Seventh Wonder

by Renae Kelleigh

  Now we’re on the last leg of our journey - soon we will be landing at Bien Hoa airbase in Vietnam, about 30 km northeast of Saigon. The entire trip up till now has been in sunlight, but the rest of the way will be in the dark.

  It’s gotten pretty quiet since we took off from Manila. I think reality is setting in pretty fast. Even though it’s dark, I don’t know that anybody’s sleeping. Even the really chatty ones have shut up for the time being, probably trying to guess what might be in store for them. If only there was some way to know.

  The stewardess announced a little bit ago that we’re over country, but I can’t see a thing - just blackness, deep and weighted down, and every so often, a pinprick of light. It seems almost peaceful. Makes me think of the people who live down there, passing their lives in rice paddies or on fishing boats, now sleeping in their beds. I wish I could know what they think about all this. If they knew we were up here, looking down on their villages, what would they feel? Relief? Fear? I hope it’s the former, but more likely it’s somewhere in between.

  Meg, I miss you so much. You’ve heard that sentiment from me before, and I know you’ll hear it many, many more times in the coming months, but I hope you’ll never take it for granted. There’s a gnawing, aching pit inside of me, and it hurts like hell.

  Thankfully, there’s a remedy for it - not a cure, but a tonic. You see, all I have to do is think of how much I love you, too. All it takes is the memory that I belong to you, and some of the pain goes away. Do something for me, will you? Kiss your hand, right in the center of your palm, and then press it against your heart.

  Truly,

  John

  P.S. I’m enclosing the address they’ve given us. I’m not sure how long we’ll be there, but write to me anyway. I want to hear everything, especially the good things. Don’t hold anything back - nothing could have a greater effect on my morale than news of your happiness.

  * * *

  27 November 1969

  Dear John,

  Happy Thanksgiving, darling. You can’t imagine how thrilled I was when I opened the box yesterday and found your letter. It must’ve taken over a week to reach me, but I suppose it had a long way to travel.

  As I read, I tried to imagine how it must have felt for you, flying over a foreign land, knowing in some small measure what awaits you on the ground. All I can think is, God bless you. God bless all of you on that plane. Your valor is so far beyond admirable, John. (And please, believe me. Knowing how humble you are, I can just see you shaking your head at that. Never think you are anything less than completely deserving of such an accolade.)

  In light of your request, I suppose there is one piece of exciting news I can share. On Tuesday I was called for an interview with Grayson & Greer, a publishing house in San Francisco! They’re looking for a copy editor - not very glamorous, but you have to start somewhere. I imagine it would involve some fairly tedious work at first, but there’s the potential for a promotion to content editor. My interview is on Monday, so odds are slim you’ll receive this letter before I’ve gone. You can rest assured I’ll let you know of how it went, though.

  I wonder how your Thanksgiving is. (Or was, rather. I believe you’re fourteen hours ahead, which would make it the early hours of Friday morning there now.) I wonder whether you even knew it was Thanksgiving, or whether it was simply another day.

  We had our meal here, at my parents’ house. Virginia came early this morning to help with the preparations. Of course, I use the term “help” loosely. She is well aware of what an absolute terror she is in the kitchen. Irene put her in charge of polishing the silver instead.

  It was a nice dinner. Turkey, rolls, creamed spinach, pumpkin pie - and my specialty, the mashed potatoes. I’ll have to make them for you sometime. I never learned your favorite foods, but I have to believe everyone likes mashed potatoes.

  So really, I have much to be thankful for this holiday. For your safety, for your love, for family, and for the promise of a brighter future yet to come.

  I love you always.

  Meg

  P.S. I mailed your portfolio to Dr. Woodlawn and received a note back from his secretary confirming receipt. They all made it in good condition.

  * * *

  1 December 1969

  Dear John,

  Well, my interview could certainly have gone better this morning. I interviewed alongside two other candidates, both English majors from UCLA, both men, neither of them with any experience.

