The law of averages caught up to the floating book shop. After many sales yesterday, zilch today at the exact same location. Right back at 'em tomorrow. Meanwhile, here's an excerpt from Killing I hope is appropriate for the holiday:
The ground floor of the two story house, whose exterior had been modernized in brick and wood, was dark except for the light emanating from a large television screen situated in the modest living room. Although it was February, the Christmas decorations had yet to be taken down.
"Danny?" a woman called, entering the front door, which led, through a small foyer, to the living room. "Why're you sittin' in the dark?"
She switched on a lamp. The interior had been modernized beautifully. Dante, slumped on a couch, squinted.
"It jus' started," he said somberly, staring at the screen.
Tension rose to his wife's thin face as she poised herself against the recliner, eyes focused on the newscaster. Dressed conservatively, dark hair cut short, she imparted a maturity and seriousness that contrasted with the youthfulness of her features. No one ever guessed she was 41, which was both a source of pride and pain to her husband, who, although by no means obese, had the thickness of middle age and receding hairline to match.
"Does your mother know?" she said.
"I doubt it. My father don't watch the news no more. He says they’re a buncha lib'ral sfacheem."
She pursed her lips, apparently stifling a response. "I'll go up and tell her."
"Let 'em eat first. Why spoil their dinner?"
She looked at him. He kept his eyes on the screen, reluctant to meet an accusing gaze.
"Where's Jo Jo?"
He shrugged lifelessly. "She wasn't here when I came in."
"I'll make you some soup. You can't fast the whole war." She took a step toward the kitchen, which was at the rear, and paused. "I hope you're satisfied."
He hadn't the resolve to respond. Besides, what might he say - that someone's children had to stand up to the thugs of the world? This was no time for arguing. He was as distressed as she. He would rather have Junior home, too, despite the fact that his country needed him. For the first time, his son had been apart from the family at Christmas. Now they feared he would never again be home for the holidays.
The kitchen door swung open. Rays of light cut into the living room. Eyes covered, he looked toward the silhouette of his wife in the doorway.
"When're you gonna take down the decorations?" she said, annoyed. "You always have ‘em down the day after the Epiphany. People must think we're giamoaks."
He'd been wondering when she would mention it. She was not one to let anything, however trivial, slide. Apparently her thoughts had been elsewhere.
"I ain't takin' 'em down 'til Junior comes home."
She turned away. Light left the doorway. He realized he'd left the decorations up to test her as well.
His thoughts were interrupted by hurried footsteps pounding the porch. The door burst open.
"Daddy..." said a teenage girl breathlessly.
"We know, mommy," he said, patting the space beside him.
She flopped onto the sofa and leaned against him heavily. As he put his arm around her, he smelled tobacco. He hadn't the will to scold her. He hoped it was her friends and not she who indulged. He'd been a smoker himself. He'd begun in Vietnam and eventually passed the habit on to his wife, who'd only recently quit herself. His daughter was now 18. It was time she made her own decisions, even foolish ones. He would mention it another time. At present it was trivial in light of what his son was facing.
"There’s nothin' to worry about yet," he said, kissing her forehead. "Looks like we're gonna bomb 'em roun' the clock hopin' they'll wise up an' get lost."
"You were right all along."
"I wish I wasn't. He gave us no choice, though. Now he's gotta be squashed before he gets even more dangerous."
The family, Dante's parents included, sat huddled around the television late into the evening. The women were the first to retire, leaving father and son alone.
"Let's see if they botch this like they did your war," said the elder, cane poised between his knees.
"We won't. If anything, it'll make us try harda to get it right." Did he really believe that or was he trying to fool himself? he wondered. "Bush's been there. He knows what it's like. He won't tie the gen'rals’ hands."
"We'll see. You can't trust politicians. They’re always up to no good, sittin' nice an' cozy in Washin'ton while the little guys're dyin'. Roosevelt let the Japs bomb Pearl Harbor to get us atta the depression. 'New Deal,' my ass, the socialis' bastid."
Dante made a face. "That's crazy, Pa. No president'd let all those people get killed jus' to get the country goin'. This ain't Russia. Now you soun' like all the conspiracy nuts you hate so much. An' where would you be wit'out Social Security an' Medicare, which the lib'rals got you?"
"I'd’ve had more money to put in the bank."
Dante was about to say the money would have been squandered on broads and booze. He restrained himself. After all, this was his father. "It wouldn'ta been enough. You’re comin' out way ahead."
"Shows you what saps they are. Why should the little guy work hard or save? Then again, they don't really give a crap 'bout the little guy. It's jus' their way'a buyin' votes."
To Dante, it did seem foolish of the government to bail out someone like his father. And he feared there were many like him. He did not know if those in need should be deprived because of the bums, however. Trouble was, it seemed the government was making it easy for too many citizens to be bums.
"You always said you were for the war, anyway."
"Sure I was, jerko. We shoulda hit first, that's all. Everybody an' 'is mother knew we were gonna get it sooner or later. We shoulda got in soon as Hitler made 'is first move. The Japs were up to no good all along in China. An idiot coulda seen what was up. We let 'em get off to a quick start an' it cost us big time."
