Michael Abberton

“What is that, Daddy?” 

“What is what, baby girl?”

The little girl tugged at her father’s jacket. Troy squatted down so that he was at the same eye level. “OK, what?” 

“That!” her arm shot out to point a pudgy pink finger at a picture, leaning against a cardboard box of LPs. It was a picture, or more properly a painting, on a 10”x10” canvas. A winged figure was silhouetted against a large yellow disk on a light blue background. But the silhouette was no bird. There was no head, and it appeared to have four wings, two large  ones that curved upwards towards where the head would have been, a pair lower down the body, and a full triangular tail. The feathers at the back edge of the wings and tail were longer and their individual lozenge shapes were shown, as well as the filament structure on some of the feathers. 

“Is it a bird?” the girl said, still pointing. 

“Yes, it’s a bird. Now where did Mommy get to?” 

“Are you going to buy it,  Daddy?” 

“No, Katy. Come on.” 

“Why? You like birds.”

“I like birds. I don’t like that picture.”

“Why?”

He thought for a minute before replying.  “It’s not as good as yours. You can do much better than that.”

Satisfied with that answer, she dropped her arm and they moved away to another part of the yard. 

A Sunday afternoon in late summer. Kids going to college, or preparing for high school, clearing out bedrooms for a bit more spending cash to support the move. For Troy Folds, 28, moving into a new neighbourhood, a chance to get to know the neighbours and perhaps pick up a bargain at the same time. With one baby daughter and another on the way, the temporary diversion and perhaps some cheap toys and supplies wouldn’t go amiss. But this neighbourhood holds a secret – a secret that can only be revealed… in the Twilight Zone. 

“Look at this, Troy!” said Rachel. She was standing by a bassinet that appeared to be made of a combination of wicker basketwork and some kind of woven rushes. “What do you think? It’s only twenty bucks.” He went over and picked the thing up, looking underneath, then put it back down, looked underneath the mattress, and then at the white cotton lining and matching bedding that was neatly folded at the foot of the little bed. 

“That’s certainly a bargain!” said a woman, approaching them  from the direction of the house. 

“I can see that’s too small for the little one… isn’t she adorable!”  Katy took refuge behind her father’s legs, not taking her eyes off the old lady just in case. The woman was really not that old, maybe early forties, greying brown hair in a loose ponytail, wearing jeans and a simple blue shirt. “You have another one on the way, sweetheart?” she said to Rachel. 

“Yes, we do, but a ways off yet. We just moved in down the street, and we don’t have much left as hand-downs from when Katy was a baby. I’m Rachel, this is my husband, Troy.”

“Wonderful! My name’s Peggy. We’re just clearing out some old stuff, you know…” 

“But this looks new,” said Rachel, about to ask something else when Troy shook his head. He noticed the little stars and stripes flag on the mailbox, and the gold star banner in the window of the house. 

“Yes… well, the air is very dry here, and my husband knows how to take care of stuff.” She looked at Troy again, up and down, taking in his brown sports coat with a peace button on the lapel, open shirt, tousled curly brown hair, and full beard. “What do you do, Troy?” 

“I teach junior high, Peggy. I finished my degree when I got back from Vietnam.” 

His mood completely changed, and she began to smile. 

“What did you do over there?”

“I was a sergeant in the 1^st Cavalry, out of Camp Radcliff. Two tours.” 

“Did you see much action?”

“We were pretty much in the thick of it, Peggy… I think we’ll take this, thanks,” Troy said, reaching for his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans.

“Oh no, you take it, please, as a housewarming. Anything for a veteran!” 

Rachel shook her head. “No, that’s quite all right. We can’t let you…” 

“I insist,” she said, pressing the bassinet into Rachel’s arms. 

Rachel looked at Troy from behind the basket and shook her head.

 “Um…” he said, looking around… how much is this?” he said, grabbing up the painting.

“Oh, that, it’s just five bucks…” Peggy said without registering what was happening. 

“Here, take the twenty. It’s worth more than that, I’m sure.” He passed the painting to his wife and retrieved $20 from his wallet, pressing it into Peggy’s hands. 

“Oh… well, thank you. Perhaps you could come to dinner one night… I’ll just get my husband…” 

“I’m sorry,” said Rachel. “We’ve really got to get Katy back for her nap. She does get ratty when she misses it.”

“Yes,” said Troy, scooping the little girl into his arms. “We really better be making tracks. Nice meeting you, and thanks for the stuff!” 

