Day of the Bomb (28 page)

Stanley ignored him.

“Everyone knows Dr. Graves fixed your mom
so she can’t have any more dumb kids like you.”

“Yeah? Who cares, Mr. Perfect Poo-poo?”

Jimbo turned to his hangers-on. “Mr.
Perfect Poo-poo? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Stanley ran home and asked Thelma what
getting fixed meant. She blushed and told him to wait until his
father came home. Jason sighed and made an appointment with Dr.
Graves after he explained what getting fixed was but could not say
why it had happened to his wife. He reminded Dr. Graves of his long
ago promise.

“As I recall you said if I had any
questions after Stanley was born I could contact you. Well, Stanley
has one I can’t answer.” He poked his son’s ribs.

“Why’d you fix my mama so’s I can’t have
brothers and sisters like other kids?”

Dr. Graves stood and waddled to the
front of his desk and perched on it so that he looked down on the
interlopers. “I’ll try to keep it simple for your simple mind.
Lower class and poor people are overpopulating the entire planet. I
suspected that you had a mental defect, which meant any siblings
might also. I did the humane thing. Besides, she was bleeding
internally. I had to remove her uterus or she would have died.” A
lie, the last two sentences caused his left hand to
twitch.

Stanley blinked and turned to his dad,
whose face was red and jaw clenched.

“Look, son. It’s social Darwinism, survival
of the fittest. I adhere to the science of eugenics. One of our
founders, Margaret Sanger said it best; ‘more children from the
fit, less from the unfit.’ Unfortunately, our movement has never
taken hold like it should.”

Jason’s fingernails dug into the armrests
of his chair. “So just because you think we’re poor white trash,
you fixed Thelma?”

“No. All that was just a distant
secondary consideration, of course. Because of your wife’s bleeding
I had to operate.” This time both hands twitched.

Jason left muttering and Stanley with
his head bowed. Dr. Graves went to his files and fumbled through A
to D until he located Thelma’s. He added a notation to the April
12, 1947 chart: “Hysterectomy performed due to excessive bleeding.”
No sense in having to explain his actions to some medical board in
case Jason or Thelma complained. After finishing that day’s last
appointment, he drove to Joslinberg to visit his son’s family,
especially its newest member. He loved playing the part of doting
grandfather.

“And how is the little future Dr. Graves
today?” He shoved his face into the crib until the eight-month old
could touch it. “The future depends on you. Maybe by the time you
are in practice, birth control will be mandated to be free by
federal law and abortion will eliminate all the rest of any
unnecessary babies that try to slip through the cracks. I’m
counting on you, Grandson, to make a better world than the awful
one I’ve had to endure.”

***

Dan coughed nervously
after Stanley told him of Dr. Graves’ explanation. Theirs was a
unique confessional, an old wooden dock that extended into Lake
Madisin. “I’ve hear
d some stories
about him.”

“What?”

“That he does secret abortions for girls
who get knocked up. One girl got some infection afterwards and
almost died. They sent her to the hospital over in Joslinberg to
cover it up so he wouldn’t get in trouble.”

“Oh. What’s an abortion?”

Dan answered in simple terms.

Count Rockula’s Top 40
Countdown, his weekly tribute to an ever changing order of songs,
old and new, ended their conversation as Johnny Rivers’
Secret Agent Man
faded and The Beach Boys
Sloop John B
began. One
of his favorite songs, Stanley sang along. Dan joined in on the
chorus.

“Let me go home, I want to go home…”

Monday, Monday
replaced the Caribbean mood with words
about the day of the week that songwriter John Phillips said caused
crying all day long. A full moon lit the night enough to cast
shadows. The only sounds intruding on the Count’s magic beamed by
radio were the bass, bluegill, and crappie coming to the lake’s
surface.

“I guess we’re
lucky
it’s Friday and not
Monday,” Stanley said.

“Yeah.” Dan tensed when a
car squealed to a stop in the otherwise deserted parking lot. Its
glass pack mufflers emitted exploding cherry bomb sounds that he
knew came from only a handful of Madisin’s cars, including Jimbo’s
1957 Chevy. When he saw the silhouette of the parked
car
’s jutting tail fins he
grabbed Stanley. “Let’s get out of here!”

