by Greg Dinallo
“He was blackmailing you because you were gay?”
Bartlett stiffens momentarily, then his expression softens with amusement. He rolls his wheelchair a short distance to a dresser in front of the window, takes his wallet from a drawer and returns. His fingers pull a snapshot from a yellowed sleeve and offer it to me. It’s a picture of a woman, three young children, and a robust man, whom I barely recognize as Bartlett. His long sideburns and clothes are right out of the seventies. They’re all smiling from behind a crack in the emulsion.
“Your family?”
“Uh-huh. I haven’t seen them in years.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed you were homosexual.”
“Hey some of my best friends are gay,” he jokes, gesturing to the corridor with an ironic laugh that turns into a loud, hacking cough as he continues. “Try as they might . . . they haven’t . . . cornered . . . the AIDS market . . . yet.” He waits until it subsides, then wipes some spittle from his chin with the sleeve of his hospital gown. His eyes lock onto mine and, with the matter-of-fact openness of someone who has spent time in chemical dependency programs, he rasps, “I’m a heroin addict.”
I nod with understanding born of firsthand observation. “Got hooked in-country.”
His eyes fall as he nods. “A person can take just so much carnage. Some guys handled it like it was nothing, just removed themselves from it. Most of us drank, fucked our brains out, and got into drugs.”
“You weren’t alone. We all did whatever it took to get through another day.”
“Trouble is, I couldn’t get off the shit after I came back,” he explains, biting his lip to control his emotions. “My marriage went to hell, lost my kids, my home, my job, started living in the streets, ended up on the business end of a dirty needle.”
An uncomfortable silence follows.
I stand and cross to the window, taking in the fresh spring air and natural beauty of the landscape that stretches to the horizon. “You spend much time out there?”
“Not lately,” he replies with a glimmer of hope.
“What do you say we go for a walk.” It’s a statement not a question. I remove my jacket and tie, toss them on the chair, and wheel him from the room.
Moments later, we are through the set of double doors at the end of the corridor and circling down a ramp that leads to a network of paths. I push him a short distance to a grove of aspen and pine that overlooks the lake. He sets the wheel lock and I settle on a boulder opposite him.
“That noncom. He threatened to blow the whistle on your habit if you didn’t cooperate?”
Bartlett’s face tightens into an angry mask and he nods. “You remember the penalty for possession?”
“Sure do,” I reply, hearing my CO’s voice drumming it into us as if it were yesterday. “Automatic court martial, huge fine, reduction in rank, a ninety-day pass to the stockade—”
“—And a better than even shot at getting a DD,” Bartlett quickly adds, using shorthand for a dishonorable discharge to complete the litany.
“Leverage.”
“Yeah, especially if you were a lifer like me. I mean, I couldn’t afford to get booted out. It would’ve cost me my pension, my VA benefits—just try getting a job with a piece of bad paper in your file. The son of a bitch had me by the balls and he knew it. He says, ‘Bartlett, that body goes.’ It goes. No questions asked.”
“What happened to it?”
“Vanished.”
That one word explains the lack of documents in the morgue file, the body-not-recovered entry on the master casualty list, and the MIA symbol on the Memorial. The body/no body mystery has finally been solved. “Did that happen often?”
“Just that once. We had strict procedures. The bodies came in by chopper, truck, sometimes plane. As in-processing NCO, I signed for them and recorded each one in a log. It sort of looked like an old-fashioned accountant’s ledger with all the columns and lines—name, rank, serial number, unit, date, whatever information I had. We used ballpoint pens. No pencils, no erasers, and no computers. Each man’s remains was given a processing number and put into the reefer, a big walk-in refrigerator. No set of remains left the building until it was officially identified, embalmed, and put in a transfer case to be shipped.”
“But not this body.”
Bartlett shakes his head no and laughs. “Hell, poor bastard never even got a processing number. See, even if the original chopper manifest said, say, ten bodies, but I only logged in nine, then later nobody would be asking, ‘We got ten bodies in and only nine out, where’s that other guy?”
