Yuletide Reveal: Between You, Me, and the Stove (4/9)
oOo oOo 4: One Day is as a Thousand Years oOo oOo
Dear Sis (and the stove),
Some of my strangest memories of Korea are of those late night visits from someone so inebriated they thought it would be a good idea to tell me all about their debauchery. There is no deterring someone in that state, so it’s really best just to sit them down and hang on for the ride. The confessions can range from the embarrassing to the tragic to the hysterical. I once spent three hours trying to convince Sergeant Rizzo that it wasn’t a good idea to display his displeasure with his new duty assignment by performing it naked. Hand in hand with drunken confessions are my attempts to convince drunken people not to do drunken things.
Even if it’s just drunks I help, I do love to feel that I’ve made a difference, and last night was a perfect example of a moment in which, thanks to God and cheap booze, I think I might have done just that.
Have I told you about Corporal Klinger? He’s one of the more interesting characters in camp. He’s from what I must imagine is a rough part of Toledo, and acts like the sort of man who spent his young life taking care of himself. He’s also taken a violent dislike to this war and his drafting into it, which he expresses through women’s clothing. There is something rather surreal about seeing a swarthy man in a gingham dress, white pumps, and two days of stubble patrolling the camp with a rifle.
The corporal has spent the whole war trying unsuccessfully to get out of Korea through any means necessary. The women’s clothing is the most obvious con he’s got running, but if there’s been a scheme to get out of service, chances are good Klinger’s tried it.
He’s also one of the few regulars at my services, which I admit makes me offer him a certain preferential treatment. For the longest time I wasn’t really certain if he was Catholic or if he just liked wearing white gloves, but around here you take what faithful you can get.
He almost went AWOL today, Sis. He found out in a letter this morning that his wife had left him, and he was desperate to get back to Toledo to see her and attempt to salvage their marriage. I knew what he wanted to do, and while I admired his intentions I didn’t think the Army would be nearly as understanding. So I stepped in and tried to stop him. It even seemed to me that Klinger listened to my advice. I should have known better, shouldn’t I? Between my track record and his persistent attempts to leave, I really should have known that as soon as I wasn’t looking he’d steal a jeep and make for the nearest airport. I just sometimes want to believe that when someone allows me to think I helped them through a difficult moral conundrum, I actually did.
He ended up coming back, through no doing of mine. He’d come to the realization that the jail sentence he would incur through desertion wasn’t worth confronting his wife, and although I’d already told him that very thing, he did so altogether on his own. Potter took him to the officer’s club and got him properly drunk, and the rest of the senior staff followed along. I went, of course, but I couldn’t bring myself to drink much.
After a time, Klinger was half-passed out on the floor and the rest of them weren’t much better off. I decided it might be best to escort him back to his tent. Hawkeye and BJ could make their way back to the Swamp, and perhaps even help Charles along the way. Potter was holding his whiskey with enough grace that he could make it back to his tent, if not in a straight line, and Margaret seemed almost unaffected by the whole hand of fingers of gin she’d drunk.
BJ helped me pick Klinger up off the floor, and after narrowly avoiding total collapse when BJ overbalanced, I waved him off to the slightly less wobbly support of Hawkeye. Hawkeye tossed me a sloppy salute, and Klinger and I limped out of the club and into the dark. It took me several seconds to remember how to see outdoors, and even then I couldn’t do it very well. I hate to admit it, Kathy, but I think your older brother might have had one too many.
“That you, Father?” Klinger asked me.
“It’s me.”
“I still have your twenty dollars, you know. It’s in my pocket.” He slapped at the sides of his blue dress, then dug into the top. “Oh,” he said, “other pocket. Easier to run away in fatigues. MPs see a floral pattern coming a mile away.” He nodded, which had the side effect of running his head into my shoulder.
I patted his head, and tried to do so in a way that kept him from knocking it against my shoulder until it bruised. I said, “Give it to me tomorrow. When you have pants.”
“Not going to have pants,” Klinger said. “It’s going to be an evening gown day. The blue chiffon with a mink stole. Something classy.”
“I always thought that looked nice on you.”
“Really?”
“Would I lie?”
For a moment, I worried Klinger might cry. “I didn’t mean to lie to you, Father. I just needed to run so bad, and I knew I could-that you would-ah, why do you trust a word I say? You know what I’m like, so why’d you let me con you?”
