In the Lake of the Woods (14 page)

There was a short silence. Vinny Pearson laughed.

"No, I didn't—" Wade stopped himself. "It's not all that complicated. Kathy's
out
there. Everything else is pure bullshit."

A small muscle moved at Lux's jaw.

"Bullshit," he murmured.

He closed his notebook, stood up, made a motion at Vinny Pearson.

His eyes shifted toward the window. "Mr. Wade, you're an important guy. Politics and all that, it's way out of my league, so you'll have to be tolerant. I'm just a hayseed cop. Vinny here, he's worse. Pumps gas for a living, pulls in some part-time deputy pay. Couple of rubes, for sure, but I'll tell you what, we'll do our best to find the lady. Drain the lake if we have to. Bulldoze those woods, pry up the goddamn floorboards." He smiled generously. "That's not bullshit, sir, that's a guarantee in gold."

The two men put on their hats and walked to the door.

"Give it a few hours," Lux said. "I'll be in touch. Don't forget those phone calls."

 

When they were gone, Wade stood for a few minutes at the living room window. What he needed was sleep. Something kept revolving behind his eyes, a shiny black stone. He could feel the weight in his forehead. It required some concentration to pick up the coffee cups and carry them out to the kitchen. Claude sat on a stool at the counter, Ruth was cracking eggs over a frypan.

"Three minutes," she said, "and we'll shovel this into your stomach." She used a wrist to sweep back her hair. "How'd it go out there?"

Wade put the cups in the sink. He wasn't sure what to do with himself. The fact of Kathy's absence would not settle inside him; it had no substance.

"I say how'd things
go?'

He looked at the big iron teakettle. "Fine, I guess. Except for the part about my being a drunk."

Claude laughed. "Yeah?"

"A lot of other crap, too."

"Well, jeez." The old man grinned and tilted back on his
stool. "Tact's not my number one specialty. But I didn't say drunk, I said you seemed a little juiced up, and that's the plain nuts of it. Nobody blames you."

"Terrific."

"They don't."

"What about Pearson? The guy didn't seem—"

Ruth looked up from the frypan. "Vinny's just Vinny. Few more hours, I bet, Kathy'll come ambling right through that kitchen door, then we'll all get looped." She slid the eggs onto a plate, dropped on a muffin, brought the plate over to the table. "Eat," she said, "then hit the sack."

The eggs helped. When he was finished, Wade tried calling Kathy's sister in Minneapolis. There was no answer, and after a second he nodded at Ruth and moved unsteadily down the hallway to the bedroom.

Sleep was impossible. The fatigue had hardened inside that small black stone behind his eyes; his knees and elbows felt full of gravel. He lay face-up on the bed, eyes open, surveying his own state of being. The inner biology seemed impaired. Sparks of silvery white light jumped across the ceiling, and at the top of his head he noticed a sharp, tingling voltage, an irregular current, as if electrodes had been implanted just under his scalp.

