We walk to our cars. Hers is parked right behind mine.
“Good night,” I say. I look around. I lean in and kiss her on the cheek.
“What a gentleman,” she says. “Night.”
We drive away. I think of the whole thing in the diner as I drive home. LuLu is very special. She takes shit from no one. That’s a good thing, and a bad thing. But ultimately, in this fast-changing world of ours, I’d bet it will prove to be a very good thing.
But she’s wrong about me. I just need to find the right girl.
As I drive up our drive, I think of the play, LOVE. Paul’s poster—the capital letters, the daisy in the rifle, the peace sign—says it all. LOVE. That’s what we need. To live in peace. To end this war. As the Beatles say, “All you need is love.” Simple, but profound.
The lights are all on, so Mother and Daddy must still be up. I look at my watch. It is 10:45. They’re usually in bed soon after ten.
I go in the back door. Daddy is sitting in his easy chair. Just sitting. The TV isn’t on. He’s not doing anything. I see four empty beer cans on the floor beside his chair, like he’d taken all four there all at once so he wouldn’t have to get up again.
“Dewey, sit.” His voice is solemn. I don’t hear any anger in it, so it can’t be something I’ve done. But he calls me Dewey instead of King Cat, so there is no happiness either. I just know I shouldn’t question him, so I sit on the couch, on the end nearest his chair.
Then it dawns on me. “Where is Mother?” Oh, God, please don’t let him tell me she’s been hurt in some horrible accident. Oh God, oh God. No, that’s not it. If Mother was in a hospital bed somewhere, he’d be with her. And he would have sent Grandpa to get me at rehearsal. No, it’s something else.
“She’s at your Aunt Juney’s.” He stops talking.
The news has to be bad because Mother would never stay at Aunt Juney’s this late at night. Not on a work night.
“Is something wrong, Daddy? What’s happened?”
“Your aunt and uncle got some bad news today. Your grandma called right after you left for rehearsal. She was over there.” Another pause.
Why does he stop talking? I can’t stand this. If he has something to say, he just needs to say it.
“Your grandma said Aunt Juney called her about five, in hysterics. She couldn’t get anything out of her, and your uncle Bert wouldn’t come to the phone. Your grandparents rushed over there. We heard them go out the driveway as we were eating, you remember? Your mother said, ‘I wonder where they’re going.’ But we didn’t say any more about it.” He stops again.
“Daddy, you’re killing me. Tell me what happened.”
“Your mother rushed over there the minute your grandma called. I didn’t want you to have to miss your rehearsal, but I wanted you to know as soon as you got home, so I’ve been waiting for you. You’re late.”
“I know. We got a burger after.” Any other time, he would have asked who “we” were, but this time he just sat.
He takes a deep, deep breath, a breath that could have filled lungs the size of the Grand Canyon. “It’s Danny.”
Oh my God, no, no, no, no, no, no. No reverberates in my whole being.
“It’s hard for me to find the words, Dewey. It’s hard.” He stops again, and my heart aches, not knowing, but knowing. I look at Daddy. Tears fill his eyes.
“He was killed today, Dewey. Those dirty commie chinks killed him. Plowed him down as he walked through a village our boys thought was clear.”
Heaving sobs overtake me. Danny was an innocent. He wasn’t there because he wanted to be—not that that would have justified his death—but he was there because he was drafted, forced to go.
“Damn! Damn, damn, damn. This shouldn’t have happened. Not to Danny.”
Daddy gets up, and in his awkward way, he pulls me to his body, cradles me.
I keep babbling. “Danny shouldn’t have been there. None of those guys should be there. This war is wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.” My voice gets louder and louder. I’m shouting. “This shit has gone on too long. They should have pulled out our troops as soon as they knew we weren’t going to win this f-ing fight. Fuck Johnson for getting us into it deeper and deeper. And Fuck Nixon for not ending it the minute he took over. Danny and all the others wouldn’t have died. He didn’t deserve this!” I’m beating my fists against myself, against Daddy, trying to beat out my frustrations with this travesty they are calling a war.
