The Language of Men (32 page)

Don and Lola are in the backseat. Vanessa and I get out of the car, hoping they'll follow. Through the window, I see their lips move, but I can't hear what they're saying. My brother holds up the package of tiny batteries, squinting at the small print. He takes Lola's hearing aid and opens the back. Once he snaps the battery into place, Don holds back her hair and gently places the little beige device into her ear.

"All right," Don says, stepping out of the car. "Locked and loaded."

Vanessa and Don walk ahead of me and Lola. Lola's camera hangs from her neck and, as we make our way across the parking lot, she snaps pictures of the cars, then shoots a couple of bikers leaning against a short stone wall sipping 7-Eleven coffees.

The crowd reminds me of the guys at the swap meets my father and I used to go to: packs of denim and leather and black sunglasses. Lola takes another picture, then looks at me.

"There's like thousands of your Dad here."

"I know, right? He's everywhere."

"Oh, I wanted to tell you," Lola says, making sure Don and Vanessa are far ahead of us. "I got your Dad and Don flying lessons for Christmas. Think they'll like that?"

"That sounds awesome," I say.

She smiles. "Yeah, I thought it'd be cool. They'll fly over the whole island."

Some kids holding small American flags run across the parking lot and Lola quickly snaps a few more pictures. I imagine Don and my father in the cockpit of a small airplane, their wake scarring the sky. They climb above the clouds, above the weather, keeping an eye on their speed, their altitude. I think of the miles my father and I traveled to and from car shows in the Dodge. My father and Don need to move faster. They have more ground to cover.

"Yo! What up!" My father shouts from across the parking lot. He looks like the human incarnation of Peter Fonda's motorcycle in
Easy Rider.
His American flag bandana is wrapped so tight it looks like his bald head is painted red, white and blue. His keys jingle on his hip as he walks over. His sunglasses' silver frames gleam in the sun. Did he polish them?

He struts across the grass the same way he did at my wedding: chest puffed, arms swinging, big grin on his face. He nods at a couple of guys holding cardboard boxes. "Set it down right there, fellas." He turns and gives me a strong hug and a slap on the back. He gives my brother the same hug. Then he holds Vanessa and Lola by the wrist and gives them each a kiss.

"Good to see ya, ladies. Some rough-lookin' broads 'round here. God damn."

"Where's Mom?" I ask.

"She's down by the tent, holding seats. You guys ain't gonna believe this fuckin' thing. It's so cool. Wait'll you see it."

He turns and starts walking quickly. We all look at each other, then follow him. Lola takes a few pictures. We almost lose him in a crowd of camouflage and denim, but once we make our way through, we see him on the other side, standing in front of the long black wall.

"Check it out!"

The wall is much bigger than I expected. My father and the other volunteers constructed the long ramp that runs the length of the wall, where visitors walk and search for names. The ground in front is covered with fresh mulch and newly-planted flowers and trees. In the middle of a small pond is a flagpole waving several flags: American, POW/MIA, and a third one I don't recognize, but can make out the words flapping in the breeze—
The Moving Dignity Wall.

"Man," I say to my father. "That looks great."

"Right? Like it's always been there. You wouldn't think lookin' at it that it all came in pieces."

I want to walk over and get a closer look, but my mother is waving to us beside the big white tent. Men in uniform march up to the stage and take their seats beside the podium. A tall, broad man who appears to be in his early sixties walks like a statue up to the microphone. Short strands of yellow, braided rope hang from his shoulders; the white brim of his dark-blue hat rests low on his forehead. His chest is covered in medals that look like miniature versions of the tools hanging on my father's garage wall. He clinks as he walks. We take our seats next to my mother. She smiles and rubs my back as the man on stage waits for the audience's full attention.

My father leans over and juts his chin at the stage. "The big kahuna."

"Good evening!" The man's voice blasts through the tent. "I want to welcome all of you here tonight!" His voice is so loud I can feel it in my lungs. I look at Don; he winces at each word. Lola rubs her ear. My mother and Vanessa adjust themselves in their seats. I glance over at my father. He sits up straight, clapping.

The man tells us that the Vietnam War was the first televised war, and because of that, many people have misconceptions about what really happened. He talks about the media's skewed representation of our troops and what they were trying to accomplish. He asks us to recall a photograph: a naked Vietnamese girl standing in the middle of a napalmed street, her face a silent scream. The man describes how this image spread across magazines and the evening news like wild fire. It became an iconic photograph, illustrating the brutal and savage force America used in Vietnam.

