Nobody

Tex

I kept driving east, stopping to sleep in the cab of the truck during the day, eating fast food as I drove through the night. I quit going to the truck stops to eat after seeing the news show my sister giving a tearful plea for my return. It was national news now, the idea of a wealthy widower walking away from a fortune capturing the nation's imagination. They had shown pictures of me with the Texas governor, with President Clinton, all of it pictures of me in a suit doing business to further the wealth and power of the Texas Bomber's.

Not one picture of me from the military days and it took me quite a bit to realize why. Those pictures were years ago. I looked younger in those pictures, but older at the same time. Nobody would be able to see past the uniform.

I'd passed the Kentucky border just before midnight I got that tightness between my shoulder blades, the hair on the back of my neck standing up.

The next exit led to Daniel Boone National Forest and I took it as a sign to get off the Interstate. A "nationwide search" meant that sooner or later they'd pick up my trail. I'd been using cash since I left Fort Hood, but sooner or later someone was going to track the truck instead of me.

I pulled off the Interstate and onto a state highway, listening to Johnny Cash as I drove through the darkness. Dawn came as I entered the forest, the truck easily handling the corner. I stopped at a gas station, changing clothes, and looking at myself in the mirror after I shaved.

I was wearing the Levi's I'd bought at the PX, one of the pair of desert combat boots (which were comfortable to more than just my feet), a T-shirt with the US flag on it, and a checkered blue and black thin flannel shirt. I had on the Desert Storm vet ball cap I'd bought at the Fort Hood PX, the thin gold chain with the quarter sized crucifix.

The bullet scar on my cheek, where the Soviet bullet he entered my open mouth and exited my left cheek, looked less like a bullet scar and more like just a deep scar.

how did you get that scar, Sam English?

I thought it over as I walked to the truck. I gave the guy at the full service pump a five dollar tip and climbed into the truck. The sound of Merle Haggard filled the cab as I pulled out, musing over the scars.

anyone sees me without a shirt will have instant questions. how did you get those scars, Sam English?

I wasn't about to claim I was infantry or a Ranger or anything like that. The thought of claiming to be something I wasn't back then made my stomach clench.

I settled on just answering with a shrug, a muttered "Desert Storm", and changing the subject.

When Tony had visited, I asked him how often people bugged him about the eye patch, and that's what he did. Just shrug, say "I was in the Army" and "Desert Storm" if someone pressed him on it, and change the subject.

When people realized you'd been busted up in a war, most of them would ignore their desire to hear the whole story and let you drop it.

Vagueness would be my friend.

I could almost hear the briefings we got every year back in 2/19th about how deflect questions about us. How to avoid answering questions while letting people feel like they had inquired deeply enough about you.

The idea that Samuel English didn't want to talk about his past, that everything from the scars on my face to my limp to adopting Tony's habit silence, would protect me more than anything else was making me smile when I saw the cop car pull out behind me, lights and siren going off.

I hit the blinker, pulling over, and rolled down the window. I'd put the title, the old registration, and my new insurance paperwork I'd gotten faxed to the truck stop I'd bought it at in the sun visor. I dropped it into my hand, dug out my wallet, and waited.