The Apostasy

by Ted Minkinow

  Tom found one of the familiar plastic chairs, the whole time thanking his lucky stars that Jeremiah woke him up. Set the alarm for the right time, he thought, Next time maybe I’ll turn it on. His eyes wandered around the room until the aquarium caught his attention.

  A plastic frogman languished midway up, tethered by a chain to a pirate's treasure chest placed among the neon rocks at the bottom. Every couple of seconds the chest opened and a single air bubble burped out before the top slammed shut. The affect was hypnotic.

  Jeremiah's revelation ruled Tom’s thoughts since hanging up the phone. Even that amazing news slid from his mind as the diver, chained to his eternal task, released bubble after magic bubble from the treasure chest. Tom's brain drifted back to the point moments before the phone call.

  The dream, he thought. Tom dismissed what he considered the usual—missile-man—for the moment. He’d get back to it later. It was Act II—running with soldier—running in soldier, his mind added, that he thought about as the frogman delivered on his eternal task.

  The dream replayed…about the military unit in the woods…in Copper Gulch, Tom’s mind corrected again and it bothered him that his mind insisted on being so anile about it. What were they—we—after? He remember the bodies…Tied to trees.

  Yankee occupation in northern Alabama, both during the war and in the years following brought atrocities to the local population. But Tom could not recall anything about summary executions of civilians in Copper Gulch…Though isn’t that where great Uncle Jackson died?

  "Hey flyboy, take me to breakfast or lose me forever."

  A huge expenditure of self-control kept Tom from jumping out of his Crocs. How did she sneak up on me like that? He managed a smile.

  "Show me the way, Cassie." Tom took a look at her and asked in a lower voice, "You think you can last another hour?"

  "Rough night; we’ll talk at Melba's Catch."

  Cassandra ordered a side of grits and dry wheat toast; Tom chose two home-made biscuits to dip in sausage gravy and a cup of coffee.

  "If cholesterol were money,” Cassie said, “there’d be enough in that gravy to keep Medicare solvent."

  Tom stopped the biscuit halfway to his mouth and a drop of gravy hit his shirt as he spoke. "I only eat this stuff every once in a while." Like once in a while on Monday through Friday, he thought…but for some reason he just didn’t want Cassie to know.

  "Now," he said as the waitress walked away, “let me tell you about your hospital janitor.”

  Cassandra straightened in her chair as if a pitcher of iced tea had been dumped down her back.

  "Before you say anything," she said, "you need to know he's at the police station."

  Tom wondered if the janitor’s story could get more bizarre. He thought whatever Cassandra would say stood about as much chance of trumping what he gleaned from Jeremiah as Aunt Hattie had at winning the Talladega 500 in a golf cart.

  But hadn’t Cassandra looked a bit slow—more like exhausted—until he mentioned the janitor? Tom decided his information would keep just fine another few minutes.

  Cassandra said, "Something happened last night." She picked up a wedge of toast, looked at it for a second, and returned it to the plate.

  "What, I don't know. But I am sure Chief Anderson thinks Tilbury is involved.”

  Tom let the biscuit he held drop into the gravy plate while his mind conjured an image of Aunt Hattie taking the checkered flag at the Motor Speedway. Cassandra continued.

  “The Chief and some other guy came in during the night shift. They talked to Marlin for a few minutes then took him away." She pressed her lips together and raised her eyebrows.

  Tom recognized the signal indicating his turn to speak. “Just when you thought the story couldn't get any more complicated…”

  Tom explained everything Jeremiah discovered about Marlin. Each sentence seemed to add a brick to a wall of disbelief on her face. Only when he completed the story and after a moment to refill both coffee cups did she begin to ask questions.

  "Where did you get this information?"

  “The Pentagon. My best friend."

  "And he just ran into Marlin Tilbury's picture?"

  "Not exactly. The Pentagon is like a self-contained city with offices, of course, but also restaurants, gymnasiums, laundries…you get the picture."

  She nodded.

  "The brass is really into heritage and heroes so several of the walls are covered with paintings of famous battles or photographs of medal winners along with the citations."

