by Chris Lynch
He stands up, breathes deep — he’s trying to come up biggish and strong — and makes his way to stand right in front of me.
“’Cause they would tell me to run.”
Of course they would. They’re his best friends. They want what is best for him.
“And me?”
“And you … wouldn’t allow it. You would terrorize me or humiliate me or just plain old beat me, until I did my duty.”
Of course I would. I’m his best friend. I want what is best for him.
I stand up and nose-to-nose him. Like a drill sergeant to a raw recruit.
“Where would you like me to start, boy?” I say firmly.
“You can slap me now if you like, sir.”
I remain practically touching his nose with mine. But not. I can’t fight a smile of … something like pride, I guess you’d call it.
Then I pull back and I slap that poor, stupid, trusting, stupid, simple great face with enough pop to make General George S. Patton himself cry.
But does my boy cry?
Of course he does.
“I’m scared, Ivan.”
“I know you are.”
“But I’m going.”
“I know you are.”
He remains, tearstained and at attention until finally, he just nods at me.
“The Marine Corps is going to love you, pal, trust me.”
“I trust you more than anybody else in the world. So yeah. But they better love me while they can, because I don’t expect to be alive very long.”
My parents have decided that the best way they can support the war effort right now — since the Army told my dad he is too old to go and he has already given them me — is to fortify the four of us with a going-away dinner that will live on in our muscles and minds and hearts until the day we come back.
I go to Rudi’s house to deliver the invitation in person, as his phone appears to be out of order. His phone is out of order more than most people’s. He lives on the top floor of a triple-decker near Forest Hills that he shares with his mother and the occasional lodger who takes up the spare bedroom for a few weeks at a time. When I climb all the way up the stairs, the current lodger greets me at the door. He may have a home at the moment, but he smells like he doesn’t.
“We are having a big send-off dinner at my house,” I say to Rudi as he lies on his bed, examining the GI Joe he has had since he was six.
“Do we have to?” is Rudi’s response.
He’s not unappreciative. In fact, one time he ate dinner at Beck’s house, and he was so grateful they found him outside mowing their lawn at seven o’clock the next morning.
“I’m sorry, Ivan, but The Captain is the most intimidating man on earth. Even if I could make myself go there and sit at his table and everything, I’m sure my throat would never open up enough for me to be able to swallow any food at all. And that would be insulting to your mom. And, jeez, I can’t even begin to think about what happens to a person who is disrespectful to The Captain’s wife.”
His shoulders shiver visibly at the tail end there.
The Captain, obviously, is my father. He rose as high as captain in the Army, and since that’s exactly where he is now in the State Police chain, I think Captain is his fair designation all over life. I can see where people might find him intimidating. Doesn’t mean he isn’t a great man, and a perfectly nice host.
“You can’t say no,” I say to Rudi. “He’ll beat me. I’ll show up for the war looking like I’ve already been there.”
I really shouldn’t mess with the guy like this. But there are lots of things I shouldn’t do.
“Aw,” he moans. “Ivan … I can’t let that happen.”
“Of course you can’t. So you will be there tomorrow night, and you will eat and not choke, which would ruin everybody else’s dinner.”
“Fine,” he says.
I sit down on the bed, dropping myself right onto his outstretched legs. He doesn’t retract them. I grab Joe away from him and do a quick inspection. He is wearing his camouflage outfit, which is not surprising as it is his only outfit. He has the fuzzy hair, too.
“You thinking this is gonna be you?” I ask him.
“Really, I was thinking it was gonna be you,” he says, taking the action figure back from me. “This is gonna be me.” He snaps the man’s head off.
“Oh, put that back,” I say. “For better or for worse, your head is going to remain right where it is. And tomorrow night, six o’clock, I want to see that head and the rest of you at my house. Don’t be late. You can imagine how The Captain feels about punctuality.”
“He’s in favor of it?”
