Word of Honor

  Marcy’s eyes rolled. “Oh, Jesus, if I hear that one more time from one of you original settlers, I’ll puke.”

  “Well, it was a hell of a place.” He added maliciously, “The Nassau County Republican Club had its headquarters in the old hotel. I used to do volunteer work for them. We had a Goldwater fund-raiser here in sixty-four.”

  “I’m getting sick.”

  He smiled, then sipped his Scotch and drew on his cigarette. “History,” he said aloud. “Teddy Roosevelt stayed here often. Charles Lindbergh spent the week before his solo flight at the old hotel. Once, when I was on leave, I took the Lindbergh suite. Did I ever tell you that? I slept in the bed Lindbergh slept in.”

  Marcy contrived a yawn and replied, “Based on what I’ve heard from people who don’t romanticize the old fleabag, you probably slept in the same sheets, too.”

  Tyson stared into the dark recesses of the lounge. The clientele in the pre–World War I era included Astors, Morgans, Vanderbilts, Hewitts, Jays, Belmonts, Harrimans, even Lillian Russell. But history was a continuum. Someday, someone sitting where he was now sitting would say that Benjamin Tyson had frequented the new Hunt Room.

  Benjamin who?

  The guy who was court-martialed for murder. Remember? It was in all the papers. The hospital massacre in Vietnam.

  Oh, right. He used to drink here? No kidding?

  But that was future history. In the old Hunt Room, when he was drunk, he’d conjure up images of the past, especially the aviation greats who had drunk there between the world wars: Glenn Curtiss, Jimmy Doolittle, Billy Mitchell, Lawrence Sperry, Amelia Earhart, Leroy Grumman. . . . Tyson recalled his boyhood dream to be a fighter pilot, as his father had been; he thought of his plastic model of the Grumman Hellcat and wondered what had become of it. The world spun too fast now, and Tyson knew he would never fly a Grumman Hellcat, but what was worse, the desire to do so was dead.

  Marcy broke into his thoughts. “Another?”

  He turned his head toward her. “One more.”

  She ordered, and Tyson said to the young bartender whom he knew slightly, “Ed, you ever heard of the battle of Hue?”

  “Midway? Yeah, it was on TV.”

  “Heard of the Tet Offensive?”

  The bartender turned and ran Tyson’s tab through the register. “Tet? Sure. Vietnam. The VC attacked Tet and the Americans got beat.” He put the tab back on the bar in front of Tyson.

  “Tet was a time, not a place.”

  “No kidding.”

  “No kidding.”

  Ed shrugged and went off to serve someone else. Tyson said, “Smart kid.” He sipped on his drink, then observed, “See . . . ultimately all battlefield deaths are in vain. No one really remembers any of it. So what’s the big deal?”

  “You tell me.”

  But Tyson could not. He sensed the alcohol working its magic and felt better.

  Marcy said, “Time to dance.”

  Tyson smiled and took her hand. They retraced their steps through the lobby, arm in arm, nodding to a few people as they made their way to the Grand Ballroom. As they entered the mauve-colored ballroom, Tyson scanned the pale-blue-clothed tables set around the large dance floor. The band wasn’t playing, and there seemed to be a lull in the full room. Tyson said, “Let’s split up and regroup at the bar.”

  “Okay . . . oh, Christ. . . .”

  Mrs. Livander, the president of the Nassau Hospital Auxiliary, had spotted them and was sweeping across the room, arms prematurely spread for an embrace. Tyson stepped forward as though he were sacrificing himself so that Marcy might live. Mrs. Livander veered slightly and enveloped him in her plump arms. “Ben Tyson. Oh, you charming man. You’re so devilishly handsome, if I were ten years younger I’d be after you.”

  Tyson thought twenty years was closer to the mark, but he hugged Lydia Livander and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  Mrs. Livander turned to Marcy and effused, “You look lovely. What a stunning dress! How do you keep your figure?” She took Marcy by the shoulders as if to fix her in place and poured a steady stream of lavish praise on her. Tyson’s eyes darted around until he spotted the bar.

