by catt dahman
Had Aaron been x-rayed head to toe, he would have been a mass of old breaks and fractures, one for about every year of his life although two or three fractures might be from the same year and might skip the timeline. Bruises and scratches were healed although a few spots, cut deeper, were thick with scar tissue.
“I didn’t understand my father back then and didn’t adhere to his rules very well, but as I grew older, I understood them more and more. You see, David, he wanted us to make good grades, like I try to get you to do. He wanted us to have gifts such as piano playing and art. I tried to ignore what he taught us about self-respect and doing well.”
“You’re good at carving,” David said. He didn’t mention that he was sometime fearful, growing up, that his father might do bad things with knives. Aaron could do amazing things with his hands, but he could do bad things, as well.
“Yes, that was my talent, I suppose. We didn’t go to parties, sleepovers, or athletic games, but there were dinners and events at our home, and my father was so pleased and proud of everything. We wouldn’t have had such a nice home or had the respect we had if he hadn’t been so strict about time and cleanliness. Glass sparkled everywhere, everything gleamed and smelled good, and dust or hairs were never on the floor or furniture.”
Aaron sighed, “Respect your body, your family, your country, and your God.”
His son, asking about the family, didn’t know what to ask. He was raised with similar rules and strictness, but Aaron explained the reasons behind them when he drank a little. David knew never to track in dirt, or to leave smudged fingerprints, or to be untidy. Time was always important in the home.
“I just wonder why we don’t have relatives,” David said. He was thirteen and curious about many things, especially his own family who had always lived in the Gaither home. In all the years, little had changed besides the carpets becoming worn thin, the furniture being darker with years of waxing, and the modern plumbing and electricity being added.
This talk was because David expressed an interest in joining the military when he was of age; Aaron was more than pleased. The military offered the same ideals, Aaron thought, with cleanliness, country, body, God, and a unit of loyalty.
David remembered that his mother had kept a neat house and served good dinners, and that once, following an argument with his grandfather, who rarely spoke except to question David about his studies, his mother sported a black eye. “Dinner was never late.”
“But it was: Twice,” Aaron said. His eye flickered dangerously.
“Oh,” said David who had always feared his grandfather more than his own father; the doctor always watched him with narrowed eyes, waiting for a mistake. When David’s shirt was untucked, Nathan spoke up without being asked for any advice, or when David was tardy, the doctor whispered to Aaron until Aaron was angry, embarrassed, and was forced to take action and punish David.
“My mother…she died when I was younger. She took her own life right here in this house in the front room. I was sixteen,” Aaron said. “I came home from school one afternoon and saw the awful mess left behind after her body was removed. Blood was on the ceiling and on the walls and a puddle was on the floor where she lay before they took her away. I felt as if I had walked into a slaughterhouse; it was right here.”
Aaron faintly remembered his father, the doctor, explaining to him that she had done a terrible thing, and that when he found her, her arms were slashed to the bone in places, and her throat was brutally slashed.
“I don’t know why my father came home early that one day, but maybe he felt something was wrong. He said he found her that way. He was pale with shock, David. Terrible day.”
Nathan had stood, arms out to his sides, his bright white shirt plastered to his torso with Bernice’s blood and told Aaron about his mother, shaking his head sadly. The knife, a big buck knife and heavy, was on the floor; the front room was splattered, drenched in gore that Nathan wouldn’t know how to clean properly and would have had to call in a cleaning crew to make it presentable again.
He said it was suicide, and because he was the doctor, it was suicide. The police, who saw her body, looked the other way and didn’t ask how she could have done such damage to herself; it was better not to ask than to know. The doctor said it was a suicide, and it was. What a brutal way to go.
No one was aware that Bernice had brought in a stray cat, a mangy, filthy animal that spread its germs everywhere. It was thrown out posthaste. The doctor was stern with his wife that day, and a neighbor, in passing, mentioned that Bernice took the cat in while she was being treated for a persistent cough. It was a slight remark, a praise of sorts for Bernice’s good nature and kindness, but the doctor would not abide such in his home.
