A Long Way Back

by J. Everett Prewitt

  “The get-together?”

  “What do you think?” Glover asked.

  Warfield tapped his knee a few of times. “It couldn’t hurt. We’ve been in touch here and there, and it would be nice for all of us to see each other again. Why not?”

  The next morning Glover stretched and ran his hand through his hair. “I can get used to this couch. I fell dead asleep last night. Best sleep I had in a long time. What time is it?”

  “Eleven-forty-five,” Warfield responded.

  “Wow. That couch is good.”

  Warfield laughed. “Cool. It’s there as long as you need it, brother. By the way, Turner said no to the meeting.”

  “I figured that. He was always a little different.”

  “Shy,” Warfield said.

  “Is that it? He had a gift, though.”

  “Saved our asses.”

  “What about the others?” Glover asked.

  “I got Holland calling Casper. Holland’s in. Robinson’s a maybe.”

  Glover stretched, then yawned. “Think he got his own church by now?”

  “I don’t know, man. I wonder if he even goes to church after Cambodia.”

  “Anyway, I’ll keep calling the rest of them.”

  “You think this will help?” Warfield asked.

  “Can’t hurt.”

  Chapter 55

  I

  ’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer, Raymond, but I’ve got to get back on the job,” Anthony said.

  “I understand. It was good seeing you, though, even for this short a time.”

  “Thanks for all your help.”

  “You’re doing a good thing, Anthony. I imagine most people would have given up by now.”

  “I was close to doing that a few times.”

  Raymond looked at Anthony. “I’m sure, but there’s something else I’ve noticed about you since we first met.”

  “What’s that?”

  “As mild-mannered as you seem, you got some pit bull in you. It’s why you could pick up a rifle in Tay Ninh, and it’s why you’ll get to the bottom of the Cambodia thing.”

  Anthony smiled. “You think?”

  “I know a fighter when I see one.”

  Anthony looked down. He’d never thought of himself as a pit bull, but looking back on his life, maybe he was. And he hadn’t even told Raymond about knocking out a light-heavyweight boxer.

  Anthony’s mindset as he drove from Cleveland was different from the one he had driving to Cleveland. He’d made inroads with one of the soldiers, and he felt more peaceful after talking with Raymond. Now, if only he could reconnect with his wife and daughter.

  As he pulled into the driveway of his home, he looked first at his front window and smiled. The window was intact. That was a good sign.

  That night he slept peacefully in his bed for the first time in months. The next morning he took a long, hot shower, fixed a light breakfast, sat in the living room and tried to read the issues of the Post he’d missed while traveling.

  Even though Anthony had expected it, the doorbell startled him. He tried his best to restrain from dashing to the door and wrenching it open. He rubbed his hands on his thighs, then fumbled with the lock before opening the door.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Anthony.”

  Anthony grimaced. She usually greeted him with “baby.”

  “Why didn’t you use the key?”

  “I haven’t been here in a while, Anthony. I thought it best I ring.”

  “Where’s Mali?” he asked, looking over her shoulder.

  “I thought we should talk first.”

  “Okay.” Anthony closed the door and slumped into the high-back chair. “But I want you to understand… nothing like that will ever happen again. I swear. I—I know my temper scared you.”

  “It didn’t scare me, Anthony,” Carla said, leaning back on the sofa across from the chair and crossing her legs, “but it scared our child.”

  “I know. I…”

  “What happened to you, Anthony?”

  He frowned and shook his head.

  “I realize you’ve had some painful experiences in your life, but you seemed to have been handling it. Was it Vietnam?”

  Anthony remained silent.

  “You never talked about it. What went on over there?”

  Anthony rubbed the back of his neck. “I—”

  “Tell me, Anthony,” Carla said, leaning forward and staring pleadingly at her husband.

