Old Soldiers

Kit Reed

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Old Soldiers
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© Kit Reed 2001, 2011

This story was first published in the anthology infinity plus one, edited by Keith Brooke and Nick Gevers (PS Publishing, 2001).

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

The moral right of Kit Reed to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

Old Soldiers

It's supposed to be pretty in the place where Jane's grandmother lives; it says so in the Palmshine brochure. The pages are filled with photos of nice old ladies in the bright Florida sunlight, laughing and flirting with spunky old men in airy rooms. The sun is always high when Jane goes to visit Gram, but shadows fall as soon as she walks in the front door.

She's here because her mother can't bear to come. If Jane asks why, her mother starts crying. She says, "She isn't who she used to be," but that isn't the real reason.

"She isn't dead either," Jane snaps. "Oh, Mom, it is so awful there."

"Don't say that! It's the best we could find."

"I just wish we could..."

When her mother's lips tighten like that she looks a lot like Gram. "Well, we can't."

Palmshine Villa should be sunny and bright inside, after all, this is Florida, but no matter how fast Jane strides along the halls, at her back she hears the rushing shadows. She comes so often that she knows the regulars, although none of them knows her. Does being old make you forgetful or is it that when you're their age all people Jane's age look alike?

In the brochure everything is supposed to be nice. On the surface everything is. The coiffed and rouged wheelchair patients playing nerf ball in the lobby are smiling, but from the remote Extended Care wing, a voice so old that Jane can't gender it cries out.

She should be used to it by now but she whirls. "Ma'am," she says to the nearest aide. "Ma'am!"

Oblivious, the aide trots on. She is carrying the richest lady's Shi Tzu; every day Kiki and its owner frolic on the kingsized bed in the Villa's best room. Once when Jane begged she brought the dog into Gram's room and put it into Gram's arms. It licked her face. She was so happy! Jane said, "Will you bring it in sometimes, when I'm not around?" She already knew it was money that made these things happen and Gram will never have enough.

The aide is Barbie perfect, buff and agile; the rich lady who owns the Shi Tzu is old. Unlike Gram and the others, who have fallen away, the rich lady has hung onto both her money and her flesh – did money make the difference? Pink, powdered and sweetly rounded, she stays in bed because her knees can't support her weight. Even though she's rosy and better dressed than the others, she is just as frail. With her firm butt bouncing, the aide walks into her employer's room. Doesn't she notice the disparity? The diamond rings embedded in the fat fingers and her fleshy, entitled smile say no. Roiling shadows collect on her ceiling just the way they do on Gram's, but the rich old lady doesn't see; she never looks up.

Nobody here can afford to look up. For all they know, the place is lovely and everything's fine.

At the nurses' station a covey of early risers leans on walkers, waiting for the balloon lady to come. In the breakfast room five women warble, "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," while the recreation director beats time. Four old ladies with Magic Marker red mouths sit around a card table, waiting for the attendant to deal. Cheerful enough, Jane supposes, considering they're all going to die soon, but she can't afford to dwell.

Instead she hurries because she can't shake the idea that something new has entered the place. Jane is aware of some new element, a difference in the air. She's almost used to the shadows but today, there's something more – an extra density that makes her eyes snap wide. She imagines it taking shape.

Has death come to visit? If only. But no, she thinks. Just, no. It isn't the cumulative pressure of old age that makes her twitch and it isn't the sound that time makes when God pulls the plug. There is a difference in the shadows that drift in the sunlit building and come rushing in her wake.

She passes the old lady whose vocabulary got away, all but one word. "Good morning," Jane says to her even though it won't make any difference.

When she turns at the sound the old lady's eyes are leached of light. "Dwelling, dwelling, dwelling, dwelling," she says in conversational tones, inching toward the day room in her flowered muu muu with the pastel webbed belt. Her leash is attached to the rail the management put in so old people who tip over won't fall far.

She used to be somebody, Jane thinks. They all did. It makes her move a little faster because Gram's failing. Every time she comes into the room at Palmshine Villas she comes wondering how much of her grandmother is still left.

