The American Pearl

by Peter Gilboy

  Rice. She needed more rice. Rice was her life. Rice was her survival. Rice would make her strong. With rice she could fight them with all her might. Yes, rice. And she would use the thing inside her to get the rice. That would be her freedom. And she would use its will, the will of the thing inside her. She would use it just as the thing was using her body to survive. They would use each other.

  Rice. Now Patricia’s whole world was rice.

  Lieutenant Pavlik called the guard and asked for her liberator, Ông giải phóng, to come back. When he arrived, he stood over the doghouse, one hand loose by his side, a rolled cigarette in the other hand. It had burned almost to his fingers. He waited.

  “Ông giải phóng, my liberator. I am sorry I tried to escape.”

  He nodded, pleased that she was calling him by his title.

  “I promise I won’t do it again.”

  “The villagers hate you. You safe with me. The Front protect you.”

  “Yes, Ông giải phóng, my liberator. I see that now. I tried to escape because I am starving. I do not want to die.”

  She was prepared for another lecture on imperialism. But he just stood there holding what was left of his cigarette. He bent down and pushed the cigarette into the dirt. “What is the first policy?” he demanded.

  Without looking, she said, “‘The Front protects everyone.’”

  “What is the second?”

  “‘The Front protects life and offers leniency.’”

  “Continue!”

  “‘The Front provides adequately.’”

  “More!” he shouted happily.

  Exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed her. She collapsed against the side of the cage. He didn’t scream at her. He only waited for her to continue.

  “Prisoners can correspond with their families,” she finally managed.

  Their families. Her family. The words were like a spell. Where was her family? What were they doing right now, this minute? She looked up at him. In a small voice she asked him, “Am I allowed to write to my family?”

  “You must address me as you liberator. You must say to me, Ông giải phóng or Mr. Liberator.”

  She steadied her voice. “Am I allowed to write to my family?” she said again.

  “Not now.”

  Her mind fought through the fatigue, searching to understand. “But if I cannot write to my family, then the Front denies me their lenient policy.”

  He answered slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Because of the war not all conditions of the policy can be”—he hesitated for the right word—“fulfilled.”

  An anger suddenly tore through her again, and with it a new defiance. She looked up at him. “But doesn’t the policy exist because of the war?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then if your lenient policy exists because of the war, how can you deny it to me because of the war?”

  He seemed to appreciate her logic and forced a smile. “The policy is lenient if you earn it. But you…you disobey. You try to escape. You do not call me Mr. Liberator. You do not understand I am you freedom. I tell you before, you stay here for the cows, for when they come back. Point seven. Look at me!”

  “I need medicine!”

  “You must call me Mr. Liberator!”

  “I need medicine!”

  “Medicine for those who are qualified!”

  “So you admit your treatment is unequal!”

  “Yes, unequal. It will go better for you if you call me Mr. Liberator.”

  “If your treatment is unequal, it is undemocratic, isn’t it, my liberator?”

  He answered with a humorous smile. “But it the people who decide it is unequal. So it very democratic. Now. Point seven!”

  He stood waiting for her to continue.

  “Where is the care of the spiritual and material life that you claim? Where?”

  Her liberator shook his head. “You have safety here. My people are not safe. It because of American crimes. You crimes. The puppet forces continue to attack my people. But look. You safe.” He smiled. “Now, point seven!”

  She was unable to think. After a moment, her liberator turned and walked quickly away.

  “No, wait!” Her voice shook. “‘The Front will look after the spiritual needs of the prisoners.’”

  He walked back. “Good. Eight!”

  She repeated point eight exactly and then point nine.

  “The last one?” he said in triumph.

  “‘If a prisoner dies on the battlefront or in prison, he—’”

  “Or she,” he interrupted.

  “Yes,” she acknowledged. “She will be given a proper burial and the grave will be cared for.”

