Someone Else First

By Joel T. Elliott

A disillusioned man contemplates suicide in a world he believes has betrayed the core values learned from his family's sixty year history. Contrary to those values he decides to kill "someone else first." This family saga explores the impact of America's shifting moral fabric by questioning whether salvation or ruin is derived from homicide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483543512

Book preview

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WINTER 1996

FRIDAY MORNING WISCONSIN

Relentless rasping from life’s daily millstones finally ruptured Douglas McFarlane’s soul on the January morning he discovered where Helen had hidden his nine-millimeter pistol. Four ammunition clips were neatly stored alongside the weapon. Though she had abandoned her husband on an impulse, Helen McFarlane’s compulsion for tidiness delayed Douglas from harming himself for months. Banishing the Glock to a safe location was Helen’s last task in relinquishing her marital responsibility. The automatic was placed in a blue velvet liquor sack before she left the State of Wisconsin. The fully loaded ammunition clips were tethered together with gold braided string saved from a long forgotten Christmas present. A late autumn sun glowed brightly through the kitchen windows, softening the golden threads of the past’s useless discards. A part of Helen regretted parting with the contrived beauty of the sack.

Three months after Helen abandoned her marriage, more precisely ninety-four tormented nights filled with Douglas’s visions of Helen lying in a fantasized lover’s arms, a crushing week of personal humiliations and economic disappointments increased an already broiling anger within Douglas when he discovered his revolver. His life was littered with lawsuits, debt collection calls, and his own shameful deceits to avoid judgment day. After accidentally stumbling on the location of his revolver he had a round chambered within seconds and the barrel pressed hard against the tinge of graying hair near his temple. Suicide came to him in a flash. I can end my pain he thought.

When Helen left Douglas she could not bring herself to take Douglas’s revolver with her, even if its removal might spare his life. Helen abhorred guns. Though haphazard in nature, her method of disposing of Douglas’s weapon hid it from his immediate use and just as importantly minimized her contact with the instrument of death. Helen shivered when she had to touch the damnable device to hide it. Helen rejected throwing the weapon away for fear some innocent might be slaughtered if the wrong person found it. Time was too short before her flight out of state for her to drop it off with the police or make other responsible arrangements for its disposal. Asking her brother, Ralph, to come to the house to take the responsibility of its removal was impossible. Ralph would quickly alert Douglas and try to head off Helen’s departure. I’ll call Ralph about the location of the gun once I am away from here, she assured herself. Helen never did so.

Helen’s snap decision to leave Douglas burst forth after years of festering resentment towards her husband. She never trusted him again on the one issue that was of overriding concern to her. Her drifting away from matrimony progressed to dwindling interactions with her husband. For years she wanted to leave her husband but she remained in the quagmire of their marriage. At the end, both the strength of her determination to leave Douglas and the swiftness of her decision surprised Helen. The hated gun added to her contempt for Douglas, especially during the times he pontificated that it would protect the family. Picking up that piece of Douglas’ unraveling life wasn’t going to delay her departure. I have an offer on the table she thought to herself and she acted on her instinct to take what she believed to be her best chance at escape. Helen hid the revolver where she knew that its discovery by Douglas would be significantly separated in time from her departure. It literally was stuffed inside the one household possession that Douglas never touched. He may never find that damn thing; he’s so predictably stuck in a rut she thought at the time.

Helen legitimately feared the weapon’s use by Douglas during the first days of her absence. It would be just like Douglas to blow his brains out she fumed. Well, I won’t be around to clean up that mess she mentally chided Douglas. Securing the latch on the revolver’s hiding place, Helen consoled herself that within days Douglas would not be a danger to himself. He’ll get along fine without me. Probably, take up with someone like that Allison woman she rationalized. The pain of that memory gave her pause; why not just leave the damn gun in plain sight on the table so Mister High and Mighty can put it to good use?

At the front entrance, waiting for a taxi, Helen looked back towards her kitchen with regret. She had designed it herself. Black walnut cabinets were an extravagance that made everything right in the room. Dark gray granite counters offset the cabinetry that danced with shadows created from recessed lighting above. Stainless steel appliances and trim provided the classy look Helen desperately wanted to create. She thought if I did leave his gun in plain sight to use, a better place would be alongside my goodbye note. Helen glanced down at the note lying on the small table utilized to stash keys and mail. Looking into the oval mirror with an etched frame of mahogany above the table, Helen speculated that after reading her note he’d grab his damn gun and then use the mirror to be sure he’s pointing it straight at his head. Otherwise he might miss. I don’t care if he messes up this area.

Helen caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and rued the one facial flaw she never seemed able to completely camouflage. Her right eyebrow was a good half inch shorter, and a shade lighter, than the left brow. Douglas made her feel stupid when he claimed not to notice any difference between the brows and told her, Don’t be silly. You look fine. No one pays attention to that stuff.

An old trick of tilting her head brought relief to her reflection that day until she could do a touchup at the airport. She studied her reflection. Thin lips conveyed sweetness when she smiled. Cutting her auburn hair short during her late forties enhanced her compact stature that Helen believed was suggestive of a younger woman. Despite being a bit thicker, but not noticeably so with the correct clothes, Helen knew from Albert’s lusty gaze at her that her body was still sexually attractive to men. Albert will want sex when I get to Denver she thought as she turned away from the mirror. Under the circumstances there probably won’t be much choice she rationalized. It was all I could do to scrape up six hundred dollars. That’s not going to last long if I’m on my own. Thanks for nothing, Douglas, was her final thought in the confines of their home.

When push came to shove Helen simply walked out the door when the taxi arrived. She did not properly dispose of the weapon but left it in its temporary hiding site in the kitchen. Later, she’d briefly agonize that she had engaged in a deceit of her conscience. Helen innately understood that the mere passage of time should not absolve her of further responsibility to her husband of twenty-two years. On the day of her departure her decision making process was clouded by alternating emotions between animosity towards Douglas and exhilaration to get far away from him.

