by Liza Ketchum
“You never asked.”
Ouch. “Sorry. Who are these guys?”
He points, left to right. “Gus. He’s in New Jersey. Does auto detailing, specializes in antique cars. We talk now and then. Zeke—he was wounded, shrapnel in the leg, but he did okay. Moved to California, married, had a passel of kids. We’ve lost touch since Bess died.” Pop pushes his glasses back, touches the third guy’s face. “Leonard. We called him Lenny. My best buddy. He didn’t make it.” Pop’s voice breaks as if it happened yesterday. “Buried in the D-Day cemetery, under the Star of David.”
“He was Jewish?”
“Yes. An observant Jew, and mad as hell. Fighting against the damned Nazis who incinerated his people. We didn’t know the half of it until the camps were liberated.” Pop turns on me. “They call it a ‘good war.’ There’s nothing ‘good’ about war, Brandon. But we knew what we were fighting for.”
I don’t like where this is headed. “Have you been back?”
“To Omaha Beach? No. Always meant to go; never could. Too busy making a living, raising your mom. And I was afraid—” He sets the picture down and stares at his feet. “I worried that a visit could bring it all back. My work was on board the ship that day, but I still saw things, heard things, I never want to experience again.” He shudders.
“Sorry, Pop.” I pat his knee. “We could go together.”
He takes off his glasses, as if to see me better. “Where?”
“To France. You, me, and Mom. After I pay Mom back for my Canadian ticket, I’ll save up for another one.” That is—if Frankie doesn’t fire me first.
Pop looks off into the distance. His chin trembles. “I’ll think about it,” he says at last. “How was your trip?”
“Complicated.”
Pop’s laugh sounds like a dry cough. “I’ll bet,” he says. “Feel like telling me?”
“Sure. But before I forget—I have something for you.” I grab my backpack and pull out Dad’s copy of The Things They Carried, complete with its fluttering sticky notes. “I finished reading this on the plane. It’s Dad’s copy. It’s interesting to see his comments. It helped me understand—how he felt about the war.”
Pop flushes. “I thought we were through with this subject.”
“We are. But I realize—I didn’t know my dad.” I almost say: I don’t know you, either.
“Sure you did,” Pop says. “As much as we know anyone. You know he loved you.” He takes a deep breath. “I have many regrets, Brandon. No one should lose a father as young as you are.”
“Thanks, Pop.” My throat is thick. When I can speak, I say, “Tell me—what was it like in England? What did you guys do over there?”
He talks. I listen, while the room fills with ghosts and shadows.
Phone call: Cat in Digby, Nova Scotia, to Brandon in Brookline, Massachusetts
Brandon? Hey, it’s Cat—from Canada.
I’m good. You?
This is weird, isn’t it—us talking?
Yah. Quinn’s fine. Saw the cardio guy Monday, test results excellent. No sign of heart trouble. Healthy as a horse, the doc said.
Relief, eh? Thought you should know.
He tied one on with his buddies last night; had a wicked hangover this morning. Guess he was more worried than he let on.
No, not yet. First they’ll test my dad and Quinn’s saliva, see if their DNA matches.
I know: gross. If not—Dad says they’d need something from you, since your dad’s not…
Yeah, you’re right. If Dad and Quinn don’t match then…you’re automatically related. Still: you and Quinn, half-brothers? Seems unlikely.
Quinn? He’s pissy. Who can blame him, eh? His girlfriend ditched him before all this started, so he wasn’t a happy camper to begin with.
Yup, still on the boat. I like it. Gives me time to practice my fiddle, when I’m not coiling lines or swabbing the deck or answering dumb questions from tourists.
Amazing, actually. We saw an Atlantic right whale yesterday. One of the rarest creatures on the planet.
Huge. Came up out of the fog, right near Little Blue. Scared the bejeezus out of the gray-hairs.
That’s it, I guess. Except—you said your dad had left Quinn something…
Okay, okay; left it to Patrick Junior. Whatever—whomever. What was it?
“It’s private!” That’s a good one. Listen, my dad’s a lawyer, so we could see the will if Quinn turns out to be…
I see. So he gets the crown jewels if he’s related to your dad, a lump of coal if he’s not.
