Little Girlfriend

Frank’s son, Frank Junior, is bringing his little girlfriend over for dinner. Frank’s son has never had a little girlfriend before, even though he is thirty-three years old, has his own bedroom in a falling down house in the city, and works a good-paying job lopping heads at the fish market.

Pennie was arranging a cracker plate at the kitchen counter when Junior told her the news.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Junior gushed from the speakerphone. “Face and hair like a doll.”

“That’s wonderful, wonderful,” Pennie cheered. She cut slices of cheddar from a block. “I knew that you would find someone.”

“So wonderful,” Frank called out from his spot on the recliner. The Patriots were playing. Junior couldn’t hear Frank through the phone, could only hear the idea of Frank, so Pennie had to bring the phone to him.

“Very nice,” Frank spoke into the speaker. He waved Pennie away. She was blocking the television.

After the phone call, Pennie and Frank ate their crackers and cheese on their respective recliners. Frank looked at the Patriots on the television, and Pennie looked at Frank.

“We should invite Junior and his new little girlfriend up here,” Pennie said. She said “we should” but meant “I am going to.”

“Do you really believe he’s not a fruit?” Frank asked Pennie, his mouth spilling butter crumbs down his Patriots jersey.

“He’s figuring things out,” Pennie said. “He’s young enough.” Pennie was forgoing crackers. She was on a diet, and the sliced cheddar was sticky in her mouth. “To each their own,” she added, cheese squeezed like whiz between the cracks of her teeth.

When Frank and Pennie were Junior’s young age of thirty-three, they were already married. Frank had already pumped Junior into Pennie. He had already served in Vietnam.

Frank flew from Maine to Texas, from Texas to California, from California to Hawaii, and from Hawaii to Hong Kong on his way to Vietnam. He carried a picture ID in his field pants pocket and wore his wedding ring to Pennie on a gold link chain around his neck.

Frank saw nothing but cyan sky and gravel tarmac until the army pilot opened the air lock in Saigon. The dense wet air of the southeast draped over Frank’s shoulders like a lead blanket. He blinked his aching eyes at an assault of unfamiliar shapes and colors. Then his feet hit the dirt.

Even now, with the window cracked to let in the light breeze of a Maine evening, with his feet up on the recliner, and with thirty-odd years gone by, Frank still wears that same lead blanket. His eyes still ache.

On the night of Junior’s visit, Pennie bustles around in the kitchen. Frank sits in his recliner. The Patriots are on again.

Pennie takes a pork tenderloin out of the oven when it chimes, and she mashes potatoes in a pot. She grips the pot handle with a green checkered cloth. The kitchen smells like starchy rosemary—the smell mixes with the pine scent of Frank and Pennie’s cabin. Not that Frank and Pennie notice the pine smell anymore.

Even now, with the window cracked to let in the light breeze of a Maine evening, with his feet up on the recliner, and with thirty-odd years gone by, Frank still wears that same lead blanket.

Knock, knock, knock, someone raps on the driveway door.

“Yay!” Pennie cries. She throws her cloth on the counter and hurries to the door. Frank listens from his recliner as Pennie pulls the door open, revealing Frank Junior and his new little girlfriend.

The two are dressed in their nicest jeans and cleanest sweaters. Frank Junior’s little girlfriend curled her long, chocolatey locks before they made the drive up to the cabin, and the ringlets are still holding.

“Don’t you both look so lovely!” Pennie raves. “And your hair—how beautiful!” She really is a doll, Pennie thinks to herself as she shuts the door. Glowing skin and thick hair. Like she was meant to sit on a mantle.

“They look great,” Frank calls out from the couch. He remains slouched, eyes trained on the television.

“Oh, stop that.” Pennie hurries over to a kitchen cabinet to retrieve two glasses.

“You have a lovely home,” Frank Junior’s little girlfriend says, eyes roaming around the space. She admires the hand-hewn beams and furniture. “I love visiting places like this.”

Frank grunts from the couch. “Places like this make life worth living,” he says. His tone is obstinate, but he nods his head with approval.

When an ad for toothpaste comes on, Frank deigns to turn and look at the new little girlfriend.

A doll, Frank thinks to himself. A little Vietnamese doll. He roves his eyes up and down her body, noting the ruler straightness of her hips inside her skinny jeans. They cling to every inch, accentuating how little body fat she has.

Haven’t seen anything like that in a while. Frank returns to watching the game, but his mind remains fixed on the image of Junior’s girlfriend’s hips, lithe and young.

