|
Wes Boyd’s Spearfish Lake Tales Contemporary Mainstream Books and Serials Online |
|
|
Wes Boyd’s Spearfish Lake Tales Contemporary Mainstream Books and Serials Online |
The next seven years were mostly routine and unremarkable for Sergeant Pat McDonald. Mostly.
In that time he was in five different units, mostly as a squad leader in a Bradley. The Army didn’t like to move people around that much in those days, but since he was single it was a little simpler to call on him when extended temporary duty was needed, so two of those five units were in Kuwait. The first tour in Kuwait was nothing more than training and being ready; while he spent most of his second tour in Kuwait working in a battalion operations staff, rather than in a Bradley. It gave him a different view of how things were done, and broadened his experience no little amount.
To be honest, he didn’t think of Cindy and Russ very often; they were in his past, now. They exchanged letters now and then on an increasingly sporadic basis, and one day it happened to strike him that he hadn’t heard from the couple in more than a year. He hoped things were going well for them, but he couldn’t have called himself even mildly curious beyond that.
He maintained his good memories of the night he’d spent with Cindy; it was something to look back on and cherish. In that period, he did date a little, always with women who were in the Army themselves. A couple of those times those brief relationships happened to turn into something that wound up in a bed, but he honestly couldn’t imagine himself marrying the woman; in both cases transfers brought an end to the relationships before things progressed enough to get in the way. Pat imagined that he might get married someday, might have a family, but it wasn’t something he felt a great need to do.
The highlight of that seven-year period came during his tour at Ft. Hood, when his squad won the divisional competition for Bradley crews. This was no little deal; he had a good squad, and they’d all agreed to work hard to win the competition – and Pat worked them hard to do it. When the dust settled, Pat had picked up another stripe, his first rocker. He was a staff sergeant now, and had the personal reputation of being a quiet professional, a straight arrow who knew how to work hard and get results. His working on college courses, and his reputation for having at most two beers a month in an Army that still had a lot of drinking problems didn’t hurt his personal reputation or his record, either.
Not long after winning the competition, something unexpected came his way: he was asked if he would be interested in being a Bradley commander at the armor training center in Fort Knox, Kentucky. Pat was infantry through and through, of course, but there were a couple courses at Fort Knox where armor students were exposed to Bradleys, so there were a handful of them there, along with some experienced people to run them. It amounted to being partly track commander and partly instructor, so a real straight arrow who knew what he was doing was needed. The Combat Infantry Badge Pat had earned in the combat he hadn’t been part of in the Iraqi desert didn’t hurt his luster, either.
Pat didn’t turn the offer down. It was the chance to learn some new skills, to get a little different experience. The real cutbacks the Army had gone through in the wake of the first Gulf War had missed him; he felt sure of being able to get his twenty in, at least, if nothing serious happened along the way.
Fort Knox was a little different experience for him. Except for a couple nights a month, it was mostly an eight-to-five job, and mostly going over pretty much the same things, depending on which training group they were working with. Since he was a staff sergeant, he could live quietly in a small, nearly barren room at the bachelor enlisted quarters, spending his spare time working on his class work. Once in a while he might go somewhere in the old Plymouth he’d bought at Ft. Hood from a guy who was looking at some time in Korea.
Fort Knox was also different in that it was the closest he’d been to Bradford since the night he and Cindy had spent in the old motel out near the Interstate – not that he had any interest whatsoever in going back to Bradford. It was in his past now, along with all the bad memories, and that was a great place for it to stay. It would have been less than a day’s drive to go up there, and even though Pat now had more free time than when he’d been commanding a squad, he could easily find things to do that interested him a lot more.
Thus it was that just past the ten-year point in his Army career, in the summer of 1998, Pat was surprised to receive a letter from Emily Holst. The name gave him a moment’s pause, until he realized the letter had to be from who he still thought of as Emily Jones, another member of his high school class. Emily had been a friendly girl who had always been reasonable to him, although it had been no secret in the class that she’d had a serious thing for a guy from Amherst. After thinking about it a little more, he remembered talking to Emily the last time he’d been in Bradford; she’d told him she’d gotten married right after graduating and had had two kids as quickly as possible.
Just a little bit curious, Pat opened the letter:
Pat,
You’re a hard guy to track down! I ran into Sheila (Griffin) Amberdon a few weeks ago while she and her husband were home on leave, and she said she might be able to work through the Army to get your address. I’m a little surprised that you’re as close to home as Ft. Knox!
