way, took a battered suitcase out of a Ford, and carried it back into her unit. Somewhere a radio was playing. It was not tuned to the rock sounds of FM-104.
'His unending fury is what I remember best,' LeBay repeated softly. 'At school, he fought with anyone who made fun of his clothes or the way his hair was cut - he would fight anyone he even suspected of making fun. He was suspended again and again. Finally he left and joined the Army.
'It wasn't a good time to be in the Army, the twenties. There was no dignity, no promotion, no flying flags and banners. There was no nobility. He went from base to base, first in the South and then in the Southwest. We got a letter every three months or so. He was still angry. He was angry at what he called "the shitters". Everything was the fault of "the shatters". The shitters wouldn't give him the promotion he deserved, the shatters ha cancelled a furlough, the shitters couldn't find their own behinds with both hands and a flashlight. On at least two occasions, the shitters put him in the stockade.
'The Army held on to him because he was an excellent mechanic - he could keep the old and decrepit vehicles which were all Congress would allow the Army in some sort of running condition.'
Uneasily, I found myself thinking of Arnie - Arnie who was so clever with his hands.
LeBay leaned forward. 'But that talent was just another wellspring for his anger, young man. And it was an anger that never ended until he bought that car that your friend now owns.'
'What do you mean?'
LeBay chuckled dryly. 'He fixed Army convoy trucks, Army staff cars, Army weapons-supply vehicles. He fixed bulldozers and kept staff cars running with spit and baling wire. And once, when a visiting Congressman came to visit Fort Arnold in west Texas and had car trouble, he was ordered by his commanding officer, who was desperate to make a good impression, to fix the Congressman's prized Bentley. Oh, yes, we got a four-page letter about that particular "shitter" - a four-page rant of Rollie's anger and vitriol. It was a wonder the words didn't smoke the page.
'All those vehicles . . . but Rollie never owned a car himself until after World War II. Even then the only thing he was able to afford was an old Chevrolet that ran poorly and was eaten up with rust. In the twenties and thirties there was never money enough, and during the war years he was too busy trying to stay alive.
'He was in the motor pool for all those years, and he fixed thousands of vehicles for the shitters and never once had one that was all his. It was Libertyville all over again. Even the old Chevrolet couldn't assuage that, or the old Hudson Hornet he bought used the year after he got married.' 'Married?'
'Didn't tell you that did 'he?' LeBay said. 'He would have been happy to go on and on about his Army experiences - his war experiences and his endless confrontations with the shitters - for as long as you and your friend could listen without falling asleep . . . and him with his hand in your pocket feeling for your wallet the whole time. But he wouldn't have bothered to tell you about Veronica or Rita.'
'Who were they?'
'Veronica was his wife,' LeBay said. 'They were married in 1951, shortly before Rollie went to Korea. He could have stayed Stateside, you know. He was married, his wife was pregnant, he himself was approaching middle age. But he chose to go.'
LeBay looked reflectively at the dead playground equipment.
'It was bigamy, you know. By 1951 he was forty-four, and he was married already. He was married to the Army. And to the shitters.'
He fell silent again. His silence had a morbid quality.
'Are you all right?' I asked finally.
'Yes,' he said. 'Just thinking. Thinking ill of the dead.' He looked at me calmly - except for the eyes; they were dark and wounded. 'You know, all of his hurts me, young man . . . what did you say your name was? I don't want to sit here and sing these sad old songs to someone I can't call by his first name. Was it Donald?'
'Dennis,' I said. 'Look, Mr LeBay - '
'It hurts more than I would have suspected,' he went on. 'But now that it's begun, let's finish it, shall we?