She walked up the stone path to the house. Lights on in the kitchen meant Royce was awake. She knocked on the patio door. “It’s Elita. We need to talk.” He didn’t answer. She knocked again, harder. “Royce, please let me in.”
A voice from behind her answered, “The door isn’t locked.”
Elita whirled around and saw Royce. Wearing only cut-off jeans and flip-flops, he slouched in a lawn chair just beyond the patio lights. “Damn, you scared the hell out of me. What are you doing sitting outside in the dark?”
“Thinking . . . just thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
“About everything . . . about nothing.”
“I don't think that’s possible, especially with the noise from your neighbor’s house.”
“Maybe not.” He scratched his chin. “Did they invite you to their party?”
“Yes, but I didn’t come here to party.”
“Why are you out on the lake this time of night, Elita?”
“Uncle Matt left on another so-called business trip. He took his car and his truck is in the shop for a couple of days.” She pulled a lawn chair close to his and sat.
“You should've kept the Mercedes.”
The last thing she wanted was to get into another argument about the car. “There's a full moon tonight and the water is calm.”
“You shouldn't be out there alone.”
She smiled. Royce was doing his job, still trying to keep her safe and out of trouble. Regardless of his anger, in spite of his present nonchalant manner, he cared about her. She decided not to worry him by mentioning the men in the boat.
“When’s Matt getting back from Las Vegas?” he asked.
“How do you know where he went?”
“He must've mentioned it.”
“Do you know anything about the trips he’s taking?”
Royce shrugged.
“Uncle Matt goes to Arkansas, Florida, and now Nevada. He's doing guided fishing trips for only one customer, a Mr. Garr and his friends. Yet, he always has money.” She brushed away a mosquito. “Where's the money coming from?”
“That’s his business, isn't it?” Royce swiveled to face her. “Damn, Elita, you don't still think he’s selling marijuana, do you?”
Over the summer, her uncle had become guarded and aloof. After she found the sale circulars for boats and asked him about his new Rolex watch, he’d told her never to enter his cabin again without his invitation. Now she wondered if the men chasing her figured into the mystery of her uncle’s strange behavior.
“Tell me you’ve put that foolish idea out of your head,” Royce said.
“I admit it sounds crazy, but where’s he getting his money? Why is he so secretive?” She rubbed her brow. “I don't know who he is anymore.”
“When you talk like this, I don't know who you are anymore. Growing up, you had total faith in your family. That's what I always admired about you, what I envied about your family.” He cocked his head, met her gaze. “You all had such faith in each other, not just love, but respect and trust. Where did that go?”
Elita wanted to answer his question, not just for his sake, but for her own peace of mind, but she couldn’t think of any explanation except death. Her parents. Her baby brother. All gone, now. She lived each day with nothing but unabated sorrow and unanswered questions. “I didn't come to talk about my family.”
From the party house, the guitar-driven beat of Led Zeppelin’s psychedelic rock blasted across the calm water. Elita stood. “Let’s go inside where it’s quieter.”
Royce pushed out of his chair, walked over and pulled the patio door open. “After you, my lady.” With an exaggerated bow, he motioned for her to enter.
Elita tried to assess his mood. Was he drunk or just being sarcastic? She curtsied in response and entered the kitchen. She did a quick survey of the bar.
Royce closed the patio door. “I haven't been drinking.”
“I wasn't thinking that.”
“It's just us, Elita. No need to lie.” He opened the refrigerator. “I've got beer, wine, tea, and vodka in the freezer. What's your pleasure?”
“Tea. And yes, I wondered if you’d been drinking.”
“If I found a guy sitting in the dark at one o'clock in the morning, I’d assume he’d been drinking too.” He poured two glasses of tea and handed one to her. “Why are you here?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” She didn’t add it was because she couldn’t go back to Chicago without setting things right between them.
“I know that feeling.” He took a long drink. “Did you and Keith have a pleasant afternoon?”
