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Show 50 J She cooks for me...a t e r r i b l e cook." He looked up at me, almost pleading. I looked away, ashamed for him, for me, for a l l of us, caught in webs of unhappiness, trapped in the imperfections of our l i v e s. "What chance do you have of helping us? Should I turn somewhere else? I can't waste time. There i s n ' t much time." I had never been so brusque and d i r e c t with a s t r a n g e r . I smiled apologetically and found myself too close to t e a r s . I stared at the sidewalk. He seemed to f a l l over himself, to lose the Marine's careful cool stride. "You understand, I c a n ' t do anything. I t ' s up to his CO. I haven't got a thing to say about i t . They may not even let me in on the story, you know.. .you've got to understand... from I may not hear A them for a month. Write to his CO. He's the one...." I sighed. "I already wrote. And wrote. He d i d n ' t write back. I guess I ' l l go home.' I turned abruptly and walked toward the parking l o t. I wrote more l e t t e r s , made more phone c a l l s . I even wrote to President Nixon, although I-had-^e^er believed him capable of teening his own pr"mig^fl-T Two weeks l a t e r a l e t t e r came from the Oval Office. "The President r e g r e t s to inform you..." The answers were always the same, " . . . a m i l i t a r y zone. We can do nothing. The s i t u a t i o n i s in the hands of your husband's CO. We've requested more information." The hahy, n&nT|tf»q f i r s t birthday came and went. Summer waned. My fingers trembled a l l the time. The nightmares returned of Brian dying, dismembered, emasculated. I woke up, Weeping. My f a u l t , my fault, my f a u l t. |