Mama's Boy Read online

  Gus told Harkey that he intended to fashion a forty-element “fishbone” antenna out of the supply of tubular aluminum that was kept for antenna repair. He’d channel-cut the elements precisely to the wavelength of channel 13, the one channel they had a chance of receiving with decent signal strength.

  He gave Harkey the technical details:

  Wavelength 1.388 meters. Half-wave elements would work just as well, and the smaller antenna would be less noticeable, less vulnerable to weather. He’d cut the elements to .70 meters. He’d make a stacked array, totaling forty elements, twenty on top of twenty. This would give the antenna maximum directional gain. Even a weak picture flying through the air at the speed of light should be caught and enhanced by the double-fishbone array.

  “How come you call it a fishbone?” Harkey asked.

  “Because that’s what it looks like, gills to tail—the skeleton of a filleted bluegill.”

  “Oh,” Harkey said.

  “We’ll need to have an antenna preamp,” Gus said. “With a couple hundred feet of coax lead-in we’ll lose about five decibels of signal strength. We’ll get it back with a preamp.”

  Harkey looked at Gus with bovine wonder.

  “Did you get all that, Harkey?”

  “Say what?”

  “I’ll write it down.”

  Gus looked at Harkey and Harkey looked at Gus. There was no meeting of minds and no chance there ever could be.

  Harkey sucked on a tooth, already dreaming of the talking horse. After a minute of tooth sucking, he said, “When they passed out body parts in Heaven, Reppo, they must of give you extry brains whilst I stood in line for double size feet.”

  The buzz went on for days:

  The paper says the town boys probably did it, but no one’s taking credit. Watch yourself. I mean it, airman. Hell, I’m going to buy a gun, Sarge. No you are not. You can’t carry a concealed weapon in town. The heck you can’t, this is Montana not Hoboken. You can strap a goddamn rocket launcher to your ass in Montana. You can fish with grenades and hunt with machine guns. Few years back when the base was new, this Captain, Theo Woodcock, armed twenty airmen with M-1s then went to town to break a pair of flyboys out of jail. Captain Woodcock himself carried a .45 caliber grease gun with a thirty-round magazine. The airmen had been beat up and rolled by cops and were being held on resisting arrest charges. Drunk? Sure they were drunk! That don’t have shit to do with it. That be fucking irrelevant. So the bus rolls up to the police station and Woodcock and his twenty armed men went in. Deputy come near to fill his drawers. They took the keys to the cell the flyboys were in and got them out. Thomas Woodcock had crazy eyes. He could scare you without a grease gun. Tell you somethin, airman: They understand guns in Milk River, I guarantee it. This still be the wild muthafuckin west. Me? I carry a nine-millimeter German Luger. Got it on sale in a Milk River gun shop, left over from the war. It’s against air force regs. Fuck the regs! Fuck the REGS? Are you nuts? You keep talking crazy shit like that Major Darling’s going to restrict everyone to the base permanently. Your dick won’t see the inside of a twat the rest of your enlistment. Sure, like Major D. gives a shit. But what I want to know—Is Mutt Runkle dead? Flip of the coin. Roll of the dice.

  Harkey bought a heavy roll of RG6 coax and a preamp guaranteed to boost far away signals by ten decibels. He found the stuff in Glasgow, Montana, a hundred sixty miles east of Milk River, where a big SAC base was located. He took the train there and back for less than thirty dollars.

  There were over a thousand airmen stationed at Glasgow and downtown businesses thrived. The electronics store Harkey found was loaded with goodies, including cathode-ray tubes. Harkey bought one the same size as the one in his TV set, just in case.

  Gus climbed the mast at night so he wouldn’t attract anyone’s curiosity. He didn’t wear a safety harness—too cumbersome along with all the gear he was carrying. He didn’t think he’d fall, but if he did—well, maybe he deserved it. Fear, though, was not a factor.

  He aimed the array in the general direction of Great Falls, then clamped the 40-element antenna to the top of the mast with U-bolts. The other antennas that occupied the mast made a confusing geometry of aluminum rods that the double-fishbone could hide among. He attached the coax to the array then dropped the roll of cable to the ground.

