CARTER'S SHADOW
Chapter 38 - By Christopher Patrick Lydon
"So..." West's mother said from the doorway to his
bedroom.
West was sitting in front of his computer, as usual labouring
to get some studying done for his final exam. He looked up at her quizzically,
"So?"
"So..." his mother said, taking a glance to ensure
her husband was nowhere in earshot, and West knew she was taking advantage
of his absence to pry, "tell me about Peter."
"Nothing to tell," West said, sitting upright in his
chair and tapping away on his keyboard, slightly embarrassed.
"Are you taking him to the prom?" his mother asked,
determined to find out as much as she could while she had the chance.
West looked up at her and sighed, "If I say yes, you aren't
going to get all excited and follow us about with a camera, are you?"
"I wouldn't do..." she protested.
West got up from his chair and walked to a box he kept tucked
down beside the couch filled full of photo albums. He pulled out the first
album, "Me learning to drive." He pulled out the second, "My
first school dance..."
"Those are cherished memories," his mother protested.
"Do I have to pull out the Halloween and Christmas albums?"
West asked with a wry grin. "Admit it, Mom, you have a problem."
His mother smiled, "You're going away in a couple of weeks,
are you going to deprive me of these last few moments?"
The guilt trip; nothing was more effective on a boy than his
mother guilt-tripping them into doing something they don't want to do. West
grumbled quite loudly as he sat back down again. "All right," he
murmured, caving in.
"So are you taking Peter to the prom?" his mother
asked determinedly.
"Yes," West replied, folding his arms.
"Are you planning anything special?" She came into
the room and sat down on the edge of his bed looking over at him, and smiling
at him warmly.
"Special?" West asked.
"The prom is supposed to be special," his mother said
wistfully, a faint smile touching her lips as she thought back on her own.
"You need to sweep him off his feet, show him how much you...."
she glanced up, "like him."
"Uh...yeah," West blushed a little. "Like what,
though?"
"Well," his mother said folding her arms and looking
distant, "the limos would all be booked up by now, and we still need
to find you a tuxedo."
"Isn't that all a bit...cliché?" West asked,
leaning back in his chair and rested a hand on the arm. "Why can't we
just go and have a good time?"
His mother nodded. "You could do that," she smiled
at him again warmly, "but you're like your father, secretly romantic.
You will come up with something." She stood up, "Are you ready to
meet with the Marine recruiter tomorrow?"
West smiled, "All set. " He flashed her a thumbs-up
and a grin, "It's going to go well; I got both Mister Greenwood and Mister
Chiasson to sign recommendations, and the fact that we're league champions
can only help me, right?"
His mother nodded. "Well, take some time and prepare for
it," she advised with a smile, leaving him to his thoughts.
* * *
He'd been through the routine before; his father had driven
him down south of the border to go to the recruiting station. The last time
he had been there he had been poked and prodded for his physical, and spent
a long time talking to a recruiting psychiatrist to see if he had the right
mentality for the job.
That had been a painful routine; there West had sat outside
the psychiatrist's cubicle in his underwear after a gruelling physical, only
to discover that the most rigorous examination didn't involve him turning
his head and coughing.
The endless circle of questions, "Where do you go to school?
Do you like school? Do you have good teachers?"
West had relaxed a little when he had answered them, realizing
this probably wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. That was before the
fourth question.
"Do you think people talk about you behind your back?"
The psychiatrist clicked his pen and leaned back into his worn metal chair
and smirked a deadly smile that let West knew he was in trouble.
West had frowned, and leaned forward to say no, when the psychiatrist
asked in a serious tone, "Take your time; when you came in here do you
think people were looking at you?"
"Well, there was the guy at the reception," West answered
truthfully.
"I see," the doctor made a note. "And after that?"
"Well, the doctors were looking at me," West replied,
"and now you are..." He shrugged.
"Mmm," the doctor said jotting more notes down. "Do
you ever hear voices in your head?"
"No," West said, shaking his head. "I mean, if
you mean do I talk to myself in my head, sure, but that's normal, right?"
"How often do you talk to yourself?" the psychiatrist
asked, again the pen moving.
"Well, when I'm in the shower," West shrugged, "or
on long drives."
"Right," the doctor said sceptically. "Do you
have any relatives in a mental institution?"
"Not that I know of," West replied thoughtfully. "My
grandmother's in a nursing home; she's not all there, but she's just old..."
"I see." The doctor shifted to pick up a file and
began to flip through it to ask more direct questions.
