The World Played Chess (4)

“Your sister’s ex?”

“He got me the job.”

“So what was in the package?”

“This.” I held up William’s black book. “His journal from Vietnam.”

Elizabeth put down the highlighter she had been using to mark the plans. “Why did he send it to you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t think he was ready to throw it out.”

“That’s random.”

I stepped to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat. “Not really. He and I used to talk after work. We’d sit in the garage of the house we were remodeling on Castillo Avenue in Burlingame, and he would tell me about Vietnam, what it was like, the impact it had on him.”

“I thought Vietnam vets never talked about Vietnam.”

“Most don’t.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Read it. I think. That’s what he asked, anyway, that I read it.”

“You sound hesitant.”

I nodded. “His stories were raw and honest,” I said. “He suffered from PTSD that summer, not that he or I knew it at the time, but he deteriorated pretty rapidly.”

“Why haven’t you mentioned him before?”

It was a good question, but I didn’t have a good answer for my wife. The summer I spent with William had been one of those transformative periods of my life—one I liked to both remember and forget. It was kind of like William’s journal. It was personal. It was between William and me, and I didn’t feel like it was my right to share his stories, what he had been through.

Or maybe I didn’t want to think of lost dreams.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Where is he now?”

I shook my head. “He didn’t put a return address on the envelope.”

“Seems odd.”

At first blush it probably did seem odd, but the lack of a return address was likely because William felt the same way about that summer as I did. It was something both to remember and to forget.

“You know that saying, the one I’ve told the kids about growing old being a privilege, not a right?”

“Yeah.”

“That came from William. He told me that after work one day.”

“I thought it was another line you plagiarized from a Seinfeld episode.”

I smiled, but Elizabeth knew me, and she knew William sending me his journal had been one of those unexpected moments that, while they didn’t exactly rock my boat, certainly made it list from side to side.

“Sounds heavy,” she said.

“It was, coming from someone who learned it at just eighteen years of age.”

She nodded at William’s journal. “You sure you want to read it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Part of me doesn’t, but part of me feels like I owe it to William.”

“Why?”

Because William taught me that you can’t expect to be treated as a man if you act like a child, and that every life is precious and can be lost in an instant of stupidity or bad luck. He taught me not to waste the opportunities I had, because so many young men never had a chance at them, never had the chance to grow old.

“I just do,” I said.

“Might be something for Beau to read,” Elizabeth said.

“Maybe,” I said. “I think I’ll read it first, though.” I heard the doorbell and looked to the bay window. The designer held a massive book. “That’s my cue to go hit a bucket of golf balls.”

Elizabeth moved to answer the door. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to stay and participate a little.”

“Picking out wall colors? Yeah, it would. I’d pick out purple and you’d kill me.” I pecked her cheek. “Besides, it’s hard enough just writing the checks.”





August 27, 1967

After hours of filling out forms, I raised my right hand and was inducted into the United States Marine Corps, then boarded a bus bound for Parris Island, South Carolina, what the marines call PI. I will undergo nine weeks of boot camp. I had turned down officer candidate school, which was an extended commitment offered to me after I scored well above average on my AFQT (Armed Forces Qualification Test). I don’t care about becoming an officer. I care about getting out. The sooner the better.

Parris Island in August and September is my penance. Ninety degrees and 85 percent humidity.

Every time the bus stopped in some small town, guys got on who looked just like me. Same age. Same shaggy hair. Same sporadic facial hair. Same hard stare, like we weren’t scared. We were. We didn’t say much to each other, but we looked each other up and down, made assessments, wondered . . . though not for too long. You didn’t want to think about it. Just like you didn’t want to think that you might never see your parents or your sisters and brothers again. That you might not make it home. Might not ever again drive that car you fixed up. Might not again eat at the local diner. Might not kiss your high school sweetheart, who swore she would wait for you.

You could “might not” yourself crazy.

I decided it was best to stay in the present. The present, I figured, would be hard enough to get through.

Somewhere along the fifteen-hour bus route, one of the southern states, this big guy got on the bus. A stereotype. He looked like he could play football for Bear Bryant at Alabama. Big chest. Big legs. Big head. Crew cut. Projecting forehead. I could tell that he thought he was a badass because the first thing he did was tell the little guy sitting up front to move. The guy moved without hesitation. I’m a strapping 160 pounds, and I was thinking I would have told the guy to go to hell, but that’s just bullshit. New Jersey hubris. I probably would have moved.