A Long Way Back Page 4

  On the way back to the house, Carla made small talk but kept glancing at him. Mali kept up a constant chatter. Anthony was relieved just to listen as he leaned back and savored their presence.

  “I baked salmon for supper. Is it still your favorite dish?”

  “You know it, honey,” Anthony responded, sliding his hand along her thigh.

  Carla peeked in the rearview mirror at their 6-year-old daughter, who was gazing out the window, before putting her hand over his.

  “Mali’s got a sleepover tonight,” Carla said squeezing his hand.

  “Momma made me,” Mali muttered with her lips stuck out.

  “You get to see Daddy for the rest of your life, baby. He needs to rest tonight, though. Okay?”

  “If you say so.”

  Anthony stood closely behind Carla, his hands on her hips as they both watched Mali leave with Dale and Marlene Cofield. As soon as the door closed, Carla turned and threw herself at Anthony. Wrapping her arms around his back, she kissed his face repeatedly before opening her mouth and receiving his tongue.

  Anthony ran his hands along Carla’s back and then her legs, lifting her dress, caressing and then squeezing. He loved the small whining sounds she made when she became excited.

  She unbuttoned his shirt and tongued his chest. He unsnapped her bra and marveled briefly at her before reciprocating while unzipping her skirt.

  The two crumpled to the carpet as they continued to stroke, kiss, and explore. Her whimpers accompanied by his heavy breathing increased in rapidity and volume as she shifted her hips and pulled Anthony on top.

  “Oh my,” Carla blurted continuously, shuddering as her eyes rolled back while Anthony released all the love and desire he had stored for two months into her.

  Exhausted from their nonstop lovemaking, Carla finally found the strength to get up. She stood, still flushed with exertion and exhilaration, looking at her sleeping husband, her forehead wrinkled in concern.

  It wasn’t that he was such a beast, more hungry for her than he’d ever been; it wasn’t his bellowing as he peaked, releasing some pent-up emotion stored deep inside him; it was his eyes.

  Even when he laughed, his eyes didn’t. It wasn’t until they made love that they came alive.

  Chapter 13

  C

  lose to a month had passed since he’d returned from Vietnam, and Anthony was no further ahead in his investigation than he had been before he left. He had begun to run and work out again to calm the “devil,” as his aunt described it. He spent ten to twelve hours a day investigating and writing for the Post and himself. Six of those hours he tried to sleep, but sleep was elusive.

  Although the work hours were grueling, the stillness was the hardest. That’s when the nightmares of Tay Ninh slipped into his thoughts. The Vietnamese charging toward him in their green uniforms, the bullets flying, the screams of the wounded and dying, the black body bags, and the fear that any moment could have been his last remained buried in his psyche.

  It had been tough returning home, answering questions when he didn’t want to talk at all. His mind was a jumble of thoughts; his emotions continually collided. Carla was his only constant. He couldn’t get enough of her in bed.

  But it only took a week for the devil to surface.

  “Honey, where’s the oatmeal?” Anthony asked.

  “Oh, I moved it. It’s in the lower cabinet on the left hand side.”

  “Why did you move it?”

  “Hmm?”

  “It was good where it was,” Anthony said.

  “I didn’t like it there. So I rearranged the cabinets a bit.”

  “Rearranged? Why?”

  “Anthony. What’s the big deal?”

  “I think you should have consulted me.”

  “What? First, you weren’t here. Second, it’s no big deal. No, let me rephrase that. First, it’s no big deal. Second, you weren’t here.”

  Anthony could feel the blood rushing to his face. “First, it is a big deal. Second, it is a big deal,” he snapped as he pulled cartons of food from the lower-left cabinet and threw them on the floor before putting the oatmeal box in its original place.

  “Anthony?” Carla spluttered as he stormed out the door.

  I was wrong, Anthony thought as he walked around the block. I’ve got to do better. But how? The outburst came from nowhere. It was like a mental ambush. As if something was attacking him from the inside. How could he stop an assault when he didn’t know the enemy?

