Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

Sands’s duties—though he had none—prevented him from attending the colonel’s memorial services, neither the one for the family two weeks later in Boston nor the military one the following month in Bethesda, Maryland. The colonel had been stabbed to death in Da Nang by a prostitute—the colonel’s throat had been cut by the brother of his Vietnamese mistress on the Mekong Delta—the colonel had suffered tortures unto death or been assassinated by enemy agents—so the story of his passing evolved through a series of reports into something not unrespectable.

When Sands learned of it he was out behind the villa watching three young boys harry a water buffalo from its rest in a mudhole across the creek. One kicked at its rump with the heel of his bare foot while the other two stung its spine with small switches. The ox, or the indications of it, its nostrils, its rack of horn, the bony hips and the peaks of several vertebrae, made no move. A woman, their mother, someone in authority, appeared from the blossoming bougainvillea above them and tempted the beast with a swatch of greens, and like some geologic fact it developed massively out of the ooze. Sands had heard a vehicle’s engine, and slamming doors. He realized it after the fact. Going toward the house he met Hao and Minh coming out to find him. Hao clutched several items of mail. Something in the way Minh held himself back, some mournful acknowledgment of a need for privacy between his elder and the man of the house—and Skip asked, “What is it?”

“Mr. Skip, maybe it will tell you that the colonel is dead.” “Dead?” “It’s bad stuff. We heard it from Mr. Sergeant. He passed me a letter

for you.”

Without any power of speech Skip led them to the dining room and the three sat down at the table. One of the envelopes came minus a stamp. He cut it open with the blade of his Boy Scout pocketknife.

Skip-Some boys from the Top Three Floors dug me out of a hole to ask questions. Looks like the worst kind of news. They say the colonel’s gone. He didn’t make the mission.

Somebody put his lights out but they don’t know who. So they say.

That’s all I’ve got. I’ll get more. As soon as we find out who and what I’ll pass you the word and I swear to Fuck I will get dirty as hell. I will drink the motherfucker’s blood.

BS Storm

“I don’t believe it. I cant believe it.” But he believed. “Mr. Jimmy said it.” He sought for words and heard himself say, “Mrs. Diu is making lunch.” Neither Hao nor Minh replied. “Where’s Trung?” Hao said, “He’s on the Mekong. We took him.” “Does he know about this?” “Not yet. Minh will go there.” “I can give you some money for him.” “Just a little will be good.” “All right.” “Mrs. Diu is—have you eaten? I’ll tell her. Some soup. I’ll tell her.” In amazement at the power of tiny necessities to surmount such a

moment, he ordered that soup and rice be brought to the table. His guests ate slowly, and as quietly as possible, while Skip ignored his meal and opened the other two envelopes, which in fact contained three letters, and a poem:

Jan. 30,1969

Dear Skip,

Pastor Paul here, from the First Lutheran Church here in Clements. I hope I can call you “Skip” and I hope you don’t mind if I write you a few words about your wonderful mom. I’m sitting at my desk right now, and she used to visit me and sit in the chair right beside it. I can almost say she’s here right now, at least in spirit. I just came from her service. To discover how many people she’s touched, how many lives she’s enriched, in her very quiet and modest way, is truly inspiring.

I haven’t met you, but your mother was a woman very dear to us at the church. She wasn’t always a Sunday person, but she visited me once or twice a week at the office. She came in the afternoon just to say hi and chat, and often asked me about the sermon I was preparing for the next service. When the conversation turned to what I was thinking and what I was going to say, it generally meant I could expect to bring something more heartfelt to my congregation the following Sunday. She just naturally contributed in that kind of way. So although I call her not a Sunday person, she was present with us many Sundays in spirit. And her spirit abides.

In the last three months or so your mother was very spiritual. She seemed to have a spiritual turning. She seemed to sense something, it was almost as if her spirit sensed that her journey was turning for home. I hope I’m not forward to say this, or sort of “out of line,” as the kids say.

I’m enclosing this note with something she was about to mail you. I found this folded and ready to mail. The envelope wasn’t sealed, but it’s addressed to you, so I’m pasting on a stamp and sending it on. (I didn’t read it.)

Paul Conn iff, Pastor Clements First Lutheran Church (“Pastor Paul”)

Dear Son Skipper,

It’s Sunday today. I read a poem in the Kansas City Times Sunday section by a poet who died six years ago, and I never heard of him. I would clip it to send to you but I want to keep the printed version, so I’ll copy it out and you’ll have to read it in my handwriting.

I’ve written you three or four letters I had to throw away, because I thought they’d sound discouraging. I know you’re doing what you feel is best for your country. I hope so anyway. I hope you aren’t just stuck. People can get stuck in things and not find the right way to get themselves out. And there I go again. That’s enough of that.

I have two doctor appointments on Monday and Thursday next week. They love to give you tests. Nothing serious. But ever since the change-of-life I’ve had little problems. You get good medical attention there, don’t you? I’m sure they provide the best.

Okay, here’s the poem. It doesn’t rhyme, and to get the feeling of it you have to read it several times over and over. I warn you it’s kind of sad.

THE WIDOW’S LAMENT IN SPRINGTIME

by: William Carlos Williams (1883–1963)

Sorrow is my own yard

where the new grass

flames as it has flamed

often before but not

with the cold fire

that closes round me this year.

Thirtyfive years

I lived with my husband

The plumtree is white today

with masses of flowers.

Masses of flowers

load the cherry branches

and color some bushes

yellow and some red

but the grief in my heart is stronger than they for though they were my joy formerly, today I notice them and turn away forgetting. Today my son told me that in the meadows, at the edge of the heavy woods in the distance, he saw trees of white flowers. I feel that I would like to go there and fall into those flowers and sink into the marsh near them.

I warned you! It’s very sad! So I won’t send it. I read it and I sat by the window with my hands in my lap. I cried so hard the tears fell on my hands, right down on my hands.

And I thought, well, that is a poem. A poem doesn’t have to rhyme. It just has to remind you of things and wring them out of you. Thinking of you, Mom

Dear Skip,

I guess you’ve heard the worldly life drags down the spiritual life. That’s what everybody tells us. What they don’t seem to realize is that it works the other way round, and that the spiritual life ruins the worldly life. It gives every pleasure a bad aftertaste. The only thing that feels right is the pursuit of God, although that doesn’t always feel pleasant, or even natural.

So one minute I want to be a natural woman, and ten seconds after I’ve been one, behaved like one, I want to run away to God. Whom I don’t like that much. I like you better.

But I have to seek God’s will. God’s will for me is whatever’s in front of my feet to do. Romance isn’t part of it. Running off for an affair. Running off to Cao Quyen—