On Time

by Paul Kozerski

  He stayed objective. Being a Marine was what Mike had truly wanted and you knew that paying the ultimate price was more ascribed to infantrymen than any other service branch. All-out brawls had always garnered Leathernecks the lion’s share of Purple Hearts - a good portion of them being awarded posthumously. But, even aware of the hardscrabble, hand-to-hand burden of anyone having earned the right to be a combat Marine, it just seemed to Joe that the Fates should have been willing to cut some sort of bargain to a new generation rifleman within a given family.

  Shouldn’t the elder, in having paid the first Graczyk blood, also gain some ticket of safe passage for one following? Why was it that Joe, as a young man with nothing to lose, should be spared, while a son with everything to gain, should be taken?

  A clatter of tightening couplers broke his spell. The line of flatcars briefly rocked backwards, then slowly gathered their slack and moved off. The tanks started around a curve and passed out of sight.

  Joe finished his short walk home to find Sarah on her knees, busy with a late season cleaning of their flowerbeds. Further down, he spied the garage’s open side door.

  “How’s it going?”

  Sarah dabbed a work shirt cuff about her perspired face.

  “Getting there. How’s the neighborhood?”

  Still looking toward the garage, Joe replied absently.

  “Holding its own.”

  “Anything new?”

  “Nah.”

  So far, he’d neglected saying anything about his Sabbath clean-out task. Though now running out of time, the man cleared his throat.

  “By the way, don’t know if I mentioned it. But, I’m going to help out with some short work tomorrow.”

  Sarah glanced up.

  “No, you didn’t. It’s been a long while since your last weekend work. What’s so special about this?”

  “No big deal. Has to do with the Rahl Brothers shop. The bankruptcy lawyers finally got everything squared away and the road can go onto their property after five o’clock, for some freight loads stuck there.”

  She considered her garden trowel.

  “Curious time and day of the week.”

  “You know,” he reasoned. “Lawyers.”

  “Couldn’t an extra crew handle it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So, why you?”

  He downplayed the matter with a trifling shrug.

  “You know how that spur is. Like a plate of spaghetti; all tricky, up and down hill stuff. Besides, I’m the only one left around here still familiar with it.”

  Sarah rocked back, framing her husband intuitively.

  “Anything else?”

  He could never lie to the woman.

  “Well, the power assignment is kind of finicky.”

  She twitched to a quick snap of insight.

  “It’s 2105, isn’t it?”

  Her acuity was staggering, but Joe forced a casual reply.

  “Yeah. Just came in. Last little job before they junk it.”

  Recalling all their shared late-night torment, Sarah appraised her man.

  “You sure about this?”

  He took her hard in the eye.

  “To pay back all the guys in going to bat for me during that hearing? You bet I am. And running it is something I might need for myself. Maybe to finally close the book on what’s never left me be.”

  Sarah looked on, silent and dubious, as Joe further trivialized the matter.

  “Besides, it’s a quick and simple job. Gravy money. From what I heard, it’s been a long time since anything’s happened with the old hag. And what can go wrong almost in sight of my own neighborhood?”

  Sarah turned aside.

  “Maybe it’s overdue.”

  Joe ended the subject with a motion toward the garage.

  “You know better than leaving the door open like that. Mice or something could get inside.”

  “I didn’t,” she said, returning to work. “Thought I saw Jim go that way, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “Hey,” Sarah remembered. “Didn’t you say you’d help me with this?”

  But, already starting ahead, Joe didn’t answer.

  CHAPTER 46

  Jim stood silent and alone at the workbench, amid the items he’d taken from his father’s private memento cache. Fanned about, rested the keepsake core of what was his lost brother.

