Good Buddy

by Dori Ann Dupré

  “I know that there’s something special about being a soldier, Buddy, but you just can’t do it. It’s another opportunity for us to be found out,” she explained to him years ago, when he was a teenaged boy leafing through a pamphlet given to him by a recruiter who had visited the high school. “Besides, I lost your father and even your stepfather to war, and I cannot bear to lose you.”

  So, Buddy found another way to support and defend the Constitution of the United States. People always wondered why he left law school in Chapel Hill and decided to settle by himself in Fayetteville.

  So many folks who lived there were either native for generations or affiliated in some way with the military. It wasn’t the sort of place that a young single man simply transplanted himself and turned into a home. It was transient. There were seedy and impoverished areas, like in most military towns, and a hustle and bustle in certain parts that made you wonder if it ever stood still. But he felt himself drawn to it…enough to go there and set up a life of his own. And it led him to Julie. It led him to Molly. He found his home for the first time in his life.

  Gabby held three small American flags in her chubby fist. There was a slight breeze outside, a bus load of elderly people coming out of the entrance of the museum door, and a set of biker-less Harley Davidsons with POW/MIA stickers and American flags lining the parking lot next to the sidewalk.

  “Can I have one of the flags?” Molly asked her little sister who stopped along the first row and looked up at her daddy. She gave one of the flags to Molly.

  Molly placed her flag into the ground, adding it to the many already standing at attention. “This flag is for my daddy, Sergeant Gabriel Saint.”

  Gabby watched her big sister kneeling on the ground in front of the flag. She bent down and stuck the other two flags into the ground next to Gabe’s. Molly turned toward Buddy, looked up at him, and then she put her hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun.

  “One is for your daddy, Daniel Kaspar Senior,” she stated. “Who’s the other one for? Grandpa Joe?”

  Buddy took a deep breath…let it out…and replied, “No. It’s for my stepfather, Kenny Bellinger.”

  Molly eyed him for an extended beat, and then turned back around, adjusting the flags so they were an equal amount of space apart from each other.

  Official

  A large red velvet sheet cake with “Congratulations Molly” written on it in red icing from the Food Lion bakery, sat undisturbed on the dining room table in the Cordova home. It was a Friday evening in late March, and friends and neighbors would start to fill up the kitchen and living room soon.

  Jed and Tammy Jo McVicar flew in from Texas in the morning and should be arriving at any minute from their hotel. Some of Molly’s teammates and classmates were coming over. Cate DeLuca, her Guardian ad Litem, and a couple of her teachers, some of whom were friends with her mother, were coming as well. Several neighbors promised they would be there. Even Jasper Ray, the mailman, said he would stop by with a special gift, handmade in his shed. He loved to tell Molly that if it hadn’t been for him, she never would have met Buddy.

  Buddy and Loretta stood in the kitchen setting up the chafing dishes, paper plates and utensils, waiting for the caterer to arrive with the hot food. It would be Molly’s favorite: General Tso’s chicken, white rice, fried rice and egg rolls. They would also have a nugget platter from Chick-Fil-A just because that was Gabby’s favorite, and Molly wanted her little sister to be as happy as she was on this special day.

  Joe was out at the store looking for a new knife to cut the cake. He accidentally broke the handle when pulling it from the drawer and dropping it onto the floor.

  Gabby sat on the couch quietly, watching Blue’s Clues and holding her Tickle Me Elmo.

  Molly stood alone in her bedroom, flooded with her racing thoughts and so much happiness swelling in her heart. So happy that she couldn’t remember the last time it felt so full.

  She looked straight into her dresser mirror, which was accented with small photos of Mia Hamm, Brandi Chastain, Abby Wambach, Cindy Parlow and several world class female soccer players. She had a photo of the 1999 World Cup women’s team stuck to the top of her mirror, and then there was the rogue David Beckham photo with a small heart sketched next to his foot. A few soccer tournament medals draped along the top, hanging down, a reminder of small successes on the pitch. A simple neon green brush sat on top of the dresser, alongside a jewelry box holding her mother’s special pinky ring and two mother-daughter necklaces she wore around her neck. She would give one of them to Gabby someday when she was older.

