Armageddon (28 page)

The light changed and they crossed into Mission Street, past the armory where Sean had held his first rifle.

“Drive down to Twenty-third Street, then make a right. My house is just before Guerrero.”

“Yes, sir.” The driver was given with a sudden feeling of equality. The major, obviously a VIP, lived in a neighborhood that wasn’t half as nice as his own in Cleveland.

Momma and Poppa stood on the rickety porch. Poppa was supported by a cane, which trembled in his palsied hand. The driver stopped, opened the door, saluted, and stood awkwardly as Sean’s mother ran to meet him and the old man hobbled down the three steps one at a time to join the circle of silent embracers.

At last when the tears were under control, Sean nodded to the driver that he was dismissed, and the three of them walked quietly toward the house.

In the grandeur of his office and quarters in Rombaden and Queen Mother’s Gate he had all but forgotten how very small and very tired the old house was. Large, overstuffed, mohair-covered furniture of a bygone age, the airless, lightless living room, drooping lace curtains, cracked window blinds. The ornate light fixture with crystal tear drops hung low in the center of the room over the round oak table, and Momma’s doilies covered every chair back and arm. The petit-point footstool before Poppa’s rocker ... all of it was the same, only more weary.

On the mantel, a bit removed from the cheap plaster statuette of the Virgin Mother, were photographs of the O’Sullivan brothers in uniform ... Private Liam ... Lieutenant Timothy ... and himself.

He saw the decay wrought from suffering borne by his parents. The last three years had aged them twenty. That big, raw-boned, broad-backed Irishman, Pat O’Sullivan, was a withered old shell.

“You look so tired,” Momma said.

“Just the plane ride, Momma. They don’t build those bombers for comfort.”

But it was more than that, Momma knew. All the youth had fled him.

“Now, before we get involved in Mother’s nonsense about how many meals you can eat and how many socks she can mend, tell us exactly how long you are able to stay?”

Poppa had intuition ... he knew. “I’m afraid only two days.”

“So soon!”

“I’m sorry, Momma. There will be a staff car picking me up day after tomorrow at ten in the morning.”

“But ... Sean ...”

“Now, Mother. We promised. None of that. This is an unexpected treat. We are grateful to have Sean for even this much.”

Pretty soon, Eileen O’Sullivan had assumed the role of a mother whose son had returned from the wars and she was in her kitchen cooking with vengeance. Sean and Patrick sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea and trying to speak of all those things that had gone by in three years of his absence.

In his own home and with his parents Sean realized the cruelty and finality of Hansen’s wish. His parents had become ancient and weak from tragedy. It would put them in their graves to tell them he was leaving for perhaps the last time. And where was the justice of it? Oh, heavenly Christ! Where is the justice? Momma kept talking about how wonderful it was going to be to have Sean home to stay. Momma talked of little else.

Yes, yes, Sean agreed. It would be wonderful.

“You said you figured about two semesters to go on your Ph.D. Are you planning to go back to Cal?”

“Yes.”

And then Momma asked Sean if he had given any thought to starting a family, and Sean said yes, he had given it a lot of thought.

Patrick O’Sullivan kept his peace during dinner, for now it was Momma’s moment to speak of grandchildren and ask what he ate and where he lived in Germany and how he was taking care of himself.

“Goodness no, Sean! I won’t hear of you wiping dishes. It’s not a fit job for a major in the United States Army. You and Pat go on into the living room. I’ll be in shortly.”

Pat set his rocker into motion. Much of the trembling in his hand subsided. Where to begin? What to say?

“How do you spend your days, Poppa?”

“Well, I’ve still the best collection of John McCormack records in the Mission. And there’s the radio. Mother goes up to the church at least once a day ...”

“Are you able to get around at all?”

“Enough. We sleep downstairs. That saves me the steps. On the sunny days I walk up to Dolores Street or to the church. And thank God, the old eyes are as sound as a dollar. I like to read. I read most of the time since the last attack. There is so much to be learned.”

“Poppa, I’ve been thinking. It would be nice for you and Momma to have one of those pretty little houses on Lincoln Way just across from the park. They’re a lot brighter and you would have the park to walk in or just sit in and read ...”

