by Jeff Strand
Lynsie has not looked away from her book.
Is the story that good?
Is she accustomed to people accusing her grandpa of thievery?
Or...?
Accusing an eleven-year-old girl of stealing my money doesn't seem like the most endearing behavior, but what else can I do? I'm not going to let her get away with it.
Eddie notices me looking at her. "Don't even think it."
"Why not? She was sitting next to me the whole time!"
"My granddaughter did not steal your money."
Lynsie hasn't lowered her book.
Now I'm not sure which emotion is stronger: anger at the little scoundrel who stole my money, or the shame of knowing that a kid that age can swipe cash right out of my wallet without me noticing.
Amy and Bonnie are both watching the altercation. Amy looks positively horrified. Bonnie just looks tired.
"Are you sure the money was in your wallet?" Eddie asks. It's such a stupid question that I want to laugh in his face. Isn't it bad enough to raise a kleptomaniac granddaughter? Does he have to insult my intelligence on top of that?
Suddenly, there's a bit of doubt in my mind. I'm not sure why.
The balloon of this doubt quickly inflates, getting bigger and bigger, until it's a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Underdog balloon of doubt, and as I stand in front of Eddie, Lynsie, Bonnie, and Amy, I realize that I am, in fact, a gigantic jackass.
"Okay," I say, "here's what happened. I had this money in my wallet, just like I said, and then I thought that maybe I wasn't comfortable having that much money in my wallet, and the possibility exists--well, it's more than a possibility, I guess, I have a pretty clear memory of it now--that I put the money in my suitcase in the trunk."
"I see," says Eddie.
"So when I got all bent out of shape and suggested--but didn't actually say--that you or your beautiful granddaughter might have stolen it, I wasn't thinking clearly, because we haven't had a lot of sleep this trip--Amy's had much less sleep than me, but still, I haven't had a full night of rest or anything like that--and...I'm sorry."
"It's okay," says Eddie.
"Lunch is on me, of course. Anything you want. You want eight Big Macs, I'll buy you eight Big Macs."
"All right."
"It had nothing to do with your hand."
"I believe you."
I look around for a good place to curl up and die. There aren't any decent places within eyesight. I try to think of a time when I've been more mortified, and though I do come up with a couple of them, it doesn't ease my current pain.
"So, anyway..." I say, trailing off and hoping that somebody else will guide the conversation past this point.
"Everybody makes mistakes," says Eddie, although I feel that in his mind he's adding the phrase but you're still a reprehensible piece of crap.
Bonnie just glares at me. I kind of want to point out that some might consider not knowing the father of your child something of a blunder, but that would be a douchebag move. I don't want to be a douchebag right now.
Technically, I haven't verified that my money is in my suitcase. For all I know, my cash is in Eddie's pocket right now, and he's getting a great big giggle out of watching me flounder and sweat. That son of a--
No. Unless he somehow has the ability to get into a locked trunk from the inside of a car, while never leaving my sight, and also has the psychic ability to know that there is cash in a suitcase in the trunk, it's safe to assume that my money is fine. No need to have a complete mental breakdown here.
"Let's go get something to eat," says Amy.
* * *
The five of us sit in a booth. Eddie has eight Big Macs stacked on the tray in front of him. I didn't really expect him to take me up on that offer, and I truly hope he doesn't eat all eight of them. I think he's just trying to make a point. Everybody else ordered a reasonably sized meal.
"Don't read at the table," Bonnie tells Lynsie. Lynsie nods and sets the book on her lap, though she's still peeking down and reading it. Now that I don't think she's a criminal, I like this kid.
Eddie holds his first burger in his good hand, looking at me as if daring me to make a comment. I'm not sure what kind of comment he's daring me to make. ("I see that, when dining, you prefer the use of your real hand to your artificial one. How interesting.")
Nobody is saying much. Amy asks me for an extra napkin, which I provide. I'd like some ketchup for my fries, but the packets are over by Eddie, and instead of asking him to pass them to me I elect to go without.
