Rank

by Richard Compson Sater

  The general quickly cut in. “Not his boss.”

  “Well,” I said. “Technically, you are.”

  “But not at home,” my mother said. “Harris outranks you here, no matter what he has to put up with at your Air Force base.”

  “Jane, I may be a general, but I can’t do much about military tradition as far as rank is concerned.”

  I could see my mom’s hackles start their ascent. I appreciated her concern, and I recognized she raised questions that needed answers. At the same time, I understood the general’s apprehension. I felt a momentary stab of panic. They were both on my side, but could I make them see it? I needed eloquence. I needed brilliance and wit and panache to calm the waters and a steady hand to steer my ship.

  As if such things would come to me.

  “Mom, I know we’ve set ourselves up for some challenges. Maybe they seem insurmountable to you, but they’re not. We’ll find a way over them, somehow. I can’t give you the particulars just now, but we will get there. Won’t we, Traveler?”

  He seemed startled to have been brought into the conversation at this point. He contributed nothing more than a nod.

  Not my mom. “Challenges?” she said. “Ha! I don’t know much about the Air Force or any of the services, but I know how they feel about gay men. I read the papers, and I watch the news.”

  “But gay people can serve openly now,” I reminded her.

  “Yes. Maybe the law has changed, but has anybody’s mind changed? You said so yourself in that interview in the newspaper back in June. Remember? You can’t tell me the cards aren’t stacked against the both of you. And there are a lot of cards.”

  “Mom, I understand your concern, but everything will be fine.” I sounded more confident than I felt. “We just need to work out a few minor details.”

  My mom snorted. “That’s the understatement of the twenty-first century.”

  I was growing exasperated. No conclusion to our discussion would be satisfactory to all parties concerned, and suddenly I just wanted to end it, at least for now. “Mom, what can I say? I love you and Dad. I know you want what’s best for me. I appreciate your concern, but I’m not a kid anymore. I know decisions have consequences. I choose to serve in the Air Force. I’m involved with this guy.” I pointed at the general. “That’s my choice, too.”

  “And mine, Jane,” he said. I was surprised and silently grateful for his contribution.

  She sighed. “My heart says you’re right, but my head isn’t so sure.” She set down her coffee cup. “You two have some things to discuss. But you can’t do it on an empty stomach. How about some pancakes?”

  “Always a favorite,” the general said. “Especially with lots of maple syrup.” I bit my tongue to keep from laughing.

  “Good. That’s our usual Saturday breakfast,” she said, thankfully oblivious to our inside joke. “Even if we don’t get around to it until noon.” She glanced at the clock. “And speaking of breakfast, it’s time your father was up.”

  She excused herself, and the general and I eyed each other across the rims of our cups. The battle of Mom had ended in an uneasy truce, and I’m sure he was just as relieved as I was.

  “We always do this,” I said. “Cautiously make eye contact over a cup of coffee.”

  “Yup,” he said.

  “Good morning, Traveler,” I said.

  He grinned. “Good morning. How are you, Sundance?”

  “Took me a long time to get to sleep last night,” I said. “I was lonely, and you were so close I could almost taste you.”

  He nodded. “At least I had your bear.”

  The general set down his cup. I set mine down as well. We stood up.

  “I’m waiting for you, Traveler,” I said. “I’m always waiting for you. Don’t blame me if I choose caution. You’re still my boss. You’re still a general, and I’m still a lieutenant. Until something changes, you’re behind the wheel, and I’m just a passenger. I’m scared to make a move because I never know how you’ll respond.”

  “What are you talking about? I like spontaneity.”

  “You like it when it’s your idea,” I said. “I think I know what you want, but your signals are all mixed up.”

  “What do I want?” He was humoring me, and I didn’t like it. My frustration once again boiled over into anger. Whether or not he knew it, we were fast approaching some sort of flashpoint. We would need to define our terms and make some choices rather than skate around them, as he seemed to prefer.

  “All this time, I thought you wanted me. Us.”

  I waited for him to respond, to verify for me what I’d overhead him tell my mom. He didn’t.

  He collected me in his arms. “Firestarter,” he whispered. “Can’t we just let things be for a while?”

  I thought I’d been explaining why we couldn’t. As I sputtered my reply, he put a finger across my lips. “Enough talk,” he said.

  I surrendered. I always did. Clement started barking and Sixtus joined in, and they made such a fuss that both of my parents were in the kitchen inside of a minute to see if the world were coming to an end. And it might have been, because they caught us once more.

  “Seamus!” my mother wailed.

  “Damn it, not again,” my father contributed.

  But it was not the cyclone it had been just two nights ago.

  The rest of the day passed quietly in comparison. Breakfast was leisurely. The pancakes tasted wonderful, the general made too many jokes about syrup and conversation never flagged. But I couldn’t help thinking he’d successfully managed to postpone a serious discussion again. By eavesdropping on him and my mother, I’d learned more about what made him tick than I had in the past six months combined, but I wished he would tell me directly. I needed to hear him call this love by name. I didn’t think that was asking too much. I’d been camping in that particular field for months, and I had no intention of packing up my tent.

