Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  “I think so.”

  “I don’t want you fighting for me. I’m talking about Derek Conroy, as one instance.”

  David studied the label on the beer bottle. “I don’t have to take any crap from anybody.”

  “Okay, as long as you’re defending yourself, responding to personal insults, or whatever. But don’t defend my honor.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just told you. Adults con the young into fighting their battles.”

  “You haven’t conned me.”

  “Haven’t I?” Part of the process of growing up, Tyson thought, of losing whatever innocence that was still part of childhood, was receiving a cruel blow from someone you cared about. It was time, Tyson decided, for David to be disabused of the notion that his father was innocent. In that way, David could grow, could fight for the real Ben Tyson if he chose to; not the idealized one. He said, “I’m going to tell you what no one outside of my platoon knows. I’m going to tell you, as best I can, what happened at Miséricorde Hospital. Okay?”

  David nodded hesitantly. “Okay.”

  Tyson said, “First thing you should know is what Picard said in his book is mostly true. My platoon massacred over one hundred men, women, children, and infants. The youngest man in my platoon was not much older than you. His name was Simcox, and I saw him shoot a nurse about the same age as himself. Do you want me to go on or not?”

  David bit at his lower lip. Finally he said, “No.” He stood. “It doesn’t matter. I knew it was all true. I don’t care. I’m going upstairs.”

  “And pull the covers over your head?”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Dad.”

  Tyson nodded. “Okay. As long as you understand that what people are saying and writing about me is at least partly true. Understand too that this has nothing to do with you. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You are David Tyson, and you are your own person.”

  David walked toward the kitchen door, then turned back. “How about what people are saying about Mom?”

  Tyson did not know quite how to deal with this. Somehow he was more willing to discuss mass murder with his son than the subject of Marcy’s past. Tyson said, “A man or woman’s past personal life is no one’s business but their own. Your mother never hurt a soul, and no one has any right to hurt her or try to hurt me or you through her. Don’t respond to any of that.”

  David replied, “I have to be honest with you, Dad. It wasn’t you that asshole Conroy was talking about. It was Mom.”

  Tyson drew a deep breath. “Idiotic.”

  “I get these filthy notes shoved in my locker. Dad, if you want to talk to me about something, talk to me about all that crap about Mom.”

  “There’s nothing to say. Most of it is lies.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. Go to bed. It’s late. We’ll talk again.”

  David nodded. “Night.” He left.

  Tyson sipped on his beer. My God, he thought, that kid’s world fell apart. Yet, he showed no outward signs. Tyson finished his beer. David, he decided, was tougher than he’d suspected. But it would be a race between the end of the school term and the end of David’s ability to cope. Poor David. Poor Marcy. Poor Ben.

  * * *

  Marcy Tyson placed the grocery bag on the breakfast counter. Ben Tyson was still sitting on the stool reading, a cup of coffee in his hand. He said, “Hello. Back already?” He didn’t look up.

  “No, I’m still at the supermarket.”

  “Good.” He turned a page and yawned.

  Marcy said, “It was weird. Bizarre. I mean at the checkout. There I was on the cover of the American Investigator. Can you believe it? A housewife’s dream come true.”

  Tyson looked up from the paper.

  Marcy continued as she began unpacking the bag. “They covered my crotch with a black strip. But my tits are right there. Jesus. Who needs it? Right?”

  Tyson watched her closely as she went about emptying the brown bag. She did not seem upset, but he suspected she was. She looked very young tonight, he thought, dressed in a cotton khaki skirt, sandals, and a navy blue knit shirt open at the collar.

  He looked at the kitchen clock. It was nearly midnight, not the Tysons’ normal hour to go marketing. He looked at the groceries piled on the counter. “Did you buy that rag—what’s it called?”

  “The American Investigator.” She hesitated, then added, “It’s in the car.”

