Free Things Unsaid: A Novel by Diana Y. Paul Page B

lives.
    All the stuff that their father thought he wouldn’t be able to do in military school was exactly what Andrew liked to do.
    Their father’s hands, white knuckled on the steering wheel, looked cadaverous—all the veins wormy and popping up. He was silent. Uncomfortably silent. Andrew’s mother turned around in her seat and reached far over to stroke his head, her red-polished fingernails curled under like claws. Her eyes luxuriated on his face, that type of eye contact he hated.
    “Good thing you got lucky, hon—with the lower bunk and all,” she said when he told them of Grissim’s bunk test. Her right hand, adorned with that cockroach-size ring, stroked his cheek, just missing his eye.
    “So I’m spending all this money on you, and for what?” his father grumbled. “That school’s supposed to make a man out of my son. What a waste.”
    Still, his parents seemed relieved to find that it was only alcohol he was experimenting with. They didn’t know about the dope and other recreational drugs. Shoplifting was in the distant past. He had found his religion: adoration for a new trinity—the military, guns, and authority. Guy things.
    “Hmm,” his father broke in during one of his stories, “you mention Grissim an awful lot!”
    “Like I was saying, Dad, the teachers are awesome. Learning a lot.” Andrew ignored what his father had said. His own voice sounded hollow, parrotlike, to his ears. Turning around, perhaps to look for a sign of truth in his face regarding what his father said, his mother smiled. But Andrew was in control of his face.
    “I never had any doubts about you, sweetheart. And you need a few years’ break before all the girls start chasing you in college. They won’t be able to keep their hands off of you.”
    Like you
, Andrew thought, ignoring her. He looked at Jules and Joanne and grinned like the Joker in Batman. There was no way that anyone in his family would think there was something “off” about his smile. They didn’t get him. Never did. Never would.
    “Hope George Washington isn’t some kinda glorified gay camp.”
    “Dad, you keep telling me that GWMA’s for the best of men: courage, discipline, integrity. Isn’t that why you sent me there?” Andrew thought way back to that electric rubber sheet. A tool so he wouldn’t be a bed wetter—someone who could turn gay.
    “Yeah, yeah, sure,” his father said. “Didn’t want you getting into even more trouble.” He sighed, looking worn out by time.
    “Dad, listen. I feel at home. They’re my brothers—the brothers I never had. My family away from home.” He hoped he had put his father’s mind at ease, so he could return to GWMA.

    The envelope lay on his desk. His wife, Abigail, always placed his mail carefully there, each envelope discretely sliced open, staggered—one envelope layered halfway beneath the previous one—so that each return address was neatly revealed. His wife was very precise and dependable. He loved that about her.
    He opened the announcement: Uncle Wilson’s memorial service. No time to fly out to Santa Monica for the requiem. Besides, there was no love lost between them, and the flight would cost money. Uncle Wilson had always favored Jules, especially when they were teenagers. She could go and represent all of them. Besides, he sided with their dad—obligations only went so far. Andrew and his dad were veryclose. First Forest Lodge. Then Woolworth’s. His father never forgot to remind him how mortified he had been to have a thief for a son. But not anymore. Like father, like son. He knew how to celebrate.

TETHERED OR TENURED?
    “D arling, we’re falling apart, and I don’t know what to do.”
    Jules wanted to avoid an argument. Usually it was Mike who inched over to her side in bed, saying he wanted to warm up the sheets so she would be more comfortable. But tonight he was the one who seemed cold. Neither of them had brought up the subject of her parents since she had returned