Windwhistle Bone

by Richard Trainor

  I looked at Devlin and peeled away the now of us to what we looked like then. The bald pate grew full with shoulder-length hair again, the soft beard sprouted. The fat dissolved from his orbits and his eyes grew warm and mischievous—not cold and guarded—again. The heavy chin evaporated into a firm jaw and the sardonic smile transformed into an inward-looking daze looking for a meaning within the chaos in which he’d recently participated.

  …snippets of conversations and Devlin monologues flitted in and ran through the spools, hearing bits of them in smears. Some were of him and Miranda, because, in the long time I had known John Devlin, she and they, the two of them as a couple, were the prime focuses of his life. Then the beginnings of our friendship prodded out the bulk of the others and shouldered them aside, allowing me a different glimpse of who John Devlin was before he had Miranda and Monica and alcohol to hide within.

  …it was the streets of London again—and Devlin and I were walking along the Thames somewhere between the Tower and Victoria Station—when the conversation turned to the war. He asked me whether or not my number would be called in that year’s lottery and whether or not I would go. I told him that it had been, and that I was lucky that it was high enough for me that I wouldn’t have to refuse induction. Then I told him about Canada and how I worked for the Committee to Aid American War Resisters up there and how we smuggled deserters and resistors and draft dodgers and that there was no way in hell I would go to Vietnam, and anybody who did go there to fight for what it was we said it was, was either crazy, a fool, or hadn’t been paying attention for the past decade or so. Devlin stopped in his tracks, looked to me a long minute, open-mouthed, then shook out a cigarette, lit it, and began walking again. We moved together silently for a block or so and an uneasy feeling crept over me as the sense I had grew to a certainty. We were waiting for a light to change at an intersection and Devlin inhaled deeply and tossed the cigarette away. The smoke jetted out in three streams from his mouth and nostrils. “I was there, Ram,” he said. “I was there until June. Three years. You ever hear of the Phoenix Program?”

  The story bled out of him, bit by bit, during those first weeks of our friendship. He had dropped out of college, lost his deferment, and then fought the draft board for a while. When they made it clear that they meant to take him, he enlisted. He scored high on the intelligence tests, and they offered him an option: go to Officer’s Candidate School or become a straight-legger grunt under someone else’s command. John took the officer option, allowing him to give orders and command his own men.

  More of it slipped out of him on each succeeding day back then. Once, when we were at the Imperial War Museum, he told me about the Phoenix Program and how he was its first, its most senior junior officer. “I don’t think that I ever had one sound night’s sleep during that whole time that I was out in the field,” he said. “All my guys were either former VC or NVA soldiers. If they had traded sides once, why not again? Just come up and slit my throat while I’m sleeping.” Devlin shook his head and his shoulders convulsed at the memory. “It was weird, Ram, very strange. Kept my .45 cocked and loaded next to my pillow. A gentle breeze would wake me up; a different smell, the slightest vibration…”

  One night on the roof of St. Christopher’s, we were smoking a joint when John told me about Saigon. “About every six weeks, a chopper would come out to my base camp up in II Corps and ferry me down to Saigon and land on the roof of the Intercontinental Hotel. My control officer would be waiting for me there. He’d have a big table by himself off to one side, and I’d come in wearing fatigues. He’d have a new suit waiting for me and the waiter would take me off to some little room and help me change into a hand-tailored Hong Kong suit, handmade shirt, and new shoes after giving me a quick scrub. Then I’d come back out and blend in perfectly with the diplomats and journalists who hung out there all the time, and that way, we wouldn’t attract too much attention.” Devlin stopped, took a deep toke, and nodded slowly and affirmatively. “That was a trip… You ever heard of John Paul Vann, Ram?” he asked me. I said I hadn’t and Devlin sailed back into the Intercontinental Hotel recollection. This Vann guy was his control officer, and the mission that he set for Devlin involved killing and capturing VC Village chieftains and NVA officers. “You remember reading of that NVA Colonel who got captured?” he asked. I said that I did and I did remember it because it was a big news story at the time. “That was me and my sappers,” he said, laughing wildly, but mirthlessly. “We were the ones who got that guy,” said Devlin… Then Dev told me of how he and Vann and another officer would spend their time in Saigon for the next few days or so, going to whorehouses and opium dens and bars, with occasional visits to the US Embassy to plot and plan more killings and kidnappings…