Try me. I’m not as dumb as you think.
Jackie Robinson? Wasn’t he that famous black ball player?
See? Told you I’m not a pinbrain.
A baseball card? How lame! He must not have thought much of his supposed son. And Quinn’s a hockey nut like the rest of Canada. Forget I asked.
Sure, we’ll tell you what happens. And you can call me—unless it feels too weird. Just remember: no cell coverage when we’re out in the wicked waters of Fundy.
You too. See ya.
Pitcher’s Balk
I finally reach Marty after practice the next afternoon. “Hey, it’s Brandon.”
“Hey,” he says. “Sorry I didn’t call back.”
“Everything okay?”
Long silence. Finally, he says, “We need to talk.”
“What’s up?”
“Not on the phone. Peets at four?”
*
Marty waits at a window table, drinking an iced coffee. He nods but doesn’t say anything. I buy a juice and pull up a chair. “So—spill it.”
He twists the plastic cup between his hands. I wait. Finally he meets my eyes. “You’re healthy, but you’re not at practice. Did you plan to tell me you’d quit the team?”
Damn. My palms are sweating. I set the juice down. “I didn’t exactly quit. You know the rules: miss too many practices, you’re benched.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re off the team.”
“No. It means I sit while you guys swim. I can’t stand that.”
“So how come Coach nags me, asks why you’re a no-show?”
“Sorry, Mart. I’ll call him if it makes you feel better. Frankly, I’ve had a few other things on my mind.” Sarcasm: I can’t help it.
“Okay. I get that. But I’m supposed to be your best friend. And you’re the one who talked me into joining the damned team. Remember? You said it would be so great to train together, take the bus to meets, stay in shape.”
His eyes look too big in his face—is it the buzz cut? And since when did he start shaving? Guess I am out of touch.
“You’re different now,” Marty says.
Unbelievable. “You’d be different too, if your dad checked out.” My knee bounces and I knock over my juice. I grab some napkins, mop up the mess and point to the door. “Let’s get out of here.”
He follows me outside. We stride to the parking lot out back and perch on the fence at a safe distance from each other. “Mart, I’m sorry you’re pissed—”
He puts his hand up like a traffic cop. “Hear me out. It sucks about your dad. Big time. You know I loved the guy. But you pulled me into the search for your so-called brother. It was like the old games we used to play, except this time, it was the real thing. I was ready to quit that stupid math class, buy a ticket—and then I find out you’re traveling with your aunt. That hurt. You leave these tantalizing messages, without any detail, and expect me to be all excited about your discoveries.”
I stare at him. “What’s going on? We getting a divorce or something?”
“I don’t know.” Marty’s voice shakes. “When’s the last time you asked what I’ve been up to? Do you know I screwed up the final test in that math class? That I met a foxy girl who only wants to be ‘friends’? That my sister’s night terrors wake me at three in the morning?”
I hold my head. It feels ready to burst. When I look up, I see red. Literally. The world is a flaming, bloody red. Mart
y’s buzz cut is on fire; so is the tree behind him, the pavement, the line of cars in the lot. I want to break something or punch someone: a tree, a window, even Marty—
I spot a rock—baseball size—grab it. Pull back my arm, kick my leg up like a pitcher ready to hurl—
“Bran, stop!” Marty grabs me, twists me around, and nearly knocks me off balance. He shoves my right arm up my back. “Are you nuts? Drop the stone.”
Small and wiry as he is, the guy is strong. I can’t get out of his grip. I do as he says and stagger to the railing where I lean over and retch. The pavement is black again, the railing silver, the tree beside me an ordinary brown.
A car pulls up and an older guy rolls down his window. “You boys all right?”
I wave at him. “Fine,” I croak—except that my shoulder hurts like hell.
Marty nods. “His dad died.” As if that explains why he had me in a hammerlock.
The guy waits a moment, scowling, before he drives off. I sink onto the fence, bury my head in my hands—and bawl. Big, sloppy sobs. Mart sits beside me, slings an arm across my shoulders, and hangs out there until I’m done.
