Even from that great a distance, Rex was a doting father. My parents and I would laugh gaily over his long letters filled with careful instructions as to how we should care for his namesake and how my parents should care for me. In some ways, Rex was able to make it seem that he had never left. In my heart, though, I knew how far away he really was.
4.
But now it was twelve years later, and just as the Vietnam War was different from the Korean, Rex’s absence from his family was different. Over a decade had passed between the wars, and our life together and our lives separately had changed in many subtle ways.
When Rex had come back from Korea, taller, leaner and, yes, harder than when he had left, we had been able to resume our life almost as if there had been no interruption at all. And in a real way, for, when he had been drafted, our life together had not yet had a chance to begin, there was no interruption. As if his absence had never existed, and as if we had not begun at all, we were able to begin anew.
We bought a new, three-bedroom mobile home with a cathedral ceiling in a mobile home park over by the Bay, and Rex went back to work for his father’s plumbing company, a journeyman plumber, as before, starting at the bottom, as before. But, “The sky’s the limit!” he used to say to me, late at night as we talked in bed of our plans and hopes for the future.
I was newly pregnant with Hunter, and touching my swelling womb, feeling the life stir there, knew how right he was. “Oh, Rex, not even the sky can limit us!” I would tell him, as he drifted peacefully off to sleep.
5.
Hunter was born, a healthy, bright child, serious and intense from birth, just as Bif had been boisterous and cheerfully gregarious from birth. Hunter’s personality brought out another side of Rex, a side I hadn’t seen before. With his second son, Rex was somber, morbid almost, encouraging in the boy, and thus in himself, activities that were solitary, physically strenuous, and somewhat dangerous—such as hunting and deep-sea fishing, rock-climbing, scuba diving. Was this a result of his war experiences, things he wouldn’t talk about, couldn’t talk about, even to me? I wondered helplessly.
“What else are you going to do with a boy named Hunter?” Rex would tease me whenever I asked him why, for example, he was encouraging his son to hunt alligators in the swamps with Negroes.
“But he’s only a boy,” I would plead.
“A boy’s only a small man,” he would explain to me.
I was no less concerned over Rex’s enthusiasm for Bif’s adventures in sports—Little League baseball, Pop Warner football, playing for two or three different teams at a time, day and night, throwing, batting, and kicking balls, sobbing exhausted and disconsolate whenever his team had failed to humiliate the other.
6.
When our third son was born, I named him Rory, after Rex’s father, and determined to protect him, if possible, from the several influences of his father that I was fast learning to be frightened of.
As aspects of his whole personality, Rex’s fierce competitive pride, his love of sports and danger, and his occasional, dark fascination with solitude did not in any way alarm me. But in our sons, one or another and sometimes several of these aspects became dominant, intimidating, and, eventually, I feared, killing the milder, sweeter traits which, in Rex, made me love him—his tenderness, his shyness, his naiveté, and his insecurity.
Immediately, it seemed, Rex sensed my protectiveness toward Rory, and he subtly undermined me, encouraging and thereby instilling in his youngest son yet another negative aspect of his own personality.
“You’re like your mother,” he would tell him. “All emotions. Now, your mother is a wonderful woman, and I’m pleased that one of my sons is like her, so don’t go thinking I’m putting you down, son.”
But of course poor Rory thought his father was rejecting him, so the only emotion he allowed himself to feel with passion was anger, raging, explosive anger, even as a child.
7.
Thus it was with deeply mixed emotions that I watched my husband in his Air Force major’s uniform stride down the steps of our blue mobile home, cross the pebbled driveway to the white convertible waiting for him at the curb, pausing a second at the sidewalk to give Bif’s soccer ball a friendly boot into the goal in the side yard. And then, flinging his flight bag into the back seat, he jumped into the low-slung car without opening the door and signaled to the lieutenant to take off, which, with a great roar of exhausts and squealing of tires, the lieutenant did.
Little did I know that I would never see my husband, my beloved Rex, again. If I had known it, or even had suspected it (I was so enthralled with the man that I imagined him winning the war quickly and returning home in a season), I never would have allowed myself to feel the wave of relief that swept over me as he drove away. I did not then understand that feeling, and naturally I felt terrible for having it, as if I were an evil woman. Rex had made my life possible. Without him, I had no reason for living. I knew that I loved him deeply. Why, then, did I feel this hatred for him?
8.
Happily, the feeling swiftly went away, and I began to miss Rex awfully. I stayed up late night after night writing long, amorous letters to him (one thing about my Rex, he was a marvelous lover). My days were busier than ever, taken up completely with the boys and my housekeeping.
Then, one night late that summer, I was startled from my letter-writing by a telephone call from the Tampa hospital. There had been a terrible accident, the doctor told me, on the causeway between St. Petersburg and Tampa, and my mother and father, who had driven over to look at a new Golden Age planned community, had been killed. I quickly got my friend Judy from the trailer next door to baby-sit and took a bus to Tampa, as the doctor had suggested, to identify my poor mother and father.
“Yes,” I sobbed, “it’s they!”
The doctor, a kind, handsome, young man with a blond moustache, comforted me by holding me in his arms. “There, there,” he said, “you’ll be all right. They went together,” he reminded me. “Think how much that would have meant to them.”
