Moon paused again. But he knew immediately he was going to tell it all. And he did. He'd come back from the shop early because the printing order he was supposed to wrap and deliver had been canceled. It was Saturday afternoon. Early summer. Ricky had left his bike beside the house, and he decided he'd put it in the garage. That meant a detour that took him across the grass right under the window where Martin Mathias spent his days. He'd heard his parents talking, and the anger in his father's voice had stopped him. He'd never heard that tone before.
"I think, she'd been cleaning him up. After a bowel movement, probably. Doing one of those humiliating personal things. And something must have gone wrong and he was yelling at her. Or actually, I guess he was yelling at himself. He was calling her names. I remember he kept repeating `Stubborn as a damned mule.' And he said he knew Mother wouldn't put him out of his misery by killing him, easy as that would be. And he could understand that. He could understand the moral problem. But why wouldn't she give him a divorce? Would that hurt her pride? Make her feel she'd been a failure? Or put him in a nursing home. Would the neighbors think that was selfish of her? If she didn't want to have a life for herself, she should have one for Ricky and me. And then my mother said something too low for me to hear, and he said, `That's not true. Dr. Morick is in love with you. He always has been. He could give you a decent life.' And she said something like, `I'd be bored to death.' And I didn't hear any more of it."
"You went away?" Julian asked.
"I went back to the shop and got the pistol my father had kept in a cabinet there. A little twenty-two-caliber revolver. I loaded it and put it in my pocket and went home again."
"To kill your father?"
"When I had a chance. When my mother wasn't there."
Julian shifted in the pew, sighed. "The tragedy multiplies itself," he said. "Love and pity can make a terrible blend if faith is left out of it."
"Faith? Faith in what? Faith that God would mend a damaged spinal cord?"
"All right, then," Julian said. "I hope you can tell me that, without faith, this story of yours had a happy ending. You didn't kill him, did you?"
"Not me," Moon said, and laughed. "Not likely. Mother went back to the shop after dinner. It was my night to take care of Dad, so Ricky was off somewhere. I went in his room and he said something normal to me, like what was new down at the shop or something like that, and I told him I had overheard him yelling at Mother and I asked him if he really wanted to die, and he said-"
Moon stopped. He was having trouble with this. Julian sat motionless beside him, waiting. Moon cleared his throat.
"And he said he was terribly sorry I had heard that. That sometimes one just loses control and says things he regrets. And I said, But do you really want to die? Would you if you could, if no one would suffer for it, if you could just force yourself to stop breathing, for example? He didn't answer that for a while. Just studied me. And then he said, Yes, he would. It would be better for him and for Victoria and for all of us. Then I showed him the pistol. I told him I would do it for him."
Moon stopped again, remembering that moment as he had remembered it a thousand times, remembering fumbling the pistol out of his pocket, its oily smell, showing his father that it was loaded. And his father's expression. Every time he remembered it, it seemed that when the surprise had gone away it had been replaced by a kind of longing. And then by pride. That's what it looked like. But how could it have been?
"Tell me why you didn't," Julian said. "You were-what? Thirteen or fourteen? Not wise enough yet to see why you shouldn't."
"Thirteen by then," Moon said. "Well, we talked about it, the pros and cons. He said it would be better if he did it himself. Asked me to put the pistol in the hand he could move a little. He could hold it down in his lap, but he couldn't raise it up to his head. Then he said nobody would believe it anyway. How could I explain his getting the pistol? Too many people would know he couldn't have shot himself. He told me to take the pistol, and I did, and he asked if there was still that box of rat poison on the high shelf down at the plant. I told him that Mother had said it was too dangerous to have around and got rid of it.
"He said then he guessed we'd have to wait a little while, but not long. Dr. Morick had said his liver was failing fast and he wouldn't live long anyway. Victoria would not have to put up with him much longer. But if I killed him, I would be her burden for the rest of her life. Her heart would break for me."
"Indeed," Julian said, "it would have. Your father was a wise man. So you put away the pistol?"
"Mother came in while we were talking. I must have been terribly upset. I didn't hear the car."
"And she heard you?"
"I was still holding the pistol. Dad saw her standing there in the doorway. And he said, `Victoria. Malcolm overheard me yelling at you this afternoon and has offered to solve our problem for us. I think I've persuaded him it would just make a bad situation worse.'"
Moon took a huge shuddering breath.
"And she came in and took the pistol out of my hand and hugged me and started crying. We were all crying, all three of us."
"Catharsis," Julian said. "So you did have a happy ending. Sometimes love can be as effective as faith."
Moon cleared his throat again. "Ah," he said. "But that's not the ending."
"It couldn't be," Julian said. "Your story hasn't come yet to the great sin you've teased me with. Did that involve your father?"
"He died the next year," Moon said. "When I was fourteen. And my mother mourned for him."
"And so did you," Julian said.
"So `I had the example. A brave man and a brave woman and some notion of what you give up for love. So I didn't have any excuse."
"Excuse for what? Oh, for what you are about to tell me you did?"
