El Camino

War is hell. At least that’s what my dad would tell me during his alcoholic benders.

“War is hell boy! You think you got what it takes to stare a man in the eyes while he takes his last breath? DO YOU?” SLAP. It was the same speech every time. My father served in the United States Marine Corp during World War Two and the Korean war. Besides a few accolades and a visit to the White House the other rewards he brought back from serving were his ongoing nightmares that he would try to silence with the bottle. When my father wasn’t drinking, or had just woken up, he would busy himself with obsessing over his physical appearance by constantly working out. He was a handsome youth, but war and alcohol were beginning to take its toll on the old man. Now he was an overweight drunkard teetering over a seventeen year old boy. This time, my father’s speech included violence.

The slap connected to the side of my face. I could feel my cheek and lip begin to swell, and a wetness was filling my mouth. During this particular outburst the old man was going off about his time in Japan during the Second World War. Sometimes he talked about his time in Korea, but this time it was all about the second world war. The death, and carnage never left his mind. My dad’s binges were the reason why my mom ran away when I was ten. She left me with this alcohol filled husk of a man, and I just told him I was going to leave him too.

“War can’t be half as bad as living here with you!” SLAP. This one knocked me to the ground.

“You ungrateful maggot!” THUD. It was time to go to blows with my old man. He was stronger than I, and had an extra fifty-pounds on me. I scanned my living room looking for any kind of weapon to use. The couch, the lamp, the coffee table, the planter, the radio? In a split second decision I grabbed the planter and swung with all my might. CRACK! Looks like the old man was going to need a new planter to snuff out his cigars in. He laid crumpled on the floor in a pile of shattered ceramic. His groans were the only indication that he was still alive. I sat on the ground, breathing heavily. I stared at my dad and wondered how this celebrated war hero could have fallen so far. He had been an alcoholic for all of my life. I remember my mom saying something to her sister about how he didn’t start drinking like a fish until after he came back from Korea. I didn’t want to end up like him, but it was a chance I was willing to take.

This bender started in the morning with the daily radio broadcast. President Johnson was speaking about Vietnam and proposing a draft. I could hear the radio broadcast from the stairs as I descended. When I got down, I hid behind the living room wall to listen more clearly.

"We as a nation have come up at the hour of our utmost need. The ongoing war in Vietnam has proven more substantial than previously thought. If Vietnam falls to the communist regime, it is only a matter of time before the rest of the world falls with it. I am proposing a draft of our finest American men to squash this threat to humanity quickly and without delay. If however, you are an able body male, do not hesitate to volunteer and fight for your family, your neighbors, and your country."

I didn’t hear the last part of the broadcast, because the old man switched it off. What I did hear next, sent my stomach to my feet. It was my dad whimpering and whispering to himself; please God, not again, please don’t send me back.

I was still breathing heavily when I heard a couple of knocks at the front door. I got up quickly to check who was there. I opened the door to discover the sheriff standing on the front porch, and Mrs. Eastly standing behind him on the sidewalk.

“Evening sheriff,” I began, trying to sound as calm as possible, “is there a problem?” He looked me up and down which made me uncomfortable.

“I got a few calls about a domestic disturbance here D.J. Is the old man at it again?” He took out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped some dried blood from my face. I winced from the pain. I spied Mrs. Eastly behind the sheriff clutching her pearls and her Bible.

“I’m surprised it was only a few calls.”

“Don’t get smart boy, I’m here to help you. Do you need help?” Before I could answer, there was a crash from inside. I turned around and it was my father stumbling through the hallway with his Colt .45 in his hand. He roared like a mythical beast being awoken from his slumber. I tackled the sheriff out of the way. Not a moment too soon. A shot rang out. I lifted my head to see Mrs. Eastly had been knocked to the ground. The sheriff shook me off and ran for cover behind a tree.

“Drop the gun Dan! Don’t make me shoot you!” There was more incoherent screaming and grunting.

“Drop the gun!” Now there was shrill screaming coming from the street.

“I’m not going back!” He shot into the air; he looked over at me. This man’s eyes were black as night. My heart was beating out of my chest. “You’re not going anywhere either!” He pointed his gun at me. There was no sound, only a ringing in my ears. I don’t think I inhaled once in what seemed like an eternity while staring down the barrel of my dad’s colt. My eyes moved from the barrel to the eyes of my father in rapid succession. He lumbered towards me, making him look like a giant from my vantage point on the ground.

Suddenly, a single shot rang out.

