by Michael Oren
Geoffrey wandered the halls, trying to remember his father before the dementia set in. He preferred not to dwell on those forty seconds on Normandy, the wound that left that young soldier suffering and rolling in the surf. He focused, rather, on the good-natured man, faithful to the plain, hardworking young woman he married a few years after the war and still mourned decades after her death. Not deep in the educated sense but no lightweight either, a supportive dad even when his son disappointed him. And, though he’d never said anything, Geoffrey let him down. All those years slaving in the furniture business so that his two boys would have the best education, the utmost chance of elevating themselves above the world of inventories and sales. That backing, together with a trust fund set up especially for the purpose, enabled Geoffrey to seek a literary career right after college, to move to a funky neighborhood and befriend other struggling—and similarly subsidized—artists.
There, when drafting his novel in all-night cafes, he met Helen. Vegetarian, feminist, environmentalist, Buddhist—she came with more labels, he quipped, than a formula race car—he liked her earthiness, however studied. He liked that she liked Ted Hughes and Robertson Davies and hated coriander even more than he did. She laughed sardonically and made love with the same commitment she reserved for causes. Most crucially, she believed in him, hugged and consoled him after each rejection letter. She encouraged him, finally, to teach writing at the community college where she worked as a librarian. The arrangement was only temporary, she assured him, until he could establish himself creatively.
But the rejection slips mounted and temporary became years. His mother died, his brother moved out West, and his father showed signs of early-onset dementia. Children came and with them financial demands beyond their parents’ salaries. And then there was the incident at the college that cost Geoffrey his job and nearly his marriage as well. Saving it required giving up the dream of writing for a while and moving, repentantly, back home.
This, too, was to have been a limited stint as head of the family business. Yet, much to his discomfort, Geoffrey excelled. Turned out he enjoyed sales, enjoyed making profits even more and lavishing them on Helen. They were a type of offering and Helen, reluctantly at first but then with relish, accepted. Gradually, she admitted that she did not miss her boring library job and artsy lifestyle but preferred her new routine of charity work and daily yoga classes at the club. Not that she ever forgot the pain that Geoffrey had inflicted on her, the shame, or the failure to live up to his earlier promise. But the injury eventually healed, at least superficially. Rushing from soccer games to rallies for municipal issues left her little time to dwell on the scar, much less the inflammation beneath.
The kids, meanwhile, needed music lessons and summer camps and a backyard to play in. Other payments—cars, vacations, landscapers—mounted, and college tuition loomed. Geoffrey abandoned his literary dreams. He focused, rather, on expanding the furniture store into a chain which, after his father’s death, locked him in his large, empty house.
The ringtone on Geoffrey’s cell phone sent the New World Symphony resounding through the den. He answered and spoke for a while, fielding questions guardedly at first and then with an exuberance that surprised him. When, a half hour later, he hung up, Helen, who was just out of earshot in the kitchen, asked what had excited him so.
“A reporter from the local television station,” Geoffrey practically chirped. “It seems I’m famous.”
“Famous?” Helen called out over the splash of water on the kale she was washing. “Right.”
“No, really. Somehow word of Dad’s death got out to the media. They’re calling him the last KIA of World War II. The last man killed on Normandy.”
Helen smirked. “Your father, Geoffrey, died in a hospice twenty minutes from here. He died of complications from dementia.”
“He wouldn’t have died from dementia if he wasn’t wounded.” Geoffrey was adamant—weirdly so, Helen thought. “He wouldn’t have died—at least not right then—if not for that bullet.”
“And why does that make you famous?”
Geoffrey shook the cell phone, trophy-like, above him. “Because it makes me a war orphan. The reporter said that I might even be entitled to an army pension. No kidding.”
“Is that what you want, an army pension?” she asked with a critical shake of the kale. “No, silly. But she did say she wants to interview me.”
“She?” Helen, drying her hands on her apron, recalled for a moment the last time he called her silly. “And what’s her name, might I ask?”
The phone froze next to Geoffrey’s ear. He considered lying for a moment, rejected that option, and tried for nonchalance. After all, years had passed, and the name had grown common enough. “Caitlin,” he said.
