All I can think is they had to have lost a bet with some family member. Uncle Jim, or Aunt Jill, maybe. “I think you came out on top in the name department.”
Jaye winks. “Me, too.”
“What is this ‘in’ I supposedly have with your father?”
“You’ll see.”
“You said you’d tell me.”
“All in good time.”
Mildly put out, I throw the age thing at her again. “You realize you’ll be spending the weekend with people who will reminisce about the ’60s and ’70s because we lived through them?”
Jaye’s bright mood abruptly fades. “Actually, they don’t talk much about the ’70s. Dad was in Canada for most of those years, and Mom wasn’t. They didn’t get married until he came back.”
“Why was he in Canada?” I ask, but as soon as I say “why” the answer comes to me.
Jaye pauses, then tells me what I already guessed. “He refused to fight in Vietnam.”
“Oh.”
Jaye takes my even tone the wrong way and gets defensive. “He says a lot of people went to Canada back then. That it was a popular thing to do.”
“He’s right,” I say calmly. “Going to Canada was a hell of a lot more popular than going into the Army. At least, that’s how I remember it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I was a kid, but I could still tell the mood of the country was ugly. Even my mother, who was mega-conservative and mega-Republican and a mega-Nixon supporter, said Vietnam was an immoral war. Your father was doing what he thought was right. He sounds like a man of conscience and conviction, and I can understand why he did what he did.”
“I think he’s going to like you.”
“I hope so.”
Jaye’s parents arrive early Friday evening. They prove to be what I expected, but taller. Thomas Stokes is well over six feet, a lean, spare man whose eyes match Jaye’s to a T. Marcia Stokes is right at Jaye’s height, and they share strong sturdy builds. The two appear well-grounded, a little reserved, and clearly loving and protective of their daughter. I watch their ease with each other, envious. My parents and I didn’t have any sort of close relationship.
Their reaction to me is mixed. Jaye’s mother greets me politely but coolly, while her father—“call me Tom”—is more willing to give me a chance. We exchange the usual pleasantries as we haul the Stokes’ luggage up the stairs and into the second bedroom. I’m in a space with four people again. Thank goodness it’s only for a couple of nights.
Dinner is takeout barbecue plus one of Jaye’s gourmet salads, with key lime pie for dessert. I may try grilling steaks on Sunday, but only if I haven’t been filleted myself by then. The food is great, the chemistry less so. In an odd move, Jaye has put on some music, a soft pop playlist providing an unobtrusive backdrop to the slight tensions between us all. I’m soon wishing I could up the volume because Jaye’s mother does not waste any time showing where her loyalties lie.
“I talked to Kathleen this week, dear. She misses you.”
It takes me a second to remember Nickory’s given name is Kathleen. I should also have remembered Jaye telling me her parents were part of Nickory’s ‘family.’
“That’s nice.” Jaye says neutrally, calmly shredding the chicken sitting on her plate. “Did she tell you why we’re not talking?”
“Not in so many words. It’s a shame since you two have always been such good friends.”
“Friends support one another, Mom. She stopped supporting me.”
“So, Rachel,” Jaye’s father says to me in a blatant attempt to change the subject. “You’re a writer, I understand?”
“My second career, yes. I was an air traffic controller until a couple of years ago.”
Mrs. Stokes—I’m not even daring to think of her as Marcia yet—allows this diversion, but she’s clearly not done with the topic of Nickory. She’s merely biding her time.
“Exciting,” Tom Stokes says. “You must have some stories.”
“Maybe a few the flying public wouldn’t want to hear.”
“Try me. I don’t fly much.”
“Jaye does.”
This earns me a playful tap on my arm from the woman in question. “Fifty million people can’t be wrong.”
I relate a fun but harmless story about the time a certain billionaire pilot tried to cut the holding pattern at Aspen. Bad weather, lots of planes trying to land, he wanted to be first, and the controller working the airspace (not me) essentially told him to shut up and wait his turn.
