Dinner with Nick

 

   

  

  

The waitress would be here with our food soon.  Sitting back in his chair, Papa eyes me from across the table for the longest time, and then jabs at me "So, do you write hard every day?" I stammer, "Not every day," half apologizing and half praying our order arrives before the questions get deeper. My face has to be burning red, at the very least my ears.  “But tryin' to," I add," -How's Nick? I don't remember when I read anything new about him for a long time.”

    Papa stares blankly out the window and almost seems to smile, but he just gulps his whiskey with none of that trademark Hemingway bravado. “Nick’s been gone for years," drains out of him, faded and uneasy, which surprises me a little. I guess if I hadn’t talked to anyone in fifty years or so it would make me uneasy too. “Still headed somewhere I suppose, or he's already there,” he finally offers.

    From all the short stories I ever read, my favorite character is Nick Adams. To wander with him and pass the time would be swell indeed. Nick would say "swell" too I think. We would cut across a sunny field, kicking rocks along the path. After a bit we come across a fence. I would hold the rifle for him while he clambers through the wires. Then he’d hold the wire up for me.

Maybe a mile on the other side we pitch camp. We throw our bed rolls under some trees near the bend in the creek. It's early so we decide to take a swim and then fish till early evening.  Nick produces a small pan, a packet of cornmeal and a jar of oil from his knapsack so we can fry up the fish for dinner. The potatoes we dug up that morning come out of the coals with their jackets still on and so steamy hot you couldn’t hold one with your bare hands. We swap a few stories while we eat and lick our fingers clean. Fall is getting close; a few golden leaves were already floating down the creek

    With loosened belts and lie back in the grass with full bellies and smoked a cigarette or two while the clouds turned orange then rusty red and then purple as the sun slips from the sky. He rambles on about traveling, his dad and the old fighter by the railroad camp; I sop it up like gravy. Sleep comes fast and easy.

  I sure regretted not reading about him thirty years earlier than I did.

   Ernest agreed, “I wish I had written about him longer too." He wipes his mouth, downs his whiskey and says, "Dinner is on me; they’ll put it on my tab. It’s getting late and I better get back before someone spots me and puts two and two together."

    As he rises to leave, he shakes my hand.  While fingering a crumb from his beard he mumbles something that sounds like, "I never really ran that far in Pamplona. I was tired, still am. Keep your powder dry son. G'night."

    In my stale motel room, I drag the blankets off the bed and open the sliding door to the patio. It's been too long since I slept under the stars. The air is cool on my face and smells alive. 

Good night, Nick, wherever you are.

Washington's Inauguration Day

[  Written for the  NPR 3 Minute Fiction writing contest that dictated length , topic etc ]

   


 April 30, 1789 11pm

 The war had been brutal, as all wars are. So very costly in both life and coin.  Now that all is spent and the accounts settled I wonder why the world had seemed so opposed to it and to us in the beginning. A crucial few lent their support to our cause in word and in purse and without these “mercenaries” our future was cloudy at best. I suppose I should view them in a more pure light. But I am bone-tired beyond that thought. 

What a day of joyful pomp and endless circumstance this was- the floor feels so good to my bootless feet. The world’s eyes will be sharp on me the morrow, the new President of these now United States. I am not sure I yet grasp the totality of the word. One hundred years hence, how will this new republic and I be marked?

            The soldier’s life is all  I have known for so long; following, drilling, parry and advance up and then to lead and build these far flung colonial men of town and farm on to reckoning – God be thanked they had the will of iron that was asked of them. Now that all is ended, was the path we chose correct? Or are we merely mutineers that betrayed our country? Can I lead in this new role as well as in battle? I so pray I can.

The memories and smells of war linger deep within my nostrils.  The look upon Cornwallis’ face. Ha ! Bested by the children from afoot of the kings table. He had learned the lessons of old wars too well and pride was his un-doing. The best soldier was he who wrote his own book and his own destiny.  I will treasure his sword and his pallor always.

What I would give for the easy decisions of Valley Forge. To advance, retreat, bend or strike with calculation. Such strategy was black and white and so easily seen even at dusk. This after-glow of war is indeed heavy mud upon my boots. Perhaps old Ben is right;  the good of man in dark times outshines the heart of he in the best of times. The uncured bonds that hold our fragile dream together have not yet fully set and could so easily unravel tomorrow. To be overrun by the King’s best again, or our remains had for dinner by the generous smiling French? The wolves are many and live within as well outside our borders.

 George old boy, we are in store for a ride on this wild and beautiful stallion that has never been saddled. As well the path is sure to be lined with many a low branch and gopher hole. I’ll wager more than a few apples are to be hurled by the random hidden scoundrel from either side of the road.

Again my thoughts are troubled by this weighty new title “President”, a word both vexing to me and prideful all in one breath. Will our plans for the whole of our people work in stride and detail for the cobbler as well the statesman? Oh, if our aim is but miscalculated by three degrees, our target should be missed and our goals but folly. I fear those brave fallen souls of this war will surely come back and drag me straight to hell itself for that fault.