Black Maps (5 page)

“Heavy fucker, ain't he?” Freeze's partner said, as they hoisted the stretcher.

The next day the stand-down ended and the company was sent back out on line. They stood inspection, marched to the air field, climbed aboard the choppers and flew north over the jungle, finally setting down in the brush and bamboo of Tay Ninh province. Freeze was glad to be in the bush; he'd rather be in the shit, where all you had to worry about was someone greasing you, than in camp, where pogue officers like Reynolds policed your every move. He figured that Reynolds would let up on him now, but if he didn't, Freeze would pick his moment and frag his ass.

Reynolds didn't let up. The first day after they'd finished carving Fire Base Molly out of the jungle, stripping the foliage down to the bare dirt, digging bunkers, and stringing coils of concertina wire around the perimeter, he dispatched Freeze, Konieczny, and Clean to secure a helicopter supply drop for a tank column—three men to defend thousands of gallons of diesel fuel and tons of ammo.

“One dink with a hand grenade could blow the whole damn drop to Saigon,” Freeze complained, though he didn't really care.

Reynolds looked at him. “The tank column is due at 1900 hours. Saddle up.” Then he turned and walked away.

Freeze raised his hand and sighted down his index finger at the lieutenant's back.
Bang.

Duckwalk turned to him, his thumbs hooked behind the silver buckle of the NVA belt he'd souvenired from a sniper. “Relax, bro,” he said. “He's just the Army. What you expect him to do—be your friend?”

Freeze didn't say anything. He shouldered his pack and headed out toward the supply drop with Konieczny and Clean. When they got there, Konieczny sat on one of the crates and radioed back to Reynolds. Freeze broke open another crate. “Chocolate milk,” he said, taking out a carton and shaking his head. “Chocolate fucking milk.”

“What's your problem, Freeze?” Clean said. “I'm getting sick of this shit. We're all getting sick of it.”

Freeze looked at Clean. Then he opened the carton and took a drink. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Whatever you do,” he said, “don't let this milk fall into enemy hands.”

Then he turned and humped off into a stand of bamboo a couple of hundred meters away and crawled down into a crater left by a mortar shell. He lay there, smoking a Park Lane, and thought about greasing Reynolds. He had to be careful; if he got caught, they'd put him in Long Binh Jail and the only world he'd go back to would be Leavenworth. But even that might be worth it. He imagined Reynolds face-down on the ground, his brains leaking out his open mouth. As soon as Reynolds was dead, he could rest. Everything would make sense again and he'd be at peace. He took out another joint and smoked it. The sun bore down on him, its heat a heavy weight, and soon he fell asleep.

He didn't wake until he felt the ground tremble and heard the steel rumble of the tanks. The sun was hovering over the edge of the horizon, staining the countryside a dusty red. Climbing out of the crater, he sauntered back to the supply drop. He came up to Konieczny and Clean just as the tanks rolled over the rise.

Clean looked at him. “Thanks for your fucking help.”

Konieczny looked down the road and didn't say anything.

Freeze didn't know Clean had reported him until the next day, when Reynolds led the platoon on a reconnaissance-in-force. They humped through the jungle all morning, sweating under their packs; then, toward midday, they smelled shit cooking in the heat. It had to be an NVA camp. Through a stand of bamboo, they spotted a row of bunkers. Reynolds ordered Freeze's fire team to go in first, and they approached in a cloverleaf pattern. But the camp was abandoned. Bombers had attacked it, probably no more than a week before, and there were tank-sized craters everywhere. In a few places, the ground was still white from the phosphorous the spotter plane had dropped to give the B-52s their target. There was no sign of the NVA anywhere. Still, Reynolds ordered Freeze to check out a bunker that hadn't been caved in by the bombs.

“It's crawling with fire ants,” Freeze said. “There's no gooks in there.”

“I said check it out, Harris.”

“Why me?” Freeze said.

Reynolds glared at him. “Yesterday I gave you a direct order, and you subverted it. It will not happen again.”

Freeze looked at Konieczny, then at Clean. Clean crossed his arms on his chest and looked back.

So Freeze climbed down and checked the bunker out, and when he came scrambling out a moment later, the ants were all over him. He jumped up and down, swatting and swiping at the red sons of bitches, while the men laughed at him.