Douglas was blinded by rage when he found the weapon. He had been in a frenzied tantrum of property destruction when the revolver clanked to the kitchen floor from its hiding place. Douglas had smashed half the contents of the cupboards on the kitchen floor. Kitchen items that had once brought such joy to Helen had endured unhappy flights against the walls, ceiling and floor. Buried under shards of pottery was a crumpled airline receipt which precipitated Douglas’s outburst. The voucher evidenced who purchased Helen’s plane ticket as well as Helen’s destination. Douglas came upon the document revealing Helen’s hideaway when he searched for a pair of scissors in what Helen called her junk drawer. Douglas remembered the man to whom she fled. He can have her he initially rationalized. That reaction quickly subsided. Soon Douglas was in an uncontrollable frenzy.

The reappearance of his gun presented Douglas with an immediate escape from his despair. His self-destruction instantly became a logical conclusion to his failed life. Douglas viewed his life as disastrous because he felt he never provided a level of financial support that Helen wished. In Helen’s words Douglas never beat the other guy to the punch in business. Failed marriage. Failed man. Douglas hadn’t had an erection of his own volition in six years. Failed father. Poor, ever-trusting Debbie was wheeled off to surgery with his blessing. Failed son. Douglas believed that it was his brother who garnered the pride and, ultimately, all of the pain without end for their mother and father. His failures were to be washed away with the squeeze of a trigger. He’d be done with and free of all the world’s expectations. He’d die alone. It might be days before anyone discovers my body he lamented to himself, conjuring up one last woe to add to his burden.

Douglas was correct. It was unlikely that anyone would immediately investigate or report a gunshot from his residence. Closeted by Wisconsin’s cruel winter, most city inhabitants were seeking comfort indoors under bundles of layered clothing. The few hearty souls who ventured forth into the elements that morning moved like calcified hulks gliding forward with sure footed, shuffling slides. Clenched arms drew their skeletal mass into coiled refuges from the cold. These solitary figures were drained of the distant summer’s spirit and suppleness. They traveled through a colorless environment in which its structures and lifeless vegetation was viewed through the prism of a dim winter haze. Barren trees, standing in rigid testament to recurring death, lined the empty streets of nondescript houses. Hours passed that morning during which no one walked past the McFarlane house. No one outdoors was within ear shot of the commotion inside his house that started Douglas down a path towards homicide and suicide.

One neighbor who did hear the faint din of destruction next door, old man McCarthy, could no longer distinguish the sounds of reality from the demons of his tinnitus. The invading clatter did startle him several times that morning, as did reverberations from his balky furnace. He was a man dispossessed of sound’s reality. He’d also not be of assistance to the police when detectives tried to reconstruct the days leading up to Douglas’s alleged act of murder.

McFarlane’s neighbors to the south, Karlton and Doris Velser, might hear a gunshot but there was a slim chance that they’d call the authorities. This morning, locking eyes across the breakfast table, they shook their heads at the intruding sounds from the McFarlane residence. He’s at it again, whispered Doris. He’s a crazy man. If she was still here I’d call the police. But, she’s gone and better off for it. Why doesn’t he just let go?

Who knows what demons drive another man, replied her husband. Karlton stared towards the window as he spoke. I think he has significantly more issues than his wife leaving him. I’ve only talked to him a few times but he has a hang-up about the country going to hell in a hand basket. He views America’s moral decline contributing to the difficulties ethical people have getting ahead in life.

I suppose he thinks he’s the epitome of ethics. Bill collectors and process servers camp out at his doorstep. He doesn’t work that I know of. I don’t think he even has his car anymore. I suspect he’s drunk half the time. Every week his trash is loaded with empty liquor bottles. Is it any wonder she left him? Poor woman. The stories she must have about that marriage, added Doris with a solemn shake of her festooned head that never quite achieved the beauty she intended to attain despite impeccable makeup, full red lips and startling bright platinum hair. As a woman of sixty Doris worked hard to look young. Yet, she looked not a day younger than sixty-five. Continuing her lament Doris said, Helen never unburdened her heart to me. I always sensed that she wanted to confide in me. If she had an outlet for her emotions perhaps she’d have left long ago. We were not close. Doris’s words trailed off with regret. Doris had no close friends.

Karlton extended his coffee cup towards Doris, who took it and walked to the stove to pour him another cup. Karlton advised, He’ll calm down soon; he always does. It’s best not to get involved. With his pronouncement it was back to breakfast and the morning paper for neighbors comfortable with being oblivious to Douglas’s plight. Douglas’s commotion next door stopped after they took a few more sips of coffee.

Douglas hadn’t raised a weapon in anger since his tour of duty in Vietnam ended twenty-six years ago. After he returned home from overseas Douglas discontinued hunting trips. Hunting with Jimmy and Billy had brought so much enjoyment in the past. He felt he had his fill with weapons. He gave his shotgun and rifle to an uncle. Then, inexplicably, ten years later he purchased the Glock revolver. Donnie, his high school buddy and a grunt in Vietnam during a portion of Douglas’s days in country, was in town for a rare visit. Douglas hadn’t seen Donnie since he hopped a ride on a Huey to visit Donnie at the twenty-fourth evacuation hospital in Long Bien. After Vietnam Donnie relocated in South Dakota, physically recovered from a shattered hip wound but with his mind lingering inside a dimension that was not familiar to Douglas’s memory of his friend. Donnie urged Douglas to accompany him to a local gun show. Douglas was at first a bit amused that Donnie the city boy was now all about hunting, fishing and guns. After an afternoon with his old friend it became apparent to Douglas that Donnie was obsessive about guns and then more and more guns because he needed, To be fully prepared. Don’t expect them to come with pea shooters, Donnie urged as a rationale to assemble an arsenal capable of blowing The rats to kingdom come.

