Bad Radio Read online

  Bad Radio

  Michael Langlois

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Part One: Hollow Man

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  Part Two: Emergence

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For Susie, who always believed.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to award-winning artist Vincent Chong for the amazing cover. See more of Vincent’s work at http://vincentchong-art.co.uk.

  Many thanks as well to my editor, Scott Nicholson, for making me presentable and giving me the occasional punch when I needed it.

  Part One

  Hollow Man

  Too long a sacrifice

  Can make a stone of the heart.

  O when may it suffice?

  —W.B. Yeats

  The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past.

  —William Faulkner

  1

  I doubt many people know what their last act will be before they die, but it amused me to think that mine would be as mundane as storing hay for a winter I’d never see, back on the same farm that I grew up on nearly a century ago.

  I lifted another hay bale out of the bed of my ancient blue pickup, enjoying the fragrant smell of high summer coming off of it in the cool September air. Each square bale was about the size of a footlocker, and weighed a little over sixty pounds, which is pretty amazing for what amounts to a brick of dried, hollow grass. A single piece is too light to feel in the palm of your hand. A stack of it can kill a man.

  I’ve never been a farmer. The grass grows and I cut it down, mostly because no matter how old I get, I still can’t let the farm grow wild and disorderly. My father instilled that into me over eighty years ago, and it’s no less a part of me today.

  Being “not a farmer” was pretty much my entire self-identity growing up, when I spent all my time stewing in directionless anger and clutching my reflexive rebellion to my chest with all my might, just waiting to lash out at every opportunity.

  If it hadn’t been for the war, I’d likely have run away and spent the rest of my life in jail or worse. As it was, when Pearl Harbor was hit, the whole country lit up like a live wire, and me right along with it. All that restless anger finally found a focus and became an obsession that eventually carried me halfway around the world. But that was all a long time ago.

  I squinted up into the clear morning sun at the open doors of the loft, thinking about the kid I used to be, and how much he didn’t know. The miles traveled only to end up right back on the same soil almost a century later. I marveled at the enormity and symmetry of it all.

  I took aim at the ten-foot-square hole in the face of the second floor of the barn, some thirty feet off the ground, and tried hard not to miss. If I did, the wire would snap and the bale would burst open on the side of the barn, raining hay all over the place. That wouldn’t be tidy, not the way I wanted to leave things.

  I leaned back just a hair and threw the bale underhand, my shoulder and biceps flexing smoothly, effortlessly. The dense greenish-gray block soared into the air, silhouetted against the pale blue sky. It passed neatly through the second story hay loft doors, just under the rope-and-pulley hoist that I should have been using, and then tumbled back into the shadows with a thump.

  I gave a little smile of satisfaction. Not bad for an old man of eighty-six years. Not that you could tell from the outside that I’m a day over thirty, but from in here? I feel every single one of them. But today that’s just fine.

  I emptied the truck’s bed, putting a dozen bales into the loft, one after the other. Once that was done, it was time to go upstairs and stack them neatly against the back wall to keep them out of the winter weather. It wasn’t necessary, since I wasn’t planning to sell these, but years of habit wouldn’t let me walk away from a job half done. It just felt wrong. The thought that somebody would one day get up into that loft and think that I just left things a half-assed mess because I was too lazy or stupid to do it correctly was intolerable.

  I walked to the ladder a little ceremoniously. I could have jumped right up there, it certainly would have been quicker, but there’s no way to do it that doesn’t make you look like a jackass.

  You’re gonna land in a heap, like you were shot out of a cannon for thirty feet, and then you have to pick yourself up, all covered in dust and hay. I did it a few times for Margaret, and I’ll tell you she laughed until she cried.

  I remember looking down at her from the loft with hay sticking out of my hair and grinning like an idiot, my joy at her joy bubbling out as a whoop, and then savoring the delight on her face as I jumped back down to snatch her up and spin her around.

  But Margaret has been gone now for five years as of today, and I can’t bend my pride to do it, even though there isn’t another soul for a solid mile in any direction. So I solemnly climbed the ladder to the loft, feeling how the stiff soles of my boots flexed and slid on the painted wooden rungs.

  When I got upstairs, I found the bales in a righteous mess, so I took my time stacking them properly, careful not to get dirty. I was wearing freshly pressed jeans and a flannel shirt that Mags had given me as a birthday present a few decades ago. It was faded and a bit thinner at the elbows than it used to be, but it was still my favorite.

  Satisfied that my last chore was done properly and that the farm was in order, I got back into my old truck and headed towards the house. Together we bounced and rattled down the narrow dirt road, tired, but wearing our miles proudly.

