Atonement for Iwo Page 2

  Martin raised an eyebrow. “All right, Mr. Brighton. His attack should not be fatal, but we won’t have a complete evaluation of the damage to his heart until a few more tests have been made. The one thing we can guess is that the next attack will be much more severe. It could come tomorrow, or in ten years.”

  “Will he be able to return to work, or would you consider it a permanent disability?”

  The doctor pursed his lips. “As an educated guess, I think he should be up and around in three or four months. But if he should do any kind of work except, light, part time duties, he will be back rather quickly.”

  “Then we may conclude that he is permanently disabled?”

  “If he were on my staff, I would order him to remain at home for a year and search for a hobby.”

  The insurance manager nodded. “Thank you, doctor.” He left the hospital and drove directly back to his office. There he picked up the phone and dialed a number taken from an information card.

  A woman’s voice answered.

  “Hello, Gloria. This is George Brighton.”

  “Why, hello, Mr. Brighton. This is quite unexpected.”

  Brighton did not hesitate. “Gloria, Keith is ill.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Oh?”

  “It’s quite serious. A heart attack. He’s in City Hospital.”

  There was a longer period of silence, then a sigh. “Why don’t you call Keith’s whore, Mr. Brighton? I’m no longer related to him. I even have a divorce certificate to prove it.”

  “Take it easy, Gloria. You know they broke up five years ago. I thought perhaps that Bert should know.”

  The woman’s voice was suddenly angry. “Look, Keith walked out on us seven years ago. Bert was only eleven years old then, and he’s grown up fully convinced that his father is nothing better than a worthless bastard. Furthermore, I’m remarried, and my husband and Bert are great friends. Frankly, we don’t care if we ever see Keith Masters again.” She hung up.

  A choir was singing Silent Night on the television set when a knock came at the door. “Come in,” called Masters.

  The door opened and George Brighton entered. He adjusted his eyes to the dimness of the room. “Hello, Keith. I was just driving by and thought I’d drop in to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

  Masters grinned. “I bet you were just driving by, George. How far out of the way was it? A couple of miles?”

  Brighton grinned back. He took a seat facing Masters, huddled in his chair with a shawl around his shoulders. “You’ve put on some weight,” he observed.

  “I’m up to one hundred and thirty now. Still twenty pounds under.”

  “Well, you don’t look too bad for a guy on full pension. How are you making out?”

  “I should have gotten sick sooner. It’s the first time I ever caught up with my bills.” He studied the gray haired man. “George, did you call Gloria when I became ill?”

  Brighton nodded. “She was still pretty angry.”

  Masters pursed his lips, his face still slate looking. “Just like her. She’ll carry the grudge right to the grave, fighting like a son of a bitch to drag everyone else along. How about Bert?”

  “She said he didn’t want to see you. Bert didn’t say it. She did.”

  “Then you can bet your bottom dollar that it’s true. He was a fine little fellow until she got on his ear. I hope he never realizes what kind of a mother he has. Hating his father is bad enough.”

  “What ever happened between you two? You and Gloria were a real handsome couple.”

  Masters leaned back into his chair. “I honestly don’t know, George. Gloria is a damned good looking woman, and I thought we had it made. Then, all of a sudden, about two or three years after Bert was born, she changed. At first I thought it was the mother versus father grab for the kid’s affection, but it wasn’t that. Right off the bat she started acting as if she was the greatest piece of ass in the world, like she could lay back and eat an apple while you were knocking it off, and that you should rave about it for a week afterwards. Then the great withdrawal act, the suffering heroine putting up with all the crap in the world and keeping a stiff upper lip even though she had a bastard for a husband.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t figure it out. I thought maybe I wasn’t cutting the mustard in bed. Half the troubles of the world start there. But when this thing came up, I was hitting on all eight cylinders and she was jumping around and yelling like it was the greatest thing she ever knew.”

  He drew the shawl tighter around his shoulders. “Maybe it was because I wasn’t earning all the money in the world. Gloria considered herself a pretty high class article.”