  *

  That evening, my father called the general and me into the living room. “Want to talk to you boys,” he said.

  Hmm. My father was not one to initiate conversation with anyone.

  I sat down on the couch, and the general sat next to me. My father moved his chair in front of us. He got right to the point.

  “Got some questions, Seamus,” he said. “Harris, this concerns you, too.” He paused for a moment, thoughtful, as if he were reviewing his agenda, and then started his inquiry.

  “Seamus, you’ve been in the Air Force how long?”

  “Thirty-three years, counting my time as a cadet.”

  “What’s your MOS?” I knew enough about my dad’s time in the Army to know the acronym meant Military Occupational Specialty. One’s job, in other words.

  “I’m a pilot.”

  “That’s a damn long time to do the same thing. You retire when?”

  “About four years from now.”

  “And you’ll be how old?”

  The general coughed. “Uh, fifty-five.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll be retired. Comfortably. I’ll start drawing my pension immediately.”

  Retirement was not a word I’d ever heard my father utter. Indolence offended him. He liked being busy and always was. Though my mother would protest, my dad would probably be working at the sporting-goods store in some capacity until he died.

  “But what will you do? Fly for a civilian airline or some corporation?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Why?”

  He cleared his throat. “Airlines tend to hire younger men.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “Just relax, I suppose. I think I’ve earned it.”

  “And where will you settle down to do this relaxing?”

  “Haven’t thought about that yet.” Hastily, he added. “I expect to find another job of some sort to keep busy.”

  “Mmm.” My father thought about that for a minute. “What’s your schooling?”

  “Air Force Acad
emy.”

  “Is that like college?”

  “It is college. Four-year. I earned my bachelor’s degree in American history.”

  “History. What good’s that? Ever been a teacher or anything?”

  “No, I’m just interested in the subject, kind of a hobby. After graduating, I went to pilot training at—”

  “Harris, remind me. What’s your schooling?”

  “Come on, Dad.” He didn’t budge, so I played along. “Bachelor’s degree from Ohio State and a master’s from the University of Pittsburgh.”

  “Ever use them?”

  These questions were for the general’s benefit, but still. “Dad!”

  He frowned.

  I sighed. “Professor of English. Four years prior to rejoining the Air Force.”

  He redirected his attention to the general. “So you’ve been tied up with the service since you were how old?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Eighteen. Hmm. Ever owned a house?”

  “Uh, I never had any need. The Air Force provides housing.”

  “Harris?”

  “Of course, Dad. You know I have.” I’d purchased my first house after graduate school when I’d started teaching.

  “What do you do when your toilet backs up?” my dad asked the general.

  “That’s never happened to me.” He thought about it for a moment. “Call a plumber, I guess.”

  “Harris?”

  “Turn off the water flow to the toilet. Then contain the mess and try to clear the blockage with a plunger. Or a snake, if it’s really clogged.”

  My dad nodded. “Seamus, have you ever had to live on a budget?”

  “The Air Force has always paid me a fair salary,” the general said. He was clearly uncomfortable with this line of questioning.

  “So, you’re saying no,” my dad said. “Can you do your own taxes?”

  “I don’t. My accountant—”

  “Change the air filter on your car? Patch a hole in drywall? Install a ceiling fan? Fix a leaky faucet?”

  I could do all the things my dad mentioned and more. He’d taught me, in fact. The general didn’t even answer. He stared at my father as he considered the pair of us. I knew what Dad was getting at. In my last decade, I had accumulated practical experience in living that the general had never acquired in his thirty-plus years in the Air Force. His full-time officer career had effectively shielded him from many everyday concerns.

  I wondered how the general would manage the real world once he retired. If his entire sense of self was inextricably tied up with his rank, he’d be in for some unpleasant surprises after hanging up his uniform. Never again would he be treated with the deference he was afforded now, privilege doled out according to regulation. From my dad’s perspective, Mr. Seamus O’Neill would be just another guy looking for a job with nothing on his resume but military service and a college degree in American history that he’d never used for anything.

  My father dismissed the general, and he walked out, a thunderstorm brewing in his face. He probably felt as if he’d failed a critical exam.

  My father looked at me. “That one’s going to require a lot of care and feeding,” he said.

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Just so you know,” he said.

  “I do,” I said, “but can I keep him?”

  He turned things over in his mind. Finally, he nodded. Grateful, and much to his surprise, I wrapped my arms around his neck and lightly kissed his forehead.

  “Enough of that,” he said, embarrassed. But pleased, I think.

  I found the general on the porch, puffing savagely on his pipe. “Bruce hates me,” he said.

  I sat down next to him. “No, he doesn’t,” I said. “Even if you’ve never owned a house, you’re a good fisherman, and you’d be surprised at the way my dad’s calculator works. But you’re lucky you found someone like me to look after you.”

  He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and sighed. “You’re telling me.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sunday Mass was part of the routine all the while I lived at home. When I left for college, I decided organized religion was old-fashioned, and I dropped my Catholic habits fairly quickly. My decision was prompted more by the church’s stance on various issues such as homosexuality than anything else, however. I never told my parents about this crisis of faith and usually attended church with them during my visits, simply out of respect for them.

