by Martin Limon
After the casket was lowered, workmen stepped forward and hurled shovelfuls of earth onto the flag-draped coffin.
Kuang-sok and I walked down the hill. Halfway to the bottom, his fingers curled around mine.
I searched my notes of the case and found the name and address of Cecil Whitcomb’s mother. It took me most of the day to write a letter to her. In the first few drafts I told the truth about how Ernie and I had taken money to lure her son to his death. But each time I hesitated before putting it into an envelope, drank some coffee, and looked at what I’d written again. It didn’t make sense to burden this woman I didn’t know with all these painful things. It didn’t make sense to burden myself. It wouldn’t do any good. I scratched out sentences and paragraphs and the letter kept getting smaller. At the end of the day it was so short it might’ve been one of those prefabricated cards people buy in the PX. Before Happy Hour I looked at the draft one more time, tore it up, and threw it in the trash.
Ernie’s spleen healed up okay and he pressured the doc into giving him a complete rundown on how the damage would effect his drinking.
“You have to stop,” the doctor told him.
“Stop drinking?”
“Yes.”
“Come on, Doc. Give me the real story. Not the propaganda.”
“Your spleen will never again function at peak efficiency, Bascom. Alcohol could do tremendous damage.”
“But it’s the liver and the pancreas that process the poison.”
That’s Ernie. Leave it to him to argue with a guy who spent six years in medical school.
The doctor ran some impressive-sounding words past him and did his best, but in the end Ernie remained unconvinced. The next time he went to Itaewon-with me and Riley along to watch out for him-he slammed home as many shots of soju as he ever had before.
Same old Ernie.
Unless somebody mentioned the Nurse.
Ajjima, the Nurse’s landlady, couldn’t rent the Nurse’s old hooch. People were afraid of her ghost. I don’t believe in that stuff. I carry plenty of ghosts around inside me but I don’t believe in the ones on the outside. I rented the room and told Kuang-sok he could stay there.
He moved his father’s old furniture over and I visited three or four times a week and brought him food from the commissary on post. But it wasn’t working.
Ajjima pulled me aside one day and told me that the boy wanted to go to an orphanage.
“Why didn’t he tell me that himself?” I asked.
“He embarrassed,” she said. “Maybe you feel bad.”
She was right. It did make me feel bad. But I made the arrangements, and the next weekend we loaded up all his stuff in a truck Ernie borrowed from 21 T-Car and carted Kuang-sok out to a Catholic orphanage past Kimpo.
After Ernie and I unloaded everything, I went into the office and made a substantial contribution to the orphanage. About half my monthly paycheck. The Korean priest was grateful and told me that he didn’t expect Kuang-sok to be here long. A healthy young boy like him should get adopted and go overseas within a matter of months.
Outside, Kuang-sok bowed to Ernie and me, but he turned and walked away with the priest without bothering to thank us.
Ernie started up the truck. “You figure he blames us for the death of his father?”
“Sure he does,” I said. “Don’t you?”
“Naw. Not me. I blame Shipton.”
He swung the truck down the dirt road until we hooked up with the main highway and sped back to Seoul.
I wished, sometimes, that I could accept things as easily as Ernie. But I still saw Mr. Ma’s face when he realized that Shipton’s knife had sliced into his back. And I saw the Nurse. And I saw Miss Ku. And sometimes I even saw Cecil Whitcomb.
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