  Familiar boyhood tokens made Jim smile. But beyond, were items that brought no cheer; those military cerements given in unfair trade for Mike’s life. Commonplace Korean Service and United Nations duty medallions were first, with the only symbol of true military significance being his brother’s Purple Heart. Old and new, bitter and sweet, to Jim this array would forever be where Mike’s true essence resided. Not in the far-off casket holding his wasted husk, but eternally infused here. And, as he did in secret from time to time, Jim dared to commune with the relics and their owner, once more, today.

  Hello Mike. I’m here again. To admit what you’ve probably known for a long time. That I love Lorraine. I always have and always will. And, impossible as it is, I want you to know, on all I hold sacred, that if I could ever think of a way to finally convince her to have me I’d be good to her and your daughter, for the rest of my life.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT STUFF!”

  Jim cringed at his father’s abrupt appearance.

  “I’m not hurting anything,” he stammered.

  Joe shouldered his son away.

  “I didn’t ask you that! I asked what you were doing with my personal property!”

  Jim exhibited the tiny ribbon from Joe’s dyno run.

  “You forgot this in the engine cab. I was meaning to give it to you. But, with everything else going on since, I forgot, until today. When I remembered, this seemed like the best place for it to be.”

  The quick fire in Joe’s eyes said no words could excuse any trespass on his wall box.

  “That cabinet is my private place! No one else’s! It’s locked for a reason and you have no business being in it, at all!”

  Jim stood impotently by, as its contents were swept from about him. But for once, he felt a deep and foreign part of himself rise up in protest.

  “You talk of rights, Pa. Okay, the space and box are yours. There, I was dead wrong. But part of Mike belongs to Mom and me, too. And you have no right keeping him locked away and to yourself like you do.”

  Joe indignantly clutched the artifacts.

  “Don’t go telling me what I should do, when you should stay clear of things that aren’t yours!”

  Brought up by the outburst, Sarah forgot her yard work and sprinted toward the raised voices. She arrived in the opened doorframe as Jim finally tore away the never healing scab shared with his father.

  “What is it, Pa? What has always made you and me into strangers? We work the same job at the same place for the same company. And yet we know anybody else there better than we do, each other. So, what is it?”

  Jim touched a hand to his chest.

  “Is it somehow my fault in being born? Is that it? Please tell me, because, I can’t guess anymore. When Mike was alive, we could deal with each other through him. But ever since he died, I swing between being ignored and some sort of target.

  “Well, whatever, let me apologize right now. I’m sorry that I’m all that’s left. But, look on the bright side. Maybe there’ll be another war soon. Then maybe I can go off and get killed to make you a pair of ghosts.”

  The back of Joe’s hand launched out with Jim’s last word. It landed solidly on his undefended cheek and mouth, snapping the young man’s head aside.

  With it, Sarah charged in, arms spread and raised in supplication.

  “NO! JOE! JIM! BOYS - PLEASE!”

  Jim’s mouth bunched to a quick tw
ist of pain. Hot tears burned at the corners of his eyes, while his mother reached out, dabbing the ooze of blood welling on his split lower lip. But he drew away, gently intercepting and deferring her hands.

  “No, Mom. It’s better to finally get things out, in the open.”

  Gathering his dignity behind a weak smile, Jim faced his father in a tone of exhausted relief.

  “Sorry, Pa. The crown could never fit, anyway. But, you did get part of your wish. Because, I don’t work for DeLynne Leplak anymore. Or the road. I quit both yesterday. And now, I guess I’m quits here, too.”

  Sarah swept out desperate hands. Grabbing her husband with one and son with the other, she tried physically to bridge and reconcile the pair.

  “Joe! Jimmy! After all we’ve been through together, our family doesn’t need this!”

  Her son dwelt only long enough to lovingly kiss her fingers and repeat himself.

  “It’s best this way, Mom; to finally get it over and done with.”

  Joe fired his jaw toward the open doorway.

  “You still here? I thought you were going.”

  Jim split a final glimpse between his brother’s possessions and his father.

  “You know, the whole time you were on that dyno run I was so proud of you that I could have busted wide open. But, what’s it matter? Nothing ever changes with you. All you know is yourself.

