"So, did you come here today to tell me or to ask my opinion?"
Danny still didn't look up.
"Mom said I should come tell you."
"Well, thank you. So she's all for this, then, I take it."
"Of course she is."
"Why of course? It's not every mother who'd be happy to see her only son go off to war. Especially a war that a lot of people think we shouldn't be fighting in the first place."
Tom regretted saying this before it was even out of his mouth. Danny looked away, gave a small, disdainful shake of his head.
"That may be what people like you think, but—"
"Sorry, hold on a moment. What does that mean? People like me."
"People who are prepared to stand by and watch our country be attacked and do nothing to fight back."
The boy's eyes were on him now and the contempt in them was so shocking that Tom had to swallow before he could speak again.
"Attacked? You mean nine-eleven?"
"Of course I mean nine-eleven, for godsake."
"They weren't from Iraq, Danny. They had no connection with Iraq. Everybody knows that now."
Danny pushed his plate away and stood up, his chair grating on the floor.
"Danny, please..."
"Forget it."
"Listen, I'm sorry. Please, sit down."
"Why the hell do you liberals always want to make excuses for those who want to kill us?"
"Danny—"
"Don't you get it? You don't, do you? You just don't get it."
He was at the door now. Tom stood up and opened his arms.
"Please, Danny. Don't just walk out."
But he was out of the house, Makwi running after him, barking, clearly thinking this was some new kind of game. Danny got into the truck and slammed the door with its painted flames. And by the time Tom got there, the boy had fired the engine and rammed it into reverse, the wheels ripping furrows in the gravel, while Makwi went on barking. Tom reached for the door handle.
"Danny, please!"
But it was too late. The truck lurched out of the driveway and roared off down the road.
Tom had revisited these moments a thousand times, plotting the points at which he might have reacted differently instead of letting his ego do yet more damage to their fragile relationship. Rather than listening, he had immediately challenged. Rather than offering respect and support, he had chosen to undermine the boy's beliefs. Even a moment's reflection would have told him that the only possible outcome would be anger and resentment. In that brief exchange they had both lived up to the caricatures each had fashioned of the other.
What made it so idiotic was that Tom, truly, had no aversion to the military or to those who served in it. On the contrary, he had only respect and sympathy for the young men and women who had been sent to fight in Iraq and Afghanistan. It was little different from how he had felt about those who had risked and lost their lives in Vietnam three decades before. The aversion was only to the men in suits, safely ensconced in Washington and London, who for suspect reasons had sent them there.
He realized too that the argument with Danny had nothing to do with the military or with politics. It was personal. About Tom's self-pity and jealousy at having been ousted by another man, replaced as a father. And now that he could view the world more clearly, instead of through the wobbling haze of liquor, he knew he should be grateful that the boy had found a father figure with values he could admire.
At his desk, he had been staring at Danny's high school yearbook picture for a long time. And now he turned it over to see the last photograph in the file. It had been taken at the recruit-training depot north of San Diego, on the day Danny was awarded his eagle, globe and anchor, the emblem that showed he had finally become a US Marine. Tom hadn't, of course, been invited to the ceremony. Gina had sent him the photo that fall, as if daring him not to be proud. But it had only served to confirm that the process of separation was complete. It had been like looking at a stranger. And, much as he wanted it to be otherwise, it still felt the same.
That lunchtime, however, he took the picture into town and in a little gift store on North Higgins found an appropriately elegant frame for it. When he came home he didn't put it with the other framed pictures on top of the chest but placed it instead on the windowsill in front of his desk. And while he got on with his work and waited for Gina or—hope beyond hope—for Danny to call, whenever he looked up from his computer screen, he would see his stranger son staring back at him.
Tom was writing a piece for the Missoulian about a Jesuit boarding school for Blackfeet children that had been set up in the late 1890s along the Two Medicine River near Browning. It was called the Holy Family Mission and it lasted for more than forty years. Tom had devoted a chapter to it in his book and in the course of his research recorded interviews with some of the old-timers who had attended it. To refresh his memory, he had listened to the tapes again and was as moved by their testimony as he had been the first time.
The purpose of the place, naturally, had been to civilize the savages and save their souls from eternal damnation. Many of the early pupils were taken by force and in tears from their homes on the reservation. Their braids were cut off and their buckskin clothes and moccasins taken away to be replaced with the kind of clothes the white folk wore. If they ran away, as many tried to, their families' rations, supplied by the Government Agency, in many cases the only source of food, were cut off. Once captured or returned, the absconders were soundly whipped, as indeed they were for many other sins, such as speaking in their native tongue.
The discovery that had moved Tom most was how few of those he interviewed seemed to bear any sort of grudge. In fact some, while embracing Christianity, had later been among the most diligent defenders and sustainers of what survived of the Blackfeet culture and language. The capacity to forgive was one of life's most mysterious miracles. Tom only wished he could find more of it in his own heart, for grievances infinitely more trivial.
He turned off his computer around six when the shadows of the cottonwoods were reaching out across the meadow and the light had gone golden and hazy. Danny, in his smart uniform, was still staring at him from the windowsill. And Gina still hadn't called.
