Unexpected Gifts (4 page)

“Permission to speak, sir.”

Carbini squinted his angry, bulging eyes for a beat. “What do you want?”

“Weylan's correct, sir. The Geneva Convention states that…”

“Fuck the Geneva Convention, and fuck you!” He grabbed my hand and still holding his gun, pulled me over to the girl. With the gun against her long, shiny black hair, he pressed my finger under his own over the trigger and together he made us squeeze.

Villagers shrieked, scrambling in all directions while I looked down through my tears and saw an old woman bending over the girl's body, sobbing, rocking back and forth with grief, the little boy clinging to my leg. I picked him up and cradled him tightly against my chest, stroking his face and picturing his perfect mother just minutes before.

The old woman finally stood up holding out her arms for the boy and as I handed him over, Carbini snarled, “Remember, Weylan, it was you who pulled the trigger, and if you try to deny it, that's just what I'll write on the Investigating Officer's Report.”

I snapped back to present time. “That's—that's a lie, sir.”

“Who do ya think they're gonna believe—you or me, dipshit!”

That night, the pow-wow around my bunk turned ugly. I lay on top of my covers, trying to stay neutral and project myself back to my summer camp. Lucky for me, after numerous hits on a communal doobie, I was three-quarters there.

“That son-of-a-bitch has got to pay,” a private named Milton hissed.

Through my fog, I could hear several yeah's wafting through the tent, intermingled with the deep inhaling sounds of pot intake.

Billy R. intervened. “What do you have in mind?” Somehow, his voice always sounded so much more reasonable than the others.

“Fragging, that's what I'm thinkin'.” Milton shot back.

“Jesus! Are you crazy?” A slight quaver had crept into Billy's low voice.

“What the hell do you care about him? You hate him as much as the rest of us. Do you really want him to put Weylan, your buddy, on report?”

“Of course not, but killing him is not the answer. There are other channels…”

Indignant snorts exploded around me and by two a.m., the small circle around my bunk may have still been plotting, but I was out like a light, grateful for my unconsciousness.

We woke to teeming rain. The monsoon season had officially begun, and although we were told these downpours would be mostly at night and early morning, it was of little comfort when the rest of our day was spent in incredibly thick, oppressive air that made the sweat constant and our jungle rot worsen. Occasional cracks of thunder became indistinguishable from artillery fire, so all our nerves, already frayed, notched up at least two strokes as we witnessed Carbini become more and more out of control.

We loathed him, and I don't think anyone, not even Billy R., could argue with that. My days were spent concentrating on just staying alive, exchanging letters with Lily, smoking joints whenever possible, and trying hard not to think about the girl. But she continued to haunt me and at the oddest moments, too, like in the middle of shaving, I could suddenly sense her behind me, or worse, when a soldier recently tripped on a bamboo root, cutting the side of his head as he hit the ground, I flashed on her lying in her own blood, rendering her boy needy forever.

Lily's letters, once so appreciated, now began to irritate me. How dare she go on about these dilettantes in her precious East Village building? Let her go through what I'd been through instead of talking about hippies getting stoned and bitching about everyone in the military.

One night, as I huddled in a dark foxhole, listening to the whispers of two disgruntled soldiers next to me, my mind turned first to Lily, then to her.

“Did you hear? It's on for some time tonight. But that Billy R. is such a goddamn saint. He wants to try ‘n stop it.”

“Yeah, he's become a real pain in the ass.”

I swiveled my head around like a night owl. “What do you mean? What are you guys talking about?”

“Weylan, you're somethin' else, man. What planet have you been on lately? You, of all people, should know what we're talkin' about! Carbini, man! That's who we're talkin' about. He's gonna get his tonight,” they leered.

“What?”

“Man, you are a piece of work! Carbini makes you do an unspeakable act against that chick, and you still don't get it?”

The other soldier nodded in agreement. “Fragging, Weylan. He's gonna get fragged tonight by several of the guys and there's nothin' you can do about it.”

“But you mentioned Billy R. What's that all about?”

“Your pal Billy R. keeps hinting he's gonna try and stop it. We're bettin' he'll try to warn Carbini somehow, but who knows?”

I thought about it for a few seconds. The guys were right, Billy R. was too much of a saint. Who cares if Carbini was blown to smithereens? I certainly wouldn't mind living without that bastard all over my back for the rest of my tour here. I leaned back against the sandbags and took several hits off of a circulating doobie, inhaling deeply, trying to relax. Wait a minute…Shit! What if Billy tries to stop it and gets blown up in the process?

I threw down my joint and managed to crawl over the sandbags and out of the foxhole before sprinting back to our tent, my poncho flying behind me as the rain pelted my face and neck. Outside the front flap, I stopped and listened, but only the sound of gravelly snores answered me.

