Casualties
Andrew Lloyd-Jones
I only saw my mother’s lover twice. The first time, he was standing naked in the hallway outside my bedroom. He was thinner and taller than my father, with wiry gray hair covering his body, from his chest to his abdomen and down to his penis, though his balls were surprisingly large and hairless. He looked at me, said Jesus Christ, then turned and disappeared into my parent’s bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
I heard voices through the door. First, a man’s, and then, unmistakably, my mother’s, rising in pitch and volume. She said my name, and my God, over and over. I stood in the hallway, my schoolbag over my shoulder, frozen. I was thirteen years old, and I had never seen another man naked. Not even my father. Not once.
When the door to my parent’s bedroom cracked open, I dropped my bag and ran down the stairs. I heard my mother calling after me as I ran through the house and into the garage, past Spotsylvania, and out into the street. I kept running until there were spots in front of my eyes and a metallic taste in my mouth. And then I ran some more.
~ ~ ~
In his spare time, my father made dioramas of history’s most significant military clashes. Iwo Jima, Little Bighorn, the Siege of Bastogne – he took scenes of what he called heroism and valor and brought them to life every year with chicken wire and plaster of Paris.
Each diorama took months to make. First he shaped the plaster, initially with a large file, then with sandpaper, and sometimes even a polishing cloth. Next he painted and detailed the landscape with grass and trees or rocks or bridges or tents or whatever else there would have been on or near the field of battle, before positioning the troops themselves. After finishing the scene, he took pictures of it from every angle, and entered it into competitions. All were at least notably mentioned, and his San Jacinto had won first prize in the Historical Re-enactment Category at the National Model Making Awards some years before.
My younger brother and I weren’t allowed to touch them, of course. But I was always welcome to sit on the step that lead down into the garage from the utility room and watch him working. While he filed or sanded or painted he would talk about whatever war it was he was recreating.
The Battle of Yorktown effectively ended the Revolutionary War, he said.
General Meade was only in command for three days before Gettysburg, he said.
Custer’s Last Stand lasted less than an hour, he said.
I listened because it was almost all he talked about sometimes. The details always felt important – as though they meant something greater, as though he was trying to get me to see a pattern, something one day I would understand. He had been making models for as long as I had been alive, and I had just turned thirteen when he began work on The Battle of Spotsylvania Court House.
~ ~ ~
The day I saw my mother’s lover for the first time, I had cut school and returned home after lunch break. My mother’s car was in the driveway, but since she usually walked to work, I wasn’t worried. I went in through the garage, lifting up the door and dropping it down behind me. Inside, it smelled like the art room at school, a warm, muggy smell of plaster drying. On the table in the middle of the room I could just make out the battleground of Spotsylvania in the moldy light of the small window in the side of the garage.
As I got used to the darkness, I could see that this diorama was going to be big – bigger than his Battle of the Bulge, bigger than Yorktown, bigger even than Stalingrad – about eight feet long and maybe four wide. It was going to be his finest recreation ever, he told us over dinner one night, of what was one of the most hard-fought battles of the Civil War. A tribute to patriots on both sides, Confederate and Union alike. He had already created the wire model and molded on the plaster of Paris, and as soon as it was dry, he would begin filing it down.
I walked around the model to the window, where the key was hidden beneath an oil can. I unlocked the door that lead to the kitchen, and walked inside. And I went straight upstairs to my bedroom where I met my mother’s lover.
~ ~ ~
After I ran I walked. I walked for a long time. I can’t remember much about it, just streets and sidewalks and houses and yards, other kids eventually coming home from school. After a while it began to get dark and I found myself in front of my house again.
Inside, my mother was waiting for me in the kitchen. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a green sweater, one I recognized. A birthday present from my father that year.
Where have you been? she said.
She sat down at the kitchen table and straightened one of the table mats, then crossed her arms.
Seth, she said.
I didn’t look at her. She didn’t say anything, and we just stayed like that for a time, me standing in the doorway and her sitting at the table.
Why don’t you sit down? she said.
I stayed standing in the doorway, looking at the kitchen surface.
Seth, please sit down, she said again.
I could tell she had been crying though by the way she was talking. Her voice was high and then low and she swallowed between each sentence, as though she was thirsty.
What you saw, she said.
Who is he? I said.
He’s a friend, my mother said.
I looked at her for the first time. Her cheeks were red and wet and her hair was tied back with a clasp.
I’m not a kid, I shouted. He’s not just a friend. I know what’s going on.
You don’t, she said. You don’t know.
I think I fucking do, I said. You’re fucking him. You’re having an affair. Aren’t you?
She brushed the hair away from her eyes, swallowed again.
I don’t expect you to understand, she said. It’s not easy. Your father and I, we have, there are, problems.
So why don’t you just go to counselling or something like everybody else? I said.
It’s just not that easy, she said. One day you’ll understand.
Don’t treat me like an idiot, I said.
She cleared her throat, and took a breath.
So what were you doing home from school? she said.
What, so this is my fault? I said.
No, she said. I’m sorry.
Then she started crying and in that moment I felt guilty. I wanted to cry, too. And then I thought about my father.
Are you going to tell dad? I said.
She stopped crying suddenly and put her hand over her mouth and looked at me, her eyes wide.
Seth, she said. Please. You can’t ever tell your father this. Do you understand? It would kill him. Is that what you want?
No, I said. I don’t want any of this. But I bet he doesn’t either, does he?
Me and your father are having a hard time at the moment, she said. But please, you can’t ever tell him about this. We’re still a family. You don’t want to destroy that, do you?
She started to cry again and I said no that’s not what I want and then she stood up and said I’m not going to tell you what to do, it’s up to you but I knew it really wasn’t. And then she ran upstairs and I heard the door of her room close. I waited a minute and then went up to my own room and closed the door behind me. I never told her what I was doing at home, why I was upstairs in the first place. I had cut school and come home to jerk off.
About an hour later she knocked on my door and said she had to pick up my brother from his friend’s house where he went after school. She said she wanted to talk to me again when she got back, before my father came home. I didn’t respond, so she just said she’d be back soon. I heard her walking down the stairs and a minute later her car pulled out of the driveway. I got undressed and brushed my teeth and then got into bed and lay there with the light off and tried to go to sleep but I couldn’t. I kept thinking about him standing there.
When my mother came back I heard Matthew ask her where I was and she told him I wasn’t feeling well so I’d gone to bed. Then I heard her coming upstairs and walking towards my room and she opened the door and said my name but I acted like I was asleep.
She stood there for a while, not making a sound, and eventually left, closing the door behind her.
My father had already left for work the next morning so I didn’t have to see him, but she was waiting for me in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette by the kitchen sink. She looked at me when I walked in and I was just about to leave again when Matthew came in for his cereal. I went to the fridge as well and got some orange juice and a glass and poured some out and drank it and the whole time I could tell she was watching me, even though I didn’t look at her once. Matthew was talking about some shit he had to do at school but I wasn’t paying attention and I don’t think my mother was either, because she just kept saying, that’s nice, and that sounds great, to whatever he said.
When Matthew went upstairs to get his bag she said to me, Seth, but I ignored her, picked up my bag, and walked out the door.
I didn’t say anything to my father that day. And I didn’t say anything to him the next day either. I could hardly look at him. And my mother kept trying to talk to me but every time she did I just walked away or went and watched TV with Matthew so she couldn’t say anything. I knew she wouldn’t talk with him there. I didn’t have anything to say to her and I didn’t care about what she wanted to say to me. After a couple of weeks she seemed to give up. I guess she decided I wasn’t going to say anything to anyone so she didn’t have to worry so much.
Either way, I started spending as much time out of the house as I could. I even signed up to help with the school play, putting together the set after everyone had gone home. And when there wasn’t anyone to hang out with after that I’d go and sit and read in the library until it closed, until I knew my mother would have picked up Matthew from whichever friend’s house he was playing at after she’d finished work.
And then after I’d come home, I’d go straight up to my room where I’d read until it was time for dinner. After dinner I’d go back up to my room and listen to the radio or read again until I fell asleep. It was a pattern, and it was something.
Conversation at dinner was the same every night.
How was school?
Okay.
Have you done your homework?
Yeah.
My brother was more than happy to fill the vacuum with stories about what he had done that day or what he was planning to do the next. Generally, his conversation would end up being about his allowance. This in turn would demand an enquiry from my parents as to the exact nature of his spending, which for his part he was rarely ready to divulge. Nearly all of these discussions worked out badly for my brother, though at least they made me smile when I thought about them afterwards.
But behind, or beyond, or beside, and never far away from all this, I knew she was still seeing him. I knew because sometimes the phone would ring and she’d take the call upstairs in their room, long conversations that could last an hour or more, until my father came home from the evening shift, when she’d appear and act like she’d been making dinner the whole time. Sometimes I would hear her laugh in their bedroom when she had just answered the phone. I had never heard her laugh on the phone like that with anyone else.
I couldn’t tell what else was going on though. My mother was involved with so many activities in the community that there were any number of reasons for her to be out of the house. There was the PTA, volunteering at the local library, charity drives for the church, her book club, and a dozen others things I never even asked about. My father would help at some of them, but he did it mostly because of her, helping her carry things or set up stalls or put up publicity. Most of the time he was just there in the background. He was just Mrs Russo’s husband the warehouse supervisor for a bottle company.
Obviously, he had Bunker Hill and the Somme and the Light Brigade and Bannockburn, but no-one really ever talked about that. Whenever my father brought up heroism and valor in company, my mother would change the subject as quickly as she could.
As far as I knew, my father didn’t know about my mother’s affair. And, true to my mother’s word, we were still a family. About a week later, my father knocked on my door just after I’d turned the light out and was trying to get to sleep. I didn't answer, but he opened the door anyway.