When they were a few hundred yards down the street, Rachel took his arm and put her head against his shoulder. “We really know how to work as a team!” she said. 

“Yeah. It’s like telepathy. We had to get out of there…” 

“Thanks for the save!” she said. 

“Yeah, most of that stuff was probably her son’s…” 

“It’s so awful…” 

“You said it,” he said, kissing her on top of the head.

“Daddy?” said Katy.

“What is it, baby girl?” he said. 

“Why did you get the bird painting? You said you didn’t like it.” 

“Ah… I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

*****

Rachel came back into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa. “She’s asleep, finally,” she said. “Is there any wine left?”

“Coming right up,” said Troy, pouring some red wine into a glass. She took it both hands and took a sip. “Ah… good shit.”

The TV was on, but the volume was low so that they wouldn’t disturb the little monster sleeping down the hall. Troy picked up the clicker and switched it off. 

“It’s a school night,” he said, “and I’m the new boy.” 

“Maybe you should take that pin off your jacket,”  she said. 

“Maybe Nixon will bring all the boys home before Thanksgiving. We talked about this before, Rach. I wore the damn pin for the interview, it’ll stay put.” 

“Well, you have other coats…” she said, curling a strand of hair around her fingers. 

Troy smiled and shook his head. “Anyway, we have another problem, and given your artistic proclivities…” 

“Wooo!” she mocked.

“Where are we going to hang this magnum opus?” he said, lifting the painting from the side of the sofa. 

“In the guest bathroom?” she said. “What the heck is it anyway? Thing with Feathers? It reminds me of something…” 

“The Flying Nun?” he said.

“No, something from school. You know, a legend.”

“You mean the cautionary Greek myth of Icarus, who, with his father Daedalus, escaped from the evil King Minos using wings made of feathers and beeswax. But the vainglorious Icarus ignored his father’s warnings and flew too close to the sun, which melted the wax, and so he fell into the sea and drowned.” 

“Well there you are. It’s practically Renaissance art in theme and form. Is there a name on it?”

Troy looked at the front and back. “Nope. There’s a stamp on the framing of the canvas – it’s an art supply store in town. No idea how old it is.” 

“I guess we could just throw it out…” 

“No… I mean, what if this was painted by her son and she saw it in our trash? No… either we hang it or we…”

“Put it in a box in the garage and forget about it.”

“Yeah… I guess…” he said, putting the painting back on the floor. 

*****

Troy came out of the mess tent and looked up at the sky – unforgiving blue with clouds that seemed to stretch higher than clouds were supposed to… matched only by the clouds of bugs just waiting outside the tent for their next victim. Next order of business after breakfast – more DEET. There was something wrong though. He couldn’t hear the bugs. In fact, everything seemed to go silent. 

FUMP FUMP FUMP!

“Incoming!” he yelled, unslinging his M16 and running for the nearest slit trench. The muddy ground told him of the impacts before the concussion of the blasts – somewhere behind him towards the centre of the firebase. Two troopers reflexively threw themselves into the mud in front of him, one losing his helmet in the process.

“Get up and to your posts! GET UP!” he yelled, pulling the helmet-less trooper to his feet by his webbing. “Strap that cover down, trooper, and get the fuck out of here!”

He heard more thumps as more shells arced their way in. And began running again himself towards his post at the south of the perimeter. Looking right, through the mess of tents and stacked gear he could see two of his veteran troopers running for the same positions. 

This time the impacts were further to the north of the base – which probably meant Charlie was coming in at the south. Now he heard the massive whump-clang! As the howitzers started to return fire, followed by the rolling whumpwhumpwhumpwhump of outgoing mortars. 

Now he ran off the end of the duckboard onto ground only surfaced by old cardboard, and turned right to move to the centre of his squad’s foxholes. Then the chatter of carbine fire started, followed by the metallic rattle of the M60 machine guns. He came up into one of the emplacements. A trooper was feeding the gun as it fired. Another trooper, shirtless and helmetless, was taking carefully aimed shots out into the treeline. 

“What you got, Slaney?” yelled Troy.

“Charlie in the treeline, Sarge! They might be massing for a charge.”

“You ready for that, Connors?” he yelled to the man on the machine gun. 

“You betcha, sergeant. Keeping it under control till we need her!”  The massive black man glanced over his shoulder with a grin, before firing another burst.

