He remembered trying to seem like a big-shot, like he wasn't as thrilled as his just-out-of-high-school wife, when inside he had thrilled at the idea of train travel. He had held her hand and watched her beautiful green eyes as she had stared out the window at the amazing site of the telephone poles passing by so much more quickly than they ever did when traveling by automobile. And the clickety-clack of the train tracks was so much smoother than the dirt roads of that part of Texas they called "The Big Country." Sitting in the train somewhere south of Big Spring, he could almost smell her beautiful strawberry blonde hair as if she were riding next to him even now.
He recalled the towns they had sped through on their non-stop trip to the city where the west began. Mineral Wells, Jacksburo, had they gone through Fort Griffin? Probably not, he decided. But he remembered how with every town—pretty or not—they had talked about how they'd come back to that town one day and see it.
But that had been a long time ago. More than just six years. That had been back when it seemed like Texas wouldn't have to enter the war. Back when they had their whole lives before them. Lives that were going to include him building bridges and her teaching school and, maybe, having children. That was back when they had never even heard of ovarian cancer and had no idea that she was almost already overcome with it.
Chapter Six
It had always been Kerrigan's plan to never come back to Abilene. He had known it would be a hard plan to follow through on, but he had meant to give it his best try. He had at least thought he'd be able to go several years without setting foot in the accursed town. Yet, there he was.
Coming in in the middle of the night that way, he reasoned, at least he didn't have to see it.
It wasn't that Abilene was an ugly town. He had seen worse. Marathon was far uglier, even before the bombing. Abilene was just a town on the southern end of the high plains and looked like a town that existed for no other reason than to be a stopping off place for people on their way to other places, which was basically true. It was an oil town and a cattle town and a cotton town and while none of these professions are particularly glamorous, they are not found in attractive locales, either, he mused.
Abilene was just a flat spot in the middle of a big expanse of flatness. Greenery, such as it was, consisted principally of mesquite trees, which weren't really very green (nor did they look much like trees). And as far as cities went, the few tall buildings downtown competed for skyscraper status with the cotton gins.
It's more than a wide spot in the road, he thought. It's a big wide spot in the road.
It wasn't that Abilene was an unfriendly town, either. He had always found the folks there to be very friendly. They had been especially friendly when he had needed someone to be friendly to him—which was part of why he hated Abilene.
Abilene was where Susan had died.
When she had first been diagnosed with the cancer that had taken her life, the doctors in Lubbock had sent her to the Medical Center in Abilene. So Jason had rearranged his classes and gotten permission from his doctor to take her down once a month—then, later, once a week—for the treatments. But Susan had just gotten worse and worse and finally she had stayed in Abilene, wasting away all by herself while Kerrigan went to class in Lubbock and came back to Abilene every weekend to be with her. When it had become apparent that Susan had only days to live, his commander had let him come to Abilene to be with her with an indefinite leave and his professors had understood as well.
It had all been so surreal. Even looking back, it still retained some of that quality. All over the world people were dying in the war by that time. Bombs and bullets were taking out a large portion of the population. Nobody was dying of cancer. At least not any teenagers. Sure, he thought, they probably were somewhere. Probably there were a lot of people losing young loved ones to cancer. But he didn't know any of them and never had known any of them. Cancer was something old people got.
Yet, there he had been, a junior in college being given leave to get out of the school and suspend military duties so he could be by the side of his dying wife. He could see every minute of it in his mind six years later as clearly as he had been able to see it the day after it had happened. Could still feel the way her hand had gripped his up until the last. Could still feel that same horrible way her bones had seemed to be right up next to the skin when she had asked him to hug her for the last time. He thought for a moment that those memories were a wound that was just as fresh—if not fresher—than the wounds of seeing his friends die at Crockett just days before.
Susan had finally passed away in her sleep at the age of nineteen and Kerrigan had buried her in her family plot in Haskell, right next to her mother and not too far from where Kerrigan's parents were buried. It was a nice spot, as far as gravesites go, but he couldn't bare to think of Susan lying there and what she had looked like at the end—a skeleton with skin, he had thought when he had last arrived from Lubbock—so he had never been back to the cemetery and had only been back to Haskell once. For all his talk of going back there with Whitey, Kerrigan seriously doubted that he ever would. He could have easily named fifty places he would rather be than Haskell, including a couple prison camps he had heard of.
But, then, he'd said he'd never go back to Abilene, either, and there he was, stepping off the train to that old smell of cotton fields and oil wells and train yards. A smell he knew like no other. A smell he hated like no other.
Abilene had a smell of death to Kerrigan. No, Abilene was the smell of death to Kerrigan. It was what death smelled like and it was what death looked like and Kerrigan had a sneaking suspicion that Abilene was just the Greek word for death itself.
"You married, Doc?" Bronwyn asked Major Sherman.
"I was."
Bronwyn immediately panicked and asked, "Oh my gosh! He wasn't—your family wasn't killed at Crockett, was it—were they?"
