Gene Adamson's dreams competed for his soul like knights jousting for a kingdom. They jerked him back and forth until he awoke, dizzy in the darkness. At first he thought he was still on the flight home from the military academy, then he remembered landing at Dulles and enduring the taxi driver's unending vocal autobiography during the trip home. And now he heard the bedsprings squeaking in time with his breathing, confirming he was in his own bed, the one his mother said Washington had slept in -- an antique bed in an eighteenth century townhouse in Old Town Alexandria. His thoughts faded as the dreams, lurking on the ragged edge of consciousness, took control again. He had tried to revise the dreams -- to synthesize ego, id, superego, person, self, Gene, Gene Jr. -- but he'd always failed. He felt like Alice in Wonderland spinning crazily into a bottomless pit. If he just stuck out a hand he might grab a rung and stop himself, then start the long climb back to the top. Once on the summit, he could shut out the worst of the dreams and retain the best. He thrust out his right arm.
He awoke on the old hardwood floor, nostrils filled with the heavy smell of red oil from the wood, right hand locked tightly around the base of the heavy candle stand. For an instant he hated his hand and his entire acromegalic body that made him a carbon copy of his big-boned, heavy-jawed predecessors.
His mother was climbing the creaking steps from the second floor; he quickly got back into bed and lay on his back under the quilt.
A rectangle of light flashed on the ceiling. Sue Ellen Adamson, Ph. D., whispered, "Gene, I thought I heard something. Are you all right?"
He clamped his eyelids shut and forced himself to breathe regularly. He was determined to wait until morning before facing her with what he knew.
Even with his eyes closed, he felt the glares and scowls from his ancestors in the paintings over his bed. Each man had inherited an overactive pituitary gland from his sire, making the uniformed warriors a row of jut-jawed brothers. Every painting bore a caption containing name, rank, military decorations, and dates of birth and death. At one end hung a picture of his father -- deceased before Gene was 2 years old. His walnut eyes and matching crew-cut hair proved Gene to be a carbon copy. At the other end, a portrait of Gene's many-times-great grandfather, Benjamin, differed from his father's only by the uniform style and hair length.
Years earlier, Gene's mother had brought her DAR group to his third-floor room to point out Benjamin's picture. "Ladies," she said, eyes sparkling like emeralds, "this is why Gene is a proud Son of the American Revolution. Gene's ancestor fought alongside General Washington throughout the war, and instituted the honorable military tradition that permeates the Adamson line."
Gene's door clicked shut and the stairs squeaked tiredly as his mother returned to her room. He opened his eyes and frowned. He was back in the present. But on this last night at home, memories rebounded like boomerangs
Even before he'd learned his true heritage, he had felt compelled to escape Alexandria often and emulate his peers -- drink beer, smoke a joint, make out. Each time he returned to Old Town and tramped down the venerable brick street once ridden on horseback by the forefathers, unfathomable schizophrenia would set in. Entering his doorway was passing into a colonial Virginia setting of dark, aromatic, wood furniture, Jasperware vases, Bristol candlesticks, brass andirons, and something more.
Invariably his mother would be holding a tea in the parlor or sponsoring a DAR meeting in the drawing room. She populated the house with women like her, allowing a male guest speaker only as a rarity, and belligerently admitting once a month the two aged gentlemen who belonged to the Restoration Society. When Gene and his mother were alone she served their meals on the twentieth century Blue Willow chinaware, but when special visitors dined she brought out her Adams China, along with a network of tight little lines stitching the corners of her mouth, and she explained that the rare and expensive setting was made by an eighteenth century relative.
On the night before Gene started first grade, his mother came up to his room. She was spruced up in a formal colonial dress and button shoes she normally wore only for Restoration Society events. She had her diamond choker around her neck and a fresh makeup beauty mark on her cheek. She placed a small, hand-rubbed mahogany chest on his bed and solemnly unlocked it. Inside, on a cushion of yellowed newspaper clippings, lay an inverted five-pointed star attached by a tiny anchor to a light blue ribbon imprinted with 13 white stars.
"You must always remember that you come from a long line of military heroes. Your father was a great man who performed valiantly." He earned this decoration; it is yours now, by terms of an ... ah ... agreement. Starting with your first day of school tomorrow you must strive to be as great a man as your father." With both hands, she brought the Medal of Honor to her breast, then placed it in his palm. "This is your legacy."
The following day, Gene's mother burned the yellowed papers at the fireplace in the drawing room. The only scrap he found was from a newspaper headline, "War hero to donate s..."
The United States started mobilizing for the Gulf War during Gene's second year at the military academy. After agonizing for a week about its impact on his life, he had flown home.
"I've enlisted, Mom. I'm flying out tomorrow to go to boot camp."
Her face crumpled like an empty flour sack. "Gene, oh Gene." She slumped onto the settee and drew a sachet-scented handkerchief from her sleeve. "You were going to be an officer. What would your daddy say?"
