Just as Denise Gunther had, he painted a picture of a war-torn Asian country where it was often impossible to tell friend from foe among the natives; where hit-and-run jungle tactics and twenty-one ruthless years of war experience by the opposition had American soldiers feeling overly wary and distrustful, and at a distinct disadvantage. A place where a cry for help could just as easily be an invitation to death, and everyone knew it. According to her, her husband had barely noticed the photographer attached to his squad. Though the group was small, with only seven men left, the photographer had been older, a quiet sort who kept to himself. He took his pictures without getting in anyone’s way and, in general, blended with the jungle and carnage as if he were invisible.
“Which explains how he could get the shots he did,” Jonah said, thinking of the awards and plaques on his father’s living room wall and all he’d gone through to get them. He imagined there was an incredible story behind each and every one of them. “He had to have been right in the middle of it to get them.”
She could see he was still processing much of it in his mind, arranging it on his personal timeline, maybe realizing how close he’d come to never knowing his father at all, or maybe ever being born.
“What year was this?”
“Nineteen sixty-nine. I wasn’t even a year old.”
Silently she waited for him to continue.
Trying to maintain an emotional detachment from an event that had happened to a near stranger while he was still in his infancy made the rest of the story relatively easy to tell. Naturally, Mrs. Gunther knew her husband’s side of the story better than she knew Earl Blake’s. She’d related his account of a routine patrol through a town that had recently undergone heavy mortar bombing. The squad had been met with smoldering rubble and debris, burnt-out buildings and, as was often the case, a sniper ambush. She’d been vague about the details but seemed to recall her husband’s horror as vividly as if he were telling the story himself—or as if she’d heard about it enough times to know it that well.
Just before dusk on that hot, humid day in Vietnam, Levy Gunther, Jr., the only son of a camera shop owner in Quincey, Indiana, had taken a sniper bullet through his right leg, the pain blazing through his body and exploding in his head. And while the rest of his squad had scattered and shot blindly in the direction of the following shots, he’d thrashed about in plain sight, taking a second shot in his right shoulder.
He screamed, felt his world go black, heard a voice whispering. ...
“Don’t ... move ... a muscle.” He’d heard the whisper through the gunfire, the angry, desperate shouting of his buddies, and his own pain. “Don’t ... move ... a muscle. Don’t make a sound. Be dead.” He was howling in pain and fear—but only in his mind. Somehow, some way, the whisper had reached him, sure and commanding, and he had obeyed it “Be dead. They won’t waste another bullet on you if they think you’re dead.” Time passed, eons it seemed, but the whisper remained, constant and comforting. “I can see you’re still breathing. I know you’re not dead. I won’t leave you. I won’t leave you. ...”
“Jeez,” Felix muttered, hanging over his beer glass in rapt attention.
Ellen shook off the chills racing up and down her spine and looked at him, then back to Jonah, who seemed to be watching their reactions closely. It gratified him to see that he wasn’t the only one to react emotionally to the story, not the only one to think of his father as a hero.
“So, I guess he bled to death, huh?”
“Felix!” She sighed loudly and Jonah laughed. “He lived to tell the story and father three children.”
They could almost hear the memory tape rewinding in his head. “Oh, yeah. Right. Your dad ... he must have been the whisperer, then.”
Jonah nodded, smiling. “He stayed hidden behind a pile of rubble, waited for dark and for things to quiet down. Then he picked up Gunther and carried him back to the aid station and disappeared. Mrs. Gunther said it wasn’t until her husband came home and saw himself in one of the photos that he even knew my father’s name. She said they wrote to him dozens of times to thank him, but he never answered. Her husband later died in a car accident. I guess he had a bad time, nightmares ... flashbacks.”
The three of them were silent for a moment, each in their own way marveling over the workings of the human spirit; feeling pride and yet wondering at it’s insanity; questioning their own grit.
“Did your old man get a medal, or something for saving that guy?” Felix asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think anyone but the Gunthers knew about it or thought of it as anything out of the ordinary. She said that the few times she visited him, after he moved here, he asked her not to talk about it. Said he could barely remember the incident, like it was all in a day’s work.”
“Maybe it was,” she said. “To him. Lots of things happen in a war.”
Jonah’s brows rose, and he nodded his acquiescence. “He never could figure out why they’d left the house and shop to him, I guess. He told her that he thought Levy Gunther was some distant relative he’d never met or heard of, that he hadn’t known what to do with the property when he’d inherited it, so he didn’t do anything with it. Just tossed the papers in a drawer.”
“I guess you didn’t inherit your curiosity from him,” Felix observed mildly, his eyelids drooping.
“I guess not,” he said, thinking of several other personality traits that they might not share, if Denise Gunther’s description of his father was accurate. “She said he was eccentric.”
“Eccentric? How?” Ellen asked, noting from the tone of his voice that eccentric wasn’t what he would have called him.
