Beehive Read online

  “Dad,” Elizabeth cautioned.

  “He shouldn’t yell at you.”

  “Ron’s got surgery now. Go easy.”

  Her father looked chastised and stood up. “I’m sorry. We’re all under a lot of stress. I haven’t slept for two weeks.” I thought I saw Noah smile from his position by the door. He put out his hand again. “Good luck.”

  I shook left hand to right, like before. Elizabeth joined us, putting an arm over each of our shoulders. She kissed her father’s cheek and then mine. “Good luck,” she told me. “I’ll be here after you get out of surgery.”

  I felt my knees begin to quaver, muscles pushed past endurance. I had wanted to walk down to surgery, but neither the aides nor my legs would let me. They helped me on to the gurney and rolled me away. It was late Sunday afternoon when I left Elizabeth and her father standing side by side, surrounded by aides and guards and nurses. The sun was just rising Monday before I was conscious again.

  79.

  I don’t know if you’ve ever had surgery, but I’m amazed that so many people have. You feel like Lazarus as you come out of the ether or whatever they feed you to keep you temporarily unaware of the damage the surgeons inflict. When I eased into wakefulness everything was black-and-white, like my dreams; I couldn’t will myself to move, like sleep. But in dreams you don’t have peripheral vision, and in sleep the impotent muscles aren’t in your bladder. The liquids the doctors fed me in the operating room now wanted out, but my head couldn’t find the switch to make it happen. I began to cry, tears streaming hot and sweet, not salty. A nurse came in then — it was a single room and I think she was assigned to very few patients — and said something to me I could not hear.

  “I wanna pee,” I rasped. She took a dull red pitcher from the table beside me, the only thing with color I could see, and slid it under the covers. Her hand laid me gently over the rim, and we just waited for something to happen. It wouldn’t. I cried more, could not speak. She said something more to me I couldn’t hear but somehow understood: Did I want a shot for pain? I nodded, I think. She rolled me over like a balloon and pricked me. I disappeared until full day.

  80.

  I woke because of my bladder. The nurse was there before I could do anything. She motored the bed up and arranged the pitcher. Whether it was the angle or my returned control I don’t know, but it felt like the liquid inside me contained whatever drugged me, and as it streamed out I became more alert. Color returned to the room. I could see it was just me and the nurse.

  “Elizabeth?”

  “Your friend?” The nurse had a stiff accent I took for Israeli. “She left word she had meetings all morning at the Embassy. She asked me to call when you were awake.”

  “She said she’d be here.” Tears came again, I couldn’t stop them.

  “She will be soon, I promise.”

  I took a pain pill with breakfast, and then the doctor who operated came in. It was the first time I had met him, except for a brief hello as the staff prepped me for his knife.

  He was short and square-faced, with rectangular glasses that sharpened the corners of his head. He looked barely ten years older than me and spoke with a Midwest twang I recognized as Western Ohio.

  “So how are you feeling this morning?”

  “Worse than I did when I came in here.”

  “Temporary, I can assure you. In a couple of weeks you’ll be feeling much better. Any pain in the ear?”

  “It’s hard to tell.”

  “The pills will make you groggy, but keep taking them until the pain stops. That’ll be about a week.”

  “What does it look like in there?”

  “Small and red.” He smiled, and his glasses rode up on his cheeks. “You had some permanent damage to the inner ear. All we can do now is wait and see how much good the surgery will do you.”

  “Will I get my hearing back?”

  “Not all of it, but if I’m as good as people tell me, you’ll get back fifty percent, maybe more. A hearing aid can give you the rest. It looks to me you won’t hear sounds in the lower registers no matter what, how low I can’t say. That’s the part of your ear that took the most damage. Gunshot?”

  “Right next to my ear. Dirt kicked up from the bullet.”

  “Must have been keeping your ear pretty close to the ground. You might want to see this.”

  He laid a International Herald-Tribune on the bed table. The front page had that shot of me and Elizabeth captioned, “Lovers reunited after a daring escape.” The headline read “HEROIC RESCUE IN BEIRUT,” and then under that in small type, “Millionaire’s Daughter Unharmed.”

  At the bottom of the column, a story in a box was headlined, “AMERICAN GENERAL ALSO RELEASED,” and then, “Details of Capture Uncertain.”

  “I never repaired a hero’s wounds before,” the doctor said. “I feel honored.”

  I stared at the stark white bandage in the photo, the tired smile, the injured eyes. “What about my face?” I asked. “What about my ear?”

  “I didn’t do much in the way of plastic surgery. I was more concerned with the function of your ear than its looks.”

  “How bad does it look, really?”

  “Even with surgery there’ll be scars. Not on your face so much as your ear. It’s always going to look a little bit like a dog’s chew-toy. Cartilage just doesn’t heal the way soft tissue does.” I raised my right hand. “Neither do fingers. We cleaned up the wound for you, sewed it over so it will end up smooth, but the tip was gone and there was really nothing we could do.”

  I began to fade out again. I felt like a cripple, or like my father, hanging onto his bottle-crutch even though it only protected him from himself.

