Dodging a Bullet

“I remember the shooting… but even more… I remember the silence once the guns stopped,” Grimsby said. He paused and fixed an eye on his son, Grimsby Junior. “Does this speech sound like a barnburner or what?” The two men were in the side room to the stage, getting ready before the school assembly.

Centering his tie knot, Junior grinned at their reflections in the full-length mirror. “Sounds great… go on.”

Grimsby adjusted his service ribbon pin, newly transferred that morning from Fred’s old moth-eaten uniform that had hung in the back of the closet. His brother Fred was long gone and had no need for the service ribbons, but the school was determined to honor a veteran. Grimsby wore Fred’s hat, service ribbon pin, and had a plastic poppy stuck on his fine Hugo Boss jacket.

Junior straightened the shoulders of his father’s suit, which constantly went awry, almost like the old man was built on a slant. “Go on.”

There was a long pause. “I can’t find my cards.”

“Hm. Maybe you already put them in your suit,” Junior said, “knowing you’d be speaking to Trey’s class.” He began patting the pockets of his father’s suit, looking for the recipe cards covered in spidery notes. “Hm… I can’t find them.”

Grimsby made a face. “I remember those gol-durned cards now, clear as day, sitting on the kitchen counter. I put ‘em there so I wouldn’t forget ‘em.” He chuckled. “Oh well. Those are just facts and figures. Things those lil brats already get from the schoolbooks.” His eyes scanned the other side of the auditorium, where the children were gathering like seagulls at a picnic. He was certain he could pick out Trey’s buzzcut and Pistons sweatshirt anywhere. Maybe the kid would come over and say hi. Or wave, in that silly, floppy-handed way he did. “The kids want to know how it felt—going to war, fighting the war, killing soldiers in the war, coming home from the war. That’s what I’ll focus on.”

“I guess you’re right… Dad,” Junior said. He still had trouble saying that last word in a nonchalant way. Junior’s mother had given Grimsby the heave-ho after only three years of marriage, so father and son had been separated for decades—until a beer-soaked tearful reunion five years ago when Grimsby had moved back into the city. “Poof, insta-family, one two three, add water and stir,” Grimsby had joked. Now he was invited to all grandparent events, including soccer games, band recitals, and holiday events. Things that his ex-wife, rest her crabby soul, should have been attending. Things that would have driven him nuts to attend as a father. But he had mellowed a lot and didn’t mind being Grandpops to Trey.

“You’re just worried I’ll forget Bob Hitler’s name,” Grimsby said. “Or have a heart attack in front of Trey.”

 “Don’t say that! Bad enough losing Mom.” A look of deep concern flooded Junior’s face. “You gotta stick around at least long enough for the kid to graduate.”

“I will. That’s my expertise—dodging bullets.”

Trey had both good hand-eye co-ordination and could carry a tune. Plus, he looked a lot like his Grandpops used to, with his dark hair and dimples. Junior and Grimsby basked in the boy’s accolades: MVP trophy in the under-10 soccer. Second place in the talent contest. Soloist in Christmas carols. Plus they always stopped for ice cream afterwards. Grimsby was making his way through the 31 flavors for the second time. He didn’t know why the ice cream was so addictive; maybe it was due to that draconian heart-health diet the doctor had him on.

Junior looked fretful, like he was reliving the last rushed trip to ER with his father. “Remember the signal… Dad. If you feel chest pain or can’t catch your breath, then stomp your cane. I’ll be watching. I’ll rescue you.”

“Yeah yeah,” Grimsby said.

He was here today because of Trey. Two months ago, Grimsby had emptied his closet, peddling whatever he could sell as vintage wear. Except for Fred’s stuff, which for reasons unknown to himself he held onto. By chance Trey had seen the old uniform and had started asking questions. Grimsby had not wanted to rehash the sad story of Fred, who’d ended his days in an institution, so he’d answered vaguely.

Soon Trey was boasting to everyone at school that Grandpops had “seen action.” Grimsby kept meaning to set the record straight. But it was awkward. Fred’s life was by all accounts a wasted life—but not if Grimsby could appropriate pieces of it here and there. Next thing he knew, he was being invited to Ralston Elementary School. Posters, gaily decorated with a poppy, were printed up for Veterans Day. It was for a good cause, Grimsby thought, and what was the harm in that?

“He’s over there, with the band,” Junior said. “He’s been practicing taps and the national anthem all week.” He stood and flapped his hand at the ensemble until Trey gave a nod.