You asleep? he asked.
No, I replied.
My father cleared his throat.
Just wanted to say goodnight, he said.
Night, I said.
I heard him clearing his throat again.
So, he said. How’s Phoenix doing?
Okay, I said. Miller’s out for some knee thing. But we trashed the Clippers.
There was a poster on my wall of the Phoenix Suns. I could name each of them in turn, Johnson and West and Rambin and Chambers, all the way through, including the coaches and the manager. I stared at it now, and tried to name them in order, but I kept forgetting players, getting them mixed up.
My father cleared his throat.
And how’s everything else going?
Okay, I guess.
Everything okay at school?
Fine, I said.
You just seem, well, it just seems that you’re, well, you just seem, a little quiet lately. I think your mother's worried, he said.
I’ve got tests coming up, I said. So I’ve been studying. You know.
Got it, he said.
He cleared his throat again.
Did you take a look at Spotsylvania? he said. It’s going to be a good one.
Yeah, I said.
The truth was, I hadn’t been back in the garage since that day.
Almost 9,000 men died less than two weeks, he said.
Yeah? I said.
43 Medals of Honor were awarded.
I’ll come down and see it tomorrow, I said.
Good, he said. Night then. Do you want the door shut?
Thanks, I said.
He cleared his throat for the fourth time and closed the door behind him.
I didn’t go to see Spotsylvania until the weekend. My father was out, and while he was gone I went downstairs to take a look, flicking on the lights and stepping down into the garage.
The walls were covered in pictures and maps and drawings he'd made, showing the soldiers in their uniforms and the guns they used and the battlefield as it was now and as it was then. He always spent weeks reading about whatever it was he was planning to make, checking out library books, finding pictures, watching movies, getting all the details just right, and everything would be stuck up around the garage for reference.
The actual model was still completely white, but he had begun to carve out features in the terrain – a sloping expanse surrounding a raised area bordered with dozens of trenches cut into the ground. The floor around the model was covered in fine white powder from the plaster he had filed away, and there were footprints in it where he had walked. I placed one of my feet in his print, measuring it for size. I couldn’t imagine my feet would ever be so large.
The model was also dusty with plaster. I traced a finger along the inside of a trench, pushing drifts of powder along its length.
Hi, said my father.
I turned round. He was standing there in his jacket holding a bag of groceries and a newspaper.
Hang on a minute and I’ll get rid of this stuff, he said.
I moved round to the other side of the table while I could hear him taking his jacket off and dropping the shopping bag on the kitchen table. He appeared rubbing his hands as though they were cold.
What do you think? he said.
It’s big, I said.
Big enough, he said.
I stood there looking at the snowy ground, following the trenches across the landscape, trying to imagine what it would look like in the end.
This is just part of the Muleshoe Salient, my father said after a while. It was a Confederate defensive position they called The Bloody Angle.
Then he started telling me about that week in 1864, explaining where the battle lines had been drawn, how the Confederate soldiers had built their defenses, where the Union forces had positioned themselves, and what had happened during the attack. I listened and nodded, listened and nodded, trying to concentrate but missing all the names. It was uncomfortable being in the same room like that, with him and alone at the same time. Eventually I looked at my watch.
I’ve got some homework to do, I said.
My father looked up from the trenches, startled.
Oh, he said. Right.
See you later, I said.
Later, he said.
The next time my father was working a late shift I came home to find my mother waiting for me in the kitchen. It was a Wednesday, and she was supposed to be at her book club, so I knew she wanted something. It had been over a month.
As soon as I saw her I turned round and walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs, but she followed me. I was surprised because I thought she’d given up trying to talk.
Seth, she said. I’d like to discuss this.
Fuck off, I said.
She froze, and so did I. It was an unintended moment of defiance, and both of us were as surprised as each other. But I had no clue what to do with the high ground, and so it gave way almost immediately.
Don’t you dare talk to me like that, she shouted.
I don’t want to talk to you at all, I said.
I went into my room and tried to shut the door behind me but she was already there.
Seth, she said. You can’t just not talk to me.
Get out, I said.
Seth.
Get out, I shouted.
I stood there, staring at her. Eventually she looked away.
Fine, she said. I just wanted to talk about your father. He’s worried about you.
Well I’m worried about him, I said. And you should be too.
Seth, she said, folding her arms. I told you before. Your father and I have some problems. We’re trying to work these things out.
You’re trying to work things out by fucking some other guy, I shouted.
That’s, that’s stopped, she said.
No it hasn’t, I said. You still talk to him on the phone. It’s obvious. I can tell. The phone rings and you go off and talk in private and you think I can’t tell?
It’s not that easy, she said. Ray’s been a good friend to me and…
Hearing his name was almost as much of a shock as seeing his balls. But neither made me as angry as my mother’s apparent need to tell me about him.
I don’t fucking want to know his name! I shouted. I don’t fucking want to know anything about him!
She covered her mouth with one hand. I could tell she was about to start crying again.
I just don’t want you to be angry, she said. I don’t want you to hate me.
Well I do, I said.
My mother nodded and looked down at her feet.
I hope you don’t mean that, she said. Because I love you.
Just get out, I said.
I looked away and after a moment she left the room. I heard her go downstairs and then I heard the radio click on in the kitchen. I stared out the window, but all I could see was my own reflection, me trying to stare out but just staring in at me again.
When my mother went out to pick up Matthew from whichever of his friends he was with, I went down to the garage again to look at Spotsylvania.
My father had finished the filing and shaping and given the scene what looked like its first coat of paint. It was like the snow had melted away, green grass and rich, dark brown earth beneath. The ground was still bare, though, with only the trenches and foxholes to give it any kind of feature interest.
On the workbench, there were dozens of little tins of paint lined up, different shades of green and brown mostly, but also some grays, reds, and blues. There was another area in which he had started to construct the first real features, miniature bushes made from pieces of sponge and little rocks and bits of wood, like a tiny nursery.
I turned back and stared at the empty land until I heard the car in the driveway. Then I turned out the light, closed the door and went back up to my room.
My mother’s phone conversations still went on, even though she was noticeably more discreet after that. I kept out of her way, and avoided my father as much as I could as well. He and I hardly seemed to speak at all, and it wasn’t just me. My parents were hardly speaking a word to each other, either. The only person who seemed oblivious to it all was Matthew. I envied him. We were watching TV one night when my father was on a late shift again and my mother was at some church meeting.
I watched him staring at the television, a vacant look on his face.
You okay? I said.
What?
Is everything okay? I said.
Yeah, he said.
On screen, someone was taking part in a game show.
You can tell me, you know, I said, if anything’s, you know, bothering you.
Yeah, he said.
But you’re okay, I said.
Yeah, he said.
Nothing bothering you, I said.
No, he said.
Good, I said.
Where’s mom? he said.
Out, I said.
When’s she back? he said.
When’s dad back? he said.
Later, I said.
What’s for dinner? he said.
Chicken casserole, I said.
I had seen it in the fridge when I got home, together with a note on it telling me what temperature to put it on and for how long.
My mother had started leaving me dozens of little notes like that, stuck in places she knew I'd find them. They said, tidy your room. They said, I’ve put your gym kit in the wash. They said, can you take back the video please. They said, Ben called, wants Math notes. And she signed every one “mom” with an x for a kiss. None of them ever said anything about my father.
Are you hungry? I asked.
Yeah, he replied.
I looked at him watching the television. He hadn’t turned to look at me once during the whole exchange. He just kept staring at the screen, entirely absorbed. I tried to remember what things were like before that moment. I tried to imagine what I would be doing, right then, at that moment, if I had never found out.
My brother said something.
What? I said.
When’s dinner? he said.
The game show had finished, and he was now looking at me from the floor.
You hungry? I said again.
Yeah, he said.
Okay, I said.
I got up and walked into the kitchen while he flicked the channels on the remote. Just as I was opening the fridge door, the phone rang. I picked up the receiver.
Hello, I said.
I could hear movement on the other end, but no-one was speaking.
Hello, I said again.
Then I heard the phone being rattled back onto its holder, and the line went dead, and I knew it was him. I put the phone back on the hook.
Motherfucker, I said. You motherfucker.
I opened the fridge door and took out the casserole dish. The note on top of it read, thirty minutes at 200 degrees Fahrenheit. Rice in microwave. Love mom x
I tore up the note and threw the chicken in the trash.
You said it was chicken casserole, my brother said, poking at his SpaghettiOs on toast.
I was wrong, I said.
I hate SpaghettiOs, he said.
Then don’t eat them, I said. I’m not your fucking personal chef.
He made a face but ate it all. I left most of mine but cleared my plate away before he could see. Then I went into the garage while he watched more television.
It had been a couple of weeks since I had seen Spotsylvania. My father had now added even more to the scenery, so it was starting to look like it did in all the pictures. Better, even, because his was in color. The trenches, lined with wood, palisades and defensive spikes embedded in the ground, fences of woven branches, bedraggled clusters of trees, everything was there. It was perfect.
He had also made a start on the soldiers. None of them were on the battlefield yet, as this was always the last thing he did. He painted each one of them, and then he’d put them into position, arranging them over a period of several days before he was satisfied.
There were rows and rows of soldiers on the worktop, some of them clearly finished, some half painted, others not painted at all, more than I’d ever seen him use before. He had told me on a number of occasions that some model makers just painted them all the same, so that they all looked identical on the field apart from their poses. But my father didn’t do that. He treated each soldier as though they were individuals, giving them different hair color and scars and marks on their uniform, just like they were real people. He said it was only right, that it was a mark of respect for the real soldiers who fought and died.
