by Ted Minkinow
Two of the enemy searches for the source, a nineteen-year-old red-haired private…Orson.
Orson wants his mother. One of the NVA fixes the bayonet of his AK. Without interrupting a conversation, he slides the blade into the young American's torso until the babbling stops. The soldier slices off Orson’s ear and slides it in his backpack. Marlin is enraged…and scared.
He hunkers in the makeshift hiding place, knowing at any moment his life could end on a Chinese-made bayonet. For a second or two he contemplates joining his friends in death, rising like a phoenix from destruction to kill as many NVA as he can. He dismisses the thought…and not for lack of courage. Marlin had no weapon.
He crams his face into soil. Sniper Tilbury knows he must hide his eyes to avoid detection. Dirt spoiled by death finds its way into Marlin’s mouth and it tastes like a black communion for the defeated. He vows that should a credible opportunity present itself, he will kill as many of these pigs as possible. Marlin's heart pounds with such force he is certain the ruckus will draw the enemy.
Pain from shrapnel wounds pulsates, but with the agony there is also life…But what kind of life? A vision comes…him as the last living hand of a once great warrior—his unit. And that dead warrior demands vengeance of the hand. Marlin offers his soul for an M16 or AK47 and one three-round burst.
One of the NVA near Orson turns his head in Tilbury's direction. If only for an instant, Marlin swears they make eye contact. The Vietnamese walks towards Marlin, AK47 slung low at his hip in the kill position.
Defenseless save for dirt and scrub, Marlin will play dead until the last moment; he will also die a better death than Orson’s and strike like a cornered rattlesnake, hoping to grab an AK47 and deal some payback. The NVA soldier closes the distance. Muscles in both the dream and dreaming Tilbury tense for attack.
The enemy soldier stops and stoops…reaches through the branches and into Marlin's crater. A hand brushes over Marlin's leg and grabs a foot belonging to one of Marlin’s comrades. It hauls the lifeless body out of the hole and rummages through pockets. A cigarette lighter slides it into an enemy uniform. The NVA soldier stands and notices another leg buried in the same hole. He stoops and grabs Marlin’s foot.
2
Janitor-Marlin’s body tensed in a motion that was slight, but at the same time visible to the quiet witness in his bedroom. This dream yielded a wealth of information, a precious bounty. Leland Graves now understood what molded the timid janitor's existence.
With a little work, this fetid, sweating, wretch could prove valuable. Leland Graves would delay physical entry into the dream…for the moment. He decided on subtlety—Details—and dispatched a puff of change to roil Marlin’s familiar sequence.
3
Marlin hears an order barked in Vietnamese and the NVA soldier stands.
Dreaming Marlin was aware that this iterative dream had run its course. He would soon wake up.
But then a hand returned to grip his leg…just above the ankle. Marlin became frantic inside his dream.
Something's wrong!
This latest development never happened in life or since in the dream. The enemy soldiers formed into squads and made a quick retreat. Not this time.
Hands with grips like iron tong drug him to the surface…out of the crater. Stunned at the rewrite, Marlin offered no resistance…movement would result in a steel blade between his ribs. His captor lugged him across the damp jungle floor, and then twisted Marlin over to his back. Marlin welded his eyes shut, hoping to deceive the enemy and buy time to determine a course of action.
This isn't right! Marlin repeated in his head.
Why isn’t it right? The answer jolted him in his sleep.
It isn't right because I lived.
He knew it was a dream, and he struggled to make his mind wake up…or at least follow the correct script.
2
Confusion infusion.
And why not? It worked many times before and Leland Graves did not doubt this best practice—he reviled in using corporate guidance but could not deny that sometimes it worked—would do just fine for the janitor.
Fine indeed, Leland Graves thought. Of course enhancements are required. And Leland Graves did just that by shifting into the form he decided upon…A special incarnation customized for the little janitor. Leland Graves became The Man and stepped into Marlin Tilbury’s dream.
CHAPTER 19
Friday, July 13, 11:45 pm, Vienna, Alabama, Hattie Jackson’s House
1
Tom eased the car onto Hattie's driveway. Both rode in silence since leaving Tom’s house though Tom wanted to talk and sensed the same in Hattie. Tom wanted to explain why he almost bowled Hattie over. But before he formulated something reasonable—she could scent a fib quicker than a bloodhound could a raccoon—he needed to understand the bit of buffoonery himself. That proved the difficult part, so both Tom and Hattie mulled their own thoughts and postured for the conversation both knew would come.
Hattie’s place stood in darkness because once again Tom failed to turn on an outside light. He wondered if the chill on his spine would ever dissipate.
Using more force than necessary, Tom threw the door open and strode inside. Hattie plodded to the back of the house where she changed into her nightclothes. Tom tidied up the kitchen and reached into the refrigerator for a cold beer. Hattie never drank but kept Tom’s brand handy.
2
As he opened the can and took the first sip of froth, Tom did not know how fortunate the next several hours would be for him…also for Aunt Hattie. It was not so much indecision over Hattie’s aura that kept Leland Graves away that night as his desire to co-opt the third vassal…one who still held life…Marlin Tilbury. Leland Grave’s powers did not extend into omnipresence; a skill set uniformly lacking on his side.
