He would not let go of my shoulder until I nodded. Clutching the white envelope, I made my way out, grabbed my hat and coat and keys, headed for the parking lot, and didn’t look back for fear I would turn myself into salt.
Chapter Thirty
After the general’s dismissal, I hit the road that same afternoon and drove straight through. My parents were surprised and pleased to see me, and a week stretched before me with no responsibilities but a fishing trip with Dad and some quality time with the dogs.
I explained the bargain I’d made with the general, that I’d give him a second chance if he came out. Mom and Dad seemed relieved I’d set the bar so high. They shared my skepticism he’d ever make the jump, in spite of the apparent sincerity of his apology and declaration of love. For my part, I wondered if he’d simply try to sneak under or go around.
After I’d been home for a few days, the postcards started arriving, several at a time. I was surprised at the variety, not just scenic vistas from around the world, but puppies, state flags, hotels across the U.S.A., military aircraft, recipes, antique trucks and more, each image backed with its own act of contrition. In the message box, each contained a new nickname and a brief message in his untidy scrawl: “I love you. Come back. Your Traveler.”
My mother gave me a hug as she handed me three more. “He doesn’t give up, does he?” she said.
“He certainly never seems to run out of postcards.”
“Words on paper,” she said. “Not very imaginative words, either, if you ask me.”
She showed me a letter the general had sent to them a few days after our visit in the fall. He’d never told me that he’d written to them, and I was a little surprised. It was brief and direct, drafted on his old manual typewriter and signed in his bold slant, communicating his resolve. The note was primarily a thank-you, but its marshmallow center revealed something about him I didn’t think anyone else knew:
Dear Bruce and Jane,
First, let me say thanks for your hospitality during our visit last week. I know it wasn’t easy for you, and I certainly am grateful that you handled our news so well. It meant a lot to Harris. Meant a lot to me, too. You’re fine people, and I would be honored if you counted me among your friends.
Second, let me assure you that the time I get to spend with Harris means more to me than anything I can name—even our workdays are special. I know he gets frustrated. I do too, although I have more practice keeping it in check. We’re facing some hard choices, but we’ll meet them head-on. We’ll get by the obstacles and be stronger afterward.
I still can’t believe I’ve found him. I feel bulletproof when he’s with me. There’s nothing we can’t accomplish together if we set our minds to it.
This whole damn thing is new to me. I reckon I will make mistakes along the way, but I will make them right one way or another. Thanks for giving me a chance. As I get to know you better, you will also get to know me better, and I hope you will find some things in me to like.
Sincerely,
Seamus O’Neill
“He expected to make mistakes,” my mother said after I’d read it. “But just because he warned us doesn’t make everything all right. I still can’t understand how the man who wrote this could have behaved so dreadfully at dinner that night.”
Maybe we all make foolish blunders when we’re figuring out the steps to a new dance. I’d told the general once that mistakes were sometimes more instructive than doing things right. Something he said to me before I left replayed in my head, like a record needle stuck in a scratch. If you didn’t think I could be reconstructed, why would you tell me what I have to fix?
I was surprised she’d kept the letter. Maybe we were both just a couple of hopeless optimists.
“Mom, don’t you think people deserve a second chance?”
“It depends on what they did to mess up their first chance,” she said, tart. “You’re never going to get me to admit he deserves one after what he did.”
“He needed a wake-up call,” I said. “Maybe that was it.”
“Are you ready to hold up your end of the bargain if he does come out?”
“I gave my word, Mom. I’ll have to give him one more chance, but it will be the only one.”
*
Our afternoon passed uneventfully. Dad was at the store. Mom and I were baking oatmeal cookies with Rigoletto playing on the stereo when my cell phone rang and startled both of us. Julia’s name showed on the display. At the base, it was about eleven o’clock, and the weekly staff meeting would have just concluded.
“Hi, Julia.”
“Harris!” I could hear excitement in her voice.
“What’s up? Aren’t you at work?”
“We just got out of the staff meeting a minute ago. Harris, I wish you had been here. You won’t believe it!”
“What?”
“You’ll never guess!” she said. “It was incredible. I still can’t believe it myself!”
“What? Tell me!”
Julia caught her breath. “At the staff meeting,” she said. “In front of everyone. It was amazing.”
I grew annoyed. “Julia! Tell me!”
“Harris, General O’Neill came out.”
The phone slipped from my fingers and I scrambled to pick it up.
“Harris?” Julia sounded concerned. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Sorry. I dropped the phone. Tell me again, just so I can be sure I heard right.”
She spoke distinctly. “General O’Neill came out, Harris. Right at the beginning of the staff meeting. And then he went ahead and held the meeting as if nothing was different. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
My mind cartwheeled. He came out? I couldn’t imagine any circumstance that would have led the general to do such a thing, given his vehement refusal when I’d practically begged him to consider it.
I sat down. “Tell me everything. And I mean every single thing.”
