Life Between Wars

by Robert Patton

“He probably doesn’t either.” The boy glanced at the flowers on the grave. “Someone remembers.”

  Del hesitated. “It’s all I can do.”

  They regarded one another. Brendan said, “In your letter you wrote me, you said you didn’t feel wrong about it.”

  “Terrible but not wrong, yes. I made the right judgment.”

  “Against my dad.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re probably the only one who ever did. Judge him, I mean.”

  “It doesn’t sit easy. Hence the flowers.”

  Brendan nodded. He gave a long sigh that felt good by its end. “I’ll help you with that thing for Johnwayne. And I’ll talk to Chief Rickert if you want.”

  “It’s important that you want it too.”

  “My dad loved me a lot. He most definitely woulda hurt someone if he thought they’d tried to hurt me.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Brendan considered. “Because my dad sure wouldn’t. He’d see you fry any way possible.”

  “But not you?”

  “He raised me never to be like him. His one rule. I gotta honor it.”

  They walked down the path to the cemetery gate, two silhouettes in the new-fallen darkness. “Are you gay?” Brendan asked. “My dad told me you were. He was just guessing.”

  “He guessed right.”

  “You got a lover?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Matthew’s gay. He doesn’t think I know.”

  “I see.” Del smiled a little. “And?”

  “That’s all. Except he’s pretty sick. Cancer. It’s been rough, I guess.”

  “I had a friend who died — of something like cancer.”

  “Did you take care of him?”

  “No. I didn’t. Regrettably.”

  “I’ll probably be takin’ care of Matthew. I’m kinda nervous about it.”

  They were by the car. “Maybe friends can help,” Del said.

  Brendan got in front with Robby, Del in back with Matthew. Matthew’s elbow was propped out the window as he gazed pensively across the road toward the dark murk of the ocean. He’d dragged everyone out here to force-feed them some lesson whose object he still wasn’t sure of. Stay true, was perhaps the extent of it. He laughed to himself, and sighed, contemplating the war ahead of him, the war he’d fight tooth and claw to win. He felt Del stir beside him and briefly graze Matthew’s arm with his own. Nothing invasive, nothing too forward — just a tap to say allies were near.

  Thirty-Nine

  Brendan woke to sounds of knocking on his bedroom door. In his half-consciousness he thought for an instant it was his mother rousting him from sleeping late and possibly missing his school bus. But his mother was dead. It had to be Jerome.

  Waking gradually, he rubbed his eyes and gave a last yawn as the orphan that he was. He didn’t feel sad. Rather, his past and present seemed to comprise a drama worthwhile for him to consider and learn from. Oddly, given the hard things that had happened, his chagrin at what he observed of his life was mixed with a survivor’s vanity. Such ambivalence was new in him. Its genesis could be traced to the incident at the Winstons’ last year, and in the slow-motion, stop-start, remote-seeming aftermath that only now was yielding to a next phase. A precocious hardheartedness had developed like scar tissue and promoted Brendan’s recovery. His resilience had begun to dawn on him. It was more interesting than despair.

  He became aware of a voice calling, “Wake up! We have to go!” He released the door latch. “Never,” Matthew said, looking even more wild-eyed than usual, “lock your door! If you were choking, how could I save you?”

  “I’m a teenager. We lock our doors.”

  Matthew threw Brendan clothes from his dresser. “The ferry leaves in ten minutes. Move!”

  “The ferry?”

  “Lois and Willoughby — they’re fleeing!”

  Armed with the truth about Willoughby’s role in Jerome’s death, Matthew had waited up last night in a chair by his window for Lois and Willoughby to return from dinner or sex or whatever they were doing, waited so that Matthew, whether Willoughby wished it or not, at last could grant the thing Willoughby so debilitatingly lacked. Except Matthew had nodded off, waking to predawn sounds of Lois’s car, loaded for getaway, pulling into the street.

  “I knew it would happen,” he muttered as he helped Brendan dress. “You said yourself they were perfect for each other. Perfect cowards. Perfect ingrates. Well, we’ll get our licks yet. They need us, Brendan.”