  Her stomach lurched. She wanted to vomit, but her stomach was empty. She began to cry. Her stomach heaved at the same time. She gripped the bars of the doghouse. “I need rice. Please, Mr. Liberator.”

  “My people!” he barked at her. “They need rice!” He turned away.

  She shouted after him. “My baby needs rice!”

  He turned and came back. “What?” He moved closer. “What?”

  “My baby,” she whispered.

  He quickly signaled to someone. Then he opened the door to the doghouse and held out his hand to her. For some reason she was suddenly cold and panting. She was dying now. She knew it. She crawled toward him on her knees and took his hand as tightly as she could. She pulled herself a few more inches toward the door. Then she was through the door and out in the open space. She collapsed forward and lay on her stomach in the dirt.

  A short while later a woman hurried down the path toward the doghouse. She was middle-aged, round-faced with very dark skin. Same black pajamas as everyone, same cone hat. She carried a black plastic bowl and held it out to Ông giải phóng. He pointed, and the woman set the bowl down next to Patricia in the dirt.

  Lieutenant Pavlik rolled on her side and looked up at the woman. Their eyes met. The woman quickly turned and hurried away.

  Then she smelled it, the rice. Her stomach dry heaved again. But she knew she must eat. The food was her reward. She was Pavlov’s dog, now permitted outside the doghouse. No, it was only because of what was inside her. What was inside her had done it for her. Forced him to see her. Forced him to consider it. She moved her hand toward the bowl. Every muscle seemed to ache from the sitting and squatting. She hooked the bowl with her arm and pulled it against her lips. It was only a small amount of rice, and she dug her fingers into it and pushed the chunks into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, then immediately vomited.

  Another man came, and her liberator pointed and said something to him. The man tied Patricia’s ankles tightly. From the ground she could see Mr. Liberator’s sandaled feet as he walked away.

  She lay awake then, sprawled in the dirt, her cheek touching her vomit. At least it was food. She took it with her fingers, then to her mouth. Anything to survive. Her ankles were tied but at least her feet were extended straight. She bent them and straightened them again, back and forth. And it felt good.

  The next day Lieutenant Patricia Pavlik lay curled on her side in the doghouse. She had rice now. More than before. Already she was stronger. The thing inside her was stronger. She could feel it.

  Patricia stretched her arms and shoulders and felt the layers of scabs crack open. She reached over her shoulder and under her gray pajamas and felt the ooze running from an infection. The mosquito bites, the flea bites, every louse bite drilled into her scalp, like needles and sandpaper at once. She clawed everywhere she could reach.

  Then she put her back against the side of the doghouse and rubbed it back and forth, like a mangy dog. She fell back then, exhausted, and happy for the momentary relief.

  At first she didn’t notice the shadow that fell through the doghouse bars. Then, startled, she looked up. She squinted against the bright sunlight and could see only the outline of black pajamas as a man stood over her. He bent down and squatted in front of the cage. She leaned into the shadow to see him better. His
blond hair. His familiar smile.

  On his finger he twirled a dirty yellow hat.

  31

  JANUARY 17, 2006

  INTERSTATE 95 NORTH,

  8:00 A.M.

  YOU WANT TO SAY whose fault it was, but you can’t. It’s not fair. We humped together. We ate together. We took incoming together. We were one. We were a brotherhood. Even those on the not-to-talk-to list were part of it. It didn’t matter. On patrol, it was us against Charlie, the brotherhood against Charlie. The brotherhood against the whole fucking U.S. military, if that needed to happen. We’re the only thing that is real. Westmoreland isn’t real. Nixon isn’t real. Kissinger isn’t real. They are the phantoms. It’s us who are real. Nothing can destroy the brotherhood.

  “If Alec knew you were with me,” I tell Julia, “he’d kill me.”

  We’re on our way to Chapman Ford, Julia and me. I called Towers and told him that I wouldn’t pick him up after all. That I wanted to head up earlier by myself and that I’d handle it alone. Or some such lie.

  Julia pats me on the shoulder “I’m just glad you’re not a weatherman,” she says.

