We Were Beautiful Once (23 page)

“Counsel, be forewarned.  I'm giving you a very short leash on this, so measure your questions carefully. Proceed.”

Admonished, Nick looked at Lindquist guardedly and decided he would not press the matter of Jaeger's wife further, the damage was already done.

“Mr. Jaeger, when Mr. Harris asked, ‘At what rank did you retire?' you answered, ‘Master Sergeant.' You also said you were a First Sergeant. I want to clear something up. Mr. Jaeger, how many stripes did you wear on your uniform the day you retired?”

“Retired Sergeant First Class, yes one...  ”

“Not Master Sergeant, right?”

“No!” he answered, crestfallen.

“And you were relieved as a First Sergeant, is that not the truth?”

“Yes, after five years as a First...  ”  For the first time, Jaeger dropped his head.

Nick quickly followed up. “But to be clear, you didn't retire in that position, correct?”

“No,” he answered, shaking his head from side to side.

“Mr. Jaeger, when you went blind in 1977, you went to the VA in Harrisburg for medical treatment?”

“Yes, that's true.”

“The VA medical board turned down your claim that your condition was service related, isn't that true?”  

“Yes.”

“You appealed, did you not?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And, sir, what was the result of the appeal?”

“They turned down my claim, but the Army got involved, and they reversed themselves.”

“So you now have what's considered a service-connected medical disability?”

“Yes, sir,” Jaeger answered, impassively.

“Is your case coming up for review again?”

“It does from time to time.”

“And you are afraid that the VA will deny your benefits again, is that not true?”

“I suppose it's possible.”

“And it's possible you may need the Army to step in again, isn't that true?”

“I haven't thought that far ahead.”

“But if you needed them, you would want them to help you, right?”

“Yes, sir, but the fact remains that I—and a lot of men that served in Vietnam—went blind 'cause of... ”

“Do you feel beholden to the Army for turning your claim around?”

Harris broke Nick's momentum. “Objection, your Honor.  Counsel is badgering the witness; he isn't giving him a chance to complete his answers.”

Lindquist bore in on Nick. “Let the witness finish.”

“I ain't beholden to no one,” shouted Jaeger defiantly.

“Mr. Harris called you about this case, correct?”

“I think he called me, yes.”

“Did you not discuss your disability?  Isn't that what motivated you to testify here today, to ensure that the Army would be there when you needed them?”

“Objection!” bellowed Harris.

“Sir, I'm only here to...  I'm just here to...  ”

Lindquist trumped Harris' bellow with his own, “Counsel!”

Nick, knew the poison of doubt was already working.  “Withdraw the question. Thank you, Mr. Jaeger.”

Nick changed direction.

“And it is no coincidence that, at the time you went blind you were manufacturing denatured alcohol on your farm?”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“You are well aware that the consumption of denatured alcohol causes blindness, aren't you?”

“I never drank it. Why should I?”

“What did you make it for?”

Harris rose from his chair again. “Your Honor, this whole line of questioning is collateral. It has nothing to do with this case. The witness has denied the allegation put forth by Mr. Castalano.  I say let's move on.”

Lindquist furrowed his brow. “I agree. Counselor, he denied drinking it, so move on!”

Nick walked back to his chair and fell into it hard, tucked his hands beneath his ass, breathed in deep and exhaled long. “No further questions.”

Lindquist looked at Harris. “Counsel, redirect?”

“No, sir.”

Lindquist turned to Jaeger. “Sir, thank you for your testimony today. You are free to go. Marshal, let's take a five minute break.”

While Nick was sitting in his chair, a man holding a VFW service cap walked through the gate of the well to where Nick sat.

“Mr. Castalano, remember me?” he whispered.

Nick looked at the man, trying to place his face. “No, you look familiar, but no. Where do I know you from?”

“I'm one of those guys the VA sent you to destroy in 1980.  Remember me, Agent Orange?”

“Mister? What's your name, sir?”

“Jenkins, VA denied me, and you... ”

“Yes, now I recall.  But, Mr. Jenkins, I'd nothing against you. I was just doing my job.”

