"The Red Sox won," Bull said finally.
"How did Williams do?" Ben asked.
"Knocked three runs in with a double."
"Good."
"I flew with Ted Williams in Korea. You knew that didn't you?"
"Yes, sir. Dad?" Ben said, beginning a conversation he had fantasized when his father was flying from the carrier off the French coast. "Are you ever afraid when you fly?"
"That's a good question. Yeah. I'm always a little afraid when I fly. That's what makes me so damn good. I've seen pilots who weren't afraid of anything, who would forget about checking their instruments, who flew by instinct as though they were immortal. I've pissed on the graves of those poor bastards too. The pilot who isn't a little bit afraid always screws up and when you screw up bad in a jet, you get a corporal playing taps at the expense of the government."
"What are you most afraid of when you fly?"
"Most afraid of Hmmm," Bull whispered, plucking at his left ear lobe. "Good question, sportsfans. When I'm flying a jet, the thing I'm most afraid of is birds."
"Birds?" Ben said letting a quick girlish giggle escape in his surprise.
"Yeah, birds," his father answered defensively. "You hit a bird going five hundred knots and it's like being hit with a bowling ball. Do you remember when Rip Tuscum was killed in a plane crash about five years ago?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, he had his head taken off when he hit a buzzard."
"Birds, eh, Popsy," Ben intoned. "I can see the headlines now. Bull Meecham killed by a parakeet. War Hero Brought Down by a Deadly Sapsucker."
"Go ahead and laugh, jocko, but I break out into a cold sweat when I spot a flock of birds up yonder. The bad thing is that they're usually past you by the time you see 'em. I mean they are behind you before your brain registers that you've just passed a bird. You'll know what I mean some day."
"How, Dad?"
"When you're a Marine pilot flying your own plane."
Ben knew he was in familiar terrain now, old territory where the teasing had grooves and furrows of ground that had been plowed before.
"I think I'm going to be an Air Force pilot, Dad."
"If you want to fly with pussies it's O.K. with me," Bull flared, then remembered that his son had teased him about the Air Force many times before. "But if you want to fly with the best, you'll fly with the Corps, simple as that."
"What if I really decide not to go in the Marine Corps, Dad?"
"I want you to go in for a four-year hitch at least. If you decide not to make a career out of it, it's your decision. But I want to pin the wings of gold on you after flight training. You'll be a good pilot, son. You're athletic and have the quick reflexes. The coordination. The only problem I see is you have a little too much of your mother in you, but Quantico will ream that out of your system."
"I'll have plenty of time to decide whether to go into the Corps or not when I'm in college, Dad."
"That's negative," his father replied. "I've already made that decision. You'll decide whether to stay in after four years."
"That's not fair, Dad."
"Who said your ol' Dad's ever been fair? Look, Ben, you'll thank me one day. Christ, the way the world's going now you may even luck out and get your wings when there's a war going on."
"That's lucking out?" Ben exclaimed.
"Shh, not so loud. If you're trained as a fighter pilot you'll never be happy until you test your skills against an enemy pilot. That, boy, is a law."
"What if I get killed?"
"Then you're a lousy pilot. Only lousy pilots get killed in combat. That's another law."
Ben thought for a moment, then said," What about Uncle Dan? Your brother, the one killed in the Solomons. Was he a lousy pilot?"
The massive shoulders tensed beside him. Then slowly they relaxed, but the car lurched forward, moving faster and faster until Bull answered by saying," Yes, Dan was a lousy pilot. But he was a brave one and he earned that K.I.A. on his tombstone. He earned it."
"Would you like to be killed in action, Dad?"
"If he has to go, every pilot would like to be killed in action. It's better than dying of the piles."
"But only lousy pilots are K.I.A., Dad. It's a law."
"That's right, sportsfans. Good thinking. That's why I'm telling you that I'm more afraid of birds than enemy pilots."
"It would have to be a great pilot who shot you down, wouldn't it, Dad?"
Bull turned toward his son and winked," Inhuman, Ben. The bastard would have to be inhuman. Now go on and get some sleep. I'm wide awake now. I'll get Mary Anne or your mama up if I need company."
