Word of Honor

  Tyson noticed that the louvered shutters were open, and he saw the rain falling outside. Somewhere in the dying hospital a generator still put out electricity because the three paddle fans spun and a light burned over the nurses’ station.

  Tony Scorello suddenly ran into the burning ward and Tyson went after him. The stench of the ward was overpowering: flesh, hair, bedding, the phosphorus itself, and the charred bones as the phosphorus ate deeper into the bodies.

  Tyson found Scorello sitting on the floor, his face buried in his hands. He began sobbing, “Mother of God. Mother of God. I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.”

  Tyson left him where he was and returned to the door he had first come through marked Salle de Contagion. Tyson opened it and went inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Sister Teresa, dressed in a white linen habit, sat on the edge of the single bed, her hands resting in her lap. Tyson thought she looked very composed. He was annoyed that she hadn’t gotten under the bed as he’d instructed her. He said, “Le feu.” A Vietnamese phrase came to him. “O day khong duoc yen—It is not safe here.”

  She nodded in acceptance but remained sitting.

  Tyson said, “Est-ce qu’il y . . . une porte de toit? A roof door?”

  “Oui.”

  “Où?”

  She said in English, “I do not wish to escape.”

  “Like hell.” Tyson took her by the arm and raised her off the bed. They stood face-to-face for several seconds, and he could see tears welling up in her eyes.

  She said, “Why are they doing this?”

  Tyson had a dozen explanations but no answers.

  Sister Teresa put her head on his shoulder and wept.

  Tyson glanced up and saw the single paddle fan slowing to a stop. Through his boots, he felt the heat from the fires below. The sound of gunshots penetrated the thick-walled room, and the familiar acrid smell of burning humans permeated the air. Outside, the rain still fell, and a distant thunder from the direction of Hue rolled across the gray, sodden landscape. Benjamin Tyson felt a grayness in his soul such as he’d never felt before or since. He found he was squeezing Sister Teresa in his arms, and he heard her sobbing softly. “My God,” he said, “My God, I thought I knew them.” And a voice in the dim place in his mind answered, You knew them. You always knew. You knew what they would do one day.

  “No!” Tyson dropped the match and looked at the black burn on his fingers.

  “No, what?”

  He stared at Marcy standing over him.

  She said, “Would you like a drink?”

  “Oh, no thanks.”

  She eyed him closely. “You look like you could use one.”

  “I always look like that.” He turned his head back to the fire and stayed silent for some seconds before saying, “Afterward, that night in the bunker, he looked normal.”

  “Who?”

  “Tony Scorello. Well, not really normal. None of us, I think, looked normal or acted normal for weeks . . . but Scorello was brewing a canteen cup of coffee. His hands were in bandages. I suppose he’d gotten burned. Later he played cards. I watched him by the light of the flickering candle.”

  Marcy looked puzzled.

  Tyson stayed silent for a second, then added, “You know, I just realized something. I might see him again. I might see them all again.”

  She knelt beside him and took his hand. “Ben . . . please . . .” she said with concern, “please be all right.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Ben Tyson sat at the round table on the back deck and sipped a cup of steaming coffee. The table was damp, and he took care not to get the sleeves of his suit wet.

  The morning air had a chill to it, and he could see his breath. Tyson looked out over the cove where a mist lay gently on the water. A red cloud-streaked sun sat close over the North Haven Bridge, and sea gulls cut the still air with that unexpected, early morning screeching.

  Marcy came through the glass kitchen doors, wearing a short red robe. “You’re up early,” she said in a husky voice. “I guess the living room floor wasn’t comfortable.”

  “You should have woken me.”

  “I did everything but kick you.”

  He stared off toward the water. A twenty-foot inboard open whaler was maneuvering between the fog-covered channel markers. The tide was out, and Tyson could see a man in the bow probing the bottom with a gaff.

  Marcy said, “I didn’t know you were leaving this early. I thought you’d stay with David and me for a few days at least.”

