Life During Wartime by Lucius Shepard Page B

to snag a rebound, becoming – as dusk faded – the most adroit of the arm-waving, jitter-steeping shadows.
    The game ended and the stars came out, looking like holes punched into fire through a billow of black silk overhanging the palms. Flickering chutes of lamplight illuminated the ground in front of the huts, and as Debora and Mingolla walked among them, he heard a radio tuned to the armed forces network giving a play-by-play of a baseball game. There was a crack of the bat, the crowd roared, and the announcer cried, ‘He got it all!’ Mingolla imagined the ball vanishing into the darkness above the stadium, bouncing out into parking-lot America, lodging under a tire where some kid would find it and think it a miracle, or rolling across the street to rest under a used car, shimmering there, secretly white and fuming with home-run energies. The score was three to one, top of the second. Mingolla didn’t know who was playing and didn’t care. Home runs were happening for him, mystical jump shots curved along predestined tracks. He was at the center of incalculable forces.
    One of the huts was unlit, with two wooden chairs out front, and as they approached, something about it blighted Mingolla’s mood. Its air of preparedness, of being a little stage set. Just paranoia, he thought. The signs had been good so far, hadn’t they? When they reached the hut, Debora took the chair nearest the door and invited him to sit next to her. Starlight pointed her eyes with brilliance. Visible inside the doorway was a sack from which part of a wire cage protruded. ‘What about your game?’ he asked.
    ‘I wanted to be with you tonight,’ she said.
    That bothered him. It was all starting to bother him, and he couldn’t understand why. The thing in his hand wiggled. He balled the hand into a fist and sat down. ‘What …’ he began, and then lost track of what he had been about to ask her. He wiped sweat from his forehead. A shadow moved across the yellow glare spilling from the hut opposite them. Rippling,undulating. Mingolla shut his eyes. ‘What, uh …’ Once again he forgot his subject, and to cover up he asked the first question that occurred to him. ‘What’s happenin’ here … between you and me? I keep thinkin’ …’ He broke off.
Christ, what an idiot thing to say! Too bold, man!
He’d probably just blown his chances with her.
    But she didn’t back away from it. ‘You mean romantically?’ she asked.
    Nicely put
, he thought.
Very delicate. Much better than saying, You mean are we gonna fuck?
Which was about the best he could have managed at the moment. ‘Right,’ he said.
    ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘Whether you go to Panama or back to your base, we don’t seem to have much of a future. But’ – her voiced softened – maybe that’s not important.’
    It boosted his confidence in her that she didn’t have an assured answer. He opened his eyes. Gave his head a twitch, fighting off more ripples. So what is important?’ he asked, and was pleased with himself.
Very suave, Mingolla. Let her be the one to say it. Very suave, indeed!
He wished he didn’t feel so shaky.
    ‘Well, there’s obviously a strong attraction.’
    Attraction? I guess so
, he thought.
I wanna rip your damn dress off!
    ‘And,’ she went on, ‘maybe something more. I wish we had time to find out what.’
    Clever! Knocked the ball right back into his court. He tried to focus on her, had to close his eyes again, and saw Panama. White sand, cerulean water deepening to cobalt toward the horizon. ‘What’s it like in Panama?’ he asked, then kicked himself for having changed the subject.
    ‘I’ve never been there. Probably not much different from here.’
    Maybe he should stand up, walk around. Maybe that would help. Or maybe he should just sit and talk. Talking seemed to steady him. I bet it’s beautiful, y’know,’ he said. Green mountains, jungle waterfalls. I bet there’s lots of birds. Macaws, parrots. Millions of