"Good night, Dad."
"Good night, sportsfans."
Alone now, the car voiceless, Bull strained to follow the white lines of the highway snaking through Georgia. Butterflies by the thousands fluttered maniacally before the headlights then exploded like tiny half-angels on the windshield leaving a scant yellow paint and the dust of broken wings as a final signature. The further into the journey Bull went, the harder it became for him to see through the windshield that was stained with the prints of so many inconsequential deaths.
Periodically, Bull would spot a turtle crossing the highway and with an imperceptible movement of his arm he would position the car expertly and snap the animal's shell, which made a scant pop like the breaking of an egg. It kept him from getting bored on the trip; it kept him alert. He always did it when his wife and children were asleep. But when he pulled clear into the other lane to kill a turtle almost on the shoulder of the other side, Lillian awoke.
She whispered at him, her eyes still closed but her lips tightened in a thin line," It takes a mighty brave man to run over turtles."
"Who's running over turtles?" Bull asked innocently.
"I've been on enough trips to know when you're getting your jollies running over turtles. I think it's sick."
"Well, they shouldn't be on the road. They're a safety hazard."
"Sure they are, darlin'. You're always reading about car wrecks caused by marauding box turtles attacking defenseless Chevrolets."
"It's my only sport when I'm traveling. My one hobby."
"And you're such an all-American at it, darling. Maybe I should dress in a cheerleader's costume and shake a pom-pom every time you run over one of those dangerous turtles."
"Ah, Saint Lillian. Do you think I should drive real slow so I won't kill any butterflies?"
"I don't care what you do."
"Thanks, Saint Lillian. I'll be a good boy as soon as I pick off this next turtle. OOOOeeeee. He's a big mother. "Then Bull laughed as the wheel made a short pop. "Yeah, we're in Georgia sure enough, sportsfans, I'm starting to see a lot of dead dogs on the highway. That ought to be the nickname of this horseshit state. The Dead Dog State. Now I'm gonna quit yappin' and start makin' some time."
"Making time. "The phrase came back to Ben as he entered into an unsteady threshold of sleep, a sleep that wasn't quite, the groaning of a truck that passed them by in a vision of light, passed them in a momentary assault as the car ate its way through Georgia, consuming miles as Bull Meecham carried on imaginary conversations with phantoms only he could see. Ben saw his father stabbing the air with his fingers, saw his lips move and his face grimace as someone responded to his interrogation improperly. Making time. Yes, as this inch of highway is past now, or then, as the sea draws nearer, smelling the sea, while sleep comes during the dying hours, the corpses of miles past, the pale memories of towns seen dimly—the pilot is moving, moving, moving toward a home they have never seen.
Chapter 4
An hour before dawn, a long, timber-loaded train that smelled sweetly of pine resin stopped them at a country crossing. Colonel Meecham got out of the car and stood watching the train silently reciting the names of the railroad lines tattooed on the sides of the freight cars. Trains released strange lyrics in Colonel Meecham and though he could not articulate what he felt as he watched the great trains roll in passage alon
g warm, silver rails, his children knew that whatever poetry might lurk in their large, often unreadable father, it surfaced whenever he heard a train whistle. The destiny of his family in Chicago was wedded to the movement of trains through the Midwest. If the potato was symbolic of the Meecham family's flight from Ireland, then the freight train was the lucky talisman of their redemption in the new world.
The children stirred slowly out of their sleep. Lillian groaned into awakeness with a loud, feline stretch. Bull walked back to the open door and said," Pit stop. Head run. Get the dog out and let him lift his leg. Everybody out who needs to pee."
"Sugar," Lillian said," I know this is an outrageous request, but the girls and I feel more comfortable powdering our noses and doing our business in a clean well-lighted bathroom."
"It's good for you to get a little night air. C'mon Mary Anne and Karen, you two go over there behind those trees."
"Don't you dare make a move, young ladies. We will keep our dignity."
