As he broke off the hug, my mother, her eyes streaming tears, wedged her way into my arms and reached up and pulled my head down so she could kiss my cheek.
“Thank God you’re home, Mickey,” Mom’s choked voice whispered.
At that moment, nothing mattered but being in my mom’s arms almost home in the warm United States.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Sleeping in my own warm, soft bed at my parents’ house without the cold, the noises of war, and the clinging fears should have been a taste of heaven. This was the security I’d day-dreamed about so many times in the past months. But all of my home comforts had been swept aside. Richards was dragging me into the light. He had a gun. The bastard had my knife. He was going to kill me, and I—I found myself sitting up in bed sweating. It took me a moment to realize where I was.
The street light cast an eerie white glow into the dark kitchen. The illuminated stovetop clock depicted a little after four a.m. Wearing a tee-shirt and fatigue pants, I sat on a wooden-latticed, dining-room-table chair, staring outside as if I were expecting someone.
The trucks and cars of the news media camped outside my parents’ Bluffton-house were coated with sticky, yellow pine pollen. I’d been home two days, and they still hadn’t left me alone. I hoped they were all allergic.
Slipper-softened footsteps patted the hardwood floor. My father walked in wearing his robe.
“Any worms left?” he asked.
My dad had always said this to anyone who got up before him. Always. He made me smile. I was home.
He glanced out the window. “What’re you looking at? The sun isn’t even up yet?”
“Nothing, everything, the pine pollen on those TV vans,” I said.
He nodded. “They’ll be gone soon. But you can’t blame them. This little town has never had a Medal of Honor recipient. Hell the state has only had a few. I can’t say enough . . . my son . . . I—”he turned his back to me and wiped his face. Then he put what was left of last night’s dinner coffee on a burner. “It’ll take a while . . . getting used to being here. But you will.” Then he walked over, stood next to me, and touched my shoulder. “I know what it’s like to . . . to remember; to have nightmares. I still do although not as frequently. Most of the bad stuff you’ve experienced over there will eventually go away, but, unfortunately, not all of it.” He shook his head. “Believe me I know. Certain things will haunt you. And you’ll have to relive all the shit; the sights, smells, noises, bone-jarring explosions, the God-awful fear . . . all the shit, again and again. And the memories can invade at any time, not just at night. A car back-fires, someone screams, a plane flies overhead; stupid little triggers that will slam you back there again. Right back in the middle of it. And there’s nothing you can do but live with it. It will get better. Like I said, many of the memories will fade and the occurrences of those remaining will get further and further apart.” He retrieved two cups and poured coffee for both of us. “I’m sorry you’re going through this.” He handed me a cup of the strong brew and raised his cup at me. “If you ever need to talk about it, I’m here for you.”
I took a swig of his Army-like unfiltered grounds-in-water coffee. “After you came home, did you and your dad ever talk about war?” I asked.
“No. But, in general, I understood what he had gone through. After I got back, we conveyed a lot of feelings without talking. I wished we would’ve talked more.”
I snapped my fingers; then reached into my pocket. “I’ve got something for you.” I handed him his oyster shell. “Here’s your talisman. And thank you; it worked. I was lucky.”
He took the small shell in his hand; his thumb reacquainting itself as it rubbed over the rough surface. “That’s what it’s all about . . . luck.”
He took a swig of coffee. “You sure you don’t need this?”
“I’m sure.”
“Would you like to talk about Korea now, before your mom gets up?”
I looked down, head shaking. “No. Not now, but someday.”
“It’s your call. More coffee?”
“Sure.” I handed him my cup.
He walked over to the stove to top off our cups. “Your mother and I thought you may want to go to Savannah with us today.”
“What’s going on in Savannah?”
“For one thing, Bob Bresnahan has been transferred to a hospital there, Saint Joseph’s. And we wanted to stop by the investigator’s office and get an update on his search for Sara.”
