Windchill Summer

by Norris Church Mailer

  I put my arm around her. Men had always gone to war, from day one, and probably always would, even after this one was over and done.

  “Do you remember what you talked about last summer when we were out on the relish belt with the rat and all?” I said, to get her to stop crying.

  She wiped her eyes. “That seems like a long time ago. What did I say?”

  “You said how you thought the windchill was nature lying to us, making us think it was cooler than it really was, and then we all said men were like that, too, saying one thing when they really meant something else. Remember?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I think that goes for this war as well. The government is blowing a chill wind over the country to try to make us believe we are fighting a good and honorable war to save Vietnam from Communism when it’s really causing more evil than anything. It seems like men just have a born need to dominate and kill each other, and in spite of all the protesting and marching, we can’t do anything to change human nature any more than we can stop the wind from blowing.”

  She nodded, blew her nose. “I know it. That’s true. Some things you just have to try to accept and go on. I guess I always knew, too, down deep inside, that Bean was teetering on the edge, but I didn’t want to see it.” She patted my hand, got up, and poured another cup of coffee. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.” She poured a second cup and handed it to Ricky Don, who was still standing, hat in hand, looking uncomfortable. “Come on and sit down and have a cup of coffee, Ricky Don. Don’t pay any attention to us. Tell us a funny joke or two, and then Cherry and I have to take off for painting class. We still have to try to graduate.”

  Baby was going to be all right. I would see to it that she was, if it was the last thing I did.

  76. Cherry

  It was November 24, and the whole family was over at our house ganged around the TV, watching Walter Cronkite. He talked to the audience for a little while, clearly upset, trying to prepare us for what we were about to see, and then up there, in living color, they splashed the My Lai pictures across the nation. Mama and the aunts got pale.

  “Oh my Lord and stars. What has happened over there?” Mama put her hand over her heart, and I watched her out of the corner of my eye in case she fainted. Daddy and Uncle Jake got grim around the mouth.

  Aunt Juanita looked thunderstruck. “Thank God in heaven that G. Dub is safe and out of that awful mess,” she said. Uncle Ray, for the first time maybe, agreed with her. He had been pretty cold after G. Dub ran off, and hadn’t written or called him. I hoped he would now.

  Lucille stared in fascination. I’m sure she was trying to figure out how much duct tape and dowel rods it would have taken to get all those poor dead Vietnamese ready for viewing.

  It was hard for me to sit there and keep my mouth shut, knowing what I did and all, but I didn’t want anybody to know that Tripp—and Jerry, God rest his soul—had been a part of it. Maybe it would never come out. It had been bad enough when they found out that Tripp was married. I don’t want to go into the awfulness of thatwhen I had to tell them.

  Of course the pictures bothered me, but I had already seen photographs just like them. Maybe these were even some of the ones Tripp gave to Colonel Wilson. It was hard to tell.

  Tripp had talked for the better part of an afternoon with the colonel, and said he was a good, decent guy. At one point, the two of them even broke down and cried. I didn’t know what was going to happen to everyone in Charlie Company, but I felt like they should at least send Calley away for life, and probably some of the others. I hoped Tripp wouldn’t have to do any jail time. Faye would be right there with him if he did, though; you could bet on that. She hadn’t left his side for more than five minutes, except to get that orange juice, ever since she came to Sweet Valley.

  And here’s another little piece of news: She was pregnant. She called and told me herself, and it was funny, but my heart didn’t even skip a beat. I had given up on Tripp already, and frankly, it was a relief to not have to be on that emotional roller coaster and have to lie all the time to Mama and Daddy. In fact, as strange as it seems, I was at the point where I kind of liked Faye, and we talked on the phone every once in a while. She had gotten a job at the hospital, and it seemed like she and Tripp would be staying here, at least for the time being. Maybe Baby and I would ask her to go out with us shopping or something. There was a neat place to buy maternity clothes that Lucille knew about. If it was a girl, maybe Lucille would give her some of Tiffany LaDawn’s old dresses. She had enough to open the Tiffany LaDawn Hawkins Pink Ruffled Dress Museum.