  "And Marlin Tilbury's picture is nailed to one of these halls in the Pentagon?" she asked, obviously not swallowing the story.

  "I wouldn't say his picture is nailed up in one of these halls.” Tom made the quotation mark air symbols with his hands. “Tilbury is up in THE HALL.”

  Cassandra frowned.

  “Marlin Tilbury was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor during the Vietnam War. I don't know how familiar you are with all that, but it makes him a national treasure."

  2

  Thoughts flew through her mind, incredible thoughts of the janitor as some sort of hero…standing in the back of a jeep during a homecoming parade…Like a modern-day Caesar, she thought. But all that just didn’t fit with her observations—flawed as they might be—of the janitor.

  "Tell me one more time what he did to earn the Medal of Honor."

  Tom repeated the story just as Jeremiah relayed it to him.

  "His company choppered to a strategic hill in central Vietnam. They dug in for the night, not expecting activity. He was a sniper and set up outside the perimeter.”

  Tom took a sip of coffee. “Just after nightfall, the enemy mortared the area. As I said, action was not anticipated, but a few rounds were not uncommon. But not so long after the mortars quit, about thirty minutes is what Jeremiah said, the company finds themselves engaged with an entire battalion of North Vietnamese regulars.”

  Cassandra frowned.

  “That’s a lot of bad guys versus a few good guys.”

  She nodded, and Tom continued.

  “His company put up a fight and Marlin,” Tom glanced down at the gravy bowl and then back at Cassandra, “the Army estimates he picked off two dozen of the enemy before they got in among the friendly forces.” Another sip of coffee, and Tom shook his head before picking the story back up.

  “Marlin could have remained where he was, nobody would ever second guess the decision, but instead, when it appeared to him as if the unit was about to be completely overrun, he crawled his way out of relative safety and charged into the main body of American forces.”

  Tom picked up a piece of bacon and waved it as if it were a magic wand that could produce the next statement. She saw the change in his eyes as the right words came to his mind.

  “It was like volunteering for Custer’s last stand.”

  Cassandra raised her eyebrows in genuine shock. She could not picture the little mouse roaring like a lion.

  “Cassie, they were overwhelmed in short order and Marlin was wounded and appeared dead. He lost consciousness sometime during the attack."

  The waitress warmed both cups with fresh coffee.

  "When he regained his senses, the enemy controlled the battlefield; some set up a perimeter while others butchered the wounded and looted the dead."

  Cassandra could not fathom how any human being, let alone Marlin Tilbury, could maintain sanity in the face of such terror.

  "Anyway, Corporal Tilbury doesn’t take kindly to people murdering his buddies, but he's smart enough to understand he can't single-handedly defeat a couple hundred enemy soldiers. He managed to extract his K-Bar knife and waits his opportunity. Just as they're about to look into his hole, the enemy unit packs up lock, stock, and barrel and abandons the hill, leaving behind a squad of eight men to set booby traps among the American bodies and equipment. This group completes the job and they start to leave when a wounded American G.I. begins to moan.”

  The pace
of Tom’s words increased to match his growing excitement.

  “Four of the North Vietnamese surround the injured man. They taunt him, kick him, you know...”

  Though Cassandra nodded, she felt thankful she did not understand.

  “One of the NVA puts his bayonet against the man's chest. Marlin witnessed the whole affair. Evidently he's seen E-Nough of his friends killed. He grabs an M-16 assault rifle, jumps up like Rambo out of a swamp, and cuts down four enemy soldiers. The other NVA try to return fire but surprise is on Marlin’s side and he uses the advantage to cook off a clip of seven point six two into them."

  Cassandra's heart broke for Marlin.

  "So Tilbury, wounds and all, collects an enemy AK-47 and as many clips as he can hold, then hefts the injured G.I. onto his back and heads into the jungle. Four days later Marlin makes contact with an American patrol.”

  “Four days on the move toward friendly lines. The kid Tilbury rescued went in and out of consciousness…couldn’t walk…spent four days riding on Marlin's back.”

