Word of Honor (10 page)

Tyson pushed the photostats aside. "How are you making out in school?"

"Okay. I I

"That's not what I hear."

"What do you mean?"

"You're catching some flak at school."

David looked at his father and replied, "I can handle it."

"Can you?"

"You always told me to handle my own problems. You bawled me out once when I was a kid and came home crying about something that somebody did to me. So I don't come home crying anymore."

Tyson regarded David for a few seconds. "But this is different. This is my fault. You can complain to me."

"I'm not complaining. Anyway it's not all bad. Some guys . . . and girls

. are sort of friendlier than they used to be."

Tyson nodded. "I'm having the same experience. But watch out for that too."

"I know."

Tyson realized he was looking at his son in a new light. David was one of those boys who thought their own father was a better person than their favorite rock star or professional athlete. This was perhaps a rarity these days, but perhaps it was not so rare, just unspoken and never put to the test. Regardless, it was what it was and it must run in his family because Tyson had always hero-worshiped his own father. "Do you want a beer?"

David hesitated, then nodded. He went to the refrigerator and brought back two bottles. He opened them and slid one toward his father, then sat again.

Tyson and David drank. Tyson thought of Gene Conroy, who had come up to him in the Men's Club, a man Tyson barely knew, and apologized to Tyson for his son Derek's behavior toward David. That was the first Tyson had heard of any such problem. Yet he knew some of that must be going on and that there was great potential for cruelty among children. The children of Alpha Company had shown him

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the limits of cruelty. And Tyson wondered, without dwelling on it too long, if David could ever be a member of Alpha Company. In a way, he hoped his son had some of that cruelness in him, because if he did not, he would not survive in the world in which he lived. "Adults have deceived nearly every generation of youth into dying for them and their causes. Do you understand that?"

"I think so."

"I don't want you fighting for me. I'm talking about Derek Conroy, as one instance. -

David studied the label on the beer bottle. "I don't have to take any crap from anybody."

"Okay, as long as you're defending yourself, responding to personal insults, or whatever. But don't defend my honor."

"Why not?"

"I just told you. Adults con the young into fighting their battles. "

"You haven't conned me."

"Haven't IT' Part of the process of growing up, Tyson thought, of losing whatever innocence that was still part of childhood, was receiving a cruel blow from someone you cared about. It was time, Tyson decided, for David to be disabused of the notion that his father was innocent. In that way, David could grow, could fight for the real Ben Tyson if he chose to; not the idealized one. He said, "I'm going to tell you what no one outside of my platoon knows. I'm going to tell you, as best I can, what happened at Mis6ricorde Hospital. Okay?"

David nodded hesitantly. "Okay."

Tyson said, "First thing you should know is what Picard said in his book is mostly true. My platoon massacred over one hundred men, women, children, and infants. The youngest man in my platoon was not much older than you. His name was Simcox, and I saw him shoot a nurse about the same age as himself. Do you want me to go on or not?"

David bit at his lower lip. Finally he said, "No." He stood. "It doesn't matter. I knew it was all true. I don't care. I'm going upstairs."

"And pull the covers over your head?"

"I don't want to hear it, Dad."

Tyson nodded. "Okay. As long as you understand that 76 0 NELSON DEMILLE

what people are saying and writing about me is at least partly true.

Understand too that this has nothing to do with you. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You are David Tyson, and you are your own person."

David walked toward the kitchen door, then turned back. "How about what people are saying about Mom?"

Tyson did not know quite how to deal with this. Somehow he was more willing to discuss mass murder with his son than the subject of Marcy's past. Tyson said, "A man or woman's past personal life is no one's business but their own. Your mother never hurt a soul, and no one has any right to hurt her or try to hurt me or you through her. Don't respond to any of that. "

David replied, "I have to be honest with you, Dad. It wasn't you that asshole Conroy was talking about. It was Mom. "

Tyson drew a deep breath. "Idiotic."

"I get these filthy notes shoved in my locker. Dad, if you want to talk to me about something, talk to me about all that crap about Mom."

