"Yes. Don't you?"
"There are some things you do," Brad said, "that you can't forget. Not ever."
"Maybe you can't forget them, but you can come to terms with them."
"Accept them? No. Maybe somebody else could. Not me. Maybe if you don't know any better, maybe then. But I knew better. I'd been to college. I'd read the wise men. I knew wrong from right. Maybe the others didn't—but that's an excuse I can't use."
"You want to tell me about it?"
"No."
"Why did you come, then?"
"It wouldn't do any good."
"It's not for me to judge, Brad. I'm a doctor. You can afford to ignore this uniform. I don't care what you did ten, twelve, years ago. If you fragged your CO, barbecued a village of civilians, it doesn't leave this room."
Brad looked steadily at Danvers. "You swear?"
"Absolutely. I've heard things from counselees that strain the bounds of credulity, but I've never told a living soul. Don't worry. You can't tell me anything worse than what I've already heard."
"I don't know if I can. I don't know how to start.”
“Close your eyes. Pretend I'm not even here, that you're talking to yourself."
Brad closed his eyes, let his head fall.
"Now, just remember it. Talk about it. As slow as you like. Start when you were drafted, in training, when you saw your first combat, any place that's easy to slip into."
Danvers's voice was slow, soothing, hypnotic, and Brad began to relax under its ministrations, began to let the pictures come into his head. "I . . . didn't like the Army," he began tentatively. "Hated basic. I really didn't get along too well with anybody. More my own fault than anyone else's, I guess. I was scared, so I put a chip on my shoulder, without really daring anyone to knock it off. But I got through it, got sent to 'Nam. We saw lots of action in the Ninth, but I never killed anyone that I know of. We fought Cong. I never saw a woman or kid get killed, just those little guys in their black pajamas. No . . . atrocities, not yet. But still, I hated it. I was scared of being killed, ending up on those damn pongee stakes, or stepping on a mine, or half a hundred other ways to catch it. And I was a loner. Didn't see any point in making friends with guys who might be dead the next day.
"Well, one time on stand-down our company was called together. Some loony told us that there was an opening in an interrogation team and asked for volunteers. Nobody stepped forward. Nobody. Not one in a hundred and fifty guys who knew they were gonna have to go back into the jungle in two days and play peek-a-boo with the monkeys again. And I thought, shit, interrogation, how tough can that be, and I stepped forward.
"It was like stepping off a fucking cliff, though I didn't know it at the time. I mean, I wasn't thinking. At least that's what I try and tell myself. I just wanted to get out of combat. But because I really didn't talk to my buddies, I just didn't realize.
"They asked me questions, whether I had any experience, and I just bullshit—said I thought it sounded interesting and all. I didn't think they'd take me, but they did. My squad leader probably told them I was sullen, a loner, maybe a crazy, and that's what they needed, all right.
"Christ, instead of getting out of the jungle, I just got deeper into it. Later, I could've kicked myself. In comparison, we were fighting a clean war. Your typical NCO was Audie Murphy compared to Kriger.
"That was his name, Lieutenant Kriger. He was in charge of the team. Tall guy. Barely thirty, but he'd lost a lot of his hair. Face like a hawk. The others' names I hardly remember. It doesn't matter. Kriger was all of them anyway. There were five all told, six with me. The guy I replaced had suicided, I learned later. The others adapted, but he couldn't. Maybe he was the lucky one.
"We lived in a cave. It was tunneled into a cliff face, went back for about ten feet and turned, and there was a big room there, maybe thirty feet square. The way the thing was set up, you could have light back in there and nobody by the entrance would see it, not even at night. Hell, the brush was so thick that the odds of finding the entrance at all were slim. Even the Special Forces guys who took me back had trouble remembering the way.
"The cave was perfect, though. Aesthetically right, like a modem Sawney Beane. Kriger and his men came out to meet me, and I thought right away I was in for it. They looked like animals—dirty, ragged clothes, scraggly beards, looked like they hadn't washed in months and smelled awful. All except for Kriger. He was as neat and clean as if he was expecting a visit from Westmoreland. `Don't worry,' he said first thing. 'The animals here are for show. Scares the shit right out of the Cong.' And filthy or not, they all seemed friendly enough, and their teeth smiled nice and white at me.