"We don't hit first. That ain't what this country's about."
"That's why it's in the shape it's in. We shoulda knocked the Russkies all the way back to Mosco' too, or threatened to nuke 'em if they didn' get back where they belonged. They saw what the bomb did to the Japs. There never woulda been a cold war, no Korea or Vietnam to make mistakes in."
"You see everything twenty-twenty."
"I can still see that dumb hick's face. He wasn't wit’ us a week. I told 'im to put 'is pack in fronta the little slot in the bunker. He wouldn't listen. Sure enough a piece'a shrapnel got in an' got 'im. I was lucky a piece didn' get me too, the stupit bastid."
Dante grew cold with fear as he realized there wouldn't be many combat veterans on the scene to show his son the ropes, the little tidbits that increased the chances of survival. When had America last fought in a desert - World War II? He hoped there would be Israelis on hand to lend expertise. In Vietnam he'd been taken under the wing of a Californian whose parents had been raised in Brooklyn. The others in the unit, all seasoned, several into a second tour of duty, were cold to him at first, as they were to subsequent replacements, until he proved himself, "broke his cherry," as they said. Still, he would never forget the sense of panic he experienced the day his mentor's orders came through. He'd never felt such isolation. He adjusted quickly, however. He had no choice. He wondered what had happened to that guy.
"That kid an' thousands like ‘im’d still be alive if we'd’a hit firs'," said his father emotionlessly. "The war woulda been over way before then. It only had a few months to go as it was."
"You can't look at it like that. There's always gonna be mistakes. It ain't 'two an' two.'"
His father dismissed the comment with a wave. "Whatta you know? You’re a dope. I'm goin' up to bed."
Dante chuckled, then recalled the gravity of the situation and regretted the levity, as if it were an affront to the war effort.
"Need help?" he said, noting his father's difficulty.
The elder's reply was a peevish grumble. Dante watched sadly as his father rocked and bounced until he'd created enough momentum to propel himself to his feet. Stooped by pain, he walked out through the mist of cigarette smoke he'd left. 70, he appeared much older than his years. He'd had to give up golf, which he'd learned late in life and loved, and which was perhaps the only thing he'd ever loved besides his sins. At breakfast one morning long ago, Dante heard a repeated whoosh coming from the backyard. His father was practicing, strengthening his swing, a weighted donut affixed to the shaft of his driver. It became a daily routine - until various ailments defeated him. He now rarely left the vicinity of the house. There had been times he went missing for days. He refused to attend family functions, which displeased no one. Although he suffered chest pains and fits of coughing, he wouldn't stop smoking. He'd been smoking unfiltered cigarettes since the age of twelve. He'd lived fast for many years and it'd caught up to him. His wife, on the other hand, 65, was spry and energetic. Unlike her husband, she always looked on the bright side. To Dante, it seemed she was being rewarded for her goodness and his father punished for his wickedness. What an odd couple they were. He feared others thought the same of Deanna and him. Once, he'd believed they were an ideal match.
He gazed forlornly at the framed photograph of his wedding day, which was set upon a wall unit he'd built himself. How long ago that seemed. Curiously, his tour of duty, which had preceded his marriage, seemed to have ended only recently.
He returned from the kitchen with air freshener. He'd come to hate the odor of burning tobacco.
He fell asleep on the sofa, television running. His wife woke him in the morning. There were no new developments in the Gulf.
He kept vigil each night, around the clock, lying on the couch, dozing, eyes snapping open occasionally, garnering the latest information. He watched no other programming. In his mind, entertainment at this time was unpatriotic, base. It was the least he could sacrifice, besides donating blood, while young Americans were risking their lives on foreign soil, and he was in the comfort of his home.
One day he found five letters from his son in the mailbox. He suspected there wouldn't be any more for a while, as the ground war was imminent and secrecy was being observed. Although this added to his distress, it was as he preferred, as he believed silence would save lives. He despised those journalists who questioned military spokesmen about the specifics of strategy and estimates of casualties, and those who apologized for those who asked such questions, who claimed it was their duty to ask. To him, they were putting their reputations before the welfare of those doing the fighting. He would bet none had a son facing enemy fire. He hoped a bomb would fall on their headquarters.
It became obvious, at least in the early days of the effort, that the press was being frustrated - and he loved it. He believed it would help the allies attain victory or, at least, a decisive advantage, more quickly. His bitterness at what he believed had been the partisanship of the media coverage of Vietnam was suddenly fresh in mind. He now had hope that this war would be different. He was at once fascinated and appalled by the presentation of the event, which gave it the air of what pundits called a "miniseries." He was impressed by the sophistication of modern military technology, of how far it had advanced in the 20 years since Vietnam. It reinforced his belief in a strong national defense. He regretted not having voted for Ronald Reagan. He was enthralled by the terminology: "Smart Bombs," "Apache," "Humvee," "SCUD," "Collateral Damage."
Visit Vic’s sites:
Vic’s Third Novel (Print or Kindle): http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
Vic’s Website: http://membershttp://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
Vic’s Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle): http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic’s 2nd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/6b86st6
Vic’s 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/94t5h
Vic’s Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3f
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