The General and the Horse-Lord Page 7

  The man was good-looking, tall and lanky, with wavy brown hair to his shoulders. He was with a boy who looked very young, so slender he was almost frail, with wispy blond hair and a blue streak like Kim’s. Kim was laughing, his arm around the shoulders of a boy with a multitude of facial piercings, Che on his tee shirt picked out in little crystals. When Kim turned around and saw Walker, he stiffened, and his hand went into his pocket, came out holding his lip gloss. He looked around for John, and his uncle gave him a little “come here” gesture with his finger. Kim hugged his friend good-bye and walked across the room. He had his lip gloss clutched in his fist so tightly that John just opened his arms, gathered him up close.

  “I’m okay, Uncle John.”

  John looked across the room at Brian Walker, then looked over his head to the huge banner that was being unrolled from the second floor balcony. It showed a photo of Brian Walker, and Gabriel had photoshopped a black board below his head, so it looked like a mug shot. His name was picked out in bright white letters on the board, and below the image, large black letters said, “FISTS ARE NOT FOR HITTING YOUR DATES.”

  The dickhead looked at them, then followed John’s gaze over his shoulder. He spun around, studied the image, then pointed across the room at Kim, his face livid, shading to bright red. There was a crowd of dancing kids between them, and they were stopping, looking at the banner, pointing at it and staring at Brian Walker, the sudden buzz of conversation loud in the room.

  John thought they had maybe a minute, a minute thirty. Kim didn’t see it, though. He had his head on John’s shoulder. “I saw that Fijian boy you were dancing with earlier, Kim. Nice-looking kid. Did you tell him you’d been to Fiji?”

  Kim sputtered with laughter. “Oh, God, no. Do you remember?”

  “You were such a sensitive boy, such delicate sensibilities! You were reeling in the street, trying to keep from retching, a handkerchief over your nose, and you kept saying, ‘My God! Sewers and dumpsters and the fish market!’.”

  “I can still smell it. I thought, if I lost you and got stuck on that street, I would just die. If you disappeared, and I was alone there….”

  “You won’t lose me.”

  “That was just after Mom and Dad died. I guess I was thinking about what life would be like, to be a street kid in the third world. That might have been my life, if Mom hadn’t brought me home from Seoul.”

  John didn’t know what to say. He’d had no idea Kim still thought about the past like that, still had fears he could be thrown back like a fish that was too small for market. “You about ready to go?” He stroked Kim’s back, kept his head down.

  “Where’s the Horse-Lord?”

  “I think he went to the head.”

  Kim straightened, looking across the crowded dance floor. He saw the banner and stiffened. He was trying not to make eye contact with the dickhead, and he still had his lip gloss in his hand. “Oh, my God! What is that?”

  Brian Walker was struggling through the crowd, making for them. John reached out, tugged him back into his arms, wrapped him up tight. “I love you, kiddo. Have I told you lately?”

  Kim turned around and looked at him in surprise. “I love you too, Uncle John. Do you know anything about that banner? You didn’t do that, did you?” He was looking at his uncle, a question on his face, and he missed the crack of a boot on the side of a knee. Brian Walker screamed, took a header, and slid across the dance floor, plowing into startled boys and girls until he ended at the bottom of a pile of shrieking arms and legs. He screamed, clutched his knee, then his contorted face turned to John. John slung his arm across Kim’s shoulder, kept him from rushing out to the dance floor. “They don’t need your help, son.”

  He had Kim by the sleeve, pulled him gently through the crowd until they were outside. Gabriel was waiting for them on the sidewalk. He turned, handed John his pair of yellow foam earplugs. “Those things really work. I could use a pair of those in court.”

  Kim studied them both. “What just happened in there? Did you do that? I didn’t see what happened. Uncle John, I told you I didn’t want you to do anything.”

  “The only reason I didn’t do serious damage to that dickhead was to spare your sensitive feelings. And I reserve the right to change my mind about that.” John reached out, pulled the little tube of lip gloss from his hand. He pulled the lid off, took a sniff. “This cherry isn’t as bad as that one you used to wear. What was it? Watermelon? The smell drove me crazy.”

