A Hero Comes Home

by Sandra Hill

  Jake glanced at her with panic and whispered, “Help me.”

  Any hard feelings she’d been harboring at his attitude evaporated then as she asked, “How?”

  “I don’t think I can get out of this truck without falling on my face. I don’t want my kids to see me like that, like a cripple.”

  She nodded, got out of the truck, and yelled, “Everyone back in the house. Wait for us there.” She hoped her silent signal to Joe—his father—was accepted without explanation.

  It was. Joe stared at her for a long moment, then shooed the boys back inside, cautioning, “Don’t forget to hide. Remember . . . it’s a surprise.”

  She went around the back of the truck and to the passenger side, where Jake had already opened the door. She was prepared to help him out when she noticed something that she’d somehow missed so far.

  His one hand was on the frame of the door and his other hand was on the cane he’d set on the ground. And he had no fingernails. None at all, except for the beginning of new nail just starting to emerge.

  She looked at his hand, then looked at him, tilting her head in question.

  He just shrugged.

  Her brain tried to understand. A person didn’t lose all their fingernails hiding in a cave, that was for sure.

  Suddenly comprehension came to her. The fingernails. The eye. The injured leg. And God only knew what else.

  Jake hadn’t been in hiding for three years.

  But where had he been?

  And what had the bastards done to him?

  Chapter 6

  Motherhood and apple pie . . . uh, chocolate cake . . . that’s what it’s all about . . .

  Jake watched as Sally went into the house, leaving him alone for a few moments, at his request. “Don’t worry, I’m okay,” he’d assured her. “I just need a sec to regroup.”

  She’d looked worried, but left him alone anyhow, thank God. He wasn’t sure how he’d react if pushed too hard, too fast, even by her. Especially by her.

  Coming home to Bell Cove had been more of a shock to his system than he’d expected, and he’d expected plenty. This felt more like the g-force shots to the gut that jet pilots suffered, except his were hitting his heart. Zap, zap, zap!

  But he would be all right, dammit. Buck up, chin high, soldier, he told himself. I will survive. Even this.

  But, shiiiit! The problems just kept coming. He’d seen the question in Sally’s eyes when she’d noticed his fingernails, or lack of fingernails. Such a little detail, but often it was the little overlooked fine point that blew a whole operation. He couldn’t wait to tell Major Butt-inator, who thought he had all the angles covered, about his boo-boo. Then again, the less conversation with the asshole the better. They’d almost come to blows at their last meeting when the jerk had mentioned an “image consultant” he might want to meet.

  Leaning back against the hood of the truck, he surveyed his surroundings. His house was one of a dozen Craftsman-style bungalows that had been built for Bell Forge workers a hundred years ago, each with a separate detached garage, and offered to them on a rent-to-buy basis. Six on each side of a residential street within walking distance of the once-booming factory, known for its high-end bells. Too far from Bell Sound on one side and the Atlantic Ocean on the other to be prime waterfront or water-view real estate—at least one mile either way—but they were still considered unique dwellings on a barrier island and had gone up in value dramatically the last few years. Or the last that Jake had checked, when he had been here more than three years ago.

  His father’s cottage, across the street, catty-corner, had belonged to his mother’s family from the beginning. Jake had purchased his a year after he’d married Sally, when Matt was still in a crib, and Mark already a bun in the oven. Then, their three-bedroom home had seemed plenty big enough. Now, not so much. Cozy would be an understatement.

  Am I ready for cozy?

  Oh, fuck!

  He noticed that the slate gray paint with darker gray shutters on his cottage was faded and peeling in places. The salt air and wind of the barrier island was brutal on wood. He would need to repaint. Maybe they would go back to the original white with black shutters, as Sally had always wanted, and he’d resisted. He couldn’t remember why now.

  But wait. His thinking about painting implied his having conscious or unconscious plans to stay on the Outer Banks, long-term.

  Do I?

