That finally got the one eye to open again, and he turned toward me. “Would you like me to wear a feather?”
“No, I’ll just introduce you as an Injun.”
Cady placed her hand on my shoulder and leaned over to allow the Cheyenne Nation to bestow a kiss on her cheek. She was wearing blue jeans and a tank top with, I was pleased to see, the fringed, concho-studded leather jacket I’d bought for her years ago. It could still turn brisk on July nights along the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains.
She jostled the hat on my head and dropped her gym bag on top of mine. She turned to Henry. “Ready?”
He opened his other eye. “Ready.”
He rose effortlessly, and I thought if I got it in quick that maybe I’d get an answer. “Where you going?”
She smiled as the Bear came around the back of the bench and took her elbow. “I’m not allowed to tell you.”
Cady’s current love interest, Vic’s younger brother, was supposed to be flying in from Philadelphia on Tuesday for a Wild West vacation. I still hadn’t gotten a straight answer as to with whom he was staying. “Don’t forget that Michael is calling.”
She shook her head as they walked past me, pausing to lift my hat and plant a kiss on the crown of my head. “I know when he’s calling, Daddy. I’ll be home long before then.” She shoved my hat down, hard.
I readjusted and watched as they crossed the sidewalk, where Henry helped her into Lola, his powder-blue ’59 T-Bird convertible. The damage I’d done to the classic automobile was completely invisible due to the craftsmanship of the body men in South Philly, and I watched as the Wyoming sun glistened on the Thunderbird’s flanks. I had a moment of hope that they wouldn’t get going when the starter continued to grind, but the aged Y-Block caught and blew a slight fantail of carbon into the street. He slipped her into gear, and they were gone.
As usual, I got the gym bags, and he got the girl.
I considered my options. There was the plastic-wrapped burrito at the Kum-and-Go, the stuffed peppers at the Durant Home for Assisted Living, a potpie from the kitchenette back at the jail, or the Busy Bee Café. I gathered up my collection of bags and hustled across the bridge over Clear Creek before Dorothy Caldwell changed her mind and turned the sign, written in cursive, hanging on her door.
“Not the usual?”
“No.”
She poured my iced tea and looked at me, fist on hip. “You didn’t like it last time?”
I struggled to remember but gave up. “I don’t remember what it was last time.”
“Is Cady’s condition contagious?”
I ignored the comment and tried to decide what to order. “I’m feeling experimental. Are you still offering your Weekend Cuisines of the World?” It was an attempt on her part to broaden the culinary experience of our little corner of the high plains.
“I am.”
“Where, in the world, are we?”
“Vietnam.”
It didn’t take me long to respond. “I’ll pass.”
“It’s really good.”
I weaved my fingers and rested my elbows on the counter. “What is it?”
“Chicken with lemongrass.” She continued to look at me.
“Henry’s dish?”
“That’s where I got the recipe.”
I withered under her continued gaze. “All right.”
She busied herself in the preparation of the dish, and I sipped my tea. I glanced around at the five other people in the homey café but didn’t recognize anyone. I must have been thirsty from watching Cady work out, because a third of the glass was gone in two gulps. I set it back on the Formica, and Dorothy refilled it immediately. “You don’t talk about it much.”
"What?”
“The war.”
I nodded as she put the tan plastic pitcher on the counter next to me. I turned my glass in the circular imprint of its condensation. “It’s funny, but it came up earlier this afternoon.” I met her eyes under the silver hair. “Cady asked about the scar on my collarbone, the one from Tet.”
She nodded slightly. “Surely she’s seen that before?”
“Yep.”
Dorothy took a deep breath. “It’s okay, she’s doing better every day.” She reached out and squeezed my shoulder just at said scar. “But, be careful...” She looked concerned.
I looked up at her. “Why?”
“Visitations like those tend to come in threes.”
I watched as she took the tea and refilled some of the other customers. I thought about Vietnam, thought about the smell, the heat, and the dead.
Tan Son Nhut, Vietnam: 1967
I had flown in with them.
A spec 4 on the helicopter ride had asked where I was going and watched as I’d tried not to throw up on the dead that were stacked in the cargo area of the Huey. I wasn’t sick because of the bodies; I’d seen a lot of those. I just didn’t like helicopters. The men had been in a truck that had hit a mine—fi rebase support in the DMZ for Khe Sanh. They were wrapped in plastic ponchos because the army had run out of body bags. They had run out of food, ammo, and medicine, too—the dead were one of the few things of which there always seemed to be plenty. The spec 4 had shaken his head and told me not to worry. He said that if I got hurt, they could have me in a base-camp hospital in twenty minutes, real bad and they would have me in Yokosuka, Japan, in twelve hours. He had gestured to the plastic-wrapped bundles behind him. Like them, they would have me home in a week.
Later, I studied the chromate green interior of the Quonset hut as a lean air force investigative operations officer squinted up at me through his thick glasses and the sweat. He was studying my utility cap, so I yanked it off my head and returned to attention. I was sweating, too. Specifically, we were there to win over hearts and minds, but mostly what we did was sweat. I had been fighting the feeling that, since arriving in Vietnam coming up on six months earlier, I was melting.
He made me wait the commensurate amount of time to let me know that I had performed a breach of military decorum with my cover and that the major was not pleased. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you?”
The majority of the humidity in my body was draining between my shoulder blades and soaking the waistband of my fatigues. “Not sure, sir.”
“What the hell is a MOS 0111?”
“Marine police, sir. Investigator.”
He continued to shake his head. “Yeah. I got the directive from MAF. Your papers cleared the provost marshal at Chu Lai, so I guess battalion headquarters has decided that you’re my problem now.” He looked up at me. He had the look, the look I’d seen a thousand times in the short period I’d been in-country. He was old—an age that had snuck up on him in the place would stay with him for the rest of his life. The event had him, the war was his religion, and his youth was gone with his eyes. “Marine inspector?”
I remained silent and focused on the corrugated wall in an attempt not to stare at the photo of DeDe Lind, Playboy’s Miss August 1967, that was hung there.
It was December.
The major looked back at my duty papers, rustling them in disbelief. “Inspect? Hell, I didn’t even know you jarheads could read.” He flipped the page, and I figured the real trouble was about to begin. His eyes came up slowly. “English major?”
“Ball, sir.” I’d found it best to downplay higher education in the armed forces, and football was always a quick and successful diversionary tactic.
He blinked behind the glasses and frowned an acceptance that I might not be the complete wastrel he’d first imagined. “What’d you play?”
“Offensive tackle, sir.”
“The trenches? Outstanding. I played a little in high school.”