A Question of Manhood

by Robin Reardon

  And then I felt like a shit. He was just trying to be nice to me. If only he hadn’t got Chris killed.

  On Saturday, after killing some time with a nasty bike ride through half-frozen puddles and lumpy mud, it occurred to me that Charlie, my friend with the baseball glove, would want to know about Chris. About what had happened to him, anyway; not everything. I started to get up and ask Mom if she had his address anyplace before I remembered she was at the grocery store.

  Charlie and I had exchanged a couple of letters just after he’d moved, so I figured I had his grandmother’s address, if I could just find the letters. I was pretty sure they were in a box in the back of my closet, so I went rummaging through all the junk in there. I located the box I wanted and tried to slide it forward, but it kept getting caught on something. Frustrated, I reached blindly into the dark and yanked at things. I’d littered the floor of my room with all kinds of crap from my closet before I figured out what the box had got stuck on. It was one of the Ho Chi Minhs. I fell backward onto my ass and sat there staring at it until I couldn’t see it anymore for the tears in my eyes. I just let them run down my face for a minute, then I fell onto my belly, head on my arms, and sobbed.

  I was still hiccupping when I sat at my desk and opened the top drawer, where I kept the five pellets from the SADEYE. Sad eye. Yeah, that’s about right. I held them in my left hand, shifted books with my right to get to a notebook, reached for a pen, and began to write, sniffling frequently at first, then less and less as I wrote.

  It started out as a letter to Charlie. It ended up as a letter to Chris. And it went round and round and round. Why this, why that, why the other. I’m keeping his secrets, I’m praying for him in church, I’m praying that I’ll get some of the good parts of him so I can make life at home a little less shitty for everyone. How did he keep Dad happy, what did he do that Mom liked best. I put that I knew he couldn’t answer but that I really needed to know, blah blah blah. And what in God’s name, I asked, could I do to convince Dad I was acting like a man.

  When I started to circle back again and ask some of the same questions I’d opened with, I sat back hard, slammed my left hand—pellets still clenched tight—down on the desk, and heaved a shaky sigh. I threw the pen down and crumpled all the pages I’d written on. They went into the wastebasket. And then I wrote to Charlie.

  Dear Charlie,

  It’s been some time, eh? I guess you and I aren’t great letter writers. Hope everything’s okay with you.

  I just thought you might want to know about Chris. He signed up with the army and was sent to Vietnam. He came back for a few days on leave last month, but when he went back, he got killed.

  I had to put the pen down and close my sad eyes for a minute while I got my breathing under control.

  He was saving four guys in his platoon, getting them into cover under fire, when he got shot.

  Anyway, that’s about it. Hope this gets to you, because all I have is your grandmother’s address.

  Your friend,

  Paul Landon

  I’d just gone downstairs to find an envelope and a stamp when I heard my mom’s car pulling in. As soon as I’d dashed upstairs I realized I should probably help her with the bags, so I shoved the letter into my top drawer and headed down again. Afterward, back in my room, I stood in front of the desk, watching dusk get duskier outside, wondering why I’d felt it was necessary to hide the letter. It’s not like I shouldn’t write it, and it’s not like I’d said anything my parents shouldn’t see. I figured maybe it was because I’d cried; a man wouldn’t do that, right? Or maybe because a man wouldn’t do anything to remind Mom how sad she was, so he wouldn’t want her to see the letter?

  Plus, there was that crumpled ball of what I’d written to Chris, in the wastebasket right beside the desk. I bent over and retrieved it. Turning around in circles, I scoured the room for a good place to hide it until I could figure out what to do with it. I settled on a spot under the mattress, since I’d probably be changing my own sheets again in a day or so, what with the mess I was still making of them. One arm stuffed between mattress and box spring, it occurred to me that if I did the trash myself, I could sneak it in then and no one would ever see it. My job had always been taking the trash outside, but Mom had always collected it. I’d have to do both, which could be a good thing; if my folks had liked my doing my own laundry, even though it was for the wrong reasons, they’d probably feel the same about the trash. Also for the wrong reasons.