I picked up one of the soldiers that he was working on, and held him underneath a magnifying glass my father had attached to the desk. It had a light built into it so you could see whatever you wanted to look at in complete detail. The one I picked up was one of the Union soldiers. He had a musket in one hand, down at his side, like it was a walking stick, and he had his other hand up in the air. One of his legs had a little bandage or something tied around it, and you could see spots of blood seeping through that as well.
It was hard to tell what he was supposed to be doing though. It seemed as though the hand in the air was going to be leaning on something. Maybe the side of a trench. Or another soldier. You couldn’t tell with half of them until they were actually in the scene properly.
I put the soldier down and turned the lights out and went back into the house. It was after nine.
Bedtime, I told my brother.
Where’s Mom? he said.
Out, I said.
When’s she back? he said.
Soon, I said.
Can I watch the end of Mash? he asked.
Okay, I said.
After I’d got him up to bed I came back downstairs and opened a can of Coke and flicked through the channels in search of anything remotely worth staying up for. I settled for another game show. I’d only watched about five minutes it when I heard a car in the drive. I looked out the window and saw my mother sitting in her car.
I turned off the television and headed upstairs to my bedroom. Then I brushed my teeth and went to the toilet. After I turned the light out I looked outside, down onto the driveway. She was still sitting in the car.
As I passed Matthew’s room, I heard him whisper, Seth.
What? I said.
Is Mom back?
Yes, I said.
Is she coming up?
Soon, I said. Go to sleep.
Night, he said.
Night, I said.
I heard her coming in about half an hour later. Then I turned off my light and closed my eyes. If she came upstairs, I didn't hear her.
The end of semester exams were coming up and I had a lot of studying to get done, plus there was the school play I was helping out with. I was enjoying backstage work, hammering and painting and cutting things out. There seemed to be an almost endless list of tasks, and I was only too happy to be told what to do. Generally I'd be exhausted by the time I came home, covered in paint. I’d spend half an hour washing red or blue or purple from under my fingernails, and then it'd be time for dinner.
My father was working more and more late shifts, so it tended to be just the three of us eating. He’d start work at about three o’clock, then he wouldn’t get home till after midnight, so I hardly ever saw him at all except for when he got up in the morning to go to the toilet or something. He had weekends free, but that was when he’d spend most of his time in the garage. Spotsylvania was taking longer than anything he had done before.
My mother had started to watch a lot more TV with me and Matthew. Which wasn't that bad. We even started talking again, though it was only ever one or two words, mostly yes or no or I don't know. She still took her phone calls, and she'd take off to her room with them when my father wasn't home, but it just seemed like that was the way it had always been.
One night after dinner, me, Matthew, and my mother were watching TV when the phone rang. It was never for me, so I just sat there. But so did my mother. It rang and rang and kept ringing. She could hear it, that was clear. She even turned her head towards the phone. But she didn’t get up to answer it. Eventually it stopped. No-one said anything.
When the phone started ringing again a few minutes later I looked directly at my mother. Her eyes were closed.
Should I get it? Matthew asked.
My mother sat up.
No, she said.
Why not? Matthew said.
It’s just a wrong number, said my mother.
How do you know? Matthew said.
I just do, said my mother.
The phone went on ringing.
It had probably been ringing for at least five minutes when she got up and ran into the kitchen and I heard the door shutting behind her and then the phone stopped.
She didn’t come out for a while and when she did she went up to her room without a word.
My end of semester exams came and went and after that there was the school play. I was quite proud of my role as a stagehand. I even got a mention for my enthusiastic contribution from the drama teacher who gave a speech when it was all over. My parents both came and congratulated me afterwards, and asked me what I’d painted, and how long it had taken, and whether I was going to do it again. It was the first time I had seen them both smiling together in one place for as long as I could remember.
The wrap party was arranged for the next night, for everyone who had been involved with the production. I knew this would involve staying out late, which meant I would have to ask permission, even though it was a weekend. I started with my father the next morning.
He was sitting at the workbench in the garage, the soldiers lined up in rows in front of him. He was staring at one of them through the magnifying glass. Just sitting there, staring.
Hi, I said.
Oh, said my father.
He looked up from the soldier.
Hi, he said.
He put the soldier back in line with the rest, then picked up another one.
Can I stay out tonight? I said.
What? my father said, without looking up.
Can I stay out tonight? I said again. It’s the after-show party.
Ask your mother, he said.
But I’m asking you.
Seth, just ask you mother, all right?
Why can’t you say?
Just, because. I’m busy, he said.
He put down the soldier and picked up the first one again.
Yeah, but…
Seth. I’m trying to work.
So I had to talk to my mother. She was in the kitchen ironing. I walked in and she looked up but just kept ironing. I went to the fridge, took out a carton of orange juice, and poured some into a glass.
Have you got anything that needs ironing? my mother asked.
No, I said.
She picked up a can of something and sprayed the shirt she was working on. I leaned against the fridge and looked out the kitchen window. Outside, I could see the lights in the houses across the road, little orange squares hanging in the darkness.
I need to stay out tomorrow night, I said.
Why?
After show party.
Where is it?
Someone’s house.
Whose house?
Rachel Baker’s.
Who’s she?
She was in the play.
Have you asked your father?
He said to ask you.
She finished ironing the shirt, and hung it on a metal hanger on the kitchen door. I kept staring out the window. One of the lights across the street went out.
Okay, she said. I want you back by midnight though.
No way, I said. It won’t even have got going by then.
You’ll have plenty of time, she said.
That’s not fair, I said. Everyone else is going to be there later than that.
You’re not even fourteen, Seth. You’re lucky we’re allowing you out that late at all.
Lucky? You think I’m lucky? After what I’ve had to put up with this whole time?
My mother was looking towards the garage door. It was shut, but I could tell she was worried about my father hearing.
That’s enough, Seth.
Why? I said.
Because I say so.
What if I don’t?
Seth.
Neither of us said anything then. We were both looking in the direction of the garage.
I’ll come back when I want, I said, and left the room.
Seth, she said.
I didn’t really feel like going to the party after that, but I went anyway. I sat and watched everyone else get drunk for a while and then I left about midnight and walked home. I wasn’t about to come home on time though, so I sat on the wall at the end of my road, just watching the lights in the windows in the streets again. My mother was standing in the doorway of the TV room when I got in at about one. She didn’t say anything and neither did I. I just went upstairs to my room. Before I went to bed I got undressed and stood in front of my mirror and looked at myself. My balls weren't anything.
The next time I went to take a look at how Spotsylvania was doing the door was locked. I knew what that meant. It meant that soon my father would make us all go into the garage in the dark and there would be this big thing where we would all have to stand around and he’d turn on the lights and there it would be. It was what he always did.
And sure enough, the following day, over dinner, my father said, I’ve got something to show you. I looked at my mother, whose expression hadn’t changed at all. Only Matthew, as usual, seemed to show any interest.
What is it? he asked. What is it?
It’s a surprise, said my father.
Give us a clue, said Matthew.
You’ll see after dinner, my father said.
Is it good? Matthew said.
Wait and see, said my father.
He’s finished the model, I said.
Have you? Matthew said. Really?
My father frowned at me but I just twisted another forkful of spaghetti into my mouth.
Just wait and see, he said again.
When we’d cleared the plates away, my father led us all to the garage. He unlocked the door, and guided us in one by one in the dark and told us not to move until he was ready.
My mother was first. He held out his hand and she took it, walking with him into the garage. He reappeared on his own a few seconds later.
Seth, he said when he came out.
Why am I last? asked Matthew.
Because I’m saving the best till last, my father said.
He held out his hand and I took it, firm and cold, and he lead me into the darkness. He positioned me carefully next to my mother, who I could just about make out to my left. Then he disappeared again to get Matthew, shutting the door behind him.
We stood there waiting in the darkness together. I heard my mother take a deep breath and sigh. I turned to where she was standing and could tell her head was bowed and her arms were folded across her chest. And then my father appeared with Matthew, who he positioned to my right. Then he walked to the other side of the table, where the light switch was.
Ready? said my father.
Ready, said Matthew.
Then my father said three two one and the lights came on.
The first thing I saw were the bodies.
Strewn across the battlefield were dozens, if not hundreds of them. In some places they were three or four deep, facing up, facing down, men tangled together like worms. Many of them had parts missing from their bodies, arms or legs or heads, and body parts were scattered around other parts of the scene. You could hardly tell what was ground and what was a body in some places, the two were so mashed together.
There were dead men in the trenches, dead men on the earthworks, dead men on the fences; they were hanging off the palisades, half buried in the ground, slumped over their guns and flags, Confederate and Union alike. Horses, also horrifically dismembered, added to the carnage; the ground, where you could see it, wasn't green anymore, it was brown and red.
Matthew said wow and moved right up to the model.
Careful, said my father.
There was something going on everywhere you looked in the scene. Soldiers crawling away or being carried on stretchers through the trenches. Soldiers running or shooting or falling or firing canons. Soldiers crying or being shot or with their head in their hands or asleep or smoking or screaming.
In one trench, there was a man on his knees. At first I thought he was hurt or injured, but then I realized that he was praying, and that in his hand there was a little black book, with a tiny cross on the front cover. In another part of the trench, two soldiers were playing cards. Further down, one soldier was cradling the body of another, his head bowed.
In the middle of it all there was The Bloody Angle itself, a series of trenches and wooden palisades covered with soldiers, scrambling over the shot-peppered logs and climbing over bodies, shooting and stabbing each other, soldiers beating each other with the butts of their muskets, soldiers lying dead or dying, soldiers drowning in muddy water at the bottom of deep pits.
Why are there so many dead people? said Matthew.
Because a lot of people died, said my father.
Yes, said my mother quietly. But you didn’t need to show all of them, surely.
Who won? asked my brother.