“You ever find out what the problem was?”
“No, but I heard some rumors. You remember them, don’t you?”
“I remember they were right on the money more often than not.”
“Well the word was the dead guy was into some kind of drug-smuggling thing.”
I feel myself flinch. This comes out of nowhere. A hollowness is growing in my stomach. “You sure?”
“I said it was a rumor, but I distinctly recall there was some kind of investigation in the works.”
“Where? At the mortuary?”
He shrugs. “The word was he was on the lam from the DEA for transporting heroin in his bird.”
“He was a pilot?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Air America?”
“Air cav.”
“He flew dustoffs?” I ask, using military slang for medevac helicopters.
Bartlett nods, then his eyes brighten at a memory and, like a child, he starts singing, “Pepsi-Cola hits the spot, for a nickel you get a lot—”
“What’s that about?”
“Oh, a lot of the pilots who hauled bodies used to hang out in this bar on Tu Do Street. Every once in a while they’d tie one on and start singing it and laughing. Turns out the guys working the drug trade called the flights Pepsi-Cola runs.”
“That’s weird. You know why?”
“Hey, you know how it was in-country. They had code names and acronyms for everything. I mean, my favorite noncom even came up with one for the corpse.”
“The one that vanished.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, frowning as he tries to remember. “Whiskey, that’s what it was. One night we’re working on a quart of rotgut when he starts referring to the guy as Whiskey.”
“Any special reason?”
“Naw, just a nickname. Good booze though,” he says, wistfully. “Calvert Reserve, that’s all we ever drank. Probably consumed enough of it to embalm all the bodies we processed.”
“Tell me about it. I mainlined more vodka when I was in Nam than . . .” I pause as the significance dawns on me. Calvert, Calvert Reserve. Now I’m sure, beyond doubt, that the corpse Bartlett pulled from the morgue was the one with my tags and military identification but more important, I have two new pieces of information that are significant: the man was a fugitive and a medevac pilot.
I don’t need to run an analysis on my computer to deduce this means he was AWOL, was looking for a new identity, and had many wounded and dead GIs to choose from. Logic dictates he flew the chopper that evacuated me to the field hospital after I was wounded, that my dog tags and military identification weren’t lost en route as I thought but were stolen, that I wasn’t selected at random but due to physical resemblance, and most incredibly, that the name of the man who took them and died with them, the name I’ve so obsessively sought, has been in my briefcase since my meeting with Collins in St. Louis.
14
The search is over.
This sobering thought hits me during takeoff, and solidifies as we circle out of Denver in a steep climb that takes us west over snow-covered peaks.
I set out to put a man’s name on a memorial, a man I assumed had served his country honorably and was mistakenly denied the honor he’d earned, a man who turned out to be a fugitive drug smuggler. It’s a depressing end to a noble effort. Aside from proving the axiom about assumptions, I’ve nothing to show for
it except a painfully bruised arm, a cut over my eye, and the possibility of criminal charges being filed against me. The way things have been going I’ll be the first person to get AIDS from verbal intercourse.
Nancy warned me, so did Collins and Captain Sullivan, though I doubt they had anything like this in mind. I should’ve taken their advice. The questions I’ve been asking were best left unanswered, and the biggest one still is. I don’t have the man’s name in my briefcase as I thought. The evac block on the medic’s report, the one filled out by the chopper pilot, is scribbled and totally illegible. I’ve no doubt he did it on purpose to conceal his identity. Maybe it’s for the best.
The flight seems interminably long, I’m not busily evaluating the information Bartlett gave me. I’m not even entering it in my laptop. None of it matters now. I’m staring out the window into the darkness, nursing a second vodka, when the pilot informs us of thunderstorms in the Los Angeles area. It hasn’t rained in something like eight months and the news is greeted with applause.
