Word of Honor (56 page)

Tyson's eyes became clouded, and all he could see was the pig's malevolent red eyes squinting at him, then everything went black.

Tyson looked down at the book in his lap, then shut it. Sitting cross-legged on the floor had caused his knee to stiffen, and he stretched out his right leg. He vaguely recalled being carried to the medevac: helicopter and the ride, like a floating dream, out to sea.

After, when he woke on the hospital ship, he was told by the ward physician that he'd gone into shock, possibly morphine shock, and nearly died. The doctor questioned him about whether or not he'd received morphine in the field. Tyson had replied that he didn't think so. But blood and urine tests showed high levels of morphine. He overheard a doctor using the words therapeutic accident. The consensus was that Tyson, who as an officer sometimes carried a Syrette of morphine, had injected himself to relieve the pain. Then one or both of the company medics, not aware of any previous dose being given, injected him again,and finally the helicopter medic. had inadvertently given him the near fatal overdose. But that didn't fully explain the NM on his forehead, they agreed. Tyson had the impression that they wanted to let the unfortunate incident pass without official inquiry since it had not happened before. Tyson had considered giving the doctors his own conclusion, which was that medic Brandt had tried to murder him.

But why rock the Repose? Brandt had nearly committed a perfect crime, and it was no less perfect for Tyson having survived.

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Tyson stared down at the small logbook in his hands, then without further thought he threw it in the fire. He picked up a bellows and pumped air onto the fire until it blazed furiously, consuming the last scraps of his wartime reminders.

Tyson stood and began walking through the house. There were memories here too; ghosts in every chair, friends and family around the dining room table, people around the piano, bridge games in the den, making love to Marcy in front of the fireplace. There was the living room chair where his father had always sat, the place near the front windows where the Christmas tree always went, the comer in the kitchen where David's high chair had been, and the place in the foyer where David took his first step.

He went upstairs and wandered into David's room and stood there awhile, then looked into the two guest rooms and the spare room used as a second-floor sitting room. On the third floor was the garret with another whole suite for the maid's quarters, which were standard when this house was built. But these days, as Tyson was fond of saying, the live-in help slept in the master bedroom, so the third floor was totally unused. "What did we need all this space for? Were we trying to avoid each other?"

He recalled the house where he grew up, ten blocks away. It was about the same size as this one, but it was filled with people: his parents, his three sisters, his mother's mother and occasionally a spinster aunt, and a succession of mongrel dogs. "We are too selfish to have children anymore.

We farm out the elderly, and indigent relatives know better than to ask for a place to stay. No wonder we're all alone at the end."

He went into the master bedroom and picked up the telephone. He dialed.

Marcy answered, "Hello."

:'It's me."

'Hello, you.

"I want a baby."

Marcy replied, "Okay."

:'Maybe two. And a dog."

'Whoa. How's the house?"

:'Empty. Lots of nurseries."

'Are you all right?"

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"I'm fine. Mason is with me. I like Mason."

"He's probably a Democrat."

"He'd be a fool not to be." He said, "I don't think either of us is a nominee for the spouse of the year award this year. But I want you to know I love you."

Marcy said, "I love you. Very much. Hurry home. You're to be back at nine o'clock. I think I like the Army keeping you on a short leash."

He hung up, bounded down the staircase, and took his sport jacket from the foyer, activated the alarm, and left the house.

Mason opened the door of the running car, and Tyson got in. Mason slid behind the wheel. Tyson said, "We have a lot of stops. Got the time?"

"If you got the stops, I got the go."

Tyson laughed. "Okay. First stop, the country club."

Mason drove to the club, Tyson got out, went inside to the club secretary's office, and resigned his membership. They stopped next at the Men's Club, and he did the same. He got to his bank before closing and withdrew most of his savings in cash. He glanced in the side-view mirror a few times and said, "Mason, we're being followed."

"Know that."

"No sweat. Just my guardian angels."

