Triptych [Crocodile, Duck, Brown Bear] by Samantha Libby

crocodile, crocodile

Crocodile, crocodile. Say my name twice.
I want you to know what I am.
I have heard you talking about me. I can understand the things you say. You are part of the group of soldiers that has camped by the river. You planted your flags and drew your guns up between your legs and warned each other to be careful. A crocodile swims here. Then you pointed right at me.
I sink beneath the surface. I tell myself not to care. Suffering is a foolishness I can’t afford. I’m much too busy for judgement. After all, I have warthogs to rip open. I have deer to dismember. Your cruelty is nothing new. I have heard my name mentioned alongside others: savage – merciless. You trade stories about me while huddled with your own kind, your lips wet with the flesh of others. You talk about the brutality of my life, the amount of blood spilled, the knowledge of what is possible in a world without your laws. You whisper – do you know what the crocodile is capable of?
But you do not know what I am. You are not capable of knowing this. That is the real problem of your soldier’s uniform. You are all different but on the outside you look the same. You believe the best qualities you can possess are courage and anger. You were told it would lead to a good life. But I didn’t make my costume, I was born like this. I have worn my scales dutifully my whole life. I’ve hidden nothing. And you? What was once a person underneath your uniform has now become indistinguishable from the buttons and medals. You are what people say you are. A name on a stone, pounded into the ground. Everything else, a dash between two dates. But do not be afraid. Do not despair. I’m here to tell you this: something always remains. You might have hidden and dressed it up for so long, you forgot it was there. But I live below the surface. I know.
And I think you do too. You can feel the heaviness. You can feel it pulling you down, pulling everything down. Soon, you will have no courage left. Only fear. This is why you stand on the banks of my river and when you point, your hand shakes.
Crocodile, crocodile, say my name twice.
I want you to know what you are.
And if you want to know too, come a little closer. Come to the edge. Do this and I will tell you what I know.
For I know what you are really saying when you call me names. I know what you are doing when you point a gun at a living thing. You are screaming. Help me. Help me. Please, help me. Touch me. Hold me, run your teeth over me. Prove to me that I am strong enough to survive. Drag me under. Take me to the very bottom of the river. You want to know, if the soldier drowns, will the thing that remains float to the surface? Will it be free or will it be gone forever? There is only one way to find out. Come a little closer. You must come to the edge. You must dive in. You must see for yourself if the bottom of the river is covered in stones. The only question is, will you do this? Will you?

duck, duck

The goose is loud. I can hear it all the way from the house. The river-branch trail starts about two hundred feet away. There is a forest in between and the trees are tall, just as tall as the distance, or maybe even more. This woody place is older than all of us.
There isn’t supposed to be a path between my home and the river, but I’ve made one by walking the same path over and over again.
The goose makes an unusual sound. Honk, honk, HONK. The last cry is unmistakably desperate. I walk down to the river and identify a Canada goose swimming in circles, repeating this refrain. It is just me and the goose, and over there, a pair of mallards. The husband and wife perch on a fallen log and sun their feathers. The ducks act like they are oblivious to the cries of the goose. Up close, the honking sounds like screaming.
I continue up the path that traces along the river. Here, the trees have stretched for too long for too little sunlight. The result is only darkness. Even in the Maryland summer heat, it is quite cool here. About half a mile up the trail, I discover what has happened. A goose lies dead on the ground. I see no blood or teeth marks, even though foxes are numerous in these woods. The only predator I can see is the twisting shape of a rat snake fast asleep in a tree. Nothing is wrong in the forest and yet the goose is dead and there seems to be no reason for it.
I return to the path and head home. The honking of the goose is still very loud. Around and around it swims. When I get back to the water’s edge, it stops and stares at me. The goose looks at me like I have all the answers. Then he resumes his cry and I feel like I ought to say something but what can you say to a goose, really?

