“You’ll never get ahead in this game,” he said.
“Isn’t that the whole point?” I asked.
After he’d gone, I discovered my bear was missing from the bedroom. In its place, I found a brand-new Arrow shirt, gleaming white. When the general called later to bid me good night, he explained.
“I owed you a shirt,” he said. “I apologize for tearing your clothes off during our first night together, Hangman.”
“Apology accepted,” I said. “Now, what about my bear?”
“Sorry, Snapshot. Your bear’s in my custody now. But rest assured, he’ll be well taken care of. He’ll sleep with me every night you’re not available.”
A week later, when I showed him the pictures of himself and the bear, he was very amused. He borrowed the negatives, and not long after that, he presented me with a wrapped package. I tore off the paper and found a photographic enlargement, matted and framed. The image he’d selected showed himself, the traveler at rest, holding tight to the bear, nestled intimately against fuzzy chest.
“Bear with me,” the general said, grinning, as I scrutinized the photo.
“I can do that.”
“Good.”
I hung it on the wall in my bedroom.
To my indescribable relief, following our picnic-with-kite adventure, the general was markedly less reticent about sharing quality time with me outside of the uniformed confines of the base. Lieutenant Colonel Cartwright seemed to ease up a little after that weekend, too. I suspect the general had a “come to Jesus” meeting with her, though I never learned the details. He and I settled into a comfortable rhythm that never seemed at all routine. By day, I called him “sir” by necessity as he hollered at me with all the clap and boom he could command, and by night, weekends, and the occasional thrilling and unexpected drop-in on other days, I still called him “sir” with much more pleasant consequence. And neither of us dared to question the right or wrong of it.
Chapter Fourteen
At our final softball game of the season, late in the summer, a pop fly caught the general unprepared with his glove off, for some reason. When he reached for the ball, it clipped his ring finger so hard that he yelped. It immediately started to swell, and he spent the remainder of the game sidelined, with his hand jammed into a soda cup filled with ice.
I was fifth in the batting lineup, and we had two outs and two men on base by the time I was up. My heart sank, but I took my stance and gripped the bat, resolutely ignoring the catcalls and hoots of “easy out!” As I stood grimly at the plate, eyeing the pitcher, he tossed his first ball. A little wide, I thought. I didn’t move.
“Steeeeeee-RIKE!” hollered the umpire.
Okay, I told myself. Relax. Keep your eye on the ball. Let it come to you. Swing level.
The next pitch was a ball, and so were the two after that. One more of the same, and I could walk, though I’d much prefer to land on base with an actual hit. Then the umpire called the next pitch a strike, too. I looked back at the general. I couldn’t decipher everything he was yelling, but I caught the gist, and it wasn’t complimentary. I faced the pitcher again, and on his sixth attempt, I stepped into it, swung hard, and connected with the ball. I heard the crack, and for a second, I watched it sail. Unbelievable.
“Run!” I could hear the general’s voice louder than the rest, and when I rounded first, I could see the right-fielder had not only dropped the ball but had some trouble scooping it up, so I headed for second. The coach yelled at me to come to third, and I took his word for it. A fraction of a second after I leaped onto the bag, the baseman caught the ball.
“SAFE!” hollered the umpire. I’d brought home the runners who were on second and third, too. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.
“Run on anything,” the coach told me. “As soon as the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, step off the base and start inching toward home. If there’s contact, run like hell.”
There was contact. I ran like hell. The batter made it safely to first as I crossed home plate at a dead run and skidded into the backstop. My teammates were caught between disbelief and congratulations. Julia screamed and jumped up and down in the bleachers as if I’d just won the grand prize on some game show. The general gave me a crushing bear hug, and I thought for a minute he might kiss me in public. But all I needed was the ten seconds it took him to tell me, “Damn good play, Lou Gehrig. I knew you had it in you.”
We managed to win the game by one run, which brought us to a respectable five wins to four losses for the season, apparently the first time the team had ever tipped the scale in that direction. “We’re not tournament material yet, but we’ll make it next year,” the general said afterward, as we stood in the parking lot at the tailgate of someone’s truck and drank a celebratory beer.
I insisted we take his swollen finger to the emergency room, volunteering to drive when he seemed reluctant. He claimed it was just a sprain and that he’d be fine in a day or two. But I marshaled him into the passenger seat of my car, and we headed to the base hospital.
He’d broken the finger, and he wasn’t too pleased when the doctor refused to set the bone without getting the Academy ring out of the way first. The general winced and looked away as the doctor applied the cutters. I don’t know if the pain or loss of the ring hurt worse. When the doctor handed the general the twisted metal, he examined it ruefully.
“That’s white gold,” he said.
“Sorry, sir,” the doctor said. “You shouldn’t wear any kind of jewelry when you play sports.”
The general grunted and stuffed the ring into his pocket.
At least he hadn’t been injured until the last game, he said to me as I drove him back to the ball diamond to pick up his car. That was a little compensation.
“I’m sorry about your ring, Traveler.”
“No reason to be, Smokestack. It’s just a damn college ring. Should have quit wearing it years ago, I reckon.”
