A Story Within, Too: The Collected Short Stories and Novellas of Jason Wallace, Volume 2

A Story Within, Too: The Collected Short Stories and Novellas of Jason Wallace, Volume 2

By Jason Wallace

Smashwords Edition

Published by Jason Wallace on Smashwords

A Story Within, Too: The Collected Short Stories and Novellas of Jason Wallace, Volume 2

Copyright © 2015 by Jason Wallace

This is a copyrighted work. The entirety hereof may not be copied or transferred without the express written permission of the author; however, portions hereof may be copied for purposes other than those involving personal gain to the copier. Any likenesses to actual people is purely coincidental and is, in no way, intentional.

Table of Contents

The Ring

Torment Moon

The Hard Price of Freedom

Nueva España and the Pueblo People

From Caribbean Slave to Adopted Revolutionary

The Veil

THEY

Hideous: The Revenants

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Hammer of the Witches

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Sometimes, They Want Revenge

The Hatchet Man

The Blade of Anslor

Chapter 1: Flight

Chapter 2: Death at Hand

Chapter 3: Cowards' Fate

Chapter 4: The Unveiling

Chapter 5: Deceive and Divide

Chapter 6: Honor and Glory Abound

Chapter 7: A Hero Emerges

Chapter 8: A Prince Proclaimed

Epilogue

To My Human: A Letter from your Queen

A Letter from a Worn-out Husband

Fairytale Awakening

Let’s Make This Believable

11 Strangely True and Very Absurd Tales

Connect with Jason Wallace

About Jason Wallace

Other Titles

The Ring

An aged and very wrinkled man with thinly-sparse gray hair knelt in his garden, tending his tomatoes, an almost daily routine that he had maintained for many years during the warmer weather. Suddenly, he struggled to his feet, nearly toppling as he went, startled by the appearance of a young man, seeming to come from out of nowhere. Nuni! Nuni, shouted the old man as he awaited the gravely younger man to approach. Nuni! Nuni!

Sir, asked the other man, confused by the outburst of the elderly gardener, throwing his jacket over his shoulder as he peered through the blistering hot rays of sunlight piercing his eyes as he stared downward.

Oh. I guess I thought you was somebody else. You look just like a fella I knew back in Dubya Dubya Two. Nunzio Calabrisi was his name. Can I help you with somethin', Son?

Well, Sir, that's exactly why I'm here. I want to ask you about Nunzio Calabrisi. My name is also Nunzio Calabrisi. The Nunzio you knew during the war was my father's uncle. I was named for him. Would you mind if I stay a while and ask you some questions about my uncle?

I suppose that'd be alright, Son. But you might not like what I have to say. Sit. Sit. Pick ya a spot of ground there by the cabbages. The old man waved his hand to direct the other to the grass beyond the garden.

First, Sir, what happened to Nunzio? Nobody ever saw him again after 1943, and there's no record of him being killed in the war. You were his best friend, weren't you? What can you tell me? The young man helped the recipient of his verbal intercourse to his feet, seeing that he struggled so as he made countless fruitless attempts.

You really wanna know about Nunzio Calabrisi, huh? Let's go inside. Pryin' neighbors and all. The two men sauntered into the house, the elderly of the two bringing two glasses of sweetened lemonade into the living room. I'll tell you what you wanna know, but it probably ain't much ya wanna hear. Nunzio was my friend, my best friend. He was closer to me than any brother ever could've been, and I killed him.

Wait, the young man, Nunzio, screamed, choking on his lemonade, You killed my uncle?! What the...

Son, I don't mean I killed him like you think. I mean I got him killed.

Tell me then, Mr. Tucker, please. Can I call you Mr. Tucker?

Marion is fine. I met Nunzio in the Navy in 1942. We did everything together. I loved that man. I loved him as much as a person can love another, maybe, in some ways, more than I ever loved my wife.

So, you two had a homosexual relationship, the second Nunzio asked, vehemently protesting the possibility that his great-uncle was, in actuality, homosexual.

No. What the hell is wrong with your generation? Two men can love each other without it being that way. Do you wanna hear this or not?

Yes. Please. Continue, Nunzio begged, sipping his lemonade more carefully.

