Halftime
by Jerilyn Ring
John raised his voice. “No son of mine is taking piano. That’s for sissies.”
Laura, his wife, leaned across the kitchen table, a malicious glint in her eye.
“And you’re a man?”
John recoiled as if she had struck him.
“No more lessons,” he yelled.
“Over my dead body.”
A loud whimper. Six-year-old Lawrence stood in the doorway. Laura’s heart skipped a beat. How long had he been there? Intercepting him as he ran toward his dad, she took his arm and led him back to his room. As soon as she let him go, he ran back to the kitchen. Just as he reached it, the front door slammed. He pressed his tear-stained face against the window as his dad’s car sped out of the driveway and roared down the street.
The lump in her throat grew larger as the car became a mere dot on the horizon. That night, Lawrence’s slender fingers, more at home on a keyboard than a baseball bat, were wrapped around her hand as she held him close.
Laura, his wife, leaned across the kitchen table, a malicious glint in her eye.
“And you’re a man?”
John recoiled as if she had struck him.
“No more lessons,” he yelled.
“Over my dead body.”
A loud whimper. Six-year-old Lawrence stood in the doorway. Laura’s heart skipped a beat. How long had he been there? Intercepting him as he ran toward his dad, she took his arm and led him back to his room. As soon as she let him go, he ran back to the kitchen. Just as he reached it, the front door slammed. He pressed his tear-stained face against the window as his dad’s car sped out of the driveway and roared down the street.
The lump in her throat grew larger as the car became a mere dot on the horizon. That night, Lawrence’s slender fingers, more at home on a keyboard than a baseball bat, were wrapped around her hand as she held him close.
On his fifteenth birthday, over her protests, John gave Lawrence boxing gloves. From the sidelines, she watched as he tried to heed her advice not to injure his hands or face while heeding his dad’s advice not to worry about it. After three fights and three defeats, she was secretly relieved when the boxing gloves mysteriously disappeared.
Then, on his sixteenth birthday, John gave him a shotgun, and after a few practice sessions took him bird hunting. She had begged him not to, but he didn’t listen. Later that night, Lawrence called to report an accident. He had shot his dad. The wound was skin deep, but the fall shattered his dad’s kneecap; the wound healed, the knee improved, but the breach between them deepened.
On his eighteenth birthday, he received his draft notice.
“Drafted,” she repeated, unable to believe he didn’t get a deferment. Instead, he had given up his scholarship to the Juilliard School of Music. She insisted they accompany him to the airport. Lawrence reluctant at first, finally agreed. John drove while she sat in the back, grieving the lost scholarship.
“I’m glad you didn’t try for a deferment,” his dad said, clamping down on his cigar. “Going into the army is the smartest thing you’ve done. It will make a man out of you. God knows I tried.”
“You jackass,” she shouted. “The only smart thing you ever did was marry me, and the only dumb thing I ever did was say yes and as for a man . . .”
Then, on his sixteenth birthday, John gave him a shotgun, and after a few practice sessions took him bird hunting. She had begged him not to, but he didn’t listen. Later that night, Lawrence called to report an accident. He had shot his dad. The wound was skin deep, but the fall shattered his dad’s kneecap; the wound healed, the knee improved, but the breach between them deepened.
On his eighteenth birthday, he received his draft notice.
“Drafted,” she repeated, unable to believe he didn’t get a deferment. Instead, he had given up his scholarship to the Juilliard School of Music. She insisted they accompany him to the airport. Lawrence reluctant at first, finally agreed. John drove while she sat in the back, grieving the lost scholarship.
“I’m glad you didn’t try for a deferment,” his dad said, clamping down on his cigar. “Going into the army is the smartest thing you’ve done. It will make a man out of you. God knows I tried.”
“You jackass,” she shouted. “The only smart thing you ever did was marry me, and the only dumb thing I ever did was say yes and as for a man . . .”
John sat in in his easy chair in front of the TV, sipping a beer. Two of his cronies sat nearby on an adjacent couch. “Did you see that?” he said, pounding his fist on the coffee table. An eight-by-ten portrait in a delicate ivory frame fell to the floor. “The dumb ox fumbled.” John leaned over, groping for the picture, both eyes still on the screen.
“I’ll get it,” Laura said, picking it up. She wiped the glass with the back of her sleeve and inspected the frame. Lawrence’s eyes stared back at her. She pressed her lip together, ignoring the pain in her chest. She placed the portrait on the mantle next to a purple heart mounted on velvet and encased in a gold frame.
In death, Lawrence would be the son he could never be in life, then his dad wouldn’t have to say his son was a pianist, instead during half time, he could say his son died in Vietnam. After a few more beers, he’d embellish it by saying he died fighting a platoon of gooks single-handed. If he had to die, she thought bitterly, why not die a hero?