“His jet was like, fifteenth in line to land, which meant at least two hours because it was snowing so hard at Aspen. So, after several minutes of whining and griping, he finally gets that we weren’t going to give him special privileges, and changes his destination to Grand Junction. He lands there, goes to the local Jeep dealership, pays cash for four Grand Cherokees, and the whole party drives to Aspen.”
Jaye and her father laugh. Mrs. Stokes gives a polite smile.
“Does anybody get special privileges in the air?” Jaye asks.
“The President,” I say with a grin. “A few secret things I can’t tell you about.” Then, more seriously, “And emergencies. Emergencies always get priority.”
Which must click something in Jaye’s father’s memory. He asks, “Were you working on 9/11?”
A pall of sadness seems to drop over us, and it takes a moment for me to answer. “Yes,” I say. “One of the weirdest days of my life.”
Mr. Stokes, who I really do want to call Tom, asks a couple of astute questions about that fateful day, and we all recount where we were when we heard the news. I discover Jaye is the only one of us who actually ever went to the World Trade Center.
“You remember,” she says to her parents. “In 2000. The last U-20 tourney I was in. The team went up to Windows on the World for lunch.” Her eyes drift back into memory and cloud a little. “The view was incredible.”
She falls silent, and for a moment the lost towers and her lost dream juxtapose. The iPhone music maestro seems to know it because the playlist chooses an Al Stewart song next, a song which talks about, among other things, the aftermath of 9/11.
“Go figure,” Tom Stokes says softly.
I gape at Jaye in puzzlement. “I didn’t know you had Al Stewart in your iTunes.”
She snaps back to the present, glances first at her father, then at me. “I don’t. That’s your phone.”
I nod, knowing now why every song was familiar. I’m ready to let the moment go until I see Tom Stokes staring at me with surprise.
“You’re an Al Stewart fan?” he asks, and lo, I discover my ‘in.’
Al Stewart is a Scottish singer who had a couple of big pop hits back in the ’70s. To most people he disappeared after “Year of the Cat,” but in reality, he kept putting out albums, good ones, for the next thirty years. He still plays shows in small venues here and there to a devoted, loyal group of hard-core followers. I like his songs because a lot of them deal with his take on historical events. Not your typical pop/rock singer at all.
“Yes, I bought all his records, then replaced them with all his CDs.”
“I still have the records,” Tom Stokes says, with a slight sense of wonder. “Do you know I’ve never met another Al Stewart fan until now?”
I steal a glance at Jaye, who’s smiling like a canary-stuffed cat. I also notice Mrs. Stokes rolling her eyes.
“Neither have I,” I say to Tom. “He’s always been a secret treasure.”
“Exactly,” he says, and for the first time since we carried in the luggage, I can believe things might work out with at least one future in-law.
I awake the next morning to the aroma of bacon and—could it be?—waffles coming from the kitchen.
“Jaye, somebody’s cooking.”
My lover burbles incoherently and slumbers on. I slide out of bed and get dressed, then venture out. As soon as
I open the bedroom door a plethora of heavenly smells washes over me. Someone is engaged in major breakfast building.
Two someones, actually. I pop my head out of the hall to see both Mr. and Mrs. Stokes working in the kitchen. They move around the tiny area in a graceful dance bespeaking of long familiarity with each other, and comfort in small places. While he mixes eggs in a bowl, Tom also oversees the bacon. Mrs. Stokes stands over another bowl, samples the waffle batter within it, and adds something to the mix.
I observe this for a moment. This is what Jaye grew up with. This is the kind of marital harmony Jaye saw all her childhood years. Comfort, affection, closeness. No wonder she believes she can have it with me.
“Good morning?” I say as I come into the living area.
Tom Stokes gives me a very Jaye-like grin. “Morning, Rachel! I hope you’re a breakfast person.”
I respond with a vigorous nod. “Smells wonderful.”
“It’ll wake up Jaye in a minute,” Mrs. Stokes says with confidence. “Waffles are her favorite.”