  Hell, no!

  Well, maybe.

  I can’t think about this now.

  He studied his house again, looking for other improvements that would have to be made.

  Yeah, he was procrastinating, putting off the big dreaded reunion. Hope I don’t trip over my feet and fall flat on my face in front of my kids. Hope there are no tears. From anyone. Especially from me. Hard to wipe at tears under an eye patch. Ha, ha, ha! I should have worn dark sunglasses instead of the patch, but then people would expect me to take them off indoors. Oh, God! Why is this so hard?

  Back to his delays, he looked around some more. Over the years, the twelve bungalows that started out identical had changed colors, put on additions, patios, and unique landscaping. As a result, each was distinctive now. You’d never know they’d originated from Sears, Roebuck and Co. kits. Overall, his cottage had held up well, the whole neighborhood had, considering its age, probably because they’d used quality materials to start.

  He loved them.

  Is that another indicator of my plans, or nonplans, to stay on the Outer Banks?

  No, it was just an observation.

  Or was it?

  So many decisions! So many problems!

  Maybe I do need a shrink. An Outer Banks Dr. Sheila. Like that will ever happen! I am not going to bare my soul to a townie.

  With a deep inhale and then exhale, he pushed away from the truck and went around to the back of the cottage, where there was another deep covered porch, which they used for barbecuing in the summer. He’d never gotten around to the patio that Sally had always wanted. Maybe . . .

  No, he was not going to think of anything beyond the moment. And a momentous moment it was, too.

  He opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen . . . and gasped. Sitting on the center of the oak table was a chocolate layer cake on a milk glass pedestal stand. He didn’t have to look at the stove to know crab chowder was simmering in the old cast-iron pot; the delicious smell filled the room. A new addition was a loaf of fresh-baked bread, instead of biscuits. Something from Sally’s bakery?

  His eyes filled with tears. He couldn’t help himself. His mother wouldn’t be here, but Sally had made an effort to make her absence easier to bear. How did she know that these little things mattered to him so much when coming home after an active op?

  He blinked several times to get rid of any evidence he was so emotional, but then noticed Sally standing in the doorway to the living room. She put a forefinger to her lips, cautioning silence, before saying, louder than necessary, “Welcome home, Jacob. I don’t know where the boys are. They must have gone over to your dad’s house to help with his garden.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said, also louder than necessary, playing into her game, “I was really looking forward to seeing my boys after all this time. Oh, well. Gardening must be more fun for them than meeting their old man.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be back soon.” Sally winked at him. “C’mon into the living room and rest a bit. I’m sure you’re tired after your long trip.”

  He followed her and pretended to be shocked when he was greeted with balloons and a huge handmade banner that read in less-than-perfect kid crayon lettering, “Welcome home, Daddy” and shouts of “SURPRISE!” from his three sons. The boys launched themselves at him, hugging him around his waist and thighs. He would have liked to hunker down to their level, but his knees and the soft brace he was wearing would not allow that.

  They were all talking at once and asking questions, but not waiting for answers.

  “I made the
sign.”

  “I did, too.”

  “But I blew up the balloons ’cause PopPop’s got no wind.”

  “That ain’t nice.”

  “Ain’t ain’t in the dictionary.”

  “It’s still not nice.”

  “Stop bein’ so bossy.”

  “I am the boss. ’Cause I’m older.”

  “Anyways, that’s what PopPop says all the time about bein’ windy, usually after he sneaks a ciggie.”

  “Mark!”

  “What? It’s the truth, Mom.”

  “Do you smoke ciggies, Daddy?”

  “Mikey Dunaway smoked a ciggie and coughed up a lung.”

  “That wasn’t a lung, dumbhead. It was a loogie. Throat spit.”

  “I’m tho happy you’re home, Daddy. Can I have a horse?”

  “You can’t have a horse, pea brain. We don’t have a stable.”

