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Marines
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    There were other regalia as well, but the mechanic closed the door before Russell got much of a look. The strong but pleasant scent of citrus cleaner filled the grimy office.
    â€œYou’re a bastard,” Russell said.
    â€œI can be.”
    â€œA magnificent bastard—that’s what we called you guys.”
    â€œWho’s we?”
    â€œGimlet. Americal. 3 rd Battalion, 21 st Infantry. Russell Harts-horne.” He put out his hand. “Nhi Ha.”
    â€œErnie Gagnon.” He took Russell’s hand and held on. “So, shall I save your sorry ass or you still want to fight me?” Russell waited for the smile that would defuse this moment; when it came he gave Gagnons hand a quick pump and they both let go.
    â€œSo what’s the plan?” asked Russell.
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    Beth took her old textbook from the low shelf on the upstairs landing and sat in a creaking white wicker chair by the window. Were all four-year-olds interested in death? Was this a developmental thing? Or was Roger speaking from a chill shadow his uncle’s death had cast over their family life? Beth sought the answer to the first question in the heavy maroon volume on her lap. She feared the answer to the second.
    Nothing in the index for death. Nothing for mortality. Nothing for mourning. Nothing for grief. Did the authors think none of these things were of any consequence in a child’s life? The listing for parent was extensive. There: bereaved parent, page 437. Dry as ashes, the text referred to “the maternal introject” and the danger to a child of “overwhelming affect” resulting from “acute maternal bereavement.”
    She refused the guilt that welled up in her and slammed shut the book. Tears came then, this time at the realization that there was nothing to be done, nothing that ought to be done, nothing that could be changed. She cried for Jerry, for his final moments; for Roger who seemed to have perceived her brother’s absence, even without really knowing him; for Russell, for whom death, anybody’s death, was a kind of failure, a collapse into incoherence; and for herself, facing mystery brotherless.
    She heard cars in the driveway and went to the window. A mechanic in coveralls was working a tow truck’s lift, lowering the front end of the Toyota to the ground.
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    â€œNo, I told you. No charge.”
    â€œWell, you got my business for a lifetime.”
    Gagnon cocked his head and looked at Russell. He kept his hand on the hydraulic lever until the bar, chain, and canvas apron clanked back in place on the truck. “That was my brother,” he said. “My brother’s outfit, Fourth Marines. Not mine”
    â€œThe stuff in the closet.”
    â€œYeah. All the stuff he sent me before he didn’t come back.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    Gagnon was climbing into the cab now. “Didn’t want to leave you with the wrong impression is all. That wouldn’t be right.” He gunned the truck in reverse, swinging into the street. He shifted and took off, acknowledging Russell’s raised hand with a quick wave, eyes straight ahead.
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    Roger had watched from his bedroom window where he could see the tow truck turn at the corner and pass from view. He returned to his picture, anxious to finish now. Along the left margin he made a row of mountains. He had never seen real mountains, but in his picture book they seemed like the edge of things, the limit, so he turned his paper to draw another set of jagged peaks along the right-hand side.
    Holding his picture in both hands, he sat on the top stair, and he made his way down, sitting on each step, by using his feet. His parents were in the kitchen, hugging, just inside the back door. His mother turned to him; he could see she had been crying.
    â€œWhat you got there, Big Guy?” his father boomed.
    Roger held his picture out in front of him: an animal, orange and black with