FRENCH CREEK, PENNSYLVANIA, EARLY October 1968: “I want you to go,” Henry Balliett said. He was a large man with a large nose and a full though short-cropped beard. “It’s important,” he said, “that you set this example for the others.” He did not look at her as he spoke but looked at the edge of the picture window as if it held his grand design for the family. “Now this program, I want to know more about it.”
Henry and Norma Balliett of French Creek had six children. Linda, born January 1st, 1949, was the eldest. She was followed by Ruth, now 18; Joanie, 16; Cindy, 13; Lea, 11; and Henry Jr., 6. Henry Sr. was executive vice-president in charge of underwriting for the diminutive Penn-York Mutual Life Assurance Company of Pottstown. Norma, after a twenty-year hiatus, had returned to work as a yellow-pages artist.
“It’s a nontraditional program,” Linda explained. She was sitting in one of two cream-colored, glazed-chintz, overstuffed chairs. Her father remained standing, staring at the edge of the window. “Not only will I get my RN but I’ll get a master’s degree when I graduate. It’ll take me another two years, full-time.”
“In Boston?”
“Um-hmm. Two years in Boston after I get my LPN here.”
“And you’ve been accepted?”
“Well ... no.” Linda felt the pressure of his question as she had ever since fifth grade when suddenly she was no longer his buddy, no longer his softball player but a young human sprouting breasts. “But I’ve filed the application and the school’s sent my transcript, and ...”
“And you think they’ll take you?”
“Daddy, I’m number two in my class! Why wouldn’t they?! Besides Dr. Tagesaubruch is an alumna and she’s very influential—”
“Do I know him?”
“Dr. Tag—Anne. She. She just about started the program up there and she’s my adviser. She’s setting it up. Oh, Daddy, I’ve told you ...”
“Okay. Okay. But how are you going to pay for all this? Boston! Philadelphia’s bad enough. What’s wrong with working in Reading. Or Pottstown?”
“That’s not what I want!”
“That’s what we can afford! Your sister just got married. Do you know what that cost?! Over three thousand dollars! We could have got a new car. And you and Joanie pretty soon—”
“I can get the financial aid. I’ll tell Anne—”
“Look, Linda Lee ... it’s not that ... it was—with the cake and flowers, really almost four thou—”
“I said I’d get it!”
“Pottstown’s hiring now.”
“I’m not going to work in a hospital. I’m going for a degree in family-nurse practice.”
“Is this that midwife thing again?”
“That’s part of it.”
Henry Balliett shook his head woefully. “I may not know medicine, Linda, but I know insurance. I know who gets sued. I know what happens when a midwife loses a baby in one of those home birth attempts. I know ...” He did not go on but stood still, his teeth clamped, his arms locked over his chest. Linda said nothing. She didn’t want to rile him. He’d slapped her too many times—slapped her once they were no longer buddies and she’d discovered boys—slapped her in front of her sisters so they’d all learn the lesson.
He turned to her, she still sitting in the cream-colored chintz. “What about your car? You’re not going to take that thing to Boston, are you?”
“I’ll take the daisies off,” she conceded. “I won’t need a car up there, anyway.”
He sighed. “Maybe we can swing—”
At that moment Norma Balliett walked into the living room, followed by Joanie, Cindy and Lea. “Well.” Norma paused, looked at her husband and eldest daughter, smiled brightly. “Joanie tells me you’ve some news.” She kissed the top of Linda’s head. “When are we going to meet this Tony fellow?”
They drove out late on a cold Friday night in October, north from Philly, through Allentown, up to I-80 then west, then winding north up through Mill Creek Falls, not stopping, not even slowing down, Tony barely acknowledging his hometown, driving in the darkness of a deserted 154, aiming toward Forksville, searching the coal black roadside for the entrance to World’s End State Park.
“You’re certain ...?” Linda asked, repeated for the nth time.
“Very.” Tony’s answer was terse, his only terse answer to her the entire trip.
“I don’t want to freeze....”
“I’ll keep you warm.”
“This is really way the hell out.”
“Um-hmm.”
“I mean, this is like much farther out than French Creek and French Creek’s pretty rural.”
“Far out, Babe.” Tony turned to her, flashed his smile, turned back quickly.
