Unexpected Gifts (2 page)

“Wow. I guess his number came up?”

“Yep.” She paused, then, “But what's with you, honey?”

Sonia shook her head. “You don't want to know.”

“Try me.”

Sonia stirred her tea. “Okay, here's the thing. I think I'm—I'm lost.”

Lily raised both her eyebrows. “What does that mean?”

She watched her mom scrunch up her face like she always did when she was about to divulge a revelation. “Maybe you should get outside yourself. Explore other things.”

“What kind of things?” Sonia asked.

“Oh, I don't know. Wait a minute! There are quite a lot of old family things up in the attic, things you might find interesting. Who knows? They might even give you some answers.”

“I could use some.” Sonia got up and gave her mother a tight squeeze before following her up to the second floor. Upstairs, Sonia watched her mom reach up to grab an old key from a fish eye hook embedded in the wall.

Opening the attic latch, she turned back to Sonia. “Brings back memories, doesn't it?”

Sonia gave her a thin-lipped smile and tapped the door jamb twice.

The two women climbed the last set of stairs in the dark, their shoes clacking against the wooden steps. The attic itself was almost pitch black—a soundless, foreboding room evoking strong, creepy memories of Sonia's childhood, when she would force herself to come upstairs mostly to prove to the world she wasn't such a wimp after all. The same dankness filled her nostrils now as it had so many years before and she shivered, hoping her mom would turn on the light soon, using the long, straggly string that had managed to survive two decades of pulls.

She could sense Lily's hand waving helplessly through the air and smothered an urge to call out, “Come on Mom, pull the string.”

There was an old steamer trunk at the far end of the room, rusty, somewhat threadbare, and artistically draped with a cobweb or two over its corner edges. Yet opened, it looked cheerful, with a light tan interior and cardboard boxes, all labeled and colored coded.

Raising the lid back even further, Sonia noticed near the top were two large cardboard boxes marked
Sam Weylan
and
Lily Weylan
, in chartreuse psychedelic letters. Beneath that, was a rectangular box with
Rose and Peter Hanson
stamped on it. Under that, even more boxes.

Lily's box was opened with the careful attention of a docent in a museum, and although at first glance it did look quite interesting, Sonia blurted out, “Ah, Mom, could we take a look at Dad's stuff?”

Lily mumbled something unintelligible and put the box back, but when Sam's box was exposed, Sonia gasped. A cornucopia of the Vietnam experience flooded her senses and at the same time, left a slight dread. Did she really want to unleash all their secrets?

Too late. Lily had already spread out various objects on the trunk's inside top—two neat piles of letters, a slim volume labeled Journal; a draft card, a canteen, an Ace of Hearts, a mysterious object, a small vial, dog tags, an empty insect repellant jar, a college report card, a small, blue compact case, a crossbow and arrow, and a long, sharp-pointed stick.

“It was such a shock to get that 1A classification, I tell you—the biggest shock of his life. But more on that later,” Lily commented, holding up the draft card.

Sonia glanced at the card, stroked Lily's arm, and picked up the odd looking object. “What's this?” she asked.

That's a Lensatic military compass with a magnifying lens—maybe worth something now—I just don't know…” Lily held up the small vial. “And this little bottle here is filled with Halazone.”

“What's Halazone?”

“A powder they used over there to kill bacteria in their canteens. Tasted bad, but apparently, it worked.”

Sonia nodded and picked up the dog tags, feeling an odd lump in her throat. To her, each impression in the metal echoed the dents in her dad's broken life. She held up the next item.

“And what in the world is this?”

“That's a special crossbow and arrow,” Lily murmured absent-mindedly.

“Did Dad use this over there?”

“These were made by the mountain people, the Montagnards, the ones we trained specifically to help us.”

“We? Dad trained them? I know how good he was at archery.”

“No, no. Back in ’63 I think, some of our Green Berets went over there and these Hmong people, hating the communists as much as we did, became our instant allies, so we trained them how to fight better.”

“Wow, Mom. You really know this stuff. I'm impressed!”

“It's all in your father's letters to me, the stuff you wanted to gloss over.”