  “Weather researcher,” I say.

  “Well, I’m glad I’m getting to know the person I married, Quincy.”

  “It’s Quintyn. And let me do the talking when we get there.”

  “Like I always do.”

  Chapman Ford is on Roosevelt Boulevard just north of downtown Philly. The GPS says a hundred and fifty miles, two and a half hours. We’re taking 95 most of the way. My T-Bird is smooth-riding. Cool-looking. So cool that we get looks from other drivers. We’ll be there in no time.

  “Can I get a new car?” Julia asks.

  “You have one,” I say, looking over at her.

  “Not a new one, I don’t. How about a Fiesta? A honeymoon present.”

  “I’m your honeymoon present,” I say.

  “Do you think we’ll learn anything from the husband?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Julia leans across the console and kisses me on the cheeks. “I like the we part,” she tells me.

  “But something really stinks. Why did Smith come to me? It doesn’t make sense. There’s something else he’s not saying.”

  “So, you’re not going to help him?”

  “No way.”

  We continue up 95, then take the off-ramp onto 63. Minutes later, another exit, and we’re on Roosevelt Boulevard. There’s a shopping center on our right, a Hooters, and then there it is, Chapman Ford on the left. An American flag is waving out front. Place looks big. Acres and acres of cars. Showroom off to the left, service bays spread out to the right. A busy place.

  We’re just out of our car when a smiling middle-aged man approaches us. He must have come from the showroom. White shirt. Tie. No coat. Shivering in the cold air but apparently determined to look casual in order to make the sale.

  “I’ll do the talking,” I say again.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “John Sanders.” He puts out his hand. “Thanks for coming by. Pretty chilly, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I take his hand.

  “You’re a big guy,” he says, looking me up and down. He motions to my T-Bird. “Too small for you, that it? Maybe an F-150 then? Or an F-250?”

  “T-Bird is just fine,” I say. I nod toward Julia. “We’re looking to get something for her.”

  He turns to Julia. “Ah, the Ford Focus is really economical, and good looking too. Won’t break the bank.”

  “We were told to see Brian Pavlik,” I say. “He here?”

  “Sure, he’s inside. But I’m covering the lot. Got a color in mind?”

  “Red,” Julia says. “A Fiesta. Convertible, please.”

  “Convertibles are rare in the Fiesta model, but we can get one by next week. That’s not a problem. We’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “We want to see Brian Pavlik,” I repeat.

  He frowns. “Of course. Of course. Not a problem. Let me see if I can find him.”

  He leads us to the showroom door and opens the door. We enter with the salesman trailing behind. The showroom is spacious and brightly lit, showing off a number of gleaming vehicles. The salesman motions across the room and a man comes out of his office. He’s fit and nice looking. He’s taken good care of himself. I remember Towers saying that Brian Pavlik played in the over-sixty basketball league. Short hair. White shirt. Blue tie. He comes toward us. His eyes are dilated.

  “So what will it be?” he asks as he puts out his hand.

  They must be trained to say that.

  “Are you Brian Pavlik?” I ask.

  “Yes, indeed,” he says. “And you are?”

  “Someone referred us to you,” I say. “I’m Quintyn Ames and this is my wife, Julia.”

  “Always nice to get a referral. So, what will it be?”

  “A Fiesta,” Julia says. “Convertible. And red.”

  “Fun cars. Really smart. We can have one here tomorrow.” He motions to us. “Come on back.” He leads us to his office where a sign on the door says Assistant Manager. It’s a window-lined room with blinds and colorful Ford posters on the walls. Neat office. A number of photos are displayed on his desk, pictures of an attractive woman and two children. Pen and pencil set, too. Printer off to the side. His sales awards are mounted on the wall. Water cooler in the corner with plastic cups. I note a small glass tumbler with them.

  “Let me see,” he says, and punches some keys on his keyboard. “Great cars, you know, those Fiestas. Great value. Cute, too. You need cute. Red, right? We have two reds, you know. Matador and Toreador.”