Nobody won, said my father. It was all a tactical mistake. It achieved none of its objectives. In less than two weeks, there were 18,000 Union casualties, 12,000 Confederate casualties. It was one of the most futile military excursions of the Civil War.
There was a silence then, while we all stared at the dead soldiers. Then I looked at my father. He was staring at the battleground from behind The Bloody Angle. My mother was staring at the ground.
I looked back at the scene and tried to find the soldier I’d picked up before. It took me a while, and when I found him, he wasn’t standing up or leaning against anything. He was lying on his back in the middle of the battlefield, his arm stretching up to the roof of the garage. He was surrounded by other soldiers, some living, some dead, none of whom were paying him any attention.
I've got to phone Jenny about book club, my mother said, and left the garage.
After my mother had gone, I stood there for another five minutes looking at the scene while my father showed my brother all the photos and stuff he'd based the model on. Then I said I was tired and was going to have an early night and I left as well.
Night, said my father.
Night, I said. It's great.
Thanks, said my father.
I'm staying up later than you, said my brother.
Later on I was lying there in the dark thinking about the model and the ten thousand men and I heard someone walking towards my room. I closed my eyes and acted like I was asleep again and the door opened and I knew it was my mother from her walk and the way she just stood there in silence.
I didn’t make a sound.
There was a noise and a movement and then nothing, so I opened one eye and saw her sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, her knees up to her chest, and her arms pulling them close. I couldn’t tell whether her eyes were open or not.
She stayed like that for a long time. Then I thought I heard her say something so I moved my leg like I’d just woken up. I sniffed.
Mom, I said.
She didn’t say anything. I sat up and she stood up at the same time.
Mom, I said.
She opened the door and left the room.
The next morning I was reading on the sofa, the television on in the background, when my mother came in and said, you’re not doing anything tonight are you?
I looked at her. She was looking at the television.
Why? I asked.
We’re going out.
Who’s we? I said.
Your father and I.
Why?
She didn’t reply.
Why? I asked again.
It’s our anniversary, she said, and left the room.
So that night my parents went to The Asian Garden, the Chinese Restaurant where they always went for special occasions. They had been gone an hour when the doorbell rang. I got up to answer it, leaving my brother in front of a stage magician on TV.
I put the chain on and opened the door. He was leaning against the side of the house, supporting himself, looking down at his feet. I had only seen him once before, and he had been naked then, but I recognized him straight away. I could tell he was drunk.
What do you want? I said.
He looked at me and stood up straight.
Where’s your mom? he said.
Fuck off, I said. Get the fuck away from our house.
He stared at me for a moment, looked through the gap in the door and into the house. He shouted my mother’s name.
Fuck off, I said again. Or I’ll call the police.
Just tell me where she is, he said.
Fuck you. And fuck off.
I slammed the door shut, and bolted it for good measure. He rang the doorbell a few more times, but I just ignored it, and stood behind the door so he couldn’t see me if he looked in the window. My brother, curious, appeared.
Who is it? he asked.
Just some drunk asshole, I said. It’s nothing.
The doorbell stopped ringing, and I cautiously peered out through the letterbox. He had gone.
Are you sure? asked my brother.
Look, I said, it’s fine. He’s gone.
What did he want?
Nothing, I said. Why don’t you go upstairs and get your pajamas on. It’s after your bedtime.
Do I have to? he said.
Yes.
Five more minutes.
Get your pajamas on and brush your teeth first, then you can have five more minutes.
While my brother raced upstairs, I went into the living room and turned off the lights. Then I peered through the curtains at the front of the house. He wasn’t there either. I was just about to turn the lights on again when I heard a crash coming from the direction of the kitchen.
I ran into the kitchen and flicked on the lights. Almost as soon as I did I could hear the utility room door opening and that’s when I thought about the key under the flowerpot in the garage.
I opened the cutlery drawer and pulled out the biggest knife I could find, a carving knife my father used every Thanksgiving for the turkey.
Then the door opened and he fell into the room, tripping over the step up into the kitchen.
He got to his feet but as soon as he saw the knife he froze.
I’ve called the police, I said. You take one step in here and I’ll slice your fucking balls off.
We stood like that for a few seconds.
Get out, I said.
I just want to see your mom, he said.
I took a step forward with the knife. He moved back, and missed his footing over the step down into the utility room, this time falling backwards.
He hurriedly got to his feet again and held up his hands.
Going, he said. Okay? I’m going.
Then he turned and went back into the darkened garage. I could hear him moving about, banging into things, then I heard the door in the side of the garage slam shut.
What are you doing? my brother said.
I span round, and my brother was standing in the kitchen door in his pajamas.
Christ, I said.
Are mom and dad back? he said.
No, I said. Go to bed.
Why have you got a knife? he said.
I was cutting an orange, I said.
Can I have some? he said.
No, I said. Go to bed. Now.
But you said I could have five more minutes, he said.
Well, I’ve changed my mind. Go.
You’re a fucking a-hole, he said.
I’m going to hit you so fucking hard in a minute if you don’t get to bed you won’t be able to speak, I said. Get to fucking bed.
He looked at me for a second before turning and running upstairs crying.
Still holding the knife, I made sure all the doors in the house were locked, even the bolts on the inside that we hardly ever use. Then I went to the lounge, turned out the lights, and peered through the curtains.
As far as I could tell he had gone, but I couldn’t be sure. I sat in the lounge and held onto the knife with the TV on but the sound down. I stayed like that for a long time, listening out just in case. I imagined stabbing him the next time he came in. I imagined holding the knife up to his throat and hearing him beg for his life with a raspy voice. I imagined sticking him in his balls. After about an hour I heard a car pulling up into the drive and I looked out the window and saw my father’s car pull in to the driveway. Then I put the knife back in the kitchen drawer and went and sat in front of the TV again.
There was a rattle at the door and then another and then the doorbell rang. As soon as it rang I remembered I’d put the bolts on the door which meant they couldn’t unlock it from the outside. I walked over to the front door, undid the bolts, and walked back to the TV before they opened the door themselves.
Once they’d got in, my mother came into the living room.
Why was the door bolted? she said.
Matthew wanted to, I replied.
Why?
Dunno. He just did.
Everything all right though? she asked.
Yes, I said.
No problems at all.
No, I said.
She had started to ask me about Matthew going to bed when my father shouted my name from the garage.
You’d better see what he wants, said my mother.
I stood up and walked past her to the garage, where my father was shouting from.
The light was on, and I went in.
Spotsylvania was on the floor.
The tabletop was still underneath it, but the trestles that kept it up had been knocked away and were lying on the floor beside the model.
The whole thing was still in more or less one piece, but there was a huge crack down the middle of it, and a massive crater at The Bloody Angle, about the size of a footprint. Where it was cracked, and where the dent was, you could see parts of the chicken wire through the crunched-out plaster of Paris, snowy ridges once again showing through the earthworks. There were dozens of other little pieces of plaster spread around the garage.
The soldiers were everywhere as well, the living and the dead. Some of them had stayed in their trenches, but most of them had scattered across the floor, together with other odds and ends from the scene – canons, logs, horses, boxes, crates, stretchers.
Who did this? my father said.
I couldn’t see my soldier anywhere.
WHO DID THIS? my father roared.
I looked at the garage door and I could see it happening. He had found the spare key under the flowerpot on the window ledge beside the door, just like all the other times when he had let himself in to wait for her. He had found the key and then he had opened the door and tried the light which didn’t always work but he had come in anyway, come in and smacked into the table which fell, and then maybe he had stepped on it or maybe that was later when he left, and maybe it had been an accident and maybe he had done it on purpose.
I don’t know, I said.
You don’t know, my father said. You don’t know.
No, I said. I don’t know.
You don’t know how it happened. Look at it, Seth. Look at it.
If it had just been knocked off, or even if it had just cracked in half, I could have maybe got away with saying it had just fallen off. But the footprint was too obvious. He would never believe it had just fallen off. Never. But I said it anyway.
Maybe it just fell off.
Maybe it just fell off, my father repeated. Maybe it just fell off. Does that look like it just fell off? he said, pointing at the crater. Is that what happens when things just fall off? Is it?
I don’t know, I said.
Well who knows? Because I don’t.
I said nothing.
Who, Seth, who?
Maybe someone broke in and did it, I said.
I’ve had enough of this, Seth. I’m giving you one last chance to tell me the truth.
I looked at the soldiers on the floor. I thought about the thousands who had died, men who died for nothing. Futile, my father had said.
I’m waiting, Seth.
I shook my head and almost laughed as I knew what I was going to say.
SETH.
I did, I said.
You did what?
I did it.
You did it.
Yes.
You did it.
Yes.
Why?
I don’t know.
I looked up. My father was shaking his head. He looked like he was having trouble swallowing something, like there was something stuck in his throat. His head was shaking and then he took a step towards me and I saw his arm move and then there was a sound and the next thing I knew I was on the floor and I could feel something underneath my back, part of The Bloody Angle, crunching beneath me.
I lay there for a few seconds. It seemed like there were a lot more soldiers on the ground from where I was lying. It looked like there were hundreds. I could see one of them from where I was lying, under the wheel of my old bicycle in the corner of the room. I wondered what he was doing there. My eye was hurting.
Get up, my father said. You’re not hurt. Get up.
I got to my feet. Several of the soldiers fell away from me where they’d stuck to my clothes on the ground.
Go to your room, he said. I don’t want to see you.
I looked down at Spotsylvania. Where I’d landed there was another dent in the model, like an explosion had gone off on the battlefield, leaving another crater behind. I looked at my father. I turned around and walked through the kitchen. My mother was standing by the door, tears in her eyes, one hand over her mouth.
I looked at her and she looked back at me, neither of us saying anything.
