And his son’s.
Michael had decided not to share with his wife or daughter what the young staff sergeant told him about the military’s own indecision over Mike’s “Missing in Action” versus “Killed in Action” designation; and the weight of that had its consequence. He had been strong for Pat and for Anna, and — other than that once, with his wife — did not break down in front of them; he professed a belief in Mike returning to the fold one day, and for the first five days, he’d dealt with the burden in his own way.
He would try to go to sleep, knowing it would not happen; then he would wait for Pat to drop off into her mildly drugged slumber, and repair to his study to read a western or mystery novel, nothing overtly violent — mostly Max Brand or Agatha Christie. If he couldn’t get engrossed, he would remove his sixteen-millimeter projector from the closet, and set it up, and the little silver screen as well, and go to the shelves to select canisters of film from his collection.
He had about thirty movies — Stagecoach, various Laurel and Hardy features, Hitchcock’s Lady on a Train, a couple of the really good Abbott and Costellos, Swing Time with Fred and Ginger — the kind of movies he’d seen and loved as a kid. He had never cared for Roy Rogers or Gene Autry; singing cowboys didn’t make it for him, but he had several old westerns with Buck Jones and Tom Mix he could watch again and again.
By three in the morning or so, he’d have read a paperback or watched a film to the point of tiredness, and would then take a steaming bath, and lie back and think about his son and weep for perhaps fifteen minutes... then finally return to bed and fall to sleep rapidly.
For the last two days, he had followed this same procedure successfully, but the crying had finally stopped. He felt he was getting hold of himself.
Anna, however, could not seem to come out of her funk. And she was mad at him. For the first time in years — first time ever, really — his daughter was clinging to her mother, helping her out in every way possible, cooking meals on her own, even assisting with the dishes (well, putting them into the dishwasher, anyway) and offering to do the laundry (though her mother never took her up on it).
For the first two days, following the news about Mike, Anna had done all her crying, all her hugging, her consoling with her mother. She had barely spoken a word to her father, and avoided eye contact, even to the point of looking away with a jerk.
Finally, last night, he had knocked at her bedroom door, behind which her stereo blared Carole King’s Tapestry, an album that had been his daughter’s favorite for some time, but which Anna had never previously listened to at such Led Zeppelin decibels.
“Yes?” she called noncommittally.
He cracked the door — with a teenage daughter he had long since learned not to barge in — and spoke: “Okay I come in?”
“Yeah.”
Carole King, who Michael liked also, was singing “It’s Too Late,” but the volume made him cringe.
“You mind turning that down a little?” he asked.
Sitting Indian-style on the daisy-patterned bedspread, Anna — in a pink top with puka-shell necklace and blue bell-bottoms and no shoes, toenails pink also — was leafing through Rolling Stone. The furniture was white and modular, and the pale-yellow walls were largely obscured by posters of recording artists (Janis Joplin), musical plays (Hair), and favorite movies (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid); unlike most girls her age, Anna’s posters were framed, as they tended to be autographed.
Anna had her mother’s apple cheeks and heart-shaped face, but her eyes were big and dark brown, and her hair — which was straight and went endlessly down her back — was an even darker shade, a rich auburn. She wore a blue-and-yellow beaded headband. She often affected heavy eye shadow, but right now she didn’t have a trace of makeup, not even lipstick — and yet was stunning.
He pulled a white chair away from a small desk area recessed within a white unit of closets and cupboards decorated with signed eight-by-tens from their Hollywood trip, and sat near her bedside.
“No homework?” he asked, hands folded in his lap.
She flipped a page of the newspaper-like magazine, not looking at him. “Done.”
“Expected you to be poring over your script.”
She was Maria in The Sound of Music.
“Know it,” she said, flipping a page.
“Is it my imagination?”
No eye contact. “Is what your imagination?”
“The deep freeze treatment I’m getting from you.”
She shrugged.
“I want you to know I do appreciate what you’ve done for your mother... the support. You’ve always meant a lot to her, but right now—”
She gave him a long, slow, cold look. “You don’t make it as Ward Cleaver, okay, Dad?”
“You’d prefer Archie Bunker?”
She almost smiled, but caught herself, and looked down at a picture of a hippie-ish Jane Fonda at a peace rally. “I’d prefer privacy.”
He leaned forward, hands clasped. “What is this about, Annie?”
She shot a glare at him — eye contact, at least. “Please don’t call me that. It’s a kid name. I am not a kid.”
“Anna. What have I done?”
She gave him another sharp look, dark eyes accusing. Suddenly he realized tears were shimmering there. “Don’t you know?”
“No, sweetheart. I don’t.”
Her lip curled. “You did this. You encouraged him.”
Now he got it.
“You blame me,” he said, “for Mike?”
“He worshiped you. All you would have had to say was, don’t go. Tell him you’d rather see him in Canada than Vietnam. But he had to prove himself to you, walk in your footsteps. The big hero.”
“I never encouraged him. I asked him not to do it.”
Nostrils flared. “Don’t give me that shit! Once you said you were proud of him for it...” She shrugged contemptuously, farted with her lips. “...all she wrote.”
He moved from the chair to sit on the edge of the bed. “Sweetheart... it was his decision.”
Her eyes flashed. “Do you believe in that war?”
“...No.”
“That’s right. You and Mom both spoke out against it. And everything Mom said has come true — look at those fucking Pentagon Papers!”
“Please don’t...”
“What, my language off ends you?” She leaned forward grinning sarcastically. “Do I smoke pot? Am I a smelly hippie? A flower child banging every boy at school?”
“Don’t...”
“I have friends who snort coke, Daddy! And I’m so good, I’m so sweet, I’m such a straight little shit... I’m even playing fucking Maria in Sound of Music!”
Then her anger curdled into something else, her chin crinkling, and she began to cry.
She held her arms out to him, helplessly, and he took her in his embrace and patted her like the baby she was to him.
She wept for a good minute.
Then she drew away, snuffling, and her father handed her a Kleenex from the box on her nightstand, and she took it, saying, “Oh, Daddy, is Mike ever coming home?”
He couldn’t lie to her. “I don’t know... I don’t know, sweetheart. That’s why you have to stay strong for your mother.”
She nodded, blew her nose, reached for another tissue, and dried her face. “...I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry.”
“I understand. I really do.”
“I guess I... I had to take it out on somebody.”
He smiled a little, shrugged. “And I was handy.”