  Instead of the usual ponytail she sported on most days, her straight brown hair fell well past her shoulders. Instead of a pair of jeans, a tee shirt and her soccer team’s warm-up jacket that she wore to school most of the time, she wore a plain pastel pink and white dress, which came down to the bottom of her knees. Her feet remained bare.

  A new gold necklace with a pearl white locket hung down on her chest. It was a gift from Buddy. He gave it to her earlier today outside the courtroom when the Judge made everything official.

  Peering down, she opened the locket and looked inside. “To my daughter,” said the engraving on the left side. On the right side, there was a small photo of the two of them sitting on the grass at the Fourth of July fireworks at Fort Bragg, Molly sitting between his outstretched legs, during their first summer together. It was the same one that had been in the newspaper. Molly wondered how he got the photo so small that it could fit inside the locket.

  She faced herself in the mirror again and took a deep breath.

  “Molly Saint Cordova,” she said out loud to herself. “Hello. My name is Molly Saint Cordova. So nice to meet you.”

  Epilogue

  May 15th, 1975

  Buddy could hear the nightmarish screaming coming from the kitchen, the clanging from a pot or a pan or an unbreakable dish – was there even such a thing? – and his mother’s cries were the worst he had ever heard before. In the darkness, he sprinted from the side alley and wondered out loud to all the people huddled in their small houses around him, Can’t anyone else hear her screaming? But no one seemed to. Or if they did, they kept to themselves and did not want to be involved in the Bellinger house’s usual mayhem.

  It was the first time in his young life that Buddy learned people who allowed evil to go on and did nothing about it were just as bad as the ones perpetrating the evil.

  It was a breezy May night, cooled off significantly from the impending summer warm weather that had engulfed the town earlier in the day. The end of school was nearing, and the children were getting antsier than usual by the final bell. Buddy wasn’t one of them, though. He wanted to be in school all the time. Being in school meant no Kenny to tip-toe around all day. Could there be such a thing as school all year long?

  Buddy quickly ran across the short concrete slab serving as a patio in the patch of grass, which doubled as a backyard. He slid open the back door to the small rented house his family called home for several years and found the deafening moans and desperate pleas to outshine the hollering and wailing noises by Kenny’s madness.

  Buddy glided across the shag green carpeting, and in the faint light of the oven, he could see Kenny…with his hulking body over his mother…bang her head onto the floor of the kitchen, as she held her arms over her face and cried.

  “You better stop! Stop it now!” Buddy screamed into the violent shadow in front of him.

  Through her cries, he heard his mother yell, “Son, go! Get help!”

  Kenny was in such a rage-fueled tirade, Buddy could not understand what he was shouting or saying. His words were unintelligible. His voice was strained. His anger consumed him; he seemed possessed by a demon like in that scary movie The Exorcist that he watched with Gary’s family at the movies without his parents’ permission. And as he pictured the many deep cuts in that little girl Regan�
�s face as she spewed her vitriol at the Priest, housing the devil inside of her body, Buddy decided once and for all that his stepfather was not going to hurt his mother anymore. This was the last time.

  He put his hand underneath his tee-shirt and felt the tip of the cold metal barrel resting in his belt loop. The cowboys on the western TV shows did it this way. So did the cops who wore no uniforms and forgot their holsters back in the car. So did the bad guys in the nice suits and sharp hats in the fancy black cars.

  As he ran into the kitchen, he saw Kenny stand up, his mother lying on the floor in her underwear and still wearing the shirt she had on from the morning. Her arms and hands were covering the sides of her head and face. Her knees were up into her chest and her bare feet held firmly on the floor. Kenny started to step toward Buddy.

