Something About Ann

By Everett Prewitt

Something About Ann is a historical fiction novella with eleven short stories. The novella and the short stories follow a group of soldiers who faced a traumatic experience in Vietnam but remained close after returning to the States. Violence and turmoil continue to haunt the soldiers as they try to normalize their lives. Sometimes relying on the help of each other, and sometimes relying on the skills they’ve gained in combat, most prevail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Everett Prewitt
• Release date: Nov 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9780976192732

Book preview

Chapter

1

T

he moment he saw her at Gail’s party, Clarence Bankston experienced a burning sensation in his stomach—a visceral reaction to a past he’d rather forget. Six months removed from Vietnam, the last thing he needed was something or someone to remind him of the dreadfulness of that war. Yet there she stood, possibly from Vietnam’s Central Highlands because of her darker skin. At about 5’4", with shoulder-length black hair, and dressed in a blue silk tunic with white pants, she would have made a perfect model for Vogue magazine.

But as pleasing as she appeared, she was like a bad dream—the awful dream of a war that implants and hides in the back of the mind, then arouses at the slightest provocation. She represented the worst of his immediate past, as the horror of Viet Cong guerillas relentlessly stalking his lost and emaciated squad in Cambodia reemerged.

As Bankston made the rounds, talking to people he knew, he observed her for almost a half-hour, like a mongoose would scrutinize a king cobra. Who was she? Why was she at this party? Who was

she

with

?

Answers surfaced when she joined a gathering of women in the living room nearest to Bankston. He considered moving away, but Bankston’s curiosity outweighed his aversion.

Gail is my best manicurist. I don’t know what I’d do without her, she said in a husky but sing-song voice to the group gathered

around

her

.

She doesn’t look to be any older than me, he thought. But she has her own shop? He sniffed. Bankston stayed within listening distance, but physically removed, fearing if he got too close, he would go into some postwar-induced meltdown.

To his relief, most of her crowd moved to the family room to watch the Cleveland Browns play the New York Giants. To his chagrin, the rest, including her, drifted closer to him. As he picked up his drink to go to another area of the house, she turned and smiled.

Hi, she said, bowing slightly. I am Ann Minh Bourdain.

I’m...I’m Clarence, Clarence Bankston, he stuttered as words bumped into the emotions trying to swim upstream in his head. Eventually, he gained some composure and attempted to be the gentleman his parents would have approved of. "So, I understand you own a nail salon. How’s business

for

you

?"

She brightened. It is very good, now. I am truly lucky.

The other questions he wanted to ask got stuck in the lower part of his throat, so as the rest of the guests drifted into the family room, Bankston took a sip of his drink.

Gail’s husband said you were in Vietnam? She said it almost apologetically.

Yeah.

She seemed to read his mind, offering an answer to the question he hadn’t asked. "I left

in

1969

."

Bankston rubbed his brow. "I left in ’69, too." But not entirely.

Keep the conversation short and leave, he instructed himself. But the demure stranger with her hands folded and eyes cast downward, waiting, as if wanting to converse more, caused him to reconsider. If she’s in the United States, she would not have been the enemy. He gestured for her

to

sit

.

I took a boat to Laos, then the United States. I stayed in Manhattan with relatives until I made it to Cleveland. Ann glanced at Bankston, whose eyes were fixated on the far wall. She looked down again. "I can leave if you are not comfortable talking

to

me

."

He turned, shaking his head. It’s not you, the person, it’s what you represent. He tried to put into words what his senses were screaming. It’s the whole scene, you know? You go over there at eighteen, nineteen, just out of the house, should be at a party with your girlfriend, hanging out with your buddies, even in college...but instead you are in hell—people you are trying to help wanting to kill you, guys around you dying, and the stink of death? It stays with you, forever.

Silence sat between them like a third person. I’m sorry, she

finally

said

.

Bankston nodded.

