While he was in Vietnam he'd written one letter to his uncle, but there had been no return letter. He hadn't expected one, and that was okay. Now he was glad he'd taken the time. He'd written all about the Ho Chi Minh trail and the guys in his company. He'd gone into detail about the Fourth of July picnic. He'd even touched on Casey, not knowing if his crotchety uncle would approve or not. He'd done it because he needed to acknowledge Casey in some way to the outside world.
The night was long, his mind full of memories, his heart aching unbearably, as he wrote all of his letters on a typewriter that was as old as his father.
Out of the corner of his eye, as he pecked away at the keys, he could see the retrievers playing with one another, tugging and fussing with a length of clothesline Yody had tied into huge knots. Every so often in their frenzy they would catapult over one another. Their yips of happiness made Mac smile. Things were getting back to normal.
At ten-thirty he licked the last stamp. At 10:35 he carried the stack of letters out to the mailbox at the end of the drive, the dogs loping ahead of him. The rain, he noticed, had let up, but there were no stars in the sky. Tomorrow wasn't going to be any better than today in the weather department. The thought depressed him. Sunshine, no matter where you were, was preferable to this dismal grayness.
As he loped up the cobblestone walkway, the dogs growled. The signal the phone was ringing. He raced inside, his greeting breathless.
“Hello,” he said.
“Eric Savorone, Mr. Carlin, I'm returning your call. Sorry about the late hour, but I've been in surgery all evening, an accident case. Do I know you?”
“No, Doctor, we never met. I'm calling about Lily Gia.”
“Lily?”
To Mac's ears it sounded like “Lily who?” He bristled, his voice sharp when he said, “I thought you might like to know I believe she's dead. She was caught in the Tet Offensive, but I have no concrete details. I also believe that your son is in an orphanage in Thailand.”
“Now hold on here, Mr. Carlin. I don't know what you're talking about. Yes, I knew Lily. It was what it was, nothing more. I don't like this talk about âmy son,' so let's knock that off right now. Wait a damn minute here. I know who you are. I read about you in the papers. It sounds to me like you're trying to stir up trouble for me. I can't allow that. I have a respected position here, and as far as I'm concerned, I have no son. If Lily was pregnantâand I'm not admitting she wasâit's not my problem. I'm sorry if she's dead. I can't do anything about that either. I don't want you calling me again, Mr. Carlin. Do we understand each other?”
He understood all right. Poor Lily. “Decency demands I tell you I am going to try to bring that child here to the States. Lily was a friend of mine. She was ostracized from her family, but then you know that, don't you, Doctor?” Not waiting for a reply, Mac continued, his voice hard and brittle, “Somewhere, someplace in Vietnam, there's a birth certificate that has your name on it. I'll find it if it takes me the rest of my life. If you don't want the child, that's okay too. I called only to tell you you had a son and to give you what little information I have on Lily. The fact that you are so uninterested is your problem, not mine, Doctor. I won't call you again, although other people might.”
“That sounds like a goddamn threat, Carlin. Listen,” Savorone hissed, “they all opened their legs, and if you were one of those puritanical do-gooders who didn't take advantage, that's
your
problem.”
“You son of a bitch!” Mac swore at the pinging receiver before he slammed it down. The retrievers stopped their play long enough to stare at him, their ears flattened against their huge velvety heads. He didn't waste his time thinking about Eric Savorone.
Afterward, he sat in front of the fire, the dogs snoozing contentedly at his side. He was warm, the fire burning brightly with a mixture of cherry and cedar logs with a sprinkling of pinecones that gave off a heady, intoxicating aroma that vied with Yody's pot roast. A bottle of Budweiser beer and his cigarettes were at his elbow. The television set was on, the voices muted.
Mac reached for a cigarette, his eyes on the letter next to his ashtray. It had arrived two days ago. At first he wasn't going to open it, but his curiosity as to why Phil Pender would write him finally got the best of him. He'd read the letter so many times over the past few days, he could recite it verbatim. He read it again:
Dear Major Carlin,
Guess this letter is a bit of a surprise. I'm kind of surprised myself to be writing but the guys insisted, so read on, Major.