Your uncle, Nunzio, he was a great man. Some people didn't care for him because he was I-talian. I think maybe I loved him all the more because he was I-talian. He could make anybody laugh. He had a wonderful air about him. He could sing like you would not believe. You'd think you were hearin' an angel! We were on leave in the summer of 1943. We drove up to my hometown of Somerset, Virginia. I promised Nunzio I'd introduce him to a beautiful Southern gal. We went out drinkin' when we arrived. We were walkin' along, and Nunzio said that he needed to relive himself. I waited back and kept sippin' on my whiskey I was carryin'. I turned just in time to see Nunzio disappear.

Disappear?

Yes. I saw the tree he was leanin' against open up and swallow him. I saw it plain as day, though it was night. I know you don't believe me. I wouldn't believe me, but I know what I saw. Two dark hands came out from the tree, grabbed Nunzio, and pulled him inside. That was the last I ever saw of the man. The old man, Marion, hung his head, a tear strolling down his left cheek as he finished his words.

Wh.. huh.. Hands took him? Tree swallowed? What? This makes no sense!

I know what I saw. He disappeared that night. Marion took a long pause, and after gulping deeply, decided to continue where he left off, He... He went into that tree, and I could see what looked like a really bright light.

Did you try to get him out?!

I tried, but there was nothin' I could do. I chopped at that tree for an hour with my pocket knife, but to no avail. I went to the Sheriff and told him what I saw, and he just said I'd been drinkin' too much and needed to cut back. I may have been a bit inebriated, but I saw what I saw. I went back to that tree with an axe I took from my daddy's shed. I hacked and cut and chopped at that tree until I could split it open. It took me much of the night.

What was.. was inside of it? Nunzio still doubted that he should believe Marion's words, but something told him that he was not being toyed with, that he should trust the old man.

You know what it was I found inside that tree? A finger. One finger. That was all. I knew it was Nunzio's finger because it had that ring on it that his father gave him, just like that ring you got on right there, that exact one. Marion pointed anxiously at Nunzio's right hand, at the ring draped around his ring finger.

I'll believe you if you... if you can tell me what is inscribed inside.

With a deep chortle, the old man sought to oblige the request. Ok. Let me see if I can remember. Chi si volta... Wait. Yes. Chi si volta, e chi si gira, sempre a casa va finire. I don't remember exactly what it means, but it is something about that no matter how far you go, you always come home.

Wh... yes. How...?

Nunzio showed me that ring almost every day. His father gave it to him. He was so proud of his son, the first generation of the family in America serving it so faithfully. Nunzio enlisted, against the will of his mother. His father didn't like it at first but came around to the idea and had that ring made. Well, actually, he had one made for Nunzio's brother, too. I suppose that's the one you have on your finger right now.

Y.. yes. Ok, Mr. Tucker. Let's say I'm starting to believe you. How do you explain this?!

I can't. I think maybe that tree or that place is cursed, maybe a gateway to some other dimension. Maybe Nunzio lived out his life somewhere far away, in some other world neither you nor I can imagine. The few I've gotten to believe the story say that it must have been a gate to Hell. I don't know about all that, but I know he is gone, never to return. Nunzio would never have lost all contact with his family or with me. The old man's lower lip began to curl, his misty eyes displaying all of his belief in the event and of never again seeing his only true friend he'd ever had.

Nunzio the Younger, as he was sometimes known around his neighborhood, could not make sense of anything or decide what else to ask. Stammering, he could only murmur and mutter, completely incoherent to his listener.

And to answer your next question of why I live here instead of back in Virginia, I couldn't take the stigma. I left to put an end to the madness. People labeled me a looney for what I told them. I came here to have a chance at a new life. And yes, I think of Nunzio every day. I see him almost everywhere. With time, the thoughts have softened and faded, but they are still there.

H.. How did you know what I was thinking?

Kid, I've been around for many years. I can sometimes just tell what's in a person's heart. I'll bet you like the same stinky little cigars that your uncle smoked. Stauffer's?

Yes.

I'll bet you slick your hair back really tight when you wanna look tough, but when you want to look all gentle to the ladies, you comb it forward.

How...

And I'll bet when you say your name to the ladies, you pronounce it in an I-talian accent and that sometimes, you say everything with an I-talian accent. It gets you a lot of women.

How...

