Coming to Terms

by James Reston

  ROONEY (On his feet. HE is staggering toward the door): You got a knife there? What’s with the knife? What’s goin’ on here?

  CARLYLE steps as if to bolt for the door, but ROONEY is in the way, having inserted himself between CARLYLE and RICHIE, who has backed into the doorway.

  Wait! Now wait!

  RICHIE (As CARLYLE raises the knife): Carlyle, don’t! (HE runs from the room)

  ROONEY: You watch your step, you understand. You see what I got here? (HE lifts the beer bottle, waves it threateningly) You watch your step, motherfucker. Relax. I mean, we can straighten all this out. We—(CARLYLE lunges at ROONEY, who tenses) I’m just askin’ what’s goin’ on, that’s all I’m doin’. No need to get all—(And CARLYLE swipes at the air again; ROONEY recoils) Motherfucker. Motherfucker. (HE seems to be tensing, his body gathering itself for some mighty effort. And HE throws his head back and gives the eagle yell) Eeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh! Eeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh! (CARLYLE jumps; HE looks left and right) Goddammit, I’ll cut you good. (HE lunges to break the bottle on the edge of the wall lockers. The bottle shatters and HE yelps, dropping everything Ohhhhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh! (CARLYLE bolts, running from the room) I hurt myself, I cut myself. I hurt my hand. (Holding the wounded hand. HE scurries to BILLY’s bed, where HE sits on the edge, trying to wipe the blood away so HE can see the wound) I cut— (Hearing a noise. HE whirls, looks; CARLYLE is plummeting in the door and toward him. ROONEY stands) I hurt my hand, goddammit! (The knife goes into ROONEY’s belly. HE flails at CARLYLE) I HURT MY HAND! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WAIT! WAIT! (HE turns away, falling to his knees, and the knife goes into him again and again) No fair. No fair!

  ROGER, running, skids into the room, headed for BILLY, and then HE sees CARLYLE on ROONEY, the leaping knife. ROGER lunges, grabbing CARLYLE, pulling him to get him off ROONEY. CARLYLE leaps free of ROGER, sending ROGER flying backward. And then CARLYLE begins to circle ROGER’S bed. HE is whimpering, wiping at the blood on his shirt as if to wipe it away. ROGER backs away as CARLYLE keeps waving the knife at him. ROONEY is crawling along the floor under BILLY’s bed and then HE stops crawling, lies there.

  CARLYLE: You don’t tell nobody on me you saw me do this, I let you go, okay? Ohhhhhhhhh. (Rubbing, rubbing at the shirt) Ohhhhhh, how’m I gonna get back to the world now, I got all this mess to—

  ROGER: What happened? That you—I don’t understand that you did this! That you did—

  CARLYLE: YOU SHUT UP! Don’t be talkin’ all that weird shit to me—don’t you go talkin’ all that weird shit!

  ROGER: Nooooooooooooo!

  CARLYLE: I’m Carlyle, man. You know me. You know me.

  CARLYLE turns. HE flees out the door. ROGER, alone, looks about the room. BILLY is there. ROGER moves toward BILLY, who is shifting, undulating on his back.

  BILLY: Carlyle, no; oh, Christ, don’t stab me anymore. I’ll die. I will—I’ll die. Don’t make me die. I’ll get my dog after you. I’LL GET MY DOG AFTER YOU!

  ROGER is saying, “Oh, Billy, man, Billy.” HE is trying to hold BILLY. Now HE lifts BILLY into his arms.

  ROGER: Oh, Billy; oh, man. GODDAMMIT, BILLY!

  A MILITARY POLICE LIEUTENANT comes running in the door, his .45 automatic drawn, and HE levels it at ROGER.

  LIEUTENANT: Freeze, soldier! Not a quick move out of you. Just real slow, straighten your ass up.

  ROGER has gone rigid; the LIEUTENANT is advancing on him. Tentatively ROGER turns, looks.

  ROGER: Huh? No.

  LIEUTENANT: Get your ass against the lockers.

  ROGER: Sir, no. I—

  LIEUTENANT (Hurling ROGER away toward the wall lockers): MOVE! (Another M.P.. PFC HINSON, comes in, followed by RICHIE, flushed and breathless) Hinson, cover this bastard.

  HINSON (Drawing his .45 automatic, moving on ROGER): Yes, sir.

  The LIEUTENANT frisks ROGER, who is spread-eagled at the lockers.

  RICHIE: What? Oh, sir, no, no. Roger, what’s going on?

  LIEUTENANT: I’ll straighten this shit out.

  ROGER: Tell ’em to get the gun off me, Richie.

  LIEUTENANT: SHUT UP!

  RICHIE: But, sir, sir, he didn’t do it. Not him.