  Brighton took out a pack of cigarettes, then self consciously shoved it back into a pocket.

  “Go ahead, smoke,” said Masters. “I get the willies as bad whether you smoke or not.”

  Brighton lit one up. “I was never able to understand,” he said, blowing smoke away from Masters, “why you were content to stay on a debit for so many years before I could persuade you to take an assistant manager’s job.”

  Masters picked up a piece of hard rock candy and popped it into his mouth. “Maybe not all of us are big, determined men. I just never had the gumption to do anything but ride around and collect the three bucks each month. I was content. The only reason I took the assistancy was to get a few more dollars. I’ll tell you straight, George, there were a couple of hundred times I wanted to shove it right back. It was worse than digging ditches.”

  Brighton stood up. “Well, I’ve got to be going. Glad to see you’re back to normal. How about coming in and having lunch with me when you’re able to?”

  Once the door closed behind the gray haired man, Masters rose from the chair, switched off the group still singing Christmas carols, drew back the covers on the sofa, and lay down.

  He folded his hands behind his head and thought back. I’m forty five-years-old now. At age zero, I am a red ball of meat in a skinny woman’s belly. The fellow that put me there was a railroad conductor. He had also started my brother two years before. Then he walked smack in front of a beer delivery truck and exit a father. At five years old, I have a step father, a barber. It wasn’t too bad until he blew the claim money my mother got from the beer company, then he started cutting hair elsewhere. At age ten, my brother, Ed, and I are out peddling papers on the streets of windy Chicago, and my mother is working in a shirt factory. At age fifteen, I screw what the hell was her name? Margot? Margaret? Well, it doesn’t make much difference, except that I got scared afterwards thinking I might have caught the clap, so I put alcohol on my pecker. It hurt worse than the clap I think. At twenty, I have already buried my mother, who is dead from a crummy pair of lungs. The skinny woman. I guess that’s what saints must have looked like, for she certainly was one. At twenty five, I have killed maybe fifteen or twenty men, all legally, and they even gave me medals for it. I also received the medal they awarded posthumously to my brother, Ed, who was scattered somewhere over the French countryside. At thirty, it is Gloria, and my son, Bert. At thirty five, I have been recalled by the army for duty in Korea, am back out of the service, and Gloria has her tail up in the air. At forty, it is...

  “Keith,” said Cathy. “I don’t see any reason why we can’t get married.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” he replied, putting down the newspaper. “Are we going to go all over that again? I’m paying every dime I earn for alimony to Gloria. I haven’t bought a goddamn shirt in two years. How the hell can we get married?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference. We’re getting along now, aren’t we? If we can get along now, we can get along the same if we’re married.”

  He eyed her with irritation. “Do you know something? You’re probably the best piece of ass in Chicago and most certainly the dumbest. I don’t know how the fuck I’ve put up with you for two years.” He mimicked her. “If we can get along now we can get along the same as now.” He threw the newspaper to the floor. “Can’t you get it throug
h your thick, Polack skull that I just got rid of one wife and I don’t want another.”

  Her lips trembled. “You don’t love me,” she wailed.

  He jumped to his feet, his face flushed with rage. “No!” he shouted. “I don’t love you. You’re just an orgasm, a crying, nagging, smothering nobody who isn’t worth a shit ten minutes out of bed.” He stamped out of the apartment.

  When he returned, hours later, reeling from too much beer, she was gone bag and baggage.

  Masters turned over onto his side. Now forty five and a half dead man. God Almighty, what is wrong with me? Why can’t I find just a little of the peace I’ve searched for all my life? It’s as if a rot has been placed inside me, that I have been condemned to unhappiness.

  And then, for the first time in twenty years, he forced himself to admit it. Yes, I knew Schneider was going to raise his rifle and shoot that Jap sergeant. I knew it the moment he came up and aimed and fired. I could have stopped it. I could have said, “Do not fire.” I could have even pushed up his weapon. But I didn’t. Because I wanted him to shoot!

  God Almighty! I’ve murdered a man!

