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The kids were still in school when he and Carolynne got home, so he told her how Lewie had cried out there in the cold, made a spectacle of himself, and what he’d said on the way home about the two of them and the war.
“What’d you tell him, honey?” she asked him.
He scratched at his fingernails. “He’s the guy did all the talking,” Wiley told her. “I didn’t have time to get in a word.”
"You didn't tell him anything?"
"I didn't have a thing to say."
He could tell by the way Carolynn put down her coffee spoon that somehow she'd wished it were different.
"Then, it's good that you could be there to listen," she said. "Probably he needed somebody to say all of that to--somebody like you, who'd been through it." She looked up at him almost sadly. "You know what I mean," she said, begging him with her eyes like she could, asking him to talk.
"Of course, I know what you mean," he said, looking out over straight lines of corn stubble poking through the snow on the field west of the house.
"Hank must have really been a buddy," she said. "But it's a funny thing because you never saw them together that much--not the couples, I mean."
He was thinking how it might be come spring with all the snow, how the yard would be full of mud.
"I suppose you get close to a man like that in the service," she said, "going through it together."
He got up from the table and took out a cigarette from the pack he kept up by the bills above the refrigerator. He didn't smoke much anymore, not in the house anyway, not with the kids harping constantly.
"You have someone like that from Vietnam, Wiley?" Carolynne said, "--somebody?"
He lit the cigarette, pulled the ashtray from behind the envelopes, but let it sit up there out of the way.
"I suppose you get close to a man like that in the service," she said, "going through it together."
He got up from the table and took out a cigarette from the pack he kept up by the bills above the refrigerator. He didn't smoke much anymore, not in the house anyway, not with the kids harping constantly.
"You have someone like that from Vietnam, Wiley?" Carolynne said, "--somebody?"
He lit the cigarette, pulled the ashtray from behind the envelopes, but let it sit up there out of the way.
She picked up the scissors and cut a coupon out of the paper. "You had buddies, didn't you?"
"There's guys I wouldn't mind talking to sometime," he said, "but I wouldn't go out of my way to see them and I don't think they'd do any more for me.
“Nobody?” she said. “Really?”
Faces he remembered, and the names that went with them came up like magic in his mind, one after another. Hibbard would be bald as a buzzard now, and Flannary always wanted to sell cars in Little Rock, where everybody talked just like him, he said.
"Maybe," Wiley said. "I just don't think about them much."
“What do you remember?" she said.
Pronster was going to go to college for the women. Meredith said he wouldn't go back to Columbus for nothing. Alaska, he said. He wanted to be a wilderness man, coonskin cap. All Wiley really remembered was the farm, coming home to Iowa. "You know," he said, "nobody has time to sit out on a porch and watch the crops grow--not in farming nowadays. It's a cut-throat business now.”
She looked at him strangely, the scissors in her hand.
"It's something," he said. "It's just one of them hundreds of things Lewie said coming back." He didn't want to explain. "Just never mind."
Carolynne turned the pages and looked up and down the columns. "Did they have the whole army rigmarole out there? Tillie said Henry had asked to have the whole thing--shooting the rifles and everything," she said.
“Too cold,” he said, “thank the Lord.”
“I guess it comes with being in the service—did you know that?” she asked. "All that has to happen is that somebody has to ask for it. You don’t pay a thing. You just have to ask for it.”
He knew the kids would smell the smoke when they came in, so he doused the cigarette. “Carolynn,” he said, “if you love me, don’t order up any of that junk when they put me in the ground.”
“Don’t even talk that way—”
“I mean it.”
She waited to speak, and then, “I just wondered,” she said.
“Promise me,” he told her.
“Wiley,” she asked, “why is that so important? Why do you have to forget so hard?
There was too much to say, he told himself, too much to try to explain, too much to remember. “I was mostly behind things. I didn’t have it so bad,” he told her.
“Then why aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. It’s twenty years ago,” he said. “And it gripes me no end when guys can’t forget it, as if that’s all that ever was was Vietnam. It gripes me no end, Lynn. Shoot, I was there and everything, and it’s nothing to hang your hat on.”
She sat there waiting for him to go on.
"There's guys I wouldn't mind talking to sometime," he said, "but I wouldn't go out of my way to see them and I don't think they'd do any more for me.
“Nobody?” she said. “Really?”
Faces he remembered, and the names that went with them came up like magic in his mind, one after another. Hibbard would be bald as a buzzard now, and Flannary always wanted to sell cars in Little Rock, where everybody talked just like him, he said.
"Maybe," Wiley said. "I just don't think about them much."
“What do you remember?" she said.
Pronster was going to go to college for the women. Meredith said he wouldn't go back to Columbus for nothing. Alaska, he said. He wanted to be a wilderness man, coonskin cap. All Wiley really remembered was the farm, coming home to Iowa. "You know," he said, "nobody has time to sit out on a porch and watch the crops grow--not in farming nowadays. It's a cut-throat business now.”
She looked at him strangely, the scissors in her hand.
"It's something," he said. "It's just one of them hundreds of things Lewie said coming back." He didn't want to explain. "Just never mind."
Carolynne turned the pages and looked up and down the columns. "Did they have the whole army rigmarole out there? Tillie said Henry had asked to have the whole thing--shooting the rifles and everything," she said.
“Too cold,” he said, “thank the Lord.”
“I guess it comes with being in the service—did you know that?” she asked. "All that has to happen is that somebody has to ask for it. You don’t pay a thing. You just have to ask for it.”
He knew the kids would smell the smoke when they came in, so he doused the cigarette. “Carolynn,” he said, “if you love me, don’t order up any of that junk when they put me in the ground.”
“Don’t even talk that way—”
“I mean it.”
She waited to speak, and then, “I just wondered,” she said.
“Promise me,” he told her.
“Wiley,” she asked, “why is that so important? Why do you have to forget so hard?
There was too much to say, he told himself, too much to try to explain, too much to remember. “I was mostly behind things. I didn’t have it so bad,” he told her.
“Then why aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. It’s twenty years ago,” he said. “And it gripes me no end when guys can’t forget it, as if that’s all that ever was was Vietnam. It gripes me no end, Lynn. Shoot, I was there and everything, and it’s nothing to hang your hat on.”
She sat there waiting for him to go on.
Outside, he could finish that smoke, he thought. In the barn, he had to nail up some pens for his sows. He pushed open the folding door to the back hall and raised his eyebrows at her, then shrugged his shoulders before going down the stairs to get dressed for the barn.
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Tomorrow: At the cemetery for Memorial Day
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