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,” Admiral Theodore Grantham III 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 shifted on one foot, then the other, “Well sir….” His long arms and legs, awkward as always, “Ahh… well… um.”
The words caught in his throat as he 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, unblinking, eyes. 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.
Behind the Admiral, shadowbox frames guarded Purple Hearts, Silver Stars, Bronze Stars, an Air Medal, and a Medal of Honor, all earned by Grantham family warriors. A Military Badge of Merit from the Revolutionary War. 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. Today, Ted came with neither.
The vainglorious display of hunting trophies and war memorabilia reminded Ted he would never live up to his father’s expectations. His brothers had made the Admiral proud by excelling in high school sports, then enlisting in the military, but Ted, the youngest by over ten years, preferred singing and playing his violin.
“Spit it out son.”
Ted swallowed. “My girlfriend is pregnant.”
The Admiral slowly folded the newspaper, placed it on the ottoman, and drained 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?”
The Admiral let out a low whistle, took a deep drag from his Lucky Strike and exhaled out the side of his mouth. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He placed the highball glass on the side table. “How old is the girl?”
“She’ll be sixteen in December, sir.”
“You mean she’ll be sixteen when the baby’s born,” he said, as he snuffed out his cigarette.
“Yes, sir.”
“When do you leave for boot camp?” The Admiral’s cold gaze finally locked onto Ted.
“In June, sir, after graduation.”
“Well, that gives us time for a civil ceremony.” He stood, tucking his shirt into his trousers. “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.”
“That’s good. Best not to upset her until we work this out.” His hands dropped onto Ted’s shoulders. “You realize you have to do the right thing here, son.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ted, trying to keep his voice steady.
The Admiral gave a sharp nod. “Let’s go over there. Make this right.”
“Yes, sir.”