"But what many people do not realize," the man shouts, "is that the destruction caused in this photograph was not done by American forces! This is actually a photograph of a South Vietnamese napalm attack!"

My father leans back in his seat and nods. I feel the word "attack" vibrating between my ears. I know the image he's talking about. I know that the little girl is screaming,
nong qua, nong qua:
"too hot, too hot." I know that the photograph was taken a year after my father returned from Vietnam and now the little girl, Kim Phuc, is a middle-aged woman and motivational speaker. The man on stage isn't talking about the present, but rather telling us whom to blame for the past.

After the opening ceremony, we walk back to the wall.

"Something else, huh?" my mother says.

"Sure is," I say.

"Dad's been talking about this for months. I've never seen him so excited."

My father stands at the entrance to the ramp and waves us over. He leads us down the long black marble. Don and Lola stop and stare at one section of the wall.

"Even got eight women on here, Vanessa," my father says. "Amazing."

Vanessa smiles. "Recognize any of them?"

My father looks at me and grins. "I think your main squeeze is gettin' fresh, boy."

He turns and puts his arm around my mother, stretching the peace symbol on his back. She rests her head on his shoulder. They walk down the wall alone. I watch my father point out names to my mother. She nods and looks up at him, as he tells her a story I can't hear. Vanessa takes my hand. We turn to face the wall, and see our reflections behind the wide list of names.

My editor, Bill Patrick, took me under his wing, and then knew when to push me out of the nest. Bill, my man, I didn't think anyone else could care about this book as much as I could, but you proved me wrong. Thanks to Sue Petrie for her care and patience. Thank you to the entire editorial team at Hudson Whitman for their insightful critique of this book in its early stages.

Thank you to my mentors at Stonecoast—David Mura, Joan Connor, Leila Philip, and Baron Wormser. Thank you to Suzanne Strempek Shea for her enthusiasm and encouragement. I'm grateful for Richard Hoffman's wisdom and support. Without him, this book would still be a Word document. Richard, I can't thank you enough for everything you've done for me these past nine years.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to Adrienne, Beth, Gina, Kayni, Meghan, and Michelle for reading draft after draft, offering helpful feedback, and for listening to me babble about Vietnam and Bruce Springsteen. You are my dear friends and I am extremely lucky to have you in my life. Thanks to Bunny Goodjohn and the English Department at Randolph College for being such remarkable hosts. Thanks to Michael Steinberg for our long chats about writing. Thank you to Dottie Dunford and all the teachers at SCHOC. Shout out to my Lit. 1 students from around the way.

I'd like to thank my family for their love and support, even when I ventured into, as my father said, "no man's land." Don, thanks for teaching me how to drive, when to yield and when to floor it. Mom, thank you for talking to me in your garden, for sharing a place where life comes back year after year. Thank you, Dad, for inspiring me to write. You taught me how to preserve the past. You encouraged me to stand tall. Can I take my seat now?

Vanessa, my love, without you this book would have a much darker ending. Thank you for reminding me that it's always daytime somewhere in the world. Thank you for understanding why I needed to write about us. My story is our story and will shape our children's stories. Thank you for sticking with me as I figured out what kind of man I wanted to be.

ANTHONY D'ARIES received the 2010 PEN/New England Discovery Award in Nonfiction. He is a graduate of the Stonecoast MFA program and currently teaches literacy and creative writing in correctional facilities in Massachusetts.

Anthony's website:

anthonydaries.com

Hudson Whitman is a new, small press affiliated with Excelsior College in upstate New York.

Our tagline is "Books That Make a Difference" and we aim to publish high quality nonfiction books and multi-media projects in areas that complement Excelsior's academic strengths: education, nursing, health care, military interests, business & technology, with one "open" category, American culture & society.

If you would like to submit a manuscript or proposal, please review the guidelines on our website
hudsonwhitman.com
. Feel free to send a note with any questions. We endeavor to respond as soon as possible.

hudsonwhitman.com

Courageous Learning:

Finding a New Path through HigherEducation

John Ebersole and William Patrick (print and e-book)

Saving Troy:

A Year with Firefighters and Paramedics in a Battered. City

William Patrick (e-book only)