home,” he says.
“Rest home,” Mai repeats. “I do not remember if we told you that Father owns a rest home for old soldiers.”
Samuel smiles. “I do not think we talked about it. We were busy that week in Portland.”
I nod, feeling a little like I just walked into the middle of a movie.
He laughs, hooks his arm into mine, and guides me toward the steps. Tex hand-walks along behind us. “I think maybe all of this is a little overwhelming to you, Son, and you must be tired. It is much cooler inside. And my Kim is anxious to meet you.” He looks around me toward Mai. “Did you mention that Mother speaks freely? Bluntly?”
“Oh, I forgot,” Mai says, smiling. “Mother says what is on her mind.”
He chuckles. “It is at once refreshing and disarming. Be warned.”
We climb the brick steps to an open red door. He points at a spot by the entrance where there are sets of shoes and sandals laid out. “Please remove your shoes here.”
We pass through a foyer lined with large, gray stone pots of black bamboo that form a canopy of delicate green leaves, and walk into the living area. The floor is gray slate, softened with a large red, blue, and black Oriental rug, its main design focus a blue dragon, its mouth open, talons reaching. The room’s atmosphere is modern expensive, complete with a long, black leather sofa, a matching black love seat, glass tables, and a black entertainment center. Three large ceiling fans stir the air.
My eyes are drawn to a large painting over a flat screen TV of an achingly beautiful Vietnamese woman. She is standing in a grove of sun-filtered bamboo, the shifting shades of green around her a stark contrast to the radiant red of her high-necked and long-sleeved fitted tunic. There are slits along each side revealing wide-legged white trousers, the fabric painted to fall caressingly over her form. I can see Mai in the woman’s beautiful face, especially those eyes that even from twenty feet away, reveal intelligence, warmth, and a not-so-subtle sensuality.
“That is Mother,” Mai says, walking over to the painting. “Father hired a friend to paint her two years ago. The dress is called áo dài. You have seen it already on the sidewalks.”
“Kim is still angry that I insisted it be displayed up there,” Samuel says with a mischievous grin. “She is shy, you see. Very humble.”
Mai smiles. “But I think she is also pleased that Father likes it so much that he wanted it in this room.”
“It’s an amazing painting,” I say. “I can see where you get your…” My face flushes.
“Mai’s good looks?” Samuel teases.
“Father!”
Tex giggles as he cartwheels himself up onto the leather love seat. He leans into its corner and rests his muscled arm on the rest. “Mai be a fish out of ocean missing you,” he says, looking at Mai for a reaction, his fondness for her obvious.
“Tex!”
Samuel places his hand over his heart and sighs dramatically. “It reminds me of a poem. ‘If I had a single flower for every time I think about you, I could walk forever in my garden.’” He sighs again.
“Okay, boys. I am going to go check on Mother. You stay here and have a giggle party.” She looks at me as she passes, winks, and disappears through a doorway.
Samuel snorts a laugh and points toward the sofa. “Please sit down, Sam.” He remains standing. “Let me say first off that Tex is privy to everything that happened in Portland. Everything. He has been my friend for over forty years. We met in hell. Somehow he pulled me away from certain death and did so just minutes after losing his legs.” My mouth drops open. “You heard that right, Son. He pulled me to safety right after his legs had been blown into a fine, red mist.”
I look at Tex, who looks embarrassed by the story. He shrugs and smiles, his eyes not so much. “Tea? I go talk to Ly to make.” He launches himself off the sofa and scoots hand over hand across the floor, faster than I walk, and disappears through an arched doorway that must lead into the kitchen.
“He’s amazing,” I say.
“I sometimes forget how much so,” Samuel says with admiration as he looks at the doorway. He looks back at me and smiles as if I caught him at something. “He is a good friend, and a good fighter.”
“Fighter. Really?”
“He has a great teacher—me.”
I laugh, remembering how Samuel has a way of blending humility with singing his own praises. In this case, the humility is real and the boasts are based on fact. Like my grandfather used to say, if you can brag without lying, then brag. That’s Samuel.
“I have seen legless martial artists before,” I say. “I know of two who lost theirs in Iraq. They were amazing and made me appreciate what I have. For sure they made me stop complaining about my old knee injury and weak ankles. How long has Tex trained with you?”
Samuel thinks for a moment. “Over thirty years. His skill is quite unique.”
I chuckle. “Coming from you that means a lot.”
“Did you get in much training after we left?”
“Not as much as I would have liked. There was the grand jury to contend with, three long days on the stand. After each session, I would go home and sleep from six at night until seven the next morning. I had to talk about the shooting everyday, relive it everyday, and I’d dream about it every night. I knew that if I could train a little, even just stretch, it would be helpful, but I had no energy for it. None.”
Samuel sits silently, looking at me for a moment, his hands folded on his lap. “The fourteenth Dali Lama said, ‘Through violence, you may solve one problem, but you sow the seeds for another.’ In your case, you did solve the problem of the evil person, but other problems were created by that action.” He raises his palm. “Do not take that as a condemnation of what you did. Your intention was right action, which is one of the aspects of Buddha’s Eight Fold Path. But even with right action—well—sometimes shit happens.
“Remember in Portland when I told you that when I was with the Green Berets, I got fourteen confirmed kills? There were more but that is the number confirmed. Each one was in the heat of battle; each enemy soldier was trying to kill me or my brothers. I was using right action, but each one caused me great problems; each one haunted me for a long time… sometimes they still do.”
Samuel pauses and looks at Kim’s painting for a moment. “Each man had a family, you see, who suffered when he did not come home to them. But with the death of each enemy, one or many of my men lived. But someone who loved those I killed suffered pain of the heart. But with each life saved, another wife, another child, another mother did not suffer.” He shrugs, glances toward the foyer and back to me. “But but but, eh? This is the terrible burden the warrior must carry.”
“Jesus,” I whisper, as the full impact of his words hit me.
“And Buddha,” Samuel says. “Both great men.” He leans forward as if to emphasize his next words. “Son, there are no magic words that will make the pain go away. What I just offered is nothing more than another way to