  First I talked one-on-one with the man who would be my direct supervisor. That part went reasonably well. He was a nice man, a bit boring, but he really liked my cover letter. (I quoted Dr. Seuss: “So the writer who breeds more words than he needs, is making a chore for the reader who reads.”)

  The senior editor, however, is the very definition of a chauvinist pig. His name is Glenn Harper, and he met with all three of us during lunch. John, he barely gave me a passing glance. He asked the two other candidates lots of questions about their favorite books and past experience, but even though neither of them had anything particularly intelligent to contribute, he essentially ignored me whenever I tried speak.

  At this point, even if they offered me the job, I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t accept it. The copy editing floor was overflowing with females, but do you know how many of the content editors are women? ZERO. Would I like to launch my career in a place with such a culture of discrimination? No thank you. I am my mother’s daughter, after all.

  So, it’s back to the drawing board, I’m afraid. There have been one or two other firms that have expressed interest, but nothing I’m excited about. I suppose there’s nothing for it but to keep looking. Meanwhile, perhaps I’ll give some thought to going back to school. Even a man like Glenn Harper would have a hard time overlooking someone with a master’s degree, vagina notwithstanding.

  I love you.

  Meg

  * * *

  20 December 1969

  Dearest Meg,

  You don’t know what your letters have meant to me. For hours after receiving them, it didn’t matter what went on around me - I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. Beckinsale would tell you. He’s the one I met back in Oakland, before we left (I think I may have mentioned him in passing in a previous letter?). His first name, as it turns out, is also John, though back home he went by Johnny. He’s been my constant companion for the past month and a half, and I must say, regardless of the fact that he’s the youngest man in our unit, I believe he is an old soul.

  I’m sorry I wasn’t able to write back sooner. We’ve been on the move, and your last letter just now reached me. We’re told the next place will be more permanent - I’m enclosing the address. You’ll notice it’s at FSB Franklin (that stands for Fire Support Base), which I’m given to believe is near the Cambodian border.

  Before I fill you in on all I’ve been through in the past several weeks, let me make up for lost time with the following:

  1. Happy Thanksgiving! It wasn’t much of one here, but the mess tent did serve turkey (or some version of it - I think it was actually closer to Spam, but it was the most flavorful thing any of us had tasted since leaving the States). It just so happens that mashed potatoes are my favorite Thanksgiving fare, so learning of your talent for making them only further confirms how privileged I am to have found you.

  2. Congratulations on your job interview. I was so proud when I read your first letter.

  3. I’m sorry some men are assholes who haven’t yet caught up to the present. I think you’ve got the right idea, though - don’t let it bother you. Graduate school seems like a fine idea. As my father used to tell me, anything you can do to further your education will not be in vain. Even now, after changing careers and pursuing a path so vastly different from the field I trained in, I still agree with his statement. I’m a better, brighter person because of the education I received as a younger man.

  4. Still, I wish I could give this Glenn Harper a piece of my mind. Perhaps I will on
ce I’m back in California.

  Now, I’m supposing you’d like for me to back up and tell you a little about what my life has been like since I got here. Stepping off that plane at Bien Hoa was literally like stepping into a different world. It felt hot and sticky, even in the dead of night, especially after the controlled temperature onboard the airplane. Given that it was just after 2 AM local time, I expected quiet, but the reality was far from it. There was the constant noise of engines - truck engines, Jeep engines, jet engines, chopper engines. Always coming or going, taking off or landing.

  And the smells. So many new smells, but one in particular that stuck out above all the others: diesel. The air was thick with exhaust - this pungent, acrid smell of plastic and oil. Made me wonder whether, if somebody lit a match, we’d all go up in flames.

  We went inside one of the terminal buildings, where there was a group of guys waiting to board the plane we’d just gotten off of. We all just stared at them, wishing like hell we could be in their shoes, at the end of our year, ready to head back home. Watching their faces was fascinating. Some of them looked haggard - aged ten years in the span of one. Others looked hopeful, and still others looked right back at us sorry bastards with what I can only guess was pity.

