And Yesterday Is Gone

by Dolores Durando

  Shifting from one foot to another, I wished that I was in China.

  Tim sat. I will admit that he looked good in those dress blues.

  Sis went into the bedroom to leave her coat.

  Ma said politely, “How do you like the marines, Tim? I s’pose you’ll be shipped out soon. Your training must be finished, isn’t it?”

  “Well, actually, I’ve been promoted to sergeant and my orders are to stay stateside, working with a gunnery crew.”

  “How nice,” Ma said. I didn’t dare look at her.

  Sis came back and gave me a desperate look.

  Ma was setting the table when she glanced at Sis. “My, Sis, you sure look pretty. Is that a new dress?”

  Silently, Sis held out her hand with the simple gold wedding band. I closed my eyes.

  Ma gasped and held her breath so long I thought she’d turn blue, then sobbed, “Oh, Sis, you didn’t…you couldn’t…please. Oh, no.”

  Sis cried like her heart would break. I knew she was crying for Ma.

  Tim stood and put his arms around Sis. I went to Ma.

  Looking right into Ma’s tearful eyes, Tim said, “Yes, we did, and we’d like your blessing. I promise you’ll never have cause to regret it. I’ve loved her since sixth grade. Please be happy for us.”

  Ma put her arms around Sis, their tear-wet cheeks touching. Somehow Tim managed to squeeze in, so I wrapped my arms around the whole package and somehow it all came together.

  • • •

  I tried to call Ma as often as possible. The last time she said, “Here’s some news for your newspaper—Sis is pregnant. No wonder her bedroom screen was off.”

  Laughing to myself, I was glad that I was out of reach.

  Ma’s birthday was coming up and Sis would be making plans for a celebration. My mouth watered as I envisioned the good home- cooking, and I could almost taste the chocolate birthday cake.

  I had talked with Juan but hadn’t seen him in over three months. The last time he had called, excited about a painting that Mamá Sara had finished, he said he was painting, too. He kept me on the phone for thirty minutes as he enthused. I could feel the grin creeping across my face—I thought he sounded as obsessed with his painting as I was with my writing.

  I was excited and happy for him, my friend.

  We’d come a long way.

  • • •

  I was still the new kid on the block, so I was flattered when the managing editor, Prentiss, sent me to interview a Vietnam vet, an old schoolmate of his.

  Veterans Day was fast approaching.

  I found the vet holding a can of Budweiser and waiting beside the door of a little rundown café on the corner of a small airfield. I showed him my press card; he transferred his beer to the other hand and we shook.

  “Just call me Al,” he said in a slow, quiet voice.

  He was shorter than me with hair that had started to gray under a greasy cap, about a two-day stubble of beard on his chin, and bloodshot eyes that looked like he’d just come off a big one and wished he hadn’t. A sweatshirt was pulled over a belly just beginning to show, and his jeans apparently had been overlooked when the laundry was done.

  “C’mon, let’s sit in the plane where we’ll have a little privacy.”

  He led the way to a small plane that seemed dwarfed between two larger, obviously newer aircrafts. As he climbed in, he said over his shoulder, “She ain’t pretty, could use some new paint and probably a good tune-up, but she’s mine.”

  I followed him in and settled myself in the passenger seat, my feet resting on a six-pack.

  “This one’s dead,” he said, tossing an empty can behind his seat. I heard it rattle with the others.

  Pushing my foot aside, he retrieved another can and popped the cap.

  “Yeah,” he continued, “I saved my pay in ’Nam. Hell, there wasn’t any place to spend it except on booze, drugs, whores…of course, those came cheap: a candy bar would do it; a pack of cigarettes would get you as much time as you wanted.

  “I had a good-sized bundle when I got stateside and spent most of it on this old girl. She was beautiful and shiny then. I spent the rest on flying lessons and went into the charter business. I can understand how Prentiss got hooked. Up there, it’s only you and God and the wild blue yonder.”

  “Are you married?” I asked.

  “No.” His face clouded. “A near-miss once.”

  “How old are you, Al?”

  “Older than God,” he replied with a sound I thought might be a laugh.

