Dear Father, Dear Son

by Larry Elder

  Two men—one not so famous, one infamous. One never learned to hate, and one finally learned to stop.

  If Mr. Wallace can be forgiven, then America can be forgiven, and that’s why, ladies and gentlemen, I have hope for this country.

  Then I introduced Mom and Dad to the crowd.

  They received a standing ovation—a standing ovation for a southern woman with a year of college and her husband, an “outside” child from an illiterate mother. They stood and smiled and waved.

  I leaned over to Dad during the thunderous applause. “What did you think?”

  “Big fuss over nothin’,” he said. “Just did the best I could.”

  The following day, I took Dad to see a movie. He made me assure him that we would, absolutely, positively, at all times, sit near an exit close to the bathroom—“just in case.”

  I chose Sling Blade for no particular reason—I’d just heard good things. It was about a mentally disturbed man confined to a psychiatric institution since the then-boy murdered his mother and her lover. Released, he finds a job, and befriends a child. He learns that the boy lives in fear of his mom’s boyfriend, an evil, physically violent man who threatens the mother and terrifies her son.

  “I have to go,” Dad leaned over and whispered in my ear.

  “Okay, the bathroom is over here.”

  “No, I have to go home.”

  “Why?”

  “Can’t take this movie anymore.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This reminds me of how my daddy treated me.”

  We left. For the second time in my life, I saw him cry.

  29

  CARRYING ON

  “Come over right now!” Dad called frantically one morning. “They took your mother to the hospital!” She was diabetic and had long been taking insulin injections. She was always careful, took her mediations on time, and constantly watched her diet. But she had fainted that morning.

  The doctor and nurses tried to resuscitate her. I watched this strong, tough woman now connected to tubes, the doctor pumping her chest, and the other assistants scrambling around. Still, she grew weaker.

  “Does she have a living will?” the doctor asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You should get it.”

  Less than an hour later, she seemed to stop breathing. She had taken the decision out of our hands—exactly the way she wanted. She was eighty-two.

  “Whatever you do,” she always told us, “do not let me live without my senses.” She cringed when she watched the news about someone kept alive through “heroic measures.”

  “There’s nothing heroic about being brain dead.”

  She was deeply disturbed about the Terry Schiavo case. Schiavo’s husband insisted that she did not want to be kept on life support, while her parents insisted that she would never say such a thing. There was nothing in writing to settle the matter.

  “Please do not let me stay alive in that condition,” Mom said.

  She and my father took out living wills, ensuring that any such decision would be made in accordance with her wishes. Dad just went along. “Whatever you say.”

  “There’s nothing more we can do,” the doctor said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Now what?” I said.

  “There’s nothing, there’s … I’m sorry. We did all we could do. I’m, I’m sorry.”

  The doctor thought I refused to accept that she had died, and that I wanted his team to continue trying to save her.

  “No, I’m sorry. I meant what happens next to her body? I mean, where do you place her? How does it work?”

  “Oh. We have storage downstairs where we keep her for a few days while you make arrangements. The funeral home you choose will contact us, and pick her up.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  I never made arrangements before, and never really thought about what to do. I just planned on Mom and Dad living forever.

  “Jesus, Larry,” Kirk said when the doctor walked away. “What happens next?”

  My mother was almost ten years younger than my Dad. I expected him to go first. I knew that someday I would write about him, so I taped him for hours as he answered questions about his past, his hopes, his expectations, and his disappointments. I intended to do the same with my mother. I just assumed that there would be time. Time ran out.

  Mom appeared on my radio show for years every Friday from 5 p.m. until 6 p.m. To Mr. Lusk, she was the “War Department.” To her listeners, she was the “Chief Justice of the Supreme Court,” with an answer for everything. Illegal immigration? “The United States should invade Mexico, develop it, and the country would be so prosperous the Mexicans would rather stay home.” Government welfare? “Nothing for the able-bodied and able-minded, and as for everybody else, that’s what churches are for.” Global warming? “Just some crap made up so that Al Gore can get rich.”

  On Thursdays, she did movie reviews. Basic Instinct 2, with Sharon Stone? “Don’t ever ask me to see a movie with all that sex, I’m not interested in watching sex, I already know how to do it and don’t need to see it.” Brokeback Mountain? “I didn’t think I would like it, but it was a love story.” The 40-Year-Old Virgin? “Hysterical, but I don’t know why all his friends thought it was so important for him to lose his virginity—he was better adjusted than his friends.”

  Our show that last Friday was one of our best. She was blunt, irreverent, and funny in the at-this-stage-of-my-life-I-don’t-give-a-damn-what-you-think way. Tatiana, a truck driver from South Carolina, called in. She wanted Mom to know how much she enjoyed hearing her on Fridays.

  “Larry, your Mom is not just your mom. She America’s Mom.”

  My mother and I laughed about the comment all weekend. On Tuesday morning, she was dead. My brother and I made funeral arrangements.

  “What shall we put on it?” Kirk asked when we chose a headstone.

  I told him about Tatiana’s call.

  “That’s it, then, ‘America’s Mom.’”