  Anthony thought about The Seven and how hard it was for them to talk. It was something he understood well, but he had to try. He hesitated before speaking, clasping and unclasping his hands. “I saw death. I saw pain like nothing I’d ever seen before.” He stood and paced for a minute. “I killed people, Carla. I went to report on the war, but I ended up…”

  Carla sat for a moment waiting for Anthony to finish but spoke when she realized he wouldn’t, or couldn’t. “I figured something happened, but you never talked about it.”

  “I–I didn’t because it would remind me all over again. I tried to forget. Get away from it.”

  Carla leaned back, quiet for another minute. “I can’t pretend to understand, but I’ve heard about the problems some men have in combat. Uncle Clayton was in combat in World War II. Aunt Dee mentioned he was never the same.”

  Carla laid her purse next to her on the chair after realizing she had been grasping it so hard her fingers hurt. “Have you talked to anyone about it, Anthony?”

  “Yeah. Chucky. And I just came back from visiting the Williamses in Cleveland.”

  “Oh?”

  “Both Raymond and Cread were in the war.”

  “Raymond, too? What did they say?”

  “They said I needed to be around people who understand.” Anthony sat next to Carla. “I’m better, Carla. The nightmares don’t come so often anymore, and I’ve quit drinking.”

  Carla looked up. “When did you start?”

  “In Vietnam for a short while and then again after you left.”

  Carla stood and walked into the kitchen and the dining room. “You’ve kept the house in good shape, for an alcoholic. It doesn’t appear you need any help taking care of the place.”

  “Oh, but I do,” Anthony responded.

  Carla came back into the living room, a half-smile on her face. “Okay, baby. Just kidding about the alcoholic comment. Here’s the deal: I come back first. We try this out for a month, just the two of us. Mali will stay with my parents until then.”

  Anthony smiled. “That would be great.”

  “Give me a few weeks to get our daughter squared away and I’ll come home. If the month works for us, then we can try to be a family again.”

  Chapter 56

  I

  t had been an uneasy two days for Anthony since Carla had returned. Anthony mentally tiptoed around the house, trying his best to avoid any emotional landmines. He considered making a small toast to himself on the evening of the second day but decided against it.

  Their first night out, Anthony and Carla ate at their favorite restaurant, Harvey’s, on Connecticut Avenue. Anthony ordered an appetizer of steamed oysters with the canvas-back duck entrée. Carla ordered the oysters, too, but had fried chicken, a specialty of the restaurant. Neither drank any alcohol as they made small talk, glancing at each other like sixteen-year-olds on their first date.

  Carla and the waiter both laughed at a joke Anthony told, providing Anthony with some relief as he nervously played with the food on his plate. He recognized a few of the patrons but refrained from hailing them for fear of breaking the tenuous but relaxed mood he had developed with his wife.

  “How’s your food, honey?” Anthony asked.

  “Good. They must have a sister in the kitchen,” Carla giggled.

  After dinner, the two engaged in more small talk. Carla looked up after laughing at another of her husband’s jokes. “Honey, we’re the only people left!”

  Anthony looked around at the empty rest
aurant and laughed. “Have we been here that long?”

  The air was breezy but warm as Carla slipped her hand into Anthony’s as they walked to the car. The relief that washed over Anthony from that single gesture erased any remnants of apprehension prowling around inside his mind. He pecked Carla on her cheek as he held the door for her. She smiled and returned the kiss.

  That night in bed felt like the first time they’d ever lain together. Anthony, leaning on his elbow, ran his hand tentatively across Carla’s stomach as she lay quietly in her nightgown, accepting but not reciprocating.

  Anthony’s senses were so heightened, his need so intense, it took all his resolve not to ravish her. But he sensed an unfamiliar guardedness.

  It didn’t stop him from savoring her skin, her hair, her smell, her curves, and her crevices, though, gently holding, caressing, kissing before the first tremble and the slightest sound of acceptance escaped her pouted lips.

  It seemed an eternity before she turned, running her hand over his chest, pecking his forehead, then his cheek. One, then two more sighs slipped from her as his strokes became more intense, more intimate.