  “I’m sorry, Carla,” Anthony said after returning home, going to the kitchen, picking up the cartons, and replacing them in the cupboard. “I just need some time to get my head together.”

  “Okay, Anthony. But I hope it’s soon. I’m worried about you. Your temper is getting worse. We’ve had at least one argument a day, and this is the fourth time you’ve had these outbursts, about nothing.”

  Nothing? Anthony tensed. There it was again. He took a deep breath and walked away feeling proud he had quelled the rage—that time.

  But in spite of his ongoing efforts, the anger that welled up without warning continued to plague him in the months ahead.

  “I said I’d paint the garage, why do you keep bugging me about it?”

  “Anthony, here you go again. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t like being nagged.”

  “I merely stated it’d be nice to have the garage painted this weekend since the weatherman predicted rain next week.”

  Anthony hit the dinette table with his hand, cracking the wood top, then threw one of the kitchen chairs against the refrigerator. “When I get to it!”

  Despite holding her hands over her ears, Mali, who had been sitting in the living room, jumped at the crash of breaking wood and ran upstairs to hide in her bedroom closet.

  “What is your problem?” Carla asked before running up the stairs to comfort Mali.

  Anthony couldn’t answer. He could hear Carla consoling their child. He wanted to do the same, wrap his arms around both of them and protect them, but he couldn’t be the comforter and the threat.

  What he most admired about Carla was what he now feared—her calm, cool, decisive approach to a problem. “You need to see someone, Anthony.”

  “I’ll be okay. I just need time.”

  “No. You need counseling.”

  “I can do this on my own.”

  Carla paused, sighed, folded her arms and frowned at Anthony. “Well, then, you figure it out on your own. But I will not subject our child to these continuous eruptions, this irrational behavior. We’ve talked for more than two months about this, but nothing’s changed. And I don’t see it changing anytime soon.

  Tomorrow Mali and I will visit my parents. I’m not sure when we’ll be back. If you can’t control yourself now, Anthony, who says it won’t get worse and you do something you will regret the rest of your life?”

  “I—”

  Carla held up one hand, “There’s no more discussion.”

  Once her mind was made up, Anthony knew no amount of pleading would make her stay.

  Saturday morning, ten days after Carla left, Anthony was tying his shoes for a five-mile run, when the doorbell rang. The mail carrier handed him a mangled package that was too large to fit in the mail chute. There were enough stamps to have been sent from China or…Vietnam. Curious, Anthony looked for a return address, but there was none.

  He pulled out the papers and laid them on his desk. Each paper had the heading 25th Infantry Division Roster. There were numbered pages with names, rank, serial number, unit, and hometown. There was no note or any other document disclosing the purpose of the papers.

  Anthony sifted through the sheets, trying to understand their importance. He examined them again, looking for a clue, and then stared into space. What was the sender trying to tell him? Balling up a blank sheet of paper and throwing it against the wall, he left the roster on his desk and went for his run.

  The Post was abuzz Tuesday morning with editors
scrambling to put together the most complete story of the Moratorium to End the War scheduled for October 15 and the March on Washington planned for november 15.

  “They’ve got no business protesting this war,” Leonard Shanklar, a Washington Post reporter asserted.

  “What?” Anthony asked, turning so quickly he almost knocked over his coffee.

  “They’re nothing but hippies afraid to serve.”

  “George McGovern is a hippie?”

  Denise, a paralegal at the Post, stopped typing to watch Anthony and Leonard Shanklar.

  “Most of them are and should be thrown in jail.”

  Anthony cocked his head. “Because they protest, they should be jailed?”

  “Look,” Shanklar argued. “You were over there, Anthony. You see what the troops are going through, fighting for our freedom, yet they come back to the United States and are screamed and spit at—people calling them baby killers and all that nonsense.”

  Anthony stood and walked from around his desk toward Shanklar. “I support the troops, but I don’t support this bogus war. That’s what they are protesting."

