By James Gonda.
On Saturday afternoon Elaine and I were playing chess when Mom returned from running errands. We were at the kitchen table. “Mungo!” Mom cried. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
I stay focused on the board. “They . . . sent me home. Business was slow.”
“Since when?”
“Since today, I guess.”
“Well, then, Elaine, I’ll need help with supper.”
“OK. I’m almost done beating Mungo.”
“You’re not beating me.”
“It’s a cinch I’m going to win. There, got your knight, thank you very much!” She snatched up the little horse.
“Remember, Elaine, it’s only a game,” I said.
“That’s what people say when they’re losing. You wouldn’t be so nice IF you were winning.”
“That’s not true! I’m a good sport.”
“You like to gloat.”
“You’re confusing me with Johnny.”
“Johnny? He never gave me the time of day. Your move.”
I pondered the board . . . .
“Say Ma, what’s for dinner?” Elaine asked.
I moved my rook.
“Stuffed cabbage,” Mom said. “I’ll need you to brown the meat. Don’t forget to save the grease. There’s a new can under the sink.”
“Your move,” I told Elaine.
“Where’d you move?”
“Sorry kiddo. You weren’t paying attention so tough luck.”
“That’s OK. “I’ll figure it out.” She studied the board and then moved her knight. “Gotcha!” She snatched up my last pawn.
“Remember, it’s only a game,” I said again.
“Say Ma, did you know Mungo got cut from the football team?”
“What was that?” She turned around from arranging some items in the cupboard.
“I said Mungo didn’t make the football team.”
“He stopped playing to work on school.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“That’s what happened,” I said.
“He got cut because he wasn’t fast enough. But it’s no big deal, right Mungo? After all, it’s just a game.”
“That’s right. It’s just a game and school is more important.”
“Ha! If school is so important, then why drop out to join the Marines? Lemme guess: because the Marines are even more important.”
“No. The war is more important.”
She considered my reasoning for a short time. Then: “Your move, champ.”
I glanced at the board and moved my queen.
“Are you sure?” she said.
“Yeah, I’m sure. Hold on!”
“Hold on what? You took your hand off. The move is finished.”
“Since when?”
“Since forever.”
“That wasn’t official.”
“You’re changing the rules?”
“We never agreed to that when we started. Besides, I was distracted. Ma was making a lot of noise with the pots and pans. I should be allowed to go again.”
Elaine sighed. “I guess you can take it back, but just this once. But from now on, once your hand is off the piece the move is over. But dear brother, howdaya know I’m not tricking you? Maybe that was a smart move and I wanted you to think it wasn’t.”
“Here’s my NEW move.” I slid the queen to a different square.
“Are you sure?” she said.
I showed my hands.
“Interesting.” She nodded. “So, getting back to you and the Marines, I’ve been pondering why you really joined.”
“Your move,” I said.
“One of the reasons might be Barry Bernarski. I’ve seen him push you around.”
“He’s a giant. He belongs in a circus.”
“What’s this about getting pushed around?” Mom said, chiming in. “Who got pushed around?”
“Mungo did, by Barry Bernarski” Elaine said.
“Did you tell the principal?” Mom asked me.
“I can handle Barry,” I said.
“You should’ve gone to someone in charge,” Mom said.
“So maybe you joined to get away from big bad Barry,” Elaine said.
“Is this right?” Mom asked me. “This Barry-person made you join?”
“He had nothing to do with anything.”
Mom seemed satisfied with my answer, and we went back to our game.
“I think it’s time to use my bishop,” Elaine said. She relocated the piece.
“Are you sure?” I questioned.
“Oh, I’m sure. I won’t whine about being distracted or fib about being pushed around.”
“For the last time, Barry Bernarski had nothing to do with anything!” I must have sounded like Pop in one of his rants because they gave me a scared look.
“OK, OK, we believe you,” Elaine said. “Calm yourself. It’s your move.”
I studied the board.
“I have another possible explanation,” Elaine said.
“Elaine, I’m thinking,” I said, sternly.
Then she looked to Mom. “Say Ma, are we having any side dishes?”
“Applesauce.”
“I love homemade applesauce.” She licked her lips. “What about you, Mungo?”
I kept my eyes on the board.
“Mungo?”
“You see, little sister, I have a grand strategy.” I slid another piece across the board. Then I sprang up and gripped the back of my thigh.
“WHAT are you doing?” Elaine said.
“. . . cramp,” I groaned.
“From playing chess?”
“We’ve been sitting . . . a long time,” I muttered.
“Walk it off,” Mom said.
Elaine continued as if nothing was happening. “Well, if you’re not running from something, then maybe you’re running towards something. The question is, towards what?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying the whole time.” I limped back and forth. “I’ll give you a hint, I’m running towards the war, to help fight it.”
