The Bloodletting

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When US/Chinese bashing went from corporate boards to school-yards, I paid little attention. Larry and I were spending every spare minute of every spare hour renovating a beautiful wreck of a house. The day we slapped on the last coat of Solar/Cool, the DAOC names flashed on our kitchen viewing-screen.

Disputes Adjudicated by Official Combatants (DAOC) began years before I was born. A warless world was the norm. Disputes were settled by limited combat. Two teams of ten people each, selected in a blind draw, faced off. No one in either disputing country was excused for any reason. Young, old, halt, lame – all could be called to defend their country’s honor.

The names drawn for the American team included three men younger than forty and two women in their twenties. The oldest person, Florence Gardner of Bar Harbor, Maine, admitted to eighty-two years. A man from Montana had seventy-one, a New Jerseyite claimed seventy.

The next name I heard three times before it sank in. Phyllis Cummings was the high school teacher who had almost failed me twenty years before. She claimed I hadn’t done the assignment; I contended I had and re-sent it. I claimed compu-err; it happened in those days.

To Larry I quipped, “Three oldies, five middle-young and Phyllis. What a crew. The Chinks will annihilate us.” Literally, of course.

But five younger, three older and Phyllis made nine; one more was needed for a team. Someone had goofed. People everywhere began contacting headquarters. If the

US didn’t rectify and draw another name, the Chinese could claim time, and the US would have to field a team with fewer members.

Everyone speculated. Was the government deliberately withholding the name of the tenth contestant? Perhaps it was someone famous, a movie star or even the President.

Larry joked. “Maybe it’s me.” His grin made clear he had no fear of the possibility. Until Phyllis, no one we knew had ever been selected.

The next day bonded representatives of the Price Waterhouse-Gallop-Zogby Corporation announced the last combatant during Essential Information news time.

The name rang like words so familiar, I barely heard them. Shaking, I sank into a chair, the name dancing before my eyes. The tenth member of the US combatants was Shonie Ann Brown, ten months old. She had light brown hair, fair skin, baby-fat bowed legs, and had begun to toddle. She ate solid food, went to bed with a bottle and spoke six words clearly: Mama, Dada, Baba, yes, no, and bye-bye. She was my daughter.

It was a mistake, of course; another name had been called, not Shonie’s. Voice keying other countries I listened to every broadcaster in every capital of the world. Shonie’s name came at me in German, French, and Chinese, was signed for the hearing impaired, written in Arabic and translated into multiple tribal languages.

A wave of nausea hit me. I told Larry, “I’ll have them take me instead.”

He shook his head, all forty-two years of his life clearly etched on his face. “If anyone in this family is going, it’s me.”

As he went on compu-line, an unseen hand gripped my heart. He pled with gatekeeper systems to the President, the Director of the DAOC, to anyone who

conceivably could help. Nobody would speak to him; we were ordinary people without clout.

Our attorney advised legal proceedings. We would claim precedent; a baby had never been selected before. The youngest US name drawn had been an eleven-year-old boy from the heartland. He had died valiantly.

Everyone argued the case. How could a baby fight? Even if you gave her a feather-weight gun, taped her finger to the trigger, someone could jump her from behind. Anyway, guns weren’t allowed. Larry said it was clearly a mistake and certainly not fair. Shonie had all of her life ahead of her. Others said it was bound to happen sometime. Why bitch? It was the luck of the draw.

In a flurry of fevered activity, Larry and I took the case through the electronic court system, all the way to the Assembled Nations.

While the American team, sans Shonie, began training, we went to New York. We had never been east of Denver before. Wearing new clothes and backed by our attorney, we presented our case. I begged them to allow either Larry or me to replace our daughter. My voice cracked toward the last, but otherwise, I sounded calm, in control. Journalists wrote admiring articles about me.

After an interminable time, thirty minutes after I quit speaking, the Presiding Assemblyman explained in a gentle manner that the selection process was the only fair way. Kings and commoners, young and old, black and white, sick and well – all were equal in the eyes of the draw. Psychiatrists and psychologists explained the importance of spilling blood. Allowing substitutes would mar the purity of the contests, create unequal situations, play rich against poor, race against race, male against female.

Although everyone sympathized with us, no one would tamper with a time-honored system.

Needing reassurance, I sent Phyllis a message reminding her I’d been her student and Shonie would be on her team.

Meanwhile the United States won the toss and opted to hold the competition on the Mall in Washington, D.C. With the imposing buildings of the ancient Smithsonian Museum on either side of the broad expanse of green grass, the Capitol dome gleaming on the hill, it would be a fitting place for the contest. No matter what direction a spectator looked, they’d be reminded of our country and its democratic traditions.

Six weeks later, when the Chinese established their crew of six young women and four young men at the Worldcom Arlington Hilton across the Potomac from DC, Phyllis answered my fevered message. “Interesting to hear from you after all these years. I certainly understand your apparent frustration; after all, I, too, was selected.” Again, she’d made me feel like an idiot.