That was the question, wasn’t it, Sis? Why did I believe I had helped him, when all the evidence of both our pasts said otherwise? “I choose to believe the best of people, Corporal,” I said, although I didn’t know if I was referring to him or me. In my preoccupation, I nearly ran into a light pole, and then stood blinking at it for a few seconds before moving on. “To err is human, after all.”
“So divine forgiveness is your schtick, huh?”
“Divine forgiveness is God’s schtick. I just try for the human sort.”
“I really am sorry, you know.”
“I know.” And I did. And it wasn’t helping all that much.
Klinger tugged my sleeve and we stopped. “Pretty sure this is my stop,” he said. “Want to come in? I could grab that twenty for you.” He sounded so hopeful, Kathy. I was still angry with him-or myself, I couldn’t decide which-but I couldn’t turn him down. Hope is too precious to squander.
“Of course. That’s very kind of you.”
“It’s not, but thanks.”
I followed him in, melancholy but obliging. Klinger’s cot was exactly like mine, but for a pink dressing gown thrown across it and a fur coat at the foot to provide a bit more warmth. Klinger bent over to rummage through a pile of dirty dresses and housecoats. “Hey, Father, I know I didn’t do so hot on the last confession, but does that keep me out of the running for making another?”
“When it comes to confession, we priests value quality over quantity.” And if we can’t get either, we’ll settle for a not-so-white lie, I almost added, but knew that would make both of us feel guilty. If he was feeling genuine contrition, it was my obligation to hear him out. More than that, Klinger is a good man. He just occasionally forgets that a failing he shares with the entire human race. “Of course I’ll hear your confession,” I said.
“You’re a swell guy, Father. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” He straightened up with a crumpled twenty-dollar bill in his hand. “A twenty for the orphans’ fund, and a confession straight from me.”
I took it from him, and the world swayed a bit. It was true I hadn’t had much to drink compared to the others, but I’d had far less to eat, and the alcohol on top of the fatigue hit me hard enough I had to sit down. The cot was right there, and the pink robe was surprisingly soft. Klinger laid a steadying hand on my shoulder and I looked up at him. “Klinger, I have to warn you that I’m not at my best right now. I’m not certain I can bring my confessional A-game with this blood-alcohol level.”
“It’s all right. My confession skills aren’t up to much, either.”
“Go on, then.”
“Right, yeah.” Now that we’d come down to it, Klinger didn’t seem so eager to confess. He picked at the fabric of his dress, then pulled his hat off and put it on a wig head. “How’s this thing start again? Oh, right. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Or is it ‘because’ I have sinned?”
That proved he was either drunker than I thought he was, or not nearly as Catholic as I thought he could be. “‘For’ is most commonly used, although since it’s derived from the Latin anyway, I don’t suppose … but that’s not important. Tell me what’s wrong.” I winced. “Other than the obvious, of course. Unless your confession is the obvious, in which case I think-I think you really should just tell me what’s troubling you before I keep talking.”
He started to pace, his speech slurred and his steps not quite certain. I worried he’d fall straight into his clothing rack and accidentally get impaled on a hanger. “I’ve done some things a guy shouldn’t be proud of today, sure. And I’ve done some things I’m not proud of, and I am sorry. You gotta believe me on that one.”
“Max, if that’s your confession, you really didn’t have to-”
“It’s not.” Well, that shut me up. “I just wanted to say it before we got any further.”
“Oh … um … whatever it is you have to say, I’m listening,” I said.
“Okay.” He rocked on the balls of his feet. He wouldn’t look at me, or at anything for too long. Finally, when I was beginning to think he might be having some sort of fit, he said, “When I heard Laverne wanted a divorce, I was really broken up about it. I couldn’t think of a life without her, but that’s started to settle down. Don’t get me wrong, I’m gonna miss her like crazy, but I’m gonna miss something else more.”
Well, that answered the question as to whether Klinger was Catholic or not. My immediate reaction, Kathy, was of course to argue that he couldn’t possibly allow a divorce, but life isn’t that simple, is it? Going back and attempting a reconciliation was out of the question, what with the war and all, but my training insisted I say something.
“Oh, Father, you’ve got that ‘doom’ look on your face,” Klinger said. “Oh! It’s the divorce thing, isn’t it? Man, I’m such an idiot! I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. What am I thinking?”
“You’re not Catholic, are you?” I asked.
