Christine

“All those vehicles… but Rollie never owned a car himself until after World War II. Even then the only thing he was able to afford was an old Chevrolet that ran poorly and was eaten up with rust. In the twenties and thirties there was never money enough, and during the war years he was too busy trying to stay alive.

“He was in the motor pool for all those years, and he fixed thousands of vehicles for the shitters and never once had one that was all his. It was Libertyville all over again. Even the old Chevrolet couldn’t assuage that, or the old Hudson Hornet he bought used the year after he got married.” “Married?”

“Didn’t tell you that did “he?” LeBay said. “He would have been happy to go on and on about his Army experiences—his war experiences and his endless confrontations with the shitters—for as long as you and your friend could listen without falling asleep… and him with his hand in your pocket feeling for your wallet the whole time. But he wouldn’t have bothered to tell you about Veronica or Rita.”

“Who were they?”

“Veronica was his wife,” LeBay said. “They were married in 1951, shortly before Rollie went to Korea. He could have stayed Stateside, you know. He was married, his wife was pregnant, he himself was approaching middle age. But he chose to go.”

LeBay looked reflectively at the dead playground equipment.

“It was bigamy, you know. By 1951 he was forty-four, and he was married already. He was married to the Army. And to the shitters.”

He fell silent again. His silence had a morbid quality.

“Are you all right?” I asked finally.

“Yes,” he said. “Just thinking. Thinking ill of the dead.” He looked at me calmly—except for the eyes; they were dark and wounded. “You know, all of his hurts me, young man… what did you say your name was? I don’t want to sit here and sing these sad old songs to someone I can’t call by his first name. Was it Donald?”

“Dennis,” I said. “Look, Mr LeBay—”

“It hurts more than I would have suspected,” he went on. “But now that it’s begun, let’s finish it, shall we? I only met Veronica twice. She was from West Virginia. Near Wheeling. She was what we then called shirt-tail southern, and she was not terribly bright. Rollie was able to dominate her and take her for granted, which was what he seemed to want. But she loved him, I think—at least until the rotten business with Rita. As for Rollie, I don’t think he really married a women at all. He married a kind of… of wailing wall.

“The letters that he sent us… well, you must remember that he left school very early. The letters, illiterate as they were, represented a tremendous effort for my brother. They were his suspension bridge, his novel, his symphony, his greatest effort. I don’t think he wrote them to get rid of the poison in his heart. I think he wrote them to spread it around.

Once he had Veronica, the letters stopped. He had his set of eternal ears, and he didn’t have to bother with us anymore. I suppose he wrote letters to her during the two years he was in Korea. I only got one during that period, and I believe Marcia got two. There was no pleasure over the birth of his daughter in early 1952, only a surly complaint that there was another mouth to feed at home and the shitters took a little more out of him.”

“Did he never advance in rank?” I asked. The year before I had seen part of a long TV show, one of those novels for television called Once an Eagle. I had seen the paperback book in the drugstore the next day and had picked it up, hoping for a good war story. As it turned out, I got both war and peace, and some new ideas about the armed services. One of them was that the old promotion train really gets rolling along in times of war. It was hard for me to understand how LeBay could have gone into the service in the early twenties, slogged through two wars, and still have been running junk when Ike became President.

LeBay laughed. “He was like Prewitt in From Here to Eternity. He would advance, and then he would be busted back down for something—insubordination or impertinence or drunkenness. I told you he had spent time in the stockade? One of those times was for pissing in the punchbowl at the Officers Club at Fort Dix before a party. He only did ten days for that offence, because I believe they must have looked into their own hearts and believed it was nothing more than a drunken joke, such as some of the officers themselves had probably played as fraternity boys—they didn’t, they couldn’t, have any idea of the hate and deadly loathing that lay behind that gesture. But I imagine that by then Veronica could have told them.”

I glanced at my watch. It was quarter past nine. LeBay had been talking for nearly an hour.

“My brother came home from Korea in 1953 to meet his daughter for the first time. I understand he looked her over for a minute or two, then handed her back to his wife, and went out to tinker on his old Chevrolet for the rest of the day… getting bored, Dennis?”

“No,” I said truthfully.