I liked Project Headstart. The kids at Headstart were not at liberty. They reminded me of everything I didn’t know; most of them were frail and jagged, but they had adult eyes, old eyes. Eyes that just watched, expecting little. The kids were scary. I kept trying to find out what they knew, but they didn’t know what they knew. If they did, they weren’t telling.
One of the boys wouldn’t talk at all except for one-syllable noises that resembled “me” or “dog” or “no.” He was a five-year-old with a stubborn, beautiful, big-eyed face; even his name, Junior, was an afterthought, no name at all. He wasn’t aggressive. Mostly he was silent and stuck to the sidelines, but if pushed past a certain point on the playground he fought wildly, with greater dedication than his tormentors could ever muster. He bloodied noses. Still he wanted approval; he grunted, pointed, grabbed. He answered questions if the question required a yes response; he raised his brows emphatically and nodded, the look in his eyes close to hopeful. I liked him best and he knew it. I think he hated coming to the school. Mornings, I met the bus at the door of Central Grade. Junior would get off last, shy and angry, shirking, frowning, but once he saw me he squared his shoulders and walked forward, determined. At recess he stood near the bushes, nervously fingering the small leaves and woody stems. The tangled forsythia and honeysuckle were unpruned, taller than Junior by several feet.
On the morning of a day I won’t forget, Junior came in last from recess. I’d come in early to arrange fingerpaints and he’d probably been searching for me. He found me in the classroom, took my hand, and yanked.
“What, Junior?”
He said something that sounded like a whole sentence. I asked him to repeat it. He did, urgently, and tried to lead me toward the door. Mrs. Smith had noticed our exchange. She nodded that I should do as Junior requested, but I was already on my way; I went with him outside. He stopped beside the bushes, looked up at me, and waited.
I squatted so my face was level with his. “What?” I asked.
He repeated the word “honeysuckle.” The word was garbled but understandable; all four syllables were distinct. Again, he waited, unsmiling, one hand lost in foliage.
I looked at the honeysuckle.
He meant the bush was in bloom. That was what he meant. I broke off a branch and gave it to him. He broke one for me. And so on. We might have harvested the entire bush if Mrs. Smith hadn’t come outside then and stood beside us on the cracked sidewalk.
“I don’t think they’re going to approve of your breaking these bushes,” she said, “but my lips are sealed.” She looked down at me. “There’s a phone call for you, Danner.”
“For me?”
“Yes, in the office. You go ahead. I’ll take Junior back, before they bring the building down.” She turned, taking him by the hand as they went in. “Junior,” she said, “we’ll have to put these branches in some water, won’t we?”
He nodded but he was finished talking. I followed them as far as the classroom and went farther back into the wide hallway to the principal’s office. The office was empty; no principal in summer. The big desk was dusty and cleared of papers. The blinds on the tall windows were drawn. It was the second day of July and the air in the room was old, hot air. The phone was the only object on the desk; the curled black cord was strung across the desktop toward me.
I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Danner, this is Gladys. I’m with your mother. Come home right away, dear. Your mother needs you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“A man is here, a sergeant from the army,” Gladys said rapidly. “He brought a telegram. It’s not as bad as it could be, Danner—they say Billy is missing.”
“Missing?”
“Yes.”
Silence. Secret signal. My thought was, he ran away. He ran away from the army. I held onto the black receiver hard with one hand, and I put my other hand flat on the big desk.
“Since Jean was taking her vacation time and staying home,” Gladys said, her voice low and rushed, “I came by to bring the pattern for that skirt she wants to make you. While I was here, he came to the door. Just a minute ago. Danner?”
“Gladys,” I said, “what exactly did he tell you about Billy?”
“He says Billy is listed Missing In Action.”
“I’ll be right home.”
I faded into some automatic zone; I only had it in mind to hurry. I walked back to the classroom—I had my mother’s car and the keys were in my purse. My thoughts moved along meaninglessly, like words flowing by on a screen. Did my father know yet? What did the army do with divorced parents? Kill them, like they kill everyone. I opened the door of the classroom. The room was in a sort of friendly chaos. Mrs. Smith was putting the honeysuckle branches into a mason jar and Junior was watching her carefully, keeping his own counsel. He looked up at me. I said to his eyes, “I came back to get my purse. I have to go home now.”
Mrs. Smith must have assented in some manner, but I didn’t hear her. I found the purse, walked outside past the broken bushes, unlocked my mother’s big blue Buick. I got in, breathing the heat, shivering, and rolled down one window as I started the engine. I drove the nine blocks to my mother’s house and parked in front of Gladys’ old Chrysler, behind an unmarked Ford with a Hertz rental sticker. I got out of the car and stood up, looking at the house, at what was in the house. Back when we lived in the country on Brush Fork, Billy and I tried to stay in the summer fields way past dusk, catching lightning bugs in jars. Glass jars, the metal lids punched through with air holes. Mom called and called but we wouldn’t come in. Finally she would yell at us from the cement back porch: I want you home this minute. Right now. She couldn’t see us; she just yelled into the dark.
