by Lena Prodan
As teenagers, Sheri and I were forced to sit with the adults long after dinner and coffee were gone. Even if we could have slipped under the table, our tenuous friendship had long since turned to indifference, and by that visit, to wary jealousy. I doubted she would have clasped my hands for comfort.
We shifted in our hard wooden chairs as Tata droned on, and on, and on. In the hallway by the stairs, the springs of the grandfather clock wound, ready to count off another quarter hour.
The tickle in my throat got worse. Small sips of tea helped, but it wouldn't go away. “Uh hum."
Sheri played with the dead man's fingers—the feathery, inedible gray gills of a crab—until her mother pushed the shattered shells across the table. Sheri reached again. The sleeve of her shirt pulled up. There were two thin pink scars across her wrist.
I bowed my head and fought down the weird mixture of jealousy, anger, and awe I suddenly felt for her. All that time, I'd accused her of being merely ordinary, when in reality, she was so much more. I wanted to curl up under the table with her and hold her wrists in my hands like holy relics. If she'd let me, I'd brush my fingers across those razor scars and feel the rise and fall of her skin. I wanted to kneel at her feet and ask her about her rituals and God. She was closer to it than I'd ever come. But Sheri was hidden behind her hair, like a prophet who'd taken a vow of silence. I saw then that she wasn't coming between me and Grandma; Grandma was keeping the rest of the world away from Sheri.
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Chapter 12
We returned to Ohio on Friday, driving the entire way from Southern Georgia in one hellishly long day. Even the dog was too exhausted to pace the entire trip. The temperatures dropped the further north we drove. At a gas station outside Lexington, Kentucky, I pulled on a sweater and jacket. There was snow on the ground in Cincinnati. Trees along the interstate glowed in the moonlight as ice clung to their bare limbs.
Early Saturday morning, we pulled into our driveway. Multi-colored Christmas lights blinked in the Foster's windows. Our side of the duplex was solemnly dark.
The first thought on my mind when I woke the next morning was a cigarette. I dressed in my hiking gear, slipped my backpack on over my coat, and clipped the leash to the dog's collar.
Mom and Pop sipped coffee at the kitchen table.
"Where are you going?” Pop asked.
"Hiking around the hills. Taking the dog for her walk."
"No. We're going to Hans’ for lunch."
"But I'm busy.” Inside my pocket, my fingers curled around my lighter. I met Pop's dark eyes and didn't back down. “There's no reason for me to go."
"Listen, smartie, do you like having a roof over your head? Do like your new backpack? Your sub-zero sleeping bag? Those new hiking boots? Guess where it all comes from? My job. When I retire in June, they'll kick us out of this house. If you think we can live off my retirement pay, you're sadly mistaken. It'll barely cover rent."
I held my ground.
He rose. “I don't suppose you've noticed the hundreds of people out of work in this town, because you're too busy gallivanting around like the world owes you everything, but I have to keep a roof over our heads. Those men have the pull to get me a job teaching at the University. I've worked too hard and too long for this to let you ruin it. So you're coming.” His finger jabbed at the space between us, punctuating his words.
"They won't care if I don't come."
He moved toward me. The dog looked up; the whites of her eyes showed. I bent down and unhooked the leash. My backpack shifted, so I grabbed at the shoulder strap. It tugged out of my hand. Pop was pulling the pack off me.
Mom put the coffee cups into the sink and grabbed her purse. She went past us, out the door, as if nothing were happening.
Pop shoved at my shoulder. “Out."
I followed Mom outside, but folded my arms across my chest when I got to the car. “I still don't see why I have to go."
"Because I said so.” Pop's voice boomed. He held to door open and pointed to the back seat.
The Foster's garage was open. I could hear guitars, so I knew the guys were inside.
"Why don't you try asking me for once instead of ordering me around? This isn't the military,” I yelled. I knew I was being stupid, but couldn't stop. “Being in the same room with those people makes me sick. Have you ever listened to them? They're proud of what they did, the Holocaust. Bunch of murderers. They're so smug, because they got away with it, and given the chance, they'd do it again. Makes me want to puke!"
