The Next(30)

Was this the relationship between Grandfather and Graves as well? Is  that why the curtain was left open? Was it their mirror? Was their view  into each other's dwellings a silent acknowledgement of a partnership  that fortified them against the weathering of time? Yet all the while  remaining at a respectful distance, compromised occasionally by a random  crossing in the woods?

I asked, "What was it like to serve in the war with them?"

"I didn't really serve with them. I was a mechanic. Just a kid. Graves  was a lieutenant, and your Grandfather was a corporal. They fought in  the field together and sat together in the mess hall. My division barely  left the garage."

"Then how did the three of you end up side by side in a trailer park in Placerville?"

Palmer fortified himself with a large gulp of liquor. Good. The breadcrumbs were dropping again.

"When the three of us were discharged, we all went home. But returning to civilian life after … "

His voice trailed off.

After what?

" … eh … our home lives took a toll. We all divorced. I don't think your  Grandfather and Graves ever planned on leaving the army. But I … I was  glad. I...eh … I just wanted a garden." Palmer chuckled briefly to  himself. "These trailers were dirt cheap in 1954. I told them about this  park, and they bought the trailers next to mine."

Since I had a bead on the mystery of their history, I felt no reason to beat about the bush.         

     



 

"Why were the three of you discharged?"

"The long and short of it was … were … eh … the Mark 4's. The U.S. had nine of 'em."

"Mark 4's?"

"Eh … they were bombs. Nuclear."

As the Old Black Man watched from the shadows, the Little Old Man slowly  unzipped the black duffle bag. With trembling thin fingers, the old man  revealed a painting about three feet by four, with a thick ornate gold  frame. The luster of the frame seemed to gild his studio as the  lamplight hit it and refracted everywhere. He propped the painting in  front of the television screen, but I could not see the actual painting.  For the first time ever, I saw the Little Old Man's eyes water. His  look was not one of sorrow, but one of complete relief … and hope … and joy.  Whatever it was, the painting penetrated deeply and resonated.

I heard Palmer breathe heavily, as if he was preparing to place a filthy toe in a sacred pool of holy water.

"Truman's finger had the red button halfway depressed. They viewed  Hiroshima and Nagasaki as, I dunno, a success. Yup. They saw no reason  why atomic warfare wouldn't shut the North Koreans up too. Had they  dropped them … um … it probably would have ended North Korean insurgence.  Maybe not China's insurgence, but definitely put a lid on North Korea."

"Wouldn't that have been good?"

Palmer took a breath.

"If," he explained slowly and deliberately, "you intended to spend your  career in the army … eh … especially if you served in World War II … the  Korean War was Happy Birthday Merry Christmas. The rank and file gave  your life a hell of purpose again."

"Graves?"

"And maybe your Grandfather. The last thing they wanted was an A-bomb to  rain on the parade. So when there were skirmishes that ended American  soldiers' lives, they were reluctant to report it. Not with the trigger  fingers in Washington being so itchy. They hid the small defeats. The  casual atrocities. They attributed newer deaths to older pre-tallied  attacks. Until … "

The memories were obviously so invasive, he would not proceed unprompted.

"Go on."

"At twelve-fifteen a.m., I got a call to take a Jeep seven miles away  where your Grandfather and Graves were stuck with a flat. That's what I  was told. A flat tire. Our base was just south of the Thirty-Eighth  Parallel. Dangerous territory. Only seven miles, but I wet myself three  times en route."

He laughed under his breath, but his tone remained dark.

"When I arrived, I found the clearing strewn with body parts. American  corpses. They'd hit a landmine chain. One went off, triggering the next  and the next and the next. Messy. Limbs. Torsos. Twitching. Forty-three  men. The red grass. The red, red grass … I'd never … ever … " I heard Palmer  swallow another large gulp. " … and there was your Grandfather … his stomach  had a hole straight through it. He looked like he'd taken a bath in his  own blood. And Graves had his hands pressed against him to stop the  flow. Your Grandfather should have been a goner, but Graves saved him.  The whole ride home, Graves had his fist halfway submerged in your  Grandfather's stomach, and your Grandfather survived. Damn miracle."

