asked her, she’d have sworn that it would be impossible to sleep in such circumstances. But that turned out not to be the case. Sleep was a mercy, a blessing, taking her out of her situation and back into a world where things made sense, where people didn’t snatch others off the street and call them doves. She felt it coming, felt her mind begin to drift in unexpected directions, and welcomed it.
***
Harold found that he didn’t sleep much these days, a fact that filled Virginia with dread. She kept the trailer door locked at night, in case he forgot where he was and wandered off, he figured. Of course, he’d also have to forget how to open a locked door from the inside, and so far, though his memory was often bad, it hadn’t become that bad.
Still, he didn’t want to frighten her, so most nights—most nights that he remembered, anyway—he simply sat up late watching old movies or sitcoms on TV. They had a VCR and solar panels and had all the power they needed for simple things, and he hadn’t lost the ability to change channels.
For some reason that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, tonight he very much wanted to watch a war movie. One of those classics about World War II. He didn’t care from what era, or what part of the war it dealt with— Midway would be fine, as would Tora, Tora, Tora or In Harm’s Way or The Bridge at Remagen or The Guns of Navarone . He wanted to see the camaraderie of men in combat, and preferably those fighting for what he considered a noble cause.
He loved Virginia more than he could ever express, not being very handy with words. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and his fifty-three years of marriage to her had been satisfying in so many ways he couldn’t begin to enumerate them. But she was all he had, now, and that was a lot of weight to put on one person’s shoulders.
Somewhere out there in the desert—surely at the cabin, now, sleeping off the night’s drunk—were the last men he’d faced combat with. Combat of a different kind, for a cause that was anything but noble. But still, they were men and they had carried arms together. They shared secrets and they shared history and they had placed their lives in one another’s hands, and not a one of them had betrayed that trust.
Harold knew why he couldn’t be with them—who would trust a man with a gun who couldn’t even remember his own name half the time? Knowing the reason didn’t mean he didn’t miss it, though. He tried to remind himself that it was wrong, inhuman, what they had done together for so many years. That was not, he thought, the kind of man he was. His was the “Greatest Generation,” they were saying now, people who had willingly risked everything to go to a foreign land and fight for justice. People like that wouldn’t—couldn’t—do the things he had done. There was some kind of gap, an empty spot, in his brain or his heart or his soul, to let him willingly go along with such acts.
That, he decided, was the real reason he couldn’t sleep at night. Not just that he had gotten old and required less sleep, not even that his most strenuous physical activity these days was walking out to a lawn chair and lifting a glass of lemonade to his lips. It was the memory of the things he had done coming back to haunt him. His brain tried to shield him from it by shutting down, by turning off the memory banks, but that was only so effective. There were nights that it worked, but there were too many others, when it failed to protect him from the memory of his own crimes.
He snatched up the remote and pointed it at the TV, jamming his finger down on the CHANNEL button again and again, trying to find something, anything, that would shut off the torture his memory inflicted on him. Nothing worked, and he knew this would be a long, difficult night.
Chapter Seven
Penny and Dieter and Larry had made a big deal of synchronizing the new digital alarm watches they’d purchased in San
***
Harold found that he didn’t sleep much these days, a fact that filled Virginia with dread. She kept the trailer door locked at night, in case he forgot where he was and wandered off, he figured. Of course, he’d also have to forget how to open a locked door from the inside, and so far, though his memory was often bad, it hadn’t become that bad.
Still, he didn’t want to frighten her, so most nights—most nights that he remembered, anyway—he simply sat up late watching old movies or sitcoms on TV. They had a VCR and solar panels and had all the power they needed for simple things, and he hadn’t lost the ability to change channels.
For some reason that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, tonight he very much wanted to watch a war movie. One of those classics about World War II. He didn’t care from what era, or what part of the war it dealt with— Midway would be fine, as would Tora, Tora, Tora or In Harm’s Way or The Bridge at Remagen or The Guns of Navarone . He wanted to see the camaraderie of men in combat, and preferably those fighting for what he considered a noble cause.
He loved Virginia more than he could ever express, not being very handy with words. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and his fifty-three years of marriage to her had been satisfying in so many ways he couldn’t begin to enumerate them. But she was all he had, now, and that was a lot of weight to put on one person’s shoulders.
Somewhere out there in the desert—surely at the cabin, now, sleeping off the night’s drunk—were the last men he’d faced combat with. Combat of a different kind, for a cause that was anything but noble. But still, they were men and they had carried arms together. They shared secrets and they shared history and they had placed their lives in one another’s hands, and not a one of them had betrayed that trust.
Harold knew why he couldn’t be with them—who would trust a man with a gun who couldn’t even remember his own name half the time? Knowing the reason didn’t mean he didn’t miss it, though. He tried to remind himself that it was wrong, inhuman, what they had done together for so many years. That was not, he thought, the kind of man he was. His was the “Greatest Generation,” they were saying now, people who had willingly risked everything to go to a foreign land and fight for justice. People like that wouldn’t—couldn’t—do the things he had done. There was some kind of gap, an empty spot, in his brain or his heart or his soul, to let him willingly go along with such acts.
That, he decided, was the real reason he couldn’t sleep at night. Not just that he had gotten old and required less sleep, not even that his most strenuous physical activity these days was walking out to a lawn chair and lifting a glass of lemonade to his lips. It was the memory of the things he had done coming back to haunt him. His brain tried to shield him from it by shutting down, by turning off the memory banks, but that was only so effective. There were nights that it worked, but there were too many others, when it failed to protect him from the memory of his own crimes.
He snatched up the remote and pointed it at the TV, jamming his finger down on the CHANNEL button again and again, trying to find something, anything, that would shut off the torture his memory inflicted on him. Nothing worked, and he knew this would be a long, difficult night.
Chapter Seven
Penny and Dieter and Larry had made a big deal of synchronizing the new digital alarm watches they’d purchased in San
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