La Chute: The Point of the Triangle

By Terrence E. Dunn

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 14, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462813339

Terrence E. Dunn

Terrence E. Dunn lives in Santa Monica, CA. La Chute is the second novel in his Los Angeles Trilogy.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Edward Dolan Jr. was driving along in thick traffic, trying to pay attention to the Sierra Nevada beer truck that was directly in front of him, and to the Sparkletts Water truck that was to his left, while the entire time he was thinking about short, thick poles of bamboo that had been sharpened at their ends and were poking up from the ground. He was thinking about those poles sitting down at the bottom of a hole dug about six feet deep. A hole that was covered with palm tree branches, thin green branches that had been loosely thrown over the hole so that someone might not notice them as they walked along in the jungle. Someone might not even think that the cracking of the branches was anything out of the ordinary. Someone might only hear the cracking and then feel the sudden increase in gravity.

Edward had been heading down Venice Boulevard in his black, convertible VW Rabbit. With the top down on his car, he could feel the dry Santa Ana air swirl up and under his shirt and up near the back of his starched, white collar. Traffic slowed him down as he approached the underpass of the 405. That’s when he noticed the girl.

She was a teenager, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and Hispanic. Her arms were dark and chubby, and her hair was short, thick, jet black, and blowing across her face. She wore a pair of baggy blue shorts and a long beige t-shirt. Her arms, as short and thick as they were, wrapped completely around a boy.

At first, Edward thought the girl was just hugging him, as if she were about to kiss him. He was about the same age as the girl, also Hispanic, and had very short, brown hair. He wore an oversized, white t-shirt and very baggy khaki pants. Edward noticed the pants more than anything; they had so many bags and folds in them, and they made the boy seem so skinny.

Edward downshifted his car and pulled up behind a small, orange Fiat in the far right lane nearest to the sidewalk, the lane which lead to the freeway entrance on the other side of the underpass. The boy and girl were about twenty feet ahead of him, right at the edge of the sidewalk, inches from the street.

Those pants look too big and too uncomfortable, Edward thought to himself. But what did he know of fashion? What did he know of anything? That’s when he saw the other kids. There was a whole group of them, maybe a half dozen or so, all about the same age, all about the same dress, all about ten feet behind the couple, and a bit closer to Edward, and all of them moving and shouting.

Yet that one boy, the one that the girl was hugging, was so still. His arms were held straight down at this sides. He wasn’t budging, and he seemed to not even notice the girl. Edward couldn’t figure out the reason, and he wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to.

Suddenly, as Edward moved slowly forward in traffic, he saw the girl raise both of her arms into the air and go running away from the boy—somewhat towards Edward and somewhat towards the other kids—as the boy just stood there, frozen in the same stance.

Then the rest of the gang split. They moved so fast, it happened so quickly, Edward barely had time to notice what they were running from, what they were practically diving for cover from. But it was there, right in front of him, and right in front of the frozen boy. About thirty feet up the sidewalk, near the far side of the underpass, having just passed from the harsh sunlight into the shadows, there was another gang of boys heading towards Edward, or at least heading towards the boy.

Honestly, Edward had no idea what the other gang of boys looked like, because he only saw the leader, the boy in front of the pack. He had short, light brown hair and white, slightly sunburnt skin. He had on faded blue jeans, brown, thick-soled work boots,and a red and white flannel shirt that was opened to his stomach and blowing in the wind, showing off a chest that was layered in muscles. It was evident to Edward that a meeting was about to take place, and that it might end up being a bit too close.

Edward was nervous; he felt his knees start to jitter as he eased the clutch back and pushed down slowly on the gas peddle. He noticed that the orange Fiat had moved forward and that he could speed up and out of the oncoming mess and onto the freeway.

But before Edward got even with the boy, before he got side by side with him and looked over and saw the boy’s skinny face, the dark peach fuzz above his thin lips, and the few red acne marks on his forehead, Edward saw the scar that looked like a C on the left side of the boy’s ultra-short, dark head of hair. The boy turned and showed Edward his unusual bright blue eyes. That was when Edward looked down at the boy’s left arm and saw in his hand, right there a mere few feet from Edward, held tight in the boy’s small left hand, hidden in the big bags and folds of those khaki pants, right there Edward saw a big, dark gun.

Later, when he tried to put back together the pieces of what had happened, he wanted to think that he froze and that the world completely stopped. But he didn’t and the world didn’t. There was traffic to Edward’s left, there were cars on the freeway above him, there were people moving all around him. Suddenly he heard it all: the cars whizzing past and above, the screams of the young girls and boys, the wind blowing, the white boy’s boots as they thumped across the sidewalk, and his own heart making contact with itself. Edward realized that it was all real; it wasn’t TV, it wasn’t a game. It was a gun, and it could shoot.

