by C. L. Hoang
As I pull myself away from the window and resume pacing, the doorbell rings. In the mid-morning quiet, its brassy chime startles and stops me dead in my tracks.
I approach the door in dreamlike motion. Resting my hand on the knob, I inhale deeply, pull the door open—and come face-to-face with my Việt-Nam past.
For seconds, Dean and I stand staring at each other in stunned silence. Then simultaneously we burst forward and grip each other in a mutual hug.
“Welcome home, kiddo,” he says in a voice gruff with emotion.
I’m aware that Việt-Nam veterans often greet one another with that symbolic phrase, as a way to make up for the rude welcome many of us encountered when we came home. But this is the first time someone has ever said it to me, and that keeps me speechless a moment longer.
Fighting to regain my composure, I step aside to invite him in. Nobody else is with him. So roiled up are my emotions I don’t even know how I feel.
One thing is obvious. Time has been easy on the Lonely Hunter. He appears little changed after all these years. Still that ramrod posture, the slight catch I noticed in his step when we first met at Biên-Hoà AFB. The same powerful build on a six-foot-plus frame, even with the extra ten or fifteen pounds packed on by age. And of course the boyish buzz cut, now sprinkled with more salt than pepper.
We’ve barely come inside when he pivots and grasps me by the shoulders, shaking his head in disbelief. “So good to see you again, old buddy. How the heck have you been? I’d just about given up on you.”
Still at a loss for words, I simply nod and smile as I motion him to the sofa facing my chair. Dean seems to sense the trouble I’m having and proceeds to fill me in on the particulars. He happens to be on the last day of a weeklong reunion in town with his former comrades in the 5th Special Forces Group, and is going home in the morning. Which explains his excitement when he received my message upon returning to his room last night.
“Great to see you, too, big guy,” I finally manage. “I can’t believe this is happening. How did you find me in the first place?”
“You kidding me? In this day and age, anything’s possible.” Dean laughs. “Besides, an old buddy of mine works at the hospital where you were. Same guy who organized this week’s reunion.” He pauses before adding, “I’ve known for some time that you live here in the city, but I wasn’t sure you wanted to be bothered. You know—you lying low all these years. Just figured I’d take my chances this time. And here we are.”
I avert my eyes from his stare. This isn’t a subject to discuss right from the outset. There’ll be plenty of time later. “How rude of me,” I say. “First things first. What would you like to drink? I have water, coffee, or diet soda. Or maybe an early beer?”
Dean jumps up from the couch, a big grin on his face. “Hold that thought. Right now a couple other people are dying to see you, kiddo. They’re waiting out in the car so I could have the first few minutes with you. May I bring them in?”
“Oh sure . . . of course,” I stammer, caught by yet another surprise.
So she did make it, after all.
While Dean dashes out, I again pace the living room straining to pull myself together. But the moment I hear the sound of hurried footsteps followed by a loud rap on the door, my composure flies out the window and my heart skips to a standstill.
Frozen to the spot, I glance up at the open doorway.
In a whirl of excitement, she sweeps in and wraps me in a big, heartfelt hug. Her shoulders heave with unleashed emotion, and my own eyes get damp as we cling to each other while we both grapple for words.
“Roger, Roger. How many years has it been?” she speaks first, but immediately chokes up.
I smile through the blurriness and grab hold of her hands. “Elise. What a wonderful surprise. How’ve you been?” That’s all I can muster, even as my gaze stays glued to her face.
Our “little princess.” In the flesh. Right in front of me, with her heart on her sleeve, the way she always was. And still as beautiful as ever. It appears she has carried her striking resemblance to Audrey Hepburn into her mature years.
The decades evaporate. All I see is the lovely silhouette of a romantic young woman leaning over Mme Yvonne’s Baldwin console, pouring her broken heart onto the keys. My chest swells with such nostalgia it hurts.
Dean steps up behind us. “Roger. There’s somebody here I’d like you to meet.”
