When he came back from Vietnam two years later, the boyishness was gone and his bright idealism had faded. He stayed in his room for two weeks, not even coming downstairs for meals. His father had been aware of the drugs, but he'd only watched and waited, careful not to intrude upon the painful readjustment.

During his third week home, Carey received a visit from the widow of his best buddy in the corps, a man who'd died in his arms. Dhani MacIntosh had taken the bus from Chicago-a day and a half trip with transfers and layovers-and had walked the last three miles from the highway. She brought the pictures Mac had sent back to her, all the ones in which he and Carey had been standing arm-in-arm or clowning around with the usual rude gestures and uplifted beer bottles. And she wanted to talk about Mac, wanted to know everything that the brief letters hadn't been able to say, wanted to be with someone Mac had loved like a brother.

It was the first time Carey had cried since he'd come back. They both cried, held each other and cried.

“The first time I saw Mac, he was nineteen,” Carey began. “He had just flunked out of college and decided the marines might pay the bills for you and Mac Junior. He walked into our temporary camp after carrying a basketball through five miles of jungle. Best damn sight I'd seen in four long months of hell. He called me ‘Shorty'… it was the first time in years I'd looked up at anyone… and asked me if I played basketball. We set up a makeshift hoop and played horse or twenty-one or one-on-one. Sometimes when we went back to the main camp for a few days, we'd put together a real game. Mac and I, Luger and Ant, along with a pickup guard or sometimes without one. We whipped everyone's ass.”

“He said you were the first cool honkey he'd ever met,” Dhani said with a smile.

“I had fewer hang-ups than a lot of folks out there, and Mac and I liked to party. No women,” Carey quickly interposed. “There weren't any out where we spent most of our time. Mac and I and some of the crew would just party up and talk about what we were going to do when we got out. He wanted to start up a community center in your old neighborhood, he said, and help a few kids out of the ghetto. Mac always felt if he'd paid more attention in school, he wouldn't have flunked out. The basketball scholarship got him to college but couldn't keep him there.”

“He never learned how to read real well,” Dhani said softly.

“I know. He knew. But he wanted to make it better for some other kids. It's the only fast track out of the ghetto, he'd say, sports and school.”

“I'm in a job training program now. I think I might be able to start college next year.”

Carey's eyes filled with tears, and he brushed a quick hand over the wetness. “Do you know how happy Mac would be to know that? Hey, Mac, you hear that?” he said, looking up. “You hear how smart a wife you've got?” He smiled a rueful smile at Dhani. “I talk to him all the time. Christ, people'll call me nuts, I suppose, but I do.”

“Me, too. He was the kind you just know would always listen.”

Carey looked out at the late fall landscape and swore under his breath. Turning back abruptly, he said, “You know what pisses me off something fierce? There's plenty of assholes living… and Mac's dead. It's not fair!”

“Did he suffer?” Dhani asked after they'd talked about the futility and the injustice, after they'd discussed the good memories and the good times. She had avoided the question until the last because she wanted to know, but was afraid of the answer.

“No,” Carey replied. Sitting on the porch railing in the late afternoon sun, he looked down at the even rows of planking below his feet before he looked back at her. “No, he didn't suffer,” he lied.

Dhani exhaled a great breath of relief. “I was afraid… he'd… the end was… awful.”

“It was fast,” Carey said. “Really. How's Mac Junior?” he asked. And while Dhani talked about her son, Carey tried to press back the terrible memories of Mac's death.

They had just been dropped into the clearing they'd already taken twice in the last six months. He was at point and Mac was slack man, five yards behind him when Mac stepped on the mine. The explosion knocked Carey flat. When he turned back to the anguished screams, he saw what was left of Mac thrown on a heavy jungle bush. Mac's arms and legs were gone. If he lived a million years, he'd never forget the sight of Mac crying for him. As he scrambled back, Carey screamed for a corpsman. “It's all right, Mac, I'm here. I'm here.” Very gently he lifted the man who had been six foot six into his arms, carefully eased himself onto the ground, and held him. Staring out of the dense green growth of underbrush that for a suspended moment in time seemed to isolate them as the last two men on earth, Carey roared, “If there's not a corpsman here in two minutes, I'm going to kill somebody!”

