by W.H. Harrod
The small cardboard box sat on the kitchen table in front of a weary Joseph Right as he thought about the mementos it held. It occurred to him that the items contained in the box represented the most important events of his life. Now, over twenty years after the traumatic events that caused him to take flight in the middle of the night away from his hometown of Harmony, Illinois, he allowed himself to recall that night as well as the tragic events that preceded and followed it, while he still had the time. For by all indications, each passing day brought him closer to the end.
His doctors told him he suffered from a degenerative heart condition and that little could be done to help him, except for a heart transplant. Sitting in his second story apartment where he’d resided for over twenty years as the lone renter in the home of a wonderful elderly lady, he knew he wouldn’t allow that to happen. Such dramatic efforts, in his opinion, were best reserved for people who look towards the future, not people whose thoughts dwelt mostly with the past.
“The fall of the year,” he said aloud. “I can’t think of a better time to go than during the fall season. So many things that affected my life, for good and bad, occurred during this season.” He then commenced, without intending to, to recall those occasions starting with he and Whitney deciding to live together back in the fall of 1976. They became engaged in the fall of 1977. Then Whitney disappeared in the fall of 1978. Finally, the murder of Richard took place in the fall of 1981, followed by his own flight from Harmony. All in all, an important period in his life, and the idea of him taking his last breath during this same time period occurred to him as most appropriate.
He reached into the small box and pulled out the photograph of him and Whitney, the one he carried with him the night Howard Douglas escaped from Harmony those many years ago. The photograph showed the wear and tear of being handled daily for all those years, but he didn’t notice the difference. The pretty blond girl in the photograph standing beside him was perfect in every way. Even now, as he sat holding the picture, it seemed only a short time ago that he lived life as the happiest, most fortunate young man in the entire world. Once more, as he did every time he looked at the photograph, he asked why he allowed himself to get involved with something that ended up destroying both of their lives. To the very last second of his existence on earth he believed his blind and destructive ambition owned most of the blame.
Touching the picture to his lips, he placed it in the box, and then brought out the sheet of paper presented to him by the stranger the day of Whitney’s funeral. This document had kept him alive. Without the knowledge of a child born to him and Whitney, he wouldn’t have lasted a single day longer than the day Richard Whiting died. Knowing about the child gave him reason to endure the pain of Whitney’s tragic death. He had to stay alive to ensure their son’s well being at the home of his adoptive parents in Lawrence.
And that’s what he did. From a safe distance, he observed the boy year after year, never once seeing cause or giving cause for concern. His son’s new parents were good, hard-working people, and they provided him with a decent home. Although busy people, they involved him in sports such as baseball and soccer, but not football, which Joseph agreed with. The boy’s participation in sports had likewise given Joseph cause to get involved to such a great degree in the first place. He umpired, hauled kids around, donated money, and even coached. He did everything he could to keep those kids on the field and having fun so he had more chances to see his son.
Recalling one special day, Joseph replaced the document back into the box and brought out a nearly new baseball. This was the ball his son hit through all the outfielders to get an inside the park home run and win the game. Joseph observed this from his umpiring position at home plate, and only his promise never to interfere in the boy’s life prevented him from picking the kid up and hugging him as he came across home plate. When the ball made it back to the opposing pitcher, he’d calmly retrieved the ball to check it for marks and promptly took it out of play—forever.
Smiling as he returned the ball back to the box, he then brought out another photograph. This one showed him standing beside Isaac Diggs, the man he befriended that night long ago down by the river. Isaac had said he intended to shoot him, but Joseph never believed him, for even a minute. Instead, he talked him into coming to work at the shelter and after a month there, Isaac found his own purpose for living, going on to become one of his few close friends and a caring person who never tired of helping people who were less well off than he. “Thank you for being my friend, Isaac,” whispered Joseph as he placed the item into the box.
The next memento Joseph brought out caused him to tighten his jaw. This item represented a side of his character no one knew about—the angry, vindictive side. This side designed an elaborate scheme to murder another human being that all came together after months of planning one late fall night.
All Howard Douglas’s planning appeared complete. October 1, 1981, would be the day Richard Whiting died, and Howard intended to be the one who killed him. Almost everything went as planned. He had driven to the estate well after dark and entered by the rear gate, left his car at the barn, walked towards the rear of the house prepared to enter through the back patio door—which he had a key to—go inside and find Richard in his lower level office, and kill him. Howard’s straightforward plan had an excellent chance of working if only he had gotten to Richard first. But he didn’t.