  “Need us? They’re never around.”

  “Hah,” Matthew said, his face livid with triumph. “Because they don’t realize it, obviously!”

  The station wagon stenciled with The Lois System was third in line at the boarding ramp. The dawn was coming up lovely with sea scent and boat motors and yipping seagulls heralding summer days on the bay. Inside the car Willoughby and Lois, Lois at the wheel, noticed none of these things; neither was big on scenery in the best of times. They sat silently far apart on the seat, staring frontward as if readying to drive not onto the ferry but off the pier into the harbor. Lois mumbled, “What the hell are we doing?”

  “You wanted to come.”

  “You wanted me to come. You begged me.”

  “And you said yes absolutely.”

  A pause. Lois said, “I’m glad we got that settled,” releasing tense laughter from each of them. Sudden pounding on the rear window spooked them half out their seats.

  “Oh, Christ.”

  It was Matthew and Brendan. Willoughby got out of the car to meet the challenge. Lois rolled down her window and fumbled for a cigarette. She’d wanted it clean, a razor cut; she’d wanted to write long, vague letters of explanation from some distant motel with a sad song on the radio and Willoughby’s sleeping head in her lap — props, as it were, to help her summon better words than “I’m tired, I’m sorry, goodbye.”

  In her side mirror she saw Matthew standing behind Brendan with his hands gripping the boy’s shoulders, his vehement words sending shudders through Brendan and evidently through Willoughby too. “Tell him!” she heard Matthew command. “Tell him the truth!” Hearing this, Lois leaped out and went to Willoughby’s side. She saw onlooking faces in the cars beyond them, people sipping coffee and doubtless presuming, from Matthew’s scolding of Willoughby while rattling Brendan’s shoulders for emphasis, that Matthew was some kind of enforcement officer in a matter of nonsupport. “Brendan deserves the truth! About his father’s death, about his father’s life.”

  “Come on, Matt. Let it rest.”

  “It won’t rest!”

  “What’s he mean?” Brendan said to Willoughby. “You probably oughta say.”

  “Trust me,” Matthew urged — but it wasn’t this that gave Willoughby courage. It was a quick glance of assent, of alliance, from Lois. She knew already, Matthew realized. Willoughby had opened his heart at least that much; she in turn must have opened hers. Matthew was relieved for both of them.

  The twin diesels of the island ferry roared to life. The gate to the boarding ramp lifted and the first car in line passed slowly through it. Willoughby had to speak loud over the din.

  “I wanted to hurt your father, Brendan. You saw my leg? He caused that. In the war he murdered a man and I was gonna bring him up on charges for it. But the soldiers in our platoon made a choice — him over me. Your father let it happen. I came to Penscot to punish him.”

  Brendan swallowed. “You told me he was the best before.” But the boy knew he’d been lied to; he’d known all along, sensing the damage in his father’s past that had been patched but never healed.

  “He often was,” Willoughby said. “But not always. And as much as I respected him, when he killed the Chieu Hoy I had to act.”

  “You said you killed the guy.”

  “I wis
hed I had — to give my story a different ending. I don’t wish it any more.”

  “At last,” Matthew said.

  “When my own soldiers fragged me,” Willoughby went on, “I didn’t know which way was up — what was right, wrong, nothing. I’ve been crawling ever since.” The second car in line boarded the ferry; another behind them honked impatiently. “The pistol was my fault. I was playing a game and got careless. That kid found it and it’s my fault. I can never make that up to you.”

  The car honked again. “You’re gonna miss your boat,” Brendan said. It was a dismissal, flatly delivered. Matthew spoke:

  “He’s not going anywhere. There’s no reason to.”

  “I want him to go. Let him come back when he’s done crawling.”

  Willoughby nodded. “It’s fair.”

  “My dad used to say that.” Willoughby wasn’t sure how to take this. “I liked it when he did. It was honest, at least.”