Larry and I shoved aboard the plane taking Shonie to Washington. No, damn it, we would not dessert her; we would stay with her till the last minute. Larry’s hands shook as he signed a paper promising not to interfere. When I signed I had trouble forming the B in our last name. The authorities conceded nothing in the rules denied us from staying with Shonie in a suite at the International Hyatt Regency where the American team was billeted.

As bleachers were set up on the Mall, and a first aid tent erected for spectators who might get sick, Larry and I sought senators, appealed to philanthropists, and made a

television appeal for help. But no one would talk to us except an underworld character who demanded a million up front to spirit Shonie into hiding.

More tired than I’d ever been, my mouth drooping at the corners, I stayed with Shonie at the hotel while Larry visited representatives of mediating countries, hoping to persuade one of them to give us asylum. New Zealand and Switzerland had been chosen by lot from traditionally pacifist nations.

DAOC reps brought Shonie her official outfit. The dress, ruffled panties, and hair ribbon matched the red, white, and blue colors worn by all American combatants. The wispy strands of her hair were caught in a bow on top of her head, and wearing ruffled socks and white shoes, she looked like a model for Child Fashion Sense Online Mag.

The Screen blared the ongoing event. Reps from the participants’ home states had reserved seats at the base of the Washington Monument. They could watch the proceedings taking place between there and the Lincoln Memorial on any of the giant screens. Representatives of the Chinese Government as well as members of the US Senate, House and Cabinet would join the President at the Peace Camp in the Maryland hills.

“It’s a clear day here in the capital,” the announcer began in mellow tones. “Perfect twenty-degree Celsius weather for an afternoon starting time. Great for participants and spectators.” Cameras panned from fluffy white clouds drifting across a cool, blue sky to hot-dog, taco, and souvlaki stands. Native Americans had an Indian Fry Bread booth, Polish Americans a Pierogi Palace.

A sour, sick taste filled my mouth. Fighting it back, forcing a smile, I hugged Shonie so tight, she cried. Luckily, I had her laughing again soon.

We were cuddling in the armchair when Larry came back. His shirt was damp with sweat and missing a button. His hair stood on end. “We have one minute with the New Zealand rep at 11:15.”

I visualized time spilling through an hourglass. As we hurried toward the mediating tents, Shonie in my arms, her “seconds” in step with us, I said, “Tell me about this New Zealander.”

“Middle-aged man, first time serving.”

“Is he nice, understanding?” I meant, was he sympathetic to our cause.

Larry threw up his arms, his elbows jutting awkwardly. “How in the hell do I know?” He looked as if he would fly apart any minute. “I think he appreciates our position.”

As we approached the New Zealand tent, Mr. Ruritoa came out. I whispered to Shonie, “Smile at the nice man.” She lit up like an angel, but I knew it was too late.

Ruritoa shook his head, tears in his eyes. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“You won’t help.” My arms tightened around Shonie. She whimpered. I screamed at Ruritoa, “But you’ll watch, won’t you?”

Mr. Ruritoa said, “I assure you it isn’t my fault. I thought intercession by my country…” He shook his head.

All around us people wereselling buttons and T-shirts, people finding seats in the bleachers, others claiming coveted box seats. “Damn voyeurs, dirty murderers!”

Larry put a hand on my arm, whispered, “Get a hold of yourself.”

Uniformed crowd control ran toward me.

Despair twisted my guts. I hated everyone, including Larry who stood there with a dumb expression on his face.

Referees converged on us. A whistle sounded. From some far off place I heard the umpire cry, “Let the ceremonies being!” His amplified voice echoed from the shiny black surface of the Vietnam Memorial, bounced off the Gulf War Patriots Monument and the rough-surfaced Iraq/Afghanistan Pillar of Peace.

I tried to think what Larry and I had done wrong. We were good people, paid our taxes, gave no one any trouble. We had embraced the No Wars concept. Had, like everyone, worn white bracelets for the first team martyrs. “Why?” I cried.

“Mrs. Brown, please,” a referee said.

A US government band playing the national anthem drowned my protest. Rousing Sousa music followed, and the contestants emerged from colorful tents and marched smartly around the ring. An official reached for Shonie.

“Please, let me carry her,” I begged. A “playing field,” roughly half the size of a football field, had been marked off on the grass in a circle.

The referee nodded, and with Larry at my side, we joined the grand opening march. The crowd stood up in a standing ovation, creating deafening applause. International com-vue announcers described the combatants. Except for swords strapped on their sides, they resembled Olympic athletes.

As we passed the youthful Chinese team marching in the opposite direction, I tried not to think why they were there. Trim and sleek, they stepped drill team fashion in traditional bright yellow lycra. Wearing similar streamlined uniforms, the Americans marched in step. I held tightly to Shonie. If I ran, would I be shot? I glanced at the

flags fluttering in the gentle breeze and planned a route, and managed for a few minutes to shut out reality.