“Insanely in favor. And since it is my last night in town, I’m kind of serious about it myself, since who knows when I’ll see you all again.”
“When, or if.”
I stare at him. “Do I have to commence the slapping again?”
“No, sir. See you at six tomorrow.”
I give his legs a good strong bounce as I get up and go.
We will all be gone within a week. I go first, which is only right. Rudi and Morris both ship out three days later, Beck two days after that.
It’s starting to feel very real.
I march crisply to the door as soon as the bell rings. When I open up, all three stooges are lined up on the step. Rudi is holding flowers for my mom, Morris has two six-packs of drinks — one Moxie, one orange soda for the sadly misguided — and Beck is cradling a pan of something covered in foil and smelling of molasses.
“Orange soda and home baking, that’s the Navy and Air Force for ya,” I say.
I lead them into the living room, where The Captain and Mom await. Dad practically leaps off the couch to greet the guys. He’s so enthusiastic about this you would think he was greeting guys returning from war rather than diving into it.
“Men,” Dad says, stepping up to each guy individually and saluting. “Now normally, it would be you saluting me first, because I outrank you. But we won’t stand on ceremony here.”
“Whoa, really letting your hair down there, Dad,” I say.
There is a two-second silence. Beck laughs. Then I get a clip behind the ear, and everybody laughs.
“Thank you so much,” Mom says as she takes the flowers from Rudi. There are visible clumps of root and dirt sticking out of the bottom of the paper. Lord knows where he collected the things, but the arrangement is pretty nice. She gives him a massive squeeze. He looks embarrassed at first but then gives all the way in, not only hugging her back but even laying his head down on her shoulder.
“Shall we head to the dining room?” Dad says.
“Yes, sir, Captain,” Beck says. I have always enjoyed Beck’s relationship with my father, though it has the slightest suggestion of danger to it. Or maybe because it has the slightest suggestion of danger to it. Beck’s world, of arts and sciences, of mind over matter, is kind of at odds with my father’s take on life. So in a way they intrigue each other as totally foreign species. But at times it seems Beck is sailing critically close to provoking something from the old man. Not advisable.
“Remember,” my father says, wagging a playful finger at him before nudging him in the direction of the dining room, “where you’re going, you are not always going to be the smartest guy in the room.”
Yes he is. But anyway.
“And even if you were,” Dad continues, “it probably wouldn’t be in your best interest to advertise that fact.”
That is advice that sounds a little more helpful.
“I hope he gives me advice like that,” Rudi whispers to me as we step into the room.
“He will,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll tell you the exact same thing, man.”
“Excellent,” Rudi says.
My father has never been one of those tight-lipped veterans who don’t like to discuss their wartime experiences. He is immensely proud of what he did in World War II under General Patton. And he should be. There are pictures all over the house, in
fact, keeping that experience alive. Photos of Patton, of course, and of scores of the tanks and fighter planes active in North Africa and Europe. General Ike Eisenhower is there, too, in our bathroom, and General Omar Bradley on the upstairs landing. But the art-of-warfare museum thing really reaches its peak in our dining room.
“Wow,” Morris says, taking in the scene. Each of the four walls has a different theme. There is an American Revolution wall, a World War I wall, a Civil War wall. And the main attraction, above the sideboard, is Dad’s tribute to the Indian Wars of the Old West. Like I said, he sees himself, remarkably, on both sides.
“You like it?” Dad says, beaming. Morris is at the sideboard, leaning right on it to examine the central item. The other guys huddle around so The Captain has to push past them to point out the fine detail of his proudest acquisition, a print of a painting called Founding Fathers.
The painting is a two-tiered thing. The lower half is the familiar scene of Mount Rushmore, the lineup same as it ever was: George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt, and Abraham Lincoln, left to right. The twist, though, is that these founding fathers of America are not hogging the spotlight for themselves the way they’re used to. Hovering in a similar formation above them are the faces of four great leaders of the American Indian Nations.
