quintswar

"Mail!", Elena called out to her husband, who had been setting out in the back yard of thier cozy little cottage in Bodega Bay, California, underneath a large, sweeping willow tree.
   "Anything for me?", he called back over his shoulder, only slightly interested, as he tipped his beer can for one last swallow. Michael Quint detested the taste of warm beer, so he had a habit of guzzling.
   As Elena walked up behind him, her eyes on the letters in her hand, she paused, standing only inches from his back, a look of bewilderment on her face.
   "There's a letter from Mike...I wonder what he wants? He never usually writes...he always calls...", she said.
   "The boy probably wants money for something dumb and doesnt want to have to explain it", Quint chuckled.
   "Youre so skeptical...!", she reprimanded him, hiding a smile.
   The phone rang.
    "Thats probably him, now", Quint smirked, reaching over into the ice chest on the lawn beside him for another beer.
   But Elena seemed more interested in the mail. Quint turned to look at her as if she had suddenly gone deaf, "You going to answer that?".
   "Hm?..Oh, yeah...", she said, as if he had just woke her from a deep sleep.
   "What are you lookin' at, anyway?!", he asked.
   "Its a letter from Liz", Elena smiled happily, "Shes got a boyfriend and you'll never guess who it is!".
    "I dont give a rats ass!", Quint grunted, walking past her to get the phone, himself. He didnt like the thought of any boy making eyes at his daughter, much less groping her in the name of romance.
   Elena laughed at the over-protective nature of the father of her children. It was just so...cute!

   Elena started across the lawn to set down into the chair next to her husbands to continue reading Liz's letter, but she was startled out of her nonchalant mood by a loud cry from inside the house.
   "ELENA!!!!", Quint screamed, "Come inside!...Hurry it up, now!".
   She dropped the mail and ran.

   "What is it?!", she panted, out of breath, "Whats wr....", she stopped, her eyes catching on what her husband was pointing at.
   She gasped.
   "Oh, my...God...".
   Quint was pointing at the television set. The news was on. New York was in shambles...it had been bombed by mid-eastern terrorists.
   "I cant believe this!", she said, looking up at Quint, "Micheal...? Is this really happening?!".
   He nodded in silent confirmation, a look of both anger and fear on his face.
   "I've got to make some phone calls...", he said, in that low-growl tone of voice Elena only associated with her husband when he was ready to blow up, emotionally.
   "Who are you going to call?", she asked, but he waved her off, already having dialed the first number and was waiting for a response. Elena just stood there, wide eyed, staring at the horror and chaos on the television screen, yet listening to hear who Quint was calling, at the same time.
   "Brody!!", Quint yelled into the phone, "Thank Christ you're alright!!", he sighed heavily, setting down on the sofa, next to the phone, "What the hell is going on out there?!".
   Elena came over and sat next to Quint.