When the marching music stopped, judges pried Shonie from me. Wildly, I looked around. Larry was shouting about the Constitution, stabbing his finger into a referee’s chest. They stuck him with a needle and Larry’s anger drained as rapidly as water sucked into a recycle holding tank. I felt blood leave my head, but I managed not to faint. Beyond Larry a clown was turning handstands for Shonie. While she bubbled with laughter, referees prodded Larry and me to the sidelines. I felt a needle enter my arm, and a judge ordered us back to the hotel.

Like automatons, we watched the screen in our room, saw Shonie giggling at the clown’s floppy shoes, his red-nosed antics, saw Phyllis, determination showing in her arthritic stance.

An announcer said the nine adult Americans had gone through rigorous physical and mental training for several months. “Now a familiar phenomenon has taken place. The members of the team consider one another family.”

People in the stands smiled. I gripped Larry’s hand. It felt slick and cold.

The announcer speculated about American strategy. Working together older combatants might eliminate one or two enemies before they, themselves, were done in. Afterwards, the younger and stronger Americans could carry the battle to victory.

I whispered, “Can you see Shonie?”

Slumped on the floor, Larry shook his head. His eyes had a faraway look.

A gong sounded and Florence and Phyllis sprinted out front, Florence’s spare, gray hair newly kinked, Phyllis wearing camera make up.

“Just like I thought,” the announcer cried smugly as the older Americans formed an inverted V with the five younger Americans between them and Shonie. Toddling near the outer limits of the ring, she clutched a teddy bear someone had handed her.

The announcer said the Americans had made a brilliant first move.

At the last DAOC event, my sister had won fifteen hundred dollars in an office pool. I’d said, “Lucky you.” The words kept stabbing me in the chest.

Larry whispered, “The players are chanting.”

I heard “Kill the Chinks, Kill the Chinks.” Spectators shouted in unison, clapped in rhythm, pounded the bleachers with their feet. I locked eyes with Larry. “We have to go down there. No matter what, we have to be with her.”

As he agreed the Chinese feinted and circled in slow motion, the Americans watching, the moment extending until the Chinese rushed forward screaming, swords flashing. Phyllis and Florence tripped a slim young man and ran their swords through his side. Turning, they impaled another man, and the crowd roared approval. I kept trying to glimpse Shonie.

“Watch out,” I screamed as Phyllis paused to look up at the stands, her rooting section rising to their feet. A Chinese blade slid into her. Blood spurted, ran like an oil slick over the grass. Florence slipped in it, had trouble keeping her balance. A Chinese sword ran her through. My hypo began to wear off.

I raced into the hall, Larry beside me. A loudspeaker blared the announcer’s blade-by-blade descriptions. As we entered the contest areal, the younger Americans and younger Chinese were in hand-to-hand combat.

“Young people never give up easily,” the announcer was saying as we skirted the stands and approached the playing field.

We sprinted by the first aid tent, and into the open and skidded to a stop. The shrieking crowd had quieted, the announcer was silent, Larry’s breath was harsh in my ears. No players werer standing. Among the combatants littering the field, Shonie sat alone, unhurt.

Afraid to utter a word, as if the slightest sound would mar the moment, add to the sickening smell of death, I squeezed Larry’s hand. He returned the pressure.

“It is truly a miracle,” the announcer whispered.

As we moved toward Shonie, a woman in a stained yellow uniform rose from among the sprawled and broken bodies. Blood matted her hair and poured from a wound on her side. Yet, her eyes appeared alert with purpose. Dragging her sword behind her, she staggered across the circle to Shonie.

Larry and I started toward them, but officials held us back.

Clutching the teddy bear, Shonie pushed awkwardly upright.

The Chinese woman advanced.

Shonie toddled, fell, and looked up smiling.

Slowly, as if it were a burden too difficult to perform standing, the woman dropped to her knees in front of my child, my baby.

Shonie cocked her head to one side.

The woman lifted the sword.

A scream in my brain never got past my lips.

Shonie had plucked the head from a dandelion and now she held it toward the Chinese woman. And then, as the breeze rose, whipping flags and bunting into a frenzy, Shonie spoke, saying something I’d never heard her say before.

Slowly, the woman let the sword fall. It nicked the edge of Shonie’s dress and fell harmlessly to the ground.

Shonie said the word again, and this time it was clear as the cloudless sky. “Please,” echoed across the Mall

Tears cleansing the blood on her face, the woman struggled to her feet. Lifting Shonie, she stumbled across the ring to us, my dear one in her arms.

I rushed toward them, grabbed Shonie.

As the woman’s eyes met mine, she said, “I have baby.”

While judges and referees converged on us, I nodded.

Her eyes weary but bright, the woman headed for the first aid building and no one stopped her.