part one
chapter six
Life was like riding his bike home from school, even in high school. Or running home, because running always felt so good. Getting home felt good, most of the time, anyway, because after all the chores were done there was an hour on the piano. Because that time on the piano always felt like the best time of all.
Beyond the best, even. There was always something new waiting.
There was color in music, explosions in new chords that felt like silvery shivers when he found them. Like shining a flashlight in the darkest corner and finding a shiny new puppy, something alive and bright with playful possibilities. His mother had shown him Chopin and Debussy, but then he had found Gershwin on his own and that had changed everything.
So many explosions, so much color!
And ever since fourth grade, when the Eversons moved in next door, there was June. The other constant in his life.
She was a kind, odd flower, too; from those first moments steeped in light and color. Not the color of music. No, the first time he saw her she was on the front porch of her father's house, standing behind an easel, lost in the moment with a paint brush in her hand. She was looking at a hummingbird, fascinated by the bird's motionless grace as it supped from flowers growing up one of the columns supporting the front of their house, her huge blue eyes visible from across the yard.
Was it possible to notice anything else about her?
It was the middle of summer, deep within all those other middle-moments before school started, when the sun was high in the sky, the breeze coming off the bay fresh and cool, the memories still so sharp now that they still hurt.
He stood inside that moment lost in her eyes, lost in time even then, watching her as if he was meant to do just that.
Their first moment together never really went away, did it. That frozen slice of time was the foundation upon which all the rest was built.
Sun-glints in her red hair, shallow waves of freckles on her nose and just under her eyes; but always those eyes! He stepped into the light, stepped closer to the moment and he saw her look his way...
"What are you looking at?" she always asked, even now. Even today.
"The hummingbird," he lied, never turning away.
"It's amazing," she said, suddenly her voice a faint whisper. "I've never seen green like this before...it shimmers in the light..."
He walked ever so slowly to the porch and came up to her, and even then the movement - this coming together - felt so natural. He was drawn to her like a tidal surge, and it was as simple as that; what was so strange was her tacit acceptance of him even then, but how can you deny the tides?
They belonged together, and it was strange because everyone could see it happening, even from the beginning. Even her father knew what was happening, despite all his misgivings.
Soon enough she heard his playing in the afternoon and came to the door of the Callahan house, peeked inside - looking for the source of all this new color, color she couldn't quite see yet. Within days she was on the inside looking out for the first time in her life, standing behind him lost in an otherworldly trance as she watched his fingers dance within all those strange new colors.
From the first she was fascinated by his hands, by the movement of his long fingers, and soon enough she would stand there, sketchbook in hand as she studied his every sinew. When school started that autumn they walked there and back home together, even had the same teacher so they were hardly ever apart, and even there she would watch his hands as he doodled on paper; there were even times when she drew those errant currents, too, recording those moves for some purpose hidden by the future.
While she loved birds and flowers most of all, and then Harry's hands, in time she loved to sit and listen as he played - then she would disappear for hours, usually for the rest of the day, and what she did in those stolen moments hidden from view was a mystery.
Harry's feelings for June went through diurnal phases that seemed keyed to the way his mother reacted to June's presence; on some days his mother doted over June and so Harry almost detested the sight of the girl next door, while on others his mother seemed loath at the sight of June. Of course, on those days Harry doted over June.
So consider if you will that over the years these tidal swings exacted a staggering toll; on Harry certainly, but also on both June and his mother, yet no one really seemed to understand where and when these deeper fault lines emerged. Perhaps it was in Harry's music or something within June's painting, but no one, absolutely no one seemed to understand the true nature of the music Imogen Callahan created when storms approached, when lightning danced overhead and as thunder rolled across the bay. When the music that filled the Callahan house danced and rolled into the deeper registers, as memory and experience carried them all towards the eighty-eighth key...
+++++
Callahan was bunked-out in the bowels of the ship, waiting for the Huey to be rearmed and refueled so they could make the flight back to - where? Phu Bai was still closed, though Danang was reportedly reopening now, and word had filtered-down overnight that C-Med had been overrun at one point and the facility retaken at great cost after an intense firefight that had lasted hours. Parish was beside himself too, seemingly desperate to get back to his work, and Callahan was surprised by this obtuse transformation.
So by early morning it was time to round up anyone headed 'back to the beach'; Callahan made his way to the hanger deck and did his usual walk-around in very strange company indeed. Here, down below the flight deck, his Huey was surrounded by Phantoms and Corsairs, and crews were loading huge bombs on ordnance racks on a line of A-6 Intruders. Then his Huey was hauled to one of the massive elevators for the ride up to the flight deck, then muscled into a spot just aft of the island - the tail rotor hanging out over the churning sea maybe forty feet below.
Parish was up on the main deck already, so were the medics and Don McCall - though he wouldn't be flying today - as well as a bunch of Army types that needed to be repatriated to their units ashore. Everyone clambered in the Huey and a crew chief came out and gave Callahan the hand signals he'd need to get off the ship, then signaled engine start before he walked a safe distance away.
A few minutes later Kilo Bravo -6 was headed for the beach and deep into the heart of the Tet Offensive...
+++++
The Jetstar taxied to a secure spot on a ramp dedicated to small jets and, after the engines spooled-down, Avi led Harry down to a waiting staff car; they left the airport and drove into the sleeping city, the streets now almost devoid of traffic. A few minutes later they came to a small cluster of new houses located behind a formidable stone wall, and a soldier opened the iron gate guarding a vast interior courtyard. Callahan looked at the security detail surrounding the homes and shook his head, then remembered this was Israel, not Miami Beach - though the climate felt similar enough.
Avi led him to a house deep within the cluster and up a brightly lighted entry courtyard overgrown with miniature palm trees, and another sentry opened the door - from the inside! - greeting Avi deferentially before eyeing Callahan with frank suspicion.
"Is she up," Avi whispered to the sentry.
"Yessir, though she seems quite agitated."
Avi nodded then turned to Callahan: "Follow me."
And Avi turned, led him back out to the main courtyard and across a walkway to another, smaller bungalow. Again, a sentry opened the door from inside and Avi led the way into the living room. Where Frank Bullitt and his girlfriend Cathy were sitting there, looking more than a little put out...so Avi and the guard quietly retreated.
Bullitt stood when Harry walked into the room, then walked over to him: "You okay?"
Callahan nodded. "Yeah, you? Have a nice flight?"
