Tyson stepped onto the running trampoline and began to jog in place, his eyes still fixed on the east-facing window. There were lights in bedrooms across the road, and at the larger cross-street at the south end of the block, he saw cars making their way toward the parkways, expressways, and railroad stations. Suburbia was on the move, flowing westward to infuse the great city with its clean, oxygenated blood, to wow Wall Street and Madison Avenue with its tennis tans and tales of weekend bogies and eagles.
Tyson jumped off the trampoline and somersaulted to the middle of the gray carpet. He did a few minutes of calisthenics, then walked briskly into the master bathroom.
The bathroom had been modernized and sported a large Jacuzzi. Tyson turned it on. He shaved and brushed his teeth, then lowered himself into the hot, swirling eucalyptus-scented water. Through the rising steam he saw himself in a mirrored wall. He was, by any standards, powerfully built and somewhat on the hairy side. Some women liked that, others didn’t. Marcy reveled in the forest on his chest. The Oriental girls, he recalled, found it beastly or amusing, but never sexy. However, they always commented favorably on his size; and it wasn’t flaky, prostitute flattery. Westerners were bigger as he’d found out when he’d purchased a non-PX condom at a local pharmacie. He thought he should tell that amusing story to Mr. Kimura over lunch one day.
He put his head and shoulders back on the marble rim of the tub and floated in the turbulent waters. The dream had come again last night: He is back in the Army. There is a war on. It is a nameless war, with few of the elements of Vietnam. The landscape is the cold wintry woods of Fort Benning, Georgia, where he’s taken his infantry officer training. The combat fatigues he wears remind him of the foreign-looking uniforms worn by the aggressor army in the war games they played at Benning. In the dream these uniforms are filthy and torn. The weapons and equipment he carries are somewhat primitive. He does not interpret this to mean it is an earlier war, but rather a future war of long duration: an interminable, civilization-destroying conflict. Armies sweep back and forth across the scarred earth and the dying cities. That part at least is Vietnam.
In the dream he is no longer an officer, but an ordinary rifleman, and someone always says to him, “Tyson, you have five more years to serve,” to which he always replies, “That’s not fair. I was already in. This time I’ll die.”
Tyson pushed off the edge of the large tub, and let the waters swirl around his floating body. He had gone briefly to a psychiatrist who specialized in the war neuroses of upper-middle-class and wealthy veterans, preferably ex-officers. That was about as specialized as you could get, Tyson thought, and only on Park Avenue would you find such a shrink. Tyson had rather liked the man, Dr. Stahl, and found his insights revealing and his knowledge of postwar-related stress nothing short of startling.
Stahl and he had talked about the dream, they talked about the guilt of having survived when others didn’t and spoke of the special guilt of having killed. They discussed at length the unique problems of having commanded men in battle, of having given orders that led to the deaths of subordinates and the deaths of civilians. It was in this area that Stahl earned his two hundred dollars an hour, and they were both aware of that. Popular literature and conventional wisdom were confined to the depressingly ordinary problems of the grunt. Stahl recognized that analyzing the problems of the ex-officer was more interesting, more complex, and usually more remunerative.
Tyson had been on the verge of telling the man about Hôpital Miséricorde but knew intuitively that confession becomes a bad habit. After Stahl he would tell Marcy, and after Marcy the Reverend Symes. And thus having squared things away in privileged conversations with his shrink, his wife, and a representative of his God, he would eventually go to the Army Judge Advocate General. Therefore, he did not tell Stahl, and since further psychotherapy was of little value unless Stahl knew the Big Secret, Tyson had terminated the relationship, much to Dr. Stahl’s surprise and regret. Stahl found Tyson interesting. Tyson found Stahl too perceptive.
The last thing Stahl had said to him, in a letter actually, written in Stahl’s somewhat stilted middle-European style, was this: There is something else on your mind which is a great and terrible secret, Mr. Tyson. I cannot see it, but I can see its shadow and feel its presence in everything you say.
