I Am Me Read online

  I got to my feet and edged around the rock to peer out. It was then, by sheer chance, that I looked down in my stride and saw pink skin searing through the pale earth. The colour, so strange and out of place amid this miserable, decaying battlefield, filled me with a sense of hope. I assumed it was some kind of small animal, long dead and claimed by the frozen depths of the earth. But then I realised that the snow covering the carcass was fresh, so the animal had probably died recently, perhaps even a mere few hours ago. It most likely wasn’t edible, but after two days of eating nothing but jerky, even the thought of frozen meat was appealing. I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat it right away, for I would have to thaw it out first. And even after it thawed, cooking it would require lighting a fire, and that would be a dangerous thing to do in the middle of this gorge, with enemy soldiers all around. But I decided to dig it out anyway, and strap the carcass onto my rucksack, if only as a reward for when I made it out alive.

  I began brushing some of the snow aside, to assess how large the animal was, and how deeply it had been buried. As I cleared a bit of the snow, I found five tiny fingers lying in the earth, attached to a small, stubby hand. It didn’t look like the hand of a man… no, it was smaller, hairless, and delicate. I began digging further, tugging at the earth’s stubborn grip on it, before extracting a tiny, baby boy into my arms. I knelt in the snow, holding him against my chest, shocked and confused. Coupled with remorse for the fate of this child, I was enraged at the thought that he had died here in the middle of nowhere, alone and unheeded. I wondered how he’d ended up in this gorge, and why he had been abandoned. Had he been left here after he’d died or had he been buried alive? Even as these questions encircled my head, his tiny fingers stirred slightly, his head turned towards me, and his beautiful eyes opened wide.

  I stared at his lovely face, dumbfounded by this absurdity. He was dead… He had to be. He’d been buried naked in the snow for hours at the very least. He shouldn’t have survived, and he shouldn’t have been looking up at me right now, enchanting me with his presence. I am not too proud a man to admit I felt weakness then, and had tears lurking within my eyes.

  I sat down behind the slab of rock and examined him. He didn’t look frostbitten, pale, or even cold; he was pink, full of colour and vitality. He appeared unharmed, calm, and surprisingly happy. I estimated that he was about six or seven weeks old.

  “Jesus, they’re starting the draft early these days,” I said, and gently tipped his head up so his eyes could meet mine. “Did they draft ya? You come out here to fight a war?” He cocked his head to one side. “I’m Sergeant Connor,” I said, and gently shook his tiny hand with my own, “Pleased to meet you.” I imagined how ludicrous this scene must have seemed to an observer—a soldier, saddled with a rifle, a pistol, grenades, knives, and other tools that were designed to take lives, sitting cross-legged in a snow-covered canyon, cradling a baby in his arms.

  I smiled at the little tyke with as much warmth as I could muster. “What platoon you from, marine?” I asked, poking him gently in the belly and then blowing a raspberry—that made him giggle. “You know a Jacobs? Surly fellow he is—smokes a lot of cigars and likes his women. He ever show you a picture of Annette? That’s his girl… She’s beautiful. Never understood what she saw in a washed-up loser like Jacobs. But they say love’s blind. You hear that before?” I could have sworn he shrugged just then. “You ever been told that love’s blind?” I asked again. “If not, you remember me telling you, ‘cause it’ll take you a long way in life. That and knowing that a woman will rip your heart out and eat it for dinner if you let her. Them’s the two things you’ve gotta remember if you wanna survive this world.”

  He shivered. “Where’s my head?” I said, giving my helmet a reproachful slap. “Here you are shivering your tiny fingers off and I’m yammering on about Jacobs and cannibalistic women.” I pulled a rolled-up blanket from my rucksack. “But that’s what war does to you. It makes you forget yourself, know what I mean?” He didn’t seem to follow. “War makes you forget who you are, what you ought to be doing and even where you belong,” I explained and spread the blanket out next to him. I gently placed his body in it. “War’s a damn curse.”