In truth, before the day she entered his community college office, he had never heard that name before.
“It’s Irish,” she explained matter-of-factly, then ironically, “It means ‘pure.’”
Geoffrey perused her composition. “You’re Irish…”
“And Scottish,” she answered, “And Cherokee and Welsh.” Her voice buoyed in a way that raised his eyes from her paper to her smile, which was vermillion. Behind it shone even white teeth when she laughed, “I’m a mutt.”
So much for the assignment. He spent the next hour—other students were waiting in the hallway outside—asking Caitlin about her life. There was much to tell, at least for a nineteen-year-old. She claimed to come from an upscale family able to send her to respectable boarding schools and pricey summer camps. Ballet lessons, horseback riding. Engrossed, he forgot to ask her why a young person so privileged was not attending a better university. It never occurred to him to ask if somewhere in her resplendent story something had gone awry. Instead, he found himself staring at her French-braided hair that was so golden it seemed to suck up the light. Her eyes were ceramic blue, her fingers spindly. An oversized sweater and old plaid skirt could not hide a body that promised to be supple. Vaguely he heard the students outside curse and quit the building.
Which left them to adjourn to a nearby coffee shop, the kind he used to frequent as a writer, dim and aromatic. Now came his turn to tell his tale of novels too avant-garde for the market, the agents who let him down, the editors. He was aware, cupping his cappuccino, of becoming the most pathetic stereotype—the rumpled, balding teacher who could not do and so sought solace in an impressionable undergrad. He was conscious of how recklessly he acted. But Caitlin listened to him the way Helen once did, with compassion and surety. “Don’t give up,” she urged him while squeezing the back of his hand. “Never give up,” and her red-lacquered fingernails nearly broke his skin.
Perhaps it would have ended then if they hadn’t gone back to her place, slipping past the junk and curious roommates, to her bedroom. Maybe it would have ended if he hadn’t found there the tragic bliss that always eluded him on the page. He imagined that he could have died in that cheap apartment with its stir fry smell and never return to the decorative pillows and the ruckus of two little children, to Helen.
“And where have you been?” she asked as if addressing Amy or Charles, while placing wet dishes on a rack.
“Nowhere. At work,” he lied to her for the very first time and marveled how easy it was.
Helen looked tired. In her household smock she was frumpy, her frizzy hair tied up in a knot. “At work, right,” she said with a piercing eye. “Watch yourself, buster. You’ll work your way out of a job and a home.”
“Helen, please,” he forced himself to laugh. “Don’t be silly.”
Don’t be silly. Those words beguiled him over the next few weeks as he made himself sillier with lust, with jealousy over imagined rivals, and with fantasies about his and Caitlin’s future. They would run away to New Mexico, join an artists’ colony, live off the land, create. Each night, he came home later and later, lied with greater brazenness, and finally failed to come home at all.
And it might have happened—the des
ertion, the self-destructive spree with a cunning, half-crazed girl—if not for the college shrink. He was the one who noticed that Caitlin had missed two sessions, who called the administration which, in turn, looked into some rumors circulating campus. That he was hauled in and fired on the spot was humiliating enough, but returning home with his effects in a box, climbing the dreary stairs and opening the door to Helen—that was nightmarish.
“Caitlin,” she laughed many years later. She practically howled, “Caitlin.”
The coincidence of the names was sufficient grounds for cancelling the interview, he told himself and also informed Helen. “Whatever,” she shrugged, which was her way of hiding hurt. But the next week brought more phone calls, more inquiries from veterans’ groups, history buffs, museum curators, and, most alluringly, book publishers fishing for a contract. What began as an in-studio chat rapidly expanded into a press conference which the hospice—of all places—offered to host.
In the days leading up to the event, Geoffrey barely saw, much less placated, his wife. He hoped that she would see how unfounded her reactions were, and that she could allow him this one last spotlight. Hell, he was practically an old man himself, hairless and plump and no magnet for young women, certainly not television stars. And as for that other, earlier Caitlin, she was probably middle-aged and unrecognizable now, maybe institutionalized.
