Chapter 12

 

Frank’s Homecoming

 

A little over a year after Frank left his home town, he returned and was walking down the main street with the warm Texas sun beating down on his unprotected head. He still wore his hair as short as he had in Vietnam, and it bristled against his skull when he rubbed his hand across his scalp. He was so used to the damp, sweaty heat of the jungle, that the mild, dry heat of Promise Falls felt alien. A battered Ford utility rattled past as he walked, kicking up a cloud of dust so thick it made his eyes water.

Was it just him, or did Promise Falls seem smaller than before? More deserted? It was mid-afternoon, and he could only see two or three people out. A surly man with a week-old beard lounged on a wooden bench in front of the bar, a bottle of rotgut in one hand. Frank had to squint before he recognised the individual; old Fred Hill, the primary school teacher. Shouldn’t he be in front of a blackboard right now? Frank wondered. Maybe he no longer works there.

The town also seemed shabbier than before. The buildings he’d always remembered as grand now looked small and grubby. The post office baldly needed a new coat of whitewash, the general store’s faded blue paint was flaking off in great patches and its front veranda sagged forlornly in the middle. Someone had painted a crude peace symbol on the side of the police station, and on the street outside lay a huge pile of dog shit with a boot print in the middle. It looked like it had been there for a while.

Frank wrinkled up his nose. He knew his town had always been a one-horse burg, but he had never seen it so rundown and filthy. The little villages tucked away in the Vietnamese countryside might have been poor, but at least they had been lovingly taken care of.

Frank turned off the main street into Carlyle Road, where his old house stood. A fist of nerves clenched in his gut as he wondered what he would find. He patted the front pocket of his jeans, making sure his keys were still where he had put them. All the other turn of the century houses looked just as he remembered; neatly whitewashed with trim green gardens behind low picket fences. This was the very best part of town, where only the well-to-do lived. The well-to-do who couldn’t afford to burn rubber out of Promise Falls, that is. He passed Dr Edgerton’s house; Miller Grove – the residence of Mick Miller, the only lawyer in town; and the bizarre dwelling of Promise Fall’s resident artist, Sam Waddell.

Then there was the old Cassidy place. It had never been called that before, but Frank could think of no other name for the dilapidated, overgrown house with its peeling paint, crooked fence and wasp nests under the eaves. Local kids had probably started rumours about the ghosts dwelling within. No doubt the story of Reverend Cassidy’s death had brewed into an unbelievable tale of murder and mayhem. It had only been empty for a year, but it looked like ten had passed.

Frank pushed open the gate and stepped onto the path. Long tendrils of grass snaked across the concrete, trying to grab his legs as he passed. He stepped up onto the front porch and it creaked ominously beneath his boots. A couple of wasps buzzed from one of the nests to check him out. Quickly he unlocked the front door and let himself inside.

A damp, musty smell greeted his nostrils as he shut the door behind him and dumped his duffle-bag on the floor. He stood in the dim front hallway, and it was exactly as he remembered. The tall grandfather clock that had regularly chimed the hour for as long as Frank could remember still stood in the hallway, only its pendulum hung motionless, hands stuck at a quarter past four. A glance into the parlour revealed that everything was as he had left it, only now concealed beneath white dust cloths.

Disbelievingly Frank toured the rest of the house, finding it as empty and abandoned as the Marie Celeste. The kitchen was clean but dusty, the cupboards still full of saucepans and other cooking utensils. The lounge also hadn’t changed; the Rank Arena TV where Frank remembered watching his first shows still stood against the far wall, in between the bookshelf and the buffet where all the really good china was stored. Charlie’s old room next to the kitchen hadn’t changed either; the narrow, swaybacked old bed where John Cassidy had met his maker stood in the middle.

Frank squared his shoulders and started up the creaking stairs to the first floor. What would he find up here? The same eerie, unchanged rooms?

His own room was as he’d left it; neat with all of his old war books and clothes packed away. He opened a window to let out some of the dusty smell, and pulled his bedclothes back to air out the mattress. Never had his old bed looked so good – he felt like he could sleep for a week.

But first he had to solve the mystery of his mother’s disappearance. He walked down the hall to Nora’s old room. The door was closed. With great trepidation, he pressed his damp palm against the dark wood and pushed it in with a mournful creak.