  “Tell me about Vietnam, your experiences.”

  “What do you want? The movie version or the way it really was?”

  Then he went on as if he’d never asked, tossing another empty one to the back. I moved my feet as he reached over for the next full can.

  “Prentiss, your boss, ended up a pilot. Of course, he came up through the ranks. Made corporal in about six months. I remember because it was my birthday and we got roaring drunk on some home-made hooch that damn near killed us.” Al closed his eyes and leaned back with his memories.

  “He learned his ABCs working on them big planes, but he wanted to fly. Said he didn’t like the grease under his fingernails. So after he got his sergeant’s stripes, he put in for OTS—that’s Officer Training School—and got through all the paperwork. Said that’s how he knew war was hell.

  “He had a lot of scalps on his belt when he damn near went down with the plane and took some bumps himself. Got out on a medical.

  “So now he’s in the newspaper business. Good choice—he was always full of bullshit, but a good joe. Glad he made it.

  “I’m still thirsty. Anything left down there?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry.”

  “Damn. Well, then there was Mickey McGuire, that poor son of a bitch. He got the infantry. Both legs were blown off by a land mine—lost his manhood, too. They sent him stateside to a veterans hospital where he tried to commit suicide, so now he’s in the psych ward and he ain’t no crazier than the rest of us.

  “And then, of course, there’s me. I could talk the rest of your life and wouldn’t cover even a chapter of Vietnam.”

  And so he talked, pausing only to light a cigarette from the glowing butt of another, and the cans rattled behind him every time he changed positions.

  For two hours I saw the horror of Vietnam through his eyes—the nightmare nights, the rain-sodden days, the screaming of the wounded and dying, the creeping jungle, the rotted feet in shoes that never dried.

  His whispering voice continued. “Yeah, three boys just out of high school, little boys grown tall.” He laughed. “Trained to kill and do unto them as they did unto us. Then we were shunned if we made it home. We were crippled mentally and physically and kicked around like an empty beer can.”

  I was in a cold sweat. There was a growing certainty in my mind that I had been given this assignment because no one else wanted it.

  I had to get out. It was more than I could endure, so I lied to him.

  “Al, I have to go. I’ve got another assignment. I appreciate…” For once in my life, I could not find the words.

  “Oh, wait a minute. I want to show you some pictures. There’s only three of them—just take a minute.”

  His hands shook as he dug around in his back pocket for his billfold—turned it inside out. He finally squirmed around to drag a tattered old knapsack from under the beer cans and pulled out the creased and faded photos.

  The first picture was of three laughing boys on the verge of manhood, their arms around each other’s shoulders. Their uniforms appeared immaculate—the knife-sharp crease in the trousers, their caps square on—absolute regulation.

  Even through the worn paper of the photo, I swear I could feel the vibrant life of those boys as it burned in my hand.

  “That’s your boss on the end. Bet he doesn’t have as much hair now. Haven’t seen him in a while—guess we don’t travel in the same social circle.”

  The second pictu
re was a close-up. I recognized Prentiss. He was obviously drunk—his flyboy hat on backward, a bottle held high, one arm around the shoulders of a man with a cap of sorts pulled low on his forehead, his mouth turned in a grim smile. I knew it must be Mickey. He was holding a gun as though it were a toy.

  “That’s an M16,” Al said, pointing. “Hell of a good gun. The best—if it didn’t get hot and jam just when you needed it most.”

  Around Mickey’s neck hung something on a string I couldn’t immediately identify.

  “What’s that?”

  “Ears. Eight or ten of ’em—don’t remember now. A lot of that went on then—no big deal. We didn’t send those pictures home to Mom.” He laughed.

  My stomach did a slow churn. “Al, I really have to go…”

  He put a restraining hand on my arm. “You gotta see the last one,” he said as he pushed the picture of a boy with a wide smile, his hat at a jaunty angle, his uniform without a wrinkle. A pretty girl, laughing, looked up at him, her arms around his waist.

  The picture had been torn in pieces and somehow the ragged edges fixed together.

  I pushed Al’s hand away and stumbled out.