Finally, I can't stand the uncomfortable silence any more. "How did you lose your hand?" I ask Eddie.
"In the army."
"I know, but what actually caused it to come off?"
"Infection."
"How did it get infected?"
"Do you really want me to talk about pus while we're trying to eat?" Eddie asks, through a big mouthful of burger. "Do you want me to describe tendons being severed? Do you want a detailed report about how difficult it is to get through bone?"
"No. But you can tell me how it got infected without getting into the whole part about tendons."
"Even if I tell you the tame version of the story, even if I tone everything down to a PG-13, you'll hear things you aren't ready to cope with. I wouldn't put that burden on you."
"Knock it off, Dad," says Bonnie.
"What did I do?"
Bonnie looks at me. "The anesthesiologist put him to sleep before they amputated his hand. He has no idea how difficult it may or may not have been to get through the bone."
"I drifted in and out of consciousness," Eddie says. "It was horrific."
"You've never once said that you were awake for any part of it."
"I was sparing you the details! A good father doesn't feed his daughter nightmare images. What do you think, they just popped my hand off like a Lego?"
"No, but you're trying to make it sound like you sawed it off yourself."
"I said no such thing."
"You implied it."
"I did not!"
"Your daughter's right," I say. "I was totally envisioning a DIY project."
"With a rusty knife," Amy adds.
Eddie keeps his attention on Bonnie. "I can't believe you're downplaying the amputation of my hand. My right hand. I'm right-handed, you know."
"I know."
"Let's see you sign papers with your left hand."
"Nobody is downplaying your injury," Bonnie says. "All I'm saying is that it was a surgery performed by medical professionals."
"Do you know how much pus is involved when a hand has become so infected that it requires amputation?" Eddie asks all of us.
"Don't be disgusting, Dad."
"Do you think it's a small amount or a large amount? This is a serious question. Small amount or large amount? I'll give you a hint: it's not a small amount."
A young couple sitting next to us moves to a different table.
"It's hard to believe that a man can lose a limb in the service of his country and take a bunch of crap from his own daughter about it."
"So how did it get infected?" I ask again.
"I don't want to get into it."
"C'mon. Share the details."
"It's not important."
"I'm curious. Let's hear it."
"It's not a story I wish to recount."
"I need to know."
"It could provide an important life lesson," says Amy.
Eddie sighs. "Fine. Whatever."
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, everybody at the table is weeping.
While serving his second term in Vietnam, Eddie was taken prisoner. He describes in great detail the ordeal of living in a cage, starving, surviving on the occasional handful of rice or moldy fruit. He once caught a rat and ate it raw, but got so sick that he hallucinated for the next three days.
He tells us of watching the other men in his unit who were captured--five of them--be systematically executed. H
is eyes are wet as he names each of his friends and tells us how they died with honor. But you can die with honor and still show fear. You can die with honor and still shed tears when the barrel of the gun touches the back of your head.
He stayed in that cage for nineteen months, surrounded by his own filth, muscles atrophying, praying each night that tomorrow would be the day when help arrived. He spoke to God, and God told him to be patient, told him that he would make it out of this hellhole. That was the only thing keeping Eddie from taking his own life. He had nothing to use to slit his wrists, but fantasized about rubbing his wrists raw against the wooden bars of his cage, parting the flesh enough for him to bleed out.
On the day he escaped, the men who showed up and slaughtered everybody else in the camp weren't even there to rescue him. In fact, the Vietnamese man who opened his cage probably would have just taken him to be a prisoner elsewhere, if Eddie hadn't played dead. Eddie does not tell us how he killed the man, but his voice trembles as he tells us that he didn't even feel human by this point. He was an animal in a cage.
He crawled through the jungle, delirious, hands bleeding. He doesn't remember how he was rescued. He does remember the American medic telling him that it was a "goddamn miracle" that his body hadn't just shut down. And he remembers sobbing and begging them not to take his hand, even though he could clearly see that it would be the thing to finally kill him.
