Word of Honor (7 page)

"No matter how nasty we are to one another."

"Right.-

Tyson shut the water off and lifted himself onto the tatami mat beside the tub. He rested his head on a cylindrical bamboo pillow and brought his knees up. He ran his fingers over the scar on his kneecap. It had turned reddish purple from the hot water. Most shrapnel wounds were jagged and ugly as they were supposed to be. This one was ludicrous: It looked like a large question mark.

Tyson said to his wife, "There was a picture of me and my platoon in the book."

"I didn't see it." Marcy reached into the large, tiled shower stall and turned on the six pulsating jets. She said, "Where did you leave the book, by the way? I don't want David to see it."

Tyson stood and stepped into the shower with her. He thought he'd remind her that the Life magazine of March 8, 1968, was stuck up on the bookshelf in plain view. He said, however, "I put it in my attachi case.

But he'll have to read it eventually."

WORD OF HONOR 0 51

She let the water pound against her body and ran her soapy hands over her breasts and face. "Right. But you have to speak to him first. " -

"The book speaks for itself. I'll just ask him to read it from the beginning. So my . . . role will be seen in context. "

She looked over her shoulder. "In or out of context it's gruesome, Ben, and it's going to upset him. Speak to him first." She added, "Perspective. Give him some perspective. Show him where to stand when he's reading it."

Tyson left the shower.

She called out, "Sorry."

Tyson tore a towel off the rack and quickly dried himself.

Marcy shut off the water and opened the stall door. "Tell me something. How did you live with this for all these years? Wait. Don't be angry. I don't mean that in a judgmental sense. I mean it in a practical sense. How did you keep it to yourself and not tell anyone? Did you tell anyone?"

"No.-

She nodded and said, "You never even hinted at it . . . ... She thought a moment, then added, "You were blocking. You totally blocked it."

"Psychobabble. " Tyson tossed the towel in the hamper. "I never blocked it.

I just chose not to discuss it. Unlike many people, I don't have to pour my guts out and reveal my personal history to casual acquaintances or even to friends. Or even to you." He turned and walked into the adjoining dressing room, closing the door behind him.

He opened his closet and scanned his suits without really noticing them. It occurred to him that Marcy was going to be his toughest critic, but also his most honest one. He should listen to what she was saying so he could know what others were thinking. "Day two," he said aloud. "Each day brings forth something new. "

Ben Tyson pulled his yellow Volvo into the drive

leading to the

moving cars waiting to

be parked. He moved

the car up a few feet.

Directly in front of him

was a Cadillac lim

ousine. In his rearview

7 mirror he saw the

grillwork of a Rolls.

He said, "Let's buy a new car. Something decidedly dec adent. "

She shook her head. "in your present situation, a new tie would look flagrant. Low profile, Ben. That's the word of the week." She added, "Also, your job may be a little shaky. "

Tyson nodded. Nevertheless, he thought, the old battered Volvo needed replacing. But now, nearly two weeks after that Tuesday morning, even the most mundane and personal decisions had to be scrutinized with one eye on appearances.

52

WORD OF HONOR 0 53

Tyson moved the car up another few feet and looked out toward the hotel.

The nine-story building sat in the center of the suburban village, surrounded by ten acres of landscaped park. It was a new building, vaguely Georgian in style and topped by a reproduction of the cupola that had crowned the old Garden City Hotel. The setting sun blazed in red reflection from the windows, and Tyson squinted. He imagined the redbrick Georgian structure that had stood there when he was growing up. The May evening recalled to him his senior prom in the Regency Room. He remembered the annual cotillion, the weddings and celebrations, including his parents'

twenty-fifth anniversary party in the Hunt Room. It was, he reflected, a privileged childhood and adolescence, a very good time. A time of hope, a time before the war and the turbulence had changed him; had changed everyone. Such had been the years of his growing up in the fifties and early sixties. He said, almost to himself, "Enjoy it while you can."

"What?"

"Life. Dance and be merry."

She glanced at him and said thoughtfully, "Philosophical musings don't become you. "

"Perhaps. I was just trying to put my petty problems in perspective. That is still the word of this week, by the way.

"Glad to hear it."

"Also, the last refuge of a troubled spirit is religion. I'm going to pay a call on Reverend Symes."

