* * * *
After the barbecue, I sometimes wondered how Kaye fared, living with Faxon. On the day in question, as I stood in that soggy field, sun banging on my hard hat, I recalled the lecture on smart pigs I'd amused her with. As I'd talked to Kaye, I hadn't been pleased about being appointed head of corrosion, but never did I think that demotion would land me here in this steaming muck.
Technically, I was lead engineer on the pipeline test, yet Faxon ordered me to stand at a monitoring station that had zero value to our mission. To get there I had to take a supply boat to the point where the underwater line meets the shore. After being dropped off, I slogged through sucking mud for two football fields until I reached the spot where the pipeline, about as big around as a nice-sized cow's chest, muscles up from underground, then dives again.
The true receiving station, which by all rights is where I should have been, was another mile inland from where I was ordered to stand.
I argued with Faxon over the phone when he issued that order. I said, “You can get any grunt to stand at that station."
"Sure, Doc. But this will show the other men you're not above the lowest work.” His voice was oily with fake humanitarian aspiration. “And after all, you are a relatively new hire, Tom-ass."
I kept my mouth shut. I liked my fat paychecks.
We had little trouble the first day. The test pig squealed through without incident. Hours later, the second pig also passed. Still, I'd stood out in that field a long time.
I'm no outdoorsman. I'm very happy in my air-conditioned office, door closed, working problems on my computer. This was nuts, risking heat stroke while waiting for a pig to hum by. Faxon said I was to keep my ear to the metal, listen for the pig singing in the pipe, and report that event over my walkie-talkie.
A high school kid could do this, I kept telling myself. My anger rose with the mercury and intensified as the marsh's fetid smells bloomed in the heat. I concluded that Faxon's only motive for putting me in this spot was a sick wish to demean me.
The second pig, I learned that evening, had not emerged unblemished. It showed deep gashes along one side.
We had a problem. Probably some considerable dent in the offshore section of the line was the cause. The pig-slinging exercise would be repeated tomorrow. Like a general commanding strategic forces, Faxon phoned me that night.
I couldn't believe his orders. In the morning I was to take up the same position in the swampy pasture, stand with my walkie-talkie at the ready, and report any pig action whatsoever. Only, on this second day, Faxon promised that he, the engineer-in-chief, would put in an appearance to cheer on the troops. Something was amiss with the pipeline. Whatever it was, it had him worried. “Corrosion, Doc,” he said to me. “Corrosion is important."
It was that evening that I heard about the cow. One of our helicopter pilots, flying relief drillers to our offshore rigs, told me that he'd noticed a cow lying motionless in the field below on the return trip, about a half mile inland. That might not be far from my position at the monitoring station, I thought.
The pilot was beat and hadn't mentioned the cow sighting to anyone else, I was certain. I watched after him as he headed toward his quarters. “Got tomorrow morning off,” he called back to me. “Once my head hits that pillow—” He smacked his hands together. “—I'm gonna sleep like the dead."
Next morning, after being let off at the same soggy spot by the supply boat and slogging inland to the intermediate station, I kept on going. A gas mask, required, dangled from my belt. After covering several hundred yards north of my station, I planted the mask on my smooth face. Sure enough, another five minutes ahead I found the cow just to the right of our buried gas line. She was hunkered down, legs crumpled beneath her, glassy eyed, as if contemplating the beauties of nature. I glanced at the indicator on my belt. When gas is present, the white tape turns black. The strip I pulled out was black as tar. This cow, a beautiful creature, sure hadn't died of old age.
I headed back to my post. Though still early morning, the heat was mounting. Once I got away from that bad scene, I was happy to pull the mask off and feel the air against my face once again. I leaned against the huge pipe, one hand on the walkie-talkie, ready to call in my discovery. Whatever problems the guys were having launching the pig from offshore, there were other problems upstream—this leak—and I needed to report it.
My thumb was on the call button, at the ready, but I hesitated. I can't say why. Maybe I was thinking about the poor cow.
