“Those yellow monkeys don’t change. Good news is, these days we got better tech-no-lo-gy.” Bernie leaned on each syllable of the word as though it might be new to everybody. Billy was nodding.
“Kid’s right in the middle of the shitstorm, still manages to crack a few jokes. Here.” Jeannie’s dad reached inside his jacket and removed an envelope that was soft with handling. He handed it to Bernie and watched his friend as he read the letter, his face twitching in muted reflections of Bernie’s expressions—concentration, concern, amusement. Jeannie wished Kip could have seen it.
“Kid’s a riot,” said Bernie, stuffing the letter back into the envelope and folding it roughly. Jeannie saw something pinch her dad’s face; he retrieved the envelope and smoothed it straight before tucking it back against his chest.
“Sure is,” he said.
“Still screwing around, even in the goddamn Marine Corps.”
Jeannie’s dad cleared his throat, his face closing over—and it was gone, the looseness, the bonhomie, and Jeannie knew it would be a few drinks before it came back. She excused herself to pour him another bourbon.
An hour later, Jeannie was listening to Bernie loud-voicing about the protesters in Maryland, his shirt showing dabs of sweat at the chest, his neck-folds greasy with perspiration. A series of thud-and-whap noises turned her head, and she was half relieved to see Charlie dragging her dad’s American Heritage books from the shelf, one volume at a time. Jeannie excused herself and tidied the spilled books from the carpet.
“Charlie, go play in the backyard. The door’s open.”
“Mama, come.”
“In a minute. Let me check on Grandpa.”
Her dad was standing at the television set, a large drink in his hand, his neck craned to bring the numbers on the dial into focus.
“Either those darn numbers are getting smaller or I’m getting older.” He smiled at her, a gentle smile, the kind he usually saved for Charlie.
“Let me help you, Daddy.”
“Just want to see the headlines.”
“Which network?”
“CBS.”
Jeannie turned the dial and went outside to find Charlie. He had discovered an old Wiffle ball buried in the prickles; they rolled it to each other across the yard, Charlie squeaking with laughter as it scuttered between his feet. They were bouncing it against the wall when Billy appeared, grim-faced.
“You’d better come.”
Jeannie let the ball drop for Charlie and stepped over the threshold. The house was empty, the guests vanished. A soap opera wailed from the television set.
“What’s happening?” she asked Billy, a slow fear spreading through her. She heard the sound of glass breaking and ran to the kitchen to find her dad standing at the counter, smashing tumblers into the sink.
“Daddy?”
“Get the hell out!” His thumb was bleeding, dropping crimson spots the size of quarters onto the counter, the floor, the broken glass.
“Sir, you’ve got to stop.” Billy took him by the shoulders, but Jeannie’s dad shook him away.
“Get off me.”
“Mama?” Charlie was at Jeannie’s leg, his eyes round.
“What’s going on?” said Jeannie.
Her dad smashed the last tumbler. His hands shook against the countertop, and he breathed hard. When he turned to look at her, his face was putty-colored and slicked with sweat.
“Please,” he said.
“You go with Charlie, Jeannie—take him to the beach,” said Billy, keeping his eyes close on her dad like he was a loose animal. “Sir, I’m going to stay here, just to make sure you’re all right.”
“If you have any damn respect, you’ll leave,” said Jeannie’s dad, but the fight had gone out of him, and his shoulders dropped.
Billy sat on a kitchen stool and nodded at Jeannie. She hesitated; Go, he mouthed, and, deferring to the doctorly command in his face, she hoisted Charlie into her arms and walked across the kitchen, her heels tapping stupidly on the linoleum.
She stayed in the hallway a little while, listening; but it was quiet, save for the creak of wicker as Billy shifted his weight on his stool. Then she heard a long, shuddering sigh—and, wondering if her dad was crying, thought to turn back into the kitchen, but something held her to the floor.
“Let me check your hand,” Billy was saying. “Sir? It’s going to be all right.”
Jeannie swallowed, opened the front door, and closed it behind her, coming up short against a man sitting on the porch, head in hands. It was Bernie; seeing Jeannie, he staggered to his feet.