At first nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary in this room, either. Slowly, not knowing what to expect, Frank stepped into the dim, musty chamber and crossed the floor to the single bed lying forlornly under the window. The Rev and Nora had occupied separate beds when he was alive, and after his death she’d the other bed removed. Ever since the room had looked far too large for that narrow little bunk.

There was something lying on the nightstand, but on closer inspection Frank saw that it was only an old magazine, one of those annoying tabloids they sold at supermarkets. He tossed it aside in disgust and opened Nora’s wardrobe. After the Rev’s death it had never contained many things, but only a couple of frocks still hung there, old, faded housedresses only fit for rags. At the bottom, beside a pair of moth-eaten old slippers lay a dusty shoebox. Frank pulled it out.

It was stuffed with old documents, some yellowed with age. Frank found the deeds to the house, copies of John’s and Nora’s wills, a number of official-looking letters, and a fairly recent one in Nora’s pale, spidery hand. Frank opened it, hoping for an explanation, but it was only a simple, formal note from Nora, stating that she had signed the house deeds over to him.

Frank sat back on the floor with a bump, his head in a spin. What the Hell was going on here? Why had his mother just up and left without a word of explanation? Jesus, he needed a drink. Since he didn’t have any alcohol on him, he lit a cigarette. The warm smoke eased his troubled nerves and banished more of the musty stench from the room.

Eventually he climbed to his feet, crossed back to the bed and flopped down. Even through a year’s worth of neglect and the tang of tobacco, he could still smell his mother’s comforting aroma, the same odour that had soothed the fear engendered by his father’s angry, booming voice.

He had been tired before, but how his weariness threatened to overwhelm him. He stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes.

A gunshot jerked Frank awake what felt like a few seconds later. The base must be under attack again, he thought as he groped for his gun. Where the Hell was it? He always slept with it beside him where he could touch it in the night, and be reassured by its cold metal security.

As the present began to seep back into his brain, he realised that he was no longer in Vietnam, the gun that he’d slept with was no doubt in the hands of some other soldier. He was back in Promise Falls, sitting up on his mother’s bed.

What about the gunshot? He twitched the curtain aside and looked down on the street below, shrouded in darkness. The only light came from a single yellow streetlight. He noticed someone inside a dusty blue Chev across the street, trying to get it started. The old engine chugged for a few seconds, almost turned over, then backfired with a reverberating bang and died. The driver cringed as he realised how many people his noisy efforts were waking up.

Frank let the curtain fall and flopped back onto the bed. Jesus, you can take the GI out of Vietnam, but you can’t take Vietnam out of the GI, he thought. He closed his eyes again, but this time sleep eluded him. A few minutes later he sat up again, fumbled for the nightstand light’s switch, and flicked it down.

The room remained in inky darkness. Frank frowned, perplexed until he realised that the power had probably been cut off months ago. He would have to stay in the dark until morning.

Better do something about that tomorrow, he thought as he rolled onto his side and stared bleakly out through a chink in the curtains. He wondered how long morning would take to arrive. If he was still in Vietnam, he would probably be getting up around now. But here, back in the World, people didn’t rise until seven or eight, and shops didn’t open until nine.

Frank had accomplished almost half a day’s work by then!

 

A few hours later, when the first tentative grey fingers of dawn started to probe through the curtains, Frank pushed them aside.

The first thing he noticed was the magazine he’d dismissed. He picked it up, blew the dust off it, and checked out the cover. It depicted a large crowd of people, mostly long-haired youths and flower-bedecked girls with innocent faces. This amazing sea of people receded towards a distant stage, where an indistinct figure stood, frozen in mid-gesture.

“’Inside, the strange new cult that is taking the nation by storm’,” Frank read. He frowned, the words striking a deeply buried chord in his brain. He opened the rag to the relevant page and started to read.

The article began by describing a mysterious young man known only as Azharoth. He was tall and handsome, with wavy blonde hair and a beautifully muscled body. His well-tanned skin was perfectly hairless. He wore a black singlet and jeans, and a strange golden medallion about his neck. It depicted a spidery black symbol no-one had ever seen before, resembling an “H” lying on its side.

That was all the article’s author knew about this young man. His real name – if he actually had one – his origins and his address were all a mystery. Azharoth had simply appeared out of nowhere about a year ago, to ascend a soapbox at Berkeley and start speaking. At first people thought he was just another derelict – he certainly looked homeless, in his ratty singlet, tattered jeans and bare feet. But when his soft, melodious voice reached them, they stopped and turned towards him, wondering if in fact he had something to say after all.

