There was a lot in his life he hated. And he was good at being in the Army.
But at the center of that life, a bright beacon of everything good he could possibly imagine, was Mo. She was there, and the Army kept taking him away from her. If he stayed in, it would take him away whenever it wanted. This war would end, but another would take its place, and it would take him with it.
Cornish was right; Brian was a soldier in his soul.
But Mo was his heart, and a civilian life was how he made her happy.
That was what he wanted most of all.
“Yes sir. That’s the life I want.”
~oOo~
23 Nov 72
My Irish,
Happy Thanksgiving! I hope you had a real good feast. We just had ours, and I have to say it wasn’t bad. A lot different here in Saigon than it was in the field. Out there, they did their best, but, well, it didn’t get close to the real thing. Here, we had the whole traditional dinner, on tables set fancy. There were some local dishes, too, but all I wanted was turkey and the usual stuff today.
It goes without saying that I’d rather be with you, though. I even miss Faye’s ‘famous’ jello mold, but I still hold that lime jello, pineapple, and cottage cheese weren’t meant to be mixed, I don’t care what her magazines say.
Is school still going good? I love hearing about your students, so don’t worry about writing too much about that. It makes me so proud to think how every day you’re making those kids’ lives better. And I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to get letters so often this time. Thank you for that, sweetheart. I know you don’t like doing it, so I know you do it for me.
Oh—thank you for the photos! Wow, I can’t believe how big Annette is. I haven’t even met her and she’s growing up already. Did I see a couple teeth in her smile??
My favorite pictures were of you, of course. Those are extra special—especially the one with that filmy pink getup. I’m afraid to ask who was behind the camera for that one. I hope it was Maggie. You are so beautiful, sweetheart. I can’t wait to get my hands on you again. It was good to see your sweet smile, too. But mainly I’ve been thinking about getting my hands on you again.
Things here are changing pretty fast now. A few more months, and I’ll be home, and then I’m staying put. I promise.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
Brian
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
My love,
Today, we put up the Christmas tree. Our favorite tree lot was picked over by the time we were able to get all together and go out for one, and the hardware store had a special offer going on, so Uncle Dave finally got his way. They bought an artificial tree on clearance. Economy and longevity. I think Uncle Dave has achieved cheapskate nirvana.
I don’t like it much—it smells of nothing, and the shape makes it look more like a giant toilet brush than a pine tree, but Unca is pleased with himself. With the decorations and garland and the tree skirt Maggie made, it’s festive enough. Aunt Bridie had a wee pout at first, but it didn’t last long. After all, there’s her first grandchild to spoil with Christmas goodies. And Annette thinks the tree is grand.
I don’t know if Faye’s told you, but all four kids there have come down with chickenpox at once. Jamie came home from kindergarten feeling poorly and took the lot of them down the poxy path with him—which means the Kempers, Quinns, Delaneys, and Cherwells can’t share the holidays this year. The children are too ill, and there’s wee Annette to think of. I’ve not had the pox before, so I can’t even go over for a visit. Aunt Bridie is taking our gifts to them.
Then there’s Roger, who’s signed on with Aetna Insurance to go into their sales training program. He left last week for Connecticut and won’t be coming home for Christmas, as it’s in the middle of the program. They only have a day and a half off for the holiday. He’ll have Christmas dinner in the restaurant of the Howard Johnson’s they’ve put him and his classmates up in, poor lad.
The day’s not even here yet, but already we know it won’t be much of a Christmas. Funny, it wasn’t so long ago that Uncle Dave, Aunt Bridie, Maggie, Robby, and I were the full sum of our family, and our holiday table seemed full with the five of us. Now it’ll be us five and wee Annette, too, and yet it’ll seem like half our limbs are missing. Our family is so much bigger since I met you.
My life is so much better since I met you. Even now, even with the troubles we’ve faced, that’s true.
Happy Christmas, love. Let’s never spend another apart again.