Linda snuggled in closer, pretending to want warmth but actually looking at the gas gauge. The road essed, rose, dipped. Inside the car she could see the silhouette of Tony’s face in the faint glow from the dash and the minuscule light reflected back in from the headlights, and she tried to feel at ease, tried to feel in love with his handsome profile, but instead she felt terrified. “What if it snows....”
“It’ll be beautiful,” Tony answered. “It’s cold out but we’ll be warm. I promise. I’ve done this in Norway in temperatures below zero.”
“It is snowing!”
“Just a flurry. There—” He lifted his foot from the throttle, let the car decelerate, “we’re here.” He braked, maneuvered the car between two iron posts. “John and Joe and me and my Pop came here a couple of times and I came in scouts.... It’s really beautiful and there’s a natural pool below the falls where we can swim.”
“Swim!”
Tony laughed. “Yeah. There won’t be anybody here. We can skinny-dip before breakfast.”
“No way!” Linda moved back from him. He worked the car through the first lot and onto a small dirt lane that led to the upper campground.
“You’ll see,” he said.
The tent was a two-man mountain shelter and with the small catalytic heater the temperature inside rose quickly. The air mattresses lay side by side, held in place by the narrow walls and by the wool blanket Tony had covered them with and had tucked in at the sides, head and feet, and finally by the soft cotton winter sheet. To cover them he’d layered first a regular cotton sheet, then two soft blankets and finally a thick down comforter he’d borrowed from Lieutenant Kevin Mulhaney. A warm glow came from the battery-powered lantern.
For eight weeks they had dated, for six weeks they had been lovers. Now they lay side by side, naked, uncovered, the heat of their loving having driven the temperature up until Linda’s feet were sweating (perspiring she’d always correct him—girls don’t sweat) and she’d kicked the covers to the bottom of the tent and unzipped both the inner and outer flaps a few inches. He lay on his back, happy, happier, he thought, than he’d ever been, and she, on her side, her hip compressing the mattress to the ground but ignoring that one cool spot and focusing on Tony’s body, running her left hand—her right, propped on an elbow, held her head—running her left hand slowly, lightly, up his left thigh, up his left side, brushing his nipples which made him squiggle with delight, down his right, to his right thigh, her fingers gently entering the cleft left by an NVA bayonet seven months earlier.
“Roll over and I’ll give you a back rub.” Linda pushed herself up, still sitting sideways, her legs slightly askew.
Tony stared at her breasts. No matter how many times he’d seen them in the past six weeks, they always amazed him—the large areolas, the protruding nipples, the curve, the fullness. He rolled toward her, put his right hand on her hip, pressed his face into her right tit. She laughed. He raised up on his left elbow to get better situated, moved his right hand to her left breast, moved the left breast to his ear and began speaking in a silly British accent into the right areola. “Rangoon! Rangoon. This is Bangkok. Ah, Rangoon, you’re coming in a bit heavy. Wait one.” He backed away, pushed her gently to her back, then with a hand on each breast pretended he was adjusting the knobs of a radio. Then back with his mouth on the transmitter, she laughing, squirming, cocking her head to see his silliness. “Ah Rangoon, you are now clear. Do you read me? No! I’ve got you lumpy chicken. Eh?...”
“Lumpy chicken?!” She pushed lightly on his shoulders.
He lifted his head. “Loud and clear.”
“Oh. Carry on.”
“Now, ah yes, Rangoon, yes ... that’s affirmative. The two milk jugs are mine to keep—”
“Hey.” She protested. “What’s in it for me?”
“Ah Rangoon, yes, for you, yes, you get the Thunder Rod ... No ... Yes ... trade two jugs plus one cracked—”
“Tony!” She pushed him off, pretending insult, pretending seriousness. “Now, roll over.”
Now he did roll over and she straddled him, leaned forward, cupped her hands on the sides of his shoulders and kneaded the thick sinew. She worked toward his neck. “What’s all this stuff?” she asked.
“What?” he said, embarrassed.
“These sores.”
“Just zits,” he said. “They come en go. Kind of disgusting. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not that. They don’t look like pimples.”
“Yeah. We use ta call em gook sores. I never had pimples, you know, as a teenager. Well, I mean a few, but not like those. But ever since Nam Bo.... Lots of guys got em over there.”
“That doesn’t look like acne to me.”
“Augh, we were so dirty all the time ...”
“Tony, it looks more like dermatophyte or a skin infection of some kind.”