“Maybe you don’t need to wear it anymore,” I said.
“Hmm,” he said. “Maybe.” I knew he was downcast anyway.
Fortunately, the broken finger was on his right hand, so it wouldn’t interfere with his ability to write. It would, however, add interesting décor to his sharp salute for a while. And the thickly wrapped neon-white cotton and tape against his tan skin served as a constant reminder, a souvenir of the season.
Julia had taken a team photo at one of the last games we played, late in the summer before it reluctantly gave way to autumn, and the picture showed sixteen regulars bunched together in the bleachers, mostly grinning, mostly optimistic in spite of ourselves. We all wore mitts, matching shirts and caps, and a couple shouldered bats or held balls. The general sat behind me, his gloved right hand resting on my shoulder. I hadn’t been aware of it at the time, but I noticed it immediately when Julia gave me the print. It, too, joined my gallery.
The cast came off his finger after six weeks, and the doctor pronounced him fully mended. I knew the general had gotten his Academy ring fixed at no small expense. Curiously, he never put it back on.
Chapter Fifteen
As I picked up the midsize car at the airport’s rental lot, I marveled a little at the course of events that had brought me this far. Yes, it was just another business trip, and I’d lost count of how many I’d been part of in the ten months I’d been the general’s aide. I’d never understood why he insisted I participate in such events, but I didn’t complain. Even though we rarely had any time to ourselves, he was close by.
On this particular occasion, we were completing a leadership conference at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base near Dayton. I should say, rather, that the general completed it. I’d hung around at the periphery with very little to do except listen to the bored complaints of the other generals’ aides who were also accompanying their bosses. The conference ended Thursday morning, but instead of flying home afterward, we were at the airport picking up a rental car.
I was pleased he’d asked me along f
or this particular event because Wright-Patt is only a three-hour drive from my parents, and I loved visiting home in the fall. I’d turned in my request for leave before the trip. I could rent a car at the airport, be home by afternoon for a relaxing couple of days, and return the car to the airport in time for a flight on Sunday.
When I presented him with the leave-request form to sign, he motioned for me to shut the door. He got right to the point. “Let me come with you.”
I was startled. “Home?”
He nodded and grinned.
My mother and father knew quite a bit about him already; my emails and phone calls were full of him, though I wondered sometimes if they noticed how my opinion of him had shifted since the early days. I had never given them specific evidence to arouse their suspicion that my relationship with the general was anything other than professional, but they are smart people, and I would have been surprised if they hadn’t started to suspect that I had a crush on him.
But taking the general home to meet Mom and Dad? One giant step forward. I hesitated for a minute.
“Ashamed to take me home to meet the folks, Buzzsaw?”
“No, sir,” I said. Afraid, maybe, or at least apprehensive, but never ashamed. At least initially, then, I thought, why not, if he wants to?
“I’ll phone them tonight and ask.”
*
My mother was surprised at the nature of my call. “Why would your general want to come home with you?” she said.
“He just does,” I said. “He wants to take a little break after the conference. He’s a nice guy, Mom. You’ll like him. Is it okay or not?”
“Of course, it’s okay. But I don’t know if our house is elegant enough for a general to visit.”
“Oh, stop it. We’ll be home in time for dinner Thursday, and we’ll have to take off after breakfast on Sunday to catch an afternoon flight out of Columbus. Don’t go to any trouble.”
“But what will he do here for three days?”
“I don’t know. Ask him to paint the master bedroom or weed the garden or something. And tell Dad he’d better take Friday off so he and I can go fishing.”
“And you expect me to babysit your general while you and your father are out fishing?”
“G’night, Mom. Love you. Bye.”
*
The general wore his blues—the Class A uniform with ribbons, tie, and coat, which he referred to as “the full horror”—when he traveled within the U.S., though civilian clothes were permitted as well. And if the general wanted to wear his uniform, I didn’t have a choice when I accompanied him.
I would never put vanity past him. He knew as well as I did that he looked damn good in his blues. Once you noticed his uniform fit exceptionally well, you noticed the exceptional man wearing it. If anything could give the average citizen confidence in the country’s military, the sight of General O’Neill striding purposefully along the boulevard in his Class A uniform could certainly do it. I could understand why he’d want to meet my parents thus attired. It showed him off to his best advantage and provided him a security blanket as well.
We had a beautiful day in an unseasonably warm October for traveling. The general was quiet for the first hour, smoking his pipe and contemplating. I kept looking over at him, and finally he’d catch my eye and glare, until I told him, “You can’t fool me with that look, Traveler. This was your idea, remember. Besides, I know you’re plotting all sorts of ways to embarrass me in front of my folks.”
That wore him down.
“Will they like me?” he said.
“Why should they? They’re fully expecting the worst.”
He sighed. “Remind me again why I keep you around.”
“Because someone has to make your coffee and find your glasses and scratch your belly every now and then.”
“Ah,” he said. “Now I remember.”
*
When I announced we were about ten miles from home, he asked, “Do they know about you?”
