Fiction from The Literary Review

Remembering the Rain

DEREK ALGER

Patterson scowled. He hated riding in wheelchairs. He tried to turn his head but a sharp pain in his side forced him to wince and remain stationary.
     Back in the Vets hospital for tests and they still wouldn't let him do something simple like walk to his room. Pancreatitis, he'd been through worse.
     The last time he was wounded in Nam was the worst. It was funny, when he got hit, it was nothing like in the movies, or anything they prepared you for, the bullet ripped into his stomach, he felt a burning sensation, and then he passed out.
     Nelson, a wiry, black attendant in a white uniform, wheeled Patterson around the corner down toward the Westmoreland wing. A slow smile came to Patterson's face as he realized that at least a stay in the hospital would allow him to get away from the fat broad.
     That's where the attack hit, up at her apartment. Her name was Lorna and she lived a two and a half hour drive north, up in New York State.
     Lorna was lying in bed naked, a beached whale with an inviting mound centered between two flanks of flesh. When Patterson was inside her, he wished the initial sensation could last forever, but he could never control the urges and it was almost over before it began.
     Lorna never seemed to mind, never sensed that he was only partially there. She blamed it on the war years, and Patterson did nothing to dissuade her. It was convenient, chalk off all unacceptable behavior to the war, to the horror. Only Lorna never knew, how could anyone understand, that Patterson's time in Vietnam was the happiest period in his life.
     He walked back toward the bed from the kitchen wearing a tan bathrobe and carrying a cup of coffee. Suddenly, he doubled over, the cup dropping from his hand and splattering across the hard wood floor. Lorna sat up in bed as Patterson stumbled back against the door and fell to his knees, clutching his side.
      What's wrong, baby? Lorna cried, swinging the bulk of her body around and off the bed.
Gritting his teeth, Patterson looked up with eyes that were searing with rage and pain. He slowly stood up, pushing Lorna's helping hand away, and made his way to the bathroom.
The blood was still in the sink, swirling in a circle of water as it began winding down the drain. Patterson ignored it as he dressed. The next morning he checked into the vets hospital, Lorna's three messages on his answering machine his only link to the outside world.
     Nelson wheeled Patterson into a double room where a gruff, unshaven man in his mid-forties was sitting up in bed smoking a cigarette and leafing through a newspaper. The sky was dark and rain was pelting down against the window but the man didn't seem to notice either the storm or Patterson.
      There's no smoking in the hospital, Badginski, Nelson said indignantly, as he pushed the wheelchair between the two beds.
      Smoke it up your ass, Badginski said without looking up.
     Patterson slipped out of the wheelchair and sat on the side of the bed.
      You want to get reported? Nelson asked, his voice more nervous than threatening.
     Badginski crumpled up the paper and tossed it on the floor. He reached down under the bed sheet and his hand came up brandishing a saw-tooth edged survival knife with a 6-inch blade.
     Patterson nodded his approval. You got another butt? he asked.
     Badginski grinned, running the blade of the knife across the stubble covering his chin. He then threw a pack of Marlboro over to Patterson, followed by a yellow Bic lighter.
      You're breaking the rules, a frustrated Nelson said.
      Would you rather I broke your fucking neck? Badginski asked, still waving the knife.
     Patterson lit his smoke, exhaling in a rush toward Nelson's head.
      You Nam vets is all crazy, Nelson said. He shrugged, shaking his head, as he pushed the empty wheelchair out of the room.
     Badginski slammed the knife down, sticking the blade deep into the wooden surface of the night table where it remained standing.
      Fucking rain, I love the fucking rain, he said. The rain when it falls like this reminds me of the Delta. It was always raining in the fucking Delta.
     Badginski went to light another cigarette off the one he had been smoking but a short, harsh cough stopped him. He dropped the new cigarette and lowered his head toward his knees as he coughed long and hard.
     Patterson stretched out and closed his eyes.
      You look like you was in the Delta, Badginski said, recovering from his coughing fit. Do you remember the rain?
     Opening one eye, Patterson turned his head toward Badginski. Yeah.
      Thought so, Badginski said. Then he reached down and picked up his newspaper and resumed reading.
     Patterson slept for three or four hours and when he awakened Badginski's bed was empty. A nurse came in and gave him some pills, a blue one and a red one. Patterson popped them without asking any questions.
     He felt like he had been born with a nervous stomach. He grew up in the city, in Yorkville on the Upper East Side, but he was only comfortable at sea, out on the water, far away from shore. When he was out on a boat, it was the one time he never had to worry about his stomach.