“What? Yeah. Maybe. I’ve got it on my knees, too. Never goes away all the way. Weird, huh?”
“You should see a dermatologist.”
“Um.” He rolled under her. She still straddled him. “Hey.” He chuckled. His penis was erect. “Know what’s long and hard on an Italian?”
She reached down, grabbed him. “I know what’s long and hard on this one.” She cooed. “God! You’ve got such a fat cock.” She squeezed it.
“Naw,” he blurted. “Not that.” He laughed, coughed, choked on his words. “It’s ... sec ... ond grade.”
She laughed too but only for a few seconds before she lowered herself onto him and held him and whispered, “I love the way you feel in me.”
Tony moved his hips very slowly, rocking gently, lifting her, holding her, kissing her, then holding her face, studying every lash, every pore, feeling more love for her than he ever thought possible. “You’ve got the most incredible eyes,” he said. “I love looking at your eyes.” She lowered her face to his chest. “They’re really different. Like they change colors—gold, then blue, then almost black at the edge. They’re really exquisite.”
She lifted her head. “They’re just hazel,” she said.
“They’re exquisite.” He moved again, lifted again, but mostly they lay still, holding each other, feeling the press of the other’s body.
“If my father knew we were doing this”—Linda shimmied with a small laugh—“he’d come after you with a shotgun.”
“I’d risk his shotgun anytime ... to do this.” Tony kissed her. Again they just held each other. Linda could hear Tony’s heart thumping. “What’s your father like?” Tony asked.
“He used to be a nice guy,” Linda answered. “When I was small we’d play ball all the time in the backyard. Or I’d sit on his lap to watch TV. But I think he finds women threatening. When I reached puberty ... You don’t want to hear this.”
“Yes, I do. Family’s really important to me.”
“To me, too.”
“When I get married I want to have a better marriage than my folks.”
“But they had a lot of good years, you said.”
“Yeah. I think they did. They hardly ever talk to each other now. And my Pop and Aunt Helen ... my mother’s sister!”
“I know. You told me. I’d like to meet your grandmother someday. She sounds like such a neat lady.”
“Yeah. ‘Dignity. Always dignity.’” Tony chuckled but it was now a pained laugh. “Like my father.”
“But he was always good to you?”
“Oh yeah. When he was around. I mean it was usually like he was always working.”
“Well, that’s better than my dad. It was ... I mean, one day we were really close, then somehow it all changed. He became the strict disciplinarian. It was nothing for him to use his hand. If he got really angry he’d use his belt. I used to hate him for that.”
“Geez.”
“I mean I’ve just distanced myself from him. But anytime we’re together now there’s a wall. There’s a debate. If I don’t watch it, sparks fly.”
“That’d really bother me,” Tony said. “I mean, like if I had kids. I remember one time ... I shouldn’t tell you this.”
“Yes you should.”
“It was at Dai Do.”
“Where you got stabbed.”
“Um-hmm. But it was a lot earlier in the battle. I saw this guy grease a lady and three kids. Three beautiful little kids.”
“You mean kill them?!”
“Yeah.”
“What did they do to him? Did they charge him ...?”
“No. Linda ...”
“I think those are war crimes and men like that should be—”
“Whoa! He wasn’t one of ours.”
“Who?”
“Look, I’ll tell you the story, then you’ll understand.”
“But ...”
“This happened to me so just listen.” Linda slid to Tony’s side. As he spoke he stared at the tent roof. “We came on to this village, you know, a small cluster of hootches. Shacks really. And we were catching some fire from the surrounding area so we went through the normal steps—yelling for the civilians to come out, to get out in the open, to get out of the area. I mean we knew there was like a battalion of NVA—”
“Viet Namese?”
“North Viet Namese Army. Communist soldiers. They were in the area, but you know, it all went down okay. The people came out, we dumped in a shitload of firepower, and we went into the ville. And while we were in there, I mean there’s this hootch in front of me, across a walkway ... kind a path, like an aisle between the hootches. There’s a double row running this way and a perpendicular row like this and I’m across the intersection of the two paths from this one hootch. And I’m trying to look down both paths and my platoon’s just coming in behind me. There isn’t any fire in the village but there’s fire all over the god damned place. And this is my sector of responsibility, you know, and I’m really nervous. People are counting on me.”
“Where were the children?”
