I woke up in Arizona, at a rest stop, covered in sweat. I'd put up the windshield cover, cracked the side windows and the rear window, and had gone to sleep with my head against the pillow. I sat up, rolled down the window, and lit a cigarette. I had a bottle of water on the floor that I gulped down between drags off of the cigarette.
Pru had convinced me to give up smoking years ago.
But Pru was dead.
I got out, used the rest room, bought a couple of sodas from the vending machine, then walked back to the truck. I didn't look much like the one I bought. The brush guard and the winch, the tire and gas can on the tailgate, the whip antenna for the radio, all changed the way it looked. I liked the red color with the thick white stripe on the side. The new tires had been broken in during the drive last night.
I shook my head, focusing my thoughts.
I'd dreamed of Pru all night. I kept waking up, reaching for her, all during the day. The worst was the dream of Pru standing in front of the ranch house, calling my name, trying to call me home.
But Pru was dead.
I climbed in the truck, sitting there for a long moment, staring at the suitcase on the floor. I grabbed it and headed back into the rest room. The rest area was empty, so it was no surprise that the urine smelling rest room was empty. I used a rag to wash my pits, my crotch, my ass crack, and the small of my back That done, I got dressed, deciding to wear the T-shirt with a kind of neat tribal design on it and a red and black checkered thin flannel shirt.
I folded the dirty clothes and closed the suitcase, ignoring the stacks cash hidden under the t-shirts. I switched the ball cap out for one with the US flag on it, put a cigarette in my mouth, and headed back out to the truck.
I fired up the truck and pulled back out on the highway, the engine purring along. The truck only had sixty-thousand miles on it, which wasn't much for an old Ford F-150. Getting it a tuneup and fluid change probably added a hundred thousand miles to its life.
Driving at night was preferable to sleeping at night. At night, when I woke up, the darkness confused me and I reached for Pru out of habit. I'd wake up and listen for her breathing in the darkness. I'd wake up, my body expecting to feel her body against mine.
Then I'd remember and the loss would crash back down on me.
Pru was dead.
It kept circling in my brain. That one fact. Over and over. Like a kid's model train running in a circle for all time.
I turned up the stereo, lighting another cigarette, filling the cab of the truck with the sound of Motley Crue. The road hummed under the tires, the warning reflectors on the side of the road swept by and vanished behind me, the moon above me.
I'd realized where I was going when I saw the road sign. I'd been heading that way for two days, wandering around slightly, but steadily heading toward it.
The Grand Canyon.
I pulled off, the truck bouncing slightly as I drove to the lookout point.
When I reached the parking space I shut down the truck, killing Axel Rose's voice, and sat in the dark for a long time. I smoked several cigarettes, staring at the moonlight landscape in front of me. Grief swept over me, remembering the last time I had been here.
Pru and I had taken a donkey ride to the bottom of the canyon, camped at the tourist area for a couple of day, then gone back to the top. It had been after Panama, her and I celebrating that I'd come back to her again.
It had been our first vacation together.
I sat in the truck, weeping, my face in my hands. I missed her so badly that it physically hurt. A deep aching pain in my chest. Knowing why I was crying only made it hurt worse, and the pain reminded me why I was crying.
The pain receded slightly after a while. I sat up and opened up the glove box, reaching inside for what I had hidden under the truck's paperwork. It felt good in my hand. Felt right, comfortable, the weight familiar.
I got out, lighting a cigarette, and walked up to the edge of the lookout point.
The bottom of the canyon was lost in the darkness, and I knew it was a long ways down. I sat on the edge, my feet dangling over the edge.
I ejected the magazine, staring at the bullet at the top of it. The .45 slug was dark, the brass shell gleaming in the moonlight. I slapped the magazine back in, my hands moving out of old reflexes and muscle memory. I didn't even think about it as my hands ran the slide, loading the round into the chamber of the pistol.
My hands in my lap, I stared at the Colt M1911A1 .45 ACP in my lap. The moonlight gleamed off the metal of the pistol. It was familiar, a part of my life.
pushing the PDF guy's head back, jamming my pistol into his side and pulling the trigger, feeling the arm trying to push the knife into my chest go limp against my own arm
I'd used a pistol like this frequently over the years.
I sighed, tears still running down my face, and looked up at the sky.
The moon was large in the sky, staring down at me. The same moon that Pru and I had laid on the sleeping bag and stared up at.
But Pru was dead.
I lifted up the pistol, pressing the barrel against my temple, staring out at the night.
I could almost hear her calling me.
All I had to do was pull the trigger and I'd join her again.
My hand started shaking, the barrel tapping against my skin.
I put my hand back in my lap, staring at the pistol.
I couldn't do it. I couldn't go on without her. We'd been through so much, she'd been my sole light in the darkness for too many years. She'd been the sole warmth in a Cold War life.