Mac's eyes were open wide. “I don't want to die,” he whispered.

“You won't,” Carey said fiercely. “I won't let you. Corpsman!” he screamed. “Dammit, we need a fucking corpsman over here!”

“I can't feel anything, Shorty. Am I going to make it?”

“It's shock, Mac. The feeling will come back. Your body's in shock.” But with each beat of his heart, Mac's arteries were pumping away his life. “We'll have you fixed up in no time,” Carey reassured him.

Just then a VC artillery unit began a dropping pattern along the tree line sheltering the company. No one could move. No medic came. As soon as the mortars started exploding, the Hueys that had dropped them in the clearing lifted like big, lumbering birds and flew away. Carey swore at them as they disappeared over the treetops.

He told Mac the copters would be there in a minute for him, that he'd be taken out to the nearest field hospital, that he'd earned a good, long R and R. He lied and lied and lied while his best friend died in his arms.

When Mac was dead, Carey made a soft bed for him in the undergrowth. Oblivious to the VC mortars systematically sweeping across the tree line while the firebase on the hill got their bearings on target, he raced toward the drop point where he knew the corpsmen would be. He manhandled a protesting corporal through the exploding shells to where Mac lay and said to him in a cold, level voice, “I want his arms and legs sewn back on.”

The horrified man stared at him. When the medic opened his mouth to object, Carey lifted his M-16, pointed it directly at the man's head, and said, “Mac was my best friend.”

The gruesome task, performed hastily but done, was accomplished only moments after the VC bombardment stopped as suddenly as it had started. And now we'll take this clearing for the third time, Carey thought cynically. Mac was dead. For what? The Cong would own this piece of land again an hour after they left.

“Thanks,” Carey said softly into the eerie silence after a steady hour of ear-shattering explosions. He lowered his weapon. “Thanks. He needs them to play basketball.” The corpsman nervously eased himself away from the tall blond man whose glazed eyes stared at the gruesome body on the ground. “Is that better now, Mac?” he heard him say before he turned and ran out of range of the crazy soldier's M-16.

Carey stayed with Mac until his body was lifted aboard a chopper. And then he cried.



Dhani stayed overnight, and that evening at dinner Bernadotte saw a glimpse of the Carey of former days as his son entertained Dhani with humorous anecdotes of Vietnam. It was the first visible break in the brittle, self-contained man who'd come back from Vietnam, the man who'd stayed in his room watching TV, not sleeping, hardly eating, trying to deal with some inner nightmare that wouldn't loosen its hold.

They sat afterward over Drambuie and made plans for the center Carey wanted to fund as a memorial to Mac. For the first time in weeks, he was animated, making suggestions as fast as Dhani could write them down, giving orders as he'd always had the tendency to do, then apologizing to her with a quick, flashing smile. Bernadotte had to excuse himself briefly when he saw that first smile. It brought back images of a chubby two-year-old toddler riding his first pony, and a young boy coaxing his father to let him have a motorcycle years too early. It was the smile Carey warmed rooms of cold-eyed cynics with. His son had returned to him, and Bernadotte needed a moment alone for his tears to subside.

The following day, after Bernadotte's chauffeur had driven Dhani away, Carey turned to his father and said, “I think I'll go for a ride.”

Controlling the impulse to dance a jig for the first time in his life, Bernadotte calmly replied, “It's a pleasant afternoon for a ride. I'll have Leon saddle Tarrytown.”

The riding helped Carey's recuperation; day by day the familiarity of the stark countryside so different from Vietnam slowly blurred his most horrifying memories. In a month the taut edginess had diminished, and in another month Carey came home one day with a movie camera, and announced he'd signed up for a film course at the nearby college.