Sixty percent of all the people who have ever lived are alive today,” the senator says, reading from the prepared testimony I’ve submitted to the committee. “Furthermore, as a result of highly improved medical care, diet, exercise habits, and health consciousness, and despite the impact of plagues, famines, wars, sex education, and modern methods of birth control, this number continues to rise steadily.” He pauses, removes his glasses, and looks at me, soliciting a comment.
I stare at him blankly. I heard the words but have no idea what he said. The hearing room is neither hot nor stuffy; and as an expert witness, I’ve no reason to be distracted or unprepared; but between me and the dais stands an impenetrable wall of names carved in black granite. I can’t get the incident at the Memorial out of my mind.
“This statistic,” the senator prompts with the slightest hint of a drawl, “What does it have to do with social security legislation?”
“Well sir,” I say, collecting my thoughts, “when it comes to probability analysis, past performance counts. It might be helpful to keep in mind that it’s a lot like parimutual handicapping.”
A ripple of laughter comes from the dais and gallery. The senator’s family has been breeding and racing thoroughbreds for generations—a fact I noted in the packet of background profiles the committee routinely supplies to witnesses.
The senator’s eyes flare with indignation. He holds up a document that could pass for a phone book and challenges, “Mr. Morgan, am I to understand you’re comparing this bill to a racing form?”
“To be brutally honest, Senator, I use the same computer program to analyze both.”
He tries to hold back, but can’t and laughs along with the others. “Picked a few winners in your day, have you?” he prompts knowingly.
“A few. Let me put it this way, Senator. Figuring the odds and beating them are what makes actuaries tick. It’s in our genes. Keeping that in mind,” I continue, deciding to make the most of the moment, “the success of this legislation depends on how accurately we can predict human longevity. I think some of this data is way off the mark.” In the ensuing exchanges I make a convincing argument that it needs to be revised.
“The committee thanks you for your time, Mr. Morgan,” the senator says when I finish. “I assure you, your comments will be taken under advisement.”
Taken under advisement? Isn’t that what I say when my staff is pushing an idea I know is going nowhere? It’s frustrating and distracting, and takes my mind off the Memorial for a while, but during the ride back to the hotel and all through dinner I keep drifting back to it.
“Come on,” Nancy counsels, “there was probably more than one Cal Morgan who died in Vietnam.”
“Not humping in my platoon. Those were my guys on there. The ones that went down in Thateng.”
“Anything’s possible,” she says, her eyes taking on a mischievous glint that always means I’m about to be unmercifully zinged. “Hey, any actuary worth his salt knows the odds are about one in sixty thousand.”
I smile, but that initial A. keeps nagging me. “Arlo? Archibald? Adlai?” Nancy teased when we were dating in high school. She finally hit on Angus, which I sheepishly admitted was the name of a great-grandfather in Scotland. We’ve been playing this word game ever since: A is for agreeable, abrasive, astonishing, alluring, angry.
We’re back in our hotel room propped up in bed. Nancy has one eye on an old movie on television, the other on the term papers she’s correcting. I’m doing some homework on my laptop.
The Compaq LTE is my favorite electronic toy: 386 processor running at 20 megahertz, 18 millisecond access time, 60 megabyte hard drive, VGA gas plasma screen, NiCad battery, internal modem, 8 pounds, about the size of a package of typing paper. It can handle spreadsheets, word processing, statistical analysis, a bridge program capable of match-level play, and can do some serious number crunching.
I’m running a longevity simulation when something occurs to me. “A is for absurd,” I say, thinking aloud. “The name on the wall can’t be mine.”
“Why not?”
“Well, if it is, it means I was recorded as killed in action.”
“I guess,” she says, wondering where I’m headed.
“Wouldn’t my parents have been notified?”
“Uh-huh, but they weren’t.”
I nod, then, after thinking about it for a moment, I hear myself saying, “Maybe they were.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Suppose I was listed as KIA, and they were so relieved when they found out it was a mistake, they never said anything? You know those old ‘Southies’ and their superstitions.” I reach to the nightstand and lift the phone.
“You’re going to call them?”
“Why not? I mean, if they were notified, it’d put an end to all this, wouldn’t it?”
Nancy nods, and I start dialing.
“Dad, it’s Cal.” I hear the television in the background and picture him in the living room of his house in South Boston engrossed in a basketball game.
“Hi. You did pretty well today. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. How do you know?”
“C-Span. I’d like to tell that committee a thing or two.”
“Instead of complaining, why don’t you—”
“Write my congressman? I did. You really think they pay attention to old farts like me who—”
“Dad? Dad, I have a question for you.”
.”Oh, sure. Sorry.”
“I know this is going to sound weird, but when I was in Vietnam, were you and Mom ever notified that I was killed in action?”
“Killed?” he says after a long pause. “No. God forbid.”
“You’re sure. The Army didn’t make a mistake or anything?”
“Positive. That’s not the sort of thing a parent would forget.”
“I guess not.”
“We were notified that you’d been wounded. That was more than enough to handle, believe me. What’s this all about, anyway?”
“Nothing important, really.” His voice has taken on an emotional timbre and I realize being forced to relive those moments has unsettled him. “By the way, you see that game Bird played yesterday?” I ask, purposely changing the subject. Dad gets right into it, and we spend the next ten minutes arguing the chances of the Celtics winning the playoffs.
“Sounds like he got upset,” Nancy prompts when I hang up.
“A little. He’ll be all right.”
“What about you?”
“Number one, babe,” I say. It’s military slang for the best, terrific. Guys who went home alive were number one, and it became a little thing between us after my return from Vietnam.
Nancy smiles knowingly, realizing that what’s really bothering me about my name being on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial is not being listed as dead, but that being listed is an honor I, fortunately, haven’t earned.
“Cal,” she says thoughtfully, adjusting her position in the bed to face me. “I think we should find out one way or the other, don’t you?”
I let out a long breath at the thought of having to deal with the bureaucracy and nod. I go back to the laptop, exit the simulation, and pull up my schedule. “Jammed solid. I’ve got meetings all day tomorrow.”
“I don’t.”
“What about Georgetown? I thought you were taking a tour?”
Nancy shrugs. “Maybe I’ll have time to do both. If not, it’ll still be here next time.”
“Thanks,” I reply softly, pleased she’s taking it on. Over the years, I’ve realized that whoever said “If you need something done fast, ask a busy person to do it” had Nancy in mind. She’s the most meticulously prepared and tenacious advocate, or adversary, as school boards, politicians, and charities in our community well know.
“Feeling better?” she prompts, hearing the relief in my voice.
“Sure am, babe.” I roll over onto my stomach and begin nuzzling her. “Where you going to start?”
“With your serial number.”
“Good idea,” I say, slipping my fingers beneath her nightgown. “Somebody’s got to have a list of them.”
“You remember it?” she asks, pinning my hand against the smooth flesh of her abdomen so it can move neither up nor down.
“One one six three zero one seven four three,” I recite, without missing a beat.
“Not bad.” She releases her grip on my hand in reward. “It’s either the same serial number as the name on the wall or it isn’t.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And if it is?”
“Who cares?” I whisper with the false bravado that so often accompanies these moments.