"And it isn't?"
Stavros blinks. "I see. You say war has to be."
"Yeah, and better there than here. Better little wars than big ones."
Stavros says, his hands on edge, ready to chop, "But you like it." His hands chop. "Burning up gook babies is right where you're at, friend." The "friend" is weak.
Rabbit asks him, "How did you do your Army bit?"
Stavros shrugs, squares his shoulders. "I was 4-F. Tricky ticker. I hear you sat out the Korean thing in Texas."
"I went where they told me. I'd still go where they told me."
"Bully for you. You're what made America great. A real gunslinger."
"He's silent majority," Janice says, "but he keeps making noise," looking at Stavros hopefully, for a return on her quip. God, she is dumb, even if her ass has shaped up in middle age.
"He's a normal product," Stavros says. "He's a typical goodhearted imperialist racist." Rabbit knows, from the careful level way this is pronounced, with that little tuck of a sold-car smile, that he is being flirted with, asked – his dim feeling is – for an alliance. But Rabbit is locked into his intuition that to describe any of America's actions as a "power play" is to miss the point. America is beyond power, it acts as in a dream, as a face of God. Wherever America is, there is freedom, and wherever America is not, madness rules with chains and darkness strangles millions. Beneath her patient bombers, paradise is possible. He fights back, "I don't follow this racist rap. You can't turn on television now without some black face spitting at you. Everybody from Nixon down is sitting up nights trying to figure out how to make 'em all rich without putting 'em to the trouble of doing any work." His tongue is reckless; but he is defending something infinitely tender, the low flame of loyalty lit with his birth. "They talk about genocide when they're the ones planning it, they're the ones, the Negroes plus the rich kids, who want to pull it all down; not that they can't run squealing for a lawyer whenever some poor cop squints funny at 'em. The Vietnam war in my opinion – anybody want my opinion? -"
"Harry," Janice says, "you're making Nelson miserable."
"My opinion is, you have to fight a war now and then to show you're willing, and it doesn't much matter where it is. The trouble isn't this war, it's this country. We wouldn't fight in Korea now. Christ, we wouldn't fight Hitler now. This country is so zonked out on its own acid, sunk so deep in its own fat and babble and laziness, it would take H-bombs on every city from Detroit to Atlanta to wake us up and even then, we'd probably think we'd just been kissed."
"Harry," Janice asks, "do you want Nelson to die in Vietnam? Go ahead, tell him you do."
Harry turns to their child and says, "Kid, I don't want you to die anyplace. Your mother's the girl that's good at death."
Even he knows how cruel this is; he is grateful to her for not collapsing, for blazing up instead. "Oh," she says. "Oh. Tell him why he has no brothers or sisters, Harry. Tell him who refused to have another child."
"This is getting too rich," Stavros says.
"I'm glad you're seeing it," Janice tells him, her eyes sunk deep; Nelson gets that from her.
Mercifully, the food arrives. Nelson balks, discovering the meatballs drenched in gravy. He looks at Rabbit's tidily skewered lamb and says, "That's what I wanted."
"Let's swap then. Shut up and eat," Rabbit says. He looks across to see that Janice and Stavros are having the same thing, a kind of white pie. They are sitting, to his printer's sense, too close, leaving awkward space on either side. To poke them into adjustment he says, "I think it's a swell country."
Janice takes it up, Stavros chewing in silence. "Harry, you've never been to any other country."
He addresses himself to Stavros. "Never had the desire to. I see these other countries on TV, they're all running like hell to be like us, and burning our Embassies because they can't make it fast enough. What other countries do you get to?"
Stavros interrupts his eating grudgingly to utter, "Jamaica."
"Wow," Rabbit says. "A real explorer. Three hours by jet to the lobby of some Hilton."
"They hate us down there."
"You mean they hate you. They never see me, I never go. Why do they hate us?"
"Same reason as everywhere. Exploitation. We steal their bauxite."
"Let 'em trade it to the Russkis for potatoes then. Potatoes and missile sites."
"We have missile sites in Turkey," Stavros says, his heart no longer in this.
Janice tries to help. "We've dropped two atom bombs, the Russians haven't dropped any."
"They didn't have any then or they would have. Here the Japanese were all set to commit hari-kari and we saved them from it; now look at 'em, happy as clams and twice as sassy, screwing us right and left. We fight their wars for them while you peaceniks sell their tinny cars."
Stavros pats his mouth with a napkin folded squarely and regains his appetite for discussion. "Her point is, we wouldn't be in this Vietnam mess if it was a white country. We wouldn't have gone in. We thought we just had to shout Boo and flash a few jazzy anti-personnel weapons. We thought it was one more Cherokee uprising. The trouble is, the Cherokees outnumber us now."
"Oh those fucking poor Indians," Harry says. "What were we supposed to do, let 'em have the whole continent for a campfire site?" Sorry, Tonto.
"If we had, it'd be in better shape than it is now."
"And we'd be nowhere. They were in the way."
"Fair enough," Stavros says. "Now you're in their way." He adds, "Paleface."
"Let 'em come," Rabbit says, and really is, at this moment, a defiant bastion. The tender blue flame has become cold fire in his eyes. He stares them down. He stares at Janice and she is dark and tense: án Indian squaw. He'd like to massacre her.
Then his son says, his voice strained upward through chokeddown tears, "Dad, we're going to be late for the movie!"
Rabbit looks at his watch and sees they have four minutes to get there. The kid is right.
Stavros tries to help, fatherly like men who aren't fathers, who think kids can be fooled about essentials. "The opening part's the dullest, Nellie, you won't miss any of the space parts. You got to try some baklava for dessert."
"I'll miss the cave men," Nelson says, the choking almost complete, the tears almost risen.
"I guess we should go," Rabbit tells the two other adults.
"That's rude to Charlie," Janice says. "Really rude. Anyway I won't be able to stay awake during this interminable movie without coffee." To Nelson: "Baklava is really yummy. It's honey and flakes of thin dough, just the kind of dry thing you love. Try to be considerate, Nelson, your parents so rarely get to eat in a restaurant."
Torn, Rabbit suggests, "Or you could try that other stuff you wanted for the main deal, mellow patties or whatever."
The tears do come; the kid's tense face breaks. "You promised," he sobs, unanswerably, and hides his face against the white bare wall.
"Nelson, I am disappointed in you," Janice tells him.
Stavros says to Rabbit, tucking that pencil behind his ear again, "If you want to run now, she could get her coffee and I'll drop her-off at the movie house in ten minutes."
"That's a possibility," Janice says slowly, her face opening cautiously, a dull flower.
Rabbit tells Stavros, "O.K., great. Thanks. You're nice to do that. You're nice to put. up with us at all, sorry if I said anything too strong. I just can't stand to hear the U.S. knocked, I'm sure it's psychological. Janice, do you have money? Charlie, you tell her how much we owe."