The Rules of Inheritance (36 page)

 

We have drunk cool, clear glasses of slivovitz on more occasions than I care to remember, and my father has fared better than I expected him to, making it in and out of the little Fiat and through each day without collapsing.

 

The day before we head back to Prague, Michael insists we stop one more time.

 

We wait outside a dilapidated apartment building for a long time before Michael beckons us to join him.

 

We make our way into the crumbling building, and then ever farther into a dark and sour-smelling apartment. An old man stands in a dimly lit and cluttered living room. He is clutching two weathered trash bags and he nods gruffly at my father.

 

This man has something he wants to give you, Michael says, and I watch as my father sits down on a grimy couch next to him.

 

The man fumbles around inside the trash bags, finally pulling out two wooden boards. He places one on his lap and the other on my father's lap. The boards are each the size of the laptop I will one day type this story out on, and they are painted an old but still-bright yellow.

 

On each board are glued bits and pieces from fallen B-24 Liberators. The pieces are tiny, none of them bigger than a fist, some of them just bolts or screws, little dials and bits that still turn in their casings. Each one has been carefully placed on the board, and there are words surrounding them.

 

Some of the words are in Czech, some in English. The phrase “I am alone” catches my eye. “We will never forget,” says another.

 

He collected all of these pieces as a young boy, Michael explains, and has carried these boards with him ever since. My father marvels over the pieces, gently running his fingers across them.

 

He wants you to have them, Michael says, and my father looks up.

 

The man is looking expectantly at my father and I realize that he is crying.

 

No one understands what they mean anymore, Michael translates. The young people don't know what that time was like, what it all meant to us. I've carried these things with me my whole life.

 

I want you to have them.

 

He starts coughing then, and we all watch as his frail body collapses in on itself, each cough shuddering across his frame. My father places a hand on his shoulder, waits until he is done. He is crying again now too.

 

Thank you, my father says. Thank you for remembering us.

 

The old man nods. How could I ever forget?

THE NEXT DAY my dad and I part ways at the airport in Prague. I am anxious in the minutes before we do. I can't shake the feeling that this will be the last time I will ever see him.

 

We draw out our good-byes, neither of us really wanting to go home to our lonely life.

 

Over the next four years my father will write about our experiences in Prague many times. He will contact the families of Tom West and of his fallen crew, and he will do his best to share the information he discovered. He will even participate regularly in a program to visit elementary schools, talking to kids about World War II.

 

I'll go with him on one of those days, to a clean, modern elementary school in Southern California. My dad wears his bomber jacket and a hat emblazoned with the insignia of the 461st Bomb Group. By this time he carries an oxygen tank with him wherever he goes and the little container sits behind him hissing pleasantly.

 

The kids are fidgety and distracted as my dad talks, but he doesn't seem to notice. He has brought the yellow boards with him to show them, and they stand up one by one to walk over and touch the old B-24 parts glued to its surface.

 

I lean against a doorway, the warm California breeze filtering past me, and I watch the kids. I know they just see an old man going on about a war they don't understand, but I see so much more.

 

I see the man who swept my mother off her feet one warm June morning. The man who rubbed my back on the nights when I couldn't sleep after she was gone. I see a man who learned how to fly an airplane at age twenty, a man who dedicated himself to fighting for something bigger than himself. A man who survived when so many others died.

 

I see a man who made his life worthwhile.

2003, I'M TWENTY-FIVE YEARS OLD.

I
GLANCE DOWN at the glass of red wine in front of me. It's one of those squat tumblers and the wine inside is a watery crimson. I see the waitress emerge from her station, heading toward our table, and I quickly knock back the contents in one smooth swallow. I smile up at her as she refills my glass.

 

I'm at C & O Trattoria on Washington Boulevard, with my friends Holly and Kevin, and a guy I'm seeing named Ryan. C & O is one of those cacophonous family-style Italian restaurants that caters to the tourists who flock to Venice Beach each day. We like it because it's cheap and the garlic knots are addictive.

 

I particularly like it because as soon as you sit down the waitress delivers a giant bottle of red wine to your table, encouraging you to pour freely throughout dinner. I fill my glass over and over again. By the time dinner arrives I've lost count of how many I've had. Five glasses? Six?

 

Kevin and Ryan are talking about books, and Holly and I lean conspiratorially into each other on our side of the table. I've known Holly since high school, and we always have more than enough to talk about.

 

How are you doing, dear? Holly's eyes are wide and probing as she asks this.

 

I nod at her, taking a sip from my glass of wine. I'm good, I say. This is an utter lie.

