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Reuben gave everybody another hug and then went out into the back yard in search of his second son.
They gathered in the kitchen and Reuben gave them all a blow-by-blow account of his fight with the terrorists. Lettie and Annie were fascinated, but their reaction was most at the level of “Oh, gross,” and “Did you see them after they were dead?” Mark wanted more details, but in reply Reuben reminded him that this story was not to be told outside the family. “If you tell anybody that your dad is Major Reuben Malich, any of your friends, pretty soon there’ll be reporters outside the house and we won’t have any peace.”
Mark was disgusted. “I know that, Dad,” he said.
Nick said nothing. He just watched his father. And listened. And took it all in. He was the one that worried Cecily. Nick built his life around imaginary heroes, even if the fantasy novels were supposed to be funny. And then look at the father he had—the real thing, the strong-thewed warrior, the hero. How could Nick ever measure up to that fantasy?
Nick was the one who would go into the Army, she thought. He’ll think he has to in order to be a real man. Only the Army is not where he belongs. He needs to have time to himself. He needs a regular life. He needs to be surrounded by a gentle reality. Because he’s fragile. Real combat would hurt him. He would get scars that would never heal.
Scars like the ones that gnawed at his father. You don’t kill men without taking damage to your soul. Even when you’re defending yourself and other people. Even when the bad guys are truly evil. And if you ever get to the point where it doesn’t damage you to kill, then you’ve lost your decency. Thank God Reuben had never reached that point, and never would. But Nick—could he bear it, to have those wounds on his soul?
“So I’m on vacation for a few days,” said Reuben. “Maybe longer.”
“Two words,” said Mark. “Atlantic City!”
“You are way too young to scope out babes, Mark,” said Reuben.
“I said that once, Dad. As a joke.”
“I don’t care what you said. I know how I’ve seen you look.”
“Yeah, well, have you seen how they dress?”
“You’re ten. That’s way too young for you even to care.”
And on they went. The war talk was over. But the kids lingered. Dad-time was precious. And it wasn’t often he actually told them about what he did as a soldier. They didn’t need that knowledge. It would only frighten them when he was away. This time, though, Cecily knew that he had to tell them, because they were going to hear the negative stuff, and they had to know the story the way it really happened.
After a while, the girls dragged their father upstairs to look at whatever insane project they were working on together—Lettie always had a project, and Annie always ended up being chief assistant who never, ever got her way on anything, and they ended up yelling and crying and then going right back to the same project because Annie would rather be miserable and oppressed with Lettie than free but alone.
Mark went with them because he was Mark and had to be with people who were doing something. J.P. went with them because Reuben was holding him. Which left Cecily alone at the kitchen table with Nick.
“What are you thinking?” she said. “If it involves ice cream, I think the answer is there are still two fudgesicles that J.P. didn’t smear all over his body.”
Nick ignored the offered ice cream—not a surprise. He was mostly indifferent to food. “The king is dead,” he said. “Long live the king.”
“What?”
“You asked what I was thinking,” said Nick. “Somebody killed the President, and all anybody can think about is, How does this benefit me?”
“I’m not thinking that way,” said Cecily.
“No, ‘cause you and Dad are thinking about how it’s going to hurt you. They’re saying things that make Dad look like he was maybe part of the assassination instead of the guy who tried to stop it.”
“It’s how they sell papers.”
“That’s what I meant,” said Nick. “See? The President is dead—how can we sell papers? The President is dead—how can I take advantage of it?”
“And you’re nine years old, right?” asked Cecily.
“I know you think I read too much fantasy,” said Nick, “but this is what it’s all about. Power. Somebody dies, somebody leaves, everybody comes in and tries to take over. And you just have to hope that the good guys are strong enough and smart enough and brave enough to win.”
“Are they?”
“In the fantasy novels,” said Nick. “But in the real world, the bad guys win all the time. Genghis Khan tore up the world. Hitler lost in the end, but he killed millions of people first. Really bad stuff happens. Evil people get away with it. You think I don’t know that?”
Our children are way too smart for their own good, thought Cecily. “Nick, you’re absolutely right. So do you know what we do? We make an island. We make a castle. We dig a moat around it and we put up walls that are strong, made of stone.”
“I guess you’re not talking about Aunt Margaret’s house,” said Nick.