In detail, Julia outlined the previous hour. As usual, the staff had filed into the conference room ten minutes before the start of the meeting. Lieutenant Colonel Beemis, the security forces commander, was talking to the medical officer, Major Lee. Julia hadn’t been paying attention until she heard my name come up in their conversation, and she tuned in. Major Lee said, “Isn’t he a first lieutenant now?” and Lieutenant Colonel Beemis said, “He’s still a fag.” Julia couldn’t believe her ears. And just as he said it, loud enough for everyone to hear the contempt in his voice, the general entered the room.
“Who’s still a fag?” he said.
“No one, sir,” Lieutenant Colonel Beemis said. “It was a slip of the tongue. It won’t happen again, sir.”
And the general said, “Answer me. Who’s still a fag?” And Lieutenant Colonel Beemis admitted he was talking about me. He said he didn’t mean any harm by it.
“Why did you say that Lieutenant Mitchell is still a fag?”
Silence.
Then came the earthquake, Julia said, a real 9.5-on-the-Richter-scale house-shaker as the general let loose. He slammed his coffee mug on the table hard enough that it broke. Coffee splashed everywhere, but nobody moved. He raged for a good ten minutes, his volume turned up to eleven, according to Julia. He said he had zero tolerance for that kind of language, that it created a toxic atmosphere for a professional workplace, he said. That the NAF had the responsibility for six-thousand-plus airmen and civilians who looked to him for guidance and leadership and expected him to set high standards, not reinforce hurtful stereotypes.
He promised to file a complaint against Beemis as soon as the meeting was over. If it ended his career, he would deserve it, because he ought to know better, and if he didn’t, he had no business being in the service. And the general went on about “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” and how pointless it was, and that it took too long for the military to get rid of the damn thing, and how, as far as he was concerned, the United States Air Force had no room for such small-minded attitudes and prejudice. If
people didn’t start speaking up when it happened, the disease would spread. Didn’t gay airmen already have a hard enough time?
He went on at great length about the core values, too, Julia said.
And he concluded his rant by saying, “If y’all are wondering why I’m raising such holy hell, maybe it’s because I’m a ‘fag’ myself. You heard me. And if there’s one word that makes my blood boil, it’s ‘fag.’ I don’t want to hear any of y’all use it in this headquarters again, or anywhere in Sixth Air Force, for that matter. Have I made myself crystal clear?”
He made eye contact with everyone at the table, one at a time, as if he dared anyone to contradict. No one did anything but nod. The general sent the cringing Beemis to get some paper towels to mop up the spilled coffee and clean up the broken mug while everyone watched. Then the general asked Linda to fetch him another cup of coffee, and he started the staff meeting as if nothing unusual had happened.
When Julia finished telling her tale, she was nearly breathless. “I can’t remember everything he said, but that’s the gist of it,” she said. “It was so awesome, Harris. I wish you’d been here. Can you even believe it?”
I couldn’t and said so.
“It gives you something more to consider, though, doesn’t it?” she said. “About your future with the general?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you actually wanted us to be together. I thought you were totally against the idea.”
“Well, sue me. Who couldn’t help but root for the most improbable romance of the century?”
“You’re nuts.”
She giggled. “Anyway, Harris, I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, but I really felt this was a news flash you needed to hear. It’s probably all over the NAF by now.”
“Thanks for calling, Julia,” I said. “I love you. You know that?”
“Go on,” she said. “I knew it all the time.”
As soon as I disconnected the call, the phone rang again. This time it was Mark.
“Harris?”
“Hi, Mark.”
“Have you heard?”
“Julia called a few minutes ago.”
“So you got the whole story.”
“Her version of it, anyway. I’m still not sure I believe it.”
“Trust me, Harris. I’m as surprised as you are. Who’d have thought? When that dipshit Beemis made his stupid crack, it shook up General O’Neill but good, and he blew his top. It must have been bottled up inside him for a long time. I don’t think he could help himself. It was a spectacular eruption, let me tell you. I wish you’d been here.”
“Me, too. He told me time and again that he’d never come out—” Too late, I stopped myself. There was a moment of silence. Mark coughed.
“Lou figured it out before I did. When he suggested to me you might be involved, I didn’t even want to believe it. You’re a brave man, Harris.”
“Ha! You mean a stupid one.”
“Don’t say that. I don’t know how you managed. It’s hard to carry on a relationship like you’re under Threat Condition Delta.”
“Our relationship, or whatever you want to call it, is not exactly common knowledge,” I said. “I don’t even know if we have a relationship anymore.”
“You can trust Lou and me to keep mum.”
“I know. Thanks. Does anyone think it’s suspicious that I’m on leave right now?”
“I don’t think so. General O’Neill said you took some time off to celebrate your promotion, and that’s a perfectly legitimate excuse. Certainly no one has made any connection between your absence and the general’s announcement. Everyone will be in shock for a while, I suspect. And I must say the two of you have been very discreet. He’s put on a convincing act this past year, making everyone think the two of you hardly get along.”
“Is there any gossip going around about what happened after the promotion ceremony?”
“All I know is that you went out to dinner at the club,” Mark said. “Julia mentioned to me privately that it was pretty unpleasant for you, but she didn’t share any of the details. No one else seems to be aware of it. Not even Linda, which is surprising.”
