Joon was proving a marvelous diplomat. I couldn’t imagine a much better presentation of Irwin’s case. But the situation had obviously strained the Elders’ imaginations to their limits. He next tried to tell them about what “the prodigal brother, Everett,” had done for Irwin’s sake. “An agnostic and a draft-dodger,” Joon marveled, “yet he knowingly returned home to a prison sentence just to deliver his heartfelt message to his brother’s church! And I tell you, gentlemen, I’ve heard some wonderful sermons in my life, but I have never been more deeply moved!”
This was his first major blunder: all but one of the men Joon was addressing were preachers who thought rather highly of their own sermons. And to think they’d been outdone by an agnostic! You could see the Elders closing up like anemones. You could feel our scruffiness begin to grate against their conservatism. But then I heard sniffling, turned—and saw that Bet and Freddy, then Mama and Linda, and finally even Brother Beal were all in tears at the thought of what Everett had done. (What had happened was that Peter, seeing Joon’s crisis, had given a secret “Cry now!” signal to the twins. But when they’d started to sniffle, the other three had spontaneously joined them—and the twins were so moved that their forced tears became real!)
Though Randy Beal got some odd glances, the Elders seemed to grow receptive again. Then Joon threw down our only real trump card: he described the symptoms of Irwin’s so-called insanity. Told them, for instance, how up until the electroshock and sedatives stripped him of his ability to speak, he had recited Memory Verses and sung Sabbath songs day and night, and had begged Christ for forgiveness constantly. “The sole response to this behavior by the asylum staff? Up the dosage!”
Some of the Elders—Brumfeld in particular—had begun to look a little riled. But then one of them, the most wizened and sly-looking, said, “Sometimes insane people feel they are Christ. How do we know this young man isn’t one of those?”
Elder Joon was about to say something to reassure this old earwig, but Mama blazed up first. “He was begging the Lord for help and forgiveness! That’s called prayer, Elder!”
I didn’t blame Mama, but that could have been the ballgame right there: you don’t go telling a roomful of Adventist patriarchs what prayer is. But Dr. Brumfeld and Elder Earwig were apparently on the outs—because Brumfeld immediately defused the situation by smirking at Earwig, then asking exactly what it was we wanted of them.
So Joon filled them in on Operation Squeeze. And—bless their self-righteous souls—all the Elders but Earwig seemed mildly intrigued. If I’d been Sister Harg I think I might’ve put the spurs to ’em with one of those gnarly Amens of hers. But when Brumfeld mused aloud that they might in fact be in a position to help, Linda dashed forward and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. (Peter’s stage directions again: the guy was shameless!) But Randy Beal’s eyes welled when she did it. And old Brumfeld looked pretty stoked himself.
The Elders got down to business. Phone calls were made, and medical experts enlisted; times were set, and rendezvous points established. Hands were solemnly shaken, and gratitude copiously expressed.
· · · ·
We drove back to the Red Desert Motor Inn, spent the rest of the day preparing for what we hoped would be a final showdown, then tried our best to sleep. But at 1 A.M., fed up with tossing and turning, I stepped outside, snuck up alongside Truman’s camper, heard my uncle snoring, just as I’d hoped, then nearly stepped on Papa, who was sitting alone on the camper’s bottom step. He’d snuck out for the same reason as me, though: soon as he saw me he slipped inside, stole three more of Truman’s beers to go with the one he’d already been drinking, and we strolled round to the little dead lawn on the far side of the motel to drink them.
The night was clear—or clear for LA. Not many stars, but lots of airplanes and crickets. We were just pouring the beer down, hardly saying a word, when Papa stirred and said, “What we really need, you know, is a song.”
I didn’t know it, actually. I’d been leaning more toward a third beer myself. And when Papa started singing, “I Gave My Love a Cherry”—my childhood favorite—it embarrassed me. It felt a little sentimental, a little forced. It wasn’t like him to act like this. But after just a few bars he started to cough. Which sort of left things hanging.
So I sang it. Soft as I could. But twice—that was our tradition. It was the first time I’d ever sung to anyone but Nash, or Bet and Freddy when they were little. It felt odd the first time through—as if I was the father and Papa the kid. But by the second time I was pretty well used to it. And when we went in afterward, we both fell right to sleep.
