Bayview Heights Trilogy (18 page)

No thanks to people like Jerry Bosco, Cassie
thought, who’d wanted the building closed to everyone but athletes
and kids staying after for clubs and activities. Several teachers
had fought to let the kids stay just to socialize. With the help of
a teacher committee, Seth had launched a QRS program for after
school: any kids could remain in the building as long as they
adhered to behavior promoting Quiet, Respect and Safety.

The last five gang-prevention techniques
dealt with offering programs for transfer students, educating
teachers and parents with inservice courses, finding good community
role models and providing counseling for students on the edge. As
with the rest of the content, Mitch praised what Bayview Heights
High School already had in place and gave suggestions for those
they did not.

At four o’clock, when Mitch finished
answering one of the many questions fired at him, Seth stood. “It’s
late,” he said to the group. “I can’t tell you how much I
appreciate your interest. I think you all recognize the gravity of
the situation. I’m ending the formal part of the meeting now. If
you want to stay around, have a cup of coffee with us and ask Mitch
any more questions, please do so. The rest of you drive home
carefully. The weather’s turned nasty.”

Cassie stood up. Her emotions were mixed. She
was still afraid for Johnny, and she still felt a more intimate
approach would have been better. But professionally, she couldn’t
deny that Mitch and Seth had done a great job.

Seth grabbed her arm as she started for the
door. “Cass?”

She faced him.

“You okay?”

Tilting her chin, she said, “Yes, of course I
am.” She looked at Mitch, who was surrounded by several teachers.
“He did a good job.”

“He told me you helped him learn how to give
a good presentation.”

“Ironic, huh?”

Seth smiled. “Did you talk to Johnny?”

“Yes. He’s okay with it.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“Me, too.”

Seth glanced toward the podium. “You going to
stay and talk to Mitch?”

Cassie shook her head. “No, I don’t think
so.”

“Can I do anything?” he asked.

“No. I’m tired. I’m going home.”

“No volleyball tonight?”

Volleyball. Mitch. Her house, in front of
the fire afterward
. She bit her lip. “No. Not tonight.
Goodbye, Seth.”

Against her will, she took one last look at
Mitch. Sarah McKay was handing him a cup of coffee and staring
sweetly up at him. It was like rubbing salt in an open wound. To
escape the image, Cassie turned and headed for the door.

She didn’t see Mitch’s gaze follow her as she
walked out of the library.

ON TUESDAY MORNING, Mitch barged through the
school entrance tired and irritable. He’d overslept and was late
because he’d tossed and turned a good part of the night, trying to
escape the sad look on Cassie’s face during the faculty meeting. He
wasn’t ready to see her today, with his defenses lowered by
fatigue.

Class was underway when he stepped through
the doorway. He froze. All around the room were images straight out
of his worst nightmare. He watched as eleven kids in Cassie’s class
went from object to object—inspecting each one. It took a minute
for her voice to penetrate his shocked brain.

“All of this is authentic memorabilia from
the Vietnam War. For four weeks we’ll be studying the art,
literature and music of war, focusing first on Vietnam, because
it’s probably the most relevant to you.”

Still standing in the doorway, Mitch scanned
the obscene reminders that decorated her room. A flak jacket,
several helmets, maps of Southeast Asia, shells, flags, an M-16.
God, she even had a claymore mine. The last time he’d seen the
highly explosive weapon, which flung shrapnel in the direction of
the enemy, it had gotten turned around and he and his squad were
diving for cover. Where the hell had she unearthed these
things?

When she finished telling them they had ten
minutes to “get a feel” for the stuff, she headed for her desk and
saw him. His mind registered that her face looked pale and drawn
today, but his eyes strayed to the war artifacts.

“Good morning, Captain,” she said coolly.

“Ms. Smith.” Shaking off the trance, he came
into the room. He was bone-deep cold and shivered as he removed his
coat.

She cocked her head, stared at him hard. “Are
you all right?”

Taking in a deep breath, he nodded.
“You?”

“You mean about the faculty meeting
yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m fine.” Her words were clipped, her tone
short. So this was how it was going to be. Over the weekend, he’d
accepted that they were going nowhere, so it didn’t come as a
surprise. It just seemed harder to take this morning, given the
ghosts that were staring back at him from all corners of the
room.