“You okay, doll?” He stood too close, staring into her face; she smelled the stench of old swelter under his cologne and took a step back.
“Bernie, what the hell happened?”
“Your father saw something on the news. Something bad.” That same unblinking stare—it raised shivers at the nape of Jeannie’s neck.
“What?” Jeannie’s heart banged. But in all her scenarios of being discovered, this one didn’t make sense. “What’s going on?”
Before the words left Bernie’s mouth, she knew.
“It’s Kip.”
Pain squeezed her heart, clenching it hard, and harder, until it felt as though the muscle might die.
“There’s been an attack. A small Marine base, overrun by Viet Cong. They attacked at night, blew up the ammunition dump. We’ve re-seized the base, but it was bad. The TV camera showed the sign the Marines had put up on the hill, with their unit written on it. It was Kip’s unit.”
The grip on her heart tightened, and she opened her mouth, but nothing came out. An aching knot, thick and unrelenting as sinew, climbed her throat.
“It’s bad news, Jeannie. Only one infantry platoon survived—they were outside the base when it happened. Nobody else made it.”
“So he might be all right,” she said, her voice strange in her ears, small and swelling, like the shout of someone falling from a height. “We’ve got to call somebody.” She turned back to the house.
Bernie held her by the wrist. “Only infantry, Jeannie.”
She heard his words, but they didn’t stick.
“Kip wasn’t infantry,” said Bernie. “He was artillery.”
The squeeze on her heart unclasped, and something cold and excruciating seeped inside her chest.
“They showed pictures,” said Bernie. “It’s all gone.” He shook his head, as though he’d seen a terrible marvel. “There’s nothing left.”
The story landed on the front pages with a nauseating flourish, elbowing aside the news of trouble in France and speculation over the Democratic nomination. It lingered stubbornly for a few days, growing smaller, more abbreviated with each edition, as though everything that could be said about it, had been; until one day it was blown clean away by the shooting of Bobby Kennedy. A week after Memorial Day, Jeannie found the story dawdling on page five of The New York Times, in a small square of newsprint the size of a cracker. Every morning, her dad called the Department of Defense; every day, he was told that Kip’s remains would be dispatched as soon as possible—but that, with respect, the Graves Registration was overloaded, and there was a backlog identifying remains. Every night, when the rest of the house was asleep, Jeannie called Mrs. Moon’s house, but Lee was never there. Jeannie wondered if she was visiting her apartment, wondered how quickly she had given up coming; and her longing for the younger girl mixed uneasily with her longing for her brother.
There was no question of returning to Noe; an unhappy witchcraft was keeping her in her childhood house until Kip came home. Jeannie slept in her old room, Charlie in a nest of blankets on the floor; some nights Billy would drive over after work and they would spoon together uncomfortably in her childhood bed. Jeannie spent the days sitting in the backyard, shivering and smoking and turning away Aunt Ruth’s offers of lemonade and shawls; there was a kind of familiarity in it that was almost reassuring. Jeannie’s dad said barely a word, disappearing for long spells before ret
urning white-lipped and panicky, crashing knives and plates as he washed dishes that had already been soaped. “I’ve never seen him like this,” whispered Aunt Ruth; and what her half-dozen ailments didn’t do to her, the news about Kip did—something in her demeanor dimmed, her eyelids growing fat and hooded, as though she were perpetually on the brink of sleep. Charlie sat at the picture window for hours at a time, listening to Aunt Ruth’s stories and watching visitors come and go, as if he too were waiting for the government vehicle to pull up outside the house, for the officer dressed in a solemn uniform and a poker face to knock at the door.
