by Peter Colt
“Tomcat, you have been in a few fights.” Assured statements from her sleepy mouth as her hands kept wandering over me. Little cartographers with dirty minds, but not without their fair share of sweetness, probing my most intimate secrets and nightmares that were recorded on my pale Boston Irish flesh.
“What else would you expect from an alley cat?” I said it with an uncomfortable smile.
“How? And don’t tell me that you were in a car accident.” She said it while two of her fingers were pushing on the entrance wound from where I was shot by an NVA with an AK-47. Her hand worked around to an ugly mass of scar tissue that was the exit wound.
“What would you believe?” Life had taught me that the truth was usually a negotiation.
“I know a bullet wound when I see one. My dad was stationed at Pope Air Force base. Fort Bragg was next door and a lot of GIs found their way to the pool. I’ve seen a few guys with bullet holes in them.” Her voice was serious and her face set and stern and unbearably cute.
“That one, where your fingers are, is from an AK-47 round. I was running down a trail and the other guy was fast. I got hit.” I had come around a bend, and there he was. He got off one round that hit me, but in his panic, had missed me after that. I had stitched him from crotch to head with the Swedish K gun. Its tubercular coughing was the sound of silenced death. I was lucky that he had missed the major artery in the shoulder and most of the bones. He was unlucky. Her hands worked around to my back, probing, feeling small scars.
“Shell fragments, from their mortars and our artillery, or maybe our mortars and their artillery.” I shuddered involuntarily. It had been ugly, and when I have nightmares, it is about that incident. The sounds and smells and the fact that friends of mine died, those weren’t memories that died easily. She rubbed a star-shaped wound on my butt.
“White phosphorous, a small piece from a grenade hit me in the ass.” It was a crude wound. One of my Yards had been hit, and the grenade fell short, and I was too close. Later, one of my teammates dug out the burning WP with the tip of the ridiculous Fairbairn-Sykes knife he carried. It was a silly weapon for the jungle, but he had picked it up in Hong Kong on R&R, and there was no convincing him not to carry it. I was too quiet for too long when she grabbed my hair in two hands and kissed me hard on the mouth. Then she pulled my face by the beard down to her, kissing me hard, trying to make me forget it all, but her.
Later, lying in an itchy wool blanket in front of the dying embers of the fire in each other’s arms, she ran her little hands through my beard and hair. We were close and warm, and I remembered what I was missing that most people had. Her voice, small and questioning, came through the dark to me.
“Vietnam?” In the dark, I could almost see how big her eyes were.
“Yes.” That was the understatement of the century. The launch sites, the patrols, the cross-border missions were a different war in the same country. At first, I was scared and sure I would be killed or maimed. Then I stopped caring if I would be killed and only gave a shit about going out on missions. Once I stopped caring, it was easier. Then I just cared about going outside of the wire.
“What did you do?” She was young and sincere, and Americans were just coming to grips with how they had shit on us when we came home. On the other hand, every POL specialist, supply clerk, jerk, and bottle washer claimed they were Special Forces now.
“Nothing that makes sense anymore.” That was the last time my life made sense. Everything had been logical, even the absurd and obscene. There was clarity to it all. It was simple. You did your job, you lived or you died, but there wasn’t much confusion. Sometimes people died because they were unlucky or because they made a mistake or because the NVA got lucky.
I was a Green Beret. Just like the song. I went out and found the enemy and killed them or helped them get killed by our artillery and/or Air Force. We trained hard, small, nut-brown Montagnards to kill them with our leadership. We tried to kill the NVA, and they tried to kill us. We were all part of some elaborate chess game around the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
We were a small, tight-knit group who almost didn’t exist anymore. We were an endangered species, an anomaly not welcome in our country or in society. I didn’t have many friends left alive, and the ones who were I didn’t hear from all that often. The occasional rambling, incomprehensible letter in spidery handwriting, or late-night drunken phone call made up all the communication we had anymore. We all had the same open wound that we could share, but we couldn’t talk about it.
