“You’re up, and looking like your old self! I’m glad.”
Mel realized with relief that he wasn’t going to bring up the night spent entwined in his arms or even refer to her nightmare. For a fraction of a second, he held her gaze when she turned to answer him. Our secret, his mesmerizing eyes seemed to promise. No need to ever mention it again. She hoped she could trust him.
“If you want a ride to the orphanage, I’m headed to that part of town. It’s on the way to the hospital.”
“Have you heard any more news?”
“No. That’s why I’m going to stop by and see for myself.”
“You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do? Write another Pulitzer Prize-winning article?” She flashed him a wan grin. I’m still a journalist, she was saying. Despite last night.
He nodded.
Twenty minutes later, he dropped her at the steps to the orphanage and waved goodbye.
When he was out of sight she turned in the opposite direction and headed toward the
Newsweek
office. She knew from the previous day the nursery at the orphanage would still be quiet. She had at least an hour before Tien and the other infants would be stirring.
She walked briskly. In alleys and under makeshift shelters, she could see the sleeping bodies of those who must have fled the north. Dogs wandered the streets sniffing at garbage. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.
She let herself into the deserted office, pulled the cover
off a Teletype machine and sat down. Without benefit of notes, Mel began a firsthand account of the rescue. The senior byline writers in the bureau would be doing investigative pieces, confirming the rumors of sabotage that had floated above the smoke and despair in the marsh. But they hadn’t been where she had been, mired in the mud, an eyewitness at the point of impact.
The words came quickly, images and vignettes pouring out of her brain as if exorcised by the act of telling. When she finished, she realized she was sweating. The story was on its way to New York when the first of her colleagues arrived.
“Where were you yesterday, Ames? All hell was breaking loose—at least, more than the usual chaos—and I didn’t have anybody to get me the specs on that C-5A that went down. Did you start the coffee yet?”
Mel put the cover back on the Teletype. Despite earning her own byline at the magazine on the strength of her reporting over the last three years, the older reporters still treated her like one of their research assistants.
“Didn’t have time, Joe. Gotta run. Doing some follow-up on the orphan story. The background on the C-5A is probably in the Lockheed file. The Ls are in the second drawer.”
She picked up her knapsack and slipped past him, trying not to react to the chagrin registering on his face.
As she hurried back to the orphanage she could see the refugees stirring from their piles on the streets—gaunt women with babies strapped to their backs, old men being helped to their feet by children who looked no older than four or five. A boy ran up to her with outstretched hands.
She dug into her knapsack and retrieved an unopened sleeve of Ritz crackers, which she handed to the boy.
Dessie had religiously supplied her with care packages ever since she’d left home for university and hadn’t stopped when she’d come to Vietnam. The familiar treats, plus necessities such as tampons and medications, had been a lifeline for her, even though she prided herself on her ability to adapt to Southeast Asian life.
The orphanage was astir with activity when she arrived. A group of unfamiliar women—aid workers, the porter said—were busy at a table in the former dining room of the villa with piles of documents. Mel went first to check on Tien. The little girl was awake in her crib, staring solemnly at a patch of light that had been prismed by an angled window.
Mel lifted her up and murmured a few words in Vietnamese. There was no recognition in Tien’s eyes and her body was stiff in Mel’s arms. The child lacked so much in caring and affection. Mel had hopes that a loving adoptive family would fill the emptiness.
“Can you help with the porridge this morning?” Sister Agatha was at her elbow. At least they were trying to fill the children’s bellies here. Mel followed the nun with Tien still in her arms to the orphanage refectory, set her in a high chair and began spooning a soupy rice gruel into her eager mouth. Sister Agatha brought in more babies and they worked their way through the nursery, with Mel managing to get most of the food into the babies’ mouths despite her fumbling. She was finishing up, wiping the remnants of the meal from the chin of the last baby, when two of the aid workers arrived in the refectory like women on a mission.