  Arriving home, I felt so terribly tired and flung myself on the bed, cursing my editor and closing my eyes tightly, as if that would erase this hideous afternoon from my memory. For the first time, I questioned my career choice.

  There was no escaping the images that chased around my brain, so I got up and put on a pot of coffee and made a sandwich, which was promptly rejected by my stomach.

  I picked up my pen and put it all down the way it was. My story, finished just as the sun came up, was good.

  When I handed it to Prentiss, he asked with a straight face, “How did you and Al get along?”

  “Just fine, but you sure weren’t very photogenic.”

  On the way home I picked up a good steak and onions and kept it all down.

  I took a quick shower and slept all day. Sometime later—it was dark by then—the phone rang and rang. Groggy with sleep, I picked up the receiver to hear Juan’s voice leaping with delight over the wires.

  “Steve. Mamá Sara is having a big, big party—a hundred and fifty guests—next Saturday. You must come. It’s the first showing of her most recent painting.”

  “Juan,” I interrupted. “I don’t have the clothes for a fancy party—don’t even own a necktie. And I’m tired and not good company. Maybe another time…”

  But he would not be denied. “Steve, I’ve got enough clothes to open a store and we’re the same size. Come early. Rica will be here.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Mr. Mackey sat at a small table in a corner of the kitchen. His wife placed a plate of food before him.

  “Hurry up,” she urged. “I’ve got a dozen things to do—all these people coming in with the buffet and I’ll have to see that everything goes right.”

  “This must be an extra fancy party. We haven’t had one this big in years. The whole property is lit up like a Christmas tree.”

  “Yes, Miss Sara is premiering that painting she’s just finished for someone real important, I’ll guess. I heard her tell Dr. Teddy it was Juan’s introduction to the art world, too. Says he’s an undiscovered genius, that he should be teaching her.”

  “That’s pretty high praise coming from someone as well known as she is. Guess I’ve lost my helper—he was awfully good with the roses, even if he is a queer,” admitted Mackey.

  “That boy has brought Miss Sara so much happiness,” Mrs. Mackey snapped, “and it looks like Dr. Teddy has adopted the other one. He’s sure driving proud in that truck. Those boys sure have fun when he visits. It’s nice to cook for someone who really digs into meat and potatoes. Nice to have young people around.”

  Mackey looked up from his food. “I don’t see where that girl fits in with two queers. A looker like her—seems to me she could do better with one of her own kind. Or is she one, too?”

  “You know, you’re going to be out selling pencils on skid row if you don’t get off this ‘queer’ business,” his wife said disgustedly. “Can’t you understand friendship? Or have you never had a friend? I think this might be a good time for you to get out of my kitchen. Here…” She pushed a piece of cake on a plate toward him. “Take it with you. Go home. Maybe you can find a prizefight on TV. Watch a couple of macho idiots beat each other’s brains out. That you understand.”

  CHAPTER 26

  As the lavish event at the mansion drew near, I reconsidered. Reluctantly, I agreed to go, but the images of that war-torn Asian country a continent away left a residue in my mind that I could not shake. I was not in a party mood.

  As if my thoughts had reached Juan, the phone rang.

  “I thought you were going to come early,” he said in an aggrieved voice. “Hurry up—I’ve got something I’m dying to show you.”

  It was late when I crossed the bridge and traffic was heavy. It was near dark when I started up the hill. In the distance I could see the line of colored lights that danced along the lengthy driveway like a stand-up comic before the main event, pointing to the old house standing regal and tall at the top of the hill, brilliant as a diamond in the sunlight.

  Juan must have been watching for me. Almost before the ignition was turned off, he was opening my door, a billboard grin across his face. With one arm around my shoulders and the other hand carrying my bare essentials, he almost pushed me into the house. I looked back to see a uniformed valet parking my truck.

  Laughing and talking, we passed the bustling maids. Mrs. Mackey was supervising, giving orders like a four-star general.

  I glimpsed the buffet table laid out and ready for the great unveiling, and myriad other signs of preparation.

