Chapter 6 - The General Had Been A Better Uncle Than Witness
David came to the dining hall the following week.
He stood in line.
That amused me.
A general standing behind a second lieutenant waiting for mashed potatoes tends to create panic in a room even when he is doing absolutely nothing.
When he reached my station, I gave him green beans.
“I hate these.”
“I remember.”
“Then why?”
“Character development.”
He took them.
We sat after my shift.
He had one week before flying back to Washington.
“Laura talked to me,” he said.
“About?”
“Samuel.”
“That’s between you and her.”
“Yes.”
I waited.
He smiled faintly.
“Apparently you've been training me.”
“I charge by the hour.”
He looked at the old photograph.
I had placed it on the table between us.
I had not given it to Laura yet.
“Why not?”
David asked.
“She hasn’t asked.”
“Is that another test?”
I stared at him.
He raised both hands.
“Fair question.”
Unfortunately.
“I don't know.”
He nodded.
Then:
“She asked me why I never told her Samuel was proud of being a cook.”
“What did you say?”
“That I did.”
I frowned.
“Did you?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“She was fourteen.”
“Helpful.”
“She made fun of the apron in one of his photographs.”
I remembered the apron.
FORT GARRISON: WE FEED THE FIGHT.
Awful.
Samuel loved it.
“I told her her father wore it because he liked his job.”
“And?”
“She said Mom told her he wanted out.”
Both true.
David continued.
“I didn't correct her.”
“Why?”
“Because by then I had become the person who told the stories Diane approved.”
That was more honest.
“Did Diane ask you to hide food service?”
“No.”
Good.
“So that part was yours.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He took too long.
I waited.
“Because when I spoke at ceremonies about Samuel, people listened differently if I said logistics NCO.”
I stared.
“David.”
“I know.”
“No. Say it.”
He looked ashamed.
“I thought ‘cook’ made the story sound smaller.”
The sentence sat between us.
Four stars.
Thirty-eight years of service.
And he had carried the same hierarchy Laura displayed in the dining hall, simply dressed in better language.
“Samuel would have hated that.”
“I know.”
“Did you know then?”
“Yes.”
Even better.
He looked at the green beans like they had betrayed him.
“I wanted people to hear soldier first.”
“He was a soldier.”
“Yes.”
“He was also a cook.”
“Yes.”
“And those were not competing facts.”
“I know.”
I leaned back.
“You helped make Laura ashamed of the very thing you claim you wanted her to respect.”
He did not defend himself.
Good.
Then he surprised me.
“You helped too.”
I stared.
“How?”
“You left.”
My body tightened.
“That was Diane's request.”
“At first.”
He held my gaze.
“You could have called Laura when she was twenty-five.”
“Yes.”
“You could have written.”
“Yes.”
“You could have sent the photograph after Diane died.”
“Yes.”
“I had a selfish reason for preserving the edited version.”
“Yes.”
“You had one for preserving silence.”
I knew.
He continued.
“You got to remain the person who had been wronged.”
That hurt.
Because it was partly true.
My scars brought strangers' sympathy without asking.
My story brought me my own version.
Samuel died.
Diane asked me to disappear.
David became important.
I moved on.
The clean version had advantages.
I did not have to admit I had resented Samuel.
I did not have to find out whether Laura grew into someone I liked.
I did not have to risk seeing her and discovering that I meant nothing to her.
“I was scared she'd look at me and only see the fire.”
David nodded.
“Reasonable.”
“Don't make it noble.”
He stopped.
I continued.
“I also didn't want to be responsible for whatever happened after she learned.”
“You wanted Diane to keep owning the decision.”
“Yes.”
There it was.
The dead make convenient decision-makers.
You can obey them forever and never risk disagreement.
I looked at the photograph.
“Do you think Samuel would have told her?”
“Eventually.”
“How do you know?”
“I don't.”
Good.
Neither of us could recruit him anymore.
David asked:
“What will you do now?”
I put the photograph back into my apron pocket.
“Work tomorrow.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
He sighed.
“Why food service?”
I looked at him.
“Still wondering?”
“Yes.”
“Because I like it.”
He looked surprised.
I laughed.
“Mark used to say that expression was why civilians hated generals.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
I had been a military cook before the fire.
After medical retirement, I refused to work near a kitchen for twelve years.
The smell of industrial degreaser bothered me.
Large steel doors bothered me.
Alarms were worse.
Then Mark coached wrestling at a public high school whose cafeteria manager quit two weeks before the season started.
I volunteered.
One week became three.
Then a job.
I discovered feeding four hundred teenagers required nearly the same combination of planning, insults and controlled panic I remembered.
I liked being useful.
Later I became a kitchen manager.
After Mark died, I stepped down.
When my sister needed help near Garrison, the civilian dining contract had an opening.
So I returned.
No secret purpose.
No penance.
I was good at feeding people.
David smiled.
“Samuel would've loved that.”
“Probably.”
Then:
“Laura comes back on Friday.”
I looked at him.
“How do you know?”
“She told me.”
“For what?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Good.”
David stood.
Before leaving, he looked at my apron pocket.
“Are you going to carry that photograph until it dissolves?”
“Mind your green beans.”
He looked at his untouched plate.
Then, with the expression of a man complying with an order he hated, ate one.
I laughed so loudly two lieutenants turned around.
May you like
For the first time in twenty-four years, David Hale and I shared a memory of Samuel without discussing how he died.
I had forgotten we knew how to do that.
