Honor and Duty (65 page)

I put on a clean uniform and drove up Route 1 to San Francisco, feeling the pull of the old ’hood and the aura of the Pyramids. I was returning to where I had been an ardent would-be black youth, where I had been a slave to a hard queen, where I had failed at family and romance. I was going up the Nile to Egypt.

I thought of Toussaint. I used to practice his walk, imitating the glide in his feet, the angle of his straight back, the strut so quietly hidden in the shoulders and arms, the height of his head. I would try it, and we would laugh so hard. Now, as the Pacific glistened to my left, I turned off the radio and practiced talking to him. “Toussaint. Damn, it’s good to see you. Man, I’m such a fool. Sorry I haven’t called, or written.… Toos—how are you, man?… Yeah, I’m a sergeant. See, I flunked out of West Point.…” I exhaled, consumed with gnawing fears. I was afraid he was in Vietnam. I feared he was already dead.

I turned off Nineteenth Avenue and drove through Golden Gate Park to the Haight, and started taking my shocks. The Haight was filled with young white people dressed up like East Indian mystics. Hippies. I turned north on Central.

Cutty’s Garage had new management. Joe Cutty and Hector Pueblo were not there. Mrs. Timm’s Reliance Market was closed and boarded up. The barbershop with its black-and-white linoleum-squared floor was gone and made into an apartment. The Lew Wallace Eatery—with the two angry cooks, Rupert and Dozer, who made the best fries in the City—had been replaced by a dismal hairdresser’s shop that seemed headed for the same fate. The whole commerce of the ’Handle had collapsed under the gravitational pull of the “supermarket” of Petrini Plaza. I drove down McAllister, my mind awash in childhood memories, jarred by the sense that I did not belong here, that I would not be remembered or accepted.

I had not attended the church since childhood. All the way up the coast, I wondered if I would go in. I had hated chapel at the Academy, and had vowed after Marco Fideli’s memorial to never enter a church unless it was for my own death. I wondered about Reverend Jones and Sippy Suds Deloitte. I wanted them to see me in uniform, but did not want to explain how I came to be here while my class was at West Point. Yet U.S. Army khakis had never been unwelcome in the storefront Third Baptist; its members had offered too many sons and fathers to the same cloth, for patriotism and in the hope of equality, to decry it. Here, being a sergeant was honorable.

I parked on Grove to watch for Toos and Momma, listening to Motown on KYA. I hadn’t been here for four years, and hadn’t been to church for seven. I had trouble remembering names of the worshipers. I looked for Titus, Alvin, Reginald, Tyrone, and Aaron. An old expression returned: I was itching to see Earline Ribbons and Anita Mae Williams. I wondered what they’d think of me, if they’d accept me all over again. I felt shivers of guilt. I had left the ’hood and gone to the Academy, where I had lived like them during Plebe year, but for three years now I had eaten like a king. Who was I to ask for acceptance from those who had stuck it out with hard times?

I looked at my watch; the Corps would be returning now from mandatory chapel. Kids entering the church turned to check out the Chinese soldier in the dented blue car, their mommas saying, “Stop starin’ at the man and come along.” A lot of the folk wore buttons that said “Kennedy,” and it took me a moment to realize it was Bobby they meant, and not Jack.

Toos and Momma didn’t show. Nor did anyone else I knew by name, as if I had come to the wrong church. The greeter was a short, straight, fortyish man in a white shirt, shiny black suit, and white gloves wearing a large blue badge that said “USHER.”

The doors closed. I heard “Jesus Keep Me Near the Cross,” then silence. Now it would be congregational prayer, members speaking of those in need, to the loud and comradely affirmation of others. Then the announcements. The choir led in “I Don’t Feel No Way Tired” and “I Want to Be a Christian in My Heart,” the tune remaining with me for longer than I wished. Now, I figured, Reverend Jones would be sermoning. I got out of the car, straightened my uniform, and walked to the church. Quietly, I approached the storefront opening. I took a mimeographed bulletin from the stack at the door.

Alvin Sharpes had been killed in Tet. He had opposed the idea of killing Leo Washington. He loved his father so much, he insisted on being called “Alvin Sharpes” instead of “Alvin.”

The usher emerged and I introduced myself. He remembered Charlotte LaRue and her son, but hadn’t seen them in years. Joe Cutty had sold his garage. He didn’t know a Hector Pueblo. Earline Ribbons died of TB five years ago. Anita Mae Williams was married and a mother, attending S.F. State. Markie T. had moved to L.A. years ago and Titus B. was in state prison. He couldn’t recall any of the other names. Deloitte, the usher said, had gone back South.

I quietly entered. The church seemed to have shrunk. A tall man in a brown suit gripped the lectern. The church had four new pews in front to supplement the collage of unrelated wooden folding chairs. The man was crying, unable to stop. “My son…,” he said in a quavering voice, succumbing to tears as others said, “… the Lord love and keep you.” I left and sat on the steps.

