Rank

by Richard Compson Sater

  “Bet you didn’t know you were on Candid Camera, did you, Seamus?”

  “Can’t say I did, Jane.”

  My mother was so pleased that she paid no attention to his tight-lipped response. I knew she didn’t include the one troublesome shot to be mean-spirited or funny. She’d proven herself more than willing to accept him into the family, regardless of her own preferences about whom I should love. I think she simply assumed the general would appreciate having such a photo of the pair of us. Under other circumstances, he might have, but not here, not tonight.

  The general excused himself to go to the restroom. I wondered if he was seeking an escape hatch. Perhaps all the excitement had hit the general a little harder than he expected. Perhaps he was second-guessing his idea to throw all of us together for dinner. Perhaps it was the photograph, which I suspect pierced him to his core, and he sought the closest trench. Perhaps, he didn’t trust my parents, believing they might choose this opportunity to out him in the presence of his family. Perhaps he didn’t trust himself. After all, he had told me he loved me, but second thoughts and doubt might lurk around his edges.

  Perhaps he didn’t trust me.

  I was particularly concerned because we wouldn’t have any time alone to defuse this potential bomb for at least a couple of days.

  I wondered when the disapproval Kathleen wore on her face would catch up with her mouth. It did as soon as the general headed to the restroom. She fixed a dour gaze on my parents. “Really,” she said. “You shouldn’t call him Seamus, especially when he’s in uniform.”

  “Why not?” my mother said, mystified. “It’s his name, isn’t it?”

  “It’s just not appropriate, given his position,” Kathleen said. “You should call him General O’Neill. Or ‘sir.’”

  “Oh, come on, Kathleen,” David said. “Relax. This is supposed to be a party.” She glared at him and he shrugged.

  “You call him Seamus,” my dad pointed out.

  “He’s my brother. It’s obviously different for the immediate family,” she said, clearly injured. I wished she wouldn’t presume that my parents were thick. She certainly spoke to them as if she thought they might not understand unless she enunciated carefully and spoke slowly, rather like an arrogant American trying to make a foreigner comprehend English.

  “Seamus and Bruce are old fishing buddies,” my mom said. “You can’t get much closer than that.” Kathleen appeared skeptical. “Ask Seamus—General O’Neill, I mean—ask him to show you the pictures when he comes back,” my mom said. I tried to signal to her but she missed the hint. “We got some great shots. He’s quite the trout fisherman.”

  My dad, aware of my distress, whispered into her ear. Her eyes got big. “Oops!” she said. “Never mind.”

  “I’m a little rusty on military customs and courtesy,” my dad said to Kathleen. “But I’ll try to remember.” I doubted his sincerity, but his remark seemed to placate Kathleen. The general returned from the restroom, unaware of the controversy that had arisen during his absence.

  My thoughts were interrupted by our waiter, a young man neatly dressed in a ruffled tuxedo shirt, red bow tie, and a manner perhaps a little too flamboyant for my comfort. I saw that Kathleen noticed as well. He offered abject apologies for the delay as he escorted us to a large round table in the corner of the dining room.

  The general assigned our seats, putting me directly on his right, then my mom, my dad, Mr. O’Neill, David, and Kathleen on the general’s left. He was perspiring a bit, his color up, and he took his service-dress coat off and hung it on the back of his chair. I smelled whiskey on his breath and assumed he had detoured by the bar for a quick one on his way to the restroom. I was perspiring, too, though for different reasons.

  Once we were seated, our waiter fussed and flitted about, distributing menus, setting out warm bread and butter and a basket of crackers, filling water glasses, and reciting the day’s specials, soups, and vegetables from memory. “Oh!” he said afterward. “I’m Jeffrey, by the way.”

  “We’ll have a bottle of champagne first, Jeffrey,” the general told him. “The good stuff.”

  “Yes, sir!” He hustled away.