  LIEUTENANT (Fiercely HE shoves RICHIE out of the way): I told you, all of you, to shut up. (HE moves to ROONEY’s body) Jesus, God, this Sfc is cut to shit. He’s cut to shit. (HE hurries to BILLY’s body) This man is cut to shit.

  CARLYLE appears in the doorway, his hands cuffed behind him, a third M.P., PFC CLARK, shoving him forward. CARLYLE seems shocked and cunning, his mind whirring.

  CLARK: Sir, I got this guy on the street, runnin’ like a streak a shit.

  CLARK hurls the struggling CARLYLE forward and CARLYLE stumbles toward the head of RICHIE’s bed as RICHIE, seeing him coming, hurries away along BILLY’s bed and toward the wall lockers.

  RICHIE: He did it! Him, him!

  CARLYLE: What is going on here? I don’t know what is going on here!

  CLARK (Club at the ready. HE stations himself beside CARLYLE): He’s got blood all over him, sir. All over him.

  LIEUTENANT: What about the knife?

  CLARK: No, sir. He must have thrown it away.

  A FOURTH M.P. has entered to stand in the doorway, and HINSON, leaving ROGER, bends to examine ROONEY. HE will also kneel and look for life in BILLY.

  LIEUTENANT: You throw it away, soldier?

  CARLYLE: Oh, you thinkin’ about how my sister got happened, too. Oh, you ain’t so smart as you think you are! No way!

  ROGER: Jesus God almighty.

  LIEUTENANT: What happened here? I want to know what happened here.

  HINSON (Rising from BILLY’s body): They’re both dead, sir. Both of them.

  LIEUTENANT (Confidential, almost whispering): I know they’re both dead. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

  CARLYLE: Chicken blood, sir. Chicken blood and chicken hearts is what all over me. I was goin’ on my way, these people jump out the bushes be pourin’ it all over me. Chicken blood and chicken hearts. (Thrusting his hands out at CLARK) You goin’ take these cuffs off me, boy?

  LIEUTENANT: Sit him down, Clark. Sit him down and shut him up.

  CARLYLE: This my house, sir. This my goddamn house.

  CLARK grabs CARLYLE, begins to move him.

  LIEUTENANT: I said to shut him up.

  CLARK: Move it; move! (Struggling to get CARLYLE over to ROGER’s footlocker as HINSON and the FOURTH M.P. exit)

  CARLYLE: I want these cuffs taken off my hands.

  CLARK: You better do like you been told. You better sit and shut up!

  CARLYLE: I’m gonna be thinkin’ over here. I’m gonna be thinkin’ it all over. I got plannin’ to do. I’m gonna be thinkin’ in my quietness; don’t you be makin’ no mistake.

  CARLYLE slumps over, muttering to himself. HINSON and the FOURTH M.P. return, carrying a stretcher. THEY cross to BILLY, chatting with each other about how to go about the lift. THEY will lift him; THEY will carry him out.

  LIEUTENANT (To RICHIE): You’re Wilson?

  RICHIE: No, sir. (Indicating BILLY) That’s Wilson. I’m Douglas.

  LIEUTENANT (To ROGER): And you’re Moore. And you sleep here.

  ROGER: Yes, sir.

  RICHIE: Yes, sir. And Billy slept here and Sergeant Rooney was our platoon sergeant and Carlyle was a transient, sir. He was a transient from P Company.

  LIEUTENANT (Scrutinizing ROGER): And you had nothing to do with this? (To RICHIE) He had nothing to do with this?

  ROGER: No, sir, I didn’t.

  RICHIE: No, sir, he didn’t. I didn’t either. Carlyle went crazy and he got into a fight and it was awful. I didn’t even know what it was about exactly.

  LIEUTENANT: How’d the Sfc get involved?

  RICHIE: Well, he came in, sir.

  ROGER: I had to run off to call you, sir. I wasn’t here.

  RICHIE: Sergeant Rooney just came in—I don’t know why—he heard all the yelling, I guess—and Carlyle we
nt after him. Billy was already stabbed.

  CARLYLE (Rising, his manner that of a man who is taking charge): All right now, you gotta be gettin’ the fuck outa here. All of you. I have decided enough of the shit has been goin’ on around here and I am tellin’ you to be gettin’ these motherfuckin’ cuffs off me and you be gettin’ me a bus ticket home. I am quittin’ this jive-time army.

  LIEUTENANT: You are doin’ what?

  CARLYLE: No, I ain’t gonna be quiet. No way. I am quittin’ this goddamn—

  LIEUTENANT: You shut the hell up, soldier. I am ordering you.

  CARLYLE: I don’t understand you people! Don’t you people understand when a man be talkin’ English at you to say his mind? I have quit the army!

  HINSON returns.

  LIEUTENANT: Get him outa here!

  RICHIE: What’s the matter with him?

  LIEUTENANT: Hinson! Clark!