She was a tawny brown with milk-white patches. Being a city boy, I'd never been that close to a cow before, even if she was a dead cow. I felt sorry for her, and mused for a little while about how sudden and unexpected death can be.
At the same time, I was scared. In fact, I was amazed at myself for marching up the line as I had done. A bull could appear any time. The previous day this thought had nagged periodically to the point that my breaths came fast, and I'd have to chug-a-lug water from the giant Thermos I'd hauled out there. What if a bull pranced up and decided I was a sweet target? There were no climbing trees around. My bit of pipeline wasn't high enough to keep me out of harm's way.
Snakes. In my steel-toed boots, I felt protected. But what if one sprang up and fanged me higher on the leg? How long would it take to stretcher me out of this forsaken pasture? How long to a hospital and antivenom treatment?
And then there were gators. I'd seen them on the boat ride in, their blinkless eyes skimming the water's surface. Twelve-foot mama gators trolled near my spot, easy. I heard they prowled inland looking for mammals of all sizes. They'd surprise a deer, pull it deep underwater, and wedge it beneath sunken branches. Storing it in the water was smart. The deer would decompose less quickly and the gator could return for multiple feedings.
Gators are quick. Nature programs rarely show you how fast alligators can run, their knife-lined maws open and hissing.
I was having these thoughts about alligators, snakes, and bulls, when like a mirage—speaking of bull—Faxon appeared. Coming from our drop-off point, he strode through the weedy grass, a glittery, Precambrian smile on his face.
"What's up, Doc?"
From his cheery tone, you'd think he were greeting me poolside in the Bahamas, coconut drink in hand.
"It goes well,” I answered. “I love watching mosquitoes mate. What you doing, Fax, slumming with the peons?"
He let loose a Faxon-type laugh. Even under the sprawling sky he filled up the entire picture frame with his bass ho, ho, ho, like the freaking Jolly Green Giant.
"We've got a major glitch.” He turned serious. “So here I am. Somebody needs to sort out this shit, and that somebody is me."
Clearly, he had no confidence in his Corrosion Czar. How I might sort out any “shit” while stuck in this field, he didn't bother to address.
"Might be a problem upline too,” I said.
His back to the exposed pipeline segment, Faxon pushed down against it with his hands, and parked his butt up there, legs dangling, as if he were about to open a picnic basket and split a baloney sandwich with me. “Yeah? Like what would you know about anything upline?"
"Possible dead cow."
His brow creased. “I didn't hear anything about a cow."
"Forget it,” I said. “Probably not a factor."
That soon I could feel every trick I knew about reverse psychology kicking in. “Helicopter pilot mentioned it, late.” I yawned. “Probably nothing."
"Yeah, Doc? Tell me what you know. You need to be on top of stuff like this, Tom-ass. You're way too nonchalant."
At that word “nonchalant,” I decided to let him have it. Greta used that one on me. What a dumb word.
I pawed the ground with one foot, mimicking Faxon's bullish style. “About a half mile upline.” I couldn't have sounded any more unconcerned. “The pilot said he thought he saw a cow. He was vague. I wouldn't bother checking it out."
"No. You wouldn't."
I gave him a meek stare.
/> Faxon pushed off the gleaming pipe and started marching north.
"Hey. Where's your mask?” I called.
He shrugged me off. Knew he would.
I strode after him. “Company rules,” I said, my tone almost pleading. “No one works a sour gas field without a mask."
I knew that although big on rules, Faxon felt none applied to him. Too macho for a mask, just as he'd never deign to use an umbrella in a thunderstorm. If his hard hat didn't shout faxon hall, printed in fancy letters, he probably wouldn't have worn that either.
He flung a hand out, pointing ahead, and assumed a rugged stance, the other hand propped on his hip. “A cow's down, and you don't report it? You moron. I'll have your ass for this."
I can be a marvel of self-control. People like me drive people like Faxon nuts. “I don't think you should go.” My voice was calm, as if I were unaware of any insult. “I'll call in a copter to fly over. Why tromp all the way up there? There's snakes and—"
"And lions and tigers and bears.” He started marching up the line again, turning to sling me a sneer. “You weenie."
