He could hear Rita sobbing on the other end. He covered the speaker and said to the secretary, “Get a deputy over to Brogan’s house now.”
Then, to Rita, “Mrs. Brogan, we’re sending a deputy over to your house to assist you, and we’ll have Pat home as soon as we can get in touch with him. Are you ok?”
“It’s our boy, Rory. Something happened to him in Vietnam. This telegram says... I don’t know what happened,” and she dropped the phone.
Pat Brogan was tipping back a Pepsi in the Mayflower Restaurant and looking over the cup when he spotted her walking to a table. Amy? No, it’s Arlene, that’s it. Arlene Wagner. Wow, she still looks great. Jon Roth turned around, glanced and said, “Know her?”
“Went to school with her at St. Mark’s, long time ago.”
Pat took in the short black hair, the way she curved herself into the chair and he put down his cup.
“You just about finished?” he said to the lawyer.
“Yeah, just about.”
“Ok, I’m just going to go over and say hello to my old classmate. I’ll meet you at the car.”
He had just gotten to Arlene’s table and their eyes lit up in recognition.
“Arlene?”
“Well, Pat Brogan, it’s been years!”
“Pat!” Roth shouted from the restaurant’s exit.
What the hell is it now?!
Roth stood by the door with a perspiring deputy. “Pat, there’s some kind of family emergency. You’ve got to get home now!”
Rory! It’s got to be Rory...
“I’ll drive,” Jon said. “The DA got a phone call from Rita, she got a telegram about Rory. There’s a deputy at the house now. He says the telegram says Rory’s alive, but has been hurt overseas.”
...and I’m trying to chat up some gal. What the hell was I thinking?
Jon pulled into the driveway right behind the sheriff’s car, and Pat jumped out. Inside, Rita was sitting at the phone stand in the hallway wiping her eyes and face, and the deputy stood next to her, hand on her shoulder. Pat knelt before his wife.
“Can I see the telegram?” he asked quietly. He took it from her gently and read the dreadful report.
“He’s alive, Rita. Our son is alive.”
She looked up, clenching the handkerchief and said, “How badly is he hurt? When will we know? Will he be coming home?”
Resting his hands on her knees, he looked in her reddened eyes. Absolute honesty now, boyo, he thought.
“We don’t know yet, Rita.” He looked at the telegram again. “I’m not sure how they update the families now.”
The deputy nodded and said, “They send telegrams when he’s moved.” Pat stood and both parents looked at the young deputy. He put out his hand to Pat. As they shook, he said, “Rick Kania, Mr. Brogan. I got back from there two years ago. They usually send a telegram when he’s moved from place to place and give you a status report.”
Pat nodded and put his arm around Rita.
“If he’s in a hospital, he’s probably going to make it. The dust-off choppers... that’s the medevac helicopters, do a good job,” Kania said.
“Can we call someone before that and find out how he’s doing, what his injuries are?” Rita asked. Pat and the young veteran looked at each other.
“Uh, no. The Army doesn’t have any procedures for that, ma’am.”
Jon asked from the foyer, “What do you need?”
Pat and Rita looked over at the lawyer. “Uh, nothing right now, Jon, thanks. Just tell them I’m taking the rest of today and tomorrow off.”
“Ok, Pat,” he said. They shook hands all around.
“Anything you need, Mr. and Mrs. Brogan, just let me know,” Kania said.
“You’ve got my numbers, Pat, call anytime,” Jon said.
When they had left, Pat helped Rita stand up and they hugged. After a while, Pat said, “C’mon Rita, let’s go sit in the kitchen.”
He got her a glass of water and held her by the shoulders as she sat at the table.
“It’s better than before,” he said. “It took a lot longer to get to a field hospital. A lot of guys didn’t make it. During the war it could be weeks before you found out anything except that the guy was hurt.” Rita nodded and stared at the table.
Goddamn Army, he thought.
I never should’ve let him go, she thought.
6.
“All right, I think that will be enough of Plato’s government by timocracy for today,” the professor said.
“Boy, is it,” Tom whispered, putting his pencil in his pocket and closing his notebook. HR leaned over to him and whispered, “Stop by College A, Artie scored last night.”
Tom nodded, and the two of them walked across the frozen lawns of the campus to Main Street, where the experimental College A was housed in a storefront. Inside, the walls were covered in posters advertising student events around the neighborhood, including several sponsored by the Students for a Democratic Society. Bushy haired Artie waved them to a back room past a bespectacled older man stacking flyers.
“Take some, spread them around, fellas. We’re mobilizing against the ROTC on campus,” the older man said.
“Ok, professor,” HR said, taking a handful.
“That guy’s a teacher?” Tom asked quietly.
“You know it. That’s professor Fred and that’s what College A is all about.” Pointing to a sign over the door, he spoke the motto: “Self and Community.”
In the back room, Artie, HR and Tom shared a joint.
“How about a beer next door, guys? I’d like to check that place out,” HR suggested.
“Gotta help Fred,” Artie said.
“Gotta get home,” Tom said, picking up his books. As he shuffled down the ice-covered sidewalk towards home, Tom thought about Rory. He remembered his older brother crouching behind cars in the wintertime, hanging on to the bumper, “pogeying” as the cars drove down the icy street and smiling back at him as his feet slid over the pavement.
“Don’t tell mom and dad,” he’d say when he hopped back onto the sidewalk a block or two later. Now he’s in the jungle in Vietnam fighting this insane war, he thought, shaking his head.
When
