Unreliable

by Lee Irby

  “This is a Tokarev TT-33,” he continues. “Feel how heavy it is. Over two pounds.”

  Mead carefully places the grip in my right palm and I clasp it, though because of its heft I nearly drop it. “How could you even aim this thing?” I lift the gun up and point it at a bare concrete wall.

  “The person this belonged to never had to fire it very often. He was a general, a tactician of the highest order, one of the greatest warriors the world has ever known, Vo Nguyen Giap.”

  The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I’m no expert on the Vietnam War or much of anything, except for various execrations in which I’m constantly embroiled. “I can’t say that I know much about him.”

  “He was the architect of our defeat in Southeast Asia. But before that, he ousted the French at the crucial battle of Dien Bien Phu.”

  “I think I had that for dinner last night.”

  My lame joke goes through Mead like an X-ray. Frowning, he takes the pistol back from me and somehow ends up pointing it directly at my temple. At least that’s what it seems like. “Giap had this very gun with him on the battlefield as he watched the French troops get cut down in a barrage of mortar shells.”

  I step away to avoid the barrel in the remote chance the gun is loaded, but I’m also wondering if Mead isn’t sending me a signal of some kind. Or he’s just a clueless idiot. Whatever, he’s pissing me off. “If it’s so valuable, maybe you should put it away before something happens to it.”

  He blinks uncomprehendingly at this statement and lowers the gun to his side. “He’s still alive, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Giap. He’s over a hundred years old. The bastard might live forever and keep rubbing our noses in it. But we could’ve won the war, and there’s one good reason why it never happened.”

  “Because of Jane Fonda?” There’s a sharp edge to my voice that he either ignores or enjoys, being something of a loose cannon himself.

  “Because LBJ didn’t have the guts to bomb Hanoi, the enemy capital. I’m not aware of any theory of war that allows the victor to triumph without cutting out the heart of the vanquished. Instead we bombed the jungles, the Mekong River, little thatch huts, Cambodia, Laos, ourselves—everything except the one city that would’ve made the North Vietnamese surrender in about two seconds.” He pauses this disquisition and stares glumly at Giap’s pistol, caressing the trigger with a curled index finger, in an effort to retrieve the last vestiges of whatever totemistic power remains in it. It’s obvious that his emotional involvement with Nam runs deep, even though he never fought there or anywhere since he was never in the armed forces, according to Graves. But he still doesn’t have the right to point a gun at me, even inadvertently.

  “When the French surrendered at Dien Bien Phu,” he resumes, putting the pistol back in its special box, “the fate of hundreds of thousands of American soldiers was sealed. One of them was my father, who died during the Tet Offensive.”

  He gazes at me with glossy eyes, reminding me of an earnest student who genuinely has no idea what a thesis statement is. And my response is the same: “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

  He stacks the box atop the others like it and lets his hand linger there. “I never knew him. I was just a baby when he died. But I suppose it explains my fascination with the war. And the truth is, Edwin, all that you see here, all of this, if my plan works out, will allow your mother and me to live comfortably for a long, long time.”

  “So you’re selling this stuff off?”

  “Most of it, yes. And that’s an interesting story. There’s a potential buyer who wants to stage a reenactment of the battle of Khe Sanh next January in the jungles of Honduras, and what this person most craves is authenticity, which I can supply in spades. My collection is all legit. No replicas, the real deal from the time period. I have pieces no one else in the world has.”

  “There are Vietnam War reenactors? I know people are into the Civil War…”

  “The subculture is small but fanatical. No one has ever attempted to stage the battle of Khe Sanh, because of its epic scale. Gettysburg took what? Three days? Operation Charlie took sixteen.”

  I hear a door above creak open, followed by footsteps on the stairs. “Lunch is ready!” my mother calls down to us.

