Absolution, p.16
Absolution, page 16
He seemed charmed by our little project—Charlene left it to me to explain it, which I did in a rush. And although at first he turned to me reluctantly (Charlene was the one he found attractive), as I spoke his expression changed. His dark eyes took me in, my face, my lips, then my hair. The name stenciled over the pocket of my green fatigue shirt. My hands in my lap. A slow-moving scrutiny that, strangely enough, soothed my nerves as I spoke, made me forget myself.
I confess I even, at one point, claimed that the project had, indeed, been my vision. Not my vision alone—I wasn’t that bold—but, I said, my vision initially.
I sensed this pleased him, somehow. I sensed—no, more than sensed, understood clearly, as if he had spoken, whispered the word—that he was thinking of me as a morsel. As in a tasty little morsel. The realization flattered me, suddenly. (Things were different then.) Maybe because I’d already felt the sting of his dismissal.
Something of those delightful first-married stirrings—feelings that had grown so complicated of late—moved through me. An entirely physical longing. The man’s mouth, I saw, was long and narrow, but his lips were plump. As I spoke, he touched them with the tip of his tongue. I thought of myself passing through them.
A saintly little morsel.
When I finished my spiel, he took his eyes from me and turned them to Charlene. I felt the loss of them. An irrational disappointment.
“The clothes maketh the man,” he said wryly.
For an insane instant, I saw her as a rival.
Charlene only narrowed her green eyes. There was, you might say, some antipathy in the air.
He shook it off—if he felt it at all—and stirred in his chair, slow and languid, stretching his spine, rolling back his head. A prelude to leaving us, I thought. The dish before him on the table was empty, only a few delicate fish bones in a little broth. I was pretty sure the food was all he’d come in for.
He raised his shoulders, scratched at his dirty neck with those under-curving fingernails, asked for a cigarette in a general way. “Has anyone got a cigarette?” Something like that. It was Wally who reached into his breast pocket, offered his pack and a match. Behind the first exhaled smoke, he turned once more to Charlene.
“And where are your own children while you do your good deeds?” he asked her. He only glanced at me, as if he knew with just that glance that I was childless. “I’m assuming you have them,” he said. “Children.”
For a moment I thought for certain that Charlene would deny it, so much so that I was a little surprised by how easily she said, “I do. Two in school. One at home.”
He held his cigarette close to his unshaven face, picked a piece of tobacco from his tongue. “Safe at home, then,” he said.
She said, “Yes,” although it was clear to me that he’d misunderstood her. Safe at home in Saigon is what she should have said. So I said it for her. Explained to him that Charlene was here with her husband, an oil engineer, and their three lovely children. Twins at the American Community School. A sweet baby.
“Safe,” Charlene told him, cutting me off. I had the sense that we were now vying for his attention. “If not precisely at home.”
He bowed his head as if to accept the correction.
And then he turned to Wally, began to ask him about his background and his training. I thought his interest in us had run dry. I glanced at Charlene. She was studying him with some thin anger playing about her mouth. As if he had recently insulted her.
When Wally told him pediatrics, the man asked if he’d had any experience with hydrocephalus back in the States. Wally said a reluctant no, like a student caught without the answer, and then our good doctor began to describe a baby he had just encountered at an orphanage in the hills.
Given the substance of what he said, his voice should have been a hushed whisper, but he shouted as he spoke. Perhaps he only wanted to be heard above the sound of the rain that still battered the roof.
He described a kid, only a year or so old, with a skull so heavy he could not lift it. A body as thin and helpless, he said, as a rag doll. Left on the orphanage steps as a newborn still streaked with vernix, maybe minutes old. No question, he said, the monstrous thing had killed the woman who gave birth to him, tore her apart—“You can just imagine.” Now it was moved around by the women who ran the place, by the other orphans themselves, like a limp package, a burlap bag of sawdust tied to a bowling ball.