I wiped away my tears, blew my nose, thanked him for all his trouble, and walked slowly out of the hospital into the cool, palmy night, terrified.
9.
Now I was truly on my own—in spite of what Rex had said to Bif. He had known as well as I that a twelve-year-old boy can’t take care of a twenty-eight-year-old woman. He had said it mainly for Bif’s benefit, not mine—so the boy would feel the proper responsibility, regardless of whether or not he could act on it.
At first, I had felt sorry for Bif, who was trying hard to live up to the terms of his charge, but then, as increasingly he began to order me around, I began to feel anger toward him. As long as my mother and father were still alive, I was able to get Bif to stop worrying over me simply by assuring him that Grandpa was taking care of us all while Daddy was away in Vietnam. But after the accident, even that assurance was no longer possible.
Then, finally, one evening about six months after my parents’ death, all my anger flooded over. I served the boys a supper of turkey hash on toast, leftovers from the roast turkey of the night before, and Bif slammed his little fists down on the table and said loudly, “We never had to eat this crap when Dad was at home! What makes you think it’s any different now?”
I slapped him across the mouth with my open hand as hard as I could, sending him spinning off his chair to the floor. After calling Judy over to baby-sit, I stomped out and caught the bus to Tampa.
10.
I arrived home again just before dawn (the doctor, Ben, insisted on driving me in his new Buick sedan), exhausted, slightly woozy from the gin-and-tonics, and in spite of the endless shame I felt, still raging. The combination of guilt and anger was almost too much to bear, and I was afraid I was going mad, though Ben assured me that I was not, that it was perfectly normal for the wife of a man away in the service to feel this way.
I sent Judy home, and while I waited for the boys to get up for their breakfast, I sat dow
n and tried to write a letter to Rex. I began the letter many times, tearing each new attempt to shreds just as I got to the place where I had to tell him I had let Ben make love to me. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t make that man’s life any more painful than it already was. I remembered his last letter to me, received the day before.
Kay, honey, even though I’m 9000 miles away from you and the boys, my heart and mind are there with you, believe me. I still feel that I’m the king in that little kingdom. I feel like a government-in-exile or something, waiting for the signal from you, or from somebody, that it’s okay to return. (Hey, I’d better be careful or the military censors will think I’m talking politics, eh? Ha ha!)
At last, I heard the boys happily slamming each other with pillows, and wearily I got up and started setting the table for breakfast.
11.
That very afternoon, I received the letter from Washington, D.C., the Department of Defense, informing me that Rex’s plane had been shot down by the enemy while on a mission over North Vietnam, and he had been taken prisoner. He was now a POW, and, as far as they knew, he was not injured.
In that one brief moment, as I read the letter, I felt my life turn over and go back to zero and start anew, the opposite of drowning. I still loved Rex, of course, but deep inside, I said a prayer of thanks to the North Vietnamese gunners who had shot him down. I would never be able to explain that gratitude to anyone, I was sure, and I probably could not explain it even to myself, but I could not deny to myself that I felt it, no matter how hard I tried. And though I was not especially proud of the feeling, neither was I ashamed of it.
I joined a group of POW wives from central Florida, and for a while went around with them, speaking to groups of men who were said to have influence in Washington in ways that would somehow benefit the POWs. But I could never quite understand how POWs or their wives could benefit from a more aggressive war policy, so I dropped out of the group. I took good care of my sons and our home, saw Ben about once a month, and just sort of cooled my heels for a while.
12.
Gradually, I became used to the idea that I was on my own and, therefore, had no choice but to take care of myself. I enrolled in night school and got my high school diploma with an ease that astounded me. I went on a diet and exercise program and studied yoga at the Sarasota YWCA. I started sending Rory to a reading clinic, because of his disability, and no longer insisted that the boys get their haircuts where their father had always gotten his. I started trying new foods, exotic dishes, and occasionally took in an X-rated movie with Ben. I took driving lessons, got my license and borrowed the money from a bank to buy a Japanese station wagon.
Rex would have forbidden me to do all these things, if he’d been here, and when the war is finally over and he has been repatriated, he will come home again, and I hope we both can sit down and cry for what has been lost. If he can’t do that, I will leave him.
THE END
11
1.
It was morning when their jumbo jet was ready to descend, and by then Egress and the Loon were both quite drunk.—Boy, oh boy, Loon, I feel like havin’ a party! Le’s take some speed an’ stay up four days ‘n’ nights in a row! It ain’t every day y’get back from a goddamn pilgrimage, y’know! the king cried to his diminutive friend.
—Hoo haw! Hoo haw! Hoo haw! the Loon carefully responded. He knew how wild the king could get when he was drunk.
Champagne glasses in hand, the two staggered out the door of the aircraft and walked unsteadily through the arrival gate.—They ain’t no one here t’ meet us, the king observed, surprised.
—And it’s a good thing, too, the way you’re dressed, the Loon said, pointing at the king’s grain bag, which was spattered with caked mud, champagne, salt spray, dried semen.
