melancholy: paper tiger
sledge/snafu, mini-series (part three)
by frooit
.
.
.
.
You play that over and over, his advice, his voice (relax, relax, relax) through the rest of the train ride and the stewardess' continued feeble attempts at getting attention from the either of you. You play it as he smokes and drinks and gazes out the window, not looking your way, not giving you much of anything. The sudden relief of the war time conclusion (but that word isn't right, there's been no conclusion just a sort of plateau struck) seems to melt away the closer to home you get.
Your father will be standing there at the station, waiting. That confident smile of his and that same straight-backed patience all images from a mental film logged forever ago to keep you sane. Your father: a man of reason, a man of logic, a man of old war. He'd warned you adamantly a lifetime ago not to do this. Relax, relax, relax. You'll just have to wait and see what came of it.
He stands on the platform, the hint of a smile appealing his face.
That face goes gradually by the train's window and distorts.
The train's hoot and holler gets you both to your feet.
Snafu grabs his duffle and yours.
He offers yours to you, drawing eye contact.
"Don' look so scared."
"Huh?"
"Look like yer gonna piss yerself."
You grab the duffle.
He grins and slaps you on the shoulder.
.
.
.
Your father is surprised to find an extra body to take back, but he's not exactly disapproving either. That might just be because he's not ready to argue with his boy back from war. You repeat your mantra louder (relax, relax, relax) as he leads the two of you away. Far away from the train. Far away from just another thing connecting you to the reality of where you've been all this time.
There isn't much conversation.
It gives your internal tune plenty of room to become wide and brash and screaming.
.
.
.
Your mother stands at the threshold of the cottage when you arrive. You all pile out of the car in a one-by-one fashion. Snafu steps off to the side as she comes rushing down the front steps. You come bravely forward. She first meets your eyes and then pulls you into a hug. It's a good moment, a triumphant moment. A real wave of relief hits you then. It abates, however, when you realize Snafu is removing himself from it as much as possible. He's looking at his shining boots while your mother tells you how proud she is. He's fussing with his collar and his tie as she starts getting a little carried away.
Tears shine in her eyes.
You hadn't 'd been tuned somewhere else.
"Mom, this is—"
(relax, relax, relax)
She puts Snafu up in the spare room.
It's a whole of seven steps down the hall from yours.
You're not sure how you feel about that.
.
.
.
There's no big to-do your first night in. The family gets together at the dinner table and has a quiet meal. The smell alone tickles and turns your stomach. Those same aromas, those same good memories and dishes and silverware and glasses. Those little things you used to enjoy, those little things you remember as a boy... now your enemy, ready to sabotage your return.
Snafu sits across from you, looking a little more than out of place but entirely comfortable with it. A little more than the cat who got the cream. It makes you nervous, to say the least, or maybe it's angry. There are those emotions again, loose and livid and hard to follow. You're going to be struggling with 'em for months to come. Although, let's not kid ourselves-it'll be years.
Snafu smiles (grins) and it's truth, no hollowed recesses or distant darkness there. He eats and even carries on clumsy conversation. You complete the role reversal as a solemn and awkward vessel, pushing your food around your plate. As torn up as ever. As lost as ever.
Your mother notices and brings it to light with a, "Gene, you're rather quiet."
Snafu is subtle when he looks (but not subtle enough).
You can taste the worry and wonder.
You choose to squash it.
You'll do your damnedest not to inflict harm.
(Not on anymore.)
(Least of all your mother.)
"Just tired is all."
So, you're both dismissed.
.
.
.
You take Snafu out to the back porch.
The night is warm.
He lights a cigarette. You begin packing your pipe.
"What a sweet deal ya got here," he breathes.
"Beats rolling in the mud," you say.
You light your piece, puffing steadily. It's the only light other than the glow from the covered windows.
You can just see his profile, his outline, dark and dismal.
That's not unfamiliar.
"Was this a good idea?"
You don't recall having the thought. You're listening to yourself say it just as much as he is.
He takes a long drag, sucks his teeth.
"Did'ja' really think you'd live happily ever after?" he responds.
You're not sure how you feel about that either.
.
.
.
.
to be continued...