“How did the kids do with the
announcement?”

“All right. Joe DeFazio isn’t here
today.”

“Johnny?”

“He did okay.” She glanced over where the boy
was examining a map of Vietnam. “Actually, he seems unusually
intrigued by this introduction to our new unit.”

Mitch swallowed hard. “Where did you get all
this stuff?”

“I’ve been collecting it for years. I always
go into a war unit after the alienation unit, and this is the
result of ten years of collection from pawn shops, novelty stores,
people who’ve come and talked and left things with us.”

He nodded.
People who’ve come and
talked.
Vets fell into two categories: those who couldn’t talk
about their experiences, and those who had to. Most psychologists
agreed that the latter were healthier. It seemed an oxymoron to
Mitch—a healthy war veteran. But hell, people had to deal with the
demons as best they could.

“Mitch, are you sure you’re okay? You look
ill.”

“I’m just tired.” He had to turn away from
the sympathy in her eyes. He was too raw today to begin with, and
now, bombarded by his past, he wasn’t even sure he could get
through the next couple of hours.

Take it one day at a time, Mitch
,
the VA counselor had advised. Somehow, he’d managed twenty-five
years of living with the horror he’d seen, the crimes he himself
had perpetrated. As he hung up his coat, he closed his eyes to stop
a vision of one of those crimes—the bloodied bodies of the Viet
Cong soldiers, piled high, ready for burning. His gun had put too
many of them there.

Shaking off the memory, he got his journal
from the cabinet and took a seat in the back as Cassie said, “All
right, everybody. Today you’re going to write on this.” She passed
out to each of them what Mitch thought was a business card. On the
square paper, however, was typed, “Join the Marines. Travel to
exotic lands, meet interesting and exciting new people, and kill
them.”

There were nervous chuckles around the room,
then the kids quieted. And began to write.

Mitch stared at the blank paper. Journal
writing. This aspect of the class had been tough for him. He’d
written with the kids each day, but it had been surface stuff. He
hadn’t gotten into what he was really feeling and he’d never
mentioned his war experiences. Hell, he’d only ever talked about
them to counselors, and a few times to Kurt when he couldn’t deal
with the pain alone. Write about it now? Never in a million
years.

He hadn’t realized Cassie was at his desk.
“Not writing today, Captain?”

“Just thinking.” He peered up into eyes he’d
thought at one time he might want to share the horror of Vietnam
with. Not now. He picked up his pen as she walked on to see what
Peterson was doing. At the top of his page, Mitch wrote, “Do not
read.” He scribbled, “I can’t do this. I can’t write about the war.
I can’t even think about it. Except for the nightmares, it’s not
even a part of me anymore. Maybe I can write about this card. I
have a lot of feelings about how kids get sucked in. How they go
over there not knowing what the hell’s going to happen to them.”
And so it went. For ten minutes he skirted any references to
himself and wrote around the issue. But the writing was more
personal, with more feeling than anything he’d done so far.

When it was time to share, he moaned. He
watched the kids pair up. Mike Youngblood asked to be with Cassie,
so Mitch got a break there. Though she was angry and upset with
him, he could tell that she’d noticed something more was going on
with him than the fight they’d had. He didn’t want to give her
further evidence of his state of mind.

“Looks like it’s you and me left,
Captain.”

Mitch stared up at Battaglia. Damn!

The boy plunked down on the desk next to him.
“Wanna tell me what you think of the card?”

Sitting back, Mitch crossed his arms over his
chest, trying to look relaxed. “I think it’s true. Recruiters suck
young kids in when they have no idea what they’ll be doing in
war.”

Battaglia stared off into space for a minute.
“You think so? I can’t understand why anybody would join. It’d
screw up the rest of his life.”

Something in his tone alerted Mitch. There
was a concern, a sympathy—something—lacing the boy’s words.

“You don’t always know at eighteen what’s
best for you,” Mitch answered honestly.

Sharp, suspicious eyes leveled on Mitch.
“Yeah, so I’ve heard today.” Battaglia scowled. “You talk to
Cassie?”