Douglas was not moved to purchase a weapon by whatever demons were motivating Donnie. Perhaps he simply wanted to satisfy his old friend. Douglas test fired the weapon and it turned out to be the only time he fired the Glock. Standing alongside Donnie at the firing range briefly brought back a tinge of euphoria to Douglas. He had been a competent hunter in his younger days and he had more than proved himself with a weapon in his hands against the enemy. The weapon felt natural in his hand. Douglas came home a gun owner for the first time in his marriage to Helen.

Over time Douglas knew he didn’t want or need the gun. It was dangerous to have the gun in the house after Debbie’s birth. However, Helen threw a fit over its presence in the house. Douglas stubbornly insisted on keeping the hazard in their house. Knowing that the revolver’s presence irritated Helen represented an opportunity for a classless payback for her increasing refusals to sexually engage her husband. Stupid as it was, he obstinately kept the weapon and faithfully cleaned it where Helen would see him every month thereafter. When Helen left him, Douglas assumed that she had taken his Glock with her in order to prevent him from doing exactly what he intended to do in the next few seconds. For all their differences, Helen knew Douglas very well indeed. An ungracious thought welled up from his anger, Bitch!

Swearing silently at Helen was a reflexive pattern Douglas lapsed into whenever his world took a further spin off course. Questioning why he had married Helen was not an exercise that started only after her departure. He had dark brooding thoughts that the match was a mistake for the last ten years. Certainly Billy thought so but Douglas stubbornly refused to admit that to his brother. Helen’s existence in his life had been an easy source to blame for his own failures and emerging unhappiness. It was only in the time since her abrupt departure that Douglas began to admit to himself that Helen was not the sole cause of his discontent. This revelation was punctuated for Douglas on the day he carelessly left a pot of soup boil over onto the stovetop and he blurted out to an empty kitchen, God damn it Helen! At that instant he was genuinely angry at his absent wife for his own mishap. In disgust at himself he threw the soup against the wall. Douglas McFarlane, you are a fucking asshole! he screamed to curse himself. His soup incident confronted Douglas with the unpleasant fact that he was a big part of his own problem. For too long Douglas had felt like a shell of himself. That incident confirmed it for Douglas.

The press of cold steel against his temple gave Douglas a sense of relief. He was a bored bullet hole in his skull away from freedom. I gotta get out of this place if it’s the last thing I ever do flitted through his thoughts. He exhaled all the air in his lungs and experienced a relaxing acceptance of his demise. Douglas began to pressure the trigger. He felt relief when he thought, Mom, Dad, Debbie, Jimmy, I’ll be with you soon. A tear formed when he thought of his family. He missed them all so much. The unbridled joy of his youthful expectations had tumbled ever downward since Debbie’s death. The slipping away of his parents further greased his slide into depression. Only Billy remained. Billy was a mainstay of strength. Billy will no longer be burdened by the weight of my weakness reasoned Douglas. End it all now.

Suddenly, another thought intruded that stopped his finger. In that flickering instant Douglas felt himself slipping away from death’s arms back to his dreary existence on earth. Pull the trigger Douglas begged of himself. However, the distracting thought fostered inaction. His instincts directed him to put an end to thoughts. So much of his recent life had been spent in the deep despair of isolated thought. Reflections on his life caused a wave of roller coaster emotions; oscillating between condemning others and then chastising himself for his shortcomings. Douglas did not like some of the conclusions he was coming to concerning himself. He needed to press on and ignore the thought. He needed a bullet through his cranium. He deserved a bullet. Lord, he felt worthy of death.

Determined, Douglas fell to his knees and shifted the revolver from his temple to under his unshaven chin. He pressed the barrel hard into his skin as if to force the meddling notion away. Tilting his head upwards he created a fleshy path to his brain and for an instant the ceiling light seemed to drown out the annoying thought of delay. He closed his eyes to usher in the darkness of eternity.

However, the intrusive thought was powerful. It was appealing. It appealed to an instinct to survive for a purpose. The thought gradually became controlling. Douglas wanted to die but internally the thought advised him not to die yet. Soon you will die but not yet. Crystallizing, Douglas’s thought urged that I’d feel so much better about putting a bullet through my own brain if only I could blast a slug into the skull of someone else first. I want to kill anyone else first. This last thought lingered. I want to kill someone else first.

For years his ruminating, inner most thoughts had become progressively more morbid which fed increased despondency and deepening regrets for Douglas. Yet, his sudden contemplation of blowing away someone else first felt refreshingly good to Douglas. The surprising warmth of the thought stayed his finger. Douglas looked up at the ceiling and he had an odd thought that he never got around to painting the ceiling. It sure needs it and simultaneously he thought that he did not want to die in the kitchen. His comforting thought of homicide before suicide forced Douglas to confront and understand the depth of his anger. Despite all the booze he had consumed in the past months, his depression never delivered him to complete anhedonia. Douglas remained agitated by and with his life. Suicide would indeed end his failures, but he recognized that wanting to kill someone else arose from deep seated anger. Douglas was consumed with anger. Killing himself would never satisfy his need to vent his rage. I’ve had enough of society’s bullshit, he thought. I’m going out on my own terms. Someone is going to pay a penalty for my misery he reasoned.

His common sense, the sense derived during eight years of education under the tutelage of the School Sisters of Notre Dame, slowly began to return. Alternating between thoughts of suicide and homicide may not be a classic marker for common sense but it was the seed from which Douglas began to act rationally. First, he slid his finger off the trigger. Killing himself would end his pain and his anger. However, deep inside he knew he wanted to hold onto his familiar anger. It was his private anger. The fury within him was a personal possession. The last months and years of his existence had been consumed with a smoldering fury. It was he who had endured the humiliation of spiraling financial chaos. Debbie’s absence drilled a black hole in his soul. Helen’s mocking behavior towards him, and the deep humiliation she delivered by leaving him, pillared him with chains of regret. For years adrenalin induced by his internal anxiety and fear kept him awake during the wee hours of the morning. Douglas had earned his anger. He didn’t want to end the anger. Douglas wanted to act on it. He needed to act on it.

