The Lotus Eaters: A Novel (32 page)

She rolled off the cot and crawled on her hands and knees farther into the rows till she reached the farthest, darkest corner. She sat on the floor balled up, with her back against a box, her knees drawn into her chest, her forehead resting on them.

"Adams! Where the hell is she?"

The door opened, and her name echoed against the thin metallic walls. Helen breathed in, held her breath until she could feel her pulse throbbing. The door slammed shut.

"Where did the girl photographer go?"

Helen rolled down on her side, the ground cool and smelling of moisture like a damp basement. She tucked her fist under her chin. When she closed her eyes, she saw Samuels as he had been next to her under the plastic partition, and then she fell asleep.

Hours later, she left the supply building and searched out the air controller.

"We couldn't find you for the supply run."

"I've got enough film, and I need to send it out. When's the next flight to Danang?" She held her breath, the lie so obvious.

He looked at his clipboard, bored. "Cargo flight at sunset."

"I'll be in the mess tent."

She sat on a bench and stared at the table. She stood at the LZ half an hour before the plane was ready to take off. She had already boarded when a soldier ran up with her camera bags that she had left behind, forgotten, in the supply building.

When Helen returned to
Saigon, she was relieved to find Darrow and Linh on an assignment in Cam Ranh Bay. In the apartment, she continued her hiding, camped under the mint green bedspread, trying to forget what had happened, including her own humiliating part in it. A pain throbbed behind her eyes--she could not put Samuels out of her mind, his death like a disease inside her. The more she thought about it, the less she understood what had happened or whom to blame.

The film in the bags was an accusation; if she could not figure out Samuels's intention, she couldn't in good conscience broadcast the photos, so instead of mourning the loss of her friend, she had to act as judge on his actions. Obviously Horner had been in the wrong, had demoralized his men, but Samuels was a veteran of two tours. He should have been able to deal with Horner easily. Had he just been showing off, a terrible, stupid accident? Or had Samuels snapped? Had the waste and stupidity up to that moment finally done him in?

There were worse alternatives to consider. Had the lines begun to blur so much that Samuels simply didn't care whether there was a bullet in the chamber or not?

In exasperation, Gary came
to pick up the film himself, and she reluctantly let it go because to make an issue of it would be to convict Samuels. An assistant would develop the rolls. Gary took one look at Helen and called a doctor. He promised to return after the film was processed.

When the doctor examined her, he shook his head. "Exhaustion. Post-stress."

"You're
my
doctor, right? Call it vitamin deficiency."

The sheets were dirty; she hadn't changed them in weeks, too busy for normal life. Gingerly Gary sat on the edge of the bed. "What happened, honey bunny?" He didn't want to be responsible for his star girl photographer going down and that becoming the story.

Helen shook her head. How could she not betray Samuels and still let the photos go out? "I don't think the film's any good."

"They're great shots. You just need to rest, okay?"

She leaned over, her eyes slipping away from him. "I don't know what happened. Out there." She knew what had happened inside, Samuels's frustration. But hadn't he really meant it as a dare, a bit of drama, a boyish prank?

The room was hot, and Gary's forehead beaded with sweat. "Why do you stay here? I pay you a lot better than living here."

"It's the real Vietnam."

"Who the hell cares? Didn't you notice? The real 'Nam is a shit hole." Gary kicked at a pillow on the floor. Bad enough to witness all the military casualties, but now his reporters were falling apart. Every day he lived with the guilt, sending them out, knowing the dangers, the scars it would leave either way. Pretending, pretending, his cowboy talk that none of it was so bad, that they'd be okay if they took precautions. And here was his girl getting all messed up.

"Why's the place good enough to die for, then?"

"That's real philosophical and deep and all, but I got my own problems. Look, sweetie, I don't know when's a good time to tell you, so here it is. The new assistant was rushed and used too much heat drying the negatives. The emulsion melted."

The shock that the whole thing had been destroyed stunned her. "All of them?" Despite her doubt about releasing them, now the news knocked the wind out of her. It was clear now that she would never have sat on the photos. Samuels betrayed again, now by being forgotten.

