Fifteen Years After My Father Changed the Locks, He Seated Me at Table Twenty-Two

“Thank you for your time, Howard,” I said.

“Have a good afternoon, General,” he said.

I put the telephone back on its cradle and watched the duty sergeant record the outgoing call in the station logbook.

At five o’clock in the afternoon I went to my base quarters.

The narrow hallway was dark and quiet, smelling faintly of dry starch and fresh pine cleaner.

In the corner of my bedroom stood my dark green steel deployment trunk.

I knelt beside it on the floorboards, unlatched the heavy brass clasps, and lifted the lid to reach the single blue canvas suitcase I had packed fifteen years ago when Gerald locked me out.