could do no more than nod.
Two young soldiers so fresh they could not have been more than a week in the field
sat on a grassy dike and tilted canteens to their mouths. “Those boys were killed
alongside my son,” Daisy said. A wet wind ruffled their short hair. Lean oxen wandered
in the blasted field behind them. Conor tasted plastic—that curdled deathlike taste
of warm water in a plastic canteen.
With the entranced, innocent voice of a man speaking more to himself than his listeners,
Daisy supplied a commentary on men hauling 3.5-inch rocket shells to the roof of a
building, a bunch of privates lollygagging in front of a wooden shack soon to become
the headquarters of PFC Wilson Manly, soldiers smoking weed,soldiers asleep in a dusty wasteland that looked like the outskirts of LZ Sue, hatless
grinning soldiers posing with impassive Vietnamese girls …
“Here’s some guy, I don’t know who,” Daisy said. Once Conor saw the face, he was barely
able to hear the lawyer’s voice. “Big so-and-so, wasn’t he? I can guess what he was
up to with that little girl.”
It was an honest mistake. His new wife had jumped-started Daisy’s gonads—why else
was he coming home at four-thirty in the afternoon?
Tim Underhill, bandanna around his neck, was the big soldier in the photograph. And
the “girl” was one of his
flowers
—a young man so feminine he might have been an actual girl. Smiling at the photographer,
they stood on a narrow street crammed with jeeps and rickshaws in what must have been
Da Nang or Hue.
“Son?” Daisy was saying. “You okay, son?”
For a second Conor wondered if Daisy would give him Underhill’s picture.
“You look a little white, son,” Daisy said.
“Don’t worry,” Conor said. “I’m fine.”
He merely scanned the rest of the photographs.
“The truth is in the pudding,” he said. “You can’t forget this kind of shit.”
Then Ben Roehm decided he needed another new man to do the taping in the kitchen and
hired Victor Spitalny.
Conor had been a few minutes late to work. When he came into the ruined kitchen a
stranger with a long streaky-blond pony-tail was slouching against the skeletal framing
of the new partition. The new man wore a raveled turtleneck under a plaid shirt. A
worn toolbelt hung beneath his beerbelly. There was a new scab on the bridge of his
nose, old scabs the color of overdone toast on the knuckles of his left hand. Red
lines threaded the whites of his eyes. Conor’s memory released a bubble filled with
the indelible odor of burning kerosene-soaked shit. Vietnam, a ground-pounder.
Ben Roehm and the other carpenters and painters in the crew sat or sprawled on the
floor, drinking morning coffee from their thermoses. “Conor, meet Tom Woyzak, your
new taping partner,” Ben said. Woyzak stared at Conor’s outstretched hand for a few
beats before grudgingly shaking it.
Drink it down
, Conor remembered,
boo-koo good for your insides.
All morning they silently taped sheetrock on opposite sides of the kitchen.
After Mrs. Daisy had come and gone with a pot of fresh coffee at eleven, Woyzak growled,
“See how she came on to me? Before this job is over I’ll be up in the bitch’s bedroom,
nailing her to the floor.”
“Sure, sure,” Conor said, laughing.
Woyzak was instantly across the kitchen, leaving a steaming trail of coffee and a
spinning cup on the floor. His teeth showed. He pushed his face up to Conor’s. “Don’t
get in my way, faggot, or I’ll waste you.”
“Back off,” Conor said. He shoved him away. Conor was set to move this lunatic off-center
with a head fake, step into him and mash his adam’s apple with a left, but Woyzak
dusted his shoulders as though Conor’s touch had dirtied him and backed away.
At the end of the day Woyzak dropped his toolbelt in a corner of the kitchen and silently
watched Conor pack his tools away for the night.
“Ain’t you a neat
Two young soldiers so fresh they could not have been more than a week in the field
sat on a grassy dike and tilted canteens to their mouths. “Those boys were killed
alongside my son,” Daisy said. A wet wind ruffled their short hair. Lean oxen wandered
in the blasted field behind them. Conor tasted plastic—that curdled deathlike taste
of warm water in a plastic canteen.
With the entranced, innocent voice of a man speaking more to himself than his listeners,
Daisy supplied a commentary on men hauling 3.5-inch rocket shells to the roof of a
building, a bunch of privates lollygagging in front of a wooden shack soon to become
the headquarters of PFC Wilson Manly, soldiers smoking weed,soldiers asleep in a dusty wasteland that looked like the outskirts of LZ Sue, hatless
grinning soldiers posing with impassive Vietnamese girls …
“Here’s some guy, I don’t know who,” Daisy said. Once Conor saw the face, he was barely
able to hear the lawyer’s voice. “Big so-and-so, wasn’t he? I can guess what he was
up to with that little girl.”
It was an honest mistake. His new wife had jumped-started Daisy’s gonads—why else
was he coming home at four-thirty in the afternoon?
Tim Underhill, bandanna around his neck, was the big soldier in the photograph. And
the “girl” was one of his
flowers
—a young man so feminine he might have been an actual girl. Smiling at the photographer,
they stood on a narrow street crammed with jeeps and rickshaws in what must have been
Da Nang or Hue.
“Son?” Daisy was saying. “You okay, son?”
For a second Conor wondered if Daisy would give him Underhill’s picture.
“You look a little white, son,” Daisy said.
“Don’t worry,” Conor said. “I’m fine.”
He merely scanned the rest of the photographs.
“The truth is in the pudding,” he said. “You can’t forget this kind of shit.”
Then Ben Roehm decided he needed another new man to do the taping in the kitchen and
hired Victor Spitalny.
Conor had been a few minutes late to work. When he came into the ruined kitchen a
stranger with a long streaky-blond pony-tail was slouching against the skeletal framing
of the new partition. The new man wore a raveled turtleneck under a plaid shirt. A
worn toolbelt hung beneath his beerbelly. There was a new scab on the bridge of his
nose, old scabs the color of overdone toast on the knuckles of his left hand. Red
lines threaded the whites of his eyes. Conor’s memory released a bubble filled with
the indelible odor of burning kerosene-soaked shit. Vietnam, a ground-pounder.
Ben Roehm and the other carpenters and painters in the crew sat or sprawled on the
floor, drinking morning coffee from their thermoses. “Conor, meet Tom Woyzak, your
new taping partner,” Ben said. Woyzak stared at Conor’s outstretched hand for a few
beats before grudgingly shaking it.
Drink it down
, Conor remembered,
boo-koo good for your insides.
All morning they silently taped sheetrock on opposite sides of the kitchen.
After Mrs. Daisy had come and gone with a pot of fresh coffee at eleven, Woyzak growled,
“See how she came on to me? Before this job is over I’ll be up in the bitch’s bedroom,
nailing her to the floor.”
“Sure, sure,” Conor said, laughing.
Woyzak was instantly across the kitchen, leaving a steaming trail of coffee and a
spinning cup on the floor. His teeth showed. He pushed his face up to Conor’s. “Don’t
get in my way, faggot, or I’ll waste you.”
“Back off,” Conor said. He shoved him away. Conor was set to move this lunatic off-center
with a head fake, step into him and mash his adam’s apple with a left, but Woyzak
dusted his shoulders as though Conor’s touch had dirtied him and backed away.
At the end of the day Woyzak dropped his toolbelt in a corner of the kitchen and silently
watched Conor pack his tools away for the night.
“Ain’t you a neat
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