My spirits brighten as the plane makes its final approach and touches down on the rain-swept runway. I’ve put Nancy through weeks of uncertainty and turmoil. I can’t wait to tell her it’s over, apologize, and get on with our lives. I’m really looking forward to the drive home.
I hurry down the boarding ramp into the terminal, smiling in anticipation, knowing Nancy will be standing up front on tiptoe like she always does, but, unless I somehow missed her, she’s nowhere to be seen. I step aside, scanning the area, expecting she’ll suddenly emerge from the crowd, but the minutes go by and she doesn’t. The knots of people gradually disperse and I’m soon the only one left.
I know she isn’t at the theater. She sure was pissed off this morning, maybe she changed her mind and decided to let me fend for myself. I wouldn’t blame her. Of course, three drops of rain in Los Angeles turns the freeways into a bumper-car ride. Chances are she’s sitting in a traffic jam cursing me out. Chances are, she took her car to be serviced and she’s sitting in my car. I call the cellular phone in the Mercedes.
“Thank you for calling,” the electronic voice says, “The mobile customer you are trying to reach is away from the car or beyond our service area.” I hang up, call home, and get the answering machine. “Hi, hon, it’s me,” I say after the beep. “I’m at the airport. Guess you’re on your way.”
Maybe she’s driving the Range Rover. Maybe our delayed arrival caused a last-minute gate change that wasn’t posted on the arrivals display.
“Let’s see, flight seven three one . . .” the clerk at the check-in counter says, scanning the data on his computer. “Thirty-four B. That’s its usual gate.” I have him page Nancy to be sure. I wait about ten more minutes, then take a taxi.
The rain eases as the driver heads up the coast. By the time we turn into Malibu Canyon it’s stopped. We’re snaking along the twisting two-lane roadway just a couple of miles from the house when we come to an abrupt halt. Emergency lights strobe in the darkness ahead. Vehicles are backed up in both directions. One lane appears closed. A motorcycle cop is directing an alternating flow of traffic through the other. As we inch forward, the whomp of a circling helicopter reverberates off the surrounding stone. We finally come through a sharp turn and approach a fleet of vehicles—police cars, paramedic van, wrecker, fire engine—that have responded to an accident. As we drive past, I catch a glimpse of tire marks and a broken section of guardrail. It takes almost twenty minutes to get through the bottleneck.
That sure explains it. If she’s lucky, Nancy’s probably just getting to the airport now. Maybe she gave up, turned around, and went home.
As the cab pulls up to the house, the driver starts grumbling about having to make the return trip. I add a generous tip to the flat rate. He’s still grumbling as he drives off.
“Nance?” I call out as I come through the front door. “Nance, you here?” The sound of my voice echoing off the hard, angular surfaces is the only response.
The message light on the answering machine in the kitchen is blinking: mine, the usual friends, nothing from Nancy. I call the United terminal and have her paged again, but she doesn’t respond.
Wherever she is, I’ve no doubt she’s going to be steaming when she returns. I’ll never get out of the doghouse at this rate—but I can try. I call the Galloping Gourmet, a service that picks up and delivers from restaurants in the area, and order an elegant lobster dinner for two. Then I gather linen, silver, stemware, candles and set the small table in the alcove off the dining room, the one with the romantic view of the city. I light the candles, then select a bottle of Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio—Nancy’s favorite white—from the walk-in wine fridge off the kitchen. The fact that she prefers it over the trendy California chardonnays is one of the wonderful little quirks that endear her to me. She’s the one who does the buying, who samples and tastes and remembers. I’m pulling the cork when I hear the car coming up the driveway. I quickly pour some into a glass with which I’ll greet her. I’m crossing the kitchen to the garage entrance when the front doorbell rings.
I do an about-face, and hurry down the short staircase to the entryway. Nancy probably assumes we’re going out for dinner and didn’t garage the car. I open the door, wondering why she rang the bell, and am momentarily blinded by alternating bursts of colored light that come from the roof of a police car parked behind the two uniformed officers in the doorway.
