Macht stood, and Jeannie followed suit. She thought of Kip, small and scared in his cell thousands of miles away; thought of Captain Vance, the pleasure in his face when he noticed her in the courtyard, his entreaty that she return, and knew that there was power in this, however small or fraudulent. “I’ll try again,” she said; but Macht was already sitting, his face bending over a thick book.
Jeannie walked home, the sun close and harsh on her face, her mind turning. She walked up Noe, and saw a figure sitting on the steps to the house. The figure stood, its hair falling long and disheveled, its shadow kinking up the steps.
Jeannie felt the smile in her mouth, round and unyielding as a jawbreaker candy. Lee had telephoned once since their argument on California; and Jeannie, still bruised by the girl’s lack of heart, had set down the receiver right away, then waited, sweaty-handed, for it to ring again. But it didn’t, and Lee didn’t call back; and through all the strange and fearful adventures of the last weeks, Jeannie’s lingering desire for Lee was stitched through the days like a brilliant-colored thread, a drop of blood on the cotton.
“Lee,” said Jeannie; but Lee’s face was expressionless.
“I need you,” said Lee. In all Jeannie’s imaginings of the moment, she hadn’t heard the words like this—brisk, sunken. In the falling light, Jeannie could see that Lee’s skin was sheened with sweat.
“Are you all right?”
“No,” said Lee, shaking her head. “I’m not all right.”
“Are you sick? Come inside. I’ll get you a glass of water.” Jeannie tried to take Lee’s arm, but Lee jerked away.
“I need more letters,” she said.
Jeannie felt the disappointment like something hard in her throat—like she’d swallowed the solid, round smile that was in her mouth a moment ago and it had gotten stuck. But there was something panicky in Lee’s eyes; and Jeannie tried to ignore her own dismay. She touched the younger girl’s hand. “What’s happened?”
Lee shook her off. “Cut it out, Jeannie. Either get me some letters or give me the fucking letterhead and Billy’s signature and I’ll do it myself.”
“You know I can’t do that.” Jeannie’s body grew tight.
“You don’t have a choice. There’s no way out now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Reverend placed an ad. In the Daily News. Some dumb poem Walter came up with, and a bunch of people took the bait.”
Jeannie heard the strangeness of this last turn of phrase; remembered the bill-stuffed envelope in Lee’s back pocket.
“Jesus, Lee.”
“We got people calling every day. We can’t keep up.” Lee gnawed her thumb.
“But if you have that many people, it could draw attention—”
“I told him that, but he won’t listen. He’s a fucking nut.”
“So tell him no. Get out.”
“I can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
Lee was shaking her head.
“What is it, Lee?”
“He’s got photographs of me. We were so fucking high. Me and Silver . . .” Lee raised her eyes to Jeannie, shame raw and slick on her face. Something oily stirred in Jeannie’s stomach. Lee watched her. “It was before us,” she murmured.
Jeannie blinked, saw Lee’s mouth at Silver’s small breasts, Lee’s hand between Silver’s pale legs, and felt nauseated.
“If I don’t get the letters, he’ll send the pictures to my parents.”
Jeannie swallowed her queasiness and studied Lee’s face. There was fear in it, and something else—something shrewd and assured, like power.
“I won’t do it,” said Jeannie.
Lee’s eyes rounded. “Please.”
“No.”
“Please.” Lee gripped Jeannie’s stiff hands. “My mother—you have no idea. She’ll put me away, have me locked up in some asylum somewhere with a bunch of freaks—somewhere I can’t embarrass her anymore.”
Jeannie saw the drama lighting Lee’s face and felt a surge of frustration. “It’s all bullshit, Lee,” she said. She thought of Tom, his jail of a body; of Kip and his crippled life; saw the performance in Lee’s imploring stance. “The protests, the Reverend, running away from home, even you and me—you love a show.”
Lee’s face drew into an expression of incredulity, but Jeannie didn’t miss the blush spreading at her jaw.
“Something real’s happening,” said Jeannie. “And there’s no room for . . .” She shook her head. “For you. And all this.”
