For What He Could Become Page 16

  At the sound of the hammer cocking, the young bull threw his ears forward and stopped chewing. He turned to face Bill, who aimed between his eyes and pulled the trigger.

  The explosion was deafening. Fallen spruce needles on the bridge railing flew into the air, and yellow leaves dropped from the alders where the slug ripped through the bark on half a dozen trees before it stopped in a telephone pole behind the Burger King. Bill fell over backwards, dropped the gun, and clutched his ears with both hands.

  The cow leaped to the right. Her hind feet dug into the soft bottom soil, and in one jump she was out of sight. Cow and young bull crossed Tudor Road at a full run and cleared the four lanes of traffic. From there they headed through the municipal bus parking lot and up the hill towards the radio station. Drivers slammed on their brakes, honked their horns, and somehow managed to avoid hitting either of them.

  George walked over and looked down at Bill, still rolling on the ground holding his ears.

  “Hunters stand up when hunting, they don’t roll on the ground.”

  “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” Bill said. “What the hell kind of gun is that?”

  “ .44 magnum. Shoots good, huh?”

  “Did I hit him?”

  George shook his head.

  Bill got to his knees and looked up the creek. His ears had a constant ring—George sounded a long ways off, but he was right beside him. At least his eyes were clear and he could see where the moose had been.

  “That’s not a handgun—that’s a cannon. It should have wheels on it and a truck to pull it.”

  He reached for the bridge railing and pulled himself upright. George shuffled his feet and hummed, beating his arms to his sides in a kind of mocking dance around the gun that now rested on the frozen mud.

  Bill pulled his coat around him and started back toward the shack. He could hear a siren wailing. His head hurt something awful. He hoped George had some coffee back at his place.

  George began to follow, then remembered the gun, doubled back to pick it up, and stuffed it in his pocket.

  The flashing red and blue lights on top of the patrol car were nothing new to Bill or George.

  “Hold it!” the officer bellowed, his hand resting on the butt of his service revolver.

  Bill stopped. He stood weaving. The car’s exhaust made him a little nauseous, but he liked the warmth of it. George stopped beside him.

  The officer nodded at George. “Your gun?”

  George looked down at his pocket and saw the butt sticking out. He looked back at the officer and nodded.

  “You fellows been shooting in there?”

  George looked at Bill. “I wasn’t shooting—he was. But he didn’t hit anything except the trees.” He giggled.

  “We were hunting moose,” Bill said. His ears were still ringing, and his voice sounded very loud to him. “There are some good moose in there. Go down by the creek, they’re eating on the willows.”

  The officer asked George for the gun, which he unloaded and put on the dashboard of his car.

  “Need you two to get in the back seat here.” He opened the rear door for them, got in the front, and started to fill out a form.

  It was warm and comfortable in the car. The motor and the heater were running, and Bill was soon asleep. The next thing he knew, he and George were being hauled out of the patrol car and led into the Last Frontier Guns store.

  “Phil. You recognize either of these guys?” the officer said.

  “Yeah.” The owner pointed at George. “That one.”

  George smiled and nodded.

  The officer laid the .44 magnum on the counter. “Tells us you said he could hunt on Fish Creek behind Burger King with this.”

  “I didn’t tell them that. You guys know better than that.”

  “We do. But he doesn’t.”

  “I told him he was in Alaska and he could hunt anywhere, but I didn’t mean in town or on Fish Creek. I meant anywhere outside of town.”

  “Hey, Phil—it isn’t what you say that’s important, it’s what the other guy hears, huh?”

  “Aw, come on, I didn’t tell him to hunt there.”

  “But they did, and you’d told them anywhere—what would you conclude from that?”

  The officer smiled and picked up the gun. “Phil—we’ll try and get Fish and Game to designate behind Burger King some kind of hunting preserve—just for local residents. Something to do with native rights. I’m sure with your backing we can pull it off.”

  “Oh BS,” Phil said.

