And what he was watching on the news really set him off. I’d never really seen my father’s anger, and I was glad he wasn’t angry with me. They’d interviewed a veteran who was going off on all the protesters that were marching on the streets of San Francisco. The man said he didn’t fight a war just so all those perverts could get their chance to disrespect their own government and trash up the streets. “Let them move to China.”
And my dad said, “I wish I could sit that asshole down, right here in this living room, and talk to him man to man, vet to vet, and he wouldn’t talk like such a superior asshole. And I’d make him read the Constitution and the Bill of Rights aloud just so I knew he was getting it. Because apparently, he’s never read the damned things.”
He got up from his chair and sat down again. Then he got up again. Then he sat down again.
“It pisses me off when people act like experts just because they fought in a war. They appoint themselves to speak for all of us. And now this asshole thinks he has the right to invite people to move to China. I’ll tell you something about a lot of us vets—we love to complain about our government. I guess only vets have earned the right to do that—which is bullshit.”
I’d forgotten how much my father liked to cuss.
“Those people marching in San Francisco aren’t perverts, they’re citizens, and their own are dying in an epidemic that’s killed more people than were killed in the war he and I fought in. And the government isn’t lifting a finger to help. Why? Because they’re gay and I guess to some that means they’re not people. But when we got in a war, they told us that we were fighting to defend the freedoms that we have. They didn’t tell us we were only fighting for the people who agreed with whatever the hell our politics were.
“You know, I saw a lot of young men die in that war. I held more than a few young men who were dying in my arms. And some of them were not much older than you. They died, their blood soaking into my uniform, their lips chattering in the hot rain of the jungle. They didn’t get to die in their own country. They died on a soil that wasn’t theirs. And they died with a question in their eyes. They’d been men no more than an hour, and they’d died in the arms of another soldier who was the only family they had. Hell, they should have been home playing basketball or kissing their girlfriends or their boyfriends, kissing anybody they loved. I know a lot of us who’ve fought in our country’s wars are looked on as heroes. But I know who I am—and I’m no hero. I don’t need to be a hero to be a man.”
My father was crying. And he was talking through his trembling lips. “You know what I learned, Ari?” He looked at me. And I could see all his hurt, and I knew he was remembering all the men who died there. And he carried them with him because that’s the kind of man he was. And I understood now that he lived with that hurt every day of his life.
“I learned that life is sacred, Ari. A life, anyone’s life, everyone’s life is sacred. And that asshole goes on television telling the entire world that he didn’t fight for them because they didn’t deserve it. Well, that’s exactly who he was fighting for. He was fighting for their right to be heard. And his life is no more sacred than theirs.”
Anything I had to say would sound cheap. And I didn’t have anything to say that could heal his hurt and his disappointment. I didn’t know anything about anything.
He wiped the tears off his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “I guess you didn’t think your father could talk this much.”
“I like it when you talk.”
“Your mother’s better at it than I am.”
“Yeah, but it’s missing something that you have and she doesn’t.”
“What’s that?”
“She doesn’t like to cuss.”
He let loose a smile that was better than a laugh. “Your mother believes we should be more disciplined with the words we use. She doesn’t believe in violence—in any form. She thinks cussing is a form of violence. And she can’t stand for people to lie to her for any reason. She thinks that lies are the worst kind of violence.”
“Did you ever lie to her about anything?”
“I never lied to her about anything that mattered. And besides, why would anybody want to lie to a woman like your mother? She would see right through you.”
Ten
“IS THAT YOU, ARI?”
I looked up and saw Mrs. Alvidrez. “Hi,” I said. “It’s me.”
“You’ve grown up to be as handsome as your father.”
Of all my mother’s friends, Mrs. Alvidrez was my least favorite. I always thought she was kind of fake. She gave out a lot of compliments, but I didn’t think she meant any of them. She put something overly sweet in her voice, and there was no reason to do that—except, of course, if you weren’t sweet at all. I guess I just didn’t think she was a very sincere person, but what the hell did I know? She was one of my mom’s church-lady friends, and they did good things like clothing drives and Christmas toy drives and the food bank. She couldn’t have been that bad. But sometimes you just got a bad feeling about someone—and you couldn’t shake it.
“Is your mother home?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, pulling myself up from sitting on the steps. “Come on in. I’ll go get Mom.” I held the door open for her.
“You have very good manners.”
“Thank you,” I said. But somehow, the way she said that—it didn’t sound like a compliment. It sounded more like she was surprised.
“Mo-om,” I yelled, “Mrs. Alvidrez came to visit you.”
“I’m in the bedroom,” she yelled back. “I’ll be right out.”
I pointed at the couch and offered Mrs. Alvidrez a seat. I excused myself and walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
I heard my mom as she greeted Mrs. Alvidrez. “Lola, this is a surprise. I thought you were upset with me.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. It was a small thing.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
There was a brief silence between them. I think maybe she was looking to get an apology from my mom for whatever that small thing was. But my mom didn’t take the bait. And then I heard my mother’s voice breaking what I took to be an uncomfortable silence. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
They both came into the kitchen, where I was about to begin writing in my journal. I smiled at them. My mom put on a fresh pot of coffee, then turned to Mrs. Alvidrez. “Lola, I’m sure you didn’t come over just to have a cup of coffee.” I could tell that my mother didn’t consider Mrs. Alvidrez to be one of her closest friends. There was an impatience in her voice that I rarely heard. It wasn’t the same voice she used with me when she was annoyed. It was the tone of voice she took with my father because he refused to give up smoking.
“Well, I would prefer to speak with you in private.”
That was my cue to leave the room. I started to get up—but my mother stopped me. “There isn’t anything you have to say to me that you can’t say in front of my son.” I could tell that my mother really didn’t like Mrs. Alvidrez and for whatever reason she resented her presence in her house. I’d never really seen my mother act like this. When someone dropped in unexpectedly, she stopped everything she was doing and made them feel welcome. But I wasn’t getting the welcoming vibe from my mother.