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“First rule of firearms, always assume they’re loaded. And I’m sure she knows ranchers have to deal with things that require weapons.” His mouth twisted for a moment. “I’ll be sure to tell her we’ll both be carrying in the backcountry.”
“She knows. I had a rifle that day she found me.” And she’d promptly confiscated it, rather than unloading it and replacing it in the holster.
They settled in the living room. Their place was awfully shabby next to Wiz’s, but it was comfortable.
“You know, I told her that riding was good therapy, and I think she’s coming to agree with that.” Dad nodded thoughtfully as he gazed into nothing.
Tom agreed, too. “I imagine it helps that we’re at eye level on a horse. She asked me not to loom over her, which is kind of hard to do when I’m six four and she’s all of, what, five two maybe?”
Dad squinted at him. “Maybe a little taller, but not by much. She is a tiny thing but very strong.”
“Ryan said she did some sort of martial arts. And the gym in her basement is certainly not there to hold clothes and gather dust.” One more thing he missed—his gym in the city.
“I wonder how she does martial arts all by herself?” Dad asked.
Good question. “Video? There were punching bags and stuff down there. Maybe she’s got an instructor who works online with her, like her therapist.”
Dad’s brows raised. “I’m just glad she’s talking to a professional.”
“Yeah, I’m kind of surprised. But she’s a smart woman. She’d know she couldn’t do it all on her own.”
Dad nodded but didn’t say anything else.
Tom waited, but obviously, Dad wasn’t going to bring it up, but he really wanted to know. “Was Wiz right? You were a scout-sniper?”
Dad sighed. “I asked around, and I guess they have declassified a good bit of stuff. Shoot, A Troop got a Presidential Unit citation in 2009 for a rescue mission they did back in 1970. And more guys just decided to talk, and the heck with the system. After all, they did us no favors. From the very top on down.” Dad glanced at him. “So I guess I can talk about it. Don’t usually like to.”
Tom just nodded. He wouldn’t force the issue.
He slapped his palms on his thighs. “Well, you’re an adult, guess you deserve to know. I started out a plain old infantry grunt, but I was a real good shot, from hunting. So they gave me some special training. I wasn’t a true sniper like Carlos Hathcock or anything. And then there was a typical Army screw-up; I was assigned to the 1st Squadron, 11th Armored Cavalry, the Blackhorse, and we operated out in Cambodia a lot. We weren’t supposed to be there, but there we were. As a sniper, I really shouldn’t have been assigned to Armored Cav, but my commander at least had a clue as to how to employ me properly. We got in some bad situations, and I killed a lot of people.” Dad held up a hand, to stop the protest Tom wasn’t going to make. “Sure, they were gonna kill us if we didn’t kill them, but it’s not easy. It’s even harder to live with in the long run.”
Tom couldn’t imagine. He’d shot animals but never came close to a person. “Maybe you should talk to somebody. The Veterans Administration’s got good programs now, you know. Not like the old days.”
“So Wiz tells me. Nah, the Vietnam vet’s group I belong to, we talk about this stuff now. Used to be we’d all just bull through it, especially since we weren’t exactly appreciated when we got home. Glad the guys and gals coming home now get some respect.”
“Still, a professional could help.”
“I’ll talk to my doc next time I go.”
“Sure, Dad.” He probably wouldn’t, but Tom couldn’t push any harder. “Thanks for telling me a little about it. I really didn’t want to be one of those people who found a trunk years later with all the patches and medals and not have a clue how you got them all or what you did.”
He shook his head. “Don’t have a trunk anymore. Got a few patches. The medals are all in the shadow box in the hall.”
“Someday you’ll have to tell me what they were for, and don’t give me a bunch of crap about ‘perfect attendance’ and ‘penmanship.”
Dad snorted. “Sure. Maybe I’ll even write it down. Sometimes that’s easier than talking.”
“That would be good. You can borrow my tablet; you can hand-write on it. If you like it, I’ll get you one for Christmas.”
Dad frowned. “Hey, what are we doing for Christmas anyway? Got to make sure we take care of Wiz.”
Tom grimaced. “Oh, boy. What do you get for the girl who doesn’t need anything and can buy anything she wants?”
“Don’t think she’d care about traditional presents. I was thinking more about Christmas itself. I figure we’ll go to the vigil Mass like usual, have brunch the next day. We can invite her down for that, even if she’s not interested in church.”
“She might not be able to handle being in a church. Too many people, strange place, all that.” He didn’t know if she was religious; he longed to know more about her thoughts and feelings.
“True. Well, we can ask, anyway.” Dad shrugged.