  “Moose BS,” the officer said.

  Outside, he turned to George. “Where you guys live?”

  George pointed toward the other end of Fish Creek.

  “Come on, we’ll drop you off. Hop in.” They stopped at

  George’s shack. “Okay,” the officer said. “I’ll drop back tonight on my way home and give your gun back if you’re sober. Got that?”

  George nodded.

  “Both of you. Let me hear you say it.”

  George and Bill looked at each other. Bill looked at the officer and said, “We’ll be sober. Huh, George?”

  George said, “We’ll be sober.”

  George opened the door and stood standing in the frame of light.

  “What’s wrong?” Bill asked.

  “Muskrat Johnny’s dead.”

  He closed the door behind him. He pulled a bottle from the sack he was carrying and placed it on the table as if he were placing a tombstone at the head of Johnny’s grave.

  “How?”

  “Someone beat him to death. They found him this morning down by the bridge.”

  “Who’d do a thing like that?” Bill asked.

  “Who knows?”

  George sat down at the table and put his head in his hands. Inside the shack it was quiet except for a trapped fly buzzing at the window.

  “Well,” Bill said, “the muskrats’ll be happy.”

  George pulled the bottle to him, ran his fingernail around the seal, uncorked it, and took two swallows. Bill wanted a drink of the whiskey but didn’t feel like getting up for it. He thought about Muskrat Johnny, how much fun he was, the money he always had and shared so easily after rat season. He used to describe his muskrat hunts and how easy it was to get several thousand of the creatures. Now he was stretched out on a marble slab at the crime lab and Doc Rogers was doing an autopsy on him.

  “Hand me the bottle,” Bill said.

  “Get it your damn self.”

  Bill went over to the bottle and put it to his lips.

  “All you can think about is the muskrats being happy Johnny’s dead?” George said.

  “It was just a joke.”

  “Well, it ain’t funny.”

  Bill took a drink and set the bottle down.

  “Another thing,” George said. “You been drinking my whiskey and living here too long. Go get your own place.”

  Bill stepped back.

  “Go on with you. I mean it.”

  Bill scooped up the plastic bag off the floor. Everything he had was in there. He started for the door. Then he stopped, went back to the table, hoisted the bottle, and took a good drink. He looked directly at George, then slammed the bottle down, nodded his head, and left.

  Outside, he walked toward the highway. He cut down through the park, came out on Ninth Avenue, and continued along until his steps slowed and he stopped in the middle of the block. He didn’t know where he was going. He looked behind him, but nothing gave him a clue as to why he was walking in this direction. Slowly he started for the Salvation Army post.

  “Good morning Bill Williams,” Major Russell said as he passed through the hall on the way to his office. “I hope you don’t feel as bad as you look this bright morning.”

  Bill barely nodded. It was warm in the lounge, so warm. He settled lower in the thick padded chair and fell asleep.

  He awakened to the smell of dinner. He had not moved in the chair, and every joint in his body seemed fused together. F
rom long practice he started with one limb at a time and straightened it, then moved it back and forth before going on to the next one. Coming out of a drunken sleep took patience. He’d seen guys try to stand up and collapse. He stuck his tongue between his lips, wetting them so he could work his face muscles. When he slept with his head on his chest, the face muscles sagged and pulled around his puffed eyes—now he stretched and grimaced to get everything back in place.

  The food smelled good, and for a change he felt hungry. He went to the bathroom, dashed his face with cold water, smoothed his straight black hair, and rubbed a finger over his teeth. He took a paper towel, wet it, and rubbed at something stuck to his shirt. He took a look in the mirror, then started for the chapel.

  Before he got to the door he stopped, turned around, and came back to look again into the mirror. What he saw dumfounded him. With scrutiny he could pick out some of the features of his youth. The nose was recognizable. The ears and hair he remembered. But the cheeks and eyes and forehead seemed to have been grafted on from some cadaver. He wondered if anyone from the village would recognize him. The reflection hung in his mind, and he saw it over and over as he sat through the pre-dinner service.