"There's nothing to say. Most of it is lies."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Go to bed, then. It's late. We'll talk again."

David nodded. "Night." He left.

Tyson sipped on his beer. My God, he thought, that kid's world fell apart. Yet, he showed no outward signs. Tyson finished his beer. David, he decided, was tougher than he'd suspected. But it would be a race between the end of the school term and the end of David's ability to cope. Poor David. Poor Marcy. Poor Ben.

Marcy Tyson placed the grocery bag on the breakfast counter. Ben Tyson was still sitting on the stool reading, a cup of coffee in his hand. He said, "Hello. Back already?" He didn't look up.

"No, I'm still at the supermarket."

"Good." He turned a page and yawned.

Marcy said, "It was weird. Bizarre. I mean at the checkout. There I was on the cover of the American Investigator. Can you believe it? A housewife's dream come true."

Tyson looked up from the paper.

WORD OF HONOR * 77

Marcy continued as she began unpacking the bag, "They covered my crotch with a black strip. But my tits are right there. Jesus. Who needs it?

Right?"

Tyson watched her closely as she went about emptying the brown bag. She did not seem upset, but he suspected she was. She looked very young tonight, he thought, dressed in a cotton khaki skirt, sandals, and a navy blue knit shirt open at the collar.

He looked at the kitchen clock. It was nearly midnight, not the Tysons'

normal hour to go marketing. He looked at the groceries piled on the counter. "Did you buy that ragwhat's it called?"

"The American Investigator. " She hesitated, then added, "It's in the car."

He nodded. Life in the Tyson household had become somewhat surreal, not to mention furtive and xenophobic. He had taken to varying his methods and times of commuting to New York, though Marcy continued to take her regular train. They generally avoided social contact, and he had dropped out of the tennis tournament at the club. They no longer dined at local restaurants, though he still went to the Men's Club, which was a world unto itself.

Tyson played with the sugar cubes, building a tower on the countertop.

He spoke without looking up. "As a public relations person, can you explain to me the dynamics of this thing? I mean, how did we become hot news?"

Marcy put away some canned goods. "Lots of reasons. Andrew Picard is hot, for one thing. He's good on talk shows. Not bad-looking either. Maybe this is a slow news month. But remember, Ben, the central belief of the public relations business: 'There's no such thing as bad publicity. I I I

"Well, this shit looks mighty like it." He added another course of cubes to his tower. Picard. After the Times book review, Picard had appeared on radio and television, hawking his wares. And Picard knew what interested his audience. And it wasn't the battle of Hue. That was an abstract subject, too boring for the electronic media. Picard spent his airtime wisely, focusing on the Mis6ricorde Hospital massacre, as it was now known.

Tyson had actually heard Picard on the car radio one 78 * NELSON DEMILLE

morning, and if he hadn't read the book, Tyson would have believed that the entire thirty-nine chapters were devoted to Benjamin Tyson and his gang of psychotics shooting up a hospital with the rest of the massive month-long battle only a sideshow for that main event.

Marcy broke into his thoughts. "This is the sort of thing a publicist prays for. Moving from the fluff and entertainment pages to the news pages.

Authors have wet dreams about being mentioned in somebody's column."

Tyson nodded as he concentrated on the tottering tower. Hue: Death of a City. The book had been given a piece in Newsweek. Could Time be far behind? The book had appeared on the Sunday Times bestseller list two weeks ago and was climbing. Picard must be pleased. Tyson added a flying buttress to steady the tower.

"These things achieve a critical mass of their own," explained Marcy. "You understand? It becomes news because it has become news. That's not to say it isn't a good story. I mean, let's be objective here, Tyson. And it doesn't hurt to be twenty-five miles from the news center of the world.

We'd get off easier if we lived in Omaha. That's a fact. "

Tyson blew gently on the hexagon-shaped tower and watched it sway.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"This is the gleaming white marble tower that stands on the desolate brown plains of Formica. It is the last bastion of civilization in a dying world.

The last learned men and women have gathered here-" He blew again and a cube toppled to the brown countertop. "But savages have surrounded the tower, and--

"Are you well? I mean, should I call a white van, or what?"