Lee’s face darkened. She let go of Jeannie’s fingers, moved her hands to Jeannie’s shoulders, and placed a slow kiss on her collarbone. “Please,” she whispered. The husk of her voice was like old comfort, and Jeannie felt needles at her skin. Lee tipped her face up to Jeannie’s and gave a cattish smile. Jeannie saw the drab look in the younger girl’s eyes, and the needles at her skin sharpened.
“You’re on your own, Lee,” she said. She turned, strode up the steps to the house, and pushed the door shut behind her, then leaned against the wall, readying herself for the sense of loss that had touched her throat like a blade ever since that day on California. It came, pressed her neck; but the blade was dulled, and a new feeling came, warm and vigorous as fresh blood: relief.
Billy returned from the hospital early, just as Jeannie was browning the chicken for dinner. He dropped his bag in the hallway and came to the kitchen—his face still imprinted with the struggle of the day—and leaned to kiss Jeannie’s cheek; she turned, knocking his spectacles askew, and their kisses fell wrong, smearing an ear, a nose. But there was something safe in her husband’s nearness, his careworn solidity, and Jeannie had the urge to press herself into his arms, to feel his comfortable heaviness. She put her arms around his soft waist; he bent to her, spreading his fingers lightly at her back, cautiously, as though she might detonate.
“I saw Albert Macht today,” she murmured into Billy’s shoulder.
“Mmm,” he said. He straightened, his fingers loosening at her back.
“Kip’s case is a mess.”
“Jeannie,” said Billy, taking her by her forearms and easing her away. “I’ve had a long day.”
“He’s still saying he’s guilty.”
“You need to let this go, Jeannie. You can’t save him.”
“But—”
“I can’t talk with you about this, Jeannie. You know this whole business has put me in an impossible position.”
“Your mother’s let it go.”
“My mother never lets anything go.” Billy rubbed his face. “The sooner all this is over with, the sooner we can all get back to normal.”
The next day, Jeannie left Charlie with Cynthia and took the bus, then the streetcar, to the hospital. Jeannie peered into the ward; his head was turned away. A tired-looking woman with a girl Charlie’s age pushed the door, and held it open for Jeannie, giving a flat, empathetic smile. Jeannie breathed out hard, forcing down her rib cage to subdue the nervous pounding of her heart, and stepped into the ward.
He was asleep, his body unevenly bulking the sheets, half his face and neck crusted in its thick bandage. The bare part of his face was clean and freckled, his chest slow in rising and falling; he looked still and lovely as a sleeping child.
The ward was noisy with visitors. She stepped toward his bed and drew the curtains, creating a small, ceilingless room. The smell of sleep and exertion reeked from his sheets.
He opened his eye, and closed it again. Jeannie’s heart thumped.
She watched him, waited for him to wake fully, but his eyelid remained shut, his eyeball moving under the skin, following the last unspooling of a dream.
“Sir,” she whispered.
He emptied out a long breath. She waited for him to breathe in again, but he was still, his chest hollowed.
“Sir.”
The eye jerked open.
Tom / July 1968
The smell of jasmine, hair lifting in the wind.
The girl, whis
pering.
Sunlight ribboning, dream weaving, the girl, the girl.
The Girl.
Tom woke, slipping in the borrowed moment before the pain came, and there she stood. A blister of pain ran along his right side. He tried to sit, but his body hadn’t found its weight and strength.
“Sir,” she whispered. She wore white, her hands folded against her skirt like a bride’s. He wondered if he was dreaming; but she spoke again, and the sound of his name was hard and real on his ear.
“Captain Vance.”
“Genevieve,” he said. His sense of time was strangely assembled, his recollection of recent hours and days all mixed up. Then he remembered his news, and smiled. The smile echoed across the girl’s face.
“You can call me Jeannie,” she said.
“Jeannie.” He shifted so he was upright against the pillow. “I prefer it to Genevieve.”
“I always hated Genevieve.”
“Call me Tom.” He saw hesitation in her face, and hurried past it. “About yesterday—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
A pause.
