Chapter Two
Kristin’s knees threatened to give way. The man holding the gun towered over her and pinned her with an accusatory glare. Shockwaves rocketed through her and forced air from her lungs as she stared up at him. Was this actually happening? Her first day in Vietnam and she was being held at gunpoint by some…some half-dressed thug!
“Who are you? What are you doing in here?” His upper lip curled as he snarled the words. He stood near the table, dressed only in khaki pants, a towel slung around his neck. His wet hair reached the nape of his neck. Kristin noticed a large bruise on the right side of his jaw.
Who am I? Who the jack are you? She opened her mouth but no words came. Screaming didn’t seem possible either. Fear throttled her. “I’m…Kristin Taylor. I’m a journalist, from Boston. I—I’ve been invited.”
“Invited by whom?” He narrowed his eyes and his scowl deepened, two vertical grooves forming between blond brows. He didn’t lower the gun.
Before she could answer, a young black man in Army uniform struggled off the couch behind them. He gave a yelp, his dark eyes widening.
“Luke! Take it easy, man!” He held up a hand, but remained a safe distance away. Whoever Luke was, he obviously had no intention of ‘taking it easy’, and G.I. Joe over there wasn’t about to help. Kristin veered her gaze back to the small pistol still pointed at her. Her heart hammered against her chest. She fought for air and calm. Okay, Dad, what would you do right about now?
Her assailant ignored the other man, his gaze fixed on her and her alone. “I asked you a question. Who told you to come here?”
“Caroline…” Kristin fished out the scrunched up piece of paper from the pocket of her jeans and frantically tried to make sense of the chicken scratch. Her hands shook so badly it was almost impossible to hold the paper steady. “…Maddox. She works for UPI. We met on the plane. She said she needed a flat mate. Told me she’d meet me here…I swear I’m telling the truth.”
The man stared like she’d spoken in Swahili, visibly paled, then let out his breath in a loud rush of air. He set the gun down on the table and swore. Twice. Kristin’s pulse slowed, warm relief rushing through her. So she wasn’t going to die today. But she kept her eyes trained on him, just in case.
He raked his fingers through his wet hair, turned back to her and shook his head, an incredulous look still marring his features. “You’re in the wrong apartment. My sister’s place is next door. First on the left.”
“What?” Horror tightened its grip again. Panic rose and threatened to make her faint anyway. She’d been sleeping in the wrong apartment? And this…this…Hairy Neanderthal was her new flat mate’s brother?
Oh, without a doubt, this was the worst day of her life.
G.I. Joe began to chuckle as he ventured closer. Not too close buddy, or I might just clock you one for not helping me. She’d put him at about twenty, if that. A little stocky, but it suited him.
“You okay, ma’am?” He spoke in a deep Southern accent, and she appreciated the concern in his eyes. Kristin managed a smile and nodded. She was still breathing, and she wasn’t dead.
“You gotta take a sharp turn at the top of the stairs. The door is easy to miss, ‘specially with no light out there.” The young man’s dark green fatigues displayed the yellow and green Private First Class insignia on his shoulders. So he was military. She hoped the jerk that almost killed her wasn’t.
She remembered the camera equipment and film in the bedroom, and her eyes took in the photographs covering the table. Maybe he was a journalist of some sort, a photographer. Or, given what he’d just put her through, an escapee from the nearest mental institution.
The jerk in question watched her, unflinching as her eyes raked over him.
“Who did you say you were again?” His scrutinizing gaze whipped across her face, his mouth set in a frown she suspected to be permanent. His accent matched his sister’s.
Blood rushed back to her brain and fury followed. “You just pulled a gun on me. You first.”
He stepped back, the barest grin lifting the corners of his mouth for an instant. “Luke Maddox. I…um…thought you were an intruder.”
“Obviously.” Kristin’s hands began to tremble. She’d almost been shot. Nausea rose in her throat. She bent over, palms spread just above her knees. Her head swam and bright sparks flashed in front of her eyes.
God, please don’t let me faint in front of him… She made a mental note to write her mother and inform her she’d remembered how to pray.
“Hey, you okay?” He put an arm out to steady her as she swayed.
Kristin inhaled, straightened, and breathed out. The moment passed and she pulled her arm out of his grip. She stumbled over to one of the teak chairs near the window and dropped into it. The room spun again. The private dashed to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water for her. She eyed it with suspicion.
“I got it from the fridge. It’s fine. I think.”
She caught the wary glance he sent Luke’s way, but took the glass. “Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Private First Class Jonathan Hicks, ma’am. But you can call me Jonno.” His grin was a wide display of white teeth against his dark skin. She figured he was barely out of high school.
Kristin took a sip of the cold water, tension still gripping her shoulders. “Thanks, Jonno. And you don’t have to call me ma’am.”
“Is this your stuff?” Luke Maddox came out of the bedroom, her duffel bag in one hand, and her shoes in the other. Kristin nodded as he dumped them at her feet. “Door’s over there. When you’re ready.”
“Excuse me?” She put her glass down on top of the photographs, tempted to chuck water all over them. “When I’m ready?” How she wanted to wipe that smug smirk right off his face. “You just held me at gun point. I think you owe me an apology at the very least, Mr. Maddox.”
Jonno gave a slow whistle and Luke glared. Then he set his steely gaze back on Kristin. “You want me to apologize?”
“Yes. I do.” She folded her arms across her chest and forced her eyes to remain locked with his. His jaw tightened. Blue eyes shone like hard chips of arctic ice, framed in a face that might pass for handsome once that scruff was shaved off it. But his appearance was the least of her concerns. His gun still sat on the table, and he looked like he might want to use it again.
“Right, then. Sorry. Now get out.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her out of her chair.
“Luke, calm down.” Jonno stepped forward, displeasure glinting from his eyes. Kristin turned on Luke, her temper shooting skyward. “Let go of me.”
He released her arm, but not her eyes.
Kristin clenched her fists at her sides. She’d never felt such a need to slap anyone in her life. Well, apart from that incident in fourth grade when Tim Barnes tried to kiss her… Sucking air into her lungs didn’t accomplish any state of calm. “I’ve never been treated like this in my life. How dare you!”
The private clapped his hands together and let out a chortle of what she hoped was agreement. Luke Maddox did not seem as impressed. But he did appear somewhat mollified.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, folding his arms. Thick biceps bulged and Kristin swallowed down a fresh wave of fear.
“No harm done, right, Luke?” his companion offered. “Luke’s a little skittish.”
“Shut up, Jonno.” With long strides he marched past them into the bedroom. The slamming door shook the small apartment. Kristin sank down into the chair again, her knees buckling.
“I’ll go.” She looked up at Jonno and managed a weak smile as she slipped into her sneakers. “I just need…a minute.”
“No problem. Take your time.” A dimple played in his ebony cheek as he smiled. “Sorry about him. I could say he’s not always like that, but…”
“It’s okay.” Kristin foraged for an elastic band in the pocket of her jeans and tied her hair back.
Jonno dropped in to a chair on the other side of the table, pulled a piece of bare white wood from his pocket, took a pocket knife from a small leather case strapped to his belt, and began whittling.
Kristin took shaky breaths and glanced out the open window. Sunlight tickled the tops of the trees across the street. The room felt warmer than it had a few hours ago when she’d fallen asleep. In the wrong apartment.
She looked back at Jonno and watched in fascination as he worked. “What are you making?”
Jonno glanced up. “Stick people.”
She stared, her mind blank. His chuckle was deep and melodious as he wiggled the piece of wood at her. “Stick? Get it? Stick people.”
Kristin laughed and felt the muscles in her neck relax. Her stomach gave a low rumble. Hopefully Caroline’s fridge would be in better shape than her brother’s. She really should go, but something about him made her stay. He was her first connection to the war. “How long have you been over here, Jonno?”
“A year and a half.”
“Are you stationed in the city?”
“Yeah. They send me all over. I got stuck running press around. Mostly Luke. But it’s okay. Better than being out in the field, that’s for dang sho’.”
“I bet.” He wouldn’t know anything about Teddy’s company. Kristin fought off disappointment and smiled. “What part of the South are you from?”
“Georgia. Just outside Atlanta. Say, you’d better split.” He narrowed his eyes and jerked his head toward the bedroom just as Luke opened the door.
Too late.
Kristin kept a careful eye on him as he approached. At least the gun was within her reach this time. Not that she would know what to do with it.
He’d donned a green t-shirt tucked into his khaki pants. His hair had been towel-dried and combed. He strode across the room, his eyes sweeping them as he passed. “Why are you still here?”
“She needed a minute. We’re just hangin’.” Jonno spoke for her and shoved his piece of wood back into his pants pocket.
Kristin watched Luke as he stood before the window. She couldn’t pinpoint his age, put she wouldn’t put him over thirty. He rested his elbows on the top of the window frame and laced his hands around the back of his damp head. From where she sat, she had a great view of his arms of steel. She blinked and counted herself lucky he hadn’t tried to hit her.
“You finished your tea party, Jonno? The war’s not gonna wait for you, mate.” He continued to stare out of the window, a muddy boot thumping on the thin rug beneath his feet.
“Shoot. Won’t miss much.” Jonno pushed his burly frame to a standing position and looked down at Kristin. “You got your kit yet?”
“My kit?” Confusion settled over her. Then she realized he meant the clothes she’d need when she visited the base camps or went into the field. “No. I wasn’t sure where to go. I planned to do that today. I just flew in last night. I mean this morning. Actually, I have no idea what day it is right now.”
“In Vietnam it doesn’t matter.” The quiet words came from Luke. He kept his eyes straight ahead, as though he spoke to himself. Kristin studied the hard features and wondered again what he was doing here.
“Well, we could help you out,” Jonno said. “Show you around a bit.”
“No. We could not.” Luke slowly turned toward Jonno and stared pointedly, one eyebrow almost touching his hairline. Kristin smothered a grin.
Jonno shrugged and rubbed his round jaw. “Well, now if memory serves me correct, Luke, you did almost kill the lady. I’d say it was the least you could do.”
Luke grunted and pushed his hands into his pockets. “I’m sure Miss Taylor would prefer to fend for herself.”
Kristin recoiled at the barb and her pulse quickened. “You’re right, I do prefer to fend for myself and I manage quite nicely, thank you.”
“I can see that.” A hint of a smile touched his mouth. “Do you find yourself in men’s apartments very often, Miss Taylor?”
Slow heat pricked her face and Kristin stood up. “Actually, no. Believe me, this was a very unfortunate miscalculation on my part. I won’t be bothering you again, I can promise you that. Now, if you’ll get out of my way, I’ll get out of yours.” She reached for her bag and started for the door, but he blocked her path.
“Okay, look, I’m sorry. I’ve been traveling all night and I’m exhausted. I may have…over-reacted.”
“Over-reacted?” Kristin squeaked, putting her hands on her hips. “You could have killed me!”
He leveled his gaze, his mouth drawn. “I wouldn’t have killed you. I would have gone for the shoulder.”
Kristin shuddered and attempted to push past him. He stayed put. She dropped her bag and it hit the floor with a thud. What now?
He ignored her glare and studied her with an air of calm, as though he found her…interesting. “What are you doing here, in Vietnam? Did you say you’re a journalist?” A strand of damp blond hair fell over one eye. He had to be well over six feet and it was hard not to feel intimidated under the weight of his stare.
Before she could answer, he shook his head and his upper lip curled again. “Never mind. I don’t need to know. But I’ll tell you this, if you came here looking for adventure, looking to make a name for yourself, fine…I’m sure you will. We’re all here for that. But it’s hard. This isn’t the Debutantes Ball. It’s war. Men are being killed out there. Are you ready to see that?”
