Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [67]
Only when they mentioned the war did Wally look up from his chili long enough to ask, “Do you think it’ll last awhile?”
“What’s that, Wally?” Grandpa said.
“The war. Do you think it’ll last awhile?”
“It’s lasted far too long already,” Tillie interjected.
“But,” Grandpa said, “it’s going to take some time before we can untangle ourselves from the mess we’ve made over there.”
Wally looked from Grandpa to Tillie and back. “So, you mean the war’s not going to be over by the end of this year or anything, right?”
Grandpa shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Nor by the end of next year, nor maybe the year after that, unless McNamara outright refuses Westmoreland’s repeated demands for more troops.”
“Right, Archie,” Tillie said with a snort. “That’ll happen the day I start looking like Mae West in saloon-girl lingerie.”
Wally must not have tried to picture Tillie as Mae West, because he gave a satisfied nod and went back to eating.
Later, while Mom served up the cake and ice cream, we gave Wally his birthday gifts. From Grandpa and Marie, there was a fifty-dollar savings bond. From Mom, a couple of new shirts and a Swiss Army knife. Tillie gave him a leather wallet that, as she explained, she bought for Ross, “but he died before he could use it, so it’s still brand new.” I’d scraped together enough money from my small allowance to buy him a box of chocolates and a cheap cardboard bookmark for the book he was always reading, the one by Jack Kerouac. The design on the bookmark was simply the word PEACE in purple against a paisley pattern of orange and green. I signed Valerie’s name to my homemade card, since she was too young to buy Wally a gift herself.
When he had opened all the presents, he thanked us, tucked the box of chocolates under his arm, asked Mom for the car keys, and left us to finish the cake and ice cream without him.
I don’t know exactly what time it was, but it must have been after midnight when Wally slipped into my room and sat down on the edge of my bed.
“Roz,” he said, shaking my shoulder, “wake up a minute.”
Groggily I opened my eyes. “What is it, Wally?” I asked. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to give you something.”
I groaned, sat up, and turned on the light. Wherever Wally had been, he was fresh from the chilly outdoors. He hadn’t yet bothered to take off his jacket, and a layer of cold lingered about him like smoke. Along with the cold, he brought in an odor that was both nasty and familiar, and though I couldn’t quite place it at first, it turned my stomach and set me on edge. Then I remembered. He smelled like Daddy after one of his binges.
“You’ve been drinking, haven’t you, Wally?” I said.
“Yeah.” Wally nodded and gave a small laugh.
“I think you’re drunk.”
“I hope so. I was trying my best.”
“What’d you go and do that for?”
“It’s my birthday, my eighteenth birthday. What’d you expect?”
“Does Mom know?”
Wally put a finger to his lips, shook his head, hiccoughed. “Mom’s asleep.”
“So was I before you woke me up.”
“Ah Roz, don’t be mad. Like I said, I’ve got something for you.”
“Yeah? What is it?”
He unzipped his jacket and reached inside. “Here, kid,” he said. With that, he placed a familiar dime-store paperback in my hand, worn and dog-eared from so many readings.
I stared at the book, trying to make sense of it all. “You’re giving me your copy of On the Road?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“You want me to have your favorite book?”
He started to nod;