Gift of the Golden Mountain (75 page)

     Annie was troubled about Karin and didn't want Israel to know so she picked up the morning
Honolulu Register.
"There's a
wonderful story in the paper today," she said, "why don't I read it to you?"

     "Don't read," Israel said, closing his eyes, "tell me the story. I like it best when you tell me your stories."

     "Once upon a time, three days ago," she began, softly, and watched for the smile that flickered weakly, "on an island called Kauai there lived an eagle. Just one, a great golden eagle that soared among the peaks and into the deep valleys of the Waimea Canyon, which the Hawaiians like to call their Grand Canyon, a place so spectacularly beautiful that tourists by the hordes make the long, winding journey into the mountains to look at it.

     "Nobody knew how this eagle came to be in the Hawaiian Islands—certainly there had never been one before—or even when it came. Some thought it might have been blown far off its course by a storm, others figured it must have come by boat and been set free. But anyone who knew anything about eagles knew that it should not be here, because eagles are fiercely familial . . . they mate for life, raising a family is what they do with their spare time.

     "Our lonely eagle was first spotted by one of the helicopter pilots who take people into the valley on tours. This pilot thought the eagle was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, with its great wingspan, its ability to soar high and glide low, to dive and scan the deepest crevices on the wild valleys. Sometimes, the pilot said, the eagle would glide alongside his helicopter, and the two would do a kind of precision flying. The pilot said that when this happened, he felt like he had wings.

     "This went on for quite awhile, the eagle would hear the helicopter and come to meet it, and they would fly along together. When he could, the pilot went up by himself so they could fly freely together, without having to worry about passengers.

     "It was good business, flying people into the valley, and very quickly there were three and four different services sending copters into the valley, and pretty soon the sky was full of them, and
the eagle was not happy. Not at all.

     "The eagle no longer flew alongside, but began to drop from above in a sudden dive and the pilot became worried that it would become entangled in his rotors. Twice he had to effect sudden maneuvers to miss the bird. Gradually it began to dawn on him: the eagle is fighting for his territory, he sees the helicopters as invaders. So the pilot went around to all of the helicopter services in Kauai, and warned them about the eagle, and asked them to give it plenty of room and to watch out for it.

     "Three days ago the pilot was just entering the main branch of the canyon when he saw the eagle ahead of him, hovering directly above a Ranger, he saw the eagle go into a steep dive and attack the helicopter."

     She stopped, leaned toward Israel to look into his face. She could tell by his breathing that he had slipped away into sleep, so she whispered, "And that was the end of the beautiful eagle."

The bad news did not come over the telephone, as Karin had always believed it would. It was delivered by a man in a uniform, with a bright row of ribbons emblazoned over his heart.

     It was the middle of the afternoon and she was lying on Thea's bed, thinking about October light, the slight difference she sensed, a subtle haze that perhaps existed only in her mind, remembrance of other autumns in other places. Since Thea had left for Stanford, she had spent a good part of each day in this room. There was a good breeze, and she could look up toward the mountain. When it rained she could see clouds of water waft by. It pleased her to lie in Thea's narrow bed, to look at the pale yellow walls, empty now of the jumble of posters and signs and pictures.

     She looked out the window and saw him, limping down the steep driveway. A serviceman, she thought. Probably he is lost, she thought. He needs directions. She knew she should get up,
should go to meet him, should let him know where she was. She had been napping, she supposed, otherwise why would her legs feel so heavy? A lassitude had overtaken her these past days. She had promised to call Annie. She should do that, Annie was worried about her. But first, the man in the driveway, the directions.

     He stood on the other side of the screened door, his hat tucked under his arm and said, "Mrs. Ward?"

     He was looking at her yet not looking at her. It was, she thought, as if he were saying the Pledge of Allegiance. He had memorized his speech. "It is my sad duty to inform you that your son, marine Private Daniel Ward . . ."

     She felt the medals on his chest rip into the flesh of her forearms, but still she pounded on him, screaming, "No. There is no war, no. No. No, you are wrong, wrong."

     The next thing she remembered was Paul Hollowell striding into the house, his strong arms around her, holding her steady in the storm that had broken over her.

     She had not seen him since the morning she left him at the sailboat, two months before. He was here, now, because the man in the uniform had found his name and two phone numbers on a piece of paper by her bed. She had written them out two days before, when she learned she was pregnant with his child.

Daniel Ward died on October 11, 1973, when the South Vietnamese army helicopter in which he was a passenger came under fire near Dalat, exploded and crashed, killing all aboard. He had been acting as escort to one of the ambassador's aides, who had been sent on a fact-finding tour of the area north of Saigon. A small story went out over the news wires, naming the aide and adding, "his Marine escort was also killed in the crash."

