The Great Santini Part 15

"Because you kind of remind me of that great big, fat, white whale."

"Touche," Lillian screamed.

"This looks like the last shot of the game, jocko."

"If you make it," Ben said, leaning with all his weight against his father's rear, trying to slow the inevitable move toward the basket for the easy hook shot.

"Does a maggot live in dead meat?" Bull said.

"G.o.d, Dad is disgusting," said Mary Anne.

"He's just low born," said Lillian. Then she began shouting, "Kill him, Ben. Keep your hands up."

At that moment Bull glanced over at Lillian, irritation spliced on the corners of his mouth. When Ben saw his eye depart from the center of action, he stepped backward, like a caboose uncoupling from another car. In that single instant, Ben was unseen and unfelt by his father. He slapped Bull on the left b.u.t.tock, then swept low around his fathers right side. Feeling Ben's release and the hand hitting his left side, Bull reflexively looked to his left and switched the ball to his right hand. As he did so, he realized his mistake and tried to recover, but by this time Ben had flicked the ball away from him and retrieved it near the porch.

The family of spectators broke into applause when they sensed that Ben had a chance to win the game. At the far edge of cement, almost touching the porch, Ben stood motioning for his father to come out to play defense.

"Whip his f.a.n.n.y, Ben," Matt's voice cried out from behind the screen door in the kitchen.

"It is I, the Great Bentini," Ben mimicked as he began to dribble the ball between his legs trying to shame his father into open court where he knew he could drive around him.

"Let's play ball," Bull rumbled, his face blood red from anger. His eyes had narrowed into starpoints of cold, the killing edge of a personal fury that marked a crossing of the line which Lillian recognized immediately.

"Why don't we just call it a tie, and call both of you winners?" she said.

"I said let's play ball," Bull growled in a lower, more frightening octave.

"Why don't you just come out here and get it, Great Santini?" Ben teased, unaware of the changes that were taking place in his opponent.

"I'd quit now, Ben," Mary Anne advised. "He's getting that same look on his face that he gets when he runs over turtles on trips."

Dribbling slowly, Ben started toward his father, changing hands with each dribble, hoping to catch Bull with his weight s.h.i.+fted in the wrong direction. "Do you know, Dad, that not one of us here has ever beaten you in a single game? Not checkers, not dominoes, not softball, nothing."

"C'mon, mama's boy," Bull whispered. "Bring little mama's boy up to Daddy Bull." Right hand, left hand, right hand, left hand, the ball drummed against the cement as Ben waited for his father to move out against him and Bull held back, fearing the drive to the basket. At the foul line, Ben left his feet for the jump shot, eyed the basket at the top of his leap, let it go, softly, the wrist snapping, the fingers pointing at the rim and the ball spinning away from him as Bull lunged forward and drove his shoulder into Ben's stomach, knocking him to the ground. Though he did not see the ball go in, he heard the shouts of his mother and sisters; he saw Matthew leaping up and down on the porch. He felt his father rise off him slowly, coming up beaten by a son for the first time in his life. Screaming with joy, Ben jumped up and was immediately flooded by his family, who hugged, slapped, pummeled, and kissed him.

Lillian and Matt tried to pick Ben up, but he was too heavy and all three of them fell into the gra.s.s laughing, forgetting the lone figure of the father standing under the basket, sweating, red-faced, and mute, watching the celebration of his wife and children with the inchoate, resurrected anger of a man who never quit in his life. Mary Anne saw him standing alone and went over to say something comforting.

"You played a good game, Dad," she said.

"Get out of here."

"You didn't lose by much," Mary Anne continued, ignoring the vital signs.

"Get out of here before I start knocking every freckle off your face."

Mary Anne put her hands to her face, removed her gla.s.ses, and looked at her father with eyes that were filling with tears. "That was mean, Daddy. You had no call to say that," she said, running toward the front yard.

Then Bull shouted at Ben, "Hey, jocko, you gotta win by two baskets."

The backyard became quiet again. Ben looked at his father and said, "You said by one."

"I changed my mind; let's go," Bull said, picking up the basketball.

"Oh, no, Bull," Lillian said, marching toward her husband. "You're not going to cheat the boy out of his victory."

