The American Pearl

by Peter Gilboy

  She looked over at T.R. He gave her a thumbs-up. No problem at all, he was saying. Don’t worry, Patricia. Safe as can be.

  No problem at all.

  5

  JANUARY 15, 2006

  SAN DIEGO, 10:45 A.M.

  CONSIDER THIS: THERE’S NO need for photos from back then. Not photos of you in front of your hootch with a beer in your hand. Not you with your smiling buddies side by side holding up your weapons. You don’t need photos because back then returns as a newsreel in your head, a black-and-white, like when you were a kid at the movies. No theatrical music is needed. No title. No credits. It’s just there, including the newsreel countdown: 3-2-1.

  You’re shaving your head. And your balls. All of you are. It’s because of the lice. It’s the only way. Now you’re a whole squad of baldies, top and bottom. But you look good. You look mean. And lean. Jim Geltz says it’s cool, this bald look, and maybe he’ll do a Mohawk next time. Colome smiles and sweeps up his hair and for some reason puts it in a plastic bag under his bed. Eddie, with his shiny black head, gets called “Eight-ball” right off. Then Bump Rogers tells us that we’ll all be fine now, that we’re sure to go home ‘cause being bald is good luck, really good luck, nothing better; ya can’t beat it for luck, he says, not for nothing.

  Change reels: 3-2-1.

  An FNG storms into our hooch—a Fuckin’ New Guy—and he looks like a hippy compared to you and the others, even has Elvis sideburns. His name is Hodges, or something like that, and he’s right off a desk at Ord or Bragg or maybe Fort Hood; he comes in cocky-like, with shiny fatigues that are pressed and creased. Everyone puts down their beers and watches his eyes skim the hooch. They settle on you, like he’s one of those bullies who picks a fight with the biggest dog just to establish his claim.

  He takes two steps toward you, but Eddie steps in and puts a hand to the guy’s chest.

  “What do you want?”

  “Nixon,” the guy says, looking around again. “Where is he? I’m gonna get my hands on that motherfucker.”

  Eddie pushes him away. “Nixon ain’t here.”

  The guy smiles at us, like it’s all a joke, us and the war both, and our bald heads, and he says that we look like a bunch of shiny fuckin’ eggs, and that he’s not going to die here, not for Nixon, no fucking way, and besides, the fucking Army screwed up ‘cause he only has two weeks left till he gets out; and does anyone want to play poker, he asks, five card stud, ‘cause he really needs some dough for when he gets back home.

  We know right then he won’t make it.

  Change reels again: 3-2-1.

  Dusk four days later, and we’re clumping through some elephant grass in the Muang Valley, trying to get to the rise where the chopper is picking us up. The FNG, Hodges, or whatever his name is, is fifth in file, and he steps wide of our tracks and stumbles onto a Bouncing Betty. The Betty leaps to his waist level, and he doesn’t have time to say anything as his arm flies off. He spins and lands on his back, his eyes staring straight up like he’s still watching for the chopper.

  “Fuck,” Wilcox says. “A goner.”

  We kneel down.

  “He should’ve gotten a haircut,” Bump declares. “He would’ve been safe then.”

  Colome shakes his head. “Naw, blame it on Nixon.”

  “Chopper’s here,” I say.

  Wilcox nods. “Yeah, but he sure could play some poker.”

  The San Diego sunlight is bright on the way to the restaurant. I have to squint through the windshield. I should have brought my sunglasses. The sun here isn’t like the sun in DC. Simple high school geometry: closer to the equator, the sun’s circle of illumination is more overhead, more direct, more concentrated because of the steeper angle of incidence. In DC, the sun slants through the atmosphere at a shallower angle, spreading the same sunlight over a much broader area.

  In short, the San Diego sun is brighter.

  That’s what I am thinking as we pull up to the Old Mexican Café. If your job is to look down from the sky, then you notice angles. Digital images are sometimes flat rather than 3-D, so every shadow length has a particular meaning at a certain time of day; every wavy line and ridge and hill is photographed and measured according to that moment’s juxtaposition of earth to sun. Like I said—geometry. Then there’s our LIDAR satellite lasers that shoot impulses of green and infrared light at earth surfaces forty times per second, measuring heights of forests and jungle canopies by identifying wavelength-dependent changes in the intensity of the returned signal.