  Eleven months from now, I hope I can count myself among them, waiting in line to fly back home to you.

  About the time we all made it inside the building, a siren sounded, and we heard three explosions, all in a row. All the men in my group, myself included, dove for cover. We were wide-eyed and scared shitless, wondering what in the hell just happened. Then someone squeezed through the crowd in fatigues and a helmet, yelling at us all to calm down, that it was over. It happened so fast, and just like that, the world went quiet again.

  There was a guy standing nearby, one of the men waiting to board his flight out, and he caught my eye as I walked past him. “You’ll get used to it,” he told me. I was in awe. I can’t imagine ever getting used to something so ghastly.

  We boarded buses that took us to a place called Long Binh, where we got a couple hours of sleep and they fed us breakfast. Then we stood in formation and they gave us our assignments. Johnny and I were both assigned to the division at Cu Chi, so we said our goodbyes to the men we’d flown over with and hopped a C-130 with all our gear.

  Cu Chi is where I’ve spent the past 33 days. We went through in-processing and some training exercises, learned the kinds of things they don’t teach you in basic training. It’s pretty locked down, not much gets in or out, and so there hasn’t been much to worry about with regards to safety. I realize it’s a futile sentiment, but I really don’t want you to worry about me - we all look out for each other here.

  Christmas will have passed by the time you read this. I hope you had a happy one. I can promise you, you’re all I’ll be thinking about - just like every other day.

  Now look over your shoulder as if I’m standing behind you. Lift your head to me, and smile.

  Truly,

  John

  * * *

  12 January 1970

  Dear John,

  Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, my love. It seems I was just getting settled in the 60s, and now here we are, positioned at the start of a brand-new decade. I wonder what sorts of things the 70s will be remembered for (I’m hopeful the end of the war will be among them).

  Do you ever like to make up resolutions? I do sometimes. It helps, having a sense of purpose to get you through the winter months. This year I have only two: figure out what I’d like to do with my life, and give you my best love. One, I think, will be far simpler than the other.

  We had a quiet Christmas here. Irene’s gift to me was a camera with several rolls of film. For as far back as I can remember, she has been on a quest to unearth some variety of artistry at which I have the potential to excel (ever since, at the age of six, she finally admitted defeat in teaching me to play the piano). You never know, she said - maybe photography will be my medium.

  On the 30th, I had a surprise phone call from my friend Faye. Do you remember her from the Grand Canyon? I hadn’t spoken to her since, although she did send me a postcard from Paris back in September. She called to let me know she was visiting friends in LA for the holiday and to invite me to a New Year’s Eve party in the city. Against my better judgment, I said yes.

  She gave me the address for someone’s apartment, so I took a cab. Much to my dismay, it turned out to be in Compton, a neighborhood in Southeast LA that isn’t exactly revered for its safety. I was still considering whether to ask the cabbie to drive me straight back to Rustic Canyon when I heard Faye calling my name from one of the fourth floor balconies.

  She’d already snorted God knows how much coke, yet she claimed to be above taking any acid. I suppose it helps her to feel as if she has standards, even if they are rather arbitrary. My night very quickly devolved from the moment I walked in the door - as the only sober one, it became my responsibility to serve as Faye’s caretaker. It wasn’t until much later in the evening that I found out the reason for her self-destructive behavior. Her boyfriend, Don, had broken up with her just the week before, having decided he was in love with someone else. As blasé as she pretends to be, Faye’s heart is no less vulnerable to breaking than anyone else’s. Strange and sad though it may seem, there is some comfort in that, I think. When we suffer, we suffer together.

