“I feel sorry for you.”
“You only live once.”
“You’re a bad cliché,” I said, shaking my head. “No wonder women grow to hate men.”
“You’re just jealous you’re not getting any of the fresh stuff.”
Never for a split second did I feel as if I was missing out on anything by being with Karyn. I was the luckiest man in the world. As much as Shane tried to convince me otherwise, Karyn and I were as one wrapped in each other’s arms.
But then the war came home. I don’t know if it was because of Vietnam or the fact the world just started spinning a little off its axis, but for three kids growing up listening to the boys from England, believing peace did stand a chance, we were about to be thrown into a world of napalm and bombs that didn’t give a rat’s ass who you were, or what you believed in. Nixon was elected President in 1968, and the first draft lottery since World War II was held December 1, 1969; it determined the order for conscription into the Army for men born between January 1, 1944 and December 31, 1950. In the fall of 1971, having your number picked didn’t mean winning the lottery—it meant a one-way ticket into hell. If you were an able-bodied, all-American male, eighteen to thirty-eight, and your number was called, you were basically fucked.
Being single and not in college, Shane was USDA prime beef, 1-A draft status. Of the three hundred sixty-five birth dates selected for the draft that year, Shane’s came up forty-third. A few weeks later he was standing in line in his underwear, along with a thousand other inductees, turning his head sideways and coughing while some medic held his nuts, told to urinate in a cup, was stamped 1-A, and shipped off to Fort Ord for basic training.
The night we found out Shane was headed to basic training, I announced during dinner, “If you’re going, then so am I.” Karyn and Shane both looked at me, but neither one said anything.
Finally Shane reached over, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “Listen up, amigo, I know what you’re saying, and I appreciate it.”
“Bullshit,” I said, sensing where he was headed. “I’m going.”
Shaking his head, he squeezed my shoulder hard. His vice-like grip actually hurt. “I love you like a brother,” he told me. “You know that.” I nodded as he continued. “But you’re married. You have Karyn to think about, to take care of.”
“But …”
Karyn was hanging on his every word, but remained silent.
“No buts about it. You’re staying here. You’ve got responsibilities. I promise you. I’ll be all right.” I looked away. He squeezed harder, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I promise,” he repeated, staring into my eyes, until he saw my look of surrender. “Not all of us are destined to be warriors,” he said softly. “Not this time around, anyway.”
Karyn reached over and put her hand on my knee.
Shane gave me a little squeeze before letting go of my shoulder. “Besides, I’m not going to have time to look after your sorry ass over there. You’d probably end up getting us both killed.”
Springing out of my chair, I flew at him with an open arm tackle, tipping his chair over. We both went tumbling to the floor. “I’ll show you whose sorry ass needs looking after.” But pinning me in seconds, Shane soon had me begging for mercy.
Karyn’s laughter rang in our ears as she started clearing the table. “You guys will never grow up.”
After three months in basic training, Shane’s platoon was given a four-day pass, and he flew home for the long weekend before being shipped off to defend our nation against the all-powerful North Vietnamese. Those were the last days of life-long friendships.
For the first time in history, the mayhem of war was played out in living color every night on the six o’clock news. The effects on the country were mind numbing. By the time Shane finally came home, he and America were changed forever. Other than a few bumps and bruises, he’d escaped physically unscathed. Decorated with honors for bravery and heroism, he stood erect and proud, but his eyes were deep orbs of darkness and depression. The horrors he’d seen had manifested into a vicious cancer that was eating him alive from within. He was a hollow shell of the proud, young man he once was.
Without a second thought, he moved in with Karyn and me, taking over the same stateroom we’d shared as kids. The three of us were reunited. The post-war Shane didn’t talk much, and when he did, it was never about the war. As far as I could tell, he didn’t sleep much either.
One afternoon while Karyn was at the market, I asked him if he wanted to talk about what had happened over there. He paused, staring at me with unblinking eyes. Shaking his head slowly, he said, “You don’t want to know.”
I held his gaze. Searching his eyes but finding only darkness in the blank emptiness of his stare sent a cold chill up my spine. “Don’t ask me again, okay?” he said. That’s the last time we ever talked about the war.
From day one, he cautioned Karyn and me never to come into his cabin at night. “Can’t sleep much,” he told us after being back a few days. “What rest I am getting is only skin deep. So, please, for your own safety, don’t ever come into my cabin without knocking.”
Karyn and I nodded, thinking we understood. We didn’t.
“And most importantly, wait ’til I say it’s okay before you open the door.”
Karyn and I nodded again and exchanged glances.
Seeing our confusion, he added, “I might react without thinking.” He paused before drifting away again. We waited. We were growing accustomed to his disjointed conversations. He was never fully present. “Especially at night, when I’m in the dark, when I’m sleeping. Don’t come in on me, okay?” It wasn’t really a question.
The weeks passed. I went off to work every morning, leaving the two of them to take care of things around the boat and handle the chores. They’d shop for fresh vegetables, home-made breads and pastas on Market Street or pick up lunch and bring it down to me at the docks. The time they were spending together, walking our old stomping grounds, seemed to be slowly helping Shane ease back to normalcy.
One afternoon I came home early, needing a file that I had stored in his cabin. Before he moved in, I’d been using Shane’s cabin as a home office. He and Karyn were out when I got to the boat, so I just went in to get the file. What I found instead scared the crap out of me.
When they came home, I was sitting on the back deck, holding his loaded 9mm in my lap. They both saw the gun as they stepped on board. Before Karyn or I could say anything, Shane stated flatly, “I sleep with it, locked and loaded, on my chest. Can’t close my eyes without it.” Karyn and I looked at him as he continued. “I’ve been trying to wean myself off it. Like today,” he said, looking at Karyn, “forcing myself to leave it here when we go out.”
“Do you mean you’ve been carrying that thing around town with us?” Karyn asked.
“Afraid so.”
Karyn was stunned. “I’ve got to put these groceries away,” she said heading inside.
Shane’s eyes never left the gun. I handed it back to him. “Thanks,” was all he said, taking it and following Karyn into the salon. For the first time since he came back, I realized I didn’t want to know what happened over there. Ignorance was my bliss; Vietnam was his hell.
That night