These Things I Say

My brother thumbed his nose as we drove out of town. He and I were sprawled out, facing backward in the rear of our family's Ford Fairlane station wagon, watching the fading storefronts of Main Street glide past. We'd lived in Oakwood for nine years, but it no longer felt like home.

"Oakwood's not going to have Reverend Martin to kick around anymore," Matt said, doing a passable impersonation of Richard Milhouse Nixon in his 1962 concession speech for the California Governor's race.  My younger brother had become obsessed with learning everything he could about the 37^th President. It was an odd behavior for a 15-year-old boy in 1970.

"Now, now..." my mother said, sitting prim as a school marm in the front passenger seat.

"It's okay, Millie." There was an unusual note of weariness in my father's voice, as if a tire had gone flat in his vehicle of indefatigable energy.

"Let the boy make his peace."

"But Jim, Oakwood was a fine place to serve." Mom's voice broke slightly and a tiny gasp escaped. I heard her take a deep breath.  "It's good to move on, though."

I turned to face my parents in time to see my father's hand caress her cheek, his long, slender fingers gently wiping a tear that had managed to break the dam of Mom's resistance. I caught a glimpse of Dad's expression in the rearview mirror. Sadness etched lines in his face that - up until a few weeks earlier - had reflected only serenity. That was before Randy Warner died in Vietnam.

***

It was the first day of spring, and the air was pregnant with the fragrance of narcissus. I walked home from high school with my best friend, Josie, our coats tied around our waists so we could better savor the first true warmth of the year.

"Ah, Friday at last," Josie said, throwing her arms out wide. She pirouetted, then giggling, she jumped on my back for a piggyback ride. "Can you sneak out to the barn early on Sunday? I'll have Beauty saddled up, ready to ride."

Her breath was warm against my ear as I carried her along on my back for the five steps up her front porch. Releasing her onto her porch swing, I eased myself back beside her, kicking my feet to start the swing into motion.

"You know I can't, Josie. Besides, it's Palm Sunday. I promised my dad I'd help with the after-church meet and greet." I rolled my eyes and wrinkled my nose for emphasis. "Just another Sunday in the life of a Methodist minister's daughter."

"How about after that?" Josie dragged her feet across the weathered floorboards to stop the swing. Splitting her waist-length copper hair into three sections, she braided it, flawlessly tying it off with the peach-colored grosgrain ribbon she had been wearing as a hair band.

"Maybe..."

A familiar voice interrupted. "Hey, Cady!" Matt sucked in air as he approached us, taking the porch steps two at a time. "I've got bad news." He gulped for breath, buying time to find a way to tell me. Finally, he grabbed my hand, squeezing it so hard that I winced.

"Randy's been killed!"

An icy chill froze my heart in mid-beat. I vaulted up from the porch swing. Matt reached his arms out to comfort me, but I pushed him away. "No! This can't be! No!"

I can't remember taking a breath as I raced the 3 blocks home. My father met me at the door. "Cady, I'm sorry, Honey."

"Then it's true?" Looking into his clear green eyes, I found the answer I didn't want to hear. I buried my face in his starchy white shirt and cried until I had soaked it to his skin.

"Oh, Daddy, why? Why Randy?" I pulled away, wiping my wet eyes and runny nose on my shirtsleeve. He slid his fresh handkerchief into my hand. "God acts without prejudice."

I saw my father through bleary eyes. "Don't preach to me, Dad! I'm not one of your parishioners! I'm your daughter!"

He gazed at me for an uncomfortably long time, his face a mask I'd never seen and couldn't read. Silence. He turned from me and made his way down the dimly lit hall to his study. Noiselessly, he closed the door.

I wandered through the following week as if trapped in a blurry photograph, a halcyon remembrance of Randy and me when he was still my boyfriend. Thankful for his college deferment from the draft, I had felt betrayed when he enlisted in the Marines. We argued our views, each trying to sway the other. Unsuccessful, we broke up three months after he graduated. Now, I paid penance. Tortured by recriminations of would haves and should haves, sleep evaded me, as though my body knew I'd find no refuge in closing my eyes. It was thirst that drew me to the kitchen, though later I would wonder if it weren't intuition. Barefoot, I padded down the hall; so early that it was more night than morning. I was surprised to find light coming from the kitchen. Quietly, I peered around the corner to see my father sitting at the Formica dinette table. The hood light over the range cast a ghostly glow, illuminating him in bas-relief against the otherwise darkened room. My father was weeping. Shock pulsed through me and the metallic tang of fear blossomed in my mouth. I had never seen him cry. The tears on his cheeks glittered in the eerie light.

"Daddy, what's wrong?"

He flinched at my sudden appearance, his hands quickly scuffing tears from his face. I walked to the table and pulled out the chair next to him. Digging a tissue from my robe pocket, I passed it to him, gently touching his hand. He placed it to his face and loudly blew his nose.

 "I'm sorry, Honey. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, Daddy. I was just thirsty. What's the matter? It's not something I did, is it?"

"Of course not, Cady. Why would you ask that?" He had regained control, but his voice held a raw raspiness, as if he might start crying again at any time.

"Because of how I treated you when we were talking about Randy."

My father sat silent, his bloodshot eyes imploring me to do the same.

"Daddy, please! Tell me what's wrong!"

