Staring wide eyed through the dusty glass. The sun burning small and bright like the white dot from a magnifying glass. The distant Colorado mountains snow covered and dazzling in the morning light.
“. . . She’s going to have a harder time than you . . .”
A harder time because she can’t handle being needed by anyone, I think loudly but wouldn’t dare articulate or telegraph. A harder time because she’ll resort to evasive tactics next. Ducking, dodging like she always does. Unable to help being that way. Dick knows her too. Almost as well as I do.
Telling me he’d appreciate it if I’d give him the chance to talk to her first. “To directly pass on to your sister what your father told me. Because he promised your mom . . .”
Just like Dad always does.
“. . . Assured her she didn’t need to . . . Well, you get it, Calli . . .”
Get that as usual Dad said he’d take care of it.
“. . . He wanted me to be the one who told both of you . . .”
Just like you’ve always done.
“. . . I told him I’d do that, and he didn’t need to worry about it . . .”
Just like you’ve always done, I keep thinking to myself as Dick explains how hard my father is taking it. Couldn’t make the call himself. As if I need to be told that.
No explanation required for why Dad won’t call his daughters, his only two children. Someone has to carry that torch for him, has to lead us along the darkest of ways. He’s not going to be the messenger bearing bad news, certainly not this bad news. Never has been. I’ve always known what he can and can’t handle. And under different circumstances it would be me making the call to my sister.
I’m thankful that Dick would spare me from that. As I listen to him on speakerphone. Alone inside my stark quarters.
“. . . Listen, Calli, I wish no one had to be called. And I understand if you’re not up for giving me a hand this morning . . .”
Feels like one of his tests, prodding and probing to see if I measure up. Checking to make sure I’m strong enough.
“. . . If you’d like, I can get someone else, no problem . . .”
Thanking him for being so thoughtful, telling him not to worry. No biggie. Nothing I can do right this minute anyway. But it explains the fevers and fatigue, I hear myself say. And better to catch it now than later. Stoically putting a positive polish on my mom having cancer. While telling him I’m A-OK and will see him at 0800 hours.
Showing him once and for all that I may not be my fighter-pilot sister. But I’m here to serve and won’t let him down. No matter what, nothing will stop me. Not even the most devastating news of my life.
Can’t seem to catch my breath. Can’t stop thinking about it.
Focus. Focus. Focus!
14
“SLOW DOWN,” muttering to myself repeatedly as I ease my foot off the gas, wondering what Carme would say if she could see me now.
To hear her talk, I’m too passive, tolerating far more than I should. She doesn’t hesitate to make cracks about the way I drive, park, pass, or fly a plane or helicopter for that matter. I don’t take risks unnecessarily, always one to handle powerful machines sensibly and respectfully, and I’m dismayed by the uproar I’m in.
I don’t understand what’s got me in such a state except that I can’t abide bullying, and I furiously envision MP Crockett again. But neither he nor anyone else is an excuse for my being out of sorts to the point of recklessness. Tires squealing, I accelerate past an old clunker chugging along as if there’s no tomorrow.
Whooping my siren to make my point. Glaring in my rearview mirror at the offending driver, some little old lady who barely can see over the steering wheel. People like that are a menace on the road, it flares aggressively but not out loud, and I take a breath. Telling myself to calm down. To stop acting like a hothead, a primitive savage. It’s not that poor old lady’s fault or anybody’s problem but my own, for heaven’s sake.
As it begins to occur to me why I’m in such a state, why my fuse might be shorter than usual, to pick up on what Dick asked earlier. His question isn’t hard to answer. It’s just hard to look in the mirror, and one doesn’t have to be an expert in human factor psychology to pinpoint the problem. But what I’m feeling about my sister is beyond conflicted and downright ugly now that she’s managed to introduce real trouble into our world.
What have you done? Asking this repeatedly as I drive, the chiaroscuro of pitch darkness and glaring lights playing tricks on my eyes. I hate it when hurt and rage creep up my throat, threatening to hack their way into my self-control. That I can’t allow. When I let my guard down, I’ve seen what happens.
“We’re still taking photographs and video, making sure no stone’s unturned before doing much else,” Fran continues to explain over the speakers in the dash. “Trying to figure out what in Judas Priest would make somebody do what this lady did. Like self-flagellation . . .”
“What is?” Watching what I’m doing, flying along in the frigid dark, the wind buffeting my truck.
“Or a hair shirt. You know, people who cut and starve themselves . . . ,” she’s explaining unhelpfully.
“What are you talking about?” I have no idea.
“Punishing herself,” Fran says. “And what she wrote in the suicide note fits with that.”
“Let’s first make sure she wrote it,” I make that point again.
“There’s no reason not to think it so far, but I’ve got to admit I’m not feeling good about her so-called stolen badge, really not feeling good right about now. She reports that yesterday, as you’ve been beating the drum about, and you were right to do so, as it turns out. Because next thing she hangs herself? You’ll see when you read the note. It’s obvious that she was feeling pretty worthless.”
“Many people are when they decide to take their own lives, assuming that’s what this is. And I’m making no assumptions at all. Including that something is obvious,” I reply. “Tell me about her car and if you’ve located it.”
