Private Screening (17 page)

The black first sergeant, Pullman, was a soft-spoken guy who admired how Harry shot. But his platoon sergeant was brutal and dumb, and all he said about Vietnam was to hate the gooks on both sides. Harry mentally named him “Dickhead”; there was no way he was going to 'Nam.

How not to go struck him at Mass.

The priest-colonel who didn't like Commies or sex was losing his chaplain's assistant. The job promised safety, and Sergeant Pullman said he would help.

Harry waited to hear.

With one week left in the cycle, his platoon baked in the sun listening to Dickhead describe VC tactics and watching him stroke a pet rabbit he'd gotten. They were tired; when he kept saying not to trust dinks, they focused on the rabbit. It was so furry and soft-looking you wanted to pet it; when Dickhead slit its throat with a knife, its eyes were still big.

They sat there, sick, as he skinned it and threw the guts at them. A piece landed on Harry.

“The idea,” Dickhead finished, “is don't warm to anything.”

When he marched them off, Harry watched the back of his neck. “He got that from the Marines,” someone whispered.

Sunday, Dickhead came around pushing savings bonds.

Harry couldn't forget the rabbit. “I don't think I want to right now.”

“Listen up, Carson. I expect one hundred percent participation.”

Staring at the ground, Harry slowly shook his head.

Dickhead grabbed the front of his T-shirt. “If you don't, douche bag, it's between us.”

Harry looked up. This time, he nodded.

Glancing around, Dickhead squared off. “What's the matter,” he taunted.

Harry thought of Beth. He was looking for a way out when Dickhead's fist struck his ribs. Staggering against the barracks wall, he saw the sergeant close in.

Harry split his nose with a lucky punch, and then Pullman ran up.

As Dickhead covered his face, Pullman pinned Harry, eyes filling with amazement and a kind of sorrow. “Man,” he murmured, “you
had
that job.”

Two months later, Harry landed in Vietnam.

The next morning, Lord stared at the cover of
People
magazine. The picture of Stacy bending over Kilcannon was captioned “Is Everyone All Right?”

“One more photo of St. James and the Widow Tarrant,” Lord murmured, “and I'm going to throw up.”

Cass watched him. “You've got a call,” she finally said.

He jabbed the button.

“Tony? This is Rachel Messer.”

He searched his memory. “Oh, sure—TV-6.”

She laughed. “I know the whole world is waiting. But all I want is lunch.”

He hesitated. “What's in it for Carson?”

“His defense needs to be humanized. Maybe I can help.”

Silent, Lord examined the photograph of Stacy.

“Tony?”

“Maybe you can.” He checked his calendar. “How's two weeks from tomorrow.”

“Fine,” she answered crisply. “Fournou's Ovens, twelve o'clock.”

When she hung up, Lord slid
People
into the waste-basket, and stood.

Cass looked up. “Where you going?”

“To remind Harry there's a trial. Christ, DiPalma's got the FBI crawling all over.”

He didn't return until night. Alone, he dictated the fragment he'd gotten of Vietnam, before Carson's eyes went dead.

The first bag hit the landing strip, rolled, and was still.

The sound as it hit was lost in the beating of chopper blades. The Hueys which followed grew larger in the hot, changeless sky. One after the other, they dropped their bags without touching down, as if suspended on vapor from the asphalt. Then they began beating their way back across the delta toward where the bags were from. The bags lay behind them in odd patterns and shapes.

Harry wondered who or what was inside. In front of him the guy from Knoxville started mumbling to Jesus: it seemed so feeble that Harry wished he'd stop.

There were more choppers coming.

It's your own fault, he thought—a thirteen-month walking tour of the fucking third world. All you need now is the shot you're waiting for and an M-16. It was his third day in-country; Beth's letter was still in his pocket.

