As Aldous spears a meatball from his plate he smells the spaghetti-breath of his old drill instructor. You’re a fuckup, Harris! What are you? Across the table, Al’s father Charlie is twirling pasta onto his fork and trying to get it past his sauce-red lips before it falls back to the table.

Not that Al notices; he’s back on the parade ground. I am not a fuckup! The drill instructor pulling him out of the line, making him march by himself. Across the field and back, the others doing pushups while they wait, hating Al and the drill sergeant both.

Meanwhile, Charlie’s fighting his own battle. “Get me a knife,” he orders. Long strands of spaghetti slide off his fork and splash half-on, half-off the edge of his plate. His son’s got to be good for something.

Al says, “The drawer too far for you?”

Across the field and back in a straight line, nothing wrong with the way Private Harris marches, no sir. Until he’s back in formation, until he’s the only one whose polio-twisted hip hitches as he lifts his knees high. What the fuck is wrong with you, Harris?

“Ankle’s swollen.” Charlie attacks his spaghetti with the side of his fork, then sighs. He’s always told his boys, If at first you don’t succeed, say to hell with it and give up. He needs a goddamn knife. But his ankle’s been hurting him since 1939, since the night before he was due to ship out with his buddies. It wasn’t even his fault; he was only a little bit drunk when the car slammed his motorbike into a brick wall.

Al shoves his chair back from Charlie’s kitchen table, letting the chair’s feet screech across the linoleum. He stalks to the utensil drawer. Strides back again, only a slight twinge in his hip. Nothing wrong with the way he marches. I am not a fuckup, sir! Lets the knife clatter to the table and drops himself back onto his chair.

Charlie cuts his spaghetti into inch-long pieces. Much easier to shovel into his mouth. Much easier to sit back and let somebody else do the marching. Take the desk job, watch the war from behind a telegraph machine. Deliver the messages to somebody else’s family. I regret to inform you.

Al stabs another meatball and chews. I am not a fuckup. His old man is quiet now that he’s got his knife. Al clears his plate and watches Charlie eat. Short strands of spaghetti laid out all in a line on Charlie’s plate, ready to march straight into the maw.