I peeked in, looked over at Billy's empty bunk, and tiptoed over to Milton, poking him until he became semi-conscious. “Where's Billy R.? Where is he? Are you going ahead with your plan?”

Milton stared up at me, his eyes half-opened in the glow of a single lantern up in front. As he struggled to wake up, I started shaking him full force, not caring who opened their eyes.

“Are you guys going to frag Carbini?” I whispered fiercely.

He nodded slowly, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Shannon's gonna do it,” he admitted. “What time is it? He might be there already. Why?”

I didn't answer. I was already heading for Carbini's tent.

It's funny how when you view explosions in the movies, it's like nothing. Not so in real life. When the grenades went off I felt everything rattle—the ground, the trees, the grass, my body, and my head, bouncing around like we were all inside a blender. Instantly, yelling soldiers were everywhere, running towards what was left of Carbini's tent, strewn across a half-mile radius. I sat up and took in the scene a beat or two before I thought of Billy R. Oh, God…

Just then, I could see a familiar figure emerging from the smoke-filled camp, his head down, shoulders drooped. When Billy R. came up to me, I opened my mouth to give him some kind of comfort, but thought better of it. Truth be told, after all the horror, the moral dilemma, I felt only relief, and when the rest of the camp learned of the victim, I noticed every eye was as dry as Arizona.

The days and nights with a new sergeant continued uneventfully, with little signs of unrest except for the intermittent tat-tat-tat-tat of sniper fire at night. Billy's tour was almost up, mine, soon after, and when we finally got foxhole/patrol duty together, we decided to do a pre-celebration there, unencumbered by other soldiers. The night was beautiful—clear, less muggy than usual, and after a fat joint, we started counting stars. We lay back against the sandbags, whispering about how even in this God-forsaken place, some things stay constant, like the magnificent solar system, untouched by war.

“God, I've got to take a piss,” I chortled suddenly.

“Do it here, man. Who gives a shit?” I could tell Billy R. was already loaded.

“Naw. Can't do it in front of you. Don't worry, I'll be careful.”

We both started giggling as I worked my way out of the hole and onto the soft earth. I unzipped my pants and let it rip. My watery release against the ground sounded like someone tearing up a piece of paper in half time, and the longer I peed, the more we dissolved into gales of laughter, until our sides ached and my pants were spotted with convulsed urine droplets.

Suddenly, the tat-tat-tat-tat seemed closer than usual and after a couple of seconds, I wondered why my back felt so numb and why Billy's face looked so horrified as I collapsed back into the hole on top of him.

“One sniper fire wounded. Down in camp foxhole #2. Need Medevac!
NOW!”
Billy barked into the walkie-talkie.

Floating in and out of consciousness, I lost track of all time until two medics were crawling down next to me, gripping a gurney and carefully hoisting me onto it. Inch by inch they pulled me up towards the grass as the wop-wop-wop-wop of the Medevac, beating against the night air, slowed until I was secured, then picked up tempo and ferried me away.

The VA hospital was sure as hell not the Ritz, but not the snake pit I had been forewarned about, either. I spent my days in bed reading magazines, Lily's letters, and sometimes a note or two from Billy R. I wouldn't let my wife and family see me until I could fully walk again, but Billy R. was allowed and one day, when he had entered with his Montagnard crossbow and arrows as a gift, I gently fingered the feathers, promising to guard this treasure with my life, and gave him my solemn promise to move on.

He was also there the day the doctors finally discussed my condition—a wheelchair was to be my new method of transportation. And it wasn't until much later, in the dark, cocooned by bed railings and rage, that I noticed Billy's gifts had disappeared. I guess he figured out before I did, that they shouldn't be around me right then.

Six months later, when the VA bus jostled me over to our new West Village apartment building, Lily was waiting with open arms. She and our entombed baby waddled across the street to me, waiting patiently for the driver to unload everything, and just looking up at her breast-filled tie-dyed blouse, bell-bottoms jeans stretched tight over her belly, and her long wavy hair, I thought I was in Heaven. She tenderly arched over me in my wheelchair and we hugged until the tears flowed and our bodies shook, but when she stepped back, I saw her face mirroring my thoughts. How the hell were we going to survive this?

Sonia was usually at least twenty minutes early, but that afternoon she severed her record.

“I'm so, so sorry!” she gushed to her waiting Psych study group. “I don't really have an excuse, I mean, I could make up one, but the truth is, I got tied up with Mike.” She plopped down and extracted some papers from her backpack, carefully lining up a pencil, a pen, and a pad in front of her. Everyone else sat still, mesmerized by her performance.

“Sonia, remember how Bill said he was dropping out?” Mark was the group leader.

She nodded, pencil poised for work.

“Well, we have his replacement.” He pointed across the table. “Sonia, this is Harry. Harry, Sonia. Later, be sure to exchange phone numbers.”

