The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [5]
“But son, anybody could pass that test!” he was saying now. “I knew bigger morons in the war than you, boy, and they passed it.”
“He said I can retake it next week,” Pat argued. “It’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal if you end up stuck in the jungle with a bunch of idiots! Don’t wanna be held responsible for another man ending up dead, do you, son?”
That was the point where my mother left for the kitchen. I don’t think it was in her Irish nature to let her sons be told they weren’t good enough, but it wasn’t in her Irish nature to disagree with my father, either. Besides, he was half stoned all the time on a high dose of Thorazine the doctor at the VA had given him. Arguing would be pointless.
Darren had done well in his first year of state college, and Patricia was training to be a nurse’s aide at the local hospital. Once Pat left for the Army, if he finally got in, it would be just me and my awful brother Alfred Junior, who we called Junior. I was half hoping Pat wouldn’t leave so I didn’t have to be stuck with the little brat. Junior seemed immune to my father’s strict influence, and he was totally spoiled by my mother.
We were in high school then. Pat was a senior, Junior was a junior, and I was a sophomore. I was finding high school to be pretty stress-free so far. I figured if I went through the motions, studied, stayed active, and donned black and red on Hollow Ford High School Spirit Day (Go Hawks!) that everyone would believe I was going to go off to college and do what they wanted me to do. My guidance counselor was sure I would earn a scholarship if I continued to work hard. With Pat deciding to enlist and Junior getting bad grades, it was easy to pretend (without having to do much) that I was a normal girl with a glorious and prosperous future. It was only when my mother wanted to drown her sorrows that I was disturbed from my studies. The night Pat failed the Army entrance exam was one such night.
“Are you hungry, love?” she asked, at my doorway.
I shook my head. “Just trying to study over the yelling.”
“Why don’t you take a break and come and have something to eat with your poor ole mother.”
Down in the kitchen, she made me a sandwich and tea, poured a tiny drop of whiskey into her glass, and closed the door on the argument. We faced each other across the table.
“Poor Pat,” I started. “I hope he can retake the test next week.”
“He’ll be fine. You’ll see.” She nodded. “What about you, love? How are you doing these days? We barely see you between school and your studies. Have you any boyfriends we should know about?”
I’d been so focused on avoiding adolescent bullshit at school that I hadn’t even thought about boys. “Nope,” I answered.
“Well, don’t worry. Soon you’ll have to beat them off with a stick.”
When she said that, I looked down at my flat chest and skinny legs and doubted it.
“Are you sad again?” I asked, sipping from the hot cup.
“Sad? No! I’m thoughtful. Or thoughtless. Or, well something in between. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About where you’ll be in ten years. How proud you’ll make us.” She stared past me. “After this with Pat, and Al Junior’s grades, we’ll need you to keep us strong. I don’t think your father can take any more of this sort of thing. Arguing with kids who have everything—just to get them to use it! How frustrating!”
“Pat will try his best next week, Mom, I’m positive.”
“Well that’s all well and good, but it’s really Junior I worry about. He’ll drive your father spare. But I shouldn’t be telling you that, dear. I wanted to talk about you.”
“About me?”
“I wanted to check in. School’s all right?”
“Yeah, great.”
“Do you know what you want to do yet?”
Not really. Not really. Say not really.
“Not really.”
“Well, you must have some idea,” she said,