Chapter 31 #3
Tony shook his head over and over. Closed his eyes. Took several deep breaths. Moaned. Took another sip. Sat back again, spent.
An uneasy silence followed.
It might have been seconds or minutes before Tony, damp-eyed and in little more than a whisper, slurred an apology.
“I’m sorry, Theo. Ohh, I’m so sorry.” Long exhale. “I try not to let my mind ever go back there. I never talk about this to anyone.”
Theo nodded but said nothing. Tony took yet another long pull of brandy. Theo took a discreet sip. He had not been drunk since the day of his daughter’s death, and he saw no reason to cross that line tonight.
Tony continued, his voice calmer but his words still fragmented.
“Theo, if nothing else, the war made me honest. Opened my eyes. It cured me of any romantic notions I had about the human race. Creatures who are capable of doing the things that happened there don’t have much to brag about.
It’s crazy what a jungle and fear and a gun and some misguided patriotism can bring out of a man.
I’m afraid there’s a killer inside every one of us.
“Before Vietnam, I was just Dan and Mitzi’s boy, then all of a sudden, at least off and on while I was over there, I was a devil.
Vietnam was a world full of monsters, and I was one of ‘em. It scares me that the monster might still be in me somewhere.” He paused.
“As bad as the guilt and shame and nightmares have been, in some way they give me hope that I still have a conscience and a heart, even if they’re screwed all to hell up. I hope so.
“I hate the politicians who sent us there. If there’s such a thing as righteous anger, sane hate, it’s for people like that. I hated what they did then, hate what they do now sometimes. But I don’t blame them for what the war showed me about myself.”
Another pull from the glass.
And then a long silence. A cooling-down period.
As if to declare Vietnam over and done for this evening, Tony asked a question.
“Theo, you know what Ellen checked out the other day? Two books: Peter Pan and The Killing of Pablo Escobar. She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”
Theo raised his glass. “Here’s to Tony, who made it home from the jungle, so he could care for St. Ellen of the Promenade.”
Tony consented to the faint praise and raised his glass. They both took a sip.
“Have you always liked books?” Theo asked the question in hopes of further dispelling the intensity of the previous hour. Tony seemed all too happy to take the bait.
“Well, books are safe, aren’t they? Most of the time, anyway. But yeah, I’ve liked — loved — reading most of my life. My parents did too. They always had lots of things lying around that even a kid could enjoy. I think they did that on purpose.”
The two men talked books, shared something of their education and upbringing, and told some safe family stories. Tony spoke with surprising clarity for a man who had just consumed almost an entire bottle of brandy and who, only minutes before, had been so emotionally unhinged.
He and Theo even laughed a time or two and enjoyed, all in all, what Tony would later describe to the Penny Loafers as a “damn good conversation. Y’all should try it sometime.”
But the war never quite left the room. It hung like a fog around them, unmentioned any further but clearly present.
Muted street noise leaked in from the sidewalk, evidence that night life on the Promenade was well underway. For some out there, the night was still young. For Theo, it had exceeded one day’s energy.
He reached across the small table and patted Tony’s arm.
“Tony, I’m very grateful to know you. Thank you for sharing some of your story with me. I hope I didn’t ask too much.”
Tony nodded. “I don’t think you asked anything at all. I’m afraid I totally lost control. I thought we were going to talk about those secret meetings you’ve been having at the Fedder. And I was going to ask you to talk about heaven, right?”
“Ah, yes. Maybe next time?”
“I guess if you talk about heaven, you’re going to talk about hell too.”
Theo raised a brow. “I have a feeling you might be able to teach me something about that yourself. I think you’ve had a big taste of hell already. I fear you believe that’s all there is. You seem much less convinced about the other possibility.”
Another short, thoughtful silence descended.
“You need some help getting home?” Tony asked. “Those three flights of stairs might be tricky.” It was a dubious offer from a man who was probably incapable of walking a straight line himself.
“It’s OK, Tony. If I can get out of this chair, I think I can waddle home by myself. If I can’t, I’ll sleep on a bench by the fountain. Thank you for letting me join you tonight. Next time we’ll meet at my place and I will introduce you to a wonderful bottle of port from my hometown.”
They said their farewells as Tony unlocked the door to the shop. Theo stepped out into the night and walked home to the sound of Basil’s music. Tony stepped back inside the Verbivore, noticed a bit of brandy in Theo’s glass, drained it dry, and turned off the light.