by Peter Gilboy
Ma remembers now and launches into some story about me that I haven’t heard before and which probably didn’t happen. She’s saying that my math teacher in high school, Miss Beemer was her name, caught me daydreaming and pulled me by the ear to the front of the class and made me sit in the first row. Never happened. I loved math. Front row all the time. No one could have budged me.
“And you know what they called him at first base?”
“Ma.”
“You hush, son.”
“What?” Julia asks.
“Hoover, like the vacuum cleaner. That’s what they called him. Nothin’ could get by my boy. I’ll tell you. Except one time, of course.”
She launches into the story about when I was covering first and a line drive went right at me. Whistled past my ear. Almost took my ball cap off. That story did happen. But none of that is important tonight.
Ma changes topics. “And I remember when he went over there, I was so worried. That place, Vietnam. The news every night was nothing but bad, bad, bad. Everything was bad. There was no reason for it. No reason at all. And my boy was there. But at least he had a desk job. Still dangerous just being there, but processing whatever he was processing for the Army couldn’t hurt him. And they taught him how to type. That’s one good thing that the government did for my boy.”
“Julia’s heard that,” I say. Sometimes I think my mom is suffering from PTSD. She might as well have been there herself.
Ma sits back and folds her hands in her lap. “Julia, what church do you go to again?”
“Ma!”
“Oh, I can ask, can’t I? We go to Kingdom Hall over on Ainger. Do you know it, Julia?”
“Ma, please.”
“Well, I hope the sweet potatoes were the way you like it, Julia. Now tell me why you had to come back. First you run off, then you run back. Doesn’t seem right to me. I need to know if this is some foolishness my son is pulling. We girls have to stand together.”
Julia explains, “Oh, it’s just something at Quintyn’s work. You know how he gets. And it’s only for a day or two.”
“Well, okay. I can’t believe I have you both to myself. And Quintyn, your phone isn’t ringing. Lord!”
“It went for a swim,” Julia explains.
On cue, my mother’s land line rings. Julia gives me a look.
I put up my hands. “Let me get it,” I say. “Probably for Ma.”
“This late?” Ma says. “Oh, let it go, Quintyn.” Then, as I get up she adds, “You come right back.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m just going to tell Julia about the time you—”
“Ma.”
“—that time you went in for a school photo with the biggest afro ever, and they hardly could get it all in the picture.”
The phone is still ringing in the next room. It’s Towers, of course. I try to keep my voice low, but without being suspicious.
“What do you got?” I ask him.
“Sir, you said it was a long shot.”
“Yeah.”
“You said that Noah Levinson told you that the dentist and a Caucasian woman were on a beach at some leper place the day of the attack. The dentist was from MacArthur Compound, and I located a leper place on the coast, not far from there.”
“Name?”
“Cuy Hoa, sir.”
“What else?”
“Nothing, sir. I’m sorry.”
“There must be something.”
“Just that the dentist is still missing. But there’s no woman missing from there, sir. I checked and double checked. I even checked Australian and New Zealanders who were over there.”
“What about that woman who was at MacArthur Compound? The one who was killed.”
“Pavlik, sir.”
“Yeah, Pavlik. What about her?”
“She came home, sir. I mean, her remains did. They buried her.”
“So what?”
“Sir?”
“Never mind. What else do we have on her?”
“She was a first lieutenant. From Branford, Connecticut. Killed along with Specialist Conlee and Sergeant Cox in a mortar attack that hit her supply office.”
“I know that! Next you’re going to tell me what medals they got!”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Is there anything else about them? Anything different?”
“Sir?”
“Maybe the way they were identified?”
“Specialist Conlee and Sergeant Cox were ID’d by their dog tags.”
“And Pavlik?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“Quintyn!” Ma calls from the other room.
“Be right there,” I say, then to Towers, “Of course it doesn’t say.”
“But her remains came home, sir.”
“What remains? What remains came home?”
“Doesn’t say, sir.”
“Of course. Magellan was right.”
“Who’s Magellan?”
“No idea.”
“Sir, Patricia Pavlik is on the Wall.”
“Means nothing. What else?”
“It says she was buried at the Saint Agnes Cemetery in Branford, on April 10, 1972, survived by her parents and her husband.”
“What about her husband? Wasn’t he there?”
“Captain Brian Pavlik. He’s from Branford also. He survived the attack. Came back in April ’72.”
“Any connection to R-O-W?”
“Can’t say, sir.”
“Quintyn! Who’s on the phone?”
“Okay, Towers. I guess that’s it.”
“Sir, what about a maiden name?”
“What?”
“Her maiden name.”
“You’re a genius, Towers.”
“That’s what they say, sir.”
I hear him clicking away at his keyboard. “Sir, the Army didn’t use maiden names as identifiers back then.”
“Where is that boy?” I hear Ma say. “Your ice cream is melting!”
“Coming, Ma. Find it, Towers.”
“I’m already checking obituaries in Branford, for when she was buried.”
“Good.”
“Sir!”
“What?”
“It’s her father! His name!”
“Quintyn!” Ma yells. “Where are you?”