Sorrow was also a problem. He couldn't feel much, just a shadowy uneasiness about his own conduct or misconduct. The interrogation bothered him. Important lines of inquiry, he realized, had not been pursued. Mental health, for one; memory, for another. Even now it was hard to come up with a neat chronology of those last hours together. The images did not connect—the darkness, the teakettle, the way he'd glided from spot to spot as if gravity were no longer a factor. He remembered the sound of mice beneath the porch. He
remembered the rich forest smells and the fog and the curious motion Kathy sometimes made with her fingers, a slight fluttering, as if to dispel all the things that were wrong in their lives. Other things, though, he remembered only dimly. Getting out of bed that night. It had been late—that much he knew—but the wee-hour glide lifted him above ordinary time. He remembered the steam, the amps under his skin. He remembered a savage buzzing sound—"Kill Jesus," he was saying. He couldn't stop. And so he boiled a big green geranium near the fireplace, then a dwarf cactus, then several others he couldn't name. He was wearing undershorts, he remembered that. The night smelled of rot. He remembered refilling the teakettle, waiting for the water to boil, moving to the bedroom. "Kill Jesus," he kept saying, except now it was a whisper and his hands had no relation to his wrists. The mental scaffolding was gone, all the dreams for himself, all the fine illusions and ambitions. The world was electricity. He remembered watching Kathy sleep, admiring the tan at her neck and shoulders, the little wrinkles at her eyes, how in the dim light she seemed to be smiling at something, or half smiling, a thumb curled alongside her nose. At one point a great tenderness had seized him. Like a radio signal from another universe—
tenderness—
it made his bowels go slack, it sucked his breath away—a high, shrill command to comfort and protect. Love, he thought. He remembered the weight of the teakettle. He remembered puffs of steam in the dark. A strange flapping sound, like wings, then a deep buzzing, and then later he'd found himself waist-deep in the lake. Naked now, and he felt the mushy bottom between his toes. He was examining the stars: hot white stars in a black sky. These were not memories. These were sub-memories. Images from a place beneath the waking world, deeper than dream, a place
where logic dissolved. It was beyond remembering. It was knowing. The steady lap of waves against his chest, how cold he was, and how eventually he let himself go under—not a dive, just sinking—and how his mouth filled with the taste of fish and algae, how his legs scraped against something sharp—a terrible heaviness pressing through his lungs and arms—and how he was finally caught up in layers of forgetfulness. Later on, he sat trembling on the dock. He was naked. He was watching the stars.

Absurd, Wade thought.

He folded a pillow under his head and lay there inspecting the possibilities.

 

When he awakened, it was nearly dark, the trees webbed in gauzy purples. The clock on the nightstand showed 5:56.

Wade dressed, washed his face, and moved out to the living room.

"Sleeping Beauty," Claude said.

The old man sat playing solitaire at a card table in front of the stone fireplace. Even with a fire burning, the cottage seemed cold and drafty.

"Nothing yet, so don't ask," Claude said. "Your friend Lux checked in an hour ago, he's got extra boats lined up for tomorrow. Right now we just hang tight." The old man shuffled the cards and dealt himself a new game. "Ruth and me, we'll sack out in the spare bedroom. No sense stewing in your own juices."

"It's not necessary."

"Maybe not. But still."

Wade shrugged. "So you don't have me on trial?"

"For what?"

"Oh, Christ. Don't be coy."

The old man looked up and laughed. "Vinny spooked you, didn't he? The guy's made that way. Show him a full moon, he'll talk about the dark side."

"Then you don't think—"

"Hell, no, I don't. And not Ruth either. Except it might help to start acting like a husband. Some normal concern, it'll look real sweet to people."

 

The evening passed quietly. After supper Wade took a short walk along the shore, then showered and shaved, then fixed a pair of vodka tonics and carried them out to the porch. The dock and boathouse were already wrapped in fog. He leaned back against the stoop and worked on the drinks for almost an hour, listening to the woods, letting the small black stone revolve behind his eyes. Long ago, as a kid, he'd learned the secret of making his mind into a blackboard. Erase the bad stuff. Draw in pretty new pictures.

Around nine o'clock he put in another call to Kathy's sister. He tried several more times, on the hour, but didn't reach her until nearly midnight.

It was a difficult conversation. They had a history between them—distance and distrust. Her voice seemed blurry, almost deformed, as if she were holding a handkerchief over the mouthpiece. "Twenty minutes ago, I turned on the TV—" There was a crackling on the line. "What
happened?
"

"I'm not sure. She took a boat out. That's all anybody knows."

"God."

Again there was static, a warped sound. They spoke for another five minutes, mostly questions and answers, both of them careful to keep things civil. She hadn't heard from Kathy since the night of the primary; she couldn't imagine
anything except the obvious, an accident of some sort. Her voice broke and for a moment there was silence.

"Look, I've already packed," she said. "I'll be there tomorrow. Early, I hope."

