Letter to My Daughter: A Novel - By George Bishop Page 0,35

how Tim’s letters practically saved my life during my first year at Sacred Heart. And how, just as I needed him then, he needed me now while he was in Vietnam.

I looked up at Chip. “He wants us to get married when he comes home.”

“Gosh. Wow.”

“Yeah.”

Chip took a big gulp of his wine. “I didn’t know any of this.”

“I know.”

“When’s he coming back?”

“He reenlisted. He’s got about six more months.”

“And then?”

“And then …”

“And then you’ll get married?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know, Chip. I’m not even a senior yet. How can I get married? But Tim wants to. He says it’s all he thinks about now. He’s saving his money to buy us a house in Zachary.”

“Jesus, Laura.”

“I shouldn’t have told you.”

“No, I’m glad you did. I’m glad.”

He frowned as he grabbed a dinner roll and began buttering it. He didn’t look glad. I sipped water, and as the restaurant took us on another tour of Baton Rouge I waited to see who would speak next. I was afraid I’d ruined our evening by introducing Tim. It was like I’d summoned him right into the restaurant, and now he was standing by our table in his muddy combat boots, his rifle slung on his back, staring down on our dinner looking hurt and betrayed. I couldn’t pretend he didn’t exist. But what was I going to do? Tell him “We’re having dinner. Go away, please. Leave us alone. Go back to your war”?

Later, after Chip had paid for our meal and pulled out my chair and was leading us through the elegant old lobby of the hotel, I linked my hand in his arm.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“No. Really.”

“I just want us to have a good time tonight,” he said, rubbing his toe on the pavement as we waited for the valet to bring the car.

I gave his arm a squeeze. “Don’t worry, we will. I promise.”

• • •

Remember what I said about you learning from my mistakes? About how the whole moral purpose of this story is to help you lead a better life than I did? Well. Keep that in mind.

My friend Christy was right. Chip had brought whiskey for the evening, a neat flask of Jack Daniel’s tucked in the glove compartment of his father’s car. When we arrived at the Hilton hotel, Chip stopped the car in a dark corner of the parking lot and took out the bottle. On the first sip the whiskey seared the inside of my throat. “You’ll want to go easy on that,” he said. “Just a taste on the lips.”

“I’m fine,” I said, coughing.

We listened to the radio as we passed the bottle. Chip began to tell me about a horse he once had. They used to keep him at the family farm—a farm that I gathered wasn’t like the farm I grew up on, but more like a summer home. The horse’s name was Geronimo, an American paint. Chip took good care of him, and the horse understood that he belonged to Chip and would become snappish whenever someone else tried to ride him. He was like Chip’s best friend all through junior high, until he got a brain disease that made his muscles go slack. At first he stumbled around like he was drunk, but then it got so bad that he couldn’t stand up and they had to shoot him. “Not me. I didn’t shoot him,” Chip said. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. His father had to do it.

Chip stopped talking and we sat a moment in silence.

“Gosh. That’s terrible,” I said. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“It was a long time ago,” Chip said, and abruptly leaned forward to adjust the radio dial. “I don’t even know why I told you that. It’s not even a funny story.”

But his story, I felt, with its hint of loss and love, bound us together in some deeper way, adding an extra intimacy to the evening. It was this feeling, I believe, that would encourage me to do what I did later.

“You ready?” Chip said. “Let’s go.”

The theme of the CHS 1972 senior prom was “Nights in White Satin,” named after a ponderous Moody Blues song popular that year. Everything was draped in white satiny cloth, naturally, and a whole gang of boys had come dressed in matching white tuxedos, calling themselves the Knights in White Satin. We shared a table with Chip’s friends and their dates, some of whom I knew from Sacred Heart. No charity cases here,