Andrew Lloyd-Jones
I only saw my mother’s lover twice. The first time, he was standing naked in the hallway outside my bedroom. He was thinner and taller than my father, with wiry gray hair covering his body, from his chest to his abdomen and down to his penis, though his balls were surprisingly large and hairless. He looked at me, said Jesus Christ, then turned and disappeared into my parent’s bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
I heard voices through the door. First, a man’s, and then, unmistakably, my mother’s, rising in pitch and volume. She said my name, and my God, over and over. I stood in the hallway, my schoolbag over my shoulder, frozen. I was thirteen years old, and I had never seen another man naked. Not even my father. Not once.
When the door to my parent’s bedroom cracked open, I dropped my bag and ran down the stairs. I heard my mother calling after me as I ran through the house and into the garage, past Spotsylvania, and out into the street. I kept running until there were spots in front of my eyes and a metallic taste in my mouth. And then I ran some more.
~ ~ ~
In his spare time, my father made dioramas of history’s most significant military clashes. Iwo Jima, Little Bighorn, the Siege of Bastogne – he took scenes of what he called heroism and valor and brought them to life every year with chicken wire and plaster of Paris.
Each diorama took months to make. First he shaped the plaster, initially with a large file, then with sandpaper, and sometimes even a polishing cloth. Next he painted and detailed the landscape with grass and trees or rocks or bridges or tents or whatever else there would have been on or near the field of battle, before positioning the troops themselves. After finishing the scene, he took pictures of it from every angle, and entered it into competitions. All were at least notably mentioned, and his San Jacinto had won first prize in the Historical Re-enactment Category at the National Model Making Awards some years before.
My younger brother and I weren’t allowed to touch them, of course. But I was always welcome to sit on the step that lead down into the garage from the utility room and watch him working. While he filed or sanded or painted he would talk about whatever war it was he was recreating.
The Battle of Yorktown effectively ended the Revolutionary War, he said.
General Meade was only in command for three days before Gettysburg, he said.
Custer’s Last Stand lasted less than an hour, he said.
I listened because it was almost all he talked about sometimes. The details always felt important – as though they meant something greater, as though he was trying to get me to see a pattern, something one day I would understand. He had been making models for as long as I had been alive, and I had just turned thirteen when he began work on The Battle of Spotsylvania Court House.
~ ~ ~
The day I saw my mother’s lover for the first time, I had cut school and returned home after lunch break. My mother’s car was in the driveway, but since she usually walked to work, I wasn’t worried. I went in through the garage, lifting up the door and dropping it down behind me. Inside, it smelled like the art room at school, a warm, muggy smell of plaster drying. On the table in the middle of the room I could just make out the battleground of Spotsylvania in the moldy light of the small window in the side of the garage.
As I got used to the darkness, I could see that this diorama was going to be big – bigger than his Battle of the Bulge, bigger than Yorktown, bigger even than Stalingrad – about eight feet long and maybe four wide. It was going to be his finest recreation ever, he told us over dinner one night, of what was one of the most hard-fought battles of the Civil War. A tribute to patriots on both sides, Confederate and Union alike. He had already created the wire model and molded on the plaster of Paris, and as soon as it was dry, he would begin filing it down.
I walked around the model to the window, where the key was hidden beneath an oil can. I unlocked the door that lead to the kitchen, and walked inside. And I went straight upstairs to my bedroom where I met my mother’s lover.
~ ~ ~
After I ran I walked. I walked for a long time. I can’t remember much about it, just streets and sidewalks and houses and yards, other kids eventually coming home from school. After a while it began to get dark and I found myself in front of my house again.
Inside, my mother was waiting for me in the kitchen. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a green sweater, one I recognized. A birthday present from my father that year.
Where have you been? she said.
She sat down at the kitchen table and straightened one of the table mats, then crossed her arms.
Seth, she said.
I didn’t look at her. She didn’t say anything, and we just stayed like that for a time, me standing in the doorway and her sitting at the table.
Why don’t you sit down? she said.
I stayed standing in the doorway, looking at the kitchen surface.
Seth, please sit down, she said again.
I could tell she had been crying though by the way she was talking. Her voice was high and then low and she swallowed between each sentence, as though she was thirsty.
What you saw, she said.
Who is he? I said.
He’s a friend, my mother said.
I looked at her for the first time. Her cheeks were red and wet and her hair was tied back with a clasp.
I’m not a kid, I shouted. He’s not just a friend. I know what’s going on.
You don’t, she said. You don’t know.
I think I fucking do, I said. You’re fucking him. You’re having an affair. Aren’t you?
She brushed the hair away from her eyes, swallowed again.
I don’t expect you to understand, she said. It’s not easy. Your father and I, we have, there are, problems.
So why don’t you just go to counselling or something like everybody else? I said.
It’s just not that easy, she said. One day you’ll understand.
Don’t treat me like an idiot, I said.
She cleared her throat, and took a breath.
So what were you doing home from school? she said.
What, so this is my fault? I said.
No, she said. I’m sorry.
Then she started crying and in that moment I felt guilty. I wanted to cry, too. And then I thought about my father.
Are you going to tell dad? I said.
She stopped crying suddenly and put her hand over her mouth and looked at me, her eyes wide.
Seth, she said. Please. You can’t ever tell your father this. Do you understand? It would kill him. Is that what you want?
No, I said. I don’t want any of this. But I bet he doesn’t either, does he?
Me and your father are having a hard time at the moment, she said. But please, you can’t ever tell him about this. We’re still a family. You don’t want to destroy that, do you?
She started to cry again and I said no that’s not what I want and then she stood up and said I’m not going to tell you what to do, it’s up to you but I knew it really wasn’t. And then she ran upstairs and I heard the door of her room close. I waited a minute and then went up to my own room and closed the door behind me. I never told her what I was doing at home, why I was upstairs in the first place. I had cut school and come home to jerk off.
About an hour later she knocked on my door and said she had to pick up my brother from his friend’s house where he went after school. She said she wanted to talk to me again when she got back, before my father came home. I didn’t respond, so she just said she’d be back soon. I heard her walking down the stairs and a minute later her car pulled out of the driveway. I got undressed and brushed my teeth and then got into bed and lay there with the light off and tried to go to sleep but I couldn’t. I kept thinking about him standing there.
When my mother came back I heard Matthew ask her where I was and she told him I wasn’t feeling well so I’d gone to bed. Then I heard her coming upstairs and walking towards my room and she opened the door and said my name but I acted like I was asleep.
She stood there for a while, not making a sound, and eventually left, closing the door behind her.
My father had already left for work the next morning so I didn’t have to see him, but she was waiting for me in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette by the kitchen sink. She looked at me when I walked in and I was just about to leave again when Matthew came in for his cereal. I went to the fridge as well and got some orange juice and a glass and poured some out and drank it and the whole time I could tell she was watching me, even though I didn’t look at her once. Matthew was talking about some shit he had to do at school but I wasn’t paying attention and I don’t think my mother was either, because she just kept saying, that’s nice, and that sounds great, to whatever he said.
When Matthew went upstairs to get his bag she said to me, Seth, but I ignored her, picked up my bag, and walked out the door.
I didn’t say anything to my father that day. And I didn’t say anything to him the next day either. I could hardly look at him. And my mother kept trying to talk to me but every time she did I just walked away or went and watched TV with Matthew so she couldn’t say anything. I knew she wouldn’t talk with him there. I didn’t have anything to say to her and I didn’t care about what she wanted to say to me. After a couple of weeks she seemed to give up. I guess she decided I wasn’t going to say anything to anyone so she didn’t have to worry so much.
Either way, I started spending as much time out of the house as I could. I even signed up to help with the school play, putting together the set after everyone had gone home. And when there wasn’t anyone to hang out with after that I’d go and sit and read in the library until it closed, until I knew my mother would have picked up Matthew from whichever friend’s house he was playing at after she’d finished work.
And then after I’d come home, I’d go straight up to my room where I’d read until it was time for dinner. After dinner I’d go back up to my room and listen to the radio or read again until I fell asleep. It was a pattern, and it was something.
Conversation at dinner was the same every night.
How was school?
Okay.
Have you done your homework?
Yeah.
My brother was more than happy to fill the vacuum with stories about what he had done that day or what he was planning to do the next. Generally, his conversation would end up being about his allowance. This in turn would demand an enquiry from my parents as to the exact nature of his spending, which for his part he was rarely ready to divulge. Nearly all of these discussions worked out badly for my brother, though at least they made me smile when I thought about them afterwards.
But behind, or beyond, or beside, and never far away from all this, I knew she was still seeing him. I knew because sometimes the phone would ring and she’d take the call upstairs in their room, long conversations that could last an hour or more, until my father came home from the evening shift, when she’d appear and act like she’d been making dinner the whole time. Sometimes I would hear her laugh in their bedroom when she had just answered the phone. I had never heard her laugh on the phone like that with anyone else.
I couldn’t tell what else was going on though. My mother was involved with so many activities in the community that there were any number of reasons for her to be out of the house. There was the PTA, volunteering at the local library, charity drives for the church, her book club, and a dozen others things I never even asked about. My father would help at some of them, but he did it mostly because of her, helping her carry things or set up stalls or put up publicity. Most of the time he was just there in the background. He was just Mrs Russo’s husband the warehouse supervisor for a bottle company.
Obviously, he had Bunker Hill and the Somme and the Light Brigade and Bannockburn, but no-one really ever talked about that. Whenever my father brought up heroism and valor in company, my mother would change the subject as quickly as she could.
As far as I knew, my father didn’t know about my mother’s affair. And, true to my mother’s word, we were still a family. About a week later, my father knocked on my door just after I’d turned the light out and was trying to get to sleep. I didn't answer, but he opened the door anyway.
