by Alex Wilson
The Maine Event
A novella by Alex Wilson
Copyright 2010 Alex Wilson
Discover other titles by Alex Wilson at www.wilsonwritings.com
As they sat, side-by-side, in the frigid burgled room, a hunkered-down-in-the-parka silence came over Josh and Dana. Although they were not that long since being total strangers, they were comfortable with one another. Not romantic. Not pretending-not lust. Yet, not passengers on a train, either. Comfortable. The fact that it was 3:12 am may have contributed to the lull. There would be no sleep this night. Each wandered into their own thoughts. What the hell had brought them here to sit bundled up in this big, dark mansion to await the sound of a muffled motor that might not come?
* * * * * * *
Dana Ward
Dana Ward came from a warm and loving family. Her father, Rudolph ‘Rudy’ Ward was a ‘lifer’ with the Maine Department of Highways. He signed on shortly after his release from the ‘Korean Conflict’ and has been there ever since. A steady, family–loving guy. Her mother, Jenny, was an excellent stay-at-home mom, as was the practice in those days. She raised Dana with humor and encouragement and was adored by her husband and daughter. Jenny died early of breast cancer. Despite – or perhaps because of – this forced assumption of early responsibility, Dana grew into a tall – six foot even – strong, reliable young woman. She was popular and accomplished in school and athletic enough to lead her volleyball team to state championships. She was also the anchor of her high school basketball team riding the then-new phenomenon of expanded sport opportunities for girls.
Rudy’s second wife, Mae Rogers, was a divorcee or, more accurately, an abandonee, struggling to raise her own two children. Rudy was not an assertive suitor, but he was found and valued as a steady, decent man by a woman who badly needed a steady, decent man. Mae’s children had been battered about by their circumstances and were not benefited by the hardening experience. The ‘black sheep’, Rodney, could not stay out of trouble. Despite all the disruption he caused, he was allowed to graduate. It was more of a ‘mercy diploma’ to push him out so the school could get back to basic education. The girl, Louise, had the spirit beaten out of her by her abusive father and was as dull as cold gruel. Dana’s relationship with her step-siblings was more polite than affectionate. Dana was a beautiful girl by any measure; honey blond hair, green eyes, strong, full figured with naturally erect posture. She never slumped as so many tall young girls do to avoid towering over classmates, especially the sensitive and insecure boys. The young men in town had eyes for Dana, but she only had interest in the most desirable guy in school, Grant Turner; prom king, class president, QB, wrestling star and National Honor Society finalist. Fortuitously, he was crazy about her, too. Much as she loved her dad and respected Mae and had opportunities for college scholarships, over their objections she jumped at the chance to marry Grant right out of high school.
Grant Turner turned out to be a great husband; loving, supportive, upstanding, honest. He enlisted in the Navy and worked himself into the rigorous SEAL program. He took to the discipline like a duck to water and excelled. He eventually came to specialize in ‘black ops’, the pointy end of SEAL missions. Dana was immensely proud of him and supported him in every way a military wife could. They found out early in the marriage that she could not have children but Grant was not fazed. He encouraged her to explore and follow her interests while he was away frequently and for long stretches.
Unlike other Navy wives who had a sisterhood centered on children and child issues, she had to reach beyond. She took whatever courses the Navy offered and classes in self defense and marksmanship. She discovered ‘distance learning’ over the Internet and gravitated to the subject of history and the concomitant discipline of research. It became her passion. Dana earned bachelor’s and master’s degrees online. Along the way, she had become a bright, independent and sophisticated woman. The physical training had established the joys of athletic regimen and the self defense training had given her personal confidence. She had also become an academic in an environment with little academic orientation. She was not arrogant but simply found less and less in common with the other Navy wives.
When Grant was killed in action in Afghanistan, she returned to her childhood area in Maine to be near family. Eventually, she applied for and was accepted as a Ph.D. candidate at nearby Bowdoin College in Brunswick.
