them by taking their picture. That's really what was between the
lines, wasn't it? "Please don't hate me, Mr. Clewson, please don't
think I killed your son and the other's by--"
In the other room the mantelpiece clock softly began to chime the
hour of five.
Dale went back into the living room, and took the picture down
again.
What you're talking about is madness.
Looked at the boy with the short blonde hair again.
I loved them all like they was my brothers.
Turned the picture over.
Please don't think I killed your son - all of your sons - by taking
their picture. Please don't hate me because I was in the Homan
base hospital with bleeding haemorrhoids instead of on the Ky Doe
bridge with the best friends I ever had in my life. Please don't hate
me, because I finally caught up, it took me ten years of trying, but I
finally caught up.
Written on the back, in the same soft-lead pencil, was this notation:
Jack Bradley Omaha, Neb.
Billy Clewson Binghamton, NY.
Rider Dotson Oneonta, NY
Charlie Gibson Payson, ND
Bobby Kale Henderson, IA
Jack Kimberley Truth or Consequences. NM
Andy Moulton Faraday, LA Staff Sgt. I
Jimmy Oliphant Beson, Del.
Asley St. Thomas Anderson, Ind.
*Josh Bortman Castle Rock, Me.
He had put his own name last, Dale saw - he had seen all of this
before, or course, and had noticed it... but had never really noticed
it until now, perhaps. He had put his name last, out of alphabetical
order, and with an asterisk.
The asterisk means "still alive.' The asterisk means "don't hate
me."
Ah, but what you're thinking is madness, and you damned well
know it.
Nevertheless, he went to the telephone, dialled 0, and ascertained
that the area code for Maine was 207. He dialed Maine directory
assistance, and ascertained that there was a single Bortman family
in Castle Rock.
He thanked the operator, wrote the number down, and looked at
the telephone.
You don't really intend to call those people, do you?
No answer - only the sound of the ticking clock. He had put the
picture on the sofa and now he looked at it - looked first at his own
son, his hair pulled back behind his head, a bravo little moustache
trying to grow on his upper lip, frozen forever at the age of twenty-
one, and then at the new boy in that old picture, the boy with the
short blonds hair, the boy whose dog-tags were twisted so they lay
face-down and unreadable against his chest. He thought of the way
Josh Bortman had carefully segregated himself from the others,
thought of the asterisk, and suddenly his eyes filled with warm
tears.
I never hated you, son, he thought. Nor did Andrea, for all her
grief. Maybe I should have picked up a pen and dropped you a note
saying so, but honest to Christ, the thought never crossed my mind.
He picked up the phone now and dialled the Bortman number in
Castle Rock, Maine.
Busy.
He hung up and sat for five minutes, looking out at the street where
Billy had learned to ride first a trike, then a bike with trainer
wheels, then a two-wheeler. At eighteen he had brought home the
final improvement - a Yamaha 500. For just a moment he could
see Billy with paralysing clarity, as if he might walk through the
door and sit down.
He dialled the Bortman number again. This time it rang. The voice
on the other end managed to convey an unmistakable impression of
wariness in just two syllables. "Hello?" At that same moment,
Dale's eyes fell on the dial of his wristwatch and read the date - not
for the first time that day, but it was the first time it really sunk in.
It was April 9th. Billy and the others had died eleven years ago
yesterday. They -
"Hello?" the voice repeated sharply. "Answer me, or I'm hanging
up! Which one are you?"
Which one are you? He stood in the ticking living room, cold,
listening to words croak out of him mouth.
"My name is Dale Clewson, Mr. Bortman. My son--"
"Clewson. Billy Clewson's father." Now the voice was flat,
inflectionless.
"Yes, that's--"
"So you say."
Dale could find no reply. For the first time in his life, he really was
tongue-tied.
"And has your picture of Squad D changed, too?"
"Yes." It came out in a strangled little gasp.
Bortman's voice remained inflectionless, but it was nonetheless
filled with savagery. "You listen to me, and tell the others. There's
going to be tracer equipment on my phone by this afternoon. If it's
some kind of joke, you fellows are going to be laughing all the way
to jail, I can assure you."
"Mr. Bortman--"
"Shut up! First someone calling himself Peter Moulton calls,
supposedly from Louisiana, and tells my wife that our boy has
suddenly showed up in a picture Josh sent them of Squad D. She's
still having hysterics over that when a woman purporting to be
Bobby Kale's mother calls with the same insane story. Next,
Oliphant! Five minutes ago, Rider Dotson's brother! He says. Now
you."
"But Mr. Bortman--"
"My wife is Upstairs sedated, and if all of this is a case or 'Have
you got Prince Albert in a can,' I swear to God -"
"You know it isn't a joke," Dale whispered. His fingers felt cold
and numb - ice cream fingers. He looked across the room at the
photograph. At the blonde boy. Smiling, squinting into the camera.
Silence from the other end.
"You know it isn't a joke, so what happened?"
"My son killed himself yesterday evening," Bortman said evenly.
"If you didn't know It."
"I didn't. I swear."
Bortman signed. "And you really are calling from long distance,
aren't you?"
"From Binghamton, New York."
"Yes. You can tell the difference--local from long distance, I mean.
Long distance has a sound...a...a hum..."
Dale realized, belatedly, that expression had finally crept into that
voice. Bortman was crying.
"He was depressed off and on, ever since he got back from Nam, in
late 1974," Bortman said. "it always got worse in the spring, it
always peaked around the 8th of April when the other boys ... and
your son..."
"Yes," Dale said.
"This year, it just didn't ... didn't peak."
There was a muffled honk-Bortman using his handkerchief.
"He hung himself in the garage, Mr. Clewson."
"Christ Jesus," Dale muttered. He shut his eyes very tightly, trying
to ward off the image. He got one which was arguably even worse
- that smiling face, the open fatigue shirt, the twisted dog-tags. "I'm
sorry."
"He didn't want people to know why he wasn't with the others that
day, but of course the story got out." A long, meditative pause
from Bortman's end. "Stories like that always do."
"Yes. I suppose they do."
"Joshua didn't have many friends when he was growing up, Mr.
Clewson. I don't think he had any real friends until he got to Nam.
He loved your son, and the others."
Now it's him. comforting me.
"I'm sorry for your loss;" Dale said. "And sorry to have bothered
you at a time like this. But you'll understand ... I had to."
"Yes. Is he smiling, Mr. Clewson? The others ... they said he was
smiling."
Dale looked toward the picture beside the ticking clock. "He's
smiling."
"Of course he is. Josh finally caught up with them."
Dale looked out the window toward the sidewalk where Billy had
once ridden a bike with training wheels. He supposed he should
say something, but he couldn't seem to think of a thing. His
stomach hurt. His bones were cold.