And Yesterday Is Gone (19 page)

Picking up the phone, I was surprised to hear Sis' voice.

“Can you come home this weekend, Steve?”

Hesitating, I said, “Gee, Sis, I've got a game I gotta go to, and one to write up now. Maybe next week.”

“Steve, you've gotta come home.”

“Is anything wrong? Is Ma okay?”

“Yeah, she's okay.”

“Well, maybe next weekend when I get caught up—I'm rushed.”

“Steve, you've got to come home.”

“Sis, what the hell is going on?”

“I'm pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” I yelled. “How in hell can you be pregnant?”

“The usual way,” came her sarcastic response.

“Sis, that's not funny. What's the problem?”

“Damn it, I just told you. I'm pregnant.”

My mind whirled and my rage grew. The phone shook in my hand.

“Who is it?” I could hardly force the words out.

“Tim, of course.”

“I'll kill that son of a bitch. Couldn't he keep it in his pants?”

“Hell, no.” Her voice rose about ten octaves. “I kept it in mine.

“Don't be so self-righteous. I suppose you've kept yours in your pants just because Ma told you she'd cut it off with the chicken knife. Tim doesn't scare that easy.”

“Well, what are we going to do?” I asked helplessly.

“I don't know about you, but Tim and I are going to elope to Reno and get married. He's got a three-day pass.”

“Married? You're going to get married? Sis!”

“What is the matter with you, Steve? I've known Tim since sixth grade, and here's the clincher: we love each other. So do you want to come with us or not? We need a witness.”

“You just want me there when you tell Ma.”

“Well, yeah, that, too. Ever since Tim got caught joyriding in somebody else's car, Ma hasn't liked him. She forgets that I was in the car, too. We didn't hurt a damn thing—didn't even mess up the backseat.”

“Sis!”

“S'cuse me—I forgot I was talking to a virgin. Seems to me you would want to be with your only sister—the first time…”

“What first time? The marriage, the baby, or…”

She hung up on me.

I drove home the next morning. Ma and I had a good visit that included biscuits and gravy—and chocolate cake.

“Sis is off some place with that marine. I hope they ship him off to China,” Ma complained.

Knowing how upset she was going to be, I felt guilty as hell and wished I wasn't going to be involved. But how could I not? Sis and I had always been closer than most siblings—and she
was
pregnant.

Ma had always planned that Sis would have a big church wedding with bridesmaids and a long white dress. She was going to hurt, and Sis was going to need my help to defuse her.

•  •  •

We sneaked out early before Ma was awake.

The deed was done in a commercial-looking little wedding chapel with fake flowers and a minister who looked as though he'd had a hard night at the casino. He stunk so bad of cigarette smoke that I nearly choked.

We went to a big buffet brunch and then home to face the music.

Ma was pissed.

“You've been gone all day. I thought you came home to visit. Sis went some place, too—I s'pose with that Tim.”

Ma's eyes widened as she saw him come in behind Sis, but with her usual hospitality, she put the coffeepot on and brought out what was left of the cake.

“What happened to you kids? I was going to make hotcakes and sausage, but I woke up to a deserted house. Well, sit down and be comfortable. Coffee will be done in a minute.”

Shifting from one foot to another, I wished that I was in China.

Tim sat. I will admit that he looked good in those dress blues.

Sis went into the bedroom to leave her coat.

Ma said politely, “How do you like the marines, Tim? I s'pose you'll be shipped out soon. Your training must be finished, isn't it?”

“Well, actually, I've been promoted to sergeant and my orders are to stay stateside, working with a gunnery crew.”

“How nice,” Ma said. I didn't dare look at her.

Sis came back and gave me a desperate look.

Ma was setting the table when she glanced at Sis. “My, Sis, you sure look pretty. Is that a new dress?”

Silently, Sis held out her hand with the simple gold wedding band. I closed my eyes.

Ma gasped and held her breath so long I thought she'd turn blue, then sobbed, “Oh, Sis, you didn't…you couldn't…please. Oh, no.”

