The Brothers K (96 page)

W
hen we arrived at the gates, we didn’t ask or try to enter. We just gathered in a big circle, started singing Sabbath School songs, let the cameras flash and roll, and waited for Keys to come to us.

He came promptly. But it impressed me that his stride was unhurried, and that he came alone. He could have dragged a bunch of WACs and orderlies and MPs along for moral support. He obviously felt he didn’t need them. A big part of me tended to agree with him—though I quickly told that part to shut up.

Peter had the cameramen hold their fire. Then Elder Joon spent a solid minute making introductions. He began with the journalists, saying nothing but their names, letting the Major imagine whatever readership or viewers or levels of fame he chose. There was no other way to play it, really, since “Dewey Dvorakowski, free-lance photographer,” was really Dewey Dvorakowski, Kim Joon’s college roommate, “Sheila Crantz, freelance
religious writer,” was really Sheila Crantz, Dewey’s bartender girlfriend, and “Ivan Gunnarson of KGOM-TV” was really Bud Heitz, Elder Joon’s old landlord—wearing a terminally hip black jumpsuit that Mary Jane had scored in a Riverside thrift shop, and wielding our big rented-and-disguised portable TV camera with such authority you would have sworn we’d been able to afford film for it too.

But Dr. Hunsberger, a Loma Linda med school M.D., and Dr. Kruk, an Adventist psychiatrist, were the genuine articles. So in their case, and in the case of the Elders, Joon made their standing in the medical community and the Southern California Conference abundantly clear.

“So what can I do for you all?” Keys asked with his usual convincing cordiality. “Is there some question I can answer? Maybe some worries I can quell?”

Dr. Brumfeld stepped forward. “What you can do for us today,” he said in his habitually rhetorical tone, “is release an upstanding young churchman into our own very competent professional care.”

The Major responded to his demand by doing something every Adventist kid has learned not to do around Elders by the age of five or so: he chuckled.

“Does it amuse you, Major Keys,” Brumfeld said slowly, “that we consider our medical people competent?”

“Not at all,” the Major replied, still smiling. “But despite the opinion of one disgruntled family, I consider myself and my staff competent as well.”

Speaking slowly, letting it build as it flowed, Dr. Brumfeld said, “To take advantage of a military trial that I have studied in depth, and am tempted to call criminal for its failure to take Brother Chance’s lifelong religious background into account” (he paused, both to glower and to breathe), “to then incarcerate, electrocute, and drug our young brother right out of his Christian devotion, and then to call
that
a kind of healing—this is
not
what we consider competence.”

The low growl of Sister Harg: “Amen.”

But Keys was still smiling. “May I remind you, Dr. Brumfeld, that it was two members of your own clergy who caused Irwin Chance to be loosed upon the Army in the first place?”

“Like you,” Brumfeld replied, “we are human, and sometimes make mistakes. Unlike you, we are trying to correct ours.”

It was a good comeback. Good enough to force Keys to get tough. “The admission of a blunder by one of your own clergy may explain how a misfit like Chance ended up in Vietnam,” he said. “But the Army is not
responsible for that blunder. Nor does it make Chance any less dangerous at present. I understand the family’s feelings. I sympathize. But no psychiatric hospital, least of all mine, is in the habit of loosing violent patients upon the public at their relatives’ request.”

“With your kind permission,” Brumfeld coolly replied, “the gentlemen before you”—he indicated the psychiatrist and the doctor—“would like to make their own assessment of Brother Chance’s condition.”

“Then they can step inside and make an appointment,” said Keys. “I have no objection. Early next week should be fine. And I’ll be happy to facilitate their examination in every way I can.”

“What’s wrong with today?” Dr. Brumfeld asked. “What’s wrong with now?”

“I’m afraid Private Chance is under somewhat heavy sedation.”

“May we ask why?” asked Brumfeld.

Major Keys sighed. “This is not the kind of thing we normally bandy about in public. But since you all seem to have come here to second-guess me, perhaps I’d better tell you. Private Chance violently attacked a young woman volunteer during an art class less than a week ago.”

“Says who!” Uncle Marvin burst out.

But it was an unexpected and nasty accusation. Dr. Brumfeld backed way off on this one. Then the psychiatrist, Dr. Kruk, spoke up. “The sanest person on earth could be chronically confused, if not violent, after misdiagnosis and weeks of inappropriate therapy.”

