Tom’s father, John, was in the Vietnam War from 1969 to the last retreat in 1973. He was only five foot four, yet broad, swift in movement, and when they were chased, he ran back to the choppers like he was on fire. His friends called him Jo and sometimes JoJo when they were drunk in their tents, while smoking a few military-produced cigarettes and laughing like hysterical hyenas. John never told stories; many of those friends who had called him JoJo either ended up in pieces from an unexpected mine or could not run fast enough from the bullets or their country’s own napalm attacks. Then after he returned, unlike the return of World War II veterans where parades were arranged around every city and town (God- and country-loving heroes), there was no celebration or honor for returning from Vietnam. The war was disgusting. He landed to find a crowd spitting on them and hauling insults about their morality and human decency. He was threatened, rejected from his family, and ultimately left bottling up the war with cigarettes, scotch, and women. Chaos was what John became, and as a result, Tom was born.
The man who willingly signed up for war because of his father’s legacy was a fool. Tom’s grandfather served in the Korean War, walked the entire country, and pushed the communists back until he reached the Chinese border. Ron Freeman was considered a hero and in fact received the Medal of Honor for jumping onto an RG-42 hand grenade, leaving fragments of the metal shell scattered in his chest and calves. Ron was five foot six, moral, compassionate, and patient to all. He carried a Bible in his bag that had been given to him from his own father when he was young; it was all tattered up with yellow pages and weak, cheap binding, carrying a potent smell of dust and old ink wherever taken. Ron was known for his storytelling and quirky personality, something John was always told even decades after his father’s death, and was always called “Ron’s little man” even while entering his late forties, as if he were still four years old and desperate for his father’s return.
When his father’s aged friends began to recite compelling stories of Ron, they also always seemed to carry an old sparkle in their aged eyes. Yet the thing John was always amazed by in his father was how, even though he was black, there was very little racism from the military, the locals, and even his own American comrades. One reason would be because they were all facing the same monster, sharing the same nightmares of death in the following days as they continued to travel north. But the main cause was because he was so pleasantly kind and gentle, and John could only imagine Ron like so, filling up with a mixture of pride, misery, and unworthiness ever since he was four. Therefore, while John grew up, the pain from being fatherless made boxing a relief, a way to empty the rage kept inside, to throw the years of pain and tears toward the other man in the ring. During his boxing career, John was very light and always made it into the championship. An interview with Tom’s father was done after a tight boxing match in the sixties, with twelve rounds of fighting and sweat mixed with blood, where he told them, “I blame the man for my father’s death and fight like he’s a cold-blooded murderer. That’s how I win.”
But one man always destroyed him, which forced him to never win a single championship. His name was Joe Brown, champion of the light belt, lightweight fights, since 1956. He was undefeated, and John never stood a chance, his face smashing against the ground before he could even comprehend that the bell had rung and the fight had begun.
“In the dark boxers is Joe Brown, and in the white boxers is John Freeman,” said the announcer.
Ding, ding!
This is all me, John thought. He murdered my father and will not make me look like a fool! He picked up those hands, Joe the same, and with one strike, John fell. His nose split in two like it did the year before, rebroken and splattered across his face, sounding like a child crunching on a lollipop. He fell as swiftly as he had the year before, stiff as a rock and helpless as a drowning fly.
About a week later, John was chosen for the draft, his eyes slightly blocked from his thick gray-white nose cast while smoking a Camel cigarette, reacting in a mysterious way. His eyes began to widen and a smile crept to each cheek, as If he had won an all-expenses-paid trip to New Zealand on a radio raffle. Except this was a trip to the thick jungles of Vietnam, and he knew he would probably die. He thought about this while the smile widened even more and his hands gripped the envelope even tighter. The year was 1969, an already unpopular war, yet John, twenty-one years old, saw the shipment to war as an opportunity to make his deceased father proud, to not feel like a generation of failure to the military name of the Freemans, to be worthy enough to be a Freeman. He drove to a drive-in theater and bought a pack of beer that night, celebrating in his vaguely nicer Tucson apartment, achieved for always winning silver.
But Tom himself was only eighteen when joining the Marines, a tight curly-haired half-African American boy. He loved baseball, the feeling of catching, tossing, slowly striking a man out, with the tension running down the spine, the panic in their eyes. He was small compared to Mark but fast and strong, with aspirations to achieve greatness in the military and surpass his father. His father was the man who abused him, gifted in boxing from an era long ago, yet instead of a crowd, now only Tom and the stained brown carpet knew John’s present talent. Tom hated his father and had dreams about fighting him, like Aaron, except he imagined catching his father in the act, with some hidden tape recorder or by calling one of his friends to watch and testify. Yet at the age of nine, before he could execute the idea into words, CPS came and saw the stained brown carpet, his bruised face, and John leading the tour, the one who made the call. John was also the birth-giver to analytical questions of Tom’s wonder as a child, toward his own self-worth, while on the bottom bunk in a community foster home and with a broken arm. He fell into a pit of worthlessness.
Mark closely knew everyone in his five-man group, their strengths, weaknesses, struggles in life, and reasons to fight. But Tom was special, taken under Mark’s wing, and he taught Tom to notice every detail toward the operations of war and noticeable signs of danger.