     He was buried in the military cemetery in Punchbowl. Philip could not make the trip, and Kit—worried at how he was taking
this latest blow—stayed with him. Neither could Faith leave Israel, his cogent moments were few now, the end was near. May was on a flight to Hawaii two hours after receiving the news. Hayes followed the next day. The Diehls came with Thea.

     Kit, always thoughtful, wired air tickets to Phinney and Emilie, but Amos came in Phinney's place. "It's a hard time for Phinney to get away," Emilie explained. Throughout those long, hard days Amos stayed close to Thea, holding tight to her hand at the cemetery.

     Marge and Hank Fromberg flew over, and some of Thea's friends from Punahou came to the graveside services. They stood in the full sun, a warm wind snapping the flags that flew; the sound of taps echoed around the ancient volcanic bowl, and drifted out to sea. The flag was folded, precisely, and placed in the hands of Karin and Thea, who stood close together to receive it.

     Everything about Karin became more tenuous. She walked through the house as if dazed, she couldn't think what to do next. Often, May had to stifle the urge to put her hand out to steady her.

     "Can you talk to me about Dan?" May asked when they were alone in Karin's bedroom, and the words echoed in her memory.
"Can you talk to me about Andy?"
It was too much, she thought. Too much pain, too much death, too much hurt.

     Karin shook her head, and the tears squeezed out of her eyes. "Not yet," May said the words for her, cradling her friend in her arms. "Not yet, dear one."

     Paul Hollowell came to the cemetery and then to the house to pay his respects. May watched him walk up to the door, watched Karin cross the room to meet him, watched how they stood next to each other.

     "Of course he's in love with her," Hayes said. "Who wouldn't be? She's a beautiful woman, even now when she's full of grief. There's something almost translucent about her, have you noticed?"

     "I've noticed," May said. "Were you?"

     "Were I what?"

     "In love with Karin."

     "Of course."

     "I mean it."

     "I probably would have been, if you hadn't got in the way."

     With a sudden passion that caught them offguard, May said, "Sometimes I think about the day you found out about Andy, about all the times we might have missed each other, and it frightens me so much I can hardly breathe. Don't leave me, Hayes, not ever."

     "Not ever," he whispered into her neck, then he pulled back to look her in the face, holding tight to her still. His mind was working, she could see.

     "Come with me to Saigon," he said. "Help me try to talk Le Tien An into meeting us, and letting us see the boy. Maybe together we can do it—God knows, something has to move her, and soon. Then I'll go on to my rendezvous in the Philippines and you can come back this way and spend a couple of days, before we head home together."

     She looked at Karin, who was standing in a group with Paul Hollowell, Thea, and Amos. Paul Hollowell, May noticed, was looking at Karin as if he were stifling the urge to steady her, too. Karin's eyes seemed not quite to focus, as if she were looking at something in the distance.

     "I thought Karin might need me," she told him, "but maybe . . ."

     "Ask her," Hayes said, "if she wants you here, you should stay—it was just an idea, a sudden urge."

Two days after everyone else had left, Annie intercepted the postman as he made his way along Makiki Heights. She slipped the letter into the deep pocket of her loose dress, and left it there for several hours while she tried to think how to tell Karin.

     The conversation at dinner was desultory. The usually ebullient Annie was quiet, distracted. Afterwards, Karin would not let
her launch into the dishes, but insisted they take their tea out to the lanai.

     "You'd better tell me what's up," Karin said when they were seated, she in the chaise and Annie in a chair. "I can't remember the last time you were in such a deep blue funk. It's not your color, love."

     "You're right," Annie said, "I have a letter from Daniel in my pocket, and I can't decide how to tell you or what to do with it."

     Karin clasped her hands protectively over her stomach and said: "I think I want you to read it to me, but give me a few minutes to get ready."

     Annie opened the letter, unfolded a lined page of notebook paper filled with small, tight handwriting, written with ballpoint pen that left thick smudges down the page.

Saigon, September 28, 1973

Dear Karin:

     I've been trying to figure out what to say to you ever since I got the letter from Dad three days ago. To tell you the truth, it's you I've been thinking about mostly, what this is going to do to you and what you are thinking. Maybe you remember I told you it seemed sort of strange, Mrs. McCord and Dad being together so much and all. Dad says they were pretty good friends a long time ago, and that they have renewed that friendship. It seems like, from what he says, Mrs. McCord feels pretty good about being able to help him, he's pretty sure about that. He also said that he thinks the world of you, and he wants you to be happy.

     I wish I could ask you to wait for me to catch up, and then I'd ask you to marry me and then we (I) could live
happily ever after. (A little joke, ha. Or maybe only half a joke.)