You really are Nunzio in every way I can see. It's like I'm lookin' back at 1943. If it wasn't for the surroundings, I'd start to believe it. You know, I have looked for him so many times, some piece of evidence to be able to put it all to rest. I even went back years later and chopped away what remained of that tree. I hacked it to little bits to try to find anything inside. I chopped up the roots and even dug up the earth all around. There wasn't nothin' there but more roots. Son, let me show you somethin'. I'll be right back.

As Marion got up from his chair and walked very slowly into another room, young Nunzio felt a deep and almost paralyzing anxiety fill his extremities. He had no idea what the old man might be up to, what it was that he might be planning to bring back. The thought that the old man had something to show him created so much fear in Nunzio that he thought of leaving the place without a single word said and never coming back. He had already learned far more than he had expected to, yet in many ways, far less.

Marion returned, clenching a small, wooden box tightly in his hands. Here. Open that. As the old man handed the box to Nunzio, he tread painfully to his chair, his old bones creaking and popping as he stepped.

Nunzio, his hands shaking, closed his eyes for only a moment and opened them again when he felt his hands pry the lid of the box open. Inside the box was what appeared to be some kind of very aged parchment paper, wrapped neatly with a thin, scarlet bow. Untying the ribbon and unfolding the carefully placed flaps of the paper, Nunzio stared in near horror. Laying within the paper was the ring spoken of by Marion Tucker, as well as what Nunzio knew must be the bones of a human finger.

Is this... is this Uncle Nunzio, the younger man cried in sheer terror, his voice as shaky as his hands.

Yes. It is. That is what is left of him anyhow.

Nunzio carefully turned the ring over and over, examining its every detail, coming to realize that it matched his ring identically, detail for detail, word for word, yet it was in far better condition than his own, having faced much less wear and tear. He choked back the fear climbing into his throat as he looked up at Marion. I still don't understand how this could be, how he could just vanish. There is some explanation! There has to be!

Son, began Marion, shaking his head, his eyes still somewhat misty, I spent the better part of twenty years tryin' to figure it all out. I finally had to just give up. There is no explanation for it. It is what it is. I haven't even opened that box since... since 1986. Has it really been that long? I suppose it has. I used to open it almost every day and stare at its contents and talk to 'em, as if I was actually speakin' to your Uncle Nunzio. There is no use tryin' to explain it. Nunzio hasn't turned up in more than seventy years. He ain't about to just come knockin' on the door over there. Now, you take that box and its contents with you. You give the finger a proper burial or keep it in your house or whatever. I always did wish that I could give what was left of him to his family. Now, I can be at peace, knowin' I did just that and that I closed that chapter, the biggest chapter, of my life. I can die in peace now.

So, there's absolutely nothing more to this story, nothing more that you can tell me, huh?

There's always more to any story. No story ever ends. All I know to tell you is that the best I could figure, there's a curse on that place or that Nunzio was chosen by some, some thing. I don't know what it is. I started to research the area to see if there were any stories similar to mine. I found some records in the public library that talked of strange disappearances in the area goin' back for centuries. There was a legend from the Indians that used to be in that place. They told the early settlers that there was a great evil there and not to build their town. There was an evil spirit that became angry when he was bothered, when people strode into his home. The Indians knew to stay away from there, to revere that spirit for what it was. I knew as a boy that there were very unexplainable things occurring there, but seldom did someone go missing. Everyone always kept things hush hush or said that a person ran off. No one ever spoke of anything happening like what did happen to Nunzio.

Thank you, Mr. Tucker. I think maybe I should go there and see it for myself. This just doesn't make sense to me. I need to at least see the place. Somerset, Virginia, right? Nunzio rose from his seat, clutching the box in his hands, before Marion Tucker could respond.

Son, wait. You shouldn't go there. The whole town is a breeding ground for these sorts of things. The town is just one giant curse. I made it out of there, but you might not. You should leave it all well enough alone.

Has all of your family disappeared?

Well, no.

Any of them at all? Nunzio's face evidenced his complete disbelief in the town being cursed. He could scarcely believe any of the story, but he especially could not believe that an entire town could be such a threat.

A cousin when I was very young. Like the others, people said that he ran off. And then, there was sister's boy. He was only eleven years old. I'm tellin' you, there is a curse on that place. Do not go there. You just go on home, and take that box with you. Give your family some peace over this whole mess. Somerset is not a place you want to be. Get in your car, and head straight back to Philadelphia.

How'd you know where I'm from?