  He nodded. Life in the Tyson household had become somewhat surreal, not to mention furtive and xenophobic. He had taken to varying his methods and times of commuting to New York, though Marcy continued to take her regular train. They generally avoided social contact, and he had dropped out of the tennis tournament at the club. They no longer dined at local restaurants, though he still went to the Men’s Club, which was a world unto itself.

  Tyson played with the sugar cubes, building a tower on the countertop. He spoke without looking up. “As a public relations person, can you explain to me the dynamics of this thing? I mean, how did we become hot news?”

  Marcy put away some canned goods. “Lots of reasons. Andrew Picard is hot, for one thing. He’s good on talk shows. Not bad-looking either. Maybe this is a slow news month. But remember, Ben, the central belief of the public relations business: “There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

  “Well, this shit looks mighty like it.” He added another course of cubes to his tower. Picard. After the Times book review, Picard had appeared on radio and television, hawking his wares. And Picard knew what interested his audience. And it wasn’t the battle of Hue. That was an abstract subject, too boring for the electronic media. Picard spent his airtime wisely, focusing on the Miséricorde Hospital massacre, as it was now known.

  Tyson had actually heard Picard on the car radio one morning, and if he hadn’t read the book, Tyson would have believed that the entire thirty-nine chapters were devoted to Benjamin Tyson and his gang of psychotics shooting up a hospital with the rest of the massive month-long battle only a sideshow for that main event.

  Marcy broke into his thoughts. “This is the sort of thing a publicist prays for. Moving from the fluff and entertainment pages to the news pages. Authors have wet dreams about being mentioned in somebody’s column.”

  Tyson nodded as he concentrated on the tottering tower. Hue: Death of a City. The book had been given a piece in Newsweek. Could Time be far behind? The book had appeared on the Sunday Times bestseller list two weeks ago and was climbing. Picard must be pleased. Tyson added a flying buttress to steady the tower.

  “These things achieve a critical mass of their own,” explained Marcy. “You understand? It becomes news because it has become news. That’s not to say it isn’t a good story. I mean, let’s be objective here, Tyson. And it doesn’t hurt to be twenty-five miles from the news center of the world. We’d get off easier if we lived in Omaha. That’s a fact.”

  Tyson blew gently on the hexagon-shaped tower and watched it sway.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “This is the gleaming white marble tower that stands on the desolate brown plains of Formica. It is the last bastion of civilization in a dying world. The last learned men and women have gathered here—” He blew again and a cube toppled to the brown countertop. “But savages have surrounded the tower, and—”

  “Are you well? I mean, should I call a white van, or what?”

  He looked up. “Just playing. Men never grow up. I think you said that once or twice.”

  “Anyway . . .” She turned and put some packages in the freezer. “Anyway, I spoke to the local fuzz this morning, and they were sympathetic. However, it seems that laws about harassment, blocking traffic, causing a public nuisance, and so on apply only to mortals and not to newspeople unless you get a court order or something. . . . If those shits set up their cameras outside again—” She slammed the freezer door.

  Tyson recalled the local TV station that had thrown together a half-hour news show on the unfolding
drama. There was an interview with Picard, alternating with stock footage of the battle of Hue. The war had returned to the American living room. And it was good footage, aerial stuff of the burning city, then close-ups of the Marines trying to cross the Perfume River over the one remaining railroad bridge, the university crammed with miserable refugees. And not your typical peasants, but upper-middle-class Vietnamese, students, doctors, priests, monks and administrators. The cream of society, filthy and forlorn, weeping for the cameras. Very good footage.

  The show had ended with a reporter standing outside a house, and it had taken Tyson a moment to realize it was his house. The reporter had done his wrap-up as the camera panned the block of substantial houses, taking in a few curious neighbors. Then the camera had zoomed in on Tyson’s front door. The reporter had closed with, “Behind this handsome door is the one man who can answer Andrew Picard’s questions. But that man is not talking. And it remains to be seen whether or not he will ever talk about what happened at that hospital eighteen years ago.”