  Geometry. Love it. I can’t help myself.

  From the sidewalk, I see a Hispanic woman making tortillas right there in the window; grinding, pounding, flattening, and laying them out, preparing them for the open fire. I push open the restaurant door and we enter, the three of us: Julia and Eddie Cobb and me. The place smells good. The place smells like a Mexican restaurant should, with its salsas and cheeses and cilantro. Yes, it’s touristy, but we’re tourists, so what of it?

  All eyes turn to us. To me, I mean. A whisper from one couple and a head tilt from another—a look-at-the-size-of-that-guy head tilt. I’m used to it. Julia is too. Eddie doesn’t notice. He wanders off to a corner. He won’t bother anyone there. No one will even notice him.

  A cute Mexican hostess greets us. Her name tag says “Lupita.” She gives us a charm-the-tourists smile and pretends not to be surprised by my size, but her eyebrows give her away. She guides us toward a middle table until I stop her and point to a side booth where I can face the door. I like to keep the world in front of me. That’s where she seats us.

  The restaurant is mixed. A black couple in the back, an Asian couple to my left, three young white women sipping coffee on my right, two men at the counter. No Hispanics. Maybe they know where the good food is.

  I nod to the black couple. They nod back. We don’t know each other, but we belong to the same club. The Asian couple is unusual, a young Korean man and a young Vietnamese woman. Most Americans can’t tell the difference. Forehead and jaw. That’s the difference. And the whites—one of them at the counter is obviously an off-duty cop. He’s working on a chile relleno. The three women sipping coffee look like they’re dressed up for church. The other man at the counter is eyeing them. Not a chance, I want to tell him.

  “Welcome,” Lupita says, no accent at all, probably born and raised here, probably never been to Tijuana. She glances from Julia to me. “Oh, I love your earrings,” she says.

  “We just got married,” Julia tells her, with that great Julia smile.

  “Oh, that’s so great!” she exclaims. “I’m so happy for you.”

  She sets chips and three salsa bowls in front of us. She points to the third bowl. “Be careful, you two. That one will set you on fire.”

  I nod.

  “It’s not good for business,” she deadpans, “if we have to call the fire department again.”

  I like her immediately. “You in school?” I ask.

  “Political science, at City. I plan on going to State next year.”

  “What if politics isn’t a science?”

  Julia kicks me under the table.

  “Math minor,” she adds as if that answers the question.

  “A noble pursuit, math,” I tell her.

  I’ve always loved math. It comes easy to me. Algebra, calculus, number theory and differential equations. In middle and high school, I was ahead of most of my math teachers, but they kept telling me that I should focus more on basketball or football. There was no future in math for someone like me. Still, I made it along each year, D’s in most subjects but A’s in math, until my eleventh-grade math teacher smiled at me aggressively and asked me who the hell I thought I was.

  That afternoon I was on a bus to Alabama and the Double A Birmingham Barons, joining the team just after I turned seventeen. Ma was angry. She said only an idiot would quit school. But those were the days.

  We order our meals. Huevos rancheros with whole wheat tortillas for me; a medium bowl of m
enudo for Julia. Quiet Mexican guitar music plays from somewhere over the bar. Sombreros on the walls, paintings of Conchero dancers, and the usual Pancho Villa poster with full mustache, cross belts, and an angry smile. He would not be defeated.

  I point to the Pancho Villa poster. “Nineteen sixteen,” I say. “He came across the border and killed eighteen, wounded eight, burned down the little town of Columbus, New Mexico, and then ran off with machine guns and whatever else they could carry.”

  “Sorry I missed it,” Julia says absently. “As if war ever solved anything.”

  I let it go.

  Julia points to my Nationals jacket. “You’ve got salsa already. And the food hasn’t even come yet.”

  “That’s why I wear red when I go Mexican. Ma taught me how to dress.”

  Julia reaches across with a wet napkin to help. “So, have you given any more thought to retirement?” she asks me. “Florida? Maybe California?”

