Memories Never Die

by C Thomas Cox

  In that motel bed, however, I realized that my brain failed to completely destroy the memory. Instead, it kept it locked inside, ready to sting me at just the right time. And seeing the Vietnamese man at the ball field -- a man who reminded me so much of the farmer -- was just enough to unlock it.

  Overwhelmed by a tsunami of guilt, I wanted -- needed -- to confess to someone. To somehow make recompense for what I'd done five decades earlier. But I wasn't a religious man, and I could never repay a family who I could never identify. A family that I utterly destroyed.

  I pulled a pillow over my head and shoved it into my opened mouth. I pulled harder, and the pillow collapsed my nostrils toward my face. I could no longer breathe out of either my mouth or nose, but I didn't stop. I didn't want it to stop. I needed to suffer the same fate as the farmer...the farmer whose only mistake was attempting protecting his land and his livelihood from my disrespectful crew.

  My strained to receive the oxygen that my arms wouldn't allow. Instead of easing up, however, I just pulled harder. I didn't deserve to live. I was no longer the insolent young man whose ambition overrode his morality. I knew right from wrong, even if I didn't always choose the correct path. But I knew, at that moment, that the only path I could choose was the one that would lead me to fall off the same cliff as that farmer.

  With a swirl of anger and pain, my world began to become dark. And within seconds, I thought my life had met its well-deserved end.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  "Jim," Liz whispered. When I didn't respond, I heard her footsteps shuffle over the thrift-store carpet. She shook my shoulder. "Jim, are you okay?" She yanked the pillow from on top of my head, and the sunlight pouring in from the plastic shades blinded me.

  "I-I think so," was all I could muster.

  "Your lips are blue!" she exclaimed. "So are your fingertips. We need to get you to a doctor."

  "No," I said. "I'm fine. I swear."

  "You're trembling."

  She was right, of course. I hadn't experienced consciousness since I'd tried to suffocate myself overnight, and I was shocked to discover that I wasn't dead. Although the lack of oxygen caused me to pass out, I must've resumed breathing once I did so.

  I didn't tremble solely because I was alive. Instead, realizing that I'd have to survive another day knowing I was a double-murderer was the culprit. How could I possibly live with the resulting guilt?

  Regardless, I knew that keeping my sins hidden wouldn't help. Hiding them from myself for the last half century certainly didn't. Besides, I deserved whatever wrath my confession would elicit.

  I dug the heels of my palms into the mattress and shoved my back against the chipped headboard. "I lied," I said, my head hanging. "I'm not fine at all."

  Liz sat next to me and held my hand while I proceeded to tell her every detail of my dream...from the initial corn cobs that my squad stole to the bullet shots that they questioned. I didn't hold anything back. Sweat rolled over my brow as I released the secrets that I had unintentionally kept hidden.

  When my confession began, Liz stared at my eyes, watching them intently, even as I tried to avoid her gaze. By the time I had expressed my unfathomable remorse for the sin that destroyed two lives, though, she was focused instead on a cobweb-covered corner of the ceiling. No matter how animated I became...no matter how much I pleaded with inflection...I couldn't get her to look at me.

  She released my hand, staggered to the bathroom, and closed the door. I forced my body out of bed and followed her. With tears rolling out of my eyes, I tapped on the door. No response. I tapped again. Silence.

  "Liz," I said. I sucked in a deep breath, and I did my best to reign in the sobs that threatened to take control of my body. "What are you gonna do?" I needed, more than anything, to know if she was going to abandon me. I wasn't sure how I could make it through the day -- and through life -- if she did. She was the only one on my side.

  "If you'd leave me alone," she said, "I'm gonna pee."

  I let out a belly laugh that somehow combined with a snort and forced some projectile snot to fly out of my nose and onto the bathroom door. This only exacerbated my giggles, and I fell to my knees in hysterics. How else could I cope with the weakest moment of my life?

  I soon calmed myself enough to make my way to the room's only chair before Liz emerged. She blinked away the start of a tear and said, "Let's figure out what we're going to do at the golf course."

