Plaque

Remembrance can’t be limited to

what you think should be remembered.

Sometimes memories come unbidden

And change what you were thinking.

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A single memory can alter the trajectory.

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Plaque

At noon the square rippled with heat. Sunlight glinted off the helmet of the bronze soldier on the plinth, his bayonet aimed at an enemy that never advanced. Pigeons gyred in lazy circles above the courthouse clock. The old men on the benches stopped their card game without noticing.

A boy—sixteen at most—stood on the seam where the granite around the monument met the brick that surrounded it. His arms shook as if the sign were made of lead instead of cardboard. The drippy letters read: STOP LYING TO US. He had a cowlick he couldn’t tame and a scab on one knee. His mouth was dry, but he stayed in the shadow of the monument where the date 1918 was chiseled into the stone of the plinth.

A man strode up in camo gear with a rifle strapped on tight, his boots clicking loudly on the brick. He paced the memorial like a guard dog patrolling a fence line. The muscles in his jaw were tense. “Traitors,” he said to no one and to everyone. “You don’t shame the fallen on my watch.”

The boy did not move. His heart was pounding. His left hand trembled, but he steadied the sign with his right.

“Put that down,” the man ordered. He stopped close enough that the boy smelled tobacco and old sweat. “You’re on sacred ground.”

“I’m on public ground,” the boy said. His voice cracked on “public,” so he cleared his throat and said, “And I’m not leaving.”

It was like watching a self-assured cat fend off a bear: the boy stood firm on the seam of ground he had appropriated while the man looked puzzled to see such a small creature hissing at him.

The impasse had already attracted attention. Mothers whisked their children away, fearing a fight. A waitress from the cafe held a tray on her hip while she watched. Two veterans wearing baseball caps, one with and one without a cane, stood up from the bench they were sharing. People all around the square were hoisting their phones to get video.

The man tugged his rifle strap forward. The gun swung into the sunlight that glinted off the wood stock rubbed shiny with handling and the oiled metal. “You’re a spoiled brat, a pissant little liberal brat. They didn’t die so you could run your mouth.”

The boy looked toward the bronze plaque to his right. It held six columns of names and ranks, each followed by a year. He thought of those bronzed names the night before, painting drippy letters in his room. He had been afraid then, too. Afraid, but determined. He couldn’t see the names from where he was standing. But he didn’t need to.

“I’m not leaving,” he said.

“You think you’re brave?” The man jabbed a finger into the boy’s chest. “You think paint on a sign makes you a hero?”

From the benches, a voice finally spoke up: “Easy, Larry.”

Another voice, closer: “Leave the kid alone.”

Larry ignored them. He stepped closer, so the barrel hovered over the top edge of the poster board. This shook the boy’s sign, but he would not lower it. The white cardboard flashed the sun into Larry’s eyes. He blinked and pretended he hadn’t.

The courthouse clock ticked loudly.

“What lie?” Larry demanded. “Say it.”

“That we’re safer when we’re afraid,” the boy said. He swallowed. “That you have to point guns at children to prove you love the country.”

Someone in the crowd snorted a half-laugh. The veterans did not laugh. The one with the baseball cap and no cane took a step toward the plinth but then thought better of it.

The man’s jaw was grinding. It he could have thought of threats, he would have spat them out. But instead, he only got out “You don’t respect the dead.”

“I’m trying not to join them.”

A few more second passed. A girl in the crowd whispered, “Oh, God!”

“Lower it,” Larry said, pushing down on the placard with the muzzle of his rifle.

“You go first,” the boy said. He raised the sign higher, pushing the muzzle upwards a bit. Strangely, this small push drained all the fear out of him. He suddenly felt like the bronzed names had taken up his side.

Gunmetal against a cardboard sign: it couldn’t be clearer. The square took it in and could not look away. The pigeons gyred lower, their shadows flecking the red brick.

“Larry,” the veteran without a cane said, “Put it down.”

The waitress shifted the tray and said softly but clearly: “There are children here.”

The phones kept recording.

Larry’s hands began to shake. The strap cut in between his thumb and palm. Stain marks showed under each arm.

“You think I won’t?” he said, but it was less menacing.

The boy didn’t answer. He looked toward the plaque of names. So did everyone else.

“Larry,” the veteran said again, “Don’t make us remember you for this.”

Larry’s vision began to widen. He saw the phones aimed at him, he saw the bronze soldier pointing his rifle at him, he saw the boy’s bare knee with its small, bright scab. Suddenly an image passed through his mind—a half-painted model airplane left on a table years ago. He coughed, trying to remember the scathing insults he wanted to spew out only moments before.

He loosened the strap. It stuck, so he tugged again. The rifle dipped forward toward the ground. A collective sigh whistled through the square. He lifted the sling over his head and set the rifle butt on the bricks. He did it slowly, as if the gun might be bruised.

“Nobody scares me,” he said to the ground.

“Good,” the boy said. His voice was even now. “Then we can all go home.”

Then the crowd did something unexpected. The phones went back into pockets and handbags. The square began to bustle again, as if nothing had happed because nothing horrific had happened.

Larry backed away from the boy, looking as if he were going to speak although nothing came out. He hooked the strap again, raised the rifle across his chest, and finally said, “I’ve got somewhere to be,” to no one in particular. He turned and walked fast—almost ran—out of the square.

The boy lowered his sign. His arms felt like waterlogged noodles. He made his way over to the bronze plaque with the names. He ran his fingers over them—the names of those who had taken a stand.