that was it?”
“That was it. You know, Margie, I worked damn hard at putting it all behind me. And it’s especially hard because America has had a sudden change of heart and decided we weren’t all baby-killers. Nam vets have become the darlings of Hollywood. Indochina has great box-office appeal—all those shirtless sweaty bodies crawling through the jungle. Leeches! Gooks! Grunts going nuts! Makes for exotic drama. And the producers? They’re former hippies who now drive Mercedes instead of VW bugs. They want to talk to us, make nice. Except I remember how they treated me when I came back to the world. It don’t wash, babe.”
“Colonel Dunn was once asked to be a consultant on a Nam film.”
“What did your dad do?”
Marge blushed.
Decker said, “That bad?”
“Let’s put it this way. The screenplay was long, and Mom didn’t have to buy toilet paper for a month.”
Decker burst into laughter.
Marge asked, “So who’s this guy who you’re going the distance for?”
“Abel Atwater,” Decker said. “A hillbilly boy from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Kentucky.” Decker’s voice had taken on a nasal twang. “One of eleven chillun. His father could barely read and write, his mother was completely illiterate. Abel learned to read by sifting through mail-order catalogs. He used to entertain us by reciting Sears, Roebuck copy. Bright guy. The war messed him up.”
“A lot of rape-os are intelligent.”
“He doesn’t fit the profile. He’s not manipulative, he’s got great impulse control. He’s not the kind of person who goes around beating up hookers.”
Marge didn’t answer him.
Decker said, “All right. If I’d be brutally honest with myself, I’d say there was an off-chance that he freaked and did it. But we were in combat together for a while. I never saw him explode. Abel had a rep for being coolheaded. Type of guy the COs chose for pointman—lead-off guy in foot patrol—because he was careful and didn’t panic when things got hot.”
“Ever see him kill anybody?”
“You saw smoke, you busted some caps. Simple as that. When everything cooled off and you went in for cleanup, you’d see all these fucking bodies. Well, they didn’t drop dead from birdshit. You were shooting to kill, you killed. In answer to your question, I never saw him waste anyone for the sake of killing, and there was plenty of that going around!”
Decker stopped, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
“Abel could have been something if the war hadn’t left him paralyzed. Matter of fact, he wanted to be a cop, but Charlie blew off his leg and ended that dream.”
He snapped a pencil in half.
“I’m his dream, Marge. Maybe I feel guilty because Abel had all the fantasies, and I wound up with his dream.”
The phone was ringing when Decker opened the door. He raced over to the kitchen wall, his Irish setter, Ginger, nipping at his heels, and picked up the receiver.
“Did you just walk in?” Rina asked.
“Yeah,” Decker said. “I didn’t even close the front door. Hang on a sec.”
“Sure.”
He walked through his living room, Ginger following him, barking for attention. The room was comfortable, full of furniture made in his size—an overstuffed sofa, two buckskin chairs, and a leather recliner that sat in front of a picture window. In the heat, the room seemed alive, seemed to sweat. Decker quieted the dog and shut the front door. He drew open the front-window curtains, and a white square of sinking sun fell upon his Navajo rug.
He picked up the receiver and pulled out a kitchen chair with his foot. He sat down and petted Ginger’s head.
“I’ve got all the time in the world for you now. Speak.”
“That’s why I called.” She dropped her voice a notch. “The kids are home. I can’t really talk. We’ve got to leave any moment for my brother-in-law’s birthday party.”
“You sound thrilled.”
“I’m nearly faint with excitement.”
“Don’t go, if you don’t want to.”
“I can’t get out of it. At least not without lying.”
“Then be honest. Just say, ‘I find all this family stuff boring—’”
“Boring is the least of it.”
“Troubles with the family?”
“Something like that.”
“They’re giving you a hard time because they don’t approve of me.”
“Much more than that. Hold on.”
Decker heard her quiet her younger son, Jacob. When she returned on the line, he said, “Boys want to talk to me?”
“Very much,” Rina answered. “Look, can I call you back tonight?”
Decker paused.
“You’re working?” Rina asked.
“Just tying up odds and ends. I’ll put it off.”
“Don’t bother. I bought my ticket this afternoon, so I’ll see you in two days. Want to take down all the flight information?”
“Yeah, let me get a pen.” He rummaged through a junk drawer and came up with a red pen and the back of an old electric bill. He placed the paper on the wall and said, “Go ahead.”
Rina stated all the pertinent data, then gave Jacob the telephone.
“Hi, Yonkel,” Decker said. “How’s it going?”
“Fine.”
“How’s school?”
“Fine.”
“How’s basketball?”
“Fine.”
“How many lay-ups did you do yesterday?”
“Four.”
“Terrific.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you taking good care of your eema for me?”
“Yes.”
“Being good to your grandparents?”
“Yes.”
“Great,” Decker said. “I miss you, kiddo.”
“Peter?”
“What, Jakie?”
“When can we come back to your ranch?”
Decker sighed, hesitated. The kid was a sweetie. Decker pictured him talking on the phone, big blue eyes wide with innocence. He said, “Honey, you’re welcome here anytime your eema says it’s okay.”
“I miss the horses.”
“They miss you, too.”
“Okay, ’bye. Here’s Shmuli.”
Rina’s elder son came on the line.
“I’m upset,” Sammy said.
“What’s wrong?” Decker asked.
“Why can’t we come to L.A. with Eema? It’s not fair!”
“Sammy, I’d love for you guys to come out here—”
“So why can’t we come with Eema on Wednesday?”
“Because there’re