Honor
By Daniel Grotta
Published by Pixel Hall at Smashwords
Copyright ©2012 by Daniel Grotta.
Cover design copyright ©2012 by Sally Wiener Grotta
Pixel Hall Press, Newfoundland, PA USA
www.Facebook.com/PixelHallPress
All rights reserved. No portion may be reprinted, displayed or otherwise reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except for brief quotes in critical articles or reviews. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
A Black Bear, Pennsylvania Story
by Daniel Grotta
"Come on, come on, put a lot more spit and polish into it, knucklehead!" Gene Engelhardt urged his brother-in-law, Jeff Smith. As usual, there was more than a little annoyance in his voice. "These puppies gotta shine so fuckin' bright I can see right up a nun's habit, eh? But you wouldn't know about that shit, would you?" Gene was in the back room of Engelhardt's Auto Supply on Main Street, Black Bear, Pennsylvania, changing from his normal workaday white shirt/black tie/dark grey slacks into the green dress uniform of a Pennsylvania National Guard lieutenant-colonel. To Jeff, kneeling on the faded brown linoleum floor beside his brother-in-law, had fallen the obviously menial, deliberately demeaning job of polishing Gene's black high-topped dress boots.
But then, Gene always made sure that Jeff was given all the menial, demeaning tasks he could think up.
"You'd never survive a week in boot camp, my friend," Gene chided as he leaned over and inspected the boots. He had halfheartedly tried to say it lightly, with a hint of levity, but instead there was a decided hard edge of sarcasm, a tone of disapproval that went well beyond the spit and shine job. "A week? No, not even a fuckin' day, the way you willy-nilly about. You gotta use more elbow grease, lots and lots of elbow grease, hear? Harder! Faster!"
Jeff didn't appear to mind Gene's sneering condescension, or at least, he didn't outwardly react to it in the slightest. He was used to being taunted and ordered about by Gene, a natural bully who, besides frequently reminding everyone that he was a decorated Vietnam vet and commander of the local VFW post, also happened to be Jeff's boss. Not only was Gene manager of the shop, he was a full partner with his father, A.H. Engelhardt, in the sub-S corporation that owned the auto supply store, the adjacent six-bay repair garage, and the used car lot across the street. And when A.H.'s diabetes, high blood pressure, failing kidneys, scarred liver, smoke-blackened lungs, or bad ticker finally accomplished what the entire German army couldn't do in more or less continual combat from Utah Beach to the Oder River, Gene undoubtedly would inherit the entire auto empire (minus generous financial legacies for Jeff's 15 year-old son Bobbie and 21-year-old daughter Melanie).
To Jeff, it just didn't seem worth the effort standing up to Gene's daily bullying. After all, until Bonnie finally passed away from breast cancer three years earlier, one day short of the turn of the new century, he had been blessed with twenty-six happy years of marriage to a wonderful, caring woman, as well as two smart, beautiful, and usually well-behaved children. On the other hand, Gene was saddled with an avaricious ex-wife who held custody of their two dull and unruly teenage sons like a revolving ransom note. What's more, village gossip took it as an article of faith that Gene's much younger trophy second wife slept in a separate bedroom and unaccountably disappeared for days or sometimes weeks at a time.
Jeff could also take a small amount of pride that, despite his rapidly approaching fiftieth birthday, he was reasonably fit, still able to easily slip into 30-year-old Levis faded into virtual colorlessness from hundreds of wash and rinse cycles. Unfortunately, Gene couldn't say the same. He might have once been a bull of a man who could bench press 400 pounds and rip a phone book in two. But in middle age, he had developed such a muscle-to-fat beer belly that, if Eileen Wilson at Black Bear Dry Cleaners hadn't sewn an expander into his waist pants last April, he wouldn't have been able to squeeze into his uniform for the soon-to-begin Flag Day parade.
