out again for an hour or two if the evening was peaceful. He would be gone longer if it was not.
My father dropped his hat and briefcase (another lawyer’s touch—and a gift from my mother) on the kitchen table. “David,” he said, “I hear you’re baby-sitting the baby-sitter.”
How naive I was! Until that moment I believed that we had hired Marie to care for our house, to keep it clean and prepare the meals since my mother, unlike most mothers, worked all day outside our home. We called Marie our “housekeeper,” and I thought that was her job—to keep the house. It never occurred to me that she had been hired to look after me as well.
My mother headed for Marie’s room.
“I think she’s still sleeping,” I said.
Within minutes my mother came back out. She said, “She’s burning up, Wes. You’d better call Frank.”
My father did not question my mother’s judgment in these matters. He went for the phone.
“Wait!” I called.
Both my father and mother turned to me. I did not often demand my parents’ attention because I knew I could have it whenever I wanted it. That was part of my only-child legacy.
“Marie said she didn’t want a doctor.”
“That’s superstition, David,” said my father. “Indian superstition.”
This is as good a place as any to mention something that I would just as soon forget. My father did not like Indians. No, that’s not exactly accurate, because it implies that my father disliked Indians, which wasn’t so. He simply held them in low regard. He was not a hate-filled bigot—he probably thought he was free of prejudice!—and he could treat Indians with generosity, kindness, and respect (as he could treat every human being). Nevertheless, he believed Indians, with only a few exceptions, were ignorant, lazy, superstitious, and irresponsible. I first learned of his racism when I was seven or eight. An aunt gave me a pair of moccasins for my birthday, and my father forbade me to wear them. When I made a fuss and my mother sided with me, my father said, “He wears those and soon he’ll be as flat-footed and lazy as an Indian.” My mother gave in by supposing that he was right about flat feet. (Today I put on a pair of moccasins as soon as I come home from work, an obedient son’s belated, small act of defiance.)
“She said she doesn’t need one,” I said.
“What does she need, David? A medicine man?”
I shut up. Both my parents were capable of scorching sarcasm. I saw no reason to risk receiving any more of it.
My father was already on the phone, giving the operator my uncle’s home phone number. “Glo?” he said into the receiver. “This is Wes. Is the doctor home yet?” Gloria, my uncle’s wife, was the prettiest woman I had ever seen. (Prettier even than my mother—a significant admission for a boy to make.) Aunt Gloria was barely five feet tall, and she had silver-blond hair. She and Frank had been married five or six years but had no children. I once overheard my grandfather say to my uncle: “Is she too small to have kids? Is that it, Frank? Is the chute too tight?”
In the too-loud voice he always used on the telephone, my father said, “We’ve got a sick Indian girl over here, Frank. Gail wants to know if you can stop by.”
After a pause, my father said to my mother, “Frank wants to know what her symptoms are.”
“A high temperature. Chills. Coughing.”
My father repeated my mother’s words. Then he added, “I might as well tell you, Frank. She doesn’t want to see you. Says she doesn’t need a doctor.”
Another short pause and my father said, “She didn’t say why. My guess is she’s never been to anyone but the tribal medicine man.”
I couldn’t tell if my father was serious or making a joke.
He laughed and hung up the phone. “Frank said maybe he’d do a little dance around the bed. And if that doesn’t work he’ll try beating some drums.”
My mother didn’t laugh. “I’ll go back in with Marie.”
As soon as Uncle Frank arrived, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, I felt sorry for my father. It was the way I always felt when the two of them were together. Brothers naturally invite comparison, and when comparisons were made between those two, my father was bound to suffer. And my father was, in many respects, an impressive man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and pleasant-looking. But Frank was all this and more. He was handsome—dark, wavy hair, a jaw chiseled on such precise angles it seemed to conform to some geometric law, and he was as tall and well built as my father, but with an athletic grace my father lacked. He had been a star athlete in high school and college, and he was a genuine war hero, complete with decorations and commendations. He had been stationed at an Army field hospital on a Pacific island, and during a battle in which Allied forces were incurring a great many losses, Uncle Frank left the hospital to assist in treating and evacuating casualties. Under heavy enemy fire he carried—carried, just like in the movies—three wounded soldiers from the battlefield to safety. The story made the wire services, and somehow my grandfather got ahold of clippings from close to twenty different newspapers. (After reading one of the clippings, my father muttered, “I wonder if he was supposed to stay at the hospital.”)
Frank was witty, charming, at smiling ease with his life and everything in it. Alongside his brother my father soon seemed somewhat prosaic. Oh, stolid, surely, and steady and dependable. But inevitably, inescapably dull. Nothing glittered in my father’s wake the way it did in Uncle Frank’s.
Soon after the end of the war the town held a picnic to celebrate his homecoming. (Ostensibly the occasion was to honor all returning veterans, but really it was for Uncle Frank.) The park was jammed that day (I’m sure no event has ever gathered as many of the county’s residents in one place), and the amount and variety of food, all donated, was amazing: a roast pig, a barbecued side of beef, pots of beans, brimming bowls of coleslaw and potato salad, an array of garden vegetables, freshly baked pies and cakes, and pitchers of lemonade, urns of coffee, and barrels of beer. Once people had eaten and drunk their fill, my grandfather climbed onto a picnic table.
He didn’t call for silence. That wasn’t his way. He simply stood there, his feet planted wide, his hands on his hips. He was wearing his long buckskin jacket, the one so tanned and aged that it was almost white. He assumed that once people saw him, they would give him their attention. And they did.
He said a few words honoring all the men who served (no one from Mercer County was killed in action—not such an improbability when you consider the county’s small population—though we had our share of wounded, the worst of whom, Harold Branch, came back without his legs). Then after a long, reverent pause, Grandfather announced, “Now I’d like to bring my son up here.”
My father was standing next to me when Grandfather said that. My father did not move. Grandfather did not say, “my son the veteran,” or “my son the war hero,” or “my son the soldier.” He simply said, “my son.” And why wouldn’t the county sheriff be called on to make a small speech?
But my father didn’t move. He just stood there, like every other man in the crowd, smiling and applauding, while his brother stepped up on the table. Uncle Frank had not hesitated either; he knew immediately that