Sis cried like her heart would break. I knew she was crying for Ma.

Tim stood and put his arms around Sis. I went to Ma.

Looking right into Ma's tearful eyes, Tim said, “Yes, we did, and we'd like your blessing. I promise you'll never have cause to regret it. I've loved her since sixth grade. Please be happy for us.”

Ma put her arms around Sis, their tear-wet cheeks touching. Somehow Tim managed to squeeze in, so I wrapped my arms around the whole package and somehow it all came together.

•  •  •

I tried to call Ma as often as possible. The last time she said, “Here's some news for your newspaper—Sis is pregnant. No wonder her bedroom screen was off.”

Laughing to myself, I was glad that I was out of reach.

Ma's birthday was coming up and Sis would be making plans for a celebration. My mouth watered as I envisioned the good home- cooking, and I could almost taste the chocolate birthday cake.

I had talked with Juan but hadn't seen him in over three months. The last time he had called, excited about a painting that Mamá Sara had finished, he said he was painting, too. He kept me on the phone for thirty minutes as he enthused. I could feel the grin creeping across my face—I thought he sounded as obsessed with his painting as I was with my writing.

I was excited and happy for him, my friend.

We'd come a long way.

•  •  •

I was still the new kid on the block, so I was flattered when the managing editor, Prentiss, sent me to interview a Vietnam vet, an old schoolmate of his.

Veterans Day was fast approaching.

I found the vet holding a can of Budweiser and waiting beside the door of a little rundown café on the corner of a small airfield. I showed him my press card; he transferred his beer to the other hand and we shook.

“Just call me Al,” he said in a slow, quiet voice.

He was shorter than me with hair that had started to gray under a greasy cap, about a two-day stubble of beard on his chin, and bloodshot eyes that looked like he'd just come off a big one and wished he hadn't. A sweatshirt was pulled over a belly just beginning to show, and his jeans apparently had been overlooked when the laundry was done.

“C'mon, let's sit in the plane where we'll have a little privacy.”

He led the way to a small plane that seemed dwarfed between two larger, obviously newer aircrafts. As he climbed in, he said over his shoulder, “She ain't pretty, could use some new paint and probably a good tune-up, but she's mine.”

I followed him in and settled myself in the passenger seat, my feet resting on a six-pack.

“This one's dead,” he said, tossing an empty can behind his seat. I heard it rattle with the others.

Pushing my foot aside, he retrieved another can and popped the cap.

“Yeah,” he continued, “I saved my pay in 'Nam. Hell, there wasn't any place to spend it except on booze, drugs, whores…of course, those came cheap: a candy bar would do it; a pack of cigarettes would get you as much time as you wanted.

“I had a good-sized bundle when I got stateside and spent most of it on this old girl. She was beautiful and shiny then. I spent the rest on flying lessons and went into the charter business. I can understand how Prentiss got hooked. Up there, it's only you and God and the wild blue yonder.”

“Are you married?” I asked.

“No.” His face clouded. “A near-miss once.”

“How old are you, Al?”

“Older than God,” he replied with a sound I thought might be a laugh.

“Tell me about Vietnam, your experiences.”

“What do you want? The movie version or the way it really was?”

Then he went on as if he'd never asked, tossing another empty one to the back. I moved my feet as he reached over for the next full can.

“Prentiss, your boss, ended up a pilot. Of course, he came up through the ranks. Made corporal in about six months. I remember because it was my birthday and we got roaring drunk on some home-made hooch that damn near killed us.” Al closed his eyes and leaned back with his memories.

“He learned his ABCs working on them big planes, but he wanted to fly. Said he didn't like the grease under his fingernails. So after he got his sergeant's stripes, he put in for OTS—that's Officer Training School—and got through all the paperwork. Said that's how he knew war was hell.

“He had a lot of scalps on his belt when he damn near went down with the plane and took some bumps himself. Got out on a medical.

“So now he's in the newspaper business. Good choice—he was always full of bullshit, but a good joe. Glad he made it.

“I'm still thirsty. Anything left down there?”

