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We read the letters of the dead like helpless gods,
but gods, nonetheless, since we know the dates that follow.
~ "The Letters of the Dead" by Wislawa Szymborska
Jackson Hunter's thinking about nothing in particular when he comes into the barracks and sees DeSaussure frowning down at a letter in his hands. It's a heavy frown, one that puts years on DeSaussure's face and brings out shadows in his eyes, hunches up his shoulders like he's turned into that stone man in the museum that Jackson's seen pictures of, the one carrying the world on his back.
DeSaussure looks up at Jackson's entrance, though, and some of the shadows clear (or are at least hidden real well), and the letter gets put under his pillow as he says, with that slow Carolina drawl of his that college ain't yet beat out of him, "You're goin' to bed early." There's a glint in his eyes when he adds, "Need your beauty sleep?" Lord knows they won't be getting any after tonight, not when they're done with the last of their RVN training and starting to go on patrols to hunt down the VC and sleep in foxholes and tents for what seems like goddamn eternity.
Jackson makes a face at DeSaussure's innocent look, because he needs at least a hundred years of sleep to look handsome, and everybody knows it. Beauty ain't ever been a Hunter's middle name. "Whatcha readin', Shakespeare?" he shoots back, pleased with his own smarts, and grins brightly at DeSaussure's answering glare.
(DeSaussure swears that he won't ever forgive Jackson for landing him the nickname Shakespeare, even if Jackson didn't mean to. Jackson came from a long line of Hunters where their family traditions were drinking a bit too much and never graduating high school, but he'd always been respectful-like toward folks smart enough to graduate high school, much less college. And so, when he first met Alvin DeSaussure and learned that the man was planning to be a professor of all things, the first thing that fell out of his mouth was, "You mean you're gonna teach Shakespeare or somethin'?" The name had stuck, no matter how long DeSaussure spent telling everybody he was gonna teach something called Archeology or Astrology, Jackson can't ever remember which. Sometimes, when the boys are feeling nice, they'll call him Professor or even just plain DeSaussure, but most days it's Shakespeare.)
"No," DeSaussure says after a moment. The heaviness is in his voice now. "A letter from Sassy, askin' if I heard anything about--" He pauses, shrugs, and Jackson just nods, because he knows about DeSaussure's brother being swallowed up by the fucking jungle, knows that the man could be dead in a tiger pit right now or maybe even captured by the enemy, and that DeSaussure's sister is still hoping and praying for him being captured, if just so he might get home some day. DeSaussure starts again, with forced lightness, "She's expectin' again. Hopin' for a girl, but Cameron's prayin' for a little brother."
Jackson grins a little. He's a little surprised that Cameron wants a younger brother or sister; he still remembers his cousin Rose's temper tantrum when her little sister was being born. But then, from what DeSaussure has told them all about his family, they're one huge sprawling mess of a clan, and it ain't like Cameron was ever the baby of the family. For a moment, Jackson's almost wishful about having a little brother or sister, but it's just a thought that lasts a second or two. His parents had struggled just to support themselves and him, after all.
He sits down on his cot, which is only two down from DeSaussure's, in between Montgomery's and Ellison's, and listens to the sounds of the other men coming. They've got an early morning tomorrow, going out on a patrol that will probably take them to hell and (hopefully) back again, into the jungles that ate up DeSaussure's brother two months ago, and McBride's cousin, close on to two years ago.
He tries to think of something other than tomorrow, and then grins. "Oh, did I tell you that Lily won the school spelling bee and is goin' to the state competition?" There's pride in his voice for his littlest cousin, since she's the closest the Hunters have come to a regular genius in the family, the one everyone's tucking some money away for so she can afford college.
DeSaussure smiles at that. "What was the winning word?" he asks, and Jackson blinks.
"Didn't mention it, too busy goin' on and on 'bout the ribbon and how she beat Danny Rogers, some boy she's hated since she was six. I'll hafta ask her." He pauses and adds, all thoughtful-like, "Guess I shouldn't be feelin' bad about all those times she corrected my spelling in my letters, now," and is stupidly pleased when DeSaussure throws back his head and laughs, the last of the darkness leaving his eyes.
***
***
Deer Lily,
DeSaussure was asking what word you one the speling be with. And everybode says good job and good luck with the state champeenships. I no you will do grate. I mite not be abel to send anuther letter for a wile.
Love, Jackson
***
***
Dear Jackson,
The word I won with was smaragdine. It means "emerald-green in color." Tell everyone thank you and that I'll let you know if I win the state competition. I hope this letter reaches you soon. Please write to me as soon as you can.
