by K NILSSON
For their part, no doubt the Lins have a photo of him enshrined in a place of honor in their home. What must his parents be going through? Their government allowed them to raise only one child and finding him missing must be eating them alive. Kai must be found. He has to be okay.
Chapter Three
Devyn
Santa Monica, California
I walked along the oceanfront heading west, hands in my pocket. The ocean breeze swept my knotted hair all over the place. My favorite thing to do was watch the sunset. It was a meditation, a signal that the day was over. It also had the added benefit of an extra hour of walking to add to my Fitbit steps so I wouldn’t feel guilty indulging in my favorite treat, ice cream.
The vintage-signed ice cream shop drew me inside. The detail was classic 1960s, pulled straight out of my childhood memories. It was a giant waffle cone angled away from the building, so it looked like the soft swirl ice cream was about to drip on someone walking below. The ice cream scooper’s uniform included a mint green T-shirt, black skirt, and a black and white apron with a sweetheart neckline.
Today was the anniversary of my father's death. His name was Gunnar Walsh, and he was twenty-seven when he died. Dad had dark hair and brown eyes. Mom said my hair was the same color. He cut his hair in the military style, close to his head. Mom was a golden-skin blond-haired woman with sapphire eyes and together, with my dad’s masculine good looks, they were a stunning couple.
Dad used to take me out for ice cream. My favorite was a creamy, chocolate soft swirl served in a waffle cone. I can't eat one now without a flash of that memory. But today, I ordered his favorite, a chocolate swirl sundae topped with chocolate, caramel, and marshmallow sauce, just like I do every year. This used to be a tradition I did with my mother until she passed away; it’s a bittersweet memory.
There was a little girl with her father standing in line to order a cone which reminded me of that fateful day. I was too young to understand the implications of my father’s death at the time. He returned in a wooden box. The American flag blanketed it. I think I was five. When my mother got the call, she pulled me onto her lap and cupped my cheeks with her hands. Tears streamed down her face.
“Devvie... I have something to tell you... about Daddy.”
I tried to squirm out of her grasp. “Mom, I want to go outside.”
She choked back a sob and had my complete attention.
“What about Daddy? Is he coming home?” I asked with a lilt to my voice.
By now, I had climbed off her lap and was jumping around in one spot. I was looking forward to seeing my father again.
Mom wrung her hands.
“Daddy died, baby.”
She looked into my eyes for a sign I understood what she said, but I didn’t. I heard two words... just two words I never heard before. I didn’t speak, I couldn’t. I waited for her to explain.
“Daddy went with his team to help people who couldn’t help themselves. Bad people bombed the camp. He was badly hurt. He couldn’t breathe and his heart stopped.”
“But what does that mean, Mommy?” I asked. My heart hurt.
“Daddy’s dead, baby. He's not coming back alive. His body will be in a special box.”
Then she went numb. I snuggled against her body, and we both fell asleep on the couch.
Mom wore a black dress the day my father's body returned. I wore a plaid skirt and a green sweater. My sneakers sparkled with colored lights when I walked. I was sure Daddy would like them.
We went to the airport to see the box taken off the plane. Mother went right up to the box and patted it. She spoke to Daddy. It was hard hearing anything she said. I touched it too, whimpering, calling out to my dad, hoping he’d open the box and climb right out. Grandpa stood behind us, one hand on my mother’s shoulder, the other hoisting me up to his chest. I buried my face in Grandpa’s neck, not understanding what was going on nor what all the somberness and sadness meant.
They took Daddy’s box and rolled it away to a hangar. Grandpa took Mommy by the elbow and walked us toward the car.
“Where are they taking Daddy?”
“He'll lie with the other soldiers that died,” said Grandpa.
“Let’s go home. We’re having a wake for your father.”
“What’s a wake?”
“It’s a gathering at our home for all of his friends. Anyone who knew him, loved him, can share a memory about him.”
We had a wake for Daddy. A lone framed photo of my father in his uniform and beret hung above the fireplace surrounded by small bouquets of flowers. The folded flag from the box lay on the mantle. The soldiers, friends of my father, were consoling my mother. She cried the whole time. Grandma made her lie down in the bedroom. She was so very sad. What did it mean for my mother, for me?
Grandma and Grandpa stayed with us. The neighbors came over with food, including Candace and her parents, mother’s friends from church. The soldiers that took dad off the plane came over dressed in their uniforms. They took off their green berets when they came inside. Some of them brought their wives. Each person took their turn telling a story about my father. They laughed, they cried. Mommy sat with me. I listened, unable to connect their stories with the man I knew. When it was my turn, I told them that daddy taught me to ski.
One man knelt on one knee and held me gently by my shoulders. He smelled like cigarettes and beer. His eyes watered. They were brown with flecks of gold.
"We promised to look after you and your mom forever, Devvie. All of us. We were his brothers, and that is what brothers do."
I blinked, then looked at the brothers-in-arms, trying to memorize their faces, hoping they’d remember their promise. Why did we need these men? I wanted my Daddy.
"Where is he?" I cried.
The men wore sad expressions, but the kneeling man answered, “He’s with God."
