Free The German by Lee Thomas Page A

open to retrieve my milk and the morning paper. My neighbor Tim stands outside, and his face lights up when he see me, and he lifts his hand to wave, and we both say “good morning,” though only his greeting is sincere, and he tries to speak to me, not knowing that this is a miserable anniversary. Lately he has been eager for my company. I am pleasant but impatient to end this morning’s conversation, though he does not seem to see this. He chatters about his mother and the lake and about going fishing, and I feel that his every word is another coat of varnish, cutting off oxygen from my lungs and affixing my limbs beneath heavy layers of stain. A clamp tightens at the base of my skull, and I want to ask him if my face has changed at all in the years we have been neighbors, except I know he will not understand the question. He keeps me on the porch as long as he can, but finally he runs out of trifling topics, and he wishes me a good day, and I thank him before escaping back into the house.
    The boy’s manner is familiar to me, and it concerns me. Men under my command and men in my bed have exhibited similar eagerness for my sanction, and though I recognized the need I similarly felt wholly unqualified to fulfill it. The boy’s father is in battle, far away from home, and it is natural for him to seek a male figure to exalt in replacement, except I am no one’s father. I have no lesson that could benefit this boy. Soldiers mistook my leadership for paternal guidance; lovers confused dominant affection for some deficit in their childhoods, and these were weaknesses I exploited to fashion better soldiers and better lovers. What do I know of fathers and sons? My own father was nothing but a vile shadow on the walls of my childhood home, a threatening shape that was void of light, darkly insubstantial.
    I remember the man who comes to the reeking cell to kill me. He is arrogant and cold as all executioners should be. The gun he places beside me carries a single bullet, and he says there is honor in its use. I refuse this generosity. Let the fuckers erect their own deceit. I have spent a life in service to this fraudulent cause, and if I’m to die for it, my death will be honest. My executioner leaves me alone with the weapon, which remains untouched until his return. Two flashes of light send me to the floor and my executioner peers down into my face, leveling the gun’s muzzle at my chest, and then I am cold, standing in grass and staring into a hole.
    Holding the coffee pot, my hand trembles. I return it to the stove. My cup remains empty.
    I will not leave the house again today, except to feed the chickens. This is a bad day. A terrible day.
     
     

Eight: Tim Randall
     
    The scent of frying chicken woke me on the morning of July Fourth. Since she worked so late at the factory, I wasn’t used to Ma waking before me, but from the sounds and smells emerging from the kitchen I could tell she’d already been up for a good long while. In the kitchen I found her turning chicken in the skillet. Potatoes for a salad boiled on the stove, and a sheet of cookies sat on the counter waiting to go into the oven. Ma kissed my forehead and retrieved two slices of toast from the oven, which she quickly replaced with the cookie sheet. Sitting me at the table with my toast and a jar of strawberry jam, she returned to her cooking.
    Before we left for the celebration at the fairgrounds, the chicken and potato salad had been tucked into a wicker basket and placed in the refrigerator, where it would wait until early evening, accompanying us to the nighttime celebration on the southern edge of Kramer Lake. The fireworks had been cancelled this year, but it was for the war effort so nobody made a fuss, and it was still nice to see so many people.
    We walked to the fairgrounds, greeting various neighbors along the way. Rita Sherman caught up with us at Pine Road. Her floral print dress clutched her body so tightly I couldn’t imagine how