—Yeah, I guess you’re right, the king agreed, and they walked to the taxi stand, got into a cab, and instructed the driver to take them to the palace.—Toot sweet! the king said flirtatiously.
—Going to see the queen? the driver impertinently asked. He was a bent-over, long-haired hippie type who closely resembled a ballboy who’d once worked at the gymnasium.
—You betcha! Egress said heartily. He loved the fact that the driver didn’t recognize him.—I’m gonna fuck ’er, he confided.
—Yeh. You and everybody else, the driver said, winking.
2.
When the cab pulled up at the palace gate, the Loon saw the handwriting on the wall and decided to seek cover.—Say, Egress, I’m going to split for my place, okay?
—Yeah, yeah, sure, sure, Egress said, thinking only of Naomi Ruth and how happy she would be to see him again.
As soon as he reached his tree house, the Loon made a few quick phone calls and confirmed his suspicions. Just as I suspected, he thought. The queen has taken over. He made one more call, found out when the next bus left for his small, southern hometown, and packed a large suitcase with most of his belongings, his simpler, lightweight clothes, his chambered nautilus, his five favorite records, three favorite books, four favorite autographed photographs of movie stars, and his thumb-sized lump of hash.
The Loon was not a prophet, actually, but with regard to political matters, he was practically clairvoyant. This was doubtless because he himself was as apolitical as a four-year-old child. With his talent, he ought to have been made the premier political advisor in the state. But, ironically, the very thing that gave rise to his talent disqualified him as a councillor: he had no loyalties whatsoever to anyone, except as he himself was personally threatened or rewarded. His politics were based entirely on what he saw as necessary for his own continued survival. This did not, however, make him amoral, for, in all his personal dealings with people, he remained both generous and kind.
3.
Egress the Hearty strode manfully into the Great Hall and roared,—Honey, I’m home!
The tapestry-covered walls soaked up his noise and left him standing alone in silence.—I like the way she’s decorated the place, he mused, fingering one of the thick tapestries.—French. Then he saw her, standing on the dais at the far end of the enormous room, and he ran, arms spread wide, to her.—Baa-a-a-bee-e-e! he bellowed.
After he had kissed, hugged, and fondled her awhile, he began to realize that she had not responded, that she had stood still throughout, as if she were made of alabaster, silent and motionless and cold to the touch.—What’s the matter? Aren’t you thrilled to see me? he asked her.—Hey, baby, he growled in his sexy voice,—you really turn me on when you hold it back like this. He started to paw her breasts.
But still there was no reaction.—What the fuck …? he exclaimed, drawing back to look at her. Maybe she had the rag on or something. You never can tell.
Finally, she spoke to him in a low, calm voice.—Egress, you’ve been gone for more than seven years, and in that time I’ve acted in your place…
—Fantastic, terrific, he said.—That’s why you’re the queen.
—And in those years, she went on,—I’ve made a number of decisions, executive decisions. Foremost among these is the decision that I am to remain the chief executive, even after your return. I am, to put it simply and crudely, taking my turn, she declared.
—If you were a fucking man, he hissed,—I’d kill you. But you’re not. You’re a woman. My woman. Now, c’mere and give me some ass.
4.
A troop of Abenakis emerged from behind the arras next to the queen, and at a signal from their chief, the one called Horse, they surrounded Egress and tied him with deerhide thongs and pitched him onto the floor in a heap at the queen’s feet. Egress was beginning to feel a little frightened.—You’re serious! he exclaimed to her.
Not answering him, she turned and regally left the hall.
—Horse! Don’t you recognize me, man? I’m your king! It’s me, Egress the Hearty, for Christ’s sake!
—Yeah, I know who you are, the red man answered.—Or rather, I know who you think you are. The fact that you think you’
re still in charge, though, just because you’re who you are, doesn’t mean goatshit around here anymore. It’s hard to run around claiming Divine Right when you ain’t got no Enforcer! Horse joked, leading his band over to one of the far corners of the room. He was still wearing his jukebox, and one of the warriors punched E-5, a Buffy Sainte-Marie tune, and the group formed a small circle and started to dance.
—For god’s sake, don’t you guys have any loyalty to your own kind??? the king shrieked at them.—Where are your balls!!! Egress was beginning to comprehend what was happening, and his fear had turned to rage. Trussed up like a pig in a market, he roared, thrashing and rolling himself about the room.
Sadly, while the other Indians danced, Horse watched him.—The only good king is probably a dead king, he murmured to himself.
5.
This is how Egress escaped: The Abenakis, as redmen often will, took to drinking, and after having exhausted themselves with brawling, singing, and dancing, fell asleep in a pile in the corner. At dawn, a young girl, coming from one of the barracks rooms where, apparently, she had been visiting her boyfriend or her brother, stole across the Great Hall in the half-light and almost stumbled over the fuming body of Egress.
—Watch it, for Christ’s sake! he snapped.
—Oh, golly, I didn’t see you there! I’m terribly sorry, she said sincerely. She was wearing a high school cheerleader’s uniform and had large, pointed breasts.—Are you all right? she asked the king.
—Listen, I was captured by some Indians working for my wife, the queen, because she hates men. Do you hate men, too? he asked kindly.