“Luke, cut it out.” Jonno gave Kristin a sympathetic look. She smiled back, but her breath still came in spurts.
Avoiding Luke’s piercing gaze, Kristin gathered her thoughts before she looked back at him. “I am a journalist. I came here to cover the war. I work on my own.”
He chuckled and scratched the blond stubble on his jaw. “A stringer. No papers, press card?”
“Not yet.”
“Come on, Luke.” Jonno moved in and placed a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “Be cool for once, huh? We can help her get her stuff and take her out to the 24th.” His kind eyes moved over Kristin’s face. “If you can get a couple of pieces sold, you’ll be on your way. Newspapers are hungry for stories. They don’t care where they come from.”
Kristin nodded, but the thought of going anywhere with Luke Maddox clouded her judgment. “Thanks, but I’ll manage.” She heaved her bag over her shoulder again and walked to the door.
“Hold on.”
Luke’s deep voice stopped her. She turned, weariness dragging on her. Silently she met his eyes, a bitter taste rising in her mouth.
He lifted his broad shoulders, a thin smile chasing off his scowl for just a moment. “You can do what you want, but we’re heading up North tomorrow morning. If you’d like some help getting your kit, and a ride, you can come along. If you prefer to go it alone, suit yourself.”
Kristin worked hard to stop a grin, but failed. She cocked her head, put her hand on her hips and widened her smile. “Why, Mr. Maddox. We womenfolk can be a little helpless at times. I’d sure appreciate being taken care of.”
He gave her a look that could curdle milk. Kristin almost regretted her theatrics as she tried to read him. What if he really just wanted to put a bullet through her brain?
“Don’t worry, I’ll be with you,” Jonno said, reading her mind.
Kristin hesitated, then shook her head. “Thanks, but no thanks. Good day, gentlemen.” She yanked open the door and stepped out into the dark hallway, slamming the door shut behind her.
~
Kristin walked the pavements in the morning heat, searching for anything that might give her a clue as to where she was. Caroline eventually showed up early last evening with a handsome army captain in tow. She’d laughed gaily when Kristin informed her of the mix-up. Kristin hadn’t found it quite so amusing.
Caroline showed her around the apartment that was identical to Luke’s, but thankfully much cleaner, introduced her to their landlady, Madame Dupont, a rotund Frenchwoman in her late forties who seemed quite happy to have Kristin as a tenant. Then Caroline left to go out to dinner with the man Kristin assumed was her boyfriend. They invited her, but Kristin decided to stay put and get as much rest as possible. Her roommate still hadn’t returned by the time Kristin left the apartment that morning. In her exhausted state, she had forgotten to ask Caroline where to go to get her kit.
She racked her brain and tried to remember the streets they’d driven down from the airport. If she could get herself to The Majestic, she might run in to Jean Luc. He would help her.
Heat wrapped around her like a thick cloak. She’d enjoyed a deep, refreshing sleep and looked forward to her first day here, but at this moment, lost in a strange foreign city where she didn’t speak the language, the thought of hopping a plane and heading home held some appeal.
Kristin jumped at the sound of a horn’s blast directly behind her. She kept walking. The hotel had to be just around this corner…
“Hey, Miss Taylor!”
The horn blasted again and Kristin turned. A military Jeep pulled up to the curb. Jonno sat in the passenger seat. Luke Maddox sat behind the wheel. Jonno waved to her like she was an old friend. “Miss Taylor! Over here.”
She adjusted the green scarf around her head, unable to stop a smile. Slowly she approached the vehicle.
“Where are you headed?” Jonno asked. Luke looked straight ahead, ignoring her.
Kristin shifted, sweat sliding down her back. “I thought I’d go over to The Majestic. I met some journalists on the plane, and they’re staying there.”
Luke snorted, his eyes hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses. “The Majestic is the other way.”
Of course it was. Kristin blinked under the sun’s rays. Wonderful. Another fine display of her journalistic instincts.
“Hey, look,” Jonno set his boyish grin on her. “Why don’t you just come with us? We can help you get your stuff, and you can ride with us today. What do you say?”
Luke huffed and slouched down in his seat. Kristin narrowed her eyes. Just what she wanted to do, spend a day with The Odd Couple. She stood for a moment, weighing her options. “Well, maybe if you could just give me directions…”
Luke swiveled, his shades slipping down his nose slightly, allowing that scrutinizing blue gaze to settle on her. “Are you always this stubborn?”
Kristin inhaled sharply. “Yes.”
His mouth stretched into a slow grin. “God help us. Get in.” He faced front again and gunned the engine while Jonno hopped out to help her in to the Jeep.
She declined the front and climbed into the backseat. Luke pulled out in to traffic and suddenly it hit her. “Hey!” She poked Jonno, shouting to be heard over the noise of traffic and the accelerating engine of their own vehicle. “Shouldn’t you be driving? He’s not military, is he? Isn’t that against the rules or something?”
Jonno gave a deep belly laugh as Luke swerved across incoming traffic to get to the opposite side. Once headed in the right direction, stuck behind a bus, Luke glanced over his shoulder. His scruff-covered face broadened, revealing a hint of what, given a chance, would be a dazzling smile. “Welcome to Vietnam, Miss Taylor. There are no rules.”
~
Luke strode ahead down the dusty sidewalk. Kristin, at least ten paces behind him, gave up on matching his speed. Even though she wore light cotton pants and a sleeveless blouse, moving at any speed in this sweltering climate was torture. She blinked perspiration out of her eyes and pressed on.
Small shops and restaurants like the ones she’d seen on the drive from the airport lined the streets. Every now and then they passed women crouched on the sidewalk, cooking over a fire. Thick spicy smoke hung in the air. Children ran in and out of the pedestrians. Honks from cars and the shouts of impatient drivers added to the pandemonium. Wiping sweat off her face, she let out a sigh of frustration and picked up her pace.
“Don’t worry, he’ll wait.” Jonno ambled along beside her.
Kristin gave her new friend a sidelong glance. “Somehow I’m not convinced.”
She almost tripped over a small child who ran up alongside her, his dirty little hand outstretched. A group of about ten children followed them, chattering away in Vietnamese. They pressed in to her, surrounding her on all sides. Their shabby clothes and bare feet tugged at her heart. Toothless grins and wide smiles abounded.
Kristin slowed, fumbling around in her pockets for anything to give them. She found a pack of gum and began doling out strips. Up ahead, she heard Luke’s low voice raised in warning. She lifted her eyes in time to see him waving off a couple of larger boys. One of them fell off the sidewalk. Luke lunged for the boy’s arm, pulled him out of harm’s way and sent him on his way with a push and a reprimand. She couldn’t make out his words, but heard enough to decide it was hardly fitting language to use in front of a child, even if he didn’t understand English.
“Hey! Stop that!” He walked too far ahead to hear her protest. “Why did he yell at them like that?” She turned to Jonno for help, but he shook his head, nonplussed.
“It’s all right. He’s just telling them, very politely, to get lost.”
Kristin glared. This was ridiculous. Who did this overgrown uncouth excuse for a man think he was? She quickened her pace, looking downward as she sidestepped a bottle. Her next step took her right into the chest of the man she’d been so determined to pick a fight with a minute ago.
“Am I in your way, Miss Taylor?” He stood like a soldier, brawny tanned arms crossed. His blond hair shone underneath the blazing sun. Those blue eyes glinted at her over the rim of his sunglasses and the corners of his mouth twitched in a manner Kristin found most discomforting.
“What…what were you saying to that boy?” she sputtered. “I saw you push him away.”
His mouth turned downward. One finger inched his shades up and his eyes were hidden from view. “He wanted money and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Sometimes a firm hand is the only thing they respond to.”
“That’s absurd. They’re just children.” Kristin caught her breath.
Luke sighed, taking off his sunglasses. His eyes seemed softer somehow. Or she was getting heatstroke. “Look, you may as well get used to the kids. They’re everywhere. There’s an orphanage around the corner. Another one two blocks away. If you give them anything, they’ll never leave you alone.”
Kristin shifted under the glare of the sun and the man who stood before her. “That’s crazy. You make them sound like criminals.”
Luke emitted a grunt, put his glasses back on and raked his fingers through his hair. “That’s what they are, some of them. They’ll take whatever you have, whether you give it to them or not.” Suddenly he grabbed her arm and yanked her sideways. A bicycle sped past. Kristin stared after it in disbelief. She hadn’t even seen it coming.
She didn’t have to thank him for that, did she?
Luke cocked his head toward the building in front of them. “We’re going in here.”
She followed them into what looked like a house from the street. Once Kristin’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw a cavernous room with tables upon tables of any item imaginable. A couple of Vietnamese men watched in silence. The musty smelling shop appeared unlike any she’d ever been in. Transistor radios, books, maps—military maps, she discovered on closer inspection.
Kristin lifted an olive green canvas tarp spread over one table. She stared at the row of automatic weapons and pistols hidden beneath it. Her heart began to pound just a little faster. She poked a finger at what looked to be an M-16, but pulled back when a hand came down over hers.
“Stay away from the toys, Miss Taylor.” Luke placed a hand under her elbow and propelled her in a different direction.
“Where did they get all this stuff?” she hissed.
Luke glanced her way and hiked up an eyebrow. “You really want to know?”
Kristin tugged at the scarf around her head and tied it around her neck. No, she probably didn’t. The proprietor hurried over to them and addressed Luke by name. He’d obviously done business here before. Why didn’t that surprise her?
An hour later, Kristin exited the store with her items of contraband. After some haggling, they’d talked the old man into what Luke considered a decent price for the things she needed. Jungle fatigues in her size, a canteen, a waterproof poncho, helmet and boots. The shopkeeper tried to sell her a pistol, but she’d refused.
She just prayed she wasn’t going to be wearing some dead soldier’s gear. Immediately her thoughts turned to Teddy and she sank against her seat. God, please, just keep him alive.
Luke yelled over his shoulder to her as the Jeep sped along the street. “I’ll drop you back at the apartment. I need to pick up some more film. We’ll come back for you in an hour.”
She scowled, not at all convinced. “Can I have that in writing?” she shouted back.
They screeched to a stop outside the apartment building. Jonno turned from the front to look at her in clear surprise. His shoulders shook with laughter.
Luke swiveled, resting one arm over the back of his seat. “Why, Miss Taylor, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t trust me.”
Kristin sniffed, gathering her things. “Well, let’s see. In the short space of time I’ve known you, you’ve pulled a gun on me, you drive so recklessly you’d be arrested in most states, and you seem to have a nasty habit of pushing young children around. So, yeah, I trust you like a GI trusts the Viet Cong.”
His grin faded and he stared at her for a long moment that crept toward dangerous silence. Kristin swallowed down panic. What was wrong with her? Right now he was her only hope of getting out of Saigon. If she didn’t get to one of the base camps, she wouldn’t have anything to write about. “Sorry. I…mean…that was…I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Get out,” Luke growled, gunning the engine. Kristin grabbed her things in haste and scrambled out of the Jeep.
“One hour. I’ll be waiting!” she shouted after them as the Jeep disappeared into the heavy traffic. She stared down at the cat prowling around her feet. “He’s not coming back is he? When will I ever learn to keep my big mouth shut?”
Friday, February 27, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
In Light of the Current Economy...
Here's a little experiment.
Because I don't want to have to answer any more questions from well-meaning relatives and friends that sound something like this, "When is your book coming out?" "I couldn't find your book on Amazon..." and so on...let me clarify.
