He held her in a long, long hug that was like a deep, silent conversation between them.
Shirley was the first to break away. She tentatively touched his bruised cheekbone with gentle fingertips that stirred something in him that was hungry for more.
“What happened to you? Were you in the explosions, or…Actually, what are you doing here? I thought you just accepted a new position to teach at UCLA.”
“I’m not starting till next fall, so…” Gregg shrugged. He had tried to come up with a plausible excuse that Shirley could buy and, stretch of the imagination though it was, hopefully she would. “I thought I might do a little post-doctoral research and get a jump on the old ‘publish or perish’ routine. In a moment of absolute brilliance”—Gregg rolled his eyes, making her laugh; a lilting sound, and damn was it sweet to his ears—“I decided publishing a paper about self-care for exhausted doctors and therapists in punishing environments would get me off to a nice start with the psych department. And where better to authenticate and extend my findings than here? As an objective academic, you realize, not an exhausted doctor like Izzy who can obviously use a nice little getaway to help me with my, um, research. Hope you don’t mind I decided to drop in on you unannounced.”
“Are you kidding? I’m thrilled! How long are you here?”
“I’m not sure.” That much was true. “Izzy managed a little time off, so we’re heading up to Saigon tomorrow. But my first order of business was to stop by and see you—well, second order of business.” He grinned, exposing his chipped tooth. “I swung by the unit first to see Colonel Kohn. They had a real welcome party waiting.”
“That’s right, nothing but the best for Gregg. Even the VC welcomed him back with a nice incoming event.” Izzy gave Shirley a quick hug. “Would it be too much of an imposition to ask for an early happy hour? Besides our rather challenging drive out, we know you make the best G and Ts in town.”
“I always have a bottle of Tanqueray with your names on it.” She paused, and so did her smile. “I’m sorry, Gregg, but Kate’s not here to join us.”
“No?” Gregg feigned surprise. “Is she in town getting supplies?”
“Not exactly.” Shirley smoothed her skirt, distractedly brushed a finger through her hair. It was shoulder length and coppery, and Gregg was momentarily sidetracked by the movement. “Let me fix those drinks first and then I’ll fill you in. Veranda or parlor?”
The parlor had a lot of bad memories. Despite the rain that had started again, Gregg and Izzy said in unison, “Veranda.”
“Good choice,” Shirley agreed. “Make yourselves at home and I’ll be quick.”
As the three of them sat on the veranda, gin and tonics in hand, with a delicious plate of sandwiches Shirley had brought out, they watched the rain move down the mountain and over the sea. Across the bay the smoke from the rocket attack was still rising into the darkening clouds. Gregg experienced the too-familiar feeling of being inside a war while your life went on without you. It was all so weird—what he had left behind; what he had come back to—and did it get any weirder than sitting by a flower garden with a good friend and a beautiful woman, enjoying cocktails over a breathtaking view, and knowing just across the way people you saw a few hours ago could be dead? Or not. There was no rhyme or reason to who got lucky, who was killed, who survived and who didn’t.
He and Izzy got lucky. They might not be so lucky the next time. All the more reason to put aside the bombing incident and relish the moment, the quiet of the oncoming dusk, the sense of sanctuary and security the mission always seemed to provide, and especially the company he had to keep. He was having a very hard time keeping his eyes off Shirley. He could see what the strain of grief and a world of responsibility had done in a matter of months, emphasizing their weight around her mouth and eyes. If he was having nightmares, God only knew what her nights were like.
Gregg savored another long sip of his drink. The scent of fresh lime, the balmy air, the blooming jasmine in the garden and the sound of small waves breaking on the beach…There was, surprisingly, so much he had missed about this place. Just as there was a lot of crap he hadn’t been prepared to deal with once he returned home.
“How are your parents, Gregg?” Shirley’s voice brought him out of his reverie.
“They’re fine, thanks for asking.” The last thing he wanted to talk about. “And when do you expect Kate back?”
