Blood Memory

by Greg Iles

  “It’s me, Mose,” I call, already walking back toward Malmaison. “Don’t work too hard in this heat.”

  “Heat don’t bother me none.” He laughs. “I’ll take it over the cold any day.”

  I give him a broad wave, then turn and race back toward the house.

  Chapter

  23

  The Vietnam Veterans Building is closer to Malmaison than the public library, so I go there first. Situated in the city’s main public park, the small, one-story building began its life as the pro shop of the public golf course. The Vietnam vets took it over when the golf course was expanded to eighteen holes and a new pro shop built in another part of the park. They used it for support group meetings, for parties, and for a place to hang out besides home.

  The dilapidated building sits on a long slope below the oak-shaded public playground that Natchez kids have used for sixty years. Overlooking the playground is Auburn, an antebellum mansion that serves as headquarters for one of the local garden clubs. Across the lane from Auburn stands an old steam locomotive, a sort of living museum for children. In the distance I see the public swimming pool, the only decent pool where black children can swim en masse in the city. It’s been closed for the past four years, due to lack of money for repairs. Down the long slope from the vets’ building, red and green tennis courts bake in the sun, surrounded by the grassy, fenced triangles of Little League ball fields.

  I expected to find my father’s sculpture inside the veterans’ building—where I last saw it—but as I pull into the parking lot, I see the shining rotor blades that crown the piece jutting over the roof. Have they mounted it on some kind of pedestal? I get out and walk around the corner.

  A house-size structure stands on the lawn, built of wooden poles hung with parachutes and camouflage netting. Inside the netting is a grass hut, and in front of the hut an army tent forms the centerpiece of a simulated military campsite. A steel beam rises out of the center of this scene, and mounted atop it is my father’s sculpture: a brushed-steel Huey helicopter with a wounded soldier suspended from its belly by a winch cable. It’s one of the most realistic pieces my father ever did. Most of his work—especially the later stuff—was far more abstract, like the tall tree standing between the twin staircases at the public library. But the ascending helicopter pleased everyone. What it’s doing in the middle of this thrown-together display puzzles me, though.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  A heavyset man with a grizzled beard is walking toward me. He wears army fatigue pants, a black MIA T-shirt, and Harley-Davidson motorcycle boots. A gold earring decorates his left earlobe, and a braided, silver ponytail hangs over his right shoulder. He looks to be in his late fifties.

  “I hope so. My dad sculpted that helicopter up there. I came by to see it.”

  A smile lights up the man’s face. “You’re Luke Ferry’s kid?”

  It feels good to be recognized as something besides William Kirkland’s granddaughter. “That’s right. Did you know him?”

  “Sure. Not real well, of course, but he came to a few meetings here. Kept to himself quite a bit. But he did this helicopter for us. I tell you, for anybody who served in Nam, the Huey medevac is a thing of beauty. Like a guardian angel coming to pull you out of hell.”

  I nod, unsure what I’ve really come for. “I thought you kept it inside the building.”

  “We do, most of the year. But on July Fourth, the priest from St. Mary’s does the blessing of the fleet out at Lake St. John. There’s a boat parade out there, and contests for best float. We do one every year for the MIAs. To keep up awareness, you know? We’ve put your daddy’s chopper on there four years running.”

  “It’s been sitting out here for the past month?”

  The bearded man looks embarrassed. “We had tarps on it till today. I’m actually here to break down the float. We brought it back from the lake on a flatbed, and this is as far as we got. Everybody was a little drunk. But, man, people love to see that Huey coming up the lake. Gives ’em a good feeling inside. Specially these last couple years, with all the boys overseas now.”

  I find myself smiling. “Daddy would have liked that.”

  The vet nods, then sticks out his hand. “Jim Burley, miss. Proud to know you.”

  “Cat Ferry.”

  Another smile. “Cat, huh?”

  “Short for Catherine.”

  “Oh, I get it. Well, what can I do for you?”