John staggered to the kitchen, returning with three beers. He followed his wife’s gaze to Lawrence’s picture. “A toast,” he announced, distributing the beers to his two cronies. “To my son the hero just like his old man.” A tear ran down his cheek, but he didn’t wipe it away.
His wife whirled around and faced him, fixing him with an icy stare. When she spoke, her voice appeared calm and detached.
“If he were like you, he’d still be alive.”
“Oh, I suppose, he’s like you,” he said.
She sensed his anticipation of a rage equal to the one that was building within him. “You just don’t get it,” she said, returning to the rocking chair.
He stopped, flustered. The anger he barely was able to contain a minute ago ebbed, then subsided, replaced by confusion. He looked for his beer. Unable to find it, he searched room to room, returning empty handed.
Laura was still sitting in the rocking chair. “It’s on the floor next to your chair,” she said without looking at him. “And there’s another six-pack in the vegetable compartment.”
He lifted the beer to his mouth, gulping half of it down.
“He was like me, you know.” But now he sounded less confident. They were alone. His buddies had departed at the first sign of friction. John waited for her to speak, but she said nothing.
“You tried to make him into a sissy, but in the end, he showed you.”
He waited, almost too eagerly, for some sign that she had heard him, but she refused to carry on the charade any longer. She remained still. His words no longer had the power to move her.
John left the room and returned with his jacket and another beer. “I’m going down to Pete’s. It almost half time.” He pulled the tab from the beer; a geyser of foam erupted and ran down the sides and onto the floor before he could quench the flow with his mouth. He took three long gulps, then headed out. The door slammed followed by the roar of an engine. The silence that followed confirmed his departure.
Her eyes rested on the Elm in the front yard. She recalled Lawrence’s triumph when he finally made it to the top. She would miss that old tree. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed. If she didn’t hurry, she would miss her plane.
“I’ll get it,” Laura said, picking it up. She wiped the glass with the back of her sleeve and inspected the frame. Lawrence’s eyes stared back at her. She pressed her lip together, ignoring the pain in her chest. She placed the portrait on the mantle next to a purple heart mounted on velvet and encased in a gold frame.
In death, Lawrence would be the son he could never be in life, then his dad wouldn’t have to say his son was a pianist, instead during half time, he could say his son died in Vietnam. After a few more beers, he’d embellish it by saying he died fighting a platoon of gooks single-handed. If he had to die, she thought bitterly, why not die a hero?
John staggered to the kitchen, returning with three beers. He followed his wife’s gaze to Lawrence’s picture. “A toast,” he announced, distributing the beers to his two cronies. “To my son the hero just like his old man.” A tear ran down his cheek, but he didn’t wipe it away.
His wife whirled around and faced him, fixing him with an icy stare. When she spoke, her voice appeared calm and detached.
“If he were like you, he’d still be alive.”
“Oh, I suppose, he’s like you,” he said.
She sensed his anticipation of a rage equal to the one that was building within him. “You just don’t get it,” she said, returning to the rocking chair.
He stopped, flustered. The anger he barely was able to contain a minute ago ebbed, then subsided, replaced by confusion. He looked for his beer. Unable to find it, he searched room to room, returning empty handed.
Laura was still sitting in the rocking chair. “It’s on the floor next to your chair,” she said without looking at him. “And there’s another six-pack in the vegetable compartment.”
He lifted the beer to his mouth, gulping half of it down.
“He was like me, you know.” But now he sounded less confident. They were alone. His buddies had departed at the first sign of friction. John waited for her to speak, but she said nothing.
“You tried to make him into a sissy, but in the end, he showed you.”
He waited, almost too eagerly, for some sign that she had heard him, but she refused to carry on the charade any longer. She remained still. His words no longer had the power to move her.
John left the room and returned with his jacket and another beer. “I’m going down to Pete’s. It almost half time.” He pulled the tab from the beer; a geyser of foam erupted and ran down the sides and onto the floor before he could quench the flow with his mouth. He took three long gulps, then headed out. The door slammed followed by the roar of an engine. The silence that followed confirmed his departure.
Her eyes rested on the Elm in the front yard. She recalled Lawrence’s triumph when he finally made it to the top. She would miss that old tree. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed. If she didn’t hurry, she would miss her plane.
Jerilyn Ring was born and raised in San Francisco, later relocating to Orangevale, CA. She obtained a master's degree in nursing and enjoyed working in different specialties, discovering that hospice, mental health, and chemical dependency were the most rewarding. She has drawn from her experience in these specialties to develop characters with depth and to create thought provoking stories. While she has enjoyed a career in nursing, writing has always been her primary passion while reading is her past time.