“Can’t a mother cook for her family?” She turned on the same smile, the same glittering gaze. “Are you home for lunch? This is for dinner tonight, but I can whip something up in a jiffy.”

I had no easy response. The whole scene had a patina of make-believe: the sunlight and the apron, another burst of day-bright smile.

“They say the temperature will break by dusk. Perhaps we should dine on the patio. Your father always liked that.” She dipped a spoon in sauce and tasted it. “Paprika,” she said; and I realized then that she was strangely, deliriously happy. Worse yet, I realized why.

The bad son was in prison.

She thought the good one was safe.

Too troubled to stay in the house, I drove back to the city, ending up in a parking lot I knew better than most. The building was redbrick and small, its windows as spotless and crisp as the poster taped inside:

THE MARINE CORPS BUILDS MEN

A recruitment officer was watching through the window, and waved at me to come inside. He’d done the same thing a dozen times on different days, but today, I got out of the car and actually went inside. The officer was medium-sized and medium-aged, but his feet rode the linoleum at shoulder width. An empty sleeve was pinned on his chest beside a name tag that said MCCORMICK, J.

“I’ve seen you before,” he said. “Ten times, at least.” He gestured to the desk, and we sat, one on either side. His eyes were dark, the gaze measured. Medals hung beside the empty sleeve. “You’re wondering about the arm. Most do. Enemy bayonet. A severed artery.”

“Vietnam?” I asked.

“Khe Sanh in ’68.”

“Is that why…?” I trailed off, pointing at the Purple Heart on his chest.

“Is that the reason you’re here? You like the idea of medals?”

“I never think about them.”

“Every boy does.”

“I’m not a boy.”

“You sit in the car like a boy.”

It was flatly said. Heat rose in my neck and face, and I hated that. “Aren’t you supposed to recruit me?”

“This is the Marine Corps, not the army.”

I started to stand, the air between us like the edge of a storm.

“First, tell me why you came inside. Why today? What changed?”

It was a good question. I had no ready answer. “My brothers fought,” I finally said. “I graduate soon.”

“Were your brothers marines?”

“My father, too. He fought in Korea, my brothers in Vietnam. The oldest died at Cam Lộ in ’67.”

“What unit?”

“First Battalion, Third Marines.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, son. I’m sure he was a fine marine.”

“PFC Robert French. He was.”

The officer blinked at last. “You said French?”

“Robert, yes. Drafted out of high school. When he died, my other brother enlisted.”