“A 2018 Lexus SUV, silver, parked in front. A lease.”
“Anything unusual?”
“When I pulled up, I had the plate run, but we’ve not searched it yet, not really gotten to it,” she says. “I did shine my light through the windows, and nothing caught my attention. Now the scene inside the bedroom isn’t what I’d call normal, not by a long shot,” she adds, and I’m on Stilwell Drive now, just past the Division 5 state police headquarters.
“I thought the first responding officer said he didn’t notice anything strange,” as I flash red and blue through darkness and water, the Hampton River on my left and Mill Creek on my right.
“He meant he didn’t notice anything that made him think something other than suicide,” Fran’s voice again. “But hey, it’s not like he got very close or was even aware that the bedroom reeks of chlorine. In fact, you can smell it the minute you walk in the front door.”
“And you’re sure the source is her apartment?” Winding around a frosted playing field, the soccer goal posts missing their nets.
“Oh yeah.”
“And the explanation?” Slowing down, the glowing eyes of deer literally caught in my headlights. “Because there’s no swimming pool around there. Maybe some kind of cleanser? And what do you mean, the officer didn’t notice an odor? It must not be very strong.”
“It’s actually overpowering, but this particular officer has no sense of smell.”
“Well that’s not safe for a cop . . .” Watching the deer scamper off.
“Polyps in his sinuses or something. I keep telling him he’s got to get it taken care of, but yeah, he didn’t notice. Now that I’m here enjoying the full experience, what I can tell you is we’re talking about chlorine bleach. All over her
, from head to toe. And it’s not a pretty sight.”
“That would be excruciatingly awful, the fumes alone, not to mention what it would do to your eyes, mouth, throat. And we’re supposed to believe she did this to herself?” Creeping ahead in my truck, ready if the deer decide to bound across the road. “We sure this wasn’t done after the fact by somebody else? What does Joan say?”
“She just got here. But so far, no indication of defensive injuries, nothing at a glance. What it’s looking like is liquid bleach might have been part of the suicidal ritual, that’s the theory of the moment. We haven’t located the bottle, whatever it was in . . .”
“Hold on a minute . . .”
“I know, I know. Believe me, I know what you’re going to say,” Fran’s voice cutting back in, loudly. “How did it disappear?”
“It doesn’t make sense to pour bleach all over yourself. Then dispose of the bottle off site,” I’m emphatic. “Then return to the apartment and hang yourself. All this while you’re suffering from severe chemical burns. And where did the bleach come from to begin with? You’ve looked everywhere? Laundry room, under the sink, the trash . . . ?”
“Like I told you, I can’t say where it might have come from,” Fran’s disembodied voice.
“Maybe there’s a receipt. When I interviewed her yesterday, she claimed to have stopped off at Walgreens on her way home.”
“There’s a lot to dig through and even more questions, but don’t be so quick to discount that she did this to herself,” Fran’s response. “Sort of like people who shave their heads or paint their faces before recording themselves blowing their brains out.”
“No, it isn’t like that. This sounds more like self-mutilation, self-torture.”
“Well, you brainy NASA types aren’t exactly average, so I wouldn’t expect you to snuff yourselves like everybody else,” Fran has to get in that snipe at least once this night.
“I’ve got my chemical suit in the truck, but what about the hazmat trailer?” I ask.
“It’s en route so we can decon when we’re done. Anyway, I could have done without an effed-up scene like this one, that’s for sure. Especially right now with everything else going on. I hope you’ve got a strong stomach,” and at least Fran’s not phobic about blood and guts, is perfectly fine with dead bodies no matter their horrific shape.
Decomps aren’t a bother, and I’ve watched her wade in after floaters as if it’s just another day at the beach, the entire time deliberating over where and what we should eat after clearing the scene. Autopsies are easy, doesn’t matter who or what, and I find it stunningly illogical that she doesn’t flinch when it’s babies or kids.
Yet she can’t drive through a tunnel alone if at all, and swears she’ll never again own a vehicle that has a trunk.
00:00:00:00:0
THE TAHOE got run-flat tires, and so did my truck, after Fran picked up a nail and almost died three years ago. Depending on how she tells the tale, and there are many versions of what actually happened that Christmas Eve after I’d left Colorado and moved back home.
“Any sign of the media?” I raise my voice over the noise of the heater fan and the engine.
“No one’s shown up here yet,” her voice loud from the dash. “But that reporter I hate so much just tried to call.”
“You hate all reporters.”
“This one in particular. Calendar Boy who thinks he’s God’s gift.”
“He left me a message, too, but not about this. I assume he’s unaware of what we’ve got out here?” I sure hope so because we don’t need Mason Dixon rolling up.
“I don’t know. I didn’t answer and won’t call him back,” Fran says.
“Probably best to ignore him.”
“You do know it will get harder now that his show is going regional, the entire Southeast. Leah heard something about it,” she says, and our international visits coordinator is a closet fan of Mason Dixon, I don’t care what she protests to the contrary.
“Let me guess,” as I drive, and there’s scarcely anyone on the road the closer I get to Fort Monroe. “She heard him bragging about it on his own show. In other words, self-promotion and not necessarily reliable.”
