Riders on the Storm Read online

  The press was there—a TV crew from Cedar Rapids and an old-time newspaper reporter from here in town—so I assumed this was the night that Senator Patrick O’Shay was going to announce that he had persuaded Steve Donovan to run for the Congressional seat in this district. O’Shay needed some help. His opponent was now in a virtual tie with the lordly Mick.

  I would stick to beer. Since my return from the military hospital I’d taken to getting sloppy drunk sometimes. I didn’t want to inflict this on what was supposed to be a gathering of Nam vets.

  Fifty or sixty people fitted comfortably on the breathtaking patio from which you could see across the river to where the white birch trees showed ghostly in gloom. Rain was in the forest and you could smell it and taste it but it didn’t seem imminent.

  I would have brought Mary, but ten days ago I’d told her that it was all moving too fast and that I was confused and that the meds weren’t tempering my anger or my depression. They also weren’t helping in the erection department. One out of six or seven times I couldn’t get it up. The docs said this might happen. As if that was any comfort.

  She hadn’t cried when I made my announcement. She’d had a notably tough life and accepted it quietly. All she said was that the girls would miss me. I loved all three of them equally, if in different ways. Kate and Nicole were a lot more fun than anything on TV. I hadn’t actually moved in. I’d stayed late, but always went back to my apartment.

  The headache came about a half hour after I got there. Stress. The docs said that because of the two neurological operations I’d had, my moods would sometimes be difficult for me and for those around me. I felt out of place here, but then I felt out of place just about everywhere since coming back home.

  I used one of the four bathrooms in the lavish house and dumped two capsules down me. Generally they’d back down the headache within an hour.

  It was time for me to do the social thing.

  I shook a lot of hands; I laughed and flattered and remained staunchly humble when people talked about how brave I’d been. Brave? Some drunken sergeant piled up a Jeep I happened to be riding in; nothing brave about that. And I had a shit-eating smile that could charm a mass murderer. Maybe I could give O’Shay some pointers on peddling his ass. A few of the more observant ones said I’d changed. They could sense it, feel it, and they weren’t just talking about the inch-long scar that ran just under my hairline.

  All the vets were from our county so we all pretty much knew each other’s stories. But there were a few who still wanted to know mine.

  So many of the wives here tonight looked so sweet and loving and beautiful in the sentimental glow of the Japanese lanterns.

  A couple of times I was tempted to ask for a drink from the pert young woman serving them from the silver impromptu bar near the west edge of the patio. But I stuck to slow-drinking my bottle of Hamm’s.

  The TV crew interviewed a number of couples. How did it feel to be home and safe? How many sleepless nights did you have knowing your husband was in harm’s way? And then the question that had become controversial the last few days: What do you, as a soldier who fought over there, think of this anti-war group of soldiers led by a man named John Kerry?

  There was a mix of responses. Anger (which is what the crew wanted); sadness (knowing that vets would turn on each other this way); understanding. The two vets who opted for this spoke specifically of one vet, the local vet who’d signed up for the group, Will Cullen.

  “Will’s my friend,” said a brawny vet named Max Kirchoff. “He’s had problems dealing with the war and I wish some of the fellas would take that into account. He went over there and served along with the rest of us. I don’t agree with this anti-war thing but if it makes Will feel a little better about himself, I’m all for it.”

  “Will’s like family to us,” his petite wife said.

  This explained why Will wasn’t here tonight. Probably better than half of the other vets would be happy to see him. They were like Kirchoff. Guy went over there and suffered a breakdown. Did two stints in mental hospitals. He’s not thinking straight so he signs on to this dumb-ass anti-war group.

  On the other hand there were the vets like soon-to-be Congressional candidate Steve Donovan. He’d been interviewed on TV yesterday and said that the anti-war group was not only “a disgrace but also run by Communists.” He added: “I know there’s a vet right here in town who’s joined. I’d be very careful if I were him. A lot of us here resent him a hell of a lot.”

  So Will and Karen stayed home.

