No Mercy Part 7

With the complete absence of street- and yard lights, the sky was a swath of pure black punctuated with silver dots. It never ceased to amaze me it was the same sky I'd seen on the other side of the world. "The reason I didn't come back until after Dad died was because I was in the hospital."

"Why? What happened?"

"Shrapnel injury."

"Holy s.h.i.+t! Where?"

"Iraq."

"No. I meant where on your body did you get hit?"

"Oh. In the leg." I wasn't ready to talk about my eye to anyone.

"Cool! Can I see it?" Guilt distorted his face. "I mean, not cool that you were hurt-"

"It's okay. I know what you meant."

The wavering tent walls of the military hospital in Balad flashed in my mind. I'd waited d.a.m.n near a day for treatment since my injuries weren't life threatening. As I writhed in pain, I wondered if the injured Iraqi on the cot next to me had spent the day executing American soldiers. In those hours I basted in heat and hatred, I realized the antiseptic scents never masked the odors of blood, urine, death, and despair. And my utter sense of hopelessness expanded to near hysteria when they'd finally tracked me down amid the hundreds of injured soldiers to give me the message my father was dead.

The band belted out a countrified version of "Satisfaction." Car doors slammed and people shouted, yet silence hummed between us. I spied a young mother pacing in the shadows of the building, trying to soothe a screaming baby wearing nothing but a diaper and tears.

"So how come you don't want no one to know? Shee. You're like... a hero! They would've had a parade for you and stuff."

I didn't answer. I wondered if he'd come to the right conclusion without my having to explain.

"You didn't want none of that, did you? Not because Grandpa had just died either."

Surprisingly astute kid. "No."

Cricket chirps rose and fell.

"Can I ask you something else?"

"Sure."

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

My natural inclination was to lie. Yet, if he was serious about the military, he deserved to know killing was part of the job. "Yeah." I yanked the flask from my boot and emptied it in my mouth. "Why?"

"Just curious."

"Come on, Levi, that's c.r.a.p. Tell me why."

He didn't look at me. Instead, he picked at a gummy chunk of unknown origin imbedded in the tailgate. "Mom tells me you've liked to shoot stuff since you were little."

"Lots of people hunt," I said cautiously.

"She wasn't talking about hunting. She was talking about killing. In cold blood."

I didn't point out that Hope had no room to be judgmental when talking about killing.

He blurted, "Did you really shoot your dog when you were kids?"

Whoo-yeah. Hope had a high opinion of me.

It'd been a long time since I'd thought of Rufus, our Australian blue heeler.

That brutally hot afternoon became so clear in my mind I could almost smell the cherry Kool-Aid. Dad was working second s.h.i.+ft. Sophie had gone home. None of the ranch hands were around. Just Hope and me and a lazy summer day.

We were swinging on the porch when we heard the most G.o.dawful howling. We followed the yelps to the end of the driveway and found Rufus cowering in the ditch.

He'd been hit by a car, back legs broken, hips crushed. He couldn't even drag himself out of the gully.

Hope raced to pick him up. Happy as Rufus seemed to see her, in his paralyzed state he couldn't even wag his fluffy tail.

I'd stopped her. "Don't touch him."

She wailed, "But we have to help!"

The insistent cawing of black crows brought my attention to the cloudless blue sky and the bluish-black wings of the birds circling above us. Nature knew. I knew. Nothing would help poor Rufus.

"Call Daddy," Hope begged me over Rufus's howls. "He'll tell you what to do. He'll send Doc Kroger. Hurry!"

The vet was too busy to waste time on a lost cause. My stomach churned the Kool-Aid into battery acid. I knew what Dad would've done. No one liked putting down an animal, but it was a harsh reality of ranch life.

My heart pounded. My palms dripped sweat. I'd made myself look at Rufus, the cattle dog my mom loved. Blood poured out his muzzle. Diarrhea matted the black-and-white fur on his rear haunches, proving he'd lost control of his bowels.

I had no choice. "Stay here with him for a minute, okay?"

Relief crossed Hope's face. She'd nodded and dropped to her knees to stroke his head.

At the house I'd unlocked the gun safe, removed the Remington, grabbed some ammo, and shoved them in my shorts pocket. I'd dragged a shovel, letting the distortion of metal grinding on rocks and gravel fill my ears as I trudged to the end of the driveway.

Hope was bawling. When she saw the rifle, she began to scream.

"Unless you want to watch, go on and get in the house."

"No! You can't do this! I won't let you!"

I stayed mute. It was easier for her to be mad at me. I swallowed the hard lump of regret. Tears swam to the surface again. So when the lump returned, I'd let it stay there like a bone in my throat to keep the tears at bay.

"P-please, Mercy, don't. Wait until Daddy gets home. He can fix him. Daddy can fix anything."

I put a cartridge in the chamber.

