Читать книгу Carthage - Joyce Carol Oates - Страница 11
ОглавлениеYES YOU KNOW. Know that I do. Of course—you know me.
How could you doubt me.
IT IS A SHOCK—of course. We are all—we are all very—sad . . .
No! Sad is what I said. We are all—everyone who loves you—and me—especially. We are sad.
NO, WAIT. We are very happy that you are alive, Brett, and returned to us of course.
We are not sad about that, we are very happy about that.
All those months we prayed. Prayed and prayed.
And now, you are returned home to us.
And now, you are returned to us.
I KNEW YOU would return of course—I never doubted.
Even when we were out of contact—when you were in combat—I did not doubt.
In that terrible place—how do you pronounce it—“Diyala” . . .
PLEASE BELIEVE ME, darling: I love you like always.
That is why I wanted us to be engaged before you left—in case there was something that happened . . . over there.
But you know me, I am . . . I am your girl.
I am your fiancée. Your bride-to-be.
That will not change.
EXCEPT NOW: there is so much for us to plan!
Makes my head swim so much to plan . . .
Your mother promised to help but now . . .
. . . (should not have said promised. I did not mean promised.)
But, before this, before—this . . . The surgeries, and the recovery and rehab. Before this, your mother was excited about planning the wedding, with my mother, and grandmother, and we were planning the wedding to take place as soon as you were . . .
Well yes: there is a before, and there is now.
OH IS IT WRONG to say before? And—now?
Brett why do you look at me like that . . .
Why are you angry at me . . .
Why do you seem to hate me . . .
. . . look at me like I am a stranger. And you are a stranger to me and I—I am frightened of you at such times.
BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, Brett. I love you.
I love you and so sometimes this other—it’s like this other—is staring at me out of your eyes . . .
It is very frightening to me. For I don’t know what I can do, to placate this other.
I PLEDGE TO YOU to be your loving wife forever & ever Amen.
I pledge to you as to Jesus our Savior forever & ever Amen.
I am not ashamed of loving you. Of being with you as we did . . .
I would not have been ashamed if I had been pregnant (as I had worried I might be, as you know) and I think now (almost) that I am sorry that I was not.
(Are you sorry?)
(It would be so different now!)
I feel that I am already your wife. But I feel sometimes that you are not my husband—exactly.
I feel that there is Brett my darling, and there is—this other.
Sometimes.
HERE IS THE bridal gown design.
It’s so lovely—isn’t it? Do you like it?
Please tell me yes. I am so eager to hear yes.
I know it doesn’t interest you—much. Of course . . .
Some dresses are very expensive. This is a bargain, we found online—“Bonnie Bell Designs.”
And so beautiful, I think.
Ivory silk. Ivory lace. One-shoulder neckline with a sheer lace back. The pleated bodice is “fitted” and the skirt “flared.”
The veil is gossamer chiffon. The train is three feet long.
And these are the shoes: ivory satin pumps.
Let me hold the picture to the light, maybe you can see better . . .
Do you think that I will look . . . pretty . . . in this?
You’d said I was your beautiful girl. Many times you’d said that, Brett. I believed you then, and I want to believe you now.
Please say yes.
YOU WILL WEAR your U.S. Army dress uniform. So handsome in your dress uniform with “decorations.”
You will wear the dark glasses. You will wear white gloves. The dress cap, so elegant.
Corporal Brett Kincaid. My husband.
We will practice. We have months to practice.
(YOU’D HAD A “stateside” promotion—you’d said.)
(All things have a meaning in the military—you’d said. And so stateside had a meaning but what is that meaning?—we did not know.)
(We know only that we are so proud of our Corporal Brett Kincaid.)
YOU ARE MISTAKEN—YOU do not look wounded.
You do not look “battered.”
You do not look “like shit”!
You are my handsome fiancé, you are not truly changed. There will be more surgeries. There must be time to heal, the surgeon has explained. There will be a “natural healing”—in time.
You can’t expect a miracle to be perfect!
The ears, the scalp, the forehead, the lids of the eyes. The throat beneath the jaw, on your right side. Except in bright light you would think it was an ordinary burn—burns.
Oh please don’t flinch, Brett—when I kiss you. Please.
It’s like a sliver of glass in the heart—when you push me from you.