“Is he any good?” Grimsby said.

“You bet,” Junior said. “I can tell the songs apart.”

Grimsby saluted his grandson and Trey, grinning, elbowed his buddies and returned the salute.

“Oh hey! There’s Carmen,” Junior said. His cheeks darkened and his soft moustache became alert.

Grimsby sniffed. He had met this Carmen, once, while crossing a parking lot with Junior. He felt sorry for Junior because it was obvious the woman was a complete narcissist. She had been shopping; she was on her way back to work; she wasn’t sure if she could meet them later. Grimsby thought he really ought to warn Junior not to get messed up with her; next thing, she’d be expecting Junior to make her a meal and take her places.

Students began filing into the auditorium. Grimsby eagerly grasped the walking stick. His hand fitted perfectly over the brass eagle, as if custom-made for that purpose. Ralston Elementary was one of those new, beautiful buildings with a big airy auditorium where everyone’s throat-clearing was magnified by the excellent acoustics. Glancing in the mirror, Grimsby confirmed that he cut a dashing figure with his freshly dyed and barbered hair, shiny new shoes (gift from Junior) and the walking stick.

He’d bought that stick at a garage sale recently from a frazzled housewife. Junior had admired it shortly thereafter and Grimsby merely repeated what she’d told him: “My grandfather’s walking stick. Family heirloom. Given in honor of service during the Great War.” Grimsby straightened his shoulders, trying to remember anything about his own grandfather beyond the scent of macassar and his conviction for indecency.

“Hello, sir… mister,… or is it corporal? Sergeant? Uh, Grimsby?” said a distracted young woman. She was juggling a beeping phone and chai tea and clipboard and camera tripod. “Do you mind if I record? Are you ready to tell us your amazing story of heroism? Please relax. I’ll just get a picture of you there, near the window, how about over here now. What battalion was it? What was your rank and years of service?”

Grimsby was mesmerized by her minuet of gestures and modifications. She posed him with the stick, brass eagle prominent, dramatically placed right at the forefront.

She noticed fluff on his suit and reflexively brushed off his shoulder. “Excuse me,” she said as an afterthought.

A smile crept over Grimsby’s face. That was a woman for you: couldn’t wait to get her paws on a tall, broad-shouldered man in uniform. He crinkled his eyes at her. He’d already forgotten the details of Fred’s service record. They were there among the recipe cards sitting on the kitchen counter. But confidence: that was key. Any mistakes could be blamed on a journalist’s sloppy note-taking. But, well, shoot, she was recording this, wasn’t she? So he mumbled vaguely. Never mind, no-one looked these things up anyway. She needed her story by the deadline. If fact-checked, Junior could finesse the details tomorrow.

“And your medal for bravery?” she asked. “Where is that? Can I do a close-up?”

“Young lady.” Grimsby gave her the stink-eye, wishing he could get her to sit down in one place. His glare was strong enough or unhappy enough that she did come and perch on the edge of a metal stackable chair. “There is no medal as such. These are service ribbons. There was a war. I showed up at different battles to fight it. Fought it with blood, sweat and tears.” He thumped the walking stick in Churchillian emphasis. “Is that not bravery enough?”

That shut her up.

Grimsby wished he’d talked to his brother more about his war years. Although at the time, the experts said it was best to keep mum about what they’d survived. “Just let them get on with living,” everyone said, even though Fred could not, ultimately, recover from his shell shock.

Junior’s head appeared, bobbing above the school kids. “How are you, …Dad?” he said. “Excuse me, miss, … his heart.”

The journo, looking flustered, skittered off to check two other veterans.

“How is it, Dad? Any pain?”

Grimsby gave a confused look.

“The signal,” Junior said. “Remember? I told you to stomp the cane.”

“It’s not a cane; it’s a—”

“I know: a walking stick.”

“Yes, and a family heirloom.”

*         *         *

The Remembrance Day ceremony featured three veterans, or “war heroes,” as the guidance counsellor called them. Each one gave a speech, receiving applause that was warm for the woman ambulance driver, hot for Grimsby, and red-hot and sizzling for the veteran from the war in Afghanistan.

Afterward, the children mobbed the Afghan veteran, who appeared ready for hand-to-hand combat. His thick, muscular arms had rippling tattoos, as if he’d stepped out of an action movie.