My dad jerked back. His white buttoned down shirt began glowing crimson. I scrambled to my feet, and watched my dad stumble backwards. He stared back at me, wide eyed, and in disbelief. A single tear rolled down his weathered face. Finally, he toppled over dropping his colt. The sheriff had ran back to his car to call over his cv radio that the suspect had been subdued. I walked over to my father calmly, and without haste. When I came upon him, he had begun to cough up blood. He tried to convey something to me, but I couldn’t make it out. I didn’t expect it to be anything supportive, or loving. The old man’s eyes screamed with fear, till he stopped struggling. I saw the light go out from his eyes. I knelt by him, and held his hand. I began to cry. I don’t know why. I wasn’t crying for this drunkard, and I wasn’t crying for me. I don’t know why I started crying there next to my father.

“I’m sorry DJ I had to or else he was going to kill you!” The sheriff had made it back to my side. When I looked up, Mrs. Eastly was standing with him.

“Mrs. Eastly, you didn’t get shot? I saw you get knocked down!” I was bewildered.

“The God of my strength, in whom I will trust; my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold and my refuge; my Savior, You save me from violence.” Mrs. Eastly showed me her Bible with a single bullet in the cover.

The funeral didn’t take long. There weren’t many people there to offer condolences. The sheriff and his wife made an appearance with their three children. Some of the kids from my high school along with their parents were there to offer prayers and casseroles. My father was an only child, and both his parents had long been dead. Eventually, I was left alone with my father’s corpse. I spent a good amount of time making sure his Dress Blues Bravos were as perfect as I knew he would have them. He finally looked at peace. I wasn’t sure if he would go to heaven or hell, but at least he looked like the nightmares didn’t follow him to where he ended up.

As I sat in the funeral parlor alone staring at my dad in his final resting place, I half expected my mom to walk in through the double doors behind me. As if she sensed the moment this man was finally released from his earthly dwelling. I sat there and imagined what it would be like to see my mom after all these years.

She would throw the doors wide open causing them to crash into the walls. Then run straight towards me with tears in her eyes, apologizing for leaving me in the first place. She would embrace me, so that I could smell her hair again, which always smelled like cinnamon. Then I would look at her in her icy blue eyes that I dreamt about night after night, after she left me. I would tell her, I forgive her and that I would have done the same thing if I had the opportunity to. She would smile and I would get the chance to see her dimples that I so often saw in myself. My mom would then comment on how big I got, but hadn’t filled out yet. She would insist that we leave the parlor immediately so she could make me my favorite dinner, roast chicken and after dinner we would walk to an ice cream shop to have an ice cream sundae. I would protest, and ask what about dad lying in his open casket. She would laugh the most melodic laugh and tell me that she wasn’t going anywhere. Then we would both get up off the pew and walk out of the funeral parlor arm in arm, and live happily ever after.

I sat there by myself watching the corpse in the casket, making sure there was no subtle breathing. After a couple of hours, the funeral director came into the viewing room to tell me the next family was there for their loved one. I nodded and began making my way back home.

The next day, my father was finally put to rest at Salisbury National Cemetery. He received his twenty-one gun salute, and I received the flag that draped over his casket. Besides the reverend and the marines that participated in the ceremony, I was the only other person there. I grabbed a handful of dirt and tossed it onto the casket. That was it.

The whole neighborhood was very empathetic to the situation that unfolded, especially Mrs. Eastly. She came by everyday till I left for basic. She claimed I needed a strong female presence in my life since I never had one.

Mrs. Eastly was the elderly widow of the First Baptist Church. She was married twice, and had six sons. They all died. Some of them died during the war, and some of them died fighting the war in their heads. Nobody prayed harder than Mrs. Eastly. When she wasn’t cooking me suppers, or tidying up my home, Mrs. Eastly was in church. Every evening after I helped with the dishes, instead of tuning in to my favorite radio show Mrs. Eastly would read the Bible to me. Mrs. Eastly would comment, nothing good is ever on that speaking devil box, the good news comes from the good book. She wasn’t wrong. Every radio program would be interrupted by another report from Vietnam.

Even though my dad had passed I still intended on joining the marines. There was nothing left for an orphaned boy in North Carolina. Nothing except the marines. Good ol’ Uncle Sam was the only family I had now. I turned eighteen in the winter of 1967. I was going to leave for boot camp the following April. Many of my teachers encourage me to go to college, to avoid being shipped off to war. I rejected their offers and was steadfast in my decision.