  I parked in the garage by the house, next to an empty space where Maggie’s car used to be, back before she couldn’t see well enough to drive anymore. I remember how much it had hurt her to be diminished like that, to have proof that she was becoming less every day, but as with everything else, she took it with a smile and a wink. She dickered with everyone who came to call about the car, as if she might suddenly decide she was going to keep it after all. It broke my heart when she finally sold it.

  The engine of my truck rattled down to nothing as it always did, reluctant to sleep, and the door gave a deep creak and a hollow bang as I shut it. I ran my hand over the fender as I walked away. The paint was old and rough, with just the tiniest glimmer remaining of the sheen that I used to be able to see my reflection in. All these years and it never once let me down. I smiled as my hand trailed away off of the hood and brushed the glass of the headlight.

  People often give affection to things that aren’t alive. Seems to be our vehicles mostly, but other things, too. My truck isn’t even one thing, it’s thousands of things, all working together. When I replace the spark plugs, the wiring harness, the oil, it’s still the sam
e truck to me. New hood, new headlights, same truck. So at what point does it lose its essential character, the part that I feel affection for? How many parts can I separate or remove, before it’s just parts and the truck is gone?

  I thought about that on the way to the house, but I wasn’t really thinking about my truck, as much as I love that old heap. I was thinking about my life, and when it stopped being my life and turned into just a collection of things and memories. When I stopped feeling fondness and affection for it. I lost parts of it over the years, and without knowing it, enough parts came away that I could no longer recognize the shape of it or feel a connection to it. I’m not complaining, mind you. I have no patience for whiners, but there comes a point when you realize that the race is over, win or lose.

  Inside the house, I hung my keys on a small brass hook screwed into a wooden heart painted red with white piping. There’s another hook right next to it, just as scratched and dull as mine, but it’s empty.

  On my way through the kitchen, I dropped my hat over the same chair back that I’ve used nearly every day for the last forty years. In the living room, the TV tray that I had set out next to my recliner was still there. My old Browning M1911 was on it, waiting for me. I sat down in the recliner with a familiar creaking of wood and springs and looked around at the room, at the walls.

  Everywhere my eyes touched, there was a part of my life. Of our lives. Every picture and figurine and knick-knack had a story behind it, some that would take hours to tell in order to explain who the people grinning in black and white were to us, or where we had been, or why we had gone there. It was hard to look across them and not be overwhelmed by the past they represented, an entire lifetime compressed and separated into picture frames. Parts, all in a heap.

  I picked up the Browning, the first and last gun the US Army had ever issued me back in the Second World War. Another thing that never failed me, that old .45. I had a sentimental fondness for that gun, and I don’t mind saying that I felt a little bad about how I was going to end its years of faithful service.

  I put the barrel under my chin and didn’t flinch at the cold touch of the metal. I felt it distantly, the chill steel on someone else’s skin. I pulled the hammer back and the click was loud and wrong in the still, comfortable house. I squeezed my eyes shut, though I don’t know why. I know it won’t make any difference, but I do it anyway, and Margaret’s face appeared as I remembered her, back in her prime and glorious. She looked at me in shock and disappointment.

  I opened my eyes to clear the image, and my guts knotted up. I tried to get the detachment back that I’d worked so hard to earn for the last year, and I managed to keep my face calm, even if some tears leaked out. Nobody could see them anyway.

  The gun was rock steady as I put my finger through the guard and laid it on the trigger. The flesh of my fingertip started to whiten as I put slow, relentless tension on it.

  The doorbell went off.

  I froze, willing the intruder to leave. The flat bong of the bell struck at me again.

  I’ve spent the last year cutting all my ties. Nobody was looking for me. Nobody needed me. I had dropped my phone service months ago, cancelled my mail. I paid a lump sum to my utility companies with instructions to terminate service when the money ran out.

  I did this because connections to things bring obligation. Obligation is like a piece of fishing line with a barbed hook in the end. These ties are hard to see coming, hard to break, and impossible to ignore. Friends and family are the worst, but even casual friends can snag you tightly.

  But after a year, I was clean. No hooks. Now, when I can finally go out on my own terms, I get this determined visitor. If I pull the trigger, they get to hear the shot, make a horrifying discovery, and deal with the image for the rest of their lives. I couldn’t do that, not even to some stranger selling magazines. I felt the hook bite.

  The doorbell rang again, followed by sharp, determined knocking. A young woman’s voice penetrated the door. “Hey! I know you’re in there, I saw you drive your truck into the garage! I have to talk to you!”

  The hook sank all the way in, barb and all. I untucked my shirt and put the pistol behind my back, my belt pressing the now-warm steel into my spine. I didn’t want whoever it was to see the gun laying around.

  I went to answer the door.

