The Post-War Dream Read online

  From Hollis's perspective, their story had begun prior to its true beginning, the wheels already set into motion elsewhere upon his return stateside: those remaining few months of 1950—late September through late October—at the U.S. Naval Hospital in Oakland, California, where he recuperated on an orthopedic bed which was equipped with traction gear, weights, and trapeze bars. The bed frame had been welded down, and his mornings were spent, much to his own initial amusement, with his ass literally in a sling, his body gyrating about while he grasped the overhead bars, methodically exercising his chest, arms, legs. The ward he recovered in was long, sanitary, like a high-end barracks. Windows were propped open for fresh air on nicer days, and at night there was central heating. His wound was redressed at sunrise, medication prepared and distributed between 7 a.m. and 8 a.m., followed by sick call (the checking of temperature, pulse, respiration, blood pressure—the vital-sign log updated for the doctor's rounds). The linen was changed regularly, the floors mopped with a heavy disinfectant which saturated everything with an unrelenting medicinal smell. Morning meals were served twice (7:15 a.m., 11:30 a.m.). At exactly 1 p.m. the ward was darkened for a rest hour—no talking, no exercising, just rest. He was washed daily, lightly scrubbed from head to toe, and never in his life had he felt so clean and yet, at the same time, so defective.

  But Hollis didn't become dispirited, for in that spit-and-polished ward were forty other injured soldiers like him—only a couple of which he had seen or met beforehand in Japan—each with an orthopedic bed like his and a hanging chart displaying a name, a status, a condition. He saw these men, and, in their faces, he saw himself—straining as they reached for their own trapeze bars, necks tightening to show veins, struggling while lifting their bodies upright, like a patch of similarly designed but unsynchronized oil-well pumps, rising and falling at different intervals. They laughed at their ineptness, their weakness, or groaned profanities, darting aloof, self-conscious glances around even when no one was paying attention. Sometimes, after lights-out at night, the nurses let them listen to the radio on low volume. Or if a radio wasn't allowed, they whispered in the darkness, talking to one another for hours. And all the while nurses came and went, bringing cups of water whenever corpsmen weren't available, frequently dispensing pain pills upon gaining permission to do so from a doctor.

  Sooner than was expected, though, Hollis's rehabilitation took him from the bed during afternoons, assisted at first by a corpsman or a nurse, so that he could limp along hallways, transported by crutches, his wounded leg responding a little at a time to the process of building up strength and mobility again. Holding clipboards and meal trays, often carting medical equipment and gurneys, hospital staff hurried about in deliberate fashion—alone, or in pairs, or in groups—moving assuredly through the hallways as if the world was theirs; they exited and entered private rooms, leaving the doors ajar and transistor radios playing inside. Within the hallways it was still possible to glimpse the most damaged of the men beyond those half-open doors, covered in their beds, appendages missing, heads bandaged yet showing black holes where mouths and nostrils existed, plastic cups of milk or orange juice at their bedsides. And urging himself forward—keeping close to the walls, taking step by agonizing step and sometimes navigating around stalled wheelchairs—was Hollis. He proceeded slowly but purpose-fully,as well he might: for every step brought him closer to home, every small, aching effort hastened his release—the bad leg successfully raised and placed ahead of the better leg meant his days as a soldier were almost over. In the near future, the moment would arrive when he could limp briskly off the hospital grounds, putting the military and the war behind without as much as a wave goodbye; that, more than anything, kept him on his feet whenever the pain felt too great for standing.

  Then how unanticipated it was, Hollis realized, that the hometown he had previously decided wasn't worth revisiting should now feel so missed. Already letters were delivered to him from Critchfield, sent mostly by people whom he couldn't immediately recall—the woman who ran the local florist shop, a bar owner, a high-school student whose older brother had once bullied him for a nickel—all wishing a speedy recovery, explaining how incredibly proud they were of him. Never before in his life had an outpouring of random kindness come his way, nor had he ever received letters from much of anyone, let alone letters of praise. In less than a year, it seemed, he had shaken loose the skin of an awkward town loner to become Critchfield's current war hero, achieving the distinction without fully understanding that he was, indeed, perceived as such.

  Only later would Hollis learn of the photograph which had appeared in The Critchfield Gazette, taken by the day-nurse supervisor while he rested in his orthopedic bed, mildly narcotized and not yet capable of standing on his own; rugged, large, pale hands decorously laid a Purple Heart upon his blanket-covered stomach as if the medal were a tiny wreath—and he stared up at the tall, imposing figure of Captain Z. L. Trendon, his pupils completely dilated below an immaculately uniformed, silver-haired man who, looming above him like one accustomed to the pulpit, spoke with a deep, tremulous voice: “In the name of the President of the United States and as authorized by reference A of your citation, you—PFC Hollis J. Adams—are hereby awarded the Purple Heart Medal for wounds received in action against the enemy on the eleventh of August 1950 in the Korean theater of operations.”