  Juan was as happy as I had ever seen him. He took the stairs to his apartment two at a time. “Come on,” he urged. “What are you waiting for?” His happiness seemed to rub off on me and my mood lifted. I was glad to be here.

  “This is for starters,” he said, handing me a cold beer, then pouring one for himself. It seemed to me that his drink disappeared before my glass was half empty. He was in a flurry of excitement. As I swallowed the last drop, he stood quickly and walked to the door, flung it open and stepped into the studio.

  He switched on one light, and then another that centered on a paint-stained easel that held the mostly finished painting of a face I had memorized in my heart and one that had visited me often in my dreams. It was Rica, and it was beautifully done.

  When I could speak, all I could come up with was, “Damn lucky for you it wasn’t a nude.

  “She poses for you?” came my half-jealous question.

  “Of course,” Juan said. Noting my expression, he added, “You know you don’t need to worry about me. I’m waiting for you.”

  He turned his face away as the impulsive words tumbled out of his mouth, and I thought to myself that we were both embarrassed.

  “What’s to eat? I’m starved.”

  “I’ll bring up some sandwiches,” Juan answered as he left the room.

  Standing there, I was not smelling the oil and turpentine, but the lingering fragrance of her hair and remembering the teasing, lying promise in her eyes.

  I was in shock, too, thinking of the Juan who had spent his formative years in a tiny remote village in the mountains of Mexico. His old grandmother, schooled in the ways of her grandmother, his only contact with the outside world. Later a local woman had taught him the rudiments of the English ABCs, but a God-given talent was crowned this night.

  When he returned, I said with honest awe in my voice, “I hope that I will someday write as well as you paint.” He blushed at my praise and his smile raced from ear to ear.

  A quick knock at the door and his Mamá Sara stepped in. Resplendent in a flowing chiffon dress, a jeweled headband holding her hair. Over her arm was an extravagantly ruffled shirt with jeweled cufflinks dangling from one sleeve.

  “Steve—I’m glad you came,” was delivered with a hug a
nd returned in kind. “I got this especially for you.” Sara beamed, holding up the shirt. “I know it will fit you.”

  “I laid out your clothes,” Juan added. “Hurry and get dressed. I’ll change in the bathroom.”

  Escaping into the bedroom with my finery, I dressed quickly and stepped out. Miss Sara adjusted the cummerbund as Juan, in an elegant tux, dodged around to straighten my tie and insert the studs, then helped me into the finest jacket I had ever worn.

  They had such fun dressing me, turning me this way and that, that it was my pleasure to accommodate them. I looked down at my black silk stockings in the patent leather shoes and knew my feet would forever sneer at cotton.

  As Juan adjusted his cufflinks, I could tell it wasn’t the first time he’d worn a tux. I thought he was the handsomest man I’d ever seen.

  As we stood together in front of the mirror, I felt like Cinderella. Miss Sara clapped her hands and said, “Such a handsome pair. You could be twins if Steve didn’t have that curly blond hair.”

  I was complimented, and while gazing into that mirror, I thought, Steve, you are a long way from the farm.

  “Hurry down,” Sara said. “I must go—the guests are starting to arrive.”

  Her footsteps were noiseless on the thickly carpeted stairs.

  A few last-minute adjustments and Juan and I followed. Walking down the wide, curving stairway into the incredible luxury of this other world overwhelmed me. The drawing room was now teeming with San Francisco’s elite.

  I spied Dr. Teddy who stood greeting guests, and marveled at her appearance. She was conspicuous in the simplicity of a satin tuxedo cut almost exactly as my own, the exceptions being the sequined lapels with a hint of ruffle at the throat and the jeweled studs I didn’t doubt were real.

  The trousers that hung from her slim hips emphasized the long line of her shapely legs. Diamonds that blazed from beneath the short, curly hair caught the brilliance of the chandeliers.

  I wandered about. A maid, in a frilly apron that would have made Ma laugh, paused beside me with a tray of something that appeared so beautiful in the long-stemmed glasses that it seemed almost criminal to drink it. But as it lingered on my tongue, my taste buds declared that crime did pay. And when she came back, I felt it was a kindness to lighten her burden at least twice more.