happiness.”
Jack Potter went back to his newspaper and ignored the man. The doctor had been like an oracle to Margie. He was right. Her
father was depressed. But he refused to be treated.
Now Margie stood next to his bed in his room, without a book in her hands, and said, “Aunt Jane told me you’re coming to this
party.”
He said, “Yes, I am.”
She said, “You don’t have to feel that you’re expected.”
“I know I’m not expected. I’m coming because you’ll need me.” He didn’t say that to the wall, he said it to Margie. His eyes
were gray. So were hers. The rest of Margie, supposedly, was her mother.
Margie said, “Thanks, Dad.”
She thought: Talk about sacrifices, Martha, my girl. He loves me so much even if he is depressed. He didn’t kill himself entirely
just on the chance that I might need him—his interpretation of need, not yours, Martha. When Margie drove off from the veterans’
home, she wished Martha could only know that he loved her, too. When she was small, Margie would bring her to visit and he’d
laugh at her baby nonsense. Once he said to Margie, “Your mother used to write so many letters, Margie. She’d tell me how
you reminded her of a drunken sailor—babbling and tumbling all over the place. Now I see what she meant.” His eyes were harkening
back. For a moment he had a wife again. For a moment he remembered life before he’d been imprisoned. Margie broke the spell,
though. She said, “Letters?” His old eyes came back.
“I’m sorry, Margie. I lost them.”
“They were lost?”
“No. I lost them.”
Margie felt her heart sink.
Jack Potter had, in fact, taught Martha to read. When she was older, she’d come with her mother to visit him once in a while
when she was in the mood to sit and read, which wasn’t often because she was always so busy. But then she came to feel that
life was cheating her out of something—having a normal grandfather. Martha’s other grandfather, Denny O’Neill, had died before
she was old enough to remember him. Now there was abnormal. Be grateful you were cheated out of him, Margie thought as she
drove home.
Clayton T. Bart was in uniform. He had a lot of ribbons, the ones everyone’s heard of, and then some others: The Air Force
Commendation Medal, the Air Force Achievement Medal, and the Combat Crew Award. Chick had filled him in on more than just
Margie; the first thing he did when he walked into Margie’s living room was salute Jack Potter sitting in his wheelchair in
the corner. Margie’s father returned the salute. Then the captain shook Margie’s hand, and said, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
He was very uneasy.
So Margie said, “Want to see my scar?” She was smirking when she said it to put him at his ease. He went to say something,
but instead his body began to shake. Margie put her arms around him and he hugged her hard and just broke down. He tried to
apologize for losing his composure, and that was what made everyone else at the party cry, too, especially Charlie’s family,
since they had those Italian genes where emotions came out in a flood, but only on special occasions.
So out came all the food, too, and the bottles and bottles of wine, and everybody started digging in because people can really
eat voraciously when in an emotional crisis. That’s what Martha told Little Pete’s smallest children, who didn’t understand
what the party was all about and how people could go from happy to sad to happy so fast. Captain Bart didn’t really start
to talk until they were on the cannoli and the coffee. Oh, to be a worm in a cannoli, Margie said to herself. They sipped
their coffee and listened while Charlie took notes off in the corner like he was a monk chronicling some event in the Middle
Ages. Before, Margie had said to Charlie, “No tapes.” And Charlie said, “But I need to capture this.” And then he had looked
at Margie’s set face and
Jack Potter went back to his newspaper and ignored the man. The doctor had been like an oracle to Margie. He was right. Her
father was depressed. But he refused to be treated.
Now Margie stood next to his bed in his room, without a book in her hands, and said, “Aunt Jane told me you’re coming to this
party.”
He said, “Yes, I am.”
She said, “You don’t have to feel that you’re expected.”
“I know I’m not expected. I’m coming because you’ll need me.” He didn’t say that to the wall, he said it to Margie. His eyes
were gray. So were hers. The rest of Margie, supposedly, was her mother.
Margie said, “Thanks, Dad.”
She thought: Talk about sacrifices, Martha, my girl. He loves me so much even if he is depressed. He didn’t kill himself entirely
just on the chance that I might need him—his interpretation of need, not yours, Martha. When Margie drove off from the veterans’
home, she wished Martha could only know that he loved her, too. When she was small, Margie would bring her to visit and he’d
laugh at her baby nonsense. Once he said to Margie, “Your mother used to write so many letters, Margie. She’d tell me how
you reminded her of a drunken sailor—babbling and tumbling all over the place. Now I see what she meant.” His eyes were harkening
back. For a moment he had a wife again. For a moment he remembered life before he’d been imprisoned. Margie broke the spell,
though. She said, “Letters?” His old eyes came back.
“I’m sorry, Margie. I lost them.”
“They were lost?”
“No. I lost them.”
Margie felt her heart sink.
Jack Potter had, in fact, taught Martha to read. When she was older, she’d come with her mother to visit him once in a while
when she was in the mood to sit and read, which wasn’t often because she was always so busy. But then she came to feel that
life was cheating her out of something—having a normal grandfather. Martha’s other grandfather, Denny O’Neill, had died before
she was old enough to remember him. Now there was abnormal. Be grateful you were cheated out of him, Margie thought as she
drove home.
Clayton T. Bart was in uniform. He had a lot of ribbons, the ones everyone’s heard of, and then some others: The Air Force
Commendation Medal, the Air Force Achievement Medal, and the Combat Crew Award. Chick had filled him in on more than just
Margie; the first thing he did when he walked into Margie’s living room was salute Jack Potter sitting in his wheelchair in
the corner. Margie’s father returned the salute. Then the captain shook Margie’s hand, and said, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
He was very uneasy.
So Margie said, “Want to see my scar?” She was smirking when she said it to put him at his ease. He went to say something,
but instead his body began to shake. Margie put her arms around him and he hugged her hard and just broke down. He tried to
apologize for losing his composure, and that was what made everyone else at the party cry, too, especially Charlie’s family,
since they had those Italian genes where emotions came out in a flood, but only on special occasions.
So out came all the food, too, and the bottles and bottles of wine, and everybody started digging in because people can really
eat voraciously when in an emotional crisis. That’s what Martha told Little Pete’s smallest children, who didn’t understand
what the party was all about and how people could go from happy to sad to happy so fast. Captain Bart didn’t really start
to talk until they were on the cannoli and the coffee. Oh, to be a worm in a cannoli, Margie said to herself. They sipped
their coffee and listened while Charlie took notes off in the corner like he was a monk chronicling some event in the Middle
Ages. Before, Margie had said to Charlie, “No tapes.” And Charlie said, “But I need to capture this.” And then he had looked
at Margie’s set face and
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