Six

SIX

Tuesday

I hid my worries for two days. After we’d finished dinner Tuesday night and I’d washed the dishes, Dad was relaxing in the den watching the Mets with his nightly post-dinner beer. I worked up the nerve to poke my head around the corner. “Dad . . . got a minute?”

Dad always listened to me, taking everything I said seriously, never treating me like a kid. Even if the Yankees were playing the Mets at Shea Stadium and it was the bottom of the ninth, he’d block it out and listen. I’ll always be grateful for that.

Which makes me feel even worse about how I’ve turned out.

Anyway he stood, walked to the television and shut it off, sat back down and raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

“I won’t end up like Jake Burns someday, will I? And you won’t ever be like his dad . . . will you?”

Dad sat forward, frowning slightly. “What brings this on? You guys aren’t havin’ any troubles with Jake, are you? I mean, any more’n usual.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “His dad isn’t . . . ”

I shook my head. “Nope, nothing like that. Something happened Saturday and he got mad at us, and well . . . something’s wrong with Jake, isn’t there? And his dad.”

Dad sat back and sighed, lifted his beer, thought better of it and lowered it, looking out the den window. His frown disappeared. He looked regretful, like maybe he felt bad about something that wasn’t his fault, even though he felt partly responsible for it.

He chewed his lip, and then finally said, gazing out the den window into our front yard, “Yeah. I suppose somethin’ is wrong with Jake and his dad.” He looked back to me. “But why are you suddenly so worried we’ll end up the same way?”

I shrugged, my concerns seeming weak in the light of day. “Well . . . I mean, our moms are both gone. You and Jake’s dad both fought in Vietnam and . . . ”

I stopped short, unable to bring up Dad’s nightly beer. He’d never once gotten drunk that I’d known, and I thought that might be going too far.

Dad smiled and waved at the rocking chair next to him, the one he said had always been Mom’s favorite before she died. “Sit, Nate. Let’s talk.”

I took a seat. He leaned back, sighed again, then looked me in the eye. “You’re right about some things. Both me and Jimmy Burns fought in Vietnam. Both of us lost our wives, leavin’ you and Jake without moms. And, though you didn’t say it, maybe you’re thinkin’ it: Jake’s dad loves his drink, and I have a beer after dinner every night. But I’m not Jimmy, and you’ll never end up like Jake, Nate. I promise.”

I squirmed a little in the rocking chair. I wanted to believe Dad but couldn’t shake my worry. “How d’you know, Dad? Really.”

“Well for one, Jake probably feels abandoned by his mom and you don’t. Jake’s momma up and left. Probably ‘cause she couldn’t handle Jimmy anymore. And she didn’t take Jake with her, or even say goodbye. Now, knowin’ ‘em like I do I figure that’s cause she was afraid of tryin’ to take Jake away from Jimmy. But I’m sure Jake don’t know that, and he probably thinks his mom ditched him. Your mom was taken from us, Nate. She woulda moved heaven’n earth to stay, and . . . ”

He coughed, rubbed the corner of his eye with the palm of his hand, cleared his throat and continued, “And I think even if you don’t know that consciously, some parta ya understands that, deep down. Also, I think a big reason why somethin’s wrong with Jake is cause somethin’s wrong with Jimmy, bad.”

I frowned because this I didn’t understand too well, how Jake’s dad and my dad could be so different. “What’s wrong with him? Is it because of Vietnam? And why . . . ”

“Why ain’t there nothin’ wrong with me?” Dad offered me a sad-looking grin then, maybe the saddest I’d ever seen from him. “I ain’t gonna lie, son. I got my scars. Still have powerful bad dreams every now and then. And if it weren’t for your mom, the way she took care of me when I got home . . . well. It was hard on every man who fought over there. I pray you never hafta serve. Me and my unit got off lucky, though. We saw some hard fightin’ and I saw good friends die. But other platoons got caught up in some bad business and did some bad things. Sometimes you’re fightin’ so hard to live you forget who you are and what you’re fightin’ for. Lotta men went through that kinda bad business, and I’m blessed to have been spared it.”

“Is that what happened to Jake’s dad?”

Dad’s smile faded entirely. He rubbed his mouth and said, “No. Worse. Y’know how you’re always sayin’ Jake’s so good at findin’ them fish, knowin’ where they’re hidin’?”

I nodded.

