Elliott Kay
Good Intentions
“You don’t have a soul. You have a body. You are a soul.”
Prologue
It would’ve been a beautiful spring morning, except for the war. The sky was clear. A mild wind passed through the trees above him, sending ripples through their lush, full leaves. The only things keeping the birds from singing were the gunfire and the tanks. One rumbling tank, anyway. It was his tank, rolling on away from him. Beyond that he faintly heard the fleeing enemy tank. The other German tank sat burning nearby. He smelled the smoke.
Simon lay on his back, looking up at the rustling leaves in the trees. His whole center seemed to be on fire, yet wet at the same time.
“I told your men we would stay with you,” someone said. His eyes glanced to his right, where the old Gypsy woman knelt over him to gently pull the tommy gun from his grip. She set it down and took his hands in hers. There were other Gypsies nearby, but not close enough to speak.
“I should be with them,” he coughed.
She shook her head. “Your men will carry on. They will win. Your fighting is done.” The old woman brushed a bit of dirt from his forehead. “You look a bit young to be the leader.”
“Officers kept getting killed. I got moved up to replace them. Battlefield commission. Guess I was doing something right.”
“How long have you been fighting?”
“Since North Africa. Two years? I guess three now?”
“Hm,” she nodded. “Not as long as for us.”
“No.”
“You could have turned away from this fight,” she said. “The Germans are done. Broken. Only a matter of time now before they give up. You were outnumbered. Why did you attack?”
“They were going to kill you. And hey, my guys are winning, aren’t they?”
The old woman smiled a bit. “I like you Americans. You know, not many of your allies would give their lives for Roma. We are not worth so much to others here. They see us only as thieves.”
He managed a grin. “Oh, well, let me try this afternoon all over again then,” he coughed, plainly not meaning it. “Do many Gypsies speak English?”
“Not many. Nor do I,” she smiled sadly. The old woman looked down at his hands. “Do you play the piano?”
“Huh? No. Never.”
“Ah,” she said, then shrugged. “You have a musician’s hands.” Then her head cocked curiously. She touched the ring on his finger. “You are married?”
“Engaged,” he corrected. “Got engaged in Paris.”
“What is her name?”
“Marie,” Simon said. “Librarian. Smartest girl I ever met. I guess I should’ve taken that staff job and stayed, but I couldn’t just abandon my guys.” The old woman nodded softly, saying nothing. “I’m not going to see her again, am I?”
She kept looking at his hands. “I am sorry,” she told him. “You have been through this before…many times. You will be through it again. One more time, I think.” She seemed at first as if she had endured too much sorrow and pain to cry for anyone, but a tear fell from her cheek onto his palm. “One more time. Then, maybe, you will be happy. Maybe. Maybe.”
Chapter 1:
Spooky as it was, the full moon and the stillness of the night didn’t scare him. The cemetery just on the other side of the hedge hardly bothered him, either. No, it was walking through the pools of direct light under the street lamps that freaked Alex out the most.
By the second or third such spot, he’d realized that maybe he shouldn’t have dressed all in black to walk down the street in the middle of the night. After all, some cop might roll by and think, Hey, I wonder if that dude in all black with the black backpack and black gloves is up to something shady?
Once he got to the alley between the cemetery and the storage rental complex, though, he felt better. Alex lingered there for a few deep breaths, reminding himself that no, really, people don’t do crazy cult stuff in graveyards under the full moon. That was all just movie bullshit.
The climb up the vine-covered iron fence provided only a mild challenge. Though not a serious athlete, he was thin and in relatively decent shape. He felt good about the climb until it came to the three strings of barbed wire concealed by all the leaves at the top.
Okay, he thought, no problem. I’m not impaled, just scratched. I can afford another sweatshirt. Just go slow, haul it up, over and okay not there, that’s another barb, grab that overhanging branch, haul it up, ow ow ow my leg ow fuck!
It was awkward. Had any of his friends been there, they’d have made fun of him and called him a slowpoke, a klutz, a total pussy and a thousand other shitty things, but he made it over. His landing surely made less noise than a car crash.
Okay, that’s just nerves, he thought. I’m doing fine. Just a rustle and a thump. No big deal. Alley cats are noisier.
Nobody’s here. I’m fine. I’m fine.
Total ninja.
Then his cell phone went off.
“Fuck!” he hissed, clutching at his back pocket. The sounds of his Tool ringtone reminded him that yes, he was in fact a complete tool for forgetting to put the phone on vibrate before he went sneaking into a graveyard. He immediately answered. Jason would probably call until Alex picked up. Alex cursed his friends for being nineteen and stupid…mindfully including himself on both counts.
“What?” he hissed by way of greeting. At least the cemetery remained quiet despite the disturbance. No sirens, no floodlights or groundskeeper’s flashlights, no ghosts or zombies. Yet.
“Yo, nigga, where you at?”
“Jason, when you get your ass beat by some black guy who doesn’t like hearing white people call each other that, I’m seriously gonna point at you and laugh.”
“Yeah, if you ain’t runnin’. Seriously, where are you?”
“Doing my photography homework.”
“Hmm. Way to spend your Monday nights.”
“I need night shots,” Alex said tersely.
“I thought you only took that class ‘cause it was full of hotties?”
“Yeah, well, the cute ones are all taking the class seriously, so I guess I’d better, too. Jason, I can’t talk right now, what do you want?”
“Jus’ callin’ to say we’re playin’ pool if you wanna come.”
Alex sighed and rolled his eyes. The lesson here was to come up with his good photo concepts before his friends decided on something fun to do. “No,” he said, “not tonight. I’m good, thanks.”
“Okay. What’re you doing, anyway?”
Jesus! What part of “I can’t talk” is so unintelligible? “I’ll show you later,” Alex said. “I gotta go. Later, man.” He flipped the phone shut, made absolutely sure to put it on silent, and slipped it back into his pocket.
A minute of stillness later, Alex had his nerves good and settled. Nobody came out looking for him after all that noise. Whatever night watchman the place had was doubtlessly not really watching.
Sacred Heart cemetery spread out across ground that gently rose and fell with bushes and low hedgerows here and there. The only lights shining within the quiet, still grounds were the external floodlights at the large chapel at the center of the cemetery. Seattle hadn’t given up on summer yet. It was still early September, with the usual rain still days or weeks away and the leaves still on all the trees.