“There you are!” the older one blurted. She looked like a country club matron, with carefully coiffed blond hair and an outfit appropriate for shuffleboard on a cruise ship. The other one Mel sized up as ex-Army, all tightly buttoned up and rigid backbone compared to the flounce
and pastel softness of the blonde. She had a clipboard in her hand and was wearing sensible shoes.
“Reverend Mother told us about you, and first of all, let me thank you for what you’ve done for the children. It’s an honor to actually meet you!”
Mel wiped her sticky hands and put out her right one.
“Thank you. And you are…?”
“Oh, forgive me. I’m Pamela Boniface, and this is Trudy Parsons. We’re volunteers from the Vietnamese Rescue League, here to organize the evacuation of the children. I just arrived in Saigon and Trudy’s been on the ground for months. I’m the one who can pull the strings in Washington. Senator Smith and I go way back. His wife and I were college roommates and she’s godmother to one of my sons. Anyway, it was the senator who got the president to authorize American military transport for us. After yesterday’s tragedy, we need all the planes we can get, and we need to move quickly.”
“Which is why we’re coming to you,” Trudy interrupted.
“I don’t understand.” Everyone seemed to think Mel had some direct line to power and the ability to work miracles.
“Now that we have the planes, we have to staff them, not just with a flight crew, but with adults who can accompany the children and care for them on the flights. We’re putting the call out to any Americans within traveling range of Saigon. A contingent of Air Force nurses is coming from Hong Kong.”
“And you want me to write a story about this?”
“Oh, no! We want you to fly with the children from St. Agnes.”
Mel was stunned. It was the most ridiculous request that had ever been made of her.
“I’m not a nurse. Besides, my work is here in Saigon. I have no intention of leaving, especially not now.”
Did these women not understand what was happening in the city? Did they think she wrote the news from a safe distance? She couldn’t leave, not when one more story lurked amidst the chaos.
“I’m sorry. I’m not the person you need. I’m sure there are others here in Saigon who are desperately seeking to get out. The embassy must have a lengthy list.”
“Oh, my. This is a disappointment. Reverend Mother thought…Well, if you change your mind, we’ve got a plane for St. Agnes that will leave in a week. We’re trying to get the paperwork processed for all the children. It’s more problematic than I expected. The South Vietnamese government is not being as cooperative as I hoped.”
“Now
that
is something I can be more helpful with. I know my way around the Vietnamese bureaucracy. Tell me what you need.”
The disappointment expressed by Pamela was temporarily replaced with relief at Mel’s offer. Mel followed the two women to the dining room to gather the list of missing documents.
“I still hope you’ll reconsider, Miss Ames. Surely your family is anxious to see you.”
Mel didn’t respond. It hadn’t mattered to her father that she’d been gone for so long, since most of the time he’d been away, as well. But Mel knew how hard it was on Dessie. She’d been an incredible supporter, encouraging Mel to defy expectations throughout her upbringing, and had applauded Mel’s accomplishments all along the way. But when Mel won this assignment to Saigon she had seen that Dessie had tried to hold her worry in check.
“You have to take risks in life if you are to truly understand what it means to live,” she had preached to Mel whenever she had hesitated to do something she feared
or feared she might fail at. So Dessie had kept her mouth shut, hugged her hard at the departure gate the day she left and continued to send her care packages.
Mel took the list and headed off to the ministry. She was glad to be doing something familiar—extracting information from officials—instead of juggling the needs of children who couldn’t express themselves. She also didn’t want to be at the orphanage when Phil arrived to do his rounds.
The fear and unrest mounting in the city had breached the barricades of the ministry. Confusion, resistance and anger greeted her wherever she went. Department heads barked at her, fists were slammed on tables, more forms in triplicate were thrust into her hands.
Realizing that the direct approach was not winning her the cooperation she needed, she retreated to the
Newsweek
office and began making phone calls. If ever there was a time to call in favors, this was it. She spent the next few days shuttling between ministries and on the phone, tracking down those who had the authority, or access to the authority, to grant the children the permission to leave.
