Fathers and Sons... and Deer

It was early 1958 when Wolfgang Rheinmann of Buffalo, New York, died. His only son, Charlie, of Brooklyn, attended with his wife, their son, and friends Frank and Delores DeCarlo. He chose to drive.

 Johnny:  I never met my old man’s father. He never talked him about, either. All I ever knew was that Wolfgang was from Germany and that he worked in a rail yard in Buffalo. There was a reason my old man left home and never went back, and I know it’s not because he stabbed somebody. I guess he just lived a life that old Wolfgang just couldn’t respect.

            I was ten when Wolfgang died. I remember that it happened in February. The funeral was in Buffalo and my old man insisted on driving all day to get there. Frank and Delores came to show support but also to fight the boredom of the road. There we were, all five of us piled into the Cadillac, my old man drove and Frank sat up front. The men always sat up front. I sat in back, between my mother and Delores.

            You remember weird things from when you were a kid. I remember Delores smoking a slim cigarette and reading a “Look” magazine my mother brought along. There was something about Sputnik, and when Delores started complaining about the Russians, Frank started talking about how much he admired them for standing-up to the Germans, and about how they ate their own shoes in Leningrad.

            My mother was asleep; she kept her arm around my shoulder. My old man just drove. If he said two words it was to Frank.

            He was like that. If he wasn’t bullshitting he was quiet. When he kissed my mother goodbye in the morning, he never said “Love you.” He never even talked to me in the morning. He’d wake-up, shave, comb his hair, and get dressed.

            He never even talked about what he did in the war. He had a scar on his chest and another on his back. My mother told me about years later.

            It was during the Battle of the Bulge, and my father was scouting in these woods near this village in Belgium. The German army was basically defeated by then, but they were still trying to keep their shit together. They had lost so many guys in Russia that they were drafting boys as young as fourteen to fight for them. Well anyway, my father heard these two Gerry’s slogging through the snow; they must have been lost because they were behind Allied lines. He traded some fire with them and hit one. The other one then shot him. It was a split second thing, the bolt on my old man’s rifle jammed and he felt the round go through him just as he got the friggin’ thing loose. It passed through his chest and out his back instead of bouncing around. Thank God.

            He went down and the German who shot him approached. Supposedly it was just a kid, probably fourteen or fifteen. My old man knew he had to do something because that kid, probably as scared shitless as he was, was going to make it final.

            “Mein vater ist Deutsch,” he said in perfect German. Supposedly the kid froze like he was ready to shit himself. I believe it. Then my father said “Er ist aus Hessen.”

            The kid lowered his Mauser for just a minute and stared at my bleeding American father who had just spoken to him in his own language. The terrified kid was ready to cry, supposedly. I believe it.

            It was just enough of a minute for my old man to slip his Colt out of its holster and plug the kid in the head, taking him out right there. And that’s how my old man survived the war… because his father, who never respected him, and who he never respected, spoke German around the house.

            I think it was something that haunted him, and I think he relived it whenever he was trying to be the guy everyone on the street thought he was. The only time my old man seemed be himself was when he was hunting.

            Frank had a friend who owned a property up in Duchess County. I don’t know how many acres it was, but it was a lot. And it was out in the country. It was all forest up there, just hills and trees and deer. My old man loved it, and he used to take me with him when he would go out and try to bag one. Frank used to come too; he never shot anything but he was happy to get away from his wife for a day.

            My old man was serious. He was quick, and he was quiet, and if you didn’t keep up your ass was getting left behind. And he had no respect for anyone who wouldn’t squeeze that trigger because they suddenly felt bad for Bambi. That’s how he lived his entire life. If you were like my mother and hesitated or were too slow for him, my old man would just leave you in his dust. He had to make that next dollar… take that next bet… bag that next deer.

            I can remember the last time he took me hunting. I was ten, I think. It was in the fall. We had brought Mike and his son Ray along. We closed in on this one doe in a clearing. It was a clean shot, no problem, just pop and done. My old man wanted me to take the shot.

            “Alright, Johnny… we got it sealed. Take the shot. Take the shot,” he was whispering.

            There I was, ten, swimming in my CPO jacket and trying to aim this fucking gun that was bigger than me. I looked at this doe just grazing. I knew she had to have babies somewhere. I don’t know what happened, but my mother flashed in my mind and I just couldn’t do it. The thought of that deer, and my mother, and I just couldn’t kill it. I was trembling when I lowered my gun. I had to stop myself from crying.

            Without missing a beat, my father took an Army stance and squeezed-off a shot. The doe went down right there. She went stiff and fell over. Then he looked at me and his look gave me the fucking chills. It was a sad look. He was just… embarrassed and disgusted at me. His son was weak. I was obliterated when he sat on a tree stump and lit a smoke and wouldn’t look at me. I knew then that he had lost respect for me. I never went hunting with him again.

            He was himself when he wasn’t talking, like in the car on the way to his father’s funeral. He was alone with his thoughts and the real guy inside, we were furniture. All of us were furniture. Why he was that way, who knows? My guess: it was all heavier than he let on. He struggled with… you know… life. But we weren’t supposed to know that. He was supposed to be the man in control, the suave hustler with the plan, the money, and the gun.

            But he was just a man, in the woods, with a rifle and bad memories. The only two people who knew the real him, me and my mother, he either didn’t respect or couldn’t connect to. He was alone, I guess.

            On the way to bury my grandfather, I just looked out of the car window and watched that drizzly, cold, dark country pass by. Somewhere in those thick, grey woods I hoped I’d see a deer.