The Heart You Carry Home (25 page)

“‘The way Patroclus puts on Achilles's armor and rushes into battle. The way that Achilles grieves over him, pouring dust over his head and face and lying down in the dirt. Achilles says he'd die rather than live in a world without Patroclus. And you call that the love between brothers.'

“Willy stopped talking then, like he was waiting for the CO to refute him. But the CO was silent. After a little while, I heard Willy speak the CO's name. And then, in a voice that sounded so pitiful it made my insides hurt, Willy said, ‘Proudfoot, if I die, how will you grieve for me?'”

“And then what happened?” Becca asked, hunching over her legs so that her head and Reno's were side by side.

“Nothing,” Reno said. “The CO never answered.”

Hearing this, Becca's heart opened into sadness; she wanted to say something or do something to ease Willy's pain. Where, she wondered, was Willy now?

“Anyway, the next day, we resumed the march. At some point, Willy calls out for us to give a wide berth to this particular bush. Only your dad wasn't paying attention, and he just kept coming. And fast as a whip, Willy sticks the neck of his rifle into your father's chest, halting him in his tracks. And we all look down and there, on the ground, inches from your father's feet, is this bouncing Betty, just sitting pretty in a pool of sunlight, like the thing was fucking tanning itself. Had Willy not been there, that mine woulda jumped belly high and disemboweled your father. And as for you and me? Not sitting here right now. That's for sure.”

Becca shivered, thinking about the close call and how Willy had likely saved her father's life. She wanted to ask more questions, but Reno hurried on with the story. “We stopped at dusk, ate long rats for dinner, sharpened our knives, and got our gear in order. The plan was to march forward as a group and then split into pairs. King and I would circle the perimeter of the weapons supply to get a sense of its size, and Willy and the CO would assess the route in and out. We'd meet back at our base camp and call in the report. Depending on what we found, the major might send in the gunships. It was supposed to be a noncontact mission. ‘If you get in the shit,' the CO said, ‘throw some smoke flares. But don't get in the shit.' He and Willy split off and disappeared into the jungle.

“The weapons hub was like a hive. King and I found coils of barbed wire strung between the trees, and the brush haphazardly thinned. Shadows moved between firelight. Then, suddenly, we heard shouting, followed by a quick pop of gunfire. Sparks flared and vanished as bullets sprayed into the black. One of us had tripped up, and the NVA thought they were getting ambushed. King waved me forward and we made our way to the far side of the camp. If the CO and Willy were in trouble, we had to help them. We saw a group of five NVA up ahead. We shot one down, but then the remaining four morphed into seven or eight, their bodies doubling like a string of paper men. The last one to step out raised an RPG to his shoulder. We dropped flat, pushed ourselves into the undergrowth. The rocket missed us but sent a wave of heat and smoke over our backs. Something sharp bit into my neck. King was cupping his ear and there was blood on his face. I was bleeding, half frozen with shock. Your dad pulled two smoke grenades from his belt and threw them. Then the world exploded into yellow and cherry-colored clouds. We struggled up, sprayed a round of fire to cover ourselves, and ran.

“At our base camp, King called in the pickup coordinates and the grid coordinates of the weapons hub. We gathered up everybody's packs and headed toward the pickup spot. King helped me bandage up my neck. And then a second later the CO came crashing out of the trees, followed by tracer fire, shouting ‘Move!' He had Willy's pouch around his neck.

“The Huey was just coming down, whipping up a cyclone of hot wind. The three of us shot back into the trees, then cut through the long, stinging grasses and threw ourselves into the bird. Then we were in the air, swinging up and away as the gunships flew in and let loose over the weapons hub. Fire flowers bloomed from the ground. It was gorgeous. I am not ashamed to admit that it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

Reno paused. Becca waited for him to continue, but he didn't. He just sat there, silent. Finally, she asked, “What happened to Willy?”

“I don't know. The CO wouldn't tell us.”

“And that's it?”

“No,” Reno said. “There's one more thing. A few months later, the CO came back from leave in Saigon. He didn't have the pouch anymore and when we asked where it was, he said he'd had an operation and now the heart was safe. I didn't have a fucking clue what that meant, so I asked for an explanation.”