By the time you read this I should be stateside and selling used cars. Freeze, Stevens, and myself will be the last ones to rotate out of here. Colonel Morley left this morning amidst cheers and catcalls. I felt like crying yesterday when I saw the first batch of new guys. Your replacement is a little thick around the middle and his feet are plastered full of Band-Aids. Freeze refers to the new guys as whipper-snappers. The term makes me feel old.
I guess I should get on with it. We all took a vote, and as you can see by the attached list, everyone in your command, plus a few others we rounded up, signed it. We all know about your background and all those political people you're buddies with, so we kind of thought you'd be the perfect guy to go to the U.S. Senate and take care of us guys. We're gonna need someone like you on our side when this is over, someone who can wade through all the bullshit and red tape. I've had some feedback, so have the others, from guys who rotated home a year ago. They're being treated like lepers. Who can these guys go to? Who's going to understand? Not those fat cats on the Hill, that's for sure. Freeze said he's embarrassed to go home. Shit, Major, that's not right.
Something has to be done about the babies our guys are leaving behind. Aspacolas did his best to try and get his girl and baby out. No luck. Miles of red tape and bureaucratic bullshit. We took a vote and decided the Senate is a good place to start.
I did what you said, I put the word out on the Bamboo Pipeline about Lily Gia's son. So far nothing. I've clued in my replacement and he's agreed to pass any info back to me in the States.
Word came down the Pipeline ten days ago that a memorial service was held for Lieutenant Adams. The word is Dr. Farrell read the eulogy, then got so drunk he busted up the makeshift Officers' Club and then worked a twenty-two-hour shift.
The third piece of paper will tell you where Lieutenant Adams's remains were sent. I thought you would want to know. I really did some digging and called in a lot of markers to come up with this. I was told that a Nicole Dupre, Lieutenant Adams's friend, claimed her body. I've enclosed Miss Dupre's address. I'm sorry, Major, if this opens any wounds.
I hope you're enjoying civilian life, Major, and if you ever need a
good
used car, look me up. Best of Luck.
Phil Pender
Mac stuffed the letter back into the envelope. His eyes burned hotly when he stared at the long list of names scrawled on the yellowed paper. Hundreds of names, maybe as many as a thousand. Most of them he recognized, some he didn't. Pender, he knew, would have gone to a hot LZ to get names if he thought it would help.
The dogs, sensing a change in their master's mood, raised their heads in unison. Mac scratched behind their silky ears. “It's okay, fellas, I just had a bad minute there. I think Pender just solved my problem. He's right, you know. The political climate back here in regard to Vietnam stinks worse than the country itself.”
Could he run for the Senate and win? He had the background, the political connections. Did he want to do it? He'd never liked politics, especially his father's brand. Could he do a turnaround and work at something he detested? He admitted he didn't know. He did know that he was capable of working tirelessly, twenty-four hours a day, for something he believed in. And, by God, he believed in everything Pender said. He closed his eyes and tried to picture himself in the Senate chamber. His eyes snapped open. Hell yes, he could see himself there. The dogs woofed softly. Mac closed his eyes a second time, the vision behind his closed lids that of himself in the governor's mansion with his father sitting at a desk behind his own. “Hell no!” he exploded.
The dogs leaped from the couch, the satiny hairs on their sleek backs on end. They pawed his legs and arms, growling deep in their throats.
“Hey, fellas, it's okay. Everything is fine. Come on, I'll give you some root beer. Yeah, yeah, I know all about the root beer. I saw Yody sneak it to you. She gives you root beer and you do whatever she wants. That's how she damn well trained you. You like those bubbles in your nose. Don't worry, I'm not going to let on I know,” Mac muttered as he splashed soda pop into two round yellow bowls.
He had a purpose now, a reason to get on with life. He knew in his gut, because he knew himself so well, that sooner or later he would have come to this very same conclusion on his own. Pender just speeded up his mental processes, jerked him out of his complacency. Thank God for Pender.
