by Brian Bakos
“On a day like this, I feel I can take on the world,” he said.
Dinner was waiting when we got back home. Papa was seated at the table behind his heavy, stoneware beer mug. Mama poked her head in from the kitchen.
“Where have you boys been?” she said.
She strode toward us, a worried, scared expression on her face. She examined our dirty faces and skinned elbows.
“We’re all right, Mama,” I said, “really.”
“What were you up to?” she demanded.
“Shut your mouth, woman,” Papa said. “What does it look like they were up to?”
He fixed his eyes on us. I could tell by the meanness in them that he was well on the way toward being drunk. A nasty little smile curled his lips.
“You were out fighting them slobe brats, weren’t you?” he said.
“Right ...” Stilikan said.
Papa grinned, and that peculiar, joyless chuckle rumbled in his throat.
“Glad to hear somebody’s showing those little bastards what’s what,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Stilikan said.
“Now go wash up,” Papa said.
We retreated to the bathroom. Over the noise of the water taps, we could hear a fierce confrontation going on. Papa was roaring out his usual list of complaints – Mama was trying to ‘cut his balls off’ with her constant whining. He couldn’t stand listening to her any longer. Without her around he’d be ‘free as a bird.’ And so on. We’d heard it all before.
Stilikan’s eyes were cold and steely as he washed himself in the sink. His mouth was clamped shut, and tight bunches of muscle protruded from his jaw line. He said nothing.
When we returned to the dining room, things had calmed to a tense, angry silence. Mama was seated now in her usual spot, and a beef roast lay on the table, ready to be carved. Stilikan and I took our places. I hoped fervently that the storm had passed, that Papa would not explode again, that he’d eat quickly then leave for his customary night at the saloon.
Things almost seemed back to normal when suddenly, and without any provocation, Papa reached over and slapped Mama hard.
“Bitch!” he said. “Don’t ever tell me what to do.”
Mama cringed away and covered her face. Papa turned his attention toward me.
“What are you looking at?” he snarled.
He thrust out a hand. I sat frozen with horror as the gigantic fingers reached for my throat.
Then Stilikan was at him. In one violent motion, my brother jumped out of his chair, seized the beer mug, and shattered it against Papa’s skull. Papa fell out of his chair, pulling the table cloth with him. Food and dishes scattered over the floor.
Stilikan grabbed the carving knife and shoved it under Papa’s chin.
“Touch them again, and I’ll cut your head off!”
I was paralyzed with shock. In an instant, the huge terrifying presence that had dominated our family was reduced to cringing impotence. And I’d never heard Stilikan use such violent language before.
“You little ...” Papa tried to speak, but a jab with the knife shut him up. Blood oozed.
“I mean it, old man,” Stilikan said.
His voice was low, measured, and it carried more threat than the loudest shout could have done. He moved away, allowing Papa to wobble up.
Papa towered in the middle of the room, stunned, wiping a hand over his throat. He gaped at his smeared fingers with astonishment, as if the blood must belong to somebody else. He rolled his hand into a fist and took a menacing step forward. Stilikan held his ground, knife at the ready. I tried to join him, but Mama grabbed me and held fast.
Papa scanned the room malevolently, waves of anger radiating off him. He seemed to turn into storm of hate and violence, swirling in the middle of our house like a dark tornado, baleful eyes glaring out of a skull face.
“Damn you all!” he bellowed.
Then he was out the door with a house rattling slam.
“Lousy coward,” Stilikan said.
He turned toward Mama. Raw contempt etched his face.
“Well ... what now?” he said.
She could only stare back at him with wide, terrified eyes.
Come morning, Mama found the courage to visit a lawyer and file a divorce petition. Then she swore out a complaint with the police – not that they would do much if it came to that. Stilikan and I went with her. The night before, Stilikan had ground his Youth League dagger to a razor edge and he kept it close. He also carried a sturdy bat, supposedly to play whacker ball later, but that had never been a game he enjoyed much.