I assumed he wondered if they knew about my being gay. “Yes. I told them when I was still in high school.”
“How did they take the news?”
“They weren’t exactly thrilled at first, but after they got used to the idea, they were okay with it. They’ve been very supportive. They were a little surprised when I joined the service, though,” I said. They actually thought I was joking when I told them, my senior year of high school at dinner on Easter Sunday, that I intended to join the Air Force Reserve.
“And…” He hesitated. “Did you tell them about”—I wondered if he was going to say “us,” but he didn’t—“me?”
“Of course not, Traveler. I wouldn’t presume to tell anyone your secrets, and you know it. As far as they’re concerned, I’m bringing my boss home for the weekend because you wanted to take a break after the conference. That’s all.”
He was so visibly relieved it took some of the air out of me. I wondered if perhaps this weekend would prove more troublesome than it was worth. Did I really imagine I could introduce him to my mom and dad simply as my boss? Why would I ever bring any man home if there wasn’t some personal aspect to our relationship? And how would they respond to that news? As I considered the set-up, I realized the visit was loaded with potential traps.
Too late now.
We pulled into the driveway and got out of the car. I’d forgotten to warn the general about the dogs, and they came tearing around the corner to meet us—Clement and Sixtus, Heinz 57 Varieties, both of them, rescued from the pound as pups, fully grown but retaining their puppy-like eagerness. Clement had joined the family at my insistence when I was in high school. He was easily a dozen years old and slowing down a bit but still as playful as ever in spite of the gray in his coat and muzzle. Sixtus had come after I’d graduated from the university, during my tenure teaching at the junior college before I rejoined the Air Force. When I brought him home, he was young enough that he aroused some sort of mothering instinct in Clement, and they became fierce allies.
I was grateful my parents agreed to keep my dogs when I went to Officer Training School, though I knew I would never be able to reclaim them. I am as devoted to the dogs as they are to me. They number among my finest companions, enthusiastically supportive and never judgmental. Every time I come home, I receive a welcome suitable for—well, for a general, maybe. And the general I brought with me would get one, too. The dogs actually are well-trained to sit and stay and come and fetch, but their natural exuberance upon the arrival of any guest overrides any command.
All I managed to say before the surge was “Look out, Traveler.”
Clement and Sixtus nearly knocked him down because he stood between them and me. When they wagged their tails, their whole selves shook, joy on overdrive. I introduced the general. “Clement, sit! Sit!” He obliged, however briefly. “This is Traveler, but you have to salute him, because he’s a general and he hates when you forget it. Traveler, this is Clement. Shake.” The general bent down and laughed as Clement offered a paw and an enthusiastic face-licking. Sixtus wasn’t to be left out, and he nosed his way into the circle as well.
“Sixtus, calm down. Sit.” He did, long enough to let me know he’d heard me. “This is Traveler. Traveler, meet Sixtus.” The general gave up and let the dogs bowl him over, giving him the maximum-strength welcome, too.
“I never knew you were a Catholic boy, too,” the general said when he could get a breath.
“How’d you guess?”
“Only place I ever heard your dogs’ names before is in the litany of the saints from that one prayer just before communion. What was it? That lineup I’ve never forgotten in forty-five years: Bartholomew, Matthew, Simon, Jude, Linus, Cletus, Clement, Sixtus…”
I started reciting along with him. “Cornelius, Cyprian, Lawrence, Crysogonus, John and Paul, Cosmas and Damian. And all the saints.”
He grinned. “Altar boy?”
“From second grade until I graduated from high school,” I said, over the dogs
. They had turned back to me, complaining loudly because I wasn’t showering them with sufficient affection. Into this din, my parents came to say hello.
They made a big fuss over me, too, as they always did. And which I always appreciated.
“Mom. Dad. This is Brigadier General Seamus O’Neill. Sir, meet my parents, Bruce and Jane Mitchell.” They shook hands all around. I guess I had never mentioned how tall the general was. He had at least a foot on my mom. But I could tell they were favorably impressed. That, at least, was a relief.
My parents have never been ones to stand on ceremony, and the three of them were on a first-name basis instantly. I had never heard anyone call the general “Seamus” to his face before. We carried our suitcases inside. I could smell lasagna baking, a family favorite.
I moved right into my old room as usual. Within minutes, I swapped my uniform for jeans and an old sweatshirt and crossed the hall to the guest room, the general’s temporary digs. My mother had left him fresh towels, an empty drawer in the dresser, and some hangers in the closet, and he moved right in. I sat on the bed as he unpacked.
I bounced. “The bed is pretty comfortable, Traveler,” I said.
“I’m sure it is, Lonestar.”
“It’s going to be lonely, though,” I said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to sleep here all by yourself.”
He grinned. “Lonely for you, maybe. I brought my own company.” He pulled my stuffed bear from the suitcase and set him on the pillow.
“We’ve got some time before supper, though,” I said.
“Have we?”
I hollered down the stairwell. “Mom! When’s dinner?”
She hollered back from the kitchen. No decorum in our family, and we’ve all got healthy lungs. “Six fifteen!”
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