  I always wear my blues when we attend Mass, since a military uniform is an uncommon sight around my hometown. I’m showing off a bit, but it puts my parents in the spotlight for a while, since none of their friends has a son or daughter in the military. It also serves as a reminder I’m my own man, making my own choices and my own living. I confess the attention doesn’t bother me too much, either. It’s rare that a lieutenant gets an opportunity to feel any sense of importance or pride in any kind of setting, military or otherwise.

  Although I’d told my mother the general wouldn’t be interested in attending church with us, I should have known she would ask him anyway, particularly after learning that he too had been raised a Catholic. He tried to decline her invitation.

  “I haven’t been to church in years,” he said.

  “Why?” my mother persisted.

  “Kind of drifted away from it, I guess,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever lost faith. I just disagree with the church’s position on some of the issues it cares a hell of a lot about. I couldn’t see eye-to-eye. And it seems to me if you can’t live according to the bylaws, you got no business being in the club,” he said.

  An interesting point of view, certainly, and it made me wonder how he regarded the military “club” and its sometimes-arcane bylaws, several of which he and I had been violating on a regular basis, but I would ask him about that later.

  “Show Mom your dog tags,” I said.

  He laughed. He took the chain from around his neck and handed them to her.

  “How’d you ever get them to stamp ‘infidel’ on there?” I said.

  I knew what he would say, and I repeated the answer in tandem with him. “Because I’m a general.”

  “What a surprise to hear you say that,” I said. “You’re always pulling rank, Traveler. Good luck trying to sleep late tomorrow with two smart dogs around here.”

  Clement and Sixtus would figure out quickly the general was the only one in the house, and they’d come calling. If he kept his door shut, he might pull it off for a little while. First Mass was at eight, and we’d be home by nine-thirty or so. Mom would fix breakfast, and then we’d hit the road and be at the airport in plenty of time for our late-afternoon flight, I told him.

  My mother had been examining the dog tags. Possibly, she’d never seen any up close. “Name, Social Security Number, blood type,” she said, “and ‘AF’ would be Air Force. But what’s supposed to be on the fourth line?”

  “Religious preference,” I said.

  Infidel, indeed. She shook her head, and that settled the matter. “We’ll call for you at seven, Seamus. Will that give you enough time? We leave at half past.”

  “Mom!” I said. “He said he didn’t want to go.”

  “I’m not talking to you,” she said.

  I wasn’t surprised when he caved in. “Well,” he said. “I reckon it won’t hurt, if you don’t mind the company of an old sinner like me.”

  I groaned. As usual, he’d said the right thing. I guess it was all part of his renewal program, designed to build himself up. I appreciated his efforts but good Lord! My mom, victorious, just laughed, and so we were locked in for a date to church.

  “This isn’t fair,” I said as I helped him with his tie at seven-twenty the next morning. “You’re a guest. Just because I have to go to church doesn’t mean you have to. You were supposed to say ‘no, thanks’ and sleep in. Sir.”

  He was amused. “I reckon you’ll survive, Switchblade. And mind who you’re calling ‘sir.’ I’m still keeping track
.” His mustache shifted, restless again. I adjusted the knot on his tie and examined him. I had to admit he looked sharp, his blues perfectly creased. Everything about him suggested confidence and accomplishment. His military spit-and-polish easily outshone mine, as his acre-sized block of ribbons humbled the seven I’d earned.

  “Pass muster?” he said.

  “Of course, Traveler. You know your blues look good on you.” I paused, just for a second, and offered a postscript. “But they’d look a lot better in a heap on the floor beside my bed.”

  “Damn,” he said softly. “That’s the best offer I’ve had in days.”

  “We could send Mom and Dad to church and make an excuse to stay here by ourselves.”

  For a moment I think he wavered. I could tell he liked the idea, but he recovered just as quickly and shook his head. “Shameless. And on a Sunday morning, no less. You’re hellbound, mister.” He fingered my mustache but went no further. We walked down the hallway and the stairs. He was behind me, and he leaned over and whispered into my ear, “Don’t worry. I’ll send you postcards.”

  There would be no need. He’d be right there beside me.

  I’d like to have a snapshot of the four of us in a pew in the middle of the church. First, my father, who wore a non-customary tie and jacket for the occasion, then my mother, me, and finally, the general on the aisle, with everyone in the church staring at us, the center of distraction throughout the Mass. Nothing shy of torture would have gotten the general to admit how much he enjoyed being at the eye of this particular storm.

  The sun electrified our church’s stained glass windows, spilling deep ruby, indigo, gold, and green across us below, illuminating a little of the mystery and the wonder I used to feel at Mass. With Traveler next to me, under such light, our relationship didn’t seem as much sinful as it did blessed.

  Mass is a ritual. Once you’ve mastered it, you never forget, even if you’re navigating by autopilot. The general didn’t miss a beat. If he hadn’t attended in years, he still remembered all the right responses because he’d learned them by heart. During the Eucharistic prayer, he elbowed me and grinned as the priest rattled off the litany of saints.