Garden of Lies (43 page)

his thumb and index finger. He felt so exposed to her, naked not only on the outside, but on the

inside too.
One step at a time,
he thought.
Man, I can’t handle any more than that right now.

“Even if I did write it, who would want to read it? The public wants to crucify Lieutenant

Galley for My Lai. They don’t understand how such a thing could have happened. You ask the

man on the street what he thinks is the worst thing that could happen to him, and he’ll say ‘death’

nine times out of ten. But that’s not what he’s really most afraid of. I think what we’re most

afraid of is ourselves, what we might do if we’re pushed hard enough. Guys like Galley make us

nervous because we wonder if deep down in us too there isn’t a part capable of wasting a whole

village.”

She looked at him a long time before speaking. Finally she said, “You’re right, of course. But

if we don’t make ourselves look at it, what hope do we have of ever preventing it from happening

again?” She leaned forward, gripping his hand between both of hers. She had touched him many

times, in many places, but always with the cool efficient hands of a doctor. Now he knew that she

was touching him in a different way, and it sent a shock through him like a high voltage current.

“Write your book, Brian. It’s all here. Don’t even worry yet about who will read it. Just write it.”

Brian, gazing into her hot blue eyes, felt as if he’d been snatched off his feet by an undertow,

breathless, knocked out by her passion, her overpowering will. He nodded slowly. “Maybe I will.

Just maybe I will.”

Two weeks later, Brian lay in bed, needing to pee, and wondering if it was possible to die from

stir-craziness. He grabbed the iron rails on either side of his bed and hauled himself up into a

sitting position. He felt so weak, and even this simple effort brought pain like sharp blows from a

hammer. But he’d be goddamned if he was going to lie here helpless as a newborn baby any

longer. He’d piss like a man this time, standing up on his own two feet, even if it meant popping

the stitches holding in his gut.

[254] “Crutches.” He hissed the word through clenched teeth.

“This is against your doctor’s advice, I want you to know.”

Rachel stood over him, arms crossed in front of her chest. She was wearing green scrubs, and

sandals, her hair plaited in a single loose cable all flayed with sprung wisps. Her cheeks were

flushed, eyes glittering with a mixture of apprehension and anger.

Christ, he wasn’t as bad off as all that, was he? He still had legs, even if after nearly a month

on his back he quite naturally felt a little weak. He forced his legs out from under the sheet.

Dismay filled him as he stared down at them, drooping over the edge of the mattress like an old

lady’s stockings hung out to dry. Skin so pale it looked dead, shocking against the lightning

slashes of scar tissue zigzagging up his thighs.

Jesus, I couldn’t support a package of marshmallows on these.

But he had to at least
try,
didn’t he?

“To hell with medical advice,” he told her. “If I fall, you can pick me up. But I’ll be damned if

I’m going to have you wiping my tail like a two-year-old’s anymore.”

Rachel handed him the crutches with stiff arms, her face hard. “Well, if that’s all you’re

worried about, I’ve seen more bare behinds than a men’s locker-room attendant, and there’s

nothing special about yours, believe me.”

Dawson, in the next bed, lifted his black hulk onto one elbow, and rolled the one eye that

wasn’t covered in thick gauze bandages. “You wanna see sumpin’
real
special, you come check

out what I got in my skivvies, Doc.”

“Thanks, Sergeant. I’ll keep that in mind.” She caught Brian’s gaze, and held it, hard and level

as if she were looking down the barrel of an M-16. “But you guys would be better off if you did

your thinking with what’s between your ears, not between your legs.”

Dawson cackled with laughter, but Brian remained grim with determination.

“Gotta get out of this bed sometime, might as well be now.”

He dragged himself to his feet, and immediately regretted his bravado. His legs buckled and

shook. The latrine out back suddenly seemed as far off as Hong Kong.

He swung the crutches out, took two shuffling steps, and paused to rest.