He lifted one shoulder uncertainly. “Introverted, she said. Not shy, not a recluse, because he came and went at will and spoke his mind when he felt like it, but was happier in his own company than he was in the company of others. He wouldn’t allow anyone to get involved in his life, didn’t get involved in theirs. Was polite but not forthcoming. She said she visited several times and finally stopped when it became obvious he didn’t care one way or the other. After that, her gratitude turned to a sense of responsibility, I guess. She’d drive by the shop three or four times a week to make sure it was open, and that he was doing okay, but stopped intruding on his life.”
“Intruding? That’s the word she used?”
He nodded, recalling it clearly. “I suppose that’s how he made her feel.”
She mulled this over, then asked, “But then, how did she know about you?”
“I asked her that same thing,” he said, shifting his weight as he got to the best part of the story. “On her second or third visit to the house, they were sitting together in the living room in silence. Just sitting there. She said she was feeling very uncomfortable and he was reading something in the newspaper as if she weren’t even there. She was just about to make an excuse and leave when he folded up the paper and announced he was going to show her a picture of his son.”
Felix laughed. “No offense, but that guy doesn’t sound like he had all his dogs barkin’.”
“Felix!” She threw him a derisive glare, then looked back at Jonah. “Why? Had he read something about you in the paper?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. He just stood up and opened his wallet and showed her an old baby picture of me. Then he told her all about me. Everything. About how I spent my vacations at boarding school and my career and where I was stationed now and that I was a loner like him.”
“A loner?”
“That I lived alone. Had few close friends. Ate alone in restaurants ...”
“Man, it doesn’t sound like you got all your dogs barkin’ either,” Felix said. “A guy like you. Makes good money. Stand-up job. Women oughtta be crawlin’ all over you. Whatsa matter with you?” He looked to Ellen for a hint, saw the look on her face. “Well, nothin’, I guess, ’cuz my sister is!” Then he laughed at his own pathetic joke.
Cringing with sh
ame and flushed with embarrassment, she watched him wave to the waitress again.
“No more, Felix. You’ve had enough. And I’ve had enough of you. It’s time to go,” she said quietly, sending an imploring, apologetic glance to Jonah. His smile was small and reassuring, but it didn’t make her feel any better.
They gathered their belongings, paid the bill, and rode most of the way back to Ellen’s apartment in a stiff silence that Ellen controlled. She started it and she’d have to break it—even Felix was wise enough to know that. She had things to say to both men, things that neither was in a hurry to hear—one fearing the pain it would cause her, the other afraid of the pain it would cause him.
“So,” she said finally, opting to avoid both conversations. “Do you think your father had you investigated?”
“I don’t know,” Jonah said with a quick glance to judge her mood. “Maybe. But an investigator might have taken more pictures, and the only one I’ve been able to find is the one in his wallet.”
She smiled then. “It was there?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling too. “In his wallet in his bedside table. It’s old and faded and frayed, but it’s there.”
“Any other pictures? Of other people?”
He shook his head slowly.
She reached out and touched his arm, leaned toward him a little. In a voice that was brimming with emotion, she said softly, “He cared, Jonah.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
STEP EIGHT
Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you sit there long enough.
—Will Rogers
Always a day late and a dollar short? Maybe there’s a reason for that. If your plan is logical, practical, and doable, why put it off? All the good intentions in the world can’t accomplish as much as one good action. Delay, and you give the situation time to change. Procrastinate, and you may be too late ... once again.
“YOU’RE GOING.”
“I’M NOT.”
“You’re going.”
“He’ll kill me.”
“You’re going or I’ll kill you.”
Dry breakfast cereal with Felix was a poor substitute for the postseduction repast she’d planned the day before, and she wasn’t above displaying some of her resentment. While his showing up for dinner hadn’t necessarily precluded the eventual employment of the teal blue negligee, his behavior during the meal had certainly put a damper on it. When he’d loudly refused to be dropped off at his apartment, and then sullenly acquiesced to being taken to his mother’s house for the night—in spite of his roundly stated qualms about waking her up and causing her to worry—he’d thrown the whole idea into the deep freeze.
She’d stood on the front porch with Jonah, feeling not the euphoria she’d anticipated, but utter mortification.
“He has a drinking problem,” she’d said.
“I noticed.”
“It’s hereditary.”
“So are a million other diseases.”
If she hadn’t loved him before, his quiet acceptance and gentle understanding would have put her over the top. That and his empathy for the shame she felt for something she had no control over.
“My dad had it too.”
“Funny how you can hate something about someone you love so much, isn’t it?”
Funny, too, how the long embrace they’d shared had seemed even more satisfying somehow than wild, passionate sex might have at that moment.
Now she told Felix, “I’m dropping you off at Mom’s and she’s going to baby-sit you until I come back for you at five-thirty. Then I’m personally driving you over to Krane’s, and you’re going to take the job he offers you and pay him back every cent you owe him. You can’t put this off any longer, Felix. You have to settle things with Mr. Krane. And this is the perfect opportunity. He’s willing to give you a job and you’re going to take it. Finish your coffee.”
