My dad said he took part in Operation Desert Storm, but mostly he spent the time cleaning and restocking his supply ship with his shipmates. He never shot at anybody or had anybody shoot at him, although he said he saw the aftermath of a land battle once, something he refused to discuss. He climbed the ranks and, when he was discharged, married my mom. My mom and dad met when he was on shore leave in New York. After they got married, they moved so Dad could join a Navy friend’s insurance company, where he still works. I came along ten years later and Kenny six years after that. Dad said that decade without kids were the happiest in his life, but Mom always said he was kidding.
Sometimes I thought my dad wasn’t kidding, and good for him. He deserved that time alone with her, considering.
When Mom died, it was a huge shock to everybody, especially her doctor. She had always been so vibrant and healthy. They thought she had a stroke or something, but Dad didn’t see the point of doing an autopsy, so we’ll never really know for sure. As the years went by, I seemed to remember her less and less. I had pictures and videos of her, of course, but those moments not on film seemed blurry, and try as I might, I couldn’t quite remember exactly what she said or exactly when she said it. It’s odd, but when you stop seeing and talking to someone every day, that person kind of fades away in your mind, and you begin to doubt how true your memories are of that person, as if you need that daily contact to keep all the details fresh.
My dad used to say to me, “If your mother were still alive, she would be very proud of you” or “furious with you” or “happy for you” or whatever fit the occasion. But as time went by, Dad would just say, “If your mother . . .” and let it go at that. I didn’t need to hear the rest to know what he meant.
Maybe the best way to describe it is that my mom was in charge of scooping me up and my dad was in charge of sitting me down. Now, while I understood and appreciated why my dad had to sit me down when I did something dumb—more often than I care to admit—it was the scooping up part I missed the most.
I often thought about how we would react if she suddenly returned, walked through the door like it was all some gigantic mistake, a big misunderstanding. I think we’d moved on so far with our lives without her, it would have been really difficult to go back to how we were, to return to those old days and routines. It would have been—well, awkward, to say the least—and as much as I loved my mother and still cherished the memory of her, we said goodbye just by moving on with our lives without her, whether we liked it or not.
This may sound cruel, and even ungrateful in a way, but the more time went by, the further and further we were leaving her behind. She belonged to another time and era in our lives, one I knew will never return.
One thing Dad did was to join a Veterans of Foreign Wars post right after we moved into town. Not many vets do nowadays, but my dad said that’s a mistake. The post had a number like they all do, of course, but Dad just called it “The Post,” like it was not only the best one, but the only one. Our little family joke was that I had “The Movie” and my dad had “The Post.” I’d been going to The Post for as long as I could remember. Dad first took me there to help spruce the place up before meetings. Early on he had to drag me, but eventually I loved to go. It was a great place because it had hardly changed since the day it opened in 1952. Stepping through the door was probably the closest I’ll ever come to really traveling into the past—the green-and-black linoleum floor, the ancient appliances and countertops in the kitchen, the pastel drapes and tables and chairs with chrome legs. None of it had changed, and while there were older buildings in town, The Post was the one constant in my life, a portal back to the middle of the last century. And all you had to do to get there was open the door and step across the threshold, no time machine needed.
There used to be small weddings and other events held there—dozens every year, the older veterans told me—but as time went by, the young brides-to-be turned up their noses at the dated decor and eventually the weddings stopped, as did the other rentals. There was some talk of renovating the place to bring in more revenue, but as membership shrank, they couldn’t afford it, so now it’s frozen in time like a small museum.
Dave came with me once to The Post and said afterward, “Why do you like that crummy place? Even the air is old and stale,” but he didn’t see it the way I did. It wasn’t a crummy place; it was a preserved monument to the past, a different way of life. There’s a big difference.
If I ever join the service—not that I’m planning to—I would definitely join The Post as soon as I was discharged.
Once, there was an open house at The Post in an effort to boost its dwindling membership. My dad managed to get some free publicity on the radio and newspaper, so the hope was there would be a decent turnout. Two young-looking Army guys who served in Afghanistan came by right away, chatted a while with the older vets, then left with their applications and a promise to return. They looked disappointed in the surroundings, just like those who hoped to rent the place, but seemed very interested in what Dad and the others had to say about their military careers, probably the only reason they stuck around for as long as they did. No one else showed up until the open house was about to end.
The restless man seemed years older than the first two soldiers and had served three tours of duty in Iraq. Unsmiling, he not only refused to give his full name, he refused to sit down, preferring instead to pace as they talked.
“The Post was built not long after World War Two, when the town boomed with returning vets,” my dad said. “Lots of guys have benefitted from being VFW members over the years.”
