Just Once Page 5

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Well …’ Aunt Carol shrugged. ‘Even if you did fall for him, nothing would come of it. Charley Blackwell has a reputation.’

  ‘He should. He’s a genius.’

  ‘I meant a reputation for faithfulness. He’s in love with his wife.’

  Hannah put her hand on her chest and gasped. ‘Oh no!’

  Carol rewarded her theatrics with a small smile. ‘It is pretty amazing. In his business, in any business where you travel all the time, the loneliness gets to you. The constant opportunity is pretty hard to resist. But from what I hear, Charley has never strayed. And believe me, I’d have heard. I’d like to meet his wife. I guess she’s a talented photographer herself. Though if she’s that good, she wouldn’t stay in Milwaukee; she’d be here or in New York. Maybe Paris or London.’

  ‘Maybe she just likes Milwaukee.’

  Carol rolled her eyes at that comment and went to bed.

  Despite Carol’s intentions, her aunt’s words about Charley Blackwell only made Hannah more intrigued by the man. She couldn’t wait to see the slides he’d brought in that day.

  To that end, she was up early the next morning – just in time to meet Heath wandering in. She hadn’t realized he’d not come home. She felt awful that she hadn’t checked, but he was twenty-one and she was not – contrary to her behavior most of the time – his mommy. Although, she couldn’t recall a single time their mommy had ever checked on either one of them. She’d paid someone to do that. As Mom had always said, paying top dollar was how you got the job done right.

  The day was overcast, and the foggy light through the living room windows made Heath appear skeletal. For an instant she was afraid, and she didn’t know why.

  When Heath found her standing in the hall, dressed and ready to leave, panic flickered in his bloodshot eyes. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Early. But you’d better get in the shower and IV some coffee before Aunt Carol sees you.’

  ‘When have I ever not been ready to go when I needed to be?’

  Hannah just sighed and headed for the door.

  Heath stopped her with a hand on her arm. ‘It really is love this time.’

  She wanted to make a quip, but what she saw in his eyes stopped her. Instead, she kissed his forehead. ‘Good for you.’

  She was in the office before anyone else, so she started the Mr Coffee then opened one of Charley’s containers and set the slides on the light table.

  At first she thought she had the wrong box, but the ones Charley had handed her were right where she’d left them.

  All the pictures were of basketball hoops. Hannah had no interest in basketball. At thirteen, she’d stopped growing, and she stood five-foot-two in shoes. Even if she’d been five-eight, she was a klutz.

  But as she continued to pull out slides, then pare them down as she’d been taught, Hannah became very interested indeed. Each picture told a story – with basketball hoops.

  A bare hoop mounted on weathered board – no net in sight – in the middle of Harlem. Another stood at the edge of a cornfield, beneath a stark barn light – very Field of Dreams. A third was fastened to a chipped avocado ceramic tile wall, the photo that of a toddler in a sudsy bath, shooting a Nerf basketball with pretty damn good form; the basketball blurred with speed, headed straight for the hoop. An action shot of a wheelchair game, an artsy shot of a desktop hoop made to appear large by the angle alone, the executive in the chair behind seemingly small.

  The essay was brilliant.

  ‘You’re here bright and early.’

  Hannah started so badly she knocked several slides off the stand. The managing editor, Ray Cantrell, stood in the doorway. A stout man with a perpetually red nose and flushed cheeks, she’d met him yesterday, but he’d barely spared her a glance. Why would he?

  She was thrilled he’d seen her here, diligently doing her job.

  ‘I wanted to get started on the slides Charley gave me.’

  ‘Blackwell?’ He came into the room, peered at the photos and scowled. ‘That’s not an assignment.’

  ‘Should be,’ Hannah said, then wished she’d shut up.

  ‘Really?’ Cantrell straightened. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘They’re amazing.’

  Seemed she couldn’t shut up, even when she wished to.

  ‘You think I should publish it?’

  ‘I … well, aren’t you?’

  ‘Charley’s been proposing this story for years. I didn’t think it was something that fit here. I told him he could take it to other magazines.’