He sighed and rubbed both his hands over his face, pushing his blond hair out of his bloodshot eyes. “It doesn’t work that way, Ellen,” he said, doing his best to reason with her. “If Krane were willing to give jobs to everyone who owed him money and couldn’t pay him back, do you think it would still look like a dump?” He pushed his coffee cup away. “He’s not running some welfare project over there. This isn’t give-a-bum-a-job week. There’s a reason there’s just the two of them working there.”
She looked at him and when it became apparent that she was waiting to hear the reason, he rolled his eyes and spread his arms out wide. “He doesn’t want employees. He wants his money.”
“Then why would he agree to hire you?” She was down to her last ounce of patience with him when she reached out and put a hand on his arm, trying to reassure him. “I admit, he’s a creepy looking guy, but once I explained the situation to him and pointed out that some money was better than no money, he was very reasonable about the whole thing. Now, he might not pay you a lot, minimum wage, so you might want to think about moving in with Mom for a while. Just until you get him paid off. And you’ve got to stop drinking, Felix.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
She sighed. “I know. I do. I know. But you’ve got to get some help. I can’t help you. I wish I could, but I can’t. You have to help yourself. And you’re just going to go from one mess to another if you don’t put a stop to it.” She paused to let that sink in. “This is the first step, Felix. This is the right thing to do. Stand up and take responsibility for yourself. Pay your debt to Mr. Krane. Get some help. Just, for once in your life, do the right thing.”
“Or?” he said, hearing the desperation in her voice.
“Or ...” she said, only half believing she’d be able to back up her words and knowing everything would get worse if she didn’t. “Or I’ll wash my hands of you. I will. And I mean it this time. I’ll make sure Mom and Jane do too. You won’t have anyone left who will have anything to do with you.”
Her heart wept as she sat and looked him straight in the eye, calling his bluff. Neither one of them were good gamblers, she was afraid. Her poker face felt cold and unnatural, but she wouldn’t let it slip. There was too much at stake. He was too much to lose.
Finally she watched as disbelief gave way to uncertainty, as doubt gave way to humble despair.
“It’s not going to work. I’ll screw it up. You know that,” he said, resigned. “But I’ll give it a try.”
“Good,” she said, patting his arm and giving it a gentle, loving squeeze. “Good.” She stood up from the table, half afraid she’d cry, not wanting to make too big a deal of the hope spewing forth inside her. “Maybe Mom can take you over and get your hair cut today and—”
“Don’t push it, Ellen.” He glowered at her.
She held up both hands. “One step at a time.” She picked up their breakfast dishes and started off to the kitchen sink. “Don’t forget, now. Five-thirty. We don’t want to be late.”
“I’ll go by myself.”
She wanted to let him go by himself. He was a grown man, he should go by himself. She didn’t really relish the idea of going back to that junkyard. But the simple truth was, she didn’t trust him.
“No. I’m driving you there. Don’t bother to argue with me. I’ve made up my mind.”
He didn’t bother, but when she emerged from the kitchen, he was waiting for her, a frown on his face.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “You’ve been acting weird lately.”
Weird or confident? she wanted to ask. If Felix, through his dazed view of the world, had noticed the change in her, then the little green book was truly working. She smiled. But explaining the little green book to Felix would have been weird, so she just said, “I’m fine.”
“Must be that guy from last night that’s making you act so different.”
“Jonah. His name is Jonah.” And just the thought of him set her world right.
“I know.” A pause. “I liked him.”
He was such a baby sometimes that it was hard to rememb
er he was still a man, still thought of himself as the man in the family—that deep down inside he might have enough pride left to believe his opinion counted.
She smiled at him, then swooped down to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, Felix,” she said softly near his ear. “I’m glad you like him. What you think is important to me.” She stood up straight. “Now bag up the trash for me and set it outside the door for Eugene, will you? I have to finish getting ready.”
She was the teeniest, tiniest, weeniest bit late for work that morning, but certainly not late enough to be attracting looks throughout the day.
Too-nice people weren’t accustomed to being looked at, to feeling paranoid. Who’d want to persecute a really nice person? Who’d be out to get one? Trusting other people to be nice was part of the too-nice complex. So perhaps the new, not-so-nice Ellen was overreacting to something she’d never noticed before—at least that’s what she was hoping as she looked up once again and caught two tellers talking, looking at her, then suddenly looking away.
Maybe she’d only imagined Mary Westford’s and Sylvia Plant’s voices through the restroom door; maybe they hadn’t gone suddenly silent when she walked in; maybe their reaction to her wasn’t a whole season colder than usual. Maybe this was how people normally acted and she was just now noticing. Or maybe something was wrong.
“Vi,” she whispered in her over-the-divider voice.
“What?”
“Have you noticed anything strange or different around here?”
“You mean other than you?”
She smiled, glad that Vi had noticed the changes in her too. But the changes she’d made were for the better; they weren’t that strange and they weren’t that different.
“Yes. Other than me.”
“Nope.”
She sighed. Maybe it was her imagination. ...
Joleen didn’t mention that she’d noticed anything out of the ordinary when they talked in her office just before the bank closed for the day.
By the Book Page 13