I accompanied Mrs. Eastly to church everyday during winter break. There was no use staying in a cold empty house by myself. She was grateful for the company, and I was grateful for the distraction. After the Christmas sermon, Mrs. Eastly insisted we walk back to my house in the cold. She called it a penance for how the Virgin and St. Joseph was treated on this day when the savior was born. It wasn’t terribly cold but it still made me wish for the summer. She clung to my arm making it look like I was escorting this little old woman across the street. Once we made it inside, Mrs. Eastly began to work on Christmas dinner. It was barely noon, but I guess there is an unwritten rule that Christmas dinner should be had as early as possible. I stayed with her reading the newspaper at the dining room table.

“Anything good in that rag?” Mrs. Eastly called out. I looked up from my newspaper, surprised; Mrs. Eastly did not care for news, unless it came from the preacher. Out of respect for her, I would keep the radio off all day till she found it necessary to leave for the night.

“Just more news about Vietnam is all. Everything is about Vietnam these days. Even the preacher couldn’t resist talking about the war.” That wasn’t an exaggeration. Mrs. Eastly scoffed at my response.

“Church is for the gospel, not politics. If you ask me, Preacher Jones cares too much about his unruly sideburns and not enough about what will benefit our spiritual health in these evil times” This made me giggle. Once Mrs. Eastly started on something there was no chance she was going to stop. “He was talking about how this is another crusade to save the integrity of our life and liberty as God fearing Americans, while his sons sit in the front pew.” She was quiet for a time. I saw the hurt on her face. If Mrs. Eastly had any more tears left in her eyes, she would have shed them in that moment. “Behold, God is mighty, and does not despise any; he is mighty in strength of understanding.” Mrs. Eastly said this Bible verse to herself. Wanting to change the uncomfortable subject I closed the newspaper.

“Mrs. Eastly, may I ask you a question?”

“What’s that DJ?” I didn’t know how to ask this question, but it had been weighing on my heart for a while now.

“Mrs. Eastly, why have you been taking care of me this whole time?” She stopped her food prep and walked into the dining room. Mrs. Eastly was drying her hands on an apron she brought from home. I started to feel guilty for even asking why this woman was being the motherly figure I never knew I needed. Mrs. Eastly stood five foot three inches and had dark brown eyes, and white hair. Her hands, however, were rough and aged, as if she were a mechanic in a previous life. She sat down with me.

“Daniel, I am a good Christian woman. I have given the Lord six strong young men and two morally upright men. If my daddy had just let me join the convent when I was sixteen, I could have saved everyone the heartache. Self sacrifice is something the Lord looks favorably on.” She paused, and looked me squarely in my eyes. When Mrs. Eastly continued, I felt every hair on my body stand on edge. “I feel guilty about that day in September. I feel like I took your father away from you and this is my atonement.” I was flabbergasted.

“Mrs. Eastly, if anything you saved my life that day. The old man was already on a rampage and if that doorbell didn’t ring it would have been easier for my father to end me.” I didn’t hold any ill will toward Mrs. Eastly.

“The good Lord gave me this opportunity, Daniel. I do not begrudge you, or hold any bitterness toward you. I was put on this Earth to take care of those that need taking care of.” She held my hand when she said this.

“But, Mrs. Eastly, what’s going to happen when I leave for basic in April?” Her wrinkled face hardened. She pulled her hand from mine.

“Hopefully the Holy Spirit will move through you before then.” With that she stood up, and went back to the kitchen. It was finally made clear to me that Mrs. Eastly was trying desperately to keep me from ‘Nam. I sat back in my chair. I didn’t want to go to war. I didn’t want to end up like my father. I didn’t want to kill anyone in the name of God and country. Maybe Mrs. Eastly was onto something, hoping that the Holy Spirit would move through me before then. I was going to turn eighteen on the twenty-ninth. Every eighteen year-old I knew from school was enlisting right away. I would be called a communist or even worse a hippie. I don’t want to be either.

There were so many things I knew I didn’t want, I had no idea what I did want. I got up from the table and made my way to the kitchen where Mrs. Eastly was cooking.

“Mrs. Eastly?” I began.

“Yes DJ?” Said Mrs. Eastly.

“Mrs. Eastly I want to apologize for earlier.”

“There is nothing to apologize for DJ. Besides, only the good Lord above has the power to forgive. He only gave us the power to forget.” Mrs. Eastly said as she shoved ham into the oven.

“I do want to say that I appreciate all your help you have given me these past few months. You may be the only reason why I stayed in school this long.” I smiled at Mrs. Eastly. She smiled back.