  “Be right there, honey!” Mead responds, and I recoil at the term of endearment he employs so casually, because it seems obscene coming from his mouth. Bev instructed me never to call her “baby,” “doll,” “sugar,” or any other cliché that she likened to termite rot, as such words concealed the damage being done beneath the surface. She hated holding hands in public. Whenever I asked for oral sex, her reply was the same: Would you ever put one of those in your mouth? Case closed. Which is why the one and only blow job she ever gave me, when I think back on it, still sends chills down my spine—because it was done out of pity, after she’d told me she wanted out, and I was waylaid with anger and self-loathing, intensified by a fortnight of sleeping on the sofa—and then she came to me, after getting out of the shower, hair still wet and wrapped in a towel, her robe pulled tight, and I hated the very sight of her. Her confidence, her self-assurance. She never said one word. Jon Stewart was mocking Rush Limbaugh on the telly. Bev used the remote to turn it off, and then she walked over to me and leaned down between my legs. No explanation, no warning shots. Just a sally toward my groin. I wanted to push her away! By then sex had become utterly humiliating to me, and here she was again, forcing me to endure one more failure because she felt sorry for me. But the things she whispered that night, holding my penis like a microphone! Never before had I ever heard her use such foul language, in a voice throaty and raw—before I knew it, without really understanding why, I was fully erect and strangely elated. Maybe our marriage wasn’t over. Maybe my sexual issues had been solved by the magic elixir of her uttering her gratitude for my engorgement. It was a miracle, victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. But then she stopped mid-fellate. “So you can get it up if I act like a whore,” she said scornfully before pushing herself up, shaking her head in disappointment, and pulling her robe tight. I deflated in seconds, and she never touched me again.

  My intention isn’t to justify what I did, assuming I’ve done anything. Soon enough we’ll know, won’t we? Either the cops will come for me or they won’t. The coy teasing will stop, and all will be revealed. But first, something else has gone awry. Mead is dumbstruck. I assume we’re going to go up and eat, but instead he’s staring at the boxes as if he’s been put into a deep trance. Then he pounces like a cat and begins counting them, tapping each one and becoming increasingly agitated while doing so.

  “Something wrong?” I ask, trying to be helpful.

  “There’s an RPG missing. A Chicom Type 69. I’m only counting five but I know I have six. I promised Fyodor Ublyudok six. He’s paying for six.” He sinks down to one knee, a prayerful gesture of supplication in his time of need. “Someone took it from here.”

  RPG stands for “rocket-propelled grenade,” which wounded or killed thousands of Americans during the Iraq War, which Bev and I both protested in 2005 by holding homemade signs on a sidewalk by the Ithaca Mall. So an RPG is a seriously lethal piece of equipment, and having one unaccounted for is not only a financial blow to Mead but also a public safety hazard to our city and suburb. Not to mention the legal ramifications that my mother, the homeowner, would face if God forbid this heinous shoulder-mounted cannon is ever used in a crime—by whom? When? I think of that kid who was visiting Graves last night, the one I promised not to speak of. But I never promised to help cover up a felony—I have my own crimes to worry about, after all—and thus I find myself in an awkward position, which is usually how I end up.

  Mead blows by me and bounds up the steps with surprising agility for someone so flabby. He nimbly avoids barging into my mother, who nonetheless seems shell-shocked by this silent outburst.

  “What happened?” she asks with extreme caution, fearing my answer. Her lower lip is ac
tually trembling, the way a toddler struggles not to cry. Any second I expect her to burst into tears. Her lunch teeters on the verge of ruin.

  “One of the boxes is missing apparently.”

  This news makes my mother raise her eyes toward the heavens, only for a second so that she can compose herself. Gibson has drifted into the basement as well, and we form a trio of confused bystanders at the foot of the stairs.

  “Why is Dad upstairs yelling at Graves?” she ventures to ask, with a bemused expression that incites my mother to frown in disapproval, further dampening the mood for what was supposed to be a festive luncheon.

  “I don’t know,” she snaps churlishly, in what I can only imagine is an ongoing saga between these two. Gibson keeps on smiling, further fanning the flames. “What is so funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “It’s just so stupid.”