  …the time smeared ahead, and the world spun forward and westward from London to San Francisco sometime in the early eighties, and Devlin and I were in a Vietnamese restaurant around North Beach. He was ordering food and drink for me in Vietnamese, with the waiter asking him questions and Devlin answering him back, and the two of them laughing or arguing from time to time, all in Vietnamese. This went on for a while and I remember being impressed by Devlin’s facility with the language. The waiter finally left. Devlin snickered through his teeth, lit a cigarette, and took a gulp from his Tiger beer. “We’re friends now, me and Hanh,” said John. “I come here all the time; it’s the best Vietnamese food in The City. But Hanh also remembers me from when I was in Vietnam and came to his village one day with my sappers… The village was supplying VC in the field with food, shelter, and intelligence. We were supposed to root out the responsibles,” Devlin said, taking another sip from his beer and leaning in close or over the table. “It was an ugly day. Rainy as usual, but it was cold this time too. In one hut, we found some maps and some small sacks of grain—obviously intended for the VC. We burned that fucking hut to the ground, and I had my guys line up the guys whose names Vann had given me, as well as a couple others who I thought seemed suspicious.” Hanh arrived and interrupted Dev’s tale, bringing the steaming plates and pots of food. They bantered in Vietnamese for a minute or so and Devlin laughed warmly. His smile faded to a grin. “Where was I?” he asked, mostly for my benefit and to see if I was still paying attention. Devlin knew exactly where he was. “Oh yeah, I remember. Then I had my guys assemble all the villagers to watch while I garroted each one of the six suspects with some guitar string. And one of them was Hanh’s uncle!” Devlin said, his voice rising and breaking into laughter. I must’ve shown my horror, then, for Devlin leaned closer in and asked me quietly, conspiratorially, “You don’t think that’s funny, Ram?” I said nothing, and his laughter subsided. He nodded his head slowly, and then closed his eyes. “Neither did I… You see, up until that point, nothing really got to me… none of all the stuff that I had to do in Vietnam. It was either kill or be killed and I had to survive for as long as my enlistment ran… torching villages, shooting people shivering in a ditch, old people, young people, crying babies and women too. You name it, I did it… But that day,” Devlin said, shaking his head. “That day, something snapped in me. I can’t remember on which one it happened, but as I was garroting one of those six guys with all the villagers watching, something—an awareness, call it a revelation if you want—jumped up in me and said, ‘Hey, John Devlin, this is you and you’re murdering six people in front of an audience in broad daylight… in a place that means nothing to you and for a cause that means nothing to you that you don’t believe in’ he said in a faraway tone.”And there was one other thing that I remember the most about that day, Ram, and it was this: that I really didn’t care. I actually kind of enjoyed it." While he said this, he was laughing through his teeth and the room was starting to spin so badly that I had to excuse myself and go to the bathroom to vomit. When I was done, I splashed cold water on my face and refused to look in the mirror. By the time that I got back to the table, Devlin had spooned out the food for both of us and was going at the garlic tiger prawns with his
chopsticks.

  “Come on, Ram. Dig in,” he said. “Best fucking Vietnamese in The City, maybe best one outside of Vietnam.” When he noted my pallor, he nodded and laughed triumphantly. “See, Ram, maybe you were right not to go to Vietnam. You could’ve wound up like me.” Then he raised his beer, toasted me, and drained it in one gulp…

  …the cab sailed down Geary through the top of Pacific Heights. It was starting to drizzle and the streetlights shone dully through the mist. We were crossing Divisadero when I asked the driver to make a diversion. “Take me to the Miyako, the Inn, not the Hotel,” I said. “It’s here in Japan town somewhere.”