  Willoughby exhaled. He was free to go — or come back. He said to Matthew, “Well, it’s out. I won’t have to imagine the worst.”

  “You may miss that more than you know.”

  Lois went to Matthew and kissed him. “You look healthier than ever,” she said.

  “You too.”

  He started up the lane. Willoughby called to him:

  “Thanks, Matt.”

  He turned, gave a smile, blushed. “Matt. I can’t get used to that. It’s like you’re talking to someone else.”

  “I’m talking to you.”

  “Amazing.” Matthew waggled his fingers in a bashful wave. “And you’re welcome, of course.”

  Brendan hugged his aunt goodbye before catching up to Matthew. “She said she’s gonna miss me.”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  They walked together across the cobblestones. “You do look pretty healthy,” Brendan said.

  “I’ve felt worse.”

  “You didn’t want to tell ’em?”

  “That I’m woefully stricken and pathetically needy? Nah.”

  “A regular hero, huh?”

  “What can I say?” Matthew put his arm around Brendan. “Some guys just got it.”

  Visitors to Penscot often wanted to stay. The island was snug as a parable. A much painted place, to settle there was to step into the painting, the illusion of comprehensible life. From an outsider’s perspective, Penscot natives could seem to possess some secret of the good life that mocked mainstream existence, the anchors and anxieties that bind others to the ground. Dwelling in all that summer sunshine, they seemed at once buoyant and rooted, drifting like pollen through the warm seasons yet never leaving the garden.

  Lois and Willoughby stood at the rail of the aft observation deck on the ferry departing Penscot. The island had receded behind them. They were the only passengers out here. The breeze carried a northerly chill and they huddled against it. They’d never embraced this way before. They hadn’t made love nor even seriously kissed. Their intimacies so far had been to talk and listen and be dismayed together. They knew the rest would come in due course. They knew it would go just fine.

  After a while they moved to the bow to watch for the mainland to appear on the northern horizon. Landfall was more than two hours away. They would need that time to get further used to the fact, not easily borne in their case, that they weren’t alone anymore.

  Epilogue

  On the evening ferry to Penscot Island you could observe three types of summer tourists. Those making their first trip crowded the forward deck, cameras pressed like spyglasses to the eyes of explorers approaching virgin shores. The second type of tourist considered the first despoilers, so shot them proprietary scowls from inside the main cabin. The third type ignored the first two, taking seats in the lounge or near the exits, doing needlepoint, reading, lulled to repose by the vessel’s roll and the warm vibration of its engines. These people were virtually Penscot natives. Their visits had been frequent enough, or profound enough, to have wiped the dazzle from their eyes. Having left part of themselves here, they weren’t expecting to reclaim or discover anything. It was a matter of reacquaintance.

  Ollie Newberry was aboard tonight’s ferry, returning to the island after his junior year at boarding school, returning with the cocky heart of one unmarred by misgiving. His reverie to the rumbling engines wasn’t about the morning ten months ago when he and his roommate had been attacked by a lobster boat. That incident rarely recurred to him. Even now, coming back to the place it had happened, it felt unreal and unimportant — significant, if at all, mainly as an adventure story with which to captivate women.

  Ollie’s thoughts as he idly stared out his window concerned the woman named Lois on whom he’d bestowed his virginity last September. His problem was how to avoid running into her during his upcoming summer on Penscot. It was a small town, and Mantra’s Cafe, where she tended bar, would be his primary hangout. He’d snuck out on Lois the morning after they’d slept together, leaving a note in eyeliner on a paper towel, “I totally appreciate you and all the things you did,” that in the wisdom of his now seventeen years he assumed hadn’t been kindly received. He dreaded his own discomfort and her hurt feelings should Lois see him with some new babe on his arm. His motives for planning to blow her off were both swinish and reasonable, therefore. Clearly he and she had no viable future. She was blue-collar and old; worse, she’d fucked him out of God knows how much desperation. Ollie had had good luck with girls this past school year. He’d had sex several times and understood there was no mystery to it much. Lois had been nice to him, yes. But obviously he could do better.

