Tatjana Soli - The Lotus Eaters

But what could she do with such knowledge? Even to her, the idea of going back to Vietnam was madness. So she trudged on through the mystery of building a life. She started at Gwen’s catering business, baking cakes and pies. Woke up at dawn and went down to the shop early, made coffee and sat in the bright light of the kitchen. Gwen, heavy-handed, brought a cousin to buy rolls-a setup. His name was Tom, a real-estate agent, a former USC football player. They had made small talk over coffee and muffins, and he asked Helen out. Helen was not friendly. She took his number, not intending to use it.

But she wouldn’t give up trying to live a normal life. In the evening she ran on the beach and noticed a family playing Frisbee with a dog, and, in a burst of inspiration, she went down to the pound and picked up a golden retriever puppy. When she brought him home, spilling over in her arms like a too-large bouquet, her mother held the door open and laughed, shaking her head. “A dog? A dog! Why not? High time for a dog in this house.”

“Yeah, it is.” She stroked the gold velvet ears and tried to ignore her mother’s intent gaze.

“What’ll we name him?”

“Michael always wanted a dog named Duke.”

Her mother nodded. “Duke, then.”

“How come we never had one before?”

“I don’t think your father liked them. Didn’t he get bit when he was a kid? Something like that.”

“But you never thought of getting one after he was gone.”

“Life ended after that.”

The puppy whimpered to be let out nights; Helen up like a shot, carrying the dog outside on the lawn, standing sleepy, barefoot on the wet grass, staring up at the stars. She walked him up and down along empty sidewalks, enjoyed the upside-down quality of the world at night, the only state that matched what she was feeling inside.

After two weeks, Helen called Tom. He sounded surprised. “I thought we didn’t connect,” he said.

“We didn’t.”

A pause.

“What’re you up to?”

“Knocking away on that chip on my shoulder you talked about.”

He laughed.

“Come for dinner about seven, we’ll eat with my mom.” A chaperoned dinner to take the pressure off her.

“Why not?”

During dinner Helen played hostess, passing salad and dinner rolls, smiling at his jokes. Tom pleased her mother beyond words; she glowed, hopeful that this was a first step for her daughter. Helen snuck scraps under the table to Duke.

When Tom asked Helen about her photographs in Vietnam, she spoke of the beauty of the countryside. “It’s too bad you never saw it in person, Mom. It’s so beautiful. Maybe we’ll go after the war is over.”

Charlotte frowned. “Why would I ever set foot in such a place? A place where they killed my son?”

Helen rose and took her plate to the sink. After dinner, Charlotte suggested Tom and Helen take a walk along the beach. Driving down the coast highway, Helen insisted on stopping first at the liquor store for a bottle of scotch. She drank out of the bottle and turned Tom’s radio on loud. At the top of a hill, with the town spread out below, she moved her leg over the gearbox and around the shaft. Tom ran his hand along her knee as she jammed her foot down on the accelerator, bracing herself against the back of the seat so he couldn’t dislodge her, and the car raced down the curving road. Tom held the wheel and slammed on the brakes. “Are you crazy?”

“Just having fun.”

“Some fun. Getting us killed.”

“Didn’t it feel good, just a little? Kept you dying from boredom?”

They parked along the beach and walked in the sand barefoot, passing the bottle back and forth between them.

“You’re a little wild, huh?” he said.

“That’s me.”

“How long did you say you’d been back?”

“I didn’t.” She stopped and dug her feet into the cold and gritty sand. Waves in the moonlight sharp and hard as the blades of knives. “Six weeks, four days.”

Far up the beach, teenagers crowded around a large bonfire that threw light up on the cliffs, but where Tom and Helen stood it was dark and deserted.

“So what are you doing with your days?” he asked. He took a long pull from the bottle and let his fingers brush along hers when he handed it back.

“Baking for Gwen.” She laughed. “Cakes and cookies, buns and rolls.”

“No, long-term. When are you going to start doing photography again?”

“I’m done with that.”

“I told all my friends about you, all your covers. They’d seen your stuff and were impressed as hell. That’s why I came when you called, even though you were a jerk that day.”

“Wow.” His bluntness made her like him better.

“So why aren’t you working at a newspaper? Or covering another war? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

“I just went as a lark. It turned into something else. What do you do if you have a hazardous talent, like riding over waterfalls in a barrel? A talent dangerous to your health?” After the question came out of her mouth, she felt embarrassed.

He stopped and took a sip. “I don’t know. If I was that good at something, I know it’d be hard to stop. Baking… shit.”

Helen moved back into the cave of shadows at the base of the hillside, tumbled onto her back in the sand. Was that the simple answer, that Darrow couldn’t leave his work because he was good at it? That she loved the work more than this life that felt like a living death? No matter how she tried, the gears of her old life kept slipping; she could gain no traction. Her mind was always far away, whirring. She had not known how alive she was in Vietnam. How despite the fear and the anger, she had been awake in the deepest way, in a way that ordinary life could not compete with. She motioned Tom down and pulled him on top of her.

“All those guys over there made you a little crazy, huh? We can go to my place. I have a bed.”

“Baking’s not so bad. You have flour, butter, sugar. The smell of baking bread.” She shook her head, squirmed from under him, reached for the bottle nested in the sand, and took a long drink.

He grabbed the bottle away. “That’s enough. I don’t want you passing out on me.” He kissed her on the lips, the neck, fumbled with the buttons of her blouse.

She closed her eyes, but that made her head spin faster, so she opened them again. “There was this place on Tu Do that made the most wonderful croissants.” Despite the pulsing of the waves, the times in high school and college, despite the smoky taste of the scotch on her tongue, this wasn’t even a moment’s forgetfulness.

“Come on…”

“No.” She couldn’t remember why she thought this would work, why she sought him out. He had unbuttoned her blouse. For a brief moment the pulse of warmth began, a deep pull, but instead of distracting, the arousal opened a deep grief inside her.

Helen jerked open his belt buckle, but the scotch suddenly created a wave of nausea welling up in her, and she pushed at his chest to get him off, unable to bear another minute, which he at first mistook for passion, pressing down harder, her slaps growing more frantic, powerful, convulsed, until he moved off, and she rolled away, crouched on all fours, and heaved.

He sat on the sand next to her. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Nice.”

She sat with her knees up, her head on her arms, sucking down gulps of air.

He stood and took off his shirt, then his T-shirt. He walked to the waves, then came back. “Here,” he said, kneeling down, handing her his wet T-shirt to wipe her face. He sighed. “I don’t know what just happened.”

“I shouldn’t have called.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I wanted to be the kind of girl you think of when you go off to war.”