  The service today was about Muskrat Johnny. The major went over his life and what little he knew about him but pushed the concept that he had a contribution to make and maybe his contribution was in his death. That by dying as he had, murdered, he was an example of the end result for many of those who followed his path. He ended with a prayer that each and every one within the sound of his voice today would pledge himself to a new life, taking Jesus at His word, and becoming a light in the Kingdom.

  What have I done to be a light? I told Captain Russell I’d work on it—think about it. And I have. But I never opened the door. Why don’t I? Don’t I believe? Did the war or drinking or George take it out of me? What’s so hard about believing—just do it. God—I want to believe. I want out of this life and I’m not gonna make it without your help. Help me Lord—help me.

  After dinner Major Russell asked to speak with Bill in his office. Bill found the chair he waved him into hard and straight. It was not a chair for sleeping.

  “What’s the change on your collar?” Bill said.

  “Got promoted. Newly made a major and the Post has become a Corp. Nice upgrade from the earlier days, don’t you think?”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” The Major looked off to the corner of the room. It wasn’t like him to be shy about starting a conversation.

  “Bill, I have a disturbing message from your brother Carl. Patrolman Pat brought it over a little bit ago. There’s been a death in the village, and Carl would like to have you come home for the funeral at least, and hopefully to stay.”

  “Who died?”

  “Your Uncle Charlie.”

  Bill folded but stayed in the chair. How could he have forgotten that Charlie was getting old? A thousand memories flooded back through him and he watched them one by one come into focus and fade away. The last frame stuck, of Charlie standing in the doorway of the cabin.

  Bill put a hand to his face and held his head.

  “What do you think, Bill. Will you do it?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I don’t have any way of getting there.” His mind was awash in the things he would need to make such a trip. He saw Charlie’s face; when he and Herb had laughed at his escape from the bear and the argument the two of them had when he wanted to walk to Venetie. Old Charlie, a widower so long; straight, lean, self contained, an old time village man, a chief. How he had wanted the boys to get along. Now gone. Passed on. Deceased. Whatever they used for death now days.

  “Carl said he would send money for the trip if we could find you and if you’d come back. Can I send word that you’ll go?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t have any clothes, no way to make a living there.”

  “Bill,” Major Russell said, “we can outfit you with clothes both for the trip and when you get there. We’ve plenty of that stuff. And think about this…you aren’t making a living in Anchorage.”

  Bill’s forehead was pounding. He needed a drink, or the pounding would take over his whole head.

  “Could I have a cup of coffee?”

  Major Russell stood up. “Sure. Cream and sugar?”

  “No. Black.”

  “What do we say, Bill?”

  “Please.”

  The back of the Stinson was fully loaded with mail and groceries. The pilot had used every available space except the right front seat. Bill crawled out of the Salvation Army Chevrolet and handed the pilot a small bag. Major Russell came around from the other side and exhaled slowly, his bulk moving like a wave. He snapped his suspenders over his shoulders and shrugged them in place. He handed Bill a white envelope.

  So this was how you went back to the village. A new set of clothes, an envelope with money, and the Salvation Army seeing you out of town.

  Bill stuck out his hand. The major brushed it aside and pulled him into a big hug, his stomach shoved against Bill’s chest. He held the hug longer than Bill felt comfortable about, and when they pulled apart he rubbed the back of his hand across his eye and grabbed one of Bill’s hands.

  “Bill. Could we pray?”

  Bill lowered his head, his eyes open.

  “Our Heavenly Father, we ask these things today. That you see to a safe flight for Bill and the pilot. That today the reunion of Bill and his people be filled with Your blessings. This day is the beginning of rest of Bill’s life, and we pray that you will mold it in a way that will shower glory on your name and blessings in his life. Amen.”