  The installation of the antenna reminded Gus of the antenna he’d repaired for Marva Gunlocke, and for a moment he felt his strength draining away, thinking he might topple. You’d like that, Marva, he said to himself. You’d like to see me do a hundred foot topple, wouldn’t you? “I dearly would,” he heard her distant voice say. “You have earned it.”

  As he descended he used friction tape to bind the loose coax to the mast. On the ground, he laid the cable into the six-inch deep trench Harkey had dug the previous night using a meat cleaver for a pick and a steel serving spoon for a shovel. A week of Chinook winds had softened the ground enough to make the shallow trench possible. Gus buried the cable as he uncoiled it. When he reached the barracks he tapped on the window of their room. Harkey opened it and Gus handed him the cable. Harkey pressed the cable into the groove he’d made in the sill with a rat-tail file and closed the window on top of it. Inside, Gus attached the lead to the preamp, then connected the preamp to the little TV. Harkey turned it on.

  A strong picture rolled into the screen. A man who looked like an animated corpse read the news. He told of floods, earthquakes, assassinations, and wars, with the same dead expression as when he reported festive seasonal activities, and the birth, in Iowa, of quadruplets. He gave the weather forecast as if it were an obituary for the greater world. Harkey, nonetheless, was thrilled. “Hot dog!” he said, “We got us our own TV set, Reppo!”

  “Merry Christmas, Lamar,” Gus said.

  33

  Gus approached Jeff Sparks. “Got any idea what happened to Runkle?” he said. He’d forced an innocence on his voice—which only made his question sound more like a confession than a casual inquiry.

  “What’s it to you?” Sparks said.

  Sparks was the tallest man in the squadron, all elbows and knees on the basketball court. He had narrow shoulders but his chest was deep and muscular. He wasn’t an intimidator, not intentionally at least, but no one tested him. He wore buck sergeant stripes even though he had three years time in grade. Which meant someone who counted didn’t think much of him. Three years as a buck sergeant was a year too long. Sparks felt he’d been unjustly denied promotion to staff sergeant by men in his chain of command who outranked him—Mutt Runkle excepted. When in the vicinity of his superiors, Sparks carried himself with an insolent correctness.

  “Just wondering, Sparks,” Gus said.

  “Wondering, huh? You have something to do with it, Reppo?”

  “No.”

  “You and a couple of your asshole buddies take him down in that alley? Maybe it was those commies you hang out with?”

  “It was a simple question, Sparks.”

  “Was that what it was? Tell me something, Reppo. You get off on other peoples’ hurts? That why you asked about Runkle?”

  “Forget it, Sparks. Sorry I bothered you.”

  “Runkle’s in the hospital,” Sparks said. “St. Bonaventure’s in Milk River. You thinking to bring him flowers? Won’t do any good. He’s in a coma. Maybe he’ll come out of it, maybe he won’t. The shithooks are making odds in the NCO Club. Ten will get you twenty he doesn’t make it. He’s got a cracked skull. He bled into his brainpan. You want to put some money on him one way or the other, or do you want to help?”

  “Help?”

  “Major Darling’s asking for volunteers. We need the full complement of APs, plus a few extras to check out the bars in town. He wants to increase the patrols.”

  “You mean you want me to pull AP duty?”

  “No, I want you to sit in the AP shack and stroke your crank. What did you think I meant, Reppo?”

  “I got too much to do. Besides, I wouldn’t be a good cop.
”

  “Yeah, I figured you’d find an excuse,” Sparks said, yawning. “I don’t get me some help the major will get it for me.”

  A pair of second lieutenants from OSI visited the radar squadron. Gus was called into their makeshift office in the Special Services building.

  The lieutenants were seated at a folding table that served as a desk. The small windowless room was jammed with athletic equipment, along with outdoor sports gear. Hunting rifles—mostly World War I Springfields and Enfields—were kept locked on a wall rack, along with a half-dozen light shotguns. Fishing rods, nets, creels, bait boxes, were stacked in a corner. A wooden bin filled with basketballs and footballs occupied another corner.

  “Take a chair, airman,” one of the OSI men said. His name tag identified him as Lt. Darrel Woodbine. The other OSI man was Lt. Kevin Lockerbee. Both lieutenants had Styrofoam coffee cups in front of them along with a thermos. A packed accordion file sat between them on the table.

