Sergeant Dickinson

by Jerome Gold

  They said when Stein died that his mother killed him. She was a friendly enough woman just beginning to go stout, though her weight could not disguise an acute body coordination. Every move seemed thought through, whether reaching for an ashtray or taking a sip of water or standing up from the chair she occupied when visiting Stein. Yet you could not detect a distinction between thought and action; time did not separate the two so that first you had the calculation and then the motion. Rather, you had them both together in a simple, efficient fluidity that could almost convince you of the unity of things. I told her once how much I envied her agility. “I played a lot of tennis when I was younger,” she said.

  She chatted with me and others about our wounds and the progress we were making, and she was great friends with the rabbi who came to visit Stein, they might have been sister and brother, or companions who long since had defined the limits of their relationship. But once I heard her say to Stein, “You shouldn’t have told that to Ben,” and she laughed with that kind of knowledge that is understood but not spoken. The rabbi had not been in for two or three days then, and I never saw him again.

  I did not usually hear her and Stein talking; as far as I could tell they hardly talked at all. Occasionally one would say something and the muscles in the other’s face would give away a reaction, but mostly Stein lay silently at attention and his mother sat in a chair beside his bed and read.

  Stein died in the afternoon. He convulsed only once, the jerk of his legs picking his entire body up off the bed, and then he lay still, his eyes open. All that was left was the noise of his escaping breath. The medical staff buzzed that his mother killed him, that she had admitted killing him, saying that he had asked her to do it. Myself, I did not see that it made much difference whether or not his mother killed Stein. Dead is dead, as Roy used to say, the rest doesn’t matter.

  The television went off. Then the lights. Cigarettes came on.

  “I miss Smythe’s ethnic jokes,” somebody said.

  “I never can remember the punch line to a joke,” somebody else said.

  “That’s all I can remember,” said somebody else.

  “Hey, Dixie, when are you getting out of here?”

  “Fuck, I don’t know.”

  “You going back to the ‘Nam when you get out, Dixie?”

  “Fuckin’ A he’s going back. He’s a Green Beret.”

  “Fuck the Green Berets. There’s no way in hell I’d go back.”

  “You don’t have to. Gimps don’t have to go.”

  “Even so, I wouldn’t go back. In the next war, man, I’ll be out there in the street with all the kids, yellin’ my fuckin’ head off with the rest of ‘em. Me and my cane, man, I’ll jam it right up some fuckin’ broad’s twat.”

  “Goddamn, you’re a gross son of a bitch. What’s wrong with this war? Why aren’t you in the streets in this one?”

  “Aw, I can’t stand all those spoiled-rotten college kids. Bunch of spoiled bratty kids is all they are. Never can tell, though. I get horny enough I just might jump one of those female kind.”

  “In the next one, the congressmen’s and senators’ sons should have to go, too.”

  “Fuck that. In the next one the congressmen and senators themselves should have to go. They can be out front where they can give us the benefit of their expertise.”

  “Hey no! Here’s what we do. Say for every three months or six months or something that the war lasts we execute a senator.”

  “Three months is too long. Make it every month.”

  “Hell, make it every day.”

  “No go, hombre. You’d just be encouraging them to use nuclear weapons so they could end the war as soon as possible.”

  “Well, what the hell?”

  “No way, motherfucker. The jungle’s bad enough, you’re not getting me into a nuclear war.”

  “Okay, you don’t have to go, then.”

  “Thanks much.”

  “Here’s one: how about if we make the president of each country fight each other. Single combat to the death. Winner take all. And nobody else is allowed to fight.”

  “A lot of countries don’t have presidents, numbnuts.”

  “President, king, dictator, what’s the difference? There’s always one asshole who’s on top.”

  “I can’t see myself voting for Muhammed Ali for president.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “I know! Let’s get a bunch of freaks from the army hospitals. We could put together a carnival and go on tour, we could get Wendell to jerk off in front of a crowd, shit, he’d love that, and there’s this other guy I see around sometimes, he’s got a hole in his head you could fit a grapefruit into.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we could get the paraplegics, man, let their piss bags overflow, what a gross-out!”

  “And the burn cases, don’t forget the burn cases, burns leave the best scars!”

  “We could get somebody who had his cock and balls shot off, put him in a diaper, and when he draws a crowd he can drop the diaper.”

  “Hell, we could select people out of the audience to feel where his jewels had been, ooh, aah.”

  “And we’d get one of the zombies, man, you know, one of those guys who never blinks his eyes and who has to be led around by the arm, a real stress case.”

  “We could put up signs: ‘Come one, come all. See the incessant masturbator. See him grin, see him leer, watch him come. Live show. Parental discretion advised.’”

  “‘Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah. See the man who is slick up the middle. Once he was like you and me, gentlemen. Ladies get the thrill of your life. Touch him, feel him. Like nothing you’ve felt before. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah. Standing room only.’”