  HINSON and CLARK move, grabbing CARLYLE, and THEY drag him, struggling, toward the door.

  CARLYLE: Oh, no. Oh, no. You ain’t gonna be doin’ me no more. I been tellin’ you. To get away from me. I am stayin’ here. This my place, not your place. You take these cuffs off me like I been tellin’ you! My poor little sister Lin Sue understood what was goin’ on here! She tole me! She knew! (HE is howling in the hallway now) You better be gettin’ these cuffs off me!

  Silence. ROGER, RICHIE and the LIEUTENANT are all staring at the door. The LIEUTENANT turns, crosses to the foot of ROGER’s bed.

  LIEUTENANT: All right now. I will be getting to the bottom of this. You know I will be getting to the bottom of this. (HE is taking two forms from his clipboard)

  RICHIE: Yes, sir.

  HINSON and the FOURTH M.P. return with another stretcher. THEY walk to ROONEY, talking to one another about how to lift him. THEY drag him from under the bed. THEY will roll him onto the stretcher, lift him and walk out. ROGER moves, watching them, down along the edge of BILLY’s bed.

  LIEUTENANT: Fill out these forms. I want your serial number, rank, your MOS, the NCOIC of your work. Any leave coming up will be canceled. Tomorrow at 0800 you will report to my office at the provost marshal’s headquarters. You know where that is?

  ROGER: (As the TWO M.P.’s are leaving with the stretcher and ROONEY’s body): Yes, sir.

  RICHIE: Yes, sir.

  LIEUTENANT (Crossing to ROGER, HE hands him two cards): Be prepared to do some talking. Two perfectly trained and primed strong pieces of U.S. Army property got cut to shit up here. We are going to find out how and why. Is that clear?

  RICHIE: Yes, sir.

  ROGER: Yes, sir.

  The LIEUTENANT looks at each of them. HE surveys the room. HE marches out.

  RICHIE: Oh, my God. Oh. Oh.

  RICHIE runs to his bed and collapses, sitting hunched down at the foot. HE holds himself and rocks as if very cold. ROGER, quietly, is weeping. HE stands and then walks to his bed. HE puts down the two cards. HE moves purposefully up to the mops hanging on the wall in the corner. HE takes one down. HE moves with the mop and the bucket to BILLY’s bed, where ROONEY’s blood stains the floor. HE mops. RICHIE, in horror, is watching.

  What . . . are you doing?

  ROGER: This area a mess, man. (Dragging the bucket, carrying the mop, HE moves to the spot where BILLY had lain. HE begins to mop)

  RICHIE: That’s Billy’s blood, Roger. His blood.

  ROGER: Is it?

  RICHIE: I feel awful.

  ROGER (HE keeps mopping): How come you made me waste all that time talkin’ shit to you, Richie? All my time talkin’ shit, and all the time you was a faggot, man; you really was. You shoulda jus’ tole ole Roger. He don’t care. All you gotta do is tell me.

  RICHIE: I’ve been telling you. I did.

  ROGER: Jive, man, jive!

  RICHIE: No!

  ROGER: You did bullshit all over us! ALL OVER US!

  RICHIE: I just wanted to hold his hand, Billy’s hand, to talk to him, go to the movies hand in hand like he would with a girl or I would with someone back home.

  ROGER: But he didn’t wanna; he didn’t wanna.

  Finished now. ROGER drags the mop and bucket back toward the corner. RICHIE is sobbing; HE is at the edge of hysteria.

  RICHIE: He did.

  ROGER: No, man.

  RICHIE: He did. He did. It’s not my fault.

  ROGER slams the bucket into the corner and rams the mop into the bucket. Furious. HE marches down to RICHIE. Behind him SERGEANT COKES, grinning and lifting a wine bottle, appears in the doorway.

  COKES: Hey! (RICHIE, in despair, rolls onto his belly. COKES is very, very happy) Hey! What a day, gen’l’men. How you all doin’?

  ROGER: (Crossing up near the head of his own bed): Hello, Sergeant Cokes.

  COKES (Affectionate and casual. HE moves near to ROGER): How you all doin’? Where’s ole Rooney? I lost him.

  ROGER: What?

  COKES: We had a hell of a day, ole Rooney and me, lemme tell you. We been playin’ hide-and-go-seek, and I was hidin’, and now I think maybe he started hidin’ without tellin’ me he was gonna and I can’t find him and I thought maybe he was hidin’ up here.

  RICHIE: Sergeant, he—

  ROGER: No. No, we ain’t seen him.

  COKES: I gotta find him. He knows how to react in a tough situation. He didn’t come up here looking for me?

  ROGER moves around to the far side of his bed, turning his back to COKES. Sitting. ROGER takes out a cigarette, but HE does not light it.

  ROGER: We was goin’ to sleep, Sarge. Got to get up early. You know the way this mother army is.

