The Writings of Mary Lewys

Her blue, porcelain bowl rattled with its spoon as she set the remains of her oatmeal breakfast in her stainless steel sink. She touched the knob that controlled the water. She watched as the spoon circled the edge of the bowl before sliding to a stop. Her hand left the handle. She walked out of the kitchen.

In the mud room, she slipped on her nylon black boots with black flaux-fur edging. She pulled the metal zipper up until the boot closed around her jeans. She grabbed her thick, down-stuffed coat from its wooden peg. As she opened the door, she wrapped the wool-knitted scarf around her neck. She pulled on her mittens before closing the old, glass and wood door closed.

Against the blue sky, the white snow sparkled like glitter on paper. Her boots crunched through the new snow. She broke new ground all the way to the fence row and to the open gate. The pointed planks were cold even through her mittens. The wind reddened her cheeks. The bright sun whitened the scars on her cheek.

She stopped beneath the old apple tree. From the pile of fist sized rocks, she picked up two or three rocks for each of her coat pockets. Her coat stretched from her shoulders to sink a few inches down on her legs. She looked up at the aged branches. Her squinting eyes deepened her crow’s feet.

Ice covered the pond. From the shore, it was hard to tell how thick. Maybe it was too thick or not thick enough. She walked along the edge, around the frozen bramble and weeds, until she could reach the ice. She studied it. The frost mixed with clear ice to turn the frozen water from dark to mossy green. It shimmered as the sun moved from behind a large, fluffy cloud.

She took one step. With both feet firmly on the ice, she lifted her head to listen. The ice cracked. She walked with small stride. The ice groaned until her weight became too much.

It’s only one glass. I don’t know why I came to this café. It looked nice with its sidewalk tables and umbrellas, but I should’ve know. A place like this is were I got my start. It hasn’t been a year.

I should go to a meeting. I don’t even know why I ordered the damn thing. I did my ninety meetings in ninety days. I’ve gone once a week like it was Church. I’ve still got my job. Fiona returns my phone calls now. The new apartment’s not great, but it’s a place to flop.

It’s not back – I’m not back to what I was. I can never go back. I know that. It’s one of the things they teach in AA. But it’s been feeling good, my life feels right again. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this – felt this good.

No, I can remember. It was before Mom died. I sold the house to pay off the rest of her bills. Mitch took her car. I had nothing left. She was all gone. I let her down, just like Dad. Though she never said it, I knew she knew I would.

Only one glass. I can have one glass. I can stop after this one glass.

I should go to a meeting.

She stopped. Her hand halted before touching the glass, antique door. She inhaled a shaky breath. She examined the brass fittings around the handle; the clichéd keyhole that had long since lost its skeleton key and the curves around the brass that melded into the wood. She had pulled that handle over a million times in her life.

She slammed the door shut when her mother forbade her to go out with Paul McGurth. She pushed it open on thunderstorm nights to sneak into her bed. She held onto it for dear life when her brother helped her out after her first heart attack.

She wrapped her fingers around the cold glass. It would be the last time she closed the door. With a lump the size of the doorknob in her throat, she closed the door and didn’t look back.

He found his present on his front stoop. Wrapped in plain brown paper, it was addressed to him with the return address of his grandmother. He picked it up and carried it in while he wondered why his grandmother had sent a gift. It wasn’t his birthday or any anniversary he knew. He set the rectangular package down on the coffee table on his way through the living room. It rattled like a picture frame.

He hung up his coat in his bedroom and toed off his penny loafers. The plush carpet rubbed his feet as he shuffled to the end of the bed. His cat woke from her sixteenth nap to sigh at him. She dropped her head for her next nap. He headed back to his gift.

His fingers ripped short, jagged tears in the brown paper. He pulled the first layer away. A white envelope toppled to the floor. His grandmother had written his name on it – he recognized her shaky handwriting right away. He opened her blank card, no doubt bought back in the fifties, to read:

“Dear Willy, I know you’re wondering why I sent the gift. It’s your fortieth birthday coming up soon and I couldn’t think of a better present. Remember: only look at it once every twenty years. It takes that long to charge. If you try to use it more often, it might burn out. I don’t know. But remember, only once every twenty year. Wrap it back up and store it. Love, Grandma”

William (only his grandmother called him Willy) ripped the next layer of brown paper from the picture frame. He held it up for a good look at the picture. It was him holding the picture frame. He shook his head and put the frame face down on the coffee table. He snorted. “Oh, Grandma, you out did yourself.”

