The Heart You Carry Home (7 page)

For a moment, Ben didn't comment. He considered this a simplistic view of the situation. But what if it really was that simple? Coleman's oversize shoulders sagged, and Ben felt compelled to make the guy feel better. Somehow.

“Maybe you're right,” he said at last. “But by the time Majid grows up, it'll be our unlucky successors who get the brunt of his hate. You'll be playing soccer with your own kids. You won't even remember Majid's name.”

“Yeah,” said Coleman. “Sure.”

Ben shot upright. “Majid!” he exclaimed. But the only person there was Miles, sitting in a chair beside the bed.

“Who's Majid?” Miles asked Ben's ear.

“How long have you been sitting there?” Ben demanded. He felt thoroughly creeped out.

“You were gone, man. I finished two cars while you were out.”

Ben rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Almost one thirty. It's a good thing I didn't let you get in the car yesterday. You needed those z's.”

“Yesterday? Oh, Jesus.” Ben scrambled out of bed. “Why didn't you wake me?”

“You needed the sleep, man.”

“Get me my keys, Miles!”

Miles nodded with a wormy smile. He led Ben back to the garage and handed him the leather key chain stamped with Becca's initials. Ben unlocked the car and climbed in. He stuck the key in the ignition, but the engine wouldn't start. He tried again, with no luck. Ben leaned his head out. “What's wrong with it?”

Miles crouched down beside the open passenger door. “Nothing. But you have to blow into this if you want the car to go.” He reached across Ben's lap and pulled a small device, roughly the size of a primitive car phone, off a patch of Velcro on the dash. The object was black with a panel of buttons, a narrow screen, and a tube sticking out from the top like a short, squat antenna. A spiraled cord connected this object to a box installed beneath the steering wheel. “Ignition-interlock Breathalyzer,” Miles said, not waiting for Ben to ask.

“You're not serious.”

“Reno's instructions.” Miles shrugged. “I'm only the apprentice.”

“So if Reno says jump . . .” Ben scowled, inspecting the installation. It looked easy enough to dismantle.

“Reno doesn't
make
me do anything. You're in no shape to be on the road without some kind of check. You think I'm so pathetic?” Miles shook his head. He looked angry. “I feel sorry for
you
, man. I mean, fuck. I lost my wife over there. But I'm pulling myself together.”

“I never said you were pathetic.” Ben did not like to be blamed for things he had not done. Miles was just like those asshole men in the bar—and the waitress. Why was everyone ganging up on him?

Miles snorted. He was no longer looking at Ben's ear; he'd managed to fuse his eyes onto Ben's face. The guy's expression was ugly and as twisted as a mechanic's rag. “Anyway,” Miles said, composing himself, “if you turn that thing on and blow, the car'll start. But don't try to take it apart. I've fixed it so that if you do, the car won't go at all. That was my idea, by the way. Not Reno's.”

Ben gaped. He would not—could not—bend over and blow into the tube. But what choice did he have? He needed to get back on the road, get back to Becca. Also, if the opportunity presented itself, he needed to plant his fist in Reno's face.

In one swift motion, Ben picked up the Breathalyzer, switched it on, and stuck the plastic nub between his lips. He could feel Miles's eyes on his neck, but forget pride. He was doing the necessary thing. If Becca were here, she'd say the same.
Do what you need to do.

He blew and the system beeped approvingly. Ben turned the key and the car started.

Miles leaned through the window. “Do you want to know where Becca is?”

Ben was bursting with impatience. “Of course. Why wouldn't I?”

Miles shrugged and his eyes drifted to the ground, like the pupils were too heavy to stay level. “I mean, this could be your getaway vehicle. You could start over. If it's too hard to go back. I don't know. Maybe that's the best thing for you and your wife.”

“You don't know my situation.”

Miles smiled as if he did, in fact, know Ben's situation.

“You think because we fought in the same war, you know me?” Ben said. “You don't know shit about me.”

“Once you know where she is, you won't be able to walk away,” Miles said, seemingly unruffled. “You'll go back, and this whole mess will probably just repeat itself. But if you leave now, you'll free her from all that. After all, if you're not with her, you can't hurt her.”

Ben knew this. It was the reason he'd taken Becca's car and left in the first place. But he hadn't considered it in a big-picture kind of way. At least, he hadn't admitted the option to himself. It could be that Miles understood the situation precisely. Or that Miles was spouting more of Reno's manipulative bullshit. “Where is she, Miles?”

Miles nodded, but whether the nod was one of approval, acquiescence, or disappointment, Ben couldn't tell. “She's at her aunt Kath's. In Arkansas.”

Without so much as a goodbye, Ben reversed out of the garage, swung the car around, and accelerated, heading back the way he'd come.

December 13, 1976

Dear Willy,

A week after your arrival, we set out into the wilderness. Of course, all of fucking Vietnam felt like wilderness to me, but Cambodia even more so. Because we were searching for a place that possibly didn't exist.

A Huey dropped us off in the dark, fifteen klicks into the jungle. We headed due west, using your map. I walked point, followed by King with the radio, then you, then Reno. I was worried Reno would end up shooting you out of sheer frustration, but I needed somebody competent watching the rear.

It didn't take long before I was ready to drop your skinny ass faster than a grenade with the pin pulled out. You were so skittish—starting every time a twig snapped—and you kept pulling at the collar of your uniform like it was trying to strangle you. You had no business being in the jungle with us.

Meanwhile, when you weren't letting every goddamn thing scare the bejesus out of you, you were giving us a lecture on the Cham of Li Sing: How they came from some ancient culture of Hindu origin that dated back to the seventh century. How they worshipped Durga, the ten-armed warrior goddess. You said the ten arms of Durga represented ten alliances—ten indigenous minorities throughout Cambodia and Vietnam. Apparently, we—meaning the United States Army—didn't know exactly where these tribes lived. We knew only that Li Sing was the center point of all ten groups, their heart.