"Okay. "

The limousine went up Franklin Avenue and stopped at the suburban branches of Bloomingdale's, Saks, Lord & Taylor, Abraham & Straus, and smaller chain shops in between. At each place, Tyson paid his charges off in real money, which caused some consternation, and he canceled all his accounts, which gave him a sense of acting out a long-held fantasy.

He directed Mason to some of the local merchants where he settled up all house accounts and canceled them. He took care of the last merchant, a florist, and got back in the limousine with a box of long-stemmed roses.

He passed the box over to the front seat. "These are for Mrs. Williams from Mrs. Tyson and me. Tell her we hope she's feeling better. "

Mason lifted the lid of the long box. "Why, thank you, Mr. Tyson. Thank you."

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Tyson sat back in his seat. "Let's just drive around town for a while.

Fifty-cent tour."

"Yes, sir."

Tyson lit a cigarette and watched the familiar landscape from his window: the cathedral, the hotel, the churches, the clubs, the parks, the wide tree-lined streets, the shops, the schools, and the little railroad stations. He said, "Do you know what this is called, Mason?"

"No, sir."

"In the military they call it burning your bridges behind you so you can't retreat but are forced to advance. Civilians might say it's just a last farewell."

Mason said, "You not ever coming back?"

"I have to act as though I'm not. If I do come back, well, that's the way it was meant to be. If I never see this place again I want to remember it as it was when I was happy here, long ago, and happy here again on a late August afternoon. "

Mason glanced at his passenger in the rearview mirror. He said, "In your head you never leave the place where you was born and raised. I ain't been back to Dillon, South Carolina, since I was seventeen. But I still has the place in my head. Strange, 'cause I wasn't none too happy there.

Oh, some of it was happy. I remember we used to go to this little church, and . . . aw, hell, ain't nothin' left there. 'Cept an old aunt."

"Go see her. See the place where Mason Williams walked the streets and went to school and church.

"Might do that."

Tyson lit another cigarette. He said, "Mason, are you following all this in the news? Of course you are."

"Yes, sir."

"And? What are your thoughts?"

"Well . . . hard for me to say, Mr. Tyson.

"How long have we known each other? I remember you driving me places when I was in grade school. My father used to put me in your car and say,

'Take this fathead to school. He missed the bus again.'

Mason laughed.

"Or, 'Take him and his juvenile delinquent friends to the 438 * NELSON DEMILLE

movies.' And a few times you took me into the city to meet my parents for dinner."

"Yes, sir. Them was good days. I liked your father."

"Me too. So give it to me straight. What do you think about all this?"

"Well . . . I think, Mr. Tyson ... you could have found some friends ...

could have stuck closer to your friends ... and they would've stuck closer to you. You got a lot of friends in this town."

"Do IT'

"Yes, sir. There was people who was on your side. There was talk of honorin' you at the Fourth of July party at the club. . . . I hear things when people sit back there, 'cause they don't think I hear nothin'. - He chuckled. "The other drivers talk too. Anyways, I never heard of nobody sayin' nothin' bad about you. Mostly they was unhappy for you."

Tyson nodded. "Maybe I got real paranoid."

"Maybe. Maybe you was unhappy in a lot of ways so you took it out on everybody."

"Could be. I'm happy now though."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"Yes, Sir, I seen it in your face and in your walk. I hear it in your voice. Ain't seen you like that in lots of years now. "

"A few other people have told me that. Why do you suppose I'm happy? I'm about to go on trial for murder."

Mason drove for a while before answering, "You're startin' over. Lots of folks don't get that chance. You goin' to get that thing squared away, then you goin' on, and this time you goin' to get things right. You got a fine missus, and she'll stand beside you."

Tyson smiled. "I hope to God you're right. Listen, drive past my father's house."