  A team of psychiatrists worked on Bean, giving him all kinds of tests, and the judge down in Little Rock found him not guilty by reason of insanity, which strikes me as stupid. Why couldn’t he be guiltyby reason of insanity? He did it, sane or not. Anyhow, he is going to be in the criminal part of the mental hospital down at Little Rock for a good long time. I felt so sorry for his poor mother and daddy. He was their only son, and even though they never really understood him, they were so proud that he was making something out of himself as a singer. They sure didn’t have a lot else to be proud of.

  I went with Baby up to visit him the first time she went, and it was hard on her. She promised him she would come back and see him again, but I don’t think it is good for either one of them. We’ll see how that goes. She hasn’t been in a hurry to go back. I think she needs to try to move on, but it’s not for me to say.

  Rocky was just about undone by Bean’s arrest. He does go to see him at the mental hospital pretty often, and I think Bean is allowed to play the guitar some. Rocky is trying to get the band together again, but it is not much good without Bean. John Cool was so flipped-out about the whole thing that he said he was retiring from music. They are so busy at the Family Hand that he doesn’t really have time for the band anyhow. I’ll keep working there through Christmas, and then I’ll have to quit to practice-teach.

  Here’s good news—Baby is going to do her practice teaching up at Buchanan High School, the same town where St. Juniper’s is located. It is too far away for us to drive every day, especially over those steep Ozark Mountain roads, so we are going to get an apartment together, maybe up at the monastery. Until January, she will be living out in the house with her brothers, and then they will be on their own while she’s away. I seriously doubt that Denny and J.C. can keep the fish business going, since they’re not really all that into it. They, at least, make some money fixing old cars and motorcycles, and they’re going to start their own garage. They’re calling it Moreno’s Speed and Stuff, and it should do pretty well. Baby and I painted them a really cool sign, with psychedelic letters, like she did at the Family Hand. Rocky may have to run the fish store. If anything brings Manang and Tatang back home, that will. I know Baby misses all of them like crazy, and I do, too.

  —

  Frannie Moore and Brother Dane got married a couple of days ago. It was at our church, and was a real pretty wedding. Mama made them a big white cake, and Frannie looked beautiful in a periwinkle-blue silk organza dress with a veil-on-a-hat thing and a long train that looked like something out of King Arthur’s Court. I still don’t know where she gets those clothes. She must make them herself. Brother Dane was real handsome in a tuxedo, and little Kevin wore a berry-red velvet suit with a white satin collar. He strutted down the aisle, carrying the ring on a green silk pillow, and stood beside Brother Dane as the best man. He was so cute, with his little kneesocks and his shiny red hair. I wish Carlene could have been there to see him. She would have been so proud. Happiness just filled the whole church, and I didn’t even get annoyed when Brother Wilkins said “Ah” too many times, like he always does. Not too much.

  Being the wife of an evangelist is not easy with all the traveling Brother Dane has to do, but they bought a house here in town, and Frannie is taking piano lessons, since the preacher’s wife needs to know how to play the piano in case there is nobody else to do it. I bet it won’t
be long before he settles down and takes a church as the pastor. I pray Brother Wilkins will retire and it would be ours.

  Lucille is taking off to visit Jim Floyd in Dallas for Thanksgiving. I pity the poor thing. I should send him a big bottle of Geritol to take before she gets there. Aunt Rubynell is keeping Tiffany LaDawn, but she said I could take her out and buy her some clothes. She doesn’t like pink any better than I do. As long as Lucille is gone, Tiffany LaDawn will wear T-shirts and jeans and at least get to be comfortable for a little while.

  —

  G. Dub has settled up in Vancouver and found a job at a service station. He loves it up there; says the country is the most beautiful he has ever seen—even prettier than the Ozarks—and he has a girlfriend already. Aunt Juanita and Uncle Ray are going up for Christmas to be with him. It will be the first Christmas we haven’t all been together, but in the light of what all was happening in Vietnam right now, it’s a small price to pay.

