–
–
I wish I had kicked him harder.
Our car left before the sun rose the day that I battled the colonel. My mom put the pedal to the metal in our cherry red station wagon. Teddy and I were frantic pups, asking annoying questions one minute and crawling all over the seats the next, while my older sister Kate complained about the songs on the radio. My sweaty legs stuck to the ruby colored plastic seats and the four open windows did nothing to cool us down. Teddy helped me make mayhem to break up the monotony on the 5 freeway, with nothing to see but cows. We drove my mom crazy until she purposely slammed on the brakes. I laughed as we flew forward. That only made her madder.
“Seatbelts now!” Chastised, I nibbled on chocolate while Teddy held his pee since there were “no stops allowed.”
At Travis Air Force base’s first checkpoint, my mom’s hands thrust out the required documents, and her foot tapped impatiently. After one false turn, we found the tarmac where we waited along with hundreds of others for Operation Homecoming. The heat blurred the air rising from the asphalt. I thought my plastic platform shoes were going to melt.
As soon as I saw the plane, my throat felt heavy and tight. Finally. The C-141 Starlifter, nicknamed the “Hanoi taxi,” took a wide turn before its descent, and the deafening cheers brought that baby home. Then soldier after soldier exited the plane’s rear door and walked down the gangway. I looked for someone tall, 6’2 with big hands and dimples. I didn’t see him. I scanned the men for his walk, what my Grandma Gigi teased was his John Wayne gunslinger gait. I couldn’t find it. I was a restless racehorse, ready to run and jump into his arms. We hadn’t seen him in almost three years, only receiving a few lines scribbled on paper-thin letters. The North Vietnamese dictated what the men could write.
Mom had every strand of her beehive hair glued into place and kept smoothing down her blue rayon dress, hopelessly trying to stop Teddy from wrinkling it. She looked darling according to Kate who knew about such things. Kate exuded ultra-hip teen in her cool clunky shoes and fringed mini skirt. I had pigtails and polyester shorts. Six-year-old Teddy buzzed his hair for the occasion.
“Where’s Daddy?” Teddy tugged on my mom’s dress with his left hand while his right clutched a now limp mini-American flag.
“I’m going to find out,” she replied as she pushed through the crowd.
I’d waited patiently for this moment, creating stories, collecting them like precious jewels, of our life when he returned. My dad would smile at the useless little macramé plant holder I made or yell up the stairs, “Pip, phone for you.” I wanted him to pick me up from school in his little Austin Healy. Simple things. He would be the distinguished man clapping at my 6th grade graduation or telling me to turn down my music. I’d imagine myself hugging him. Kids need that most; they don’t need to answer awkward questions about what happened to their dad. Hear opinions about the war he fought in. Or stare at the space under “Father” on school forms.
When I saw mom wasn’t making much progress, I made my move. After watching kid after kid welcome their fathers home, I had had enough. Squeezing between the cement yellow and white barriers, I reached the plane in seconds. With the element of surprise on my side, no sharp-looking military men stopped me.
I raced up the ramp and through the rear door, my lungs ready to explode, only to run into a colonel, who tried to drag me off the plane. As we fought, his pilot wings slashed my cheek, and blood from the cut stained his perfectly pressed blue uniform. The obscene number of ribbons on his chest meant nothing; he needed to get his hands off me. I hated his deeply lined stone face and the way he handled me like trash headed for the garbage. I wondered how he would feel later as he cleaned that damn spot. Would he regret using force on an eleven-year-old girl?
When I finally escaped from his hurtful hold on my tiny wrists, I ran like the wind and hid in a cramped locker.
Later, drinking warm Cokes in his humid office, the colonel, stiff and formal, said, “There was a mistake,” making us feel like it was our fault for having expectations. “I apologize.” I wanted my dad there to prove this Colonel Abel wrong, to punish him for wounding me, to make him take back those empty words. He thought he was doing us a favor by talking to us personally. I didn’t thank him as his glances at my mom weren’t exactly looks of compassion.
My mother, the future lawyer, gripped the arms of her chair, and her grilling quickly turned accusatory. “The wrong name? How could you all screw up this badly?” she asked trying to ignore my hot tears and Teddy’s sobs.
The voices around me dissipated and grew distant, replaced by the tick tock of the colonel’s old fashioned wall clock. Looking out the window at the desolate airfield, I wanted to retreat to my own world, one in which my dad got off the plane.
We left that day driving slowly, hitting traffic, and making many stops. None of us wanted to arrive at our house emptyhanded, grandparents and friends in shock at the lack of celebration.
As our car rumbled along, I touched the worn silver band on my wrist. Sinking in was the massive burden that the POW bracelet had to stay. I painstakingly traced the sharp edges of his engraved name, the bracelet shackling me to the black hole of hope.
–
–
–
Cathleen Lundy Daniel is the youngest of six. Her father, Maj. Albro L. Lundy Jr., was an Air Force pilot whose A1-E was shot down on Christmas Eve over Laos. Her mother went on to become an attorney while raising her children without their beloved Daddy. Cat is currently an adjunct professor. She graduated with a B.A. from UCLA, and her master’s thesis from the University of Virginia was on cinematic portrayals of prisoners of war. Her creative work has appeared in Expressing Motherhood and the PVLD anthology of short stories.
–
–
–