“I’ll get to that. I’m looking down one way and out of the corner of my eye I see something move and I spin an snap in—”
“Snap ...”
“I’ve dropped to one knee and snapped my rifle up to my shoulder ready to fire—locked, loaded, safety’s off, my finger’s on the trigger. This is a combat situation. There’s shit flyin. And coming out of this hootch is a Viet Namese man, like twenty yards away. He doesn’t have a uniform on or anything like that, but he’s got on this really heavy leather belt. I remember seeing the belt because I never saw a Viet with one like it. And this dude’s running. I mean he’s running like hell and you know your natural instinct is to grease the fu—you know, to shoot the bastard. But I didn’t. I hesitated because this guy didn’t have a weapon. Or I didn’t see one on him. I didn’t know, you know, was he NVA, VC, or was he just a peasant who freaked out. See, if he was uniformed, I’d of busted caps at him. Or if he had a weapon. But I didn’t know, and when I decided to shoot he was already down the path and out behind a hootch and gone.”
“Well, thank goodness.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said too. I thought maybe he had a weapon under his shirt or something, but maybe not. And I thought if he had a weapon he’d probably have shot me first while I was looking up the other path and he’d probably been watchin me, waiting until I was looking the other way. Maybe he was a trail watcher, you know, counting us. Still, I thought I did the right thing. You know, you’re supposed to identify your target before you shoot. We weren’t trigger happy like some of the stories I hear now, back here. You identify your target and you see beyond the target too so you don’t hit somethin you don’t want to hit. And I reported it and the gunny says, ‘Okay.’ And I say, ‘I think I shoulda shot im.’ And the gunny says, ‘Naw. You maintained your presence of mind by not firing because you couldn’t fully identify the target.’ I felt okay about it until later that day and we’re like at the next ville up the line and the shit’s really hitting the fan. We’ve got platoons to each side and we’re going in and the NVA—this is an old move—they’d like taken all the civilians and had them huddled in an irrigation canal and all of a sudden they make the civilians run out toward us because that makes a human screen for them to maneuver behind. But we knew it cause they’ve done it to us before so we’re yelling at the people to split and come like in two columns forward and we’re going to go up the middle with one squad while one squad watches each of the columns to make sure they’re really all unarmed civilians. And there’s one family just back by the canal—just this lady and three little kids—and they froze and I can see this guy on the other side, like a direct line from me through them to him and he’s armed, he’s got an AK and I’m running forward, me and Manny, and we’re yelling for them to get down but all four of em are frozen like statues and then this motherfucker cuts loose with his AK and he’s not even aiming at us but only at them and he cuts them to pieces, and we don’t even get off a shot because we’re diving for cover and just ... just so horrified. But I got a glimpse of him and I’m sure he had on this big leather belt. And I fuckin sat there and cried. I’m sorry ...”
“Oh Tony. Tony.” Linda had tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry too. You shouldn’t of ever had to see that. Oh God.”
In the morning they made love again, laughed again, slept till noon, got up, dressed, built a big fire and made brunch. As he watched Linda turning flapjacks and frying hamsteaks and perking coffee, as he saw her settle into the job, mastering the art of keeping all three pans cool enough so the food didn’t burn, as he looked at her auburn hair just reaching her shoulders, as he caught the opalescence from her eyes, Tony thought with every ounce of his being a thought he’d had for eight weeks, a thought that had become stronger with every moment he was with her: I’m going to marry you Linda Balliett. I’m going to marry you someday.
Pisano stood barefoot, crouched, in only his skivvies, in the dark. The tile floor felt cold. He did not remember getting up. The momentary release from the confines of the city and the Corps that he had experienced during the camping trip had evaporated. His dreams had returned. Again and again he awoke sitting up, snapping in, or on his feet, poised. His heart would be racing, his body coated in sweat, his breath exhausting like bellows. But unlike his earlier dreams, though these were in full color, taste, sound and smell, though these still terrified him because he could not control them, these vanished the moment he woke and he could not recall details.
