Nobody Home

    Wyatt Foster could walk past the dog in the Jenkins’s yard—the dog that snarled and snapped at the chain link fence with viscous spittle spewing through the spaces and gnashing teeth gleaming wicked in the sunshine—without blinking, without flinching. Perhaps it was because he moved to the neighborhood when he was twelve, had not grown up with that angry Rottweiler as the “monster under the bed” in all his childhood nightmares. Maybe he had lived somewhere without vicious dogs, so had never learned to fear them. If that was the case, why on earth had his family moved? What a paradise. 

    Whatever the reason, Wyatt walked past the Jenkins’s with his cast iron nerves every day of middle school and then high school. Everyone, even the biggest and toughest seniors, was afraid of that dog, if they knew about it. Everyone except Wyatt.

    Wyatt had a nerve unlike anything anyone had seen at that time. He was a quiet boy, moving around the country as his father was run out of town after town for being a drunk, a crooked gambler, an impulsive thief. He clung to the supportive arm of Wyatt’s mother. She moved her private consignment business from town to town, and nobody in the Foster family had roots that went down more than an inch or two deep in the loose topsoil of America. 

    And with a nerve like that, Wyatt should have had eyes that burned with pride and with fire. His soul, when he got older and reached the age where boys begin to feel ways about things, should have lept from his chest like a fighter jet, torn the sky to shreds. 

    But Wyatt was stony faced for his whole life, and never seemed passionate about anything. He did not go out for sports. He did not play in the band. No friends, no girls, no art. He did well in school and then he took his report cards quietly home to his drunken father and saintly mother. 

* * *

    Private Wyatt Foster of the United States Army found his one and only soul mate in the form of an old woman in Eastern Europe. This was when the third World War was still raging, what was being called the Finale Rack of the Planet, the thing that would make or break us. It was an all out brawl, no holds barred. Wyatt’s platoon was deployed in the aftermath of a carpet bombing strike that had leveled a whole town. Wyatt’s job was to put on a yellow suit that encased him entirely, then walk around with a device and metal prongs like divining rods to see if the levels of radioactive poisoning were low enough to allow the huddled citizens in the bomb shelter to go out and inspect the ruins their lives in person, instead of only watching it on the small TV. Wyatt was walking with two other Privates. They were all armed, but only one had his hands on his weapons. His name was Private Watson. The other, Private Kippler, was making entries into a wireless data bank of radioactive levels of different cities in Eastern Europe, and Wyatt, of course, was operating the device. 

    The squad came across the old woman beside what remained of a park. She was sitting on a metal bench with a paper bag resting on her knees. Her face, pale and withered, was the texture of old leather. She looked soft to the touch, almost buttery, but with an immense flatness in her eyes and her spirit. She was dipping her hand into the paper bag at regular intervals, then casting something onto the pavement in front of her. She was scattering bird seed. There were no birds left. There was no park left either. There was the bench, the concrete path, and then a huge crater. 

    The woman was unperturbed by the presence of the soldiers. She didn’t even look up when they approached, looking like animated yellow rubber kitchen gloves, with machines that went beep in the uncanny stillness of that leveled city. She just kept scattering her seeds. 

    “For fuck’s sake.” said Watson as the soldiers approached the old woman, “What’s she doing out here?” His voice sounded canned and tinny coming through the little speaker at the base of his clear plastic face mask. 

    “Don’t get riled up.” Kippler said, his eyes still focused on the screen of his device. He turned his attention to Wyatt.  “What’s the reading, Foster?” 

    “Eighty-five point eight.” Wyatt continued his steady pace towards the bomb crater that had been a park. “Point nine. Eighty-six. Eighty-six point one…”

“Jesus.” Kippler said, his fingers busy as he entered the information, “She really shouldn’t be out here.” 

“Eighty-six point three.” said Wyatt.  

“She’s got to get out of here, right?” Watson was fidgety. His fingers, while not on the trigger of his rifle, tapped nervously on the trigger guard. “I mean, that’s lethal levels of radiation, right?” 

“Yeah.” Kippler said without looking up from his device, “That’s lethal.” 

“Christ!” Watson shouted. His speaker crackled. “What’s she doing? It’s indecent. We’re out here being brave to protect little old grandma’s like her. Then she just comes strolling out here to...hey, what’s she doing, anyway?” 

Wyatt glanced at the old woman and paused. 

“Feeding the birds.” he said, and a curious half smile danced across his lips. 

“Feeding the birds.” Watson scoffed. “For chrissake.” He took a step towards the old woman. “Hey!” he shouted at her, “Hey! Go home! Get out of here. There’s no birds. It’s not safe. Please return to your shelter.” 

The old woman seemed not to hear Watson yelling. She continued scattering seeds on the cracked pavement. Watson turned away. Through the clear plastic mask, his young, passionate face was red with frustration. 

“I mean, doesn’t it kinda make you feel pointless?” he demanded, “That old lady being out here when we’re supposed to be checking it out first? Why don’t we just invite all the pregnant mothers to do our dangerous work for us, while we’re at it? For chrissake.” He turned back and took another few steps towards the old woman. “Hey! Go home!” 

“Eighty-seven One.” Wyatt said. 

“Got it. Man, that woman really should be home, though. She’s a tough old bird, but it’s just getting stronger as we get closer.” 

“I bet she doesn’t have a home anymore.” Watson sputtered indignantly, standing back and staring with frustrated defeat at the old woman, “I bet she never went to the shelter either. I bet she would still be out here scattering those damned seeds if there were bombs going off right now.” 

“Yeah, I bet you’re right.” Wyatt said. “Eighty-seven point four.” 

“I’m going to make her get out of here.” said Watson. 

“Alright.” Kipling said, not looking up. 

Watson marched off with his spine ramrod straight, looking as much like a soldier as he could. 

“Eighty-seven point five.” 

In the distance, Kipling and Wyatt heard Watson shouting at the woman. He was brandishing the rifle at her, telling her to go home by order of the United States Army, that civilians were supposed to be in shelter still. The woman hadn’t even looked up until she was scattering seeds on Watson’s jack boots. Then she looked up slowly, with flat eyes showing no fear, no understanding. She didn’t speak his language, and she didn’t feel his language either. 

“Like she’s from another planet.” Kipling said. They had stopped to watch the situation go down. Wyatt nodded. His interest was growing in this old woman. “He wouldn’t shoot her, would he?” Kipling asked. Wyatt shook his head. 

“No, he’s good at heart. Just that his heart is louder than his mind, and his mouth is louder than both.” said Wyatt. Kipling laughed. 

Finally, after five minutes of shouting, the woman’s bag of bird seed was empty. She folded it slowly on her lap, then stood and walked peacefully away without so much as a second glance at the soldiers. Watson came back fuming. 

“Well, she finally went.” he said, “Christ, do you think she even knows there’s a war on?” 

“Yeah, I do.” Wyatt said. They were walking towards the bench where she had been sitting. Wyatt stopped, feeling the crunch of the seeds breaking his under his boots. Any bird still alive would surely die from eating broken seeds exposed to...he checked his device again...Christ, eighty-nine point two.

And then, all of the sudden, Wyatt was grinning. He turned to face Watson and Kipling. 

“What are you so happy about?” Watson demanded. 

“Fellows” Wyatt said, beaming all over, “I think I’m in love.”