Love,
Lily
P.S. Corrections:
Dear Lily
What word you won the spelling bee with
Everybody
Championships
I know you will do great
I might not to able to send another letter for a while.
***
***
In the jungle, there's not much to do but keep your weapons clean and keep an eye out for Charlie and all his fucking traps. Oh, and curse the rain and the whole fucking universe, especially when it's been raining three days straight and you don't think you'll ever be dry again or get the taste of mud outta your mouth. During his free time (not that there's much of that in the middle of a goddamn war), Jackson huddles down in his tent and writes letters to his family, being real careful when it comes to Lily's, because he wants her to be surprised when she opens up his letter and sees how his writing's gotten pretty decent. He can't wait to hear she's won the state championship, keeps that thought close to him during the patrols, when every step might mean a mine or a tiger pit.
"You misspelled storm," DeSaussure says, appearing suddenly at Jackson's side. He grins at Jackson's narrow-eyed glare, because Jackson doesn't know who raised DeSaussure, but where Jackson comes from, it's rude to read over somebody's shoulder. After a moment, DeSaussure adds, softer, in a voice Jackson ain't ever heard him use before, "I can help you with that letter, if you want."
Jackson squints up at him for a moment and can't make out DeSaussure's look, but guesses it's a little wishful. He knows DeSaussure wants to teach, wants to spend his time with folks a hell of a lot smarter than Jackson and the other grunts DeSaussure's stuck with at the moment. Still, DeSaussure can't be serious about wanting to teach Jackson proper spelling. All this dampness is making his bones ache, so different from the dryness of Texas that he misses home more than he usually does, so his response is a little testy when he says, "You really wanna try and teach me, when everybody knows I can't spell worth a damn?"
DeSaussure frowns, probably about to tell him to "have some more confidence" in himself (words that made him want to walk right outta class, every time one of his fool teachers said it, because you can't get confidence for something you got no skill with), and Jackson says, before DeSaussure can open his mouth, "'Sides, I don't need to know 'bout the stars, DeSaussure, and that's what you really care about, ain't it?"
DeSaussure looks puzzled.
"You know, your astrology--" Jackson begins, waving a hand vaguely toward the top of his tent, and then stops at DeSaussure's laughter, which is loud as gunfire for a moment before he remembers where they are and turns the sound into smothered chuckles, his shoulders shaking.
"Archeology," the other man says once he's gotten control of himself, and Jackson probably should be angry that DeSaussure's laughing at him, but the laughter in DeSaussure's eyes makes him grin sheepishly instead at his own damn temper. "I study past cultures and peoples." When Jackson stares, DeSaussure adds, patiently, "Like lookin' at the pyramids."
"Oh, in Egypt," Jackson says, suddenly on firmer ground. He's seen pictures of them and that Sphinx thing, and wondered a little at how the Egyptians had made something so big, back before technology. Still, he eyes DeSaussure a little, because sure, the pyramids are pretty interesting, but why would anybody want to study things and people that have been dead and gone for over a thousand years?
DeSaussure must read his look, because he tilts his head like a bird and says, that amusement still in his voice, "Don't tell me there's nothing that fascinated you, Hunter."
Jackson opens his mouth to admit that nothing's really fascinated him, not like spelling fascinates Lily and history fascinates DeSaussure-- it's one reason why he enlisted, because he sure as hell wasn't heading off to college, and tinkering around in his father's repair shop wasn't too interesting-- when Reynolds, their captain and a lifer, sticks his head inside the tent and starts hollering (well, hollering as much as you can in a whisper, but the intent's there) at them for being so fucking loud.
There's silence in the tent for a moment after Reynolds is done tearing them a new one, and then DeSaussure clears his throat. "The offer still stands, if you want some help with your spelling," he says, real matter-of-fact, and then turns away before Jackson can answer or even grumble that between DeSaussure and Lily, he's gonna learn to spell whether he wants to or not.
***
***
Dear Lily,
I don't know when you'll get this, but just wanted to let you know I'm doing all right. Lots of storms, lots of rain, though. Makes me miss Texas. DeSaussure's got it into his fool head to help you, so he's been correcting my spelling in my letters. I'm beginning to think you wrote to him and asked for his help, but he just smiles when I ask him. If you did, I'll
Well okay I don't know what I'll do, but you'll be sorry, Lily Jane Hunter. And we're all wishing you luck in the state championship.