The female veteran walked over to Grimsby, confirming his animal magnetism yet again, he figured. She was apple-cheeked, grandmotherly, wore her hair in a no-nonsense white bob, and smiled relentlessly. Her earrings sparkled in a flirtatious, definitely non-militaristic, way.

As they watched the Afghan veteran, she said in a confiding tone, “Those muscles look like they came from a gym, not basic training.” They both gave a rueful laugh. “My name’s Molly. You look vaguely familiar. Have you done school visits before?’

“Nope. Just here for my grandkid.” He pointed at Trey, who was blowing spit from his trumpet.

“I don’t suppose you’re from Eloraville? That’s where I grew up,” Molly said, earrings flashing.

Grimsby’s eyes widened. “Eloraville? Huh. Where on earth is that?” He thumped his walking stick.

Grimsby and Molly were joined by a girl who’d sat in the front row, a scrawny intense girl who had googly eyes and buck teeth. She had listened to all speakers with her mouth open, closing it only for the singing of the anthem. “Um, what made you join the army?” she asked dreamily.

“Well, actually, it was the medical corps, not the army, dear. They didn’t allow girls in the army back then. I joined the war effort because…well… I had a terrific crush on a boy who had signed up.” Molly ducked her head as she admitted this.

Googly-eyes turned to Grimsby.

“Why, it was the thing to do,” Grimsby harrumphed. “Protect the country from Herr Hitler.” He remembered Fred and his group of friends. All of them had signed up in the same month, a swirl of bravado and partying and long, late-night calls. As the younger brother he could only guess at the hi-jinks going on, but he’d felt great envy.

“And your parents let you go away alone?”

“We weren’t alone.” Grimsby cackled. “We were more alone if we stayed home.” He remembered that first dismal week without Fred, having dinner with Father and Mother, their faces so long and sad in the glow of the kerosene lamp.

“Not me! My folks were upset,” Molly said. “I had to sneak off, get my aunt to give permission.” She leaned toward the girl. “My motives were less than pure.”

Grimsby squinted at the crowd still milling around. “Don’t they serve cake at these events?” he mused aloud. He stamped his walking stick impatiently.

“And what happened to your crush?” the girl asked Molly, ignoring Grimsby. “Did you get to fight together?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Did you share a tent together?”

Molly laughed, her head rearing back and her mouth braying. “Oh my goodness, you think it was like a movie!” Several heads turned. She wiped tears from her apple cheeks. “I sort of forget… there were lots of boys. We had dances, you know, lotsa dances. I never saw my crush again. At first I missed him. Oh my, he was a looker, dimples and lovely thick black hair. His name was Fred. But then suddenly—boom, there I was, in an ambulance, driving wounded soldiers during the campaign in Tunisia.”

A voice called over to them. “No, Dad, they don’t have cake. Not for Poppy Day.” Junior was hustling toward him with Carmen in tow. She was carrying Trey’s trumpet case.

When had they started calling Veterans Day Poppy Day? On behalf of Fred, Grimsby felt the loss of dignity, the lowered social esteem. He yawned loudly.

“Might as well go home,” he grumbled, looking at the Afghan vet, who was now doing one-armed push-ups, and then at Molly, who had enchanted the googly-eyed girl.

Grimsby, Junior and Carmen walked down the school hallway. The journo, who was on the floor, snapping a photo of the push-ups, wriggled to her feet and came running after them. “Wait! Can I get contact info?”

Junior reeled off his number. “We’d stay longer, but … Dad forgot his meds. Gotta go.” He turned to his father. “Wait right here at the door; I’ll get the car.”

“Nah, I’ll wait outside,” Grimsby said, choosing an alcove where he was not easily seen.

Junior drove over in the car and Grimsby stiffly levered himself into the front passenger bucket-seat. “What took you so long?”

“What?” Junior said.

“To rescue me.” Grimsby said peevishly. “I got trapped by that old bat. She was really coming onto me. Oh, they all do, of course. The uniform, I guess. Don’t look now or she’ll come and babble some more. It’s sad, you know.”

“Sad? How so?”

 “Mind like a sieve.”

Junior and Carmen waved energetically at Trey, who was ungluing himself from a cluster of friends. “Anyhow, it’s all over, …Dad. Time for ice cream.”

Grimsby stared out the side window. He still had the instinct. He was proud of himself. Dodging a bullet. Even at close range. He smacked his lips. Some maple walnut ice cream would taste mighty good right now.

THE END