by Pat Bertram
“He won’t even kill bugs or spiders,” Beth added.
Kerry laid aside her fork. “It must have been terrible.”
Rose nodded. “They assigned him jobs of a particularly filthy or menial nature, like permanent latrine duty, trench digging, and retrieval of dead bodies.”
“Someone had to do it,” Scott said.
“I know, but they didn’t have to harass you the way they did.”
“They thought I was a coward, hiding behind my religious beliefs to get out of combat duty.” He sighed. “Maybe I was.”
“No you weren’t,” Rose said fiercely. “It took a lot of courage to maintain your dignity in the face of their hatred. And you always had to dodge bullets and skirt explosions on your way to rescue injured men.”
She turned to Kerry. “During combat he had to get the wounded out of the line of fire and to help the medic care for them.”
Kerry’s eyes widened. “I can’t even begin to comprehend the strength it must have taken to survive not only a combat zone, but the torment of one’s own countrymen.”
“I had my faith to sustain me,” Scott said.
Beth shuddered. “They shot my dad.”
“The bullet gouged a furrow on my thigh, a flesh wound.” Scott smiled. “In the movies they always say, ‘It’s just a flesh wound,’ as if it’s nothing, but mine hurt like the dickens. They wouldn’t give me many painkillers, either. One nurse pompously told me they didn’t want us wounded soldiers getting addicted so they cut back, but another nurse whispered that the hospital workers had used the drugs themselves for fun. They must have received new supplies, because I didn’t notice much after those first few days—they kept me doped—but I do remember being transferred to a hospital in the Philippines.”
“Can you believe they sent him back to Vietnam after that?” Rose said. “It makes me furious thinking about it.”
Scott reached across the table and grasped her hand. “When I got back, my sergeant said to me, ‘Now that you know being a conscientious objector doesn’t keep you from getting wounded or even killed, are you ready to do your duty as a combat soldier?’ ‘I have no control over the actions of other people,’ I told him. ‘If the VC choose to shoot me, there’s not much I can do about it. The only choice I have is whether or not to shoot them, and I will not kill anyone.’ He glared at me and ordered me to get out of his sight and to keep out of his sight, because I disgraced the U.S. Army.”
Scott kept silent for a time while his family gazed sympathetically at him. Bob watched them, thinking the man had more than his faith to sustain him.
Scott drew in a breath. “Everyone still treated me the same until after the next engagement. We were under heavy fire, and many of our guys got wounded. I kept busy hauling injured men away from the front line. Afterwards, the sergeant came to me and said, ‘Glad to see you finally got some balls.’ The others guys stopped ostracizing me as if by getting shot I had passed some sort of test, like an initiation, but sometimes I could hear them snickering at me behind my back.”
“Do you think maybe you changed?” Kerry asked.
“No. Well, in little ways, of course. I became more self-confident, knowing I had never wavered in my beliefs even though my faith had been severely tested, and occasionally I have nightmares that make me sick to my stomach, but for the most part I’m the same as always.”
Kerry pushed aside her plate, folded her arms on the table, and gave him an intent look. “What kind of nightmares?”
Scott fidgeted for a few seconds as if getting ready to speak, but didn’t answer.
“The reason I ask,” she said, “is that Bob has nightmares, too, and I wondered if yours are anything like his.”
Her gaze met Bob’s across the table. He broke contact first.
“I’ve met lots of Vietnam veterans,” she said, “and so many seem to have an underlying sadness.” She looked from Scott to Bob. “Do you have these sadnesses too?”
Bob blew out a breath. “No. I was a supply clerk. I never had to fire a weapon at another person, or have one fired at me. I never had to watch a buddy die.”
“Yet you have nightmares. I hear you thrashing around at night, and sometimes you call out.”
“I see things in my dreams,” he said quietly. “Things I cannot explain.”
“Besides the jungle, you mean?”
He glanced around the table. The Mulligans focused their attention on him, and he squirmed.
“What kind of things do you see?” Kerry asked.