"For what I did," Moon said. "I had killed a man. I was driving drunk and driving an army vehicle off the post without authorization. We did it a lot, but the crime is being caught at it. So I was awaiting trial. Clearly guilty. The charge was homicide committed during the conduct of a felony. Drunk driving being the felony. I was assigned a first lieutenant as defense attorney. He advised me to plead guilty, saving the court time, and plead for leniency. The most I'd get was twenty years. I was terrified."
"I can see why," Julian said. "How old were you then, early twenties?"
"I don't know why I was so frightened. Not for sure, anyway. I think maybe it was because I didn't know myself very well yet. It seemed that a military prison was not the place I should be spending so much of my life. I felt like I was going to be buried alive."
"Reasonable," Julian said.
"My mother was notified, of course, and she came to see me. I told her about the lawyer. What he had said. She said that was intolerable. I said it was also inevitable. And she said surely something could be done. I said no it couldn't be done, because we had no money for the big law firms and no political clout. I gave her the whole self-pity business. If I couldn't have freedom, have my life back, at least I could wring some sympathy from my mother. And I did."
Moon hesitated.
"I even cried," he added. "I'll never forget that. I actually cried."
"Twenty years in prison," Julian said. "I would have cried too. Who wouldn't?"
"So my mother went home, and almost right away I got a letter from her. She was marrying Dr. Morick."
"An," Julian said.
"I told you Morick was Dad's doctor. But he also had inherited real estate, and he was smart, and he'd made great investments in California land and in Florida beachfront. And was chairman of the county Democrats and a great friend of a congressman on the House Military Affairs Committee and had all sorts of connections. A lawyer showed up at the stockade, a white-haired man with an assistant carrying his briefcase. He took about fifteen pages of notes on what happened, and who questioned me, and what went on in the military hospital. And-guess what-a little later somebody at a higher level reexamines the charges, and they are reduced to
conduct unbecoming a noncommissioned officer, unauthorized use of a military vehicle, and so forth. The penalty becomes loss of rank, loss of six months' pay, and a general discharge."
That finished the story for Moon. His confession had been made. He was tired.
Julian considered it. "Someone might say that was a happy ending," he said. "But it wasn't. Not for you."
"She never liked Morick. He was Dad's doctor and that gave him an excuse to be there a lot, to keep lusting after her. And he was a stuffy, boring, self-important old bachelor more interested in his real estate projects than in practicing medicine. But she wasn't a very lucky woman, my mother. Her husband gives her a vegetable to care for, and then, when he dies, she has to marry another one to save a weakling son."
"You don't think she would have-"
Moon pounded his fist into his thigh. "Never. Never. Never!" Moon said. "She never would have married him. She did it to save her pitiful boy."
Special to the New York Times WASHINGTON, April 21-Defense Department officials concluded today that the situation in South Vietnam was deteriorating so rapidly that the United States must plan an immediate evacuation of all Americans and their dependents. The Tenth Day April 22, 1975 FOR MOON MATHIAS, THE FLIGHT from Manila to Puerto Princesa was in the aisle seat of one of those twin-engine prop-jet aircraft that short-hop commuter airlines favor. Moon had already learned to avoid such aircraft when possible. The planes were fitted out for small people and intended for short trips. So used, they were barely tolerable for someone of his dimensions. But the flight from Manila on Luzon Island down the Philippine archipelago and then across the Sulu Sea to Puerto Princesa was anything but short.
While waiting for the consulate to call and tell him he had clearance to visit George Rice, Moon had bought a map of the Philippines and a tourist guidebook. And then, on an uneasy hunch, he bought a large-scale map of Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos. He put that map in his bag, hoping never to need it. On the Philippines map, he took a scale of distances he marked off on a sheet of hotel stationery and made some calculations. A direct flight from Manila to Puerto Princesa, the capital of Palawan Island and site of its only airport, was just about four hundred miles. But, of course, there was no direct flight. The only one scheduled from Manila took one first to Iloilo, three hundred miles southeast on Panay Island. From there one flew two hundred and fifty miles southwestward across the Sulu Sea to Puerto Princesa. That made five hundred and fifty miles, broken by an hour sitting in an airport in a tiny town, which, Moon's guidebook said, "had little to offer the tourist except an open-air market where exotic tropical products may be purchased."
The guidebook made Palawan itself sound equally unpromising, unless one loved to rough it in the tropics. It called the island "one of the world's few remaining unspoiled paradises," Its economy was based on fishing "with some subsistence agriculture." Its population was described as "light, scattered, and largely Malay in ethnic origin." Looking at it on the map made Moon wonder why the cartographers and politicians had included it as part of the Philippine cluster. It lay like a line drawn from Borneo to Luzon, almost three hundred miles long, from Bugsuc on the south to the tiny settlement of Taytay on the north and only about fifteen or twenty miles wide. It looked to Moon like Bugsuc was a hell of a lot closer to Borneo than Taytay was to any dry land in the Philippines. He measured it out, and it was. Not that it mattered. What mattered was four and a half hours' flying time in a small seat designed for someone half his size.