Although Azharoth began quietly, his words still touched people many yards away. A professional demagogue and orator, he knew exactly how to project his voice. As his story progressed his tone lifted, rising through various levels of excitement to a trembling crescendo that had everyone in the crowd – now hundreds strong – holding their breath.

The writer hadn’t heard a speech so impassioned since a short man with a comical Charlie Chaplin moustache and a fringe of black hair falling across his brow had ascended a stage at Nuremberg.

The author also described a similarity between the content of Azharoth’s and Adolf Hitler’s speeches. Like the local peaceniks, Azharoth condemned the United States’ involvement in Vietnam. But only because the war was reducing the population’s supply of healthy young fighting men.

“These men are dying in those distant jungles when they should be here, helping to increase the population”, Azharoth declared. “Instead, the weak and sick who are forced to remain because of their infirmities are breeding, introducing retrograde elements into civilisation.

“Mankind is the only species on Earth who preserves his imperfect children. In the wild, genetically inferior creatures are destroyed at birth because they will interfere with the family’s ultimate survival. Therefore only the strong, the fast, the intelligent survive. But what are we doing, allowing people to pass on their defective genes to their children? We are destroying our own race!

“Let me put it this way. We are shitting in our own gene pool.”

Frank had to stop. This was too insane. And yet when he imagined someone speaking these words, with Adolf Hitler’s rare ability to mesmerise, an icy shiver raced down his spine. People would fall for this claptrap, especially the sort he grew up with, who gave their secret fascist tendencies voice by donning white sheets and lynching innocent black boys.

The author echoed Frank’s concerns.

“Sentiments right out of Berlin in the nineteen thirties? Yet they are being spoken right now by this mysterious man, and they are finding homes in the hearts and minds of our young people. Azharoth has been touring the country with his closest associates, spreading his bizarre words, and every day he attracts more and more followers. Men, women, children – doctors, lawyers, teachers, housewives are all leaving their homes without any words of explanation and joining this cult leader.

Frank’s heart started to pound. Was this what had happened to his mother? Had she abandoned everything to join this lunatic? He could only shake his head in disbelief. But when he thought more deeply, he realised that he could very well be right. She had been under the Rev’s thumb for years, and would have remained so had he not died. She might have appeared strong to Frank, but if she had seen Azharoth live, she would have crumbled, quickly succumbing to another form of control.

Frank turned the page and found the solid proof he needed. Where the author claimed to have snapped a photo of Azharoth, only an empty space remained, where someone had lovingly cut out his picture. Frank flopped back on the bed, feeling sick. How could Nora have thrown aside all her responsibilities, left everything she owned, to follow that idiot? In her letters, she had been looking forward to seeing Frank at the end of his tour, counting the days like Meg had.

Then Azharoth had turned her head completely around. Had she gone all the way to Houston or Dallas to hear him speak?

Frank tossed the magazine onto the floor. He needed some air. He got up and headed for the bathroom to wash his face. But when he spun the taps, nothing came out. “Fuck,” he cursed. The water must have been cut off too! Well, he had put up with worse in Vietnam.

As he was clattering downstairs to fetch his duffle bag, still in the hallway where he’d dropped it, there was a tentative knock at the front door.

Who the hell could that be? he wondered.

He opened the door, and bright morning sunlight shafted in. He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the glare after the stygian gloom of the old house.

“Frank Cassidy?” a voice queried.

He blinked again, focussing on a short, portly man with greying hair carefully combed over the top of his bald head. He was wearing an impeccable charcoal grey suit, and a pair of rimless spectacles perched on his fleshy nose. It took Frank a couple of seconds to recognise Mick Miller, the lawyer. “Yes, I’m Frank,” he answered.

“I heard you came back yesterday. May I come in? I have some very important matters to discuss with you.”

“Yeah – sure.” Frank stepped aside. The news of his return certainly travelled fast. How many curious eyes had watched him wander down Main Street?

Mr Miller stepped into the gloomy, musty house and screwed up his face at the smell. Frank led him into the parlour, where all the furniture was still covered with dustsheets. He yanked a cloth off the leather lounge and a couple of chairs, and sat down. Even though he was nineteen years old, an adult, he still felt out of place in this austere, uncomfortable room. He’d never been allowed to play in here, and only visited the room on Sundays, when the family, still dressed in their church clothes, would sit down to a fine roast dinner. Even though Nora had slaved over a hot stove for several hours preparing the meal, the Reverend would still thank God for it.