  I could see he had an eye for the general, and why not? Jeffrey had good taste. I only hoped the general wouldn’t do or say anything to embarrass the young man. But it was Kathleen who stuck her foot in first.

  “Really,” she said. “I don’t know why they hire people like that to work here.”

  “People like what?” my dad said.

  “You know,” Kathleen said.

  “I don’t,” my dad said. “Really.”

  She dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “Homosexuals.”

  “How do you know he’s people like that?” my dad said.

  “Oh, please,” Kathleen said, rolling her eyes and offering a limp-wristed wave.

  “We all have to work somewhere,” my dad said. David snickered. Kathleen glared at him, at my dad, everyone.

  “But why would they hire them to work here?” She persisted. “Waiting on high-ranking officers and distinguished visitors and such.”

  “Maybe because most people don’t care about their waiter’s private life as long as the service is good?” my dad said. “Or maybe because they aren’t prejudiced?”

  “I am not prejudiced.”

  “And some of your best friends are gay,” David volunteered with a grin.

  “Shut up, David. I’m pretty sure I know some homosexuals.”

  “You might be surprised,” my dad said.

  The general cleared his throat and said, “That’ll do, Bruce.”

  Jeffrey provided a welcome interruption, reappearing with a bottle of champagne on ice and seven stemmed glasses on a tray. He popped the cork and poured with a practiced flourish, offering a glass to each of us. “I’ll be back to take your order in a few minutes,” he said. “If there’s anything at all I can do for you, sir, just give me the high sign.” If he sought the general’s approval, none was offered.

  I felt a little sorry for Jeffrey as he backed away, and was immediately angry at my condescension. At least he was being himself, no less and no more. I could not say the same for either the general or myself at the moment.

  Kathleen lifted her glass and said, “To Major General O’Neill.”

  My mother added, “And to First Lieutenant Mitchell.” Kathleen didn’t like that addendum, but we all touched glasses anyway and sipped. The general swallowed his and immediately poured himself a second, emptying the bottle.

  Champagne had figured prominently in our coming together in the first place. I’m not sure the general would have let his guard down if it hadn’t been for his impromptu dance recital at the retirement party and that bottle he’d received as a reward. Since there was no way tonight could end as satisfactorily as that night had, however, I wished the general would go easy. I didn’t want him to let down too much guard here.

  He caught my eye as he downed the second glass. Could he read my mind? I picked up no signal from him. We opened the menus. The general held his out at arm’s length and frowned, clearly dissatisfied. Silently, I passed his eyeglasses to him, but if I expected him to make a joke about his nearsightedness as he customarily did, he disappointed me.

  He pushed his chair back. “I’ll have a word with the sommelier about a bottle of wine that might be suitable for our celebration,” he said, excusing himself quickly. Great, I thought. More alcohol.

  Kathleen wasn’t ready to let go of the conversational topic she’d brought up moments before. “Now they let openly homosexual people serve in the military. They don’t even have to keep it a secret.”

  “Yes,” my mother said. “Isn’t it wonderful? ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ is finally on the scrap heap where it belongs. That’s one campaign promise the President kept.”

  “And even the damned Republican majority in Congress couldn’t stop him,” my dad said, with evident satisfaction.

  I didn’t want to g
et into politics either, particularly since I suspected everyone at the table except for us counted themselves among the damned Republicans. Wasn’t there some inconsequential or at least noncommittal subject we could discuss? And could we please steer the conversation in that direction?

  The awkward pause was filled by Mr. O’Neill, of all people, who seized the moment to share his thoughts on the matter. “The Air Force made a big mistake when they started letting in the faggots,” he said. “The Army, too. Whole military’s going to hell in a handbasket. Mark my words.”

  He’d been so quiet all afternoon that everyone, astonished, turned to look at him. These were the most words he’d spoken since the reception, and so spectacularly inappropriate I couldn’t believe he’d actually said them aloud. But if he knew he’d distinguished himself, he gave no sign. He reached for the basket of crackers and busied himself with the saltines. No one knew how to respond, and quiet settled upon us as we waited for the general to return.