[255] From the neck down, he was on fire, flames dancing up his middle, licking up under his

collarbone. Weak, too, so damned weak. And what he saw, catching a glimpse of himself in the

glass door of the med cabinet, didn’t inspire much confidence, either.
Oh Jesus, is that really me?

The watery reflection of a hollow-eyed skeleton looked back at him, reminding him of those

pictures he’d seen of concentration camp survivors in World War II histories.

A string was all that seemed to be holding him up now, a thread of determination that stretched

from his mind to his limbs. And by the time he’d scuffled halfway across the ward, it felt

stretched to the breaking point. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. He felt like an

overcooked fish you could just pluck the spine right out of.

The other men—Deke, Henson, Bucholtz, Pardo—were watching him as expectantly as if he

were Whitey Ford at the top of his stretch with the bases loaded. Except for Boston over there—

that wasn’t his name, just where he was from, but everyone called him that—he’d turned so he

was facing the wall. Poor kid, both legs amputated at the knee. He would never walk anywhere.

I’m, one of the lucky ones,
Brian thought.

But at this moment he did not feel lucky. He wanted to lie down, badly. The floor would do

just fine. He was so tired he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep.

Only the image of himself lying in a puddle of piss kept him going.

Brian took four more scuffling steps, the wooden armrests of the crutches cutting excruciating

grooves in the flesh under his arms. Then he glanced over his shoulder, and saw that Rachel

hadn’t moved. She was still standing where he’d left her, about a dozen yards behind, glowering

at him.

“Don’t look at me with those big cow eyes,” she said angrily. “You’re so hell-bent on showing

me what a man you are, you go and make it the rest of the way on your own.”

“I wasn’t asking any favors,” he said, a little spurt of anger fueling him, pushing him a few

more yards.

“They have a rule here; once you’re ambulatory, they ship you out on the next plane to

Okinawa. I hear they have air conditioning.

And flush toilets.” There was a strange tightness in her voice.

[256] “I can hardly wait.” He felt new muscles—muscles he hadn’t used so long he’d forgotten

they were there—spring to life.

To hell with Rachel, what did
she
care where he went? There were hundreds more where he’d

come from. What was he to her, anyway, except a name and number on a dog tag? She’d saved

his life, sure, but that’s what doctors are supposed to do.

After he’d dragged his dead weight along a dim tiled corridor for what felt like an eternity, a

nurse pointed the way to a doorway that led out back to the latrines.

Outside, he squinched his eyes against the fierce sunlight slanting over the tops of distant trees.

Filtered through the red spots that danced behind his half-closed eyelids, he saw a muddy path

cutting across the barren, wire-fenced compound to a row of four whitewashed wooden cubicles

with corrugated tin roofs. On one of them was tacked a crudely hand-painted sign that read: IF

YOU CAN MAKE IT TO THE HEAD, YOU AIN’T DEAD.

Brian began to laugh helplessly. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he trembled on the verge

of collapse. How true, he thought. If you could pee on your own two feet you were man enough

to take control of your own destiny. And that’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? Taking control.

Establishing some order in an existence that lately seemed to have spun out of orbit.

Every additional day he stayed on here he felt a little more of his old life slip away. Memories

of home had faded like old photographs tucked away in a bottom drawer. Worse, his loyalties had

become tangled, uncertain. Each day brought him closer to Rachel, and pushed him another step

from Rose.

I’m a fool,
Brian thought.
Mistaking gratitude for
—

What? Love?

No. That was ridiculous. Rachel had befriended him, that was all. He had no business turning it

into something more.

The need to pee was suddenly so fierce it blotted out everything else.

Brian heard a noise behind him. He swiveled jerkily on his crutches, nearly losing his balance.

Rachel had followed him. She stopped a few steps behind him on the path, watching him as

anxiously as a mother might watch a baby just learning to walk, but not moving forward to help.

