Semper Fi by W.E.B. Griffin

Author:W.E.B. Griffin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 1986-11-22T16:00:00+00:00

Kenneth J. McCoy would never forget the time when good ol’ Pat had dragged him in front of the judge: “God knows, Your Honor,” Pat McCoy told the judge, the Honorable Francis Mulvaney, a fellow knight at the KC, “I have tried to do my best for my family. God knows that. I sent them to parochial school when it was a genuine sacrifice to come up with the tuition. I made them take Mass regular. I tried to set an example.”

He paused then to blow his nose and wipe his eyes.

“And now this,” his father went on. “Maybe God is punishing me for something I done in my youth. I don’t know, Your Honor.”

“I’ll hear your side of this,” His Honor said to the incorrigible.

Who replied that good ol’ Pat had slapped his eldest—just turned seventeen—son one time too many. And his eldest son (otherwise known to this court as the accused, Kenneth J. McCoy) had seen red and given him a shove back. And good ol’ Pat, the loving father who had sent the accused to parochial school even when that had been a genuine financial sacrifice, had been so drunk that he fell down and tore his cheek when he knocked over the coffee table.

And that had made ol’ loving Father so pissed that he came after the accused with the base of the table lamp. After he’d demonstrated his willingness to use it by smashing the Philco radio and the glass in the bookcases and the plaster statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, the accused had fled the premises and sought refuge in the rectory of Saint Rose of Lima Roman Catholic Church. There he had remained until, accompanied by the good Father Zoghby, he surrendered himself to the Norristown Police to face charges. Good ol’ loving Father Pat McCoy had accused his eldest son of assault with intent to do bodily harm as well as general all-around incorrigibility and heathenism and ungrateful sonism.

“I’m sorry he cut his face,” the accused mumbled to the judge.

“That’s all?”

“Yes, sir.”

It had already been arranged, Father Zoghby had told him when he’d come to the jail. He’d had a word with the judge. To spare his family any further shame and humiliation, the judge would drop all charges on condition that the accused join the U.S. Marine Corps for four years.

Later he’d tried to send his civvies home in the box they gave you at Parris Island, but it had come back marked REFUSED. So had the letters he’d written at first to his mother and Anne-Marie and Tommy. Then there had been a letter from Father Zoghby: His father could not find it in his heart to forgive him, and had started telling people he had no son named Kenneth. It would be better, Father Zoghby continued, if Kenneth stopped writing until things had a time to settle. He would pray that his father would in time forgive him, and he would keep him posted if anything happened he should know.

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