"All hell's broke loose, Quint", Martin told him, "Some damned psychos hijacked a couple of planes and flew them into the World Trade Center...both towers!...Damn!!", Martin hissed.
    "But you and your missus were'nt anywhere near that place, so thats good...", Quint said, more to himself than to his best friend, letting out a very long sigh of relief.
   "Thank Christ is right, Quint", Martin said, sounding frightened, "...Ellen was supposed to go with a friend of hers to Manhattan, have lunch, do some shopping, then go see some play...lucky for me, her friend got sick and couldnt go...".
   "Thats too damned close!", Quint agreed, "Jesus H. christ!...Whats this all about, anyway?!".
   "Seems some basketcase in Afghanistan doesnt like us very much and had to figure out a way to tell us about it", Martin grunted.
   "That Saddam Hussein character again?", Quint asked.
   "No...", Martin sighed, "...Some new-age Hitler type named 'osamama ben labbin', or something like that...".
   Cold chills went through Quints very bones. Flashbacks of his USS Indianapolis days shot through his mind like the smell of death.
   "Hey, Quint", Martin asked after a few moments of silence, "...You still with me?".
   "Yeah....I'm here....", Quint spoke softly, humbled.
   "Listen", Martin said, "Ellen wants to call around and make sure everyones okay...but I'm glad you called".
   "No problem, Brody...stay safe", Quint said, then hung up the phone after Martin told him he'd call back later.
   Elena looked at her husband. He looked ghastly. His pallor was grey and she worried he may be ready for a heart attack. After all, he was getting on up in years...
   "Is Martin and his family alright, honey?", she asked softly, rubbing his back gently.
   But all Quint could do at this moment was to nod his head. All he could seem to think about was war. He didnt like war. He wanted nothing to do with war. He'd seen and went through enough.
   Suddenly, his eyes grew wide and he looked up, across the room and cursed.
   "Whats wrong?", Elena asked, alarmed.
   He turned his face to her, a look of extreme fear in his cool blue eyes and spoke one word, "Mike...!".
   "What about him??", Elena asked. He couldnt mean that thier son was hurt or anything like that because he was in Los Angeles, as was thier daughter.
   "If we're going to war, Mikes the right age to be drafted!!", he got up and began nervously pacing the floor, "And what if he enlists?!...I dont WANT him going to war, Elena!!...Not MY son!!".
    "Martin said we're going to war?!", she gasped.
   "Elena, this was a terrorist attack...alot like Pearl Harbor...we went to war over that one...its called retaliation!".
   "But there certainly wont be a draft", she said, trying to convince herself she was right, "...And I dont think Mike will enlist on his own...".
   "Oh?...You dont think so?!", Quint said a little too loud, as he ran upstairs, leaving Elena to wonder what he was doing until he came back down and threw a handful of brochures from the Navy and the Marines onto the coffee table in front of her.
   "What are these?", she asked.
   "This is what our son has been thinking about, 'Lena...", he told her quietly.
   "But he hasnt been home in 6 months!", she argued, "Surely he's changed his mind by now...he was probably only curious, to begin with! He's not serious!", as she rifled through them, feeling uneasy. And Quint's pacing the floors wasn't helping her to feel more comfortable.
   Then sheer terror struck her. She suddenly thought of Mikes letter...
   "Wh-who was calling earlier?", she asked, trying to keep her mind off of what might be in that letter.
   "I didnt get in the house in time...", Quint mumbled, his thoughts elsewhere, "...they hung up before I could answer...".
   "Michael...", she couldnt manage to keep her thoughts off of Mikes letter, "...Do you suppose...this...", she waved her hand across the military pamphlets in front of her, "...could be why Mike was writing?".
   "Dont be daft, woman!!", Quint snapped, turning on her, "if he were going into the service, he would have done so by now and all of this wouldnt be the reason, since it only happened today...". He walked over to window and stared out. Dear God...what if his only son actually did join the service? They'd certainly send him out, now...
   He walked over to her and put out his hand, "Give me the letter...".
   "but what if...", Elena protested.
   "Give me the bloody letter!", he shouted.
   She handed it to him.
   He ripped open the envelope, impatiently, retrieving its contents, then letting the envelope itslef drop to the floor as he began to read.
   Suddenly, he began to laugh.
   "Whats so funny?!", elena, who had been almost at the brink of tears with an overworked case of nerves.
   He held the letter out for her to take, "Our son has asked his girl to marry him and is going to bring her here for Thanksgiving to meet us...", he chuckled, relief washing over him as he walked back over to the window. The scenery was much brighter, now, it seemed.

"Michael...", her voice came from behind him, softly.
   "What?", he asked, grinning, turning to look at her, his smile fading when he noticed her expression.
   She looked up at him with one of the saddest expression he had ever seen on her face, "...You didnt read the rest of the letter...".
   "Why?...Whats there?", he asked, walking slowly toward her, to set down beside her.
   "It says..", her lip quivered and tears welled up in her eyes, "...it says that he joined the Navy the day before this letter was written...thats why he wants us to get acquainted with...whats her name...", she looked through the pages, "...Stacie...".
   Quint leaned back, worried, letting a long, deep sigh escape from him.
   "What are we gonna do, 'Lena?", he sighed, shutting his eyes tight, his head resting on the back of the sofa.
   "I dont know", Elena answered weakly, feeling both emotionally drained, yet frightened to the point of panic, at the same time.
   "Well...", Quint said, leaning forward, a renewed sense of emotional strength creeping back into him, "Like father, like son!", a smile on his face, trying to bring himself up out his funk, trying to cheer her up, as well. He reached over to rub her shoulder for comfort, but she jerked away as if his hand were a venomous snake.
   "How can you be so damned cavalier about this?!", she cried, "Damnit, Michael!...Theyre talking about retaliation!...There's going to be a WAR!".
   "You dont know that!", he yelled back, wishing almost immediately he hadn't. She was afraid and he should be calming her down, not stirring her up.
   "Listen, lady", he said, in a low, more calm voice, getting close to her, putting his arm protectively around her, "...Our son is only doing what he feels he needs to do. All of these pamphlets talk about all of the great benefits of joining the service and this can help his future a great deal. He didnt know there would be a war coming, or the possibility of a war...he was simply doing what he felt he had to do...". He leaned in to her, kissing her lightly on the earlobe.
   But she was having none of this.
   "Oh, you know this country, Michael Jacob!", she hissed angrily, "...Everyone is always looking to fight someone or something, all the time!!...My God, Michael!...Look at what this country did to you?!...Have you forgotten?!".
   He gave her one of the iciest glares so far on record. Hard, cold and mean. To anyone recieving it, they would have shrivelled in thier clothing. But, from Quint, it was the look of a man taking a shot to the heart. No. He could never forget his experience during the war. The USS Indianapolis was not something one could ever forget.
   And he thought she had knew that. He thought she knew how painful it was for him to bring up, as well. Apparently, not.
   "Nothing like that is ever going to happen to my son...", he growled at her, staring her directly in her eyes.
   "You dont know that!", she argued, getting up and walking toward the diningroom.
   Quint didnt follow her. He was tired of arguing, himself. besides...he had other, more important issues, on his mind.
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   That night, in bed, Quint tossed and turned, visions of the attack on his warship haunting every area of his thoughts.
   He dreamed of his son and of the USS Indianapolis, of his friend Herbie Robinson - and of his screams...
   Until he awoke, screaming and covered in persperation, as he had done so many times in the almost 50 years since it had happened.
   Elena had heard him, but she didnt stir. She was sued to those nightmares, now.
   Besides...she was having enough trouble, sleeping, herself.
___________________________________________________________________