He studied my face as if searching for a clue as to how I might react. The air seemed to crackle in my ears from the silence between us. Finally, he spoke. "I was only eighteen when I was shipped over to Germany."

"Daddy, I didn't..."

"I know, Honey, I know."

He quietly knotted the tissue in his hand for a while.

"Please, Daddy, tell me what's wrong." I was forcing myself to try to remain calm, but my hands shook so badly I had to stuff them in my robe pockets so that my father wouldn't notice.

Finally, he answered. "It was Christmas, 1944. The Germans were so close to our foxhole we could smell the food they were cooking. Sauerkraut and knockwurst! They waved a white flag, and in perfect English said, 'It's Christmas. Join us.' And, what was left of my small company did. One young German and I struck up a conversation. He was just eighteen, like me. He was medium height and slim, with wavy dark hair and hazel eyes. Not some tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed actor shown in war movies. Just a small-town boy like me. He had a girlfriend he wrote to. Said they were to be married as soon as the war ended. He had a dog back home. A mutt named Fritz. He said his unit knew the war was nearly over. They couldn't even pretend that they could win. He was a nice kid. A nice German kid on the wrong side of the war." My father choked.

I could read the torture in his face, as if this had just happened yesterday, not 26 years before.

"Of course, after that night, we both went back to our camps...our duty. Unknown to our German hosts, reinforcements had made it through to us. We outnumbered them now. The war wasn't over, no matter how much we all may have wanted it to be. Some of us were still going to die. We could only end it if we kept fighting. Our enemies, those German boys, didn't make it home to tell this story."

My father put his hands to his face, as if trying to force his tears not to flow. When he managed to compose himself, he said, "Now, boys are fighting a war they can't win. No matter how much we might want it over, it isn't. Your friend, Randy, is dead. We should stop pretending we can win."

I rushed to him, throwing my arms around his neck. Pulling me onto his lap like the young child I no longer was, I clung to him and sobbed.

I rose early on Easter morning, but my parents were already up and dressed, and in the midst of an intimate conversation when I came upon them in the entryway. As I neared them, they turned to me.

"Ready to go, Honey?" My mother's voice rang false with cheeriness. "Go wake Matt, OK?"

I turned to go, but furtively peeked back. Cupping my mother's face in his beautiful hands, my father looked at her straight on. "I can no longer sit silent with Matt so close in age to being drafted," he said.

Mom wrapped her arms around him. Only I witnessed her bite her lip, trying to hold back her tears.

Easter service was a favorite for my father. His sermons were always thought provoking and powerful, but never more so than on this most holiest of days. Every Sunday Mom, Matt, and I sat front and center, where Dad's benevolent gaze would often rest as he lectured from the pulpit, the light from the stained glass window behind him casting a heavenly glow around his body, giving him the appearance of a handsome archangel.

"And he said, 'Yes, it was written long ago that the Messiah must suffer and die and rise again from the dead on the third day."

The soothing sounds of my father's voice reading the scriptures lulled me into the comforts of its significance.

"With my authority, take this message of repentance to all the nations, beginning with Jerusalem: There is forgiveness of sins for all who turn to me."

My father stopped speaking. He looked to my mother as if for guidance.

"By these words, I believe Jesus meant that we should turn to him in our time of need. As Christ's crucifixion proved, violence is not the answer."

Something was different about this version of his Easter sermon. I glanced at my mother, who was faintly nodding her head, encouraging Dad to continue.

"These things I say: he died to save us from making mistakes, making wars. He does not want our boys in Vietnam. He wants the bloodshed to end."

The congregation's collective gasp rose up like the sizzle-hiss of a hot water radiator. My head grew light as his words tumbled through my ears, spilling into incoherent heaps in my brain. I switched my hearing off. I recalled a day the previous summer. Randy and I were lying on the shore of his parents' pond. The sun was hot and we were carefree and alone. He rolled over on his side to kiss me. His lips were moist and warm, and I parted mine, allowing his tongue to enter my mouth. It was a long, sensual kiss.

When he pulled away, he said, " Let's jump in." Yanking down his cutoffs, he stood naked before me for a moment. Smiling. Then he dove into the pond, a precise movement that sliced the water with barely a splash. Looking back to my father in his pulpit, I realized he was still speaking, the fervor of his sermon undiminished. Though my brain still could not register his words, I now knew that none of our lives would ever be the same.

***

There was a price to be paid when my father used his pulpit to protest the war. It took the conservative bishop of our Methodist conference barely a month to order the transfer of Dad to a different church in a more liberal congregation. We didn't mind, though. We knew he had spoken out to protect his son, and a thousand other sons, from a fate no young man should face. As was our habit with each new congregation Dad ministered, we soon adjusted to our surroundings in Elkhart, making new friends. Seven months after we moved from Oakwood to Elkhart, on a crisp, sun-kissed winter's day, Matt was struck through the heart by a deer hunter's errant bullet, as he walked with his friend, Stevie, down the rural road that led to Stevie's house.

"I'm hit," Matt said.

Then he died in Stevie's arms.

Pamela Z. Daum's work has been published in Satire Magazine and BMW Roundel, Taj Mahal Review and Gray's Sporting Journal. She has been writing short stories since her childhood. You could say she has lived a rich fantasy life. Essentially, she looks at everyday events taking place between characters and note the subtle, yet complex details. She writes each story from this point of view.

Email: Pamela Z. Daum

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