by Peter Gilboy
“You mentioned a dentist and a woman?”
“For a long time people were trying to forget, weren’t they, Ames. Now it seems like everyone is trying to remember.”
“Was the woman an American?”
“I remember Larry Petucci. I remember him real clear. He got shot but he wasn’t hollering, and when I went to help him his head fell off. That was very upsetting.”
“What about the dentist? And the woman. Was she an American?”
“You ever see someone hanging by their hair?”
“No.”
“Takes four and a half days for a scalp to peel off. That’s what they did when we left a village. Took the women we’d talked to and hung them by their hair. We’d find them later when we came back through.”
“I’m really sorry, Noah. You mentioned a dentist and a woman?”
“You were there, weren’t you?” he asks again. “I can tell.”
“Yeah.”
“I still see things, you know. Like I’m there. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“Choppers like locusts coming in, and they want me to get on too. But I won’t go.”
“You mentioned a dentist and a woman,” I say.
“Like ants at a picnic, but invisible ants, you know. That’s how many Charlies there were. No use getting yourself killed for invisible ants. They were going to move me so I could kill more of them. But I wouldn’t get on the chopper. They called me a psycho and a Jew-boy pussy. But I wouldn’t go. I laughed at them. You remember stuff, like me?”
“Yeah, Noah. I remember stuff.”
He nods. “Remembering is the problem, isn’t it? So how come you’re doing so good on the outside?”
“Maybe sometimes I don’t do so good on the outside.”
“Yeah.”
“You deserted, Noah. Why?”
“Ever see a flammable village?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s why. Besides, the water buffalo told me. You ever talk to a water buffalo, Ames?”
“No.”
He laughs. “Good, ’cause they don’t talk.” He motions for me to come closer. “They tried to put me on the chopper, but I told them about the ants and the water buffalo. What the water buffalo said. Then I ran. I wasn’t going to get on. They tried to catch me.”
I nod as if I understand perfectly. “So what did the water buffalo tell you?”
“He told me about Charlie. His eyes did, anyway. But I never seen Charlie ’til then. DIs said Charlie was everywhere, and to watch out; but all that time, no Charlie. Invisible. But Charlie was firing and blowin’ things up. Blowin’ people up.”
Noah Levinson makes a loud exploding sound, his arms thrown out for effect.
“But I never seen him. Even in Charlie’s village they Zippoed Charlie’s hut, but he wouldn’t come out. You could see something move in a tree line, but you don’t see nobody, not really, but you fire anyway, and so does everyone else, and you don’t know why you’re doing it, just contributing, I guess. And maybe you see something fall at the tree line, but it’s not like you thought it would be, because it’s not like it happened to anyone particular.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“So I kept wondering where the fuck Charlie was. I wanted to see his face. Eight months. Then I seen him. His face. Eight months it took. But then I seen Charlie.”
He reaches for a pitcher. He pours himself a full glass of water. Motions to me.
“No, thanks,” I say.
“You weren’t an officer, were you?”
“No. You were saying about the dentist and the woman.”
He drinks some and then settles back.
“I didn’t see Charlie ’til then. They were there, though, like invisible ants, you know.”
“Yeah, like invisible ants.”
“But then he was there, finally. I seen him. Charlie. He was layin’ down behind a mound. We were in this village, you know, looking for Charlie, and he wasn’t anywhere, except then there he was. Over there. I was shaking and trying to jam my clip in, and I think he was reloading too. I could see his feet sticking out and they were shaking too, like I was. Charlie was just a guy, see, not like the DIs said. And I started pulling for the little guy. I mean I was really pullin’ for him. He was just like me. Then I shot Charlie, and he stopped shaking. Then I went over, and there was just a dark speck low on his shoulder, not like in the movies. His eyes were closed. He was so quiet. But I got Charlie. You understand? I got him.”
“Yeah.”