Somewhere in all of the soft whispering that new lovers do, we fell asleep on the couch. I woke up uncomfortable and cold. She was lying on her side with the blanket, and I was vainly clinging to a couple of inches of the couch. I slid or fell off of it. I stood and picked her up. I carried her to her bed and put her in it. I was shivering by the time I crawled in next to her. She was warm, and I did my best imitation of a barnacle next to her. She turned toward me and held me close.
“This is nice,” she said, then began to snore softly. I fell asleep again and didn’t dream about much of anything, which was all right with me. When I woke up, it wasn’t dark, and the light outside of her windows was gray. My arm was stiff from where she had been sleeping on it. I lay in the bed listening to her breathing softly for a while. I knew that I wasn’t going to fall asleep again. I managed to slip out of the bed without waking her up.
I found my clothes in the living room. I dressed quickly, shivering in the cold apartment. When I was dressed, I slipped the pistol back in my belt and pulled the sweater over it. I went into the kitchen, found a pen, and started quietly rummaging through drawers to find some paper.
“Slinking away, Tom?” She was standing in the bedroom door with the wool blanket wrapped around her. Her hair was wild, but her eyes were twinkling, and she smiled at me.
“Actually, I was looking for a piece of paper, so I could leave you a note.” I smiled back.
“What would the note say? Thanks, I’ll call you?” She was still smiling, and I was pretty sure that we were back to the game of cat and mouse and again, I still wasn’t the cat.
“It was going to say that last night was nice. I was going to leave you the number where I am staying and tell you that I’d like to see you again.” I felt like I was testifying in court.
“See me again . . . like a date or something?”
“Exactly like a date or something.” She was smiling, and I wasn’t sure I wasn’t saying the wrong things.
“Well, Tom, I will say this—you are a little old-fashioned, but you are sweet.” She walked over to me and put her arms around my neck and kissed me again. “I am off tonight. Why don’t you swing by around seven, and we can get some dinner?” It wasn’t a question.
“Okay. Seven it is.” I told her where I was staying, and she nodded. I put my coat on and headed to the door. She kissed me again and locked the door behind me. I went down the steps and began to walk back to my hotel through the early-morning mist. Once in a while the fog would be pierced by slow-moving headlights. The foghorn kept booming off in the distance.
I felt good, and I could smell her on my hands and in my beard. I unconsciously would lift my hand to my face if only to reassure myself that last night had been real. That I had made love to her and that I wasn’t dreaming. I was going back to the hotel to shower and eat but found that my feet took me to The Dory instead. Inside, everyone and everything was the same. There was a spot at the counter for me, a brown porcelain mug of coffee, and the same cook.
I ordered the eggs Benedict again. After the last night, how could I turn down breast-shaped food? I drank my coffee and picked up a copy of the Globe that was sitting on the counter. There was more in it about the blowup at the trade talks with the Japanese. The president was still angry at the Communists in Poland, but he was pretty much angry with all the Communists everywhere. Three Irish cops got blown up in Ireland, leaving a huge hole and more killings to come. I ate my breakfast and read the depressing news,
paid my bill, and walked back to the hotel.
Chapter 17
Inside, there was only a message to call Danny, which I ignored, because I was pretty sure that he would accuse me of using Deborah Swift’s money to get laid. I got in the shower, running it hot enough to sting, and then after I had washed off, turned it to cold and shivered for a few seconds of penance. I dressed in my usual faded jeans, new boots, white shirt, and corduroy jacket. The Colt .32 was back in the shoulder holster, under my left arm.
The Ghia was where I left her and she started with only a mild protest. The radio stations on the Cape weren’t playing anything that I wanted to listen to, so I put in one of the tapes from The Band’s ever-excellent The Last Waltz concert. I steered the Ghia through the town and out to Milestone Road. The fog had burned off, and a brittle fall sun shone on the Ghia’s windscreen when I turned off onto the sand path leading to the caretaker’s cottage. This time I pulled in without almost hitting any buildings or other standing objects.