Chris Crocco was snoring. The night before had been a late night, a one-day-early celebration of Tony’s twenty-first birthday, and the 193d birthday of the United States Marine Corps. There had been no notifications on Saturday and only one burial that Gene Lambert had handled. Linda had gone to French Creek to prepare for Tony’s Thanksgiving visit with her family. So Tony, Chris, Lambert, and Reggie Williams, decked out in dress blues, had all escorted Lieutenant Kevin Mulhaney and his fiancée to a Marine Corps ball at a downtown hotel where Chris and Reggie had gotten drunk and obnoxious and nearly ripped Mulhaney’s fiancée’s dress off her shoulders and Lambert and Tony, drunk as they too were, had had to escort Crocco and Williams out, then return and apologize and listen to Mulhaney first quietly threatened them with “serious consequences,” then in the foyer lambast them until Lambert let loose with a projectile vomit that splattered over most of the carpet and soaked Mulhaney’s spit-shined shoes and half his pant legs. Before Mulhaney could come completely unglued, Tony had whisked Gene out of the hotel, into a cab, and back to their barracks.
Tony straightened, arched his back. His head ached a vodka-and-whiskey-sours headache. He glanced toward the noise of Crocco’s snoring in the dark and the thought popped into his mind that it was not Crocco there in the dark but Rick, without legs. Pisano shook, brought his hands up, dragged his fingers down his face. He shook again, inhaled deeply. Then he went to the stereo, picked up the unopened cards and letters that had arrived late Saturday, and went to the head.
Tony sat on the toilet. The glare of the fluorescent lights felt like it was ricocheting inside his eyeballs. He squinted. There was a card from his mother and father, nothing elaborate but actually signed by both instead of by Josephine for both; a card from Uncle James and Aunt Isabella, one from Annalisa, and one from Aunt Helen. There were letters from his brother John and from Jimmy Pellegrino. He decided to save Pellegrino’s. As he opened his brother’s he thought about not having told any of them about Linda. The thought angered him, the thought that he needed to justify Linda to these people. His next thought, of this lovely girl who actually liked him, maybe loved him, this woman in whose presence he was in a perpetual state of both pride and sexual excitement—this thought eased all the pain. He fantasized about her and put the letters and cards down and masturbated. Then he returned to the letters.
Tony—
Happy birthday and congratulations. You’ve made it to 21. Now you’re truly a man.
Tony, you forgot Jo’s birthday. That was really a bad move. You were the only one who forgot. She was 52 on the 17th. You should call her and wish her a belated birthday. You know that she worries about you all the time. I think even more now than when you were overseas. You don’t see it because you’re never here, but her worrying is giving her an ulcer and I think it’s driving Pop insane. Maybe she’s got a reason to worry. When you were home on leave this last time you were pretty weird and I think that scared Jo.
Uncle James heard from Jimmy and it sounds like he’s got an easy job. I think he said a “getting over” job where he doesn’t have to work too hard and where he’s not where they’re shooting all the time.
I want to back up a minute. You should know that Jo and Pop know that you and Jimmy were smoking marijuana out back on the toolshed. Good Grief, Tony, couldn’t you be more discreet! I mean the stuff is illegal. That was really a stupid move. You’d better set it straight with the folks or you’re going to kill Jo with worry. Well, I just wanted to wish you a happy 21st. Hope it’s GREAT!
John
Sin Loi, motherfucker, Tony thought. He’s worse than an old woman. Shit. I’d better call her. Tony opened Jimmy P.’s letter. It was neatly written and clean, unlike most letters written in the field, and decorated with three beautiful fine-line drawings: one of a water buffalo pulling a plow, one an old man’s portrait, and finally a sketch of Jimmy holding a small Viet Namese child on his lap.
Hey Breeze—
Shitload of news here. I’m in a hootch in my own ville. How do you like that! We’re part of Operation Le Loi—Accelerated Pacification. Really it’s not new but only CAP (Combined Action Program) expanded and under a new name. It’s working as well as the old CAP program and living and working with these people is really terrific. This, to me, is what the whole thing is about. While I was on leave the NVA sprang another offensive but it failed miserably. The villagers here don’t want to have anything to do with them because of last Tet and then the May offensive. It makes my job so easy. We’re part of 4th CAG (Combined Action Group). I think 4th CAG’s plan calls for two dozen Marine rifle squads to be paired with a like number of Viet Popular Force platoons—each pair assigned to its own village. 4th is responsible for Quang Tri–Dong Ha–Cam Lo area.
