THE DAWN PATROL

CHAPTER 7 part 2

CHAPTER VII part 2

“The what?”

“They used to sit around and get pissed every year, before Grandpa died,” he says, looking through his pockets for his lighter. I toss him the matches. “Remember that? Uncle Jack would come down some time in November, around Remembrance Day — they didn’t do it when we lived in ‘Frisco — but they’d all get pissed.”

He strikes a match and I watch the shadows stretch across his face; somehow he reminds me of some seedy character out of a B-grade black and white from back in the fifties. It’s not that he looks old. He’s not. But he’s aged since the last time I saw him.

“He’d only stay three or four days, and then Dad would fly him back up North. Auntie Jen would bring Gramma and Grandpa over; Uncle Fred, Auntie Marg — Angie would always show up about an hour later every year. We’d eat lobster, and they’d get pissed. It was a tradition.”

“The Dawn Patrol? So how come Aunt Win and Uncle Ray never showed up? What was that about?”

“I don’t know all the details, but something happened during the war, that’s all I know. That, and they had a big fight the year Grandpa died. I don’t remember it too much, because they never talked about it in front of me. I asked Uncle Jack about it once. He said it all had to do with Uncle Ray, and not Auntie Win. He wouldn’t tell me any more than that. I didn’t push him. He’s not the kind of man you want to push into something he doesn’t want to talk about.”

“Think it’s a family trait?” I ask, and he exhales a plume of smoke into the air, grinning.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, taking another toke.

“I don’t know…I mean, it’s not that I thought we were going to bond, or anything like that, but I guess I came here thinking you wanted to talk,” I said. “And to be honest, I wanted to be the shoulder for you to cry on — because with Kathie, and this thing with Dad, I thought we could maybe make a fresh go of it and be the brothers we were when we were kids — the way we were meant to be.”

“We’re not kids anymore,” he says, letting out another cloud of smoke.

“I know. But we’re all we have.”

“We’re all we’ve ever had,” he points out, “but we were never as close as you think we were.”

“That’s not true,” I say, laughing. “We’ve always been a close family.”

“Sure, but so were the Mansons,” he says, dropping the end of the joint back into the container and sorting through it for another one. “Just one more,” he says.

“Whatever,” I say. “But I don’t think you can compare us to the Manson family. I can’t quite picture Mom as Squeaky, or Dad as Charlie.”

“Dad looks more like that Tex guy, the cowboy,” he says. “Was that his name?”

“I don’t know. Tex Cobb? No. He was an actor. I forget — if I ever knew it in the first place. I was probably nine or ten when it happened, so you’ll have to excuse my memory.”

“Look, Danny, the major difference between you and me is that you take life too seriously. Way too seriously. Dad used to do the same thing. Best thing he ever did was quit the airline, sell everything, and move back here. They should’ve never moved to Frisco in the first place. I wonder if he realized it was sort of symbolic as a new start in life.”

“I doubt it,” I laugh.

“Do you know he was fifty-two? Not many guys I know would quit their jobs at fifty-two and start a business.”

“Are you suggesting I quit my job? Because I already have my own business. Remember?”

“No,” he says with a smile and then takes a sip of his drink. The melting ice leaves a water stain on the wooden table that looks like a face. Maybe this Modern Art thing might actually work?

“I forgot what I was saying,” Russell grins, and I look up.

“That I’m too serious,” I say, smiling back at him.

“Exactly. I’m not saying that it’s a bad thing. It isn’t.,” he says. “It’s probably the root cause of everything between me and Kathie. I’m not like you. I’ve never taken anything seriously in my life. I’ve never really wanted to do anything but play music — and if I have to work odd jobs once in a while for you or Dad, so what? It all went into studio time, or buying equipment so I could make demo tapes to pitch to record companies.

“Kathie didn’t see it that way. The bitch lived with me for fifteen years before she got up the nerve to tell me she didn’t believe in me. She finally  said I didn’t have what it takes to make it in this business. When I asked her if she ever believed in me, she couldn’t answer. Can you imagine that?

“Mom followed Dad everywhere he went. They lived in Ottawa after the war, and moved out here in the fifties. That’s why they never had us right away: Dad was too busy flying around the world. Bet you didn’t know Mom was a stewardess then, did you? Didn’t think so," he says when he sees the surprise on my face.

“That’s what I wanted for me and Kath. I wanted her to travel on the road with me so I wouldn’t be lonely — or tempted; I wanted her to support me — not financially. I just wanted her there in the clubs, listening to us.”

“But she hated the club scene,” I smile.

“She hated everything I did,” he laughs. “That’s why I started screwing around.”

“And she never caught on?”

“Did I say that? I didn’t know she knew. I thought she’d catch me eventually of course, because of the guilt eating away at me.” He smiles, and I can see he still hasn’t forgiven himself for what he did to her. I tell myself not to say what I’m thinking, that secretly he wanted to get caught. It’s a subconscious thing I’ve heard.

