Chimera, page 37
“I bet I could do that,” he said as a man in a large cowboy hat shot a silver dollar tossed up in the air.
“They don’t call me “Quick-draw Wyndham” for nothing,” he said, blowing on an imaginary barrel and putting his imaginary gun back into his imaginary holster.
“What?” I asked, as Kam and Daniel got up and walked to the kitchen.
“What, what?” Joshua asked, still watching the TV.
“Wyndham? Your last name is Wyndham?”
“Yeah,” he said distractedly, as he grabbed the remote fromt he coffee table.
“You. You can’t be. Did anyone ever call you “Stormy” by any chance?” I asked.
Joshua placed the remote back on the table and looked at me.
“Yes, they did. I knew him too, Em. Curly.”
“Curly?”
“Yeah, that’s what we called him. Because of his—“
“Hair. Because of his hair,” I said, remembering the curlicue Mr. Anderson always wore over his forehead.
“You fought in...” I didn’t finish. These kind of things still amazed me. That I was sitting next to someone who’d fought in World War II, someone younger than I was. Chronologically.
“Sure did, wish I could fight right now, but it’s not the same. Hell back then, all I had to do was sign my name to a piece of paper and they practically just handed me a uniform and a gun, pushed me into a plane, and that’s it. These days I’d be poked and prodded and tested.”
“You knew him,” I said, not paying attention to anything else.
“Yeah, for a while actually,” Joshua said. “Good man, Curly. Brave son of a bitch too. Did he ever tell you how he lost his fiinger?”
“No,” I said, “do you know he did?”
“Yeah.”
“Well? Can you tell me?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Let’s see,” he said, rubbing his chin, “oh okay, it’s coming back now. I remember we were in a rough spot. Nearly surrounded, almost out of ammo, lots of casualties. We were being rescued by one of those newfangled things called a helicopter, one of the very few used in that war. I had my hands full dragging two men to it and we were all set to hop in when we heard one of our guys yelling out there, in the open field. He’d been shot several times and couldn’t walk. Before I could stop him, Curly took off running, back out there. I knew bullets couldn’t hurt me, so what I did, wasn’t brave, but Curly, he knew he could get shot down if he ran back out there, but he did. He got to the guy, took off his own helmet, put it on the guy, then picked him up and carried him back. That’s when he got shot. Tore his finger right off. I don’t know whatever happened to that guy, if he survived or not, but I know he wouldn’t have survived past that day if not for Curly.”
He never told me that story. Of course not, he was not that kind of man. He chose to tell me the story of the boy he thought he killed, not the man he knew he’d saved.
“Dinner is served,” Daniel called from the kitchen. Samuel got up, rubbing his stomach.
“Will you tell me more? More stories about him, later?” I asked Joshua, before getting up to join them in the kitchen.
He smiled. “Hell yeah, I’ve got all kinds of stories about him. Did he ever tell you about his girl? Barbara?”
“Yeah, once or twice,” I said, and followed him into the kitchen.
After our last meal there, the best lasagna I’ve ever tasted, with wine Daniel said was the best in the world (I couldn’t tell the difference, but if he said so), I went back to the bedroom to pack.
Catherine was sitting on the bed, looking as worn as it was possible for them to look.
She got up, hugged me tightly, kissed me. She didn’t say where she’d been and I didn’t ask. I was too happy to see her again. To feel her.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
“Yeah,” she said, “yeah, I just needed time to think.”
I only nodded.
“It’s not over Emile, you know that right? There are others. There’ll be others coming for you.”
“Yes,” I said, looking away. This again. “I know.”
“If you...”
“I know Catherine, I know, but can we leave it for now? For a few days? I promise we can talk about it later, but right now, I, I missed you, can’t we just enjoy a few days before we discuss it? I mean, come on, I’m going to suffer enough as it is, look at this, I’m going to have to wear a filthy shirt for a month.”
She smiled. “Okay. I’m sorry. I just worry, that’s all.” She lifted my shirt a little between her fingers. “It took you long enough, reading that book.”
“Hey, normally I would have finished it in three days. But I have...distractions now,” I said, smiling.
“I don’t think Joshua will hold you to it, you know. For a whole month, maybe you can wear it for a week, maybe spray some Febreze on it every now and then.”
“No, I made a bet, I have to keep my word. You know what that’s like.”
“Yeah.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, as she moved to the window, looking out at the dark sky. “You never did tell me who it was. Who you made a promise to.” I put my arms around her waist from behind, nuzzling her neck, smelling her shampoo. Wherever it was she went, though it didn’t look like she’d been eating, at least she was still showering. “You can tell me now can’t you?”
I could feel her stiffen up underneath my hands but she didn’t move away.
“Yes, I can.”
“Well? Who was it?”
Silence.
“Your father.”
I dropped my arms. The smile on my face gone as she turned around to face me.
“My father? You...you knew my father?”
“No Emile, I know your father. He’s who I was speaking to that night, by the fire. He’s alive. And he’d very much like to meet you.”
Debra Flores, Chimera