Josh Malley
Josh Malley has always been lean and wiry. At 38, he can wear the same clothes he wore in boot camp. At times, he moves laconically, but when required, he can strike like a cobra. That’s the physical part. His demeanor can also be deceptive. Although he has a relaxed way about him that makes him easy to be around, there are times when his eyes turn cold and he is all business.
The relaxed persona serves him well when he wants to blend in, to be non-threatening and overlooked. It has allowed him to effortlessly gather information in strange settings, imperative for his eventual vocations.
The rest of the description is unremarkable; 5 foot 10, 180 lbs., sandy hair cropped short, striking pale blue eyes. He was made of wire rope and his years in the military of running or hiking with heavy loads had given him lung and leg strength although several war wounds slowed him a step or two. He has metal in his left leg and walks with a barely-perceptible limp. There are other scars on his body from various pieces of metal from various projectiles entering therein, but they have healed over for the most part. And, despite some hospital repairs from horrendous encounters, he has never shown or felt any PTSD. Instead, he looks forward with laser-like intensity and optimism.
While stationed in the Philippines, Josh noted a local woman – just a girl, really – who came to work with bruises and other damage. He found that the girl was being beaten regularly by her father and brothers. He addressed the family, but that only made it worse for the girl. So, he married her to remove her from the fate of her gruesome home life. Once in America, however, the girl/woman became spoiled and demanding. She didn’t like the housing. She didn’t like the other women. She didn’t like that Josh was away for extended periods. Josh did what he could to make her happy, but it was never enough. While Josh was in Iraq, she took up with a mortgage broker from Oceanside and ‘Dear Johned’ him. No good deed goes unpunished.
Josh was stoic and philosophical about it, but it seemed to drive him with renewed intensity into his work, first with the Marines then, after separation, with the LA Times. The focus and dedication did no harm to his careers. He out thought and out fought other team members, whatever the team.
Unlike Dana, Josh did not come from a happy home. His father was a dour, depressive man who worked hard at a job in the garment trades that gave him no joy. And, he took it out on his wife, Marion, Josh’s mother, and on Josh. He slapped Josh and Marion around until Josh was a strapping, tough street kid of 14. During one of his angry, self-pitying tirades – fueled by a beer or two too many – he raised his hand to Josh’s mother. That was a mistake. Josh put him down firmly and put a new household rule in place. It was delivered calmly with a steady gaze. Any further harm to his mother would be dealt with severely. No specifics, but Lawrence Malley got the message. Not from the black eye or the loose tooth, but from the calm and steady way in which the rule was presented. He never again abused or even threatened Josh or his mother. He just went inside himself, drank more, became even less communicative and died early of ‘natural causes’. No tears were shed.
As soon as Josh could, he enlisted in the Marine Corps and took to the training and the esprit totally. He relished the challenges and took every opportunity to volunteer, to study, to move up to more dangerous and interesting wo
rk. That got him into Force Recon, the USMC equivalent of Navy SEALs or Army Rangers; multi-talented, semi-covert, outrageously brave and spectacularly effective. Although he was offered advancement to officer training, he stuck with the non-commissioned officer role and ended his career as a Master Gunnery Sergeant. He could have advanced a step further to Sergeant Major, but his fourth combat wound convinced him to move on. By then, he had discovered another skill set; writing.
During his first tour in Afghanistan, he was confronted with two situations that brought forth his hidden writing ability. First was his need to correspond with his wife. Although that campaign did not result in her staying – in hindsight, a blessing – it did get him into expressing himself forcefully and convincingly. The second was an intra service issue.
Judge Advocate General’s Corps is the legal arm of the NAVY. One day he was approached in the field by a JAG officer. They had strong suspicions and some evidence that a clique of rogue Marines in one unit had found a way to coerce some local Afghans to provide them with opiates from their poppy fields. At first, the idea of ratting out fellow Marines was repugnant to Josh, but he quickly came to see them as a rot on his beloved Corps that could negate the dedication and heroism of many good men and women. These people were not acting as Marines nor upholding the creed of honor by which Marines have always conducted themselves. He was transferred into the unit as a spy and did his work splendidly, including the written reports that were used successfully as evidence in the subsequent courts martials.
