Red, White, and Blue (draft 2)

Red, White, and Blue

Jessica Cookson

The events of childhood do not pass,

but repeat themselves

like seasons of the year

-Eleanor Farjeon

I pull on my collar and let the steam flow out of my shirt. The desert never lets up. Since getting here all I have known is heat.

I have been in Iraq for nearly two months on a grant to study the war. I have been assigned to follow a group of soldiers for a total of six months so I can use their lives here on the front lines in my newest novel. Today they have been assigned to a part of the city far away from my apartment and I am struggling to get there on time. I rush around cars on my bike and peddle as fast as I can. When I finally make it to the neighborhood I see that the streets are filled with kids.

The kids here are, really, no different from the ones back home. Whenever I see them they are playing games and teasing each other. The adults aren’t as familiar. They keep their distance. From what I can gather, most of them are not happy that we are here. There are some crazies that will threaten you, and some that follow through with those threats, but I have been lucky enough to never encounter those ones. Not everyone you meet is against you though. I’ve made friends with a local farmer at the market. He tells me where I can find people to interview.

I spot the guys in uniform ahead of me. In the distance I see a little boy, perhaps eight years old, looking my way. He is surrounded by other kids who are playing some version of kick the can in the red dust of the streets. The little boy starts walking towards me and the logo on his t-shirt becomes clear. It is a red and white baseball tee with a Transformers mask logo. He is small and skinny, and if his hair was a lighter brown and his skin pale he would have been the spitting image of me at that age. When I could see his eyes I was shocked. They were a brilliant blue. I had never seen blue eyes on a person of middle-eastern decent. They were mesmerizing.

He approached me with his hand held out in front of him, closed around something he held. He stopped when he reached me and smiled, the dimples in his cheeks further reminding me of myself as a kid. His eyes flickered to his hand and back and I held out my hand as if he had told me to. Slowly, he turned his hand over and opened his fist. He held a small yellow flower in his palm and had taken care not to smash it when he hand had been closed. He took my hand and then slid the flower off of his own and into mine. The little boy smiled again and then turned and walked back to the other kids, who had stopped their game to watch what had just taken place.

I slipped the flower into my pocket and jogged to catch up with the guys.

“Hey Alma, hows it goin’ today?” said Charlie, one of the guys that I’ve gotten close to.

“Woke up late this morning. And damn this heat.”

“Yeah, it’s a scorcher today.”

“Anything interesting to report, Charlie?”

“Nope. At least, nothing you could use. How is everything back home?”

“I called Jen last night and she said that the economy is really starting to tank. Unemployment rate is up to ten percent.”

“Damn. How is she doing without you there?” he asked.

“Fine, I guess. She is going to fly out here in a couple weeks when her students go on April break.”

“Nice.”

We continued walking through the street, past concrete houses and bikes and children. It was the first time I had been alone since I was ten. I hated being alone. It scared me. My only consolation here was the city itself. Lights and noises kept my fears at bay. I didn’t have to hear that incessant jaying from the birds back home. God, I hate those birds.

I don’t miss Jen. I don’t love her anymore. I did back in college, but ever since my novel was published I haven’t wanted to be around her. That was why I left. I needed to get away. I needed to immerse myself in the world I was writing about. I had a hunger, no- a thirst, for the violence of the war. It would fuel my new story, and I needed to see it firsthand.

I was fiddling around in my pack to find my water bottle when an earsplitting crack and a hot cloud blew me to the side of the road. Ash and flame burning my skin as I lay delirious.

***

It had been the hottest summer on record, which was why Alma’s mother had been working overtime. This left him alone at her house during the day and alone at her house at night while she slept or was passed out in the old la-z-boy, bottle of beer still in hand and a trashy reality T.V. show casting a flickering light on her face. He was alone at her house that summer and he had had to find his own way to pass the time.