I'd thought Eddie was going to say that he scraped it up in a skeet shooting accident.
* * *
I'm relieved that Eddie doesn't eat all eight of the Big Macs. He does eat three of them, though, which is a personal record for the most Big Macs I've ever seen a human being eat. He takes the rest with him.
We're back in the car. I'm driving. I'm still not entirely comfortable with the idea of Amy sitting in the back with Eddie, even if Lynsie is between them, but she insists that she's fine with that, and more importantly, she says that her lack of sleep is catching up with her. Every occupant of the vehicle agrees that they'd rather not careen off the road because the driver lost consciousness, and so I'm behind the wheel.
Eddie drifts off to sleep pretty quickly. I'm not good at making small talk with pregnant women, so I'm relieved when Bonnie also falls asleep. In the back seat, Amy closes her eyes for a few minutes, then seems to give up sleep as a lost cause.
"What do you like to do for fun?" she asks Lynsie.
Lynsie doesn't look up from her book. "Read."
"Well, that's obvious. Anything else?"
Lynsie shakes her head. "Nope."
"No sports?"
"No way."
"Music?"
"My mom makes me take piano lessons."
"Do you like it?"
"Nope."
"It's great that you like to read so much. That's a lot better than watching TV. Except for Exit Red."
Lynsie looks up from the book. "You like Exit Red?"
"Yep! Do you?"
"Yeah. Duh. It's only the best show ever made."
"I'm not sure you have the frame of reference to make that statement, but I'm going to agree with you anyway. Put 'er there." Amy puts out her hand, and Lynsie takes it. They shake hands as mutual Exit Red fanatics. "Who's your favorite character?"
"Trogger."
"You are awesome," says Amy, and they shake hands again.
"The guy who plays him was at New York Comicon, but Mom wouldn't take me."
"That's not cool."
"Nope. Everybody was there."
"Blake Remark, too?"
"Who's that?" Lynsie asks.
"The guy who created the show."
"Oh, yeah, he was there. I watched it online. He was funny. He's going to be at PhaserCon in San Francisco next weekend, but Mom won't take me to that one, either."
"Well, I'm sorry you didn't get to go."
"Me too."
It would have been great to bring Amy to something like that. I wonder if Blake Remark would tell the ending of the show to somebody who might not live to see it...?
They excitedly talk about the show for a while longer, until Lynsie seems to decide that she's done interacting with grown-ups for the time being. She returns to her book. Amy leans back and, from all outward appearances, sleeps peacefully.
* * *
Eddie's ex-wife Denise's home in New Jersey isn't really on our way, but I insist that we take them there anyway. Though I know it's irrational to have this much guilt, I feel as if I'm more likely to regret not taking them to New Jersey than I am to regret doing it. Amy feels the same way. It's hard not to give a ride to somebody who went through Eddie's experience, even if he's really freaking obnoxious.
Bonnie and Eddie insist that taking us all the way there isn't necessary, and Amy and I insist that it is, and I secretly hope that their insistence will win out in the end, so that I can have my guilt eased without actually taking such a big detour, but they accept our offer on the second try.
After a not-so-enjoyable adventure through New Jersey traffic, we drive through a fairly nice suburban neighborhood. Eddie is squirming a lot in the back. His ex-wife has remarried, and though her new husband is more than happy to allow Bonnie and Lynsie to stay with them in their time of need, he was a bit more tentative regarding Eddie's presence. He's only going to stay with them for a few days, but Eddie does not expect to enjoy those few days.
Eddie glances at his watch. "Hey, we're a little earlier than we told them...maybe we should go get a beer first." The GPS said that we'd arrive at 9:58. It's 9:58 now. When Bonnie called, she told them 10:00.
Bonnie smiles. "It'll be fine, Dad."