IF PEOPLE ARE looking at you in Carthage it is only because they know of you—your medals, your honors. They are admiring of you, for you are a war hero but they would not want to intrude.
Like Daddy. He is so admiring of you, Brett!—but Daddy has a funny way about him when he’s emotional—gets very quiet—people wouldn’t believe that Zeno Mayfield is a shy man really.
Well I mean—essentially.
It’s hard for men to talk about—certain things. Daddy had not ever had a son, only daughters. To us, Daddy talks. We listen.
And Mom talks about you all the time. When you were in Iraq, in combat, she prayed for you all the time. She worried more when we didn’t hear from you than I did, almost . . .
All of my family, Brett. All of the Mayfields.
Try to believe—we love you.
I WISH YOU would come back to church with me, Brett.
Everyone is missing you there.
We have a new minister—he’s very nice.
And his wife, she’s very nice.
They ask after you every Sunday. They know about you of course.
I mean—they know that you are returned to us safely.
There are other veterans in the congregation, I think. They don’t come every week. But I think you know two of them at least—Denny Bisher and Brandon Kranach. Maybe they’d been in Iraq, or maybe Afghanistan.
Denny is in a wheelchair. Denny’s younger brother wheels him in. Or his mother. How’s Brett Denny is always asking me and I tell him you’ll contact him soon . . .
How’s Corporal Kincaid. How’s that cool dude.
No, please! Don’t be angry with me, I am sorry.
. . . I will not bring Denny up again.
. . . I will not bring church up again.
Don’t be angry at me, please I am sorry.
JUST FIREWORKS, BRETT! Over at Palisade Park.
The windows are shut. Air conditioner is on.
I can turn the music higher so you won’t hear.
I said honey—just fireworks. You know—Fourth of July in the park.
Yes better not to go this year.
I told them not to expect us—Mom and Dad. We have other things to do.
WHICH TABLETS?—the white ones, or . . .
I can bring you a glass of water.
OK, a glass of beer. But the doctor said . . .
. . . not a good idea to mix “alcohol” and “meds” . . .
Don’t—please.
WE WILL PRACTICE, in the church. Before the wedding rehearsal, we will practice.
You do not limp. Only just—sometimes—you seem to lose your balance—you make that sudden jerking movement with your legs like in a dream.
I think it is not real. It is just something in your head.
HAND-EYE COORDINATION. THEY have promised.
In the video, you can see how that boy improved.
There are many miracles. The great miracle God has provided is, you are alive and we are together.
The doctor—neurologist—says it is a matter of neuron-recircuiting.
It is a matter of new brain cells learning to take over from the damaged brain cells. It is neurogenesis.
Like not-sleeping. The brain “forgets” how to sleep. Like—sometimes—the brain forgets how to control “elimination.” It is no one’s fault.
These reflexes will come back in time, the doctor said.
WHEN THE GRENADE exploded, and the wall collapsed.
It was combat. It was in action. Which is why you have been awarded a Purple Heart.
And the Infantry Combat Badge which is a special badge beautiful gold-braided in the shape of a U with a miniature facsimile of a long-barreled rifle against a blue background. A badge to hold in the hand and contemplate like a gem.
Like a gem that is a riddle, or a riddle that is a gem.
How brave you were, from the start.
Which is why you must not feel shame, that you are returned to us.
You are not a traitor or a coward. You did not let your platoon down. You were injured, and you are convalescing. And you are in rehab.
And you will be married.
WE WILL HAVE CHILDREN, I vow. A son.
I know this. This is possible!
We will do it. We will surprise them. In rehab they have promised—the older doctor said, to me—If you love your future husband and will not give up but persevere a pregnancy is not impossible.
Lots of disabled vets have fathered children. This is well known.
The MRI did not detect any growth. The MRI did not detect any blood-clots. The MRI did not detect any “irregularities.”
Whatever you see in your head like in dreams is not real. You know this!
CORPORAL BRETT GRAHAM Kincaid.
On the maps, we tried to follow you.
Baghdad—that was the first.
Diyala Province. Sadah.
Where you were hurt—Kirkuk.
Where the maps gave out—faded.
So far from Carthage.
OPERATION IRAQI FREEDOM.
Very few people in Carthage know the difference—if there is a difference—between “Iraq” and “Afghanistan.”