They remained on the couch for several more minutes without speaking. Whoooo! Go Browns! someone cheered from the

family

room

.

Ann glanced toward the family room. "You want to watch

the

game

?"

Naw. Too crowded.

Ann played with the strap of her purse as she sat, still looking down. Nor was it easy for us, she said, speaking just above a whisper. "Having to fight the Japanese, the Chinese, and the French. They all treated us badly, especially the French—and then the Americans, South Vietnam’s allies...whole generations of families lost, dead. We lived with that same stink of death. We...I’m...I’m sorry. She forced a smile. Maybe we should have watched the

Browns

,

too

."

Bankston cleared his throat. Yeah. Probably.

Chapter

2

A

fter an intense Saturday morning workout at the Glenville YMCA, Bankston returned to his high-rise complex, glad the snow had begun to melt. In his haste to get to his apartment suite and take a long, hot shower, he almost missed the small envelope as he began to discard the usual ads and solicitations from his mailbox. The neatly written lettering and the return address on St. Clair Avenue provided no clue as to the sender. Curious, he opened it while entering the elevator.

---

January

12

,

1970

Dear Mr. Bankston,

I hope it is okay to write you and wish that you not feel badly toward Gail for giving me your address. I wanted to say that it was a pleasure meeting you, and I am sorry if I caused you any stress because of our conversation. I can tell you are a very nice person.

Ann Minh Bourdain

---

Clarence scratched his jaw as he reread the letter. Was the return address her shop? The next day, he found a pen and paper to reply.

---

Dear Mrs. Bourdain,

Thank you for your kind words. I am okay. I hope you are, too. I rarely discuss the war. I’m surprised I discussed it with you. I apologize if I was abrupt. I will continue to work on my manners.

Clarence Bankston

---

When Clarence received a second letter, he read it in the

mail

room

.

---

January

19

,

1970

Dear Mr. Bankston,

I am glad you are okay, and I understood your discomfort. Buddha says: Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment. I’ve found that to be very helpful. I hope you

do

,

too

.

Ann

---

D

ear

Ann

,

Thank you for the quote. It was very helpful. It is so nice that you’ve thought of me. I

appreciate

it

.

Clarence

---

Two weeks later, Clarence received another letter:

---

February

4

,

1970

Dear Clarence.

I am glad. I hope very much to see you again

one

day

.

With Warmth,

Ann

---

Bankston sat quietly after reading, before refolding the letter and placing it with the others in his nightstand drawer.

A month passed before Bankston saw Ann walking along Euclid Avenue. It surprised him to see her accompanied by a six-foot plus, sandy-haired man in his late twenties or early thirties who could have been a linebacker for the Cleveland Browns. They appeared odd walking together, the big white guy and the darker, smaller, Vietnamese woman. Bankston could tell by the man’s tone of voice and hand movements, they were either starting or finishing an argument.

Hi, Bankston said to her as they approached each other.

The two stopped. Ann, looking down, said, Oh, um. H-hi, while rubbing the back of

her

neck

.

Was her unease a result of being surprised at seeing him or because of the argument the two appeared to be having?

This is my husband, John Bourdain.

Clarence. Clarence Bankston, Bankston said extending

his

hand

.

Bourdain grasped Bankston’s hand briefly and nodded as he continued walking, guiding his wife by her elbow. Bankston shrugged as he watched them turn down 9th Street.

So, she’s married. He should have known, with a name like Bourdain. Seeing Ann again made him recall their first conversation. The negative feelings he’d experienced when they first met began to dissipate after Gail’s party. But after the letters, they’d disappeared. Bankston thought further about their conversation at Gail’s and conceded Ann was right. Anyone involved in war is affected. You might end up living a normal life, but you will be changed by it. Her writing him helped, though. She helped because she understood.

What else kept Bankston on top of the mental trash pile he shared with his fellow Vietnam veterans was a job he secured a month after being discharged. At the Hough Area Development Corporation, Bankston helped write grant proposals. Almost every proposal was funded. Because of his successes, his boss considered Bankston an up and comer.