  Is deceit part of being a man?

  As quickly as I could, I found Charlie’s letters in the box I’d pulled out of the closet. Then I sat at my desk, addressed and stamped the envelope, and stowed it and the SADEYE pellets back in the drawer; I’d get the letter mailed somehow, probably on another bike ride. Next I threw everything except the Ho Chi Minhs back into the closet. The sandals went under my bed; I didn’t want to lose track of where they were.

  Sunday I drove Mom to church again. I was beginning to wonder why Dad never went with her anymore, but I knew better than to ask a question like that if I wasn’t real sure I wanted to hear the answer. Don’t stir things up, is what Dad had told me; we need calm. So I didn’t ask.

  It was the service before Christmas, and the place was fairly glowing with expectation. The sermon was all about the love God has for the world, the hope Jesus represents, and the lesson was that what we need most will always be provided.

  So I prayed for all I was worth. I figured I’d built up a little equity by now, and maybe someone would at least let me know they’d heard me, even if maybe I couldn’t have everything I thought I needed just yet. So I prayed for the protection of Chris’s soul, for life to find a new “normal” soon, and for me to figure out what Dad wanted beyond laundry and trash collection. As I prayed, silently of course, I got this really intense feeling all through me and a kind of warmth in the general vicinity of my throat. My eyes watered, but this time they didn’t feel like sad eyes. I took it as a sign that I’d been heard.

  Toward the end of the service the minister announced that the midnight service would begin at eleven tonight, which seemed odd to me; why was that a midnight service? Never mind; don’t ask stupid questions. Just ask Mom if she wants to go to it.

  On the drive home, that’s what I did. We were about halfway there, and the sun was trying to make us believe it was really up there someplace. I took a turn, careful to put on the blinker and slow down, pretending there was a cup of water on the dashboard. When he’d taught me to drive, Dad had told me that’s the way to handle turns with Mom in the car, so that’s how I did it.

  Then I said, “Mom? Is that midnight service something you’d like to do?”

  She didn’t answer right away. I waited. Finally, “I don’t know how you knew that, Paul. I haven’t done that since I was a girl, but I was thinking during the announcement that it would be a wonderful thing to do. I just didn’t want to ask you to go to church twice in one day, and I don’t really want to go alone. My brother won’t go, I’m pretty sure.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t mind, really.” And in truth, I was hoping to feel that intense feeling again in this “midnight” service, maybe even get something by way of an answer.

  We had fried chicken for dinner, which I really like. I chose to take it as a sign that I was doing what Jesus wanted. During the meal, Mom mentioned to Dad that I was taking her to the midnight service. His reaction was not what I would have expected.

  Fork frozen halfway to his mouth, he said, “You don’t usually go to that.” And then he looked at me and scowled for a second before he put the fork into his mouth.

  “It’s kind of a special year, dear.” Mom’s voice sounded odd. I couldn’t tell whether she was trying not to cry or if she was irritated with Dad.

  We all watched a little TV, and when Dad went into his den about ten, I went upstairs to change. I kept picking out clothes and putting them back and pulling them out again, not concentrating very well, until finally I r
ealized that what I wanted to do was ask Dad to come. Maybe he’d been pissed that he’d be all alone in the house on Christmas Eve. So I went downstairs and stared at the door to the den. It felt a little like a lion’s den; I wasn’t in the habit of going in there. That had been Chris’s right. Chris’s duty. But it wasn’t like I was gonna say anything bad, right? Finally I knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  He’d been reading one of his historical novels about British ships at war, and he looked over the tops of his glasses at me. I closed the door. If he said no, I didn’t want Mom to know. “Um, Dad, I don’t know if this is a good idea or not, but—well…”

  “What is it Paul?” He sounded irritated.

  “Okay, um, I was wondering if you might want to go with us. To the Christmas Eve service. We have to leave really soon, so…I don’t know. I just thought I’d ask.”