At least this time, when West was sitting waiting for the recruitment
officer, he was permitted to keep his clothes on. This was the officer who
would decide if he was in or out. If there was a problem with a recruit's
eyesight, it was for him to decide if it was serious enough to keep him from
joining.
This was all a mere formality and West knew it; he'd aced the
physicals, he had the marks to back him up. He was a prime officer candidate;
he'd been preparing all his life for the interview that was to come. And he
realized he wasn't nervous, as he looked out into the main waiting room where
his father was talking to the NCO behind the reception. He was ready, he was
going to do well.
"Mister Harding?" A young non-com was standing in
the doorway of an office, "This way please?" He gestured through
deeper into the small offices. And West was shown into a spartan office, with
Captain Sparrow's name on the door.
It was everything it was supposed to be. A metal desk laden
down with files, photos of army officers on the walls, display cases for medals
and a US Marine flag in a corner. A picture of President Bush, the newly sworn-in
President sitting pride of place on a shelf, looked composed and intimidating
as he stared down on the scene.
West shifted to look behind him, a couple of Marines walking
past the office, going about their daily duties, and West wondered what it
would be like for him, wearing a uniform and serving dutifully.
Captain Sparrows was running late, and West settled in; he figured
this was all part of the routine, an effort to make him nervous, to see how
he handled under pressure. West did his best to remain calm, glancing down
at the desk in front of him.
His file was sitting open, looking impressive, academic records,
a note about the championships paper clipped to it, and West smiled--they
didn't miss a beat. They had all the facts. He didn't read it, only glanced,
and then he caught sight of it, poking from under the file. The letterhead
of the Ottawa City Police Department, and West blinked; what could they have
to say that would hold any bearing on him? He shifted again, it had to pertain
to him, and there was no other explanation as to why that letterhead would
be there...
"Good morning, Mister Harding," Captain Sparrows said,
walking into the room. He was a pursed-lipped man, his hair going grey and
his eyes squinting as he studied the young man rising to shake his hand. "Sorry
to keep you waiting."
West sat back down, and nodded as Sparrows took his seat and
picked up his pen. "Let's get this out of the way, shall we?" he
asked warmly. "I see you're captain of your school team."
"Yes, sir," West nodded. "We won our league finals
this weekend."
"Did you now?" Sparrows nodded, impressed, and making
an addition to the file. "Good for you, son." He shifted, "Do
you know what the role is of an Infantry man?"
West nodded, his father had prepared him for that one. "At
the core, it's to close with and destroy the enemy," he replied. "Beyond
that it's aid to the civil power, civil reconstruction, security, and further
along the line here in the States, peacekeeping."
"That's correct," Sparrows smiled, obviously impressed.
"We will be training you in the use of weapons and tactics, battle craft,
field craft, land navigation and so on." He continued through the papers,
"You have strong academics here, why do you want to join the Marine Corps?"
"It's the best, sir," West replied. "I wanted
to join a service where I would be appreciated, and actually make a difference,
sir," West nodded.
"Good answer, son," Sparrows nodded. "The Marine
Corps is about honour; you bring honour, you will be treated with the same."
"Thank you, sir." West smiled confidently. "My
father served in the Canadian Army, but he was the one who suggested I apply
here. There are more opportunities."
"The objective of this interview," the Captain said,
"is to decide if you have the leadership qualities we are looking for;
so far you appear to..." He stopped as he caught sight of the Ottawa
letterhead, and drew it out, his eyes scanning over the paper, and his demeanour
changed.
He went from confident to uncertain, as he frowned over the
letter, glancing at the file on his deck, and back at the letterhead. He glanced
up once, a question obviously on his mind, but he hesitated, and went back
to staring at the letter.
West sat for an uncomfortable few minutes, as Captain Sparrows
digested what he was reading, turning his back on West as he stared up at
the window for a long moment, at the field behind the recruiting station and
at the young men playing touch football down there.
After the moment of silence stretched out into an awkward one,
West sat forward. "Sir?" he asked carefully.
Sparrows turned. "Well," he smiled politely, but there
was none of the warmth in that smile there had been a few minutes ago. He
stuck the letter under some other papers in the file and went through the
notes again, "It seems there's an issue of your psychiatric assessment."
West knew the man was lying.
Sparrows pursed his lips and reached for a rubber stamp; he
didn't look up, simply stamped "REJECTED" on the 4-F papers and
handed them across to West. There was nothing left to say. Sparrows didn't'
even say good-bye.
* * *
West's father said nothing on the long drive back. West was
devastated; his world had come crashing down because of something he had no
control over. The official reason was listed as 'Deferred: 4-F Medical Reasons'.
