When his editor suggested a new book, Mort Sahlman emailed a proposal the next day.  He was up for tenure, and his prospects looked good.  But another book on his CV would not hurt, and if he lost the Rutgers position, it would make him more competitive in the job market.  Denison House was reissuing a number of titles in a new series about Vietnam.  Over the years they had published several military studies and two books chronicling the anti-war movement.  Sandra Vue at UCLA was finishing a book from the Vietnamese side.  “What we’re missing,” Finn Murphy explained, “is something on the diplomatic front.  You’ve covered the EU, the French in Algeria, and Brexit, so I thought you could handle Harold Wilson and De Gaulle.  Think about it, and let me know.”

            As soon as he signed the contract, Mort went to work, clearing his desk of debris from his last book, dumping files in boxes, shelving books, and opening new folders in Word.  For inspiration, he rummaged through his father’s footlocker in the attic, retrieving a gleaming bayonet and a grenade.  He placed them on his desk.  The bayonet made a perfect letter opener.  And the grenade became an oversized worry stone.  Ruminating over an awkward sentence, he fondled it, feeling its hard waffled surface.  Reading pdfs, he tossed the grenade back and forth like a baseball.  Sometimes while watching old newsreels on YouTube, he tossed it up and down in a one-handed juggle.

            The grenade prompted his thoughts one afternoon and sparked the hook he needed.  His book was a catalog of diplomatic correspondence, canceled conferences, meaningless press releases, failed overtures, and stalled negotiations.  Tapping the grenade on his desk like a gavel, the reality of the war came to him.  To give his book drama, he would include the mounting casualty figures.  “Johnson’s staff worked on the President’s letter to Ho Chi Minh for six days, revising drafts and consulting the Joint Chiefs.  That week 452 Americans died in Vietnam.”  Murphy loved the idea, praising the concept that would dramatize the cost of failed diplomacy.

            Sahlman was revising galleys when he met with the tenure committee.  He hadn’t told anyone of his new book, holding it reserve like a trump card.  Fortunately, it was not needed.  The committee sat through his presentation, nodding and glancing at the clock.  The interview appeared to be a formality.  They assured him he was recommended for tenure.  Then, just be safe, he told them of his contribution to the upcoming Denison series.

            With the book in print and on Kindle, Sahlman cleared his desk again, deciding to take a break from writing to join a current events podcast out of Chicago.  He tossed the bayonet in a drawer for future use and moved the hand grenade to a bookshelf in the hall where it stood between diecast Corvettes.

            He was getting ready to skim the pool one Saturday when his thirteen-year-old son Teddy called him over to the patio.

            “Say Dad, Jerry says to come over here.”

            Mort dropped his tools and joined the boys.

            “I was showing Jerry this grenade, and he says he thinks it’s real.”  He pointed to the object on the picnic table sitting like a jam jar between plastic mustard and ketchup bottles.

            “Oh, it’s a dummy one, a replica.  My dad had that and a lot of other stuff from the army.  He was in the reserves and never went overseas.  He was on the honor guard drill team.  Never had ammo in his rifle, just spun it around like cheerleader’s baton.”

            “I dunno, Mr. Sahlman,” Jerry ventured.  “I’ve been to gun shows with my dad, and it looks like a live grenade.”

            Sahlman smiled.  “It’s a fake.  A replica for show.  My dad wore combat outfits with all the gear doing parades.  Here, watch this.”

            He plucked the memento off the table and walked to the concrete lip of the patio.  Pulling the pin and releasing the lever, he casually tossed it into the backyard, where the grenade crashed through tree branches and landed in a flower bed with a thud like a rock.

            “See…..”  There was a sharp bang and a metal clang as fragments hit the tool shed by the pool.  A trio of rabbits scurried from the shrubs and disappeared under a neighbor’s hedge.

            “Jesus!” Mort cried, recalling the times he had sat at his desk absently twirling the grenade by the pin.

            He took a deep breath and faced the open-mouthed boys.  “Look, guys, whatever you do, don’t tell anyone, OK?  Especially Mom.”

            The boys silently nodded, grabbed their bikes, and fled the scene. 

            Sahlman left the patio and looked over the hedges to see if any neighbors had come out to investigate.  Seeing no one, he ducked into the kitchen and poured a glass of Reisling.  He chugged it, then downed another.  The bottle empty, he grabbed a Bud Light, then headed outside to check for damage.

            Brushing aside a fir tree, he noticed jagged slash marks on the back of the tool shed as if it had been stabbed by a screwdriver.  Inside, nothing was broken.  Rows of bottles and cans were intact on the shelves.  In a moment of panic, he jogged to the car, fearing a fractured windshield or punctured radiator.  But the Volvo was untouched.  He ran his hands over the hood and fenders, checked the tires, and looked for dripping fluid underneath. 

            Relieved, he walked past the pool to the shrubbery bordering the brick wall separating his property from the golf course.  Two oaks showed streaks of missing bark where they had been scored by shrapnel.

            Then, glancing down, he saw the torn remains of a headless rabbit.