Gift of the Golden Mountain

by Shirley Streshinsky

  Annie was troubled about Karin and didn't want Israel to know so she picked up the morning Honolulu Register. "There's a wonderful story in the paper today," she said, "why don't I read it to you?"

  "Don't read," Israel said, closing his eyes, "tell me the story. I like it best when you tell me your stories."

  "Once upon a time, three days ago," she began, softly, and watched for the smile that flickered weakly, "on an island called Kauai there lived an eagle. Just one, a great golden eagle that soared among the peaks and into the deep valleys of the Waimea Canyon, which the Hawaiians like to call their Grand Canyon, a place so spectacularly beautiful that tourists by the hordes make the long, winding journey into the mountains to look at it.

  "Nobody knew how this eagle came to be in the Hawaiian Islands—certainly there had never been one before—or even when it came. Some thought it might have been blown far off its course by a storm, others figured it must have come by boat and been set free. But anyone who knew anything about eagles knew that it should not be here, because eagles are fiercely familial . . . they mate for life, raising a family is what they do with their spare time.

  "Our lonely eagle was first spotted by one of the helicopter pilots who take people into the valley on tours. This pilot thought the eagle was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, with its great wingspan, its ability to soar high and glide low, to dive and scan the deepest crevices on the wild valleys. Sometimes, the pilot said, the eagle would glide alongside his helicopter, and the two would do a kind of precision flying. The pilot said that when this happened, he felt like he had wings.

  "This went on for quite awhile, the eagle would hear the helicopter and come to meet it, and they would fly along together. When he could, the pilot went up by himself so they could fly freely together, without having to worry about passengers.

  "It was good business, flying people into the valley, and very quickly there were three and four different services sending copters into the valley, and pretty soon the sky was full of them, and the eagle was not happy. Not at all.

  "The eagle no longer flew alongside, but began to drop from above in a sudden dive and the pilot became worried that it would become entangled in his rotors. Twice he had to effect sudden maneuvers to miss the bird. Gradually it began to dawn on him: the eagle is fighting for his territory, he sees the helicopters as invaders. So the pilot went around to all of the helicopter services in Kauai, and warned them about the eagle, and asked them to give it plenty of room and to watch out for it.

  "Three days ago the pilot was just entering the main branch of the canyon when he saw the eagle ahead of him, hovering directly above a Ranger, he saw the eagle go into a steep dive and attack the helicopter."

  She stopped, leaned toward Israel to look into his face. She could tell by his breathing that he had slipped away into sleep, so she whispered, "And that was the end of the beautiful eagle."

  The bad news did not come over the telephone, as Karin had always believed it would. It was delivered by a man in a uniform, with a bright row of ribbons emblazoned over his heart.

  It was the middle of the afternoon and she was lying on Thea's bed, thinking about October light, the slight difference she sensed, a subtle haze that perhaps existed only in her mind, remembrance of other autumns in other places. Since Thea had left for Stanford, she had spent a good part of each day in this room. There was a good breeze, and she could look up toward the mountain. When it rained she could see clouds of water waft by. It pleased her to lie in Thea's narrow bed, to look at the pale yellow walls, empty now of the jumble of posters and signs and pictures.

  She looked out the window and saw him, limping down the steep driveway. A serviceman, she thought. Probably he is lost, she thought. He needs directions. She knew she should get up, should go to meet him, should let him know where she was. She had been napping, she supposed, otherwise why would her legs feel so heavy? A lassitude had overtaken her these past days. She had promised to call Annie. She should do that, Annie was worried about her. But first, the man in the driveway, the directions.

  He stood on the other side of the screened door, his hat tucked under his arm and said, "Mrs. Ward?"

  He was looking at her yet not looking at her. It was, she thought, as if he were saying the Pledge of Allegiance. He had memorized his speech. "It is my sad duty to inform you that your son, marine Private Daniel Ward . . ."

  She felt the medals on his chest rip into the flesh of her forearms, but still she pounded on him, screaming, "No. There is no war, no. No. No, you are wrong, wrong."