The music from the garage stopped.
Sensing that we had an audience, Pop got into my face and told me through clenched teeth, “Get in the damn car. Now!"
My knees shook, but I held my ground.
Pop shoved me toward the car. I stumbled and slammed my cheek against the edge of the door. My face went numb, but I could feel glorious hurt about to bloom in scarlet shards under my eye. Fracture lines seemed to branch through my skull like cracking ice on a pond. I stood there blinking, waiting for the barrier between me and pain to shatter.
For a moment, a brief fraction of a second, Pop almost looked worried. Then he bumped my wrist with his. “What are you going to do?” he demanded. “Huh? Huh?” Each “huh” was accompanied by another smack of our forearms, harder every time. “Huh? Huh? You gonna cry like a little baby? Huh? Huh?"
Well, yes. As soon as time, which was held in suspense by shock, unfroze, I planned to wail like a banshee. Until he said that.
"You gonna cry? Little baby? Huh? Boo-hoo. Let's see you cry."
I drew a long breath in through my nose and wished God would strike him dead. Burn in hell, old man. Burn.
Satisfied that he'd shamed me out of a scene, Pop said, “Get in the car."
Time caught up and pain rushed to fill the vacuum. How could throbbing hurt so much? I collapsed into the back seat.
Pop slammed the door shut and got into the car. Mom sat rigid in the front passenger seat, staring ahead as if there were nothing to see.
Tony must have gone inside to tell his Mom that Pop and I were fighting, because she ran out onto their lawn. Tony stood beside her, his hands darting as he talked. His mother's expression didn't change, but the weight of the world seemed to settle on the corners of her eyes.
Pop pulled out of the driveway, his hands clutched tight around the steering wheel.
Mrs. Foster asked, “Are you okay?"
Just knowing that someone cared enough to ask was huge. Smiling hurt, so I touched the window with my fingertips and nodded. When she was out of sight, my fingers curled to my palm and I turned away from the window.
* * * *
As soon as we walked into Hans’ townhouse, his wife tsked over my face. “That looks like it hurts."
Pop rushed into an explanation before I could. “She slipped and fell into the car door. Hee hee. Must have been a patch of ice on the driveway. Ha ha. They're so clumsy at this age. Hee hee hee."
Could he have been more obviously guilty of something? But no one called him on it.
Pop's other friends, Pieter and Fredric, struggled out of deep, cushy chairs when we came in, while Hans posed by the fireplace. They all shook hands.
Pieter always wore a bow tie and a sweater. Like my Grandfather, he smelled of cherry tobacco, but where my family was big, robust peasant stock, Pieter looked like he belonged in a portrait gallery in a museum.
The leather patch at the elbow of Fredric's tweed jacket was coming unstitched, but he always seemed on the verge of chaos, with his distracted genius air and rumpled clothes. That was camouflage. He looked harmless, even endearing, as he blithely chatted about his efforts to design rockets to deliver military payloads and ordinance, as if he were merely pondering a Rubik's Cube, and not inventing more efficient death.
"May I have some ice?” I asked Hans’ wife. “A glass of ice water would be great."
"It's bad for your stomach,” she warned, but she gave me one anyway.
"We've just come back from Frankfurt,” Hans told us as everyone took their places at the table. His bare forehead shone, as if he waxed the skin from his thick eyebrows to his kinky brown hair. He pulled the foil from a bottle of wine. “Real German Riesling, not the Liebfraumilch swill they sell to Americans.” As always, Hans poured glasses for Mom, Pop, and me. I would have preferred a genuine German beer, but I was willing to get drunk on anything.
Pop pronounced it, “Wonderful,” and refilled his glass. “How was your trip?"
Hans settled into his chair. “Well, you know. It wasn't like it was. There are no Germans working in the restaurants anymore."
"Scandalous,” his wife shouted from the kitchen.
