Now, it should never be said that Michael treated Anna as his “favorite.” He backed his son’s interests, too — however disinterested Michael might be in professional sports, the father had always been a keen follower of his son’s local endeavors in the athletic arena. Even with his demanding, often punishing schedule, Michael had rarely missed a Little League, junior high, or high school game — even the intramurals at St. Theresa’s.
And high school had found mother and daughter forging a tighter bond — the worries and pressures of the various high school musicals Anna had gone out for called for a maternal touch, since Michael didn’t deal with emotions that well, his own or anybody else’s. Plus, there had been “boy” issues, which (until lately) they had discussed like two girls at a slumber party.
And, then, along came Vietnam...
Pat and her son had had a major falling out over the Great American Misadventure. Pat — a lifelong Democrat — stayed active with local, state, and even national politics, and during the late ’60s actively protested the war. (Michael, also a Democrat, always seemed to agree with her, but never participated in marches and sit-ins — though he did not discourage her.)
She so hated the war, she’d even been conned into voting for Nixon! — fucking Nixon! — in 1968, because the Democrats had imploded at their convention, and Bobby Kennedy had been murdered, and Tricky Dick at least had a secret “plan,” right? Who could have predicted that plan was the secret bombing of Cambodia!
Back in ’70, when young Mike — a graduating senior who had several football scholarship offers — drew a three-digit number in the draft lottery... meaning he would likely not be called... Pat had been ecstatic. And her husband had taken her into his arms and squeezed her tight, and whispered, “Thank God. Thank God.”
But then Mike sat his folks down in the living room, one terrible Saturday morning, and explained that he was enlisting in the army.
“Dad served his country,” Mike said, “and I want to do the same.”
“Are you serious?” Pat said, almost hysterical. “Why would you risk your life in that senseless, immoral war?”
She obviously was well-aware that her son — like so many children — had opposite politics to her own; that he had been president of Incline Village High’s Young Republicans Club had not been her proudest moment as a parent. For several years now, Mike had pooh-poohed his mother’s “hippie anti-war ravings” in that soft-spoken wry way of his.
When the boy was feeling especially mean, he might even say, “Aging hippie...”
But this?
“I think you know that I don’t see the war that way,” Mike said, in a calm measured manner so like his father. “Presidents of both parties thought it was a good idea. And the spread of communism has to be stopped... I want to serve. Like Dad.”
She turned to her husband, who looked pale and shell-shocked himself; he and the boy were dressed for golf, in pastels that suddenly struck Pat as blood-drained. “Tell him, Michael! Tell him this is a bad idea! Explain that you fought in a good war!”
“No such thing,” Michael said, quietly.
“Michael! Hitler and the Holocaust, for God’s sake! Pearl goddamn Harbor! But this, this, this, this war... it’s not about anything! Not... about... any-thing!”
“It’s Mike’s decision,” his father said.
“Just about boys dying!”
“I want you to be proud of me, Mom. Like Dad is proud of me.”
She almost snarled at her son. “He isn’t proud of you!”
“Actually, I am,” Michael said.
She had begun to cry, then, but did not allow either of them to comfort her. Michael was telling Mike that his mother was right, that this war was not the same as World War Two, and he would still be proud of Mike if his son would just take his chances in the lottery like any other good all-American boy, and in the meantime there was that scholarship to Fresno...
But it was too little too late, and that night she had told Michael that she would never forgive him, and she made her husband sleep in his study for a week. Then she forgave him, because they were after all best friends, and still lovers, and she could not face this horror without him...
The terrible thing, the worst thing, was she could never work up even false enthusiasm for her son, for this decision he’d made that was so important to him. Even when she kissed him goodbye at the bus station in Reno, she had sensed resentment in him — in his expression, even in the words “I love you, Mom,” though she treasured them no less.
When Michael had been on Bataan, in the early days of the Second World War, Pat had written to him daily, and he never wrote her back once. That had been part of his attempt to distance himself from her — he’d broken up with her, or pretended to, before he left — but she later learned he had read and treasured every page.
Over these last almost three years, she had written her son every week, and she had received only half a dozen very sporadic letters in return. Part of it, she knew, was that Mike just didn’t like to write — English and literature, her specialty, had been her son’s worst subjects. Words came hard to him, self-expression a chore, and the handful of letters the parents had received were chatty, strained things that spent all their time assuring her he was doing fine, and in no danger.
That was one small solace — his job was some kind of company clerk, and he had seen no combat.
I’m perfectly safe, Mom. His handwriting was small and cramped and very neat, and looked no different than it had in junior high, her little boy. Please don’t worry a pretty hair on your head.
Now, with this horrible stupid goddamn fucking immoral goddamn fucking war all but over, Pat allowed herself — finally — to experience hope. Allowed herself to believe that the danger was over, that Nixon suffering all that Watergate heat was leading to the administration finally getting something done about the South Asia mess, and Kissinger had reached a peace agreement in Paris...
Hell, by the end of last year, just months ago, almost all the boys were home! Only twenty-five thousand remained — why did one of them have to be her son?
Michael had soothed her saying, “He has to follow orders, dear — he says in his letters, when his three-year stint is up, he’s going to college. What more can we ask?”
Then, a couple of months ago, finally, finally, finally a cease-fire agreement had been signed, and all of the boys were scheduled to be home by the end of this month. She would feel better if they’d had a letter lately from Mike, explaining his situation exactly, letting them know when they could expect him. Knowing her son, he’d probably just show up at the house one of these days, and grin the half-smile he inherited from his father, and say, “Still mad at me, Mom?”
She took a break from her mowing.
She left her mower in the middle of the backyard — the lawn was big, and Michael would gladly have hired someone to do it, but she considered the task part of her exercise-and-fresh-air regimen — and walked around the empty pool (they’d fill it in a month) to go in the glass doors into the kitchen. The interior of the house she redecorated (and sometimes remodeled) about once a decade. Michael humored her in this department, and their home had gone from Country House to Mediterranean to the latest: International.