  CHAPTER 2

  In the morning, Masters made his way slowly down the three flights of stairs to the basement and unlocked the small, storage room provided for each tenant of the old, apartment house. Inside were two battered footlockers, a dust covered Valapack, and a Samsonite suitcase. He sat on a footlocker for a few minutes to rest, then kneeled and opened one. Among the folders of army orders, certificates, Veterans Administration letters regarding his pension for wounds, and personal papers, he found the wallet and the thousand stitch belt.

  Back in his one roomed apartment, he opened the wallet. It was mildewed, cracked, and heavy with the odor of the sands, cliffs and volcano ash. The small amount of Japanese money was gone. Bert had swiped it when he was six or seven years old to show round the neighborhood. It had then disappeared casually, as if it had been placed in a clothes drawer and had fallen to the floor while the clothing was taken out, then carelessly laid on top of the bureau to be swept up during a periodic housecleaning.

  Directly in the center of the wallet and its contents was a jagged hole, bored out by one of his submachine bullets on its way through the pocket of the Japanese sergeant’s shirt before thundering into his chest. Master lifted the leather flap and took out a picture and a small, white name card.

  The picture and the card were stuck together. He sat in a chair next to the single lamp in the room and peered closely at the photo. It was of a short, slim man of twenty two or so, seated on a bench in a photo studio and wearing a khaki uniform and visored cap. Master strained to see if he had stripes of rank on his collar or sleeves, but the picture was too distorted by the passage of time. On his lap was a child. It would have to be a boy, for he wore a little visored cap similar to that of the soldier. The features of the man and child were blurred. He tried to guess the boy’s age. Perhaps six months old.

  Standing slightly behind and to one side of the soldier was his wife, a slender woman, straight as a reed, dressed in a kimono, her hair piled high on her head and perfectly arranged. He could not see her face, for the bullet had torn squarely through it. In her left arm she held another child, about two years old, who was likewise dressed in a kimono with an obi peeking out from the side. The girl’s face was the clearest. It was long, serious, containing large, expressive eyes and a pixie type snub nose.

  Masters sat fascinated by the picture, putting it down with great reluctance at noon to eat a frugal lunch and to take a nap. When he awoke, he continued studying it until suppertime, then, when he had eaten; he put on a pot of water to boil and held the photo and card over the steam. Patiently, he moved his hand to and fro until he had them unstuck, giving a sigh of relief to see them come apart without damage.

  The name card bore a line of Japanese characters running from top to bottom. The bullet had entered a bit off center and touched one of the characters, but they were all readily identifiable.

  He placed the card and photo on the lamp stand to dry, then switched on the television. Frequently, during the evening, he turned off the television set and picked them up, staring as intently as before.

  The following morning, he bundled up warmly and descended the staircase to a store at a corner. There he looked up a telephone number, then entered a booth and dialed.

  A woman’s voice answered. “Berlitz Language School, good morning.”

  “Do you have courses in Japanese?” asked Masters.

  “Of course, sir. Three times weekly, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, at seven p.m.”

  He hesitated. “How much are they?”

  “One moment, please.” A short time later she was back. “In a group course, it is seventy-two dollars for twelve weeks.”

  “Thank you.”

  That evening, Masters registered at the school, disappointed to learn that new classes would not begin until after the first of the year.

  “Could I speak with the instructor for a few minutes, please?” he asked the registration clerk.

  The clerk glanced at her watch. “I don’t think he’s started his classes yet.” She directed him to the proper room.

  The instructor was a stout, middle aged Japanese. Masters handed him the card.

  “Could you please tell me what is written here?”

  “It’s a name. Ito Tanaka.”

  “Does it have any meaning?”

  The Japanese shook his head. “No, it’s just a name. Quite often a woman carries a name with a meaning, such as a flower or an incident, but it’s rare for a man. It’s a common name, though, this Ito Tanaka. Probably a farmer or a villager.”

  Masters walked home slowly, muttering, “Ito Tanaka. Ito Tanaka.”