“Briefly. Why?”

“She looks sad. Has looked that way since
Friday. I thought maybe you could cheer her up.”

“I think you’ve got a better chance of doing
that than I do.” He held Battaglia’s gaze. “I’m glad to see you
here today.”

The boy glanced around the room at the war
stuff. “I’m not so glad I came. Especially today.”

Cassie watched Johnny and Mitch out of the
corner of her eye. What were they talking about? Both looked so
serious. God, she hoped Mitch didn’t do anything to push Johnny
over the edge. And vice versa. Something was wrong with Mitch. He
was so somber. She supposed it could be the tension between them
because of the gang issue. She could still hear him whisper,
Reconsider, Cass, please
.

She had--a thousand times since Friday. Only
he didn’t know it, and never would.

“All right, let’s talk about the card as a
group.” After they’d shared their thoughts, she said, “Vietnam is a
war many of us can relate to. How many of you know someone who was
in Southeast Asia?”

She let the kids tell their stories. Arga’s
and Tara’s uncles, and Jen’s father. Several neighbors. Even
Peterson’s older step-brother.

“Think anyone would like to come in and talk
to us about this?”

“Not my dad,” Jen said. “He don’t ever talk
about it.”

“How old is your Dad, Jen?”

“Forty-nine. He was in at the end. Really
screwed him up.”

“My uncle might.” Arga spoke softly. “He told
me stories. They’re really bad.”

“Why don’t you ask him if he’d speak to our
class? Anyone else have any connection to this war?”

She looked around the room, her gaze falling
on Johnny and Mitch. Something about their faces—a similar look
about them...

Class ended before she could figure it
out.

The kids left, and Mitch gathered his things
as the next group filed in. His shoulders were tense, his body
ramrod straight.

“Mitch?” Cassie said as he headed for the
closet.

Continuing past her, he grabbed his coat,
shrugged into it and turned to face her—ready to bolt. “Yeah?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

For a minute, a look of naked pain crossed
his face. Then it was gone. “I’m fine, Ms. Smith. Just as
always.”

With that mysterious comment, he left.

o0o

MITCH FOUND HIMSELF at Kurt’s clinic on
Thursday of that week. He’d endured three days of studying the war,
and he couldn’t handle the pain alone anymore.

First there had been the music: Billy Joel’s
“Goodnight Saigon” and George Michael’s “Mother’s Pride.” As he
listened to Joel’s accurate description of the camaraderie among
the soldiers, their dependence on one another in the foreign
countryside, Mitch remembered an incident. He was marching through
the jungle. He was in the middle of the line, as usual. His buddy,
Stillman, had been at the point. Mitch had tackled him from behind,
but not in time to dodge the sniper’s bullet. Stillman had gone
home early, paralyzed from the waist down.

But Michael’s song got to Mitch even more.
Cassie had made what she called a song scrapbook: pictures she’d
drawn or cut out of magazines, representing the lyrics. She’d shown
them on an overhead screen while she played the song, asking the
kids to jot down the images that were most powerful. Mitch had
watched the screen in silence—all those children scarred by war,
all those families torn apart. He felt wounds open that he’d
thought closed for good. The picture of one small Vietnamese boy
tightened the fist around Mitch’s heart so much he’d had to get up
and leave the room. He’d made a silly excuse when he’d returned
just before the end of class.

So he’d sought out his brother. As he came
through the door into the entry-reception area of the clinic, a
young woman bustled in behind him.

“Hi,” she said, looking up at him with wide
brown eyes peeking out from under shaggy bangs. She shook her coat
off, hung it in a makeshift closet and smiled. “I’m Meg Mancini, a
pre-med student. You’re Kurt’s brother.”

“How do you know me?” Mitch asked.

“Kurt has a picture of you two on his
desk.”

“Oh.”

“And Johnny’s talked about you.”

“Battaglia?”

She glanced to the far side of the room.
“Speak of the devil, as my dad says.”

Johnny came out of the clinic’s inner door.
“Devil? Me? Mary Margaret, how unkind.” The teasing drained from
his voice when he spotted Mitch. “Hello, Captain Lansing.”