Riders on the Storm (2 page)

When she finally sees me, she sets the gun down on the table and hurries to the front door. As she's letting me in she says, “Are you all right, Sam? What're you doing here?”

“Will called me. About twenty minutes ago.”

“Will did? Why?”

“What I'm thinking now is that he must've had one of his panic attacks.”

We have a small circle of friends. We all know of Will's troubles. His panic attacks, the frightening temper he's developed, his inability to get a good night's sleep, his recklessness in both his personal and business lives.

“He always wakes me up when he has them. Usually I give him more of his meds and sit with him until he calms down. I wonder why he didn't wake me up tonight.” Will had accidentally shot and killed a little girl in Nam. He's never gotten over it. And worst of all, sometimes he has to rush out of his own home when he sees his daughter, who is about the same age as the little girl he killed. Mere sight of Peggy Ann triggers all his self-loathing and terror. Drunk one night he told Karen that maybe their daughter is actually the little Vietnamese girl here to haunt him.

We are standing a few feet apart. She smells of sleep and yesterday's perfume. “I'm so sorry you had to come over here, Sam. Look at the time. You have to get up and go to work in a few hours.”

“And Peggy Ann will have you up pretty early yourself.”

“Is there something I can get you? How about a beer?”

“I won't say no.”

She pats me on the cheek. “You're such a good friend, Sam. I'll get you your beer and then round up Will. He may be embarrassed and hiding in the den. He does that sometimes.”

The living room is so formal I never quite feel comfortable in it. From the grand piano to the white-brick fireplace to the long flocked drapes that cover the tall narrow windows to the bay window that overlooks the swimming pool—I am always careful when I'm here. I like the Cullens very much, it's just that their modest abode is a little less modest than my own. I sit down on a tan leather ottoman, mindful that I don't want to brush my Levi's against her couch or chairs.

The beer is served in a fancy Pilsner glass. I thank her for it and she rushes off.

I soon hear a door open quietly. From here I can see into the hall that divides the house. A light comes on and then goes off almost immediately. A child's voice, frightened. Maybe a bad dream. Or adults up at this time of night. Adults do terrifying things at night. Even three-year-olds know that.

Karen has a soothing voice and she uses it now with her daughter. I can't understand the words but the sound Karen makes is almost songlike. There will be hugs and kisses and then Peggy Ann will be tucked back down into the gentle dreams of three-year-olds. She will forget whatever had woken her.

Karen comes back. Shaking her head and twisting her long hands together. “He's not in the den or any of the bathrooms or the kitchen. Just a second. I should try the basement.”

“Let me try that, Karen. Why don't you just sit down?”

I am pretty sure she knows as well as I do that he isn't in the basement. Not unless he's dead down there. At his own hand.

I spend several minutes in the basement. It is not only finished but also furnished with expensive family room chairs and a couch. There is even a small bar and a twenty-nine-inch TV console. Even though I am not much of a sports fan—except for the World Series—I've spent many long afternoons down here with Will's group of vets.

She waits for me at the top of the stairs. She's changed into dark slacks and an olive-colored cotton blouse. Her feet are in thongs.

“No luck?”

“Sorry. No luck.”

She waits until the basement door is closed again before she says, “Now I'm afraid, Sam.”

“Before either of us starts to panic, let me check the garage, which I should have done first anyway. I'm just a little foggy, I'm afraid.”

“You think he went somewhere? It wouldn't be like him to go anywhere. After he has these attacks he usually goes to sleep and I have a hard time waking him up.”

“I'll flip the backyard light on and go have a look.”

“I'd like to go with you.” Tension has tightened her narrow face.

I smile. “Since it's your house I think that can be arranged.”

The backyard grass is green and rich in the sudden light. A picnic table, a child's swing set, a barbeque are spread across the sizable stretch of yard. Suburban bliss.

She keeps so close to me she bumps me a few times.

I've known Will since we made our First Communion together. He'd been one of those kids who didn't take much seriously. B's were fine with him. His main interest until late in high school was science fiction in all forms. He'd had a few dates but none had ever turned into anything serious. In his sophomore year in college he'd shocked everybody by going out with a true heartbreaker, Cathy Vance. There were a lot of jokes about how he'd managed to get her to fall in love with him, including mind control. Two years they went together and when it ended it was him not her who broke it off. They were engaged until he suddenly met Karen. They got married quickly and had Peggy Ann four months after the rings slid on their fingers. Then he was drafted. Before the war he'd been the dominant one. When he returned, their relationship changed considerably. He'd come home in pieces and shards of his former self.

Before the war they'd been parents and friends. But given his condition on returning she'd also had to become mother, sister, protector, and defender. Anybody who'd thought she was just a rich girl and a snob had to quickly and forever change their minds. Her love for him was fierce and resolute.

She carries the garage door opener with her when we walk outside. Now she thumbs it and we wait and listen as the door rumbles. As we start inside I can see that the stall for Will's Thunderbird is empty.

Y
OU DON'T EXPECT TO FIND A SITTING SENATOR AND A COUPLE
of reporters at a backyard barbeque. That was my first thought last night when I showed up at Tom Davis's new native stone and glass home on a perch above the river.

I might have been happier to see a senator if he hadn't been one who was hawkish on the war but had two draft-eligible sons who had mysteriously not served. He was a proud friend of the defense industry and, as
Time
had leaked to no apparent avail, a heavy investor in said industry. Though he was a Republican, he wasn't friendly with our brave and laudable Republican governor who had denounced the war last year.

The press was there—a TV crew from Cedar Rapids and an old-time newspaper reporter from here in town—so I assumed this was the night that Senator Patrick O'Shay was going to announce that he had persuaded Steve Donovan to run for the Congressional seat in this district. O'Shay needed some help. His opponent was now in a virtual tie with the lordly Mick.

