“It is fair. You’re not being fair. I’m not going. Period.”
Beau started for the door and I stepped in his path. “Don’t you talk to your mother that way,” I said.
“Get out of my way,” Beau said. “I’m done talking.”
He stepped past me and I grabbed his shoulder. He swung his arm and knocked my hand away. I took a step after him, but Elizabeth stepped between us.
“You walk out that door tonight, don’t come back,” I said, and I regretted the words before they had left my mouth. Italian temper.
“Vincent,” Elizabeth said.
“I’ll sleep at Chris’s,” Beau said.
“You’re not sleeping at Chris’s,” Elizabeth said.
At that moment Mary Beth and her cousin came into the room. Mary Beth had been crying and it was clear from the anguished expression on her face that she had heard the argument. “You don’t have to go to my birthday, Beau,” Mary Beth said. “I really don’t care.”
“He doesn’t mean it, Mary Beth,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, he does. He never wants to do anything that involves me. I went to every one of your stupid Little League games every summer. All the stupid tournaments on the Fourth of July and all your stupid football games.”
“I didn’t ask you to go,” Beau spit back.
“That’s the point,” Mary Beth said. “You didn’t have to.”
We stood in stunned silence. I didn’t know if my daughter had ever said anything so profound. Beau didn’t have to ask her to go. She went because he was her big brother and she loved him and was proud of him. He was also the only brother she’d ever have, and she his only sister. They wouldn’t have nine siblings to choose from. They had only each other.
Mary Beth sobbed and went upstairs. Beau remained upset, but I could see that Mary Beth’s words and her tears had pierced a hole in his shield of anger.
“You do what you want,” I said.
“Don’t guilt me,” Beau said, but his tone had changed, now soft and regretful.
“If I wanted to guilt you, you’d know it,” I said. “I mean it. You do what you want. Go or don’t go. But I don’t want you there if you’re going to ruin your sister’s birthday. We’re going to make this night special for her, with or without you.”
May 2, 1968
The peace talks continue, but so does the war. Our firebase has been on alert since April 30. NVA troops have engaged marines in the Battle of Dai Do along the demilitarized zone, trying to punch an invasion corridor into South Vietnam. A battalion of marines known as the Magnificent Bastards is repelling them. We are hearing rumors of another NVA offensive, what is being called a Mini-Tet.
While we wait for orders, I wrote my first letter home since being in-country. I decided it was time. I’d put if off because I didn’t want my family to expect the letters, not knowing when I’d get the chance to write another or how long it would take for the letter to reach them. I have received letters from home. They come in with the Hueys that resupply our firebase and take my film back to the lab at Da Nang. My mother apparently sent a birthday package with cookies and a cake for my nineteenth birthday. I received an empty box. I don’t know if the guys here ate the contents, or if they were eaten in transport. Too bad because I’m losing weight and could have used the extra calories. The heat of the bush melts the pounds off and kills your appetite, as does the thought of eating another C ration.
I kept my letter bland because, well, but for that first night when Kenny died—seems like a long time ago now—it pretty much has been bland. I told my family I missed them. I thanked them for the birthday gifts. I didn’t want to say, “I’ll see you soon,” or that I couldn’t wait to come home, remembering Cruz’s admonition not to talk about home while you’re in Nam. Marines have all kinds of superstitions.
“What good is talking about home going to do? You’re here. You’re in Nam. This is your home. This is where you live. We are your family. You keep your mind here and you keep your body here. You let your mind go home . . . and your body goes home. You don’t think about it. Don’t talk about it. Comprende, homie?”
I learned quickly. The calendar I hung on a nail near my bunk was torn down the first day I arrived. I never did find it or find out who took it down, but I understood why. “You don’t count days until you’re a short-timer sent back to the rear,” Cruz said.