now. “I mean it, Paul. Don’t let anything or anybody force you over there.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“And the other promise? Will you make that one, too?” I wanted to say what promise, but I knew. I must have waited too long, ’cause he said, “Will you?” I nodded. “Say it. Please.”
“I won’t tell Mom and Dad what you told me tonight.” It was the only way I could say it. And there was no way not to say it.
He took a breath, like he had something else to say, but then he kind of deflated. Buried in my own thoughts, I didn’t react. My brother was going away to die. My hero was already dead.
Chapter 3
I can barely stand to remember what I felt the next day, when Chris left. I hadn’t slept at all, I’d just lain there all night feeling like those SADEYE balls had all been shot directly at me. I had the pain in my chest and my gut to prove it.
I went over in my head all the things that might have happened to make Chris gay. Was Mom too affectionate toward him, and it hadn’t happened to me because he was her favorite? Did Dad push him too hard, and Chris decided that being gay would be a quiet, internal way to fight back? Did it have anything to do with being over there with all those guys, girls hardly ever available, and being—you know—in his prime? Was it something Mason had talked him into, and it was better than nothing, and now Chris just thought he was gay because he’d—I don’t know, done stuff with Mason and it had felt good?
It didn’t make any sense. I had to hold myself back several times from running into his room and telling him to go AWOL, to go to Canada right now, I’d go with him, and we’d figure out how he could change back again. But I knew he’d never do that. He’d never back out, he’d never leave his squad like that, or go back on something Dad expected him to do.
Dad! This was all his fault. Chris had practically told me that Dad had pressured him into signing up. But there was nothing for it now; it was done. And Chris wasn’t about to undo it.
So that left me being mad at Chris for being such a goody-goody. But if he left here tomorrow, with me mad at him, and then he died…my mind wouldn’t go there. So instead it went to a different place: Chris was wrong about being gay, and he wasn’t going to die. Lots of guys came home! Some of them were missing limbs, and some of them were pretty crazy, but they came home. If only Chris could survive another few months, the war would end and he could come home for good and I could help him be normal again!
Through all of it, every imagined set of events, every possible outcome, his words echoed: “I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”
My mind went round and round like this, all night. So in the morning, even though it was still dark, even though Chris was as quiet as he could be, I knew he was up. I knew he was in the bathroom. I watched all his motions in my mind’s eye. Soaping his hair in the shower. Shaving as he stood by the sink, towel around his waist. I knew when he was back in his room, dressing—pulling on his underwear, his fatigues, his socks. Running a comb through still-damp hair. Such ordinary things. Such a fucking extraordinary day.
I lay in bed as long as I could, but when I heard him move toward the top of the stairs I sat up and swung my legs over the side of my mattress. Hands pressing on either side of me, I was ready to propel myself out there. To Chris. Hold on to him! Hang on, don’t let him go down those stairs! My arms tensed, relaxed a little, tensed again.
And then I heard him start down, feet landing heavily with the weight of his duffle. Step. Step. Step.
You could still get to him!
Step. Step.
My entire face clenched, my hands tensed into tight balls. And I sat there. I sat there until the steps stopped, until I heard the duffle hit the floor downstairs.
I could smell breakfast; Mom must have got up incredibly early, ’cause it was pancakes and bacon. Hurriedly I wet my hair, washed my face, and threw on some clothes.
As usual, I sat across the table from Chris. Dad wasn’t down yet, so it was just the three of us. No joking today, though. No girlish silliness from Mom. No teasing from Chris. Every so often Mom would stand behind his chair and reach out a hand to touch his shoulder, his ear, the side of his face.
Chris’s last meal.
It felt like we were going to a funeral. And in a way we were; but the deceased was here with us. All through the meal I threw glances at Chris. Mostly he was staring down at his plate, but I didn’t dare really look at him for fear he’d raise his eyes and see me.
Dad showed up after Chris and I had finished. Or, after we had tried to finish. As good as it smelled, as good as Chris knew it would be compared to anything he’d get ever again, neither of us could get much down. Dad didn’t even try. He just grabbed a mug of coffee and sat down. I think he was trying to sound cheerful, but the effect was startling and harsh.
“All set, son? Got yourself all put together for the trip?” His voice was too loud.
“Yes, sir.” It was like Chris was getting into the habit again; he didn’t usually call Dad “sir.”
Dad saluted, and Chris did the same. He was gonna be himself, right to the end. Doing his best to keep everybody happy, to do what was expected of him. It nearly made me lose the little food I’d been able to swallow.
Chris had a cab pick him up. At first this made me mad; why couldn’t Dad take a little extra time from work and drive him? But then I realized Chris probably wanted his last memories of us—and ours of him—to be here, at home, not in some crowded public place that had no meaning for him. As soon as the car arrived, Mom got Chris into this hug that I didn’t think would ever end. When it did, Dad shook his hand and turned it into a kind of quick, hard hug that wasn’t really a hug but was more a series of slaps on the back.
Chris and I looked at each other. He half smiled, and he made a motion that made it seem like he was going to hug me. I stepped back quickly and my hand shot up in a salute. It was all I felt I could do. You know how in the service, even if you hate your commanding officer, or even if you think he’s completely wrong about something, you still salute? It was like that. It was a sign of respect, but it felt like I was doing it at his funeral.
It was also a silent acknowledgment: I’ll keep your fucking secrets, but I don’t have to thank you for that honor.
His face went all stiff, and then he saluted back. Then he picked up his gear, turned, and walked out the door. I watched through the window as he got into the backseat. The slam of the car door was like a pistol shot.
For Thanksgiving, the one on the calendar, we had turkey leftovers. Mom had bought some wine, something we almost never have in the house, and she even let me have a glass of it. I can’t say I liked it particularly, but I drank it; I think she was trying to pretend we could be cheerful. And Dad was doing his best, too. I was the lump. I was the one who knew Chris wasn’t coming home. I was the one who knew he wasn’t the man we’d all thought he was.
After dinner I went upstairs and threw the Ho Chi Minhs into the back of my closet. Then I stood in the doorway to Chris’s room for maybe half an hour. Then I went into my room and pounded my pillow until I heard Mom calling up from downstairs.
“Paul? What are you doing up there? Aren’t you going to come down and watch the movie with us?”
A rerun of Peter Pan. Hell, why not? I could use a little fantasy right now. But all the way through I kept making this connection between Wendy not being able to go home and Chris probably never coming home, and her problems seemed so pathetically unimportant compared to Chris’s. Compared to mine. I just watched in glum silence. Didn’t even want another piece of pie when Mom offered it.
That Sunday, lying in bed listening to the sounds of Mom and Dad getting toast and coffee before they headed out to church, I almost got up to go with them. I felt really shitty about the way I’d let Chris leave—no hug, no handshake.