  Kim took it back, stuffed it into his pocket. He was moving between outrage and laughter. “Watermelon and green apple. I have every intention of buying a new tube tomorrow.”

  Chapter 7

  KIM stayed at home most of the weekend, but avoided him, and Gabriel spent Saturday moving out of his house. They had both agreed without speaking that it was probably better if John and Kim didn’t help him move boxes of his clothes to his pickup truck. He came back to John’s to sleep Saturday night, and was so miserable and restless in bed John finally pulled him outside to help him with the hot tub. John had a high fence around the back yard, and they worked together without speaking to fill the tub in the middle of the night. They turned on the heater and drank tequila until the water was warm. They climbed into the tub about four in the morning. Gabriel finally laid back, his head on an orange life vest, and floated in the warm water. John watched over him, watched the tears that slid down his face while he slept.

  Sunday morning Gabriel drove off to his new studio apartment. The place looked to John like a seedy extended-stay hotel, and he wondered if Gabriel was making himself miserable as some kind of penance.

  He was ready to go back to work Monday just to escape the gloomy house. Still no word from the president about what he intended to do, and John had decided to give him until the end of business Monday. Monday afternoon, just after lunch, he looked up to see Brian Walker balancing on crutches in his office doorway. He had an enormous padded splint on his left leg, looked like he couldn’t bend the knee. John studied him without speaking.

  “Just so you know, I haven’t said anything about this. I know you did it. I wanted to be clear with you that this makes us even. I didn’t realize Kim had such an overly protective Uncle John! General John Mitchel, to some people. Who knew?”

  “I might suggest you start packing,” John said. He sat behind his desk and folded his hands. The other man remained standing. “When you are out of this university and out of this town, we can discuss equity again.”

  Brian Walker’s face was shading dark red, and he snarled, showing his teeth. John suspected this was the face Kim had seen, the other boys too, right before he’d raised his fist and punched them in the face. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with, General. You think you’re so important and powerful?”

  John stood up, walked around the desk. “You can leave this university now before things get ugly. This is your last friendly warning.” Brian looked confused for a moment. John shook his head. “This was nothing, just a little love tap. You pick up your boys there? Or in your classes, professor? Somehow I doubt that boy you were with is old enough to drink. Is he even legal?”

  “I don’t have to pick them up in class. They come to me. Kim was practically humping my leg, he was so ready to fuck, bending over for it like a little Korean dog.”

  John could feel the corruption coming off the man, like the faintest odor of something rotten under the sweet-heavy aftershave. He remembered for one clear moment Kim’s face when he was a year old, spotting him across the orphanage floor, two front teeth, drool on his chin, and crawling across the room as fast as his skinny arms and legs could carry him. The clean, bright, delightful smell of his baby filled his memory, and he’d pounded Brain Walker in the mouth twice, had him down on the floor with blood smearing his chin, before he could draw a breath.

  Cynthia came in the door, her hand pressed tightly over her mouth, but John waved her away. “This doesn’t make us even. I could spend the rest of my life kicki
ng your corrupt ass and it wouldn’t begin to make us even. Now get the fuck out of my office.”

  Brian struggled to his feet, his hands so tight on the crutches his knuckles were white. Blood was smeared across his face and down his shirt, and his mouth was torn. He stopped at the door like he might want to say something in parting, but John was back behind his desk, working.

  He got a call from Gabriel just after the dickhead left. “El Presidente wants to see us, and so does Kim. He asked if I could fetch you and meet at Ho Ho’s for dinner.”

  “Oh, God. I can’t imagine that place at dinnertime. Listen, can I give you some money to put aside in case we need bail? I don’t want to call Kim if I get arrested.”

  “Did you assault someone?”

  “Yeah. And there was a witness.”