"Who in the h.e.l.l asked you anything?" Bull said, glaring at his wife.

"I don't care if anybody asked me or not. He beat you fair and square and I'm not going to let you take that away from him."

"Get over here, mama's boy," Bull said, motioning to Ben, "and let's you and me finish this game."

Ben moved forward until he heard his mother shout at him, "You stay right there, Ben Meecham. Don't you dare move."

"Why don't you go hide under your mother's skirts, mama's boy?" Bull said.

He was gaining control of the situation again and was entering a phase of malevolent calm that Lillian was having difficulty translating.

"Mama, I'm gonna play him," Ben said.

"No you're not," his mother answered harshly, with finality, then speaking to her husband, she said, "He beat you, Big Marine. He beat the Big Marine where everybody could see it, right out in the open, and it was beautiful. It was just beautiful. Big Marine can't take it that his baby boy just beat him to death on the basketball court."

"Get in the house, Lillian, before I kick you into the house."

"Don't threaten me, Big Tough Marine. Does Big Tough Marine have to pick on his family the day his son becomes the better man?"

Bull pushed Lillian toward the house, spinning her away from him, and kicked her in the b.u.t.tocks with a swift vicious kick.

"Stop that, Dad," Ben shouted. "You stop that."

"Quit kicking Mama," Karen screamed.

He kicked her again. Each kick was directing her toward the stairs. Finally, Lillian started to run for the kitchen. Bull would have kicked her another time but Ben got between him and his mother. The screen door slammed as Lillian disappeared from view. Bull's face was hideously contorted as he stood face to face with Ben, who was trembling involuntarily.

"You sort of like winning, don't you, Dad?" Ben said, trying to sound unconcerned and in control, but fear lay heavy on his voice.

Bull went up to Ben until they were almost nose to nose, as Ben had seen Drill Instructors do to recruits. With his forefinger, he began poking Ben's chin. "You get smart with me, jocko, and I'll kick you upstairs with your mother so you p.u.s.s.ies can bawl together. Now guard me. You gotta win by two."

"I'm not gonna guard you, Dad. I won," Ben said, his voice almost breaking. He could feel himself about to cry.

Bull saw it too. "That's it, mama's boy. Start to cry. I want to see you cry," Bull roared, his voice at full volume, a voice of drill fields; a voice to be heard above the thunder of jet engines, a voice to be heard above the din of battle. Bull took the basketball and threw it into Ben's forehead. Ben turned to walk into the house, but Bull followed him, matching his steps and throwing the basketball against his son's head at intervals of three steps. Bull kept chanting, "Cry, cry, cry," each time the ball ricocheted off his son's skull. Through the kitchen Ben marched, through the dining room, never putting his hands behind his head to protect himself, never trying to dodge the ball. Ben just walked and with all his powers of concentration rising to the surface of consciousness, of being alive, and of being son, Ben tried not to cry. That was all he wanted to derive from the experience, the knowledge that he had not cried. He wanted to show his father something of his courage and dignity. All the way up the stairs, the ball was hurled against his head. The hair short and bristly from the morning haircut, the head this moment vulnerable, helpless, and loathed. Ben knew that once he made it to his room the ordeal would end, and he would have the night to consider all the symbols of this long march: the heads of sons, the pride of fathers, victors, losers, the faces of kicked wives, the fear of families, the Sat.u.r.days in the reign of Santini-but now, now, through this hallway and up these final stairs, I must not cry, I must not cry. Until he saw his room. Breaking into a run, he felt Bull release him, free him, his head throbbing, dizzy; and the son of the fighter pilot fell onto his bed face downward, afraid that tears would come if he did not stem their flow in the cool whiteness of his pillow. His father stood in the doorway and Ben heard him say so that the whole family could hear, "You're my favorite daughter, Ben. I swear to G.o.d you're my sweetest little girl."

Then turning toward the door, blinded by water and light, Ben spit back, "Yeah, Dad, and this little girl just whipped you good."

The door slammed.

