A short woman comes out of the kitchen. She’s wearing an apron and drying her hands with a dish towel. She’s probably around my mother’s age, definitely not old enough to be Mr. Dodson’s mother. I assume she’s his wife (though I’ve never heard of married people addressing each other that way before). Her face is flushed from the heat. She frowns when she sees me.

“He says he’s a friend of Chris’s from the junk-mail place,” Mr. Dodson says with a hint of doubt in his voice.

Mrs. Dodson blinks. Her eyebrows rise. In a lifelong smoker’s raspy voice she says, “The owner’s son?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Now it’s Mr. Dodson’s turn to frown.

“Please, have a seat,” Mrs. Dodson says.

“Thanks.” There’s a small couch with a plastic cover that squeaks when I sit. A fairly large Jesus on a cross hangs over the fireplace. In the center of the mantel stands a ceramic statue of the Madonna and three framed photos. One frame has a faded black-and-white photo of a soldier and a couple of medals inside. (It could be Mr. Dodson; I’d need to take a closer look.) The other photos are in color, of young soldiers in full dress uniform. Their white army service caps sit high on their heads. My thoughts go straight back to the pictures in Life magazine. One of the soldiers on the mantel is Chris, looking too young to be in such a getup. The other photo’s of someone else. At either end of the mantel, a white candle burns. I feel my breath catch. Oh, shit! Are they memorial candles?

“Can I get you something?” Mrs. Dodson asks. “We just finished dinner, but . . . a piece of pie?”

I haven’t had dinner, but right now I have no appetite. Mrs. Dodson isn’t acting like someone who’s in mourning. So that’s a good sign, right? “Something to drink would be great, thanks.”

“Maybe some iced tea, Mother,” Mr. Dodson says, sitting in a plastic-covered chair across from me. Mrs. Dodson goes back into the kitchen. Mr. Dodson leans toward me and in a low voice says, “She only puts these on in the summer. Sweat and dirt, you know?”

I nod.

“So, the owner’s son, huh? How long you say you known Chris?” He’s using the present tense — but is it because Chris is alive or because they haven’t yet heard otherwise?

“About three years.” And I have to ask: “Have you heard from him lately? How’s he doing?”

“We just spoke to him this morning,” Mrs. Dodson says cheerfully, coming in with a tray. She pours iced tea into a glass with a gold rim and pink roses painted on it, and hands it to me. “It was night there. He’s behind the lines at a base near Long Binh.”