"If it's true, about the cow,” I hollered, “you need a mask. Take mine.” I held it up. “Better safe than sorry."
He turned to face me and gave me a look that implied my IQ must be fifty digits off his own. “I know sour gas when I smell it,” he said.
The man was so full of what they used to call the Right Stuff. If I'd said no need for a mask, he would have demanded mine. But suggesting he needed one? No way would he accept that. Taking my mask would mark him as a weak sister.
I waited, sweat prickling my face. From my earlier hike, I knew how long it'd take him to get there and back. Once thirty minutes passed, I was reasonably sure that sour gas, my weapon of choice, had done its work. He should have returned after twenty, unless he'd decided to give the cow CPR, or last rites.
Once another fifteen minutes passed, I called it in that Fax had hiked upline and hadn't returned. I wasn't keen to check the results myself. Seems I'm not the kind of killer who needs to view his handiwork or return to the scene of the crime. For that matter, the scene of the crime was where I was already standing.
* * * *
The funeral was great. During the visitation, they had some wonderful party food, even shrimp on toothpicks, in a second room adjoining the one where Faxon was lying in state. I'd never seen food at a funeral before.
Kaye asked me to be a pallbearer. They hadn't been in Houston long; seems that few of Faxon's relatives or friends were able to attend.
"It'd be an honor,” I said.
When they lowered the coffin, I thought that there should have been two. One for Faxon's body and a second one for his bloated ego.
I was surprised the funeral was held in Houston, but Kaye decided to buy a plot here instead of going all the way back to Ohio. “So much fuss,” she said. Faxon's parents, I gathered, were already dead.
The kids seemed dazed, or high on sugar cookies. Fortunately, they were young, five and seven. From what I knew of Faxon's work habits, they didn't see much of him, so I can't say I felt too bad on that score. Also, they'd get huge death benefits since their dad died in a work-related accident.
The funeral was the first time I'd seen Kaye since the barbeque. I sensed a positive change in her. She seemed more relaxed. If there was any tension in her demeanor, I suspect it was from having to suppress a certain natural gaiety.
"Thank you so much,” she said, hugging me, “for all you did for Faxon."
I shuffled my feet and bowed my head as if receiving a crown of laurel.
"I heard you begged him not to go on. You offered your own gas mask. That was so kind."
"Freak accident."
"Not so freak, really.” Her eyes were startlingly intense, holding mine.
"I offered the mask. Don't know why he wouldn't take it.” I believe my voice sounded whiney.
"Oh, but you knew Faxon, didn't you? He wanted everything to be his idea, I'm afraid. You knew that about him, Thomas. We both knew."
She said the words with no intonation of blame. My heart froze at her next statement: “You'll never know how grateful I am, that you took care of Faxon."
And at that, she turned her warm smile on another well-wisher.
Copyright (c) 2008 Elaine Menge
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Fiction: THE OPPOSITE OF O by Martin Limon
Edward Kinsella III
* * * *
"Never the twain shall meet,” a wise man once said.
He was referring to the Occident and the Orient, but as a criminal investigator for the 8th United States Army in Seoul, Republic of Korea, I can assure you that the two worlds often meet. Usually in harmony. Occasionally in conflict. And in the case of Private First Class Everett P. Rothenberg and Miss O Sung-hee, the two worlds collided at the intersection of warm flesh and the cold, sharpened tip of an Army-issue bayonet.
My name is George Sueño. Me and my partner, Ernie Bascom, were dispatched from 8th Army Headquarters as soon as we received word about a stabbing near Camp Colbern, a communications compound located in the countryside some eighteen miles east of the teeming metropolis of Seoul.
