruiter's eyes were steady. "It's true. No matter what you read in the papers or see on TV, you remember that. The U.S. Army doesn't lose. Ever."

"Would you stake your life on that?" Blackburn asked.

The Recruiter nodded. "I already have, son."

"Then sign me up."

The Recruiter and Blackburn filled out the rest of the form. Blackburn lied where necessary. Then he signed at the bottom of the page. The name he signed was "Ernest T. Tompkins III."

The Recruiter looked at the signature. "Carrying on the family name, I see."

"You don't remember?"

The Recruiter raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"My name. 'Ernest T. Tompkins III.' You don't remember it?"

The Recruiter's stomach made a grinding noise. "No, son, I'm afraid I don't."

Blackburn reached into his coat, into the pocket he had cut into the lining. "Then you lied. The Army has lost."

"I'm not following you, Ernest."

"The Army has lost its memory. It doesn't remember Ernest T. Tompkins III."

The Recruiter pointed at Blackburn. "But you're right here."

Blackburn shook his head. "You shouldn't have forgotten that name. Not after what happened. He sent my mother a letter a year and a half ago after you went to Wantoda Unified and signed him up. He hoped I would call her sometime, and last month I finally did. She told me he'd joined the Army."

"Who?"

"Ernest T. Tompkins III. Who wanted to serve his country after its ignominious defeat. Who was interested in lasers. Who had asthma, and told you so. And you said come on ahead."

The Recruiter stood. "Now look here, son-"

Blackburn pulled the Colt Python from his coat. "So you sent him to boot camp last year, in the summer.In Texas. He died. He died running. He couldn't breathe."

The Recruiter backed away from the desk. He held up his granite hands. "Now look, son," he said, his voice soothing. "Every recruit is given a physical. If that had shown anything serious, he wouldn't have been let in."

"The physical must have missed it," Blackburn said. "But you didn't. Ernie told you. His letter said so.

And you don't remember."

The Recruiter licked his lips. His stomach rumbled. "Sure I do, son. I told him that the doctors would check it out and make the decision. It wasn't mine to make. You can't kill me for that."

"What color was his hair?" Blackburn asked.

"Excuse me?"

Blackburn stood and pointed the pistol at the Recruiter's abdomen. "You say I can't kill you for not keeping him out of the Army because of his asthma. So I won't. I'll kill you for lying. You say the Army never loses anything. That must include memory. So what color was his hair? It was wavy on top. Very distinctive. What color was it?"

The Recruiter was sweating. He farted. "Look, son, I talk to hundreds of young men a year. I can't possibly remember everything about every one of them."

Blackburn c.o.c.ked the pistol. "But this wasn't just anyone, Sergeant," he said. "You signed him eighteen months ago. His name was Ernest T. Tompkins the Third. He told you that he had asthma. He died at boot camp. It was reported on all three TV stations and in the WichitaEagle. When I called my mother, she told me that she has the clipping, and that it includes a quote from you. 'It is always a tragedy when a young man dies,' you said."

"Oh," the Recruiter said. His gut moaned.

"What color was his hair?"

"Dark brown. Almost black."

Blackburn lowered the pistol. He looked at the floor. He wished he still knew how to cry. "Ernie had asthma. He died at boot camp."

The Recruiter stepped forward. "I'm sorry, son," he said. "These things happen. All we can do is grieve, and go on." He held out a hand. "Give me the gun."

Blackburn looked up. "Red," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"His hair was red." Blackburn raised the Python and shot the Recruiter in the belly. The Recruiter stumbled backward, then lurched forward, yelling. Red ooze bubbled from the olive cloth. Blackburn shot him again. There was a hissing noise and a smell of s.h.i.t. The Recruiter dropped to his knees and rested his cheek on the desktop. His fist smashed the tank. His eyes glared at Blackburn. They didn't blink. Blackburn put the gun away. "Ernie had asthma," he said. "Ernie died at boot camp. Ernie's hair was bright red." He reached down and pushed the model cannon across the desk. "Ernie was my friend."

He stopped the cannon a quarter of an inch from the Recruiter's nose.

"Boom," he said. Then he turned and went out to the sharp wind of the Kansas autumn.

THREE.

BLACKBURN AND THE CHICKEN-KILLER.

Jimmy had been in town to see Ernie that Wednesday, so he didn't know that his mother and Jasmine had left until he got home. He figured out that he had been reading comic books in Ernie's room when Dad had smacked Mom for the fifth time that week. Mom had taken the old Chrysler station wagon, leaving the GMC pickup. Jimmy was sure that she would have taken him along too, if he had been home.

She would at least have given him a choice.

Summer vacation didn't end for three more weeks, and Dad would be home a lot since he had been laid off. Jimmy didn't like the prospect. Not that he liked the prospect of school either. He had been dreading eighth grade. At the end of seventh grade, he had noticed that some of the girls were growing b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and some of the boys were getting hair on their faces. These were not good omens. Still, he would have preferred school over staying home alone with Dad. It wasn't even that Dad was a bad guy. It was just that he didn't know what else to do with his tough breaks but pa.s.s them along. With Mom and Jasmine gone, Jimmy would be in for more than his share.

He was sure of that right after Mom left. Dad tried to cook hamburgers for supper, and started a grease fire. He picked up the skillet and ran outside, burning his hands. When he came back in, he cussed Jimmy for not helping. Jimmy said that he hadn't known what to do, and Dad smacked him and told him to get to his room. Jimmy went into the hot little room and shut the door. He read the Spider-Man comic book that Ernie had given him. After a while he had to pee, but Dad hadn't said he could come out. He waited until he heard Dad's snore, then crept out through the kitchen and down the hall to the bathroom. He peed sitting down so he wouldn't have to turn on the light, and aimed so that the stream hit under the rim instead of in the water. He didn't flush.