She thought a moment, then said, "Why not? That's better than talking to your wife. And he can't testify against you either. Which reminds me, you never told me what Phil Sloan said."

"Why should I? I know by something you let slip that you spoke to him yourself. Privileged conversations, indeed. I'll give old Symes a shot at being discreet."

Marcy didn't reply.

Tyson expanded on his earlier subject. "But life is good. At least for us.

There's no war, depression, famine, hunger, or civil strife."

"Not in Garden City, also known as the Garden of Eden. This place is zoned against reality."

Tyson exhaled a long breath. Subconsciously, he thought, 54 0 NELSON DEMILLE

he must have precipitated this conversation about Garden City-Marcy's favorite subject-in order to take his mind off other things. Marcy was a product of Manhattan's Upper West Side, whose population leaned as far to port as Garden City's citizens leaned starboard. And Marcy, he knew, wanted to move back to her old stomping grounds. As if she'd read his thoughts, she said, "You can't live here anymore, you know. "

"I can live wherever the hell I please."

"But you can't." Marcy retreated into a moody silence. Just when Tyson thought he was on the verge of a marital dispute, she laughed unexpectedly. He glanced at her. She said, "Do you realize we always pick a fight when we don't want to go someplace?"

"Yes, I realize that. This car has made more U-turns than a boomerang.

" He stopped the car under the hotel marquee. "But this time we've arrived at our planned destination. "

A green-liveried footman with top hat opened Marcy's door. An attendant held open Tyson's door, and Tyson exchanged the Volvo for a parking chit.

A doorman saluted as they passed inside to the pink marbled lobby. A handpainted sign announced:

THE NASSAU HOSPITAL AUXILIARY

ANNUAL CHARITY BALL

GRAND BALLROOM

The arrow pointed left.

Marcy said, "Let me buy you a drink first."

The tables in the dimly lit Hunt Room were full, but Tyson found an empty barstool and Marcy sat. Tyson stood beside her. He ordered a Scotch, and she ordered a glass of white wine. They both glanced around the room as their eyes adjusted to the low light, and nodded to a few people.

The drinks came, and Tyson stirred his Scotch. He said, "Am I crazy to come here? Or just brazen?"

Marcy picked up her wine. "At some point you'll know the answer to that.

Up to now, no one knows how to deal with you."

WORD OF HONOR e 55

Tyson leaned his back against the bar and again surveyed the room. English hunting prints on the paneled walls were a feeble reminder that the original Hunt Room had actually been a place where ladies and gentlemen of the Meadow Brook Hunt Club gathered after riding to hounds. Tyson mused, "I liked the old place better."

Marcy's eyes rolled. "Oh, Jesus, if I hear that one more time Jrom one of you original settlers, I'll puke."

"Well, it was a hell of a place." He added maliciously, "The Nassau County Republican Club had its headquarters in the old hotel. I used to do volunteer work for them. We had a Goldwater fund-raiser here in sixty-four."

"I'm getting sick."

He smiled, then sipped his Scotch and drew on his cigarette. "History," he said aloud. "Teddy Roosevelt stayed here often. Charles Lindbergh spent the week before his solo flight at the old hotel. Once, when I was on leave, I took the Lindbergh suite. Did I ever tell you that? I slept in the bed Lindbergh slept in. "

Marcy contrived a yawn and replied, "Based on what I've heard from people who don't romanticize the old fleabag, you probably slept in the same sheets, too. "

Tyson stared into the dark recesses of the lounge. The clientele in the pre-World War I era included Astors, Morgans, Vanderbilts, Hewitts, Jays, Belmonts, Harrimans, even Lillian Russell. But history was a continuum.

Someday, someone sitting where he was now sitting would say that Benjamin Tyson had frequented the new Hunt Room.

Benjamin who?

The guy who was court-martialedfor murder. Remember? It was in all the papers. The hospital massacre in Vietnam.

Oh, right. He used to drink here? No kidding?

But that was future history. In the old Hunt Room, when he was drunk, he'd conjure up images of the past, especially the aviation greats who had drunk there between the world wars: Glenn Curtiss, Jimmy Doolittle, Billy Mitchell, Lawrence Sperry, Amelia Earhart, Leroy Grumman. . . . Tyson recalled his boyhood dream to be a fighter pilot, as his father had been; he thought of his plastic model of the Grumman Hellcat and wondered what had become of it. The world

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spun too fast now, and Tyson knew he would never fly a Grumman Hellcat, but what was worse, the desire to do so was dead.