She saw a clear-eyed, tousled-haired student, his corduroy jacket slightly worn, his clean blue shirt, frayed at the collar. He jiggled a quick wave and stared into her eyes longer than expected, causing her to look away. The session had been underway a good five minutes before she ventured another glance towards him.

Pamela cleared her throat. “Okay, guys. We're down to the wire. Professor Seidell is going to pull out all the stops next Wednesday, so let's do it!” They nodded in unison.

She continued, “Now, besides his study handout, let's review the basic Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Symptoms sheet.”

Ana, sitting next to her started reading out loud.

“Basic symptoms of OCD. 1. Hand washing, repetition patterns, touching objects, counting. 2. Germ/ dirt contamination phobias. 3. Imagined hurt done to oneself by others. 4. Fear of losing control. 5. Aggressive urges/sexual urges. 6. Need to have items around you in perfect order. 7. Need to tell/confess/ask. Any questions?” she added.

Sonia tapped twice. “Ah, what about that last one? I didn't quite get it.”

Mark chuckled. “It's what you did when you first walked in today, Sonia.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, telling us about Mike was more info than we needed, no?”

Sonia sniffed. “Give me a break, Mark.”

“Number 7: Need to tell/confess,” he chanted.

Sonia went silent as Harry spoke up. “You know, Mark, we all do that kind of thing, particularly when we're in a rush, don't we?”

The others concurred, Mark stiffened. He obviously needed control, just like her father's Captain Carbini, Sonia suddenly realized. She muted a laugh.

“What about sexual urges?” Ana cut through her thoughts. “I mean, what's the difference between a healthy appetite and not being able to get enough?” Everyone laughed.

“I actually did some research on this,” Mark offered.

“You would!” Pamela snorted.

“No, no, I mean it. The point is, the compulsive person really can't stop himself or herself. Against their better judgment, they will give in at a moment's notice to these urges…”

Everyone in the room quieted enough to hear a coffee cup drop and coffee whoosh into it at an outer hall machine as Sonia pictured her morning's hot-and-heavy tryst.

“Knock-knock!” Mike snickered from the doorway. Leaning languidly against the door jamb, his long black hair shiny, his goatee freshly clipped, his leather pants and jacket formfitting, he was well aware of his primal magnetism. While Pamela and Ana drew sharp breaths on either side of her, Sonia watched him smugly step into the room.

Harry extended a friendly hand. “How's it going?” he asked. Mike gave him the once-over through narrowed eyes before trying out his Soul Brother Cool Musician Power Handshake. Everyone seemed visibly impressed, Sonia remained passive as her lover sat down off to one side, his legs outstretched and crossed, his hands clasped behind his neck in an I-own-the-world pose.

Ana was obviously enthralled. Her eyes kept gravitating towards him as she spoke. “So, can we all make it for a last minute emergency study session next Tuesday?”

Hands shot up into the air. All except Harry's. “Ah, that's the one day I can't go. Sorry. You can study without me, that's okay…”

“How gracious of you—why the hell not?” sneered Mark.

Harry's voice was steady. “I have a prior commitment, that's all.”

Pamela took over. “What could be more important than studying for this test? A doctor's appointment—I mean, do you have cancer or something?”

Mike snorted and shook his head.

“Well, if you must know, this is for a friend in need,” Harry replied. “I promised her I'd be there for her. Do what you all have to do, but to me it's about loyalty, no matter what.”

Mike cleared his throat and stood up. “Well, I've had enough. Sonia?” All heads rotated towards her as she gathered up her stuff and followed Mike out like a well-trained puppy. At the last second, she popped her head back into the room.

“Just call me about the time, okay?” she said to Mark as Harry got up and handed her his number.

Mike's band was already in Apartment 34 D, toking on weed and sucking down Budweiser's as Ned Bernstein, their manager of five years, gave her a big hug. “Sonia, good to see you, girl!” His smile always seemed genuine, in a disingenuous music biz world, but for some reason, no one was doing their thing—no jokes, no laughter, everyone silent.

Other than that, it was a typical meeting. Discussions about sloppy sound checks, too many groupies ending up backstage, missed harmonies, how more sleep equaled better gigs. Everyone was inordinately pleasant. Too pleasant, Sonia thought as her mind drifted towards that OCD list.

“Wow! What a mellow meeting. One the calmest one I've ever seen,” she commented later to Mike, sitting down at a table in a nearby coffee shop.

He didn't even look up. “That's because Ned's about to get dumped.”

“What are you talking about?”

He looked straight at her. “He's toast. We've got bigger fish in the sea goin' after us.”

“But he helped you guys so much. He's been there for you at every turn and what about this new record deal?”

“The record deal's shit.”

“How do you know that?” Sonia was feeling a little sick.