"Of course not. About half. But listen, the ones left were good enough for another cover. And your fee doubled, too, so not so bad, huh?"

He was a sly one; she suspected he had tricked her into realizing how valuable they were.

"My fee just tripled. And I want my byline on each picture." She rolled back onto the bed, appalled with this small, hard ambition inside her. "What about the one with Samuels standing at the edge of the paddy?"

"Tripled, didn't I say that? I'll have to check on the name, greedy girl. Your soldier's the cover boy." He was relieved by her voracity. That bit of ruthlessness would serve her well and meant that all this bed rest was just theatrics.

"No, you didn't say."

"Of course," Gary said, running his hand up and down the bedspread, "knowing the outcome of the battle... well, he's immortalized."

She closed her eyes, weighing the decision. "Even if he shot himself?"

Gary paused, relieved now that he had found out the cause of her behavior. "I didn't even hear that."

"Are you
that
cynical?"

He glanced at her, a small, wan smile, then got up and moved away. "Man, it's boiling in here. What I
am
is a guy with a constant deadline. Samuelson--"

"Samuels."

"Whatever. Was a brave soldier--I have testimonials.
You
don't know what happened for sure. Things go on out there that can't be judged by the standards of ordinary life, little girl."

Even if Gary knew exactly what had happened, it would make no difference.

"Give this a thought. Fly to Washington and present a print of this Samuels to his parents, or girlfriend, wife, what ever he's got. That would be great coverage."

She shook her head. "I'm through."

"That's why you had your fee tripled? What you need is rest." He paced the room, sweating and wiping his forehead with a paper napkin. "How about me sending some meals over from Grival's."

"You can't buy me," she said into her blanket, but they both knew he had won.

"It's on the expense account, okay? And you'll get your byline."

"I don't care."

He studied her for a moment. "Even if the guy did flip out for a second--which I'm officially denying--what about all the times he's a hero and no one is handy with a camera? He's a brave SOB in my book just for being out there in Vietnam, another name for Hell." He picked up his pack to leave.

"At the field hospital--"

"I'll tell you something I shouldn't. I rescued Darrow out there in Angkor. Don't ever let him know. Hiding in the rocks. Flipped out, man. Scared of his shadow. I'm not sure what would have happened if Linh hadn't shown up." An exaggeration, of course, but one for a good cause.

Helen had never heard this version of their time at Angkor; all she knew was Darrow's obsession with going back there.

"Be one of my best photographers. The job won't betray you. I love Darrow, but he's headed in a bad direction again--the thing with Tanner was dumb. I'm relying on you and Linh to pull him through."

But Gary was wrong. Already the job had betrayed her. Or she had betrayed it, had fulfilled MacCrae's prophecy, and become part of their movie. Young boys like Michael would see that picture of Samuels and follow in the footsteps of a man who rolled the dice with his life.

When Gary left, Helen
got out of bed, dressed, and took up life again. At dinner with Annick, she sipped at a martini, so icy it went down like water. The smoothness of the tablecloth, the ice in their water glasses, the laughter at the tables around them, soothed her. A man across the room nodded, and she smiled back. The waiter brought them a complimentary round of drinks.

"You're strange to night," Annick said, and lit a cigarette.

Helen noticed the smudge of lipstick on Annick's glass as she moved it away from her lips, the pristine cleanness of the china (nothing in the field could be made that clean), the rustle of a woman's dress as she passed by.

"I was a coward."

Annick blew away a stream of smoke and shrugged. "You made it back to Saigon. The only victory that counts." She looked over her shoulder at the man. "I think he likes you."

"Maybe I should call him over." Helen pointed her chin in the man's direction. "A whirlwind romance. We'll get married, and he'll take me home to meet his mother. Why not?"

"You're drunk."

"That's the problem. I can't get drunk. I'd need elephant tranquilizer to bring me down."

Annick finished her drink and started on the new one. "But maybe you should marry him. All anyone can gossip about is Darrow's wife coming to town."

