Spencerville

"Oh, shit, not too much. Married twice, divorced twice. Got kids from the first marriage. They's all growed now and live in Fort Wayne. They went there when they was young with their mother. She married some, like, asshole, you know, and I never really seen the kids. Second wife... she moved away." He went on, relating a predictably barren life to Keith, who was not surprised by any of it, except when Billy said, "Shit, I wish I could do it over again."

"Yeah, well, everybody feels a little of that. But maybe it's time to go on."

"Yeah. I keep meaning to go on."

"Where you working?"

"No place. I do odd jobs. Do some hunting and fishing. I live a mile outside of town, west of here, got a whole farmhouse to myself. All I got to do is look after the place. Retired people living with one of their kids in California. Cowley. You know them?"

"Sounds familiar."

"They got the place sold now, so I got to find something else by November."

"Why don't you check yourself into a veterans' hospital?"

"Why? I ain't sick."

"You don't look well."

"Ah, I've been pounding the suds too much since I learned I got to move. I get real nervous when I don't have no place to live. I'll be okay."

"Good."

"Where you stayin'?"

"My folks' place."

"Yeah? Hey, if you need company, I can pay a little rent, do the chores, put some game on the table."

"I'll be gone by November. But I'll see what I can do for you before I leave."

"Hey, thanks. But I'll be okay."

Keith ordered two more beers.

Billy inquired, "What're you doin' for a living?"

"Retired."

"Yeah? From what?"

"Government."

"No shit. Hey, you seen anybody since you been back?"

"No. Well, I saw Jeffrey Porter. Remember him?"

"Hell, yeah. I seen him a few times. He don't have much to say."

They spoke a while longer, and it was obvious to Keith that Billy was too drunk. Keith looked at his watch and said, "Hey, I've got to run." He put a twenty on the bar and said to the bartender, "Give my friend one more, then maybe he should head home."

The bartender pushed the twenty back to Keith and said, "He's cut off right now."

Billy made a whining sound. "Aw, come on, Al. Man wants to buy me a drink."

"Finish what you got and be off."

Keith left the twenty on the bar and said to Billy, "Take that and go home. I'll stop by one day before I leave."

"Hey, great, man. See ya." Billy watched him as he left, and waved. "Great to see ya, Keith."

Keith went out into the fresh air. The Posthouse was on the other side of Courthouse Square, and Keith crossed the street and began walking through the park.

There were a few people on the benches, sitting under the ornate lampposts, a few couples strolling. Keith saw an empty bench and sat a moment. In front of him was the Civil War monument, a huge bronze statue of a Union soldier with musket, and on the granite base of the statue were the names of Spencer County's Civil War dead, hundreds of them.

From where he sat, by the light of the lampposts, he could make out the other war memorials, which he knew well, beginning with an historical marker relating to the Indian Wars, proceeding to the Mexican War, and on and on, war by war, to the Vietnam War, which was only a simple bronze plaque inscribed with the names of the dead. It was good, he thought, that small towns remembered, but it did not escape him that the monuments seemed to diminish in size and grandeur after the Civil War, as if the townspeople were getting frustrated with the whole business.

It was a pleasant night, and he sat awhile. The choices of things to do in a small town on a Friday night were somewhat limited, and he smiled to himself, recalling evenings in London, Rome, Paris, Washington, and elsewhere. He wondered if he could really live here again. He could, he thought. He could get back into a simple life if he had company.

He looked around and saw the lighted truck of the ice cream vendor and a group of people standing around. It had occurred to him that if he came into town on a Friday night, he might see Annie. Did the Baxters go out to dinner? Did they shop together on a Friday night?

He had no idea.

He remembered the summer nights when he and Annie Prentis sat in this park and talked for hours. He recalled especially the summer before college, before the war, before the Kennedy assassination, before drugs, before there was a world outside of Spencer County, when he and his country were still young and full of hope, and a guy married the girl next door and went to the in-laws for Sunday dinner.

This park, he remembered, had been filled with his friends; the girls wore dresses, the boys wore short hair. Newly invented transistor radios played Peter, Paul and Mary, Joan Baez, Dion, and Elvis, and the volume was low.

The preferred smoke was Newport menthols, not grass, and Coke was drunk, not snorted. The couples held hands, but if you got caught necking behind the bushes, you got a quick trip to the police station across the street and a tongue-lashing from the old police magistrate on duty.