When Saigon Surrendered

by James Aura

  “You named the animals?” I was a little offended. When I was a kid, Grandma and I had named the cows and some of the sheep. But as I got older, and became busy with school, this later generation of animals remained nameless, as far as I knew.

  “Daisy and Cherry are the cows. The cats are Tom and Clara. Your Grandma would ask me about certain animals and we found it was easier to discuss them, if they had names. We even named some of the chickens and sheep. Russell, I’ve got some ideas that might be good for both of us, if you will hear me out.”

  While I waited for him to mull over his next remarks, which I knew he would do, I wondered about these visions of Grandma. Some days it surely seemed like she was right here.

  He took a deep breath, spat in the coffee can spittoon and held out his hand to one of the cats. The one I now knew as Clara ambled up and sniffed his hand, tail twitching.

  “Here’s how I see it, Russell. You need to go back to school, I need something useful to do, and we both could use some money. This farm could do that for both of us if we can work this out.”

  I nodded, cautiously. I wondered if he would be available starting now, so I could take the bus back to Auburn and dive into final exams.

  “I could sleep in that upstairs room, milk the cows, do the other chores—that part would be easy. There’s a good wheat crop out there that is gonna need to be harvested in a couple months. I know some people with a combine who would take care of that, for just a cut of the crop. I’m thinking that would get you through at least one more semester at school. If we just had a Burley allotment that would help.”

  “But we don't and Grandma hated tobacco anyway. I am sure you know she sold the allotment to help pay for Momma's treatments.”

  He went on. I could tell he was getting wound up with the idea now. He had momentum, or at least as much momentum as Uncle Wallace ever managed.

  “I’m not a bad cook. We could bake a chicken now and then, and you know all the things you can make with milk, cream and eggs. There’s enough canned corn, tomatoes, beans, peas and peaches to last us a year. And I work cheap. One beer a day and that upstairs bedroom is all I would need for awhile.”

  He then launched into a bunch of possibilities, most of which I had never even heard of. Something about raw milk and all the people who would pay top dollar for it, ‘Organic’ this and that- vegetables with odd names.

  There was earnestness in his eyes. It made me uneasy.

  “Russell a man could do right well, selling organic produce and raw milk. What do you say?”

  He wanted this bad. That was obvious. And I wanted to get back to Auburn and get started on my finals. I asked him if he could take over the next day so I could catch the bus back to school. I could see his mind working. Clara by now was sitting on his knee, watching a moth weave back and forth over the porch rail. Uncle Wallace seemed to be more at home here than I did.

  He nodded and then said, “Russell I’ll take you over to catch the bus this afternoon if that’s what you need. I could start with the chores even tonight.”

  I hadn’t walked the farm yet, so I suggested we both do it while he was here. He agreed and we set out, me carrying the .410 and he picked up a walking stick that was leaning against the hen house. One of the cats meandered behind us.

  The farm came to life every spring. Trees were blooming, birds were making nests, and you could smell nature. Humus and compost, cow and sheep manure, narcissus and wild onions. We didn’t speak until we had walked up the hill to the back fence, which crossed beneath a line of towering Oak trees. Until I had gone off to college it had been my favorite place in the world. Below on the left you could see the barn, a distant red peak, and to the right, the machine shop. It was really a second barn that we used to store machinery and supplies. If you looked closely, down the hill further to the right you could see Blackwater Creek flowing through groves of Willow and Sycamore trees. The mottled gray and white of the Sycamores, yellowish green leaves budding on the Willows and dark gray trunks of the Oaks. Even though it was daytime, you could hear the tree frogs calling in the shady part of the woods along the creek.

  “Russell, over yon hill is the trash dump. Your grandmother and your Daddy hauled a lot of things back to that ditch over the years. It has piled up. Maybe we ought to haul some of those trash bags off to the landfill one of these days.”

  Then Uncle Wallace grimaced and pointed to the sheep flock, some distance away, grazing in the field adjacent to the creek. “I count 19 ewes, how many do you see?”

  There are not too many things prettier in this world than a flock of sheep grazing in a field of bluegrass. I hadn’t bothered to count the sheep, but I knew there should be 21 ewes and 28 lambs. The big Merino buck, with his curved horns was grazing some distance away from the main flock. A quick count told me two ewes were missing. I had already fallen down on the job. Missing ewes might also mean some starving or dead, lambs.

  My uncle leaned on his stick and sent tobacco juice flying into a patch of clover.

  “If that big old buck was doing his job, we wouldn’t need to worry about the sheep. But I doubt there are any rustlers out here carrying off ewes. They tell me coyotes are moving back here from out west. Very well might be coyotes or dogs. Even a bear, I guess. Have you been counting the sheep when they come to the barn lot in the evening?”

  I seldom felt displeasure from Uncle Wallace but I could sense it now. I hadn’t paid attention to the flock. With the grass and the spring clover, I had let them take care of themselves. Grandma had gone out of her way to get us a big buck to protect the flock. But obviously some thing or some one was helping themselves to ewe on the hoof. Some shepherd I was. Two ewes could have paid for a couple months of college.