“Mr. Morgan?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I’m Sergeant Downing, this is Officer Flores. We’re with the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department. Mind if we come in?”
“Of course not,” I reply curiously.
“Are you married to a Nancy Elizabeth Morgan?”
“Yes, I am. Why? What’s going on? She okay?”
The officer ignores my questions and takes something from his pocket. “Is this your wife?”
He hands me a California driver’s license with Nancy’s picture, signature, and our home address.
“Yes, it is,” I reply, my anxiety level soaring. “Something happen to her?’
He nods solemnly. “I apologize for the suspense, Mr. Morgan. We like to make absolutely certain in these matters. I’m afraid we have some bad news. Your wife was killed in an accident this evening.”
I feel the color drain from my face, then a surge of adrenaline explodes in my gut and I feel as if I’m going to vomit. I stare at them blankly, wondering: Did I hear correctly? Is this really happening? Did he actually say killed? Nancy is dead? Now I know what’s meant by an out-of-body experience. I feel like I’ve been suddenly removed from reality, like I’m watching this taking place on a distant stage.
“It doesn’t look like any other vehicles were involved,” the officer continues. “She apparently lost control on one of those switchbacks and went through the guardrail. These roads get real slippery when they’re wet.”
“Nancy, Nancy, oh God,” I hear myself saying, the words blending into an anguished wail as panic takes hold of me. I must do something. I don’t know what. I bolt for the door. The officers are faster and stronger and easily restrain me. My legs feel as if they’re cast of lead. “You have to take me there,” I protest feebly, as they lead me to a nearby chair. “Please. I want to be with her.”
“We’ve already retrieved her body,” the other one explains. “They’re still working on the car.”
I nod numbly, disoriented.
“Is there someone you might want to have come by? I mean, a relative or friend we can call for you? Mr. Morgan?”
I shrug, and shake my head no.
He writes something on the back of a business card. “This is the location of the County Morgue. We’ll need someone to make an identification. Any time tomorrow’ll be fine. We’re very sorry.”
I close the door after them and lean my forehead against it as their car departs, then turn and sweep my eyes over the various levels of the house as if seeing them for the first time. Each piece of furnit
ure, each painting and piece of sculpture appears isolated, as if spatially disconnected from everything else. I’m incapable of organized thought. The scenario races through my mind in a frenzy: The doorbell rings. I answer it. Two policemen tell me my wife is dead. Dead? She is? How do I know? Do I just accept it? My entire life changes just like that? I’m suddenly bombarded with terrifying images of what’s to come: the morgue, the funeral, calling our parents, calling our daughters. How do I tell them their mother is dead?
I don’t recall climbing the stairs, but now I’m slumped in the lounger outside the dining room holding an empty wine glass and staring at the piano. Nancy is sitting there playing for me. My eyes drift to the little table. Nancy is sitting there too, smiling, sipping wine, her face bathed in candlelight that compliments her beauty and goodness. Nothing could convince me she isn’t coming home. I become hypnotized by the shadows dancing across the walls. I don’t know how much time passes before I think I hear a car coming up the drive. The crunch of tires on gravel gets louder. It is a car! My heart leaps. I run to the entry and throw open the door.
A young man comes toward me from a delivery van, carrying two picnic baskets. “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,” he says, a little startled. “Accident down there’s got everything tied up. Where you want these?”
I motion to the floor, then pull some cash from my pocket and stuff it in his hand.
“Gee thanks. Have a nice evening.”
The smell of lobster is nauseating. I make my way to the kitchen, fill a tumbler with vodka and drink it, eyeing the phone warily. Finally, I force myself to make the painful calls, four traumatic, tear-filled conversations. I’m an emotional wreck. There are friends I could ask to come over but I can’t handle another one of those conversations. Not now.
The sun is coming up. I haven’t slept. I haven’t left the house. I haven’t changed my clothes.
Our daughters arrive.
Janie—moody, competitive, brunette, computer nerd and math whiz, her father’s daughter, who flew in from school in Arizona.