  “What are y’all discussing so intently?” he asked as he took his seat again, a curious remark, as we were all studiously silent.

  But Kathleen still could not let go. “We were discussing whether or not avowed homosexuals should be permitted to serve in the military,” she said.

  The general coughed and cleared his throat.

  David spoke up. “Charlie is not in favor of it. Neither is your sister. Bruce and Jane, however—” was as far as he got before Kathleen ordered him to shut up. He snickered but did as requested. Mr. O’Neill seemed oblivious to the storm he’d caused. He munched his crackers, unconcerned.

  In the awkward gap that followed, I could see my mom was readying her own response. Had she gotten the chance to deliver it, Mr. O’Neill would have regretted ever bringing up the subject. But my dad broke in first.

  “Were you in the service, O’Neill?” My dad, customarily polite, was not in the habit of referring to anyone by his last name alone, but I sensed his anger as well as the control required to keep it in check.

  “No. Thank God,” Mr. O’Neill muttered.

  “What?” My mother was outraged. My dad placed a gentle hand on her arm and turned again to Mr. O’Neill.

  “You’re lucky. I was drafted just out of high school. I spent two years in Vietnam back in ’69 and ’70,” my dad said. “Some of the guys in my platoon were gay. Everybody knew it and nobody gave a damn. With enemy fire coming in, you got enough to worry about, like surviving. You pray that your rifle won’t jam, and you hope to hell your buddy has got your back. Trust me. The last thing on your mind is what he likes to do in bed.”

  I had never heard my dad share this observation. I was surprised and grateful he volunteered to do so now. Mr. O’Neill brushed cracker crumbs onto the floor and declined to make eye contact.

  “The gay soldiers were scared to death just like the rest of us, and they bled and died like there was no difference at all. And that’s enough about that. Seamus,” he said, “would you pass the bread, please?”

  The general handed over the basket. I think Kathleen was too taken aback to notice that my dad had ignored her stern request about using the general’s first name. But she was irritated.

  “Why should you care?” Kathleen asked my dad. “You’re not a homosexual.”

  My mother, waiting for her chance, jumped into the fight. “We’re not. But our son is gay, thank you very much.”

  Ten years ago, my mom would never have made such a confession. Early on, my parents would have been too shy, if not embarrassed, to admit their son was gay for fear that such a declaration would reflect poorly on them. But I encouraged them repeatedly to speak up and spread the good word. Every family has a son or daughter or parent or aunt or uncle or cousin who is gay. My persistence paid off. They overcame their reluctance and took the lessons to heart. They, too, were now out and proud, as I had taught and then insisted. But while I had become accustomed to coming out every day, I preferred to do it on my own terms.

  Kathleen’s mouth made a capital O, and her eyes widened. She stared at me as if I were a lab specimen or an alien. “You are?” she breathed. Perhaps she believed she’d never actually seen one up close.

  “Is that a problem?” I said.

  David stifled a giggle. I wondered if Kathleen would dress him down later. He certainly didn’t appear to be on her side in many respects. Mr. O’Neill curled his lip and seemed to withdraw even farther into himself. I suspected I would have no more words with him this evening, and I was content with that.

  Kathleen turned to the general. “Seamus! I can’t believe you would have a—a—homosexual as your aide!”

  “Why not?” David said. “Obviously he does.”

  “Did you know?” Kathleen asked the general.

  “Of course not,” the general fired back.

  My mouth made a capital O. My mom, thankfully, chose to take it as a joke. “Seamus, you’re such a kidder sometimes.”

  I waited for him to confirm or deny or at least make a witty remark. As long as the subject had been brought out into the open, why not acknowledge it? He did nothing but examine the champagne bottle, which was still empty. Kathleen didn’t even notice. She was too busy climbing her pedestal. “I have four sons,” she said, “and not one of them is a homosexual,” she said, smugness dripping from her mouth.