  I looked into his face, which was radiant with youthful colour. His eyes, wide and expressive, regarded me attentively. I reckon I’d never seen anything more beautiful in my life than him. “What’s your story?” I asked him. “I wish you could talk, so you could tell me just what happened to ya. Because you shouldn’t be here, boy,” I said, wrapping the blanket around his tiny form. “This place ain’t fit for a man, let alone a baby. You should be home with your momma, listening to her sing to you, spitting up and laughing; then when she falls asleep, crying your head off like a siren. Know what I mean? You should be living and growing, not dying.”

  I lifted him, blanket and all and placed him on my left, to keep out the wind that was blowing from the west. Then I put the rucksack on his other side, hoping that it would keep him somewhat warm. “Ya doing good?” I asked. “You’re probably hungry, but all I’ve got is some jerky, and there’s no way you’re going to be able to eat that. I don’t even have water.” I looked around at the snow. “Soon as we get out of this canyon, I’ll melt some snow. I’d light a fire now, but it’s dangerous. I’d be risking a lot of eyes seeing the smoke and finding us. Besides, I’m not leaving you here, alone and unguarded, while I traipse around looking for firewood.”

  The funny thing was that he seemed to agree with my reasoning. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but I genuinely felt like he understood every word I said.

  “I’ve got a son your age back home,” I said, as thoughts I’d been trying to keep supressed, leaked through my mouth. “Or rather, I had a son until recently. He died of pneumonia when he was just a few months old. I was real sore at God for that. I figure a child is like an angel, ya know? And the world needs as many angels as it can get.’ I shook my head with bitter remorse. ‘Ain’t right when God lets angels die.”

  A gunshot sounded in the distance and the blast echoed loudly through the canyon. A moment later, a volley of gunfire erupted and the noise was deafening. I placed my hands over the baby’s ears, hoping to muffle some of the sound. He remained surprisingly unaffected, except that he grimaced slightly when the gunfire began. “You’re a brave boy, you know that?” I said to him, in as soothing a voice as I could manage. “Braver than I am. But I need you to be even braver now, ‘cause I’m going to look out and see where the trouble is. ‘Cause if they’re moving down the canyon, we’re gonna be caught. We don’t want that. So you stay brave for me, while I go and check where they are.” I left him and edged around the rock to look. I saw hundreds of small black shapes sidling down from either side of the canyon, their figures lit by blasts of muzzle flash. It was too dark for me to recognise any of the men, but I was certain the rest of my company were in that ravine. They had probably been hiding in this canyon the past two days, a stone’s throw from the enemy, waiting out the storm. Had they known of the enemy’s presence, I wondered? It didn’t matter now. This canyon had turned into a battlefield.

  I crept back behind cover and considered my options. Our camp was about a day’s march south from here, but there was no way I could cross this canyon now, with a battle raging within it. I could have just retreated the way I’d entered this canyon, but then I would have to climb back up this hill, carrying the baby. I’d be risking several minutes of exposure through open ground, with no cover. No, that definitely wasn’t an option.

  “It looks like we’re stuck good,” I said to him, as gunshots raged behind us. “What’re we gonna do, bud? I guess we just have to sit here and wait it out.” I held him in my arms again, smothering him against my chest to keep him warm. He tucked his face into my shirt, and gripped the fabric with his tiny hands. I didn’t know why, but I found tears in my eyes again. It embarrassed me, and I looked away from him. I pressed my cheek up ag
ainst his head.

  He made a soft noise, like a murmur. I turned to him, and he was looking up at me questioningly. He began speaking gibberish, but with the utmost conviction, as if he were making a point in a debate. When he was finished, he giggled and nodded his head in agreement.

  “You’re a little weirdo, aren’t ya?” I grinned at him.

  He grinned back, and bounced happily in my arms.

  “Yeah, you know you’re beautiful, don’t ya? That’s why you’re grinning,” I said, teasingly. “You know you’ve got big, beautiful eyes, a little button nose, and the cutest little lips. And look at those pudgy cheeks… you’re a darling.” I kissed him on the forehead and he grinned happily, and bounced in my arms again. “My son probably looked a lot like you,” I told him. “Sometimes I lie awake at night and just try as hard as I can to picture his face. Did he have my nose? Or did his ears stick out like mine did when I was a kid? Did he laugh a lot? I want so badly to know…” my voice trailed off, and he giggled after a pause. It was the sweetest sound I had ever heard, and it felt even sweeter here in the middle of a battlefield. “You really are an angel,” I told him. “That’s the only way I can explain you being here with me. I think God sent you to me because of what happened with my son and—” I heard gunfire close to me, alarmingly close. Bullets struck the rock we were behind. I crawled to the edge and peered out; a bullet struck the ground just beneath my head, and shot snow into my face.

