The following week he didn’t return Irene’s calls, pleading exhaustion to his family so they could tell her, but tonight she was throwing him a party at the old Amber Tavern. The thought of facing her and the old crowd filled him with leaden gloom.
It was past noon when he finally showered, dressed, and came out of his room to find his father watching the news as reporters grilled Nixon about the Watergate scandal.
His father stabbed his finger at the TV. “Why are they hounding him like this?” He stood and turned it off angrily. “Nixon’s a good man,” he said, shepherding Al into the kitchen.
Al sat at the table across from his sister, Magda. “He broke into the Watergate Hotel, right?”
“Speak Lithuanian, you’re home now,” his mother chided him good-naturedly as she brought a steaming bowl to the table like an offering. “I made your favorite mushroom dumplings.”
“Nixon didn’t do it,” said his father, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. “Some hooligans broke in.”
Al piled some dumplings onto his plate and passed the bowl to his father. “Weren’t they spying on the Democrats?”
His father almost dropped the bowl in a fit of anger. “Look, in the Soviet Union the Communists have spies on every phone, in every house, workplace—everywhere. You don’t hear them giving Brezhnev any trouble.”
Al was confused. “Wait a minute. You hate the Communists.”
“Yeah, I hate the sons-a-bitches. They took over our country.” His father pounded the table with his fist. “That’s why you were fighting in that son-of-a-bitch country! To stop Communism.”
“Uhmm.” That old rant again. Everything seemed so clear to his father.
“Nixon hates those Commies too,” his father added. “That’s why he’s a good man.” Jurgis Vitkus finally smiled at his son, satisfied that he had made his point.
Al couldn’t give less of a shit about Nixon.
His mother tenderly put her hand on his, making him nervous and jumpy. “You know we watched the news every night while you were in Vietnam,” she said softly. “We saw such terrible battles with wounded soldiers being taken away in helicopters. Was it as bad where you were?” His mother seemed to be holding her breath. Nausea rose in him like steam in the jungle.
“No, Mama, it wasn’t that bad,” he lied and watched as his mother visibly relaxed.
His father heaped sour cream on his dumplings. “War is hell, all right, and no one knows that better than your sister.” Magda stopped eating when she realized everyone had turned to her. Al looked at his sister’s placid face. At thirty-three, his sister was plumper than he remembered but with that same beautiful face as innocent as the moon.
“Yeah, I guess,” Al whispered. He had been about seven when he realized that his sister was different from other girls. Her strangeness used to embarrass him, but he’d always felt a fierce protective love for her.
His father poured him a beer and Al drank it all at once. Then he had to force himself to finish the dumplings. When he stood to put his plate in the sink, his mother said, “Leave it, I’ll do that.” She was watching her son warily.
“Thanks, Mama, the dumplings were great.” Why was it so hard to look her in the eyes? He cleared his throat. “I’m going over to Pete’s for a while.”
“Wait, I wanted to tell you Irene called again.” His mother smiled coyly. “She said for you not to forget your party.”
“Yeah, don’t worry.” Al looked at the clock. “I’ve got plenty of time.” He raked his hair with his fingers. He had to get out of there.
“Bundle up, it’s still snowing.”
Al jammed on his jacket and was racing out the door when Magda stopped him, holding out his gloves. He thanked her and was about to go out when she stopped him again to wind a muffler around his neck the way she used to when he was in grammar school, and she would help him dress in the morning. She wound it round and round and suddenly Al felt as if he couldn’t breathe, as if the body bag was closing.
“Magda, stop!” he yelled, pushing her aside to open the front door and gulp air.
“Sure, Al.” She stood back, surprised by his reaction.
“I’m sorry, Magda. I mean…I don’t want the muffler.” Al unwound it, giving it back to her.
Suddenly he had to get away, down the front stairs of the stoop, the cold air a relief. Down the street, he saw Pete Matas getting into his blue Pinto. Pete had been in Nam. He knew. Only Pete had been stoned for most of the war. It was as if the world had split into two: those who knew what hell the war was and those who didn’t. Al didn’t know how to be with those who didn’t.
“Hey, wait for me.” Al was slipping and sliding on the packed snow as he ran to catch up with Pete. “Where are you going?”
“I dunno,” said Pete, shrugging. “I just need to drive. I’ve been watching too much bad TV and that radiator heat, man, I just hate it.”
“Tell me about it. I got to get away, Pete.”
“Jump in.”
Pete drove out to the Chicago Skyway and into Indiana, past the hellish smokestacks of Gary, right into Michigan, chain-smoking Winstons the whole way. Pete had been home for almost a year now and said it soothed him to take long drives along the lake. Sometimes he drove for hours; sometimes he drove all night. This time, he drove out to Union Pier, where he and Al used to spend their summer weekends with friends. Pete told Al how lately he had been visiting his childhood haunts—his old grammar school, high school, all his old hangouts, seeing old friends from childhood, even visiting the nuns and priests who had taught him. It was as if he wanted to find himself in one of those old familiar places, as if he had dropped his life somewhere like a lost ball that he hoped to retrieve.