Sitting Bull is there, and Crazy Horse. The other two gents, it’s a little embarrassing to say, have never been definitively identified. At least, not in this house.
To be more accurate, I should say that they have in fact been definitively identified by my father on many occasions. Only, the definitive identifications change. Sometimes Red Cloud is up there. Sometimes Cochise, sometimes Geronimo. Their identities seem to have more to do with my dad’s current reading material than any serious study into the matter.
“You know we are descended from the Sioux,” Dad says to the guys.
“Your father always said Narragansett,” Mom says, setting down a big tureen of soup.
“Ach,” Dad says. “Narragansett. Who’d they ever fight?”
Dad scowls, then continues his seminar. “We did a family tree a while back. Turns out we are related to every one of those great men. Direct blood relations.”
Even I have lost track of how much of it he truly believes. If he said direct spiritual relations, rather than blood, he’d be one hundred percent truthful. Dad sees his head right up there with all the founding warriors, there is no doubt of that.
I go to the kitchen with Mom to fetch, while Dad continues his lecture. When we come back in with platters of roast beef, mashed potatoes, buttery green beans with almond slivers, gravy, and corn bread, everybody is seated and waiting.
The scents that fill the room are everything you want your house to smell like. Warm and rich, familiar and friendly. Satisfying and safe.
These are the smells we are going to fight for.
“I don’t imagine you’ll see the likes of this meal again for some time,” Dad says.
“Oh, sure they will,” Mom says, slapping his arm. “Don’t make such a big deal.”
“Would anyone like to say grace?” Dad asks.
Beck shoots me a look like he might laugh, and I shoot him one back that he’s going to regret it if he does. Morris shrinks a bit in his chair.
Rudi raises his hand like he’s back in class. Though in class he never would have raised his hand.
“Very good,” Dad says, and we all go along with heads bowing and hands folding in anticipation of Rudi gracing us with his grace.
We have our heads down for probably thirty silent seconds.
I look up and find everybody else doing the same. Rudi looks around at everybody looking at him. He looks slightly more bewildered than usual. Then sheepish, shrugging and smiling.
“Rudi,” I say, “do you want to do this?”
“Sure,” he says. “Sure, sure.”
We all bow our heads again.
We wait thirty silent seconds again.
Suddenly, Morris’s voice fills the void.
“We thank you, Lord, for this wonderful meal and these wonderful people. And we ask that you see the four of us home safely from this great and serious adventure. Amen.”
“Amen,” say all of us.
“That was very nice,” Mom says to Morris.
“Thank you,” he says.
“What happened to you?” Beck asks Rudi.
He gets that same shy, embarrassed look and offers the palms-up gesture. “I didn’t realize what that was. We never did that at my house.”
“Why did you volunteer?” Dad wants to know.
“I didn’t, sir. I was drafted.”
Beck lowers his head again, prayerlike. Morris leans over and gives Rudi a supportive back pat. Mom looks at Dad. Dad looks to me.
“No, he’s not joking,” I say, shaking my head and grinning.
Dad looks, very concerned, in the direction of Rudi, who gives him a tentative smile in return. I hear my mother, under her breath, say, “Oh, God love him.”
Dad folds his hands and leads grace, part two. “Lord, please do watch over and protect these brave young Americans through all their coming trials. Especially Rudi.”
Which becomes our Amen.
“Especially Rudi,” I say brightly.
“Especially Rudi,” says Morris, says Mom, says Beck.
“Especially me,” says Rudi, causing my father to burst out of character altogether, break ranks, and go over to give Rudi a mighty grab of both his shoulders and a squeeze firm enough to water the boy’s eyes. Right there at the dinner table.
Nobody gets up here before dinner is finished without an ironclad, life-and-death excuse. Ever.
Oh, my.
The meal itself is a triumph, with my father loosening up considerably. Unlike most people, Dad gets more relaxed in the presence of a bunch of fighters than in a more peaceable crowd. And now he considers us fighters.