She [257] looked much smaller now that he too was up on his feet, and so young, with her hair

braided like that, like a schoolgirl. He imagined slipping off the rubber band at the end, slowly

unwinding the thick plaits, and fanning them loose, burying his face in all that silky-clean, lemon-

smelling hair.

Damn
her for making him need her so.

“I don’t need a doctor for this,” he told her stiffly. “Last time I looked all my plumbing was in

working order.”

“I know that. I just wanted to say ...” Rachel stopped, and he heard something click in her

throat as she swallowed. Her eyes were suddenly very bright. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have

snapped at you like that.”

“Can this wait?” he said, almost pleading. “I really have to—”

He stopped, horror washing through him as he realized he wasn’t going to make it. He felt

something let go inside him, and a sudden rush of warm, stinging wetness spreading across the

front of his thin cotton pajamas.

And suddenly it was all ... just ... just too damned much. ...

“Oh Jesus,” he moaned, and began to cry with dry, hacking sobs.

Arms enfolded him, slim and strong as cables, bracing him.
Oh yes,
he thought, sinking into

her softness,
oh yes.
He rested his head against her shoulder, and let the tears come.

Then, with the hot smell of urine rising up at him, came the shame.

Christ, what am I
doing?
A fucking two-year-old has more control. Standing here in my own

piss crying on her shoulder.

He tried to jerk away, but those strong arms only wrapped about him tighter. He felt her hair,

warm with the sun, and soft, so soft, against his neck. The lemony scent of her drifting about him.

“You idiot,” she said, her voice choked with emotion, “do you think I care about
that?
I

watched you ... and I hated you ... for being so brave. I didn’t want you to go, dammit.”

Brian was so stunned he couldn’t think what to say except “Why?”

“I love you,” she said simply. “And now you’re leaving.”

He felt dizzy, his head swimming, as if he’d been out in the sun too long. She was saying

something important, he felt, yet her [258] words scattered and floated away, and he was left only

with this terrible empty feeling. He thought,
Oh Jesus, how can I leave her?

But he couldn’t find the words he wanted to say.

“I stink,” he said.

“You do. But I’ve smelled a lot worse.” She gave a shaky laugh. “Come on, let’s get you

cleaned up and into some dry things.”

She stood back a little, and gave him her arm so he wouldn’t need the crutches. She supported

him easily, this whip of a woman, whose strength and tenderness would never stop surprising

him.

And in that instant, he knew what he been running from.

I
love her.

It was all at once so simple ... yet so impossible. He was leaving. Going home to see what

pieces there were to be picked up with Rose. That was what he wanted. He’d wanted it so much

and for so long, it was like a litany, a prayer whose words you keep repeating long after you’ve

forgotten their meaning.

But it was Rachel he ached for now. A need deeper than mere wanting. He needed her as much

somehow as he needed to breathe and sleep and eat.

But what could he promise her? How could he take her and not betray Rose? And Rose a part

of him too, even deeper in a way, like the marrow of his bones.

Brian, clinging to Rachel as they slowly made their way across the yard, thought how ironic it

was that of all the things he had suffered, loving her should hurt the most of all.

Two nights later she came to him.

He could see her shadowy outline pull away from the doorway, and then she was moving

toward him along the latticed corridor of moonlight between the rows of beds filled with men.

Men asleep and dreaming—he hoped to God—of better places than this.

She was wearing her hair loose, and it caught the moonlight, a spill of such brightness his heart

snagged in his throat at the sight of it.

Then her hand, cool against his cheek, and that summery scent wrapping around him like an

embrace.

“Tomorrow,” he said, pulling himself up.

[259] “I know. I came to say goodbye.”

She was so close, sitting beside him in the half-darkness, he could feel her breath on him, warm

and sweet as her smell. And suddenly he wanted so badly to take her in his arms. Just once ... to

be able to comfort her ... because, oh Jesus, he knew if he didn’t he would lie here all night—and