She didn’t know if protesting and marching and making signs could actually effect change, but she damn sure knew that America wasn’t preserving democracy or fighting communism in Vietnam, and it certainly wasn’t winning. Ultimately too many lives would be lost in pursuit of nothing.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Henry asked.
Frankie had almost forgotten the older man was with her; she’d been lost in the wilds of her own past. They’d walked almost two blocks together. She stopped, looked at him.
Long, wild hair, bright green eyes, lines that hinted at sorrow, a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once. Worn, faded Levi’s, a Rolling Stones T-shirt. Sandals. He looked like a Berkeley philosophy professor.
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Why not? I feel … bereft, I guess. That was tough to watch.”
What man used the word bereft?
“Are you a philosophy professor? Or a surfer, maybe?”
“Good guess. Psychiatrist. And yeah, I surf. Grew up in La Jolla. That’s in Southern California.”
Frankie smiled. “I’m a Coronado Island girl. My brother and I used to surf Trestles and Black’s Beach.”
“Small world.”
Frankie felt a kinship with him. She liked that he was a surfer, that he knew Trestles, and that he was here, standing against a war he’d had no part in. “I could use a drink. I’m supposed to meet my girlfriend at the Hay Adams. We got separated.”
They turned in tandem, heading toward the hotel.
Across the street, a small table had been positioned beneath a banner that read DON’T LET THEM BE FORGOTTEN.
At the table, behind stacks of anti-war flyers, two long-haired men with unruly sideburns sat in folding chairs. “Hey, lady, want to buy a bracelet and help bring a POW home?”
Frankie walked over to the table, looked down at a cardboard box full of silver metal bracelets.
“They’re five bucks apiece,” the guy behind the table said.
Frankie pulled one of the bracelets out. It was a thin silver cuff, with MAJ ROBERT WELCH 1–16–1967 engraved on it.
“We’re a student organization,” one of the kids said. “We’re raising money. We work with the League of POW/MIA Families. It’s a new organization.”
“League of Families?” Frankie asked.
“Navy wives, mostly, fighting to bring their husbands home. There’s a fundraiser in town next week, if you’d like to join the effort. Here’s a flyer. They need donations.”
Frankie took the flyer, handed the guy ten dollars, and put the bracelet on.
She and Henry walked to the hotel, passed a worried-looking doorman who seemed ready to stop them, but didn’t. They went downstairs, into the sexy basement bar where it was rumored that much of the country’s governing decisions were made by men drinking martinis. They chose a booth in the back; he ordered a beer, she a gin martini. On the table in front of them, a pair of coasters showed a caricature of President Nixon. Frankie realized her hands were shaking so she lit up a cigarette.
The bartender brought over a small bowl full of homemade potato chips.
She sipped her drink, which helped to ease the slight tremor in her hands. Her eyes still stung, but her vision had cleared. Cigarette smoke wafted between them. Someone in here was smoking a cigar, too.
“Who did you lose to Vietnam?” Henry asked.
She put down her glass. There was something in the way he looked at her, a quiet compassion, maybe, a depth of caring she was unused to. “It’s a long list.”
“A brother?”
“He was the first. Yeah. But … there were … others.”
He said nothing more but didn’t look away. She had a feeling he saw more than most people. The silence became unnerving.
“I was there,” she said in a soft voice, surprising herself with the admission.
“I see the pin,” he said. “Your caduceus. Wings. You’re a nurse. I’ve heard stories about women like you.”
“How? No one talks about the war. No one who was there, anyway.”
“I treat a few vets in my practice. Alcoholics, addicts, mostly. Do you have nightmares, Frankie? Trouble sleeping?”
Before Frankie could answer—deflect—Barb showed up, panting and out of breath. She slid into the booth, bumped Frankie hard. “Did you see us throw the medals? That will make the news.” She raised a hand to the bartender, yelled, “Rum and Coke.”
Henry was already sliding out of the booth, standing. He looked down at Frankie. “It was nice to meet you, Frankie. How do I find you?” he asked too quietly for Barb to hear.