Helen set down her glass, sobered.

"She came for a surprise visit. Waiting for him in his room at the hotel. Word is that rumors made their way back home about a certain loose female photographer."

This mythical wife existed in a time and space so far away from the crooked apartment that Helen had been able to ignore the situation. Darrow himself gave the marriage such little credence that she couldn't grasp the reality of the wife's sudden presence in Saigon. But here it was, or rather, here the wife was, pushing herself into a place she didn't belong. Helen felt the scruples of her old life. If she had meet Darrow back home, the fact of his marriage would have kept her from seeing him, but the thousands of miles, the nature of the war, had seduced her, made life back home strange and unfathomable.

"You shouldn't care. He loves you, not her."

The idea of being the other woman so ridiculous. Compared to what she had just witnessed, wasn't Darrow right, wasn't this small and unimportant? She wanted her life to be clean and right; to have things of her own. This must be the first thing to change. Helen leaned forward, elbows on the table. "What should I do? Go home?"

"A woman's never the most important thing to a man like him. You are fighting over scraps. Why not just take your pictures?"

Helen waved her hand as if shooing off an annoying insect.

"Then stop," Annick said. "You've proved yourself."

"The more I go out there the less I know why. But there are moments... when I feel this is what I'm alive for."

"So take a little vacation to Singapore. A break." Annick stubbed out her cigarette. "Other people make a whole life out of avoiding pain." The waiter brought a bowl of fruit; Annick smiled up at him extravagantly till he left. "Distracting themselves."

Helen smiled at her open flirtation. "What about you? I know how you distract yourself."

Now Annick sat up and her demeanor became as businesslike as in the shop. "Speaking of--would you mind if I saw Robert?"

A stab of possessiveness, but Helen dismissed it. Of course, life had to go on, and it was no one's fault that she had messed up her own. "Someone should be happy in Saigon."

"Don't be silly. This is a small place; we have to reuse each other. You think he's an innocent, but you're wrong. He sees through you and Darrow. He's like me; he knows this war means nothing. Maybe a change would do us both good. Maybe living in New Orleans would be fun."

That night Helen lay
in bed, restless. After the drinks with Annick, she had hoped to fall asleep quickly, but each time she closed her eyes the image of Samuels haunted her. She regretted things. Crazy thoughts, made more powerful because of their lack of logic. What she had done or failed to do. The arrival of Darrow's wife presaged a change, but to what? She fell into a fitful sleep, and again she had the dream; children approached and circled her, pressing in, circling around and around, touching, but when she tried to speak with them, they turned away.

After midnight footsteps on the stairs woke her, a key in the lock, and now that the change was close she wished he had stayed away longer.

Darrow felt his way into the dark room. "You awake?"

"Yes."

He flipped on the red-shaded lamp. "I was hoping you were here." He sat on the bed. "I drove straight in from Bien Hoa, screw the curfew."

In his arms, she let herself be still a minute, feel protected for the barest fraction of time. He smelled of sweat, dirt, and the fecund reek from being in the field. It repulsed and made her hold him tighter. His body strong, but he was no different from Samuels, the vulnerability of flesh.

"Your wife's in town. At your hotel room."

He let go of her. "Not now."

"Wasn't my choice."

"How do you know?"

"As in, have I seen her? No."

Darrow pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "She threatened something about coming."

Helen moved away and pulled the sheet up around herself. "You didn't mention me... no." He had let it come to this, having her here. Helen's feelings were suddenly clear. "I had my own little religious experience out there this last time. Maybe you didn't tell her about us for a reason. I need something of my own. Not you. It never was. You and I were just a diversion."

"Where's this coming from?" He was angry at how quickly she was willing to throw them away.

"That's rich--you're being jealous."

Darrow stood and shoved a chair hard across the room. It made a heavy thud as it fell on its side. "A war is on, you notice? What the fuck do my marriage and your hurt feelings mean?"

" 'The cool thing for us, baby, is that when this war's done, there's always another one. The war doesn't ever have to end for us.' What would you do without the war as an excuse?"