Ten days after Memorial Day, Jeannie sat on the couch with her eyes shut, imagining Kip was behind the wall in his bedroom, sulking and listening to the Giants game. It was a strange comfort, imagining it was only her mom who was gone. Her grief for her mom had become something solid, perpetual, contained—a familiar and unhappy roommate; but the loss of Kip was ferocious, borderless. She craved these moments of solitude when Charlie was asleep, Billy was at the hospital, and her dad was out roaming. She would call Mrs. Moon’s house and leave another message for Lee; then she would switch off the lights, pull the drapes shut, and concentrate on the spell. Sometimes, if she shut her eyes and held still, she could hear the hum of noise from Kip’s room, the creak of the floor as he stood to adjust the radio. She could hear it now—could even hear the clenched snarl at a fly out, the low-voiced yes at a home run. But another noise intruded—shoes on the porch, the grate of a key at the front door—and the spell was broken. Jeannie opened her eyes to the darkened room, and gathered the blanket that lay across her legs.
“Hi, honey,” she said. But it wasn’t Billy.
“Jeannie.” Her dad stood in the doorway, shadowy in the low light, swaying.
“Daddy?” She was afraid to be alone with him these days. “You all right?”
Her dad switched on the overhead lamp, shocking the room with light. His face was soft with exhaustion.
“You going to bed?” he said.
Jeannie heard the plea in his voice. “No,” she said. She guided him to the couch like he was a man much older than his years; he stumbled, his elbow knocking a carton of corn-snacks from the armrest. He watched them spill over the carpet with an expression of defeat.
“Anybody come?” he said.
Jeannie shook her head.
Her dad took a large, noisy breath, as if preparing for a sigh; but it didn’t come. “I knew it would end this way,” he said. “He wouldn’t be told.”
“He was always stubborn,” said Jeannie.
“He was his mother’s boy.” The words hurt Jeannie; she bowed her head. “He always listened to you.” Her dad took a thick swallow. “I’m sure he talked to you. About enlisting.” Jeannie couldn’t look at him. “Even you couldn’t talk any sense into him.”
Jeannie closed her eyes and saw it pressed into the darkness like a weal—the typed name of the boy who had everything, the boy she’d saved. She longed for Lee, perhaps as much as anything because she belonged to a different world, a world away from her dad and Aunt Ruth and death and Toast’ems and the unhappy plaid print on the wallpaper. Jeannie opened her eyes and was surprised to see her dad, only a few inches from her face, looking into her as though for an answer.
“He wouldn’t be told,” she said.
Days passed, and nobody came. The Department of Defense told them to be patient. Jeannie woke each morning to her house of ghosts. There was a yearning in their waiting, their anticipation of the visit, when they would be given confirmation and condolences; when they would be granted the papers to continue on their journey, to feel the new and foreign country beneath their feet.
One morning, the mailman handed Jeannie an envelope with Kip’s writing scratched across the front; she dropped it as though it had burned her.
“Butterfingers today, huh?” said the mailman. Jeannie closed the door on his smiling face and carried the envelope into the house, laid upon her palms like an offering.
“What you got, honey?” said Aunt Ruth. She was pouring coffee from the pot; the steam caught in the air like gauze.
“It’s a letter,” said Jeannie. Aunt Ruth fumbled the pot, splashing coffee over her hand; she shook it out, her face wincing.
“It’s come?” she said. She wiped her fingers on a dish towel.
Jeannie shook her head. “It’s from Kip,” she said. “He must have mailed it. Before.” It always took a couple of weeks to get Kip’s letters, a couple of weeks for him to get theirs—he wrote how screwy it was, getting a response a month after he’d mailed something, like the long wait for the echo when you stood at the edge of the old quarry and yelled.
“Open it, honey,” said Aunt Ruth. Her hand showed patches of scald.
“You should put that in water.”
“I’m all right.”
“It’s addressed to Daddy.”
“What is it?” Jeannie’s dad entered the kitchen, bathrobe parting precariously, showing vein-stenciled white legs.
Jeannie handed him the envelope and watched him balk. He handed it back to her. “Why the hell are you giving me this?”
“It just came, Daddy.”
Her dad shook his head and took a step back, his face white. “I can’t,” he said. “Not now.”
At eleven o’clock that night, the telephone rang. Everybody was in bed. Jeannie couldn’t sleep, lay wide-eyeing the gloom, listening to the slow drag-and-wash of Charlie’s breathing. At the drill of the phone, she struggled from under the bedspread, letting Billy’s arm—draped over her waist—drop against the mattress.