“My aunt died young, also,” David replied. He never knew her, and there was but one small photograph of her with the family; her face in the picture looked pinched and nervous.
“Mary Agatha died one evening after a terrible argument with my father. She went wild as she went through puberty, had poor grades, and was caught with a boy. I don’t know what was going on with the boy, but they were sitting in that swing right there on the front porch late one night. It was after ten o’clock when they were out there, past her curfew, and father almost beat that boy to death. His parents apologized for days and sent a basket of fruit as I recall.”
Aaron remembered almost as a fleeting dream how his father had watched the clock, and at ten o’clock, two hours past Mary Agatha’s curfew, he removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and while roaring, he walked onto the porch outside.
David glanced over his shoulder, unable to see the swing but aware it was there.
“It was a bad accident, David. She was distraught over the boy and afraid he was hurt, and he was,” Aaron laughed. “He bled all over his car, I heard, and ruined the upholstery.” He didn’t mention that the boy’s eyes were swollen shut and purple, his lips were torn, his fine nose was broken, his left cheek was shattered or that he had a concussion and both arms were fractured. Nathan used a piece of cordwood for that beating and would have killed the boy had Mary Agatha not begged him to stop.
The doctor stopped the beating and looked at his daughter who was dressed properly but had sneaked on eye make-up that now was running down her face with her tears, making her look like a whore. For a few seconds, he stared at Mary Agatha and wondered where in the hell he had gone wrong and how she could have broken so many rules at one time. Fury was replaced by a sick feeling that filled him.
He felt disgraced and like a failure.
“My father dragged her inside and up the stairs, pulling her by her long hair. It was a terrible thing, David, and after the argument, I suppose, she tried to run outside or to run away, but father tried to prevent that, only to protect her, and, of course, and she fell down the stairs.”
“She fell?”
“I think. Maybe. It’s a little fuzzy to remember,” Aaron said as he recalled snippets of the event; he could still hear the thuds of her falling and of her screaming that ended in a gurgle. He remembered his father’s disappointed face and the way he stood with his hands outstretched, almost as if crucified. So dad was defeated, and Aaron had felt so bad for the doctor. And for Mary Agatha who died.
David glanced into the other room where the stairs were and tried to imagine his young aunt lying there on the floor.
Aaron spoke, “I’ll never forget the look of her lying at the foot of the stairs, her arms and legs twisted, and her neck at a cant. She looked like a broken doll. Her hair was all spread out like a long, glossy halo,” Aaron said the words with a sad effect, but he grinned, despite his attempted control. His hands shook with excitement. “My father hugged me, which was not usual, and kept his arms around my shoulders as he reminded me that females were the most difficult to control.”
“And Aunt Elizabeth?” David probed. His father recited information with a fondness that David took advantage of.
“She ran away. She vanished
one night. I don’t know,” Aaron said as he rubbed his temples. He could hardly recall his eldest sister now. One day she was here in the house and accounted for, complaining and sullen, and one day she was gone.
Aaron had nightmares for a few weeks about the basement: fearing it, walking past the door, and feeling chilled to the bone but also mildly excited. He wished he could remember, but it was misty in his mind, and trying to remember was like trying to grasp the remains of a dream that faded fast.
He remembered his brother Joseph holding his ribs and crying even though he was almost grown at the time. Joseph had cursed their father and accused him of terrible things, but Aaron didn’t recall what those accusations were. Very kindly, the doctor treated Joseph’s injuries. Joseph’s head wound swelled, and he cradled his ribs. Joseph ran away, too, Aaron thought.
Joseph just went away one day, and again Aaron had nightmares for a week and wondered about the basement, touching the doorknob and panting and then feeling ashamed and confused at his reaction.
“And you? How was it then? You were all alone with your father, and all of your family had died here in the house?” asked David.