  The major looked up, held Bill’s hand in both of his, squeezed it and let it go, then stepped over to the car.

  “Goodbye, Bill. We’re counting on you,” he said.

  Bill nodded. A sudden tightening of his throat kept him from speaking. He climbed in the plane, buckled the seat belt, and pulled the door closed. He looked out the window. It was a clear day in Anchorage. He could see the sun beating against the rose-colored snow on Mt. McKinley and Mt. Redoubt shining across the Cook Inlet.

  He took a deep breath. It felt good. He enjoyed the vibration as the pilot pushed the throttle full forward and the plane plunged down the runway and lifted into the air, a slight shudder as the wheels continued spinning after leaving the ground. He was alive. More alive than he had been in years.

  “My God—I’m going home.”

  “What?” the pilot asked.

  “Nothing,” Bill said. He took another deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The pilot touched down close to the end of the runway.

  Bill felt better here on the ground, but the approach and landing had tested his innards. For a minute he didn’t move. He could see a pickup approaching and he didn’t know how he felt about seeing anyone. He was sober. He had decent clothes on and he was here for a funeral. He would take it one step at a time. He unlatched the seat belt and stepped out of the plane.

  The pickup roared down the side of the runway and came to a sudden stop close to the pilot who was removing the baggage and mail from the plane. The pickup was not familiar to him, but when the driver stepped out he recognized the limp in his walk.

  “Hello, little brother,” Carl said, extending his hand.

  Bill took it and noticed that for the first time he seemed taller than Carl. “Hello yourself.”

  “Did you have a good flight?”

  Bill nodded and picked up his light duffel bag. It held everything he owned.

  The pickup was full of a whole new generation of kids he didn’t know.

  Carl steered the pickup down the one-way road toward the village. He lifted his left hand from time to time to brush at mosquitoes. He didn’t kill mosquitoes, just disturbed them.

  “I’m sorry about Charlie,” Bill said.

  Carl nodded. “Yeah—me too. I’m glad we found you. I would have hated for you
to miss it.”

  Bill looked out the window at the scenery that hadn’t changed since he was born. “Was it ok for him? I mean, no pain or… “

  “It was ok. He was in bed a few days but nobody thought he’d die. You know—he was tough.”

  Bill felt his eyes clouding up. “I’ll miss him.”

  Carl nodded. “Yeah. He’s the kinda guy you miss every day even when you don’t see him that often. I still think I see him sometimes.”

  “Really?”

  “I could have sworn he was in the dog shed yesterday. I even called his name.”

  An unending supply of dust coming up from the floorboards whirled in slow circles in the cab.

  Bill brushed it off the window. “We were lucky to have been raised by him after Dad…”

  “That’s for sure,” Carl said. “That’s for sure.”

  Bill rolled down the window and took a deep breath. Grown men don’t cry at thoughts, do they? He thought of Coric laying in the ditch in Belgium. He had cried then. He had cried later, after he found out Ilene had married. He didn’t trust himself about crying anymore, it was becoming easier and he didn’t know what to do about it.

  “I guess you didn’t hear about Rusty either. He was looking for a new place to go for moose. At least that is what he told Verda. He wasn’t a swimmer and nobody knows how he ended up in the river. The boat wasn’t swamped.”

  “When did that happen?” Bill said.

  “Let’s see … about nine years ago.”

  “I only met him that once,” Bill said.

  After the long flight the pickup seat was uncomfortable. Carl didn’t seem to have a backlog of things to talk about and finally Bill thought to thank him for the money he had sent.

  “I haven’t been working. Thanks for the money.”

  Carl glanced over at him and took in the clothes. He nodded, “You look alright. You’re gonna stay with Herb and Verda at their place. They have the room and you might find being close to Verda would be good for both of you.” He had a small smile on his face; more of a crease then a smile.

  So that’s it. He thinks I’m going to replace Rusty. Staying with Herb and Verda will be interesting but I don’t know how I’ll feel about that.