 

I smile brightly, hoping to appear convincing, but Holly knits her brow and leans in closer. I take another sip.

 

Are you?

 

I nod again. The fact that I've known Holly for ten years makes it hard to be deceptive.

 

No, really. I'm good.

 

I take one more sip of wine and then I continue.

 

I've been writing a lot. Every morning.

 

Really? That's great.

 

Again, this is a lie. A couple of months ago, right after my dad died, a large newspaper featured my blog in a list of the twenty best in the world. Ever since, I've had more readers than I know what to do with. An agent from New York even contacted me about writing a book, but facing the blinking cursor at the top of an empty Word document has been nearly impossible. I've written nothing.

 

Yeah. I'm working on getting everything settled with my dad's condo too. I slosh back more wine as I say this, and Holly nods at me encouragingly.

 

Lying suddenly seems kind of fun. It's interesting to hear what I would sound like if I actually had my shit together. The sad truth is that I've been waiting for someone to do exactly what Holly is doing, to step in and intervene before it's too late, but now that it's happening I can't help backpedaling.

 

A busboy clears our plates and Kevin asks for the bill. The waitress comes and marks off a line on the giant wine bottle, tallying up the total on her little pad.

 

I'm putting you down for fourteen glasses, she says.

 

Whoa, Ryan says. I didn't think we had that much.

 

Me neither, says Kevin.

 

I only had a couple of glasses, Holly says.

 

Me too, I mumble, even though I know the waitress is right and that most of the glasses belong to me. I'm just hoping none of them notice how much I'm slurring.

 

The waitress shrugs at us, dropping the bill in the center of the table.

 

Whatever, Holly says. I've always thought this whole bottle thing was kind of a scam anyway.

 

Ryan and I part ways with Kevin and Holly on the sidewalk. After they're gone I look in the direction of the beach. I can't tell if the streetlights look hazy because I've had too much to drink or if it's just from the ocean air.

 

I turn back to Ryan, and we begin walking along Washington Boulevard. We've only been dating for a couple of months, but after I moved to Venice we started spending most nights of the week together.

 

Ryan is a writer. He has just finished the first draft of a novel and works as a reality television producer. He's easily the smartest person I've ever met, almost to a fault.

 

Ryan has memorized every presidential team that ever existed. You can name a date—say 1883—and he will tell you who was serving in the White House, and often even more about that particular year in politics. It's the same with baseball. Strings of statistics and numbers spill out of his mouth like ticker tape at the merest prompting.

 

Ryan is the opposite of Colin. It wouldn't even occur to Ryan to put bars around me, to create rules about who I am supposed to be. After years of Colin doing just that, being with Ryan feels like freedom in the finest form.

 

Do you want to come over tonight?

 

Ryan shakes his head. I have to be at the office early tomorrow.

 

Okay.

 

I try to hide my disappointment, but Ryan doesn't seem to notice anyway. He's already talking about something that happened at work today. As I listen I try to keep my steps steady. I am drunker than I realized.

 

I don't want to go home. I just want to keep walking. I don't want tomorrow to come. Or the day after that. The thought of another perfect, sunny LA day spent not cleaning out my father's condo makes me want to vomit. Nonetheless Ryan walks me to the gate at the bottom of the steps that lead up to my apartment. He kisses me goodnight and walks away into the night, and I am suddenly alone again.

 

I'm crying before I even walk in the door. I stand in the middle of the dark living room, a tidal wave of fear and anger washing over me.

 

I don't want to be here.

 

I don't want to be alone.

 

I can't do this.

 

I can't do this.

 

The only response to my silent pleas is the sound of blood rushing in my ears.

 

I suck in deep, ragged breaths and look wildly around the room. I'm not sure what I'm looking for until I see the dark space underneath my desk.

 

I drop to my hands and knees and crawl there, tucking my head, and hunching my back under the frame. I pull the chair in against me, pinning myself to the wall. I close my eyes finally, breathing.

 

A few years from now I'll see a movie about Temple Grandin, an autistic woman who used to lock herself into cattle-holding stalls in an effort to feel secure and contained. I don't realize it now, but that's exactly what I'm doing.

 

Finding some way, however desperate, to hold on to myself.

THE NEXT MORNING I park in the carport of my father's condominium complex and walk up to his front door. I pause for a moment, unable to bring myself to unlock it yet.

 

A breeze blows around a corner of the building, and I close my eyes for a moment. It's another balmy, Southern California day and the temperature hovers around seventy-four degrees.