The American Pearl

by Peter Gilboy

  And then she would kill the thing inside her.

  35

  JANUARY 17, 2006

  DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT,

  4:15 P.M.

  MAYBE IT STARTED WHEN we got the new LT. In August. First Lieutenant Charles Lute, and he’s right out of an ROTC program at some fancy eastern school. He has perfect teeth. He’s not one of us. He’s not part of the brotherhood. Still, we give him a chance. He’s in charge, but on the third day out he keeps looking around when he has to read coordinates or unjam a weapon. Gradually I take over. No one seems to mind. Not even him. The odds are better. You’re always playing the odds. But the LT isn’t one of us. He’s dangerous to the brotherhood. We’ll take care of him. But we’ll be on guard, against him too.

  The seats are perfect. Almost perfect. As perfect as they get on an airplane. Seat width is twenty-nine inches. Seat pitch, thirty-nine inches. It’s the Embracer E-90, made in Brazil for Jet Blue. A coach seat on such short notice was one hundred forty-four dollars for each of us, but I paid the business guy in 1B a hundred dollars to move to my seat. Tons of leg room now. The woman in 1A was a little harder to persuade. Two hundred and fifty. She took a check. Julia’s check, not mine. Julia looks more trustworthy.

  Our flight left at 4:00 p.m. One hour and twelve minutes to Hartford, Connecticut. Then we’ll take a rental fifty-eight miles to Branford. Yes, we’re going to see her parents; Lieutenant Pavlik’s.

  “Let me do the talking,” I tell Julia.

  “I always do.”

  “Right.”

  “What are you going to say to them?” Julia asks.

  “No idea.”

  “How will you explain being there?”

  “I’ll tell them the truth. Or some of it.”

  “That you work for the government. That’ll be reassuring. What if they’re not home?”

  “They’re old. They’ll be home. I hope.”

  Towers had looked up the parents for me. Frank Rowland is now eighty-four. Sara Rowland is eighty-three. He retired years ago and apparently is living off his pension. No record of her employment. He golfs. She’s dedicated to the League of Women Voters. He votes Republican. She votes Democrat. He drives an ’01 Buick Century. Sensible. She drives a new Prius. Environmentally conscious. Americans. Good people. Salt of the earth. Good life, probably. Good, except for one thing.

  We deplane in Hartford and get an Avis rental. A choice between a red two-door Chevy Aveo—thirty-five miles per gallon—and a Mustang coupe—nineteen miles per gallon. The Mustang is black. We get the Mustang.

  Up I-84 then down I-91 to I-95. Nice country. The roads are nearly clear of snow. Trees are bare but beautiful. What’s remarkable is that there are so few billboards. No signs announcing this or that casino. No signs telling us how far to the next Burger King or that I really do need the ultimate driving machine. We round a bend and I can see the water ahead. Oceans, bays, lakes, it doesn’t matter; there’s always a kind of relief when you first see large bodies of water.

  “Maybe we can move here,” Julia says.

  “Too close to DC. How about Montana? We’ll get a ranch.”

  “Yeah, big sky county,” Julia says. “We’ll be the only blacks.”

  “No, there’s one other. A guy in Missoula who sells cowboy boots.”

  “Funny,” she says. “Are cowboy boots considered ranch dressing?”

  “Ouch. That’s a good one. Why’d the cowboy ride his horse?”

  Julia groans. “Because it was too heavy to carry. I was in second grade too.”

  “At least you passed.”

  “Sorry to bring that up, Quincy.”

  “Quintyn.”

  “This is the exit.”

  “Got it.”

  We take exit 54, then head up Bushy Plain Road to Laurel, then on a few blocks over to Rolling Hill Road. And there’s number 7. I pull over. It’s a modest place. Cream-colored bungalow. Black shutters. Black door with oval glass. Single-car garage. It’s America.

  Julia and I get out.

  I take a breath as we start up the curving walkway to Mr. and Mrs. Rowland’s door.

