“I miss you,” she said.
“I’m right here.”
“I miss the ‘you’ from last week, before that stupid phone rang, and I found out about this whole other life of yours. I listened to Amy talking about you, all the years that she’s known you, and I felt like a footnote at the end of a massive book. Back home you were always a little strange, but after growing up with all that military structure, I like strange, and you were my strangeness. Now it’s like I’m in this weird time-share, and the Colonel always said, ‘Time-shares are a rip-off. They’re never fully yours’.”
“You’re not a time-share. We’ll be home soon.”
“I don’t think so. I might be home soon, but you’re going to stay.”
I took her hand. “I love you.”
“Didn’t you once tell me that ‘I love you’ is bad dialogue? Whatever happened to show, don’t tell?”
We bumped noses as our legs wrapped together, and I slid my hands beneath her t-shirt just as my phone started vibrating. Ignoring it, I stroked Kelly’s hair and kissed her neck, but she pushed me away and told me to answer, it might be important—or maybe she just didn’t want me touching her.
It was a New York number I didn’t recognize. I hated the phone but answered anyway. The voice on the other end was harsh but familiar.
“Donatello Marcino, Jesus…I never thought I’d see that name again. Why didn’t you tell me you were working on something new?”
It was my agent George—we hadn’t spoken in five years, though I did get an occasional royalty check forwarded in the mail.
“I’m not,” I said. “I make pizza now, remember?”
“Then what the hell is this script with your name on it doing on my desk?” he said. “The Revolving Heart …don’t tell me there’s another Donatello Marcino out there. White paper, stage directions, dialogue; it’s not a pizza, that’s for sure. No pepperoni in sight.”
“It’s on your desk?”
“UPS dropped it off this morning,” he said.
I looked over at Kelly. “You’re welcome,” she whispered.
“I haven’t read it yet, but I’m intrigued. What’s it about?”
“Well …”
“Is it about identity? Maleness? I’m desperate for a project about toxic masculinity.”
“It’s about these people …”
“Hmm,” he said, sounding disappointed. “Still, it’s good to hear from you. I’ll give it a read, definitely. I always suspected you had another one in you.”
“It’s just a draft.”
“Aren’t they all?” George said.
I put down the phone and turned toward Kelly, who picked up her guitar and started playing, another REM song, “Shiny Happy People” this time instead of “Everybody Hurts.”
I couldn’t complain.
. . . . .
When Uncle Dan wanted your attention, he talked about the war, his eighteen months in country like a badge requiring you to listen, since whatever wisdom he needed to impart was hard-earned and battle tested. He talked about his service so much, when I was a little kid I thought Vietnam was somewhere in New Jersey, a rotten neighborhood filled with bullies, giant bugs, and bad pizza. I’d get scared thinking about my uncle getting shot, and the few times we left Holman Beach and went for a ride I’d whisper a secret prayer that we didn’t wind up in Vietnam.
I’d stopped at the Jaybird to see if he needed any help in the kitchen. He didn’t, but before he let me go, he had something to share. As soon as the word “platoon” came out, I knew it was about me.
“There was a guy in our squad, Tex we called him; I’m not sure why since he wasn’t from Texas,” he said. “But that’s what we called him: Tex, or Crazy Tex, or just ‘that crazy S.O.B.’ You get the picture.”
I had stopped at the Jaybird to pick up a tray of lasagna for dinner at Amy’s that night, not expecting much more from him than a head nod, it being so close to the dinner time rush. But Uncle Dan had a story to tell, a lesson to impart, no doubt connected to my mother, Nancy, who sat in the booth closest to the register folding napkins with her one, and only, hand. Surprised by her presence, I’d kept to the other side and pretended not to hear when she muttered to the couple in the adjoining booth, “that’s him, that’s my son.”
The lasagna awaited in its tray by the register, and had I been just a regular customer I would have paid and been out the door in thirty seconds. But Uncle Dan had noticed my reaction to Nancy, and at that moment, to him, I was a snot-nosed little brat who needed some words. He led me to the back storeroom and put on a fresh apron.
“Crazy Tex was one of those guys who loved the war; man, there was nothing he liked better than killing Charlie, and we just knew that Tex would never go home,” he told me. “Had the Army discharged him he might have stayed behind and signed up with the other side just to keep himself in the game. That’s what he called it, the game. But that’s not important. His hand—that’s what you need to hear about. So one day Tex is playing around with an M26, that’s a grenade…”
“It triggers by accident, right? He loses his hand…”
“No…his hand was fine. Let me tell the story, okay? He’s playing with the M26 when this giant insect lands on his nose. You’ve never seen anything like it, Donnie. Picture a mosquito the size of your thumb. Tex hated bugs more than he hated VC. He drops the grenade and…”
“He loses a foot.”
“No. The grenade didn’t trigger. It just sat there. I told you to let me tell it. So…he pulls out his Mark 2, that’s