Mo
20th December 1972
~oOo~
Despite the gaping holes in their family and the corresponding melancholy, it was impossible to have a bad Christmas when there was a baby having her first one. Annette, at eight months, was just old enough to enjoy the holiday in her wee way, and to bring joy to the people who loved her. She was entranced by every dangling ornament, twinkly light, shimmer of garland—not tinsel this year; in deference to Annette’s irrepressible devotion to shoving everything into her mouth, they’d bought garland to wrap around the tree. She loved Christmas carols and laughed giddily and clapped her hands when ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town’ or ‘Up on the Housetop’ played. She loved Christmas cookies—sugar cookies with frosting and chocolate crinkles, especially.
Uncle Dave had even brought home a stack of holiday coloring books and a box of fat Crayolas for her. Unsurprisingly, Annette was much more interested in eating the crayons than trying to color, but Maggie, Mo, and Robby had filled out most of the pages themselves.
So, overall, notwithstanding the chairs that stood empty at the dinner table, the Quinns’ holiday was managing to be happy.
Mo and Maggie came over on Christmas Eve, with plans to spend the night in their old rooms. Annette would snuggle in the crib Uncle Dave and Aunt Bridie had put in Maggie’s room, for when they got hold of their granddaughter for overnights.
They cleaved to their traditions and had a light dinner, then to went to Christmas Eve Mass. Back at home afterward, they shared hot cocoa, eggnog, and cookies, and listened to Christmas carols. Eventually, everyone drifted off to bed except Uncle Dave and Mo.
Robby was almost fifteen now, and Maggie and Mo were both married. Annette was just a baby. Without Faye and Lenny’s children, there was no one around this year who believed in Santa. And yet, Uncle Dave waited until the house was quiet on Christmas Eve before he began to build the gifts that needed building and arranged everyone’s wrapped gifts beneath the tree. That was his special tradition.
Mo had volunteered to clean up the kitchen, so she was the last other still moving about. When she was done, she turned off all but the light above the sink and went to the living room.
Her big uncle sat awkwardly on the floor, studying the instructions for a wee kitchen set he and Aunt Bridie had bought for their granddaughter who’d only just begun to crawl and hadn’t yet quite mastered the complicated workings of spoons.
Mo leaned against the frame of the doorway and watched for a moment. There was little more she wanted in her life than a child of her own, who would be loved so deeply by such wonderful people. By rights, she should have two children now, and Uncle Dave should have more than a night’s work ahead of him.
Not meant to be, everyone said. It’ll happen when it’s right.
She blew those dangerous, pointless musings out on a breath and asked, “Would you like help?”
Uncle Dave looked up and grinned. “Not help, but I wouldn’t mind some company.”
“I’ve plenty of that.” Mo came in and settled into a chair near him. She leaned down and picked up a wee silver pan. “Training her up early for the kitchen, I see?”
“Ach, let’s have none of your women’s liberation nonsense on Christmas Eve, love. Speakin’ as a man surrounded by women givin’ me what for, I’ve no idea how much more liberated you need to be. Men’s liberation—now, there’s a thing we need.”
He was t
easing, and Mo knew it. She nudged him with her foot. “Terrible.”
“But loveable, aye?”
“Aye. Very loveable.”
He went quiet, studying the workings of the wee pink refrigerator, and Mo watched him assemble it. About halfway, he stopped and put his hand on his chest. He gave it a rub, straightened up, and took a deep breath.
“All right, Unca?” Mo asked.
“Aye, I’m fine. Just shouldn’t’ve had that third eggnog, perhaps. Bit of heartburn.”
“You want Alka-Seltzer?”
“That’d be grand. Ta.”
Mo got up and went to the kitchen. She filled a glass of water from the tap and plopped two fizzy discs in as she walked back to the living room.
Uncle Dave swallowed the drink down in a few gulps, then let loose a belch so resounding and obviously satisfying, Mo burst into giggles.