Mason nodded and swung into Whitehall Street. He stopped in front of the house where Tyson grew up, a brick and stucco Tudor. Tyson couldn't recall the name of the people who lived there now and didn't care. He stared at the secondfloor window that had been his room. He said, "When my father died, the cortege detoured past this house on the way to the cemetery. All the neighbors were out front. I didn't

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know that was going to happen. Took me by surprise. I cried. "

"I know. You was in my car." Mason pulled away from the house. "Now you done thinkin' about the past, Mr. Tyson. Where you want to go now?"

"I don't know. I don't have to be back until nine. They don't let me out that often. " He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes to seven, and the shadows outside the car were lengthening. Commuters were home by now, and he could visit any one of a number of people. But on what pretext? Did he need a pretext? "Drive over to Tulamore. "

Mason headed west, and Tyson directed him to a white clapboard colonial, the home of Phillip and Janet Sloan. He couldn't tell if anyone was at home and realized he didn't really want to see Phil Sloan. "Go on to Brixton. "

They drove past the McCormicks' house without stopping, then the houses of a few more friends, some of whom were in, some apparently not. Mason said,

"You wantin' to stop anywhere?"

"I don't think so. I just feel like an outsider who wants to look in. Do you think I should stop?"

Mason tipped his hat forward and scratched the back of his head. He said,

"I guess you know what's best."

"Well, I'm a little shy these days." Tyson looked at his watch. "I guess I can catch the eight-ten to Brooklyn."

"Yes, sir."

The black limousine pulled up to the station. Tyson said, "Mason, if you were a betting man what odds would you give me?"

Mason opened Tyson's door. Tyson got out, and both men looked at each other. Mason replied, "I said you looked happy. No man who done what they sayin' you done looks happy about it. You just tell them the truth. Let them see your eyes."

"Okay, I'll do that." Tyson held out a fifty-dollar bill.

Mason shook his head. "You been overtippin' me since you was a boy. This one's on me. You take care now." They shook hands. "Hurry on. I hear the train."

Tyson walked up to the platform and saw the train approaching from the east. A soft breeze was blowing, and it was from the north in contrast to the usual southerly ocean

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breeze. A harbinger of autumn. The sun was below the horizon, and the large houses on the south side of the station plaza sat in deep shadow.

A few cars remained in the parking field, a few wives waited for the city train. Farther down the tracks were tennis courts, and he saw a couple he knew, the Muellers, playing doubles with another couple. The station plaza, the new hotel, the library, and the parks formed a sort of old-fashioned village commons. This was the kind of place people pictured for themselves if they ever got nostalgic for the type of town that used to typify American life. Like many of the other commuter enclaves strung out along the great commuter rail lines radiating from New York, this was the best of worlds and the worst of worlds. It was both insular and part of the main. Marcy was right, and Marcy was wrong. It depended, he realized, on what was on your mind and what was in your heart.

He liked Robert Frost's definition of home: the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

But home was also the place where, when you strayed from it, they came looking for you.

That was not this place anymore.

The train stopped, and he boarded. He thought, There is something evocative about trains and railroad stations. The tracks and trains do run both ways. But there is a time in your life-and you don't always know which time-when you are going only one way.

He took a seat in the empty coach and drew from his breast pocket the picture of him and Teresa in front of the Hue Cathedral. He stared at it a moment, trying to reconcile the all-American boy in the photo with the man who had turned into a monster less than four weeks later. He stared at Teresa and marveled that even after a lifetime of warfare and death she looked very naive, very shy and innocent. But perhaps that was the answer. She'd been inoculated at birth against the sickness of the soul that follows on the heels of war. His mind and soul had no immunities whatsoever, and he'd become sick the day he went out on his first patrol through the countryside and seen the massive destruction of lives, property, and family.

He put the picture back in his pocket and closed his eyes.

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He realized that Fort Hamilton might be the last place he saw before an armed escort took him to a federal prison. He opened his eyes and looked out the window. Everything was looking better than he'd ever seen it. If he passed this way again, he'd have to remember that.

The early morning sun slanted in through the

venetian blinds of Ty-