That morning he had woken up to the rattle of the old garage door closing as his mom left for work. The fan in the window had done little to stifle grinding metal on metal and the final shrill squeal of the rusted wheels and braces as the door slid into place and became still once more. The jaybird on the tree outside his window made sure that he wasn’t able to fall back to sleep again that morning. Its call was piercing and came again and again, like the sleep button on an alarm clock set to annoy the shit out of you so you’ll get up on time for your morning routine.

Aggravated and already feeling the effects of another sweltering day, he pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and headed downstairs to scour the kitchen for some breakfast. He grabbed a chair so he could reach up and pull the cupboards open. He brushed away a couple perishable bugs long past their expiration date, and grabbed a box of generic brand cocoa puffs. The he grabbed a clean-looking bowl from the counter and began pouring the cereal. At the fridge he stood on his tip-toes to reach the milk on the top shelf. The carton was crusty, but the milk smelled decent, so he took both it and the bowl of cereal to the table, and sat down to enjoy his spoils. The kitchen was small and endlessly dirty. The sink was usually full of empty beer bottles and pizza boxes that didn’t make it into the trash the night before.

He splayed the comic section of yesterday’s paper out in front of him and took in the latest of Garfield’s antics while eating his cereal. When he finished he put his empty bowl in the sink and headed outside. Even though his mother sold expensive air conditioners to the people in town who could afford such luxury, she never brought one home to keep her own house cool. He found solace in the yard, where the trees shade provided what cooling effect they could and his imagination could take front and center, passing the long hours of summer.

The backyard was large, as was customary on the outskirts of town, but trees and shrubs took over the majority of the space. This was where he spent most of his time climbing trees, hunting imaginary game, and getting dirty in the dusty underbrush. When his mom had bought the house the chicken coop behind the garage had been turned into a storage unit, but he used it this summer as a makeshift zoo. He found turtles and frogs at the small pond a little ways into the forest and came back to the coop to place his treasures in an empty box or crate, and kept them as temporary pets. He didn’t have the attention span it took to take care of them, so they would hop or crawl away the minute he set off to do something else.

This particular morning Alma decided to play in one of the trees. He climbed on the lower branches of the small evergreen and took a seat on the sturdiest one. His hands were sticky with sap and at the small of his back pine needles pricked him and made him itchy. He was a lookout today. He could see the whole backyard and beyond from where he was, though the garage and the chicken coop blocked most of the view of the street. The sky was a hazy blue, without a single cloud, and the air was so heavy with moisture you could feel it swirl around you. From the little effort it took to climb the tree his shirt was already thoroughly dampened.

He sat there, looking out over the yard. Bees were swarming near the lilacs to his left, and he could just make out a chipmunk on top of the roof, scurrying along the gutter. Everywhere he looked something was moving. He made up stories about the things he saw: the bees were searching for their queen, who had run off with a yellow jacket and was secretly planning to capture their queen and have her beheaded, and the chipmunk had lost his favorite little cousin, had dropped him into a river of brown goo and was desperately trying to find a way to get him out.

There came a rustle from his right and he whipped his head around to spot a squirrel carrying an object and looking very wary about the path he was taking to the closest tree. He would stop and look around, staying still as a statue on his two hind legs and protecting his spoils with his arms. He sniffed the air and in jerking movement continued his path to the tree, and then would stop again, still as a statue. He maneuvered his way through the yard this way.

It was about halfway through the squirrel’s perilous journey to the tree that a piercing shriek scared the Alma and he tumbled out of his perch. His knee caught on the lowest branch and flipped him over in the air so that when he slammed the ground he was stomach down. As he landed the wind was squeezed out of his lungs and he lay there gasping for breath. He rolled over onto his back to recover. From high above him another piercing shriek came. He peered through the branches of the tree he had just fallen out of. It was the jaybird from this morning, perched near what used to be his lookout spot.

“Stupid bird” he muttered.

He got up and brushed himself off. He looked up at the tree and eyed it warily, then walked away towards the house. The lookout spot had been taken over by the bird, so it was time to move on. His bike was resting against the side of the house, so he decided to take it for a ride to the gravel pit down the road. The bike was old and rusty, but it worked.