Somewhat gingerly, Mick Miller sat down on one of the chairs and opened his big leather portfolio. “It is my duty to inform you that your mother, Nora Cassidy, has signed this premises to you. This house and everything in it are now yours to do with what you will.”

Frank licked his lips. “Um … d’you know what happened to my mother?”

Mr Miller nodded. “Yes, but she specifically asked me not to tell you, as you would only worry. She also doesn’t want you to try and find her. I can only inform you that she left Promise Falls to pursue a new life.”

Frank sighed. He’d been hoping for confirmation of his suspicion. “Did she say when she was coming back?”

Miller took a deep breath. “She said that she was never coming back. That’s why the house and its grounds are now yours. Your mother wanted to begin anew with a clean slate. When she left, she took only the money she had in her account and a small suitcase of clothes.”

The lawyer’s soft, patronising tone was starting to get on Frank’s nerves. Where did he get off, treating him like a child? I’d like to see him creep through a stinking hot jungle killing gooks! Was it worth coming back from Vietnam to this? An old, empty house?

Miller misinterpreted Frank’s silence. “I’m sorry.” He patted the younger man’s shoulder. “This must be very difficult for you to accept.”

“You got that right,” Frank growled.

The lawyer removed a sheaf of papers from his portfolio. “I guess I’d better explain what you have to do. This is a copy of the deeds to the house. I believe the originals are in this house, in a box in your mother’s wardrobe.”

“Yeah - I’ve found them.”

“You’ll need to sign for them.”

As Mr Miller explained the situation, Frank listened, most of the complicated lawyer-talk going in one ear and out the other. He couldn’t believe that this big old house was finally his. What did he do with it? Did he keep it? Or did he sell it and follow in his mother’s footsteps? Start a new life a thousand miles away from this shit-heel town?

Frank signed a few documents, and Mr Miller arranged for the water and power to be restored. Then Frank went out to buy himself some breakfast, as by this stage his stomach was screaming for sustenance.

He visited Dixon’s Roadhouse where his mother had worked, which was still standing on Main Street. Barely hanging on by the skin of its teeth, the diner catered to kids, truckers, cops, and out-of-towners. Unfortunately, most people tended to drive through Promise Falls without stopping, or bypass it altogether. When Frank entered the shop, he found it deserted save for one booth into which six long-haired youths had crammed. By the litter on the table in front of them, they had been there a considerable while. A large cloud of cigarette smoke shrouded them as they talked and laughed.

Frank took a seat at the counter, and while he waited for the waitress to notice him, he studied the menu above his head. After a year’s worth of mess-tent slop, disgusting C-rations and the dehydrated stuff favoured by Lurps, a simple diner breakfast promised to be a king’s banquet. He eventually ordered a blueberry waffle slathered with maple syrup and fresh cream, bacon, scrambled eggs on toast, fried tomatoes, sausages and a pot of coffee. When the enormous meal finally arrived, he actually drooled in anticipation.

“Been a while since you had a feast like this?” the waitress asked conversationally. Her name-tag read “Annette”. Frank couldn’t ever recall seeing her in Promise Falls before. Why would anyone come to this damn town to work? he wondered.

“Yeah.” Talking stole valuable time from eating, so he tucked in. Never had waffles, crispy bacon, sunny-side-up eggs and sausages tasted so damn good! It was like an orgasm in his mouth.

Annette simply sighed and walked over to the boys in the corner, asking them if they wanted anything else. They had all ordered the cheapest things on the menu, then spent two hours syphoning coffee. Didn’t they have anything better to do? Gangs of unemployed youths were becoming increasingly common these days.

Frank couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed a meal so much. He had gorged himself during a week of R & R in Tokyo, but as he’d been drunk and stoned most of the time, he couldn’t remember much about what he actually ate, only that it had tasted pretty damn good at the time. They could have served him raw fish, and he would have wolfed it down. Before Vietnam he hadn’t thought much about food, because it was always there for him when he needed it. He polished off everything on his plate, licked his fingers and wiped his mouth on his napkin. Even after all that some room remained, and he wondered if he ought to order a small stack of pancakes. No, mustn’t overdo it, he thought as he poured himself a cup of coffee. If I eat any more I won’t want to walk ‘round town this afternoon.