“Come now, Sean. Mother and I wouldn’t know how to live anywhere else. This tired old house may be depressing to you because you’re young and have ambitions and that is how it should be. To us, it’s comfortable like an old shoe. We’ve been here nearly thirty years. All of you boys were born here ...”

“But ... if I should study at Cal I’d want you nearby so we could be together ...”

“You’re worrying too much about us. That’s why you’ve come home, because you’re worried about us.”

The visitors started arriving. Only a few close friends they knew Sean would want to see. And when they had gone the three of them talked far into the night. And remembering and speaking Tim and Liam’s names was not so painful as he believed it would be. When you have become very, very old like Momma and Poppa, memories are a sweet drug to soothe the long hours... .

The next morning Eileen O’Sullivan awoke at an ungodly hour to bake more pies and cookies than any one human could possibly eat in a week. And, while his father took an early afternoon nap, Sean strolled around the neighborhood.

... Mission High on Dolores Street. Room 28. Mr. Whitehurst’s class. That is where he had first caught the fever of political science.

... The Coliseum ... the old “bucket of blood” fight club ... “Introducing! In the red corner wearing green trunks, at one hundred seventy-five and a half, from San Francisco’s rough, tough Mission ... the dancing master ... Schoolboy O’Sullivan!”

Stick him and run, jab and go ... don’t get hit ... don’t let Momma see you with a busted-up face ... jab run, jab run.

... The boys still hung around the ice-cream parlor at Eighteenth and Dolores. Some were inside playing the pin-ball machine, others outside looking over the quail.

... Buy at Lachman’s Furniture. 17 Reasons Why! The neon light blinked off and on ... 17 Reasons Why.

... Bunch of kids on the corner waiting for the
Call-Bulletin
car to drop off their papers, pitching pennies against the wall.

“Hey taxi!” Sean called on an impulse.

“Where to, general?”

“Run me out to the beach ... Cliff House.”

There were no seals on Seal Rock. The gulls owned it for now. Sean walked past a monstrous structure housing the Sutro Baths, a relic from before the turn of the century. It held a half-dozen pools of varied temperatures, an ice rink, a collection of junk, curios, old autos, pre-earthquake pictures, a hundred rattly-bang music boxes, Tom Thumb’s clothing, penny movies, all in this mammoth hole along with talking birds, mummies, miniature towns made out of matchsticks, bowling games, voice-recording machines, and a magic well which accepted pennies, nickels, and dimes, catering to that American mania for throwing money in pools of water.

When Sean left Sutro he was drawn magnetically to the hills behind it leading down to the ocean. Years before, stairways and caves had been carved in the jagged rock for a sea-level restaurant, but the trick tides flooded the area and caused the project to be abandoned. It had been all but forgotten, except by adventurous little boys and nostalgic soldiers on leave.

From here he was behind the Sutro Baths and could see the archway that ran through the middle of one of the Seal Rocks. Sean felt his way down one of the tunnels. Midway he could see a diffused ray of light from the ocean, and spray pounded into the hole. At the end of the tunnel he climbed out onto the rocks just above the smashing surf and looked at the ocean and its golden gateway into San Francisco.

How many hours had they sat there, the three of them, after hitching rides to the beach on the backs of streetcars. They came and watched the ships sail in and out and played games of great adventure in the rocks and caves; and Tim fought the Irish Revolution and Liam read Irish poetry.

Sean was overcome with the nearness of his brothers and he was gripped with sadness. In all those months and years away he had always looked back to this place and to his native city with affection, but now it was an infinite part of his being. His brothers, their youth ... this city was him and he was flooded by a thousand memories of things he had believed he had forgotten.

He walked away with a leaden heart. At the end of Golden Gate Park, facing the ocean, he walked past the enshrined sloop that had belonged to the explorer Amundsen, who had sailed it into the Arctic Circle.

He walked the entire length of the park ... past the polo fields and lakes where little boys played great seamen with toy boats; and past the buffalo pens and rowboat lakes and those hidden places where sailors and their girls made love; past the Japanese Garden, now called the Oriental Garden ... past all the lushness ... immersed in memory.

