One September Morning

by Rosalind Noonan

  The army’s investigating officer also issued a subpoena for Noah to testify, but he is staying in Canada, probably for the long haul. Last week, Jim actually spoke with him on the phone for the first time since he went AWOL. A little awkward, mostly because Jim has never been a phone person, but it was good to hear his son’s voice. Madison and Sharice plan to head up that way this summer, when school is out. Madison e-mails Noah every day and is always reporting on what seeds are sprouting or the purchase of a new milk cow. Noah’s defection is still a source of discomfort for Jim, but he’s learning to separate his feelings about going AWOL from his feelings about his son. Something to work on.

  “Article 120a,” the court clerk reads on, “Stalking one Abby Fitzgerald. Article 123, Forgery.”

  Standing at the front of the room, Charles raises his cuffed hands to scratch near his face, then turns back toward the rows of seats, searching the crowd casually…for what? Jim would love to know. The look in Charles’s eyes isn’t evil or contrite. He seems bored.

  How could someone so normal wreak havoc in the lives of so many?

  And I’m the biggest sucker of all, Jim thinks, though he’s trying to get past it. Dr. Berton, his new therapist, who’s an old veteran like Jim, keeps reminding Jim not to blame himself. “For all his insanity, Jump got you on the right path in therapy,” Dr. Berton keeps telling him. “Let’s not discount progress you made, personally, because of circumstances beyond your control.”

  Some days Jim wants to beat himself up over his own stupidity, but Dr. Berton cuts the pity party short. “There are things that you cannot control, things that you cannot blame yourself for, difficult things that you need to have the grace to accept,” Berton says. “And beyond that, you’re allowed to make a few mistakes. We’re all human.”

  Mostly, Jim tries to focus on moving ahead one day at a time.

  “Your honor, I’d like to say something,” Charles Turnball interrupts the investigative officer. “I don’t understand what any of these charges are about. My guess is that they’re the result of jealousy and vindictiveness from the military community—the military that I served so bravely. Do you know that I received a Purple Heart?”

  “Actually—” The judge advocate flips through a folder—“That medal is listed as stolen property in these charges, so I’d advise you to refrain from speaking during these hearings, Mr. Turnball.”

  “No, Judge, that’s wrong,” Charles insists. “That medal is mine. I could show it to you, but those leathernecks took it away from me when they brought me in.”

  The judge is shaking his head. “Please, Mr. Turnball, defer to your lawyer.”

  “The problem is that I’m dismissing my lawyer, who’s done a hell of a lot of nothing so far.”

  Camera flashes fill the room as an excited murmur rises from behind Jim, causing the judge advocate to bang his gavel. “Order, please.”

  “I intend to defend myself and prove that these charges are a bunch of lies. This case is a conspiracy against me brought on by the military community I served for years.”

  Abby leans closer to Sharice and Jim and confides in a low voice: “And right now, he probably believes that’s true. Sociopaths don’t accept blame and often blame others for acts they obviously committed.”

  The click and whir of expensive cameras fills the back of the room. The media.

  Dave Flint is back there somewhere, taking notes. His unique insight gives him an edge over all the other reporters, but Jim doesn’t begrudge him that. In Jim’s opinion, everything Flint has written about the case so far has been true and sympathetic toward the victims. You can’t ask for more than that. And in his investigations, Flint uncovered a trail of crimes perpetrated by Charles Turnball throughout Missouri, Illinois, and Alaska, where he had apparently faked his way into the military at a small recruiting office in Nome.

  Born into a middle-class family outside Kansas City, Missouri, Turnball showed signs of personality disorder as a child when he killed the family dog at the age of thirteen. His parents had tried therapy, but Charles did not respond, adamant that he did not have a problem.

  “Mr. Turnball, it’s always advisable to retain a defense advocate,” the judge tells Charles. “Especially in a General Court-Martial where the punishment for the charges spans from life in prison to death.”

