Ticket Home

by James Michael Pratt

  “I mean that day when Manuelito and you—the train escape at Santa Rosa. Could I have changed it? Did I try hard enough to keep you from getting shot? Or did I want Missy so bad that … Oh no!” he wept, burying his head in his gnarled and worn trainman hands, ashamed, embarrassed at his thoughts of lies and betrayal. “Too much—this is too much,” he weepingly lamented. “No, Lucian. I would have given my life for yours. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I tried to make up for it, Lucian. See?” he started again like a defendant at trial seeking to explain some actions he had taken. “I took some shrapnel coming to get you out of there, looking for you at Cabanatuan,” the seventy-nine-year-old offered, pleading for understanding.

  “I looked everywhere for you. I was ready to die for you!” he mourned in an attempt at forgiveness.

  He continued to tearfully explain, rubbing at the stinging eyes, at the cloudiness of hot salty moisture that veiled them and kept his mind from seeing clearly. Mumbling words of regret, sorrow, wishes that he had tried harder, done differently, not lied—he begged, feeling he still had not found the words that would make it right.

  “I tried to make up for it. All these years. I thought, see, if I was you then I couldn’t hurt you anymore. I thought if I was you all my anger, all my memories would go away. I thought you wouldn’t mind. But I lived your name well, brother. I never hurt your name.

  “I …” His words melted to sobs as a lifetime of anguish spilled out of him in an instant. “I lost so much in the war. I grew so damned cold. You understand? See, the old Norman died there somewheres. See? You understand why I took your name?”

  In grief he bowed himself to the earth to supplicate the God of goodness for redemption, for forgiveness. He had said it all, had spilled it all out except for one solicitude to someone he quit talking to privately five decades earlier:

  “I am Norman, Lord! I have always been Norman Parker! I have lived a lie! Oh God in heaven, hear me! Please! I need you!”

  CHAPTER 65

  Vincente Salazar raced through the streets of Manila as if he were a man on a rescue mission. He hoped to secure the object that he was certain his aged mother had hidden safely away at the end of the war. She had told him of his father’s final instructions before he died.

  But only once, when he was a very small boy, and then had passed on. He had forgotten until now. The old Americano, the “trainman” as his mother had referred to him, had revealed something this night of great importance.

  There was an object of great meaning to the Parker twins when they were young. An object of such value that the dying words of one to the other included, “Did Manuelito get you the ring?”

  All these years the honored painting of Christ had hung on the wall in the family home and he had forgotten that anything lay behind it. He couldn’t be sure now if it was a vivid memory or his imagination. But if there was something there, if it was not just an overactive imagination, then what he would find belonged to Lucian Parker. And the old Americano fighter, his brokenhearted brother, needed it now.

  “This package is for the twin brother to the trainman, Senor Parker. His name is Norman Parker,” Miranda Salazar pointed to the name on the enveloped letter with a bulge in it. “I want to show you where it is, Vincente, if he should return to the Philippines for it.”

  He thought he could see himself, no more than five or six, not very interested, but when his mother had said the “trainman” something had clicked.

  There was also a photo of the brother named Norman with Vincente’s older sister during the war and one of his father and both Parker brothers taken just before the fall of Luzon to the Japanese. He had always wondered what these men had meant to his father. These photos were almost sacred to his mother for she kept candles lit every holiday near them.

  His mother had taken him to the wall in the sala, and above the statuette of the Blessed Virgin she removed the portrait of Christ holding heart in hand. To have such a painting was not unusual. Every Catholic home kept a similar portrait prominently posted in the main sala.

  She had pulled at the cardboard backing to reveal a thin envelope with a slight bulge. He had been more interested in playing with his friends. But if it were true! If something was really there!

  He wondered if he could make the more than two-hundred kilometer round-trip, find the object, and return by nightfall to Manila. He didn’t care at all about Mr. Parker’s money, his cab fares for spending the night. Vincente Salazar now possessed a portion of life and love he never could have imagined. He possessed the firsthand account of his hero father, his determination to see a job through, to keep the faith as the old Americano kept saying.

  Norman Parker felt like he had been reborn. Just the admission, the plea to God and his brother seemed to wash him clean. All the scrubbing in the world couldn’t do that before. Now he knew. Plain and simple. He didn’t need any outward sign from God to know that his offering, his confession, had been accepted. He had something burned into him at Lucian’s grave.

  An undeniable wave of peace, tingling from his head as if entering at the crown and traveling through him to his feet and up again burned as hot as any fire he’d known. And he’d known fires, lots of them. But a warm, comfortable, pleasing, happy fire it was. He was redeemed immediately from any torment and he knew that he was being loved from someone beyond the seeing world.

  Now, when he smiled at his beloved Mary Jane, it was the eighteen-year-old that did it. That same boy that still resided within the worn-out flesh and bone. That very same boy who first saw her at the springs and fell completely and instantly in love that hot summer day in 1939.

  It took some explaining as he and Mary Jane gathered their children around, but he was able to do it, relive the war at long last without shame, without the nagging terror that had shadowed him for fifty-five years.