  I shook my head. "Not until you tell me how much you hate me." She took a step toward me, and I added, "Aren't you afraid I might murder you, too?"

  A casual grin brightened her face. "My brother was a serial killer, so I know the type." True. "I can't imagine the stress that that you felt while fighting on the front line...in a jungle where dangers lurked around every corner, and where at any moment you could lose your life. You're a hero whose conscience was distorted by the awful reality you experienced."

  "But I killed a man...and a boy."

  "I'm not saying you're innocent...far from it. But I am saying that there were extenuating circumstances. And I'm sure that, if you had the opportunity, you'd do everything you could to make amends."

  She was right, of course. Unfortunately, I couldn't imagine a scenario where I'd ever have that chance.

  She bent down and embraced me. "If only you were my daughter," I said. "You're the most loving, empathetic, and thoughtful girl I've ever met -- aside from my Claire, of course. And, if we ever get through this mess, I want you to remain a big part of my life." I meant ever word.

  After holding me for a few seconds, she stood back up. "I always thought you seemed a little young to be my grandpa," she said with a wink. I chuckled.

  "Now let's get going," she said. "Golf courses open early. I'll pull up the directions on my phone."

  I was confident that Edward Nguyen was the man who we sought. I felt jittery, however, as I thought about confronting him. While he may not have followed me to Thomas's shack, he had taken his harassment well beyond the baseball field. I wasn't sure how an encounter with such an unstable man would unfold.

  Even though I was mentally bracing myself for the worst -- I even asked Liz to add 911 as a contact on her phone -- nothing I did prepared me for what we were about to discover at Hickory Hills.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  The empty clubhouse at Hickory Hills contained a store with the expected accoutrements. One-thousand-dollar titanium drivers were featured prominently in a stand in the middle of the floor -- but not too far from the watchful eye of the sixtyish woman manning the cash register. A rack of designer hats dominated the wall to the left, and the latest polyester golf apparel hung from two circular racks to the right. As Liz and I meandered up to the counter, I noticed a plastic bin containing wooden golf tees stamped with the Hickory Hills logo -- a green Hickory tree with an upside-down tee as its trunk.

  "How may I help you?" the cashier asked in a heavy Boston accent.

  Liz spoke up first -- as she usually did. "We'd like to play one round, but we don't have our own clubs. Do you have rentals?" I never liked golf. The one time Gene took me to a course bored me so much that I never took him up on subsequent offers to hit the links. The fact that I couldn't keep my ball out of the surrounding trees didn't help.

  "Of course. One set for each of you?" We both nodded.

  She disappeared and, thirty seconds later, returned dragging two bags of clubs. The prolific rust on them led me to believe they were purchased when the course was originally built, which I guessed was thirty or forty years earlier.

  She pulled the bags, one by one, around the counter. She then returned to the register and rung up the cost of the game and the rentals. "You going to carry the clubs yourself, or would you like a caddy?"

  I shot Liz an awkward glance, and she nodded. "A caddy would be great, ma'am."

  The woman yelled, "Dave, can you come out and caddy for these fine folks?"

  Before Liz or I had the chance to object to Dave serving as our
caddy, a white man about my age emerged from a door to the right of the counter. Although his slight limp appeared a hindrance, his Popeye arms and tree trunk legs dispelled my doubt about his ability to carry our clubs.

  He reached out for my bag, but I held up my hand. We weren't going to waste three hours golfing if it didn't give us the opportunity to encounter Edward Nguyen.

  "What is it, sir?" the caddy asked.

  "It's just that..." I started. But I couldn't find the words. I wasn’t quite sure how to explain that he wasn't good enough. That we needed Edward...a younger caddy.

  "A friend recommended Edward Nguyen. Said he's the best caddy in the region." Liz said. She chuckled and pointed good naturedly at me. "He needs all the help he can get picking out his clubs."