I just assumed. I knew that was where your uncle was from. Just go back, and don't ever head to that area of northern Virginia. You don't want in it. You don't wanna be a part of it. Trust me on that. And no matter what you might think you've found there, you won't get no help from the people. They keep everything very quiet. Some of 'em know the truth, at least, have an idea, but they won't talk about it. The old man's eyes shown the truth clearly, but Nunzio Calabrisi was not about to be dissuaded by such a thing. It all seemed far too fanciful to him.

Where did it happen? What's the place in Somerset?

With a deep sigh but knowing that he could not turn the young man from his task, Marion Tucker decided that he would give him the information that he sought. The Chalmers School. It's an old, abandoned building now. Shortly after the war, they built it over the grove they cut down. Find that school, and you're there. Just be careful, Son. Be very careful. It is not a place to be trifled with or taken lightly. I spent almost three years in a nuthouse for what I told folks I saw, and I was one of the lucky ones.

The drive from southern Ohio to northern Virginia was long, but Nunzio had already traveled from Philadelphia, and he was strongly motivated by his quest for truth and justice on behalf of his great-uncle. When he arrived in Somerset, he thought that the place looked like something out of an old movie. The buildings were old, many dilapidated, the people, wantonly staring in his direction as he passed, their deep set eyes looking as if they were somehow possessed. There was nothing at all resembling what one might call a town. Nunzio wondered if there were more than a hundred people living in the entire immediate vicinity of the place.

Nunzio stepped from his car upon finding the ruins of the Chalmers School. The few walls that remained standing were mostly sunken downward, slanting off into the ground below. The majority of the site was defined by heavy piles and pillars of rubble, some extending well above the level of the walls surrounding them. As Nunzio stood in awe of the enormity of destruction, he was startled to feel a hand placed upon his shoulder. Turning, he came face to face with a man with eyes as sunken as the walls before him.

Damn cryin' shame what happened here, the other man stated, in his Virginia Piedmont accent that Nunzio found almost unintelligible. They had a school here a long ways back, when my daddy was a boy. It ain't but what you see here now. They say it started to just crumble down one day as if it was the very walls of Jericho itself. Then, a fire broke out not long after that. A lot of boys went missin' from here, burnt up in the flames, but they never did find the bodies. Ain't that funny?

Nunzio suddenly found himself wondering if there were not a serious amount of truth to the words of Marion Tucker. What do you think really happened?

I ain't quite sure. Between you and me, Stranger, I think there's somethin' downright sinister at work in this place. They's all kinda funny things occurrin' round about here, but rarely is it anything real severe, just peculiar is all. But this place here, this is somethin' else. I don't never step foot beyond this sidewalk we's standin' on. In fact, I don't know of nobody that steps beyond. Everything from where that grass starts right there in front of ya over to the back of them woods beyond is unholy ground. You know I mean by unholy ground?

Nunzio choked down the overwhelming, breath-stealing lump in his throat, unsure if he could even answer such a question, though he knew exactly what the man meant. I... I think I do. Sighing, he looked all around him and noticed that several people watched him from the other side of the street, one standing on a corner, staring at him as if he were trying to see through him, and two others sitting on a porch, casually glancing his way. It made him feel gravely uneasy.

Feller, began the other man, tucking his right thumb into the waistband of his pants, I'd advise you get outta here. This ain't no place for outsiders. If the evil here don't get ya, the people here might. They don't take kindly to people they don't know comin' in here, especially ones investigatin' and such.

I'm just trying to find out what happened to my great-uncle, Nunzio Calabrisi. He supposedly disappeared from here back in 1943. Nobody ever heard from him again. I was told that this was the place where it happened.

Well, you ain't gonna find nothin' except bricks and stones and other types of mess. If your uncle is down under all them piles, you got one hell of a job to do, gettin' 'em all cleared out. I heard about some feller goin' missin' here back about when you said, but folks just always said the man who told of it was right as a three dollar bill. Personally, I took some thought of it and wondered if there weren't some kind of truth in it. They's legends 'round here, but that's all anybody takes 'em fer, legend. They say the place is haunted by spirits of the slaves that was here, some of 'em maybe even come from the ol' Montpelier place nearby, Madison's ol' plantation, that they was runaways hidin' out here. Some says it's the Indians. I don't rightly know what it is, but I do know you don't go messin' here. Ain't nobody touched this place since that fire, and that was back probably forty-some, fifty-some years ago.