  I was hesitant about Uncle Wallace’s idea about a farm partnership, but the disappearing sheep convinced me. The farm was too much. Until I sorted everything out, this might be a remedy. We walked down to take a closer look at the grazing sheep. My uncle pointed towards the creek with his walking stick.

  “That bottom land over there next to the creek is pasture now. But that is some of the blackest, best dirt anywhere. A good spot for a cash crop.”

  With all his talk about organic vegetables and compost and recycling manure, I didn’t think to ask what the cash crop might be. He had mentioned a bunch of things, Arugula, which rich folks liked in salads and something called ‘Sang, some kind of herb, I think.

  Next morning Uncle Wallace dropped me off before sunrise in town to catch the bus to college. I had an appointment with the Dean set for late afternoon. After awhile the Greyhound rolled past a strip mine field, where a gigantic shovel sent a roar through the narrow strip of tall trees and underbrush that hid the mounds of ruined land, the toxic water pits and rock. The shovel was a behemoth, even larger than the shovel we were familiar with back home. Coal and gravel dust coated mail boxes along the highway. I shuddered to think of Grandma’s farm beneath that machine’s giant, metal jaws.

  When the bus rolled through Opelika, I felt like a honeybee coming across a whole field of sweet clover in bloom. Just minutes away, the pulse of the campus, the music, the pretty girls, the aroma coming out of the coffee shops and cafes. It was intoxicating, another world, full of possibilities.

  The euphoria came to a screeching halt when I walked through the heavy dark paneled doors that led to the Dean’s office. His secretary presided over her desk like a female Praetorian Guard, ready to protect the Dean from distractions like bothersome rule-bending students.

  She peered down her bifocals. “Can I help you, young man?”

  “I am Russell Ray Teague, and I have an appointment to see the Dean about my scholarship and my finals. I made the appointment with you a few days ago.”

  She sniffed and brandished a large calendar book in a leather binding. It looked like something the Devil would use to check in new arrivals on Judgment Day.

  “Your five o’clock appointment was moved to the same time tomorrow. We’
ll see you then.”

  I then realized they probably assumed I was already back on campus, with no inkling that I had ridden a dusty bus all day for this meeting. I asked if we could move the appointment to 10am instead. I explained to her again, my grandmother had passed away and I had just arrived back in Auburn. She checked off a slot in her book and nodded.

  “Thank you, I look forward to seeing the Dean tomorrow, then.” I walked out the door with four final exams pressing down on me.”

  I walked down to the Oak trees at Toomer’s Corner. The college students strolling by all looked like naive high school kids without a care in the world. The dogwoods and redbuds were blooming in Samford Park. The sun was shining. Despite my Spanish final looming the next afternoon, it felt like a good day to be alive.

  There was a pay phone at the drugstore so I called Elaine.

  “Russell, where in the world have you been? I looked for you Sunday night and no Russell.”

  “A lot has happened Elaine. Can you come down to the drugstore café and maybe talk?”

  She hung up the phone. I knew she’d show up in a few minutes. Her two room apartment was only a couple blocks from Toomer’s. And you could always count on Elaine, a tall rangy girl from Georgia. She came to Auburn on a scholarship similar to mine, only for women. She was always talking about their former Georgia governor, who farmed peanuts down the road from Americus. Elaine said he was going to be President some day.

  I always liked Elaine. She had a laugh that was contagious, and she was a lot better around people than I was. Maybe she had an extra dose of the happy hormone.

  Anyway she showed up a few minutes later, pretty as a picture, but she didn’t look happy. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her eyebrows arched up towards her hairline. She grabbed me by the shoulders.

  “Russell, where in hell were you? Some of us figured you ran off with that mini-skirt bitch, or worse. Are you even halfway prepared for finals?”

  Elaine knew I’d been working extra hours this semester to make ends meet and I had not been hitting the books as much as I should have. She wasn’t afraid to give me a nudge in the right direction now and then, when I needed it. Elaine’s voice filled the café like a wind chime. The old lady behind the cash register raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

  “That so-called mini-skirt bitch is helping me survive freshman Spanish, I’ll have you know. She does have other good qualities.”

  That got me a slap. Probably deserved. I was hoping for some sympathy but even happy, sweet Elaine was running short of anything but resentment or anger.

  “Elaine, my Grandma died. We buried her two days ago. I’ve been out on the farm trying to figure out what to do next.”

  “Oh Russell! We had no idea. I wish you had called, at least.”

  Well, at least that got me a hug. We sat down and had some coffee.

  I told her about the ‘Saigon Surrenders’ bulletin and the wild trip to the hospital, and most of the rest of it. I made it through the story with maybe just one tear which I wiped real quick with a napkin. We didn’t go into me getting lost on the way to the hospital, or the good looking nurse.

  Elaine got practical with her questions. Was I going to come back to school or just go back to the farm? What about my scholarship? Was I really ready for finals?