"I think Kriger was crazy even before he came to Vietnam. 'Nam was just . . . sort of a proving ground for his ideas, his theories. He explained them to me real fast. 'We get secrets,' he said. 'When nobody else can get the little bastards to talk, we can. We do it by being mean and being a little bit crazy. Nobody cares what we do back here.' I asked him how his squad got started, and he said it was his own idea, that he volunteered to try it on the condition that nobody messed with him, looked into his methods. And nobody had. Then he smiled at me and said, out of the clear blue sky, 'You ever eat steak tartare?' I said no, and he said that they ate their meat uncooked because they couldn't risk lighting too many fires. He asked if I thought I could handle that, and I said I thought I could. So one of the guys brought me a chunk of pinkish gray meat, raw, like they'd said. It smelled okay, pretty fresh, and I asked what it was. Beef, they said, and I cut off a small piece and put it in my mouth. I wanted to gag, but I wouldn't let myself. So I chewed and chewed and chewed and finally got it down. They all smiled at each other, and I kind of laughed and asked if they didn't ever get any k rations. 'We like this better,' Kriger said, and they all laughed. Then we went into the back chamber of the cave."
Brad stopped talking.
"Yes?" Danvers said. "Go on."
"I saw. . . I saw a body hanging upside down. There was a metal stake jammed through its ankles. It was naked, and parts of it were missing. And they all grinned and Kriger said, 'They grow good beef in this jungle.'
"I fell down and vomited, and then I just lay there, wanting to die. Kriger knelt down next to me and pushed my hair back, wiped my forehead with a handkerchief like my mother would have done. 'It's all right,' he said. 'You've done it. You're one of us now.' Then I cried. But he told me that they all had acted like that at the beginning, and each one of them nodded. But it had to be done, he said. There had to be some way to get the information from the Cong. 'You'll see,' he told me: 'It works. In a few days you'll see.'
"The next days were nightmares. They cut pieces off the body and ate them raw. I couldn't. I ate canned fruits and vegetables. They didn't try to force me to eat the meat. They seemed to know that it would take time for me to become what they were.
"The third night I was there, Kriger had a long talk with me. 'Anthropophagi,' he said, and sounded proud. He told me it was all in what society approves, nothing more. Then he talked about tribes in Australia where devouring dead relatives was thought to be the most respectful way to treat their bodies, and about tribes in Africa, South America, New Guinea, you name it, who ate the bodies of their enemies, as much for ceremonial purposes as for any food value.
" 'But we're Americans,' I said, and he just smiled at me. `So were the Hametzen,' he said, but he didn't tell me who they were. Not then. I told him I didn't know if I could do it. He said that no one would force me, but he wanted me to play the role. When I asked what that meant, he told me he wanted me to look like the rest, to pretend to be as savage as I could. 'We're brothers,' he said. 'Will you swear to be our brother?' I didn't answer right away, and he said, 'It's either us or them,' and he gestured to the jungle. So I said I'd be their brother.
"He gathered them all together then, and they each cut the heel of their hand and let a few drops of blood fall into a tin cup. I cut mine too, and then Kriger told me to drink it.
I must have looked as sick as I felt, so he said, 'It's only a few drops.' And I drank it.
"Two days later four Special Forces guys brought two Cong. One was maybe in his thirties, the other much younger, thirteen or fourteen. Their faces were set like stone, even though they were bruised and cut up pretty badly. The Berets took Kriger off to talk while the four others and I watched the Cong. I think I was more scared than the prisoners, but I tried to look as mean as the others. It was tough to do. What they did went beyond playing a role. They lived it. The Cong looked a little worried, but still sullen, secretive.
"The Special Forces left then, and Kriger spoke to us in English, told us they were father and son. Both knew a lot, but the father knew more. He went up to the father and spoke to him in Vietnamese. I couldn't tell what he said, but the Cong barked something back, and then spat on Kriger's shirt. Kriger just smiled and said, 'Take them back. You know what to do.' We dragged the two into the back chamber. The body was gone, but the spikes were still there. Kriger drew me aside. 'Just watch,' he whispered.
