Robert McGill - Once We Had a Country

“It will save money for me to live over there,” Maggie’s father had told her. Then he’d admitted what she already knew from Gran: bad gambles on the stock market had put him on the edge of bankruptcy.

“So you’re going over there to save money?” Maggie had asked him.

“No,” he’d replied. “To save lives.”

At the bar, she only half listened as the others talked. For the most part the conversation was about politics, Brid arguing with Fletcher while leaning against Wale and reaching beneath the table every few minutes to clasp his knee. It was as if Brid’s body had split completely from her brain, and each was given over to a different man. As for Wale, each time Maggie glanced toward him, he was staring at her, smiling like they were sharing a private joke, and each time she looked away.

When Brid went off to the bathroom, Wale asked Maggie about teaching. It was the last thing she wanted to discuss, and Fletcher must have sensed it because he came to her rescue, jumping in to ask Wale in turn whether he’d found a job yet. Wale shrugged, then asked Maggie where she was from. Maggie tapped Fletcher on the leg to signal that it was all right and started talking about Syracuse.

Eventually, because there wasn’t really a way to avoid it, she came around to her father. It was easy enough to speak about the man she remembered from her childhood. Gliding through the story of her adolescence, though, she found herself running headlong toward describing his return to the Church. Instead of breaking off, she crashed right into it.

“In college, I lost my faith,” she said. A funny expression, she thought, as if her faith were something she’d misplaced somewhere, when the experience was more like a wave rolling over a sandcastle. “I took a course in World Religions, and that was enough, just learning about all those creeds with their different gods. Suddenly it seemed arrogant to believe in one true Church.” She saw Fletcher nodding and realized it was her first time talking about this with him. “I didn’t tell my dad, though. He wasn’t a churchgoer, but I thought he’d take it hard. When I’d gone away to college—”

She broke off, not wanting to tell Wale that her father had seemed lonely, that to make him feel better she’d often said how homesick and out of place she felt in Boston, even though in fact she’d liked her classes, liked the city, was happy knowing she could go out whenever she wanted without letting anyone down.

“Then last year, while I was at teachers’ college,” she went on, “he called me to say he’d started going to Mass. At first I thought he was joking, but he wasn’t. I felt so bad, I finally told him about the World Religions class.”

“How did he take it?” asked Fletcher.

Maggie shook her head, still dismayed. “He wanted to have a theological debate. This guy who hadn’t gone to Mass since he was a boy, suddenly he was trying to argue me back into believing. He went on about Vatican II and all the reforms, the liturgies in English, the Masses at people’s houses. He even felt obliged to tell me they have Eucharists of milk and cookies now, because milk and cookies are more relevant.”

By the time Brid returned to the table, Maggie was explaining about her father’s plans for Laos. Fletcher squeezed her hand in sympathy, while Brid said missionaries were just another kind of soldier. Wale wanted to know if Maggie was familiar with Laos, and she admitted she’d never even seen it on a map. He said it was a squiggly turd of territory between Vietnam and Thailand with its own special brand of Communists, the Pathet Lao, fighting against the royalists. He said officially it was a civil war, but everybody had their fingers in it. The North Vietnamese were backing the Pathet Lao; the Thais and U.S. were helping out the royalists. There weren’t any American troops on the ground, though. Instead, they had CIA agents train the local mountain people, the Hmong, to fight the bad guys. It hadn’t been going so well for the Hmong. Nowadays their typical soldier was a twelve-year-old with a machine gun. Wale said the only upside of Laos was that they’d legalized the opium trade, so you could make a lot of money if you didn’t mind being shot at.

“Not that you’d know anything about it,” said Fletcher with a laugh, but Wale looked at him with a blank expression, and Brid seemed less than pleased by the comment too, because a second later she steered the conversation toward how well Wale was getting along with Pauline.

The next evening after work, when Maggie stepped through the front doors of her school, Wale was waiting for her. At first she didn’t register him, because she was still suffering her daily wave of post-class recrimination, remembering the inanities she’d uttered, the moments when one second-grade delinquent or another had spoken back, refused to follow directions, or in some other way reduced her to a wheedler and a nag. The Christmas break was a week away and she still hadn’t wept in front of the students. It was her only success as a teacher.

The prospect of a stiff drink was beckoning when she noticed Wale ahead of her. Though it was ten degrees, he had nothing on his head or hands, and he was stamping his feet to stay warm.

“Thought I’d surprise you,” he called out.

“Well, you did,” she said, trying to sound unflustered. She almost asked how he knew where she worked until she remembered telling him at the bar. It had just been small talk. Now she considered making some excuse and turning back into the school, but no, he was just an odd duck. She was grown-up enough to handle him.

“Got time for a beer?” he asked. When she told him she was late to meet Fletcher downtown, he seemed undaunted and said he’d ride there with her. On the way to the subway station he asked about her day, as if the two of them walking along together were an ordinary thing. At the station he offered to pay her fare and she told him not to be silly, thinking it best to give no sign of encouragement.

On the subway, she made a point of bringing up Fletcher, and there was relief in seeing how the mention of his name made Wale’s eyes lose their gleam. She said that without Fletcher she’d have quit her job already. She said how surprised she’d been to find herself dating him. Teaching had made her such a wreck, she couldn’t imagine being attractive to anybody. But that was the wrong comment to make.

“There’s your problem,” said Wale, the gleam returning. “You don’t see yourself like other people do.” She didn’t know how to respond to that. “For example, the way you listen. Last night you asked me all those questions. Most people don’t bother doing that, especially with a vet. You pay attention, though. It’s a turn-on.”

She wanted to point out that she’d barely asked him anything, and that asking questions didn’t mean she was into him; it only meant she found it easier than talking about herself.

“You know, your dad will probably be okay in Laos,” said Wale out of the blue. It was disconcerting to have the matter raised so unexpectedly, and she had to shunt away a sudden feeling of despair.

“Probably he won’t go,” she said. “He’s never even left the Northeast.”

“If he does, will you join him?”

“Why would I do that?” But as she said it, she knew why she would. Guilt about leaving him had already sent her back to Syracuse summer after summer. How could she let him go to Laos on his own?

“Last night you made it sound like you two are close,” said Wale. “Or you used to be, at least. Maybe you’d want to look out for him.”

Maggie didn’t reply.

“Well, if you do go, tell me,” said Wale. “I might come over and look you up.” He grinned at her, and she decided he was probably insane.