“Coming, Ma! Get to it, Towers!”
“It’s Frank Rowland.”
“Rowland as in R-O-E,” I ask, “or R-O-W?”
“As in R-O-W, sir.”
“Jesus.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That boy! He doesn’t listen to anybody.”
“She’s still there,” I say. “She’s still there. All this time.”
“Sir, it’s a real long shot.”
“Everything that’s ever happened was once a long shot.”
“But it’s just a partial, sir. R-O-W. It’s just a part of a name.”
“You got anything better?”
“No, sir.”
Ready?
It’s Eddie in my ear. The faintest whisper. He’s standing behind me now.
“Where’s her father?”
More clicking on the keyboard. “Still in Connecticut, sir; 21 Rolling Hill Road in Branford. He must be retired now. Must be pretty old.”
“And the husband?”
More clicks on the keyboard. I wait.
“Brian Pavlik. Three with that name on Facebook, sir, only one who’s in his sixties. He lives in Philly, on Waverly Street. Married to Samantha. Says he plays basketball on an over-sixties team. And, he’s a car salesman. Works at Chapman Ford on Roosevelt Boulevard.”
“How far is Chapman Ford?”
More clicks on the keyboard. “A hundred and fifty miles from here, sir. Two hours and ten.”
“That’s not too far.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pick you up at nine tomorrow?”
“Got it, sir. But, sir, it’s still a long shot.”
26
/> A VILLAGE IN SOUTH VIETNAM
DAY 96
SHE HAD BEGGED FOR extra food, just a little, not so much that they might suspect. They gave her small sections of fish, a piece of mango, a portion of manioc root. It wasn’t enough. But it didn’t matter. She felt a new strength. Maybe it was simply the adrenaline. Whatever it was, it was good. She would need it.
They didn’t tie her up at night anymore. Maybe they thought there was no way to escape. Nowhere to go. Maybe they thought she was too weak to try.
But she was stronger. And her plan was simple. Wait until late. Follow the ditch down to the canal. She would have to deal with the mosquitoes, cope with them somehow. Somehow. The mosquitoes couldn’t stop her; she would ignore them, just keep going. Take the canal, and when she was free, she would live off the land—coconuts if they could be found, cattail roots, anything, anything at all edible. If she found flat land she would not go that way. Too easy to track her; she’d leave trails in the leaves and tall grasses. If she tried to go through the jungle she’d be lost. A massive tangle of limbs and vines, like an enormous Venus flytrap waiting for her. That wasn’t the way either.
No, it had to be the canal all the way. Follow it to a stream. A river. She couldn’t take one of their boats because it would give her away. She would have to swim. She would have to be silent. Completely silent. Once she reached the canal she’d take off her black pajamas, tie the arms, and fill them with air for flotation when she needed it. She would float, swim, wade, run, whatever it took to follow the canal to a friendly village. If there was a friendly village.
She waited until the dead of night, then went to the window opening and tried to pull herself up, struggling headfirst to fit through the hole. But the opening was just a little too small. She pulled at the termite-eaten wood until the opening was larger. Now she was able to squirm to her waist and balance herself halfway out. She checked again, left and right. She heard no one. Nothing but the jungle night loud in her ears. And she was invisible in the dark. She knew that. No moon. Stars were covered by the overcast. The night couldn’t have been blacker.
Patricia pulled again and wiggled the rest of the way through the hole. She dropped to the soft ground. No noise. No shouting from the guards. They hadn’t heard her.
Barefoot, Lieutenant Patricia Pavlik started down the ditch one silent step at a time. Mosquitoes descended on her, swarming her shoulders and hair. She ignored them except to brush them from her eyes so she could see. She didn’t feel their probes. She didn’t feel the stones and the glass in the ditch. She didn’t hear her own breath or the beat of her heart. She was focused on one thing only. Freedom.
Down she went, following the gradual descent. She sniffed, trying to make out the smell of algae and rotting leaves so she’d know when she was closer to the canal.
Patricia’s mind spun to the creek across the field back home; how she always came back with her shoes soaked and her arms and legs nicked and scratched.
She refocused as the ditch started to level out. The canal had to be close. She could smell it now, not like the creek back home, but a putrid smell. She felt with her feet, searching for where the bank dropped off. Then she found it. It was slimy, but she slid on her back, slowly down the embankment, until her toes touched the water; then her ankles, then her calves. For an instant she remembered the pool where she had trained and competed. That was nothing. That was just a good time. Trophies and ribbons. Applause.
She imagined her father on the other bank of the canal encouraging her, waving her on, calling to her to move faster, to get away, to do it now, right now, don’t wait, Pattie, you’ll be free.
Waist high in the canal, she removed her pajama top and tied the arms. The mosquitoes immediately covered her back and breasts like a second skin. She ignored them and wet the pajama top and swung it n the air to fill it. The mosquito bites stung every inch of her skin. She didn’t care.
Patricia lowered herself until only her head was above the water and exposed to the mosquitoes’ probes. She moved as quickly as she could while remaining silent, a long breaststroke. She was exhilarated by the sense of moving forward, toward freedom. The mosquitoes were relentless in her hair and ears. They were heavy on her forehead. But she dared not splash at them yet. She could only blink wildly to ward them away.