In the bathroom, he glanced at himself in the oval mirror before stopping for a longer look. His skin was smooth. His small lines and wrinkles were gone. He ran his hands through his thick, curly hair. He couldn’t find a single white hair. He studied his arms and shoulders, smiling at the muscle and tone he’d lost ten years ago.

If he didn’t know any better, he looked twenty years younger. He twisted his torso and bent his knees. He moved as if he were twenty years younger. William pulled off his shirt and curled his arms. He remembered that body – the ones the co-eds would flock around at the local watering hole.

When his great-great-grandson was born, William decided he would be the next. He never asked his “grandmother” how old she was before she died. He wouldn’t ever tell James how old he was either.

He was brave. He was strong. He was true. When he was born, his mother didn’t know. His father didn’t know, but he knew. He shouldn’t have, being only a wee, hour-old baby, but he knew. His brain cells wriggled under a strange, electric charge. Chemicals that would kill standard humans surged through his frail and feeble body, building stronger veins, bigger muscles, and unbreakable bones.

Swathed and loved, he stayed on guard not to betray his specialness. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his parents – he loved them. His Mamma and Popop would do anything for him. He would do the same for them. He couldn’t show them or tell them; their lives would be in danger. His year-old-brain knew they must never know. Plausible deniability would be their only protection, their only defense.

But at the age of four, he couldn’t wait any longer. No, the urge was too strong. He heard too much on the news while lying on his baby blanket and playing with his Playskool toys. He saw too much as he strained to look out the back windows without breaking his car seat.

The world was sick. It needed help. It needed a hero.

“Oh, John, our little girl is growing up.” Marsha clutched her husband’s arm. They stood in the paved driveway of their two bedroom, one bath house. Moonlight poked through the two, large oak trees in the front yard.

“Well, we knew this day would always come.” His hand patted hers. Both faced the front door of their house well out of the glare of the motion-censor light attached to the garage.

“I know.” She sighed while gazing up at the stars. “I didn’t think it would come so soon. She grew up so fast.”

John adjusted his shaded goggles resting on the top of his hair. The black elastic band cut through the gray at his temples. He glanced at his father’s watch on his arm. It was the kind of watch that required winding and came with a leather strap. The hands indicated it was 7:15 am. His hand jiggled the watch until it slid down his wrist.

“She’s coming. She’s coming.” Marsha laughed. She squeezed her husband’s arm and planted a kiss on his cheek. Her dark brown hair hid the few white hairs that indicated the white streaks to come. Her goggles were around her neck. Her lab coat matched his, white with a pocket over the heart and slits to allow access to pants pockets.

The husband and wife waited, in their white, rubber lab boots, for the front door to open to their house. It creaked open and thudded against the handrail that accompanied the stairs leading down to the sidewalk. She dragged her pink, purple-flowered backpack down the stairs behind her. She was a mix of both her parents in face and hair, but round as a barrel.

“There she is!”

“There’s my girl!”

“Dad! Mom!”

John pulled his daughter into a hug before pushing her onto the front lawn not far from the driveway. He lifted the camera hung around his neck.

“Oh, for the love of Frankenstein, Dad, it’s not like I’m going to evil kindergarten!”

“Come on, dear,” Marsha folded her hands together over her heart. “It’s not every day our little girl goes off to college.”

“Evil college!”

Before she could move, John snapped the picture. He smiled at his daughter as she rolled her eyes. He took another picture when his wife nudged him with her elbow.

Martha knew. She’d had an inkling when she bought the old Victorian house at the end of the street, but it was such a deal. A fixer-upper, but Martha loved to tear down walls and put up drywall. She was going to try to save the framing around the doors and windows. She was a do-it-yourself girl who enjoyed her projects when done.

She spent a month after work with a crowbar removing the molding walls on the first floor front rooms. The sitting room, with its large bay window, would be the first done. With a flashlight in hand, Martha inspected the electrical and plumbing. The copper tubes were still in good shape, but the wiring would have to be redone. She reminded herself to call Jerry.

From the top of the staircase, she heard a scraping sound. She would dismiss one, two, but on the third, she picked up her portable work light and walked to the bottom of the stairs. The layer of dust was undisturbed. No one or nothing could be seen. She returned to her work.