I would stick to beer. Since my return from the military hospital I'd taken to getting sloppy drunk sometimes. I didn't want to inflict this on what was supposed to be a gathering of Nam vets.

Fifty or sixty people fitted comfortably on the breathtaking patio from which you could see across the river to where the white birch trees showed ghostly in gloom. Rain was in the forest and you could smell it and taste it but it didn't seem imminent.

I would have brought Mary, but ten days ago I'd told her that it was all moving too fast and that I was confused and that the meds weren't tempering my anger or my depression. They also weren't helping in the erection department. One out of six or seven times I couldn't get it up. The docs said this might happen. As if that was any comfort.

She hadn't cried when I made my announcement. She'd had a notably tough life and accepted it quietly. All she said was that the girls would miss me. I loved all three of them equally, if in different ways. Kate and Nicole were a lot more fun than anything on TV. I hadn't actually moved in. I'd stayed late, but always went back to my apartment.

The headache came about a half hour after I got there. Stress. The docs said that because of the two neurological operations I'd had, my moods would sometimes be difficult for me and for those around me. I felt out of place here, but then I felt out of place just about everywhere since coming back home.

I used one of the four bathrooms in the lavish house and dumped two capsules down me. Generally they'd back down the headache within an hour.

It was time for me to do the social thing.

I shook a lot of hands; I laughed and flattered and remained staunchly humble when people talked about how brave I'd been. Brave? Some drunken sergeant piled up a Jeep I happened to be riding in; nothing brave about that. And I had a shit-eating smile that could charm a mass murderer. Maybe I could give O'Shay some pointers on peddling his ass. A few of the more observant ones said I'd changed. They could sense it, feel it, and they weren't just talking about the inch-long scar that ran just under my hairline.

All the vets were from our county so we all pretty much knew each other's stories. But there were a few who still wanted to know mine.

So many of the wives here tonight looked so sweet and loving and beautiful in the sentimental glow of the Japanese lanterns.

A couple of times I was tempted to ask for a drink from the pert young woman serving them from the silver impromptu bar near the west edge of the patio. But I stuck to slow-drinking my bottle of Hamm's.

The TV crew interviewed a number of couples. How did it feel to be home and safe? How many sleepless nights did you have knowing your husband was in harm's way? And then the question that had become controversial the last few days: What do you, as a soldier who fought over there, think of this anti-war group of soldiers led by a man named John Kerry?

There was a mix of responses. Anger (which is what the crew wanted); sadness (knowing that vets would turn on each other this way); understanding. The two vets who opted for this spoke specifically of one vet, the local vet who'd signed up for the group, Will Cullen.

“Will's my friend,” said a brawny vet named Max Kirchoff. “He's had problems dealing with the war and I wish some of the fellas would take that into account. He went over there and served along with the rest of us. I don't agree with this anti-war thing but if it makes Will feel a little better about himself, I'm all for it.”

“Will's like family to us,” his petite wife said.

This explained why Will wasn't here tonight. Probably better than half of the other vets would be happy to see him. They were like Kirchoff. Guy went over there and suffered a breakdown. Did two stints in mental hospitals. He's not thinking straight so he signs on to this dumb-ass anti-war group.

On the other hand there were the vets like soon-to-be Congressional candidate Steve Donovan. He'd been interviewed on TV yesterday and said that the anti-war group was not only “a disgrace but also run by Communists.” He added: “I know there's a vet right here in town who's joined. I'd be very careful if I were him. A lot of us here resent him a hell of a lot.”

So Will and Karen stayed home.

The speechifying started right at seven thirty. There would still be time to get the story on the ten o'clock news in Cedar Rapids.

Tom Davis thanked everybody for being here tonight. He talked sincerely about the special bond vets had. And then he toasted them. Hard as you tried to hate him for his inherited wealth, his acumen as a businessman, his good looks, and his movie-star gorgeous wife, the sonofabitch wouldn't let you. He was just too nice a guy. I've learned to my dismay that there are a lot of downright decent wealthy people. Not fair at all.

Now it was time for the commercial.

Patrick O'Shay had once been called “the biggest hambone in the Senate.” If that had been an exaggeration, it was only slightly so. Tall, lean, white-haired, his body and its language suggested a mercenary side that belied the treacle that he usually spewed.

The Treacle Master proceeded.

“I'm so grateful to have been asked here tonight. To see the proud and happy faces of those who made the ultimate patriot's sacrifice—to fight for the freedoms we all enjoy in this country; the freest country in the history of the world. And I might say the same for the wives and children who waited for their brave warriors to return home. Ladies, I salute you tonight right along with your husbands.”

As I glanced around I wondered what the men without legs, arms, sight were thinking. Certainly they must have had second thoughts about the war. Had they realized that it was nothing more than rich old men and the corrupt Pentagon living out another round of endless and pointless slaughter?

A few of the wounded men smiled—one man gave the thumbs-up with his right hand; he had no left hand—but the faces of their wives were solemn. One woman grimaced. O'Shay bullshit overload.

He went on, a little history for the groundlings:

“From the beginning of time women have waited for their men to come home from battle. As a proud Irishman I can tell you that the literature of my people is steeped in stories and poems about war. Nobody wants it, of course. I would never have voted for what we're doing in Vietnam if I hadn't seen the facts—that we have no choice but to stop them there before they come over here. And so the men fight and the women—the very good women just like the women here tonight—wait.”

He blathered on another ten minutes before getting down to it. Easy to tell that he was enjoying it more than his constituents were.

“You know what this country needs more than anything right now? I'm sure you already know the answer to that. This country needs patriots. Real patriots. Not the kind who go overseas and fight and then return home to claim that what they did was morally wrong. There's a sickness in our society that breeds men like this—”