Letters from Becca: A Contemporary Romance Fiction Novel

by Margaret Ferguson

  They went back to the cabin and sat outside on their campstools, each opening their special packages from their mates. David opened his up and took out four sandwiches, two whole bags of chips and a large paper plate of cookies with browned edges. He handed one to John.

  “I’ve tried her cookies, remember,” he said, stone-faced, waving off the plate.

  “That’s my wife you’re talking about,” David said, trying to sound offended.

  “Yeah, well,” he replied, unable to come up with a better excuse.

  “At least take one, so that I can honestly tell her that you had some.” David looked down at John’s cooler.

  John took a cookie and put it in between his lips without biting down, as he reached into his cooler and pulled out a Thermos and three Tupperware containers. John popped the Thermos and smelled. It was filled with Johnny Walker. He took a sip and passed it on to David.

  “My kind of woman,” David said as he smelled then drank from the Thermos.

  John opened up one of the Tupperware containers and then looked up suddenly at David. He wasn’t sure, but he might have blushed. He tossed the uneaten cookie into the grass and wiped the crumbs from his lips before resealing the container.

  David grabbed the container from John’s lap and opened it up. Slowly, he reached in and picked up the contents and held them up. He turned them around and looked at John, perplexed. “What the hell is this?” he asked.

  John started laughing and dropped his head into his hands. When he finally looked up again, he grinned. “That, my friend, is crotch-less underwear.”

  David had a look of astonishment on his face. “The hell you say!” He quickly dropped them back into the Tupperware container and shook his head. “If I gave those to Becca she wouldn’t know what to do with them.”

  John took the container back. “Well, they aren’t exactly for her, if you know what I mean.”

  David shook his head, quickly reached over and grabbed the Tupperware container, and stuck it into his knapsack.

  John laughed out loud. “And what am I supposed to tell her I did with them?”

  David chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  John opened the second container cautiously, peering through the side; then, exhaled. He pulled the top off and showed it to David. Homemade iced marbled fudge brownies. His favorite! He offered one to David, who waved him off as he was biting into one of Becca’s cookies. It crumbled all over him. He looked at John, stopped chewing and spit it out, then tossed the rest into the grass and motioned for John to hand over the brownies.

  David nodded as he bit into a brownie, and gave John a thumbs up. He took another sip from the Thermos and said. “A deer hunter asked his pastor if it was a sin to hunt on Sunday. His pastor looked at him and said, ‘from what I hear, with your aim, it’s a sin for you to hunt anytime.’”

  John laughed hard as he opened the last Tupperware container, which was filled with pimiento cheese sandwiches. He offered one to David and stopped, trying to remember something. John smiled as he turned to his friend. “So, there were these two hunters that weren’t having any luck,” he began.

  “Sounds familiar already.”

  “So they asked advice from an old timer,” he continued. “‘You can just about guarantee a deer if you learn to hunt with dogs,’ he told them. The two hunters got a trained deer dog and hit the woods. At the end of the day and still empty-handed, one hunter said to the other, ‘Maybe tomorrow we’ll get one if we throw the dog out of a higher tree stand.’”

  David chuckled and shook his head. “You’re a good egg,” he said suddenly. “I don’t care what everyone says about you.” He talked with a mouthful of brownie. “She can cook. She wears those… those things?” He motioned toward his bag. “You’re obviously in love with her and it’s apparent she’s nuts about you, God only knows why,” he smiled. “So, why haven’t you married her?”

  “Believe it or not, when we talk about it, she tells me she’s not ready yet.”

  “You’re not supposed to talk about it, son. You’re supposed to get down on your knees and ask her.”

  John looked down at the container of brownies. No response came to mind.

  “Well, it’s your life,” David said, shaking his head. “You want to keep messing it up, that’s your business.”

  John chuckled as he drank another sip from the Thermos. He passed it to David.

  David waved it aside. “Screw that,” he said. “Hand over them brownies.”

  John handed him the entire container.