Love, Jackson
***
***
They're on that search and clear mission for what seems like weeks, though DeSaussure keeps careful track of the time and tells him it's only been a few days. So far, their lucky streak holds-- no mines, no tiger traps, no sign of any Charlie at all, actually, 'cept for some sights that are enough to give a person nightmares and make him wish himself blind, like when they have to clean up villages that had been friendly and now are wiped clean off the earth, bury the bodies of women and children who'd done nothing but trust the Americans to keep them safe.
Still, nobody in their company's dead, and it's enough to make a man wonder if God's looking out for them, though Jackson doesn't know what would make them so special. Got a few who are particular about religion-- Lawson carries a Bible in his rucksack and prays before he eats, every single time-- but other companies have got religion too, and they've still had KIA.
Reynolds gets more and more wound up as the days pass, certain that their luck's gonna run out and they'll have hell to pay, blood and sweat and tears and bodies in bags. Most everyone ignores him. Reynolds worries more than a mother hen; maybe it's 'cause he's a lifer, or maybe it's just Reynolds being Reynolds.
Jackson just silently thanks whoever's up there looking out for them and tries not to think about their luck going south.
The days drag on, slower than molasses, and fall into a pretty little pattern. The company comes back to base camp, gets a few days of patrol there before they get sent out on another search and clear mission, have a few brushes with Charlie but nothing special (McBride gets injured but he's up and at 'em with a couple of days, saying how the war'll be over soon, seeing how Chuck can't aim). He kills his first VC right after McBride gets shot, drops the guy where he's perched in a tree. Jackson tries not to think about aiming for Charlie's chest and squeezing the trigger, not when it'd been the choice between killing him or letting Reynolds take a bullet to the brain, but that Charlie is in his nightmares too, like the dead, accusing faces of the friendlies from those destroyed villages.
A few weeks later, a crumpled letter arrives from Lily, saying she's won the state championship. There's a picture of her and her parents, too, beaming at the camera and waving that blue ribbon of hers, and Jackson's prouder than he's ever been, enough so that everybody around him starts groaning and telling him to hush about his genius of a cousin. (Their groans don't stop them all from signing the letter Jackson sends to congratulate her, though, from Lawson to Thomas to Reynolds.)
Jackson's getting used to this life, the tension and the mud and the constant thought that maybe this time somebody's gonna get killed or he'll have to kill another VC. He sleeps badly, nightmare after nightmare, but then, they all do, and waits for Lily to send him another letter. Most nights, he winds up listening to DeSaussure talk about archeology and warriors like the Hittites and a whole bunch of Egyptian kings called Ramses. His spelling's improving, little by little, though he won't ever be a genius, not like DeSaussure and Lily.
DeSaussure seems glad to have someone to talk at (and it's definitely at, since Jackson just sits and listens and lets DeSaussure's words wash over him until DeSaussure's throat gets sore or they have to shut up or face more of Reynolds' yelling). Jackson learns more about history and DeSaussure's family than he ever thought he would.
DeSaussure's family is nothing like Jackson's-- they've got honor and smarts and the sort of love for their country Jackson only thought was real in stories. It's must be catching, because Jackson starts feeling a rush of pride for being here, for fighting for his country and working with good men. He doesn't think he has what it takes to be a lifer, not like most of DeSaussure's kin do, but this, this he can do for his country and his family.
When he says as much to DeSaussure, DeSaussure just grins at him, like he's said something right.
***
***
He's on point when it happens. They've gotten word that there's a group of VC settled down in a village about three clicks north, and there's gonna be a fight and bullets flying and maybe some of his company KIA. Jackson tries hard not to think about it, moving through the jungle towards the village and listening hard for the sound of Charlie. He's listening so hard for the enemy that he almost doesn't hear the quiet click of the mine under his left boot.
Almost, but he does, though it's too late-- his momentum keeps him moving, and then his boot's lifting off the mine and he's tumbling through the air, the sound of the explosion hitting him a second before the white-hot pain, the type of pain that's merciful enough to make you lose consciousness after a second.
When he comes to, it's to the low, steady sound of DeSaussure cursing up a storm and the feel of DeSaussure's callused hands on his shoulders, keeping him down or maybe holding him up. But that doesn't last too long, DeSaussure's voice flickering in and out like a bad radio or something, and besides, the pain in his legs has Jackson by the throat and won't let go, and he's grateful when he starts sliding back toward the blackness, where there's no pain and no wondering how bad he's injured.
