Gift of the Golden Mountain (39 page)

     Kidding aside, I think a lot about things we've done together. At the beach summers, taking along a shovel so we could dig all those goddamned deep holes just for the hell of digging a hole you could stand up in. Have you noticed how people always need explanations? You're the only one I never had to explain to. You're also the only one who kept helping me climb out of the holes I dug myself into. Even that last night, even when you were mad as hell at me, you helped me out. I can't figure why. I think I wouldn't have done it, but what I wanted to tell you is that if I get out of this hell hole you won't have to do it again.

     Don't think I've found God or anything. This place is more likely to make you believe in hell. Lots of fire, lots of stink and sweat and stupidity. Mainly stupidity for being here where we don't belong. But I have found someone who has turned this massive mistake of mine into a massive miracle.

     Her name is Le Tien An. She is Vietnamese, and she is beautiful. And very, very intelligent. She was educated at the Sorbonne, she speaks five languages, her family is
wealthy and what Mother would call "historically important." They do not think me a worthy choice for her, and they are right. But—this is the miracle—she does. I still can't believe it. I tried to tell her what a fuck-up I am, but she didn't understand. Or she understood but refused to believe it. And the strangest thing is, I don't feel like a fuck-up around her. She makes me feel like a whole person. A man. This must sound pretty weird. I mean, I'd proved that a long time ago, right? Wrong.

     I know it now, and that is why I need to write this letter to you. To act like a man. Pop would call it being responsible, which has never been my long suit.

     An is going to have my baby. I wanted to marry her before I left Saigon, but there were too many obstacles, some of them thrown up by her family. I've got everything arranged now, all I have to do is get back to Saigon, but just in case . . .

     What I am saying is, if for some reason—if you were here now, you could hear some of the reasons whistling in—I don't get back, I want you to know about An and the baby. Somebody's got to know, to help them if they need it, and you are the only somebody I can count on. This fucking war has got to end one day, and when it does I want An and the baby in the States with me. Or without me, however it turns out.

     So that's it, Bro. I hope I won't need your help, I hope we'll all be back at the beach together one day, digging holes with my kid. But if I do, I know I can count on you. And thanks for the memories.

     Love.
     Andy

     She folded the letter carefully and slipped it back into the envelope. Hayes took it from her, his eyes down, and suddenly— she didn't know why—she caught his face in her hands and made him look at her. The hurt she saw there was so palpable she heard herself make a sad whimpering sound. He pulled her to him and they lay back on the pillows, exhausted.

     When she woke the first time, she found he had spread a blanket over her and saw that he was sitting in a chair close by. It was full light the next time she woke, and he was gone. She lay there for a moment, listening. Water was running in the kitchen; she could smell coffee. Her mouth was sour from the scotch, her clothes smelled of wood fire and she had to go to the bathroom.

     The sun was out. She could see patches of blue through the bathroom window. Too much had happened; she pushed it away from the surface of her mind. She wanted to clean it all out, to feel fresh again. That was when she noticed the water on the floor. Hayes had showered and a razor was out, so he had shaved as well. She looked around for a towel but there was none. She stripped off her clothes, turned on the shower, and stepped in. She put her head under the water and let it course over her. She lathered herself with soap and rinsed it off, then lathered herself again. When she stepped out Hayes was standing in the doorway with a cup of coffee. He held it while she took her first sip, hot and warming, then he came back with a large towel which he wrapped around her. Tiny droplets of water fell from her hair onto his shirt. He began to dry her hair.

     "I hate what happened," she said.

     "I know," he answered, and pulled her to him as if he were holding on to all that was left.

     They made love slowly. He touched her gently, and took comfort from the soft thrust of her hips, the smooth curve of her breasts. She lifted herself and moved onto him, pulling him into her so he could forget, thrusting in singing rhythms so he could touch the place that would give him succor . . .
succor, succor
. . . the
word came singing into her mind as if from nowhere as she held him in her arms, and she breathed into his mouth as if to send the old ballad singing into his mind and heart:

"Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succor me!"

     He began to breath deeply. It was as if he had not been able to get enough air and now he could. She felt a great, wide swelling within her and then the softest silence, pure and empty of pain. He lay in her arms then and he cried. She listened to the sounds of the ocean breaking on the shore in counterpoint to the small, tender sobs wrenching out of him, and did not think at all.

     They slept, and woke to make love again, and pulled the blankets up around them and she pretended the bed was their island, lost in time.

     Late in the afternoon they walked down the beach to where her car was parked, and before she left he held her close. "Wing Mei-jin," he whispered, burying his face in her hair, but he did not say goodbye.

She drove straight to my cottage. "I need to curl up on the sunporch and pull myself together," she told me with the smallest of quivers in her voice. "I feel," she said, "like a volcano when the microearthquakes begin to swarm, lots of seismic activity here," her hand cupped under her heart.

     I gave her a cup of hot tea and convinced her to eat some scrambled eggs and biscuits spread with apple butter. She ate meticulously, as she had as a little girl on this old porch, then she allowed me to pull a comforter over her and within minutes she was sleeping soundly.

