Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  “Tired.”

  “Things go well in Vietnam?”

  Filial piety precludes me from regaling him with the eminent Peter Carrick’s capricious antics. “Smashingly.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful.” A strange pause. “Look, Xandra, there’s something I need to talk to you about. Is this a good time?”

  “For you, Douglas, any time is.”

  “Okay then.” He lets out a tense breath. “You know how much I love your work, don’t you? And beyond that, my admiration for you personally?”

  “Yes, yes. You worship the ground on which I walk.”

  He chuckles dryly and draws a long hissing breath through his teeth. “Look, I don’t know how to tell you this. It’s the last thing I would have imagined, though I guess I should have seen—”

  “Why don’t you just come out and say it?”

  “Right. Of course.” A pause, a sigh, it’s taking every bit of patience to conceal my annoyance. “Xandra, management has been forced to make some changes due to the recession. They’ve cut over fifty percent of middle-management positions globally. The budget for our department has been impacted severely.”

  “But we’re okay, right? Our positions are secure.”

  “I’m sorry, Xandra.” Reading from a canned script: “I regret to inform you that due to corporate restructuring, effective immediately, your position has been terminated.”

  It’s unreal. Like watching myself from outside of my body. “I … I’ve been laid off?”

  “Stinks to high heaven, I know. It’s hell for me too—I had to let Greg and Martin go as well, and they’re not exactly spring chickens. They’ve got families and—”

  “Oh my—” After a yearlong sabbatical, I was so looking forward to getting my life back on track.

  “I feel like crap. We all should’ve seen this coming. That’s what happens when they turn the reins over to the freakin’ bean counters. Nothing matters but the metrics, the bottom line. Wasn’t always like this, you know.”

  “What am I going to do?” And the more ominous question, what will I tell Dad?

  “You’ll be getting a decent severance package. But you need to sign and return a form with an NDA—boilerplate, of course. Any questions, I’m here.”

  “Oh, sure. You’re there.” A wave of bitterness crashes down over me. “Good to know you’re sitting there, in your corner office, feet up on your desk, while people like me, Greg, and Marty—”

  “They’re letting me go too. A week after you guys, after I’ve cleaned up the carnage. Handed me an ax, and then a shovel to dig my own grave.”

  I swear silently. “Doug, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Should have heard what I said to my boss. Lucky for me he’s a forgiving man.”

  “Yeah. Lucky.”

  “Anyway, like I said, call me if you need anything. Really, anything at all. Carol and I are here for you.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  “Good luck, Xandra.”

  10

  RICHARD COLSON

  Mercy Hospital

  Napa Valley, California

  Was it worth it? After all the sacrifices we’ve made, is this what it all boils down to? I take a deep breath and enter the room. “Suzanne! Oh, you poor thing.”

  IV drips connected to her arms, she turns her head, winces, and opens her eyes. “There you are.”

  “I’m so sorry. The flight got delayed, ice in Chicago.”

  “It’s all right, honey. You’re here now.”

  “I wanted to call off the—”

  “No. That would have been—” She grimaces and sucks in a thin breath. “Can I have some ice?”

  I reach over to the beige plastic tumbler, place a chip between her lips, and kiss her on the head. “One to ten.”

  “Better now.” She kisses my cheek. “Before the morphine, it was a twelve.”

  It kills me that I wasn’t here for her. “You’re more important to me than any blasted speech, than this whole campaign. You know that?”

  “Come on, how much time would you have saved? An hour?”

  “That’s not the point. When it comes to priorities, I don’t flounder. But this time, I did.”

  “You made the right choice.” A weak slap on my hand. She smiles. “But you know, Rick, if you’d dropped the ball in New York on my account, I’d have to kill you.”

  “I left Karen behind at the Waldorf Astoria to field residual questions with the CIBV and the press. As soon as I stepped off the stage, I rushed to Newark and took the first flight to Sacramento. Would have been a lot quicker if I’d taken one of those CEOs’ corporate jets.”

  “And violate your own travel policy? What are you thinking, sweetie?”

  “When it comes to you, all bets are off.”

  Suzanne tries to turn on her side, but it’s too painful. Instead, she points to the control dangling from the bed. “Sit me up?”

  “How’s the pain right now?”

  “Comes and goes. I’m at a steady six or seven. Sit down, Rick. You look tense.”

  Obedient as a school boy, I pull up a padded chair and lean my elbows on the edge of her bed. “Suzie, I’d never have made it this far without you.”

  “Same here.” She gives my hand a loving squeeze.

  “But seeing you like this, I have to wonder. How am I going to take care of you if I get elected and—”

  “When you get elected. Honey, listen. I don’t know how much longer I have. Sometimes it gets so bad, I just want to give up.”

  “Don’t ever talk like that.”

  “But I go on because of you. You’re what this country needs right now. What the world needs. Don’t you see? The role you’re going to play is historic. It’s much more important than either of us individually.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t throw it all away because you’re afraid of what might happen to me.”

  These are the times—those rare times—that truly bring me to my knees. I gather up her cool, dry hands and press them to my lips. “I don’t deserve you.”