It would be idle to speculate on what it is, but please feel assured that in war everything is the norm. I have spoken to brave men who have had hysterics on the battlefield, who have run from the enemy, who have left their friends to die, and who have soiled their pants in the heat of battle. I have had revealed to me things of which you cannot even begin to dream. I tell you, my friend, war is hell, but take heart: When a soldier goes to war everything is pre-forgiven.
Tyson had never forgotten that cryptic last line: Everything is pre-forgiven. But by whom? How? When was it pre-forgiven? That line was meant to pique his curiosity; to entice him back onto the couch of Dr. Stahl. And it almost had. But in the end he did not answer the letter, because it was unanswerable.
Some time after that, Dr. Stahl, like a statistically significant percentage of his colleagues, had killed himself. The Times reported that the overdose of Quaaludes may have been accidental, but Tyson did not think so. Tyson thought that Vietnam killed by contact, association, and proxy.
Tyson floated to the edge of the tub and spread his arms out over the rim to steady himself. He stared up at the infrared lamp overhead and felt its waves warming his face. He recalled that he was not particularly surprised at Dr. Stahl’s suicide. For all Stahl’s assurances about not being judgmental, not being shocked, the man was after all human. He had listened to an army of sick men fill his ears with grief until it had filled his heart and soul, and like a slow-acting virus, had overcome his immunities. And one day he discovered he was dead and made it official.
Tyson had been unexpectedly saddened while reading the obituary. But on a practical level, he was concerned about what had happened to Stahl’s case files, though he had never made any inquiries.
Stahl had ended most of his sessions with the words “You cannot run from the demons, so you must make friends with them.” He had advised Tyson to recall the dream in detail, talk with the characters who peopled the dark landscapes of his mind, until one day they would become familiar, friendly, then perhaps banal and insipid. So, lying there in the Jacuzzi, Tyson went through it again. But this time—and there was no mistaking it—the characters in the dream had become more malevolent. The dream had taken on a special and prescient significance. In fact, the nightmare was becoming reality. All is pre-forgiven, Dr. Stahl.
* * *
Marcy walked naked into the bathroom and lowered herself into the tub. She drew a long breath, inhaling the eucalyptus, smiled, and closed her eyes.
Tyson watched her breasts bob in the water, then turned his attention to her face. Rivulets of sweat ran from her brow down her cheeks. He thought she looked fine without makeup. She extended her legs and floated atop the misty water. Tyson reached out and massaged her toes. She murmured, “Oh, that feels good.”
Marcy spread her floating legs, and Tyson knelt, leaning forward, cupping her buttocks in his palms. As he moved his head between her legs, she said, “You’ll drown if you try that.”
“What a way to go.”
“Ben!”
He buried his face deep in her groin, and she brought her thighs together, slipping down farther into the water, taking him down with her. He struggled for a moment, broke free, and surfaced, spluttering. “Bitch.”
She laughed.
Tyson retreated moodily to his end of the bath.
Marcy lifted herself out of the sunken tub and stood on the tiled edge, her legs parted as she stretched and yawned.
Tyson watched her and was instantly reminded of the photograph. It had originally appeared in Life magazine and had been reproduced a number of times in books dealing with the 1960s. It was a black-and-white photograph showing a group of students in Los Angel
es’s Griffith Park during the winter recess of 1968. It must have been a mild day because they were all cavorting in the nude at Mulholland Fountain.
The occasion was a rock concert according to the Life caption, though when the picture had been used on a network TV documentary about the 1960s, the occasion had been described as a love-in. A photographic essay book described the event as an antiwar rally. Tyson had also seen the picture captioned as a happening and a be-in. Although the event may not have been clear, the picture of Marcy was. She was the most prominent of all the students, standing on the rim of the fountain much as she was now standing on the rim of the Jacuzzi, a full-frontal nude, one arm around the shoulders of a slender, shaggy-haired young man. The other arm was upraised, fist clenched, and her legs were parted. The expression on her face was a mixture of defiance and uninhibited joy. To the side could be seen two policemen approaching the fountain full of naked young men and women.
