Departure

Paul Cade

Departure

Today I decided not to get out of bed, tomorrow would be hell I knew, but that did not invigorate me. The day rolled by, I could hear it through my cracked window set in the wall above my bed. I heard a leaf blower screaming at the grass, a garbage truck went by, hissing like a dragon with every stop, and planes beyond count rumbled overhead uncaringly. The clangor served only to remind me of what I was missing, and what was coming, but it did not reverse my apathy.

Only once the noise of the day died down, when the sun dipped its shining face below the horizon, and the last dog-walker had long disappeared indoors, did my growling stomach bring me back into the land of the living. When the cold door to the fridge opened, the harsh white light blinded me temporarily. The chilled contents held no savor for me, but my stomach was clamoring for succor. As I satisfied it with the leavings of the day, some colorless mash of brown potato, yellow cheese, and creamy white sauce, I listened to the soft measured sounds of my brother snoring down the hallway. It is for him that I do this tomorrow… No. Today. It is today now.

The thought frightened me, and that fright shamed me. I had already signed up, there could be no turning back. Now that I had reached the hill, there was nothing for it but to charge upwards.

Stomach filled, I thought of returning to bed, but that would just cause me to dwell upon my impending departure. Sleep would not come, just as it did not last night, I knew. Yesterday it was easier to forget my mortal terror, but today I am afforded no such absolution. My feet working on their own volition, walked me out the door, away from the grating snores and dusty silence.

The neighborhood was dark, though the lights were lit and the moon was bright, shadows grew deep and strong. They pooled and collected under trees and eaves, behind fences and under cars. The shadows seemed filled with foes in my mind’s eye, every new pace brought me in reach of their hot weapons, spitting death. My pace quickened again and again until I was practically sprinting over the pavement, though I knew not where I was headed.

All at once I realized where I had found myself, stopping in my tracks like a tank that lost its treads. Battleground high school, where I had graduated some years ago, massive, dark, and imposing. It was a square shadow, blacker than the surrounding night sky, the real estate it dominated as quiet as the rest of town. There was an odd smell in the air, a piney, bitter smell, like gallons of sap that had soured all at once. I followed the stink through the path of trees that ringed the concrete building like an old castle wall. The smell of earth, forest, and rot was strong on the path that I paced until I had circled the building, once, twice, thrice, before I stopped counting. 

As I walked, ghosts danced with and around me through the dark. Memory of my first kiss, Tabitha, which was right in that exact spot between two tall pine trees that crashed together halfway up their height and grew upwards together. I still remember the smell of cinnamon on her breath, and the feel of sweat on my palm as I fumbled clumsily all over myself. I pray my palms don’t sweat that much when there is a grenade in my hand. My first cigarette, and unfortunately not my last, with some friends behind that bush over there that crouched over the school’s rear exit. I will have as many cigarettes as I can smoke soon. My final day here, years ago, I came spilling out through these trees with the rest of my classmates, eager to put as much time and space between myself and this building as possible. I had barely graduated, math was never my strength, and that last year of school I was the weakest student that could be imagined. Were it not for the fortunate kindness of Mr. Ryan, I might never have left this place.

That memory broke the spell, and the temporary magic of this place was lost. My ghosts left me and all that was left was the thick stench of pine and the monolithic school, lost in shadow. The first vestiges of lightness were beginning to show on the horizon, the sky was turning into a dark blue bruise before my eyes. The sight of the brightening sky turned my stomach into knots.

I put my fears behind me and strode out of the path, not home though, I cannot face that place yet. So I stuck my fingers in my pockets and made my way in the opposite direction, toward main street. Here and there a car thrust itself through the early dawn, making their way towards some early morning destination. The bakery wasn’t open but a thick plume of delicious smelling white smoke churned from its chimney. Just in front of me a car stopped, and a newsman pulled a stack of newspapers out of his trunk and placed them into a stand. I walked around him, glancing briefly at the headline: Springfield captured! Oliver swears to retake it! I swallowed a mouthful of bile and jogged on. 

Eventually though, main street ended, all that was left were fields, farms, and pastures stretching out endlessly to the horizon. I walked halfway past one before my doubts returned, and I was faced with the reality that if I did not turn back now I might miss the departure.