  In any case, by midnight she was well on her way to running out of consciousness, so I greeted the new year from the back of a cab pointed back toward Rustic Canyon, where Faye slept in my bed while I half-slept alongside her on the floor. The following morning, she was both profusely apologetic and horrendously hungover. It was afternoon when she left. Quite honestly, I’ll be surprised if I ever hear from her again, which is actually somewhat saddening to me. I’ve seen enough glimpses of Faye’s unswerving loyalty to convince me that, given the right amount of direction, she could do just fine.

  Since then, I’ve devoted much time to poring over job ads and researching graduate programs. For now it’s a life on hold, but perhaps soon my days will take on a greater design.

  I dream of you often. Not a single night has passed when my last thought wasn’t of you, nor a single morning when, swimming toward consciousness, I failed to hope we would soon be reunited. Tell me what it’s like there. I want to know all about your life, the good and the bad. I’d like to know what to imagine when I think of you.

  Always,

  Meg

  And I want my meaning

  true for you. I want to describe myself

  like a painting that I studied

  closely for a long, long time,

  like a word I finally understood,

  like the pitcher of water I use every day,

  like the face of my mother,

  like a ship

  that carried me

  through the deadliest storm of all.

  (Rilke)

  * * *

  27 January 1970

  Dearest Meg,

  I do have New Year’s resolutions. Frankly, I’ve never had much use for them before now. There’s something about being so many hundreds of miles away from anything the least bit familiar, though. Perhaps it makes me a bit sentimental, or perhaps it’s the sense of purpose you mentioned: the need to set goals that extend beyond my time here. Mine are:

  1. Draw. At least a little, every day. To keep my mind sharp.

  2. Embrace friendships. (I’m thinking of Johnny Beckinsale when I say this. I’d been closed off from him, I think partly because I questioned his motives in befriending me in the first place. Given our age difference, I wondered whether he was seeking a father figure, a role I have no interest in assuming. I no longer believe this is the case. Then, too, I was loathe to become too attached. I’ve realized, though, that a year without comradeship is a year wholly wasted.)

  3. Keep a journal. Would you believe I never have? I don’t know that I’ll commit to daily entries, but I plan to scratch down some thought
s here and there, time permitting. This will be for you, Meg. One day I’ll share it with you, so that you can know me better.

  And what is it like here? you ask. Vietnam itself is an intriguing place. We are in the cool, dry season just now, although “cool” is a relative term. At night it isn’t unusual to see temperatures in the 60s, but by midafternoon, they frequently climb into the 80s. Our camp is in a valley filled with elephant grass: tall, thick grass that’s trampled by the draft from the choppers when they take off and land. Then just north of us are the central highlands, a mountainous, densely forested area swarming with Viet Cong.

  Usually we’re up with the sun each morning. Breakfast is served in the mess tent. We stand in formation long enough to be briefed on the day’s activities. Most of the day is spent on foot in the ruthless sun, running patrol, keeping an eye out for the bad guys.

  It isn’t safe being out on the roads after dark, so a few hours after lunch break, we head back to camp to clean our weapons and enjoy a few precious moments of free time. Dinner actually isn’t bad, and we always get a quart of milk to drink with it.

  At night we take turns on watch, which is for the most part uneventful. Oftentimes it’s difficult to keep from falling asleep. Night ambush is what everyone hates, myself included. The squads in our platoon rotate every few days. After dinner, the squad assigned to ambush restocks on supplies and heads back out. We’re supposed to hoof it to some appointed spot, set up some claymores (mines), and wait out the VC. We’re given orders to shoot if anybody happens by.

  Off the record, though? That’s a good way to get yourself killed. We’ve scouted out all the best hiding places. Most times we just surround ourselves with claymores, then hole up and try to keep a low profile till dawn. We spend the whole night hoping like hell nobody shows up, and if they do, we stay quiet. I know it doesn’t sound like any kind of way to win a war, but that’s how it is over here. You see a band of soldiers walking by, there’s no way to tell whether they’re a detachment on patrol, or point men for an entire battalion.