The Orange Blossom Special (31 page)

With Charlie gone, Crystal and Dinah fell out of touch. His secret relationship with Dinah had ended their friendship, yet as long as Dinah and Charlie were a couple the two girls still had him in common. Without the push and pull of him, there was nothing left. Charlie's absence reinforced what Ella always felt in his presence: he was the glue that held them all together. These days, she felt things were falling away. Things were falling away that she used to believe in. All that was left was trouble. The world was in trouble: the fighting in Vietnam, all those young men getting killed. And people in America protesting in the streets. She'd seen the protestors on television, throwing things and calling the policemen terrible names, and the policemen hitting them with their sticks until there was blood streaming down their faces. She'd heard about how young people were leaving home and living on the streets in California. She couldn't understand that. She heard about the civil rights activist who got shot in Mississippi after all the trouble they'd had up there at the university. Why was it all so violent and scary? Most of all, she was troubled about Charlie, or maybe it was the absence of Charlie. It wasn't what he said in his letters, it was what he didn't say. For all the nights they'd spent sitting on her bed talking about the things they'd never tell anyone else, his letters were distant and impersonal. He wrote about the weather and the men in his company and how much he missed everyone at home. There was nothing she could put a finger on, only the hollow feeling that like her, Charlie was slowly falling away.

W
HAT ELLA COULDN'T
understand was that for Charlie to endure what he saw, it wasn't possible for him to think—much less write—about what was happening. All he could do was get through one hour at a time, one day, one week. Maybe it would start to add up. Sometimes he just wanted to lie on his bunk and cry, but he always stopped himself, afraid if he let himself start, he would never stop. Later, when it was behind him, the visceral memories were all he had left of Vietnam. The heaviness of his boots as they sucked up the mud on the unmarked trails, each step requiring a mental note. The loneliness, like a parasite, draining him of everything but fear and sadness. The stink of his own body as if it were already beginning to decay. His skin, blotchy and angry. And the jungle: he could see none of it and yet nothing but it, thick and impenetrable, always wanting to reclaim itself no matter how much they hacked at it. Not a place meant for humans. In the end, he reckoned, it would be the jungle that would win the war. He remembered the soldiers; most of them scared, wounded, and too young. He remembered trying to say the right words and hoping they came out as if he meant them. On his worst days, he envied the dead. But even on the bearable days, the truth was that he had lost God and in the darkness, he had lost himself as well.

N
O MATTER WHAT
she questioned, Ella never stopped going to church. Church was home and one thing had nothing to do with the other. On an afternoon late in October, Reverend Potts stopped her as she was leaving a morning service. “Ella Sykes,” he called as she was walking down the steps. “How are you? I've been reading all about your brother. And you? Have you got a little Orange Blossom in your life?” He had a fine broad smile and his gums looked purple against the sunlight. “Oh sure, I'm doing all right,” said Ella.

The reverend had been in his job long enough to notice things:
how people dressed, their demeanor, the passion or lack of it they brought to singing the hymns. Ella Sykes, with her beautiful braid running down to the middle of her back, and her neatly ironed dresses, always looked impeccable. But now she kept to herself and didn't want to mingle with the other parishioners, even her old friend Pauline. That caught his attention.

“Come, sit with me,” he said, leading her to the green wooden bench at the side of the church. Ella took out a handkerchief and wiped off the seat. The reverend took a deep inhale as they settled down. “This is the best time,” he said. “The air is clear and the world feels crisp again. Do you find it to be that way?”

“Yes, sir,” said Ella. “This is certainly the prettiest time of year.”

Reverend Potts unbuttoned his collar. “I hope you don't mind, it gets a little tight sometimes.”

“Oh no, not at all. Make yourself comfortable.”

“So Ella, I'll get to the point,” he said, pulling a tissue from his pocket and dabbing the sweat from his neck. “I don't mean to be intrusive, but you seem a little sad lately. I know you must worry about the boy over in Vietnam, and I wonder if there's something you'd like to talk about. Maybe I can help.”