Did they ever find anybody here, any bodies at all, ever, or at least some parts of bodies, maybe a finger? Nunzio was bent on finding out the truth, no matter what it took, but he felt that he would find no more than what Marion Tucker told him.

I heard somethin' once about a feller findin' a finger in some tree and heard of some other feller findin' another finger sometime after that. My daddy talked of that, but folks just thought they killed the men they had them fingers of. One of 'em ended up sent up to some crazy house. The other, folks run him out of town. They's even a rumor they found him in them woods right over there and tied him to a tree and cut him limb from limb. Supposedly, a couple of folks that was involved in that one went missin' theyselves. Some told the town not to build this school here, that the ground was haunted, fer one reason or another.

Do you think that maybe there was just somebody around here that was killing people and cutting them up and that maybe the fire was completely unrelated?

The other man, with his thumb still in his pants, began scratching his head profusely with his left hand. You know, I thought that many a time myself. I don't know what is the truth and what ain't. I know I do get an awful perturbin' feelin' when I come here. They's people died here. That's for certain. How they died is beyond me. I don't know what to believe, but it is a tragedy, all the same. You ain't gonna find no more about this place than what I done told ya. It is what it is, Feller. If I was you, I'd leave it all well enough alone.

That's exactly what somebody else told me. Damn. I wish I could just find something, anything!

Darkness loomed its eerie and disturbing head over the place where the two stood, creeping in slowly, with an imminent feeling of death. Both were assured that there was nothing to do there any longer and that the premises should be vacated at once, before night settled in completely. Nunzio felt as if eyes were watching him, but not the deep-set eyes of the townspeople. It was as if something from beyond the walls of the ruined school were fixated on him, keeping track of his every move, whatever it was, even listening to his every word.

Nunzio quickly got into his car and drove away, speeding out of town toward home. The same feeling of ominous and ethereal, supernatural presence that he felt at the site of the Chalmers School pervaded his every fiber, filling him with distraught worry and a complete sense of inner chaos. Nothing would ever make sense about any of it, but nothing could be done either. He knew that he would have to rest on the notion that he had no real information, only hearsay and the word of the only person to witness his uncle's disappearance. He could, at least, take some piece or pieces of his uncle back to his family. No one would believe what he told them, but they would see the ring in the wooden box and know that it must have been Uncle Nunzio's.

Torment Moon

You see that moon up there, Jim, Thomas Perkins asked, almost tearful at the sight of the big, bright ball pervading every inch of his sight.

Yep, sure do, Tom, Jim affirmed, But what’s that matter? The moon’s always there.

That’s not my point. Look how big and bright it is tonight. It’s like it’s trying to torment me or somethin’. Thomas was sure that the moon had hung itself in its grandiosity that night, just to point out to him the perplexities of his life. It almost contained a bit of an azure glaze when he looked at it from certain angles.

You really think that the moon is there to torment you, Tom? That’s the looniest thing I ever heard! The moon does not torment people. It’s a moon. It’s a giant body set in place to compliment the Earth and aid it in some ways. If anything, it torments Earth when it gets out of its exact place. It kind of leaves where it’s told to be and causes trouble for us with natural disasters. But it sure doesn’t torment individual people. You might wanna go get your head examined, Buddy. Jim Jones jokingly pointed to the body in question as he spoke, tormenting his friend in mockery of the claim that he had made. Look! Look! It’s following you, Tom! It’s following you, and it wants you to know something. It wants you to know that you’re absolutely nuts!

Think about it, Thomas snapped back at Jim, nearly poking the man with his forefinger as he spoke, much in the same manner that Jim had done when looking at the moon but with no intention of mockery. It hangs there, full, yellow, painted melancholy, like I am, like it’s showing me all the bad things in my life that make me not want to live anymore. Why is it on this day, this day, of all days, that it looks like that? You tell me why!

Ok. Fine. You win. The moon decided to be like that, just for tonight, for you. It’s that big and bright because you’re going through so much pain. It’s there to haunt you. Whoo-oooo! It was done by ghosts or aliens or ghost aliens. Jim wanted to laugh, but he feared that his words were enough to invoke physical retaliation from Thomas. He’d gone too far, he knew, but he couldn’t resist the urge to make it known just how foolish Thomas’ tale of woe was, how little sense any of it made.

