Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  “Xandra, can we please do what we came to do and leave?”

  Well, that didn’t go well. I give him an appeasing kiss on the cheek. “Of course, Daddy. I’m sorry.” He’s not angry with me, just a bit on edge. It’s all right; I’ll get it out of him one day. But not today.

  “Your mother made me promise to bring her back to her birthplace and scatter her ashes. Returning her to the soil of her home.”

  He picks up the urn, cradles it in one hand, and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. He looks at it, shakes his head, and blows out a terse breath. “Dammit, why did she have to …”

  “What is it?”

  He turns to me, his eyes softened with a look of solidarity. “I mean, she knew that I never believed.”

  “Is that what’s been bothering you?”

  “I’ve got nothing against religion.” Which was exactly what he kept yelling in one of their biggest fights. Mom wanted to take me to Sunday school when I was about seven or eight. But Dad had planned to take me to the zoo. It ended up with angry words and tears.

  “Church was never your thing, I know.” I’m hugging him sideways now, trying to get my arms up and around him.

  “Yeah, well. Some sins are unforgivable anyway,” Dad murmurs, barely audible.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” He wipes his brow. “Mom wanted me to read this, and I’m going to do it.”

  So that was it. Unresolved differences. His reaction was a bit out of proportion, but I suppose it makes sense. “Wait, Daddy. Can we just take a minute and recall a thing or two about her? Happy things. Wouldn’t that be better?”

  After a thoughtful moment, he turns to me, slips the paper back in his pocket, and wraps an arm around me. “You’re right, Xandi. You’re right.”

  We spend the next ten or fifteen minutes recalling some of our favorite stories.

  “Like the time Mom had a dream about fishing and insisted we go out to Montauk.” I wrap my arm around Dad’s. “You thought she was just being superstitious.”

  “No, I’d come to trust her intuition, especially when she had those dreams.” He blinks and wipes his eye. “It was like a sixth sense with her.”

  “How many did we catch, four?”

  “Baker’s dozen.”

  “Or the time she threw a surprise fortieth birthday party for you and you came downstairs in your boxers.”

  “Oh yeah. Surprise!”

  Our laughter is like dark chocolate. He dabs his eyes with his sleeve. “Can’t believe it’s been an entire year.”

  “I can still hear her calling us for dinner.”

  “She was an incredible woman, Xandi. Full of love and wisdom. No one ever loved so unselfishly, so unconditionally. I think it’s because for her whole life, she was …” Searching, I gaze deeply into his visage. “She was … grateful.”

  We’re facing the narrow river at the bottom of the hill now. Tied to a bamboo tree, our flatboat bobs in the current. Dad looks at me. I give him a nod. Ready.

  A rush of cool wind that causes the palms to dance embraces us. Cicadas crescendo and join in the chorale as Dad opens the lid of the urn and tilts it into the breeze. He crumples the paper from which he was going to read and lets it fly into the gust along with the ashes.

  “Dad!” How could he do that? It may not have been his belief, but it was Mom’s dying request. It was her wish.

  And then, as the ashes flow down into the trees and over the river, he smiles, with tears in his eyes, and recites the verse. I remember now. Yes. His photographic memory.

  “For all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away: But the word of the Lord endureth for ever.”

  6

  I thought I’d be filled with joy, seeing Mom’s final wishes carried out. But before I know it, tears blur my vision. Words catch in my throat.

  “Daddy …?”

  For a long time, we’re silent.

  The urn is empty, the verses recited. It’s all we can do to hold on to each other and say good-bye to the woman who gave me life, and, according to Dad, the woman who saved his, though she insisted it had been the other way around.

  This was their happy dispute that lasted for the entire thirty-three years of their marriage. Seven months after she left us, overlooking the waves of Del Mar, Dad said, “She was the only light in the darkest days of my life.”

  We don’t say a word for God knows how long. Motionless, we remain in each other’s arms until it feels right to let go. Once again, Dad is anxious to leave. But tears notwithstanding, I can’t let this moment go undocumented. As a photojournalist of his stature, he’s got to understand this. Especially with the Graflex. It’s so fitting. I can just hear Mom say, “It’s so pretty, Xandi. Take a picture of that! You’re the next Ansel Adams.” To which I’d say, “No, I’m the next Peter Carrick.”

  I reach into my backpack and pull out the camera as he walks off to stow the urn. “Give me a minute, Dad.” While he fixes the straps, I snap off about three photos of the ruins, the rock, the remains of the decades-long uninhabited village. This is, after all, Mom’s final resting place.

  At the sound of the Graflex’s shutter and film winder, he stiffens. Without turning around he says in a controlled voice, “Xandra, what are you …?”

  A dizzying dread fills me, but I continue taking photos all around the area. From my head to my feet, a tingling sensation numbs my extremities. Dad’s footsteps approach slowly as I lower the viewfinder. Instead of pleasant surprise, his countenance blanches with outrage.

  “Dad, what’s the matter?”

  His mouth is moving, but the words don’t form. He’s pointing at the camera and his expression wavers between anger, betrayal, and panic. What demons have I conjured?

  “Why did you bring that?”