I smile. “She told me she’s had her waffle iron since college. We haven’t used it yet.”
“We’ll start it off right for you,” Tom says. “Marcia’s waffles are the best.”
I stop short at the profusion of items spread across the kitchen counter. “Um, we didn’t have any of this stuff last night.”
“We got up early, went and got groceries,” Marcia says.
Tom is still grinning. “Farmers, remember? Want some coffee?”
“Thanks, no. I prefer tea.”
“Coming right up.” He fills a mug with water and pops it in the microwave.
“How about I set the table?” I have to do something to help me feel useful amidst all this efficiency.
“Already done,” Tom says. “Have a seat.”
I bow out to the breakfast experts and obey. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. You’re the guests.”
“Oh, we always make breakfast for the girls.” Tom opens the microwave and presents me with tea, gestures to cream and honey already on the table. “You know, when Jaye lived with Nickory and Bree. Got to be a habit.”
“Thank you. I’m sure Jaye’s told you I’m not much of a cook.”
“Neither is she,” Jaye’s mom says with a sigh. “She was always busy playing soccer or practicing to play soccer or away at tournaments playing soccer.”
“She’s still busy doing that,” I say with affection.
I watch as the eggs go into the skillet for scrambling, and the first waffle starts cooking in the iron.
“I guess I’ll go wake Jaye.”
Tom glances over my shoulder. “No need.”
I turn around and see Jaye walk out of the little hallway.
“Waffles!” she says with delight. She enters the kitchen and gives each of her parents a hug. I get a nice kiss on the cheek, then Jaye sits down next to me. “Isn’t this great to wake up to?”
“So far, so great,” I say, meaning it.
And it is, all of us digging in with gusto, right up until Marcia brings up the evening’s plans, which involve Jaye’s ex-roommates. “Tom and I are having dinner with them after the game.”
“You are?” Jaye and I say in unison. My peripheral vision, still honed to ATC standards, catches Jaye’s father covering a smile as he bites into his waffle.
“Of course we are,” Mrs. Stokes continues. “Kathleen and Bree are like our own kids, and we have to do something to make you all friends again.”
Lovely. Jaye sits there, stone-faced, but says nothing before going back to her breakfast.
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” I venture then, somewhat timidly. Jaye glares at me. “Well, I miss Bree.”
“You haven’t seen her at the games?” Jaye asks.
“No. Either she’s avoiding me or she’s been working. Have you talked to her?”
“No.”
“See, Jaye?” Mom says. “That’s simply not right.”
Jaye puts her fork down. “Mom, I have my reasons, okay? Nickory basically told me it was her or Rachel. And Rachel wins. Every time.”
The words are nice, even if Jaye snaps them out like muted rifle shots.
“I’m sure Kathleen wants what’s best for you, dear.”
“Rachel is what’s best for me.” Jaye puts her arm around my shoulder. “I love this woman. She’s good and kind and smart, and I’ll never find anyone better. You heard her. Even she thinks Nickory and I should be friends again.”
“If they can work it out,” I say. “But it’s their choice.”
Jaye starts in again. “See? And all Nickory did from day one was try to tear us down. I’m not willing to be friends with someone who tries to undermine my happiness. So, go do what you want tonight, but when you guys come back, Rachel and I will be here, together. Like we’re meant to be.”
Breakfast breaks up, but the tension lingers. Jaye goes off to do a short run, and Mrs. Stokes grabs the empty bathroom for a shower. I opt to do the dishes and try to dissuade Tom from helping me.
“You guys made a great breakfast. The least I can do is clean up.”
“Thanks,” he says and grabs a dishtowel, “but it’s quicker with two.”
He’s right, and he’s so relaxed that I make no protest as he brings the dishes over from the table. I rinse them before loading them in the dishwasher. The skillets and waffle iron we tackle at the sink. I wash, Tom dries, and we find a comfortable rhythm, chatting at first about Al Stewart songs, then moving on to something more serious.
“Jaye says she told you I was in Canada years ago, and you guessed why.”
