An Arctic
devil of a storm is whirling up ahead to the north. You watch it from
your
middle seat on Flight 459, leaning left to the window across the empty
seat. The
mammoth cloud is a muddy blue-black, shimmering in the final slice of
Pacific sun
sinking in the west. No lights below. Must
be over the Gulf of Alaska. You drop your Guns &
Ammo magazine onto the empty aisle seat to your right. A
little drizzle. I’ve seen worse. You
yawn and stretch your arms. You imagine Wendy in Anchorage. She’s
probably on her way to the airport now,
heading west on Route 1 and on to . . . . The screech
of grinding gears shoots up from the floor, jarring your boots, your
seat. You jerk
forward to grab . . . at anything—an instinct. The squeal
sputters, then fades.
The engines hush down to a soothing hum. It’s
nothing. You exhale, ease. “Beverage?”
The flight attendant pulls the cart to your row. Her wiry red hair is
slicked back
in a spidery clip. “No
thanks.” You nestle back in the seat while your mind drifts,
floats, dreams of
Jessica waiting back home. You told her you’re off to Vancouver,
that your
mother is ill, her heart again. Well,
it’s true, you think, she is ill. But
Jessica’s too smart for that. You
flinch, remembering the fight Jessica launched last night when you told
her
about this trip and, when both of you were spent with shouting, how she
crawled
into bed and turned her back. You joined her, propped up on your elbow,
and
caressed her orange hair flaring like flames on the pillow.
“You’re always
leaving me,” she whispered. “It’s Wendy again.”
You leaned back on the bed and sighed.
Dammit, you thought, constantly accusing
me! Your stomach
clenched in knots. You wanted to tell Jessica every tender
thing—how you’d be
back soon, how you could start anew, with just her, Jessica . . .
wanted to tell
her you adore her, how small you feel when she’s holding you,
that you can’t
lose her, how, without her, you could die. But you didn’t. You
turned your
back. Why? Why? The girl
behind you kicks the seat. Stop kicking
me! You
squint to block the overhead lights, and the blame still biting at
you—you the accused,
the tried, the convicted. How could Jessica
know? The
attendant
pulls the cart close. “Trash?” Some of her frizzy strands
have come loose. You
shake your head. You
recall your first sight of her—Jessica—stepping
out from that ruby convertible, her bushy mane of orange and gold
rippling in
the wind, and you, amazed, itching to get your hands in it. But
that was three years ago. You sigh. So much has
happened since then, and now that
we’re . . . The plane
slams into turbulence. You jolt forward. The seatbelt sign flashes red.
The
captain’s voice quivers in the crackling air: “Return to
your seats. Return to
your seats.” The plane lurches. The attendant is tossed onto the
fat man’s lap
across the aisle, her spider clip shaking free. She pushes up straight
and hurries
the cart down the aisle past the curtains. A crack of lightning
ruptures the
sky, an electric lattice ripping across blue-black. The plane surges,
plunges into
the muddy cloud, shudders. The windows go dark. Bullets of rain pelt
the
blackened glass. Your
mouth turns dry. You run your stocky fingers over your receding hair,
combed to
cover that annoying bald spot. The stubble on the back of your neck
prickles. Your
skin tingles like jungle flesh, reminds you of those nights back in
‘Nam—the sullied
sky drizzling down a crown of vines, soaking bodies bleeding in the
shadows. The
earthy reek of sweat, of moldy boots and dread. The sucking sound of
hot mud. Cold
click of metal bolts in black brush. The grinding whirl of an inky sky
loaded
with choppers. The plane
arcs up its nose and levels as if floating. Your stomach rises to your
throat. The
captain’s voice booms through the intercom: “Stay calm . .
. remain seated . .
.” The static turns to a sizzle and a hissss.
Your forehead turns clammy, drips. The plane
leans into an unplanned dive to the sea. Its hull wavers in a long
descent to
the deep. You know the feel—a helicopter dodging fire, the floor
dropping beneath
your feet, leaving your rifle, your stomach, to hover like wounded
wings. The plane
hauls up again and swerves. You stiffen and press against the back
rest. Jessica.
“You have no heart,” she said last night. No,
you think. I have too much heart—heart
for Jessica . . . heart for Wendy in
Alaska who’s on her way to the airport now. You breathe out.
Too much heart? Really? Or am I beaten down
to a shriveled core, slashed, ripped and bleeding? Jessica
doesn’t know me. Or
maybe she does and loves me still. She doesn’t deserve this. You
turn to
see rows and rows of seasick faces. You
hear it again—no heart, no heart—an echo
in a hollow hull of plastic and steel. The storm
thickens. The wings weave, hurl the plane to the left. You grab the
armrest—a
perfect fit for your brawny hand. Reminds you of the comforting grip of
your
M-16, of your Marine buddy Mac with his easy laugh, his way with women
(even
the whores in Saigon liked him enough for a little extra) and that last
week in
‘Nam, the night you heard Mac’s crackling voice through
your radio: Tiger . . . Tiger . . . . The echo
repeats: no heart, no heart. Your
pulse throbs in your neck. I do love
Jessica. I’m sure of it. I will tell her. Soon. Lightning
hits. The bolt—an eerie blue—jolts the plane and runs its
luminous breaker down
the body from tail to cockpit, now in a deeper dive. The girl behind
you
screams. The boy beside her heaves, his breath raspy and full.