“Okay.” Becca's heart was pounding. Maybe she wasn't ready for this after all. Maybe she wanted to stay on the outside of things, where people lived normal, nonpsychotic lives.

“In Saigon, the CO found a doctor who'd agreed to slice his stomach open. He had the doctor insert Durga's heart. Then he got his belly sewed back up.”

B
EN WAS SWEATING
and chilled through. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything and he had no idea what time it was. He'd somehow left the CO's desert study and given up his personals to Arne. Now he stood in this empty spot at the edge of Kleos beneath scattered trees. One of the hoplites had told Ben to dig himself a foxhole or sleep on the ground.

Soldiers took care of themselves, the CO had said, which was apparently why Ben had been forced to swim across the river. If he wanted a place to sleep for the night, he'd dig it. And he might as well do something to pass the time, even something useless. Becca was coming, and he needed a physical activity to channel his anticipation. He felt so keyed up, it was a wonder his body did not glow with hot, red light.

Ben dug in, shoveled, and threw dirt. Dug in, shoveled, threw dirt. A satisfying hole opened beside him. Meanwhile, he was starting to recall details from the CO's story: the soldier named Willy Owen McKenzie, the destroyed village, the woman with Durga's heart in her stomach. Then there'd been a mission; Willy had not come back. But the CO had come out with the heart—or whatever was inside the pouch. The CO had told Ben that he was going to die soon. More than four decades ago, he'd been exposed to chemicals sprayed down by his own government to defoliate the jungles. He'd been sick for a while, he said. And now it was time—time to pass the heart to a new guardian. The chosen recipient would be healed, fully and wholly, and in return, this man would assume responsibility for carrying on Durga's legacy and healing others.

Even through the haze of the drugs, Ben remembered thinking,
This story is bullshit.
And the CO must have seen that on his face, because he'd said, “I was once a skeptic like you, but I changed when I saw Durga's heart at work. It saved Willy. It saved me and gave me the power to save other men.”

“Is that why King is coming out here, to be saved?” Ben had asked. He realized there was a pipe in his hand. He did not recall accepting the CO's drugs.

The CO frowned through the smoke. “King's not exactly a model of commitment.”

“Because he left his family,” Ben mumbled. He was now too high to enunciate clearly.

“Because one day he puts his faith in Durga and the ancient warriors and the next he runs back to Tennessee. The world beyond”—the CO had waved his hand at the window and the black, unseen desert—“is like a drug for that man. Dangerous and addictive. But King is strong. He always manages to pull himself back here and continue our work. He could be a prime contender for the heart.”

Later there was more smoke and more talk, and, strangely, Ben had the needling sense that
he'd
been the one speaking. He felt empty, like only scraps of thoughts remained: a soccer ball, a charred metal cage, the sad, slow melody of “Sally in the Garden,” the steady, ominous beat of a heart monitor. Not being able to remember how all of these details fit together should have been a blessing. Instead, Ben felt more uncertain, more vulnerable. He didn't like the idea of his memories slipping around in the shadows, hiding from him. He should never have smoked the CO's drugs.

Dig in, shovel, throw dirt. Ben put his whole body into the motions.

“You should compete for the heart,” the CO had said. This Ben remembered clearly. The CO's blue eyes cut tunnels through the smoke. “You could be the next Carrier, the one to carry on Durga's legacy, the anointed! Do you want to know how?”

Had Ben nodded? The CO kept talking.

“The Greeks believed in catharsis, the purging of grief and fear after tragedy. You and I and King are all tragic heroes, and to heal we must attain catharsis. But catharsis doesn't just happen, Sergeant Thompson. The emotions and memories must be drawn out of the mind and re-created in the physical world. To that end, this interview has been quite helpful, should the opportunity for your catharsis present itself.”

The smoke seemed to part then, so Ben had a good look at the CO, the old man's massive face and the chalky hue of his skin.

“I'm not interested in your voodoo,” Ben said. “I'm getting my wife and we're going home.”

