The Deepest Water Read online

  Willa had found herself in the novel several times; one time she had blushed, and another time she had wept. The passages were lyrical, joyful, erotic, but of course no one else would know he had been writing about her. Abby could imagine the lieutenant's expression if they insisted that that was how Jud really had felt about Willa; he would be polite, she thought, and his noncommittal mask would snap right in place.

  "I put the last chapters together last night," Felicia said as Abby took off her jacket. "And I finished reading the entire novel. What I'll do today, while you both catch up, is start making notes about the characters I recognize." She looked at Abby with great sadness. "It's a wonderful novel," she said softly. She went to the living room to her rocking chair, with both white poodles at her feet, a notebook on her lap, and manuscript pages on an end table within reach.

  Abby and Willa went to the dining table and started to read.

  It was late in the afternoon; they had been working for hours when Willa dropped the chapter she was reading onto the table; her face was white and tears stood in her eyes. "It wasn't fair," she whispered. "God! Sending children to fight a filthy war! It was sinful, wicked. Those men behind it all should be tried as war criminals, all of them! Execution is too good for them!"

  They all knew that although Jud called his character Link, he had been writing about himself. Link's ordeal in Vietnam had been Jud's ordeal, and he had finally gotten to it in the last novel. The chapter Abby was reading had Link drafted, tested, and assigned to communications; he became a radioman for the troops. A knot had formed in her chest when she read about a beautiful young Vietnamese woman, a girl of seventeen, who was a translator for his unit. One day his sergeant, a Texan of gargantuan proportions, yelled, "What the fuck does this fucking shit mean?" Link had said, "I think it says they got lost, ran around in circles looking for the latrine." He had glanced at the girl and caught a fleeting grin on her face that always before had been without expression. They had tea together, then took a walk, talked. They did it again the next day, and the next.... She told him her grandmother warned her not to swim in the river because there was a giant ray with a tail that could reach all the way across the river and catch someone, drag her to its mouth, and eat her in one bite.

  "Did you swim in the river?"

  "Oh, yes. But I kept an eye out for the ray. The convent school was a kilometer from my house, and every day I took off my clothes, most of them," she quickly added with a little smile, "and I told my brother to carry them home for me. I swam home."

  "Why not all the clothes?" he teased.

  "Because Grandmother said the leeches will crawl into a girl. You know. And she will swell up like this, and then she will die." She held her hands out from her body to show the swelling, like the last trimester of pregnancy. Her hands were so tiny, her fingers perfect, each one perfect. Her wrists were as small as a child's. "When you swell up and die," she said gravely, "the leeches come pouring out, like a black stream. So," she said in a practical manner, "I didn't take off all my clothes. I kept my pants, and tied them very tightly around my legs with cords, and another cord tight around my waist. To keep the leeches out." They both laughed.

  They made love that day.

  Willa stood up and went to the sink, and Abby returned to the chapter she was reading. The knot of dread grew until she felt filled with it as page after page described the love affair between Link and the Vietnamese translator he called Sammy.

  They met behind the camp, in the mess tent between meals, in the communications tent. She took him to a hut in the forest where they could pretend the rest of the world had vanished. He told her about Rabbit Lake, the village he had grown up in, and she told him about her family, her village. They made elaborate, incredible plans to run away together, away from war. She wept with fear when he went out on missions, and with relief when he returned, and he promised he would never kill any of her countrymen. It was a lie. He was the one who transmitted the orders for air strikes, for helicopter firepower, for reinforcements. She said she feared her brother would kill him, and how could she bear such a thing?

  "Your brother? But you're... I mean... I don't know what I mean."

  "You know. Three brothers, one fighting for your cause, one against. Father against son. Brother against brother. Mother against daughter. Husband against wife. That's what this war has done to us."

  She began to fold up the sheet. She always brought a clean sheet for them to lie on. "It's time," she said gently. Then, kneeling, holding the sheet against her breast, she said, "Once a year, one day a year, we can put aside the war and honor our grandmother. My brothers, my uncles, all of us can put the war aside. If for one day, why not two, then three? Why war that never ends?" She looked at him sadly and shook her head. "You can't answer, my love, nor can I. It's time."

  He thought that his love for her would kill him; his heart could not contain such love without shattering.

  Abby put down the last page of the chapter and, without looking up, put the paper clip back on it, laid it on the stack of manuscript she had finished reading. She felt as if her own heart might shatter.

  Reluctantly she reached for the next chapter, the one that had brought about Willa's outburst. Willa came up behind her and rested her hand on Abby's shoulder, pressed her cheek against Abby's head for a moment, then went back to her own chair and picked up another chapter without a word.

  Abby read swiftly. Sammy and Link were together every minute they were off duty. He wanted to marry her, take her home when he got out, or stay with her in Vietnam. It was all he could think of, ways to keep her forever. Then one day he was called to the captain's tent and was confronted there by his lieutenant and the Texan sergeant.

