Where was she from? I asked. I loved that he would talk with me and tell me anything. My mother was never like that.
Louisiana, same as me. Seven years younger. We had no money, and only occasional jobs, and we wanted to get away. We wanted new lives. I was thirty-six and she was twenty-nine. This was the end of 1958, beginning of 1959. We didn’t know how cold it would be here. We wanted somewhere no one would know us, but she got pregnant early on, so we were struggling. The freedom never really happened.
I tried to listen to everything carefully, but I don’t remember all that he said. Lives so far in the past and removed, and this grandmother I always imagined as old but who had never been old.
Do you have photos of her? I asked.
Sorry, Caitlin, he said. I ran away and didn’t keep anything. I tried to forget my whole life and start a new one, and it wasn’t my first time doing that, either.
When was the first time?
When I left for the war. And the second time was when I came back. And then moving here to Seattle with your grandmother, that was my third time running away. And then leaving her was the fourth, and then coming back here from Louisiana was the fifth. All my life I’ve been running, but I promise you this is it. I’m staying this time, until the end, no matter what happens. You can count on that. I won’t run away from you, ever. I know I did that day in the aquarium, but it won’t happen again.
I was leaned in against him and he had his arm around me, so comfortable. I remembered the policewoman and all her questions, and I realized my mother wouldn’t like seeing this either, so I straightened up and then stood as if I wanted to look out the window. I went up close to the glass and looked at the long front yard covered in snow. What war? I asked.
The big one, World War II.
You’re that old? I turned and looked at him, and I just couldn’t believe it. World War II is in the oldest movies, I said.
He chuckled. Yeah. A living piece of history. I was nineteen when I joined up, so I was on the young end.
What happened?
Oh, you don’t want to know.
But I can’t imagine anything.
I was the same as I am now, a mechanic. I worked on diesel engines in tanks and trucks and even a few small boats. So imagine a mechanic but dressed like soldiers you’ve seen in the movies. None of the exciting scenes, but just a lot of mud and oil and tools and the tanks not working most of the time. War is mostly repairs and delays and always having to move again. Like the first few minutes of the movie, but repeated endlessly.
What are you talking about? my mother asked. She had appeared suddenly with Steve.
Oh, my grandfather said. Nothing. Caitlin was asking about when I was in the war. But there’s nothing to tell, really. Just fixing engines.
I thought you never talked about the war. Mom always said you didn’t want to talk because you had some terrible times and were all broken about it. What happened to that? Now you talk about it to my daughter, whatever she wants to know?
Sheri, I’m sorry. There were some bad times, but I try not to think about them, you’re right, and I wasn’t going to tell her any of that, of course.
Well it’s time to tell. I want to hear. What were the bad moments?
Sheri. It’s 1994. He had his arms out, indicating everything around us, an entire world. It’s a Saturday. You’re just settling in. We should go out to dinner. No one wants to hear about a war from another time.
I do. I want everything you never gave us before.
My grandfather had his mouth open but wasn’t saying anything. How would I know where to start? he finally asked.
Start with what explains you. It should explain why you left. Something that happened in the war or earlier in your life that made you leave, because I have to find some way not to hate you so much. I’m giving you a chance here.
There are no stories like that, no stories that can explain. I was a coward and I ran away. I did something unforgivable, and I know I can’t make up for it, and I’m sorry.
That’s not enough. You’re going to search until you find something, and you’re going to tell me. Right now.
Sheri. Please.
You do it now or we’re gone. You give me some way to have some sympathy for you as I stand in this nice house, all lovingly redone, and think about the broken house you left us in, with its leaky roof and no heat and no insulation and nothing. Tell your sob story about the fucking war, whatever it was that my mom thought you were so broken about.
My grandfather closed his eyes. No story ever explains. But I’ll give you what you want. I think I know the moment you want, because I made a kind of decision. There was some change. But I can’t start the story at the beginning. I’ve never been able to do that. I have to start at the end and then go back, and it doesn’t finish, because you can go back forever.
Do it, my mother said.
I don’t think Caitlin should hear.
She can hear.
Okay. You’re her mother.
That’s right.
So I won’t give the awful details, but I was lying in a pile of bodies. My friends. The closest friends I’ve ever had. Not piled there on purpose, but just the way it ended up because I had been working on the axle, lying on the ground. And the thing is, the war was over. It had been over for days, and we were laughing and a bit drunk, telling jokes. There was something unbearable about the fact that we’d all be going our separate ways now. The truth is that we didn’t want to leave. We wanted the war over, but we didn’t want what we had together to be over. I think we all had some sense that this was the closest we’d ever be to anyone, and that our families might feel like strangers now.
So that’s it? You couldn’t be a father and husband because you weren’t done being a buddy?
No. No. It’s the way it happened, in a moment that was supposed to be safe. After every moment of every day in fear for years, we were finally safe, and that’s when the slugs came and I watched my friends torn apart and landing on me, dying. That’s the point. We were supposed to be safe. And with your mother, too, I was supposed to be safe. A wife, a family. The story doesn’t make any sense unless you know every moment before it, every time we thought we were going to die, all the times we weren’t safe. You can’t just be told about that. You have to feel it, how long one night can be, and then all of them put together, hundreds of nights and then more, and there’s a kind of deal that’s made, a deal with god. You do certain terrible things, you endure things, because there’s a bargain made. And then when god says the deal’s off later, after you’ve already paid, and you see your friends ripped through, yanked like puppets on a day that was safe, and you find out your wife is going to die young, and you get to watch her dying, something that again is going to be for years, hundreds of nights more, all deals are off. Nothing is owed.