  Charles glances over at his lawyer, then flicks him off with one hand. “I don’t need him. You’re fired,” he says flatly.

  As the noise in the courtroom rallies once again, Jim’s gut clenches with dread at the court-martial ahead. It’ll be a real courtroom circus if Charles represents himself.

  Will it snap his patience? Will he lash out at Charles Jump when he has a chance to testify?

  Jim Stanton will simply deal with that when he gets there.

  One day at a time.

  Chapter 77

  U.S. Army Regional Confinement Center, Fort Lewis

  Charles

  “You have a visitor,” the officer tells him. A visitor? Who might that be?

  As Charles follows the guard down the corridor and through locked gates of the army’s Regional Confinement Center, he tries to calculate who’s come to see him.

  When he finally hits on the answer, he grins.

  Abby.

  She’s come to ask forgiveness, to tell him that she’s always wanted him and that she’ll wait for him. Maybe they can even get married while he’s detained and get one of those sex visitation dates.

  And once he gets Abby, he’ll eventually win back Jim and Madison and Sharice. They screwed up, mistaking him for some black-hearted villain, but they would learn the truth. He’d show them. And they’d get the army to reverse the charges against him, and finally he’d be free of this place.

  But when he gets to the visitation room he pauses in the doorway, pissed.

  Abby isn’t here. The only open booth faces some middle-aged man with acne and a cowlick.

  Lifting his cuffs toward the man, Charles snaps at the guard. “What am I here for? I don’t know him.”

  “He’s your brother,” the guard says. “Have a seat and visit with him, or you go back to your cell.”

  Goddammit. Gritting his teeth, Charles slides onto the bench.

  “Hey, Chucky.” Cowlick Boy has a smooth voice, like a radio host. “You botched things up again. Heard all about it. But you got pretty far this time. Really had people thinking you were a doctor. Unbelievable.”

  Charles lets a smile curl the corner of his lip. “I’m good at what I do.”

  “Yeah, until you screw it all up. But really, to think that you had them believing you were a shrink. A mental patient treating mental patients. Isn’t that ironic? Cracks me up. I can’t believe they didn’t see you were a retard.”

  Fury skitters up Charles’s spine. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Your big brother, Chucky. Don’t you remember your long-lost brother?”

  “Don’t call me Chucky,” he snarls, wanting to lash out and whip this oaf with his cuffed hands. How could it be that his brother John is standing right here?

  But I killed you, Charles thinks. Shot you dead in the dark warehouse. How could he have done all that work for nothing? If he killed his brother, why is he sitting on the other side of the glass booth?

  “You’re not real,” Charles says, nodding as it begins to make sense. “You’re not real, John. You’re dead.”

  “John?” The oaf chuckles. “My name is Pete, Chucky. Your big brother Pete.”

  “Don’t call me Chucky,” he growls, looking down at the counter. He’s sick of looking at this overgrown troll. He already killed him, dammit. Die, already!

  “Aren’t you going to thank me for coming to visit you?” Pete asks. “You better look at me, Chucky, ’cause it might be your last chance. The way I read it, you’re either going to prison for life or getting executed, so you better say your good-byes now.”

  Charles shakes his head, turning away. He has no need for this moron.
He’s in the process of crafting a brilliant defense, an airtight argument that demonstrates how they’ve all been conspiring against him, how he has been the victim all along.

  “Hey, Chucky, wait!”

  But Charles is already on his feet, walking to the door. “Take me back to my room, James,” he orders pompously.

  Might as well make the most of things.

  Until he wins his freedom, he’s all squared away here. Three meals a day, his own room—a free ride. Nobody looking over his shoulder, no time card to punch.

  “Lucky for me,” he mutters as he is shown to his room. He’s not a mouse on a wheel running nowhere like the rest of them. “Lucky me.”

  With a deep sigh, Charles stretches out on his cot and folds his hands behind his head. Yup. Once again, he’s found the easy way out.

  Epilogue

  Paris, France

  April, 2008

  April in Paris.

