John Scalzi - Old Mans War

Old Mans War

Old Mans War Book 1

John Scalzi

To Regan Avery, first reader extraordinaire,
And always to Kristine and Athena.

I did two things on my seventy-fifth birthday. I visited mywifes grave. Then I joined the army.

Visiting Kathys grave was the lessdramatic of the two. Shes buried in Harris Creek Cemetery, not more thana mile down the road from where I live and where we raised our family. Gettingher into the cemetery was more difficult than perhaps it should have been; neitherof us expected needing the burial, so neither of us made the arrangements.Its somewhat mortifying, to use a rather apt word, to have to argue witha cemetery manager about your wife not having made a reservation to be buried.Eventually my son, Charlie, who happens to be mayor, cracked a few heads andgot the plot. Being the father of the mayor has its advantages.

So, the grave. Simple and unremarkable,with one of those small markers instead of a big headstone. As a contrast,Kathy lies next to Sandra Cain, whose rather oversized headstone is polishedblack granite, with Sandys high school photo and some maudlin quote fromKeats about the death of youth and beauty sandblasted into the front.Thats Sandy all over. It would have amused Kathy to know Sandra wasparked next to her with her big dramatic headstone; all their lives Sandynurtured an entertainingly passive-aggressive competition with her. Kathy wouldcome to the local bake sale with a pie, Sandy would bring three and simmer, notso subtly, if Kathys pie sold first. Kathy would attempt to solve theproblem by preemptively buying one of Sandys pies. Its hard tosay whether this actually made things better or worse, from Sandys pointof view.

I suppose Sandys headstone could beconsidered the last word in the matter, a final show-up that could not berebutted, because, after all, Kathy was already dead. On the other hand, Idont actually recall anyone visiting Sandy. Three months after Sandypassed, Steve Cain sold the house and moved to Arizona with a smile as wide asInterstate 10 plastered on his skull. He sent me a postcard some time later; hewas shacking up with a woman down there who had been a porn star fifty yearsearlier. I felt unclean for a week after getting that bit of information.Sandys kids and grand-kids live one town over, but they might as well bein Arizona for as often as they visit. Sandys Keats quote probablyhadnt been read by anyone since the funeral but me, in passing, as Imove the few feet over to my wife.

Kathys marker has her name(Katherine Rebecca Perry), her dates, and the words: beloved wife and mother. Iread those words over and over every time I visit. I cant help it; theyare four words that so inadequately and so perfectly sum up a life. The phrasetells you nothing about her, about how she met each day or how she worked,about what her interests were or where she liked to travel. Youd neverknow what her favorite color was, or how she liked to wear her hair, or how shevoted, or what her sense of humor was. Youd know nothing about herexcept that she was loved. And she was. Shed think that was enough.

I hate visiting here. I hate that my wifeof forty-two years is dead, that one minute one Saturday morning she was in thekitchen, mixing a bowl of waffle batter and talking to me about the dustup atthe library board meeting the night before, and the next minute she was on thefloor, twitching as the stroke tore through her brain. I hate that her lastwords were Where the hell did I put the vanilla.

I hate that Ive become one of thoseold men who visits a cemetery to be with his dead wife. When I was (much)younger I used to ask Kathy what the point would be. A pile of rotting meat andbones that used to be a person isnt a person anymore; its just apile of rotting meat and bones. The person is goneoff to heaven or hellor wherever or nowhere. You might as well visit a side of beef. When you getolder you realize this is still the case. You just dont care. Itswhat you have.

For as much as I hate the cemetery,Ive been grateful its here, too. I miss my wife. Itseasier to miss her at a cemetery, where shes never been anything butdead, than to miss her in all the places where she was alive.

I didnt stay long; I never do. Justlong enough to feel the stab thats still fresh enough after most ofeight years, the one that also serves to remind me that Ive got otherthings to do than to stand around in a cemetery like an old, damned fool. OnceI felt it, I turned around and left and didnt bother looking around.This was the last time I would ever visit the cemetery or my wifesgrave, but I didnt want to expend too much effort in trying to rememberit. As I said, this is the place where shes never been anything but dead.Theres not much value in remembering that.

Although come to think of it, signing upfor the army wasnt all that dramatic either.

My town was too small for its ownrecruiting office. I had to drive into Greenville, the county seat, to sign up.The recruiting office was a small storefront in a nondescript strip mall; therewas a state liquor authority store on one side of it and a tattoo parlor on theother. Depending on what order you went into each, you could wake up the nextmorning in some serious trouble.

The inside of the office was even lessappealing, if thats possible. It consisted of a desk with a computer anda printer, a human behind that desk, two chairs in front of the desk and sixchairs lining a wall. A small table in front of those chairs held recruiting informationand some back issues of Time and Newsweek. Kathy and I hadbeen in here a decade earlier, of course; I suspect nothing had been moved,much less changed, and that included the magazines. The human appeared to benew. At least I dont remember the previous recruiter having that muchhair. Or breasts.

The recruiter was busy typing something onthe computer and didnt bother to look up as I came in. Be rightwith you, she muttered, by way of a more or less Pavlovian response tothe door opening.

Take your time, I said.I know the place is packed. This attempt at marginally sarcastichumor went ignored and unappreciated, which has been par for the course for thelast few years; good to see I had not lost my form. I sat down in front of thedesk and waited for the recruiter to finish whatever she was doing.

You coming or going? sheasked, still without actually looking up at me.

Pardon me? I said.

Coming or going, sherepeated. Coming in to do your Intent to Join sign-up, or going out tostart your term?

Ah. Going out, please.

This finally got her to look at me,squinting out through a rather severe pair of glasses. Youre JohnPerry, she said.

Thats me. How did youguess?

She looked back to her computer.Most people who want to enlist come in on their birthday, even thoughthey have thirty days afterward to formally enlist. We only have threebirthdays today. Mary Valory already called to say she wont be going.And you dont look like youd be Cynthia Smith.

Im gratified to hear that,I said.

And since youre not comingin for an initial sign-up, she continued, ignoring yet another stab athumor, it stands to reason youre John Perry.

I could just be a lonely old manwandering around looking for conversation, I said.

We dont get many of thosearound here, she said. They tend to be scared off by the kidsnext door with the demon tattoos. She finally pushed her keyboard awayand gave me her full attention. Now, then. Lets see some ID,please.

But you already know who Iam, I reminded her.

Lets be sure, shesaid. There was not even the barest hint of a smile when she said this. Dealingwith garrulous old farts every day had apparently taken its toll.

I handed over my drivers license,birth certificate and national identity card. She took them, reached into herdesk for a handpad, plugged it into the computer and slid it over to me. Iplaced my hand on it palm down and waited for the scan to finish. She took thepad and slid my ID card down the side to match the print information.Youre John Perry, she said, finally.