13. Squeeze
I don’t know what Major Keys thought, the next morning, as we stepped once again across the asylum parking lot. All I know is that at some point he must have looked out, seen us, and realized in an instant that the game between us had changed. It wasn’t the glowering trio of three-piece-suited, Bible-toting patriarchs who changed things: self-important as they appeared, they were obviously just disgruntled churchmen. The two earnest-looking professional men weren’t a worry either. Though one of them was carrying a medical bag, there was no regulation or reason that forced Keys to let him in. No, it was just the frizzy-headed young woman and the hippie fellow who changed things. She with the notebook, in which she was busily scribbling. He with the two cameras hanging backwards from his neck and the long-lensed Nikon busily in hand. And over by the palm trees, the big bald guy: yes, that was a TV camera on his shoulder. And yes, it was rolling as we marched up to the MP-guarded gates …
A frightening invention, mass media. The alchemical equivalent of a military uniform, in a way. Slip a uniform on a young man, whoever he may be, and his values, his judgment, even his relationship with his own inner world instantly change—must instantly change. But train a media camera or journalist’s pen upon a united group of men, women and children, whoever they may be, and they too don a sort of uniform. We could feel it as we approached the asylum: the cameras were casting us in an entirely new light. On a TV screen or in a photo essay the same hick-town homeliness that made us laughable to Keys became our most potent weapon. THE BIBLE VERSUS THE PENTAGON! headlines could roar. We were no longer people: we were images. The tearful wife, infant at her breast (CAPTION: “I only want to see my husband!”). The grimly pious mother and appropriately haggard ballplayer father (CAPTION: “They drug him because he prays!”). The defiant old Sabbath School marm, growling out a hymn as she dragged her tweaked carcass along behind a walker (CAPTION: “Hallelujah!”). How we looked to Keys no longer mattered. In the eye of the camera we were a walking, talking Norman Rockwell painting. Or worse. The climax of one of those abysmally happy old Frank Capra flicks, maybe. And Keys surely saw at a glance that he hadn’t a snowman’s chance in hell of landing the Gary Cooper or Jimmy Stewart role …
When we arrived at the gates, we didn’t ask or try to enter. We just gathered in a big circle, started singing Sabbath School songs, let the cameras flash and roll, and waited for Keys to come to us.
He came promptly. But it impressed me that his stride was unhurried, and that he came alone. He could have dragged a bunch of WACs and orderlies and MPs along for moral support. He obviously felt he didn’t need them. A big part of me tended to agree with him—though I quickly told that part to shut up.
Peter had the cameramen hold their fire. Then Elder Joon spent a solid minute making introductions. He began with the journalists, saying nothing but their names, letting the Major imagine whatever readership or viewers or levels of fame he chose. There was no other way to play it, really, since “Dewey Dvorakowski, free-lance photographer,” was really Dewey Dvorakowski, Kim Joon’s college roommate, “Sheila Crantz, freelance religious writer,” was really Sheila Crantz, Dewey’s bartender girlfriend, and “Ivan Gunnarson of KGOM-TV” was really Bud Heitz, Elder Joon’s old landlord—wearing a terminally hip black jumpsuit that Mary Jane had scored in a Riverside thrift shop, and wielding our big rented-and-disguised po
rtable TV camera with such authority you would have sworn we’d been able to afford film for it too.
But Dr. Hunsberger, a Loma Linda med school M.D., and Dr. Kruk, an Adventist psychiatrist, were the genuine articles. So in their case, and in the case of the Elders, Joon made their standing in the medical community and the Southern California Conference abundantly clear.
“So what can I do for you all?” Keys asked with his usual convincing cordiality. “Is there some question I can answer? Maybe some worries I can quell?”
Dr. Brumfeld stepped forward. “What you can do for us today,” he said in his habitually rhetorical tone, “is release an upstanding young churchman into our own very competent professional care.”
The Major responded to his demand by doing something every Adventist kid has learned not to do around Elders by the age of five or so: he chuckled.
“Does it amuse you, Major Keys,” Brumfeld said slowly, “that we consider our medical people competent?”
“Not at all,” the Major replied, still smiling. “But despite the opinion of one disgruntled family, I consider myself and my staff competent as well.”
Speaking slowly, letting it build as it flowed, Dr. Brumfeld said, “To take advantage of a military trial that I have studied in depth, and am tempted to call criminal for its failure to take Brother Chance’s lifelong religious background into account” (he paused, both to glower and to breathe), “to then incarcerate, electrocute, and drug our young brother right out of his Christian devotion, and then to call that a kind of healing—this is not what we consider competence.”
The low growl of Sister Harg: “Amen.”
But Keys was still smiling. “May I remind you, Dr. Brumfeld, that it was two members of your own clergy who caused Irwin Chance to be loosed upon the Army in the first place?”
“Like you,” Brumfeld replied, “we are human, and sometimes make mistakes. Unlike you, we are trying to correct ours.”
It was a good comeback. Good enough to force Keys to get tough. “The admission of a blunder by one of your own clergy may explain how a misfit like Chance ended up in Vietnam,” he said. “But the Army is not responsible for that blunder. Nor does it make Chance any less dangerous at present. I understand the family’s feelings. I sympathize. But no psychiatric hospital, least of all mine, is in the habit of loosing violent patients upon the public at their relatives’ request.”
“With your kind permission,” Brumfeld coolly replied, “the gentlemen before you”—he indicated the psychiatrist and the doctor—“would like to make their own assessment of Brother Chance’s condition.”
“Then they can step inside and make an appointment,” said Keys. “I have no objection. Early next week should be fine. And I’ll be happy to facilitate their examination in every way I can.”
“What’s wrong with today?” Dr. Brumfeld asked. “What’s wrong with now?”
“I’m afraid Private Chance is under somewhat heavy sedation.”
“May we ask why?” asked Brumfeld.