He took Makwi along the trail that curled up through the forest on the other side of the road and watched her weaving through the glades of Douglas fir and ponderosa. The air was warm and smelled strongly of resin and the undergrowth was coming so fast you could almost hear it unfurl. They walked up to the foot of the rocky cliff where the ravens were already building their nests and while he watched them Makwi stood a little way off, panting from her patrol. When they got back to the house she went down through the meadow and took a stately bath in the creek, then lay on the grass and rubbed her back and sides.
He switched on the TV in the kitchen and watched CNN while he made Makwi's supper, then cooked some pasta and beans for himself. Two American soldiers had been killed by a roadside bomb south of Baghdad; fifteen Iraqi civilians dead or injured in a suicide bomb attack in a marketplace in Basra. Tom had just sat down to eat, was barely concentrating anymore, was just about to take a mouthful of pasta, when the next item froze his hand in midair.
"And back home, at Camp Pendleton in California, two US Marines have been charged with premeditated murder following an incident, January twenty-four, in which seven Iraqi civilians were killed...."
And there was Danny, "Lance Corporal Daniel Bedford," his photo alongside that of the other boy accused. There were no police mug shot numbers hanging from their necks nor matching profiles but there might as well have been. On TV and in the eyes of the millions who watched, you were guilty until proven innocent. The report was agonizingly short. There was no account of what had happened. All it said was that the accused were not in custody but had been flown back to Camp Pendleton where they were on restricted duties, "pending Article Thirty-two hearings." If found guilty as charged, the piece concluded, both men could face
the death penalty.
Tom dumped his supper in the sink and went directly to his office to phone Gina on her cell. His heart was beating hard and his hand shaking so badly that he had to dial the number twice. He didn't know if his anger had more to do with what he'd just learned or with how he'd come to learn it. He stood tapping his desk, staring at Danny's picture, while he waited for her to answer.
"Gina?"
"Tom, I can't really talk right now."
"Did you see the news?"
"Yes. Listen, I'll—"
"Have you seen Danny?"
"Yes, we're with him now."
"Don't you think you could have called me?"
"I'm sorry. It's been quite a day—"
"Christ, Gina. I mean—"
"Tom, I'm going to have to call you back, okay? I have to go now. Bye."
And the connection went dead.
Chapter Ten
TOMMY GRIPPED the pistol with both hands and squinted along the barrel, trying to keep it steady while he waited for the Indian to rear up again from behind the rock. It was a nickel-finished single-action Colt .45 with a seven-inch barrel and engraved ivory grips—the most beautiful thing he'd ever had in his hands. It was heavy and hard to hold steady. He'd already fired five rounds and missed every time.
"Spread your feet a little more," Ray Montane said. "And don't hold your breath, just take the air in real slow and deep. That's the way. You'll get him now, son. Aim for the chest where he's good and wide and don't forget, gentle on that trigger. Are you ready?"
Tommy nodded.
"Okay. So let's cock that hammer again."
Tommy clicked it back. From the edge of his vision he saw Ray once more take hold of the steel lever.
"One, two, three..."
Ray thrust the lever forward and there was a creaking sound as the cable tightened and then up came the Indian again behind the rock, pointing his rifle at them, as if about to shoot. Tommy took a last deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The jolt and the bang still made him jump and he was sure he'd missed again but there was a different sound this time, a loud clang. Ray and Diane whooped.
"There you go, pardner, you got him!"
Diane had been sitting in a wide-armed wooden chair up on the deck behind them. But she was on her feet now clapping and Tommy turned, still holding the gun, and grinned at her.
"Whoa there, cowboy," Ray said. "Careful where you're pointing."
"It's empty."
"I know. But you always have to check."
Ray took the gun from him and ejected the spent cartridges and placed it on the table alongside the tall cocktail glasses and the ashtray where Diane's cigarette lay discarded, smoke curling in the hot still air. Then the three of them set off along the strip of sunbaked sand to check out the Indian.
Tommy's spurs clinked as he walked, his eyes locked on his own shadow. The brim of his hat was perhaps a little too big but the general effect was still impressive. A real cowboy's shadow. He was wearing the outfit Ray had given him the morning after they'd arrived in LA. It was a perfect junior version of the one Red McGraw wore on Sliprock. Ray said he'd had it specially made at the studio and that it was much better than the ones they sold in the toy stores. The jacket and chaps were made out of genuine fringed buckskin and the leather gun belt had a silver buckle and silver-painted bullets all the way around that looked completely real. The gun that went with it wasn't real, of course, not like Ray's, the one he'd just been shooting, but it had the same ivory grips and six chambers with bullets that came apart so you could put caps in them. The bang was so loud it hurt your ears. Ray had also given him a Daisy BB gun that looked like a real Winchester rifle. It had a lever action and shot red pellets that Ray said could actually kill birds and little animals like chipmunks. Tommy had tried a few times but hadn't yet managed to hit anything.
"Hey, good shootin', son. Look, you got him plumb in the neck."
Ray unclipped the painted cardboard Indian from its metal frame and held it so they could all have a closer look. The face, above the bullet hole, was striped with war paint and had a wicked scowl.