“I was only a kid then, but I remember the times.”
Tom finishes drying the last of the skillets, hands it to me to put away. “You said I had conscience and conviction. Did you mean it or were you just buttering her up?”
His tone is light, but I see what he’s getting at. I put the skillet with the others in a cabinet, pour the last of the coffee, and give the cup to Tom.
“I don’t know what your true motives were,” I say while making another cup of tea, “but I like to think the best. And either way, noble intentions or running away, it has to be a hard decision when you’re eighteen years old.”
“I was nineteen. And I wasn’t running away.” Tom Stokes pauses for a long moment, probably deciding how much to tell me. Then he says “My father fought in World War II, and he won medals, and I thought I could do it, too. But it wasn’t the same kind of war.”
“No, it wasn’t, not at all.” We reseat ourselves at the table, doctor our drinks with cream and, in my case, a generous dollop of honey.
“World War II, there was a cause there,” Tom says, “a good reason for fighting. Vietnam was a waste. And when push came to shove, I couldn’t sacrifice myself for an immoral war.”
“That’s what my mother called it. Immoral.”
Tom nods. “I spent almost six years in Canada. Worked on a farm in Saskatchewan. After the war ended I could have stayed, the government there was granting citizenship to the conscientious objectors, but it never felt like home to me. And Marcia didn’t want to leave the U.S. or live that far north. I came back in 1977.”
“After Carter pardoned everybody.” President Jimmy Carter had offered all the Vietnam era draft dodgers a pardon shortly after he took office in 1977.
“Well,” Tom clarifies, “you had to ask for the pardon. You had to admit you’d broken the law. And I did, so I could come back.”
“Home to marriage, another farm, and at least one wonderful kid.”
He smiles. “All our kids are wonderful. You’ll get to meet Jonh and Jeena soon, and you’ll see.”
“And will I learn why you named your son Jonh, J-O-N-H?”
He laughs. “If we haven’t told him, what makes you think we’ll tell you?”
We fall into a comfortable silence. I think over what he’s shared wi
th me and what I remember about my own childhood. And my own father.
“Can I say something, sir?”
“Please do. And call me Tom.”
“My father served in World War II, like yours did. He was in the Pacific theater, at Iwo Jima and Okinawa, and he never talked about what he went through or what he saw. Awful things, I’m sure.”
“My dad was in Europe. D-Day, then all the way to Germany. He never talked about it either.”
“I was a history major. I tried to get him to open up a couple of times. But he never did. We were never close. My father was a good person, but he was always distant, and I believe whatever he went through during the war helped make him that way.”
“You can’t know for sure.”
“True. But there were all these people at his funeral who kept talking about what he was like before World War II—and after. It changed him. I may be out of line here, but when I see the way you interact with your wife and with Jaye, how close you are, I think you did the right thing. If you had chosen to go to war, especially a war you didn’t believe in, it would have changed you, too. And maybe you wouldn’t be as close to your family as you are now.”
Over the next few seconds Tom’s whole demeanor opens up. He gives me a smile just like Jaye’s, but before he can say anything, there’s a noise from behind us, and Marcia Stokes comes out of the hallway to stand behind her husband.
“Do you mean that?” she asks me. “Do you truly think Tom did the right thing?”
“Yes. I don't say things I don’t mean.”
Mrs. Stokes isn’t ready to melt yet. “Jaye had some trouble a long time ago with an older woman.”
“The soccer coach bitch? Jaye told me about her.”
“Yes,” Tom says, suppressing a smile. “Her.”
Mrs. Stokes gives not an inch. “You can see why we’d be concerned then.”
“Yes, ma’am, I can. But I promise you, I’ll never do to Jaye what that woman did. I love your daughter very much, and I want to be with her for as long as she’ll have me. I hope it’s for the rest of my life.”
This whole time Jaye’s mother’s expression has been one of, shall we say, thoughtful suspicion. But she lets my words roll around in her brain, and I see her make a decision.
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