CHAPTER 28

If It Hadn't Been for the Dying…

The morning brought sunlight and cold showers in the wake of their power cut-off. It was a new day. And they were safe. Thoughts of Paisley were already pressed into the past.

A cup of coffee cooked on a Sterno can, which Gladys bought that morning at a nearby convenience store, was placed into Santo's hand. He was grateful for Melisa's attentiveness, but he realized he was growing weary of this scene.

He couldn't continue living off the land like this; he was beginning to lose his self-respect. He couldn't place his finger on the problem, but he knew he had to get away. He looked at Six-thirteen's surroundings: the mistreated furniture, the neglected house, the general abuse, the plain vandalism. He experienced a deeper loss of pride after identifying these conditions and decided he had to address this problem sometime in the near future. Because his future, or the lack of one, was at the core of his dissatisfaction.

It was late in the morning before he decided to shake himself loose from a sofa on the front porch. He found out Gladys and Melisa had gone shopping for more beer, wine, cigarettes, coffee, candles, and a Coleman cooking stove. Nat drove them.

Gladys was crazy for bouncing checks the way she did. It was only a matter of time before she ended up in jail.

He forced himself out of the house and into the sun and found himself wandering on campus before he regained full consciousness.

The day was beautiful. The trees were green. The faces of the students were bright. He liked the campus's fresh feeling, and he envied the students' sense of life, direction, and purpose…all the things, in fact, that he lacked in his own life. He reached deep within himself and touched his scar: the war, the pain, the faces of the dead. It would have been easy to blame Vietnam for everything: his emptiness, his shiftlessness, his confusion, his loneliness of not belonging and…and his guilt of surviving. He had killed and had been killed. He stood in this wake of death feeling dull and arid and uncreated. But he was unable to plunge into misery.

He observed himself from a place outside of himself as he walked. This experience finally startled him. He remembered when this first happened in Vietnam. And now, with the absence of combat-fear. He blinked his eyes and shook his head and did not force himself to understand.

Santo quickened his pace and wondered, what was he doing?

He had everything to be thankful for: he made it back from the war in one piece; he was back in his world almost as if he'd never left.

Almost. Yes. That was the word that kept him separated, that stood between him and his world. It was almost that kept the war alive within him…all the time…every day. And it made him feel like a stranger. He almost wanted to go back.

He missed its intensity. The men. The comradeship. The brotherhood. If it hadn't been for the dying…

He listened to the laughter of men at one moment and to their tears in the next. Then he wondered if he was going insane—his anxiety peaked: to cry, without a cry…tears.

The sound of country music in a passing car brought him back into the present and prevented him from stepping off the sidewalk into a busy street. The blare of a horn shattered his silent turmoil and intensified his alienation. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, man, are you alright?”

The concerned expression in Julian's large, primitive-looking features could have been sculpted by Picasso.

“I think so.”

Another voice came from his left and disoriented him, again.

“Are you sure?”

“Kerry.”

He placed a supportive arm around Santo. “We were in the neighborhood, honey.”

“Were you guys following me?”

“Now why would we do a thing like that to a friend…and a manic-depressive.”

“Hey, man, watch what you say.”

“He might be right, Julian.”

“Bullshit, man. It's the war. I travel the same road myself, remember?”

“Oh…yeah,” Santo distantly acknowledged.

“Don't Jet him fall, Kerry!”

“I've got him!”

“I'm alright.”

Julian was supporting him as well. “Sure you are.”

“Julian?”

“Yeah?”

“How long has it been for you?”

“I've been back a year…plus a lifetime.”

“Does it ever go away?”

“I don't know, my man. It does get better. But I don't think, no, never…never away.”

“I'll take better.”

“Don't worry, you'll get it…in time…I hope. Hell, I don't know. Look at me. I haven't got much better. What do I know? You got any money?”

“A little.”

“How about a beer?”

“Where?”

“There's a little bar next to the Co-op Bookstore,” Kerry said.

“That's too close to the Nextime, man.”

“No, it isn't,” Kerry insisted. “They're half a street away from each other, and they have a completely different kind of clientele.”

“It better not be a gay bar.”

“They're worlds apart, that's all.”

“What do you think, Rick?” Julian asked.

“What the hell. Let's go.”

“Alright. I ain't worried if you're not.”

They had three quick beers apiece. And when they left the bar, they were assaulted by a painfully bright sun. It forced them to take a detour into the Co-op Bookstore.

The wooden floors creaked under the weight of their footsteps as they invaded the two rooms of shelved new and used books and magazine racks full of leftist underground periodicals. A hairy-headed guy, absorbed in a book, sat behind the counter. He looked up, smiled, and didn't ask if they needed any help.

Julian wanted to leave. But Santo liked the musty smell of the place and, most of all, its quiet serenity. They stayed.

Kerry remained with the periodicals, leafing through gay activist literature; Julian discovered, to his satisfaction, a section on black history and literature; and Santo wandered into the next room, where he discovered philosophy and drama.