  Tell me my father was a good man.…“Well, I was only eight when my dad died, so he never really told me about the war. Do you know much about what he did over there?”

  Burley thinks for a bit, then scratches his thick beard. “Why don’t we sit down in the shade over here?”

  I follow him to an olive-drab picnic table beneath an oak tree and sit opposite him. A bumper sticker stuck to the top of the table reads, FOR THOSE WHO FOUGHT FOR IT, FREEDOM HAS A FLAVOR THE PROTECTED WILL NEVER KNOW.

  “Your dad was a quiet guy,” Burley begins. “I guess you know that already. A few years younger than me, Luke was. Served his tour a couple years after mine. Lots of guys who come in here are quiet types, but they tend to open up after a while. Luke stayed quiet. He wasn’t unfriendly or anything. Just needed a little more space than most people, you know? The war did that to some of us.”

  I nod, trying to picture my father inside the little building, or even sitting at this picnic table. He needed a lot more space than most people.

  “All I really know,” Burley says, “is that Luke didn’t pull no run-of-the-mill tour. Way I heard it, he was a crack shot long before he got inducted. Hunted all his life out at Cranfield, probably. So when they took him into the Airborne, they made him a sniper.”

  “A sniper?” I’ve never heard this before.

  Burley nods. “That’s a tough job. One-on-one killing, you know? And not in the heat of battle, either. To do that job, you gotta be able to kill in cold blood. And unless you got a screw loose somewhere, that takes something out of you.”

  I can’t believe no one in the family has told me this. But maybe they didn’t know either. “Do you remember anything else?”

  Burley takes a deep breath and sighs. “Couple of the guys wangled a few facts out of Luke. The picture we got was this. Your daddy was taken into some kind of special unit. Sort of a raiding unit. The kind they used to go into places we weren’t supposed to be in.”

  “Like where?”

  “Like Laos and Cambodia.”

  An inexplicable shudder goes through me. I close my eyes and see Nathan Malik sitting before me, telling me about his stone Buddha. I brought it back from Cambodia….

  “Do you know for sure that my father was in Cambodia?”

  “I don’t know nothing for sure, honey. But it was one of those places. Anyway, there was some trouble about this unit he was in. Accusations of atrocities, that kind of thing.”

  I shake my head, more from surprise than disbelief.

  “The government got up an investigation for a bunch of courts-martial. Then they just dropped it all. Flushed the whole thing down the Pentagon toilet.”

  “When was this?”

  “Some of it during the war, I think. Soon after it happened. Then again later on. I think Luke was dead by that time, though.”

  “Look, Mr. Burley, I want you to be straight with me. Do you think my dad was involved in war crimes?”

  The vet thinks about this for a while. “I tell you, Cat, looking back on it now, a lot of what I done over there seems like crimes to me. But when I was there, I didn’t think twice about it. It was part of the job. The rules of engagement didn’t cover half the situations you ran into. It was survival. Hindsight’s a luxury we didn’t have. Now, a lot of Hollywood movies don’t show nothing but grunts cutting off ears and killing women and kids. And some of that happened, I won’t lie. That and worse. But most guys just served their tour and did the best they could to be honorable men.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. But I�
��m not here about them. I want to know about my father.”

  Burley gives me a heavyhearted smile. “I’m telling you about him, though it may not sound like it. I’m telling you that whatever Luke did, you ain’t gonna be able to understand by looking backward from the USA thirty-five years later. I’m not excusing atrocities or anything like that. I’m just saying…hell, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  A deep sense of frustration is building inside me. “Is there anybody I could talk to who might know more specific information? Somebody Daddy might have confided in?”

  Burley shrugs. “There was a black guy Luke was pretty tight with for a while. Some of the brothers don’t come around here as much as they could. We try to make ’em welcome—a vet’s a vet, you know?—but it was the same in-country. Especially after sixty-eight, when Dr. King was assassinated.”

  “Do you remember this guy’s name?”