  “Maybe Daddy could build a thable. No one uthes the garage anyway. That would be a good thable.”

  “A dog would be better. A German shepherd. Or a collie.”

  “But not a pit bull. Mommy says we’ll get a pit bull when donuts fly.”

  “I like cats.”

  “A cat and a dog.”

  “Yay!” they all agreed, as if it was a done deal.

  He didn’t even try to get a word in as each talked over the other and tried to hug him tighter. In their enthusiasm, the inevitable happened. He fell backward to the floor. Which turned out to be better. Yeah, his leg hurt like a bitch, but now he was down to the kids’ level and they were crawling all over him, giggling and laughing, and he found that he was the one doing the hugging now—tight, tight hugs that allowed him to nuzzle their necks, relishing the scent of little boy sweat and one of them must have been rolling in grass somewhere. Also, he managed to surreptitiously sneak a few kisses to the bristly hairs of their short summertime haircuts. They felt thin to him, and at the same time they were compact, squirming bodies of lively muscles. Like big puppies. Even Matt, who was only a little bit more reserved, being the oldest, in his wrestling with him on the floor.

  Finally, Sally intervened. “That’s enough, boys. Let your dad get up now. PopPop, can you help me?”

  His father came over, and the two of them, taking one hand each, helped him to stand. It was only a little embarrassing. But then, it was the first time he’d had a chance to greet his father, with all the mad rush of the kids.

  His father was the same six feet tall as he was, though wiry thin, always had been. With all the weight Jake had lost, he probably more closely resembled the old man now than he had in the past.

  Sally had released his hand to go herd the boys over to the sofa where they sat with perfect precision, for the moment. But his father hadn’t let go of his other hand.

  Jake got his first good look at his father then and couldn’t help but notice how he’d aged these past three years. As always, his skin was brown and leathery from thousands of days fishing under the hot Outer Banks sun. But there were more wrinkles creasing his forehead and bracketing his eyes and mouth. His blue eyes, which Jake and his sons had inherited, appeared rheumy, or maybe it was a mist of tears that were about to overflow.

  The blasted tears he’d so wanted to avoid!

  “Son,” his dad choked out and tugged him into an embrace that involved his alternately clutching at him and patting his back, like he had when Jake had been a little boy and skinned his knee or some other body part. But no, Jake must have been misremembering because his father had been more inclined to tell him it was no big deal, to be a big boy and get over it. But then he noticed that his father was shaking, and then Jake was the one patting the old guy’s back.

  Son of a . . . this has got to stop before I start bawling.

  He stepped back and said, “Hey, Dad, would you mind getting my duffel bag out of the truck? I think there might be something in there for boys who like to play games, but maybe kids here on the Outer Banks prefer to read books, or . . .”

  It took his sons a moment before they realized he was referring to them and that there might be presents involved, ones that involved games. With a whoop, the three of them jumped up and ran outside with their grandfather, each of them offering an opinion.

  “I knew he would bring us something.”

  “Maybe ith a dog.”

  “It’s not a dog, Luke. Dad said it was in his duffel bag.”

  “A dog could be in a duffel bag.”

  “No. He said something about games.”

  “Hope it’s not Monopoly or some dorky board game.”

  “I like Monopoly.”

  “That’s because you always win.”

  “Corey’s dad brought him a Rubik’s Cube when he came back from a business trip.”

  That announcement was met with silence. Apparently, the handheld puzzle device would not have been a big hit.

  “Jason’s uncle went to France and bought him a stinky T-shirt.”

  That, too, was met with silence.

  As their voices petered off, Jake glanced over at Sally, who was watching him from where she stood leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. “Good thing I didn’t buy them Rubik’s Cubes or clothing, huh?”

  “I warned them to be appreciative, no matter what you brought, and I also warned them that you might not have had time to buy anything at all.”