Santo was unfamiliar with most of the authors on the shelves. But he was fascinated by them. He recognized important names and felt their mystery: Gogol, Singer, Forster, Rand, Kafka, Shakespeare, Bashô, Sartre, Hilton, Woolrich, Doyle, Brontë, Horace, Gibbon, Kazantzakis, Paine, Marx, Aristotle, Plato, Saint Augustine, Stanislavski, O'Neill, Ibsen, Williams, Chekhov, Hesse, Hemingway…names, names he only heard of…names that were familiar…and kindly reminded him of his ignorance. There was so much to do in this life. He'd seen nothing, yet. He knew nothing!

That was no way to die…or live.

He suddenly felt intimidated by the height of the books surrounding him and lost his equilibrium. He stumbled backwards and almost fell. But he regained his balance with an intricate maneuver, dropping the paperback book he had in his hand. It hit the floor flat and unharmed: A Moon for the Misbegotten.

He picked up the book and reshelved it. He felt despair and didn't know why. Then he raised his head and looked into the tormented blue eyes of a red-bearded face. It was a glossy print of Vincent Van Gogh…a self-portrait. And as he stood before him, he could see the genius of his work and the intensity of his universe. He was shouting at the world with his colors and didn't understand why people couldn't see. But Santo saw. He could see!

He was startled away from his reverie.

“Hey, man, what's up?”

He responded to Julian's restlessness by walking out of the bookstore into the blinding sun, feeling a bit mad.

They followed him across Tennessee Street and engaged themselves in the spirit of his purposelessness while they accompanied him into the older side of the campus. It was a disjointed segment of his psyche that carried them through an undetermined period of time, which came to a conclusion when Santo realized they were sitting in the last row of a darkened theatre. He couldn't remember how they got there.

The actors on stage stood under harsh working lights. And their distant voices projected intense emotion. Then an authoritative voice from the fifth row of the house interrupted them. The figure stood up.

The actors responded so positively to the man's directions that Santo became captivated by their trust…by their concentration…by their make-believe world. He slid into a lower, more comfortable, position and listened to the director.

“Take it from the top. ‘Why are you always in black?’”

They ran through the scene again.

“Good…but, Masha, I want you to skip around the bench when you enter this time.”

She looked confused. “Skip? But…”

“Do it,” the director said. Then he decided to clarify some of her doubts. “Look, Masha, it's not that great a play. It's a play. That's all. You walk and you talk. Just say the words. Forget about all the things you've read and heard.”

“But…this is Chekhov,” she said meekly.

The director climbed onto the stage. “And he's dead. Let's not kill the poor bastard again with monotony.” He threw up his hands. “Look…people…what do you think I've been trying to do with you? I don't want you the same! You're flesh and blood! That means you don't agree on the same concepts. Maybe she wears black because she's not intelligent enough to do anything else. It doesn't matter! Let me worry about the through-line of the show. All you've got to do is be…and become people with all their variations. You don't have to agree with each other's motives. My God, you don't even have to agree on the play's theme. And don't ask me what it is because I'm not going to tell you. Just let me worry about the unity and the rhythm of this production. You…you worry about yourselves. Stop agreeing! The only time you should be listening to each other is when you're on stage. Stop intellectualizing. Again! ‘Why are you always in black?’”

The director jumped off the stage into the darkness.

The scene started and stopped several more times with the director growing more satisfied. It amazed Santo how calmly the man shouted, making the actors feel as if it was for their own good. He had a talent for clarifying and orchestrating and inspiring confident performances on stage.

“This must be a theatre practice,” Julian whispered.

“It's a rehearsal,” Kerry said.

The director stood up and spoke vehemently at the actors on stage.

“Medvedenko, if you don't stop acting I'm going to turn the house lights back on! Masha, shorten the word ‘performance.’ It's not necessary to pour everything you believe in about the play into one word. Besides, it's impossible to do. You can't assume the audience knows anything. If they don't see it, it doesn't exist. Understand? ‘It won't be long before the performance.’ That's all there is to say. Let the playwright do the work. Again. Places.”

The characters started again.

Santo was fascinated by the director's attention to emotional detail: each one specific to the needs of the actor and the moment. It seemed as if it didn't matter what the actors thought or how they worked to get there. But the effect…the transformation into life was astounding.

“Good, Masha. Medvedenko, late on, ‘I don't want any.’ And pause for only one beat following him, Masha. ‘I don't want any.” Beat. ‘It's stifling.’ Good. Both of you. Do you understand where we're going? Good. From the top. And I won't interrupt you this time. Good. When you're ready.”

The director's energy was electric. He lit a cigarette, pleased by the progress.

When you're ready, Santo echoed internally, as he began to feel the familiar tension of an ambush firing lane. Ready on the right, he heard. Ready on the left.

Santo sank lower into his chair as he broke into a cold sweat and his peripheral vision suddenly narrowed. The darkened distance from the last row of the theatre to the lighted stage became equal to the distance from the firing line to the kill zone.

