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A Boy at War
by Harry Mazer


'Look,' Bea said, holding up her stuffed animal. It was Saturday morning and she was sitting on Adam's bed. 'Bear says good morning to Adam.'

Bea was still in her nightgown. She slept in an alcove in a corner of their parents' room. Adam's room was off the kitchen. The model planes he'd built hung from the ceiling. They were never still.

Bea pushed her teddy bear in his face. 'Bear says time to kiss.' Adam put down the model plane he'd been maneuvering and gave Bear an extra-loud kiss. 'Stop it.' She pinched his nose. 'Do you want to play?'

'Surely, little girl.' He gave her his newest Japanese fighter plane. 'It's called a Zero, and this game is called dogfight.'

'I don't like dogs who fight.'

'It's not dogs fighting, it's planes fighting each other the way they do it in a war. This is the way we play. You're high, against the sun, so I can't see you till the last second, and you come out of the sun, shooting down at me.'

'You don't shoot your brother.'

'It's only a game.' He moved her arm so her plane was above his. 'Make believe you're going to shoot me.'

'I can do it,' she said, pushing his hand away. 'You don't have to show me. Bap! Bap! Bap!'

'Good! See how you're behind me, on my tail? It looks bad for me, but watch this.' He sent his navy Corsair into a rolling dive and came back up under the Zero. 'You see that? I just blew your plane into a thousand pieces.'

'You did not.' Bea held her plane up triumphantly. 'See, you missed me.'

'Okay, test time,' he said. 'What's the Punchbowl?'

'Where we live.'

'Do you know it's a dead-'

'Volcano! I know that already.'

'Do you know that Hawaii is built on all dead volcanoes that came out of the ocean?'

'You told me.' She yawned, patting her mouth. 'That is so boring.'

He picked up another model plane with square-tipped wings. 'What's this plane called?'

'I don't know. No fair.'

'Grumman Wildcat. It's the navy fighter plane. And this one here, next to it, is a P-40 Curtiss Warhawk. It's the army fighter, and this one's a German Messerschmitt Me 109.'

'Which plane is the best?'

'The American planes are always the best.'

'We always win,' Bea said.

'Hello...' Their mother looked in. 'Anybody home? It's time for breakfast.'

'We're playing dogfight,' Bea said. 'Bap, bap, bap! I won, Mommy.'

'Is it really time for breakfast, Mom?' Adam asked.

'It's almost time for lunch, kiddo. Let's clear the decks and get this bunk ready for inspection.'

When his father was home, their house was a ship. The floors were decks, beds were bunks, windows were portholes, the kitchen was the galley, and if Adam said 'bathroom,' his father said, 'I think you mean the head.'

'Your father sees this mess, you're in for a lecture,' his mother said.

'And maybe a sock on the behind,' Bea said. 'And you're going to cry and cry.'

'Let me remind you, little girl,' Adam said, 'boys don't cry.'

He lifted her off his bunk, then made it navy style, by the book, everything taut, hospital corners, no wrinkles. His father was still asleep, so his mother would do the inspection. It was their regular Saturday-morning ritual, whether his father was here or not.

When he was ready, he called her, then stood by the door. His mother did a tough inspection. There was always some place he'd forgotten to dust. It was the shelf in the closet this time. When his father did the inspection, he'd bounce a quarter on the bunk and if it didn't bounce high enough for him to catch, Adam would have to tear the bunk apart and make it over again.

After his mother had finished the inspection and he had wiped the shelf, she interrogated him exactly as his father did, even deepening her voice. 'Do you appreciate that you have a room of your own, sailor?'

'Yes, sir, I do!'

'I didn't have a room of my own when I was a boy, sailor.'

'No, sir, I know that.'

His mother stood at attention. She enjoyed this little game they played. 'All I ever got for Christmas was a pair of itchy red socks. No model airplanes, no Raleigh racers.'

'No, sir,' he said. 'I know that, sir!'

'Are you thankful for what you have?'

(Copyright by Harry Mazer)


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