Ghost Lights - Lydia Millet (ereader with dictionary TXT) 📗

“Vegan,” said the pilot.

“A vegan bomb-dropper,” said Hal. He drank from his glass. It was almost empty. He put it down on the table.

“Best thing for you,” said the pilot. “Too much dairy clogs the arteries.”

“You don’t get anemic or anything?” asked Hal.

The pilot was piling fruit onto a plate, fruit and corn-on-the-cob and bread.

“You should eat too,” he said to Hal. “You look like you need it.”

“I’m not used to drinking,” admitted Hal.

“Here, take that,” said the pilot, and handed Hal his plate. “Sit down. Dig in.”

The vegan pilot was looking out for him. Why? It was a mystery. Kindly people were crawling out of the woodwork, lately—vegan pilots and German women. Nice people and nude people. In fact there was definite overlap. Did being nude make people nicer? Quite possibly. The inverse was certainly true: putting on Kevlar vests, body armor, etc., made you more willing to go around shooting people. It might also be the case that nice people were more willing to be nude. Chicken or egg question, really.

But then technically the vegan pilot had just been on a cluster-bombing sortie, so maybe he was not so nice. A wolf in vegan’s clothing.

Hal carried the plate to a table and sat. The bread was good, though there was no butter on it. He would prefer it with a pat of butter. He took a bite of the corn, also. Then the vegan cluster-bomber was back with him.

“So this bombing, did it, you know, kill people?”

“The bombs were anti-personnel, so yeah, that would have been an objective. I didn’t do any follow-up though, I was in and out, that was it.”

“You don’t feel bad about that? Killing?”

“It’s not ideal. But we all kill,” said the vegan, and forked up a piece of roasted red pepper.

“Not people,” said Hal.

“Of course we do,” said the vegan.

“Me personally?”

“You eat other people’s food.”

“Not following you.”

“People who need it more than you do and die for lack of a pound of corn. It’s what we all are, isn’t it? Killers. I mean, all that life is is energy. The conversion of fuel. And we take it all. A quarter of the world’s resources for what, five percent of its population,” said the vegan. “That’s us.”

He patted his mouth carefully with a paper napkin and raised a glass to his lips. It looked like bubbly water.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Hal. “Talk about oversimplified.” He should drink water too, to clear his head. He looked around for a dispenser.

“Yeah well,” said the vegan. “Arithmetic is simple. That doesn’t make it wrong.”

This kind of discussion was pleasing only in a work environment, and only when it dealt directly with taxation. In a party setting it was unwelcome. Hal had the feeling of being caught in a trap by the vegan. Maybe you had to be careful of vegans. The vegan menace.

Although the vegan still seemed friendly. He spoke in a soft, moderate tone.

“Come on,” said Hal weakly. “You’re talking about what, middle-class lifestyle? At worst it’s manslaughter. It’s not murder. It’s not like flying over a jungle and cluster-bombing Mayans.”

But the buttery corn was slipping out of his grasp. It was devious and slippery.

“Manslaughter or murder, the guy still ends up dead,” said the vegan. “Does it matter to him how the killer rationalized?”

“Where’d you get that water?” asked Hal. He also needed a napkin.

“Right over there,” said the vegan, pointing.

Hal made his way to the table with the water. He was leaning over an array of light-blue bottles when an elbow struck his ribcage.

“You’re married, right?”

It was Cleve, with a woman hanging onto his arm.

“Oh hey, I got you that cognac,” said Hal, nodding confusedly, and looked around for where he’d set it down.

“Because the guy you’re talking to?”

“He claims to be a pilot,” said Hal. “With the Air Force. He talks like an earnest grad student though. Do you know him?”

“He’s a pilot. Yeah. But he’s also a flaming faggot,” said Cleve. “What, you didn’t notice? He’s probably hitting on you.”

“I’m old enough to be his father,” protested Hal weakly, but Cleve was already clapping him on the back with a smirk.

“Just a babe in the woods,” he said, and moved off.

There was still butter on Hal’s fingers, or maybe vegetable oil. He reached for the top of a stack of paper napkins and wiped his fingers, then picked up a bottle.

When he sat down again beside the vegan he looked at him differently, applying a This Man Is Gay filter. He remained unsure, though. The vegan was buff, clean, and ate politely, but there were straight men like that.

“You know Cleve?” asked the vegan.

“Not really,” said Hal. “I know someone who knows him, a guy at the embassy. I don’t really like either of them. Just between you and me. But he told me you’re gay.”

The vegan laughed easily.

“Guilty,” he said. “Though I doubt he put it that way. Cleve’s got issues.”

“They let gay guys fly fighter planes?”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell. Hey, it’s not like we’re color-blind. Or women.”

“Ha,” said Hal. He had finished the whole bottle of water. He felt almost sober. “My daughter always wanted to fly,” he said.

“She should take lessons,” said the vegan, and set his plate down on the table.

“Paralyzed,” said Hal.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

He was far soberer, yes, but the food was making him drowsy, the food on top of the alcohol.

“I need to lie down, I think,” he said to the vegan.

“There’s a hammock,” said the vegan. “I’ll show you.”

They walked down the stairs, past the pool, past the crowds and onto the beach, where there was a small stand of palm trees. A string hammock swung there. Someone had just vacated it. There was a breeze off the ocean.

“Perfect,” said Hal, grateful.

Cluster-bomber or not, the vegan had been good to him.

After he settled down in the hammock the vegan patted him on the shoulder.

“Good talking to you,” said the vegan, and moved off.

“You too,” said Hal.

When he woke up he would tell Brady: