The American Pearl

by Peter Gilboy

  Now from behind her, she heard the sound of an oar against the side of a boat. They were coming. They were this close. She backed up to the bank of the canal, hidden in the reeds. The little boat rounded the bend and she could see them now. Two men and the two guards. They were from the village. Fury rose inside her. Patricia grabbed for the roots on the bank. She would pull herself up and run. There was no other way. She dug her knees into the bank and pulled hard. Nothing happened. She lifted her head and looked up the bank for her father’s hand, the hand that was always there to pull her from the pool after a race. You did it, Pattie! But there was no hand. She pulled even harder on the roots, or so it seemed in her mind, but she remained where she was. The boat came closer. They had not seen her yet.

  Patricia’s mind raced in all directions. She would duck under the water. She would breathe through the reeds. She would hold her breath for five minutes if necessary. Anything. Anything.

  Then she heard laughter, and a deep expulsion of sounds so sharp and tattered that it frightened her.

  “Shitheads!”

  She realized where the sounds came from. It was her.

  “You’re all shitheads!”

  She laughed again, loud and clear. The sound of the oars was getting closer. “You’re all fucking gook shitheads!”

  Hilarious. But they wouldn’t understand. It didn’t matter. She was giddy now. She wanted to wave to them but she was too exhausted to even lift a hand. She just waited there, half-naked in the water. They came closer.

  But it was her father who was in the boat; he reached for her from the edge of the pool. You did it, Patti! he was saying. You did it! She managed to grab for his hand. She laughed, elated now, even joyous to have won. She felt him pull her up and out of the water. Then it was a different hand that dragged her into the little boat.

  They would kill her now. It was all right. She had taken her chance. She had done what she could. She had failed. No, she had won. She had been free. Yes, free. Whatever they did to her now, it was all right.

  Yes, they would kill her. She laughed out loud again.

  27

  JANUARY 17, 2006

  N STREET NW,

  12:50 A.M.

  THERE’S SOMETHING ELSE ABOUT fate. It deceives. Fate whispers that we’re in charge. It lets us imagine “what if?” It wants us to believe that alternate histories were possible if only we had chosen this instead of that, turned here rather than there; but really, fate has been inching us forward all the while, nudging us along; and then one day you’re soaked with drizzle, and then it clears some and now there’s a single star overhead, and you’re listening to the night and to the sound of Bob Wilcox, who is flapping and kicking one leg behind him as if he can still go somewhere; and then you see Eddie’s eyes wide open on you. And you know that there never were any choices, not really; that for some reason this is where you had to come, to this place right here. This ditch.

  “Who was on the phone?” Julia asks.

  We’re in my car. We’re on our way back from Ma’s place, heading to our apartment. The temperature has dropped and I have the heater on full. Convertible tops are nice until it gets cold.

  “Who was on the phone?” she asks again.

  “My Uncle Omar. He’s just saying hello.”

  “So when are we leaving? For Hawaii.”

  “Just a little longer, honey.”

  “How long?”

  “Not long.”

  “How long?” she insists.

  “Can you get us tickets? Direct to Hawaii?”

  “For when?

  “For tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” she says.

  “Or maybe the day after.”

  She faces me.

  “All right,” I say. “Tomorrow.”

  “I heard you say Chapman Ford.”

  “I’m taking the T-Bird in tomorrow.”

  “No, you’re not.” She leans against the door, facing me. “Quintyn, I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Nothing’s going on, honey. You know me.”

  “Quintyn, you’re not investigating inside traders. That’s shit.”

  We travel blocks in silence. It starts to snow, and I put the wipers on. Julia’s still watching me. “I want to know who I married,” she says.

  “Honey.”

  “On the phone you said ‘remains came home.’ You said the name Magellan and you said ‘he was right.’ And some other things. I heard you.”

  “Honey, I can’t go into it.”

  “Who’s Magellan?”

  “I don’t know. And that’s the truth.”

  “Then why’d you say his name?”