Douglas felt his anger deep within himself twisted around his thoracic spine with barbed edges that never loosened. An oppressive concentric pressure caused a hollow feeling inside him as if the natural melding of mental and physical life were blocked off from each other. A dull cloud of dread accompanied even moments of joy to him. Douglas wanted to free himself of his anger. He’d cast it off with the flight of a bullet to a deserving target. His pent up rage was to be released from the barrel of a revolver. At this point in his thought process Douglas lessened the revolver’s pressure against his jaw.

After killing someone else, he assured himself, he’d be prepared to die. Subsequent to dispensing with his anger he’d still need to escape his emptiness through death. His life was a mess that needed to be ended. After the killing he’d be able to end his life without enduring intrusive thoughts of anger or the false hope of redemption. His personal reclamation was not possible in the dark abyss to which America was being taken. Lowering the weapon to his side he half-believed that he’d indeed kill himself after putting a slug through the brain of someone else first. The fantasy that he’d ultimately die comforted him with an accompanying sense of freedom; the liberty to unleash his anger without worrying over potential consequences. A distant memory of his Uncle James’s words that the Vietnam War granted Douglas permission to do the impermissible dashed through his mind. Douglas latched onto a perverse analogy whereby his own suicide provided him permission to commit a murder. He’d no longer fear society’s criminal penalties. And, once his act of homicide released Douglas from the bonds of society, he certainly did not need to be fretful about the mounting pressures of life that were driving him to suicide. Killing someone else was his ticket to psychological freedom. He’d have time to consider a proper time and place to end his life. He’d not die here and now in the kitchen, under a dingy ceiling.

Yet, Douglas knew he’d never kill just anyone. He never confront strangers and start shooting indiscriminately at the innocent. Such conduct of past mass murderers had confused Douglas and made him shake his head in disbelief, as it did all thinking people. He wasn’t some nut. He’d choose his target. He’d find a target worthy of his anger. Self-serving narcissists spawned in the turmoil they created in the 1960’s were in abundant supply. Douglas allowed himself the first glimmer of solace by imagining nobility in the homicide he contemplated. In a last step back from immediate death Douglas set his gun on the kitchen table.

Douglas placed his hands on the table top and lightly rubbed his fingertips over its surface. The walnut wood was smooth and calming to his touch. At the time, the purchase of a fine piece of furniture was an extravagance for Douglas and Helen. Douglas remembered the weekend outing to seek a replacement for the rickety pine table handed down to them from Helen’s mother. They started off looking at cheaper laminate tables before the McFarlanes followed a familiar pattern of graduating their search to better quality products throughout the store until Helen found her heart’s desire at which point she’d turn away and murmur, We can’t afford something this nice. Let’s go back and look at the circular oak table. Douglas then often insisted that they overextend themselves to buy Helen’s choice. He justified his financial irresponsibility as a declaration of his love of Helen, though the burr that he can’t afford something this nice had stung.

With the revolver on the table, thoughts of his suicide were placed on hold. Douglas continued to draw curious comfort from the thought of killing someone else first. His breathing became deeper and more relaxed. Douglas indulged himself with the mental process of selecting a target. A brief fantasy of wiping out the source of an intense anger may be a common, albeit momentary, experience for some individuals but after Douglas embraced the certainty of murder, he dwelled on all of its pleasing possibilities. Selecting a victim would put a face on the release of his fury. Just as he had once mentally focused on the depravity of the Viet Cong as motivation to kill, he’d follow that instinct to conjure up the justification for his murder of someone else.

Douglas caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a kitchen cabinet window. Installation of walnut cabinets was another extravagance beyond sturdy oak that financially pinched the family. However, the cupboards were beautiful and their glass doors added an element of class. Looking at his reflection he took pride that he still had a lean angular face. His blue eyes no longer contrasted quite as well with the graying of his once jet black hair. An untamed shock of hair, the objective of oily plastering during his teen years, still flopped across his forehead. While additional weight and puffiness around the eyes added years to the age of some of his contemporaries, Douglas looked fortyish, not fifty.

Douglas was still athletically trim. Never big enough to star in football like Jimmy and Billy, he had been a tenacious wrestler and a state qualifier in both the high and low hurdles in track. His play at shortstop displayed quickness and a fluidity of motion that outshined his hitting ability. Wiry quick had served him well in Vietnam. Douglas nodded at his reflection, with the soulful thought that perhaps those days represented the best he ever had to offer.

That year spent overseas with Billy was more than service to their country at a time of war. For Douglas it fulfilled a yearning to do what he considered was brave and righteous as had his father, his two uncles, his brother Jimmy as well as Billy before him. For as long as he could remember Douglas had tussled with the gnawing question of whether he’d measure up to the ideals he had of patriotism and bravery if he were ever called to go to war. World War Two was the seminal event of the twentieth century. For many baby boomers, during their youth; its aftermath presented a wealth of movies, songs and stories of heroics that romanticized going to war. Prior to the glorification of violence in movies and the film industry’s heavy handed denigration of soldiers in combat, Hollywood had produced products about World War Two with storylines that did not need to offer graphic on screen slaughter but rather focused on the legitimate need to go to war, young men ready to do their duty while still longing for home, fierce loyalty among comrades and the eventual triumph of good over evil. The blurred line between good and evil as well as the country’s ever increasing squishy attitude toward eradicating evil added to Douglas’s increasing disillusionments. Good and evil were not relative concepts in Douglas’s mind. He viewed the march towards relativism as an excuse to take the easier road that allowed one to err on the side of evil.