“We spent most of the afternoon at the pottery factory in Marshall. He ordered a pitcher and bowl set for his mother and sister. ” Elita finger-combed her long dark curls. “We had a long talk. Afterwards, he decided to change his reservation and take the last flight back to Chicago tonight.”
Royce raised his glass. “Let’s toast to the good son and brother.” He took a sip of tea. “Now let’s toast to me, the bad son, bad brother, bad medic, bad . . . everything.” He lifted his glass, but Elita snagged his arm before he could drink.
“Why did you say that, Royce?”
He set his glass on the counter, walked to the living room, and stood peering out the picture window.
Elita put her drink on the coffee table and joined him. She tried to see what Royce was looking at, but saw only trees and the darkness beyond. But the real darkness lay inside Royce. She needed to find a way to lance the wounds festering inside him.
“What happened, Royce? What happened in Vietnam?”
“I can't tell you. Can't tell anyone.”
She laid her hand on his arm. “You can tell me anything. You know that, just as I know you are the one person in this world I can always confide in.”
He angled his head to look at her. “But you're leaving. You’re leaving the Caddo, and you're leaving me.”
Elita moved in front of him and placed her hand on his bare chest. “No matter where we are, we know there will always be a bond between us. We felt it growing up, and I still feel it.” She laid her head against his chest, listened to his heart beating. “Don't you feel it too, Royce?”
He wrapped his arms around her and whispered, “Yes, Cricket, I do.” They soaked in the warmth of their embrace for several minutes before Royce broke his hold. He walked back to the kitchen. “I think I need a beer. How about you?”
“No, thanks.” She wondered if the chance of getting Royce to open up had once again eluded her.
Royce uncapped his beer, raised the bottle to his lips, but didn't drink. He set it on the kitchen table. Returning to the living room, he plopped down in the oversized leather armchair.
Elita parked herself on the matching sofa and waited, while he gathered his words and the strength needed to share his pain.
“We were on patrol. Nothing special, just a regular patrol. We were headed back to base camp when we got hit. A small group of Viet Cong, two or three. Lieutenant Hanley figured they were doing reconnaissance for a larger force.” Royce leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and rested his face in his hand. “We took them out, but this young private from Texas, Cowpoke, took a bullet in the leg.” He looked at her. “I was the medic, you know.”
Elita nodded.
“I got a tourniquet on him to slow the bleeding and started an IV. It was bad, but if we could get him back to camp fast enough, he stood a good chance of making it. The Lieutenant was right about the larger force. They were moving up fast. He called in the helicopters and ordered me and Van Pelt to get Cowpoke out of there ASAP. We made a stretcher from a tarp and headed for the clearing where we were to rendezvous with the slicks. Hanley ordered Corporal Scott, who we nicknamed Bowler, to go with us as point man in case we ran into any trouble.”
“What’s a slick?” she asked.
“A Huey helicopter used for everything from hauling troops and supplies, to evacuating wounded, to command and
control during a fire-fight. We called it a slick because it had no armament, except for a couple of M60 machine guns.”
Royce walked to the window again. Elita didn't join him. His lingering silence pressed against her, but she bridled her impatience, determined to let him tell his story in his own time.
“We made good time heading to the rendezvous spot. We didn't have far to go when I tripped on a root. I fell sideways into the tall weeds. It knocked the breath out of me, and it took a few seconds before I could push up on my hands and knees.” Royce eased down onto the arm of the leather chair. “That's when I saw him, the enemy. He’d heard us coming up the trail and had crouched down in the high grass to hide. He was about fourteen feet in front of me.” Royce took a couple of ragged breaths. “We stared into each other's eyes. He pointed his rifle straight at my head. I couldn’t get my pistol out in time, and he couldn’t miss me from that distance. I knew I was a dead man.”
Elita covered her mouth to hide her gasp as a shudder of fear rippled through her. Royce was finally telling her the truth of what had happened in Vietnam. Now, she needed the strength to watch him relive the terrors of war. She couldn't stop the pain of his memories, but she wouldn’t let him bear them alone. “What happened next?”
