eightSASSY
Chez Monique. Amateur night. Sassy could hardly believe it was happening. Dear Davey, with his straightforward attitude toward life. She never would have had the nerve to approach the manager like that. This afternoon, she had changed outfits at least four times before finally settling on a white peasant blouse with delicate navy and orange embroidery over a pair of perfectly faded denim flares. She layered a multicoloured macramé poncho on top, though she was slightly nervous about the fringe possibly getting tangled in the guitar strings. It never had before, but it just seemed like Murphy’s Law might apply. She tied her hair in two braids so it would be out of the way.
This would be Sassy’s first real performance. Oh, how she wished Joey could be there to hear her.
Even a year later, it seemed impossible that he was in Vietnam. She still couldn’t understand his reasons. She wanted him home, safe and sound and sitting in the front row. If Joey was still in Toronto, she had no doubt he would be at Chez Monique tonight. She had no idea what he’d be doing for a job, but he wouldn’t be working for their father. Joey was more about helping others than making money. Which was why, she supposed, he was in Vietnam. Surely there had been other options available, though. Options that didn’t put him in a jungle, dodging bullets and machetes.
If only he was here.
How could he have left her?
Her father had refused, in the end, to see Joey off at the bus station, but Sassy had gone. She couldn’t imagine not being there for him. He had climbed onto the Gray Coach bus to Buffalo without fanfare. With tears streaming down her face, she watched him walk down the aisle until he found an available seat, then he waved through the window. The bus crunched into gear, and she feared she might collapse with grief. She knew what happened to boys who went down there. She watched TV and read the news. If she ever saw her brother again—and honestly, she feared she might not—he’d be different.
His first letter arrived about a month later.
Training is dog-eat-dog tough. We run a mile before breakfast every day. One guy couldn’t manage the parallel bars, and he was bringing down the PT score for the whole team, so they had a “blanket party” for him. Sounds cool, doesn’t it? Wrong. They cover the fool with a blanket, then everyone beats the hell out of him to teach him a lesson.
We’re shipping off in a couple of days. I know you hate that, but I’m ready. I want to see what it’s all about, and I can’t do that here.
She didn’t hear anything more for another six weeks or so. That time, the paper was mud-smeared and wrinkled, but she knew his printing like she knew her own.
Food’s bad, but better than nothing. C-rats are meat, bread, and some kind of dessert. They all taste the same. There’s only one other Canadian in the unit. Mostly I hang out with a big guy named Tex. You’d like him. Handsome as hell, and boy, can he make us laugh with that drawl. Hal is a farmer from Ohio with six sisters. I told him that was nuts, because it’s too much work with just one! Ha ha. Stu is the quietest of us. He wants to be a lawyer. I think he’s from Seattle.
The people here are grateful for our help. They aren’t strong enough to fight back. They need us.
Sassy couldn’t bear the weight of his words by herself. That night, she had gone to see her father. She said nothing at first, just watched him read a book in the living room, a glass of whisky in one hand. He finally glanced up, brow lifted in question, and she told him she wanted to read him Joey’s letter. He put down his book and didn’t object. Afterward, she set the tattered page on the table beside her, waiting for his reaction.
“It’s true,” he said after a quiet moment. “If the people in South Vietnam want freedom, they need the strength and support of the American military machine. But the U.S. needs Vietnam, too.”
“Why?”
“American industry relies on Asia’s natural resources, and that includes Vietnam. Americans love freedom, but someone else usually ends up footing the bill for them. In this case it’s Vietnam.” He sipped at his whisky. “War’s great for business.”
“What an awful thing to say.”
“Why? It’s the truth. No good ever comes from ignoring the facts. The U.S. manufactures the weapons they’re using over there. In fact, I’d warrant a guess that both sides of the conflict are using weapons made in the U.S.”
She hesitated, taken aback by the idea. She’d never thought about it like that. “So Americans are extending the war and killing thousands of people on purpose? For money? Shame on them.”
“It’s not just Americans, Susan. We can’t go blaming everything on them. We sit up here in judgement, feeling morally superior because we didn’t agree to send our men to fight, although some of the stupid ones like Joey went anyway. War is good for our business, too. Guess who supplies the basic material for those weapons, and who picks up the slack—and makes the money—when American factories are overwhelmed.”
Sassy had never forgotten that conversation. It had shifted her perspective, and whenever anyone brought up the topic of how “bad” Americans were, she made a point to correct them. There was enough blame to go around when it came to war.
She slipped her poncho over her head and looked into the mirror, trying to envision the woman onstage she would become in a few hours. Her first real performance. Her first real audience. Maybe if she tried really hard, she could imagine Joey sitting up front, cheering her on. But no good came from ignoring facts, she knew. In reality, Joey was half a world away.
There was a knock, and Sassy broke out of her daze. Mrs. Levin stood at the door with a pot of flowers, smiling. Her neighbour was around sixty years old, with long black hair streaked liberally with silver. The bangles she wore on both wrists jangled every time she moved. With her warm, maternal personality, Mrs. Levin was one of Sassy’s favourite neighbours.
“My dear. Look at you,” the woman said, instantly concerned. “Are you all right?”
Sassy took the potted plant and placed it on the counter. “I am. Thank you, Mrs. Levin. I was just thinking about my brother.”
“Is he all right?”
She puffed out a breath. “As far as I know.”
“War is a terrible thing,” Mrs. Levin said, her soulful eyes deep on Sassy’s. She put her open palms on either side of Sassy’s face, holding her tenderly, in a way Sassy thought a mom might do. She couldn’t recall if her mother ever had. “One does what one must. Sometimes the worst part is not knowing.”
Sassy nodded and bit her lip, holding back emotions. Mrs. Levin must have seen that, because she stepped back, bangles clinking together, and made a show of admiring Sassy.