Good old Mom, Sonia sighed. “Okay, okay, give them to me, Mother. I'll read them asap.”

Lily handed her Sam's letters and journal, then changed tact. “Actually, it was given to him by his good friend Billy R.”

“Yeah, Dad used to talk about Billy R. a lot. R stood for…?”

Lily shrugged. “Who knows? It was always Billy R. to your dad. But apparently, Billy R.'s brother had trained those Hmong people and gave it to him after leaving Vietnam in ’68.”

“So why did Dad end up with it?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe Billy R. left it to him. Frankly, I don't really know the circumstances.”

“Oh, okay. Did Dad talk about him much with you?”

“Sure, his letters were full of Billy R. and how he helped him so much over there. You really should read these letters and his journal, Sonia. They'd be an amazing U.S. history lesson. Actually everything in this trunk would be.” She became engrossed in a small, flat blue case and turned it over.

“What's that?” Sonia peeked over at the compact.

“That's his Purple Heart.”

“He got a Purple Heart? Wow…”

“Practically everyone who got wounded got a Purple Heart. That's what he always says, anyway…”

“Let me see it.” Sonia opened the lid and scrutinized the medal. Held on by a rich purple ribbon edged in gold, she noticed how simple it was. Shaped like a wide teardrop, a gold embossed George Washington rested on a dark purple background as he stared to the left. That was it. No words. Only a small red, white, and green crest of some kind, hovering over the president.

She turned to her mother. “I want to show this to Dad. Remind him of how maybe he is
not
forgotten.”

Lily snorted. “Good luck!”

They both peered at another object, shaking their heads. Staring down at a black and white
Peace
button, they were shoulder to shoulder when they heard the crackled call from Sam on Lily's hand-held monitor.

Lily mumbled, “Oh, God…” and about-faced.

Sonia grabbed her arm. “Mom, let me go. I want to talk to him, anyway.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.” The grateful look on Lily's face warmed her as she trekked downstairs, his Purple Heart clutched tight in her right hand.

Entering his haven, she was struck by how consistent the smell in his bedroom had been over the last couple of years—antiseptic, the residue of an automatic air freshener spewing out two bursts of fine mist into the air every half hour. Disposable bed pads were lined up on a nearby shelf, along with a medley of medicinal aids.

He grunted, “Where's your mother?”

“I wanted to see you myself, Dad, so I volunteered.”

He nodded and attempted a smile, but it was obvious whom he would have preferred in his room late at night. He patted the back of his neck, and recognizing the code, Sonia readjusted his pillows and elevated the top end of the bed with the remote.

“Don't you want to go back to sleep, Dad?”

“Naw. I sleep enough as it is.”

“I guess so.” She hid the blue case under her right thigh and stared at his pill bottle collection.

“Wow, that's a real pharmacy you got there.”

He turned his head towards his stockpile. “Yeah, so?”

“Well, now that I'm a Psych student, I'm interested in pharmaceuticals. Like, what's Vicodin for?”

“Pain. My neck and shoulders hurt, from lifting myself up onto my bed.”

“And these Advil Gels?”

“Migraines.”

“Olsalazine?”

“Ulcerative Colitis.”

“Jesus, Dad! You have that, too?”

“Yeah, well you can thank our government and Agent Orange for all of this.”

“Clonazepam?”

Sam murmured, “Anxiety disorder.” He hung his head. “Let's not continue this, okay?” He lay flat and gazed at the ceiling.

“Dad, I brought something for you to look at and I don't want you to get angry.” When she held up the Purple Heart case, he flipped his head off to one side, blinking his eyes.

“Come on, Dad. Take a look. You deserved this.”

He turned back. “I don't need reminding about my sacrifices. I just want to make it through each day, thank you very much!”

She looked down at her lap. “I asked you not to get angry. You're always angry—
always!”
She expected the worst after that, but instead, he remained silent. She raised her eyes slowly to his face and was surprised by his expression—calm, pensive, a million miles away. He stayed like that for another five seconds before remembering she was still there.

