The next week our meeting went as usual, but I noticed a coolness between Lam and Lt. Frye. Private Crawley sat behind us, silent as always, with his gun nearby.
At the end of the next meeting we had alone, Lt. Frye told me that he had fallen in love with me. I told him my feelings. He told me he wished me to move onto the base in two weeks. He did not want me exposed to the enemy any longer. He said he could not forgive himself if shells directed by his Intelligence were to land and kill me. He said that my value to him as a spy was now second to my value as a woman.
I was happy. I was terrified, too. I told him I needed to think. One cannot imagine the contradictions of heart when one falls in Love with a man during war—a man of another race and religion, of another place, another world. I knew that if I were to move into his base, I would be leaving my life forever. I had seen the girls taken advantage of by the soldiers. Words of love, drunkenly spoken. Or sometimes less than that. And I knew that a Vietnamese woman who went to an American was scorned as a prostitute by her own people. These women became neither Vietnamese nor American—they were outcasts. But never once did it enter my mind that Lt. Frye would be using me in that way. The woman inside me yearned for him. The girl yearned to run away.
The next day I didn’t go to market. Instead I walked to the pond near my hut and thought for many hours, I sat and tossed sticks into the water. I was afraid of what going to Lt. Frye would mean to me, yet I wanted to go to him. I was afraid to bring the wrath of my own race upon me, yet I knew that if I went to the lieutenant, I would be hated.
Lam must have followed me to the pond. He was quieter and more brooding than usual. He sat a few feet away from me. Finally, he looked at me with his dark eyes and said that he loved me. He wanted to be with me and help me. He said we were of one blood and destiny. He said the war would be over soon, and the Communists would win. He asked me to marry him, so that we each would have something to hold onto when the dark days came.
All this, when I had gone to the pond to think!
I told him that I was thinking about moving to base with Lt. Frye. Lam stood and hurled a branch into the water. He said things about the Americans that were not good. He said to mix blood was evil, and that our race was not to be one with the Americans. He stormed around the pond, then came back to the stone where I was sitting and brought his face close to mine. He said that Bennett Frye would use and discard me like a basket. He said that I must learn to survive without him. He said that if I went to the lieutenant I would be murdered immediately when the Communists overran us. He said to go to Bennett was to choose death.
All I knew at the time was that I did not want Lam.
Our next meeting was heavy with tension. Lam and Lt. Frye showed no love for each other. At the end of it, Lt. Frye told me he had changed his plans. He wanted me to meet him at the base that very night, with my belongings. I would be provided a hootch and safety. He told me too, in secret by the plantation wall, that he believed it was Lam who had betrayed their plans and cost some of his men their lives. He asked me not to say anything to Lam about his desire for me, but it was too late.
When Lam and I walked back through the jungle toward my home, he told me he knew of Lt. Frye’s proposal. He stopped me on the trail, put his hands gently on my arms, and asked me not to go. He pleaded with me to pack my belongings and bring them instead to his hut, which was between my home and the base. He would love me and protect me. We would be what we were—Vietnamese.
I was shaking with sorrow. Lam saw this, so he let me go. He told me that whatever I decided, to please come to his hut that night—either to say good-bye or to say yes to him. He made me promise.
It was the honorable thing to do, so I agreed.
That night I packed my things. There was not much to carry: a few cooking baskets and pots, my clothes, my guitar. I said good-bye to my home forever and walked out into the night. In my heart, I knew what I would do.
I could see a candle burning in Lam’s hootch. He was inside, sitting alone on his cot. He could see what my decision had been by the look on my face. He did not say any of the things I thought he would. He was very serious. He told me he loved me and wished me success. He hugged me. Then he gave me a pack that he had prepared and slung it over my back. It was small, but heavy and hard.
“This is for you and Lt. Frye to open together,” he said. His face was full of bravery and defeat. “Open it when you are together. And be very careful not to drop it or hit it hard. It has a fragile content. Good-bye, Kieu Li.”
