she’s going to be there. She’s the one who invited me.’
‘Did they print it?’
‘What?’ Jim asked, confused.
‘The letter.’ The Major nodded towards the newspapers. ‘Did they print it?’
‘No. I don’t know. Haven’t looked.’
‘You probably don’t remember the Garland mansion – you were young, but it’s grand alright.’
‘I remember. I was seven, old enough.’ Jim hesitated. ‘I’ll only be gone a while.’
‘I’m not your keeper, boy,’ his father said, more sharply than he’d intended. ‘Go, and there’s no need to rush back either.’
A stiff silence followed. The Major drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and glanced at his son in the mirror. ‘And I wouldn’t wear overalls,’ he offered gruffly.
He had meant the comment to be wry, but the boy started as if stung. He tossed the roll of newspapers on to the side table. ‘Butler’s dropped out of the Senate race,’ he said shortly, changing the subject.
The Major reached for the newspapers, frowning. ‘Shame.’
Jim shook his head irritably. ‘He was running on a dry ticket. Yes, I know, long-serving Marine, Medal of Honour, what not and all, but still, dry as they come.’
His father nudged the bottle of whisky that still lay by the armchair. ‘Every man’s allowed a vice,’ he said lightly, ‘and he has his – temperance.’
Once again, it was a badly misjudged attempt at humour. The sight of the nearly empty bottle angered Jim anew. He started to say something, changed his mind, and without another word, turned and left the room.
The Major’s face flushed a dull red. ‘And it’s two-time,’ he called tightly after his son. ‘Major General Butler is a two-time Medal of Honour awardee.’
‘ An analysis of the solid 2–1 victory of US Senator James J. Davis over his dry opponent, Major General Smedley D. Butler, shows that the results of Tuesday’s Pennsylvania primary will stand as a weather vane for the rest of the nation .’
The Major shook out his newspaper and read the sentence yet again. That fragile sense of peace he’d found earlier seemed lost. The mention of Garland had been jarring, but it was the exchange with Jim that had cut him to the quick. He stretched out his leg and slowly massaged the aching knee, gripped by a deep melancholy. The memory from earlier that morning, of a man running through the orchard, his laughing son bouncing on his shoulders . . .
Cutting a fresh plug of chaw, he tried to keep reading. ‘ The unabashed and vocal support that the ex-Marine has provided to the proposed Veteran Bonus Bill is suspected to have contributed to Tuesday’s outcome .’
The Bonus Bill. He knew it. It wasn’t the fact that the General had been running on a dry ticket, it was his position on the Bonus Bill. ‘ The Bill has encountered severe opposition . . . ’, ‘ The Bill has . . . ’ When he found himself going over the same words for the fifth time in a row, he gave up. He folded the paper, and set it on the table.
The bottle of whisky caught his attention. The look on Jim’s face, the scorn he’d seen in his son’s eyes reflected starkly in the mirror. Ashamed anew, he reached for the bottle, filled with the urge to fling it from him, to smash the accursed thing in the grate, but his hand stayed, slowing almost to a caress as his fingers curled about its squat neck. Shame turned to resentment and a deep, burning thirst. The Major lifted the bottle closer, tilting it this way and that as he examined the dregs. He started to twist the cap open, but again came that searing sense of shame, and abruptly he set the bottle down.
He shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead. A thought occurred to him and, rising to his feet and leaning heavily on his cane, the Major limped upstairs.
Jim stayed in the barn all morning working on the dirt bike, finding absorption in the clank of chain and machine part. The sun grew in strength, pouring in through the small, high windows of
‘Did they print it?’
‘What?’ Jim asked, confused.
‘The letter.’ The Major nodded towards the newspapers. ‘Did they print it?’
‘No. I don’t know. Haven’t looked.’
‘You probably don’t remember the Garland mansion – you were young, but it’s grand alright.’
‘I remember. I was seven, old enough.’ Jim hesitated. ‘I’ll only be gone a while.’
‘I’m not your keeper, boy,’ his father said, more sharply than he’d intended. ‘Go, and there’s no need to rush back either.’
A stiff silence followed. The Major drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and glanced at his son in the mirror. ‘And I wouldn’t wear overalls,’ he offered gruffly.
He had meant the comment to be wry, but the boy started as if stung. He tossed the roll of newspapers on to the side table. ‘Butler’s dropped out of the Senate race,’ he said shortly, changing the subject.
The Major reached for the newspapers, frowning. ‘Shame.’
Jim shook his head irritably. ‘He was running on a dry ticket. Yes, I know, long-serving Marine, Medal of Honour, what not and all, but still, dry as they come.’
His father nudged the bottle of whisky that still lay by the armchair. ‘Every man’s allowed a vice,’ he said lightly, ‘and he has his – temperance.’
Once again, it was a badly misjudged attempt at humour. The sight of the nearly empty bottle angered Jim anew. He started to say something, changed his mind, and without another word, turned and left the room.
The Major’s face flushed a dull red. ‘And it’s two-time,’ he called tightly after his son. ‘Major General Butler is a two-time Medal of Honour awardee.’
‘ An analysis of the solid 2–1 victory of US Senator James J. Davis over his dry opponent, Major General Smedley D. Butler, shows that the results of Tuesday’s Pennsylvania primary will stand as a weather vane for the rest of the nation .’
The Major shook out his newspaper and read the sentence yet again. That fragile sense of peace he’d found earlier seemed lost. The mention of Garland had been jarring, but it was the exchange with Jim that had cut him to the quick. He stretched out his leg and slowly massaged the aching knee, gripped by a deep melancholy. The memory from earlier that morning, of a man running through the orchard, his laughing son bouncing on his shoulders . . .
Cutting a fresh plug of chaw, he tried to keep reading. ‘ The unabashed and vocal support that the ex-Marine has provided to the proposed Veteran Bonus Bill is suspected to have contributed to Tuesday’s outcome .’
The Bonus Bill. He knew it. It wasn’t the fact that the General had been running on a dry ticket, it was his position on the Bonus Bill. ‘ The Bill has encountered severe opposition . . . ’, ‘ The Bill has . . . ’ When he found himself going over the same words for the fifth time in a row, he gave up. He folded the paper, and set it on the table.
The bottle of whisky caught his attention. The look on Jim’s face, the scorn he’d seen in his son’s eyes reflected starkly in the mirror. Ashamed anew, he reached for the bottle, filled with the urge to fling it from him, to smash the accursed thing in the grate, but his hand stayed, slowing almost to a caress as his fingers curled about its squat neck. Shame turned to resentment and a deep, burning thirst. The Major lifted the bottle closer, tilting it this way and that as he examined the dregs. He started to twist the cap open, but again came that searing sense of shame, and abruptly he set the bottle down.
He shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead. A thought occurred to him and, rising to his feet and leaning heavily on his cane, the Major limped upstairs.
Jim stayed in the barn all morning working on the dirt bike, finding absorption in the clank of chain and machine part. The sun grew in strength, pouring in through the small, high windows of
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