He knew a girl like that when he served in Vietnam. He was lithe and young then, too, with muscles that demanded to be used. The girl had worn a shapeless dress made of mildewed white fabric. Her stick arms had stuck out the holes, but her tiny hips were hidden under the weight of her sack.

Until she had taken it off, that is. Then Frank had seen it all.

“What did you say your name was, dear?” Pennie asks the little girlfriend, bringing Frank back into his recliner.

The little girlfriend smiles. “Linda,” she says. Her ringlets hang around her shoulders like a chandelier. She and Frank Junior had sat down in their chairs at the dinner table.

Pennie escorts the food from countertop to table using decorative bowls and platters. “How lovely,” Pennie says. “Is that a family name?”

“Linda’s parents live in San Francisco,” Frank Junior says. His words have a positive but final air.

Pennie’s smile falters. She regains it quickly. “They’d be better off on this coast,” she jokes. “I’ve heard some unsavory things about life over there, and I don’t know what I’d do without these beautiful old trees!”

Linda giggles. Frank finds the noise pleasant, like wind chimes. He rises to join them at the table, clicking off the Patriots. “The trees are actually older over there,” she says politely. “But the ones over here are just as beautiful.”

“I’ve told Linda a million times that we have to go to the botanical garden together,” Junior says, feigning exasperation. He rises to retrieve a pitcher of water. Pouring each of them a glass, he adds, “I love walking through a flower field.”

Frank exchanges a look with Pennie. I told you, his eyes boast. With a huff, she throws down her green checkered cloth.

“Let’s eat!” she declares, finally taking her seat at the table. Steam rises off the tenderloin and potatoes. They both shine with butter.

“The food looks amazing, Ma,” Junior murmurs to Pennie, reaching for the potato ladle.

“So amazing,” Linda adds with a smile. Pennie smiles in return. Excellent manners, she thinks. How wonderful for Junior.

The group sits in silence for a few minutes as they chew. Frank grunts appreciatively. He loves Pennie’s tenderloin, always insists she make it when they have guests, or on a holiday, or for any other excuse.

It was one of the first things she made when he got off the plane from Texas—from Hawaii—from Hong Kong—from Vietnam.

“Where in Vietnam is your family from?” Frank asks casually. Pennie looks up. Junior starts.

Linda chews for a second. She loops a lock of chocolatey hair behind her ear. When they make eye contact, Frank realizes how dark her irises are. Like pooling oil.

The girl in Hue had eyes like that. When Frank looked into them, it was like she wasn’t in. All he could see was his own reflection.

“My mother’s parents live in Hanoi,” Linda says. “My father’s are just south of there.”

Frank nods. He mutters around his mouthful of potato: “The coast? Ninh Binh?”

Linda looks surprised. “Somewhere in between,” she says. Her dark eyes move to Junior.

“Pop served during the war,” he explains. “He remembers a lot from his time there.” He shaves off a bite of his loin. “I’m thinking that I might join Linda the next time she goes to visit her grandparents, actually.”

“It is wonderful that you are so close with them.” Pennie smiles at Linda. “I feel lucky every day that we get to live so close to Junior—that we can eat with him like this.”

Linda smiles back. “I would love to see my extended family more, but it’s quite the flight.” She quickly adds, “As Frank would know.”

He pauses his chewing when his name comes out of her mouth. “Quite a flight,” he mumbles. “Quite a place. Not the kind of place I would go again.”

The table sits in silence for a moment. Pennie has finished her small plate of tenderloin; no potatoes allowed in her diet. Junior and Linda have eaten most of their shares. Only Frank is still chewing.

“I think Vietnam is pretty different nowadays from when you were there, Pop,” Junior suggests.

“Anything like San Francisco?” Pennie chuckles.

Linda forces a giggle. Wind chimes, Frank thinks. Junior grimaces.

“They’ve done well, despite the war,” Linda says, toying with a piece of pork fat. “My mother’s family has actually made quite a bit of money from textile production.”

Frank laughs. “I think you mean ‘because of the war,’” he corrects. Junior looks shocked.

“The war almost ruined my family’s businesses,” Linda extrapolates. “My mother’s family had to close their mills. My father’s family couldn’t farm for years. They nearly starved.”

“How awful,” Pennie whispers. Her eyes are wet.

“Linda’s parents came to study for medical school,” Junior says proudly. “I’ve talked to them on the phone—they’re incredible people.”

