Frankie climbed the few steps and went into the bunkhouse’s only bathroom, where she showered, changed, and dressed for work.
She was out of the house and on her way to work before Barb was even out of bed.
* * *
At the end of a twelve-hour shift in the OR, Frankie waved goodbye to her coworkers and headed out to her car—a dented old Ford Falcon that she and Barb shared—and jumped in. On the way out of town, she popped a John Denver tape into the eight-track and sang along.
She drove to the tavern where Barb currently worked and parked among the battered old trucks of the regulars who were there this time of day. Barb’s bicycle stood slanted against the rough exterior plank wall.
Inside, the place was dark and musty-smelling, with sawdust on the floors and barstools worn to a velvet feel by one hundred years of faithful customers.
Barb had worked here for the past few months; it was not a job she intended to keep much longer. Or so she often said. Soon she’d look for something higher-end, nearer to the city, where the tips were better. But this was close to the farm and gave her lots of time to volunteer for her causes.
Now she stood behind the bar, a soggy bar rag over one shoulder, a red-white-and-blue cotton kerchief over her Afro. Huge gold hoop earrings caught the light.
Frankie sidled up onto a barstool. “Hey, there.”
“Jed! I’m taking a break,” Barb called out. A moment later her boss, Jed, shuffled out from the office and took his place behind the bar.
Barb grabbed a pair of cold beers and led the way out back, to one of the picnic tables. Come summer, the bar would sell house-smoked barbecue on red plastic plates, but not till the weather warmed up.
Frankie took the beer, snapped the cap, and took a long drink, leaning back against the table, stretching her legs out. She glanced at Barb, frowned, and said, “What’s wrong?”
“You can read my thoughts now?”
“This is not a new skill, Barbara. What’s up?”
“Damn it, I was going to ease my way into it.” She sighed. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything. You know that.”
“It’s for all of them,” Barb said. “Finley and Jamie and Rye, and all the fallen.”
Frankie flinched. The names were rarely mentioned between them. Barb and Ethel still worried that Frankie was fragile and could slide too easily back into grief, and they were right to be concerned. Frankie still sometimes woke up and, for a split second, forgot that Rye was gone and reached for him.
“The VVAW are meeting in Washington next week to protest. Guerrilla theater, they’re calling it.”
Vietnam Veterans Against the War.
“You know I’m not interested. You’ve asked before,” Frankie said. “I’m not a marcher.”
“This is special. Trust me. We aren’t the only group that will march. We want to create a media event so big Nixon has to notice.” Barb looked at her. “Come with me.”
“Barb, you know I try not to think about … over there.”
“I know, and I respect the effort. I know how hard it’s been for you, but they’re still dying in the jungle, Frankie. Dying for a lost war. And, well … you told me to do something for Will. This is what I’m doing.”
“Not fair, throwing my words back at me.”
“I know, I know. It’s shitty, but we’re believers, you and me,” Barb said. “As banged-around as we’ve been and as much as we’ve seen, we’re patriots.”
“No one wants patriots anymore,” Frankie said. “I can’t wear an Army T-shirt off the property or I’ll be spit on. The country thinks we’re monsters. But I won’t disrespect the troops.”
“It’s not disrespectful to protest, Frankie. We had that wrong. It takes guts to stand up and demand a change. We’re vets. Shouldn’t our voices be heard in protest, too? Shouldn’t they be loud?”
Barb pulled a folded-up magazine page out of her back pocket, smoothed out the wrinkles, and laid it out on the table. It was a full-page ad in Playboy for the Vietnam Veterans Against the War. The picture was of a solitary coffin, draped in an American flag. The headline read IN THE LAST TEN YEARS, OVER 335,000 OF OUR BUDDIES HAVE BEEN KILLED OR WOUNDED IN VIETNAM, AND MORE ARE BEING KILLED EVERY DAY. WE DON’T THINK IT’S WORTH IT. In the bottom corner of the ad was a plea to JOIN US.
Frankie stared at the advertisement. Since the tide of public opinion had turned so clearly against the war, more and more numbers of the wounded and fallen were being reported. It was tough to see in print. So many young men killed, while others were still being shipped over, spun up.