  “Well, do that self a big favor, Pa. The next time you look in the mirror, stop and see if you even know who’s really looking back.”

  CHAPTER 47

  A long Saturday afternoon ground its slow way toward night. Sitting alone sipping whisky, Jim Graczyk passed the time perched on a corner stool at Eddie’s bar. The usual Saturday crowd had changed faces three times since he’d arrived; from late morning dziadzias gathered to nurse a weekly brandy with their cronies, to the half-a-workday, sandwich-and-beer boys. Postgame, neighborhood league bowlers then downed a few rounds of boilermakers, before home and supper.

  A dinnertime lull followed and now the evening lounge crew sifted in. Lone patrons staked out their favorite barstools and couples made claim to a false intimacy offered by the joint’s few booths. The tiny square of open space between became an intermittent dance floor and arena of hopeful embraces, while ballad tunes moaned over the mob owned jukebox.

  An astute barkeep as Eddie couldn’t help, but to have noticed the fresh welt on Jim’s lip. That, along with the fact that the young Graczyk was an infrequent customer, made today’s extended visit something very atypical. But, like the valued friend he was, Ed respected the young man’s privacy and made no mention of things.

  The witching hour was in sight when Jim beckoned the man over for yet another round of whisky. While Eddie poured, Jim studied the red headline of an old newspaper, setting framed, beyond. It was parchment brittle from its decade immersed in cigarette smoke, yet held the world-famous photo of determined Leathernecks raising Old Glory atop Mount Suribachi. Beside, rested a tiny, dusty vial of black island sand.

  Jim parroted the headline as his glass was topped off.

  “Marines Take Iwo!”

  Then, was the first time that day when Eddie really spoke to him.

  “You okay, kid?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Sure.”

  Jim motioned behind.

  “So, you were there, huh, Eddie - on Iwo Jima?”

  The bartender nodded.

  “With a bunch of others.”

  “Did you seem ‘em do that? Raise that flag?”

  “They raised two and I saw both.”

  Jim spread his fingers, counting off.

  “You were in the Corps. My dad was in the Corps. My brother. Hell, half this town. Maybe I should join up. Think there’d be a future for me there, outside this burg?”

  The barkeep shrugged benevolently.

  “You could do worse in life.”

  Jim chuckled. Shaking his head, he plopped a self-deprecating hand to his chest.

  “Nope. Wouldn’t work. See, I’m a shirker, Eddie. A loser. Second best.”

  The bar tender hovered there. Subtly checking for eavesdroppers, he flipped his damp towel over a shoulder, then leaned forward, speaking low.

  “Kid, I normally make it a practice to stay out of other people’s business. But, I also make rare exceptions for the few I think of as family. And that’s right now. You’ve been working on a pretty good package here since before noon. Don’t get me wrong. For a rookie, you’ve waded through a fifth of sour mash with the best of ‘em. But I think maybe it’s time you pulled the plug on this one and called it a night.”

  Jim straightened and thrust a wandering index finger ahead.

  “You are absolutely right, Eddie, my boy.”

  Instead of leaving, though, Jim fumbled about his pocket and retrieved a crumpled two dollar bill. He placed it on the sticky bar top, meticulously smoothing the racetrack brand of currency, before pointing at a half-pint of whisky.

  “But first, Mister Jefferson here, requests the presence of Mister Daniels there, for the return trip.”

  Eddie hovered between the money and its owner, not moving until Jim motioned him curtly on.

  “Come, come now, my good man. Is this a tavern or not? If it is, I want a half-pint of Old Number 7, to go. Chop! Chop!”

  Eddie fetched a small, black-labeled bottle from the liquor display and set it between them. In reaching ahead, though, Jim found the barkeep’s fingers welded to its glass.

  “You’re a grown man,” declared Eddie quietly, “who can make his own choices.”

  Jim tipped a hand to his forehead in salute of the recognition.