Troy slapped him on the back, and ducked out to roadie run down the trench to the next emplacement. The emplacements were just bigger foxholes, covered over with corrugated steel and sandbags supported by pit props. The next one had three men in it also, one was an RTO. Platoon Sergeant O’Riley was calling in a fire mission to the mortar team. “…fire one for effect.”

“Stand by – firing one!” came over the radio. WHUMP! The shell whistled overhead and exploded just short of the treeline. “On target. Lock and load!” 

This foxhole also had an ammo box lid with five wired switches in it.  The wires led out past the embrasure, through the ditch that served as a moat, under the barbed wire out into the cleared zone to claymore mines. 

More explosions. “Incoming!” yelled Troy, taking cover against the front wall of the emplacement. One exploded nearby – the impact was followed by  screams. Two shells fell on the wire in front of their position and the last one exploded through the front of the emplacement, sending dirt, mud and hot metal flying over Troy’s head. He looked up. Everyone was OK, wiping dirt out of their eyes, one trooper peering carefully out through the falling dirt and smoke. And despite the ringing in their ears, they could hear whistles, followed by whoops and shouts. O’Riley picked up the handset again and yelled, “Fire for effect – fire at will!” answered immediately as the mortar crew followed the order. O’Riley went over the switches, clearing off some dirt. “These better still fucking work,” he said. “Penthouse, go find out why that M60 isn’t firing!” 

Penthouse was Folds’ nickname in basic. Though god help anyone under the rank of sergeant who used it. He wiped some more mud out of his eyes and scrambled back along the trench. Before he got there, he could see that the emplacement had taken a direct hit. Most of the sandbags had gone from the roof, and steel sheeting was bent. Someone was crawling out, but he couldn’t tell who it was. He crouched down; it was Connors, his face bloody and crusted in dirt. “I’m OK, sarge… OK.” 

“Stay down!” Troy pulled Connor’s canteen off his hip, undid the cap, and put it in his hand. Then he climbed over him into the bunker. 

The air smelled of explosive, spent ammo, and the coppery smell of blood. Slaney was only recognisable as he was shirtless. His head was gone. The other trooper was on the floor of the pit, groaning. A piece of metal was stuck in the back of his flak jacket, and Troy daren’t check to see if it had penetrated all the way. He picked up the machine gun, and with the sleeve of his fatigues, wiped the barrel and breech. It seemed to be in order. He lifted it up and put it back on its bipod, and looked through the sights. 

The scene outside was chaos. The mortar fire was very accurate and withering; the enemy had only been able to advance twenty or thirty yards before being cut down. However, the team did not have unlimited rounds. Suddenly, a line of black-clad Vietnamese militia appeared through the dirt and the smoke, running forward, screaming, firing wildly with rifles, captured M16s, and AK47s. Some bullets thumped into the sandbags in front of Troy. Aware that a blocked barrel could cause the gun to explode, he squeezed the trigger. It worked fine. So this time, feeding with his left hand and putting his shoulder into the stock, he began to fire in short bursts, just the way he had been trained, consciously bringing the sights down to his targets so that he wouldn’t be firing over their heads. He saw some fall but didn’t know whether that was as a result of his fire or others on the line. Nevertheless, the VC kept coming, jumping over the writhing bodies of their comrades. 

Suddenly, the front line disappeared in clouds of dirt and red mist. The claymores were going off— only thirty yards from the wire. Troy stopped firing, checked his ammo and the breach. He was coming close to the end of this belt but couldn’t afford to switch out now. 

“Sarge, gimme,” a hoarse voice said in his ear. Connors was up, having obviously rinsed his face with the water from the canteen. His eyes were still red, but otherwise, he looked OK, and the hand on Troy’s shoulder was firm. 

“OK, I’ll feed,” he yelled, swapping positions. He used the hiatus to open another ammo box and get that belt ready to go. 

The VC came on again, and the big man opened fire, with long sweeping bursts. Somehow, the gun seemed to be louder to Troy than when he had been firing it, the beginning of every burst making him jump. 

“Reload!” yelled Connors, crouching and opening the breech, not letting the belt go right to the end in case it jammed. Troy laid the new belt in place, as Connors closed the breech and pulled back the cocking lever. But as the big man stood up to begin firing again, a grenade spiralled through the front of the emplacement and bounced off his helmet. Connors immediately dropped the gun, and picking up Troy as if he were a child, threw him out the back of the bunker – as the grenade exploded at his feet. 