Two nights later, she heard moaning in the next room. Chills ran up her spine as she hesitated in grabbing her work light. However, after inspecting the living room and its blackened, marble fireplace, she went back to work when she found nothing. Martha didn’t stay late. She locked the double front doors with frosted glass before running for her car.

On the night of the large storm, with thunder loud enough to shake the lead and colored glass windows, the power went out. Martha was rolling paint onto the new walls. With each lightning strike, she placed her paint roller down into its tray and walked to her collection of bags by the front doors. Because of the weather forecast she read online before signing off at work, she pulled candle after candle out of her patchwork sacks.

She returned to work in candle light. She painted slower, careful to watch the roller run along side the wood molding. But as she strained her eyes to keep the roller straight, the shadow from the pole of her roller moved along the wall. Martha turned, eyes darting from candle to candle, as her arms froze.

Tinted in the sepia colors of the candle light, three little girls sat on the floor. The youngest, no more that three, sat on her oldest sister’s lap. Each wore white nightgowns with matching, lace caps. White ribbons ran under their chins with blonde hair spilling down over their shoulders. They smiled as the eldest picked up two candles.

Martha smiled back. She continued painting the room late into the night. When finished, she closed her paint, placed her roller in a bucket, and blew out each candle. She saved the two near the children for last.

As she locked up for the night, Martha didn’t run. She smiled as the key turned in the latch. She knew when she bought the house that it would be a good place to live.

He opened his eyes. White. He lied on the white floor near a white wall. If not for his bare arms, bare feet, and uncovered head, he would have blended in with his surroundings. He lifted his head to throbbing pain. His fingers inspected his scalp to find a large knot on the back of his head and dried blood matted in his hair. He sat up in a slouch against the wall.

He studied his hands. Flecks of dried blood clung to his fingertips. He turned them over and back again more than once as if he couldn’t recognize what he was seeing. He lifted the soft cloth covering his mid-section to study his stomach and chest. He touched his skin but couldn’t find another bump or bruises. His hands left flakes of dried blood on his pants when he inspected his legs.

With one hand braced on the wall, he stood. He waited for what felt like the spinning to stop, though he couldn’t be sure anything was spinning at all with white everywhere. To his left, the white wall and floor stretched for as far as he could see; to his right, the same. He took two steps and lifted his head.

A blue door in the opposite wall. A quaint, blue door with blue painted iron over the blue, shuttered windows. It had a white step up to it. He froze.

Who was he? Where was he? Was he dead? Was he captive? Thoughts raced through his mind as he stood unmoving. Was he crazy?

The floor felt warm but the step was cold. He knocked on the chipped and crack door. No answer. He knocked again.

With a step back, he turned his gaze up to see endless white. The door opened. Black. The darkest black ever seen.

“Hello?” His voice echoed. He climbed the step again. “Anyone here?”

He dared a step and then another. His head throbbed harder. The door closed.

Sasha walked past the shiny tubes filled with blue light. Each still looked new even after a year. She watched a three-piece business suited man slide his plastic card into the indicator. The indicator flashed from red to blue on its black, plexi-glass screen. The man stepped into the tube. He lifted his chin as the blue light flashed around his body and he was gone.

Transporters were new technology, placed for public use near the old subway stations. Sasha walked on by. Her family couldn’t afford the passes for use, so she marched into the cold, winter wind down to the old token booth. She traded change for a silver disc that she slipped into the slot for the turnstile. With a clickty-clack, she walked up to the yellow line to wait.

The old, metal tube rattled down the tracks, though not much of the original subway could be seen. It was covered with layer upon layer of graffiti. With dents and rust, the train looked like a demented clown car screeching to a halt.

Once the doors parted, Sasha climbed in with those others unable to afford the preferred mode of travel. She took a seat well away from the elderly woman with her two-wheeled cart, the olive-skinned maid with her face in a Spanish romance novel, and the strung-out junkie twitching in the corner. Her thick, booted feet dangled mere inches off the sticky floor. She watched the doors close.

The blue lights glinted outside the scratched windows. Sasha gazed after as the subway rumbled to life. Her eyes fell away as the transporters passed out of sight.