I am not published nor under contract with a publisher, and the chances of that happening in the next year are...well...bleak. So stop asking.
With that said, I'll give you a present.
Since you won't be reading any of my work for a while in real book form, I thought I'd put it out here for you to read on my blog. A chapter a week. My only request, (and I realize I can't hold you to this), is that if you are reading, please tell me you are. Hate it, love it, whatever. Feedback is golden, so bring it on.
A little history...
This book takes place during the Vietnam war. I have no idea why. I just woke up one day with this idea in my head and there it was. I lived and breathed Vietnam for about a year. A LOT of blood, sweat and tears went in to the writing and re-writing, and re-writing of this novel.
It is, as they say, the book of my heart.
I do believe it will be published one day despite predictions to the contrary.
But for now, I give you,
Yesterday's Tomorrow.
© Catherine West. 2009.
Prologue
February 1954
Didn’t they know they were shouting so loud the neighbors could hear?
Kristin Taylor huddled in bed, drew her knees to her chest and clapped her hands over her ears. It was past ten o’clock. She was supposed to be asleep, but their heated argument woke her. Again. Through the thin wall she heard Daddy’s voice rise and Mom burst into tears. Kristin gritted her teeth and began to hum her favorite song, Somewhere Over the Rainbow.
A moment of peace settled over the brownstone apartment. Kristin smiled and wiped her eyes. It worked every time, even if she couldn’t hit the high notes.
Dad started yelling again. She blew out a breath and switched on the lamp on her bedside table, illuminating her small room. Something smashed against the other side of her wall and shattered. More yells. Kristin narrowed her eyes. She threw back the covers. How could she sleep with this racket going on?
She hopped off her bed and pushed her arms through the sleeves of her thick flannel robe. No way would she be able to walk past Mrs. Jenkins’ tomorrow on the way home from school. Their old nosey neighbor would surely invite her in for cookies and milk and try to get the story out of her.
The air felt cold in contrast to her warm bed as Kristin padded barefoot across the faded rug to her dresser. She ran a hand along the stack of books squashed between two hand-carved wooden bookends. The frayed bindings of Heidi, Jane Eyre, Great Expectations and Pride and Prejudice and her Bible, shared space with all the Agatha Christie novels Kristin could get her hands on. Every once in a while Mom came in to clean, found them, screamed and threatened to throw them out, but Daddy wouldn’t let her.
“The child has an inquisitive mind, Val. We should encourage that.”
“And you do a fine job,” Mom retaliated. “She’s only twelve years old! She should be reading something more…genteel…what’s wrong with The Brontë sisters?”
Kristin suddenly remembered the Ian Fleming book hidden under her bed and grinned. Dad snuck it in to her room a couple of nights ago. She’d start it now. Hopefully she could finish the whole story before Mom got her hands on it.
Her eyes landed on the silver framed black-and-white image of Daddy getting his Pulitzer two years ago. They said he was probably the youngest journalist to ever receive the award. She should be proud. She was. Mom didn’t seem so happy about it. Everyone wanted Daddy to go all over the world now.
As the shouting died down again, she heard the distinct sound of drawers being pulled open and slammed shut. And she heard something else too.
Teddy.
Kristin tiptoed down the hall to her brother’s room. The lamp on the dresser shed a soft glow over Teddy’s round face. He sat up in his bed, fists curled into balls held against his chest. His eyes were scrunched tight—as if that would make it stop.
Compassion for him rose as she saw his shoulders shaking. He was always afraid she’d make fun of him for being a crybaby. Not tonight. She wanted to cry too.
She skipped over Lincoln logs and Tinkertoys and scrambled up onto the bed beside him, eager to get her cold feet under the covers. “Scooch over.”
Teddy’s bottom lip quivered but he made a supreme effort to stop crying, and shifted his small frame to give her room in the twin bed. She put an arm around his trembling shoulders and squeezed. He let out a long sigh that matched her own. “Is…Daddy…gonna leave again?”
Kristin hated the hot tears that pricked her eyes. She couldn’t fall apart. Teddy needed her. Later, Mom probably would too. She stiffened and set her jaw. “I don’t know. I heard them talking earlier. His editor wants to send him to Vietnam.”
“Vietnam?” Teddy looked up at her, his blue eyes turning gray in the dim light of his bedroom. “Where’s that?”
Kristin rolled her eyes but immediately felt guilty. He was only ten for crying out loud. Well, almost ten. She couldn’t expect him to know everything. “Some place far away.”
“Why do they want him to go there?”
Because the French and the Vietnamese are fighting a big war and they want him to write about it. Because he’s the best war correspondent that ever lived… Kristin ran her tongue over her bottom lip and tried not to get frustrated. “Because he has to go talk to some important people and write a story about it.”
Teddy sniffed and rubbed his eyes. “Why can’t somebody else do it? I want Dad to stay here. Tomorrow’s my birthday. We’re going to the ice rink, remember?”
“Yeah. I remember.”
Teddy shivered and leaned against her shoulder. “But he’ll come back, right?”
Kristin screwed up her nose. Why did Teddy always ask her everything? Couldn’t he figure something out for himself for once?
“Kris?”
“What?”
“He’ll come back, right? And then we’ll go skating?”
She tried to smile but her heart pounded too fast. “Of course he’s coming back. He always comes back, dummy.”
“You promise?”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. “I promise. Now can you go back to sleep? It’s getting late.”
The shouts grew louder, closer. Kristin scrambled off Teddy’s bed and went to the door. She poked her head out in time to see her parents brush past her. Daddy held a suitcase in one hand, his battered leather briefcase in the other. And his coat was slung over one arm. Kristin glanced back at Teddy, about to tell him to stay put, but her brother was already behind her, standing barefoot in blue cotton pajamas, his dark hair tousled, an errant cowlick falling over one red-rimmed eye.
Her heart hammering against her chest, she put out her hand. “Come on.”
With Teddy just behind her, squeezing her fingers so hard she thought he might pull them off, they ran down the stairs, drawing up short at the entrance to the living room. The French doors were open. Teddy slammed into her and jumped back with a yelp. Mom and Dad turned their way.
Mom let out a little cry and shook her head, then put her mad face on. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“We couldn’t sleep.” Kristin brushed hair out of her eyes and stuck out her chin. “You were making a lot of noise.”
Mom threw up her hands and huffed, sinking onto the couch. Kristin couldn’t remember ever seeing her wear her hair down, but tonight it fell around her cheeks and curled on her shoulders. She would have looked pretty if her face wasn’t so red and her eyes all puffy.
Mom glared at Dad, pulled at the belt around her green woolen dress and kicked off her high heels. “All yours, Mac.”
Dad rubbed his jaw, set his bags down and released a sigh from somewhere deep inside. His lips stretched apart in a feeble attempt at a smile. Dark circles lined his brown eyes and stubble covered his jaw. Guilt skittered across his face as he looked from her to Teddy.
The air suddenly got sucked out of the room, like someone untying the knot of a balloon. Kristin shook her head and yanked the sash of her robe as tight as it would go. He was leaving.
Dad dropped to one knee in front of them and held out both arms. “Come here.”
Teddy let her hand go and ran to him. She knew he would. And he’d probably start crying again. But she wouldn’t. Kristin folded her arms and stayed put, challenging her father with her eyes. He veered his gaze and concentrated on Teddy.
She stood there, like playing statues in gym class, listening while he gave his excuses to Teddy. Of course he had no choice. He never did.
Her brother could be placated with promises of season’s tickets to the Red Sox and a long train-ride from South Station to Grand Central and back, but she wasn’t going to play that game. Kristin blinked away tears as Teddy threw his arms around Dad’s neck and hugged him tight. Then Mom took Teddy by the hand and led him back upstairs.
Kristin shifted on the thin rug, wishing she’d put on her slippers. Dad’s knees creaked as he rose and made his way toward her. He reached for her hand but she tightened her arms. A tear escaped and rolled off down her cheek. Kristin lowered her head.
“Oh, Kris.” Dad knelt before her. His hands warmed her arms through the sleeves of her robe. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
Kristin slowly raised her chin until she made eye contact. “Sorry.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What do you have to be sorry for?”
She shrugged, but couldn’t think of anything either.
Kristin noticed for the first time a few streaks of gray in his hair. His white starched shirt sat open at the collar, his thin black tie slightly askew. Dad’s eyes were bright, sad. His strong mouth lifted into a grin as he wiped a tear from her cheek with the base of his thumb. When she sniffed, moisture shot up her nose. She gave a small involuntary shiver.
“Are you going to Vietnam to write about the war?” She hoped she’d been wrong, but knew she wasn’t.
A shadow ran across his face and he frowned. Then something chased off the sad look and he chuckled. “You’re going to make a fine journalist one day, young lady.”
Kristin rolled her eyes and pushed out her bottom lip. “Mom won’t let me.”
“Sure she will. By then you’ll be all grown up. Making your own decisions. Leaving your old man in the dust.”
“We could write stories together,” she offered. “Taylor and Taylor.” Her grin faltered as she watched his eyes moisten. Kristin sucked in a breath. Dad never cried.
He pulled her to him and rested his lips against her forehead for a moment. “Sounds good to me.” He sat back on his heels, solemn. “Look after your brother.”
“I always do.”
“And don’t fight with your Mom.”
Kristin looked down, studying the scuffs on his normally shiny shoes.
“Kristin?”
“Okay. I won’t.” She met his eyes again and the lump in her throat got bigger. Her skin prickled as an odd sensation slid down her spine. He’d left before. Lots of times. But this felt different. “You’re coming back, right?”
His face cracked in a funny sort of smile. “Of course I am. But you’ll pray for me, every night, just like always?”
“Yeah.” She tried to smile back. “God will keep you safe, Dad. He always does.” Kristin put her arms around him and rested her head against his shoulder as he hugged her. She inhaled by habit. Tobacco and coffee mingled with the cologne he always wore. She could never remember the name of it but they got a bottle for his birthday every year. He said he didn’t mind, but maybe this year they should do something different.
A flash of headlights chased dust across the room. Dad stood, his smile gone. “There’s my cab.”
Kristin watched Mom come forward and Dad take her in his arms. They stood together in silence for a while. Mom stepped back, rested her palm flat against Dad’s face. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. His hand came over hers and their eyes met as he pulled her closer and kissed her, a long kiss that seemed to go on forever. Kristin almost felt she shouldn’t be watching. But she was glad she was.
“Why does it have to be tonight?” Mom whispered.
Dad shrugged, tucking a strand of her thick hair behind her ear. “War doesn’t wait on birthdays, Valerie.” Dad pulled on his coat, gave Mom a final kiss and picked up his bags. “I’ll call when I can.” He turned to Kristin. “Bye, kiddo. I love you.”
The little girl in her wanted to run back into her father’s arms and beg him not to go. But she wasn’t a little girl. She would turn thirteen this year. “Bye, Dad. Love you, too.”
Mom walked with him to the door. Kristin raced to the window at the front of the room, pressed her nose against the cold glass and watched Dad get into the waiting cab.
A light snow swirled around the soft yellow glow of the streetlamp outside their building. Maybe it would storm and his flight wouldn’t be able to leave Boston. Kristin pushed harder against the windowpane. It wouldn’t matter. He’d get another one. His job was very important. More important than anything else.
Even them.