Paldang-ni was the name of the village. It clings to the side of the gently sloping foothills of the Kumdang Mountains just below the brick and barbed-wire enclosure that surrounds Camp Colbern. The roads were narrow and farmers pushed wooden carts piled high with winter turnips, and old women in short blouses and long skirts balanced huge bundles of laundry atop their heads. Ernie drove slowly through the busy lanes so as to avoid splashing mud on the industrious pedestrians that milled about us. Not because Ernie Bascom was a polite kind of guy but because he wasn't quite sure where in this convoluted maze of alleys we would find the road that led to the Paldang Station of the Korean National Police.
Above a whitewashed building, the flag of Daehan Minguk, the Republic of Korea, fluttered in the cold morning breeze. The yin and the yang symbols clung to one another, like red and blue teardrops embracing on a field of pure white. Ernie parked the jeep out front and together we strode into the station. Five minutes later we were interrogating a prisoner: a thin and very nervous young man by the name of Private First Class Everett P. Rothenberg.
* * * *
Geographically, Korea doesn't sit on the exact opposite side of the Earth from the United States, but it's pretty close. Things are different here. People look at their lives and their relationships and their place in the cosmos through a different lens than people in the States do. For example, G.I.'s new in country see Koreans waving good-bye to one another but are puzzled when no one departs. Actually, waving the hand with the palm facing downward means “come here.” So what looks like “good-bye” to an American actually means “hello."
Similarly, a Korean never says “no” to another person's face. Such a bald statement of negativity damages kibun, the aura of congeniality that envelopes human relationships. Instead, a polite Korean will answer “yes,” meaning “yes, I'll think about it.” So “yes,” G.I.'s soon come to find out, usually means “no."
Children also have a different attitude toward their parents. You'll never hear a Korean child saying, “I didn't ask to be born.” No matter how disaffected a Korean child is with his or her parents, they always give their parents credit for at least providing them with the opportunity to be born. An opportunity they see as being quite preferable to not being born.
We all know that in Asia elders are honored rather than ignored and that the past is revered as opposed to the future. But another difference that G.I.'s run into is two women calling one another “sisters.” At first we believe that two women who work together and call one another “sister” are actually sisters. Sometimes we're puzzled that the two women don't look alike—one is tall and the other is short or one has a narrow face and the other has a round face—but having heard vaguely about the workings of genetics, we write that off as the occasional anomaly that happen
s within families. It is only later, after a G.I. becomes seasoned in the ways of Frozen Chosun, that he realizes that when two young women call one another “sister” they are actually referring to the fact that they are close—and often inseparable—friends. Conversely, when a G.I. stumbles across two young women who actually are biological sisters, they will most often refuse to admit to any relationship. Why? Because the family is considered sacred in Korean society, and a dumb foreigner, especially a know-nothing American G.I., has no business prying into the complex interrelationships of a Korean clan.
As if all this isn't confusing enough, there is also the language barrier. And then, of course, the biggest barrier of all: American arrogance. Our refusal to believe that foreigners have anything whatsoever to teach us.
* * * *
"They were sisters,” Private Rothenberg told us.
"Who?” Ernie asked.
"Miss O. And the woman she shared a hooch with, Miss Kang."
"Sisters?"
"Yeah."
Ernie crossed his arms and stared skeptically at Rothenberg. Rothenberg, for his part, allowed long forearms to hang listlessly over bony legs. The three-legged stool he sat upon was too low for him and his spine curved forward and his head bobbed. He looked like a man who'd abandoned any hope of receiving a fair shake.
"Didn't it ever trouble you,” Ernie asked, “that the two women had different last names?"
Rothenberg shrugged bony shoulders. “I figured they had different fathers or something."
I asked the main question. “Why'd you kill her, Rothenberg?"
He tilted his head toward me and his moist blue eyes became larger and rounder.
"You don't believe me, do you?"
"What's to believe? You haven't told us anything one way or the other."
"I told them.” He pointed to the three khaki-clad Korean National Policemen standing outside the cement-walled interrogation room. Their arms were crossed, fists clenched, narrow eyes alight with malice. Rays from a single electric bulb illuminated the interrogation room, revealing cobwebs and dried rat feces in unswept corners.
AHMM, July-August 2008 Page 2