After a while, I heard a hymn I’d forgotten since the days when I carried rock collections in my pockets and daydreamed with great power about the taste of fresh bubble gum.

Service ended, and I returned to the car until the last of the worshipers had shaken the pastor’s hand. As I walked back, the man in the brown suit embraced his minister, and they wept in each other’s arms. The sight of these two strong men weeping was hard to view. I looked at my biceps, expecting them to be gone. I remembered Marco Fideli’s parents and kept my distance. But the man in the suit saw me. He wiped
his face with a crisp white handkerchief from his breast pocket and walked toward me.

I put my hand out. “Mr. Sharpes, I knew your son. He was my friend, I’m so sorry.” I’m Asian, but I didn’t kill your son.

He smiled bravely, eyes wet, cheeks shining, a man wearing his wounds on the outside. I remembered him as the man who didn’t drink. He appeared to be living without sleep. He shook my hand in both of his, the moist hanky wrapping around my fingers. He pulled on his ear the way Alvin Sharpes had when something puzzled him.

“Knew my son in the Army?” he asked.

“No, sir. Used to live here. We were boyhood pals.”

He studied my chest. “Army gave us lots of medals after he was dead. Haven’t been to Vietnam. You going?”

“Don’t know, sir. If I get orders.”

“Hope not. God keep you. I appreciate your sentiment.”

I nodded, my lips compressed. “So sorry,” I said.

Reverend Jones smiled as he took my hand in a strong grip. His face had aged only slightly, his hair was whiter. He was shorter than I remembered. “Good to have you back,” he said in his rich, deep voice. “I recall you as a tiny boy, swallowed up by the chair. You’re a completely grown man. What a pleasure to see how the Lord has smiled on you. Thank you for speaking to Mr. Sharpes.” He nodded his head, his words like soft mountain thunder. “Never can take on too much comfort in grief. You were friends, right?”

I nodded. I found my voice. “Yes. Reverend, have you seen Toussaint LaRue, or Mrs. LaRue?”

He shook his head. “Gone to I don’t know where. Many have up and gone, some back to the South.” He licked his lips. “Hard times,” he said. “This Vietnam is like Korea, all over again.”

“Toussaint, and Charlotte, they can’t be missing,” I said.

He read my name tag. “Sergeant Ting. Kai Ting, isn’t it? All the boys have gone to the Army. Charlotte left town. They didn’t have any relations here in this church.”

“Pastor, how can I find them?”

He shook his head. Then he smiled. “Deloitte’s a lay minister in Mississippi. He’d kick himself hard, missing you.… I’m sorry son. Wish I could tell you better. Pray for them, son—pray that Almighty Jesus is with them. Would you like to sit awhile, and visit? Well, it was good, seeing you. I always wanted you to come back. This is your home. The Lord bless you.”

I walked downhill to Golden Gate and headed for the old
block. I had hoped someday to be a muscular, athletic paratrooper in bright jump boots with silver Airborne wings. I had become my childhood dream.

I stood on Indian Head Beach near Range 9, a twenty-five-meter, 70-point firing range, reading my mail and inventorying my assets. I had been accepted at the University of California at Davis, and my military obligation would end before I could receive orders for Vietnam. Mike Benjamin wrote. He was applying to medical school, although the Army had made it clear that it had not sent him through West Point to heal people.

In the letter was a photo of Pearl and me at a formal hop. I was in uniform India, the all-white snow machine. She wore stunning black with white high-heeled pumps. We looked terrific. Later, I meant to put it with the picture of Mah-mee, but somehow I had lost it in the dunes.

39

June 5, 1968

I drove the rented Fairlane through Highland Falls while a radio commentator said that if Bobby Kennedy won the California primary tonight, he was expected to become President of the United States. He was against the war in Vietnam, but when he spoke about Martin Luther King and his own slain brother, I felt as if I were listening to Toussaint LaRue.

I drove up to the guard kiosk at Thayer Gate. The MP smiled when he saw we were the same rank, and gave me a visitor’s card for the dash. He kept staring at me.

“Used to be a cadet,” I said, and he nodded.

“Thought so, Sergeant Ting. Welcome back. It’s a beautiful day.” He saluted me, and I returned it. “Thank you,” I said.

The Thayer Hotel looked tall and proud, its massive chest out and flags flying in the warm breeze. Mike Benjamin and I had stood at the driving turnabout, looking upriver, talking about omens on the night before R-Day.

Cavalry Field was filled with Firstie cars—Corvette Sting Rays, T-Birds, Bonnevilles, Firebirds, and Cougars. The payments would make them poor for years. After having no freedom,
Firsties bought highly prestigious sports cars. I thought of my old Chevy, embarrassed. It was a jalopy, a junk heap.

I followed Thayer Road as it bent around the bright, sparkling river. I had walked up this road, swinging my bag, on the most beautiful morning of my life, four years ago.