Beware the Tall Grass: A Novel

By Ellen Birkett Morris

Beware the Tall Grass weaves the stories of the Sloans, a modern family grappling with their young son Charlie’s troubling memories of a past life as a soldier in Vietnam, and Thomas Boone, a young man caught up in the drama of mid-sixties America who is sent to Vietnam. Eve Sloan is challenged as a mother to make sense of Charlie’s increasing references to war, and her attempts to get to the bottom of Charlie’s past life memories threaten her marriage, while Thomas struggles with loss and first love, before being thrust into combat and learning what matters most. Beware the Tall Grass explores the power of love and mercy with grace and artful sensitivity in a world where circumstances often occur far beyond our control.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Columbus State University Press
• Release date: Mar 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798988732112

Book preview

I’ve been here before, dreaming myself backwards, among grappling hooks of light. True to the seasons, I’ve lived every word spoken. Did I walk into someone’s nightmare?

Confluence by Yusef Komunyakaa

Eve

Charlie was here. For a moment my connection to him was visible. The cord pulsed with blood, then went still. The doctor clamped it, tied it off, cut it. A twinge echoed deep in my belly. He pulled the blanket over me, and the nurse swaddled Charlie.

I watched the nurse through the glare of the fluorescent lights, the air scented with a strange mix of blood and commercial cleaners. Charlie seemed so far away, like an untethered astronaut, the thin cable connecting him to the mothership severed. This is Ground Control to Major Tom. I’d wanted this my whole life, but now I was wondering what the hell we were doing. Dan smiled at me, and I smiled back, feeling shaky inside.

The nurse handed Charlie to me. I ran my fingers across his tiny hands. I unwrapped the blanket and rubbed his small belly.

What’s this? I pointed to a brown oval on the left side of his belly.

Birthmark, said the nurse. I had a flash of sadness. I had imagined him as a blank slate, unmarked by life. I pushed the feeling away, looking into his small eyes, stroking his fine hair.

May I? Dan asked. He held up his cell phone to get a picture.

Really, right now? I put a smile on my face and looked down at Charlie. Dan’s phone pinged as people texted congratulations. We were connected to friends by the ether, connected to Charlie by blood. It was strange that in that moment I felt singularly alone thinking about my hopes for this tiny person, his small weight against my heart in a room pulsing with activity.

Our brick bungalow was in the middle of a quiet street in Falls Church. In houses all around ours, families were sitting down to dinner, going over the details of their day. As dusk deepened outside the window, I held Charlie, admiring his face, willing him to coo. I counted his vertebrae with my fingers, silently making a wish for each one, thirty-three in all. One, may he be healthy. Two, may he be free from pain. Three, may he feel treasured…

I felt like I was the first person to ever experience this. Everything about him fascinated me. Charlie had a tiny nose, big eyes, and downy blond hair. When he looked at me, it wasn’t with the soft focused stare I expected. His gaze had depth. He looked like he’d already seen things worth talking about.

Dan sat beside me on the couch.

Look at his eyes. He looks like he’s thinking of something sad, I said.

Dan looked over and ran his finger lovingly across his son’s cheek.

We expect kids to be pure and innocent, said Dan. "A guy I work with from Russia said they say ‘on vsyo znaet.’ It means ‘he knows everything.’ Or maybe he just has to poop."

When Charlie was six months old, my mother came to visit. She was attending a real estate conference in D.C. and stopped by our house for the evening.

Despite our differences I was glad she was coming. I’d read that family connections helped childhood development. I wanted Charlie to have the connections I had lacked. My parents had divorced well before my dad died of a heart attack five years ago. When they were together they were too busy arguing to notice me much.

Holding Charlie, I greeted her at the door.

Look at you, she said. I never thought I’d see you holding anything but a piece of clay or a beer. She must have forgotten the coconut shell that I carried around gently when I was five, pretending it was my baby monkey. Unlike her, I had always wanted to be a mother.

She walked in, set down her purse, and reached out her arms.

She held Charlie close.

Isn’t he something? He’s an old soul. I can tell by his eyes, she said, running her finger down his cheek. I tried to imagine her caressing me, smiling at me.

I thought that, too, I said.

That night, Dan made chicken piccata. When he emerged from the kitchen with a platter of food, my mother gave a funny smile.

Dan loves to cook, I said.

That’s lovely, dear. How nice for you. She had a way of belittling people that took all the air out of the room.

I have to check on Charlie. I left the room. When I reached the hallway, I took a deep breath while I counted to four and released it in the same rhythm.

Having her in the house made me feel like a teenager, awkward and out of control. It threw me back to a time when I was an unwitting participant in the dissolution of their marriage. Once I found an earring in Dad’s car. It was turquoise, blue shot through with fissures of black. It looked broken somehow, but beautiful.