One night, a little over a year after Mark’s promotion the previous August, Tom, Mark, and Mary came together for a dinner. It was almost autumn. The sun had left for the Pacific and the three were feasting on spaghetti and spiced meatballs. Mark had known Tom for almost two years. Tom was nineteen now.
“Mary?” Mark said. “Tom? Did you know this is the last time we’ll be together while you’re a private?”
“Yes, and did you know its ten thirty-seven?” Mary said while yawning dramatically.
“No, this is big,” Mark said, turning to Tom. “Out of everyone in our squadron, you have shown the most growth, and I’m proud.”
Tom smiled under a cold cheek and tipped his head, wondering if his achievements were in part because of his close relationship with Mark.
“Thanks, but it’s nothing really, sir. Following your orders and rules is the secret.”
Mark and Mary looked at each other in confusion. What do you think’s wrong? Mary said through her look.
I’m not sure, should I ask? Mark asked by an expression.
Ask just to be safe.
Mark turned to Tom and smiled.
“Tom, is everything okay?”
Tom didn’t answer on call and the room fell silent. Mary saw the sadness in Tom’s eyes and caught the sense of fear. A scared boy not living with any guidance for almost a decade and now facing fears of the future.
“Mark,” Mary calmly said. “I’ll be in the art room painting.” She stood up and kissed Mark on the head. When she left, he asked Tom again.
“Is everything okay? I’m here, Tom,” Mark said in a whispered, parenting tone. Tom looked up and smiled very widely.
“I can’t be any better, Mark. I just have moments.”
“Moments of what?”
“Of pity,” slurred out Tom, denying his own words. Mark became concerned. He never heard or could imagine Tom say words like those.
He had never shown any weakness for the two years Mark had known him. He was never silent but never frightened, accomplishing the harsh training with ease and with the movements of a man born for his hands to cradle an M16 rifle. He was bolted down by assurance and understanding of the world, or so Mark thought with his vague understanding of Tom’s past. Mark has never seen him cry and, on this occurrence, felt a feeling of awkwardness, like watching a stranger cry, but locked his discomfort away.
“Why? You never seem like that,” Mark softly spoke.
“Because what if we get deployed?” Tom said while his eyes watered heavily.
“Why are you afraid? You trained for this,” Mark said firmly, certain. “I trained you in everything I know. If we’re deployed, just listen to what I’ve taught you and you’ll be okay. This is also why you joined the Marines, right?”
There was a silence while Tom wiped tears off his cheeks, then another silence of uncertainty. “Y-Yes, sir.”
“Tom, tell me why you’re afraid.” Mark’s strong voice rattled the house. Tom sharply looked over and responded.
“My grandfather died in the Korean War, and my father became a drunk from Vietnam. I’m afraid I’ll become one of those two, but most of all I fear that I’ll become like my father, that I will never be any better.” Tom began to stare down, and Mark gently tapped the table until Tom looked up to find Mark strictly staring down with anger.
“Hey! I’ll never let either of those happen. Not on my watch. Never!” Mark’s eyes became strained, and his eyebrows arched down into an intense look of fury and love. Confidence radiated off Mark’s skin, instantly providing a wind of assurance through the room, his hand clenched into a fist on the oak table. But underneath, his heart was beating like a hummingbird. There was fear; none of them had truly been in a war.
Tom slightly smiled and began to cry comfortably, assured and adopted into safety.
“Thanks, sir.”
Mark fell back into his seat and let out a big sigh, which relaxed the room’s atmosphere.
“And also, don’t call me sir. I’m your brother now, corporal,” Mark quietly spoke and smiled with a quick wink. Tom winked back, very excitedly. Then, with eyebrows and cheeks rising, Tom yelped out two little words.
“Y-yes, Dad.”
Although Mark and Tom were only a few years apart, Mark took the orphan into their house, and although they could be brothers, after that day, Tom never fell short in calling him Dad.
Then Mark rolled his eyes to a shadow he saw in the hall and yelled, “Mary, you can come out of the hallway.”
“Everything’s okay?” she yelled back, sticking her head out of the darkness.
The Society Boxed
in Mirrors
When the woman cleared her throat for attention, Mark’s trance broke and he looked up. She had sweats on with a bun, as well as bags in her hands and under her eyes. She had brown, curly hair with little strands poking out of the Arizona Wildcats hat on her head. Her shoes were old sneakers with a little tear on the top, and her makeup was minimum but still very beautiful.
She has money problems, Mark thought seconds after, and is fighting for the past to become a reality again but hasn’t realized yet that normality doesn’t exist. She’s fighting for nothing. But her face is kind, probably because she doesn’t know who I am, staring at me like another cancer sponsor. My actions are very different than that. I’ve done horrible things to your family. She seems like a wonderful woman, married to a wonderful man, with an outstanding child, but I’m not a good man in any shape or form. I’m the devil, the killer, and the rage your child doesn’t need. Kick me out and punch me in the throat. I won’t move.