  “I don’t know, I just thought—”

  “Put that away, right now!” The harshness in his voice, the anger in his eyes, and I’m that four-year-old girl who had run out into the middle of the street, only to get yanked back and scolded.

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  Rather than repeat himself, he snatches both camera and backpack out of my hands, stuffs it, zips it, and thrusts it back at me. “We’re leaving today!”

  “But what about—?”

  “Dammit, child! Why don’t you ever listen!”

  “Dad!”

  He takes me by the elbow, and we trudge down to the river. “Should never have given that camera to you!”

  7

  GRACE TH’AM AI LE

  Binh Son, Vietnam: January 7, 1973

  I must be dead.

  From the noise around me, the heat, the tormented cries in both English and Vietnamese, I wondered if perhaps I was in hell.

  “Miss, are you okay?” The voice of that American was now directly above me. I opened my eyes and, through the blur, saw the outline of a white man, the color of his clothing resembling that of a soldier. By his tone, however, he did not seem very much like one.

  I do not think he understood me, because I answered in Vietnamese. “My brother …”

  “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

  “Yes.” This time I spoke in English. He reached under my arms and lifted me with little effort.

  “Can you walk?”

  I was about to say yes, but my knees buckled and my head fell back onto his shoulder.

  “All right, then.” He lifted me into his arms and carried me. My eyes were shut, but I could feel that he was running. Breathing frantically.

  “My brother!” I tried to speak, but only the sound of air came leaking out. This man must have been quite strong to have carried me in his arms and run as far as he did. Again, I tried to tell him that I needed to go back to get my little brother.

  But this time, I lost consciousness.

  I have vague memories of the time between getting shot and waking up in a medical tent, whe
re I lay alongside injured soldiers. One of them was screaming in pain, which jolted me to consciousness.

  It took me a moment to realize where I was. Tubes went through my arm; a mask covered my face. In that brief moment, I began to panic. I wanted to let out a scream, but the very effort brought a sharp jab to my chest.

  “Whoa, take it easy there.” It was the man who carried me out of the battlefield. “We thought for sure you were a goner. But the doc says you’re going to make it. Isn’t that right, Doc?” He called this into the tent, but there was no one in sight at the moment.

  Again, I wanted to speak. This time I also attempted to sit up. The pain was twice as bad, and it must have shown on my face. My kind rescuer stood from his chair. “Don’t try to get up just yet. They’re going to airlift you to a hospital back in the city. Bullet passed clean through you. Damned near hit an artery.”

  I motioned for him to remove my mask. With strained effort, I managed a whisper. “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing, Miss. Couldn’t just leave you there.” He had a camera strapped around his neck, and it dangled precariously over my head.

  “I think you are not a soldier?”

  “No. I’m an independent photojournalist traveling with Echo Company.” He extended a hand to shake. “Name’s Peter Carrick.”

  All I could muster was the strength to extend my fingertips. “I am Th’am Ai Le.” He took them and gave a gentle squeeze.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Tham … Tha …”

  “Call me Grace, okay?”

  “That’s not Vietnamese.”

  “My father gave me an English name because of Jesuit missionaries … So thirsty.” Peter reached for a pitcher of ice water and poured a cup for me. “Thank you.”

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood. But they’ll get you all fixed up in the hospital.”

  At that very moment, I remembered the entire reason I had come back to Bình Sơn. “No, I cannot go.”

  “Why not?”

  “My brother, Huynh Tho. I must get him!”

  “Where is he?”

  “The village in the hills overlooking the water.”

  At this his countenance dimmed. His brow furrowed, and he began to speak but stopped himself. “You can’t go back there. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I must.”

  “You’re badly hurt. If you don’t—”

  “He is the only family I have left. Please, I promised my parents I would look after him.”

  Even as I spoke, two American soldiers came into the tent and gestured outside. “We’ve got a small window here. It’s now or never.”

  With urgent eyes, Peter gripped my hand. “If you don’t get to the hospital, you’ll bleed to death. Grace, please. Go with these men.”

  “But my brother—”

  “I’ll look for him.” He leaned in so close I could sense the intensity of his concern. “Now, go on.” The moment lasted no more than a few seconds, but it seemed as if time stood still. This man, this American stranger, had just risked his life to save mine. There was a familiar, yet dreamlike feeling about him. For some reason, I felt I could trust him.

  “His name is Huynh Tho.” A sudden wave of nausea overwhelmed me. The saline solution flowing through intravenous tubes into my bloodstream caused me to shiver. “He’s wearing a gold crucifix … it was my father’s. To keep him safe.”

  “All right. I’ll find him, Grace. I promise.”

  “How will I find you?”

  He looked over to the medics. “Where’re you taking her?”

  “Grall, in Saigon.”

  Then he took my hand and patted it. “I’ll see you there.”

  “With my brother?”

  “With your brother.”

  Tears filled my eyes. I thought, He must be an angel. “Thank you, Mr. Carrick.”

  A moment later, and without a proper opportunity to say good-bye, the soldiers rushed me into a helicopter and it lifted out of the fields. Explosions continued to echo through the hills like peals of thunder. Black smoke arose from beneath the trees. The villages of Bình Sơn were gone. And though in body I soared above the mountains, my spirit sank.