Moon Mathias had quit fitting small seats since he started growing seriously in about the fifth grade. But he had made himself proficient at enduring. He sat, legs cramping, neck hurting, expression bland, and listened to the small Filipino who occupied the window seat.
The small Filipino wore a thin mustache that had turned gray. He said his name was Mr. Adar Docoso. He had been a platoon sergeant in the Philippine Scouts. He had fought the Japanese "until General MacArthur sailed away and abandoned us." Now he was in the scrap metal business. He was flying out to Puerto Princesa to see about buying a Panama-licensed freighter that had been more or less abandoned there because it wasn't worth fixing its worn-out diesels. He had four sons, all unusually intelligent, and one remarkably beautiful daughter. This out of the way, he wanted Moon to explain to him why the United States of America had chosen to make Hawaii the fiftieth state instead of the Philippines.
"Hawaii is just three or four little insignificant islands, and not many people, and most of them are Japanese." In describing his adventures as a Philippine Scout, Mr. Docoso had already made it clear that he considered the Japanese savages. "We cannot understand why you made those people a state and not us. You tell me so I can know that."
"I don't have the slightest idea," Moon said.
"I know lots and lots of Americans," Mr. Docoso said. "Nice people. Like you. I deal with them in my business. They bring their old worn-out ships in here, and run them ashore or set them on fire, so the insurance companies will pay them something, and then I buy the scrap metal. Good for everybody. Good people. But why did they do that to us? Why did you turn us away like dogs, and give us gangsters for our government, and then have the CIA teach the government how to torture people so we can't get rid of them? I wish somebody could tell me why that is."
"What would you think if I told you I was an agent of the CIA?" Moon asked.
That seemed to work. Mr. Docoso lapsed into silence. Moon edged a cramped foot from under the seat ahead of him and flexed it. He thought about how to deal with Mrs. van Winjgaarden, who, unfortunately, was occupying a seat three rows ahead of him.
"But I know Mr. Rice," she'd said. "Of course I should go along. I know that part of Cambodia, that part along the border just above the Mekong Delta. I've been there visiting my brother. I will know what to ask Mr. Rice."
And he had said no deal. He'd handle this alone. She couldn't go. She couldn't get into the prison even if she did go. And she had said they would probably let her in if she was with him. They would think she was his secretary, or something like that, and he had said, Maybe, if I would be stupid enough to lie to authorities of a foreign prison.
But anyway, there she was three rows up the aisle, head bent slightly forward. Asleep, apparently.
Mr. Docoso poked him with an elbow, grinning up at him. "You are joking me," he said. "You are never with the CIA."
"No?" Moon said. "Why not?"
Mr. Docoso clutched his throat. "No necktie," he said. "CIA they wear nice clothes. Clean. Pressed. Expensive suits, vests, shined shoes." He pointed to a man who Moon had thought to be a Japanese businessman in the aisle seat two rows up. "Like that one. Or the other kind of CIA, they wear sports shirts and leather jackets. Two kinds of CIA but neither kind is like you." Mr. Docoso was grinning broadly at this, shaking his head in affirmation of his wisdom.
And so Moon flew across the Sulu Sea listening to Mr. Docoso's vision of the state of the Filipino nation circa April 1975. He learned that Fernando Marcos's father hadn't been a poor Filipino as his press releases and biographers insisted but the son of a wealthy Chinese loan shark, and how Imelda had the airport at Puerto Princesa enlarged because one of her cousins was building a tourist resort on the beach up at Babuyan, and a great many other things about the presidential couple's kith and kin and their nefarious dealings.
Finally, the blue water below them converted itself into the deep green of tropic jungle.
"Puerto Princesa," said Mr. Docoso, pointing downward. And below there appeared a cluster of wharves, barnlike warehouses roofed with red tin, a docked ship that looked to Moon like some sort of navy auxiliary vessel, a very small and very dirty freighter, and a hodgepodge of anchored small craft, among them a pencil-slim two-masted sailing ship, which seemed from high above so white, so clean, so tidy that Moon thought of a swan in a yardful of dirty ducks.
The town itself reinforced that impression. One- and two-story buildings, some thatch-roofed, some bamboo, some of more or less sta
ndard concrete-block construction, clustered along narrow dirt streets. It was a very small town with trees everywhere, a small open square where a public market seemed to operate, a dilapidated church with a cross atop each of its double spires. Moon could see no sign of anything that looked formidable enough to be a government building.
"That's Puerto Princesa?" Moon asked. "It's the capital for the island?"
"It's a very long island," Docoso explained, "but it is also very thin." He demonstrated thinness with his hands. "And nobody lives here but mostly Malays."
The airport was also thin, a single runway closely bordered by palms, bamboo thickets, and assorted tropical vegetation strange to Moon. He wondered how it must have looked before Imelda ordered it enlarged.
"The hotel here at the airport is the best," Mr. Docoso said as they crowded down the exit stairway. "Very modern. Toilets and bathtubs in the rooms and every room is equipped with refrigerated air-conditioning." Docoso seemed to feel that this recitation of assets might seem incredible. He shrugged. "Imelda owns it," he explained.
Tony Hillerman - Finding Moon_v4 Page 13