When his skills as an investigative reporter were recognized and the word went through JAG circles, he was given more assignments to look into and report upon various anomalies within the service. Josh refined his writing and reporting by doing independent studies on writing and presentation techniques. He built upon the opportunity to the point that during his last hospital stay for combat wounds, he had to admit that being a journalist/writer was a better path to old age than constantly being shot at. He mustered out honorably with many commendations and much appreciation from those under whom he had served as well as from those who had served under him.
Once back at Pendleton, he looked for a job and found one at the LA Times. Otis Chandler was building a world class news organization and was fearlessly taking on situations thorny and knotty that affected SoCal. Josh fit right in from day one. He went where his experience had led him, gravitating to investigative journalism. He took on city hall. He took on corruption in state government. He took on contractor overcharges on public projects. He took on the growing influence of the Mexican Mafia in South Central. He was fearless and he loved his work. The results? Two Pulitzer Prizes in three years. His work shone glory on the LA Times.
Then, the ground crumbled beneath his feet. Otis Chandler, Josh’s respected boss, decided it was time to cash out and talked the Chandler family and other stakeholders into selling the whole shebang to The Tribune Company of Chicago. Josh could understand Otis’ motives even though he wished the paper had continued under his principled leadership, but the real bone breaker was the spectacularly ill-conceived and ill-timed leverage buyout by which Sam Zell bought the Tribune Company with a mountain of borrowed money that could not be repaid. The crushing debt service caused the company to begin a series of heart rending layoffs of the best and brightest in journalism, including Josh Malley.
Josh scanned a map, saw that Maine was about as far as he could get from the smoldering ruins of his marriage and career and moved there.
* * * * * * *
In contrast to the basic, ongoing perpetual just-another-perfect-day of LA, Josh had to learn seasonal differences of Maine. Summer days rarely get hot. There was nice, clean air with a bit of San Francisco snap. The crisp foliage was valued all the more for the short season of refulgence. All in all, bracing.
There are two things that Josh marked as being clearly summer coastal Maine. One was the infusion of ‘summer people’, tourists or vacation home owners. The easterners – particularly New Yorkers – came with an attitude of entitlement and energy and spending. The locals were only too happy to see the spending in their economically modest area, but the New York brusqueness could grate. It was suffered mostly with philosophical good humor by the natives, but heavy, winking stereotyping was alive and well off stage.
The other notable feature of summer Maine was the light, especially at twilight. It was a magical, slanting, Northern light, a Scandinavian twilight that turned still water silver and was particularly appreciated by B&W photographers.
The winters were notable for the requisite raw cold and snow, but also for the reemergence of community. Maine people know they are a bit of a clan and interact with brotherhood and the air of shared exclusivity. There are no strangers in Maine bars, churches or diners. In winter, doors were left unlocked and slightly-known folks are welcome at the kitchen table. Even accented New Yorkers like Josh, once recognized as a year around person without arrogance, become ‘one of us’. Josh was oft referred to as ‘The New Yorker’ or ‘Brooklyn Boy’ with affection and acceptance.
* * * * * * *
Brooklyn is the largest of the five New York City boroughs and, at one time, the fourth largest city in America if it had been a stand-alone city. Still, it is both grindingly prosaic and enigmatic. There is no city center or Great White Way like Manhattan. Thomas Wolfe famously said, ‘Only the dead know Brooklyn’, whatever that meant. Although it houses cultural institutions, a pretty good design school and, at one time, the Brooklyn Navy Yard, it was, and is for the most part, a polyglot of ethnic neighborhoods with their ever-present survival scenario of the lower middle classes…or lower. Josh was from one of those Irish/Italian/Jewish collisions where you were either the winner or the loser of the daily fights or you stayed home. From the caldron, however, lifetime friendships and loyalties were forged. Some reached a fork and went to the dark side of hooliganism and crime while others branched over to ‘straight’ trades like law enforcement, the military or legal commerce. That did not necessarily mean, however, that old friendships died.
