by Shawn Inmon
“Goodnight, sir. I’m going to turn in. No need to turn the lights on for me in the barracks. I’m going straight to bed. ’Night, Max.”
“Night, Michael!”
Hartfield unlocked the front door to the main building, and he and Max stepped inside. “Max, I’m going to check on a few things in the office. Can you go on ahead of me?”
Max turned and hugged his father. He never did that if other cadets were near, and he called him Commander, just like everyone else, if anyone was within earshot. He smiled up at his father. “Night, Da’.”
Hartfield turned his key in the lock to the outer door, which made a very satisfying “thunk” as the deadbolt turned. “That would be a hell of a lock for a young boy to pick,” he muttered. He went on into his office, sat down at his desk, and retrieved his messages.
When the first one played, his chin dropped to his chest. “I’ll be go to hell. Now what do I do?”
Thirty minutes later, he opened the door to the Turtles barrack, deserted except for Michael in the far bunk. Immediately, Michael scrambled to his feet.
“Sir!”
“At ease, cadet. Have a seat on your bunk. I need to talk to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“For the moment, let’s be informal. No need for ‘sir.’”
Michael nodded.
What’s all this, then? I’ve never seen him in one of the barracks. He leaves this area to the prefects and other officers.
“Listen, son. I’ve got something to talk over with you. It might make you angry with me, but we need to talk it out. You’ve become important to me, Michael, over these last few years, and I hate to lose whatever faith you have in me.”
Whatever it is, just get it over with.
“I just got a phone message from Brant’s father. He won’t be returning to school after the break.” Hartfield sighed. “His father said he acted strange during the holidays, and when he sat him down and made him talk about it ...” He shifted uncomfortably. “He told him he was part of something at school that he was ashamed of. Essentially, that he had gone along with several other students to get a cadet kicked out of school.”
“Dominick,” Michael said, flatly.
Hartfield nodded. “Yes. He said that Cadet Morgan had approached him because he was the Turtles’ prefect and forced him to go along with things.”
“No one can really make you do something like that, if you don’t want to.”
Hartfield was silent for a long moment, reflecting. “I suppose that’s true, especially from your perspective.”
“So what happens now? Does Dominick get to come back?” As hard as he tried, Michael couldn’t keep a note of hope from creeping into his voice.
“No. No, he doesn’t.” Hartfield’s eyes met Michael’s.
Michael’s shoulder’s sagged. “Why?”
“As soon as I hung up with Brant’s father, I called Mr. Davidner, even though it was so late. I didn’t think it could wait until morning. I explained what happened and apologized. I told him that Dominick’s record here at the school would be cleared, of course, and offered him free tuition for the rest of the year.”
“But that wasn’t enough.”
“No. Well, not that it wasn’t enough, but their family is moving—to New Mexico. I told him that we had a student who commuted from farther away than that, but—“
“But he still didn’t want Dom to come back, did he?”
“No.”
“Maybe he just didn’t like his son being accused of breaking and entering just because of the kind of neighborhood he came from.”
Hartfield winced. “I got the idea that was part of it, yes.”
Michael nodded. “That’s it, then, isn’t it?”
“Michael. I made the wrong decision. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you. I make many decisions here at the Academy every day. Some of them are going to be wrong. When I do make a mistake, all I can do is take responsibility, make amends if I can, and move on. Obviously, all three boys have been removed from the school. I’ll also make an announcement that it was the Turtles, and not the Hawks, who rightfully won this year’s Hartfield Game.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hartfield cocked his head slightly at Michael’s insertion of the word sir.
“Son, bad things are going to happen in your life. It’s inevitable. If I had made the right decision that night, it’s likely that Mr. Davidner would be taking Dominick out of school anyway.” He glanced up at the stripped-down bunk above Michael’s head. “Dominick’s?”
“It was, yes sir.”
“I know you’ve had some awful things happen in your life. I will never make light of that. But, this is important—no matter what terrible thing happens to you, your life will be determined more by how you respond than by what has happened to you.”
Michael considered that. Is that easier to say if the person you’re supposed to trust the most hasn’t betrayed that trust over and over? Or, is it true of everything, no matter how bad?
“Thank you for coming to talk to me, Commander.” Michael stood to salute, but instead reached out his hand to Hartfield.
Hartfield took his hand, then laid his left hand on his shoulder.
“Good night, Michael.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
1971
For twenty-one more months, the earth turned, and life went on, except for those for whom it didn’t.
In April 1970, the United States invaded Cambodia, and Apollo 13 shot for the moon, missed, but splashed down safely nonetheless. In May, the Ohio National Guard opened fire on students at Kent State University, killing four and wounding nine. Protests against the war continued in cities large and small, and on college campuses everywhere.
In February 1971, American troops invaded Laos. In April, Charles Manson was sentenced to die for his part in the murder of seven people. In July, Apollo 15 landed on the moon and David Scott and James Irwin became the first to ride a vehicle on a surface other than Earth’s.
In September, 213 U.S. soldiers were killed in action in Vietnam. One of them was Army Second Lieutenant Curtis M. Hartfield IV, who bled out waiting for a rescue helicopter. His last thoughts were of his father, and Max.