It’s hard to believe that it’s been ten years since we graduated! A few of us were at the official annual school reunion in the spring, but not many. Shelly and Vicky and I got to talking and thought it would be neat if we could try to get together as many people as possible from our class, just for our own tenth reunion. We decided to do it homecoming weekend, that’s the second weekend of October, since more of the class comes to town for homecoming than they do for the school reunion. We’re going to hold it at 7:00 PM Saturday at the Brass Lantern in Hawthorne, where we’ve got a room. It would be real neat to see you again and catch up. Give me a call if you have questions.
-- Emily
He all but tossed the letter. It had been a long time since he’d even thought about Bradford; those were bad days best left behind him. Well, there were a few bright spots, the night he’d spent with Cindy leading that list, of course, but there had been some others, mostly people who had helped him out during tough times.
So he didn’t throw the letter away. Over the next few days he thought about it from time to time, until one day it struck him that he didn’t need to be ashamed to go back to Bradford for a reunion. After all, he was a staff sergeant in an era where making that rank with the little time he’d been in the service was something to be proud of. He was a combat veteran, well, such as it was. He was a thorough professional soldier with a good career in front of him. All that was something to be proud of, and he took pride in it.
Wouldn’t it be nice, he thought, to show some of those people that I could actually make something of myself, especially after all the shit I got handed in high school? If he went to the reunion, he decided he was going to go in a Class A uniform all decked out, if for no more reason than to show off what he’d been able to accomplish in the ten years since high school.
And, on top of that of course, there were a few people he’d like to find out a little more about. Russ and Cindy, of course, but there were some other mildly curious questions lying there, like whether Skip Apling had ever got sent to the state prison like everyone expected him to.
Besides, he realized that falling when it did in October, a drive up there would be right at the height of the fall color season. It would only be a day up to Bradford and a day back, but if the weather was right it could be spectacular.
It wasn’t long before he realized there was no way he was not going to go. He could use a day or two away from the Army once in a while, after all. Maybe, just maybe, the reunion would remind him of just how good he had it now, compared to what he’d had back then.
October in the Midwest can be miserable, overcast and damp, or it can be bell-clear and gorgeous. After what had been a grungy week out in the boonies in his Bradley, on Saturday the weather turned out beautiful. The colors were just as spectacular as he’d hoped when he drove north through Indiana toward Hawthorne, where the reunion was to be held.
Pat drove through Bradford on his way to Hawthorne, mostly because it was the quickest route after getting off the Interstate. It was within days of eight years since he’d last been in Bradford, but it looked to him like nothing much had changed. Oh, there were changes; the old motel where he’d spent that memorable night with Cindy was closed now, dilapidated and falling down, with a battered-looking “For Sale” sign drooping sadly in front of the place. It was kind of a shame to see it looking that way; after all, one of the best memories he had of Bradford had taken place there.
His memories of that night stayed clear in his mind, though. He could remember like it had been yesterday. Cindy’s clothes coming off something like magic, of the warm feeling of her nude body up against his, the way she screamed and moaned with delight as they were getting it on. He remembered just as fondly the warm cuddles and kisses afterward as they rested up and got themselves pulled together for another round . . . and another, and another. It had gone on most of the night, and he’d gotten damn little sleep if he’d gotten any at all. He’d been exhausted when they’d kissed goodbye at the truck stop across the Interstate, where the bus stopped, and he couldn’t have been five miles out of town before he’d fallen into a very content and welcome sleep. He’d often wondered how she’d made it through the day.
He drove on through town, seeing a few changes, but nothing spectacular, nothing worth stopping for. With a few exceptions, like that night with Cindy, there wasn’t much in Bradford he really cared to remember, anyway.
He got into the motel in Hawthorne in plenty of time where he’d already reserved a room. He’d made the trip up from Fort Knox in civvies, but now it was time to relax for a few minutes, then get a fresh shower and a fresh shave before putting on his Class A Uniform. The little metal tags that showed his rank on his camo fatigues didn’t exactly stand out, but the Class A stripes were the large old-fashioned golden ones that left no doubt. He dressed with care, as if he were about to stand an important inspection; in a way, that was just exactly what was going to happen.
It was still a little early, but he figured that wasn’t going to matter much. Since it was a nice day, he decided to just leave the Plymouth parked and walk the block or so up the street to the restaurant. It was no trouble to find the place, or the room where the reunion was to be held.