  He resolved to seek her out first thing, go to Mantra’s Cafe and lay it out gently but firmly. When the ferry made landfall, he bulled his way down the crowded ramp with his backpack slung over his shoulder. Ashore, he observed the throng spilling after him and his gaze settled on, with shock at first, someone he momentarily thought was her.

  The woman, lugging three suitcases, paused a moment before launching herself into the stream of disembarking tourists. In that pause she craned her neck to survey the sight before her of the town waterfront at evening. Ollie looked around with interest for whomever on shore might be hailing her. When he looked back, she was making her way down. She was slim, wore a T-shirt and jeans, her hair was dark and straight — she was completely average, yet he tracked her as avidly amid the throng as a trainer tracks his thoroughbred amid the pack along the back stretch. The woman glanced ahead and for an instant met Ollie’s eyes directly. He shivered, which sealed it: He got out of there fast. It was starting to feel like last summer again, when nothing had seemed without meaning.

  At Mantra’s, the bartender told Ollie that Lois no longer worked there. Determined to get the awkward reunion over with, he proceeded to her house, recalling its location from when they’d met for their date last year. Nervous, he felt as well an evil intrigue at the notion that she might throw herself at him shamelessly. At the top of South Main Street he again encountered the woman from the ferry. His reaction was honest. “This is so weird!”

  “Pardon me?”

  “We keep meeting. On the pier, on the boat.”

  She blinked as if dazed. “I suppose.”

  “You need a hand?” He grabbed two of her suitcases and went with her up the narrow lane.

  After a moment he heard her murmur, “So strange to be back.”

  “You’ve been to Penscot before? I’m a repeat offender myself.”

  She went on unhearing, “I never thought I’d be back.”

  “Boy, me neither. I left some broken hearts.”

  She went up the front walk of an old-looking gray saltbox. Ollie did a double take as he realized this was Lois’s place.

  When the front door opened some guy exclaimed, “Anna! Anna’s here, people. You said tomorrow! We woulda met you at the dock.”

  “Once I decided t
o leave, there was no point in delaying. The sisters understood.” She peered over the guy’s shoulder into the house. “Who all’s here? Am I interrupting? Hello, Matthew.”

  “Hi hi.” Ollie came up behind Anna bearing her bags like a bellhop. Matthew asked her, “Who’s your friend? A runaway monk?”

  “We don’t — ” Ollie began to explain. “Is this Lois’s house?”

  “You seek Lois?”

  “I’m a friend of hers, only.”

  “Robby, do you hear? This fellow is a friend of Lois’s.”

  “A friend of hers is a friend of mine,” said the guy at the door. “Funny, I thought she went for longhaired peg-leg types.”

  Matthew turned to Ollie. “Our dear Lois has eloped.”

  Ollie put Anna’s suitcases down. He turned to go but found the front door shut behind him. Some people were in the adjacent parlor, one of whom Ollie recognized — the young cop who’d chatted him up at Mantra’s the night they shot the beached whales. Beside him was a gawky young man wearing tightly belted jeans and an expression of having just had a flashbulb pop in his face; he was staying close to the policeman’s side, like a puppy on an invisible leash. Few would have said he looked like a person who’d blacken his mother’s eye or injure a kid for stealing something he cherished.

  Debris on the dining room table indicated a big dinner just ended. “What’s the occasion?” Anna asked Matthew.

  “Brendan’s birthday. Fifteen. And we just learned today that Robby’s case won’t go to trial. Our police chief apparently botched every technicality known to man.”

  “I’m not sure I approve,” Anna said.

  “Me neither,” Robby said. “My soul’s in peril, I know.”

  “Don’t be a drip,” Matthew said. Ollie’s impression was that Matthew wasn’t well, a tincture of illness in his complexion that his humor couldn’t flush. Matthew was hollering up the front stairs. “Brendan and Araby! Get down here for the cake.”

  From the parlor sofa an old man in a linen suit asked, “Cake?”

  “It’s a birthday, dear,” the old woman beside him said wearily.