  Cassandra thought this would end the astounding story. She thought wrong.

  “Army intelligence interviewed the guy in the hospital, the one Marlin carried. The kid claimed enemy contact no less than seven times. It sounds like a continuous, running firefight. He said that Marlin killed fifteen to twenty more North Vietnamese regulars and Viet Cong.” Tom shook his head.

  “Cassie, he did all this single-handed, while tending to a wounded man. I mean, he did things that would make the Outlaw Josey Wales soil his pants.”

  "Did the wounded soldier live?"

  "Yes, he did. The kid Tilbury rescued, a young lieutenant, turned out to be the child of a Senator. Jeremiah believes that lieutenant is now the governor of some western state." Tom took another sip of coffee.

  "Here's the kicker. Marlin ends up with the Congressional Medal of Honor for his effort…well deserved, I might add. Think about it; President Nixon draped the thing around Tilbury’s neck."

  They sat in silence for more than a minute. Cassandra spoke first.

  She asked, "What do you think happened to him?" not really expecting a definitive answer.

  "I don't know, Cassie. That war scarred just about everyone.”

  “With Marlin, there’s more, isn’t there?”

  “Think so, Cassie,” Tom replied. “The Medal of Honor brings its own weight into a man’s life. More than one recipient has crumbled under that sort pressure.”

  Tom and Cassandra finished their breakfast with a dabbling of conversation. They stood as the waitress cleared the table. Cassandra snatched the ticket.

  She said, "We already agreed; my treat.”

  "You're the doctor."

  She smiled. "And don't you forget it."

  "What’s the rest of your day looking like?" Tom asked.

  "I'm going home to get some rest."

  "Why don't you come over to my place? The bed’s comfortable…”

  She raised both eyebrows.

  “You’ll sleep solo,” Tom said.

  The invitation tempted...and her overnight bag, packed for ER duty, sat in her car.

  Cassandra heard herself say, "Why not." And then, "I'll follow you."

  CHAPTER 43

  Monday, July 16, 06:15 am, City Hall, Vienna, Alabama

  1

  Marlin hunkered at the corner of his bed like the statue of the thinking man. Similarity to Rodin’s masterpiece ended at the pose because Marlin’s face looked as blank as the white wall that stood inches from his nose. He sat that way for five consecutive one-hour prisoner checks.

  Police at the hospital did not surprise Marlin, nor did his subsequent arrest. After all, The Man possessed a long arm and a tight grip. Chief Anderson asked the questions…even read Marlin his Miranda Rights and offered Tilbury a public defender. Marlin shrugged off the offer, mumbling something about "no help now."

  Warren caught enough of the statement to convince himself the little being from another planet might just know something. After about an hour of "where were you?” and, “what were you doing when?" the Chief broke off.

  They charged Marlin with public drunkenness, a convenient result of the janitor’s suicidal drinking binge. Fate had finally thrown the Chief a bone when they found Tilbury inebriated at work.

  Warren admitted to himself they were just spitting tobacco into the wind with the charge, but it gave him time to question Marlin on other matters. They had twenty four hours, time enough to let him sober up plus an hour or two. Any longer and the judge would raise an eyebrow.

  2

  Up front in the Chief’s office the clock read six forty five in the morning and back in his jail cell Marlin felt sick and exhausted…and certain he somehow messed up during the interrogation with Chief Anderson. The North Vietnamese officer would react with anger and perhaps punishment. Hiding out in jail for a bit would suit Marlin just fine, at least until the sun banished all the dark corners.

  As he sat staring into the empty cell adjacent to his, Marlin heard a ripping noise—barely made it to his brain—and then the door between the holding tank and rear portion of city hall swung open and then closed.

  Somebody, Chief Anderson or one of the others, walked toward him. Marlin didn’t look up. The person stopped in front of Marlin and after a long silence they spoke.

  "Nobody knows the troubles you've known."

  Not cute. Tilbury closed his eyes at the voice, as if not seeing could also mean not hearing. And then not hearing could mean not there.