"How can any honest worker get a job when those Turks sneak into the country and work for nothing? They get paid under the table. None of them pay taxes, and then they demand social benefits!"
Hans’ wife stood in the doorway to the kitchen. “Do you know, the waiter brought my plate out, and I could see his thumb near my food. Disgusting. With that dark skin, how can you be sure those people are clean? I sent it back to the kitchen. It turned my stomach."
I knew how she felt. She turned my stomach.
Pieter said, “It didn't used to be that way. Now, all you see in Munich are foreigners. It used to be that you could walk the streets and only see Germans."
Gee, could that be because they rounded up everyone else and slaughtered them?
Pop caught my eye and gave me a harsh look. I guess he knew what I was thinking.
"So, you're enrolling at our University?” Frederic asked me.
It was the first I'd heard about it. I looked to Pop.
"Free tuition when your father comes to work with us,” Pieter said.
That explained everything.
Hans smiled up at his wife as she set a plate of chops and spaetzle before him. “Will you be taking engineering?” he asked me.
God, I hoped not.
"She's taking computer science,” Pop said.
That was bad enough.
"Just as well, I have some female students in my classes. They aren't very good, but the school insists."
Not for the first time, I wished I was a math whiz. I would have loved to ace Hans’ class, leaving him dazed and awed. Unfortunately, all I could do was confirm his bias against women.
"I'd like to teach,” I told them, as if anyone were interested in what I wanted to do. “History, or English."
The uncles politely chuckled, as if I'd said something embarrassing.
"Teach?” Mom made a face. “This from the girl who used to tell people she was born in Disneyland.” She smirked as the uncles chuckled. “We told her she was born in Dixieland, but she kept saying Disneyland."
"I was three,” I said quietly. If God loved me at all, he would have let me drop dead on the spot rather than have to endure another one of her humiliation scenes. She loved to pull me into the kitchen when she had some lady over for coffee, and I'd have to stand there and stare at my shoes as Mom told each cute little story about how stupid I was until the guest's laughter turned to uneasy chuckles and then uncomfortable squirming. My value as entertainment over, I'd finally be dismissed.
"Sometimes, I think the MENSA people switched her test sheet with someone smart.” Satisfied that I was ready to flee the room and stick my head in the oven—appropriate, considering who our hosts were—Mom said, “Teaching is a dead end profession for people who can't do anything else. You're going to major in computers."
"Teachers are nothing,” Hans said.
Pieter tapped his pipe on the edge of the table. When he caught my eye, he winked. “Of course, we're all professors. Teachers, if you will.” None of the other uncles seemed as amused as he was by that.
"Who's hungry? Pass your plates,” Hans said.
As we ate the heavy lunch, their talk turned to politics. I hid behind my glass of wine, hoping Pop didn't notice that Pieter constantly refilled it.
"The Soviets were behind Sadat's assassination last month, I'm sure of it,” Pieter said. “They're trying to divert our attention."
Hans snorted. “Everyone knows that you can't win in Afghanistan. Mark my words, the Soviets will tuck their tails and run eventually."
"But what about the Middle East?” Pieter interrupted. “Sadat was the voice of sanity. Who knows who the Egyptians will put in power next."
Hans’ hands fluttered. “Tempest in a teapot. It'll die down. How can anyone who prays seven times a day get anything done? This Muslim fundamentalism is just a fad, and like all fads, it will pass."
"I disagree. I think the Middle East is fermenting on hate. The entire region will collapse into sectarian wars and the U.S. will be forced to intervene."
War? As angry as I was with him, fear for Pop welled up inside my chest. Maybe it was the wine. I glanced across the table at him. He suddenly seemed fragile to me. It would be absurd to put a middle-aged rocket scientist on the front line, but I'd seen enough military thinking to fear their weird logic.
"Do you really think there could be war, Pieter?” I asked.
They seemed surprised that I'd spoken. “Uncle Pieter,” he corrected me. “Ja, I do."
A chill stabbed through my heart.
