“Glad you could join us Mr. Flaherty,” Judge Mathers said in his booming voice. Nervous laughter could be heard from the seating area. I clenched my jaw in an attempt to silence the smart ass remark, but not in time.
“What did you expect? Room service was late with my breakfast.” I heard Carl cluck his tongue as he unlocked the handcuffs and my attorney shook his head. “By the way, your majesty, I need to hit the head.”
“You will sit down and keep quiet. Only speak when you are addressed. Is that clear?” The judge’s face turned a shade shy of my mom’s homemade spaghetti sauce and a vein appeared on the side of his temple.
“Yes, sir.” I sat down on a wooden chair.
“Mr. Flaherty, you were just here a month ago and I said if you got in trouble again, I wouldn’t be lenient. Do you remember?” The judge regarded me over his reading glasses. “Yes.”
“And yet, here we are.” He closed my file and folded his hands over top. “Someone’s taken an interest in your case and has presented an alternative form of a sentence.”
I stopped picking at my cracked cuticles and regarded the judge. A man in a military uniform and a crew cut walked past my table and towards the bench. He nodded at the judge and then turned to face me.
“Robert James Flaherty, I’m here to change your life.”
“Are you my fairy godmother?” I smirked at the man whose stern demeanor reminded me of my father.
“Keep that up and I’ll rescind my offer. Your fellow inmates will love your sense of humor.” His steely gaze bored into mine and I had a rare moment where I actually kept quiet. Now it was Sergeant Andrews’ turn to smirk. “I’ll get right to the point. I’m giving you the opportunity to not go to jail. How would you like to be a war hero?”
“You mean go to Vietnam?”
“Yes.”
“But, I’m not eligible. Flat footed.”
“The U.S. Army is able to overlook that. So what do you say, son?”
“I’m not your son,” I said and broke eye contact to look out the window. The heavy gray sky had started to spit out snow and sleet. Small pellets of ice rat-a-tat tatted against the glass pane. “Vietnam is warm, isn’t it?”
“A God damn tropical paradise,” the Sergeant answered.
“All right, I’m in.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The humidity soaked my fatigues within minutes of putting them on. I was getting used to not being dry. Yes, Vietnam was tropical, but not a paradise. I spent three weeks in training before getting dropped off in the middle of a fucking rainforest. My limited military training left me as green as my uniform.
Being wet all of the time was one thing, but the chafing and heat rash were another. Those things I’d never adjust to. I wiped sweat off my brow before picking up a tray and standing in line at the canteen. Army issued chow took some getting used to, too, but I learned that when you got hungry enough, you’d eat just about anything. Except grubs – I drew the line at grubs.
Scrambled eggs made from powder, slices of cardboard disguised as toast and weak black coffee made up my breakfast. I sat down with the few members of my platoon who hadn’t been blown to bits or injured yet. I had arrived with fifteen new recruits and only six of us were left. We shoveled the food in our mouths, washed it down with the coffee and prepared for a long day in the bush.
“Hey, Bobby,” Steve Hawkes, who was sitting to my right said. I looked at him. He had more sweat on his upper lip than usual. His eyes were wide and anxious, like a rabbit which had caught the scent of a predator on the wind.
“What is it Steve-O?”
He handed me an envelope wrapped in plastic and taped watertight. “If something happens to me out there today, can you make sure Melissa gets this?”
“Oh, this is a letter? I thought this was your subscription renewal to Playboy.”
This earned me a few chuckles at the table.
Steve smiled, briefly. “Seriously, Bobby, can ya?”
I tucked the envelope inside the side pocket on my pant leg and stood up. “I’ll give this back to you at the end of the day,” I said and clapped Steve on the shoulder. Everyone else got up from the table. We all wondered who wouldn’t be sitting with us the next morning.
Heavy artillery fire had been reported in our region. Usually when I closed my eyes at night it was easy to imagine for a few moments I was listening to fireworks on a sultry Fourth of July. Screams of the wounded being carried into camp quickly grounded me back to reality.