  “People calling the soldiers baby killers?” Shanklar asked.

  “The real baby killers are the political hacks who put these young men and women in harm’s way,” Anthony retorted.

  “Well, I’m sorry, Anthony, but I believe the president and his generals know more than we ever will about this conflict. If Vietnam falls, so will other Asian countries. I mean, my God, North Vietnam is a Peking satellite, and China is a danger to our way of life. If we have to combat communism wherever it arises, then we should. It just happens that now it’s in Vietnam.”

  “I can’t believe you, a reporter, said that,” Anthony exclaimed, his voice rising with every word. “First, China and Vietnam don’t even get along—haven’t for centuries. The only reason China helps North Vietnam at all is because it hates us more. This is an internal war. Do you really believe Vietnam is so much a threat to the United States it justifies getting thousands of young Americans killed?” Anthony asked, hitting a divider that fell toward Denise’s desk.

  “And now, instead of ending the war, there’s talk of invading Cambodia?” Anthony continued, spitting out each word, unaware as Denise caught the falling divider.

  Shanklar stepped back from the verbal assault. The only sound in the press room where the eight people had gathered was a typewriter in a cubicle down the hallway.

  Anthony took a deep breath, went back to his desk, and shoved the stack of papers on his desk into a drawer. “They’ve got every reason to protest, and they have every right not to get jailed doing it,” he said as he walked out.

  “You okay, Anthony?” Bill Walden, Anthony’s section editor, asked later that day.

  “Yeah, Bill. I’m okay.”

  Walden leaned back and rested his chin in his hand. “You’ve been a bit edgy since you’ve been back.” He paused. “And the scene with Leonard…That’s not like you.”

  “I know, Bill, and I apologize. He just pushed the wrong button.”

  Walden laughed. “It’s not unusual for Leonard. Look, Anthony, I served in Korea. I know what war can do. I’ve talked with management, and they’ve agreed to give you a well-deserved vacation. We should have thought of it earlier, and I take full responsibility for not suggesting it. How’s it sound, Anthony?”

  “How long?”

  “How’s six weeks? And we won’t count it as a vacation.”

  Anthony hesitated before answering. “Um. That’s fine. Thanks, Bill.”

  Still jittery from his encounter with Shanklar, Anthony had mixed emotions about his “vacation.” What was he thinking, becoming so angry with somebody because they had another point of view? That wasn’t him.

  Before driving off, Anthony bowed his head, recalling Arne Nielson’s words in Cu Chi, “You’ll be a different person when you return. I guarantee.”

  On the drive home, he stopped at a liquor store and bought two fifths of Jack Daniels. Okay, Arne, we’re going to try it your way.

  Chapter 14

  A

  nthony awoke from a blurry sleep. His head hurt, and his tongue felt as if he had dragged it along the Chesapeake Bay beach. He stumbled to the bathroom, then to the kitchen, fixed coffee, and sank into a chair.

  What day was it? He tried to remember what happened the previous night—where he’d been, what he’d done—but his mind was blank. Gradually his memory returned as he gazed at a half-empty liquor bottle. He’d drunk and then gone to a bar. How’d he get home in the condition he vaguely remembered being in?

  Anthony went to the attached garage and looked at his car—no scratches, no dents. That was good. He went back to the kitchen, finished his coffee, and went to shower.

  As relieved as he was about the car, it shocked him to see his discolored face and a small knot above his right eye in the mirror. Wincing as he touched one of the bruises, he noticed the cuts on his right hand and gained more memory. There was a fight. Was it about the war? He scratched his head as he struggled to recall. No, there was a woman. A woman? He stared at the mirror.

  The cold shower helped clear his head even more as the woman’s face came into focus—pretty, dark-skinned, tall. Then he remembered a guy—big, buffalo-mean, grabbing him because they were talking, laughing. She had reached for his hand. That’s when big man stormed over.