My heart rate surged. “Count me in.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Our appointment with the investigator was at eleven o’clock. The timing had given Mom just enough time to get Jeffie off to school before we had to leave for Savannah.
We’d have to visit Bob in the hospital afterward. Thank God. I wasn’t sure I could summon the patience to delay hearing what the private-eye had to say.
The ride from Bluffton to Savannah was like the long ride to the dentist’s office when I was a kid. It started out with me thinking good thoughts, after all any news about Sara would be something. We had nothing so far. Maybe today, we would get a lead, a means for finding her. But the closer we got, the more I focused on the fact Sara had left without a word. And like going to the dentist, I anticipated nothing but pain.
The office of the investigator ended up being a small house on Skidaway Road, not far from the Isle of Hope.
Shortly after Dad knocked on the front door, a small, middle-aged man with glasses and thin red hair opened the door. He wore a nylon button down shirt and wrinkled gray slacks. “Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, welcome.” He motioned us inside. “And you don’t need to introduce this young man; his picture has been in all the local papers.” He extended his right hand. “It gives me great pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Mackenzie. Name’s Lyle, Lyle Fitzpatrick. Thank you for everything you’ve done, including putting Bluffton on the world map.”
We shook hands, and he ushered me inside.
We entered a sparsely furnished living room with bare wooden floors. The house was neat but smelled stale, old; like the windows hadn’t been opened in a long time.
“I wish I could tell you that, like your dad, I was also a former Marine, but I can’t,” Lyle said. “I tried to enlist in the Corps after Pearl Harbor, but they wouldn’t take me. I have asthma.”
I wasn’t here for small talk, and I didn’t really care if he were an ex-anything. “What have you found out about Sara Wiggs?”
He tilted his head, recognizing my urgency. “Please have a seat. I’ll grab my notes. Can I get anyone something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” Dad said, looking at Mom, then me. “Maybe later.”
The three of us sat on the couch, with me bracketed by Mom and Dad.
The little man returned, thumbing through a small notebook. He stopped and scanned a page. “Ah, here it is. Thanks to the license number you gave me, Mr. Mackenzie, I was able to track down the registration. The 1950 Packard Super Eight Victoria was purchased at Kings’ Kars in Savannah this past March. And it’s registered to a Mrs. Sara Venturini, address . . . 172 West Elm Street, Youngstown, Ohio.”
“What?” I leaned forward. Why would Sara tell me her name was Wiggs? The thought of Sara possibly lying to me put me on edge. “That can’t be right. Her last name is Wiggs.” Glancing at my parents, I could tell they knew I was being defensive for Sara’s sake.
“Her maiden name is Wiggs,” Lyle said.
“Oh.” I eased back into the chair. “I guess I don’t know where she and her husband lived. But his family was from New York, and Sara was from Wilmington, Ohio.”
“Is this the correct license number of Sara’s car?” the detective asked, holding a piece of paper up so Dad could see it.
“Yeah, that’s correct,” Dad said.
“I verified the address,” Lyle said looking at me, “and a John and Sara Venturini own that property in Youngstown.”
I needed to relax and let this man talk. But I couldn’t. �
�Sara told me when she met John, ah, her husband,” I glanced at Mom, “he was in med-school. Is John Venturini a doctor?” I asked.
“I couldn’t find anything indicating he is,” Lyle said. “He doesn’t seem to have a profession or a job for that matter. But they live very well. Per the county records, John and Sara Venturini purchased 172 West Elm last year. And it’s more than just your normal family house. This real estate has an eleven-thousand square-foot structure on two hundred and fifty acres of property, in other words a walled-in mansion on a huge plot of ground.”
I braced my hands on my knees. “I knew she was from money, but I guess I didn’t realize how much.” My mind imagined what Sara had to have been thinking living in that tiny, dingy Savannah apartment. All along I had thought Sara had someway been forced to leave, but what if that was wrong? What if she had decided she wanted her baby to have all the best things, things the baby wouldn’t get living in the care of a stinky paper mill worker?
