Last year, there was a foster kid
in our class. His name was Troy.
On the first day of school,
a quarter popped out of Troy’s pocket
and rolled under the radiator.
When Troy knelt down to get it,
I saw the soles of his sneakers.
They were so smooth
they looked transparent.
Jeff is talking,
I can hear his voice,
but his words don’t make sense.
The rolling quarter
is causing some kind
of silver interference,
like a flattened bullet
in my brain.
I wonder what makes
some rings in the wood perfect
and others like jagged scars.
If I go into foster care,
I wonder,
will I get to keep my sneakers?
My mother talks
slowly and gently.
Her fluttery hands
are folded in front of her,
like we are in church.
Matt, you’ve been through so much,
she says, but we want you
to stop running,
or, at least, to find out
what it is you’re running from.
What is she talking about?
I’m not running.
I’m trying to stay.
Dad takes a deep breath.
Let’s start at the beginning.
You know that Jeff
was a medic in Vietnam.
I nod but don’t look
at anyone.
I try to think about
the circles in the wood,
and whether they’ll let me
take my sneakers
and my glove.
I’d like to take my glove.
Dad’s voice
keeps breaking through.
They’re not always pleasant
to look at.
Some of them have missing fingers
and arms
or even legs.
Who is he talking about?
How does he know?
Even the ones who look fine
have scars.
Scars on the inside, Jeff says.
I’ve never heard Jeff talk so much.
Maybe you can help them, Matt.
It might mean something
to see they made a difference.
And maybe, Matt,
my mother says softly,
maybe it will help you too.
So they are not
sending me away?
Veteran Voices, or VV,
meets every other Thursday night
at the Community Center.
The Community Center
is an old school
that got converted
into town offices.
My mother takes me there
to see the room ahead of time
so I know what to expect.
It’s just the two of us
in the car. Her hands
grip the steering wheel.
If you don’t want to do this,
just tell us, Matt, she says.
I feel like I’m riding
in an elevator
that won’t stop climbing.
My heart is rising, pumping
in my head, but my stomach
is dropping down.
I’m okay, I say.
To get to the VV room,
we have to walk through
a long, dark hall
beyond a staircase.
There’s a small
storage room
behind the
janitor’s closet.
Its shelves are packed with
half-empty cartons
of cleaning supplies
and unopened boxes
of tissues.
I try to imagine it
filled with Vietnam veterans,
but all I can picture
are paper lanterns
and fairy-tale dragons.
I still have the elevator
feeling on meeting night.
This time Dad is with me.
It’s strange to see him
in his navy jacket
with the big gold buttons,
and his clean white shirt
and gray pants.
He takes off his tie, but
he’s still all over too shiny.
I couldn’t imagine what they’d look like,
but I didn’t picture them like this.
I didn’t picture them in worn leather vests
or denim jackets with a rainbow peace sign
sewn on the back,
in dirty sneakered feet,
and muddy army boots
that look like they just
stepped out of a jungle.
They don’t look like soldiers.
They just look like
beat-up men.
Jeff is already here.
His face is unshaved,
and he has on a wrinkled
T-shirt instead of his usual
neat white shirt with
the lizard on it.
Even so, Jeff is
different from
everyone else here.
I can’t imagine him
crouched in a trench.
I can’t imagine
his made-for-music hands
holding a weapon
or wiping blood from
someone’s torn-up face.
It looks like there’s been a meeting,
but it’s already over.
People are standing or sitting,
holding cardboard cups
with pull-out handles
and talking quietly.
Jeff is sitting down at a small table,
talking to a guy in a wheelchair,
but he stands up and heads toward us
when we walk in.
Hi, Matt, Michael.
Dad nods.
I want you to meet someone, Jeff says.
He puts his hand on my shoulder
and gently guides me
toward the table
where he had been talking.
I’ll be right there, Dad says. There’s someone
I need to say hello to first.
The room suddenly feels stuffy,
and the smell of old books
and burnt coffee
makes me nauseous.
Usually I like those smells,
but now I feel sick.
The room has gotten quieter.
I need fresh air,
but Jeff doesn’t seem to notice.
Matt, this is Christopher.
I take my hand out of my pocket
to shake Christopher’s hand,
but he doesn’t move
so I pull it back.
Scars run in every direction
on Christopher’s face,
but his eyes are a clear, light blue,
like small circles of pool water
spilled on the craters of the moon.
Christopher’s a baseball fan.
Used to play too—we called him Whirlin’ Will.
He was a pitcher like you—
Until the war came.
Jeff doesn’t say it,
but I know it’s true.
I feel Dad’s hand
on my shoulder.
Hi, Chris, he says.
He reaches out
to shake Christopher’s hand
and when Christopher
doesn’t offer one,
Dad just grabs the stump
that’s there instead.
I hadn’t seen it before.
Why didn’t Jeff warn me?
Dad and Christopher
look at each other a long time
without saying anything.
Finally Dad smiles.
Christopher doesn’t.
Even if he wanted to,
he couldn’t.
His scars move
in the wrong direction.
How’s Elizabeth? Christopher asks.
Dad still hasn’t looked away.
She’s doing well, real well.
You know, Chris, he starts to say,
but stops, leaving his thought
hovering in the air.
I was sorry to hear about Celia,
he says instead,
and his unfinished sentence
floats away.
Yeah, well, it’s not your fault,
Christopher finally mumbles,
and when he speaks,
the lines on his face
move like cracks of dried mud.
Dad never mentioned
Christopher before,
but he must have gone
to high school with him
because he starts telling stories
about all the high school
friends he does talk about.