  He giggled as I crawled back into cover.

  “Yeah, you think this is funny, do you?” I said, loading my rifle. “It’ll be funny when they shoot me dead, won’t it? Who’ll take care of you then?” He paused, and the smile left his face. His eyes widened, and he seemed to regard me pensively. “No, I’m kidding, that won’t happen,” I said, hastily. “I’m not leaving you, bud. We’re getting through this, you and me.”

  I heard a soft crunch behind me, and turned to see a soldier edge around the slab of rock. The moment his eyes fell on me, he pulled out a knife. I leapt to my feet and charged him. We struggled, fell over each other, and then slid down the hill. We struck each other fiercely, but the blows landed noiselessly amid the cacophony of the battle. The knife fell halfway between us; we both crawled to reach it, and then grappled over it. Gunshots whizzed past us, but we were too brutally determined in our struggle to worry about being shot. He wrestled the knife out of my hands and in one quick motion stabbed me just below my left shoulder; the pain seared through my chest, paralysing my will to fight back. But while he paused with relief to realise what he’d done, my right hand reached for the pistol I had tucked in my belt; pulling it out, I placed it right against his temple and fired. Even though the valley was overflowing with gunfire, this shot echoed with particular significance. His body fell limply beside me.

  I got to my feet and trudged back up the hill, even as gunfire peppered the hillside around me. I ducked behind the slab of rock and crawled beside the baby. I pulled the knife out of my shoulder, but didn’t bother to try and stop the bleeding. My life and the life of this child were at stake; what did a mere knife wound to the shoulder matter? My hands were covered with the enemy’s blood though, so I picked up a handful of snow to clean them; but the blood didn’t come off—it never did. I expected it would soak through the skin, into my very soul, and remain there forever. Death is disturbing enough, but the haunting memories of murder never fade. I still remembered every single person I’d ever killed, remembered every last detail about each one of them, for their blood still remained on my hands, and their sins were etched onto my spirit.

  I turned to the baby. He looked worried, palpably worried, and I realised it was an expression I had never seen on a child his age before. Babies show like and dislike easily, but worry is an emotion far beyond them. Anxiety requires a level of cerebral intelligence, and an almost adult recognition of the fact that expectation does not always translate into fulfillment. But his young face was nevertheless lined with concern, as if he understood the tragedies of war and lamented its existence as much as I did.

  “I don’t like seeing you worry,” I said to him. “You’ve got a lifetime of that ahead of you, so don’t you dare trouble yourself with it now.”

  There was a sudden explosion to the south of us. Large flames erupted into the night sky, and heavy smoke rose steadily. The camp had been blown up. I could hear cheers from within the canyon, no doubt from the enemy. There was less gunfire now, but more chatter, more yells, and a great deal of bustling. My worst fear had come true: they’d won the battle. I’d be discovered and murdered perhaps within minutes.

  I looked down at the child, at his troubled, grave expression. “You know something?” I said, with resignation in my voice. “It has been a pleasure knowing you. A few weeks ago, I was lying in my bunk, staring at the ceiling, when I got the telegram from my wife. She told me she’d found out she was pregnant after I shipped out. She’d then had the baby while I’d been off to war, and had raised him for six months, before he died. She hadn’t even told me she was pregnant before that, not in the two years I’d been away. In one telegram, in four lines, she gave me a son and took him away. I’ve spent the last few weeks thinking about him, about what he must have looked like, what kind of a man he would have turned out to be, and how we’d have gotten along together.” I smiled at him. “Then tonight I found you, my little angel. I thought when I saw you that God was giving me a chance to be a father again. But now I think he was just showing me why he took my son away.”

