by John Warley
I saw in these and other common sense observations doubts that he hid from his parents and the other junior officers in his infantry unit. He never spoke publicly of his doubts. The peace freaks who began to blight campuses and infiltrate news programs revolted him. The patriot in him viscerally condemned anarchy, yet he seemed to be teetering on an intellectual edge where the war was concerned, and what came closest to sending him over that edge, to the side of the protesters and draft dodgers and antiwar zealots he despised, patriotism be damned, was his implacable dislike for and distrust of Lyndon Johnson. “I don’t think,” he told me late one night as the two of us did our absolute best to drain dry a newly purchased case of beer, “that my president is the kind of man that would worry much if I bite the banana over there.” We were together the night Johnson announced his decision to retire rather than face a primary. Philip watched it with macabre satisfaction, almost as if this ignominious abdication was Philip’s revenge for his mortal wound still seven months in the future.
Years ago, one of those change-your-life-in-a-day motivational speakers put to a group of us a time-management challenge. An all-expenses paid trip around the world would be ours, so ran his hypothetical, provided we could wrap up all pending business by that afternoon. “You will,” he predicted, “find a way to get it done.” I am about to put his theory to test.
I call Margarite and though it is early I have not awakened her. “If we hope to learn anything of Allie’s background, we need to go to Korea,” I say. “A long shot, as you know, but even if we come up empty on her history, it will fulfill Elizabeth’s wish and Allie’s wish for a graduation present.” I think I startled her with my next question. “Where, exactly, was Philip killed?”
After several seconds, she wants to know, “Why do you ask?”
“Because we added Vietnam to our itinerary. I want to pay my respects.”
Margarite, never at a loss for words, stays mum. A very long pause ensues. I wait. “Margarite?”
In a subdued voice: “John and I have talked about going. I just don’t think I could bear it. We were told it was about halfway between two villages, one called Cu Chi and the other Duc Lap.”
“Near Saigon?”
“Very close, perhaps thirty miles. Coleman, what will you do?”
“I thought I’d lay a wreath of some kind. Would you like me to take something?”
“Yes. Give me the morning to think of just what.”
“Call me at the office. I can come by and pick it up.”
My next task involves preparing Mother. She is far more worried about me than she needs to be.
“But dear, it’s a communist country. A leopard doesn’t change its spots. I won’t sleep a wink the entire time you’re gone. You cannot trust them for an instant. Suppose they won’t let you leave? Suppose Mr. Quan is wanted for some war crime and you’re with him.” She is wringing her hands, uncontrollably nervous.
“I don’t suppose Mr. Quan would be willing to go were he wanted for war crimes or anything else. The Vietnamese are wooing us as trading partners now. They have to behave themselves.”
“Communists appear one way and act another. I won’t sleep a wink.”
Sarah’s brand of xenophobia is as common as clover. I believe Allie’s Asian features were so distressing to her because they evoked war memories of slant-eyed, buck-toothed Japanese in the army of the Red peril. While her assessment of those same features has undergone drastic revision (“She’s positively lovely”) the anathema provoked by communists, of any race, religion or country of origin, remains rabid.
“Don’t forget a jacket,” she says.
“Mother, it’s a hundred and ten in the shade over there.”
“Well, take one along anyway. You never know. You can’t put anything past communists.”
On my way to the office I stop by the office of Harry Porter, M.D. Harry is the best wheelchair-bound doctor in the country for my money, and he’s gotten quite a bit of it over the years. He gives me the same shots he will give Allie this afternoon after school. My arm begins to throb before I arrive at the office.
The motivational guy may be on to something. Clients who “must” see me are convinced to re-schedule. Those unable to wait are referred to partners familiar with their files. In a few short days my calendar has been cleared of all but one obligation, one Harris assures me he will handle. After a stop by the travel agency and the bank for travelers checks, I am more or less, when packed, ready to go.
I have not heard from Margarite, who tells me, when I arrive at her house late in the day, that she cannot decide on a fitting memorial to be left at the site. “Just some flowers, I suppose.”
“Let me pick something,” I suggest. “What about the Corona bottle from Mexico. Philip would approve. It will be a little like having a beer with him.”
“Perfect,” she says. “I’ll get it for you. Fix yourself a drink and wait for me in the Haiti room.”
I pour us each an Old Granddad as she returns with the Corona bottle. Handing it to me she says, “This is quite thoughtful of you, Coleman. I assume you have other business in Vietnam?”
“No business, really. I agreed to accompany Mr. Quan on his first return home in many years. He is very apprehensive about going by himself for some reason. He has a brother in Seoul who will help us navigate a city none of us knows the least bit about.”
I sit in a chair by the cedar box, painted jaguars near enough to gnaw my knee. Margarite takes a seat on the sleigh-bed. I’m shifting the Corona bottle from hand to hand as Margarite says, “You mentioned looking into Allie’s background over there. Do you really hope to find something?”
I shrug. “We’re both realistic. All we know for sure is that the orphanage is still there. Mr. Quan’s brother located it for us. Eighteen years is a long time. I doubt anyone there was on the scene when we adopted. It could prove the wildest of wild goose chases. The odds are overwhelmingly against us finding anything over there that could bring Allie legitimately within the exemption.”