The span of time between stepping through Aunt Hattie’s door and the next time Tom or one of his friends felt the hand of Leland Graves represented that last lull in a battle. A battle already underway, and in realms Tom Brunson could not see or comprehend.
3
With a cold beer in one hand and the television remote in the other, Tom sat down for some channel surfing. Within a few minutes he settled on the classic movie channel.
Vivien Leigh, in black and white beauty, filled the screen in a full-face close-up. He recognized the scene from Lady Hamilton. Tom lowered the volume for a moment and could hear Hattie running a bath over Vivian's sexy voice and impeccable English accent.
He returned his attention to the television and saw Sir Laurence Olivier, cast as the British Naval hero Lord Nelson, declare his love for the bewitching wife of Lord Hamilton.
“Go for it, squid,” Tom said.
He fought the urge, but Tom's thoughts drifted. Within days of Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait, the Air Force deployed his unit to the Gulf. The deal went down quickly and Tom found himself piloting one of the unit's Phantoms on the arduous sixteen-hour flight to Saudi Arabia. World events allowed a brief, sweet farewell. Her resolve lasted less than three months.
He became suspicious when her letters, which started at the heated pace of one per day, began to drip in at a trickle. That transformation took one month. Her final letter found its way from the United States to the Persian Gulf, and then to his room at the military hospital in Wiesbaden, Germany.
It was postmarked a week before the Iraqi missile exploded his fighter and waited patiently in the intensive care unit for Tom’s return to consciousness. He concentrated on the movie, hoping to block out the memory. But as Lord Nelson received the orders for his return to duty from the British Admiralty, Tom waded back into the memory pool.
“Here’s to Hollywood,” he whispered as he raised the beer can in salute. “No such thing as Lady Hamilton in the real world.”
The Army nurse offered to read his unopened mail…that’s what Tom saw as his mind traveled across time and the Atlantic Ocean to the hospital in Germany. His gray matter seemed to delight in reconstruct
ing the pitiful mess in clear detail. He saw the room, the young nurse, and his broken and drugged body lying in the bed. There it was in his mind’s eye, as clear as the old movie on the television screen…first day with full faculty of senses. The staff treated him like a hero…like their only patient.
CNN plastered his face and his story in front of the world every hour. It all happened before the bombing campaign that signaled transition from Operation Desert Shield to Operation Desert Storm.
The nurse repeated her offer, her hands filled with envelopes of every size and color.
As Tom sat in Aunt Hattie's den, feet propped on the coffee table, he remembered the joy at seeing all that mail. Everyone who even remotely remembered him, along with hundreds he never met, sent best wishes. Among the tubes, monitors, casts, and bandages, he nodded. She pulled out a single page and began reading aloud.
CHAPTER 20
Saturday, July 14, 12:15 am, Vienna, Alabama, Hattie Jackson’s House
1
Dear Tom,
I hope all is going well for you. It breaks my heart every time I think of you all alone in the middle of the hot desert. But you aren't really alone, are you? You have all your wonderful friends from the squadron and Lord knows how jealous that sometimes makes me. You love that life, flying those fighters and living with those friends.
He closed his eyes and remembered her face…her beautiful image replaced the machines, bandages, and casts covering his body…her sweet voice drowned beeping from the monitors. The nurse continued:
I know you must have a lot of things on your mind right now, so I hesitate to add to your burden.
2
The nurse sensed the tone and knew things for her young American hero were about to get worse. Her heart fell to the floor as she scanned the rest of the letter. Pausing, she looked over to the patient, hoping to see him asleep…maybe slipped back into the void of unconsciousness…anything. Instead, he turned his head in her direction.
"Read," Tom said. His voice came out weak and raspy, like frozen leaves pushed by a hesitant winter breeze.
"I'm so sorry," she said, and did not fight the tears.
You are the strong one in our relationship and I wish I could be more like you. But, as we both know, I am not. I no more have the courage to live alone than I would to strap into one of those fighters you fly. I am weak and scared; especially when I'm alone. And, when I feel scared, I feel unworthy of you and your devotion.
The words reached through the fog to grasp Captain Tom Brunson around the throat. Fighting for composure, the nurse read the final paragraph.
Tom, you are a dear person; but I want you to put aside your feelings for me. I believe it's best for you. You have too bright a future to be tied to a shrinking violet like me. It is also clear that I would be unable to endure loneliness in the future if you had to deploy again. Please don't try to change my mind. It would only cause pain for us both. To be honest, I have already started without you. I hope you understand. I'm sorry.
The nurse returned the letter to the bedside table without reading the closing. The young captain lay staring at the ceiling; a single tear glistened at the lower corner of one eye. Without a word, she moved over to her patient and, though forbidden by hospital regulations, she bent over and placed both of her hands on Captain Brunson’s chest. She whispered a prayer for healing.
3
The letter jolted Tom into full senses...woke him to the extent of his injuries. He noticed the room’s stark whiteness, the sterile aroma…he felt metal holding his body together like wire under a wet clay sculpture. Tom sensed rips in his flesh made by shrapnel and the smaller ones made by staples and sutures. For the first time of many more to come, Tom cursed his luck for not dying with his fighter.
