Something About Ann

By J. Everett Prewitt

Something About Ann, a historical fiction novella, is accompanied by twelve interconnected short stories that follow a group of soldiers who faced traumatic experiences in Vietnam, as depicted in the novel A Long Way Back. Although they managed to remain close after returning to the States, violence and turmoil continue to haun

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Everett Prewitt
• Release date: Jan 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9780998193182

J. Everett Prewitt

J. Everett Prewitt is a Vietnam veteran and a former Army officer. He holds a Bachelor of Arts degree from Lincoln University in Pennsylvania, and a Master of Science Degree in Urban Studies from Cleveland State University. Prewitt was awarded the title of distinguished alumni at both schools.His debut novel Snake Walkers placed first for fiction in four different literary contests and won the Bronze Award for General Fiction in ForeWord Magazine's Book of the Year contest. Snake Walkers was also honored by the Black Caucus of the American Library Association.Prewitt’s second novel, A Long Way Back was awarded the Literary Classic’s Seal of Approval. It won the Independent Publishers of New England first place award, was a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Montaigne Medal Award, received the Bronze Award for the INDIEFAB Book of the Year Award, the Silver Award from Literary Classics, the DNQ Award from IBPA's Benjamin Franklin Award and the Silver Award from the Military Writers Society of America (MWSA).A novella titled Something About Ann, and a series of short stories related to A Long Way Back including the award-winning The Last Time I Saw Willie, will be available in September 2017.Additional information can be obtained from: http://eprewitt.com

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book would not have been possible without the input of a number of people. I would especially like to thank my writer’s group: Authors Sarah Wiseley Croley, John Kavouras, and Barbara Hacha, who were instrumental in helping with the editorial process. I additionally want to acknowledge Sandra Upton-Houston for her input.

I want to give thanks to Dennis McDonough, (deceased) for providing the idea for the story, Best Seat in the House, as we laughed in the Larchmere Tavern at his real life depiction of that incident.

A special acknowledgment goes to my sister, my daughter—an author and screenwriter, and my son, who have been my biggest fans and a continuous source of inspiration.

PROLOGUE

June 1969.  Somewhere near the Cambodia/Vietnam border.

The men had already lost six of the squad, including their Sergeant in two previous ambushes. Tired, sick, with one wounded, they trudged through the jungle, their hope fading like the sun descending in the west. Leroy Casper bowed his head. He wasn’t a praying man, but prayer might be their only salvation.

As one of the men heaved his food and simultaneously relieved himself of the remainder in his pants, the barrage of bullets began. The first burst of gunfire caught Matthews at the front of the column. Blood spurted from his neck as he fell, gurgling while grabbing at the wound before another shot pierced his cheek, silencing him. Frankford screamed as bullets took out his legs. He tried to crawl to cover but another four shots punctured his back, with a final shot entering his ear.

While the American soldiers buried themselves in the ground, returning fire, Ward took a position in a tree, firing a cadenced burst and downing three Viet Cong when it seemed every enemy rifle returned fire toward him. Four bullets hit Ward instantaneously. The cracking sound was his neck breaking from the fall.

Retreat! one of the soldiers screamed.

No! Charge! Charge! Casper shouted.

Charge! another soldier yelled. We gonna die anyway.

The Americans rose in unison and stormed forward, unleashing a hail of bullets in short bursts.

Unexpectedly, the black-clad attackers retreated. Three Viet Cong gathered around one of their wounded and dragged the capless comrade with flowing hair to the rear.  The remaining VC faded into the jungle as silently as they’d appeared.

Xavier Warfield looked wistfully at the mountain range they’d hoped to reach and then at the men who were left: Holland, Turner, Casper, Glover, Robinson, and Bankston. He shuddered as he tried to shake the flood of grief sweeping over him, causing him to stop and gather his strength.

He glanced back in the direction of the ambush and exhaled. Would any of them make it, or would those mountains be the last the seven would ever see?

SOMETHING ABOUT ANN

Chapter 1

The 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 owns a shop? He sniffed. Bankston remained 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. As he picked up his drink to go to another area of the house, she turned toward him 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, answering a 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 in the direction of the rooters. You want to watch the game?

Naw. Too crowded.

Ann played with her purse strap 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

After an intense Saturday morning workout at the Glenville YMCA, Bankston returned to his high-rise complex, glad the snow had begun to melt. He went to his mailbox to retrieve his mail. In his haste to get to his apartment and take a long, hot shower, he almost missed the small envelope as he began to discard the usual ads and solicitations. 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 understand 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

Dear 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 in his nightstand drawer with the others.

A month passed before Bankston saw Ann again, 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 looked as if he 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.

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

Was her unease due to 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 made him recall their first conversation. The negative feelings he’d experienced when they first met had begun to dissipate after Gail’s party. But after receiving her 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 to him helped, though. It helped because she understood.

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

Bankston’s office was in the Call & Post building on East 105th Street. He 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, so he remained close to his Army brothers: Casper, Holland, and the others. They were all dealing with the after effects of war in their own way, and it helped that they stayed in touch.

Bankston and Casper became even closer because of their 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 Fourth 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.

Bankston glanced around in the restaurant, wondering if anyone found it curious that 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 would 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 chuckle sounding 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 visit Gordon Park whenever they visited their cousins in Cleveland. The ragged shores, the gravel paths, the bridges, the forested 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 where a cluster of trees encircled 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, who had walked a few steps in front of him, stopped, turned, and waited. He looked up as rays of light penetrated the leaves bathing her in its golden shafts. She appeared almost ethereal.

They were halfway to the car when Bankston heard the faint voice coming from another vehicle 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 walking, but it didn’t solve the problem.

A car door slammed. I said hey, Gook. 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 nothin’. 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?

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

The man's eyes widened, and he nearly stumbled backward before quickly leaping into his Chevy, taking off, and 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 and at the park. 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 the sense of tranquility he’d lost in the confrontation and invoked a strange feeling of connectedness.

Ann caressed Bankston’s hand and 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 been sitting on the bench.

He pulled Ann even closer, kissing her cheek before she pulled back. I am married, you know?

He nodded once. Their eyes locked for a second as Ann 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 with less caution 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