Once downtown, in the older section where the streets weren’t cleaned and the homeless gathered in doorways and alleys, Sasha exited the tram with all the speed of a business woman late for a meeting. Her feet skipped down the metal steps with a rhythm of a thrash metal tune. She turned at the bottom of the stairs.

Pigeons took flight from the great, stone stairs leading up to the public library. The biggest in the city, it was the second oldest – though now the first after the big fire. From her pink, flowered knapsack, Sasha pulled three books. She wrapped her arms around them to clutch to her chest. When she reached the top step, she grabbed hold of the large, brass bar used for a door handle and pulled.

The door did not open. It did not budge. She pushed back her wool hat that had fallen over her face. On the aged, wooden door, a sign was nailed: CLOSED. Sasha stepped back. Her eyes searched the other door for the hours, but a pale, wooden triangle was all she could find.

“They’re closed.” From the marble base of the stone lion, an old man pushed the paper blanket off as he sat up.

“When are they opening?”

“They’re not. They’re closed.” He coughed from deep in his lungs with an aged rattle. His wind-chapped face turned a shade redder before he could draw a good breath. His clothes were as dirty as he was, though his shoes looked fresh from the homeless shelter.

“But I have books to return.” Sasha shook her head. She pulled on the door once more. Her brown eyes were wide. Her bottom lip quivered.

“The books are yours now.” He let his blanket blow away in the wind as he stood. With his back turned, he hoisted a rucksack and hemp bag to his shoulders. He walked down the steps.

Sasha stayed for a little while longer. She pounded on the door three times with her little, mittened fist. She thought about yelling, but when no one came to the door, she didn’t. She sat down on the steps with her feet on the step in front of her. She rubbed the covers of the books in her lap.

“Hey, Frank.”

“Hey, Charlie. What’s that down there?”

“Don’t know. Looks like a hoo-man.”

“A little hoo-man.”

“It smells funny.”

“It’s got to be a girl then.”

“Yeah, girls smell funny. What is she doing?”

“She’s holding up two squirrels.”

“One in each hand, Frank.”

“Why is she doing that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe for the big hoo-man with the box on his face.”

“Charlie, I don’t get hoo-mans.”

“Me either, Frank.”

“Hey, that one squirrel looks familiar.”

“Which one?”

“That one, over there.”

“OH MY GOD, FRANK! I THINK THAT’S ME!”

It was the first full moon since they came to Nebraska. Steven sat on the roof near the peek. The rough, tar shingles against his thick jeans kept him from sliding down, though he folded up his legs to plant his nylon and mesh hiking boots to prevent the same. He rested his arms on his knees as he stared at the larger-than-life moon rise above the bare branches of the nearby woods.

He thought of a dashing Lord in London with thick, blonde hair and blue eyes Steven could see the world in. He was a long way from England, but couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing now other than sleeping in his large, luxurious bed – not sleeping alone. He sighed.

A long howl drew his mind back to the farmland night. A shadowy figure raced from the edge of the wood and across the wide, fallow field. Steven smiled as he watched the large creature slow in its approached to the house. It lifted its head as if to scent the cold, night air. On all fours, it walked around the corner of the house.

Steven stared at the moon. He felt the claws on the brick chimney through the rafters. He remained still as the creature made the leap to the rooftop. Its chest was twice that of any muscle-builder. Course fur covered its body. It halted on all fours. The front legs and paws were jointed more like that of a man’s. Its face was lupine with a long snout and large, canine fangs.

It growled as it walked. Steven raised his arm to wrap around the werewolf’s neck. “Hey, Charlie! How’s the hunt?”

As Charlie nuzzled underneath his chin, Steven could smell the blood on his breath. “Yeah, this is much better than Chicago.”

He scratched behind the wolf’s ears. Charlie’s tongue lolled out one side of his mouth as he smiled. He shook his head and panted.

“Come on.” Steven patted his side. “We should head down. Russell has a new lesson for me.”

The werewolf crouched lower. Steven climbed onto his friend’s back to grab large handfuls of fur. “I know you probably won’t remember this in the morning, but my life would be considerably easier if you weren’t straight.”

He tightened his limbs as the werewolf galloped down the roof and leapt from the edge. The ground rushed at them both, but Charlie landed on all floor to slide through the dew-covered grass to a stop. Steven breathed a deep sigh and smiled.