The Vietnam War had come home to Hartfield Academy.
MICHAEL WALKED ALONG the gravel driveway at the front of the Academy, squinting against the September sun. He often walked along this path after lunch. He liked to let his thoughts wander while he looked at the green of the grass, the trees that ringed the front lawn, and the huge American flag against the contrasting sky.
Captain Peterson stood at the smaller flagpole—the one that carried the Hartfield Academy flag. He had his back to Michael, and was slowly lowering the flag. When it reached half-mast, he tied it off and stepped back, looking up at the flag, rustling in the breeze.
Michael had seen the American flag flown at half-mast, but never the Hartfield flag. He walked toward Peterson. “Captain?”
When Peterson turned around, Michael took an involuntary step back. The Captain, the calmest person Michael had ever met, had tears streaming down his face.
“What is it?” Michael asked. “Wait. No. Who is it?”
Peterson swallowed, shook his head, then took a deep breath. “Curt.”
“Oh. Oh, no.” Michael said. His hand had gone to his mouth.
Michael turned and fled, sprinting directly toward the main building. He burst through the door, ran down the hall and pushed his way into Peterson’s empty office. Without knocking, he pushed through the Commander’s door. Commander Hartfield and Max stood alone in the office. Max had his head buried in Hartfield’s chest. Hartfield’s face was a knot of pain—acceptance of an outcome he had always known possible, the agony of its arrival. Max looked up when Michael came in and reached his left arm out to him. Michael took a step toward him, not knowing what to say. Max grabbed him and pulled him into the embrace.
Commander Hartfield put his arm around Michael.
No one spoke.
There was nothing to be said.
SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, Curt’s remains were delivered to Hartfield Academy in a flag-draped casket, escorted by an honor detail. Commander Hartfield had asked for, and received, a special dispensation from the county health department to bury Curt on the grounds of the Academy.
His grave was dug beside the flagpoles on the front lawn. No heavy equipment was used to dig the grave—there were dozens of volunteers standing by to do the work.
At 2 p.m. on the fourth Sunday in September, Curtis M. Hartfield IV was laid to rest. Madeline Hartfield and Carol had made the trip down and sat in folding chairs alongside the grave. Every cadet wore his dress uniform. His father gave a short eulogy. Commander Hartfield was a man of towering strength and endless vigor, but on this day, he looked only weary and hopeless. His eyes met Madeline’s for a long moment, then he stepped to the podium.
“This is my son,” Hartfield began, pointing to the flag-draped coffin front of him. “Like me, my father, and grandfathers three generations back, he volunteered to serve his country. In so doing, he knew he was offering to make the ultimate sacrifice. And now, that has come to pass. General McArthur once said, ‘The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war.’ I believe that it might be the parents of the soldiers who pray for peace. We should never forget those who also bear the deepest wounds are those left behind to grieve those who are gone.”
Commander Hartfield stood back, and Max walked to the grave. Sun glinted off his golden bugle as he played the opening notes to Taps. Every cadet, Hartfield instructor, and member of the honor guard snapped and held a salute. Twenty-four heart-rending notes later, Max let the bugle fall to his side. His face was wet with tears.
The honor guard folded the American flag that had draped the casket and handed it to Commander Hartfield.
Chapter Fifty
Three months later, the school had emptied out for Christmas break and Michael was packing his duffel bag—the same one his mother had given him for Christmas five years earlier. It was scuffed and a bit worn now, as a duffel bag should be.
He was throwing the last of his socks and underwear in when he heard the door to the barracks open.
“Michael? Michael, are you in here?”
Michael stepped away from his bunk and saw his mother. He hadn’t seen her in years—since she had come to visit him during his second year at the Academy. She had written him letters occasionally, but he answered only because the Commander ordered him to.
A year earlier, she had written to tell him that she had left his father. That had surprised Michael, because he had been sure she couldn’t make it on her own. His memory of her was of a drugged-out woman who rarely left her bedroom. She had surprised him by moving out, finding a small apartment, and enrolling in bookkeeping classes at Middle Falls Community College.
Her hair was a shoulder-length flip. Her skirt was shorter than he had ever seen on her, and she wore cinnamon-colored pantyhose, blue eyeliner, and white lipstick. Michael very nearly didn’t recognize her.
“Mother?”
“Oh, Michael, you’ve grown!” That was true. The last time she had seen him, he had come up only to her shoulder. Now, he was in the middle of his growth spurt and looked her right in the eye.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Michael, I know you’re planning on going home with Mr. Hartfield, but, well ...” She turned away from Michael and raised her voice. “Jim? Come in, I know Michael will be glad to see you.”
A moment later, Jim Cranfield poked his head into the barracks. “So, this is the legendary Hartfield Academy barracks, home of the infamous Michael Hollister?”
If Michael had been surprised to see his mother show up unannounced, he was slack-jawed and flabbergasted to see Jim Cranfield. He looked from him to his mother, then back at him.
Okay. All right. Mother and Mr. Cranfield. I know things have changed in this life, but holy shit.