     Patterson attended the Merchant Marine High School on 23rd Street. The school was on a liberty hull, the S.S. John Brown, and it was there that Patterson learned seamanship firsthand, being grilled in basic engineering, navigation, and blueprint reading. His aptitude was high but he had trouble with discipline and finally left the school at the age of sixteen, enlisting in the Navy and beginning a twenty-three year odyssey as a yeoman deck ape that brought him through three tours in Vietnam.
     Turning on the night light, Patterson sat up in bed. He heard singing coming down the hall. A gruff voice. There's hole in Daddy's arm where all the money goes, in a dreamy, drug-induced slur.
     The orderly wheeled Badginski into the room. Badginski's head was lolling back and forth as he slumped in the wheelchair, his dazed eyes rolling aimlessly.
     Reaching underneath Badginski's massive arms, the orderly hoisted him out of the wheelchair and rolled him on to the bed. Badginski moaned, then was silent, out for the night.
      It's a bad case, man, the orderly said.
     Patterson remained silent.
      Cancer, the guy's lungs are riddled with it, the orderly elaborated. I think it was that Agent Orange shit or something. Don't know what they can do?
     Patterson nodded, then reached over and turned out the light.
     The next morning Badginski's coughing started early and Patterson opened his eyes to find Badginski on his knees by the window, gripping his stomach as he tried to control a gut wrenching hack beginning from deep within.
     Patterson climbed out of bed and stood above Badginski. He kneeled down and calmly rested his hand across the sick man's back.
A last few sputters and the fit was over. Badginski turned his head, drool covering his lower lip and spilling down his chin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
      Did anybody ever tell you that maybe you should stop smoking? Patterson asked, helping Badginski back into bed.
      All the time, Badginski laughed. Got a smoke?
      It's hazardous to your health, Patterson quipped.
      I don't think it matters anymore, Badginski said.
     The two men lit cigarettes and smoked in silence.
      What'd you do in Nam? Badginski asked.
      Coxswain on a gunboat. You know hash and trash missions, out on slingshot laying ambushes.
      You guys did a good job. I was a Sunflower Kid. Wolfhound 9th Infantry Division, the ones with the big cookie on the arm.
     Leaning over the side of the bed, Badginski reached down into the cabinet beneath the
night table and pulled a quart of Johnnie Walker Red out from under a towel.
      Do you regret the shit you've been through? he asked, drinking from the bottle.
      We did what we had to do, Patterson said.
      Fucking-A, that's what I say, Badginski laughed. Nothing wrong with what we did, they gave me jump wings, a green beret and matching scarf. We were all green right down to our underwear and then they set us loose, guerrilla warfare, blowing bridges, blowing hooches, blowing up people. We were good, damn good. We did more fucking damage than that guy Calley could in a lifetime.
      The first guy you waste comes pretty fast. I remember my first and then it's all a blur. Through the trees a guy came running by with a brown hat and the firing started. We were in an eighteen-hour firefight. I hit the guy with the hat in the head with a grenade launcher, it was like a giant shotgun and bam, the fucker was no longer there.
     Badginski held the bottle out toward Patterson but Patterson shook his head.
      Come on, have a little, take the edge off, Badginski said.
      I can't, I gotta give my system a rest.
     Badginski's smile disappeared. What are you better than me? You gonna fucking live forever?
     Patterson accepted the bottle from Badginski and drank, the warm whiskey sending shivers through his body, followed by the familiar glow. He drank again and smacked his lips.
      Good stuff, huh? Badginski said. My brother brings it in. Drink up. I got two more bottles in my suitcase.
     Patterson filled a water glass with whiskey and returned the bottle to Badginski.
      You married? he asked.
     Badginski laughed. I'm a proud member of the 7-3-1 club.
      What the hell is that?
      I was engaged seven times, married three, and now I'm alone.
     Badginski coughed and lit another cigarette. You ever been married?
      Twice. Patterson paused. Marriage and the Navy don't mix. You think you're in love, you want to be in love, but it just doesn't work.
     Badginski's face was expressionless. He took several long swallows from the bottle. My chest from one side to the other feels like it's fucking on fire, he said.
      It gets worse every day and the doctors don't know what the fuck to do. They try to act like they know what they're doing but they don't give a shit. Why should they? They got money, they got homes, families, why the fuck should they know anything about Agent Orange poisoning?
     Badginski's face was flushed, animated, as he rocked back and forth in bed. The booze was beginning to take him to the mellow stage where everything seemed fine and he was at one with the world.