“My last surgery’s tomorrow,” he said. That morning he’d braced himself for the infected plates visit from the chief; but only Girl Medic came, to tell him the surgery would go ahead as planned.
“What’s the surgery?” Jeannie asked.
“Skin graft. Heal up this part.” He raised his right arm to the bandages at his face, felt a boyish pride as he showed off his improved movement. She didn’t register the significance of the gesture. “Of all the damage the explosion caused, I didn’t think this would take the longest to heal. I’ll be able to take off this damn dressing, look like a human being again.”
She gave an awkward nod. “When will you be out of here?”
“Could be two or three weeks. I’m recovering well. The chief says I can do most of the healing outside of the hospital. Got a cousin who’s going to rent me his two-bed in the Marina. It’s pretty flat around there, first-floor apartment, no stairs.” Discomfort touched her face. “We don’t need to talk about that now. It’ll be a while before I can think about work. I’ve got money saved.” But she still looked uneasy. After two tours in Vietnam, Tom was used to the hesitation on the faces of rookies who were scared shitless, but wanted to suggest competence. But he wondered at how she kept coming back, each time as clueless as the last, ready to take on what even he had to admit was no cakewalk of a case. Pity might have been some of it, but it wasn’t all of it—the girl seemed somehow unsentimental. He wondered if she was lonely; there was something strangely depleted about her. The excruciating idea that she already knew him fired his brain.
“We’ve met before? Before all this?” One of his wrecked lays between tours, or one of the girls whose letters he fell in love with in Quang Tri.
“We’ve not met.”
Relief. A spasm of laughter came from across the ward; they turned their heads. As she returned to face him, he saw she was at a loss for words.
Time to build a new fence! somebody cried; more laughter.
He searched for something to say. He wanted to keep her at his side but didn’t want to ask her any of the questions that were becoming increasingly pressing—about his compensation, insurance, employment. If he pushed too hard, she might seize up, or leave. “Thirteen,” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Number thirteen. My thirteenth surgery.” He tried to whistle, but it came as a blow.
“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me all of it.”
Jeannie / July 1968
Midway through his story, Jeannie left the curtained cubicle to find herself a chair. The heat and the smell were making her swoony. She sat, and listened; and as the words dried up his mouth, she leaned to pour him another cup of water from the pitcher that stood on the locker beside his bed. She wanted to keep him talking, to keep the connection between them burning long enough for her to find the nerve to change the subject to Kip, to the attack. But as Tom spoke, careful with the dates and locations of his surgeries, going fast-slow over the medical details, she understood that that was what they were talking about, after all.
In spite of his bedbound state, he was something of a performer. It was in his expectation that his audience would hush up and listen, in the attentiveness of his eye contact. He would have been a commanding leader; and Jeannie could see how Kip, who had always loved a show, could have found something to admire in somebody so different.
The more he told her about his recovery, the more she saw his grotesqueness; and, like a child watching a horror show on TV, she couldn’t unhook from the words or draw her eyes away. And there it was, at first remote and scattered, the scuttle of disquiet that scurried nearer, until it was spidering over her skin. That Kip—the naïve, sensitive kid who loved comics till he was way too old for them, who organized Aunt Ruth’s pills each week and who helped Mr. Nowak box away his dead son’s things—that he could have anything to do with this catastrophe, that he could even lie about inflicting this kind of pain on another person, was horrifying and impossible; and as she realized the contradiction in this thought, she saw that Tom was slowing, his lips parched.
She lifted the pitcher; he shook his head, and his eyelids dipped with fatigue. How do you continue? she thought, and heard the words fall from her mouth.
“What’s the alternative?” He wriggled to reposition himself. She stood and adjusted his pillow behind his back. As she touched his shoulder for him to lie down, he put his hand on hers. The warmth and muscle of his hand surprised her.
“What’s happened is done,” he said. “And the guy who did it is paying for it.” Jeannie tried to pull her fingers away, but he pressed his hand over hers and held it fast. Her fingertips grew damp. “What I mean is, I have to look forward.”
