Aftermath
Garrison had been moody all day. And who wouldn't be? Chief thought, trying to figure out which of the two guys at the dart board were most likely to one, lose to him and two, kick his ass when they did so. He no longer did it for money. His reasons were more perverse, darker.
The Doves had lukewarm beer for a few cents, and a scratchy radio with some lady named Vera Lynn moaning about nightingales in Berkley Square. Chief thought he'd slash his own throat if those girls didn't move away from the dials. They were hanging around for a reason, blonde hair and tight blouses, and they were checking him out. He took a pull of his bottled sunshine, wished he could throw his real sticker at something, not the piddly darts.
Garrison wasn't looking at anything. Was staring off into middle space as though he'd find the secret of life hanging mid-way between their table and the bar. It had been a shitty week all in all, and here they were, bottoming out at The Doves where Chief was half expecting a sing-along to commence at any moment. The beer was weak, and he wished the Lieutenant would talk to him, which just went to show what a crappy week it was, what an awful job the last one had been.
Usually the Warden had his speeches pretty well rehearsed. Blah blah blah, Chief, blah blah, what is the matter with you, blah blah. Judging him with those soft liquid eyes. There he was, sitting as though the world was going to swallow him whole. It was like minding a half-wit some days.
And other times, it wasn't. Like yesterday.
#~#~#~#~#
Only under interrogation would he admit the Warden possessed a certain grace that Chief would never have, and it involved how his body could twist away from danger even when running full tilt. Actually, it involved running, period. If they'd ever had a contest he'd bet money on Garrison, no problem.
Right then, the Warden was demonstrating that grace, all of it, but it wasn't coming in remotely useful. He was running past the courtyard, their end of it empty, what was left of the soldiers having moved on much further to the east. Chief had a good view of his sprint to the barn, or would have, had he the time to watch. Instead, he was bent at the waist, searching without finding.
The kids were gone. It wouldn't matter how fast Garrison ran now. Chief had not been able to save them and he wondered when it would be that he'd forgive himself for that. The breath sang coming out of his lungs.
Still, Garrison came, jumping over and into the bits of fire, his eyes wild and searching, and Chief would have given a kidney to spare him the realization that those kids were lost.
Though it must have been obvious—how could it not be?—Garrison dove into the barn, and Chief was struck, forcefully, by the feeling that maybe he would lose the Warden too. At some point, he had let his defenses down in that regard, and it sometimes came back to bite him.
Their little hands, slipped through his, as thin and fine as bird bones.
It was sizzling hot, and he leaned on his knees, allowing Garrison to search, knowing how pointless it was, but not able to haul him out of the smoldering barn. He finally appeared at the door, shedding sweat like a wet Labrador. Their eyes met.
What now?
They stood in that courtyard for a long time afterwards, staring at the angles of burnt wood that outlined what was left of the barn. Two children gone. Little kids, one still in diapers. He couldn't look at Garrison.
Chief threw himself on the ground, just dropped, not wanting to think, to feel, to do anything but lie there. But the parents. Oh, the parents, who were even now coming out of the virtual safety of the woods, hands shading eyes, looking for two kids who were not coming back. He rolled over, dirt stinging his calf, knowing without looking that there would be deep blisters where the fabric of his pants had burned away.
He listened for the next couple of minutes as Garrison—who seemed brittle and calm—explained to the hyperventilating parents that they'd never seen the kids. The Warden's French was good, had that precise accent, as though learned in a school. Chief's French was non-existent. A nice timid couple, maybe out tending their fields, who knew? They obviously hadn't read any local papers. There was a war going on, hadn't they heard? Oh, shit, Chief thought, staring up at the sky, willing away the nausea and the deep shame. Nothing to be done. Your house was saved, missus, but your little ones? No.
He thought he might throw up from the smoke, so he dragged himself to his knees and then to his feet and lurched towards the line of grass that marked where the true land began. Halfway to the car, he tasted ash in his mouth and thought again about throwing up.
He got in the car, sat there for half an hour, watching Garrison watch the barn, wind picking up, blowing bits around his boots. The couple had gone back to their house, where they could grieve in private.
Chief took a deep breath. Shook his head.
Covered in soot, Garrison turned as though summoned, walked slowly back, his long legs not graceful anymore. He stood by the car for a long moment, then yanked the door open, and dropped in heavily.
"Let's go," he demanded.
"You lied to them, tellin' them it was a mistake." Chief coughed, wished he hadn't said it as soon as it was out.
Garrison laughed, and it was hard and soft. The master of putting opposites together, was the Warden. They were both looking at the barn, though neither expected any miracle. "What was I supposed to do? Tell them I targeted the barn on purpose? What difference would it make?"
And Chief had no answer for that, no matter how badly it was needed, so he started the car.
#~#~#~#~#
Inevitably, it came to blows. The two guys and the dart board and the blondes by the radio.
The man with the crazy moustache threw the first punch, and had thrown it at Garrison, which was stupid: Garrison had nothing to do with it, he was minding his own business.
The Warden was okay; Chief had seen that immediately. A bloody nose, not too much to get excited about there. Enough blood, however, to make a credible excuse. Not to himself, the authorities, or the barman. A credible excuse for Garrison, in the morning, when he was going to berate him for picking a bar fight. Who never before ever picked a bar fight.
Moustache Man had probably been wanting Chief to ask him outside. It was okay by Chief, he was itching to hit something—anything. The man would do nicely.
And he had.
Poor Moustache Man hadn't stood a chance, was now spitting teeth onto the back alley pavement while Chief rubbed his bruised knuckles and watched him, convinced that he wouldn't take it further.
Garrison was back at their table in the chair by the window, and he couldn't look more like a train wreck if he tried. The Warden didn't move when Chief sat down, and he worried for a minute that maybe Garrison wouldn't ever speak again. His hands shook, so he jammed his left into his coat pocket to finger some change while the other thrummed his knee, ignoring the throbbing of his knuckles. He looked at Garrison's big hands, resting on the table.
Suddenly the Warden stood to his full height, and Chief made a concerted effort not to flinch, not to react. Brushed by him and ducked into the bathroom, close enough for Chief to hear the sound of retching.
"Sorry," Garrison said as soon as he returned from the bathroom, looking awful.
What would be the thing to say? Was there anything that wouldn't come out wrong or condescending? No, he decided, and pulled his forgotten beer from the table and tried not to look at the man for fear Garrison would read what's on his face.
After the apology, Garrison retreated to his side of the table. Chief stole a glance at him, but wasn't quick enough. And now the Warden stared back.
He took a stab. "We didn't know those kids were…"
Only a shrug was given, not an answer. But he let it go since the Warden had retreated further into himself. A thousand miles away. With sudden clarity Chief remembered: the barn, the fire, and the screams.
And he wanted to hit something all over again.
The End
6/2/2017