Lyle turned a few pages. “Yeah, they paid cash for that new Packard.”
I interlaced my fingers and squeezed them tightly together.
Mom reached out and took my hands. “Is there more?” she softly asked.
“Yes,” Lyle said with a hint of pride. “I was able to verify Johnny Venturini was here, in the area, most of last summer. He was with his wife, Sara. And his parents were with them. They stayed at the old Wiggs’ plantation out near Okatie.”
Could this be true? So far, everything he said made sense. A trickle of sweat rolled down the crease in my back.
“While he was here he was admitted to Saint Joseph Candler Hospital in Savannah, twice,” Lyle continued. “Both times for surgery. When he first got here in May of last year, and again in July.” He took a deep breath and eased it out. “Per the hospital records, he was being treated for a car accident in Youngstown.”
I shook my head. Hospital records, car accident, not TB?
“I assume he was brought here by his family,” Lyle continued. “The renowned Plastic Surgeon, Doctor Boyce Charmer is here. And apparently it was a wise decision for it took this great physician two surgeries, with a rest in between, to put John’s face back together again.”
Iron lung my ass. Could I be this big of a sucker? Was I just a boy toy for Sara while she waited for her rich husband to recuperate?
I stood.
“Please sit down and try to relax, there’s more,” the small bespectacled man said.
Relax? This puny-ass stranger I don’t know from Adam was telling me the woman I love has lied to me. How in the fuck was I supposed to relax? Somebody was lying.
After a look from my mom, I sat down. My head pounded. I was a volcano that had to erupt. But I needed to know everything, though I wasn’t sure I could take anymore. I took a deep breath and released it, like when I was trying to hit an enemy soldier over two hundred yards out with my BAR; which now seemed easy compared to this.
Maybe I should’ve stayed in Korea.
I cleared my throat and tried to control my voice. “Please . . . please continue.”
“Well, your mom told me Sara was ah, pregnant. So I checked all the listed gynecologists in Youngstown, Ohio, and found out Sara Venturini is a current patient of Doctor Gold in Youngstown.”
A gut twisting thought collapsed my head into my hands. What if the baby wasn’t mine? Everything else Sara had said was apparently a lie, why not that?
Dad’s large hand patted my shoulder. “Is that all?” he asked.
“Just this,” Lyle said. “The Post Office is again delivering mail to 172 West Elm Street. Though I haven’t been there to verify it, I’d say Sara Venturini is in Youngstown, Ohio.”
“Do you have a phone number?” Mom asked.
“Yes, I do.” He handed a small piece of paper to Mom. “And for now, that’s all I have.”
That’s all? Wasn’t that fucking enough? Sara’s a liar. My hopes and dreams were a fantasy.
Mom and Dad stood; Dad motioned at me.
For the first time in my life, my scarred legs were weak and untrustworthy; but somehow supported me.
“Is there anything else you need from me?” Lyle asked.
Dad looked at me and then Mom. “If we think of something, we’ll call. Thank you for all your work.”
“You’re welcome.”
As we walked down his sidewalk, I reached out and took the piece of paper with Sara’s number on it from my mother.
This wasn’t over.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Mom, Dad, and I were in Dad’s ’47 Town Sedan Chevy sitting in front of Lyle Fitzpatrick’s office. The sun was peaking in its route through our southern heavens. It was a warm day. And I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. I was hollow; empty; a used throwaway. Was I really that naïve? I was sure Sara loved me. Damned sure. How could she have done this to me? Lie after lie. Now I doubted the baby was mine.
“Do you still want to go see Bob?” Mom asked me.
“Not today, no,” I said from the back seat.
“There’ll be other times,” she said. “Unfortunately for Bob, I think he’ll be there for a while.”
“Do you want me to go back in there and ask Lyle to go to Youngstown and verify that Sara’s there?” Dad asked.