“You know, doctors givin' me six months now—multiple myeloma they call it.”

“I'm truly sorry, but... ”

“No need to be sorry now, but people like you are a disgrace—anybody ever tell you that? Did anybody ever tell you that you kill people—veterans?  That you kill veterans, and that you're a fucking government goon?”

“Sir... ”  Before Nick could say anything more, the man walked off in the direction of the gate. Nick studied him for a moment and, for an instant, wondered what he had done.  Whether he played a role in this man's fate.

 

When the Jaeger's left the room, Julie followed them to the foyer. “Mr. and Mrs. Jaeger, I'm Julie O'Conner. My brother was in Camp 13. And when you mentioned Conner, I thought that maybe you were talking about him.”

“Ma'am, I'm afraid I told them all I know,” Jaeger answered humbly.

“Well I can tell you what he looked like. I even have his pic... ”

Jaeger smiled. “Nah, that can't help. He seemed like a regular guy.”

“I was hoping that...  ”

“I'm afraid I can't be of any help. Good meetin' you.”

 

 

 

TEN MINUTES AFTER ADJOURNING COURT, Lindquist was sitting in Dr. Pendergrast's dentist's chair. The doctor, a portly man, waddled over.

“Okay, Joe, open up.” After forty-five years of poking around people's mouths, he showed little bedside manner as he peered through the spectacles that sat comfortably on his red, bulbous nose.

“Joe, the abscess perforated the bone, draining into the surrounding tissue.” He put his hand on a swelling on Lindquist's neck and said, “Does this hurt?”

“It's tender.”

The doctor reached under Lindquist's jaw, felt around, moved down his larynx, and squeezed. “Does this hurt?”

“A little.”

“You should have gotten here when you first felt the tenderness in the gum. Infection like this floods the bone, washing it away like soap. I'm going to have to take the tooth. There isn't enough bone left.”

“Do whatever you have to.”

“Well, we'll give you some nitrous oxide to dull the pain. I have to go up there and scrape the bone, after I remove the tooth. You're going to have a gap if you smile too wide, but there's little I can do right now. If you want a false tooth, I can build a bridge later.”

Lindquist's chair vibrated and his ears buzzed. His head dropped below his knees, and a dental assistant with a fair amount of cleavage moved beside him. He closed his eyes. “Take a deep breath, Mr. Lindquist,” she said, in a calmingly squeaky voice.

Within seconds he went from admiring long hair brushing tops of flourishing breasts to hearing, “Joe, wake up. We're done, Joe.”

Lindquist looked over and saw Pendergrast on a stool next to him.

“Joe, I felt this lump in your neck, and I want it looked at.”

Still drowsy, Lindquist came back, “Probably a swollen gland right?”

“I don't think so, but I'm not the expert.  I'd like you to get it checked out.  Probably nothing, maybe related to the infection, but I want to be sure.”

Uneasily, Lindquist asked, “What else might it be?”

Pendergrast knew what else it might be. “I don't know, but go see, Doc Reichhart over at the North Avenue Medical Center. He's an oncologist, and he'll let us know if it's nothing or something we need to deal with.”

“Oncologist! You mean...  ”

“Joe, I don't mean anything. It's a lump for God's sake. It could be anything. I don't remember seeing it last year. So let's not read anything into this. Let Reichhart tell us what it is.”

 

Later that day, Lindquist sat in his easy chair as the sun set, feet on the foot rest, his tabby Red squeezed between his hip and the armrest. He rubbed the knot of flesh on his neck to which he had paid no mind over the past several months. He pulled out his journal and wrote:

A witness today reminded me about the winter of '44, the one that shaped my fear—the kind of fear I saw in my father's face every time it rained hard, the kind of fear that I felt when the doctor told me Mattie had a week to live. The kind of fear I now feel toward what the doctor may say about the lump. Fear, will I ever conquer it?