  He shrugged.

  Marcy walked barefoot across the wet deck and looked out over the lawn. Tyson regarded her legs, the thin kimono drawn tight across her back and buttocks.

  Marcy turned and studied his face in silence. At length she said, “What’s bothering you this morning? Your notoriety or mine?”

  “Yours,” he answered before he had a chance to think.

  “Oh, Christ, are you still on that?”

  “What’s changed?”

  “Why can’t you let it go?”

  “I don’t know why.” He stared into his coffee cup, then said softly, “I thought I was beyond jealousy and possessiveness. Yet . . . when my wife’s complete sexual history is national news, I feel a little foolish. But I guess I’m not normal.”

  She snapped, “Men! My God, you’re all so damned hung up on how many—” She drew a deep breath. “Forget it. I’m not adding fuel to this.”

  Tyson nodded. “I’ll try.” But he thought that Marcy’s attitude toward the photograph and the stories had again become somewhat blasé. Tyson had discovered that the photograph had been reproduced in various pulp magazines where it had been presented without blackout. In addition, several more articles about Marcy Clure had developed. These were less sensational than the ones in the American Investigator, and purported to be serious examinations of the life and times of a young radical turned suburbanite, wife, and career woman. Still, Tyson thought, these pieces were little more than cleverly concealed titillation. Then, a week ago, Sloan had shown him a wall poster version of the Life photograph which someone had picked up for him in one of those funky card shops down in the Village. The poster was captioned, HAPPY DAYS.

  Sloan had remarked, “People of the eighties are often shocked by what people of the sixties did, and they are often the same people.”

  Marcy’s past history, he understood, was irrelevant to his past history. Yet he knew instinctively that the photograph and the stories would hasten his downfall. He also understood that he was becoming obsessed with his wife’s past, and he wanted very much to make amends, but couldn’t.

  Tyson stood and discovered his legs were shaky. He saw that tears had formed in Marcy’s eyes.

  She shouted, “I didn’t do anything wrong! You knew, damn it! You knew all about me when we met. I never hid anything. I fucked. So what? You killed. You killed more people than I fucked.”

  “I wonder.”

  “Get the hell out of here!”

  Tyson went back into the house, retrieved his attaché case, and exited through the front door. He began the two-mile walk to Main Street from where he would catch the jitney bus to Manhattan. As he came out of Baypoint onto the beach road, an old red Ford Mustang drew up beside him, and a young man called out, “Need a lift to town?”

  Tyson nodded and hopped in. The driver, he saw, was no more than eighteen, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt that had no message. Tyson thought he was a local. “Thanks. Can you drop me at the movie theater?”

  “Sure. You going to catch the bus?”

  “Right.”

  The young man drove off. “You out for the summer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where you staying?”

  “Baypoint.”

  “Nice. You’re on TV, aren’t you?”

  Tyson shook his head.

  “Yeah, you are. A news show. Right?”

  “A cooking show.”

  “No kidding?” He gave Tys
on a sidelong glance, then observed, “Lot of famous people out here. I saw Norman Rockwell last week.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “No, I saw him. I never read any of his books, but I saw him on TV a couple times.”

  “Norman Mailer?”

  “Right. What did I say?”

  “Rockwell.”

  “No, that’s the Nazi.”

  “That’s George Lincoln Rockwell. He’s dead, too.”

  “Is he?” The young man seemed to be sorting this information. He said, “What’s your name?”

  “Jack Abbott.”

  “Right. You do a talk show.”

  “No, a cooking show.”

  “Right. My name’s Chuck.”

  They drove across the North Haven Bridge and entered Main Street. Tyson said, “You can let me off here. I’ll walk the rest.”

  Chuck pulled to the side. “You’re early for the next bus. There’s the Paradise Grill up the street. Good coffee.”

  “Thanks.” Tyson opened the door.

  “You going to do a show in New York?”

  “Right.” Tyson climbed out.