* * * * * *
Jeff always dreaded the approach of that quartet of holidays that most Americans normally and nominally celebrated: Armistice Day, Memorial Day, Flag Day, and especially, the Fourth of July. Squeezing on the army uniform would invariably transform Gene from his usual annoying and overbearing civilian self into a gung-ho super-patriot who seemingly viewed civilians, especially those whom he assumed had never served in the armed forces, as slackers and shirkers, and – though he never came out and said it aloud – cowards and parasites. Once he put on those Jekyll-and-Hyde silver oak clusters, Gene would loudly complain to anyone (of course, always making certain that his brother-in-law was within earshot) that men who hadn't worn a uniform, hadn't stood up for America against its enemies, didn't deserve, hadn't earned, the right to live in the greatest, grandest democracy in the history of the world. In Gene's mind, there were two, and only two options: love it or leave it.
Jeff was painfully aware why Gene was so belligerently super-patriotic towards him. It was because of that old saw, that you can make a first impression only once. And Jeff's first impression on the God-fearing, staunchly Barry Goldwater Republican Engelhardt family had been about as bad as it could possibly get. As Gene was fond of retelling, Jeff was what the cat had dragged in, which was, in an odd sort of way, almost literally true. Back in April 1973, at the very last major Washington peace rally against the Vietnam War, Jeff had met his future wife, 17-year-old Bonnie Engelhardt. It was love at first sight, and although Jeff was beautiful, perfect in Bonnie's blue eyes, his long ponytailed hair, scruffy black beard, and shabby anti-establishment appearance (which included that pair of soiled and shredded bluejeans he still loved to wear to family picnics) had indelibly marked him as a pinko, a peacenik, and that ultimate appellation – although the word had even then become passé – a hippie.
Bonnie's family had been appalled at her choice for a husband (her mother had gone so far as to ask "can't you just live with him?"), especially since Jeff had only a high school education, no job, no prospects, no marketable skills, and apparently, no ambition. Despite the not-so-veiled threats ("she's too young, we can have you prosecuted"), the leading questions ("you know absolutely nothing about him or his family"), the attempts to break them up ("if you go through with this marriage, I swear I'll cut you off without a red cent"), and the bribes ("We'll give you a brand-new Corvette and a summer in Europe if you just get rid of that boy"), the two were married a month after Bonnie was graduated from high school. As a condition for A.H.'s begrudging blessing, Jeff shaved his beard, cut his hair, and accepted an eight-to-four job as an assistant parts clerk at Engelhardt's Auto Supply. In thirty years, his only job advancement had been a promotion to parts clerk, though he had never been given an assistant to help him.
* * * * * *
"O.K., that'll have to do," Gene sighed as he reached over and lifted his mirror-shine black boots from Jeff's unprotesting hands. "The parade starts in ten minutes. You'll have to drive me to the Legion Hall." The squat one-story bungalow that served as headquarters for both the American Legion and the Veterans of Foreign Wars was only a short and pleasant five-minute walk away. But Gene liked being chauffeured about in his almost new, silver-grey Mercedes S500, the most expensive and ostentatious car in town.
Jeff shrugged and walked over to the peg board on the wall where a dozen sets of keys hung, taking the one with the blue enamel three-pointed star medallion on it. He waited patiently outside in the idling automobile until Gene finally finished lacing his boots up and slid into the front passenger seat.
They did not speak to each other during the thirty-second ride.
"Pick me up in front of the bank after the parade," Gene ordered. He paid no mind to the fact that Jeff was also in a uniform of sorts, for the Flag Day parade. Jeff was an EMT – Emergency Medical Technician – with the Black Bear Volunteer Ambulance Association, and his uniform consisted of a black, beat-up baseball-style cap with 911 embroidered on the front, a catalog-ordered navy blue polyester short-sleeved shirt with medical patches and a silver name tag, plus a pair of plain black chino work trousers bought from Sears.
Jeff drove his brother-in-law's Mercedes three blocks to the bank, where the parade would end, and parked it in the rear lot. Then he jogged three-quarters of a mile to the red-painted cinderblock ambulance building on Hilltop Drive, and fell into place at the end of the line with the other volunteers, behind the corp's single Braun ambulance. As BBVAA's oldest active member (he had joined the year after he and Bonnie were married), he was entitled to ride up front in the rig. But Jeff preferred walking with the troops, as he called his fellow EMTs. So he always relinquished that particular honor to Mary Thompson or Al Marcuccio, non-active board members who were, respectively, older and less fit than he.