The next morning, Quint made a phone call.
___________________________________________________________________

"Admiral Arthur J. Wiliams, please", Quint spoke into the phone with a stern and somewhat over-bearing tone, "Captain Michael J. Quint, retired, calling".
   Elena came down the stairs at this point in her bathrobe, on her way to the kitchen to make breakfast. She paused briefly in front of Quint to whisper, "Who are you talking to this early in the morning?", but Quint shook his head and held up his finger to shush her and she simply shrugged and went on her way.
   Before she rounded the corner into the dinigroom, she heard him yell into the phone, "I dont give a DAMNED if he's in a meeting, squirt!...You just take your lowly petty officer third class ASS in there and you tell him to get off the head and get to this phone!...Its an emergency!!".
   Quint sat down to wait. He knew Art Williams well. Art would take his damned sweet time, no matter if it were the President of the United States on the line!

Art Williams had been a Seaman recruit, just like him, when they had went down together on the USS Indianapolis half a century earlier. Quint had re-enlisted a year later, despite his better judgement, only for lack of money. He just couldnt seem to find a way to make it as a civilian. After he went back, he stayed long enough to get the rankl of Captain, then decided that he just could no longer take the military politics and got the hell out. Besides, retirement pay at an 0-6 level would suit him just fine.
   Art, on the other hand, never left the Navy. He made it up in rank as far as he could go during peacetime years, as an Admiral. Art loved the Navy. Couldnt ever seem to get enough of it.
   But during thier times together in the service, they had raised some hell. They became known as the "Gruesome Twosome" in the officers club and in the clubs surrounding the base, as well. And during thir time as "best buddies", they learned alot of things about each other. Quint saw Art do some things that could have got him canned, for sure...could have ruined his family life, his military life and even sent him to prison.
   Therefore, Quint knew Art would take his call.
______________________________________________________________________