Marcy broke into his thoughts. "Another?"

He turned his head toward her. "One more."

She ordered, and Tyson said to the young bartender whom he knew slightly,

"Ed, you ever heard of the battle of Hue?"

"Midway? Yeah, it was on TV.

"Heard of the Tet Offensive?"

The bartender turned and ran Tyson's tab through the register. "Tet?

Sure. Vietnam. The VC attacked Tet and the Americans got beat. " He put the tab back on the bar in front of Tyson.

"Tet was a time, not a place.

"No kidding?"

"No kidding."

Ed shrugged and went off to serve someone else. Tyson said, "Smart kid."

He sipped on his drink, then observed, "See . . . ultimately all battlefield deaths are in vain. No one really remembers any of it. So what's the big deal?"

"You tell me."

But Tyson could not. He sensed the alcohol working its magic and felt better.

Marcy said, "Time to dance.

Tyson smiled and took her hand. They retraced their steps through the lobby, arm in arm, nodding to a few people as they made their way to the Grand Ballroom. As they entered the mauve-colored ballroom, Tyson scanned the pale-blueclothed tables set around the large dance floor. The band wasn't playing, and there seemed to be a lull in the full room. Tyson said, "Let's split up and regroup at the bar."

"Okay . . . oh, Christ. . . . "

Mrs. Livander, the president of the Nassau Hospital Auxiliary, had spotted them and was sweeping across the room, arms prematurely spread for an embrace. Tyson stepped forward as though he were sacrificing himself so that Marcy might live. Mrs. Livander veered slightly and enveloped him in her plump arms. "Ben Tyson. Oh, you charming man. You're so devilishly handsome, if I were ten years younger I'd be after you. "

WORD OF HONOR 9 57

Tyson thought twenty years was closer to the mark, but he hugged Lydia Livander and gave her a peck on the cheek.

Mrs. Livander turned to Marcy and effused, "You look lovety. What a stunning dress! How do you keep your figure?" She took Marcy by the shoulders as if to fix her in place and poured a steady stream of lavish praise on her. Tyson's eyes darted around until he spotted the bar.

Without warning, Lydia Livander took their arms in a firm grip and propelled them toward a photographer from the Garden City News. "Sam," she bubbled, "Sam, you must get a picture of this beautiful couple this instant."

Tyson and Marcy smiled, the flash went off, and before Tyson could see clearly, Mrs. Livander had him on the move again. Tyson glanced at Marcy and shrugged. If he'd intended to slip in unobtrusively, he was making a bad start of it. As Mrs. Livander moved them around to meet people they already knew or didn't want to know, he had the distinct impression that heads were turning toward him.

Pleading an urgent call of nature, Tyson broke free of Mrs. Livander's ministrations and made directly for the bar. He ordered a Scotch and soda and carried it to a neutral comer. Shortly, Marcy came up to him and said,

"You see, nothing has changed. Lydia did that for each of the two hundred couples who arrived tonight."

Tyson swallowed half his drink. "I felt like the only Negro at a Liberal party dance. There wasn't enough of me to go around."

Marcy smiled. "Hang in there, Benjamin. Balls."

"Right. Nevertheless, it's going to be a long evening.

"But a memorable one. And your last public appearance, I daresay. "

"Perhaps." However, he suspected that his last public appearance would not be a black-tie affair but a dress-green appearance in a place less convivial than this one.

Ben Tyson sat at a round table and surveyed the full ashtrays, empty bar glasses, and discarded programs: the detritus of another tax-deductible bash. If the hospital got 10 percent of the take, they were doing well, he thought. The tables hadn't been assigned, and he'd found himself 58 0 NELSON DEMILLE

with different groupings of people throughout the evening. Now, finally, he found himself alone.

Tyson glanced at his watch. On balance, he thought, he was glad he'd come.

If there was any truth to the old saying that public opinion was in advance of the law, then he felt somewhat relieved. No one had snubbed him, and no one had hustled him into the men's room to face a committee of peers with tar and feathers.