Free The Mercy Journals by Claudia Casper Page B

bottle and therefore had to go looking for it when I needed to sharpen my pencil. I found myself pouring another drink, though I had not intended to, knocked it back in three gulps, and now I’m over the line. My pencil may be sharp but my mind is too dull to keep my story going. There’ll be no laying an ambush tonight.
    I have a confession, besides that I’m drunk.
    I’m ashamed to admit it and have never revealed this to anyone.
    I think I am a good man.
    Still.
    We always said, We’re fighting for peace, we’re risking our lives so others can live in peace. They sell every war as a vaccination against a future one, a prophylaxis against itself—have one now so you won’t need a bigger one later. But that is why I became a soldier. I loved the camaraderie and not being behind a desk, and there was my father, but really I became a soldier because I wanted to stand up for innocent civilians against the bad guys …
    Maybe I was a good man, who knows. In any case, once again I am a man who can no longer live with himself.
    Now my pencil is dull too. I’m going to sleep.

March 28 |
    It was around that time I started having one of those repeating dreams, and one morning before we got out of bed, I told her about it.
    I locked you up in a gingerbread house in a cage beside the oven and I was fattening you up. I was feeding you roast chicken and gravy and beef—feasts from the old days—tandoori, teriyaki, cookies, puddings, trifles, and cakes. I kept them coming, feeding you through an opening in your cage. All the time I had the key to your cage, a chicken bone on a strip of rawhide, around my neck.
    I didn’t tell her that in the dream she was naked and scared and cringed in the corner of the cage except when I brought her food.
    You ate like a wild animal, stuffing your face until the food was gone, but you never put on any weight and I worried I might never be able to eat you.
    She laughed. It wasn’t a full laugh—it was short, a sound of surprise and pleasure in the surprise.
    That’s quite a flattering picture you paint of yourself, she said, a wicked witch in a gingerbread house. She stretched out under the covers, put her arm across my chest, and whispered, I better be careful tonight when I’m eating so you don’t discover where I’m putting it all. I want to keep you working hard in that kitchen.
    I went to work that day feeling happy, though I see now, also with an undertone of anxiety. I had never thought I’d feel happy in that way again. Connected to someone. The rain had stopped and it was silent outside except for a lightgurgling of water in drainpipes. I took the longer route by the bay where the loading docks used to be, wanting to stretch out my walk. The huge red loading cranes stood in water up to their knees, like a phalanx of long-necked robot Apatasauri, lifting their heads as though at a sound and looking into the distance.
    A skateboarder tattooed at speed toward me and I had to spin away to avoid getting knocked over. The kid hurtled past, hair sticking out from his grey wool toque, toting a backpack big enough to hold all he owned. He might have been fifteen or sixteen, my youngest son’s age when he and his brother left.
    Because I was happy and letting my guard down, I let myself think, just for a flash, about Jennifer and Luke and Sam. All the love was there, like an ocean stretching forever, deep blue, sparkling and fierce. I glanced out over the expanse, but even that instant of opening brought with it a howling clamour, a gnashing and tearing. I broke into a sweat and fled toward work.
    Velma said I looked like I’d seen my own ghost and uncharacteristically shared some hot tea from her thermos.
    A few days later Ruby kicked my door rather than knocking on it. She stood in the hallway, hands cupped in front, holding salmonberries. First of the season. A bit sour, but still. She let them fall onto the kitchen counter then fed us, one for her, one for me.
    We were getting