The gravel pit was a large and dangerous place to explore. He had ridden his bike by it a few times that summer, but he had never dared venture into it. The boys down the street told him stories of kids getting trapped and never found again. He didn’t believe them, but he had never wanted to chance it either. But that stupid bird wouldn’t leave him alone, so he took his chances and decided to play where the bird wasn’t. The road he was traveling down was heavily wooded and never had much traffic. It was easy to imagine himself flying over the road as he peddled faster and faster. He lifted his hands from the handlebars and let his arms rise like wings while he peddled. His heart beat ferociously and he smiled freely. The trees whirred by him, and then suddenly stopped as he came close to the pit. He slowed down and pulled up to a sign in front of the large and dusty gravel pit.

“Danger: Stay Out”, it read.

Looking around he couldn’t see any immediate danger. The gravel pit was sandy and rocky. The pit itself wasn’t more than one hundred fifty yards across and looked to be just smaller than his backyard. There were mounds of crushed rock and sand here and there, and a sloped walkway around half of the pit to safely get in and out. It didn’t look dangerous to him.

He laid his bike down next to the sign and entered the sandy pit on foot. He followed the sloped walkway to the bottom of the pit and looked around at the hills of sand and gravel, taller than he had expected. Walking around the piles he decided that the tallest one was on the side opposite from where he stood, so he made his way toward it passing other mounds as he went. They were streaked with red and yellow. Some of them held huge chunks of rock. It seemed other-worldly to him, like walking on the moon. The pit was so deep, that from the bottom where he stood he couldn’t see out of the bowl.

The tallest of the piles was a deep sand color. There were rocks here and there and a large oblong boulder at the bottom of the pile. He started climbing at the boulder. The rock and sand were very unstable and it was difficult to get very far without sliding back a few steps. The challenge was there, and he was going to beat it. Get to the top of the mountain and he would be king. Step after step he took. Dust was flying all around him, and rocks rolled down the enormous pile each time he put his foot down.

The sun beat down so heavily here that his shirt, now caked with dust and sand was drying quickly. The sun’s rays were so intense that each rock felt like a hot coal. They burned his feet a bright red as he climbed higher and higher. He could see the top of the gravel pile as he climbed. The glare of the sun blinded him and forced him to look back down. Pebbles were rolling behind him, jumping and smashing into other pebbles on their way down. He kept climbing and reached the top, where the incline smoothed away to a flat plane just large enough for the Alma to sit on.

He sat down with a thunk and tried to forget how much his butt and thighs were burning. He was sure they were red hot from the heat already. The rocks were just has hot on top of the pile as they were while he was climbing. He looked around from his new viewpoint.

This is so much better of a lookout point than that damn tree.

From this new height he could see everything in the quarry and was just above eye level from the ground outside the bowl. Heat waves were rising up and out of the gravel pit, making everything at ground level look like a mirage. The grass swayed and the trees were belly dancing to an earthly rhythm. From above came a familiar piercing Jaayy Jaaaayyyy.

Alma looked up just in time. A blue jay was circling above him and diving through the air in an elegant swooping motion. The jays intentions were not to provide a show, but swooped dangerously close to Alma while continuously bellowing its piercing Jaaaay Jaayy.

Alma waved his arms around frantically above his head. The bird dived for him but pulled up at the last moment. He picked up a rock and threw it at the bird, missing by a few feet. It flew high and dived again, Jaaaaaaaaaay. He picked up a rock and aimed straight at the bird. His throw missed again and the bird, not deterred by the rock, kept in his dive. He backed up as the bird’s dive brought it closer, placing each foot behind the other on the hot rocks.

To avoid the attack he dropped to his knees at the last second, and lost his balance. The rocks beneath his feet started to tumble away and he was sliding on his stomach with blistering sand and gravel to the bottom of the pit. He landed with his face caked in sand on the floor of the bowl with rocks and pebbles still rolling down the gravel pile behind him.

