Chapter 7 - THE BOOT STORY
A year after the mess-hall incident, I returned to Coronado.
Not for Knox.
Not for my father.
Equipment-readiness review.
Boring enough that Elaine congratulated me.
The same mess hall was open after training.
I went in.
Same tables.
Same metal cups.
Same terrible green beans.
Nate was sitting near a window.
He was three weeks from retirement.
No ceremony yet.
He waved me over.
I carried my tray carefully.
“Don't.”
he said.
“What?”
“I'm not catching that if someone kicks it.”
“My technique has improved.”
“Your technique put a commander into mashed potatoes.”
“Rice.”
“History has improved it.”
I sat.
For almost fifteen minutes we talked about nothing important.
His wife wanted Arizona.
He wanted North Carolina.
Neither wanted Ohio.
I took that personally on behalf of the state.
Then Knox walked in.
No entourage.
He saw us.
Paused.
Came over.
“Lieutenant.”
“Commander.”
“Senior Chief.”
Nate looked offended.
“You ignored me for three months and now I'm Senior Chief?”
“Retirement has restored my respect.”
Knox pulled out the empty chair.
Then stopped.
“Can I?”
There.
Small.
Almost ridiculous.
Still.
Nate nodded.
Knox sat.
Nobody mentioned the boot.
For about four minutes.
Then a young operator at the next table recognized me.
I saw the whisper.
The glance.
The story had traveled.
Of course it had.
Knox noticed too.
“They tell it wrong.”
I groaned.
Nate smiled.
“How?”
Knox counted on his fingers.
“Apparently Jade let me kick her tray three times.”
“Once.”
“She cleaned both boots.”
“One.”
“She warned me not to touch her.”
“I did not.”
“And then she dislocated my shoulder.”
“You ate lunch normally the next day.”
Nate laughed.
The young operators nearby were definitely listening now.
Knox looked at them.
“Story's over.”
They turned away.
That interested me.
No humiliation.
No:
You boys need something?
Just end.
Then Knox looked at me.
“You know the part I hate?”
“Only one?”
“The story makes me an idiot because I didn't know who you were.”
There.
Exactly.
“People say, ‘Imagine doing that to Owen Monroe's daughter.’”
I nodded.
“I hate that too.”
Nate looked between us.
Knox continued:
“As if it'd have been fine if you were nobody.”
There.
The opening wound finally named cleanly.
“So what do you tell them?”
I asked.
“That I knew exactly what you were.”
I frowned.
“A lieutenant sent to review my unit.”
There.
He had known enough.
Rank.
Role.
Human being.
Biography never needed to arrive.
“I just thought I could get away with it.”
Better.
No legend.
Then Knox said:
“I'm sorry.”
I waited.
He had apologized before.
This one had changed slightly.
“For making the room part of it.”
There.
That was good.
He could have insulted me privately.
Still wrong.
The audience was not incidental.
He needed people laughing.
Needed me smaller by comparison.
“And grabbing me?”
“That too.”
“Important detail.”
“I enjoyed one second of watching you hit the table.”
He stared.
Nate choked on his drink laughing.
Knox pointed at me.
“See? This is why nobody believes your counseling note.”
“My counseling note says I have poor judgment.”
“That I believe.”
Good.
No sentimental reconciliation.
Then Knox asked:
“Do you forgive me?”
I thought.
“Enough.”
He frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don't need anything else from you about dinner.”
“And everything else?”
“Not mine alone.”
There.
Vale.
Pike.
His trainees.
Nate.
My father.
The institution.
No single apology could bundle them.
Knox nodded.
Then he looked at the white napkin beside my tray.
“You kept the one?”
I knew immediately.
The boot napkin.
“No.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Threw it away that night.”
He looked surprised.
Nate too.
Why would I keep it?
Evidence had video.
Memory had enough objects.
A dirty napkin did not deserve a museum.
The one beside my tray now had ketchup on the corner.
I used it to wipe my fingers.
That was better.
Then Nate pulled out his phone.
Not an old secret text.
A photograph.
Owen.
Knox.
Nate.
Seven other men.
My father looked maybe forty-four.
Too alive.
Knox had hair.
I laughed.
“Why are you showing me this?”
“Your dad stole Knox's hat five minutes later.”
“Why?”
Knox looked embarrassed.
“I said Ohio was a highway pretending to be a state.”
“My father should've thrown you into the ocean.”
“He almost did.”
I studied Owen.
For most of my life, every photograph after his death carried one question.
What happened to you?
Now I could look at one without the accident immediately arriving.
He was laughing.
Probably because he was about to steal a hat.
That was enough.
Nate asked if I wanted the picture.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I have pictures of Dad.”
Knox said:
“Not with me.”
“Exactly.”
He insulted me.
I returned it.
Normal.
Then Nate said something quiet.
“You know Owen would've hated what the unit made him into.”
I looked at him.
“Don't.”
He nodded.
Right.
Dead people do not get drafted into our conclusions.
Maybe Dad would have hated it.
Maybe part of him would have enjoyed having a doctrine nicknamed after him.
Maybe he would have fought every policy change and then claimed he invented it six months later.
I did not know.
That uncertainty had become less threatening.
Nate raised his metal cup.
“To nobody speaking for Owen anymore.”
Knox lifted his.
May you like
I did too.
That was one toast I could accept.