Patricia slowed, and her feet touched ground. She could feel the trash and ooze at the bottom of the canal. The water was thick with scum, but that was good; it would soften the sound as she moved even if it made it harder for her.
Then something was under her nose. A ball of excrement. She gasped loudly, panicked. She slapped it away as she paddled backward. She stopped to listen. Had anyone heard her?
She redirected her thoughts to the freedom ahead of her. She went forward again. The only sounds now were her own breathing and the mosquitoes in her ears. She ignored the stench that seemed to be everywhere. She kept her mind on one thing. She would be free. She would be free.
Then there were no reeds. She rested a moment, treading water. She could hear her breath now, ragged. Her toes could not reach the bottom. She sensed that this was a juncture of waters. But the temperature of the water had not changed. Maybe not a river. Maybe just a junction with another canal. She tried to sense the direction of the flow. It seemed to be moving to her left. She paddled in that direction knowing that it could be just a back current and that she could be moving the wrong way. She continued until her feet felt the muck again and she was able to push with her legs.
Her thoughts spun backward again, to the raft at Lake Saltonstall. The water was always cloudy there, but warm like this canal; she remembered her father watching her swim, bragging to his friends that his daughter was a verb, always in motion, always tumbling or swimming or twirling or swinging the highest on the swings.
Lieutenant Pavlik’s forehead was numb from mosquito bites on top of mosquito bites. One eye was swelling shut. More insects fastened themselves to her. She stopped for a moment and submerged her head again. She surfaced with more ragged gasps.
Again Patricia met a tangle of reeds. These were too thick to pass. She pushed her half-naked body out of the muck, exposing herself. She pulled herself up onto the bank of the canal. Mosquitoes covered every inch of her as she scrambled on all fours, scraping her knees and hands while dragging the float with her. When she thought that she was past the tangled reeds she let herself down into the water again not knowing whether to prefer the thick muck or the mosquitoes.
Her floats were deflated now and useless. But she dragged them along as she moved forward in a silent breaststroke. She gauged that she had a short time only before the guards would arise and find her gone. Then, a roll of excrement under her nose. She didn’t panic this time, just closed her mouth and blew air as quietly as she could, feeling it move along her cheek and past her ear as she went forward. She wondered where the river was. There had to be one. There had to be. Maybe ten yards ahead. Maybe ten miles.
She pushed herself through more reeds and suddenly the water temperature dropped and the thick water seemed to thin out. The river. The river. Yes, the river. And freedom. She was growing exhausted, but she would find the strength.
Then she felt a slight rain. In a minute it came down stronger and the mosquitoes disappeared. The rain quickly trailed off and the mosquitoes returned, even thicker than before. She didn’t care. She didn’t care. One eye was now shut and her mouth was swollen from the bites. She didn’t care.
An eel or a snake brushed by her submerged leg. Or was it a reed? Now her other eyelid was swelling. She strained to keep it open. Then a section of clouds cleared and stars broke out. Until that moment she had been invisible, but now the stars pointed to her, fingers from the sky. She could see the mosquitoes for the first time, swarming like bees over a hive. She wanted to splash and climb out and run. She could feel her strength dwindling. But she wouldn’t stop. She would focus. She would keep moving. Freedom was ahead. Freedom was ahead. Just a little furthe
r. Just a little further.
Then the water was shallower. Where was the junction with a river? Maybe there wasn’t a river at all.
Patricia stopped. She closed her eyes and was immediately asleep from exhaustion. She jolted herself awake and kept going. The sky had changed to a blue-black. Then, voices to her right. People. Maybe coming out before dawn to use the canal as a latrine. Or maybe it was a search team already out to bring her back. She had no idea how far she had traveled. Maybe two miles. Maybe two hundred yards. Maybe in a circle.
Could the voices be friendly South Vietnamese, not North? She wanted to run to the voices and take her chances that they were on the same side. She shook her head. No. She continued, and the canal turned left now, and suddenly the voices seemed to be straight ahead. The sky shifted to a light blue. She stopped and tried to tread water, but her arms and legs were burning. She wanted to lie on her back and just float, but then too much of her would be exposed. She waited, hoping the voices would recede. She could see now that the canal was much wider at this point than she had thought. She was sure to be seen.
She thought of her husband and the other American soldiers, all of them searching to find her. Maybe they were close. Maybe they were just around the bend. Or maybe they were nowhere.
Patricia moved forward again. There was enough light now to see the scum that splashed against her chin with each stroke. The voices seemed to be gone. Then she heard them again, even closer. She had to move. She had to hide. She tried to push with her feet but the muck was suddenly a foe rather than a friend. To her left she saw a patch of reeds and algae in a side pocket where the canal ran slowest under an overhanging tree. She made for the reeds and submerged her head beneath the algae, holding her breath.
She surfaced and permitted herself to relax for a moment. There was a loosening in her bowels as the tension that had sustained her suddenly dipped. The stench surrounded her. She pushed forward in the water. There was no time for revulsion or humiliation.