When I asked Mr. Bonds for Private Jackson’s address, he wouldn’t give it to me, but told me that he would read my letter and if it were appropriate to send, Mr. Bonds would mail it for me. I told him that was unacceptable, and we sorta got into a fight about censorship and freedom of speech, which is protected by the first amendment—one of the very things Private Jackson fought to protect. Finally, Bonds agreed to listen to me read the letter aloud and then—if the letter were appropriate—I could watch him address the envelope, after which we’d drop it in the mailbox together, so I’d know that he’d mailed it, but he wouldn’t be forced to reveal Mr. Jackson’s personal information, which was not listed in the phone book or anywhere on the Internet; I know, because I checked in the library. Word. The deal was that we students wrote the veterans introduction letters, and if they wanted to write us back, then we were free to write them whenever. Since my veteran hadn’t written back, I wasn’t supposed to get a second shot.
So I read Mr. Bonds my second letter, and because I am a pretty kick-ass corresponder and I skipped over all of the really personal parts about my dad and whatnot, Mr. Bonds said my letter was well-written and appropriate and worthy of a postage stamp, which he applied to a Childress Public High School envelope and then stuffed my words in that white rectangle.
When we got to the mailbox outside of the school, I asked if I could put the envelope into the box, because I love mailing things, which was a lie I made up, and he said, “Sure.”
I glanced at the address just before I dropped the letter into the mailbox, and when Mr. Bonds went back into the school, I walked to Private Jackson’s home.
Private Jackson lives in a very small barn-red rancher at the edge of town, near the ghetto, as I mentioned before. There is nothing particularly interesting about his house—he has some bushes out front and a young maple tree. He drives a regular car. You’d pass right by without even thinking twice if you were walking down the sidewalk and trying to guess which house belonged to a Vietnam veteran. I was sorta expecting there to be one of those black POW flags flying outside, but no dice.
So I had to look for the right number, the regular old address-finding way, and, when I found the 618, I went right up to the door and knocked.
No one answered, so I knocked again, and then again.
I was just about to leave, thinking, Duh, the guy is probably at work, when the door swung inward and this very normal-looking almost elderly man wearing a yellow button-down shirt, silver glasses, and tan slacks appeared. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Did you get a letter from some crazy high school girl named Amber Appleton?” I asked him.
“Yes. Why?”
“What did you think of her letter-writing abilities?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s why you didn’t write her back?”
“Are you Amber?”
“We learned about your war in school and I met some of your friends.”
“My friends?”
“Guys who fought in Vietnam like you—they came to our class and told us all sorts of things.” I didn’t want to mention his friends being killed, or people spitting on him, so I brought up the part that most seemed to unite the dudes who came to speak to our class. “Like about that bitch, Jane Fonda.”
He just looked at me like I was crazy.
“You know Hanoi Jane?”
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to apologize for writing you that crappy form letter. My teacher made me write it—but that was before your friends came and told us about what it was like to fight in the jungle. Had I known what it was really like, I would never have written you such a lousy form letter. I wrote you a better letter today—more interesting and personable. But my teacher made me mail it, so you won’t get that letter for like—three days or so, I would guess.”
Private Jackson just looked at me for a second, and then said, “Is this some sort of joke?”
“Hell, no! Seriously. I just thought that maybe you’d want to—like—get to know me?”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“I’m not going to tell you war stories, if that’s what you’re after. I don’t talk about the war anymore. I’ve let go.”
“No. I’m totally not after Vietnam stories at all. I couldn’t believe all of the things your friends told us when they visited our classroom, and it was really hard to listen to them, especially since they all cried at least once, and it’s really hard to watch grown men cry. I’ve heard enough. True. Do you have any kids?”
“No.”
“Can I come in?”
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”
“Do you want to—like—maybe take a walk with me?” I asked him.
“Why would I want to take a walk with you?”
“I don’t know—I’m interested in learning more about the you of today.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like writing strangers, so since I was forced to write to you, I figure I should at least know something about you, so we can keep writing letters and maybe even hang out from time to time.”
“I’m sorry,” Private Jackson told me, and then shut the door in my face, which made me feel really sad—and like a peon.
So I pounded on his door with my fists and yelled, “That was mean!” even though he wouldn’t open the door a second time. “You’ll regret slamming the door in my face when you read my next letter, especially since it took me hours to write and is therefore very moving! And if you hadn’t fought for our country in Vietnam, if you hadn’t been in the jungle for a year or whatever, I’d call you a bad name right now! Goodbye!”
About a week or so later, when I had all but forgotten about Private Jackson, at the end of Mr. Bonds’ class, when all of the kids were lined up at the door, my history teacher said, “Ms. Appleton. You got mail.”