HER NAME WAS DR. DOREMUS. Her office was in a quiet neighborhood on the river. He’d found her through the Guard, which was enthusiastic about getting him help. She worked exclusively with former soldiers.
Right away she started him on prazosin, an anti-nightmare medicine I had some familiarity with, from two Vietnam vets I’d cared for. World War II soldiers, they march in bed like they’re still following orders. But guys from Vietnam thrash and struggle all night. I hoped the prazosin would help Michael sleep, but after three weeks I found half a bottle of pills in the trash. He said he wanted to experience the horrible dreams. The fact that he was having them meant he still had a conscience.
Dr. Doremus also prescribed bupropion, an anti-anxiety medicine. An excellent call on her part. Michael didn’t need every backfiring car or slamming door to scare him into battle mode.
But counseling came foremost, and the woman must have been good: Michael never missed a session. Any given day he might skip work, or drive to Bend for a change of scenery. He might forget my birthday, blow off social events, ignore Valentine’s Day. But on Wednesdays, Michael was responsible. Nineteen weeks and he was still punctual for Dr. Doremus.
During his sessions, I would call Robin for my own counseling. Every time she would steer the conversation to my well-being. “You take great care of your patients, you have incredible patience with Michael. But how are you taking care of yourself?”
I pictured her in her living room, with its view of Annapolis harbor. She and her husband both commuted to jobs outside D.C.
“What I guess I’m asking,” she said, “and I know this is overstepping, is how long do you think you can live this way?”
The question set me to pacing the kitchen. “Michael was gone, on and off, for three years. He deserves my support for a lot more than six rough months. Truth is, I’m not sure I could ever leave him, not in this condition.”
“I’m not saying you should go, Deb,” she sighed. “Just that you could take care of yourself too.”
But I was, I truly was. And those Wednesdays gave me hope. Michael never shared the content of his sessions with me, though of course I yearned to hear, and probe, and talk about all of it. As long as he was working on getting better, we were not standing still.
BECAUSE I HAD TAKEN THE TIME that afternoon to write Barclay Reed’s pain-management plan, I was late to pick up Michael. He couldn’t walk home from Dr. Doremus’s office; it was miles farther than his car shop.
I preferred to arrive early because I loved that part of town, wandering the park between the Marquam and Burnside Bridges. Often there was an artists’ market at the upper end. Though we rarely bought anything, it was a pleasure to stroll among the booths, surrounded by bohemians and the scent of patchouli.
I parked near the river-view hotel, hurrying around in the hope that I would catch Michael on the wharf walk. It was a bluebird afternoon and the city was out enjoying. I watched a stooped man in a long raincoat piloting a shopping cart full of cans and bottles. As he rattled past me, he touched the brim of his hat. Perhaps twenty Asians—all ages, all wearing white shirts and black pants—had spread a tidy picnic on the knoll. People strolled below, crowding the path along the river, but I could spot my husband among them two hundred yards off.
He was patrolling, head upright as always now, while he scanned every rooftop and window for the potential insurgents of Portland, Oregon. Beside him the water sparkled, but he paid it no mind. I could have been sparkling too, and he would not have noticed. What were your thoughts, lover, and how could I have helped you?
A sidewalk panhandler called to him. Michael dug out a coin and tossed it into his cup. Something about the way the man said thanks hooked him, though. Michael backed up two steps and replied. They conversed a moment, a few words apiece. But my husband did not leave.
It was not done for my benefit. Michael did not even know I was watching. After a few exchanges, the panhandler gave a longer answer, my husband nodding. When the speech was finished, Michael took out his wallet and placed a bill in the cup. The panhandler bowed his head low. Michael walked on, and for once he was not checking the rooftops.
By then the surges of love ought to have faded. There was so little coming back to me. Instead, having him home but damaged, I felt those swells in my heart more than ever. It took self-control not to run down to him.
He spotted me, and of all unexpected things, Michael smiled. It was like seeing the sun come out. I hurried down the grassy slope. By the time I reached him, though, the clouds had returned. When I reached to smooch him, I ended up kissing his neck.
“Hi, Deb,” Michael said, and he kept right on walking.
Ouch. I felt my anger flare—it happened to be hiding right behind that surge of affection. I was no doormat. In the old days, he would have immediately heard a few words about not taking me for granted. But in the old days, he would have gladly kissed my lips.
I took a second to collect my temper, then hustled up beside him. “Any interesting cars today?”
Michael kept striding, north into the park. “Nothing special.”
“Did you have to take a taxi over? Or could you time the trolleys right?”
“Taxi.”
I’d had enough. I grabbed his arm. “How about a proper hello? You seemed friendly when we first saw each other. How about acknowledging me for two seconds? I am more than your ride home, you know.”
Michael halted. “You had that look, when you ran down the hill. Now I’m waiting for you to ask. And you are doing the formalities before you ask.”
“What are you talking about? Ask what?”
“How it went with the shrink today.”
“I have said no such—”
“How am I doing. How did we process the truck incident.” He slapped his chest with every sentence. “How was the session. How is the weather. How is every fucking thing.”
“I didn’t ask any of that.”
