“Yes?”
“What we really need is help raising awareness. The older ladies—Anne and Melissa and Sheri, the gals married to the mucky-mucks—they do all the public speaking and testifying in front of the Senate. I’m chair of the Letter-Writing Committee. Our goal is to write letters to anyone and everyone we can think of who might be able to help. Bury them in letters. And the same with the newspapers. Would you like to help?”
Letter-writing. Something she could do while she sat with her mother and made the family dinner and waited for Mom to finish her various appointments.
Frankie smiled. “I would love to join that effort, Rose.”
* * *
Writing letters on behalf of the League of Families and the Vietnam prisoners of war quickly became an obsession.
Frankie wrote when she felt lonely, when she couldn’t sleep, when she felt anxious, when her mother was in physical or occupational therapy, while she sat in the waiting room at the medical center. She wrote sitting on the beach after dinner. She wrote to everyone she could think of—Henry Kissinger, Richard Nixon, Spiro Agnew, Bob Dole, Harry Reasoner, Gloria Steinem, Walter Cronkite, Barbara Walters. Anyone who might listen and help or talk to someone who might. Dear Dr. Kissinger, I am writing on behalf of our American heroes, the men who have been left behind. As an Army nurse who served in Vietnam, I know the horrors these men will have endured. They went to war for their country, to do the right thing, and now our country must do the right thing in return. We cannot leave any man—or woman—behind …
When she wasn’t writing, she was with her mother, helping her to walk, encouraging her to eat enough to get her weight back up, driving her to and from appointments. It was slow going, recovery from a stroke, but her mother exerted her considerable will and pushed forward, sometimes to the point of exhaustion. The doctors were amazed at the speed of her recovery; Frankie and her father were not. Bette McGrath had always had a will of steel.
All in all, Frankie thought she was doing well; her mood swings had diminished and she hadn’t suffered through a Vietnam nightmare in weeks, had never yet wakened on her bungalow’s bedroom floor. Every other Sunday, she wrote to Barb and Ethel, and she received regular letters in return. With long-distance phone charges so exorbitant, they had to make do with letters.
It didn’t bother her （although it bothered her mother） that she had no real social life and hadn’t been on a date since … well, before Vietnam. Love was the last thing on her mind. All she wanted was peace and quiet.
By late June 1971, nearly two months after she’d moved home, Frankie had settled into a steady routine. Helping her mother’s recovery gave her satisfaction, and writing letters on behalf of the prisoners of war gave her purpose. But today—finally—she had been invited to do more than just write letters.
In midafternoon, she parked her car at the Chula Vista Outdoor Shopping Center and headed for the escalators. The shopping center was decorated in red, white, and blue bunting for the upcoming holiday weekend and most of the storefronts were advertising a SALE! of some kind.
In the courtyard, beneath a palm tree, a table had been set up. Behind it sat a pert, pretty young woman who wore her teased blond hair in two low ponytails; she was writing a letter. To her left was a crude bamboo cage, not nearly big enough for a man to stand upright in. A banner around the cage read DON’T LET THEM BE FORGOTTEN.
Frankie smiled and slid into the empty seat. “I’m Frankie,” she said, extending her hand.
The woman shook it. “Joan.”
“How is it going today?”
“Slow. People are getting ready for the holiday.”
Frankie straightened the stack of flyers in front of her. In the center of the table was a box of POW bracelets that sold for five dollars apiece.
Joan went back to her letter. “Do you think Live up to your damn promise, President Nixon is too aggressive for the first sentence?” she asked Frankie, poising her pen tip just above the paper.
“I don’t think you can be too aggressive,” Frankie said, taking out a piece of paper and a pen.
A young man with long hair and a bushy beard walked past their table, muttered, “Warmongers,” under his breath, and kept walking.
“Freedom isn’t free, asshole,” Frankie yelled. “How come you aren’t in Canada?”
“We aren’t supposed to yell at the peaceniks,” Joan said, grinning. “But what a stupid rule.”
“It’s more of a guideline,” Frankie said.