  The next morning, he made his way to his former insurance office. George Brighton was in his office checking over delinquent accounts.

  “For Pete’s sake, Keith,” he said, getting up to help Masters doff his overcoat. He placed it on a rack near the door. “What are you doing out in this weather? Don’t you know it’s freezing outside?”

  Masters took the seat offered by Brighton and smiled. “Of all the things I’m not afraid of, it’s catching cold. George, I want to borrow on my policies.”

  “All right, Keith.” He rang for a clerk and told her to fill out the forms. “Do you want the money right away?”

  “No, let it come through normally.” He hesitated. “I’m going to Japan this summer.”

  “Japan! Are you out of your mind?”

  Masters leaned over the desk. “George, you’re one of the most understanding people I know.” He gnawed gently at his lip for a few moments, concentrating on how he should express himself. “A couple of nights ago, right after you left, I started thinking about myself. I guess when you’ve faced death as closely as I did last summer, you begin to ask yourself some questions.”

  Brighton interrupted. “You’ve faced death long before last summer. What about the War, and Korea?”

  “That’s different. I was a husky kid then. In battle you know one thing if you don’t get the big one that day, you’re still young and healthy and can fight like a son of a bitch the next day. Since last summer, I learned that I can’t fight anymore. All I can do is delay the big one.”

  “Okay, Keith. You’ve got something on your mind. Let’s have it.”

  Masters sighed and chewed his lip harder. “A couple of nights ago I realized that I had murdered a man.”

  Brighton eyes opened wide in surprise for the merest moment, then he got up, strode to the far end of the office and shut the door, which was slightly ajar. He took his seat, his expression guarded. “Keith,” he said softly. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

  Masters raised his hand. “Relax, George. The killing was considered legal. In fact, they gave medals for it.”

  Relief spread over Brighton’s face. “You mean war, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I was responsible for the murder o
f a man.” The manager sat quietly, eyeing him. “I allowed one of my sergeants to shoot this Jap. I could have stopped it, but I didn’t. I guess I’ve always known I was responsible for his death, but I was unable to admit it to myself until a couple of nights ago.”

  “Was he a soldier this Japanese?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he armed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had he surrendered?”

  “No, but he was severely wounded. He wasn’t able to fight anymore.”

  “Did you order this sergeant to shoot him?”

  “No.” Masters paused, then sighed. “But I wanted him to.”

  Brighton leaned back, lit a cigarette while he digested what Masters had said, then blew smoke towards the ceiling. “Keith, I was with the Judge Advocate during the war. Your case occurred so many times that you couldn’t count them. There isn’t a court in the world which would find against you or your sergeant. You are in the midst of a firefight and you put a bullet into an enemy. An enemy, Keith. Get that word fixed in your mind. The enemy is sworn to kill you, any way he can. Anyhow, after you put a bullet into this...enemy, you take out insurance by putting another bullet into him. Whether he’s kicking or not, you shoot him good. I think that’s being a smart soldier, not a murderer.”

  “And if he had surrendered?”

  “That’s different.”

  “And you conclude that a wounded man, unable to lift a finger, is not the same? Maybe he wanted to surrender, but didn’t have the strength or time to turn his head and say so.”

  “That’s known as real tough titty, Keith, and if you’ve heard one bullet fly by your head, you know it’s the truth.” Brighton hesitated. “Look, I’m not a psychoanalyst, and you’re not the kind of person who needs to be told that your heart attack has released all sorts of fantasies. I assume that you firmly believe what you are saying, and that it had lain dormant how long?”

  “Twenty years.”

  “Okay, twenty years. Furthermore, because it happened twenty years ago doesn’t mitigate it nor make it any the less important. I also see that even though you didn’t pull the trigger yourself, you feel a moral guilt. But moral guilt, or even actual guilt, is something we all have inside us in some form or another, and we have to live with it. Look at Hank Wasinski. Every time he lays with his wife and uses a rubber he believes he is committing a mortal sin. It preys on his mind, but it must be lived with.”