You asleep? he asked.
No, I replied.
My father cleared his throat.
Just wanted to say goodnight, he said.
Night, I said.
I heard him clearing his throat again.
So, he said. How’s Phoenix doing?
Okay, I said. Miller’s out for some knee thing. But we trashed the Clippers.
There was a poster on my wall of the Phoenix Suns. I could name each of them in turn, Johnson and West and Rambin and Chambers, all the way through, including the coaches and the manager. I stared at it now, and tried to name them in order, but I kept forgetting players, getting them mixed up.
My father cleared his throat.
And how’s everything else going?
Okay, I guess.
Everything okay at school?
Fine, I said.
You just seem, well, it just seems that you’re, well, you just seem, a little quiet lately. I think your mother's worried, he said.
I’ve got tests coming up, I said. So I’ve been studying. You know.
Got it, he said.
He cleared his throat again.
Did you take a look at Spotsylvania? he said. It’s going to be a good one.
Yeah, I said.
The truth was, I hadn’t been back in the garage since that day.
Almost 9,000 men died less than two weeks, he said.
Yeah? I said.
43 Medals of Honor were awarded.
I’ll come down and see it tomorrow, I said.
Good, he said. Night then. Do you want the door shut?
Thanks, I said.
He cleared his throat for the fourth time and closed the door behind him.
I didn’t go to see Spotsylvania until the weekend. My father was out, and while he was gone I went downstairs to take a look, flicking on the lights and stepping down into the garage.
The walls were covered in pictures and maps and drawings he'd made, showing the soldiers in their uniforms and the guns they used and the battlefield as it was now and as it was then. He always spent weeks reading about whatever it was he was planning to make, checking out library books, finding pictures, watching movies, getting all the details just right, and everything would be stuck up around the garage for reference.
The actual model was still completely white, but he had begun to carve out features in the terrain – a sloping expanse surrounding a raised area bordered with dozens of trenches cut into the ground. The floor around the model was covered in fine white powder from the plaster he had filed away, and there were footprints in it where he had walked. I placed one of my feet in his print, measuring it for size. I couldn’t imagine my feet would ever be so large.
The model was also dusty with plaster. I traced a finger along the inside of a trench, pushing drifts of powder along its length.
Hi, said my father.
I turned round. He was standing there in his jacket holding a bag of groceries and a newspaper.
Hang on a minute and I’ll get rid of this stuff, he said.
I moved round to the other side of the table while I could hear him taking his jacket off and dropping the shopping bag on the kitchen table. He appeared rubbing his hands as though they were cold.
What do you think? he said.
It’s big, I said.
Big enough, he said.
I stood there looking at the snowy ground, following the trenches across the landscape, trying to imagine what it would look like in the end.
This is just part of the Muleshoe Salient, my father said after a while. It was a Confederate defensive position they called The Bloody Angle.
Then he started telling me about that week in 1864, explaining where the battle lines had been drawn, how the Confederate soldiers had built their defenses, where the Union forces had positioned themselves, and what had happened during the attack. I listened and nodded, listened and nodded, trying to concentrate but missing all the names. It was uncomfortable being in the same room like that, with him and alone at the same time. Eventually I looked at my watch.
I’ve got some homework to do, I said.
My father looked up from the trenches, startled.
Oh, he said. Right.
See you later, I said.
Later, he said.
The next time my father was working a late shift I came home to find my mother waiting for me in the kitchen. It was a Wednesday, and she was supposed to be at her book club, so I knew she wanted something. It had been over a month.
As soon as I saw her I turned round and walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs, but she followed me. I was surprised because I thought she’d given up trying to talk.
Seth, she said. I’d like to discuss this.
Fuck off, I said.
She froze, and so did I. It was an unintended moment of defiance, and both of us were as surprised as each other. But I had no clue what to do with the high ground, and so it gave way almost immediately.
Don’t you dare talk to me like that, she shouted.
I don’t want to talk to you at all, I said.
I went into my room and tried to shut the door behind me but she was already there.
Seth, she said. You can’t just not talk to me.
Get out, I said.
Seth.
Get out, I shouted.
I stood there, staring at her. Eventually she looked away.
Fine, she said. I just wanted to talk about your father. He’s worried about you.
Well I’m worried about him, I said. And you should be too.
Seth, she said, folding her arms. I told you before. Your father and I have some problems. We’re trying to work these things out.
You’re trying to work things out by fucking some other guy, I shouted.
That’s, that’s stopped, she said.
No it hasn’t, I said. You still talk to him on the phone. It’s obvious. I can tell. The phone rings and you go off and talk in private and you think I can’t tell?
It’s not that easy, she said. Ray’s been a good friend to me and…
Hearing his name was almost as much of a shock as seeing his balls. But neither made me as angry as my mother’s apparent need to tell me about him.
I don’t fucking want to know his name! I shouted. I don’t fucking want to know anything about him!
She covered her mouth with one hand. I could tell she was about to start crying again.
I just don’t want you to be angry, she said. I don’t want you to hate me.
Well I do, I said.
My mother nodded and looked down at her feet.
I hope you don’t mean that, she said. Because I love you.
Just get out, I said.
I looked away and after a moment she left the room. I heard her go downstairs and then I heard the radio click on in the kitchen. I stared out the window, but all I could see was my own reflection, me trying to stare out but just staring in at me again.
When my mother went out to pick up Matthew from whichever of his friends he was with, I went down to the garage again to look at Spotsylvania.
My father had finished the filing and shaping and given the scene what looked like its first coat of paint. It was like the snow had melted away, green grass and rich, dark brown earth beneath. The ground was still bare, though, with only the trenches and foxholes to give it any kind of feature interest.
On the workbench, there were dozens of little tins of paint lined up, different shades of green and brown mostly, but also some grays, reds, and blues. There was another area in which he had started to construct the first real features, miniature bushes made from pieces of sponge and little rocks and bits of wood, like a tiny nursery.
I turned back and stared at the empty land until I heard the car in the driveway. Then I turned out the light, closed the door and went back up to my room.
My mother’s phone conversations still went on, even though she was noticeably more discreet after that. I kept out of her way, and avoided my father as much as I could as well. He and I hardly seemed to speak at all, and it wasn’t just me. My parents were hardly speaking a word to each other, either. The only person who seemed oblivious to it all was Matthew. I envied him. We were watching TV one night when my father was on a late shift again and my mother was at some church meeting.
I watched him staring at the television, a vacant look on his face.
You okay? I said.
What?
Is everything okay? I said.
Yeah, he said.
On screen, someone was taking part in a game show.
You can tell me, you know, I said, if anything’s, you know, bothering you.
Yeah, he said.
But you’re okay, I said.
Yeah, he said.
Nothing bothering you, I said.
No, he said.
Good, I said.
Where’s mom? he said.
Out, I said.
When’s she back? he said.
When’s dad back? he said.
Later, I said.
What’s for dinner? he said.
Chicken casserole, I said.
I had seen it in the fridge when I got home, together with a note on it telling me what temperature to put it on and for how long.
My mother had started leaving me dozens of little notes like that, stuck in places she knew I'd find them. They said, tidy your room. They said, I’ve put your gym kit in the wash. They said, can you take back the video please. They said, Ben called, wants Math notes. And she signed every one “mom” with an x for a kiss. None of them ever said anything about my father.
Are you hungry? I asked.
Yeah, he replied.
I looked at him watching the television. He hadn’t turned to look at me once during the whole exchange. He just kept staring at the screen, entirely absorbed. I tried to remember what things were like before that moment. I tried to imagine what I would be doing, right then, at that moment, if I had never found out.
My brother said something.
What? I said.
When’s dinner? he said.
The game show had finished, and he was now looking at me from the floor.
You hungry? I said again.
Yeah, he said.
Okay, I said.
I got up and walked into the kitchen while he flicked the channels on the remote. Just as I was opening the fridge door, the phone rang. I picked up the receiver.
Hello, I said.
I could hear movement on the other end, but no-one was speaking.
Hello, I said again.
Then I heard the phone being rattled back onto its holder, and the line went dead, and I knew it was him. I put the phone back on the hook.
Motherfucker, I said. You motherfucker.
I opened the fridge door and took out the casserole dish. The note on top of it read, thirty minutes at 200 degrees Fahrenheit. Rice in microwave. Love mom x
I tore up the note and threw the chicken in the trash.
You said it was chicken casserole, my brother said, poking at his SpaghettiOs on toast.
I was wrong, I said.
I hate SpaghettiOs, he said.
Then don’t eat them, I said. I’m not your fucking personal chef.
He made a face but ate it all. I left most of mine but cleared my plate away before he could see. Then I went into the garage while he watched more television.
It had been a couple of weeks since I had seen Spotsylvania. My father had now added even more to the scenery, so it was starting to look like it did in all the pictures. Better, even, because his was in color. The trenches, lined with wood, palisades and defensive spikes embedded in the ground, fences of woven branches, bedraggled clusters of trees, everything was there. It was perfect.
He had also made a start on the soldiers. None of them were on the battlefield yet, as this was always the last thing he did. He painted each one of them, and then he’d put them into position, arranging them over a period of several days before he was satisfied.
There were rows and rows of soldiers on the worktop, some of them clearly finished, some half painted, others not painted at all, more than I’d ever seen him use before. He had told me on a number of occasions that some model makers just painted them all the same, so that they all looked identical on the field apart from their poses. But my father didn’t do that. He treated each soldier as though they were individuals, giving them different hair color and scars and marks on their uniform, just like they were real people. He said it was only right, that it was a mark of respect for the real soldiers who fought and died.