They'd flown him and some other replacements into the Bin Hoa Air Base. It was about one in the morning, but the heat getting out of the plane was like a slap in the face, followed by the smell of shit burning in a used-up latrine. Then an E-6 who chewed gum said, “Welcome to Vietnam,” and marched them off to some barracks like he was still at Fort Benning. On the way they passed some short-timers huddled together laughing as John Wayne charged a platoon of green-bereted actors across an outdoor screen at some Hollywood VC. “Those Cong haven't worked since
Flower Drum Song
,” somebody mumbled. No one laughed. Harry didn't know the guys he marched with and didn't glance around: he was afraid they'd look scared.

The second wave of choppers neared, the guy from Knoxville prayed louder. Someone said, “It's only a shot, for Chrissakes”—there were comedians everywhere. Harry looked at the sky. The Hundred and First Airborne, he thought, but couldn't feel part of them.

The first morning in-country he'd seen one up close.

The E-6 had marched them past some palm trees to an enormous unwalled hangar full of people being processed in or out or hiding from the war awhile. There were hustlers selling dope and radios and watches, short-timers drinking and playing craps or poker, news- and cameramen looking for some action, a concession stand with soda and sandwiches, the roar of transports, a couple of sergeants on platforms, looking bored and cool like they'd set it all in motion. But what really got to Harry was when he walked off for a Coke like he was going to the corner store.

The Vietnamese vendor shoved a Coke at a GI in worn fatigues and turned to Harry. “Coke, GI?”

Harry nodded. The man gave him a lukewarm bottle. “It's not cold,” Harry said.

“One dollar.”

Harry couldn't tell from his face how much English he knew. He felt the other GI watch him.

“Thanks,” he said, and left a dollar.

Turning, he saw that the soldier wore the insignia of the One Hundred and First. From a lineless face, his eyes looked through Harry as if staring a thousand miles on the other side of his head. Harry felt the need to say something.

“Where were you?” he asked.

The man nodded at nothing. “Custer Flats.”

His voice and manner were so gentle that Harry began shifting from foot to foot. “What was it like?”

The man shook his head in a long, slow arc. Then he placed one hand on Harry's shoulder, regarding him with the detachment of a priest who has learned that the blessing he would give is pointless. Harry returned to line.

The next day they moved him to the Hundred and First.

They were herded to a bus with chicken wire strung around the windows. “What's this for?” someone asked the E-6.

“The dinks'll throw rocks and Coke bottles, sometimes grenades. Even the kids.” Someone switched on a transistor and got the Airplane's “White Rabbit.” As they left, Harry noticed that the base was surrounded by barbed wire.

They drove for half a day. Harry had never seen country that lush or people that poor. The road was nothing but potholes and dust, and the people in mud houses looked up at them with an air of weary fatalism. Passing, the bus kicked dust so that Harry could not see them. He imagined what they saw before the dust rose, a row of white faces crisscrossed by chicken wire. All he could do was listen to the radio and smell the other soldiers; it was hotter than hell.

Finally, he glanced at the guy next to him. He was sitting there with a look of self-containment, half-nodding with the radio like they were tooling down Route 66. Harry nearly turned away, and then the need to talk got to him. “It's unreal,” he murmured.

The guy dipped his head to see him with an easy sideways motion. “Think so?”

Harry couldn't tell if he were mocking him or considered it an open question—it seemed safest to shut up. His companion slid back against the seat and closed his eyes until they reached Long Binh. Harry noticed that his dark, harsh-cut features did not soften as he slept.

Now, watching choppers, the guy's expression never changed.

The next chopper dropped two bags. One fell on the other; the guy from Knoxville murmured, “Yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil …”

“For I am the meanest motherfucker in the valley,” the comedian interrupted. “Shut up, asshole.”

The line inched forward toward a card table where two medics sat; one by one, the newbies got their shots and scurried away from the choppers and bags. Twenty minutes yet, Harry figured, and he'd begun to feel sick. Think of Beth.

They dropped another bag.

It broke open. What came out wasn't human.

Harry felt people sucking air. For one stupid moment he thought of the rabbit, then another piece spilled out. He turned holding his stomach.

Two hands grasped him. “Not on me, man.”

It was the dark-haired guy. He looked past Harry at the bag, like someone had told a bad joke. “It's okay,” he said. “We'll figure it out.”