   "Admiral Arthur J. Williams, speaking".
   "Cut the crap, swabby!", Quint answered, "I gotta request I want met".
   "Shit!", Art hissed, "Quint, you sonofabitch! I didnt think it was really you!...I thought you'd be taking up residence in the old seamans home by now, for sure, the way YOU drink and carry on!...I was sure some jealous women or husband would have shot your worthless ass by now!!...So?...What is it?...Im busy!".
   "My kid enlisted a couple of days ago...".
   "Craps ass!!", Art shot back, "You mean I've got your offspring to deal with now?!".
   "Thats why I'm calling, you old brown-noser!", Quint snapped back, a grin spreading across his face (oh, how he missed this kind of talk!), "...I want you to reject his application."
   "You know I cant do that!", Art said, "Not if he's already been inducted...and if he went in a few days ago, he's already in!".
   "Hey!", Quint yelled back, "You're big-chief-muckety-muck around the shipyards these days!...You have the power to make the President bow to you if you saw the need!...So dont hand me that shit...reject my kid!!".
   There was a hint of pleading in Quints tone that Art heard loud and clear.
   "Quint", Arts voice softer and more patient now, "Whats really going on? Why do you want your boy rejected?...You know the Navy will be good for him...".
   Quint thought a moment. He didnt want to appear 'weak' in front of a Navy buddy. That would be a fate worse than death.
   So he covered his own fear and panic in a typical male fashion...
   He blamed it on Elena.
   "My missus is scared out of her ruffled bloomers, Art...", Quint grimaced, rubbing his eyes, feeling uncomfortable with having to hide his fears, uncomfortable that he had fears at all. Well, at least he wasn't lying. Elena was scared.
   "Yeah, but...", Art stated, "...yoou've been thinking about the Inday, havent you?".
   Bingo. He hit the nail on the head. There was no use denying it, now.
   "Yeah", Quint finally sighed, "Listen", he changed the subject, "You gonna keep my kid out of this war or not?".
   "I'll see what I can do, Quint", Art sighed, "...but I still think this is all a huge mistake".
   "I'll live with it", Quint replied before hanging up the phone.
   "Oh, I know I sisnt just hear what I thought I just heard...!", elena looked at Quint from the doorway of the diningroom, one hand on the doorjamb above her head, the other on her hip, in a defensive stance.
   Quint simply gave her a quick, sideways icey glare.
   "Michael...", she said, walking into the livingroom to stand across the coffee table from him, "You just called a friend of yours, an Admiral and had the sudacity to ask him to reject our son from the Navy?!...How could you do something like that?!".
   "For the safety of my son, thats how!", he snapped at her as he stood up to walk toward the front door, stopping to look back at her with a serious glare in his eyes, "...And you'll keep quiet about it, too!".
   She followed him.
   "Michael...", her voice high and pleading, "I know youre only looking out for our son", she was now standing next to him, stroking his arm reassuringly as he stood in front of the door with his hand on the knob, ready to go out, "...but you know this isnt right, dont you?".
   "How many bloody times am I going to have to hear that today?!", he barked, "I did what I had to do, woman...like it or not!".
   He went out the door and down the walkway, telling her that he was going to the Tides bar&grill for a beer and that he's be home "later".
   "But theyre not even open yet...", she called after him, though knowing that he couldnt hear her. He was in the truck with the door closed.
   She turned and went back inside the house to finish her breakfast...alone.

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   Thanksgiving eve found Quint sound asleep in his easy chair, a football game blaring from the console tv in front of him.

Elena, who had just put her second homemade pumpkin pie in the oven, peeked in on him. She marvelled about how he could look both so cute, yet so sexy at the same time...that cute little bald spot he had once had had spread and he only had some thin patches of grey curls on top, now, but was still fairly thick aorund the sides and back of his head. Hos long, muscular, powerful legs had thinned down, due to age and his cheeks were sagging a bit. Nonetheless, even in his old, tattered grey bathrobe and flip-flops propped up on the ottoman in front of him, his 5 o'clock shadow and his knobby knees and his buzz-saw snore, she could feel a strong, old passion creeping up inside of her. It made her feel all warm and cozy, inside.