I picked up one of the soldiers that he was working on, and held him underneath a magnifying glass my father had attached to the desk. It had a light built into it so you could see whatever you wanted to look at in complete detail. The one I picked up was one of the Union soldiers. He had a musket in one hand, down at his side, like it was a walking stick, and he had his other hand up in the air. One of his legs had a little bandage or something tied around it, and you could see spots of blood seeping through that as well.
It was hard to tell what he was supposed to be doing though. It seemed as though the hand in the air was going to be leaning on something. Maybe the side of a trench. Or another soldier. You couldn’t tell with half of them until they were actually in the scene properly.
I put the soldier down and turned the lights out and went back into the house. It was after nine.
Bedtime, I told my brother.
Where’s Mom? he said.
Out, I said.
When’s she back? he said.
Soon, I said.
Can I watch the end of Mash? he asked.
Okay, I said.
After I’d got him up to bed I came back downstairs and opened a can of Coke and flicked through the channels in search of anything remotely worth staying up for. I settled for another game show. I’d only watched about five minutes it when I heard a car in the drive. I looked out the window and saw my mother sitting in her car.
I turned off the television and headed upstairs to my bedroom. Then I brushed my teeth and went to the toilet. After I turned the light out I looked outside, down onto the driveway. She was still sitting in the car.
As I passed Matthew’s room, I heard him whisper, Seth.
What? I said.
Is Mom back?
Yes, I said.
Is she coming up?
Soon, I said. Go to sleep.
Night, he said.
Night, I said.
I heard her coming in about half an hour later. Then I turned off my light and closed my eyes. If she came upstairs, I didn't hear her.
The end of semester exams were coming up and I had a lot of studying to get done, plus there was the school play I was helping out with. I was enjoying backstage work, hammering and painting and cutting things out. There seemed to be an almost endless list of tasks, and I was only too happy to be told what to do. Generally I'd be exhausted by the time I came home, covered in paint. I’d spend half an hour washing red or blue or purple from under my fingernails, and then it'd be time for dinner.
My father was working more and more late shifts, so it tended to be just the three of us eating. He’d start work at about three o’clock, then he wouldn’t get home till after midnight, so I hardly ever saw him at all except for when he got up in the morning to go to the toilet or something. He had weekends free, but that was when he’d spend most of his time in the garage. Spotsylvania was taking longer than anything he had done before.
My mother had started to watch a lot more TV with me and Matthew. Which wasn't that bad. We even started talking again, though it was only ever one or two words, mostly yes or no or I don't know. She still took her phone calls, and she'd take off to her room with them when my father wasn't home, but it just seemed like that was the way it had always been.
One night after dinner, me, Matthew, and my mother were watching TV when the phone rang. It was never for me, so I just sat there. But so did my mother. It rang and rang and kept ringing. She could hear it, that was clear. She even turned her head towards the phone. But she didn’t get up to answer it. Eventually it stopped. No-one said anything.
When the phone started ringing again a few minutes later I looked directly at my mother. Her eyes were closed.
Should I get it? Matthew asked.
My mother sat up.
No, she said.
Why not? Matthew said.
It’s just a wrong number, said my mother.
How do you know? Matthew said.
I just do, said my mother.
The phone went on ringing.
It had probably been ringing for at least five minutes when she got up and ran into the kitchen and I heard the door shutting behind her and then the phone stopped.
She didn’t come out for a while and when she did she went up to her room without a word.
My end of semester exams came and went and after that there was the school play. I was quite proud of my role as a stagehand. I even got a mention for my enthusiastic contribution from the drama teacher who gave a speech when it was all over. My parents both came and congratulated me afterwards, and asked me what I’d painted, and how long it had taken, and whether I was going to do it again. It was the first time I had seen them both smiling together in one place for as long as I could remember.
The wrap party was arranged for the next night, for everyone who had been involved with the production. I knew this would involve staying out late, which meant I would have to ask permission, even though it was a weekend. I started with my father the next morning.
He was sitting at the workbench in the garage, the soldiers lined up in rows in front of him. He was staring at one of them through the magnifying glass. Just sitting there, staring.
Hi, I said.
Oh, said my father.
He looked up from the soldier.
Hi, he said.
He put the soldier back in line with the rest, then picked up another one.
Can I stay out tonight? I said.
What? my father said, without looking up.
Can I stay out tonight? I said again. It’s the after-show party.
Ask your mother, he said.
But I’m asking you.
Seth, just ask you mother, all right?
Why can’t you say?
Just, because. I’m busy, he said.
He put down the soldier and picked up the first one again.
Yeah, but…
Seth. I’m trying to work.
So I had to talk to my mother. She was in the kitchen ironing. I walked in and she looked up but just kept ironing. I went to the fridge, took out a carton of orange juice, and poured some into a glass.
Have you got anything that needs ironing? my mother asked.
No, I said.
She picked up a can of something and sprayed the shirt she was working on. I leaned against the fridge and looked out the kitchen window. Outside, I could see the lights in the houses across the road, little orange squares hanging in the darkness.
I need to stay out tomorrow night, I said.
Why?
After show party.
Where is it?
Someone’s house.
Whose house?
Rachel Baker’s.
Who’s she?
She was in the play.
Have you asked your father?
He said to ask you.
She finished ironing the shirt, and hung it on a metal hanger on the kitchen door. I kept staring out the window. One of the lights across the street went out.
Okay, she said. I want you back by midnight though.
No way, I said. It won’t even have got going by then.
You’ll have plenty of time, she said.
That’s not fair, I said. Everyone else is going to be there later than that.
You’re not even fourteen, Seth. You’re lucky we’re allowing you out that late at all.
Lucky? You think I’m lucky? After what I’ve had to put up with this whole time?
My mother was looking towards the garage door. It was shut, but I could tell she was worried about my father hearing.
That’s enough, Seth.
Why? I said.
Because I say so.
What if I don’t?
Seth.
Neither of us said anything then. We were both looking in the direction of the garage.
I’ll come back when I want, I said, and left the room.
Seth, she said.
I didn’t really feel like going to the party after that, but I went anyway. I sat and watched everyone else get drunk for a while and then I left about midnight and walked home. I wasn’t about to come home on time though, so I sat on the wall at the end of my road, just watching the lights in the windows in the streets again. My mother was standing in the doorway of the TV room when I got in at about one. She didn’t say anything and neither did I. I just went upstairs to my room. Before I went to bed I got undressed and stood in front of my mirror and looked at myself. My balls weren't anything.
The next time I went to take a look at how Spotsylvania was doing the door was locked. I knew what that meant. It meant that soon my father would make us all go into the garage in the dark and there would be this big thing where we would all have to stand around and he’d turn on the lights and there it would be. It was what he always did.
And sure enough, the following day, over dinner, my father said, I’ve got something to show you. I looked at my mother, whose expression hadn’t changed at all. Only Matthew, as usual, seemed to show any interest.
What is it? he asked. What is it?
It’s a surprise, said my father.
Give us a clue, said Matthew.
You’ll see after dinner, my father said.
Is it good? Matthew said.
Wait and see, said my father.
He’s finished the model, I said.
Have you? Matthew said. Really?
My father frowned at me but I just twisted another forkful of spaghetti into my mouth.
Just wait and see, he said again.
When we’d cleared the plates away, my father led us all to the garage. He unlocked the door, and guided us in one by one in the dark and told us not to move until he was ready.
My mother was first. He held out his hand and she took it, walking with him into the garage. He reappeared on his own a few seconds later.
Seth, he said when he came out.
Why am I last? asked Matthew.
Because I’m saving the best till last, my father said.
He held out his hand and I took it, firm and cold, and he lead me into the darkness. He positioned me carefully next to my mother, who I could just about make out to my left. Then he disappeared again to get Matthew, shutting the door behind him.
We stood there waiting in the darkness together. I heard my mother take a deep breath and sigh. I turned to where she was standing and could tell her head was bowed and her arms were folded across her chest. And then my father appeared with Matthew, who he positioned to my right. Then he walked to the other side of the table, where the light switch was.
Ready? said my father.
Ready, said Matthew.
Then my father said three two one and the lights came on.
The first thing I saw were the bodies.
Strewn across the battlefield were dozens, if not hundreds of them. In some places they were three or four deep, facing up, facing down, men tangled together like worms. Many of them had parts missing from their bodies, arms or legs or heads, and body parts were scattered around other parts of the scene. You could hardly tell what was ground and what was a body in some places, the two were so mashed together.
There were dead men in the trenches, dead men on the earthworks, dead men on the fences; they were hanging off the palisades, half buried in the ground, slumped over their guns and flags, Confederate and Union alike. Horses, also horrifically dismembered, added to the carnage; the ground, where you could see it, wasn't green anymore, it was brown and red.
Matthew said wow and moved right up to the model.
Careful, said my father.
There was something going on everywhere you looked in the scene. Soldiers crawling away or being carried on stretchers through the trenches. Soldiers running or shooting or falling or firing canons. Soldiers crying or being shot or with their head in their hands or asleep or smoking or screaming.
In one trench, there was a man on his knees. At first I thought he was hurt or injured, but then I realized that he was praying, and that in his hand there was a little black book, with a tiny cross on the front cover. In another part of the trench, two soldiers were playing cards. Further down, one soldier was cradling the body of another, his head bowed.
In the middle of it all there was The Bloody Angle itself, a series of trenches and wooden palisades covered with soldiers, scrambling over the shot-peppered logs and climbing over bodies, shooting and stabbing each other, soldiers beating each other with the butts of their muskets, soldiers lying dead or dying, soldiers drowning in muddy water at the bottom of deep pits.
Why are there so many dead people? said Matthew.
Because a lot of people died, said my father.
Yes, said my mother quietly. But you didn’t need to show all of them, surely.
Who won? asked my brother.