"I'm not sure that's—"

"Tomorrow," she said.

Q: How do you evacuate someone with a hand grenade?
A: I don't have any idea, sir.
Q: Why did you make that statement?
A: It was a figure of speech, sir.
Q: What did you mean when you said it?
A: I meant just—I meant only that the only means I could evacuate the people would be a hand grenade. And that isn't exactly evacuating somebody.
³⁷

—William Calley (Court-Martial Testimony)

 

Son My Village is located approximately 9 kilometers northeast of Quang Ngai City and fronts on the South China Sea. In March 1968, the village was composed of four hamlets, Tu Cung, My Lai, My Khe, and Co Luy, each of which contained several subhamlets ... The Vietnamese knew many of these subhamlets by names different from those indicated on US topographic maps of the area ... For example, the subhamlet identified on the topographic map as My Lai (4) is actually named Thuan Yen.
³⁸

—The Peers Commission

 

Q: What did you do?
A: I held my M-16 on them.
Q: Why?
A: Because they might attack.
Q: They were children and babies?
A: Yes.
Q: And they might attack? Children and babies?
A: They might've had a fully loaded grenade on them. The mothers might have throwed them at us.
Q: Babies?
A: Yes.
Q: Were the babies in their mothers' arms?
A: I guess so.
Q: And the babies moved to attack?
A: I expected at any moment they were about to make a counterbalance.
³⁹

—Paul Meadlo (Court-Martial Testimony)

 

I raised him up to be a good boy and I did everything I could. They come along and took him to the service. He fought for his country and look what they done to him. Made a murderer out of him, to start with.
⁴⁰

—Mrs. Myrtle Meadlo (Mother of Paul Meadlo)

 

... there is a line that a man dare not cross, deeds he dare not commit, regardless of orders and the hopelessness of the situation, for such deeds would destroy something in him that he values more than life itself.
⁴¹

—J. Glenn Gray (
The Warriors
)

 

John had his own way of handling it all. It destroyed him, you could say. But maybe in a lot of ways he was already destroyed.

—Anthony L. (Tony) Carbo

 

I am struck by how little of these events I can or even wish to remember...
⁴²

—Colonel William V. Wilson (U.S. Army Investigator)

 

Look, I don't remember. It was three years ago.
⁴³

—Ronald Grzesik (Court-Martial Testimony)

 

Q: Did you ever tell any officer about what you'd seen?
A: I can't specifically recall.
⁴⁴

—Ronald Haeberle (Court-Martial Testimony)

 

Q: How many people were in the ditch?
A: I don't know, sir.
Q: Over how large an area were they in the ditch?
A: I don't know, sir.
Q: Could you give us an estimate as to how many people were in the ditch?
A: No, sir.
⁴⁵

—William Calley (Court-Martial Testimony)

 

Q: What happened then?
A: He [Lieutenant Calley] started shoving them off and shooting them in the ravine.
Q: How many times did he shoot?
A: I can't remember.
⁴⁶

—Paul Meadlo (Court-Martial Testimony)

 

All I remember now is flies. And the stink. Some of the guys made these gas masks—dunked their T-shirts in mosquito juice and Kool-Aid. That helped a little, but it didn't help with the flies. I can't stop dreaming about them. You think I'm crazy?

—Richard Thinbill

 

The ordinary response to atrocities is to banish them from consciousness.
⁴⁷

—Judith Herman (
Trauma and Recovery
)

 

John really suffered during the campaign. Those terrible things people said, it wasn't right. I don't believe a word.

—Eleanor K. Wade

 

Q: Did you see any dead Vietnamese in the village?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: How many?
A: Most of them. All over.
⁴⁸

—Gene Oliver (Court-Martial Testimony)

 

Persons taking no active part in the hostilities, including members of armed forces who have laid down their arms and those placed
bars de combat
by sickness, wounds, detention, or any other cause, shall in all circumstances be treated humanely...
⁴⁹

—The Geneva Conventions on the Laws of War