Tearfully, I said good-bye and started out again.
I knew what Lam had done to me.
It was the last time I saw him.
When I got to the base, Lt. Frye was waiting as he said he would be. I was trembling, and I told him what Lam had put on my back. That he wanted us to open it together. That I feared it. Very carefully he removed it and carried it away. Later I learned that his demolitions experts had detonated the bomb, which was strong enough to kill ten men.
I stepped into my new hut and my heart was wailing. I was relieved. I was sad. This was my new life. Lt. Frye looked at me with kindness and I felt better. I was then able to acknowledge to myself how close to being killed I had come, not just that night but during all the nights and months before.
I lay in my new home and wept. Lt. Frye came after midnight. Lam had only made it one kilometer north before he was intercepted by a patrol. When he would not stop, they killed him. I gave myself to the lieutenant on the plank bed. He was the first man I had known, and the only man I have ever known. We were married two months later. Two weeks after that, he stepped on a mine and lost his legs. I knew that if he died, I would, too.
We live in America now. When I look back on those times, they are clear but distant, a dream that I cannot forget, a nightmare that I will always remember. We went to war and found love where most found only death. When the Day of Shame came, I watched on a television in California as Saigon fell. So many things have ended, so many have begun.
Frye closed the book and took a deep breath.
Li.
After all that, he thought, they take you offstage at the Asian Wind. He saw her struggling again, saw her blouse rip in their gloved hands, heard her screams through the amplifiers.
He remembered her, sitting at the dinner table on Frye Island, dressed in Western clothes, looking like a princess who had never slept in anything but silk sheets. He pictured her standing in Bennett’s living room one night, with her guitar strapped to her shoulder, playing a new song she had written. He thought of her on his own wedding day, lovely in that dress, standing in the row of women beside Linda, looking at him in absolute joy. And later, at the reception, dancing with her, when she had said into his ear, “The love shows on your faces, Chuck. You should never let it go and never let it die. It is not an easy thing to find, but it is an easy thing to lose.”
Champagne, three bottles.
He checked his watch. It was almost seven. He put on some good clothes and shaved twice. He brushed his teeth vigorously, thinking of Cristobel.
CHAPTER 17
THEY GOT TO THE SHERRINGTON HOTEL IN time for the first fight. He flashed his press pass at the door. The attendant checked his list and told Frye it wasn’t good anymore. Frye mumbled apologies, went to the ticket window, and came up with two ten-dollar seats way in the back.
The doorman took their tickets with a sigh.
“Where can I find Mr. Mack?”
“Never heard of him. Try the directory.”
On fight-night the ballroom houses the ring, and rows of chairs pressed all the way to the walls. Frye stepped inside. His stomach fluttered a bit, and he felt good at the lights and the ring and the ropes and the general carnival atmosphere. Cristobel took his arm.
He worked his way to the third-to-last row, from which the ring looked like a bright sugar cube. He checked his program. Stinson was in the white, out of Bakersfield; Avila in the red, out of Sonora, Mexico. At the b
ell they moved toward each other with the slowness of men wading through water.
Frye stood. “I’m going to find Mack.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sorry. I’ll be back in just a minute.”
He found the Elite listing in the lobby directory, and took an elevator to the eighth floor. Suite 816 was at the end of the hall, just across from the stairway. A small brass plaque said ELITE MANAGEMENT—PRIVATE. Frye knocked and waited; knocked again. The door was locked. He waited a moment longer, then headed back to the arena.
Cristobel smiled at him. “When you said a minute, you weren’t kidding. No dice?”
“None.”
He lifted his Bushnells and focused on the ring. Avila was a sinewy Latin, pesky, hard to hit. Stinson looked Irish, with heavy hands and thick calves. The kind of fighter who’ll run out of gas about the tenth, Frye guessed, if he hasn’t put his man away. But if he catches you with the right, you eat canvas. He’d seen Avila last year: The kid couldn’t be more than twenty.