  —

  It seemed like Christmas was right around the corner, and then the semester would be over. I couldn’t wait. We actually had a couple of inches of snow yesterday, which is a good sign for a white Christmas, maybe. It feels so clean and fresh, the first snow of the year. It gives you hope—like a whole new year is beginning. This year it will be a whole new decade—1970. Maybe it will be better than the old one. It would have a ways to go to be worse.

  I still can’t think about what I want to do after graduation. I hate to say it out loud, but I would like to go to New York City and try to be a fashion model, like in Vogue. That awful Frank, bless his heart, said I could, and even if he was a sleaze-o, he seemed like he knew a lot about the modeling world. I know it seems shallow and all to want to have your picture in magazines, but I don’t care. I never pretended to be deep. If I don’t try, I will always wonder if I could have made it. I don’t want to be nearly forty, like Mama, and not ever have done anything but get married, have a kid, and go to church. I can always do that later. It might be hard at first, but girls do it every day. Somebody has to succeed—why not me? They say New York is dangerous, but on TV you see women pushing baby carriages right out on the streets, so how bad could it be? I haven’t really discussed it with Baby yet, but I know she would come, too, and I bet we could get some kind of jobs and still paint while I am trying to model. Maybe we could teach or get jobs in an art gallery, and maybe even show our work in one. There’s a lot of art galleries in New York.

  But we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. It’s pretty scary to think about. For now, I just want to think about Christmas and practice teaching at St. Juniper’s and not worry about what happens in the future. Or about men, for that matter.

  Speaking of which, Ricky Don has called a few times to ask me out, but I told him I wasn’t ready to see him or anybody else right now, that I needed to cool out and wind down. He is thinking about running for sheriff when Melvyn Arbus retires, although he shouldn’t hold his breath, if you ask me. But I hope one day he does. He would be a good one. Ricky Don is the kind of solid guy who will get married and have a bunch of kids and coach Little League and live forever right here in Sweet Valley, where he grew up, and I think that’s great. Somebody has to do it.

  I asked him what he thought about me going to New York someday, and he said, “Cherry, I don’t know what you are looking for, but it doesn’t seem like it’s anything in Sweet Valley. I would hate to see you leave, but you might be nutty enough to make it. And this town is not going anywhere. You can always come back, if you need to.”

  I’m not sure what I’m looking for, either. I love my family and all, but there is a big world out there, and I have never been any farther than Vian, Oklahoma, to visit Aunt Juanita’s folks.

  Anyhow, like he said, if I go and don’t like New York, I don’t have to stay. There will always be Sweet Valley, and Mama and Daddy to come home to. For a lot of years to come.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks is a poor word for what I owe to Aurora Huston for her inspiration and help on the Philippine parts of the book, and for her unflagging friendship these last thirty years. James Shinn gave me a generous lesson in the funeral business, and Susan Gibson Shinn, the first person who read the manuscript, has encouraged my writing since we were six. Robert Jay Lifton’s work on the My Lai veterans was invaluable, as were the materials Randy Fertel sent me from the My Lai hearings and Michael Bilton and Kevin Sim’s fine book Four Hours in My Lai. I am grateful to my superb agent, John Taylor Williams, for his expertise and encouragement, and to Jason Epstein for bringing this book to Random House. To the friends and family who read and reread the various drafts with enthusiasm, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Last but not least, I would like to send kudos to Courtney Hodell, my editor and friend, for shepherding this first effort with no pain and a lot of joy.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  NORRIS CHURCH MAILER was raised in Arkansas and now lives on Cape Cod with her husband of twenty-five years, Norman Mailer. She is the mother of two sons and the stepmother of five daughters and two sons. This is her first book.

  Copyright © 2000 by Norris Church Mailer

  Title page and chapter opening illustrations © 2000 by Regina Scudellari

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York.

  RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Mailer, Norris Church.

  Windchill Summer : a novel / Norris Church Mailer.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Vietnamese Conflict, 1961-1975—Arkansas—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3563.A3824 W56 2000

  813'.54 21—dc21 99-043649

  Random House website address: www.atrandom.com

  First Edition

  eISBN: 978-0-375-50572-0

  v3.0