“You know, after I returned, your mom wanted us to move to the country, somewhere in New Jersey, where she could live with plants and trees, she said. But I had had enough of green to last me a lifetime. That's all you'd ever see over there. Green. Green Elephant grass, green jungles, green rice paddies floating on top of green algae. Green, green, green.”

He reached out for the blue case and sighed, opening it up and touching the gold presidential embossment. No more words, just the soft brush of his index finger rubbing the top of George Washington over and over again.

Sonia reached out to stroke his arm. “I know, Dad. I know.”

Using the oddest timbre, he stage-whispered, “You'll never know. Nobody will…”

Later, lying awake, reading his journal, those last words stayed locked in her mind.

“First thing I killed was no kind of thing at all. It was an enemy soldier, which was a hell of a lot easier to say than the first thing I ever killed was a man.
” - Steve Mason

“
Above all, Vietnam was a war that asked everything of a few and nothing of most of America.
” - Myra MacPherson

As soon as Lily caught sight of my face, she gently pulled the Selective Service notice out of my trembling hands and scrutinized the paper. “This is just an order to show up for a physical, Sam. Of course you can get another student deferment for grad school, right?”

I lifted up a copy of
The New York Times.
There it was, front page, in letters the size of Texas.
DRAFT LOTTERY INSTIGATED YESTERDAY: For every man aged 19-25. School deferments after graduation no longer apply.
The rumors had finally come true.

She started to read out loud. According to the article, a Selective Service Youth Advisory Committee would randomly extract birth dates from a ten gallon container. The higher the number, the safer a person's future. That was it. September 14
^th
was listed as Number 1. She scoffed at my worry then continued reading. April 24, my birthday, was listed as number two.

“What does this mean?” she whispered.

“It means I'm gonna
die!”
Suddenly, the flutter of our cat Ollie scratching himself filled the room as we stared at one another. Is this what people faced with terminal cancer felt like? Did their only thought involve curling up in bed, fetal position?

“Maybe we should get married—that might still get you out of the draft.” She sounded cheerful, which bugged me somehow. I had always assumed I would do the asking, but in a different setting—a champagne candlelight dinner with the engagement ring hidden in her dessert, followed by a hot bath soak, aided by lit candles.

My face must have been transparent because all at once, she scooped up Ollie and stormed off to our bedroom, scuffing her shoes on the hardwood floor, slamming doors, and leaving me to go off to the kitchen, where I swilled down one rum and coke combo after another, until the razored edge of my reality softened and I could face sleeping next to an angry girlfriend. But when I finally entered our darkened bedroom, I was relieved to find Lily's light snores floating through the stillness, along with Ollie's half purr/half meow throated whistle.

By morning she was gone, a
Let's talk tonight
note left behind on top of her indented pillow. I was grateful on two counts: 1) she was open to talking, and 2) we didn't have to do this until evening, when my throbbing head would be further along in the hangover recovery.

At school my angst cloaked me all morning, through my classes and into the cafeteria, where several of my compatriots stopped mid-bite when they saw me approach.

“Hey, Sam. What's wrong with you?” Stigley was always the first to speak.

“I—I got my Selective Service induction notice.”

“You've been classified?” Stigley shook his head in sympathy.

“Naw. Just a physical notice.”

Stanford jumped in. “That's okay, man. My cousin pretended to act crazy, and he got a 4F.”

I sat down, removed my backpack and leaned in. “What do you mean by crazy? What did he do?”

Stanford grinned. “Man, it must have been beautiful! He told me when they asked him to urinate into a little cup, he turned to the wall and pissed all over it. Then, when he had his hearing test, he started to scream, claiming the Bad Guys were out to get him. So cool.”

I perked up. “So, did it work?”

“Like a charm, man.”

I was feeling better.

Stigley came next. “Yeah, I knew a guy who pretended to be a homosexual. He talked with a lisp, actually tried to hit on his interviewer, and paraded around the induction center with no pants and no underwear. He got out!”

For the next half hour we all brainstormed my plan of attack, with minute details of how to act crazy, and as a backup, a few suggestions on homosexual behavior. I was opting for being a psycho.