     Raising his glass, Patterson proposed a toast. Remember the rain! he cried.
     Badginski let out a howl. The rain, I'll always remember the rain. It was the only constant in my life, the one thing I could always count on. The rain, the rain, the God damn fucking rain.
     A half hour later, and about a quarter of a second bottle of whiskey, Badginski lay passed out and snoring in his bed. Nelson came in to check on Badginski, storming out in
a panic when he realized Badginski was drunk. The doctors had scheduled Badginski for exploratory surgery the next morning but there was no way it could be done with Badginski in his current condition.
     As it turned out, Badginski didn't go down for another three days. Patterson had gotten word that his condition was okay, his pancreas scarred, and he had one hell of an ulcer, but the doctors said he'd be okay if he slowed down and watched his lifestyle. He even called the fat broad to tell her that he was due to get out of the hospital at the end of the week. He wondered if she'd pick him up, maybe spend a couple days at his apartment.
     The night before his surgery, Badginski was still smoking but he hadn't hit the Johnnie Walker since the earlier episode.
      I've never been scared like this, he confessed to Patterson.
     They were both lying in bed, the lights out. It was raining again, coming down hard after a couple days that were overcast but relatively calm.
      Don't get me wrong, I've been scared before, but it was different, Badginski said. I've never been in a spot like this, it's out of my hands. I can't make it go away, the enemy's inside and it's tearing me apart.
      Just sit tight, Patterson said. Go with the flow. One way or another, you'll get to the other side.
      I've been to the other side, Badginski said.
      Patterson cupped his hands behind his head and stared at the sliver of light from the hallway slipping out across the room. He stretched out, listening to the rain, and he was once again on the gunboat, out on ambush, setting up the claymores and waiting, and the NVA walked by and he clicked his radio and Turnpike Tommy clicked his, and then the boat opened up and the whole sky exploded.
      I don't want to die for nothing, Badginski said.
      Nobody dies for nothing, Patterson said.
      We could have won.
     Patterson didn't answer.
      You know we could have won, Badginski said, raising his voice. They wouldn't let us fight. You know that's how it was. Why the fuck couldn't we just sweep through Cambodia and blow them all to hell?
      What about the reservoir over the Red River Valley? Blow that and you got maybe 100,000 dead outside Hanoi. You can't have a people's war if you got no people.
      Take it easy, Patterson said. It's over.
      How can it be over? Badginski demanded. My insides are burnt to shit, it can never be over as long as I'm here.
     Badginski rang the buzzer for the nurse. He wanted more medication, wanted to sleep.
The nurse came in and turned on the light. Badginski sat up and took the pill with a glass of water. He placed the empty glass next to his knife which was still sticking out of the night table.
     The next morning, when Patterson awakened, Badginski was gone, his bed empty. During lunch, Patterson sat with his tray across his lap, sucking on a pear. He thought of Badginski, positive that the operation was underway.
     Later, smoking a cigarette and sneaking shots from one of Badginski's bottles, Patterson wanted to ask someone about Badginski but there was no one to give him information.
     As darkness arrived, two orderlies wheeled Badginski into the room on a stretcher. His face was drained, an oxygen mask across his nose, his arm hooked up to an IV bottle.
     Patterson didn't want to look over at Badginski. He tried not to listen to the gurgling coming from Badginski's side of the room as Badginski struggled to breathe through the night.
     He wanted to get his hands around Nelson's throat, anyone's throat. Fucking veterans' hospital, what were they thinking putting Badginski back in a regular room? Why wasn't he in a special car unit, or even cardiac care? But, no, Badginski was here, only he wasn't; there was a body with his face lying in the other bed restlessly trying to get through the night.
     The next morning, Patterson's doctor, a balding young man wearing a wrinkled shirt beneath his white coat, came in and said that Patterson could check out the following morning.
      No sense tying you up in bed, the doctor said good-naturedly.
      Is he going to be okay? Patterson asked, gesturing toward Badginski.
     The doctor looked perplexed.
      My friend, Patterson said. What do you think of his condition?
     The doctor glanced at his clipboard. I'm sorry, he's not my patient.
      That's not what I asked.
      I know it must be disturbing sharing a room with someone so ill, the doctor said.
      All I can tell you is that you'll be fine if you follow my directions and change your lifestyle. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have patients to see.
     Patterson watched as the doctor briskly walked out of the room. Out of sight, out of mind, fuck you, Patterson thought.