  “‘Ladies and gentlemen, may we present this most unusual of entertainments, the man who can put a grapefruit in his head. He can toss it like a seal, he can catch it like a pass receiver, he can field it like a shortstop, and all without using any part of his anatomy but his head. Do not miss this most unusual act.’”

  “‘See the unwalking dead. Paraplegics. Quadraplegics. Stick pins in them. Kick them. Punch them. They feel no pain. For your entertainment.’”

  “‘Living zombies! They walk, they talk, they wet their pants. They’ll obey your every command. Not for sale.’”

  “‘Your worst fears realized! Living horrors! Charred human flesh! Human beings scarred beyond belief! Not for the squeamish!’”

  Tanner came into the ward. “You guys are disgusting.”

  “Once I disgusted an entire division,” said the door gunner.

  “You’re fuckin’ weird,” Tanner said.

  “Tell us about it, Tanner.”

  “Knock it off. Lights have been out for an hour. Go to sleep.”

  “Hey, Tanner?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “I’d go back,” Jeff said. “If they’d take me, I’d go back.”

  “To the ‘Nam?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I’m going back,” the door gunner said. “I like it over there.”

  “I don’t like it there,” the sergeant from MACV said, “but I don’t like it here, either.”

  “Dixie, are you going back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’d go back if I could,” Jeff said.

  Coming the length of the ward toward me, she seemed only to resemble herself. She was thinner, but that wasn’t it entirely. There had been an almost tangible vibrancy in her skin when I knew her. Now there was the suggestion that her body had become a weight that she would like to throw off. For an instant, before her eyes caught mine, I saw the haunted look of the insane on her face. But perhaps that was only me looking at myself.

  There was still the beauty of the surface, the shining hair, the heavy breasts, the smooth, nearly perfect skin, the swell of her hips, always her hips. There was hatred in her face. But maybe that was me.


  “Have I changed so much?”

  “You’re thinner.”

  “I’ve been working at it. You don’t look so bad yourself. I was expecting to see an invalid.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “One of my letters was returned by mistake. The envelope had the hospital as a forwarding address.”

  “An accident.”

  “They happen, you know. For better or worse.”

  “Yes. Well. You look good. You look great.”

  “Thank you. So do you.”

  “You’re not wearing glasses.”

  “Contacts. I always wanted to be able to bat my eyes. You can’t see batting eyes behind glasses.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well. Shit.”

  Elaine laughed. “You aren’t nervous, are you, Ray?”

  “‘Ray.’ Nobody calls me that anymore.”

  “What do they call you?”

  “Dixie.”

  “Well. Shit.”

  I laughed. “Well, what are you doing here?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I came to see you.”

  “No. Let’s not do that. What are you doing here? Why did you come to see me?”

  “So soon. I didn’t rehearse it this way. You’ve stepped outside the script. I get confused when you step outside the script.”

  “You always did.”

  “Yeah. Well. Can you get a pass, or something? We could have dinner on the Wharf.”

  “All right. Yeah. I can get a pass, I think. Yeah. I’d like that.”

  “Yeah. I would too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Do it.”

  Her breasts were harder than they had been.

  “You’re exercising.”

  “Every morning. I can do sit-ups now. I do thirty every day. It kills me, but I do them.”

  “Cigarette?”

  “I gave them up. But yeah, I’ll take one.”

  “You’re still nervous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Did you go to Dennis’ funeral?”

  “No. Dennis and I hadn’t seen each other in a long time. His mother was afraid I was going to take her precious son away from her. I wrote you about it, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wasn’t sure. It happened during a time when I would have given anything to have two days in a row that were the same. I didn’t have anybody I could talk to about it. I had a vague feeling that I wrote you, but I couldn’t remember for sure. He was your friend, too.”

  “He was. A hard cock has no conscience, I guess.”

  “Neither do wet thighs.”

  “Very good. Excellent repartee.”

  “I went to him, Ray, he didn’t come to me. That’s something you’re going to have to learn to live with.”

  “Just what I need. Something to live with.”

  “Do we have to do this?”

  “I guess not. I don’t suppose it matters much any more.”

  I reached over and took an ashtray off the nightstand and put it on the bed between us. On its bottom were the words Disneyland Hotel.

  “The manager must have stolen it from the Disneyland Hotel,” Elaine said.

  “And decided to use it in his own motel, probably to replace one that was stolen,” I offered.

  “I had a dream about you. I think it was right after Dennis was buried. You were in Saigon. You were drunk and you had fallen down between two cars that were parked at the curb. You had that same stupid grin you always wore when you were drunk. Then one of the cars started up and moved forward and crushed your head between its bumper and the bumper of the other car. You were still wearing that silly grin, you didn’t even know you were being killed. After I had that dream I started wondering if I still loved you.”

  “What do you want from me, Elaine?”

  “I want you not to die. I want you not to leave me. I want you to stop being a soldier and to stay with me. I don’t want much, do I?”

  “Not much.”