“Oh, hell, Charlie. Come on, show me the woods.” He pointed towards the black trees. “Transgressing into Hell can wait for a little bit. That old wizard won’t be too mad, do you think?”

A small woof preceded the werewolf’s run. Charlie ran as fast as he could away from the house while his friend held tightly. It was freedom pumping through his thick muscles and Steven could feel its strength. He laughed and tried to howl, doing a miserable job of it. Charlie howled for them both as he dove over the underbrush before darting through the trees.

Shelly liberated her flannel, tiger stripped scarf from her jacket collar and tossed it her desk. It landed on top of so many things tossed on her desk that it looked like a bizarre snow cap to a whack-a-do mountain. She paid her desktop landscape no mind as she hung her bedazzled jean jacket on the back of her 60’s, wool-covered chair. The desk chair squeaked, but it tried to moan, under the weight of all those plastic, sparkly stones.

“Morning, Shirl,” she chimed with her dangling, plastic earrings. She wedged her wide hips between the chair arms. The chair groaned for real as she punched the keys on her blackened, cream-colored keyboard. Even before her old, square monitor could warm up, Shelly logged in and launched her e-mail.

“Did you hear?” On the mountain top next to the tiger snow cap, Shirl perched a mug of coffee the color of mocha and a donut with sprinkles.

With one, pencil-drawn eyebrow cocked, Shelly spun her geriatric chair to face her co-worker. She sighed at the tight business suit with the bosom-bursting blouse. She would have shook her head in disappointment, but she pursed her lips to bite back her suspicion. “Hear what, Shirl?”

“Carl’s been fired.” Shirl whispered with her fingers pressed against her cheek as if to keep anyone else form hearing – not that anyone else was in the government office yet.

“Really?” Shelly smirked with half-sprinkles accenting the corners of her mouth. Her red-fingernail hand wrapped around the mug’s handle to wash the donut down and wash away the sprinkles. She wiped her mouth with her velour shirt sleeve.

“Who do you think is going to get his position?”

“Why, I don’t know.” With a click of her mouse, an e-mail popped up on her faded screen. She smiled. Dress a horse in a business suit and it’s still a horse, but Shelly knew she had the job long before the scuttle-butt circled around the office. Hence, the e-mail reply of Carl’s boss stating she was in the lead for his job on her screen. The e-mail had yesterday afternoon’s date. Still, she gave Shirl mental kudos for kissing ass so early.

The double set of double doors opened to the convention floor. Hordes of fans dressed as their favorite anime characters, awkward young men in their favorite comic book tee shirts with backpacks slung on their backs, and groups of giggling girls carrying their favorite celebrity merchandise pushed past him like a damn had burst around the sole rock in the stream. He bit his bottom lip, not that anyone could see beneath the multi-layered scarf wrapped around his neck. He should warn them – warn them of the danger. If he did that, though, they might just get away.

The murmuring roar spread out across booths filled with racks of comics and rows of action figures. He watched them all from behind the mirror goggles that pinched his nose. The wig made his head itch, but it was a perfect disguise. No one would recognize him and he would just blend in.

Once the way was clear, he walked at a brisk pace. He never looked at his fellow conventioneers or merchants. However, the merchandise – he would wave his fingers over this plastic monster imported from Japan or that metal lunch box from three decades ago. His cane remained tucked underneath his arm. Always in his other hand, he held a thin, metallic device. Some would call it a sonic screwdriver, but he wouldn’t dare say those words on the convention floor.

“Ah, see anything you like?” The dealer’s round belly protruded over the thick, military belt. His smile was jolly and his eyes were bright, perfect for a salesman. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Yes, in fact, there is.” He pointed to a boxed and bagged thin, metallic device clothes-pinned to a rope just above the salesman’s head. “May I see?”

He weighed and measured the sonic screwdriver in its container against the one in his hand. His thumb rubbed against the plastic. “Excellent product. Here, catch!”

He tossed his sonic screwdriver at the salesman before he sprinted down the isle. With his cane tucked tight against him, he weaved between people with as much grace and speed as his costume allowed.

“Hey! Wait! Stop! Someone stop that – that man!”

As he rounded the corner, he tore open the packaging like a hungry man digging for food. He held up the new sonic screwdriver and smiled. His gait widened as he spotted the emergency exit sign. He burst through the double doors and skidded to a stop in the cement and cinderblock hallway. Behind, a few security men tried to push their way through the crowd after him.