He turned the binoculars ringside to see who’d gotten his old seat. It was Edison.
On one side of him was Lucia Parsons. On the other was Burke and his cowboy hat. Next to him was Paul DeCord. They all held gigantic beers.
Frye said nothing. He just looked through the binoculars and wondered what in hell his father was doing with Lucia Parsons and a man who kept spying on Bennett. He gave the glasses to Cristobel and looked down at the floor for a moment, thinking.
When he looked at the ring again, Stinson caught Avila with a right cross, then a left to the chin. Avila folded in the middle and plopped butt-first to the canvas. Frye could see he wouldn’t be getting up soon.
“Want to meet my dad?”
“A little early for that, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t know he’d be here tonight.”
She gathered up her purse and beer. “I didn’t know I would either. But why not?”
The ringside crowd thinned between bouts. Edison spotted him, blinked, then smiled. He gave Frye a Mafia bear hug and kiss, his standard public greeting. “The hell you doing here? And what’s this?”
Frye introduced Cristobel. Edison eyed her like a jeweler might a diamond. Frye was introduced to Lucia Parsons, who looked prettier and more substantial in real life than she was on TV. Burke grinned, said “Haw, Chuck,” and flagged the waitress to get Frye’s drink order. Paul DeCord remained in his seat, lost to his program.
“I didn’t know you covered these things anymore,” said Edison.
“I’m free-lancing tonight.”
“Gotta make a buck, I guess. You familiar with Lucia’s work?”
Frye regarded Lucia Parsons. Dark wavy hair, cut just above the shoulders. Green eyes, good skin. Conservative suit. Just enough jewelry to imply more at home.
“I heard your speech yesterday,” he said. “Are you planning another trip to Hanoi now?”
“We met our Phase-Three goal at that rally,” she said. “I’ll be going over again very soon.”
Frye noted that Lucia’s private voice was exactly like her public one: calm, confident, unassuming.
“I was impressed,” he said. “I’ll be even more impressed if you can get some solid proof that there are MIAs still alive over there.”
Lucia smiled. “You and the rest of the world. When Phase Four begins, I think a lot of people will be impressed, Chuck. But thank you. I’m a real fan of your articles, by the way. Your boxing pieces are actually superior to those in the Times.”
“Their only fight writer hates the sport. Papers don’t pay enough attention to boxing anyway.”
Burke tipped back his hat and shook his head slowly. “You can say that again, Chuck. It’s the only game around that amounts to much fun anymore. I read every one of your ditties. You gave a damn about the sport, and it showed.”
“Well, thanks.”
Burke took off his hat and smiled at Cristobel. Frye watched his eyes stray to her neck, then back up again. “Cristobel. Spanish name?”
“My father was German, my mother Mexican.”
“One helluva interesting combo,” said Burke.
Lucia was about to say something to Frye when three women closed in around her, offering their hands, introducing themselves.
Edison shook his head. “Everywhere she goes it’s like that. They mob her.”
How do you know? Frye thought.
“I got to thinking about your job, Chuck,” said Burke. “Your pop here filled me in. And I’ll be damned if I don’t know that Mack character. I come to so many of these fights, I couldn’t help but run across him. Tough little pecker. Didn’t surprise me at all he got his panties in a bunch like that.”
“I’d sure like to talk to him. That’s why I came.”
“Well, he’s here most of the time. Don’t see him tonight, though. Might try his office up on floor eight. Elite something.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Rollie?” Burke smiled, first at Frye, then at Cristobel “Shorter than you, gray hair, fifty or so. Just a regular sort of fella.”
“If you see him, tell him I’d really like to talk.”
“Sure enough.”
Lucia introduced Frye to Paul DeCord, who offered a friendly smile as they shook hands. Frye saw an alertness in the eyes, behind the glasses that sat crookedly on his nose. But there’s something about that face, Frye thought, that tells you it’s got nothing to hide. Not the same face he wore to his drops with Nguyen Hy. Or the one he brought to the Lower Mojave Airstrip.
