The Recluse Storyteller (5 page)

* * *

“‘Hello,’ said a voice in English behind Reverend Taylor’s daughter. She turned to see a tall, young Vietnamese man with a pleasant and rather full looking face.

“‘Hi.’

“‘I’m Quan. Is that your father?’

“He pointed over to Reverend Taylor, who continued to hold the phantom rifle, looking down over the ridge. Tears streamed down his face, and he shook, even though he seemed paralyzed.

“‘I’m sorry. I’m Nicki,’ she said, wiping a tear away from her eye as well. ‘My father was in the war a long time ago. It is very emotional for him to come back here. Something happened, but he never says anything about it.’

“‘War is difficult to re-live,’ said Quan in excellent English. ‘I know what happened here. My father told me.’

“She looked at him in disbelief.

“‘Come, we can sit over here. I think we should leave your father alone for a while.’

“‘What happened here?’ she asked as Quan unstacked two miniature plastic stools and set them down on a patch of dirt. A dozen chickens clucked in all directions at the base of a small house-on-stilts which stood twenty feet away. Nicki kept her eye on her father, who had sat down on the ridge just a couple hundred feet away. Quan yelled back into the nearest house attempting to get someone to service their thirst.

“‘Please, sit.’

“‘Thank you.’

“‘Is this your first time to Vietnam?’

“‘Yes, it’s a very beautiful country.’

“‘Yes, it is. But we are very poor.’

“A small, gray-haired woman came walking out of the house, carrying a hot water thermos and a small ceramic tea pot. She smiled and nodded in a hospitable way at the foreign guest, and Nicki did the same in return.

“‘And this is the first time your father came back to Vietnam since the war?’ Quan asked as he poured the hot water into the tea pot, which already had some loose green tea leaves in the bottom.

“‘Yes. He’s been having nightmares about the war for a long time. A friend suggested that perhaps it would help if he came back to the source of these nightmares.’

“‘I see.’

“‘I don’t know if it is a good idea or not. I’m worried for him.’

“‘He needs time to grieve.’

“‘I don’t understand. What happened here?’

“‘There was only one thing that happened in this village during the war. I will tell you.’

“Reverend Taylor sobbed.

“‘Oh God. Oh God. Forgive me.’

“He could remember every detail. Every step he took. Every second was accounted for and perhaps that is what made it sear so deeply into his mind. His consciousness refused to sweep it away, remaining ever present, reminding him how one step to the left or right of righteousness, whether an inch or a mile, is depravity. He swam in it. He bathed in it. He begged it to swallow him, but it refused. He replayed the scene in his mind like it happened yesterday.

“Humidity hung in the air like solid sheets of wet linen you had to brush away with your hands. Sweat drenched every inch of their uniforms even before the rain came. Taylor and his platoon scattered themselves out on the hill overlooking the village. Shots kept ringing out from below. Around a hundred yards to the front was an earthen ridge at the edge of the village.

“‘The VC were down there in the rice fields, and the Americans were up there on the hill,’ Quan said. ‘We didn’t trust either side in the war. We just tried to stay alive. We were afraid of the Americans because they were the foreigners. Vietnam had lived under the French for many years. They were very brutal towards us, so we were not trusting of foreigners so much. Especially those carrying weapons. But we really feared the communists and what the communists would do to us if they suspected we sympathized with the Americans. We were caught in the middle.’

“Shots continued to ring out from below. We estimated about twenty VC had spread themselves out in the fields on the other side of the village. By the time we could have arrived there, they would have disappeared into the night. The squad leader split us in two with seven of us hanging on the side of the hill, firing sporadically into the hazy fields quickly fading from our sight as the sun set behind us. The other half of the squad flanked the VC shooters to the south. Jackson and I both saw some movement just over the ridge about 100 yards in front of us. The ridge led to the village and the village to the vast expanse of paddies which hid the VC who continued to fire on us. It was starting to look like a trap. Some VC hid over the ridge, not firing on us, just waiting, but luckily for us they showed their hand by their careless movements. A trail of thick brush to the right of us would be a perfect cover to sneak up on them. I pointed to Jackson and belly-flopped down behind the bushes and started snaking my way toward the ridge to lay waste to the VC scheme.”

* * *

Margaret thought of Reverend Taylor hiding under the bushes as she reached down and slid the can of beans back under the couch flap, camouflaging it.

“VC cannot see the beans now.”

The empty cardboard box sat beside her on the couch.

“You wounded my toe,” she said as she picked up the carton, and put her head back in her normal, trance-like state.

* * *

“‘The villagers felt trapped in the middle,’ continued Quan.

“Nicki kept sipping on the tea even though the strong bitterness forced her to squint her eyes and tense her mouth at every sip. She kept her eyes on her father sitting on the ridge.

“‘There was little they could do. The communists were all over the rice fields, and the Americans came at the village from two angles—down the hill towards that ridge and from the south over there. There was nowhere for the villagers to go. Some stayed in their houses. My father was about twenty-five at that time. He had a bad knee and a permanent limp. That’s why he hadn’t joined the army. My grandfather told him to chase our two water buffalo out away from the house. He was afraid they would get shot. Then my grandfather gathered all seven of his children and told them we had to find a place to hide.’

“‘Where did they go?’ asked Nicki, who listened intently on every word.