Pete stopped the car at the public beach, and they walked down the wooden stairs to the snow-covered beach with the frozen waves at the shore. Walking the cold, deserted beach, they didn’t say much of anything until they reached the old Lankutis resort where they had often stayed in years past. Farther out, the metal-colored waves crashed against the frozen shoreline. From afar, Pete spotted Elena Lankutis through the large windows of her solarium watering her many flowers—amaryllises in various hues, and blood-red poinsettias left over from Christmas. It was such a surprise to see such lavish blooms in the snow-covered landscape that they stopped momentarily to stare at the garish colors. Then Al and Pete kept walking until they reached the Point, the Arctic wind blowing off the lake, stinging their faces with cold. Sitting down on the craggy rocks, they looked back at the trail of solitary footprints they had left in the snow. Al noticed that his bad leg had left a deeper impression.
“Pete, what do you think of Nixon and Watergate?” Al stood up, took a few steps and sat down again, hardly able to sit still.
His friend looked at him as if he were speaking another language. “I don’t give a shit about Nixon or his Watergate.”
Al snorted a laugh. That was how he felt too, but he still felt as if he should care.
Pete watched Al’s knee bouncing like a jackhammer. “Man, you look like you’re ready to jump out of your skin.”
“Tell me about it. How the hell did you handle coming home? I can’t take it.”
Pete blew out a long plume of smoke and flicked his cigarette into the water. “You remember how hard it was to get used to the war? Those first days when you practically shit in your pants at every noise.”
“Yeah, so?” Al wanted the secret formula.
“Remember how after a while you stopped noticing the blood and bullets that used to scare you? How all of that slaughter started feeling routine? You remember that?”
“Yeah.” Al rubbed his forehead, suddenly remembering the errand boy in Vietnam. He was just a local kid who ran errands in exchange for a little money. He couldn’t have been more than ten when he died.
“What I’m saying is that you get
used to anything. Take it easy. You’ll get used to this too.” Pete smiled and put his arm on Al’s shoulder. “Look at me,” he said, barking out a hollow laugh. “Relax, it gets easier with time. Grass helps.” He snorted. “A helluva lot of grass.”
“You know, Pete, I’m not sure I’m ready for your sister’s party.” Pete had told him about Irene’s hippie, anti-war demonstrations, and about her taking LSD. Al had seen some anti-war demonstrators outside his base calling the soldiers murderers and child-killers. He had wanted to wring their necks like chickens. Who the hell did they think the soldiers were fighting for? He couldn’t bear it if Irene was like that.
“Listen, she’s been working her buns off for your party,” said Pete.
“I just want everything to be like the old days.” Al wanted to be the same man he had been before the war, but it was becoming increasingly clear to him how difficult it was going to be to get back to that man.
“Hey, forget it,” said Pete, rolling his eyes. “Nothing’s ever going to be like the old days, no matter how much you want it.”
“Tell me the truth, Pete. Has Irene been seeing anyone else?”
“I ain’t gonna lie, man. Not to you. Yeah, she went out with some guy named Joel from the North Side. I think she met him at some political rally or something.”
Al felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. “The guy’s probably got a deferment, right? Some draft dodger. Is she still seeing him?”
“Naw, Irene’s always had a thing for you, man.” He smiled and lit up a joint. Al noticed Pete’s missing finger, another war wound. He remembered hearing how Pete had lost that finger playing with old German army ordinance in the DP camps in Germany after the war.
“Well, we better get back, or Irene will kick my ass,” said Pete, handing Al the joint. Al shivered, wondering if it was from nerves or cold. Whatever it was, he wished he had taken the muffler Magda had wrapped him in.
That evening the Amber Tavern was decked out with balloons, streamers, and welcome-home banners. When Al and Pete walked in, everyone surrounded Al, cheering and laughing as they carried him to the back hall where there was a table with food. When they finally put him down, Irene came over and hugged him warmly. “Welcome home, soldier.” She looked great, dressed in jeans and a blue sweater, her blond hair hanging down past her shoulders. She didn’t look like a hippie to him.
“Thanks, this is a nice welcome home.” Al could see that Irene had had a few drinks already. He didn’t know why, but this bothered him. And, as if on cue, Pete handed him a vodka tonic as he toasted his return.
“Thanks, grunt,” said Al, smiling.
“Takes one to know one,” said Pete as he went back to the bar to talk to the old timers like Felius the Poet, Antanas Balys, and Valentinas Gediminas. He got a kick out of these old guys and their byzantine stories of past wars.
Connie came running over, pulling Al’s old friend, Joey Cicero, behind her. “Al, look, he finally popped the question.” Connie showed him her diamond-and-emerald engagement ring.
“Congratulations.” He smiled but didn’t know what else to say.
“She wore me down, pal.” Joey laughed and clapped him on the back. “It’s good to have you back, buddy.”
Felius the Poet came into the back room with the rest of the usual crowd, holding a bottle of champagne to toast their war hero. Valentinas Gediminas followed with a tray of glasses. They drank and Joey poured the last of the champagne on Al’s head.