Daddy pulls away. “Stop it! Don’t say such things. You hear me? Stop this goddamned talk. Your cousin died a hero. He was fighting for his country. He believed in what he was doing. And you will not say anything against him, you listening to me?” He is angrier than I’ve ever seen him. But I don’t care.
“Yeah,” I scream at him. “Danny believed in what he was doing. And look where it got him! He was lied to by Johnson and all the generals and Congress. This fucking war is wrong, and Danny did die a hero. A hero for a cause he never should have taken up. He should have run away when he got that letter. Gone to Canada. Or prison, even. This country should be ashamed.”
Daddy hauls back his arm and slaps me across my face. The sound of it echoes throughout the house.
But I feel nothing.
Chapter 9
I’M STARTLED by the crack of the rifles. The volley of sound pierces the crisp Saturday morning air. We are all gathered here, at Bluebonnet Hills Cemetery, saying good-bye to Danny. I, in my dark suit, am standing next to Mother, who is next to Aunt Juney. Grandma holds Aunt Juney’s arm on the other side of her. I don’t know if she is supporting Aunt Juney or if it’s the other way around. Probably some of both, for Aunt Juney is a total wreck and Grandma’s not much better. Daddy stands next to Uncle Bert. Men are supposed to be the stoics at funerals, the ones their women can rely on. But Uncle Bert is a total mess. Daddy went with him to the funeral home to make arrangements, and Daddy came back, saying he’d done most of the talking because Uncle Bert was in total shock still from the news. And now we stand here, witnessing a full military funeral. Jo tears up at the rifle shots. She has held it together through it all, but I guess the crashing noise brings reality to her. I pull my handkerchief from my pocket and hand it to her. This is my first funeral, and it has been a trial.
Here I stand, having listened to the tributes, the praising of Danny’s war efforts, his bravery in battle, how he’d saved his buddies more than once by pulling them out of the way of enemy fire. I am numb. I love—no, I guess I have to say loved now—Danny, despite the fact he was always a pain in the butt to me and Jo. But he was a good guy. If Jo or I were ever in trouble, he would jump right in to save us. Not that he was ever called on to do that, but I know he would have. I saw how much he protected all his friends he ran around with. That was just his nature. So, yes, Danny is a hero.
A hero for an unjust cause. He should never have been sent over there. He should never have been put in the situation that killed him. He should never have died. Pure and simple.
And now, here we are, listening to almost hollow tributes, feeling the thunder of the rifle salute, hearing the mournful trumpeter play “Taps,” and taking it all in, like it will somehow make everything all right.
The guard detail takes the American flag from the coffin, ceremoniously folds it, then presents it to Uncle Bert. He accepts it. Then he totally loses it. Daddy grabs him as he collapses. For a moment, there is chaos. Aunt Juney cries out, a keening cry, worried for Uncle Bert, mourning her dead son. Grandma and Mother put their arms around Aunt Juney. Grandma draws her to her shoulder and pats her head as she sobs. Daddy whispers to Uncle Bert, gets him standing again, and Uncle Bert is at attention, staring straight ahead, determined, I guess, to not lose it again.
As the coffin is lowered into the grave, Jo walks to the box. Tosses a single rose into the cavern. A final good-bye to her big brother. She comes back to stand next to me. Buries her face into my neck. Her tears warm my bare skin. I don’t know what to do. Do I pat her? D
o I speak empty words like it will be okay? I just stand and let her expel her grief. This won’t be the last time she breaks down, I’m sure, nor will it be the last time any of them break. But for now, Daddy, Mother, Grandma, and I are doing what we can to ease their pain.
The minister offers a final prayer.
And it is over.
The crowd breaks up, slowly. Jo clings to me as we walk behind Grandma and Mother propping up Aunt Juney. Daddy and Uncle Bert trail us.
Well-wishers stop us as we file out of the cemetery. They speak what I hope are comforting words for my aunt, uncle, and cousin. I find no comfort in the words, though, because I am so angry about how Danny died. I stare at the grass, not wanting to let anyone see my anger.
I hear a voice and look up. Standing in front of Mother are Butch and his mother.
“Thank you, Verna Fay,” Mother says, “your coming means a lot to me and my family.”
