Chapter 12

In the car I had doubts about dropping in on Arnie. I decided to tell him that I’d come by because the Rev had some work for him, and let it go from there. The house was dark as I approached it, but Arnies’s car was in the driveway. That wasn’t unusual. He often meditated in the dark. I knocked on the door. No answer. I took out one of my cards, wrote the information about the Rev on the back and stuck it in the door frame. As I turned to go I thought I heard something. The television. Now, that was odd. I knocked again, louder. No answer. Time to go around to the back door and take a look.

In the light from the television screen I saw Arnie’s outline, sprawled in a lawn chair with crushed beer cans piled around him. The door was unlocked. Three strikes and you’re out of character. I stepped into the living room.

“Yo, Arnie. How ya’ doin’. Thought I’d drop by.”

He lifted his head up off his chest. In the dim light you could see the shiny crosshatch of scars on his face and scalp. “Well, if it isn’t ray friend.” He took another swig of beer. “You and your bright fucking ideas. Let’s go down to the wall. Pay our respects.” Another swig. “I went back to the wall last night. I couldn’t stay away. I just kept staring at all them names. After a while I could swear I heard ’em calling me, asking me why I was over there. It ain’t fair. We shoulda all come back. Better men than me died over there.” He stopped and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. “Shit, man, we were beautiful. We could do it all. You name it. We had heart, let me tell you. We did every damn thing they asked us to. We never backed up. They just never let us win. Do you understand that?” He hiccupped. “All those fuckers had was patience and endurance. So what did we do? We tried to wear them out. Jesus Christ, where were they gonna go? They lived there. Grandpa fought the French in the same valleys. They cut our fuckin’ hearts out there. They bled us dry.” Arnie’s hands were fists he rammed against his knees like pistons to keep his eyes closed. Sorrow leaked around them. “Get outta here, while you still can. Fuck you all.” He sprang up from the chair and slung it away from him. I took the hint and left.

In the car I tried to figure out how to help Arnie but I got nowhere with it. I kept seeing him walking to that wall, late at night. Looking at all the names. Looking for his own name. Hearing his buddies call out, maybe he’d even see their hands reaching for him. Maybe the wall began to look like a door. I’d heard of guys pulling out a .45 caliber ticket home, putting it up against their head, leaning back against the cool granite wall, feeling the hands of the dead welcoming them, saying “Wait up guys, I’m coming” and then sliding down that doorway, their brains flecking the names of friends gone too far, gone too soon. It seems to me that the names of every Vietnam vet who kills himself ought to go on that wall. They may not have died “in country” but the country was still in them.