"No," Major Sherman replied. In over a week of sharing a room that should have only accommodated one officer with the redhaired Lieutenant, this was the closest thing to a conversation they had had. Most of what they said to each other had been pleasantries and questions of the "could you close that window?" variety.
"Thank God," Bronwyn sighed, not sure herself whether she were thanking God for saving the major's husband from the devastation or from saving her from her own faux pas. "Um, where was he? I'm sorry, it's probably none of my business—" not realizing she was echoing Liz from earlier in the day.
"We're divorced," the Major explained succinctly.
"I'm sor—"
"He didn't believe in women serving in the military. Didn't mind when I was just the local doctor in Spring, bringing in the money. But when the war broke out and I joined the military, he suddenly filed for divorce on the grounds that he was morally opposed to women in the military. Even claimed to have religious reasons for this attitude and convinced the judge that he should get the kids. Perry hadn't been inside a church more than twice a year in his whole life—unless it was for a funeral or a wedding."
"You had—have kids?" Bronwyn asked meekly. This was already sounding like more than she really wanted to know, but she wasn't sure how to stop talking about it. And, truth be known, she was curious about it.
"Uh-huh. Two girls and a boy."
"Wow. How old are they?"
"Pamela just turned thirteen on the fifth of February. Johnny turns twelve this June. Cynthia will be ten next fall."
"You ever see them?"
Changing into her nightclothes, Major Sherman nodded, "I saw them right after the New Year. Got to go home for a couple weeks and they stayed with me." She smiled, "It was wonderful. They liked it, too. They love their father, but, they didn't want me to leave. I think they think that once this war's over I'll just come home and remarry Perry and everything will be like it was."
Bronwyn, already in her nightgown, asked, "Not likely, huh?"
"'Not possible's' probably more like it. Perry's discovered the joy of being an eligible
man in a world where all the other men are off at war. You know, I think he loves the kids—no, I know he does—but I think part of the reason he wanted them so bad was because it gave him a deferment."
"I bet you miss them."
"More than you can imagine. More than I can imagine. When this war's over, I'm going to take him back to court and see if I can get them back. I really didn't want them traveling from post to post with me—and I'm especially glad they weren't with me at Crockett. If I had lost them—I'd be no better than a vegetable now. But, if I can't get them back, then I'll buy a house a couple blocks over and let them come over every chance they can. I can't wait to go to piano recitals and football games and ballet class and all that. I'd give up my practice and be Perry's chauffeur for them just for the chance to be near them."
Laying down on her bunk and pulling the covers up—something she did even in the hot Marathon nights—she said, "I've changed too, you know?"
"In what ways?"
"I grew up in Houston, went to college at Rice, did my residency at the Texas Medical Center in downtown Houston. I had traveled a little, but I had never really seen the outside world."
"It doesn't all look like this, I hope," Bronwyn chuckled.
"No, not at all. I was in Germany for a while."
"Really?" Bronwyn had turned on her side and had her head propped up on her hand. She had never talked to the Major because she had just felt so disassociated from her. She was just a lowly Lieutenant who had her commission because the world was desperate and here was an actual doctor, after all.
"Yeah. I was in with a diplomatic team that got to go over there and check on the prisoners of war. Make sure they were being treated well, and all. It was right after that big escape a couple years ago when the SS was accused of gunning down those unarmed British officers. They let us in to prove that they were treating our boys humanely."
"Were they?"
"What we saw, anyway. I mean, they were giving them three almost square meals a day and providing them with cots and blankets and recreation time. I guess it was humane, but it sure wasn't anywhere you'd want to be."
Bronwyn hesitated, then asked, "What about women prisoners? I don't know about you since you're not a pilot, but I had to sign this sheet stating that I recognized the dangers of being shot down over enemy territory. That there was the chance I might be raped if found by the enemy. I think someone who didn't want women in combat put that in there to try to keep as many out of it as possible."
"We didn't see any women while we were over there. Supposedly, the Germans have returned every woman soldier they have captured—unharmed. Some kind of symbol of how civilized they are. I talked with Cherie Garner—you know, she was the first female prisoner of war from Texas—and she did say they went out of their way to take care of her. She was an attractive lady and I didn't doubt it when she told me that some of the men looked at her like they'd like to disobey orders. None of them did, though. Supposedly, the Japanese are doing the same thing but, well, you hear rumors."
Bronwyn shuddered. "It's bad enough when people on your own side look at you that way."
"Has that happened, Lieutenant?" Sherman suddenly asked in her "majorly voice."
"No, I mean, not like they were going to—attack me. No. But, sometimes a guy does look at you and you can tell he's only got one thing in mind. Always gives me the creeps. Did back in school, too."
Smiling, for the first time since mentioning her kids, Major Sherman chided, "Is that how Captain Kerrigan looks at you?"
Bronwyn blushed as she replied, "To tell you the truth, I don't think he ever has looked at me. I think to him I'm just another officer."
"Just how many other officers do you think run up and kiss him like that?"
Bronwyn pulled the sheet over her head and said meekly, "Goodnight, Major."
