Finding Moon

Deserting ARVN paratroopers seize a transport plane, force the passengers off and fly away.

The Fifteenth Day to, Alas, the Eighteenth Day

IT WAS EMBARRASSING. He remembered that part of it clearly enough. But much of the rest was either hazy or mixed with the confusing dreams that high fever provokes.

He recalled sitting on the deck after the heaving of his stomach finally wrenched to a stop. He recalled trembling with a chill, and the voice of Mr. Tung saying something in his oddly accented English about this seasickness, this mal de mer as Mr. Tung called it, being unusually premature, and laughing at his joke. And then he remembered the angry voice of Mr. Lee, speaking in a language that might have been Tagalog or Chinese or almost anything but English.

They took him belowdecks then, Captain Teele helping him down a narrow ladder. He’d sprawled on a bunk. And there was Osa van Winjgaarden leaning over him, asking what he thought was the matter, asking about pain, about what might be causing this, and he’d said something like it must have been something he’d eaten, and she had said, “I hope so.”

She’d stood over him, he remembered that clearly, frowning at him, holding the back of her hand against his forehead, taking his wrist and checking his pulse, looking worried.

“You are practicing medicine without a license,” Moon had said. The fever was back, and Osa’s hand felt cold on his skin. “If I have to throw up anymore, I’ll call my lawyer and have him file a malpractice-”

But he didn’t finish. Didn’t feel like trying to be fu

And now it was-what? Three days later? And almost sundown, so that would make it three and a half days.

“Well, it’s Wednesday,” Osa said. “And we left Puerto Princesa Sunday morning. So, yes. Three days you’ve been sick.”

Moon had just eaten a bowl of soup made of rice and something else-probably some sort of fish. It was very thin and warm and delicious. It sat uneasily in his stomach. But it was going to be all right, he could tell that. In fact, he could use another bowl.

“Good soup,” he said. “Excellent soup.”

“You should wait a little while,” Osa said. “Until we see what happens with your digestion.”

He was sitting on a roll of canvas, leaning back on a burlap sack full of something heavy-maybe rice. A bank of dark clouds closed off the horizon to the left, but the sky above was clear and the setting sun felt wonderful. Climbing up the ladder had left Moon feeling weak. But his head no longer ached. His stomach seemed to be dealing handsomely with the soup. No more nausea. A fresh breeze blew across his face and hummed through the rigging above him. The sea was dark blue, and Moon felt absolutely wonderful. I am actually going to find Ricky’s kid. I’m actually going to walk into the room and hand this child to Victoria Mathias and say, Well, Mother, here she is. Here’s your granddaughter. And then- He exhaled a huge sigh.

Osa was leaning against the railing, frowning at him. “You’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Hungry. I feel like you should be telling me what I’ve been missing. First, where are we?”

“Well,” Osa said, “we’re on the Glory of the Sea and we are going to the mouth of the Mekong and I think we get there very soon. Tonight, I think. Captain Teele is just waiting until he believes it is a little safer. Otherwise, I think we have told you everything.”

“You did, I guess. But a lot of it-” He tapped his forehead with a finger. “You know. It’s all confused. I remember hearing people talking about the Filipino minesweeper. Rice, I think it was, and Mr. Lee. And I seem to remember the minesweeper didn’t chase us. And you told me the North Viets were almost at Saigon. Or maybe I dreamed that. And something about an air base being bombed.” He shrugged.

“I think I told you the airport had been shelled and no airplanes were landing. And the Vietnamese had put in a new president but the Communists wouldn’t negotiate with him.”

“I hoped maybe the good guys would have won while I was asleep,” Moon said. “Nothing good seems to happen for our side out here while I’m awake.”

“I think it’s even worse since you got sick. The Communists are wi

“Maybe that will solve a problem for us,” he said. “I mean, no more war. Peace. Maybe your brother will be safe now.”

Osa didn’t react to this. She was staring out toward the setting sun.

“Well,” he said, “who knows? Why not?”

“Mr. Teele said the Khmer Rouge radio didn’t sound very peaceful. He said they a

“You know how that is,” Moon said. “Things like that get exaggerated in the excitement. The press hears they’ve been shot and they’re just locked up.”

“The Khmer Rouge decapitated them,” Osa. said. “And the radio was ordering people in the city to turn in all the college professors, lawyers, and doctors. Business people. Everybody like that. And he heard another radio station broadcasting terrible reports. I think it was from a freighter sailing down the Mekong. It said all the people in some of the villages had been killed.”

Osa was looking away from him, to where cloud shadows were making their patterns on the sea.

“Awful,” she said, and shuddered, and then was silent.

Moon could think of nothing to say.

“Worse even than what I was telling you when you were sick.”

“I don’t remember much of it,” Moon said.

“Don’t,” she said, and wiped her sleeve across her face. She turned toward him.

“Part of the time you were delirious. Did you know that?” Suddenly she smiled. “Did you know you were calling me Debbie?”

“Oh,” Moon said.

“And talking to your mother quite a bit. You must have dreamed you’d done something very bad. You were telling her you were sorry. Several times you said that.”

“Well,” Moon said, “several times I did things that were bad.” Which really wasn’t what Osa van Winjgaarden wanted to talk about.

“This Debbie, I think she must be your sweet-heart.”

“What did I say?” And, as soon as he asked, wished he hadn’t. So, apparently, did Osa. She looked slightly abashed.

“Well, personal things sometimes.”

Time to change the subject. “I remember hearing you talking to Mr. Lee about getting me off the ship and to a doctor, and Mr. Lee saying there wasn’t a doctor, except the prison doctor,” Moon said. “And you said prison was better than being buried at sea. And I remember agreeing with you.”

“I thought you had dengue fever,” Osa said. “That is very bad business. You die from that.”

Moon had a sudden surprising thought. “But you would have gone to prison too. Not just me.”

Osa shrugged.

“And I think I remember somebody giving me sort of a bath,” Moon said. “With a wet towel or something, turning me over. Washing everywhere. Even behind my ears. I think it was you. Or was I dreaming?”

“It was to make you more comfortable,” Osa said, still looking out at the darkening sea.

“So I don’t guess I have any secrets anymore,” Moon said.

“No secrets?”

“I mean, I guess you know I am a little bit too fat around the middle. And have a scar on my hip. So forth.”

“Oh, yes. How did you get that terrible scar?”

Moon was silent for a moment. “When I turned over the jeep.”

Some slight variation in the wind caused the sail above them to make a flapping sound. Straight ahead, and high, four sea birds were circling. Long pointed wings. Albatross, perhaps, if they flew over the South China Sea. Gooney birds.

“And a man was killed in it,” Osa said slowly. “The friend who died in the accident you had. You talked about him when your fever was so high that first day.” She looked at him, face sad. “I think he must have been a very good Mend. You grieve for him.”