Free Forgiveness by Mark Sakamoto

see—and say goodbye to—his father. Stanley had been on bedrest the whole time Ralph was home, upstairs in the master bedroom. In his eighteen years, Ralph had rarely set foot in the room a mere two doors down from his. He had spent his whole life avoiding his father. As he entered the darkened room, he could hear his shallow breath. He was dying; that much was clear. Ralph stood above him. He did not touch him.
    “Goodbye, Father.”
    That was that. If you can’t say anything kind, don’t say anything.
    He turned and closed the door behind him.
    Ralph returned to base at Valcartier to find the regiment turning in their regular clothes for lightweight uniforms built for hot climates. They were getting inoculations. When Deighton saw Ralph, he pushed through the men waiting in line. “Word is we’re going to the tropics, Ralph! The Winnipeg Grenadiers just came back from Jamaica and they need replacements! Jamaaaaica!”
    Deighton was mad with excitement. The whole crew was. For most of these men, seeing the aqua blue waters of the Caribbean was a distant dream. For several generations, the families of these men had toiled on the land or on the sea, venturing only so far as the lobster would take them.
    The very next morning, the men were told to pack their bags and return in an hour; they were departing by train to their next mission. In the barracks, the excitement was palpable. The men had sun, sand, and rum on their minds. Ralph was diligently folding his clothes when the platoon officer entered. All men stood at attention as Sergeant Tulk made his way down the centre aisle of the barrack hut. Tulk had a sincere composure to him. He had survived thepoisonous trenches of the First World War. Most of his pals were dead, buried in unmarked graves scattered across western Europe. He slowly made his way to Ralph.
    “Rifleman MacLean, come with me.”
    “Yes, sir,” Ralph replied, his mind racing. He caught his cousin’s eye as he followed his sergeant out of the barracks.
    Shit. They know about the turkey
, Ralph thought. He followed silently two paces behind Sergeant Tulk through the centre field towards the Officers’ Mess.
    “Take a seat, Ralph,” Tulk said.
    Ralph sat down.
    “Like whisky? Have a sip, it’s Protestant.”
    What the hell was this all about? It was 10 a.m.—why was he being offered a drink by his commanding officer? He did as he was told.
    “Son, I have received some sad news from your family. Your mother wired us this morning to have you informed that your father passed away yesterday afternoon. I’m very sorry.”
    Ralph bowed his head, nodded, and fidgeted with the glass.
    “Now listen, I’ve made some arrangements. The Bren carriers won’t depart for another week. You can go home to pay your respects and be back in time to make it out with them. It has all been taken care of, okay? Stay here and take a moment—finish your drink.”
    Tulk got up. He thought that the conversation was over.
    “Sir, before you leave, may I speak freely?” Ralph said.
    The sergeant nodded.
    “See, I was just home. I said my goodbye. Truth be told, there wasn’t much respect to be paid anyway. I wish that was not the case, but it is. So if you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to stay with the men. I’m appreciative for all you have done in making the arrangements, but I belong here. I don’t want to hang back.”
    The sergeant nodded.
    “Well, Ralph, that is entirely up to you.”
    With that, Tulk put his hand on Ralph’s shoulder and left.
    Ralph did not attend his father’s funeral. He felt he was where he should be, where he needed to be. The men were his family and he did not want his father holding him down any further. He’d had quite enough of that.
    As the train from Valcartier weaved its way farther west across the Canadian Shield, the men wondered just where they were going. Jamaica was beginning to seem out of the question. By the time they were in the middle of the vast prairie wheat