  The next thing she remembered was Paul Hollowell striding into the house, his strong arms around her, holding her steady in the storm that had broken over her.

  She had not seen him since the morning she left him at the sailboat, two months before. He was here, now, because the man in the uniform had found his name and two phone numbers on a piece of paper by her bed. She had written them out two days before, when she learned she was pregnant with his child.

  Daniel Ward died on October 11, 1973, when the South Vietnamese army helicopter in which he was a passenger came under fire near Dalat, exploded and crashed, killing all aboard. He had been acting as escort to one of the ambassador's aides, who had been sent on a fact-finding tour of the area north of Saigon. A small story went out over the news wires, naming the aide and adding, "his Marine escort was also killed in the crash."

  He was buried in the military cemetery in Punchbowl. Philip could not make the trip, and Kit—worried at how he was taking this latest blow—stayed with him. Neither could Faith leave Israel, his cogent moments were few now, the end was near. May was on a flight to Hawaii two hours after receiving the news. Hayes followed the next day. The Diehls came with Thea.

  Kit, always thoughtful, wired air tickets to Phinney and Emilie, but Amos came in Phinney's place. "It's a hard time for Phinney to get away," Emilie explained. Throughout those long, hard days Amos stayed close to Thea, holding tight to her hand at the cemetery.

  Marge and Hank Fromberg flew over, and some of Thea's friends from Punahou came to the graveside services. They stood in the full sun, a warm wind snapping the flags that flew; the sound of taps echoed around the ancient volcanic bowl, and drifted out to sea. The flag was folded, precisely, and placed in the hands of Karin and Thea, who stood close together to receive it.

  Everything about Karin became more tenuous. She walked through the house as if dazed, she couldn't think what to do next. Often, May had to stifle the urge to put her hand out to steady her.

  "Can you talk to me about Dan?" May asked when they were alone in Karin's bedroom, and the words echoed in her memory. "Can you talk to me about Andy?" It was too much, she thought. Too much pain, too much death, too much hurt.

  Karin shook her head, and the tears squeezed out of her eyes. "Not yet," May said the words for her, cradling her friend in her arms. "Not yet, dear one."

  Paul Hollowell came to the cemetery and then to the house to pay his respects. May watched him walk up to the door, watched Karin cross the room to meet him, watched how they stood next to each other.

  "Of course he's in love with her," Hayes said. "Who wouldn't be? She's a beautiful woman, even now when she's full of grief. There's something almost translucent about her, have you noticed?"

  "I've noticed," May said. "Were you?"

  "Were I what?"

  "In love with Karin."

  "Of course."

  "I mean it."

  "I probably would have been, if you hadn't got in the way."

  With a sudden passion that caught them offguard, May said, "Sometimes I think about the day you found out about Andy, about all the times we might have missed each other, and it frightens me so much I can hardly breathe. Don't leave me, Hayes, not ever."

  "Not ever," he whispered into her neck, then he pulled back to look her in the face, holding tight to her still. His mind was working, she could see.

  "Come with me to Saigon," he said. "Help me try to
talk Le Tien An into meeting us, and letting us see the boy. Maybe together we can do it—God knows, something has to move her, and soon. Then I'll go on to my rendezvous in the Philippines and you can come back this way and spend a couple of days, before we head home together."

  She looked at Karin, who was standing in a group with Paul Hollowell, Thea, and Amos. Paul Hollowell, May noticed, was looking at Karin as if he were stifling the urge to steady her, too. Karin's eyes seemed not quite to focus, as if she were looking at something in the distance.

  "I thought Karin might need me," she told him, "but maybe . . ."

  "Ask her," Hayes said, "if she wants you here, you should stay—it was just an idea, a sudden urge."

  Two days after everyone else had left, Annie intercepted the postman as he made his way along Makiki Heights. She slipped the letter into the deep pocket of her loose dress, and left it there for several hours while she tried to think how to tell Karin.

  The conversation at dinner was desultory. The usually ebullient Annie was quiet, distracted. Afterwards, Karin would not let her launch into the dishes, but insisted they take their tea out to the lanai.