In the room across the hall from Gram the old soldier shouts. He's been shouting for years. Harmless, the nurses said when Mom begged them to move Gram to another room so she wouldn't have to hear. They looked condescendingly at Gram. Remember, he doesn't have a nice family like Mrs. Trefethen here. Do they, Gram? Gram smiled, happy as a dog at the pound, eating its last meal. Mom protested. "But he scares her." Gram wasn't scared, Mom was. Paraplegic, they said, even if he wanted to he couldn't hurt a flea. "He's making threats." No he isn't, he's fighting Nazis. The war, they said. They said, So sad. Nobody comes even at Christmas, nobody phones and they never come. "That's not my problem," Mom said, "it's his problem." They said, If your mother isn't happy here you can always... Jane's heart leaped up but Mom recovered in a flash. "Oh no," she said in that tired, tired voice, "This is perfect. Everything's just fine." He only shouts when he hears you coming, they said. When you're not here he's quiet as a clam.

Even though Jane tiptoes he knows. The dry voice cracks the air above her head like a whip. "I know you're out there. Come here!"

This is what she hates most about these Sundays. "Oh, please. Not today."

~

God damn you God look what you've done to me, me in the bed and Vic dead and I can't get out until I find out who. Vic is dead God damn you. Dead and nobody will help.

~

It is in the building now. You

~

"Who killed Vic?"

"Oh, please." Jane looked in once and saw a sheaf of white hair, a profile like the face on a medal. He heard her breathing and turned, a blur of red rage – a glaring mouth with that savage flash of teeth but his expression was both so blind and so angry that she fled before she could find out whether he saw her and if he did, whether he knew who she was. That day she closed Gram's door as nearly as she could and leaned against the inside, terrified that he'd lurch into the wooden panels in his rage and send her and the door crashing into the room.

Today his dry, hard voice knifes into her. "Who killed Vic?" This is how it always begins. Once he gets started the shouter will rant for hours. "Come on, you bastard bastards, who did it?"

Half of Jane wants to confront the old wreck and shut him up, but she's afraid to go in. "Shut up."

"It had to be one of you." His shout cuts through everything. It's like being within range of a heat-seeking missile. It doesn't matter who you are today. It wants to find you and destroy. As she dives into Gram's doorway the accusations follow. "Now, God damn you. Who?"

"Beats me," she says and dodges into the room.

Odd. Behind her, something in the shadows stirs.

The room is nicely kept and so is Gram, but she's always anxious, going in. What does she expect to find in the sweet little room with its ruffled bed, a lipsticked skeleton? Gram gone, with the bed stripped and her belongings rolled on top like the bedding of an army moving out? Or is she afraid of Gram rising out of her velours recliner to scold her for being late, the way she did when Jane was young.

The old man isn't done. "God damn your shit," he cries. "Tell the truth or I'll eat your face and spit out the teeth."

"Gram, it's me."

Never mind, Gram is glad to see her. Gram is always glad to see her, it's a given that when Jane walks in the old lady's smile lights up the room. She knows her granddaughter, too, it's not like she forgets. "Jane," Gram says with that smile that the complications of old age can't turn off and not even pain can dim.

She flinches. Is Gram in pain? Gram won't tell her or she can't tell her, so Jane has never known. She still has words, but a lot of important ones have gone away.

"Smear your shit in your eyes," he howls. "Now, tell."

"Hello," she says, bending to kiss that transparent cheek. "Hello, Gram."

She looks so sweet sitting there in the recliner where the aides put her after they sponged the oatmeal off her mouth and dressed her for the day; Jane thinks Gram is in fact sweeter than she ever was in real life. Something in the water, she wonders? Something they give her at night? Or is it just that Gram has finally let herself lay back and let go? After a lifetime of keeping a perfect house, washing and ironing for a family that she controlled and fed for years, along with the multitudes, after all that taking care, she's on vacation from her life.

"I brought blueberry muffins, Gram."

"Of course you did." That smile!

"And the shit in your eyes." So loud, so ugly.

Jane gestures in the direction of the shout. "Oh Gram, I'm so sorry about that."

Gram smiles and blinks politely the way she always does when she doesn't understand, which is most of the time lately. Age has left her with a few macros – boiler plate speeches that kick in whenever Jane says anything but she knows who Jane is, she does! "You were lovely to come."

Does it hurt, Gram? How much does it hurt? She wants to ask but Gram looks so happy that she's afraid to bring it up. She responds by rote, "Lovely to see you, Gram."