  2

  I pulled the door open and fresh morning air rushed past me into the stale house. Standing under the covered porch and on top of my ancient daisy-printed doormat was a young woman in her late twenties. She had auburn hair and dark eyes, and she was rubbing the knuckles of one hand.

  “Hi,” she said, before I could speak. “I’m looking for Abraham Griffin. Is he here?” As she spoke she tilted her head slightly to peer behind me into the house. I could feel my face hardening up. The dismissive glance around me, her bright clothes, even her quick, focused movements grated on me.

  Against the softly faded backdrop of my farm, she was too vivid, like a color cutout pasted on an old photograph. Her presence felt inappropriate, like a party dress at a funeral.

  “I’m Abe.”

  “I meant Abraham Senior, I guess. I’m the granddaughter of one of his old army buddies, Patrick Wolinsky.”

  “There’s no other Abe Griffin.”

  She glanced behind her at the long driveway. “Is there another Griffin residence around here? The man I’m looking for would be really old. He was in the second World War with my grandfather.”

  “You have the right house. I know Patty, what does he want?”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” She touched a hand to her mouth. “Did he pass away? He must have been your grandfather.”

  Assumptions make for the best lies, second only to ambiguity. “What can I help you with, ma’am?”

  “Can I come in?”

  I tried to be gracious as I stepped back from the door and waved her into my living room, but I probably looked as irritated as I felt. She stepped past me trailing crisp fall air and too-sweet lilac perfume. The room was dim and cave-like, so I opened the curtains to let the morning sun flood in. I kicked myself as habit took over and I said, “Can I get you some coffee?”

  She looked relieved at this first sign of civility and nodded. I spent few minutes in the kitchen glaring at the percolator, and when I came back she was sitting in my easy chair. She had a picture frame in her hand, taken from a shelf across the room. It was, of course, of my old squad. “You look so much like your grandfather.”

  I ransomed the picture with the cup of coffee and delivered it back to the shelf where it belonged. I stood for a moment after setting it carefully back in the dust-free rectangle it had left behind and locked eyes with myself. That poor sap grinning back at me from under his steel pot helmet had no idea what was going to happen to him three months later. I silently communed with him, feeling for that sense of rightness, when everything was still fine and I knew everything there was to know about the world. I didn’t find it. I turned my back on that smiling soldier and faced my visitor.

  “What brings you all the way out here?” I had turned off my phone and mail service to discourage casual contact from my few surviving friends. I had no idea where this girl lived, but last I heard Patty was stuck in a VA retirement home Alzheimer’s ward on the other side of the Minnesota border from me. That was a good four-hour drive from here, so I had a sinking feeling that this was one of those “last request” visits.

  “My grandfather is very sick,” she said. Here it comes. “Physically he’s in good shape for a man his age, but mentally … Well, I’m worried that he’s going to hurt himself. He can’t walk, you know, since the stroke, but he’s been having these episodes lately where he’ll try to get out of bed and crawl out of the room.

  “One of the night nurses actually caught him in the lobby not ten feet away from the entrance. Can you imagine what could have happened to him if he had managed to get out into a dark parking lot, lying there on the ground?”

  I could see in
her face how much the thought upset her, which earned her a few points. The thought upset me, too.

  “Isn’t that common?” I asked, as gently as I could. “Sometimes Alzheimer’s patients become confused, don’t they?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but this is different. He might forget where he is, or who you are, but he’s never acted like this before. He’s desperate and frightened, like he’s reliving the war or something.”

  “I’m not sure what I can do, Ms …?”

  “It’s Anne. I’m sorry, I never told you my name.” She rested her head on her hand for a moment and laughed softly, embarrassed. “I’m not usually like this.”

  I knew that name. I hadn’t spoken to Patrick in over a decade, but I remembered that he had mentioned Anne, full of the pride of a grandfather. I guess I should have realized she’d be a grown woman by now. “I understand. You were saying?”

  “Well, when Patrick has one of his attacks, he’s shouting for your grandfather. That’s who he’s trying to reach. He’s calling out ‘Abe’ at the top of his lungs, and dragging himself along the floor.”

  A sick, awful feeling turned in my stomach. The image of one of my oldest friends scrabbling on the floor calling my name filled me with shame, even though I didn’t have anything to do with it. Right there with it was the guilt that I did deserve, as a fleeting feeling of relief passed over me at the thought that I had been spared the horrors of old age that Patty was suffering.

  “So I came out here hoping to bring Abraham to my grandfather. I thought that maybe if he could make that connection, then he would be okay. If he could just deliver that message or see that his friend was all right, he could rest. I know what it sounds like, but I have to try.” Her breath hitched and she pressed a finger under one eye.

  I went to the bathroom and got her a box of tissue, but when I returned she had regained her composure. I put the box down on the arm of the easy chair.