I was in Vegas.
My dad was in Texas. I was dealing craps at the Mint. He was in the
hospital in San Antonio. I'd written him a letter, and a week later
he called me on the phone. He sounded like he always did, like he was
as healthy as a horse. We talked for almost half an hour, and now I
can't remember hardly any of it. All I know is that our conversation
started when the phone rang, and it ended when we hung up. The rest
of it was a fog. Kind of like if you met the president and you were
in the Oval Office for half an hour, then someone asked you what he
said to you. Could you remember? That's what that phone call with my
dad was like, if I'm explaining it right.
The days whizzed
by, then it got cooler. I actually had to buy myself a wool jacket.
Then a new year started, more break-ins coming to work at the Mint,
and now I was one of the old timers they watched with awe. That's when
the phone rang again, and it was my uncle.
"You better
get home," he said. "Your dad's in bad shape. He may not make
it to the weekend."
I caught a red-eye
from McCarran and landed in Dallas the next morning. After a two-hour
layover, I boarded a propeller-driven puddlejumper that whined its way
down to San Antonio, going so slow I could actually see clouds forming.
Lunch was a blueberry muffin, a butter patty, and a pack of Winstons.
This was back when smoking was allowed, almost encouraged, on airlines.
You got off the plane and you smelled like a cigar butt.
It was dark by the
time we landed. My uncle was waiting at the airport, and neither of
us said a word as we drove to the veteran's hospital. Being a career
man in the Marine Corps, my dad got first-class treatment, and it was
free. That's about the only thing he got from the country he served
for 25 years.
I guess that's why
I'm always referring to war and combat when I talk to people. It was
drummed into my head by my dad, who was so military-minded when he got
out of the service that he couldn't get the knack of being a civilian
again. My brother and I had to spit-shine our shoes and have our beds
made just so every morning. He wanted those sheets so tight he could
bounce a quarter off them, and he would have, too, if he'd had the money.
The problem was
he couldn't get a damn job. The Marines taught you how to throw hand
grenades and how to fire a Howitzer, but they didn't train you for a
career once your military stint was over - not unless you wanted
to be a hitman for the Mafia. You got a few bucks every month like a
pension, but not enough to live on, and certainly not enough to feed
two hungry teenagers. Four, counting my two cousins.
So he started his
new civilian life by driving a taxi cab, coming home in a rotten mood
every night. About the only exciting thing that ever happened to him
was picking up a fare who wanted to go to Corpus Christi. It was a 120-mile
trip, one way, and my dad got a $50 tip. We all went out to supper that
night, and I got to eat anything I wanted on the menu. That was a big
treat for me, because he usually just ordered for everyone. "He'll
have a hamburger and a glass of milk." This time I got to order.
"I'll have a hamburger and a root beer float."
Then my dad decided
to go to carpenter's school. I didn't even know there was such a thing.
He learned to build cabinets, tie racks, coffee tables, anything you
could make out of wood. He probably would've been good at it, too; he
loved working with his hands. But then one day he got too close to the
jigsaw and almost cut his finger off. That was the end of carpenter's
school.
His next stop was
bookkeeper school, learning all about ledgers and Accounts Receivable
and tallying up figures on an adding machine. He got to where he could
actually add those figures up without even looking down. It was pretty
impressive, I'll say that. And damned if he didn't land on his feet,
after all he'd been through. The richest man in town put him to work
as his own private accountant, and just like that my dad was making
$100 a week.
This put him in
a much better frame of mind, and sometimes he'd actually talk to my
brother and me at night instead of listening to the radio or playing
dominoes with my aunt and uncle. In fact, one time he even got out some
of his old war pictures and showed them to us, which for us was like
going inside some dark forbidden place for the very first time.
I saw some photographs
I'll never forget: Chinese communists awaiting execution, for one thing.
My dad said that in China, people thought that when they died they came
right back as someone better. So getting your head chopped off was no
big deal. There these Chinese soldiers would be, kneeling on the ground,
waiting their turn. Looking at the camera, and practically smiling.
I shouldn't say this, but I kind of liked it. Seeing stuff like this
was exciting. Besides, I was sharing it with my dad.
Now here I was at
the veteran's hospital, walking inside with my uncle, going to see my
dad for probably the last time. We went up the stairs and my uncle nodded
at a closed door down at the end of the hall. He stepped back, fumbling
for a Lucky Strike, which meant I was supposed to go in there by myself.
I steeled my nerves and opened the door. The bed was empty.
"He's not in
there," I whispered.
My uncle nodded,
exhaling smoke out of both nostrils like a dragon. "He's probably
already gone."
And he was. The
doctor said he "expired" an hour ago, and if it hadn't been
for that goddam layover in Dallas, I would've made it. But did I really
want to? After all these years, I still don't know.
The funeral was
held in a veteran's cemetery, and just about everyone was there: my
aunt and uncle, my two cousins, my dad's sister and her new husband,
my aunt's sister and her new husband. The only one missing was my brother,
and we'd lost track of him a long time ago.
I stood there solemnly,
not even listening to the words some rent-a-preacher was saying. Then
I got choked up by all the pageantry. The Marines were lined up in their
dress blues, firing their rifles in the air, a bugler was playing taps,
and then one of the Marines folded the American flag into a little triangle
and presented it to my aunt. She kept it inside a locked bureau drawer
until the day she died, 26 years later.
That night I stayed
at my aunt and uncle's house, feeling truly all alone for the first
time in my life. I wasn't someone's little boy anymore. I was all grown
up and all by myself. I began to cry, big crocodile tears for the first
time since my bike got stolen in junior high, and I couldn't stop. I'm
not sure whether I was crying for my dad or for me, but my aunt held
her arms out and then everything was all right. For a few seconds, anyway.