“You bastard,” Freeze said to Reynolds. “You motherfucking bastard. I'm not going to eat any more of your shit.”

“Oh yes you will,” Reynolds said. “You'll eat it. You'll lick your plate clean, and you'll ask for more.”

Freeze stood there, breathing hate, and stared at Reynolds, an animal snarl on his face. He hated him more than he'd ever hated the NVA. He hated him more than the heat and the jungle, the leeches and mosquitoes, the monsoon rains, the smells of sulfur and shit and death, more than his sixty-pound pack, the blisters on his shoulders, the wet socks, the jungle rot and immersion foot, more than the lizards that cried
fuck you, fuck you
in the night, the thump of mortars, the booby traps, more even than the mine that hadn't gone off.

“That's a negative,” Freeze said, and before Reynolds could move, he snapped the bolt of his M-16, chambering a round, and shoved the flash suppressor into his belly, just under his ribs. The blood was drumming in his temples.

Reynolds sucked in a breath. The men stepped back. “Holy shit,” Konieczny said.

“Take it easy, bro,” Jackson said. “Everybody's watching. You don't want to do nothing when everybody's watching.”

Freeze ignored him. He stared at Reynolds. Reynolds opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He closed and opened it again. Sweat began to bead on his upper lip. Freeze focused on one of the beads, and waited for it to slide down his lip and break. But it didn't move. It hung there, as if time had stopped, as if there were no more time.

Then everything went out of Freeze. What was he so angry about? It didn't mean anything anymore. It didn't seem real. Nothing seemed real. The drop of sweat. The circle of men staring at him like he was a gook. Reynolds. He looked around at the craters that surrounded them. They could be on the moon. He lowered his rifle and sat down in the red dust, suddenly dizzy. His hands were trembling.

Then Reynolds blinked and swallowed hard. He looked around him and finally found words. “Konieczny,” he said, his voice shaking slightly, “get on the horn to HQ. We need to call in a chopper to remove Private Harris to the stockade.”

Konieczny said, “Yes sir” and began to call headquarters.

Reynolds looked down at Freeze then and, squaring his shoulders, said, in a voice that shook now more with anger than fear, “Get this son of a bitch out of my sight. Get him out of here before I kill him.”

But Freeze didn't hear him. He wasn't there. He had stepped on the mine and he was rising into the air, twisting and turning in the bursting light for one last peaceful second.

This couple came in and took a table in the far corner, where the shadows almost swallow up the candlelight. That's how I knew they were lovers, not father and daughter. That, and the way he held her hands and leaned over the table, his eyes never leaving her face all the while he talked to her. He was old enough to be her father, though: at least forty-five, maybe fifty. But his hair was that sort of premature gray that somehow makes a man seem younger instead of older, and he had the tan of a movie star or a doctor. He was wearing a white sport jacket and a navy knit shirt open at the neck, and he had two silver rings on his left hand. The girl was just a girl, blond, like they always are at that age, at least for a summer. She wasn't wearing any make-up that I could see, but then who needs it when you're that young? I'd seen the dress she was wearing—one with a lacy yoke and puffy sleeves—in the window of Cohn's, so I knew it was expensive. I wondered if he bought it for her, or if her daddy did.

Of course I thought right away about Roy and that high school dropout of his. How could I help it? I try not to think about him, but what can I do? Lenny tells me to forget Roy and marry him, but it's not that easy. We were married sixteen years. His new wife was still crawling around in diapers when we walked down the aisle.

Just thinking about Roy took the breath out of me. I can be going along, doing my job, happy, not thinking about anything, and then all of a sudden I think about him. I should expect it by now, I suppose, but I'm always surprised. That night, the thought of him hit me so hard I wanted to go home, make myself a drink, and climb into a tub full of soapy water. But I couldn't go home. I had two more hours left on my shift, and besides, Lenny was there, and he'd want to know what was wrong. I thought of asking Tia to take their table for me, but she already had a full section and I didn't want to have to explain. So I took two menus out of the rack and started through the imitation arbor toward their table.