  “Well, thank you. I’ve never heard that said before just now.”

  “My point,” continued Eddie, “is, that your ma and pa are like kin to me and if you walked out of here soused and got yourself hurt in some dumb way, they might never speak to me again. And I ain’t got many real friends to spare.”

  Eddie looked to a weekend regular, some barstools down.

  “Say, Glen.”

  The man turned. “Yeah?”

  “You know Joe Graczyk, don’t you?”

  “Sure. Everybody does.”

  “This is his boy. Think you could give him a lift home, to 54th and 32nd?”

  The man bobbed his head.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Eddie nodded in thanks.

  “Next time in, first round’s on the house.”

  The man looked to Jim.

  “Be ready in a couple minutes.”

  But Jim straightened and waved off both men.

  “No. No. No. Darn it, Eddie. Don’t go and ruin what you just said. I’m a grown man, who can make my own choices, remember? I’ve got what, a whole, two blocks to get home? I could crawl that far blindfolded.”

  Relinquishing the bottle, Eddie also nudged the greenback toward its owner.

  “All right. And I don’t want your money, kid. Bottle’s on me. Just be safe is all I say.”

  Jim spun about and off the barstool. Battling a case of uncertain legs, he swayed a moment, found a workable center of gravity, then sauntered through the door.

  “See ya’, Eddie. Stay real.”

  Even for a Saturday night, the surrounding neighborhood was oddly subdued. After the tavern’s stuffy warmth, the coarse, open air was dank and penetrating. A growing mist also worked to smother any feeble cheer from the few late lights burning in nearby homes.

  Jim loitered outside the bar for a time. With no direction in mind, he broke open the seal of his fresh bottle. Maybe a quick gulp would offer some new compass heading. But cocking back, his eyes settled on rips in the overcast and a peculiar shine of far-off moon.

  Tonight, the tranquil sphere was curiously adorned, and even tipsy, held Jim’s attention. He watched as a repeating swirl of i
cy colors bloomed and marched across its face, one shade giving way to others in a rainbowed corona.

  A pewter tone came first. One that swelled and wormed, dulling to a tarnished brass. In turn, the brass soured and leavened into a dusty mauve, restarting the curious cycle.

  It was odd and puzzling. Some type of cloud-moon, reflection-refraction? Jim could only guess and finally stumbled backwards, nearly spilling his precious liquid escort. He protectively raked the bottle in with one hand and shot a dismissing wave heavenward, with the other.

  “Ah, what’re you looking at?”

  But the unexplained light show went on, its owner peeking between cloud breaks as if in silent witness to a fatal drama ordained for the young man below. Jim though, ignored it. Downing another punitive gulp, he recapped his bottle and shuffled off.

  His vagrant pace came to an end, when crossing the lifeless intersection of 52nd Avenue and 34th Street. There, he gazed down the block, toward a dim and sleeping Siwicki household. Tonight, the familiar dwelling loomed as Jim’s greatest personal failure. Yet, in his present condition, also one he felt worth revisiting - regardless of the hour or consequence. Another nip of liquor bolstered his decision and he veered hard left, targeting the murky residence.

  Jim arrived at the sturdy bungalow with a new sense of purpose and a cold, mounting drizzle. He considered the place, then tediously scaled its run of cement steps. Oblivious to his condition or the time, he knocked on the front door in drunken resolve.

  For a few minutes there was no response. Then a hallway light flashed on. Moments later, an irritated female voice questioned his rude interruption from behind the heavy barricade.

  “Who’s there?”

  It was Lorraine’s mother. And roused from bed, she wasn’t the least bit receptive about an early morning visitor. She called again, now with rapidly growing aggravation.

  “I said, who’s there?!”

  “It’s me,” answered Jim.

  “Me, who?”

  A porch light came on and the top of the woman’s head appeared in the high door glass. Standing on tiptoes, she struggled to see outside, into the growing drizzle.