“Caw. Caw caw caw. Caw. Caw caw caw.”
Stacy opened one eye rolled over in the bed and discovered that Seeker was curled up next to him in the double bed, the dog’s head on the other pillow. Ugh. Stacy wouldn’t be using that pillow.
Another bird sang and the raven’s tune, if one could call it that, changed. “Caw caw caw! Caw caw.”
Stacy listened to the chorus outside, and realized that the raven was answering other birds’ songs. Fascinating. He looked over at the alarm clock on the night table. 7:00 a.m. Early, but not unbearable.
“I think I’ll stay,” he said, patting Seeker on the head and getting up to make coffee. The dog padded after him to the kitchen, yawning. By the time the coffee was ready, Seeker was digging into his bowl of dog food.
It was then that Stacy heard an incessant knocking on the door. Not a one, two, three knock to let you know that someone was out there, but a rapping, one knock after the other, an insistent signal announcing arrival.
He knew right away who it was. Rick.
Bound to happen, he told himself. He hadn’t, after all, gone that far.
By the time Stacy opened the door, Rick was pacing across the porch of the cabin. He was dressed for work in the usual way and Stacy could imagine how angry he was that all of this upset his usual schedule.
“Get dressed so I can take you to the hospital for your therapy. You’ve missed enough,” Rick said. “I”ll get your things to take home.” He tried to edge past Stacy into the cabin, almost knocking him over.
Stacy pushed back. Without thinking. He simply shouldered his father back onto the porch, setting Rick back on his heels. Rick staggered a few steps, then stood his ground, his eyes angry, his mouth set in a determined straight line, the way he looked whenever they fought. “No,” Stacy said.
“No, what?” Rick asked.
It was then that Stacy remembered. He was always supposed to say “No, sir” at times like this to calm his father down. He supposed it was a reminder to an adolescent rebel that Rick was the parent, the authority figure. Stacy had humored him on this point and never refused him the appellation, but he remembered Carson’s words to him last night and they seemed like an augury. You don’t ever have to call anyone sir again. Let them call you sir.
“Who do you think you are?” the drill sergeant asked. “Because we have a serious disagreement here about how to proceed and I’m the one who’s in charge.”
Stacy looked down at the gun he held, not answering. He couldn’t remember how to do what he was supposed to do. This was his gun, not just a gun. Part of him now. Part of his fighting equipment. His life could depend upon it. So why couldn’t he remember a damn thing he was told?
“Sir, I-“
“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me sir? I’m no officer. And you’re no Marine. And if it’s up to me, you ain’t gonna be. Now do what I told you to. Do it now. Stop thinking. Just follow my orders. Do you get that? What’s it going to take here?”
Sir. Sir. Sir. Stacy remembered Rick’s face and realized he’d traded his father for the drill sergeant. He realized that all of this was a familiar scene. He wasn’t ready to see his life proceed in the same way his father’s had. Yet here he stood, holding a gun.
At least, he thought, he was still thinking.
“I’m never calling you sir again,” Stacy said to Rick quietly.
Rick seethed. “The big war hero. Let me tell you something.” He walked up the porch’s five foot length, then down it. Up it, down it. “I am trying to help you. I’ve always tried to help you. All you do is fight me. In high school, you quit all those teams, blew every possibility for a scholarship. All that work we did. And you join the Marines, get injured, to prove something. For what? For what? I wanted better for you. Don’t you understand or did that brain injury leave you even more stupid?”
There. He’d said it out loud. Rick thought he was stupid. Certainly he’ d always treated Stacy that way. Stacy laughed.
“I’m sorry, son. You just have me so mad. And worried. Do you know what you’ve put your mother through?”
Stacy walked to the railing on the porch and looked up at the large tree. He could see the raven up there, silent now, as if he was watching the events on the porch. Stacy glanced over at Carson’s cabin and saw Carson out on the porch, watching quietly. He wondered if the conversation carried across the water.
“I’m sorry for worrying Mom – and you,” Stacy said quietly, not looking at Rick. “But this – between us – it’s over. No more, Dad.”
Over the next ten minutes, all Stacy could hear was the sound of Rick slamming the cabin door open and going into the bedroom to pack his son’s things. He didn’t move to stop his father, just stared over the lake at Carson who was nursing a cup of coffee.
When Rick returned to the porch with Stacy’s backpack, he said gruffly “You can bring the dog.”
“I’m not going with you, Dad.”
“So what are your plans? To stay here, in a campground with a bunch of losers? Not to get better, to just give up on trying to be normal?”
Stacy grinned at the word normal.
“You know, I give up trying to reason with you. Just get in the car. The doctor was right. I just have to be firm with you because of that brain injury of yours. I’ll put this in the car and be right back and if I have to force you to come with me, then that’s what it will be.” Rick started to walk down the trail, carrying the backpack. “Come on, Stacy. Don’t make a scene.”
“You’re the one making a scene. You can take the backpack. I can buy more stuff. But just keep going, Dad. Go home.”
Rick disappeared down the trail. He took a few steps backwards, then shook his head and continued on.
Stacy waited. The raven sang a few times and both Carson and he looked over at each other. After ten minutes, Stacy went inside and poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat on the steps, Seeker beside him, and drank it.
Rick didn’t come back.
A few hours later, Stacy still sat on the porch steps. The raven grew quieter as the morning went on, flitting from tree to tree, his ruckus gradually dying down. He could see why that was annoying. An early morning riot followed by a calm. The rest of the day to be up and rest broken by the raven’s song – if you could call it a song.
It reminded him of the military, the hurry up and wait syndrome. Go there and wait. Don’t know why but just do it. Caw caw caw. Another call, then caw. Caw. Caw.
Stacy forgot about his father by noon. He rose up from the steps. His leg felt good, he realized, now that he wasn’t walking on it every day, pushing it to its limits. Realizing that made him feel calmer. Camp Serenity, perhaps, was having an effect upon him, if only to make him see the contrast between what was and what wasn’t serene.
“You have PTSD, post traumatic stress disorder,” the doctor told Stacy, looking at the clipboard with his notes. “Do you know what that is?”
“No, sir,” Stacy said.
The doctor explained that some vets got it after being in war. How there were flashbacks, could be other symptoms. Depression. Anxiety. Very treatable, the doc said, and Stacy would get a referral after he left the hospital.
“It’ll go away. You’ll be fine. Just be aware of it,” the doctor said.
“Okay, sir,” he said. “Thanks.”
Stacy never got a referral. It seemed to be the least of his problems, considering his other injuries at the time, so he didn’t pursue it. War is hell and all of that.
What was the big deal about a few flashbacks?
Copyright 2008 Ruth Harrigan