"I really don't care, Mom, about what my daddy would say. I'm not my daddy, and I don't intend to be." He felt like a kite whose string had been cut.
"Believe me, Mom, I'm scared to death, more terrified than you could ever realize, but I have no choice." The words had slipped out so unexpectedly they surprised him. Worse, he'd been on the verge of telling her everything he knew. But that was for the next morning, just before he said goodbye.
Sleep flowed back over him like a returning tide, and it washed in the relentless dream. It was 1942. He was glancing at naked scars torn from the kunai grass on the opposite ridge, and praying hopelessly for the Dauntless dive bombers to return. He rose to his knees to scan the waters the thousandth time for the return of Navy ships, but saw only Tulagi across the channel, ethereal in the early evening haze. A bullet zinged past and he flung himself onto the ground, hitting empty rifle cartridges that sent pain streaking along his ribs. He vowed that instant not to die, no matter what he had to do.
He flicked his eyes at the dumpy corporal who was scurrying among the dead Marines to collect their ammunition. He frowned, angry because, of all the people in the platoon, the only other survivor had to be that pudgy little corporal. He was so dumb he'd probably want to fight to the last man, probably because his life was so insignificant. .
The corporal, face sunburned like a boiled lobster, reached another Marine corpse and searched his body. Gene shuddered with horror. When that Marine had first taken a bullet in the chest he still looked human because he was human. He had died within the hour, and the sun had transmogrified him until his bloated and blackened face became a grotesque caricature. Even his uniform was desecrated, and threw off stink ... stench ... he knew no word to describe the sacrilege performed by putrefaction -- a hundred and eighty five pounds of meat, jelly, mucous, blood, urine, feces, maggots ... and stink. Gene averted his face and nuzzled his rifle, sniffing greedily at the purifying odor from a vestige of oil on the receiver.
The corporal scuttled back like a bloated sand crab. "I got a half-box of machine gun ammo and some loose rounds."
"My God, what are you going to do?"
"What do you mean?"
"This piddling amount of ammo won't stop them."
"Wait for the cavalry. In the movies they always arrive on time."
"I'm serious, this is no movie. This is Guadalcanal. We've lost. We've got to
get out of here."
"Forget it."
"Everybody else is dead. We won't win by staying until we're dead."
Then the dream turned inside out and he became the corporal. Now he was regarding the massive man in amazement. Of all the people to be stuck with, why did it have to be that big goldbricker, Adamson?
He told him: "We've got enough ammo to hold off their next assault. Maybe it will be their last. The Old Man will know we're still alive so long as he can hear shooting. He'll send help sooner or later."
The huge man was shaking. His atabrine-yellow skin turned pasty. He lighted a cigarette and puffed shallowly. "This is my last cigarette. When I finish it I'm bugging out."
"Stop this nonsense and I'll make you a deal. We'll stay for one more assault. You point 'em out for me when they come, and help me if the machine gun jams. I know we can beat 'em off. After that it'll be dark, and we'll get the hell out of here."
"No."
"What the hell do you mean, no? Since the first day of boot camp you've been bigmouthing all the heroes in your family. You're the big goddam military school genius. What would you do?"
A Japanese at the base of the ridge started haranguing his men. Acrid bile spurted into Gene's mouth. "I'm not waiting."
"Maline you die!" echoed up the slope.
"No," he screamed. Liquid fire gushed from his rectum. He dropped his rifle and fled to the opposite side of the ridge, where a bullet hit him with the force of a trip hammer. He fell on his side and saw the corporal fire the machine gun until it jammed. The corporal was riddled with bullets. But no, that couldn't be true, it had to be him, Gene, at the gun, firing like a wild man until they hit him ... he slipped into a deep, black abyss.
He opened his eyes to find himself on a stretcher at the aid station at Henderson Field.
"We almost overlooked you, Adamson. Thought you were dead like all the others -- Japs probably figgered the same, which is what saved your life. Glad you made it. And it's a good thing, 'cause the Old Man wants to give a big medal to somebody. A live hero makes good press, especially one with your background."
Things went black again.
"Gene, Gene," His mother was shaking him. "Sounded like a bad dream, honey. Something like, "No, no, I would never do that." She let go and looked down at him with a worried frown. "Is it something you want to talk about?"
The lambent hallway light suddenly exposed. lines of antiquity in his mother's face. He noticed for the first time that her once-sparkling eyes had changed to corroded turquoise. He saw that over the years her black ringlets had turned gray. He resolved to wait until morning to tell her what he knew.
Not tonight, he decided. She had to be fortified with daylight and protected by makeup, and she needed her three-minute egg; then he would disclose the truth she knew and the truth she didn't know. The catharsis completed, he would fly off to boot camp and then go to war. His hands trembled so much he was afraid she would notice. He slipped them under the sheet and down by his thighs, where the fingers quivered like the helpless little legs on Kafka's upside-down beetle. When she shuffled back to the stairs he wondered how many years ago she had exchanged her high-heeled lounging slippers for old, worn mules.
