LITMIR.BIZ

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dozen steps, his face beaming. He is dressed the same as he did in Portland: white overshirt, gray slacks, and red Converse shoes.

      I wave back. “I am so happy to see him,” I say, reaching for the door handle. “He looks really good. Less stressed than when… What—the—hell?”

      Mai covers her mouth and giggles. “I just thought something. I do not think you know about best friend of Father. He did not tell you?”

      “That would have to be a no,” I say, gawking at a middle-aged Vietnamese man following Samuel down the steps, hand over hand, his legless torso swinging back and forth between arms that look disproportionately too long and too big for what remains of his body. He’s wearing a black tank top and blue Nike shorts; the empty pant legs drag on the cobblestone. If he does have legs, they don’t extend more than a couple inches from his pelvis.

      “Son,” Samuel says, as I climb out of the car. He presses his palms together against his chest as if in prayer, his face beaming. “I am so happy to see you, so very happy you are here.”

      Should we hug? I decide to err on the side of caution and extend my hand. “I’m happy to see you too, Samuel,” I say. He takes my hand into both of his, squeezes it gently, nodding his head several times. He’s either affirming his happiness or doing a series of short bows. Maybe both. He might be Caucasian, but he has spent the majority of his life here in Vietnam. Mai once said that he is more Vietnamese than American and what little I saw of him in Portland, I’d have to agree. His slight build, clothing choice, sun-browned skin, stilted speech, and demeanor all add to the confusion.

      “Son, this is my very good friend, Tex Nguyen,” Samuel says, stepping aside so I can see the legless man whose head is no higher than my pant’s zipper and who seems to be resting—balancing?— on his torso. Should I offer my hand? Wouldn’t one less support limb make him fall over? Did he say Tex Nguyen?

      The man leans on his left hand and extends his right, which is about as big as a dinner plate. Tattoos cover his thickly muscled arms from his fingers to his thick shoulders. “Okay to meet son of best friend mine,” he says, his voice soft, gentle, the accent thick but understandable. “Many things hear about you.”

      “Nice to meet you, sir.” He appears to be in his sixties, with a gray buzz cut and a wispy, gray Fu Manchu moustache that extends down the sides of his mouth to dangle in tight, three-inch braids of ornate knots below his chin. Some cops have a way of looking at people, sizing them up in an instant. Tex’s eyes do that. I’ve been told mine do. “Father and Tex have been friends since the war,” Mai says. “He is Father’s assistant at the…” she says something in Vietnamese to Samuel.

      “Rest home,” he says.

      “Rest home,” Mai repeats. “I do not remember if we told you that Father owns a rest home for old soldiers.”

      Samuel smiles. “I do not think we talked about it. We were busy that week in Portland.”

      I nod, feeling a little like I just walked into the middle of a movie.

      He laughs, hooks his arm into mine, and guides me toward the steps. Tex hand-walks along behind us. “I think maybe all of this is a little overwhelming to you, Son, and you must be tired. It is much cooler inside. And my Kim is anxious to meet you.” He looks around me toward Mai. “Did you mention that Mother speaks freely? Bluntly?”

      “Oh, I forgot,” Mai says, smiling. “Mother says what is on her mind.”

      He chuckles. “It is at once refreshing and disarming. Be warned.”

      We climb the brick steps to an open red door. He points at a spot by the entrance where there are sets of shoes and sandals laid out. “Please remove your shoes here.”

      We pass through a foyer lined with large, gray stone pots of black bamboo that form a canopy of delicate green leaves, and walk into the living area. The floor is gray slate, softened with a large red, blue, and black Oriental rug, its main design focus a blue dragon, its mouth open, talons reaching. The room’s atmosphere is modern expensive, complete with a long, black leather sofa, a matching black love seat, glass tables, and a black entertainment center. Three large ceiling fans stir the air.

      My eyes are drawn to a large painting over a flat screen TV of an achingly beautiful Vietnamese woman. She is standing in a grove of sun-filtered bamboo, the shifting shades of green around her a stark contrast to the radiant red of her high-necked and long-sleeved fitted tunic. There are slits along each side revealing wide-legged white trousers, the fabric painted to fall caressingly over her form. I can see Mai in the woman’s beautiful face, especially those eyes that even from twenty feet away, reveal intelligence, warmth, and a not-so-subtle sensuality.

      “That is Mother,” Mai says, walking over to the painting. “Father hired a friend to paint her two years ago. The dress is called áo dài. You have seen it already on the sidewalks.”

      “Kim is still angry that I insisted it be displayed up there,” Samuel says with a mischievous grin. “She is shy, you see. Very humble.”

      Mai smiles. “But I think she is also pleased that Father likes it so much that he wanted it in this room.”

      “It’s an amazing painting,” I say. “I can see where you get your…” My face flushes.

      “Mai’s good looks?” Samuel teases.

      “Father!”

      Tex giggles as he cartwheels himself up onto the leather love seat. He leans into its corner and rests his muscled arm on the rest. “Mai be a fish out of ocean missing you,” he says, looking at Mai for a reaction, his fondness for her obvious.

      “Tex!”

      Samuel places his hand over his heart and sighs dramatically. “It reminds me of a poem. ‘If I had a single flower for every time I think about you, I could walk forever in my garden.’” He sighs again.

      “Okay, boys. I am going to go check on Mother. You stay here and have a giggle party.” She looks at me as she passes, winks, and disappears through a doorway.

      Samuel snorts a laugh and points toward the sofa. “Please sit down, Sam.” He remains standing. “Let me say first off that Tex is privy to everything that happened in Portland. Everything. He has been my friend for over forty years. We met in hell. Somehow he pulled me away from certain death and did so just minutes after losing his legs.” My mouth drops open. “You heard that right, Son. He pulled me to safety right after his legs had been blown into a fine, red mist.”

      I look at Tex, who looks embarrassed by the story. He shrugs and smiles, his eyes not so much. “Tea? I go talk to Ly to make.” He launches himself off the sofa and scoots hand over hand across the floor, faster than I walk, and disappears through an arched doorway that must lead into the kitchen.

      “He’s amazing,” I say.

      “I sometimes forget how much so,” Samuel says with admiration as he looks at the doorway. He looks back at me and smiles as if I caught him at something. “He is a good friend, and a good fighter.”

      “Fighter. Really?”

      “He has a great teacher—me.”

      I laugh, remembering how Samuel has a way of blending humility with singing his own praises. In this case, the humility is real and the boasts are based on fact. Like my grandfather used to say, if you can brag without lying, then brag. That’s Samuel.

      “I have seen legless martial artists before,” I say. “I know of two who lost theirs in Iraq. They were amazing and made me appreciate what I have. For sure they made me stop complaining about my old knee injury and weak ankles. How long has Tex trained with you?”

      Samuel thinks for a moment. “Over thirty years. His skill is quite unique.”

      I chuckle. “Coming from you that means a lot.”

      “Did you get in much training after we left?”

      “Not

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