“I’m terribly sorry to just show up like this, Michael, but I couldn’t think of how to tell you in a letter.”
“Tell me what?”
“Well, that James and I are getting married.” She held out her left hand and waved her fingers, showing off a solitaire diamond ring.
Michael absorbed this.
“Congratulations?”
“Oh, honey, I know this feels sudden to you, because I haven’t been able to see you for so long, but it’s really not.”
“I’ve been right here, Mother.”
Abashed, she took a step back. Her smile faded.
“James and I have been seeing each other for almost a year now, and neither of us is getting any younger.”
“A year? Oh, I see. How long ago did you tell me you and Father were separating?” He looked up at the barrack lights as though he was trying to remember. “Wait. Right. A year ago.”
Jim Cranfield took a few easy steps toward Michael, his hands in his pockets. “Hey, Michael, why don’t you and I take a little walk. Show me the campus, all right?”
Michael hesitated, but nodded. “Be right back, Mother.”
Margaret followed them outside the barracks, but veered off toward the front of the Academy, leaving them to walk alone toward the back cliffs.
“Your mother has told me how well you’ve been doing at school here. When we sat together at the table on my back porch and looked this place up, I couldn’t imagine the way things have turned out. That’s the difference between real life and the fiction I write. My stories have to make sense.”
Michael ignored this. “How did you guys get together? Over the backyard fence?”
Cranfield chuckled. “No, no. I have a confession to make. I wrote a literary fiction book.”
“Oh, the horror. Say it isn’t so,” Michael deadpanned.
“It’s to my ever-lasting shame. However, I agreed to give a talk about it at the local library, and there was a very nice turnout. It’s an interesting experience, writing books that people aren’t ashamed to own up to reading. In any case, your mother was in the audience that day.”
“Look, I really don’t care, but was all this before or after she left my father?”
“After, but probably not as long after as I would have liked. Here’s a life’s truth, Michael. We all see our parents as just that: our parents. Not as real, flesh-and-blood people with failings, but our parents. Iconic figures in our lives.”
“Oh, I’ve never had a hard time envisioning my parents as failures. They’ve given me plenty to work with.”
Cranfield’s face was calm, but with all trace of his normal joviality gone. “I know that’s true, Michael. Your mother has told me. I knew from our conversations that something was wrong in your family life, but ...”
“It’s not just my father, you know. She was there every step of the way. She might not have done anything to me directly, but she sure as hell didn’t do what any good mother would have done.”
Cranfield nodded, looking at the path ahead of them as they walked. “As I was saying, when we are born our parents fill our horizon. As we grow older, that diminishes somewhat, but they always remain large in our lives. Even as old as I am, I still have a difficult time seeing my own mother as anything other than that—Mother. It’s very difficult to see her as a real, flesh-and-blood woman.”
“So what’s your point?”
“Nothing too important, I guess. Just trying to bring a new perspective to you. Shall we head back to meet your mother?” Cranfield waved his hand toward the front of the Academy.
They turned that direction but didn’t hurry their pace.
“Forgiveness is a funny thing,” Cranfield mused. “So often, we spend time thinking about whether we want to forgive someone or not.”
Cranfield stopped and turned to face Michael. “When in fact, the person we really need to forgive is ourselves. Until we do that, whatever else we do is empty. Meani
ngless.”
Michael winced.
Screw you, too. What do you know about it? Why do I need to forgive myself? I was a little boy.
Cranfield raised his hand and gave a half-wave at Margaret, waiting by the car on the front drive. “Ah. Never mind. Don’t listen to me—I’m just an old man, given to verbal diarrhea.” He gave his best attempt at a hearty smile. “Your mother is going to ask you to come spend Christmas with us. We’re driving on down to Monterey for the holidays. She’d like you to come, and so would I.”
They walked in silence until they reached her.
“Well?” Margaret looked at Cranfield.
He shrugged. “I’m not sure. I made the best case I could, but I’m a hack writer, not a lawyer. Arguing people from one position to another has never been my strength.”
“What do you say, Michael?” Margaret asked. “We’d love to have you come with us. We’ve got a reservation for two rooms at a lovely little resort that sits up on a hill looking out over the ocean.”
Michael looked over his left shoulder, mute testimony to the fact that he lived on a hill looking out over the ocean.
Without rancor, Michael said, “Thank you, Mother, and I know you mean that, but ...” He shook his head slowly. “I’m going to stay here. The Commander’s son was killed in action recently, and I want to be there for him and Max, his other son. They need me.”
Margaret began to speak, then shut her mouth. A look of pain and loss crossed her face, but she nodded. “This is just where we are, isn’t it Michael?”
“I hated you, too, Mother, for a long time.” He shook his head. “I don’t any more. I know you were suffering, too. I wish you had protected me, but I understand.”
“Oh, Michael. I’m sorry. I’m glad you’ve found Commander Hartfield and his son.” She looked him up and down appraisingly. “It’s been good for you. You’re growing up as a responsible and caring young man.”
Is that true? Responsible? Caring? Those are not words anyone has ever attributed to me.