OBLIGATION Page 2

  His was an unfinished life and the fault was my own.

  Matty’s funeral was three days later. All of the kids from the neighborhood were there. My mother was dressed in black, as was I. She didn’t speak to anyone. She remained seated, staring at the medium sized casket which held her first son. My presence offered no relief, only a reminder of her loss.

  When the words had all been spoken and the casket lowered, I looked to my mom. I wanted to say something that would help. Nothing would. We sat there a long time. Somewhere in the middle of the service my grandfather pulled up beside me. He took my hand and whispered something about leaving. I would have none of it.

  My mother was all that I had. I was all that she had. I wasn’t going to leave her. Through her trembling and tears, she told me I should go. I cried then. Told her I wouldn’t leave her. In the end, I didn’t, at least not yet.

  We returned to our modest home. I stood by the front door, while she spoke with my grandfather.

  She walked to me, attempted to place the key in the lock but she couldn’t. I took it from her, opened the door, and she walked past me into her room and shut the door.

  I poured a glass of milk, sat down at the kitchen table, looked to the chair opposite mine, thought of him and cried. I put the glass in the sink, still mostly full.

  I walked past my mother’s room. I listened, and she was quiet now; somehow she had learned to cry without making a sound.

  I entered the room where Matty and I slept. I looked around. My wall was filled with pictures of sports heroes. Matty’s held a few pictures of animals, a rainbow, and the sun. I sat on my bed, and looked to his. It was neatly made, the blue comforter with giraffes and lions on it folded back perfectly from his pillow. His favorite stuffed animal was sitting in its familiar spot just left of the pillow. On the small nightstand between our beds were two pictures.

  One was of Matty and me being held by our father when we were little, the second, a recent picture of Matty and me, my arm around his shoulders while we played at the beach. Matty loved water. He could swim for hours and never grow tired of it.

  I stood, walked to his bed, and I sat down.

  I was tired; I ached with tired.

  I laid my head on Matty’s pillow. I turned my face so I could smell him. The pillow held the scent of Johnson’s baby shampoo. That was Matty alright. I covered my face with the pillow then, covered it and bled it through with my tears.

  In my dream he was alive and he was perfect.

  There were no gestures displaying abnormality, no walking in circles, no conversation to shadows.

  Matty looked at me. He held me in a victorious hug and told me he loved me. He asked me things, all sorts of things. I would answer, then he would tell me things, the way older brothers do.

  It was warm out; we walked side by side in a field of endless green. We reached a stream where he said we had to part. I told him how sorry I was for letting him down, for not watching him as I should. Matty dismissed it all with a smile, a real smile.

  "Did you love me?" he asked.

  "Yes," I replied.

  "That’s all that matters, Kevin."

  In the dream he left me that way. I pulled back to this place, this time, he a perfect boy in a perfect place. I would always try and remember him that way.

  Mom was never the same.

  I saw her, coming, going, always in her room, always the door shut. I figured the hurt would pass, it had to. In the end she was my mom, and that would win out. We would have each other, and someday we would be alright.

  The day never came.

  You learn at some point in life, if you live long enough, that some hurt never heals. Some pain whittles away what resolve you were born with and in the end there’s nothing left to replace it.

  Grandfather

  My grandfather, Grandpa Joe, my father’s dad, took me in. My mother was placed in a care home. I don’t know whose idea it was, but she was incapable of caring for herself anymore. I was eleven. What help I could offer was never enough. Once again, I had failed the person I loved most.

  Grandpa Joe was a big man. He had been on his own since his wife, my grandmother, had passed. That was about the same time I was born. He lived in the country. His was a ranch house, with property all around, and a large work shed and barn in the back.

  He had been a Marine, like my father.

  My first day with him he said some things I never forgot.

  "I don’t know much about kids. What I know I’ll teach you, the rest you’ll have to figure out for yourself, like we all do."

  At least he was honest.

  My new room was much bigger than my last.

  It was mostly wood, a wood floor, wood walls; a large round rug took up a good portion of the floor. The bed was bigger too. There was a desk to one side, a lamp atop it with a shade made of what appeared to be animal hide. My grandfather said it was mine to do with what I pleased; his only word of caution was to keep it clean.

  I brought what few things I had. My pictures I placed beside the bed. I didn’t talk much that first day, it didn’t matter; Grandpa didn’t seem much one for talking either.

  That night he made steak, baked potatoes, and green beans. He drank beer, while my glass held milk. My mom couldn’t afford steak.

  We usually ate a dinner of hamburger helper or hot dogs. I looked the piece of meat over before cutting into it.

  "You don’t like steak?" He said the words while chewing a large bite of the charred flesh.

  "Don’t ever remembering having it before," I replied.

  "Uh-huh. Well eat it before it gets cold, there’s nothing worse than a cold steak."

  I ate as instructed; when my grandfather had finished his meal, he sat his plate in the sink. He pulled a second beer from the fridge and then sat back down. He watched me without really intending to.

  "You look a lot like your mother."

  The words were a statement of fact, nothing more; I did look like my mother.

  "I guess so."

  "You want to watch T.V.?"

