“I’m thirsty,” he whispered in a voice hoarse with dryness.
“Here you are, sweetheart,” she offered, struggling with the emotions of letting go of her beloved who each hour seemed to be drifting further away from life and from her. She held the tumbler and the straw to his lips and allowed the cool iced water to soothe his parched throat.
“Reminds me of the Bataan Death March.” He pointed weakly to his throat. “Dry. Very dry,” he gurgled as he strained to sip from the straw.
“Oh, Norman,” Mary Jane voiced softly as she stroked his head, kissed his moist cheeks, wet from eyes tenderly offering what words his lips couldn’t form. “Why, Norman? Why do you have to leave me?” she asked in the innocent voice of a child seeking guidance, understanding from a wiser, older one. “Why now? We finally …” She couldn’t finish as she looked into the eyes of the man intently gazing past her, beyond her, through her to the distant rails bordering their property, and the lonely depot he had first known with his pa, Jason, mother, Maria Linda, and beloved twin, Lucian.
She tried to alert him to her presence to no avail. He was lost in one of his moments of reverie that he lapsed in and out of so often in the past few days. But he was weaker now. His breathing shallow, his heartbeat faint. It was no use lying to herself. Not anymore. The doctor told her it would be days at best. To make him as comfortable as she could.
“Norman?” she breathed shakily. “Norman!” she cried as she stroked his head and sought for someone to give her solace. Her children were on the way. Yet she was alone waiting to be comforted, waiting for companionship in this final hour of marriage.
She picked her head up from off his chest where it lay seeking one final embrace from him. “Are you going to leave me again, darling?” she whispered.
He smiled and yet looked through her gazing eyes as if she wasn’t there. “Norman? Can you hear me?” she begged placing her face directly in front of his.
“I’m seeing things.” He smiled with shallow breaths. His gaze fixed into and through the ample picture window.
“What’s that?” he asked, a quizzical expression written on his sunken, tired face.
“For me?” He grinned through a pain-conquered grimace he had worn for so many hours now.
“Why?” he asked like a child would to an adult standing over him. “To make me feel comfortable? If you are here I am comfortable.” He smiled softly, breathing eased, countenance radiating a confidence Mary Jane hadn’t seen since he and Lucian were young and alive.
“Norman? Dear? Can you talk to me?” she gently probed. She wondered if he was hallucinating about his parents, going back to his childhood. Or was he thinking the children had arrived?
He had wanted and was anticipating the children who were on their way to spend the final moments with their father. She had promised him the day before and he was eager to see them. Now he wasn’t making sense. Mary Jane turned to look out the window expecting and hoping to see the children coming up the long driveway from the road bordering the rails. No one.
“Who, darling? I don’t see them. Who are you seeing? Talking to?” she asked, turning to him again, fearful of this moment.
His pupils dilated as if beams of light had been directly placed upon them, then removed. “Sure! I can hear you. Clear as a bell,” he whispered back, to someone unseen by Mary Jane.
“Whistles. You mean when I hear them?” He smiled, eyes sparkling from the light shining brightly from outside the large picture window.
A sudden childish grin energized him. “It’s true! It’s really true!” he laughed as excitedly as his worn and frail shell could muster.
“It’s beautiful!”
“Really? I didn’t think they made those steamers—not like that! How?” He conversed in self-talk as a child to an imaginary visitor.
“Just for me? Oh my!” he responded to what only his ears seemed to hear.
“Well yes, I can go. When do I get to see you?” he whispered throatily but contented, voice falling off.
“Norman? Darling? Are you leaving me?” Mary Jane complained weakly. She really didn’t expect an answer. She had never seen anyone die. Was this death?
“Fine. Surely am ready. Surely am,” he sighed, eyes closing. “Missy? Oh fine, she’s real fine,” he answered to the unseen questionare so low Mary Jane strained to make out his words.
She was shaken, unsure of herself. Her life had been filled for so many thousands of days with Parker men she could barely remember being anyone else before those days.
She couldn’t hold the dam restraining the deep moisture building behind the walls of her eyes. As it burst, her trembling lips sought to form words.
Trembling, her aging hands reached for his thin but still very distinguished graying head, to stroke his temples, offer him a soothing touch of love as she had thousands of times during countless sleepless episodes of war memories, recurrences of malaria, tormenting nightmares.
Nightmares no more. Her man was acting as if he were headed home. As if other arms were there to greet him, to take him away from her.
“Mary Jane.” He suddenly spoke lucidly as he directed his failing gaze upon her.
“Mary Jane Parker. I love you!” he offered with urgency. “Can you hear it? Listen,” he implored with what strength was left in him. “Can you hear it?”
“Hear what darling? I don’t heat anything.”
“Listen.” His eyes urged and then closed. He smiled and sighed, contented with the approaching sounds.
“I knew he would come for me,” he whispered, relaxing the tenseness that had occupied his sickly body.
“We always—kept the faith for each other. Hear that?” He opened his eyes tiredly once more to the window, pupils dilating again to the dazzling light penetrating them.