The taxi pulled out onto the deserted street and Kristin squinted through the window. Her breath made it fog up and she wiped furiously, seeing Dad raise a hand in her direction. She waved back just in time before he drove away.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
“Do not go out into the fields, or out onto the roads, for the enemy has a sword, and there is terror on every side.” Jeremiah 6:25
“The past cannot be erased, nor forgotten. Flash photography; hellish images carved into our minds, emblazoned in our hearts forever. Golden threads hold yesterday together and form the foundations for tomorrow.
But what of today?” Kristin Taylor - Yesterday’s Tomorrow: Vietnam – My Story. 1979
Chapter One
February 1967, Saigon, Vietnam.
Kristin shuffled along in the line of travel-weary passengers that trickled off the plane. Blinking as her eyes adjusted to the daylight, she shook off sleep and gripped the handrail, walking on unsteady legs down the metal steps. When her shoes hit the tarmac of Tan Son Nhut airport, tears sprang to her eyes. Her hand went to the intricately carved cross that hung around her neck. She rubbed the thick gold between her thumb and forefinger.
I’m here, Dad.
She stepped aside to let others pass while she shifted her heavy duffel bag on her shoulder and took in her surroundings. The early morning sun’s rays jack-knifed off the tarred surface and created a stifling heat. It couldn’t be more than seven o’clock and already the warmth engulfed her. Pungent fumes of gasoline tickled her nose. Kristin pulled on dark sunglasses and looked down the runway.
Aircraft of varying description lined the blacktop. Everything from helicopters to small fighter jets, to the Pan American Boeing 707 she had just exited. Gray, green and brown flying machines blended together in an impressive show of US military power.
She’d have to start learning all the names of the helicopters and planes she envisioned herself soon jumping aboard.
Army personnel moved smoothly around most of the aircrafts, refueling and working on engines. Rows of enlisted men lined up to board a larger plane also being loaded with cargo. Soldiers sweating in the heat heaved supplies on to the plane’s large interior. Over the roar of engines, shouts punched the air as commanding officers rounded up their companies. Her pulse quickened as she scanned the groups of soldiers, searching, hoping...
Kristin gave a slight shake of her head. As if she’d run in to Teddy the minute she stepped off the plane.
The night before he shipped out, three months ago now, her brother had called from San Francisco. He told her and Mom not to worry. He’d been eager to go, a little apprehensive, but held no doubt that serving his country was the right thing to do.
During a lull in the activity on the tarmac, a low rumbling somewhere off in the distance reached her ears. An explosion?
A surge of adrenaline shot through her. She longed to get a closer look at the men, but turned away, catching up with the rest of the arrivals as they filtered in to the crowded airport. Vietnamese men and women dressed in colorful pajama-like clothing darted in and out of the maze of olive-green and khaki uniforms. Strong odors of perfume, tobacco and other more unpleasant smells wafted around her.
Her eyes tracked the signage, all in Vietnamese, and her ears captured the quickly spoken foreign tongue on every side of her. Maybe this wouldn’t be as easy as she’d imagined. A slow seed of doubt began to take root.
Well, Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.
Kristin moved along with the crowd through Immigration, brightening when she spied the doors that led out of the airport. Then reality set in.
She’d made it to Vietnam. Now what?
She ignored the slight twinge of panic and glanced around the long room, searching for the four journalists she’d sat beside on the last leg of the flight. They were on their way back to Saigon from a stay in Hong Kong for R&R and had been quite happy to chat.
Their stories fascinated her. Scared her. The Frenchman’s tales seemed a bit too dramatic though. He wore a teasing look the whole time. Caroline, the only other female on the flight, sounded like she might be British. They’d greeted each other, she’d told Kristin she worked for United Press International, but that was all.
Kristin wasn’t working for anyone. Yet.
“Ah, Kristin, chèrie.” Strange relief flooded through her at the sound of her own name being called in the midst of this foreign chaos. The Frenchman, Jean Luc, bustled toward her, carrying two large cases. “’Ave you got your stuff?”
“This is it.” She tugged on her bag loaded with all her worldly possessions, including her typewriter. Sweat formed on her brow and a drop rolled down the side of her face. Fatigue slowly descended.
“You ‘ave got a place to stay, oui?
“No, actually, I don’t.”
Ludicrous as that sounded, Jean Luc didn’t bat an eye. “Oy.” One suitcase hit the ground with a thud as he dropped it and ran a hand through his shoulder length hair. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled to the group huddled together on the far side of the terminal building. “Caroline, sweetie, a minute please…” He waved her over. Breathing heavily, he pulled a faded red bandana from the chest pocket of his beige Safari shirt and wiped his brow. He turned to Kristin, soft brown eyes sparkling. “You don’t move, oui?”
“Oui.” Kristin let her bag slide off her shoulder and positioned herself on the top of one of his large leather cases and watched Jean Luc lumber over to meet Caroline halfway. Not moving sounded just fine. It wasn’t like she had anywhere to go anyway. Or even knew where to go.
Oh, yeah. She’d done some stupid things in her twenty-five years, but this—quitting her job at The Daily and hopping a plane to Vietnam—definitely topped the list.
Kristin glanced at her watch, mentally calculating the time back in Boston.
Oy indeed. Oy vey. Mom would be pacing the living room, either holding the letter Kristin left for her or ripping it up. Either way, the next time they saw each other would not be anything to look forward to.
They’d fought for weeks over her determination to come here. Mom agreed with Kristin’s editor. Former editor. A war zone was no place for a woman. Besides that, she’d pulled the old religious guilt trip. Had Kristin prayed about it? How did she know it was God’s will for her to go to Vietnam?
She didn’t. But she was pretty sure God didn’t care one way or another. Kristin stopped praying a long time ago—the day they got the news that Dad had been killed in Vietnam.
Mom would calm down. Kristin would call home once she got a job. Her mother would see reason. Eventually.
Kristin pushed her hair out of her face, sweat stinging her eyes. She longed for a long drink and a good night’s sleep, her level of hunger and exhaustion escalating at the prospect. In the excitement of her first long flight, she’d hardly slept or eaten. If she didn’t come up with some place to go soon, she’d just curl up right here in the airport.
Jean Luc returned, flushed but beaming. “Okay. We ‘ave a plan.”
Caroline, the tall leggy blond with a face so flawless she could pass for a model, stood beside him. “Jean Luc says you need a place to stay.” She raised a thin eyebrow, lit a cigarette and blew smoke over Kristin’s head. Kristin nodded.
Caroline sniffed, her expression thoughtful. “My roomie’s gone back to New Zealand. It’s a one bedroom flat, two beds, small kitchen and bathroom, a block away from The Majestic Hotel, where a lot of the press guys stay. I’m in and out of the city. If you’re interested…”
Kristin’s jaw dropped. What unbelievable luck. But how would she pay for this? Her savings might last a month or two at best. Hope flickered and died. “Um. How much…I…”
Caroline stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette on the stone floor with the high heel of her boot. Her clear blue eyes roamed over Kristin’s face. “You don’t have a job, do you…what was your name again?”
“Kristin Taylor.” Kristin stiffened, pushing herself to a standing position. Although they were probably around the same age, Caroline gave off an air of superiority she hadn’t picked up on earlier. “I plan to get work as a stringer. I’ll have the money.” Did she really want this woman as a flat-mate? She didn’t even know her. She could be psychotic. Kristin ran her tongue over her dry lips. The alternative was…well, there wasn’t one.
Caroline frowned, as though mulling it over. “You know you’ll need press credentials if you want to get anywhere outside the city. I’m sure something will come up though. Listen, why don’t you go and have a look at the place? I’ve got to get to a meeting with my boss, but here…” She foraged in her shoulder bag and came up with a notepad and pen. She handed Kristin a piece of paper. Kristin squinted at the barely legible writing.
“Thanks, where—”
“Right, I’ve got to run. Oh, here’s the key, but the apartment should be unlocked. Madame Dupont, my landlady, does laundry for me. She always forgets to lock the door. Just ignore the mess. I’ll stop by the flat later and we can chat. Ta.” Caroline marched off to rejoin her comrades, leaving Kristin to suck air in her perfumed wake.
Jean Luc clapped his big hands together, clearly pleased with himself. “Voilà! We can share a cab, oui?”
“Oui.” Kristin picked up her bag and smiled. She’d made it to Vietnam. She had a place to stay. Next, she’d get a job. She’d show them back home what she was made of. Her former boss would regret not sending her here to write for The Daily.
She could do this. She had to do this.
The drive to the apartment building in Saigon turned in to an interminable journey of stopping and starting. The putrid smell inside the beat up blue Renault taxi was almost unbearable. Jean Luc grinned and pinched his nose. Kristin leaned a little closer to the open window, peering around her in fascination.
Men, women and children jostled for space along sidewalks amongst what she could only assume were peddlers in brightly colored tunics and trousers, wearing large conical shaped hats. Many bowed under the weight of a wooden bar balanced across their shoulders on which a straw basket hung from each side. Large green avocados piled high in some, while other baskets held bright oranges and some other fruit she didn’t recognize.
Tall trees lined the city sidewalks, their lush branches giving much needed shade from the blistering sun. They passed rows of concrete buildings, some almost comparable to what she’d left back in Boston, but no skyscrapers. Much of the architecture, especially the churches and the larger houses, appeared French in design, painted in shades of blue, peach, pink and yellow. As they veered off on to smaller side streets, shops of every description almost sat on top of each other. Striped awnings overhung many of them. Fruit stalls, vegetable stalls and…oh, gross. Kristin covered her mouth with her hand. What was that?
“You don’t eat from there. Ever.” Jean Luc pointed at the hanging animal carcasses and made a horrible face. Kristin looked beyond the vile sight. No chance of that, Jean Luc.
As they drove further along, burnt out shops and dilapidated structures here and there told of the ravages of war, and its toll on the city.
“I thought Saigon was relatively safe.” She turned to him, apprehension crawling up her spine. Her palms were moist against the ripped leather seat of the cab.
He grinned and lit a cigarette. “What is relative, chèrie?”
Kristin shrugged and pushed down trepidation. “You’re right.” She’d come here to do a job, once she got one, to cover the war. And she would prove her worth as a journalist. Of course it would have been much easier if her editor had just given her the chance. Instead, they’d chosen to send Joe Hines, twice her age and overweight. Poor Joe wouldn’t last a week in Vietnam.
Kristin shook off thoughts of home and stared out the window again. The number of vehicles on the roads startled her. Cars, military jeeps and trucks jammed every bit of the asphalt. Pedal-bikes and motorcycles zipped on by, weaving in and out of the traffic. Powerful fumes stung her eyes and made them water. The cab inched along until there was a break in the traffic.
Men pushing pedicabs ran along the side of the road. Kristin flinched each time they passed one, thinking the cab would surely hit it, and send the runner and his passengers flying.
Stifling heat emanated through her pores. Never a fan of bitter cold, Kristin looked forward to a change in climate, but hadn’t anticipated the oppression of this sauna-like atmosphere despite the way Teddy had described it.
Her fingers slipped into the pocket of her jeans and felt for the thin envelope, her brother’s last letter to her before she’d left the United States. She wiped sweat from her brow and frowned. He hadn’t revealed his location, but she knew he was a combat medic with Charlie company. He could be anywhere. But she’d find him. After leaving Mom the way she had, Kristin vowed to get some news on her brother to send back home. The letters he wrote gave little information. Mom had tried to mask her worry, but Kristin knew how hard this was on her. She worried about Teddy too.
The cab pulled up outside a large white five-story building with a rounded front. The words Hotel Majestic in large black lettering teetered at the top of the building.
“This is me.” Jean Luc gathered his gear and grasped her hand. “Later, chèrie. Come for a drink, okay?”
