Read Online Pacific Avenue by Anne L. Watson - Free Book Online Page B

I
don’t know what I believe anymore.”
    “I’m supposed to be an Episcopalian, but I don’t
either.”
    Richard got up and walked back to the kitchen corner,
even though we had everything we needed. Then he turned quickly and faced me.
    “Kathy, I swear to you, I wasn’t another Calley. I hurt
a lot of people. But I never did it for fun. I never did what I didn’t have to
do. I know that’s not good enough. I have to live with that, and I know how
feeble it sounds to a civilian.”
    The picture flashed around the edge of my imagination
again. I made my mind go blank as I looked into Richard’s face. “It doesn’t
sound feeble to me. If Dad’s friends don’t have to apologize about World War
II, why should it be different for you?”
    He turned away, abandoning his unfinished breakfast, letting
it get cold. “What if I act like a fool again? You don’t have to put up with
scenes like that. You may think now that you can put up with them, but that won’t last.” Without a glance my way, he
walked to the door and unlocked it.
    If this was a hint for me to go, I wasn’t taking it. I
waited.
    He stood for a moment, hand on the doorknob. Then he
faced me again.
    “Kathy, there’s plenty of draft dodgers out there
who’ll fit into your dinner parties just fine. Why don’t you find yourself
one?”
    I didn’t move. “I don’t want them. I want you.”
    He hesitated and then crossed to the bed at the back of
the apartment and pulled an imaginary wrinkle out of the bedspread. “What if I
freak out again in front of your family?” he asked, glancing sharply at me.
    “I don’t care,” I said. I left my coffee and went to
him, pulling him into an awkward hug. “If they believe in peace, if it’s not
some empty word, let them quit judging everyone. That would be real peaceful.”
    He drew a deep breath, hoarse and ragged-sounding. Then
he relaxed. “It would be a good start,” he said. “We’re going to have to start
there too. Let me show you what I was reading this morning.” He sat on the side
of the bed and picked up a chipped old book lying facedown near the pillow.
    He fanned through it, showing me photographs of country
people in worn-out clothes. Beautiful pictures, clear and stark. We sat
sideways on the bed, backs propped against the wall, while he read aloud about
poor whites in the Depression in Alabama. About how their neighbors hated them
for being different. Both of us knew that these same sad people would have been
the first to turn on their black neighbors, on people like Richard’s
grandfather, farming behind those mules. As Richard read, his voice was shaky.
    When he stopped reading, we lay quietly together. The
room had only been heated by his cooking, and it grew cold in the silence. We
got under the blankets and warmed ourselves with them, and then with each
other.
    * * *
    Mom looked up from fixing sandwiches as I closed the kitchen
door behind me. The table was covered with leftovers, the turkey from last
night, still intact in places, but with a keel of breastbone emerging. The dark
meat was gone from one side, too. She opened a can of cranberry sauce to
replace the beautiful sauce she’d made yesterday, the sauce that was ruined
when Richard crashed into the table.
    “Where were you?” she asked.
    “I went to talk to Richard.”
    “Oh. How is he?” She pulled a slicer out of the knife
rack and studied its edge.
    “Embarrassed. Upset.” I counted out enough slices of
bread for Mom, Dad, and me.
    “Hand me that sharpener, would you?” She gestured toward
the knife sharpener, just out of reach. I passed it to her.
    “I’d imagine he would be upset,” she went on. “How long has he been out of the army, anyway?”
    “I’m not sure. A year or so.” I watched her hone the
knife with an expert air. Any live turkey in its right mind would have gotten
out of there in a hurry.
    “Isn’t it time he got over the war?” She tried to slice
the turkey but the knife still