"O. K., then let's get Matt awake. You too, Ben. Here, Okra, I want you to pee on the track while the train's moving there."
"That's not funny, Dad. That's why Okra hates your guts," Karen retorted.
"I don't need to go," Matt said, only half awake and pulling his pillow tightly over his head to cut out the noise of the train.
"You better go now, son. You know your father doesn't stop often."
"He only stops for three reasons: trains, the death of someone in the car, or if he has to go to the bathroom," Ben said climbing out of the car over Matt.
As Ben walked toward his father, he was surprised to look up and see the universe shivering with starlight. Cotton grew in the field that bounded the railroad tracks and the air was laden with the opulent smells of greening crops and leafy forests. Approaching the sea the land had begun to slope gently, the hills were brushed downward, the earth was smoothing itself, and the rivers straightened for the final run to the sea.
Ben and the colonel were urinating in the ditch that paralleled the highway. Bull commented on each car that flickered past like a single frame on a long roll of film. His voice was excited. As always, Bull felt euphoric and princely in the company of trains. "There's the Illinois Central. The Southern Pacific. And right there goes the queen of them all, the Rock Island Line. That's the one that half your Chicago relatives work on, Ben. Watch where you're whizzin'. You almost hit my foot. Aim high and away. There's the Southern. Probably carryin' a box car full of grits to some southern pansy living in New York. "Then in the regionless drawl of a conductor, the half-intelligible patois belonging to no country that Bull had learned by imitation as a child riding free on the Rock Island Line, he began to chant, "Davenport, Ioway. Next stop. Ioway City, yes loway, loway, Ioway City. Dee Moynes. Dee Moynes. Dee Moynes, Ioway. All off for Davenport. "The voice of the conductor resided with great constancy just below the customary pose of the fighter pilot. "All aboooooard," he said, climbing back into the car as the caboose flashed by and the thunder of the train diminished gradually into the darkness.
Bull barked out at Ben as the car moved across the tracks in first gear," Did Okra whizz?"
"I think so, Dad," Ben answered.
"You're not paid to think, mister. I asked you a question."
"Yes, sir. He did," Ben said.
"You'd better be right. That was the last head stop before Ravenel. Ravenel. Rav-e-nel. Next stop, Rav-e-nel, South Caroli-na."
At dawn and according to the strict schedule Colonel Meecham had plotted in Atlanta, they had come within sixty-five miles of the Marine Corps air station at Ravenel. The sun filled the car and the children, sleeping in the back, began to stir heavily against the new day. Colonel Meecham reached for his aviator's sunglasses which rested among the other paraphernalia of the journey on the dashboard. "Best sunglasses in the world," he told his wife. "Civilian shades can't touch 'em."
"Isn't it a shame military doctors couldn't be as good as military sunglasses," Lillian said.
"Hey, not bad, sportsfans. That was a good line."
"Bull, there's nothing in this road, not even a pig. Are you sure we're going the right way?"
"Affirmative. The navigator has never made a mistake in his career.
"Oh, I don't know about that. I seem to remember a night when the navigator took a wrong turn and we ended up in eastern Tennessee instead of western North Carolina."
"Ah, the grits who put up road signs in the South never got past second grade."
"Just to change the subject, sugah, you haven't told me the gossip on the old squadron. Where are all the Cobras now and what are they doing?"
"Sam Pancoast and Ollie Oliver are stationed in Ravenel. Rocky Green's in El Toro. His wife left him six months ago to run away with a twenty-two-year-old corporal in his squadron. Rocky's got the kids."
"Poor kids."
The conversation centered around the Marine Corps, moving from one old friend to another, men and women they had been stationed with, whose destinies had crossed again and again. The fraternity of Marine fighter pilots was small, intimate, and exceedingly close. The year's absence from the military had put Lillian somewhat behind in following the lives of some of her friends. Transfers were constant among all of them, and with both Lillian and Bull it was a peremptory requirement of their nomadism that they keep a vigilant eye on the travels of their peers. The two of them talked very little of politics, literature, or the arts. Most of their conversation was of the Corps or of their own family.
