Only after dinner and a shower and falling into bed, does Rick take up the envelope again. His wife, drawn up close to him against the headboard, waits quietly as he turns the envelope over in his hands, tracing the straight lines and studying the neat inscription on the face of it. In the warm halo of the bedside lamp, he takes a deep breath and runs a finger under the flap, stripping it open and drawing out the contents. The envelope falls to his lap as the stiff, expensive stationary unfolds silently in his hands. It is covered, nearly a page and a half, in the same, even script as the envelope.
Kate inches closer to his shoulder and reads along as Rick begins.
Richard,
I suppose there's no perfect way to go about this, nothing that will make this introduction anything less than awkward and difficult. Kate seems quite the stalwart, so I think maybe she'll manage being my messenger just fine. I acknowledge that it's probably the work of a coward to drop this letter in the hands of your pregnant wife, but I've spent my whole adult life planning and working scenarios to my advantage, and it's a hard habit to break. And so this is delivered, and so we are introduced, after a fashion. I am your father; you are my son, my only child.
I was reared in a household long steeped in the traditions of a military family. My father, and three fathers before him all wore the uniform of our nation, and before that, the same can be said of my progenitors in the British Isles. While I am vastly more fond of democracy as a form of government than its author, I was from an early age, and remain to this day convinced of the rightness of Burke's words, that "All that is required for evil to prevail is for good men to do nothing." The quote was a favorite of my father's, I learned it almost as early as the words to the national anthem and saying grace before dinner. So many years have passed between then and now, and I have too many regrets to number, but be it to my credit or to my fault, my belief in the American ideal is not one of them.
Your mother was 19, and I was 22, that summer long ago when we first met. I cannot describe here, without feeling more than a little self-serving, all the doubts I was carrying with me in the weeks leading up to my enlistment. Every news article I read, and everyone I talked to who was already involved in the war effort lead me to believe that I was going to die young and undistinguished on a clandestine field of battle so remote that almost the moment the wheels of my plane lifted off from U.S. soil, I would cease to be. Which, oddly, I did, but not for the reason I suspected.
In the course of the war, I freely admit to distinguishing myself through a series of mishaps, errors, lucky guesses, gambles, outright blessings, sheer ignorance in knowing when to cut my losses and quit, and a generous helping of pure dumb luck. I survived the Vietnam conflict and even prospered, as much as one in my position could. Ultimately, I hesitate to attribute my survival there to anything other than divine intervention. It was chaos. No one that young is ever telling the truth if they say they always knew what they were doing, were always convinced they were right, and never failed to doubt the outcome. As it was, the outcome in most quarters failed to live up to what I wanted. Except for the part about still breathing when an engagement was over. It's almost all still classified, so I'll take it all to my grave. My successes, if they can be called that, were the nails in the coffin of a normal life back in the states.
Like you, I am an only child. Until the day they died, my parents always believed that I was a career Army man. I have a current uniform and a military I.D., but that is just a cover for other things. There is little I can write here in relating the facts of my subsequent years. To provide confirmation, suffice it to say this: I took the liberty of drinking a couple of cold ones and whizzing on her unmarked grave for you. She was evil, and a fantastic liar, but she told you the truth about at least one thing. Forgive M., he is a friend, and said what he believed was right.
To my great shame, you were almost school aged before, through the agency of one near to my family, I knew you even existed. I will never be able to make up to your mother the debt I owe to her for raising you to be the fine man you are. Martha was sweet and lovely, and while I could have made a more mature decision then, I cannot help but see the good man you are and be proud.
I cannot accurately relate the agony of finding out that I was a father, and had missed almost four years of your life. I came home as soon as my duties allowed, and while I was too ashamed and afraid then to contact her, I spent a whole afternoon in Central Park one Saturday, watching you picnic and read books and play on the playground with your beautiful mother. Even then, from a distance, I could see how close you two were; how she doted on you, and how you adored her. My work demanded secrecy, both for its success and your safety. I convinced myself, foolishly, that you didn't need me, and returned to my duties with heavy heart. I did contact her several times over the years, and offered meager assistance. Still, with my dying breath, my greatest earthly regrets will be these two: that I had to compel your mother to remain silent about my identity, and that while I was your father, I was never your dad.
I could write more, but by now I'm probably trying your patience. If this is the only contact you ever desire from me, I cannot blame you. I hope, at least, that I have answered some of your questions. I have certainly done nothing to deserve any more of your time. Still, my life is different now, and while I know it's a foolish desire, I hope one day we will meet on good terms.
Your father,
Charles Trent