“Like how?” the young pacing soldier asked. His jaw went from side to side as if he were chewing gum, although I was pretty sure he wasn’t.
“Well, we’ve helped with job searches, veteran benefits, medical issues, that sort of thing,” one of the Vietnam vets said.
“Medical issues,” the soldier repeated. “Like mental health?”
He stopped pacing, but his jaw kept going.
“That, too,” my dad said.
He resumed pacing. “What kind of jobs?”
“All kinds,” my dad said. “What are you interested in?”
He looked away. “I don’t know. What else goes on here? Why are you recruiting new members? I didn’t even know this place existed until I read about it in the paper yesterday. Seems odd that you have to advertise.” He looked at them with suspicion.
“Well, frankly, our numbers are down and we could use some fresh blood to stay afloat,” my dad explained. “We had funerals last year for our two oldest members. That’s another thing we do, offer funeral assistance with honor guards and all that, even though at our age we look kind of raggedy when we try to come to attention.”
The Post members laughed.
The young soldier froze, his face turning pale. His left eye winked twice thanks to what could only have been a nervous tic.
“I don’t want to hear about it,” he said, looking away again. The speed of his pacing increased.
No one said anything for a few uncomfortable seconds.
“Did you need . . . some kind of assistance . . . with a health issue?” Dad asked haltingly. “We can make some recommendations. That’s not unusual, you know.”
He vigorously shook his head. “No, I’m just fine. What else do you do here? Is that it? I hope it’s not just bingo or something boring like that.”
“Nope. No bingo here. That’s for old people.”
The Post members laughed again.
My dad continued. “Really, it’s the camaraderie we have that’s important. It’s just nice to talk to others who’ve had military experiences similar to your own.”
The young soldier’s chewing stopped as his face hardened. “Similar? They’re not similar! You shoot some random kid, a young girl in the wrong place, the worst possible place . . . you have no idea what I’ve been through!” His voice was sharp.
My dad stepped forward, his expression sympathetic. He spoke softly as if to counter the young soldier’s bitterness. “Actually, we do. We’ve all seen some terrible things in our military careers, disturbing things. Haven’t we, men?”
All the men nodded, some staring down at the floor as if remembering only too well.
“See? You’re not alone,” my dad said.
“So why would I want to come here and relive them? What good is that going to do?” He practically shouted now. “I’m trying to forget what happened, not remember! I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be joining your happy little group!”
And with that, he turned and stormed out without so much as a goodbye or farewell.
The Korean vet sighed. “That went well, didn’t it?”
My dad looked at me. I was standing by the kitchen just hanging back, not saying a word.
“How about it, George? Think he’ll change his mind?”
The other Post members laughed uneasily.
For some reason, the rest of the day I couldn’t shake the image of that unknown, pacing soldier and his distress. That evening, I wrote a short poem about it, even though I normally don’t write poetry. Here it is:
FOREIGN WAR
Imagine traveling
So far away
To deliver a bullet
In person
And you never even
Knew his name.
One evening Dad, Kenny, and I went to a dance on The Post’s back patio. The patio was actually pretty nice. It was a huge brick-paved area with a knee-high wall surrounding it, one deep enough to sit on. The dance was on a perfect summer evening, one of those cool, cloudless days with hardly a breeze. The veterans wore their old formal military uniforms—if they could still fit into them—and their wives or girlfriends wore long summer dresses. Since we had everyone from Korean War vets to the two young soldiers who kept their promise and came back and joined The Post—and even a few members from other VFW posts nearby—the music covered everything from the big band era to Lady Gaga, which was pretty cool. As darkness fell, we lit several Tiki torches in the corners of the patio. The night was so still, the flames barely flickered in the growing purplish twilight.
My dad danced with probably every woman there at least once. Both my mom and dad used to dance. They were very good at it. I remember watching them twirl around the living room after my dad moved the coffee table out of the way. They never missed one of these patio parties, and when my mom got tired, Dad would find another dance partner, so he was used to cutting in.
Kenny was fairly restless through the night and sat on the patio wall playing with his Game Boy. But whenever they played a Beatles song, Kenny would put his video game aside and start dancing right there by himself. For some reason, Kenny just loves The Beatles—or as he calls them, “John-Paul-George-Ringo,” the names strung together like a single word.
When the Beatles’ song “A Hard Day’s Night” started, Kenny kind of yelped and ran to the middle of the patio to dance. At first not too many people noticed, but he was dancing so vigorously and bumping into so many other dancers that they cleared a big space for him. Some of the dancers smiled, but others looked annoyed.
My dad came over to me where I sat watching everyone having fun.
“George, can you do something about Kenny?”
I didn’t understand. “Like what?”
“Like get him to stop.”