  I expected the cashier and caddy to laugh in response, so I was shocked when, instead, both of their faces turned to ash. The caddy pulled a handkerchief from his rear pants pocket and dabbed his eyes. He then slunk away without saying another word.

  Once he disappeared behind the door through which he came, the cashier whispered, "Guess you didn't hear, but Edward collapsed on the fourteenth green a couple days ago. He died on his way to the hospital." She paused, and Liz and I looked at each other. "Edward was Dave's best friend, and he hasn't taken it well. He's only here today because no one else was available."

  "Oh, God," I murmured.

  "Did you know him?" she asked.

  "Don’t think so," I lied. "It's just sad to hear that he died doing what he loved." I hung my head. Although I tried to fight the unexpected pain that pierced the inside of my chest, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy. I wasn't quite sure why.

  "What caused it?" Liz asked.

  "Heart attack," the cashier said, shaking her head. "I still can't believe it. Hauling those golf bags nearly every day must've kept his heart in peak shape, and his vegetarian diet couldn't hurt. I just can't help but wonder if something else...someone else was the cause."

  "What do you mean?"

  She waved dismissively. "No, it's nothing. Just my far-flung theory."

  Fire burned in Liz's eyes as she gazed at the cashier. "Would you mind just humoring us?" Liz said. "You've piqued my interest."

  "Okay," she said after a deep breath. "You know how sometimes, in your gut, you just know something?" I nodded. I thought about my certainty that Half-Ear had it in for me. "Well, I just know that it wasn't Edward's time. That's why I think that someone caused his heart attack."

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "What if someone poisoned him, like in the movies? Maybe someone slipped a drug into his drink that caused his heart to stop beating."

  "You think someone would really do that?" asked Liz.

  "I don't doubt it," the cashier replied. "Though Dave was able to overlook Edward's eccentricities, most couldn't."

  "What do you mean?" I asked. My heart went into overdrive, as I felt like perhaps we were steaming toward the truth.

  "Edward didn't exactly endear himself to his clients on the course. That's why the recommendation you say you received is far from the norm. You see, Edward was emphatic when he suggested clubs. And when customers didn't heed his suggestions, he exploded like the New Year's fireworks in Times Square. He never admitted he was wrong."

  After grinding my teeth for a few seconds, I asked what I hoped would drive us toward the answer Liz and I were seeking. "Did he typically wear a golf shirt with pressed khakis?" I stammered. "Just trying to figure out if he's the caddy we used when I played a couple years ago." Of course, I'd never visited Hickory Hills before.

  "Yep, that's Edward. He always wore wrinkle-free long pants -- even on summer's hottest days. And he never arrived without a striped golf shirt. In fact, I'd be surprised if he wasn't buried in one." Envisioning Edward in his outfit of choice, his smug face glaring at me from just outside the first base line, fanned the flames of rage that ignited within me. Although something deep inside my mind wept over Edward's death, I couldn't contain the anger that his actions thrust upon me.

  Liz suddenly grabbed her phone from her pocket, tapped the screen, and held it up to her ear. "Hello," she said as she walked away from us. After mumbling something into the receiver, she placed the phone back into her pocket. "Dad, we need to go."

  Her eyes pleaded with me, so I thanked the cashier and followed Liz out of the clubhouse.

  Chapter Sixty

  Liz tapped the screen on her smartphone as though she was trying to pound it into unconsciousness. "What's going on?" I asked as we speed-walked toward her car.

  "Get in and I'll tell you."

  I followed her instructions and climbed into the passenger's seat. "So who called you?" I asked.

  "No one."

  I cocked my head. "What do you mean? I saw you talking to someone while we were inside the clubhouse."

  She kept tapping the screen. "I lied."

  "Huh?"

  "I lied. I couldn't let you lose your temper. I could tell that the cashier's description of Edward was about to set you off, and we couldn't take the chance."

  "Thanks,” I groaned with more than a hint of sarcasm. “But what if we could've learned more about Edward?"

  "We learned enough," she said. "Just enough to allow us to find out if he's Half-Ear."