  My grandfather was as new to this as I. He took his beer with him and headed for the living room; I followed close behind.

  I still considered myself a stranger in this place. I felt about as comfortable as anyone would in my position. He found a football game on and remarked about the two teams. I liked football. I sat there quietly, trying not to disturb him.

  I glanced over at him from time to time. He would offer a half-hearted grin. When he spoke it sounded like something had been left behind in his throat from dinner. There was a grating. Even when he spoke in conversational tones, his voice was deep and rough; it fit the exterior.

  "You need anything Kevin?" he said while only half taking me in.

  "No, I’m good," I responded.

  He didn’t say anything else; I was comfortable with that. We sat there like two old men. The game played on; he drank while I sat quiet.

  When the game ended, I left him for my room, his room. I poured over the wall devoted to books.

  Shelves were built right into the wall which held an extraordinary number of them, mostly westerns, some on Military history, others on philosophy, a few on the world in general. Some were very old, with titles such as The Iliad and The Old Man and the Sea. I pulled down a large book with the picture of a fierce looking Indian on the cover. Apparently, my grandfather enjoyed reading.

  I fell asleep with the Indian book at my side.

  The next morning I woke with the sun. The window behind my bed caught all of the light in the morning. The curtain covering it shielded only a tiny fraction of those penetrating rays.

  I walked out into the main portion of the house like a thief, my footsteps barely audible to my own ears. I located my grandfather through the kitchen window. I noticed his flannel shirt first. It was draped over the fence near the chopping stump. He was amassing a pile of dry walnut from his efforts. His grey t-shirt was sweated through with the exertion of it, even thoug
h the temperature couldn’t have been a degree over 60.

  I decided to roam the house. Throughout I found pictures of me and my brother and others of my dad when he was a kid. Many were of he and my grandfather playing sports, hunting, fishing, hanging out. It would appear, at least from the pictures, that my grandfather loved my father very much. In every photograph, he was smiling the way someone smiles when he is truly happy.

  Other pictures were of my dad in his military uniform. There was a boot camp photo where he was in dress uniform. Others were of him in camos; he was tanned, strong, smiling. There was a picture of my mom and dad on their wedding day. She looked so young.

  Another room held pictures of my grandmother, she as a young lady, many of her all by herself, various poses, some smiling, some laughing, all very beautiful. It was obvious grandpa loved her too.

  I must have been in there for some time; I turned to find him standing behind me.

  "Your grandmother was a beautiful woman."

  I agreed.

  "You’re not going to hurt anything here. You look all you like."

  I felt as if I should say something. I felt somehow I had trespassed into his private things. It didn’t matter; he had already left. I followed the path my grandfather had taken.

  I found him outside, called to him. “I need Johnson shampoo.”

  My grandfather looked befuddled.

  “You asked me last night if I needed anything. I need Johnson’s shampoo.”

  I sat in the passenger seat of my grandfather’s brown Chevy pick-up. We were driving into town, apparently to buy my shampoo. I was the one befuddled now. I believed my grandfather would have blown me off, told me to use what was there. Instead, he told me to grab my coat and meet him in the barn.

  A minute later we were driving.

  I watched as the neighborhoods came into view and then passed. They were neighborhoods like the one I had lived in just weeks before - back when Matty was alive and my mother still loved me.

  I closed my eyes tight, willing away the tears which pressed along my eyelids and made my head hurt with the effort to restrain them. My grandfather noticed and asked if I was okay.

  I didn’t trust myself to speak. My grandfather knew what was wrong. He had lived with his own pain for too many years. It was always near, like a neighbor you can’t tell politely enough to leave you alone.

  My grandfather was a tough guy. You could tell just by looking at him. I had seen plenty of older men in my time. They were bald, stooped, and fat.

  My grandfather was none of those, He was tall and lean. The muscles in his arms still popped when he worked or picked something up. His hair was gray, but it was combed in the same style as the pictures I had seen of him as a much younger man. His voice was deep, gravely, like he yelled a lot when he was young. He looked at the road and spoke. His eyes didn’t leave the road ahead, but his voice, his thoughts, were in another place all together.

  “I want to tell you some things, Kevin. If it’s too much, well you just say so and I won’t say no more. Okay?”

  I nodded, “Okay.”

  “When your father died. . .” He paused. “When he died, a part of me, the biggest part died along with him. I hurt so bad I didn’t want to live anymore.”

  I looked at my grandpa then; there was a visible change in his face. His hand was holding the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles revealing the strain.

  “That boy, your father, was, will always be the best thing I ever did.”

  My grandfather took a quick swipe at his eyes.

  “Even now, Kevin, not a day goes by that I don’t think about him - remember him from when he was your age, remember all of the things we used to do, remember that smile of his.”

  I tried to imagine my dad at eleven years old, my grandfather when he was my dad’s age before he died.

  “And after your grandma passed, after that, I, wanted to protect him, wanted. . .”

  I doubted my grandfather had ever told another living soul what he was telling me now. It wasn’t his way. I knew that as I knew tomorrow would bring another sunrise.

  “I wanted to make sure his life was protected, safe, perfect.”