Jackson doesn't remember much after that, not his trip on the freedom bird back home, not those first weeks where he's in a morphine haze, nothing much 'til one morning he opens his eyes to find out he's home, just a little less of a man, with stumps where his legs had been and Lily's bright blue ribbon pinned to the foot of his bed.
***
***
Dear Mr. DeSaussure,
This is Lily. I thought you would like to know how Jackson's doing, since he wrote about you so much. The doctors say he'll be fine but I'm not sure I believe them. He lost both legs, and right now he's just healing, but I figured he'd want to know how his company was doing once he's not half-conscious from morphine once he's feeling better. Just write back to me, if you can, and I'll let him know how everyone's doing.
Sincerely,
Lily Hunter
***
***
Dear Ms. Hunter,
I regret to inform you that a few days before your letter arrived, Alvin DeSaussure went missing in action and Michael Lawson and Edwin McBride were killed. I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of answering your letter on DeSaussure's behalf. Please tell Hunter that our company is thinking of him and that we were sorry to hear of the extent of his injuries. Please feel free to send more letters as Hunter's health improves.
Sincerely,
Captain William Reynolds
***
***
Jackson's hands are dirty with motor oil, and he curses a little under his breath at the sound of someone pulling up to the shop. Wonderful. Danny and Ethan are home sick with the same bug, Luke's across the street on his lunch break, and Jackson looks a mess-- not exactly the face you want to show a customer. Still, looking dirty is better than just ignoring the person who's waiting for service, and so he wipes his hands as best he can on a nearby towel, and grabs his crutches from where they'd been resting next to the Lincoln he'd been tinkering on, carefully set within arm's reach.
"Be there in a minute!" he hollers, and then carefully gets to his feet. Twenty years and more since the war, and for all that Jackson's pretty steady on his crutches and prosthetics, it's still annoying as hell standing up, every damn time. He makes his way out of the garage, thinking to himself. There were no appointments or scheduled drop-offs right now, which was why Luke had gone to eat, which means this person's probably got trouble that happened suddenly.
He sees the car first, and tries not to wince. It's a beat-up Ford that looks to be on its last legs, though old enough that it might not be the owner's fault. Still, it's definitely a car that somebody's used just as a means to an end and that needs a little TLC. The man standing next to the Ford looks frustrated, running a hand through his hair and trying for a weak smile when he sees Jackson coming.
Jackson's long-since gotten used to the looks people give him when they first see his crutches-- ones of shock, sympathy, horror-- so he's a little surprised when the newcomer barely bats an eye, just glances at the crutches for a quick second and then says, "I'm sorry about showing up unexpectedly, but the warning light for my battery went on and some people directed me to your shop. Said you were the most reliable place around."
"No problem," Jackson says easily, brushing aside compliment and ignoring the pride warming his chest. Still, he's done well for himself, taken his father's mechanic shop and turned it into a repair shop known through most of west Texas as being reliable. It's hard not to feel a little pride about that. He grins at the man, wondering why he looks familiar. Maybe he's somebody Jackson went to high school with (though most of them are still in the same town they were born in, just like Jackson, and he hasn't heard of anyone coming back to town to visit). "You caught us on a slow day. My assistant's at lunch and my two workers are out sick, but I can give it a look for you, see if it's something simple. Just need your information and insurance, if you've got some."
"Of course," the man says, and pulls out his wallet. "The name's DeSaussure. Alvin, but--" He looks up from looking through his wallet, and frowns. "Are you all right?"
Jackson can't exactly answer him, because he's trying to remember how to breathe, much less talk. There's got to be only one Alvin DeSaussure in the world, which means it's Shakespeare in the flesh who's standing in his shop. Last he'd heard, trying hard to wean himself off morphine and set himself straight, Alvin DeSaussure had been MIA and as good as dead, come to that. But here he was, alive and not much worse for the wear, 'cept for that wreck of a car he apparently owns.
DeSaussure's looking alarmed now, watching him like he's about to fall over, and if Jackson hadn't been clutching his crutches so tight, he might have done just that.
As it is, he finally swallows and says, words coming out as a croak, "Been more'n twenty years, no surprise you wouldn't recognize me, Shakespeare. Hell, I didn't recognize you." He's a little surprised to feel his eyes prickling, like he's about to cry, which would be stupid. Only times he's ever allowed himself to cry was after funerals and when he'd woken up in the hospital to discover he was two legs short of a full man. But this is DeSaussure, alive, not dead like Jackson had always thought but never let himself know for sure. He hadn't wanted to know, just in case DeSaussure was dead, had wanted to pretend that DeSaussure had been rescued or released. It's one of the reasons he refuses to visit the Wall and hasn't ever been, not once in the five years since its completion.