  “Because I’m trying to find out who he is. That’s all I’m doing, and that’s the truth, Julia. You know how things are classified. I can’t share them with you. I want to. I really want to. But I can’t.”

  “Who’s Pavlik?”

  “You really should understand, Julia.”

  “Understand? No, I don’t fucking understand! And I’m not going anywhere with you, Quintyn. Not to Hawaii. Not even back to our apartment. You can let me out right here! Pull over. I want to know who the fuck I married! And you’re going to tell me.”

  Eddie is here somewhere. I can feel him. He’s enjoying this.

  “You’re not a weather researcher, and you’re not after inside traders.”

  “You’re right,” I admit. “Okay? You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Just start with Magellan,” she says. “Who is he?”

  “He’s just a guy who gets us information.”

  “Who is ‘us’?”

  “Direct Resources. I told you.”

  “And you don’t know who he is, this Magellan?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s gotten you information about what?”

  “Julia?”

  “Tell me!”

  “About someone who may be missing.”

  “You mean kidnapped?”

  “That’s right. That’s what we think, anyway.”

  “So your job is to rescue people?”

  “No, my job is to track people.”

  “So what’s the big secret then, Quintyn?”

  I shrug. “There isn’t one, really.”

  “Yes, there is! Or you would have told me! Someone’s kidnapped. And missing. People must know. If people know, then there’s no secret.”

  “That’s the thing.”

  “What?”

  I take a breath. “People don’t know.”

  She’s still leaning against the door, facing me. She’s waiting for me to continue.

  “Because it hasn’t been reported,” I tell her.

  “Hasn’t been reported to whom?”

  “To anyone.”

  “That they’re missing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s crazy, Quintyn! This is crazy!”

  “That’s why it’s so sensitive, Julia. Please trust me.”

  “I don’t believe you. This is more of your bullshit.”

  “No, it’s the truth.”

  “How can they not know someone’s missing?”

  “I can’t—”

  “You said the name Pavlik.”

  “That’s the one who’s missing, Julia. Might be missing, I mean. Please, I can’t tell you more.”

  “Then pull over, Quintyn. Right here!” She points. “I can take a cab, thank you. And you can go find a hotel. I said pull over!”

  I take another breath. “Pavlik is a soldier,” I say. “A soldier who’s missing. That’s all.”

  “And you’re trying to find him.”

  “Julia, if I go into it, I’m out of a job. They polygraph me. They ask if I’ve spoken to anyone about our work. They’ll fire me on the spot.”

  She speaks softly now, her voice just above the sounds of the car and the night. “Well, then you should quit, Quintyn. I want you to quit. The work eats at you.” She’s quiet for some time. “I thought maybe it
was something from before that’s wrong, from the war. But it’s not. It’s about now, isn’t it?”

  “It’s really nothing.”

  “Look, Quintyn, I’m not the bitching wife. But I’m going to say it. Right now. Okay? I love you, Quintyn. But you’re not normal. You’re simply not normal. You’re kind and you’re gentle. I love that. You’re caring and you treat me like a queen. But there’s something else.”

  Silence, as I search for a response. I have none.

  “I want to know,” she continues. “I want to know why you passed out all of a sudden. I want to know why you’d leave your honeymoon.”

  “It’s just the work,” I tell her.

  “If we’re not together, really together, then I want to know that. I have to know that. I have to know it right now.”

  “Pavlik is a woman,” I say.

  She’s quiet a moment. “Thank you,” she finally says. “A woman. And she’s missing.”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”

  “How can you not be sure?”

  “Julia.”

  “Okay, so she’s missing. Maybe. What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to see her husband. Tomorrow. He’s at Chapman Ford. I’ll try to get some information from him.”

  “But he knows she’s missing, right?” Off my silence, Julia says, “You’re kidding. He doesn’t know? That’s crazy! Do you hear the words coming out of your mouth?”

  “She was reported dead, Julia.”

  “I thought you said she was missing.”

  “She was reported dead.”

  “But she’s not?”

  “Maybe she’s not.”