I was never so scared in my life. Any moment I expected Papa to jump out of some doorway and attack. There was no doubt in my mind that Stilikan would try to kill him if he showed up. I felt no loyalty at all for Papa, but I was terrified for my brother.
Papa kept away, though. He was probably out drinking, carousing, or beating up somebody who was unable to fight back.
For the next weeks, Stilikan insisted that Mama come to school with him. She sat crocheting on a courtyard bench where he and his friends could keep an eye on her during classes. Some of the boys found this arrangement to be amusing, but Stilikan quickly silenced them. He gave one kid such a pounding that the school issued a 10-day suspension. That suited Stilikan fine, as he could guard Mama more easily that way.
Then, one night, a rock crashed through an upstairs window of our house. Wrapped around it was a note from Papa full of blood-curdling threats. Stilikan looked at it scornfully.
“We’ve seen the last of him,” he said.
Sure enough, Papa quit his job at the mill and moved out of the province so as to avoid paying child support. Money became very scarce for our family. Both Stilikan and I took delivery boy jobs to help out. Our customers were sympathetic, and the tips we received were always the best. Mama sold her crochet work, did laundry and cleaning, took in borders. We got by.
Then, just as Stilikan was preparing to leave for high school, we learned that Papa had been killed in a barroom fight – more of an assassination, really. Somebody had settled an account by sticking a knife into him while he was drinking a mug of beer. Soon afterward, a large cash settlement arrived. Papa had maintained a life insurance policy with Mama as beneficiary.
Give credit where it’s due, I’ve always thought. This was a fine thing, but why did he have to wait until he was dead in order to be decent? Mama had always been skillful with money, and shrewd investments brought us a good measure of prosperity.
***
I spend the rest of the night wandering the old pathways with Stilikan, until dawn pokes through the windows. He needn’t have worried about missing the war. The evidence of that is right before me, on the table.
Then I hear Mama coming down the stairs. I rouse myself and go to my room to catch some sleep before the funeral service.
11. Mournful Gathering
The memorial service is dignified and well-attended. Mama’s relations are all there, and several of Papa’s, too. Our neighbors and local friends are well represented; I regard them with nostalgic affection, especially those who tipped me and Stilikan so generously when we were delivery boys.
They sit hunched together in the parlor chairs looking gray and much older than I’d remembered. Their conversation is woeful – in respect for Stilikan and in fear for themselves. Not a one of them doesn’t speculate about when the Death Angel will come for the young men in their own family. Some have already received a visitation.
Just one of our former gang is able to come. He’s had an arm blown off at the front and now holds an administrative post with a nearby training regiment. The rest are on active duty or have been killed. The only other military person at the service is Bekar, Stilikan’s wingman and eyewitness to his heroic death.
Bekar was injured in that final battle, as evidenced by the plaster encasing his left leg. He sits in a wheelchair with the living room overflow crowd during the service. His sister occupies a chai
r next to him. Her mouth is clamped into a tense line as if she is outraged by the whole situation.
They are staying at a local hotel and will be leaving tomorrow for the victory rally in the national capital. The rally had been postponed due to the air attack on our base, but it is going ahead now under tightened security.
I want desperately to speak with him, to learn of Stilikan’s last hours, but I can’t leave Mama’s side. She appears to be in a state of near collapse, leaning against me in her chair. When she stands, I keep a tight hold on her arm.
I find myself glancing back while the clergyman drones his words of tribute. Bekar keeps his gaze fixed to the floor, mostly. When he looks up, his eyes bear a sunken, haunted look. He knows something that he is keeping to himself; I am certain of that.
It isn’t until after the internment at the cemetery that I am able to approach him for a few words. He invites me to call on him that evening at the hotel.
***
The sister answers my knock. She stands in the doorway, wordless, looking over my Yuliac dress uniform with obvious disapproval – but also a hint of interest. I’m used to getting interested looks from girls. In a different situation, I might also be interested.
“Let him in already, Gyn,” Bekar says.