Only then do I realize the presence of another visitor, blocked from my view by Dean’s broad back. She takes a few timid steps forward as he turns to introduce her, a young Vietnamese woman with shoulder-length hair and a shy but pretty smile, dressed in pants and summer blouse, as is Elise.
“This is Lan,” Dean says as Elise moves to her side and takes her by the elbow, as if to lend support. “She and her husband are young friends of ours. Elise is visiting at their home in Orange County while I’m attending the reunion. When I called last night and told her I was meeting you today, she wanted to come, so Lan offered to drive her down this morning. Lan, this is Dr. Roger Connors. Our long-lost friend.”
I shake hands and exchange greetings with my unknown guest. She blushes as we touch, reminding me somewhat of a very young and painfully shy, almost terrified, Lee Anne, when I first met her the day she started at Mme Yvonne’s. Already my head is spinning from the merry-go-round of ups and downs, of rising anticipations and dashed hopes, current reality and flashes of déjà vu. It feels like teetering on a high wire in a balancing act between past and present.
And we’ve only just begun.
I bring out an extra chair from my study, place it next to the sofa, and invite everybody to take a seat. Then, after making sure we all have a beverage, I raise my glass to make a toast.
“We’ve got a lot of catching up to get on with, I know. Let me just say how fantastic it is to see you all again.” I hasten to add while still in full control of my voice, “Thank you for remembering, and for keeping faith through the years. Here’s to old friends,” then turning to Lan, “and to new ones.”
We clink glasses with bright smiles, and after that I settle into my La-Z-Boy since Dean has grabbed the smaller chair from the study, reserving the more comfortable couch for the ladies. We then take turns catching one another up on our lives since the time we lost contact. As the host, I insist on going last.
Thus I learn that Dean had in fact volunteered for an impressive third tour in Việt-Nam, as I had suspected, and had stayed on at the same critical post at Biên-Hoà Provincial Hospital until late 1969. “It changed my life forever,” he remarks succinctly, though with a meaningful wink at Elise, who responds with a tender smile.
“What he meant was, it gave us a rare chance to reconnect,” she explains, picking up the account from there. “You probably knew my father was killed during Tết 1968 and I had to race home to Huế to be with my family. Without my father, though, we soon ran into some really hard times, so I returned to Sài-Gòn the next year in hope of finding some work. But I had no idea things had changed so much in just a year. Everyone I’d known had disappeared without a trace, except Mme Yvonne, who had stayed in touch from the States via airmail. God bless that gold-hearted woman. When she learned of my trouble, she asked her husband to write me a letter of introduction to an old friend of his who worked at Bank of America in the city. The gentleman was able to help get me a job as a bank teller. Oh Roger, you can’t imagine what a lifesaver that was for me and my family. We really owe Mme Yvonne and Mr. Bill a great debt of gratitude.”
My thoughts flash to Lee Anne. Where is she? What happened to her and her parents? Did she also get help from Mme Yvonne and her husband? A thousand burning questions, but I tell myself to be patient and to give Elise my full attention as she continues.
“After my job situation stabilized, I went checking around on our old friends again. There was nobody left in Sài-Gòn except Dean h
ere. He must have had a hunch I was coming back and decided to hang around and wait for me. Didn’t you, dear?” It’s her turn to give him a playful wink, to which he replies with a smiling nod. “Long story short, I got in touch with him and we started seeing each other again every weekend he wasn’t away. When he left for home later that year, we both knew he would be back for me after I had a chance to get my family resituated. And return he did, one year later, and we traveled to Huế together so he could meet all my folks. We got married there on Christmas Day 1970. Just a small, simple wedding attended by my family and some close friends. I moved to the States with him soon after that.” Her voice filled with happy wonder, she adds, “Next year we’ll celebrate our thirtieth anniversary with the new millennium. Can you believe it?”
I rush over to hug Elise and shake hands with Dean. What a fabulous, heartwarming story. I couldn’t have wished a more perfect ending for my friends.