He took another swig.

"Your Grandfather owed Graves his life, and your Grandfather never forgot."

"Did they report the rest? The forty-three dead?"

"Labeled M.I.A. Matter of fact, the reports said all were missing in  action three months before I saw them blown up in bits in the grass.  According to the report, I never saw anything. Just a goddamn flat  tire."

"Why didn't you report the truth?"

"Graves asked me not to. Not that there would have been any retaliation  on Graves' part. But he persuaded me not to say anything."

"How?"

I immediately regretted asking this. How Graves persuaded Palmer was completely incidental and personal.

"I'd had some past incidents of … eh … misconduct that Graves would erase from my records … eh … that's all."

Had he been caught stealing and selling car parts to the South Korean  locals, I saw no reason Palmer would choose to conceal this after all  these decades. I imagined the kind of scrappy men that voluntarily  enlisted as mechanics in the army post-World War II were as destitute  during the Korean War as they had been prior. Hardly enough to  constitute a lasting injury to his pride. But since his silence  indicated shame to a certain degree, my brain filled in the blanks.  Barracks brawling or, possibly, barracks balling.

I could not imagine Palmer to be a troublemaker with his fists balled and his lip bloodied.         

     



 

Therefore …

Since Palmer would volunteer no more, I pursued no more.

"I just wanted a garden," he mumbled meekly. He laughed at himself  again. "But the dead men had families, and the families had questions  about why they weren't informed three months sooner that their husbands  and sons were missing. Graves got lucky-the misinformation was blamed on  a clerical error. But all the same we were let go. The three of us were  discharged. Honorably, but … eh … quietly."

Palmer seemed lost in his thoughts, which gave me an opportunity to add  to the ingredients of Grandfather and Graves' interactions the idea that  Grandfather owed Graves his life. Ultimately, it made little difference  if Grandfather liked, trusted, or enjoyed Graves as a person; he was  beholden to him. Grandfather owed his very heartbeat to his superior,  who lived in the trailer right next to his.

I heard Palmer swig the last of his drink and concluded, "So, have you got your answer?"

"Was it worth it? Conspiring with Graves and my Grandfather?"

"The Mark 4's were never dropped."

In spite of his chuckle, it was the most wry his tone had yet been.

Unmooring himself from the threshold of the door, the Old Black Man with  the White Mustache approached the Little Old Man, raised his right hand  and put it briefly on the Little Old Man's right shoulder. He held it  there and smiled briefly. The salutation wasn't particularly joyful, nor  was it routine. The brief motion carried a sadness and finality,  sounding the final bar of a long cadence of transactions over the years.  Perhaps all their lives. I was hesitant to even use the word  friendship. Regard … certainly regard for each other over the years for  merely being alive. For merely being familiar with the minute  participation in each other's lives decade after decade. For all the  years of brief transactions that added up to some unspoken but  significant value, climaxing in the resting of the black man's hand on  the Little Old Man's thin shoulder, and the Little Old Man allowing the  contact to remain for two seconds longer than necessary.

My throat tightened. I was witnessing the bittersweet goodbye between  two men who barely knew each other yet had sustained their relationship  longer than anyone I'd known. I knew I'd built no such connection with  anyone in my life. Not one single person. Not even Marzoli would return  my call. Who would rest his hand on my shoulder if I said goodbye for  the last time? Who regarded me?

Johanna needed my junk to get pregnant. Rebecca needed my next song to  sell. New York Fucking City needed me to sell songs to pay taxes. But  the Black Man with the White Mustache needed almost nothing from the  Little Old Man aside from chump change taken from a Chock Full o' Nuts  can once a month. Yet still he regarded him.