“I just had to come pay my respects. I remember little Danny so well. He would play with Butchie and Dewey when they were just little bugs. What a shame.”
When we were just little bugs? I don’t remember that. How old were we? It had to be when we were in preschool, all of us. And since Danny was two years older than me, Butch and I must have been almost babies. Weird. Butch and I were playmates. I heard that before, and it threw me for a loop. Just two babies, playing like we were the best of friends. Then school happened. And Butch became my enemy. I guess it’s true what they say: children have to be taught to hate. Little kids just like everybody.
Butch holds out his hand to me. “Sorry about your cousin, Dewey.” There is genuine concern in his voice. I shake his hand and say thanks. I’m glad we’re not enemies anymore, Butch and I.
Others stop us as we slowly trod to the funeral home limo for the trek back to Aunt Juney’s and Uncle Bert’s.
On the edge of the grass, near the paved drive, I see him.
Jeep stands. Dressed in jeans and shirt. But dark jeans and dark shirt. I’m sure he doesn’t own a suit, so he has come in the best he could put together.
My heart leaps when I see him. I’ve missed him so much, I realize.
I break away from the others and head toward him.
“Hey, Dew,” he says as I get near. “Sorry about your cousin.”
I sigh. This has been a rough day. I want to hug him, shout, “Make me laugh as only you can, Jeep,” but this is neither the time nor the place for that.
“Thanks for coming,” I say. “I didn’t see you at the service. And I didn’t see you at the grave either.”
“I held back. I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see me.”
“Jeep, you’re my best friend. Of course, I want to see you,” I say. I tremble. What is wrong with me? I know I’m not like him, but I just want to grab him, hug him, hold on to him for dear life.
“After what happened, I didn’t feel like you ever wanted to see me again,” he says, looking down.
I raise his chin. “Jeep, we’ll always be friends. We just can’t be—” I look around to see who is near. No one. “—lovers.”
He breaks into a grin. “That’s okay. I can deal with that. I don’t like it. But I can deal with it.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Good, I think. “Are you coming to Aunt Juney’s? Everyone’s gonna be there,” I say. “There will be lots of good food.”
“No,” Jeep says. “I can’t. There’s a band rehearsal this afternoon.”
I envy him. I wish I had a rehearsal to go to. To get me out of this thing at my aunt and uncle’s and to end this whole death ritual.
Jeep grins again. “We’re playing the Cellar. Opening tonight.”
The Cellar is one of Fort Worth’s hottest clubs. This is the big time for Jeep—at least in Fort Worth.
“Wow, Jeep! I’m so proud of you. How’d it happen?”
“Guy from the Cellar saw us at the Box. Came up and offered the gig. We open tonight. That’s why we’re rehearsing this afternoon.”
“I’m so happy for you, Jeep.”
“Do you think you could come to the opening?” Here we are in the middle of a cemetery, and Jeep is almost giddy.
I hate to bring him down, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go see the band. I’m glad he came today, but I don’t think I need to encourage him by showing up to his big night.
“Sorry, Jeep, but, you know, there’s all this family thing. I have to stay close.”
His face falls. “I understand. We’re booked for two weekends. Maybe next weekend?”
“My show is next weekend—Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights.”
“I guess I should congratulate you. I know you’ll be great. The show will be great.” He flashes a genuine smile. He’s as glad for me as I am for him and the band.
“So,” I say, “maybe I can catch the next gig you guys play.”
“Yeah, okay.” Suddenly he is somber. “Well, I guess I should go.” He turns and walks out of the cemetery. I want to stop him, give him a ride home, but I’m in the limo. My eyes follow him for a long time as he walks. I head for the limo.
As we pull out of the cemetery, I see him standing at the bus stop.
My heart aches.
The thing at Aunt Juney’s and Uncle Bert’s is weird. There’s tons of food, and it’s all good. Mother said people’d been bringing food ever since they heard of what happened. The table’s filled with a huge sliced ham, a big sliced turkey, two or three casseroles, potato salad, macaroni salad, macaroni and cheese, breads of all kinds, baked beans, pickles and olives and sliced onions and tomatoes, and God knows what all. The sideboard’s gorged with pies, cakes, plates of cookies. And there’s almost as much more food in the kitchen.