  ‘But he didn’t?’

  ‘He did. No takers.’

  ‘I can’t understand that.’

  Cantrell grunted, but his gaze was on the photos. ‘Tell you what … mock up a spread.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘In your spare time. You need to do what you’re assigned to do first.’

  ‘I didn’t realize this wasn’t it.’

  ‘Not your fault. But from now on, the only slides you edit are the ones Julie tells you to. And these.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Hannah pulled the transparencies off the light table and replaced them in the boxes, then she went back to sediment. But while she edited dirt, she thought about basketball hoops, and she began to set up the spread in her mind.

  This was her chance, and she planned to make the most of it.

  Charley

  Quang Nam Province, Vietnam. Spring, 1971

  ‘Charley!’

  At the shout, several soldiers grabbed their rifles and trained them on the jungle. Their eyes, already far too old for their often baby faces, narrowed. Searching, always searching.

  ‘Whoa!’ Jim Colby stepped out of the overgrowth, arms raised. No shirt in this steamy heat, his dog tags stuck to his sweaty, dark skin. Droplets of sweat beaded in his clipped Afro. ‘The same baby san’s here askin’ for Charley that was here yesterday.’

  The men put down their rifles, many cursed. Charlie was what they called the enemy.

  ‘You’re going to get your head blown off if you keep shouting that around here,’ Charley said.

  ‘It’s your name.’ Jim strolled into camp, followed by the ‘baby san’, what many of the guys called the village kids, be they boy or girl – sometimes it was hard to tell.

  Charley was pretty sure this one was a boy, maybe six. It was also difficult to determine age since the kids were so small and skinny. He was cute – all big, dark eyes, knobby knees and elbows, huge smile with gaps in his crooked teeth. Charley had taken some great pictures of him, both with his personal Polaroid and with his military issue Leica.

  ‘I thought we agreed to call Charley Polaroid,’ the Waz said.

  The Waz was Lester Wasiekowski. By the time anyone got ‘Wasiekowski’ out someone would be dead.

  Les was from some town in Minnesota no one could pronounce any better than they could pronounce Wasiekowski. His blond hair had faded toward white; his pasty skin was perpetually the shade of a Southwestern sunset, and his pale eyes behind his big, black-rimmed glasses still appeared scared despite his having been here longer than almost any of them.

  ‘Maybe you agreed.’ Jim cast Charley a glance. ‘Whaddya think about it?’

  ‘Polaroid’s fine,’ Charley said.

  He’d taken hundreds of Polaroid photographs of the children here then given them out. They loved watching themselves appear like magic. It was good PR.

  The nickname would take some getting used to, but better than the alternative – never having time to get used to it because someone shouted his name and a FNG, fucking new guy – they seemed to arrive daily – panicked and shot someone, probably Charley.

  Charley beckoned the boy, who joined him very slowly. Previously he’d scampered over, chattering words Charley didn’t understand, leaning against his leg, wrapping his dirty fingers in Charley’s belt loops.

  Maybe he wasn’t feeling well. How could Charley tell? The boy’s skin would be as hot a
s Charley’s own in this heat.

  The kid didn’t speak English and Charley’s Vietnamese was limited to Ngùng la.i, which meant stop; Tôi không hiê?u, which meant I don’t understand, and Bên tên gì, which meant What is your name?

  The latter had yielded the word Hau.

  Hau followed Charley into the tent, where the kid had been a half-dozen times before. His dark eyes flicked around as if searching for … Charley had no idea.

  ‘You hungry?’ Charley hooked his fingers like a fork with one hand, dipping them into the bowl he’d fashioned with the other, before lifting them to his mouth.

  Hau shook his head.

  That was a first. He must be ill. Charley should probably get him out of here before he gave whatever he had to the rest of them.

  The other guys, busy writing letters home, reading, playing cards, nodded to the boy, a few even said xin chào – hello in Vietnamese. There was one more word Charley knew.

  Hau didn’t respond.

  ‘You OK, Hau?’

  Hau stared at Charley blankly.