The television is going – it always is – Sally Jessy, Oprah, Rosie, Ricki, makes no difference, the daylight voices are interchangeable. The psychic Muzak and emotional screensaver supply everything Gram needs now that she's lost everything else. Jane is grateful that the old lady's lost it, so she doesn't know how awful this is. She may not know she's in this pale blue room in this pretty place in her oversized aqua recliner because this is the bottom line. Gram isn't getting well. She's here for good; except for her birthday and Christmas, when an ambulance brings her to her daughter's house for dinner and takes her away before the pie, she is going to be in this chair in this room in Palmshine Villa for whatever's left of her life. It's good Gram likes TV so much. Good thing poor Gram's protective mechanism kicked in when her hard disk overloaded and crashed.

Gram looks nice in aqua: aqua muu muu, fluffy aqua robe. It complements the chair.

Gram looks nice and the room is nice but the words barreling in from across the hall are ugly and sharp. "And sleep in your shit because you won't tell me who killed him."

Oh stop.

"Oh, look," Gram says. "Doesn't Rosie have on a pretty red shirt today."

But she can't drown out the old soldier. "Who killed Vic? Was it you?"

"And doesn't she dress the child nice," Gram says because he can't drown out her sweet voice.

This is her life now, these daily TV people are closer to Gram than her family, Jane realizes. She's a little hurt and at the same time happy for Gram, who looks frail but clean and pretty and well taken care of, with her white hair nicely waved and a bobby pin with a blue butterfly clinging to the spot where the pink scalp shows through. "Nice, Gram. It's a nice color. Would you like me to get you one like that?"

He is still shouting. "Was it me?"

"Don't worry," Gram says, beaming. "Just get me the boxtops. I can always send away."

"Help me," he screams. "I have to find out."

~

I don't know who did it but I may, he is lying dead somewhere but if I can get back the memory I may find out. Solomons I was fighting on, or was I at Tobruk? Was that Vic running along beside me, did I push him ahead and did he take the bullet that was meant for me, is it my fault he was killed in the first wave? Is that what happened to you, old shitface, is it my fault you got blasted out of your life?

~

Something is shimmering out there. I am coming for you.

~

"Who killed Vic?"

Jane murmurs, "I wish he'd stop."

Rosie's theme music makes a cheerful sound in the room. The ambiance is cheerful, and so is Gram. Although massed shadows roll down the halls like thunderclouds before a terrible storm, the room is bright. There are stuffed animals the great-grandchildren gave, marine blue curtains to match the nice comforter and ruffled bolster that Mom bought when they moved Gram out of the house she couldn't keep. Her hospital bed has a dust ruffle just like a little girl's. Books she can't read any more line the little bookshelf like the ghosts of old friends. Family photos stand on the top in plexiglass frames. Gram with Mom and Jane and the others in Gram's better days. She looks so pretty! Like somebody else. You wouldn't know her if it wasn't for the smile that travels from one snapshot into the next into the studio portrait made on her 80th birthday, into this room and onto the face of the wraith in the recliner chair. There isn't much left but the smile.

It's enough, or it would be except for the scary business in the halls. What is it, exactly, that makes Jane anxious today, and fearful for Gram?

It could be nothing, she thinks, as across the hall the old man accuses the world at large: "You know who killed Vic. Who was it? Was it you?"

"Who's Vic," she says to Gram.

The old lady turns sweet, empty eyes on her. "Who?"

"The old man across the hall says somebody got murdered." She shouldn't be talking about this but it's better than what she really wants to say: Don't you ever want to get out of here, Grammy? Are you happy or sometimes do you think you want to die? Disturbed, she finishes, "This guy Vic."

"Oh," Gram says, blinking the way she does when she doesn't have the foggiest, which is all the time now. "Vic," she says with that midrange pleasant smile that means nothing. It is nothing like the welcoming blaze when Jane enters the room but it's the best she can do. Lips like a shriveled rosebud, with that genteel, vacant tone. "Of course," Gram says without knowing what she's saying. "Vic."

"Who was he, Gram? Was Vic his son and did you meet him, do you know?" What did the nurses say? He has a family. They used to come. Now nobody comes and the checks come straight from the bank.

"Who?"

"Vic!" She doesn't want to scare her grandmother but she does want an answer.

Bemused, the old lady murmurs because it's expected, "Poor Vic. Oh look, Janie, look what Rosie's doing now."

It's useless to ask her but Gram's the only person she can ask. "What happened to him, Gram?"

~

What happened to me? Wife I had before I went away, two boys I had, Timmy and little, did we name one of them Vic?

