Albuquerque Journal from Albuquerque, New Mexico • Page 53

FICTION WORKSHOP A new world is coming for the veteran and the former Army nurse. cover. It doesn't bother him that she uses her longer and longer to convince her that this time the trip will become a reality. "This Plymouth Duster is in showroom condition. I saliva to soften the crust and her nails to scoop out her breakfast.

What bothers him is that he has done the same before her and left her little. What bothers him is guilt over always putting himself first. Until Nancy rescued him, he existed from one score to another. Those first post-Vietnam years were compul sive ones. He had to drug himself to blank out memories.

There was a time when he was squeaky clean. That was when he joined the Army left his job at 7-Eleven left the mop with its braided cotton stuffed in the toilet with water bubbling over the rust-stained enamel. He was 18 and didn't want to be left behind again. It wasn't that he disliked the long hours and poor pay; it was just that there was no one to care. So once he fell for the recruiter's line, he never went back to what was.

Nancy is his bonus to himself. "Want half an English?" he asks, knowing it will make her feel like a lady. English muffins are her favorite. Giving her a sandwich made with English muffins pleases her more than wine. That's what knocked Carl out about Nancy her simple tastes.

know it I feel it," he says. "Vibes don't lie, right?" He nods. "Damn right Saved me more than once." "In Nam?" He shrugs and says, "And here." He doesn't want negativity anywhere near him not now. He shakes the bank. He rubs the pig's belly as if it has the power of Aladdin's lamp.

He winks and lets out a holler. She pulls her turtleneck toward her ears. It's a wonder to him that she never complains doubts, yes, but curses hardship, never. She has a towel pinned around her waist to protect her back, which is longer than the shrunken sweater. Yet, she looks appealing like some one-of-a-kind model but she can't see herself so she doesn't know.

She's in a tough spot, wanting to believe him, remembering other times when they came close to starting the journey. He tells himself that this time he will not let himself down. He'll be strong and not give in to old cravings. "You sure a 74 isn't too old?" she asks. "That's about all $630 will buy." "And Jeeter promised a share up front?" "Didn't I tell you? He gave me $300 already and promised two more before we hit the trail" "He did?" "Yeah.

And when we get the car, Olsen's going to take out the back bench seat and put in a single, bucket-style." "What for?" "So we can squeeze in a trunk to hold bedrolls, cooking utensils and clothes." He reminds her they need tools, tents, food and water as he aims to be on back roads as well as main highways. He squirms like a kid. She says, "Hey, you're drooling." "Can't help it. It's a new kind of high for me." She doesn't say anything more, doesn't match his enthusiasm. Something is matting CARL HUNTER and Nancy Pelham are talking about the dream of exploring America by car and visiting his cousin in Santa Monica.

Nancy does the active work of feeding the knee-high purple plastic pig with funds from bottle returns and corner begging. She also neatly lists cars being sold by private parties. He collects maps; he marks routes with a Carter's yellow Highlighter. He cleans the blackening felt tip against his patchwork jeans, streaking himself haphazardly, with frenzied speed. He wants to cut and tape sections while her enthusiasm is at a peak.

The shed where they live on Bread and Milk Road, Vernon, is cold. It is March. Most of the gaping boards have been plugged with newspapers and rags, but a storm splintered the makeshift door, and an old shower curtain is too short to rock down. They are caked with mud. A kerosene lantern casts smells and shadows.

"We're gonna do it," he says, and grins. "Yeah." She stomps her sneakered feet as if by waking her numbed toes she'll revive her spirits they've just finished counting their funds. She pops her blue fingers into her mouth, careful to give equal time to each hand. "You really think we're finally going to do it?" "You betcha," he says, singing her out of her doldrums. "What with Jeeter forking in a share to get to Vegas, the three of us can leave next week at the latest." He tackles her to the cardboard floor and tickles her.

She laughs and rolls side to side. Eventually, they kiss. He can usually get her to shake her blues and that gives him a feeling of power. Nancy was a nurse in Vietnam. Carl was one of her patients.

He doesn't care that she's educated and he's a high school drop-out. He's had schooling that doesn't come from books. She acts less educated than he, actually. More like a bud that's never blossomed. No matter how often they go their separate ways, they find their way together again, and it's as if they never parted.

She has been his reason for trying to get flush again. He doesn't know whether she realizes that. NANCY SCRAPES OFF the mold without complaining because it is like a gift from Carl, and she doesn't have the heart to tell him she is muffined out they are boring too taste bud-deadening. All that mold is nauseating. English muffins remind her of lifeless eyes.

What Nancy really wants is a tub bath. Of course she doesn't voice that. Visions of a bubble bath are what got her through Nam hospital duty. She never had that luxury before becoming an Army nurse, and she knows if she expresses that wish that somehow it will vanish and she'll be left with nothing. Carl is the only veteran, the only patient she has allowed into her life.

Other nurses were able to return to work without fighting off river demons. They probably think she had alligator dreams before her Nam tour. But she loves Carl for letting her pour out without trying to stuff her holes. Even though he is dependent on her to stay clean, he has taught her how not to be worried about tomorrow. Nancy doesn't mind picking up cans from roadsides and parks because she wants to her emotions.

She asks, "Any peanut butter left?" He hands her the 2-pound jar. The sides are smeared with dried spread. He shrugs, apologizing for neglecting to scrounge up a Time is the enemy. Lately it's taken him A short story by CONCETTA DOUCETTE Illustration by RUSS BALL January 27, 1987 1 IMPACT Albuquerque Journal Magazine 13.