  Tyson tapped the countertop sharply and watched the tower bounce, then settle back without collapsing. “Earthquake. Severe damage, but the tower built by the world’s last master builders stands.” Tyson yawned again, then turned back to his wife. “You know, Marcy, for all the interest people have shown in me and my difficulties, I suspect that a good number of them haven’t actually gotten around to reading the relevant chapter in Picard’s book. Yet they all think they know what it’s about.”

  Marcy yawned also. “They’re waiting for it to be made into a TV movie, Ben.” Marcy put away the last of the groceries. “Thanks for helping.”

  “Sorry . . . I was thinking.” He lowered his head, eye level to the sugar cube tower. “I see the major damage—”

  Marcy flicked her finger and the tower collapsed in a heap.

  “Bitch.” He swept the cubes to the side and blew away the sugar granules. “Do you want me to re-create the battle of Hue with sugar cubes?”

  “Maybe in the morning.”

  “After reading Picard’s book I know what happened.” He quickly laid out a line of cubes. “This is the south wall of the Citadel. Okay? Each wall was two miles long. All right, the south wall abutted the north bank of the Perfume River—” He looked around, spotted the milk pitcher, and poured a stream of milk over the countertop. “That’s the Perfume River. Pretend. Okay, this is the canal—” He trailed his finger through the milk and formed a small tributary. “Okay, help me with the other three walls. Do you have any more sugar cubes? We have to build the Imperial Palace here, and construct the walled enclave in the northeast corner of the Citadel, where Picard had gotten himself trapped with the South Vietnamese soldiers. That’s over here. Three full battalions of the First Cav were approaching from the north. Their mission was to relieve the pressure on the Marines and ARVN—that’s the South Viets—and to block escape routes to the north and interdict enemy supply and reinforcement attempts. Got it? This sugar tong and these two spoons represent the three cavalry battalions. Follow? Okay, the tong is my battalion, the Fifth Battalion of the famed Seventh Cavalry. But my company was detached and we were more to the west. Here. My platoon was further detached and I was operating alone. Here. I was advancing along the north bank of the river. Hue was burning to my front. Now this little fucking sugar cube is Hôpital Miséricorde. Okay?” He looked at her. “Why aren’t you building those walls?”

  Marcy Tyson turned and went to the cabinet over the trash compactor. She retrieved a bottle of Grand Marnier and filled half a water tumbler. “Want one?”

  “No thanks.”

  She noticed he had completed the four walls of the Citadel without her help. “Ben, cut it out. Seriously.”

  He looked up and his eyes found hers. He smiled and swept away the sugar cubes.

  She let out a shallow breath. “Ready for bed?”

  “Not yet. I was thinking . . . it must have been the neighbors. I mean the Life magazine picture. The media didn’t stumble on that by accident. You weren’t even identified by name in the original caption.”

  Marcy swirled the orange liqueur around the glass. “Actually, Ben, I tipped them off. I was tired of you getting all the press.”

  Tyson smiled. “I thought a good PR person is supposed to stay out of the spotlight.”

  Marcy raised the glass to her lips. “Well, I have an ego, too.” She drank.

  “It had to be someone in town. But why would anyone do that? I mean, what is gained by dragging you into this mess?”

  Marcy leaned back against the sink. “People are petty, envious, and nuts. I thought everyone knew that.”

  “I thought you believed in the basic goodness of people. Brothers and sisters and all.”

  “I do believe in that. Sincerely and passionately. Nevertheless, an awful lot of people are flaming assholes.” She finished her drink.

  Tyson stared out the kitchen window. There was a light on in the sunroom of the Thompson house, and he could see their daughter Ginny, seventeen, parading around in her bra and panties. He saw a figure approach the sunroom. The French doors opened, and the figure entered. The lights went out.

  Marcy glanced out the window. “Ginny?”

  “Right.”

  “Did you rendezvous like that when you were a horny little guy?”

  “Damn right. I knew every backyard and fence in this town.”