Nobody’s going hungry today. Unfortunately, the people who need to eat the most are not hungry. Mother says my aunt and uncle haven’t eaten much at all since the news.
But here we are, their tiny house filled to the gills with friends and relatives. I see cousins and aunts and uncles I haven’t seen since Christmas, all in town for the funeral. A whole group of Danny’s high school friends gather in a corner, swapping stories of their fallen friend.
I grab a plate and fill it full. When I need to stuff my feelings, I eat. And today, I need to stuff my feelings. I just want to chew and swallow enormous quantities so I don’t think of Danny, the war. Or Jeep.
Jo walks behind me at the table, taking small amounts of mac and cheese and a tiny sliver of ham. Jo usually has a big appetite, so I can see she’s hurting. I lean over to her. “I know it’s cold outside, but let’s take this out to the patio, okay?”
We head out the back doors. Uncle Bert built a patio away from the house, under two giant trees to shelter it from the blazing North Texas summer sun. Today, it’s really cold there at the table in the shade, but I make Jo sit. I say, “I’ll go get our coats. Eat. Don’t wait on me.” I put my plate down, then rush back into the house.
When I return with our coats, Jo still hasn’t touched her food.
“Jo, you gotta eat. You look hungry to me.” Strange thing to say, but I’m not very rehearsed in taking care of grief-stricken people.
She picks up her food. Takes a teeny, tiny bit of mac and cheese. Raises it to her mouth. I watch her chew. She chews robotically, like a machine, not a trace of anything showing on her face. Then she swallows.
I watch her staring into the yard. “Danny built that fort.” Her words are robotic, just like her eating.
I don’t have to turn to know she is talking about the fort that we, all of us, had spent hours playing in, long, long ago.
“We had some good times there, didn’t we?” I say.
She doesn’t respond. I ache for her. But what can I do? “Have another bite,” I say.
She takes fork in hand and repeats Miss Robot Eater. I take a giant forkful of food and put it in my mouth. As I chew and swallow, I taste nothing. I’m too focused on Jo.
As I’m shoveling more flavorless food into my pieh
ole, Jo speaks. “Why didn’t you kiss Vickie good night?”
She has no expression on her face. I don’t know why she’s come up with this question. The question I long ago expected from her. But a lot had happened since that date I had with Jo’s friend. I’d almost erased it from my memory.
I swallow. “What?”
“Vickie said she leaned over to kiss you good night, and you pulled away.” Strange conversation. She is still staring at the fort behind me.
What can I say? I don’t know why I didn’t kiss her. Do I make up a lie? I can’t tell the truth because I don’t know the truth.
“I don’t know.”
Jo suddenly comes to life. “Of course you know.” Suddenly, my cousin has found new energy in defending her friend. I know it’s an attempt to forget the moment, her brother’s death, funeral, and the gathering happening just a few feet away.
“I really don’t know, Jo,” I say. I grab another bite to fill my mouth so I can’t talk.
“Dewey,” she says, thrusting her hand at me. “You do know. Vickie is a sweet girl. She’s a beautiful girl. She didn’t deserve to be blown off like that.” These are more words than I’ve heard from her all week.
I chew and swallow, measuring my response. “She is beautiful and she is funny. I enjoyed the date. But somehow, kissing her on the first date didn’t seem right.” I hope that will shut her up. It sounds like something an honorable man might say.
But why do I want to shut her up? She’s finally talking again, and she has passion in her voice.
“Bullshit, Dewey. Boys don’t do the honorable thing. They’re a bunch of horny bastards, you know.”
I’ve never heard Jo talk like this before. It must be the stress of the day. I am speechless.
She quickly adds. “What are you? Queer or something?”
My heart beats faster. I am gasping for breath. This is totally unlike Jo. This might be something Danny might say, but not Jo.
“Jo, don’t talk like that. I’m not that way. I guess I’m just inexperienced. You know the only girl I’ve ever gone out with was Lisa. I didn’t really know what to do with someone else. If it’s any comfort to you, I hated myself later.”
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