“You’re a writer, I hear,” said Frye.
DeCord chuckled. “I’m doing some research on the refugee community for Health and Human Services. So I do my share of writing.”
“Photography, too?”
“Occasionally.”
Frye considered. “I guess you know Stanley Smith.”
“I’m familiar with his work. My own has a completely different focus.”
“Are you interested in the MIAs?”
DeCord looked over Frye’s shoulder, then refocused on his face. “On a personal level only. Burke and Lucia are just good friends. Are you?”
“At this point, Li’s my main MIA.”
“I can understand that,” said DeCord.
Frye watched his father watch Lucia. Something like pride showed on his face, something like dumb admiration. The last time Frye had seen Edison look that way, it was at his favorite spaniel.
Edison caught him, mid-study. He smiled, a little sheepishly.
“Take a walk with me, will you, Pop? We should talk.”
Frye excused himself from Cristobel, already the target of Burke Parsons’s attentions.
They left the ballroom and took the walkway toward the swimming pool. Edison held open the gate. The pool was huge and elaborately shaped, with deck chairs around it and a bunch of kids splashing in the shallow end. Frye watched branches of light and shadow spread and wobble along the bottom. Edison sat on a chaise lounge.
“Well, I guess that was one helluva scene you and Tuy Nha walked in on last night.”
“Right up there with the worst of them, Pop. Is there any more news about Li?”
Edison shook his head and loosened his necktie.
“Would you tell me if there was?”
His father looked at him, checked his watch. “I see what happens when you get involved in your brother’s business, son.”
“What do I have to do? Bring Li to Frye Island on a Rose Parade float?”
“You’d probably steer it into the bay.”
“And let her drown, like I let Debbie drown. Right?”
Edison stood up. “That’s horseshit, Chuck, Not me, not your mother, nobody ever said that.”
“It’s what you believed though, isn’t it?”
Edison stood before him, nose-to-nose. “What in hell’s wrong with you?”
“I’m locked out.”
“You’re nothing you haven’t asked for.”
“What I’m asking now is to be let back in.”
“You got off in Chicago, Chuck, and the train kept going to New York.”
Frye stepped back, looked out to the pool. “Who’s Paul DeCord? And don’t tell me he works for Health and Human Services. He’s taking pictures of Benny, visiting Minh, and sitting with you.”
Edison glared at him. “I just met the sonofabitch myself, son. He’s a friend of Lucia’s, and he’s a Fed researcher, for chrissakes. What do you mean, taking pictures of Benny?”
“You know about the medical supplies Bennett sends over?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, DeCord’s documenting it. What I’m telling you now is to be careful what you say. I don’t know who the hell this guy is, and neither do you.”
Edison shook his head, the same way he did twenty years ago when Frye had started up the family station wagon and driven it through the garage door. He checked his watch. “I don’t want to miss the main event. Heavyweights.”
“Where’s Mom tonight?”
“She canceled last minute, Chuck. Wasn’t feeling up to it.”
“What are you doing here?”
Edison looked at him, a long cool stare. “Lucia’s a major investor in the Paradiso, and this is a chance to talk strategy. I’ve got better things to be doing right now, but we made the date a month ago. You have a problem with that?”
“Yeah. You got my old seat. It’s the best one in the house.”
Edison turned and walked back through the gate, letting it slam behind him.
In the main event, a Nigerian heavyweight lost a close decision to a big kid from San Diego. The Nigerian left the ring in a tiger-print robe. Frye was certain that no tigers lived in Nigeria. He watched the boy from San Diego parade around the ring after, toothlessly demanding Mike Tyson. Mike Tyson would knock you out before you got off your stool, Frye thought. He watched through the binoculars, but the fight seemed less compelling than Lucia, Burke, DeCord, and Edison. Just after the ninth round, they left their seats and trailed up the aisle. His father walked closely behind Lucia, and Frye thought: He looks like a dog.
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