He waited for the doors to close. Only when the doors’ thunk echoed did he point his sonic screwdriver at the doors and turn it on. The tip lit up blue. Its wavering clatter filled the hallway until he turned it off. His cane dropped from under his arm. He caught it before it could topple over. He tossed his screwdriver into the air, end over and end, as he turned to walk down the hallway.

He had saved the world once again and no one would ever know – at least, until security pushed open the doors.

“Jane, this isn’t going to work.” He sat at the end of their worn couch with his arms folded. He slouched. It pushed his zipped jacket’s hood up to his ears. He looked pissed. On closer inspection, he looked more worried than pissed.

“It’s fine, John.” Jane sat at the other end of their couch, but on the edge of the cushion. Her slender hands, folded neatly together, rested between her knees. “This is how it’s done. We have to blend in.”

“He’s going to find us, you know.”

“He’s not going to find us.” Jane sighed. Without standing or pushing against the armrest, she slid as quiet and graceful as a cat down the couch to rest next to her husband. “She has to learn if she’s going to get along.”

From around the corner and down the hallway, a long, deeply wounded wail echoed through the closed door. A short breath accented the suffering before the crying sounded again.

As her hand went to his knee, Jane pulled at her hoodie. It slipped form her shoulders. “We’re doing the right thing, John. She’s got to learn.”

“Do you think she’s learned enough?”

Big puppy dog eyes and the heart-breaking bawling proved more than Jane could stand. Hand in hand, she and John walked down the hall and opened the door. In the crib, a small little girl stood. She stopped crying as soon as she saw her parents. Her large, brown eyes were as wet as her chubby, red cheeks.

“Come here, you,” John said. She reached for him with the same passion she put into her tears. Jane opened the top drawer to her dresser and took them out. They lit the darkened room.

“You can have these back,” she waved her hand and the ethereal wings left her hands and spread from her daughter’s back. John pushed her tear-soaked hair from his daughter’s face before giving her a kiss. His wings spread along with his wife’s.

Jane smiled. “You have to be a good. No more bouncing the kitty’s head off the ceiling.”

The pilot shook. It wasn’t the usual from flying a quad-prop plane. It wasn’t from his co-pilot decaying in the next seat. It wasn’t because from torn throat of his co-pilot or the clotting blood on the cab floor. It was the howling. He couldn’t stop the howling.

His commander told him it was a standard night drop: supplies and men into hot zone. The flight went smooth, nary a ground-to-air firepower to light the clouded sky; no worry of being shot down. The quiet made the pilot nervous, but he stayed on his coordinates.

The harnessed and helmeted men in back shifted and moved about as if this were their first mission. For all the pilot knew, it could have been. But it wasn’t until the thick cloud-cover cleared and the full moon shone did he understood why.

The howls were louder than the engines. He turned white at the sound as he dared a glance through the cabin’s doorway. He would never forget the sight – fur, fangs, claws – but he would never be able to speak of it.

When the sun rose, the plane was empty except for him. His co-pilot was dead because of his screaming. The pilot checked his dials. The base was four miles behind him. The ocean was only two miles away.

His hand was always so big. Every year, my hand grew a little bigger but his never shrunk. I would his hand tight as we pushed through the crowd.

“Closer,” he said, though I never understood why. All I did was look up to see the Blue Angels fly in formation with their streams of colored smoke. I shaded my eyes against the sun to watch the stunt bi-planes loopty-loop in slow grace through the blue sky.

I held his hand so tight when the engines roared. He laughed when I covered my eyes when the planes looked to crash. He beamed when I could name the planes as they zoomed by.

Before holding his hand in public became embarrassing, I noticed he pushed his way through it more of a turned-shoulder shuffle than the square-shoulder drive. We didn’t make the railing or come close to the runways. When the crowd gasped, we both looked skyward to see the bright-colored parachutes of the US Army drop-spinning down.

“You were in the Army. Right, Dad?”

“Yeah, son.”

Golden wings head each man as he controlled his fall with tiny strings. Twirling better than any dancer, we all cooed with each flip.

“I want to be in the Army.”

My father looked at me with a face I had never seen before or since. He let go of my hand to rub my head. “We’ll see, son. We’ll see.”

He took my hand and gave it a squeeze.