He sighs, wipes his mouth, closes the paper. And then he too stands up. So now, Anthony is standing at one side of the island, Tatiana and Alexander at another. All are stiff as boards.
“You’re about to man the walls of democracy and freedom. We hope to see a world transformed by your presence in it.”
In full white military dress, Anthony picks up his white cap off the black granite and puts it on. He is a West Point graduate, a commissioned lieutenant. In return for a first class education at the most prestigious military training academy in the United States, Anthony owes the U.S. government four more years of active service. He knows it. His mother and father know it.
And the Tonkin Gulf Resolution had been unanimously passed. U.S. troops, little by little, are filling the planes that are heading en masse for Southeast Asia.
For the last nine months, Alexander has been talking to every person he knows in Military Intelligence and in the newly formed Defense Intelligence Agency, trying to get Anthony a position that would be equal to his talents, that would satisfy his active duty requirement, and that—most importantly—would be stateside. Finally, four weeks ago, the Director of DIA said he would hire Anthony to work on his Special Staff. He would be reporting directly to the head of the department that is the primary producer of foreign military intelligence for the United States. The formal written offer had gone out to Anthony two weeks ago.
“Duty, Honor, Country—those are the words you walk with. Douglas MacArthur, the liberator of the Philippines, of Japan, the man who in one night reversed the course of the Korean War and saved South Korea, the Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers, stood before you three years ago at this very lectern and told you that all his adult life he listened for the witching melody of faint bugles, of far drums beating the long roll, but when he crossed the river, his last thought would be the Corps, and the Corps, and the Corps. Duty, Honor, Country. Let that be your first thought as well as your last.”
Anthony stands so tall, so wide, so black-haired and dark-eyed. He is his father’s son in every physical way but one: he has his mother’s mouth. Men do not need full mouths like hers to draw the bees to the nectar—but Anthony has it. He is young, idealistic, beautiful. He is heartbreaking.
Both Tatiana and Alexander lower their heads. Though the child is now nearly the size of her outsized husband, her larger-than-life Alexander, what Tatiana sees in front of her is fifteen-month-old Anthony, a chubby dark little boy, sitting in their New York apartment, eating her croissants, his pudgy little hands covered with crumbs and glistening with butter. He is smiling at her with his four milk teeth, sitting in their lonely apartment without his daddy, who is in the mud and blood of the River Vistula with his penal battalion. She wonders what Alexander sees.
Alexander says, “Ant, so what have you decided?”
Anthony looks only at his warily blinking mother. “It’s a great offer from the DIA, Dad,” he says. “I know you’re trying to help. I appreciate it. But I’m not going to take it.”
“In 1903, the Secretary of War told the West Point graduating class, of which Douglas MacArthur was first, ‘Before you leave the Army, you will be engaged in another war. Prepare your country.’ And that is what I am saying to you today.”
Taking a breath, Anthony stops looking at either of his parents. “I’m going to Vietnam.”
“Today in our ears ring the ominous words of Plato—Only the dead have seen the end of war.”
Silence drips through the white kitchen. Somewhere on the other side of the house a door slams. Two children are running, running. Tatiana can hear the thump of their creature feet.
Tatiana says nothing, Alexander says nothing, but she can feel him behind her, coiling up.
“Come on, guys,” says Anthony. “After surviving Beast Barracks cadet training and my drill sergeant, the King of Beasts, did you really think I was going to sit behind a desk at DIA?” He is so blasé, so casual. He can be. He is only twenty-one. They were twenty-one once, too.
“Anthony, don’t be ridiculous,” says Alexander. “You won’t be sitting behind a desk. It’s Military Intelligence, for God’s sake. It’s active combat support.”
“That’s just the thing, Dad—I don’t want combat support. I want combat.”
“Don’t be”—Alexander stops to keep his voice low—“Don’t be stupid, Anthony—”
“Look, it’s decided. I talked to Tom Richter. It’s done.”
“Oh, to Richter you talked about this!” No keeping voice low.