By six p.m., our apartment smelled of Lily's Chicken Cacciatore—fragrant, comforting, hopeful. If she was cooking, she couldn't be too upset. I put my backpack on a hook and drifted into the kitchen, elated from the afternoon rehearsals.

Her back was facing me, the apron double-knotted at her waist and the thrift store radio set on the soft hits station as I stood at the door jamb watching her. Her hips were gently swaying to
bossa nova
rhythms, her hands busy coordinating her main dish.

She heard me and spun around, her hair shiny, her favorite lipstick shimmering. Wow.

“Hey, sweetie. How are you? Better?” She leaned in for a kiss.

“Yes, I got some info today that might help me get out of this.”

“Oh, really? How?” Was it my imagination or did she look a little disappointed?

I regurgitated my afternoon, noticing how she was staying stone-faced.

“So, you don't even want to consider my suggestion?”

I played dumb. “What suggestion is that, honey?”

“You know—get married right now.”

“Ah, frankly, I don't think that's going to do the trick anymore. This draft lottery thing is not allowing any deferments anymore. Don't worry, we'll get married, I promise. But in the meantime, don't you think this psychotic thing is great?”

She turned off the pasta and pulled the chicken casserole out of the oven before she spoke. I took a deep breath and braced myself.

“I can't believe this is happening!”

“Well, honey, neither can I. Do you really think I want to go over to Vietnam?”

“I'm not talking about your stupid induction! I'm talking how you're unwilling to commit to me!” she sputtered, white-knuckles gripping the back end of a chair.

“You know I love you! As I said, we
will
get married, but at a more relaxed time, when I don't feel so pressured, that's all.

We glowered at each other over an awkward dinner, guzzling two bottles of wine and ending up pulling down the bed covers in silence.

“You don't have to marry me if you don't want to. But as long as we're being so honest with ourselves, I'll tell you this right now…”

I looked over at her, my head fuzzy, my vision doubled. “Yeah?”

“I think you're chicken shit for making such a big deal about fighting. I'm ashamed of you.” With that, she flopped down on the bed and passed out, while I lay awake most of the night, staring up at the ceiling, counting cracks.

The induction's center façade was non-descript, gray minimalist, with no real windows to speak of. As I made the slow trek up the front cement walkway, Lily was calling out to me from down the block. Turning, I watched her gesturing madly as she ran, her bell-bottoms flapping, her hair blowing out behind her like a dog hanging out of a speeding car window. At the same time, I saw a bald-headed man with horn-rimmed glasses and a navy blue suit walk by and for a brief moment, our eyes locked. He nodded and sat down on a nearby bench just as Lily came up, panting and holding on to her sides.

“Sam, Sam,” she gasped. “I'm so sorry about last night. I—I love you so much, and I just wanna wish you good luck today!”

I held out my arms, trying to ignore her not retracting her cowardice remark, but as we kissed, I felt the heartfelt simplicity of her open lips and realized how much I did love her, needed her. The kiss finally ended with my emotional, “I love you, we will get married, I promise!” drawing smiles and ahhh's from various passersby.

Inside, the center's lineup consisted of a motley crew of uptight, longhaired, blue jean-tattered young eighteen and nineteen year olds straddling a faded yellow line as they waited for instructions. As one inductee edged forward six inches, the others followed suit, syncopated, like a centipede inching its way up a plant stem.

Suddenly, a door opened and a starched uniformed soldier marched in, proclaiming, “The psychiatrist is absent today. There will be no psychological deferments!”

My heart alternated beats. So much for acting crazy. I looked around at my fellow inductees and saw several similar expressions of devastation and as my name was announced, I geared up for plan B. I was going to be a homosexual.

The physical exam proceeded smoothly—as a non-crazy person I had no other choice but to comply. But I did experiment with coming on to the doctor, an experience I would prefer to forget. The look of repulsion on the physician's face was enough to render my own face beet red.

Inside the Interview Room, I saw a vaguely familiar face and blue suit sitting at a table. He stared at me as well for a second or two before gesturing towards a chair across from him. I could feel the sweat begin to gather in my armpits. Where had I seen this man before? The questions were simple, and I tried out my gay signals. First, I leaned forward and touched him lightly on the arm with a come hither smile. No response. Then, when I attempted a wink, the strangest thing occurred. He leaned back in his chair and roared with laughter.