“Again,” the Major said, “I am being groundlessly second-guessed. I see no reason to even respond. But I will tell you, Doctor, that a very fine officer is still suffering the effects of Private Chance’s psychotic attack. And though a toothpaste tube may seem an amusing weapon, if you’ll step into my office I’ll show you Captain Dudek’s medical report. I doubt you’ll find much humor in that.”

The doctors and Elders began to hem and haw. Our momentum—if we’d had any—was gone. Elder Joon turned to Peter, who gave him a nod. There was only one way to make any sense of Irwin’s actions: it was time to speak of the Cong boy.

“In our scriptures,” Joon said, stepping forward, “Jesus says that it is better for a man to be cast into the sea and drowned than to harm a child. Irwin has worshipped these scriptures all his life. The execution of the Vietcong boy referred to in Irwin’s testimony was a transgression of these scriptures, and of the Army’s own laws. Irwin’s attack on his captain was a reaction to this transgression. And while we too find his attack regrettable, we find his
remorse
understandable, even commendable.
There simply
is
a difference between Christians and Army men, Major. To eradicate Irwin’s remorse over the death of that boy, we believe you would have to demolish his faith completely.”

Keys smiled from one end of this speech to the other. And not smugly. He was smiling sympathetically. But he replied not to Joon or to my family, but to the doctors and Elders alone. “An unfortunate subject, this Cong boy,” he said. “Has anyone yet told you gentlemen, has the Chance family even mentioned to you, that at Irwin’s sanity hearing it was determined that this boy did not exist? Delusions like this are rather common. And I’m afraid it’s only
one
of Private Chance’s many symptoms.”

This was the moment we’d feared—but also the moment we’d planned for. The Elders and doctors had turned to gape at us in injured amazement—and Brumfeld looked well on his way to outrage. But before any of them could speak, Nancy Beal pointed right at Keys and shouted, “Even soldiers have laws, Major! And even soldiers break them. Yet
you
seem to expect them to jump up and
admit
to it! Every criminal who ever lived would love to declare his accuser insane!”

“And as for delusions,” Bet angrily put in, “it’s you and the Army who keep pretending my brother’s Christianity is a delusion!”

“In fifty-nine years of Sabbath School teaching,” growled Ethel Harg, “I’ve never met a more honest boy than Irwin Chance. That’s
fifty-nine
years. Not fifty-eight, or sixty. That boy does
not tell lies.”

“And every man who testified at Irwin’s trial,” Papa said, not giving Keys a second to speak or think, “has had to remain in a combat zone, under the command of Captain Dudek, living—or trying to live—with the consequences of their testimony. Think about it, Major. You’d have to have a death wish to betray your company or your commander under those circumstances!”

“Our son is being railroaded!” Mama cried. “You know it and we know it! Dudek wants to shut him up forever—and you’re doing his dirty work. That’s why you won’t let these doctors check him. That’s why you’re keeping him drugged. And that’s why we’re not leaving till you give him back to us!”

We had one round of ammo left. It was in Papa’s shirt pocket. It was a very recent letter, from a soldier on Irwin’s fire base. And though this soldier begged us not to use his name, in case of retaliation against him, he corroborated Irwin’s story about the death of the Cong boy. No one knew of this letter except Papa, Peter and me, and we were praying we wouldn’t have to use it. The reason we were praying was that the three of us had forged it just two nights ago …

But the Elders and doctors had all turned angrily back to Keys. And for the first time since we’d met him, the Major looked stunned. His great trump card had been trumped.

“If you’ll allow it, Major,” Dr. Kruk said acidly, “Dr. Hunsberger and I would be happy to wait in the patient’s room till the sedatives wear off. Clear into the night, if necessary. If nothing else, it’ll give us some idea of the dosages he’s having to fight.”

“Chance’s ward is restricted,” Keys said. But you could see his face go rigid as the content of his speech became banal.

“Screw this!” said Uncle Marv. “I’m phonin’ back that lady from the LA
Times!”

It wasn’t a bad threat—but the Elders turned as one body, and scowled. Adventist men “know,” they “beget,” they “sire.” But they never screw anything. Not even enemies, or wives. Mary Jane shut Marvo up in a hurry.

Elder Joon meanwhile correctly assessed the Major’s rigidity to be disguised panic. So rather than taunt him, Joon began to offer him a way out. “Despite our intense feelings on this issue,” he said, “we of the Adventist Church hold our Armed Forces in deep respect. We are not here to accuse Irwin’s captain, or to create scandal. We simply feel that you don’t understand Irwin quite as well as we do. So we want to be the ones to care for him.”