Frank watches Linda’s dark eyes rove around the table. He knew some amazing people in Vietnam. Plenty of them had their own Pennies back at home. Some stayed faithful and wore their golden rings proudly on their fingers, but most of them went behind the GI bar in Hue with Frank.

They peeled the baggy dress off that girl’s tiny hips and looked into her oil pool eyes. They put things in her until they forgot about the fungus growing inside their boots and the smell of human waste seeping from the outdoor toilet.

Did any of them really think they would make it back? Frank chews. Did they hold onto hope?

When he finally reached Hue, hope didn’t matter to Frank. He didn’t think he would ever get to study for medical school, or own a textile mill, or farm to avoid starvation. He never dreamt he would have a successful carpentry career, build a cabin up north, and have a son that would bring home a Vietnamese.

In Hue, he was dead already.

“We lost a lot of amazing people during that war,” Frank rumbles.

“That wasn’t Linda’s family’s fault, Pop,” Junior rushes to say. He places a hand protectively over Linda’s.

“But do they not feel gratitude?” Frank snaps, slapping his hand on the table. He looks into Linda’s oil pool eyes, at her doll face and ringleted hair. “Do they not appreciate what we did for them?”

Linda’s oil pools look down at the pork fat on her plate. Pennie glares at Frank, and he can feel her thoughts making their way through the air between them. This is Junior’s sweet little doll, he hears her saying. Why do you always make things about you?

Frank avoids her gaze. This isn’t about him. This is about the roles that people play in the world, and everyone knowing their place. He relaxes his hand and reaches for a sip of water.

“You know how terrible that war was, better than any of us do,” Junior starts, “I’m sure you can appreciate—”

“I can appreciate shit,” Frank spits.

“Language!” Pennie says shrilly. She places her cutlery on her plate, then gathers the rest.

“I can appreciate shit.” Frank stresses the word, peering at Junior. “I won’t sit here and have my son and his little girlfriend tell me that we did something wrong in the Pacific. We gave people their freedom.”

Pennie has all the dishware in a stack on the countertop. She fills the sink with soapy water and dumps everything into it.

“Linda is a person, not just my ‘little girlfriend,’” Junior hisses. He stands up from the table. “She is beautiful. I will not force her to listen to you justify the killing of her people.”

Linda takes a second to stand up. Her oily eyes pour over Frank. He feels that she can see through him. She has seen what he did behind that GI bar in Hue. She heard the sounds he made as he thrust, and saw his disdainful expression when he tossed ten thousand dong onto the girl’s white fabric.

“Linda?” Junior asks, placing his hand on her shoulder.

“If that’s what you want,” she says, looking up at him. He nods in reply.

The pair each hug Pennie goodbye before leaving. After the door has slammed shut, she resumes her dishwashing. Frank remains, unmoved, at the table. He takes another sip of water.

“It’s not like the war was easy for everyone else, Frank.” Pennie’s voice pierces through the slopping and scrubbing. It is haggard now, no longer shrill.

Frank drinks down the rest of his glass. “Hard to play house without me around?” he asks, placing it on the table.

“Hard to know what you did over there,” Pennie replies. “Hard to not know even more.” She clinks the plates into a clean stack. They drip onto one another. The droplets roll down onto the countertop linoleum, gathering in a puddle.

Frank heaves a sigh and rises from the table. He paces over to his recliner, dropping into it heavily, tipping it back. The remote perches on the arm. He only has to hit one button to turn the Patriots back on.

Though the score is up, and they gain ten yards while he is watching, Frank struggles to enjoy the game. He can hear Pennie pick up each plate, wipe it, and set it down inside the cabinet. She will not want to touch him tonight, that he is sure of.

If only she knew, he thinks to himself. But he cannot be certain of what difference it would make. It was over thirty years ago—before even Junior’s time. Back when Frank’s body was lithe and young. Back when his muscles demanded to be used. Back when he had no hope. Back when he was already dead.

Frank considers getting up and helping Pennie with the last of the cutlery. As he dried, he could explain himself and his emotions, perhaps winning her over in the process. At the very least, he could win brownie points by being useful.

But Frank does not get out of the recliner. He runs his fingers over the buttons on the remote, black buttons coated in grease, and unfocuses his gaze on the television. Over the roar of the crowd, he can almost hear the tinkling of wind chimes. He sees eyes like oil pools. He touches little girlfriend hips.