“Still a hot item.”
“What?”
Tyson cocked his head to the side.
Marcy looked. “Oh. Sure. Five weeks on the Times bestseller list. Number twelve and climbing. Maybe you and Picard can do a little East End publicity together. Put a rocket up that book’s ass, as we say in the business. I’ll handle the PR.”
“Not funny.”
“No,” agreed David, “not funny.”
Marcy shrugged. “Just trying to kill time in traffic.”
The Volvo approached the traffic circle at the end of Main Street. In the center of the circle rose a tall white flagpole. The stars and stripes snapped nicely in the wind that blew off the harbor, and the halyard slapped against the pole. Beyond the circle in a grassy patch was the windmill overlooking the harbor. To the right was the Long Wharf, thick with cars, people, and fishmongers. Sailing vessels swayed at their moorings, and Tyson could hear the creaking in the riggings.
David said, “I remember this. A red seaplane landed there.”
Marcy said, “We used to have lunch at that restaurant on the wharf. See it?”
“Oh, yeah. I helped unload fish from a boat.”
Tyson put in, “Catch of the day. Red snappers. I paid nine dollars a plate for them an hour later.”
Marcy remarked, “You have a selective memory.”
Tyson nodded, “You ain’t seen nothing until you see my selective amnesia on a witness stand.”
No one spoke. Tyson took the Volvo around the circle and headed to North Haven over the bridge crammed with joggers, bicyclists, and pedestrians. He turned left on Short Beach Road, then left again onto a small peninsula called Baypoint. “Which way?”
“Right over there on Cliff Road, left on Bayview. There it is. The gray-shingled Cape.”
Tyson looked at the white-trimmed cottage as the car descended the curved road. The grass was brown and high; the mimosa hung in heavy pink bloom over the small portico. Wildflowers grew where they could, and untrimmed spruce and cedar darkened the left half of the property. Quite lovely, really. He said, “Does this place have electricity?”
“Don’t get cute, Tyson.”
He pulled the car into the gravel drive and shut off the engine. There was a silence as the Tysons surveyed the property from the car. Tyson said, “This was nine thousand dollars for the summer?”
Marcy snapped, “And we were lucky to get it. There’s nothing left on the entire East End.” She added, “It’s quaint, and it’s on the bay.”
David opened the rear door. “I’m going to take a look.” He shot out of the car and disappeared around the side of the garage.
Marcy and Ben sat in silence. The engine ticked, and a locust clicked somewhere. Tyson said, “You’re right. This isn’t far from the one we rented a couple of years ago.”
“It was eight years ago.”
“Was it? Time flies.” He looked at the house and the trees, and he thought of that summer. Each Friday after work he’d take the Long Island Railroad from Penn Station to Bridgehampton, an unpleasant three-hour run made barely more tolerable by spending it in the bar car. Marcy and David would meet him at the station, and they’d usually have dinner in a Bridgehampton pub whose name escaped him at the moment. On Monday morning, at dawn, he’d board the Hampton jitney bus with other men and women who were making the commute back to the front lines. Marcy had been between jobs then, and she’d spent the entire summer in Sag Harbor with David.
Marcy broke into his thoughts. “Where are you?”
He looked at her. “That summer.”
She nodded. “You took most of August off.”
“Yes, I did. Things were slow at Peregrine. No one seemed to be building many fighter bombers or attack helicopters that year. That’s all changed now.”
“Unfortunately it has.”
“How about you? No one needs any quick publicity fixes this summer?”
She replied, “I told you, I took an extended leave. The job is there when I want to go back. Tom was very good about it. Very understanding.”
“Good old Tom.”
They sat in silence for a while, then Tyson opened his door. “Well, let’s see what sort of horror house you’ve rented this time.”
They walked across the high weedy lawn, and Marcy found the key. They entered directly into an all-white living room furnished in what Tyson thought of as East End rental chic: chrome, glass, molded plastics, and beige cotton suede.
At the far end of the living room were sliding glass doors that led out onto a wooden deck. Marcy walked to the doors and slid one open. She took a deep breath. “Smell that sea.”