What is the world coming to wondered Douglas? There are so many deserving of my anger he mused. He picked up his revolver. The snide counter clerk that had harassed him on Monday about his need for food stamps suddenly sprang to mind as an ideal candidate to kill. Douglas returned the Glock to Helen’s bread making machine as the next step in his retreat from death. When he haphazardly jammed the now broken cover in place he smiled at the thought of the pudgy clerk reacting with wide-eyed horror to the gun he’d point at her face in her role as surrogate for all bureaucratic miscreants. Keep that demeaning smirk on your face forever he imagined saying. Douglas envisioned the tyrant slobbering an apology that evidenced her contrite acknowledgement of the errors of her ways. Counter clerks of the future who stood at the spot where she bled to death would never again toss a food stamp booklet at an applicant and hiss don’t spend it all in one place. He’d watch her die and then Douglas saw himself turning to tell witnesses to treat all citizens with respect. Then he’d commit suicide.

A second candidate easily pushed the clerk out of his priorities. Jamie Eichler, an officious pimple of a banker. The prick who feigned interest in the detailed plan to avoid foreclosure earnestly described six months ago when Douglas poured his heart out to save the home he and Helen had slaved over to re-model. Fourteen faithful years paid on a twenty-five year mortgage, plus another five years before that on their first home loan, and all the little red headed bastard offered was that the plan didn’t seem too realistic and that in any event the bank politely declined further extensions under any terms or conditions. Eichler pushed Douglas into an impossible financial position. Re-financing under threat of foreclosure was near impossible without an income source in addition to Helen’s meager salary. Douglas believed that the impending loss of their beloved home was what drove Helen away. Douglas thought that all hope to rescue his life was eliminated on that hot July afternoon when Jamie Eichler hustled Douglas out of his office with an assurance that, everything will work out. Now, seven months later Douglas easily rationalized Eichler as his choice for death rather than a slovenly overweight clerk with a governmentitus personality disorder.

By four o’clock that afternoon Douglas had twelve names on his expanding list. From Douglas’s perspective each candidate was more deserving than the previous. He paused to relish the enjoyment of adding another name into his record, fixating on the wrongs each had committed to merit selection to his list. When Douglas began to feel the pangs for a drink he was surprised that that it was so late in the day for him to pour his first brandy manhattan. But pour he did and his list contained fifteen names when he finished his last drink of the night just before nine o’clock. Douglas stumbled off to the frilly poster bed that he and Helen had occupied so unsuccessfully for fourteen of the last twenty-two years.

FRIDAY MORNING KAUAI

Kauai was experiencing a second week of misty, on again, off again cloudiness that helped give the island its lush green canopy and a change from the monotony of never ending tropical sun and heat experienced in more popular tourist locales in the Southern Pacific. Dampness made the trail slippery, causing a more deliberate; slow decent rather than a treacherous quick paced gallop down the Giant. Billy looked behind him and his lithe competitor from New Zealand was keeping cadence with him. She should he thought. Twelve years his junior, Nancy Stewart, was athletic and possessed a level of energy to challenge Billy’s formidable stamina, in and out of his bed. He conceded that she made the most out of a fuck for herself than any woman he’d ever known. No restraint with that woman. Billy bounded to and off an outcropping, taking a shortcut from one switchback to another. Nancy’s footfalls indicated to Billy that she easily made the transition herself and was still close behind him.

Billy regretted that she had to leave the next day for home. While it was winter in Wisconsin where his mind was so often these past few months, it was nearing the end of summer in New Zealand. Nancy was due to resume her teaching job with the new term. He’d miss her. He planned a trek south to visit her in two or three months. Thereafter he’d close his condo and head north to his other favorite island. At age fifty-four he’d been semi-retired for three years from the business he established after his government service. Retirement from the government was not a fair or accurate term for how he ended that employment. He simply walked away from a career he loved because political policies increasingly created moral dilemmas he could no longer reconcile. There was a right and wrong way to do his work and in the last years he had found himself too close to the wrong side of being an ethical warrior. He resigned as a matter of personal conscience.

A business he then started in the security field was successful but within six years he no longer found satisfaction in the work. He had stockpiled enough money to pull the plug and he did. His old company, A.D. Security was still operational and turning a decent profit for Simon and Donald Thurston, his successors who were paying the remainder of his sale price to him in installments. Billy still took on an occasional assignment on a free-lance basis, though it was always short term and usually protective in nature. However, old ties are hard to break. So, he had done a few covert field operations if he was convinced it was a worthy assignment.

When he did take on an assignment, he seldom worked directly for America. The clandestine service operated by the United States had evolved into a bureaucratic muddle that became too underhanded for Billy’s taste. His country no longer exercised a realistic check to balance what were fast becoming arbitrary national security decisions. Too much concentrated power, politically justified to ward off a myriad of designated demons on the prowl, existed in too few hands. Executive power was fast approaching an absolute while at the same time it became quite spongy about who exactly authorized covert actions. Near the end, Billy wondered whether what he was doing was in fact legitimately authorized. His transition to security work eased his conscience but it did not remain challenging work for long.

Reaching his car at the bottom of the hill, Billy grasped a water bottle and took a large gulp. He turned and offered a drink to Nancy who looked as if she’d been for a stroll on flat terrain. Her tanned skin had only a slight sheen from her workout and Billy could not recall any time in which she did not look like a perfectly healthy woman. Except in bed he had not seen her close to breathing hard. He thought how lucky he’d been to run into her on the Tasman Track four years ago. A mutual interest in physical activities and an inexhaustible yearn for excitement drew them together and they ended up spending two exhilarating weeks together. Billy very much enjoyed his times with Nancy. Remarkably, she was the only woman with whom he had a long term relationship that had not asked why he never married. In the past he’d have viewed such an inquiry as a threshold to a woman’s desire to discuss permanency. He laughed to himself because he had mentally formed that same question about Nancy during his flight back from Auckland two months ago. His thought about a woman in the context of marriage was a first for Billy.