  Retta Bellinger screamed out loud a shrill unlike any other he heard before, as they both watched Kenny fall backward and then into a heap onto the floor next to her. Completely overwhelmed with horror and shock of the ringing intensity coming from Buddy’s way, Retta became engulfed with panic and fear about what was happening in front of her. She quickly scooted herself off to the side near the kitchen sink and then got onto her knees in tears. Buddy inched into the kitchen toward his mother, who then fell back into a ball, her arms wrapping around her thin bare legs…her body rocking back and forth.

  Kenny was quiet. He was completely still and did not move. There were no sounds coming from him at all. His chest did not rise or fall. He was nothing but a large mass clumped onto the floor, shot cold in his place.

  After a few minutes, which felt like a few hours, Retta remained frozen, crouching in her assumed spot on the floor. Buddy stood next to her, almost in a trance, and as she looked up at her son’s face and found his beautiful eyelashes lingering in the moonlight as it shone through the small living room window, she knew deep down inside that her little boy was not a little boy anymore. He was a grown man now.

  As Retta slowly managed to gather her head and calm her racing heart and control the unrelenting sobs as they hiccupped from the hollow of her throat and into the air, she realized that whatever hell they endured these past few years was now over…and a new hell was starting…the moment someone found Kenny Bellinger dead on their kitchen floor.

  “Buddy!” she yelled at him, trying to wake him up. “Buddy! Son!” she started to shake him lightly, her hands wrapped around his small arms. Her cries were controlled, but she could feel herself holding off the panic inside. “What have you done?” she whispered.

  There was no answer from her good boy, the quiet and thoughtful son she had raised so far. Buddy remained in a statue-like position as if he were like Lot’s wife in the Bible, a frozen pillar of salt.

  A gun sat on the floor at Buddy’s feet. Retta had never seen the gun before and had no idea where it came from. Kenny did not have a gun. She did not have one. She knew May Ellen kept one in her drawer in the salon, and God knows she thought of stealing it once or twice…did Buddy steal May Ellen’s gun? She had no idea but knew that regardless of where it came from, she had to get rid of it. She had to protect her son.

  Soon enough, Retta found herself changing her shirt and pulling a skirt over her legs and shoes on her feet and hiding her stash in her bra and tossing some blankets and her paralyzed baby boy on the Duster’s back seat. She grabbed her purse and cigarettes off the kitchen counter, closed the front door behind her, jumped into the car, put it into drive and drove west.

  The end.

  Author’s Note and Acknowledgements

  I started writing this novel while I was editing my first novel, Scout’s Honor, and long before I knew my husband Eric was terminally ill. From the very beginning, Buddy Cordova was inspired by him and his selfless act of becoming our daughter Abigail’s stepfather back in 1995. It was written for him, and ultimately, finished just in time for him. It was the last book Eric ever read.

  I had the desire to tell a heartwarming story about a good, solid man who took on the responsibility of raising another man’s child. But because of what happened to my husband and my family, the book’s purpose grew into so much more. There are all kinds of step and surrogate fathers who come into our lives and take on this most important role. And none of it has anything to do with blood. It’s about integrity, character, and ultimately…love.

  Throughout the story, I tried to weave in pockets of hope for my husband. For us. Julie was always supposed to be a widow, and little did I know that I was, in some way, slowly turning into parts of this character. This book became Eric’s novel, with fictionalized pieces of our own family, a morsel of his legacy – for not only him – but for our daughters and for anyone who ever knew him or cared about him. It became a way to keep a part of him alive.

  Good Buddy is brush-stroked with some of the best of Eric’s personality, his integrity, long eyelashes, blue eyes, military high and tight haircut (when I first met him), some of his quirks – like walking with his hands in his pockets, the way he always handled tipping in restaurants, awkward shyness around attractive women…with his endearing wily smile, and lots of inside jokes. Molly is a fusion of our daughters. When I first met Eric, he indeed had jugs of different flavors of Kool Aid in his refrigerator. And “Gay Days at Disney” hilariously happened to us in the summer of 2002.

