me.
Revealing classified military secrets.
Dishonorably discharged.
No way. I look at the closed bedroom door. No way. I don't believe it. Not my dad.
Chapter 19
Cali Callin'/Callin' Cali
T WICE THAT NIGHT, I COME CLOSE to knocking on Dad's door and asking him about the story in the paper. But I can't bring myself to do it.
Dad and the army. Like I said, it's the one topic that's always been off-limits in my family. It's not like someone engraved it in a stone tablet or anything: Thou Shalt Not Discuss Dad's Military Service. It's just that we never talked about it. I never really missed it, tell the truth. By the time I was born, he'd been out of the army already, so it's not like I ever had any memories of him being
in
the army. I found some pictures once of him in his uniform, young and thin in the bright glare of the desert sun. My parents' wedding album had pictures of a bunch of guys in their dress uniforms, including Dad. I asked about that once when I was real little—"Why is Daddy in a costume?"—and I just got "Daddy used to be an army man, like your toys" from Mom.
Even as a kid, I could tell from her tone of voice and from the way she sort of looked away from me that she didn't want to talk about it. Which was fine by me, because really, who the hell cares what their parents did ten thousand years ago?
Only now I
have
to care.
I think back. I try to remember anything I can about Dad and the army. He would sometimes mention it in passing, but usually it didn't mean anything. Like, if I complained about not having enough room for my stuff, he would say, "When I was in the service, I carried everything I owned in a duffel bag." Or if I said it was hot and could we put on the air conditioning, he would say, "This isn't hot.
Over there,
it was hot."
Over there
was as close as he ever came to talking about it.
But there was this one time...
Back before Mom and Dad got divorced. They were arguing because, well, that's what they did. I must have been ten, so Jesse was four or five. We still lived in the townhouse back in the old neighborhood.
I don't remember what started it. It was probably something on TV. Dad's always seeing something on TV or reading something in the paper that sets him off. He got really pissed, and when Mom tried to calm him down, he snapped at her and stalked off to their bedroom.
Me and Jesse were playing in the family room. We'd built this big Lego fort for our superhero action figures and now Pandazilla was knocking it down.
Mom looked at us and then stomped off after Dad. I'm pretty sure she said, "I'm so tired of this" under her breath.
A minute later, the bedroom door slammed. Jesse jumped and looked at me.
"It's OK," I told him. "They're just talking."
But no sooner was the word "talking" out of my mouth than I heard Dad's voice. Loud. Not loud enough that we could understand exactly what he was saying, but loud enough that we could hear him and understand that he was angry.
Then: Mom. Just as angry.
"What are they doing?" Jesse whispered.
"Just talking," I said again. "Grown-up talking."
It was crap and I knew it was crap, but what else was I supposed to say?
"Let's go outside."
Jesse nodded at me, his eyes huge as the voices kept going back and forth. But he didn't get up. He just kept nodding.
I tried to pull him up to his feet, but it's like he'd shoved a lead brick in his pants or something—he wasn't going anywhere, even though he wanted to.
"Come on, Jesse," I told him, tugging.
"Make them stop," he said.
"I can't. Come on, let's go."
Tears spilled from Jesse's eyes so fast that I couldn't believe it. There was no pause or moment where his eyes filled up or anything. One second he was totally dry, the next he was just
gushing.
"Outside," I said. "Come on." I was tired of pulling.
Mom's voice got real clear: "You were a
hero,
John," she yelled. "And then you
let
them make you into a villain—"
"Let them?" Dad bellowed.
I gave up trying to pull
Revealing classified military secrets.
Dishonorably discharged.
No way. I look at the closed bedroom door. No way. I don't believe it. Not my dad.
Chapter 19
Cali Callin'/Callin' Cali
T WICE THAT NIGHT, I COME CLOSE to knocking on Dad's door and asking him about the story in the paper. But I can't bring myself to do it.
Dad and the army. Like I said, it's the one topic that's always been off-limits in my family. It's not like someone engraved it in a stone tablet or anything: Thou Shalt Not Discuss Dad's Military Service. It's just that we never talked about it. I never really missed it, tell the truth. By the time I was born, he'd been out of the army already, so it's not like I ever had any memories of him being
in
the army. I found some pictures once of him in his uniform, young and thin in the bright glare of the desert sun. My parents' wedding album had pictures of a bunch of guys in their dress uniforms, including Dad. I asked about that once when I was real little—"Why is Daddy in a costume?"—and I just got "Daddy used to be an army man, like your toys" from Mom.
Even as a kid, I could tell from her tone of voice and from the way she sort of looked away from me that she didn't want to talk about it. Which was fine by me, because really, who the hell cares what their parents did ten thousand years ago?
Only now I
have
to care.
I think back. I try to remember anything I can about Dad and the army. He would sometimes mention it in passing, but usually it didn't mean anything. Like, if I complained about not having enough room for my stuff, he would say, "When I was in the service, I carried everything I owned in a duffel bag." Or if I said it was hot and could we put on the air conditioning, he would say, "This isn't hot.
Over there,
it was hot."
Over there
was as close as he ever came to talking about it.
But there was this one time...
Back before Mom and Dad got divorced. They were arguing because, well, that's what they did. I must have been ten, so Jesse was four or five. We still lived in the townhouse back in the old neighborhood.
I don't remember what started it. It was probably something on TV. Dad's always seeing something on TV or reading something in the paper that sets him off. He got really pissed, and when Mom tried to calm him down, he snapped at her and stalked off to their bedroom.
Me and Jesse were playing in the family room. We'd built this big Lego fort for our superhero action figures and now Pandazilla was knocking it down.
Mom looked at us and then stomped off after Dad. I'm pretty sure she said, "I'm so tired of this" under her breath.
A minute later, the bedroom door slammed. Jesse jumped and looked at me.
"It's OK," I told him. "They're just talking."
But no sooner was the word "talking" out of my mouth than I heard Dad's voice. Loud. Not loud enough that we could understand exactly what he was saying, but loud enough that we could hear him and understand that he was angry.
Then: Mom. Just as angry.
"What are they doing?" Jesse whispered.
"Just talking," I said again. "Grown-up talking."
It was crap and I knew it was crap, but what else was I supposed to say?
"Let's go outside."
Jesse nodded at me, his eyes huge as the voices kept going back and forth. But he didn't get up. He just kept nodding.
I tried to pull him up to his feet, but it's like he'd shoved a lead brick in his pants or something—he wasn't going anywhere, even though he wanted to.
"Come on, Jesse," I told him, tugging.
"Make them stop," he said.
"I can't. Come on, let's go."
Tears spilled from Jesse's eyes so fast that I couldn't believe it. There was no pause or moment where his eyes filled up or anything. One second he was totally dry, the next he was just
gushing.
"Outside," I said. "Come on." I was tired of pulling.
Mom's voice got real clear: "You were a
hero,
John," she yelled. "And then you
let
them make you into a villain—"
"Let them?" Dad bellowed.
I gave up trying to pull
Similar Books
