by Stan Hayes
“Yeah,” said Moses, “I guess people that’ve never done military duty have a hard time understanding what a job it can be. Particularly your relatives. My mom and dad’re dead too, but I don’t think they ever understood what I was doing, or what I had to deal with. Civilians’re just in another world.”
“That’s it!” Porter said, his voice dropping as the luminous blue eyes looked around the café once more. “They are! It’s another fuckin’ world fer them! They caint possibly understand what the hell it’s liike ta know what’s goin on- an’ what could go on, if them fuckin’ reds had their way. Them’a my kin that ain’t still on th’ land’re punchin’ th’ timeclock at th’ cotton mill, ain’t been nowhere an’ ain’t seen shit. How th’ hell can ya expect anythang else? Listen, anybody that hasn’t seen the power’v nook-e-lar fission for therself caint imagine what we’re dealin’ with.”
“Well,” said Moses, that includes most of the world- and me.”
Porter looked around the café’s perimeter once again, then riveted Moses with a conspiratorial gaze as he bent toward him. “I ’us at Los Alamos, when they set off what they called ‘th’ gadget,’ th’ first nook-e-lar explosion. I had guard duty at th’ Omega Site one niit about a month later, 21 August ’45, when this guy Ragland, one of th’ scientists, come in ta th’ lab ta work. He ’us one ub’m doin’ sump’m they called ‘criticality experiments.’ They had these little bricks a’metal- damn heavy fer ther size, th’ way they handled ’em- one ob’m’d fit in th’ palm a’yer hand - and they’d lissen to th’ radiation counters while they stacked ’em up, one at a time. They ’us tryin’ ta make this balla ‘49 metal’ inside th’ stack do what they called ‘goin’ critical.’
“He showed up around 2130. He said ‘hey’ an’ went straight over ta th’ assembly bench. He went over ta th’ vault ’n took out th’ balla 49 metal. He started stackin’ bricks an’ th’ instruments commenced ta clickin’. I ’us sittin’ with m’back to ’im; wudn’t but a few minutes ’til I heard a ‘clunk’ and th’ whole wall in fronta me lit up blue. I wheeled m’chair around and saw Ragland just a’standin’ ’air, ’is arms hangin’ down by ’is side, limpliike. I hollered at ’im, “What th’ hell happened?”
“He said ‘She went critical, Sarge.’ He started takin’ down th’ blocks’n stackin’ ’em over’t ’th siide. ‘I need some help.’ ” I started out to alert th’ duty officer, an’ ran inta this gal, a lab assistant, on th’ way in. ‘What happened?’ she ast me, an’ I tole ’er what I knew. She said ‘I’m taking him to the infirmary.’ I ran out ta th’ duty office an’ briefed th’ duty officer. Pretty soon th’ place was a fuckin’ madhouse. They hauled my ass off ta th’ base hospital; they me there for a coupla days, then gimme liit duty ’til October.”
“What happened to Ragland?” asked Moses.
“Shit, he’us dead inside a month. They let me in t’see ’im once, an’ it’us all I could do ta stay in’air fer a coupla minutes’r so. He’us awake, but swole up like a balloon and hurtin’ bad. I said ‘Hey, Doc,’ an’ he looked over at me an’ saw who it was. He smiled, best as he could, an’ said ‘Hi, Sarge. Sorry.’ He’us dead a week later.”
“And you’ve been OK since then?”
“Oh, yeah. They gimme a transfer up ta th’ Presidio, in Frisco, an’ anuther striipe. Then downere ta SRP las’ month.”
“That’s some story, Mickey. I’ll keep it to myself,” said Moses.
“I would’na toldja if I didn’t thinkya would,” said Mickey. “I caint talk ta just anybody about it, see. But you-”
“I’ll sit on it. For sure,” said Moses. “What’s amazing to me is that you’ve still got the stomach for it.”
Porter’s blue eyes turned into agates. “Fer whut?”
“For nuclear- uh, research.”