“They did died early, I suppose. All of my family. The day my dad died was by far the most terrible day of my life. Until that day, he had practiced medicine every day, the same as always, and he always arrived home at half past five; your mother always served dinner at six o’clock.” Our family lived here in the big house with the doctor.
“But I don’t believe in ghosts, David.”
“Of course not, Daddy,” David was polite.
Aaron grimaced at the word, “I followed the rules, Boy. I minded my father.”
David nodded. It was a rare time when his father was calm and spoke like this and was like fathers on television and not the raging, violent storm that appeared often as David grew up in a house of secrets and anger.
David thought about how they lived here alone in the big house; he thought of his mother, who smelled like honeysuckle, and baked brownies. She had been very quiet, leaving the upbringing of David to his father. His father didn’t often hit David, but when he did, it was because there was a lesson to be learned.
One evening after dinner, David’s mother stood in the front room and yelled, waving her arms as she made her points; Aaron sat before the fire place, warm and comfortable, as he read the newspaper and relaxed. At first, he tried to ignore the shrill shrieking and bothersome tirade and would deal with it later when he was in the mood, but she was determined to ruin the quiet peace in the home.
Aaron set his newspaper on his lap and looked at his wife. His daughter was already sniveling. Anger came up in a red hot flash and began to sneak quickly into the white light of fury.
The point was over her unbelievable concern and anger at David for some trouble he had at school. Some dirty little girl, a whore at the school who flirted, told bawdy jokes, and never looked quite clean in her over-washed clothing with her dusky skin and home-cut, greasy hair, had tried to kiss David. Disgusted and embarrassed, he hit her in her face and knocked her down on the ground, something he claimed was a reactionary action and not undeserved.
The teacher, whom Aaron thought was foolish, under-educated, and dull, railed on and on about David’s violent response and his lack of respect towards her when she hauled him to the principal’s office. When Aaron was called to the school, it took him only a few minutes to dissolve the teacher to tears.
Aaron thought it was asinine to harp on the situation since the little girl got what she deserved, but his wife complained about David’s behavior. David had started speaking to his mother as not only an equal, but also as a commander, of sorts, raising his voice often and raising his fist more than once.
“He’s your son. I am taking my daughter,” Aaron’s wife and David’s mother, said when she left, staring at David and his father. She glared, shook with fear, and said, “He’s just like you.”
David’s sister wept as she curled up in the corner, wiping snot away with her hands. It was repulsive. David, bored, blinked and met his father’s eyes, and then ambled away to go upstairs to sleep. There may or may not have been screams later, thuds that shook the walls, and a general sigh of the house.
And although Aaron and his wife argued and raged long into the night, she and David’s sister were not there in the morning.
That was why David lived alone with his father. His father was his only blood kin.
Death surrounded them. Everyone died, it seemed, or ran away, or didn’t stay in the house where everything made sense and was orderly. David had frightening nightmares about a woman who was beaten and stabbed and a little girl that was dismembered and burned; sometimes the woman looked just like his mother, and the girl looked like his sister. He was ashamed to awaken from the night terrors with an erection.
David didn’t quite understand his father and all the mysteries, but he did understand order, discipline, and responsibility. He grew up to be a proper soldier and served in Vietnam and was part of the Lam Son Offensive and at the A Shau Valley that ran north and south for twenty-five miles. It had a mile-wide bottom flanked by tall, heavily treed mountains, and covered in tall elephant grass.
It was a key point for the Ho Chi Minh Trail, where supplies and men were brought in for the other side. It rained and rained, and the land was wet, muddy and smelled as if it were rotting in the wetness. Everything and everyone were soaked, vegetation endlessly dripped, and the ground slide with mud, but the fighting was brutal on both sides. No one stopped for the rain because the rain never stopped for anyone or for any reason.
