The letter inside was also handwritten, and as he unfolded it a photograph fell out. It was a black-and-white print of a woman in a white smocklike affair holding a baby dressed in what looked to Moon like pajamas. The woman was Asian-or perhaps Eurasian. Her face was turned slightly away from the camera. She was looking down, expression pensive. A pretty woman. The baby stared directly into the lens, eyes huge in a heart-shaped face. He felt a faint twitch of foreboding. There was something about the kid- Moon turned the photograph. The back was blank. The letter was dated March 12, 1975.
Dear Ricky:
I am writing this in Nong Khai and sending it out with George Rice, so do not attempt to reach me here because I’ll be long gone by the time you get it. Our business here is done, and none too soon either, because the Khmer Rouge have been raising hell up in the hills. I go by bus down to Bangkok and fly over to Saigon if the situation makes that possible.
If things are wrong at Saigon, as I expect them to be from what we are hearing about morale in the ARVN, then I will continue to try to deal with things from Thailand and can be reached, as always, at the Hotel Bonaparte de l’Ouest.
By the way, Eleth Vinh sends her love and says the baby is in fine shape and sent along a photo to prove it. As you guessed, she’s uneasy about the gains Pol Pot’s army (if you want to call it that) has been making and the dangers to her family. Considering what we’re hearing about the conduct of Pol Pot’s bandidos, that attitude is sensible. Frankly, I think you ought to get her out of there. Out of Nam, too, for that matter. I recommend that you pay close attention to this and forget the optimistic talk your high brass friends give you and what the U.S. ambassador has been saying on the radio. I’m hearing that certain people are already boarding flights from Saigon and taking with them very heavy luggage. Including, for example, valuable stuff out of the museums. I think time in Saigon is very short.
Moon skipped rapidly through the rest of it, which concerned details of shipping dates, billings, and other concerns of Ricky’s business, all of which were incomprehensible to him. So was the signature: a scrawl that might have been B. Yager, or G. Yeyeb, or almost anything with the proper number of letters. He refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope.
His mind focused on a single phrase. “Eleth Vinh sends her love and says the baby is in fine shape.” Who were they? The obvious guess was that Ricky had been attending to more than business. Had he fathered a child? If he had, that would explain what Victoria Mathias was doing. She was going to see the baby. Was this Vinh woman the mother or a nanny or what? And if Ricky had indeed become a parent, why hadn’t he proclaimed the news to Victoria? She’d be the kid’s grandmother, after all. Or perhaps Ricky had told Victoria. Why, then, had nobody told him? He would be the uncle. Uncle Moon. Why hadn’t he been told? But he didn’t want to think about that.
Not now. He remembered that Victoria Mathias had always wanted grandchildren. She’d let Ricky and him, her two bachelor sons, know that without exactly saying it.
He inspected the photograph again. The baby still stared out, heart-faced and somber, directly into the lens. Probably a girl. His niece? Her hair seemed to be black, as was Ricky’s. Maybe a trace of some of the facial structure Ricky had inherited from their mother. Nothing else, though. But then he rarely saw parental resemblances in any child. If she was Ricky’s daughter, the mother was definitely Asian. Thai or Cambodian or Vietnamese, or Chinese, or Malay, or- He slipped the print back in with the letter and opened the other envelope. This one was typed, neatly but on a machine with an imperfect e and a badly worn ribbon.
Dear Mrs. Mathias:
I am pleased to learn that the papers and other personal effects of your deceased son, my good friend and client Richard Mathias, have reached your hands safely and in good form. I agree with your analysis that these documents indicate that Mr. Mathias had been blessed with the birth of a daughter. I was not aware of this circumstance until I examined the papers which I sent along to you.
Pursuant to your instructions I have contacted your son’s employees in Vietnam and am assured that arrangements are being made for the child to be brought to Manila.
She will be received by the Sisters of Loretto Convent School here and cared for by the nuns until the proper papers can be obtained and her transportation to the United States arranged.
