But he was not bitter, and, in fact, he was very happy to see these events transpire in his lifetime. He thought, however, the government and the people should have made more of it, but he understood his own country, and understood the innate tendency of the American people to treat war and history as something that usually happened somewhere else to someone else, and is, at best, a nuisance. Back to normalcy.
Time to chop wood. He pruned the old oaks around the house, gathered up the branches in a pull cart, and took them to the sawhorses. He cut, split, and stacked.
Aunt Betty had stopped by, and so had some of his distant relatives. The Mullers from the next farm to the south came by, and so had Martin and Sue Jenkins from the farm across the road. Everyone brought something in the way of food, everyone seemed a little awkward, and everyone asked the same questions... "So, you stayin' awhile? Miss the big city yet? Been downtown? Seen anybody?" And so forth. No one had asked what was on their minds, which was, "Are you nuts?"
Keith got a cold beer and took a break on the front porch. He stared at the lonely farm road and watched the fields and trees moving in the wind. Butterflies, bumblebees, and birds. Then a blue and white police cruiser came by. They came by once or twice a day, he figured, maybe more. It occurred to him that, if by some miracle Annie drove up, there could be a problem. He thought about getting word to her through her sister, but he felt foolish doing that and didn't know quite what to say. Hi, I'm back and being watched by your husband. Stay away.
Obviously, her husband would also be watching her. But, most likely, she had no intention of stopping by, so why worry about it? Whatever was going to happen would happen. He'd spent too many years manipulating events, then worrying about his manipulations, then trying to discover if his manipulations were working, then doing damage control when things blew up, and so forth and so on "Be alert, be on guard, be prepared. Do nothing." Sounded like good advice. But he was getting itchy.
The following morning, Keith drove to Toledo and exchanged the Saab for a Chevy Blazer. The Blazer was dark green, like half the ones he'd seen around, and it blended well. The dealer secured Ohio plates for him, and Keith put his Washington plates under the seat. He had to send them back to where they came from, which was not the Bureau of Motor Vehicles.
Late in the afternoon, he started for home. By the time he reached the outskirts of Spencerville, it was dusk, and by the time he reached the farm, long purple shadows lay over the farmyard. He passed the mailbox and turned into the drive, then stopped. He backed up and saw that the red flag was up, which was odd because he'd gotten his mail that morning. He opened the mailbox and took out an unstamped envelope addressed simply "Keith." There was no mistaking the handwriting.
He drove the Blazer around to the back of the house, so it couldn't be seen, got out, and went inside. He put the envelope on the kitchen table, got a beer, put it back, and made himself a stiff Scotch and soda instead.
He sat at the table and sipped his drink, poured a little more Scotch into it, and did this a few times until he looked at the envelope again. "Well."
He thought about things, about her: They'd had a monogamous and intense relationship for two years in high school, then four years of college, and they'd graduated Bowling Green State University together. Annie, a bright and enthusiastic student, chose to accept a fellowship at Ohio State. He, bored with school, restless, and in any case not in a financial position to do graduate work, chose not to apply to Ohio State. He did follow her to Columbus, but before the summer was over, he was swept up in the draft as soon as the Spencerville draft board learned of his status.
Keith opened the envelope and read the first line. "Dear Keith, I heard you were back and living at your folks' place."
He looked out into the dark yard and listened to the locusts.
They had that summer together, a magic two months in Columbus, living in her new apartment, exploring the city and the university. In September, he had to go. He said he would return; she said she'd wait. But neither of those things happened, nor were they likely to happen in America in 1968.
Keith took a deep breath and focused again on the letter. He read, "The local gossip is that you're staying awhile. True?"
Maybe. He poured a little more Scotch and thought back.
He'd gone to Fort Dix, New Jersey, for his basic and advanced training, then to Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning, Georgia, and within a year was commissioned a second lieutenant. Not bad for a farm kid. They wrote, often at first, then less frequently, of course, and the letters were not good. She found her monogamy hard to defend or justify and let him know she was seeing other men. He understood. He didn't understand. He spent his pre-embarkation leave in Spencerville, not Columbus. They spoke on the phone. She was very busy with difficult classes. He was very anxious about going into a combat zone and really didn't care about her classes. He asked her if she was seeing anyone at the moment. She was, but it was not serious. After about ten minutes of this, he looked forward to combat. He said to her, "You've changed." She replied, "We've all changed, Keith. Look around you."
He said, "Well, I've got to go. Good luck in school."
"Thanks. Take care, Keith. Home safe."
"Yup."
"Bye."
"Bye."
But they couldn't hang up, and she said, "You understand, I'm making this easy for both of us."
"I understand. Thanks." He hung up.
They continued to write, neither of them able to comprehend that it was over.
Keith pushed the Scotch aside. The alcohol wasn't working, his hands were trembling, and his mind was not getting pleasantly numb. He read, "Well, welcome home, Keith, and good luck."
"Thank you, Annie."
He'd served as an infantry platoon leader, saw too many dead people lying on the ground, fresh blood running, or bloating in the hot sun. He had no frame of reference for this, except the stockyards in Maumee. Very nice villages and farms were blown to hell, and sandbags and barbed wire were all over the place, and he'd wept for the farmers and their families. He'd completed his tour and returned to Spencerville on leave.
Keith wiped the sweat off his lip and focused on the letter, read it from the beginning, then read, "I'm leaving tomorrow to drive Wendy to school. She's starting as a freshman at our old alma mater. Can't wait to see it again. Be gone a week or so." He nodded and took a deep breath.
He'd spent his thirty-day post-combat leave in Spencerville, and did mostly nothing but eat, drink, and take long rides. His mother suggested he drive to Columbus. Instead, he'd called. She was working on her doctorate by then. It was a very strained conversation, he recalled. He hadn't asked her about other men, because he'd come to accept that. He'd had other women. It didn't matter. But she'd changed in a more profound way in the last year. She'd become more politically active, and she had ambivalent feelings about a man in uniform and had given him a lecture on the war.
He was angry, she was cool; he'd barely controlled his anger, and she kept her tone frigid. He was about to hang up on her when she said, "I have to go," and he realized she was crying, or close to it. He offered to come see her, she said that would be all right. But he did not go to Columbus, and she did not come to Spencerville, nor did they meet halfway.
Keith read the final lines of her letter. "My Aunt Louise still lives out by you, and next time I'm that way, I'll stop and say hello. Take care. Annie."
He put the letter in his pocket, stood, and went out the back door. The hot wind had died down, and it was cooler now. There was some sun left on the western horizon, but in the east he could see stars.