  He stood at attention as the lieutenant told him what they wanted. He detested the lieutenant, blond, mid-twenties, an MBA in real life, a lieutenant in Vietnam. All they wanted, the lieutenant said, was the date of a family celebration and the location. He thought of the many ways he would like to kill the lieutenant with his icy eyes and pink cheeks.

  "Yes, sir," he said, and he knew all three men watching him were aware that he was lying. He would warn her, he thought, tell her they would use her in some way.

  The sergeant began to bluster, to threaten, and the captain held up his hand. He was in his forties, experienced, a career officer who knew his men. "Listen, son," he said. "We all want the same thing here, for this goddamn war to be over. That's all any of us wants, to get it over with and go home. This girl's oldest brother is a colonel in the Vietcong, and we want him. We don't want him dead, or hurt. We want him alive. The more of their officers we can turn, the sooner the war ends. He's multilingual, just like her; they all are, the whole family. He can be helpful. Not dead, he can't be, but alive, convinced that they can't win, he can help us get out of this goddamn mire we're in." He nodded toward the lieutenant. "He'll lead the platoon. They'll walk in and take one man, then leave with him. The celebration will continue, no one hurt, no shots fired."

  "Yes, sir," Link said, exactly as he had before. The captain flushed, and the lieutenant looked ready to spring at him.

  "Meanwhile, you're restricted to camp," the captain said. "Communications tent, mess hall, your tent. Period. Think about it, soldier. Dismissed." He turned to the sergeant and said, "Tell Sammy I want her in my office ASAP."

  He thought all that day, that night. They had planned this, all of it. They had allowed him to be alone with her for hours at a time, given him time off when she was off, looked the other way when he went into the forest with her. No one else had been able to get close to her, but he had, and they had seen it and planned to use his love for her, hers for him. He thought, They had bugged the hut, heard what she said about honoring her grandmother one day a year, heard everything both of them had said. He felt nothing but hatred for them, all of them. He realized he could say nothing, someone might be listening; if he warned her and they overheard, they might seize her and treat her like a spy, force her to t
alk. The thought filled him with terror. He tried to avoid her, but it was useless; they worked at the same time in the same place. She looked at him longingly, and reached out for his hand one day when they were alone. He drew away and turned his back.

  "What have I done, my love?" she whispered.

  "I have work to do," he said brusquely.

  "My love, please, look at me. What has happened? The captain said I cannot leave the camp, you cannot leave. What has happened?"

  "I don't know. I think they're afraid spies have come in or something."

  From the corner of his eye he could see her shake her head, could see the glint of tears in her eyes. She faced the wall and gazed at the map there. He doubted she was seeing it.

  "I must leave for a short time," she said. "What will they do to me if I leave without permission?"

  "They'll decide you're a spy and deal with you the way they deal with all spies." He saw a shudder ripple through her.

  "Always before they let me go home to my village for a day, for two days. Now they say I must stay here. But I must go home, just for one day. On Sunday I must go. My grandmother ... She needs me for just one day."

  He dashed across the tent, to clamp his hand over her mouth, to make her unsay the words. The lieutenant entered the small communications tent then and looked at them both coldly. "It doesn't appear that either of you is interested in the work you've been assigned," he said. "The captain wants you right now," he said to Sammy.

  Abby was reading faster and faster, her hands sweating, her heart racing. This was the woman he had written about; in the incident about Teri Frazier's death, he had combined Teri and this Vietnamese woman, his lover.

  For the next two days Link could not find her; the captain was keeping her busy, under lock and key—translating a classified document of some sort, someone told him. Sunday morning the lieutenant and sergeant took a platoon out; Link had not been assigned as radioman for this mission. An hour after they left, Sammy appeared at the communications tent, and he felt his knees give as relief swept through him. "Walk with me," she said. The captain, at his desk reading something, barely glanced up. He said, "Take a walk, soldier."

  They walked without touching or speaking. Then she took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. She led him to a place he had not seen before. There was a tiny stream. They bathed, made love, and then walked some more.

  Abby had come to the part she had read before. "Be whole, my love...." Sammy left him in the forest, and he followed her. He heard music and realized she had gone to her village. He stumbled through the forest toward the music and reached the clearing of the village at almost the same time the platoon appeared at the far side of it, tiny figures emerging from the jungle, their rifles ready, spreading out to encircle the small houses. Someone was running from house to house, and the Americans began shooting.

  Then the real shooting started, and the Vietcong swarmed over the platoon, firing from all directions. The platoon had walked into an ambush.

  Link sank to the ground. He was there when the first two helicopters appeared and were shot down. He was there when other helicopters came in and firebombed the village. When the rescue squad appeared and scoured the area for the wounded and the dead, he was the only survivor they found; they carried him out.

  Abby was trembling when she put down the last page.