  36

  A VILLAGE IN SOUTH VIETNAM

  DAY 131

  T.R. HAD SAID HE would be back within a month. But it wasn’t necessary. On this morning, as she sat in the clearing trying to spread medication on her back, she felt the violent struggle inside her begin. The guard, Tonto, saw her churning on the ground. He ran to the village.

  Minutes later she lay in one of the village huts; her feverish eyes stared blankly, not seeing anyone who spoke to her. Her legs moved in fits and her hands continuously clenched and jerked. Her face convulsed. Her words were not really words at all, just strings of sound that sounded half Vietnamese.

  In a moment of comprehension, she realized that the additional food had made her stronger, and now the thing insider her was stronger too, enough to fight. But they fought each other; and she did not know if it was fighting to live or fighting to die; and she did not know if she was fighting for it to live or to die.

  Then Ông giai phóng was there, watching her. She pointed at him and shouted something. The midwife quickly rose and urged him away.

  Her muscles twitched even more violently and her body contracted again, rhythmically, but then as if jarred by a heavy blow. Something pushed so violently within her, she didn’t know where. Then there was a release.

  It expelled slowly, in pain, as part of the long struggle. She saw it, raw, wrapped in collapsed membranes, unrecognizable as Vietnamese or American, yet so recognizable as human. More than glossy-eyed tissue, yes, much more. It was an incredible form with a strong will, and it had struggled valiantly and lost. Or perhaps it had won.

  They buried it. She did not know where.

  Patricia Pavlik awakened early the next day. The midwife cleaned her again and then cleaned the hut. Immediately Patricia sensed life moving forward again. As she lay on the mat she could see directly over her head to an easterly window opening. She pushed back the mosquito net and watched the sky growing fair, then the sun climbing above the filter of jungle leaves. As noon approached she felt the sun like a torch burning the air with its hot life.

  She was alive. And it seemed that all death had left her, all anger and hatred. She had no regrets. It seemed again that she would be going home.

  She lay like this all day.

  In the evening a shining twilight came.

  37

  JANUARY 17, 2006

  BRANFORD, CONNECTICUT,

  7:00 P.M.

  SO ON THAT AFTERNOON we’re about three clicks out from the Cambodian border. We know that, and we know we aren’t supposed to go over it. The border is like the Rio Grande, and whatever happens on that side isn’t ours. We have no business there. That’s fine with us. We’re on search and destroy. Find the bad guys. Wipe them out. Get out. We have enough shit on this side of the border.

  The doorbell is a pleasant three chimes. “I think I should go first,” Julia tells me. “I’m afraid you’ll scare them.”

  After some time the door opens. A man stands behind the screen door. Stooped shoulders, thinning white hair, glasses on top of his head. His clothes look oversized, but it’s probably because his body has shrunken several sizes. Suspenders are holding up his pants.

  “Mr. Rowland?” Julia says.

  He looks up and sees me behind Julia. He takes a step back.

  “What? What do you want?”

  “Mr. Rowland, my name is Julia Ames.”

  “What do you want? Do I know you?”

  “No, sir,” she says. “But we’d like to talk with you, if we could? It’s about Patricia.”

  A female voice comes from another room. “Who’s there, honey?”

  “No one,” he answers sharply.

  “Sir—.”

  “I’m not paying another dime,” he says. “Now get off my property.”

  “Sir,” I say, “you don’t know—”

  �
�Honey, who’s there?”

  “I said, it’s no one,” Mr. Rowland calls over his shoulder. He looks back to me. “I know who you are.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’re going to help her, isn’t that right?” he says, now pointing at me with his finger. “After all this time. I was told you were coming. No, thank you. Now go away. Get off my property. Please.”

  “Sir, who told you we were coming?”

  Through the screen I see a woman approaching. Erect. Short permed hair. Cotton dress. A crinkled face and a bright smile.

  “Oh, we have company! Who are they, Frankie?”

  “They were just leaving,” he tells her.

  “Mrs. Rowland, I’m Quintyn Ames. This is my wife, Julia.”

  “Hi, Julia,” Mrs. Rowland says.

  “If we could just come in,” Julia says. “It’s about your daughter, Patricia.”