   As she was enjoying the sight of her slumbering husband from the doorway to the diningroom, behind him, her smile suddenly faded into an expression of curiosity when her eyes happened to catch on a glimpse of headlights going slowly up the road in front of their house.
   She quietly tip-toed past Quint to peer through the drapes.
   At forst, she didnt see any car and she felt that was strange, since the headlights had been going north on LightHouse Cove road - the road dead-ended mere feet from their house on the north side. They were the last house on the north end of the road. The road wrapped around their house in a sort of circle that guests would use as a parking area when they had parties, but, sometimes, if someone unfamiliar with the area, looking for an address, would hit the deadend and turn around there and go back, so she waited to see the car...only it wasnt coming back around. She waited and waited, but still no car.
   Beginning to feel a little nervous, being as far out as they were, she felt the sudden urge to wake up Quint.
   "Honey...", she whispered as she shook his arm, gently, "honey...wake up!".
   "Wha-what?", Quint came up out of his slumber, startled, his blue eyes hazy from sleep.
   "I think somebody's outside...", she whispered excitedly, though trying not to be.
   "Whats the car look like?", he grumbled, fluffing his pillow, trying to go back to sleep.
   "There is no car!", she replied, her eyes wide as she knelt beside her husbands chair, her hand still on his arm, ready to shake vigorously should he attempt to fall back asleep, "...Theres no one out there!...I saw them drive up around the corner, but they didnt turn around and come back".
   "Oh, girl...!", he dismissed her, "its probably just a couple of teenagers looking for a place to park to do a little foolin' around...", he grinned sleepily, leaning over the arm of the chair to get nose to nose with her, his blue eyes now open wide and sparkling from the glow of a naughty idea, "...speakin' of foolin' around...", he grinned.
   He was too sleepy to get up and look out the window for possible burglars, but was never too sleepy to 'fool around'!
   "Oh, Michael!", she grinned sheepishly, "...Be seriou--...".
   She was cut off by the sound of a pounding on their front door.
   Quint and Elena locked eyes in suprise.
   "Who the hell could that be at this time of the night?!", Quint remarked, as he stood up, closing his robe and tightening the sash as he walked toward the door, Elena following closely behind him.
   "Dad!", Mikey said, smiling widely up at his suprised father.
   "Why, you little squirt!", Quint chuckled happily, hugging his son, "Why the hell didnt you call?..You scared your mother coming here at this hour unannounced!".
   "Sorry, dad", Mikey grinned, walking in to hug his mother.
   "Dont you pay no attention to him, Mike", Elena said, "He was starting to get just as worried!".
   "Like hell!", Quint grinned, sheepishly, keeping his male machismo in tact.
   Mike stepped away from his mother to usher in a pretty, young girl of about eighteen with long, reddish-brown hair and blue eyes, wearing a long, floral dress and a down jacket.
   "This is Sophie", Mike introduced his fiancee to his parents, then them to her, "Sophie, this is my mom and dad".
   "Nice to meet you", Sophie said, shyly, "Mikes told me alot about you...".
   "Lies...all lies!", Quint laughed, jokingly, as Elena nudged him.
   "You'd do good to throw out that shy stuff around here, Sophie", Elena smiled, taking Sophies arm to gently lead her inside, "When youre around Michael Quint, the only thing you have time for is hanging on because hes fast and full of suprises!".
   "Yeah", Mike agreed, "Just learn how to fight back and you'll do alright!", he rolled his eyes, grinning, as Quint playfully swatted him in the back of the head as they laughed, Mike following Sophie into the livingroom.
   "Michael", Elena gave Quint an authoritive look, "We have a guest...". She looked him up and down, then shifted her eyes toward the stairs before turning them back to him.
   "Yes, dear...", he grinned, knowing what she meant...go put on some clothes before he showed the world what he was made of - literally. He was completely nude under his bathrobe.

