Randy Banks Returns

It was Amelia, sitting in an ice cream parlor in Asheville, who was the first of the ladies to welcome Randy Banks home from Iraq. The brusque young man with the cane, who let the door slam behind him, looked familiar. He limped to her table and indicated he wished to sit. She nodded and gestured to the chair opposite her, still uncertain who he was.

“Howdy, Miss Amelia.”

His eyes were hollow, empty, and lacked warmth. It took a few more moments before she recognized Randy Banks and realized that his wounds extended way past his physical injuries, to his spirit.

“Randy Banks. How good to see you. How are you?” Stupid question. What is he to say to that? “Please, sit down. Can I buy you an ice cream sundae, an ice cream soda, a cone, anything? Does Grace know you’re home?”

He slumped into the chair across from her, stretched his leg to the side, and rubbed his thigh. “I haven’t called her yet. She worried more than my ma did about my going. She sure was right. Everything Mrs. Grace said was right.” He stopped and looked away. His eyes clouded, but no tears came. It was as if, needing to eliminate a scene that only he could see, he lowered a shade.

They sat in silence for a time eating ice cream cones. Amelia wanted to cry when he licked his lips and repeated several times, “Nothing ever tasted this good.”

From the parking lot, a car horn blew. Randy rose. His eyes went to his leg, and he eased up from the table. “That’s my ride home. Can’t drive with this confounded leg. Thanks a lot for the treat. Tell Mrs. Grace I’ll be along to see her right soon.”

Amelia watched him go, leaning heavily on his cane, watched as he rested a moment against the car before turning and easing into the passenger seat. Then he reached down, lifted his leg, and carefully brought it into the vehicle. She heard the car door slam hard and felt his anger and frustration. The ice cream, so delicious a moment ago, lost its flavor and felt like leather on her tongue. She did not finish it. If I were young and a photojournalist, she thought, I might be in Iraq photographing these young men. I’d show the American people just how unglamorous war really is. But would they let me—whoever they are—or would they confiscate my film? Digital. She would learn digital and send her photos back in a flash without anyone’s by-your-leave.

Amelia found Grace trying to keep a sudsy Carole from flinging herself from a large washbasin in the yard outside the kitchen.

“I saw Randy Banks. Randy says he’ll be over to see you soon, Grace.”