West's hand clutched around the form as he stared at the white lines of the
highway flowing past him.
West had a spotless record, he'd never taken drugs, no speeding
tickets. He was the perfect Boy Scout. There was only one thing that would
connect the Ottawa Police Department to a rejection stamp on his recruitment
forms, and that was Brad's attack.
He felt his chest tighten, as he stared out of the window, his
fist tightening around the forms. Brad had managed to hurt him in the one
place it counted, by killing his dream.
Don't ask don't tell--that didn't apply when they already knew.
They didn't need to say it, a constructed excuse was more than
enough, especially before he got in the door. On something as simple as a
psych examination, performed by one of their doctors. That was all they needed,
that was it. He had been tossed aside for something as simple as...
He would have cried. But he was beyond tears, they didn't accomplish
anything, neither did anger. Even if he could prove their rejection was based
on a feeble excuse, it still did him no good. There were any number of other
excuses that could come up; he was forced to accept their decision, and just
move on.
"There's always the Canadian Army," West's father
said softly, looking at him as he drove the truck along the highway. "I
know it's not what you wanted..."
West just nodded quietly, dejectedly, "Yeah..."
"It may be small, but they'd be happy to have someone like
you," his father continued.
"Yeah?" West said turning, his eyes going hard. "A
fag like me, you think?"
West's father fell silent, returning to stare at the road ahead
of them as he drove, remembering his own experiences. "'We don't mention
that', they say," he murmured. "True about all the Canadian Forces.
But I'm not talking about the command structure. The command structure doesn't
sanction that kind of behavior, they come down hard on it; fast, too."
He sighed, "But they're not the ones who really do it.
It's your peers. Like any fascist society, it's the people you call 'friends'
you really have to worry about."
West turned to his father sadly, "Is it always like this?"
"Women too," his father nodded. "I've known female
soldiers who were among the best soldiers I've known. Nobody messed with them
because they were no-nonsense people. And the military respects that, and
in that sense, male or female, black or white, straight or gay, they'll let
you live and do your job if you operate that way." He shrugged, "Thing
is, that's not always the case. Quite often, even if you do live and work
that way, they'll get on your case obliquely on the 'principle' of it."
"What do I do?" West asked his father, sounding like
a little boy, suddenly lost in the world.
His father swallowed back a ball of emotion himself; it was
so hard to tell a boy that sometimes there wasn't a way around it. Sometimes
the world was just unfair, and you had to simply deal with it. But that would
mean telling West that he would never have his dream... and his father just
couldn't do it to him. He couldn't be the one to take that from his son.
"The only thing you can do," his father said looking
at his son. "You don't let them stop you. You find a way to do what you
want, and then you do the best job you can." He shrugged sadly, "It's
going to be tough, you're going to have people telling you don't belong there,
and it's hard to feel like you belong somewhere when people tell you you don't.
Persevere."
* * *
The door to his son's room had been closed ever since they had
arrived back. His mother had caught the expression on her husband's face and
had wisely kept clear. The form sat on the kitchen table, where Mister Harding
had read over it several times, trying to see a way around it. Eventually
he rubbed his tired eyes and shook his head at his wife.
"They screwed him," he said sadly.
"So what does that mean?" His wife asked, preparing
supper. "He just doesn't get in, right?"
"No," her husband shook his head, "he also doesn't
get the scholarship, either."
His wife stopped chopping the vegetables. "I didn't think
of that," she said quietly. "What about his backup plans?"
Jonathon Harding blew out a sigh, "He could apply to the
Canadian Army, but that takes time. He's probably not going to get it in time
for when he's supposed to start school in the fall."
"What do we do?" she asked in concern.
"Well, he's not going to qualify for a student loan,"
his father said softly. "We're going to have to find a way, though. Maybe
I should talk to the Bakers--they keep offering me money for the bottom field..."
"Sell part of the farm?" she asked in shock.
"What other choice do we have?" he asked her with
a shrug. "It's my fault, I was so confident he'd..." He looked down
at the form in front of him.
"It's not your fault, Jon." She cleaned off her hands
on the dishrag and wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, "We'll
find a way, we always do."
He nodded resting his head back on her shoulder, "I knew
he was in for a tough time, but..." He scrubbed a hand over his face,
"Jesus, gay bashings and now this?" He shook his head, "What's
next?"
"I don't know," she held him tightly, "but he's
still a good boy, we raised a good son..."
"Least we raised one," his father joked feebly, looking
up into his wife's eyes. "Maybe if I talk to some of my old buddies down
at the Legion, we might be able to pull some strings."
She nodded, looking up at the door, "Okay."