“Ticket?” He smiled to an image growing larger in his view. “Here,” he offered in weakened gasp as he allowed the bright metallic wedding band to slide from his skeletal finger and into the palm of his outstretched hand.
She gazed out toward the depot but saw nothing. “Oh, Norman!” she cried, looking desperately for what he was seeing, hoping, wanting to believe.
“Lucian!” he sighed as the breath released from his lungs. “Lucian … Lu …” His right hand, extended to the light in the picture window, fell limp to the side of the bed and a bright gold ring rolled out from it easily, onto the floor, and toward the same picture window he had gazed through moments before.
“Oh darling, Norman,” she cried. “You can go now. You can go, darling,” she offered, kissing his cheeks, mingling her tears with the moist drops draining from his still and closed eyes.
“What!” Mary Jane swung around to the familiar noise coming from the tracks. She gazed intently, calmly, suddenly serene as an indescribable peace bathed her, swept over her, with sounds from the rails. It had always been Lucian’s call. He always let his family know when he was almost home.
Three whistles … two whistles … three!
She smiled, looked back to Norman’s still and now empty frame. Tears freely mingled with creases from unexpected an smile trapping the lips which she had used to kiss the two men of her life.
Gasps of loss from her lungs mingled with an incredible and intense bliss. She turned back toward the sounds of blasts from the locomotive that didn’t, couldn’t really, exist.
She blew them a kiss and spoke her heart and mind aloud for anyone to hear. “Farewell, my darlings,” her halting voice offered to the invisible reaches beyond Warm Springs.
She bent to the floor and recovered the ring they had both worn in display of their love for her.
She held it to her breast and gazed miles beyond this place. The fleeting rays of day broke through clouds as if to encourage her, give her comfort.
“Please come, take me home soon. I loved you, Lucian Parker, and oh, how I have loved you, Norman! With all my heart and soul … I have loved you so very much!”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I express my gratitude to my family, friends, and reading fans who continue to urge me on in my pursuit of inspirational love stories and moral fiction. I receive so many kind letters and e-mails. Thank you! Please keep them coming. I promise to write back.
I also owe a continued debt of gratitude to Kenneth Atchity and Chi-li Wong and their team of AEI/All Media of Beverly Hills, California, and New York, who have enthusiastically endorsed my work all along.
To Mr. Joel McKuin, entertainment attorney, a special thank you for being there from the start and for all the work performed so professionally for me on this and other books.
The world has never been more cynical about basic goodness in the human character, the enduring nature of love, and “old-fashioned” values. I express my sincere appreciation to Jennifer Enderlin, senior editor with St. Martin’s Press, who is a true believer. She has shown the courage to take her beliefs in my storytelling of love, faith, and hope to print.
It is Jennifer and others at St. Martin’s Press, including publisher Sally Richardson, who understand that stories filled with the basics of human nature, life, and honest love are perennial winners.
To my radio syndicator, colleague, and friend, Mitchell Santell of PCBroadcast.com, who also shares his vision in my nationally syndicated weekly radio show The Bestsellers, a special thank you for personifying excellence in attitude, honesty, and performance.
My new friend and public relations confidante for The Bestsellers Show is the marvelous Donna Gould of Phoenix Media. Donna, the personification of kindness, is at the top of the game in media and publishing, and I feel fortunate and blessed to have her friendship and wisdom in my professional life.
Leo Weidner, personal success coach and friend—and Mark Kastleman, fellow writer, speaker, and longtime friend and confidant—are enthusiastic cheerleaders for my writing, my health, and my personal growth. These are great men of the success culture who live what they teach and devote their lives to inspiring others. I love you guys!
A special thanks to John Rimmasch of Heber Valley Railroad in Heber, Utah, who provided valuable insights into steam locomotives, their operations, and the romance of the great train era. From engineer to fireman I was taught the secrets of the “shortline railroad” through his generous sharing of time and resources. Also of Heber Valley, Mr. James Ritchie, an early supporter of my creative efforts, deserves my thanks and appreciation for his long-standing belief in me. Thank you, John and Jim!
A special acknowledgment is owed to Dr. Neil Whitaker, for whom the character “Neil” of The Last Valentine was named. He was there in the critical times with my health challenges of the past. He interceded to help save my life not once but twice! I wouldn’t be here today penning these novels without his observant wisdom. I cherish our lifelong friendship.
ALSO BY JAMES MICHAEL PRATT
The Lighthouse Keeper
The Last Valentine
AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD
Why I write on the theme of love and war
I am often asked how I come upon my stories and why I particularly choose the generation of my parents to honor. My stories are based first on strong personal beliefs and second on the fact that the years the World War II generation lived were pivotal and transitional to creating the world we now enjoy. As such they offer an unparalleled backdrop for drama, romance, and tragedy—all elements which combined make for interesting, believable, and engaging characters who can offer us insights no other living generation can.
I believe, for example, that love alone will save this world from a destruction to be caused ultimately by lack of it. I confess to being an incurable romantic.
I believe in romance in all of its dignity—most cherished of all the soul’s dreams are to truly love and be loved. My view of personal dignity in romance, the gentleman’s code of honor which includes how he looks at and treats a woman, may seem quixotic to some. They would not be very far from the mark. What women would not want to feel valued, prized, and worthy of true love—safe—a Dulcinea?