  His eyes went back to the book, still open in front of him. “You know your mother is going to want to go to church again tomorrow, don’t you?”

  I blinked. Is he serious? Will she really? Again? Well… “It’s Christmas.” I shrugged. And what kind of an answer was that to give me, anyway?

  “I was going to go with her tomorrow. I can’t say I put any stock in all this praying, myself, but if she wants to go tomorrow I’ll go with her. Give you a break.”

  So I wouldn’t have to go tomorrow? Or was it that he didn’t want me to? I nodded to show I understood he wouldn’t go tonight, but then I asked, “So you don’t think I should go tomorrow?”

  He closed his book, holding a finger in the page to keep his place. “I don’t care whether you go or not. I’m not altogether sure I like this churchgoing business, but I don’t see how I can discourage your mother when you keep taking her.”

  “Oh. But didn’t you go with her for a while before…” Before Chris died, was what I’d been going to say.

  He opened his book a little sharply. “And what good did it do?” He glared at me while I tried to figure out how, or whether, to answer that. He sighed. “I honestly don’t care, Chris. You know very well how I feel about it. Do what you want on this score.”

  Chris. He’d called me Chris. I was so dumbfounded I didn’t know how to respond. Should I point it out? No, that would probably be a dumb-ass thing to do. It would only make him mad at both of us. All I said was, “Okay. I’ll go tonight. I’ll think about going tomorrow.”

  Did his comment to “Chris” mean he hadn’t liked that Chris kept taking Mom to church? And did he think he was talking to Chris when he’d said that I knew how he felt? Because I really don’t.

  As I was backing out of the den he said, “I doubt I’ll be up when you get back, so I’ll say good night now.”

  “Okay. Good night, Dad.”

  In a daze I dressed in whatever came to hand and was standing at the door, coat over my arm and keys in my hand, when Mom came downstairs. She looked sweet and happy and maybe a little sad, too.

  “Shall we go?” And she smiled at me.

  I did my best to smile back, and thank God I remembered to hold all the doors at the right times, and that we got to the church without hitting anything. All my attention was on what Dad had said to Chris. To me, but to Chris.

  It was an effort to pay attention during the service, too. I’d hoped that I’d get some tiny feeling of hope that things would get better and that Chris’s soul would be taken to heaven, but I was numb. I kept losing track of what verse we were on in the hymns, and I barely noticed the organist making a mess of the endings of all those familiar carols. Mom held my hand a lot, and one time I forgot she had a hold on it and I tried to reach up to scratch my ear. Embarrassment hauled me back to the present, but only for a few minutes. Then I was back into fog again.

  Had Dad resented it when Chris kept going with Mom to church when Dad wouldn’t? And when Dad had started going again, after Chris had been home on leave, was he trying to be Chris for Mom? Had he been trying to do what he’d been telling me to do lately, to be a man and make things easier for her? And is he now getting me to do what he can’t, just like he’d sent Chris to war for him?

  My breath stopped, and I had to take in a really sharp gasp to get it going again. Once I did, the fog was gone. Or, not gone, but it had a different quality to it. Now it was a sort of red haze, like anger. Like fury. I was breathing again, that’s for sure. Too quickly. In, out, in, out, round and round, setting up a whirlpool. It was an effort to calm myself enough to be a sane person by the time everyone stood for the final hymn, “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” This time the fancy organ crap on the last verse really burned me, and I sang through gritted teeth.

  I’d just shut the passenger side door for Mom and was walking around the back of the car to get in when I realized I hadn’t spent any time at all praying. Not for Chris, not for me, not for anything. I stood frozen with my gloved fingers on the door handle; would this, like, cancel out all the praying I’d done up to now? I closed my eyes and took just a second to send up a silent plea. Please, God; don’t punish me—or Chris—for this.

  Chapter 6

  Christmas morning was a bust. It started out fine, with Mom making cocoa just like always, just as if Chris were there. She’d even done a stocking for me—candies, silly little trinkets, and a tangerine in the toe—which surprised me, ’cause I hadn’t had a stocking in years. In fact, it confused me; it’s kids who want Christmas stockings, not men, so I wasn’t sure how to act. If I didn’t get excited at all, it would hurt her feelings, but did I want to look like a kid in front of Dad? I walked a very uncomfortable line, and I don’t think it made either of them happy.