“Cool. Thanks.” Kristin watched her only friend in Vietnam disappear through the glass doors of the hotel and suddenly felt very much alone.
The car jerked and spluttered and pulled back in to traffic, and she stifled a yawn She’d never been so tired… she’d just close her eyes for a minute…
The next thing she knew the driver was shouting at her in Vietnamese. Kristin squinted up at the three-storey building in front of her. Distinctly French in architecture, pink paint crumbled in places where the cement had shifted. Two sorry-looking potted palm trees sat sentry at the entrance. A small brass nameplate on the side of the building read: La Maison Dupont.
Good enough. She paid her driver and made her way inside. She entered a small living room area and glanced around. There wasn’t much to see. The worn wallpaper looked like it had once been pink. A tattered Persian rug curled at the edges lay on the floor in front of the reception desk. Two faded rose-patterned easy chairs were positioned in front of a fireplace. Kristin almost laughed aloud as sweat dripped down her back. When would they ever need that?
“Hello? Madame Dupont?” She glanced over a raised wooden desk into a miniscule office. Nobody answered except a black cat that jumped down from the counter and prowled around her legs. Kristin cringed and moved aside. “Stay out of my way, cat, and we’ll get along just fine.”
She called out again but the place appeared deserted. Kristin turned toward the only set of stairs in view. Caroline said her flat was on the second floor, first door on the left. She heaved her bag to her other shoulder and made her way to the darkened stairway. The stairs creaked under her. A thin carpet runner proved more of a hindrance, bare in spots and easy to trip over. Nails stuck out of the wood here and there and she took her time avoiding them. As she reached the top, Kristin breathed a sigh of relief.
A long dark hallway stretched out before her. She raised her eyes and looked for the light. Two bare bulbs hung from the ceiling. Finding the switch, she flicked it upward. Nothing.
Squinting through the semi-darkness, Kristin studied Caroline’s instructions. Even if she could see the writing, she probably couldn’t read it. A wave of exhaustion swept over her and she stumbled toward the door on the left. Tried the knob and sure enough, it was open.
She found the light switch on the wall and thankfully this time the overhead light came on. Kristin widened her eyes. This was more than just a mess. A hurricane had ripped through the small apartment. That, or her new roommate was a total slob. She stepped over piles of clothes and magazines. A large pair of muddy combat boots sat in one corner near the door.
“Hello?”
Only her own voice echoed back to her.
Kristin didn’t bother to pull up the blinds as she poked around the boxy rooms. All she really wanted to do was sleep. She found a tiny kitchen and one bedroom with two twin beds. One bed was unmade, sheets tangled every which way. The second bed was covered in a light mauve bedspread, what looked to be freshly folded sheets sitting on the single pillow.
The battered-looking dresser was cluttered with newspapers, camera film and notebooks. A cramped bathroom tiled in white lay off the bedroom. A shower just big enough for one thin person, a cast iron claw-foot tub and toilet took up most of the space. Towels lay strewn across the floor. Judging by the musty smell that filled the room, they’d been there a while. But the small circular tiles on the wall sparkled, and Kristin smiled. Perhaps she could just live in the bathroom.
Thirst scratched her throat as she retraced her steps to the kitchen. Her hand shaking from exhaustion and lack of sustenance, she turned the tap. It squeaked and sputtered, then spat out a slow stream of water. Kristin frowned at the brown tinge. She washed her hands but decided not to drink it. She’d have to boil some water to keep in the fridge. Assuming there is one…
A brief scan of the room revealed a cubic four by four, almost hidden behind the door. Bits of rust showed through the white paint. She pulled the handle, opened the door and quickly shut it again, gagging as the odor of sour milk reached her nose.
Back in the living room Kristin surveyed the mess. Ear-splitting honks from the street below startled her. She’d have to get used to the noise, as well as the heat. She didn’t dare close the window for fear of suffocating. An upward glance showed her a ceiling fan, and she pulled the cord. The groan and shudder it gave made her jump out of range, but the blades began to move and warm air circled around her. Better than nothing.
Kristin lugged her bag across the scuffed wood floor into the bedroom. Maybe she could take a nap while she waited for Caroline to show up. She stretched her arms over her head and yawned. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. The empty bed looked inviting. Folded sheets, a blanket and pillow sat at its head. Another yawn overtook her. Yes, a nap would be very good. Very good indeed.
~
Luke Maddox entered his apartment, chucked his duffel bag across the living room and shuddered as a yawn escaped him. Jonno sauntered in after him and let out a low whistle.
“Holy cow, what happened in here? Looks like a tornado hit the place, man.”
Luke chuckled and made for the kitchen. He pulled open the rusted four by four fridge and scanned the contents and quickly stepped back. Moldy cheese. Milk—yellow milk. And…well, he didn’t know what that was. Something green and slimy, and definitely not edible. Only a jug of boiled water on the bottom shelf remained safe. Madame came in to refill it every morning.
He shut the door and let out the breath he’d been holding. “There’s no food. I haven’t been home in a while. Sorry.” He returned to the living room. His friend was already stretched out on the couch. Jonno turned on his side, pulled an issue of Time magazine out from under his head and dropped it to the floor.
“Too tired to eat anyway. I’m just gonna…sleep.”
“Okay.” Luke pushed his fingers through his hair and frowned. Dirt was embedded in his pores. He knew if he looked in the mirror his face would be covered in the red soil they ripped over for half the night. Exhaustion crept over him. He clenched his jaw and strode over to the round table by the window, pulled his camera strap over his head and set the Nikon down. Photographs covered almost the entire surface. He poked at them with a grimy finger.
Glancing over his shoulder, Luke saw Jonno’s eyes begin to close. He turned back to the table. Carefully he pulled out a small leather wallet hidden beneath the pile of photographs and flipped it open. He never took it with him. Couldn’t risk losing it. He allowed his eyes to rest on the familiar smiling images.
Luke inhaled sharply, blinking in the dim glow of the overhead light. Melissa’s two year-old cheeky grin tugged at his heart. The dull ache in his chest returned.
“Y’all get any good shots yesterday?” Jonno’s Southern drawl drifted across the room.
A smile inched up one corner of Luke’s mouth and he pushed the album back under the other pictures. “Thought you were asleep.”
Silence. Another yawn from Jonno.
“Luke?”
“What?” He placed his palms flat on the table and drew in a breath. His lids grew heavy. When had he slept last? Yesterday? The day before?
“Do you ever wonder if…if it’s the right thing to do?”
Luke pulled at the collar of his damp t-shirt and squared his shoulders. His pulse pounded through a tendon in his jaw and he rubbed the bruised spot, grimacing. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around. “I can have you transferred to somebody else if you’d prefer. Just say the word.”
“Nah.” Jonno grunted. “I’m cool. Don’t sweat it.”
“Okay. Sleep. I’m going to shower.”
~
Kristin woke with a start. Still in her jeans and t-shirt, she squinted in the darkened room, getting her bearings. Where was she? Ah, yes. Vietnam. She stretched her arms above her head and smiled. Then bolted upright.
‘You’re listing to Armed Forces Radio, Vietnam. Current time is nine oh, oh. We’re looking for a high of ninety-eight degrees today, folks. Now, here’s a little Rolling Stones to get you going this fine morning. ‘It’s Not Easy’. You all stay safe out there…’
The radio. Kristin ran a hand down her face and let out her breath. Caroline must have arrived. A man’s chuckle reached her ears. And brought some friends back with her. She worked the kinks out of her neck, pushed herself off the bed and wandered barefoot across the threadbare carpet out into the next room.
“Don’t move.”
Kristin froze, swallowed back a scream and stared down the barrel of a small pistol.
Because I don't want to have to answer any more questions from well-meaning relatives and friends that sound something like this, "When is your book coming out?" "I couldn't find your book on Amazon..." and so on...let me clarify.
I am not published nor under contract with a publisher, and the chances of that happening in the next year are...well...bleak. So stop asking.
With that said, I'll give you a present.
Since you won't be reading any of my work for a while in real book form, I thought I'd put it out here for you to read on my blog. A chapter a week. My only request, (and I realize I can't hold you to this), is that if you are reading, please tell me you are. Hate it, love it, whatever. Feedback is golden, so bring it on.
A little history...
This book takes place during the Vietnam war. I have no idea why. I just woke up one day with this idea in my head and there it was. I lived and breathed Vietnam for about a year. A LOT of blood, sweat and tears went in to the writing and re-writing, and re-writing of this novel.
It is, as they say, the book of my heart.
I do believe it will be published one day despite predictions to the contrary.
But for now, I give you,
Yesterday's Tomorrow.
© Catherine West. 2009.
Prologue
February 1954
Didn’t they know they were shouting so loud the neighbors could hear?
Kristin Taylor huddled in bed, drew her knees to her chest and clapped her hands over her ears. It was past ten o’clock. She was supposed to be asleep, but their heated argument woke her. Again. Through the thin wall she heard Daddy’s voice rise and Mom burst into tears. Kristin gritted her teeth and began to hum her favorite song, Somewhere Over the Rainbow.
A moment of peace settled over the brownstone apartment. Kristin smiled and wiped her eyes. It worked every time, even if she couldn’t hit the high notes.
Dad started yelling again. She blew out a breath and switched on the lamp on her bedside table, illuminating her small room. Something smashed against the other side of her wall and shattered. More yells. Kristin narrowed her eyes. She threw back the covers. How could she sleep with this racket going on?
She hopped off her bed and pushed her arms through the sleeves of her thick flannel robe. No way would she be able to walk past Mrs. Jenkins’ tomorrow on the way home from school. Their old nosey neighbor would surely invite her in for cookies and milk and try to get the story out of her.
The air felt cold in contrast to her warm bed as Kristin padded barefoot across the faded rug to her dresser. She ran a hand along the stack of books squashed between two hand-carved wooden bookends. The frayed bindings of Heidi, Jane Eyre, Great Expectations and Pride and Prejudice and her Bible, shared space with all the Agatha Christie novels Kristin could get her hands on. Every once in a while Mom came in to clean, found them, screamed and threatened to throw them out, but Daddy wouldn’t let her.
“The child has an inquisitive mind, Val. We should encourage that.”
“And you do a fine job,” Mom retaliated. “She’s only twelve years old! She should be reading something more…genteel…what’s wrong with The Brontë sisters?”
Kristin suddenly remembered the Ian Fleming book hidden under her bed and grinned. Dad snuck it in to her room a couple of nights ago. She’d start it now. Hopefully she could finish the whole story before Mom got her hands on it.
Her eyes landed on the silver framed black-and-white image of Daddy getting his Pulitzer two years ago. They said he was probably the youngest journalist to ever receive the award. She should be proud. She was. Mom didn’t seem so happy about it. Everyone wanted Daddy to go all over the world now.
As the shouting died down again, she heard the distinct sound of drawers being pulled open and slammed shut. And she heard something else too.
Teddy.
Kristin tiptoed down the hall to her brother’s room. The lamp on the dresser shed a soft glow over Teddy’s round face. He sat up in his bed, fists curled into balls held against his chest. His eyes were scrunched tight—as if that would make it stop.
Compassion for him rose as she saw his shoulders shaking. He was always afraid she’d make fun of him for being a crybaby. Not tonight. She wanted to cry too.
She skipped over Lincoln logs and Tinkertoys and scrambled up onto the bed beside him, eager to get her cold feet under the covers. “Scooch over.”
Teddy’s bottom lip quivered but he made a supreme effort to stop crying, and shifted his small frame to give her room in the twin bed. She put an arm around his trembling shoulders and squeezed. He let out a long sigh that matched her own. “Is…Daddy…gonna leave again?”