  “That’s too bad,” Gabriel said. “But unlikely to come to anything. He’s a coward. He does his dirty work in the dark. He wouldn’t run the risk of getting the police looking into his business.”

  “I agree. But I’ll give you some emergency egress funding just in case.”

  “I told Kim we’d be there at four for soup. I’m on my way to your office now to pick you up.”

  “I’ll meet you outside.”

  They walked to the president’s office and said hello to Cecilia, who greeted them with some reserve on her face. John took this as a sign, and this was confirmed when Simon didn’t stand up to greet them when they walked in. “Gentlemen! Thank you for coming at such short notice. Have you met Gregor Korbel? He’s counsel for the university.”

  Gregor was a mild-looking man, and Gabriel greeted him like an old acquaintance, asked after his wife.

  “Good, good. I’ll have her call Martha, we’ll get together for dinner.”

  “Sounds great.” Gabriel smiled, then took John’s briefcase and sat at the conference table. He pulled out a file folder that contained one page. John stood behind a chair, waiting for Simon to get down to it.

  “General, please have a seat. I’ve showed your report and evidence to counsel, as well as to a couple of select members of the board of supervisors to get their opinions. It seems as if this issue is not as cut and dried to other people as it is for you. One solution that was offered by Board members would be that we could offer alcohol education and treatment to the boys involved, in the hopes they would not keep getting into these uncomfortable situations. Also, it appears these incidents all occurred off campus, which significantly….”

  John turned to Gabriel, and Gabriel took the paper out of the folder and passed it across to the president. John stood up. “President Wainright, I appreciate you hearing my concerns about this matter. My resignation is effective immediately. The department head will find all notes relevant to my classes on my desk. The students have assignments through next week they can complete independently, so you will have time to find a replacement.”

  “General Mitchel! Surely this isn’t necessary! I understand you’re taking a stand on this matter to support your adopted nephew, but to resign over this….”

  Gabriel stood, and when John nodded, he opened the office door. “Gregor, good to see you. President Wainright, thank you for seeing us.”

  They walked across campus to John’s office, where Gabriel had left his truck. Gabriel put John’s briefcase behind the seat. “About what we expected. First salvo across the bow.”

  John flexed his hand. “I’m getting too old to punch people in the mouth. My hand hurts like a bitch. So what’s happening at Ho Ho’s?”

  “I’m not sure. How was Kim this weekend?”

  “Still in a snit.”

  “He said Juan was coming to help with the pot stickers after class, so that will make two of them in snits. I can’t wait.”

  “Should be fun.”

  Kim and Juan were at the prep table behind the smudged glass serving counter, dealing with a mountain of celery and green onions. Gabriel and John leaned over the counter to get a look at Juan’s new haircut, a very sharp, very short high and tight, with the front left long enough for a wavy blond streak. He pretended not to see them for a few moments, the color creeping up the back of his neck, but Kim was incapable of not showing off. “Oh, my God! Horse-Lord, he’s so handsome! He’s going to be a model. He’s going to be in a band. He’ll be so famous he won’t even know us. He’ll be on a yacht in the Mediterranean with Madonna and Donatella Versace and all we’ll be able to do is wave good-bye from the shore when he sails off to fame and fortune.”

  John wasn’t sure what all that nonsense meant, but he was happy it got them through a few awkward moments.

  “You two, go sit at the table. We’ve made your soup and tea.” He leaned over, whispered something to Juan, and the boy burst out laughing. His neck was bright red now.

  Gabriel took John’s arm and they went to a clean table. “Whatever he just said, I have a feeling it was about us! Always happy to bring a little comic relief, if I can’t do anything else. Think he’ll be bringing us soup at Ho Ho’s when we’re eighty-five and can’t remember our way home?”

  “Count on it, my friend.”

  Their tea was brought by one of the old women from the pot-sticker fight. She seemed gentle today, gentle and sad. “Thank you for letting Kim do his art project in the restaurant,” John said. “He’s very excited.”