  Without warning, Lydia Livander took their arms in a firm grip and propelled them toward a photographer from the Garden City News. “Sam,” she bubbled, “Sam, you must get a picture of this beautiful couple this instant.”

  Tyson and Marcy smiled, the flash went off, and before Tyson could see clearly, Mrs. Livander had him on the move again. Tyson glanced at Marcy and shrugged. If he’d intended to slip in unobtrusively, he was making a bad start of it. As Mrs. Livander moved them around to meet people they already knew or didn’t want to know, he had the distinct impression that heads were turning toward him.

  Pleading an urgent call of nature, Tyson broke free of Mrs. Livander’s ministrations and made directly for the bar. He ordered a Scotch and soda and carried it to a neutral corner. Shortly, Marcy came up to him and said, “You see, nothing has changed. Lydia did that for each of the two hundred couples who arrived tonight.”

  Tyson swallowed half his drink. “I felt like the only Negro at a Liberal party dance. There wasn’t enough of me to go around.”

  Marcy smiled. “Hang in there, Benjamin. Balls.”

  “Right. Nevertheless, it’s going to be a long evening.”

  “But a memorable one. And your last public appearance, I daresay.”

  “Perhaps.” However, he suspected that his last public appearance would not be a black-tie affair but a dress-green appearance in a place less convivial than this one.

  * * *

  Ben Tyson sat at a round table and surveyed the full ashtrays, empty bar glasses, and discarded programs: the detritus of another tax-deductible bash. If the hospital got 10 percent of the take, they were doing well, he thought. The tables hadn’t been assigned, and he’d found himself with different groupings of people throughout the evening. Now, finally, he found himself alone.

  Tyson glanced at his watch. On balance, he thought, he was glad he’d come. If there was any truth to the old saying that public opinion was in advance of the law, then he felt somewhat relieved. No one had snubbed him, and no one had hustled him into the men’s room to face a committee of peers with tar and feathers.

  There had been some awkwardness and strained smiles, but this was not an age of absolutes, and there was no consensus on the correct behavior toward a suspected war criminal. Socially, he was still acceptable. Legally, he was innocent until proven guilty. Time to go home.

  Tyson looked around the room. Half the crowd was gone, but he couldn’t see Marcy. In fact, he hadn’t seen much of her most of the evening, though he felt confident she’d danced with a good number of men, annoyed an equal number of wives, gotten at least one serious proposition, and accepted one or two dates for lunch in the city.

  Tyson began walking toward the door and saw he was on a collision course with Phillip Sloan. Sloan intercepted him near the exit. “Ben. Did you have a good time?”

  “Hello, Phil.”

  “Where’s your wife?”

  “Where’s yours?”

  Sloan smiled tightly. “Do you have a moment?”

  Tyson replied, “I’d rather not be seen speaking to my lawyer.”

  Sloan seemed miffed at being put into the same category as a bookie or loan shark. “Let’s step out here.” They went into the large anteroom, and Sloan indicated the men’s room. Tyson said, “Branch office?” Sloan went inside and Tyson followed. Sloan said curtly, “Is this all right?”

  “If you like pink marble.”

  “Listen, Ben, you haven’t been the most cooperative client—”

  “And you have not been the most discreet attorney, Phil.”

  Sloan began to respond, but said instead, “You know, our families have done business for years. I consider you more than a client, you’re—”

  Tyson turned and used the urinal.

  “You’re a friend. The wives are friends.”


  “We’re all friends.”

  “Right. So don’t give me this shit that you don’t want us to be seen together in public.”

  Tyson turned from the urinal. “What did you want to see me about?”

  Sloan glanced around to assure himself they were alone. An Hispanic attendant sat on a stool, reading the New York Post. Sloan said, “I’ve contacted an attorney in the city who specializes in publishing law.”

  Tyson washed his hands.

  “He advised us to bring suit.” Sloan waited, then went on. “His reasoning is that these alleged incidents are so old that a criminal action is extremely unlikely. That will leave Picard’s allegations as basically hearsay. In lay language, Picard has his ass hanging out. Are you following me?”

  The attendant gave Tyson a hand towel. “Sort of.”

  “Also, no one but you is mentioned in a pejorative way. Whenever he writes about someone shooting civilians, he doesn’t give a name.”