He shrugged, a sheepish smile on his face. “You caught me. But I paid four bucks for those gloves. When else can I wear them and not look tacky?”
I pressed a hand to my face and tried to work through what to do. Klinger wasn’t Catholic, which meant that divorce was probably not the ethical minefield for him it was for me. Of course I understand why people go through with divorces. Some marriages, as perfect as they ought to be, not only fall short, but never took off to begin with. If Mom could have-but that’s not the point. Marriage is not only a legal contract. It’s sacred.
But people are people, and some people get divorces. And sometimes-I’m crossing myself writing this, don’t worry-it’s maybe for the best.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said, which I suppose was something.
“If it helps, my confession isn’t about divorce.”
“That actually does help, yes.”
“Except for the first part, which is about divorce.”
“Oh.” I braced myself and said, “Go on.”
“Me and Laverne, we’d been inseparable even before we got married. I got this feeling once I was drafted: the sort of feeling a guy only gets once or twice in his life. And this feeling told me that she might have been my wife, but she was also the girl I was supposed to come home to. And then she left me. She and the home, they’re both gone.”
“I’m-”
“I don’t got anything to go back for,” he said. “How long’s it going to take me before I stop wanting to escape? That’s why I had to run. If I didn’t, I was worried I’d stop wanting to.”
“I hardly think that’s likely.”
“I’m not so sure. I got a family here, now. I got friends and a job. Can I say any of those things about Toledo? People are dying around us every day, and all I can think right now is how good I got it here. I think I might be cracking up for real! I’ve even considered putting on a real uniform and reenlisting!”
“Now, my son,” I said. The alcohol made it surprisingly easy to feel confident. I can see why so many people rely on it. “You’ve been dealt a terrible blow, but this too you can overcome. Until that happens, though, you must stick to your guns, or in this case your hose.”
“We’re in Korea, Father. Maybe I just gotta accept it.”
“All right,” I said, scrambling for a way to deter him before he did himself any further damage today. “Maybe you should volunteer for battalion aid, just to accept the full effect.”
“What do you think I am, nuts? Go up to the front and get shelled every day? See all those kids blown to bits? You’ve lost your holy marbles, Father!” Then he smiled, and it seemed genuine. “Oh, you’re good. Okay, I still hate it here, but what am I supposed to do when I get back there? I tell you, losing the reason to run away sure makes the finishing line look less appealing.”
“You’re a very skilled man. Surely there’s something you could do when you get back.”
“Hey, I got an idea!” Klinger turned around too quickly and fell to his knees in front of me. He seemed surprised by the change in elevation, swayed, and ended up resting both his arms on my legs and looking up at me. “I could join the priesthood! Guaranteed job when I get back home, and you get your room and board covered, right?”
“Well, yes.”
“It’s perfect, don’t you see? Father Klinger: it’s got a good ring to it.”
I blinked down at him, scarcely believing what I was hearing. I know that non-Catholics don’t understand a lot of things we take for granted, but to so casually propose a sacred vocation! To offer it up as a job of convenience! I had to fight back the immediate response, which would have been loud and angry, and in my state probably not coherent. He didn’t know. He didn’t understand what it took to be a priest.
And then one of those thoughts that come perhaps once a year popped into my head. I will never have Hawkeye’s deft comedic touch, but every now and again I rise to the occasion. “Do you know, Max, I believe you could be a decent priest.” I frowned as I pretended to think about it. “Of course, it’s something of a long process. We’ll have to start with conversion, of course. You attend Mass regularly, but intensive education about the Church and our perspectives on Christian teachings would be very important for your conversion. I’d be willing to sponsor you during catechism, though it’ll be difficult as there aren’t many Catholics around to initiate you into any sort of Church setting. Still, I’m certain your friends here would help you by going to Mass every Sunday and attending regular classes. Maybe you should talk to them about conversion too. I’m sure Major Winchester would be very receptive. Then, of course there’s the Period of Purification during Lent, which is even more stringent for those converting. But I don’t want to bog you down with details. I can do that during our weekly meetings. I’m sure the Command Chaplain will send me literature if I request it, and the entire process of conversion should only take about six months if you’re baptized in another Christian faith. If not, I’m afraid we’re looking at two years. And then we can start looking at ways to prepare you for Seminary, and a life of poverty, humility, and celibacy. It should be no problem for an aspiring priest.”
Klinger had grown paler and paler as I spoke, and by the end he was shifting away and looking longingly at the tent door. “Maybe I should reconsider, huh?” he asked.
