The-Yellow-Ribbon——by-Pete-Hamill

TheYellowRibbon——byPeteHamillPreviewDoyouknowthepopularsong—“Tieayellowribbon‘roundtheoldoaktree”?DoyouknowthisstorybecametheinspirationofthesongwhichispopularinChinatoo?AnddoyouknowthisarticleistheoriginofusingyellowribbonsasasymbolofAmerican’swishtoseehertroopsreturnhomesafely?Let’sreadthemovingstory.TheyweregoingtoFortLauderdale,thegirlrememberedlater.Thereweresixofthem,threeboysandthreegirls,andtheypickedupthebusattheoldterminalon34thStreet,carryingsandwichesandwineinpaperbags,dreamingofgoldenbeachesandthetidesoftheseaasthegraycoldspringofNewYorkvanishedbehindthem.Vingowasonboardfromthebeginning.AsthebuspassedthroughJerseyandintoPhilly,theybegantonoticethatVingonevermoved.Hesatinfrontoftheyoungpeople,hisdustyfacemaskinghisage,dressedinaplainbrownill-fittingsuit.Hisfingerswerestainedfromcigarettesandhechewedtheinsideofhislipalot,frozenintosomepersonalcocoonofsilence.SomewhereoutsideofWashington,deepintoaHowardJohnson’s,andeverybodygotoffexceptVingo.Hesatrootedinhisseat,andtheyoungpeoplebegantowonderabouthim,tryingoimaginehislife:Perhapshewasaseacaptain,maybehehadrunawayfromhiswife,hecouldbeanoldsoldiergoinghome.Whentheywentbacktothebus,thegirlsatbesidehimandintroducedherself.“We’regoingtoFlorida,”thegirlsaidbrightly.”Yougoingthatfar?”“Idon’tknow.”Vingosaid.“Ihaveneverbeenthere,”shesaid.”Ihearit’sbeautiful.”“Itis,”hesaidquietly,asifrememberingsomethinghehadtriedtoforget.“Youlivethere?”“IdidsometimethereintheNavy.Jacksonville.”“Wantsomewine?”shesaid.HesmiledandtookthebottleofChiantiandtookaswig.Hethankedherandretreatedagainintohissilence.Afterawhile,shewentbacktotheothers,asVingonoddedinsleep.InthemorningtheyawokeoutsideanotherHowardJohnson’s,andthistimeVingowentin.Thegirlinsistedthathejointhem.Heseemedveryshyandorderedblackcoffeeandsmokednervously,astheyoungpeoplechatteredaboutsleepingonthebeaches.Whentheywentbackonthebus,thegirlsatwithVingoagain,andafterawhile,slowlyandpainfullyandwithgreathesitation,hebegantotellhisstory.HehadbeeninjailinNewYorkforthelastfouryears,andnowhewasgoinghome.“Fouryears!”thegirlsaid.“Whatdidyoudo?”“Itdoesn’tmatter,”hesaidwithquietbluntness.“IdiditandIwenttojail.Ifyoucan’tdothetime,don’tdothecrime.That’swhattheyandthey’reright.”“Areyoumarried?”“Idon’tknow.”“Youdon’tknow?”Shesaid.“Well,whenIwasinthecanIwrotetomywife,”hesaid.”Itoldher,Isaid,Martha,Iunderstandifyoucan’tstaymarriedtome.Itoldherthat.IsaidIwasgonnabeawayalongtime,andthatifshecouldn’tstandit,ifthekidskeptaskin’questions,ifithurthertoomuch,well,shecouldjustforgetme.Getanewguy—she’sawonderfulwoman,reallysomething—andforgetaboutme.Itoldhershedidn’thavetowritemeornothing.Andshedidn’t.Notforthreeandahalfyears.”“Andyou’regoinghomenow,notknowing?”“Yeah,”hesaidshyly.“Well,lastweek,whenIwassuretheparolewascomingthroughIwroteher.Itoldherthatifshehadanewguy,Iunderstood.Butifshedidn’t,ifshewouldtakemeback,sheshouldletmeknow.Weusedtoliveinthistown,Brunswick,justbeforeJacksonville,andthere’sagreatbigoaktreejustasyoucomeintotown,averyfamoustree,huge.Itoldherifshewouldtakemeback,sheshouldputyellowhandkerchiefonthetree,andIwouldgetoffandcomehome.Ifshedidn’twantme,forgetit,nohandkerchief,andI’dkeepgoingonthrough.”“Wow,”thegirlsaid.”Wow.”Shetoldtheothers,andsoonallofthemwereinit,caughtupintheapproachofBrunswick,lookingatthepicturesVingoshowedthemofhiswifeandthreechildren,thewomanhandsomeinaplainway,thechildrenstillunformedinacracked,much-handledsnapshot.NowtheyweretwentymilesfromBrunswickandyoungpeopletookoverwindowseatsontherightside,waitingfortheapproachofthegreatoaktree.Vingostoppedlooking,tighteninghisfaceintotheex-con’smask,asiffortifyinghimselfagainststillanotherdisappointment.Thenitwastenmiles,andthenfiveandthebusacquiredadarkhushedmood,fullofsilence,ofabsence,oflostyears,ofthewoman’splainface,ofthesuddenletteronthebreakfasttable,ofthewonderofchildren,oftheironbarsofsolitude.Thensuddenlyalloftheyoungpeoplewereupoutoftheirseats,screamingandshoutingandcrying,doingsmalldances,shakingclenchedfistsintriumphandexaltation.AllexceptVingo.Vingosattherestunned,lookingattheoaktree.Itwascoveredwithyellowhandkerchiefs,twentyofthem,thirtyofthem,maybehundreds,atreethatstoodlikeabannerofwelcomeblowingandbillowinginthewind,turnedintoagorgeousyellowblurbythepassingbus.Astheyoungpeopleshouted,theoldconslowlyrosefromhisseat,holdinghimselftightly,andmadehiswaytothefrontofthebustogohome.