He grinned and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “There. All better now.” He handed her the glass; she set it on the table beside her chair.
“How’re you doin’, love?” he asked after he’d returned to his miniature kitchen remodel.
“I’m fine, Unca.”
He looked askance along his shoulder. “Maureen.”
“What other answer would you like that you don’t know? I’m lonely. I’m mad. I’m sad. You know all that. But truly, I’m fine. I’m waiting.”
“You know how proud I am of you?”
Mo didn’t want to have a heavy talk here in the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree on Christmas Eve, so she nodded and teased, “If I don’t, I should have my hearing checked, because you tell me often enough.”
He stopped, set his screwdriver down, and turned so that he could face her. “But do you know? You are the strongest woman in this family, a leanbh. I’m surrounded by women warriors, but you—you’re a queen, Mo. You don’t break. You’ve chosen a man who’ll make your life hard. You’ve chose a career that’ll do the same. You’ve faced pains no one should have to bear even once, and you’ve borne them repeatedly. Yet here you are.”
They were going to have the heavy talk whether she wanted to or not, it seemed. “Here I am, but I’m not so strong. You know I’ve been broken. You’ve seen me broken.”
“You might bend under the weight sometimes, but you don’t break. You stand back up and wait for the storm to pass, and then you go on. You might be the strongest of us all.” He rubbed his arm across his forehead, and Mo saw he was sweating. She wasn’t sure which was more taxing: putting together a little girl’s kitchen set or convincing Mo she was stronger than she felt.
“Okay, Unca.”
He frowned at her. “You’re humorin’ me, and I’ll let you, but I speak true. I love you, Mo. I loved your father like he was a piece of me. You are the best of him. And I’m proud to call you my daughter.”
She’d never called him her father, and he’d never asked her to. His brother was her father, and she’d never been able to think of him as anything but Uncle, adoption papers notwithstanding. Right now, though, for the first time ever, she felt guilty about that.
The guilt rose up and tightened her throat. Mo slid off the chair and knelt at his side. When she put her arms around him, he was ready for the hug, as he always was, and clamped her in his big arms.
“I love you, Unca. I’m glad you’re my father, too. No matter what I call you, that’s what you’ve been since you brought me home.”
~oOo~
On the morning after Christmas, Mo woke to a sharp shaking.
“Mo! Mo! Wake up!” Aunt Bridie whispered shrilly. “Please wake up!”
She did, and as her sleepy eyes cleared and she saw her aunt’s face, she sat up. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s your da—Uncle Dave. I can’t wake him. He fell asleep on the sofa last night, and I can’t wake him!”
Everything from her throat to her belly flash-froze. “Have you called an ambulance?”
Her aunt stared. “No—I—”
“Do it! Do it now!”
She threw the covers back and pushed her aunt out of the way as she ran from her room and down the hall.
The house was dim and quiet; it was early, just past dawn. The doors to Robby and Maggie’s rooms were closed. They were all still asleep.
Mo ran to the living room and drew up short. At first, Uncle Dave seemed simply to be sleeping. He lay on the sofa in his usual position, on his side, facing the room, his arms crossed before him, his knees folded enough that his large frame fit. His head rested on the arm of the sofa.
But he was pale. Oh lord, he was so pale. Mo hurried to him and shook his shoulder. “Unca. Unca, wake up!” Nothing.
She set her hand on his forehead—he was cool, oh no! But wait, he was damp, and his flesh was soft. She couldn’t find a pulse on his wrist, and her frozen heart began to break, but she tried his neck, and there was something. It was wrong, not rhythmic and far, far too fast, but his heart was beating.
She turned, and Aunt Bridie was there, stunned and lost. “I called—”
“He’s alive! He’s alive!”
“Oh, thank God! Oh, thank you, Jesus!”
Mo sat on the floor beside the sofa and put her hand on Uncle Dave’s bare arm. She wanted to be close enough to know if anything changed while they waited for the ambulance. “You need to wake Maggie and Robby, Aunt Bridie. They need to know what’s going on, and it should come from you.”
