Lovers by the Lake Part Ten

Chapter Ten

The sun warmed the morning air quickly. Amy was happy Paul was willing to share the story of his life and seemed to be interested in her life.

“Paul, you were never in the military, so you might have trouble understanding just how the army works,” Amy started.

I admit, at the time, I really did not know what to expect. I quickly learned the military really could move people efficiently. The movers picked up our few belongings, and my parents took Mark, me, and Sally to the airport.

I was totally amazed at the sights and sounds of San Francisco International Airport. The big Boeing 707 was snuggled up to the boarding ramp, waiting to fly the Saxton family to Columbia, South Carolina. This would be the first time I ever flew, and my fear was only marginally outweighed by my anticipation. This was a big change in my life. I was really not sure what to expect when I got to South Carolina.

Seated next to a window, overlooking the leading edge of the wing, I could see the ground crew making the final inspection before securing the doors to the baggage compartments. I was fascinated by all the sights and sounds associated with preflight preparations. Thumping sounds reverberated through the sleek fuselage, and the whining sound of the jets as they revved up all contributed to accelerate my heart rate. These were things totally new to me.

Sally was too small for a seat of her own, so I was forced to hold her on my lap. The cabin lights blinked, and a chime sounded, calling attention to the “Fasten Seatbelts” light when it came on. My fear took control, and I grabbed Mark’s hand for reassurance. I listened to the stewardess go thru her safety briefing, explaining how the seatbelts worked and the location of the emergency exits.

There were three stewardesses; each looked elegant in her uniform. I noticed how all the men were trying to capture the stewardesses’ attention. Some of the men sat with their shoulders extending into the narrow aisle, causing the stewardesses to inadvertently brush against them as they moved past.

I was gazing out the tiny porthole when suddenly I first detected motion. The big metal “bird” was being pushed backward slowly, with hardly any detectable sensation of motion. Once clear of the gangway, the sound of the engines increased, and the plane turned toward the taxi way.

I held little three-month-old Sally up to the window to give her a chance to see all the other planes lined up, single file, moving to the main runway for takeoff. The heavy plane rolled along the taxi way. The tires hitting the expansion strips in the concrete created a rhythmic thumping sound.

“Wow, I never thought it took so long for an airplane to take off,” I whispered in Mark’s ear.

“Oh, I forgot this is your first flight. Yeah, it does seem to take forever to taxi out to the runway. Once we turn onto the main runway, it won’t take long to get airborne,” he reassured me while he patted Sally’s head.

A few minutes later, I felt the great plane pivot to the right, pointing the nose into the prevailing wind. The engines roared fiercely, causing the entire plane to vibrate. A dull thudding sound, marking the release of breaks, was followed by a rapid surge forward. I felt my body being pressed into the seat, and Sally’s weight seemed to double as the plane accelerated down the runway. I did not notice holding my breath. The bumping, thumping sound of the expansion strips suddenly stopped as the nose lifted skyward.

The 707 was airborne and quickly banked to the left, making a sweeping turn. It majestically climbed over the city of San Francisco. The late afternoon sun set the skyline in stark relief, and the windows of the tall buildings reflected the sun like thousands of flashbulbs going off. I pressed my face against the small window, trying to capture the beauty of the scene below.

All the excitement of the day’s activities, combined with missing her normal naptime, resulted in Sally falling asleep in my arms. Soon I felt Mark’s head fall on my shoulder. The cramped seating quarters and holding a sleeping child made any attempt to sleep impossible for me. As we were flying east, the sun set rapidly, but there was nothing to diminish the length of the trip. I leaned against the bulkhead, peering out the window into the darkness.

The droning of the jet engines soon became an acceptable background noise. I strained to look out when the flight path took us over cities; the lights looked like gems-stones tossed across a black velvet display case in a jewelry store. I gasped at the sight and felt tears forming at the corner of my eyes. The splendor was just too much.

After endless hours of plowing through the dark void, the promising glow of dawn brightened the horizon. In some unexplainable way, I thought I could feel the plane descending. Air turbulence buffeted the wings, causing the entire plane to buck and lurch as it fought to stay airborne. Wispy clouds brushed past the window, and the ground seemed to come up to greet us. The city of Charleston, South Carolina, passed beneath the wings. We were scheduled to land in Charleston and take an army charter bus to Columbia. I could only think about the difference between San Francisco and Columbia.