“Dad, he’s just dancing. That’s Kenny.”
My dad looked back at him and sighed. “I know. Still, it’s disrupting.”
It was my turn to sigh. “Fine. I’ll get him.”
I went over to when Kenny was pumping his arms up and down, eyes closed, half bent over, shaking his rear end back and forth.
“Kenny,” I said. “You have to sit down now.” I felt kind of bad having to say it.
Kenny opened his eyes and shook his head. “No. Kenny’s dancing.”
“I know you’re dancing, but Dad wants you to stop.”
“No. George dances with Kenny.”
“What?”
Kenny knew I never danced, or at least had never seen me dance. I was a really pathetic dancer, so I avoided dance floors at all costs, except for the few times when Onion dragged me out to make a fool of myself so she and everybody else could have a good laugh at my utter lack of coordination.
“Kenny, I don’t know how to dance.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Have some fun. George needs it. If Kenny can dance, George can dance.”
For an autistic kid who had never offered such sage advice before, that was pretty hard to ignore.
I glanced over at our dad, who stood there, arms folded, waiting for me to pull Kenny back to his video game.
I gave Dad an exaggerated shrug to let him know it was no use, and then turned back to Kenny.
“Okay, Kenny. You want me to dance? I’ll dance. I’ll dance way better than you.”
And with that, I mimicked Kenny’s every move.
A roar of laughter came from the crowd, even from the dancers who moments earlier seemed annoyed at the intrusion.
We danced face to face, arms going, our skinny butts swaying side to side.
“Now George is dancing,” Kenny said.
“Yes, I am. Better than you.”
“No, George isn’t. George is not better than Kenny.”
It was one of those rare near-normal conversations with Kenny that came all too infrequently. That really made it special.
The song finally ended and Kenny abruptly stood up straight and walked off back to his Game Boy. I followed right behind him to the sound of applause from the other dancers.
Dad looked only slightly amused. “Well, I’m glad that’s over.”
I looked at him. “I’m not. That was fun.”
My dad looked away. Some slow big band song started and the dance floor quickly filled in again.
I sat down by Kenny. Dad sat down next to me on the other side.
“Thanks, George. I never know quite how to handle Kenny in situations like that without looking like an overbearing jackass.”
I knew exactly what he meant. Kenny could kick up quite a fuss, making you look like . . . well, an overbearing jackass when you tried to get him to calm down.
“Glad to help.”
“George,” he began softly, “you know your mother and I often talked about what would happen to Kenny when we were gone. I’m not going to live forever, you know. I hope he can count on you when I’m gone. I know it’s a burden, but you’ll be all he’s got.”
I turned slowly to look at him, anger rising up my throat. “A burden? He’s not a burden. He’s my brother. I’ve told you a hundred times I would take care of him. Weren’t you listening?”
A few nearby dancers glanced our way as my voice rose despite my efforts to keep it down.
My dad raised his hands as if to fend me off. “Okay, okay. It was just a question. I was just hoping that Kenny was still in your plans for the future, that’s all. I’m glad he is.”
The problem was, I hadn’t made any plans for the future, at least not yet. It occurred to me then that maybe I had better start making plans if Dad thought I already had them. I felt my anger drop to nothing as I wondered what those plans should be.
Dad patted my knee. “Well, let’s go home. We’ll come back tomorrow to clean up. They won’t miss us. It’s getting late.”
Kenny yawned as if in agreement.
It was then I noticed that one of the Tiki torches had gone out, and two others were taking their last gasps, their flames sputtering and low.
On the way home, Kenny put his head on my shoulder and fell asleep. I took his Game Boy out of his hands and turned it off. The night air had gotten cooler, and it felt good rushing by me, especially after trying to outdo Kenny on the dance floor.
When riding with my dad, I always sat in the back with Kenny, never in the front passenger seat where my mom used to sit. After all these years, somehow it still didn’t seem right to take her place up front.
My dad cleared his throat and glanced at me in the rearview mirror, one of those rare times when he made direct eye contact before he spoke.
“Sorry if I insulted you back there. I guess I should have known you would always watch after your brother. I can’t help but worry about him, you know.”
“I know.”
“Ever since your mother died you’ve really assumed responsibility for Kenny, like you felt you needed to take over for her. That means a lot to me.”
That comment made me a little uneasy for some reason. I didn’t reply.
“You might as well know one other thing, George. I named you the executor of my estate. You’ll be the one financially responsible for Kenny when I’m gone. You’re the only one I really trust.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Unlike Dad, I wasn’t worried about Kenny’s future at all. Whatever it took, whatever I had to do, Kenny was going to live as normal a life as I could possibly give him.
And maybe, I thought, that was the only plan I really needed.