  “I know where it is,” the cab driver said.

  “You can stay at my place, Ram. I’ve got a fold-out couch.”

  “I don’t think so, John, but thanks anyway.”

  “Cabbie, I left some things at my friend’s house. When you drop him off, he’ll give them to you and you can bring them back for another twenty. Is that okay?”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  I looked at John. He nodded, said nothing, and sat staring straight ahead. I looked at him in the oncoming car lights and felt sympathy and admiration for him still. He was once a hero of mine, John Devlin was, when his mind was quick and probing and his knowledge of politics and film and literature was expansive. I always thought he’d end up teaching history at UMass or wind up as a writer like I had been or, even in my worst projections, as some kind of high-risk guy running guns or drugs for one side or another like Wesley Llewellyn might have been. I thought his spirit would have rebelled at the idea of menial slavery served behind a floor-polishing machine for a federal bureaucracy, but it hadn’t. He’d found a place where he could hide for a lifetime. He had sacrificed his academic broad view of history and love of places like Morocco and Burma to a narrow vista of post office hallways in the hours before dawn, a life without risk that came with retirement benefits.

  “I was thinking, we never did get to Singapore for our twenty-year reunion at Raffles,” he finally said.

  “No, that never happened, John, but then again, not much of the stuff we talked about then ever did, and we talked about a lot of stuff.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Devlin said as the cab pulled to a stop on Sutter.

  I peeled off two twenties and handed them to the driver. “Take my friend back to his house, or wherever it is he wants to go,” I said.

  “That’s not necessary, Ram,” John said. “I’ve got plenty of money.”

  “You bought dinner, John. Let me take care of the cab.”

  We sat there on the back seat, awkward and uncertain. I was trying to think of something clever to say, but everything that came to mind sounded clichéd. I just wanted to get back to the hotel and go to sleep. What Devlin wanted, I could only guess.

  Chapter Twelve

  When I awoke on Christmas morning, I made coffee, slid my overcoat on over my pajamas, put on hat and gloves, and went out on the deck to consider the day ahead. Three years after he’d begun trying to reach me after my release from Fremont, my brother Fran finally succeeded in persuading me to attend a holiday gathering of the Le Doirs.

  Sipping my coffee, I looked at the winter sky to see if any signs were present. The hour was early, the sky still dark with a sliver of new moon beginning to set behind Mount Armstrong. Further west where the river ended, Betelgeuse was setting beneath the sea, followed by Gemini—Vera’s guiding constellation. I watched and thought to myself, smiling for a moment as I pulled up the gardenia scent of her and heard, ever so faintly, so sweetly, so briefly, the sound of her laughter again… Then I shut it out when it began growing more present and ruminated on the day ahead and what it might bring.

  Fran lived the next valley over the ridge to the east, beyond Mount St. Helena—‘The Wineblood Valley’ was what the poet Ram Le Doir once called it—the Napa Valley—and Fran had been there for the past few years, building a new house, which was now finished. He asked me many times to come over and see the new house while it was under construction, but I declined each time, saying that I was busy or working late, or too tired, or too whatever. I wasn’t ready then, and besides, I’d seen plenty of new houses built by Fran Le Doir the Third. It was something he was always doing—from not long after when we got back from Amsterdam, until now, maybe eight, maybe ten of them altogether. When I lost time, I lost count. All of them were showplaces, for Fran was very good at this, his chosen craft and profession. Now, his latest showplace was ready to receive a houseful of guests—friends and family and business acquaintances. I remembered previous gatherings, chez Fran, and it was fun back then, but as I sat there sipping my coffee and eating toast with raspberry jam, I didn’t know how I’d now manage with him and the family Le Doir, and his new friends and business associates, and began growing anxious over what was to come on the day ahead.