He looked up. "Just playing. Men never grow up. I think you said that once or twice."

"Anyway . . ." She turned and put some packages in the freezer. "Anyway, I spoke to the local fuzz this morning, and they were sympathetic. However, it seems that laws about harassment, blocking traffic, causing a public nuisance, and so on apply only to mortals and not to newspeople unless you get a court order or something.... If

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those shits set up their cameras outside again-" She slammed the freezer door.

Tyson recalled the local TV station that had thrown together a half-hour news show on the unfolding drama. There was an interview with Picard, alternating with stock footage of the battle of Hue. The war had returned to the American living room. And it was good footage, aerial stuff of the burning city, then close-ups of the Marines ttying to cross the Perfume River over the one remaining railroad bridge, the university crammed with miserable refugees. And not your typical peasants, but upper-middle-class Vietnamese, students, doctors, priests, monks, and administrators. The cream of society, filthy and forlorn, weeping for the cameras. Very good footage.

The show had ended with a reporter standing outside a house, and it had taken Tyson a moment to realize it was his house. The reporter had done his wrap-up as the camera panned the block of substantial houses, taking in a few curious neighbors. Then the camera had zoomed in on Tyson's front door.

The reporter had closed with, "Behind this handsome door is the one man who can answer Andrew Picard's questions. But that man is not talking. And it remains to be seen whether or not he will ever talk about what happened at that hospital eighteen years ago."

Tyson_ tapped the countertop sharply and watched the tower bounce, then settle back without collapsing. "Earthquake. Severe damage, but the tower built by the world's last master builders stands. " Tyson yawned again, then turned back to his wife. "You know, Marcy, for all the interest people have shown in me and my difficulties, I suspect that a good number of them haven't actually gotten around to reading the relevant chapter in Picard's book. Yet they all think they know what it's about."

Marcy yawned also. "They're waiting for it to be made into a TV movie, Ben.

" Marcy put away the last of the groceries. "Thanks for helping."

"Sorry . . . I was thinking." He lowered his head, eye level to the sugar cube tower. "I see the major damage-"

Marcy flicked her finger and the tower collapsed in a heap.

"Bitch." He swept the cubes to the side and blew away 80 0 NELSON DEMILLE

the sugar granules. "Do you want me to re-create the battle of Hue with sugar cubes?"

"Maybe in the morning."

"After reading Picard's book I know what happened." He quickly laid out a line of cubes. "This is the south wall of the Citadel. Okay? Each wall was two miles long. All right, the south wall abutted the north bank of the Perfume River-- He looked around, spotted the milk pitcher, and poured a stream of milk over the countertop. "That's the Perfume River. Pretend.

Okay, this is the canal-" He trailed his finger through the milk and formed a small tributary. "Okay, help me with the other three walls. Do you have any more sugar cubes? We have to build the Imperial Palace here, and construct the walled enclave in the northeast comer of the Citadel, where Picard had gotten himself trapped with the South Vietnamese soldiers.

That's over here. Three full battalions of the First Cav were approaching from the north. Their mission was to relieve the pressure on the Marines and ARVN---that's the South Viets-and to block escape routes to the north and interdict enemy supply and reinforcement attempts. Got it? This sugar tong and these two spoons represent the three cavalry battalions. Follow?

Okay, the tong is my battalion, the Fifth Battalion of the famed Seventh Cavalry. But my company was detached and we were more to the west. Here. My platoon was further detached and I was operating alone. Here. I was advancing along the north bank of the river. Hue was burning to my front.

Now this little fucking sugar cube is H6pital Mis6ricorde. Okay?" He looked at her. "Why aren't you building those walls?"

Marcy Tyson turned and went to the cabinet over the trash compactor. She retrieved a bottle of Grand Mamier and filled half a water tumbler. "Want one?"

"No thanks."

She noticed he had completed the four walls of the Citadel without her help. "Ben, cut it out. Seriously."

He looked up and his eyes found hers. He smiled and swept away the sugar cubes.