He closed his eyes, and December '44 flashed before him. The rain had turned sleety, thawed mud thickened and froze in a diabolical cycle.  Where the wind blew hard, and snow packed itself into all corners of the foot-soldier's life. The enemy left behind twisted wire, booby traps and mines. Winter settled into daily routine, and the troops found refuge in burned out farmhouses, barns, pillboxes and foxholes. But such refuge did little to ward off pneumonia, trench foot. frostbite. The day before Christmas, while patrolling in the mountainous Ardennes, his squad took a wrong turn down a deserted road that turned into a forest opaque with sharp-sided hills and deep rapids. Eventually, they came to a no-name village. When they heard the distant, strained growl of diesels they found a small cottage where they laid low spying in the direction of the increasing sound. Finally, a brown tank came into view, escorting a dozen armored half-tracks and a column of ragtag foot-soldiers from the retreating
1st SS Panzer Division.

When the tank came within a hundred yards, it moved out of position and swiveled its turret toward the cottage. VROOM! A fast whistle followed a delayed thud. The first shell hit next door. The house collapsed into a pile of seventeenth century rubble. The turret groaned a few more degrees to the right, where the squad hid. Before the next round, Privates Joe Lindquist and Robby O'Halloran ran down a cobblestone alley to an abandoned rectory. The tank pounded the cottage until it too turned it into a pile of stone, marking the spot of another burial ground.

The tank twisted its turret toward the small church attached to the rectory. VROOM! A whistle, a wait and a thud. A bronze bell and its wooden headstock tumbled through the belfry.  Its clapper clanging one last time.

Hearing three more shells, the privates burrowed deeper into the corner of the cellar. Fifteen minutes later, VROOM! A whistle, nothing and then, a thud. The first floor of the rectory splintered into grains of sawdust and a thousand shards. Joe looked up at two precariously hung beams and beyond that, the dome of a placid night sky. The tank stopped shelling. A five-minute pause, and then a shell screamed in. The beams came down and wood, masonry, and shattered wine bottles covered Robby to his waist.

“You okay?” His body slumped forward. “Robby, you all right?” Lindquist pulled himself out of the rubble far enough to see his friend leaning forward. “Robby, you all right?” The soldier did not answer, his chin resting between the open lapels of his burgundy stained overcoat.  Blood spurted lazily from the side of his neck.

Lindquist shut his eyes, but he could not shut out the sound of crashing cymbals, the oversized pounding drums, concrete, exploding glass—unwrapping his senses only to be reset by the whistle of the goddamn shell. VROOM! Aged wine or Robby's blood—maybe both—painted the ancient walls purple.

When he heard the tank move on, Joe pulled a heel of gray bread from his overcoat and drank from a decapitated blue bottle. An hour passed and he stared, trembling through the gaping hole at the half-hearted moon, at the ominous apparitions of war. He was a man who would someday judge other men's intentions. A man who someday would sit in his armchair, with his red tabby and a legacy of dreams about tanks, hard earthy sounds, Robby O'Halloran's corpse, bread and wine, outlines and accidents that follow missed turns in the road, perhaps giving new meaning to the phrase:
In vino veritas
.

 

 

BARE-CHESTED, WEARING JOCKEY SHORTS and wool socks, Jack reached for the pack of Lucky Strikes on the stovetop. The phone rang. He tapped out a cigarette and put it to his lips. He fumbled the match, lit the cigarette and released a cloud of blue smoke as he ambled over to the phone.

“—ello,” he rasped.

“Jack? You 'wake? Geeze, it's nearly noon!”

“Julie?”

“Guess where I've been all week,” she snapped.

“Where?” He took a deep drag, letting the smoke out little by little.

“Goddamn court, that's where! Thought you were supposed to be there!”

“Couldn't make it,” he answered, sounding like he could not care less.

“You mean you've been goddamn drunk!”

“Why'd you call?”

“I heard some things that made me feel like dying,” she replied, signaling in her tone that she wanted sympathy.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Jack, what do you know about my boyfriend Roger?” she asked, shifting to a prosecutorial voice.

“What? Roger who? What're you talking about?” Jack put his thumb and index finger around his mouth and slid them down his chin.

“Roger, you know...  the guy I used to date.”

He took a deep drag. “For Christ's sake, are you crazy? That was thirty years ago. Are you feeling all right, or what?”