Last Bottle of Burgundy
TED GRANTHAM
Ted stood at attention in the doorway of his father’s study, listening to the squeak of the leather chair, the ting of ice in the crystal highball glass, and the pounding of his own heart.
“At ease, son,” Ted’s father grumbled, with a quick glance away from The Columbus Dispatch. “What is it? You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”
“Well, sir…” Ted filled his lungs with the familiar scent of leather, whisky, and cigarette smoke. He stood on one foot, then the other, “Well sir….” His long arms and legs, awkward as always, “ahh…”
“Spit it out son.”
“My girlfriend is pregnant.”
Theodore Grantham slowly folded the newspaper, placed it on the ottoman and swallowed the last of his Glenlivet single malt scotch. “You have a girlfriend!?”
“Yes, sir, Audrey, sir.”
“That pretty girl you play music with? The French scientist’s daughter is your girlfriend?”
Theodore’s voice reflected his astonishment as he placed the highball glass on the side table. He took a final drag from his Lucky Strike and exhaled out the side of his mouth, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Ted watched the cigarette smoke curl around the six-foot, shovel-shaped antlers of the moose head that seemed to charge through the hunter-green wall, ready to defend its territory. Flanking the formidable moose, a sweet-faced, pointy-horned gazelle, and a meek-looking, ten-point white-tail buck gazed through the smoke with glassy eyes. Ted glanced to his right where a thousand-pound Blue Marlin hung with its intimidating three-foot sword-like snout pointing toward his heart. Ted’s father killed them all, long before Ted was born.
On the wall behind Ted’s father, retired Admiral Theodore Grantham III, shadowbox frames guarded Purple Hearts, Silver Stars, Bronze Stars, an Air Medal, and a Medal of Honor, all earned by Grantham family warriors. The exhibit included a Military Badge of Merit from the Revolutionary War. Below the distinguished medals hung a musket used in the Civil War by Ted’s third-great grandfather. A wooden stand on the sofa table cradled a sword and scabbard once carried by his seventh-great grandfather in the Revolutionary War. Ted and his brothers called this The War Room. They entered only by invitation or summons.
The vainglorious display of hunting trophies and war memorabilia reminded Ted that he would never live up to his father’s expectations. His brothers had made Theodore proud by excelling in sports in high school, then enlisting in the military, but Ted, the youngest by more than ten years, preferred singing and playing his violin.
“How old is the girl?”
“She’ll be sixteen in December, sir.”
“You mean she’ll be sixteen when the baby’s born,” said Theodore, snuffing out his cigarette,
“Yes, sir.”
Theodore finally looked Ted in the eye, “When do you leave for boot camp?”
“Next week, sir, after graduation. My orders came yesterday.”
“Well, there’s enough time for a civil ceremony. Have you asked the girl to marry you?”
“No, sir. She told me about it yesterday when I walked her home from school. She wasn’t in music class today.”
“Have you told your mother?”
“No, sir.”
“You realize you have to do the right thing here.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ted, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Let’s go on over there and make work this right.”
“Yes, sir.”