  My mother bristled. “How do you know?” she said. “Maybe they’re just afraid to tell you, which wouldn’t surprise me a bit.”

  “Believe me,” Kathleen said. “I know.”

  “Well,” David said. “We don’t, actually. With four sons, it’s certainly possible—statistically, I mean.”

  “David!” Kathleen said. “I can’t believe you would even say such a thing!”

  “It’s always possible,” he said. “They say it runs in families.”

  “We don’t have anyone like that in our family,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah?” David said. “What about that one uncle of yours?” He turned to us. “Her mom’s brother,” he explained. The general had never shared this family lore with me. “Apparently, he wasn’t even allowed in the house when Seamus and Kathleen were growing up.”

  I half expected my mother or dad to mention that someone else in Kathleen’s family was most certainly gay, and there was a photo in a handy coat pocket that could provide corroborating evidence. I looked at the general, but his face was stone. He was confident I would never out him, that I would honor his decision to remain in the closet even though I did not agree with it or respect it. The choice to come out would have to be his, not mine, but his arrogant certainty that I would keep the secret galled me even more than his behavior.

  Mr. O’Neill suddenly sputtered to life again. “I got a joke for you, Seamus,” he said. Once again, his interjection stopped the conversation dead, and everyone turned to look—wondering, perhaps, what stunningly incongruous contribution he would make this time.

  But surely no one expected him to say, “These two fags go into a bar, see.”

  Collectively, the members of our group recoiled. Even Kathleen choked on her buttered bread.

  “Maybe not right now, Charlie,” David said.

  “Maybe never,” my dad said. “You got the wrong crowd for that bullshit.”

  With no encouragement to continue, Mr. O’Neill snorted once and shut up. I wondered if the general’s dad was perhaps senile or simply mean-spirited. I waited for the general to rebuke his father for his prejudice, or at least his monumental lack of situational awareness. A simple “that’ll do, Pop” would have been better than the nothing he offered, though everyone at the table looked to him for guidance.

  That’s what generals provide. Historically, anyway.

  I believe everyone at the table had determined by then that our having dinner together was a mistake. And we were a long, long way from dessert.

  “Ready to order?” Jeffrey’s cheerful voice was a welcome respite. He looked expectantly at the general.

  “Yes, Jerry,” he s
aid. Jeffrey’s grin dimmed a little. I could see his disappointment, and I wondered for a moment if he would offer a correction. He did not.

  Gratefully, we picked up our menus and made our selections. I chose the rib-eye steak, as did my dad and the general’s dad. My mom and David opted for lemon-peppered breast of chicken, and Kathleen ordered baked salmon. The general selected spaghetti with meatballs and garlic breadsticks. Salads arrived in quick order, and that, at least, gave us some work to do. Besides, the general needed to get some food into his stomach, particularly since Jeffrey—whom the general next referred to as Johnny—brought a bottle of merlot immediately afterward.

  The general tasted a mouthful and declared it suitable. I didn’t want a glass, but after a sullen glare from him when I tried to refuse, I accepted one anyway, although I didn’t drink it. David and I tried to initiate some non-controversial conversation to kill time as we waited for our dinner. My mom and dad offered a remark or two, but the bewildering awkwardness of the whole affair seemed to stun them into silence. Kathleen was ice, the general distracted and somewhat left of sober, their father miles away. I was weary and talked out by the time Jeffrey arrived again.

  He delivered each plate to its rightful place. The meals were beautifully presented, savory, and pleasing in all ways, and everyone perked up. Dad’s steak and mine were lean and broiled to perfection, the potatoes and gravy plentiful and aromatic. The general’s plate, heaped with pasta, a generous helping of tomato sauce and meatballs, included two plump breadsticks.

  The general picked up one of the breadsticks and examined it. His eyes met mine and his mustache bristled slightly. His wheels were in motion, no doubt greased by a little too much alcohol.

  “Remind you of anything, Harris?” he said. He grinned, but there was no humor in it.