  “God, I wish Becca could cook like this,” David said, before stuffing an entire brownie into his mouth.

  “Me, too,” John laughed. “Those cookies are awful.”

  David held up the Tupperware container of brownies, and John held up the Thermos as they toasted.

  That was the last time he saw his best friend.

  Chapter 18: November 11, 2000

  John wiped his eyes then put his glasses back on, adjusting them before picking up the picture. He smiled sadly as he brushed his thumb over it again. He set it down and picked up the letter.

  You were always there for me, and the boys. For David. Oh, how I wish I could have erased those years from his memory, from our lives. If only I could have talked both of you out of going over to that God forsaken place, how differently our lives might have turned out. I know. I know. It was your duty, to God and our country. But what about his duty to his family?

  John looked up as Norma filled his coffee cup again. “You okay, sweetie?” she asked. John nodded and smiled. He sensed that she knew it was best to leave him alone. So she did.

  John looked around. He had been there for over an hour. He should be going, and yet, he was afraid to. Afraid of what he would find. Afraid he was too late. He was always too late. He looked back to her letter.

  I want you to know that I prayed for him, and for you. Every day. I pray for you even now—that you don’t suffer any more pain in your life. Any more heartache. You’ve had enough of those to last you a lifetime. Isn’t it time you come home, John? Won’t you come home to me?

  John looked up as the bell to the diner door dinged again. A young mother and her three children entered, and she spent the better part of two minutes just trying to corral them before asking the hostess for a booth. John sighed, slowly refolded the letter and slid it and the picture back into the box. He set a ten-dollar bill on the table to cover a six-dollar meal and carefully rose from the booth seat, moaning as he straightened up.

  Getting old sucked, as his seven-year-old grandson would say. He was supposed to have another knee replacement, but he figured he didn’t have that many years left, so why use up his savings on something that wasn’t a long-term investment? He exercised regularly and took a few pain pills as needed to alleviate what he couldn’t tolerate. John stopped in front of the three children tugging on their mother’s arms, pleading with her to give them money for the gumball machine. John stuck his hands into his pockets and jangled his change until he found three quarters. He bent over at the waist and offered one to each of the three boys hanging on the worn-looking woman.

  They each turned to him, looking at him quizzically, before turning to their mother, their eyes asking for permission. He looked up at her and smiled. She, in turn, looked down at them and nodded. They each eagerly accepted their quarters and raced for the gumball machine.

  “One at a time,” she instructed calmly as they all arrived at once.

  John smiled as he stood upright. “Those are some mighty fine boys you have there.”

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  “You have your hands full, don’t you?” he asked.

  She nodded wearily. “Yes,” she sighed. “Some days it’s just so exhausting.” The boys all ran back to her at once, showing her their colored mouths as they chewed their gum.

  John leaned over the counter and smiled at the cashier. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a twenty-do
llar bill and handed it to her. “Put this toward whatever they order,” he added with a wink. “The rest is yours.”

  The young mother smiled. “You’re so kind—you don’t have to, but thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” John said, turning to leave before she could argue.

  John walked to the corner and hailed a cab.

  “Where to, sir?” the polite young man asked.

  John looked at him in the review mirror. “Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery,” he replied sadly.

  The cabbie looked at him for a moment as the man in his back seat looked down. He could see the sadness in the old man’s eyes. He said a quick silent prayer for the man, crossed himself, turned on his meter and pulled into traffic.

  Chapter 19: March 25, 1974

  Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery is a large expanse of flat green land spotted with trees, bordering a wooded area on one side and the Salado Creek on the other. It sits on the edge of Fort Sam Houston, in the heart of San Antonio. The cemetery’s claim to fame includes visits from President Theodore Roosevelt in 1898 with his men, when they stopped to get provisions on their way to Cuba. And more notably famous was Chief Geronimo’s stay there until his exile to Florida in 1868. Interred in the cemetery are the remains of those who fought in both World Wars, Korea and Vietnam. There are even 29 Buffalo Soldiers from the 9th and 10th Calvary that served during the Indian Wars interred there. Soldiers whose remains were originally buried at Fort Clark, Fort McIntosh and Fort Ringgold, were moved when the frontier posts closed decades before. There are Colonels and Sergeants, Majors and Privates buried there. And now yet another headstone was about to be added to the lush green landscape.

