“My wife's not in the business anymore,” he said, answering the phone.
“That’s not why I’m calling,” I told him.
“This isn't Robert Kraft?”
“No, Cali. This is Jim. Henry’s brother.”
“Who?”
“Henry.”
“The guy with the big head?”
“Yeah,” I told him. “The reason I’m calling is I want to know the story of how my father came into possession of that hollowed out artillery shell. I heard he caught it from a passing Japanese bomber in the Philippines and saved his platoon during World War Two.”
“Nah,” Cali told me. “That wasn’t it. What happened was a warplane was flying from Fort Bliss over our neighborhood, when they accidentally dropped that shell. We found out later it was that dork John 'Wet Start' McCain who was piloting that aircraft. Anyway, we could all see that shell falling toward us. ‘Incoming!’ Sniper Sanchez yelled as he jumped for cover under your cousin Chatita. A lot of us did. Anyway, everybody got out of the way. Everybody, that is, but your brother Henry. The artillery shell knocked him to the ground and then rolled over him from his feet to his neck. He looked like a well-squeezed tube of toothpaste with a water-balloon attached to the top. Your parents immediately took him to the hospital, your father only stopping three times. Once, for a pack of cigarettes. Then he stopped at the Jockey Club in Zaragosa for a shot of Jose Cuervo. Finally, he stopped somewhere to 'see a man about a horse,' he said. Other than that, it was immediately. ‘Give it to us straight, doc,” your father told the E.R. physician. ‘How much is it gonna cost?’ The doctor told your mom and dad not to worry, that in time your brother's body that was flattened like a squirrel in the middle of a busy intersection would slowly refill, and eventually his engorged head would shrink back to normal.”
Cali paused.
I could hear him holding back his tears.
“Sadly,” he said, finally, “his head never did.”
RaisingDad
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com. American Chimpanzee
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