Ella sat with her purse on her lap, rubbing her hands over the white vinyl, wondering how much she ought to say. “I appreciate your generosity, but I don't think there's much you can do. It's just that, lately, I have a hard time making sense of things. Of everything at home, in the country, where Charlie is. I used to believe there was a reason things happened, and I accepted that, even the bad things like when Mr. Landy died in that fire. Now these things are going on and I can't find any reasons. Forgive me for saying this, but sometimes I wonder if God is paying attention.”

Reverend Potts closed his eyes against the sun. “If you knew how many times I have been down that same road,” he said. “When I see
cruelty and suffering, especially amongst the little children, I often ask myself how this can be. I question God and sometimes I get so angry I curse His name. Then I think what in the tarnation am I doing? Should I really be preaching to people about how they ought to live their lives when I myself am full of doubts and questions?”

Ella looked startled, then tentatively touched his shoulder. “There couldn't be anybody better at it than you,” she said. “That's why we believe you. Because you're like us and you don't hold yourself apart as someone high and mighty.”

“That's kind of you, Ella, but I have my moments.”

They each sat with their thoughts for a while until Reverend Potts said, “Do you believe He was there at the creation?”

“Absolutely, I do,” she said.

“I do too,” he said. “Now and then I believe that He did the big job, and decided to leave the rest up to us. Sometimes we do all right and sometimes we make a mess of it. I suppose I think it's okay for us to be upset with Him at times, even rage against Him. What doesn't seem okay is to let Him out of our hearts.”

Ella saw the beads of perspiration on the reverend's forehead and understood that these were difficult truths for him to admit. He must trust her and consider her a friend to confide in her like this. Gifts didn't come to Ella Sykes often, but when they did she received them with grace.

“Reverend, you are very kind to share your thoughts with me. You can rest easy that this conversation will stay between us.”

“And Charlie,” said Reverend Potts. “When you next write to Charlie, tell him I wish to be remembered to him.”

T
HREE WEEKS LATER,
a telegram arrived at the Landy house. The letters, all capitals and dark purple, blazed against the drab telegraph paper: “Please be advised: Captain Charles Landy, US
army Chaplain, injured in landmine explosion near Danang STOP Flown to a VA hospital in the Philippines and will be returned stateside as soon as possible STOP Nature of his wounds unconfirmed but not life-threatening STOP For his bravery and courage, Captain Landy is eligible for a Purple Heart. STOP”

Over the next couple of days, everyone close to Charlie Landy was left to deal with the news in their own way. Victoria lashed out at whomever she could: at the army, for starters. After phoning the Pentagon for more information and being told there was none available at the time, she told the officer at the other end of the phone, “How do you expect to win a war when you can't even keep track of your own men?”

When Tessie called to commiserate, she told her, “I hope you have a girl. The life of a boy isn't worth shit in this country.” Reggie tried soothing her. “Miss Victoria, we should be grateful that his wounds aren't life threatening,” but she shushed him away: “Thank you Mr. 4-F.” Ella retreated to her room, where she read her Bible and tried to find Charlie in the inky shadows that floated between them.

Because Charlie was well known around town and because of Maynard's tragic death and the popularity of the Orange Blossom Special, the news spread swiftly around Gainesville, especially in the black community, where his actions on the day of the sit-in were now legend. Reverend Potts conducted a special prayer service for Charlie. Even Reggie and Victoria showed up. Victoria held on to Ella's shoulder as Reverend Potts struck a bargain. “One of Gainesville's finest is in your hands today. Please return him to us with the fullness of his body and soul. If you hear our prayers, we here—his family, his friends, and his community—promise to do everything in our power to sustain him.”

Two days after the telegram, Victoria received a phone call from Charlie's commanding officer. Charlie had suffered severe hearing
loss, he said. He would be arriving at Tyndall Airforce Base the following week. Victoria posted a picture of Charlie in uniform above the cash register at the Orange Blossom Special. Underneath, she stenciled the words, “Welcome our hero home. Wednesday, Tyndall Airforce Base at 4:15.”