She sets her drink down deliberately. “Just as I feared,” she says. “The inquiry into her background is more than an orphan looking for her roots. This is related to the Lafayette exemption, isn’t it?”
“Why not? I’ve been visiting board members.”
“So I’ve been told,” she says, stress in her voice.
“Those visits tell me this vote would come out differently if taken again. Sandy Charles was most sympathetic and almost any excuse would be good enough for her to change sides. Doc Francis all but pledged to support us. That leaves only Charlotte, who is hopeless, and Jeanette.”
At the mention of Charlotte Margarite smiles drolly.
“What I’m saying is this.” I shift the Corona bottle to the other hand. “If the sentiment among the committee has changed as I think it has, then one pretext will be as good as another to reverse the vote. It becomes largely irrelevant what we find, if anything, about Allie’s background. The critical need is another vote, and you can arrange that.”
Margarite stands, her clouding face an unmistakable barometer of doubt. “Coleman, do you want my honest opinion of your efforts with the committee?”
“Of course.”
“You’re wasting your time and a lot of money.”
“I don’t care about either.”
“Then consider your image in the community. I can’t bear the thought of you making a fool of yourself.”
“Why? All they can say is no and they’ve said it once.”
“And they’ll say it again.”
“So,” I say, “you don’t agree with my reading of the group.”
“No,” she says softly, reluctantly. “Not at all.”
“You should know, Margarite, but I’m still going. It seems the only way. If I fail, I fail.”
I watch as she paces behind me, striding the floor aggressively. I have the feeling I have angered her and she is about to explode. Suddenly, she stops in mid-stride. W
heeling, she glares down at me, through me. Her patrician voice is close to a guttural rasp.
“You are forcing me into the dishonorable act of violating my word.”
“No,” I protest. “I wouldn’t want that. I’m doing this on my own. It’s my theory and you don’t have to agree. I just need you to reconvene the Board.”
She circles me, coming back to the seat she left but leaning forward, squinting intensely. “You need more than that. You need to know who your friends are and I’m going to violate my trust to tell you. What has Adelle said about our meeting?”
“Almost nothing.”
“I don’t wonder. It wouldn’t be a pretty account. Would it surprise you to know she did not speak in your behalf?”
“She implied she did, although Jeanette made some reference to her taking no part in the debate.”
“Well, she didn’t. Nor did she vote for you.”
I grip the Corona bottle by the neck. “You said the vote was secret. Everyone on the Board said so too.”
“Yes. I counted the ballots.”
“Did you recognize her handwriting or what?”
“Coleman, it required no detective work. Don’t you understand? The count was six to one and I voted with you. They all voted no.”
The bottle drops from my hand and I am only vaguely conscious of it striking and breaking the glass tabletop. My eyes lower to a point at her chest and I utter a dismal moan. “Fool, fool, fool,” I repeat until the word is on my tongue but not beyond.
“When I called you on the night of the vote to report the result I tried to think of a way to tell you that Adelle had … how should I put it? Betrayed your trust. I knew from our discussions you were counting on her and she obviously was not truthful with you.”
“Obviously,” I mutter lamely. “And what about Clarkson? He said he went to bat for me.”
“He did, in his own fashion. He said he thought we were all making too much of a single exception and that dozens of them must have been made in the past. Sandy Charles also made quite the speech about what an outstanding girl Allie is and how we needed to be fair in dealing with her. I must tell you, from the tenor of the discussion I was optimistic. Now I wonder if they weren’t all simply going on the record as having said nice things, assuming whatever they said would get back to you through Adelle, or possibly me.
“I was so stunned when I counted the ballots that I had difficulty talking. I think Adelle knew from the look on my face. She had counted on at least one vote from the group to hide hers and when she saw my reaction she must have known. She was waiting for me in the parking lot as the meeting broke up but I walked by her without a word.”
“Six to one,” I murmur, as though by repeating the score I will alter the result.
“I’ve felt horrible for weeks,” she says, “knowing you believed that a vote or two would turn it around. I feel better now for having told you. I’m resigning from the St. Simeon as soon as the Ball is over.”
“Don’t do that, Margarite. It’s not your fault.”
“No, but I am sickened by what this has shown me. I want no part of it in the future.”
“Well,” I say standing, my legs a bit shaky and my arm throbbing from the shots, “I guess that’s that.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
I pause, my head down and my gaze focused on the fresh cracks in the table top. “Yes. Please call the Board together as soon as you can.”
“But for what purpose?”
“To reconsider its decision. And if it won’t reconsider, to discuss a response to the lawsuit I plan to file when I return from Vietnam.”
Margarite recoils. “You’re suing us?”
I lean over and kiss her gently on the cheek, and she, frozen in her surprise, does not move. “I’m suing the Society and I’ll have to see about my grounds to sue individual members. I will not, I give you my word, sue you personally, no matter what my lawyer advises.”