As he drained his pot of coffee, he became aware of an unusual silence. Until now the chatter of the youths had provided a comfortable background drone. Now it had stopped and the diner was as quiet as a morgue. Looking over a shoulder, he noticed that the six shaggy-haired boys were all staring at him, trying to figure out who he was. With a jolt he recognised a couple of boys from his old football team. When they saw his face, realisation dawned.

“Holy shit – it’s Frank Cassidy!” one of the guys exclaimed, rising to his feet. Irving Hayes, once a star football player like Frank, now a lanky young man with brown hair to his shoulders, wore a brown suede waistcoat with a fringe at the bottom, a striped sweater, flared jeans and sandals. Frank had never seen a get-up like that before. “Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age! Whatta you been doin’ with yourself, man?”

“Killing gooks across the sea,” Frank answered.

“Jesus, did you go to Vietnam?” Irving cried. He had never been particularly smart.

“Yep. Just got back yesterday.”

Irving whistled, plonking himself down on the stool beside Frank. “Man, you must be so glad to be home!”

Not as glad as you might think, Frank thought darkly. “Yeah. What’ve you been up to, Irving? How come you never got drafted?”

Irving drew himself up with pride. “Student deferment. I’m a college boy now.”

“Jeez, how’d you pull that off, Irv? You’re thicker than Promise River mud.”

“Football scholarship.”

“What was Vietnam like?” asked one of the other boys. Frank recognised Ed Burbage, son of Jim Burbage the farmer. He too wore his hair to his shoulders, and the same bizarre clothes as Irving.

Frank turned to face him, and the youth flinched from his stare. “Okay. Picture a place hotter than here during the summer, ninety percent humidity, rainstorms every afternoon, mosquitoes as big as your thumbnail and one hundred and thirty one different kinds of poisonous snake. On top o’ that, behind every tree there’s a dink who wants to kill you.”

“How many’d you kill?” asked another boy.

“Round a hundred, I think. After seventy, I lost count.”

“Fuuuuuuck!” Irving swore.

“I took souvenirs from about fifty of ‘em,” Frank continued. “Bits of hair, cloth, buttons from their uniforms, a necklace or two, a couple photographs. You could do that sort of shit when you were on long-range recon like I was. One of the other guys in my unit cut off a slope’s head and took it back to camp with him, where he boiled off all the skin. He hung the skull up in the mess-tent and made it talk with a bit of wire in the jaw.”

The boys were silent, gaping at Frank in horror. It was then he realised that he’d gone a bit too far. But the story had just poured out of him before he could stop it. For a few seconds he’d thought he was back in Nam, talking to some fellow grunts.

“Shit, sorry about that.” Frank poured himself another coffee to avoid looking at the youths’ faces. Now more than ever did he realise how detached he’d become. Normal people didn’t talk about how many people they’d killed, or taking souvenirs from their dead bodies. That was something mass murderers did. He was back in the World now, and he had to behave accordingly.

“D’you know what happened to Georgie Hatfield?” Irving asked after half a minute. “He went to Nam too.”

Frank drained the last of his coffee. “Yeah. He was shot during Operation Attleboro. Sucking chest wound. He died in my arms.” He put the mug down and slid off his stool. “Been nice talkin’ to you boys, but I’ve gotta go. Got a bit of shit to do ‘round town this afternoon.” He departed, trying to look nonchalant.

The six youths stared after him in disbelief.

“Come on - he made it all up,” one of the other kids eventually declared, trying to be blasé. “He must have. No way could all that stuff be real.”

But Ed Burbage, the smartest youth out of the lot, simply shook his head. “No – he had that look in his eye, the same creepy look my Dad gets every time he talks about the war. Frank did that shit all right.”

“I was gonna invite him to my pool party,” Irving muttered, “but I don’t think I will now. He’s completely bat shit crazy!”

“What if he isn’t?” Ed asked softly, so only his friends could hear. “What if everyone who goes to Vietnam comes back as fucked up? Doesn’t it make you think that those draft-card burning peaceniks in the big cities might actually be right?”

 

Outside in the hot mid-afternoon sun, Frank had to stop to get his bearings. He wanted to visit Pinky’s parents, but took several wrong turns before finding the right street. He hoped the old folks hadn’t moved as well. He was counting on at least one of them to be home. Pinky’s mother worked as a cleaner and kept odd hours, as did his father, who was a truck driver.

