The Impossible Knife of Memory(69)

we appreciate their sacrifice.”

“How many in the audience?” Dad asked.

“Eight hundred or so.”

He blinked like she’d just slapped him.

“How many vets?” I asked.

“Thirty-two,” Benedetti said proudly.

“That’s a lot of guys to crowd on the stage,” Dad said. “Four of them are women,” Benedetti said.

She did not point out that thirty-two people were not

going to crowd the stage. They wouldn’t even fill a corner of it. Just when I thought she was being deliberately dense, she added, “You’re probably sick of these things, aren’t you? I imagine they get a little repetitive after a while.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Dad said. “Plus, I’m not real fond of crowds.”

“Oh,” she said.

“You could hang out with me in the cafeteria,” I suggested. “If you want.”

“Great idea!” Benedetti’s enthusiasm returned. “Wait until you see the changes in there.” She scribbled me a pass. “Hayley could take you on a tour of the building during second period, after the halls have cleared.” She shook Dad’s hand again. “Thanks, Andy. It’s really nice to have you here again.”

Dad paused at the door to the cafeteria and scanned the nearly empty room. Most of the students who belonged there were at the assembly. Two dozen kids were scattered in small groups, the floor was abnormally clean and the aides were eating sticky buns and joking with the server ladies. I knew he was assessing the space: no visible threat, clear line of sight, and quick access to all exits. He should have been cool with it, but he didn’t move.

“You okay?” I asked quietly.

“Fine,” he said.

“I usually sit over there,” I said, pointing to the corner

where Finn sat, staring at us in wide-eyed surprise. He wasn’t listening.

“Dad?”

He’d made eye contact with one of the cafeteria aides,

the old guy whose belly bulged over his belt buckle. The older man checked out Dad’s rank and the Ranger tab then stood straighter and nodded, a brief dip of the head, to my father. One vet greeting another.

Daddy nodded back and said, “Let’s go bother what’shis-name.”

What’s-his-name said, “Hello, sir,” and gave Dad a carton of chocolate milk, without commenting on his black eye. A guy I’d never seen before, a baseball player, judging by the hairy legs sticking out of his shorts, came over, and asked to shake my father’s hand. “Thank for your service, sir,” he said.

I held my breath, hoping that if this triggered Dad, he’d just leave without doing or saying anything I’d regret later.

“It was my honor,” Dad said, extended his hand. “Care to join us?”

The guy grinned and asked, “Can my buddies come over, too?” He pointed his thumb at three hairy-legged dudes watching from a couple of tables away.

Dad opened the milk and took a long swig. “If they bring me more of this.”

He held court for the rest of the period, listening to their questions and not quite answering them. They asked about the guns and the helicopters and the enemy, and he made jokes about MREs and camel spiders and having to burn the poop bags.

The old cafeteria aide came over and introduced himself, “Bud.”

Dad asked him to join us and he settled in, wiping the sticky bun glaze off his fingers with a napkin.

One of the baseball players finally asked the questions that I knew had been the reason they came over in the first place. “Did you kill anybody, sir? Was it hard?”

Dad studied his hands and didn’t answer. Just as everyone started to squirm in the awkward silence, Bud jumped in with a story about being lost on a mountain in Vietnam. The guys listened but kept glancing at Dad, waiting for the answers.

When the old soldier’s story was finished, Dad asked, “You know how Veterans Day started?”

“The armistice, the end of World War One,” Finn answered. “At eleven o’clock in the morning of November 11, 1918, all the troops on both sides stopped fighting. That’s the day we honor vets.”

“Here’s what you don’t know,” Dad said. “By five o’clock that morning, the officers had all gotten the message that the war would end that day. But lots of them ordered their men to keep fighting.”

Bud snorted and shook his head.

Dad continued, “The end of the war meant that career officers would have fewer chances to move up in rank. The goddamn war was officially ending in hours and they sent their boys in to be sacrificed. Almost eleven thousand soldiers died on November 11, 1918. That’s more men than died on the beaches of Normandy on D-day in World War Two, twenty-six years later.” He cracked his knuckles. “Politics beats out freedom, honor, and service every time. Don’t ever forget that.”

The monitors around the room flickered to life, scrolling the day’s announcements and breaking the spell that Dad held over his audience.

Bud glanced at the clock. “Bell rings in a few. When it does, all hell breaks loose around here.”

“Good to know.” Dad stood up. “You guys are pissed, aren’t you? You’re thinking I didn’t have the balls to answer your question.”