The stewardesses rushed through the cabin, checking to ensure seat belts were fastened, tables were locked, and seats were in the upright position. A few more tight banking turns and a steep descent ended with a bumpy screeching of rubber on concrete. I was caught off guard when the reverse thrusters of the engines roared into action, tossing me forward and almost ripping Sally out of my grasp. The slow taxi to the terminal seemed to take even longer than the one to take off.

“For your first flight, it seems like you remember a lot of details,” Paul observed.

“Maybe I remember so much because it was all new to me, and being a young girl, I was deeply impressed,” Amy commented.

South Carolina was nothing like the central California I grew up in. Sure, the weather was about the same, but the way of life there was not like what I was used to. Fort Jackson was really an old army training center. Most of the buildings were built during WWII and had not been well kept. The base housing was not much better, but it was a place we could live in. There were schools for Sally, when she got old enough to attend, nearby, but they were not highly rated.

The assigned sponsor, Sgt. Wilson, greeted us at the bus terminal in Columbia and drove us to Fort Jackson. Along the way he pointed out some places of interest. We checked into the guesthouse Saturday night. Sgt. Wilson helped get us settled and said he would come by the next day to take us on a tour of the post. He handed Mark a packet of paperwork he would need for in-processing.

As promised, Sgt Wilson picked us up the next day, just after noon, and gave us a more complete tour of Columbia. It was even smaller than my hometown, but it seemed to have all the same stores. There were a few typical local stores I was eager to learn more about.

Mark reported to his company on Monday morning, to start in-processing. When he got back to the guesthouse, he had the keys to a duplex. The next day our furniture was delivered. It seems like it took more time to get things unpacked and sorted out than the move itself. Mark managed to get established in his new unit; and while at work, he was the typical soldier, doing his job and trying to get by.

Mark started to hang around with some of his old army buddies, leaving me and Sally alone, sometimes for entire weekends. I was concerned about how Mark was moodier and often exploded into fits of rage. I was really hurt to see how Mark no longer wrote poems. I loved the way Mark used to whisper poems in my ear when we made love. Now whatever it was we did in bed had little to do with love. Over the following weeks, I was sure the body of Mark may have returned home, but the poet, the lover, and writer was missing in action somewhere in the jungle.

One day, while finishing unpacking, I found an old notebook at the bottom of his duffel bag. There were only about ten pages written on in the book. On the last page was a poem. I think it must have been the last one Mark wrote. I read it slowly. The poem was not like the ones he used to write and whisper in my ear when we made love. It was not even a very good poem, but I read it over and over until I memorized it.

“Just a second, Paul. I think I can still recall the words,” Amy stated.

Last Lament

When I was young, I used to have so much fun

Not knowing what part, I would have in life’s play

Happiness is gone…I now carry a gun

And my thoughts settle like ashes in wet clay

I saw John today, catch a bullet and die

He was married, and I think he had a kid

Hope they can find time to stop a while to cry

…and remember all of the good things he did

John died today, and tomorrow I may die

Or did I die last week? Did I ever live?

Is this nightmare some kind of vicious lie?

Just how much of ME do THEY want me to give?

I have met the test! Now I will get some rest

I feel the pain, the bullet entered my chest…

“So, that is the only poem I can recite from memory. It was not Mark’s best poem, but I think it was his last poem. I think that’s why I still remember it,” Amy said in deep remorse.

“Gee, Amy, that is sad. I never really got into poetry until much later in my life. I never knew how poems could express more than the silly stuff in valentine cards—‘roses are red’ stuff. So, over the years, I educated myself to the point where I can judge the merit of this poem, and it does show deep emotions. I can see why you feel it was very significant,” Paul explained.

“I know, Paul; most people do not read poetry, and even fewer take time to try to understand the images and deeper meaning. When we first met, Mark tried to teach me how to analyze poems. I was never as good as his poet friends. In this poem, I think, Mark knew a part of him was dying, and the poem was his epitaph,” Amy said with a sigh. She brushed a tear from her eye before resuming her story.

