Page 27 of Love Story
The soldiers that went to Vietnam were only boys, hardly older than Cole. He wondered what the man had to do with his papa’s story. He already knew his papa didn’t serve in Vietnam. So how did they know each other?
And what if Cole could find the guy? How cool would it be if his ancillary character was a vet? It wouldn’t be easy. His papa had already said he’d lost track of the man a long time ago. Still... Cole wanted to try.
Cole got ready for bed, climbed under the sheets and stared at the ceiling. The longer he thought about the idea, the more it seemed like the perfect addition to the story. He was required to do interviews with at least one other person besides the main source. It could be someone in his immediate family, so Cole had planned to talk to his mom. After all four hours of interviews were finished.
But if he could find the Vietnam vet, that would really be something.
He would wait until tomorrow and he’d call his papa, just for a few quick questions. What was the name of the man? Where did he live the last time his papa had talked to him? That way he could start looking for him. Cole would do it as a thank-you for his papa. For helping with his project. And deep inside, Cole had the sense he’d find the guy.
Because the feeling stirring inside him was certainty.
As if somehow God was going to make this happen.
Cole could hardly wait.
•••
WILSON GAGE SETTLEDinto his La-Z-Boy recliner and popped the top on another cold one. His sixth of the night. He focused his eyes on the television and tried to remember what he was watching. Something onCNN. A special on the current administration. A checkup. Or a report card.
He couldn’t remember.
His eyes blurred and he struggled to make sense of the show. But it was beyond him, like most things these days. Too many head injuries, the doctor told him.
Not from football. He barely even got to play football before he enlisted and was whisked into the war. No, the head injuries were from his days in Nam. Times when he had been slammed to the ground by a grenade or the afternoon when his jeep took a round of friendly fire. The driver had jerked the wheel and the men inside had flown twenty feet in every direction.
Keep fighting,his commander told him.The headache will go away.But it never really did. Oh, sure, he could get by at first. His determination to find life again after the war was too great to let a little thing like a headache get him down. But these days he had trouble remembering. Trouble processing.
Which was maybe a good thing. He was eighty now.
It wouldn’t be long.
For so many years, he worked on and off in construction. Trying to forget the things he saw in Vietnam. He didn’t believe in God. Not anymore. Not since Scarlett died three years ago. He pictured her beautiful face, her sweet voice. Scarlett had loved Jesus, yes she had. She was in heaven now, no doubt. Hanging with the good crowd. Wilson could’ve been there one day, too.
But God hadn’t answered his prayers.
When Scarlett got sick, Wilson dropped to his knees every morning, every night begging God to heal her. She was all he had after the war. The only reason he wanted to live through Vietnam. The only reason to come home again.
So of course, when God took his Scarlett that was the end of Wilson’s faith. Why believe in a God who didn’t care? That’s what he figured. Better to pop a cold one and drift away in a drunken haze.
But lately Wilson had to admit something.
The years weren’t slowing down. He wasn’t getting any younger. One of these days not too far off he’d wake up to his final sunrise. The head injury or the drink or the calendar... something would catch up with him. And that would be that.
Then what?
Several years ago he’d heard a preacher put it succinctly. A person would die just once. They’d face Jesus—every one of them—and a verdict would follow. Heaven or hell? Everyone would go to one place or the other.
He used to believe he was going to heaven, but now he was sure he was wrong. Nothing but hell for him. He was already living it.
He squinted at theTVand took another swig of beer. Then another. The next one finished it off, and Wilson crumpled the can in his hands. The sound always reminded him of the jungle. People hiding behind trees, climbing into military vehicles. It made him feel afraid and bulletproof all at once.
The way he’d felt back then.
On the television people on the news were arguing. Screaming about taxes or tax hikes. Something. Wilson picked up the remote and turned it off. After half a dozen beers he couldn’t concentrate anyway. He leaned his head back against the chair and kicked the footrest out. Maybe he’d sleep here tonight.
He looked around and his eyes fixed on the cross, the small wooden one that hung near the front door. Scarlett had given it to him—back before she passed. Even though he didn’t believe anymore, he kept it because it reminded him of her. “You with me, God? Do you see me?” His words slurred and they sounded loud, even to him.
Then Wilson had an idea.