I was relieved. “It was awful. He drank too much, and he embarrassed both of us in front of my parents and his family, too. That’s the main reason why I took leave. It was General O’Neill’s idea, actually. He insisted. I’ve got some things to sort out.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t go well, Harris. But I think the fact that he came out is a good thing.”
“It sure is a surprise. Thanks for calling, Mark. I’ll see you next Monday when I come back to work, but you might as well know that I won’t be the general’s aide for much longer. Especially now.”
“It’s probably for the best, under the circumstances. Speaking for the rest of the staff, we’re going to miss you terribly.”
“Thanks.”
“Be good to yourself, Harris. I don’t envy you one bit. I suspect he’s put you through a lot.”
“Yeah.”
“If you ever need a friend to listen, you know I’m here.”
“I know. I appreciate it.”
“Take care. See you soon.”
“Thanks for calling. Bye, Mark.”
I disconnected and tossed the phone onto the counter.
“Harris,” my mom said. “What’s going on?”
“You’ll never guess,” I said. “And you probably won’t even believe it. General O’Neill came out at the staff meeting this afternoon. In front of everyone.”
Her eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open. “What?”
I repeated myself. “He might just as well have dropped a bomb.”
“I think he did,” my mother said.
“I wonder what changed his mind.”
My mother gave me another hug. “I’m sure you had something to do with it.”
I’d been expecting something to happen, but I’d never thought it would be this approximate shape and stripe. He’s been so adamant in his insistence on remaining in the closet.
My mom and I returned to the kitchen. The cookies gave us something to do, and as Rigoletto approached its climax, the fervent opinions expressed by father and daughter in the story made conversation impossible. It was just as well. I couldn’t find a word to say, and I suspect my mom felt the same.
The music ended. We stood by the oven and watched the last pan of cookies bake.
“Harris,” my mom said, finally, “do you think Seamus would’ve come out at all if it hadn’t been for his conduct at dinner last week?”
“Probably not. What do you think?”
“I agree with you,” she said.
“So, what he did at the club—does that make it a good thing or a bad thing?”
It certainly had been an insult. Had we been by ourselves, the general and I might have made similarly lewd fun of the breadstick and laughed about it.
“You mean does the end justify the means?” she said. “It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?”
I nodded. He’d come out, so I got what I really wanted. Hadn’t I?
“I would have picked other means,” I said. “And maybe a different end, too.” Since he couldn’t shut the closet door again and hope no one had noticed, I too would have to keep my part of the pact and give him the second chance he’d demanded.
What I needed most at that moment was another hug, and my mom proved as generous as ever.
*
That evening, after the workday and supper, with its intense and emotional but unresolved discussion about the general’s coming out, my dad disappeared into the basement and spent a couple of hours readying himself for our fishing trip the next morning. The day would be cold, and our prospects for catching anything at all weren’t particularly good, but he knew we needed to go in spite of the weather. We might reel in a smallmouth bass or two if we were lucky. It wasn’t unheard of in late January, and our favorite lake had been friendly in winters past. My dad had brought home some live minno
ws from the store, a good bait choice for bass, and we’d try several different spinners and lures and see what luck we might have. As usual, I let my dad handle the preparation alone.
I went to bed early and slept better than I had in days. Dad came to wake me before dawn. Silently, we fixed our own breakfast, but my mom got out of bed anyway to pack lunch for us and brew a quart of steaming coffee for the old thermal jug. We would be grateful for it later, on the water. We dressed warmly, union suits under our coveralls, in anticipation of the cold. Fog filled the morning, and Dad steered the truck through it cautiously.
He kept a box of old cassettes kept under the front seat of the truck, and he pulled it out and handed it to me with instructions to find Hank. I rummaged through the box for a scuffed “greatest hits” collection and popped it into the deck. Hank Williams is to my father what Puccini is to my mother. And just as I’d never really heard Tosca until the general roped me into it, I’d never really paid much attention to ol’ Hank. I could identify his sound, backwoods flavored and rough-hewn as Lincoln’s rail fence, but I’d never listened closely to his stories before.
His soaring voice, a naked and honest howl, is anchored by his earthbound guitar strumming three or four chords, seasoned with some pedal steel guitar, fiddle, and upright bass. The painfully direct lyrics tell of universal sorrow, and the aptness of the songs suggested that he’d somehow managed to eavesdrop on my life for his inspiration. He sang of the blues that came around every evening, long gone and lonesome. He wondered why you didn’t love him like you used to do. Swore he’d be a bachelor until he died. He sang of the misery of love’s ball and chain, of the vain wish to turn back the years to a time before love became indifference. He seemed to know firsthand of the brief but unfulfilling respite found in a bottle.
I remember reading somewhere that Hank Williams was dead at twenty-nine, his demise hastened by drugs and alcohol and a bad heart. I’d already outlived him, but I’m convinced he’s not actually gone. He was there in the truck with us, prophesying like some sage, the wisest man in the world. He kept us good company. My dad hummed along as we rolled down the back roads in the darkness and early morning fog. The general might scoff, but I found more solace in Hank Williams that morning than I could ever have found in Tosca.
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