During the six months that followed, his self-confidence had been completely eroded. At first he had not thought much about it. That was when he was still expecting the lawyers who said that they would get in touch with him to get in touch. That was when he really believed that he would get a job. After a few months of broken promises and insincere handshakes, he stopped believing.
Cindy had been no help, because she did not understand. They had married young and she had taken a job as a secretary to help put him through law school. Like Mark, she expected to find gold on the day he graduated. Instead, there had only been frustration. She was from a poor family and very insecure about money. The longer he went without a job, the more pressure she began to feel and the more pressure she had begun to exert on Mark. She could not understand why he was unemployed. She began to blame him for not trying. There had been nasty scenes with Mark yelling and feeling guilty afterwards when she cried.
Then, shortly after the new year, tired of trying and failing, Mark had decided to go into business on his own. He had talked with a few sole practitioners and they had assured him that he could do it. It was a frightening thing to do. He was inexperienced and completely without connections. Still, the more he thought about the idea, the more it had excited him.
Unfortunately, it had not excited Cindy. She wanted to quit work. She wanted a baby. If Mark went into his own practice instead of working for one of the big firms that paid big salaries, it would mean more debts and it would mean that she would have to work some more-maybe several years more. There had been more scenes, but he had prevailed and two months ago he had rented a small office in the National Bank Building, an old, eight-story office building located three blocks from the courthouse in downtown Portsmouth. He enjoyed what he was doing, but business was slow in coming and he had begun to wonder if he would make it on his own.
He had not been sleeping well lately, because he was worrying. He needed his rest, but as soon as he lay down to sleep, he would start thinking of his expenses or whether one of his clients would try to stiff him. Then he could not sleep.
The fights with Cindy did not help either. They were going to bed mad more often, something they had rarely done in the first six years of their marriage. They usually made up in the morning, but the nagging and bickering were starting to get to him. He even caught himself wondering if they shouldn’t separate for a while, but had rejected the idea. Still, he had no way of knowing how the relationship, which he had thought so secure, would hold up, if his business did not prosper.
Mark leaned his head against the back of his arm-chair and closed his eyes. In a few more hours he would have to go to work. If he could not sleep, at least he would try to rest.
“Slow down, will ya, Coolidge? This ain’t a goddamn race.”
The truck jarred and hopped as it hit a pothole and the Scotch in Mosby’s bottle splashed over the rim, wetting his lap.
“Fuckin’ A, Coolidge. This booze cost me plenty. I’ll have your ass if you make me spill any more.”
“Better you than the Viet Cong. You’re cuter than the gooks anyway.”
“Those little farts ain’t gonna get your ass with me here to protect you.”
“They may get both our asses if we aren’t back at the camp by sundown.”
Mosby leaned back and took another swig from the bottle. God, he could drink. They had both been doing their share since they hit Saigon last night. Bobby Coolidge could feel the effects of his share and he concentrated extra hard on the twists and turns of the narrow jungle road. The lush green foliage was packed tight along either side. The upper branches of trees stretched across the space between to cut off the scattered rays of light still left from the setting sun. The way was shadows.
He decided that he had been a fool to let Mosby talk him into waiting while he banged the bar girl he had picked up shortly before they were to return to camp. He knew how long it would take to return with the supplies and he knew the dangers of being in the jungle after dark.
The road curved suddenly and Bobby jerked the wheel sharply, just managing to keep the truck upright. Mosby cursed again. He shouldn’t be driving after drinking so much. Shit! He had to drive. Mosby would wreck them in two seconds.
The hum of the motor and the monotony of the trip lulled Mosby to sleep. The almost empty bottle tottered over on a curve, spilling the brown liquid onto the floor of the cab. Coolidge glanced at Mosby’s face. Mosby groaned and smiled in the midst of some obscene dream. It had been a long time since Coolidge had dreamed sweet dreams.
The old fears had resurfaced faintly in boot camp. A glimmer, a warning perhaps, but nothing he could put his finger on. He was still excited by it all then. Only weeks out of high school and primed on John Wayne. Then Vietnam did not work out the way he thought it would and he began wondering what he was doing there. The people he was killing did not look like the enemy was supposed to. There were too many women and children and old men. Sometimes he was not sure that they were enemies at all.
He became confused. One day he stopped firing his rifle in combat, although he told no one of this. What would Mosby say if he knew what was going on inside his head? Or the others? There were some who might understand or sympathize, but it was safer to keep his thoughts to himself. Only there was a price to be paid in the form of dreams that crept in when he was sleeping, bringing flashes and bodies and fire. Blood was everywhere.
The dreams began to control his life. They made him a lineman. He had to repair the damage to telephone lines in an area heavily infiltrated by Viet Cong. He would shimmy up the telephone poles in the dark. Then they would turn on a spotlight and he would have two minutes to work, praying the snipers would not find the range, each second stretching into eternity. It made him sick. He did not sleep during the day thinking about the nights and he did not sleep at night because of the dreams.
If it had not been for the liquor, he would not have made it. The bottle brought dreamless sleep and peace. It made the war softer and easier to survive. He began to see the war as part of some other life led by some other person. There were two Bobby Coolidges. One drinking and drifting and biding his time and the one that that one watched: the one who went through the motions of being a soldier. In no time at all, and without formal training, he was becoming a man of conscience. He was rejecting the violence of his youth. Questioning. There was no glory in it anymore. He had learned that on telephone poles in the dark and in side streets of Vietnamese villages from the faces of dying children.
The road was the same everywhere. The headlights hypnotized him and his eyelids grew heavy. He must have dozed for a minute, because he could not remember seeing the old man dart into the road. He was just there, frozen in the headlight beams, a frightened deer, paralyzed and staring with eyes that begged for life.
Maybe Bobby could have given it to him if he had been sober, but he was too slow and the truck was over him before he could apply the brakes. There was a thud and the truck was tearing slowly through resistance for a moment. All Bobby could do was lay his head on the steering wheel of the truck that now sat sideways across the road.
The sudden stop had thrown Mosby against the dashboard. He saw his friend moaning and he saw the position of the truck. It took him a few seconds to take it in.
“What happened?”
“I think I hit a man.”
“What?” Mosby asked, still confused by sleep.
“With the truck. I think I hit an old man. I swear I didn’t see him. He was just there. I don’t know how it happened.”