  "You'd better tell me what's up," Karin said when they were seated, she in the chaise and Annie in a chair. "I can't remember the last time you were in such a deep blue funk. It's not your color, love."

  "You're right," Annie said, "I have a letter from Daniel in my pocket, and I can't decide how to tell you or what to do with it."

  Karin clasped her hands protectively over her stomach and said: "I think I want you to read it to me, but give me a few minutes to get ready."

  Annie opened the letter, unfolded a lined page of notebook paper filled with small, tight handwriting, written with ballpoint pen that left thick smudges down the page.

  Saigon, September 28, 1973

  Dear Karin:

  I've been trying to figure out what to say to you ever since I got the letter from Dad three days ago. To tell you the truth, it's you I've been thinking about mostly, what this is going to do to you and what you are thinking. Maybe you remember I told you it seemed sort of strange, Mrs. McCord and Dad being together so much and all. Dad says they were pretty good friends a long time ago, and that they have renewed that friendship. It seems like, from what he says, Mrs. McCord feels pretty good about being able to help him, he's pretty sure about that. He also said that he thinks the world of you, and he wants you to be happy.

  I wish I could ask you to wait for me to catch up, and then I'd ask you to marry me and then we (I) could live happily ever after. (A little joke, ha. Or maybe only half a joke.)

  If you want my opinion, marrying you was the only smart thing Dad ever did. I don't know if Thea or me would have made it without you, knowing you were pulling for us. So what I want to say is this—you'll always be important to me, even if we aren't related anymore. And I guess there's something else I want to tell you, because I think maybe it could help you now, too.

  You remember when I joined the Corps I was in bad shape, figuring what happened to Dad was my fault. The fight and all. I pushed myself pretty hard physically, and that was okay for a while, but then I started feeling pretty awful and, well, I won't go into all the details but finally this guy I'd met from Georgia, a real cracker, told me I ought to go see the chaplain and, to make a long story short, I did. I talked to him a long time, and I told him I felt like I'd been carrying this 200-pound pack up a mountain, and I just couldn't carry it any more. I felt like I wanted to lie down and go to sleep forever. Then the strangest thing happened. He was just this nice little guy, but when he started talking his voice sounded like it was coming to me from outer space, and what he said was that God had sent his son to suffer for me, and that if I would believe in him, my burden would be eased. I can't tell you how it happened, or why, but that changed my whole life. I prayed, and this heavy thing was lifted off of me. I suppose this may sound strange to you, I know it would to Dad, he doesn't much believe in religion, which is why I've never told him.

  It's been raining here pretty much ever since I arrived. Everyone says the VC are getting ready to make their move and we'll see some real fireworks as soon as the ground dries out a little. They've been hitting storage facilities and small airfields and other little stuff all summer long. It's kind of a creepy place, you know. Some of the guys who have been here before, on other tours of duty talk this "you should've been here when . . ." bullshit, almost like they liked it better when the VC were offing our guys. I guess you think I'm getting cynical, huh? Well, maybe I am. I still think the Corps is great, and I'm proud to be a member, but it just seems to me like this little piece of the world is not worth 58,000 American lives, which is what somebody told me is the dead count.

  Don't mean to sound morbid. Had a long letter from Thea, and I guess you've had some long talks with her from what she said. It was kind of funny (not really), but you've been worried about her for so long, and now she's worried about you. Thea said something to me that she didn't say to you. That was, that she couldn't stand to think of you spending your future taking care of Dad. I'm telling you because I feel that way too. Thea told me about the offer you got to run a gallery for some artists. Are you sure you want to stay on in the islands? It is kind of nice, thinking of you there. Don't forget our date, beachside at the Royal Hawaiian, sipping a mai tai. Whenever I start getting homesick, I just think of that day . . . and the sun setting all pink and blue on Waikiki beach.

  In the meantime, write me when you can because out here we live for the mail call.