“But why? What’s the attraction? You must think it’s a big chess game, with generals moving men here and there like they’re knights and rooks.”
“That’s very clever. A big chess game with real pieces. I like it.”
“It’s not a game! It’s real. Games are fun. Do you think our brothers are having fun?”
“They’re having a little fun,” I had to say. “Remember that picture of Matt in Hawaii, wearing a grass skirt?”
“He was drunk.”
“He was having fun,” I had to say. “You don’t know from nothing, Elaine, but I’ll give you credit for trying.” My cramp subsided and I sat back down.
“Still my turn?” Elaine asked.
“MOOOVE,” I pleaded.
She moved her knight.
“See, at first, I thought maybe you joined to keep up with the others,” Elaine said. “Maybe you felt left out or left behind. Then I figured no, you were never that close. So why should you care?”
“That’s your move? You didn’t take my rook?”
“That’s a trap. You would’ve taken my queen. Say Ma, is Pop coming home for dinner?”
“Your father does not miss meals.”
“I thought he was ushering a funeral.”
“The Stefaneks, mother and son. Did you know the boy?”
“Sometimes funerals go pretty long. And sometimes he stops to wet his whistle. No, I didn’t know the boy. I know his brother, Tomas. He’s very nice, kinda quiet. We have homeroom together.” She looked to me. “How long are you going to ponder your next move? I hafta help Ma.”
“Please stop with your questions. I’m strategizing.” I moved my rook.
“I was hoping you’d do that! Now watch this. She moved her queen. “Check! You’re boxed in pretty good.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find a way out. There’s always a way out.”
I studied the board. “You don’t know . . . from nothing,” I mumbled. I rubbed my chin.
“I know more than you think.”
I moved my king to a safe square. “Out of check.”
“Are you two almost finished?” Mom asked. “I need the table.”
“Very soon,” Elaine said.
“I’ll be right back,” Mom said. She took off her apron and draped it over a chair.
“Your move,” I told Elaine.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I think you joined for the uniform. A uniform would give you the chance to be someone else. How many times have you fetched Pop from the saloon? And how many times have you placed yourself between him and Ma during one of his episodes? We both know he might come in sloshed tonight, in one of his moods.”
I crossed arms across over my chest and kept to the board. “Your move,” I said again.
Before Elaine could move a piece, the telephone rang. She rushed to answer it.
“Hello?” she said. “Oh, hi, Sergeant Sotelo.” They exchanged a few pleasantries before she turned to me. “It’s for you.”
The Sergeant did most of the talking. It turned out to be short conversation. “Thank you for calling,” I said. Then I hung up. I turned to Elaine. “There’s an urgent need for troops. They moved up my enlistment. I don’t ship out in two weeks. I ship out in two days.”
“Two days? Wait ‘til Ma finds out.”
“Wait ‘til Ma finds out what?” Mom said, reappearing. “I heard the telephone. Was it your father?”
“Wrong number,” I said.
“I heard talking.”
“We spoke for a short time.”
“Why speak with someone you don’t know?”
“He thought I was someone else. I tried to explain . . . .”
“That’s the problem today. People don’t listen. We need to start supper. Put your game away.”
Elaine and I sprang into action. I placed the chess pieces into a small box while Elaine began to prepare some sort of ground meat. Then I looked to Mom. “Did you need me for anything else?” I only wanted to make myself scarce.
“Watch for your father. He’ll be home soon.”
“TELL HER,” Elaine said. She did not look away from the frying pan.
I glared at her before turning to Mom. “There’s been a change in plans. I was going to tell you later, but so much for that. The thing is, see, I don’t ship out in two weeks. I ship out in two days.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’m leaving on Monday.”
“Monday?” Another joke, yes?”
“No, it’s on the level. That was Sergeant Sotelo on the line.”
“He’s coming over?”
“No, nothing like that. He called to say there’s an urgent need for troops.”
“That’s baloney!”
“That’s what he said.”
She stared at me. I could see the wheels turning in her head.
Pop strutted in wearing his Sunday best. In tow was an attractive woman I did not know. “Hello, everyone!” he called like Santa arriving in the children’s ward. “This is Dorothy Popka. She a V.I.P.”
Dorothy had fiery red hair, pale skin, and a petite, angular figure. Everything about her was polished and professional.
“Hello, everyone,” she said. “I’m actually a reporter with the Plain Dealer.”
“This is my wife, Mrs. Banas, and our daughter, Elaine, and our youngest son, Mungo,” Pop said. “He’s the one I told you about.” He beamed with pride.
