Soft Target

By Elaine Little

Matt headed straight to his grandparents' apartment after wrapping things up at his Army Reserve unit. He dreaded it. Not that he didn't love his grandparents; he did, though sometimes they were hard to like. 
When he was younger, they acted weird when they took him out, hurrying him into the apartment when they didn't feel like explaining their relationship. But it was hard not to notice the elderly Polish couple with a black child trailing behind whether or not they wanted to go into the details. 
Gradually they had come to accept him since they had babysat Matt pretty much full-time until he was a teenager. And now, here he was returning the favor. 
He opened the door into the overstuffed living room. Two large china cabinets stuffed with knickknacks and mismatched crockery were crammed against the wall. The room's centerpiece was a faded green couch, trapped on both sides by end tables constructed of dark particleboard. 
The melodic tones of Polish greeted Matt. His grandparents spoke softly, but as he drew closer, he heard the gist: He's so dark. He should cover his face in the sun. As if the only things standing between him and a lighter complexion were sunscreen and a hat. The thing that got him was they never thought he understood. But he did, especially the insults. He knew all of them. He was hyper-fluent in Polish racial slurs.
He said, "I understand, Grandma."
"Maybe you understand," she conceded. "But you don't speak it so well."
"Your English isn't so hot either."
She shrugged. "My bad English is better than your bad Polish." 
This was an argument he was destined to lose. Matt sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out his textbooks. His instructors had agreed to give him his finals early before he deployed, so he'd been cramming non-stop for the past two weeks. The entire process had gone surprisingly well. He'd appeared at each of their offices in turn wielding his orders, asking if they wanted a copy for proof, which, as he had anticipated, they always politely declined. 
His political science professor even offered up his business card and an unsolicited written recommendation, saying he saw raw talent in Matt, the type of potential and questioning instincts that could lead him in positive directions. This sounded good if a bit generic. Matt wasn't so sure about positive directions. He just hoped he could segue his experiences in Iraq into a job on his return. 
He noticed his grandfather had turned on the TV and was now clicking rapidly through the channels, never resting on one long enough for it to register. Grandma finally slapped his hand and grabbed the remote. 
When Matt was a child, his grandpa, who he called Poppy, had played a game where he would grip Matt's hand between his two and squeeze, saying it was their special handshake. He had always been careful to squeeze a little hard but not too hard until Matt provided the expected response: Stop, Poppy, you're hurting my knuckles. For some reason, he found this hilarious. 
Matt walked over and extended his palm. Grandpa clasped it between his soft leathery hands in a pale imitation of the firm grip he'd once had. He smiled and pushed, the effort made barely felt. Nonetheless, Matt smiled and said, "Ow."
Grandpa shook his head. "No, what do you say?" 
"Stop, Poppy, you're hurting my knuckles."
Grandma disapproved. "Enough! You will give yourself another heart attack."
Matt sat down to study, but it was hard to concentrate. The TV was turned up to an earsplitting volume since neither of his grandparents was willing to admit they needed hearing aids. It was a silly game show. Not even something with hard questions like Jeopardy.
"Hey," Matt said. No response. His grandparents sat there mesmerized. "Hey! 
"Can't you watch the news? Or anything else?"  
Grandma got up. Immediately grandpa lurched for the remote. Grandma smiled at Matt as she walked closer, planting a kiss on his head. Matt shook his head a little but smiled at the gesture, then relaxed and drummed his pencil rhythmically on the table as he read. 
She prepared coffee as Matt continued with his studies, setting a cup and saucer by him and bringing out the cookie tin. She lifted the lid--kolackies drowning in powdered sugar and nestled among wax paper--apricot, raspberry, and cream cheese.  
Matt perked up immediately. "Alright, homemade!" 
She selected several and arranged them on a plate for him. "I make whole thing. Except not jam that I buy."
Her cookies were delicious, soft yet slightly crisp with a rich buttery flavor. Except homemade might not be a good thing, seeing as how dirty the place was. Matt looked over at the soiled dishes piled in the sink, the ancient stove covered with grit and a greasy film.  
After taking an enthusiastic bite, he stopped suddenly. A flicker of disgust washed over his face. He stuck a finger in the corner of his mouth and pulled out a long gray hair, waving his hand rapidly to release it. It stuck to his fingers. Finally, with a violent shake, it flew into the air. 
Grandma turned around to face him, her weak eyes taking a second to focus. "Do you like?" she asked. 
Matt nodded.  
She yawned dramatically with arms outstretched and mouth wide "I am very tired these days. But not too tired to bake sometimes."
"They were delicious, your best ever," Matt murmured. Usually, he brought food over, convenience foods designed to make things easier for them. But the cans sat in the cupboard until well past their expiration date. 
She walked back to the couch and settled in. Grandpa had finally changed the channel to the news and, in a rare concession, had even lowered the volume. A story came on about teenagers holding up a liquor store. Two quick photos of teenage black males flashed as they glared for their mug shot.
Grandma sighed. "More trouble, my God--always."  
Two and a half cookies remained on Matt's place untouched. She got up and pointed at them. "Are you going to eat those?"
"No, I'm full."
"Okay, I'll add those to the box I send home to your mother."
"She'll like that."
She sat down at the table across from him. Sitting so close, he noticed things, like how her movements had slowed. Yet she was never still. Even at rest, her hands trembled slightly. 
"Where are they sending you?" she finally said.  
"I told you I was going to Iraq."
She shook her head. "No, I mean, what part?"
"What part? What parts of Iraq do you know?" Matt wondered why his grandma would even think to ask this. 
She considered the question. "Well, there are bad parts, and then there are worse parts."
"I'm not infantry. I'm not a foot soldier. My job will be to positively portray the American mission in Iraq."
"So no guns?"
"We all have to carry guns, busha. Maybe I'll get lucky and get a pistol in a side holster." She smiled slightly when he used his childhood nickname for her. 
Grandpa beckoned, and she walked over to him. He knew less English than his wife. He whispered quietly to her, probably wanting to know what they’s said. As she translated, he shook his head, let out a large sigh, and dropped his hands to his side.  
She walked to the sink with the dirty dishes and rinsed them. "I don't know what you mean by positively portray." 
Matt closed his textbook. It looked like he wouldn't be getting much studying done tonight. "We print pamphlets and do radio messages about how to stay safe and how to help the Americans help them by being cooperative and non-aggressive."
"So why the guns?"
"They're just keeping us safe. Nowadays, you can be vulnerable anywhere. There are no front lines. It's an asymmetrical battlefield, meaning you always have the potential to be a target."
"Oh." She went quiet. 

****

Elaine Little is a writer, mother of three, and Army Veteran who deployed to Cuba, Bosnia, and Afghanistan. In 2019, her essay, “Now It’s You,” won first place at the National Veterans Creative Arts Festival.” In 2022 her prose was featured in “Proud to Be” Volume 10 and in “Consequence Forum” Volume 14. She is also a playwright whose play “Emergency Leave” was performed in London in 2022 and will be performed in New York in 2023. In 2021 her original TV pilot was a finalist for the Stowe Final Draft Fellowship. She works as a Homeless Veterans Outreach Coordinator at the Los Angeles VA Regional Office.