Pushing himself up and onto his knees he looked around for the bird. It was flying around overhead, but not diving anymore. He reached for the rocks at his feet and put them in his pocket, arming himself with a particularly sharp piece and took off at a running pace towards the entry of the pit.

The rocks were heavy in his shorts, dragging them down on his hips. They clunked and scraped as he ran up the sloping drive way out of the pit. The bird, meanwhile, had landed on a bush just outside of the forest wall. He had been watching the bird while he stealthily reached the top of the drive way, slowing down so that he could sneak up on it.

Alma watched the jay from the edge of the pit. The grass was long here, and hid his face from the bird’s view. He could make out something moving in the grass ahead of him. He stole a peek and raised his head just enough to see a black and brown tabby cat tense and very aware of the jay about ten feet in front of the boy.

The cat was stalking the bird. It bent its body close to the ground- nothing moving but the tip of its tale, whipping back and forth in excited anticipation. Its body was like a spring, coiled beyond its capabilities and just bursting to release its pent up energy. It picked up one paw and moved it forward fluidly, its head moving with the bird as it flew from one branch to the other. The cat dug down into the grass with its body, hugging the earth and wiggling its rear in calculated time. He sprung. The jay had no time to react and no sound escaped from its beak before the cat broke its body.

Alma let out a resounding Ooooooyyy! and threw the rock in his hand at the cat. He reached into his pocket for another and ran towards the it. His second rock hit the cat in the hind leg and the cat took off running, leaving the blue jay behind.

Alma, rock in hand bounded over to the bird’s body. When he reached it he fell to his knees and examined the broken bird. Its wings were bend and contorted out of their normal angles and the feathers were twisted and broken. One wing was fully out, the wing under the body, and the other was almost folded up, except for the tip because it was bent backwards like the dog-eared flap of a page in a book. Its neck was twisted back and its beak was open as if it was still calling out its shrieking “jay”.

He looked at the bird’s black and glassy eye, still open and reflecting the Alma’s image. He saw his face, and squinted his eyes at the reflection. The rock in his hand was heavy now. He pulled his eyes from the birds and looked at the rock.

He raised the rock high above his head and pulled it down onto the head of the bird. The skull cracked and popped as the rock impaled the eye socket. Again the boy lifted the rock and again he let it smash over the body.

The rock ripped the feathers from the skin, broke the frail bones, split the skin apart and gouged holes in every fleshy part of the body. Over and over he brought the rock down on the bird till there was nothing left but a pile of blue and white feathers and red blood oozing over the dirt and grass.

Panting and out of breath the boy screamed and pounded the ground. His chest was heaving and blood pounded through his temples. Down feathers clung to his sweaty arms and face. Beaded drops ran down his chest and collected at the button on his shorts. He tried to scrape the feathers off, but ended up smearing the blood on his skin instead. A million emotions ran through him.

When he regained his breath and the sticky blood in his veins ran cleaner he stood up and walked to his bike, tossing the rock into the trees beside him. He picked the bike up by the handlebars. As he swung his leg over the plastic seat, he saw a flash of blue fly overhead. He whipped his head around to see a blue jay on the branch beside him.

Just as he started to peddle off, it called out to him: jayyy.

I regain consciousness to the nearby screams of a woman, “Jaaaie!? Jaaaie!?” I twist my head around to see the woman frantically pulling rubble off of a little body. I can see the sleeve of a red baseball tee under the concrete and my stomach turned on itself. I look for the face of the little boy. His blue lifeless eyes terrify me.

Violence. I’ve encountered it before. But not like this. That boy was innocent. Peaceful. Damn. Goddamn. I try to move, but can’t. I look down to see that in the blast I have been thrown onto my bicycle and the handlebar twists its way through my stomach. Oh God. My eyes dart back and forth from left to right as I lay down in the dirt. Ash burns my skin as it falls like snowflakes.

A blue jay flies above me and its calls are mixed with the woman’s desperate calls to her son. And I lay there bleeding out into the streets of red dust.