he agreed and got directions.
SATAN’S TAIL
31
Dreamland
1231
MACK FELT THE MUSCLES IN HIS SHOULDERS TENSE INTO HARD
rocks as he lowered himself into the pool. He had to relax if he was going to do the exercise, but relaxing on command was just about the most difficult thing in the world to do. He lowered his gaze to the surface of the pool and concentrated on breathing slowly, very slowly, as slowly as he possibly could, taking long, deep breaths, as one of the physical therapists at the hospital had recommended.
“All right now, Major, you want to start with a nice, easy breaststroke,” said Penny Hartung, treading water next to him.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do,” he said. But he didn’t let go of the rail, afraid that he would sink into the water like a stone.
Which was impossible, since he was wearing a life preserver. But fear wasn’t necessarily rational.
“You all right?” asked Frank DeLia, the other therapist.
Frank was kneeling above him at the poolside.
“Oh yeah, I’m good,” said Mack, finally pushing away.
He fought against the impulse to paddle madly, moving his arms out slowly as he’d been told.
“Legs now. Legs,” said Penny, hovering beside him.
Yup, legs, Mack thought. Legs, legs, legs.
The large beam that had fallen across his back and legs after the terrorist blew himself up had temporarily shocked his backbone. The medical explanation was somewhat longer and more complicated, but the bottom line was that he had temporarily lost the use of his legs. The thing was, no one could say how long “temporarily” was supposed to be. He’d already seen several specialists; he got the impression they all thought he should be walking by now.
Not that he didn’t agree.
Mack pushed his arms out and willed his legs to kick. He didn’t feel them move. He thought his hips wiggled a little.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Legs,” repeated Penny. “Legs.”
He got a mouthful of water as he started to lose momentum. He had his whole upper body working, and thought his legs must be working as well.
“Push, push,” said Penny.
“Doing it.” Mack checked his position against the far side of the pool. He’d gone maybe five feet. “Legs,” he said himself, deciding he might do better if he gave himself a pep talk. “Legs. Let’s do it.”
There was a tremendous splash on the other side of the pooclass="underline" Zen, who worked out here regularly.
“Come on, gimp boy. That the best you can do?”
Mack ignored Zen, keeping his head toward the other side of the pool room. He sensed Zen swimming toward him. Determined to ignore him, he concentrated on doing a sidestroke, or at least as much of a sidestroke as he could manage.
“Your arms are punier than Olive Oyl’s,” said Zen.
Legs, Mack thought. Legs.
“Use your damn legs,” said Zen.
“I’m trying,” said Mack between his teeth.
“Not hard enough.”
“Yeah. I am.” The burn in Mack’s arms was too much; he stopped and took a breather.
“Don’t be such a damn wimp,” said Zen. He plunged beneath the water, stroking away.
It occurred to Mack that swimming underwater when you couldn’t use your legs to help must be— was—extremely difficult. But then, just about everything you did when you couldn’t use your legs was extremely difficult. And Zen didn’t complain or ask for help—hell, he got mad when people tried to help him.
Which Mack understood. He’d thought after Zen’s crash that Zen got mad only with him, because he held a grudge.
Now he realized Zen got mad with everyone. The reason was simple. Most of the people who wanted to help you—not necessarily all, but most—were thinking, You poor little baby, you. Let me help you.
SATAN’S TAIL
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For someone like Zen or Mack, being treated like a baby, being pitied— well the hell with that!
But you needed help sometimes. That was the worst part of it. Sometimes you just couldn’t drag yourself up a full flight of stairs, not and bring your wheelchair with you.
“Ready to start again, Major?” asked Penny.
“Oh yeah. Starting,” said Mack, pushing.
“Ten laps, gimp boy!” yelled Zen from the other side of the pool. “You owe me ten laps.”
“Right,” muttered Mack.
“I’m going to do twenty in the time it takes you to do one.”
“It’s not a race,” said Penny.
The others liked Zen, so they wouldn’t tell him to shut up, Mack thought. And he wasn’t going to tell him to shut up either, because that would be like saying Zen had won. No way. Let him be the world’s biggest jerk. Great. Fine. Just because you couldn’t walk didn’t make you a stinking hero or a great human being. Zen was a jerk before his accident, and he was a jerk now.
A bigger jerk.
“Legs,” said Penny.
“Yeah, legs,” grunted Mack.
Humboldt County,
northwestern California
1235
KICK’S FAMILY LIVED ON A CUL-DE-SAC NOT FAR FROM THE
town center in McKinleyville, California, the sort of location a real estate agent would call “convenient to everything.” Starship parked at the far end of the circle. As he walked up the cement driveway, he started to regret his decision to come. He paused at the bottom of the steps, but it was too late; someone came up the drive behind him, and as he glanced back, the front door opened.
“You’re his friend. How do you?” said Kick’s father at the 34
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
door. “Have a drink, please. Make yourself at home.”
“Maybe just a beer, I think,” said Starship, stepping inside.
“Bud’s in the fridge. Help yourself.”
Starship moved inside. As he reached the kitchen he saw Kick’s sister bending into the refrigerator—and noticed that she had a large engagement ring on her finger.
“Oh, Lieutenant Andrews,” she said. “I’m glad you changed your mind.”
“I can only stay for a few minutes.”
“Want something to drink?”
“A beer maybe.”
“Just like my brother.” She reached in and got him a Bud Lite, then introduced him to some of the other people in the small kitchen. Two were friends of Kick’s and about his age; Starship thought the men shrank back a bit as he shook their hands, maybe put off by his uniform. There was an aunt, the sister’s fiancé, a cousin, and the minister, who proved to be much younger up close than from the back of the church.
Starship took his beer and moved toward the side of the kitchen. The others were talking about something that had happened at the local school.
“It was an unfortunate situation,” said the minister as Starship slid to the side.
“Yeah, really bad,” said Starship.
“He died a hero.”
“Do you think that matters?”
The minister blanched. Starship hadn’t meant it as a challenge—hadn’t meant anything, really. The question simply bubbled out of his private thoughts.
“Don’t you?” said one of Kick’s friends.
Starship felt a moment of hesitation, a catch in his throat as if his breath had been knocked from him.
“I don’t think he’s not—wasn’t brave, I mean. I think it sucks that he died,” he said. “I think it’s really terrible. And he was—he volunteered. We all did, and it’s important what we do.” He knew he was babbling but he couldn’t stop. “He was a brave guy, I mean, as brave as most people, I think, but SATAN’S TAIL
35
it wasn’t like—it’s not like a movie thing, you know, where the guy charges out and people are shooting at him. We do have guys like that. They just march right through anything.