MaryJane Davidson: Undead and Unworthy

“It was wartime,” he said at last. “They were the bad guys. It wasn't like it is now. Things were a little more black and white back then. They were killing every Jew they could find. I think those little black beanie things the men wear are pretty stupid, but it's no reason to pick 'em off like Goddamned mosquitoes.”

I had to admit, I was surprised. Among other things, my darling maternal grandfather was a major bigot. I found it distinctly interesting that he'd fought because he saw a minority in trouble.

He was staring out the window now, and I had the very strong impression that if I spoke to him before he'd gotten all of it out, he'd clam up and take it to the grave.

The secret.

“Yup, they were doing terrible things,” he mused. “And we were fools to wait until after Pearl Harbor to kick some ass. But once we were there, we were there. We did the work, and we didn't bitch about our feelings the whole time, either. God, I hate that 'tell me how that makes you feel' touchy-​feely bullshit.”

I nodded. I knew that, too.

“And when my guys got in a tight spot – why, I looked out for 'em just like they'd been looking out for me. I just kept that in my mind. Keeping my guys alive and sending as many of the bad guys to Hell that I could. That's all I thought about.”

He looked straight at me, his eyes – my eyes – green and gleaming. “And then I never thought about it again. What for? Dead's dead, honey. You don't know that by now, I wash my hands of you.”

“Thanks for the tolerance and acceptance,” I said dryly. Thinking, there's a trick or two I could tell you about death, Grandpa. Things you never, ever dreamed of. Things that would turn your hair white, if it wasn't already.

But of course I wouldn't.

“What it comes down to is this, Betsy: you do what you need to, and then you haul ass out of there. Every single time.”

“And never think of it again.”

He nodded and popped the second Bud. “I didn't say it was an easy road. Shit, I lost plenty of my own fellas over there. I still miss Leary, that Irish fuck. But he died for a reason – a good one. Maybe the best one – kicking ass to keep the bullies out of the sandbox.” He was looking at me almost sideways, a sly look. “So whether you killed somebody or someone got killed 'cause a you – oh, I can see it all over your face, girl, aren't you my own flesh and blood? Just... never think of it again. Life's messy, honey.”

So's death, I thought, and turned the conversation to other things.