  One tear slid down her cheek as she finally reached for him, holding him like a child, placing her lips to his ear. “I love you, Anthony.”

  His emotions, scattered to the wind, didn’t allow for speech. He could only nod as she lay back, her arms above her head.

  “I love you, too, Carla,” he cried as their exhausted, quivering bodies erupted for the fourth time that night.

  Later, as they lay spoonlike, breathing quietly, a smile crossed his face at the realization she had missed him, too.

  “Whose are these, Anthony?” Carla came into the kitchen holding a pair of stockings the next morning.

  “They’re not yours?”

  She stared at him, head cocked. Confusion turned into dread as he recalled that night with Constance. “Nothing happened, Carla.”

  Carla glared at him, shook her head, and threw the stockings at him.

  “Carla, nothing happened,” he tried to explain as she stormed up the stairs with him behind her.

  At the top of the stairs, she held up one hand, stopping him. “Anthony.”

  “Are you going to let me explain?”

  Anthony’s impassive expression and his ominous tone made her put her hand down. She stood there, her hands on her hips.

  Anthony took a deep breath, counted, then walked past her into the bedroom, and sat on the bed. He motioned her to sit, but Carla remained standing.

  “A lady was in the house. She followed me home from a bar. I’d had a fight. I got drunk—very drunk. When I woke up the next morning, she was here. We didn’t do anything because I was too drunk. She confirmed it. I asked her to leave when I came to my senses.”

  Carla stood staring at Anthony. “You got drunk? Got into a fight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you bring a woman into our house?”

  “She followed me.”

  “We’re not talking about a stray dog, Anthony. You brought a woman into our house.” Carla looked at Anthony, at the ceiling, then back at Anthony. “Drunk, fighting. Is this what you’ve become?”

  “Nothing happened, Carla.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Constance Hanson.”

  “Constance…the boxer’s wife?” Carla asked.

  “Ex-wife.”

  “Wife, ex-wife. It makes a difference? And who did you fight, Anthony?”

  “Marvin Hanson.”

  Carla put a hand to her forehead. “Jesus, Anthony.” She looked at her husband as if he were an alien. “You fought a boxer? What happened?”

  “I knocked him out.”

  “You knocked Hanson out. Right. Now I know you’re lying.”

  Anthony raised his hands. “You think I would be here as opposed to George Washington Hospital if I hadn’t?”

  “Okay. Okay. So you knock him out. Evidently she was with you then.”

  “Look, all I remember was going to the Shanty for a few drinks. This woman sits next to me and starts talking. She’s laughing and puts her hand on mine, and I get snatched out of the chair. I remember throwing some blows and walking out. That’s it. I’m not clear about the rest until I wake up and see this woman in our house. I asked her to leave, and she did.”

  Carla put her hands back on her hips and stood in front of him for a few seconds, glaring into his eyes, thinking before asking. “Would you have done anything if you weren’t drunk?”

  “If I hadn’t been drunk, she would never have been here.”

  “How do I know that? Huh? If you are doing everything else—going to bars, drinking, fighting—why not that?”

  Anthony raised his hands. “Because you know me.”

  Lips pursed, Carla sniffed. “I don’t know if I do.”

  Anthony took a deep breath. “Look, Carla, there’s nothing else I can tell you. If you don’t believe me, I’m sorry. I can’t fight but so many battles right now. I can’t,” he said as he got up and went downstairs.

  “We’re not finished, Anthony.”

  “I am,” he said as he walked out the door.

  “Where have you been? It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

  The voice in the dark startled Anthony. He turned on the living room light to see Carla sitting up, a blanket over her legs.

  “Out. You stayed up all night?”

  Carla nodded. “Did you drink?”

  Her subdued tone surprised him. “No. Just driving. Clearing my head.”

  Carla took a deep breath and pushed the blanket aside.

  Anthony braced for the salvo.