I don't know why, but somehow I just knew they were talking about his wife. Maybe it was the way they were leaning over the table, like conspirators, or maybe it was how they were smiling. I don't know. But as I walked toward them, I could almost hear him saying
the old bitch
, just like Roy did when he introduced me to his dropout after the divorce:
I'd like you to meet the old bitch
. The old bitch.
Me
. She didn't look a day over sixteen, but I didn't say anything. I had something all planned, some comment about how Roy had finally gotten the baby he'd always wanted, but when I got my chance, I couldn't say it. I just waved my hand, like I was dismissing two children. Then I watched Roy's green Pontiac speed down the street. That was almost two years ago now, but sometimes I still find myself imagining that old car driving up to our house and Roy stepping out, a sheepish smile on his face, and saying, “Honey, I'm home.” I don't love him anymore—it isn't that. If he asked me to marry him again, I'd say no. I just want him to come home, to say he'd been wrong to leave.

Then I thought about Lenny, sitting home alone all these nights, waiting for me to give him an answer, and I started to feel so trembly I stopped at an empty table near theirs and pretended to straighten the placemats and silverware while I got ahold of myself. I was close enough then to hear what they were saying, and I almost had to laugh, I'd been such a fool. They weren't talking about his wife, or divorce, at all. They were talking about
clay-eaters
.

“What they do,” the man was saying, “is they mix the clay with tomato soup. They call it river beans.”

The girl shook her head. “I can't believe it. I could understand it if they were starving or something, but why would anyone
want
to eat clay?”

“They crave it. No one knows why, but they do. If one of them moves away from the river, they crave it so bad their relatives have to mail them packages of it.”

“Care packages full of dirt,” the girl laughed.

I'd been a perfect fool and I knew it. Still, when I finally went up to their table, I felt my stomach turn over the way it would if I were waiting on Roy and his new wife. “Hello,” I said, my voice wavering a little, and set the menus on the red and white checked tablecloth. “My name is Gloria, and I'll be serving you this evening.”

The girl flicked a strand of blond away from her eyes and smiled at me. “Tell me, do you have river beans tonight?” Then she and the man laughed.

“You'll have to excuse us,” the man said. “We've been talking about a TV special I saw, about these people in Kentucky who eat clay.”

“Real clay,” the girl added, like I didn't understand.

“That's right,” the man went on. “They dig it up out of the banks of the Ohio River and eat it. Not just poor people either: bankers, doctors, you name it.”

He smiled.

I can't explain why, but right then I decided I had to give Lenny his answer. I couldn't wait another night.

“I'll be back in a minute to take your orders,” I said, then turned and went back to the kitchen. Edward, our cook, was spreading pepperoni slices on a pizza crust. He took one look at me and said, “Hey, Sunshine, what's the problem?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “I can see that.” Then he wiped his hands on his apron like he was going to give me a hug and make everything all right.

“Don't touch me,” I said. “I'm fine.”

When Lenny and I first met, I didn't know what to think of him. He wasn't anything like Roy. Roy was short, like me, and burly with a coarse black beard, and Lenny's tall and lanky and he has a dirty brown mustache that he chews whenever he's nervous, which is almost always. Roy never said what he was thinking much, but Lenny, he'll say whatever comes into his head. When I sat down in the chair opposite him in Dr. Phelan's waiting room, he asked me, “What's wrong with you?” At first I was going to snap back something like “None of your business,” but when I saw his face, so shy and friendly, I couldn't help but tell him about my varicose veins. “I'm on my feet a lot,” I said. Then he said, “I'm here to find out if I've got Agent Orange or just some dumb allergy,” and he opened his top shirt buttons and showed me his red, raw chest. “Horrible, isn't it?” he said. “I look like a napalmed gook. Isn't that a joke?” I must have made a face because he said, “I'm sorry. I've got to learn to shut up. I've got a big mouth, and I don't think before I open it.” Then he grinned and pointed at his head. “Post-traumatic Stress Disorder,” he said, rolling his eyes. The way he said it made me laugh, but only for a second, and then I was embarrassed. I felt like I had to say something, so I said, “Have you been coming to Dr. Phelan long?” And he said, “You know, you're really pretty. But you shouldn't wear green. I think you'd look better in blue. A light blue, powder blue I think they call it. It'd show off that frosting in your hair.”