“Comfort to me?” She is almost screaming. Still all wound up. “Vickie’s the one who needed comfort. You didn’t even call her later.”
I feel like a royal shit. Damn. I really screwed up. I never even thought to call her. What’s wrong with me?
“I’m sorry, Jo. So, so sorry.” I hope to stop her ranting. And I do. Instead, she starts wailing. This can’t be about Vickie.
“Why’d he die, Dewey? Why?” I take her hand, but she pulls away and covers her face as she sobs. Her voice is muffled by her hands and broken by her cries, but I hear, “It’s so wrong, Dewey. So wrong. So wrong. So wrong.” She repeats the two words, over and over, like a skipping record.
I try to comfort her. “Joey, it is wrong.” I use her baby name, the one that never caught on but somehow seems the one she needs at this moment. “You are so right about that. Danny was a good guy. He shouldn’t have died so young.” I pluck from the cold air something I don’t believe for a minute. But it’s supposed to be comforting to someone who’s lost a soldier. “But he died a hero.”
She lowers her hands, stops crying. I think I’ve gotten through to her. She stares at me. The cold air seems like ice. A slice of ice. Hanging in the atmosphere.
“What bullshit. What total and utter fucking bullshit. Yeah, Danny was brave. Yeah, Danny did brave things. And I love him for it. But my brother should never have been over there. Not in that fucking, totally bullshit war. He’s no hero. He’s a murder victim, Dewey. And his blood is on the hands of Lyndon B. Johnson. The B, by the way, stands for Bastard!”
I never expected to hear those words from Jo’s lips. I always thought she felt like her parents. That Danny was fighting the good fight. Making the family proud. Jo’s diatribe blows me away.
I take her hands in mine. “I know, Joey. I know.”
“Finally,” she says, as quiet and serene as I’ve ever seen her, “somebody agrees with me.”
We sit, shivering there in the setting sun, not saying a word to each other.
As the sun, brilliantly orange in all its glory slips into the horizon, Jo says, “Finish your plate, Dewey. I know you like to eat.”
I smile at her. She smiles back.
And we both sit a few minutes, at last enjoying our food.
“Dessert?” she asks.
“You better believe it,” I answer, standing.
Together, we go into the house. Grandma and Mother are washing dishes. Daddy is bundling up bags of used paper plates, napkins, and plastic forks and spoons.
“I wondered where you two had gotten off to,” Mother says, drying a casserole dish. “Everybody’s gone.” She looks at Jo. “Your mama and daddy are resting.”
“Thanks, Aunty. I know they couldn’t have gotten through all this without you.” She walks over and hugs Mother. She hugs Grandma. “And you too, Granny.” Funny—she calls her Granny; I call her Grandma. But whatever the name, she is the best we could ever have.
“You two better dig into those desserts before we put ’em away. Try your Aunt Penny’s caramel pie. It’s good.” Aunt Penny is Grandma’s sister, and yes, I’ve had her caramel pie before.
“Are there two pieces left?” I ask. I turn to Jo. “We should have come in sooner.” I laugh and Jo laughs back. I’m glad she’s getting over it. Of course, I know she’ll never get over losing Danny, but life does go on.
“Never you young’uns mind. There’s a whole pie left in there. Eat the whole thing if you want,” Grandma says, shooing us into the next room.
As we go through the door, I hear Mother say, “Mama, they don’t need to eat a whole pie. One piece, Dewey,” she calls out.
The thing sits there, uncut. So I do what Mother says. I cut me one piece—a huge, double-wide piece. I cut a piece equally big for Jo.
We go to the living room to sit and eat our pie.
I lean over to Jo and quietly say, “What you said? I do agree with you.”
She just nods. Solving the war problem will be left for another day, I guess. I’m just glad I can sit here, next to my favorite cousin, share some pie, and make her feel a little better.
We finish just as Daddy comes in and says, “You ready to go, King Cat?”
Jo laughs. She always does when he calls me that.
I turn to her. “You gonna be okay?” I ask.
“Sure. I’m ready for bed. I’m pooped.”