  My brother and I agreed that for all of Dad’s complaining, he really had little idea of how much he not only depended upon her, but how much, in his way, he enjoyed her company. The arguing, I finally realized, was their dance. It was their relationship. They had been at it for fifty-six years, and pretty much had the routine down. She snapped. He snapped. She snapped back. He snapped back, and at some point, the issue ran out of gas until a new one came along. She fed him, washed his clothes, kept his appointments, and breathed the same air.

  And now she was gone.

  “He won’t last long without her,” I told my brother.

  She had a large funeral. In addition to her many friends from our neighborhood, her church, and people she knew personally, a bunch of her Friday afternoon radio fans came.

  For the funeral, my brother and I had a black-and-white photograph of her enlarged and put on display. She looked wonderful, cheerful, with that don’t-even-think-about-it sparkle that said, “I know what I’m doing and how to do it so don’t even dream about trying to stop me.” I brought the photo back to the house. When I opened a closet to put it away, Dad stopped me.

  “I’d like that put on the wall.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Where I can see it.”

  We decided to put it in her sewing room. Kirk and I secured it to the wall, stepped back to see if it was hung evenly, and turned to make sure it met with his approval.

  She was no longer on her computer where she had taken to emailing her fans, or on the phone making plans to go fabric shopping with a friend, or giving me fifteen minutes of the latest things Dad had done to annoy her.

  “What do I do now?” Dad asked.

  “You carry on, Dad,” I said.

  “For what?”

  We looked around the sewing room—the room Kirk briefly called his bedroom, where he’d once tacked pictures of Elvis on the wall. We looked at her sewing machine and her last unfinished project, a yellow jacket whose buttons were
all that was left to do. We looked at the pinking shears she kept just to her left, next to the pin sponge, the spools of thread all neatly arranged and color-coded. On a board above the sewing machine, she nailed jar lids and screwed in the glass bottoms. She filled the jars with buttons of various sizes, shapes, and colors. When a button popped off one of Dad’s shirts, she always found one that was at least “close enough.” We looked at her little television set, the one she retreated to when she didn’t like what Dad was watching “up front.”

  “You’re father’s up front watching stand-up comedy,” she’d say.

  We looked at the picture we had just hung. And then Dad reached for our hands. In their fifty-six year marriage, from the time I entered the picture, I’d never seen him hold her hand. And now he was holding ours—right in front of her picture.

  He was crying. It was the third and last time I saw him cry.

  How often does one spouse die only to be followed in death a few days, weeks, or months by the surviving spouse? And the husband is far more dependent on the wife than the other way around, especially in a vintage 1940s marriage like this one.

  “I don’t know what I’m goin’ to do,” Dad said over and over. We didn’t know what else to say, but “carry on.”

  He says that he dreams about her every night. And he speaks far more kindly of her than he ever did when she was alive. For a while, he insisted that he didn’t want to live, that he was a burden on his children and his daughter-in-law.

  But after a few months, he no longer insisted that life had no meaning. Until recently he took walks, listened to his Spanish-English language tapes, puttered around in the garden, and tried to do a little housework.

  I bring him obituary columns. He likes to hear about the person’s life, achievements, and the kind of legacy he or she left behind. He pretends not to, but he gets a kick out of hearing about people who died ten, fifteen, twenty years younger.

  “Sounds like a nice life,” he’ll say when we read about someone’s life. “He sure squeezed a lot in.”

  “So have you, Dad.”

  “She was eighty-three,” he’d say. Or, “He was only seventy-nine.” Or, “He was ninety-four.”

  “You beat ’em all, Dad.” I say. “And you’re still rocking.”

  “Ain’t how long you lived. It’s what you did with it.”

  30

  “THINGS FALLIN’ APART”

  He’s become forgetful and complains “everythin’ on me is fallin’ apart.”

  “What is that you’re holdin’?” Dad asked for the fifth time.

  “It’s an iPhone.”

  “What does it do?”

  “It’s a small computer so I can search for information.” I showed him. “I can retrieve and send e-mail.” I showed him. “I can use it for directions, to calculate, to store and play music, to write down appointments, to take notes, to use as a tape recorder, to take and store pictures.” I showed him again.

  “You say it’s called an iPhone. Is it a phone, too?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s a phone, too.”

  “Does all those things?”

  “And more.”

  “Kind of like a Swiss Army knife.”

  “Yeah, kind of like that.”

  “Well, I’ll say.”

  When he complains about his memory, I tell him there’s an upside.

  “Really? What?”

  “I can tell you the same jokes.”

  He’s frustrated not to be able to follow the plots of movies. I suggested we watch older ones on the Turner Classic Movie channel. One night featured Paul Newman. We watched The Sting, Cool Hand Luke, Paris Blues, and Rachel Rachel. The marathon started at 7:15, about the time he goes to bed. But he watched every movie, and never fell asleep.

  He especially enjoyed Paris Blues.

  He lit up when he heard the opening music. “I haven’t heard that in a long time. ‘Take the A-Train,’” he said. “Duke Ellington.”

  I recognized a famous jazz piece.

  “What’s that called? What that called?” I muttered.