  “When you were on your first tour I used to wish sometimes that you would get killed just so it would be over, so I could forget about you. My hair was falling out, I had a bald spot on the back of my head, I worried so much about you. I never told you about that, did I?”

  “No, you never did.”

  “I stopped watching the news on television and my hair grew back.” She laughed.

  I laughed too.

  “Your enlistment is up soon, isn’t it? Unless you’ve already reenlisted?”

  “Jesus. You kept track. No, I haven’t reenlisted.”

  “Couldn’t you take leave while you make up your mind? You could stay with me. At least we would have that much time together if you decide to go back.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m not going to beg you, Ray.”

  “All right. All right.”

  CHAPTER 11

  We lived in a one-hundred-unit complex surrounding a small glade of grass and pines. From the terrace you could see the pine squirrels gamboling on the grass and in the branches of the trees. Our apartment was in a corner of the building and from the window in the bedroom you could see out onto the street where students parked their cars before walking to the junior college three blocks away. They were all so bright and shiny, like their cars, even the acne-marked ones looked innocent and untested. During the day when Elaine was at work I watched the squirrels and the students. In my mind I rolled grenades in among clusters of kids and watched the detonations turn them into meat.

  Elaine had a yellow-striped kitten I played with. I held a length of string just outside of its reach and when the kitten swatted at it I pulled the string away. When the kitten tried to quit the game I danced the string across its nose until it swatted at it again, then I pulled the string away.

  “Why don’t you let the poor thing sleep?” Elaine complained.

  “I read somewhere that cats need eighteen hours of sleep a day in order to remain healthy. I want to see if it’s true.”

  “By depriving it of sleep?”

  “Sure.”

  “God, Ray, you’re going to have that cat as neurotic as you are.”

  “Well, you know.”

  The sounds of a woman crying brought me out of it. Elaine was standing against the door, her hands clutching her elbows across her belly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You hit me. In your sleep.” The voice was not fearful; it just said the words.

  “I don’t remember it.”

  “You were sleeping. You hit me with your elbow. Why did you hit me? And when I woke up you were sitting up and you had your hands out like you were choking somebody and you were making these horrible noises like an animal, you were whimpering.”

  “I had both hands out? Not one?”

  “No, both, like you were strangling somebody, like you wanted to kill him.”

  “That’s strange. In the dream I’m only using one hand.”

  “It was a dream? You had a dream?”

  “I have it a lot. The same one.”

  “You hit me in your dream?”

  “It wasn’t you. It was just somebody who was behind me. I wasn’t trying to hurt her, I just needed room to move. Somebody was trying to kill me.”

  “You were just pushing her out of the way?”

  “Yes. An old peasant woman.”

  “Oh God, Ray, I don’t know…I don’t know…”

  “Come on back to bed. I never have the dream more than once a night. Sometimes not that often. I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Do you want to sleep on the couch? Or I can.”

  “No. No. I believe you.”

  She huddled under my arm. It was almost as though nothing had happened. I tried to stay awake but couldn’t. I did not have the dream again that night. I dreamt instead of Robbie burning on the wire whe
n the flame thrower exploded on his back. Everybody was running and Robbie was burning on the wire and I had the red laterite dust in my mouth. This time the noises I was making woke me up before they did Elaine, and I slipped my arm out from under her head and rolled over on my stomach to keep them from coming back. I decided to find some sort of work to keep me tired enough not to think and not to dream.

  CHAPTER 12

  It was good enough work. It was not the best paying work but it was good enough. Probably what was important was that it felt good when the day ended. It was out-of-doors work. The hours were long and you got more exercise than you needed. In November the spray season would be over. There was no guarantee that there would be another season. There were only a few groves left that had not given way to housing.

  We turned off the truck engine and tightened the hose valves, letting the chemical drain out of the hoses. The nurse truck joined us and Perez got out. We opened our sacks for lunch.

  At the end of the irrigation ditch was a schoolyard with monkey bars and tether balls and slides and other equipment that children play on in order to build strong bodies and healthy minds. It was recess, and the screams and laughter of the children wafted over.

  “I wish I was a kid again,” Perez said. “Then I wouldn’t have to work.”

  “I’ve been working all my life,” Bob Miles said.

  I had forgotten my lunch. Bob Miles picked an orange off a tree and handed it to me. “Here,” he said. “It’s better than nothing.”

  It was a simple thing to do. A gesture. I could have done it myself.

  “Why, thanks, Bob.”

  Bob Miles was embarrassed. I wished I had taken the orange and kept silent.

  I hoped the banks of the irrigation ditches in the next grove were soft dirt. They were harder walking than the concrete-hard ground we were on now but I liked the give of the softer soil under my boots.

  A Skyraider had buzzed the town. Then it buzzed the camp. Then it buzzed the town again. Then the camp. Then the town. You could hear the pilot hooting like a rodeo cowboy. I could not remember how I knew that the pilot was laughing, but I was sure that be was. Afterward, the Air Force grounded him. But it was something to think about.