  “Just think of your scars as medals for heroism. No one can take them away from you, no matter what. You earned them, and you’ll keep them.”

  “Yeah,” I drawled, nodding out. “But what will they cost me?”

  81.

  Elizabeth did show up, sitting there when I came to that afternoon. She looked wonderful, hair bouncing with independent life, eyes flashing concern. She was reading a file of some kind, as near as I could see. I didn’t mind interrupting her. “Hi, Elizabeth.”

  She held up a finger to me. Patience; she must be in the middle of a paragraph. She folded the file and put it on the seat next to her.

  “How are you feeling?” She came and perched on the bed. I wanted to hold her hand, but mine was too sore. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here earlier, but I needed to debrief with the General.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Came in last night.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Tired, but fine. Like me.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “A little bit. Are you up for it?”

  “As much as you can expect.”

  “OK. But stop me if you get tired or don’t understand, OK?” I nodded, but was certain I wouldn’t understand and couldn’t be made to. “The General went into negotiations with Syria, I can’t tell you what for. They were supposed to be secret. Secrecy was Syria’s request; they didn’t want to risk their ties to the Soviet Union.”

  “Russia? How did Russia get in on it?”

  “They didn’t. They’re not. I’m just explaining the secrecy. Having the General ‘kidnapped’ covered his disappearance.”

  “OK. What about our capturing the hash?”

  “What about it?”

  “Was that real?”

  “Certainly. It showed what we could do, if we had a mind to. Brings out the interest in negotiations.”

  “So why did you have to go to Lebanon?”

  “Because, though the press didn’t know what was going on, the leaders of the other interests in Lebanon did. At least, they knew that there were negotiations, not what they were for. So they began to threate
n all-out war, in private meetings, unless we cut them in. I went to help in the negotiations with these other groups, but one of the militias decided that having a hostage put them in a better position than being told second-hand what other people were negotiating for. I got to be the hostage.”

  “They gave you away?”

  “Who?”

  “Us. The Army. Harbison.”

  “The Colonel? What does he have to do with anything?”

  “Anyone, then. Were you set up? Why you?”

  “No. We knew they might take someone. But then, that’s always a possibility in Beirut.”

  “What about Brian?”

  “Brian Bowman? He’s nothing. His family controls a huge amount of trade in Lebanon, plate glass, weapons, tires, anything that moves fast in a war zone. We weren’t in Lebanon for the money, I can tell you that. We had nothing to do with the Bowmans.”

  “So I really did free you?”

  “Absolutely.” She kissed me now, and I thought I might fly off again. “I haven’t thanked you yet.”

  “I’d do it again.”

  “You will not.” She said it with more vehemence than play.

  “Well, don’t get taken hostage again.”

  “I don’t think I’ll get the chance.”

  “Did something happen? Something go wrong?”

  “The big deal didn’t happen.”

  “With the General?”

  “Uh-huh. Once the Syrians got the news that I was free, they shut down talks. I think they saw that Lebanon has too many factions, the place is too unstable to control. Of course, the publicity scared them off. News meant no more secret negotiations. Syria needed secrecy, and we couldn’t give them that any more.”

  “Is this going to cause you problems?”

  “Me? Personally? No. Lebanon? Probably. Who can say?”

  “I hope it causes them big problems. It’s a stinking place. I hope I never hear about it again.”

  “I don’t think we’ll be so lucky.”

  “When do we go home?”

  “Not tomorrow. Maybe the next day, maybe the day after. We’re just waiting for you to stabilize. The doctor said it should be all right to fly, as long as we keep the cabin pressure up. Daddy’s other plane can make the trip in one shot. He took the one you flew over on back already.”

  “So it will be just us?”

  “Yes, just us. And the General.”

  82.

  Except that I was recovering in an Israeli hospital, the next few days went on like days at home. Elizabeth worked, and we visited for a couple of hours each day. I wanted to see her more, of course, but I always wanted to see her more. I slept and made my slow climb out of the chasm of anaesthesia. By the time I was fit enough to fly, I no longer felt like I had died and returned. My ear and finger still hurt like hell, and the pain medication doped me more stupid than usual, but at least I didn’t feel numb. I don’t think I’ll ever look at death as an attractive respite again, not if it feels anything like that.

  Though I felt like I could walk easily enough, medical attendants wheeled me out of the hospital and from the car to the plane. The surrounding soldiers kept reporters at bay, I noticed. On the plane I asked Elizabeth, “What about the reporters?”

  “We’ve been keeping them away from you. So you could recover.”

  “They must be printing something. They sure haven’t forgotten about it.”

  “We gave them an official version; they still want to talk to you. I want you to meet the General.”

  He came on board with a coterie of uniformed eagles, men my age or so, but with eyes that seemed to constantly scour the landscape for food. Parabolas constructed the General’s face: a swoop of chin and jowl, a permanent frown for his lips, a sad droop to his eyes. He came right to me, and I struggled to stand. I thought he might expect a salute.

  “Take it easy, son,” he said to me. “Nobody has the right to expect anything more of you for a time to come.”

  Elizabeth said, “General, I’d like you to meet Ron Stutzer. Ron, General Watkins.”