Bankston’s office was in the Call & Post building on East 105th Street. Bankston had great colleagues, dated no one regularly, but lived a generally good life. Occasionally something would trigger memories from the past, but they came less often. Bankston was grateful but wary, which was why he remained close to his Army brothers: Casper, Holland, and the others. They were all dealing with the war in their own way, but it helped that they stayed in touch.

Bankston and Casper became even closer because of proximity. They lived within a few blocks of each other. Both also shared a mutual concern for Holland, whom they looked after like a little brother because of his stature, but more importantly because of his bout with drugs.

Ann crossed Bankston's mind more than a few times, and after seeing her and her husband downtown, he wondered how she was coping. Then, on a sunny day in April, having delivered a proposal to the Cleveland Foundation, he saw her again, alone this time, leaving the Cleveland Trust Bank on Euclid

Avenue

. "

Ann

?"

Clarence.

Ann wore a white pantsuit and clutched a white leather purse. Bankston thought he saw a hint of a smile as she dipped her head. "How

are

you

?"

Bankston returned the bow. "I'm doing well. How

about

you

?"

I am fine. It is very nice to see you, again.

Likewise.

"Do you work

around

here

?"

No. Clarence waved at the office building across the street. "I just finished a delivery, and now I’m going to lunch. I’m not familiar with downtown restaurants. Where’s a good place

to

eat

?"

"You like

corned

beef

?"

"Yes.

I

do

."

I’m going to Otto Moser’s on 4th Street. Are you interested?

The invitation surprised him. Still cautious, but inquisitive, he responded, "Sure. So, you eat

corned

beef

?"

Yes. I find the taste...interesting.

In the restaurant, Bankston glanced around, wondering if anyone found it curious a black guy and a Vietnamese woman were having lunch together. He grunted. That would be their problem.

Long day today? Ann asked.

"No. It’s Friday. I try to finish my critical tasks early if I

can

.

You

?"

Not really. Actually, I’m considering taking the rest of the day off, she answered.

"Good

for

you

."

What about you, Clarence? she asked as she nibbled on one of Moser’s oversized pickles.

I’ve got a few odd jobs to complete.

"

Important

jobs

?"

No. Not too. Why? Bankston asked.

I’d like to show you something.

What?

Her smile seemed to hold a hundred secrets. "I can’t tell you. I need to show you. It might be helpful to you, as it’s been

to

me

."

Okay. I’ll bite, Bankston said as he finished his sandwich.

She laughed—a girlish, but throaty laugh that sounded like it should have come from two different people. Good. If you don’t mind, I will drive?

The trip was short and familiar. As a boy, Bankston’s family would come to Gordon Park whenever they visited their cousins in Cleveland. The ragged shores, the gravel paths, the bridges, the wooded groves, the huge rocks, the shorebirds, and the trees were much like he remembered.

Bankston thought he knew the place well, but Ann led him to an area among a cluster of trees encircling a space containing a small gray-and-white stone bench hidden from the rest of

the

park

.

This is beautiful, he marveled.

Ann smiled at him. "I visit here to become peaceful. I thought you might like to,

as

well

."

She was right. It did help. As Bankston listened to the faint rustle of the leaves coupled with the trilling of the soaring birds and the water lapping the shore, he leaned against the backrest and closed

his

eyes

.

It is better if you inhale and then exhale, slowly.

Yes, he whispered as he breathed in rhythm

with

her

.

They sat for a while without speaking. I've thought of you often, Ann finally said, as a soft breeze rippled the water.

He turned to

her

. "

Oh

?"

"I thought about you, and I thought about here. I am glad

you

came

."

Bankston nodded. Grateful, but unsure how to express it, they lapsed into another long silence.

Over an hour passed before she glimpsed at her watch. I need to go now. Are you ready?