  “Pattie?” Mrs. Rowland says. “What’s our girl done now? Oh, Frankie, let them in, will you. For heaven’s sakes.” She reaches past her husband and opens the door for us. Mr. Rowland sighs and steps back. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as we enter.

  The house is overly warm, stuffy. Old carpets. Old couch. Old recliner. Above the piano I see a needlepoint framed in plastic. Over the fireplace are photos of a young girl. In one picture she’s at her parents’ sides. In two others, she’s holding trophies. There’s also a wedding picture of Patricia and Brian Pavlik. I look through the rear sliding doors and see a circular pool.

  Mrs. Rowland sees me looking at the pool. “That’s where Pattie took her first swim,” she says. “My, but that girl can swim.”

  Mr. Rowland says, “Sara hasn’t been well for some time.”

  “Oh, phooey, I’m just fine,” Mrs. Rowland corrects, shaking her head at him. “Now what’s Pattie done this time?”

  “See,” he says.

  “Oh, we have tea,” she says with an engaging smile.

  “It’s too late for tea,” Mr. Rowland announces.

  “Frankie says I always make it too sweet, but I’ll let you put your own sugar in. That is if you like sugar. Some people don’t, you know.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I say, “but we’re okay.”

  “Well, Pattie’s in back,” she says. “I’ll get her right now.” Mrs. Rowland turns and makes her way down a hallway.

  Mr. Rowland points to the door. “I want you gone before she gets back.”

  “Mr. Rowland—”

  “Now where is that girl?” Mrs. Rowland calls from the other room. “Frankie, have you seen her?”

  “No, dear,” he calls back to her. He turns and looks me in the eye. “I said, not another dime. Now please leave before my wife comes back. I don’t want her to hear this.”

  “Sir,” I say, “who asked you for money?”

  “Last time she was in Cambodia. Before that she’s being held in Singapore. Do you have her somewhere else now? Just a little more money for costs, is that it?”

  Mrs. Rowland returns. “Oh, please sit down. I’ll find Pattie.”

  “They’re not staying,” Mr. Rowland says.

  “Well, she’ll be back, I’m sure,” she tells us. She thinks a moment. “Did I tell you we have tea? Frankie says I always make it too sweet, but I’ll let you put your own sugar in.”

  “We’re fine, ma’am,” Julia tells her.

  “Oh, it’ll only take a minute,” she adds, heading to the kitchen.

  When she’s gone, Julia asks again, “Who asked you for money?”

  Mr. Rowland sighs. He moves slowly to the recliner and leans heavily on its arm as he settles in. His voice is soft, almost a whisper. “I’m tired,” he says. “I’m tired.” He takes two deep breaths. He turns to Julia. “Do you know how hard it is to bury a child?” he asks.

  “No, I don’t,” Julia tells him. “It must be awful.”

  “It almost killed Sara when we got her casket back. Me, I took it the best I could. Pattie was my angel, my tiger. Then she’s alive again, they say, and I paid. But nothing. Then I paid more. The bastards! All these wars.” His eyes go from me to Julia. “For what? Now they’ve got another war going on, don’t they? For what? Nothing, that’s for what.”

  “But do you know who they were, who wanted the money?”

  He shrugs. “A voice on the phone. Foreign voice, first time. Asian. Vietnamese maybe. Other times it was American voices. They said she was safe, but they needed money to get her out. They even knew things about Pattie. That the scar on her knee was from when she fell off her bike right out there on the sidewalk.” He points. “Only Sara and I knew that. But they knew too. How else could they know? So we believed them.” His body begins to tremble. “Fuckers,” he says under his breath. “They knew about the race where she came in second. At Hamden High. That’s where it was. How’d they know that, huh? How’d they know it if they didn’t have her?” He shakes his head wearily. “They brought her back to life. Over and over. Ten thousand dollars each time. I can’t do this again. I’m sorry. Please get out. Please.”

  Julia says, “Mr. Rowland, we’re not here for money.”

  Mrs. Rowland returns. “Oh, I forgot to ask if you take sugar. Some people don’t you know.” She looks to her husband. “Have you seen Pattie, honey? It’s getting so dark.”