  "You need a drink," Felicia said, and handed her a glass that was mostly scotch. "And you both need to stop for today," she added. She started to put the novel chapters back in the box.

  Abby took a drink and choked; the scotch burned her mouth, her throat, all the way down. "I have to go home," she said faintly.

  "Yes, you do. I figure that tomorrow Willa will finish the last chapter, and over the weekend I'll get my notes pretty much done."

  Abby had told them that she wouldn't be able to come over during the weekend. She had to spend some time with Brice, or he would flip out totally. She would finish reading the other copy of the novel at home.

  "On Monday we can talk about it," Felicia said. "Willa, stay for dinner?"

  Willa shook her head. "Thanks. I... I have to go home, too."

  "Yes, I expect you do," Felicia said.

  Abby was grateful for Felicia's matter-of-factness, her steadiness; she had read the entire novel, she knew exactly what Willa and Abby were going through now, and she was the calm storm center that was holding them both together, keeping them from dissolving into tears. Hesitantly Abby asked, "Did the girl, Sammy, did she die that day?"

  "I don't know," Felicia said. "For Link the war ended that day; he never referred to her again. I just don't know." She looked at Abby sharply. "Pull yourself together, child. No one outside this house realizes how autobiographical his novels are. And we don't know what really happened that day, or to whom."

  Dully Abby nodded, thinking, Brice was right all along. Someone knew something terrible, had extorted money, had blackmailed Jud, who had believed he had lured his own comrades into a deadly trap. That girl, Sammy, had used him; his own officers had used him. She had come back to haunt him. Maybe she had been watching him for years, and as soon as she thought there was any money to be had, she demanded it. Abby thought of the working title of his novel, and she knew it was his real title, the final title, the end of the four-volume novel: Guilt.

  13

  After Abby finished the last page of the novel on Saturday afternoon, she sat at her desk gazing out the window for a long time. Finally she nodded and drew in a breath; the best thing he had ever written. The ending had left her reluctant to reenter the world of the concrete, the real world. She wanted to stay with the novel longer, think about it, feel whatever it was she was feeling for a very long time. Peace, she thought in wonder; she was filled with a sense of peace she had not felt in many months.

  Almost reverently she reached across the desk and rested her hand on the mahogany box; she knew she was thanking him, thanking God or fate or whatever it was that had granted him enough time to finish his work, finally to find the peace he had looked for.

  She did not stir until Spook made a low noise in her throat and lifted her head, her ears twitching, her signal that Brice had come home. At lunch Abby had told him that she was finally through responding to the sympathy notes, and he had breathed a sigh of relief. And, she had added, she would finish the novel and have it ready to send to Christina on Monday. He had gone out on some mysterious errands of his own.

  She went down to greet him.

  "Done?" he asked, hanging up his jacket.

  "Done."

  "Great. Happy ending?"

  She hesitated. "I think so."

  "Oh, God, more ambiguity. Never mind. I'll wait for the movie."

  They had argued once about one of Jud's novels, which Brice said was such a mixture of fact and fantasy that he couldn't follow what was really happening, couldn't tell what was real.

  "It's all real," she had said, amused. "Sometimes you use metaphors to express what can't be said outright, but that doesn't mean the metaphors aren't real. You bypass the rational mind and go straight to the symbolic."

  He had clamped his hands over his ears in mock horror. "English lit lecture time. Spare me. I damn near flunked it."

  "And you should have flunked it, you illiterate hulk."

  Now he reached in the pocket of his jacket and drew out an envelope. "Guess what?" I give.

  "Tonight we're going out on the town. Dinner reservations at Willie's, show at the Hult Center. David Copperfield, magic show. They had seven seats left. I snagged a couple."

  It was a fun night, an excellent dinner followed by laughter and marvels. Brice looked so smug, he made her think of a doctor who, after many vain attempts, finally found the right medication for a difficult patient. And she had needed desperately to laugh, to relax.

  Her dreams that night were filled with illusions, with magic. She reached for Felicia's hand, and Felicia turned into a stranger. She was in a house of mirrors where she could
see Brice but could not get to him; she bumped into herself again and again. She was swimming to the cabin that kept receding farther and farther out of reach, and there was something in the water with her, something dreadful, fearful, invisible. She was drawn to a flower, a gardenia just opening. She picked it, and it turned into a lovely naked girl, and then she was the girl holding a tiger in the palm of her hand. It began to grow, and she knew it was devouring her, she was turning into the tiger. It was neither painful nor frightening, just interesting to know she was becoming a tiger.

  Brice had already eaten breakfast and was reading the newspaper when she went down the next morning. No matter what time he went to bed, he was awake before seven the next morning; her internal clock didn't keep time that way. It was after nine.

  "Good morning," they said in unison. Laughing, she blew him a kiss and went on to make toast and pour coffee. They were out of juice. Today she would make a shopping list, she promised herself.