  ‘Jim!’ Charley shouted, and Hau skittered back a few steps.

  Charley reached carefully for his Polaroid camera, hoping the familiar sight of it would calm the child.

  Hau did smile his crooked smile, though it wasn’t as cheery as it usually was.

  Charley took the shot; the picture whirred out of the camera.

  ‘What?’ Jim ducked into the tent.

  ‘You do anything to this kid?’

  ‘What the hell would I do to him?’

  Charley yanked the Polaroid photograph free. The ghostly, shadow-image of Hau had begun to develop already. He held it out to the child, who took it with his free hand. The other he kept in his pocket. Had he hurt that one?

  ‘I don’t know.’ Charley studied Jim’s face. Jim was never able to lie worth a damn. ‘From the way he’s acting, did you poke him with sticks?’

  ‘What do I look like a— shit!’

  Hau scooted around Charley, the steadily developing photo still clutched in his fingers. The hand that had been in his pocket now held a grenade.

  He heard Jim bellowing, ‘Run!’

  Charley made a grab for Hau. Why, he had no idea. He should let the kid run away with the explosive device. Then Hau tossed it with a nimble flip of his dark fingers and the thing landed in the center of Charley’s sleeping bag.

  Bullseye.

  ‘Get out!’ Charley yelled.

  Luckily the rest had been alerted by Jim’s behavior and several were already gone. Others had bunched at the exit. Charley hit the pile like an NFL running back, shoving men through the opening. Then someone hit him from behind, shoving Charley out too and –

  Kaboom.

  Charley started up from sleep, gasping, sweating, maybe crying. His throat was raw. Had he been screaming?

  Apparently, he had. Frankie seemed scared.

  It took him a moment to remember where he was, when he was.

  Nineteen seventy-seven. Not nineteen seventy-one.

  Their new apartment on Brady Street in Milwaukee. Not Vietnam.

  ‘Sorry.’ He’d hoped that sleeping with Frankie would cure his nightmares. Up until now it had. He should have known they wouldn’t be gone forever.

  He was drenched in sweat, breathing heavily, his heart pounding so loudly he felt dizzy. He started to get out of bed; Frankie pulled him right back.

  ‘You wanna tell me about it?’ She gathered him into her arms, ignoring his protests that he was wet, and he smelled, with a nonchalant, ‘You think I care?’

  He lay there for a while letting her touch, her scent, her everything soothe him. She took one of his hands and kissed his fingertips, something she did when he wasn’t paying attention. Like now. Now he was still hearing that damn boom.

  She started humming the tune to ‘Where Have all the Flowers Gone?’. Probably not the best song in this situation, but he liked how it sounded. He liked how she sounded. Eventually he told her. Not everything, but some of it.

  For a minute silence settled over them, deep and full of questions he wasn’t sure she’d ask, then she did.

  ‘Did everyone get out?’

  Charley took a breath, seeing it all again, hearing it, smelling it – that distinct odor of kaboom and rot. He felt the helpless panic. ‘No.’

  ‘How close were you to not getting out?’

  Charley flinched at the remnant of sound that seemed to live in his head, especially in the darkest part of the night.

  ‘I’m here,’ he said, and kissed her.

  ‘The boy?’

  Charley shrugged. He had never seen Hau again, wasn’t sure if the kid had gotten out or not. Hadn’t wanted to ask.

  ‘After that you re-upped?’ Frankie’s voice was incredulous.

  ‘I … uh … yeah.’

  ‘Then you stayed until the very end when you could have gone home?’

  She knew the answer to both those questions. He didn’t talk much about Vietnam, from what he gathered, hardly anyone who’d been there did, but he had told her that much.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  The majority of the troops had left by 1973, though the final abandonment of Saigon hadn’t happened until spring 1975. Every time he thought of the final days, he heard the whoop-whoop of the helicopters. There had seemed to be hundreds, but there hadn’t been enough to get everyone out that needed to get out.

  ‘Charley?’ Frankie murmured.

  What had she asked him? Oh, yeah. Why?

  Why had he stayed when he could have gone home?