The two of them were best friends, as close as any two of God’s creatures could ever be; they had been that way since they were old enough to talk, their parents remaining just as close for many years prior. Now, it seemed that everything was being thrown into question. Thomas was not so sure that Jim was the friend that he’d always thought him to be.

Thomas quickly brushed the short, sweaty locks of light brown hair that danced over the top of his forehead out of the way, having endured far too much of their itchy addition to anguish. Don’t make fun of me, Jim! I’m not in the mood! I know this all sounds stupid, but c’mon. On the day that my girlfriend leaves me, the day that I lose the love of my life and don’t know how to go on, the moon is the fullest I’ve ever seen it. It’s sad-looking, like me. Maybe, it’s not mocking me. I don’t know. Maybe, it feels my sadness and decided to display its commonness with me by looking as bad as I feel. Maybe, it’s hung there, one way or another, like that, just for me. Either way, I don’t like it!

Jim had a very puzzled look on his face, one of sheer consternation that evidenced his lack of surety of how to proceed. He had no idea what he was to say to Tom that wouldn’t anger him further or risk damage of lifelong friendship. He realized, in that moment, that he, too, was feeling quite forlorn and over-burdened. Sure, he had everything that Tom did not, a loving wife, a beautiful baby girl that was his entire reason for being, a lovely, little home full of joy, and a job that, even though he did not care much for it, provided everything that was needed in life. He had everything that Thomas Perkins did not have and probably never would. Jim couldn’t really feel what Thomas felt, but he’d never stopped to completely navigate the complexities of the pitfalls tripping up every effort of his best friend. Jim sat down on a small mound of dirt behind him, holding his head in his hands as he attempted to find some words of comfort for Thomas. His thickened muscles swayed, pulsated, trembled as his chest heaved to and fro in desperation, he taking deepened breaths of bitter agony over his friend’s sadness. He did not know if it was all made worse by the possibility that Tom might actually need mental evaluation.

Nothin’ to say, huh, Tom asked, leering down at his friend, his eyes glistening with fought-back tears, a need to collapse onto the ground beside Jim nearly overtaking him. Finally, it did, and he fell, almost upon his face, barely catching himself with one knee and an outstretched hand that shielded his nose and mouth from the hard impact of it all.

Jim, at the last moment, too late to do anything to offer assistance, noticed the fall of Tom, and though he gave aid by way of his arms to comfort the blow, Tom hit dry ground before anything was done. Tom, you ok, Jim screamed, beckoning for his friend to give answer of safety.

Yeah. I’m ok, came a muffled reply, Tom reeling from the pain in his legs, arms, and head. It hurts, but I’m alive, sadly.

No more for you, Tom. You’ve had enough to drink tonight.

Who are you, my mother, Tom chuckled lightly, still muffled by his hand stretched across his mouth, the ground still below his hand.

Get up. Check yourself, Tom. Let me see that you’re ok, and we’ll go to my place. Cindy won’t care two shades if you sleep this off on our couch.

Good woman you got there, Jim, Tom muttered as he began to rise, still shaking off the hurt.

Yes. Yes, she is, the best. I got the best wife a man could ever ask for. She sure is a prize, that woman. I don’t mean to belittle your pain here, Tom. I know it’s downright awful what Beth did to you. But hey, if it makes you feel better, I think Cindy’s got a couple of friend that aren’t taken. They’re not too bad in the way of looks, and they’re sure a damn sight better than Beth.

Hey, Tom shouted, brushing the dirt off of his pants and inspecting the rip that he’d given them with his fall. You hardly know Beth! Don’t talk that way about her! She’s the only girl I ever wanted, and I had her, for a little while! She’s a good woman! She just makes some bad choices! She’s a lot better than you think!

Alright. Alright, Tom. I suppose I didn’t know her all that long. She seemed decent enough, until now. What was it got you two fightin’ like that anyway and got her to leave? What happened?