Bob shook his head, but found himself responding to her question. “Surreal images of war. Sometimes the scenes are strobic, coming and going so quickly I don’t get a good look at them. Other times they are kaleidoscopic, a continuous stream of fluctuating forms I can’t clearly define.” He nodded at Scott. “That’s why I couldn’t stay at the meeting the other day. Since I never saw combat, these dreams can’t have anything to do with me. I must be receptive to other men’s stories.”
Kerry turned to Scott. “What about your nightmares?”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I can’t.”
“Sure you can,” Jimmy said. “You always say we can do anything.”
Rose gazed at Scott with anxious eyes. “Maybe you should tell her, dear. You have always refused to talk about your nightmares, even to us, but perhaps it’s time.”
“Go ahead, Dad,” Beth chimed in. “You can tell Kerry.”
“But what if you find out my life is a lie?” Scott asked his wife. “What if you find out I’m an evil person?”
Rose looked at him in astonishment. “Evil? You?”
“In my dreams I am.”
“But those are only dreams.”
Scott held her gaze. After a moment he spoke in a voice so low Bob could barely make out his words. “In one of my dreams, the VC is firing on us. I see a man down. He’s hurt badly and is trying to crawl away. I go to help him, but before I drag him to safety, I take his M-16 from him. I don’t know why. I just do it. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, I shoot the VC. I see blood spurting out of the men I shoot, and I hear their screams, but I keep shooting. When the rifle is empty, I return the weapon to the injured soldier, who is staring at me as if he can’t believe what he saw. He laughs, and I awaken with the sound of his laughter still echoing in my ears.
“All the dreams I have are similar to that one, but they involve different firefights and different men, as if I killed many times.
“I don’t know what these dreams mean. I don’t know why I dream them. But the idea that I murdered people, even if only in my dreams, makes me so sick I have to vomit. Sometimes after I’ve thrown up I feel as if I’ve gotten rid of the evil, but other times I feel as if the evil is a permanent part of me, and I wonder if somehow I did do those things.”
He looked at Bob with sad, sad eyes. “But it is only a dream, right?”
“Of course,” Bob said.
“And you’re not responsible for what you dream,” Kerry added.
The Mulligans gathered around Scott, hugging each other and crying. Kerry caught Bob’s attention and tilted her head toward the door. He nodded to show he understood.
Trying to make as little noise as possible, they arose and let themselves out of the house.
Chapter 10
“It looks more like a college campus than a place of business,” Kerry said.
Nodding in agreement, Bob stared out the window at ISI’s corporate headquarters. A dozen six-story red brick buildings and a couple of single-story ones ringed a grassy area so extensive it looked like a park. Paved pathways meandered among shade trees, bushes, and flowering gardens, providing a running track for the energetic; benches and picnic tables had been scattered about for the more lethargic.
An ordinary chain link fence surrounded the entire campus. A manned sentry booth stood at each entrance to the parking lot, but Bob saw no evidence of the high-tech security system he had expected at such a secretive corpora
tion.
When they drove to the end of the campus and turned right, he saw a startlingly different aspect of the same company. Here was an entrance heavily guarded by armed men, a high fence topped by razor wire, and a proliferation of security cameras. Strangely, the parking lot on this side of the campus seemed absurdly large in relation to the small, squat building.
Bob had Kerry drive around the entire complex again so he could study the clothing. There seemed to be no dress code. Some men wore business suits, but most dressed casually in slacks and shirts. Several wore lightweight jackets in acknowledgment of the cooling temperatures; a few wore sweaters. Most of the women dressed in suits.
“Where are they going?” Kerry reached across Bob and pointed to a stream of people headed for a single-story building next to the tennis courts.
Noting that some of them wore workout clothes or carried a gym bag, Bob said, “An athletic club, probably. Maybe I can find an empty locker to stow my gear during the day.”
Kerry’s eyes grew grave. “You’re going through with it?”
“Yes. I need to get a feel for the place, see who these people are, then maybe I can find a way out of this mess and get on with my life.”
