There’s a baby in my arms, burning, her skin blackens and falls away. I am holding a pile of bones …
Choppers overhead. Incoming.
A scream. Mine? The red alert siren blares. Something explodes near my head.
I throw myself out of my cot, hit the floor, crawl for my flak jacket and helmet.
Quiet.
Frankie came out of the nightmare slowly, realized she was on the floor, in her bedroom.
Curling into a ball on the rug, she tried to go back to sleep.
* * *
The next time Frankie awoke, it was 2115 hours and the house was dark. She heard the faint ticking of her bedside clock. She had no idea how long she’d slept. A day? Two?
She got dressed and wandered through the house. At her father’s office, she stared at the pictures on the heroes’ wall, saw Finley smiling at her on his way to war.
Another world. Now no one welcomed you home, let alone celebrated your leaving. Suddenly she felt suffocated by the scent of lemon furniture polish and expectation. She’d been raised to be a lady, always, serene and calm, smiling, but that world, and those lessons, felt far, far away.
Outside, a full moon shone down on the waves. She felt drawn to the beach, as always, the stretch of sand that had been her playground as a child.
“Hey, Fin,” she said, sitting close to the waterline. An occasional spray of water hit her cheek, felt like tears.
She closed her eyes. Just breathe, McGrath.
Gradually, the tightening in her chest eased. Much later, she went back to her frilly pink room and climbed into bed. In the glow of her bedside lamp, she opened her nightstand drawer and pulled out a piece of stationery with her full name written in elegant script across the top.
March 17
Dear Barb,
I’m home. No one told me how tough it was, this re-entry. Why didn’t you warn me? People spat at me at the airport, called me a baby killer. What the hell? My parents haven’t even asked about Vietnam. Mom acts as if I am home from band camp and my dad has barely said a word to me. Honest to God.
It’s weird.
Tell me I’ll be okay, will you?
And how about you? I’ve been thinking about you, sending good thoughts to you about your brother. Grief sucks.
Being home makes me miss Fin all over again. It’s like staring down at a puzzle with one piece missing; it ruins the whole thing.
Now I’m back to bed. I’m more than tired. Too many hours of travel and despair and jet lag, I guess.
Love you, sis.
Stay cool,
F
Then she stripped down to her bra and underwear and climbed back into bed.
* * *
“Wake up, Frances.”
Frankie opened her eyes slowly, feeling grit on her eyeballs.
She sat up, feeling bruised. Once again, she was on the floor.
“I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” Mom said, looking worriedly at Frankie before she turned and walked away.
“Okay,” Frankie said, tasting something foul in her mouth. When had she last brushed her teeth?
She limped to her closet (how had she twisted her ankle?), pushed past her old pogo stick and shoved aside a hula hoop, and then slipped into her pink chenille robe and left the bedroom. Why was everything about her past so damned pink?
“Finally,” Mom said from the kitchen table, smiling.
Frankie went to the coffeepot, poured herself a cup, and sat down at the table across from her mother.
“Where’s Dad?”
“You look awful, Frances.”
“I’m having nightmares.”
“I’ve made reservations for lunch at the club. I thought it would feel good to get back to real life. Just us girls.”
Frankie sipped her coffee, savoring the bitter, rich taste of it. Nightmare images clung like cobwebs to her mind. “Is that what you think the club is, real life?”
Mom frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”
“People spat at me at the airport,” Frankie said, surprised at the way her voice broke. “Called me a baby killer.”
Mom’s mouth opened in surprise, then slowly closed. “I’ve called Paul and made you an appointment for this morning. A nice new haircut always brightens my mood.”
“Sure, Mom. I know how much appearances matter to you. Where’s Dad?” she asked again.
“I bought you some new clothes. They’re in your closet.”
“Mom? You didn’t answer me about Dad.”
“Let me catch my breath, Frances, will you? A little warning that you were coming home would have helped.”
“You’ve known the date for a year, Mom.”
“You still should have called. Go take a shower and get dressed. You know I abhor being late.”
Nodding, Frankie rose, took her coffee with her, and walked back to her bedroom. There she found the new clothes that Mom had bought.
Bell-bottom pants and plaid separates and tunic tops. All a size too big. None of it felt right. So she put on the red dress she’d bought on Kauai, and pantyhose, and sandals. So what if it was March and she was dressed for summer? The dress comforted her, reminded her that Rye was coming home to her in twenty-three days.
She found her mother waiting impatiently at the front door. At Frankie’s appearance, one plucked eyebrow arched. As Frankie neared, Mom’s nostrils flared.
“Yeah. The dress smells mildewed. I know.”
Mom managed a smile. “Let’s go.”
Fifteen minutes later, she and her mother were at the island beauty salon, being fussed over by Paul. “Who has been cutting your hair, darling?” he said.
“Me,” Frankie said. “Or a girlfriend.”
“With a machete, it looks like.”
Frankie smiled. “Pretty much. I just got home from Vietnam.”
The distaste on Paul’s face was unmistakable. He actually took a step back. “I think I can pull off a chin-length, sideswept bob. Okay?”
That look from him hurt, but she should have been ready for it. “Sure. Whatever.”
Paul set to work, washing, combing, cutting, styling. When he began to tease the back of her hair, Frankie stopped him, said sharply, “None of that girlie shit for me, Paul.”
She heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath. “Language, Frances. You’re not a longshoreman.”
When Paul finished, Frankie stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. He’d made her black hair glossy again, teased it up in back, and cut it in a precise line along her jaw. Long bangs swept to one side. “It’s nice,” she said. “Thanks.”
He nodded crisply and walked away.
At the Coronado Golf and Tennis Club, a uniformed Black attendant met the Cadillac, and opened Frankie’s door. She stepped out, felt a strange sensation of collision. How could this cool, white, moneyed world exist in a bubble, while in Vietnam a war was raging, and here at home, people were protesting the violence and fighting for fundamental civil rights?
The main clubhouse was designed like an old-fashioned living room, centered around a stone fireplace. Here and there, groups of men were seated, drinking and smoking. Cocktail lunches were the norm here for the working men. A group of women wreathed in cigarette smoke played bridge in a room off to the right.
The waitress led them to her parents’ favorite table, which overlooked the pool. White tablecloths, silver flatware, bone china plates, and a centerpiece of fragrant flowers.
Frankie sat down.
“How lovely to be out with my girl for lunch,” Mom said, taking out her silver cigarette case, extracting a slim cigarette, lighting it up.
When the waitress appeared, Mom ordered two Bloody Marys.
“Kind of early, isn’t it, Mom?”
“You, too, Frances?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your father keeps remarking upon my drinking. When he’s home, that is.”
Before Frankie could formulate a rejoinder, a man appeared at their table. An elderly man with walrus jowls and a gray military flattop, wearing a brown suit with a thin tie. “Bette,” he said, smiling jovially. “How nice to see you out and about. My Millicent says you are favored to win the tournament again this year.”
Mom smiled. “Millicent is too kind. Frances, you remember Dr. Brenner?”
“This can’t be Frances, can it? Home from Florence already?”
“Florence?” Frankie was about to say more when she heard a loud crash.
Incoming.
She dove for the floor.
“Frankie? Frankie?”