“Hey, what’s that for?” Al was ready for a fight.
“A baptism. Welcome back to civilian life, soldier, where the worst wounds are often hidden.” Joey winked and handed Al a towel. “You’re one of us now—a vet.”
“You were in Nam, Joey?” This pleased Al enormously, and he wanted to ask him about it, but Ona Janulis and her brother Jonas pulled Al over to the table with Vida and Milda. They were laughing about old times. The whole time Al kept checking on Irene. He’d smile when he’d catch her attention, and she’d smile back. Connie put a quarter in the jukebox and “Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie” blared out. Everyone started dancing and singing along while Al sat back, remembering how he used to listen to that song in Nam and ask himself—will this be the day that I die?
Drinks flowed, snatches of stories got started but not finished, and new tunes played until Irene pressed the magic button on the jukebox. “Zorba!” she shouted, and the whole group assembled itself into a dance line just like the old days, locking arms, gamboling around in an arc based on what they remembered of the movie with Anthony Quinn. Irene tried to get Al to join them, but he said his leg bothered him. They played it over and over until everyone was overheated. Irene opened the door, leading the whole line as it snaked its way out into the street, slipping and sliding on the snow until Irene fell, taking Connie and Milda down with her like bowling pins. Al watched his old friends. They were innocents, like children, untouched by anything tragic, while he had seen too much. He watched his friends dance away and then he went into the bar to join Pete, who was talking to Joey Cicero.
“So, Joey, where were you in Nam?”
“I was in Saigon most of the time. Hey, Pete tells me you went back for a second term. Are you nuts or what?” Joey’s Italian hands were flying as he spoke.
Al heard the Zorba music start up again. The nausea returned, always there, just below the surface. “Yeah, I’m nuts all right.” His stomach was so tight it hurt. As he ordered a highball, he realized he was drinking a lot but he wasn’t getting drunk, not even relaxed.
“Why’d you do it, Al?” Joey asked, wanting a real answer.
“I was in recon the first time, and most everyone got wiped out.” Al ordered drinks for his friends. “I had the radio. You know what they say about us?” Al took a slug of his drink.
“What?” Joey shrugged.
“We have a life expectancy of less than five minutes during any firefight.”
“Well, you proved them wrong then.” Joey jabbed the air while holding his glass.
Al looked into his highball as if it knew his secrets.
“Was that how you hurt your leg?” Joey asked carefully.
Al nodded and looked up to see Irene dancing back into the tavern. She was showing him how to have fun again.
“So you went back to recon?”
“No, they put me with the medical corps.”
“Oh shit, are you kidding me?”
“I had to go through the body bags and find their wallets, photos, letters, you know, personal effects for the relatives back home.”
The three men stood there for a long moment, each lost in his own thoughts until Irene walked over holding her coat on one arm and Al’s jacket on the other. “Let’s go for a little walk, OK, Al?”
“Sure, Irene.” He put on his jacket and followed her out the door. They walked arm-in-arm down the street, with Al trying hard not to limp. He could sense that Irene had a lot to say, so he waited for her to start.
“What’s going on, Al?” she spit out at last. “You’ve been avoiding me all night.”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve been watching you all night long.” They walked down Sixty-Ninth Street past Silvia’s House of Beauty with Al apologizing along the way.
“That’s the problem, Al,” she explained, her words furred from too many drinks. “It’s like you’re not even here, like you’re watching a movie about a welcome-home party.” Irene looked like a rag doll on the verge of tears.
Al wanted to hold her, comfort her, but he no longer knew how. Instead, he took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it. “Irene, it’s a great party.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and looked at her watery eyes. “And you...well, you look really beautiful.”
“Well, OK then.” Irene smiled and took his cigarette out of his mouth and took a drag the way she used to before he went away.
&
nbsp; “I’m sorry, would you like a cigarette?” Al offered her the pack.
“No, I quit.” Irene leaned over and kissed Al on the cheek and then on the nose. Al kissed her on the mouth, but he was a million miles away.
Irene touched his cheek. “What’s wrong, Al? Tell me.”
“Nothing—nothing’s wrong.” Al could hear the laughter from the tavern, and he wondered if his rawness was visible to everyone. He wondered if Irene could see it. Probably everyone saw it.
Irene’s eyes bored into him. “Come on, Al, talk to me. Tell me what’s going on here. Is it something I did?”
“No, it’s just this damn war.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and watched a car drive slowly down the street. “I’ll be OK, I just need some time, Irene.”
“I’m so sorry, Al. I wish I could make it all go away for you. Can you talk about it?”
“Not tonight. Maybe some other time, Irene.”
Irene rubbed her nose, trying her best to smile. “Is there someone else?” She couldn’t look at him.
“No one else, Irene.” He felt deeply ashamed, as if he were not man enough to face her and the welcome home party she arranged for him.
She stood in front of the beauty shop looking a bit sick until she doubled over, throwing up in the street. Al held her by the arm until she stopped.
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