“You can always find your way home, fellas, if someone cares enough to put a light in the window. In our case the back porch light is on, so we’ll make it,” Mac mumbled as he slogged in his wet sneakers up to the back porch.
Yody’s chocolate-dark eyes showed concern. “A hot bath,” she said sternly, “two aspirins, and a glass of juice. If you don’t care about yourself, Señor Mac, think of these two soaking-wet dogs. You at least had on a heavy jacket.” She clucked her tongue while she toweled the dogs briskly. “Go, señor, quickly, before you catch a chill. Sickness bothers me. I am no good with ther-momb-beters.”
“I’m gone,” Mac said, delighted with the concern in her voice. She was right, a hot bath and some aspirins would make him feel better. “What’s for dinner? It smells wonderful.”
“Chicken noodle soup, roast chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, peas, and a salad. Fresh dinner rolls and a peach cobbler. Go, go,” she admonished. “One hour till dinner.”
When Mac entered the den forty minutes later, he burst out laughing. Both dogs were wrapped like newborn babies in fluffy yellow towels. They woofed softly from their position by the fire. He laughed harder when he saw the two empty bowls. Yody had given them chicken soup. He also noticed his own glass of juice and three aspirins on the little table next to his chair. He swallowed them dutifully. “I think,” he said, dropping to his haunches, “we’re all going to get real used to this kind of care and attention.” The dogs woofed but made no move to get up. Yody put them here, and here they would stay. Mac swore he saw steam coming out of the yellow towels.
“Dinner, Señor Mac, is ready.”
There were flowers on the table, Mac noticed. He asked what kind they were.
“Spring flowers. Daffodils, tulips, and the purple ones are iris. I thought they would cheer you up. Spring, señor, is a beautiful time of the year. Everything comes to life at this time. It will be a beautiful life again for you. Time does not stand still for any of us. I do not wish to know,” she said, when she thought Mac was about to explain his feelings. “My cousins tell me I am in-toot-tiv. I know it is possible for one’s heart to break. I also know it is possible for one’s heart to mend. There will be a scar, but that is life. Now, eat, Señor Mac, for I have cooked all day.”
He ate. More than he should have, but he didn’t care. The coffee, when Yody served it, was so delicious Mac asked for a second cup. “What did you put in this?”
“Vanilla, Señor Mac. Sometimes it is better than a dessert.”
Mac tipped back in his chair, coffee cup to his lips, when Yody clapped her hands softly. Seconds later the dogs were in the kitchen, each dragging a towel. She set down two plates loaded with the same food Mac had eaten. They wolfed it down in minutes. “Ah, they think I am a good cook too. I am,” she said imperiously.
“How is it you aren’t married, Yody?”
“Oh, but I was, Señor Mac, four times. I buried all four husbands. I don’t wish to marry again. Funerals are too expensive.”
“Oh.” It was all Mac could think of to say. He stared at her. She wasn’t beautiful, but she wasn’t ugly either. Her best feature, Mac thought, was her huge dark eyes. Her skin was the color of molasses, and she had the whitest teeth Mac had ever seen. She also had more teeth than he’d ever seen, and he saw them a lot because Yody wore a constant smile. The only time he’d ever seen shoes on her feet was the day she’d arrived. She refused to wear an apron, saying she paid a lot of money for her skirts and blouses and she didn’t want to hide them. Her hair, he knew, was down past her buttocks, but he only knew this because she told him so. For the most part she wore it tied in a huge knot at the back of her head. He laughed, remembering the day Alice came to the door and opened it. For a large woman, Yody moved like greased lightning, and met Alice at the door, her huge arms crossed over her breast.
“No visitors,” she’d said, showing every one of her teeth.
Alice had insisted on entering. Yody insisted that she would not. Yody had finally picked Alice up and turned her around to face the walkway.
“No visitors unless Señor Mac invites you,” she repeated.
Alice had retaliated by shrieking that Yody’s trailer was a rusty eyesore and tacky to boot. Yody had slammed the door, muttering obscenities Mac had never heard before. He grinned. By God, it was time someone put Alice in her place.
A few days later his father had tried the same thing. The minute the door opened his father had said, “I’m Justice Marcus Carlin and I’d like to see my son.”