"I watched. There was no warning, no preparation at all. They bound the feet of both Cong, then grabbed the boy and stabbed him through the ankles with one of the stakes, right in front of the Achilles tendon. Then they lifted him up, swinging and screaming, and set the stake in the wooden framework so that he hung upside down. A long knife slit his throat, and a basin caught the blood. It all took only seconds. When I tore my eyes away, I saw the father staring at his dead son. It seemed like it took forever, but finally the basin was filled and a soldier handed it to Kriger. He drank some of the blood—there must have been two quarts of it—and then passed it to the others. They all drank, and set it down empty. Then Kriger knelt and asked the Cong something. He shook his head no. Kriger just smiled, and he nodded to one of the others. The guy took a long knife and made a bunch of slashes in the boy's chest and pulled something out. I didn't see what it was at first—just something small and dark. It wasn't until he held it out to the father that I saw it was a heart. Then he ate it.
"The father screamed then, and tried to get away, but he was tied so tight he could only thrash around. When he quieted down, Kriger talked to him again, but again the man said no. 'He's tough,' Kriger said to us in English. 'But he'll break. Five days, boys. Five days.'
"He explained it to me later. Aborigines did it, he said, and it was the worst thing he could think of. They let the boy hang where he was and put a tub beneath him. When bodies decay, they . . . well, parts liquify. And it drips down . . ." Brad stopped, his mouth hanging open as if he was incapable of making it form any more words.
"That's enough," said Danvers. "You don't have to say any more."
"But there is more."
"Not for today. Later maybe. That's enough for today."
Brad opened his eyes and looked at Danvers. "We got the information," he said. "The Cong talked."
Danvers gave him a cup of coffee and told him that what had happened to him was unique, out of the ordinary. He said it was no wonder that it had affected him the way it had. But it was something that could be dealt with, and wouldn't he please consider meeting with him once a week?
Brad made an appointment for the following week, but when the day came, he knew that he couldn't say any more than he'd already said. He stayed home. Danvers called him, but Brad told him he wasn't interested anymore and hung up. True to his word, Danvers never did anything else about it.
Maybe he should have gone back, Brad thought as the snow fell all around him. Maybe if he had, he'd be someone else now, with different dreams and memories. Maybe he'd have adapted. War. Just war. War's not real, so the things you do in war aren't real either.
Bullshit.
He got into his car and drove to Merridale. He hadn't intended to stop at the Anchor, but when he thought how good a drink would feel without the presence of Christine or Wally, he parked and went inside.
The bar at the Anchor was shaped like a racetrack, with the patrons seated all around, and the bartender and his supplies in the middle. The music was loud, people were talking, and Bry, the bartender, raised a cautiously welcoming hand as Brad entered. It felt good to be there, homelike, and Brad smiled as he shrugged off his coat and hung it up. He sat, ordered a Miller draft, and reached for the peanuts. Then he saw Jim Callendar sitting directly across the bar from him.
For a second it seemed as if he looked into a mirror. The eyes were haunted, the face pale. The effect of being followed was there, tormentingly, and for the first time he felt pity for Callendar, knowing that their sins were shared, their guilts were equal, their honor had been spat upon and dragged through sewage.
But just as he pitied Callendar, so did he hate him, out of a well of strength that only self-hatred can fill. And for the first time too he knew the truth of that.
"Mr. Wilson," he said.
Jim looked up, saw Brad, but his face remained immobile. "Mr. William Wilson," Brad clarified.
Recognition came into Jim's eyes, and his expression sharpened. " `In me,' " he quoted in response, “ ’see how clearly thou hast murdered thyself.' " He nodded. "Mr. Meyers.”
“We meet again."
"We do. Buy you a drink?"
"Thank you, no. I've got one."
"You think we're doppelgangers?"
"Why?"
"Why call me William Wilson? I know my Poe.”
“Fitting we should be." Brad sipped his beer. "Have you thought any more about what we talked of the last time?”
“Specifically?"
"Reasons. Reasons for what happened here. In town.”
“Wait. I can't hear you." Jim came around the bar, thinking, It all comes together, everything comes together, and sat next to Brad.
"Why this has all happened," Brad said.