“It’s a pleasure to meet all of you,” Dorothy said.
“We met at the funeral,” Pop said. Then he turned to Dorothy. “Can you stay for dinner?”
“No, I’m sorry, I cannot.” She shook her head. “Thank you for asking. A gentleman-friend is expecting me.”
“You’re not married?” Mom asked, surprised. “A woman your age should settle down. We’ve been married thirty-five years.” She motioned to Pop.
“Mama, Dorothy has a question,” he said.
“Mrs. Banas, I understand you have five boys in the service, and a sixth leaving very soon.” She gave me a quick glance.
“On Monday,” Elaine said.
“Why, that’s sooner than we thought,” Dorothy said.
“I thought in two weeks,” Pop said.
“They called and said Monday,” Elaine said.
“Well, howdaya like that? I’ll get him to the station before work.”
“Mrs. Banas,” Dorothy said, “I write human interest stories and—”
“Hey, Dorothy,” Pop said, “how ‘bout a glass of root beer? It’s got a real kick!”
“No, thank you, Mr. Banas. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. As I was saying, Mrs. Banas, I’d be honored to tell your story.”
She looked concerned, as if told she had an incurable disease. “My story? I have a story?”
“Absolutely!” Dorothy said, smiling.
Silence. . . .
“You want maybe some recipes?” Mom said, diffidently.
“I want to tell our readers what it’s like to have six sons in the service. You must be very proud, and very, very strong.”
“No one wants to hear about that!” She waved her hand dismissively.
“I’d like to ask you some questions when Mungo here heads out. And I’d like to get a picture of you two. I guess the picture should come first and then we can chat.”
“Hey Dorothy, you wanna take your coat off?” Pop said. “You must be burning up.”
“I’m OK. Thank you for asking. So, Mrs. Banas, is your interest piqued? You’d get your picture in the paper.”
“I don’t like you knowing so much about us. Who told you these things?”
“Why, your husband did. At the funeral.”
“He took you aside and shared family secrets?”
“Not at all!” she chuckled. “We met in the back of the church and started chatting. One thing led to another, and he mentioned your boys.”
“And you found that interesting?”
“You bet! How do you keep track of all your sons, stationed everywhere?”
“I’m in charge of all correspondence,” Elaine said with an air of authority. “I write letters and read and catalog all their letters. Although, they don’t write often enough.”
“You must be a big help around here, Elaine,” Dorothy said. “So, Mrs. Banas, may I tell your story?”
“No interest.” She shook her head.
“Mama, what are you saying?” Pop said. “I brought this woman here and you’re saying no?”
“I want no part of this newspaper business! It’s vulgar.” Mom looked to Dorothy. “Thank you for stopping over. Nice meeting you. We need to finish supper.”
“So, you’ll think about it?” Dorothy hoped.
“I’ve already said no. Good-bye now.”
“Please forgive me, Mrs. Banas, but I don’t understand your no.”
“What’s to understand? No means no.”
“You might not know it, but you’re a true inspiration. It’s one thing to have one son, or two, or maybe three in the service, but six! People will ask, how does she do it? Trust me on this.”
“There are people like me everywhere. Write about one of them. Did you speak with little Tomas Stefanek at the funeral?”
“The orphan boy? I did, yes, briefly. I offered my condolences. He didn’t have much to say.”
“Did you take his picture?”
“Well, under the circumstances . . . .”
“Then why were you there? You go to funerals for entertainment?”
“I’m a reporter. I’m always looking for something to report.”
“And you found my husband. You should report him, right to jail!”
“Mrs. Banas, six sons in the service is unusual and makes you special. You’ll need a bigger window for all your stars! Which reminds me, I’ve already thought of a title: ‘Mother of Blue Stars’!”
“I like it,” I said.
“Me too,” Elaine said.
“‘Mother of Blue Stars,” Dorothy repeated with a sweep of her arm.
“I think you’re all cuckoo!” Mom said.
“Why is this crazy?” Elaine asked. “I think it’s exciting.”
“Someday when you have children you’ll understand. I will NOT have my picture in the paper at the expense of my boys.”
“But it’s patriotic,” Dorothy said.
“We are loyal Americans,” Mom said. “We hang the flag. We buy war bonds. We pray for our troops.”
“I wasn’t questioning—”
I don’t mean to be rude, but if you’re not staying, then you’d better get going. You don’t want to keep your man-friend waiting.”
“Here’s what I propose,” Dorothy said. “I’ll come back on Monday. If you tell me to leave, I’ll go. If you invite me to stay, then we’ll take some pictures and I’ll ask a few questions. It’ll be your choice.”
“I won’t answer the door. And neither will my husband. Good-bye now!”
To be continued . . . .