"What if the guest bedroom isn't ready yet? Your mom used to flip out if somebody saw the house with a speck of dirt on the floor." Eddie looks at me. "Todd? Beer?"
"Sorry. I can't help you."
"I promise you it will be okay," Bonnie tells him.
"The first few minutes are going to set the tone for the whole visit," says Eddie. "I'm telling you, that woman won't be able to handle it if we get there early. It's going to be panic, panic, panic. Hell on earth for everybody."
"If you really feel so strongly about it, I'm sure Todd and Amy will let us wait in the driveway for two minutes."
"That's fine," I say.
"Then what happens when she peeks out the window and sees us just sitting there? She'll think we're plotting against her. She is the most suspicious woman I've ever known."
"Dad? Calm down."
We pull into the driveway of their home. Damn. It is nice. Eddie's ex-wife remarried well. I guess I can understand the blow to Eddie's pride.
Everybody gets out of the car. I wish I had my jacket, even though it's unseasonably warm and I really shouldn't be such a thin-blooded Florida wuss. The front door opens and two friendly-looking people step outside, beaming. Bonnie runs over and gives the woman a hug. Even Lynsie looks excited to see her grandmother. Eddie waits by the car.
"Well, it's been interesting," I tell him, extending my hand. "I wish you the best of luck."
"Thanks." Eddie shakes my hand. He sighs, looks over at the house, then sighs again. "Um, yeah, I'm not going in there. Let's go to a bar."
He opens the car door, gets back inside the front seat of the vehicle, and closes the door. Amy and I exchange a quick What the hell are we supposed to do now? look while Bonnie walks back over.
"C'mon, Dad," she says, rapping gently on the window. Eddie stares down at his lap, refusing to make eye contact.
What do I do? Drag the old guy out of the car, kicking and screaming? I'm embarrassed to admit to myself that I'd probably enjoy that, if only a little.
"I'll get your stuff," I tell Bonnie. I pop the trunk and take out their bags.
"I'm sorry about this," Bonnie says.
"It's okay. We'll just...I guess we'll take him to a bar."
We get their luggage to the front door, then awkwardly return to the car and get back inside.
"I'm going to be honest with you, Eddie," I s
ay. "This new plan doesn't really work for us."
Eddie doesn't look up. "Just a few drinks. Then I'll be fine. I promise."
"We're supposed to be on our way to Rhode Island."
"Can I go?"
"No."
Eddie continues to stare at his lap and doesn't say anything else. I start the engine and back out of the driveway.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"A ninety-seven percent success rate is incredible for this kind of technological experimentation! And, yes, I will admit that the three percent of his body that didn't teleport successfully was a crucial portion, but alive or not, we have teleported a human being!"
--Exit Red, Season 4, Episode 3
We picked the first bar to show up on the GPS, which may have been a mistake. The place is called Julian (no possessive case). A better name would have been The Filthy, Miserable, Depressing Bar Where Patrons Get So Drunk On Cheap Booze That Maybe, Just Maybe, They'll Forget To Hang Themselves Tonight. That probably wouldn't fit on the sign.
Eddie wept for most of the drive, which was uncomfortable to watch, and now he's doing a lot of blank staring, which is worse. He's on his third shot of whiskey. Amy is drinking a peach wine cooler. As far as I can tell, I'm drinking a glass of warm tar, though I'd ordered a root beer.
A cockroach scurries across the counter. The bartender snaps his towel at it, scoring a direct hit and knocking the insect onto its back. It lies there, legs flailing. The bartender makes no move to remove it and instead returns to drying off some glasses.
"I'm a piece of crap," says Eddie.
"You're not a piece of crap," Amy assures him.
"I can't take care of my family. Do you know how humiliating it's going to be to stay with Denise and Mick? That financially secure son of a bitch. What kind of a name is Mick? Sounds like somebody didn't know how to spell Rick."
"It's probably short for Mickey," I said, unhelpfully.