That was when Edward’s foot slipped, and he let go of the clutch. His VW Rabbit squealed its tires and jumped forward. The Hispanic boy turned to his left to see what was happening, and raised his left arm from the side of his pants, inadvertently putting the gun right in the path of Edward’s windshield. The VW continued its forward lunging, and the windshield of the car collided with the outstretched hand. The gun was knocked from the boy’s hand and went floating, end over end, up into the air.

That’s when Edward Dolan Jr. thought about Carrie, his dead friend from fifth grade. A girl he’d once known, and saw die.

And that’s when the gun continued to float until it landed with a thump in the back of Edward’s car.

Chapter 2

Eddy heard the thump. He looked down at his fifth grade English book, which was lying face open on the floor near his feet. He glanced at his pencil, a yellow number two that needed sharpening and was still resting in the small fingers of his right hand. He looked up at the blackboard, which was green at his school, and read the day’s date one more time: January 31st, 1968. He reread the assignment that had been written below it in the same large white letters: Essay On The Importance Of History.

Eddy stared over to his left, outside the windows of his classroom, and saw four palm trees with a dozen or so coconuts clinging to the roots of their branches. He looked farther and saw a small green mountain a few miles away, its sharp peak jutting up into a low lying cloud. Even farther was the mountain range that cut their small Hawaiian island in half.

He reached down to the floor and picked his English book up and made a mental note to himself to pay attention to what he was doing with his hands. He checked the assignment on the blackboard once again and started daydreaming about surfing—about the surf he’d tried to catch, or that maybe he might catch in the future—when Misses Dubrow, his fifth grade teacher, came back into the classroom and interrupted the writing period to tell the entire class that in a few moments there would be an announcement on the intercom.

Eddy’s feet were itching; he’d cut them on some rocks while trying to surf a few days before. He slipped off his rubber flip-flops, scratched one foot with the other, and waited for the announcement.

It’s always the same thing, he thought. Somebody’s dad has been killed. Some dad’s now an MIA, maybe a POW.

He looked around the classroom to see who was missing, and a few were. A girl named Holly something or another and another small, skinny kid named Neal Hinkle. At least Eddy thought his name was Hinkle. Then he spotted Joey Ramirez’s empty desk.

Joey was a kid from his neighborhood. Eddy knew him, he lived right around the corner from him, but they weren’t what Eddy’d call best friends.

Eddy dropped his pencil to his desk and stared up at the big, white school clock on the wall and watched how it ticked slowly and accurately. He looked down from the wall, past the green blackboard, as Misses Dubrow, who was nice, yet a little too neat and picky, fidgeted with the objects on her desk, trying desperately to make the organization even more organized.

She moved her white ceramic pencil holder over to the left a little, just a tad past her black stapler and just a scootch below her tan tape dispenser. Eddy glanced back up at the green of the chalk-covered blackboard and remembered the pictures that his dad had sent him from Vietnam. All of them were very green and lush.

In one of them his dad was standing next to a small, white, half blown-away wall; Eddy thought it was made of cement. Behind his dad there were a number of trees and palm leaves covered in dew and rain. Eddy thought his dad appeared thin and slightly younger, but his eyes looked as though he were squinting, almost telling Eddy of some sort of pain, and his face seemed older.

All of a sudden, Eddy was drawn back into reality by their principal, Mister Ho, starting the announcement over the intercom. Then, out of the corner of his right eye, Eddy caught someone passing in the hallway. He glanced over and saw his sister, Kathleen, hurrying by.

A lump jumped to Eddy’s throat. He felt his body drain itself of blood. He gulped down the sweat and bile that had gotten stuck in the back of his mouth.

His heart started beating; he heard it actually beat. The sound pounded in his ears, drowning out everything.

He looked up to the white surface of the school clock. He watched as the seconds went by in slow motion. Mister Ho was talking, Eddy could hear him somewhere in the background, but he couldn’t focus.

Suddenly tears started forming in his eyes. He couldn’t hold them back. He kept thinking to himself, Damn it, Eddy, stay strong; it’s no big deal. Just like dad told you before he left, ‘What ever happens, Eddy, you can handle it.’

All of a sudden the dam burst, and Eddy started sobbing.

He felt a hand quickly touch his shoulder and an arm lifting him and guiding him to the door, as all he could think about and all he could watch were the cuts on his feet as his brown flip-flops slapped across the floor.

The next thing he knew, his feet were walking down long hallways covered in old, bleached tile. Then his feet were walking over a brown shagged carpet. And then he was seated on a couch.

He raised his head and saw Misses Dubrow bending towards him, looking into his eyes. Her mouth was moving, but Eddy still couldn’t hear what she was saying. He noticed that a few tears had formed around the edges of her eyes, and her light brown hair was somewhat messy—a few loose strands were coming out of her normally tight bun—and the top button of her white blouse was undone.

