So everything was basically all right, except Leo didn’t know what a Viet Cong was. And who was their leader? Was there a King Cong? An Oriental Hitler? Because if there was, he could get a picture of him to put on his bedroom wall and stare at it every night. He’d gather all the information he could on how hateful this guy was, on all the shitty things he must be doing over there to have us get mad enough to travel so far to put up a fight. Then Leo would feel more than ready. But what did Chick think? If he’s a communist he must be on their side. And if he’s on their side, then he must think it’s okay to do terrible things. But that didn’t make sense either because today, at his lunch story, when he told about terrible things happening to people, he looked unhappy and mad about it, and he said somebody should have done something. So what gives? And when? And who with?

Leo wished it was a Wednesday so he could talk to Ryder before his harp lesson. Ryder would have an opinion on all this. But would he keep it to himself? Sometimes Ryder drank a lot of beer and he would talk about nothing really, but loud and to the point like it was very profound: “Hey,” he’d say. “Big mosquitoes should just go, shouldn’t they? Shouldn’t they just get up and go?”

Leo walked down the gravel two-track of Saunders Hill, getting close to his house, and he thought of asking his dad. Jim didn’t offer much, but if he was asked a direct question, eye to eye, he would listen, give it some thought, and come out with an answer. Heading under the canopy of branches and leaves for the cabin, Leo thought he’d ask him about communism, period. He wouldn’t mention Chick Donovan, his boss and the father of his new girlfriend whom Jim had yet to meet. He would just ask him about commies and how come we’re fighting them on the other side of the world, that’s all.

But Jim’s Valiant wasn’t pulled up to the kitchen door and no dinner smells came through the screened windows, even though it was past 4:30. Then he remembered it was a Monday, Numbers Night down at the Elks, the only time in the week Jim left him to cook for himself. Leo went inside and lay down on his bed with his work boots still on. He could feel the sunburn on his back. He took his harmonica from the bedside table, but instead of playing do re mi he went right in with a long throat-constricted maw wah wah. When his lungs were full, he blew air out into the next hole up, this time opening and closing his free hand until he heard a Ryder sound, but it was him, Leo, making fo wah, fo wah, fo wah. He did it again. For what, for what, it sounded like. He did it three times. On the fourth, when his lungs were empty, he moved his pursed lips over to the next higher note, sucking in this time, moving his hand and closing up his throat. He heard See you, you, you, you. He slid back and forth between the two notes, going long on one, short on the other, then switching. See you, see you, see you …