Nobody won, said my father. It was all a tactical mistake. It achieved none of its objectives. In less than two weeks, there were 18,000 Union casualties, 12,000 Confederate casualties. It was one of the most futile military excursions of the Civil War.
There was a silence then, while we all stared at the dead soldiers. Then I looked at my father. He was staring at the battleground from behind The Bloody Angle. My mother was staring at the ground.
I looked back at the scene and tried to find the soldier I’d picked up before. It took me a while, and when I found him, he wasn’t standing up or leaning against anything. He was lying on his back in the middle of the battlefield, his arm stretching up to the roof of the garage. He was surrounded by other soldiers, some living, some dead, none of whom were paying him any attention.
I've got to phone Jenny about book club, my mother said, and left the garage.
After my mother had gone, I stood there for another five minutes looking at the scene while my father showed my brother all the photos and stuff he'd based the model on. Then I said I was tired and was going to have an early night and I left as well.
Night, said my father.
Night, I said. It's great.
Thanks, said my father.
I'm staying up later than you, said my brother.
Later on I was lying there in the dark thinking about the model and the ten thousand men and I heard someone walking towards my room. I closed my eyes and acted like I was asleep again and the door opened and I knew it was my mother from her walk and the way she just stood there in silence.
I didn’t make a sound.
There was a noise and a movement and then nothing, so I opened one eye and saw her sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, her knees up to her chest, and her arms pulling them close. I couldn’t tell whether her eyes were open or not.
She stayed like that for a long time. Then I thought I heard her say something so I moved my leg like I’d just woken up. I sniffed.
Mom, I said.
She didn’t say anything. I sat up and she stood up at the same time.
Mom, I said.
She opened the door and left the room.
The next morning I was reading on the sofa, the television on in the background, when my mother came in and said, you’re not doing anything tonight are you?
I looked at her. She was looking at the television.
Why? I asked.
We’re going out.
Who’s we? I said.
Your father and I.
Why?
She didn’t reply.
Why? I asked again.
It’s our anniversary, she said, and left the room.
So that night my parents went to The Asian Garden, the Chinese Restaurant where they always went for special occasions. They had been gone an hour when the doorbell rang. I got up to answer it, leaving my brother in front of a stage magician on TV.
I put the chain on and opened the door. He was leaning against the side of the house, supporting himself, looking down at his feet. I had only seen him once before, and he had been naked then, but I recognized him straight away. I could tell he was drunk.
What do you want? I said.
He looked at me and stood up straight.
Where’s your mom? he said.
Fuck off, I said. Get the fuck away from our house.
He stared at me for a moment, looked through the gap in the door and into the house. He shouted my mother’s name.
Fuck off, I said again. Or I’ll call the police.
Just tell me where she is, he said.
Fuck you. And fuck off.
I slammed the door shut, and bolted it for good measure. He rang the doorbell a few more times, but I just ignored it, and stood behind the door so he couldn’t see me if he looked in the window. My brother, curious, appeared.
Who is it? he asked.
Just some drunk asshole, I said. It’s nothing.
The doorbell stopped ringing, and I cautiously peered out through the letterbox. He had gone.
Are you sure? asked my brother.
Look, I said, it’s fine. He’s gone.
What did he want?
Nothing, I said. Why don’t you go upstairs and get your pajamas on. It’s after your bedtime.
Do I have to? he said.
Yes.
Five more minutes.
Get your pajamas on and brush your teeth first, then you can have five more minutes.
While my brother raced upstairs, I went into the living room and turned off the lights. Then I peered through the curtains at the front of the house. He wasn’t there either. I was just about to turn the lights on again when I heard a crash coming from the direction of the kitchen.
I ran into the kitchen and flicked on the lights. Almost as soon as I did I could hear the utility room door opening and that’s when I thought about the key under the flowerpot in the garage.
I opened the cutlery drawer and pulled out the biggest knife I could find, a carving knife my father used every Thanksgiving for the turkey.
Then the door opened and he fell into the room, tripping over the step up into the kitchen.
He got to his feet but as soon as he saw the knife he froze.
I’ve called the police, I said. You take one step in here and I’ll slice your fucking balls off.
We stood like that for a few seconds.
Get out, I said.
I just want to see your mom, he said.
I took a step forward with the knife. He moved back, and missed his footing over the step down into the utility room, this time falling backwards.
He hurriedly got to his feet again and held up his hands.
Going, he said. Okay? I’m going.
Then he turned and went back into the darkened garage. I could hear him moving about, banging into things, then I heard the door in the side of the garage slam shut.
What are you doing? my brother said.
I span round, and my brother was standing in the kitchen door in his pajamas.
Christ, I said.
Are mom and dad back? he said.
No, I said. Go to bed.
Why have you got a knife? he said.
I was cutting an orange, I said.
Can I have some? he said.
No, I said. Go to bed. Now.
But you said I could have five more minutes, he said.
Well, I’ve changed my mind. Go.
You’re a fucking a-hole, he said.
I’m going to hit you so fucking hard in a minute if you don’t get to bed you won’t be able to speak, I said. Get to fucking bed.
He looked at me for a second before turning and running upstairs crying.
Still holding the knife, I made sure all the doors in the house were locked, even the bolts on the inside that we hardly ever use. Then I went to the lounge, turned out the lights, and peered through the curtains.
As far as I could tell he had gone, but I couldn’t be sure. I sat in the lounge and held onto the knife with the TV on but the sound down. I stayed like that for a long time, listening out just in case. I imagined stabbing him the next time he came in. I imagined holding the knife up to his throat and hearing him beg for his life with a raspy voice. I imagined sticking him in his balls. After about an hour I heard a car pulling up into the drive and I looked out the window and saw my father’s car pull in to the driveway. Then I put the knife back in the kitchen drawer and went and sat in front of the TV again.
There was a rattle at the door and then another and then the doorbell rang. As soon as it rang I remembered I’d put the bolts on the door which meant they couldn’t unlock it from the outside. I walked over to the front door, undid the bolts, and walked back to the TV before they opened the door themselves.
Once they’d got in, my mother came into the living room.
Why was the door bolted? she said.
Matthew wanted to, I replied.
Why?
Dunno. He just did.
Everything all right though? she asked.
Yes, I said.
No problems at all.
No, I said.
She had started to ask me about Matthew going to bed when my father shouted my name from the garage.
You’d better see what he wants, said my mother.
I stood up and walked past her to the garage, where my father was shouting from.
The light was on, and I went in.
Spotsylvania was on the floor.
The tabletop was still underneath it, but the trestles that kept it up had been knocked away and were lying on the floor beside the model.
The whole thing was still in more or less one piece, but there was a huge crack down the middle of it, and a massive crater at The Bloody Angle, about the size of a footprint. Where it was cracked, and where the dent was, you could see parts of the chicken wire through the crunched-out plaster of Paris, snowy ridges once again showing through the earthworks. There were dozens of other little pieces of plaster spread around the garage.
The soldiers were everywhere as well, the living and the dead. Some of them had stayed in their trenches, but most of them had scattered across the floor, together with other odds and ends from the scene – canons, logs, horses, boxes, crates, stretchers.
Who did this? my father said.
I couldn’t see my soldier anywhere.
WHO DID THIS? my father roared.
I looked at the garage door and I could see it happening. He had found the spare key under the flowerpot on the window ledge beside the door, just like all the other times when he had let himself in to wait for her. He had found the key and then he had opened the door and tried the light which didn’t always work but he had come in anyway, come in and smacked into the table which fell, and then maybe he had stepped on it or maybe that was later when he left, and maybe it had been an accident and maybe he had done it on purpose.
I don’t know, I said.
You don’t know, my father said. You don’t know.
No, I said. I don’t know.
You don’t know how it happened. Look at it, Seth. Look at it.
If it had just been knocked off, or even if it had just cracked in half, I could have maybe got away with saying it had just fallen off. But the footprint was too obvious. He would never believe it had just fallen off. Never. But I said it anyway.
Maybe it just fell off.
Maybe it just fell off, my father repeated. Maybe it just fell off. Does that look like it just fell off? he said, pointing at the crater. Is that what happens when things just fall off? Is it?
I don’t know, I said.
Well who knows? Because I don’t.
I said nothing.
Who, Seth, who?
Maybe someone broke in and did it, I said.
I’ve had enough of this, Seth. I’m giving you one last chance to tell me the truth.
I looked at the soldiers on the floor. I thought about the thousands who had died, men who died for nothing. Futile, my father had said.
I’m waiting, Seth.
I shook my head and almost laughed as I knew what I was going to say.
SETH.
I did, I said.
You did what?
I did it.
You did it.
Yes.
You did it.
Yes.
Why?
I don’t know.
I looked up. My father was shaking his head. He looked like he was having trouble swallowing something, like there was something stuck in his throat. His head was shaking and then he took a step towards me and I saw his arm move and then there was a sound and the next thing I knew I was on the floor and I could feel something underneath my back, part of The Bloody Angle, crunching beneath me.
I lay there for a few seconds. It seemed like there were a lot more soldiers on the ground from where I was lying. It looked like there were hundreds. I could see one of them from where I was lying, under the wheel of my old bicycle in the corner of the room. I wondered what he was doing there. My eye was hurting.
Get up, my father said. You’re not hurt. Get up.
I got to my feet. Several of the soldiers fell away from me where they’d stuck to my clothes on the ground.
Go to your room, he said. I don’t want to see you.
I looked down at Spotsylvania. Where I’d landed there was another dent in the model, like an explosion had gone off on the battlefield, leaving another crater behind. I looked at my father. I turned around and walked through the kitchen. My mother was standing by the door, tears in her eyes, one hand over her mouth.
I looked at her and she looked back at me, neither of us saying anything.