"If

we

must

."

Bankston took a deep breath and exhaled before standing. He glanced back at the bench and the water as they made their way to the car. The sense of tranquility he felt was foreign

to

him

.

The sun smiled. Bankston smiled. He stopped to pick up a smooth rock. Ann had walked a few steps in front before stopping, turning, and waiting. He looked up as rays of light penetrating the leaves bathed her in its golden shafts. She appeared almost ethereal.

They were halfway to the car when Bankston heard the faint voice from another car the two had passed.

Gook.

Ann pivoted toward the voice. Bankston grabbed her arm, surprised to feel the tension in her body as it coiled. He took Ann’s hand in his, prodding her to continue to walk, but it didn’t solve the problem.

A car door slammed. I said hey, Gook, bitch. What you doin’ in America? I thought we killed all y’all.

C’mon Wilford. Leave them people alone, a thin blonde woman called from

the

car

.

Bankston’s jaws clenched as he let go of Ann’s arm, motioning her to stay, before turning toward the heavyset man with a wild growth of beard and mustache. "You need to apologize to the

lady

,

dude

."

I ain’t apologizin’ for shit. They tried to kill us over there in case you ain’t aware.

I am aware. I was there.

What the f..You marry that Gook bitch?

What! Bankston charged toward the guy, his fists balled.

The man’s eyes widened, and he almost tripped backing up, before jumping into his Chevy and taking off, spraying gravel along

the

way

.

Ann and Bankston continued to her car where they sat in silence. He stared at the spot where the Chevy had been parked. "

You

okay

?"

She sighed. "Yes.

Are

you

?"

Bankston glanced at the person sitting next to him, trying to reconcile the image of her willing to confront the man in the car with his memory of the quiet, reserved lady at the party. He took a deep breath, to rid himself of the hostility that had festered during the previous few minutes.

Thank you, she finally said as she leaned over and touched his arm, breaking his thoughts. "Nobody’s ever stood up for me

like

that

."

Her low, lilting voice, the softness of her hand, and the lavender smell that filled the car revived a sense of tranquility he’d lost in the confrontation and invoked a strange feeling of connectedness.

Ann caressed Bankston’s hand then turned to hug him. Her embrace caused a stirring in his lower stomach, summoning an attraction he first felt but dismissed while they had sat on the bench.

He pulled her even closer, kissing her cheek before she pulled back. "I am married,

you

know

?"

He nodded once. Their eyes locked for a second as she seemed to probe his innermost thoughts; then their lips met for the lightest of kisses. She remained leaning toward him, mouth parted as their lips touched again, this time less cautious as her hands clutched his shoulder.

They both jumped at the soft knock on the window, turning to see a blue uniform with gold buttons and a protruding stomach. Ann rolled down her window. "Sorry, folks. You’ll need to move on

with

that

."

Ann, her face reddened and flustered, nodded as she rolled up the window and started the car. They drove out of the lot, neither saying a word until she entered the freeway.

Where was he when we needed him? Bankston said under his breath.

It started as a snicker before growing to a muffled laugh as she tried to contain herself. What a day, she sighed.

Chapter

3

F

or weeks after the incident, Ann and Bankston would periodically meet for lunch, go to Gordon Park, sit, and hold hands. Although he thought of taking their relationship further, Bankston reminded himself she was married. Holding hands was probably as far she would go anyway.

On one of their Gordon Park days, though, she hit him with two revelations.

"My

husband

,

John

?"

Yeah?

Ann shook

her

head

.

What? he asked, fearing she was trying to find a way to tell him their meetings at the park

were

over

.

We’re having problems.

Bankston perked up. What kind of problems?

He’s an alcoholic. I married a police officer who’s an alcoholic, she said. I tried to talk to him about his drinking, and he threw the bottle at me. Said if I didn’t like it to get the hell out of his house.

He’s a police officer?

Yes.

"What did

you

do

?"

"

I

left

."