In the black and white garden of her black and white movie mansion, Lady Hamilton waited for word. News of Nelson’s fatal victory arrived in the movie’s final scene. Vivien Leigh acted out the tragedy with heart twisting film noire skill. Tom mashed the mute button and drained the beer. He decided to check on Aunt Hattie.
4
Hattie Jackson picked up the remote before turning back the covers. She fought an iron band that squeezed her chest and she pulled her way onto the bed. That effort depleted her strength and she struggled to keep her head from swaying. She thought of another of Papa’s sayings, “Where the ears go the mule follows.” But Hattie was not much in the mood for anything…even Papa.
She did not know for sure whether the weeping came more from the pain or from fear. Fooling her Tommy and Dr. Walters came easy enough, but Hattie could not fool herself. Her heart would not last, and she thought about death waiting over the horizon…her death.
Must delay the tests in Huntsville.
Tommy did not need the distraction…not now…not with Leland Graves crawling back out of whatever hole held him over the years. Hattie sighed.
Might be best to leave on my own terms… avoid the battle…save lives.
But there was another thing to consider…something only those who’ve stepped into the twilight years could understand. Hattie was not ready to die. Nine decades did not automatically put the undertaker on her Christmas list.
But now my heart.
Fear invited its best friend desperation to the party and Hattie struggled to bar the door against panic. Once panic bloomed then Leland Graves won. She did not think he was near, not at the moment, and could not explain why she was so sure.
But he’s coming.
Noise in the hall. Hattie wiped her face and fumbled with the remote until she found the weather channel.
5
Tom stopped at the bedroom door and listened.
T.V.’s running.
He saw the strip of light glowing under the door.
Lights are on.
He knocked.
"Come in, Tommy."
Aunt Hattie sat on one side of her king-sized bed, two pillows behind her back and one behind her head. The weather channel droned. A thick, multi-colored patchwork quilt covered her feet, legs, and up to her waist.
Tom paused in the doorway. This vision warmed his heart. Good vibrations gave way to fear when he remembered how close he came to losing her earlier that night. Nobody knew for sure if Aunt Hattie ever ventured beyond Alabama’s borders. Even so, every night she sat among her pillows and quilts, soaking up the national weather. Tom passed through the doorway.
"How are you feeling?"
"Just fine, baby,” she answered without taking her eyes from the small T.V.
"My old body needs some rest, Tommy. Can't expect to do things the same way forever," she said, still facing the television.
Tom smiled.
"I don't buy the old body business, but I imagine some rest would do you good.”
He sat at the edge of her bed.
“Are they predicting a good day for us tomorrow?"
"More of the same. Hot in the morning, muggy by afternoon, rain in the evening."
Good to get her mind off of things, Tom thought and he continued down the lighter path. "I could say the same thing about ninety percent of our summer days."
"Tommy", she replied, "summer is summer in Alabama. It doesn't change much from one year, or century, to the next."
He smiled outwardly but his mind raced. Tom had questions, important questions concerning the health of one of the few of the people he loved. Other questions too. He didn't quite know how to ask those. Strange things transpired earlier tonight. He couldn’t shake the belief that Aunt Hattie understood…back there on his front porch.
Tom decided to table his curiosity; not to push for answers to questions he did not know how to formulate anyway. He would let the charade continue until the next morning, maybe longer. She needed physical and emotional rest to clear her head and perhaps to heal her body.
Hattie broke the truce.
"Why'd you come out of your house at a dead run?"
Her question slammed into Tom like a new kind of missile
that shot down chivalrous intentions instead of jets. He thought long and hard before answering because the truth was not impressive.
All permutations considered, and he did try to think of everything, Tom could not explain why he felt it necessary to flee the old family mansion. Aunt Hattie's appearance on the doorstep perplexed him even more. She should have remained in the car during the quick errand. But she knew. Sure as the sun she knew. She must have felt sick, just out of the hospital and barely able to move on her own, and yet she got out of the car to check on him. Why?
The exact nature of that “something that was going on” remained beyond his reach. Either imagination reigned in his bedroom…or. He thought for a moment, or what? He could try to deny but nobody could hoodwink Hattie. He evaded her question, opting instead for the best defense is a good offense approach by asking a question of his own.
"So what happened to you tonight?" He regretted the brusqueness the moment his words reached his ears. The question did not seem to stun Hattie. She expected it.
She turned her head and focused on him, looking as if she wanted to share a secret. The intensity faded from her face almost as rapidly as it appeared.
"Dear,” she said in her don’t argue with Aunt Hattie voice, “We’ll discuss it later. It isn't important right now."
A bit patronizing, but Hattie was Hattie, genuine and devoid of arrogance.
"You and I are family.” She paused. “That takes top priority, especially in a lifetime as short as we are given.”
Her eyes locked on his. “A family shares things, good and bad.”
Tom expected more, but nothing came.
She returned to the weather and, in almost parenthetical voice, said, "We will share some difficult times soon.”