“Can you believe the Packers won this afternoon?” I asked, changing the subject. “The radio said it was negative forty-eight on the field. Imagine playing in that—”
“I wonder how many Bruce got,” Dad mused, not speaking to anyone in particular. “They had ten times the KIAs, so he musta killed at least ten of ’em, mathematically speaking . . . plus, when you factor in how athletic he was, his natural reflexes, he must’ve got twenty or more—at least twenty.”
“Can we talk about something more pleasant?” Momma asked.
Dad blinked himself back to Earth. He nodded to her and smiled. “Hey Ronnie, whadda’ ya say you have a beer with your old man, since it’s New Year’s Eve and all?”
“Yeah?”
“Just this once,” he said. He looked at Momma and winked.
“OK. Sure.”
Momma went into the kitchen and returned with two bottles of cheapo male bonding. She handed him a fresh bottle of Jax and gave me the other.
“To you, my boy,” Dad said, “though you won’t be a boy much longer. We’re so proud of ya, Ronnie, and all the glory your future holds.”
I blushed. We clinked our bottles together. I gulped down a mouthful greedily.
“Easy,” Dad said, “don’t rush. The taste’ll grow on you.”
I guess he assumed it was my first beer.
“Jeez, I hope so,” I said, and took another long swig.
“That blazer looks good on you, honey,” Momma said. “Any reason you’re all spruced up? Is there a special girl we should know about?”
Before I could respond, there was a knock at the front door. Momma went to answer it. I chugged the rest of the bottle, then let out a baritone belch.
“Well hello, Milo,” I heard her say as she opened the door.
Milo Novak was my best pal, partner in crime, and next-door neighbor. It was only he and his mom in the house now; his older brother had just moved to Miami, and his dad—one of the thousands of troops killed in Korea—was an eternal resident of the same boneyard my poor brother resided in.
“Happy New Year, Mrs. Bingham!” Milo yelled in his squeaky voice.
“Happy New Year,” she said, shaking her head at his tiny frame. “You’ve gotten so thin! It’s not healthy for a boy your age.”
“I have an overactive metabolism,” he said, adjusting his thick glasses as he followed Momma into the dining room.
“Happy New Year, Milo,” Dad said.
“Same to you, Coach. Hey, wait a minute, is that a beer I see Ronnie drinking? You expect me to show up at Rachel Harris’s party with a drunkard on my arm?”
“Afraid so,” Dad grinned.
“Well,” he sighed comically, “if I gotta I gotta, but I don’t gotta like it.”
Milo made his eyebrows go up and down like Groucho Marx, and both my parents laughed. I hated when he did that. But he loved to yuck it up with adults, and the dumber his jokes were the more they seemed to enjoy them.
“May I be excused, Momma?”
She nodded. I got up from the table.
“You knuckleheads be safe,” Dad said. “I don’t wanna hear about any jackassery tonight, you understand?”
Milo and I nodded in unison.
“And you’re sleeping over at Milo’s?” Momma asked.
“If that’s still OK.”
“Just get over here and give your Momma some sugar, first.”
I laughed and went around the table. I wrapped my arms around her petite frame. She hugged me with desperate purpose, and kissed me on the cheek.
“It’s a new year, sweetie,” she whispered.
I nodded, knowing full well what she meant. In our family, grief and healing were spoken of in code, if they were spoken of at all.
Mothers can be sweet enough to break your heart, I thought.
Then I let her go and turned away.
―
Live oaks loomed on each side of the street, enveloping us in a canopy of Spanish moss. Milo and I hustled down the gravel road as the shadows turned the gray sky a shade closer to black.
There were no sidewalks in Cordelia Island. I never did think to ask why. I never did think to ask a lot of things, like why Cordelia Island was called an island—because it wasn’t, not really. The town was on an inlet south of Jacksonville. There were beaches on the east and the south ends of town, and a marshland to the north. But most of the town—our neighborhood included—was miles away from the sand.
“Sorry I interrupted dinner,” Milo said.
“Don’t be,” I said. “I was glad. If I had to listen to my dad anymore, I woulda taken a butter knife to my wrists.”
“Poetic,” he grinned. “He died how he lived—slow and dull.”
“Shut up,” I laughed.
We turned right onto Elwood, and the wind caught me off guard. I shivered as we walked against it, wishing I’d grabbed Bruce’s bomber jacket instead of my stupid twill blazer.
“Coach wearin’ ya out again?” Milo asked. By now, he knew the perpetual topic of conversation at the Bingham dinner table.
“It’s all he talks about. Vietnam. Vietnam. Vietnam. He was listing off body-counts like they were baseball statistics.”
“Once a marine always a marine, I guess.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“On this particular evening,” he said, “I may’ve joined in with him. We’re finally kicking ass over there. If things keep up this way, maybe . . . I dunno, maybe this war will be over sooner than later. It’s sure lookin’ like ol’ Big Ears Johnson is gonna pull the troops out before we graduate. If he does, then we’ve got no draft to worry about. I’ve really got my fingers crossed this time. Toes, too.”
I shrugged in response. Milo nodded.
Silence was the only way to let the subject of Vietnam drop.
We continued on to the party, our fists buried deep in our pockets and shoulders clenched from the chill. A few blocks later, we saw Rachel’s place—a big Southern home with a bright-red door and an immaculate veranda. A dozen cars and bicycles were parked in the driveway and on the lawn.
“I can’t believe her parents let her have a party,” I said.
“They didn’t. They’re still visiting family in Tuscaloosa. Not sure how she convinced them to let her come home early. Must be a late Christmas miracle.”