But as luck would have it the big rig was parked in the driveway, and Pinky’s mother was sitting on the front porch with her knitting. As Frank approached she stood up, an expression of recognition slowly crossing her thin, worried features. Frank remembered a much plumper, more attractive woman, whose hair hadn’t been quite so dull and lifeless. What had happened to her?

“Is that you, Frank?” she asked softly, putting her knitting down. Her bony hands were shaking.

“Yes Ma’am.” Frank stepped up onto the porch, and it creaked mournfully beneath his boots. Didn’t anyone know how to fix a veranda around here?

“Pinky’s not here,” she answered shortly.

“I know. He’s in New York. That’s all right, I’m not here to see him – I’m here to see you.”

Mrs Robinson looked blank for a moment, then favoured Frank with a guarded smile. Her eyes were brilliant in her peaky face. “What can I do for you, Frank?”

“Well,” Mrs Robinson’s intense stare was starting to unnerve him, and he had to look away, “I’d like to visit Pinky, and I have the address of his apartment, but I don’t know where the Merry Derriere is. I … was wonderin’ if you’d be able to give me its address.” He looked up.

Pinky’s mother was staring at him in confusion. “The … ‘Merry Derriere’?” she parroted.

“It’s some sort of nightclub. Pinky said he was workin’ there.”

Mrs Robinson turned away, distractedly raking her fingers through her mousy curls. “I’m sorry Frank – I don’t know anything about any nightclub. Pinky doesn’t write to us much.”

“How come?”

Mrs Robinson sat back down, dropping her hands into her lap. “Well … when he left, it wasn’t exactly under the best of circumstances.”

“What happened?”

The woman sighed. “To be honest, Mr Robinson threw him out.”

Frank had never heard Pinky’s mother call her husband Mr Robinson before. He was always “Danny”, spoken with an affectionate smile or glint in the eye. “Did they have a fight?”

“Yes. A big fight.” Suddenly she didn’t want to elaborate further, and Frank was too polite to pry. She gulped, and her eyes were damp. “Frank … if you do find him, please ask him to at least write to me. I miss him terribly, and I don’t care what kind of a lifestyle he wants to lead, so long as he’s happy.”

“What’s that?” Frank gasped.

“Who’s out there, Jean?” a deep voice boomed from somewhere inside the house.

“It’s young Frank Cassidy, Danny,” Jean called back.

The screen door creaked inwards, and Pinky’s father stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He had to blink a couple of times before his eyes adjusted themselves to the gloom. Danny Robinson was an enormous, heavily built man with wide, sloping shoulders and a thick black beard. Pinky had inherited most of his traits from his mother. When he saw Frank, his broad face creased into a smile. “You’re back from Vietnam!” he boomed.

That’s painfully obvious, Frank thought, but forced a smile. “Yes sir.”

“Well, it’s certainly made a man out of you. I don’t think you’ve ever looked better.” He clapped Frank on a shoulder. A smaller youth would have been floored by the force of the blow. “Good skin, nice tan, healthy build – it’s done you a world of good.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“If only that snivelling milksop boy of mine would go. A year in the jungle would definitely set him straight, le’me tell you! I’m afraid if you’re looking for him, he’s not here. He’s gone to New York, to live with all the other losers and weirdos like him.”

“I know. I just came by to see how you folks were.”

Danny Robinson dropped an enormous paw onto his wife’s narrow shoulder and squeezed it, so hard she yelped. “As you can see, we’re perfectly fine.”

Frank left after a few more minutes of mindless small-talk, and headed for the north of town. You’d think they would be glad that Pinky’s left home to make a new life for himself in New York, he thought to himself. But they can only condemn him behind his back, as though he’s committed some heinous crime! I wonder what the big fight was all about?

Frank spent another hour walking around Promise Falls, re-familiarising himself with his old hometown. When he passed the block of land where old Tom O’Riley’s house used to stand, he found only an empty vacant lot, with a dusty “for sale” sign hammered into it, pocked with several bullet holes. It was as though the old war hero and his daughter never were, and a cold hand lifted from Frank’s belly to close around his throat.

What if, one day in the future, he was a crippled old man languishing in a tumbledown house? What if all the things he had done in Vietnam amounted to nought, and he ended up as lonely and forgotten as old Tom O’Riley? It seemed highly likely, since Vietnam was rapidly becoming a costly and unpopular war.

An icy shiver darted down his spine. Abruptly he turned from the empty block and headed back home. He hoped the water and power had been restored, and he could have a nice, hot bath.

 

* * * *