“I tole you,” he shouted. “What’s goin’ on at SRP’s classified, gotdammit, an’ I aint discussin’ it, widju er anybidy else. I’d liike ta hope they’d be some sensa security in th’ civilyun popyalashun. Miit as well expect ta find a platoona virgins down ’ere at ’at slop chute we’us at ’tother niit.”
“Mose.” It was Reba, grimfaced.
“Yes, Reba.”
“Are you leavin’ any time soon?”
“I was just about to, as a matter of fact.”
“Then I’d appreciate you takin’ this gentleman with you, before I hafta ask him to leave.”
Porter looked sleepily up at her. “You know, sister, I’d marry you just so I could beat you up.” Then his gaze shifted to the kitchen doors. “Yunder comes Nellie!”
And, thought Moses as he regarded Reba’s momentary paralysis, not a moment too soon.
“Morning, Mose,” said Bruce Goode, opening the door to his office and smiling broadly. “ Nice to see you; our paths haven't crossed for quite awhile. How's the beverage business?” Goode asked, motioning him into a chair at corner of his desk.
“Fine, just fine, Bruce; everything jake in the world of legalities?”
“Couldn't be better, thanks,” said Goode, his broad smile inching wider. “Well, I guess it could get a little better, depending on what I can do for you this morning.”
“ I need a will.”
“ Yes, always a good idea to keep your will up to date.”
“I'm not talkin’ about updating anything; there's nothing to update. I need a brand new will, since I've never had one.”
Goode's eyes widened slightly as he pushed back his chair, the weighty package sliding back on well-oiled wheels and hitting the heavy-laden book case behind him, sitting him abruptly upright.” Well,” he said, “Looks like we've got the proverbial clean sheet of paper to work with.” Pulling one of two Parker 51 pens from his onyx-based desk set, he scribbled something at the top of the top sheet of the fresh legal pad that gleamed canary yellow, reflecting the morning sun. “Why don't we start with a list of your assets. Did you bring along a list of them, by chance?”
“No, I didn’t; don’t really think it’ll matter if I'm leavin’ everything to one person, will it?”
Goode's lower lip protruded a little while his eyes remained wide. “No, I don't suppose so, but with wills it’s a good idea to be as specific as possible. We can fill them in later to whatever degree's necessary. Who's the lucky legatee?”
“Jack Mason,” said Moses.
“I see. Well, we’ll need to provide for the period of time between now and the time that he reaches legal majority. Should you, God forbid, die before he reaches legal age, the property that you leave to him will have to be placed in a trust until he does.”
“Bruce, I'm more than happy to leave those details in your hands.”
“Mose, a trust must be administered by a trustee. You'll need to give some thought as to who you'd like that to be.”
“Moses looked at him for a moment, then glanced out the window and as he said, “His mother'll be fine.”
Goode looked back at him momentarily, with an air of being about to say something and, having thought better of it, said something else. “We'll get a draft ready for you to look over; just as a starting point, you understand. I'll call you in a week or so. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you could get up a list of your assets for us to plug in there; we’gn have it picked up whenever you're ready ...”
“OK,” Moses agreed.” I'll call you in a couple days.”
Chapter XV. Jus’ Rub On It
Moses, his back to the door, turned turned toward the scuff of Jack’s approaching bare feet on the hall carpet. “Hey, shitbird,” he said, sitting the percolator down on the kitchen counter.
“Yo, shitbuzzard,” yawned Jack as he pulled a chair out to take a seat at the kitchen table.
“Good game last night. Four catches.”
“Yeah. I coulda had more if they’da left me in.”
“Well,” Moses said, sliding a cup of coffee in front of him, “you made the best of the time you were in. That one down in the flat was really n
ice. Right at twenty yards, I’d say, and over your offside shoulder.”
“Yeah. The play’s called 15 Out, but Ricky and I’ve been doin’ that one since Mr. Harris taught it to us in sixth grade.”
“You and he are doin’ a hell of a job as sophomores,” said Moses. “and you’ve got a lot of the season left. If you weren’t playin’ behind a senior, you’d be first string for what you did last night. Ricky too. He played most of th’ second half as it was.”