  Gus opened a folding chair and sat down. The OSI men shuffled papers. After a minute, Lt. Lockerbee said, “When exactly were you dismissed from flight school, Airman Reppo? We don’t seem to have a record of that.”

  “I wasn’t dismissed. I was never there,” Gus said.

  Both men looked at Gus. “Excuse me, airman?” Lt. Woodbine said. “Are you telling us you failed to report to the Randolph Air Force Base flight school? That you never …”—he shuffled through some papers—“… soloed in a PT-19?”

  “No sir. I mean, yes sir. I didn’t report because I didn’t apply for it. I don’t know anything about Randolph Air Force Base. I was never in a PT-19. I don’t even know what a PT-19 is.”

  “You didn’t apply, but you were accepted. You’ve never been in a PT-19 but you soloed successfully. How do you explain these seeming incongruities?”

  “I wasn’t accepted. I didn’t apply. I didn’t solo. It’s impossible to explain what you never did.”

  “Impossible, airman?” Lt. Woodbine said. “Walking on water is impossible. Squaring the circle is impossible. I don’t think we’re asking for the impossible.”

  “There appears to be a rather serious gap in your records, Reppo,” Lt. Lockerbee said. “Could it be you went AWOL for a week or two, after you soloed?”

  “I’ve never been AWOL, sir, before soloing or after, even though I didn’t solo.”

  “So you say, so you say,” Lt. Lockerbee said. “Your commanding officer, however, says something less definitive, yet in some ways more instructive, regarding your, ah, reliability.”

  “I don’t understand you, sir,” Gus said.

  “Poor hygiene. Poor military correctness, uniform-wise. Dangerous work habits. Disrespect. In wartime, a probable deserter. Poor attitude in general.” Woodbine turned pages as he spoke.

  “Dangerous work habits, sir?” Gus said.

  “Climbing radio towers sans safety harness. ‘Poor attitude’ is obviously related to that charge.”

  The lieutenants from OSI studied the papers spread on the table before them. Lockerbee looked at Woodbine, Woodbine looked at Lockerbee. Lockerbee refilled his coffee cup, Woodbine refilled his.

  “Says here you ran out on your car payments down in Biloxi,” Woodbine said.

  “I don’t have a car, lieutenant.”

  “A convenient answer, airman.”

  “You are aware, are you not, that you have a compelling death wish?” Lockerbee asked.

  “Sir?”

  “That’s what the headshrinker we consulted called it.”

  “I don’t have any death wish, lieutenant.”

  “You don’t have a death wish, you never soloed, and you never even reported to Randolph,” Lt. Woodbine said. “Are we to take it that while you never reported, you nonetheless were accepted for training? Hardly seems possible, doesn’t it?”

  “No sir. I mean, yes sir. I didn’t do any of that, sir.”

  “Are you familiar, airman, with the Uniform Code of Military Justice definition of prevarication?”

  “No sir.”

  “Of desertion?”

  “No sir.”

  “You should make it your business to be so.”

  “I’d never desert, sir.”

  “Never is a very long time, airman.”

  “It is sir.”

  “Are you saying there are no imaginable circumstances that would cause you to desert?”

  Gus hesitated. “Yes sir. I think so, sir.”

  “Somewhat less certain, now, are you, airman?”

  The OSI lieutenants looked at each other and grinned sagely. Both men wore horn-rims. Each wore the bright orange and pale yellow Good Conduct ribbon. They refilled their coffee cups. They looked through their file for more papers. They were lawyers, recent graduates, and had never served on a military installation.

  “On an unrelated subject, Airman Reppo,” Lt. Lockerbee said. “A serious complaint has been filed against you by a Mrs. Orson Gunlocke of Chula Vista, California. Are you familiar with such a person?”

  Gus thought: Fuck oh dear. He felt light-headed. Don’t topple, he told himself.

  “Sort of, sir,” Gus said.

  “Interesting response, airman. Sort of. By that you mean you have had some intercourse with the aforesaid Mrs. Gunlocke.” “Intercourse sir?”

  “We mean in the socially acceptable sense. Intercourse in the conversational, afternoon tea party sense,” Lt. Woodbine said.

