Generations and Other True Stories Read Online Free

‘The business or the residence?’”
    The residence was a mile or two outside the town, easily recognized by the neat white wooden fence that the old man had described and the neat white barns and brick house that sat about fifty yards back from the road. Even in the dusk it was obvious that he had prospered. I drove slowly, trying to take it all in and keep my eyes on the road at the same time. As we passed the gate I happened to glance up the driveway.
    He was sitting in a chair in his backyard, silhouetted against the buttermilk sunset. From the way he was sitting, the slope of his bones, I recognized him. “That’s him!” I said. “I’m going to say something to him!” I turned the car and headed into the driveway.
    â€œWhat are you going to say?” Isabel asked.
    â€œI don’t know.” My heart was beating fast. I was almost giddy. I drove up the driveway, into the backyard, and stopped a few feet from his chair. A gray-haired woman was sitting facing him, hidden from the road by a shrub. She looked up, alarmed. I knew then that I couldn’t identify myself. She might not know I existed. I got out of the car and walked to my father and stood facing him, my back to her.
    He was heavier, a little gray at the temples, but he hadn’t really changed. He sat in khakis and white undershirt, barefoot, as he always did. His cheekbones were as high, Indianlike, his eyes as dark and steady through his glasses. He held a chew of tobacco in his cheek and didn’t move, only stared into my eyes, never looking away, saying nothing.
    â€œI seem to be lost,” I said. “Can you tell me how to get to the Dallas highway?”
    â€œWhich way you coming from?” he asked. His voice was as steady and dark as his eyes. It hadn’t changed.
    â€œFrom Meridian.”
    â€œWell, you missed it. Go back to town. A sign in the square tells you which way. Highway Sixty-seven.”
    I made no move to go. We kept staring into each other’s eyes. He frowned slightly, as if trying to recall something. The woman behind me coughed and shifted in her chair.
    â€œHow’s that again?” I asked.
    â€œHighway Sixty-seven’s the one you want. Go back to Meridian. There’s a sign in the square with an arrow pointing to Sixty-seven. Turn that way. When you get to the highway, turn right. It’ll take you right to Dallas.” He didn’t move, didn’t gesture.
    I waited for him to say more. He didn’t. “Much obliged,” I said. I felt strangely light, as if relieved of some dark, indefinite duty. I turned toward the car.
    Isabel was staring through the windshield, wide-eyed. When we were past the gate she asked, “What did you say to him?”
    â€œI asked directions to Dallas.”
    â€œThat’s all?”
    â€œI asked him to repeat it.”
    â€œHe knew you. His eyes never left you. It took my breath away.”
    â€œMaybe he thought he ought to know me.”
    Isabel touched my arm. “Don’t just leave it at that,” she said.
    The next morning I wrote to Ted and Pat. “I’m having a special birthday,” I said. And I wrote to him and said, “I’m the man in the red car, and I’m your eldest son.”
    Only Ted and Pat replied.
    â€œMaybe he never got the letter,” Isabel said.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

I remember seeing Audie Murphy on the cover of Life with his Medal of Honor hanging around his neck. The most decorated American soldier of World War II. He looked about twelve years old. As I was growing up, I saw all his movies, I think. Or nearly all. He never seemed to grow older, maybe because he already was old .
    The Hero’s Hometown
    The young woman at the cash register in Woody’s store regards the visitor with blank wonderment. “I never heard of him,” she says.
    â€œAudie Murphy. The most decorated