Page 55 of Theo of Golden

Tony closed his eyes, pictured the lines of evacuees, and recalled the reciprocal bitterness of those moments — from soldiers to villagers and from villagers to soldiers — as they trudged to the helicopters. The sweat stung his eyes, blurred his vision. The weight of his gun and the weariness of recent days pulled his shoulders downward. Forty paces in front of him, a fellow GI also walked between the lines. Forty paces behind him, the same.

Tony heard a shout from the rear, a shout of panic. Villagers immediately crouched or fell to the ground, covering their heads.

“TONY, look out! Look out! LOOK OUT!”

Tony heard his name again, this time from in front of him. “Get down! Tony, behind you!”

A woman screamed, a shrill, catlike shriek of hysteria. The soldier behind Tony tried to train his gun on her. Tony turned. Sweat burned his eyes, but he saw a figure running at him. “TONY! GRENADE! SHOOT! Tony, SHOOOT!”

Tony instinctively raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The assailant was feet away from him.

The shrill cry of the woman filled the air with insanity.

The air sprayed crimson as bullets tore at the attacker’s chest and throat.

Their eyes met.

The small shirtless body of a child splayed onto the ground.

“Oh my god. Oh, god, no. No! Oh my god.”

A golf ball rolled from the little boy’s hand.

Tony shook his head over and over. Closed his eyes. Took several deep breaths. Moaned. Took another sip. Sat back again, spent.

An uneasy silence followed.

It might have been seconds or minutes before Tony, damp-eyed and in little more than a whisper, slurred an apology.

“I’m sorry, Theo. Ohh, I’m so sorry.” Long exhale. “I try not to let my mind ever go back there. I never talk about this to anyone.”

Theo nodded but said nothing. Tony took yet another long pull of brandy. Theo took a discreet sip. He had not been drunk since the day of his daughter’s death, and he saw no reason to cross that line tonight.

Tony continued, his voice calmer but his words still fragmented. “Theo, if nothing else, the war made me honest. Opened my eyes. It cured me of any romantic notions I had about the human race. Creatures who are capable of doing the things that happened there don’t have much to brag about. It’s crazy what a jungle and fear and a gun and some misguided patriotism can bring out of a man. I’m afraid there’s a killer inside every one of us.

“Before Vietnam, I was just Dan and Mitzi’s boy, then all of a sudden, at least off and on while I was over there, I was a devil. Vietnam was a world full of monsters, and I was one of ‘em. It scares me that the monster might still be in me somewhere.” He paused. “As bad as the guilt and shame and nightmares have been, in some way they give me hope that I still have a conscience and a heart, even if they’re screwed all to hell up. I hope so.

“I hate the politicians who sent us there. If there’s such a thing as righteous anger, sane hate, it’s for people like that. I hated what they did then, hate what they do now sometimes. But I don’t blame them for what the war showed me about myself.”

Another pull from the glass.

And then a long silence. A cooling-down period.

As if to declare Vietnam over and done for this evening, Tony asked a question.

“Theo, you know what Ellen checked out the other day? Two books: Peter Pan and The Killing of Pablo Escobar. She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”

Theo raised his glass. “Here’s to Tony, who made it home from the jungle, so he could care for St. Ellen of the Promenade.”

Tony consented to the faint praise and raised his glass. They both took a sip.

“Have you always liked books?” Theo asked the question in hopes of further dispelling the intensity of the previous hour. Tony seemed all too happy to take the bait.

“Well, books are safe, aren’t they? Most of the time, anyway. But yeah, I’ve liked — loved — reading most of my life. My parents did too. They always had lots of things lying around that even a kid could enjoy. I think they did that on purpose.”

The two men talked books, shared something of their education and upbringing, and told some safe family stories. Tony spoke with surprising clarity for a man who had just consumed almost an entire bottle of brandy and who, only minutes before, had been so emotionally unhinged.

He and Theo even laughed a time or two and enjoyed, all in all, what Tony would later describe to the Penny Loafers as a “damn good conversation. Y’all should try it sometime.”