“Then I heard a noise. I fired. It wasn’t nobody but the water buffalo. He had wide horns. I’d shot him by mistake, the water buffalo. He swung his head around then and looked at me. He wouldn’t take his eyes off me. I could see his skin quivering where I got him, a ripple was all, and he seemed to brace his legs. Then he went down on his front knees, still looking at me. His eyes said everything. I felt this small. And that’s when he told me, not with words, but with those soft eyes, you know, like he knew everything in the world, and he said that he didn’t want me to fight no more. He told me there’s no sense in me going home. He said I got no degrees and never laid a brick. I can move quiet on a trail, though, and I can call in napalm if I have to.”
“Yeah.”
“So the water buffalo, he said to go south along the shore. And I did. He was right, too. It was good there. It was real good.”
“Where?”
“The leper place.”
“Leper place?”
“It was real safe there. Nuns ran it. They spoke something, maybe French. A good place. Lots of colors all around. They made nice things. They were nice people. I felt good there. I had friends. The buffalo was right, wasn’t he?”
“You said you saw a man and woman.”
He motions toward the chair. I sit down.
“Yeah,” he continues. “I seen him before, fixin’ people’s teeth. Couple a times. And now with a woman.”
“Was she an American?”
“They were doin’ it, you know. Doin’ it right there on the beach. Can’t forget that. And then they came after me, and then Charlie shows up again. But the water buffalo said not to fight, didn’t he?”
There’s a ringing in my ears. “Yeah, that’s what he said. Was the woman American?”
“She was white. Pretty too.”
“Did she speak French?”
“Not to me. She spoke English.”
“Was she wearing a uniform?”
“Yeah. An Army uniform.”
“Does the word ROWBEC mean anything to you?”
He shakes his head.
“R-O-W,” I spell, “B-E-C.”
“No. Nothing,” he says.
“What else do you remember?”
“What’s it like out there, Ames?”
“It’s okay out there.”
“I might go out one day.”
The ringing in my ears won’t stop.
“What happened to the dentist and the woman?”
“Charlie came. Shot them. Or maybe took them. There was so many of them, you know, like—”
“Like ants.”
“Yeah. Like ants. Except not invisible now, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. Did you see what happened to them? The dentist and the woman.”
He squints like he’s trying to see into the past.
“Dentist got it in the head, I think. Yeah, I saw that. Woman was running with him. Saw that too. Trying to get away. Can’t forget that. I couldn’t help her. I tried to help. I did. I tried. But I couldn’t help them.”
“Did they get her?”
“Like ants, you know.”
“Yeah, do you know her name?”
“She was pretty. I remember that. But I don’t remember any name.”
“How did you get away?”
“I kept thinking about the buffalo, how he swung his head around and said go south. And so I went south again. I ran. Invisible, you know, l
ike Charlie. Like a spirit, I was. Down the coast. Then Charlie saw me and shot me right here.” He turns and pulls up his shirt to show a jagged, sunken scar. “Cut off some toes too, so I couldn’t run. Want to see?”
“No.”
“They kept me there. It was a cage. For a real long time. Then they let me go. Said the war was over and they didn’t need me no more. So I didn’t have to go back and fight. The water buffalo was right after all, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s good that he was right.”
“Yeah. Did you ever see the woman again?”
He shakes his head.
“Did you see anyone else where they held you?”
“A major. And a sergeant. After a while they took them away.”
“They were alive when they took them away?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you see them when you got out?”
“It was just me. Don’t know what happened to them.”
“Is there anything else you remember?”
He shakes his head as if clearing it. “Too much remembering,” he says. “Too much. You should go.” He suddenly smiles. “Maybe you could come back sometime, Ames, and we could talk some more. I don’t get many visitors.”
“Yeah, I’d like that, Noah.”
“My friends call me Noey.”
“Noey.”
“Then maybe we can go out somewhere. If you come back.”
“I think that would be good, Noey. You take care.”