  “Jesse something. Can’t quite recall his last name.” Burley waves back toward the building. “Ought to have it inside, but I don’t. Our records are for shit right now. Computer’s busted. Jesse was in the Airborne, too, I remember that. Different unit from your daddy’s. Same unit Jimi Hendrix served in. Jesse was real proud of that.”

  “Was Jesse from here?”

  “No, Louisiana. Down the river a bit. St. Francisville, maybe.”

  “You can’t remember his last name?”

  Burley squints like man looking into bright sunlight. “I know it…I just can’t get it. Old-timer’s disease, you know? Wait a second. Billings? No. Billups? Billups, that’s it! Like the gas stations we used to have around here. Jesse Billups, Spec 4, 101st Airborne.”

  I’d hoped I would recognize the name, but I don’t. Glancing down the hill toward the tennis courts, I wipe sweat from my eyes. I played tennis down there a few times. In another life, it seems now. I look up at my car but feel no inclination to drive anywhere. “Do you need help taking down the float?”

  Burley laughs. “I don’t need it, but I’d sure love the company. I know you got better things to do than hang around here, though.”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “Hey!” He slaps the picnic table with a beefy palm. “You ought to be able to find Jesse real easy.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’re Dr. Kirkland’s granddaughter, right? Grew up over in that big house, where Luke lived in the barn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Jesse was related to the housekeeper over there. Second cousin, or nephew, something like that.”

  My scalp and palms are tingling. “To the housekeeper? You mean Pearlie?”

  “Pearlie. That’s it!” Burley laughs. “Jesse used to talk about her some, and not all of it good. His mama was related to Pearlie, some way.”

  I stand so suddenly that I feel light-headed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Burley, I need to go.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “Thank you so much.” I’m already walking backward toward my car.

  “Hey, listen,” Burley calls. “Don’t you worry about what your daddy done over there. He came back alive, that’s the main thing, right there.”

  Is it? I wonder, trotting toward the Audi. I wonder.

  “He made us this Huey,” Burley says. “Anybody makes something that pretty and gives it away for free, he’s gotta be all right down deep. You know?”

  No, I don’t, I think, climbing into the car. I don’t know anything anymore.

  Chapter

  24

  Pearlie Washington is sitting on her porch reading the newspaper when I drive into the lot behind the slave quarters. Aunt Ann’s Acura hasn’t returned—or else it’s come and gone—but my grandfather’s Lincoln is back. I see no sign of Billy Neal, though, and I’m glad for it.

  “Where you been?” Pearlie asks, not looking up from her copy of the Natchez Examiner. She’s wearing street clothes and a pair of reading glasses. They look expensive, unlike the Wal-Mart specials my mother wears.

  “Driving.”

  “Driving? That sounds like what you used to tell me when you was a teenager out chasing boys.”

  “I never chased boys. They chased me.” There are two rockers on Pearlie’s porch. I sit in the empty one.

  “Don’t bother asking,” she says. “I done told you all I know.”

  “About what?”

  “Whatever it is you gonna ask me about.”

  I look over at the rows of blooming rosebushes. “Pearlie, I think you could talk from now until next week and not finish telling me everything you know about this family.”

  “I ain’t paid to talk. I’m paid to clean.” She licks her finger and turns a page. “Dr. Overton’s wife died yesterday. She was a cranky old so-and-so.”

  “Tell me about Jesse Billups.”

  Pearlie goes still, like a deer sensing threat.

  “Don’t even try to pretend you don’t know who he is.”

  She looks up from her newspaper at last. “Who you been talking to?”

  “A guy who served in Vietnam. Jesse Billups knew Daddy, Pearlie. I want you to tell me who and where he is. You know I’ll find out one way or the other. I can’t believe you never told me about him before.”

  Pearlie closes her eyes as though in pain. “Jesse is my sister’s child. Half sister, really. We had the same mama but different daddies.”

  “Your sister from DeSalle Island?”

  Pearlie nods. “Ivy the only sister I got.”