"You just notched up your first Injun."
Ray held out his hand and Tommy, grinning and flushed with pride, shook it firmly.
"Now it's Mom's turn."
Diane laughed.
"Oh, no. I don't think so."
"Come on, sugar. You've got to learn sometime. What's old Gary Cooper going to think when he finds his leading lady can't handle a gun?"
"I play a teacher not a gunslinger and I don't think he'll give two hoots one way or the other."
Ray put his arm around her waist and pulled her close.
"What do you say, Tommy? Don't you think she should have a go?"
"Yeah! Come on, Diane!"
He hadn't yet called her Mum or Mom or anything other than what he'd always called her. And he couldn't imagine ever doing so. It was hard enough to get used to the idea that she wasn't his big sister anymore. It was like playing a game in which suddenly all the rules had been changed and everybody was having to guess what they were.
It wasn't scary or even upsetting, except, of course, that terrible evening when everything got turned upside down. He'd never forget the look on his mother's—or, rather, his grandmother's—face when Diane broke the news. Or how his father-grandfather had looked when they said goodbye at the departure gate at the airport. His face was pale and haggard and his eyes suddenly went all watery. As they walked away Tommy had looked back and waved and was shocked by how old and frail the man looked, how his bony body seemed to be crumpling inside his coat.
Tommy didn't know what he should call them either. Diane said he could call them Grandma and Grandpa or even Joan and Arthur. But neither of these seemed right. When they had spoken on the telephone a few days ago he'd managed not to call them anything at all, just told them about the flight from London and how hot and sunny it was here in LA and how he would soon be starting at his new school which he and Diane had been to see. It was called Carl Curtis and everybody seemed really nice and friendly, he told them, even the teachers. He couldn't hear them very well because the line was all crackly and they kept cutting each other off when they spoke, but even so he thought they'd both sounded sad.
Tommy worried that maybe he ought to be feeling sad too but he didn't. It was strange suddenly not to have a father. Sometimes, before he went to sleep at night, he would lie there thinking about David, the schoolboy who was his real father. He wondered where he lived and what he might be like. Maybe he had other children by now, children who would be Tommy's half brothers and sisters. This didn't exactly make him feel jealous; it was more like missing someone. But then how could you miss people you'd never even met? Or feel jealous of people who might not even exist?
No, what had happened was certainly pretty weird but there was no point in getting upset about it. As Diane kept saying, they were still the same people after all. Anyway, Ray was going to be his dad now and who could want a better one than that? And how could he possibly feel sad about not ever having to go back to Ashlawn and about moving to Hollywood and being here, right now, shooting Indians with real guns in Red McGraw's garden?
It was almost two weeks since Tommy and Diane had arrived. They had rented a little apartment just off Wilshire Boulevard but hadn't spent more than the occasional night there because they'd been living up here at Ray's. Tommy's bedroom was about ten times as big as his old one and every morning when he woke up he would lie there with his eyes closed and wonder if it would all still be there when he opened them. Then he'd get out of bed and tiptoe to the shuttered doors and step out onto his very own balcony, the decking hot beneath the soles of his bare feet. And the sky was always blue and the sun was warm on his skin and the strange new birds were singing in the trees. And he would walk to the balustrade and lean there looking down at the swimming pool and the palm trees and beyond to the city far below, with its vast grid of straight streets and palm trees, stretching
away into the haze. Miguel, the gardener, would be mowing the grass or watering the flower beds or scooping leaves from the pool and he'd look up and see Tommy and wave and shout Good morning, Mister Tommy! How are you today?
The house was gorgeous. It had a roof of red tiles and the rough whitewashed walls were smothered in creepers with pink and purple flowers. In the middle of the red brick driveway there was a bronze statue of a rearing horse. The inside walls were made of swirling whitewashed adobe and hung with the stuffed heads of deer and elk and buffalo as well as lots of western paintings each with its own brass light. The downstairs floors were polished stone and scattered with cowhides and Indian rugs and in the living room there were chairs whose arms were made of real saddles with silver studs. The TV set was about three times the size of any he'd seen in England and the leather sofa he sat on to watch it was so enormous he felt like Alice in Wonderland after she'd drunk that magic shrinking potion.
Ray now tugged a fresh Indian from the stack that leaned against the wall of the shooting range and fixed it to the frame and when he'd done it the three of them walked back to the deck, Ray in the middle with his arms around both of them. He let Tommy reload the Colt with bullets from the cardboard box on the table and Tommy did it just as he'd been taught, clicking the cylinder back into position and checking the safety before offering the gun, grips first, to Diane.
"Okay, Annie's got her gun," Ray said. "Let's see her handle it."
He showed her how to hold it and raise it into position and then stood behind her, holding her shoulders, and told her all the things he'd told Tommy. She missed with her first shot but then hit the Indian five times in a row through his head and chest. Tommy felt jealous and proud in about equal measure. Ray lifted her off her feet and swung her around in a big circle and then he hugged her and kissed her for a long time on the lips. They did this sort of thing a lot, which Tommy found a bit embarrassing. He generally just looked away or pretended to be busy doing something.