He got off the train and walked across the street to the Drake Hotel, where a room had already been reserved for him. Actually, in these days of war and very little holiday or tourist business, the Drake existed mainly on the rooms it kept ready for traveling servicemen. The amount they discounted off the price more than made up for the volume they did by being the closest hotel to the depot and the one with the military charge account. Jason took a room on the third floor with a promise from the night manager to be awakened at six-thirty so that someone in a jeep could give him a ride out to Kirby at seven-thirty.
He hadn't had anything to read on the trip—as every book he owned had either been packed away in the few boxes he stored but didn't care to return for in Haskell, or had been buried under the rubble of the officers' quarters at Crockett—and so he had fallen asleep on the train. The result was that, tired as he was from traveling, he wasn't particularly sleepy.
So Kerrigan took the elevator back downstairs and told the night manager he was going for a walk. The nightman, who had been in the service once himself and knew how twisted one's body clock could become, merely nodded. Kerrigan walked outside and started heading west on North First. He had a vague idea that he'd like to find some place that sold books, but he doubted that any such place would be open that late at night in Abilene. Early indications were that they had already rolled up the sidewalks.
Bronwyn woke up to air raid sirens. Putting her flight suit on over her nightgown—something she had done before though it wasn't her favorite thing to wear—she rushed out to the flight line. She was at first told that she would be on standby, then quickly told to get ready to fly, then ordered to stand down.
So she walked back to her quarters and got out of the flight suit. Major Sherman had apparently gone to the hospital and so she had the room to herself. She thought about going back to sleep, but quickly realized her heart was racing too fast for that, so she dressed for a morning run, then came back, took a quick shower and got dressed for the day even though it was still dark outside.
She sat by herself at the breakfast table. She wasn't sure if it was because things just didn't seem right without Jason there, or because she was embarrassed to see her fellow officers after the way she had acted the day before at the train station. Deep down, she knew it was probably both, but she didn't really want to think about either.
Bronwyn choked down the unusually dry eggs with the typically rancid coffee and went over to the hangar. She was curious who would be posted to take Jason's place in the squadron. The rumor was that it would be Carter, since he was supposedly able to fly, even with his cast. Having met him, she had a feeling his clearance to fly had as much to do with the hospital being ready to be rid of him as with his recuperative powers.
South of town, on the road to Coleman, Kerrigan found the Kirby Research Facility to be a bit of a surprise—mainly because he had never seen it before and it didn't seem to go with what he pictured of Abilene (death). It consisted of large white concrete buildings that were as plain as they could be, set in uniform rows, and interspersed with thick green grass like he had never seen away from the gulf plains. Down the middle of the complex was a runway that looked to Kerrigan to be capable of landing the biggest planes the Republic had. That wasn't surprising, though, as a research facility such as this would not only have experimental aircraft but would also be landing the big planes that brought in supplies.
Between the buildings walked men and women in white smocks, intently discussing some important subject or another. It all looked very precise and clean and extremely non-military. Except for the military people positioned on the perimeter, there seemed to be no military presence in what had to be at least a three hundred acre military compound.
The sergeant who had picked him and his gear up at the Drake pulled up in front of a building marked simply "14" and said, "Here you go, Captain. Need a hand with your bag?"
Kerrigan laughed as he pulled the duffle containing what little he had come away from Marathon with—two extra uniforms and a pair of shoes—and answered, "I think I can manage, Sergeant."
As he stood up and hoisted his bag, the ser
geant said, "Can I ask you something, Captain?"
"Certainly, Sergeant."
"What was it like? At Crockett, I mean?" Kerrigan had guessed that the sergeant couldn't be over nineteen and now was sure of it. "I've never been in combat, sir."
Kerrigan thought for a moment, then said, "I can't really tell you what it was like at Crockett. I was unconscious for almost everything. Woke up just in time to leave."
"But I was told you were a flying ace, sir."
"Twice over," Kerrigan nodded proudly. "But all that came afterwards. I'll tell you what, Sergeant. You find me a good bar-b-q place somewhere in Abilene and I'll buy you a supper and tell you all I can."
"Yessir!" the young man beamed. They exchanged salutes and the young man drove away. Kerrigan watched him for a moment, then turned and went inside.
The first room of Building 14 was a whitewashed office, attractively decorated with a few plants that were doing all they could to grow towards the windows. Sitting at a desk in the center of the room was a plumpish, middle-aged woman with cats-eye glasses and her hair tied back in a tight bun. She looked up, as if surprised to see someone she didn't know, and asked, "Can I help you?"
She didn't seem to be military—as she hadn't saluted—so Kerrigan didn't salute her as he replied, "I'm Captain Jason Kerrigan." Presenting her with the packet of papers he had been carrying ever since Las Cruces, he explained, "I was told to report here for duty."
She took the papers and looked at them briefly. With a sharp nod, she picked up her telephone and dialed a three-digit number. After a moment, she said, "Doctor Schulz, Captain Kerrigan is here."
The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 3): Lost Time Page 9