  “Bet that went over big.” He shoved a balloon aside and sank down into an easy chair by the large multipaned leaded window that fronted the house. Like everything in a Craftsman house, there were added details. In this case, a line of small square stained glass windows across the top depicting Outer Banks scenes. He didn’t know much about antiques, but he would bet the windows were worth more than the whole house. But that was neither here nor there. He looked at Sally, who still stood in the doorway, and asked, “How did I do?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded.

  “I was worried.”

  “I could tell.”

  What did that mean? Had he been acting all Nervous Nellie? Pathetic?

  His father and the kids were back, with the kids doing all the carrying of the heavy bag, which they dropped at his feet with a thud. They stared expectantly as he unzipped the bag, slowly, just to tease them. He could tell they wanted to tell him to hurry up. First he pulled out a large box, about the size of a laptop but thicker. There were also six smaller packages. All of them had been gift wrapped by the nice lady at one of the gift stores in the Ramstein Air Base exchange. She, being a grandmother, was the one who’d advised him on what to buy for boys their ages. He might very well have opted for Rubik’s Cubes or stinky T-shirts.

  The kids quickly ripped at the bigger package and then just stared, at first. Stunned, really.

  At first, he wasn’t sure if it was good stunned or bad stunned.

  But then Matt exclaimed, “Nintendo Switch! Wow!” and his brothers agreed with echoes of “Wow, wow, wow!”

  “How did you know they wanted this?” Sally asked him.

  He shrugged. “I just asked myself what I would have wanted at that age.” And got advice from a seventy-year-old grandma.

  “Well, you hit the jackpot. They asked for it last Christmas, but I told them it was too expensive.”

  After examining the console and accessories in their hard protective case, the boys made quick work of the six smaller packages. Games, of course. Minecraft. Super Mario. Dragon Ball. Starlink. Mega Man. Donkey Kong.

  He’d gone with his instinct not to buy any blood and guts, or zombies, and knew he was right when Sally went over to check them out before giving him a thumbs-up. She’d probably expected him to get a special ops terrorist-fighting game with fancy weapons and the number of kills determining the winner.

  Okay, yes, he had looked at one like that.

  “They had a game on fishing simulation that I almost bought so that you could play with the boys,” he told his father, who sat in the other easy chair, on
the opposite side of the window. With the morning sun coming through the stained glass, framing his father, it could have been an oil painting, he thought with what was probably hysterical irrelevance.

  “Hah! I get all the fishing I want out on the water, thanks just the same.”

  The kids wanted him to set up the game right away.

  He glanced to Sally to get her approval.

  She nodded. “You could put it here, or upstairs in their bedroom where they have a small flat-screen TV.”

  “Uh, how about here for now?” He was going to make only one trip up and down those stairs each day, for the time being. His leg couldn’t take much more than that. Thank God there was a bathroom on this level, even if it had only a toilet and sink.

  Another nice thing about Craftsman homes was all the fine woodwork and the built-ins. Like the corner cabinet that was never intended to hold a television in its day, but worked perfectly for the set that was there now with several of the shelves removed and stored down below. He soon had the game system set up and ready to go, but Sally insisted that they all eat first, despite the moans and groans from the kids, especially since she made them wash their hands first, which they considered torture.

  I could tell them a thing or two about torture. Or not.

  No, I will not let my mind go there.

  He saw that Sally had set the table in the dining room, instead of the kitchen, making this a sort of special event. He sat at one end, his father and Matt on one side, and Mark and Luke on the other. Sally stood at the other end of the table about to serve the steaming chowder from a tureen in front of her. Bread and pats of butter were set at each place setting.

  She hesitated, then asked him, “Will you say grace, Jacob, or would you rather your father do it?”

  He would have liked to refuse, but that would sound like he was no longer the head of his family, or that he’d lost his faith, which was still up in the air. “I will,” he said, making it brief. “Thank You, Lord, for this good food. And for my family.” He paused. “And thank You, God, for bringing me home.”