when there's a war going on."
"That's lucking out?" Ben exclaimed.
"Shh, not so loud. If you're trained as a fighter pilot you'll never be happy until you test your skills against an enemy pilot. That, boy, is a law."
"What if I get killed?"
"Then you're a lousy pilot. Only lousy pilots get killed in combat. That's another law."
Ben thought for a moment, then said," What about Uncle Dan? Your brother, the one killed in the Solomons. Was he a lousy pilot?"
The massive shoulders tensed beside him. Then slowly they relaxed, but the car lurched forward, moving faster and faster until Bull answered by saying," Yes, Dan was a lousy pilot. But he was a brave one and he earned that K.I.A. on his tombstone. He earned it."
"Would you like to be killed in action, Dad?"
"If he has to go, every pilot would like to be killed in action. It's better than dying of the piles."
"But only lousy pilots are K.I.A., Dad. It's a law."
"That's right, sportsfans. Good thinking. That's why I'm telling you that I'm more afraid of birds than enemy pilots."
"It would have to be a great pilot who shot you down, wouldn't it, Dad?"
Bull turned toward his son and winked," Inhuman, Ben. The bastard would have to be inhuman. Now go on and get some sleep. I'm wide awake now. I'll get Mary Anne or your mama up if I need company."
"Good night, Dad."
"Good night, sportsfans."
Alone now, the car voiceless, Bull strained to follow the white lines of the highway snaking through Georgia. Butterflies by the thousands fluttered maniacally before the headlights then exploded like tiny half-angels on the windshield leaving a scant yellow paint and the dust of broken wings as a final signature. The further into the journey Bull went, the harder it became for him to see through the windshield that was stained with the prints of so many inconsequential deaths.
Periodically, Bull would spot a turtle crossing the highway and with an imperceptible movement of his arm he would position the car expertly and snap the animal's shell, which made a scant pop like the breaking of an egg. It kept him from getting bored on the trip; it kept him alert. He always did it when his wife and children were asleep. But when he pulled clear into the other lane to kill a turtle almost on the shoulder of the other side, Lillian awoke.
She whispered at him, her eyes still closed but her lips tightened in a thin line," It takes a mighty brave man to run over turtles."
"Who's running over turtles?" Bull asked innocently.
"I've been on enough trips to know when you're getting your jollies running over turtles. I think it's sick."
"Well, they shouldn't be on the road. They're a safety hazard."
"Sure they are, darlin'. You're always reading about car wrecks caused by marauding box turtles attacking defenseless Chevrolets."
"It's my only sport when I'm traveling. My one hobby."
"And you're such an all-American at it, darling. Maybe I should dress in a cheerleader's costume and shake a pom-pom every time you run over one of those dangerous turtles."
"Ah, Saint Lillian. Do you think I should drive real slow so I won't kill any butterflies?"
"I don't care what you do."
"Thanks, Saint Lillian. I'll be a good boy as soon as I pick off this next turtle. OOOOeeeee. He's a big mother. "Then Bull laughed as the wheel made a short pop. "Yeah, we're in Georgia sure enough, sportsfans, I'm starting to see a lot of dead dogs on the highway. That ought to be the nickname of this horseshit state. The Dead Dog State. Now I'm gonna quit yappin' and start makin' some time."
"Making time. "The phrase came back to Ben as he entered into an unsteady threshold of sleep, a sleep that wasn't quite, the groaning of a truck that passed them by in a vision of light, passed them in a momentary assault as the car ate its way through Georgia, consuming miles as Bull Meecham carried on imaginary conversations with phantoms only he could see. Ben saw his father stabbing the air with his fingers, saw his lips
"That's lucking out?" Ben exclaimed.
"Shh, not so loud. If you're trained as a fighter pilot you'll never be happy until you test your skills against an enemy pilot. That, boy, is a law."
"What if I get killed?"
"Then you're a lousy pilot. Only lousy pilots get killed in combat. That's another law."
Ben thought for a moment, then said," What about Uncle Dan? Your brother, the one killed in the Solomons. Was he a lousy pilot?"
The massive shoulders tensed beside him. Then slowly they relaxed, but the car lurched forward, moving faster and faster until Bull answered by saying," Yes, Dan was a lousy pilot. But he was a brave one and he earned that K.I.A. on his tombstone. He earned it."
"Would you like to be killed in action, Dad?"
"If he has to go, every pilot would like to be killed in action. It's better than dying of the piles."
"But only lousy pilots are K.I.A., Dad. It's a law."
"That's right, sportsfans. Good thinking. That's why I'm telling you that I'm more afraid of birds than enemy pilots."
"It would have to be a great pilot who shot you down, wouldn't it, Dad?"
Bull turned toward his son and winked," Inhuman, Ben. The bastard would have to be inhuman. Now go on and get some sleep. I'm wide awake now. I'll get Mary Anne or your mama up if I need company."
"Good night, Dad."
"Good night, sportsfans."
Alone now, the car voiceless, Bull strained to follow the white lines of the highway snaking through Georgia. Butterflies by the thousands fluttered maniacally before the headlights then exploded like tiny half-angels on the windshield leaving a scant yellow paint and the dust of broken wings as a final signature. The further into the journey Bull went, the harder it became for him to see through the windshield that was stained with the prints of so many inconsequential deaths.
Periodically, Bull would spot a turtle crossing the highway and with an imperceptible movement of his arm he would position the car expertly and snap the animal's shell, which made a scant pop like the breaking of an egg. It kept him from getting bored on the trip; it kept him alert. He always did it when his wife and children were asleep. But when he pulled clear into the other lane to kill a turtle almost on the shoulder of the other side, Lillian awoke.
She whispered at him, her eyes still closed but her lips tightened in a thin line," It takes a mighty brave man to run over turtles."
"Who's running over turtles?" Bull asked innocently.
"I've been on enough trips to know when you're getting your jollies running over turtles. I think it's sick."
"Well, they shouldn't be on the road. They're a safety hazard."
"Sure they are, darlin'. You're always reading about car wrecks caused by marauding box turtles attacking defenseless Chevrolets."
"It's my only sport when I'm traveling. My one hobby."
"And you're such an all-American at it, darling. Maybe I should dress in a cheerleader's costume and shake a pom-pom every time you run over one of those dangerous turtles."
"Ah, Saint Lillian. Do you think I should drive real slow so I won't kill any butterflies?"
"I don't care what you do."
"Thanks, Saint Lillian. I'll be a good boy as soon as I pick off this next turtle. OOOOeeeee. He's a big mother. "Then Bull laughed as the wheel made a short pop. "Yeah, we're in Georgia sure enough, sportsfans, I'm starting to see a lot of dead dogs on the highway. That ought to be the nickname of this horseshit state. The Dead Dog State. Now I'm gonna quit yappin' and start makin' some time."
"Making time. "The phrase came back to Ben as he entered into an unsteady threshold of sleep, a sleep that wasn't quite, the groaning of a truck that passed them by in a vision of light, passed them in a momentary assault as the car ate its way through Georgia, consuming miles as Bull Meecham carried on imaginary conversations with phantoms only he could see. Ben saw his father stabbing the air with his fingers, saw his lips
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