Prologue Jack

I woke up to the sound of glass breaking. I sat up, groping blindly for the light switch, scraping my knuckles against the edge of the beside in the process. The goddamn lamp wouldn't turn on. Heart pounding, I remembered that the light bulb had died the night before and I'd been to drunk to call anybody to fix it.

Where had that noise come from? My first thought was that someone was in the room. But as my vision focused, I gazed at the rectangle of light on my wall, cast by the vacancy sign right outside the window, and saw a slowly dripping spot on the wallpaper. I glanced again at the bedside table and saw that my midnight glass of whiskey was gone. Still panting a little, I crawled to the edge of the bed and saw that there was a growing stain on the carpet next to the wall, throughout which were scattered large pieces of glass. All along the wall, similar pieces twinkled softly in the pale florescent light coming from the window.

I choked on a hysterical giggle. So I'd thrown the whiskey glass in my sleep. What the hell did I think it was, a grenade? Then I remembered what I'd been aiming at and crawled back under the covers with a groan.

No wonder she left me. She didn't even have to wait around; she'd known intuitively. God, I'm such a mess.

I couldn't fall asleep and it occurred to me that I didn't have the money to pay the motel manager for his shitty wallpaper and carpet, so I got a towel from the bathroom and crouched down, still in my boxers, to clean up the mess.

As I picked up pieces of glass, I listened to the drizzle outside. It hadn't stopped raining since yesterday. It was appropriate, really.

I'd hitched a ride in some guy's truck after getting off at the station, not at all suspicious of the fact that no one was waiting for me. I'd shaved in the bathroom in the gas station and changed into civilian clothing.

When I showed up, she didn't even open the door for me all the way. I was half under the hood, half in that drizzle, looking down at her as she stood just a few feet from me, but on the other side of the half-open door. The honey-amber light of the anteroom didn't reach me, but it warmed her dark hair.

She leaned against the door, shifting her weight on one hip. "Jack," she said, "I'm sorry. I'm with another man." Just like that. No preamble. No, 'Hey, did you have fun killing commies? How many did ya get?' Not even an 'Are you alright?'

My pack had felt suddenly ten times heavier than any shit I'd had to trudge twenty miles with over there. I honestly can't remember answering her. Just the slow motion closing of the door, the lick of honey-amber light disappearing before my eyes. And her engagement ring laying cold in my hand. She hadn't been wearing it.

Of course she hadn't been wearing it. She was with another man. But at least she gave it back. Sandra was a descent girl. A two-timing bitch of a descent girl.

I jerked as a piece of glass cut into my palm. Being the hung-over dumbass that I was, I dabbed at the cut with my towel, effectively rubbing alcohol into it. It stung like a bitch and I sat back, against the bed. What a beautiful start to the first day of my new life.

It was just before dawn and I doubted I had enough alcohol left to put me to sleep, so I sat there on the floor and watched the reflection from the vacancy sign dimming as it grew lighter outside. Soon I realized I was cold. It was a strange sensation, one that I had forgotten while in Vietnam, because there it was always baking hot.

I got up and got dressed, steering clear of what little glass there was left on the floor. Hopefully they won't look at the room until I'm gone. Whatever. I wanted to bandage my hand but couldn't find anything, so I washed the blood off and stuck it in my pocket, swinging my pack on my shoulder. Passing the mirror on the way out, I caught a glimpse of my reflection and paused. I had bags under my eyes and my hair hung around my face in greasy ringlets. I also had a five-o'clock shadow.

I had been planning to see my parents, but now it was clear this needed to be pushed back. I went back into the bathroom and shaved and washed my hair in the sink with the little complementary bar of soap. Now it was clean but unpleasantly wet.

The clerk scowled when I walked up, dripping on his carpeting. Its not like it couldn't use a wash anyway. I think he charged me extra, but I didn't say anything.

The early morning light glared painfully in my eyes because of the hangover, another reminder of what had happened the night before. Surprisingly, I couldn't find the conviction to care, or at least not yet. Sandra, whose memory had seemed like a guardian angel to me in the war, now felt like a distant ghost. I didn't want to think about her anyway, so this denial-stage thing or whatever it was, suited me perfectly.

