No Human Contact. Donald Ladew
reading. “Victor Vankelis, mmmm, I’ve seen that name somewhere.
A long arrest record followed. “Jesus, this guys a real piece of work.” It included smuggling, grand theft and murder. A comment on the last page said the father had been killed in Columbia, South America. Maybe!
“Those jerks aren’t sure about anything except how wonderful they are,” she muttered.
“Mother beaten to death when he’s two months old; taken to an orphanage by the Magdalene Sisters of Mercy.” She read on. “Stays at the orphanage until age thirteen, runs away for the sixth time! Catholic orphanage—mistreated by the priests, frequently beaten.”
It went on and on. It was not happy reading.
“Joined army at sixteen, falsified records from orphanage. How’d he do that? I wonder where he was from thirteen to sixteen.”
She skipped around, lighting on the points that helped assemble the picture she needed to see.
“First IQ test. 170, Jesus!”
There were several pages of an interview with one of Vincent’s squad leaders in Viet Nam. It had been given by an Army psychiatrist, named Krickstein. She read it once through then again.
“Q: Would you say Sergeant Vankelis is antisocial?
A: Huh? What the fuck kinda question is that? Man lives alone in the jungle, weeks at a time, kills people with his hands, knives, wire, sharpened sticks, probably scares them to death; what’d you think he is, sport, a fucking conscientious objector?
Q: What I meant, Sergeant Major, was what does he do when he’s not in the jungle...dealing with the enemy? How is he with the men?
A: (Laughter) What’s the matter, shrink? What’s this dealing with the enemy shit? Got some kinda psychological block about the verb, to kill? That’s what we do in the Army. Especially that’s what guys in the LRP Teams do. Let me tell you how he is with the men, like a three hundred pound gorilla, he does what ever the fuck he wants. Yeah, yeah, I know, this is serious. To answer your question he doesn’t have any pals, he doesn’t associate with anyone. He’s a loner, but buddy, if he’s out in Indian country with his people, he looks after them. He brings back his dead and wounded. So he ain’t chummy. Don’t matter a’ fuck. Screw it, you assholes will write some dipshit, shrink-babble bullshit no matter what I say.
The bottom line? I wouldn’t go to Bangkok with him, you know, party hearty and all that, but when we’re in-country, he’s on my flank I feel good. He does his job and he don’t complain. I don’t need more, don’t want more than that from a soldier.”
One whole page was devoted to commendations and awards.
“DSC.” She looked it up in the dictionary. “Second highest award for valor beneath the Medal of Honor. Two Silver Stars, Bronze Star with ‘V’ device three times.” It went on and on. “Wounded on five separate occasions.”
She drank wine and ate a hunk of cheese never taking her eyes from the report. A sheaf of citations had been attached to the summary. They made fascinating reading. She’d read dozens written for her fellow officers, had four of her own, but these were something else. All of them involved continuous violent combat. They were full of the stuff one never hears about.
Teresa tried to connect what she read to what she had seen and heard from her apartment window. As she read on she felt the sadness and alienation.
“Christ! This is too gloomy. Orphan, beaten repeatedly by priests!” She piled the folders on the table, sat back and closed her eyes. She fell asleep without noticing the difference between her waking thoughts and her dreams.
In her dreams Vincent kept saying, good night, Teresa, in a gentle, loving voice. She reached out to him, to stop him and he disappeared.
She woke up four hours later. It was dark and her neck hurt. She stood and stretched. A startling thought came unbidden and she walked into her bedroom.
The window was still closed. She parted the curtain with anticipation. She knew it was wrong. She stared into the tree across the alley for a long time before she admitted he wasn’t there.
“Damn, this is really stupid, Teresa. You better do something.”
She went back to the living room and stared at the folders for a long time.
“He’s a total basket, the best thing I could do is report it and be done with it.”
She felt stupid saying something she knew she wasn’t going to do.
“To hell with it, I will go see him.”
Chapter 8
Vincent swam steadily for a half hour. He had a powerful, fluid stroke. He swam until his arms and shoulders began to ache. His mental machinery in sync, demons safely locked away for the moment. He spent the morning working around his property, digging, weeding, pruning, planting. There was nothing to consider, few memories to avoid. In pure strenuous activity there was solace. One could see the beginning and end of a thing without distraction or decision.
At noon he went up the hill to his redoubt, had a wash and prepared lunch. Vincent was an exceptional if simple cook. He seldom strayed from the basics. He prepared a potato and leek soup, an omelet to make a French chef smile and a dish of sliced fruit. The potato and leek soup made him remember and not all the memories were bad. In his forty one years there were three that he could bear to recall without starting a night of terrible dreams.
That period of his life started bad and ended in loss, but the in between had been more than bearable. Vincent went to the door that led to the cellar. Half of it had been converted to a wine cellar. He went directly to the back where twelve cases of wine were stacked along the wall. He read the label on the cases as he had so many times in the past. Etienne Joubert - Fine Wines.
He took a bottle from an open case and brushed away a fine coat of dust affectionately. He held the cool bottle to his cheek and smiled. It was a startling contrast to his usual dour mien.
“Cabernet Sauvignon, Bordeaux, or Claret as the English call it, is largely made primarily from a single class of grape,” he murmured.
He took it to the kitchen and opened it carefully. It had been three months since he’d opened the last bottle.
When he was thirteen a new evil entered his life. He knew of it from the other boys in the orphanage but had never encountered it.
Evening, after vespers, another boy a year younger found him in the library and told him Father Paul wanted to see him in his office immediately. He shivered with premonitory fear.
He knocked on the door, heart beating hard. Nothing good ever happened behind those doors.
“Come in.”
Vincent entered and stood in front of the priest’s desk full of hate and fear and hatred for the fear. How many times in his dreams had he demolished the tall priest with his bad breath and pale eyes.
“Sit down, Vincent, there,” he pointed to a chair next to his desk.
Vincent hesitated. He’d never sat in this office, not once in all the long years of his incarceration.
“It’s all right, Vincent, I won’t bite,” Father Paul smiled.
It was very confusing. It was like discovering that God is not God but in fact the devil. He sat, wary, ready for the cane or the back of Father Paul’s hand. These things he understood. These things he could endure.
Father Paul continued to smile and stare at him. It was horrible. “Well, Vincent, you’re growing up nicely. You’ve become quite a handsome boy. Big for your age aren’t you? What do you weigh?”
“One fifty, Father Paul.”
“My, my, you are growing up. I want to talk to you about what is called self-abuse. Do you know what I’m talking