  I see an image of a small, strong black woman with her hair pulled back in a bun. With this image comes the smell of alcohol and a memory of pain. Ivy gave me a painful tetanus injection once, after I stepped on a nail in the pond.

  “Where is she now?”

  “Ivy done passed, baby. Don’t you remember? Been almost four years now.”

  I don’t remember hearing that Ivy died, but I remember the woman well—not by name, but by occupation. She worked as my grandfather’s assistant in the little building known on DeSalle Island as the clinic. Grandpapa maintains the clinic to treat the island’s black population whenever he stays there, or when emergencies arise. At times, more than a hundred people have lived and worked on the island, many of them using chain saws and dangerous farm equipment daily. I saw Grandpapa stitch up so many lacerations there that by twelve I could do it myself if the need arose. He charged nothing for his services, so most islanders waited for his visits rather than seeking medical care on the “mainland” across the river. Ivy had no formal medical training, but she was smart, silent, and had deft hands. Grandpapa taught her enough to do a good deal of “doctoring” in his absence. Their most famous exploit was removing my aunt Ann’s appendix by lantern light during a storm that cut off the island from the mainland in 1958.

  “What about Jesse Billups?” I ask. “Is he still around?”

  Pearlie sighs and rubs her forehead. “Baby, what you digging into all this old business for?”

  I refuse to be sidetracked. “Is Jesse still alive?”

  “Jesse’s the foreman on the island now. Or caretaker, or overseer, whatever they call it now.”

  “Jesse Billups is caretaker on the island now? He runs the hunting camp, all of that?”

  “Sho’ do.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Fiftysomething, I guess.”

  “If he was Ivy’s son, why don’t I remember him?”

  Pearlie shrugs again. “He took his daddy’s last name, for one thing, even though he was an outside child. Plus, he was gone a lot back in your day. Went off to the city with some big plan, but all he got was big trouble. Did him a hitch in Angola, right across from the island. Funny, when you think about it.”

  I’ve never seen much funny about Angola Penitentiary. “You don’t sound like you care for him much.”

  “Jesse’s all right, I reckon. I told you the other day. Some good boys went over to that war and came back different. Not their fault.”

  “What happened to him in the war?”<
br />
  “Different things, I guess. Some inside, some out. He never talked about it. Same as Mr. Luke.”

  “Did you ever see Jesse talking to Daddy?”

  “I seen ’em together some. Thick as thieves for a while. Mr. Luke spent a lot of time down on the island. Said he liked the quiet down there.”

  “What did they do together?”

  “Smoked that dope, probably.” Pearlie’s voice is bitter. “That’s about all Jesse done after he got back.”

  “And Daddy?”

  “Mr. Luke did some of that, too. Not as bad as Jesse, though. Your daddy had a lot of pain from his wound…in his mind, too. I think he used that weed to help. No hard stuff, though.”

  “When was the last time you saw Jesse?”

  “Been a long time, now. He stay on the island, and I don’t go down there.”

  “Never?”

  Pearlie shakes her head. “I don’t like it. Don’t like the peoples, and they don’t like me.”

  “Why not? You were born on that island.”

  She snorts. “I’m a house nigger, girl.”

  “You’re kidding me. That kind of stuff is ancient history.”

  She peers at me over the rims of her reading glasses. “Not on DeSalle Island it ain’t. They never joined the modern world down there. Dr. Kirkland likes it that way, and I think the black peoples down there like it all right, too. Change is something they can’t abide.”

  “Well, I’m going down there.”

  Pearlie’s eyes widen. “When?”

  “Today. I’m going to see Jesse.”

  “Child, don’t you go messing round down there. Can’t no good come of that.”

  “You think something bad will come of it?”

  Pearlie folds her newspaper and lays it beside her chair. “You go poking a stick in a hole, you best be ready for a snake to crawl out of it.”

  I’m about to ask her what’s she’s afraid of when my cell phone beeps. The screen shows a text message waiting. I flip open the phone and hit a button. The message reads, I’m going to call you in a second. Don’t even think about not answering. It’s about Malik. Sean.