“I was expecting her next week, but I received a telegram yesterday saying she would be delayed. Odd. The message didn’t say for how long. Or why.” Then she added apologetically, “I’m sorry, Gregg, but she’s on some kind of trip with JD. I didn’t want to tell you because…I know how much you adore Kate.”
What was left unsaid, what all three of them knew, was that Kate didn’t adore him the same way at all. She loved him, no doubt of that, but Kate’s love for Gregg Kelly lacked the chemical intensity she and JD had generated on sight.
“Shirley, it was worth the trip just to see you.” When Shirley beamed in response, Gregg realized that was not completely untrue. “Besides, I should have let you and Kate know in advance I was coming.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It was a spur of the moment decision. You know me, a bon vivant at heart.”
“No,” she said quietly, her eyes meeting his. Gregg could have sworn that under all that softness was something less than saintly. “I guess I didn’t know that about you.”
Izzy cleared his throat. “So, Shirley, how are the kids doing in the children’s ward?”
“The same. Too many orphans with too many napalm burns and not enough arms and legs.” She looked from Izzy to Gregg again, where she rested her gaze. “They still talk about the last time you two were here acting like clowns. I hope you’ll be visiting long enough to come again and spend a day with the children.”
She touched his hand. The light contact affected Gregg like a match put to a fuse that ran from the backs of his knees, shot through his groin, and went off like dynamite in his skull. The force of his reaction was unexpected. It was fantastic.
And so wrong. This was Kate’s best friend and boss. The woman’s husband had just been murdered last summer. She was still vulnerable and emotionally fragile.
“I’ll be sure to make time for another visit,” he promised, and hoped nothing happened to keep him from it. Like getting killed first.
“Thank you, Gregg. The children need more than their physical wounds tended. I’ve asked the church to send us a pastoral therapist, but so far there have been no takers for the position. Of course, it doesn’t help that whether in or out of church, few if any are in favor of this ungodly war.”
She removed her hand. Raised her empty glass. “Gentlemen, another round?”
The sun was setting when Izzy drove them away from the mission, bouncing over ruts and throwing mud against the sides of the jeep en route to the old villa that served as their officer’s quarters. Hopefully it was still there. He hazarded a glance at Gregg. Shirley had applied a compress to his swollen cheek and the ice from the gin and tonic had reduced the swelling around his mouth. Maybe it was the gin on top of jet lag that had caused Gregg to be unusually withdrawn since leaving.
“You’re awfully quiet. Second thoughts about being here already?”
Gregg shook his head. “I was thinking of what Shirley said about needing a child therapist, but even the churchgoers giving the casualties of war a cold shoulder. When I got off the plane in my jungle fatigues the first thing I saw was a big ‘Welcome Home Gregg’ sign. It didn’t quite prepare me for some protesters and a tomato hitting me in the back, or so much hostility from strangers holding peace signs.”
“God, Gregg, I had no idea. I’m really sorry that happened to you.”
“Yeah, well, it could happen to you, too, so be prepared.”
“But you are happy there at home, right? I mean, that’s what we live for, getting back to The World. And you’ve got that great professorship waiting next
fall at UCLA. I remember you saying that was your dream job.”
Gregg shrugged. “Things aren’t always how we envision them.”
The rain had stopped and something in Gregg’s voice caused Izzy to pull over to the side of the highway, across from the beach where the moon hovered, paper white over the lapping waves. He turned off the engine. On the little transistor radio he had looped over the mirror the Armed Forces station played some Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young in the background.
“You want to talk about it?”
Gregg was staring at the radio. “That song. ‘Four Dead in Ohio.’ It says everything about our country right now—the division, the hate, the violence, the racial divide, the political cesspool. All the things that are wrong in our little slice of The World.” Greg gave a short, humorless laugh. “And here we are, so desperate to get back to it.”