****************************************************************************

As Quint got dressed into the appropriate attire for entertaining company, Elena, Mike and Sophie sat downstairs and began the getting acquainted process. When Quint finally joined in the conversation, they caught him up to speed and the foursome chatted until quite late.
   Finally, Quint unable to keep his eyes open any further, nudged Elena and told her to fix up Mikes room for the kids.
   "Dad, no...", Mike protested, "Er, Sophie and me got a room at the Ships Bell Inn, downtown...".
   Quint just gave him a passing glance and acted as if he hadnt even heard him. He repeated his request to Elena before turning his gaze back to his son, "You need to stay here, boy...I need to talk to you about something important. Besides...you're having dinner here tomorrow, plus it will give us all time to get aquainted with our future daughter-in-law", he put on one of his best smiles and nodded at Sophie.
   "Michael", Elena spoke soflty, politely, "...they may want to stay at the Inn...".
   "So?!...They can stay there next time they come for a visit!", his voice raised, commanding attention - and getting it, too...you could hear a pin drop, "tomorrow is a holiday and he needs to spend some time with his parents!".
   When Michael Jacob Quint presented this particular tone of voice, especially accompanied with that stern, icey glare, both his wife and son knew the argument was over. That loud, booming voice and that cold, hard stare even made Sophie nervous.
   "I'll help you make up the room, if thats okay", Sophie asked Elena, looking for an excuse to exit the room, her eyes as big as saucers and irretrieveable from their fixture upon the senior Quint until she was completely out of the room.
   "Dad", Mike sighed, "Did you have to scare Sophie like that?...She barely knows you."
   "Like what?!", Quint asked, suprised. He honestly never fully understood the true impact of his powerful personality on others, yet he was pleased that it helped him get results easily when it came to getting what he wanted.
   "Anyway...", Mike changed the subject, "what is it you need to talk to me about thats so important?".
   "It'll keep", Quint was still grinning with the idea that he could actually make someone nervous without even trying. Looking at Mike, he marvelled at the sight of his handsome, grownup son, standing tall and strong, his intense blue eyes and his head full of irish-red curls, straight from the head of his sainted great-grandmother, revelling in fatherly pride, "So, boy...how have you been?...Life been treatin' you well?".
   Grinning, Mikey replied, "It will as soon as the induction process is over with and I can finally get aboard my assigned ship!". Quint hadn't seen a glee in this boys eyes since his twelvth Christmas, when he finally got the BB gun he'd been wanting since he was ten - Elena said he was too young at ten, but Quint wouldnt make his son wait any longer than 12.
   But Mikes statement sent an icey chill of fear and regret straight through Quints heart. He would rather have cut off his arms than to have caused his precious son sadness or frustration or anger, but he did, as a parent, what he felt he had to do. Not to be mean or selfish, but out of love and concern. It scared him to think his son may not understand this.
   "You cant wait to set sail, can you, boy?", Quint grinned sadly, experiencing both pride and deja vu, those feelings he'd had when he was young suddenly washing through him, that same exciting anticipation.
   "Naw", Mike gushed, grinning so hard that his cheeks were dimpling, "...the first thing I'm gonna do is syand fore mast and feel the sheer power beneath my feet as that huge ship sliced through those waves...".
   Severe deja vu.
   Quint and his son talked Navy a good two hours before they realized how late it had got to be. Sophie, who had joined back into the conversation about fifteen minutes into the beginning of it, along with Elena, was ow so sleepy that she could barely keep her eyes open. She ended up going to bed alone.
   Elena fought sleep longer, waiting and hoping that Quint would get around to telling their son about what he had done concerning his Navy career a few weeks ago, but it finally got to the point where she couldnt stay awake one minute longer, herself and finally excused herself with a kiss on her husbands cheek and a hug for her son before going up to her own bed.
   After about another hour or so of "talking Navy", Mikey was ready for sleep, himself.
   "Well, dad", Mike said with a tired sigh, "I think I'm going to bunk in for the night, myself...", as he stood slowly to stretch his tired body, yawning.
   "Not so fast, boy...", Quint said, standing up, too, then walking past his son into the diningroom, heading for the kitchen, "Come to the kitchen for a minute, if you please", he said, glancing bask at his son, briefly, as he continued on.
   Mikey sighed, raising his eyebrows and lowering his eyes in a submissive gesture, "Sure, dad...", Mike sighed once more, knowing that he didnt really have a choice, anyway. It was always much easier to go with his father than against him.