“You were about to. Don’t deny it.”
“Well, I didn’t have anything planned, Michael. But I am allowed to want to know how you are.”
“See?” He put his hands on his hips. “Quit pretending, Deborah. The real inquisition was about twenty seconds away.”
I gritted my teeth. “I was not asking.”
“Every time I go to the shrink, you should see your face after. All eager and positive, so goddamn hopeful. Maybe he found the perfect insight this session, maybe now he’ll start being his old self again. It is so impatient and optimistic. It is so fucking selfish.”
“That’s not fair—”
“How’d it go at the shrink today, how’d it go how’d it go how’d it go.”
Two short-haired women were passing by, wearing tank tops that displayed their tattooed arms. The near one slowed. “Everybody OK here?”
“We’re fine,” Michael growled. It would not have reassured a deaf man.
“Thanks,” I said more softly. “We’re all right.”
The woman had a silver ring pierced through a nostril. “You sure, sister?”
“Really,” I told her. “Actually, this is good.”
“OK,” she said, as they rejoined hands and continued down the path. “Be kind, good people.”
I turned back to Michael. He was staring at the sky as though counting the clouds. He appeared calmer now, so I waited for him to speak first.
He sighed. “I wish I had the answer you want, you know? Like I could march out of her office and say yup, we found the missing ingredient all right. Now I’m fine, life can go back to what it was.”
“It’s not going to be that simple.”
“No.”
I took his arm with both hands. For once, he did not clench at my touch. “You are not alone in this, Michael. And I am not afraid of what you are going through. I just wish you could l
et one little window open, so that instead of watching from outside, I could be a tiny bit inside this situation with you. I wish you could let me in.”
“You want in?” Michael’s face tensed, a deep crease in his forehead. I reached up to touch it, to smooth it, and he pulled away. I still had his arm, but he spoke with his back turned. “They are the people I killed.”
“Who are?”
“The faces.” He was whispering. “The ones I draw.”
Of course. I should have thought of that.
“A sniper is not like regular soldiers, Deb. Other guys throw a grenade, and a whole building booms, someone else counts the bodies. They fire from a tank and an armored vehicle blows up, it’s dramatic, all fireworks, but a hundred yards away. A sniper, he sees every person he kills. He watches as they step out of the shadows, away from their protection and into his domain. He sees their faces. And then he blows them away.”
I put my hand on the broad of his back. “Oh, honey.”
“In training they teach you about focus, having a stable pedestal, and controlling your breath. I practiced that for years. We aim, we shoot, we do the mission. But nobody said one fucking thing about the faces.”
Michael was suffering. It was as simple and heartbreaking as that. I knew it, I had known it. But now there was a kind of simplicity. I pressed my forehead against his back, between his shoulder blades, and spoke at the ground. “So you draw them at night.”
“That’s when they come. And scare the living shit out of me. And rip at my conscience.” He sighed, leaning back against my head. “And that, Deborah, is how it went at the shrink today.”
FINALLY DURING THE NIGHT of September 8, the skies clear. Lieutenant Commander Tagami orders the mission to embark at dawn. Thus begin three forms of activity.
First, the I-25 surfaces. Ocean washes down the conning tower, the decks, and a strange steel catapult that runs backward from the bow. A half moon falls westward toward its setting. To the east, the lights of small-town Oregon glow against the last of the clouds. Sailors vie for topside tasks, to gulp lungfuls of fresh air or to glimpse the moon.
Second, the crew begins removing a metal shroud from the forward side of the conning tower. Behind that buttress stands an aircraft, disassembled.
Built for reconnaissance, the Yokosuka E14 has a wingspan of 36 feet, a length of 28 feet, a single engine with 340 horsepower, and a cabin with space for a pilot and rear-facing navigator. Nicknamed the “Geta” because the pontoons resemble a common Japanese shoe by that name, it carries only one weapon, a 7.7-mm rear-facing machine gun.
The plane’s cruising speed is just over 100 miles per hour, sluggish even by 1940s standards. However, its range is nearly 550 miles, and it can fly as high as 17,780 feet. E14s have spied on fleets and harbors all across the Pacific, including preparations for the day of infamy.
On the deck of the I-25, the plane lies disassembled. Its frame-and-fabric wings lean against the conning tower, folded up like a hanging bat. The crew hurries into action. Some sailors pull the main fuselage forward. Others hoist the wings, bolting them into place. Still others attach floating pontoons. Additional trusses run from the body to the underside of the wings, enabling the aircraft to carry more weight.
Next a crew carries out two bombs, both 14 inches in diameter and weighing 170 pounds. Each contains hundreds of cubes of incendiary jelly. Whatever they do not set aflame upon impact, they will melt. As the crew attaches the first bomb, its weight tilts the small aircraft to that side until the crew latches the opposite bomb to its mount.
The E14 has become a hazard. Unlike the diesel that powers the sub, aircraft fuel can explode, as can the bombs. Either would sink the I-25 in minutes.
