Malcolm came over today after lunch
to help me finish my chores.
Now here we are on the bench before
Miller’s grocery store, sucking down
Fudgsicles, watching the traffic,
glancing through the South Jersey News.
Even though it’s over one hundred degrees,
it feels like heaven to me: I’m off from
the diner, I have a whole two hours free.
“Look at this,” Malcolm says, nudging me,
pointing the nearly empty stick of his Fudgsicle
at the picture on the front page. The photo
shows a pair of blood-covered Marines
being dragged by their buddies toward
a waiting chopper. Both guys look pretty
bad. “How can I believe in a God that puts
my brother in the middle of that?” he asks.
I don’t answer. Not because I don’t want to …
but because I don’t know how. Since Mom left,
we haven’t been back to Willowbank Episcopal,
where she and Dad were married and where
Denise and I were baptized. I hadn’t
thought about God all that much until Gramps …
and until this summer, when it seems like—
given the total mess we humans have made—
even God could be forgiven for taking an
extended vacation. (That’s what I’d do, too,
in His place.) But it’s different for Malcolm,
being a minister’s son and all. He still goes
to church each week, but he’s been mad
at God ever since Dixon left for Vietnam.
And can you blame him? I study the photo
of those bloody (and young!) Marines,
who are sons and brothers, uncles and cousins
to people just like Malcolm and me. When
I can’t stand it anymore, I flip quickly
to page three and read our horoscopes
silently. “What’s it say?” Malcolm wants
to know. I lick the last of my Fudgsicle
from the stick and read our future (we’re
both Scorpios) according to Zodiac Sally:
“You will be repaid for your sacrifice.
Be patient. See things through to the end.”
I look up at Malcolm, whose toothbrush
eyebrows are raised in amazement.