  He was late. Perpetually late. He even left thirty minutes before he originally planned. He told Becca he would be there early, and yet now he was stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. A mile of overheating cars and trucks and buses had built up behind a cement truck that had somehow tipped over in the middle of Wurzbach Road, blocking all four lanes. Before the cabbie realized the dilemma, they were already stuck in the mess. The cemetery was three miles away, so John paid the cabbie, walked one mile and caught a bus on the other side of the accident that had just broken free from the congestion. He rode the rest of the way standing at the front of the bus, holding onto the overhead railing.

  John stepped nervously off the bus and slowly made his way across the driveway to the flat, green, manicured landscape. He took off his hat out of reverence to where he was and carefully tucked it under his arm. He was walking on hallowed ground. His heart beat rapidly as he carefully stepped between the first few headstones that marked the departed; those who had served and died so valiantly. Markers read of loss and sorrow: “LOVING FATHER,” “TREASURED SON,” “DEVOTED HUSBAND” were etched over and over into the white-veined, marbled stones. Each stone was placed strategically over sixty-plus acres. Soon, there was no walking between the stones. There was little room. Every inch of the ground was covered with either headstones or flags or the actual plots.

  John stopped and stood stoically, looking across the field of freshly mowed grass. Rows of white headstones and a sea of planted American flags between them, waving majestically in the cool morning breeze, represented those who had given their lives in the name of peace and justice. There were thousands of them. Lives cut short, loves lost, hearts broken. There were dozens of headstones, each surrounded by fresh dirt, scattered throughout the section in which he stood—so many casualties of war. He walked carefully, avoiding the fresh red clay and sand. His shoes were polished to a shine, his dress blues pressed and creased perfectly, every patch precisely sewn, every medal carefully placed.

  He stopped suddenly after walking around a cluster of trees. The mourners sat before a closed casket of natural oak with an American flag draped across it. At the end of the casket was a small wreath of red roses. John stared at the coffin for a moment. Then his eyes turned to a young boy carrying a single piece of paper to the coffin. He tried to set it on the casket, but couldn’t reach. His older brother walked up to him and picked him up, leaning him over the casket so that he could place the paper under the wreath. The small child slid from his brother’s arms, and they both walked back to Becca’s side. William, the youngest, was climbing from her lap to another. Johnny took his place, climbing into her lap while D.R. sat stoic beside his mother. They weren’t crying, but sitting perfectly still and quiet. John looked up into the cloudy sky, fighting the tears. He had to be strong. After he drew in a deep breath, he looked back at David’s family as the bugler began to play Taps. John stood at attention as the music echoed over the tombstones and out into the community beyond the wall of trees, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding behind the trees and shrubs.

  The flag was folded carefully by gloved honor guards as the seven-man firing team raised their rifles with precision and fired three volleys into the air. At the first shot, Becca began to weep and held her boys closer to her. John looked straight ahead, his eyes and demeanor strong, but his lips trembling. On the twelfth fold, the honor guard placed three shell casings into the folded flag and tucked it in at the last fold, before carefully and crisply turning to carry it to Becca. David was his best friend. Through all the sarcasm and mocking, they had always been there for each other, since they were twelve years old. Now he was gone. And it hurt like hell.

  John watched as they carefully inspected the flag and knelt before placing it in Becca’s hands. She never looked up at the soldier. John saw him lean nearer and speak softly to her, as he recited the words in his head that he’d heard so many times. “On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Marines, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.” He watched Becca nod her head several times before the soldier stood, turned sharply and walked back to David’s casket. John dropped his head to his chest and sighed, then turned and walked back in the direction from which he came.