“He’s going to recommend me for the 2nd Airborne Division in Company A,” Anthony says. “One tour with them, and he might be able to get me a Special Forces spot with him for the next round.”
“The next round?” Tatiana repeats incredulously.
No one moves.
“Mom, Dad, you do know we’re at war, right?”
Tatiana sinks into a chair, puts her arms out on the kitchen table, palms down. Alexander’s arm goes on her back, on her shoulder.
“Mom, come on,” says Anthony.
“Too fucking late to comfort your mother now,” says Alexander. “Why the theater, Ant? Why not just tell us at graduation, at Four Seasons? Obviously Richter already knew—why not tell us, too?” Alexander’s voice is distraught, but he places his steady hands on Tatiana. She knows she needs to get up to calm him down, but she can’t calm herself down. She needs his hands.
“Anthony, please,” Tatiana whispers. “You don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”
He is so tall with his brown sparkling eyes, with his thick black hair. So full of impossible youth. “I’m not proving anything to anybody,” he says. “This is about me.”
Tatiana and Alexander stare blackly at their son, and he, unable to take their dual agonized gaze, looks away.
“I graduated from West Point,” Anthony says. “Eisenhower, Grant, Stonewall Jackson, Patton—MacArthur, for God’s sake! I graduated from the school that makes warriors. What do you want me to do? What did you think I was going to a military academy for?”
“To get a first-rate education,” Alexander returns to Anthony’s rhetorical question. “Military intel for strategy and planning, for weapons acquisition in Southeast Asia. You speak fluent Russian. Bilingual backing for Soviet documents outlining the extent of their massive support for the NVA, for Pathet Lao. You’d be working for the director of Command Central for all U.S. military intelligence. It’s an incredible opportunity.”
“They already have you for that,” rejoins Anthony. “Take the spot since one is available. I’m not going to sit and analyze data.”
“You are fucking unbelievable, you know that.”
“Shh!” Tatiana says. And Alexander’s hands come off her shoulders.
“I’m not going to argue with you again,” Anthony says to Alexander. “I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to spend the next two months in this house fighting with you. I’ll leave right now and go back to New York if that’s what my life is going to be like around here.”
“Anthony!” Tatiana yells.
“So go!” yells Alexander. “Get the fuck out of here! Who’s keeping you?”
“Alexander!” Tatiana yells. “Both of you, please!” They’re panting, she’s panting. “This is insane,” she says. “Ant, you have a great opportunity to stay in the U.S. Why won’t you take it?”
“Because I don’t want it!”
“How can you say that when you know how hard your father worked to help you?”
“Did I ask him to help me? Who asked for his help?”
“That’s exactly right,” says Alexander. “That’s exactly fucking right. So go, Ant, what are you waiting for? A ride?”
“Alexander, no!” yells Tatiana, whirling to him.
“Tania, stay out of it!”
Anthony lowers his head.
Suddenly Tatiana is facing Alexander’s tormented eyes, and she realizes, falling mute, this is how many of these arguments have been going the
last seven years. She cajoles one man, then the other, she gets between them, she tries to make it better, they stand their ground, one argues thick-headed, the other argues thick-headed, Anthony raises his voice, Alexander loses his temper, and suddenly it’s Tatiana whirling on her husband, asking him to have reason, and suddenly what was between father and son is between husband and wife. Since Anthony was fourteen this has been so.
Alexander is right. Contrite in her face and body, she puts her palms on his forearms. Sorry, she mouths but stands her ground. Because this one is different. This isn’t just between father and son. This is for the life of her family. This is the Sonoran Desert artillery fire.
Before another harsh word is spoken, two white-blond boys roll like shrieking tumbleweeds into the kitchen. Gordon Pasha is six, Harry is five. Joyously slapping Anthony, they run past him to their father; one hangs on one arm, one on the other. Tatiana steps away as Alexander jacks them up into the air and holds them both. Alexander wore Pasha for the first sixteen months of the boy’s life, first on his chest, then on his back. And then he wore Harry. He barely surrendered them to their mother for nursings. They may be blond like her, but they stride and swagger like their dad, they talk like him, they hold their plastic hammers and drive their plastic trucks like him, they wear their hair short, they bang the table, and sometimes, when they need to get their mother’s attention, they say, “TaTIA-na!” in their father’s tone. They roll and play over him fearlessly, they worship him unconditionally and without any baggage.