In the morning he stayed in bed until Dad yelled for him to get up and do his ch.o.r.es. He got up and put on a T-shirt, cutoffs, and sneakers, then went out to feed the chickens.

The chickens mobbed him. Jimmy hated them. They were loud, smelled bad, and c.r.a.pped all over the place. Dad had brought them home as chicks in March. There had been fifty of them. They had been cute, fuzzy little things. Some of them had even seemed smart and had taken to following Jimmy or Jasmine around. Then half of them had died, and the rest had grown up fast and gotten stupider. By the time they'd reached their growth, they had become brainless. Now they were eating and s.h.i.tting machines. They laid eggs too, but broke a lot of them and covered the rest with chickens.h.i.t. Jimmy dumped a pile of feed on the ground for them to swarm over, then stepped away to drop a handful for the rooster. All of the chicks had grown up into hens, so Dad had brought home a rooster in June. It was hideous.

None of the pictures Jimmy had ever seen of roosters had looked anything like it. The pictures were of strutting, broad-chested birds with bright red combs and gold and green feathers. But this rooster waddled like a duck, had a dull pink comb that was torn, and feathers the color of old cornbread. It dragged its tail in the dirt. The hens often ganged up and pecked the h.e.l.l out of it. It had lost a lot of feathers in the past two months, and the bare patches were scabby. It waddled over and gobbled a few mouthfuls of the feed Jimmy dropped for it, and then three of the hens ran it off.

Jimmy went into the plywood coop and gathered the eggs. There were ten that weren't broken. That was better than usual. He cleaned up the rest as best he could and took the ten to the well pump to wash them.

Ten. Farm eggs sold for thirty cents a dozen in Tuttle County, when people bothered to stop and buy them. Most folks just spent the extra dime to get them at the store with the rest of their groceries. Where Dad had gotten the idea that chickens would make money, Jimmy didn't know. Someone had lied to him.

Or maybe things had been different when Dad was a kid, and he hadn't been able to figure out that the world had changed. The chicken feed alone cost more than the eggs brought in, never mind the trouble of dealing with the chickens themselves. Jimmy wondered what was wrong with Dad's brain.

He took the eggs into the house. Dad was eating toast in the kitchen.

"How many?" Dad asked.

"Ten."

Dad shook his head. "Don't know what's the matter with them." He eyed Jimmy. "You been chasing them?"

"No, sir," Jimmy said. He put the eggs into the bowl in the refrigerator.

"You been breaking any?"

"No, sir."

Dad put more bread into the toaster. "Want breakfast?"

"Sure." Dad gave him a look. "I mean, yes, sir."

The toast popped up. Dad rubbed each slice with a stick of oleo and handed one to Jimmy. Jimmy said thank you and sat at the table to eat.

"I'm going into Wichita," Dad said.

"Can I come?" Jimmy asked. Once in a while Dad would take him along to the hardware or auto parts stores. Jimmy liked the men who worked there. They were the kind of men who would say hi to a guy even if he couldn't drive yet.

"No," Dad said. "And don't go into Wantoda either. I want you here when your mother gets home. You tell her I'm checking on a machine shop job. I'll be home for supper."

"Yes, sir," Jimmy said. "Would it be okay if Ernie came out?" "Long as he doesn't eat anything," Dad said. "I work hard enough to feed my own kids." He left the kitchen. The front screen door opened and banged shut. The pickup started and drove off.

Jimmy finished his toast, then put a pan of water on the stove. When it was boiling, he took an egg from the refrigerator and dropped it in. It hit the bottom of the pan and cracked, sending white streamers through the bubbling water. Jimmy let it boil until the water was almost gone. Then he shut off the stove and took the pan to the sink. He ran water over the egg and tried to peel it. It was still hot, and it stung his fingers. A lot of the white came off with the sh.e.l.l. He ate what was left. The yolk crumbled hot and dry in his mouth. The August day was heating up outside.

He phoned Ernie, and Ernie asked his mother for permission to ride his bike out. Jimmy heard Ernie's mom say that she guessed it was all right. Ernie's mom had a quavering voice and always sounded as if she were about to cry, so Jimmy could never tell how she felt about what she said. His own mother's feelings were always clear. She laughed when things were good, and she bawled when things were bad.

She bawled too much.

Jimmy took his BB gun outside and shot at sparrows to kill time until Ernie showed up. There was a hot wind, and his shots curved wide. Sometimes he could see the BBs swerving as they flew, going into orbit like tiny golden satellites. Some of the chickens came running, expecting more feed, and he shot one of them in the rump. They took off squawking. Dad would switch him to within an inch of his life for an offense like that, but Jimmy sure as h.e.l.l wasn't going to tell him about it. The stupid chicken wasn't hurt, anyway. Jimmy would have liked to put one through its head, in one eye and out the other.

Between shots, he looked down the Potwin road toward Wantoda. Finally he saw Ernie. Ernie was coming slow despite having the wind at his back. Jimmy took his BB gun to the porch and rode his bike out to meet his friend. He put his head down and stood to pump against the wind. The pavement was oily, cooking in the sun. His bike rattled.

When he came within fifty yards of Ernie, he charged him as if to collide head-on. Ernie yelled and stopped where he was. Jimmy whizzed past, then turned and coasted back, letting the wind push him.

"Hey, p.u.s.s.y," he said, coming alongside.

Ernie's wavy red hair was damp, and his face was flushed. He was wearing a blue nylon backpack that made his narrow shoulders look even narrower. He was wheezing. "p.u.s.s.y yourself," he said. He was hoa.r.s.e.

"What's the matter?"