Bullets whistled past my head and I pressed myself further into the mud. Wet earth and blood mixed to create a cloying organic odor that permanently lodged itself in my nose. Invisible insects that lived in the muck crawled along my skin, some biting as if sampling my flesh before deciding whether to feast on me. The burning and itching became close to unbearable, but I couldn’t afford to move. My platoon had been under heavy fire all morning. The Viet Cong knew this land. Our ignorance left us vulnerable and exposed.
Moments like this made me wish I had opted for prison. We weren’t heroes, we were targets. An explosion to my left made me turn my head. Someone had crawled over a land mine. Severed limbs and other gore sailed through the air, landing with sickening thuds in the swamp. I recognized the tattoo on a forearm that landed not ten feet from me. “Melissa Forever” it said in cursive.
“Fuck!” I swore under my breath. Why Steve-O? He was going to be a dad and had a job. He was a productive member of society and not some fuck up like me. I reached for his arm and that’s when the bullet hit.
A medic ran over, crouching over me as a shield and assessing my wound. I tried to lift my head and survey the damage to my shoulder, but the pain rippled across my muscles so I stopped moving. A UH1 chopper appeared over the treetops and touched down. I was pulled up to my feet. Since I could walk, the medic ran to assist another soldier whose bones were sticking out through his pant leg. My left arm hung limp against my side, but I considered myself lucky. I was alive.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The burning ache increased and couldn’t be ignored.
“Nurse!” I yelled. A few minutes passed and still no one showed at my bedside. I yelled again.
“Relax, Grunt. They’ll get to you,” the guy in the bed next to me said. His name was Darren Johnson and he was a Marine, hence my new nickname.
“It hurts, man.” I whined.
“Well at least you still have your arm. Some of us didn’t get so lucky.” Darren made a point to remind me every day of this. His stump was wrapped in layers of bandages and I had ringside seats twice a day when the nurses came in to change his dressing. Johnson had been disarmed in combat, literally.
“You’re right, man, sorry.” I turned away and looked out the window. Our ward was on the first floor of the hospital in Saigon. My view consisted of a picnic table in the courtyard. Other wounded soldiers sat around smoking and talking. Only a few wanted to go back to the front. The rest of us prayed for a one way ticket back to the states. I had already been informed that once my wound healed enough, I’d be fit for duty again. I hoped for an infection.
“Bob, did I hear you yelling for me?” a soft voice said. Nurse Banks stood at the foot of my bed reviewing my chart. She was an angel in all white. Her triangle hat offset her heart shaped face, which was framed by hair the color of sunshine.
“Yeah, my shoulder hurts really bad.”
“You’re not due for morphine yet. Can you wait an hour?”
“No, it hurts.”
“Can you give him anything to shut him up?” Johnson said.
Nurse Banks laughed. “Darren, you’re too much.” She playfully swatted at his leg, which peeked out from under the sheet.
“It doesn’t hurt so bad when you’re here Nurse Banks. I’ll take you over morphine any day,” I winked at her and she laughed again.
“You guys…I don’t know about you two.” She chuckled while reading my chart again and then checked her watch. “I’ll go talk with th
e doctor. Be right back.” She spun around and I craned my neck to watch her walk away. Her hips swung from side to side, the starched skirt of her uniform stopped at the knee and we admired her shapely calves. I noticed Darren was leaning over too.
“Thank God for a co-ed military,” I said.
“Amen.”
Nurse Banks returned moments later with a syringe in her hand and I licked my lips in anticipation of relief. Within minutes a blanket of numb warmth began at my toes and crept up my legs. My entire body sighed and I drifted.
When my shoulder had healed enough, I was permitted to sit outside in the courtyard and for an hour a day, I was free to roam the streets of Saigon. My presence was met with a mixture of contempt and gratitude. I preferred the pretty young things who shared their gratitude willingly. Lucky for me, an hour’s furlough was all I could afford. Girls, barely old enough to be called women, beckoned me from the front doors of their parlors. Once inside, I’d drink strange liquor and smoke some opium before indulging in pleasure.