Out of a shared bed in the morning, he said, onto the floor, onto a mat in the shade, to the canvas hammock for feeding, to the floor again, to the bed again. Eyes lively, sure, a word-like sound or two on occasion, and hands and legs that would kick or flail—even the other kids knew when it was trying to express happiness or distress—but that was about it. No lifting that monstrous burden of a misshapen skull. No sitting up. No future, really, although he discovered that the poor kid’s heart was strong, all vital signs strong enough to keep it alive indefinitely. Unless cholera killed him, or malaria, diphtheria, or the malnutrition that the people at the orphanage were barely managing to keep at bay.
The doctor said the only humane thing for him to do was to hold a gentle pillow over the poor monster’s little face until he stopped breathing—only a few minutes. Whatever muscles he had had mostly atrophied under the orphanage’s misguided care. Not much fight in the kid. A corrective measure, he said. What, after all, was the point of this thing still breathing?
Charlene said, “You did no such thing.”
The doctor reached inside his shirt to put his hand to his breast, or just to scratch at the streaked flesh over his heart. He smiled. His lips were very smooth. “Of course not,” he said. “But I was tempted.”
Wally stood abruptly—the only time I’d ever seen him be rude—the chair legs scraping against the stone. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said, “there’s work,” and as we all stood and thanked the Sisters for our repast, I lost whatever it was the dirty doctor then told Charlene. “A prayer for their safety” was what I made out, though I couldn’t be sure.
As we left, he offered to join Wally and Dom and the nuns in their afternoon ministrations. Sister said, in English, “Much appreciated,” with a dip of her head.
But no one could believe she meant it.
BY ABOUT THREE O’CLOCK, we had measured all the women there and most of the men, so when the sun showed itself again, I told Lily I wanted to walk down to the beach before we left, to put my feet in the South China Sea. Just so I could say I’d done so. I’m not sure she understood, but she smiled and nodded. She and her cousin were now sitting side by side on the made-up bed. There was enough shadow that I could comfortably look at them straight on. Lily was holding the freshly bandaged stump of the girl’s hand, stroking it like a beloved pet.
I followed the path. The place really was beautiful. Humid and buggy, sure, glinting puddles everywhere, but also so green and lush and, at that hour, so perfectly still, except for a movie musical soundtrack of birdcall and monkey screech. The small outdoor chapel was just off the path to the beach, a clearing with, at its far end, two rickety kneeling benches before a stone cross. Dominic was standing beside the cross, one hand on its base, looking out through the pines to the water. I didn’t want to disturb him—he seemed not so much to be praying (there was a kneeling bench for that) as resting companionably beside the crucifix, which was made of some kind of white, weather-beaten limestone, streaked with green and black, moss or mildew.
Streaks of dirt, anyway, that recalled to my mind the American visitor’s bare chest. I realized two things at once: For the past few hours, I had nearly forgotten him, his sudden arrival, his strange, unsettling presence. And now that I’d remembered, I wished I hadn’t.
Impulsively, I called out to Dom. He looked over his shoulder, smiled (of course), and waved a bit.
“Isn’t it something?” he asked, when I was beside him. He indicated the view through the trees: a curve of white beach, blue water, the sky.
I said I should have brought a camera, and he answered softly, “Next time.”
I think it was then that I truly looked at him—something I hadn’t heard before in his voice. I think it was then that I saw he was crying.
He shrugged, knowing I saw this. Apologized. Today it was all too much, he said. These poor people, the kids, especially. This was not his first trip here, but today, this afternoon, he said, it overtook him. All of it. He ran his hand over his eyes, apologized again. Said something about what a dope he must look like. Said, “Today, it’s got me in the dumps.”
I commiserated, of course. Terrible disease and the kindness of the nuns and—as if it were part of it all—this heat and humidity.
But my words only seemed to make his struggle more painful. I saw him swallow hard. His eyes, in the way of blonds, were already bloodshot, rimmed with bright red. His pale lashes darkened with tears.
He ran his wrist under his nose, like a toddler. Said, once more, that he was sorry. “Maybe it’s because I have a kid of my own now,” he said. “Maybe that’s what makes it unbearable.”
I said I could understand that.