* * *

On my third date with my now husband, we went to a hotel room. I was already in love and didn’t want to waste time on pretense, and yet, I was devoutly committed to it. I was still at that age. I was determined at all costs not to let on.
In the center of the bed lay a water bottle with a single feather in it. He had discovered it while walking and preserved it to give to me as a gift.
Sex in the beginning of a relationship is a truth-telling exercise. Afterwards, we lay side by side, toy soldiers in a box. He asked me, “Do you think the bird died?” I told him birds shed feathers all the time. He paused for a moment. And then he told me about the aftermath of a suicide bombing. It wasn’t a war story told as a war story – to impress, to impart, to frighten, or even to relieve in the act of sharing. It seemed like it happened, a bad accident, a child vomiting on the floor of a restaurant, something natural, something to clean up with an apologetic look in your eyes. I’m sorry you had to see that.

* * *

Canada geese are attracted to grassy, open spaces because they provide excellent views of approaching predators. Some creatures try to hide and blend in. For the goose, being seen is safety. Lots of people can’t stand them, but the Canada goose does not care if it is hated. Why would it? It can see you and it knows exactly what you are doing.

* * *

I think about my husband dying. I do this very often, perhaps several times a day. I rarely deviate from this pattern. When I look back at a week, I can see that much of my time has been consumed with these thoughts.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t the plan. After finishing high school, my husband decided to join the military so his life wouldn’t be like everyone else’s. It was a short-term solution. He spent his summer enjoying the end of youth with his planned enlistment date circled on his calendar: September 12, 2001.
I was supposed to work in the theater. I was going to stand on stage and sing. It turned out no one wanted to see me do that, so I went overseas to sell the only thing I had left, my language, to those that wanted to learn it. One day a friend was detained at a border crossing and thrown in jail. I worked for weeks to get him out and succeeded. The head of a humanitarian organization noticed. You’re good at this, he said.
My husband and I came of age in other people’s wars. Sometimes wars of our country, sometimes wars of others. War infects our daily life. It informs how we walk down the street, how we love, and how we fear. These conflicts were bought and sold by someone who is not us. But we pay for them each and every day.
Now we are moving into the part of life where we can say we are growing old together. But for how long? The idea of invisible lines and bodies paid for them does not age well. The best soldier, a captain once told me, is between seventeen and twenty-two years old. I asked why. Strength? Blind idealism? Fealty to a cause? No, he told me. Because they believe they cannot die.

* * *

The modern game of duck, duck, goose is a simple one. One child, “it”, circles their seated peers. Around and around: duck, duck, duck. To hear “duck” is to know you are safe. But you must always be ready because at any moment, “it” might change their mind and shout “GOOSE!” and then the chase begins. If you don’t catch up to them, they will take the place of safety you have just abandoned.
But what if you hear “GOOSE” and you don’t run? You just sit there. What would happen? Games that exclude and chase down 176 other people require the cooperation of the collective. If you deviate, you will be punished the way only children can punish one another. War is the easiest card game to teach a kid. So many childhood lessons are like this. You learn early on how to sit with the group, to wait in terror as duck duck duck, things might change at any moment.

* * *

One time my husband went up in a helicopter with some soldiers in a dangerous area. These were bearded, half-smiling men with guns, the type you’d pretend to be in a video game. They came back, no problem. A week later, the same people went up in the helicopter and my husband stayed home. The helicopter crashed and everyone on board died.
I went to the field and observed the twisted wreckage. My boss called me and asked if they needed help getting the bodies home to their families.

* * *

I often wonder, do you have to tell a neat and orderly story in order to be understood? There are entire books with diagrams like chutes and ladders. Here is how to make people care. It is not enough to simply cry out in pain. In sorrow. In longing. In terror.

* * *

John Muir wrote that the cry of the common loon is “one of the wildest and most striking of all the wilderness sounds, a strange, sad, mournful, unearthly cry, half laughing, half wailing.”
The loon makes this cry to defend their territory. To attract a mate.

