little fucker,” he said.
Conor slammed his toolbox shut. “Do you have many friends, Woyzak?”
“Do you think these people are going to adopt you? These people are not going to adopt
you.”
“Forget it.” Conor stood up.
“So you were over there too?” Woyzak asked in a voice that put as little curiosity
as possible into the question.
“Yeah.”
“Clerk-typist?”
In a rage, Conor shook his head and turned away.
“What outfit were you in?”
“Ninth Battalion, Twenty-Fourth Infantry.”
Woyzak’s laugh sounded like wind blowing over loose gravel. Conor kept on walking
until he was safely out of the house.
He sat straddling his motorcycle for a long time, looking down at the dark grey stones
of the drive, deliberately not thinking. The sky and the air were as dark as the gravel.
Cold wind blew against his face. He could feel sharp individual stones digging into
the soles of his boots.
For a moment Conor was certain that he was going to fire up his Harley and
go
, just keep moving in a blur of speed and distance until he had flown without stopping
across hundreds of miles. Speed and travel gave him a pleasant, light, kind of emptyfeeling. Conor saw highways rolling out before him, the neon signs in front of motels,
hamburgers sizzling on the griddles of roadside diners.
Perched on his bike in the cold air, he heard doors slamming inside the house. Ben
Roehm’s big baritone rang out.
He wished that Mike Poole would call him up and say,
We’re on the way, babyface, pack your bags and meet us at the airport.
Ben Roehm opened the door and fixed Conor with his eyes. He stepped outside and pulled
on his heavy fleece-lined denim coat. “See you tomorrow?”
“I got nowhere else to go,” Conor said.
Ben Roehm nodded. Conor kicked his Harley into noisy life and rode off as the rest
of the crew came through the door.
For three or four days Woyzak and Conor ignored each other. When Charlie Daisy finally
scented another veteran and appeared with his box of medals and his photo album, Conor
put down his tools and wandered out. He couldn’t bear to hang around while Thomas
Woyzak looked at Underhill’s picture.
The night before what turned out to be his last day, Conor woke up at four from a
nightmare about M.O. Dengler and Tim Underhill. At five he got out of bed. He made
a pot of coffee and drank nearly all of it before he left for work. Pieces of the
dream clung to Conor all morning.
He is cowering in a bunker with Dengler, and they are enduring a firefight. Underhill
must be in a dark portion of the same bunker or in another right beside it, for his
rich voice, sounding a great deal like Ben Roehm’s, carries over most of the noise.
There had been no bunkers in Dragon Valley.
The lieutenant’s corpse sits upright against the far side of the bunker, its legs
splayed out. Blood from a neat slash in the lieutenant’s throat has sheeted down over
his trunk, staining his chest solidly red.
“Dengler!” Conor says in his dream. “Dengler, look at the lieutenant! That asshole
got us into this mess and now he’s dead!”
Another great light burst in the sky, and Conor sees a Koko card protruding from Lieutenant
Beevers’ mouth.
Conor touches Dengler’s shoulder and Dengler’s body rolls over onto his legs and Conor
sees Dengler’s mutilated face and the Koko card in his gaping mouth. He screams in
both the dream and real life and wakes up.
Conor got to work early and waited outside for the others. Afew minutes later Ben Roehm pulled up in his Blazer with the two other members of
the crew who lived up in his part of the state. They were men with babies and rent
to pay, but too young to have been in Vietnam. As he watched them get out of the cab,
Conor realized that he felt surprisingly paternal toward these sturdy young carpenters—they
didn’t have enough experience to know the difference between Ben Roehm and most of
the other
Conor slammed his toolbox shut. “Do you have many friends, Woyzak?”
“Do you think these people are going to adopt you? These people are not going to adopt
you.”
“Forget it.” Conor stood up.
“So you were over there too?” Woyzak asked in a voice that put as little curiosity
as possible into the question.
“Yeah.”
“Clerk-typist?”
In a rage, Conor shook his head and turned away.
“What outfit were you in?”
“Ninth Battalion, Twenty-Fourth Infantry.”
Woyzak’s laugh sounded like wind blowing over loose gravel. Conor kept on walking
until he was safely out of the house.
He sat straddling his motorcycle for a long time, looking down at the dark grey stones
of the drive, deliberately not thinking. The sky and the air were as dark as the gravel.
Cold wind blew against his face. He could feel sharp individual stones digging into
the soles of his boots.
For a moment Conor was certain that he was going to fire up his Harley and
go
, just keep moving in a blur of speed and distance until he had flown without stopping
across hundreds of miles. Speed and travel gave him a pleasant, light, kind of emptyfeeling. Conor saw highways rolling out before him, the neon signs in front of motels,
hamburgers sizzling on the griddles of roadside diners.
Perched on his bike in the cold air, he heard doors slamming inside the house. Ben
Roehm’s big baritone rang out.
He wished that Mike Poole would call him up and say,
We’re on the way, babyface, pack your bags and meet us at the airport.
Ben Roehm opened the door and fixed Conor with his eyes. He stepped outside and pulled
on his heavy fleece-lined denim coat. “See you tomorrow?”
“I got nowhere else to go,” Conor said.
Ben Roehm nodded. Conor kicked his Harley into noisy life and rode off as the rest
of the crew came through the door.
For three or four days Woyzak and Conor ignored each other. When Charlie Daisy finally
scented another veteran and appeared with his box of medals and his photo album, Conor
put down his tools and wandered out. He couldn’t bear to hang around while Thomas
Woyzak looked at Underhill’s picture.
The night before what turned out to be his last day, Conor woke up at four from a
nightmare about M.O. Dengler and Tim Underhill. At five he got out of bed. He made
a pot of coffee and drank nearly all of it before he left for work. Pieces of the
dream clung to Conor all morning.
He is cowering in a bunker with Dengler, and they are enduring a firefight. Underhill
must be in a dark portion of the same bunker or in another right beside it, for his
rich voice, sounding a great deal like Ben Roehm’s, carries over most of the noise.
There had been no bunkers in Dragon Valley.
The lieutenant’s corpse sits upright against the far side of the bunker, its legs
splayed out. Blood from a neat slash in the lieutenant’s throat has sheeted down over
his trunk, staining his chest solidly red.
“Dengler!” Conor says in his dream. “Dengler, look at the lieutenant! That asshole
got us into this mess and now he’s dead!”
Another great light burst in the sky, and Conor sees a Koko card protruding from Lieutenant
Beevers’ mouth.
Conor touches Dengler’s shoulder and Dengler’s body rolls over onto his legs and Conor
sees Dengler’s mutilated face and the Koko card in his gaping mouth. He screams in
both the dream and real life and wakes up.
Conor got to work early and waited outside for the others. Afew minutes later Ben Roehm pulled up in his Blazer with the two other members of
the crew who lived up in his part of the state. They were men with babies and rent
to pay, but too young to have been in Vietnam. As he watched them get out of the cab,
Conor realized that he felt surprisingly paternal toward these sturdy young carpenters—they
didn’t have enough experience to know the difference between Ben Roehm and most of
the other
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