Long story, Jim. I can’t even begin to tell it, don’t know where to start. Maybe, she’ll be back. Maybe, she won’t. Hell, I probably wouldn’t come back, if I was her. I’m thinkin’ forget all this mess anyhow. I’m thinkin’ about just headin’ off somewhere. I don’t really have much tyin’ me down to this town, so what’s it gonna hurt? I hear the President is sendin’ lots of men over to some place called Viet… Viet-Namm or somethin’ like that. It’s real good pay, and we’re supposed to be in and out of there in no time. I could make some money, have a real job for a change, make somethin’ of myself, and when I come back a hero, maybe, just maybe, Beth will see that and wanna fix all this mess. Besides, women are suckers for men in uniforms, wouldn’t ya say, Jim?

Wait. You’re talkin’ about enlistin’ in the Army, Tom? What are you, crazy? There’s no war worth fightin’ for, not since the last big one. We fought that one cuz we needed to defend our country when we got attacked. That’s it. We’re not goin’ anywhere now for our country. You’re gonna just head off to some place you don’t even know where just so you can have a job and impress a woman that, excuse me here, friend, isn’t really even worth your time? I know how you feel about her, and maybe, she’s not all bad, but what she did to you, sorry, can’t say she’s as good as you think. Tom, think this through. You go to war, you’re likely to get killed, and for what? Jim could not believe the words spoken by his friend, that he was so willing to give his life for a cause that he knew nothing about and probably had no business getting himself involved in, for any reason.

I’m a good shot. I’ve been shootin’ since I was five! I reckon I’d be good at the soldierin’ thing! Tom had no faculty of seeing that his conversation had gone from the subject of his torment and general displeasure to the subject of what he was now going to do with his life, having traversed the fullness of the topics, so far as they were to be discussed, in such a short time. It was always like that with Thomas Perkins when he had been drinking, changing quickly from one thing to another, without much pause or transition.

Jim, on the other hand, was usually much more calculating and prone to weighing the details and meanings of things, long given to thinking each particular out, carefully examining its intricacies before chiming in with a decision, no matter how serious or minor the occasion or issue. He knew that if it were him, even if he had no wife and child to think of, that he would give it all much more consideration, that he would find out as much as he could about the place he would go, why he would be sent there, what it was like to be in such a place and in such a situation, and what the odds were that he would come home alive. He could say no more to Tom, however, because Tom would not listen. Tom never listened. If he had, he would have ended things with Beth Sterner long before she ended them with him. He would have come to work at the lumber yard with Jim and made a decent wage, would have much more to his name, would have reasons not to feel that his life had been thrown away and that he would never have more to it than what he did at the moment.

The two men, one afflicted by the experiments of youth, and the other, knowing that his youth only gave him advantage that he should seek at all costs and opportunity, to leave the world with more than he could take from it, to instill lessons, love, and end to want for those that entrusted their expectations of fulfillment of need unto him, sat silently for much time. Tom barely contemplated his earlier words and gestures, thinking seldom about any consequences that might be faced by making the decision already in his heart, ready to burst forth while Jim thought of his family, of those looking to him for guidance and care. He wished that Tom could be entrusted into that fold much the same way. He could not think of Tom as his child, but if he could only make Tom somehow his ward, or at least, his pupil of sorts, he might help the man onto a path more fitting and rewarding. At the same time, he also knew that there was a chance that Thomas Perkins would return one day, hardened and matured by the labors of military life, more prepared, more ready to accept responsibility. He might even be rewarded in return for it, might even be granted a good job and with it, a family, starting out many years behind his friend on the same road but heading in the same direction. In the end, Jim had to let it all go and leave it all up to Tom.

After a while of this, no noises evincing themselves, other than the distant chatter of nature’s best wanderers and a gentle roll of water in the stream not far down a small hill a few feet away, Tom suddenly broke the silence, picking up a few stones and heaving them into the night sky, always with an exclamation of Huh as his body was thrown into the momentum of the action.

What are you doin’, asked Jim, chortling just a little at the sight of his best friend performing such an odd task.

Throwin’ rocks at that damned moon! If it’s gonna look at me like that, it’s gonna get knocked around! I’m sick of seein’ its face!

Ok, Tom. You just do that, Jim announced, shaking his head. He’d had nearly as much to drink as Tom, but he was level-headed enough yet to see the pomposity and ridiculousness of Tom’s work.

It was all a sad affair, but it was what they had, and Jim Jones knew that it might be the last time he’d ever have alone with Thomas Perkins. He needed to let Tom do what he wanted and just be glad that the man, foolish as he was, was his friend.

The Hard Price of Freedom

*I wrote both of these