  Seeming bewildered, amused, and befuddled by it all, his grown children simply smiled, hugged him and told him they loved him. Lucian or Norman Parker, he was still just “Dad” and that love never had any conditions attached.

  The family agreed they would bill the marriage ceremony in Redemption as “recommitting to a love affair of five decades.” Now that day for the ceremony had arrived. Mary Jane met her man at the altar while Pastor Briggs invited all in attendance to be seated.

  Pastor Briggs began:

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here on this sacred occasion to witness Norman B. Parker, also known by the name of Lucian, and Mary Jane Harrison Parker take each other by the hand and affirm to the world that they are forever one, united as man and wife.

  “By taking these vows they testify that they have loved each other with all their hearts and promise to do so until the end of their mortal lives. And if love is divine then by this sacrament of marriage they will keep a promise to love eternally.

  “Norman B. Parker do you take Mary Jane …”

  Vincente Salazar was perplexed. Why had his sister, Rosita, offered a stranger the small envelope from behind the portrait? And how did she know it was even there? He waited anxiously for her to return from shopping.

  His nephew had explained to him about the young-looking Americano who so pleasantly and politely had just hours before visited the home inquiring for the tiny package.

  He knew the connection with this object had greater significance than ever now and the fact that his father had given his life for these two brothers meant that he too had a duty, a responsibility to take care of the item, with his life if necessary.

  “Rosita!” he called as she entered the door carrying a bag of fresh produce from the market. “Rosita, I came from Manila tonight for something special. My nephew Julio tells me …”

  She cut him off. “It can’t be the small envelope?”

  “You didn’t give it away to a stranger, did you? I can’t understand this. What did he look like? How did he know about it? What did he say? And by the way, how did you know about it?”

  “You don�
�t think you were the only one Mamá told, do you?” the graying and dignified Filipina asked him.

  “No, but Rosita. I have just had a special occasion to know the owner and …”

  “What do you mean, owner? This man said he was the owner.”

  “Rosita, a young Americano comes to the door and knows about this secret hidden behind the portrait of Christ for fifty-five years? And you believe him? Ah!” he announced with frustration. “Hey! Maybe the old man … yes, maybe he sent him!”

  “I don’t know who sent him or what this is really all about but he said he was a friend of Papá’s and I had the strangest feeling. Everything he said felt so good. He was so kind. So pleasant. I couldn’t resist such a man with so much knowledge.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He sat with me almost the entire evening. I haven’t slept. He told me all I ever wondered about Papa and the war, what he did, how he died for the trainmen and about the two brothers who made an agreement.”

  A chill swept through Vincente as an unanticipated pleasant cool breeze brings on; suddenly, without warning. He wondered at his sister’s story and fell back into the sofa to listen as she continued and recounted detail for detail the story he had heard from the lips of the old veteran from Oklahoma.

  An hour, two, three, then four went by. They shared the common experience with childlike excitement in a wonderment reserved for the spiritual awakening that happens perhaps once in a lifetime.

  Vincente fixed his gaze upon the glass-covered portrait of Christ with a new appreciation. He had taken this token of family heritage and belief for granted. The painting of Christ holding his heart suddenly had meaning, a refreshing new meaning.

  He understood and yet could not quite comprehend how the magical event that had happened to him and his sister could be possible.

  “What did this man look like?” he finally asked. “I mean specifically. Can you describe him?”

  Rosita sat there, teary-eyed and drained from all that had transpired. Yes, she could describe him.

  “Vincente, I think you should see this,” she said softly as she pulled from her wallet a photo she had kept safely encased in plastic. “After he left, I thought he looked so familiar. Then I remembered this. I think you should see it and tell me if I am imagining this,” she said almost reverently.

  “You mean this man? The one in the photo taken with you behind the casa? And this one with Papá taken during the war? But Rosita that could only mean …”

  The wedding vows were as joyful to the aged couple as to new-lyweds just starting life. Though the ceremony lasted only minutes, to Mary Jane and Norman Parker it was the dream of a lifetime. A beautiful culminating moment that crowned them as a reward for a rich life so well lived and deserved.

  The children and grandchildren threw rice and handed Norman the tickets for the train from Redemption to Dallas/Ft. Worth International Airport and then on to an undisclosed and secret rendevous with romance, a honeymoon never known by his true identity until now.

  Using the MasterCard with Norman B. Parker was like using a toy that gave a child great pleasure every time he plunked it on the counter to purchase something, pay for the hotels. Spend he did. Like a man out of his mind he used that name, Norman B. Parker.

  The Parker children had gone their separate ways. Now home from their romantic weeks together, Norman and Mary Jane found themselves standing on the railroad passenger platform in Redemption enjoying a soothing breeze, a pleasant Oklahoma sunset.

  Time had vanished and Norman rested his gaze upon the most perfect picture of peace and beauty he could have ever imagined. They held hands tightly only as two young lovers do.

  “I feel eighteen,” he softly voiced. “I feel as though I could walk on air. Oh, Missy!” he whispered. “I feel free and full of love like I have never felt before!”

