“Are you leaving?” Arthur asked, feeling somewhat disappointed. He pulled the sheet up to his chest.
“Yes, I have to go. I have a lot to do tomorrow, but don’t worry. I’ll call you. We still have a lot to talk about.” She smiled at him and added, “I kind of like South Bend.”
“Good,” he replied, not knowing what she wanted to talk about, but glad that he would probably see her again. She got dressed and kissed Arthur lightly on the mouth. “I know my way out,” she said softly. “We’ll talk soon.” She squeezed his shoulder.
After she had gone, Arthur began mulling over what he had said to her about his father and his brother. Feeling uneasy about being so open with someone he had just met, he walked over to the closet and opened a suitcase that he had yet to unpack. He fished out a letter from his brother, a letter he had kept close at hand since he received it, a letter that had apparently been written shortly before Tom had been killed. He opened it and began reading.
Arthur,
So how’s it going? Life here in the real world is as bad as ever, a real shit sandwich. Sometimes I have to wonder about things. We grew up, or at least I did, visualizing war as some kind of noble contest, a clash of ideals. But nothing could be further from the truth. It’s land mines planted by people you see every day, sniper attacks, bullshit from the top, bombed-out villages, crawling through the bush in all kinds of weather, and more bullshit from the top. We have to live with refugees created by our destruction, drugs, locals who hate us for good reason, indiscriminate killings to release pent-up frustration, and more bullshit from the top. On a good day we take an enemy position. The next day we give it up. The only thing that changes are the faces in my platoon because some of the guys we had yesterday aren’t here today. After a while, you actually get used to the killing and death. That’s probably the biggest difference between life here and life in the States. Here, life seems so cheap, is so cheap. The only time it starts seeming important again is when you’re getting close to the end of your tour of duty. And on top of everything else, as a platoon leader, I’m expected to inspire these guys, give them a sense of purpose, a will to fight. I tried at first, but I could see that no one was buying my bullshit. So now, all I do is try to help them survive and get back home.
I think about Dad and wonder if fighting the Nazis in North Africa and Europe was a lot different than this. It must have been. No matter how this ends, no one is going to actually be proud of what we’ve done here. No way. When I played football, Dad used to say it was good preparation for combat. More bullshit. There are no rules here, no clear objectives. It would be like football players using automatic weapons on each other on the field, then running up into the stands to slaughter the fans there, then attacking and raping the cheerleaders on the way back. I’m sure you get the picture. I guess the only thing I can say to you about this mess is, don’t make the same mistake I did. Stay out of Vietnam. And please, don’t let Mother see this letter or know anything about how it is here. She has enough to worry about. I’ll see you when I return to civilization.
Tom
P.S. Have you ever thought about how things aren’t the way they seem to be? How things may, in fact, be exactly opposite of the way they seem. I think about dying quite a bit these days, and I have to ask myself, would it really be such a tragedy? It seems to me that dying in Vietnam could actually be a better fate than a lifetime of struggle against “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” after which, you wind up in the same place anyway. I mean, what’s the point? Why not go out a hero and get it over with? I think we’re all playing a game we don’t understand.
Arthur folded the letter carefully and eased it back into the envelope. To some people, Tom had in fact died a hero. But what was the point?
Later that night, at a pay phone near a motel parking lot, a solitary figure dialed the FBI office in Chicago. “Yeah. Torkis here,” he mumbled into the receiver.
“So, Vic, where did you end up?” the penetrating voice on the other end asked. It was the voice of his boss, Frank Bono.
“South Bend, Indiana. Jesus, she’s a crazy driver. I followed her down on the interstate this afternoon. She met up with some guy. I believe his name is Arthur Weiss.”
“Is he black?”
“No, some white guy. I don’t know anything about him yet. I’ll put in a request to see what we have on him tomorrow.”
“Okay, okay. His name isn’t ringing any bells for me, either. I keep hoping she’s going to take us to some kind of meeting with the Panthers or something, but it just isn’t happening. Is this Arthur Weiss young?”
“Yeah, he looks young. He could be a student, or an SDS activist, or who knows? I have no idea. They met at a restaurant and then went to his apartment. Looks like they did a little partying there.”
“That doesn’t exactly surprise me.”
“Yeah, I hear she gets around, but she must have had some reason for coming over here and meeting this guy. We’ll have to see if Washington knows anything.”
“Yeah, if this Weiss turns out to be hot, some kind of extremist or something, we could end up bugging his phone and maybe his apartment, too. Is she at his apartment now?”
“No, she left his place and took a room at a motel. That’s where I am now, the motel parking lot.”
“So, are you planning to come back tonight?”
“No, it’s too late. I’m going to spend the night here in South Bend. I saw a Holiday Inn down the road. I’m going to try that.”
“That’s good. You should probably stay and make some arrangements to keep those two under surveillance in case things heat up.”
“Yeah, I was planning to meet with the Special Agent in Charge at the South Bend residence office in the morning and fill him in. If he has enough people to cover the situation, I should be back before noon. Otherwise, I’ll just stay on.”
“That’s good. That’s good. I don’t know what she’s up to. But I know she has to be up to something. Whatever it is, we have to nail it down and get a report off to Washington. We haven’t had anything good to report for a while now.”
Half an hour later, Vic unlocked the door to the room that he had just rented at the Holiday Inn and dragged himself in. He set his notebook carefully on the desk, took off his jacket, and perched on the edge of the bed. He stared at the phone on the nightstand for about twenty seconds, then picked up the receiver, dialed his home number, and listened. There was no answer. So where is she this time? He wondered. Cheating on me in a motel room like this one?
His wife was almost ten years younger than he was, trim, still looked good, could easily attract another man. And more significantly, she seemed to have lost all interest in him, including sex. How long has it been? he wondered. Six months, a year? It was almost like she had given up on their relationship altogether. Maybe it had something to do with his busier work schedule, being on the road more. The past year had been a hectic but productive one, with several breakthroughs on big cases. But had the extra time on the job actually undermined their marriage? No, he didn’t think so.
His mind turned to her apparent infatuation with her boss. Was he the problem? That seemed like a better bet. But could it really be that simple? Probably not. For years, their marriage had seemed solid, with a kind of mutual empathy between them that made communication easy, no matter what the situation. So how could things have suddenly changed so much? Maybe it was the times. Social change was definitely in the air. Social norms were being challenged at every turn. But were their personal circumstances really that different these days? She definitely seemed preoccupied. But with what? Vic shook his head.
And