My mother waits for me in the kitchen, her yellow, flowered apron a cheerful contrast to the gloomy avocado wallpaper. My father sits reading his newspaper. He smokes. A long, gray curl rises above the head of Lyndon Johnson, an old man I have seen on the evening news and am only drawn to because of his extraordinarily long ear lobes. The front page story announces that Johnson will not run again for the presidency. "That damn war," says my father. A loud slurp can be heard behind the morning news. And then, like a thud he asks, "when is Bobby coming home?"
It is another morning in 1968. Bobby is my brother, my only brother, the one who comes home from graduate school next month and whose draft status has been the mealtime topic for all of us--despite the fact that he has been 3000 miles away for the last two years. No matter. Bobby's future has become a part of our scrambled eggs, our meatloaf, our sausage patties since he turned 18. His salvation from what what we fear is certain death lies at the Hudson County Draft Board, a place he will visit in early June when sunny California and a college deferment will no longer protect him from the possibility of war.
My mother lifts a pan of damaged oatmeal from the stove. "I burned it. I'm sorry," she says, her eyes not meeting mine.
DINNER, 1970 ( inspired by, and written in, the style of Barbara Moss, I hope she enjoys it)
ReplyDeleteMy mother sits and waits for my father to arrive at the dining room table, the blue dress she wore to work a perfect complement to her effortless efficiency. All seven brothers and sisters are seated, but one. My father arrives and sits holding his head atop his fists. He struggles to regain consciousness from a short nap after a long night shift on the truck. He has bags under his eyes that hang heavily. I am only drawn to this because somehow they remind me of a recent television news picture of President Nixon’s droopy jowls. The announcer proclaimed a continued stalemate in the war. Dad yawns. And then, my sister blurts, “got Jimmy’s letter today, he made it to Da Nang.”
It is another Kearny evening in 1970. Jimmy is my older brother, the one not seated. He is in the Marine Corps and his letters have been a mealtime topic for all of us—especially now that he is 8000 miles away. Jimmy's letters are shared here no different from the mashed potatoes, pork chops or peas. Tension mounts. His salvation from what we fear in an uncertain future lies in the Hands of God for his mother and father can no longer protect him from the terrible risks of war.
My mother stands and says. "I forgot the butter." she heads toward the kitchen apparently searching for the butter that sits in front of my plate.
Post Script:
Many years later I’m reminded of the lyrics from a Lorenz Hart song, Big Brother:
Where do you wander tonight
Big brother?
Is the world treating you right,
Big brother?
If you are East or West
Listen to my request:
Come to your brother's breast,
Big brother