“I don’t understand.” And Izzy really, truly didn’t—or maybe he really truly did not want to. Something had happened to Gregg in the six months he had been gone, something beyond a single, ugly incident that had leaked an uncharacteristic cynicism into his good nature. “I mean, before you left all we talked about was getting back, and all the things you were going to do for both of us since I couldn’t go with you. Like surf Sano and Swami’s, cruise the boardwalk in Del Mar. Go to a Dodger’s game and forget this place.”
“Yeah, I know, and I did all those things.” Gregg looked away from the radio and straight at Izzy. “And believe me, I wished more than anything you were with me. That would have made a big difference I’m sure. But the memories I kept trying to recreate, they weren’t the same. There I was, sitting on my board at Sano and it’s beautiful and sweet—and I’m just empty, lonely, sick, constantly remembering you and the rest of the guys, wondering what’s going on at the clinic, thinking about Kate and how much better everything would be if she had come home with me.” He shook his head, shrugged. “Who knows, maybe that’s just a load of crap I was feeding myself about Kate, because in the end you’re still just left with yourself. And the self that came back ‘home’”—he made quote marks—“did not belong anywhere anymore with anyone. Even when I was offered my faculty position, I felt flat, empty, and all I could ask myself was ‘How could you feel homesick for fucking Vietnam?’”
“You’re not saying you actually missed being here, are you?”
“What I’m saying is that…everything is still there. But the world we left, Izzy, it’s gone.” Gregg paused, looked out at the sea. “Gone,” he repeated softly. “Or maybe it’s the same and it’s who we were before coming here that’s gone. I need to tell you something. Something I did that I’m ashamed of. It’s bad.”
Izzy touched his shoulder and wished they were back on the veranda, the ice clinking in their frosty glasses, Gregg’s eyes resting on Shirley instead of wearing a haunted expression that was ripping away at his own cherished fantasies of returning home. “You know you can tell me anything. What happened?”
“I hadn’t been back that long, not quite three months. Didn’t have my own apartment yet, though I should have. I wasn’t sleeping well. Realized I wasn’t adapting the way I thought I would but wasn’t telling anyone—like, who would I tell, who would understand? But my mom, she knew I was struggling and tried to do something nice for me. This was right after Thanksgiving, just a week later, and everyone’s tired of turkey by now, so she and my dad decided to throw a party and went all out with the All American stuff I love—barbeque, burgers, dogs, shrimp, salmon—and invited my aunts and uncles, my grandpa, the neighbors, guys I had played ball with all my life. They’re all there. And my folks put the big color TV out on the patio, like we could all pretend we’re at the drive-in on a Friday night, just before twilight when the screen is showing those hot dogs running around and making you want to race to the concession stand, while the kids are swinging on the swings before the first feature gets started. Only, instead of the drive-in commercials, Walter Cronkite came on for the CBS Evening News. It was all about My Lai and Lt. Calley, that whole horrible mess. And then something came on about the body count, shit they do every night. And my Uncle Larry, he said something about this generation of soldiers. He says, ‘Not you Gregg, of course, but all these good for nothing hippie dope heads they draft, killing women and children, they aren’t what we were made of in WW Two’—”
Gregg smacked the windshield with his fist. “Izzy, I threw my beer at the goddamn TV. And then I grabbed another one and threw again, and it exploded right through the TV—my mom’s beloved color TV—and I yelled, ‘What the hell! Fuck you, Uncle Larry! Fuck all of you,’ I told them. ‘You’re watching a goddamn real war on TV, not a John Wayne movie! Those are real men, dying every day, and you’re listening to a body count like it’s a baseball score, for fuck’s sake, while you complain about the poor kids who would rather be anywhere but there? And you actually have the gall to question what they’re doing and play judge and jury, while you eat a burger and knock back a beer because you can be so self-righteous about your own service and spit on ours?’”
Gregg took a serrated breath. “I lost it, Izzy, completely and totally lost it. I broke down, threw another couple of beers and then my gramps and Dad got a hold of me, dragged me into the house. It all seemed so crazy, so crazy, sad and dirty and wrong. So wrong. I just wasn’t sure who was more wrong—them or me?”