“After ten minutes, I had worked my way down to about five yards away from the top of the ridge. I kept my eye on the ridge-line and saw from time to time a couple of pith helmets, which would occasionally bob up and down over the horizon. I motioned to Jackson that we would go on my count. After I counted down with my fingers held to the side so Jackson could see them, we both got to our feet, head down, rifles aimed, hearts pounding, hatred boiling, and ran to the top of the ridge, opening fire on everything that moved. Screams rang out all over, but I could only see pith helmets and battle fatigues. I yelled and cursed at the demons who lay in-wait to trap us. Jackson yelled and yelled at me. Something I couldn’t understand. I just kept shooting until he took the butt of his rifle and whacked me in the ribs, knocking me to the ground.

“‘My grandfather brought all the children and two of our neighbors’ families back behind that cement shed against the ridge, near to where your father is sitting.’

“‘What happened?’ Nicki reluctantly asked.

"When I stood back up, I heard crying and wailing. I looked down over the ridge and the battle fatigues and pith helmets were missing. On the ground lay half a dozen people, including an old man whose head leaned against a cement wall—his chest ripped open, his eyes unmoved. A young girl of about seven weaved her head back in forth in semi-consciousness, her left leg under her kneecap nearly severed. A teenage boy lay face down in the side of the earthen ridge—a communist pith helmet politely propped up on the side of his back. In his lifeless right hand he held a small American flag, the type that GIs liked to hand out to children. My mind could not comprehend what I saw. I stood tall on that ridge, an easy target for the VC. I wanted them to take a shot. I wanted them to shoot me. I needed someone to take revenge. But Victor Charlie was nowhere to be found. The VC had scattered into the distance as soon as our attack commenced. No one would take my anguish. No one wanted my pain. No one acted against my blame. I stood naked and guilty before God.

“‘I don’t know exactly what happened, but ten villagers who were against that ridge were slaughtered. The Americans came down the hill. The communists were there. Shots were fired and many villagers died. I suppose it doesn’t really matter where the shots came from. My grandfather died that night along with one of my uncles and one cousin.’

“Nicki placed her hands over her face and started crying. All of these years her father had to live with the truth of such a tragedy. She felt sorry for him. He was such a good man.

“‘I’m so sorry, Quan.’

“‘No. The past is forgotten. We must think of the future now.’

“‘How do you speak such good English? You have an American accent.’

“‘I’m lucky. I received a scholarship to study in America.’

“‘That’s great.’

“‘I just finished my degree, and I’m home visiting my family.’

“‘I’m so glad you are here.’

“‘So am I. More tea?’ he asked as he filled her cup. She smiled politely and looked admiringly into his well-featured face.

“‘Where did you graduate from?’

“‘Mt. Goshen College.’

“She looked up at him, startled that they had the same alma mater.

“‘That’s where I went. I graduated last year. You mean, we never ran into each other there, but we meet by chance halfway around the world?’

“‘Actually, I’ve seen you around.’

“Nicki’s face turned white, and her stomach curled with fear-driven curiosity. Something was going on here.”

* * *

Margaret grimaced once and looked down at her toe which had turned black and blue.

“Casualty of war,” she said, putting her head back on the couch, falling fast asleep.

Chapter 5

A Flying Flower Pot

Margaret heard the knock at the door. Her eyes lit with inquisitiveness, and she thought about poor, battered Janice standing stripped-bare against any want of future or family as she willingly sacrificed herself for the bright, shining light.

Another knock.

“The door. They’re here.”

She went to the door to peer through the peephole, but before she could, Mrs. Trumble’s bombastic voice shattered Margaret’s thoughts of Janice and the light.

“Margaret. Margaret. I have some mail for you.”

Margaret began knocking from the inside in Morse Code.

“Margaret, what are you doing? Just open the door so I can give you your mail.”

Margaret continued her syncopated rhythms. Tat
–
Tat – Tattattat – TAT – Tatat – Tat.

Mrs. Trumble could have very easily just slid the advertisement under the door to be done with it, but she could be as obstinate as Margaret. To prove the point, she started knocking louder and louder.

“I’m not going away until I give you your mail.”

Finally, they both stopped, and Mrs. Trumble could hear Margaret unlatching her locks one by one. The door creaked open about four inches, but Margaret kept her entire body out of sight behind the door.

“Well, I have never seen someone so ridiculous in all my years. Margaret, it’s just nonsense that you won’t open your door and interact with me like a normal neighbor. I know you can talk. I hear you go on and on about just crazy nonsense. I honestly cannot understand you in the slightest. Here!”

Her delicate hand slowly reached through the crack.

“A document,” Margaret said to herself aloud.

“It’s not a document. It’s a Full Brands ad. Page two has some wonderful coupons,” Mrs. Trumble replied in an almost civilized manner.

Like the sudden flash that blinded Janice against the wall of the glass observation room, Margaret snatched the flyer and slammed the door shut, catching two of Mrs. Trumble’s fingers in the door-jamb.

“Owwwwwwwwwwwww!” Mrs. Trumble screamed. “Owwwwwwwww! Margaret. The door. Owwwwwww! My fingers. Owwwwwww! The door. Open the door.”

I won’t fall for that trick again,
thought Margaret as she began looking at the Full Brands ad.

“Owwwwwwww! Open. Open. Open the door,” Mrs. Trumble yelled and screamed and pounded fiercely as Margaret calmly read the ad.

“Two for one on soup. Must remember that.”

“Owwwwwwwww!”

By now, Mrs. Johnson had stumbled into the hallway with an electric mixer in her hand. Chocolate batter dripped all over.

“What’s going on?”

“My fingers are stuck in the door! I’m going to faint. I’m going to fain–”

Mrs. Johnson yelled once for Margaret to open up, then reached down to grab the door knob which turned, easily swinging open the door and releasing Mrs. Trumble’s fingers.

“It wasn’t locked,” said Mrs. Johnson.