Tyson slid the screen open and walked onto the redwood deck. Marcy followed. Tyson looked out over the property. The yard dropped off and ended in a tangle of bramble and a heap of bulkhead rocks. Beyond was the body of water called Sag Harbor Cove. David was picking his way over the rocks. Tyson said, “I hope there’s some hot little number around here for him.”
Marcy leaned on the deck rail and watched their son. “I hope he finds whatever he needs out here.” She stared out at a sleek yellow-sailed catamaran gliding west toward the narrows. “A sailboat in the backyard. This is beautiful, Ben.”
“Yes . . . but you’ll miss the Big Apple. You may even miss Garden City.”
“I’ll miss New York, but I won’t miss Garden City. It was insufferable these last few weeks.”
“It’s all in the mind.” Tyson gave her a sidelong glance. The wind blew her hair, and the sun shone fully on her face. Her eyes were closed, and she looked about ten years younger than she’d looked yesterday.
Tyson walked along the deck and peered into a second set of glass doors. “The kitchen looks decent. But . . . oh, God . . . I don’t see a dishwasher. There’s no trash compactor or microwave oven. Marcy, is this the right house?”
“Don’t be a wiseass, Ben. Anyway, I have menus from fourteen take-out places.”
“That’s my girl. Resourceful in the face of privation. Well, hell, you may as well enjoy your vacation.”
She replied coolly, “It is not a vacation, Ben. We’re on the lam.”
Tyson didn’t reply.
Marcy looked across the hedgeline into the adjoining yard. Two men in their twenties were sunbathing on lawn lounges. They had on matching yellow bikini shorts.
Tyson followed her gaze. “They’re probably gay.”
Marcy turned her attention back to the water and didn’t respond.
Tyson said, “Well, let’s get the bags inside and unpacked.”
* * *
Tyson sat in a cane rocker on the back deck, a Scotch in one hand, a thin cheroot in the other. He wore faded jeans, sandals, and a sleeveless sweatshirt with the ubiquitous Sag Harbor whale across the front. The remains of an improvised barbecue lay on the round picnic table. The sun was setting behind a line of cedars across the cove, and lighted boats made their way between the channel markers.
Tyson listened to his neighbors’ radio and was happy to discover they preferred soft over hard rock. Tyson reflected again on Andrew Picard. He was not quite as certain of Picard’s exact location in Sag Harbor at this moment as he was of their relative positions at Hue in 1968—thanks to Picard’s book with accompanying campaign maps. The night of Tet had found Picard in the South Vietnamese Army’s First Division Headquarters, an enclave in the northeast corner of the Citadel. Tyson’s platoon had been advancing eastward and, with a brief stop at Hôpital Miséricorde, had come a few kilometers from the Citadel walls. Their mission had been to link up with what was left of the ARVN First Division, which had broken out of their enclave and were driving west through the narrow streets of the Citadel itself. Tyson supposed that if he had accomplished his mission he might actually have met Picard, one of only a dozen or so Westerners who had taken refuge with the ARVN division. He supposed, too, that Picard would have been happy to see Americans and would have taken Tyson’s picture and written a little piece about him. Perhaps
they’d have shared a canteen cup of Japanese gin. And if Tyson could have seen into the future, he’d have put his .45 automatic to Picard’s head and blown his brains out.
Tyson looked out across the cove at the bluff on the far shore. Backyards were strung with Japanese lanterns, and barbecue pits gave a distinctive charcoal smell and a chimerical glow. Someone who couldn’t wait for July Fourth was sending skyrockets arching into the black eastern sky. The smell of the charcoal in the damp night air strongly reminded him of the pervasive smell in the Vietnamese villages at mealtime. He was reminded, too, of the colored paper lanterns hung before Tet and the night sky lit with fireworks that were not fireworks. He fancied that the cove at the narrows was the Perfume River, and the lighted boats were sampans gliding down to the South China Sea. At night it was easy to imagine things, to create moods, fantasies, or nightmares, to find peace or to refight wars. But one thing was certain about that distant lantern-lit shore: Andrew Picard lived there, and sometime before the summer was done, he would knock on Picard’s door.
