Word of Honor by Nelson DeMille Page A

book described the event as an antiwar rally. Tyson had also seen the picture captioned as a happening and a be-in. Although the event may not have been clear, the picture of Marcy was. She was the most prominent of all the students, standing on the rim of the fountain much as she was now standing on the rim of the Jacuzzi, a full-frontal nude, one arm around the shoulders of a slender, shaggy-haired young man. The other arm was upraised, fist clenched, and her legs were parted. The expression on her face was a mixture of defiance and uninhibited joy. To the side could be seen two policemen approaching the fountain full of naked young men and women.
    Tyson saw the picture again in his mind: Marcy's luxuriant pubic hair like a black bull's-eye, her breasts standing proud and erect. But for all the nakedness in that fountain, there was little that was erotic. The gathering was meant as a political statement, and it was.
    Like other famous tableaux-the flag-raising over Iwo Jima or the girl weeping over the body at Kent State-the photograph transcended the particular event and captured

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    the essence of an age. None of the subjects had been identified in print, their names as unimportant as the name of the photographer or the journal where the photograph first appeared. The picture had entered the public domain, the history books, and the public consciousness. No royalties were paid nor permissions asked nor rights protected. Yet for those who knew the subjects by name or who were the subjects, the famous photograph still remained personal and evoked a sense of grief, joy, or violated privacy.
    Tyson looked up at his wife, still engaged in her stretching exercises.
    Her body and indeed her face had not changed that much in nearly two decades. In the picture, though, her hair hung in long, wet strands down to her breasts. When Tyson had first met her at a party in a friend's Manhattan apartment, her hair was still shoulder-length, and his mental image of her remained that of a young girl with long hair, barefoot, with little makeup, and wearing a peasant dress. He said, "I love you still.
    "
    She paused in her stretching exercises and smiled at him. "We are still in love. Remember that in the coming weeks and months."
    "No matter how nasty we are to one another."
    "Right.-
    Tyson shut the water off and lifted himself onto the tatami mat beside the tub. He rested his head on a cylindrical bamboo pillow and brought his knees up. He ran his fingers over the scar on his kneecap. It had turned reddish purple from the hot water. Most shrapnel wounds were jagged and ugly as they were supposed to be. This one was ludicrous: It looked like a large question mark.
    Tyson said to his wife, "There was a picture of me and my platoon in the book."
    "I didn't see it." Marcy reached into the large, tiled shower stall and turned on the six pulsating jets. She said, "Where did you leave the book, by the way? I don't want David to see it."
    Tyson stood and stepped into the shower with her. He thought he'd remind her that the Life magazine of March 8, 1968, was stuck up on the bookshelf in plain view. He said, however, "I put it in my attachi case.
    But he'll have to read it eventually."

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    She let the water pound against her body and ran her soapy hands over her breasts and face. "Right. But you have to speak to him first. " -
    "The book speaks for itself. I'll just ask him to read it from the beginning. So my . . . role will be seen in context. "
    She looked over her shoulder. "In or out of context it's gruesome, Ben, and it's going to upset him. Speak to him first." She added, "Perspective. Give him some perspective. Show him where to stand when he's reading it."
    Tyson left the shower.
    She called out, "Sorry."
    Tyson tore a towel off the rack and quickly dried himself.
    Marcy shut off the water and opened the stall door. "Tell me something. How did you live with this for all these years? Wait. Don't be