Dear John(8)
I said nothing.
“We’re just going to have a little fun.”
I shook my head, thinking that I’d rather be alone than revert to the kind of person I’d been, but I found myself wondering whether I would end up being as monkish as my dad.
Knowing he couldn’t change my mind, Tony didn’t bother hiding his disgust on his way out the door. “I just don’t get you sometimes.”
When my dad picked me up from the airport, he didn’t recognize me at first and almost jumped when I tapped him on the shoulder. He looked smaller than I remembered. Instead of offering a hug, he shook my hand and asked me about the flight, but neither of us knew what to say next, so we wandered outside. It was odd and disorienting to be back at home, and I felt on edge, just like the last time I took leave. In the parking lot, as I tossed my gear in the trunk, I spotted on the back of his ancient Ford Escort a bumper sticker that told people to SUPPORT OUR TROOPS. I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant to my dad, but I was still glad to see it.
At home, I stowed my gear in my old bedroom. Everything was where I remembered, right down to the dusty trophies on my shelf and a hidden, half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey in the back of my underwear drawer. Same thing in the rest of the house. The blanket still covered the couch, the green refrigerator seemed to scream that it didn’t belong, and the television picked up only four blurry channels. Dad cooked spaghetti; Friday was always spaghetti. At dinner, we tried to talk.
“It’s nice to be back,” I said.
His smile was brief. “Good,” he responded.
He took a drink of milk. At dinner, we always drank milk. He concentrated on his meal.
“Do you remember Tony?” I ventured. “I think I mentioned him in my letters. Anyway, get this—he thinks he’s in love. Her name’s Sabine, and she has a six-year-old daughter. I’ve warned him that it might not be such a good idea, but he isn’t listening.”
He carefully sprinkled Parmesan cheese over his food, making sure every spot had the perfect amount. “Oh,” he said. “Okay.”
After that, I ate and neither of us said anything. I drank some milk. I ate some more. The clock ticked on the wall.
“I’ll bet you’re excited to be retiring this year,” I suggested. “Just think, you can finally take a vacation, see the world.” I almost said that he could come see me in Germany, but I didn’t. I knew he wouldn’t and didn’t want to put him on the spot. We twirled our noodles simultaneously as he seemed to ponder how best to respond.
“I don’t know,” he finally said.
I gave up trying to talk to him, and from then on the only sounds were those coming from our forks as they hit the plates. When we finished dinner, we went our separate ways. Exhausted from the flight, I headed off to bed, waking every hour the way I did back on base. By the time I stirred in the morning, my dad was off at work. I ate and read the paper, tried to contact a friend without success, then grabbed my surfboard from the garage and hitched my way to the beach. The waves weren’t great, but it didn’t matter. I hadn’t been on a board in three years and was rusty at first, but even the little dribblers made me wish I had been stationed near the ocean.
It was early June 2000, the temperature was already hot, and the water was refreshing. From my vantage point on my board, I could see folks moving their belongings into some of the homes just beyond the dunes. As I mentioned, Wrightsville Beach was always crowded with families who rented for a week or more, but occasionally college students from Chapel Hill or Raleigh did the same. It was the latter who interested me, and I noted a group of coeds in bikinis taking their spots on the back deck of one of the houses near the pier. I watched them for a bit, appreciating the view, then caught another wave and spent the rest of the afternoon lost in my own little world.
I thought about paying a visit to Leroy’s but figured that nothing or no one had changed except for me. Instead, I grabbed a bottle of beer from the corner store and went to sit on the pier to enjoy the sunset. Most of the people fishing had already begun clearing out, and the few who remained were cleaning their catch and tossing the discards in the water. In time, the color of the ocean began changing from iron gray to orange, then yellow. In the breakers beyond the pier, I could see pelicans riding the backs of porpoises as they skimmed through the waves. I knew that the evening would bring the first night of the full moon—my time in the field made the realization almost instinctive. I wasn’t thinking about much of anything, just sort of letting my mind wander. Believe me, meeting a girl was the last thing on my mind.