  Love,

  Danny

  Paul Hollowell had been waiting in the lobby for half an hour. She had said it was important to be there by sunset and he had given himself plenty of time to stop at the florists to pick up a ginger lei. He walked across the lobby to meet her, carrying the flowers awkwardly, like a boy on prom night. He lifted them over her head and brushed her cheek with his lips, formally. She was wearing a dress of blue cotton gauze, very full, her hair was loose about her shoulders, and she smelled of lilacs.

  "Thank you," Karin said, "for the flowers and for coming. There is something I have to tell you and I wanted to do it here, for a reason. I'll explain."

  He took her hand and they walked toward the oceanfront terrace, her high-heeled sandals making clicking sounds on the polished tile of the Royal Hawaiian's promenade.

  "We sat at this table," she told him, "and Danny insisted we have mai tais."

  "Would you like one now?"

  She shook her head. "No. I don't drink now. But please, go ahead."

  "Big waves tonight," he said, looking out to sea at the line of surfers waiting to catch the next big wave.

  "The night we were here, the sun had turned the water a wonderful shade of pink. Dan said it was as close to heaven as he'd ever been . . ." her voice cracked and she stopped.

  "He is in heaven now," Paul said, a simple statement of fact, "and maybe it is like this—all these shades of pink and blue playing on the water."

  She could only stare at him. "Do you believe that?" she asked.

  "Yes," he said, "Yes, I do."

  She leaned toward him over the table. "I'm not trying to keep you in suspense . . . about why I asked you here . . ." she began.

  "When you're ready," he answered, "no hurry. I know how your son must have felt, being here with you. I feel happy just sitting here right now."

  "We had a date. I told him I'd meet him here, when he came back. It was important."

  She turned to look down the beach, watched as a small figure far out beyond the breaking waves stood and caught one, moving before the swift cutting curl of the wave, gliding and sliding in the trough, staying ahead of the water that glimmered blue in the silken light. He seemed to ride forever, defying the forces. Karin and Paul watched, holding their breath as the surfer continued to elude the wave, choosing his time, his place, to dip into the pink-silver sea.

  She looked at him and said, "I brought you here to tell you that I am
going to have your baby."

  He stared at her. Then a slow, sweet smile moved over his face, his eyes came to life with a kind of wild delight. He reached for her hand, took it in both of his and bent to touch her fingers.

  "We have to talk," she told him.

  "Yes," he answered, solemnly, "we will talk, every day of our lives. I promise you that, Karin." He looked down the beach as the lights began to blink on. "God," he exclaimed under his breath, "I didn't know it was possible to feel this way."

  "It isn't going to be easy," she warned him. "There are all sorts of problems. I'm not sure when we can be together."

  "We're already together," he said, "the rest is details."

  THIRTY-TWO

  Saigon, 27 October 1973

  THE PLANE DESCENDED into the saffron air that lay like dirty gauze over the city, and they landed at Tan Son Nhut at midday. May was blinded by the glare of light on the tarmac. With her free hand she groped for her sunglasses, lost somewhere in the bottom of her handbag. She gave up the search when Hayes's hand on her arm hurried her into the terminal, and concentrated on threading her way through the crowd that pressed against them inside the building, everyone pushing for position.

  "Is it always so chaotic?" she gasped, but Hayes was too intent on getting them through immigration to answer.

  Outside, waiting for a bus, she stood in the noise and the heat and tried to make sense of the scene. She was in Vietnam, the country that had weighed so heavily on their hearts these past years, and she expected to feel something, but the shouting and the confusion and the heat stifled all feeling. The bus, gray and battered, pulled up in a cloud of exhaust fumes. The windows were open, but covered by grates. "So no one can lob in a grenade," Hayes explained. This is a country at war, she told herself. None of the old rules apply.

  As they drove through the French part of the city, she studied the pastel Colonial architecture from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the broad leafy plantain trees that cast the streets in deep shade. She knew that once it must have been lovely, but now it was not. Heat and a sense of exhaustion permeated the scene. The buildings, the roads, the people, even the trees, everything seemed to be in a state of dazed exhaustion. As if all energy had been drained from the country, as if all that was left was a sense of desolation, a loss of faith that was utter, complete.