“I have something for you.” She pulled out a package wrapped with manly paper and tied with a brown ribbon. “I hope you’ll enjoy it.”
“Thank you, Daisy.”
“He’s with his last patient of the day,” Daisy said. “I’ll tell him you’re waiting.”
When the last patient left, his father joined him in the waiting room. “How about supper at Three Brothers?” his father said. “I’ve been eating there a lot lately.”
“Your girlfriend doesn’t cook for you?” His father gave him a sad smile. So Steve said, “Sure, I like their burgers.”
Steve waited until his father finished his moussaka, then the baklava he’d ordered for dessert. He’d never seen his father eat Greek food. Steve didn’t like baklava—too sticky for him. He was off desserts anyway, trying to get into shape before basic training. When he broke his news his father didn’t take it well.
“Now?” he said. “You’ve enlisted now, when we’re still fighting in Korea? No, son. I’m not going to let you do this.”
“Too late, Dad. It’s done.”
“I’ll get you out of it. I’ll tell them you’re not yourself.”
“But I am myself.”
“No, Steve. You haven’t been yourself in a long time.”
“How would you know?”
“I know my son.”
“Not anymore. You don’t have any idea who I am.” Steve stood up. “Thanks for supper.”
“Sit down,” his father said. “We’re not finished.”
“I’m finished.”
His father grabbed his arm. “You can’t tell your mother about this.”
“Says who?” Steve shook off his father, saluted him, then marched out of the restaurant. Hup two three four…hup two three four.
His father followed him out the door and down the street, calling, “Steve…I mean it, don’t tell your mother. Not now.”
Steve stopped. “You’re not going to be able to fix this, Dad. I’m telling her.”
“Then I’m coming with you,” his father said.
“That should make Mom happy.”
—
HIS MOTHER WAS in the den, sitting in her favorite chair, working on a needlepoint canvas. What was she making this time? A pillow for him to take to college? Fern was on the floor in front of the television watching Hopalong Cassidy. Natalie was probably locked in her room.
“Hey, Mom…”
“Steve! I thought you and Phil were going to a graduation party tonight.”
“I had something more important to do.”
His father stepped into the den.
“Daddy!” Fern ran to him, jumped into his arms.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” his mother said to his father. “Steve…I’d like to talk to you privately,” his father said.
“Sorry, Dad.” He faced his mother. “I have some big news…”
His mother’s face changed. Was she scared or expectant?
“I’ve joined up.”
His mother put down her needlepoint. “Joined what?”
“You’re in the army now,” he sang, marching around the room. “You’re not behind a plow, you’ll never get rich, diggin’ a ditch, you’re in the army now.”
Fern laughed.
“What is he talking about?” his mother asked his father.
“He enlisted,” his father said.
His mother jumped up and lunged at his father. “You put him up to this!”
“Corinne…” his father said, setting Fern down.
“He’s supposed to go to college, not the army,” his mother shouted.
Natalie appeared in the doorway. “This sounds interesting.”
“Did you know?” his mother asked his father. “Did you?”
“I just found out,” his father said.
“He can’t do this. He’s a boy. He has no experience.”
“Take another look, Mom,” Steve said, pulling himself up to his full six-foot height, shoulders thrown back, eyes straight ahead.
“No!” Corinne cried. “I won’t have him throwing his life away.” She ran out of the den with Steve’s dad right behind her. A door slammed. Voices were raised.
“Nice going, Steve,” Natalie said.
“I figured you’d appreciate the drama.”
“Will you wear an army suit?” Fern asked.
“It’s called a uniform,” Steve said. “And yes, I will.”
“Will we have a cake to celebrate?”
“I doubt it,” Steve said.
“How about a gun?” Natalie asked. “Will you get a gun?”
“Everybody in the army gets a gun.”
“Don’t bring it home.”
—
LATER, when he unwrapped Daisy’s graduation present he found something that looked like a handmade book, with long pages covered in red construction paper and black letters spelling out Player Piano by Kurt Vonnegut. Behind it was an old issue of The New Yorker magazine, dated January 31, 1948, with a paper clip marking a story, “A Perfect Day for Bananafish,” by J. D. Salinger. He opened the card.
Dear Steve,
I convinced the manager of the Ritz Book Shop to give me these galley proofs of a book that will be published this summer. It is Mr. Vonnegut’s first novel. Something tells me you will like this writer.
Congratulations on your graduation.
Wishing you all the best, always.
Daisy