four times over the years. Like a lot of master carpenters who were geniuses
at manipulating wood, Roehm could be moody and unpredictable, but he made carpentry
more than just something you did to pay the rent. Working with Roehm was as close
to pleasure as work could get, in Conor’s opinion.
And the first day Conor was on the job, Charlie Daisy came home early from the office
and walked into the sitting room where Conor and Ben Roehm were laying a new oak floor.
He stood watching them for a long time. Conor got a little nervous. He figured maybe
the client didn’t like the way he looked. To cut down the inevitable agony of kneeling
on hardwood all day, Conor had tied thick rags around his knees. He’d knotted a speckled
bandanna around his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes. (The bandanna made
him think of Underhill, of flowers and flowing talk.) Conor thought he probably looked
a little loose for Charlie Daisy. He was not completely surprised when Daisy took
a step forward and coughed into his fist. “Ahem!” He and Roehm shot each other a quick
glance. Clients, especially Mount Avenue-type clients, did nutty things right out
of the blue. “You, young man,” Daisy said. Conor looked up, blinking, painfully aware
that he was down on all fours like a raggedy dog in front of this dapper little millionaire.
“Am I right about something?” Daisy asked. “You were in Vietnam, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Conor said, prepared for trouble.
“Good man,” Daisy said. He reached down to shake Conor’s hand. “I knew I was right.”
It turned out that his only son was another name on the wall—killed in Hue during
the Tet offensive.
For a couple of weeks it was probably the best job of Conor’s life. Almost every day
he learned something new from Ben Roehm, little things that had as much to do with
concentration and respect as with technique. A few days after shaking Conor’s hand,
Charlie Daisy showed up at the end of the day carrying a grey suede box and a leather
photo album. Conor and Roehm were framing a new partition in the kitchen, which looked
like a bombsite—chopped-upfloor, dangling wires, jutting pipes. Daisy picked his way toward them, saying, “Until
I got married again, this was the only heart I had.” The box turned out to be a case
for Daisy’s son’s medals. Laid out on lustrous satin were a Purple Heart, a Bronze
Star, and a Silver Star. The album was full of pictures from Nam.
Old Daisy chattered away, pointing at images of muddy M-48 tanks and shirtless teenagers
with their arms around one another’s shoulders. Time travel ain’t just made up out
of nothing, Conor thought. He was sorry that the perky old lawyer didn’t know enough
to shut up and let the pictures talk for themselves.
Because the pictures did talk. Hue was in I Corps, Conor’s Vietnam, and everything
Conor looked at was familar.
Here was the A Shau Valley—the mountains folding and folding into themselves, and
a line of men climbing uphill in a single winding column, planting their feet in that
same old mud. (Dengler:
Yea, though I walk through the A Shau Valley, I shall fear no evil, because I’m the
craziest son of a bitch in the valley.
) Boy soldiers flashing the peace sign in a jungle clearing, one with a filthy strip
of gauze around his naked upper arm. Conor saw Dengler’s burning, joyous face in place
of the boy’s own.
Conor looked at a haggard, whiskered face trying to grin over the barrel of an M-60
mounted in a big green Huey. Peters and Herb Recht had died in a chopper identical
to this one, spilling plasma, ammunition belts, six other men, and themselves over
a hillside twenty klicks from Camp Crandall.
Conor found himself staring at the cylindrical rounds in the M-60’s belt.
“I guess you recognize that copter,” Daisy said.
Conor nodded.
“Saw plenty of those in your day.”
It was a question, but again he
at manipulating wood, Roehm could be moody and unpredictable, but he made carpentry
more than just something you did to pay the rent. Working with Roehm was as close
to pleasure as work could get, in Conor’s opinion.
And the first day Conor was on the job, Charlie Daisy came home early from the office
and walked into the sitting room where Conor and Ben Roehm were laying a new oak floor.
He stood watching them for a long time. Conor got a little nervous. He figured maybe
the client didn’t like the way he looked. To cut down the inevitable agony of kneeling
on hardwood all day, Conor had tied thick rags around his knees. He’d knotted a speckled
bandanna around his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes. (The bandanna made
him think of Underhill, of flowers and flowing talk.) Conor thought he probably looked
a little loose for Charlie Daisy. He was not completely surprised when Daisy took
a step forward and coughed into his fist. “Ahem!” He and Roehm shot each other a quick
glance. Clients, especially Mount Avenue-type clients, did nutty things right out
of the blue. “You, young man,” Daisy said. Conor looked up, blinking, painfully aware
that he was down on all fours like a raggedy dog in front of this dapper little millionaire.
“Am I right about something?” Daisy asked. “You were in Vietnam, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Conor said, prepared for trouble.
“Good man,” Daisy said. He reached down to shake Conor’s hand. “I knew I was right.”
It turned out that his only son was another name on the wall—killed in Hue during
the Tet offensive.
For a couple of weeks it was probably the best job of Conor’s life. Almost every day
he learned something new from Ben Roehm, little things that had as much to do with
concentration and respect as with technique. A few days after shaking Conor’s hand,
Charlie Daisy showed up at the end of the day carrying a grey suede box and a leather
photo album. Conor and Roehm were framing a new partition in the kitchen, which looked
like a bombsite—chopped-upfloor, dangling wires, jutting pipes. Daisy picked his way toward them, saying, “Until
I got married again, this was the only heart I had.” The box turned out to be a case
for Daisy’s son’s medals. Laid out on lustrous satin were a Purple Heart, a Bronze
Star, and a Silver Star. The album was full of pictures from Nam.
Old Daisy chattered away, pointing at images of muddy M-48 tanks and shirtless teenagers
with their arms around one another’s shoulders. Time travel ain’t just made up out
of nothing, Conor thought. He was sorry that the perky old lawyer didn’t know enough
to shut up and let the pictures talk for themselves.
Because the pictures did talk. Hue was in I Corps, Conor’s Vietnam, and everything
Conor looked at was familar.
Here was the A Shau Valley—the mountains folding and folding into themselves, and
a line of men climbing uphill in a single winding column, planting their feet in that
same old mud. (Dengler:
Yea, though I walk through the A Shau Valley, I shall fear no evil, because I’m the
craziest son of a bitch in the valley.
) Boy soldiers flashing the peace sign in a jungle clearing, one with a filthy strip
of gauze around his naked upper arm. Conor saw Dengler’s burning, joyous face in place
of the boy’s own.
Conor looked at a haggard, whiskered face trying to grin over the barrel of an M-60
mounted in a big green Huey. Peters and Herb Recht had died in a chopper identical
to this one, spilling plasma, ammunition belts, six other men, and themselves over
a hillside twenty klicks from Camp Crandall.
Conor found himself staring at the cylindrical rounds in the M-60’s belt.
“I guess you recognize that copter,” Daisy said.
Conor nodded.
“Saw plenty of those in your day.”
It was a question, but again he
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