Chapter 7 - Laura Came Back Without An Audience
Laura returned Friday at 2:30.
After lunch.
The dining hall was mostly empty.
No squad.
No captain.
No audience.
She wore civilian clothes.
Jeans.
Gray sweater.
I was wiping down the beverage station.
“You're not supposed to be back here.”
“I asked the manager.”
“He said yes?”
“He said five minutes.”
“He's becoming generous.”
She almost smiled.
Then:
“I came to apologize again.”
“You already did.”
“Not for the same thing.”
I waited.
She looked around the dining hall.
“My father worked in a room like this.”
“Yes.”
“For eleven years.”
“Most of his career.”
“I checked.”
Of course she had.
“I found his old personnel documents.”
“How’d that go?”
“Badly.”
I almost smiled.
She continued.
“He had three food-service awards.”
“He never shut up about them.”
“He won a field-kitchen competition.”
“Twice.”
Her head snapped up.
“The record says once.”
“Second one was unofficial because David accused him of bribing judges with cobbler.”
“Did he?”
“Absolutely.”
Laura laughed.
The laugh looked painful.
Then:
“I spent my career telling people Dad was logistics.”
“He was.”
“I know.”
“Stop trying to create another lie out of incomplete wording.”
She thought.
“Okay.”
Progress.
“He was logistics. He was also a cook.”
“Yes.”
“He was proud of it.”
“Yes.”
“And sometimes wanted out because I made him feel small.”
“Yes.”
She absorbed that.
“I can't fix being eleven.”
“No.”
“I know.”
Then she looked at me.
“I can fix what I did at thirty-five.”
“Partly.”
Her expression tightened.
“Partly?”
“You can change behavior. You don't get to erase the day.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
She picked at the cuff of her sweater.
“My platoon sergeant asked why I humiliate people.”
“What did you say?”
“That I don't.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“At first.”
Better.
“Then?”
“I told him I like being the person in the room who can't be embarrassed.”
I stopped wiping.
That was good.
Not pretty.
Good.
“So you do it first.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She shook her head.
“I don't have one childhood answer.”
Thank God.
She continued.
“Sometimes because it works. People get faster around me.”
“Afraid.”
“Yes.”
“Different.”
“I know.”
“Sometimes?”
“Because it's funny when the room laughs.”
There it was.
“And the dining hall?”
She looked directly at me.
“Because that morning I had been embarrassed, and I wanted to watch somebody else absorb the feeling.”
Specific.
Adult.
Chosen.
“I’m working on it.”
“Good.”
“I don't expect you to care.”
“I care a little.”
She looked surprised.
“Why?”
“Because you supervise soldiers.”
That seemed to disappoint her.
Probably expected something warmer.
Good.
Then she asked:
“Can I see it?”
I knew immediately.
I pulled the photograph from my pocket.
She did not take it.
“May I?”
“Yes.”
She held it carefully.
Her thumb stopped near her younger face.
“I remember this day.”
“Do you?”
“Dad made me wear that shirt.”
The photograph showed her in a purple shirt with a cartoon horse.
“It was hideous.”
“I loved it.”
“Children have poor judgment.”
She smiled.
Then looked at Samuel.
He had one hand on Laura’s shoulder.
A paper cup in the other.
Twenty-four years frozen before catastrophe.
“Did he carry this every day?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he usually carried a different one.”
She looked up.
“What?”
“School picture.”
“Oh God.”
“Laser background.”
She covered her eyes.
“I was eight.”
“Samuel thought it was art.”
She laughed.
Then looked back at the burned corner.
The laughter stopped.
“Why this one?”
“I don't know.”
Maybe it happened to be on his desk.
Maybe he had been looking at it.
Maybe he had planned to bring it home.
Not every object needs an answer.
Laura asked:
“Did he say anything?”
I knew what she meant.
Last words.
“No movie lines.”
Her face fell slightly.
“Sorry.”
“Don't.”
I thought.
“He asked whether Davis was out.”
“And?”
“I said yes.”
“Anything after?”
“We were moving.”
I remembered Samuel grabbing the photograph.
“Then he called himself an idiot.”
Laura looked at me.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly?”
“‘Diane is going to kill me.’”
She laughed and cried at the same time.
“That's him.”
“I know.”
It was a better last remembered sentence than some grand declaration.
Ordinary.
Samuel believed he was going home to be yelled at.
That was probably why I had never told anyone.
It made the ending more painful.
Laura held the photograph toward me.
I didn't take it.
She frowned.
“Evelyn.”
“It's yours.”
Her expression changed.
“You kept it twenty-four years.”
“And?”
“I can't just—”
“It was his.”
“So were your scars.”
The sentence hit badly.
She knew immediately.
“I'm sorry.”
“No.”
I touched the photograph.
“You’re right.”
For years I had treated the photograph like compensation.
Samuel died.
I survived scarred.
Therefore I got the thing he had reached for.
Absurd when stated plainly.
I pushed it back toward her.
“He wanted it because you were in it.”
Laura's eyes filled again.
“I don't want it if giving it away hurts you.”
That was the first time either Mason had asked.
I thought about it.
“It does.”
She started to return it.
I stopped her.
“I can be hurt and still want you to have it.”
She looked at me.
Then nodded.
No thank-you big enough.
So she didn't try.
She slipped the photograph into a protective envelope she had brought.
Of course she had brought one.
Samuel would have teased her mercilessly.
Before leaving, Laura stopped beside the service counter.
“Can I ask something terrible?”
“You've had a strong year for those.”
She almost smiled.
“Did you hit me because I was Samuel’s daughter?”
I considered lying.
“No.”
She looked relieved.
Then I added:
“But when I recognized your name, part of me wanted you to give me a reason to dislike you.”
Relief disappeared.
“Okay.”
“I wish that weren't true.”
“So do I.”
We stood with it.
Then Laura nodded toward my cleaning cloth.
“Need help?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
She accepted the answer.
That was the better gesture.
She left.
Five minutes later, I found one of the cafeteria trays on the wrong return rack.
Laura had put it there on her way out.
May you like
Still terrible at kitchen work.
Samuel would have been devastated.
