The Light of Hidden Flowers Read Online Free Page A

them,” I said. “You’re not usually harsh with anyone.” I took a tentative breath. “And at the seminar today. You kind of forgot what you were talking about, didn’t you?”
    My heart thumped. I never initiated confrontation.
    “Honey, sit down,” Dad said, rubbing at his eyes. “You know how long ago it was when I was in ’Nam? Fifty years.”
    I slipped my feet out of my flats and pulled them onto the sofa. When Dad got going on Vietnam, it wasn’t an exercise in brevity.
    Dad stared deep into his memory. “Missy, it seems like yesterday . I was just a kid, had barely heard of Southeast Asia. Then the next thing you know: jungle warfare, leeches, trench foot. Shooting at an enemy we couldn’t see. Marching every day. We didn’t know where we were going. We didn’t know why. Pure insanity.”
    “I can’t even imagine,” I said. So young, and shipped off to war.
    Dad shook his head. “Every day we were either bored out of our minds or scared out of our wits. At night, we’d peel off our gear: the flak jacket, the rucksack, the helmet, boots, and poncho. Some guys had their secret supply of cigarettes, their Bible, their favorite food. Me, I was all about my stash of jelly beans. My jelly beans and my joke book. My buddy Ralph and I would gather round with the group of guys, a two-man comedy show, we were.
    “I’d open with ‘A guy walks into a bar . . .’ and then he’d follow with ‘A priest, a rabbi, and a minister are out on a boat . . .’ Back and forth, back and forth. Oh, Missy, the guys would howl, their heads jumping between me and Ralph like they were watching a tennis match. ‘What do you get when you mix a German shepherd with a wiener dog . . . ?’”
    “I’m not surprised,” I said. “You’ve always had a way of holding court.”
    “Our buddy Timbo would always ask, ‘How do you remember so many goddamned jokes?’ Timbo was a laugher, a knee-slapper. He roared and roared and begged for more. What a guy, that Timbo. He was from Fairfax, I’ve told you about him, right, Miss?”
    I nodded. “Yep, the one who played basketball for Thomas Jefferson.”
    Dad beamed. “You do remember! We figured out he and I actually played against each other in the state championships in high school. Crazy thing to think that our paths had crossed and then, there we were, in that godforsaken jungle.”
    I nodded eagerly as if this were new information, despite the fact that Dad had told me about Timbo before.
    “‘Tell the one about the pope,’ Timbo would say. ‘Okay, Timbo,’ I’d say. ‘For you. A guy’s invited to the Vatican to visit with the pope . . .’” Dad shook his head. “Poor Timbo,” he said.
    “He died in battle, right?” I said for Dad, so he wouldn’t have to say it himself.
    Dad nodded.
    “So sad,” I said.
    Dad and I sat in silence for a moment. “Going to play some golf today, Dad?” I asked, attempting to hatchet him out of the murky trail.
    Dad remained introspective. He looked up with ghostly eyes. “I still know a lot of those jokes, Missy. Not the entire book, like I used to, but plenty of them. I still remember them like it was yesterday.”
    “Yep,” I said. “You still got it, Dad.”
    Dad looked at me, and the burden in his face was both young and old.
    “I forgot what the hell I was talking about today,” he admitted. “Just a blunder. It won’t happen again.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    At eleven and noon, Dad and I met with old clients, reviewed their plans, and made adjustments. Dad was the leader; I was the foot soldier, presenting data, explaining the why and what and where and how. Then there was chitchat and reminiscing. There were roars of laughter, and wiping of eyes, and mad appreciation for each other. Handshakes and hugs, and promises to get together soon. These were the relationships that my dad was in—fully loyal and totally committed.
    Then Dad left for the golf course and I worked on my models. When my stomach grumbled,