The woman reached out an arm. Mark closed his eyes tight, waiting for pain to strike and in a way craving a blow to the face. He knew it would be like a loving lamb protecting her child from a hungry, devious wolf. But she spoke in a gentle tone instead.
“Nice to finally meet you, sir,” the woman said, obviously struggling to speak in this same gentle voice but dimly pronounced from her exhaustion. Mark shook the hand loosely with a confused expression and a slightly open jaw. There was awkwardness in the air, a stench of forced emotions and tolerance.
“Do you know who I am, ma’am?”
“You’re the man who rear-ended my son’s Camry, I know exactly who you are!” the mother said in an unexpectedly harsh voice. Her semi-trancelike state almost instantly dissolved, and she yanked her hand back as if touching a stray dog sprayed by a skunk. Mark felt immense shame, shame he prepared for, and fell silent with his mouth slightly open. Then, in a quiet, regretful tone, he responded.
“I’m really sorry, ma’am. I-I talked to your son. He’s wonderful! I made matters worse for your family and, and—”
“And what?” the mother sneered while raising her voice again. Mark flinched and raised his voice so it was impossible for her to hear him wrong. Nurses turned around to watch, asking for security or someone to give him the boot and kick him out.
“And I’ll pay for everything that I’ve caused. I’ll help with medical bills, the car bills, and I can bring food to help you, Tyler, and your husband!”
The mother rolled her eyes, crossed her arms, looked down, and interrupted quietly with disgust. “Ex-husband. He’s in the cafeteria. A very nice man, but you’ll never see that side of him.”
The mother saw Mark’s eyes tear apart from the guilt, which made her again remember the promise to her son, something she wished she could ignore. So the woman bit her lip, and her eyes locked onto his with fire in them that said please give me any alarm so I can ruin the rest of your miserable life. They moved into a waiting room just outside the sixth floor’s metallic doors, with two walls of windows overlooking the parking lot and city and another that led to the elevator and a pair of saloon-style doors that led downstairs by foot. On the single row of red cotton-stuffed metal-leg chairs in the back right corner against the windows sat both Tyler’s mother and Mark, while on the left corner sat a family of nine who were silently crying. Quiet tears of fear. The mother’s weeping was easy to find. She was the one who’d had heavy bags, no makeup, and pajamas. Mark couldn’t help but notice them; they reminded him of the past. They were poor, in debt, and losing someone younger than them all, he surmised. There was a black purse next to the mother, and tucked inside was formula and a diaper. Tyler’s mother never noticed. She heard the cries but never looked over; these noises were heard every day in the sixth floor overlooking the city. Those soft weeps from families never shook her anymore. Sadness was always in the air, in the water, and in the heart, which will never leave unless their child walks out with their life.
The mother bit her lip and spoke.
“When Tyler was diagnosed, I thought he was going to die. I thought his life was over. I sometimes dream of the days before this place, and before the divorce.” She paused, then continued a few moments later.
“Why him? I always wondered why Tyler, of all people, would get cancer. He prayed more than all of us, he would be the one who’d go to heaven.” She paused again as she chipped her nail polish off her finger. Then, very unexpectedly, the woman chuckled lightly.
“You know how all of this came about? It was about a year ago, when I was selfish. When I didn’t think of others. I was losing a man I loved, and Tyler, my sweet boy, all he wanted to do was comfort me. I heard him sit there in pain. I knew he was in pain. But I was so…so absorbed in myself, that all I did was buy him Tylenol and not even take the box out of the grocery bag. Then I’d cry at night, and he’d cradle me and tell me to trust God. Oh, I was angry at God, but I trusted my boy and I prayed—although I was tired of his talk of life being okay, and I was tired of him acting as if the divorce wasn’t a big deal. Then one day during school, Tyler collapsed. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen and he collapsed.” The mother was violently crying with anger. Her voice wasn’t loud, but wa
sn’t quiet.
“He had a tumor in his throat and on his head. In his kidneys and his spine. He had it in his legs and wrapped around his heart. It was my fault. Mine! And every night it’s in my thoughts. So I pray every night, I pray because he…he told me to pray. I don’t care about myself anymore, I don’t. If I died right now, I wouldn’t care if I went to heaven or to hell. I love Tyler, and because he told me to pray, I will…I” Then the mother suddenly halted her conversation, finding herself wrapped in Mark’s arms. She was shocked.
“No more,” he pleaded, “no more.”
She hugged back, wrapping her hands halfway around Mark. Many mothers weren’t afraid; he had a fatherly look of an old police officer with a big heart and a personality filled with love and authority, but no strangers, or even officers besides Aaron, knew what was occurring in Mark’s head. But one thing was certain: Mark began to love Tyler, maybe almost as much as he loved Mary. The mother, though, drenched in sadness, still had endless rage for Mark and pushed his huge body off.
“Please don’t…don’t ever touch me again.” The woman turned herself in her chair and tried to forget the connection they’d shared, the two-second embrace, and hoped he would as well. She wasn’t ready to forgive Mark and didn’t want their embrace to be a sign of forgiveness, only a sign of human decency. Although Mark didn’t think of forgiveness, he began to think about Tyler. Tyler was all he could think about.
My Hand Mitten Page 10