“You too, Ames. You take care too. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Towers is waiting for me outside. We head back down the hallway and down the elevator. My ears are still ringing. It’s getting louder.
Towers asks, “How was he?”
“Said he had a visitor before us. The guy wanted to know about the dentist and a woman.”
“That dentist who was listed as missing?”
“Unless there are two dentists missing.”
We stop at the front desk to drop off our badges. The man behind the counter puts down his crossword puzzle again and leans forward like before. “So what did the little Jew say?” he asks.
I grab his collar and pull him toward me. “What the fuck is your problem, man!”
He struggles, pushes back on my hands. I just hold him there, eye to eye.
“I’ll tell you my problem,” he manages in a rasping voice, trying to be tough. “I was over there. I had friends who didn’t come back. That son of a bitch, he ran! He fucking ran!”
I shove him away. He falls backward over his chair and rolls to the floor.
“Noah Levinson didn’t come back either,” I tell him.
Outside, the ringing in my head hasn’t stopped. But it hasn’t gotten worse. A good sign. Then I realize that Eddie isn’t with us. I look around. He didn’t come with us at all.
We walk to where my T-Bird is parked. I start it, and we pull away. We pass the entrance again. I look back; red brick like a fortress. Only then do I realize why Eddie didn’t come. He’d be found out if he came.
That’s why.
24
A VILLAGE IN SOUTH VIETNAM
DAY 90
FROM ACROSS THE HUT, Patricia Pavlik stared at the window hole. It was shoulder height, near the corner. Small, but maybe just big enough for her to fit through. She glanced toward the doorway. She listened. No rustling of clothes outside. No one speaking. No footsteps approaching.
She examined her body; the ribs that were trying to heal, the open sores and bleeding wounds from when she tore at her mosquito-bitten flesh. She was a ball of torment, the pounding in her head, the sudden spasms from nowhere. But her body was also her tool and she would protect it. She would nourish it. She had to nourish it if she was going to escape.
Lieutenant Pavlik went to the window. She stretched out and leaned forward to see. She saw that the jungle began thirty feet behind the hut; a green wall of towering woods and dense-leafed plants, many with thorns. She could hide in the jungle and elude her pursuers. But she would need a machete. No, even with a machete she wouldn’t make it if she went into the jungle. At dusk the mosquitoes would blanket her, feasting at every pore. There was no escape that way.
She leaned out farther and looked to the left but could see only the path to the latrine area. To the right she could see the corner of another hut that was a little closer to the edge of the village. She managed to lean even farther, her feet leaving the ground. She looked down. There was a muddy drainage ditch a yard wide and two feet deep. In the mud was a half-covered boot with no laces. It was an American boot. Next to it sprouted a tiny yellow flower that reminded her of a buttercup.
The ditch. If she followed the ditch, it would eventually lead her to a canal. She could swim then. She could swim to safety. That would be her escape.
Her body shook with the thought of freedom. She was an American. She was a woman. She was an officer in the United States Army. She would not die here. The canal was her answer.
Footsteps.
She moved quickly away from the window, to a corner. But not fast enough. A female guard with a wide face had already entered and caught her by the window. The guard’s face turned stern. She said something in a harsh tone and waved Patricia away from the window opening. In the woman’s hand was a ball of packed rice. She set the ball of riced in the dirt beside the mat. She hurriedly left.
Patricia wanted to jump for the rice. She wanted to devour it in one gulp. But she stepped slowly to her mat. At each meal she was determined to maintain a semblance of discipline. Her behavior was all she could control now. She would not become a beast. That was another way to fight them. She needed discipline to escape. With discipline she could hold herself together. With discipline she could win.
She picked up the rice and brushed the dirt off. She pulled off clumps of the rice and fed herself slowly, even resisting the urge to lick her fingers. Then she noticed something different. A piece of orange yam in the middle of the ball. It was about an inch long and as wide as her finger. Perhaps a gift from Vang, maybe the most he could do. But it was so small that it could be a mistake, or even a cruel joke.