I know: for I am your fiancée and it is necessary for me to know.
But still I am confused, and there is no one to ask.
For I dare not ask you.
The look in your eyes, at such times!—I feel such cold, a shudder comes over me.
He does not love me. He does not even know me.
Reverend Doig was explaining last Sunday there is no end, there can be no end, never an end to war for there is a “seed of harm” in the human soul that can never be wholly eradicated until Jesus returns to save mankind.
But when will this be?—Jesus returning to us?
Like Corporal Kincaid returning.
Yes I believe this! I want to believe this.
Must believe that there is a way of believing it—for both of us. When Reverend Doig marries us.
WHAT DID I tell them, I told them the truth—it was an accident.
I slipped and fell and struck the door—so silly.
At the ER they took an X-ray. My jaw is not dislocated.
It’s sore, it’s hard to swallow but the bruises will fade.
I know, you did not mean it.
I am sorry to upset you.
I am not crying, truly!
We will look back on this time of trial and we will say—It was a test of our love. We did not weaken.
THIS MORNING in my bed which is so lonely. Oh Brett I miss our special times together before you went away when I could come to you in your apartment and we could be alone together . . .
When that happens again, we will be happy as we were. This is not a normal way for us to be, living as we are. It’s no wonder there is strain between us. But this time will pass, this time of trial.
I wish your mother did not dislike me. When I am trying so hard to love her.
She said to me You don’t have to pretend. You can stop pretending. Any day now, you can stop pretending. And I didn’t know how to answer her—there was such dislike in her eyes . . . And finally I said But I am not pretending anything, Mrs. Kincaid! I love Brett and want only to marry him and be his wife and take care of him as he might need me, this is all I dream of.
This morning when I could not sleep after I’d wakened early—(there is a rooster somewhere behind where we live, up the hill behind the cemetery on the Post Road, I like to hear the rooster crowing but it means that the night is over and I will probably not get back to sleep)—I was remembering when we said good-bye, that last time.
In the Albany airport. And there were other soldiers arriving at the security check and some of them younger than you even. And that older officer—a lieutenant. And everyone—civilians—looking at you with respect.
So sad to kiss you good-bye! And everybody wanting to hug you and kiss you at the last minute and you were laughing saying But Julie is my fiancée not you guys.
There are so many of us who love you, Brett. I wish you would know this.
You gave me your “special letter” then. I knew what it meant—I think I knew—I felt that I might faint—but hid it away quickly of course and never spoke of it to anyone.
I will never open it now. Now you are safely returned to us.
Yes, I still have it of course. Hidden in my room.
My sister knows of the letter—I mean, she saw it in my hand. She has no idea what is inside it. She will not ever know.
She has told me I am not worthy of you—I am “too happy”—“too shallow”—to comprehend you.
In fact Cressida knows nothing of what there is between us. No one knows, except us.
Those special times between us, Brett. We will have those special times again . . .
Cressida is a good person in her heart!—but this is not always evident.
It’s hurtful to her to observe happiness in others. Even people she loves. I think it has made a difference to her, to see you as you are now—she has been deeply affected though she would not say so.
But if you speak to her of anything personal she will stare at you coldly. Excuse me. You are utterly mistaken.
She has refused to be my maid of honor, she was scornful saying she hasn’t worn anything like a dress or a skirt since she’d been a baby and wasn’t going to start now. She laughed saying weddings are rituals in an extinct religion in which I don’t believe.
I said to Cressida What is the religion in which you do believe?
This question I put to her seriously and not sarcastically as Cressida herself speaks. For truly I wanted to know.
But Cressida had no reply. Turned away from me as if she was ashamed and did not speak.
I wish—I am praying for this!—that Cressida will come to church with us sometime. Or just with me, if you don’t want to come. I know that she has been wounded in some way, she has been hurt by someone or something, she would never confide in me. I feel that her heart is empty and yearning to be filled—to cross over.
NO, BRETT! Not ever.
You must not say such things.
We could not feel more pride for you, truly. It is a feeling beyond pride—such as you would feel for any true hero, who has acted in a way few others could act, in a time of great danger.
What you said at the going-away party, such simple words you said made everyone cry—I just want to serve my country, I want to be the very best soldier I know how to be.
This is what you have done. Please, Brett! Have faith.