  “What time? What channel?”

  “Noon today. Channel Thirteen. Fried snapper with dill.” Tyson patted his briefcase. “Got ’em right here. So long, Chuck.” Tyson closed the door and headed toward the coffee shop.

  He heard a horn honking behind him but didn’t turn. The slow-moving car kept slightly behind him, and the honking became insistent. People on the sidewalk were looking. An old man motioned to him, then pointed to the car. Tyson kept walking. The last thing he wanted with his coffee was Chuck.

  A voice called out, “Tyson, get your head out of your ass.”

  He turned. Marcy motioned him toward the car. He approached the open passenger-side window. She said, “Get in here.”

  He opened the door and slid in. She pulled away. They drove in silence through Main Street and out of the village, onto the Bridgehampton Road. She said, “I’ll take you to the station.”

  “I felt like taking a bus.”

  “You’ll take the fucking train and like it.”

  Tyson shrugged. The Volvo headed south through the outskirts of the village and into a forest of scrub pine and pin oak. There was little early morning traffic, and a ground fog crept through the stunted and misshapen trees onto the lonely road. To Tyson this landscape always seemed foreboding. He said, “I’m sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “That remark.”

  “What remark? Which one are you sorry about?”

  “The one about . . . forget it.”

  “No. Which one are you sorry about? The one where you suggested that I fucked more than a hundred people?”

  “Right. That one.”

  “Well, what if I did? At least I left them smiling. How did you leave your hundred?”

  “Let me out.”

  Marcy accelerated, and the speedometer showed sixty miles per hour.

  “Hey, slow it down.”

  “Whores drive fast.”

  “Cut the crap and slow down!”

  She pressed down on the accelerator and took a curve on the wrong side of the road. Tyson reached out, shut off the ignition, and pulled the key out. The car began to decelerate. He looked at her and saw she was fighting back tears.

  The Volvo slowed to a near stop on an uphill grade, and Tyson turned the wheel, putting the car into the sandy shoulder. He threw the car into park, then got out and came around to the driver’s seat. “Move over.”

  She slid into the passenger seat. Tyson got in and started the car. He threw it into low, and the wheels spun, then the Volvo lurched back onto the road, and he continued toward Bridgehampton.

  Neither spoke until they reached the station parking lot. He said, “I need some time to think this out.”

  She seemed composed now and nodded. “Me too.”

  He said, “Call me with the unlisted number when you get the phone.”

  She kept staring out the windshield.

  Tyson cleared his throat. “I won’t be coming out this weekend.”

  “All right.”

  He said, “I’ve caused us a lot of pain.”

  She didn’t respond.

  He hesitated, then opened the door. “Will you be all right now?”

  She nodded and handed him his briefcase.

  He got out and closed the door, then put his head in the open window. “Careful driving. Tell David I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to say good-bye.”

  “Your train’s coming.”

  Tyson glanced back and saw the big diesel’s headlamp far down the misty tracks. He turned back to her. She looked at him, and they held each other’s eyes for a long time, then the train whistle blew, and Tyson turned away.

  PART TWO

  He who does not prevent a crime when he can, encourages it.

  —Seneca: Troades

  CHAPTER

  15

  Miss Beale looked pale, Tyson thought. He’d noticed, too, that over the weeks she had become drawn and fidgety. He supposed she was having personal problems of some sort, but the astonishing notion came to him that Miss Beale was worried about him. Tyson said, “What is it?”

  She handed him a large manila envelope. The first thing he noticed was that its shade of buff was darker than anything he’d seen in normal business correspondence. The second thing he noticed was the government franking mark. Lastly he noticed that the envelope was from the Department of the Army. But he knew where it was from when Miss Beale first came through the door.

  Miss Beale said, “It came registered mail. I signed for it . . .”

  Tyson saw that the envelope was addressed to Lieutenant Benjamin J. Tyson. He placed it on his blotter. “Thank you. Have you typed the Taylor contract?”