I was rewarded by seeing what had once been a GMC pickup truck. It had started its life as a metallic green pickup truck with a big Detroit engine and a thirst for gas like no other. Now, only the cab was metallic green. The bed was gone, replaced by a series of wooden 4×4s that made up a flat platform. Resting on the platform, up against the back of the cab, was a red plastic twenty-gallon gas tank. It was the kind that is usually reserved for outboard engines, but in this case, a black rubberized hose ran from the tank and disappeared somewhere under the bed, inside the engine. It had Mass. plates on the back, and I wrote the number down out of habit. I parked behind it and got out of the Ghia. I unconsciously hitched my shoulders to readjust the pistol in its holster under my left arm.
I started toward the front door and was about to knock on it.
“Morning, friend. You need something?” I turned and there was a man standing a few feet behind me with a double-barrel shotgun pointed casually at the space between us. It seemed like everyone I was meeting these days had one. He was tall, with dark corduroy pants tucked into Wellingtons, an old, baggy gray sweater, and a purple chamois shirt over it. He had a craggy face that hadn’t seen a razor in a few days. He had a salt and pepper ponytail topped by a leather tam-o’-shanter hat that was faded a soft caramel color. Nearby there was a volley of gunshots, two or three at the most, and I flinched. Actually, it was all I could do not to throw myself on the ground and crawl for cover. The war was never far away.
“Easy, fella, it is just a couple of the boys trying to get some birds out on the bog.” He then said by way of clarification, “It is duck season.” I nodded slowly.
“What brings you out here to the bog? You know this is private property?” His face was tan and had all the small lines and wrinkles that hard living will give you. This was that moment: to lie, not to lie, which half-truth to use?
“My name is Roark. I work for a lawyer concerned with a probate matter.” It was, at the essence of it, true.
“Probate matter?” His eyes didn’t seem to be entirely focused on me.
“Yes, probate, um . . . an inheritance.” He looked at me for a minute.
“Inheritance. For me? Far out, man. I didn’t even know, like, anyone had died.” He smiled a goofy little smile, and I could see that he was missing a tooth on one side. I smiled, too, to let him know what a decent guy I was.
“Well, I didn’t say it is your inheritance exactly. It deals with the will of an eccentric old lady with a few distant relatives.”
“Distant relatives?” He was still smiling his goofy smile, and my face was starting to hurt from my own. He was still casually pointing the shotgun at the middle ground between us.
“Yes, a little old lady in Colorado died while owning most of a silver mine. She didn’t have any heirs but should have a couple of distant relatives out there. Your name came up.”
“Me, Ed Harriet? That is far out, man.” His eyes were small, and I felt like he was looking at me calculating the range; then his eyes were just eyes again.
“Mr. Harriet, it isn’t certain yet. I will have to talk to you and figure out if you are indeed related to the client. I just don’t want to get your hopes up. It isn’t certain that you are an heir.”
“Are you a lawyer?” His smile was gone.
“No, I am just a guy hired by a lawyer to do some legwork. I didn’t even finish college.”
“Oh, so, like, you want to talk to me, man?” He was smiling again, making me wonder how much pot this guy smoked.
“Yes, if you have the time.”
“Sure, man, sure. Come on in, and we’ll make some coffee.” He led me around to the side of the house and a door that opened into a small kitchen. It was low and snug, with an actual fireplace in one corner and a stove in another. An avocado-colored refrigerator hummed against another wall. Across from the fireplace, under the window, was a sink. Near the fireplace, up against some windows, was a table covered with an old-looking oilcloth, with a few chairs up against it.
“Have a seat, man.” He pointed a gnarled finger at one of the chairs by the table. I sat down on one and looked around the room, which had dark wood cabinets and prints of seascapes. Harriet leaned the shotgun in a corner. He then set about rummaging in cabinets and making coffee. He made it in a stovetop percolator, which stood out in my mind for some reason, but I couldn’t tell you why it did. Maybe in a world filled with electric drip machines, a percolator seemed incongruous, or maybe it reminded me of a Philip Marlowe novel. Marlowe is always percolating his coffee. Harriet wasn’t done there. He knelt in front of the hearth and unearthed some embers. When the fire was going, he stood up and smiled his loopy smile at me.