Somehow, I know she’s not going to sleep for a long time, but she has a brave face on, and there’s not much more I can do for her today. I give her a hug. “Call you tomorrow.”
Mother, Daddy, and I pile into the car. Grandma stays behind to spend the night. Grandpa has long ago gone home. He’s not much for big gatherings.
On the ride home, Mother says, “It was a nice service.”
“Sure was,” Daddy says. “A good-bye fit for a hero.”
I clench my jaw. I want to lash out. But it would serve no purpose.
Daddy keeps talking. “I don’t know why those hippie freaks have to make all that noise. All those protests.” He says the word like it’s dirty. “Our boys are serving their country. They’re fighting for those goddamned freaks’ right to do what they’re doing, but what they’re doing and saying is wrong. Danny would have agreed with me. I know he would.”
I sit in the backseat, trying to not scream at him. It would serve no purpose. All I can think is I know I’m right, our show is right, and it can do some good to change people’s opinions. But I also know I have to make sure Daddy doesn’t come to the show.
“Dear,” Mother says, “don’t get yourself so worked up. All that ranting and cussing isn’t going to change anything. Not now. Not here. Danny’s dead. We can just pray for him and honor him and try to help Juney and Bert with their loss. That’s all we can do.”
“I know. But I get so goddamned mad. It just burns me up for those freaks to disrespect the good guys like Danny.”
“Enough.” Mother’s voice is gentle, but there is finality in it. “Just think of the good things about Danny. We’ll see what we can do to support the troops in his name. Okay?”
Daddy says, “Okay,” grudgingly. Daddy doesn’t like to turn loose.
I sit. Silent.
The best way to support the troops is to bring them home.
Not next week. Not next month. Not next year.
Now.
Chapter 10
THE SHOW is going well. Here it is the Monday before the Thursday opening, and the confidence is kicking in. Ben even declared at Friday’s rehearsal the show was set. That means no changes. There are two myths about the theater: one, you have to have a “hell week” before opening, and two, a bad dress rehearsal means a great opening night. Mr. Waters exploded those myths. He taught me that on that last week, the show has to be purring, all systems running perfectly, with actors knowing exactly what they are doing, costumes and makeup and lights and sound all already perfection. Mr. Waters’s philosophy: there should be no hell in hell week. As for dress rehearsal, he says if you plan to do the show perfectly on opening night and thereafter, there better not be any careless glitches at dress.
And that’s exactly the pattern for LOVE. We started running tech last week, and the show will run like clockwork tonight and every night until opening. Nothing will change. Mr. Waters believes that’s the best way to do it, and Ben, no doubt because the two are friends and trained together, seconds Mr. Waters in that respect.
I arrive early to get myself ready. We aren’t doing full makeup tonight, but we are doing costumes to continue to feel like these are truly the clothes our characters would wear. As I park, I see LuLu’s car, so I know she, too, is early.
I peer into the girls’ dressing area—not really a dressing room, but a makeshift changing area, as is the one for the guys—I say, “Evenin’, girl.” She turns and smiles.
“DewDew, you’re early. Great minds think alike.” She is smoothing the skirt she has just slipped over her head. “I’m ready, I guess. I’ll go do a little
TM while you get dressed.” She walks past me, pecks my cheek with a kiss, and wanders to the seating area, chanting, “Om-m-m-m-m.”
I laugh as I hear the meditation mantra trail off into the cosmos. Shaking my head back and forth, I marvel at how complex the girl is. She derisively calls her parents the doctor and his wife, she is determined to blow off college to make her mark in Hollywood, she speaks her mind in everything, and now—transcendental meditation? I thought that was something only the Beatles and Tibetan monks on top of mountains did.
I take my costume from the hangers. It’s only a pair of jeans and a shirt, but it’s been aged to make me look as if I’m just an average, lower-middle-class kid. That’s a good touch, since my Randy is open about who he is and is joining the protest. Somehow, I picture both those traits something that describe a rich kid. In my mind, the wealthy have the money, position, and time to shout to the world they are gay or whatever. And they don’t have to worry about fallout from protesting—getting known or, God forbid, getting arrested. It makes Randy more real for him to be average. The script doesn’t specify that, but I try to show it in my characterization, and the costume helps.