I regret to inform you that the deteriorating situation in the Republic of Vietnam has made travel difficult and expensive, with extraordinary means required, since many scheduled inbound flights are being canceled and outbound flights are fully booked many days in advance. Therefore I have taken the liberty of withdrawing from Richard Mathias’s account at the Bank of Luzon the amount of $2,500 American to cover what I will call “extraordinary expenses,” which I anticipate officials in Saigon may impose.
I am informed that arrangements to get a visa for the child and to place her on a flight from Saigon to Manila are being made by Ricky’s associates at R. M. Air in Vietnam. I do not yet know details of those arrangements and will advise you by telephone as soon as I learn when the child will arrive in Manila.
Most sincerely, your servant,
Roberto Castenada Bolivar
Moon was feeling better. Ricky seemed to have kept his paternity a secret from just about everyone. He resumed his exploration of the purse and found a folded note.
Mrs. Mathias:
Three phone calls for you. That man called from Manila and said he was returning your call and would try again and then there were two calls from a man who said his name was Charley Ming, but he was calling for somebody named Lum Lee. He called again about an hour later, and this time the other man talked and he said it was terribly important to get in touch with you and would you please call him at the Beverly Wilshire, room 612.1 will come in to help next week unless you contact me.
Ella
Two airline tickets were folded into an inside pocket. One was in the name of Mrs. Victoria Mathias Morick, a first-class round-trip to Manila via Honolulu. That was no surprise now. Nor was the second ticket, one-way from Manila to Miami International. The name on it was Baby Girl Lila Vinh Mathias. Victoria Mathias had been en route to rescue her granddaughter when her heart failed her.
WASHINGTON, April 13 (UPI)-As much as $700 million in military supplies has been abandoned by the South Vietnamese army in its disastrous retreat from the Central Highlands, a well-placed Pentagon source estimated today.
The officer, who declined to be identified, said, “It’s all in the hands of the North Vietnamese now. We might as well have shipped it directly to Hanoi and avoided the wear and tear.”
Still the Second Day
April 13, 1975
THE FIRST WORDS Victoria Mathias said were, “We have a granddaughter.”
“Yes,” Moon said. “I saw the letters in your purse. How are you feeling?”
“What day is it? How long have I been here?”
“Just one day,” Moon said. “It’s April thirteenth.”
“I’ve got to go get her,” Moon’s mother said. She was in a different room now, moved to a different floor, in a different bed. But the wires were still there, and the tubes. Her skin had the pale, waxy look of death and her eyes the glaze of those who can barely discern reality. Moon took her hand. A cold and fragile hand.
“Ricky’s dead, you know,” she said. “Dead. But he had this daughter.”
“I know,” Moon said. “I know about Ricky and the baby.” My brother. My niece. “Don’t talk if it tires you. You take it easy now.”
Victoria Mathias turned her head slightly and looked at him. She had said, We have a granddaughter.
We. There was that.
“I called Ricky’s lawyer,” she said. Her eyes closed. A long pause. Moon looked nervously up at the monitor screen. The lines on it still moved in a regular pattern, telling him only that his mother was still alive. She’s just asleep, he thought. Good. But then she was speaking again, her voice so weak he could har
dly understand the words. “…that man in the Philippines with the Spanish name. I don’t think she ever got there.”
“I saw the letter,” Moon said. “She will get there, okay? It takes time. You take care of getting well. The nuns in Manila will take care of the baby.”
“He didn’t seem to know anything,” his mother said.
“How about the mother?” Moon asked. “Why can’t she bring the child?” He had other questions. Why isn’t the mother keeping the baby? was one of them. But Victoria Mathias seemed no longer aware that he was there. Her body, already shrunken under the sheet, seemed to shrink even more.
She frowned vaguely, and her lips moved. “Very unsatisfactory,” she seemed to say. But the voice was too weak to be understood and Moon thought he might have only guessed at that phrase. Victoria Mathias communicated by letter. To his mother, all telephone conversations were very unsatisfactory.