  “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” I interject, the peacemaker at war with himself, eager to soothe the troubled waters and rescue the day from the familial discord that threatens to undermine the joy and togetherness of the weekend. A weapon is missing, and Graves most likely stole it—right? Or is it in the trunk of my Honda? Pay attention! I also had the opportunity to steal whatever my heart desired between the hours of four and ten this morning, but for what purpose? So that when I drive home to Ithaca, I can blow up Igor’s studio and finish what I’ve started? That doesn’t qualify as a “reasonable explanation,” but it would solve the Mystery of the Missing RPG.

  “I just want us all to sit down and eat,” my mother laments, her soulful eyes gazing up the stairs. She is a fervent believer in fairy tales, voracious reader of romances, and devout worshiper of the Cavalier, that mythic Virginia demigod whose breeding and manners come straight from the teachings of Sir Walter Scott. Then the door swings open and down comes her Knight in Shining Armor, trailed by his chagrined son. Their arrival has the feel of an imperial inquisition, and we the jury watch in stunned silence.

  “Show me,” he orders Graves. Then he notices us and reaches out and clasps my mother on the shoulder, tenderly I suppose, but not lovingly. “I’m sorry, honey. This just came up and I have to figure it out because the guy is coming today.”

  “Today?”

  “Just for a second.”

  “It’s a Bazalt box, right?” asks Graves, his posture openly defiant, hands on hips like he’s spoiling for the showdown, a boxer standing in his corner waiting for the bell.

  “Do you need to be so rude?”

  “Yes, when I’m getting falsely accused.”

  “No one is accusing you of anything.”

  My mother skips up the stairs to escape the mounting tension. Graves and Mead dive into the storage area. I’d really like to shower but for some reason Gibson remains on the stairs, perched like a pigeon, and so I stay with her out of politesse. The scent of delicious hot food wafts down to the basement. The basics of existence beckon me—cleanliness, food and drink, sleep. And sex…theoretically speaking, with Gibson’s ripe body hovering a few feet away.

  “I never touched it!” Graves shouts, and then seconds later he comes storming out, with Mead in pursuit.

  “Did that box just get up and walk away?”

  “I think we should go upstairs and eat,” I say with more resolve than I intended. Both of them glance over at me at the same time as they come to a dead stop. Maybe I’ve shamed them into behaving and waiting until after lunch to begin the official inquest into the missing box. Gibson, bless her, stands up and heads upstairs, and it’s hard for me not to stare at her heart-shaped ass, since on a college campus that’s one of the occupational hazards that come with being a professor—until you make the mistake of crossing the line—not once, not twice, but six or seven times—there’s so much I need to disclose. I’m sure my dean knows all, has amassed a sizable dossier, with a battery of lawyers to condemn me, which is actually quite unnecessary because I’ll confess. We’ll meet in a conference room deep in the bowels of Robespierre Hall. The Committee of Community Standards will sit across from me. I will be offered water. Then the questions will begin. Did you or did you not ask Veronica Freninggen about the details of her relationship with a male student known to all as Rowdy? Did you or did you not get Emily Kramer to describe the anatomy of a diminutive ex-Marine named Leon, present whereabouts unknown, and did she or did she not claim that Leon was “surprisingly huge for a little guy”? Did you or did you not speak with Brittany Bohannon about her tormented fling with a hipster named Nick, who was self-centered, egotistical, controlling, and by far her biggest? Professor Stith, we’re starting to see a pattern emerge here, and what’s curious is that given your current incapacity, you seem overly preoccupied with the sex lives of your students, almost as if the very idea of an erection captivates you and thus you force these young women to tell you of private, intimate, and consensual sex acts that you drool over in a way that is an affront to critical thinking and complex analysis.

  I’m guilty, Dean, except I never forced them. Not once! They all willingly, gleefully, proudly answered each of my pathetic questions…and then there was Lola.

  “Eddie’s right,” says Mead, frowning and scratching his chin. “We need to go sit down and eat the delicious meal that’s been prepared for us.”

