American Music (5 page)

CHAPTER SIX

Saigon

T
he woman with the dark pretty hair who had lied to get the key to the photographer’s apartment was sitting in the back of a hot room. She looked a few years younger. She was wearing a summer dress and she was pregnant. Her dark hair was longer and pulled back into a ponytail. Tiny beads of sweat filigreed her back and upper chest and she was fanning herself with an envelope. In the front of the room a list of charges against her husband was being read out loud and he was standing with his back to her. The room was small and crowded and out a tiny high window she could see the spinal arc of a curving palm frond. They were in Saigon. He had been flown from Soc Trang for the court-martial.

They were altering one of the charges. The charge that her husband, a physician, had failed to conduct himself as a medical officer and a gentleman was being changed to reflect that he was now being accused of having presented erroneous factual data to a general. He was also on trial for two other alleged violations of military law: One accused him of having presented an undisciplined appearance by not shaving and not wearing his uniform. The other accused him of having feigned mental illness while on duty.

Someone was called to testify. A young man in uniform sat in the front of the room and said that he had seen Captain Michaels out of uniform near the hospital in South Vietnam. Under cross-examination he said that on occasion the doctor’s uniform had been missing buttons when he reported for physical training in the combat zone. The specialist was thanked for his testimony. More witnesses were called. They spoke to the merits of the accusation that Captain Michaels had approached the United States commander in Vietnam while the general was inspecting the hospital and had complained about a shortage of supplies. Captain Michaels had said that the shortages were of a kind that meant the difference between life and death. According to testimony, the general had said that he would look into the alleged shortages but that he had no sympathy for “whiners.” Captain Michaels had received orders returning him to Saigon on the same day.

The light outside the tiny window turned the palm frond a dark gray. Captain Michaels’s wife continued to fan herself in the July heat. The ink on the envelope smudged and bled from the moisture of her fingers. They called an army nurse. The nurse said that she had seen Captain Michaels performing his duties while out of uniform. She added that it was not unusual for officers, even the detachment commander, to wear civilian clothes while on duty. Then the commander was called to the stand, a major. He was questioned about his order to Captain Michaels to shave off a budding goatee. The major, who had a neat mustache, said that he had not cared for captain Michaels’s goatee and that he had ordered him to shave it off. The captain had done so. Then he told the court that the captain had failed to salute on more than one occasion. The final witness was a specialist who said that many officers and enlisted men did not adhere to uniform regulations. The palm frond turned purple and then nearly black in the fading light. Captain Michaels’s wife continued to fan herself until the proceedings were concluded for the day.

2005

I’m thinking what the hell is going on, he said.

Yes, she said.

Do you know what’s happening?

He had pushed himself up onto one elbow and the sheet fell down to his waist. His chest was muscular and squared like the surface of a huge chessboard. The round of his shoulder that she knew so well by touch looked entirely different from this angle, too large to hold on to, something cut from stone.

I don’t. I thought maybe you could tell me.

Who are they, these new people? He said it as if the others were familiar to him and not as much figments and ghosts as these new visions.

I think one of them is a photographer. The older one. And then the younger woman seems to be married to that army guy.

I got that, but who are they?

Milo, you know as much as I do.

It was the first time she had said his name. All I know is that these stories seem to be inside you. And that somehow when I touch you they come out. If you let us keep going maybe we can get some answers. But maybe not, she said.

He smiled at her.

So we’re the blind leading the blind.

So to speak, she said.

He rolled back onto his chest and spread his arms out like wings. The muscles in his back where his wings would have attached rippled like water under wind. He splayed out his fingers and she thought that he might fly off the table.

Okay, he said. Bring it on.

All around Joe and Vivian it was getting dark. Glowing white lights were arriving in the streetlamps and in the windows of the buildings.

Do you know what we’re doing? she said.

There were high trees along the sidewalk and the October wind that was blowing in her hair blew through the trees and seemed like it would blow out all the lights.

Iris

They moved the trial to New Orleans. The heat was just as bad. In the new courtroom Iris fanned herself with the newspaper. The story was all over the papers. It had started, probably, with a newspaper. She had been upset. He was gone. She was expecting their first child. He was drafted from the reserve. He was supposed to stay in Saigon. There were other doctors there who were regular army doctors but they were not sent to Soc Trang and he was.

Why was he sent instead of them? That’s what she wanted to know. But no one would tell her. She wrote letters to her senators. She wrote to the Army Surgeon General’s office. She was alone in New York and he was in South Vietnam. She was upset. It was perfectly understandable. But nobody understood. No one would tell her why.

The letters she received back on official stationery did not explain why her husband had been sent and not the army doctors and although the stilted words tried to convey sympathy for her situation they mentioned that many other wives were in the same position. Many hardships were necessary during wartime. Iris held the letter against her belly and closed her eyes. She was not an idiot. She was not a child. She knew that she was not alone in her misfortune. Did that make it any less unfair? Her husband was a reserve doctor. They had not bargained for this. She took out the heavy black manual typewriter in its case from the closet. Her back ached and she nearly dropped it on the floor. It was the one that he had had in medical school but she had always done most of his typing. As soon as she had finished an essay of her own she would roll in a fresh piece of rough paper for him. The sound of their marriage was the sound of typing, an uneven marching beat that unwittingly foreshadowed his uneven military career. He had no dreams of advancement in the army. He just wanted to help people, and at this rate to stay alive. But now here he was being court-martialed for nothing and she was worried that it would ruin his medical career. And that it was her fault.