Chaper 11

That night Ben heard a basketball thumping on the court. Lifting the curtain by his bed, he saw his father shooting baskets beneath the night light. He was practicing sets and hooks, dribbling and pivots. It was ten o'clock and the house was silent, as it had been since the game. Bull had left the house and not returned until suppertime. Not a word pa.s.sed between Bull and his family at supper and at times the noise of the silverware clinking on plates seemed deafening. Ben did not appear at supper, sending word to his mother that he was sick. During the entire meal Bull read the newspaper. He did not try to begin conversation, for he knew through long experience that whenever these sudden ch.o.r.eographies of violence erupted, he had to endure an exile of silence from his wife and children for an indeterminate period. After dinner, the children drifted off to their rooms with their poker faces congealed and their imposed vow of silence unbroken. Had their father asked them a question, they would have answered, "yes sir" or "no sir," or given a brief unembroidered reply, with voices bled of all emotion, uninhabited voices related more to silence than to communication. The house brooded into the night. The Meecham children were gifted in the fine art of brooding. The energy of brooding affected their father like no other weapon they could turn against him. Ben was lying on his bed studying the cracked geometry of falling plaster that hung above him. Dreams and imaginary dramas were projected on the ceiling as Ben's brain danced with dazzled portraits of his father and him locked in duels to the death. At these times alone, Ben consciously extended his frontiers of hatred and longed for a reprieve from his father and the freedom of not being a son. Then he heard his father shooting baskets under the light with the river invisible and boatless beyond the house and only the braided string of lights of houses across the river to mark the far sh.o.r.e. Everyone in the house heard the ball thumping against the concrete and its hard ring as it bounced off the rim. Ben studied his father's hook shot from the window. The easy sweeping grace fascinated him on so large a man. He did not hear Lillian come into the room behind him.

"How are you feeling, sugah?" she said.

"I'm O.K., Mama," Ben answered, still watching his father. "How are you feeling?"

"My posterior's a little sore, but I'll live through the night, at least," she said.

"You've got fabulous taste in men, Mama, no kidding."

"Don't get smart with me, mister. It's been plenty hard on me today without your getting smart. Remember, I'm the one that's in the middle. I'm the one that catches it from both sides. It's me that's got to walk the tightrope."

Ben sat on his desk, put his gym shoes on his chair, unlaced them, then tied them tighter. He tied and untied his gym shoes as thoughtlessly as he blinked his eyes. It was one of Ben's many nervous mannerisms that worried Lillian.

"If he ever does that to you again, Ben, I'll leave him. So help me G.o.d, I'll leave him."

"Sure, Mama," Ben said. "That's what you said the last time. That's what you say every time. You've been leaving him ever since I was born."

"I'm serious this time."

"You were serious last time and the time before that and the time before that. I don't care anymore, Mom. I'm getting out of this family this year. I just gotta make it before he tears me apart."

Lillian was sitting on the foot of Ben's bed. With almost inappropriate grace, she pulled a cigarette from a package of Lucky Strikes. She handed the matches to Ben and waited as Ben clumsily lit a match and held the flame in front of her. Lightly, she touched his hand and inhaled deeply.

"He's working on his temper, darling. He knows he's got to work on it. We've got to help him work on it."

"I don't have to help him. I hate his guts. I don't even want to help him."

"If you don't, then it's going to be bad for Matt and the girls," she said, then added, "and for me, of course."

"Let me tell you what I was just thinking, Mama. I was just sitting here praying that we would go to war."

"Shame on you, Ben. That's a terrible thing to say."

"No, let me finish. I was praying for a special type of war. One that required only Marine pilots and I didn't care who we fought against. I thought about Cuba, Russia, and China, of course. But then I decided if it got Dad out of here, that I'd be satisfied with France, Monaco, Vatican City, Florida. It doesn't make any difference. I just want somebody to declare war against this country, so King Kong out there can fight against someone besides me."

"You act like he hits you all the time. Today was the first time he's touched you since he's been home. He's been excellent until today and even you have to admit that."

"Oh, he's been a peach. See, Mom, I know he doesn't hit me every day. But do you know I wake up every day with the possibility of him hitting me? I mean if he gets mad, he goes for me. You got in his way today, so he kicked you a few times. But I'm his primary target. He hones in on me when he's angry."

"He expects a lot from his oldest son."