That’s all, folks, a nurse called; and Jeannie heard chairs scraping the floor, curtains whisking along rails. She tugged her hand from beneath his; it hung wetly at her side. “I should go,” she said.
Jeannie sat at the kitchen table, rubbing at the bones in her face until the light left the room and Cynthia was buzzing at her door, a wide-eyed Charlie in her arms. He was tired and fractious, and it took over an hour to settle him to sleep; but Jeannie was grateful for the work. For the first time in weeks, she felt lost. Through the attorney updates and the visits to the hospital, she had been ruddered, setting course to save Kip. But now it felt as though he were already gone, as though he had died along the way sometime that summer—as though their grief for him had somehow killed him. She tried to imagine him, waiting in his cell; but her memory of him was slipping. She went to the living room, pulled the wide leather wedding album from the shelf, switched on the overhead lamp, and moved her finger over the pictures to find her brother’s small, dark face. He seemed like someone from another time. But Tom—he’d never seemed so real as when he pressed her hand in that hot, stinking cubicle. She could still feel his fingers, feel their heat and strength.
She thought of calling her dad, but her hand stopped over the dial. She’d held him at a distance, telephoning every week or so and visiting with Charlie once or twice a month, giving him plenty of warning so he had a chance to straighten himself out. Charlie had a way of taking her dad out of himself, and sometimes on those warm, windy afternoons at the beach, with Charlie licking ice cream from his fingers and her dad digging for sea glass, it felt as though things were normal. But the time would come for them to leave; and the look of desperation on her dad’s face would keep Jeannie away from the Sunset for weeks at a time. And all through those telephone calls and afternoons she’d been sparing with the details of her efforts for Kip, and her dad had neglected to ask. She was waiting to bring home the prize.
Her mind turned to her mom. Even now, years after her death, Jeannie felt herself grasp for her mother when she was adrift, a native, infant instinct she couldn’t uncouple from. Her mom would never have met Kip’s misfortune with her dad’s passivity, would never have allowed
Kip to enlist (that afternoon in the playground, how Jeannie had turned away from her own brother—she closed her eyes to squeeze the recollection away). If her mom had been alive, Kip would never have wanted to leave; he’d still be the star of his own movie, the golden boy, and there would be enough glory in his universe to stop him from seeking it in a war halfway around the world. It all started with that wet day in November; and when her mom, happy, dreamy, perhaps a little buzzed, had stepped in front of the cable car, it was as though she’d dragged Kip with her, under the steel car.
Jeannie heard a buzz at the door. Billy again, forgetting his key. He’d been more scattered lately, fatter, pastier, his shirts rumpled, his collars bent, regardless of her laundering.
She dragged herself to her feet and opened the front door.
Lee stood leaning against the doorjamb. Her hair was ganged together in a braid that reached her waist. In the weak fluorescence of the streetlight, her skin was the color of lavender. She wore shorts printed with flowers, and a thin shirt that clung. Her arrival was like a seltzer tablet dropped in water, a moment of effervescence that hushed Jeannie’s thoughts.
“You okay?” said Lee. Her foot tapped the threshold.
“What are you doing here?”
“You going to let me in?”
“You need to go home,” said Jeannie, closing the door; Lee nosed her foot over the threshold and pushed the door back open. She walked past Jeannie and took off her sandals.
“Billy’s on his way.”
“Relax,” called Lee. “I’m not here to jump your bones.”
Jeannie’s face grew warm in the gloom. She watched Lee move down the shadowed hallway and disappear into the living room. Jeannie followed and flipped the light switch. Lee stood at the record player, flicking through Billy’s Roy Orbison records. “No decent fucking music,” said Lee, dragging her fingers over the shelves and collapsing onto the couch. She folded her legs beneath her, leaned over the coffee table, and riffled through a pile of medical journals. Frustration prickled the back of Jeannie’s neck.
“If you’re asking for help, you’re wasting your time,” said Jeannie. She lifted the journals away, placing them high on the bookshelf, the way she’d move something breakable out of Charlie’s reach. As she turned back to the couch, she saw Lee’s strange smile.
The Outside Lands Page 23