"Ah—let them slaughter each other. It has nothing to do with the U.S., or Europe. It's a local issue.” Hans lifted a bottle. “More wine?"
Even though Hans and Fredrick dismissed his warnings, Pieter's words stayed with me. Hadn't every war already been fought? Wasn't everything decided? Still, news I heard about Lebanon and Iran made me think Pieter had a better grasp of reality.
Over the next couple weeks, people on base seemed watchful. To the outside world, nothing changed, but I felt a shift in the collective military-think. The atmosphere was like a coiling snake.
It was stupid, but I felt responsible for keeping Pop safe, if only I could figure out how.
I wasn't the only one who sensed it. Eric helped his dad change the oil in their car and lived to tell about it. Sean talked his father into a fishing trip. Tony and Mr. Foster, who were always close, made pilgrimages to the hardware store, moved Lane's abandoned drum set out of the way, and built a plywood skateboard ramp in the garage. I wanted to have the same kind of connection to Pop, as if that were the key to protecting him. I tried talking to him at the dinner table, but my attempts to interrupt his soliloquies only got me a hostile glare, a grunt, and then he rambled on as if I hadn't spoken.
Out in the garage, in a dusty cardboard box that hadn't been opened for three moves, I found a chess set he gave me one Christmas. I cleaned it off, brought it into the house, and set up the board on the coffee table.
Pop was watching a football game. He jumped from the couch, grunted and blocked imaginary players, as if he could help his team from our living room. At commercials, his gaze slid to the board. I sat on the floor with my back to the TV and read the rule book.
Ah! White went first. I should have turned the board so that he was white. I picked a pawn and cautiously slid it forward one square. He reached down, barely breaking his eye contact with the TV, and moved one of his pieces.
Chess had never been my game, but in the long pauses, as I watched the knights and bishops take their victims, it began to make sense. The point wasn't seeing what was in front of me; it was to visualize moves ahead to what would be. Cause and effect. Cogs and gears. Pop moved a piece I hadn't considered. The future shifted. New model, new possibilities.
For three days, we played after dinner. Then the set disappeared. I thought maybe Mom put it away, but I searched the house and couldn't find it. I took the hint and went back to spending my evenings at the gazebo.
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Chapter 13
The Base Exchange had been remodeled back in the 1960s but hadn't been restocked or cleaned since
then. The low ceilings and dim lighting always made me want to hold my breath until I got out of there. Despite the dingy interior, I shopped there because I could always hitch a ride with someone headed to the base. It was impossible to go there and not run into people I knew. Because of that, when I decided I wanted to start wearing men's underwear, I walked to the K-Mart to buy them.
A sidewalk ran the length of the base housing, but stopped at the end of the tract. Beyond that, there was only a thin trail through the snow along the rural highway. A plow packed a waist high bank in the shoulder, so I walked on the highway. A car drove by close, the pitch of the horn changing as it sped past.
Compared to the Base Exchange, the K-Mart was huge and well-lit, with tons of stuff to buy. I grabbed a couple flannel shirts as I lingered in the men's department, waiting for the other shoppers to move away so that I could scuttle over to the back wall where the men's underwear hung in plastic packages. As soon as they were gone, I ducked behind the last rack and tried to decipher the codes.
Was I a jockeys kind of boy, or would I like briefs? Briefs looked like Grandpa underwear. And then there were the sizes. I was tempted to tear open a package and see what they looked like, but that seemed wrong. Someone was coming. I grabbed a package, hid it under the flannel shirts, and dashed into the aisle where I might have been innocently shopping for shampoo or a dust mop.
I gulped a few times and hoped the heat in my face would cool before I got to the checkout. I was light on my feet, though, because I'd gotten away with it. Almost.
Amanda and her mother got in line behind me at the checkout. I knew she was there, but kept my back to her while I strained to hear anything she might say. I clutched my pack of Fruit of the Loom briefs to my chest while my brain ran calculations like one of those UNIVAC supercomputers.