To which Yody replied, “I am Yolanda Angelique Magdalena Consuela Chavez. No visitors unless invited.” Bam, the door was shut in the judge’s face. Mac had hooted his glee in the kitchen, where he was having apple pie and coffee.
When the phone rang, it was Yody’s job to answer it. He was in to anyone but his father and Alice. When they called, which they did almost on an hourly basis, her answer was always the same. “We will call you when we wish to speak. No calls.”
He knew he was carrying the thing with his father too far. He’d settled Alice for the time being. He was going to give himself one more week before he started to make decisions. For now he needed time to himself. He’d earned it, and no one was going to take it away from him.
Tonight he was going to write letters to every organization he knew of to ask for help in finding Lily’s baby. He’d already placed two calls to Eric Savorone, Lily’s lover, but neither had been returned. A letter was called for now. He had to give careful thought to what he was going to say and how he was going to say it. He also wanted to spend some time thinking about his uncle Harry and the trust Harry had left him, along with the Charleston mansion.
While he was in Vietnam he’d written one letter to his uncle, but there had been no return letter. He hadn’t expected one, and that was okay. Now he was glad he’d taken the time. He’d written all about the Ho Chi Minh trail and the guys in his company. He’d gone into detail about the Fourth of July picnic. He’d even touched on Casey, not knowing if his crotchety uncle would approve or not. He’d done it because he needed to acknowledge Casey in some way to the outside world.
The night was long, his mind full of memories, his heart aching unbearably, as he wrote all of his letters on a typewriter that was as old as his father.
Out of the corner of his eye, as he pecked away at the keys, he could see the retrievers playing with one another, tugging and fussing with a length of clothesline Yody had tied into huge knots. Every so often in their frenzy they would catapult over one another. Their yips of happiness made Mac smile. Things were getting back to normal.
At ten-thirty he licked the last stamp. At 10:35 he carried the stack of letters out to the mailbox at the end of the drive, the dogs loping ahead of him. The rain, he noticed, had let up, but there were no stars in the sky. Tomorrow wasn’t going to be any better than today in the weather department. The thought depressed him. Sunshine, no matter where you were, was preferable to this dismal grayness.
As he loped up the cobblestone walkway, the dogs growled. The signal the phone was ringing. He raced inside, his greeting breathless.
“Hello,” he said.
“Eric Savorone, Mr. Carlin, I’m returning your call. Sorry about the late hour, but I’ve been in surgery all evening, an accident case. Do I know you?”
“No, Doctor, we never met. I’m calling about Lily Gia.”
“Lily?”
To Mac’s ears it sounded like “Lily who?” He bristled, his voice sharp when he said, “I thought you might like to know I believe she’s dead. She was caught in the Tet Offensive, but I have no concrete details. I also believe that your son is in an orphanage in Thailand.”
“Now hold on here, Mr. Carlin. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Yes, I knew Lily. It was what it was, nothing more. I don’t like this talk about ‘my son,’ so let’s knock that off right now. Wait a damn minute here. I know who you are. I read about you in the papers. It sounds to me like you’re trying to
stir up trouble for me. I can’t allow that. I have a respected position here, and as far as I’m concerned, I have no son. If Lily was pregnant—and I’m not admitting she was—it’s not my problem. I’m sorry if she’s dead. I can’t do anything about that either. I don’t want you calling me again, Mr. Carlin. Do we understand each other?”
He understood all right. Poor Lily. “Decency demands I tell you I am going to try to bring that child here to the States. Lily was a friend of mine. She was ostracized from her family, but then you know that, don’t you, Doctor?” Not waiting for a reply, Mac continued, his voice hard and brittle, “Somewhere, someplace in Vietnam, there’s a birth certificate that has your name on it. I’ll find it if it takes me the rest of my life. If you don’t want the child, that’s okay too. I called only to tell you you had a son and to give you what little information I have on Lily. The fact that you are so uninterested is your problem, not mine, Doctor. I won’t call you again, although other people might.”
“That sounds like a goddamn threat, Carlin. Listen,” Savorone hissed, “they all opened their legs, and if you were one of those puritanical do-gooders who didn’t take advantage, that’s your problem.”