I slipped it into my pocket. The next week I gave it to Mom.

I found your earring, I said. I dropped it into her palm. She looked at it for what seemed like a long time.

Where was it?

Dad’s car.

A strange look crossed her face, at first satisfied, as if she had found something she’d been seeking for a very long time, followed by sadness. My dad left within the year. After years of therapy, I realized that I’d blamed myself for their split in spite of their obvious incompatibility. These days I could summon self-compassion for my circumstances and how little control I had over the outcome.

Control was at the root of so many things. I could never have the perfect relationship I longed for with my mom, but I could try to do better with Charlie.

The nursery was dark, thanks to the heavy drapes dotted with tiny animals. A mobile of the planets hung from the ceiling and a painting of a cow jumping over the moon adorned the wall. I wondered if Charlie even noticed any of it.

I watched him sleep, marveling at the slow rise and fall of his breath, recalling his first breath, how Dan and I looked at each other with relief. I’m not sure how long I stood there, but my own breath matched his, slow and deep. I couldn’t imagine my own mother ever being this engaged with me. It was time to rejoin her and Dan. I ran my finger gently across Charlie’s chest and left the room.

The next day we visited my studio, a small light-filled room with periwinkle walls and a large work table in the center, the periphery lined with shelves that held a menagerie of small figures. Dan led my mother from shelf to shelf showing off my creations, while I stood with Charlie facing the window as I rocked him back and forth in my arms.

Mom’s taste was modern, clean lines, nothing folksy. Aunt Jane once told me that Mom didn’t want anything old or handmade because it reminded her of how poor they’d been as children.

Look at the shell on this turtle, Nancy. Each section individually painted. And the tail on this dog. See how it curls to one side? Dan said.

My mom murmured nice in a noncommittal tone.

This little blue bird, look at the detail on his beak, Dan said.

I turned to face them, feeling a rush of love for Dan.

Mom picked up the bird for a second and set it back down.

How are things at the DOD, Dan? Mom asked. Dan was an information analyst. Mom had been so proud of his job after the Iraq War started, when she had the context to understand what he did.

The same, bureaucratic. These tail feathers. They really look like he’s about to take flight, Dan said.

You are such a dear, Dan. The way you talk, you’d think these were paintings at the Met instead of little clay figures.

So when are you getting back to the enriching business of house sales, Mom? I asked. Surprise crossed her face and she turned away to look at a shelf full of tiny turtles.

I turned back to the window and nuzzled Charlie’s neck. I had done it for him. To show him his mother wouldn’t take guff from anyone. I vowed to never make him feel small and unimportant.

That night after Mom had departed, Charlie started to cry. Dan placed him belly down across his forearm and began to rock him back and forth through the air.

Do you think he misses, Grandma? asked Dan, with a glint in his eye.

I smiled back. I could count on Dan to always have my back.

Charlie quieted.

Look, said Dan. Our boy is a great flyer.

Maybe he was a pilot in a past life, I joked.

Or a bird.

We laughed together as we gazed at our boy. This kind of bliss was what I wanted for his childhood.

Thomas

Love marks you. It makes you do things you never wanted to do and never thought you could. It tests you and comforts you. In the end it is the only thing that lasts.

I turned eight on May 23, 1955. Like most Montana boys I wanted just one thing—a horse. I’d given up asking for a brother long ago and consoled myself with the idea that I’d never have to share my toys with a horse or fight over who got to ride shotgun in the car. That morning, Mom and Dad took me out to the barn. A dark bay with blaze markings stood in the stall.

He’s yours, Dad said.

I looked up into the horse’s eyes and he looked right back as if he already knew me. His flank was alive under my fingers. Dad said the movement helped him to shake off flies, but to me it felt like an undercurrent of electricity, like power.

Hi Beau, I said, not knowing where the name came from, only that it felt right. When can I ride him?

Beau exhaled, his nostrils fluttering.

See, he wants me to ride him.

My baseball cards and toy horses gathered dust after that. I spent afternoons in the corral with my dad, training Beau. Though I’d never say it out loud, I’d been lonely as an only child and Beau was a companion and friend, a place to put my attention that was far more rewarding than the time I’d spent alone seeing how far I could hit a baseball.

Dad and I worked for hours, day after day, teaching Beau commands. When I finally climbed on his back, I felt like a superhero. I sat high above the ground and rode across the fields toward the dark mass of mountains in the distance. We skirred through the grass, the sound of our motion spurring us on.

He was mine. We were of the same tribe, guided by our instincts, at home in the land.

I groomed Beau each night. As I moved from one part of his body to another with the brush, I touched him gently, so as not to spook him. I fed Beau apples and sugar cubes. He nuzzled me when I stroked his forelock. I took pride in taking care of him and watching him flourish. I thought of him before falling asleep each night and when I woke up each morning.