The only cloud on the horizon for Billy was his distress at not being able to help Douglas. Billy’s verbal offer of help to Douglas had been rejected. Billy followed up by sending enough money to the McFarlane family attorney to alleviate Douglas’s financial quagmire but Douglas continued to resist assistance. When informed of Douglas’s refusal to accept the funds, Billy told the lawyer to keep the cash in trust in the event Douglas changed his mind. Billy considered surreptitiously invading the privacy of Douglas’s accounts and finances and pay off debts directly. He had the ability to pull it off electronically but eventually decided that perhaps Douglas needed to hit bottom on his own. Billy also did not want to provoke Douglas’s pride. Billy admitted privately that Douglas’s financial crisis might also hasten Helen’s departure, an outcome Billy viewed as positive.

Billy loved Douglas dearly. Yet, when he analyzed the situation he had to admit that Douglas strictly adhered to an entrenched value system that frequently collided with his own self-interest. Billy had a need to help his brother on a personal level. From Billy’s viewpoint they still were close except for the artificial barrier between them created by Helen. For yet another time Billy wondered what staying with Helen for so long had provided Douglas? Douglas knew that Helen’s accusation against Billy was not true. Douglas admitted that to Billy. But, for whatever reason Douglas went along with his supposed estrangement from Billy. Perhaps Douglas found their supposed arm length relationship comfortable by avoiding the reality known to Billy.

You’re thinking about your brother aren’t you? Nancy’s question broke a lengthy silence during the drive back to his condo and was on target and most welcome. She had a warm and calming tone in her speech. Billy nodded.

Will you try to see him again when you head to Canada?

I’ll try. I always spend a few weeks or so in Wisconsin, at least for nostalgia’s sake. Maybe it will be easier to visit Douglas now that his wife is out of the picture. Yet, the one time he did answer one of my phone calls he seemed distant. He mumbled that everything was turning around for him and he’d be just fine. I invited him to visit me here but I fear he’s settled into a bunker mentality back home. I love Douglas but he is a man into his own world sometimes.

He sounds complicated.

Actually, he might be too simple. I’m sure he sees it that way. He’s a pretty much black and white kind of guy. Billy had shared some of his thoughts about Douglas with Nancy. He trusted her. Billy felt comfortable sharing his history and his personal feelings from his family life with Nancy. I just wish I could sit and talk to him for an extended time. We used to be able to do that. At least I think we did. Billy looked over to Nancy when a doubt crossed his mind. Thinking back about it now, I wonder how often we talked about serious matters. I guess it is less demanding to engage in shallow talk. We were heavy into banter. Most of the serious discussions I recall from my youth were with my mother or Douglas’s parents. Perhaps it’s easier to believe we thoroughly knew a person when we’re younger and life hadn’t changed people. A black shadow cast from the possibility of no longer knowing someone once so close created doubt within Billy.

Nancy offered, When we are young it is simple to be flexible and accepting of others. Perhaps it is because we are all in the same boat, floundering to find our way. We believe we know our peers because we assume they are like us. Yet, none of us are fully formed personalities. As we age people go in different directions. Many acquire more rigid personalities. Or, at least they seem different from our memories of them. Remember the kids you grew up with, who went through school with you? Billy nodded. Haven’t you met them later in life and marveled that in the past some of them were either your good friends or considered them as movers and shakers at the time but now leave you limp?

Billy grinned at the experience. I went to a high school reunion once. That was enough for me. Douglas on the other hand faithfully goes to each reunion his class holds. I guess there is nothing wrong with it but it is not my cup of tea. Douglas puts great stock in doing so. I bet Douglas views every attendee he meets as if they were still seventeen. He seems more comfortable with the past. He’s conventional to say the least.

You say you don’t recall having serious conversations with him. But, in families, isn’t that rather normal? You spend so much time with them, observing them that you surely learned where Douglas stands on serious issues?

Billy smiled at his luck of finding a woman of such understanding. Yes, he knew that Douglas was solid on the core values. However, that knowledge made it more frustrating to watch Douglas flail with mundane issues of life. Douglas didn’t have a rigid personality; he simply held his core values too tightly. You’re correct. Douglas is solid. His problem is that he is solid on even minor issues. Integrity four squared. Principles are devilish to ignore.

That is not a bad quality. But, it represents a heavy burden. Has his wife always been a problem for him?

At first I didn’t think so. She seemed nice. They seemed happy. But, I was often away for work; I traveled quite a bit in those days; I did not see them often. I tried to visit more often after their daughter, Debbie, was born. That was a sweet little girl. Billy grimaced slightly at the memory. He took a deep breath and continued, It was during one of those visits that I noticed a change between Douglas and Helen. They were like two separate entities in one house. With a child in common I’d have thought they’d be closer. I guess I assumed Debbie would be the center of their world. Instead, Debbie and Douglas were components on one side of a family with Helen seemingly alone and apart from both of them.

How did Debbie die?

It was a botched surgery I guess. Maybe that is not fair to the doctor but she died on the operating table. I know it can happen but one doesn’t expect that to occur to a child in for a routine eye operation. After her death and the devastation for all the family, things were even worse from what I observed of Douglas and Helen. It was horrible. Billy paused, shaken by a bad memory. Years ago I helped out at a local funeral home and during a service for a child I remember thinking that had to be the worse experience for a parent to endure. When it happened to Douglas I could see that meaningful life had been squeezed out of him.