Turning around was hard, putting one foot in front of the other was harder, actually thinking about the day was hardest. But I must think about it. How could I take a life? Could I give my own? Do I have a heart of iron? What would I do if it were Tommy on the other side of my sights?

The fear, and the guilt, and the pride, all rushed together in a great swirl of chaotic emotion. It washed over me in a great torrent and I was swept away in it for a time, giving in to despair, and fantasy, and paranoia. I raged inwardly and outwardly, cursing myself and my brother and my father and my mother and my people and my land. Most of all cursing today, this damned day of all days.

All too soon, I was home and Father was outside. Sitting on the stoop, in a pink bathrobe drowsily leafing through the day’s news. When he heard me approach he looked up and grunted, “couldn’t sleep? Can’t say I blame you. Come on, you got to eat something.” Without waiting for my reply he rose, creaking and cracking, folded the newspaper under his arm and shouldered his way inside. I followed him into the kitchen, where hours earlier I had stuffed myself with something though I could not say truthfully what it was. I am hungry. The realization struck me. How long was I outside?

It did not matter, I was here, and today was the day. After a hot cup of coffee, a few strips of crispy bacon and a boiled egg I professed that I was no longer hungry. Father eyed my plate, eyed me, then nodded slowly. He rose from the table, leaving the newspaper strewn about it.

“Would you say goodbye? To your Mother at the least?”

I nodded and dragged myself up to find her. She was in their bed reading, as she was wont to do in the mornings, our eyes met as I paused in the doorway, and without preamble she burst into a salvo of tears. It was all I could do to stand there awkwardly, as snot bubbled from her nose.

“P-please d-don’t g-g-go.” She begged in between sobs, not for the first time, “l-let the o-other boys f-f-fight .” The last word brought a fresh torrent of tears. I didn’t know what to say or what to do. All I could manage was a lame, “I have to,” and then, “I promise I’ll be back.” An empty promise, I knew as well as she did.

“Then go!” She wailed, turning away and burying her face in a tissue. Standing there my legs felt weaker than they had all night. I tried to steel my heart, and said, “goodbye Mother,” before turning and rushing away, chased by the sounds of her grief.

I stopped by Tommy’s room, but he was still sleeping, snoring his soft snores, soon enough it would be time for him to wake up and go to school, he was in his second year at Battleground. I considered leaving something for him, but realized that I was leaving everything behind and Tommy would get it all anyway. I left him there to his dreams, and made my way back to Father.

“Well,” he said, “let’s hop to,” as if to say: “let’s get this over with.” I nodded and followed him to the car, an old red pickup truck, more red from rust than paint now. He started up the car as I hopped in beside him, and we left without another word. I had always loved Father’s presence, he was a slow, ponderous man, who never said anything without considering it first. Today though I longed for an engrossing chat about nothing in particular. I wanted to fill my head with fantasies and jokes, and forget for just a moment where I was going.

All too soon, we were at the airport, with the screaming sound of planes coming and going. At the departures terminal we found my party. A man with combat fatigues was corralling a large group of boys and men between my own age and my father’s. We marched up and I presented my order of deployment to the officer, who took it, looked me up and down, grunted, and told me to fall in with the other boys. They were a motley group, a collection of scared looking boys, sullen men, and anxious teens. As my heart hammered in my chest I fell into line behind them, the boy in front of me looked as scared as I felt.

Before Father left me with the group, he pulled me aside and met my eyes with a calculated look.

“You’ll do well,” he finally said, “I’m proud of you, and so is your Mother even if she’s too heartsick to say it.”

I nodded, my voice was somewhere in my feet, I dropped my gaze to look for it.

Father cleared his throat, and suddenly he sounded as sad as Mother, “I hope to see you again, son. Don’t be a hero, for my sake.”

I looked up again and swallowed, “I’m too scared to be a hero.” The admission made me feel like a coward, I hoped none of the other boys had heard it.

That only made him smile though, “heroes only win medals and coffins, I’d rather you stayed scared and alive.”

That made me laugh, a raw, bitter sound, “well we should be fine then.” He nodded and gave me a reassuring smile, then pushed me back toward the group. He turned the other way and disappeared, and I was left with the company of a dozen or so assorted, terrified, wannabe soldiers. As we shuffled off down the terminal towards our new life, I couldn’t help but wish I was still in bed, listening to the sounds of planes through the window.