“What will you do, go back to Thailand?”
“No. I’ll find some place, but it won’t be here. I’m beginning to think Denver is the seventh circle of hell.”
Kerry chuckled. “Tell me about it.”
Bob reached into his pocket for Herbert Townsend’s ID. After borrowing the nametag, he’d gone to the photo booth at the downtown Woolworth’s, cut one of the pictures to fit over Townsend’s, and covered the whole thing with clear packing tape.
He held it up, squinting at the nearest group of people. About half of them had nametags clipped to their clothes.
“Does this look like the ones they’re wearing? I don’t know how long it’s been since Townsend worked here. The design might have been changed.”
“It looks the same to me.” The sparkle returned to Kerry’s eyes. “I don’t know how you got him to lend it to you. I don’t even know how you got him to talk. Must be more of your hidden shallows.”
Bob tucked the nametag back in his pocket. “He didn’t tell me much. He started working here after college graduation. They offered him a huge salary, great perks, interesting work, and he jumped at the chance without ever finding out what else the company did besides sell new security systems and analyze old ones. Then I lost him. He talked about the microchip they put in his head and how Issy’s going to get me too if I don’t watch out.”
“So, watch out,” Kerry said.
“I intend to.”
After leaving the ISI campus, they drove around for a while scouting out motels and bus routes.
“I wish you could stay with me,” Kerry said, “but my roommate is coming back tomorrow.” She smiled at him. “At least we had the weekend.”
The dinner at the Mulligans had been on Friday night, so today, Monday, had been the first chance they’d had to check out ISI. When their schedules had coincided the past two days, they’d popped corn, watched movies on television, and played silly games, making a point of not discussing Bob’s plan to infiltrate ISI.
“What now?” Kerry asked.
“Shopping.”
“How about Southglen Mall? That’s about as far away from here as we can get.”
“Sounds good.”
Bob searched the mall until he put together the perfect costume: forest green pants from one store, pale gold shirts with a flap on the pocket from another. A third store yielded a green, gold, and brown sweater that would blend nicely with the foliage he’d seen at the ISI complex. He also bought a gym bag. As at Bear Valley, he purchased each item with a traveler’s check, netting him more cash. Before they left, he dashed into a toy store for a two-and-a-half-inch-diameter pink rubber ball.
***
They were quiet during the drive back to Broomfield. At Bob’s direction, Kerry parked a block away from the motel he’d chosen for the night, then they lapsed into silence again.
“This is ridiculous,” Kerry said. “Just kiss me and go.” She offered her cheek.
Bob leaned over, intending to give her a friendly peck, but at the last minute she turned her head. Their lips met.
All at once they were in each other’s arms, mouths locked together. When they finally pulled apart, Bob felt dizzy, and his resolve had fled.
Maybe he should forget about ISI for now and stay with Kerry awhile longer.
He pushed the thought out of his head. He couldn’t allow himself any distractions. He had work to do. Besides, her roommate would return soon.
He got out of the car, said goodbye, and headed for the motel. He did not look back.
Once he’d checked in, he sat on the bed, back propped against the pillows, squeezing his new pink rubber ball, first with one hand, then the other, squeezing and squeezing until time to retire for the night.
***
He rose at dawn for his run. He put one foot in front of the other, refusing to dwell on anything but the steady rhythms of movement and breath.
Before he left for work, he attached the ISI identification card to his shirt pocket and was pleased to see the pocket flap covering the last name as he hoped it would.
He and several others got off the bus at the stop outside the ISI campus. The guard barely glanced at him as he passed.
Acting as if he belonged, he headed for the building by the tennis courts. As he surmised, it was an athletic club, and he did find an empty locker for his gym bag. Reminding himself to buy a lock, he went back outside and walked among the ISI employees.
He wondered who among them had an interest in him. Is it you? he silently asked the bird-beaked man. Is it you? he asked the chipmunk-cheeked woman. Or you? Or you?