  “Hold it a sec,” the nurse supervisor said, hoisting the camera. “Oh, yes, right there, that's it—”

  The captain became suddenly inanimate, gazing down at Hollis with an unflinching, benevolent expression, staying perfectly frozen while the camera took aim, clicking and flashing twice. “Good job, son,” the captain said, springing back into motion and firmly clutching Hollis's pliable right fingers; afterward, the man promptly about-faced, striding out into the middle of the ward—where he stopped for a moment, surveying the injured in their beds, saying loudly so everyone in the ward could hear, “God bless every single one of you.” With that, the captain flexed his shoulders and sauntered toward the far doors, clasping his hands behind his back—the nurse supervisor jogging ahead of him to hold the doors open, the camera dangling at her side.

  But the photograph wasn't intended as a personal memento; it was, in fact, destined for the offices of the local Critchfield newspaper, along with a copy of the Purple Heart citation and a short press release specifying his bravery at the Naktong River. Had Hollis's mother and stepfather not been officially informed of his wounded status early on—or had he not seen fit to have his medal sent home for safekeeping with a brief note attached (I'm okay, Don't worry. I'll be home soon. H.A.)—they would have first heard of his overseas military service and injury when one of them stooped to retrieve the Gazette from the porch steps, a front-page headline proclaiming: local boy awarded purple heart, act of heroism under fire quells enemy sniper.

  Then, in turn, it would be Hollis's mother, Eden, who was slow to respond, eventually sending him a clipping of the newspaper article with a brief note, simply stating: Glad you're doing okay and you're safe. Keep me informed. Your bedroom is ready whenever you are. Love, Mom. Thereafter, she began sending weekly notes—each missive a little longer than the previous one—with the notes soon evolving into full-blown letters, often accompanied by a package containing homemade chocolate chip cookies, or sand tarts, or shelled pecans. Eden wouldn't, however, travel to see him at the hospital, nor did he ever ask her to visit. He suspected she was waiting for him to come to her, staying put as a silent protest against the son who had run off, departing angrily from her life, joining the army without making any effort to inform her of where he had gone. But she continued writing every week, and he was always quick with his replies. Their letters grew less stilted—the sentences becoming more demonstrative, the general tone warmer—yet were careful to avoid the hurt feelings or irritations both harbored; in this manner they overlooked whatever resentment lingered between them, an indirect healing which would be repeated again and again throughout
the years, reconciling their relationship via long distance while never actually speaking their minds.

  When Eden's first note finally reached him, Hollis was already maneuvering on his feet, albeit with a single crutch; he had, by then, received half a dozen letters from Critchfield citizens, and, over the course of several evenings, he had responded to them all, thanking each person for their kind thoughts, concern, and encouraging words. But it wasn't until he studied the newspaper article—the black-and-white photograph, the three columns of journalistic hyperbole—that he realized something was amiss, that somehow the truth had been altered without really being changed. The written account explained the event correctly—a sniper had killed a fellow soldier, and Hollis had, after also being shot, killed the sniper on the banks of the Naktong while in hot pursuit. Aside from a number of false adjectives (eagle-eyed, valiant, stouthearted), nothing else in the article had been totally distorted. Although the hours and minutes leading up to the shootings, or the actual deaths themselves, were lacking from the story; instead, the moment was reshaped with surface details which conveyed a cinematic sweep—close-range gunfire, beads of sweat, grim determination—rather than the eerie stillness of that fateful morning, the mutual dislike fostered between two Garryowens, a stolen pack of cigarettes, and a fallen Korean boy with a Japanese rifle.

  Nonetheless, Hollis wouldn't explain otherwise, nor would he do much to downplay his role as a minor war hero of sorts; for he had killed a communist sniper, he had been wounded, he had possibly prevented other soldiers from being shot at that morning—it made no difference to the townfolk of Critchfield if he was or wasn't highly decorated for his actions. To those who wrote him, his role was subconsciously envisioned in Technicolor, befitting the likes of Audie Murphy. Ultimately, his mind adjusted itself to accommodate how he was now regarded. Compared to the surreal, entangled facts of Korea, the superficial yet grand revisions were much easier to adopt and live with, and, as it happened, the revisions then functioned like a glowing portal which had appeared in front of him, shining white light across its threshold, beckoning him to pass through to find something better for himself. These assumed three-quarter truths, he would tell himself, weren't exactly lies.

  16

  On Halloween Day 1950, Hollis was given a brand-new regulation uniform to wear, cab fare for the Greyhound bus depot in downtown Oakland, and, as a parting gift bestowed upon him by the nursing staff, a mahogany cane to use on his trip home. With whatever few possessions he had acquired shipped on ahead, he clutched only at the cane, limping out of the hospital before dawn, moving toward a waiting Yellow Cab. Seconds later, the naval hospital slid from view, and he found himself emerging into another world—a land of dim urban streets, of brick buildings and unlit storefronts. In the gaps between the buildings he stole glimpses of a waning, reddish moon which sank for the horizon line; its faint glow was in contrast to the opalescence which had started washing over the streets and parked cars. These Bay Area mornings, it had seemed to him, always arrived quickly, as if a curtain were being lifted. So dawn had already begun, heralded by the warbling of birds greeting him when he climbed slowly from the cab; the darkness which had, minutes earlier, engulfed him at the hospital was being eaten away by the sun.