“You son of a bitch!” Mac swore at the pinging receiver before he slammed it down. The retrievers stopped their play long enough to stare at him, their ears flattened against their huge velvety heads. He didn’t waste his time thinking about Eric Savorone.
Afterward, he sat in front of the fire, the dogs snoozing contentedly at his side. He was warm, the fire burning brightly with a mixture of cherry and cedar logs with a sprinkling of pinecones that gave off a heady, intoxicating aroma that vied with Yody’s pot roast. A bottle of Budweiser beer and his cigarettes were at his elbow. The television set was on, the voices muted.
Mac reached for a cigarette, his eyes on the letter next to his ashtray. It had arrived two days ago. At first he wasn’t going to open it, but his curiosity as to why Phil Pender would write him finally got the best of him. He’d read the letter so many times over the past few days, he could recite it verbatim. He read it again:
Dear Major Carlin,
Guess this letter is a bit of a surprise. I’m kind of surprised myself to be writing but the guys insisted, so read on, Major.
By the time you read this I should be stateside and selling used cars. Freeze, Stevens, and myself will be the last ones to rotate out of here. Colonel Morley left this morning amidst cheers and catcalls. I felt like crying yesterday when I saw the first batch of new guys. Your replacement is a little thick around the middle and his feet are plastered full of Band-Aids. Freeze refers to the new guys as whipper-snappers. The term makes me feel old.
I guess I should get on with it. We all took a vote, and as you can see by the attached list, everyone in your command, plus a few others we rounded up, signed it. We all know about your background and all those political people you’re buddies with, so we kind of thought you’d be the perfect guy to go to the U.S. Senate and take care of us guys. We’re gonna need someone like you on our side when this is over, someone who can wade through all the bullshit and red tape. I’ve had some feedback, so have the others, from guys who rotated home a year ago. They’re being treated like lepers. Who can these guys go to? Who’s going to understand? Not those fat cats on the Hill, that’s for sure. Freeze said he’s embarrassed to go home. Shit, Major, that’s not right.
Something has to be done about the babies our guys are leaving behind. Aspacolas did his best to try and get his girl and baby out. No luck. Miles of red tape and bureaucratic bullshit. We took a vote and decided the Senate is a good place to start.
I did what you said, I put the word out on the Bamboo Pipeline about Lily Gia’s son. So far nothing. I’ve clued in my replacement and he’s agreed to pass any info back to me in the States.
Word came down the Pipeline ten days ago that a memorial service was held for Lieutenant Adams. The word is Dr. Farrell read the eulogy, then got so drunk he busted up the makeshift Officers’ Club and then worked a twenty-two-hour shift.
The third piece of paper will tell you where Lieutenant Adams’s remains were sent. I thought you would want to know. I really did some digging and called in a lot of markers to come up with this. I was told that a Nicole Dupre, Lieutenant Adams’s friend, claimed her body. I’ve enclosed Miss Dupre’s address. I’m sorry, Major, if this opens any wounds.
I hope you’re enjoying civilian life, Major, and if you ever need a good used car, look me up. Best of Luck.
Phil Pender
Mac stuffed the letter back into the envelope. His eyes burned hotly when he stared at the long list of names scrawled on the yellowed paper. Hundreds of names, maybe as many as a thousand. Most of them he recognized, some he didn’t. Pender, he knew, would have gone to a hot LZ to get names if he thought it would help.
The dogs, sensing a change in their master’s mood, raised their heads in unison. Mac scratched behind their silky ears. “It’s okay, fellas, I just had a bad minute there. I think Pender just solved my problem. He’s right, you know. The political climate back here in regard to Vietnam stinks worse than the country itself.”
Could he run for the Senate and win? He had the background, the political connections. Did he want to do it? He’d never liked politics, especially his father’s brand. Could he do a turnaround and work at something he detested? He admitted he didn’t know. He did know that he was capable of working tirelessly, twenty-four hours a day, for something he believed in. And, by God, he believed in everything Pender said. He closed his eyes and tried to picture himself in the Senate chamber. His eyes snapped open. Hell yes, he could see himself there. The dogs woofed softly. Mac closed his eyes a second time, the vision behind his closed lids that of himself in the governor’s mansion with his father sitting at a desk behind his own. “Hell no!” he exploded.