As Howard approached the rear of the house from the barn, a black Cadillac drove up and three men in dark clothing jumped out. Without delaying, they went directly to the same lower entrance that Howard planned to use to enter the house. Howard waited and watched from behind the barn. After about fifteen minutes, the three men exited through the same door, returned to their vehicle, and drove off.
Howard waited to see if anyone returned before he again approached the back of the house. He hoped this delay didn’t complicate his plans. He’d positioned everything to begin his new life that night. So, when he quietly entered the house and made his way towards Richard’s office, he came unprepared for the horrific sight that awaited him as he entered the downstairs party room. Richard lay dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood. He knew it was Richard even though the victim’s face had been blown off. Someone had beaten him to it. Who?
In a flash, it came to him—the cartel. They had discovered the missing funds and assumed Richard did all the stealing. They did his work for him. But now, they would surely come looking for him, too. Howard started his escape right then. He mustn’t go back to the condo because the same men would be there to do the same thing to him. Howard left town immediately, stopping only to change vehicles and get rid of the gun he never used and the Rolex watch given to him by Richard. Only years later did he find the clip full of bullets he now held in his hand, in his get-away car’s trunk. Turns out he went into Richard’s house with an unloaded gun. He couldn’t have shot the guy anyway. When he did discover the clip, he decided to keep it as a stark reminder of the darker side of his nature.
Through the years he wondered if he would have been able to do it, if the cartel had not gotten there first or if he’d not forgotten his bullets. He really couldn’t answer that question, and in the end, it didn’t matter anyway because either way, Howard’s soul was indelibly scared by the prolonged presence of so much villainous and putrefied hatred. To rejoice, as he did, when he saw Richard’s mutilated corpse lying there in a pool of blood, showed how far he’d traveled beyond the pale of decent human behavior. It required years of continuous, unselfish labor for the betterment of life for thousands of less fortunate men, women, and children before he regained his humanity.
Joseph placed the gun clip into the box and retrieved the last remaining items in the box: the sixteen letters he wrote but never gave to his son. A ribbon gathered the letters into a neat bundle. He gently caressed them and let his mind drift back to those summers when he watched his son with so much quiet pride. He was the most wonderful child. He never smarted off or cri
ed or yelled like so many of the other unruly youngsters. He always seemed to be having fun, no matter if he played in the game or sat on the bench. Whenever you looked his way, he was usually doing something to get a laugh or have some fun. Sometimes, Joseph would swear he saw Whitney—the kid looked and acted so much like her. She, too, had a way of putting a positive spin on everything. Likewise, she enjoyed helping her friends have a good time no matter what they were doing. Boy, she would have been proud of her son, he thought.
It began to get late, and Joseph started to get weary—one of the side effects of having a malfunctioning ticker, he reasoned. Someone else had to do something with these letters when he passed on, as he couldn’t. He thought about how in the past he secretly harbored a hope that someday the young man would get to read these letters from a doting father and know of his sense of pride—to know his real father loved him from afar and chose not to interfere in his life during those important developing years. Most of all, to let him know he deeply regretted his selfish actions so many years earlier that cost them their life together.
One day as Joseph watched from a distance as his son and the adoptive father hugged following a game, he realized his fantasies were but a lingering fragment of the selfish nature of the old Howard Douglas that caused his and Whitney’s lasting misfortune. The same attitude that argued against Whitney when she asked him to quit his job, not knowing the cartel wouldn’t allow him to leave. The same attitude that told him it was okay to have a few drinks with the pretty young lady in Cancun. And now, it told him to record his thoughts and feelings in hopes that this young man, who had a good father already, might find them someday and learn of his dedication all those years as he watched over his welfare from a distance. After the sixteenth year, he never wrote another letter. His only reward would be derived from watching from a distance as this wonderful young boy grew into a man.
Many times over the years his sadness over the loss of Whitney and his son became unbearable. Still, he told no one of his grief and relied upon his dedication to the shelter to keep him going. For he believed that for him to end his life as he had thought about doing, with so many people depending on him epitomized the word selfishness. That is what the young Howard Douglas might do, but not the older Joseph Right. He must wait, no matter how much he hurt inside. Now, thankfully, his time drew near. His son had grown into a healthy twenty-four-year-old man, prepared to go out into the world. The shelter functioned almost as well without him. As far as he could determine, the need for him on this earth had past. It was the time for him to go.
EPILOGUE