  “I understand darling. I truly do.” She smiled with eyes that danced happily as they locked with his. “You are the most handsome man on earth, Norman!” she said in a gleeful girlish tone. “It feels so wonderful to say your name … Norman.”

  They brought to each other a fire reserved for youth and in that instant as lips met they knew they would forever be as young as they desired.

  “Love does that,” Norman assured her.

  “Does what?” She smiled as if she were admiring a man she had just fallen in love with.

  “Keeps you young,” he replied with a nibble to her ear.

  “Uh, humm … Mr. Parker?” a man standing off to one side cleared his throat. “I apologize for the interruption,” the cheerful middle-aged train-station manager announced.

  “Oh hello, Steve. How’s the train business today?” Norman replied happily.

  “Just dandy as usual. People love these old steel beasts. Howdy do, Mrs. Parker? What’s got Mr. Parker so cheery?” he laughed.

  “Why he’s always been that way. And I am feeling wonderful as well. Simply marvelous,” she replied radiantly.

  “May I just say that in all the years I have known the two of you I do not believe I have ever seen you a happier couple.” He smiled. “They say love just gets better.” He smiled again.

  “Thank you, Steven.” Mary Jane blushed. “He is a handsome man!” she offered, pulling close to Norman as she did.

  “Again I do apologize for interrupting two little love birds in action. You know displays of affection are so highly regarded here in Redemption that we have laws forbidding getting carried away in public. Don’t make me call the sheriff,” he chuckled as they held each other joyfully around the waist.

  “Is that what you came out here from your office to tell us?” Norman laughed like a man without a care in the world. “Steve, what do you have there?” He pointed to the curious small envelope, painted a rusty lemon color by time. A tiny bulge accented its age.

  “Oh. Why, I almost forgot the reason I came to greet you. I have something for you. A young man said you would know what it was.” He paused thoughtfully as he questioned something about Norman’s countenance. “Well, I’ll be,” he said, looking intently into the face of the smiling old train man. He stood back and just shook his head.

  “What? Steve, what are looking at?”

  “Very curious. Your smile,” he pointed out. “If you were fifty years younger I’d swear … Remarkable!” he said, scratching his head. “Well, just a coincidence I’m sure. I hope you have a superb trip,” the friendly depot manager from Redemption offered, handing the envelope over to the suddenly serious and sober man.

  “Good day, Steve,” Norman said courteously as the man cheerily whistled and walked away with a wave of the hand.

  “What could this be?” Mary Jane posed in a tone mixed with concern and bewilderment.

  Norman shrugged and began to shakily open the tired and thin looking envelope. It had a distinctive appearance, even a smell that easily drew his mind to the battlefields of the Philippines; a place he had so completely forgotten, disengaged his thoughts from for many days now.

  “Careful,” Mary Jane urged as he gently tore at the envelope.

  A shiny circular metallic object rolled easily from it and into his hand. His gaze welled with moisture as if a heaven sent flood had flashed across the plains and caught him wide eyed in it. He held it up, examining it. A cruel hoax?

  The sun shimmered off the ring held between his thumb and index finger causing a spectacular gold sparkle to radiate from it in every direction.

  Mary Jane gasped, hand to her mouth. Trembling they both moved to the nearby bench to support the emotions and questions now overwhelming and coursing through them.

  Unsteadily Norman reached into his coat pocket and placed his reading glasses on. He pulled a single soiled sheet of onion-skin writing paper with aged and smeared ink blotches from the envelope, and read:

  Dear Norman,

  I think this belongs to you now. If you see this note it is because you made it home and I did not. You kept the family motto and it was you who
rightly deserve to have it. You kept the faith! I was kind of selfish growing up, always looking out for myself, you know. You never were. You deserve this.

  Keep it safe and if I don’t make it back, make Mary Jane put it on your hand. In this way part of me will return home. Wear it with honor and pass it on. Keep the family faith alive.

  I love you like life, Norman. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.

  Your brother,

  Sergeant Lucian Parker

  P.S. We sure showed ’em didn’t we, brother?

  “We sure did, brother. We surely did,” he whispered in a gravelly voice, wiping at the tears that had become so common these past weeks.

  Mary Jane reached for the ring and made him give his left hand to her. It slid on easily, as if no time had transpired from the last time he had tried it on, 1941. The etched letters “KTF” glistened from the light of the afternoon sun.

  “Keep the faith,” he whispered. “I did, didn’t I?” he asked Mary Jane with an innocent boyishness.

  “Yes, darling. You did. You really did!” she answered tearily. The stately silver-haired woman he had adored with all his heart was really his now.

  With a sweet kiss to his lips and firm arms placed around his neck she gave a silent witness to her belief that Norman Parker really had kept the family trust and faith, and would keep passing it down forever.

  EPILOGUE

  Easter Sunday—One Month Later at Home in Warm Springs

  Norman struggled to lift his head from his bed situated in the center of the living room where he could gaze out to view the panoramic vista of the land he had loved so well.

  “Here darling, let me help you,” Mary Jane said, reaching for his head and fluffing the pillows up so her fragile husband could ponder all that his eyes beheld.