  “Dead? When?” Julia waits. We travel blocks in silence. “Tell me!” she says. “When?”

  I take a breath. “That’s the thing,” I say. “She’s been missing since March. Since March of ’72.”

  28

  VILLAGE IN SOUTH VIETNAM

  DAY 104

  SHE SQUATTED LIKE THEY did now. It had become the easiest thing, this squatting. She had thought it looked odd before. People sitting on their ankles. But now she squatted in her hut, her haunches nearly touching the ground.

  For days after the escape they had kept her bound and blindfolded in the hut. Not even a trek to the latrine. She had been given a pot, instead. Then one morning Vang had come and removed her restraints. He said nothing to her, no scolding, no anger. He simply nodded to her and said Hello, and left.

  Three more days then, since the escape attempt, and she still hadn’t been allowed out of the hut. The monotony had returned; yesterday like today, like it will be tomorrow—a constant process of wiping sweat from her face and catching fleas and cracking their backs between her fingernails.

  To occupy herself, she gave names to anyone who walked by the doorway. Even the two dogs had names now. Champ and Skinny. The children had names, too. American names. Susan and Gretchen, Robert and Johnny Boy. She noted that the children were nearly naked but they seemed happy. They didn’t cry. They didn’t whine. When they played, they laughed joyously. They seemed unusually alert and independent. Sometimes they would look in at her and wave shyly. She was a curiosity. She knew they were too young to be against her. Too young to understand.

  Patricia’s stomach cramped from thirst and hunger. And something else. She did not want to think about it. About what it was. But she knew. She scratched at herself again and layers of white skin peeled off. She examined her bony legs. She checked her arms, her ribs, then her stomach. She was becoming a skeleton, a trembling and nauseated skeleton. She was dying. And the thing inside her was dying too.

  Lieutenant Pavlik tried to picture what was inside her. She tried to understand, but she could not remember all of what happened. She was too weak. Too exhausted to think clearly. Then she felt something on her cheeks. It was tears. She touched the hollow of her stomach. She reached up and held her breasts. Had they changed? Not from lack of food but from something else? She knew. She had known for some time but had denied it. Pushed it from her mind. Now there was no escaping it. She knew. Yes, she knew. Though aching and bruised and starving, she could feel the change, sense it forming inside her.

  On the next morning the sun was a pale yellow as it rose over the jungle. The shadows soon encroached on her hut, and then shortened as the morning wore on. Lieutenant Pavlik waited for Vang. Maybe he wouldn’t come today.

  Then Vang arrived. But it was different. He entered quickly, shuffling on his stick. There was a different look on his face. Concern, maybe. Worry. His eyes swept the room and he pointed to her mat and mosquito net. “Đi nào,” he said. She understood the gestures. She immediately rolled up her mat and fumbled with the net. Vang showed her how to unhook the net and fold it so that it tied around her mat.

  She was leaving. It was over. Yes. She was going home. The peace talks had been completed. Maybe the whole war was over, and not just America’s involvement in it.

  She stood by the doorway, cradling her mat and net. Vang took her shoulders and in a hushed voice said the same words he had tried to teach her before.

  “Một cây đứng cao cho đến khi nó chết.”

  He motioned for her to repeat them. And she did.

  He smiled, but it was a different kind of smile. It was fearful, a pained expression. Maybe she wasn’t going home. Maybe it wasn’t over.

  Vang led her out into the sunlight and toward the trees. She had to squint at the brightness of the day. A light breeze greeted her cheeks. There were puffs of white clouds in the distance. Lush banyan trees reached upward with their dark-jade leaves. She looked around eagerly, surprised at how beautiful everything was. She took a deep breath of the hot, clear air.

  At the trees, three scraggly Viet Cong slouched there in tattered black pajamas, bamboo hats, and tire-tread sandals. They were teenagers. One might even be younger. The youngest was holding what looked like a submachine gun. The others had AK-47s strapped loosely to their backs. They were smoking. They glanced up as Vang led her to them. One stared at her and looked her up and down. He held his nose. “Huee!” he shouted, and the other men laughed.