Anyway, I really love working with these people and the villagers are great. The sketches are by Li, my hootch maid and best friend. She’s eleven, very pretty, and as you can see very talented. She’s blind in her left eye and a bit of a gimp from having stepped on a mine two years ago—a mine some jackass forgot he’d put out one night on ambush. She and her brother both took pellets from a claymore. The jackass, probably some army stooge, didn’t aim it right otherwise Li would have been history. Li’s really a neat kid and if I could I’d adopt her. Can you imagine the cow Isabel would have over that! Ha!
Other things going on. You know LBJ ordered a halt to all air, naval, and artillery bombardments of the North. What a dumb shit. Intel already is showing a major NVA build up in and just above the Z, and major new supply shipments coming in through Laos. Hq of 3d Marine Div is really pissed. These guys know it’s only a matter of time before we begin getting hit again. Already, in one week, the number of incidents around here, all along the Ben Hai River, and—you’re goina love this—around Dai Do, have increased. Same time, our CAPs are getting better and we, along with a few army units and some regular ARVN, are providing security for about 70% of all of I Corps’ three million civilians. If Nixon undoes Johnson’s fuck-ups we’ve got a good chance of ending this stupidity—forever.
Hey, by the way, I got a letter from Red and she said to say hi to you. She also wrote saying Stacy was asking for you, that if you call her she might say yes to going out!
Okay, signing off from this beautiful place—it really is a beautiful country.
J
Four hours later Tony called Linda at her parents’ home in French Creek. After a brief exchange of pleasantries Linda would only say, “We’ll talk when I get back to Philly.”
For an entire week before they drove out to French Creek for Thanksgiving, Linda would not let Tony touch her. Nor had he been able to for the week after their trip to World’s End. “Honeymoon cystitis,” she’d said. “It’s an inflammation of the bladder.” He hadn’t said anything then even though he didn’t fully understand. Their loving returned in mid-November and his concentration was on pleasing her and thereby himself, and their mutual attraction became even more powerful. But just before Thanksgiving she again shut him off, physically and emotionally withdrew in a way he did not understand at all.
On Thanksgiving morning she picked him up early and they stopped at two Italian bakeries before leaving town so Tony could bring the Ballietts a large assortment of pastries: cannoli, neopolitans, amaretti, strufoli and frittelle, croccanti di noce, and sfogliatelli, the latter so stuffed with ricotta filling that the insides of the box were totally smeared even before they put them on the back seat.
They drove, mostly in silence, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups, eating a few of the pastries, Linda manically smoking cigarette after cigarette, like a Marine after a firefight, and Tony had never even seen her smoke before. They looked for gas in Coventryville but didn’t find an open station, pushed on to Krauertown, filled up with an off-brand. Tony had been sullen, frowning for much of the ride.
As they got back in he looked at her, at her stockinged legs as he held her door, at her face and those exquisite eyes now so focused and determined, at her wonderful breasts so demurely covered by who knew how many layers—bra, slip, dress, jacket, and coat—at her total countenance, cigarette and all, and even rejected and sullen he could feel nothing but overwhelming attraction.
“I don’t understand,” Tony broke the silence, “why you couldn’t tell him.”
“I just couldn’t,” she answered.
“What’s wrong with my being a Marine?”
“Nothing. It’s not you. It’s him. You’ll see.”
“We’ll, I’m thinking of re-upping. You know, I might be a Marine for a long time.”
“Under Mulhaney!” The conversation died then erupted again. “I just couldn’t, that’s all. He was ... Look, I just couldn’t. Accept it!”
“Then I shouldn’t be going.”
“No! You’ve got to. I mean, we’re almost there.”
“I can hitch back. It’s no big deal.”
“Tony, please! Don’t make this harder on me. It’ll be so much easier if you’re there. I’ll tell them immediately. Ruthie knows.”
“Ruthie. She’s—”
“She’s the pretty one. The one that just got married.”
Again they fell silent as Linda drove the last few miles to French Creek, then meandered through downtown, a short, charming main street of brick row houses and old cast-iron street lamps already decorated for Christmas. Tony sighed, simmered. He thought how Linda was the only good thing in his life and how even this had its ups and downs and why had she had her hair cut and maybe he should call Stacy because maybe he wasn’t making decisions but was simply going with the flow as he’d been since Okinawa when he’d realized, maybe, someone else was living his life.
“You know,” Linda said abruptly, “my father always says I’m either too naive or I’m too stupid ... like I never learned, you know, to mask my feelings. He says that’s a fault. That I shouldn’t be ... that I should control them. Hold them in check. That—”
“HEY!” Tony cracked.