  “If you’d like, we could speak of it in the carnal sense, as well,” Lt. Lockerbee said.

  “What’s this about?” Gus said.

  “We told you. She’s filed a complaint against you with the Judge Advocate General’s office.”

  “Complaint? I should file a complaint against her.”

  “Is she the reason you went AWOL from Randolph, even though you soloed in the PT-19 and thus qualified for advanced instruction in the T-33 jet trainer? You fell in love with Mrs. Gunlocke—if it can be called love—and decided flying airplanes for your country just wasn’t good enough for you. Does that about sum it up, airman? You placed your personal interests over your sworn duty?”

  “Jesus Christ, sir! That’s crazy!”

  “Calm down, airman. Of course it’s crazy, we’re agreed on that point. There is much here that’s not kosher, in the psychological sense. For one thing, Mrs. Gunlocke is over forty years old. Can you tell us what your present relationship is with Mrs. Gunlocke?”

  “I don’t have any present relationship with her. Marva Gunlocke was married to my father, Orson Gunlocke. He was killed in the war.”

  “She’s your mother?” Lt. Woodbine said, rising out of his chair.

  “No sir! She’s not my mother! She was married to my father, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Is not one’s mother married to one’s father?” Lt. Lockerbee said. “Am I missing something here?”

  “My mother lives here in town,” Gus said.

  “Keeping her close so you can continue your carnal relations with her?” Lt. Woodbine said. “This is a step or two beyond the pale, airman.”

  “It explains his death wish,” Lockerbee confided to Woodbine.

  “You’ve got it all wrong!” Gus said.

  “You sit atop high radio towers without safety equipment, staring at the sky … contemplating—understandably suicide?”

  “No, sir. I mean yes, I’ve climbed without gear, but …”

  “He says no when he means yes, yes when he means no,” Lockerbee observed. “He’s not clear about so many things. Does he know what his position is now? Does he know who he is and what he wants? Does he know the depth and extent of his psychological disturbance? The depth and extent of his guilt?”

  “I’m ready to recommend this airman for an immediate Section 8 discharge,” Lt. Woodbine said. “The man is clearly mentally unfit, and, as such, a threat to squadron morale.”

  Lt. Woodbine warned, “Before you say anything else, airman, I suggest you hear the cha
rges Mrs. Gunlocke has brought against you.”

  Gus felt his throat constrict. He needed more air but wasn’t getting it.

  Lt. Lockerbee said, “Mrs. Gunlocke—the woman you speak of as your father’s wife—in other words, your mother—claims you raped her, and that she is now carrying your child.”

  “If it’s a boy,” Lt. Woodbine said, “he’s your son as well as your brother. If a girl, your daughter and your sister. You see? This is why we have laws against incest.”

  The room darkened, as when a swift cloud blocks the sun.

  “I personally am filled with disgust,” Lt. Woodbine said. “I’ve never encountered such unmitigated foulness. The devil himself in his filthy brimstone cave couldn’t …”

  “Take it easy, Woodbine,” Lockerbee said. “The evidence speaks for itself. No need to wax poetic.”

  Gus slid out of his chair. He toppled.

  He woke up in sick bay. “Nothing’s wrong with you,” the medic, Phil Ecks, said.

  Toppled, Gus did not walk across the ocean floor. Did not see Orson. Saw no gutted Fisk. Heard no voices. Saw no fish nibbling the ragged remains of his father. For which he was thankful. He’d simply passed out. Fainted dead away. Two airmen who’d been shooting pool in the day room carried him to sick bay.

  “I think I’m coming down with something,” Gus told Phil Ecks, the medic.

  “Probably goldbrick-itis. There’s an epidemic going around,” Ecks, said.

  “I’m serious,” Gus said.

  Ecks gave Gus two small bottles of GI gin. Gus went to his barracks and drank the medicine. GI gin, a mixture of alcohol, decongestants, and opiates, was the standard medicine for colds and flu. It tasted like a blend of turpentine, vinegar, and corn syrup, but the effect was quick and strong. Gus drank the first bottle while watching TV with Lamar Harkey. Harkey was sitting on the floor, picking black lint from between his toes.

  “You gonna give me a swoller of that?” Harkey said.