  I looked around at the gloom, the darkness, the heavy smoke, and the ever present shadow of death. “This is an ugly world,” I said. “Angels can’t survive in it; they shouldn’t survive. I think the only reason you survived was to save my soul, and you did. You saved me…” I heard voices, lots of them—soldiers were moving up the slope towards us.

  “You know they’ll kill you,” I told him. “They’ll destroy you. Doesn’t matter if they’re my men or the enemy’s, they won’t spare you. Even if they do, this world will kill you.” I searched his eyes for a sign of understanding, perhaps even of acceptance, but I only saw confusion. “You’ve only been in this world a short time, and already the smile’s gone off your face. I don’t want you to turn out like me. I don’t want your soul tainted.” I placed him back into the ground, blanket and all, into the very hole I’d pulled him out of, and began packing snow around him. “If we’re lucky, you and I, we’ll see each other real soon in a different world: a world without war, without death and without worry.” Only his face remained exposed now, the rest of him was buried. He suddenly smiled. Hot tears streamed down my face as I looked at him. “You know the best part of that world you and I are going to? There’ll be angels like you everywhere. Everywhere.” He nodded and giggled. “Sleep, my little angel,” I told him, as I took the last handful of snow and covered his face. “We’ll meet again.”

  A soldier crept behind the rock just then, and shot me twice in the back. I didn’t fight back; I didn’t even struggle. I fell limply onto the earth, atop where he’d been buried, protecting him from view. My blood stained the pure, white snow. I just hoped it wouldn’t soak through the earth and taint him. Angels must remain unblemished after all.

  II

  Fifty Cents

  My pa was real sore at me for being born stupid. He said he had bricks in his shed that was smarter and a whole lot cheaper too. He wanted to give me away but Ma wouldn’t let him. It didn’t matter none ‘cause one day when I was four years old, we found him face down in the cereal. Ma said that he made some kind of a stroke or something, which made him fall asleep for a long time. We went to the hospital every day for two years after that, but he never opened his eyes or spoke to us, but we spoke to him all the same. And then one day the doctor told us that he wasn’t going to wake up at all. I don’t know much about my pa, but I know he didn’t like me. I decided to ask Peter more about him today. That was the nice thing a
bout having a brother; Peter was the only one I could ask about my ma and pa. He knew and remembered things I never knew. But then that’s why Peter was so smart, ‘cause he knew so much.

  I hadn’t seen him in twenty years though, and I missed him a lot. He sent me a letter a little while back, saying I ought to come visit him and his family. Peter had a family, but I didn’t. He had a wife and two children. He wrote me about them. He said whenever he saw them play it reminded him of me and him when we was that age. He said he missed his little brother. So I took the bus to Minnesota, and I was sure glad I did, ‘cause it was going to be nice being around family again. I had been alone for so long that I missed being around people.

  When I knocked on his front door, a maid asked if she could help me. I said I was looking for Peter. She told me to wait, so I sat on the porch swing, which was like the swing on our old porch. That was where Peter first called me an idjit.

  We was sitting on it one day, watching folk go by on the street, when Peter got sore at me for stammering. “You sound like an idjit,” he told me. I asked what an idjit was, and he said I ought to look in the mirror. I asked why I was an idjit, and he said it was ‘cause I spoke so slow that the meaning came out before the words did. “So why bother saying anything at all?” he said, after calling me an idjit a couple more times. “Just think of what you want to say, and people will get what you’re saying without you saying it. You get what I’m saying?”

  Peter had a way with words. He could speak in a way that made sense to me, and not much made sense to me usually. So I took his advice and I didn’t say anything for about six weeks. Ma reckoned I’d gone mute, and the pastor came over every weekend to pray with her for me to get my voice back. I wanted to tell them that I wasn’t a mute, so I would think it around them all the time, but they still didn’t seem to get what I was thinking. Even Peter didn’t know; he kept asking me if all the times he’d hit me in the head had caught up with me. Then one day Peter said perhaps I wasn’t mute as much as I was deaf, and so he wrote down a question for me, asking why I never said anything. When I wrote back “Because you told me to just think what I’m thinking without saying it,” he laughed so hard that I reckon he swallowed three bugs. When he told Ma about it, she said I was about as sharp as a ball of cotton, whatever that meant.