Somewhere in the
tail section a man sobs. A young
woman staggers down the aisle, grasping at seatbacks. Her brown eyes
are vacant
with fear. She slips. Her body is tossed at you. You grab at her to
cushion her
fall. She clutches at your headrest. Her nails graze your bald spot.
You flinch.
Clipped to her navy blouse is a gold conference name tag:
‘Betsy’. Her tear-drizzled
face is pale against her dark braid and navy headband. “Sit
down!” you shout. Her eyes
flicker, come to life. “Who are you to order me?” “I’m
a
pilot,” you lie. You twist
her around and yank her into the empty aisle seat to your right. She
stares
ahead. She squeezes your hand. Her pink nails dig in. You wrap both
arms around
her and shift her close. A crash of lightning pitches the plane. “Our
Father . . . who art . . .” she mumbles. You feel her warm, quick
breath on
your neck and remember the day the priest came, the Father.
Your old man was called to the phone and left the room. The
priest sat on the couch, cupped your hand in his and called you
“son,” pulled
you close and slipped his hand in your pants, breathing hot breath on
your
neck. You were eight. You wanted to hurt. Or cry. You didn’t. You
never told. Helen’s
face appears, that straw-haired girl in second grade you wanted to
marry, the
one who smelled like apples. You tried to kiss her during recess. She
said you
were ugly and dumb. You still loved her, but you hated her. Then your
old man’s
voice slithers up from the soil, all the way through the storm and into
your delicate
brains. “You idiot,” the old man mutters, again. You feel
him slam your head
against your bedroom wall with his tattoo arm. You were three . . .
five . . . no,
maybe ten . . . who cares how old? Time can travel. Your mind can still
break. Am I really dumb? Dumb? Dumb? The plane
jolts. A torrent of rain slaps at the window. Reminds you of that wet,
sloppy night
near Khe Sanh, how your radio crackled—Tiger!
Tiger!—how your buddy Mac blasted through the airwaves,
choking, how he did,
in fact, mean the real thing—tiger!—not
the Cong, but a real-life black and orange cat. You dashed off the
trail, boots
sucking in the mire, and caught a glimpse in the shards of
moonlight—“Mac!”—his
legs caught in a low tangle of trees and
vines—“Mac!”—the scent of blood swirling
like a dark eddy—then a flash of orange in a maze of murky green,
and it was
gone. You fired the shot . . . too late. How
could I miss? Dumb! You crouched down, ran your fingers along
Mac’s face,
made out the gashes in his fatigues, his collar, saw how the beast had
sprung at
him from behind, sunk in his teeth, and dragged him by the neck across
that
moonlit muddy path and into the other dark. Heart,
heart. Your
stomach clenches. You heave. Mac! Buddy! Why? The plane
trembles, dips. The floor lights flicker, then burn off. Blackness
rolls down the
rows, flooding and sealing every crevice like the closing of a tomb.
The fat man
across the aisle hacks and moans. The plane quickens, curves, bows to
an ugly
angle. Heart:
Jessica. Wendy. Mac. You snatch
your jacket, wad it, clutch
it close. Betsy
crawls onto your lap, conforms to the curve of your arm, shivers. Jessica. You open your jacket and swaddle
her bracing body like a shroud. You cleave to her, your arms a cradle.
Gravity
bends you both. You flex. You fold. You both grow small. You get a
whiff of her
hair, of vanilla cologne . . . you smell water . . . and salt . . . . You have
always been here: the deluge, the deep. The sea must part. You reach
to brace. The armrest. The feel of the grip, the M-16. Mac,
wait! This time I won’t miss! The tiger appears, saunters up
the path, orange and black, his belly bloated. He stops, licks a paw,
lifts his
head. His eyes fix on you, flash—a tawny-green. You hoist
the barrel, hook him in the cross-hairs, finger the trigger. Fire . . .
I came of age during the Vietnam War and the anti-war movement. Though I was young and naïve and eager to take sides, it still pained me that the draft applied mostly to young working class men, while the middle class kids got college deferments. I wrote Tiger, Tiger in the 90's when I was transitioning from writing poetry to short stories. Then I started adopting kids. So I put Tiger in a box with other stories, where it percolated for years. Later, when the kids were older and I finally pulled Tiger out the box to finish, I discovered how attached I'd gotten to the main character. He is aching, conflicted and disturbed, and who is never even named. He'd been profoundly affected by the War, as I had been, though in different ways. I tried the story in first person and third, and past tense, but nothing seemed to work except this unusual second person / present tense. I dedicate this story to all the Vietnam Veterans of my generation. May they find healing, live well and thrive. |