  COKES (Nodding, drifting backward. HE sits down on BILLY’s bed): You don’t mind I sit here a little. Wait on him. Got a little wine. You can have some. (Tilting his head way back. HE takes a big drink and then, looking straight ahead, corks the bottle with a whack of his hand) We got back into the area—we had been downtown—he wanted to play hide-and-go-seek. I tole him okay, I was ready for that. He hid his eyes. So I run and hid in the bushes and then under this Jeep. ’Cause I thought it was better. I hid and I hid and I hid. He never did come. So finally, I got tired—I figured I’d give up, come lookin’ for him. I was way over by the movie theater. I don’t know how I got there. Anyway, I got back here and I figured maybe he come up here lookin’ for me, figurin’ I was hidin’ up with you guys. You ain’t seen him, huh?

  ROGER: No, we ain’t seen him. I tole you that, Sarge.

  COKES: Oh.

  RICHIE: Roger!

  ROGER: He’s drunk, Richie! He’s blasted drunk. Got a brain turned to mush!

  COKES (In deep agreement): That ain’t no lie.

  ROGER: Let it be for the night, Richie. Let him be for the night.

  COKES: I still know what’s goin’ on, though. Never no worry about that. I always know what’s goin’ on. I always know. Don’t matter what I drink or how much I drink. I always still know what’s goin’ on. But . . . I’ll be goin’ maybe and look for Rooney. (But rising. HE wanders down center) But . . . I mean, we could be doin’ that forever. Him and me. Me under the Jeep. He wants to find me, he goes to the Jeep. I’m over here. He comes here. I’m gone. You know, maybe I’ll just wait a little while more I’m here. He’ll find me then if he comes here. You guys want another drink. (Turning, HE goes to BILLY’s footlocker, where HE sits and takes another enormous guzzle of wine) Jesus, what a goddamn day we had. Me and Rooney started drivin’ and we was comin’ to this intersection and out comes this goddamn Chevy. I try to get around her, but no dice. BINGO! I hit her in the left rear. She was furious. I didn’t care. I gave her my name and number. My car had a headlight out, the fender bashed in. Rooney wouldn’t stop laughin’. I didn’t know what to do. So we went to D.C. to this private club I know. Had ten or more snorts and decided to get back here after playin’ some snooker. That was fun. On the way, we picked up this kid from the engineering unit, hitchhiking. I’m starting to feel real clear-headed now. So I’m comin’ around this corner and all of a sudden there’
s this car stopped dead in front of me. He’s not blinkin’ to turn or anything. I slam on the brakes, but it’s like puddin’ the way I slide into him. There’s a big noise and we yell. Rooney starts laughin’ like crazy and the kid jumps outa the back and says he’s gonna take a fuckin’ bus. The guy from the other car is swearin’ at me. My car’s still workin’ fine, so I move it off to the side and tell him to do the same, while we wait for the cops. He says he wants his car right where it is and he had the right of way ’cause he was makin’ a legal turn. So we’re waitin’ for the cops. Some cars go by. The guy’s car is this big fuckin’ Buick. Around the corner comes this little red Triumph. The driver’s this blond kid got this blond girl next to him. You can see what’s gonna happen. There’s this fuckin’ car sittin’ there, nobody in it. So the Triumph goes crashin’ into the back of the Buick with nobody in it. BIFF-BANG-BOOM. And everything stops. We’re staring. It’s all still. And then that fuckin’ Buick kinda shudders and starts to move. With nobody in it. It starts to roll from the impact. And it rolls just far enough to get where the road starts a downgrade. It’s driftin’ to the right. It’s driftin’ to the shoulder and over it and onto this hill, where it’s pickin’ up speed ’cause the hill is steep and then it disappears over the side, and into the dark, just rollin’ real quiet. Rooney falls over, he’s laughin’ so hard. I don’t know what to do. In a minute the cops come and in another minute some guy comes runnin’ up over the hill to tell us some other guy had got run over by this car with nobody in it. We didn’t know what to think. This was fuckin’ unbelievable to us. But we found out later from the cops that this wasn’t true and some guy had got hit over the head with a bottle in a bar and when he staggered out the door it was just at the instant that this fuckin’ Buick with nobody in it went by. Seein’ this, the guy stops cold and turns around and just goes back into the bar. Rooney is screamin’ at me how we been in four goddamn accidents and fights and how we have got out clean. So then we got everything all straightened out and we come back here to play hide-and-seek ’cause that’s what ole Rooney wanted. (HE is taking another drink, but finding the bottle empty) Only now I can’t find him. (Near RICHIE’s footlocker stands a beer bottle and COKES begins to move toward it. Slowly HE bends and grasps the bottle; HE straightens, looking at it. HE drinks. And settles down on RICHIE’s footlocker) I’ll just sit a little.