at us and we at him. For now, we really didn’t have anything more to tell him. It was his turn to tell us about his adventures. But he just sat.
“What was your war like, Daddy?” It wasn’t what I meant to say but that was the way it came out.
“Esme!” Mommy blurted, making me feel like a fustilug of the first order.
Dad let out a little laugh, the kind that told me that although I didn’t ask the question exactly right, he knew what I meant and it was okay by him. Ike excitedly dove off his chair and landed on the couch next to Dad.
“Did you shoot anyone and did they shoot you?” He asked, in a humongously bad display of Ike Sense.
“Ike!” Mom exclaimed, trying to control a moment that was now out of control.
“Well . . . ,” he started slowly, “in the day it was hotter than Kenya and at night it was colder than Korea. It was very, very boring. We sat around a lot, waiting. And when we were not waiting we were walking through the biggest sandbox you could imagine.”
“Neat,” poked Ike.
“But you could never make castles out of the sand, not a single one, because there was no water so it wouldn’t ever stick. All I did the whole entire time, every second of every minute of every day, was try to figure out ways to get back home.”
“And you did it!” I shouted.
“And now you’ll never have to go back again,” stated Ike.
There was a whole bowl of silence.
“I won’t lie to you, Ike. I might have to go back.”
“Why?”
That was a favorite Ike question. He could ask that question over and over until an adult would just finally yell, “Because!” and walk away. I have to say that this time I was glad Ike asked “Why?” because I was thinking the same exact question over and over in my head. Whywhywhywhy?
“I don’t think this is the time . . . ,” Mom started.
“Because there are a lot of my friends still there and the army may send me to help them.”
“And it is your duty to go.”
“Exactly, Esme.”
I expected Ike to ask “Why?” yet again, in typical Ike fashion, but he didn’t.
“I understand,” he said instead.
“You two have certainly grown up while I was gone,” he proud-said, but looked nearly sad.
Dad hardly lifted his duffel and dragged it toward the stairs. It seemed heavier than before, as if he had brought home pounds and pounds of sand from the desert. Napoleon, tail flipping like a windshield wiper, neck chain happily jingle-bell jangling, trailed after him. Mom gave us hugs that told us she would be right back.
Ike and I sat looking at each other. He started an awful out-of-tune whistle and I gave him my harshest Swishback frown, which immediately took the whistle right out of him. The room was nearly dark but I was too tired to flip on lights. The ticktock of the cuckoo clock, the heavy thud of the dropped duffel, muffled voices, then the clomping sound of his boots flooded down the stairs, trailed by a trickle of Mom’s softer click-clacking shoes. He appeared in front of us, framed in the door.
“You guys must be starving.”
We were.
“I thought we would go out to eat to celebrate.” Mom appeared from behind and slow-floated her hand into Dad’s.
“Are you kidding?” he boomed. “It took me one hundred days and ninety-nine nights to get back into this house, and right now I’m not taking one single step out!”
I felt a warm feeling gurgle inside my growling stomach and start to heat up the rest of my body until my face felt flushed red. Ike pinballed back and forth on the couch, which he was usually not allowed to do, and was ready to rocket out the roof if Dad didn’t soon grab him.
“Well, come on, let’s get to work,” he ordered, then scooped me up in his robin redbreasted arm and lowered his back to Ike, who grabbed his neck for the short ride into the kitchen. I have already mentioned that the kitchen is the single most important room in our house because it is where we do our important cooking and all our
“What was your war like, Daddy?” It wasn’t what I meant to say but that was the way it came out.
“Esme!” Mommy blurted, making me feel like a fustilug of the first order.
Dad let out a little laugh, the kind that told me that although I didn’t ask the question exactly right, he knew what I meant and it was okay by him. Ike excitedly dove off his chair and landed on the couch next to Dad.
“Did you shoot anyone and did they shoot you?” He asked, in a humongously bad display of Ike Sense.
“Ike!” Mom exclaimed, trying to control a moment that was now out of control.
“Well . . . ,” he started slowly, “in the day it was hotter than Kenya and at night it was colder than Korea. It was very, very boring. We sat around a lot, waiting. And when we were not waiting we were walking through the biggest sandbox you could imagine.”
“Neat,” poked Ike.
“But you could never make castles out of the sand, not a single one, because there was no water so it wouldn’t ever stick. All I did the whole entire time, every second of every minute of every day, was try to figure out ways to get back home.”
“And you did it!” I shouted.
“And now you’ll never have to go back again,” stated Ike.
There was a whole bowl of silence.
“I won’t lie to you, Ike. I might have to go back.”
“Why?”
That was a favorite Ike question. He could ask that question over and over until an adult would just finally yell, “Because!” and walk away. I have to say that this time I was glad Ike asked “Why?” because I was thinking the same exact question over and over in my head. Whywhywhywhy?
“I don’t think this is the time . . . ,” Mom started.
“Because there are a lot of my friends still there and the army may send me to help them.”
“And it is your duty to go.”
“Exactly, Esme.”
I expected Ike to ask “Why?” yet again, in typical Ike fashion, but he didn’t.
“I understand,” he said instead.
“You two have certainly grown up while I was gone,” he proud-said, but looked nearly sad.
Dad hardly lifted his duffel and dragged it toward the stairs. It seemed heavier than before, as if he had brought home pounds and pounds of sand from the desert. Napoleon, tail flipping like a windshield wiper, neck chain happily jingle-bell jangling, trailed after him. Mom gave us hugs that told us she would be right back.
Ike and I sat looking at each other. He started an awful out-of-tune whistle and I gave him my harshest Swishback frown, which immediately took the whistle right out of him. The room was nearly dark but I was too tired to flip on lights. The ticktock of the cuckoo clock, the heavy thud of the dropped duffel, muffled voices, then the clomping sound of his boots flooded down the stairs, trailed by a trickle of Mom’s softer click-clacking shoes. He appeared in front of us, framed in the door.
“You guys must be starving.”
We were.
“I thought we would go out to eat to celebrate.” Mom appeared from behind and slow-floated her hand into Dad’s.
“Are you kidding?” he boomed. “It took me one hundred days and ninety-nine nights to get back into this house, and right now I’m not taking one single step out!”
I felt a warm feeling gurgle inside my growling stomach and start to heat up the rest of my body until my face felt flushed red. Ike pinballed back and forth on the couch, which he was usually not allowed to do, and was ready to rocket out the roof if Dad didn’t soon grab him.
“Well, come on, let’s get to work,” he ordered, then scooped me up in his robin redbreasted arm and lowered his back to Ike, who grabbed his neck for the short ride into the kitchen. I have already mentioned that the kitchen is the single most important room in our house because it is where we do our important cooking and all our
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