  The speechifying started right at seven thirty. There would still be time to get the story on the ten o’clock news in Cedar Rapids.

  Tom Davis thanked everybody for being here tonight. He talked sincerely about the special bond vets had. And then he toasted them. Hard as you tried to hate him for his inherited wealth, his acumen as a businessman, his good looks, and his movie-star gorgeous wife, the sonofabitch wouldn’t let you. He was just too nice a guy. I’ve learned to my dismay that there are a lot of downright decent wealthy people. Not fair at all.

  Now it was time for the commercial.

  Patrick O’Shay had once been called “the biggest hambone in the Senate.” If that had been an exaggeration, it was only slightly so. Tall, lean, white-haired, his body and its language suggested a mercenary side that belied the treacle that he usually spewed.

  The Treacle Master proceeded.

  “I’m so grateful to have been asked here tonight. To see the proud and happy faces of those who made the ultimate patriot’s sacrifice—to fight for the freedoms we all enjoy in this country; the freest country in the history of the world. And I might say the same for the wives and children who waited for their brave warriors to return home. Ladies, I salute you tonight right along with your husbands.”

  As I glanced around I wondered what the men without legs, arms, sight were thinking. Certainly they must have had second thoughts about the war. Had they realized that it was nothing more than rich old men and the corrupt Pentagon living out another round of endless and pointless slaughter?

  A few of the wounded men smiled—one man gave the thumbs-up with his right hand; he had no left hand—but the faces of their wives were solemn. One woman grimaced. O’Shay bullshit overload.

  He went on, a little history for the groundlings:

  “From the beginning of time women have waited for their men to come home from battle. As a proud Irishman I can tell you that the literature of my people is steeped in stories and poems about war. Nobody wants it, of course. I would never have voted for what we’re doing in Vietnam if I hadn’t seen the facts—that we have no choice but to stop them there before they come over here. And so the men fight and the women—the very good women just like the women here tonight—wait.”

  He blathered on another ten minutes before getting down to it. Easy to tell that he was enjoying it more than his constituents were.

  “You know what this country needs more than anything right now? I’m sure you already know the answer to that. This country needs patriots. Real patriots. Not the kind who go overseas and fight and then return home to claim that what they did was morally wrong. There’s a sickness in our society that breeds men like this—”

  The applause surprised me. Close to half the group clapped. A few whistled.

  “But I didn’t come here tonight to belittle anybody. I came here tonight to say that with your help we can put a true man and a true patriot in this Congressional seat—and I don’t have to tell you who that is, do I? A very successful businessman as well. Come over here, Steve!”

  This time everybody applauded. I joined in. He was a shit most of the time but then there was a decent, generous side to him that almost, but not quite, made you like him. I’d known him since grade school. He’d always been this way.

  Donovan was a slick package. A fit, blond man who’d played good basketball at the university in Iowa City, he’d just gotten his business launched when Uncle Sam dragged him out of
his house. Tonight he was dressed much like the senator. Golf shirt, in his case black; tailored yellow slacks; a large and no doubt real gold watch; and a smile that could not quite hide the smirk inside.

  My eyes strayed to his wife Valerie, who stood at the front. A perfect fit for him. A lithe brunette of brutal beauty in a chic emerald fitted dress and a smile very much like hubby’s. Practiced and cold. She applauded just the right, proper way and gazed just the right, proper way on our next congressman. The too liberal for these times—and face it, uninspired—congressman presently holding the seat would undoubtedly stay in Washington, but now as consultant or lobbyist.

  “Those of you who know me know that I’m not really practiced at giving speeches. Valerie and me”—the classic ungrammatical pronoun to go along with this whole shuck and jive I’m just a regular feller bullshit—“we’re private folks. So this doesn’t come natural to me.”

  “You do great!” a man in the back shouted.

  “Well, thank you. I appreciate the support. And I’ll need that support when I run.”

  The orgasm moment. He’s running. Applaud until your hands run with blood; scream until you lacerate your throat.