“Well, Jimmy was like that, too. Bout the time he was old ‘nough to hunt he could sneak round like a mountain cat, like a native Algonquin. Bow, rifle . . . he could hunt just ‘bout anythin’ and he drifted like a ghost through the woods, too. We both did Basic Training down in Camp Dix for regular Army, but wasn’t long before folks picked up on Jimmy’s gift and picked him for the Green Berets.”

A memory sparked of a movie I’d seen during a Sunday afternoon matinee on television. “Wasn’t there a John Wayne movie with Green Berets in it? They wore these funny little hats instead of helmets?”

He smiled a little sadly again. “Yeah, but it wasn’t like the movies, son. Them Green Berets in real life? Hell.”

He sat back in his chair and took a swig of beer, while I sat in mildly stunned silence. I knew my dad swore occasionally—all adults did—but he’d always been careful about swearing around me before. That he’d say “hell” so casually and not apologize for it shocked me.

He set his beer down and wiped his mouth again. “They were hard fellas, Nate. Machines. I’d like to think us regular Army boys were pretty tough. I held my own, and I knew plenty fellas in my platoon that were braver’n tougher’n crazier’n me. Those Green Berets, though . . . I’m not even sure they was human by the time they pulled us outta there. Fact, I heard plenty stories ‘bout how bunches of ‘em slipped off into the jungle when the final orders came to pull out, and no one ever saw nor heard from ‘em again.”

“What was wrong with them, Dad. Were they . . . bad?”

Dad looked sad again. “A few, maybe. But most were regular folks. Here’s the difference: in the regular Army, they train you to defend yourself and kill if you hafta. I killed some men, son. Didn’t want to, and I still have some bad dreams now and again . . . but it was them or me, straight shootin’, and in the end I’m glad it was them, and I don’t feel too bad about it at all.”

“But the Green Berets?”

“They weren’t trained just to defend themselves. They was trained to kill. Whether or not anyone was tryin’ to kill them. They was taught how to sneak in the night and kill men in their beds, kill women and kids, too, if they got in the way. And the military ain’t like school, Nate. You either stayed and did everythin’ their way, or you got sent home in disgrace, and that was just regular Army. Once you went deep as the Green Berets, there was no choices no more. Not even to go home.”

“So . . . they changed him,” I whispered, feeling a deep sense of a sadness I didn’t understand. “Changed him and made him . . . different.”

“Yes, that’s ‘bout right. Not gonna lie, the war changed all of us, turned hundreds of young men into scarred men overnight. But them Green Berets . . . they got changed by their own people, and lots of ‘em couldn’t never change back.”

“Like Jimmy.”

He nodded. “Yes, like Jimmy.”

“If he got changed so bad, why’re you still friends? Why keep getting him re-hired every time he gets fired, why do you . . . ”

“Still spend time with him?” Dad shrugged. “This’ll probably sound strange, but when he’s sober and we’re out in the woods huntin’ or fishin’, he’s a lot like his old self. Older of course and scarred like me, but more like he used to be. And . . . I suppose in a weird way I feel guilty. I came back and had a tough time but I had yer mom, and . . . well, I made it. Was able to live a normal life again. As normal as any of us ever live, anyway. But my buddy . . . like you and Kevin are buddies . . . didn’t make it back. He left something’ important over there’n that jungle, and he ain’t never gonna get it back. I suppose I feel bad about that.”

“He . . . he hits Jake, I think.” My voice rasped and my throat stung. I wanted to cry but couldn’t. “Hits him and . . . maybe does worse stuff.”

Dad nodded very slowly, suddenly looking tired and old. “I know, son. I’ve tried hundreds of times to work myself up to say somethin’ to him or someone else . . . but I’m afraid it’ll just make things worse for Jake, and to have a hand in takin’ a man’s children away, when that man ain’t got nothin’ else . . . well, that’s a hard thing, Nate. A hard thing.”

We lapsed into silence. The clock ticked against the quiet. Finally, Dad roused himself and took a deep breath. “The world is a hard place, Nate. Bad things happen to lots of folks. I’m sure as the sun rises you’ll weather your share of troubles. But you’re not Jake and I’m not Jimmy. You don’t have to worry about those things happenin’ to us.”

I smiled and meant it, though a small cold knot of unease still coiled in my stomach. “Thanks, Dad. A bunch.”

He nodded, and though I didn’t really like baseball, I watched the rest of the game with Dad in a companionable silence for the remainder of the evening.

***

Dad was right about how he’d never turn bad, like Jake’s dad.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t so right about me.