Erika Lloyd

Erika.lloyd@maconstate.edu

“Semper Fi”

The house did not seem the same without her grandfather there. The huge blue armchair sat

abandoned next to the television as Evangeline struggled to understand what made her grandfather

happy to live alone all his life. Carefully, she avoided the chair and perched on the opposite end of the

mauve couch, sinking into it once again. Old VHS tapes prowled the shelves between family photos and

a long forgotten flower vase. The old man loved movies. He had horror, adventure, fantasy, and thrillers.

He had every actor on his shelf from Tom Cruise to Angelina Jolie. The one thing that made Evangeline

angry, however, was the complete lack of war movies and historical fiction. For an old man who told so

many war stories, who thrived on late Friday nights at the senior club swapping tales of horror and war,

why did he hate war movies with such a passion? As a child Evangeline always loved the violence and

continuous action of a war movie. As an adult, she learned to deal with her grandfather’s strange ways.

The old creaky television buzzed through channel after channel as Evangeline sank into the

couch. The wind whizzed in under a dirty windowpane, bringing with the cool damp air dry crumbled

leaves and the smell of cinnamon from the bakery down the street. Evangeline shivered and walked

over to the window, adjusting it so that the sill almost crushed an old cocooning caterpillar on the leaves

of a lively rhododendron.

Poor caterpillar…

She had asked her grandfather once, had dared to venture a question as to the lack of war

movies and history from his house. He had snapped at her “Quiet Evangeline, mind your tongue” and

had continued to polish his bright black leather military boots. Even after he retired, the old habit of

polishing his boots was drilled into him from years spent in the service. The black boots now mocked
her from the cracked and muddy foyer tile. They sparkled in a glimmer of sunshine and radiated her

grandfather’s warmth. The air was colder, Why did the heater not work?

Not like she could see him now.

Evangeline attended the funeral that very morning. She had respectfully walked up to the

casket, glanced at the man she barely knew, barely understood. His grey hair was carefully combed to

the side. He was dressed in his military service dress uniform and countless rainbow colored pins pierced

his breast. He had been buried with his Marine’s saber and his favorite silver engraved bottle, which

carried his gin. That very bottle of gin was supposedly given to him by President Gerald Ford, a man he

adored. But his shoes, he had asked that they not be buried with him. The man had barely taken care of

the family, but the shoes? No. It would never do to leave them buried six feet under the ground he told

the family. Disgraceful.

Evangeline pulled her sweater closer around her shoulders and hugged her knees. Damn heater.

Never did work. She had not cried over his death, not during the funeral and not afterwards. Long after

the family had trailed out the old white oak door, she had just sat and stared. She lived with her

grandfather during his last week on earth. The family thought it would be good for the both of them to

finally talk. They never did. Her grandfather had not spoken to her since she became an overseas

reporter in the recent war. The day he found out he cursed at her, threw the red vase that matched the

one on the shelves at her. It had landed at Evangeline’s feet, sparkling like a thousand ruby red tears.

Sparkling like blood, dried pieces of blood that you could move and shape and sweep up into a pan but

never replace in value. Evangeline had quietly swept up the pieces that day, as softly as the caterpillar

had spun its cocoon, unnoticed on the open window sill.

Evangeline leaned over and picked up a dark skinny box from her open purse on the hunter

green floor. Gently, she opened it and stared at the shiny silver spun disk that she had waited so long to

see. She paused and glanced anxiously over at the dark black military boots. The soles of the boots
frowned at her from across the room. In hesitation, she popped the disk out of the case, nervously

glancing across at the boots and slipped it cautiously into the new DVD player she had placed above the

ancient VCR since she had started living there again. The sounds of gunfire and dramatic music

ricocheted across the house as the opening title sequence of a new action movie flared up on the old

television.

The boots glared at her from the creaky tile. The house shivered under the sounds of long

forgotten gunfire as Evangeline guiltily forced herself deeper into the stiff mauve couch. The roses on

the couch pricked her skin as she watched a man die on the television. The roses had thorns: like a

thousand little daggers they pierced her skin, making her shift and turn on the couch, struggling to keep

comfortable. Men were dying, men with wives and children and homes, just like the ones Evangeline

had watched die overseas. Exotic places filled with sand and heat and a thousand clear nights danced

across Evangeline’s memory. Her grandfather always cringed when watching jungle scenes and sandy

deserts on his favorite movies. Evangeline had “oohed” and “ahhed” until her grandfather would shift in

the old blue armchair and mutter “you just don’t get it.” These words would be like a signal between

them. Evangeline would stop and be quiet, respect her grandfather. If she didn’t, he would flick the

movie off and tell her it was time for bed.

You just don’t get it.

Evangeline shifted in the couch. She snuck a glance at the boots. They still mocked her. In

frustration, she propelled herself out of the couch, stormed over to the boots and turned them around.

They bothered her, with their tongues wagging and the brass eyelets piercing her soul, condemning her.

This is my house now. She turned them around, and strutted back to the mauve couch, flicking her

bobbed hair around her shoulders and lifting her chin higher. The movie began to shift, and a great

battle scene exploded on the television’s surface. One old man sat in the trenches, crying for his mates.

Evangeline picked up the clicker and paused the scene. The man had eerily looked like her grandfather,
his grey hair carefully combed over, covered in sweat and breathing in ragged breaths, the way her

grandfather had breathed when the emphysema had finally began to conquer his lungs.

Evangeline shivered. She went over to the window to force it shut. It was as stubborn as her

grandfather, unmoving and passive. She put all her weight on to the window. The window started to

creak. With a loud bang, long forgotten hinges creaked shut and crushed the caterpillar in its newly

made cocoon. Evangeline froze as the green slime goozed around the caterpillar’s cocoon. Hastily, she

forced the window open again, but the caterpillar was already dying. Its large, luminous orbs accused

her, unblinking, demanding that she save him. I can’t save you, and because of me you won’t ever be a

butterfly, free...

You just don’t understand Evangeline.

Evangeline frowned, an idea dawning on her slowly, as slow as the caterpillar had made its

cocoon. Before she could complete the thought, bring it to grow in her mind, to develop, the television

behind her resumed the movie, and a loud grenade exploded on the screen. It was a default setting on

the DVD player, but the affect was drastic to Evangeline. She jumped forward, through the window,

screeching in surprise as the sound caught her unaware. She fell right onto the rhododendron. She

forced herself to stand, feeling very foolish as she brushed off the dirt on her black blouse. Where did all

the dirt come from?

The ground at her feet had been freshly dug behind the wilting rhododendron. She scraped

around and found an old tin case below the ground. Inside the case, Evangeline discovered medals and

shiny new DVDs. Each one had been snapped in half, but the titles Evangeline could still faintly read.

Saving Private Ryan, Schindler’s list, the list went on and on as Evangeline sifted through the massive pile

inside the tin.

She carried the tin back inside the house and sat on the old mauve couch. She pressed a button,

ejected the DVD in the player and snapped it. The room started to become foggy, as Evangeline placed
the halves of the DVD alongside the others in the tin. Why is the room so foggy? She replaced the old

shiny black leather military boots to the cracked tile and found her place again on the old mauve couch.

Sitting down again, the room swam before her. After realizing what the tin must mean, Evangeline did

something long needed. She heard her grandfather’s voice echo back to her.

You just don’t understand, Evangeline...

She cried.