by Shelley Katz
Finally, they did come out. Tentatively at first, twenty years of fear in their eyes. There was something about the way they slinked out that really got the men angry. It was partially because they were always so fearful themselves that other people's fear irritated them, but also it was because of the power those victim-eyes made them feel.
As Bregman watched them coming out of their houses, his expression was detached, almost laughing. Lee could tell he was betting with himself on which one was the leader. It was often hard to tell. Sometimes he was the least likely candidate: The oldest or most frightened-looking man might be the one. While they waited, the men used to make bets. It was an interesting game, and Bregman was good at it.
This time was more predictable. Tin Lo was about forty, compact, with a preoccupied but efficient face. If there had been a briefcase in his hand, he could have melted into a rush-hour crowd. Lee could see from Bregman's face that he had guessed right.
Tin and Bregman talked for a while; then Bregman came back and told the men that they were in luck, a lot of Viet Cong had been caught in the village when they attacked.
That scared Lee. Stories about My Lai were just starting to filter out, and most of the men in his group had been fighting for six months, not long enough to be waiting to go back, but long enough for the loathing to get to them. They got to hate the Vietnamese's differences after a while: the color of their skin, the shape of their eyes. Even the best of them felt it.
Bogner, who was a garbage collector, from New York, asked what they should do with them. Lee could see Bogner was thinking the same thing that he was.
Bregman smiled. "We'll let them take care of themselves."
It relieved Lee to hear that, though there was something unsettling about the way that he said it. Bregman had been in Viet Nam for two years—long enough to understand more than the others, long enough to know he'd never fully understand.
The men split up into groups, some of them keeping guard while the others slept. Bregman went back and started talking to Tin. They were a funny-looking pair, standing together in the dusty street. Bregman was a good foot taller, and probably a hundred pounds heavier than Tin, but there was a similarity which came from their outlook on life. Lee could see they too had recognized it immediately, and they treated each other as equals.
The two men spent most of the day talking. Lee never did find out what they talked about, but he would have liked to have heard them. Bregman was a good talker. He wasn't the kind of guy who threw around a lot of names, though he knew them all. Lee had the feeling that though Tin had never read a book in his life, he probably had thought out a lot of ideas on his own.
After several hours passed and nothing happened, Lee began to suspect that the villagers had had enough of violence and were going to spare their captives. The Americans hadn't seen the Viet Cong yet, but they could tell in which house they were being kept from the way people tried not to look at it. Lee figured it was because they were still scared of the Viet Cong, but Bregman's theory was they didn't want the Americans to take what belonged to them.
When it got dark and the Americans were still there, the tension in the village started to disappear. Darkness had come to be linked in their minds with change, and they were good at surviving change. This time, when it got dark the Americans were still there, and the villagers began to feel the tide had shifted.
Lee was sleeping when it started. He woke up with a jolt from the light and the noise. He figured the Viet Cong had come to free their friends, and, grabbing his gun, he ran out into the street.
The villagers had all lit torches, and were standing in two parallel lines, carrying their farming equipment, as if they were about to march out to the fields. It would have looked picturesque if it hadn't been for the noise. They were all talking at once, very excitedly, and there was a nasty sound to it.
Lee asked Bregman what the hell was going on. Bregman said he didn't know, which was probably the truth; or at least, if he knew what was happening, he didn't know how it would happen.
The house where the Viet Cong were being kept was lit up with torches, and Lee could see the shadows of the prisoners. There were six men and four women.
Then Tin came out of the house and began talking to the villagers. Lee spoke a little Vietnamese, and so did some of the other Americans; Bregman spoke more than any of them, but none of them could understand what he was saying. The more he talked, the louder his voice got, until he was almost screaming. The villagers would answer him every once in a while, and their voices too got louder and more hysterical, until one of the women broke from the group and began screaming. It sounded as though she was crying and laughing at the same time.