She would save the piece of yam for last. Patricia set it on her knee. When she finished the rice she put the piece of yam in her mouth and let it sit on her tongue. After some time, she chewed slowly until it was mush. She swallowed it little by little.
It grew dark. The two guards entered. One carried nylon rope and a blindfold. They would tie her up again because they had discovered her at the window opening. They motioned for her to stand. She refused. With her thoughts of freedom so fresh, she would not let them tie her up again. They came at her then, one guard kicking her in the side. Patricia kicked back, and the guard tumbled over. There was a blow to the side of her face from the other guard. She collapsed to the side. Then another blow and another. She absorbed the blows without any utterance except for short gasps of air.
They pulled her to her feet. They bound her hands behind her. Then, the blindfold went around her head. One of them spoke sharply, and Patricia braced herself for another blow. Instead they pushed her down on her mat. After a moment she felt the side of the mosquito net fall against her hair.
When they were gone, Lieutenant Pavlik could not hold back, and she cried noiselessly into the blindfold. She curled into a ball and pulled on the cords, but they only dug deeper into her skin. The blindfold grew wetter and wetter against her eyes. But Patricia vowed again. She would escape. She would escape. She would play the game until they trusted her again. Then she would flee to the canal. She would be free. She would be free.
No one could stop her.
25
JANUARY 16, 2006
MA’S HOUSE,
11:30 P.M.
CONSIDER ANN HODGES. SHE’S the woman who was hit by a meteor. That was back in 1954. In Alabama. She was napping on the couch when the meteor broke through her ceiling, glanced off her radio, and hit her in the side. Ima
gine the chances. How many square feet on the planet? The thickness of the roof. The radio so precisely placed. Imagine the remoteness of it compared even to being struck by lightning. Random, you’ll say. And you’ll dismiss it. But the fact remains: Meteors 1, People 0.
I think of Ann Hodges because she wouldn’t have made it a day in Nam. Maybe not an hour. Her fate wouldn’t have it. Fate is a liberating part of combat. You’ll die or you won’t. That simple. You’ll come home standing up or on your back. That simple. Perhaps the round intended for you will take the precise route, and propulsion and gravity will do their thing and stop you right there on the trail. It’s over. Bye.
Or, you’re walking down a trail, and a breeze rises, lifts a leaf just so, and the projectile nicks the leaf and is nudged a fraction this way or that; and so you keep walking down the trail. It’s not up to you, see? You can do everything you can, and it’s still not up to you. That simple. Ann Hodges knows that. Soldiers know that.
That simple.
“Son, are you with us?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“My, that boy daydreams, Julia. I remember—”
“Ma.”
“Oh, don’t you Ma me, Quintyn. You run off and get married without a mind to me, and—”
“Ma, I tried to explain about that.”
“Hush, son. And I had to heat up your Hoppin’ John twice. So I’m going to tell Julia what a daydreamer you were. That’s not bad, son. Edison daydreamed, I’ll bet. And Frederick Douglass, don’t you think he dreamed? Lord, he dreamed big. And Reverend King, he had the biggest dream of all.”
“Okay, Ma.”
“Now I forgot. You want some more, Julia? There’s lots.”
We’re around the table at Ma’s place. Ma is about five-foot-two and looks smaller. She’s thin. She always wears lipstick and earrings, even in the house. You never know when someone might come by. This is where I grew up. It’s a third-floor walkup with an old rug from my childhood and a new sectional that crowds the room. I love it here. It’s comforting to see the same fridge and stove. Same countertops. Same pictures on the wall. The rents have gone up and the neighborhood has gone down, but it’s still home, and the food is always good. Ma says it’s always dinnertime when I come, no matter the time. Eddie doesn’t eat. He’s in that chair in the darkened corner over by the window. Probably getting some shut-eye.