I shook my head. “No, you guys have spent too much money as it is.”
“What do you want to do, son?” Dad asked.
Rubbing a temple, I gazed out a side window at nothing. “Well, I’m still in the Marine Corps, and they have scheduled me for a meeting with President Truman next week. And then they want me for a six-week bond-raising tour two weeks after. Maybe I’ll leave from Washington, and go see Sara the week before the tour.”
“Did you hear what Lyle said?” Dad asked me. “It seems pretty cut and dried to me. Sara not only lied to all of us, but used us as well. And when her husband recuperated, she returned to her old life. I don’t think seeing Sara is or ever will be a good idea. How could you ever trust what she told you? I know you’re hurting, but why add to it? I think you need to erase Sara from your life.”
“She’s having our baby, Dad.”
“How can you be sure that baby is yours?” Mom asked, looking away. Then she turned and faced me. “You need to listen to your dad, Mick.”
“I guess I don’t know. I don’t know if the baby is mine. I’m not sure I know anything after today. If what that man in there has said is true, my whole adult life had been a lie. I’ve got to talk to Sara. I want her to tell me it’s all been a lie. Then and only then, maybe I’ll be able to, as you said,” I glanced at Dad, “‘erase’ her from my life.”
“If you must talk to her, call her,” Mom said. “Though I think calling her would be a waste of your time. Mick, how can you believe anything she says? I agree with your dad, walk away from all of this; get on with your life and forget Sara.”
They were right; they were always right. But before I could ever think about forgetting Sara, I had to see her. I wanted her to tell me that our baby, our plans, and all those weeks of feelings and words were nothing but lies.
Being in Korea, I had dragged my parents into this; way too far into this. It was time to get them out of it. Obviously, they wouldn’t agree with what I had to do. I loved them, and I didn’t want to fight with them.
“I love you guys and immensely appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But . . . but tomorrow, I’m moving back into the Savannah apartment.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
It was mid-morning by the time the bus dropped me off at Saint Joseph’s Hospital. It had been a long two days since my planned visit to see Bob had been aborted. I was tired and on edge.
Sneezing from the pine pollen suspended in the air, I walked to the hospital’s entrance. The three-dollars-worth of dimes rattled in my uniform pants pocket.
I had two things on my agenda today; see Bob, and then find a pay phone and call Sara.
Yesterday, Dad and I had moved all of what had been Sar
a’s and my furnishings from storage to the apartment. We agreed that he and Mom would pick me up the following week and take me to the Hunter Army Airfield for our flight to Washington.
I’d spent my first night in the Savannah apartment since leaving for Korea; alone, a sleepless night.
I was informed Bob had just come out of an operation and was in the Intensive Care ward. The gate-keeper let me enter, either because I told her I’d served with Bob in Korea, or maybe because she recognized me. My picture had been in every local paper for the past week.
The ward was small, maybe ten beds separated by curtains, with a nurses’ station in the middle.
A blonde nurse who looked too frail to be maneuvering patients, sat behind a counter at the station.
“Good morning, I’m here to see Bob Bresnahan.”
“Good morning,” she said, shuffling some papers on her desk. “Sergeant Bresnahan just joined us yesterday after having some rather extensive back surgery. Right now we have him restrained and on pain medicine. He may be a little groggy.”
“Oh.” I blew out a breath. “So is he conscious?”
“I was just in there. He’s awake. But he’s a little loopy.” She eyed my uniform. “Will seeing you upset him? We don’t want him to even try to move.”
“I don’t know. We’re best friends, and I haven’t seen him since he enlisted.”
She rubbed her chin as she separated some papers and scanned a chart. “What’s your name?”
“Mick, Mick Mackenzie.”
She stood. “Give me a minute.” She took a couple of steps and disappeared behind a curtain directly across from the station.
“Bob,” she said in a raised voice. “Bob can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” Bob answered in a dry, cracked voice. “My hearing’s about all that’s working properly.”
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