  Abby Fitzgerald opens the top button of her sweater to the afternoon sunshine, soaking in the light that glances off the cobblestones, the wrought iron table, the warped glass and turquoise windowpanes of the Montmartre café behind her. In this City of Light, even the breeze carries color and luminescence.

  Flint peels off his leather bomber jacket—which Abby suspects he’s had since college—and drapes it over the back of a chair. “Why don’t you order us some coffee and croissants? I’m going to go find a newspaper in English.”

  “Suffering withdrawal?” she teases.

  “It just seems like a Hemingway-esque thing to do, sip coffee and leaf through the paper in the sunshine.”

  She waves him off. “Go on, Ernest. I’ve got this covered.”

  At times like this, Abby wishes she could paint. To capture the panorama of a day in Montmartre, the colors, the balance, the textures…it seems like a sumptuous way to spend an afternoon. She’s glad Flint pushed her to accompany him on this brief assignment in Paris, a trip that is a landmark for Abby in so many ways: the end of her internship at Seattle General, the beginning of a new facet of her relationship with Flint, and the fulfillment of a promise to John.

  The breeze sweeps through again, ruffling the carnation in its small vase on the table. As it washes over her, Abby recalls the way the gentle wind carried John’s ashes into the Seine early that morning.

  She had planned to go it alone. “Go back to sleep.” She had leaned in to kiss him, almost falling back into the white duvet and downy pillows as her lips brushed over the stubble on his cheek. “I just want to do this while there aren’t too many people around.” There were rules about scattering a person’s ashes, some fairly strict, but Abby had turned a blind eye to them and pressed on to do what she knew in her heart was right.

  “I’ll go.” In a second Flint was out of bed and pulling on his jeans. “I don’t think it wise for a young lady to be walking around Paris alone in the dark. I promise, I’ll stay out of your hair.”

  You could see your breath in the cool air as they walked along the Seine, mists swirling along the surface of the river. Tucked in an inner pocket of her coat, John’s ashes were sealed in a Ziploc bag. The sun had not yet risen in the rosy sky.

  “This is perfect.” Abby chose an empty stone bench that overlooked the river. It felt like a block of ice, but Abby smoothed her trench coat to cover her bottom and sat down quietly. Flint stood behind the bench, watching the river pensively.

  Minutes passed as Abby sat and watched Paris arise: people hurrying by on their way to work; cabs growling past, spinning around corners; the scent of fresh rolls baking; and the yellow ball of sun chasing away the red hues of dawn.

  And just like that, it was a brand-new day.

  Sensing that the time was right, Abby rose, moved to the ledge along the river, and opened the bag. A breeze coursed over the water, tugging at her hair and wooing John’s ashes away from her as the words from the minister at his funeral sounded in her head: Remember, man, that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return.

  This time there were no tears, no anxiety, no worry over doing the right thing. Instead, Abby felt a sense of joy that today, John’s life was coming full circle in the way he had intended it to end, his ashes spread in Paris.

  When the bag was empty, she looked up, glad that Flint was with her, confident that John would have been glad to have him be a part of his final return to the earth.

  Now, while Flint is off at a kiosk on the boulevard, Abby, at a sidewalk café, struggles with her high school French, trying to order two croissants and coffee. “Deux croissants et deux cafés au lait, s’il vous plaît.”

  There. It may have sounded hackneyed, but at least she got it out.

  As the waiter heads inside to the kitchen, she hears a familiar voice asking if he can join her for a second. She looks up and—

  It’s John. Healthy and glowing again, eyes laughing. She wants to reach across the table and touch him, but she knows that he’s a ghost and it might be a mistake to mess with things and make his image pop off.

  “You look good,” he says. “Happy. I always knew Flint had a crush on you.”

  “Really? I was too in love with someone else to notice.”