Troy opened his eyes. He didn’t feel any pain, just the mud soaking into the back of his fatigues. He was on his back, in the trench. His M16, which had been slung on his right shoulder, was gone. He reflexively put his hand down to his holster – his Colt was still there, secured under the flap. 

He could taste blood in his mouth but all he could smell was sulphur. 

The sky was still just as blue, but now dirty clouds of smoke were encroaching from the periphery of his vision. 

Then a large black shape moved across the sky. It was bigger than any bird and seemed to have four feathered wings. It was spitting fire in all directions. It seemed to stop directly above him, and he began to feel the weight of its presence pressing down on his chest, as if it was sitting directly on his flak jacket. He wanted to get up or roll out of the way, but he was pinned, he could no longer move his arms or his head, forced to stare straight up at this feathered thing. Suddenly, with a roar that he felt in his lungs, the beast fell directly towards him, blotting out the sky completely just before impact…

Troy sat up in bed. His heart was racing, his T-shirt soaked from sweat, sticking to his back and chest. He looked over at Rachel. By some miracle, he hadn’t woken her. He looked up with a start – there was movement in the moonlit room. The bedroom door slowly opened. Katy was standing there, a Mickey Mouse toy held by one white-gloved hand. 

“Can I come in, Daddy?” she whispered. 

“Sure thing, babydoll. Climb up, I’ll be right back.” He slid out from under the covers and went to the bathroom, getting a clean T-shirt from the stack of laundry that was airing on a chair by the door. He softly closed the door and snapped on the light. The face that looked back at him from the mirror was not the one he expected. The hair and beard were different from those days. He peeled off the soaked T-shirt and towelled himself down before pulling the clean shirt on over his head. He washed his face, and started to feel a little more human again. He’d had the dream before, but the bird was new. He shook his head, took a drink from the tap, and went back to the bedroom. Somehow Rachel had turned over to cuddle Katy, and they were both fast asleep. He stood there for a while, just looking at the scene. “Thanks, Connors,” he said, glancing skyward. If Connors hadn’t sacrificed his own life to save his… that little girl would never have been born. 

He climbed back into the bed, and after a couple of minutes lying on his back staring at the ceiling, he turned and surrendered to the cuddle pile. 

Next morning he went to work, his third week at the new school, still settling in. The other teachers seemed to be nice. His hair and peace pin got some strange looks from a couple of the older men – funny how it was always them – too old to be drafted, with no kids or sons that would still be too young or somehow exempt. The kids seemed nice, this was on the whole a good neighbourhood. There was a good mix of white, Black, and Hispanic kids and they all seemed to get along. At least, they held each other in equal disdain no matter what colour they were or what neighbourhood they came from. The principal was a woman, the old principal was in country as an army reservist. She was good, and Troy thought it was a real shame that more women weren’t in positions like hers. 

Driving home that afternoon, he felt pretty good. He was listening to the radio, singing along to The Last Train to Clarksville. He parked in the garage. Katy was at the door to welcome him. The smell of baking filled the house. 

“I’ve been helping Mommy. I made cakes!”

“You did? That’s great, babydoll. It smells fantastic.”

He walked through to the kitchen, which was surprisingly neat and tidy, despite the racks of baked goods cooling on nearly every available surface. Rachel, however, looked like a disaster in a baker’s shop, covered in flour, even in her hair, and her apron was similarly in desperate need of laundry. 

“What happened?” he laughed. “Katy here is spotless, so is the kitchen, but… did you forget to duck?”

She came over from the sink and kissed him on the cheek. “Katy is spotless as Milady has been bathed and changed. I have had no such luck.”

“This looks amazing, but what is it in aid of?” he said.

“Well, after yesterday it struck me that we haven’t introduced ourselves to the neighbours.  I mean, some of them might even have kids at your school. This gives an excuse to pay a visit or invite them back for tea…”

“For tea!” he mocked. “Listen to your mommy, Katy! You are a princess, but did you know that she was the Queen of Old England? Afternoon tea?  One lump or two?” he scoffed, in his best Dick Van Dyke English accent. Katy giggled. 

“Oh, go ahead. You mock, after the women of the house have been slaving away over a hot stove all day just so the man of the house can… well, get to know the neighbours.” 

Troy didn’t catch the change in tone. “Well, why don’t you go take a bath? Me and the princess will watch some cartoons and then fix dinner? How’s that sound?”

“Wonderful.” She sighed, smiling, taking off the apron and bundling it into a laundry hamper. 

