I suspected where he was headed, but I would not go there. “Looks just like a breadstick to me, sir,” I said.
“You have no imagination, Harris,” he said, a little too carefully, as if speech required tremendous concentration. I had a brief, horrifying flashback to the community-council breakfast the previous summer when I’d pulled a little stunt with a banana, and for a moment I was afraid he’d duplicate it with the breadstick.
“Is there anything more I can get for you, General O’Neill?” I could tell Jeffrey still hoped for some friendly acknowledgment that he had carried out his duties with poise, efficiency, and enthusiasm.
“No, Jimmy,” the general said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”
“His name is Jeffrey, sir,” I whispered, after the waiter departed.
“Jimmy. Jeffrey. I’ll call him whatever the hell I want,” the general said thickly. “If he doesn’t like it, there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. He’s a waiter. I’m a general.”
“That’s no reason to be an asshole, Seamus,” David said. “Just use the guy’s right name.” I was surprised to hear his criticism, as timely as it was. Kathleen said nothing. The general merely grunted.
I had never seen him treat anyone with such rudeness, least of all waiters, clerks, or others who served him. He had always been unfailingly polite, even compassionate, believing impeccable manners to be a hallmark of high rank. Like discourtesy, losing control of oneself in public was a mortal sin. Between the punch, champagne, and wine, I’d lost count of how many drinks the general had consumed, with nothing to eat but a few bites of salad, though blaming alcohol or any other weakness for ill behavior was the refuge of a coward.
The general hated apologies and mostly avoided them, but how would he view this evening’s performance from the vantage point of a hung-over tomorrow? And how would he explain himself to me on Monday morning?
At least he dropped his line of inquiry regarding the breadstick, and for the next fifteen minutes, hunger took over and we were content just to eat, the attention that well-prepared food deserves. Jeffrey came by once and caught my eye, but I shook my head, and he did not interrupt, merely tiptoed away. The general didn’t notice.
My parents and I seemed to be of the same mind. If we could only eat quickly and excuse ourselves, this whole wretched event would be over. The three of us set down our forks and folded our napkins by our plates in record time. My dad checked his watch. I knew, in the interest of politeness, we could not leave the table while the general’s family was still eating, however.
Mr. O’Neill kept his eyes on his plate, though he did little besides push the food around with his knife, taking an occasional halfhearted bite and chewing with agonizing slowness. David enjoyed his meal at a most leisurely pace. Between bites, Kathleen carried on an earnest whispered conversation with her brother, but he seemed irritated as well as inattentive. He filled his wineglass again, slopping the red liquid over the side and onto the white tablecloth. I also noticed spots of tomato sauce on his blue shirt and tie, which shocked me. Though we might studiously ignore it, the effect of his alcohol consumption was apparent.
Kathleen placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Maybe you’ve had enough, Seamus,” she said. He jerked his arm away and nearly knocked over the glass.
“Fuck off, Kathleen,” he said, angry and loud enough to draw the attention of diners at a nearby table. Our party, meanwhile, froze in place. Even the general became aware of the awkwardness, and he attempted to laugh it off. “That slipped,” he said.
My estimation of him had slipped as well. I hardly knew this man. As much as I disliked Kathleen, the general had no excuse to be vulgar toward her, and I felt a momentary flash of sympathy. My parents exchanged puzzled glances. I could guess their thoughts. Only yesterday, he’d been their tour guide aboard the C-5, no doubt assuring them that our future together was as solid and as full of potential as the airframe. At the table now he was a stranger, utterly foreign. I could not understand why he chose this night, of all nights, for such mischief, when it couldn’t have been more inappropriate, and the consequences couldn’t have been more potentially disastrous.
In defiance, the general emptied his glass in a single swallow.
“What were we talking about before dinner?” he said hazily. “Oh, yes, I remember. Homosexuality and its relative compatibility with military service.” It was a mouthful of tricky words for one in his state of inebriation, and he stumbled over them. But everyone understood, and precisely no one wanted to pick up the topic again.