My friend Angus had little girls, he was the first over the top and I promised to follow but his belly blew up in a fountain of fire and blood Pull me back he was begging would he not have died? I couldn't, not with that hole in the belly, guts blooming, twitching wet parts of him slithering into my arms it's not my fault he went first dead like my point man and when I try to sleep they blossom all over again they found his penis in the dirt next to my face keep your head down men...

~

In the building now, and coming down the hall. It's nothing you did in the war.

~

"Somebody killed Vic and you know it..."

"Oh God." Jane groans. "What if this is the wrong place?"

"It's so sweet," Gram says, "Rosie bringing up her own baby all by herself."

"You have to move out of this place," Jane says wildly. Is she trying to get the old lady out of this room for the afternoon or for good? She doesn't know. The old soldier's voice rises and she shouts to cover the sound, "It's not out of the question."

"Rosie's just a wonderful mother, just like Oprah and those wonderful people in The Partridge Family..."

She grabs Gram's shoulders. "What if something happened to you?"

"And that nice girl who took care of the Trapp children, they are an inspiration for us all." This is a lot for Gram to say at one time but she is all worked up now. Her lips are trembling and her eyes glisten with approval. "It's fine mothers like them and that lovely Ma Walton who make America great."

Jane tries, she tries! "I don't think Oprah has any children, Gram."

At least Gram has a nice family, unlike that poor bastard across the hall. Who will not stop shouting, "No. He didn't kill Vic. You know he didn't and you know who did."

"Oh, shut up."

Gram gasps.

"No no, Gram. Not you!"

"And I know it too." Querulous. "Did you kill Vic?"

"I didn't kill anybody, Janie, I didn't." Gram's face shrinks like crepe paper; she's about to cry.

"Shh. Shh, Gram. Don't worry about him, really."

"Who?"

"You know. You do! He's just a crazy old man."

But Gram's face is working. She's caught on an old memory that won't surface. She can't tell Jane what it is but Jane can see from her face that it hurts. There is something buried back there unless something is happening to her in the room right now. Whatever it is, it hurts. Gram's laprobe falls away and she sees her grandmother's feet are cased in plastic lined with sheepskin. Why? Oh, Gram.

Meanwhile the old man rails, "Did you kill him?"

If he would only stop shouting.

"Did you?"

Jane rises to close the door.

"Why, no." Gram is terribly upset. "Of course not. No."

But the doors in this place are jiggered so they won't really close. Regulations, Jane thinks. Health care centers have to come up to code. She soothes her grandmother with bits of blueberry muffin. The old lady chews and chews but when she spreads her mouth in a new smile, the bits of blueberry muffin are still there.

Suddenly the old man's tone changes. "Why, you didn't kill Vic, you tried to save him."

Uneasy, Jane glances at her grandmother, but Gram is fixed on the television now. She smiles on as though she doesn't hear.

"But he died anyway!"

"Oh, look, Gram." Jane warbles. Her voice is shaking. It sounds sweet and false. "Look at Rosie."

"Do you want to know who killed Vic? Do you?"

"Isn't that a pretty red shirt?"

Anguished, the old man finishes. "I killed Vic."

"My God." Jane shoots a look at her grandmother. Did she hear? Is she afraid?

~

I didn't kill Angus and I didn't kill the my point man, I got a citation for what I did, the Purple Heart and a Bronze Star but it was shit because I couldn't get an erection and I couldn't get a job. I was shit and my life was shit and I hated them, because before the war ever happened it already was. Alana left me for that Hunky refugee and took the kids but I showed her, I did, I showed them all.

~

All except me.

~

"I know who killed Vic," the old man cries.

"Pretty red shirt. Your mother ought to wear red," Gram says. "It would take people's minds off the wrinkles and the fat."

"Gram!"

Gram goes on in the unruffled tone she uses when Mom cracks during one of these lectures and starts to yell. Just when you love her best she gets a little mean and you remember she always was. "If only she'd get herself up nice, like my girls Rosie and Oprah do."

From across the hall, the news comes in on a sob. "I killed Vic."

"They're just television, Gram." What if the old man really is a murderer?

"Lose her looks and she'll lose her handsome man and then what will she do?"

"Mom looks fine." What if he kills Gram?

"Aaaaaahhh." His throat opens in grief. "Aaaaaah."

"Shh," Jane murmurs, "please don't."

And with that brilliant smile that lights up Palmshine, Gram burbles, "Poor Vic."