  I called Dr. Aragon, ostensibly to wish him and his family a Merry Christmas, but he sensed what I was up to and asked me to come to the point. So I told him. He laughed, and exhaled deeply, then asked me.

  “You’re thinking of backing out now, aren’t you, Ram?”

  “Not exactly, Paul,” I said. “What I was thinking of doing was taking the Christmas presents over there and talking with Fran for a bit outside. Then making some excuse about another party and blow out of there.”

  “And then what happens at Easter, Ram? Or the Fourth of July? Or Thanksgiving? How long can you stall your brother with excuses? He’s been trying to get together with you for the past three years, Ram. He must have some reason.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “You’re damn right I’m afraid. I’m petrified. My heart’s in my throat. I can hardly breathe.”

  “Come on, Ram. Give the guy a chance. Give the whole thing a chance. Make an honest effort, and make it for yourself. Look, if you put yourself out there 100% and don’t run and hide, what’s the worst that can happen?”

  “I don’t know, Paul. Maybe, I’ll go off on him. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Ram, Ram, don’t be. You’re not going to go off on him or hurt somebody again, or start using again. The worst that can happen is you’ll face the whole of it, see it for what it is, and then be done with it and won’t have to deal with it again.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “And you could try and look on the bright side and consider the best that could happen?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, you could be welcomed back into your family again and have your brother back as your friend.”

  “Do you think that can happen, Paul? After all that has happened?”

  “It could, Ram,” said Aragon, filling and lighting his pipe; I could tell from the scratching noises. “I’m not saying it will, Ram, but it could. You won’t know until you go there and put forward your best effort.”

  Aragon and I exchanged Christmas greetings and made small talk for a few minutes or so before agreeing to see one another the next time I was coming to Sagrada, which was heaven knew when. Then I hung up the phone, fed Rattler, and puttered about in the garden looking at the bare rose branches, which would soon need pruning—right after New Year, dark of the moon. I smiled when I saw that, because the person who taught me about roses was Vera.

  The car chugged up the flanks of the ridgeline dividing the Napa and Sonoma valleys. It was bright but cold, with clouds gathered toward the northwest. It was rumored that snow was possible. I thought of that and laughed. Sure, snow was possible. And so was fire and rain and earthquake and nuclear holocaust and anthrax poisoning… But snow is possible, I said aloud, coming back to the now and leaving the doomful prophecies of the previous tenant where they belonged.

  I followed Fran’s directions, proceeding to Calistoga and turning left on the Alexander Valley Highway, watching the odometer, and waiting for it to hit 3.2 miles, then looking for the driveway entrance marked wi
th red and white balloons. When I saw it, I drove in 100 yards or so to where a number of cars were parked in front of Fran’s new house. I cut the engine, lit a cigarette, and looked at the house. It was a low and rambling one-story affair, surrounded by a huge deck with square pillars supporting the overhang eaves. Smoke was rising from a flagstone chimney, and the sounds of laughter and children’s voices echoed to me through the cold air. I drifted and remembered long ago Christmases at my Aunt Hazel’s house on the east side of Sagrada, when I used to sit at her third-story picture window waiting for Yick to show up in his big black Electra. I thought of the irony of that, and how it was now, 40 years on, when it was me, a long missing uncle and brother showing up for a holiday, the murderer and madman, Ram Le Doir, the walking not-quite-dead-yet casualty of a little remembered war now best forgotten.

  I was getting ready to restart the car when the front door opened and Fran came out, walking toward me. I panicked and dropped the keys, missing my opportunity for a getaway, for by the time I’d recovered them again, Fran was standing alongside the car. He blushed and smiled shyly. My hands quit working, and I was unsure what to do with myself. I sat staring ahead, paralyzed. The door opened and Fran pulled me out of the car and embraced me, holding me close and telling me how good it was to see me again, and how good I looked.