I didn’t want to go back to war, but my return couldn’t be avoided. As soon as my stitches were removed I was back on a chopper flying over lush green fields. Most of the soldiers on the helicopter wore the same expressions of apprehension and the bitter scent of fear mixed with sweat hung in the air. At least I wasn’t alone.
I killed people, too many people, but it was either them or me. It got to the point where I stopped seeing blood. Colors ceased to exist for me.
By some stroke of luck I survived my tour and was sent back stateside.
Chapter Thirty
America had changed and it was culture shock getting off the plane. I made my way to the nearest bar for a drink to steady myself. I wasn’t a hero. My friends were blown to pieces in front of me. I shot children, destroyed families and all for what? A vision of Steve-O’s arm lying in the mud resurfaced and I ordered a shot of whiskey.
“Welcome home, soldier. This one’s on me.”
“Thank you, sir.” I grabbed the glass and tipped it back. Not the same effect as morphine or opium, but it would have to do.
“You’ve got the devil in your eyes. I had the same look when I got back from Korea. The memories will fade,” the bartender said knowingly.
“I hope so.” I picked up my bag and slung it over my shoulder. I was back in Minnesota and snow was falling outside like I had never left. The truth is I never really came back, not all of me at least.
My father was waiting outside in his beat up old pick-up. More paint had peeled off the hood in the year I was gone, replaced with cancerous spots of rust. I tossed my duffle into the bed before climbing inside the heated cab. I pulled the door closed behind me and it let out a protesting squeak.
“Hello, sir.”
“Robert.” He shifted the gear to drive and pulled away from the curb. We didn’t say anything to each other, picking up right where we left off. Suddenly he said, “You’ve been drinking.” It wasn’t a question.
“I had a couple.”
“Humph.”
We drove the remaining hour in silence. Darkness closed in around the truck and traffic dwindled down the closer we got to the farm. Snowflakes danced in the headlights. At some point I dozed off. The combination of alcohol, Hank Williams Sr. on the radio, and the heater cranked in the cab made me drowsy. The moment I heard the familiar crunch of gravel under tires, I woke up.
“Your mother cooked up your favorite. Make sure you let her know how much you appreciate it.”
“Dad, come on, I’m not a total idiot.”
“We’ll see,” he mumbled as the truck rolled to a stop in front of the house. Soft lighting spilled out onto the porch. Pine boughs frosted with snow and decorated with red ribbon wrapped around the railings. From the outside it appeared warm and inviting.
I knew not to be deceived.
We walked along the shoveled path around the side of the house and went in through the back door. The moment we stepped inside the smell hit me. A home cooked meal. Something I hadn’t tasted in over a year. My mouth started watering. I dropped my bag onto the warped linoleum and began to remove my muddy boots.
“Your bag needs to go upstairs,” my dad said.
“I’ll take it up, give me a minute.”
I opened the door from the mudroom and entered the kitchen. The smells were even stronger and the sight of my mom over the stove evoked long hidden memories. She rushed over the moment she saw me, wiping her hands on her calico apron before hugging me.
“Oh, you’re home!” she cried and I mean, she cried. Her body shook with sobs.
“Yep, he’s home and still lazy,” my dad said as he walked behind us.
“Hush, Harold,” she sniffed. “Our boy has been at war.” She released me from our embrace and set about inspecting my appearance. I had become more muscular and sported the military issue buzz cut. The fatigues had become second skin.
“Are you okay? When I heard you were shot…”
“Mom, I’m fine. That was months ago. Is that chicken I smell?”
“Sure is! Your father killed one fresh this morning. We’re having mashed potatoes with gravy and some homemade cornbread too.”
“My favorite.”
“I know!” She smiled up at me and that’s when I noticed the skin on her face crinkled around the eyes and hung a little bit looser. Her brown hair had turned mostly gray. Patting my flat stomach she said, “You look like you could use a good meal,” before turning her attention back to the stove.