One evening, when I was twelve, I went to groom Beau and found him breathing heavily and rolling on his back. I got Dad. Dad got him settled by stroking his mane, but Beau rolled his eyes in fear as Dad pressed his ear to his torso to listen to his heart and stomach. Dad scanned the ground. He reached down to touch the old, dried manure.

Pull the feed. He has colic. I’ll get the vet.

I looked at Beau, who was sweaty and restless. We coaxed him to standing.

Is it serious?

It can be fatal, Thomas. You need to walk him. Keep him moving.

The image of an empty stall filled my mind. The night sky widened.

He won’t die. Right, Dad?

I just can’t say. We have to get him help.

I wanted Dad to fix this the way he’d fixed a hundred other small things, cleaning my scraped knees or repairing my favorite toy car.

I took a deep breath and walked Beau out of his stall. I wanted to run away, but I could never leave him. As I walked him down the path the sunset turned from pink to deep blue. His back hooves kicked toward his stomach. I kept one hand on his flank to calm him. When he tried to lie down, I urged him forward.

You’re gonna get through this, boy. I promise.

I kept my voice calm and even. I hoped that if I kept talking nothing bad could happen to him.

The vet arrived, gave Beau medicine, and said we should keep watch overnight.

I’ll stay.

It’ll be a long night, Son.

That’s okay, I said. Part of me wanted to go inside, climb under the covers, and shut the world away, but there was no hiding. I loved Beau and for the first time I knew love hurts.

Beau was uneasy, shifting his weight from foot to foot, occasionally approaching his water bucket, but drinking very little. I brought a palm full of water to Beau’s mouth, hoping to interest him in a drink. He looked away.

I thought of the freedom we shared riding to far edges of the ranch, the thrill the first time he lowered his head and drank from a stream with me on his back.

It’s going to be okay, boy. I wiped sweat from his sides, humming as I went. I’m not going anywhere.

I guarded his body that night. Eventually Beau drank and then his breath steadied and slowed. I watched him sleep, his chest rising and falling with each breath.

I spent every spare hour with Beau, putting the cattle out to graze in the morning and rounding them up after school. I tracked time by where the sun fell on the face of the mountains. When I wanted to kick up trouble, I got one of my buddies and went into town. I grew tall and muscular. The evening news told of cities burning over Civil Rights and the war in Vietnam as I did my homework. When the world seemed too scary, I escaped to the barn and took Beau for a ride. In those moments, together on the trail, I was completely happy.

A senior, I was ready to graduate from high school and work on the ranch. There were guys like me all over the west, ready to keep the family businesses going, looking for nothing more than solitude under a big sky.

On a late afternoon in April, I took Beau to round up the cattle. We were making our way through tall grass when an eastern racer slithered across our path. Beau reared back and came down hard. I tumbled forward and had to pull up out of the stirrups as I fell. I hit the ground on my right hip and choked on the dust, scrambling to stay clear of Beau’s hooves. I heard the crack of his foreleg as he went down.

Beau! I yelled. My scream echoed in the canyon.

He gave a shrill neigh.

I didn’t want to look, but I made myself roll over and face him. The edge of his jagged bone was exposed, the sinew and skin hanging like a bloody curtain. No coming back from a break like this. Beau’s eyes rolled back in his head. He thrashed in the grass, snorting, moving his legs through the air as he tried to gain traction.

No, no, no. I covered my eyes.

I thought about getting Dad, but I couldn’t leave Beau by himself. He knew and trusted me.

Beau lay on his side, sweaty and restless, his eyes wild with fear. I leaned close, rubbing his head. I fed him a sugar cube. I whispered to him.

I’m here, buddy, I won’t leave you. I’m here.

I stared deep into his dark eyes until all I could see was the black of his irises.

We kept a gun in the pack for rattlesnakes. I was a good shot when aiming for soda cans and clay pigeons. I never wanted to hurt anything. I’d shot my share of snakes and even went hunting with Dad once. I didn’t like it, but there are some things you can’t avoid.

I placed the barrel in the center of Beau’s forehead. My hand shook. I took a breath to steady myself.

I started to hum a tune that I would hum as we were riding. Beau’s ears perked up. I smiled at him, then closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. The gun kicked and the shot rang out, as it would for many nights afterward, yanking me from sleep and leaving me alone in my bed, drenched with sweat. Blood rained down on my shirt.

Beau made a sound, guttural and harsh. He laid his head down. I lay down next to him in the dirt, feeling the warm blood seep through my shirt, smelling the sweat, and stroked his side until his last breath ceased.

The world was quiet. I heard my own breathing. Beau was gone. Tears dropped onto my hands as I stroked him one last time.

Beware the tall grass, nothing good ever happens there.

Eve

Clay warmed to my touch, a clean earthy smell rising. My fingers began