Jeffrey chose that opportune moment to return to our table. “How was everything?” I’m sure by this time he was as anxious for our meal to be over as I was. Though he didn’t address the question to me, I chose to answer, as the general clearly had no intention of responding. “Everything was delicious. Thank you, Jeffrey.” My mom and dad echoed the message.
“I’ll just get these plates out of your way,” he said. Without incident, he removed my parents’ dishes, mine, David’s, Kathleen’s.
“Are we all finished, sir?” Jeffrey asked Mr. O’Neill. In response, he shoved his plate away and Jeffrey took it. Lastly, he approached the general, who had eaten all of his spaghetti and meatballs. There was half of a breadstick left, but he’d set down his knife and fork and crumpled his napkin. Jeffrey looked to me again, panic in his face. I shrugged and nodded. Gingerly, he removed the last plate.
The general waited until Jeffrey had hoisted the tray of dirty dishes to his shoulder before speaking up. “I wasn’t done with that breadstick, Jackie,” he said.
Mr. O’Neill snickered, and Jeffrey turned crimson. “Oh, sir! I am so very sorry! So sorry. Please forgive me. I’ll just run to the kitchen and get you some fresh ones. I’ll bring them right out, sir. Just give me a moment.” As quickly as he could, under his load of dishes and mortification, he slunk away and returned a moment later with a basket covered with a clean napkin, apologizing again for being hasty.
This time, my dad took it upon himself to speak for my boss. “Thank you, Jeffrey. We’re sorry for the misunderstanding.”
Jeffrey left us once again. The general lifted the napkin from the basket to reveal steaming and fragrant breadsticks, enough for all of us.
“Have one,” the general said, gruff. He thrust the basket toward my parents, who politely declined. “Pop? David? Kathleen? Can’t eat all these damn things myself.”
I could tell Kathleen had formulated a suitable retort, but perhaps wisely, she held her tongue.
“Lieutenant. Have one.”
“No, thank you, sir. I’m full. Couldn’t eat another bite.”
He picked a breadstick from the basket and handed it to me. “I said have one.”
“Really, sir. I’m stuffed. But thanks just the same.”
He glared and dropped the breadstick on the table in front of me. I knew awfulness would follow as well as I knew I could not stop it. His mustache bristled. “Eat it,” he said. Then, hard, “That’s an order.”
“No, sir!”
The rest of our table sat mesmerized by the whole surreal performance. The general’s voice lulled as it wheedled. “Show us one of the many talents you bring to the United States Air Force as a brand-new first lieutenant,” he said. “Not just a brand-new first lieutenant, but as a card-carrying, Grade-A, government-inspected ho-mo-sex-ual first lieutenant,” the general said. The words were slushy, but everyone caught the gist. He dangled the breadstick in front of me again. “Look at that, Lieutenant. Beautiful, isn’t it? I’ll bet you could swallow it whole,” he said, insinuating. “Pretend it’s—”
That snapped me out of the trance. I shoved my chair back from the table at the same time as my father, who looked as if he could dispatch the general with his steak knife. Dad walked around the table and pulled the general out of his chair. With his face three inches from the general’s, my father managed to keep his voice low in spit
e of his seething anger. “I don’t care how much rank you wear, you drunken bastard. You may be an officer, but you’re no gentleman.”
The general seemed bewildered for a moment, as if he too had just been awakened. He stared at my father and then at me as if he were trying to locate some object lost but possibly retrievable. Or simply prove to himself, once and for all, that he didn’t really want it to begin with.
The starch went out of him. He slumped down into his seat again, perhaps weary of the whole outrageous game, his mustache finally stilled. We’d reached the climax of this day, with nothing left to do but turn away from each other, embarrassed by things said at the moment of passionate release, of dirtying the sheets. Had he really spoken of love three hours before this?