Nancy reflected on the pain that is caused when a parent loses a child. She had witnessed the devastation such a death triggers within a family. Sensing Billy’s pain on the subject she transitioned away from the specific memory of Debbie. I didn’t know you worked with an undertaker.

We all did. We helped out a neighbor on occasion. Walt started helping on an as needed basis back in the thirties. As we grew older and stronger each of us boys inherited part time participation in the funeral business. It was different. It was interesting. Sometimes it was fun. Importantly, it provided us with an insight into the inevitability of death. I suspect that, especially at our younger ages, we all feel that an exception to death will be made for us. That is not how life works. Billy was silent as he gathered his thoughts. A mile down the road his mind returned to the present and he suggested, Let’s stop at the fish market and get some Ahi Poke for dinner.

Later that afternoon, when he put on snorkeling equipment and sought solitude underwater, Billy remembered his first introduction to the McFarlane family. The dad he never knew was dead. His dad had died a hero or so it was told to him when he could understand. When is a kid ever able to understand that their father is never coming home from a distant place called Anzio? Yet, that is what happened and why Billy was left with the McFarlanes all day long, five days a week from as far back as he could recall. His mother needed to work and the McFarlanes simply took Billy in while Marilyn Swanson worked. She worked as a welder during the war. Later she said she was lucky to get a lower paying job at the factory. Better paying jobs went to returning veterans. She labored over the same drill press in the same department until she died in 1953. Many people mistook the three boys as brothers. They were constant companions. Billy was the oldest. Jimmy was four months younger and Douglas didn’t show up until after the war, following Walt’s return home.

Billy still remembered the day Walt walked through the front door, a big powerful man who tossed an overseas bag right over the living room couch before grabbing and lifting his wife up near the ceiling. He kissed her and Billy, even at his young age, thought that is how a lady should be kissed. Walt gave a hug to his mother who appeared from the kitchen, the smell of fresh pastry dough on her hands. Billy always found that smell irresistible. He equated many delightful aromas emanating from Gran Ma McFarlane’s kitchen with love. Simultaneously, Walt lifted Jimmy high in the air for his son’s own welcome home hug. Turning to face Billy, who had retreated into a corner, Walt inquired, And who is this fine looking young man?

The Swanson boy. I wrote to you about him. Gloria went to Billy and, with a gentle lead of her hand, coaxed him towards her husband.

Walt paused for only a moment to assess Billy. Yes, Billy Swanson! I am very pleased to meet you. Walt extended his hand. He and Billy shook hands. His four year old’s hand dwarfed by Walt’s large mitt, it was the first time Billy had shaken the hand of an adult. As much as he tried later in life, Billy never recalled any other memory prior to seeing Walt towering over him, extending a hand towards him. For Billy that moment was when his life started.

After the war Billy continued as a fixture at the McFarlane house. In addition to the need to be watched while his mother worked, Billy and Jimmy became best friends and constant companions. Billy was included in all the McFarlane family activities and functions. The McFarlanes lived three doors down from Mrs. Swanson, who resided in an upper level flat with her son. On most days the boys all walked to and from school together. The older boys were half way through grade school by the time Douglas started the first grade. Once Douglas started school he tagged along after the older boys, Billy and Jimmy in the lead, and other boys from other streets joining the procession along the way until Douglas formed the end of a convoy headed to school.

If it was football season Walt piled all the boys into his car and went in search of a game to watch. Mid-week it was usually a parochial grade school game under the lights. A small concession wagon emitting delicious smells was stationed behind the bleachers that surrounded the ball field. Popcorn or paddle pops were treats Walt enjoyed giving to the boys as much as they loved receiving the delectable delights. Friday nights meant a walk to the nearby city stadium for high school ball. And, for the few high schools games played on Saturday afternoon games, the boys biked across town on their own to watch the game. On most occasions they spent half the time as spectators and the rest of the time behind an end zone creating their own game. Walt had to work on most weekends and only occasionally accompanied the boys to the daylight games.

The boys followed Walt into scouting activities, participated in all youth sports, and helped Walt in his various civic activities. A small town atmosphere still existed after the war and Walt was all in when it came to fund raising, church and school functions and the American Legion. Billy was always included in McFarland family vacations. In 1948 Walt rented a small two bedroom room cabin for the family on Lake Tomahawk. Oneida County held special significance for Walt and Gloria. American Legion cabins, built on Little Lake Tomahawk for veterans after World War One, was where Gloria took Walt in 1945. For the family’s first vacation they stayed for three weeks. In ensuing years the cabin was rented for the entire summer with Walt being there for three weeks of vacation and thereafter he made the long drive north to be with the family for an occasional weekend. Gloria stayed the season with the boys. Under an overload of swimming, fishing, hiking and exploring the boys thrived from the experience.

When Billy was eleven years of age the McFarlane family began preparations for a side trip at the end of the summer to the Boundary Waters of Minnesota. It was during this planning that Billy began to have second thoughts about accompanying them; of being a part of their family. Throughout the spring the boys talked excitedly about what was to be an outstanding canoe voyage, including their first experiences with portages. Walt arranged to borrow two canoes from the scouts. Walt, Gloria and Douglas would be in one canoe while Billy and Jimmy manned the second. One night while sitting around the McFarlane kitchen table, which more often than not was the central planning base for the family, Billy leaned back and marveled at Gloria McFarlane. She was fully engaged in planning for the trip.

Looking across the table at her, Billy had a pang of regret that began to bore a hole inside him. His found himself wishing that his own mother could go with them. Billy became weighed down by his perceived injustice that Marilyn Swanson remained behind every summer to work while her son went north to play. Except for a few hurriedly scribbled post cards he struggled to make creative, he had no contact with his mother for ten weeks. Over the course of three days his thoughts advanced into a firm conviction that he should not leave her home alone for another summer.