She steps aside, and I enter the main room of the suite. The open door to the sitting room reveals that a cot has been made up in there. I feel Gyn’s eyes on my back as I approach Bekar, who is sprawled out on the double bed. I offer him a salute.
“Oh, forget all that!” Bekar says.
He extends a hand; I clasp it.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet Stilikan’s ‘little bro,’” Bekar says. “Aren’t you the spitting image?”
“Uh ... thank you,” I say.
“He talked about you a lot, Dytran. He was very proud.” Bekar reaches for a packet of cigarettes on the side table. “Every time one of your letters came, I got the full run down.”
He offers me a cigarette. I manage to shake my head in refusal.
Bekar sighs. “I just wish the circumstances were better.”
My mouth is trembling, and tears start rolling down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand. A melancholy, sympathetic little smile moves across Bekar’s face. He strikes a match.
“Do you have to smoke in here?” Gyn says.
Bekar shakes out the flame. “All right, Sis, be that way.”
“You shouldn’t be smoking at all,” Gyn says.
“Tell you what, Dytran,” Bekar says, “let’s you and me go outside. There’s a park nearby I’d like to visit and ...” he shoots Gyn a gently mocking look, “have a cigarette.”
I nod. “Yes, I’d like that.”
Gyn begins to assist him into the wheelchair.
“May I help?” I ask.
“I can manage,” Gyn says. “I’m used to this.”
“That’s right,” Bekar says, “she’s a volunteer nurse at our military hospital. Don’t you feel sorry for those poor blokes getting manhandled by her?”
Gyn looks irritated.
“Just kidding, Sis.” Bekar gives her a peck on the cheek. “You know I love you.”
She smiles for the first time, showing a cute little dimple on her cheek. She is quite attractive, actually. I can’t help smiling a little myself.
Bekar is settled into his wheelchair now.
“Lead on Dytran,” he exclaims. “Let’s paint the town red!”
“Don’t stay out too long,” Gyn says. “We have to get an early start tomorrow.”
“Yes, mother,” Bekar replies.
Gyn opens the door for us, and I maneuver the wheelchair into the hallway.
“You watch yourself, Dytran,” she says. “I see boys like you all the time at the hospital. They come back from the war ...” Her voice trails off.
“I will, thank you,” I say.
She watches us from the doorway until we turn the corner to the hotel lobby.
“That’s my sister for you,” Bekar says, “always looking at the bright side. You know, she’s been bossing me around since we were kids, and I’m three years older!”
The moment we leave the hotel, Bekar lights up a cigarette. He inhales deeply and blows out the smoke with satisfaction.
“Ah, I needed that!” He takes another drag. “What I could really use is a drink.”
“We can stop by a tavern,” I say.
“That’s tempting ... better not, though,” Bekar says. “Alcohol doesn’t mix with my medications.”
He raps his knuckles on his cast.
“I’ll be wearing this damn thing for a while yet. The doctors say I might be good to fly again, but my tap dancing days are over.”
“You were a tap dancer?” I say.
“No, but if I was, I wouldn’t be any more.”
“Oh.”
I suppress a chuckle. Somehow, it doesn’t seem proper to laugh at Bekar’s misfortune, however light he is trying to make of it.
“I hear you’re in some trouble about a slobe dive,” Bekar says. “There was a fatality?”
“Yes,” I say. “They granted me a week’s family leave, but as soon as I get back, it’s a disciplinary hearing.”
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s my own fault,” I say. “I knew the activity was banned. I was just trying to show up my deputy squadron leader.”
Then another thought occurs to me.
“And I was trying to prove that, just maybe, I was as good as Stilikan at something,” I say. “He’s the unofficial Yuliac slobe diving champion, you know.”
“Yes, he mentioned that,” Bekar says.
“What did he say about it?”
“He said it was the stupidest thing he ever did,” Bekar replies. “He said that he should have saved his efforts for the real enemy – the ones who can fight back.”
“Oh ... they can fight back all right,” I say.