“All I can say is that according to the all-knowing Leah, he’ll be moving his studio to DC. Apparently, has gotten permission to be part of the White House press corps, if you can believe that.”
“Bad behavior seems to pay well these days,” I reply, and my emergency strobes are reflected in the plate-glass windows of a gas station I pass.
Like so many other businesses, lights out, nobody home.
“Not that I listen to his show or care,” Fran’s voice bristling with sarcasm. “But you can rest assured the only reason he got this newest gig is the obvious. The same way he’s gotten everything else. Calendar Boy couldn’t get hired to write fortune cookies if it wasn’t for his doting uncle Willy.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, and it’s not a good idea to underestimate anyone, least of all Mason. He’s not stupid, and a lot of people love him. Granted, it’s mostly women and gay guys,” I add.
“Talk about a conflict of interests, and don’t think the other reporters I know around here aren’t pissed,” she continues as if she couldn’t resent him more. “The governor deliberates evacuating us, and who breaks the story? Next, he’ll officially declare an emergency and confirm he for sure is evacuating us, and who do you think will get that scoop as well? And on and on it goes.”
“Which is probably how Mason found out General Melville is here,” I decide. “The governor could have reason to be aware. Or maybe someone around him does.”
It wouldn’t surprise me. Governor Willard Dixon has the challenge of overseeing a commonwealth that not only shares a border with Washington, DC, but includes NASA, the air force’s Air Combat Command, the largest naval station in the world and the Pentagon. Just to mention a few major targets should an adversary decide to divert a plane or missile and send it slamming into critical Virginia infrastructures that could cripple our government or military defenses.
“Listen, Fran, I think we should be very careful.” I wind up our conversation with what shouldn’t need to be said. “Something’s going on, and I have a bad feeling we’re not even close to knowing what it is yet.”
“No joke.” And she disconnects, leaving me to the sounds of driving through the wind and cold on my 16-inch run-flat tires.
At least it’s my lucky night when it comes to hitting all the yellow lights, speeding along, my strobes rolling full tilt. On McNair Drive my truck is a juggernaut of brilliant blue and red, flashing past the marina and the yacht club, the boats dry docked and shrink wrapped for the winter. Then around the bend, the 9-story Chamberlin looms in the dark, the once-famed beaux arts hotel now a posh retirement home.
I notice few cars in the parking lot, barely a third of the apartments lit up, and I wouldn’t blame people for leaving while they can. It’s no fun in this cold if the power goes out and the roads are flooded, and I can see the former guard gate up ahead. One I’ve been through countless times since I was a kid, unmanned now, not a whiff of an MP to flirt with or evade.
I don’t ease my foot off the gas, driving a little too fast through the walled entrance, entering the largest stone military installation ever built in the United States. I probably won’t get used to how Fort Monroe feels today, tame in an empty echoing way. None of the thriving mission-driven energy, the real estate and all that goes with it repurposed and pricey for the greater Hampton area. As is true of many monuments to a grander past, the 565 acres and historic edifices have been converted into private homes, condos, recreational facilities and tourist attractions.
But that wasn’t the case when my sister and I were coming along. The army base was still active then, decommissi
oned only 7 years ago while we were in graduate school. The absence of a military purpose and presence is a shock I won’t get over, and as much as I don’t always like repurposed historic sites, that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the point.
Better to put the place to good use. Better to return it to life, and in the process hope the public comes to know about what’s gone before and why it should matter anymore.
15
I KNOW my old stomping grounds like the back of my hand, could serve as a tour guide for their every attraction.
Starting with the most popular, the fortified casemate where the imperiled president of the Confederacy, Jefferson Davis, was imprisoned in 1865 at the end of the Civil War. Everybody loves a good tale of humiliation and punishment in an unheated jail cell that’s now a museum, I suppose. But that’s never moved me much.
What I love are the memories held in crumbling ramparts and parapets, the cannons, earthworks, bulwarks and nature trails. Even the RV park and old stone church would have a tale or two worth listening to could they talk. As would the parade ground with its ancient live oak trees, the miles of beaches, the fishing pier and the pet cemetery. All of it is quite spooky at night even when one isn’t responding to a death scene.
I can imagine the appeal to Edgar Allen Poe’s morbid creativity when he was stationed here from 1828 to 1830. It wouldn’t surprise me while he was tossing and turning in his army cot if he suffered night terrors about a heart beating beneath the floorboards. He very well might have thought about murder because I know I did when wandering about with Carme. Trying to outdo her with my creepy mysteries that would have sent most kids fleeing home in terrified tears, their hair standing on end.
Except she doesn’t frighten easily if at all, not going back as far as I recall. Mostly what we did in this water world of ruins and huge guns was play sports and our fantasy games. Then in high school it was drinking and carousing, especially with hot boys we’d take to the pet cemetery for a romantic scare. It’s not an exaggeration to say that during the base’s active years, Carme and I never lacked for a friend with an officer’s blue sticker on the family car that would get us through the guard gate. Bootlegging booze in suntan lotion and water bottles, and brazenly flirting with the military cops, who flirted right back.
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