“I closed my eyes, heard the rifle shot, and waited for the pain and darkness the bullet would bring.” Royce cleared his throat. “But I felt nothing. No impact. No pain. Nothing.” He looked at Elita. “A Sunday school teacher once told me that right before a person dies, your guardian angel yanks you up to Heaven before you can feel the pain of your death. For a moment, I thought that's what had happened. Then I opened my eyes.”
Elita jumped to her feet. “He fired and missed. It was a miracle.”
Royce shook his head. “The guy didn’t miss because he never took the shot. Bowler shot him before he could kill me.” He stared at the floor. “I watched the light go out of that man’s eyes and knew that if it hadn't been for Bowler’s quick action and perfect aim, I would’ve been the one lying dead in the grass.”
She went to him, rubbed his shoulders. “Thank God for Bowler.”
“Yeah, thank God for Bowler.” Royce pushed her away, began pacing in front of the picture window.
There was anger in his words instead of gratitude. Unsure of what to do, Elita eased into the overstuffed chair and waited.
Royce stomped into the kitchen, picked up his beer, drank a few swigs, and poured the rest down the sink.
Elita’s instinct told her something more tormented him. “What else happened?”
“Corporal Scott . . . Bowler, ordered us to get moving. We arrived at the rendezvous spot just as the first slick landed. We headed out over open ground. We were halfway to the chopper when a sniper started shooting.” Royce moved to stand behind the couch. “We hit the ground. The gunner in the slick opened fire and sprayed the trees until he got the son-of-a bitch.”
“There was only one sniper?” Elita asked.
“One was enough.” Royce picked up her tea, drained the glass. “We got up and headed across the clearing with Cowpoke. A couple of the guys from the chopper ran out to help us. That’s when I noticed Bowler wasn’t there. He’d been hit by the sniper. I ran back to help him.” Royce scrubbed his hands over his face. “It was bad. He’d been shot in the neck and was bleeding out fast. Bowler grabbed my jacket. He whispered, ‘I saved you. You gotta save me.’”
Elita could almost hear Royce's heart shattering. Her heart ached as she watched his body tremble. She hated herself for pushing him into reliving his horrific memories, but now he needed to finish his story and pierce the darkness of the wounds of his heart.
“I put pressure on the wound, but couldn’t stop the bleeding. We got him into the slick. I tried like hell to control the bleeding, but we were barely airborne when he died in my arms. His eyes were open, staring into mine, pleading with me to save him, but I couldn’t.”
“You did everything you could, Royce.”
“But it wasn't good enough. I wasn't good enough.”
Elita stood. “Don't say that. It was war and you were in the jungle. No one could’ve saved him under those circumstances, not with that kind of injury. You can't blame yourself.”
“You don't understand.” Royce pounded the back of the sofa. “Bowler had saved my life minutes before. I had to save him. I had to save him! It was my job and I owed him. It was only fair that I save him.”
“What’s fair about war?” she asked. “Nothing.”
Royce smoothed back his hair with both hands. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. No one who's never been to war, who has never owed his life to someone else, could ever understand.” He plopped down on the sofa. “We always talked about me going to medical school, but if I couldn’t save the man who’d saved my life, I knew I wasn't good enough to be a doctor.”
Elita's mind filled with arguments as to why Bowler's death was not Royce's fault or due to his lack of ability. But Royce was too emotionally drained now to view her arguments as anything but excuses. She went to the kitchen to get more tea. “What happened to Cowpoke?” She hoped she wasn't opening another wound.
“We got him back to the base in time. The kid made it.”
She handed Royce a glass of tea and joined him on the sofa. “The kid made it because of you. You saved Cowpoke’s life. Doesn't that count for anything?”
“I got lucky.”