  “I’d never steal anything from you,” Graves pleads, standing next to me, emitting hellacious body odor that is strikingly at odds with his bland looks. “If I took something, I’d tell you. I’m not a liar.”

  “The food is ready,” I repeat, moving away from Graves as quickly as possible and then taking the stairs two at a time to escape the tension and the stench. The welcoming smells of the kitchen come as a relief, though my mother stands at the stove, staring vacantly at a covered dish with oven mitts on her hands. She glances over at me while unsteadily reaching for the casserole. The table isn’t set and Gibson is nowhere to be seen.

  “Are they coming?” she asks wearily.

  “I hope so. Let me help you.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “I’ll set the table.”

  “That’s supposed to be Gibson’s job.”

  “I was the best table setter around these here parts, as I recall.”

  This quip causes my mother to chuckle. Not laugh, as she’s too upset for that. I can’t imagine the stress this poor woman is under, so much so that she reaches out and slips her arms around me like she’s clinging to a life preserver while being dragged out to sea. “I’m glad you came,” she tells me, pulling me tight the way she once did when she was proud of her little genius. “I know it was a long drive and you’ve been very busy.”

  “Mom! Come on, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  She lets me go with a reproving curl of her lips. “You think I’m making a mistake, don’t you?”

  But before I can answer, we hear Mead and Graves approaching from the basement, meaning I’ll have to keep my opinion to myself for now. Perhaps I’ll never tell her what I think, but I’m also getting the vibe that she wants me to put my foot down and set her straight, although if I miscalculate her willingness for candor, she might never speak to me again. Honesty always entails risk and hence carries with it a premium most are unwilling to pay. What has honesty ever gotten me? All my friends in college, every single one, cheated on just about every test or assignment they could, and today most of them earn good money, have families, coach Little League, while I, upholder of the Honor Code, model student, underpaid college instructor, currently possess no wife, no children, probably no job, and soon no freedom once my crimes become known.

  “You lose accuracy from five hundred yards,” Mead says to Graves, who is hanging on his every word. From the looks of it, the storm may have passed.

  “Even with the 69?”

  “No doubt! That’s the max range.”

  “You all sit down!” my mother sings cheerfully. They comply and I grab silverware from the dra
wer. Just like that, the tension has eased considerably.

  “Where’s Gib?” Mead asks, noticing his daughter’s absence.

  “She’s probably in her room,” Graves concludes. “I’ll go get her.” He pops up from his chair and dashes off, boots clomping like a stampede of stallions. Mead uses the downtime to get back on his phone, elbows propped on the round table my mother has brightened with a setting of vividly colored wildflowers. I act as a dutiful footman while Mead indulges himself, not once asking my mother if he can help. I glare at him as I set utensils down in front of him, and my quiet ire must’ve knocked some sense into him, because he suddenly puts away his phone and offers to help.

  “I’ve got it under control,” my mother squeals in delight. Her fiancé isn’t a wastrel after all, but a living and breathing Virginia gentleman. The fairy tale lives on.

  Graves returns with Gibson, and somehow all five of us sit down together. The road here wasn’t easy to traverse, but a delicious casserole is our reward. Gibson barely nibbles at her plate whereas her brother wolfs his chow down with ferocity, making a queer sucking sound that could be caused by the fishlike shape of his lips. Nonetheless my mother beams proudly at all of us, this slapdash family that may or not may make it to Monday. As silence descends, I grow uncomfortable because I watch Graves chug back an entire can of Coke in two swallows and then head to the fridge for another.

  “That’s a lot of sugar,” my mother rightly observes.

  “I need to wake up” is his excuse.

  “How late did you stay up?”

  “Late. I was working on some stuff.”

  Mead rolls his eyes, disapproval that Graves seems to bask in. I sense that within seconds another spat will ensue, and so I pipe up to change the dynamics before father and son resume their feud. Pleasant is what my mother wants, and pleasant is what I must give her. I need to rescue the tenor of this meal, and I think I know just the topic. “Guess who I ran into today?” I blurt out like an eager-beaver middle school student.