Linda startled. “Wha—”
“Fuck it!”
“Tony!”
“Just say fuck it! You’re a big girl.”
“I know I’m a big girl.” Now they were both yelling.
“Then act like it!”
“I am!”
“No, you’re not. You’re acting like a spoiled brat who’s afraid Daddy won’t pat her on the head.”
“God! You know my friend Judy said it was a bad idea to do this on a holiday ... because it’s an emotionally charged time anyway!”
“Is that what’s got you so fuckin up tight?”
“Geez!” She squeezed the wheel hard, stared straight ahead. He clamped up. Finally she said, “Mom’s going to have been up all night cleaning. And cooking. She’ll be a wreck. Dad will probably have slapped everybody for making too much noise and disturbing Mom. You know, that’s just the way it is. And you want me to say, ‘Hi. Meet Tony. He’s a Marine.’ That’ll really blow their minds.”
“You’re really worried about this.” Tony was calmer now. Linda, angry, still looked to him so beautiful—playfully lovely. He burst out laughing.
She looked at him, slapped his shoulder, laughed too, and as they pulled into the driveway they were laughing and poking each other and Linda nearly crashed into her father’s new ’69 Cadillac. They were still laughing as they got out into the crisp November air and Tony wiped pastry crumbs off Linda’s chest, she catching his hands, holding them decently on her shoulders, looking to see that no one saw him touch her and seeing her sister Ruth and Ruth’s new husband Jay McKinney, and her father only feet from them. Her face went pale.
“Well,” Henry said. He was a full four inches taller than Tony, eight inches taller than Linda. “You must be Tony.”
“Yes Sir,” Tony said snappily. He extended his hand.
“So,” Henry said, “you’re Linda Lee’s sexy Italian who’s a sergeant in the Marine Corps.” He grasped Tony’s fingers but Tony rammed his hand in for a proper handshake.
“Yes Sir,” Tony said proudly. “And you must be Hank. And this,”—he turned to Ruth, then glanced back at Linda, stage-whispering “the pretty one,”—“must be Ruthie. And Jay, right?” He shook hands with both.
“Ah, not—” Henry Balliett cleared his throat. “No one calls me Hank. Henry. Call me Henry.”
“Well, thank you, Sir,” Tony said. “I’d like that.”
Henry Balliett smiled. “It’s good to see Linda Lee with a boy who’s hair is shorter than hers.”
“Yes Sir,” Tony answered, matching Henry smile for smile.
An hour later, in the living room with Jay McKinney, Norma, Henry and all the younger Balliett children, Tony explained somberly, “Notification just isn’t good duty.” There was a commercial break from a televised, pregame, Thanksgiving parade and Norma and the children were allowed to speak. “I mean,” Tony continued, “it’s not physically bad but it is very wearing.”
“I don’t know how you children do it,” Norma said. “Really, I don’t. I could never keep up with you. Or Linda. She looks so drawn. I worry about her.”
“Me too,” Tony said.
“Have you and Linda been seeing each other a lot?” Norma asked.
“Yes,” Tony said. “Well except for the past few weeks. Linda’s had this honeymoon cystitis thing.”
Norma’s mouth dropped. Henry’s face snapped from the screen to Tony. “Honeym—” Norma could barely get the words out.
“Oh, I don’t think it’s anything serious,” Tony said quickly. “I’m not even sure I have the name right. I think she said—”
“Oh, it must be something else,” Norma injected.
“Yes’m,” Tony agreed. “It was some kind of influenza, I think. Influenza of—”
“Certainly,” Norma said firmly. Henry turned back to the screen.
“Mrs. Balliett,” Tony said respectfully, “Linda said you’ve gone back to work.”
“Oh, she told you.” Norma’s face beamed. “I used to do it before Linda was born.”
“Did she tell you,” Henry interrupted, “she was born five hours too late?”
“Five hours ...”
“January first at five A.M. Five hours too late to deduct her on my income taxes.”
“Oh, Henry.” Norma laughed as if on cue. “In those years we didn’t make enough to even think about deductions.”
Tony also laughed obligingly but immediately turned back to Linda’s mother. “What do ...” he began.
“I draw art work for the phone company. Yellow pages. You know, when your fingers do the walking, they walk all over my drawings.”
