Frankie moved forward cautiously, checked his IV, made a notation on his chart.
“I should have used my gun,” he said.
Frankie didn’t know how to respond. She had never met anyone who had tried to commit suicide. It seemed impolite to ask why, but equally impolite to remain silent.
“I made it three hundred and forty days in-country. Thought I was home free. That ain’t good. Bein’ a short-timer.”
At Frankie’s obvious confusion, he said: “Vietnam.” He sighed. “My girl—Jilly—she hung with me, wrote me love letters, right up until I stepped on that damn Bouncing Betty and lost a leg.” He looked down. “She told me I’d adjust and to give it time. I’m trying…”
“Your girl told you that?”
“Hardly. A nurse at the Twelfth Evac Hospital. She got me through, man. Sat with me while I lost my shit.” He looked at Frankie, reached out for her hand. “Will you stay till I fall asleep, ma’am? I have these nightmares…”
“Sure, soldier. I won’t go anywhere.”
Frankie was still holding his hand when he fell asleep. She couldn’t help thinking of Finley, and the letters he wrote to her each week, full of funny stories and the beauty of the countryside. You should see the silk and gems over here, doll. Mom would never stop shopping. And boy, do sailors know how to party. He told her repeatedly that the war was coming to an end. Walter Cronkite said the same thing on the nightly news.
But it was still going on.
And men were dying. Losing their legs, apparently.
A nurse at the Twelfth Evac Hospital. She got me through, man.
Frankie had never thought about nurses in Vietnam; the newspapers never mentioned any women. Certainly no one talked about any women at war.
Women can be heroes.
At that, Frankie felt a kind of reawakening, the emergence of a bold new ambition.
“I could serve my country,” she said to the man whose hand she held. It was a revolutionary, frightening, exhilarating thought.
But could she? Really?
How did you know if you had the strength and courage for a thing like that? Especially as a woman, raised to be a lady, whose courage had been untested.
She let the idea soar, closed her eyes, imagined telling her parents that she’d joined the Navy and would be going to Vietnam, writing a letter to Finley: Drumroll, please, I’ve joined the Navy and will be shipping out to Vietnam! See you soon!
If she did it now, they could be over there together. In-country.
She could earn her place on the heroes’ wall, and not for marrying well. For saving lives in wartime.
Her parents would be so proud of her, as proud as they’d been of Finley. All her life she’d been taught that military service was a family duty.
Wait.
Think about it, Frankie. It could be dangerous.
But the danger didn’t resonate. She’d be on a hospital ship, far from the fighting.
By the time she let go of the soldier’s hand, she had decided.
* * *
In the past week, Frankie had planned her day off obsessively, saying nothing to anyone about her intentions, seeking no counsel. She’d repeatedly told herself to slow down, think it through, and she’d tried to do it, but the truth was that she knew what she wanted to do and she didn’t want anyone to dissuade her.
After a quick shower, she returned to her bedroom, which had been designed for a young girl years ago, with its frilly canopy bed and shag rug and striped, cabbage-rose-print wallpaper. She chose one of the conservative dresses her mother so often purchased for her. Quality pieces, Frances; that’s how a woman distinguishes herself at first glance.
As expected, this time of day, the house was empty. Mom was playing bridge at the country club and Dad was at work.
At 1:25, Frankie drove to the nearest Navy recruitment office, where a small clot of war protesters stood outside, yelling slogans and holding up signs that read WAR IS NOT HEALTHY FOR CHILDREN AND OTHER LIVING THINGS and BOMBING FOR PEACE IS LIKE SCREWING FOR VIRGINITY.
Two men with long hair were burning their draft cards—which was illegal—while the crowd cheered them on. Frankie had never understood these protests. Did they really think that a few posters would convince LBJ to stop the war? Did they not understand that if Vietnam fell to communism, so would all of Southeast Asia? Did they not read about how vicious such regimes could be?
Frankie felt acutely conspicuous as she got out of her car. She clutched her expensive navy calfskin purse close to her side as she approached the crowd, who chanted, “Hell, no, we won’t go.”