The person in charge of saving his mother’s life was a doctor named Jerrigan. Dr. Jerrigan made his rounds from ten to eleven and should have been in this ward at about ten-thirty. Now it was fifteen minutes after eleven and Dr. Jerrigan had not arrived.
Moon had sat on the slick plastic chair in the waiting room for more than an hour. During the first thirty minutes of waiting he’d exhausted every possible speculation about his mother’s condition and what he should do about it. He had devoted only a few minutes to considering what needed to be done about Ricky’s daughter. Obviously, he would first call the lawyer in Manila for today’s reading on that problem. The second step would depend on the first. With that decided, he let his mind drift back to the problems he’d left behind him in his rush to the airport.
First, as always, there was Debbie. He could take care of the birthday by finding her something special in Los Angeles -if he could ever get away from this hospital. And then there was the spaniel left in his custody by Shirley until Shirley was safely moved into her new apartment, where spaniels were tolerated. The spaniel had an appointment with a veterinarian and he was supposed to have dropped the damned dog off on his way to work. He’d forgotten about that until he got to the airport at Denver and had had to call the paper. It was Shirley’s day off, so the burden fell upon Hubbell. Hubbell hadn’t sounded happy about it, but he said he’d try to find somebody to take care of it. And he would. Hubbell was grouchy but reliable. A little like himself, he thought.
So don’t worry about the dog. Worry about the other responsibilities he’d left behind. Like J.D.’s truck. Moon inspected his knuckle, which seemed to be scabbing over nicely, and his hands, which despite heavy soaping in the shower still showed evidence of grease in deep cracks and under his fingernails. The grease and the scab were both evidence of J.D.’s failure to maintain his vehicle properly. The baby blue paint always glittered, but J.D’s interest stopped with appearances. He never kept the engine properly tuned. Or cleaned it, which explained Moon’s greasy hands, slippery wrench handles, and a bloody knuckle. In Moon’s opinion, carelessness was only one of J.D.’s several shortcomings. But he was a good-looking kid, good-natured, and great on the tennis court. And, according to Debbie, even better on the ski slopes. And now J.D’s cute little GMC Jimmy sat in Moon’s garage, its cute little diesel engine not quite reassembled. J.D. would be without wheels, which didn’t bother Moon much. But Debbie was counting on J.D. to drive her up to Aspen this weekend.
The plastic of the waiting room chair crackled as Moon shifted his weight. His back ached. And suddenly the tension that had kept sleep at bay began draining away. He yawned. And when that was accomplished, he felt utterly exhausted. He looked at his watch, eyes barely in focus. Where the hell was Dr. what’s-his-name?
Dr. Jerrigan was walking into the waiting room. He was about Moon’s age, but a third smaller and a lot trimmer, with a California surfer’s tan and the hard, wiry physique of the handball courts. He glanced at Moon, saw nothing to inspire interest, and looked down at his clipboard.
“Morick,” he said. “Morick. It looks from this like he’s suffering a coronary occlusion of some sort. The situation will probably require a coronary bypass. But we won’t know until-”
“Wrong gender,” Moon said. “It’s Mrs. Victoria Mathias Morick. I am her son.”
Dr. Jerrigan frowned at Moon.
“Whatever,” he said, and checked his clipboard again. “Oh, yes. She’s that woman they brought in from the airport yesterday. Emergency Room checked her in.” He flipped through the pages on his clipboard. “We don’t have the data we need back from the lab yet but-let’s see-” Dr. Jerrigan studied his clipboard, frowned at it. “The EKG shows equivocal coronary abnormalities.”
“So what’s the prognosis?” Moon said, hoping that prognosis was the correct word. “How bad is it?”
Something on Dr. Jerrigan’s belt went beep-beep-beep. Dr. Jerrigan glanced at his watch, walked about ten steps to a paging phone, picked it up, and talked awhile. When he returned, he looked again at the clipboard. “It doesn’t look too good,” he said. “But until we get the results of the tests they did last night, I can’t really tell.”
