It's so hot in August in that part of Virginia that dogs die standing up and even insects stick to the asphalt. Flies buzz in place. Embedded, an overturned stag beetle waves its legs helplessly. The singing Marine has to move fast to keep his boondockers from sinking in and gluing him to the spot.
He may be singing to take his mind off what's just happened--the tragedy, or is it disgrace that probably marks the end of his life in the service. The accident--his platoon. How many men has he lost, and how can a man facing court martial ever hope to love the general's daughter?
Putting one boot in front of the other, he goes along as if understanding is a place you can get to on foot, and as he goes, the song just keeps unfurling. "My mother m-m-m..."
If anybody asked what he was singing he would look up, surprised; who, me?
But he sings,"...m-m-m-m-murdered me..."
The road gets stickier. Heat mirages shimmer in the middle distance and rise up in front of him, thick and troublesome as cream of nothing soup.
Fuddled by the dense air, the Marine bows his head against the heat and goes into the dim rural drugstore. He is not aware he's being followed.
"What's that you're singing?"
The Marine blinks. "Say what?"
It is a woman's voice. "Mister, the song."
Exploding afterimages of sunlight stud the dimness, so he does not immediately see the speaker. "Ma'am?"
The voice blurs suggestively. "Sit down, Lieutenant."
)