Kristin hated the hot tears that pricked her eyes. She couldn’t fall apart. Teddy needed her. Later, Mom probably would too. She stiffened and set her jaw. “I don’t know. I heard them talking earlier. His editor wants to send him to Vietnam.”
“Vietnam?” Teddy looked up at her, his blue eyes turning gray in the dim light of his bedroom. “Where’s that?”
Kristin rolled her eyes but immediately felt guilty. He was only ten for crying out loud. Well, almost ten. She couldn’t expect him to know everything. “Some place far away.”
“Why do they want him to go there?”
Because the French and the Vietnamese are fighting a big war and they want him to write about it. Because he’s the best war correspondent that ever lived… Kristin ran her tongue over her bottom lip and tried not to get frustrated. “Because he has to go talk to some important people and write a story about it.”
Teddy sniffed and rubbed his eyes. “Why can’t somebody else do it? I want Dad to stay here. Tomorrow’s my birthday. We’re going to the ice rink, remember?”
“Yeah. I remember.”
Teddy shivered and leaned against her shoulder. “But he’ll come back, right?”
Kristin screwed up her nose. Why did Teddy always ask her everything? Couldn’t he figure something out for himself for once?
“Kris?”
“What?”
“He’ll come back, right? And then we’ll go skating?”
She tried to smile but her heart pounded too fast. “Of course he’s coming back. He always comes back, dummy.”
“You promise?”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. “I promise. Now can you go back to sleep? It’s getting late.”
The shouts grew louder, closer. Kristin scrambled off Teddy’s bed and went to the door. She poked her head out in time to see her parents brush past her. Daddy held a suitcase in one hand, his battered leather briefcase in the other. And his coat was slung over one arm. Kristin glanced back at Teddy, about to tell him to stay put, but her brother was already behind her, standing barefoot in blue cotton pajamas, his dark hair tousled, an errant cowlick falling over one red-rimmed eye.
Her heart hammering against her chest, she put out her hand. “Come on.”
With Teddy just behind her, squeezing her fingers so hard she thought he might pull them off, they ran down the stairs, drawing up short at the entrance to the living room. The French doors were open. Teddy slammed into her and jumped back with a yelp. Mom and Dad turned their way.
Mom let out a little cry and shook her head, then put her mad face on. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“We couldn’t sleep.” Kristin brushed hair out of her eyes and stuck out her chin. “You were making a lot of noise.”
Mom threw up her hands and huffed, sinking onto the couch. Kristin couldn’t remember ever seeing her wear her hair down, but tonight it fell around her cheeks and curled on her shoulders. She would have looked pretty if her face wasn’t so red and her eyes all puffy.
Mom glared at Dad, pulled at the belt around her green woolen dress and kicked off her high heels. “All yours, Mac.”
Dad rubbed his jaw, set his bags down and released a sigh from somewhere deep inside. His lips stretched apart in a feeble attempt at a smile. Dark circles lined his brown eyes and stubble covered his jaw. Guilt skittered across his face as he looked from her to Teddy.
The air suddenly got sucked out of the room, like someone untying the knot of a balloon. Kristin shook her head and yanked the sash of her robe as tight as it would go. He was leaving.
Dad dropped to one knee in front of them and held out both arms. “Come here.”
Teddy let her hand go and ran to him. She knew he would. And he’d probably start crying again. But she wouldn’t. Kristin folded her arms and stayed put, challenging her father with her eyes. He veered his gaze and concentrated on Teddy.
She stood there, like playing statues in gym class, listening while he gave his excuses to Teddy. Of course he had no choice. He never did.
Her brother could be placated with promises of season’s tickets to the Red Sox and a long train-ride from South Station to Grand Central and back, but she wasn’t going to play that game. Kristin blinked away tears as Teddy threw his arms around Dad’s neck and hugged him tight. Then Mom took Teddy by the hand and led him back upstairs.
Kristin shifted on the thin rug, wishing she’d put on her slippers. Dad’s knees creaked as he rose and made his way toward her. He reached for her hand but she tightened her arms. A tear escaped and rolled off down her cheek. Kristin lowered her head.
“Oh, Kris.” Dad knelt before her. His hands warmed her arms through the sleeves of her robe. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
Kristin slowly raised her chin until she made eye contact. “Sorry.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What do you have to be sorry for?”
She shrugged, but couldn’t think of anything either.
Kristin noticed for the first time a few streaks of gray in his hair. His white starched shirt sat open at the collar, his thin black tie slightly askew. Dad’s eyes were bright, sad. His strong mouth lifted into a grin as he wiped a tear from her cheek with the base of his thumb. When she sniffed, moisture shot up her nose. She gave a small involuntary shiver.
“Are you going to Vietnam to write about the war?” She hoped she’d been wrong, but knew she wasn’t.
A shadow ran across his face and he frowned. Then something chased off the sad look and he chuckled. “You’re going to make a fine journalist one day, young lady.”
Kristin rolled her eyes and pushed out her bottom lip. “Mom won’t let me.”
“Sure she will. By then you’ll be all grown up. Making your own decisions. Leaving your old man in the dust.”
“We could write stories together,” she offered. “Taylor and Taylor.” Her grin faltered as she watched his eyes moisten. Kristin sucked in a breath. Dad never cried.
He pulled her to him and rested his lips against her forehead for a moment. “Sounds good to me.” He sat back on his heels, solemn. “Look after your brother.”
“I always do.”
“And don’t fight with your Mom.”
Kristin looked down, studying the scuffs on his normally shiny shoes.
“Kristin?”
“Okay. I won’t.” She met his eyes again and the lump in her throat got bigger. Her skin prickled as an odd sensation slid down her spine. He’d left before. Lots of times. But this felt different. “You’re coming back, right?”
His face cracked in a funny sort of smile. “Of course I am. But you’ll pray for me, every night, just like always?”
“Yeah.” She tried to smile back. “God will keep you safe, Dad. He always does.” Kristin put her arms around him and rested her head against his shoulder as he hugged her. She inhaled by habit. Tobacco and coffee mingled with the cologne he always wore. She could never remember the name of it but they got a bottle for his birthday every year. He said he didn’t mind, but maybe this year they should do something different.
A flash of headlights chased dust across the room. Dad stood, his smile gone. “There’s my cab.”
Kristin watched Mom come forward and Dad take her in his arms. They stood together in silence for a while. Mom stepped back, rested her palm flat against Dad’s face. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. His hand came over hers and their eyes met as he pulled her closer and kissed her, a long kiss that seemed to go on forever. Kristin almost felt she shouldn’t be watching. But she was glad she was.
“Why does it have to be tonight?” Mom whispered.
Dad shrugged, tucking a strand of her thick hair behind her ear. “War doesn’t wait on birthdays, Valerie.” Dad pulled on his coat, gave Mom a final kiss and picked up his bags. “I’ll call when I can.” He turned to Kristin. “Bye, kiddo. I love you.”
The little girl in her wanted to run back into her father’s arms and beg him not to go. But she wasn’t a little girl. She would turn thirteen this year. “Bye, Dad. Love you, too.”
Mom walked with him to the door. Kristin raced to the window at the front of the room, pressed her nose against the cold glass and watched Dad get into the waiting cab.
A light snow swirled around the soft yellow glow of the streetlamp outside their building. Maybe it would storm and his flight wouldn’t be able to leave Boston. Kristin pushed harder against the windowpane. It wouldn’t matter. He’d get another one. His job was very important. More important than anything else.
Even them.
The taxi pulled out onto the deserted street and Kristin squinted through the window. Her breath made it fog up and she wiped furiously, seeing Dad raise a hand in her direction. She waved back just in time before he drove away.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
“Do not go out into the fields, or out onto the roads, for the enemy has a sword, and there is terror on every side.” Jeremiah 6:25
“The past cannot be erased, nor forgotten. Flash photography; hellish images carved into our minds, emblazoned in our hearts forever. Golden threads hold yesterday together and form the foundations for tomorrow.
But what of today?” Kristin Taylor - Yesterday’s Tomorrow: Vietnam – My Story. 1979
Chapter One
February 1967, Saigon, Vietnam.
Kristin shuffled along in the line of travel-weary passengers that trickled off the plane. Blinking as her eyes adjusted to the daylight, she shook off sleep and gripped the handrail, walking on unsteady legs down the metal steps. When her shoes hit the tarmac of Tan Son Nhut airport, tears sprang to her eyes. Her hand went to the intricately carved cross that hung around her neck. She rubbed the thick gold between her thumb and forefinger.
I’m here, Dad.
She stepped aside to let others pass while she shifted her heavy duffel bag on her shoulder and took in her surroundings. The early morning sun’s rays jack-knifed off the tarred surface and created a stifling heat. It couldn’t be more than seven o’clock and already the warmth engulfed her. Pungent fumes of gasoline tickled her nose. Kristin pulled on dark sunglasses and looked down the runway.
Aircraft of varying description lined the blacktop. Everything from helicopters to small fighter jets, to the Pan American Boeing 707 she had just exited. Gray, green and brown flying machines blended together in an impressive show of US military power.
She’d have to start learning all the names of the helicopters and planes she envisioned herself soon jumping aboard.
Army personnel moved smoothly around most of the aircrafts, refueling and working on engines. Rows of enlisted men lined up to board a larger plane also being loaded with cargo. Soldiers sweating in the heat heaved supplies on to the plane’s large interior. Over the roar of engines, shouts punched the air as commanding officers rounded up their companies. Her pulse quickened as she scanned the groups of soldiers, searching, hoping...
Kristin gave a slight shake of her head. As if she’d run in to Teddy the minute she stepped off the plane.
The night before he shipped out, three months ago now, her brother had called from San Francisco. He told her and Mom not to worry. He’d been eager to go, a little apprehensive, but held no doubt that serving his country was the right thing to do.
During a lull in the activity on the tarmac, a low rumbling somewhere off in the distance reached her ears. An explosion?
A surge of adrenaline shot through her. She longed to get a closer look at the men, but turned away, catching up with the rest of the arrivals as they filtered in to the crowded airport. Vietnamese men and women dressed in colorful pajama-like clothing darted in and out of the maze of olive-green and khaki uniforms. Strong odors of perfume, tobacco and other more unpleasant smells wafted around her.
Her eyes tracked the signage, all in Vietnamese, and her ears captured the quickly spoken foreign tongue on every side of her. Maybe this wouldn’t be as easy as she’d imagined. A slow seed of doubt began to take root.
Well, Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.
Kristin moved along with the crowd through Immigration, brightening when she spied the doors that led out of the airport. Then reality set in.
She’d made it to Vietnam. Now what?
She ignored the slight twinge of panic and glanced around the long room, searching for the four journalists she’d sat beside on the last leg of the flight. They were on their way back to Saigon from a stay in Hong Kong for R&R and had been quite happy to chat.
Their stories fascinated her. Scared her. The Frenchman’s tales seemed a bit too dramatic though. He wore a teasing look the whole time. Caroline, the only other female on the flight, sounded like she might be British. They’d greeted each other, she’d told Kristin she worked for United Press International, but that was all.
Kristin wasn’t working for anyone. Yet.
“Ah, Kristin, chèrie.” Strange relief flooded through her at the sound of her own name being called in the midst of this foreign chaos. The Frenchman, Jean Luc, bustled toward her, carrying two large cases. “’Ave you got your stuff?”
“This is it.” She tugged on her bag loaded with all her worldly possessions, including her typewriter. Sweat formed on her brow and a drop rolled down the side of her face. Fatigue slowly descended.