“After what you did to Becca? You really think so?”

How did the CO know what he'd done to Becca?

Ben plunged the shovel into the ground. What he'd dug was not a foxhole at all but a pit.
We will go home,
Ben thought.
I will make things right. I love her, and I will do anything to prove it.
He worked on through the night until the moon began to sink and the stars winked out.
Becca,
he thought finally, lying down beneath the bruise-purple sky.
Forgive me.

I
T WAS THEIR
last morning on the road. For Becca, it had been a full eight days since she'd left home, though it felt much longer. Rags appeared and motorcycles were cleaned of their grime, the chrome shined up and the leather brushed down, as though the men were preparing for some sort of mechanical horse show. These preparations were made quietly, almost solemnly, as though this day had been pronounced holy.

After breakfast, a medicine man in a bolo tie and jeans assembled the bikers into a circle. They stood in reverent silence as the man knelt over a small fire with a clay bowl, smoking with leaves. A complex series of smells—shades of sweet and bitter—filled the air. Then the medicine man began to move around the circle, wafting smoke over each man with a feather. In turn, the men cupped their hands and brought more smoke toward their faces, as though dousing themselves.

“Smudging ceremony,” Reno whispered to Becca as the medicine man made his way around.

When he reached her, he stopped. “You are the daughter?” he asked. “The one who requires special prayers?”

Hyperaware of so many eyes on her, Becca looked nervously at Reno. Reno nodded. “I'm Becca,” she said. The medicine man motioned for her to step forward. She looked at Reno again; again he nodded encouragingly.

“Close your eyes,” said the medicine man. Becca did and was aware of his voice, low and melodious. She could almost feel the smoke, like a translucent ribbon of silk, brushing her face. When she opened her eyes, she saw that the men were fixated on her. They not only believed in this ceremony, she understood, but were lending their conscious support to it—to this protective blessing over her.

She stepped back into the circle, feeling unexpectedly re-energized. Now Frank stepped forward and bowed his head. The entire circle, including the medicine man, bowed their heads too. Reno rolled his eyes at Becca, but he, too, bent his head. “Dear God,” Frank said. “We thank You for providing us the road, our sustenance. We pray to You for clear skies, mild temperatures, and safe passage into Utah. In Jesus's name, amen.”

“Amen,” the men said in unison. All at once, the circle disbanded.

“You ready?” Reno asked.

“I'm ready,” Becca said.

As she and Reno traveled deeper into the desert, Becca mulled over the rest of Reno's story. After losing Willy, Proudfoot became obsessed with Li Sing and Durga. He'd somehow accumulated a wealth of obscure knowledge about the village and the goddess, so Reno could only conclude that either his squad leader had been taken in by Willy's crazy or he had gone a little nuts himself when the kid didn't make it out. Meanwhile, Proudfoot never spoke about the mission or what had happened at the weapons hub. It was like Willy had never existed.

After Saigon, Proudfoot seemed to be his old self again, silent and stalwart as ever. Other than that one-time mention of the operation, he did not talk about Li Sing and Durga anymore. Maybe, Reno thought, Proudfoot was putting one over on them. Maybe it was just a big, fucked-up joke. But one night, Reno finally decided to ask about Willy. In response, the squad leader lifted his shirt and revealed the scar on his stomach. Reno was so disturbed that he told King about it the very next day. And from that moment, nothing was ever the same between the three men. King and Reno could not cross the gulf between their sanity and Proudfoot's madness. And it hurt them, Reno said, to realize that they could no longer depend on their leader—the man in whom they had once put total trust.

After the war, Reno settled in the Tennessee Smokies, found work as a mechanic, and eventually took over the shop. King didn't do nearly so well. After his parents kicked him out, he'd landed a tannery job in Dry Hills. He held it for a while, but Reno watched him descend deeper and deeper into alcoholism and depression. “Your daddy plummeted through all the circles of hell, and when he hit bottom, he just broke on through and kept going,” Reno said. At one point, King was barred from every bar in town as well as half the businesses. He was fired from the tannery. Barely twenty-five, King lived on charity in a busted trailer.