Suddenly he was out of the park and the great church of St. Ignatius rose up before him. Sean entered, knelt, and crossed himself. It was that time of day when a few old ladies prayed for the lives of sons they might see again and many candles burned for sons who would never return.

It had been so long ... so very long. All those prayers Sean had set away, had doubted, had neglected, all welled up now in a single desperate cry ... “Oh Mother of God! I don’t want to go back to Germany! Help me do the right thing!”

The quiet acceptance of Sean’s departure the next day made things comfortable for everyone. The matter was being treated with the idea that Sean would soon return for good. And, until he went upstairs to sleep, he could not find it within him to talk about the true purpose of his visit.

Sean tossed restlessly in his bed. His brothers were with him ... their mementos all about him. Baseball gloves, class pictures, Liam’s first notebook of poetry, Tim’s medals, the crucifix on the wall, books, boxing gloves, the crystal radio. Nothing in this room had been touched. It had been kept in spotless anticipation for the homecoming of the warrior sons.

Sean heard his father struggle up the stairs and knock on the door.

“I didn’t wake you?”

“No, Poppa, but you shouldn’t walk the steps.”

The bed creaked as Pat sat on its edge, as he had done a thousand times. He stroked his son’s hair and Sean was a little boy again.

“It has been a long hard journey for you, hasn’t it, son?”

“Yes, Poppa.”

“Was there a woman in England?”

“Yes.”

“I could sense it from the tone of your letters.”

“I never could lie to you or fool you very well ...”

“And you loved her very much?”

“Yes. She was married ... we had to ... break it off.”

“Does that still trouble you so deeply?”

“I haven’t gotten over it fully. I guess I never will.”

“But there’s something else?”

Sean turned his back.

“Why did you make this trip?”

It became so easy to talk with Poppa beside him this way. He always understood. He knew from the first instant that Sean was in a turmoil. “I’ve been asked to stay in the Army. General Hansen wants me to go to Berlin.”

“Well, Mother and I won’t be too disappointed. From your letters we had already anticipated there would be somewhat of a wait until your discharge.”

“You don’t understand, Poppa. It means ... at least four years ... maybe more.”

“Oh ... I see ... well now ... what do you think needs to be done?”

“I want to come home. I want to come home. We should be together now ... the three of us ... that’s what is right.”

“Sean, there are certain indulgences that all parents would like to have. We want the closeness of our children and the pleasure of our grandchildren, but far more rewarding to your mother and me is seeing you grow into the kind of man you have become. This great pride you have given us far outweighs our little selfish pleasures.” The wise father prodded his son to turn around and face him. “What is it you aren’t telling me?”

Sean pointed to the two empty beds. “I can’t go on living with their murderers.”

“This General Hansen. You have a great deal of admiration for him, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He knows your feelings about the Germans?”

“Yes, he does.”

“Knowing this and admiring you also, if he still asks you to go to Berlin it must be mighty important.”

Sean swung his feet to the floor, held his face in his hands. “Yes, it’s important.”

“Tell me.”

“General Hansen sees dangers facing us that few others will admit to. He needs to have certain people with him in Berlin who realize we have to hold a line ... until the rest of the country wakes up to what is happening. He’s afraid he might not be able to find enough people willing to ...”

“Haven’t you pretty well answered your own question?”

Sean sprung to his feet. “How about me, Poppa! Christ, I’ll be in my mid-thirties before I get back. I won’t be fit to compete in class with kids. I won’t be able to study any more. And it may damned well be too late to start a family. And us! Oh Poppa! I may never see you again ... I don’t want to be a soldier!”

Sean O’Sullivan cried in his father’s arms as he had not cried since he was a small child. “Oh God!” he cried, “I hate them ... I want to come home. I miss Liam and Tim ... oh God!”

“Sean O’Sullivan,” his father whispered, “you must be proud to be needed this way. I am a simple man and I do not have a command of language or philosophy. There is only one question you must ask and answer. Your mother does not count. I do not count. You do not count, or your ambitions or your life. Only one question.”

“What is it?”

“Is America worth it.”