As usual, the parade started fifteen minutes late. As usual, it was led down Main Street by Lieutenant-Colonel Eugene Engelhardt, marching alone in front of a four-abreast (Charlie Sykes, Jack Holme, Tony Wycliff and Nancy Zwieg Anderson) color guard, followed by the Black Bear Drum & Bugle Corps. Behind them slowly rolled a beautifully restored 1949 Cadillac convertible with patent leather black paint, red pinstripes, and wide whitewall tires; positioned on top of the rear red leather seat was Wayne County's most decorated war hero, none other than Major A.H. Engelhardt (Ret.). Plastered on his brown World War II army unifhad orm was a fruit salad of battle ribbons and a long row of medals, most conspicuous among them the Silver Star, Bronze Star, and two Purple Hearts. A.H. (who, not surprisingly, always used his two initials, since A.H. happened to be short for Adolph Heinrich, two of the most odious first names imaginable) led Black Bear's parades for many years, until his knees gave out. With the village's near-unanimous approval, that honor had passed from father to son.
Eugene Engelhardt was, as previously mentioned, a Vietnam veteran, having served one tour of duty in 1966 as an ordinance officer at an ammunition depot on the outskirts of Saigon. He had been responsible for making certain that the 82nd Airborne Division's M60A1 tanks were properly supplied with the correct allocations of H.E. (High Explosive), incendiary, and armor-piercing 105mm artillery shells. It was an unglamorous but important job which he did well. But during the nearly 12 months he served in Vietnam, Gene hardly ever heard, much less saw any combat. He did, however, receive the meritorious service medal, army commendation medal, and army good conduct medal, and retired from the regular army with the rank of first lieutenant.
Immediately behind A.H.'s black Cadillac were about two score V.F.W. and American Legion members, aging males and females, some wearing civilian clothes with pin-encrusted folding caps and others sporting old uniforms of various service branches and ranks. They were followed by a convoy of Black Bear's fire engines, tankers, and rescue vehicles, which periodically let off ear-splitting sirens and claxtons. Lining the vehicles were firemen and firewomen in their Sunday uniforms; each carried a large brown bag of wrapped candies which they showered upon the spectators on both sides of the street. Following them were the local Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Cub Scouts and Brownies, the Wallenpaupack High School marching band and the junior high school majorettes, tractor-pulled Grange and 4H floats, Kiwanis and Lions floats, and a succession of auto dealer-new convertibles, each of which transported a beaming beauty queen of one sort or another.
In between each group or organization were rag-tag clusters of kids and adults, some of whom carried full-sized American flags, and others displayed hand-lettered placards with slogans such as "REMEMBER SEPTEMBER 11TH!" "U.S. YES, TERRORISM NO!" "SUPPORT OUR BRAVE TROOPS IN IRAQ!" Many in the crowd responded favorably by vigorously waving the little American flags that had been passed out earlier by the local Rotary.
As usual, the Black Bear Volunteer Ambulance Association brought up the rear of the parade. This was only proper since they might be called upon to respond to a real emergency call at any time, which they could do only if they were first or last in line. (Gene made sure they would never be first). And as usual, the very last volunteer in the parade was Jeff Smith. By the time he passed by the portable reviewing stand opposite the mini-mart, most spectators had already left for Black Bear's picnic grove, where hot dogs, sodas, popcorn and live music were being served up (free to parade participants and anyone in uniform). Jeff did not mind. In fact, he would altogether prefer not marching at all, except his absence would have looked far more peculiar, him being BBVAA's senior active member.
As Jeff shuffled towards the bank, where the parade officially ended, he smiled appreciably as his two greatest supporters clapped, cheered, and waved their flags at him. "Hi kids," he called out to his son and daughter, breaking ranks long enough to walk over and hug each briefly. "See you at the bandstand in a few minutes." Jeff rejoined the parade for the final 25 or so yards, but by then it had fallen apart and everyone had headed for the picnic grove. Rather than linger, he quickly walked to the rear of the bank, got into the silver Mercedes, and started cruising, looking for Gene.