  “I was thinking Columbus, New Mexico.”

  Julia laughs.

  Our meals arrive. The waitress brings them with oven mittens on. She warns us that the plates are hot. My huevos rancheros are steaming. Julia’s menudo is stocked with beef chunks and chopped onions and cilantro. I take a bite of the tortilla. Freshest ever. I avoid the fireman’s-special salsa and go for the middle-hot. It’s hot enough. I usually eat quickly, but this time I savor. I don’t know if they serve it like this in Guadalajara, and I don’t care. This is good. This is very good. Julia opens another napkin and hands it to me. I tuck it in like a bib.

  A green blur appears at the restaurant door.

  I put my glasses on. It’s a soldier, a corporal. He’s just standing there, looking around. Then he steps inside.

  My first thought is—he’s just a boy. Then—he’s almost as tall as me. Gangly, though. He’s in a dress green uniform, regulation tan shirt and black tie. He’s got two ribbons over his heart pocket. He’s in his twenties. Looks Tom Sawyer–like. Shaves maybe once a week. Two chevrons tell me he’s a corporal, command level. He doesn’t look very commanding. His uniform is perfect except that one of the ribbons is wrong. I can’t place it. It’s very odd. His shoes are scuffed at the toe. I’m tempted to go over and slap him upside his head. That’s what his mother would do if he came home with those shoes. What’s the Army coming to?

  Julia glances over her shoulder to see who I’m staring at.

  “Do you know him, Quintyn?”

  “Never saw him before.”

  The soldier comes closer and I make out his name tag—Towers. He approaches our booth. He’s carrying a manila envelope.

  He could be any soldier, except that I can’t shake that odd ribbon he’s wearing. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not even a U.S. medal. I recognized the other one right off—the burgundy center with three white stripes; it’s the Good Conduct Ribbon, a stupid award that nearly every soldier gets for simply showing up and doing what he’s told.

  I hadn’t gotten one.

  The other ribbon is bright green with four yellow stripes. I’ve seen it before, somewhere. Where? Where?

  “Nordstrom’s first,” Julia announces. “And I was thinking Fredrick’s and Victoria’s Secret too. To get a little something for you. Everything is right there at the Plaza.”

  That’s fine. I’m along for the ride.

  Behind me, I hear the corporal order water and chips. We eat quietly, listening to the music. There’s a light clatter of dishes around us. When we finish, Julia leans back, satisfied with breakfast and not being disturbed. After a time, she raises a finger in the universal just-one-sec sign. She slides from the booth seat and heads toward the ladies’ room. Halfway there she looks back at me with her contented Julia-smile.

  The ladies’ room door closes.

  I spin out of my seat and stand over the corporal. “Who are you?” I demand.

  “S-S-Sir?” he stutters, straining backward.

  “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Where’d you get that?” I point to the ribbon that I couldn’t place. Bright green with yellow stripes. I know what it is now. It’s from Alec. It’s a message.

  “He told me to wear it, sir. This ribbon.”

  “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ I was enlisted like you, not an officer. I worked for a living.”

  “He said you’d understand when you saw the ribbon.”

  “Well, I don’t understand,” I tell him.

  But I do understand. It’s more than a message. It’s a tease. A maneuver to get me to come back.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the soldier says. “I didn’t mean to cause a problem.”

  “General Finders know you’re here?”

  “No, sir. I don’t think so. Alec Vogel sent me. The colonel. He said I was the one to come, sir.”

  “Don’t call me ‘sir’!”

  I yank the green-and-yellow ribbon from his uniform. I hold it out to him. “Do you know what this is? Do you?”

  “No, sir.” The corporal shrugs helplessly. “He tried to call you, sir.”

  “I said no calls!”

  The corporal holds up the manila envelope. He slides it across the table toward me.

  I glance toward the ladies’ room door. No Julia, yet. I tear open the flap. I slide out three color photos, eight-by-tens. Each is a satellite shot, colorful, almost psychedelic in its many hues; from bright pink and red to sharp blues and greens.

  The first photo is obviously from one of the Terra satellites using what’s called the ASTER, a fair-quality imaging instrument. It’s typically used by mining companies to map land mass in order to locate mineral deposits.