     He couldn't stand being in a room alone with Badginski so he spent his time between lunch and dinner in the solarium at the end of the hall watching television. When the local news came on he drifted back down the hallway toward his room. He hesitated by the door. He remembered early on in Nam watching two guys he arrived with teaching a four-teen-year-old kid how to play basketball. Simpson and Abbott had just put up the net when the little fucker pulled a grenade out of his knapsack and rolled it under the two soldiers' feet. Patterson still remembered the rage seething through him as he continued firing into the boy's body long after the first clip had torn away his goofy little head.
     Sometimes the memories were so vivid Patterson felt like he was still in country. His
stomach would tighten, his entire system would go ready alert, and he would have to force himself to remember that Vietnam was in the past, that he was home, a survivor. But still, the memories seemed so real; in many ways, he wasn't sure he had ever left, that the present wasn't merely an extension of the past all blending together in a confused blur where real and imaginary became hopelessly entwined.
     Stepping into the room, Patterson saw that Badginski's eyes were open. He stood next to the bed. adginski tried to speak but couldn't, managing only an anguished, guttural moan.
      Hang in there, buddy, Patterson said.
     Badginski's hand reached out, slowly trembling as his fingers sought out Patterson's. Patterson clenched Badginski's hand and squeezed.
     Clearing his throat, Badginski coughed, a short sputter. His hand felt lifeless in Patterson's grasp.
     After supper Patterson returned to the solarium and killed time until after ten. He came back to the room and tried to read a magazine but couldn't concentrate. He just wanted to sleep and leave in the morning as quickly as possible.
     He tossed and turned in bed, the only sound in the room the labored breathing of Badginski. The rain was finally beginning to subside. Soon it would be over, Patterson thought.
Another memory, another stop.
     Things aren't so bad, he decided, as he shifted the pillow under his head. Tomorrow he'd be home, Lorna would take care of him, he wouldn't be alone. He never wanted to be alone again was his last thought before he was overtaken by sleep.
     He was looking out through the back of the chopper as it hovered over the ambush site. He had been shot, blood oozing out of the side of his stomach. The other guys from his gunboat were standing and watching him fly out of their lives. Truckdriver Joe, Turnpike Tommy, Mac, and now Badginski, all framed from the back of the helicopter as if enclosed
in a three-dimensional photograph.
     It sounded like a muffled scream. That's what Patterson thought as he sat upright in bed. Then he heard it again, the cough mixed with phlegm.
     Springing out of bed, Patterson was afraid that Badginski's choking would give away their position. He turned on the light by Badginski's head and saw blood trickling down Badginski's chin.
     Badginski's head was bobbing wildly, his eyes darting about. He looked up at Patterson, then coughed and a glob of blood spilled out over his lip.
     They'd fought too hard for Parrott's Beak, Patterson couldn't allow Badginski to fuck it up.
He turned and pulled the sheet off his own bed, then began mopping up the blood on Badginski's face.
     He knew there was only one thing to do. Badginski looked exhausted, his face drained, as he gazed up at Patterson.
     The two men remained fixed, looking into each other's eyes, and then Patterson's eyes narrowed and Badginski's widened as Patterson reached for the pillow and lowered it toward Badginski's face.
      You crazy motherfucker, Badginski's gasped, as the pillow pressed down over his face.
     Patterson's eyes were frenzied, as he concentrated, holding the pillow firmly in place. Badginski was fighting, struggling, his hand frantically reaching out toward the night table.
      I'm sorry, buddy, Patterson whispered, clamping down harder on the pillow.
     Badginski was kicking up with his legs, his left arm free, swinging wildly in an arc.
     Ignoring the pain, Patterson grunted, pressing his full weight down on the pillow. You'd do the same for me, he said, as he pushed down harder.
     Once it was over, Patterson slipped off the bed, leaving the pillow still covering Badginski's face. It was only then that he noticed it, the knife, the knife sticking up through his side. He laughed. Badginski was good, in and up, he had sliced Patterson good before he left the knife sticking in to stay.
     Patterson slumped against his bed and slowly dropped toward the floor. He was sitting now, the blood starting to stain the front of his nightshirt. Placing his hand on the handle of the knife, he considered pulling it out, but it was in too deep, the jagged edges would rip him to pieces.
     Sit tight, he thought. He was leaving in the morning, he could wait till then. He was tired, he needed to rest. Yes, rest a bit, he thought, as the floor came up to greet his head.
     He could barely see across the room, could just make out Badginski's bare foot hanging off the bed, and then it came to him, he knew it was finally over, and the rain continued pelting once again against the window beyond Badginski as Patterson closed his eyes.