I walked up the sidewalk and into the house. My mother was sitting on the couch; when she saw me she burst into tears. I sat beside her and put my arm around her and held her. Her body was shaking and the telegram was in her lap. I read the words through, black words, yellow paper. A hostile force. I thought of the dark-haired women crawling into the trees with their heavy guns.
Gladys stood over us. “Danner, this is Sergeant Dixon.”
She moved away and the soldier stood behind her. Green dress uniform with gold buttons, tan shirt, black tie. In his hand, a billed cap with a green, saucer-shaped top. In the center over the black bill, a brass medallion with an eagle.
“Miss Hampson,” he was saying, “I’m deeply sorry to inform you.…” He went on to repeat the contents of the brief telegram, his voice soft and southern.
“Are you from Fort Knox?”
“No, ma’am, I’ve come from Fort Meade, in Maryland, but I grew up in Georgia.”
Did he think I cared where he grew up? Somehow, I thought they would have sent someone who’d known Billy.
Gladys sat down beside me. “I’ve called Reb Jonas.”
“Why?”
“For some medicine for Jean.” Gladys tilted her head to one side. She looked very old, powdered and faded. “She may need some medicine, later.”
“My mother doesn’t need any medicine,” I said. “She needs them to tell her what they’ve done with Billy.” I took the telegram out of her lap. “Information Received. What information? Whoever wrote this out wasn’t even there, they don’t even know.”
“Honey,” Gladys said, “I doubt anyone knows.”
“Gladys, someone has to know.” I looked at Sergeant Dixon.
My mother held my wrist tightly. “No one we can talk to,” she said, weeping. “He might as well be on the moon.”
Gladys gave my mother a Kleenex. We heard someone on the steps at the door, and Gladys stepped over to open the screen door for Dr. Jonas. He walked in empty-handed, without his doctor’s bag, inclining his head a little as though the ceiling were too low.
“Gladys,” he said.
“Reb.” She nodded.
I think Sergeant Dixon introduced himself and they shook hands. Reb walked over near Mom and me, pulled a chair clo
se to the couch, and sat down. He touched my mother’s shoulder firmly and left his hand there. “Gladys tells me we’ve had bad news about Billy.”
My mother gestured toward the telegram in my hand.
“He’s missing,” I said, not volunteering the piece of paper. “They must know more, but that’s all the telegram says.” I steeled myself against Reb Jonas’ voice; he was our doctor, always; when my mother’s babies were born, when we got our vaccinations and flu shots, always, He made me want to be comforted, but no one should be comforted. Billy was the one in trouble, not us. Why should we be comforted?
Reb looked at me. “We’ll have to try to find out what we can. Your dad and I will make some calls.” His gaze shifted from my mother to Gladys and back to me. “Does Mitch know yet?”
“No,” my mother said. “Billy gave this as his only address, so Sergeant Dixon came here.”
“I’ll go directly to Mr. Hampson’s residence now,” Dixon said softly.
“I’ll go with you,” I said.
“Yes, you go,” my mother told me, drying her eyes. “Gladys will stay here with me until you get back.”
“Certainly,” Gladys said, “I’ll be right here.”
Reb took a bottle of pills from his pocket. “Jean, these will help you sleep. You’ll need them. Won’t help anything for you to fall ill.” He put the pills on the table, then looked at me. “Danner, I’ll come by to see your father and Bess in a few minutes.”
Sergeant Dixon stood politely and approached me. “Miss Hampson, may I have the telegram? I am required to deliver it into your father’s hands.”
I held the piece of paper up to him. “Yes, you do that.”
“Danner,” my mother said, “don’t be rude to this man. It won’t help.”
I touched her hand. “Mom, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
I headed for the door and Sergeant Dixon followed me. We went down the front walk toward the cars and I heard his black shoes taking the steps behind me. When we got to the cars, I turned to look at him. “I don’t want you to tell my father. I wish you would give me the telegram and just leave. Your superiors didn’t even know my parents are divorced, and they won’t know the difference.”
There was a band of sweat on his upper lip. His chest was broad but he wasn’t much taller than me; he was perhaps twelve years older. “I am here as a gesture of respect and condolence and deep concern on the part of the United States Army. I’m required by regulation to tell your father, personally.”
“Yes, in the same words you used to us, like a tape recording.”
“They’re the only words we have, ma’am. They’re all we know right now, and it’s important they be repeated exactly.”
“Don’t tell me what’s important.”
He moved back a step and blinked. His eyes were brown. “Miss Hampson, it is my duty to tell your father, and I will do so to the best of my ability. Are you certain you wouldn’t rather stay with your mother?”