The third kind of activity is considerably more contemplative and is imbued with the power of ritual. It occurs belowdecks. To begin, Ichiro Soga has breakfast. But he does not eat with the rest of the crew. A traditionalist, his breakfast is the same meal that Japanese warriors have eaten before battle for centuries: soybean soup, rice, and chestnuts. The final ingredient is a bracing shot of sake. It warms the belly, fires the blood, and dulls any pain that might occur later.
Also in keeping with tradition, Soga has snipped a lock of his hair and clipped his fingernails, stowing these artifacts of his person in a small lacquered box. Should he not survive, this box will enable him to be buried on Japanese soil.
CHAPTER 6
“I WANT YOU TO INSTRUCT that whining gnat Cheryl not to come here anymore.”
I halted in the Professor’s doorway, carrying his breakfast tray. No patient had complained to me about Cheryl before. Families loved her for the support she gave them while still caring for the patient. She also routinely volunteered for hard-to-fill shifts—New Year’s Eve, the Super Bowl night, Christmas morning—which made her a favorite among agency staff. I would no more call Cheryl off a case than I would disown my mother. “Professor, you can’t be serious.”
“How can a person with those hideous pointed glasses possess so rotund an intellect?”
I set the tray on his rolling table. “First of all, you seem better today.”
“More credit to my hardy constitution than to the actions of any of you.”
“Secondly, what are you talking about? Cheryl is a saint.”
“This.” He held up the day’s Oregonian. “I asked her for a seven-letter word that ends in D. ‘Where forbidden fruit grows.’ She had the audacity to suggest Eden.” He rattled the pages in my direction. “D at the end, not the middle. And seven letters, I said it clearly, yet she answered with ‘Eden.’ Bah. Spare me such mindless creatures.”
“Orchard?”
“Of course it is orchard, Nurse Birch.”
He prattled on while I adjusted his rolling table. “A woman like her should be kept miles away from the likes of me. A woman like her should be shot.”
“I suppose.”
He eyed me sideways. “You suppose she should be shot?”
I was distracted, arranging the plates. When I went to move the table over his lap, I discovered he was holding it. I stood back. “Something wrong?”
“I should be asking you that question, Nurse Birch.”
“What do you mean?”
“Normally if I make a comment about someone being shot, I would expect a quip about it being a relief that I don’t have a gun handy. Or an earnest lecture about not making jokes of that sort when the country is plagued by gun violence. Or a spirited defense of your colleague’s Florence Nightingale ways despite her deplorable taste in eyewear.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” I began setting out silverware, but he blocked my hand.
“Your pluck, Nurse Birch. Where has it vanished? Or do you have another misdeed you wish to confess?”
I straightened, one hand on my hip. “I have nothing to confess.”
“Unburden yourself. Your concerns display as visibly as if they were tattooed on your forehead.”
I glanced over at the bookshelf, all those titles bearing his name. When I looked back, he was watching me with complete calm.
“Would you consider yourself an expert on war?”
“Far from it. I know one region of one war. Granted, for four years it was a particularly horrific patch of Earth. On the scale of organized human violence through the centuries, however, the few million deaths under my scrutiny were a mere speck.”
“Still.”
He watched me for a moment, as if he were buying a melon not quite ripe, then made a come-hither gesture with one hand. “Out with it.”
“Why don’t men ever talk about war, Professor?”
He raised his eyebrows. “What you are asking is actually a large question, involving cultural norms of manhood and civilized behavior. Not to mention a society’s capacity to lie to itself.”
Putting his newspaper aside, the Professor counted down on his fingers. “The first lie is that they are being brave. That they have seen things mere mortal civilians could not stomach, and silence is self-control. Which is complete pap. The second lie is that they are being modest, downplaying their heroism so as not to appear boastful. Also nonsense.”
He took the fork from my hand and rolled the table up to himself. “The truth is that they are carrying an enormous burden of shame and guilt over what the war compelled them to do. Not to mention the forbidden possibility that they enjoyed doing it.”
He waved his fork like a conductor’s baton. I noticed that the Professor was visibly at ease. It was like the afternoon out on the dock; lecturing calmed him.
“If you kill a man,” he continued, “whatever the circumstances, he is on your conscience for life. Whether you used a tomahawk three centuries ago, a bayonet two centuries ago, a rifle one century ago, or a drone last Tuesday, his death was violent, premature, and by your hand. With the possible exception of the latest weapons, it’s likely that you saw him die. I imagine that will shut anyone up as tight as a submarine door.”
“OK,” I said. “But let’s say a man sincerely believed in the cause and followed orders. How does he recover from what he did? And how does his wife help him?”
“I have no answer for your last question. Wiving is not my area of expertise. As for how he recovers . . .” The Professor paused, his fork raised, fixing me with a long, penetrating stare. Merciless.
“I apologize.” I opened his napkin, offering it to him. “I am here to care for you. Not the other way around.”
Still he said nothing, only gazed off toward his desk while tucking the napkin under his chin. His face had gone blank. There was a distance to him, a remove like a plunge in cold water. I had never, in all my experience, felt more shut out by a patient. I busied myself with his chart, the blinds behind his bed.
Finally the Professor faced me, his expression pursed like a prune. “I want you to know, as a concrete fact, that I do not believe in coincidence.”
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