A nice-size crowd showed up for Charlie's homecoming. The high school even sent some members of the band to greet him at the airport. As soon as the door of the plane swung open, the band broke into “Grand Ol' Flag.” Charlie stepped out of the plane looking noticeably thinner in his neatly pressed uniform. He rubbed his eyes, as though he'd just awoken from a nap, and looked out at the crowd with confusion. He assumed they were there for somebody else. Then Victoria rushed up the stairs. She threw her arms around him and planted a kiss on his cheek. Charlie put his arm around her. It wasn't a hug really, more a pat on the back. “You've drawn quite a crowd sweetheart,” said Victoria.

“Who are all these people? Why are they here?” he asked.

“Darling, they're here for you, to welcome you home.”

“I don't want all this fuss. I just want to go home in peace.”

People clapped as Victoria and Charlie walked down the steps. Only Ella, who saw the anger in his eyes, held her applause.

A reporter from the
Gainesville Sun
greeted Charlie with a handshake but was pushed aside by a crew from the local television station. Victoria and Charlie both spoke though neither knew what the other said until they watched the news with Ella and Reggie that night.

“He grew up in a household where respect and honor were valued above all else,” said Victoria. “From an early age, he understood sacrifice. It doesn't surprise me that he's a hero. I am just so proud of him.” Victoria was a natural. She smiled and tossed her head and seemed to be flirting with the cameraman.

Then the interviewer turned to Charlie. “What does it feel like to be home again?” he asked. Charlie read his lips carefully, then took a moment to compose his answer.

“It's as if I was trapped in a hell so dark and grotesque that I'd given up hope of ever getting out. Then all of the sudden someone opens the airplane door and I'm here like it never happened. I can't describe it.”

“Looks like you'll be eligible for a Purple Heart medal. That's some honor, isn't it?”

Again, Charlie took time to prepare his words. “I don't really care about any medal. That's all it is, some lousy hunk of metal. It has nothing to do with the men I knew and the men who are still there who are a hell of a lot braver than I am. Uh uh, no medals here.”

It broke Ella's heart to hear him sound so bitter. It pissed Victoria off to see him so indifferent. She turned to him. “Now there's a surprise, Charlie Landy acting holier than thou in the face of one of the greatest honors a man can receive from his country.”

“It's bullshit,” he said. “Can't you see that?”

“Isn't that a nice howdy-do. You're gone for nearly three years and that's all you have to say?”

“Yes ma'am, it is,” said Charlie, who had discovered that by merely turning his head away he could tune people out.

A
CROSS TOWN DINAH
was also watching Charlie on TV that night. His eyes were dull. His voice was a little too loud. Even his sentences seemed to be mechanically pieced together. It made her sad. In all the excitement of his homecoming, the one thing everyone seemed to overlook was the nature of Charlie's injury. Talking with Charlie was what always held her—how he could say things that she was thinking but could never articulate or just bring up new subjects out of the blue. And when he listened, he'd cock his head forward as
if what she was saying was the most important thing in the world. She wondered if he still planned on being a preacher and hoped that the sound of his voice—deep and rumbling—and the Southern sprawl of his language would survive his hearing loss. Her roommate, Hedda, was watching the news with her.

“That's the guy. The one who left me.” Dinah touched her finger to the glass screen.

Timid Hedda, who usually never dared tell anyone else what to do, studied the television. “He looks like he's had a hard time,” she said. “I mean if you don't mind my saying so, it might be nice for you to go see him.”

Hedda and Dinah were going for their master's degrees in business. They were both drawn to the precision and lack of gray areas in business, though for different reasons: Hedda because she lived her life in gray areas, Dinah because a world bound by economic theories and numbers seemed a whole lot safer than the precarious one in which she lived. “He abandoned me once,” Dinah said. “I'm really not looking to open that wound again.”

“Of course,” said Hedda. “Except you're not who you were then, and neither is he.”