"Shh, don't worry. It's just crazy talk, Gram."

Nothing to worry about, Jane tells herself. Veteran, Congressional Medal of Honor or something, all that. Even if he could walk, what would he use? No scissors and no razors allowed here, plastic silverware.

But Jane worries. She's worried ever since they moved Gram. In a play she knows, street cleaners came for you with rolling garbage cans. You heard the tin whistle just before they took you away. In one story, it's the Dark Men who come. They live in the mortuary and work by night. When they finish with you, you are another store dummy in the window at Neiman Marcus, and nobody knows. What if evil really is out there, not things you are afraid of, but something real? What if the doctors are ranching organs and selling them by night? What if some Svengali in white tries to bilk Gram out of her money and starts pinching when she says no? Secret beatings and spiteful bruisings go on in places like this, sexual abuse and worse. Anything can happen when you're old and frail and can't get out of your chair. Should she stay here and protect Gram? But Jane has a life and a day job. She can't sleep at the foot of Gram's bed every night, even though Gram's so small now that there's plenty of room. Besides, Mom researched. Palmshine is run by staunch Methodists with big dependable feet, good, kind Methodist faces and capable Methodist hands. Palmshine is the best of its kind, Mom researched it. It's right there so in Consumer Reports.

Then why is she so upset?

Mostly, it's the shouting. "Who killed Vic?"

"Look, Gram," Jane says, pointing to a branch outside the window. "Look at the pretty bird."

Gram turns her head obediently. She looks right at it but does not see. "Pretty," she says with that lovely, undiscriminating smile.

In the next second she's asleep. It happens. Jane's used to it. She's also pledged to stay until six. If she's not here when Gram wakes up – if she doesn't stay until the supper tray comes – "Oh look, Gram, it's lovely Sunday dinner, turkey and apple crisp, again" her grandmother won't eat. If she doesn't stay her grandmother will wake up alone in her pretty room on a Sunday night and start to cry.

~

Nobody can stand living with the dead I know that stink of decay, when they pull back the robe to wash me I see in their faces how it smells, well stick your face in it put your hands into it and inhale, take me the way I am if I can't stand it how can you so wallow in your own stink and stay the fuck away I don't want you but I won't let go until I get my revenge on you God damn you, it's all your fault unless it was Alana's, she was gone and the boys were gone when I got back so it's her fault unless Angus started it, why didn't you just say no, unless it was the Lieutenant for putting me in charge or those candy mouthed shitfaced sons I had with their greedy shiteating smiles you can all just go to hell and stay there and leave me alone and I'll stay here

~

Let me in.

~

As long as Gram keeps smiling, Jane can handle it. She can live with the shadows and the shouting, but Gram isn't in right now. Jane is alone with it.

"You didn't kill Vic."

"Oh, stop it." She turns up the TV

The punchline rolls in. "I killed Vic," he cries again. Again.

Trembling, Jane pats the air above Gran, she apologizes to Rosie – are these shows on a loop? Spilling into these cheery rooms even on Sundays when real TV is showing something else? "I'll be right back," she says, and even though at Gram's age sleep is tenuous and leaving her is risky, she slips into the hall.

"Do you know who killed Vic?" The old man's shout meets her at the door. "Do you?"

"Stop it." She slams into his room. "Just stop it!"

"What?" His head turns at the sound. "What?" he shouts, glaring at nothing. His mouth is a furnace fueled by hatred. "Go away!"

But Jane is angry now. "I'm not going anywhere until you shut up."

"It's you." For a moment his voice softens. "Is it really you?"

"Who do you think I am?"

Something changes. "Thank God you've come."

A part of Jane knows you shouldn't walk into things you don't know about, but it's too late. Besides, the shadows are massing outside the door and if she stands here long enough they will come rolling in. Something is out there waiting, whether for her or for Gram or for this old veteran, she does not know. There is more at issue here than Jane's sanity or her grandmother's comfort and safety. The trouble – and this is what strikes her dumb and leaves her cracked open, vulnerable and waiting – is that she can't say what. Because the old soldier's tone has changed she says gently, "Just be quiet now, OK?"

"And now that I have you here. It's Anzio, don't you see?" He clears his throat like a lecturer about to start. "Tobruk." Big voice for a man in his what, eighties, nineties. The old veteran looks well and handsome, considering – flowing white hair, square jaw, sharp brow, knife-blade nose.