  I have a mountain of photos and a lifetime of thoughts, memories, regrets, joys, sorrows – just like every other family. But ours have ended, turned off like a broken faucet, never to be fixed. However, writing fiction allows me to create a few more. Writing – and then publishing Good Buddy – was really the only way that I could make a part of Eric live forever in my own fashion. He deserved so much better than what life handed him in his last year here. I hope readers are touched by this story, the characters I’ve created to tell it and will get a glimpse into a damn good man who inspired it all…through one significant act of love.

  Thank you to my husband Eric and all the other incredible step and surrogate fathers and grandfathers out there who make the choice to love children who do not carry your DNA. Men like my brother Jon, my father-in-law John, my Uncle Glenn, and my brother-in-law Andrew. You are all a gift to your wives, their children – which are YOUR children too, your grandchildren, extended family, and society at large.

  Thank you to my resilient, intelligent, compassionate, and beautiful daughters, Abigail Raelene and Allison Leigh, who have been there to hold up their mother during her darkest days. Thank you both for being my strongest allies in our mutual hardships and grief, for shining a light on my mangled path and for reminding me that my life still has a purpose despite losing almost everything I had worked for…all at once. Thank you to my doxies, Stretch and Slinky, who have provided me with more snuggling and comfort than I’ve deserved.

  Thank you to Mom, Jon, Ginger, John, Judy, Kristin, Celeste, Andrew, Zach, Micaela, Chase, Samantha, Sean, Jenny, Lorrie, Dan, Mel, Jo, Tom, Tanya, Melanie, Mikkel, Doug, Joanne, Rich, Lisa, Maureen, Tami, Lyle, Todd, Monica, Martha, Ken, Krystal, Jon, Suzanne, Chad, Hemed, Anne, Scott, Marcie, the Working Moms Exile Group, Chapell, Kelly, Caroline, Laura, Dana, Hailey, Louis, colleagues of the NCCJCP, my former neighbors who checked on me, the (loosely assembled) Pittsboro/Chapel Hill Widows group, Colleen, Danielle, and Harry & Anthony.

  Thank you to the USMA Class of ’91 (especially the I-Beam), USMA AOG, West Point Memorial Affairs, Eric’s colleagues at SAS Institute, Eric’s clients from Carolina Small Business Solutions, Eric’s golf pals at the Chapel Ridge and Preserve Golf clubs, Zach Johnson, the Kraft family, Dr. Coler and the nursing staff at Swedish Hospital in Seattle; Dr. Carlson, Cat, Dr. Park, and the nursing staff at UNC Lineberger Cancer Hospital; UNC Hospice Chaplain Gail Ritter and nursing staff; Abundance NC, Spark of Life, Transitions Life Care Grief Center, Triangle Skydiving, and the amazing women at the Hope for Widows Foundation.

  Thank you to my editor and cover designer Dionne Abouelela of HappyWritingCo and my fello
w indie authors within the PNP family, the Third Wednesday Open Mic’ers at Lucky Tree, Anchala Studios, and the throng of other talented writers – near and far – I’ve met since beginning this author endeavor in 2014.

  Thanks to all my readers for your continued support of my writing. Stories are born from those we love. I hope you enjoyed this one…it is the book of my heart.

  Good night, E. I will love you and carry you forever. “Love you too.”

  “I know my family cares about me and loves me despite whatever flaws and shortcomings I might have. In the end, that’s enough for me. As I said before, everything I’ve done in the last 20+ years has been for them anyway.”

  – Eric John DeJong, Journal entry 5/29/2016

  Other Published Works by Dori Ann Dupré

  Short Stories:

  “See You in September” – The Collection: Flash Fiction for Flash Memoryby Anne Anthony and Cathleen O’Connor, PHD

  “Yellow” – On Life and Living, Pen Name Publishing Charity Anthology, VOL I.

  Water Island” – From Words to Water, Pen Name Publishing Charity Anthology, VOl II.

  “The Win” – Miscreants, Murderers & Thieves by Samuel W. Reed