Home Memphis, Tennessee
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Memphis, Tennessee
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 welcome back.
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 are barbers, 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.
I put them back where I found them, gloating with pride. Mama held a secret from Dad.
With my suitcase in one hand and my purse hanging across my middle, I floated down the stairs, moving as softly as a butterfly. I lingered on each step as if it was a flower. Our old house groaned whenever we walked her halls.
With equal caution I tiptoed into the kitchen, then slinked toward the back door. Ever so carefully I put my suitcase down, removed the chain, and turned the knob. You could have heard cotton growing in the silence with how quietly I shut the door behind me.
I calculated my route. If it took eight minutes by car, I figured thirty to forty-five on foot. If I traveled down the back streets of Midtown Memphis, the only busy one I’d have to cross was Peabody.
The moon was my friend, carving a lighted path. I was not afraid. Inside my wallet was forty-eight dollars and twenty-three cents. It was all the money I had in the world, save my final paycheck from Goldsmith’s.
Instead of focusing on the long walk, I dreamed of the future.
Discovering the true Suzannah was so near I could taste it.
The how, the what, and the where of it all looked daunting—practically impossible—but I would not let that stop me.
Where I’d live and what I’d do to support myself was anyone’s guess, but it would work out somehow. For now, I would focus on my freedom.
Maybe I’d go back to Union, and maybe I wouldn’t. One thing was certain. I’d bring music back into my life. I’d sing and dance every chance I got. It would fill up the gorge inside my heart and make me whole.
Eyeing the Foster mansion in the distance, I jogged the rest of the way. By the time I reached the front door, I was out of breath. My suitcase felt like a safe after the long haul. With a steady finger, I pressed the bell.
Several minutes passed before Livy’s parents peeked through the sidelight and opened the door. I didn’t apologize for waking them. I was too numb for apologies. All I said was “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Foster.”
Livy’s mom wrapped an arm around me with an understanding smile, guiding me inside their home.
The lingering scent of stale cigarettes filled the air.
It had been three years since I’d been there, but it felt like three weeks.
That warm-apple-pie sensation I used to have rushed back, and I knew I was safe. I knew I could trust them.
I caught them staring at my swollen eyes, but they didn’t ask why I’d been crying. Mr. Foster simply picked up my suitcase, and the three of us hiked up the grand center staircase. Mrs. Foster held a finger to her lips when we passed Kim’s room.
Not wanting to frighten his daughter, Mr. Foster tapped on Livy’s bedroom door. “Livy. Livy, honey,” he said softly. “Look who’s here.”
My best friend sat up in bed, squinting her eyes. The full moon shone brightly through the sheers on her bedroom window, illuminating my face. “Are you okay?” she asked in a groggy voice.
“I’m great.” My voice sounded clear and steady. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going with you to Woodstock.”