In the kitchen Ruthie whispered to Linda, “Did you see the look on Dad’s face when he said, ‘You must be Hank’? Nobody’s ever said that to him. I thought I’d die.”
“I know.” Linda giggled quietly.
“Did you tell him to say—”
“No. He just came out with it. He’s like that. And I forgot to warn him about Dad’s handshake but I could see—”
“Linda, where did you find him? He really is sexy.” Ruthie pretended to swoon. Giggled. “Oh, ‘My Hero!’” she swayed. “Except he’s a little short.”
Linda winked. “Not where it counts,” she blurted lowly.
“Linda! Have you two been—”
“Ssshhh! Get the yams.” Linda looked at Ruthie, repressed a burst of laughter. She stood a little straighter, shimmied as if to shake the conspiratorial thoughts away and repeated, “Yams. To the table. I’ll get the salad.”
The setting could have been a Norman Rockwell painting; the beautifully glazed turkey surrounded by stuffing and cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, yams, green and jello salads, green beans, carrot and celery sticks, a fruit basket, rolls, wine, and milk—beautiful place settings, beautifully dressed family, mother and five girls with heads bowed, Tony and Jay sprinkled in as table anchors, Henry Sr. saying grace, Henry Jr. looking out behind his father at the TV, the game about to begin.
There was light chatter through the early courses, a bit heavier as Jay and Tony began the second bottle of wine.
“You called yourselves ...?” Ruth began to repeat her question.
“Magnificent Bastards.” Tony said proudly. “That’s two-four ... ah, Second Battalion, Fourth Marine Regiment. We were really a good unit.”
“And that’s where you learned to be a medic?”
“Oh! No.” Tony turned to Linda, said, “IV?” She tapped her lips indicating she had a mouthful, nodded. “Kind of,” Tony said. “I wasn’t a medic but Doc So taught me how to start IVs and inject morphine. Stuff like that.”
“Dr. So?” Henry Sr. asked. “Was he Chinese?”
Tony smiled, swallowed another gulp of wine. “No Sir. I don’t know what his name was. We called him So because he was so neat and so fat.”
Joanie giggled. Cindy got the giggles and couldn’t stop, and it infected Lea and the two youngest girls received The Look from their father.
The conversation rocked back and forth and Cindy, Lea and Henry Jr. were dismissed from the table. Jay talked about the astronauts in orbit, about the upcoming moon shot; Linda told her parents about her financial aid package and its imminent approval. Tony smiled, glanced at Linda who began reexplaining her schedule to her mother.
“I graduate in December with my LPN. Then I move to Boston. That part’s all set....”
Tony felt wine confident, felt in-love confident. He turned to Jay who very seriously said to him, “Mr. Balliett—Dad—he helped me get a deferment, being that I’m married and I’ve got a critical job.”
“Oh. What do you do?”
“I’m ... Dad got me a job with Penn-York. I’m really just a clerk but he had them say I was handling their entire new computer system. I am learning it.”
“Hm.” Tony said. He heard Linda saying her classes would begin on January 6th and rotations two weeks later. To Jay Tony said, “I thought about going back to school too, but my cousin Jimmy’s been sending me info on this new pacification program that’s doing a lot of good. I might re-up to go back to Viet Nam and ...”
Suddenly the table was quiet. Then Linda said softly, “Don’t you dare.”
And Tony smiled and said, “But then again ...” and Ruth and Jay laughed. “Really,” Tony continued, “there’s word in the pipeline about drops coming down.”
“Drops?” Norma asked.
“Early outs. I’m signed up until next August but there’s talk, if you’ve been overseas, of four- to six-month drops. I could be discharged as early as February.”
“And then,” Henry asked, “what will you do?”
“I could go to school,” Tony said. “On the GI Bill. I haven’t really decided yet.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Ruth said. “Why don’t you and Linda come and stay with Jay and me tonight. Then we can talk about your options and—”
“They can’t stay at your apartment!” Henry Balliett interrupted. “You’ve only got the one bedroom.”
Jay glanced up. Tentatively he said, “They can use the living room.”
“They’re not even engaged,” Henry said.
Immediately Tony turned to Linda. “Would you marry me?” he asked. “Sure.” She answered. “Sure!” he repeated and they both laughed.
“Humph!” Henry snorted. He rose, went to the TV, changed the channel and sat.