“Man—I’m sorry,” Marty says. “You looked ready to murder someone.”
“Yeah. A car window. Fat lot of good that would do.” I wipe my face with my T-shirt. It comes away covered with snot. “Wow. Thanks for forcing me into a balk. I literally saw red. Weird. It’s bad enough Dad had to die. If his death wrecks our friendship—that’s the friggin’ last straw.”
“It’s not wrecked.” Marty’s eyes are wet, too. “Just—different.”
“Like everything in my life. And you’re right: I’m not the same. Maybe I’m a selfish bastard. I didn’t realize I was blowing you off.” I shiver.
“You cold?” Marty asks.
“Nah. I just realized: I went AWOL myself, on this trip to Canada. Like Dad. I’m really sorry, man. I mean that.”
“Thanks. And I don’t have a clue what it feels like to lose a father. Luckily,” Marty says.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Try me.”
I lean against a big old oak for support. The rough bark rubs against my T-shirt. “It’s not pretty. First, I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.” I tick off my thoughts, one by one. “Every day, I wake up thinking of something I need to tell him—or ask him—before I remember he’s not here.” I raise another finger. “When the doctor told me my heart was fine, I laughed, because a broken heart hurts like someone sliced it open with a knife.” I’m near tears again but I keep going. “Something scary: The first time I saw the Bay of Fundy and heard that you can’t outrun the tides, I imagined I could walk in, let it sweep me out to sea—but I knew it would kill my mom.”
Marty winces. “That would be shitty for me, too.”
“Thanks. And here’s the worst thing—though it sounds petty: This could be the year, for the Sox. If we make it all the way, Dad won’t be here to see it—or share it with me.” I’m blinking back tears again. “Enough with the list.”
“Damn,” Marty says. “You know—maybe I’m pissed that your dad died, too.”
I start to give him a stupid half-hearted guy hug—but he pulls me into a real one. We separate and walk quietly along tree-lined streets. The August heat shimmers on the pavement.
After a while, I glance at him. “Mind if I ask a heavy question?”
He shrugs. “Go ahead.”
“You believe in God?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure.”
“But you’re observant.”
“I like the Jewish traditions, the ceremonies.”
We cross another street, pass gardens in bloom, a man pruning his shrubs. “One more dumb one,” I say.
Marty nods. “Go on.”
“What happens after we die?”
He stops, plants his feet, looks me straight in the eye. “Are you kidding? Even our rabbi can’t answer that question.”
I laugh. “If the smartest guy in my class is clueless, I actually feel better.”
“Excuse me.” A woman clears her throat behind us. She’s walking a little champagne poodle with a pink bow on its head. We step aside as the poodle prances past.
“She looks like she’s been to the beauty parlor,” Marty says.
The woman turns around. “She has. Isn’t she pretty?”
“You bet.” We speak in unison. Marty raises his hand for a high five. I slap him one. “I don’t want to lose you, man.”
“You won’t.”
“Need to get home?” I ask him.
“In a while.”
“Then let’s keep walking. Tell me about life on this side of the border.”
Phone call: Quinn on Digby Neck, to a mobile phone in Brookline, Massachusetts
(Sound of throat clearing): Hello. Uh—is this Brandon?
Okay. So…em…Quinn here. Quinn Blanding. Tried to get Cat to make the call, but she refused.
Matter of fact, I do have news. You can keep that baseball card.
You guessed it. Genetic testing says we’re not related.
I know; thank God, eh?
Sorry I was such a bastard. You threw me for a loop, shook up the family big time.
That’s okay. We knew something was up when Cat found two birth certificates. Easier to blame it on you.
Too soon to tell. I guess Mum and Dad’ll be all right. Mum’s been high maintenance all her life and Dad doesn’t seem to mind. At least I can get a passport now.
Maybe Cuba.
Yeah, Canada’s cool with our traveling there. Your rules are crazy. But I’ll wait until winter. The fog’s quit at last. Little Blue goes out every day.
Yeah. We see whales, puffins, seals. Too bad you missed that.
So listen. Thanks for fishing Mum out of the drink. In spite of her hissy fits I’m glad she’s still around.