“Antman,” says Harry, “why are you wearing your ice cream man clothes again?”
“Going to an air force base in a little while, bud.”
“Can I come?”
“Can I come?”
Not replying to his brothers, Anthony says to Alexander, pointing to the older boy, “When you name my brother Charles Gordon, what do you think he is going to grow up to be?”
And Pasha replies, “A doctor, Ant. So I can heal people like Mommy. And my name is Pasha.”
And Harry says, his arm around Alexander’s neck, “And I’m gonna make weapons like Daddy, Ant. You should see the spear I caught a lizard with.”
Tatiana nearly cries, seeing Anthony chasing lizards on their empty land when he was four.
“You fool,” says Pasha, reaching across Alexander and pulling his brother’s hair. “You absolute fool. Daddy doesn’t make weapons. Except wood spears, but they don’t count.”
“Mommy, I’m hungry,” wails Harry.
“Me, too, Mommy,” says Pasha.
From a distant place in the house, they hear the demanding squeal of a small girl.
“You know what, Ant?” Alexander says loudly. “This is not about Pasha, or even about you and me. This is just about you.”
“You got that right,” Anthony says loudly.
Pasha and Harry stare with surprise at their father, at their brother, and then at their mother, who mouths to them, Get down and get on out of here. Now.
A grim Alexander, still holding his sons, says, trying to soften his voice, “Guys, hear Jane yell? Hear Jane call? Go see your sister, will you. I’m right behind you. We’ll get her ready, and then Mommy will feed us.”
They leap down, their palms knocking into Anthony on their way out.
“Ant,” says Harry, “come swimming with us. I want to show you my forward pike.”
“Later, bud. And I’ll show you my reverse pike.” His hand goes over Harry’s head.
“Ant,” says Pasha, “you promised you would play ‘Do Wah Diddy.’”
“Absolutely. When I come back from Luke.”
They roll out of the kitchen and bound down the gallery, singing Do Wah Diddy ....
“You think you’re so smart doing what you want?” Alexander says to Anthony as soon as they’ve gone. Tatiana wants to touch him but can’t. “You didn’t talk to us before you took the spot at West Point, you know how upset your mother was—”
“I thought you would try to talk me out of it,” Anthony retorts, “and I was right, wasn’t I? Look at you now.”
“And now you don’t talk to us before you volunteer for combat? For fuck’s sake, Anthony! You think it’s just you doing the opposite of what I want, of what your mother wants? You’re not fifteen any more, coming home too late. This isn’t you trying to mouth off to me. This is about the irreversible path of your life.” Alexander takes a deep breath. “Why don’t you think of yourself first for once, instead of thinking first of upsetting me?”
“Oh God, this isn’t about you!” Anthony yells.
Tatiana bites her lip and closes her eyes because next—
“Don’t raise your fucking voice to me in my house,” says Alexander, stepping forward.
Anthony steps back. Not another word comes out of him.
“Why tell us at all?” asks Alexander. “Why not just send a letter from Kontum? Guess where I am, folks. That’s what you’re doing now anyway. Why even come here?” Alexander flings his arm out. “Go— train at Yuma. Your mother promises she’ll send you a care package. She’ll send you one to Yuma, she’ll send you one to Saigon.” He turns, taking Tatiana by the arm. “Let’s go.”
Glaring at Anthony and trying to peel Alexander’s fingers off her, Tatiana says, “I’ll be right there, darling. Give me a minute.”
Alexander pulls her. “No, Tania. Let’s go. No more talking to him. Can’t you see it’s useless?”
She looks up at him, placing her hand on his chest. “Just...one minute, Shura. Please.”
