Chapter 8 - Alan And Evan Sat At The Same Table Again
They met in the mess hall after closing.
Same room.
Different day.
No audience.
Mason was not allowed there.
The review had removed him from instructional duties pending investigation.
Alan arrived first.
Dad second.
They stopped six feet apart.
Neither offered a hand.
Alan looked at Evan.
“You got old.”
Dad said:
“You were always ugly.”
Sixteen years evaporated for half a second.
Then came back.
I sat at the table.
“Sit.”
Both looked at me.
“Please.”
Apparently rank didn't cure family stubbornness.
They sat.
I placed nothing between them.
No flask.
No wings.
I was done letting objects run meetings.
Dad looked at Alan.
“I’m sorry Mason did that.”
Alan’s face tightened.
“That's Mason’s apology.”
Dad nodded.
“Right.”
Silence.
Then Alan said:
“I told him you let me take the fall.”
Dad looked at him.
“For how long?”
Alan hesitated.
“Years.”
“I submitted the statement the next morning.”
“I know.”
“You told him?”
“Eventually.”
Dad laughed without humor.
“I was waiting for that word.”
Alan stared.
“You want to talk about waiting?”
“Not tonight.”
I interrupted.
“Yes. Tonight.”
Both looked at me.
I continued.
“What did each of you want from the other that you never said plainly?”
Alan started to answer.
Stopped.
Dad looked irritated by the question.
Good.
They had spent years speaking in accusations.
Let them work.
Alan went first.
“I wanted you to stand in that hangar and say you had asked me to keep the wings.”
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“I didn't ask you.”
Alan stared.
“I picked them up because you left them on a bench.”
“Yes.”
“You later told me to keep them.”
“After.”
That detail mattered to Dad.
Alan continued.
“Fine. I wanted you to say I had them because I was protecting you.”
Dad looked away.
“Why?”
“Because I had been treated like a thief.”
“And because?”
Alan’s face changed.
“Because I wanted people to know you trusted me.”
That was new.
Dad looked at him.
Alan continued.
“You were Major Hayes. I was Reed from maintenance.”
Dad frowned.
“I never treated you like—”
“You didn't.”
Alan shook his head.
“Other people did.”
He laughed quietly.
“And I hated how much your friendship mattered to me because of it.”
Dad stared.
No neat answer.
Then I looked at him.
“What did you want?”
Dad took longer.
“I wanted Alan to accept the written correction.”
“Why?”
“Because it fixed the record.”
Alan laughed.
Dad ignored him.
“And because?”
He looked at the floor.
“Because I wanted the problem solved without having to let the unit see how bad I was doing.”
Alan nodded.
Dad continued.
“And because I thought if he cared about me, he would understand why.”
Alan's expression tightened.
“You wanted me to protect you twice.”
Dad looked at him.
“Yes.”
The honesty took some air out of the room.
Then Alan said:
“And I wanted you to humiliate yourself to prove you cared about me.”
Dad nodded.
“Yes.”
Neither looked relieved.
Good.
Then Alan asked:
“Why did you tell me to keep the wings after the investigation?”
Dad rubbed his hands together.
“Because when I tried wearing them again, I saw Sarah.”
My mother.
Alan's face changed.
Dad continued.
“I bought another set.”
“The ones in your retirement photographs.”
“Yes.”
“The first pair stayed with me.”
“Yes.”
Alan looked down.
“I thought you had forgotten.”
“I hadn't.”
“Then why never call?”
Dad looked at him.
“Same reason you never called.”
Alan laughed once.
“That’s pathetic.”
“Yes.”
They sat in silence.
Not reconciliation.
May you like
Not yet.
But for the first time, neither man had a version left that made the other solely responsible.
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