You told us a saying among the Cham: “The body follows the heart.” In other words, if the people of Li Sing agreed to fight Charlie, then the other tribes would follow them.

I wanted to know how you were so sure the people of Li Sing wanted to follow us. And you said maybe they didn't. But you were so excited to actually meet them, you didn't care.

By midmorning on our first day in Cambodia, on our journey to find the Cham people of Li Sing, the sun had burned away the fog, and the jungle was as stagnant as the inside of a mouth. When we stopped for water, I noticed Reno cursing and scratching at his arm. “Something bit me earlier,” he complained and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a nickel-size circle on his forearm. It was perfectly round and inflamed, but we paid it no mind. Reno said he was fine and we had endless miles of brush to hack through.

By the late afternoon, it felt like we'd been humping for days. So it was something of a relief when we stepped into an open sweep of low grass and put our machetes away. The clearing was a strange place, admittedly. In direct sunlight, it should have been much hotter, but it was cool, like a cold spot in the middle of a lake. I shivered as wind rustled bushes around the perimeter. I held up my compass, but the needle was frozen stiff. I borrowed Reno's compass and discovered his had the same problem. Meanwhile, you sat on your helmet, staring into the jungle. Reno stripped to his undershirt and inspected his arm. The skin was flushed between his hand and shoulder, and the circle had turned black. He pulled out his cigarettes, but his fingers were shaking so much, he could barely get one lit. Sweat glistened on his face and neck.

King walked over. “You feel that breeze?” I nodded. “We're too exposed out here.” He held out his canteen to Reno, but Reno choked on the water and spat it out. “Tastes awful.” King drank and said the water was fine.

“This place is like some kind of Cambodian Bermuda Triangle,” I said and told King to dial camp. He did, but all he got was static. He adjusted the controls. More static. You, Willy, just sat there through all of this, resting your head in your hands. I wondered briefly what you were thinking and whether you were replaying the ambush in your head—the private's face splattered all over your freshly pressed uniform. I thought that some people just have bad luck. Shit had happened to all of us, but not on our first day.

I'd just given orders to move back under cover when something crackled. We snapped to attention—except for you, still fumbling to get your helmet on—and flexed our weapons.

Then a figure stepped into the light: a woman. She wasn't more than five feet tall, and her clothes hung from her little body like rags on a line. Her eyes were glazed over with the look of a mortally wounded soldier, a man who doesn't know he's dying.

“What's she doing out here?” Reno demanded, moving forward.

“Search her,” I ordered and I nodded at King to follow him.

“On your knees!” Reno said.

The woman didn't move. She didn't even look afraid.

“Get down on your knees,” said Reno, “or I'll put a bullet through your flat-ass chest.”

I moved closer behind Reno and saw that the rash had crawled up the back of his neck and into his scalp.

“Get the fuck down!” Reno brandished his gun.

The woman opened her mouth and uttered something unintelligible.

“Now!” Reno screamed, and I could have sworn he was going to shoot her, except suddenly you bounded forward and thrust yourself between him and the woman.

“Move out of my way, kid,” Reno said.

“Take it easy!” King yelled and glanced back at me, panicked.

“She can help you,” you said, looking the woman dead in the eyes. “She says Reno's sick. He's in trouble.”

“Like fuck I'm—”

“She knows what bit you, Reno.”

The woman babbled quickly, the words pouring from her mouth as though from a faucet.

“Does the water taste bad?” you asked, and the urgency in your voice sent a pulse of fear through me. Then Reno's legs buckled. King rushed forward to catch him.

“She has medicine,” you said—nearly cried—to me.

“I don't trust her, Willy,” I said.

You shook your head madly. “Proudfoot, listen to me. This woman's from Li Sing.”

Currahee!

CO Proudfoot

T
HE MORNING AFTER
her first night at Kath's, Becca woke up with her stomach clenched tight. One more day before her dad left—put the pedal to the metal, burned rubber. Why did she feel so nervous? She peeked out the window to find the porch looking like the aftermath of a college party: crumpled beer cans and cigarette butts everywhere.

Downstairs, she made coffee, grabbed a biscuit, and went outside. The air was wet, and a thick fog hung over the valley. As a kid, Becca had desperately wanted to move out here and live with Kath, but her aunt had never invited her. Later, in high school, she'd asked why Kath and her late husband had never had kids. “A lot of people have kids because they think they have to,” her aunt said, “but that only leads to trouble for everybody. I'm not the parenting kind.”

“Just like King,” Becca offered.

“Maybe,” her aunt answered. “Maybe not.”

King was no parent, Becca had thought back then. But in the past few days, she'd begun to reconsider that assumption. If only he'd hang around a bit longer now, realize that his only daughter was in need of some TLC. But this was a dangerous road to walk. She should not expect more from her father.

“Well, if it isn't the lovely Rebecca.” Bull materialized at the cabin door holding a can of Bud Light.

“It's Becca,” she said.

Bull took a sip of his beer and pulled up a chair. For a moment, they sat in silence enjoying the view. The valley was beautiful, the Arkansas Grand Canyon an enormous basin of green tufts.
Like heads of broccoli,
Kath used to say.
And the sun shining down over the top—that's the melted butter.

“We keep you up last night?” Bull asked.

“Yes.” She wanted to piss him off so that he'd leave. But he only smiled. Some of her frustration dissolved. “You weren't in the army with my dad, were you?”

“Do I look that old?” Bull shook his head. “First Gulf War.”

It wasn't like King to befriend younger vets. “Where'd you meet?” she asked.