He lets go of her arm, storms out, and no sooner does he disappear than Tatiana whirls on Anthony. “What is with you?” she says furiously.
She can see that her being upset with him is more than he can take. Funny how he can take his father’s anger, but from her—one cross word, and he falls quiet and uncertain. “Mom, this country is at war. I know they’re not calling it war; conflict, disagreement, whatnot. But it’s war! There will be a draft any minute. If I don’t put in a request for a spot now, Richter soon won’t be able to get me into 2nd Airborne.”
She comes close to him. He is a head and a half taller than she, twice as wide, but when she comes near, he sinks into a chair, so she can stand over him. “Anthony, please,” she says. “You are not going to be drafted if you’re working for the Director of DIA. Dad promised you that.”
“Mom, I went to West Point, not Harvard. My future is in the U.S. Army. I go where they need me. They don’t need me in MI. They need me in Vietnam.”
She grabs his hands and presses them to her, propping herself on the edge of the kitchen table. “Ant, you know what your father went through, you know better than anyone, you of all people! You know where your mom and dad have been. War, Anthony. We didn’t read about the war. We lived through it, and you did, too. You do know that boys die in war, no? And those are the lucky ones. The unlucky ones come back like Nick Moore. Remember him? Or they come back somewhere in between, like your father. You do remember your father, no? Is that what you want?”
Not pulling his hands away from her, Anthony says, “First and foremost, I’m not him.”
Pushing him away, Tatiana steps away. “You know what?” she says coldly. “You would do well to aspire to be half the man your father is. Why don’t you learn to walk with grace and valor?”
“Ah, yes, of course,” Anthony says, nodding. “How could I forget? If only I could live up to his impossible standards.” He glares pointedly at his mother. “And he certainly has some high ones.”
“Well, surely that’s not why you enlisted in Vietnam, is it?” she cries. “What is that going to prove?”
“I know you’re finding it hard to believe, Mom,” Anthony says, shaking his head, “but this really does have nothing to do with you. Or him.”
Tatiana just stares at him with bleak eyes.
Shaking his head, he says, “It doesn’t! Can’t you see, this is my life I’m living!”
“What kind of a rebellion is that?” she
snaps. “Following your father’s footsteps?”
“Clearly in your eyes no one can ever follow his footsteps.”
“Not like this, no.” She comes to him, to touch him, to embrace him; she is so sad for him, and he puts up his hands against her, almost as if protecting himself.
“He has always said to me, you choose what you want to be. Well, this is what I choose. This is what I want.” Anthony blinks.
“Your father,” Tatiana whispers, “didn’t want to go to war. He had no choice. You think he went through what he went through, to save us, to save himself, so his firstborn son could go fight the Viet Cong?” She is so upset, she can’t stand in front of him anymore; she turns to leave her kitchen. She doesn’t want Anthony to see her cry for him.
Taking her hand, Anthony doesn’t let her leave. Bringing her back, he looks at her contritely. “I’m sorry, Mom. Don’t be upset with me, please,” he says. “West Point was my choice, that’s true, but this isn’t. Now I have to go. Just like he had to, I have to. I don’t know why Dad is wasting his time fighting the inevitable.”
“Your mission remains fixed, determined, inviolable. It is to win our wars. You are this nation’s gladiators in the arena of battle.”
Somewhere in her house, three small children are shrieking. Even Alexander can’t get the two boys to quieten down for long. One time he yelled at Harry in a booming voice, “Calm down!” And Harry, in the same booming voice, yelled right back at Alexander, “I’ll calm down when I’m dead!” Though he has never since raised his voice to his father, he also hasn’t calmed down.
Tatiana bends to Anthony, her hand on his cropped head. “Don’t be upset with your father, darling,” she whispers, kissing his hair. “He is just trying to save his son, any way he knows how.” She rushes out of the kitchen, unable to tell Anthony why his father always fights the inevitable.
“Let others debate the issues that divide men’s minds. Not you. May you, West Point soldiers, always be worthy of the long gray line that stretches two centuries before you.”
The Summer Garden Page 72