He saw the actors on stage, then he heard a branch breaking in the bush; he saw human shadows, then he heard explosions and the cry of men. No separation.

Santo strained against his chair as his past merged with the present. What was happening to him? What—

“Hey, man, are you alright?” Julian asked.

Kerry placed the palm of his hand against Santo's chest. “He's shivering. Damn, is he having a flashback?”

“Hell, I…I don't know.” Julian nudged Santo with his elbow. “Hey, man, that play-acting up there looks too much like work.”

Santo brushed Kerry's hand from his chest, then caressed himself by crossing his right arm over his left.

Julian broke into Santo's attentive shell with another disrupting whisper.

“Hey, man, what's up?”

Disappointed, Santo knew it was time to leave. But not without realizing that he just experienced something special, something alien to most of the world. He didn't attempt to label the experience. They eased out of the theatre into the lobby.

“What is this place?” Santo asked.

“It's the Conradi Theatre,” Kerry said. “It's a neat little place, isn't it?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, let's go down to the student union and see what's going on,” Julian said restlessly.

But they went back to Six-thirteen, instead, and found Melisa cooking in the kitchen on a Coleman stove. She was stirring something in a pot.

“Where's Nat and Gladys?” Julian asked.

“Asleep,” she said, indicating Gladys's and Paisley's old room with her eyes. Then she misinterpreted Santo's expression. “A girl's got to make a living.”

“Go, Nat-man,” Julian said. He nudged Santo. “Life waits for nobody, right?”

Kerry stuck his inquisitive nose near the edge of the pot. “What have you got in here, dearie?”

She directed her answer to Santo. “Just an old-fashioned stew.”

“It smells good,” Santo said.

“It sure does,” Kerry said.

“It's an easy one-pot dish to cook.”

“Very nice,” Kerry said supportively. “And very domestic, don't you think, Richard?”

Santo understood Melisa's motive. But he was unsure about Kerry's. Was he being sincere, or did he detect a hint of maliciousness in Kerry's voice?

Maybe Kerry was trying to push their relationship into a confrontation. But then what? Kerry couldn't be seriously hoping to develop a relationship with him.

“Yeah. Very domestic,” Santo said.

Julian went to the refrigerator before realizing that it was no longer running. But his shattered hope for a cold beer was salvaged when he discovered a Styrofoam ice chest full of beer on the floor beside it. Julian opened two cans and handed him one.

Santo left the kitchen by going through the rear door into Six-thirteen's back yard for the first time. It was a scruffy area full of ruts and weeds and barren spots, reflecting considerable neglect. The droppings from the yard's only tree littered the area with leaves and twigs and bark, all in various stages of decay.

The sun was distressfully bright and intensified his discomfort with himself. He brought the can of beer to his lips and drank it to the bottom, hoping for a momentary rush of well-being; there wasn't any.

“There's no use beating yourself to death,” Julian said. Then he laughed. “Women.”

“I don't want to talk, Julian.”

“Then listen. Because I've got to talk. I've had to talk since I've been back. But all I've done is…is scream into the night with my dreams. That's why I try to stay high all the time, I guess.”

“Does it work?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I didn't do anything wrong in the war, Julian. I've killed…and I've been killed. But I didn't murder anybody over there. I didn't do anything I couldn't live with when I got back.”

“Maybe that's my problem.” Julian finished the rest of his beer. “I forgot I was coming home. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah. If you say so.”

“I do.” He brought the can of beer to his mouth, forgetting he'd finished it. Irritably, he tossed the can into the yard. “It was so hard to remember what it was like back in the world…the world. Here we are…and look at it.” Julian peered into the sky in an effort to sanctify himself. “I did terrible things over there, man. I forgot I was a good person. I was scared and mad, and I did terrible things because I forgot.” It appeared as if he was reenacting something. “Then I lived. How was I supposed to know I was going to live? I…cut off ears. I…counted teeth and confirmed kills. I…saw so many friends die that it made me kill in anger. I even wielded revenge against the innocent. What am I going to do, Rick?”

“I don't know, man. I really don't know.” A brief moment passed between them. “Do you think there's a right and a wrong?”

Julian nodded. “Yeah. Like black and white.”

“Then…forgive yourself.”

“I'm trying man. I'm trying.” Then he took a newspaper from under his arm and unfolded it in an attempt to change the painful subject. “They're calling Paisley's death a gangland murder.”

Santo looked at the paper without reading it. “Then I guess we're off the hook.”

“I guess.”

“There's good and bad in everything. Don't try to figure it out, man.”

“I'm not. I can't.”

“Paisley's dead, and life is short, and…the war is over for you and me.”

Santo didn't know if he really believed in what he just said about the war. But he repeated it to himself anyway.

He'd seen the dead. He'd been dead. He'd eaten his last meal and smoked his last cigarette prepared to be dead.

He looked into the bright sky and felt the mortality of it all. But he also felt the need to make his life count even if nothing mattered anyway…anyway…anyway…