“I remember you now!”

The hairs on the back of my neck stiffened.

“You were the one French-kissing his girlfriend outside the building earlier.”

My jaw dropped as he snorted, pulled out a rubber stamp out of his desk, and slammed it first down on the inkpad, then on my papers: Classified 1A.

We went through a makeshift family wedding in Central Park. I owed Lily that much. Why not? I loved her and my life was finished anyway, coward or not and that last night before boot camp, on our floor mattress, dimly lit by a lamp covered in pink gauze, we made love with complete abandonment, holding onto each other for dear life and at the same time, unbeknownst to us, conceiving Sonia.

After Boot Camp in South Carolina, it was on to Advanced Individual Training (AIT) for another eight weeks, where I was exposed to more tactical and simulated warfare, such as crawling in the dirt, my rifle cradled in my arms, and ducking for cover to avoid fake bullets whizzing inches above my head as fabricated rocket grenade fire exploded just two clicks up the road. I also climbed spider-webbed ropes with our weekly D.I.'s warning, “No one is allowed to DOR. This is an ongoing Commie war, faggots. No outs for anyone!”

After that, RVN (Republic of Vietnam) training. More advanced target practice, shooting live rounds directly from our hips, getting experience in jumping in and out of two and a half ton army trucks on the run. I must admit, it was pretty impressive.

But my first hint of trouble in Vietnam was our transport into base camp, not far from Danang. The heavy metal cage attachment covering our bus resembled a prison guard's wet dream, but to us, it was a definite reality check. Were people actually going to throw grenades at us? We sat in stunned silence, contemplating the enormity of our new situation and aching for the U.S. I thought of Lily asleep in our bed, her dark wavy hair fanned out across her pillow, and her cupid's mouth half-opened in a peaceful oval. Who cares if she had labeled me a wus. As we came to a full stop, I was terrified.

“Hey, you EM's, get the fuck off the bus! Come on ladies, move it, move it! Get outside and fall in!” bellowed a sergeant at the door.

This was it. No going back now. We filed off the bus and stood at attention, looking around furtively at the lush environment and waiting for further instructions. I noticed a row of clean tents pitched together side by side, with one separate from the others, probably the officer's quarters. Beyond that, a larger row of frayed, dirty tents neck to neck. The EM or the enlisted men's turfs I surmised. A half a click past that, a wide painted red cross for the LZ, or Landing Zone.

A grizzled captain, obviously a lifer, strode over to us and gruffly started in. “Okay, men. Get your gear together and go to the mess tent for your sleeping assignments. Settle in and report back here at fifteen hundred hours sharp.”

After getting our assignments, we moved on to our tents, walking by soldiers cleaning their M16's and lubricating their rifle barrels with brushes and cleaning rods in time to music floating out of a local U.S. radio channel. We could hear the gentle scrape of brush against metal amidst fresh magazines being snapped into place and suddenly, breathing seemed more difficult in the humid, oil-soaked air.

“Hey, Newbies, be sure to stay away from us, ya hear?” one of the soldiers called out.

What the hell he was talking about?

A soldier from behind caught up with my stride and out of the corner of his mouth, explained, “That means they're short-timers, with only a few months to go on their Tour, and if a new guy isn't experienced and doesn't know shit, he might trip on a land mine wire and blow everyone up.”

I looked up at two intense blue eyes on a swarthy complexioned G.I. Grinning, he held out his right hand for a shake. “They call me Billy R.”

“What's the R stand for?”

“Just call me Billy R. That's enough.”

“Okay, Billy R., I'm Sam W.” A friendship had begun.

Without Billy R., I don't know how I would have survived those first few weeks. We drilled, ate, and bunked together, with him counseling me on the protocol of Vietnam, something he had learned from his Special Forces brother. Things like I shouldn't wear any aftershave because a Charlie sniper might smell it and crank off a round or two at me, or make sure in our stand down periods, when we got to relax, to take off my boots and socks to let my feet dry out enough so I wouldn't end up with Immersion Foot.