“Yeah, he did. I’m glad we went into th’ second half ahead 23 to nothing, so Coach put ’im in early. He didn’t screw up once.”
“Don’t forget, he had number 81 to throw to. Foldberg woulda been prouda you.”
Jack grinned at hearing the name. “Dan Foldberg. All-America, Army, 1950. Whatta guy. Wonder if he’s in Korea, right now?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” said Moses. “But wherever he is, he’d love to know about what you did while you were wearin’ his number last night.”
“I hope so. Doubt I’ll ever be in his league, to say nothin’ of Davis or Blanchard.”
“Hey! Army’s had some great teams, but even Foldberg couldn’t get ’em by Navy in ’50.”
Jack laughed. “Yeah, that was the high point of the year for you and Gene Debs. 14 to 2. Y’all had ’way too much fun that day; I had to drive ’im home, remember?”
“Yeah, I sure do. That was th’ day he spilled th’ beans to you about us shootin’ up Chili Dog’n them.”
“Oh, yeah! What a story- we haven’t seen th’ Klan around here since. Pissed me off that y’all didn’t tell me.”
“I was goin’ to tell you later. Tell you th’ truth, I didn’t know how long a war I’d started with those fuckin’ idiots, and I didn’t wanta get you involved with somethin’ that mighta had a nasty side to it. Hell, -ol’ Cat Dander was in with that gaggle a’goons.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jack said, standing up to refill his cup. “Scuttlin’ around th’ lobby with angry-lookin scorch-spots on his ratty-ass head. Th’ whole story was all over town in a coupla days, and everybody knew damn well that you had sump’m to do with it. Nobody guessed th’ bazooka part, though. I bet he was fartin’ sump’m besides ‘shave and a haircut’ that day. That was really some job. You and Foldberg’re my two Jewish heroes. So far.” he added.
“Well, I’m glad you said ‘so far,’ buddy. Because when you add the ‘Jewish’ adjective, Lieutenant Dan Foldberg and I take serious back seats to a lot of people. David Ben-Gurion, for instance.”
“Oh, yeah. Israel’s head guy, right?”
“Right,” said Moses with a big grin. “You’ve been readin’ the papers. You know why there’s an Israel in the first place?”
“Just that the Germans killed all those Jews during the war, and that most everybody thought that the Jews should be able to go back and live in their original homeland.”
“Good, as far as it goes. But here’s what you probably don’t know. The Jews’ve been trying to get back to their homeland of Israel since before I was born, and Ben-Gurion’s been at the heart of that process for all that time. He’s been an advocate, a criminal, a spy, a soldier, a politician and now a statesman. In fact, He’s the founder of Israel. That’s my idea of a hero.”
“Mine, too. I just thought the whole thing came out of the war,” said Jack.
“It did; you’re just thinkin’ of the wrong war. Their war’s been going on for a long time, and it’s not over. The League of Nations gave England sump’m called a mandate over Palestine at the end of World War II. They partitioned Palestine into Arab and Jewish states. England gave up the mandate back in 1948, after the Jewish State was declared, and the war between Arabs and Jews got goin’ almost immediately. The United Nations came in as mediator, to very little effect. Because Ben-Gurion saw to it that Israel had a serious army, they got control of a fair amount of Arab land. And they’re still fightin’, every day, to keep it.”
“They must be some kinda people. You’re lucky to be one.”
Moses laughed. “A lot of people wouldn’t see it that way, but I guess you know that.”
“Hell, Mose, a lotta people’re fulla shit. Far as I’m concerned, I’ve learned a lot more from you than I have at school.” He looked out the window as a flock of geese swept over the house, headed for a landing on the pond. “And you’ve seen me play more football than my Dad ever will, which is none.” He continued to look out the window, after the geese were gone, fighting his tears.
Moses busied himself, first at the sink, transferring coffee from the percolator to a pitcher, then opening the refrigerator door and putting it inside. By the time the door closed, Jack was on his feet and heading back down the hall. Minutes later, he was back with a question. “Do you know what a fack-ade is?”
“A what?” Moses asked, relieved at the boy’s change of mood.
“A fack-ade. See here?”