“You ‘ave got a place to stay, oui?
“No, actually, I don’t.”
Ludicrous as that sounded, Jean Luc didn’t bat an eye. “Oy.” One suitcase hit the ground with a thud as he dropped it and ran a hand through his shoulder length hair. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled to the group huddled together on the far side of the terminal building. “Caroline, sweetie, a minute please…” He waved her over. Breathing heavily, he pulled a faded red bandana from the chest pocket of his beige Safari shirt and wiped his brow. He turned to Kristin, soft brown eyes sparkling. “You don’t move, oui?”
“Oui.” Kristin let her bag slide off her shoulder and positioned herself on the top of one of his large leather cases and watched Jean Luc lumber over to meet Caroline halfway. Not moving sounded just fine. It wasn’t like she had anywhere to go anyway. Or even knew where to go.
Oh, yeah. She’d done some stupid things in her twenty-five years, but this—quitting her job at The Daily and hopping a plane to Vietnam—definitely topped the list.
Kristin glanced at her watch, mentally calculating the time back in Boston.
Oy indeed. Oy vey. Mom would be pacing the living room, either holding the letter Kristin left for her or ripping it up. Either way, the next time they saw each other would not be anything to look forward to.
They’d fought for weeks over her determination to come here. Mom agreed with Kristin’s editor. Former editor. A war zone was no place for a woman. Besides that, she’d pulled the old religious guilt trip. Had Kristin prayed about it? How did she know it was God’s will for her to go to Vietnam?
She didn’t. But she was pretty sure God didn’t care one way or another. Kristin stopped praying a long time ago—the day they got the news that Dad had been killed in Vietnam.
Mom would calm down. Kristin would call home once she got a job. Her mother would see reason. Eventually.
Kristin pushed her hair out of her face, sweat stinging her eyes. She longed for a long drink and a good night’s sleep, her level of hunger and exhaustion escalating at the prospect. In the excitement of her first long flight, she’d hardly slept or eaten. If she didn’t come up with some place to go soon, she’d just curl up right here in the airport.
Jean Luc returned, flushed but beaming. “Okay. We ‘ave a plan.”
Caroline, the tall leggy blond with a face so flawless she could pass for a model, stood beside him. “Jean Luc says you need a place to stay.” She raised a thin eyebrow, lit a cigarette and blew smoke over Kristin’s head. Kristin nodded.
Caroline sniffed, her expression thoughtful. “My roomie’s gone back to New Zealand. It’s a one bedroom flat, two beds, small kitchen and bathroom, a block away from The Majestic Hotel, where a lot of the press guys stay. I’m in and out of the city. If you’re interested…”
Kristin’s jaw dropped. What unbelievable luck. But how would she pay for this? Her savings might last a month or two at best. Hope flickered and died. “Um. How much…I…”
Caroline stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette on the stone floor with the high heel of her boot. Her clear blue eyes roamed over Kristin’s face. “You don’t have a job, do you…what was your name again?”
“Kristin Taylor.” Kristin stiffened, pushing herself to a standing position. Although they were probably around the same age, Caroline gave off an air of superiority she hadn’t picked up on earlier. “I plan to get work as a stringer. I’ll have the money.” Did she really want this woman as a flat-mate? She didn’t even know her. She could be psychotic. Kristin ran her tongue over her dry lips. The alternative was…well, there wasn’t one.
Caroline frowned, as though mulling it over. “You know you’ll need press credentials if you want to get anywhere outside the city. I’m sure something will come up though. Listen, why don’t you go and have a look at the place? I’ve got to get to a meeting with my boss, but here…” She foraged in her shoulder bag and came up with a notepad and pen. She handed Kristin a piece of paper. Kristin squinted at the barely legible writing.
“Thanks, where—”
“Right, I’ve got to run. Oh, here’s the key, but the apartment should be unlocked. Madame Dupont, my landlady, does laundry for me. She always forgets to lock the door. Just ignore the mess. I’ll stop by the flat later and we can chat. Ta.” Caroline marched off to rejoin her comrades, leaving Kristin to suck air in her perfumed wake.
Jean Luc clapped his big hands together, clearly pleased with himself. “Voilà! We can share a cab, oui?”
“Oui.” Kristin picked up her bag and smiled. She’d made it to Vietnam. She had a place to stay. Next, she’d get a job. She’d show them back home what she was made of. Her former boss would regret not sending her here to write for The Daily.
She could do this. She had to do this.
The drive to the apartment building in Saigon turned in to an interminable journey of stopping and starting. The putrid smell inside the beat up blue Renault taxi was almost unbearable. Jean Luc grinned and pinched his nose. Kristin leaned a little closer to the open window, peering around her in fascination.
Men, women and children jostled for space along sidewalks amongst what she could only assume were peddlers in brightly colored tunics and trousers, wearing large conical shaped hats. Many bowed under the weight of a wooden bar balanced across their shoulders on which a straw basket hung from each side. Large green avocados piled high in some, while other baskets held bright oranges and some other fruit she didn’t recognize.
Tall trees lined the city sidewalks, their lush branches giving much needed shade from the blistering sun. They passed rows of concrete buildings, some almost comparable to what she’d left back in Boston, but no skyscrapers. Much of the architecture, especially the churches and the larger houses, appeared French in design, painted in shades of blue, peach, pink and yellow. As they veered off on to smaller side streets, shops of every description almost sat on top of each other. Striped awnings overhung many of them. Fruit stalls, vegetable stalls and…oh, gross. Kristin covered her mouth with her hand. What was that?
“You don’t eat from there. Ever.” Jean Luc pointed at the hanging animal carcasses and made a horrible face. Kristin looked beyond the vile sight. No chance of that, Jean Luc.
As they drove further along, burnt out shops and dilapidated structures here and there told of the ravages of war, and its toll on the city.
“I thought Saigon was relatively safe.” She turned to him, apprehension crawling up her spine. Her palms were moist against the ripped leather seat of the cab.
He grinned and lit a cigarette. “What is relative, chèrie?”
Kristin shrugged and pushed down trepidation. “You’re right.” She’d come here to do a job, once she got one, to cover the war. And she would prove her worth as a journalist. Of course it would have been much easier if her editor had just given her the chance. Instead, they’d chosen to send Joe Hines, twice her age and overweight. Poor Joe wouldn’t last a week in Vietnam.
Kristin shook off thoughts of home and stared out the window again. The number of vehicles on the roads startled her. Cars, military jeeps and trucks jammed every bit of the asphalt. Pedal-bikes and motorcycles zipped on by, weaving in and out of the traffic. Powerful fumes stung her eyes and made them water. The cab inched along until there was a break in the traffic.
Men pushing pedicabs ran along the side of the road. Kristin flinched each time they passed one, thinking the cab would surely hit it, and send the runner and his passengers flying.
Stifling heat emanated through her pores. Never a fan of bitter cold, Kristin looked forward to a change in climate, but hadn’t anticipated the oppression of this sauna-like atmosphere despite the way Teddy had described it.
Her fingers slipped into the pocket of her jeans and felt for the thin envelope, her brother’s last letter to her before she’d left the United States. She wiped sweat from her brow and frowned. He hadn’t revealed his location, but she knew he was a combat medic with Charlie company. He could be anywhere. But she’d find him. After leaving Mom the way she had, Kristin vowed to get some news on her brother to send back home. The letters he wrote gave little information. Mom had tried to mask her worry, but Kristin knew how hard this was on her. She worried about Teddy too.
The cab pulled up outside a large white five-story building with a rounded front. The words Hotel Majestic in large black lettering teetered at the top of the building.
“This is me.” Jean Luc gathered his gear and grasped her hand. “Later, chèrie. Come for a drink, okay?”
“Cool. Thanks.” Kristin watched her only friend in Vietnam disappear through the glass doors of the hotel and suddenly felt very much alone.
The car jerked and spluttered and pulled back in to traffic, and she stifled a yawn She’d never been so tired… she’d just close her eyes for a minute…
The next thing she knew the driver was shouting at her in Vietnamese. Kristin squinted up at the three-storey building in front of her. Distinctly French in architecture, pink paint crumbled in places where the cement had shifted. Two sorry-looking potted palm trees sat sentry at the entrance. A small brass nameplate on the side of the building read: La Maison Dupont.
Good enough. She paid her driver and made her way inside. She entered a small living room area and glanced around. There wasn’t much to see. The worn wallpaper looked like it had once been pink. A tattered Persian rug curled at the edges lay on the floor in front of the reception desk. Two faded rose-patterned easy chairs were positioned in front of a fireplace. Kristin almost laughed aloud as sweat dripped down her back. When would they ever need that?
“Hello? Madame Dupont?” She glanced over a raised wooden desk into a miniscule office. Nobody answered except a black cat that jumped down from the counter and prowled around her legs. Kristin cringed and moved aside. “Stay out of my way, cat, and we’ll get along just fine.”
She called out again but the place appeared deserted. Kristin turned toward the only set of stairs in view. Caroline said her flat was on the second floor, first door on the left. She heaved her bag to her other shoulder and made her way to the darkened stairway. The stairs creaked under her. A thin carpet runner proved more of a hindrance, bare in spots and easy to trip over. Nails stuck out of the wood here and there and she took her time avoiding them. As she reached the top, Kristin breathed a sigh of relief.
A long dark hallway stretched out before her. She raised her eyes and looked for the light. Two bare bulbs hung from the ceiling. Finding the switch, she flicked it upward. Nothing.
Squinting through the semi-darkness, Kristin studied Caroline’s instructions. Even if she could see the writing, she probably couldn’t read it. A wave of exhaustion swept over her and she stumbled toward the door on the left. Tried the knob and sure enough, it was open.
She found the light switch on the wall and thankfully this time the overhead light came on. Kristin widened her eyes. This was more than just a mess. A hurricane had ripped through the small apartment. That, or her new roommate was a total slob. She stepped over piles of clothes and magazines. A large pair of muddy combat boots sat in one corner near the door.
“Hello?”
Only her own voice echoed back to her.
Kristin didn’t bother to pull up the blinds as she poked around the boxy rooms. All she really wanted to do was sleep. She found a tiny kitchen and one bedroom with two twin beds. One bed was unmade, sheets tangled every which way. The second bed was covered in a light mauve bedspread, what looked to be freshly folded sheets sitting on the single pillow.
The battered-looking dresser was cluttered with newspapers, camera film and notebooks. A cramped bathroom tiled in white lay off the bedroom. A shower just big enough for one thin person, a cast iron claw-foot tub and toilet took up most of the space. Towels lay strewn across the floor. Judging by the musty smell that filled the room, they’d been there a while. But the small circular tiles on the wall sparkled, and Kristin smiled. Perhaps she could just live in the bathroom.
Thirst scratched her throat as she retraced her steps to the kitchen. Her hand shaking from exhaustion and lack of sustenance, she turned the tap. It squeaked and sputtered, then spat out a slow stream of water. Kristin frowned at the brown tinge. She washed her hands but decided not to drink it. She’d have to boil some water to keep in the fridge. Assuming there is one…
A brief scan of the room revealed a cubic four by four, almost hidden behind the door. Bits of rust showed through the white paint. She pulled the handle, opened the door and quickly shut it again, gagging as the odor of sour milk reached her nose.
Back in the living room Kristin surveyed the mess. Ear-splitting honks from the street below startled her. She’d have to get used to the noise, as well as the heat. She didn’t dare close the window for fear of suffocating. An upward glance showed her a ceiling fan, and she pulled the cord. The groan and shudder it gave made her jump out of range, but the blades began to move and warm air circled around her. Better than nothing.