During the turbulence of the move, I did not notice the changes, but some things were starting to surface. The amount of pot Mark used and the frequency of his all-night or all-weekend drinking sprees were the first things to attract my attention. Over time, Mark’s violent temper caused me to fear for the safety of Sally and myself.

I tried to get Mark to go to the VA hospital, but he refused. He asserted the hospital was part of the conspiracy.

When I tried to get him to explain what he was talking about, he rambled on for hours. He talked about how the Roswell UFO crash, JFK’s assassination, the war, and the space explorations were all related. Some extraterrestrial intelligence was trying to prevent mankind from progressing. Hearing him rant and rave about this super conspiracy scared me. He talked about some strange changes in the economy and how there was some movement to counter the ideas put forth by the hippies and flower-power generation. Mark would rave for hours about how the “creed of greed” was trumping love and the spirit of the common man. I never really understood all the things he complained about. It all just sounded crazy. Roswell’s UFO crash, JFK’s assignation, Atlas Shrugging, and how the war was all a secret plot by some unknown force. To make things worse, many of Mark’s friends held the same beliefs.

I was not sure what to think. Mark was not the only one who felt this way. He even had stacks of books by well-educated people to supply him with evidence to confirm his theories. One recurring them Mark harped on was the creed of greed. He would mumble about “Atlas Shrugging” and how some crazy idea was being abused to justify hording of wealth. It all made since to him, but it just sounded like crazy talk to me.

We were still trying to get accustomed to our new home. Sally was getting to be a real person. I could talk to her and see she understood what I was saying. I wanted her to build up memories of her childhood, just like I did.

Kennedy’s challenge to put a man on the moon was about to become a reality. I wanted to be sure Sally watched this event on TV, but at the same time, I feared Mark would start talking crazy stuff—ranting about aliens waiting to take over their bodies and become the spearhead of an invasion force to concur the world.

To my relief, Mark was rather passive about the moon landing. He sat watching the live coverage without saying a word. Sally was in bed before Mark made his observations.

After Sally was tucked into her bed, Mark said, “It was just a Hollywood trick. It was all staged in a Hollywood sound stage. Did you see how the flag waved? Did you notice how there were no stars? This is just more proof there is some big conspiracy being conducted,” he said with a smirk.

It was not just Mark; a lot of his friends were acting the same way. In frustration I went to the VA hospital on my own to see if the doctors had any answers. I spent an entire day going from clinic to clinic, seeking someone who might have some idea of what Mark was suffering from. I found a lot of people with suggestions and possibilities. It turned out I was not the only wife seeking answers. Problem was, no one had any answers.

I soon found no one was sure what to do to make things better. Most of the doctors were sure it had to do with the traumatic experience of the Vietnam war. In the end, I did not know what to do. I was now living in fear. Mark could snap and go crazy. He might kill me and little Sally. My strong religious training and my family’s aversion to divorce forced me to hang on to a marriage spinning out of control.

By then I knew the marriage was falling apart; I felt there was something missing. In fact, I was not sure I could really call it my life anymore. All my life, I did what someone else expected me to do. In my search for meaning, I went to every mind-expanding encounter group and New Age guru, and I even tried therapy. Everyone had an answer, but the answers did not answer my questions. After a lot of searching and seeing a lot of different “experts” with their self-serving advice, I realized all the “experts” knew even less than I did.

Each day brought new evidence that Mark was not the same man I married. In an effort to find answers, I started to meet with other women with husbands in Mark’s unit. Before long, it was clear we were all talking about the same thing—how different our husbands were now and how they could not find anyone to help. I found there were many other women facing the reality of post-Vietnam life. Most of the other women said they were filing for divorce. But divorce was not something I could consider. All my life I heard my parents proclaim how divorce was the root of all evil. But then, Mother did not have to contend with a husband who was clearly going crazy.

I couldn’t get Mark to come along to the therapy sessions. He refused because he was convinced, they were part of the conspiracy. Mark even refused to take medicine. He did not want them tampering with his brain. When Mark was in a fit of rage, I would think about our marriage vows, “Until death do us part,” and I wondered if that was going to be my fate.

“Well, we have everything cleaned and put away. My voice is giving out, so time for you to let me know more about your life. You can talk as we walk to the camp store. We need to buy some food, and a little exercise would do us both some good,” Amy suggested.