He brushed his hand across the base of the mildewed cross, reminding me once again of the pale chest and belly, streaked with dirt. I wanted to offer that maybe it was the dirty doctor himself who had disturbed us all.
But somehow, I was reluctant to mention him.
Instead I asked Dom, brightly, if he wanted to walk down to the beach. Dip our toes.
He shook his head, put a brotherly hand on my arm. Told me it was not a great idea. “The VC probably have their eyes on us,” he said. “They’ll come in as soon as it gets dark, see what we’ve left for them. You know, in the way of medicine, supplies. They always do.” He smiled. “The Sisters aren’t on anybody’s side.”
I heard myself whisper a breathy “Really?”
Dom patted my arm, easily forgave my naiveté. He said the nuns will treat any sick or wounded Viet Cong soldiers who come into the compound. “What else are they going to do?” he asked. But they’ll also give shelter to boys from the nearby villages, take them in and pretend they’re lepers, in order to keep them from getting kidnapped when the VC make their raids.
“Keep them from getting drafted into Ho Chi Minh’s army,” he said.
The nuns took in healthy young boys, Dom explained, boys like our two teenage waiters at lunch, and let the VC believe they were lepers, shouldn’t be touched.
“These kids,” he added, “or probably their parents, think it’s better to take a chance hanging out here than getting carried off by the communists.” He laughed. “Puts a whole new spin on ‘better dead than red,’ right?”
And then a shaded regret in his blue eyes, as if he had disappointed himself with his joke. “State of the world,” he said. “What are you going to do?” He shrugged, said again, “The Sisters aren’t on anybody’s side.” Paused, smiled. “Or I guess they’re on everybody’s side—which is a hell of a lot more complicated.”
There was the stirring of a breeze, a brief shower shaken from the trees above us. I was, for the first time that day, terrified. For myself. “Are we safe?” I asked him.
At that moment, my sense of my own stupidity—what had I risked for this little adventure?—was only the small chrysalis of the rising, thumping thing it would become later that afternoon and in the days that followed. I was very naive.
I told Dom I suddenly felt like an idiot. Like I’d been picnicking in a minefield.
But he shook his head. “No, no, no,” he said, “You did good today, you ladies. Honest. It was biblical.”
And then he spoke in that jivey, drawling, ghetto hipster / Southern redneck / Elvis-meets-Sammy-Davis-Jr. accent all the young GIs seemed to adopt, no matter where they were from.
“I mean,” he added, “Jesus cured the lepers, but, come on, did he ever make them laugh?”
We’d returned to our familiar sibling routine.
“You ladies got the lepers laughing. I’m talking lepers here. Laughing. We all heard it. Laughing lepers. Man.” He shook his head. “There should be some kind of medal for that. From the Vatican. From Albert Schweitzer. It’s a frigging miracle.”
* * *
AS WE WALKED BACK TO THE COMPOUND, I asked him how much longer he had on his tour. Another seven months or so, as I recall. He would miss his daughter’s entire infancy.
I assured him as a former kindergarten teacher that he wasn’t missing much: children only became interesting when they learned to talk.
I suppose I was searching for some Charlene-like authority I didn’t feel, something to compensate for my silly Gidget Goes to the South China Sea beachcombing fantasies.
Or maybe it was some way to crack open and release my own clenched envy of the life that awaited him back home.
CHARLENE SAID, “HERE THEY ARE,” as we approached. And then, to Dr. Wally, “I told you they’d be off visiting the chapel. Flies to honey.”
Wally smiled, but I saw he was ready to leave. The footlocker had been closed and pushed up against the side of the building. Wally said we wouldn’t take it back. He’d pick it up on his next visit. He wanted to make room in the truck for the American doctor’s bicycle.
Lily and her cousin were arm in arm, and Lily was crying, elaborately wiping at her tears with the heel of her palm. For all the small good we’d done today, there were, nonetheless, plenty of tears.
I heard Charlene tell her, “You’ll be back,” even as she took Lily by the elbow and moved her to the truck, the cousin hanging on until Lily had no choice but to step up into it. Dom stood there, watching the two women, the saddest of footmen.
