the amygdalae of the brain equaling a wall-sized collage of past events
and associated feelings, and the brain-eating disease as a few buckets of
paint thrown haphazardly against it. What is left, after the paint drips
and dries? His brother the basketball player; the wire factory; dead bodies
along a field in Korea. And the pieces that emerge from clotted paint,
does their fragmentation make them lost to the person forever?
Employees of the home spend these long days sitting with Les
in his room, thinking of him as a violent action waiting to happen, a
difficult chore needing to be completed. Then one day he is looking
through his newspaper and you are watching the television and he turns
to you and says, “There I am,” pointing casually to another black-andwhite picture on the page. The human mind is a funny thing, you think,
that it can function while being so confused about itself. Yet Les is not
confused this time: the picture in the newspaper depicts a younger version
of himself, this stranger who sits before you now. This is apparent by the
self-confident eyes, the smile that has turned to half sneer. The article that
accompanies his picture is part of a series entitled, “Hometown Heroes,”
meant to recognize the good deeds and bravery of local war veterans.
According to this article, it was Les who was the high school basketball
star, not his brother. Les left his job at the wire factory to join the first
Infantry Regiment that would eventually see heavy combat on the Korean
front. He participated in a brutal offensive that pushed back the ranks
of the communists. After being severely wounded, he was awarded the
Purple Heart.
“Do you remember being wounded in war, Les?” you ask him ࠐ