“And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.” Mrs. Eastly was indeed a good Christian woman.

I went away from the kitchen and allowed Mrs. Eastly to finish her cooking in peace. The house had stayed the same since my father died. All the same pictures were still on the wall. The furniture stayed the same and in the same position as they were. Except for the mess that developed on that day. I cleaned that up before Mrs. Eastly arrived the first time. I walked upstairs, passed my father’s old room. This bedroom also stayed the same including the empty bottles of whiskey that lined his bed frame. Passed my father’s room, my room was located at the end of the hallway. It was the only room that changed. I put up my figurines and left my comic books out on my desk without fear that my father would come into my room and destroy my knickknacks. I laid down on my bed and cracked open one of my comic books. Smells from the kitchen wafted through the vents. This was the best Christmas I had in my life.

“DJ! Dinner is ready! Wash up and come down here!” I accidentally fell asleep. I wasn’t sure how long I had fallen asleep, but by the amount of drool on my pillow it must have been awhile. I looked out my window and it was pitch black. That didn’t tell me much considering it was getting dark by five in the evening. “DJ did you hear me?” Mrs. Eastly was calling up the stairs.

“Yes Mrs. Eastly I’m coming!”

“Hurry up, dinner is getting cold!”

“Yes Mrs. Eastly!” I scrambled out of my bed. Once I exited my bedroom, a plethora of pleasant aroma filled my nostrils. I rushed into the bathroom to wash my hands and the dried spit from my face. I looked into the mirror, and my face looking back looked happy for the first time in months. My hair had grown past my ears and my eyes didn’t look so tired. My face looked much fuller as well as the rest of my body. Mrs. Eastly had been feeding me well since September. I heard Mrs. Eastly call up to me one last time, so I hurried downstairs to the dining room. Mrs. Eastly had provided a Christmas spread complete with candles, she brought from her own home. There was a honey glazed ham, deviled eggs, smashed potatoes with gravy, biscuits and collard greens. For dessert Mrs. Eastly had produced a pecan pie.

“How long was I asleep?” I had never seen so much food at once in my life. Mrs. Eastly smiled.

“Come sit. Did you wash your hands and face before coming down?” She said as she pulled out her chair and sat.

“Yes ma’am.” I sat down next to her.

“Good.” Mrs. Eastly held out her hand for me to grab it while she did the blessing. Once I grabbed it she began. “Heavenly Father, savior of myself and this boy; we are humbled by your bounty and are unworthy of your love. You have bestowed upon us good health and good food, and we are forever grateful for your endless gifts. Blessed Jesus…” Mrs. Eastly’s blessings always took longer than it would to eat the dinner. I always wondered if I would be able to sneak a quick bite of food without Mrs. Eastly noticing. I dared not try it. Finally I heard Mrs. Eastly say, AMEN and was eager to dig in.

We ate our meal in silence. I didn’t realize I was hungry till I took my first bite. Dinner didn’t last long. It never did. I was in charge of clearing the table and getting dinner put away so that I could have food for the following day. By the time I finished this chore I spied the time to be 7:12pm. Mrs. Eastly called from the living room.

“DJ! Come turn this devil box on, I want to hear some Christmas carols!” This made me smile.

“Yes Mrs. Eastly I will put the radio on.” When I walked into the living room I was surprised to see that Mrs. Eastly had put up a small Christmas tree and Christmas lights on the walls. “How did you put all this up?” Considering Mrs. Eastly was in her seventies, it seemed impossible that she was able to achieve all of this.

“Just call it a Christmas miracle.” Mrs. Eastly said slyly. A Christmas miracle indeed. I had never seen any of these decorations before in my life. My dad wasn’t the decorating type. Mrs. Eastly must have smuggled those decorations into my house beforehand, or left and came back with them. Either way I was not complaining. I didn’t know my living room could be so beautiful. “There is also a present for you under the tree.” My attention snapped back to Mrs. Eastly. I would have cried if I wasn’t so taken aback. “DJ, close your mouth and open your gift.” She didn’t have to tell me twice. I rushed to the small tree and found a package of brightly colored wrapping paper. I began tearing at it until I came upon the box. I slowly opened the box and inside beheld a Bible.

“The Lord is my shield, and now he is yours.” I ran my hands over this Bible and I felt an impression. Upon closer examination I found that this impression was a hole. I looked up at Mrs. Eastly.

“Is this the Bible you had when my father shot you?” I was shaking.

“It is, and I think it’s time that you take it and find protection from it. The same way I did.” This was still the best Christmas I had ever had.