  “It’s almost finished. . . .” Miss Beale seemed reluctant to leave.

  Tyson said, “Anything else?”

  “No . . .” She started toward the door, then said, “Will you be leaving us?”

  Tyson replied, “It would appear so.”

  Miss Beale blurted, “Oh, we all think this is terrible, Mr. Tyson. Terrible. This isn’t . . . isn’t right. We’re all upset. . . .”

  Tyson assumed she was referring to the lunchroom clique who obviously discussed this at some length. The boardroom group was not so sympathetic. He recalled that in the infantry, after every battle, some promotions opened up, and people scrambling for them did not care if they had become available because of 81 millimeter mortar fire or 122 millimeter rocket fire. The corporate world was not so much different. Tyson said, “I appreciate your concern.” He saw that Miss Beale still seemed stuck to her spot and added, “Incidentally, you will continue here as long as you wish. I’ve spoken to Mr. Kimura about that.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.” Miss Beale finally turned and left.

  Tyson was as touched by this display of concern as he was mystified. He didn’t think he was particularly popular with the rank and file, but apparently they decided he was being ill-treated by the world. This was something they could identify with. In fact, from what he could determine from the media, there was a ground swell of man-in-the-street support taking shape. He’d read that someone in Virginia had begun a Tyson Defense Fund, though no one had contacted him or Sloan about it. Odd, he thought, how Americans react to publicized stories of woe. He wanted to believe that there was a genuine altruism and sense of charity in the country, and perhaps there was, and perhaps he’d learn to believe there was.

  He stared down at the manila envelope, then pushed it aside.

  * * *

  “It’s your wife,” said Miss Beale over the intercom.

  “I’ll take it.” Tyson pressed the blinking phone button. “Hello.”

  “Hi.” Marcy’s voice sounded distant.

  There was a short silence, then Tyson said, “Let me have the phone number.”

  She gave it to him and said, “We’ve had rain the last two days.
How is it there?”

  Tyson glanced back through the window. “Same.”

  “Sometimes the weather here is different.”

  “Sometimes it is. How’s David?”

  “Fine. He found some friends, and the rain doesn’t seem to keep them from fishing. They found a hangout, too. A disco off Main Street.”

  “In Sag Harbor? What’s it called? The Wailing Whaler’s Top Deck? What’s the world coming to?”

  “Who knows? There’s a steel band on the Long Wharf at night.”

  “Is there?”

  “Yes, and that place where John Steinbeck used to hang out—the Black Buoy—well, it’s got a new image.”

  Tyson wondered how she knew. He said, “Well, sometimes it’s not a good idea to try to go back, is it? I mean, sometimes it’s painful.”

  “Sometimes.”

  Tyson swiveled his chair around and stared at the rain-splattered window. He used to be ambivalent about rain, but after going through two monsoons, each of three months’ duration, he had developed a deep dislike for wet weather.

  Marcy said, “Are we still friends?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good.” Her voice still had a tentative tone. “Anything new at work?”

  “No. The arms race is still making everyone here giddy with delight. Lots of work.”

  She hesitated before saying, “I was thinking . . . if . . . well, I’d consider going to Tokyo with you . . . I mean, I’d definitely go . . . if that’s what you decided.”

  Tyson replied, “Tokyo is no longer an option.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m in the Army now.”

  “What . . . ?”

  Tyson glanced at the papers on his desk. “The letter said, ‘Greeting.’ After that it was all downhill.”

  “Oh . . . oh, Ben . . .”

  “Well, anyway, I had a meeting with Kimura, and I informed him of my new status.” Tyson thought back to the meeting less than an hour before. There had been nothing inscrutable about Mr. Kimura’s visage, and Tyson had read him well. Kimura, he was certain, knew about the recall order, though he feigned otherwise. Tyson said to Marcy, “Kimura offered me half pay during my time on active duty. I don’t know if that includes jail time.”