put something over my nightgown, because I saw Raymond’s eyes drift over my breasts from the other side of the screen.
“I have to talk to you,” he said.
I opened the door, and crossed my arms on my chest as I sat on the sofa and he sat on the chair across from me, his knees wide open. He took a pack of Luckies from his shirt pocket, shook out a cigarette, and lit it. The way his wrist and fingers moved, where he put the cigarette between his lips, and the way he pulled the cigarette away so his lips kind of stuck to the filter were so familiar, I hugged my heart to protect myself from getting reinvolved.
“Bev,” he repeated. “I got something I have to talk to you about.”
I nodded.
“I volunteered for Nam. The 101st Airborne Division. I’ll be a paratrooper.”
“What! Why?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know. Bobby died over there, and I don’t know. I got nothing going for me here. I figured I should defend my country.”
“But you don’t believe in the war.”
“I figure, my country’s in it, I should fight. And besides, I don’t have you no more, or Jason.”
“You have Jason. He’s your son.”
He stared at his hands and shook his head.
I resisted the urge to pull his head to my chest and rock him.
That night I stared at the ceiling in the dark. When I first knew Raymond, he drove a yellow Bonneville with a black roof and had plenty of money for beer and pizza, the outdoor movies, or Riverside Amusement Park. He was living with his mother then, too. He was planning to maybe join the navy to get his high school equivalency and a skill like electronics. Then I got pregnant and his life was ruined. I wept imagining Raymond thousands of miles from home, scrunched down in some rice paddy to avoid the bombs raining shrapnel over his head. I wept harder when I thought of Bobby’s wake. The coffin was closed because Bobby’s body had been too old. His family had placed his graduation picture on a little shelf above, so we could all remember what he looked like. Raymond wouldn’t have a graduation picture to put above his coffin.
In the morning I woke up as usual to Jason calling, “Mommy.” I lifted him out and changed his diaper. I hugged him and smelled the Johnson No More Tears baby shampoo in his hair as I carried him down the stairs. I put him down in the kitchen and he walked straight to the cupboard, put his hand on the knob, and looked at me to check if I would say no or not. Then he began emptying the pans out for the first time of the day. I made us some cinnamon toast, then cut his into strips and put him in his high chair. He said, “Mmmm good,” as he daintily picked up the first strip and took a bite. “Good?” he said, prompting me to say my line.
“Mmmm, good,” I said, biting my toast and realizing I had no appetite. I had a picture in my mind of Raymond standing in the hospital room looking afraid, holding the ceramic rabbit. The ivy plant had died almost immediately. I had no idea what I’d done with the bunny vase. Then I had another picture of Jason the week before, standing on the rocker in front of the window looking down the street for his father, who never showed. Jason’s father was a liar and a junkie.
I handed Jason his plastic cup of juice. He took a sip, his eyes watering, and handed the cup back. It became crystal clear. Raymond was going to Vietnam for the heroin, the abundant, pure, and cheap heroin. He wasn’t going to Vietnam to defend his country and avenge Bobby’s death. He was going there because it was easier than staying here. Besides, who knew with Raymond. It could’ve all been a ploy to get me feeling sorry for him, to get me to open my arms and say, Don’t go. Come back. I called Raymond up.
“Raymond,” I said. “I’ve been thinking. If you go to Vietnam, Jason’ll be almost three when you return. He won’t remember you.”
“That’s true.”
“What if I said to you I decided to go
“I have to talk to you,” he said.
I opened the door, and crossed my arms on my chest as I sat on the sofa and he sat on the chair across from me, his knees wide open. He took a pack of Luckies from his shirt pocket, shook out a cigarette, and lit it. The way his wrist and fingers moved, where he put the cigarette between his lips, and the way he pulled the cigarette away so his lips kind of stuck to the filter were so familiar, I hugged my heart to protect myself from getting reinvolved.
“Bev,” he repeated. “I got something I have to talk to you about.”
I nodded.
“I volunteered for Nam. The 101st Airborne Division. I’ll be a paratrooper.”
“What! Why?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know. Bobby died over there, and I don’t know. I got nothing going for me here. I figured I should defend my country.”
“But you don’t believe in the war.”
“I figure, my country’s in it, I should fight. And besides, I don’t have you no more, or Jason.”
“You have Jason. He’s your son.”
He stared at his hands and shook his head.
I resisted the urge to pull his head to my chest and rock him.
That night I stared at the ceiling in the dark. When I first knew Raymond, he drove a yellow Bonneville with a black roof and had plenty of money for beer and pizza, the outdoor movies, or Riverside Amusement Park. He was living with his mother then, too. He was planning to maybe join the navy to get his high school equivalency and a skill like electronics. Then I got pregnant and his life was ruined. I wept imagining Raymond thousands of miles from home, scrunched down in some rice paddy to avoid the bombs raining shrapnel over his head. I wept harder when I thought of Bobby’s wake. The coffin was closed because Bobby’s body had been too old. His family had placed his graduation picture on a little shelf above, so we could all remember what he looked like. Raymond wouldn’t have a graduation picture to put above his coffin.
In the morning I woke up as usual to Jason calling, “Mommy.” I lifted him out and changed his diaper. I hugged him and smelled the Johnson No More Tears baby shampoo in his hair as I carried him down the stairs. I put him down in the kitchen and he walked straight to the cupboard, put his hand on the knob, and looked at me to check if I would say no or not. Then he began emptying the pans out for the first time of the day. I made us some cinnamon toast, then cut his into strips and put him in his high chair. He said, “Mmmm good,” as he daintily picked up the first strip and took a bite. “Good?” he said, prompting me to say my line.
“Mmmm, good,” I said, biting my toast and realizing I had no appetite. I had a picture in my mind of Raymond standing in the hospital room looking afraid, holding the ceramic rabbit. The ivy plant had died almost immediately. I had no idea what I’d done with the bunny vase. Then I had another picture of Jason the week before, standing on the rocker in front of the window looking down the street for his father, who never showed. Jason’s father was a liar and a junkie.
I handed Jason his plastic cup of juice. He took a sip, his eyes watering, and handed the cup back. It became crystal clear. Raymond was going to Vietnam for the heroin, the abundant, pure, and cheap heroin. He wasn’t going to Vietnam to defend his country and avenge Bobby’s death. He was going there because it was easier than staying here. Besides, who knew with Raymond. It could’ve all been a ploy to get me feeling sorry for him, to get me to open my arms and say, Don’t go. Come back. I called Raymond up.
“Raymond,” I said. “I’ve been thinking. If you go to Vietnam, Jason’ll be almost three when you return. He won’t remember you.”
“That’s true.”
“What if I said to you I decided to go
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