Tyson drew on his cigar. The glass kitchen door slid open, and Marcy stepped out to the deck. She went to the rail and surveyed the cove. “Do you remember the time we were swimming in the nude out there? It was a full moonlit night, and that cabin cruiser came up beside us, and the people insisted we come aboard for a drink?”
Tyson smiled and looked at her. She had on loose-fitting, blue cotton boating pants with a matching hooded jersey. He noticed she was barefoot and wore little makeup and no jewelry except for her wedding ring. The metamorphosis was nearly complete. Tomorrow she’d have color in her cheeks and sand between her toes. She’d smell of brine and charcoal, just like that summer. But it was not going to be a summer just like that summer. Tyson said, “How about the night we were screwing in the rubber raft and we floated through the narrows into the lower cove?”
“We fought that tide for two hours before we got back.” Marcy sat on the edge of the round table, her bare feet on a chair. She poured a glass of red wine and said, “How did it go this morning?”
Tyson rattled the ice cubes in his drink. “Well, I’m afraid I lost my temper. Most unfortunate. Greatly embarrass Kimura-san and Shimamura-san.”
“Cut the Mr. Moto talk, Ben. Were you canned?”
“No . . . oddly enough, I wasn’t.”
Marcy said, “So, did they offer you a raise?”
“Actually, they want me to request a transfer to Tokyo.”
Marcy looked at him in the light of the flickering citronella candle. “Tokyo?” She thought for a moment, then said, “I have a career, and I don’t see why I should give it up.”
Tyson sat forward in the rocker, and his voice was sharp. “To save my ass, lady. And besides, I have a career. You have a job—from which you’ve absented yourself for three months with no problem. Anyway, who said you were invited?”
The crickets chirped, and the water lapped against the stone. A breeze rustled the crab apple tree. Tyson said, “I’m sorry.”
Marcy didn’t reply.
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Okay.” She poured the last of the wine. “Are you going?”
Tyson had no intention of going to Japan but discovered to his surprise that he had no intention of telling her that. He said, “I’m weighing the decision.” What, he thought, was the purpose of the lie? Lying had become habit. He lied to his attorney, his employers, to Brown, to his friends and family, and now to his wife. He supposed he was in training for the main event, trial by general court-martial. He settled back into his rocker. “Where’s David?”
“He found some boys his age. They went night fishing down at the end of Whaler’s Walk.”
Tyson nodded. “Did you remind him his name is Anderson?”
“Yes.”
Tyson blew cigar smoke into the misty air. “I feel like a criminal.”
“Do you?”
Tyson looked at her in the flickering light but didn’t reply.
She said, “Anyway, I think the real estate agent knew who I was even though I used my maiden name.”
“Your maiden name and your picture, madam, are as prominent as my name and picture. You should have used a nom de guerre.”
“I don’t think we’ll be bothered out here.” She watched him make his way across the dark lawn toward the rocks and bushes. She suddenly felt an unspecified fear grip her and jumped down from the table. “I’ll go with you.”
They walked together in silence and picked their way down the white rocks until they found a wide, flat piece of shale at the water’s edge. They both sat. Marcy said, “It’s cold here.”
“Go back and get a sweater.”
“Put your arm around me.”
He did so, awkwardly.
She snuggled closer to him. At length she said, “What’s bothering you?”
“Is that a joke?”
“No, it’s a question. And I’ll tell you what isn’t bothering you. The massacre business isn’t bothering you. Not today. You’ve coped quite well in recent weeks.”
Tyson didn’t respond.
She said, “It’s me that’s bothering you. Or rather what the schlock tabloids are saying about me, and the respectable media are intimating.”
He shrugged. “It’s not relevant. On a scale of one to ten, court-martial for murder is up there. Your past rates a one.”
“I don’t think so.”
Tyson slipped his arm from her shoulders. “Well . . . I guess when they start interviewing a seemingly inexhaustible supply of ex . . . boyfriends. . . .” He threw his cigar in the water.
Marcy tucked her legs under her and wrapped her arms around her chest. “Are you embarrassed by me?”