  “Mood Indigo,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  We talked about the entertainers he enjoyed, the ones he told us about when we were kids. The Nicholas Brothers. Cab Calloway. Bill “Bojangles” Robinson. “Peg Leg” Bates, the dancer with the wooden leg. Each time, I pulled up the performer on YouTube with my iPhone.

  “What’s this thing called?”

  “It’s called an iPhone.”

  “And you can ask it to show these people?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t have to pay nothin’?”

  “Nothing extra.”

  “It’s a phone, too?”

  “Yes. Does lots of things. Kind of like a Swiss Army knife.”

  “Well, I’ll say.”

  31

  “GOODNIGHT”

  We watched a movie called Proud, about the true-life World War II experience of black sailors aboard the USS Mason. The ship was one of only two black-manned ships that actually saw combat. As a destroyer, it led Allied convoys through waters filled with German subs, and took on missions even the vaunted English Navy considered too treacherous. But the black sailors welcomed the assignments. They wanted to prove themselves in actual combat rather than the “menial” labor done by most blacks in the military of my father’s era.

  “I always thought that whole thing was stupid,” Dad said.

  “What whole thing?”

  “Blacks wantin’ to be on the front line, gettin’ killed. If white people are so stupid they want to keep us in the back where it’s safe, hell, let ’em. When all those civil rights people were sayin’, ‘Let us fight. Let us fight,’ I’d say, ‘Shut up, fool. They want to die, let ’em die.’”

  A German sub launched a torpedo. But the blacks, thought too dumb to master hi-tech equipment like sonar detection, skillfully avoided getting hit. Then they counter-attacked with depth charges.

  Despite their heroics, the men of the Mason never received a commendation. Their commander sent a letter to Washington urging recognition for these brave sailors. No dice.

  After years of lobbying by the grandson of one of the sailors featured in the movie, President Clinton honored the surviving crewmen with a long-overdue ceremony. The USS Mason crew finally received their rightful commendation for bravery and sacrifice.

  I watched my dad during the movie. As usual, his facial expression gave nothing away. What was he thinking? Was he thinking about his service as a staff sergeant and a cook? Was he thinking about Guam, where he and other soldiers prepared to assault Japan—a mission aborted because of Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Maybe he was just hungry for something to eat?

  “Dad, what are you thinking about?”

  He said the movie reminded him of something he hadn’t really thought about in a long time.

  “We had just gone through trainin’ at Montford Point [in North Carolina]. We lined up to hear a speech—supposed to lift us up—that was given by a white major. I think that was his rank. The officer said, ‘You know, I’ve traveled all over the world. But it only just now dawned on me that we are really at war. Because I came home and looked out, and saw you people wearin’ our uniforms.’”

  “Everybody was insulted. ‘You people wearin’ our uniforms’?”

  Each black Marine just stood still, he said, a kind of silent protest against the officer’s demeaning, racist statement. They remained standing when the officer left the podium and walked off the stage.

  “‘You people wearin’ our uniforms.’ What did that mean?” Dad said. “Bet my ancestors beat his here.”

  I asked him about his training. He said it was rigorous and demanding, but that he expected it to be. And he was determined to do his duty.

  “Montford Point?” I said, “I think there’s a book about where you had your training.”

  I found it, ordered it online and showed it him: The Marines of Montford Point: America’s First Black Marines b
y Melton Alonza McLaurin.

  “Well, I’ll say.”

  Reading and concentrating is now almost impossible. So I read some of the book to him each night as he lays in bed. He remembers some of the locations and activities described, but he either didn’t know any of the men mentioned or can’t remember them.

  “It was a long, long time ago.”

  “There’s a Montford Point group that stays in touch with each other online. Why don’t I contact them?”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “Don’t you think might be fun to talk to some of the men you served with, see what they’re up to?”

  “No, that’s okay. I know what I did. I know what they did. Now is now. Would you just turn out the light for me?”

  “Right now?”

  “If you don’t mind. I’m feelin’ a little tired. I just want to rest.”

  Tired, this man of steel? I thought of the time I first realized that he wouldn’t be that way forever. Mom struggled to remove the top from a grape jar. She handed the jar to Dad, who couldn’t unscrew the top either. Mom took the jar out of Dad’s hands, and handed it to Kirk, who was then fifteen. Pop! I was astonished.

  “How did you know Kirk could get it off?” I asked.

  “Your father’s strength is declining,” she said. “Your brother is getting stronger. That’s life.”

  That was a long time ago.

  Dad pulls the covers up to his chin. I turn off the lamp. He smiles when I kiss him goodnight.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  The light from the hallway touches his face. His skin is smooth and soft.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once again, I want to thank my tireless, talented assistant, Dana Riley. This is our fourth outing.

  And my thanks go to the wonderful people at WND Books. They immediately embraced this book and were a joy to work with.

  I also want to thank several friends who read early versions of the manuscript and urged me to stay the course: Patricia Stewart and her mother, Mary, Burt Boyar, Stephen Sachs, Edgar Galindo, and Nina Perry. And, of course, my most important critic -- my brother, Kirk, who reassured me that that, yes, I had “gotten it right.”