Her cousin held out her two damaged hands, just as she had done when we arrived, although now the bandages were fresh and white. I heard Dom tell her, “We’ll all be back very soon,” and then add a self-conscious “à bientôt.”
Charlene and I gave our thanks to the nuns and followed Lily into the hot and shaded truck bed. I slid in beside her on the hard bench, put my arm around her shoulder. “All will be well,” I whispered. She nodded but then covered her face with her hands.
I looked to Charlene, who shook her head. Twins should never be apart for so long was what she meant. Through the opening in the canvas, I saw Wally once again giving his ear to Sister A, and then—I swear I had, once again, almost forgotten him, despite the muddy black bike standing where the footlocker had been—our dirty American doctor, appearing out of the lush foliage, arising from a crouch, it seemed to me, and then sauntering toward us. He was pulling up his pants, tucking in his shirt.
Charlene said what I only thought: “He might have done his business a bit farther from the nuns.”
I heard Wally offer him the passenger seat, heard the man say he wouldn’t hear of it, and then he was in the truck with us—his big smoky-smelling self. He slid in next to Charlene, stretched his long legs out—he now wore a pair of run-down, laceless boots, which he placed right under the seat that Lily and I shared. As he did, I saw that his hairless ankles were littered with bug bites and scabs. He took up space with his smile. I was grateful to see that his shirt was buttoned now, at least to just below his breastbone.
Once again I was aware of some joy, or jauntiness, that had gone out of our group. Replaced now with a vague revulsion.
I turned to look out the back. Sister A had her arm around Lily’s weeping cousin. Behind them, a few of the girls with our Barbies in their hands. I watched them recede, along with the compound, the glimpse of the sea.
Beside me, Lily was silent, her head in her hands. I patted her now and again, her khaki thigh. I stroked her arm. At one point, Charlene leaned forward and spoke softly in rapid French, comforting, reasoning. Promising, from what I could follow, our swift return to the place. Lily nodded as she spoke, made an effort to smile—even laughed briefly, over something Charlene said that I couldn’t catch, except that it was about Marcia Case, Lily’s employer.
Knowing Charlene, I figured it was something accurately catty.
Up front, Dom and Wally were mostly silent. I recall the sound of the engine, the whiff of diesel exhaust, the heat rising in the damp air.
When I glanced again at the doctor, his head was back, his mouth slightly open, and one hand had fallen to his side, resting palm up on the seat beside him, the other covered his crotch. I took in the sprawl of his legs, his open thighs. It struck me that he was a wholly physical being. One of those men who lived by the dictates of his body. He had slept through the morning, eaten voraciously, leered at us females, defecated, and now he slept again.
And yet, I reminded myself—I suppose after our own day of good works, I was trying to be kind—that he’d said he was here on his own. That on his own he had been going from village to village on that black bicycle, doing what he could.
We rode along in silence. Lily and Charlene both had closed their eyes, and I pretended to do the same, although I was, in truth, studying him in his exhausted sleep.
He was unpleasant still—he took some ease from our own efforts to do good—but now I wondered if his distasteful aura arose out of something outrageously, uncomfortably noble. I wondered if he had somehow pared down his own complexity, even as he dismissed our own niceties. If he had shed all the polite restraints that dictated our lives in order to give himself fully to the very basic, physical, animal needs of those he encountered here. Those who suffered.
The true measure of what it took not to look away.
We hit a rough patch on the road then, were bounced around a bit, all of us suddenly holding on. The doctor and Lily both opened their eyes. I put one hand on the man’s stretched-out calf even as I grabbed Lily’s arm with the other. I feared I’d be pitched out the back. Charlene hit her head on a crossbar, cried out an indignant “ouch.”
Dom called, “Sorry, folks.”
Wally asked, “Everyone okay?”
The doctor, fully alert now, was looking—peering, I should say—across the narrow distance. Peering because the light had grown dim: another rain had caught up with us—somehow, in my memory, I associate the two things, the rough patch, the rain, as if one were a consequence of the other. Another heavy downpour, heavy on the canvas roof, loud enough to drown our voices.