Christopher doesn’t say anything,
so Dad just keeps on talking
like he does with me,
talking just to fill the silence.
Eventually Dad pauses, like he’s
run out of things to say.
He takes a deep breath.
Matt reminds me of you, Chris,
he says. Sometimes the batter
doesn’t even know
the ball’s been pitched!
Yeah, that’s what
Jeff says,
Christopher answers.
He takes his eyes
off Dad and
for the first time
looks at me.
My nausea
is gone,
but my stomach
feels empty
and floaty.
I want to smile,
but my face is stuck.
On the way home,
Dad is quiet.
A dark quiet.
How come Jeff called Christopher
Whirlin’ Will when his name is Chris?
I ask, trying to fill the silence.
His last name is Williams,
Chris Williams,
Dad says, and then leaves me
for his own thoughts again.
Who’s Celia? I ask.
Chris’s wife, he says without
turning his head to look at me.
Did she die?
No, she left.
We ride in silence
until Dad shakes his head like
he’s waking from a dream.
Chris and Celia were
high school sweethearts.
We all envied their relationship.
But the war changed Chris.
The war changed
all of us, Matt.
Whether we went,
or whether we stayed,
the war changed us all.
When we get back to the house,
we can hear Tommy splashing
upstairs in the tub.
Be right down, my mother calls.
Dad puts his jacket on the banister
and goes to the fridge.
He unwraps some leftover
apple pie, but covers it again
and grabs a beer.
Want anything? he asks.
I shake my head and
he goes right on talking.
Mom, Celia, Chris, and me,
we used to be good friends….
He leaves his sentence
hanging in the air.
Sometimes the words people don’t say
are as powerful as the ones they do.
Until the war came,
I say, finishing his thought.
He nods.
Until the war came
and ruined everything.
Because of you, Matt-the-rat,
there’s no place for me.
Because of you, my wife left.
Because of you, my brother died.
Because of you, I have stumps instead of legs.
My head starts to spin.
The kitchen suddenly feels
as small as the storage room
behind the janitor’s closet.
I’d better go finish my homework, Dad,
I say.
Instead,
I run downstairs
to the basement bathroom
and throw up.
You don’t have to go back
if you’re not comfortable,
my mother says.
I’m here if you want to talk
about anything,
my father says.
If you give it a chance,
I think it will work out
for everyone,
Jeff says.
I will go back,
but I don’t want
to talk about it.
I hope it works
out for someone,
maybe even
for me.
No one asks me any questions,
but I have a question.
Dad, how come you didn’t go
to Vietnam?
It’s Friday night and we
are clearing the table.
He drops the crusty casserole dish
into the soapy water
and sits back down.
Because I went to medical school.
It was a legitimate deferment.
Ever since I was a kid,
I wanted to be a doctor.
When I was young—
younger than you are now—
I saw a small sparrow
fall out of her nest.
I thought she was hurt.
I went to get a towel to wrap her in
and some bread to feed her,
but when I got back,
she was already gone.
I was happy she’d flown away
but disappointed too.
I wanted to help her.
Be a doctor, Grandpa said.
There’ll always be more
than enough wounded people.
Dad taps his hand
on the empty table.
It seemed like
the right thing to do
back then.
But sometimes
I look at Chris and Jeff,
and I wonder,
was it enough?
At night,
through the walls,
I hear them talk.
Stop feeling guilty,
she says.
You did what you thought
was best.
You followed your heart
in a world that had gone
crazy.
I can’t help it,
Elizabeth.
That cold fish
shimmies inside me
again.
Maybe for Dad
I’m like the coin
you drop in the poor box
at church.
Saturday is cold.
Too cold
to play baseball,
but we do.
Tommy is at
Mrs. Pennotti’s house.
My parents are sitting
on the top bleacher
where they always
sit when Tommy
doesn’t come.
The sun is behind
a thick blanket
of clouds.
The warm-ups
don’t warm me up.
My arm feels stiff.
I know it’s cold out here,
Coach Robeson says,
coughing into his sleeve.
Just play your best.
Woo-hoo, my mother calls
when I strike out
the first two batters.
The umpire shakes his head.
The batters are just too cold
to swing their bats.
The
third player up
glares at me.
I take off my glove
and stick it under my arm.
I smudge the ball and get ready
to pitch.
The ball sails right down
the middle of the plate.
Crack.
The crowd cheers.
A home run.
I hear my father’s voice.
It’s okay, Matt! You’ll get the next one.
The next batter gets a base hit,
but I do strike out the following one.
It’s early in the game,
Coach Robeson says to me
as we head into the dugout.
You’ll warm up.
Hey, Frog-face,
Rob says on his way
to the batter’s box.
Playin’ for the other team today?
There’s no time to react.
Rob hits a single.
So does Alex.
Daniel drives in a run
on a double.
The score stays tied
until the sixth inning.
Then I hit a single.
Rob follows with a double
and I race home.
We squeak by
with a 2–1 victory.
Lucky little Frog-face,
Billy says.
My mother
is making dinner,
so I need to
watch Tommy.
It’s drizzling outside.
We can’t toss the ball.
Instead I pile
Tommy’s alphabet blocks
and he knocks them down.
I make a barn
for his farm animals
and he oinks and moos.
He climbs on my back
and babbles,
Giddy-yap, Matt,
giddy-yap, Matt.
He kicks the sides
of me with his
soft
bare
feet.
Tuesday just before the final bell,
a huge storm cloud
rolls in unexpectedly.
Squat close to the ground
like a heaving monster,
it hurls heavy black
drops of rain
that bounce rather than fall.
Track is canceled,
the end-of-the-day voice