She wanted to argue that Royce's training and skill saved Cowpoke's life, not blind luck, but decided against it. The deep guilt Royce felt etched his handsome face. His deep sadness permeated the room. In her younger days, an impetuous Elita would be on her knees in front of him shaking him, demanding he listened to reason, insisting he trust her when she told him it wasn't his fault. But the tough tactics of a hotheaded, but well-meaning child-friend would not work on the deep-rooted remorse of a grown man.
And then there was the matter of trust. The unshakable trust they’d had in each other when they were young had waned since her return. And although it hurt to admit it, they both had contributed to that erosion.
“Why did you call him Bowler if his name was Scott?”
“We gave everyone nicknames. Scott was dubbed Bowler because he loved bowling. His dream was to become a pro bowler when he got out of the service.”
“What was your nickname?”
“Doc. Short for doctor. Now there's a laugh, at least in my case.”
Elita took his hand. She’d known him to doubt his abilities when they were young, but never like this. In her psychology classes, she'd read about survivor's guilt, how some people who survive an accident like a car wreck or house fire, while others perish, sometimes feel guilty because they lived. But how do you interpret that in the context of a war where men are dying all around you, where the very nature of the beast is to kill or be killed?
Royce started to get up, but Elita pulled him back down. “One more question.”
He dropped down onto the sofa with a moan.
She ran her hand up his bare arm to the scar on his shoulder. “How did you get shot?”
“It wasn't hard to do in Nam.”
“How’d it happen? Did you get shot twice at the same time or did you —”
“Okay, enough already.” He gulped half his tea, set the glass on the coffee table. “About a month later, my unit was ordered to meet up with another patrol at a river crossing. We got there first and found ourselves in another ambush. We fell back. As we retreated, Faletti got hit. Landers stopped to pick him up and he got hit too, but somehow he managed to drag himself and Faletti to cover behind a couple of downed trees.”
“Where were the rest of you?”
“We took cover nearby in the jungle. Some of us wanted to go back to get Faletti and Landers, but Lieutenant Hanley ordered us to wait.” Royce rubbed the back of his neck. “It got real quiet, except for Landers calling for the medic. He called for me, but Hanley gave me a direct order to stay put. He knew their snipers were
just waiting to pick us off. The Sarge and our best shooters moved out to try and flank the enemy, but Landers kept calling for me.”
Elita took his hand. “It must have been hard for you not to be able to help them.”
“It was hard on everyone, including the lieutenant. I kept it together until Faletti yelled ‘Save me . . . Save me.’ It was as if I could hear Bowler begging me to save him again. The next thing I knew, I was running across open ground toward the downed trees. Shots were flying. I got hit in the shoulder, but managed to keep going until I got to the guys. I bandaged their wounds and gave them morphine for pain. I’d just started an IV on Faletti when our other patrol arrived and all hell broke loose.”
“What happened next?”
He covered his face with his hands as the terrors of that day of war crashed over him.
Elita rubbed his back trying to soothe the tension. “If you don't want to talk, that's okay.”
Royce took her hand, squeezed it gently. “It was the worst firefight I'd ever been in, the worst a lot of us had experienced. Bullets flying, hitting the logs and all I could think of was keeping Faletti and Landers safe. I laid over them, covering them with my body. I got hit in the thigh. The bullet missed major arteries, but nicked the bone enough to break my leg.”
“You used your body as a shield to protect them. That's why you got your medals. You were a hero.”
Royce surged to his feet. “I wasn’t a damn hero. I disobeyed a direct order from the lieutenant and could have put other lives in danger. He said I should be court-martialed, and he was right. But when Faletti begged me to save him, something inside told me I had to try. I needed to make up for letting Bowler die.” The anger in his eyes faded. “Our commanding officer had to decide whether to give me a medal or a court-martial. The doctors said I saved Faletti’s life and probably, Landers’ too. In the end, they gave me an honorable discharge and the medals. It was the path of least resistance, less messy than a court-martial.”
Shadows of Home: A Woman with Questions. A Man with Secrets. A Bayou without Mercy Page 20