The dogs leaped from the couch, the satiny hairs on their sleek backs on end. They pawed his legs and arms, growling deep in their throats.
“Hey, fellas, it’s okay. Everything is fine. Come on, I’ll give you some root beer. Yeah, yeah, I know all about the root beer. I saw Yody sneak it to you. She gives you root beer and you do whatever she wants. That’s how she damn well trained you. You like those bubbles in your nose. Don’t worry, I’m not going to let on I know,” Mac muttered as he splashed soda pop into two round yellow bowls.
He had a purpose now, a reason to get on with life. He knew in his gut, because he knew himself so well, that sooner or later he would have come to this very same conclusion on his own. Pender just speeded up his mental processes, jerked him out of his complacency. Thank God for Pender.
The root beer finished, the dogs inched close, their wet noses pressed tight into Mac’s thigh. He scratched their heads, grinning when they growled with pleasure. Such a little thing, a touch really, and the animals were happy. That’s what he needed, a kind word, a touch, and it would all be bearable.
He sat through the evening programming and the late news, content for the moment. When the newscaster signed off for the evening, Mac knew it was time to make some decisions.
Eleven-thirty wasn’t too late to make a phone call. Benny was a night owl, rarely going to bed before one-thirty or so. He dialed the number from memory. Benny’s voice was alert, but not the least bit enthused to hear from Mac at such a late hour. “I didn’t wake you, did I? The kids and Carol, how are they?”
“Everyone is fine. The family is sound asleep. The breadwinner is sitting here trying to figure out how he’s going to pay his bills this month and who is going to get a letter of apology instead of a check. What’s up?”
Mac had long ago given up asking Benny if he could help out. He didn’t ask now. “I want to throw something at you from left field. Think about it and call me tomorrow with your answer.”
“Hey, it’s almost tomorrow now.” Benny laughed. “Shoot.”
“You know my old man’s plans are for me to run for governor of this fine state. I don�
�t want to be governor, and I’m not sure I could even get nominated. But what I do want is to make a try for the United States Senate on the Democratic ticket. I want to help make law. I might have a chance at that. I’d like you to be my campaign manager. I know you have to talk it over with Carol, and that’s fine. The pay is good, and you won’t have to send out letters of apology every month. It’s not charity, Benny, you know me better than that. You’ll earn every cent I pay you. We can even put Carol on the payroll. She can stuff envelopes at home—they do that in campaigns, I think—if she has the time or is even interested. If I don’t make it, we’ll go to Chula Vista and open a hot dog stand. What do you think?”
“Jesus, it sounds great. It really does.” Mac smiled at the excitement in his friend’s voice. Then he laughed out loud, startling the dogs, when Benny said, “Have you given any thought to the fact that I know diddly-squat about politics?”
“Hey, we’ll be starting out even. I don’t even know how many members there are in Congress or the Senate. That’s how green I am. I’m going to learn though.”
“What’s your father going to say?” Benny demanded.
“Plenty. I plan to . . . go over his head.”
“Alice?” Benny asked hesitantly.
“Alice is very busy with her daughter. For now I’m going to let sleeping dogs lie, and the longer they sleep, the better for everyone concerned. We’ll work on that angle. For now we need some powerful people who will endorse me.”
Benny whooped with laughter. “Are you thinking the same thing I’m thinking? All those wonderful pictures on Sadie’s bulletin board? All those glossy, shiny pictures? Did Sadie tell you or did you notice that there are only two spaces left on that board?”
“You’re kidding!” Mac said in awe.
“Would I kid you about something that important? Sadie has been dithering for months now between the Attorney General and some guy named Nebermyer, a cabinet member. That’s for the number-two spot. God and Sadie are the only ones who know who gets the number-one spot. She may never fill it. There’s something about that last spot. The list for that spot, my friend, is miles long. Someday,” Benny said thoughtfully, “I want someone to tell me how that little bar and grill got to be so popular with the power elite.” Benny cleared his throat. “Okay, boss, when do you want to get started?”
For All Their Lives Page 30