  Marcy laughed. “God, it was different in the city. We used to neck a little in the parks, and sometimes if it got serious we’d go to the roof of our building. The boiler room, in the winter.”

  “Peasant.” Tyson walked to the refrigerator and opened it. “This is all pussy food. Yogurt, lettuce, strawberries.” He closed the door.

  Marcy spoke. “Two incidents. Hue and Griffith Park, occurring about the same time. What did the New York Post say? Something about the irony of Marcy making love while Ben made war. Christ, give me a break.” She smiled. “You know you’ve arrived when the papers start calling you by your first name. And as a journalism major and a public relations lady, I can tell you, Mr. Tyson, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” She finished her second Grand Marnier, and Tyson noticed her eyes had taken on a glazed duck à l’orange look.

  Tyson sat on his stool at the breakfast counter. “Funny, I haven’t had that nightmare since this began.”

  “Why should you? You’re living it. ‘Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, a naked runner lost in a storm of spears.’ Arthur Symons.” She filled his half-empty coffee cup with Grand Marnier.

  “Thanks,” Tyson said to his wife. “We have got to get David out of here as soon as the school term is finished. The kid must be going through hell, but he hasn’t said a word.”

  Marcy nodded.

  Tyson sipped on his coffee, laced with orange liqueur. David, he knew, had been aware of the infamous photograph long before this. In fact, about a year before, Tyson had found David sitting on the floor of the den with the original Life magazine spread out on his lap, staring at the picture of his mother.

  Tyson had chosen not to let the incident pass without comment. Some days later, he’d sat David down and given him a brief sociological lecture on the Age of Aquarius. It was odd, he’d thought, that a middle-aged man had to defend his generation’s looser morality to a teenager. But morality, like war and peace, was cyclical. Victorians did not approve of the morality, clothing, or literature of the Georgian age that preceded theirs. David’s generation, while certainly not prigs, were nevertheless not quite as loose as their parents once were.

  David had listened, nodded understanding, but something told Tyson that the boy did not approve, not only of the nude picture but of his parents’ life-style.

  Tyson realized that he himself affected a certain sophistication regarding the photograph, Marcy’s past in general, and the marital relationship. Marcy had once observed to friends, “Ben has become more liberal and less inhibited, and I’ve become more conservative in my middle age. That�
��s the story of the nineteen eighties.”

  Tyson understood, too, that he was titillated by Marcy’s past, as well as by her present job, which brought her into close contact with successful men. There were the business trips, the breakfasts, lunches, late dinners, late office nights, and the publicity events. There were ample grounds for jealousy, and in fact there had been some rather intense discussions on occasions when Marcy had staggered home in the small hours of the morning. The one thing this marriage did not suffer from was boredom. He said to her, “You’re handling this well. And you’re right. You don’t need this.”

  She poured a third drink. Her voice was slightly slurred. “For better or for worse. That’s what the hell it’s all about.” She thought a moment, then added, “You’re handling it quite well, too. I . . . I always respected you . . . but there were times . . . you know, when I felt you were wishy-washy. I guess I promoted that . . . I never wanted to emasculate you . . . never. . . . And I’m glad to see you show real balls . . . I mean, adversity builds character, right? We all need a little stress to feel alive . . . it can strengthen us and our marriage . . . but too much stress and strain . . .” She tipped the glass back, drank, and suppressed a belch. “I don’t know.”

  Tyson nodded. Marcy, he knew, was a self-assured woman. And she was alive, and where there was life there were problems.

  He looked at her. “I just remembered that time I brought Kimura, Saito, and their wives here for dinner. And you served them take-out Chinese food from the containers.”

  Marcy said innocently, “Did I fuck up?”

  Tyson smiled.

  “You never said a word about it.” She grinned. “I served the shit with chopsticks, for Christ’s sake.” She added in an injured tone, “And I made up that neat drink out of sake and bourbon. The Hiroshima Bomber. Everybody liked it.”

  Tyson laughed.

  “Don’t laugh at me, you pompous, uptight twit.”