“Hello?”
“Jeannie?”
Jeannie felt her heart lift, the warmth of her blood in her body. “Lee.”
“I heard about your brother.”
Jeannie opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came, only a clicking sound at the back of her throat.
“Jeannie?”
“You did?” managed Jeannie.
“Dorothy told my mom.” Lee’s voice was cool and dim.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” said Jeannie, wiping her face with her palm. “Where have you been? Did you get my messages? I was worried you’d think—”
“When are you coming back?” Lee sounded far away.
“I don’t know.” Jeannie coughed to clear the swelling in her throat. “A while.”
“I can’t talk. I just wanted to say—” Jeannie could hear music playing in the background—headlong, psychedelic. “Listen. Maybe he didn’t die. Maybe he’s just—missing.”
Frustration prickled Jeannie’s neck. “It’s not like your brother, Lee.”
“They’re liars, Jeannie. Don’t believe anything they say.”
“It was on the TV, Lee. Nobody survived.”
“If you hadn’t believed it, you wouldn’t have seen it.”
A sharp pain went to Jeannie’s forehead; she rubbed at it with her fingers. “Jesus, Lee. You’re stoned.”
“Just mellow.”
“This is real.”
“I got to go.”
“Lee—”
“Bye-bye, blackbird.”
The line went dead. Jeannie banged down the receiver and leaned against the counter, her head in her hands, her little finger pushing at the blade of pain in her forehead. She stayed that way for a while, her eyes closed, trying to subdue the emotions that Lee had witched out of her—anger, longing, shame, loneliness. When she opened her eyes, she saw Kip’s letter, watching her from the counter.
She laid her palm on it, tried to feel its heat, feel the chain of touch with her brother. She took it up, weighed its flimsiness in her hand. She turned over the envelope, eased her finger under the seal, and tugged the letter free. The handwriting ran slant down the page, the jags of the letters pulled high, like stitching yanked tight. The scrawl of someone in a hurry; but Kip had remembered to note the date and place in the top right-hand corner, the way their mom had taught them.
The night still hel
d something of the June sunshine—the darkness was halfhearted—and Jeannie sat on the floor to read the letter, the linoleum warm like skin against her naked legs. She read, starting slowly, then speeding, until she reached the end of the letter; then she read it again, and again, checking and re-checking the date noted at the top of the page.
“Daddy!” she yelled, scrambling from the floor, her feet sliding. She ran to her dad’s bedroom, shaking his sheet-cloaked body and shouting into his face. He looked at her with frightened eyes.
“What, what?” He sat up, whipping the sheets to one side—the Marine, ready for anything. He was naked, his skin pulled tight against his bones, his penis flopping grub-like at his groin.
“Kip’s alive,” she said, and she heard her voice, screamy in the quiet, heard movement in the house. She pushed the letter at her dad; he snatched it and fumbled at the bedside lamp. It fell, throwing its light dementedly up the wall.
“What the hell—”
Billy was at the doorway, eyebrows lifting at the sight of the overturned lamp, his naked father-in-law, Jeannie wild at his side. “What’s going on?”
“Kip’s okay,” said Jeannie, her breath roughing her windpipe. “He wasn’t at the base, he was—he was in jail. He’s done something bad, real bad.”
Jeannie’s dad sat up through the night, his pajama pants pulled up skewed, bare-chested, puzzling at the wallpaper of the living room, as though, if he stared long enough, he might unfold the pattern—as though if only he could unknot its corners and smooth its lines, he might discover the answer to a riddle. Jeannie paced, talking and planning; Billy rubbed his eyes, a look of bewilderment stuck on his face.
At dawn, Jeannie packed her things and dressed Charlie, readying to leave with Billy for Noe. While Billy loaded the car, Jeannie scribbled a note and placed it on the coffee table next to her dad, who was curled asleep on the couch, his forehead held in a frown.
They drove alongside the park, the sidewalks clean in the early sunlight, Jeannie leaning forward in her seat and knocking her fingers against the dashboard, until Billy pushed a damp palm over her hand.
“Shush, Jeannie.”
The Outside Lands Page 15
