Sharpshooter Read Online Free PDF Page B

beans with almond slivers, gravy, and corn bread, everybody is seated and waiting.
    The scents that fill the room are everything you want your house to smell like. Warm and rich, familiar and friendly. Satisfying and safe.
    These are the smells we are going to fight for.
    â€œI don’t imagine you’ll see the likes of this meal again for some time,” Dad says.
    â€œOh, sure they will,” Mom says, slapping his arm. “Don’t make such a big deal.”
    â€œWould anyone like to say grace?” Dad asks.
    Beck shoots me a look like he might laugh, and I shoot him one back that he’s going to regret it if he does. Morris shrinks a bit in his chair.
    Rudi raises his hand like he’s back in class. Though in class he never would have raised his hand.
    â€œVery good,” Dad says, and we all go along with heads bowing and hands folding in anticipation of Rudi gracing us with his grace.
    We have our heads down for probably thirty silent seconds.
    I look up and find everybody else doing the same. Rudi looks around at everybody looking at him. He looks slightly more bewildered than usual. Then sheepish, shrugging and smiling.
    â€œRudi,” I say, “do you want to do this?”
    â€œSure,” he says. “Sure, sure.”
    We all bow our heads again.
    We wait thirty silent seconds again.
    Suddenly, Morris’s voice fills the void.
    â€œWe thank you, Lord, for this wonderful meal and these wonderful people. And we ask that you see the four of us home safely from this great and serious adventure. Amen.”
    â€œAmen,” say all of us.
    â€œThat was very nice,” Mom says to Morris.
    â€œThank you,” he says.
    â€œWhat happened to you?” Beck asks Rudi.
    He gets that same shy, embarrassed look and offers the palms-up gesture. “I didn’t realize what that was. We never did that at my house.”
    â€œWhy did you volunteer?” Dad wants to know.
    â€œI didn’t, sir. I was drafted.”
    Beck lowers his head again, prayerlike. Morris leans over and gives Rudi a supportive back pat. Mom looks at Dad. Dad looks to me.
    â€œNo, he’s not joking,” I say, shaking my head and grinning.
    Dad looks, very concerned, in the direction of Rudi, who gives him a tentative smile in return. I hear my mother, under her breath, say, “Oh, God love him.”
    Dad folds his hands and leads grace, part two. “Lord, please do watch over and protect these brave young Americans through all their coming trials. Especially Rudi.”
    Which becomes our Amen.
    â€œEspecially Rudi,” I say brightly.
    â€œEspecially Rudi,” says Morris, says Mom, says Beck.
    â€œEspecially me,” says Rudi, causing my father to burst out of character altogether, break ranks, and go over to give Rudi a mighty grab of both his shoulders and a squeeze firm enough to water the boy’s eyes. Right there at the dinner table.
    Nobody gets up here before dinner is finished without an ironclad, life-and-death excuse. Ever.
    Oh, my.
    Â 
    The meal itself is a triumph, with my father loosening up considerably. Unlike most people, Dad gets more relaxed in the presence of a bunch of fighters than in a more peaceable crowd. And now he considers us fighters.
    â€œYou, Private Smarty-pants, come over here,” he says to Beck once he has finished his main meal and his seconds.
    Beck happily gets up, probably expecting some sort of award for cleaning his plate. He stands next to Dad, watching as the old man rolls up his crisply ironed sleeves.
    â€œWow,” says Beck.
    It’s the tattoos. On his left forearm is the traditional seal of the United States Army, the one that’s been around since the Revolution. It has two flags crossed, the thirteen-star American flag with another one that looks like it’s got a floating empty suit and tie in the middle of it. There are various guns and cannons and spears and a small snake holding in its