“I’ve always known you two belonged together since I first saw you dance with each other in Mme Yvonne’s garden,” I remind them with a smile. “It was clearly meant to be. And from the look of it now, I’d say you’ve got at least another thirty years of bliss to look forward to. I’m so happy for you both. Just wish I could have shared in the toast on your wedding day.”
“Thank you, Roger. We feel very fortunate,” Dean says, looking tenderly at his wife. “Elise came home with me to Washington, DC, because I was working at Walter Reed Army Hospital at the time. They needed doctors with experience in combat medical service. I stayed there until 1976, then a couple of buddies talked me into joining them in private practice.” He shrugs his shoulders, an edge creeping in his voice. “The war had ended, and I figured I’d seen enough of it to last me a lifetime. All the more since we mucked things up so bad in the end. It was time I moved on. To something different.”
I’m with you, brother, is my thought. We all lapse into a brief silence.
Then I switch topics. “How about you, Elise? Did you get back to your music study? We all thought you had so much talent. It was always a special treat to listen to you play.”
“You know, it was my dream growing up, and my parents’ also, that I would one day be a concert pianist,” she says, her soft eyes staring past me. “But after I came to the US, I got so involved in building the new life with Dean that I never took the time to pursue a career in music. Then came our beautiful baby girl, and suddenly it dawned on me I had been living my dream all along. A healthy, happy life in the land of freedom, shared with the ones I loved.” Her eyes glow with serene contentment, and a light blush colors her cheeks. “Honestly, Roger, I must not have had an ounce of ambition in me. My heart felt so full already there wasn’t anything more I could have wished for. And nothing has changed since.”
I feel the warmth of her contagious happiness coursing through me. “A girl. How wonderful,” I exclaim. “She must be a young woman by now. Please tell me all about her.”
“Oh, no,” laments Dean, holding his head in mock despair. “You shouldn’t encourage her.”
“Dean is right. She’s the apple of our eyes—what can I say?” Elise’s grin lights up her face. “Her name is Clara, after Dean’s grandmother and also Clara Schumann, the composer’s wife. She seems to have inherited my love of music, but always showed much more aptitude than I ever had at the same age.” Noticing my eyebrows raise in disbelief, she laughs. “Don’t forget you’re listening to a doting mother, okay? But it’s true. Music has been Clara’s life from very early on, though we never planned to steer her down that path. We weren’t even aware how or when she first got the idea in her head that some day she was going to apply to Juilliard Music School. But she did. And lo and behold, they accepted her.”
“Juilliard. Seriously?” I whistle at the delightful news, cracking my friends up. “Impressive. It’s extremely competitive to get in, I understand. Congratulations to all of you. That’s quite an achievement. She plays the piano, like you, I suppose?”
Dean and Elise both nod, beaming with undeniable pride. “She’s got another two years of graduate studies,” Elise says, radiant and bubbling over with excitement. “Honest to goodness, we don’t push her. But Clara is always pushing herself. She just won a school competition to perform with the Juilliard Orchestra at Carnegie Hall this coming holiday season.”
I shake my head in amazement. “This is getting better and better. Your talent, and Dean’s determination. What a winning combination. Our girl is going to go very far, I can tell.”
“I only wish she paid just a fraction of that attention to her social life.” Elise sighs. “Mme Yvonne agrees with me a hundred percent there. She’s her godmother, you know.”
“We’ve stayed in close touch with Yvonne and her husband,” Dean explains. “We used to try to get together a couple of times a year, alternating between DC and Atlanta. But it hasn’t been that frequent lately, due to Bill’s declining health. He’s a bit older than all of us, if you remember. Well into his seventies now, and doesn’t travel very easily anymore.”
“They have one son, Bill Junior, or just Billy Boy to us,” continues Elise. “Real sweet boy, older than our Clara by three years and a budding novelist with a lot of promise. He also lives and works in New York City. Just a few blocks from our girl, actually.” She glances at Dean and smiles in resignation. “Mme Yvonne and I were hoping they would find time to visit and hang out together, like the close friends they used to be when they were kids. But what’s a pair of old moms to do, you know, with such independent and stubborn children?
