The Language of Men by Anthony D'Aries

were busy people who worked to support their families. It is disturbing yet ingenious that many Vietnamese businesses now capitalize on the war. In a single day, Vanessa and I could take a bus tour through Khe Sanh, shoot Vietnamese and American guns at paper targets, drink cocktails called Napalm or Agent Orange, eat dinner at the DMZ Bar, and catch a late-night showing of
Hamburger Hill.
    I sit up in our bed and reach for my recorder.
    "Babe, you gotta hear this. My Dad once told me about this Vietnamese dude who—"
    "I'm really not in the mood right now."
    "It's not that long."
    She sits up. "I don't want to hear anymore. I don't care about the girls he was with or what he spent his money on. I don't get why you're so obsessed with it."
    "I'm not obsessed with it. It's not like I'm getting off on these stories."
    Vanessa reaches for her water bottle. Then she stands up and tries to turn up the air conditioner, but it's already on high.
    "Have you even been listening to
yourself on
that tape? You snicker each time your Dad says "beaver" or "jugs."
    I fight the urge to snicker now. "Oh, come on. Those words are hilarious. I don't condone his behavior."
    "Whatever. You stare into every massage parlor we walk past. You take us to that saloon. Then, after I spend all day talking to these women with horrible stories of rape and whatever else, you take me to a movie that's basically a 90-minute rape scene. And you keep playing me these stories about your Dad doing whatever he did here."
    "Yeah, but there's a big difference, babe. He didn't rape or kill anyone." My voice echoes off the low ceiling.
    "I'm not saying he did, but those women he was with-"
    "He was only nineteen! Show me another nineteen-year-old guy who would have done any different."
    She shakes her head. "You really think we're only talking about your father right now?"
    My face burned. "What?"
    "You can't think of any other sketchy situation where a guy doesn't question his behavior?"
    I shake my head. "Sure I can. And I can also think of a situation where a woman keeps bringing up the same shit even though the guy and the woman have talked about it a thousand times."
    Vanessa nods her head, but not in agreement. She walks to the bathroom and slams the door. The room hums like a phonograph, the needle hissing between tracks. I want to pound on the bathroom door and unload every curse in the book, or knock gently and apologize and tell Vanessa I love her. My mind and body struggle like two negative magnets—a pair of objects that could fit together or push each other away.
    I feel fire move inside my head, burn down my throat, smolder in my stomach. I take a long sip of warm water. I want to close my ears. I want to mute my brain. I want to reclaim my spot beside my father on the couch, crack open another peanut, and let Hollywood return me to a Vietnam I remember.
    Before we left, I couldn't articulate my purpose for traveling to Vietnam. Now that the trip is almost over, I still can't. Maybe I should have brought him with me. Maybe if he was here now, I could point to the places he stood and ask, "What happened here?" But no matter how romantic I am in my imagination, I can't pretend that my father would suddenly have the answer, that he would turn and look me in the eye and say, "Son, here's what happened. And here's why."

II
STATESIDE
    You listenin' to me, boy? He's dead. Believe me, he's dead. Tell ya, though, when I found him, coulda sworn he was sleepin'. Sometimes these tractor trailers they chew 'em up, and then they're no good. Air horn gets 'em all herky-jerky and they don't know which way to go. Bumper musta just clocked this guy cuz he's in pretty good shape. Pass me my knife.
    Cars zippin' by, hot cup of coffee in my hand, tryin' to scrape him up without breakin' his neck. I had to touch him a little bit; so what, I'm touchin' him now.
    No, I didn't put him in the backseat—what was I, takin' Grandma to church? I put him in the cooler in the