  "When you open your eyes, Corporal, you will discover I remain. You are aware that your fate exists at my whim."

  Marlin looked up. The little demon stood on Marlin’s side of the iron bars, erect in his crisp green uniform and polished boots. Dark eyes peered from underneath the pristine pith helmet. A shining red star crowned the forehead.

  "You see evidence of contempt your fellow countrymen hold for you."

  The NVA evoked less fear in Marlin than awareness of his advancing years and tired submission to the reality of an unshakable enemy.

  "They think they are clever, Corporal Tilbury. Clever in assigning blame to you for certain events."

  Last night's interrogation left no doubt as to what events the officer meant.

  “Would you not agree, Corporal?”

  Marlin did not answer. He dedicated all conscious energy in an attempt at resolving the apparent reality of the NVA officer standing inside his jail cell in Vienna, Alabama with the scene's obvious impossibility. The struggle lasted but moments before he gave in to sight and sound, and ignored reasonable doubt.

  Leland Graves—dressed as The Man—witnessed the brief and fruitless mental battle popping inside the timid janitor's head, and smiled as Marlin shed the remaining tendrils of self-will and common sense.

  "Your associations have set the course for your undoing.”

  He’s standing straight as a board, thought Marlin.

  “Think about it, Corporal Tilbury, you sit an innocent man to be condemned and wrongly punished by the society you serve."

  Too exhausted to defend itself, Tilbury felt his mind bend like modeler's putty to the NVA officer's suggestions.

  "On the other hand, you and I are not so much enemies now as before, are we?"

  Marlin nodded and The Man invested more than a couple of seconds deciding what that answer meant.

  "Though we wear different uniforms, we share a common struggle?"

  Another almost-nod and this time Marlin’s answer came to The Man in the voice of surrender. The Man paused again…to allow a moment of self-celebration.

  "Good, Corporal Tilbury, very good. As you recognize the truth you will find true peace and fellowship with comrades who can defeat your enemies and rescue your soul. But you must believe, my loyal Corporal Tilbury. You must believe in me and trust. Do you believe? Do you seek rapture of the body and spirit?"

  Marlin stared into the bottomless eyes burning beneath the helmet's brim.

>   "Now rest my comrade. Sleep."

  The janitor lowered his head and closed his eyes.

  3

  Mission complete, Leland Graves dissipated the NVA officer's form and returned to Copper Gulch.

  CHAPTER 44

  Monday, July 16, 1928, 4:22 pm, Dirt Road leading to Nana Sally’s House

  1

  Hattie stood still as the marble Confederate standing guard in town square, as if any move, even a furtive glance left or right could free the monster hiding under her bed. But this was the road through Copper Gulch, not her bedroom. Hattie chanced a glance to her left, toward the source of the breeze, into Copper Gulch.

  She saw nothing…not at first. Just wild honeysuckle, blackberry briars, and such. Normal stuff. A glimmer up ahead caught her eye.

  Something there…hidden in sunlight, she thought. A hand to her forehead shielded her eyes but…the sun sits right on the road. Her eyes watered against the brightness and impulse made Hattie glance back to the more soothing darkness that was Copper Gulch…just for a moment…just to get her bearings…to let her eyes start working again.

  There…standing against the tree. Hattie thought she could make out the blurred figure of a man. Light suit…hat…cane?

  Only one person fit that description, at least only one that the frazzled state of her mind would allow.

  Leland Graves? Oh my…

  She closed her eyes partly to make it not true and the rest to clear them of the sun-tears that blurred her vision. A quick prayer, a plea to clear the board of all the craziness brought on by the last few days and then Hattie opened her eyes to face whatever they revealed.

  Nothing.

  No Leland Graves standing in the swamp muck down where even the poorest croppers lost hope and abandoned; where they turned their backs and fled like Lot did Gomorrah. A sigh—relief—and Hattie remained still, this time to allow her heart to slow just a bit before moving on home. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath…and she almost missed the man walking toward her out of the sun, that glimmer up ahead that caught her attention and made her blink in the first place. But the smell did it for her.