The mention of Stilikan casts a melancholy pall over us. We wheel on in silence through the last long shadows of the day. I can’t see Bekar’s eyes, but I’m pretty sure they have that haunted look again. He fairly sags in his wheelchair. Even the smoke rising from his cigarette appears to sag.
Finally, we get to the park. It’s the same one where our gang ran off the slobe kids all those years ago, on the day that Stilikan overthrew Papa to become the real head of our family. A host of memories crowds up.
I try to shove them out of my mind, but how can I do that when I see them playing out in the shadows? I mean, I can actually see them – me, Stilikan, the other boys, friends and enemies. All of us are here again in our earlier versions.
This place holds no ghosts for Bekar, however. The greenery and fresh air seem to perk him up.
“I have an idea,” he says. “How would you like to go to the victory rally with me tomorrow?”
“How?” I ask. “Don’t participants need an invitation?”
“I have an invitation,” Bekar says. “Front section among the ‘honored wounded,’ and I can bring an attendant.”
“What about Gyn?”
Bekar waves a dismissive hand.
“That’s the last thing she wants to do. You heard how she was talking.”
“Well ...”
“It’ll help us both a lot,” Bekar says. “We’ve been down in the dumps, haven’t we? If all that excitement can’t cheer us up, nothing can.”
I struggle to shift mental gears. Up until this moment, the future seemed to be nothing more than a dark tunnel leading to nowhere. Any thought of enjoyment had seemed totally alien, wrong even. Is it possible that something worthwhile can still happen to me?
“You wouldn’t have to do much,” Bekar says. “Just wheel me around and make sure I don’t fall on my face when I’m using my crutches.”
“Very well,” I say, “let’s go.”
“Capital fellow!” Bekar claps me on the arm.
He lights another cigarette. Dusk is beginning to settle in,
making the tip glow more prominently. Bekar’s face seems to glow as well. He is really smiling for the first time since I’ve met him. He almost looks like a kid now. We are all still kids, actually.
“Ah, in this light, seeing you,” he says, “it’s almost as if Stilikan is with me again.”
I fairly glow with pleasure myself. I like Bekar a lot. It’s easy to see why my brother respected and trusted him so much. I think of Katella, my own loyal wingman, and how he’d backed me up against all odds, when it really counted.
This seems a perfect moment of camaraderie. I can’t bear the thought of ruining it. But it has to be done. I have to find out.
“I ... need to know exactly what happened to Stilikan,” I say.
Bekar tenses. The smile vanishes from his face. As much as I hate to do it, I press on.
“And I think you need to tell me, Bekar. I’ve seen that look in your eyes – something terrible is eating at you.”
A long pause as the world darkens around us. Bekar’s arm flops onto the wheelchair armrest, the cigarette tumbles from his fingers. I am steeling myself to repeat the request when Bekar finally speaks.
“Yes, you’re right,” he says.
An enormous tension seizes me from the gathering darkness, balling my fists and clamping my jaw. I fight an impulse to run away.
“Just promise me you won’t tell your mother,” Bekar says. “I couldn’t stand it if she knew.”
I jerk my head into a nod. “As you wish ... you have my word.”
12. The Final Battle
“Tear ‘em up boys!” Stilikan shouted over the radio.
The fighter squadron dove out of the sun onto the bomber formation like hawks after a gaggle of fat pigeons. The enemy fighter escort rose to meet them while the bombers jettisoned their loads and turned back toward home. Machine guns and canons fired, the voice of war howled throughout the sky.
Stilikan blasted an enemy fighter. It exploded into a fireball. He shot up another one, then pulled away so that Bekar could finish it off. Bekar pressed the firing button on his stick – machine guns mounted in wings rattled his plane, the 20 millimeter canon in the nose jolted him with its recoil. The acrid smell of cordite filled the cockpit like a lethal perfume.
The enemy fighter shuddered under the assault and began to burn. Then it flipped over and started going down. The pilot bailed out.