Kristin lugged her bag across the scuffed wood floor into the bedroom. Maybe she could take a nap while she waited for Caroline to show up. She stretched her arms over her head and yawned. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. The empty bed looked inviting. Folded sheets, a blanket and pillow sat at its head. Another yawn overtook her. Yes, a nap would be very good. Very good indeed.
~
Luke Maddox entered his apartment, chucked his duffel bag across the living room and shuddered as a yawn escaped him. Jonno sauntered in after him and let out a low whistle.
“Holy cow, what happened in here? Looks like a tornado hit the place, man.”
Luke chuckled and made for the kitchen. He pulled open the rusted four by four fridge and scanned the contents and quickly stepped back. Moldy cheese. Milk—yellow milk. And…well, he didn’t know what that was. Something green and slimy, and definitely not edible. Only a jug of boiled water on the bottom shelf remained safe. Madame came in to refill it every morning.
He shut the door and let out the breath he’d been holding. “There’s no food. I haven’t been home in a while. Sorry.” He returned to the living room. His friend was already stretched out on the couch. Jonno turned on his side, pulled an issue of Time magazine out from under his head and dropped it to the floor.
“Too tired to eat anyway. I’m just gonna…sleep.”
“Okay.” Luke pushed his fingers through his hair and frowned. Dirt was embedded in his pores. He knew if he looked in the mirror his face would be covered in the red soil they ripped over for half the night. Exhaustion crept over him. He clenched his jaw and strode over to the round table by the window, pulled his camera strap over his head and set the Nikon down. Photographs covered almost the entire surface. He poked at them with a grimy finger.
Glancing over his shoulder, Luke saw Jonno’s eyes begin to close. He turned back to the table. Carefully he pulled out a small leather wallet hidden beneath the pile of photographs and flipped it open. He never took it with him. Couldn’t risk losing it. He allowed his eyes to rest on the familiar smiling images.
Luke inhaled sharply, blinking in the dim glow of the overhead light. Melissa’s two year-old cheeky grin tugged at his heart. The dull ache in his chest returned.
“Y’all get any good shots yesterday?” Jonno’s Southern drawl drifted across the room.
A smile inched up one corner of Luke’s mouth and he pushed the album back under the other pictures. “Thought you were asleep.”
Silence. Another yawn from Jonno.
“Luke?”
“What?” He placed his palms flat on the table and drew in a breath. His lids grew heavy. When had he slept last? Yesterday? The day before?
“Do you ever wonder if…if it’s the right thing to do?”
Luke pulled at the collar of his damp t-shirt and squared his shoulders. His pulse pounded through a tendon in his jaw and he rubbed the bruised spot, grimacing. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around. “I can have you transferred to somebody else if you’d prefer. Just say the word.”
“Nah.” Jonno grunted. “I’m cool. Don’t sweat it.”
“Okay. Sleep. I’m going to shower.”
~
Kristin woke with a start. Still in her jeans and t-shirt, she squinted in the darkened room, getting her bearings. Where was she? Ah, yes. Vietnam. She stretched her arms above her head and smiled. Then bolted upright.
‘You’re listing to Armed Forces Radio, Vietnam. Current time is nine oh, oh. We’re looking for a high of ninety-eight degrees today, folks. Now, here’s a little Rolling Stones to get you going this fine morning. ‘It’s Not Easy’. You all stay safe out there…’
The radio. Kristin ran a hand down her face and let out her breath. Caroline must have arrived. A man’s chuckle reached her ears. And brought some friends back with her. She worked the kinks out of her neck, pushed herself off the bed and wandered barefoot across the threadbare carpet out into the next room.
“Don’t move.”
Kristin froze, swallowed back a scream and stared down the barrel of a small pistol.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Of Time Warps and Other Fascinating Aspects of The Human Mind...
Gotcha, didn't I? Seriously, it took me like an hour to think up that title. Well, not really.
Time Warp - what's the first thing you think of when you hear that? Now, come on, be honest.
I know some of you are singing in your head...yeah, Rocky Horror Picture Show...what? Hey, I watched it. I had the album. Guess what, I'm not going to hell. Oh, I said the H word. Yes, I'm in one of those moods.
After the week I've had since I last blogged, I'm not in any shape to discuss doctrine or anything remotely religious with you. I'm going to use the quote I stole from my dear friend Leslie Farthing, who lived with us for about half a year, who upon excusing herself from a rather heated doctrinal discussion one night, said. "I love Jesus, Jesus loves me, and that's all I have to say."
So tonight, as the wind blows a gale and I sit here surfing the Internet, I thought I'd talk about Facebook.
I love Facebook. Do you? Yep, there she goes asking those questions again... Come on, tell me you haven't spent hours looking for old friends, giggling over pictures from days gone by and, well, um..gawking...at what has become of some people.
I know I spend too much time on Facebook some days, but it's so easy to get caught up in people's lives isn't it? You know what they call you if you continually check out other people's profiles, right? A creeper.
Yeah, that's right. I'm trying to get away from that one.
As in all things in life, moderation is the key. I'm trying to figure out how to get rid of all the annoying things on Facebook like Applications. I mean really, who wants to be voted Miss Sexy or whatever it is? I don't think I have ever or will ever qualify for that award, thank you very much!
But I digress.
Although there are many things about Facebook that I love, I do have to wonder if there is a danger of getting stuck in a Time Warp. Remembering the 'good old days' when you didn't have screaming kids or melodramatic teenagers and bills up the wazoo. Nights when you could stay out 'till all hours because you could sleep until noon, the days when you were twenty or so odd pounds lighter, and could actually walk into a room and know why you went in there. Days when Billy Whathisface thought you were pretty hot stuff with your pink coveralls, roller skates, permed hair and watermelon lip gloss. Men at Work, Duran Duran and Billy Idol were all you needed. Yeah. Those were the days weren't they?
So along comes Facebook. All of a sudden you're not alone in your memories. They're coming to life on the page in front of you! It's a virtual class reuniion! So...what if you decide to look up BillyWhatisface and hey, he's still got it going on, is newly divorced and starts sending you messages?
NOW HOLD ON - this is NOT happening to me, I'm just saying, hypothetically...I can see this happening. Can't you? I mean, why do we call them 'the good old days'?
Because they were good!!
At least we thought they were. They still are - in our memories.
Our teeny, tiny, selective memories.
I can remember a lot of things like they happened yesterday. That doesn't mean I should.
Maybe they were good things, maybe they weren't, but they're done. Finito.
I do not believe that God intends us to live in the past.
I'm not sure why my memory works the way it does. I'd like to remember what I did an hour ago rather than what I was doing twenty years ago at this exact moment, but I haven't figured out how to do that yet.
I'm still trying to decide how I really feel about Facebook. I love the fact that I can interact with my 'now' friends, people who are a part of my life, my writing buddies, my sister, all my relatives and bff's, but I'm not so sure I like the way it takes me back to the past. Sure there are a lot of great things in my past, but there are other things, other memories and events, that I'd rather not be reminded of.
So why do you think we have such vivid memories of the past? Is it to punish us? To remind us on a daily basis how stupid we actually were?
I don't really know. No, not a punishment, I don't believe, but a reminder? Perhaps.
If you don't know what that means yet, I promise you, at some point in your life, you will.
None of us are immune from the ways of this world. We're all going to make mistakes.
But only a handful of us will learn from them.
I don't know about you, but I'm going to enjoy Facebook for what it's worth.
To me.
If I feel like I'm getting sucked into that Time Warp, I'll remind myself that life really wasn't so hot underneath the disco lights. Those roller skates hurt my feet.
Rum Swizzles were...well, we won't even go there.
And my husband still doesn't like Watermelon flavored lipgloss.
Time Warp - what's the first thing you think of when you hear that? Now, come on, be honest.
I know some of you are singing in your head...yeah, Rocky Horror Picture Show...what? Hey, I watched it. I had the album. Guess what, I'm not going to hell. Oh, I said the H word. Yes, I'm in one of those moods.
After the week I've had since I last blogged, I'm not in any shape to discuss doctrine or anything remotely religious with you. I'm going to use the quote I stole from my dear friend Leslie Farthing, who lived with us for about half a year, who upon excusing herself from a rather heated doctrinal discussion one night, said. "I love Jesus, Jesus loves me, and that's all I have to say."
So tonight, as the wind blows a gale and I sit here surfing the Internet, I thought I'd talk about Facebook.
I love Facebook. Do you? Yep, there she goes asking those questions again... Come on, tell me you haven't spent hours looking for old friends, giggling over pictures from days gone by and, well, um..gawking...at what has become of some people.
I know I spend too much time on Facebook some days, but it's so easy to get caught up in people's lives isn't it? You know what they call you if you continually check out other people's profiles, right? A creeper.
Yeah, that's right. I'm trying to get away from that one.
As in all things in life, moderation is the key. I'm trying to figure out how to get rid of all the annoying things on Facebook like Applications. I mean really, who wants to be voted Miss Sexy or whatever it is? I don't think I have ever or will ever qualify for that award, thank you very much!
But I digress.
Although there are many things about Facebook that I love, I do have to wonder if there is a danger of getting stuck in a Time Warp. Remembering the 'good old days' when you didn't have screaming kids or melodramatic teenagers and bills up the wazoo. Nights when you could stay out 'till all hours because you could sleep until noon, the days when you were twenty or so odd pounds lighter, and could actually walk into a room and know why you went in there. Days when Billy Whathisface thought you were pretty hot stuff with your pink coveralls, roller skates, permed hair and watermelon lip gloss. Men at Work, Duran Duran and Billy Idol were all you needed. Yeah. Those were the days weren't they?
So along comes Facebook. All of a sudden you're not alone in your memories. They're coming to life on the page in front of you! It's a virtual class reuniion! So...what if you decide to look up BillyWhatisface and hey, he's still got it going on, is newly divorced and starts sending you messages?
NOW HOLD ON - this is NOT happening to me, I'm just saying, hypothetically...I can see this happening. Can't you? I mean, why do we call them 'the good old days'?
Because they were good!!
At least we thought they were. They still are - in our memories.
Our teeny, tiny, selective memories.
I can remember a lot of things like they happened yesterday. That doesn't mean I should.
Maybe they were good things, maybe they weren't, but they're done. Finito.
I do not believe that God intends us to live in the past.
I'm not sure why my memory works the way it does. I'd like to remember what I did an hour ago rather than what I was doing twenty years ago at this exact moment, but I haven't figured out how to do that yet.
I'm still trying to decide how I really feel about Facebook. I love the fact that I can interact with my 'now' friends, people who are a part of my life, my writing buddies, my sister, all my relatives and bff's, but I'm not so sure I like the way it takes me back to the past. Sure there are a lot of great things in my past, but there are other things, other memories and events, that I'd rather not be reminded of.
So why do you think we have such vivid memories of the past? Is it to punish us? To remind us on a daily basis how stupid we actually were?
I don't really know. No, not a punishment, I don't believe, but a reminder? Perhaps.
But by the grace of God go I.
If you don't know what that means yet, I promise you, at some point in your life, you will.
None of us are immune from the ways of this world. We're all going to make mistakes.
But only a handful of us will learn from them.
I don't know about you, but I'm going to enjoy Facebook for what it's worth.
To me.
If I feel like I'm getting sucked into that Time Warp, I'll remind myself that life really wasn't so hot underneath the disco lights. Those roller skates hurt my feet.
Rum Swizzles were...well, we won't even go there.
And my husband still doesn't like Watermelon flavored lipgloss.
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