     When you are old, routine is important. I turned on the evening news, careful to keep the sound low so it would not disturb May. I was fidgeting with the controls when I heard the disconnected words . . .
we interrupt for a news bulletin . . . three are known dead, and a superior court judge is being held hostage in a breakout attempt in progress at the Hall of Justice. . . . We switch to our reporter on the scene
. . ."

     Lights flashed behind him as the man with the microphone spoke in hushed tones: "What we know at this point is that three black men armed with automatic weapons made their way into Judge Harrison Modar's courtroom at three this afternoon in an effort to free two Black Panthers scheduled for a hearing. One of the assailants was shot by a guard before a rain of fire left two guards and one of the Panthers dead. Two assailants and the surviving defendant took Judge Modar as hostage and attempted to escape in a black van. Police have the van surrounded at the north end of the parking lot, and are negotiating now for the release of Judge Modar."

     I watched as one would a horror movie; I wanted to turn it off, but I could not. Instead I turned the sound down so low I had to strain to hear, not to waken May. At midnight, a reporter excitedly broke into a commentary to say there had been some gunfire, a flurry of activity, something had happened . . . Ten minutes later, a solemn-faced police captain made his way to a bank of microphones to read a hastily prepared statement: "At 1133 hours this evening, when it was determined that the three gunmen who were holding Judge Harrison P. Modar as hostage would not negotiate, a unit of the SFPD special services attempted to enter the van. In the ensuing firefight, Judge Modar was executed by the suspects, all three of the suspects were subsequently shot and killed."

     Twenty minutes later the names of the gunmen were released. Eli was not one of them. Until I felt the surge of relief I did not know I had thought he might be.

At four o'clock in the morning the telephone rang. I reached for it, but May had already answered. I recognized Hayes's voice. Five minutes later May came into my bedroom, her clothes thrown on in haste, her hair not yet combed. "I've got to go, Auntie," she said, bending to kiss me.

     "Wait," I tried to say, "there's something you don't know," but she was already gone.

THE GOLDEN GATE was shrouded in fog, all that was visible was the yellow glow of the lights on the bridge. On the radio station she was tuned to, Dylan was singing "Tambourine Man." She could not handle Dylan's grating voice, not now, not this morning. She pushed the button for the news station and came in mid-sentence: ". . . bloodbath in a San Francisco courtroom yesterday during a Black Panther trial, Judge Harrison Modar was executed, his kidnappers slain."

     Her throat went dry.

     
Oh God.
Eli's call, close to panic, begging her to go to Hayes because he couldn't. Then Hayes's call, asking her to meet him at Ft. Point, no questions. It could not be coincidence, there had to be a connection. She turned on the windshield wipers, hoping it would help her see through the mist. She only vaguely remembered the turnoff to Ft. Point. The Presidio, that must be it.

     Hayes's car was parked near the breakwater. Her headlights caught him, standing alongside the car, the collar of his wind-breaker turned up against the breaking spray as the waves washed
high on the rocks. She leaned to unlock the passenger door and he slid in beside her.

     Neither spoke. She thought: Yesterday belonged to Andy, today is Eli's. She wondered if their day would ever come.

     He ran his hand through his damp hair and began, choosing his words carefully. "I'm going to ask you to do me a favor, but first I need a promise." She said nothing, so he continued, "I need a loan, and I need it today. I can't get to my own money for about five days. I'll give it back to you then. But here's the catch—I need ten thousand dollars in cash, and most important, I need you not to ask any questions."

     "Eli," May said. "This has something to do with Eli."

     He shook his head and took both her hands. "May, please. No questions, not one. I wouldn't be asking you for this kind of a favor if there were any other way. There isn't, but you have to do it my way."

     "It's about Eli and the killings. Eli must need the money, he must be on the run. You wouldn't do this for anyone else."

     "Stop, please . . . don't say anything more," he pleaded. "Forget what I've asked—go back to Faith's, please . . . just forget it."

     "And you think that you can protect me, keep me from being involved, if all I know is that you asked for a loan."

     He was shaking his head. "Listen to me," she said, her voice fierce, "just drop the charade. I want to help, I want to be in it with you. It's too late for me to turn back, even if I wanted to—which I don't. But I have to know what happened. Tell me."

     In a voice drained of emotion, he told her what had happened in the courtroom, and then he said, "The police are looking for Eli, they think he helped get the guns."

     "Did he?"

     "One was registered to him. It was part of the Panthers' cache of weapons. But Eli would never have provided it for that kind of purpose."

     "He knew something was going on," May said. "I could tell by his voice, he sounded . . . desperate."

     Hayes said, "I talked to him for a few minutes yesterday morning . . . I wanted him to know about Andy. He said he couldn't talk just then, he said he'd get back to me as soon as he could. Any other time I would have known by his voice that some very bad shit was coming down, maybe I could have . . . I don't know, Eli was always struggling . . ."