The motel was on the very outskirts of town, but it was small, only a few miles across. I walked down, intentionally taking side streets to make the trip longer, although I wasn't sure where to go. The houses looked the same as I'd left them. Some had gotten new siding, one or two had a 'For Sale' sign on the front lawn, but most were unchanged.

And yet, as I squinted at the chipped paint on Mrs. Attickson's station wagon, parked neatly in her driveway, I felt that something was off. Something in this town had been altered while I was away, but it wasn't readily apparent. I stood in front of her driveway and put my pack down, turning around to look down the street. The rain had stopped, and everything still wet was lit up by the bright fall sunlight. The trees were the same, some of their leaves starting to turn red and yellow. There was a kid riding out of his parent's driveway on a two-wheeler. It was still the perfect portrait of American suburbia...so what the hell had changed?

I pivoted to look at Mrs. Attickson's front door. She had a son, Eric. He'd gone to my school. When I graduated he was a sophomore, and we used to sit together at lunch. He was a loud, good-looking kid who got way too much tail for his age. I scratched behind my left ear and wondered if I should talk to him. What would he think if a guy he hadn't talked to in two and a half years showed up at his door with beer breath and blood shot eyes? Well, this was Eric, so he'd probably just laugh at me.

Leaving my pack on the sidewalk, I walked up to her door and knocked. It was a Saturday, and this early in the morning he should still be home, probably sleeping off whatever party he'd been at the night before. It took several knocks before anyone answered, and it wasn't Eric, but his mother.

A short, normally stout woman, she looked like she had lost some weight. Her face was slightly red and splotchy and I looked at her, forgetting to say something. She looked back at me, here eyes mere slits, as if opening them fully took energy she couldn't come up with. Finally, when she saw that I wasn't going to say anything, she spoke.

"Can I help you with something, young man?" I swallowed, vaguely surprised that I still looked young to her in this condition.

"Is um, Eric home?" All of a sudden, her slack face transformed. A shallow line pinched her eyebrows together and her cheeks quivered. Her tired eyes opened wider and I could see that they were bloodshot. I think I took a step back.

"You're that Hannon boy, aren't you? Aren't you!" I nodded, wondering what I'd done. She sucked in a breath, her hand gripping the doorway tightly. Some of her lank brown hair was spilling across her face.

"Where Eric is, you ask? I'll tell you where Eric is! He's in a grave!" I backed up another step, but she lumbered out of the doorway and grabbed my shoulder. Although I should have had a reflex for this sort of situation, I couldn't move.

"He idolized you! Thought you were G.I Joe! Couldn't wait until he graduated to enlist!" She shook me at each exclamation, her sallow arms holding surprising strength. "It took him a month over there to die! They told me," she lowered her voice and yanked me close to her, and I began to smell an alcohol other than my own, "that he was shot on his third mission. They almost had to leave his body there, because the Viet Cong were closing in." I heard a low moan coming from somewhere, now I think it was probably mine. She shook me again, her face red.

"How does that make you feel? You're still alive, aren't you?" My head was pounding and a rushing sound in my ears blocked out all sensations except for her cracking voice and her death grip on my arm. He'd never told me he wanted to enlist. We'd never talked about it. I didn't even know I'd been an example to him - the kid seemed to think he knew everything already. But looking at her now through the spots dancing in my vision, I couldn't deny that she was right.

I should say something. But - "I'm sorry, M--"

"Don't you say sorry to me, boy! Say sorry to my dead son!" She gave me one last forceful shake and pushed me back. Taken unaware, I almost tripped down the porch steps.

"And don't you come back here again, you good-for-nothing bastard! I have other children that I want to keep on this Earth!" With that, her door slammed. I stumbled to the sidewalk, tripping over my pack before I realized it was there. The kid on the bike had stopped on the other side of the street and was staring at me. I gave him a deer-in-headlights look and grabbed my pack, running as fast as I could away from Mrs. Attickson's house.