  Chapter 20: March 25, 1974

  The house was a dimly lit, small ranch-style home in a newer cul-de-sac on the northeast side of San Antonio. John stepped from the taxi, carrying a brown bag in one hand and his hat in the other. He stopped just short of ringing the bell, contemplating. He sighed as he placed his hat on his head. John was about to turn away when he heard voices on the other side of the door. The door suddenly opened. An older couple was startled at his presence but smiled pleasantly, before turning back to Becca.

  “If there’s anything you need, dear,” she said sweetly. “Please call.”

  Becca nodded but glanced past them to John, who stood in the shadows on the step. She turned to her friends and smiled. “Thank you, Charlotte, Swanzy, you’ve both been such great neighbors and good friends. I can’t tell you how much you mean to me,” she said, allowing each of them to hug her one last time. They walked past John with a smile and a nod and walked into the darkness. Becca leaned against the door, almost hugging it. She smiled faintly. “You made it.”

  John nodded and removed his hat. “I made it.”

  They didn’t say anything for many moments, before Becca walked quickly into his arms. She hugged him tightly, and he wrapped his arms around her. “I’m so sorry,” he said against her cheek.

  Becca pulled away first and wiped her tears; then, smiled sincerely. “The boys are going to be so glad to see you,” she said, taking his hand and pulling him inside. She closed the door, took his hat and set it on a shelf in the entryway. She wrapped her arm in his and walked with him slowly toward the living area. Strangers were huddled in groups of two or three, conversing quietly. They all turned, smiled cordially or nodded at him when he walked in, before returning to their conversations. Becca pulled him straight to the boys’ room, across from her own down a long hallway. She stopped outside the door and knocked lightly. She turned to him and rubbed his arm. “You’re on,” she said before stepping back. She crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall. />
  The door opened, and immediately, Johnny’s eyes widened. “Uncle John!” he yelled.

  John knelt before him and accepted his hug. Immediately, his name echoed through the room as two more small bodies ran at him simultaneously. “Whoa! Whoa guys!” he said, chuckling as they all hit him at once, knocking him backwards onto the floor.

  “You boys take it easy on your Uncle John,” she warned, smiling mischievously as they began to climb all over him. She looked down at him as he looked up at her, feigning helplessness. He managed a weak smile as she turned and walked back to her other guests.

  “We will,” Johnny agreed.

  “Not a chance,” D.R. said as he continued to climb over him.

  John stood, with all three boys attached to him. William, barely three, hung from his leg, Johnny clung to his neck and D.R. was on his back. He hobbled into the bedroom, looking like the elephant man. Then he extracted the boys one at a time, tossing them onto the bed across from him. After several repeats of this, he held up his hands to make a ‘T’. “Time out, guys,” he gasped. “No fair tag-teaming me.”

  “Old man,” D.R. said, in a cocky tone.

  John removed his jacket, loosened his tie, reached over and grabbed D.R., holding him under one arm and scratching his knuckles across the top of his head, fast. “Old man?” John laughed.

  “I give!” D.R. exclaimed.

  John didn’t release him right away. “You promise?”

  D.R. chuckled and finally held up his hands. “Promise!” he exclaimed. John let him go, and the boy sat beside him.

  John looked down. William was still holding onto his leg, bouncing on his foot. Johnny had moved on to playing with his toys. D.R. sat beside him breathing hard. After a few moments, D.R. looked up at him, meeting his eyes. John tried to muster a smile.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” D.R. said softly.

  John put his arm around his shoulder. As he did, D.R. began to sob. The boy suddenly reached around and grabbed John around the neck. John pulled D.R. to his chest, hugging him tightly, rubbing his back. “I know, son. I know,” he said, fighting back his own tears. He looked over at Johnny who had stopped playing and was watching them. His eyes met John’s for a moment; then, he turned back around like nothing was happening and began playing with his fire truck. William, realizing that playtime with John was over, wandered over to Johnny and began playing with his wooden Playskool parking garage and the little painted wooden cars that came with it.