Page 31 of The Beachgoers
“In New Haven?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It was after he took off for those few days, remember?”
Jason only nods.
“Neil was on his way home the day he called. Wanted to talk about Lauren, and was feeling vulnerable.”
“And you gave him the tags.”
“I did. Put the chain right in his hand. So before the wake, I actually loosened his shirt collar, in the coffin. To be sure he wasn’t wearing them, you know? You were still in the hospital. But believe me, I looked. So if they weren’t on him, theymustbe here, somewhere.”
“Maybe just let it go.” Jason still stands in the doorway. “Doesn’t matter now, anyway.”
Those words seem to bother his father. They trigger some anger. Some rage as he whips around and looks at his ravaged son standing there in a tee over pajama shorts with half of one leg cut off them.
Standing there on crutches and with a wrapped stump and seeping shoulder bandages.
Standing there unshaven; his dark hair a mess; his face weary.
The father glares at his son who said that those Vietnam War dog tags don’t matter. “Goddamnit,” the man says, his voice rising. “They always matter. Now more thanever.”
Jason still stands just outside the bedroom. But he looks around it, as though hoping to spot those dog tags. He looks toward the nightstand. A large piece of white coral is propped against a lighthouse statue there. On the wall above it, a framed needlepoint scene hangs. Its tiny stitches make up a sailboat against a vast blue sky.
But no dog tags casually tossed on the nightstand.
When his father starts to stand, pushing himself off the bed, Jason talks again. “Fine. So your dog tags aren’t here in Neil’s bedroom. And they weren’t on Neil’s body.” He closes his eyes, twists his head from one side to another as though working out a kink. “There’s only one place they can be, then.”
Now? Now his father turns and looks at Jason again. “And you arenotgoing there.”
“Andyou’renot going alone,” Jason tosses back.
* * *
It takes hours to get there.
Not that the crash site is hours away. Hours is how long it takes to tend to Jason’s care; his bandage changes; his washing up and getting dressed; his eating; his using the bathroom; his mobility; his deciding on crutches or wheelchair.
“Wait,” Jason says as they’re almost out the door. “Leave a note for Mom, for when she gets back from work. Make something up.”
“Yeah.” His father stops and grabs a pad and pen in the kitchen. “Don’t need her worrying,” he calls back to Jason.
Then and only then does the fifty-minute drive to the crash site happen. The problem is that the closer they get to it, the harder it is for Jason to handle. As his father drives the car through suburban roads leading to the turnpike, Jason’s perspiring. His breathing is difficult.
His father looks over at him in the passenger seat, and looks again. “Goddamnit. I knew this was too much for you,” he says, slowing the car. “I’m turning around.”
“No, you’re not.” Jason shifts on his seat. His residual limb is supported on a small stool his father squeezed in front of that seat. “Keep going,” Jason says, his voice dead serious.
“All right. I will. But clear your body first,” he says to his son—who looks directly at him then. “Clear your body, clear your mind,” his father repeats while driving. “Tactical breathing. Youknowit saved my life in ’Nam.”
Jason looks out the windshield and swipes at his damp forehead.
“Do it.” His father turns onto a side road and pulls the car to the curb. Little Cape Cod and ranch-style houses line the street. The lawns are green; tall trees shade the yards. “I taught you how. Clear your head, Jason.”
Jason closes his eyes and takes a long breath. And swallows. Then takes another breath.