The men stood around us and watched quietly. I turned toward my father’s portrait and raised my hand to salute him like he taught me.
Then, I ran to my Grandpa. He held me while I cried until I fell asleep.
The men who promised Dad they’d take care of us never returned. It was years later, when I was old enough to understand, that Mom told me what happened. They said my father was a hero, a member of the US Army Special Forces, a Green Beret. He was one of the first soldiers sent into the war zone during Operation Desert Storm, a coalition led by the US against Iraq in defense of Saudi Arabia. These men were the real first boots on the ground. He was at a military complex when a fuel truck bombed it. Twenty people died that day, and the bad people wounded many more. Sorted bits and pieces of body parts, detached dog tags recovered at the site, came home in body bags.
Every year, I'd asked Mom what happened to the men who promised to take care of us. At that point, I remembered none of their faces. I remembered the uniforms, a voice, a pair of brown eyes with gold flecks, and the promise. Mother said they had deployed them and doubted we would ever hear from them.
“People sometimes promise what they can’t deliver, even though they mean well,” she’d said.
The sun had set behind the Santa Monica Mountains by the time I finished the ice cream. The ocean breeze claimed tears from my face, leaving salty streaks on my cheeks. It had gotten dark. I returned home, my favorite type of sneakers cast light along the path. Later, I cried myself to sleep.
Chapter Four
Max Carson
Venice Beach
Last week, Saint, a private detective and former business partner in a detective agency called Private Dick, lectured me about the risk of erectile dysfunction. Why? It’s sex talk, something men do all the time. He had been going over his caseload, complaining he’d seen more ass than a toilet seat. He gave me too much information. I was almost glad I hadn’t had sex with a woman in months.
Most detective agencies in the Los Angeles area offer surveillance and intelligence gathering for insurance fraud, missing persons, and infidelity cases. Private Dick’s specialty w
as catching women cheating on their partners and offering the client visible proof. He set up the target to cheat and took photos of the woman red-handedly committing the deed.
Saint was a sick man. He took gleeful pleasure to a new level when it came to doing his job. If his own wife hadn’t cheated on him years ago, he’d still be working at his first place of employment as a detective. He’d walked in on her fucking his best friend when he came home unexpectedly early. I don’t remember the specifics, but I know it messed him up so bad he’s been taking it out on his clients’ cheating wives ever since. I couldn’t stomach it anymore, so we parted ways as partners.
It was eight at night, a time when we used to sit in the Private Dick Office and review our day. Once we separated our assets, and I followed my dream, we missed the camaraderie. So, we made it a point to be in contact once or twice a week as our schedule would allow. I’d retired to the deck and faced the ocean, a few fingers of Kentucky bourbon in a tumbler, and punched Saint’s number into my phone.
While I was talking with Saint, it startled me to see my reflection in the sliding glass door and I noted the physical changes. Stopping by Muscle Beach to lift weights had become the highlight of my day. I’ve gotten bigger in body mass. My diet was better after hiring a nutritionist. I added protein powder and almond milk to my coffee after workouts. My skin darkened from the daily runs through Venice. I was lucky to buy a building facing the ocean. Buildings like that becoming available for sale are rare. It had a spacious loft and space for an office suite that was a floor away from the living quarters. Living near the beach has been good for me. It opened a whole new chapter in life. A new chapter, but, no new women, no intimacy with a soulmate, no distractions, or complications. Am I really okay with that?
“Did you miss me?” I teased.
“Like a boil on my ass,” he finished.
He asked me if I enjoyed the Muscle Beach Gym, wondering aloud the merits.
“If you’re waiting for me to encourage you to join, don’t waste your time. You won’t like it here. I start my workouts at 6 am. Even if you can get up that early, traffic will kill you and you've wasted your day. You must finish working out before the tourists get underfoot.”
“Whoa, what’s with the hostility, Max?”
“Sorry man. That was a dick thing for me to say.” I sighed.
If I was honest with myself, I’d admit I was tired of the status quo. I was single by choice. I made a mistake with Shawna, and now, having written women off as companions, I missed the physical connection with a woman.
Brief snatches of scenes, women who have warmed my sheets, come on my fingers, long hair, short, red, brown, and even blue. Each woman memorable in some small way, and each of them forgettable. They helped battle the emptiness. The color of their eyes was inconsequential. I didn't consider them long enough to register.
“Someone’s a little frustrated. You know, they say mothers can make or break us. They influence our relationships with women,” Saint pronounced.
Some shrinks say when a child has abandonment issues when something separated them from a parent at a young age it influences them as an adult. I don't have abandonment issues. I have problems with trust. I turned off a part of myself that attaches feelings to someone. I run from anything that needs an emotional investment, especially women. Women, girlfriends, one-night stands, flings, were a distraction. The psychologists said I'd miss happiness if I don't welcome opportunities for joy, but how can I miss something I don’t know?
My mother left us. One day, when I got home from school, I ambled into the kitchen for a snack looking forward to a home-cooked meal; she wasn’t there. There was a note in her handwriting taped to the fridge. It was a “Dear son” letter. I still remember the words.