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

“Damn. Well, then there was Mickey McGuire, that poor son of a bitch. He got the infantry. Both legs were blown off by a land mine—lost his manhood, too. They sent him stateside to a veterans hospital where he tried to commit suicide, so now he's in the psych ward and he ain't no crazier than the rest of us.

“And then, of course, there's me. I could talk the rest of your life and wouldn't cover even a chapter of Vietnam.”

And so he talked, pausing only to light a cigarette from the glowing butt of another, and the cans rattled behind him every time he changed positions.

For two hours I saw the horror of Vietnam through his eyes—the nightmare nights, the rain-sodden days, the screaming of the wounded and dying, the creeping jungle, the rotted feet in shoes that never dried.

His whispering voice continued. “Yeah, three boys just out of high school, little boys grown tall.” He laughed. “Trained to kill and do unto them as they did unto us. Then we were shunned if we made it home. We were crippled mentally and physically and kicked around like an empty beer can.”

I was in a cold sweat. There was a growing certainty in my mind that I had been given this assignment because no one else wanted it.

I had to get out. It was more than I could endure, so I lied to him.

“Al, I have to go. I've got another assignment. I appreciate…” For once in my life, I could not find the words.

“Oh, wait a minute. I want to show you some pictures. There's only three of them—just take a minute.”

His hands shook as he dug around in his back pocket for his billfold—turned it inside out. He finally squirmed around to drag a tattered old knapsack from under the beer cans and pulled out the creased and faded photos.

The first picture was of three laughing boys on the verge of manhood, their arms around each other's shoulders. Their uniforms appeared immaculate—the knife-sharp crease in the trousers, their caps square on—absolute regulation.

Even through the worn paper of the photo, I swear I could feel the vibrant life of those boys as it burned in my hand.

“That's your boss on the end. Bet he doesn't have as much hair now. Haven't seen him in a while—guess we don't travel in the same social circle.”

The second picture was a close-up. I recognized Prentiss. He was obviously drunk—his flyboy hat on backward, a bottle held high, one arm around the shoulders of a man with a cap of sorts pulled low on his forehead, his mouth turned in a grim smile. I knew it must be Mickey. He was holding a gun as though it were a toy.

“That's an M16,” Al said, pointing. “Hell of a good gun. The best—if it didn't get hot and jam just when you needed it most.”

Around Mickey's neck hung something on a string I couldn't immediately identify.

“What's that?”

“Ears. Eight or ten of 'em—don't remember now. A lot of that went on then—no big deal. We didn't send those pictures home to Mom.” He laughed.

My stomach did a slow churn. “Al, I really have to go…”

He put a restraining hand on my arm. “You gotta see the last one,” he said as he pushed the picture of a boy with a wide smile, his hat at a jaunty angle, his uniform without a wrinkle. A pretty girl, laughing, looked up at him, her arms around his waist.

The picture had been torn in pieces and somehow the ragged edges fixed together.

I pushed Al's hand away and stumbled out.

Arriving home, I felt so terribly tired and flung myself on the bed, cursing my editor and closing my eyes tightly, as if that would erase this hideous afternoon from my memory. For the first time, I questioned my career choice.

There was no escaping the images that chased around my brain, so I got up and put on a pot of coffee and made a sandwich, which was promptly rejected by my stomach.

I picked up my pen and put it all down the way it was. My story, finished just as the sun came up, was good.

When I handed it to Prentiss, he asked with a straight face, “How did you and Al get along?”

“Just fine, but you sure weren't very photogenic.”

On the way home I picked up a good steak and onions and kept it all down.

I took a quick shower and slept all day. Sometime later—it was dark by then—the phone rang and rang. Groggy with sleep, I picked up the receiver to hear Juan's voice leaping with delight over the wires.

“Steve. Mamá Sara is having a big, big party—a hundred and fifty guests—next Saturday. You must come. It's the first showing of her most recent painting.”

“Juan,” I interrupted. “I don't have the clothes for a fancy party—don't even own a necktie. And I'm tired and not good company. Maybe another time…”