“By the way, I was thrilled when I learned we were meeting you this morning. So I called Mme Yvonne, and she asked me to tell you hello. She can’t wait to see or at least talk with you real soon. She would have come on this trip with us in a heartbeat, if not for Mr. Bill still recovering from his knee surgery last month.”
It strikes me rather strange to hear our “little princess” refer to herself and Mme Yvonne as “a pair of old moms.” At the same time, it reveals just how fleeting the years have been, with the next generation already coming into full bloom. In a different twist, I’m also filled with a sense of loss, having missed growing older alongside my friends and sharing with them the joys and tribulations that come with the territory.
“So you’ve stayed in touch with all the friends from Việt-Nam?” I ask.
“With as many as we can,” Dean answers, running his hand through his salt-and-pepper buzz cut. “It’s therapy for me, if you know what I mean. It helps me come to terms with things, hopefully wrap up any unfinished business along the way.”
I nod in wistful silence. It’s interesting how he and I made such different choices in coping with the war’s aftermath. I wonder now who has chosen the more healing path.
Dean’s gaze shifts away from me. “I went to look up Nancy Olsen shortly after I came home, in summer 1970.”
“In Minnesota?” My voice suddenly sounds shaky as my body tenses up.
“Little Falls, a tiny town two hours north of the Twin Cities. Even got to take her and Ricky out to the Lindbergh’s house that morning after our visit.” He chuckles at the memory. “What a rambunctious little carrot top, if I’d ever seen one. Between Nancy and me, we couldn’t keep up with him scampering all over the back porch.”
He pauses, breathing softly. “Remember that crazy weekend when Bob was supposed to rendezvous with her in Hawaii, and we all wondered what happened to her after his chopper went down? Turned out Biên-Hoà managed to get hold of her after all. Just before she left for the airport, thank God.” Another pause, longer this time, then he clears his throat and resumes in a controlled monotone. “After the funeral, she and Ricky moved in with her parents. They helped look after him while she went back to school to get a nursing degree. Bob’s father also lived in town, so the boy got to see him regularly as well. I’m sure Ricky was surrounded with love and affection, growing up. As far as I kno
w, Nancy never remarried . . .”
Elise reaches over and takes her husband’s hand before continuing the story in his place. “I never met Bob, but I knew he was very good friends with both of you. Dean wanted to look in on his family every so often, and I went with him on a few occasions. Most recently, to attend Ricky’s—Eric’s—wedding, in June of last year.”
She turns to Dean with her gentle smile. “It was a lovely traditional church wedding, right out of a storybook. The bride and groom made such a handsome couple, didn’t they, sweetie? You also thought Eric looked the spitting image of his dad.”
Dean’s face brightens at the happy recollection. “He’s grown into quite a young man. Very mature and caring. Nancy mentioned he wanted to stay close to her and his grandparents. So he started his own venture in Little Falls, doing computer consulting for businesses in the area. Very bright kid by all accounts, but money has never been his priority. His family is. His young wife teaches school, I believe. They were high school sweethearts, just like his parents before. Good old Bob would have been proud of his boy.”
For a second, my mind fleets back to “Puff the Magic Dragon” and the picture of newborn Ricky that Bob used to carry in his wallet everywhere he went. My throat tightens. Thirty years already our friend has been gone. A good half of our lives, in a blink of an eye.
Yet here we are, still missing and reminiscing about him. That’s the measure of the man.
Dean goes on. “I’d drive up and visit the Olsens every time I attended a seminar at the University of Minnesota or the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. Elise would come along once in a while. Sometimes we’d also take a mini vacation after the conference to swing down to Decorah, Iowa, and visit your other hooch mate, Paul Nilsen. You remember The Kid, don’t you? After you were gone, he became my regular drinking buddy at the Officers’ Club—by default.” Dean and I both laugh at this ironic twist, since Paul was no more of a drinker than a Sunday choirboy. “He asked about you all the time, Roger. Still reminded me each time we got together how you saved his life twice in Việt-Nam.”