“Well, then,” Moon said, “let’s go get those test results. Right now. Let’s go find somebody who can really tell.”
Like many big men, Moon rarely had any need to show his anger and rarely did. But when he did, most people were properly impressed. Dr. Jerrigan was not one of them. He met Moon’s stare with no sign of a flinch.
“Mr. Morick,” he said, “your mother is not the only sick person in this hospital. She’s not my patient. Dr. Rodenski checked her in at ER. This is Sunday. He’s off today. I’m looking after her along with my own patients. There’s not a damn thing we can do until we know more about her condition except keep her comfortable and stabilized. We can’t get those lab reports until they’re ready. And I’ve got a gunshot victim who seems to be trying to die right now.”
“Well, goddammit, what’s her condition?” Moon asked. “It sounds to me like she had a heart attack. Give me a rundown on her condition. Her chances for survival.”
“You want a guess?” Dr. Jerrigan asked, his face slightly flushed. “How can I guess, not knowing any more than we do? But here is your guess. This was probably brought on by some sort of coronary blockage to the heart. A heart attack. Most people survive them.”
“In other words, some don’t?”
“Of course,” Dr. Jerrigan said. “Some don’t.” Then his gadget was beeping again, and Jerrigan was hurrying away.
At the Pentagon, some senior officers compared the South Vietnamese rout with other military disasters: Napoleon’s debacle in Moscow, the fall of France in 1940, the Chinese Nationalist collapse in 1949.
Time Magazine, APRIL 14, 1975
The Third Day
April 14, 1975
BY MOON’S UNCERTAIN CALCULATIONS of the difference between Pacific Standard Time and whatever time it was in Manila, it was probably the wrong hour to call Ricky’s lawyer. But he placed the call anyway and heard an answering machine click on and a soft voice saying that Mr. Castenada would respond to a message when he became available. With Manila thus made to seem more real, Moon left a message asking Mr. Castenada to call him at the Airport Inn number where Shirley had made his reservation. Then he called a taxi and collected his mother’s luggage from the Philippine Airlines security office.
The traffic noise here from jetliners overhead and the freeway below his window was thunderous.
But he’d asked Shirley for convenience, not for comfort, and Shirley had delivered, as she always did.
He’d take a shower. Maybe that would revive him. He removed his shoes, his socks, and his trousers and then sprawled across the bed, dizzy with that odd sort of fatigue brought on by stress and sleeplessness. He pulled a pillow under his head, put the telephone on his chest, dialed the Colorado area code, then broke the connection and called West Memorial Hospital instead. The nurse who answered in the cardiac unit told him his Mrs. Morick was sleeping and doing as well a
s could be expected.
Then he called the paper. He asked Shirley for Hubbell, but Shirley wanted to talk.
“How is she?”
Moon felt hazy, one step removed from reality. “As well as can be expected,” he said. But that wasn’t fair. Shirley was a friend. So he gave her the full report, accepted her sympathy, and asked for Hubbell.
“He’s not back from something or other down at city hail,” Shirley said. “That’s the meeting you were supposed to sit in on. And you’ve had five or six calls.”
“Anything that looks important?” He asked it out of habit. What could be important today?
“Some long-distancers. One was from the AP bureau in Denver. Said they’d catch you when you got back to town. And then a couple from Los Angeles.”
“Did they leave any messages?” Again, habit was speaking. Who cared about messages?
“One was from the airline. They want you to let them know about your mother’s luggage. Do you want me to get that taken care of?”
“I picked it up,” Moon said.
“And one from a man.” There was a pause while Shirley shuffled papers. “A Lee Lum. No, I think it was Lum Lee. He had an accent. When I told him you were gone indefinitely, he said he was actually trying to reach your mother, and it was very important, so I told him he might reach you through the security people at Philippine Airlines.”
Finding Moon Page 2