He had a volume of Moses’ encyclopedia, open to the entry on Buckingham Palace. He read as he put a fingernail under the word in question. “Built by the Duke of Buckin’ham in 1703. Residence of British rulers since 1837. Located in Westminster metropolitan borough, London, England, near St. James’s Park. Purchased by George III in 1761. Remodeled in 1825 by John Nash; the eastern fack-ade was added in 1847.”
“Oh,” said Moses with a grin, “Façade; that means the front. Comes from a French word, so it’s pronounced ‘fuh-sahd.’ Sometimes, when somebody’s putting up a front, people’ll say that they’re ‘hiding behind a façade.’ Whatcha doin’, homework?”
Jack’s answering grin had a sardonic twist. “Naw. I just woke up thinkin’ about Buckin’ham Palace. Hell, yes, homework. A paper, really. For my History class; on government in England. I’ve got ’til the end of the month, but I thought I might get a start on it with your encyclopedia. I’m not meetin’ Ricky’n them ’til one.”
“What’re y’all doin’?”
“Just gonna take a little ride on th’ bikes.”
“Looks like there’s Whizzers’re all over town these days,” said Moses.
“There’s a bunch,” Jack agreed. “ ’Ol Roy’s business has sure picked up since he started sellin’ ’em. I ’preeshate you lettin’ me keep mine out here. The less Mom sees it, the better.”
“Yeah, Moms’re like that. Hell, it’s just a small step up from a bicycle. You don’t even need a driver’s license.”
“They’re really fun, though. And since I already had my spring-fork Schwinn to put the motor in, it didn’t cost near as much as a Cushman or anything. Definitely worth a hundred and ten. And you helpin’ me puttin’ it together saved me twenty-five.”
“Glad you’re enjoyin’ it, pal. How’s it runnin’?”
“Just fine. I’m gonna drop in a new plug and check the points before I leave. But I’m gonna jump on Buckin’ham Palace for awhile. You fixin’ breakfast?”
Smiling as he turned back to the sink, Moses said, “Yeah, I’ll call you. Go get ’em, Bud.”
As they finished their breakfast of waffles and bacon, a particular favorite of Jack’s, he leaned back in his chair and blew out his cheeks. “Wish we could come back here to spend th’ niit. This Sunday mornin’ routine over’t Ricky’s is gettin’ a little old.”
“His folks won’t make an exception to him bein’ in church every Sunday?” asked Moses as he refilled their coffee cups.
“Hmp,” Jack grunted. “ ’Bout as much chancea that happenin’ as th’ sun comin’ up in th’ west. It’s like they’re afraid he’ll run outa God if he don’t get topped up once a week. I can’t see it; maybe I’m missin’ sump’m, I dawnno.”
“I’m sure they think they’re doin’ right by ’im,” said Moses. “It’s probably what their parents insisted on, too. Most of what people do about God’s what they were told to do as kids by the minigods- their parents.”
“Was that the way it was with you?” Jack asked him.
“Pretty much. My papa’s people were Catholic, but he w
as the typical academic of his time; he looked down his nose at most of the world, but particularly at religious people. His favorite text was the essays of Thomas Huxley, who did a lot to popularize the views of Charles Darwin. You’ve no doubt heard of ’im.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Jack. The evolution guy.”
“That’s th’ one. They called ’im ‘Darwin’s Bulldog,’ and old Dad loved ’im. ‘The unmeetable challenge of the twentieth century,’ he used to say, ‘is to replace discredited myth-based gods, and the guilt-fed religions that perpetuate them, with something superior to these so-called belief systems. An enlightened world will have no patience with irrational answers to rational questions. Humanity itself must provide the inspiration for society’s evolution.’ ”
“Wow! He didn’t beat around th’ bush, did he?”
“Oh, there’s more; I must’ve heard it two, three times a week. ‘This objective will not be reached as long as humanity remains far too abundant a commodity. Short-sighted leaders who are afraid to confront the need to reduce population growth will bring the world to a gradual and tragic standstill.’ ”
“Couldn’t call him an optimist, couldja?”