  Mom liked the bath set, or said she did, adding something about treating herself to some relaxing times. Then she handed Dad my gift to him where he sat in his favorite chair.

  He stopped when the wrapping paper was partway off; he could already see what it was. He held it in both hands, propped it on his legs, and scowled at it. “Paul, just how did you manage to buy this? Did your mother do it for you?”

  She was probably anxious to give me all the credit, ’cause she answered him herself, sounding cheerful. “Not a bit! He took care of these gifts all on his own.” She smiled at me.

  But there was thunder brewing; I was surprised she couldn’t tell. Dad’s eyes flicked from her back to me. “Young man, bring me your wallet.”

  I blinked stupidly. “What? Why?”

  “Do as I say!”

  “Andy?” Mom’s voice was worried.

  I tried to play casual. I shrugged and went upstairs, fetched it, and brought it back to where Mom and Dad were talking in hushed tones. He nearly snatched it from me and then emptied it completely, picking up every scrap of paper and examining every object.

  “Dad, um, what exactly are you looking for?” I just stood there and watched, worried by his behavior, though I couldn’t imagine what he thought I’d done.

  Finally he threw the wallet onto the floor. “Where do you keep it?”

  “Keep what? What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you pretend with me. You know very well.”

  I threw a glance at Mom, silently pleading for her to come to my rescue, but she was looking at the floor. She obviously knew what this was all about.

  Time to be a man. “Dad, if you want me to answer you, ask me a question I can answer.”

  He stood, paper and bows and tobacco packets falling in cascades. His voice was dark. “Where is the false ID you used?”

  ID? ID… And suddenly it dawned on me. I let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t have a false ID. Mr. Chandler and I made an arrangement. He carried the tobacco out of the shop, gave it to me outside, and told me to come back after Christmas”—my voice started to rise—“to pay him for the stuff and to tell him how much you liked it!” We stood there, nearly toe to toe, and I realized for the first time that I was now just a little taller than him. My voice took on a sarcastic note. “So, Dad, how much do you like it? Please tell me so t
hat I can report back to Mr. Chandler, since both of you don’t trust me.”

  “This isn’t a question of trust. Selling tobacco to you is illegal.”

  “Who do you think you are, a cop or something?” That oughta hurt.

  He just stood there, breathing noisily through his nose, and then he said, “You talked Mr. Chandler into jeopardizing his store by breaking the law for you.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Whatever. You’re welcome.” I turned and stomped upstairs to my room.

  My parents’ voices drifted up from downstairs, and my ears strained for recognizable words and angry tones. When I could hear neither, I took it as a good sign; maybe Mom would calm him down for me this time. I half expected someone to come knocking on my door, and after an hour I heard first Mom and then Dad come upstairs, but I guess all they did was dress for church. Will anyone ask me if I’m going?

  The answer was no. They just went downstairs again, got in the car, and drove off.

  What the fuck? Had Dad told Mom I didn’t want to go? Or was this their way of telling me how out of line I was and that I was only marginally in the family at the moment?

  Would they have just walked out on Chris?

  Hell, no!

  I threw my door open and nearly ran downstairs. Mom had put my wallet back together and had already dealt with most of the wrappings and bows and crap, though it looked like she’d stopped partway through. But my stocking, all neatly re-stuffed, was in a pile with the wallet and the other things I’d been given. There was a new light for my bicycle, biking gloves, a new parka, and Seven Separate Fools, the latest Three Dog Night album. I wrapped my arms around all of it, hiked back upstairs, and tossed it all onto my bed. Then I went into Chris’s room and pulled out about ten albums from his collection that I wanted and added them to the pile in my room. I stood there, panting more from fury than exertion, and ran a hand through my hair. Then I wheeled around and went back into Chris’s room.