   Quint took a bottle of apricot brandy from the storage cupboard over the stove. The docotr had told him to lay off of the alcohol, but he kept a bottle around, just in case he felt the need for it - like now. He was about to tell his son something that may prove to explosive to their father-son relationship and he was going to need that extra little 'boost' the booze would provide for him before he felt he could proceed.
   Grinning, Quint handed his son a glass from the cabinet. "Here, boy...", he smirked, "have a shot with your old man!", as he tipped the lip of the brandy bottle over the edge of the glass in Mikeys hand.
   "You know", Mikey grinned sheepishly, "If mom found out, she'd skin us alive".
   Still grinning, Quint raised his eyebrows in agreement, still pouring brandy into the glass, "Well, son...what she dont know wont hurt us!", he laughed.
   They shared that laugh before downing their first drinks and puring their second ones. Quint was determined to find out of his son could take the news of his fathers meddling in his personal affairs better while under the influence.
   When Mikey held his hand out to his dad for his third refill, he was already weaving back and forth. Laughing hysterically, Quint ribbed him for not being able to handle his liquor. Mikey argued, "I can handle myself alright, old man...just poor the booze, okay?".
   Quint laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks as he filled Mikes glass a third time. Only he missed the glass and poured brandy all over the kitchen floor, instead. All that time he had remained sober before tonight had drastically reduced his tolerance for alcohol.
   As they laughed their fool, drunken heads off, they kept shushing each other, definately not wanting to wake up the women and ge them down there to see what was going on and probably breaking up the little party they were having. Only the more they shushed each other, the more they laughed.
   They ended up setting on the kitchen floor, drinking straight from the bottle, having abandoned those bothersome glasses that they could no longer see to fill!
   "Boy...", Quint finally blurted out, staring up at the ceiling, refusing to take another drink. He didnt need it, now, "I got something to tell you that you just arent going to like...but I feel you've got to know...". He turned his gaze to his son. With a twinkle in his eyes and a mischevious grin forming on his lips, trying to make it appear that he was nothing more than a concerned father who really meant no harm, as well as trying desperately to avoid showing his nervous fear, "...just promise your old man you wont be too pissed off, ok?".
   "What is it, dad?", Mikey asked, so drunk that he looked like he was either going to pass out or puke at any given moment. Quint couldnt help giggling at the sight. After all, he'd been to that point more times in his own life than he could count. It was a sort of like a bonding going on here between father and son, getting blasted together, after all.
   Quint just blurt it all out at once, "I called an Admiral friend of mine a few weeks ago and asked him to refuse your induction papers". Quint never took his eyes off of his son, his face cold and emotionless, waiting for the anger.
   "...What...?!", Mikey asked, trying to clear his head to process what he'd just heard.
   Quint repeated himself, unhesitatingly.
   "I cant believe you'd actually do something like that to me", Mikey said, a tone of saddened disbelief in his voice, breaking into the old heart that Quint actually thought he'd learned how to protect so well over the years. "...I thought you wanted me to go into the Navy!". His eyes pleaded for an answer from his father, the man he thought he could trust with his life, but now felt he had betrayed that trust.
   Quints heart was really crumbling.
   His tone low and calm, "...Its just this war, son...youre mother and I were...afraid for you...".
   Hearing his father admit to fear was something Mike never thought he would ever hear. He could never before think of his father as being afraid of anything and it unnerved Mikey to the core. He was speechless. Oh, yes...he felt the anger, but the realization that his big, strong, fearless daddy could feel fear totally poured over and washed out any fear that could come up inside of him.
   Quint, who would rather have died than to have his son know the horrors of war, never told him about what he had been through during hiw own war. He was afraid of Mikey having those nightmares that had plagued him throughout his adult life. He was afraid he would grow to feel resentment toward the military for what happened to his dad and never sign up for the service. After all, Quint was exceptionally proud that his son decided to follow in his footsteps. He had never felt such pride in his life.
   But this new war had changed everything. It was different for his son to serve in peacetime. He didnt have anything to worry about. but to serve during war...Quint didnt think he could handle it, not after all that he'd been through...
   He decided now was the time to tell his son about his experiences with the USS Indianapolis and world war two.
   "Son...", he started slowly, "I just want you to set there, quietly and listen until I'm through. I want you to know why I'm afraid for you, so I'm going to tell you about when I was in the war. And then, if, when I'm through, you still want to blast me for meddling in your business, then I'll set quietly and take it like a man, alright?".
   Mikey, his eyes wide, simply nodded.