* * *

One of the overarching themes of the place I grew up in was this determination never to be sad, no matter the cost. We were willing to pay any price for it. The exalted state of being was flatlining at normal. The highest compliment you could get in my hometown was that you were “chill”.
When I came back from war, I did not return home. I went to twenty different states in a rusty red 2001 PT Cruiser and filled the seats with treasures I found in each one of them. I planned to sleep in this tent with an open top so you could watch the stars at night. But I was afraid. I couldn’t lock the doors of a tent. I pushed my seat back and slept in my nest of accumulated things: an animal skull from Montana, a faded photograph of people I did not know from New Mexico, this leather jacket I told myself I looked great in (Kansas), a set of records from Mississippi I’d never listen to, I just liked the pictures on the covers. When I bought them the cashier looked at the stack and appeared impressed. “You have great taste.” I didn’t contradict them and for the next 400 miles I questioned if there are things I should be punished for doing but I never will be. Before falling asleep I locked the car doors. The beep of the car recognizing its security gave me so much comfort that I pressed it several times, enough so that someone peered out of their tent and shouted, “Stop that!”

* * *

It has been two days and I can still hear the cry of the goose. When I go down to the river, the mallard pair is now swimming around with a set of ducklings. They still ignore the goose. However, when they see me, they now let off an alarm cry.
Duck! Duck!

* * *

How much time have I devoted to anticipating the cruelty of others?

* * *

I have a dream that disturbs me so much I am afraid to tell anyone about it. I am in a small city and I am trying to escape a pursuer. I excel at evading them but then a car suddenly barrels into view and someone jumps out. They are screaming in absolute terror. They roll onto the ground and I think they must have hurt themselves in the process because they crawl away from the car using the last of their strength. The car door opens. A man steps out. He is laughing. He jumps on the person and begins to press his hands into their neck. I am backing away, my chest tight with absolute terror. I can tell you precisely what it sounded like as he broke their neck. He stands up and he is laughing again, his face full of maniacal rage and joy. At this moment, I always wake up. I typically eat nothing for days after having this dream. Sometimes, I sit in staff meetings and someone cracks their knuckles and I feel my heart begin to race. I have to leave the room when my husband eats potato chips. I also have this fear that if I leave the room, when I come back, he won’t be there.

* * *

There is a test of intelligence in animals. You place a sticker on their face and place them in front of a mirror. They are thought to be selfaware if they recognize themselves and remove the sticker.
After I tell people some of my stories, I wonder, now when you see me, is my reflection what you see, or is it something else?

* * *

I will try to match the cry of the loon.
A loon is not a type of goose, but they are closely related.
If I can just avoid being the goose, I will be okay.

* * *

I see gray in my husband’s beard. I think, maybe, we really will get to grow old together.

* * *

People in the community are not happy about the goose on the river. They believe it is a harbinger of more goose to come.
Canada geese are considered pests where I live. People do all kinds of things to keep them off their property. Some put up spikes and obstacles. Others spray “natural” pesticides and when these don’t work, they move to “the stronger stuff”. Kids chase mother geese off their eggs and then throw the eggs into the air while their parents watch. Then they kick the nests until they break. “It’s nothing more than a fox would do,” say the neighbors. I feel a kind of delight when these birds shit endlessly on our lawns.

* * *

There are ways to heal. There are things you can do. Well, the silent suggestion is, why aren’t you doing them? If you just worked a little harder, if you just tried your best, you could be an inspiration.

* * *

One day, the sound of the goose is gone. Someone has chased it away or it has given up. Canada geese mate for life. And now, alone, the remaining goose will go on living. Geese don’t give up on living, or at least, I don’t think they do.

* * *

My favorite time is the morning after a heavy thunderstorm. The leaves are still wet and when the birds move from branch to branch, a second rain is shaken forth.

* * *

I did tell someone about my dream once. They were silent. Finally, they stared at the ground as they asked me, “Have you ever seen 179 something like that?” They are worried about me, but they are more worried about something else. It took me time to learn what it was. They are afraid that my story doesn’t have an ending, that the pieces will never come together, that my life is a cheap conceit, nothing more, that they too are in the dream, and if they stay too long, they might get stuck there with me.
I tell them no, no, I have never seen anything like that.

* * *

There is no tidiness to grief, no conclusion to suffering. There is no structure to follow to a logical ending. Here is how to make people care. But there are ways to heal. If you do them, you could be an inspiration.