She didn’t stop as offices closed, but offered to meet her contacts in person at the Hotel Continental. She needed signatures, official stamps. If it meant a few hours in a smoky bar buying contacts expensive drinks, it wouldn’t be the first time.
She had just wrapped up one of those meetings, her own drink barely touched as she had coaxed and flattered the self-important bureaucrat opposite her. But she had gotten what she wanted, thanked him profusely and sank into the worn banquette as she watched him swagger out the door. She took a quick sip of her drink and began gathering up her things to leave. Her head was down, stuffing her knapsack, when she heard the familiar voice.
“You’re relentless, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?” She was caught off guard by Phil’s presence. She’d managed to miss him at the orphanage, something her intellect had told her was a good thing. She’d been able to focus on what she needed to do for the children of St. Agnes rather than agonize about her conflicted reaction to spending the night at his flat. But her emotional need catapulted to the forefront as he stood on the other side of the table.
“I watched you from across the room. You weren’t going to let him go until you got what you wanted. I wonder if he realized how well you played him.”
“I was playing for keeps.”
“I know. Reverend Mother told me you’ve taken on the entire South Vietnamese government to get the children released.”
Mel noted the admiration in his voice and acknowledged to herself that she cared about what he thought of her.
“Mind if I join you while you finish your drink?”
“Oh, I was going to leave it…get going…a long day.” She started to stand.
“Stay. Just a little while. I promise not to get on my soapbox about journalists.”
She hesitated. Every moment she spent with him widened the chink in her armor, exposed more of her vulnerability. No one had seen her cry like Phil Coughlin. No one had held her like Phil Coughlin.
She sat down.
I’m going to regret this, in one way or another.
“Why have you stayed in Saigon?” He looked around the nearly empty bar. Mel was the only woman.
“I could ask you the same question. Or rather, why did you come back?”
“You first.”
“Because there is still a story to tell.”
“And you told it. So why not leave now? Reverend Mother told me you refused a seat on the airlift.”
“Reverend Mother appears to be telling you a lot of things about me. Is she trying to get you to convince me to fly with the babies?”
“No. She didn’t volunteer any information about you. I had to pull it out of her. You don’t like having the tables turned, do you? It makes you uncomfortable to have someone else asking the questions.” He smiled.
She was startled by his curiosity about her. He was right, she was agitated—not because she found his questions intrusive, but because she found herself wanting to answer him. The heat she had felt simmering between them the morning after the crash—and the feelings she had managed to temper by avoiding him since then—now filled this desolate room. She took a gulp of her drink, staring into the sweating glass to avoid the intensity of his gaze.
“My turn. Why did you come back? I heard you left a job that would have set you up for life.”
“A life I didn’t want. My father, who
did
want it, blamed my decision on the Jesuits. I spent eight years being educated by them—high school and then Boston College. Despite my best efforts to live up to my early reputation as a scruffy, troublemaking kid from the streets of South Boston, I seem to have absorbed the lessons of Ignatian spirituality that permeated everything we did at school.”
“Ignatian spirituality?”
“The ideas developed by St. Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits—basically, that we are on a continuous search for how best to live an authentic life. We were taught to ask where God will best be served and where people will best be helped.”
“And the answer for you was not in Boston, but back here.”
“Yes. When I recognized that, I had no choice but to come back. I was miserable and empty in Boston, just going through the motions.”
“When I first met you, I thought that you were holding others to an impossibly high standard. Let me rephrase that. I thought that you were holding
me
to an impossibly high standard. But it’s
yourself
that you demand so much of.”
“You know, for someone who doesn’t like me very much, you seem to have your finger on the pulse of who I am. There aren’t many people who do.”
Mel didn’t deny that she disliked him. She’d never been able to camouflage what she truly thought of someone. But she was now recognizing that Phil’s arrogance and party-boy reputation were barriers he had thrown up to mask a deeply felt compassion that an ex-Marine was not supposed to show. It was only when he was with the children—at St. Agnes and during the rescue—that he let down the mask. And the night he had comforted her in her nightmare.