“What's your name?” Harry managed.

“John Damone.”

The next day, Damone was gone.

“What happened then?” Lord had asked.

It was like a screen had fallen. “They filled more bags,” Carson answered, and asked to go to his cell.

When the telephone rang, Lord put down his notes to answer.

“You've been working hard, Mr. Lord.” There was a pause; Lord recognized the voice, bland to the point of menace. “
Some
night, unless you stop, it's going to happen.”

Lord sensed, rather than heard, a hand slowly putting down the telephone.

4

“W
HAT
did you see?” Cass asked Lord.

For three nights running, on a rented videotape machine, Lord had studied the assassination. Now they sat with an instructor from the school for the deaf.

“I'm not sure,” he answered. “I want Nancy to tell me.”

Cass flicked on the machine.

Soundlessly, Kilcannon fell; Stacy dived to cover him. In close-up, his lips moved, then hers, then his. Watching, the instructor winced.

“Run that part again,” Lord said.

Three more times, Kilcannon fell, spoke twice, lost consciousness. On the third, the woman webbed her fingers.

“Can you tell what they're saying?” Lord asked her.

Her throat sounded dry. “He asks if everyone's all right.”

“And her?”

“She thinks so.”

“What does he say back?”

The woman hesitated. “I'm not sure I got it.”

“Shall I rerun the tape?”

“No—that's all right.” She gave Lord a quirky, embarrassed look. “It's something like, ‘Such a joke … but what does it mean?'”

“That's what he said?”

The woman nodded. Lord and Cass looked at each other.

“Thanks, Nancy,” he said. Cass walked her to the door.

Lord ran the tape from the second station.

Carson shot the camera, shattering its lens. Suddenly his face filled the screen. Mauser dropped in front of him, he gaped at Kilcannon as they pinned him in a hammerlock.

Lord was studying Carson's face when Cass returned.

“What's happening with his records?” he asked.

Cass glanced at the screen. “I'm going through the list of names from the Hundred and First. Trying to track down someone who served with him.”

“
If
they're still alive.” He turned. “What about after they threw him in jail?”

“They say there's nothing—like he dropped off the earth.” She frowned. “Maybe Damone will answer one of your letters.”

“He hasn't yet. And I'll have to take DiPalma to court just to get his phone number.”

“You could always subpoena him.”

Lord shot her an annoyed look. “I can't have him testify without knowing what he'll say. He could devastate Carson.”

“Won't DiPalma use him anyhow?”

“Damone's not on his preliminary witness list—it's like they're scared of him, too.”

Cass looked toward the videotape. “I suppose,” she said, “that Damone's perspective on all this is kind of complicated.”

Lord followed her gaze. After a time, he said, “I keep thinking Carson looks surprised. Like he doesn't know what he's done.”

He felt her hand on his shoulder. “I hope you're not trying to sell yourself an insanity defense.”

Lord watched a moment longer. Then he stood, flipping off the machine. “I'm flying out to see Carson's mother.”

The farm was so clear in Lord's mind that it was like returning to a place he'd remembered as better than it was. The surrounding countryside was broken into office parks for computer firms and homes for their executives; the Carsons' fields were fallow and unfenced, their house in need of paint. The porch sagged as Lord walked on it.

“I'm selling,” Mary Carson told him. “Joey went to Canada, and what with Harry, that's the end of it.”

Her face was grooved, and she walked with a heavy tiredness; it was hard to imagine the woman who had smelled like strawberries. Leaning on the railing, Lord watched clouds block the sun. He saw no pine trees.

“When did he come home?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “June, I think. 1970.”

“Were you expecting him back that soon?”

“We didn't think his time was up. Then all of a sudden there he was, not saying how or why.”

“What was he like?”

She gazed out at the fields. “It was three in the morning when he got here, and he looked vacant, almost slow-witted. We sat in the kitchen, trying to talk. It was all about people dying—nothing made sense. I couldn't believe the language he used. Finally, I had to go upstairs.”