Page 80 of Thug

“Earl was ten years my junior,” he said. “But when he spoke, we listened. Earl didn’t talk often, but when he did it was in a man’s best interest to be listening.”

“You said ‘we listened.’,” I said. “‘When he spoke, we listened.’ Who are you talking about?”

“That bunch of former hoodlums who were out here the other day. We used to run in a pack, like wolves. Always together. Drinking, fighting, pulling off jobs. Bumped into your father when he stopped to help me with my fence. The old house was here back then, and I offered him in for a shot of whisky. When he came in, Virgil shot out of his chair like he’d been shot at. ‘Earl McNealy,’ he said. ‘I’ll be damned. I thought you were in jail.’ Your dad laughed and said, ‘Not that I’m aware of.’ Ended up they did a couple jobs together in your father’s youth. He was young then, but he was experienced.”

He stood, walked to the bookcase, and returned with a framed photo. “Have a look.”

The frame contained four old photographs that were each about four inches square in size. Centered and matted in a much larger frame, the display was proof of Cactus Jack’s allegiances.

In one photo, the images were easy to recognize. A much younger Jack and my father were standing beside a pickup truck. Each dressed the way Jack was currently dressed, they could have passed for brothers. My father looked to be thirty at the time.

I nodded aimlessly while looking at the photos. One was of Jack and a man I didn’t recognize. One was of my mother and father, both smiling like they’d won the lottery. The last one included my mother and father, Jack, and another woman.

I tapped my finger against it. “When was this? The other one with my mother and father, both smiling?”

She was smiling like I’d never seen her smile. Seeing her that way brought a smile to my face.

“One on the upper left?” Jack asked. “Your mom was pregnant at the time. Doesn’t show it, but she was. Think it was ’79. They’d just found out about it. It was right before we went to Phoenix to see Bob Dylan sing. I remember, because she wouldn’t drink at the concert.”

I traced my finger over their photos, drawing a small outline around them. My eyes drifted to the photo of Jack, my parents, and the other woman. “What about the one with you, them, and the other woman?”

“Was the bicentennial,” he responded without giving the question any thought. “1976. The picture’s faded, but you can see the red, white, and blue thing your mom and Victoria made in the background, beside the bricks.” He fished a pair of glasses from the pocket of his shirt and put them on. He stood, walked to my side and tapped his weathered finger against the glass. “Right there. Those two women had paint all over them. Slung that shit all over the yard, too. Spent half the day painting that old section of fence to look like a flag. Drank two bottles of wine doing it, too. That damned flag. They fought about that. Your mother wanted it because it was the 4th of July.” He turned the couch. “Your father started out as a patriot. After they kicked him out of the military, he took exception—”

“Military?”

“Oh hell,” he said, facing me. “You didn’t know?”

“He never said—”

“Wasn’t something he cared to talk about.” He took off his glasses. “He was Special Forces. Had the paratrooper tattoo on his forearm. Surely you noticed it.”

“He had a tattoo of a knife and a bird’s wing, or something. I can’t really remember exactly what it—”

“Paratrooper tattoo,” he said. “173d Airborne Brigade. Hell, your father fought on Hamburger Hill.”

“Hamburger Hill?”

“Don’t tell me…” He looked at me like he was disgusted with me. “You’ve never heard of it?”

“No, sir.”

“Greatest loss of American life in a war—any war—over a one-week period. Hundreds upon hundreds of Americans wounded and killed. Your father was a platoon sergeant. After his lieutenant was killed, he took charge of the platoon and ordered ‘em up that hill. Twenty-nine men started that journey with him, and sixteen of ‘em made it home alive. Worst goddamned battle of the war, and your father spearheaded the assault to win the battle. Was a pretty big deal, back then. Still is now. He got an award of some sort for his actions. Then, when he came home, they stripped him of his awards and kicked him out of the military. A man in his unit stole machineguns from the armory.” He sipped his whisky, and then gulped what was left. He shook his head. “He didn’t do it, but he knew who did. He wouldn’t tell ‘em who it was, so they made an example of him. Gave him the boot. Took his rank and his pension.”

Filled with pride to the point of bursting, I coughed a dry laugh and nearly started crying in the process. “He wasn’t a snitch,” I said under my breath.

“No, Son, he wasn’t.” He stood. “Got a bad taste in his mouth about the government at that point and decided the best way to get back at ‘em was to take their money. In his eyes, they owed it to him for the sacrifices he’d made.” He gestured to my glass. “Finish your whisky. I ain’t making two trips unless I have to.”

I did as he asked and handed him the glass. While he poured another round of courage, I studied the photos. In the one with my mother in it, I decided they were 28 and 27 years old. They looked a little younger than I remembered them being. It was nice to see them together and happy before I was born.

“The other woman in the picture,” I said. “Was that your—”

“Victoria?” he asked. “She was my wife. Passed in ’01. Same thing got her that got your aunt, God bless their souls.”

I stood and walked toward the kitchen. “Can an outlaw have a woman in his life without lying to her?”

He handed me the glass of whisky and hopped onto one of the six barstools that surrounded an island. “Your father and I are both proof of that. Absolutely.”

I rested my forearms on the edge of the countertop. “How?”