While Gregg struggled to pull himself together, Izzy nodded, stayed silent, just listening. He wanted to ask what was on the news that was being kept from the troops, but there would be time for that later. Maybe. Everyone was on borrowed time. Anyone here, more than most.
“I’m so sorry, Gregg.”
“That’s what I told my mom, but no amount of sorrys can ever take back what I did. And not even a million sorrys can change what this war has done. You should see all the burnt-out, strung-out Vets at the beach. Just sitting, stoned out of their minds, hanging together, a lot of them wearing their jungle fatigues—or, instead, growing their hair out and pretending they never were here, never in the Nam ’cause everybody hates them, they think. And it might not be everybody but plenty do. Iz, people are ashamed of us because they are ashamed of the war, and what we’re doing over here. Hell, most of us who got sent over here hate this war as much as they do, but it’s like they blame us for how they feel. I mean, I get it. You and I, we can talk about this, see the displacement, the rationalizations, psych it out, so to speak. But the guys going back, they…”
Gregg trailed off. He was quiet for a moment, then continued, “The ones going back, so many of them have no one to relate to, nothing but their memories, all by themselves. I have my family there but nothing’s the same. It’s like there’s something that separates you from everybody. I don’t know if it goes away. My gramps, he was WW One, and he says no, but that you eventually get used to it and it fades. All I know is that I feel ten times better here being with you than I did at home and, in a really twisted way, I was almost relieved when JD called so I had a reason to get out of there and come back. Just how messed up is that?”
Izzy searched for some words of consolation, but he felt like he needed some consoling himself after having his best friend basically say he had contracted the Bubonic Plague in the air they shared and there was no cure for their mutual affliction.
“I honestly don’t know what to say, Gregg, except I appreciate you telling me how it is. And I hope you can be as kind to yourself as you are to those you counsel, and as patient as you would be with me if I was the one telling you all this instead. It could happen. Tell you what, let’s talk this out some more at our old home away from home, okay? We’ll check on the unit, make sure they didn’t take a hit, then head to the villa, since I’ve got some good dope and Jack stashed in my room. You know, the villa never gets hit, but if it did there’s plenty of good stuff elsewhere to help us shake off the day.”
Gregg impatiently backhanded the moisture in his eyes, then slapped Izzy some skin. “Dr. Moskowitz, it is clearl
y apparent why you graduated at the top of your class, especially with regard to psychopharmacology.”
Izzy didn’t feel as proud as he had once been of that distinction. War had a peculiar way of putting one’s achievements into an acid-trip-like prism. Really, how much did it mean to spend the first thirty years of your life striving for excellence when it could all be taken away by a random and malicious darkness of fate that cared not a whit for right or wrong? Again and again he had seen it happen. Some guy racing to the nearest bunker only to get blown to bloody, dismembered bits. Here one second, gone the next. It could have happened to their jeep on the way to the mission today. Better make the most of whatever time you’ve got because next time it could be you.
It was in that spirit that Izzy turned up the little transistor radio. Bob Dylan, “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35.” A title as appropriate as the rain that had begun to slash down again, the lyrics agreeing that everybody must get stoned!
The board must be square and represents the laws of the earth. The lines must be straight like the divine virtues. There are black and white stones, divided like yin and yang. Their arrangement on the board is like a model of the heavens.
Ban Gu (32-92 AD), in Yi Zhi (The Essence of Go)
The Desire for Nurture
Why I Am Here
I have been given my first assignment. The monks have said that I am to write down why I am here. The room I’m in feels warm. And the warm air feels good on my shaved head. The robe they gave me to wear feels good, too. Yes, I think the monks are nice. And they like to play games!
My favorite monk said after I write my story, we can play a game of Go. So here is my story.
UNKNOWABLE (Murder on the Mekong, Book 2) Page 6