  She laughs, coughs a little, then sighs. “For better or worse … we deserve each other.” Her voice trails off and she shuts her eyes. The monitor’s continual beeping fades. Exhausted, I put my head down on the bed. I could use some rest as well.

  This lasts for all of thirty seconds.

  A knock on the door, and the doctor comes in carrying a clipboard. “Oh, excuse me, Senator.”

  “Quite all right. She’s asleep.”

  “Finally.” He extends a hand. “I’m Dr. Choi. Since your wife got here, she’s refused to sleep or increase her morphine drip regardless of the pain. She was waiting for you.”

  “Will she be all right?”

  “This kind of flare-up isn’t all that common for patients with MS. The degree of her pain concerned me, so I ran some more extensive blood tests.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  Choi lowers the clipboard and holds it behind his back. “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Doctor-patient confidentiality prevents me from sharing this with you without Mrs. Colson’s consent.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m bound by an ethical code.”

  At this, I rise to my feet. Surprised by my height, the doctor takes a step or two back. “Dr. Choi, you need to tell me what’s in that report.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Colson, I—”

  “My attorney will be happy to discuss the terms of Mrs. Colson’s health-care power of attorney. I have a legal right to know, especially since she’s incapacitated. Now, do we still have a problem, Doctor?”

  Like a cornered rabbit, Choi’s eyes grow wide, darting between the door and Suzanne.

  “Do we have a problem!”

  “N-no sir.” He stutters and hands me the report. “But I’d feel more comfortable if you discuss this with my supervisor from this point on.” Without mentioning who exactly that is, he steps out of
the room.

  But I’m already scrutinizing the report, too engrossed to notice. Struggling to decipher the cryptic medispeak, I come upon a page with the word highlighted in bold print: DIAGNOSIS …

  The clipboard falls to the floor.

  11

  XANDRA CARRICK

  Could this day get any worse?

  Best not to ask. Not even rhetorically.

  Toweling off after my second shower of the morning, I stare out over the bare tree branches in Central Park. Like mindless automatons, people walk to and fro like ant drones. But ant drones at least stop momentarily to touch antennae and communicate. Those people out there don’t even seem to notice one another, though they brush up against one another frequently.

  Did that kid who splashed me with his bike even know what he’d done? Too often people in this city pretend that others in close proximity don’t exist. It’s the only way, I suppose, to cope with being crowded next to complete strangers on the subway, the bus, or the sidewalk. We’d go insane here in Manhattan if we had any delusions of Texas-size personal space.

  About the only personal space I have is my apartment. On the kitchen table sits the Graflex, its lens winking as though it knows something I don’t. I exposed the remaining film on the pond and the ducks that waddled through the puddle with which I’d been baptized. At the very least, I’ll be able to develop the shots from Bình Sơn.

  I’ve converted one of my closets into a darkroom, something I would never have done had Dad not given me his Graflex. “Taking the shot is only half the game,” Dad always says. “The real magic happens in the darkroom.” Judging by his work, I’ve got to agree.

  Thankful for the 70mm film-back adapter and the developing tank I got for a hundred bucks on eBay, I get right to work. The chemicals’ sour smell makes my eyes water. What price, Luddism? Dad would be proud.

  It’s taking longer than I remember from photography lab at Stuyvesant High School. Back then, we were working with 35mm.

  Finally, I’ve finished exposing a couple of proof sheets. Because I enjoy the thrill of watching the images come up, I’ve always placed the exposed sheet in the tray with the emulsion side up. Let’s start with the ducks, Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Three of them in a row.

  Fading into view, the waddling apparitions look as though they’re smiling. I had to get down pretty close to the ground for that shot.

  The next print is the pond itself. What I like most about this shot is the glassy water reflecting the trees. I tilt the tray back and forth for the proper agitation—there’s a word for you—and the edges of the pond fade into view. The ripples in the developer solution almost look as if they were in the pond itself. More of the pond’s reflective surface emerges.

  And then, something completely unexpected happens.

  Blinking incredulously under the safelight’s blood-red glow, I’m tempted to flip the fluorescent light switch on to make sure I’m not just seeing things. Something appears that cannot possibly be.

  Finally, after blinking twice in disbelief, the entire image comes up clear as day. My eyes confirm what my mind cannot fathom.

  A scream threatens to bust from my lungs.

  12

  GRACE TH’AM AI LE

  University of Agriculture and Forestry

  Saigon: March 30, 1975

  It has been over two years since I learned of Huynh Tho’s death. Though I continue to grieve his loss, I have come to accept it. So much has changed. Most of the American soldiers have left Vietnam. I have completed almost all my studies and will graduate this year, if the war permits.

  Peter Carrick, who travels throughout Vietnam taking pictures of the war, has come to visit periodically, checking on my well-being, seeing if I need anything.

  In the past five days, both Huế and Da Nang have fallen to the Communist forces of the North. However, living in Saigon is like wearing a blindfold. If not for television and radio, you might not know our country is being torn apart. But now, with reports of the Communists approaching the South, I worry that Saigon might soon come under attack.