The waiting room of the hospice had been transformed into a studio, complete with Klieg lights and booms. Geoffrey was made up and brought out to sit in a chair that faced the vending machines that were hidden by nurses and other medical staff members, all standing. The few seats were taken by dignitaries, among them the mayor, a senator, and a former VFW Commander-in-Chief. Geoffrey smiled at them. He waved at the cameras, all the while searching for Helen in the crowd. Then, to a brush of applause, Caitlin came out.
This Caitlin was indeed young, long-legged, and startlingly beautiful—and, Geoffrey noted with relief, Eurasian. She shook his hand and took up the seat opposite him.
“So, tell me, Geoffrey,” she began, “How did it feel to find out that your father was shot on D-Day?”
“Well, Caitlin,” he responded, at once beaming and squinting into the lights. He told the story as dramatically as he could, emphasizing his father’s heroism, his selflessness, and his refusal to surrender to the pain which no doubt plagued him. He talked about the Greatest Generation and how much we, their offspring, owed them. He talked and still he looked for Helen.
In the final segment, the doctor came out with the x-ray. The camera zoomed in and showed the rocket-shaped object lodged in the late Mr. Gorelik’s hip. While the audience focused on the image, Geoffrey finally caught sight of Helen, or thought he did, but only for an instant. Then the journalist turned back to him.
“So, in conclusion, Geoffrey, what have you learned from this remarkable experience?”
Geoffrey swallowed hard and appeared to blush. “I’ve learned that life is one big landing on Normandy Beach. That often we’re under fire, but we’ve got to keep going, keep plowing forward, just like my dad did. And I’ve learned, Caitlin,” he concluded, recalling that possible army pension. “That one can die of very old wounds.”
Later, when the regular lights came on, Geoffrey remained for a long time shaking hands with the guests. He received a framed copy of the x-ray and the card of one interested publisher. He chatted and schmoozed until the waiting room was once again empty. Then he was alone, with no sign whatsoever of Helen.
Sir Reginald and
the Purple Prince
At last, after ages of struggle, I have him. Holed up at the top of Tottenham Hill, worn out by siege, abandoned by his men, he will soon be compelled to surrender—or worse. Either way, justice will be upheld. Too long has he humiliated me, exposed me to mockery and scorn. From him spread the myths of my inadequacies—my feebleness, my cowardice, my flaws. But no more. Now the world will know of the truth of who is weak and who unconquerable. All will witness the triumph of Sir Reginald over arrogance, over the once proud, but now vanquished, Purple Prince.
Drawing my sword, I salute my steadfast knights. Thomas, though poor of sight and pigeon footed, never once left me, not even after the Mayfair defeat. Not even after the debacles at Crestmont Lane and Pleasantdale—Thomas unflinching at my side. And Harry, who I sometimes call Henry (more fitting for a duke), unyielding behind the shield that nearly conceals his girth, nodding at me in deference. The assault will not be simple, I confess to them, and not without cost. But victory will be ours, finally, I pledge, and the glory long denied us in the realm.
In truth, the realm’s respect means less to me than the affection of one of its subjects. Amelia, emerald-eyed and garnet-lipped, her hair the color of daises. Maid Amelia, I refer to her, though never to her face, a mere glimpse of which causes my own to redden. How splendorous it was to see her observing one of our battles and to what valor her presence spurred me. But how crestfallen I was when the offensive failed and Amelia applauded. With a sound like burbling waters, she cheered. More excruciating than being beaten was the sight of those flowery curls draped on his shoulder, as the Purple Prince turned back to me and winked.
The ultimate insult, he hurls it often—on the playing field, where he and his followers invariably prevail, and in matters of the mind, in which he proves equally nimble. In no endeavor does the Prince not excel, and no contest which, winning, he fails to seal with that wink. As if by sword-point, it skewers me.