Then everybody began to scream. It was a mass hysteria that grew louder and stronger, feeding on itself, until Lee could feel the noise in his own body. His heart was pounding in his chest; the palms of his hands were moist with sweat.
All of a sudden, the noise stopped. Lee had never heard such silence.
Everyone turned toward the house where the prisoners were being kept and watched as the door opened. An old man stood in the doorway, blinking in the torchlight. He was at least seventy, and his meager flesh hung from his bones like overcooked chicken. His arms were thin as broom handles and smeared with blood. It was clear he had been beaten.
He must have been frightened, but he didn't show it. He had great dignity as he stood, exposed and bruised, watching the villagers. He had known them for years, had seen many of them born. They were his neighbors, his friends, his relatives, even his children. The villagers didn't move. They seemed afraid of him, though it couldn't have been for what he could do to them—it was obvious enough there was nothing he could do—but because of the power of this association.
The old man's arm had been broken so badly that the shattered bone protruded through the skin. He must have been suffering great pain. Lee could hardly imagine the tremendous strength it must have taken to hide the pain and fear.
The man walked toward the villagers and looked at each of their faces individually. He said nothing—he didn't trust his voice—but the way he walked and held his head said a great deal. The people just watched him, awed by his dignity and his power.
Tin could see he was losing control. All at once he yelled out, "Kill him!" Lee could understand that. "Kill" was one of the first words the Americans learned out there.
Nobody moved.
Again Tin commanded, "Kill him!"
Lee started to lift his gun, but Bregman stopped him. "This has nothing to do with you," he said.
The old man didn't flinch; he just kept walking, feebly but steadily, his eyes on the people. And nobody dared make a move toward him. Just as he was almost through the lines, the old man stumbled. For one moment, he looked frightened; it was only a second, but that was enough. The control was gone. One of the women screamed. It was a scream of fear, but also of brutality. Suddenly everyone was on the old man, shrieking out, slashing him with scythes and hoes. It took five minutes for the frenzy to subside, and then it was only because the lifeless form of the old man no longer could give any resistance.
When they brought out the next one, there was no question in Lee's mind what the people were about to do. He could do nothing to stop them; the whole American Army couldn't have stopped them. Lee turned away to block out the sight, but he couldn't block out the terrifying sound of their screaming.
Lee looked over at Bregman. There was a strange look on his face, a look of horror and shock but also of fascination. All of the men were watching, spellbound, like bystanders at an accident who gawk for hours as the ambulance comes and the highway patrol cleans up the shattered glass and pieces of metal. That horrified Lee even more than the villagers. He had always had the feeling that the Americans were at least different.
After a while, Tin came over and talked to Bregman. Lee was disgusted by them; even the sound of their voices made the nausea return. Bregman laughed, and Lee wanted to kill him; he wa
nted to wrench that laugh from his throat.
The woman was quite pretty, and, living as the men had lived, she looked incredibly beautiful to them. Tin brought her over to them, and Lee knew at once what was about to happen.
She was heavier than most Oriental women, though her arms and legs were slim. It was just her torso that was rounded. She kept her head down, so Lee couldn't see her face, only her thick hair and the top of her forehead.
Tin ordered her to take off her clothes. A tremor passed through her, but she remained where she was. He repeated the order, and when she still didn't move, he grabbed her dress at the neck. For a moment she looked up. Lee never forgot the expression on her face, the look of injury and violation, as Tin ripped at her dress. Tin's face showed neither anger nor lust; it was full of humor, as if he were acting a part.
Still the woman didn't move. The front of her dress was open, and the remains hung down from her arms, making the sight of her skin even more potent. She didn't try to close her dress, but allowed it to hang there, like a reproach.
She was the color of pale amber, with slight tracings of blue just under the surface. Lee couldn't look at her face; he couldn't confront that look of the prey. But he couldn't turn away from her body and her smooth, polished, slightly mottled tortoise-shell skin. It was incredibly powerful.