  Vang spoke softly to Patricia, incomprehensibly. Then one of the cadre spun her around and tied her hands tightly. The cord cut into her circulation but she tried to ignore it, happy at least to be outside again.

  The VC cadre tested the cords. Then two of them grabbed an arm each and led her down a sloped path to the canal. She looked back. In the bright light, Patricia squinted to see Vang at the top of the slope, motionless, watching them take her away. She looked back one more time and saw him turn back toward the village.

  They led her to where a little boat waited. It was no more than pieces of rickety wood somehow pieced together. It had a pointed back and front. She smelled the stagnant canal water and the rotting leaves. She saw the white, scummy foam edging the sides of the canal. She suddenly wanted the hut, the dark space inside. At least she knew that space. She knew Vang. She knew the children. She tried to pull back but the cadre only held her tighter. They pushed her toward the boat.

  Where were they taking her? Maybe to a central camp. Maybe where there were other Americans. Maybe they were all to be freed together.

  The youngest Viet Cong steadied the boat as the other two shouted commands at her. She could see that the boat’s sides were rotted and that water had seeped in to form a puddle on the bottom that ran the length of the narrow hull. With her arms tied, she balanced as she stepped in unsurely, fearing it would tip or that her foot would break through. More impatient commands from the cadre and then they shoved her down on her stomach in the puddle at the bottom of the boat. She was suddenly twisted in an awkward way, her legs immediately cramping. They pushed Patricia down even harder, her hair and the side of her face forced into the puddle, her cheekbone flattened against the rough hollow of the hull. They wedged her even further, under a board that they used as a seat. Then they tossed a heavy canvas tarp over her.

  O
n her stomach now, with her hands tied behind her, her cheeks in the water, Patricia struggled to breathe. She turned her head and gasped for air. The weight of her body against the hull made it difficult for her to breathe. She struggled to turn on her side for more air. She heard more commands, and then a loud “Không!” as through the tarp came a crushing blow that glanced off her shoulder. She cried out, and her cry was immediately answered with another blow, this one against the back of her head. She was frantic for air, but she dared not cry out again. She turned her face to the side and managed to breathe in gasps through the corner of her mouth. She swallowed water and coughed and tried to turn her head more to the side so she could suck in air. The water at the bottom of the boat sloshed back and forth and she breathed with its rhythm, gulping air when the side of her mouth was clear.

  Above her the men snickered and talked as they poled the boat through the reeds and around bends. She felt the boat scrape bottom in places. Her back was hot from the sun beating down on the tarp. Twice the cadre had to stop and clear the tangled reeds by hand so the boat could pass.

  Then, an aircraft was overhead. She recognized its sound as a spotter plane that was looking for targets. It was the first plane Patricia had heard in weeks. Gunships were undoubtedly waiting just out of earshot, impatient to swoop in with their firepower. The cadre stopped speaking and poled to the side of the canal for cover. For the first time the thought raced through Patricia’s mind that she might be killed by American-trained soldiers using American-made weapons.

  She waited.

  The plane moved on.

  The cadre pushed off again. Under the tarp she had been rebreathing her own air in short gasps, but now she welcomed the traces of fresh air seeping in as the boat moved forward. They continued for what seemed like hours; the slaps of water, the pungent smells, birds screeching as they passed, then flapping away. Finally she felt the boat jolt against an embankment. The boat rocked as each of the cadre stepped off.

  They lifted the tarp off her. They unwedged her from the bottom of the boat, yanked her upright, and shoved her off the boat. Lieutenant Patricia Pavlik gulped in the clear air. They pushed her again, and at first Patricia thought they were shoving her into an impenetrable jungle wall. Then she saw the thread of a trail barely the sideways-width of her body. The Viet Cong boy with the submachine gun shoved her ahead of them, away from the canal. Stalks and broad leaves brushed the length of her body. Then the trail widened, and then they came to a small clearing.