Dressed, I head out to join LuLu. I nod as a couple of the others arrive and make their way to the dressing areas. They return my nod.
LuLu is deep into her trance. I don’t know how she does that. I’ve tried meditating, but my mind races. I even tried it Saturday morning, hoping it would help me forget all that’s happened, but I had no luck.
I sit next to her and wait patiently. A few moments pass as I stare at her, legs crossed on the chair, back erect, hands on her knees with thumbs and middle fingers together, quietly breathing in and out, the syllable om gently following her breath. I envy the peace she is personifying.
Soon, she opens her eyes, cuts them around to me, and says, “What’s up, DewDew?” The serenity is shattered.
“Nothin’.”
“How was the funeral?” she quips, quickly putting her hand on my arm. “What a dolt!” she says. “Maybe you don’t want to talk about it. ’S okay with me if you don’t.”
I smile at her. We’ve become so close in this short time I know I can tell her, that I need to tell her, everything about this strange and sad weekend.
“The funeral was fine. It was short. My aunt and uncle’s preacher said a few words and a prayer. Some of Danny’s friends talked. Aunt Juney and Uncle Bert were total wrecks. But it all was over in about thirty minutes.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, if that had been all that was planned. But then we went to the cemetery. There was a full military honors service. It was brutal. An officer or whoever—I don’t know anything about the Army—spoke. He went on and on and on about what a hero Danny was. That wouldn’t have been so hard to take if the guy knew when to shut up. After he finally did, they did the thing with the rifles, shooting into the air. Finally a guard folded the flag on the coffin and presented it to my uncle. That’s when Uncle Bert collapsed and….”
“Collapsed? Is he okay?” LuLu grabs my arm, concern clouding her face.
“Yeah, Daddy whispered something to him, and he stood back up. But my aunt started sobbing, and then my cousin Jo. They were all three in a state. And, of course, there was a gathering at my aunt and uncle’s house. I spent most of the day with Jo. She’s really torn up, but a lot of it is anger because Danny was killed fighting this f-ing war. She even said the B in Johnson’s name stands for Bastard, because he escalated the war, and that’s when Danny got drafted.”
LuLu snickers. I look at her. “Sorry, DewDew. I haven’t met your cousin Jo, but from what you’ve told me, I could picture her ranting and calling our former president a bastard. Let’s just hope Nixon proves to be better at presidentialing and gets us out of this mess. I agree with your cuz. Her brother was essentially murdered. And pulling the troops out is the only thing going to save our guys from dying. But I have to tell you, there are so many of them signing up—not just getting drafted. You’d think they want to go over there and kill. I don’t blame folks for spitting on them when they get back and dissing them and calling them names. I’ve been told by his wife that the doctor’s return from WWII was a big thing, people were constantly coming up and thanking him for his service and shit like that. But these guys who run off to Nam to kill people? I don’t have any respect whatsoever for them. It’s the draftees I’ve got compassion for.”
Wow. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. And what I’m hearing is pretty much how I felt until yesterday morning.
“LuLu, let me tell you something. You can believe how you want to, but here’s what I heard yesterday, and it changed my mind—some.”
“Okay. Spill.”
“Well, my uncle, my mother’s younger brother, came to town for the funeral. He married late and his kids are still very young, so he and his wife decided it would be best if she stayed home with the kids. But, of course, Uncle Wayne wanted to be here for Aunt Juney. Well, before he left town yesterday morning, Mother and Daddy and me met him for breakfast at Ol’ South Pancake House.”
“Love their pancakes,” LuLu interjects. “Even better now we cullud folks don’t have to sit in the back room.”
I look at her and roll my eyes. “Can I get on with my story?”
She gives a wounded look and says, “Go ahead on.”