  ‘By the end of my first tour I was solidly a combat photographer.’ Sure he’d carried a gun; they all did, but he’d used his camera more. The pictures he’d taken, that they’d all taken, had done more to end that war than their weapons ever had. ‘I couldn’t stop. I had to stay. I had to see.’

  ‘You had to make sure others saw.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, and kissed her again.

  No one had ever understood him the way that she did.

  Later, Charley woke alone. The sounds of the new apartment were unfamiliar, and he sat up in bed, trying to get oriented. He heard a distant gunshot, which was not distant enough for his taste.

  While they’d chosen the area because it had been ripe with counterculture and a locus for the anti-war movement, lately the neighborhood appeared a little seedy. Frankie had high hopes that would turn around. She loved living in a place where she could walk to an Italian bakery or a locally owned market. Charley had told her not to do either one at night, and she had laughed.

  ‘I’ve lived in this city most of my life. You don’t have to worry.’

  But he did worry. Because he saw a lot of places where the gunshots weren’t distant enough.

  He found Frankie curled up on their thrift-shop couch, wearing the white T-shirt he’d left on the floor, her smooth, tanned legs folded beneath her as she stared into space. Had she been crying?

  ‘Fancy?’

  Her gaze flew to his. She’d definitely been crying.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He gathered her into his arms.

  ‘I had a dream.’ Her voice was muffled against his throat, her breath warm and moist on his skin.

  ‘I dreamed that close call you told me about was a lot closer. And … and …’ Now her breath hitched. ‘You were gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ he repeated stupidly.

  ‘Dead. I never saw you again. Some asshole came to the door and handed me your cameras.’

  Now she sounded mad. Charley liked it better than sad. Seeing her sad made his chest hurt. He didn’t want to see her sad ever again.

  ‘Our life …’ She took a deep breath that hitched in the middle.

  Charley wanted to punch whoever had caused that hitch, then he realized it was him.

  ‘The life we’re going to have, it never happened.’

  ‘It hasn’t happened,’ he said, then wanted to bite his tongue as her eyes narrowed.

  ‘I drea
m of it. Our perfect life. The pictures we’ll take. The places we’ll see. The people we’ll meet. The time we’ll spend together.’

  He dreamed of that sometimes too, though when he woke up he wondered exactly how all that would happen with him on the road and her here. But they did have a lifetime, which was a long time, though he couldn’t see how it could ever be enough.

  ‘You make me believe I can do anything.’ She ducked her head. ‘I know it’s not very Betty Friedan, but I never felt like I could be the me I wanted to be until I met you.’

  ‘That’s exactly it,’ he said. ‘For me too.’

  She touched his face. ‘I like my perfect-life dreams so much better than the one where you’re dead from a grenade and some asshole turns up at the door with your cameras.’

  ‘Baby, that happened years ago in another country.’ He didn’t point out that she hadn’t known him then; no one would have come to her door. That would only make her cry more to think they might never have had even this much time together. He kind of wanted to cry when he thought about it, too.

  ‘I know. But there’ll be other close calls, won’t there?’

  He didn’t mention that he’d had several since he’d met her. He wasn’t stupid.

  ‘Let’s get married,’ he said.

  ‘You already asked me that, and I said yes.’

  She’d actually agreed to get an apartment; she’d never agreed to marry him. Though he’d bulldozed ahead, purchased a ring, told his parents and hers that they were engaged.

  ‘I mean now,’ he said.

  She lifted her head, blinked. ‘It’s after midnight.’

  ‘In the morning then.’

  When she laughed, his chest stopped aching. Just like that.

  ‘I think we need a license,’ she said, ‘and that takes a few weeks.’

  ‘Is there anywhere you don’t need a license?’

  ‘Doubtful.’

  Neither of their families had been all that happy about their engagement. The idea of a wedding surrounded by those hangdog faces was one of the reasons they hadn’t set a date.

  ‘A place where people get married on a whim,’ Frankie murmured.

  ‘Vegas,’ they said together.

  They planned to leave the next morning, but before they were even out of bed Charley had a call from AP.