"You mean for us? For you and me? I've thought about it. And I think you're right. Idiotically, irrationally, selfishly, it has happened for me. No, wait," he said quickly, "I mean that my . . . fate is bound up in it. " Jim's words were fuzzed. The drinking was evident. "Maybe not just for me, maybe for other people too, but goddammit, there's gotta be a reason, doesn't there?" He looked narrowly at Brad. "But why for you, eh? Why for you?"
Brad smiled grimly. "What's yours is mine. We are linked.”
“We are?"
He nodded. "In ways you could not imagine. Linked in life and death." Bry brought another beer at Brad's gesture. "What do you think about death, Jim? In light of what we have experienced in the past few months. "
Jim smiled in spite of himself. It seemed years since he had had a decent half-drunken barroom discussion over abstractions, and he warmed to the man by his side, who seemed so enigmatic and threatening, yet somehow understanding, even sympathetic. "I don't know," he said, trying to sound more sober than he really was. "I suppose I think that death is death. Final. Forever. Complete and total oblivion. And these . . . boogeymen haven't changed my mind one way or another about that. They have no consciousness, I don't believe that. But what they've done is to change something in us—maybe our awareness of death. I mean, I'm afraid of it—death—because as shitty as life is, it's all we've got, you know? I don't want to lose it. I'd do anything not to lose it."
He stopped, remembering suddenly what he had done, or had not done, and took a quick drink. "I think everybody thinks about death a lot," he went on, looking away from Brad, "but now we think about it more. We're reminded of it constantly, of our own mortality, of the fact that someday we'll be blue spooks in the parlor. It's like living in a cemetery. Only it's more—I don't know what—more spiritual maybe?"
"It's like Ash Wednesday," Brad said calmly.
"Ash—"
"When the Catholic kids would come to school with ashes smeared on their foreheads. To remind them one day a year of their own deaths, that they were mortal and would have to suffer death to be with God." He sipped lightly from his glass. "It's as if every day is Ash Wednesday."
"Do you believe in that? That there's
something after?”
“I believe more than you. It isn't final. Whatever happens, it isn't final. Death is too kind for that."
"Kind? Death kind?"
"I told you once before that there are worse things than death. And there are."
"Nothing's worse than death."
"What do you know?" Brad said sharply. "How much do you know? You go through one thing in your life that tests you and you fuck up and that makes you an expert? You gutless shit!"
“Hey, hey," Bry said from a few yards away, "take it easy now."
"Fuck off!"
"I mean it, Brad. No fights in here."
"I'm not fighting, I'm talking!"
"Well, talk softer or take it outside!"
"Who's gonna make me do that? You, Brian?"
Bry pushed a button underneath the bar, and Emeric Jerney appeared from the kitchen as if by magic. "What's the problem?" he asked.
"Brad's gettin' loud," Bry told him.
"I'm just talking, for crissake!"
Jerney squinted, his broad face becoming broader. "Why you hasslin' in here again? You been okay for a long time. Now you wanta start more trouble?"
"I'm not starting any goddamn trouble!"
"And you watch your mouth! I got diners in here.”
“Fuck your diners! And the horsemeat you serve 'em!" The Hungarian reddened. "Okay. Okay, that's it. Out. Right now. Out! Pay up and out!"
Brad threw a five-dollar bill on the bar. "You want a tip, Bry? Huh? You want a tip? Here's a tip—watch your ass. That's my tip to you, fuckface." He looked hard at Jim Callendar. "How about you? We gonna finish our conversation?" Then he turned and walked out, snatching his coat from the rack and rattling the hangers. Jim paid, and followed him.
When he got outside, Brad was standing at the bottom of the ramp that the Jerneys had installed a few years ago for the nursing home residents who banqueted there once a month. "Now, whose fault was all that, I wonder," Brad said, his left leg shaking nervously. "What do you think? No, don't bother, I know, my fault. Always my fault. Always the fault of the half-nuts Vietnam vet, right? The coiled killer on the edge of sanity?" He shook his head. "You have no idea of what it's like to be a figure out of legend. In another ten years mamas'll be scaring their children with stories of people like me. And you know the crazy thing about it? It's not a bum rap. Oh, for most maybe. But not for me." He stepped closer to Jim. "You know, don't you? You know that there are a lot of things inside me . . . but the greatest of these is rage. Because you have it inside you too."
Ash Wednesday Page 23