Tyson saw the picture again in his mind: Marcy’s luxuriant pubic hair like a black bull’s-eye, her breasts standing proud and erect. But for all the nakedness in that fountain, there was little that was erotic. The gathering was meant as a political statement, and it was.
Like other famous tableaux—the flag-raising over Iwo Jima or the girl weeping over the body at Kent State—the photograph transcended the particular event and captured the essence of an age. None of the subjects had been identified in print, their names as unimportant as the name of the photographer or the journal where the photograph first appeared. The picture had entered the public domain, the history books, and the public consciousness. No royalties were paid nor permissions asked nor rights protected. Yet for those who knew the subjects by name or who were the subjects, the famous photograph still remained personal and evoked a sense of grief, joy, or violated privacy.
Tyson looked up at his wife, still engaged in her stretching exercises. Her body and indeed her face had not changed that much in nearly two decades. In the picture, though, her hair hung in long, wet strands down to her breasts. When Tyson had first met her at a party in a friend’s Manhattan apartment, her hair was still shoulder-length, and his mental image of her remained that of a young girl with long hair, barefoot, with little makeup, and wearing a peasant dress. He said, “I love you still.”
She paused in her stretching exercises and smiled at him. “We are still in love. Remember that in the coming weeks and months.”
“No matter how nasty we are to one another.”
“Right.”
Tyson shut the water off and lifted himself onto the tatami mat beside the tub. He rested his head on a cylindrical bamboo pillow and brought his knees up. He ran his fingers over the scar on his kneecap. It had turned reddish purple from the hot water. Most shrapnel wounds were jagged and ugly as they were supposed to be. This one was ludicrous: It looked like a large question mark.
Tyson said to his wife, “There was a picture of me and my platoon in the book.”
“I didn’t see it.” Marcy reached into the large, tiled shower stall and turned on the six pulsating jets. She said, “Where did you leave the book, by the way? I don’t want David to see it.”
Tyson stood and stepped into the shower with her. He thought he’d remind her that the Life magazine of March 8, 1968, was stuck up on the bookshelf in plain view. He said, however, “I put it in my attaché case. But he’ll have to read it eventually.”
She let the water pound against her body and ran her soapy hands over her breasts and face. “Right. But you have to speak to him first.”
“The book speaks for itself. I’ll just ask him to read it from the beginning. So my . . . role will be seen in context.”
She looked over her shoulder. “In or out of context it’s gruesome, Ben, and it’s going to upset him. Speak to him first.” She added, “Perspective. Give him some perspective. Show him where to stand when he’s reading it.”
Tyson left the shower.
She called out, “Sorry.”
Tyson tore a towel off the rack and quickly dried himself.
Marcy shut off the water and opened the stall door. “Tell me something. How did you live with this for all these years? Wait. Don’t be angry. I don’t mean that in a judgmental sense. I mean it in a practical sense. How did you keep it to yourself and not tell anyone? Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
She nodded and said, “You never even hinted at it. . . .” She thought a moment, then added, “You were blocking. You totally blocked it.”
“Psychobabble.” Tyson tossed the towel in the hamper. “I never blocked it. I just chose not to discuss it. Unlike many people, I don’t have to pour my guts out and reveal my personal history to casual acquaintances or even to friends. Or even to you.” He turned and walked into the adjoining dressing room, closing the door behind him.
He opened his closet and scanned his suits without really noticing them. It occurred to him that Marcy was going to be his toughest critic, but also his most honest one. He should listen to what she was saying so he could know what others were thinking. “Day two,” he said aloud. “Each day brings forth something new.”
CHAPTER
7
Ben Tyson pulled his yellow Volvo into the drive leading to the Garden City Hotel and joined a line of slow-moving cars waiting to be parked. He moved the car up a few feet. Directly in front of him was a Cadillac limousine. In his rearview mirror he saw the grillwork of a Rolls. He said, “Let’s buy a new car. Something decidedly decadent.”