She screamed. Tears and snot streamed down her red face. "I'm telling! I'm calling Daddy at work to tell him you killed Rufus!"

"Fine. Do it." I put another sh.e.l.l in.

"I hate you! And when Daddy hears what you done, he'll hate you, too!" She'd run, shrieking and crying until the screen door slammed behind her.

I don't remember stuttering any poignant last words to Rufus. I hadn't been tough enough to look in his bright blue eyes as I'd aimed the barrel at his head. I braced the b.u.t.tstock on my shoulder, and pulled the trigger.

The whimpering quit.

I traded the shotgun for the shovel. Digging a hole took an eternity when I had to stop every shovelful to wipe my tears.

That night when Dad finally came home, he hadn't said a word. He'd rested my head on his strong shoulder as we rocked together on the porch swing, in silence, listening to the familiar sounds of a summer night.

But that day had been another turning point in my life.

"Aunt Mercy?"

I blinked away the bad trip down memory lane. "Yeah?"

"Did you cry? You know, afterward?"

"Like a baby."

Surprise registered on his face. "How come you never told Mom you cried?"

"It wouldn't have mattered. I did what had to be done." And in doing the right thing, once again I'd widened the gap between my sister and me.

"How old were you?"

"Twelve."

He nodded. "When I was twelve, I had to shoot my cat Mooshu after a skunk bit her. Grandpa let me use his gun. Mom freaked out. Like, freaked out for days."

"Did you cry?"

"Yeah. But it would've been worse to watch Mooshu suffer."

"That's true." I took another drink. "Doing the right thing isn't always the easiest thing, is it?"

"Nope. But now... I don't think I could shoot Shoonga."

"Because Grandpa gave him to you? And now Grandpa is gone?"

Levi shrugged. "Mostly. Shoonga is the one thing in my life that's just mine."

Silence.

We seemed to have lost our momentum. I could let the conversation die, or I could take it to the next level.

"You can tell me to take a flying leap, but I have to know why you really broke into Mr. P.'s place."

His shoulders slumped almost as if he'd known the question was coming. "You swear you won't tell my mom or no one else?"

"Absolutely."

He squirmed. "Because of Albert, I'd been trying to hang with Moser and Little Bear and them guys. They was always teasing me that I was a white kid and all the Lakota cla.s.ses in the world wouldn't make me more Indian."

Levi wanted to be more Indian? Why? Most days he could pa.s.s for a full-blood Sioux, with his tawny skin and brown eyes. What a bizarre reversal. Most Indian kids tried to be white, or-in the case of clothing and music-black.

"They asked me if I'd ever seen something I'd wanted but couldn't have."

"I suppose you told them something specific?"

"I told 'em about the knife Mr. P. showed me once when I was with Grandpa. I thought it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. They said they'd let me into their group if I stole it. And if I didn't, it just showed I was too white to hang with them."

"The sheriff didn't list the knife as one of the things you stole."

"He don't know about it."

No judgment. Just let him continue. Let it unfold at his pace, not yours.

"The pills and booze and other stuff was to throw Mr. P. off. Even after I was caught, Mr. P. wouldn't press charges. Moser and Little Bear said it proved I was too white to be in their club, because if a real Indian kid woulda broken into Mr. P.'s house, his red a.s.s would've been tossed in jail."

True. "That's what you were fighting about?"

"Yeah. I did what they told me to for initiation, and now they still won't let me be part of the club."

"Was Albert in the club?"

"We had a big fight about it when I found out Albert didn't have no say in who could join. He wouldn't tell me why they were trying to keep me out. Some friend, huh? He claimed Moser is in charge, even when some other person is the main leader."

"Who?"

"Don't know. Don't get to meet them until you pa.s.s the Warrior's Challenge. Which means I probably won't never meet 'em because I failed it."

Why was he so desperate to be part of a group that didn't want him? Boggled my mind. Rather than ask him to explain something even he probably didn't understand, I changed the subject. "Where's the knife now?"

A sheepish smile appeared, then he stared at his stained sneakers. He swung his feet, and the suspension creaked as the truck b.u.mped up and down. "I took Ma's car when she was sleeping and drove back to Mr. P.'s. Left it on the workbench in the garage. Might make me a p.u.s.s.y, but I would've given it back even if I had pa.s.sed the stupid initiation."

There it was, that glimmer of a decent human beneath the surly teenage behavior and bad choices. He could change. He'd already won half the battle because he wanted to change. "Smart move."

"Thanks."

Another round of quiet.

"Look, I just want to throw it out there that you can talk to me about stuff like this anytime. I won't go running to your mom with what you tell me."

"Cool. He always said the same thing. I miss him, you know? We used to talk all the time."

"Your dad?"

"No. Grandpa." Levi smacked a mosquito on his arm. "It sucks that he died."