“You think I need help?”
“You don’t?”
She was getting used to his one-sided shrug. It wasn’t a motion of not knowing or having no idea, it was a vague, defensive movement. He didn’t want to start this conversation, but he wasn’t stopping her.
“Why did you go to Vietnam? You’re Canadian. You didn’t have to go.”
“I did, though. I’m a man.”
“What does that mean? Just because you’re a man, that doesn’t mean you have to fight someone else’s war.”
His expression was one of annoyance. Exasperation, even. She supposed he had fought this particular battle before.
“Of course it does. It’s my duty to defend our country and fight for the underdog. My granddad lost a leg in World War One doing that, and my dad fought in the next one. I couldn’t just stay home and run the fish plant.”
“Is that your job? Running a fish plant?” She bent slightly, checking the notes on the floor. “You’re from Nova Scotia? I’ve never been there, but I have heard it’s lovely.”
He was all right with this line of questioning. The tension eased slightly from his brow. “My great-granddad started the plant, and the family has carried on the tradition.” His tone was calm, his voice gentle. The well-considered words were deliberate. “It’s done a lot for the community. Not a glamorous job. A city girl like you couldn’t take the stink for very long, I don’t think.”
“The city has its own smells,” she replied wryly, “but I imagine working with fish would be worse. I guess your family has had to do more since you’ve been gone.”
A spark of resentment. “They’re strong, my family. They don’t need me.”
“I didn’t mean to infer that they couldn’t survive without you. Nothing like that. I’m merely trying to get to know you. What did they think of you going to war?”
He dropped his chin to his chest and said nothing. Clearly, they had not been happy.
“How did you feel about their reaction?”
A weak shrug.
“Do they know you’re here?”
“Not unless someone contacted them. I sure didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“?‘Hey, Dad. It’s me. I’m in the nuthouse. How are you?’?” His brow lifted. “You think that would go over well?”
“They might want to be here for you. Do you plan to go home after all this is over?”
“I don’t think that far ahead, Doc. I wonder if I’ll wake up tomorrow. That’s as far as I go.”
Depression was no surprise, nor was fatalism. It could be a symptom, or it could simply be that he was unhappy in this place. She couldn’t blame him for either. She thought of her father, how he sometimes slumped in his old armchair in the corner of the room, staring silently at the floor, lookinglike he would rather be dead than exist another moment. The next morning, he’d be himself again, asking if she’d like to go out for ice cream. Maybe take in a ball game. What must it be like to swing to such extremes with no control?
“You said your father and grandfather both served. Did you ever speak with them about their experiences?”
“Grandpa’s from that older, tougher generation. He could be run over by a tank and not complain about it. Dad doesn’t talk about his war, either.”
How many men lived with that ache within, the furious buildup of emotions and no way to release them? Who had decided that men should not cry? One of the more asinine societal values, in her opinion. Then again, she supposed a man possessing enough courage to face a charging predator without sobbing with fear had merit. Who else would protect the families?
“Do you feel like talking about Vietnam?”
He met her gaze, wary. “What do you want to know?”
“Always simplest to start with the weather. I hear it’s hot.”
He adjusted his position on the bed, letting his shoulders sag a little. “When I first got there, I stepped out of the plane and it felt like I walked into a wall of steam. I couldn’t breathe. You want to swim to cool off, but even the river water is hot.” One eyebrow twitched with humour. “Beer’s hot, too. More like soup than beer. But we drank it like water anyway. I was just starting to get used to the heat when the monsoons hit. The rain didn’t make it any cooler, just harder to get around.”