They started creeping down the
100-fooot dock but a bulky figure blocked their escape.

“It’s the retards, little
Danny
boy and big bad singer man
Stanley.”

A beer bottle flew by their heads.

“Cut it out, Jimbo.” Dan tried to block the
advancing hulk.

Jimbo answered by shoving him
headfirst onto the wooden planks. As Dan regained his footing Jimbo
sucker punched him. Dan crumpled and lay still. “Seven, eight,
nine, ten. The winner and still undefeated world champion, Jimbo
McManey!” Jimbo held his arms aloft and celebrated his imagined
victory. He turned toward the one he had mocked since fourth
grade.

Stanley stumbled as he backed down the
dock. “You hurt Dan. He’s not getting up.”

“He’s a pansy. Just like you.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Don’t be a feared, matey. I’m just Captain
Kidd, the nastiest pirate that sails the Seven Seas.” He thrust an
invisible cutlass at his prey.

“Get away.”

“A feared of me saber? It’ll only hurt a
bit as I run you through.”

Stanley’s last backward step found
air and then water. He thrashed at the dark water until it foamed.
“Help me! I can’t swim.”

Jimbo grunted. “Don’t look at me. I’m
wearing my new madras shirt and penny loafers. I’ll get pansy man
to save you.” He staggered to his car and grabbed a half full beer
bottle from a rider and returned to Dan. “I baptize you in the name
of the…” Jimbo poured the sudsy brew on Dan’s face. “Get up. Dufus
needs you. He fell in.”

Dan moaned and crawled toward
Stanley’s screams. They had ceased by the time Dan dove into the
chilly water. Madisin Lake’s muddy bottom had sent a blanket of
silt heavenward that covered Stanley like a shroud as he sank into
it. The moonlight penetrated the murky liquid even less as Dan dove
in and further stirred the water, hands searching for his friend.
After five dives and finding nothing but tires, rocks, and fishing
tackle that cut and poked him, Dan swam to shore. He ran to their
bikes and hopped onto the faster of the two, Stanley’s 3-speed
Stingray. Legs frantically pumping, butt sliding up and down the
long banana shaped seat, Dan pedaled to the nearest house, a half
mile distant.

***

“Okay, Jimbo. Then what happened?” The
detective looked up from his notes.

“I went back to my car and we drove off. I
didn’t see Dan in my headlights as we passed the dock so I knew he
had gone into the water to get Stanley. You need to talk to
him.”

“Did you push Stanley into the water?”

“No way, man. I already told you so. Look,
I’m missing out on the big wrestling tournament today because of
you and your dumb questions. Coach is going to be plenty mad.”

The detective scowled and told Jimbo
to leave. A captain joined him in the lunchroom, which doubled as
the interrogation room.

“What do you think?”

“Who knows? The three clowns that were with
Jimbo are no help. One says he was passed out. Another said he was
barfing his guts out at the lake. I believe it since they put away
two cases of beer. The third said he was trying to help the sick
one out. They’re like the statue of the three monkeys; see no evil,
hear no evil, speak no evil.”

“I’ll recommend an inquest just so maybe
one of them will remember something else.”

“Yeah.”

***

Two hundred seventy nine mourners
gathered for Stanley’s funeral, a large congregation for Madisin.
Afterwards, Dan tried to comfort Thelma but she shook her head and
excused herself as fresh tears fell. He felt isolated as others
congregated in groups, mostly to speculate on “what really happened
the night he drowned.” If he approached any, they dissolved before
he reached them.

Jason was tangled in a conversation
with Madisin’s mayor. When Jason motioned for Dan to sit down
beside him the mayor winked and rose to press the flesh with those
gathered.

“
I’m glad you came over.
You rescued me from Mr. Blabbermouth. He’s always trumpeting on
about his party
. Your mom tells
me you want to enlist after you graduate next month.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Did she tell you to talk me out of
it?”

“No. She just asked me to tell you what
being in the military is really like. That’s all.”