  The camera man—a young guy interchangeable with most hippies you saw on the street—panned the faces of the excited people up front.

  Donovan started waving for them to calm down, but that smile said who could blame them? A hot-shit property like me? Just who the hell could blame them?

  “I’ll tell you what, my friends. I’m going to accomplish things when we get to Washington. I’m going to cut the terrible taxation we all suffer under and I’m going to make sure that every single country on this planet is either our friend or our enemy. And if they’re our enemy then all I’ve got to say is—watch out! I’m sick of hearing this country denigrated by all these third-rate loudmouths. And it’s happening right here at home. Just look at our morals. Moral people can’t go to movies anymore. And the songs on the radio. I’m not afraid of censorship. You heard me say that, right? Sometimes you have to have censorship. And one more thing—I won’t let any so-called American citizen run this country down. And that goes for soldiers who sign petitions that claim that our honorable service was immoral!”

  I couldn’t take any more applause. I let my bladder lead me into the house. When I finished I put the lid down and sat on it. I smoked and did a little smirking myself. I knew just enough about politics to know that he had to use groups like these to get the initial support he needed. When he started appearing before large groups he’d have to be much more moderate. The TV news tonight would be kind to him. He’d get at most a minute and a half and the sound bite would be how he was going to make our country safe again from porno and songs of sex. He sounded good; he looked good, didn’t he? And who among the voters gave a shit anyway? He was as much against hippies and lust as they were, wasn’t he?

  I sat there a while longer, enjoying the fact that my headache was fading. I was tempted to call Mary, but what would I say? If I said I was lonely she’d interpret that as meaning that the break was over. But I needed the break.

  I had left a patio loud and ripe with good times. But when I returned it sounded as if the party was winding down. It wasn’t even eight thirty yet.

  A beer sounded good but first I wanted to find out what was going on. I noticed that the crowd had split into smaller groups of fives and sixes. And I noticed they were talking quietly but earnestly.

  What the hell was going on?

  Then I heard the voices erupt from around the east wing of the house. I recognized Will’s voice first. Then Donovan’s. Donovan was drawing down on Will and Will was meekly trying to tell Donovan that he still wanted to be friends with all the vets. That his decision to sign the anti-war petition was nothing personal. I felt sorry for him then. There was no way that most of the vets would not take it personally. I understood that; apparently Will didn’t.

  And then they appeared on the patio.

  My stomach churned. Sometimes the three different meds I took backed up in me but I didn’t think this was the meds. It was these feelings of anger and sorrow and defeat that were so common these days. Will just looked so damned sad and played out and confused.

  Donovan was dragging him. It almost looked like an old TV comedy routine. Donovan had Will by the collar of his button-down shirt while Will’s arms were trying to push against Donovan. Will kept saying, “These’re my friends, Steve. At least let me talk to them.”

  This was the scene Senator O’Shay returned to from somewhere inside the house. He must have been using one of the four bathrooms, too.

  He commandeered the patio instantly. “Steve, stop it! What’re you trying to do to this man?”

  But Donovan was too angry to stop. His face was ruby and sweat drained off him. “This is Cullen, the guy who signed the anti-war thing! He snuck around the side of the house! I’m just escorting him out!”

  O’Shay advanced. Not too difficult to understand why he, too, was angry. But not at Will, at his protégé. Donovan had sounded too angry on his first on-camera appearance tonight but he could slide past it. But dragging somebody—even an anti-war vet—out of the party … O’Shay knew the rules. You could be a lot of things and hold a Congressional seat, but you could not be a madman.

  O’Shay had to be reading the crowd as well. While maybe a fourth of the people shouted agreement with Donovan’s rage, the majority looked unhappy and some looked disgusted. They knew Will as a mild, quiet man; they knew Donovan as a charming but dangerously short-fused man.