  I told her about the appointment with the Dean and said I was hoping maybe one or two finals could be postponed. Then I realized I really didn’t want to spend the night alone at the rooming house.

  I was contemplating asking Elaine if I could crash at her apartment just for the night, but a commotion erupted in the aisle behind the cosmetics counter. A bunch of girls came in; chattering like a flock of chickens and one of them was Roxanne, ‘The mini-skirt bitch’. She let out a shriek like a tea kettle on the boil.

  Roxanne came running over and her Arpege preceded her. It was pungent. Books in one hand purse in the other, she slammed them down on our table and slid into the chair next to me, seemingly oblivious to Elaine.

  She looked good. She was showing plenty of leg, too. Nice legs.

  “Oh Rusty, honey baby! I missed you so much! What on earth have you been up to? Spanish final is tomorrow are you ready?”

  Across the table, Elaine was turning into a five foot ten icicle with a frown.

  “Hey Roxanne. I am so sorry, but I had a family emergency and couldn’t make it back until today.”

  I was hoping this would satisfy Miss Mini-Skirt and she’d flit away with her flock of sorority sisters. But Roxanne was thinking about something else. She reached down and flipped out a gold chain around her neck that had been underneath her sweater.

  “Well I have some news too, Russell, I got lavaliered!”

  I could see the Greek letters on the chain started with a Beta-something.

  “Gee, that’s great Roxanne? Who is the lucky guy? Kind of sudden wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t think you’ve met him Rusty, but he’s on the Tiger’s freshman squad. Larry Fortress, from Mobile. He’s awful nice Russell, but I told him we would keep on with our Spanish sessions.”

  Elaine seemed to know him too.

  “Oh Larry Fortress good luck Roxanne, let’s hope he doesn’t flunk out before next season.”

  I felt some tension rising over the coffee cups, but fortunately the queen bee of the group called. Apparently they had stocked up on their cosmetics quota, and Roxanne bounced away, down the aisle.

  “Lo siento mucho, Rusty. Call me later honey.” And she was gone, leaving me, once again, alone at the table with Elaine, whose eyes were flashing. ‘Rusty? It is Rusty, is it, now? Ohhhh Rusty, can I shorten my skirt a little more for you, Rusty honey?”

  “Elaine, she is fluent in Spanish. She helps me with those Borges stories we are reading and I help her with algebra. But she is not a friend like you, Elaine. Never would be. Gosh, I'd think you would know that, by now. By the way, I bet I could take that guy one on one in basketball, but I don’t have time for that stuff, with work and all. Larry Fortress, my ass.”

  I then had an idea which might keep Elaine interested and engaged enough that maybe she would entertain letting me sleep over at her place. I needed to go to my dingy room and study but I needed to be with Elaine more.

  “Anyway, I don’t need help with Spanish right now. I need help with French. And you are good with French, no?”

  She picked up on that, right away, and answered me in French, something with ‘boucoup’ in it.

  “Have you been following what’s going on in Vietnam, with the Viet Cong taking over the South, and all? I need to get some help reading about that in ‘Le Monde’ the big Paris newspaper. I am told they have been covering all of that better than our papers over here. Will you go with me to the library, and help me with some of the headlines, at least?”

  She was hooked. To get Elaine’s full attention all one needed to do was appeal to her smarts and the god-awful political mess the world was in. I wasn’t sure, but I also had an idea she and her peanut-farmer governor were not big fans of the Vietnam War.

  “OK, Rusty, “she winked. “You want to go now? I’ve got nothing going on until tomorrow morning. I’ve been good. I’ve been studying for all of my finals.”

  “It’s Russell, if you don’t mind, Mademoiselle Elaine Ravenel, and yes, let’s go.”

  “Since you lost your Grandma, the least I can do is pay for the coffee.” She laid a dollar on the table, gave my hand a squeeze, and even smiled a little.

  The library was running a little behind on current issues of ‘Le Monde’, but there were plenty of stories about Vietnam anyway.

  “Des milliers de personnes fuient les communistes à Saigon”-- a huge headline across the front page.

  Elaine recited ‘Thousands of people fleeing communist Saigon’.

  There were photos of Vietnamese on small motorboats, overflowing with children, women and a few men. Water buffalos pulling oxcarts loaded with children, teenage Viet Cong soldiers
with rifles and machetes rounding up civilians who had been connected with either the French or Americans. The general picture was one of the lower levels of Hell, Asian style.

  My mind was awash in Vietnam stories. I couldn’t help but think about some of the people my Dad had talked about, Vietnamese workers in Saigon. They helped the Americans. He told stories about some of them, often humorous. These people were the ones who would be rounded up and put in camps, or worse. Elaine put her hand on my shoulder, as we leaned over the newspapers.

  "Petits bateaux chavirés en mer de Chine méridionale, plusieurs crurent noyé"

  Elaine continued, "Small boats sink in the South China Sea, many believed drowned."

  “Grandma said forgive and forget but I know what Daddy would be saying about all these innocent people caught up in this thing. He said they were decent folks, hard working, honest, like good people back here. And they didn’t deserve this. “