His first sight was of Dayna Berkshire, a girl he hadn’t seen since graduation day. She’d always been an easygoing girl, and friendly, although she’d never had much to do with him. “Pat!” she smiled brightly. “You are really looking good!”
“You’re not looking bad yourself,” he replied. “Is this where I sign in?”
“More or less,” Dayna smiled. “Emily and Vicky are supposed to be the hosts, but they had to go out to the airport to pick up Jennlynn. I expect them back any time.”
Pat remembered Jennlynn, of course. She would have been hard to forget: tall, good-looking, and the class valedictorian. She also had always been reasonable to him, but she wouldn’t have had anything to do with him – or anyone else. She had been very religious, partly because of her preacher father, and it had rubbed him the wrong way more than once. “Airport?” he frowned. “I didn’t know they had air service out of Hawthorne now.”
“They don’t,” Dayna told him. “But Jennlynn is flying her own plane in here, so it’s not like it matters.”
“Her own plane?” he replied, a little surprised. “Somehow that doesn’t fit with the Jennlynn I remember.”
“I guess she’s changed a bit,” Dayna shrugged. “Of course, we’ve all changed. At least I can look at you and tell what you’re doing, but what is it specifically?”
“I’m an armor instructor down at Ft. Knox,” he replied. The truth was a little more complicated than that, but the simple version was close enough. “How about you?”
“I’m a wandering medieval minstrel,” she grinned.
“A what?”
“Wandering medieval minstrel. My partner Sandy and I spend about half the year working renaissance festivals around the country, mostly playing guitars, singing songs, and putting on shows. The rest of the year we play gigs where we can. We’ve cut a few albums, both renaissance music and pop stuff. I brought some tonight in case anyone is interested.”
Pat thought back to days in high school before graduation, when Dayna had the reputation of taking her guitar into the Briarwood Mall here in Hawthorne, sitting down at the fountain with her guitar case open in front of her, and playing for donations. Maybe she hadn’t changed all that much.
Since only a handful of people had arrived so far, Pat spent a few more minutes talking with Dayna, learning a little more about what she was doing. She and Sandy would be working the renaissance festival over in Lexington for the next couple weekends, and he got a little more information about it in case the weather happened to be nice sometime when he couldn’t think of anything better to do. Lexington was only an hour’s drive or so up the turnpike from Fort Knox, after all; it might be more interesting than sitting around the quarters with his nose in one of his correspondence school textbooks.
Soon Emily, Vicky, and Jennlynn arrived. Emily looked much the same as she had the last time he’d seen her eight years before, just that much older. Vicky Varney, however, had put on quite a bit of weight and just didn’t seem as sharp as she had back in school, like she’d been going through some hard times. And Jennlynn . . . holy shit!
She’d been a sharp-looking, if very religiously stuck up girl in high school, but now she was . . . well, breathtaking. Pat wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a more beautiful woman, with long, full dark hair, exquisitely detailed make-up, a stunning cocktail dress that showed off almost every curve she had, and vicious high heels. What’s more, she looked like money, lots of money. Jennlynn had been one of those kids everyone had expected to do well after high school, but this was far beyond what anyone had dreamed, at least to look at her.
“That was quite a sight,” Emily reported. “We were expecting some little plane, but no, Jennlynn got out of this white LearJet she’d flown in. A LearJet, would you believe?”
“Emily, I told you, it’s one of the planes from my charter business,” Jennlynn said in a sweet, low, sexy voice. “It’s not a toy. It just happened to be available so I decided to use it.”
“Yeah, but still, a LearJet,” Emily gushed. “And you said you paid cash for it?”
“Well, I got a good deal,” Jennlynn smiled. “I did have to sell some stock to cover it, though.”
Needless to say, Jennlynn’s arrival was the talk of the room for a while, as people continued to show up, and of course it overshadowed Pat’s being in uniform, not that he minded. He spent some time cruising around the room, talking briefly with various people, and he was a little surprised to see how well he was doing in comparison to some of the people who were there.
People continued to arrive. There were some people Pat really wanted to talk to, Bob Spheris and Sheila Griffin – well, Amberdon, now – leading the list, partly because Pat knew Bob had been in the Gulf for the war like he had been, and Sheila was career Army like he was. But after getting with Emily for a moment, Pat was disappointed – Bob had gotten out of the Army years before, gone to college in Colorado, and was working out there; he wasn’t going to be at the reunion. Sheila had been in Bradford a couple months before, but it was only for a brief visit with her parents before she, her husband, and her daughter were off to Germany.