She shook her head. “In your present situation, a new tie would look flagrant. Low profile, Ben. That’s the word of the week.” She added, “Also, your job may be a little shaky.”
Tyson nodded. Nevertheless, he thought, the old battered Volvo needed replacing. But now, nearly two weeks after that Tuesday morning, even the most mundane and personal decisions had to be scrutinized with one eye on appearances.
Tyson moved the car up another few feet and looked out toward the hotel. The nine-story building sat in the center of the suburban village, surrounded by ten acres of landscaped park. It was a new building, vaguely Georgian in style and topped by a reproduction of the cupola that had crowned the old Garden City Hotel. The setting sun blazed in red reflection from the windows, and Tyson squinted. He imagined the redbrick Georgian structure that had stood there when he was growing up. The May evening recalled to him his senior prom in the Regency Room. He remembered the annual cotillion, the weddings and celebrations, including his parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary party in the Hunt Room. It was, he reflected, a privileged childhood and adolescence, a very good time. A time of hope, a time before the war and the turbulence had changed him; had changed everyone. Such had been the years of his growing up in the fifties and early sixties. He said, almost to himself, “Enjoy it while you can.”
“What?”
“Life. Dance and be merry.”
She glanced at him and said thoughtfully, “Philosophical musings don’t become you.”
“Perhaps. I was just trying to put my petty problems in perspective. That is still the word of this week, by the way.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Also, the last refuge of a troubled spirit is religion. I’m going to pay a call on Reverend Symes.”
She thought a moment, then said, “Why not? That’s better than talking to your wife. And he can’t testify against you either. Which reminds me, you never told me what Phil Sloan said.”
“Why should I? I know by something you let slip that you spoke to him yourself. Privileged conversations, indeed. I’ll give old Symes a shot at being discreet.”
Marcy didn’t reply.
Tyson expanded on his earlier subject. “But life is good. At least for us. There’s no war, depression, famine, hunger, or civil strife.”
“Not in Garden City, also known as the Garden of Eden. This place is zoned against reality.”
Tyson exhaled a long breath. Subconsciously, he thought, he must have precipitated th
is conversation about Garden City—Marcy’s favorite subject—in order to take his mind off other things. Marcy was a product of Manhattan’s Upper West Side, whose population leaned as far to port as Garden City’s citizens leaned starboard. And Marcy, he knew, wanted to move back to her old stomping grounds. As if she’d read his thoughts, she said, “You can’t live here anymore, you know.”
“I can live wherever the hell I please.”
“But you can’t.” Marcy retreated into a moody silence. Just when Tyson thought he was on the verge of a marital dispute, she laughed unexpectedly. He glanced at her. She said, “Do you realize we always pick a fight when we don’t want to go someplace?”
“Yes, I realize that. This car has made more U-turns than a boomerang.” He stopped the car under the hotel marquee. “But this time we’ve arrived at our planned destination.”
A green-liveried footman with top hat opened Marcy’s door. An attendant held open Tyson’s door, and Tyson exchanged the Volvo for a parking chit. A doorman saluted as they passed inside to the pink marbled lobby. A hand-painted sign announced:
THE NASSAU HOSPITAL AUXILIARY ANNUAL CHARITY BALL GRAND BALLROOM
The arrow pointed left.
Marcy said, “Let me buy you a drink first.”
The tables in the dimly lit Hunt Room were full, but Tyson found an empty barstool and Marcy sat. Tyson stood beside her. He ordered a Scotch, and she ordered a glass of white wine. They both glanced around the room as their eyes adjusted to the low light, and nodded to a few people.
The drinks came, and Tyson stirred his Scotch. He said, “Am I crazy to come here? Or just brazen?”
Marcy picked up her wine. “At some point you’ll know the answer to that. Up to now, no one knows how to deal with you.”
Tyson leaned his back against the bar and again surveyed the room. English hunting prints on the paneled walls were a feeble reminder that the original Hunt Room had actually been a place where ladies and gentlemen of the Meadow Brook Hunt Club gathered after riding to hounds. Tyson mused, “I liked the old place better.”
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