  Anthony scratched his head again. He remembered being hit, then the guy falling, grabbing for something to hold onto, and he remembered being pulled off him.

  Then she reached for his hand again.

  A shiver ran through Anthony as he mined his memory for more details. He stumbled to his bedroom, breathing a sigh of relief as he looked at the empty bed. Anthony slumped on it, then lay down, deciding to rest a while longer and gather his thoughts.

  “Hi. You’re up,” the woman said, entering the bedroom from the second bathroom.

  Anthony’s body snapped as if a mortar shell had landed two feet away.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, smoothing Carla’s bathrobe.

  Anthony stared, trying to comprehend. “What? Where?” His eyes darted from her to the bed. “Who are you?”

  She smiled. “Constance. You forgot?”

  Anthony sat speechless.

  “Are you ready to finish what we started last night?” she cooed, bathrobe open.

  Anthony recoiled. “What? Did we…?”

  She giggled. “Not yet, honey. I tried everything, but you were so out of it,” she snickered.

  Anthony straightened, took her arm, and steered her toward her clothes piled on the hassock. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake. I was…I wasn’t….”

  She looked bewildered but finally smiled. “Hey, hey. Look, I understand,” she said, removing the robe. “I’m disappointed, but I’m surprised you let me in to begin with. You’re obviously married.” She looked at the family picture on the dresser. “And she is evidently not around. You were inebriated last night, so I can respect that. But I have to say, you were kind of scary at the bar.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You had the look like Sonny Liston had when he fought. I’ve never seen it on anyone outside the ring. It took three men to pull you off him.”

  Anthony could only shake his head. She must have had him confused with someone else, he thought, until a pain shot from his right hand to his shoulder as he reached for the bedroom doorknob.

  “I’m just happy you got Marvin off my back. He’s my ex, but he acts like we’re still married,” she explained as Anthony walked her to her car, his eyes darting from one neighbor’s house to another. “Everybody in town is afraid of him because he’s an ex-boxer.”

  “Ex-boxer? That wasn’t…”

  “Marvin Hanson.”

  Anthony’s head jerked up. “What?”

  Constance laughed. “Maybe folks won’t be so afraid of his ass now.”

  Chapter 15

  R

  eturning
from taking a drive along the Potomac River to clear his head, Anthony clenched his fist, ignoring the pain, and stared at his swollen fingers. He passed a liquor store, slowed, unclenched his fist, and sped past it.

  As he sat at the kitchen table, something moving to his left caught his eye. It was a mouse. It stopped in the middle of the kitchen floor and looked at Anthony for a moment before sauntering toward the back door. After seeing a human being a thousand times bigger, why wasn’t it afraid? Maybe because it knew it was faster? That it could escape?

  Anthony envied the little creature that appeared to have its life under control. And because of that, he decided to get a live trap instead of poison, because a mouse with an attitude like that deserved to live.

  After coffee, Anthony dialed Charles “Chucky” Aaron White, his best friend since elementary school.

  “How you holding up since Carla left, Anthony?” Chucky asked.

  “I’m losing it, man,” Anthony confessed.

  “Losing what?” Chucky responded. “You had a fight. All couples do.”

  Anthony recounted the previous night.

  “Whoa! Okay. So let me get this straight. You beat up this ex-boxer, then took his wife to bed?”

  “Ex-wife. We didn’t…”

  “Now we are getting to where you are losing it. That was Constance Hanson, the former model, right?”

  “Seriously, man. I’m drinking, fighting—that’s not me.” Anthony paused. “One minute I’m sad, then anxious; some nights I can’t sleep, and when I do, the nightmares… Drinking helps for a moment, but I can’t…” Anthony sighed. “I can’t continue like this.”

  Chucky was silent for a few seconds. “You’ve been through a lot, my friend.”

  “I just got shot at, Chucky. It’s not like I was in the bush for weeks or in sustained combat. It was a one-time thing. I wasn’t even hit.”