So that’s it?
My grandfather looked collapsed, sitting there on the couch with his head down and hands hanging. Yes, he said. I forgot that I owed you, that you were a child and should be given everything. I forgot that my wife was owed something, also, that my deals weren’t only with god, that the deals weren’t only about me. It’s a terrible thing to forget. I was selfish. And I’m sorry. I have to admit, though, I do understand why I left, and I forgive myself for leaving. I guess I didn’t realize that until right now, having to say all this, but I do forgive myself, or at least I understand why I did it, which maybe is the same thing.
Well, my mother said. Congratulations.
My grandfather had a grim smile, then, very strange. Yes. Congratulations. One life can never know another’s.
W
e were at a chowder house, a fish restaurant, expensive. More expensive than any other restaurant I’d ever been to. My mother did that on purpose, I knew. She was burning through what would have become her own money, but still she wanted to punish him, and this was one way, to make him watch his dollars disappear.
Have you decided? the waiter asked. I was still panicking over the menu. There was nothing inexpensive. It wasn’t like other menus. The types of fish were listed at the top, and then you could pick how it would be prepared, and pick side dishes and combinations. The menu was like a math problem, and all the numbers too high.
I’ll have the king crab, my mother said. And the moonfish.
The moonfish is amazing, the waiter said. An excellent choice. It’s very rare that we have it on the menu, flown in fresh from Hawaii. And it should be only lightly seared, very lightly. It has such a delicate, buttery flavor, and that’s gone if you sear it a moment longer.
How much does that cost? Steve asked.
It’s sixty-five dollars for the moonfish, and really the best choice we have on the menu tonight.
Sheri, Steve said.
He’ll have the moonfish also, my mother said, pointing to Steve. My father is treating tonight.
Excellent, the waiter said.
I’ll have the moonfish also, my grandfather said.
Did you know he’s a war hero? my mother asked, raising her voice, so that others would hear, pointing to my grandfather. World War II. He watched his buddies die.
I’m sorry, sir, the waiter said quietly, and thank you for your service.
He also abandoned his dying wife. My mother still speaking in this loud voice, people looking at us. I was fourteen and got to take care of her and watch her die. Maybe not so heroic, that part. But I think we have to forgive our heroes anything, because they watched their buddies die. What do you think?
The waiter wore a small smile that was a wince. He said nothing, and for what seemed like a long time, our small side-room of the restaurant and its half-dozen tables were silent.
I’m sorry, my grandfather said. I deserve all that.
Then it was quiet again. I thought Steve would say something, defend my grandfather, but he didn’t. If he had, I think he would have lost my mother right then.
My grandfather handed his menu to the waiter, then Steve did the same, and my mother, and the tables around us began talking quietly again.
And for you? the waiter asked me. His voice was barely more than a whisper, and I felt sorry for him.
I can’t eat fish, I said. I love them too much.
Oh, he said, and then my grandfather said, I’m so sorry, Caitlin. I forgot. Do you have anything on the menu that’s not fish?
We do have a burger, and also a simple pasta marinara.
Pasta, please, I said, and my grandfather said, Me too, instead of the fish.
My mother folded her arms and looked down at her napkin. I’m sorry, she said when the waiter had left. That was too much. I came here to punish you, and apparently to punish Caitlin, also, without even realizing it. But that’s not me. I don’t want to be mean like that.
Steve put his arm around her, and she leaned onto his shoulder. She was starting to cry, but careful not to make any sound. I was afraid to move, afraid to say anything, and I think my grandfather was too. So we just sat there and waited until she wiped at her eyes and sat up straight again.
What do you think you’ll study? my grandfather asked, maybe just to break the silence. But it was good that he was the one to speak.
Oh, my mother said. I have to do my GED first. I can probably take a course to study for that. Then maybe a community college for the first two years, something easy to get into, and I’d like to work hard and move on to something better for the last two years. But I don’t know what subject yet.
We can do our homework together, I said.
My mother smiled. Yeah. That’ll be fun, sweet pea. But your old mother is out of practice, so you’ll have to encourage her. Right now, I can’t really imagine doing homework.
We hadn’t touched the bread, but Steve passed it around now and poured a bit of olive oil onto each of our small plates.
A dense white bread better than any I’d had before, and oil that was green and not at all like what we had at home. I love this oil, I said.
Our little gourmand, Steve said.
I just thought I might be a chef, my mother said. But then I realized they have late nights. And doctors go through endless residencies and night shifts. And lawyers have ridiculous hours also and have to fight every day. And business school leads to the biggest shark tank. Are there any jobs that don’t involve giving up your life?
My hours are all right, Steve said. You can make choices. I went for less money and more free time.
The key is to escape doing labor for hourly pay, my grandfather said. I never escaped that, and I’m sorry you were stuck there, too, for so many years. Any sacrifice you make to escape is worth it, I think. How many tens of thousands of hours was I reminded of exactly what I was, standing over an engine, working with my hands. The problem was that my thoughts didn’t count, and who I was didn’t count, and there was no shape to any of the work. Just an endless series of engines that someone else could have fixed. It was like not being there but having to be there anyway, and that feeling from work infected the rest of my life, even though I like working on engines. It was the fact of not being free and not mattering. So I hope you’ll do something that doesn’t make you disappear.