(pause)
Em…I was—pretty rude…about your dad’s passing. That’s harsh—even if he wasn’t my father.
Guess Cat told you baseball’s not my thing. Now, if your dad had left me a signed Wayne Gretzky card…
Can’t say I’ll call again, but you’re welcome. Ta.
Reverse the Curse
Quinn’s call puts me on edge. His voice was shaking. Must have taken him a while to work up his nerve. It’s almost midnight here; even later in Digby. He actually did sound sorry—and relieved. No surprise. This was a glitch in his life. Kind of a big one, for a few weeks, but now it’s over. He can travel to Cuba; his business is booming; his family will survive.
I should be happy, right? Once I’d met Quinn, my maudlin dreams of a lost sibling evaporated. I’m glad we’re not related. So why do I want to howl like a wolf?
Because I had a project, a goal. Now it’s just grim reality.
I toss and turn, listen to music on my iPod, but thoughts zing around in my brain like an old-fashioned pinball machine. I get up and send a simple e-mail to Ray, Cora, Leo, Janine, and Marty: Quinn is a Blanding not a McGinnis. Thanks for all your help. Talk soon. Love, B.
I lean out the window. The AC chugs from the apartment downstairs even though the air feels cool on my face. Moths do their drunken dance in the streetlight. I picture Dad getting the same talk from the cardiologist that I did, a few weeks back. Dad must have freaked when he heard it was congenital. For the thousandth time, I’m pissed that no one pushed Dad to do the surgery right away—
But Ray was right: Dad wanted to take care of us first; us meaning Quinn (aka Patrick) and me. He’d want to make sure we were okay before he went under the knife. The doc told us the surgery was risky, complicated. I can just imagine it: Dad bargaining, in his mind: he’d tell himself he’d take a few days to find his so-called son, rewrite his will, get me into the doctor, make sure I’m okay—and then he’d do the implant. Because surely Dad wanted to live—didn’t he? After all, his mantra was the same every morning since spring training: “This is the year. The year we reverse the curse.”
&n
bsp; I riffle through the pile of photos and letters on my desk and find Dad as the Lone Ranger. In spite of the silly mask, his eyes look trusting. He was an innocent kid, before war made him grow up and move away. Before some woman named Victoria screwed him over.
Poor Dad. He died thinking he had another son, a kid he never knew—whose mother was supposedly Victoria Martin, the Witch. All those years, he never knew the truth. Ray’s probably right: easier for Dad to lock that memory up, pretend the kid didn’t exist. Until suddenly, he needed to save him: the way Dad wanted to rescue everyone—except himself.
“Dad,” I whisper. “Where are you?”
I breathe. In. Out. Close my eyes. Listen.
He answers.
I swear. If that means I’m like one of his clients, the ones who hear voices: fine. I listen, every cell in my body on high alert.
Bran. I’d give anything to be here with you. I didn’t want to die. I’m so sorry. Be good to your mom. She’s an angel. And hey. Now I’m gone, you’d better cheer twice as loud for the Sox. Follow the dream.
Clear as anything, I hear what he said every night before I closed my door, including his last night on earth: Love ya. Don’t ever forget it.
Believe me, Dad. I won’t.
*
A lonesome church bell chimes once. This is ridiculous. I need to do something. I pull on a T-shirt and sweats. No sound from Mom’s room. I close the hall door, cross the living room. Maxine winds herself in and out of my legs, almost tripping me. I shoo her away.
I turn on the small light over the stove and ease the cupboards open softly, as if I’m robbing the place. I lift lids from the bins, line up my ingredients. Flour. Oil. Yeast: I check the date; still viable. Can’t find honey; brown sugar will do. Powdered milk, ground ginger. Water trickles over my wrist until it’s the right temp: not too hot, not too cold. Fill a cup, sprinkle yeast on the water, feed it a teaspoon of sugar and a pinch of ginger, set it aside to proof.
This was Dad’s routine. He learned to bake bread in Canada. Baking bread at the Yellow Ford Truck, where draft resisters hung out, was the only thing Dad ever talked about from his years up north. And one rainy afternoon, when I was thirteen and bored, he decided it was my turn.