The root beer finished, the dogs inched close, their wet noses pressed tight into Mac's thigh. He scratched their heads, grinning when they growled with pleasure. Such a little thing, a touch really, and the animals were happy. That's what he needed, a kind word, a touch, and it would all be bearable.
He sat through the evening programming and the late news, content for the moment. When the newscaster signed off for the evening, Mac knew it was time to make some decisions.
Eleven-thirty wasn't too late to make a phone call. Benny was a night owl, rarely going to bed before one-thirty or so. He dialed the number from memory. Benny's voice was alert, but not the least bit enthused to hear from Mac at such a late hour. “I didn't wake you, did I? The kids and Carol, how are they?”
“Everyone is fine. The family is sound asleep. The breadwinner is sitting here trying to figure out how he's going to pay his bills this month and who is going to get a letter of apology instead of a check. What's up?”
Mac had long ago given up asking Benny if he could help out. He didn't ask now. “I want to throw something at you from left field. Think about it and call me tomorrow with your answer.”
“Hey, it's almost tomorrow now.” Benny laughed. “Shoot.”
“You know my old man's plans are for me to run for governor of this fine state. I don't want to be governor, and I'm not sure I could even get nominated. But what I do want is to make a try for the United States Senate on the Democratic ticket. I want to help make law. I might have a chance at that. I'd like you to be my campaign manager. I know you have to talk it over with Carol, and that's fine. The pay is good, and you won't have to send out letters of apology every month. It's not charity, Benny, you know me better than that. You'll earn every cent I pay you. We can even put Carol on the payroll. She can stuff envelopes at homeâthey do that in campaigns, I thinkâif she has the time or is even interested. If I don't make it, we'll go to Chula Vista and open a hot dog stand. What do you think?”
“Jesus, it sounds great. It really does.” Mac smiled at the excitement in his friend's voice. Then he laughed out loud, startling the dogs, when Benny said, “Have you given any thought to the fact that I know diddly-squat about politics?”
“Hey, we'll be starting out even. I don't even know how many members there are in Congress or the Senate. That's how green I am. I'm going to learn though.”
“What's your father going to say?” Benny demanded.
“Plenty. I plan to . . . go over his head.”
“Alice?” Benny asked hesitantly.
“Alice is very busy with her daughter. For now I'm going to let sleeping dogs lie, and the longer they sleep, the better for everyone concerned. We'll work on that angle. For now we need some powerful people who will endorse me.”
Benny whooped with laughter. “Are you thinking the same thing I'm thinking? All those wonderful pictures on Sadie's bulletin board? All those glossy, shiny pictures? Did Sadie tell you or did you notice that there are only two spaces left on that board?”
“You're kidding!” Mac said in awe.
“Would I kid you about something that important? Sadie has been dithering for months now between the Attorney General and some guy named Nebermyer, a cabinet member. That's for the number-two spot. God and Sadie are the only ones who know who gets the number-one spot. She may never fill it. There's something about that last spot. The list for that spot, my friend, is miles long. Someday,” Benny said thoughtfully, “I want someone to tell me how that little bar and grill got to be so popular with the power elite.” Benny cleared his throat. “Okay, boss, when do you want to get started?”
“As soon as you resign. I'll wait for you, Benny. You want out by five tomorrow, you're out. The paperwork might take a little while, but you'll be
out,
I guarantee it. All it takes is one phone call.”
“Day after tomorrow is fine with me. I still have to talk to Carol. Listen, how about if I go wake her and call you back? Yeah, I'll do that. Wait right there, Mac.”
Twelve minutes later Mac's phone rang.
“She said okay on one condition,” Benny said happily.
“What's that?”
“That I leave her the car.”
“What's wrong with the one I left with you?”
“Don't you want it back?” Benny asked stupidly.
“Nah, she can use it. There's a Jag in the garage here. I can use that. Alice has her own car.”
“Okay, it's settled. I want to be a civilian by five o'clock . . . today. Can you work that kind of magic?”