He didn’t reply.
“None of this would have come out if it weren’t for your notoriety. But I don’t blame you.”
“Right. Okay. Look, I’m not trying to blame you for my predicament. I was the one who—” Tyson drew a deep breath. “But can’t you at least see that these steamy articles, the picture, and all this crap has kept the public interest alive in my case? It’s had a sort of synergistic effect. You know? And David . . . I took the time to explain to him . . . I mean, my side of it. You never tried to explain to him that . . . I mean that there was a sexual revolution or some damned thing. All he’s getting is what he’s reading. And he is reading that crap.” He looked at her.
Marcy threw a stone into the water.
Tyson listened to a frog croaking. Another skyrocket rose from the distant shore.
Marcy stood. “All right. I’ll deal with David. But how do you feel about everything that’s been written about me?”
He stood also. “You seem to believe everything they are writing about me.”
Neither spoke, then Marcy said in a calmer voice, “There are grains of truth in what has been written about each of us, I suppose . . . but . . . not infidelity, Ben. Not that.”
Tyson nodded. “Okay.”
She forced a smile and touched him lightly on the arm. “Hey, Tyson, one day we’ll get roaring drunk and tell each other all our darkest, most intimate, most dangerous and embarrassing secrets. Then we’ll file for divorce. Or fall in love again.” She laughed softly.
Tyson smiled in return but didn’t feel appreciably better. Intellectually he knew that what he did in 1968 was far worse than what she did in that same year. Yet he and society seemed harsher toward her, the traditional scapegoat: the whore. He drew a long breath and said, “Well . . . anyway, it sounds like you had more fun than I did. Maybe I’m jealous.”
She took his arm in a firmer grip. “I’m sure, Ben, we both got what we really wanted out of that time.” She hesitated. “You wanted to be there.”
Tyson looked at her closely, then replied, “Yes, I’ve had that thought myself.”
She ran her fingers down his arm and squeezed his hand.
He glanced out over the water. “I’d like to be alone here.”
She hesitated, then said, �
��Don’t jump in.”
“No.”
“Promise.”
“See you later.”
“Promise!”
He was momentarily startled, then nodded quickly. “Promise.”
She turned and climbed back toward the lawn.
Tyson watched her as she picked her way barefoot over the rock, her dark clothing against the bleached stone, graceful in the moonlight; a sight to store away, then conjure up someday when they were no longer together.
* * *
There was a chill in the night air, and the central heat didn’t seem to be working. Marcy lay sleeping on the couch. David was in his room. Tyson knelt before the fireplace and touched a match to the paper and cedar kindling beneath the oak logs. The fire caught, and the smoke drew nicely up the flue. He leaned back against the armchair and focused on the flaming wood. He pulled out another cigarette and struck a wooden stove match, watching the phosphorus ignite in a white flame.
Tyson slipped out the door and walked down the short corridor. Tony Scorello was standing at the entrance to the maternity ward. Tyson saw that a white phosphorus grenade had been thrown into the ward. If it had been thrown by Scorello, Tyson thought, he looked now as though he wished he could take it back.
But there was no taking it back and no putting it out. White phosphorus had peculiar properties when ignited, sticking like napalm and burning with a white-hot intensity, which needed no air to support its combustion. Neither water nor smothering would extinguish it. Willy Peter, it was called, because GIs have to call everything something else. Willy Peter was splattered on the whitewashed walls of the crowded ward and Tyson noticed that a large crucifix on the far wall was burning.
Tony Scorello turned to him, tears streaming down his dirty face, his mouth moving to form words, but only moans came forth. Scorello’s rifle lay at his feet, and his arms were flapping like an excited child’s.
Tyson pushed Scorello aside and stepped through the arched entrance to the ward. About half of the two dozen beds were burning and melted mosquito nets hung in black strands like giant cobwebs. Most of the bassinets had collapsed in fiery heaps. A naked woman staggered up the aisle between the beds, but there was no other movement. The bed closest to Tyson was burning, and through the flames and smoke he saw the shape of a woman lying very still, like a Hindu woman, he thought, performing suttee.
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