“It's not from such a big company and besides, this new agency is bigger and better. They'll get us a good record deal.”

“Does everyone in the band feel this way?”

He shrugged. “They do now, after I convinced them last week,” he grinned.

“But—but what about loyalty?”

He choked on a laugh. “Come on, Babe. You're supposed to be the full-scholarship-to-college smart one!”

She started to alternate her taps, two on one side, two on the other.

“Cut that shit out!” he demanded as he stood up. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

The ride to her studio apartment on his motorcycle was bumpy and strained. Wordless, they entered her cozy place where two seconds later, he cupped a long fingered guitar hand under her right breast and drew her near.

“Let's forget it. You know what you need,” he said smugly.

She didn't want to respond. How dare he, her mind screamed, but her genitals were a different matter altogether and as they shuffled over as a unit to her bed, she started working on his shirt and pants.

“Whoa, Babe, we'll get there,” he murmured, pulling her down to the sofa with him, scattering pillows every which way onto the floor.

Twelve and a half minutes later, she was tapping nonstop on her tummy to the sounds of his throaty voice in the shower. She had heard this song before, knew how much he liked it, but it still felt like listening to a lion in heat. She got up, threw on her clothes, and retreated to the kitchen area to heat up some water.

Breathe in, breathe out,
relax!
She verbalized internally, but nothing was working. Ned's smile kept coming to mind.

“Hey, Babe. You're coming to the club tonight to hear the show, right?”

“Well, I really should study…”

Mike took a quick intake of air. “Nice. Love ‘em an' leave 'em.”

“Look, I—I'll be there,” she sighed. When he left he had his gloating face on.

The Sugar Pie Club in the Bronx was a hopping place, pulling in hundreds of people a night. Heavy metal fans, techno freaks, you name it, and as Mike's band,
Grand Elbow
, was a curious mix of sounds, the crowd there that night filled the main room.

The grafittied walls were a gang-banger's wet dream—twenty-four inch neon non-sequitur letters splashed across bricked surfaces, as clinking glasses and screaming laughter choked the air. Smoking, no longer allowed, didn't stop the previous heavy metal group from using clouds of CO2, and as Sonia sat in the Band Ladies Pit, waiting for Mike's group to begin, she blinked hard, picturing how her parents would be spending the evening.

“Hey, Sonia. How's it going?” The drummer, Pete's wife Shannon, was the nicest of the lot. Seven months pregnant, these days she was sticking to Perrier with just a splash of lemon.

“I'm all right. How long are they performing tonight?”

“The usual. Until one forty-five. Why?”

“I should be home studying.” She glanced over the crowd, drumming her fingers on top of their small round table. More girls were coming to their table—ex-fans, cocktail waitresses, and groupies. As more chairs were added, the management appeared, warning them about fire department rules.

The lights dimmed, the crowd squealed then hushed, and
Grand Elbow
was off and running. As they played, the crowd hit near hysteria, stomping, standing and waving their arms, screaming at the top of their lungs. Shannon and Sonia looked at each other and laughed, calculating the number of groupies that would be hovering around their guys by the end of the night.

But seeing Mike on stage, she forgot everything except his fabulous looks, the way he moved, how, when he winked at her during the lead guitarist's solo riff, special she felt.

By one forty-five, she turned to her companion. “Shannon, you look exhausted.”

Mike was still busy up on stage talking to the guys, when a groupie climbed up there before anyone could stop her. Sashaying over to Mike, she managed to whisper something to him seconds before being extracted by force. He immediately turned to the guys who all nodded.

With Sonia again, he was at his sweetest, stroking her arm as she rose for them to return to her apartment. “Ah, Babe, the boys want to do an all nighter. We've got kinks to work through, but I'll be there sometime tomorrow. Why don't you and Shannon share a cab. Here's a Fifty. That should do it. Love ya!”

Back home, taking off her clothes carefully, she put on her nightie, brushed her teeth, tapping the bathroom sink numerous times, crawled into bed, and set her alarm for four a.m. sharp as Mike cupped the groupy's big chest with both hands, tongued her hard twice, and shoved her into a taxi.

Up in the attic, Lily watched as her mother laid out each piece from her own box. Practically spilling over its cardboard edges, it, too, included a bundle of letters—Sam's letters—posters, a Woodstock ticket, a copy of
Silent Spring
by Rachel Carson, an
Whole Earth Catalog
, one unidentified tablet zipped up in a snack bag marked
Millbrook
, a single key labeled
1B
, a photo of a very pretty blonde hippy girl with the words, Hey, Babe! Love, from Alicia, scrawled across the bottom, a pristine copy of Timothy Leary's
The Politics of Ecstasy
, a magazine with a psychedelic cover, called
EVO
, and their marriage license, dated 1969.