“Oh. Mainly I just need to get away from
Madisin. I’ve been stuck here all my life.”

“So that’s it. You got Green Grass
Fever.”

“What’s that?”

“It makes you think that the grass is
always greener somewhere besides where you are.”

“Like you wanting to go back to Monkey
Island?”

Jason smiled like he did when he was
down to his last checker piece or had been dealt a bad hand of
cards. “Yeah. I guess so. You know what cured me of
that?”

“No.”

“The war in Korea. I saw too many men
die that shouldn’t of. There was this one officer who polished his
helmet all the time until it gleamed. It reflected the least little
bit of light. His men told him not to do it, that he needed mud on
his helmet so the enemy couldn’t see it. So one night there was
just enough moonlight that some North Korean or Chinese sniper
aimed five inches lower that that shiny helmet and killed him. If
you want to go away so bad, do like your brother Karl and go off to
college. Get yourself a student deferment to keep yourself from
being drafted.”

“Karl got through college
on a Navy ROTC scholarship. Now he’s on a ship in the Mediterranean
somewhere. The only way I can go to college would be to do what he
did, get a scholarship. But my grades aren’t good
enough.
”

Jason pulled a tattered newspaper
clipping from his shirt pocket. “This is what Truman says about why
he fired General MacArthur during Korea: ‘I fired him because he
wouldn’t respect the authority of the President…I didn’t fire him
because he was a dumb son of a bitch, although he was, but that’s
not against the law for generals. If it was, half to three quarters
of them would be in jail.’” He folded the paper. “You see, that’s
the attitude even more nowadays. Civilians like LBJ and Secretary
of Defense McNamara micromanage the military. They’re afraid to
delegate anything anymore.”

***

Jason
a
ccompanied Dan to the
recruiter’s office a week later as he signed up for a delayed
enlistment. He made certain that the recruiter wrote 91A-10 in the
field marked MOS on the contract. “We just want to be sure you
don’t write 11-B for infantryman by mistake, Sergeant. Dan here
wants to be a medic.”

The recruiter grumbled.

Basic training for Dan
was at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. His drill sergeants were lifers
intent on instilling enough knowledge and commonsense into their
charges to keep them from ending up as a statistic in the newspaper
back home. The oldest had served in WW
II; the youngest had one tour of duty in Vietnam and
could not wait to go back there. He snickered at the latest cycle
under his command.

“It’s been said before by others but bears
repeating. When you walked through that gate you became mine. I am
your dad, mom, coach, priest, rabbi, minister, doctor, and the cop
who busted some of your sorry butts. For the next few months I own
you, body and soul. If you fail me, I will fail you and send you
back a cycle so that another drill sergeant can make you into a
soldier and keep you from coming home in a body bag.”

That night Dan awoke at 1 a.m. to
unfamiliar sounds. Down the long bay of two-tiered bunks he heard
boys crying, praying, and mumbling in their sleep. Their tears were
sometimes accompanied by the names of sweethearts or the word mom.
From then on, Dan wondered what he had agreed to for two years.

“Once your name goes on that contract,
there’s no turning back. They own you.” Jason had warned him
outside of the recruiter’s office.

Basic training proved to be that, basic.
Chants were learned to memorize military tenets.

“This is my weapon.” Hold up an imaginary
M-16. “This is my gun.” Point to below one’s belt. “One is for
killing, one is for fun.”

They marched everywhere: to get their
heads shaved, to take tests, to chow three times a day, to PT, to
the range. At first the drill sergeants’ calls were
constant.

“Your left, your left, your left, right,
left.”

In time as marching skills improved
that gave way to cadences that everyone chanted. There were ones
about Vietnam and Charlie Cong, about mom and your girl back home,
and about some scoundrel named Jody who at that very moment was
stealing your girl away. The only day off was Sundays, when troops
could visit a church service and relax. Mail call was always
welcomed.

“Stewart.”

“Here.” He grabbed two letters and smelled
them for any trace of perfume.

“McGinty…Abrams…Smith…Barker…Washington…Daniels…Rhinehardt…”