The war in Iraq was the most exciting time in your life, I know. Those months you were gone from us—“deployed.” It was a dangerous time and an exciting time and (I understand) a secret time for you, we could know nothing of in Carthage.
Operation Iraqi Freedom. Those words!
We tried to follow in the news. On the Internet. We prayed for you.
Daddy would remove from the newspaper things he didn’t want me to see. Particularly the New York Times, he gets on Sundays mostly.
Photos of soldiers who have died in the war—the wars. Since 2001.
I have seen some of them of course. Couldn’t help but look for women among the rows of men looking young as boys.
There are not many female soldiers. But it is shocking to see them, their pictures with all the men.
And always smiling. Like high school girls.
In Carthage, there are some people who do not “support” the war—the wars. But they support our troops, they make that clear.
Daddy has always made that clear.
Daddy respects you. Daddy is just awkward now, he doesn’t know how to talk to you but that’s how some men are. He was never a soldier himself and has strong feelings about the Vietnam War which was the war when he was growing up. But Daddy does not mean anything personal.
You have said It’s a toss of the dice. You have said Who gives a shit who lives, who dies. A toss of the dice.
I know you don’t mean this. This is not Brett speaking but the other.
You must not despair. Life is a gift. Our lives are gifts. Our love for each other.
It was surprising, my mother is not very religious but while you were gone—she came to church with me, almost every Sunday. She prayed.
All of the congregation prayed for you. For you and the others in the war—the wars.
So many have died in the wars, it is hard for me to remember the numbers—more than one thousand?
Most of them soldiers like you, not officers. And all beloved of God, you’d wish to think.
For all are beloved of God. Even the enemy.
Just so, we must defend ourselves. A Christian must defend himself against the enemies of Christ.
This war against terror. It is a war against the enemies of Christ.
I know you did not want to kill anyone. I know you, my darling Brett, and I know this—you did not want to kill the enemy, or—anyone. But you were a soldier, this was your duty.
You were promoted because you were a good soldier. We were so proud of you then.
Your mother is proud of you, I wish she could show it better.
I wish she did not seem to blame me.
I am not sure why she would wish to blame me.
Maybe she thought I was—pregnant. Maybe she thought that was why we wanted to get married. And maybe she thought that was why you enlisted in the army—to get away.
I wish that I could speak with your mother but I—I have tried . . . I have tried and failed. Your mother does not like me.
My mother says We’ll keep trying! Mrs. Kincaid is fearful of losing her son.
I know that you don’t like me to talk about your mother—I am sorry, I will try not to. Only just sometimes, I feel so hurt.
I know, the war is a terrible thing for you to remember. When you start classes at Plattsburgh in September, or maybe—maybe it will be January—you will have other things to think about . . . By then, we will be married and things will be easier, in just one place.
I will take courses at Plattsburgh, too. I think I will. Part-time graduate school, in the M.A. in education program.
With a master’s degree I could teach high school English. I would be qualified for “administration”—Daddy thinks I should be a principal, one day.
Daddy has such plans for us! Both of us.
I WISH YOU would speak of it to me, dear Brett.
I’ve seen documentaries on TV. I think I know what it was like—in a way.
I know it was a “high” for you—I’ve heard you say to your friends. Search missions in the Iraqi homes when you didn’t know what would happen to you, or what you would do.
What you’d never say to me or to your mother you would say to Rod Halifax and “Stump”—or maybe you would say it to a stranger you met in a bar.
Another vet, you would speak with. Someone who didn’t know Corporal Brett Kincaid as he’d used to be.
There is no “high” like that in Carthage. Tossing your life like dice.
Our lives since high school—it’s like looking through the wrong end of a telescope, I guess—so small.
Those sad little cardboard houses beneath a Christmas tree, houses and a church and fake snow like frosting. Small.
EVEN OUR WOUNDS here are small.
IN CARTHAGE, your life is waiting for you. It is not a thrilling life like the other. It is not a life to serve Democracy like the other. You said such a strange thing when you saw us waiting for you by the baggage claim, we were thrilled you were walking unassisted and this look came in your face I had not ever seen before and it was like you were afraid of us for just a moment you said Oh Christ are you all still alive? I was thinking you were all dead. I’d been to the other place, and I saw you all there.