Keys said nothing. But he’d begun to look a little like one of his own patients.

Feeling left out now that things were going so well, Dr. Brumfeld puffed himself up, pointed out the various “journalists,” and said, “We are, as you can see, fully prepared to take this matter to the American public. And we are losing patience, Major. For us this is not a simple matter of mental sickness or health. It is a matter of
eternal
life or death!”

While most of the Adventists nodded vigorously, the Major—and Freddy and I—rolled our eyes. (Funny how fuzzy the lines can be between friends and enemies.) But before Brumfeld could beat the stuffing out of any more dead horses, Elder Joon started crooning like some sort of Rest Home Brochure: “Surely Irwin is of little use to the military in his present condition. And in one of our own psychiatric facilities, under vigilant and cautious care, he could enjoy the healing presence of his friends and family. All we want, Major, is to take this troublesome patient off your very busy hands. Of course we would take full responsibility for him. And his discharge may be qualified in any way the Army sees fit. But
Brother Irwin’s sojourn here has gone on far too long. A decision must be reached immediately, Major. Otherwise we shall feel forced, this very day, to go public with our cause.”

W
ithin an hour of Joon’s ultimatum the doctors Kruk and Hunsberger were allowed in to inspect the patient. They were gone maybe twenty minutes. They returned in a pale fury. But whatever they told Keys on their way out worked. Red tape was slashed. Conditions and guarantees were made and met (for instance, Irwin’s discharge had to be “dishonorable”). And later that same evening—after the Elders, doctors and mock journalists had all been thanked and sent home—Major Keys led a nurse, and a loaded wheelchair, out of the asylum …

“I want you all to listen,” Papa said as they made their slow approach. “The day is ours. And I’ll never be able to thank you all enough. Yet I’ve already got another favor to ask.”

There were smiles at this. But Papa’s face, despite his obvious exhaustion, was an eerie blend of bitterness, love and pride. “I want you to know that damage has been done,” he said, “and that it’s severe. Irwin is not going to recognize
any
of us, I promise you. And you may barely recognize him.”

Papa’s fury had been audible at first. But as the wheelchair rolled closer, his voice grew more controlled. “It’s going to be a long, slow recovery,” he said, “and Irwin may never be quite the same. But let’s not let this man Keys see how that makes us feel. Cry later. That’s the favor I ask. Let’s show this man our strength.”

W
e tried our best. But when we finally encircled Irwin, there were problems. I had known, for instance, that the nose would be smashed and the forehead dented. But his eyes were jittering in their sockets in a way I’d only seen on cartoons. And I’d expected the drool-soaked straitjacket, and even the lolling, swollen tongue. But to see Nash gazing at his father for the very first time. And Linda’s huge, expectant smile, slowly fading. To see old Sis Harg and the Beals praying for instant miracles that were obviously not about to occur. And Uncle Marv, who took one fleeting look at his favorite nephew, then walked quickly away, shoulders shuddering, .to hide himself before he started to weep … It all filled me with something I’d never felt before. A terrible kind of burning. When. I looked at Major Keys—saying his glib farewells to my parents, giving them advice, even now—I truly and deeply wanted to kill him. And I believe I could have done it, with nothing but my hands. But all of a
sudden, out of nowhere, Peter had an arm around me. “Let it go, Kade,” he was whispering very gently, though his arm was nearly crushing me. “Open your fists,” he said, “and let go of the coals.”

So we loaded Irwin into the Nomad still straitjacketed—Keys’s final inane stipulation—but freed him as soon as the door and blinds were closed. And mile after mile, as we drove north out of LA and I studied Irwin’s new face, I kept having to reopen my fists, and to let go of more burning coals.

But even broken, Irwin seemed to have a way of creating hope. Maybe two hundred miles down the road, Freddy noticed that his eyes had stopped jiggling. And a hundred miles further he moved, all on his own, across the bed in the back. He still seemed to recognize no one, and all he’d done was crawl to the far side of the bed, pull a pillow over his head, and stay there. But whenever Linda left him, to tend to Nash or to eat or rest, Mama or Papa would take turns crawling across the same bed, just to lie there beside him. And every time he saw them there, Uncle Marv would turn to a window and smile—though his shoulders would again begin to shudder.