The Hog's Tooth

1950 Palmyra, IN

The letter said to be in Palmyra by 12:30. Wait at the Jones Filling Station it told him. Here he stood. The sun was high and the heat was rising. Jack could feel the sweat fill the pits of his white T-shirt. That was also in the letter. Not the sweat part, although he’s sure there’ll be a little of that. Wear a white T-shirt and slacks it told him. Yes sir, letter sir, he told it. Jack didn’t have to meet them to start receiving orders. He followed them. He figured he better start now. He put on his Sunday slacks and white T-shirt just as they said.

The sun was hot on his already burnt neck. He kicked a pebble around to pass the time. The dust swirled under his boot. It was near drought level. It didn't help the crops any. A couple trucks rolled by and Jack gave them a nod.

“How you doing, Jack?” he heard from behind him.

“Alright I suppose,” said Jack, turning.

It was Old Man Jones himself. Covered head to toe in grease, you would have thought him a Negro if you were anywhere but Palmyra, Indiana. There weren’t any of those around here. And Jack didn’t suppose there ever would be.

“What are you up to? Shirt tucked in and all that.”

“Army,” he said.

“Army?” Old Man Jones replied looking up, diverting his attention from the bearing he was greasing. “Need a new target to shoot at, huh? The furry critters around these parts not good enough for you no more?”

“Not that,” said Jack.

“Not that? Then what? What makes you want to do that?”

“Not sure, really.”

“Want to kill a man, do ya?”

“Not really.”

“No? I knew some men like that before the Second World War. Couldn’t wait to go shoot a man and not end up in the Pen. Shoot a man and get a pat on the back. They didn’t come back. Their bodies came back, came back in boxes. I helped nail a few shut. But they didn’t come back all the way. Most of them, the parts that mean anything, are still over there, over where their family can’t talk to them, over where they can’t find home. All that came back were bodies in boxes. I came back, Jack. I got myself a garage. I don’t plan on ever leaving it.”

And he didn’t. Old Man Jones is buried out back of that garage. Left it in his will to be so. So that’s where he lays. So it goes.

“I ain’t like that,” said Jack.

“Oh no? Seems you don’t have much of a reason.”

“Maybe not.”

Jones came closer. Walked right up face-to-face like. Jack could smell him. Sweat and grease mixed with whiskey. There was never a bottle too far.

“I got the scars, Jack.”

Old Man Jones got a funny look in his eye. Jack tensed. He could handle himself. A lifetime of farm work had hardened him.

“Those don’t go away. Not only the ones here on my arms, on my legs and back, across my chest, but here,” he said pointing to his head. “They never go away, Jack. You’ll see them every night. They’ll speak to you. You’ll see.”

“Come on, Jones, back off,” said Jack raising his hands.

Old Man Jones hesitated, then took a few steps back and continued greasing the bearing.

“Sorry, Jack,” he said. “Get a little carried away sometimes talking about the war.”

“I understand,” said Jack. He didn’t.

“Is it a job you need?” asked Jones. “I could use a little help turning wrenches and keeping things straight around here.”

“I appreciate that, but no.”

“What’s your Pa think?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I guess it doesn’t. You’re a man. You can make your own way.”

“I just need to go.”

“I suppose that’s reason enough.” Jones turned and walked back to his garage, pulled the door behind him.

Jack returned to his pebble and waited.

Half an hour passed with no sign of anything. The sweat stains progressed from his pits to his back. He may as well have been shirtless. You could see right through the sweat-soaked fabric. But there he stood in his Sunday slacks and white T-shirt just as the letter told him. 12:30 it said. Outside of Jones Filling Station it told him. Here he stood.

1:30 rolled around. Jack paced back and forth, his pack resting on the dusty ground. Was he missing something, he thought? Did he misunderstand something in the letter? He pulled the letter from his back pocket to make sure he was in the right place at the right time on the right day. Sure as shittin’ it said it right there in black and white. ‘Jack Herman Baylor, we request your presence at Jones Filling Station in Palmyra, IN at 12:30 pm on Wednesday, August 21, 1950 for transport to Camp Atterbury Indianapolis, IN. Please be present in slacks and white T-shirt in preparation for departure. Please pack the following…’

Jack folded the letter and returned it to his pocket. He glanced down US 150. A couple farm trucks rolled down the road loaded with bales of hay. Behind them Jack caught a glimmer of metal. It was a large, silver object. Nothing he’d ever seen around here before. A bus. It looked like a ship on wheels. The trucks struggled by, their burdens nearly too great to crest the small grade. The bus followed closely behind. It rolled up; a colossal hulk compared to the modest implements of the Baylor farm, and came to a lumbering halt. Jack stared up, amazed at the sheer size of the gleaming machine. “Greyhound” read the side.

Jack shouldered his pack as the door slid open. He looked up at the driver, a black man. Jack had never seen one in real life before. He caught a glimpse of some on the television but they may as well have been cartoons.

“12:30’s what my letter said.”

“I suppose it did,” said the driver.

The black man was an old timer. Grey streaked his course hair. A walking cane leaned against his seat. His name was Charles by his nametag.

“Well, Charles, it’s right around 1:30 and I’ve been sweatin’ my ass off out here.”

“Frank’s my name. Charles is the man they canned before I took over. Remember it. And the letter said for you to be here at 12:30 not that the bus would be here, shitbag. Now get your ass on the bus. I didn’t drive all the way out here just for you.”

Jack stood in awe. Obscenities perverted the tip of his tongue. He hesitated, knocked the dust off his boots and climbed the steps to the landing.

“Sir, yes sir,” he mumbled as he shouldered past Frank.

He found an empty seat near the back and settled in, tempted to tear off his sweat soaked shirt and replace it with one from his pack. Sounds of Frank tearing into someone rose above the chatter and he thought better of it. The commotion up front intensified. All other passengers fell silent, focusing on the disturbance.

“Jack,” he heard. Someone was saying his name.

"Jack!"

Jack poked his head around his seat and saw Old Man Jones trying to get by Frank. Frank had his cane in hand poised to use it. Jones pleaded to no avail.

Jack hurried to the front, avoiding the heads poked into the hallway.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked Jones.

“Just needed to give you something. This damn Negro won’t let me come talk to you.”

“Well, what is it? Spit it out.”

“Here, take this.” He handed him a piece of paper. A solid object could be felt inside.

“Thanks, Jones. Now get the hell out of here.”

“Good luck, Jack. That’ll bring you luck. Not many men in the world have one of those. You need it more than I do.” With that, Jones got off the bus and went back to his garage where he would spend the rest of this life and the next.

Jack made it back to his seat. He unrolled the grease covered piece of paper, held it to the light of the window. Its contents fell into his lap. The note read:

I killed a German sniper in the war.
I kept this.