Dungeon-like tortures, all of them, and yet none so unbearable as the indifference of the Queen. Or perhaps indifference is too gentle a word—more like disbelief. She seems to doubt I’ll ever prosper, and to fear for my safety if I try. As if I were to blame for the King’s departure, but was nevertheless all that remained. The way she scolds me when returning dusty from the fray or hounds me at the height of battle—that harrowing squawk—makes me wonder whether the Queen is secretly in league with the Prince. A conspiracy to replace me with a worthier heir and lure the King back to the castle.
Beset by such thoughts, I allow myself to tarry, but not for long. Already, I can see the purple tunic peaking over Tottenham’s crest and the spokes of an overturned carriage. Now is the time to strike. Sword raised, visor lowered, I shout the order to charge.
We run, we slide, over this much-contested span, the soil slick with recent rains and—one might imagine—the blood of former combatants. Yet we persevere, Thomas and Henry and the army I see myself leading. And predictably the enemy resists, hurling every projectile in reach. One such, ball-shaped, barely misses my head and lands in a mud-burst behind me. But nothing can stop our advance, not even when Thomas stumbles over his own pigeon feet and Henry’s weight delays him. Not even when I find myself, all at once, alone at the top of Tottenham.
Or almost alone. From here, the highest point in the realm, I can see Amelia watching below, perched on her royal pink mount, looking anxious. There, too, is the castle and, in an upper portal, the Queen. She, too, is gazing—or so I assume, for her face is shrouded by the cloud of smoke she blows, on which her crown of curlers floats. There is not much time to do what I must. Kicking away the carriage, the cans and the hubcaps that serve as shields, I stand above my nemesis.
And he quivers worm-like on the ground. Still purple, perhaps, but no longer a prince in my eyes. In Amelia’s, I trust, either. He is just a boy, frightened and ashamed and as vulnerable as I once was, but now our roles are reversed, and he kneels exposed to my fury. Or mercy? For a moment, I cannot decide whether to forget all the slights and, instead of my blade, offer him a hand in peace.
I choose the blade. Hoisting it, lifting the glittery visor, I prepare to strike. He shrinks, I lunge, and the wrath of Sir Reginald descends. And it almost cleaves when an ear-splitting shriek arrests it.
“Stop that! Right now! Before somebody gets hurt!” That familiar raven’s caw. “You put down that stick, Reggie, and come back home this instant!”
Disgraced,
degraded, I cast away my sword and crumble my silvery helmet. “Jesus, Mom,” I protest, while the Purple Prince exults. Humbled no more but one again haughty, he leaps to his feet with a laugh that resounds throughout the realm. It’s heard, no doubt, by Amelia.
I turn to retreat down Tottenham, head bent, when a surly voice calls out. “Better luck next time, Reggie,” the Purple Prince lords over me, blows a bubble, and winks.
Rosen in Paradise
“Hey, ass-wipe, watch where you’re going!” was the first thing Mickey Rosen shouted after stepping off the curb and nearly getting swiped by a car. The second, much quieter, was, “What the fuck…?”
The car, he saw, was a Studebaker. Which was weird, but not as weird as people who wasted time refurbishing clunkers. Stranger still was the intersection. No walk or don’t walk indicators, not even a “ped xing” sign, only a pole-mounted traffic signal with three metal-hooded lights. And a billboard for a cigarette brand defunct for many decades.
He couldn’t see much else, the sun blazing in his eyes, but, through a combination of squinting and saluting, he began to pick out storefronts. Bergaman’s Bakery, Moskowitz the Butcher, their windows shimmering under candy-striped awnings. Still blinking, Mickey Rosen staggered into town.
More cars—Hudsons, DeSotos—and businesses, hobby and soda shops, Herman’s Radio Repairs. A portly policeman with a leather shoulder strap and necktie touched a baton to his cap. A gaggle of kids, ten years old at most, in jeans and t-shirts, some crowned with Jughead caps, scurried by. Girls in bright jumpers played jacks. From the office of the local daily, perhaps, the clack and ding of typewriters.
It all looked familiar. Similar scenes proliferated his novels, much to his critics’ distress. “Enough, already,” they cried, “You’re the country’s leading writer, our nation’s most poignant voice, why the constant nostalgia? Why this myth of the past?”