I believe in virtues taught to me by my parents and so many others of their generation. They are timeless in their power to build healthy relationships and heal the challenges which confront us. Naive? If so, I’m perfectly happy to skip through life believing wrongs can be righted with integrity and honor.
My stories are of love from the perspectives of a generation who has lived long enough to be authoritative about it, not from the scholar or therapist, but from those who said “I do” and did.
With this novel completed I have penned a trio of love stories. Starting with The Last Valentine, about timeless love and determination to keep promises, I chose to again take a step back in time with The Lighthouse Keeper, a tale of deep devotion showing how the flame of love gives us the brightest hope to deal with tragedy, loss, and come to terms with what matters most.
Finally this story, Ticket Home, takes us on a journey back to youthful days of innocence, loss of innocence through war, and the power of love to salvage dreams. Different in focus from the previous two, our heroes discover love’s immense power to cure sickness of the mind and heart. It is a tale of healing and redemptive powers.
All three novels in the series honor the triumph, tragedies, and loves of a generation which news anchor Tom Brokow has coined and introduced to us as, The Greatest Generation, the title for his national bestseller. I personally feel driven to show them my respect and gratitude in fiction as he has in nonfiction.
With Ticket Home I hope to entertain, inspire, and inform, using the backdrop from this generation’s days, months, and years which most closely mirror the complete history of our twentieth century than any other generation. In some measure, and with profound respect, I hope to keep this “greatest generation” alive in our memories through my writing.
They are looking back now, often wondering what happened to time. They entertain grandchildren who have no concept of a devastating universal economic Depression, a world at war, making do or doing without. We still have much to learn from them.
They lived both in a violent time and a gentler slower-paced world. They saved a world engulfed in wars created by madmen in the center of a century, and united they reshaped forever the map of the world and destinies of nations.
There are many in their generation whose stories of life never fully blossomed. They were cut short by the most destructive war ever to have occurred in the history of mankind. These brave souls cut short in their youth were neither given a lifetime to fill with love nor were they given years to train the next generation.
A few readers have complained that the stories include so much war. One reader recently wrote: “You lost me when you started into the war stories,” to which I wrote back, “Sorry.”
It is intentional that I include the war years and I do feel sorry for any reader who wishes to remain uninformed about those dead and living to whom she or he owes the right to choose what they will do each day with their freedom. It is a shame that some will choose to skip over character-cultivating history. The main characters and protagonists are from that generation for all the reasons previously ascribed. So I do feel “sorry” if a reader loses interest.
To understand how the character representing our parents and grandparents develops, becomes, changes, one must view his or her life from that character’s point of view, dilemmas, historical perspectives, and so on. Find anyone of the “greatest generation” who has not been significantly affected emotionally, spiritually, or physically by the war years and you find someone who lived in a shell or on another planet.
There were more than sixteen million American men and women in uniform during World War II and over one half million dead and missing. There were more than one million wounded, some so severely their lives were altered forever. We talk about Vietnam’s MIAs still in the realm of two thousand, and the Korean War with some eight thousand MIAs and what a tragedy that is. It is a tragedy for one to be missing in war. In World War II there are still over sevent
y-three thousand MIAs! Each missing man’s life has a story behind it!
All three of my novels to date honor and remember those courageous men and women who faced the steel of two brutal militaristic empires so that we may enjoy the freedoms we all too often fail to recognize, including what to read, think, do with our lives, and enjoy. These freedoms cost someone his or her blood.
More particularly, I have placed this story’s heroes among the more than eighty thousand Americans and Filipinos taken prisoner in the fall of the Philippines in April and May 1942.
In particular I have chosen to honor the New Mexico National Guard units, the 200th Coastal Artillery, and the first new regiment formed during combat in World War II—the 515th Coastal Artillery. Also the 6th Rangers and Alamo Scouts, who so gallantly risked their lives to free some 500 Americans at Cabanatuan POW camp, were mentioned and our hero Norman Parker placed among them. They were the first to fight against the sea, air, and land forces of the Japanese empire in World War II. Why did I choose these groups of fighting men and other Philippine war veterans to honor?
As a young boy I was both fascinated and filled with terror reading about the tens of thousand who would not return from the battle for Bataan, the Bataan Death March, then Corregidor, the prison camps O’Donnell, Cabanatuan, Bilibid, the forced labor for coal and copper in the mines of Japan, China, and Manchuria.
Thousands died at sea in cramped, stifling, miserable, unventilated holds of “hell ships” without food or water in transport from the Philippines to Japan and other labor destinations as prisoners of war. Each had a love, a life, a personal story to tell.
What happened to these men represented among the worst deprivations, most heinous acts of brutality and barbarisms suffered by men at war. I do not recount in detail the trials of these captive Americans of World War II but the heroes of the story necessarily are placed in the brutal circumstances and their lives and loves are forever changed.
By even briefly exploring their descent into what you or I would consider the very depth of hell they represent what that great generation endured, and thus we may explore even love, in a way we might not have ever appreciated it otherwise.
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