Causes of Action - Hardcover

Miller, John A.

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0671023314 ISBN 13: 9780671023317

Publisher: Pocket Books, 1999

Synopsis

When Claude McCutcheon awakens to discover a four-year-old boy in his living room clutching a note from the boy's father, an old buddy from the Vietnam War, he sets out to investigate the disappearance of his friend. Reprint.

About this title

About the Author:

John A. Miller's stories have appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, The Missouri Review, The William & Mary Review, Crosscurrents, and other periodicals. His first collection, Jackson Street and Other Soldier Stories, was the winner of the 1996 California Book Award for First Published Work of Fiction. He is also the author of Cutdown, the first novel to feature lawyer Claude McCutcheon.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter One

Dawn eased over the east bay hills like year-old motor oil draining slowly out of a crankcase. A heavy fog, drawn in through the Golden Gate by the summer heat bottled up in the Sacramento Valley, grudgingly gave way before the rising sun as early-morning commuters fortified themselves with hot coffee and a glance at the headlines.

The darkness in Claude McCutcheon's house was resolving itself into shades of gray when Claude woke up. He lay absolutely still on the futon, aware that something was wrong but unable to pinpoint the source or even define exactly what "wrong" meant. He had gotten in late the night before, sometime after 1 A.M., and was a little groggy from too few hours of sleep. He could have stayed in the City but didn't much care, as a general rule, for waking up in someone else's bedroom. Spending the night with a woman was a clear statement of intent, one that Claude seldom felt comfortable making. And anyway, the drive across the Bay Bridge after midnight was always a pleasant one, the traffic light and the feeling of leaving the darkened City behind, even for the dubious charms of the East Bay, strangely liberating.

He had no idea what had woken him up, but again there was an overwhelming feeling, an undeniable sense, that something was wrong in the little California bungalow. Keeping his eyes closed, Claude stilled his breathing, his ears straining for the slightest sound. The big Colt automatic was tucked away in the small Korean chest next to the futon, a round in the chamber, but for all the good it did him there, it might as well have been on the dark side of the moon.

He put the weapon out of his mind and concentrated on identifying everything in the house with his eyes closed. Almost immediately he felt the presence and heard the calm breathing of the cat, reassuring by its very regularity. Then, behind and above the familiar purring of the cat, what sounded oddly enough like a child whimpering registered on his consciousness. He slowly raised his eyelids. Standing next to the futon, not three feet away from him, was a young boy.

Relief washed over him.

"How did you get in here?"

The boy, perhaps four years old, didn't answer. Claude could see the tracks of dried tears on his face and a small envelope pinned to his sweater.

"What's your name?"

Still no answer.

Claude sat up on the futon. "Who brought you here?"

The boy pointed to the cat, sprawled on the comforter next to Claude. "Kitty."

Claude nodded. "Well, it's a start." He reached out and dragged the reluctant cat over. Oscar was a large, muscular, female cat of indeterminate breed that Claude had adopted from the Alameda County SPCA. She had a short temper and a generally surly disposition and, in all the world, loved only Claude.

Oscar took one look at the boy and shrank back. Her experience with children was limited and informed by a healthy skepticism toward all humans, even small ones.

Claude scratched behind Oscar's ears and felt the cat relax. "The kitty's name is Oscar. Would you like to pet her?"

The boy, wide-eyed, nodded.

Claude patted the futon next to him. "Sit down here and I'll put her in your lap."

The boy sat as directed and a second later was cradling the cat, who was purring madly.

Claude carefully unpinned the envelope. "First time you've ever held a cat?"

The boy nodded, raptly devoted to the cat in his lap.

Claude got up and slipped on a pair of cotton trousers. "You just sit there quietly and tell her you love her while I go make the three of us a cup of coffee."

The boy bent down and clumsily kissed the cat on the head. Quite to Claude's surprise and amusement, Oscar was positively cross-eyed with pleasure.

"You now have a friend for life," Claude told the child.

In the kitchen he started a pot of water boiling and took a container of coffee beans from the freezer. After grinding the beans he leaned against the counter and tore open the envelope that had been pinned to the boy's sweater.

Dear Claude:
I'm sure you never expected to hear from me after all these years, although to be honest with you it often seems like just yesterday that we were at Ft. Bragg together, messing with the Hawk, or in the Nam. Remember Ft. Lewis? Man, we were something back then, weren't we? Artie Gibson put me onto JoJo Watson, over at the VA hospital in the City, and JoJo told me where to find you.

I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave my boy Earl with you for a few days. His mother died two years ago and it's been just me and Earl since then. Earl's got no other family besides me so I'm trusting you to do right by him if it comes to that.

To tell you the truth, I'm not sure how things got so bad so fast. I won't try to tell you what all's going on since I hope to have things straightened out in the next couple of days and I can come get Earl off your hands.

I can't tell you what it means to me knowing that Earl's in your hands. I know it isn't fair to just leave him with you, not after all this time, but I got nowhere else to turn.

Jesse Hamilton

Jesse Hamilton? Claude thought, glancing back at the futon where the boy sat, still entranced by the purring cat on his lap. An image came instantly to mind: three young men, two of them barely out of their teens, sitting on top of a sandbagged bunker drinking lukewarm coffee out of canteen cups. They had been in Vietnam only a couple of months: Claude, an OCS second lieutenant; Jesse Hamilton, the platoon sergeant, a brand-new E-6 no older nor more experienced than Claude; and Artie Gibson, a squad leader with the rank of corporal. They were the platoon's ruling triumvirate: Claude and Jesse by virtue of their rank; Artie because he was four years older than either of them, the oldest, most experienced man in the platoon.

Claude smiled, seeing in his mind's eye the three of them smoking cigarettes and strategizing. In base camp they sat together every morning after Claude met with the company commander, talking about what the platoon was expected to do, trying to translate theory into reality. The platoon was chronically understrength, whether from disease, casualties, R and R, or whatever creative excuse a soldier could come up with to avoid leaving base camp, and they were constantly shifting men between squads to fill gaps. General Westmoreland most certainly would not have approved of the exceedingly casual relationship -- indeed, the friendship -- that developed among the three of them, but then again neither he nor any member of his West Point-educated staff provided an alternative, workable model for use by junior officers in the field. Claude could hear their voices, now bantering, now serious, without even closing his eyes.

That afternoon, after three days in base camp, they had been alerted they were going back out on patrol.

"Cohen reported for sick call this morning," Jesse said, looking up from the small notebook in which he kept the platoon duty roster. "Mac" -- the platoon medic -- "said it looks like malaria. That puts us nine men" -- almost a full squad -- "under TO and E."

Jesse was tall and slender, almost elegant if a man could be said to look elegant in jungle fatigues and boots, with piercing black eyes and startlingly white teeth. He carried himself, whether in base camp or in the field with a full rucksack on his back and an M16 in one hand, with a formal demeanor that made him seem a good deal older than he was. He demanded, and received, respect from not only the men in the platoon but his fellow NCOs in the company's other platoons. Only twenty, he took his responsibilities as platoon sergeant quite seriously, determined to take full advantage of every opportunity the army was prepared to offer him.

"What about all those repl

About this edition

• Publisher: Pocket Books
• Publication date: 1999
• ISBN 10: 0671023314
• ISBN 13: 9780671023317
• Binding: Hardcover
• Number of pages: 247