She takes a rather long pull on her bourbon as she turns her head away. “I don’t blame you. I think we deserve it. Perhaps John and I should accompany you to Vietnam and boycott the whole ugly mess.”
“As much as I would enjoy your company, you would have gone before now if you intended to go.”
“You’re right. I just can’t face it. Even now.” After a pause, she asks, “What should I … tell people?”
“Board members? Tell them the Board has some urgent business. That will be true, I promise. And Margarite, I will keep quiet about what you’ve told me with one exception. I’d like your permission to use this information to confront Adelle. If I can do so without exposing you I will.”
“Feel free,” she says. “She brought it on herself.”
Turning to leave, I say, “And send me a bill for the broken glass.”
She smiles. “I’m leaving it just as it is. It adds character and you can never have too much of that.”
As Daniel shows me out, I sense my anger toward Adelle will follow the well-worn, indirect path that I recognize from past confrontations. My fuse is long and meanders. Walking down Margarite’s slate walk to my car, I reflect on the wisdom of confronting Adelle later, after I have refined my approach to a razor precision. Besides, I need to pack.
But at the first traffic light I turn right when left would take me home and amaze myself by speeding toward her home at close to sixty miles an hour through a residential district, my hands gripping the wheel like it is her throat. I slow the car a house or two away to avoid the melodrama of squealing tires.
By the time I reach for the doorbell, I am fully cognizant that my anger has broken loose from a pit of lifelong restraint. It roams wild, unchecked and vengeful. Treachery has nourished it with a potent fuel, injected it with strength I do not recognize, empowered it with a white-hot energy that will do great damage whether targeted or abandoned to random gyration. I am shaking with rage, and the interval between ringing the bell and Adelle’s prolonged response is just long enough for me to arrest my sore arm’s visceral desire to punch her face in.
“Coleman! Come in. I just heard about your trip. How sudden.” “Yes, very,” I say walking in and turning from her to disguise my impulse.
“You seem in a hurry,” she says. “Would you like a drink?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Follow me to the kitchen while I fix it. Then you can tell me how this came about.”
“Is Chris home?”
“No. He called from the club. He’s playing doubles under the lights.”
I cannot predict what my new monster will do. It is on its own, roaming and sniffing. In a real sense I will be as surprised as Adelle when it pounces.
“So,” I hear myself say, almost casually, “how are the kids doing these days? Still going strong?” Evidently my monster has a gift for stealth.
“I assume so,” she says, stirring my drink. “Chris tells me nothing but as you know they still see a lot of each other. He’s beside himself about her leaving on this trip.”
I accept the proffered drink and lean philosophically on the counter. “You know, I’m beginning to think there may be more to their relationship than I originally thought.”
“Oh?” Her faces pinches in alarm before she can check it. “Why do you say that?”
“Allie talks to me. Some things she said recently made me realize that they have progressed beyond high school sweethearts.”
“How far beyond?” she demands.
“Well,” I say flippantly, “if you mean have they crossed over the big line I couldn’t say. I was speaking of their future. She’s planning trips to USC and he’s going up to Princeton—”
“Chris has said nothing about that to me. He’s not the student Allie is and I would worry about his grades if he’s spending his first college semester on the road.”
“Sure,” I agree. “But tennis takes time too.”
“He has no choice there. He’s on a scholarship.”
“Yeah, I gu
ess you’re right. Did he mention them working together in Alaska next summer?” Allie had expressed interest in this but had not included Chris in her plan. Apparently my monster is not without cunning.
“What! That’s absurd. Chris … can’t possibly stay on top of his game in Alaska. He’ll be here on the summer circuit.”
“Maybe it’s not his game he wants to be on top of.”
“Coleman, what a grotesque thing to say about your own daughter. And you insult my son.”
“Why? I would consider Chris a lucky guy if Allie thought enough of him to let him that close.” Her scoff is sickening and my arm renews its jabbing twitch.
“Allie is a … special girl, for sure. But there’s just no future for her with Chris. They’re too … different.”
“Gosh, I don’t know about that. They both love the outdoors, they each have a nice sense of humor, both smart—”
“Oh, you know what I mean.”
“No. Tell me, Adelle, exactly what you’re talking about. Because I think I’m finally beginning to figure it out.” I am off the counter now, advancing toward her as she retreats, startled, until the fridge blocks her. “Spit it out, Adelle,” I shout. “She’s not white, is she? She’s not the kind of woman you’ve got your heart set on for Chris, is she? She’s not really, bottom line, good enough for him, is she?”
She eyes me coldly, unmasked. “No, if you must know, she’s not. That may sound harsh—”
“What it sounds is ignorant and small-minded, like its source.”
“I don’t have to take abuse from you.” She moves to escape her corner but I block her passage.
“Yes, you do. In the thirty seconds between now and the last time I walk out your door you’ll have to listen. I know now why I’ve never felt comfortable with you. You are one of those rare people who can lie with impunity and go on about your business. How far would you have gone to prevent an Asian daughter-in-law? Any Charleston know-nothing, lily white from south of Broad, would be better, wouldn’t she? You disgust me. You’re not enough woman to carry Allie’s riding gear. Have a nice life.”