“So—over breakfast, Uncle Wayne and Daddy get to talking about the war. I guess it was natural, considering why Uncle Wayne was here and all. They particularly get into a discussion about how the boys fighting in Nam are heroes. I want to jump right in, but I’m not a fool.” I haven’t told LuLu about that slap Daddy gave me. “I just keep my mouth shut and let them talk. Uncle Wayne tells this story about a parade they had in their little town. Now, you’d think in a little town—Vernon, up in the Panhandle—everybody, most of them farmers, would be gung ho about the returning troops. But no, he said people were jeering at these poor guys and making gestures at them. It was terrible, Uncle Wayne said.”
“So? Those guys are over there killing and maiming innocent people. They’re even killing children. It’s no wonder those people feel that way. They don’t know which ones volunteered and which ones were forced to go. All they see are Johnson’s murderers.”
“Wait a minute, LuLu, let me finish. Daddy agrees, of course, with Uncle Wayne. Uncle Wayne says, ‘You know, we fought the big war because we believed in our cause. But these guys fighting in Nam? They don’t have a clear-cut cause like we did. They are just blindly following orders. Yeah, some are volunteering because they’re rabble-rousers, fighters, haters. And some volunteer because they can get a better deal than the draftees. I do feel sorry for the draftees because they’re getting called against their will, and the boys from richer families are finding ways to stay out of Nam, but my point is once they are over there, all of them are following orders. They are trying their best to do what they are told to do by our government, and they deserve our respect when they get back. If they get back. Danny didn’t make it back. And he is a hero, no doubt about it.’
“Daddy pipes up, ‘You’re right, Wayne. I don’t give a good goddamn what they are doing over there. Those boys all are heroes because they are doing what our government is asking them to do.’
“What Uncle Wayne and Daddy said made an impression on me, LuLu.”
“But some of those guys are getting bloodthirsty. They’re enjoying the killing.”
“And you don’t think some of the men in World War II, in Korea, in any war, aren’t like that? Come on, people are killing people right here in Fort Worth in dark alleys. We read about it in the Star-Telegram every week. There are people who just like to spill blood. But those soldiers? Most of them are doing what they are asked to do, are told to do, are ordered to do.”
“So where does that leave us? We are against the war. We’re doing a whole night of theater protesting just that. Are we supposed to just abandon our feelings? Decide the war is okay?”
&nb
sp; “LuLu, LuLu. You’re not listening. I still firmly believe the war is wrong. Those guys over there can’t even tell the enemy from the good guys. They all look alike, dress alike. The bad guys even strap bombs on little children to blow up our guys. American fighters can’t trust any of them. So there is a lot of killing, some of it of innocents. Our boys are afraid. They’re trying to be brave, but they’re afraid. They don’t know the kid they befriend today may be the kid strapped to a bomb tomorrow. Hell, the girl they bed down and fall in love with tonight might turn on them tomorrow night. It’s got to be the most scary thing these guys have ever experienced. And if they make it out alive, we need to applaud them. Make them feel we are glad they made it back in one piece. Or, unfortunately for a lot of them, missing pieces. But alive. And we should be grateful they did their jobs, even if we don’t like the jobs they were called to do.”
“But Dewey, the war is wrong, wrong, wrong.”
“I just said that, LuLu. There is nothing right about it. What’s right is these guys are trying to do what our government is asking them to do. We—in our show and in our lives—need to keep pushing for Nixon and Congress to end this thing. Let those people over there fight their own fight if they want to, but leave us out of it. If Nixon can negotiate an end, that’s great. Nobody needs to be fighting, us or them. But if he can’t, he should bring our guys home. Period.”
“And soon.” She speaks quietly, resolutely.
“And soon,” I repeat, nodding my head. “But right now, we have a show to do. A show that may change a few minds.”
“DewDew, I hope you’re right.”
We hear Ben, from the depths—like there are any depths to this tiny play space—call, “Places.”
“It’s showtime!” LuLu cries out, and we race backstage.
Rehearsal is magnificent. My realization, my clarification of how I feel now about the war, spills over into Randy. I understand him so much better now. There are layers to the character I never knew were there. When Randy dies, I know everyone on stage is experiencing his death in a much deeper way. I can tell from just the charged atmosphere of the end of the play tonight. The general lighting dims; the spotlight slowly fades on the brutal policeman.
All You Need Is Love Page 13