"You're hurting people out there. That's all."

"Don't you see what I'm talking about?"

"That's enough!"

"Stand still, Alana. Don't you dare walk out while I'm talking to you! Bizerte, don't you get it? Montecassino. Normandy. Tobruk."

"I said, that's enough." Jane puts up her hand as if to ward him off but the battlefield names keep rolling out on a current of rage and it is too much. It's just too much.

"You know you were fucking him, you bitch, and all the time... Don't you see where I was?"

"Just stop!" It's his health that angers her, the strong arms and firm jaw and the forearms like blades; there are dumbbells crossed on the side table and a metal triangle hangs above the bed. This old man is so strong that he can go on forever. He can shout on and on unless somebody stops him. "Shut up."

He is raging at a world of people she can't see and never was, people that she won't see and can't help and it is terrible. "That's all you know, Sergeant." Then, "Shut up, you unfaithful bitch. Shut up or they'll shave all your hair and rape you to death. They'll lock you up."

She shouts back, "Shut up or they'll lock you up!"

This is how he silences her. "I was locked up. Who do you think killed Vic?"

"Who are you?"

"You weren't there, Sergeant. None of you were, so you don't know what became of us. What do you know about it?"

Jane throws back her head like a horse that's been spooked; eyes wide, whites showing all the way around. "Oh, stop it. Just don't!"

"What do you know about Vic?" The eyes the old man turns toward her are like milk glass, shining and opaque. There's a chance that he still doesn't know that Jane is here. It doesn't matter whether she's here or not or who she is or even whether she's listening. The harangue is etched into his mind. "You didn't crawl through shit and you didn't see your buddy's face blown off or your best friend's belly torn up by a grenade. You didn't see anything, you little bitch," he says. So he does see her. And now that he sees her his face splits open and she looks into the agony. He is crying for both of them. "You careless, careless bitch."

The pain is so obvious and so powerful that her voice shakes. "I'm so sorry it hurts!"

"Who did this to us? Whose fault is it then?"

Trembling, she backs away. "I'll go get somebody."

"Don't! I'm not finished with you."

"I'm only trying to help."

"Shit on that. Shit on your help." The old soldier rolls his head from side to side on the pillow, looking here, there, nowhere, tossing hopelessly like a child who's never been rocked. He is struggling. "Don't go." Words back up in his throat and he strangles on them.

~

I said, let me in!

~

"I'll get a doctor."

His face writhes in a series of conflicting expressions. "Fuck that shit. Get out!"

"They'll give you a shot."

"You bitch, you're just like all the rest of them." The old veteran is so filled with grief and hatred that the words come out in puffs like exploding shells. "Alana, the kids. Now go away."

Jane is stumbling backward to the door when his expression changes. There is a stir at her back. It's more than a shadow, she thinks, but can't be sure. There is something new in the room. Whatever it is, it keeps her in place while the old man's words blur with pain and stop being speech. He groans aloud. She tries again, "Please let me get someone."

"Just go away! Take the kids and get out of here." He can hardly breathe. "Get out before you get hurt."

Trapped in the bed like that, how could he... Still she's afraid. Her voice trembles. "Just don't hurt my grandmother."

"You have no idea what I can do."

"Nurse! The bell, Mr. ah."

"That's classified!"

"OK, OK." Shaking, she advances. "Ah. Don't hurt me, I'm just going to reach over here and ring the..."

"No! You have no idea what I can do."

"I'm only trying to help!"

"Stay back!" The force of his hatred overturns her, "You have no idea what I can do to you!"

"You did it," she murmurs, frozen in place. "You killed Vic."

"I did. I kill everything I love!" The rest comes out in a spray – his story, Jane guesses, but so distorted by resentment that she can't make it out – a dozen voices fill the room: allies and enemies, traitors, everyone, the story that came before everybody else comes tumbling out so fast that nobody could sort it out, and as he rambles, shadows begin rolling into the room. He rasps, "Yes I killed him, and I'll kill you too."

At her back something moves and she wheels, startled, and looks into its face. He looks so nice. "Who are you?"

"I'll kill everyone who..." But the furious old soldier sees it too. He bares his teeth, thundering: "Go away!"

But the gnashing, outraged old man can't frighten the young one no matter how loud he shouts. The young soldier is smiling, fresh-faced and handsome and easy in the fatigues, with his combat boots hanging down from laces knotted around his neck, hitting the dogtags that dangle from a chain until they clink. The muddy helmet swings from one hand. With the other, he makes a cross on his lips as the old man in the bed goes on railing:

"It serves him right, you know. God damned Vic..."