  O’Shay reached out to grab Donovan much as Donovan had grabbed Will. But instead of releasing Will, Donovan launched into a real beating. Before O’Shay even had a chance to stop him Donovan pounded punches into Will’s face and stomach and then started all over again. Blood spurted from Will’s nose and the roll of his eyes indicated that he was unconscious before he hit the flagstone floor.

  By now I and five other men had surrounded Donovan and forced him to stop throwing punches. His entire body surged with his fury. He screamed over and over that he wanted to kill Will.

  Many women and more than a few men watched all this in fear and revulsion.

  Donovan got his shirt torn in the process of the manhandling it took to hold him back. He raved on. He’d never been like this before the war; not this kind of lunacy. I would’ve heard about it.

  Slowly, reason came back into his eyes. Not apology or shame but common sense. He gaped around as if he’d just been dropped here from another planet. You could see him begin to recognize not only faces but context. Maybe he wasn’t sorry for what he’d done to Will but it was easy to see that he was embarrassed about it.

  O’Shay was at the bar. I’d glimpsed him earlier flirting with the woman running it. Not flirting this time. When he got his drink he gunned it in a gulp and then held the glass out for a refill.

  No doubt his people had vetted Donovan and no doubt they’d learned of his temper and no doubt they’d weighed that temper against his points as a businessman and Nam vet. But temper in the abstract is not the same as stories witnessed in real time.

  O’Shay was in a dilemma. His people could minimize this with the press. Area reporters would not be eager to take on a war vet, particularly one who was also a prominent businessman. Maybe he could slide by this whole night. But what about the future?

  I knelt next to Will. A woman who identified herself as a nurse joined me. She checked his vitals—not what they should be—and then checked his nose—not broken—and then she said the best thing would be to get him to an ER. He’d been savagely beaten.

  His eyes fluttered open and he said, “I kicked his ass, huh?” He loved jokes. But then, his mood swings worse than mine, he started crying. The nurse took one arm and I took the other and we gradually got him sitting up.

  A large number of people encircled us. Even a few vets I recognized as friends of Donovan were saying sympathetic things. Maybe Donovan wasn’t such a hero to
them anymore.

  Just after I stood up a large sinewy hand fell on my shoulder. When I turned around I looked into the wary green eyes of O’Shay.

  “I’m very sorry about this.”

  “I’m sure you are. He’s one hell of a candidate.”

  “War vets are often stressed to the point of anger. I’m sure someone in the VA can deal with his anger problem.”

  Right now O’Shay was doing his own public relations. I couldn’t dispute that Donovan was a brave man. He had the medals to prove it.

  “I need to get Will to the hospital.”

  “We’re here to help you,” a vet I recognized from Iowa City said. “We’ll help you get him in your car and we’ll follow you all the way to the ER.”

  But O’Shay wasn’t quite finished. “Someone pointed you out to me. Told me what happened at boot camp. I’m very sorry. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, please let me know.”

  This guy could kiss your ass under water.

  He turned away. He had a lot of work to do. He had to sell this crowd on what a great guy his seriously disturbed Congressional candidate really was.

  Right now that was going to be one hell of a job.

  3

  WE WERE TALKING ABOUT SHUNNING.

  There was an Amish community not too far from here and one of its rare but controversial practices was to shun a member who had violated certain beliefs or rules of the sect. They pretend the shunned person does not exist.

  So Karen and I sat in the ER waiting area and smoked our cigarettes and kept glancing at the large round clock above the ER desk. As if checking it would hurry the intern who was examining Will. Karen had called a neighbor, who was now watching Peggy Ann.

  On the way over here Karen had told me about some threatening letters that had been sent to their house over the last three months. Each looked like a kidnap note and each hinted at an ominous future. These really needed to be looked into.

  She’d also told me about other letters. “About a month ago I was cleaning his den and I found this shoebox on the shelf of the closet. It was pushed way back. I couldn’t help myself. I took it down and opened it. There were all these love letters he’d written and never sent. Longhand, the tiny way he writes. He’s been seeing Cathy Vance again.” No tears; dead cold voice.