DeSaussure looks blank for another second, and then goes white as a ghost, and Jackson almost wants to laugh, because hell, it is like a ghost (a ghost that's aged more than a little, but a ghost) is standing right in front of him. "Hunter's Repair," DeSaussure says, like a profanity almost, or maybe a prayer, and then shuts his eyes for a second, as though trying to make the world stop spinning. "So many Hunters in the world, I didn't think--"
"Yeah," Jackson agrees, because Hunter is as common a name as dirt. The prickling feeling hasn't gone away, and his voice is a little husky when he says, "Last I knew, you were MIA."
DeSaussure's mouth twists a little, like he's tasted something bad, and Jackson knows the look as one remembering memories he'd rather not and wishes he hadn't said anything. "I was. For a few years."
Jackson tries to remember memories that are more than twenty years old, and finds them easier to remember than he thought they would. He shouldn't be surprised. DeSaussure's the clearest and best memory he has from the war. "And your brother?" He winces a little at DeSaussure's slow shake of the head. He'd figured as much, but still, he'd hoped, for DeSaussure's sake-- "You in a rush to get somewhere?" he asks, and grins a little when DeSaussure raises an eyebrow and looks a little confused. "Figure I could treat you to lunch, if you're not busy."
After a second, DeSaussure smiles, and he looks almost young again, like the man Jackson remembers telling him about the Hittites while they listened to the rain hitting the top of their tent and readied themselves for the next patrol. "Lunch would be great."
Jackson leaves a note for Luke to look over the Ford, mentioning to DeSaussure that Luke is Lily's oldest, sixteen and surly, but a good worker despite his attitude. Besides, it's mostly grief that's making the boy act the way he is, and for all that Lily's been dead a year, it still hurts to tell DeSaussure that she'd passed on, fighting the cancer that ate her up to her very last breath. She'd been the head of the English department at the local high school, still teaching people how to spell.
It turns out DeSaussure became a professor after all, teaching at Texas A&M and enjoying it (mostly, though he has a few stories about idiots he's had to teach that make Jackson almost choke on his food trying not to howl with laughter). He'd actually been driving home from a lecture when the emergency light had turned on.
A few hours and a more than a few drinks later, DeSaussure's got a promise to have the Ford as fixed up as best Jackson can and at no cost, and Jackson has an invitation to the next and any family gathering of the clan. Cameron, all grown up, is Air Force and has his own cherished Mustang now, and will probably talk Jackson's ear off about it.
For a time, they talk about people in their company. He'd known about McBride and Lawson, but not about Green, Sanders, Henderson. Thomas lost a leg to another mine, and Evans lost an arm and a leg from a grenade. Jackson tries not to think about the bits and pieces that he and his company left in those jungles, and DeSaussure must notice, because he starts talking about the survivors who didn't leave anything (physical) behind in Vietnam. Reynolds managed to live through the war, worrying all the while, and is nothing less than a general now, which makes Jackson laugh, imagining Reynolds mother-henning his entire command.
Afterwards, once Jackson and DeSaussure have argued over paying the bill (DeSaussure wins, though Jackson thinks he was lying his ass off about how well professors are actually paid) and gone back to the repair shop, Luke tells them he's looked the car over. It's a broken alternator drive belt, which will be shipped to the shop three days from now, thanks to the belt breaking on a Friday.
DeSaussure winces. "Looks like I'm not going to get back in time for Monday classes," he says, shaking his head. "Mind if I use your phone to call and let my TA know he'll have to cover my classes?"
"Of course," Jackson says. "It's in my office." He watches DeSaussure go, and not for the first time that day, marvels a little. Seems like a miracle, like a gift from some higher power, that DeSaussure would find his repair shop of all places, and if Jackson were a praying man, he'd be thanking the Lord. When DeSaussure comes out of the office, he says, "You need a place to sleep?"
DeSaussure looks a little surprised, like he hadn't thought about anything past calling his TA and the college. "Is there a hotel--" he starts, and then stops at Luke's muffled laughter.
"Sorry, but Uncle Jackson's not going to let you sleep in a hotel," Luke says, grinning, and Jackson's nodding in agreement before the boy even finishes the sentence. "Call it Texan hospitality."
"Call it Texan hospitality, so long as you ignore the fact that my home's a mess and not fit for company," Jackson adds, and smiles as DeSaussure throws back his head and laughs.