The Last Casualty of the Great War

Mapleton Valley

July 23

1

‘What is it about this face of mine?’ John Alston thought to himself. He pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes, and cocked his head to the right as he regarded the man in front of him.
The best word to describe John Alston might well have been ‘nondescript,’ for there was no single distinguishing feature about him. Measuring in at six foot even, an inch shorter than not too long ago, wearing a size 10 D shoe, a size larger than he once wore, and tipping the scales at 220 pounds, he was ‘Joe Anybody.’ On the near side of 52 John considered himself the poster boy for physical failings of men of a certain age; thinning and receding hair that, in his case, used to be a brackish-blond, but was now chalky-grey, grey-blue eyes that each year needed stronger glasses and brighter bulbs, facial jowls that hung pendulously down, looking like they belonged on a basset hound, and a paunch encroaching ever more into the view of his own feet. On occasions when running into a long-lost high school chum surprised at how he had changed John would say with a chuckle, patting simultaneously his belly and the top of his head, “It’s just not fair; I’m thickening and thinning at the same time.”
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, then clearing his throat, the man asked in an embarrassed tone, “You’re not who I thought you were, are you?” Mentally John ticked off the number of times in the past three years alone someone had mistaken him for somebody else. And it had not just occurred in Mapleton Valley. Not long before, while on business for the day in Tulsa, his lunch server had asked, dropping off the check, “Are you hiring servers at your restaurant? I’d like to work there.”
He had given her his special look; the one for just such occasions that said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
That had caused her to blush.
“I guess you’re not who I thought you were, huh?” she commented.
He shook his head, responding, “No, I’m not even from here.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that you look like the general manager at the bar and grill down the street. I’d love to work there; the crowd is bigger and I hear the tips are better. Can I get you anything else?” she asked self-consciously, an awkward smile on her face.
Backing away, she turned and quickly disappeared.
Watching her hasty retreat from over the tops of his glasses John sensed she would not be back to make change for the twenty he had slipped into the check jacket. She had ended up with a nice tip.
John turned his attention back to the man in front of him. “No, I’m not who you think I am. I don’t have any kids at Driscoll High School. I live in a different district and mine have graduated to boot. Don’t feel bad, it happens more times than you can imagine.”
“It’s just that …” the man started to say.
John held up his hand. “Let me tell you about one time; really an unbelievable story. You won’t feel so self-conscious when I’m done. It’s been almost ten years, maybe longer; I was having lunch with a co-worker in the sandwich shop in the back of Gilded Steer Steakhouse. Do you know the place?”
“The one in the French Bottoms?” the man replied hesitantly. “I know of it, but I’ve never been there. I live and work out south and wouldn’t think of venturing down there unless I had to.”
John nodded, “Yeah, the one in the French Bottoms. That’s too bad about not going down there; it’s an interesting part of town, great old buildings and lots of town history. Since you don’t know the place, let me tell you the set-up. You have to go round back and enter through a rickety, old door; they keep the front door locked and the front part, the nice part, shut during lunch. Once inside, you’ll find a queue snaking its way up to a cafeteria-style line where you grab one of those molded fiberglass serving trays; you’ve seen them, I’m sure. They’re green or tan, or were at one time, and most of them are chipped or cracked. Stray fiberglass strands stick out in all directions, like eyebrows,” he said motioning towards his.
The man grinned in understanding.
“Anyway, you grab a tray and slide it along a stainless steel rail in front of the food-service area. You can’t see the food because the glass panes are fogged up; rivulets of condensed steam zigzag their way down the inside of the glass. The daily special is an open-face sandwich; either smoked turkey or roasted beef - fresh from the night before - both thinly sliced and piled thick on white bread. It’s served with a heaping helping of mashed potatoes and it’s all drowned in gravy, brown or white, your choice. After you’ve paid, you go find a seat at long Formica-topped tables, set end-to-end; the kind you’d see in school or church cafeterias. The table tops are chipped or have names, initials, and other stuff carved into them. Their edges are ragged so, if you’re wearing a tie, make sure you tuck it into your shirt or else. A lesson I’ve learned and re-learned several times. The chairs are folding-metal; some have cushions, most don’t. When it’s really crowded, which are most days, you’ve got to thread your way past those already sitting down; the ends having already been taken. You’ll probably end up in the middle next to or across from somebody you’ve probably never seen before and aren’t likely to see again, except there. If you’re outgoing, it’s a nice way to make a new acquaintance; if not, you’re only put out for about thirty minutes.”
John stopped; his eyes glazed over for a second, as if reflecting on something.
“Anyway this co-worker and I’d gotten there early enough to get an end. We’d just about finished when an older woman, the age my Mom would’ve been at the time, came up to our table. Without any warning whatsoever, she bent over from the waist and leaned in; she was no more than four or five inches away when she whispered just a bit too loud in a raspy voice, ‘I can’t believe you’ve come to town and haven’t come to see me.’
I looked first at her and then turned to the person sitting off to my left,” John recounted, physically acting out his narrative, “thinking she must be talking to him. When that person showed no sign of recognition, I slowly turned back to her, not really sure who it was meant for.
She was glaring at me.
‘Ma’am, are you talking to me?’ I asked innocently.
I asked because I didn’t know who she was; in fact, I’d never seen her before.
‘Who else would I be speaking to?’ she answered by asking.
You can imagine my surprise at that!” John bolted upright, acting out his astonishment.
“When I didn’t answer, she continued, her voice a bit more agitated, ‘Of course I’m talking to you.’
‘I don’t know who you are, so why would you be talking to me and why would I go see you?’ I asked matter-of-factly.
I turned again and looked at the person sitting next me. I think I shrugged my shoulders and scrunched up my face as if to say, ‘I have no idea what this is all about.’
‘Because I’m your mother!’ she answered loudly. ‘That’s why!’”
John sighed, shaking his head slightly. He chuckled to himself.
“My response had made her straighten up and glare at me before answering. By this time, most people around us had stopped eating, or talking, and had turned towards us. Every face was staring at me.
I replied, much more forcefully, ‘You’re not my mother.’
‘Not your mother? I know it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, but how can you say that to my face?’
Again she leaned forward towards the people sitting next to me, as if to look around me, and added, ‘How do you like that? I brought him into this world, devoted all my attention and energy to him, and gave him everything; he comes into town from Omaha and doesn’t bother to visit his mother. Where did I go wrong?’
‘Lady,’ I replied even more firmly, ‘I’m telling you, you’re not my mother. My mother is dead.’