Ben shifted uncomfortably on the other side of the car. The sun was pouring in the car directly on his face. He heard his father say that they had been out of Georgia for a half hour. Out of Georgia, Ben thought. "Into South Carolina."
Georgia born, Ben felt a strong kinship to the blood red earth his father hated, loved the fragrant land he saw mostly in night passages, whose air was filled with country music and the virile smells of crops and farm machinery possessing the miles between towns. It was the one place he could hold to, fix upon, identify as belonging to him. He was rooted in Georgia because of the seal on his birth certificate. He lived there only when his father went overseas, but that made no difference to him. No matter how hard he tried, he never developed any imperishable allegiances to the washed-out, bloodless Marine bases where he had lived for most of his seventeen years. It was difficult to engender fealty for any geographical point when he had dwelt in four apartments, six houses, two trailers, and one quonset hut in his forced enlistment in the family of a Marine officer. Every house was a temporary watering place where warriors gathered for training and the perfection of their grim art before the tents were struck again. He longed for a sense of place, of belonging, and of permanence. He wanted to live in one house, grow old in one neighborhood, and wanted friends whose faces did not change yearly. He renewed his tenuous claim on Georgia with every visit to his grandmother's house and with each dash through the countryside following the necklace of Marine bases strung through the swamplands of the Carolinas and Virginia.
Rising on one elbow, Ben addressed a question to the front seat. "When do ya'll think we'll get there?"
"Ya'll?" Bull roared. "Ya'll isn't a damn word. What's this 'ya'll' stuff? I go overseas for twelve months and I come back to my boys all talking like grits."
"Ya'll is perfect grammar, Ben darling," Lillian objected. "It's perfect and it's precise."
"Don't use that word when you're addressing me. You got to realize, Lillian, that a southern accent sounds dumb anywhere outside of the Mason-Dixon grit line."
"I think it sounds cultivated. Anyway, you've managed to make sure none of the children have a southern accent."
It was true. None of Bull Meecham's children had accents. Their speech was not flavored with the cadences of the South, the slurred rhythms of the region where they had spent their entire lives. Every time one of his children made a sound that was recognizably southern, Bull would expurgate that sound from his child's tongue on the spot. Though the Marine Cor
ps put its bases in the South, he could never accustom himself to the sad fact that he was inevitably raising southern children. He could exorcise the language of the South, but he could not purify his children of the experience that tied them forever to the South, to the strange separateness, the private identity of the land which nourished and enriched their childhoods.
"Let's see what else has gone to pot since the Big Dad has been gone," Bull announced. "What is the capital of Montana, Karen?"
"I just woke up, Daddy," Karen protested.
"I didn't ask you for a speech. I just asked a question."
"Bismarck," she answered after thinking for a moment.
"Wrong. You're supposed to know them all."
"Helena,' Matt said.
"Right, Matt."
"Here's another one, Karen. This will be a chance to redeem yourself. "
"It's too early in the morning, Daddy. I don't feel like playing 'Capitals.'"
"Too bad," he answered. "What's the capital of Idaho?"
"Just a minute. Don't tell me. Let me think about that one."
"You ought to know it right off the bat, girlsey," he said.
"Boise," she screamed.
"Yeah, but I gave you a hint."
"Mary Anne," Bull said," what's the capital of Uruguay?"
"Montevideo."
"Ben, the capital of Afghanistan."
"Kabul."
"Good, good. I'll tell you kids something right now. You are lucky to be part of a Marine Corps family. There are no kids in America as well trained in geography as you. You've been to more places than civilian kids even know about. Travel is the best education in the world."
"Sugah," Lillian cooed," the reason the children know all those capitals is because you threatened to kill them if they didn't learn them."
"It's called motivation, Lillian," Bull answered, grinning.
Ben sat back against his pillow thinking about what his father had just said. Then he said," We sure have lived in some of the great cities of the world, Dad. Triangle, Virginia. Jacksonville, Havelock, and New Bern, North Carolina. Meridian, Pensacola, and now Ravenel, South Carolina. You can't get much luckier than that."