He managed to make contact with a few others he’d hoped to see, like Scott Tyler, who was with his wife Sonja, a dark, handsome woman with an obvious Middle Eastern background. In only a few sentences Pat realized that Sonja had to be as smart as a whip, too; Scott had really made a good catch with her.
Pat was keeping his eyes open for Cindy and Russ, of course; either they were late arriving, or he hadn’t noticed when they got there. He hadn’t seen Cindy since that memorable night eight years before, and Russ not since graduation. When he did find them, they seemed happy to see him, although there was some reserve evident with them that he couldn’t quite understand. Still, Cindy gave him a nice hug. “Pat, it’s great to see you again,” she said, almost gushing. “We were hoping you’d be here. I guess we lost track of you somewhere along the way.”
“It’s too nice a weekend to stay inside, so I figured I might as well come,” he shrugged. “So how are the two of you getting along?”
Cindy let out a sigh. “It’s a long story,” she replied. “Let’s just say we’re making it day to day. How about you?”
Something definitely didn’t sound right, but he had no idea what it could be. “I’m fairly comfortable,” he told her. “Halfway to retirement now, and I’ve got good duty right at the moment. So how’s that little girl of yours? Celeste, I seem to recall.”
“Caitlynn,” Cindy replied, her face suddenly reflecting sheer agony. “She’s dead, Pat. It’s . . . it hasn’t been easy.”
“What happened?”
“Some bozo got high on meth, stuck up a convenience store, and stole a car,” Russ said, clearly not much happier than Cindy – even worse, maybe. “The cops were chasing him, and he went off the road right into the play yard of the day care center. She never had a chance.”
Oh, God, Pat thought. No wonder they’re not happy campers. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said sympathetically.
“You can’t be as sorry as we’ve been,” Russ said, the truth wrenched out of him. “Caitie was the light of our lives. She was a sweet kid, and we just lived our lives for her. Then that asshole comes along, well, the best I can say is that he’ll be doing hard time. Not long enough to suit us, but at least he’s not out on the street.”
“Did this happen recently?”
“No, it was over a year ago,” Cindy said, tears rolling. “Our lives just haven’t been the same since. It’s hard to get up in the morning and realize that Caitie isn’t with us.” She sniffed back some tears and added, “Some days it’s been all we can do to even look like we’re trying to move on.”
“I wish I had words to say how sorry I am,” he shook his head. “I wish there was something I can do to help.”
“We’d been hoping to see you here,” Russ said. “Because that’s something we need to talk with you about. But this isn’t the time or the place. What would you say if we had breakfast here tomorrow morning?”
“I guess,” Pat replied, wondering what the Bradstreets had in mind. “Seven sound all right? I’m an early riser these days.”
“We’re staying with the folks in Bradford tonight,” Russ said. “But we’ll be here.”
Pat was tempted to dig a little deeper into the question of why they wanted to talk to him, but Emily was herding people around the room, trying to get them to sit down for dinner. In the confusion Pat got separated from Russ and Cindy; he wound up sitting with Dean and Joyce Sallows. Dean was still driving a truck these days, mostly hauling things between the various General Hardware Retailers distribution centers, like the big one west of Bradford. Dean had been one of the kids who had helped Pat hide from his mother in her worst times, so it was good to talk to him and find out what was going on in his life.
Unfortunately, the dinner could have been better. In fact, it could have easily been much better; the youngest rookie mess cook in the Army could have done a better job. The meat was tough and tasteless, the potatoes runny and obviously from a box, the green beans hard and cold – and so on. Dean and Joyce weren’t the only ones griping about the food; they heard several negative comments from the people around them.
Pat, at least, was charitable. “It beats MREs,” he said. “Especially sometime after you’ve had nothing but MREs three meals a day for a month straight.”
Eventually, the meal, such as it was, wound up. People sat around gossiping until Emily stood up in front of the room and got people to settle down a bit. “I know we’ve all been talking around,” she said. “But let’s go around the tables, and I’d like everyone to tell us a little about what you’ve been doing since high school. I’ll start it off and give an example by saying that I’m Emily Jones Holst, I married Kevin Holst not long after we graduated. We still live in Bradford. Kevin works at Macy Controls, and I work at the Spee-D-Mart. We have two kids, Kayla and Jason, they’re eight and seven. Our hobbies, well, I knit, and I like to ride around on the back of Kevin’s Harley. With that, I’ll go to Vicki.”