A thin, almost imperceptible scar ran from her belly and disappeared into her pubic hair. It was a surgical scar. There were so few doctors out there; Lee wondered how she had gotten it. The white smoothness of the scar held him. It pointed up her weakness, her vulnerability, and that, in a way, she had been violated before.
Tin made a gesture to Bregman. Lee felt there was something corrupt and servile in that gesture, like the old roue introducing the young boy into the world, and it sickened him. Bregman stepped forward and held her by the wrist. Lee could see the muscles in his arm standing out, and knew it must have hurt her; still she kept her head down and said nothing.
Bregman roughly pulled her to him and began kissing her. Lee thought it morbidly funny that Bregman, stupid intellectual that he was, didn't see the incongruity of kissing what he raped. The woman didn't fight him, or even scream out. She could have been a store mannequin. Lee had never seen anyone so passive, so yielding. Bregman forced her to the ground and stood over her. She curled up on herself, fetuslike, and looked up at Bregman. It was a more congruous position, appalling, yet painfully moving. Bregman stood over her for a full minute, and Lee could hear the sound of her breath in her throat.
Bregman opened his trousers efficiently, as if he were about to urinate. When Lee looked at his face, he was surprised to see no lust either, only mild interest, the look of the scientist.
Bregman knelt down and roughly pulled her legs apart, pinning her back to the ground. His back blocked Lee's view, but he could hear Bregman entering her, the shock of his hard body as it rammed against her soft one. He could hear the air catch in her throat. That was the only sound she made, but Bregman whimpered and whined and moaned, and Lee could hear the dull thud of Bregman's body as he thrust against her, and the liquid, slightly sticky sound of sex.
It took only a minute before Bregman cried out; it was a cry of exultation. Lee could see a tiny, convulsive twitching in his buttocks, and then he was still.
After a while, he pulled away from her. She lay where he left her, the ripped dress still hanging from her body, her flesh, wet with his sweat, gleaming under the torchlight. She looked up at the men, exposed and defenseless. Lee felt a violent nausea, and at the same time an urging.
After Bregman did himself up, he walked over to Lee and he put his hand on his shoulder. Lee couldn't look at him, but the touch of Bregman's hand, firm and manly, arrested him, and when he finally did look at him, he saw nothing terrible about his face. It was simple and open and clear. They both looked at the woman, who still lay in the dust. Then Bregman asked Lee if he wanted to go next. With a terrible loathing, he realized that he did.
Dark evening shadows were creeping under the door of the shack and spreading across the floor when Trancas called Lee to dinner. In the middle of the table was a huge kettle of stew, still bubbling and steaming from the fire. The stew was dark brown and the consistency of molasses, with large chunks of gelatinous matter floating in it. Lee recognized an occasional potato or carrot, but the main ingredient remained a mystery into which he felt it was in his best interest not to inquire too closely.
Lee hadn't seen Trancas since the night before, though he imagined he had spent the day on his collection route. Lee had stayed in the cabin working over Rye, who despite all odds continued to hang on.
Trancas watched Lee closely for several minutes, then said, "I been doin' some thinkin', and I decided you ain't one of the sheriff's men."
"Is that right?" answered Lee, trying to swallow a large chunk of meat he'd been chewing for almost a minute.
"Now I can't say I completely trust you," continued Trancas, "'cause that wouldn't be the facts as they is. But so far as I can see, you've been straight with me, and to show my gratitude, I'm gonna let you stay on. A strong boy like you could be of some help when the sheriff's men come."
"Thanks," said Lee, "but I'm afraid I can't accept."
"'Course you can. I just told ya ya can."
"It's not that I don't appreciate your offer," Lee said. "Still, I have to get back."
"To what?"
Lee laughed. Sometimes Trancas made more sense than he knew. "I got obligations," he said finally.
"What about me?" asked Trancas angrily. "I took you in, didn't I? Don't you owe me something?"