I hoisted my bag onto my shoulder and carried it up the creaky stairs to my room on the third floor. Nothing much had changed. My bed was made, which was my mother’s doing. A bookshelf in the corner opposite of my bed held a few books, including my senior yearbook. A family portrait, taken when I was in the fifth grade, occupied the top shelf. The black and white image showed a stern, unsmiling father, a smiling mom with sad eyes, and me sitting next to a teddy bear. The stuffed animal belonged to my younger brother, Billy, who died when I was eight and he was five.
The picture was taken two Christmases after his passing. My body grew cold with the memory of Billy’s final moments.
Mom had taken us down to the pond for some ice skating. My dad stayed behind to chop firewood or some chore I couldn’t wait to be man enough to do.
Billy wore a pair of hand me down skates and was very unsteady on them. My mom held his hand and guided him out onto the ice. The Larsen boys, my friend Carl and his older brother Kris, were already playing ice hockey, so I laced up and raced over to join them. We were in the middle of a serious game when I hear a loud crack, like when a branch snaps off a tree during a storm, followed by my mother’s scream.
I looked over to where she and Billy had been skating moments earlier and they were both gone. A black hole in the ice revealed what had happened. Seconds later my mom’s head bobbed up in the opening. Steam rose from her hair. Billy surfaced soon after, but he thrashed in the water, struggling to stay afloat. My mom grabbed hold of one of his flailing arms.
“Bobby!” she screamed, “Help!”
Kris Larsen, only twelve years old at the time, jumped into action. Knowing Carl was the fastest runner, he sent him to get help. He barked these orders out as we raced across the pond. As we approached the hole, we could hear the snapping and popping of the ice under our weight.
“Bobby, you go ahead of me and crawl to your mom. I’ll hold your feet.”
I followed his instructions dropping down to my hands and knees then flattening onto my stomach. The tips of my skates gripped the ice and I used them to push me the last few inches. My mom’s brown eyes were wide with panic, framed with ice encrusted lashes and Billy’s lips were already tinged blue. I reached out for Billy and my mom pushed him toward me. I grabbed his mitten covered hands, squeezing tight. As soon as my mom released Billy, she disappeared under the surface of the water.
“Mommy!” I screamed and this sent Billy’s fear into overdrive. He started to thrash again. I lost my
grip on his waterlogged mittens. As I tried to grab hold of him again, he slipped under the surface too. I watched, helpless as his face retreated into the murky pond water.
Suddenly a hand shot out and gripped the edge of the ice around the hole. I recognized the emerald green wool of my mom’s mittens. Slowly her head emerged and she gasped, sputtering as she inhaled the cold air.
“Mommy, take my hand.”
She did and her weight began to drag me closer to the edge. Kris’ hands tightened around my ankles and he began to pull me back.
I held onto my mom tight as she started to resist. “No! I need to find Billy. He hasn’t come up!” She tugged against my grip, slipped free of her mittens and disappeared under the surface.
“Mommy!” I screamed and tried to dive in after her, but Kris held strong. She reappeared, again gasping for air and I reached for one of her flailing hands only she was too far away.
I heard a car approaching and glanced up past the snowy slopes to the road. Mr. Larsen’s bright red pick-up screeched to a halt and he and Carl leaped out.
Mr. Larsen grabbed a coil of rope out of the bed of the truck and ran down to the edge of the pond. He tied one end of the rope into a loop and carefully made his way over to the hole. Carl remained on the side, bouncing from one leg to the next.
“Molly,” Mr. Larsen shouted. “I’m throwing you a line. Put your arms through the loop so the rope is secure under your armpits. Okay?”
My mom turned to face him and nodded. He tossed the rope and she managed to grab it. She was shaking so bad that it seemed like two hours had passed before she had it in place. Mr. Larsen started pulling, hand over hand, and he hoisted her out. He didn’t stop until she was on firmer ice.
“Ralph, Billy’s still in there!” she cried through chattering teeth.
Mr. Larsen observed the empty hole and dark water then asked me, “Bobby did you see your brother at all?”
“Yes, I had him, but, but…I lost him and he never came up.”
End of the Road (Ghost Stories Trilogy #1) Page 12