Alone again, he stretched until his feet touched the cold footboard. Gigantic, garish words marched painfully through his brain. Who am I? What am I. I'm a tough, strong man who has never flinched from anything, not even the truth. I don't want to be a coward. Must I be a coward?
His heart pounded as heavily as an artillery piece until sleep again came -- and the other dream.
It was 1972. "The Ph.D lady from the DAR is here to see you, Colonel Adamson."
The colonel rose from his desk and inspected himself in the mirror, checking the military creases in his shirt, and ensuring that his belt buckle was shiny and perfectly aligned. He glanced with pride at the rows of brightly colored ribbons on his left chest, topped with the light blue one with the five stars. Making sure his new brown hairpiece blended, he turned and opened the office door. "Please come in my dear lady."
"My, you're so tall," she burst out, adding quickly, "Excuse me, I'm afraid I'm somewhat flustered." Her face had turned rosy. "I've never been around the military; it 's so thrilling to see the cadets drilling on the parade field, and to meet their commander and realize that he's responsible for those boys' superb performance ... I need to collect my breath."
"Please be seated." He led her to the two high-backed morocco chairs that faced the coffee table.
She popped open a folding fan and flicked it back and forth with nervous little wrist movements until the flush disappeared. She was a slim woman even in her paisley dress, and had a thin face with ringlets bouncing like ebony springs over her ears. Except for a sharp nose emphasized by a beauty mark on her cheek, she would have been beautiful.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from a lady so prominent in Colonial studies?" he asked.
"But sir, you are the prominent one. My research discloses that you come from an unbroken line of military heroes that stretches all the way back to the revolution."
The colonel rose and dropped his eyes modestly to the floor. He clasped his hands behind his back, marched slowly to the window, and did a graceful about face. "Ahem, I must admit that we've always tried to do our bit; no more than anybody else of course ... I'll have some coffee brought in, or would you prefer tea?"
"Tea, if you please."
Gene could no longer stand this man's brain -- a brain where secret thoughts coursed through a labyrinthine maze of self-serving hypocrisy. He wouldn't degrade himself; he refused to behave thus. He slipped away from the vortex of the maelstrom but couldn't escape the periphery, forced to undergo the familiar end of the dream. The identical words, perfectly remembered from the last time he'd had the dream, unerringly poured forth.
"Me? But my dear lady, I'm almost fifty-six years old, and surely you know I've been given only six months to live."
"I'll explain. Under the contract we would not live together. Of course, you would never see the, aah, boy. You would get the money to bequeath to the academy. And you would know that your family's long line of illustrious heroes would continue." She tapped the fan into her palm. "I will raise the boy as a natural son and he will become a war hero."
"What if it's a girl?"
"Then she'll carry on the line and become a war hero."
"You don't feel selfish about this?"
"Creating life is never selfish, and this is really no different from any other artificial insemination, except that I know the donor -- and I'll get a carbon copy."
His mother had gone out and bought herself a ... .
Gene's sobs woke him. He lay on the squeaking springs and recalled how he'd discovered the truths. His mother had insisted he attend his late father's academy. Soon after he matriculated, a construction worker had found his father's locked diary tucked away behind the drywall in the commandant's office.
The diary revealed his mother's role, but he had to analyze his father's entries carefully about the events on Guadalcanal, and other times and places in that war. In disbelief at first, he studied the diary like preparing for an exam. Little by little he deciphered his father's entries and found the truth.
He'd searched for an escape and turned to sports. In spite of his gigantesque frame he had rejected basketball, and gone out for football. Awkwardness kept him from the first string for a year, even though his mother had held a personal conference with the coach. His own tenacity paid off, and by the second year he was on his way to becoming a decent halfback.
He knew something about his father that his mother didn't -- he smiled grimly in the knowledge that he knew everything about his father. He knew that his father froze in a baseball game when the pitcher lobbed him the ball to pick off a runner. The runner scored, to win the game, and his father was tossed off the team in disgrace. His father had failed at every sport he'd tried.
But sports gave Gene a chance to end another terrible worry. Maybe he could reverse his inherited genes, depending on which fork in the road he chose. Perhaps he could escape cowardice.
Dawn lighted the room, reminding him of his mother's beauty-marked face when she had come in so long ago, and her face of just a few hours past. The new day brightened, illuminating the route he must follow.
After his mother finished her egg, Gene pulled the Medal of Honor from his pocket.
"What are you doing with your father's medal?"
His voice was steady. "There have been a lot of military men in the family, Mom, and this time it's my turn to qualify. I must begin, like all the others, with no medals, and if I succeed, that's fine. But if I fail, it will be only me who broke the tradition, and that's fine too. Whatever happens, I will be my own person." He slipped the medal into her wrinkled, skeletal hand, kissed her goodbye, and went to the waiting taxi.
"Dulles Airport," he said, startled to regard the cab driver as a fellow human being. It hit him that the driver also had been dealt a peremptory hand of cards. Maybe someday he too could rearrange the deck and cast away a father's legacy.