  When the waiter returns with two white mugs and croissants, Abby has to bite her lip to keep from laughing as John nearly topples a croissant from its plate. “Is this Flint’s roll?” John says. “I’ll just rub it around in the dirt a few times. Kidding. I like Flint. Always have. It’s just that I liked you more, and he wasn’t about to make a commitment to anyone back then, was he?”

  It’s true. Abby nods at him as the waiter struggles to lower the pastry to the table intact. “Merci,” Abby says, waiting for the waiter to leave before she continues talking with the apparition.

  “So I guess I can get out of your hair now,” John says. “You’re gonna be okay, Abs. And good job taking down Charles Jump. He was a menace to society.”

  “You helped me figure that out,” Abby says, thinking of the teardrops on John’s photo, the freezing temperature in her apartment when Jump was around.

  He stands, moves toward her, and she feels her breath catch in her throat at the sight of John Stanton, so strong, aglow with health. Was he really this tall, his shoulders and chest so broad?

  “I couldn’t leave until I knew you were okay.” He moves behind her and her scalp tingles as he slides a hand over her head, finally resting his thumb in the crook of her neck.

  She cannot see him anymore but she can feel his touch, that steady pressure on the spot his thumb would always find. She closes her eyes and savors this last moment with him.

  And then his touch fades and disappears.

  A few minutes later, Flint returns, walking tentatively, with his eyes on the headlines. “Remind me never to check how the stock market is doing when I’m supposed to be on vacation,” he says, folding the paper and slapping it on to the table beside his coffee. “Hey, what’s up with you? You feeling okay?”

  Abby takes a deep breath and removes her hand from her throat. She’s ready to move on now. She’s ready to live. “Oui,” she says, meeting his gaze and melting under the warm caramel of his eyes. Flint, in his leather jacket and Yankees cap. The second great love of her life. How lucky is that?

  “I’m fine now.” She pushes his warm coffee cup closer to him and their hands brush in that electrifying stir that always makes her smile. “Très bien.”

  Please turn the page for a special conversation with Rosalind Noonan.

  What first sparked the idea for One September Morning?

  There was a gut-wrenching moment in my local coffee shop in September 2004. I had moved from New York City to the Pacific Northwest a few months before that, and I was still feeling tender from the terrorist attacks of 9-11. The conversation moved to recent news events, including the war in Iraq, where the death toll of U.S. soldiers had reached one thousand that week. “One thousand…” A friend of mine shrugged it off. “It’s not really that high.”

  I was a
ghast. How could this normally kind person minimize the deaths of others with such ease and alacrity? Whether or not he approved of American involvement in Iraq, did he really think one thousand lives were dispensable?

  That got me started. I’m an advocate of non-violent solutions, but I also have the utmost respect for people who serve in the U.S. Armed Forces. I grieved the loss of those soldiers, Americans trying to do the right thing, lives ended prematurely. My heart ached for the families of those one thousand service members as I tried to imagine their grief and pain, one thousand times twelve, times twenty, times fifty…

  That day I knew I wanted to write a story that lent support and paid tribute to people who had chosen to serve our country in the military, both the soldiers and their families. I wasn’t sure precisely what the storyline of characters would entail, but my creative search started there.

  Were any of these characters based on you or people you know?

  A piece of me exists in every character I write. To do a character justice I need to get under her skin for a while, imagine a typical day in his life, and identify her dreams or his worst fears, even if those things never come to fruition in the story. That said, a writer has to use what she knows and feels as a springboard and launch the imagination from there. I could feel Abby’s pain, though I was never married to a soldier. I have not worked as a journalist or visited Iraq, so I had to incorporate research and imagination to create Flint’s experience as an embedded reporter.

  Sometimes, for a minor character, I’ll use a friend’s name and one or two personality traits. For example, while reading over the proofs, I noticed that I used the childhood nickname for one of my husband’s friends—Killer Kelly—when referring to one of John’s football buddies. We never meet the character in the book, but I did crack a smile when I saw the reference.

  Was John’s character inspired by Pat Tillman, who left a career in professional football to serve in the U.S. Armed Forces?