Josh has barely entered a well-worn Park Slope bar/restaurant when he is welcomed boisterously, ‘Holy mackerel, look who’s here. Josh. Josh, c’mon over. Where you been, you old jar head?’
‘Ray, Sandy. What’s the haps?’
‘No shit, where you been? Last I heard, you was workin’ for that paper in LA. What happen? They catch on to ya?’
‘Yeah, sort of. You know what’s happening with the paper biz… going down the tubes and I was part of the extra baggage they had to throw overboard.’
‘What? You? Didn’t you get a big award for uncoverin’ a mess in the mayor’s office or something? What, you stepped on too may high priced toes?’
‘No, just economics, not politics this time. Anyhow, I’m in Maine now, as far from LaLa as I could find. Just visiting mom.’
‘Your mom still lives here? On, what, Atlantic? How’s she doin’?
‘She’s in a rest home on Hall over near Pratt, Ray. Getting on, but still has her marbles.’
‘Well, give her our best. She was good to me and, hell, a lot of the guys. Fed us when we needed it. Gave us what-for when we needed that. Wish all of our old gang had listened better to her.’
‘Who do you see from the other side?’
‘Benny’s up state. Joey’s out and keepin’ low, but I think he has another scam going. Something with fake handbags, but that’s just chin music. Hasn’t raised my flag yet and we’re cordial. Saw him at Angela’s daughter’s wedding last month.’
‘Jesus, Angela has a kid old enough to marry? You’re putting gray hair on my head, Ray. So, how’s your family? Rita? The boys are what, maybe 8, 9?’
‘Don’t I wish. They’re 16 and 15 now, Josh. Pressin’ the old man for the car. Girl crazy. Where do they get that shit?’
‘Yeah, where indeed?’
‘Worst part is that we have a bad s
ituation here that keeps me on the job more than I like. Should be helping Rita more keep a lid on those young punks so they don’t do something stupid. Your mom kept us from going too far off the rails.’
‘What’s the bad situation?’
‘Josh, it’s no secret that we have a new and serious drug situation that The Department can’t get our arms around. It’s in the papers and we get alota heat from downtown. We had a good fix on the last drug flow. Mostly from Central America, came in by long haul truckers through Red Hook. We got inside that one and pretty well mopped it up. Now we got this goddamned flood of fresh stuff. Maybe from Canada. Maybe through Maine, of all places. Peaceful old Maine, fer Christsakes. Hey, you’re in Maine now. What part?’
‘On the coast. Southern Maine, Kittery to Bar Harbor, mostly.’
‘Well, keep your eyes open. Maybe you see something, maybe you don’t. Drop a dime. You got my card? Here, take another. The city pays for ‘em. Lemme buy you a beer.’
* * * * * * *
Bowdoin College in Brunswick was formed in 1794, decades before Maine was even a state. The school still has only 1700 students and a well-earned rep for putting out high achievers. Quaint. Proud. The Hawthorne-Longfellow Library -- both were graduates -- was like a scene from a British movie, as are most older college libraries. Only the section with glowing computer screens belies modernity’s intrusion. Josh had been doing some research on various aspects of his new home area on the south coast of Maine and had directed some inquiries to the History Department at Bowdoin. Dana Ward had answered and their e-mail correspondence on matters of local history had led Josh to ask for a face-to-face meeting. Dana reluctantly agreed, but prudently chose a public place to allow a quick tactical escape if the meeting grew uncomfortable or dragged on.
‘Mrs. Ward?’
‘I’m a widow, Mr. Malley. You may simply call me Dana, if you wish. I don’t go much for ‘Ms’.’
‘I’m sorry to hear of the loss of your husband. What took him, if I may ask?’
‘It was Afghanistan. He was military and got caught at the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.’