  “An honor,” I said. I meant it; I had never met a general before. What surprised me most was that he had big, flat eyes. I expected narrow, glinting ones.

  “The honor’s mine, son.” He sat beside me. “In my business, we deal with heroes as a matter of course, but most of the heroism I’ve seen comes from people who simply don’t run away when any common-sense fool would kick dust. To actually go out into danger, that’s bravery. Not common sense, of course, but, dammit Ron, it’s bravery.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He didn’t offer his first name.

  “But I suppose any young man worth his salt would pursue a prize like Elizabeth.” He beamed at her like a horse trader at a prize colt. “She’s tremendous, I couldn’t do what I do without her.”

  “It’s easier to be brave when you know what you’re after.”

  “I hope we’re not just talking hormones here,” the General said. “A strapper like yourself doesn’t have to go to Lebanon for that.”

  Elizabeth jumped in. “Ron treats me like a queen.”

  “A queen bee, eh?” he laughed. “I’m going to order all my men to study them now. Can we train bees, maybe get them to help us out again?”

  “I don’t think so. You can only make it easier or harder for them to do what they’re going to do anyway.”

  “Kind of like terrorism, isn’t it?” he replied. “Every now and again you can wrench them, like you did, but mostly you can only make it harder or easier for them.” He looked at Elizabeth. “Probably going to be easy for them for a time to come, eh, Elizabeth?”

  “That’s not Ron’s fault, General.”

  “No, of course not, of course not. Well, I’m going to go check in with my pilot and then sack out.”

  He got up and walked to the back of the plane. I said, “The cockpit’s up there, sir.”

  He winked at me. “Maybe, but the bathroom’s not.”

  I could feel the grind of the jets warming up. I swallowed a pill I hoped would make me sleep the rest of the trip.

  83.

  The Washington airport shuddered with reporters. Even the police and Army folk couldn’t keep them entirely at bay. How would the reporters respond if the boys in uniform actually unstrapped their guns and showed off that black hole at the end? I imagine they would have found another story more interesting.

  I asked the soldier pushing my chair to stop just before we got out of the terminal. I saw a limousine waiting curbside. It was black, and I didn’t want to get in it before I had a chance to say something. I stood, a lot easier from the high seat of the wheelchair than from the low ones on Elizabeth’s father’s plane.

  Flashes and screams rose and then settled. Microphones appeared in front of my face from ten feet away, from nowhere. Elizabeth closed in to my side and I looked down into her worried eyes. That was another picture of us that ran in papers: concerned looks for her injured hero.

  “What really happened in Beirut?” I heard a reporter shout. The others must have too, because the whole lot of them quieted down.

  I said, “I got lucky.”

  Questions exploded again, but this time I quieted them with my hands. “Beirut is a horrible and difficult place. What we went through was horrible and difficult. We both need rest and quiet. Can you people back off for a couple of days? I promise to tell the whole thing when we’re feeling better. Is that a deal?”

  A wide-mouthed woman, holding a microphone with a TV station insignia boxed around it, screeched, “Isn’t this some kind of cover-up?”

  “The only covers I want right now are on my bed. Please leave me alone. You’ll know when I’m willing to talk.”

  Elizabeth took my arm, and I walked with her out to the car. The General got into the car with us, and first thing he pic
ked up the phone. Once we slipped off into traffic, Elizabeth leaned against me and said, “You handled that well.”

  “I’m a regular hero. Will it work?”

  “Work?”

  “Will it keep them away for a little while?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll get the word out that people who bother you won’t be invited to the press conference later.”

  The General smashed down the phone and creased a frown deeper into his flesh. He said to Elizabeth, “The news isn’t good.”

  “What?” They knew the topic without saying.

  “Iran has offered a thousand men in support of LAF.”

  “Direct support?” The General nodded. “What about Beka’a?”

  “Pitched battle.”

  “Can you tell me what’s going on?” I asked Elizabeth. She begged permission. The General tossed his hands in acquiescence.

  “The Lebanese nationalist movement has picked up steam. People like the ones who kidnapped me used to support Lebanon as a country only if they were in charge. Now they seem willing to support Lebanon first.”

  “Isn’t that good? It sounds good, like they’ll have a country again.”

  “No, it’s not good,” she told me. “They want an Islamic Lebanon, run like Iran. But they won’t get it, and the fighting will just continue.”

  “Bloodier,” said the General. “No one will be in charge. I think we’re even going to have to pull our people out, just throw the whole country to the wolves.”

  “What about the Christians?” I was thinking about Brian. “Will they be all right?” But neither the General nor Elizabeth answered for a while.

  “They’ll be all right,” Elizabeth then said, “if they don’t mind dying.”

  84.

  Elizabeth installed me in the apartment and then went with the General to the Pentagon to work out the latest crisis. I could tell from the silence and the restraint that somehow my releasing Elizabeth had screwed up some plan for Lebanon our government would have preferred. Thinking about this kind of scheming always made me tired; with me tired already, this exhausted me. The news turned Elizabeth hyper. She had more energy after the limo phone call than she’d had any time since I’d last seen her at home. And how long ago was that?