Tim O'Brien - The Nuclear Age

Ned Rafferty came down with the flu—a vicious case, fever and diarrhea. I remember dipping a washcloth into a basin of cold water, wiping his face, thinking what a nice guy he was. Even sick he looked strong. I can see his gray eyes aimed at the attic, how his beard framed a smile when he turned toward me and said, “Get out , man. Go. You’re crazy if you don’t.”

A slow recovery, but he made it.

And then chronology.

On Valentine’s Day, Ollie and Tina announced their engagement. They were married a month later—Nevada, I believe. The telegram mentioned a honeymoon in Mexico.

On March 29, 1971, Lieutenant William Calley was convicted of premeditated murder.

My father died on the twenty-first of April.

“Sit down,” Sarah said.

Then she told me. I forget the sequence—network sources in Montana—a hot line—and then she told me. All I remember is when she said, “Sit down.”

Forty or fifty hours seemed to drop away.

Daylight, then dark, then airplanes and a rented car and telephone poles and mountains and patches of snow. I suffered tunnel vision. Objects popped out at me: the A&W off Main Street, my father’s Buick parked in front of the house.

“You understand the problem?” Sarah said. “About the funeral. We can’t… I mean, it’s a problem.”

We spent the night in a motel up in the foothills. Rafferty was there, and Sarah, and the hours kept falling away. I remember sitting under cold water in the shower. Then daylight again, and Sarah cut my hair, and I was wearing a suit and a blue tie and black shoes.

A car ride, I remember that.

Then climbing.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “You understand, though?”

I watched through binoculars.

Ned held me by the arm. Sarah stood off to the side. We were on a hill overlooking the cemetery and I could see the entire valley below, the highway running east-west through town, the golf course and the water tower and the slim white cross over the First Methodist Church. The sky was a smooth, dusty blue. There were birds, too, and cattle grazing along the hillside, and a brisk wind that pressed Sarah’s skirt flat against her hip. Farther down, the sunlight made sharp elongated shadows where it struck headstones and human figures.

I tried to focus on physical things. A good man, I thought. There was nothing worth dying for, but he always died with such dignity.

The binoculars gave it perspective—close up but also distancing. I studied the lead-colored coffin. That square jaw of his. He never ran or wept. A brave, good man. The wind was high and chilly, but there was bright sunshine as I brought the binoculars to bear on a mat of artificial grass at graveside. My father would’ve laughed. “Plastic grass,” he would’ve said. He would’ve looked at me and rolled his eyes and muttered, “ Plastic .” I felt myself smiling. I could see him dying under floodlights at the county fairgrounds. He always died so beautifully. “Well,” he’d say, “let’s get this show on the road.” He’d wink. He’d tell me to look smart. “What the hell,” he’d say, “at least you got yourself a haircut.”

But it wasn’t worth dying for.

Nothing was, and I would’ve told him that.

Sarah touched my arm.

“All right?” she said.

I nodded and gave her the binoculars. After a moment she handed them back.

“If you want,” she said, “there’s some brandy. He wouldn’t mind, would he? Your dad?”

“I guess he wouldn’t,” I said.

“Just a drop, then. To beat this wind.”

“One drop,” said Rafferty.

We moved to a cluster of granite boulders and passed the flask. Rafferty slipped an arm across my back. It was a brilliant day, but the wind made my eyes ache.

I fixed on dignity.

Down below, things seemed much too small. I recognized Doc Crenshaw and Sarah’s father. It was all in miniature, the coffin and the hearse and the flowers and my mother. Even with the binoculars, she looked curiously shrunken. Worn down, I thought, and much too old. She wore gloves and a brown coat and a small dark hat, but no veil, and she stood slightly apart from the others, facing my father’s coffin. She seemed nervous. When someone offered a chair, she made a quick motion with her hand, as if startled, then shook her head and remained standing. Surprise, I thought. We know it can happen but when it happens there is always surprise. I felt it myself. Grief, too, but the surprise was profound.

“Your mother,” Sarah said, “she seems okay.”

They were praying now.

To the north and east the mountains were bright purple. While they prayed, I thought about chemistry sets and lead pencils and graphite. Odd thing, but I finally saw the humor in it. I was an adult now; it didn’t matter. I would’ve told him that. “Graphite,” I would’ve said, “what a moron.” I thought about how things happen exactly as they have to happen, but how even so you can’t help feeling some bewilderment.

When the prayer was finished, the minister moved to the head of the grave, the wind ruffling the pages of his Bible. There were no voices, of course, but it was easy to imagine.

The binoculars helped.

I brought the hole into focus. I saw my father kneeling in front of a Christmas tree—colored lights and ornaments—and he was smiling at me, holding out a package wrapped in silver paper. He wanted to say something, I know, but he couldn’t move or speak… I saw him mowing grass in deep summer. He had his shirt off, the hair wet against his chest, the smell of gasoline and cuttings, but he was locked behind a lawn mower that wouldn’t move… I remembered a game we used to play. The Pull Down Game, we called it. He’d lie on his back and I’d hold him by the arms and he’d struggle and try to get up, but I’d keep pressing down—I was a child, six or seven, I didn’t know my own strength or his—and after a while he’d give up and say, “You win, you win.” I had him pinned. He couldn’t move, like now. I saw him lying flat and looking up at me without moving… I saw him that way… At night sometimes, when he drove off to sell real estate, he’d flash the taillights at me—it was a special sign between us—but one night he forgot to flash them, and I was furious, I couldn’t sleep, and when he came home I wanted to grab him and hit him and ask why he forgot to flash the goddamn taillights. I wanted to yell, “Why?” And there were other questions, too. A million questions I didn’t dare ask and never would. What about Custer Days? The fairgrounds—why did he die? What was the point? Honor? Irony? What? I wanted to know. “I was just a kid,” I would’ve told him, “I hated it, every fucking summer you always died .” I would’ve pinned him down. I would’ve demanded answers. The Ping-Pong table—better than nothing, wasn’t it? Why the jokes? Why bring up graphite? What about the bombs? Real or not? Who was right? Who was wrong? Who’s crazy? Who’s dead? I would’ve climbed all over him. “You son of a bitch!” I would’ve screamed. I would’ve yelled, “Why?” Why so gallant? Those bright blue brave eyes—the world could end—he didn’t flinch—no one did—why? The world , for Christ sake. Why didn’t he cry? Why not dig? Why not do something? Dig or cry or something? Right now, it could happen, couldn’t it? Yes or no? Why such dignity? Why not anger? Why did he have to go and die? “Bastard!” I would’ve yelled. Through the binoculars I could see him squirming. I had him, though—he couldn’t move—so I’d fire the questions at him. The war, for instance. The whole question of courage and cowardice. Draft-dodging: Was he embarrassed for me? What did he tell people? Make excuses? Change the subject? Secretly, in his heart, would he prefer a son with medals and battle ribbons and bloody hands? I would’ve kept after him. I would’ve hugged him and held him down and asked all the questions that had to be asked. I would’ve told him what a great father he was. Such a good man, I would’ve said. I would’ve said all the things I wanted to say but could never say.