I remained frozen, speechless, but in those same seconds, my mother was neither still nor quiet. She gasped. “Seamus! How could you?” Tears filled her eyes and overflowed. My dad helped her out of her chair.
His “Come on, son. Let’s go,” reminded me to move, and I stood up slowly, shrugged into my jacket and buttoned it. I wasn’t even aware of the general’s family, who were no doubt just as horrified at the appalling turn of events. We turned to walk out and were almost to the door when my father pulled out his wallet, returned to the table, threw two twenties in front of the general, and then rejoined my mother and me. We hurried to the car.
Moments later, as we drove past the entrance to the club, the general hurtled through the door as if he’d been shot from the other side, hatless and coatless and napkin still in hand, right into the path of the car. My dad slammed on the brakes and screeched to a stop not a second too soon. The general was talking, pleading. I could see the heat of his voice in the chilled night air, as if his words were solids, suspended, but I could not decipher them. My dad hurled invective at him through the closed windows and leaned on the horn until the general stepped back. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I turned to look at him, standing defeated, framed in the Panavision of the back window of the car, watching us as we drove away, his mouth open in a soundless howl.
Chapter Twenty-nine
On the drive back to the apartment, my father raged in silence. My mother was still in tears. I felt my humiliation had been complete.
“Harris, what was that all about?” she said.
“I don’t know, Mom.” I suspected the whole affair was simply an unfortunate collusion of the wrong elements at the right time, too much alcohol and too much pressure, which made me feel no better.
“What must his father think of him?” she continued.
“What must his father think of me?” I said. “To say nothing of Kathleen, the bitch.”
My mother was too upset even to chastise me for such language.
“I didn’t know he was such a heavy drinker,” she said.
“He’s not,” I said. “I’ve never seen him like this.” But perhaps I had at the retirement party the previous summer.
I felt immobile. What would happen next? I could not even think about tomorrow, let alone the next week and the whole wide-open future I had so boldly and fearlessly plotted for Traveler and me. I needed some time alone to think. Once back at my apartment and out of uniform, I put on a good front and convinced my parents that I would be fine. Though they had their misgivings, they agreed to give me some space.
They hit the road early the next morning. For once, I could return a frequent favor by packing them a hearty lunch for the long trip home, even if the temperature was such that they wouldn’t be able to enjoy a picnic outdoors. It also kept me busy, though my mom fussed anxiously around me, still bewildered by the course of events.
“You come home as soon as you can get a couple of days off,” my father said. “You hear me?”
I heard.
My mother gave me a warm hug and a kiss. “We’re proud of you, Harris. Congratulations on your promotion. You earned it,” she said.
Thankfully, I was spared an obvious question that I couldn’t begin to answer just yet: what next? The whole day seemed unreal. I promised to come home soon, thankful for their tact. More likely, they didn’t know what to say. What could cauterize such wounds?
*
Julia called mid-morning Saturday and asked how the dinner went.
“Remember when you asked me if I would break up with General O’Neill? I think I have an answer that will make you much happier,” I said, aiming for a little levity.
“Uh-oh. I don’t like the sound of that at all. Come on. Spill. Everything.”
My brave face evaporated as soon as I started telling her about it. Within the hour, she was at my house bearing groceries and an overnight bag.
“I’m staying with you all weekend,” she said. “No arguments. Somebody’s got to see to it that you eat and sleep and don’t do anything drastic.”
There was no fear of that, but I was grateful for her company. She did her best to keep me entertained, to take my mind off the situation, and to let me rant and whine and curse as necessary. It helped immensely, and by Sunday evening, I felt much more in command of my emotions, even if I had no idea where the general and I were to go next. I persuaded Julia to head back to her own apartment that night because we both had to be at the office Monday morning.
“How will you ever face him?” she said. “More to the point, how will he ever face you?”