  Grall Hospital: Recovery 2

  Saigon: January 13, 1973

  I have made an exceptional recovery from a near-fatal gunshot wound and consider myself blessed that the Christian name Father chose for me held a prophetic meaning. For the past week, since they brought me to Grall Hospital, I have been told a hundred times what a lucky girl I am.

  I don’t feel so lucky. I cannot help but worry about Huynh Tho.

  Each day as my strength returns, I sit up in my bed and hope that Mr. Peter Carrick will come to the door with my little brother standing next to him. He will say something like, “Here is your brother, Miss.” And I will try my best not to weep. It will be a joyous reunion. And hopefully, after he has seen the ruthless horrors of war, my brother will put down his gun and pick up a pen, despite Uncle Viyh’s insistence he remain with the Vietcong.

  I must admit, a part of my heart wishes to see Peter again, if for nothing else but to properly express gratitude for saving my life. And my brother’s as well.

  Grall Hospital: Recovery 2

  Saigon: January 25, 1973

  It has been almost three weeks since I returned from Bình Sơn and still no word from Peter. Nobody seems to know how I can contact him either. This is so frustrating! I am still holding onto hope that he will return with Huynh Tho, but hope without evidence can only last for so long.

  I have even begun to pray to the God of the Jesuits, as they taught my father. Everything now, I ask in Jesus’ name. What a peculiar way to make a wish.

  Grall Hospital: Recovery 2

  Saigon: January 27, 1973

  Today it seemed my prayers were answered. After breakfast and a walk with Miss Janet, my physical therapist, one of the hospital administrators found me and said, “You have a visitor in the atrium, Grace.”

  “Who is it?”

  “His name is Peter Carrick. He says that—”

  I never heard the rest of his sentence because I rushed out of Janet’s grip and went straight to the atrium. “Please, Grace,” she called out after me, “you mustn’t run!” But I had never felt better. How could I just walk?

  When I arrived, his back was turned to me, his hands in his jacket pockets. He faced the dark corridor toward the lobby as if waiting. But my brother was not with him.

  “Peter?”

  He turned and walked toward me. With an awkward kind of smile that did not match the rest of his demeanor, he said, “Grace. How are you?”

  I bowed my head slightly. “Thanks to you, alive and well.”

  “Yes, well. You’re looking just fine. Do you have any idea how hard it was to find you?”

  “I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  “Oh, no. That’s not what I meant.” A wide smile brightened his face. “I just meant that I didn’t have a translator and my Vietnamese is so poor that—”

  “Forgive me, but did you find Huynh Tho?”

  His smile evaporated like steam from a pot of rice. His hands went back into his pockets and he let out a slow breath. “Yes. I did.”

  The words caused my heart to leap. “That’s wonderful! Thank you, Peter.” Though it was inappropriate for a woman to touch a man other than her husband, I could not contain myself. I jumped up and put my arms around him, embracing his neck. Tears of relief streamed from my eyes onto his lapels.

  But his countenance seemed incongruous. “Grace, listen …”

  I pushed away. As quickly as my hopes had arisen, they began to sink. My stomach cramped, my breath grew hesitant. “Where is Huynh Tho?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “You said you found him. Where is he?”

  “I found him, yes, but—”

  “Why are you being so unkind? Please, tell me!”

  Now holding both of my arms, as though I might run, or hit him, o
r hurt myself, Peter turned his gaze down toward me, an unspoken apology brimming from his eyes. “Grace …”

  Oh, why couldn’t he just speak without this infuriating pausing? “Please, where?”

  From the breast pocket in his jacket, he reached in and pulled something out. “Grace, I’m so sorry.” He placed it in my hand. Without even looking, because my eyes were squeezed shut, trying to hold back a deluge, I knew.

  “Oh, Huynh Tho!”

  “There just wasn’t enough time.” He wrapped his arms around me to comfort me. But I stiffened my arms and pushed him away.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  “Your brother was fighting for the Vietcong. They engaged Echo Company in a firefight.”

  “He wasn’t old enough to shave!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It cannot be! It cannot!”

  “Grace.” Again, he tried to hold me. I responded by shouting, crying out in Vietnamese and pounding his chest with my fists. Huynh Tho, my little brother, my only family, was dead.

  I kept wailing and hitting Peter’s chest, but he remained there quietly until at last I grew too weary to continue and fell into his arms, weeping.

  The hospital staff was now looking at us. In the back of my mind, the thought arose that they would think it improper for a young woman like me to be in the embrace of a man. A white man! But my entire world had collapsed; who cared what they thought!

  I wrapped my arms around Peter and pressed my hands against his back. As I did, the gold crucifix that Peter had retrieved from Huynh Tho and placed in my hand dangled by the chain from my fingers.

  8

  RICHARD COLSON

  Waldorf Astoria, New York City

  Things don’t always go as planned. That’s one of those golden nuggets my mother passed on to me early in life. Still carry it around in my pocket. I had, however, planned on victory at every turn and, as a result, emerged victorious after last night’s debate at Loyola with James Remington, much to the DNC’s chagrin.