  “I noticed that omission.”

  “But you are mentioned by name as a witness to the massacre. The point is made again and again that you did nothing to stop the killing.” Sloan added, “There’s even a line in there that suggests you masterminded the cover-up. There’s also an ambiguous sentence about you ordering the enemy soldiers to be killed.”

  “That certainly was an ambiguous sentence. I did not order wounded and captured enemy soldiers murdered. I ordered my men to find and destroy any enemy soldiers still in the hospital who continued to resist.”

  Sloan seemed uninterested in the clarification. He said, “The point is, whoever spoke to Picard was out to get you. I think Picard believed a lot of crap and printed it as truth. This attorney and I agree that we have a very strong case for libel.”

  Tyson straightened his bow tie.

  Sloan continued, “Ben, I’d like you to meet this attorney. His name is Beekman. He’s a real crackerjack—”

  “What does that make me? The prize? Are you a Milk Dud?”

  “You’re drunk.” Sloan made a move to leave, then came back and took a deep breath. “Beekman has handled some famous literary libel cases. You may know the name.”

  Tyson looked at Sloan’s reflection in the mirror. He said, “You and I have both heard of civil trials that took on the coloration of criminal cases. All sorts of muck is dragged up, the press reports it as though it were a murder trial instead of a lawsuit, and in the end, even if the plaintiff wins, he loses.” Tyson took a bottle of Aramis and splashed some on his palm. “Let the damned thing die.” He slapped the cologne on his face.

  “It won’t die unless you kill it. If you don’t sue and win, these allegations will hang over you for the rest of your life. Reviewers will quote from Picard’s book, other authors will pick up bits and pieces, and this damned hospital incident will enter history as truth.”

  Tyson didn’t respond.

  “Actually, it may be better to sit tight for a few weeks and see what kind of media exposure this gets.”

  Tyson tipped the attendant and looked at Sloan. “What does that have to do with it?”

  “Well, according to Beekman, considering the book is recently published, the damages to you are small as of now. The book could be recalled by the publisher, further limiting damages. However, we could wait and . . . pretend we had no knowledge of the book. Then, in time, as a result of, let’s say, author interviews and book reviews, plus the book’s circulation, advertising, promotion, and so forth, your good name and reputation will be further damaged.”

  Tyson didn’t reply.

  “Let’s say,” continued Sloan carefully, “that you lose your job. That your son is harassed at school. That Marcy is . . . well, whatever. Then, wham! We sue. We go after not only Picard but the publisher, the distributor, maybe even the unnamed sources that Picard mentions. Assuming a jury finds for you, the award will be huge. You will be vindicated and rich.”

  Tyson observed, “The flip side of every problem is an opportunity.”

  “Exactly.”

  Tyson was intrigued by Sloan’s offhand manner in engineering a conspiracy. He’d probably be more ethical in a criminal case where the money was paid up front, and the only thing he could lose was his client’s liberty.

  Sloan said, “Libel suits are very rare things. It’s not often that a person gets libeled in print. Cases like this probably make up less than one percent of all civil suits. And the press covers them. So I understand you wanting to avoid further public exposure. But you’re a fighter, Ben, and you won’t let this blotch remain on your honor.”

  “Cut the crap, Phil.”

  Sloan pulled at his lip as though he were wrestling with a tough decision. He looked at Tyson and said, “You probably think no one is going to zero in on your small chapter in that big book. Well . . .” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Beekman got this for me. There’s a trade magazine called Publishers Weekly, and they get galley copies of books months before publication. This is a book review in that magazine published seven weeks ago.” He handed Tyson the photocopied page.

  Tyson looked at it. There were six short book reviews on the page. His eyes went to the one captioned Hue: Death of a City. Andrew Picard. There was some publishing information, followed by a short review of about 150 words. He scanned it quickly and saw that the review was generally favorable. Halfway through he read:

  There is an account of a massacre by American troops at a French hospital filled with patients and European staff. Picard’s writing vividly re-creates the massacre and leaves the reader wondering why no official inquiry ever grew out of this incident that ranks with My Lai in the annals of Vietnam atrocities.