"I'm sorry," said Lee. Trancas fell silent, and there was such a downcast look on his face that Lee cast around desperately for some way to console him. Finally he said, "You got the sheriff to worry about—that ought to keep you busy."
Trancas hesitated, struggling with himself. At last he mumbled, "The sheriff ain't comin'."
"How can you be sure?"
"What's the matter with you?" screamed Trancas. "Got cotton in your ears or somethin'? I said the sheriff ain't comin'! There ain't no one comin' after me. There ain't no one at all! It was my partner who shot the man. Not me. I ain't never shot no one."
Trancas got up from the table abruptly, walked over to the home brew, and quickly drank down two ladlefuls. He didn't know why he'd told Lee. The minute the words were out of his mouth, he would have given anything to be able to stuff them back.
"It don't matter, one way or the other," said Lee, though he knew that it did.
"'Course it does!" Trancas shouted. "It don't look as if you know your ass from a hedgehog. Only reason I told ya was cause I thought you'd understand."
"I do," answered Lee.
Looking at Lee's face flickering in the candlelight, Trancas sensed that he did understand, but it only made him feel more alone. At first Lee's presence and the opportunity it gave him to talk had helped Trancas to forget his loneliness. Now that he knew Lee was leaving, and the terrible silence would return, it made his loneliness even worse and reaching out to another human was as strong an urge as breathing.
Without knowing what he was doing, Trancas walked to Lee and, with undifferentiated need, kissed him on the mouth.
Lee recoiled in horror. He pushed Trancas away from him with a violent shove. The force of the blow sent Trancas across the room. He fell backward against the table, then collapsed to the floor. He lay there for close to a minute. He didn't dare look up. He could feel Lee's eyes piercing his skin, and he couldn't confront them. With as much dignity as he could muster, he pulled himself up and brushed off his tattered suit. Keeping his eyes averted from Lee, he walked over to the bucket and took a long draught.
Lee continued to watch Trancas, but it was no longer with anger. The sight of him, with the white dust from the floor still clinging to his suit and a huge welt across his face where he'd hit the floor, was so pathetic that Lee felt only pity. But there was another feeling that Lee had, looking at Trancas,
a darker feeling. It was fear, though he couldn't understand why he felt it.
Finally Trancas got up enough courage to speak. "Sorry," he said, "I ain't had a woman long as I can remember. Can't bring myself to do it with animals." Trancas still couldn't look Lee in the eye. "If you want, I'll sleep outside."
"Forget it," said Lee.
"I don't want you feelin' sorry for me," Trancas tried to sound gruff, hoping that if he could recapture some of his former belligerence, his dignity might return, too.
"I don't feel sorry for you any more than I feel sorry for myself," answered Lee sadly, sensing the parallels between them just as Trancas had earlier and realizing that it was this which had caused the fear.
Morning light filtered through the plastic window and into the shack. Rye woke up to a burning, piercing pain spreading across his face. Slowly he opened his eyes, to discover light.
He looked around the room, bewildered, until his eyes fell on a shriveled little man sitting next to his mat, regarding him questioningly.
"Hablo espanol?" asked Trancas, as he peered at Rye over a tattered copy of Spanish Made Easy. "No?" continued Trancas. "Too bad. Ya never know when you're gonna need it." Trancas returned to his book and read out loud. "Que es el burro. El burro es une animal. El burro es une animal importante.' Well, that ain't exactly what I mean. It's not likely you'll be needin' to discuss burros, whatever they is, but still, ya never know. And if it should happen that you ever had the need to talk on them, you'd be prepared. That's all a man can hope to be, is prepared for what might happen. Keep your eyes open to possibilities. Now, take this book. I found it in the swamp not ten miles from here. Just about everythin' a man needs can be found in the swamps, if ya know where to look for it. Hell, I found you out here, didn't I?" Trancas cackled madly for a while, then put on a pair of lensless spectacles and returned to his book.
