Some say Vietnam drew the country closer together and some say that it blew it apart. I say that it changed us forever.
As a freshman in high school, not yet attaining the maturity necessary to see the world though anyone’s eyes but my own, I did not realize the full horror of what my newly graduated brother faced as an active duty sailor.
I only knew he was gone.
Gordon’s dining room chair sat empty at meals. It had been empty before because of his involvement in school activities and clubs but the usual explanation, when someone called for him, was, “He’s not home.”
Now, if anyone called for him, the reply was, “He’s gone.”
If he’d been away at college, that would have been another type of “gone.” This Vietnam gone felt ominous. No one talked about where he was, or hardly mentioned his name. No one talked about when he would be home.
From his own wartime experience in the Navy, Dad knew of the importance of letters from home so, once a week, he wrote to his son. I remember watching him hunched over the letter pad, his tongue partially hanging out the side of his mouth like the stub of a red cigar, something Dad did when deep in thought. I especially remember the dignified, light blue U.S. Navy stationery on which Gordon wrote his letters. It heightened my awe of my brother’s new station in life.
His bedroom, always off limits, contained a closetful of an irresistible array of shirts, and I began to prefer his to my own. My brother, a handsome ladies’ man, owned shirts meant to impress. Roomy, cozy and baggy, they were my teenage way of concealing what I thought were bulging thighs.
The day finally arrived the whole family anticipated: Gordon came home on leave. His cropped hair and loss of weight altered his appearance, and he seemed quieter and withdrawn. I felt uncomfortable, almost shy.
Mom set out to put some weight on her son and he literally ate it up. Probably to preserve normalcy, Mom also assigned chores, including ones for her hero son. The garage door needed a fresh coat of paint – Gordon and I were assigned the job.
For the first time since he arrived home, I slipped on one of his shirts; a deep burgundy that I daringly kept in my closet. Gordon balked but after this little sister pleading with her eyes and heart, he relented and let me wear it to paint.
Most times, no shared chore between siblings can be accomplished with a quarrel of some type. The one we had concerned the exact center of the garage door. Each armed with a brush, each determined to do no more than his or her own half, and neither agreeing on where the line should be placed. It was a standoff.
I wish I could truthfully say who did it, but when that first speck of white outdoor latex paint hit that burgundy shirt, I knew I had to make a run for it. I’d seen him angry many times before, but this time his expression seemed more real. Holding our brushes like marathon runners’ batons, we sprinted across the yard and out into the street. It didn’t take long to realize the absurdity of attempting to outrun my soldier-fit brother. In one smooth motion, I turned and bravely flicked my brush at him.
Gordon stopped, stretched out his arms and, as I held my breath, looked down his front. With no hint of anger, he stated the obvious: “You splashed me.” With surprise and relief, I watched as a bright, boyish smile dawned on his face. Impishly, he lunged at me, his paintbrush whipping like a riding crop.
My brother was back! He was home! Like two little kids, whooping and hollering, we chased each other up and down the street, refueling our brushes when we could.
The garage door did get painted that day. So did the front door and bricks on each side of the door. Windows were splattered. Our (his) shirt was ruined.
But his leave ended and it was back to duty. When that tour ended, he involuntarily took another, again in Vietnam. I thought there should have been a law against letting a man “volunteer” for two tours.
Vietnam, we would later learn, nearly wiped out American’s men born between the years of 1959-1953. Those who survived were the ones who went to college or, like my brother, returned from Vietnam either with physical or emotional impairments.
When he came home after the second tour, I doubted any amount of paint could ever again coax a bright smile to his face.
His boyhood was gone. He seemed to be gone, too, and I believe now that my brother never really came home to me again. Gordon simply was a different person. He never talked about the war to me and before long we drifted far apart – in miles as well as in life’s experiences.
No number of washings ever removed the paint from his burgundy shirt that I continued to wear. In fact, the paint outlasted the shirt.
And the memory of Gordon and me on that special day outlasted it all.