The Truth About Trooper; an intergenerational war sketch inspired by the 10th Mountain Division

The Lord held us by the hand. Major General George P. Hays

Trooper stood beside the kitchen table, comb in hand, attempting to flatten his cowlick, as Alma exited the kitchen. "Why bother? Your stocking hat will flatten it. Always does. Have a donut."

She set her favorite blue serving plate just so on the walnut table. Its oblong surface displayed three lines of donuts: plain, fried crisp; cinnamon and sugar; and Trooper's favorite, powdered sugar.

"Is this what you call softening the blow?" The old man slipped an arm around his wife's still slim waist, locking eyes of military blue with her chocolate browns. "Been trying to get this dang hair under control eighty five years. I'm dedicated to it."

Her lips twitched. He relaxed into her, jerked his head in the direction of the closed guestroom door. "The boy seemed mighty testy last night."

"I thought donuts might soften the transition," Alma admitted. "He's stubborn and strong willed like his mother," Alma kissed his cheek. "... who inherited that gene from you!"

Trooper's eyes flashed on the donuts and he released her. Helping himself, his brow went all wrinkly and his breathing slowed. He sunk into a benchback chair, hunched over the donut like a protective raccoon. Powdered sugar snowed the wood. Alma tossed him a napkin.

"What do you think she told the boy?" He centered the donut on the plate, licked his pointer finger and rolled it in the spilled white powder. Gyrating his eyes like Howdy Doodie, he licked it off. "Mmmm." She'd turned her back to him and did not see.

"The truth as she sees it." Alma's voice betrayed a slight tremor.

"Forty years later? Or as she saw it during that god awful botch of a Vietnam War?

"How would I know? Long distance conversations hardly cover the basics. We don't get into psychology." Alma tucked a loose white hair behind her hearing aid and swiped her dribbling eye. "I must be getting a cold; crazy weather we're having. It snows, then it thaws. Snows, then thaws. Where are the kleenex?"

"Disowned by our own daughter. Who would have thought." Trooper fiddled with his donut. Licked his finger again. "Well, she disowned me. Never told me she was marrying that flag burning radical. I guess she didn't want a war vet giving her away- might scare the coward off." He stuffed the donut in his mouth, whole.

Alma sniffed. The clock ticked seconds. Trooper chewed. Spewing crumbs, he mumbled. "Disappeared just like that."

"It was hardly just like that." Alma's chin rose. She stared out the window; Vail was waking to fresh powder, blue skies, Colorado sunshine. Had the boy brought goggles? There was an extra pair in the front closet. A person could burn his eyes skiing on those glistening slopes.

"It was just like that! One day she calls asking for money and the next, she is a married diplomat living in Italy."

"She sat in a Chicago jail for ten days trying to raise bail. She called begging for help and all you said was, 'Made your bed, now lie in it.'"

"She burned the American flag, Alma. MY American flag." Trooper's voice rose, shrill as a siren. "She had the gall to set it aflame!"

Alma's sigh was long. It expanded into the tiny condo like a cloud of humidity, dampening golden walls. "Lizzie was going through a phase."

"Gas showers in Dachau. Bombs on Pearl Harbor. And my daughter is excused bad behavior because of a phase! That flag stood for something! Those conscientious cowards she adored were fed, clothed and spoiled in a free world because Rooster bled to death in the Appenine Mountains. And did she ever once ask me why that flag sat on the mantle?"

"She interviewed you for a citizenship badge when she was a Girl Scout."

Trooper slammed the table and glared at her. "Not once. Never cared why I cherished that flag. Why it sat on the mantle year after year after year. She grabbed the blasted thing and burned it up. Just like that."

"She was a child. She don't know enough to ask." Alma found the box of kleenex. "Young people can't ask... Why, you couldn't ask an old Italian for my hand in marriage. Kids, they're so helplessly smart and independent; they know best."

"Alma..." He half stood, leaned on the table with both hands. "Your Papa, he could barely speak English."

She turned then, eyes filled with tears. "Don't make fun. He was a good man."

"He didn't own you. Why ask him? I asked you."

"Papa believed what he believed." She blew her nose. "You and Lizzie speak the same language and yet, you understand her less."

They stood, hunched, absorbing a familiar misery. Alma went to Trooper as he slid onto his seat; ran fingers through his cowlick.

"Forty years, and still she refuses my calls," Trooper murmured.

Alma's fingers froze."What calls,Trooper?"

He picked out a cinnamon sugar donut and pulled into two pieces. "Okay, I don't make any calls because I know she'd refuse them."

"Stubborn as a mule crossing a stream." Alma tweaked the cowlick.

"Ow!" Trooper cleared his throat. "Think the boy will sleep late?"