Letter to My Daughter: A Novel - By George Bishop Page 0,39

mistake of spilling my heart out to my roommate, Melissa. It was during one of those late-night orgies of conversational intimacy that an all-girls’ school encourages, and I said much more than I should have. She swore not to tell anyone about me and Chip, but by the week’s end I began to notice a subtle but distinct change in those around me. I heard whispers behind my back, and underclassmen stared at me oddly in the bathroom. I don’t think I was imagining these things, not entirely; someone even took the trouble to scratch “J = Jenkins = Jezebel” on the front of my locker. My guilty conscience only fueled my suspicions, until, walking down the corridor, I felt as if there was a red letter J emblazoned on the front of my uniform. Look, this letter announced to all who passed, here is the Jezebel Laura Jenkins from Zachary who cheated on her boyfriend in Vietnam by committing obscene acts with her prom date in his car. I hugged my books to my chest and tried to keep my head up high like Hester Prynne, but oh, it was hard. Instead, I withdrew more from the society of the school, and the more I withdrew, the more I felt ostracized, until I was that fifteen-year-old transfer student again, sobbing into her pillow at night. What should have been my happiest, brightest year was already turning into a disaster. This, I thought, only proved how conditional my standing was at the school. As easily as my classmates’ favor had been granted to me, it could as easily be snatched away. They would never let me forget that I was only an ill-bred farm girl who never really belonged among the Baton Rouge debutantes at SHA. Once a charity case …

Sister Mary Margaret noticed my unhappiness. The good nun tried to speak to me once or twice in the library, but there was no way I could begin to unpack the whole sordid story for her, and so I didn’t even try.

“It’s nothing, Sister,” I told her.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well … if you ever need to talk.” She nodded significantly toward the bookshelves. “Have you seen? Elizabeth Barrett Browning?” Sister M&M was still acting as a secret letter carrier for Tim and me. Every week or two, a new one would faithfully arrive, transported from the jungles of Vietnam by some in credible series of conveyance (army jeep—helicopter—carrier plane—truck—mailman—Sister M&M) to miraculously appear tucked between the yellowing pages of a neglected book here in our small library at SHA. I mustered a smile. “I will. Thank you. Thank you, Sister.”

Tim’s letters, though, when they arrived, brought me little comfort that semester. The poor boy was still mired in regret over the bombing raid he’d called down months ago on that Vietnamese village.

He’d tried everything to forget, he wrote. “I’d be ashamed to tell you what all I’ve tried. But I guess it’s no more than what most boys over here do.” Nothing helped. Night after night, it didn’t matter what bar or hovel he was in, he’d find himself hiking again into that wasted village. The smoke pluming above the palms, his buddy’s water canteen clicking against his ammo belt. And then—there was nothing to stop it from coming back—the high, agonized wail as they approached the first house, followed by the gut-wrenching smell of burning flesh. “You understand I had no choice in this,” he repeated. “I was just doing my job.” He seemed to be sinking into a depression far worse than mine. And then midsemester, something happened that brought him even deeper.

One day after watch duty he was lounging in his hut when he saw a spider crawling up the wall. It was a giant hairy red and black thing, almost the size of his hand. At the camp they called them jumping spiders, or cave spiders, or just “big hairy gook spiders.”

He picked up his pistol from the side of the bed, aimed, and shot the thing, blasting a nice hole in the corner of his hut. The cleaning boy, a Vietnamese kid they called Bo, came running, saw what was left of the spider, and freaked out. When the boy turned to Tim, the expression on his face was like he was seeing a ghost. “What? What is it?” Tim asked. Bo wouldn’t answer, only began rapidly mumbling prayers to himself. Tim grabbed his arm, but the kid jerked free and ran out of the