Billy and his mother did take their own vacation together when they made a yearly trek across Lake Michigan to visit her aunt in Muskegon. The ferry ride was a thrill for Marilyn Swanson. She confided to her son that it reminded her of Billy’s father whom she had met in 1937 during a similar ferry crossing. Without a car of her own and with the limited resources of a widow, the six day vacation allowed her to take her son to another state at minimum expense. Billy had fond memories of those short excursions. Billy convinced himself that the trip to Michigan was all the vacation he needed. He decided that continuing to go away with the McFarlanes for an entire summer was unfair to his mother. Why should I have so much enjoyment while she has to work hard became the belief upper most in his mind?

Mom, this year I’m thinking about staying home, of not going up north with the McFarlanes. I’d have a paper route by now except it’s hard to find someone to cover for me for two months. Actually, I was thinking of trying to get both a Sentinel and Journal route starting in May. Billy was drying dinner plates, standing next to Marilyn Swanson while she washed dishes in the kitchen’s free standing trough sink.

Marilyn, still wearing her headscarf from work, turned her head to Billy, I thought you liked going on those vacations.

Billy picked up another plate from the sink’s side board. I do, but I’m getting older and maybe it’s time for me to help out more here at home.

You already help out at home. You do chores I didn’t even know needed doing. One of the advantages of spending the summer with the McFarlanes is that it gives you time to slow down. You are always so busy. As they say, you need to stop to smell the roses. Do you know what that means? Billy nodded uncertainly. You go with the McFarlane’s on that vacation. Soon enough you’ll not have the luxury of vacations.

Billy shifted on his feet and shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to appear ambivalent about the yearly escape up north. I’m pretty vacationed out. I think it might be best for me to stay home this summer.

Marilyn stopped what she was doing and stared at her son. Finally she ventured, Billy Swanson, is this about a girl? His mother’s words shocked him. He wondered how she got from his staying home to help her out to the topic of a girl. What would a girl have to do with anything he thought, unaware that in four short years thoughts about girls would monopolize his attention.

No. Billy’s response was firm and irritated. Billy’s startled response relived his mother. So many women at the plant were talking about young people necking and carrying on in the relaxed morals of the 1950’s that she feared the worst for her son. Her initial thought had been that some skirt was behind Billy’s wanting to skip out on a vacation opportunity. I just think it is time for me to stay home. With you.

Marilyn laughed. This is about me? Listen Billy, I want you to go away for the summer. I miss you desperately when you are gone but you are gaining tremendous experiences that most young men don’t have. You are learning many life skills, especially independence. Take advantage of the opportunity for as long as you can. Besides, and Marilyn moved closer to hug Billy, you are safer away from the city.

Safer? Jimmy and I go all over town on our bikes without trouble.

I worry about your health Billy. The summer season is not the best to be in a city. I feel better that you are not at public pools, crowded movie theaters, or crowded grandstands watching ball games.

Billy, as were all children of his generation, was well aware of the terror of polio. Billy was uncomfortable at the movies on the days when tin pans were passed around the audience for charitable donations. That collection was always preceded by a film that depicted helpless paralyzed kids confined to iron lungs. An existence of lying flat on your back with a mirror to view life pass you by was terrifying. Billy looked at his mother and experienced a first glimpse of understanding that his dread of polio paled by comparison to that of a parent.

Billy set his towel on the table. He hugged his mother extra tight. I love you mom. As an adult he was very happy that he had said those words to his mother hundreds of times under scores of circumstances. Financially they had few resources. As a widow left with a three year old, life was a constant struggle for Marilyn Swanson. Yet, Billy did not feel he experienced a childhood of deprivation. Billy’s knowledge that Marilyn Swanson had given so much love to him was what he most fondly remembered. He grew up without a sense of wanting.

Marilyn dried her hands and gave Billy a warm hug before extending him away to arm’s length. Her eyes converged with Billy’s eyes. I am so proud of you. No mother could ask for a better son. I love you dearly and will always be here for you. However, it is my dream that you live a full life of your own without fear. Avoid being tied down by convention. In whatever you do in life I want you to soar. Promise me?

Not sure of his mother’s full meaning at the time Billy simply nodded his assurance. Though well on his way to an independent life, Marilyn’s admonition to live his life to the fullest took root that night. When he was old enough to start playing competitive sports he felt a similar inner sadness; that his mom wasn’t alive to attend his games. Billy lamented that because of her work schedules his mother’s knowledge of many of his adventures and activities had been learned second hand. Yet, he was forever grateful that in lieu of outside activities where she’d have been a mere spectator, at home Billy was always alone with his mom and the rituals of those nights together were the memories that brought him the most joy. Once at home for dinner on school nights, he stayed home. While Marilyn made dinner Billy did his homework. After dinner Billy did chores and his mother made her own preparations for their next day at school and work. They always washed and dried the dishes together. She’d often prepare a simple treat for them to share at eight o’clock.

At that appointed hour they gathered in the cramped living room of their upstairs flat to listen to the radio. Billy was in charge of tweaking the often balky station settings. He became expert at fine-tuning out annoying static. Popcorn, homemade fudge, a scoop of rainbow ice cream, gingerbread with a lemon sauce or a few broken cookies from Johnston’s became their standard fare. Well into adulthood Billy enjoyed the process of making fudge. Despite the hit or miss factor of the process he eschewed candy thermometers and used the old soft ball stage test in a cup of cold water. It is how his mom used to do it. And, he still beat it by hand. Beating the fudge to a hard, yet not sugary, stage had been his job. A warm memory cherished for forty-two years was that of his mother’s smile when she watched him beat the sheen off the fudge on the night before she died. It was one of many simple signals from Marilyn Swanson that transmitted her unbridled approval of Billy.

During the radio programs mother and son exchanged knowing glances or laughed in unison at a humorous portion of a wide array of programs from the 1940’s and early 1950’s. During commercials Billy reached up to turn off the