  Even as Hollis loitered by the front entrance of the Greyhound depot the sidewalk was beginning to brighten around him. On the other side of the street an angle of golden light suddenly sliced against a brownstone and voided the blinking green neon of a motel sign. Down the sidewalk ahead of him the shapes of taller buildings loomed in places where just moments before black space had been visible. But there were no other people to be seen, although he had unconsciously expected the downtown section of Oakland to be active. Nonetheless, a blue sky would soon awaken the city, and, as well, he didn't feel inclined to sit alone inside the depot for two hours until his bus departed. Yet he was unfamiliar with the downtown, unsure of how exactly to kill the meantime; however, his restless state of mind wouldn't let him stand there for too long. He scanned the buildings across the street for somewhere to go, but now that he was at last a free man nothing readily presented itself to him; the stores were still closed, the sidewalks remained deserted.

  Then for the first time in months, Hollis began walking without direction or purpose, the cane tapping beside him as he limped on. All at once two trucks and a cab and a bus came rumbling past on the street, but along the sidewalk—where the darkness was rising inch by inch—no one else moved except himself. His shoes were glossy with a coat of polish and in the quiet morning he could hear his soles squeaking against the pavement. He kept walking—crossing a street, turning a corner, crossing another street—as if attempting to escape the sound of his own footsteps, and at one point a vivid sensation of having previously wandered those downtown Oakland sidewalks came to him: not as a memory of a similar experience, but, rather, it was that very same moment in time being somehow revisited by him now. Naturally, he understood that he had never before walked there; yet, for a while, the heightened paramnesia pressed at his consciousness, and he found himself recalling that morning with a kind of hindsight even as it was still unfolding around him.

  But only with the actual hindsight of forty-nine years would Hollis decide it was pure chance and not a form of pre-destiny which had sent him in the right direction—taking him several blocks away from the Greyhound depot, off the main thoroughfare and into a narrow alley-like avenue, bringing him to the massive driftwood-made entry of the Zombie Cantina. Even at that early hour an open for business placard had been hung crookedly on the cantina's door near a large wooden effigy of an Easter Island deity; ukulele music could be heard playing inside, enticing him to step gingerly beyond the entrance—and then standing just inside the murky doorway, letting his eyes adjust before limping forward, he saw a tropical oasis faded in through the opaqueness. Exotic orchids covered the ceiling rafters, drooping directly above a red-carpeted path lined on either side by small palm trees, marantas, calatheas, and dozens of colorful anthuriums.

  Drawn toward the music, Hollis followed the winding red carpet, passing themed dining sections—Malayan, South Seas, African—and yet encountered no one until reaching the grog bar at the end of the path. A Seeburg jukebox pulsated against a wall of bamboo, and stacking glasses behind a bar decorated with miniature Japanese fishing boats, carved wooden tribal masks, native spears and shields was a tall, thin elderly man sporting a gray handlebar mustache, wearing a Panama hat and a white duck suit, looking more befitting to a yacht than a cocktail lounge; his nimble fingers were in constant motion—straightening various bottles of rum so that the labels showed, wiping the counter at the same time—seemingly oblivious to the only patron in the establishment, but finally speaking when Hollis took a seat at the bar, saying with his back turned, “Can't serve you anything good until six, unless you're wanting java or a cup of water. If it's something stronger, you'll have to wait about ten minutes. So what'll it be then?”

  “Not sure,” Hollis said, setting the cane on an adjacent stool. “What do you recommend?”

  The old man dropped from sight, stooping below the bar. “I'll tell you in ten minutes,” he said, his voice mingling with the clanking of silverware. “Sit tight.”

  At six o'clock sharp the cocktails began to materialize as if borne of liquid alchemy, strange and beautiful concoctions Hollis had never previously tasted, one coming right after the other—measured, shaken, poured, and conjured by the cordial barkeeper—landing in front of him in tiki-shaped glasses, garnished with tiny blue or orange Japanese parasols, presented to him with names as unique as the drinks themselves: Pagan Love, South Sea Cooler, Planter's Punch, Dead Man's Delight. Once the alcohol had kicked in, making Hollis more effusive than he had been in ages, it was another name which rolled proudly out of the old man's mouth, revealing himself to be Skipper Ken, the Zombie Cantina's owner, explaining, too, that he was also a foremost authority on rum drinks and had visited practically all the islands of the
West Indies. Everything which adorned the bar, he told Hollis, had been collected on his many travels—except, of course, the jukebox and much of the furniture.

  “It's a pleasure to meet you, Skipper Ken,” Hollis said, reaching over the bar to grasp the old man's hand.