  "Huh?" I wish I could've come up with a more intelligent response, but I wasn't tracking Liz's thought process.

  She handed me her phone. Displayed on its screen were directions to the Glatfelter Funeral Home. "Edward's first viewing's this morning."

  "Wait," I said, not sure I agreed with her approach. "You're suggesting we crash Edward's funeral?"

  "I'm sure as hell not waiting 'til we receive our invitation."

  "You sure this is the right move? What if only his family comes? We'd stick out a little more than I'd like."

  "What's our choice? We couldn't find any pictures of him online, and we need to know if he's is the right guy. Right?"

  I nodded, but I didn't like it. I wasn't thrilled about confronting Edward in life, and I certainly wasn't excited about mingling with his family after his death.

  "I can't wear this," I said, pointing to my outfit. "And you sure as heck can't wear that."

  "We can't risk going back to my place, and I doubt you want to go back home...at least not yet. Can you direct me to the nearest superstore? They're bound to have some cheap, dark-colored clothes.”

  "Sure," I said. "But what about your credit card? Don't you think the police will track us down?"

  She shrugged. "Doesn't much matter now, does it? I feel like we're so close to the end...to confirming Edward's death...that it's okay if they find us."

  I was okay with the police catching us once we found Half-Ear. I didn't much care what happened to me as long as I could ensure Claire's safety. But I felt we couldn't be certain it was him until we saw his face in the casket.

  ***

  An hour later, we emerged from the store looking clean and mournful. Liz walked out in a plain black dress, and I wore black dress slacks, a collared white shirt, and a dark tie -- the standard funereal attire. Liz splurged on two cinnamon soft pretzels that were drizzled with powdered sugar icing. She grabbed a box of sanitizing wipes as well.

  "How much time before the viewing begins?" I asked.

  She glanced at her phone. "Twenty minutes. Let's eat our pretzels before we go...we don't want to be the first ones there."

  Eating sweets before attending a memorial viewing didn't sit right with me. I ate anyway, though. I didn't feel up to small talk, and I wasn't sure when I'd eat next.

  I didn't consider myself a slow eater, but I was shocked when Liz took the last bite of her pretzel before I was done half of mine. "Did your brother starve you?" I asked with a wink.

  I realized right away, however, that I was being more than insensitive. Based on the look she shot me, however, I knew that my snide remark was closer to the truth than I had imagined. Thankfully, the attention that I gave to her
gorging didn't stop her from swallowing. I didn't know the full breadth of the abuse that her brother flung at her, and I was grateful.

  She opened her window, stuck out her arms, and brushed the cinnamon and sugar off of her fingers. She then stuck the key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot.

  As we cruised closer to the site of Edward's resting place, my head began to throb. Although migraines didn't wreak havoc on me on a regular basis, I had enough brushes with them to know how one felt. And the pounding that grew more powerful as we raced down the road reminded me of their debilitating nature.

  As best I could figure, the anxiety that coursed through my veins was likely making its way into my head and doing its best to burst through my skull. I couldn't bear it. I didn't realize at the time, though, that my nerves would fray even further when I ventured near Edward's coffin.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  The single-story brick building that is Glatfelter Funeral Home appeared to cover no more than twelve hundred square feet of its half-acre property. And its unruly lawn and gravel lot led me to assume that the majority of its clientele wore blue collars.

  I had no reservations about mixing with such a group, as my experience in the Army and in manufacturing made me one of them. I was more concerned, however, about the diminutive size of the building. I doubted Liz and I would be able to blend into the crowd.

  As soon as we entered the double-doors, the funeral director proved me right. "Are you here to pay your respects to Mr. Nguyen?" asked a five-foot-tall woman with a heavy Pennsylvania Dutch accent. I wanted to ask why else we'd be there, as the building held only a single visitation room, but I kept my mouth shut. Instead, Liz and I nodded, and the director pointed to the open door adjacent to the burgundy-carpeted foyer.