She interrupted: “What guerrillas?”
“The Phmong. It’s a generic term; not a very nice one, really. But the actual name of a tribe-well, there were two tribes-the Saochs and Brao from the Elephant Mountains and near the Laotian border. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. Your dad was leading a group of Phmong men on a strike against a munitions storage dump. Or some village that had stockpiled a lot of weaponry. I’m not sure; he wasn’t specific when he talked about it. But somehow the government forces were tipped off and nailed your dad’s group with a mortar strike. It wasn’t a mine and it wasn’t a training mission. That’s how your dad died.”
“And this was after the Vietnam war ended.”
“Yeah. Way later.”
“But why? Were we ever at war with Cambodia? I’m no historian, but I can’t remember-”
“We weren’t at war with Cambodia. Not officially. There was this Communist army, the Khmer Rouge, that took over the country right after the U.S. pulled out of Vietnam. It was led by an electronics student, Saloth Sar, but he called himself Pol Pot. The Khmer slaughtered anyone who got in their way. So it was like a war. Maybe worse.”
“But why?”
“You want the truth? Sar’s army was made up of many thousands of teenaged boys who were pissed off about having their farms and fields and families bombed during the Vietnam war. They were uneducated and they hated anyone who was educated. They had the weapons and they had permission. So they started killing and kept killing. That’s what your father was trying to stop.”
“Then what you’re asking me, the thing you just mentioned, that’s why: a code of silence. Confidentiality is what you’re asking for. You don’t want me to repeat what you’ve just said.”
“That wouldn’t be reasonable to ask, so I won’t ask it. What I’m saying is, be very picky about who you tell. Your mother, she should know. She deserves to hear the truth.”
“When we find her, I’ll let you tell her.”
I liked the way she said that. The confidence in her voice.
I said, “And your children, they should know about their grandfather. Maybe your husband when you marry. But if you leave here in a huff and run to the newspapers crying about how your government lied to you about the death of your father, then I’ll disappear from the picture. That’s the silence I’m asking you to respect.”
Another long, thoughtful pause. “You’re sure about this? Were you there when my father was killed?”
“No. I learned of it two, maybe three, days later. Some of the Phmong told me, the mountain warriors. They had tremendous respect for your father.”
“They’re the ones who brought back his body?”
I could have said, “What was left of it.” Instead, I said, “He was killed in a mortar attack. Yes. They were there and brought him back. It happened not too far from our camp.”
“If you weren’t there, then how do you know what they said is true?”
I could have said that I saw the hand, the foot, the flesh detritus of what remained. Instead, I said, “They would have lied to protect your father, but they had no reason to lie. With your father gone, they had no one they needed to protect. So why make up stories?”
She was asking some pretty good questions. Not suspicious, but careful-checking up on this and that to let me know she was keeping track.
“Something else you said, it bothers me. Not that I don’t believe what you’re saying, I’m just trying to be clear. The business about his being an intelligence officer. In every picture of him, he’s wearing a Navy uniform, but now you’re telling me he was like some kind of CIA person. What were you guys, spies?”
“I was what I am now, a marine biologist. Your father was with Naval Special Warfare, the SEALs, and attached to Naval Intelligence. He was a very gifted man. We became close friends quickly. Bobby was smart, funny, tough… a good person; a good guy. He had a photograph of you, a Polaroid, that he loved. At night, just sitting, talking, he’d bring out this picture and pass it around. We had Coleman lanterns for light. It was you in a yellow party dress.”
I thought that would please her. Instead she seemed momentarily flustered. “You mean a picture of when I was an infant.”
“Uh-uh. You were four, maybe five, years old. There were a couple of people in the background, maybe your mother.”
“Oh, that old.” She had her face turned away, looking out the window. Then I realized what the problem was: seeing the photograph meant that I had seen her before a surgeon had straightened her wandering eye. I knew what she had once looked like… probably what, in her own mind, she was supposed to look like… and the fact that I knew made her uneasy.
So I decided to confront the subject: “I remember telling your father that you had a wonderfully wise face. I loved your eyes.”
“You said that?”
“I did.”
Which earned me a snort of cynical laughter. “You’re telling me… you’re saying that you liked the fact that I was cross-eyed? I’m supposed to believe that? Maybe you have us confused. My mom’s the one with the gorgeous eyes.”
“Nope, I liked yours. A lot.”
“I’m supposed to believe that, just like I’m supposed to believe that the reason you were with my dad in Cambodia was because you were a marine biologist? Jesus.”
“Both true.”
“I’m sure.” Her tone said: bullshit.
“Cambodia’s on the Gulf of Thailand. There’s a species of fish there, the ox-eye tarpon that I was studying. There are only two species of tarpon on earth. And there are some interesting islands off a place called Saom Bay. Rain forest and thatched huts built on poles. Every afternoon at sunset, these giant fruit bats would drop down out of the high trees. When they extended their wings, you’d hear a popping sound, like parachutes opening. That’s how big they were.”
“You sound so reasonable.”
“I try to be. I was associated with a thing called the Studies and Observations Group.”
“I bet.”
“That happens to be the truth, too.”
“Oh yeah? So, if you worked near the ocean, then how did my father happen to be in the mountains when he was killed in a mortar attack? You said it didn’t happen too far from camp. You remember saying that?”
Smart woman. Not looking around at the boats now; was looking right at me, showing me with her expression that she wasn’t a child and she wasn’t a fool. Not angry, but stony; chilly and a little judgmental.
I said, “Not all mountains are inland. Some rise out of the sea.”
“And that’s where you’re saying your camp was.”
I thought about it a moment before I replied. “I guess if you were applying the thirty-second rule I’d be in big trouble, huh?”
“Unless you come up with something convincing in the next five or ten seconds. But yeah, it would have to happen pretty quick.”
“What I told you… it’s true, like I said. Factual, anyway. But it’s not entirely honest.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Fact only requires accuracy. Honesty requires disclosure.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Except the part about the Studies and Observations Group. And your eyes. The way you looked in that photograph, very wise for a little girl. I really did like your eyes. And they weren’t crossed, just off center.”
She said, “Uh-huh, a thing of beauty,” her tone saying once again: bullshit.
Her little white Honda Civic was parked in the feather-duster shade of a coconut palm. She said it got great mileage and had a decent sound system.
Two necessities of Generation X: music and considerations of mobility.
As I escorted her across the dusty parking lot, I told her to give me a few days; time to check with some people, think it over, maybe come up with a simple and productive course of action.