Was it her fault? The newspaper. After the letters to the senators and the surgeon general went nowhere she had sent a letter to the editor. Of a major newspaper. In it, she had said that the secretive nature of the conduct of this war was unconscionable. She said that national security was a smokescreen the government was hiding behind to prevent the truth from being known. The letter was printed. There was a feeling among Captain Michaels’s family and friends and associates that in spite of his own casual and critical behavior in Soc Trang it was this letter more than anything else that had resulted in his court-martial. His mother did not come to New Orleans for the trial. His father, who owned a pharmacy in Reading, Pennsylvania, had flown in and was sitting next to his daughter-in-law. But he did not look over at her during the proceedings. Sometimes she thought he had forgotten, happily, that she was there.

She was listening to the testimony about Captain Michaels’s missing buttons from his uniform when the baby kicked for the first time.

Honor

Tomorrow’s his birthday.

What?

Your friend. He turns twenty-five tomorrow.

Honor was standing at the nurses’ station reading the paper. Her hair was undone and fell in a curtain shielding her face. She pulled it aside and looked at the nurse.

Do you think he would like a cake? she asked.

Everyone likes a cake.

Can he have one? Can I bring one in for him?

The nurse checked his chart. He’s allowed to eat anything. He has physical therapy until eleven tomorrow. Then occupational therapy. Why don’t you come in around lunchtime.

Will he be in our room? I won’t have enough for everyone. And he wouldn’t want a party anyway. We should be alone.

I’ll get him there.

He’ll probably hate it.

He hates a lot of things. Doesn’t mean we should let him get away with it.

Honor flipped the pages of the paper.

He trusts me a little now. I don’t want him to think I’m pushing it.

The nurse slid the paper over to her side of the counter. She started reading.

Don’t forget to bring a candle, she said.

1936

It was late when Joe came home. He had been studying, he said. He had an exam. I know, she said, as if he’d already told her. She had dinner waiting for him and they sat at the little table in the kitchen. She had pot roast, his favorite, and string beans and roasted potatoes. No matter how little money they had she always managed to feed him well. She watched him while he ate and she seemed to enjoy just the movement of his jaw, the way he held his fork, the way he organized the remnants on his plate.

He closed his eyes when he took a sip of water.

I saw that bandleader you like is coming at Christmas.

Oh really? he said.

It was advertised in the paper.

He kept eating.

I thought we might go, she said.

He kept eating.

Then he said: Isn’t it too expensive?

Yes, she said, it is. But I thought we deserved some fun.

It’s very expensive, he said.

She stood up and took his plate.

If you think so, she said, scraping the plate.

No, no, he said, leaning back in the chair. Maybe you’re right. He smiled. Maybe we should go.

•

They dismissed the charge of feigning mental illness. They refused to withdraw the two remaining charges. Then they called Captain Michaels as a witness.

The Captain testified in a calm voice. He responded to all of the accusations with reasonable defenses. Yes, he had complained but not because he wanted to be sent home. Yes, he had said there was a lack of vital surgical tools on the base. In fact, the shortages had proven on more than one occasion to be fatal in the operating room. Yes, he had let his facial hair grow, but when he returned to base, his commanding officer had ordered him to shave and he had.

He answered all of their questions and sat down. When he said fatal, his voice had faltered in a way that only his wife noticed. As he walked back to his seat, he made sure not to catch her eye.

The seven-man board deliberated for less than an hour. When they returned with a verdict Captain Michaels’s wife was still sitting in the heat. The perspiration bloomed in large spots across the back of her dress. The head of the board gave the verdict. The verdict was guilty of conduct unbecoming an officer. The sentence was dismissal from the army. Captain Michaels was also convicted of a lesser charge of failing to shave, thereby presenting an undisciplined appearance. When the decision was read Captain Michaels showed no sign of emotion. According to the newspaper accounts, his pregnant wife who sat behind him in the courtroom showed signs of strain.

2005

The cake was vanilla with chocolate icing. Honor had stayed up late baking it. She used a mix from the health food store but still it took her a long time. She double-checked every instruction and ingredient. She made the icing.

She carried it on a plate and covered it with tinfoil. She leaned it against her body when she pushed open the door. He wasn’t there yet and she set it out on the table. She put a candle next to it. She took off her coat and left the room to wash her hands. When she came back he was there, early, sitting in his wheelchair.

What is this? he said.

A cake, she said.

What for?

I heard it was your birthday.

He closed his eyes and rolled his head and his hair moved and he made a disgusted gesture with his mouth.

So this is a party? he said.

Not exactly. Not a party. I just thought it would be nice to celebrate.

She tilted her head. She bit her lip. She felt afraid of him for the first time.

You and your pity.

It’s not pity. Look, if you don’t want the cake we don’t have to have it.

She walked over to take the cake away and he slammed it off the table with the back of his hand. The plate broke.

See that? he said. That’s you, he said. You think you’re so good but you’re just using me to feel good. You and these goddamned stories. What do they have to do with me anyway? You’re just some crazy lady with a fucked-up need to mess around in my head. You can just forget about it. I don’t need this kind of help.

Okay, she said. She was looking at the cake on his arm. It was like pieces of flesh stuck all over.

So we understand each other? he said. This is all over, right? Because I don’t know what it is you’ve been doing to me but I’m better off without it.

I wish you’d give it another try, she said. She was scared of him now but so scared that she felt she could say anything.

He pushed over the whole table. It dropped on its side like a fallen horse. They both looked at it for a long time.

I’m sorry about the cake, she said.

His eyes looked hurt like a boy’s. They squinted up at her with a blue fire.

It’s not the cake, he said. It’s you.

PART TWO

Come sail your ships around me
And burn your bridges down.
We make a little history, baby,
Every time you come around.

—
NICK CAVE
,
“The Ship Song”