“Maybe you should,” I said. I think I managed to keep most of the acid out of my tone.
“Sorry if I put my foot in my mouth, Father. I do that sometimes. Don’t know if you’ve noticed.”
He did seem genuinely contrite. “It’s all right. I just … I take my vocation very seriously,” I said. “I know it doesn’t make sense to most of you, but this is my life.”
“Father, you gotta believe me, I really didn’t mean any offense.”
“I know you didn’t. You never do. It’s one of your better qualities: deliberate cruelty isn’t in you.”
“Wow,” he said. “You got the guilt, the forgiveness and then a compliment? You got the one-two punch followed by a knockout, there.” Before I could protest, he said, “And I deserved one right in the puss for being such a pain to everyone today. Especially you. It came across really badly, but everything you did for me? The talk by the jeeps, and letting me off the hook for lying to you, and not flattening me for everything I’ve said? I’m not just sorry for being such a jerk, I’m grateful you keep trying.”
“I didn’t even think you were listening to me at the jeep,” I said.
“I did. The fact that I still ran away … look, you made me stop and think about it. I don’t think anyone else could have gotten that much out of me, the way I was feeling.”
“If you were so set on running, despite knowing the consequences, why did you come back?”
“Like I said at the Officer’s Club, Father: I may not have a family in Toledo no more, but I sure got one here.” He smiled suddenly, a strange, sort of nervous smile I’d only seen on him once or twice in our acquaintance. “You want to know something funny?” he asked. “Something I’ve never told anyone else here?”
“All right,” I said.
“I was a small-time operator in Toledo. Sure, I rubbed elbows with the mob and I knew half a dozen crooked politicians, but just me? All my scams were small potatoes. It took me getting drafted to make me a real con artist.”
“I’m not sure I should congratulate you about that.”
“Why not? I’m only using my schemes for the good of this outfit or for getting out of this outfit. Even you’ve got to admit that sometimes a little grift gets a lot done.”
I thought of the children at Sister Theresa’s orphanage. They have so little, Kathy, and keeping them fed and clothed is more than Sister Theresa can do on her own. I’ve taken, with the help of the doctors and nurses here, to using our extra money and supplies to get food and basic necessities via the local Black Market. It may seem wrong to purchase questionable goods from shady characters, but that sort of consideration doesn’t seem to hold much water when you’re faced with hungry, cold children. We do what we have to, Sis.
“I do understand, my son,” I said. “And for what it’s worth, I think it’s going to take a lot more than this to quash your desire for freedom.”
“Father, you’re okay. And if the world is spinning as much for you as it is for me, I won’t even ask you to get up. You’re welcome to my cot as a gesture of thanks.”
I thought I was all right to get back to my tent, but I couldn’t resist asking, “And where would you sleep?”
“Ah, I’ve got enough dresses on my mending pile; I could make a nest.”
“Thank you, my son. But I think the world is holding still enough that I believe I can get back to my tent.”
I got up slowly, and the world only spun a little. Once I was certain I could walk without making a complete fool of myself I started to leave. I was nearly out the door when I heard Klinger say behind me, “Hey, Father. I meant what I said. I’m grateful.”
I had an idea. I turned back to him. “Tell you what, Corporal. Sister Theresa’s could really use some new Bibles. Last winter, half of them got burned for fuel, half of the rest were used for writing practice, and at least one of the others was eaten by a goat. You can show your thanks by using your abilities for the good of others.”
“You give me a number, and I’ll get you your Bibles. With any luck, I’ll have them by next Sunday. Oh, speaking of, I can’t wait to show off the new dress I got from the Tokyo PX. Dusky rose, conservative cut. Goes great with my gloves.”
“I look forward to seeing it,” I said.
I made my way back to my own tent, and this morning I woke to find that I not only avoided a hangover, but that Corporal Klinger was starting to seem himself again. I don’t know if he’ll get those Bibles or not, but even if he doesn’t, it’s encouraging to see a man remember that he was given talents for a reason. I believe we all have a purpose in this life, Kathy, and if Corporal Klinger’s is to be a cross-dressing, Lebanese Robin Hood conning the rich to give to the poor, I’ll be the first to accept a level of ethical grayscale and rejoice for the children who will have food and clothing thanks to Klinger’s efforts.
Love,
Francis
Chapter 5: There is No Flaw in You