"What kept you, knucklehead?" Gene asked as he exited the mini-mart with a half-eaten Baby Ruth in his left hand. "I gotta give my speech in five fuckin' minutes." To Jeff's ear, he sounded even more annoyed than usual, and not because he might be late to the picnic grove. It was scarcely a quarter-mile away, down by the creek, and given the number of people blocking the stone-lined street as they inched towards the picnic grove, Gene probably would have made much better progress had he been walking instead of driving.
Probably his wife took off again, Jeff thought to himself. Of course, he said nothing to Gene.
Accepting the fact that Gene's mood probably was not going to improve later in the day, Jeff decided this was as good a time as any to broach the subject. "Did you have a chance to think about Melanie's plan to study art in Paris? She's been accepted for the fall semester at the Sorbonne."(In a regrettable Lear-like decision shortly after A.H.’s first heart attack eight years earlier, he had voluntarily relinquished control over most of his accounts, including the trust fund he had set up for Melanie, to Gene.)
"Now that my niece is a college graduate, she can do whatever she wants..." Jeff waited anxiously for the next sentence, sure that Gene was setting him up for an ambush. "... if you're willing to pay for it. Do you happen to have any extra, say, $75,000 for the next two years?" he asked in a sardonic voice.
Damn him to hell! Jeff thought, but bit his tongue before he said something that he would regret. Of course Gene knew that he didn't have that kind of money, hadn't a hope of raising it. Despite medical insurance and some surreptitious financial assistance by A.H. (who had turned out to be an O.K. guy, once Jeff got to know him), Bonnie's last illness had drained all their savings, and the house was mortgaged to the hilt. To his credit, Gene had paid (from A.H.’s funds) for that part of Melanie's tuition, room and board that her partial scholarship to the Tyler School of Art at Temple University didn't cover. And Gene had hinted that he was more than willing to pay for Melanie to attend a local law school or business college, say, the University of Scranton or Wilkes University. But to Gene, studying art, especially in a country that had so recently and treacherously defied the United States ("they voted at the UN with bin Laden and Saddam against us!"), was completely out of the question.
"She can always apply for a student loan, knucklehead."
No! Jeff screamed to himself. I won't saddle my daughter with a crushing debt just when she's starting out in life. She might get trapped because of it, just like I am. "Come on, Gene. You have the money, and you know this is what Bonnie would have wanted, had she lived. Why won't you let Melanie study what she wants, where she wants?"
"My friend," Gene smiled sardonically, "as you reminded me, I do indeed have the money, like you do not. And because Melanie is my favorite niece, and I want to help her out, I'm ready to pay her way through school, but on my terms only. And that definitely does not include spending a single solitary nickel supporting the French economy, not after they told us to go to hell over Iraq. And no art school, either, because she'll never be able to make a living doing artsy-fartsy stuff. Got that, my friend?"
Jeff, desperately keeping his temper in check, was beyond pride. He would do or say anything to help his little girl. "Gene, please, I'm begging you, don't do this. She doesn't want to be a lawyer or a businessperson, she wants to be an art historian."
Gene turned his head and looked Jeff square in the eye, like a bear staring down his prey before attacking. "Tough shit, my friend. It's law school or business school, here, in the good old U.S. of A., or nothing. Got it? I think I'm being very generous, but I'm not about to throw my money away – "
"It's Melanie's money!"
"Not yet it isn't. Not until she's twenty-five, remember? As I said, I'm not going to throw my money away on some stupid hippie dream in a decadent, subversive country. You want her to study art in Paris, fine. You pay for it. And that's final, got it?" Gene slid out of the car and slammed the door with excessive, gratuitous force, momentarily forgetting that it was his car door that he was hurting. "Now I want you to be back here at sixteen hundred hours, sharp. Wait for me, until I'm ready to go. Got it?" It would have been four o'clock, except Gene automatically reverted to military time whenever he shimmied into his uniform.