Free Further Interpretations of Real-Life Events by Kevin Moffett

washed her hands. She knew neither the lieutenant’s intent nor her own, but she knew the rules of the game, and for the moment, certainly for now, this was plenty.
    Before she’d left her apartment, she taped a note to her patio door, which said I WILL RETURN ANON . She liked the word anon . Like a powdered veil, it provided cover for the fear that the lieutenant wasn’t coming back. Sitting next to the man in the wheelchair, she said, “I need to leave. I have a good friend, a soldier, who’s stopping by. I hate to keep people waiting.”
    The man in the wheelchair let out a harried little sigh. “Hand job,” he announced. “That’s probably all he’s going to have time for.”
    Alta had never heard this word before, yet she knew immediately what it meant. She studied him, trying to gauge by his expression what his intent was. He looked aggressively satisfied. “That wasn’t necessary,” she said. “You might’ve given up but some haven’t. I haven’t.”
    â€œI’m only teasing you,” the man said as Alta stood up to leave. “I bet your soldier has time for all of it.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t be allowed around children,” Alta told him. “You should try to maybe show a little more . . . valor.”
    The man in the wheelchair laughed at his scorecard. “Valor,” he repeated. “Valor’s how I ended up in this goddamn thing. From now on it’s sniping and petty malice.”
    In her apartment, Alta microwaved a freezer pretzel and brought it in a napkin to the patio. She pulled down the note and saw beneath her message, scribbled in faint pencil letters: ENEMY SIGHTED. BATTLE IMMINENT. PRAY FOR OUR MEN.
    On the arm of her patio chair was a red oval leaf. She brought it inside, placed it on the kitchen windowsill beside the others.
    T he wind made barely a sound, Alta realized. Whatever was strained and blown by it—leaves, grass, scarves, flags—did the work. The gusts called to mind a neglected house, a storm door opening and closing, opening and closing.
    Everyone made a noise. Her first husband made a glassy noise. Her second and third made humming and rasping noises, respectively. Thinking about the husbands reminded her of the lieutenant, and remembering the lieutenant, who made the most noise of all—a marching-away noise—now reminded her of the man in the wheelchair. Who made a word noise: Hand job. From time to time she still waited for the lieutenant on her patio, and this wasn’t reasonable, she knew, but who expected her to be reasonable with so much noise?
    The Boer War! Fenn yelled through the wall. Geometry!
    Far away, the battle made a faraway garbage-truck noise. Her men were there. She’d dreamed about them, Vic, Don, George, all charging the enemy with the same rifle. Acting and counteracting.
    She awoke thinking: I am losing my mind . She’d begun saying this aloud before George died. Whenever she couldn’t find her keys, or when she forgot to turn off the television. She wanted to get into the habit of saying it so that she’d remember to continue to once she indeed started losing her mind. Saying it aloud, even if it didn’t avert things, might at least soften the stupor when it came. Make her sympathetic, the same way a drunk admitting he was drunk lent himself a sorry sort of dignity.
    One night, after reading a magazine article about how the brain like any other muscle needed regular exercise, she told George she wanted him to start asking her more questions. This was one of the suggestions in the article.
    â€œAbout what?” he’d asked. They were in the living room, having a predinner drink. Alta drank a glass of sherry while George sipped an unrefrigerated Coors from its twinkly can.
    â€œAnything,” she said.
    He squinted, considering. Though not handsome, his face had a volatile softness that made it interesting to