“I’ll retire to my boudoir,” she said, flouncing out the door and down the hall. 

Once Katy had been settled in front of Wacky Races, he began to store the cooled cakes in their Tupperware collection (probably the best wedding present they had received, on reflection), and making space to start making his specialty, spaghetti bolognese. Going into the pantry to get an onion and the pasta, he noticed that the painting of the thing had been hung on the wall, between the kitchen door and the overhead cupboards. They usually kept the door open and so it had been hidden from view until now. He immediately flashed back to the nightmare. He stumbled and grabbed hold of the edge of the counter to steady himself. Trying to avert his eyes, he took the painting down and pushed it to the back of the junk drawer. Why had she hung it up? He realised that his heart was racing, and so he poured a glass of water from the faucet and drank it down. He could hear Katy laughing in the next room, and used that to centre himself. He never wanted to see that painting again. 

Dinner was great, and after Katy went to her own bed, sleepy from the carbs and too  much cake dough, they finished the wine from the night before. And though Troy kept thinking that there was something he needed to speak to Rachel about, it never found the opportunity to surface. 

“Grenade!” yelled Connors, grabbing Troy and throwing him out of the dugout. The grenade exploded before Troy squelched into the mud. He opened his eyes. This time the thing with feathers was already there, hovering over him, breathing fire from its sides. He could hear screams – the high-pitched screams and cries of the enemy, as the beast rained fire down on their heads. He realised he didn’t have his carbine, and reached desperately for his sidearm. It was still there. Then the pressure on his chest. He could hardly breathe, and he couldn’t move. The monster screamed, and began to accelerate towards him…

He woke up and jumped out of bed, realising that the scream had been his own. Rachel snapped on the bedside light, as Katy started crying in the next room.

“Troy? Are you OK? Are you having the dream again?” 

Troy was panting, the rug felt cold underneath his feet, his sodden T-shirt draining all the heat out of his body. 

“Troy?” she said, quickly climbing across the bed to hold him. He put his arms around her, burying his face in her neck, taking in the wonderful bed smell she had, drawing the warmth and safety into him.  

The cries from next door got louder as Katy appeared in the doorway. Rachel switched her attention and wept the child into her arms, taking a Kleenex from the nightstand and wiping her eyes and nose. 

“Everything is OK, Daddy just had a bad dream, that’s all. You can sleep in here again if you want, come on.” The child immediately quietened, and Troy could tell she was at most, minutes away from being fast asleep again. He peeled off his T-shirt and got a fresh one as he had the night before, but going into the bathroom, he decided to take a shower. He dialled up the temperature until it pinked his skin. He imagined the water running off his body, the skin sloughing off like a snake’s. 

Dried off but still steaming, he found them both fast asleep. The bedside light was still on, he presumed that Rachel had wanted to check on him when he got back, but the hot sleepy toddler had knocked her out. 

He pulled a spare pillow and a blanket out of the closet, and closing the door quietly, went down the dark hallway to the lounge. 

The next morning Rachel woke him early. He was sprawled face down, drooling into his beard. “Good morning,” she said, offering him a steaming mug. “Coffee.” 

He wiped his mouth and sat up, the blanket sliding onto the floor. “Thanks.” 

“You didn’t need to come in here, you should have come back to bed.”

“I didn’t want  to disturb you again.” 

“I was hoping…” she said, quietly, “that it had… that it wouldn’t…” 

He took her hand and sat on the sofa beside him. “It doesn’t just go away, we know that, and this is me now, probably.”

“Do you need to start on the meds again?” 

“I don’t know. It’s just been a couple of nights. It might pass on or quiet down.”

“I could get the number for the local VA…”

“No… well, yeah, OK. It wouldn’t hurt.” He squeezed her hand. “How’s Katy?”

“Fine. Can’t remember a thing.”

“Good. Best get moving.” 

Everything was fine at work again, and he breezed through the day without issue. Coming back that afternoon, however, he did feel tired from the lack of sleep. When he got in, he found a note on the kitchen counter: 

Gone to placate the natives with gifts of baked goods and a cute kid. Back around 6. 

R xxx

Troy hung up his jacket and tie, and taking a coke from the fridge, sat down in front of the TV. Clicking through the channels, he saw nothing to interest or divert, and so he switched it off again. The condensation from the coke was wetting the table, so he went into the kitchen to get a cloth to dry it before transferring it onto a coaster.

The picture was back on the wall, where it had been the previous day.