“He won’t even come in tomorrow. Just you watch,” I said. “Scratch the paint, and you’ll find a coward underneath. And when he does come in, Tuesday or Wednesday, I’ll manage. My one-year stint as his aide is over, and you know how he says he never keeps anyone longer than that. I’ll go back to the personnel office for the time being.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know yet. I could resign my commission next year if I decide I’ve had enough of the Air Force,” I said.
“You could always file sexual harassment charges against him if you want,” Julia said. “From what you told me, he’s the one who pressured you into this relationship.”
“That would haul him out of the closet, wouldn’t it?”
“He’d deserve it, even if it would put me in the firing line, too,” she said. “The press would be all over it.”
“It was stupid to get tangled up with him in the first place. He’s as homophobic as any straight guy I’ve ever met, and he’s too old to change. If he wants to beat himself up, that’s his business, but I’m not going to let him beat me up, too.”
Julia congratulated me for my perspective. I wished I’d felt as confident as I sounded. Evidence of Traveler was everywhere in my life, not merely in the artifacts readily identifiable in my apartment but also in my practical head and impractical heart. What would I do without him? I couldn’t think about that now. With my assurance that I would call her in the morning before work, she left reluctantly, and I settled down for a sleepless night. After thrashing around in bed for about two hours, I finally turned the light on. I tried reading and watching television but didn’t have the patience for either. Restless, I did a load of laundry and ironed my blue shirts. I tidied up the apartment, dusted, washed the kitchen floor, scrubbed the bathtub.
All the while, my mind galloped, accusing. How could he have done such a thing, even if he was drunk? I could not fathom the casual carelessness of his betrayal, as if he had suddenly become a stranger, as if the past year had not existed at all, as if our entire relationship had been built on some delusion. Until a day or two ago, I’d believed we were so solid nothing could come between us. I knew we’d have challenges ahead, but I thought we’d be left standing together, though hurricanes threatened destruction.
He told me he loved me! He was a smart man, a man of his word, and he would never have said such a thing without considering the consequences. If alcohol was the catalyst, it seemed to have worked in reverse. I would have expected a drunken confession of love to come first because it could be so easily retracted, but the general had stormed those particular gates with a clear head.
/> The cliché says there is truth in wine, however. His injudicious consumption on Friday night may have been the match that lit the fuse, but no explosion would have been possible without a charge having been set in advance. He might be able to laugh off the image of himself asleep with a stuffed bear—he’d come up with a clever explanation, and no one would even think to ask who’d been behind the camera—but what could he say in his defense about a photo of himself locked in an intimate embrace with another man, another officer? Maybe the image brought something into sharp relief for him and he panicked. When a man is cornered and afraid, there is always a risk that he will lash out.
What hounded him, and how could I have been so unaware of it? Did the threat of the Uniform Code of Military Justice suddenly loom even larger? Was the weight of a second star just too much to bear? Did it tip the scales in the wrong direction when placed opposite the single silver bar of a new first lieutenant? These questions bothered me even more than the general’s insulting remark about the breadstick.
When I fell for the general, I neglected to pack a parachute. Perhaps he had. I could not forget how neat and squared-away his house was, and how regulated his life had become under three decades of military supervision. Human beings are not supposed to be so straight. That’s why we have some rounded corners. The angles and the lines give us outlines for our existence, but we live most comfortably inside the curves.
He was a great actor if he could make me believe an entire novel-length fiction about us. But why would he take the trouble to bond with my parents if he weren’t serious about laying some groundwork for a future?
He’d finally succeeded at one thing I didn’t believe he could ever accomplish: changing my mind about my feelings for him. The dinner incident had been a small thing, even forgivable if he were truly penitent, but it broke the dam nonetheless and unleashed the flood of doubt I’d been ignoring all along, a maelstrom indeed for two o’clock on a dismal Monday morning. Hours ticked by as my head spun, with no conclusions reached when the cold dawn crept in.
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