As Bob watched, he noticed as many people coming out of the office buildings as entering. He had expected the grounds to empty as people settled into their jobs, but many individuals and small groups milled around.
Listening, he learned that many of these people were on break, having been at work since six or seven. He overheard one young woman explaining to a trainee about ISI’s open-door policy. Employees could arrive as early as six in the morning and stay as late as seven in the evening. As long as they worked a full forty hours each week, they could set their own schedules.
Bob moved toward the single-story building that seemed to have the most interest for the most people. The cafeteria, he discovered.
He stood in line for a hot chocolate, listening to the gossip swirling around him.
“My daughter Susie got braces yesterday. She refuses to smile, says she’ll probably never smile again.”
“Don’t worry, she’ll get over it.”
“How do you know?”
“My son Jack acted the same way.”
“Did you know that Jan in Accounting is having an affair with Richard in Human Resources?”
“No. Really?”
“Yeah. Becky saw them coming out of a motel together.”
“What was Becky doing there?” Laughter.
“Mary’s pregnant.”
“Mary Carter?”
“Yes.”
“But how? I mean, you know, she’s a lesbian.”
“Artificial insemination.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t look now, but there’s that hot receptionist.”
“Where? I don’t see her.”
“You missed her. Next time I see her, I’m gonna ask her out.”
“Yeah, right. Like you stand a chance.”
Bob took his hot chocolate out to the campus lawn, grateful for the warmth of the drink. This early in the morning the air was a bit nippy, and even with his sweater he felt cold.
After he finished his drink, he still felt chilly. He jogged slowly for a few minutes, trying to get warm. Ahead of him on the pathway rambled a group of young people who seemed barely out of school. All talked at once.
&n
bsp; “Can you believe the nerve of that woman? She planned her retirement for months, told Baxter she quit . . .”
“. . . we gave her that retirement party . . .”
“. . . when I think of all the nice things we said to her . . .”
“. . . engraved a watch to the best boss ever. We’ll miss you . . .”
“. . . bitch actually believed we meant it . . .”
“. . . feel sorry for Joyce . . .”
“. . . so excited about her promotion . . .”
“. . . came to work today all ready to start her new job as supervisor of the mailroom. When Joyce stormed into Baxter’s office, he shrugged and said Enid decided not to retire after all.”
“Enid told me she retired because she thought we all hated her, but when she found out how much we liked her, she decided to stay.”
“But we don’t like her.”
“We’re screwed. She’ll never leave now.”
Bob veered off the path into the shadow of a stand of young, bushy Siberian elms with green and gold foliage. Snippets of conversation wafted through the autumn air.
“I hear we’re going to be downsized.”
“Oh, no! I came here from a company that got downsized. I can’t go through it again.”
“. . . best barbecue I ever had. Too bad I went with that asshole Jared.”
“I thought you liked him.”
“I did, but he . . .”
“I spent all day on my 679K report, now they tell me they inputted the wrong data.”
“. . . took the cocktease out to dinner and she wouldn’t put out. You promised me a sure thing. That’s the last time I ever listen to . . .”
And so it went.
***
Two days later, Bob was standing by a honeysuckle bush listening to the sound of hundreds of voices talking, whining, arguing, laughing, when suddenly a man on a skateboard crashed into him.
The man, about forty years old with a slight paunch and curly black hair, stared at him in aston-ishment. “Sorry, man. I didn’t see you.”
“No problem,” Bob said.
“My wife tells me I’m too old for skateboarding. So does my doctor—he says my knees are shot. Looks like they’re right. What a bummer. Name’s Don. Don Donati. Actually, it’s Percival, but no one calls me that if they know what’s good for them. I work in Advertising, administrative assistant to the department head. I’m also the liaison between the Advertising Department and Marketing. You’re that new guy in Marketing, aren’t you? Thought I recognized you, but, hey, man, what are you doing over here all by yourself? You’ll never meet anyone that way. Why don’t you come sit with me and my friends. We’re right over there.” He lifted a hand to wave at a group of people seated at one of the picnic tables; they all waved back.