  Peter told me about the horrible things the Americans found after they repelled the National Liberation Front from Huế seven years ago. Mass graves and evidence of unspeakable atrocities perpetrated by the Vietcong. Now they have taken Huế again.

  What if the Communists come to Saigon? It is said that they target Catholics, intellectuals, and businessmen, treating them as counterrevolutionaries. Eight Americans who had been captured in Ban Me Thout were said to have been executed, perhaps by beheading.

  How could this be? How could my brother have joined hands with these people?

  I have fully recovered from my gunshot wound, but as for my heart and mind, I am not so sure. Some of my wealthier classmates have left the country with their families. Classes have been postponed indefinitely.

  I, however, have nowhere else to go.

  Whenever Peter returns, he stops by to bring me apples and oranges or whatever he finds in his travels that he thinks I might enjoy. Perhaps he feels guilty about Huynh Tho. I still wrestle with his death.

  Frightful and cruel as the Vietcong may be, Huynh Tho was killed by American soldiers. I do not know who I am most angry with. I suppose I am most angry at the war itself.

  Yesterday, Peter brought Phở Ga (noodle soup with chicken) for lunch. I was surprised when he arrived at my dormitory with most of it spilled on his clothes. “I meant for us to sit in the courtyard for a light lunch and a chat,” he said.

  I handed him a towel. “I think Chinese people eat those, and dogs too.”

  “No, that’s cat. I said chat.”

  “How is that spelled?”

  “c-h-a-t.”

  “Le chat? No, the French don’t eat those.”

  If not for his endearing smile, I would have been mortified at my confusion. I soon learned that he meant for us to have lunch and informal conversation. This came as a welcome diversion from my depressing thoughts.

  “Let’s get something from the cafeteria,” I said, helping him dispose of the unfortunate Phở Ga. “I know of a pleasant garden where few people go.”

  We arrived with our food and a blanket and settled under a Cinnamomum loureiroi, or a Saigon cinnamon tree, as it is commonly called. There, we lay on our bellies and for the entire time partook of our meal in silence.

  There was no need to speak. The rustling leaves and birdsongs were enough to help me forget that the war that had claimed so many lives—children, mothers, brothers, fathers—raged on, not far from the haven of Saigon.

  For now, I would content myself with this peace.

  “Grace, what will you do when …” Peter struggled to fashion his thoughts into words.

  “When what?” I was now lying back with my head resting on my bundled up sweater, gazing at the shapes of the clouds. “Oh, that one looks like a rabbit, don’t you think?”

  “I think it looks like Santa’s beard.”

  “Whose?”

  Taking his place next to me so he could see better, Peter said, “What will you do when—if the Communists come to Saigon?”

  The question had remained in the back of my head, like a forgotten, half-eaten apple in a dusty corner. “I have not given it much thought.” The rabbit stretched and came apart. Through its remains, a black helicopter soared westward through the sky.

  “People have been evacuating. The concerns are real. If the Communists take Saigon, God only knows.”

  “What will you do, Peter?”

  He pointed at another cloud. “What does that one look like to you?”

  “You tell me.”

  He stared intently and frowned. “A shovel.”

  “To me, it is a sword.” How odd, I never thought of such things. Small animals, trees, and flowers are what I usually saw. Not weapons. “Will you be evacuating too?”

  “I’m afraid I must.” He turned to face me, his eyes searching. “They’re urging all Americans to leave. I’ve only stayed this
long because …” He stopped and turned away.

  “Why, Peter? Why have you stayed?”

  Without explanation, he stood and walked ahead toward the shrubs. I sat up to see what he was doing. Every now and again, he opened his mouth, as if to speak, and gestured with his hands. But each time, the words seemed to fail him. Finally, he turned back and sat next to me. “I stayed because of something you told me when I told you Huynh Tho had died.”

  “I said many things.”

  “You said you were alone in the world, your family gone, your entire village destroyed. I didn’t feel right just—”

  “So it is your pity that keeps you here?”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Peter Carrick.” I stood up and began to march back to my room. “But you may keep your pity!”

  Saigon: April 9, 1975

  Since our last meeting, I have not seen Peter even once. If only I had not been so prideful. How ungrateful and unbecoming of me to treat so poorly this man who, from the day we met, only meant well.

  Where is he now? Has he gone back to America? Da Nang fell last week, and thousands of people tried to evacuate before it was too late. Some three hundred of our armed soldiers tried to force their way onto a World Airways plane that landed at the Da Nang airport. Some of the people there, desperate to flee the city, actually lay down under the plane to prevent it from taking off. As many as thirty people died, some of them crushed under the wheels as the plane took off. When it landed here in Saigon, the rebellious soldiers were placed under guard.

  That is how bad things are getting. What will I do?

  Saigon: April 11, 1975

  About nine thousand evacuees from the Da Nang coast boarded an American military chartered ship that brought them to Cam Ranh Bay toward the south.

  What will we here in Saigon do when the Communists come? That is what Peter had asked me before I turned my back and left him standing under the cinnamon tree.

  Most of the faculty have left the city, and those who remain are quite anxious. I have nowhere to go, however. The dormitory is my only home.