“You, Private Smarty-pants, come over here,” he says to Beck once he has finished his main meal and his seconds.
Beck happily gets up, probably expecting some sort of award for cleaning his plate. He stands next to Dad, watching as the old man rolls up his crisply ironed sleeves.
“Wow,” says Beck.
It’s the tattoos. On his left forearm is the traditional seal of the United States Army, the one that’s been around since the Revolution. It has two flags crossed, the thirteen-star American flag with another one that looks like it’s got a floating empty suit and tie in the middle of it. There are various guns and cannons and spears and a small snake holding in its mouth a banner that says THIS WE’LL DEFEND. Really, the Army could have borrowed the seal from my dad rather than the other way around.
On his right forearm is a copy of a famous portrait of the Sioux chief Sitting Bull in white buckskins, looking hard and sharp straight at you, a single feather rising behind his head. A ribbon beneath the portrait reads WOUNDED KNEE.
Both Rudi and Morris are eager to join the viewing, and they get up from their seats. But Dad withers them both with a quick-shot look that practically radiates heat and drops them back in their chairs like a pair of ducks shot out of the sky.
“Oh,” Morris says. “Permission to stand, sir?”
“Granted,” Dad says. This is quite a party for him.
The boys rise again, only for Rudi to be shot back to earth again.
“Sorry,” he says. “I thought that counted for both of us.”
“Don’t think, son,” Dad says. He says it in a way that is totally different from how any of us would have said it. No joke, no teasing. He says it with warmth and sincerity and hope that Rudi will be able to take that really good advice with him into the Marines and carry it all the way right back to this table after it’s all over.
“Yes, sir, I won’t,” Rudi says. “I mean, no, sir. Yes, sir.” He looks at my dad with the scared puppy-in-love eyes that normally tell me that I am his hero.
“Oh, get over here, Rudi,” Dad says, br
eaking protocol every which way now under Rudi’s peculiar spell.
Just then my little brother, Caesar, comes bounding in and presents himself in the doorway.
“Oh, what part of the induction program are we at now?” he asks mischievously.
“Tattoo Worship,” Mom responds with a giggle.
“Hah,” Caesar says. “At least I haven’t missed the ritual buzz-cutting ceremony. I skipped dessert over at Nick’s for that. And they were having Moon Pies.”
“Ritual what?” Beck asks. Beck really likes his hair. It’s auburn, halfway between curly and wavy, and hangs just below his ears. He is the closest we come in this group to anything approaching hippie.
“Regulation haircuts,” Dad says, like he’s Monty Hall pulling the curtain on Let’s Make a Deal. “Professional and free.”
I keep my hair pretty close to regulation as it is, so another sixteenth of an inch one way or another never matters much to me. Also, I knew this was coming. Now’s the time for me to sit back and enjoy.
“Well,” Morris says extra calmly, “don’t they give us haircuts as soon as we report for duty?”
“Of course they do,” Dad says. “But you want to make a good impression, right from the get-go. Like I did. The Army didn’t even wind up giving me a haircut, after the one I gave myself.”
Yes. Himself.
“Trust me, men. A good impression goes a long, long way when you enter the service, especially in wartime. The very last thing you want to do is show up looking like hippies, let me tell you.”
Dad’s hippie-ometer is set for ultrasensitive. He has considerably less patience for them than I have, and I have none at all.
“Who’s first up?” Dad asks.
For the second time ever I see Rudi shoot his hand up into the air.
“Well done, my boy, that’s the spirit,” Dad says. He gets up and crisply leads a small procession out to the barbershop I know so well. That would be our back porch. Rudi is actually sort of marching, trying to stay in lockstep with my father, whose natural stride is a kind of march. Morris follows right behind, in a way that is completely descriptive of him. You can’t quite tell if he is for or against what is happening, but there is a sureness to his commitment to it anyway. It’s a sort of determined slouch in the direction of events.