“I can’t, honey,” she whispered. Dad was waiting for her in the hall.
“Why not?”
“I just can’t. But do what you must. I’ll understand.” She paused, squeezing me tighter, and looked me dead in the eye. “Suzannah, you arenotwho he says you are. You are loving and good, joyful and kind. You are a child of God.”
I’d heard those words from her many times before, but Dad’s hateful words always drowned them out. “Please, Mama. Please come with me. When Ron gets out of the army, we can all live together in peace. Free ofhim.”
Her blank stare revealed it all. Even if she wanted to, my mother would never leave her husband. He had manipulated her into believing she could never make it on her own.
But he would not do that to me. Maybe I was all those things he claimed, but I’d never let him say it to my face again.
Home
Memphis, Tennessee
Wednesday, August 13, 1969
I watched the minute hand on my bedside clock stand straight up and the little hand point toward three. My bag was packed—everything but the toiletries—so I tiptoed down the hall into the bathroom. I climbed onto the sink and pulled my toiletry bag from the top shelf of the linen closet. A large stack of letters, held together with a fat rubber band, tumbled to the floor.
Scrambling down, my heart pummeled against my chest. I recognized the handwriting right away. All the letters were addressed to Mama. At a PO box.What the heck?
I sat down cross-legged on the cold tile floor, picked out a letter at random, and read it through to the end.
April 1, 1968
Long Binh, South Vietnam
Dear Mama,
I had a big surprise when I got back from our 14-day mission. Four new tapes! Man was it a happy welcomeback. Thank you! Music is the only thing that keeps me sane out here. By the way, next time you send paper and envelopes, please put them in a plastic bag because they get wet otherwise. It’s monsoon season, been raining three times a day. I’ve never seen so much rain. Not sure which is worse, the rain, the heat or the mud. Most of the guys in my platoon have rashes. Thank God for calamine lotion! (And our medics.) How is the weather there? I bet the azaleas are looking nice about now. Makes me miss Memphis in the spring.
Before I forget, our CO has a request. More cigs! Also, we’d love cans of stew or soup, Oreos, Cheese Whiz and crackers, and packages of Kool-Aid. Mama, your care packages are the best. You are everyone’s favorite mom!
I don’t want to scare you, but you asked me in your last letter to be honest. Monday, we hid in the swamp and waited. That part wasn’t so bad, even though we stayed wet for three days.
Getting there was the worst part. The crunching sound under your own feet while creeping through rice paddies is enough to scare the living daylights out of you. We don’t know where the enemy is hiding. They could be anywhere. They know this thick terrain inside and out. The US is dropping this herbicide from airplanes to clean out the brush so the soldiers can see the enemy. Surely that will help.
Dad wouldn’t understand. This war is different from his wars. He doesn’t get how bad it is here. The enemy doesn’t wear a uniform! How are we supposed to know if they are the Viet Cong or villagers? All of their pajamas look the same. By day they arebarbers, by night they are the VC. Dad never had to wonder about the enemy in WWII or Korea. Innocent Vietnamese civilians are getting killed every single day. Washington is lying to everyone over there. Don’t believe them.
Dad and my grandfathers didn’t face what we’re facing over here. You said I’m to be totally honest with you. Here goes ... I don’t want to die for my country. Is that an unforgivable sin as Dad suggests? If so, I can only pray God will forgive me. I’m not the only soldier who feels this way. Many, many do. None of us believe any of our boys should be dying because our politicians are trying to save the Vietnamese from communism. The Vietnamese don’t even care. Johnson craves control. I’m only here before college because someone else made that decision for me.America Should Not Be Here. It’s not our problem.
I have not had a shower in six weeks. And I’ve been wearing the same clothes. It makes me really appreciate all you did for me when I lived at home. You are a stickler for clean clothes. I didn’t know how good I had it. I’m sorry I didn’t thank you more.
I picture you driving to the post office, getting out your key, and sticking your hand in the slot only to find it empty. I’ll try my best to write more. I know you love getting my letters. I also know I ask for a lot of stuff.
I’ll make it through this somehow. God keeps sparing me. He must have something big for me to accomplish. I’ve been talking to Him a lot. I don’t think He believes in this war either. I’ll write more soon. They are coming for the mail now. I don’t mean to upset you. I just need to vent.
Thank you for loving me. I miss and love you.
Your loving son,
Ron
P.S. Don’t worry about what you say in your letters. The army no longer censors them. That ended after WWII. You can say whatever you want.
Learning nothing new, I read another. And another. They made me even angrier at Dad. I thought about taking all of them to read later but quickly decided they were my mother’s prized possessions, like my own letters were to me. She probably read them for comfort the way I did. Ron needed a way to write to our mother apart from our father’s judgmental eyes, the same way he wrote to me at Penny’s house and at college.
Even if they were hard to read, they were proof he was still alive. At least he was when Mama saw him over New Year’s.
