to reclaim after that. He disappeared in a cloud of blood as his buddies watched and most of them were wearing him as they headed back to camp. They staggered in, two of them badly maimed, all of them in shock. And the news reached Lionel later that day. He sat staring blankly at the words on the paper someone had handed him. Regret. Gregory Ward Thayer stepped on a mine today. Killed in action. And then only the name of the CO. A ripple went down his spine, as it had as he looked down at John's face outside their charred apartment as the fire trucks arrived. He had never loved Greg as he'd loved John. He would never love anyone like that again. But he and Greg were brothers, and now suddenly he was gone. He thought of his father's pain too when he would hear the news, and suddenly a shaft of agony pierced through him.
“Sonofabitch.” He screamed the words outside his hotel, and then he leaned against the wall and cried, until someone came and peeled him away. He was a good guy, even though people knew what he was. But he didn't bother anyone. And they felt sorry for him now. They all knew his brother had been killed that day. Someone had seen the telegram from the front lines, and news traveled fast in Saigon. Everyone knew everything that was happening. And two boys sat up all night with Lionel, watching him drink and cry. And the next morning, they put him on the plane. He had survived a year in Vietnam, made more than four hundred short films to show in the States, many of them on the news all over the world. And his brother had only lived nineteen days. It wasn't fair, but nothing about the place was, not the rats or the disease or the wounded children screaming everywhere.
Lionel stepped off the plane in L.A., looking shell-shocked. He would never see his brother again. He had a three-week leave before going to Germany, and someone drove him home, he remembered later on. He felt the way he had when John had died, and that was only two years before … twenty-six months in fact … and he had the same terrible numb feeling now.
He rang the doorbell because he no longer had a key, and his father stood there staring at him. They had gotten the news the night before. And everyone was there, except Vanessa, who was flying home that afternoon.
There would be no burial, because they weren't sending him home. There was nothing to send, except their fucking telegrams. And Lionel stood staring at Ward, as the older man let out a groan of agony, and the two men fell into each other's arms, partly out of relief that Lionel was still alive, and the grief that Greg was gone. Eventually, Ward led him inside, and together they cried for a long time. Lionel held him in his arms like a little child, as Ward keened for the boy he'd loved so much, the boy he'd pinned all his hopes on, their football star. And now he was gone. And there was nothing to send home. Nothing at all. They had only their memories.
They moved like wooden people for the next few days. Lionel was vaguely aware that Van was there, Val was staying with them, Anne … but no Greg … there would never be a Greg again. There were only four of them now.
They had a memorial service for him, at First Presbyterian Church of Hollywood. And all his high school teachers came. Ward sat thinking bitterly that if those bastards in Alabama had let him stay on the team, or at least kept him in school, he would still be alive. But hating them didn't help anything. It was Greg's own fault for flunking out. But whose fault was it that he'd been killed? It had to be someone's fault, didn't it? The minister's voice droned on, saying his name, and none of it seemed real. And afterwards, they all stood outside, shaking people's hands. It was hard to believe that Greg was gone, that they would never see him again. And Ward glanced at Lionel a thousand times, as though to be sure that he was still there. And the girls were too. But it would never be the same again. One of them was gone. For eternity.