Quint was tired, drunk and on the verge of emotional collapse, but he had to get this out so his son would have an idea of what was going on in his mind when he did what he did. He worried about lowering himself in his sons eyes, but it was simply a risk he felt that he had to take.
   Quint began from the time when he was a mere lad of 14, when the war actually began and he had felt his first patriotic stirrings and his desire to join the service as his father and grandfather before him had. He told Mikey about how he would lay out on his grandparents back lawn and dream of the day when he could be aboard one of those big gunnery ships or an aircraft carrier. He didnt leave not one thing out of his recounting of his personal history, making sure htat no stone was left unturned. He went on and on, all the way through the rescue, covering the extremely bad physical condition of the skin after it had been in salt water and left to starve and dehydrate for 5 days and nights, recieivng the purple heart in the hospital, wrapped in bandages from head to toe and even through the trial, when he spent day after long, emotinal, frustrating, angry day in the U.S. courthouse, showing support for his captain who had been outrageously put on trial for the ship being torpedoed by that Japanese submarine and explaining his thoughts on why it happened.
   Mikey sat there like a stone statue, hanging on every single syllable, eyes as wide as saucers.
   When Quint was finished, dawn was breaking over the horizon and peering through the kitchen window.
   He waited a bit for Mike to say something, but, when he didnt, he completely understood. That was alot for someone who had no idea of the truth to take in all at once. So, to give him time for his mind to process all of that, he got up and walked over to the stove and reached behind it, bringing out a fresh, unopened bottle of apricot brandy. Before he could take a drink, however, he had to stop and rub his tired old legs...they had almost given out on him from setting for so long on the floor, from lack of circulation and they were aching him fiercely, now.
   But just as he lifted that bottle ot his lips for a sip, Elena walked into the kitchen.
   Quint froze in his tracks, staring at her, waiting for her wrath at catching him drinking after the doctor had told him not to.
   "What the hell is going on in here?!", she demanded to know, her hands on her hips, a warm pink color rising on her cheeks, ready to rip into the both of them.
   "Nothing, mom...", Mikey sort of whimpered.
   "Michael Jacob Quint!!", she shouted, "You put that bottle down!!".
   "Leave me be, woman", he growled, knwoing full well that growl was going to have not much of an effect on her this morning, but letting her know that she would still get an argument if she wanted it, regardless. (But he did cap the bottle and put it up into the storage cabinet, anyway). He walked past her into the diningroom, toward the livingroom, where he sat on the sofa, a look of tired despair on his face.
   Elena then turned her attentions to her son, setting on the floor in front of the cabinets, looking just about as sick as he did when he was four and had the mumps.
   "Michael Martin Quint!", she started, "What in the world has possessed you this morning, setting here, getting drunk with your father when you know the doctor said he shouldnt drink and, in my opinion, neither should you!...And, furthermore...".
   Thats as far as her reprimanding could go before Mike cut her off, "Not now, mom!", he said, jumping up, shoving her aside as he ran to the sink to vomit.
   No mother can yell at their child when they are sick.
   She dampened a dish towel and began dabbing at his forehead with it as she rubbed his back for comfort in a gentle, motherly way.
   She walked her son to the bottom of the stairs and sent him up to shower and get into bed nd get some rest, telling him that she would call him when dinner was ready, later today.
   Then it was Quints turn.
   After making sure her son made it safely upstairs, she walked into the livingroom and stood in front of her husband, her hands on her hips, patting her foot and glaring at him with intensity.
   "How dare you get our son drunk on Thanksgiving!!".
   Slowly, quietly, without even looking at her, he said, "...I told him about my calling Art Williams...and I told him about the Indy when he asked why I did it".
   The angry expression on her face softened. She dropped her hands from her hips and gently sat down on the sofa next to her obviously, understandably upset husband.
   "Well", she sighed, patting Quints hand gently, "...he doesnt look like he took it too well...".
   "He took the news of my meddling better than he took the story of the Indy", he sighed, looking at her with such sad, tired eyes. Those eyes tugged at her heart. All these years she's watched him struggle through the trauma that the USS Indianapolis had caused...the vicious nightmares, the pain, the regret, the frsutration, anger and tears. She knew that finally sharing that trauma with his son was not something he relished doing.
   She stood up, without a word and went into the kitchen. Quint thought she was simply escaping this intense situation. He wished he could escape it, himself. So he was suprised when she came back and handed him that bottle she had just seen him put away.
   "I think I finally realize why you've drank so much over the years, baby", she said, an expression of love and concern on her face, "It was just too much for you to deal with sober, sometimes".
   He took the bottle, opened it, guzzled a bit (taking advantage of her generosity before she had a chance to change her mind!). When she sat down next to him, he reached for her, kissing her mouth in thanks.
   "But I think it would help if you got some closure on this, Michael", she said.
   He gave her a look that tood her he was wondering of she had suddenly went screwy, "Are you daft, woman?!...What are you talking about?...How would I get 'closure' on an incident long over with and forgotten?". He took another guzzle of brandy and made a face of disgust at the taste before recapping the bottle.
   "You went to war, expecting action", she went on to explain, "You never got to actually fight. You feel you didnt contribute to winning the war, like you didnt do anything to help it. You never got the chance because you were bombed. You watched your freinds die and you couldnt do anything to help them. Pain comes from frustration, too, you know...you need the closure. You need to go back and do something to make up for all that helplessness you still feel from that time...I think, if you could find a way to get paybacks, somehow, you wouldnt have nightmares and wouldnt feel so terrible anymore...you could finally let go...".
   "You are daft", he snorted, irritated. He didnt believe in all this 'new age' bullshit. The old ways were the best ways, rough or not. To hell with it all.
   "Michael", she continued unphased, "...Dont you see?...If you could get some closure for your own trauma, you wouldnt be so worried about your son".
   Quint listened to her. Some things she said was starting to make sense, but this old creature of habit was too stubborn to accept it.
   "I'm goin' to get a few hours sleep, woman", he said softly, unpatronizingly, leaning over to pat her thigh gently and brush his lips across her cheek, "You dont mind, do you?".
   "Of course not, sweetie", she smiled, knowing her husband all too well...he would think about what she had just said a while before actually allowing himself to sleep.


The following monday, Quint called Art and got everything straightened out. Art would never have told him, but he hadnt planned on doing anything at all about his buddy's son. He would never mess with a mans Naval career. But Art was glad Quint called back. He'd misplaced his number and had some news for him...there was an opening for an instructor for new officer trainee's and, if Quint could pass a general physical, the job would be perfect for him and it was right in his own backyard, the Alameda Naval station.
   Quint was elated. The thought of getting back into his captains uniform just made life seem a little better. And it was all made special by the pride he saw in his sons eyes when he finally saw his dad in his uniform for the very forst time.

   So, Quint didnt exactly have his 'war', but he could be satisfied with living one through the eyes of his son and thorugh the men and women he would train to go out and fight it. Yes. He could be gratified, now. He finally found his part in a war, finding a way to fight back against the pain and injustices of the past. His life was coming around full circle and this circle would finally be closed, once and for all. It wasnt going to bring back Herbie Robinson or any of his other shipmates or his captain. It wasnt going to erase the loss. It wasnt going to take away the scars. But he finally got the chance to finish what he had started so long ago.

And when he was fighting, he was at peace.

***********************************THE END**********************************