“Shows you how dumb a guy can be,” he goes on. “I thought she just didn’t care anymore. That’s when things fell apart.”

“When did all this happen?”

“About a year or two ago.”

“What’d she do when she found out you were screwing around?”

“She didn’t talk to me for three weeks. After that, it was like it never happened — except, she wouldn’t let me touch her.”

“For two years?”

“About that.”

“I need another drink,” I say, and he follows me into the kitchen while I top off my glass. I ask him if he wants another one and he nods. “So when you say she’s screwing around on you, and that it might be someone in her pottery class, you don’t blame her, do you?”

“How can I?”

“I just want to be sure. And you never touched her for two years?”

“I never said that. I don’t know if I would’ve stayed if it was like that. No. We had sex, but it was on her terms; it was when she wanted it. I was okay with that. I mean, I think we stayed together as a couple because we didn’t want to start all over. I think we were both scared.”

“So now all you have is the music,” I say, looking around for his guitar and amp, but not seeing them anywhere.

“I quit,” he says.

“Wait. What?”

“I sold everything. I gave it up.”

“That was your life, man! And you walked away? Just like that?” For the first time in my life I can honestly say I was at a loss for words. The more he was telling me, the more I was thinking, This isn’t the Russell I know.

“I figure I’m not too old to change careers. I’m not fifty-two yet.”

“And do what? Super this building because you happen to be handy with a hammer?” I laugh.

“Thought maybe I’d fly. If that doesn’t work out, sure, I’ll Super this building,” he says, then picks up his drink and leans back against the counter.

He’s strangely silent for a moment, watching me make my drink. I know he wants to say something else — I can see it in his eyes — but I know better than to push him too soon.

“Dad wants me to take over the business and see what I can do with it,” he says.

“What?”

"I’ve been flying with him for the last eighteen months. Kathie didn’t know. I didn’t want you, or anyone else to know, either. Mom knew. It was our little secret, just the three of us. I was gonna fly up and get Uncle Jack for Christmas, as a surprise for Mom,” he smiles. “I can’t be owner-operator like Dad was — the business has outgrown that — but he’s still majority stockholder. He said he’d sell it all if I didn’t want to run it. I couldn’t let him do that. He’s worked so hard for it.

“He told me I had to learn to fly. He wanted me to have a steady job. I can even take some of those fancy actor friends of yours up on those fishing trips Dad’s always talking about.”

“You’re learning to fly?”

“I already know, man,” he laughs. “I said it’s been eighteen months.”

“Were you ever planning on telling me?”

“When Dad was ready.”

“Dad’s seventy-six,” I point out. “I thought he was retired?”

“He still owns the business.”

“So?”

“That’s why he can grab a plane anytime he wants and fly up to go fishing with Uncle Jack’s, or fly down to Palm Springs, or Vegas — ”

“Or teach you to fly?” I add. I was feeling a little petulant over the whole thing. Dad never did anything for us when we were growing up. He was never there. Now he teaches Russell to fly?

“You don’t smoke dope when you fly, do you?”

“Christ, what’re you, a moron?”

“I just wanted to make sure,” I say. “I just can’t believe that you never told me.”

“I guess it was all those rain checks," he smiles — and it all seems to fit into place.

“I honestly didn’t think it mattered to you. I know we haven’t been close these last couple of years. I was going through my divorce with Caroline; and you obviously had your problems with Kathie. I thought everything was fine. Life has a way of getting away from you I suppose — that’s what Dad always says, isn’t it? It just gets away from you?”

“Yeah, either that, or it gets in the way.”

Dad and Caroline used to have heart to hearts when she was pregnant with Ronnie — talks that he never seemed to have with me. I never noticed before because it didn’t matter. I had my work and didn’t have a lot of time.

“I think he may have told me that once or twice,” I lie.

“We’d have some pretty good talks up there, just me and him,” Russell says in a melancholy tone. I can see he’s feeling sad, and then I see his eyes moisten. “It’d be just the two of us up there, and he’d tell me all sorts of stories about the war, and after, when he and Mom first got together. He was pretty funny, and he’s certainly had a full life.”

“He’s not dead yet,” I point out.

I feel like I have to hit back at him, as if the revelation of his new life with Dad is intimidating to me because it’s the life I realize I never had with him. It’s that rivalry thing, I tell myself. It’s either that, or I’m trying to justifying everything I’m thinking. Maybe it’s something as basic as plain old jealously because Russell has something I never had? A relationship with Dad.

He always lived his life differently, with his music and the dope he never tried to hide. I’m sure there were a lot of different women too — a lot more than he’s let on to. Where I’ve clearly given myself over to the corporate side of things — wearing three piece Armani suits and silk ties — his is a life of freedom. He isn’t tied to a desk, or a ledger, while I feel like a servant and nothing can change the way it is, even if I want it to. I have to come to terms with myself before I can come to terms with Russell. And this certainly isn’t the time for that.