Free The Time in Between by David Bergen Page B

that Charles was often elsewhere. Wouldn’t you say, Elaine? Not that he was unhappy.”
    “Oh, he was unhappy,” Elaine said. She stood, said, “I’m sorry,” and left the balcony.
    When she was gone Jack explained that this had nothing to do with them. Elaine was suffering a slight depression here in Vietnam. “She finds the climate difficult. And the people. And the language. And raising children here.” He laughed ruefully. “She misses home.” He shook his head. “But your father. I’m sure he’s gone away, south perhaps, and he’ll return. This country does strange things to people. But me, I love this place.”
    The wind had begun to blow and a light rain fell onto the street below them. Jack said that this was typhoon season and he’d heard that Danang might be hit by a storm. “Just stay inside and away from windows and you’ll be safe. Another drink?”
    Jon shifted and began to speak but Ada cut him off and said, “No, we have to get back.”
    “Really? Jon?” Jack asked.
    Jon shrugged and stood along with Ada. Jack reached out to touch Jon’s elbow. He said that sometimes he went up into the villages south of Danang, or he made trips to Quang Ngai, three hours from here, and maybe Jon and Ada would like to join him. Explore the countryside.
    Ada saw his eyes, blue with small pupils, black and clear. A shadow of a beard on his narrow jaw. Whiteness at the base of his neck indicated a recent haircut. He took his hand from Jon’s elbow and spread out his arms as he described the moistness of the countryside.
    Yen had disappeared. This was disconcerting for Ada. Jon said that it didn’t matter; the boy would come back, too soon. They were standing outside the gate to Jack and Elaine’s house. The wind came in gusts and blew Ada’s hair across her face. She pulled it back and said, “You know Jack, don’t you? It wasn’t just a meeting at the post office.”
    Jon looked away. Then he faced Ada and said, “Yes, I know him.”
    “He lied,” Ada said. “Right in front of everyone he made up a story about the stamps. And then he tells us, as if he knows, that Dad went south. What are you doing ? The man’s married. He has children. You’re more interested in him than in finding your own father. Don’t you want to know what happened to Dad? You’re too scared, is that it?”
    Jon walked away. The palm trees bent as the rain swirled. Ada caught up to him, but he pressed forward without speaking. Finally, rounding the corner onto the street that led to their hotel, he stopped and shouted, “ You want to know, Ada. And because you’re so desperate you think I should want the same thing. Well, I don’t. Okay? I just don’t.”
    In their room they dried off and Jon changed into jeans: his narrow thighs and the vulnerability at the backs of his knees, a hamstring moving, white legs disappearing as he straightened, his fingers dancing near his belt buckle, flesh and blood and bone.
    They did not talk until Jon announced that he was going out. He wouldn’t be late, and if the wind continued, he’d come back early. Ada said that that was fine. He was a big boy. She had put on pajama bottoms and was sitting cross-legged on the bed. When Jon left she remained sitting and she let the darkness fall into the room and even after it was totally dark she did not turn on the light as she listened to the approaching storm.
    A memory from the mountain came to her. She and Jon had been playing in the woods behind the house when they found a nest of baby birds set in the small crevasse of two rocks. The birds were very young, their beaks yawning soundlessly at the empty air. The mother was nearby; she had a broken wing and she scolded madly and spun in useless circles. Ada squatted and studied the babies. Jon stood off at a distance. Ada told him to come look. He said no. He said the birds would die. Yes, she said, but you can still come look. He shook his head and left her there. A few days later, when