  “You know, I was so happy to come back home. I wanted to call you so many times after I left. Maybe I should have. Maybe I shouldn’t have left. If I hadn’t, maybe we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  Anthony exhaled and sat on the couch with her. “I don’t know how else to tell you this, Carla. We’ve been through a lot, but I’ve never cheated on you. I screwed up. I admit it. In my right mind, it would have never happened. I wasn’t in my right mind. That’s all I can tell you. Nothing happened.

  “Too much has been going on in my life to jeopardize what’s been most important, what I hold on to when I’m searching—trying to find a quiet place in my head. I understand if you don’t believe me, but what I told you is the truth.”

  Carla stood and folded her hands in front of her. Her look softened. “The only reason I want to believe you is because you’ve never lied to me. But you’ve got to understand how absurd it sounds. You bring a woman—an ex-model—into this house. She obviously disrobed, slept in the same bed with you, but you did nothing. How many people do you think would believe your story?”

  Anthony looked Carla in the eyes. “Anybody who knew me.”

  Carla sat, repeatedly smoothing her hand over her robe. “Okay, Anthony, I’ve got to give you the benefit of the doubt. You’ve changed, but I can’t believe you changed so much you would screw up our marriage, even if you were drunk. It would be so out of character for you it would be scary.”

  She sighed, clenched her fists by her sides and looked to the ceiling. “When does life become normal again?”

  “It will soon, Carla. I promise.”

  “I’m going to follow my instincts. You’ve been under a lot of stress. I don’t want to be the one that adds to it.” Carla took a deep breath and exhaled. “I can barely picture you drunk and fighting, but hard as I try, I can’t imagine you with another woman. You aren’t the type. I know that. I feel that.” Carla got up and poked her stiffened fingers into his chest. “But if I ever find you lied, dude, I will cut your throat.”

  “That’s the main reason I wouldn’t,” Anthony said out of Carla’s hearing range.

  Chapter 57

  B

  ill Walden laid an article from the Richmond Times Dispatch on Anthony’s desk. “Here’s something I found while researching another story. It’s six months old, but I t
hought it might interest you.”

  Rampage in Charlottesville

  Police report a former army lieutenant colonel, Leonard Rainey Bertram, fatally shot his wife and severely wounded two males, Arnold Fern Fricker and Rhyne Leonard Foster, in the lobby of the Buckingham Hotel late Friday evening.

  Bertram and his wife, Heidi, had recently reunited after his return from Vietnam. Bertram’s last assignment was executive officer of the 25th Infantry Battalion in Vietnam.

  “You’re still collecting articles on the 25th in Vietnam, Anthony, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know this Colonel Bertram?”

  “I did. He was my liaison at the 25th,” Anthony replied.

  “And Rhyne was a former reporter for the Washington Post. Always in trouble,” Walden said. “I wonder what he’s gotten into now.”

  Anthony read the article again, wondering how he’d missed it. “This is old news, but I’d like to talk to the colonel. I’ve got a few questions pertaining to my research on the fifteen men.”

  Walden shrugged. “Why not? Also, check to see if there’s more to Bertram’s story. And find out how the hell Rhyne was involved.”

  The Virginia State Penitentiary with its dull, gray concrete walls and buzzing fluorescent lights was crowded that Friday. The visitors, mostly women, carrying or walking their children across the worn tile floor, sat at the two-way windows. Anthony planned to spend a short time interviewing the colonel that afternoon and return for a longer session on Saturday.

  Colonel Bertram looked so different from the man Anthony had known in Cu Chi, that Anthony thought they had sent out the wrong prisoner. The tall, square–jawed, sharply dressed executive officer Anthony remembered slumped as he walked. His hair was unkempt, and he was unshaven. But what most unnerved Anthony were Bertram’s eyes: They shifted back and forth like those of a newly caged tiger. Anthony watched through the glass wall as Bertram shuffled to his chair, flopped down, and picked up the phone.