  Mr. Rowland puts on a smile. “I haven’t seen her, dear. And they were just leaving.”

  “Oh, but it’s late. They can stay for dinner. It’s just pot-pie.” She goes off again. I can hear a kettle whistling.

  “Mr. Rowland,” I say. “I hate to ask this.”

  Julia shakes her head at me. “Quintyn, no,” she says. “No!”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but did anyone look in the casket when it came back?”

  Mr. Rowland is speechless now, trembling even more. He struggles to his feet and moves toward me, unafraid of my size. His hand is in a fist. “How dare you! How dare you!”

  Mrs. Rowland returns with a teapot and four cups on a tray. “We have lemon too,” she says proudly as she sets the tray down. “Pattie loves it with lemon. And you can add your own sugar in,” she adds, pointing.

  “They have important things to do, dear,” he answers. “Don’t you, Mr. Ames?”

  “Yes, sir. We do.”

  “I’ll show you to the door,” Mr. Rowland says, pretending to be polite.

  “Oh, but it’s so late,” Mrs. Rowland says again. “They can stay for dinner. It’s just pot pie. Where is that girl? She’ll be back. And then you can ask her all the questions you like.”

  “Ma’am, thank you, but we have to go.” Julia and I get up.

  She beams. “Oh, call me Sara. And please stay. It’s just potpie, I know.” She smiles brightly, her eyes imploring us.

  I say, “Thank you, but—”

  “We don’t get much company anymore.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I really wish we could stay. But we have to go.”

  Julia and I don’t speak as we head down the walk to the car. I start the car and turn on the heater and lights. Julia turns and faces me, a determined look on her face. She takes my hand.

  “Quintyn,” she says. “I have to say something.”

  “Okay.”

  She takes a breath. “Just hear me out.”

  I wait.

  “I had my doubts before. Still, I was with you, wasn’t I? I went along.”

  “But?”

  “But did you hear him, honey? Did you hear Mr. Rowland, what he said?”

  “Yes, he said that people contacted him, and that they knew things about her. Her scar. And that they knew she came in second in that race.”

  “That’s not what I mean. They destroyed her family.”

  “Someone knew about her, Julia. They had her!”

  “Okay, maybe she was a prisoner once, I don’t know, honey. Nobody knows for sure. They could have learned those things about her a long time ago. Decades ago.”

  She takes my other hand too. “It’s about money, sweetheart. It�
��s just a cruel game they’ve been playing with families, is all. Don’t you see that? People using people to get money. And now they’re using you.”

  “No one’s using me!”

  “I want to believe it all too. I want her to be alive too. I really do. But sometimes we only see what we want to see.”

  Julia’s right of course. What are the chances that Patricia Pavlik could be alive after all this time; and that now she’s escaped?

  I hear Julia take another breath. “I don’t want the lies, Quintyn. I can’t have them. And I don’t want to be left at the airport. I don’t want to see people who are shells of who they were. I don’t want you to be involved with any of this! It’ll destroy our family, Quintyn! You, me, and our children.”

  Again she’s right. “But I have to do something,” I try to explain.

  “What can you do?” she asks, softly. “Tell me, honey. What?”

  “I don’t know,” I confess. “I don’t really know. But I have to do something.”

  She squeezes my hands. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.”

  I nod and give her my best smile. “You won’t lose me,” I tell her. “I promise.”

  I put the car in gear and head down Rolling Hill Road to the interstate. Then back to the airport.

  Not another word between us all the way.

  38

  A VILLAGE IN SOUTH VIETNAM

  DAY 205

  LIEUTENANT PATRICIA PAVLIK LAY on her mat listening to the roar of the monsoons, like a waterfall against the sides of the doghouse. Was this the second month of the rains? Or the third? She wasn’t sure. It was morning but she did not know which morning or which day of the week. As if it mattered. There were only mornings and afternoons and evenings, but no progression of days. Now as she lay under the bug-net, she could see thousands of mosquitoes taking refuge on the inside of the roof. A single leak ran a thin stream down behind her head. Patricia’s hair was matted against her head with no way for her to dry it. The skin on her fingers was shriveled. She had been wet for weeks.