  “It will be very good, very good,” she said, adjusting the fold of a tiny napkin. John could see her arms were riddled with old scars, burn scars, like most cooks had, and some ancient linear scars on the underside of her forearms, old defense wounds. The injuries a person got when they raised their arms to cover their face when someone was hitting them. She patted him on the shoulder with a tiny hand, and Juan carried two soup bowls to the table and put them down. He avoided looking at either of them, and Kim was next with a covered tureen.

  John looked at him when he put the bowl down. “So are we going to hear the details about this art project?”

  Kim waved his hands around like he was fanning the flames. “Don’t worry about that now! Just have your soup and tea. And then we’ll talk.” Of course he couldn’t stop himself. “You’re going to love this, I swear! My best idea all year.”

  The soup was excellent again, a smoky cream of mushroom, and the boys waited behind the counter, working on the evening prep, while they ate. When John pushed his empty bowl away, accepted the cup of tea Gabriel poured, he looked at their backs, wondered what they were up to. Juan came to clear the table and brought them two fortune cookies. “Dad, Mom said to call her when you were done eating.”

  John opened his cookie, read the fortune out loud. “‘And where the offence is, let the great axe fall.’ Hamlet.” He frowned at the slip of paper. Hamlet? He looked at Gabriel “What does yours say?”

  Gabriel broke open the cookie, read the paper out loud. “‘Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.’ Paul Gauguin. Huh. Weird. Are these literary quotes fortune cookies?”

  “You don’t think Kim…?” He looked behind him at the kitchen. “No. No way.”

  Gabriel stood, took the phone out of his pocket, and waved Juan over to the table. “Is everything okay at home? Your sister?”

  Juan stood like a baby tree, sighed, and stared down at the floor. “I don’t know, Dad. Everybody’s mad all the time. Martie’s acting like a baby. We don’t like that you’re gone.”

  “I miss you guys a lot.”

  Juan studied his face for a moment, and when he’d stepped outside to call Martha, Juan sat down in his seat. He looked across the table at John. “Mom said you knew my dad even before she did.”

  “I met your dad in 1983. We were in Beirut, just after the bombing of the Marine Corps barracks. Then in 1986 we met again. We were on our way to Africa. There was a war on back then.”

  Juan was nodding. “I saw that movie, Black Hawk Down.”

  “What did you think about it?”

  “It was kind of scary, since my dad used to fly helicopters. I kept thinking about if that
had been him.”

  “He’s never been shot down. He saved my life more than once in a helicopter, though. I think anyone but him at the controls, and we both would have…. Anyway, did he ever tell you about the time the missile nearly hit us?”

  Juan shook his head.

  “We were in Africa again. Not Somalia, but close, and I had a meeting with a tribal leader who was thinking about letting us build a dam on a little river across his land. Your dad took us into the mountains, stood by for security, and took us back after the meeting. This was just after you were born, because he had a little picture of you on the instrument panel, you and your mom. The first SAM nearly hit us. You know what a SAM is?”

  “Surface-to-air missile?”

  “That’s right. Those are not very accurate when fired from somebody’s shoulder, from a jury-rigged handheld launcher, and they leave a big smoke signature. So we could see where he was, and where he was firing from. Your dad, he flew that chopper like it was smoke, a widening spiral up in the air,” John used his finger to show Juan the pattern, like a little funnel cloud. “His squadron called themselves the Horse-Lords of Rohan, after the great horse tribes of Middle Earth. The Lord of the Rings,” he explained to Juan’s blank face. “His chopper was painted like a great silver-white warhorse with a long, black mane. He was so mad somebody tried to shoot him down. His teeth were clenched shut. Then he was yelling from the cockpit, ‘Are you kidding me? I’ve got a new baby boy at home I’ve never even seen. No way are you shooting me down before I get to hold my son!’ I knew right then nothing was as important to him as you.”

  “Is that really true?”

  “Ask him. Whenever I had to go into hostile territory, to try and work deals for new roads or new bridges with the tribes that owned the land, I always wanted your dad to be my pilot. I knew he would get us home safely.”