But Pru was dead.
I had nothing.
I know, I know. A bloo bloo bloo, poor little rich boy. You poor poor man, listed as one of the richest men in America, one of the richest ranchers in the world. Dry your tears with some hundred dollar bills, poor little rich boy. Jump in your private jet and fly to the Bahamas, why don't you? You and your money will be just fine.
But none of that was mine. That was my family's wealth. Built up over the decades, since before the Mexican/American War.
But what about your son?
He was a big boy. Old enough to vote. Old enough to attend college. Just seeing me reminded him of his mother and hurt him. He'd always been closer to Pru, and as he got older, something about me seemed to drive him closer to his mother.
I knew he blamed me, unreasonably maybe, but blamed me all the same, for the death of his mother.
Pru had convinced me to leave those dark cold years behind me. To put up or give away the relics I'd left the military with. My medals, my old uniform pieces, the paperwork, had all been put in the attic when our son was ten years old.
At Pru's urging I'd closed the door on that part of my life and worked hard to be Johnathon Bomber of the Texas Bombers. So my son didn't live in my shadow, so I didn't keep dragging those harsh cold years behind me.
And now I had nothing.
Not even Pru.
I lifted up the pistol with a shaking hand, bending my wrist and opening my mouth. The metal was cold in my mouth, the sight running along my tongue. The taste of gun oil filled my mouth as I closed my eyes, taking my finger from along the slide and putting it on the trigger.
It would take much pressure to pull the trigger. The bullet would smash through my brain stem, killing me instantly. Blowing the bottom of my brain and the back of my head across the dirt behind me. My body might go backwards, might fall into the canyon, but either way, it would be an empty shell.
Images, memories, welled up. Rodeos from my youth. Pru covered in dirt and mussed from the goat roping competition. Basic Training. Calling Pru from the phone booth while Tony sat on the bench and drank soda. AIT. Going with Tony through Special Weapons Training. Making love to Vencilla, both of us using each other to fill the void of our missing loved ones. Airborne training. Calling Pru every weekend. 2/19th. The horror, the violence, the death, the hardship. Calling Pru when I could. Getting shot in the head. Waking up to find out Pru and I would be allowed to marry.
All of it went through my head.
The taste of the gun oil thickened.
Then the memory of one of my biggest betrayals.
get up, Tony, she died. you can't change that. come on, brother, get up off the floor. you've got to keep living even though she died in that car wreck
I'd lied to my blood brother. Told him his wife had been killed in a car wreck rather than let him remember the truth. Helped the rest of his friends brainwash him, rob him of those memories.
get up, Tony, she died not you
I slowly pulled the pistol from my mouth.
Christ, Johnathon, what kind of hypocrite are you?
I'd pulled him back up on his feet, helped Heather Cromwell sober him up, berated and pushed him to go on living after his wife died.
And now I was seriously thinking about blowing my brains out?
Hypocrisy, thy name is Johnathon Bomber.
I'd planned on this since I asked the cabbie to get me a pistol.
The height of hypocrisy.
I scooted back from the edge, my boots kicking dust and pebbles into the Grand Canyon, and stood up once I was back a few feet. I walked back to the truck, opening the driver's side door, and ejected the magazine from the pistol. I racked the round out of the chamber and replaced it into the magazine, then loaded the pistol again.
The pistol went back into the glove box.
Who are you?
I tried to think about that question. For years I'd been Johnathon Bomber of the Texas Bombers. Before that, though, I'd simply been "Johnny", "John", or "Bomber comma J, three one two two", and before that I'd been Little Johnny.
But...
who are you?
The question moved around my brain.
If I left the ranch, left the Bomber Legacy behind, who was I?
John Bomber, triple Bronze Star for Valor and Silver Star winner?
No, that was years and miles behind me. I couldn't reenlist, no way the military would take someone as busted up as me, missing as many original parts as me. Hell, on cold days my right knee hurt so bad I limped.
who are you?
I could almost hear our little Fruit Bat asking me that question.
Sitting in the truck, smoking a cigarette, I realized.
I didn't know any more.
I fired up the truck, bringing Axel Rose's voice back, and left the lookout point, driving through the darkness again. I had an idea of what I'd do.
I'd just drive, figure out how to start over.
It was a day's drive back to Austin, and a few hours from there to Killeen. My sister couldn't list me as missing for seventy-two hours, which meant nobody would be looking for me too hard.
When I had gotten out of the military I had been paranoid. Reacting off of almost a decade of dirty deals. I'd spent some money to establish a new identity, then never used it.
When Pru had found out that I'd done that, she had encouraged me to throw it away, not keep the illegal documents of a fake identity, told me I'd never need it.
But Pru was dead.
Maybe it was time for John Bomber to vanish too.
I pointed the truck East and headed for Fort Hood.