David sloshed through the mud and matted plants, following his commanding officer that often sounded like his father, Aaron, and who in turn, sounded like his father, Nathan. “Is your gun clean, Gaither? Are your feet dry? Have you poked a little Charlie bitch today, Gaither?” Always evaluating, looking for a weakness to be exposed, and bantering.
Sometimes women and children came into the valley, and the American troops, high on the scent of blood, lusty with killing and gunfire and lost in a haze of heroin or testosterone, grabbed the girls. It was just how the troops let loose, and it was the norm, at least in their unit. The men considered the women and children to be the spoils of the war and one of the few reasons for fighting.
David did.
In the rain, endless rain, David used them, the women and girls, and when they tried to scream, he grabbed their throats, and he held them tightly until they stopped struggling. Screams wouldn’t be good for the camp moral and would carry throughout the valley, pinpointing the location of the US soldiers, the good guys.
One girl was about ten. Or maybe she was older, and the second one was ten. Maybe she was twelve. Maybe.
They all looked alike.
They looked like David’s sister, Eve.
He hit one girl, so she stopped crying. He held her throat. He didn’t try to hurt them; maybe they scampered away, but he never looked to see but only slogged on, adjusting his pants, tucking in his shirt so that he stood neatly dressed, proper, and respectful. He was a man to be respected.
“Clean your damned gun, Gaither.” Yelling. Roaring orders. Controlling. David followed every order and waited to be praised. It was just like home but far more gratifying.
“You dein cai dow, Gaither?”
“No, Sir.” He was not crazy.
“You on the job, Gaither? You’re not wishing you were a Jody, do you?” Jody meant a draft dodger. The commander asked if David were working and killing and doing as he was supposed to. “You like being in the nuoc? Playing in the mua?”
“Yes, Sir,” David said. He did like the rain. The rain made everything soft, and he grabbed the girls and killed the men, and he killed the boys and choked the females, and the rain came down to wash it all away. It made it all quiet again.
“Gaither.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Gotta purpose for ya, you useless pile of crap. You wanna go play in the wat
er, Gaither? Wanna go kill Charlie?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“You’re gonna walk point up that trail, and I’ll give ya Newman for a slack man. Six of you. You go pop Charlie, but mainly you clean out them f-ing civies, and when you get done, you bring the rain on that camp and get them hit with some wooly peat. You got that? Gaither?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You ate up, Gaither?”
“Yes, Sir.” David was acknowledging that he was indoctrinated to the strategy, understood the commands, and would follow the orders to the letter without personal feelings or compassion.
“When you’re done, I’ll hear your AAR, Sergeant.” David was just promoted in the field. He blinked.
“Yes, Sir.” David led six men along a soggy trail, wondering about his promotion and curious as to why he was promoted but sure his commanding officer had good reason for it.
“Bu cac toi, Captain Regal.” That was Hutter.
“He hears that, and you’ll be suckin’ his gun barrel, Brother,” Newman chuckled. “Dunno why he sent you with us, Boots.”
“I ain’t new. I just ain’t ate up. Just cause I don’t diddybop the fuck you do,” Hutter complained.
“Shut up, Hutter,” Voltaski grumbled, “you do the girls if ya want, do the mamas or boys if that makes you happy. Don’t do anything if ya want. You can frag ‘em when we’re done. Ain’t that right, Newman, Gaither? Dap.” He held a hand out for both men to slap in agreement.
Hutter mumbled, “That’s Sergeant Gaither, now.”
David Gaither shrugged.
Gaither walked softly in his jungle boots, stepping lightly in case there was a booby trap or a punji stick. His boots were leather, ventilated with holes to drain water away from the feet, and finished with strong canvas uppers. The soles had a little, thin slice of steel imbedded within them to keep the punji sticks from going into their feet.
Punji sticks were big poles or tiny sticks that were sharpened to points and left where soldiers might run into them or step on them. Each end was smeared with feces to increase the possibility of an infection setting into the puncture they made. Some were like fish hooks so that they removed a hunk of flesh when pulled free.