Dear Max,
I'm sorry I must leave. I'm very unhappy. Things just got to be too much for me. I feared I'd do you more harm than good by staying. I love you, son.
Mom
My father didn’t get a note. He didn't seem as heartbroken as me. He tried to ease the hurt by planning things for us to do together. School sent notes home for him to sign saying I was acting out in school, talking back to the teachers, and getting into fights. The school psychologist suggested he take me to see someone and gave him a referral to someone who specialized in serving children.
Talking to the therapists about Mother helped. I thought she left because I was too much trouble, or my grades weren’t good enough, or that she didn't love me. I wondered if I caused all the arguments between my parents. Dad told me it was my imagination and that I was the best thing that ever happened to them.
I dropped piano classes Mother had me take. I never had an interest in it, and I only did it because she wanted me to. My father said we should sell the piano and buy a home gym, sets of hand weights, cages, and stacks. Weightlifting was an activity we could do together anytime.
Dad quit his security job and worked from home as a recruiter, finding suitable candidates for a business position. He got a commission based on the salary. Him working from home was great for me. I loved my dad choosing me instead of his job. He never spoke ill of my mother, but he never explained why she went away. I don’t think he knows, or if he did, he'd never tell me. God knows I asked him every single day until I didn't care anymore.
I got that I did nothing wrong for her to leave. Mom didn’t leave me; she abandoned us—didn’t love us enough to stay.
Which brings me back to Shawna. She was the only female I let myself have feelings for since my mother.
We met when Saint and I paired up for our joint venture, Private Dick. Shawna Stevens was our first employee. Her duties were administrative. The first roadblock was that she and Saint never agreed on anything. I suspect she made a pass, and he nipped it in the bud, a “woman scorned” type of thing. She had an ax to grind. He’d rely on her to order spy supplies and she’d forget because her priorities didn’t align with his. Soon, I ran interference for both of them. This business venture was my livelihood. Yet, because Shawna was a woman, she deserved a chance to work at Private Dick. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. It didn’t help matters when Saint antagonized her with orders to print the shameful photos of the cheating wives in many compromising positions for the clients. I felt sorry for her, but she knew what the job entailed. I encouraged her to find other employment and offered to write her a recommendation, but she declined, saying she’d gotten used to the office work. In the meantime, Shawna was committing actions that threatened to undermine our business.
Shortly thereafter, she stopped complaining about Saint and set her sights on seducing me. Shawna was all tits, no ass, and legs for miles. I fell hook, line, and sinker for the busty blonde. She came to work with short skirts, no panties, tank tops, and high heels. The shameful part of her seduction was re-enactments of the scenes in Saint's pornographic proofs she printed for the clients. They were salacious, and she was insatiable. The affair went on for months.
I should have known something was going on in that crazy head of hers. She distracted me from the job. Shawna was underfoot, seductive, mouthwatering, and available whenever and wherever I said. It was intoxicating.
Saint got wind of the affair and took me aside.
“Look, you can’t fuck the help,” he warned. “She’s trouble. I should never have hired her.”
He made a case for his position. I was no dummy. I knew a sexual harassment suit would follow as soon as he encouraged her to leave. She had us by the balls. In fact, we were in the wrong. I should have sent her away the minute she reached for my zipper.
The fact is, she left of her own accord and emptied the company bank account. Saint was livid. I was angry with myself and ashamed. It was my fault for not keeping my eye on her and indulging in her charms. She was an unhappy employee and resentful. We had a dilemma. If we reported her to the cops for embezzling, she had ammunition for a sexual harassment suit. If we did nothing, we’d be complicit in robbing our own company.
/> Saint and I stalled the creditors. Using every trick in the manipulation book, we called any contacts that would lend us money to pay our bills for the month. Days after Shawna got away, the Mexican Border Patrol called our office to say they had a woman in custody that claimed she worked for Private Dick and that the money she had in her suitcase was for business expenses.
I was watching Saint when he got the call. His eyes were big as saucers and his face lit up like a Christmas tree. If it weren’t such a serious matter, I’d say he looked like a man who won the lottery.
“I’ll take care of the situation,” he’d said to the Federales.
Bringing me back to the present, Saint asked, “Are you getting laid, Max?”
“A woman isn’t in my grand scheme of things,” I deflected.
“But, are you getting laid?” he pushed.
“If someone asked me what I wanted in a dream woman, I’d say, she should accept that there will be no commitment, she must be honest with me always, be great in bed, and deny me nothing.”
“I guess that’s a no,” he said.
“Yeah, it's a no.” I sighed.
“Use it or lose it, man. Some say you can’t be a good lover to that dream woman if you don’t have a lot of sex,” Saint said.
I was in my thirties, far from being old enough to get ED. But, his warning struck a chord.
“There are plenty of online sites for one-night stands,” he offered.
“No, I’m not into that.”
“If you don’t mind a little lapse in anonymity, you can hire an escort. They’ll do anything you want. Everything is negotiable,” said Saint.
“So, I should call one of those escort places that offer The Girlfriend Experience?” I asked with derision.