Why did she put it back up? He realised that he had forgotten to speak to her about it, but once again, looking at the picture, he started to drift back into the dream. His ears began to ring from the noise, his eyes stung from the grit and acrid smoke… 

The front door opened and closed. “Troy? We’re back from our mission of goodwill, and it was mostly a success. You OK?” 

Troy found a clean cloth and wiped his face with it before going back to the lounge to clean up. 

“Yeah, I’m fine, just having a coke. There’s something we need to talk about…” 

“OK. Katy, you go play in your room for a little while, OK? Daddy will come and play with you in a little while, all right?” 

“OK, Mommy.” Troy heard his daughter run off to her room. Rachel dropped a load of stuff in the kitchen and, taking a coke for herself— and a glass— came through to the lounge. She was wearing a summer dress in blue gingham, and Troy could see where the afternoon sun had already touched her shoulders, cheeks, and nose. He stood up to kiss her and sat back down on the couch. Rachel kicked off her shoes and folded her legs under her as she sat down, being careful to use coasters for both her glass and the half-empty bottle. 

“How was your day? I got the number for the VA— I put it on the fridge.” 

“Thanks. It’s that painting… this sounds crazy, I know, but I think that is what has triggered the dreams again.”

“What, because they’re a gold star family? I went back there today. They’re very nice. Her son was a Marine… Sorry, I wasn’t thinking…” 

“No, that’s all right, it’s not that. I’ve been seeing the thing, that thing with feathers, in my dream. It’s actually in there.” 

“Well, we’ll get rid of it or put it away, like we said.” 

“I did that, honey, yesterday, but you put it back up.”

Rachel laughed. “I didn’t. I put it behind the door— did you take it down?” 

Troy looked at her and shook his head. “Yeah, I took it down and put it away yesterday, but it’s back up now.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Troy, I never touched it. Could Katy…?”

“No. No… Look, come and see.”

He took her through to the kitchen and closed the kitchen door. The painting wasn’t there. He looked at the floor in case it had fallen, then at the stuff hanging on the back of the door. Rachel stood there in complete befuddlement. “It was there, it was right there…” he mumbled. “Did you move it when you came in just now?”

“No, Troy, I said I haven’t seen it since I put it up.”

He pulled open the junk drawer and felt past the stuff to the back and pulled out the painting. 

“Is that where you put it?” she  said. 

“Yeah… but…” he tossed the painting down on the counter. “I guess the lack of sleep is getting to me. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry. Let’s both make sure that it never comes back again.” She picked up the painting and, grabbing his hand, led him through to the garage, where the rest of their possessions still remained in stacks of  U-Haul cartons. Rachel picked one at random, at the bottom of a stack of three. Lifting the edge of the boxes with one hand, she opened the flaps of the cartons on the bottom and slotted the painting in. Standing again, she theatrically dusted her hands. “There! And,” she said, placing her cool hands either side of his face and looking into his eyes, “that’s where it stays. Fix that image in your tiny brain, it’s gone and stays gone. OK?”

Troy smiled and nodded. “It’s gone.”

*****

Three months later. Snow had fallen the night before, and as the man opened the garage door, more snow fell onto the driveway and off the roof of the garage, which unerringly found its way down his collar. “SHEEEEIT!” he exclaimed, shivering. His friend cackled into his muffler. 

“Let’s get this done and outtahere. The lady said just the boxes marked welfare, right?”

“Yep,” said the other, walking up to the stacks of boxes at the other end. “Here they are,” he said, pointing at a stack of three. The top one had welfare written on two sides in Sharpie. 

“Is it just the top one or all three?”

“Gotta be all ‘em, man. She wouldn’t call otherwise. Not for just one.” 

“OK. Let’s get ‘ em in the truck. And don’t drop anything this time!”

“Gotcha.” 

They took all three boxes, though the last one seemed heavy for its size, and they had to carry it between them. They pushed them onto the bed of the pick-up under a blue tarp and closed the tailgate. 

“Hey! Now this time you close the goddamn garage door!” 

“Yup.” 

“OK. Let’s get these down to the store. Hope there’s some good stuff in there, or they’re getting it back!”

A simple, amateur painting. We don’t know who it was by, or what it depicts. But for a suffering veteran and his family, it brought back the full horror of war, not just for the fallen, but for those feeling guilty for still being alive and not dying with their friends. Trying to reconcile who lives and who dies is not a question that we can answer, this side of The Twilight Zone.