  He looked out his window and rubbed his face again.

  “The problem, Kevin, is everybody has their own will, their own thoughts on how things should be, when your father joined the Marines that was against my will.”

  I remembered my dad had pictures of grandfather in his uniform. He had said more than once he was a Marine because it honored him. I didn’t know what that meant at the time and was unsure now.

  “Oh, I know why he joined; he wanted to make me proud. Thing is, I was proud from the day he was born. He was a great kid, like you, and he was an even better man, better than I ever was. I promise you that.”

  Grandfather grew quiet then. A minute passed before he spoke again.

  “Then he goes off to goddamned Vietnam.”

  My grandfather’s face was changing; sadness was being replaced with something else, something that soured his thoughts. He looked to me then, asked if he should stop. I didn’t want him to, and yet wanted him to all at the same time. I shook my head, and he continued.

  “Your father died protecting the people he cared about. He believed the lives of the men in his platoon were just as, if not more, valuable than his own, his choice, his belief. And my loving him, my wanting to protect him and have him here made not a difference in the world.”

  My grandfather was talking about my father, but I believed he was also talking about Matty and me.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying, Kevin?”

  I was crying then. I tried to hide my face in my hands the way most boys do to shield their embarrassment.

  My grandfather pulled me to his side. I buried my face in his chest and cried until I could cry no more.

  We drove the rest of the way in silence.

  When we returned, I put away the few items he’d purchased then shut myself away in the room he was providing. I sat down heavily, looking to the walls, the ceiling. I had finished crying but my face was still hot, my eyes burning little coals. I was just what my grandfather needed, a soft, blubbering kid. I was no good for anyone.

  He asked me to come out for dinner, and I refused. I wasn’t hungry, just tired, lonely, and afraid. I had spoken to God before. My dad had taught me how before he went away. Side by side we had kneeled. He explained to me you could talk to God in any position; however, the traditional approach was on your knees.

  I knew my dad had been a soldier, a Marine. Now I knew in some small way how he had died. My earliest memories of him were always of a tall, handsome man in uniform. I remember watching him when he would clean his rifle. I was a little kid, but still I found it fascinating. It was a big rifle with a scope on top. He was very proud of it and took great care to make sure it was clean.

  I was almost eight years old when he left for the last time. I asked him if he ever got scared. He answered as he always did. Honestly. He said he got scared all the time, but when he was really scared he just thought about me, Matty, and my mom. He said he asked God to watch over us when he couldn’t and it made him feel better, less afraid.

  I moved beside the bed, my knees planted firmly against the floor. I placed both hands together, breathed out, and bowed my head. I was talking as if he were in the room with me; I hoped it was okay.

  My prayers were that of a little frightened boy.

  I missed my dad, missed my mom, and missed Matty. Everyone I ever loved was gone in one fashion or another.

  I remember asking God to watch over my mom, to make her feel better so we could be together again. I must have repeated my request for her ten times. I ended the prayer without asking anything for myself.

  It would be that way most of my life.

  When morning came, I found that I was actually hungry. I looked for my grandfather and found him in his familiar spot, chopping more firewood. We must have a barn full of it somewhere
I thought.

  I rummaged through the fridge and found a tin of homemade biscuits and a large slice of ham. I didn’t heat either one, just took them to the table and ate. Finished, I grabbed a coat and walked to where my grandfather was splitting wood.

  “Can I try?” I said the words while looking at the axe.

  “You ever split wood before?”

  I admitted that I hadn’t.

  My grandfather handed me the axe. It was heavier than I would have imagined.

  “Not much to it really, you take aim, lift it overhead, then swing it down. Do me a favor, though huh? Try a practice swing or two before you launch into it for real.”

  He sat a short log atop the chopping block for me to swing at. I wanted to prove I could be of some use around here - take away at least one of his burdens. I aimed, placing the working end of the blade atop the log. I took a firm grip, raised the axe overhead, then brought it down with all I had. The sharp edge of the blade buried into the thick log. It remained there, hardly the outcome I had hoped for.

  My grandfather said it was a good first go, especially for a kid, he said when he was a boy he could barely pull the axe overhead. I doubted that was true. My grandfather looked as if he’d always been about six-foot-five. My grandfather took the axe from me, lifted the axe and wood together overhead, and swung them back down.

  The wood split as easily as they all did when he was the one doing the splitting.

  “Will I ever be strong?”

  My grandfather put the axe aside and put on his work shirt.

  “That depends. Do you aspire to be strong?”

  I asked my grandfather what aspire meant. After he told me I answered “Yes, sir.”

  My grandfather smiled at that. He told me to follow him. We walked side by side to the barn.

  I hadn’t noticed what was in the barn before now. The last time I had been here was when my dad was still alive. That was some time ago.

  The floor was dirt, but it was dried hard and swept clean. It was the cleanest dirt I’d ever seen if there were such a thing. Hanging from a high wooden rafter was an old heavy bag, the kind boxers hit. Right next to it was a much smaller bag hanging from a length of cord. Next to that were weights in all sizes and configurations. I was gaining some insight as to my grandfather’s shape and size.