Truly, it should probably come from Mo. Aunt Bridie was a wreck. But Mo didn’t want to be strong for anybody else right now. She only had enough for herself.
~oOo~
Massive coronary.
There were other words, other, more precise descriptors, lots of jargon, but those were the words among it all that rang out: massive coronary.
How many times in her life had she made a crack about how her uncle would ‘have a heart attack’ because of something she’d done or was considering doing? How many times had she turned such an event into a joke? Hundreds, at least. Now, each one felt like a curse she’d uttered and doomed this man who’d been her staunch support and protection from the time she was twelve.
It was like he’d known something was wrong.
That talk on Christmas Eve, now it felt like he was trying to leave an impression that would last after him.
Like he’d known something was wrong.
Sitting in the hospital waiting room while Uncle Dave had open-heart surgery, Mo thought about that night. Not even forty-eight hours ago. His heartburn. His sweaty brow. His heavy words. None of it had seemed to portend doom at the time, but now, Mo hated herself for missing signs that had been so obvious.
She’d put it to too much eggnog, too much Christmas building, too much Christmas musing. But he’d been sick then, hadn’t he? This had been coming, and they’d missed it.
He’d seemed fine on Christmas Day. He hadn’t eaten like he normally did, but he joked away any comments about that, saying that he had enough meat on his bones already. Everyone’s attention had been devoted to Annette, all day, and Uncle Dave had seemed just as enthusiastically wrapped up in his granddaughter’s first Christmas as everyone else.
Maggie was home with Annette. She didn’t want the baby in the hospital, and Mo couldn’t blame her. She called home from the waiting room phone every hour or so, or more, when there was information to share. There hadn’t been any information for hours now. The day had aged to afternoon, and still they sat, Mo, Robby, and Aunt Bridie, in a row, waiting to know if their life was about to be destroyed.
Massive coronary.
~oOo~
Mo and Robby were trying to convince Aunt Bridie to agree to eat something if they went down to the cafeteria and brought her some dinner, when the nurse attending the waiting room called out, “Family of David Quinn?”
They all stopped, and Aunt Bridie clutched them both in hands like claws.
Mo changed her hold and put her arm around her aunt. “Come on, we’ve news.” She led this litt
le fraction of her family to the nurse’s desk. “We’re Dave Quinn’s family.”
The nurse’s smile was soft and kind, but in that way people smiled when they expressed condolences. Mo knew right then, and she stiffened, but tried with all her might not to show what she knew.
The nurse led them from the waiting room to another room nearby. This one was made up like a living room, with soft furniture and wall-to-wall carpeting. Pretty, innocuous landscape prints hung in graceful frames on the walls.
On a coffee table between two sofas sat three boxes of tissues.
Oh God.
Mo sat Aunt Bridie down in the middle of one sofa, directed Robby to one side, and squeezed in herself at the other. They would be in contact with each other when they got this news. They would be as together as they could possibly be.
Poor Maggie. She’d get this news over the phone.
No. Mo would go home and tell her in person.
A knock on the door, and then it opened. A doctor leaned in. “Quinn family?”
“Yes,” Mo answered.
“How’s Dave?”
“Mrs. Quinn?” the doctor asked as he entered and choose a hard chair for his seat.
“Yes, I’m Bridie—Bridget—Quinn. His wife. These are two of my children—Maureen, and Robert.”
The doctor shook all three hands and sat back down.
“How is he, doctor?” Aunt Bridie asked.
The doctor cleared his throat. “I’m very sorry. The damage to your husband’s heart was too severe. He died during surgery.”
Aunt Bridie put her hands to her face and folded forward with a despairing wail. Robby threw his arms around her.
“How long did it take?” Mo asked the doctor.
“I’m sorry?”
Wait: The Brazen Bulls Beginning Page 27