  The images appear to be a composite of visible light and near-infrared. The pink represents low vegetation—fields or meadows. The bright red colors represent high vegetation, probably jungle. The browns and grays are exposed rock. I see a white line jutting across the bottom of the photo, a snaking river of some sort. There are shadows too. I lean closer. If the photo was properly coordinated north to south, the sun was rising. Geometry. It’s an early morning shot.

  “When?” I demand.

  “Sir?”

  “When was this taken?”

  He turns the photo over and points to the time stamp. 11/15/05 “Two months ago, sir.”

  I look to the next photo. Also from a Terra satellite. Same use of visible light and infrared. Same colors. Same location as the first one, same snaking river across the bottom, and same time of day. Unmistakable.

  But there’s something else now, something different. Among the lower vegetation depicted in pink is something that seems to be shining or reflecting. It looks like a child’s scrawl. The letters seem to glow phosphorescently in the early morning light. I try to connect the broken parts of the letters. It’s some kind of word:

  No, it’s not a word. It’s something else. It must be something else.

  “When?” I ask.

  He points to the time stamp on the back. 01/02/2006. Twelve days ago, sir.” He looks up at me. “And this.”

  It’s another date. This one handwritten and heavily underlined:

  I know that date, and I know what Alec is telling me. But he can’t be right. There’s a hum of blood in my ears. I shake my head to clear it, but it doesn’t go away. I look down at the ROWBEC letters again. It’s probably nothing. Maybe a smuggler signaling to someone. Probably nothing at all.

  “Okay. So you’ve got a satellite shot with no letters, or whatever they are, and then you’ve got letters. Who cares?”

  “The colonel said you would, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of that ribbon, sir.” He points to the ribbon still in my hand. “And that date.” He points: . And look at this, sir.”

  He points to the third photo. Same shot, same time of day, same jungle and snaking river. But now the glowing letters are gone. Maybe wiped away by a storm or perhaps intentionally scattered. Just the terrain remains.

  I stare at the photo. “Okay, the letters are gone,” I say.

  “
And this, sir.”

  He turns the photo over. The time stamp says 01/9/06 Just six days ago.

  The hum is even louder now, like a plane overhead. I try to ignore it. But the hum mounts to a roar and overtakes the quiet chatter and clanking of silverware around me.

  I look back to the second photo.

  I can’t even hear my own voice above the hum in my years. It grows to a roar; no other sounds at all now. I’m breathing hard, a coiled-up anger rising in my chest.

  “Get out!” I shout.

  “Sir?”

  “Get the fuck out! Get the fuck out now!”

  But Towers doesn’t move. He sits there as if he hasn’t understood.

  I grab his collar. I pull him toward me.

  This is what I remember: Towers’s face inches from mine. He struggles against me. Then I hurtle him toward the door. A table flips so hard that it breaks from its stand. There is food on the floor, scattered dinnerware. Patrons leap away and back off in a circle. A waitress stands with her hand to her mouth. The ladies’ room door is still closed.

  Then: Adobe tiles on my back, cool and restful. A circle of faces above me. The earth somehow shifted on its axis, taking me with it. I still hear the roar in my ears as I study the faces above me, note their expressions, their mouths moving soundlessly. One man reaches for me. A woman waves him away, maybe cautioning him to wait until help arrives.

  The cool tiles are restful, but then they’re just hard. I roll to my side and push myself up. My forehead is gashed and I’m dripping blood. There are hands under my elbows trying to support me, and other arms reaching, trying to help. I stagger and manage to stand. The corporal is gone. The ladies’ room door is still closed. Eddie is watching me from the corner. He makes no move to help me.

  My hearing starts to return. I hear a siren in the distance.

  Then: Julia rushing to me, kicking past the silverware and plates, her mouth open. She reaches with both hands and helps the others steady me. The sirens are closer. I grab Julia’s arm and pull her toward the door. But hands are still pulling at me, trying to keep me there, trying to help. I shout something and they back away. I yank open the door and then I’m outside, Julia with me. The sirens are still blocks away.