  “Which one is redder?” Julia asks.

  “That’ll be the Toreador red.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Right. And what size engine?”

  “Big,” Julia says.

  “One point four or one point six liters?”

  “One point six sounds bigger.”

  “Indeed it is. And I presume you want air.”

  “Of course,” she says. “And convertible, remember?”

  I interrupt. “I used to have a Mustang,” I tell him. “Got it back in ’72. After I got back from Nam.”

  He nods vaguely. “Those Mustangs have always been good cars,” he says.

  “Were you over there?” Julia asks him.

  “Huh? Yeah. And do you want the power package? We can practically throw it in.”

  Julia adds, “Lotta questions about that war.”

  He looks from Julia to me. I watch his eyes. No change. Pupils are dilated as before. Maybe slightly glazed. Drowsy. There are rivulets of sweat on his cheeks.

  “What kind of work you in, Quintyn? It’s Quintyn, right?”

  “You’re good with names.”

  “Never forget one. So what do you do?”

  “I’m a research analyst.”

  “I see. Well, our service department is the best in town. We’ll beat any price. I know everyone says that, but we really do.”

  “Were you there in ’72?” Julia asks him.

  He looks from Julia to me again. “What is this, huh? Yeah, I was there. Got cut short, though. Easter Offensive. It was real bad. So what? Why are you asking?”

  I nod toward the family photos. “Your daughters?” I ask.

  He smiles. “They’re much older now.”

  “Were you married before the war?”

  He leans back in his chair. “Who are you?”

  “We’re trying to get some information about someone, Mr. Pavlik. A lieutenant. Records show she was your wife.”

  “What? Pattie? What’s this about?”

  “We’re looking into the circumstances of what happened back then.”

  “Good luck with that.” He stands up. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m a researcher. Special department. We thought we may have a computer glitch when her named turned up. It’s probably nothing.”

  “You bet it’s nothing. You guys at the Pentagon still can
’t get a damn thing straight.”

  “Yeah, we thought it was a glitch, too. Can you help us out?”

  “Glitch? Shit. You guys can’t do anything right. Yeah, I was there in the Easter Offensive. ’72. Her building took the first round when we were hit. I looked for her. I brought her back. I buried her. What do you really want?”

  “We’re just trying to verify her death is all.”

  “That again.”

  “What?” Julia asks.

  “I went through this before. You guys have your nerve. Come crashing into people’s lives and screw with their minds. I’ll ask you to leave, thank you. Get out of my office.”

  “What do you mean, you went through this before?”

  “Go check your records. You guys came around ten years ago, maybe in ’95. Then again two years ago. You said the same thing then. That maybe she wasn’t…Jesus, I can’t even say it. They came to my house. I told them everything then. That I brought Pattie back. That she’s on the Wall, for Christ sake. I go there every year. She was too wonderful of a person to get killed in that fucked-up war.”

  He takes a breath and works to control himself.

  “Look,” he says, “I had hopes. A long time ago. Sure. And I had questions, but no one listened. Where the hell have you been for the last thirty years? I gave up after ten. I never declared her dead. I didn’t even know what I brought home.”

  “I’m sorry to ask this,” I say, “but did anyone look in the casket?”

  Julia shoots me a look. “Quintyn!”

  Rather than angry again, he appears crushed. He leans forward in his chair, rubs his eyes before continuing. “I kept wondering and wondering. You guys are the ones that declared her dead. You and your fucking Pentagon.”

  “What about the people you said came around?”

  “They said that maybe there was some evidence that Pattie wasn’t killed. Maybe she was still there. Jesus. Can you imagine? Then later some other guy calls and says forget it, that it was just a record screw-up, and they’re sorry. Sorry? Shit. I needed another year of therapy just to put it behind me again! So don’t come in here now and fuck with my mind with some other story just ’cause you got a new screw-up in the records.”