He chuckled. Yeah. A living piece of history. I was nineteen when I joined up, so I was on the young end.
What happened?
Oh, you don’t want to know.
But I can’t imagine anything.
I was the same as I am now, a mechanic. I worked on diesel engines in tanks and trucks and even a few small boats. So imagine a mechanic but dressed like soldiers you’ve seen in the movies. None of the exciting scenes, but just a lot of mud and oil and tools and the tanks not working most of the time. War is mostly repairs and delays and always having to move again. Like the first few minutes of the movie, but repeated endlessly.
What are you talking about? my mother asked. She had appeared suddenly with Steve.
Oh, my grandfather said. Nothing. Caitlin was asking about when I was in the war. But there’s nothing to tell, really. Just fixing engines.
I thought you never talked about the war. Mom always said you didn’t want to talk because you had some terrible times and were all broken about it. What happened to that? Now you talk about it to my daughter, whatever she wants to know?
Sheri, I’m sorry. There were some bad times, but I try not to think about them, you’re right, and I wasn’t going to tell her any of that, of course.
Well it’s time to tell. I want to hear. What were the bad moments?
Sheri. It’s 1994. He had his arms out, indicating everything around us, an entire world. It’s a Saturday. You’re just settling in. We should go out to dinner. No one wants to hear about a war from another time.
I do. I want everything you never gave us before.
My grandfather had his mouth open but wasn’t saying anything. How would I know where to start? he finally asked.
Start with what explains you. It should explain why you left. Something that happened in the war or earlier in your life that made you leave, because I have to find some way not to hate you so much. I’m giving you a chance here.
There are no stories like that, no stories that can explain. I was a coward and I ran away. I did something unforgivable, and I know I can’t make up for it, and I’m sorry.
That’s not enough. You’re going to search until you find something, and you’re going to tell me. Right now.
Sheri. Please.
You do it now or we’re gone. You give me some way to have some sympathy for you as I stand in this nice house, all lovingly redone, and think about the broken house you left us in, with its leaky roof and no heat and no insulation and nothing. Tell your sob story about the fucking war, whatever it was that my mom thought you were so broken about.
My grandfather closed his eyes. No story ever explains. But I’ll give you what you want. I think I know the moment you want, because I made a kind of decision. There was some change. But I can’t start the story at the beginning. I’ve never been able to do that. I have to start at the end and then go back, and it doesn’t finish, because you can go back forever.
Do it, my mother said.
I don’t think Caitlin should hear.
She can hear.
Okay. You’re her mother.
That’s right.
So I won’t give the awful details, but I was lying in a pile of bodies. My friends. The closest friends I’ve ever had. Not piled there on purpose, but just the way it ended up because I had been working on the axle, lying on the ground. And the thing is, the war was over. It had been over for days, and we were laughing and a bit drunk, telling jokes. There was something unbearable about the fact that we’d all be going our separate ways now. The truth is that we didn’t want to leave. We wanted the war over, but we didn’t want what we had together to be over. I think we all had some sense that this was the closest we’d ever be to anyone, and that our families might feel like strangers now.
So that’s it? You couldn’t be a father and husband because you weren’t done being a buddy?
No. No. It’s the way it happened, in a moment that was supposed to be safe. After every moment of every day in fear for years, we were finally safe, and that’s when the slugs came and I watched my friends torn apart and landing on me, dying. That’s the point. We were supposed to be safe. And with your mother, too, I was supposed to be safe. A wife, a family. The story doesn’t make any sense unless you know every moment before it, every time we thought we were going to die, all the times we weren’t safe. You can’t just be told about that. You have to feel it, how long one night can be, and then all of them put together, hundreds of nights and then more, and there’s a kind of deal that’s made, a deal with god. You do certain terrible things, you endure things, because there’s a bargain made. And then when god says the deal’s off later, after you’ve already paid, and you see your friends ripped through, yanked like puppets on a day that was safe, and you find out your wife is going to die young, and you get to watch her dying, something that again is going to be for years, hundreds of nights more, all deals are off. Nothing is owed.
So that’s it?
My grandfather looked collapsed, sitting there on the couch with his head down and hands hanging. Yes, he said. I forgot that I owed you, that you were a child and should be given everything. I forgot that my wife was owed something, also, that my deals weren’t only with god, that the deals weren’t only about me. It’s a terrible thing to forget. I was selfish. And I’m sorry. I have to admit, though, I do understand why I left, and I forgive myself for leaving. I guess I didn’t realize that until right now, having to say all this, but I do forgive myself, or at least I understand why I did it, which maybe is the same thing.
Well, my mother said. Congratulations.
My grandfather had a grim smile, then, very strange. Yes. Congratulations. One life can never know another’s.
~ ~ ~
We were at a chowder house, a fish restaurant, expensive. More expensive than any other restaurant I’d ever been to. My mother did that on purpose, I knew. She was burning through what would have become her own money, but still she wanted to punish him, and this was one way, to make him watch his dollars disappear.
Have you decided? the waiter asked. I was still panicking over the menu. There was nothing inexpensive. It wasn’t like other menus. The types of fish were listed at the top, and then you could pick how it would be prepared, and pick side dishes and combinations. The menu was like a math problem, and all the numbers too high.
I’ll have the king crab, my mother said. And the moonfish.
The moonfish is amazing, the waiter said. An excellent choice. It’s very rare that we have it on the menu, flown in fresh from Hawaii. And it should be only lightly seared, very lightly. It has such a delicate, buttery flavor, and that’s gone if you sear it a moment longer.
How much does that cost? Steve asked.
It’s sixty-five dollars for the moonfish, and really the best choice we have on the menu tonight.
Sheri, Steve said.
He’ll have the moonfish also, my mother said, pointing to Steve. My father is treating tonight.
Excellent, the waiter said.
I’ll have the moonfish also, my grandfather said.
Did you know he’s a war hero? my mother asked, raising her voice, so that others would hear, pointing to my grandfather. World War II. He watched his buddies die.
I’m sorry, sir, the waiter said quietly, and thank you for your service.
He also abandoned his dying wife. My mother still speaking in this loud voice, people looking at us. I was fourteen and got to take care of her and watch her die. Maybe not so heroic, that part. But I think we have to forgive our heroes anything, because they watched their buddies die. What do you think?
The waiter wore a small smile that was a wince. He said nothing, and for what seemed like a long time, our small side-room of the restaurant and its half-dozen tables were silent.