* * *

I think I will try to match the cry of the loon.

brown bear, brown bear

[read vertically or horizontally]

Duck	Brown Bear	Crocodile
Brown Bear, Brown Bear, what did you see?
	I see a man with a gun, looking right at me.
	That is my moment, to prove what I am made of.	You don’t come to battle to make friends, did you?
My early childhood books taught me the basics of hypervigilance.	I am going to be a hero
	I am going to defeat the enemy.
As a child, I wasn’t content with happiness.		War is the easiest card game to teach a child.
When my parents pointed to the picture on the page	I had it all figured out.
I never saw a Brown Bear.
I saw a creature taunting me		You want to know what I am capable of.
I saw something that could kill me.
I worked hard. I received the best training.	So I don’t understand why I wasn’t prepared.
I played all my cards right.	Instead, I die.
A pause.		You want to know who I am. Come closer. I will tell you my secret
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
I’m not perfect.		I’ve done many bad things but,
I thought I was ready for war.
Instead,	I died.
I ran.
A pause.
I’ll say again because it’s a relief to speak. When the fighting started, I ran.	My friend did not.
And now my friend is gone and I keep telling myself over and over again,	It’s not my fault,	I’m no murderer.
It’s not my fault	that I died, is it?	(laughs)
	A pause.
		In every battle the question is the same
		Are you the enemy, or are you a friend?
Before going to war, everyone asks themselves what they would do.		It doesn’t matter either way.
They want to know who they are. They think violence is the only way to find the truth.		We are all guilty.
A pause.
If you were in my shoes, would you have done the same?		Want the truth?
A pause.	I’ll tell you the truth
I was so scared.
I’ll admit it.	I am afraid that	dying in battle is no honor.
		It is only an eternal payment
In a business where someone pays and someone profits, I never imagined that
	I will be judged,
	and be found guilty	for a crime I never committed.
I could be found responsible for the entire system.
A pause.
I have nightmares
	A pause.
In my dreams, I am always running. I arrive at a gate. I can go no further.
	A single creature guards the entrance between heaven and hell. It is enormous. It paces back and forth. Its jaws could rip me in half if I say the wrong thing.
	But I know this creature. I have seen it before.
My only option left is to scream.
	The Brown Bear looks right at me.
		Someone must be held accountable for the problems of the world.
	It stares at me like it knows all my secrets.	And so, it must be decided,
	Brown Bear, Brown Bear, what do you see?	Are you the enemy, or are you a friend?
	A pause.	You will have no choice in the matter.
	It does not reply	The answer has already been decided, far away, by someone you will never meet.
	A pause.	This is the one fight you will always lose.
		How could you possibly make them understand?
It’s not my fault!
It’s not my fault!
It’s not my fault!		How long can you scream
How long can a person scream		before you realize no one is listening?
A pause.
I have this feeling like I’m going to tell a lot of lies for the rest of my life.
A pause.	I stand here, waiting to be judged. I will not run.	So what are you going to do?
		Wait patiently wait to be shot?
		No, you think.
	I’ve done some bad things but	I have a right to defend myself.
I am on the side of good.	I hope they will understand
That means	I’m one of the good guys.
I am not the enemy
I am not the enemy		I’ll pick up a gun and prove it to you.
	A pause.
Oh what does it matter!	There’s a line forming behind me.
	Everything here is off white. It’s been discolored by too many people. It’s sweaty at the gates between heaven and hell. It leaves stains.
	I’m told to hurry up. The war is long and the line is getting longer.
No matter what I say, my friend will still be dead.	A pause.
	Soon it will be my turn.	And no matter what happens next, I’ll know that
No one will really want to understand why		I defended myself and my life.
I feel so alone.		That should be enough for anyone, shouldn’t it?
	I will just have to make them understand that it was a righteous fight.
	At least, that’s what they told me.
		I’ll be able to say with full confidence that
No one cares what I’ve seen, or what I’ve lost.
	So I am not guilty.
No one cares that	I am not the enemy.	I am not guilty
I am one of the good guys.
	I am one of the good guys.	You’ve got to believe me.
		I am one of the good guys.

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Samantha Libby’s writing has been published in New England Review, Gettysburg Review, Washington Square Review, Columbia Journalism Review, Journal of International Affairs, and the Pushcart Prize anthology.