I stared into his face. “I won’t allow you to tell him without me. He might be alone.” I moved to get into the rental car but the door was locked. I think I stumbled on the curb. “You don’t know how fucking alone he is,” I said. “You don’t know anything about this family.” Sergeant Dixon opened the door for me with his keys and walked across in front of the car as I got in.
The car was spotless, a machine that belonged to no one, and it smelled new. Sergeant Dixon was beside me; he turned the key in the ignition and adjusted the blower of the air conditioner. Both hands on the wheel, he sat erect and looked at me with care. “Would you please direct me, ma’am?”
For a moment I didn’t understand what he meant. There was a ringing in my ears and my heart was pounding. “What?”
“To your father’s house,” he said quietly.
I looked away at the length of Pine Street. Everything looked normal. “My father lives with his aunt,” I said, “since the divorce.” This couldn’t really be happening. “Back up and turn right, to the big street called Quality Hill. Straight down till you come into downtown past the Fire Department, and Main Street. You must have driven in that way. You turn east on Main. East Main. A white one-story house beside the old hospital.”
He put the car in motion. “Miss Hampson, it isn’t regulation for me to say so, but my own brother was captured in North Vietnam two years ago. His name has been released as one of those captured. I can appreciate what you’re feeling.”
I didn’t know whether to believe him. Maybe they were supposed to make a non-regulation remark, especially to hostile family members. The houses of Quality Hill were floating into my vision; they were passing. I had to make an effort to speak clearly. “Was your brother drafted, Sergeant Dixon?”
“No, ma’am. He was a career military officer, a pilot, and he requested combat duty.”
“Well, Billy didn’t,” I said flatly. I wanted to keep talking, to keep us from arriving at Bess’s so quickly. “Why did you join the military?”
“I come from a military family, ma’am.”
“Then your family should be in Vietnam, not my family.” I couldn’t talk very loudly, but the windows were up and he could hear me clearly over the quiet hum of the air conditioner. “You shouldn’t be here. Billy should be here. You should be there.”
“I have been ma’am.” We had turned onto East Main. He kept talking. “The military owes a great debt of allegiance to every American fighting man in Vietnam, and will do everything in its power to find your brother, to ascertain whether your brother was captured. Men in his own company, men he knew, will make the initial search. They are searching for him now.”
“Then what?”
“The matter is never dropped. The matter is turned over to Intelligence.”
“Intelligence?” Bess’s house was in sight. “I hate you,” I said softly. “I hate all of you for taking him.”
“I understand, ma’am.” He had stopped the car across from the hospital, but the cool air continued humming. His voice was calm and neutral. “Do you feel faint, Miss Hampson? You look pale.”
“We should walk up the alley,” I said. “If we go to the front, my great aunt will answer the door, and she’s past eighty.”
We got out of the car and crossed the street into the alley, walking the length of the clapboard house to the concrete walk that went to the small back porch. We came around the side of the house; Katie and my father were there. Katie was sitting in the porch swing. She must have just arrived; her car was on the carport and her purse was beside her. My father sat near her in an aluminum folding chair, cloth strips of the seat sagging with his weight. He looked up at me quizzically as I walked forward with Dixon beside me. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. He would misunderstand; he would think I was bringing a friend to meet him.
But I wouldn’t have a boyfriend in uniform. Katie knew that. She leaned back in the swing as though pressed backward. Her mouth opened slightly, her hand went to the center of her chest.
Now we were close enough that my father saw my expression. I had such terror in my face that he stood and walked toward me. He reached me and grabbed my upper arm and pulled me closer, as though out of harm’s way. Quickly, my voice certain, I said, “Dad, Billy is missing. He’s not dead.”
Many times that summer, I sat in the sitting room with Bess while my father talked on the phone in the hallway to this or that person in Charleston or Washington. He is a little hard of hearing and speaks loudly, especially over long distance. He called our state senator by his first name and called the congressman from our district “sir.” He sounded deferential and I hated hearing that tone in his voice.
“Why,” he would begin, not questioning but stating, “we still haven’t received an official account of the incident in which my son, William Hampson, was listed as Missing In Action. Do you remember speaking with me last week, sir? [pause] Yes, sir. Private First Class [slowly now, as though the world is hard of hearing and the name must be understood] Willi
am, Mitchell, Hampson, 227th Aviation Battalion. We’ve had unofficial word from a Specialist 4th Class Taylor, a letter to my daughter, but the army still hasn’t confirmed the information.”
And so on.
Bess sat in her chair with her sewing in her lap, her hands folded across hooped cross-stitching. Once, early on, she turned her birdlike head to me and said, with no fear of being overheard, “You know, your father doesn’t sleep at night. He hasn’t in all these weeks since. In the afternoon, he falls asleep in his chair.”
Machine Dreams Page 31