Eddy looked around the room and realized he was in the school office. A few teachers were staring at him from across the room behind a tall counter, and his sister, Kathleen, was seated crunched up in a ball on another couch to his left, near a few tall, indoor palm trees.

Joey this, Misses Dubrow was saying, Joey that . . .

Eddy looked into her eyes and said, Joey?

Yes, we didn’t realize that you lived near Joey and that you knew his father . . . Then Misses Dubrow’s words started fading out again.

It’s Joey’s dad, Eddy thought to himself. His heart started to relax a bit, and Misses Dubrow’s words became clear once again.

We’re going to send you home with your sister, Kathleen. She was sick a few minutes ago, and your mom will be here in a little while.

Oh, Eddy tried to say clearly, but he could hear and feel the cracking in his voice, and he knew that wasn’t exactly what came out of his mouth. He turned to his left and saw Kathleen, and then he saw the tall, indoor palm trees and he remembered that picture of his dad with the long, thin face and the bullet holes in the blown-up cement wall and the thick, green palms that were surrounding him, covering him, encompassing him in beauty and trying to swallow him whole.

Chapter 3

Ed Sr. gulped. He opened his eyes and saw a long, thin scratch on the ceiling of the helicopter. He lowered his head and noticed that the gunner at the door of the chopper was staring over at him. He looked away to his right and noticed that the corporal across from him, a photographer, was also staring at him. He glanced down at his hands and saw that his pencil, a yellow number two, was rattling against his map and note pad; it made a loud taping sound that could barely be heard above the whirling of the chopper blades.

He gulped again, grabbed the pencil tight, and looked up at the smiling corporal. How could they have even heard that? Ed started to wonder, but then was interrupted by the gunner yelling over at him, Lieutenant, hope you got a good supply of them, ‘cause what I heard and saw—and that was a lot, let me tell you—it was a shit of a night.

Ah, Ed started to say, but then he just smiled back and gave a nod. He straightened his helmet on his head and glanced over at the corporal’s camera. It was hanging by a thick, black plastic strap around the corporal’s neck. It bounced around against the corporal’s chest, in between the flaps of his open flak jacket. Ed wondered if it was just from the vibrations of the chopper, or maybe from his nerves also.

Ed heard something else and turned to his left just as two more men jumped up onto the chopper. Both looked scared, Ed thought, and young, maybe only ten to fifteen days in country between the both of them.

How long you been at the war, son? Ed asked the private that had sat down to his right.

Seven days, sir, but today feels like the hundredth.

Ed laughed and gave him a smile. The private had bright red hair sticking out from under his helmet. Even in the early morning light, Ed could still see the paleness of the young man’s skin.

Hold your shit together! the gunner yelled.

Ed closed his eyes and waited for that bit of the hollowness to jump up from his stomach as he felt the chopper start to take off. How many will it be this time? he wondered, but before he had time to answer himself he was interrupted by the gunner working his machine gun down into the jungle.

It’s SOP for today, Lieutenant, the gunner yelled as he wheeled his body back and forth, and the shells popped up, rattled onto the floor and then out of the chopper. Plain ol’ SOP.

Ed looked down at his map. He felt the chopper still rising and his stomach falling. He followed the curving lines and ridges across the map to where they were supposed to be heading. He’d been to the hamlet a number of times. Usually it was routine, small numbers to be counted.

Was a crazy night, wasn’t it, sir? Ed heard the private to his right ask.

Ed folded up his map and put it in his left shirt pocket. Sure was, son. Sure was.

And he’s got his work cut out for him, the gunner yelled as the sound of his machine gun fire finally stopped.

Ed held onto his pencil and note pad and looked out past the grinning gunner and the open door. The early morning horizon looked purple and red. The clouds were scattered all over the place out there, clouds which could help them or hurt them.

He thought about Mary, his wife, back in Hawaii, and about his son, Eddy Jr., and daughter, Kathleen. He remembered telling Eddy, You can handle anything. But now he had to use that same speech on himself. And could he live up to those words?

Eddy would hear about this, Ed knew that. It was too big of an offensive, to big of a surprise hit, for Eddy not to hear. But he also was positive that his son would know that he was fine. That all three of them, his entire family, would know that he would be fine, that they had nothing to worry about, that he was nothing but a counter, a reporter of numbers, a viewer of bodies.

Ed glanced outside the doorway. There were clouds close by, white and bright. He wondered how many bodies he would count today. With the rumors he’d heard, and after what he’d seen at his own LZ, he may not even be able to count all them all; the numbers might be too high. Or they may not let him. That is, they may not let him tell the truth.

He grabbed his left thigh with his hand and gave it a rub. He gulped