Major Keys sighed. “This is not the kind of thing we normally bandy about in public. But since you all seem to have come here to second-guess me, perhaps I’d better tell you. Private Chance violently attacked a young woman volunteer during an art class less than a week ago.”
“Says who!” Uncle Marvin burst out.
But it was an unexpected and nasty accusation. Dr. Brumfeld backed way off on this one. Then the psychiatrist, Dr. Kruk, spoke up. “The sanest person on earth could be chronically confused, if not violent, after misdiagnosis and weeks of inappropriate therapy.”
“Again,” the Major said, “I am being groundlessly second-guessed. I see no reason to even respond. But I will tell you, Doctor, that a very fine officer is still suffering the effects of Private Chance’s psychotic attack. And though a toothpaste tube may seem an amusing weapon, if you’ll step into my office I’ll show you Captain Dudek’s medical report. I doubt you’ll find much humor in that.”
The doctors and Elders began to hem and haw. Our momentum—if we’d had any—was gone. Elder Joon turned to Peter, who gave him a nod. There was only one way to make any sense of Irwin’s actions: it was time to speak of the Cong boy.
“In our scriptures,” Joon said, stepping forward, “Jesus says that it is better for a man to be cast into the sea and drowned than to harm a child. Irwin has worshipped these scriptures all his life. The execution of the Vietcong boy referred to in Irwin’s testimony was a transgression of these scriptures, and of the Army’s own laws. Irwin’s attack on his captain was a reaction to this transgression. And while we too find his attack regrettable, we find his remorse understandable, even commendable. There simply is a difference between Christians and Army men, Major. To eradicate Irwin’s remorse over the death of that boy, we believe you would have to demolish his faith completely.”
Keys smiled from one end of this speech to the other. And not smugly. He was smiling sympathetically. But he replied not to Joon or to my family, but to the doctors and Elders alone. “An unfortunate subject, this Cong boy,” he said. “Has anyone yet told you gentlemen, has the Chance family even mentioned to you, that at Irwin’s sanity hearing it was determined that this boy did not exist? Delusions like this are rather common. And I’m afraid it’s only one of Private Chance’s many symptoms.”
This was the moment we’d feared—but also the moment we’d planned for. The Elders and doctors had turned to gape at us in injured amazement—and Brumfeld looked well on his way to outrage. But before any of them could speak, Nancy Beal pointed right at Keys and shouted, “Even soldiers have laws, Major! And even soldiers break them. Yet you seem to expect them to jump up and admit to it! Every criminal who ever lived would love to declare his accuser insane!”
“And as for delusions,” Bet angrily put in, “it’s you and the Army who keep pretending my brother’s Christianity is a delusion!”
“In fifty-nine years of Sabbath School teaching,” growled Ethel Harg, “I’ve never met a more honest boy than Irwin Chance. That’s fifty-nine years. Not fifty-eight, or sixty. That boy does not tell lies.”
“And every man who testified at Irwin’s trial,” Papa said, not giving Keys a second to speak or think, “has had to remain in a combat zone, under the command of Captain Dudek, living—or trying to live—with the consequences of their testimony. Think about it, Major. You’d have to have a death wish to betray your company or your commander under those circumstances!”
“Our son is being railroaded!” Mama cried. “You know it and we know it! Dudek wants to shut him up forever—and you’re doing his dirty work. That’s why you won’t let these doctors check him. That’s why you’re keeping him drugged. And that’s why we’re not leaving till you give him back to us!”
We had one round of ammo left. It was in Papa’s shirt pocket. It was a very recent letter, from a soldier on Irwin’s fire base. And though this soldier begged us not to use his name, in case of retaliation against him, he corroborated Irwin’s story about the death of the Cong boy. No one knew of this letter except Papa, Peter and me, and we were praying we wouldn’t have to use it. The reason we were praying was that the three of us had forged it just two nights ago …
But the Elders and doctors had all turned angrily back to Keys. And for the first time since we’d met him, the Major looked stunned. His great trump card had been trumped.
“If you’ll allow it, Major,” Dr. Kruk said acidly, “Dr. Hunsberger and I would be happy to wait in the patient’s room till the sedatives wear off. Clear into the night, if necessary. If nothing else, it’ll give us some idea of the dosages he’s having to fight.”
“Chance’s ward is restricted,” Keys said. But you could see his face go rigid as the content of his speech became banal.
“Screw this!” said Uncle Marv. “I’m phonin’ back that lady from the LA Times!”
It wasn’t a bad threat—but the Elders turned as one body, and scowled. Adventist men “know,” they “beget,�
� they “sire.” But they never screw anything. Not even enemies, or wives. Mary Jane shut Marvo up in a hurry.
Elder Joon meanwhile correctly assessed the Major’s rigidity to be disguised panic. So rather than taunt him, Joon began to offer him a way out. “Despite our intense feelings on this issue,” he said, “we of the Adventist Church hold our Armed Forces in deep respect. We are not here to accuse Irwin’s captain, or to create scandal. We simply feel that you don’t understand Irwin quite as well as we do. So we want to be the ones to care for him.”
Keys said nothing. But he’d begun to look a little like one of his own patients.
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