Patriotism

“Son, do you love your country?”

It’s a hard question to answer. This is not due to my lack of patriotism, but because I’ve just taken a huge bite of blood-rare prime rib that is the Hunters’ Club Friday night special.  

My interlocutor is  Major General Herford Hood, USMC (Retired), my perhaps-soon-to-be stepfather. 

I stare at him across the expanse of damask tablecloth while I chew the golf ball-sized wad of rubbery fat. 

His is the sort of face that inspires statuary adjectives. 

Granite jaw. 

Iron hair. 

Chiseled cheekbones.

The stony eyes bore into me.

“Answer the General, Hobbes,” calls Mother from across the table. 

I chew and chew, working my back teeth against the unyielding blubber while I hold up a placating finger. 

We must make quite the tableau–– the general in his full dress uniform and decorations that completely cover his chest like a particolored breastplate; Mother, unlit cigarette in a long ebony holder that juts from her gloved fingers like Cruella DeVille, the other glove stroking the snowy head of Moo Shoo, her spoiled Pekingese lapdog; and myself, hunched over the three pounds of raw beef like a carnivorous chimp in a tuxedo, all of us staring at one another while I poise my finger as though about to conduct children in a chorus of Happy Birthday. 

The spell is broken by Moo Shoo, who jumps onto the table and lunges toward my plate, scattering silverware and wineglasses in every direction. 

I spring up to avoid the approaching cascade of spilled wine, take a step backwards while finally managing to swallow the chunk of fat.

“Really, Hobbes,” says Mother. “Was that necessary?”

“It’s father’s old jacket,” I reply. “I didn’t want to get wine on it.”

“Good reflexes,” grunts the general. “The boy would make a fine Marine.”

A quadrille of waiters wearing white jackets identical to mine descends on the table and quickly sets all to right as Moo Shoo engulfs my dinner with astonishing speed for such a small dog. 

One of the waiters snatches her up and carries her around to Mother while another holds my chair and dropped napkin for me. 

I sit back down. 

The general has not moved and continues to glare at me.

“Yes, I love my country,” I say, then realizing the bald abruptness of my affirmation, gamely add “Sir.”

“Good,” he says and slaps the table with his flat palm. “That’s settled. And don’t worry, son. I’ll see you’re paid for your work. Well-paid. These political types have deep pockets.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I say, “but I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

Mother raises an eyebrow, which given the amount of makeup she wears is the equivalent of leaning on a car horn. 

“Really, Hobbes. One would think you haven’t been listening.”

The general shifts in his chair, his stiff chest of decorations creaking a little as he moves. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear. The Republican Family Fundraiser tomorrow night.” 

He speaks in short bursts, as though firing a machine gun. “Caricatures of the guests. Like at an amusement park. Funny, but tasteful. Senator Smalls riding a tiny horse. The Vice President drinking from a jug labeled XXX. You get the idea.”

“You’re so talented,” says Mother, her tone larded with reproof. “You should be glad of a chance to show it.”

I stare down at my empty plate, licked spotless by Moo-Shoo, a feeling of doom enshrouding me.

#

It’s not that I can’t draw. I spent several years at an art school and am, in fact, a passable artist. 

It’s just that I have never been able to draw humans. 

This isn’t for a lack of trying. 

I have taken numerous classes in figure drawing and anatomy, yet somehow whenever I set pencil to paper, everything I draw winds up resembling some kind of animal. 

And these aren’t photo-realistic depictions or even cartoons in the traditional sense.

They’re more like the costumed creatures one sees at sporting events, anthropomorphic amalgams of human and non-human. 

Every creature I draw has large, clown-like feet, three-fingered hands, giant eyes and outsized ears. They are also brightly colored, like cotton candy or circus costumes.

My inability to draw the human figure resulted in my flunking out of school. 

Because of my father’s fortune there was never any question of me having to work, and so long as I was able to sit in my room and draw my creatures I was perfectly content. 

Father was usually away on business, so Mother and I got on well enough, usually taking dinner together at the club and engaging in convivial inane conversation. 

I didn’t bring up my failure, and she didn’t either. 

I’d been home some months when the telephone rang one afternoon. 

As was her habit, Mother answered, her dog tucked beneath her arm. “Yes,” she said. “When? Where? Are you certain?” 

Then she thanked the called and hung up. 

With supernatural calm, she turned to me and lit a cigarette. 

“It appears there has been an accident. The car overturned on a bridge. There were no survivors.”

“I don’t understand. What accident?”

“Your father, Hobbes. He’s dead. I am a widow.”

She didn’t seem at all affected or changed in any way. 

Our lives carried on as before, me in my room making my drawings, Mother spending her days at the club playing cards. 

One afternoon in the early autumn the family lawyer came to our house and sat in the dining room. 

He laid out in no uncertain terms our impending ruin. 

My father, it seemed, had left us no provision whatsoever, and in fact had accrued a mountain of debts in an amount exceeding that of our possessions.

“And the club?” asked Mother.

“The dues are paid for two years,” said the lawyer. “But after that…”

Mother closed her eyes.

“I will stall the creditors as long as possible to keep you in the house,” the lawyer told us. “But you should prepare for the worst.”

#

Thus began the new life. 

Or as I should say, my new life. 

Mother carried on unaffected except for the occasional hint that I might want to make something of myself. 

 

 

This was the start of a draft for a NYC Midnight contest.  I abandoned this story and wrote another instead. It didn’t even place. Should have stuck with this one.