“That should take some of the chill off. How do you take your coffee? Cream? Sugar?”
“No, black. Thank you.” He poured it into a chipped mug for me and made himself one with cream and sugar in a similar mug.
“So, were you, like, in the war? You know, Vietnam?” He spoke slowly as though he was concentrating on every syllable of every word.
“What gave me away? The flinching at the gunfire?”
“Yeah, man. I lived on a commune in Seattle one time. We had a few guys back from Nam. Guys who just wanted to get high and get laid and forget it. They had that same look in their eyes. Just like you.”
“I am better now, but sometimes it sneaks up on me.” Like when someone is standing in front of me with a shotgun and I hear gunfire.
“Yeah, I guess it never really leaves you. Where were you?” His eyes were big, and his voice was all California surfer.
“I was up north, but one shithole is as good as another in that country.” I was at a place called Mai Loc and operated from there in places that Americans weren’t supposed to be in. I was still in the habit of keeping my country’s secrets by answering questions with vagaries, verbal sleights of hand, and half-truths. I was keeping secrets for people who let me down and I couldn’t stand, about a war that no one wanted to talk about. My part was the one that no one wanted to admit had even happened. These days, talking about Vietnam was like talking about that relative serving hard time in a penitentiary. The stupid part of it was that I told them I would keep their secrets and still felt that my word had to mean something, even if theirs didn’t.
“Yeah, yeah, was it bad, man?” His dark eyes were locked on my face, and I was not unsure that there was something a little hostile behind them.
“Yeah, it was bad.” All I could think of was the artillery barrage. I could still hear it—the whistling, the explosions, and the screaming. I could still feel the air being knocked out of my lungs and being tossed around like a rag doll. I could still feel the pieces of hot metal ripping into me. I could taste the dirt, the dust, the shit, and the blood. I could still see the broken bodies of my friends and my enemies alike. I will forever wonder why I lived and they didn’t. It was bad and it never left me. It never does, and I am not sure it is supposed to.
“Mr. Harriet, we should discuss the matter
of the, um, potential inheritance. While it is not a large fortune, it is large enough to be worth some consideration.”
“Well, man, I am not into material things, but”—he smiled his loopy smile—“I could always use a little money.”
“I know how you feel.” I smiled a bland smile at him. There was a scratching at the door, and he went to let in what turned out to be a very friendly black Labrador.
“Mr. Harriet, I am afraid that it isn’t as simple as just signing a check over to you for the money.” This was the sales pitch.
“No? Why not, man?” He had sat back down, and the Lab came over and rested his head on Harriet’s thigh. The room began to smell of wet dog and coffee. I took a sip, and it was hot and tasted like burnt turpentine.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” I needed something to kill the taste of the coffee and the smell of the dog. I was beginning to wonder if it had rolled in a dead seagull or something.
“No, man, go right ahead. I might have some grass around here . . . you aren’t a cop, are you?” He looked at me and raised one eyebrow, and I wasn’t sure if he was dense or mocking me. Maybe he was just permanently baked, like a lot of the surviving hippies were.
“No, not for a long time now. Thanks for the grass, but I’ll stick to this.” I showed him my new pipe, which I began to pack, tamp, light, and re-tamp. The process was laborious, but I was soon rewarded with a fair amount of nice-smelling smoke that helped cut the smell of the dog.
“Mr. Harriet, we are talking about a sum of money that is a little bit over fifteen thousand dollars. The nice, little old lady in question had no close relatives. I am looking for the children of third cousins and things like that. Unfortunately, it isn’t always clear who is who and what is what. The lawyer I work for just won’t let me give the money away without proving that the recipient is a relative.”
“Fifteen thousand dollars. Wow, that is a lot of money. What would you need, like a birth certificate or something?”