"That's the funny part to me, Mom. It's not like I was a juvenile delinquent and went around slas.h.i.+ng tires and smoking cigarettes. When we lived on base I never got in trouble with the M.P.'s. I wasn't like Bill Poindexter or Larry Kinston; I didn't string a rope across the road and almost strangle that M.P. who was chasing them that night on a motorcycle. I've seen a thousand Marine kids and you and I both know that they're the most screwed up bunch of kids that ever lived. And I'm not like them. I don't do anything and yet I get knocked all over the place."

"Now, Ben," his mother said soothingly, "you know he's improved over what he used to be. He's mellowing in his old age. His temper used to be a lot worse when you were younger. You've got to give him credit for that."

"It's a miracle that I've lived to grow pimples."

"Don't be flip with your mother. I'm speaking seriously. I've worked with him on controlling his temper. We've even prayed together about it. He's improved. That's the point."

"I used to keep count of the times he hit me and the reason. I did it for about two years. It makes funny reading now. In October of 1958, I was slapped by Dad for not moving fast enough across the room when I was bringing him a beer. The next year he punched me for striking out three times in a baseball game. Another time he got me by the throat and slammed my head against the wall over and over again until you stopped him. That time, I had woke him up after he had been on a cross-country night flight."

"You're exaggerating again. I don't remember those times."

"Yeah, Mom, you always defend him. I always exaggerate. I always make things up. Look at this scar on my lip. I got that when I ran real fast and threw myself into Dad's fist just for kicks."

"Don't 'yeah' me, mister. It's 'yes ma'am.' And don't be sarcastic. You're a very unattractive person when you're sarcastic."

"Sorry, Mama. I'm upset. What he did was bad."

"I want to talk to you now, Ben, as a boy who is almost a man. You've got to realize that your father's always been under a great deal of pressure in his job. All day long he is under pressure from superiors and both of us know he flies off the handle very easily when things don't go his way or when a colonel gets mad at him."

"Why doesn't he punch the colonel?" Ben said, untying his shoes again.

"Now you're talking nonsense."

"No, I'm not," Ben said, looking up from his shoes. "Why do I get hit when some jerk colonel gets on Dad's back? Dad screws up an a.s.signment in Cherry Point, and I get slapped when he flies back to Ravenel. He receives a reprimand in a memo from Was.h.i.+ngton and then he gets p.i.s.sed off at me for breathing too hard when he gets home that night. Well, the kid is out of it come June first. Then Mary Anne will be the prime beef."

"Light me another cigarette, darling." As the flame came to her she said, looking into her son's eyes, who quickly dropped his, "Your father has many good points."

"Sure, Mom. They're the knuckles on his left hand."

"Don't try to be so clever, sugah. You and Mary Anne always have to verbally joust with the rest of the world and it's not very becoming to either one of you. And one thing you're not keeping in mind, Ben. One thing that is very important. Your father loves you very much."

"Ha!" Ben laughed. "He's got a fabulous way of showing it." Then a mellowness entered his voice, an exhausted gentleness. "Mama, we've had this talk a million times. It starts out with you leaving him. Then it ends with you telling me all his good points. How much he wants the best for his children. How much he loves us all and sacrifices for us all. Do you know something that I know, Mama? He loves the Marine Corps more than he loves us."

"He's supposed to, son. That's his duty. His job. All men are like that."

"No," Ben said harshly. "It's different. Do you think Dupree Johnson's daddy loved his gas station more than his family? Or Robbie Chambers' daddy loved his doughnut shop more than his wife or kids?"

"Well, you're just talking now. You don't really know what your daddy thinks, but I do."

"No one knows Dad, Mama. No one knows him. He's an actor. He acts out being a Marine. He acts out being a husband. He acts out being a father. In fact, Dad is the only person in the world who has to act out being a human being."

"You're wrong there, son," Lillian said, staring into the bluish plume of smoke she exhaled toward the opposite wall. "There's a lot of people like that."

"But the real secret of Dad is, it's all the same act. It's the same thing. It's all that fighter pilot c.r.a.p. I bet when you're alone with him, he's still humping right along with his same old act."

"If it weren't for you children and our differences over discipline, we would have the happiest marriage possible. All of our fights are over the children."

Ben untied his shoelaces again and began lacing them up, tighter than before.

"You're going to cut off all the circulation in your feet," Lillian said, but Ben kept on pulling at the laces.