"What?" she cries.

"It serves you right."

This nice young man; she asks, "What did you do to him?"

Shh. The newcomer shakes his head and without speaking he tells her, Shh. You don't need to know.

"Who are you?" she asks. Then she knows. It's Vic, he is this patient's long-dead victim and now he's come back to confront the man who murdered him all those years ago. She turns to the young soldier. "Oh, Vic. Poor Vic!"

The old man sits bolt upright. "You called?"

"Vic?" She turns from one to the other. The profile, the eyes... She covers her mouth and points at the veteran in the bed. "You're Vic!"

"This is all your fault!" The milk glass eyes snap wide. His voice overflows the room and roars down the hall. "You brought him, you bitch. Get out."

Jane hears footsteps approaching – the nurse, orderlies – but she says, "Oh my God, I'm sorry." She doesn't know why she's crying, but she is.

"Die, you bastard." Propped on trembling arms he snarls at the young man, "Finish it!"

The air in the room shimmers. There is a decision hanging fire.

~

Not now.

~

"Die, God damn you. Go ahead and get it over with!"

Jane wheels to protect the young soldier – Vic? But he shakes his head. No. In the next second, he is gone.

"Get out!"

As the head nurse comes into the room. "Victor Earhart, you stop that! You stop abusing people around here! I'm sorry," she says to Jane. "He has a history."

"I'm sorry."

"Bitch, you bitch. You get the fuck out!"

"Don't worry," she says to Jane, "he does that to everybody, he just drives people away." With the heel of her hand she straightarms the old veteran, pushing him down on the pillow. "Keep it down, Vic, or I'll have to give you a shot."

Vic?

"Shut up, Vic, she's going."

Vic.

"Go away." He is howling now. "Go away, God damn you, go!"

"I am!" Sobbing, she runs. Jane retreats to Gram's room, to nice Gram who has been stripped of her possessions, her flesh, of all the old, bad complications, so the sweetness is the only thing left. And the pain, she sees now. The pain.

"Oh," Gram says, extending her arms. Her smile turns on with the force of a thousand halogen lamps. "Oh, how nice!"

"Oh, Gram." Jane advances with her arms out, she can hug Gram and even though Gram has lost her powers she can still make it all right. In the next second she realizes her grandmother isn't looking at her. The old lady's thin arms fan out in a welcoming hug and her face lights up, but it isn't her granddaughter she's reaching for and it isn't Mom. It isn't anybody in this world, Jane understands. Gram is reaching for somebody else.

Turning, she sees that the shadows have followed her out of the old veteran's room and gathered in Gram's nice place, and with them, the new force that came into the building today to effect – not revenge, a rescue? Young Vic is standing here in Gram's room in his fatigues with boots around his neck and the helmet dangling. He's taken off his dogtags and he carries them in the other hand. Grinning, he tosses them to Gram.

Across the hall, the old veteran starts. "Who killed Vic?" Old man, old man! He can't shut up. Now he'll never shut up.

~

I came for you. Come with me?

~

"Oh Gram, please don't..."

With that smile blazing, she does.

About the author

Kit Reed calls herself "transgenred," as she's never quite figured out where she belongs in the market, probably because she writes for her readers– and herself. Her novels include mainstream fiction, psychothrillers and SF. Enclave is her most recent. P.S. Publishing released What Wolves Know this year, with stories that originally appeared in Postcripts, the Yale Review, F&SF, Asimov's SF and the Kenyon Review.

more about infinity plus singles

Short stories: read in a single sitting at lunch or in the evening, explore unfamiliar authors, take a chance ... try a single!

Remember the days when we all bought vinyl 45s, singles, and if we liked them enough went on and bought the LP? Here's a set of literary singles, a genre fiction hit parade: each volume a complete short story. And if you like it enough, why not go on and buy more from that author?

Our authors include Sarah Ash, Keith Brooke, Eric Brown, John Grant, Kaitlin Queen, Kit Reed, Iain Rowan, Anna Tambour, Lisa Tuttle, Neil Williamson and more – winners of major genre awards including the Hugo, the World Fantasy Award, and the British Science Fiction Award.

For full details of infinity plus ebooks and singles see www.infinityplus.co.uk/books