  Tyson refolded the page and handed it back to Sloan.

  Sloan tapped the paper against his palm. “You see? Even in this little précis, you see what sticks out?”

  “I see.”

  “Imagine longer reviews in newspapers and magazines.”

  Two men came into the rest room. Tyson walked out, and Sloan followed him into the anteroom. People were wandering out of the ballroom and standing around talking, or heading for the lobby. Tyson noticed a few people glancing their way. He said, “You know, Phil, when I got that Community Fund Service Award, no one seemed to hear about it. But as soon as I get myself mentioned in some obscure book as a war criminal, everyone has heard the good news in two weeks.”

  “That is life, my friend.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Sloan took Tyson’s arm. “I have to tell you, Ben, a lot of people kept asking me tonight, ‘Are you suing?’ I don’t know what to say anymore.”

  Tyson knew Sloan was maneuvering him toward a lawsuit the way a surgeon maneuvers a patient toward the operating room. He knew he needed a second opinion and not Beekman’s. He said to Sloan, “If we sue and it went to trial, how many Army lawyers would be in the spectator seats? How many Justice Department lawyers?”

  Sloan didn’t reply.

  Tyson continued, “You see, win or lose, in a civil suit, the government will hear enough to make them curious. Did that occur to you, counselor?”

  Sloan shrugged. “That’s a possibility, of course. But still, Ben, I’m assuming that in a strict legal sense you are not guilty of murder. That’s what the government will conclude if they monitor a civil trial.”

  Tyson leaned closer to Sloan. “They will conclude no such thing, my friend.” Tyson fluffed Sloan’s red pocket handkerchief. “Good night.” Tyson turned and walked toward the lobby where he found Marcy seated in an armchair. She stood as he approached, and without a word, he took her arm and they left the lobby of the hotel through the main doors. The night had turned cool and misty, with a soft wind blowing from the south. Tyson breathed deeply to clear his head. “I think I smell the ocean.”

  “You always say that after you eat canapés made with anchovy paste. You said that once in Switzerland.”

  Tyson gave the doorman his parking chit. About a dozen people waited
under the marquee for their cars. Tyson looked at Marcy. “Did you have a good evening?”

  Marcy considered a moment, then said, “No. For the first time, I felt I wasn’t Marcy Clure Tyson but Ben Tyson’s wife.”

  “Weak ego, Marcy.”

  Marcy did not reply.

  Tyson lit a cigarette and leaned against a pillar. He looked out across the hotel grounds toward the road. To the left was the village’s main street, a long block of little shops and banks. Everytown, USA; as Everytown had looked before the malls and commercial strips. To his left front was the library, and to the right of that, the small war memorial park. Directly opposite the hotel was the commuter station. In the distance, rising above the trees, he could see the tall Gothic spire of the Episcopal Cathedral of the Incarnation against the moonlit skyline, topped by an illuminated cross. This was familiar territory. Safe ground.

  “Are you all right?”

  He looked at his wife. “Yes.”

  “You were somewhere else.”

  “Sometimes I do that.”

  Marcy said, “Your mother called today. I forgot to tell you.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She wants you to take care of yourself. Eat well. Relax. I think Florida made her Jewish.”

  Tyson smiled. He’d heard from a few old friends and some out-of-town family over the past two weeks. He was a little surprised at how fast news traveled. It reminded him of the Army, the rumor mill par excellence.

  Marcy, as though she knew what he was thinking, said, “Anybody who didn’t know about it when they got here knows now. Maybe you ought to issue an official statement in the village papers and the club newsletter.”

  Tyson smiled again. “Phil said no statements, public or private.” But he himself had called a few people, close friends and relatives. And he’d been surprised by the variety of reactions: some people seemed insensitive; some were noncommittal; a good number seemed unimpressed by the seriousness of what had been written about him. A few people, as he’d noted tonight, sensed a developing celebrity status, albeit of a questionable nature, and he had the impression that these people were trying to get close to him to somehow share the limelight. Tyson said to Marcy, “The Grenvilles, who are important personages in the old guard, have asked us to cocktails. Next Friday, if you’re interested.”