90 Days in May

By Michael Mack

A love story-- Navy style. One woman, three men, one naval air training unit on a small island in the pacific northwest. Total entanglement as passions explode between a senior officer, his wife, a very un-inhibited junior officer and a former lover who arrives in enlisted uniform with a secret assignment.   

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wheelhouse Publishing
• Release date: Apr 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524239763

Michael Mack

Michael Mack is a free spirited writer and life long aviator who speaks to the reader in his own unique and personal way. As a painter uses colors, Michael writes with bold skilled brush strokes that will invite the visitor to live in the heart and spirit of the story. Take the plunge!  You will no longer be an observer; you will be a participant and lover of life!

Book preview

Prelude

––––––––

White River, Arizona, September, 1999

Although early, the sun was white hot as it broke above the White Mountains to the east. I was half-walking, half-sliding, down the sandy trail to the edge of the river when I first saw him. My hands were filled with the morning utensils and cleaning gear and had I not slipped and fallen, I probably would not have noticed the old Indian sitting quietly in the shade by the small pines that edged the water below. Embarrassed, I tried to right myself and acknowledge him as I finally slid to a halt near the sparkling mountain stream. I was troubled that someone else was sharing the coveted little place that I had chosen as my own for several days of uninterrupted camping and seclusion. As I knelt and scrubbed my metal skillet it was disturbing to think that he might have been there on previous mornings, sitting completely still, his long sleeve Apache shirt the perfect color to blend into the sand and rock. I finally stood and turned in his direction, only to find myself alone, his exit unheeded by the surroundings.

I carefully made my way back to my campsite overlooking the stream, and began what had become a daily ritual of stowing my cooking gear, grabbing my writing instruments from the tent, and moving under the shade of a tarp that I had rather crudely lashed between two scrub pines. A small folding chair and table served as a platform for the tablets and notes that soon littered, as I labored to continue the writing that had brought me so far from my Dallas apartment home. New to freelance writing, I had, on impulse, decided several days ago to seek a location for isolation and inspiration. After loading my weathered and well used Ford Bronco with basic camping supplies, I had traveled across New Mexico and into the mountain areas of northern Arizona seeking something, I wasn't sure what. I had been laboring over a story that had become reminiscent of a college history writing assignment. Despite my best efforts, any life had long ago evaporated from the thread of the story, and now only stubbornness birthed the pitiful increase of ink that scratched from my pen each day. Today, I had found a new determination to gain something that might be recognizable as a work nearing completion from the dirge of scattered notes.  I don't know how long I had been pressed against the task in front of me, barely moving as the sunlight pushed its way across my desk, when I realized that I was not alone. I froze.

He was sitting as only an Indian can sit, arms touching knees drawn to his chest, so close that I was frightened, but also embarrassed, that someone could have drawn so near, so easily.

You groan, he said, in a statement of recognition. His voice was as soft as the breeze that stirred against the flap of the tent behind me.

What? I managed to say; not at all sure I had heard him correctly.

You groan when you write, again so softly that I could hardly be sure of his words.

My embarrassment was now complete as I could only mumble the word what again. Thankfully, he said nothing more while I struggled to regain some measure of composure. I had now turned toward him, scattering paper and tipping precariously in my folding chair, which suddenly seemed determined to do what it was designed to do.

You're him, I stated with newfound confidence. From this morning. You're him.

His lack of response failed to stop me. Again I tried, I saw you down by the water, this morning. More silence. Where did you go?

I could not continue. I could only join in his silence.

I studied him, quickly becoming comfortable with this quiet man who posed no apparent threat to me. It was difficult to judge his height, but he was lean, with long braided black hair, dark weathered skin, and handsome strong features that would have been hard except for his eyes. His eyes! The deepest blue eyes I had ever seen. Unflinching, he seemed to be studying my face, my voice, my very being. I sensed understanding that I later tried to describe as a wealth of wisdom and age in his eyes. 

We waited.

Then it came again, You groan when you write.

I was to learn that with Jack Little Bear McClure, it was one issue at a time.

I'm sorry. I was instantly mumbling again. I didn't understand why I was apologizing. I didn't realize.

Why do you groan when you write? This question came after another moment of contemplation.

Honest to God, I didn't know I was groaning, but I'm not surprised, it burst forth almost as a revelation shared with a trusted friend. The dike was tearing open. I felt like shouting, I hate this shit. But, I didn't. Somehow I knew I would then be explaining this shit; this pile of crumpled paper and sweat in front of me.

How did you get here? His was an honest inquiry.

Looking around, I was certain In that four-wheel drive, was not an appropriate response. The map inside my tent would also have been of little help.

I'm not sure. And I meant it. I ran out of blacktop pavement, and continued on some gravel road that seemed to take me around a mountain top and then it ended somewhere around dark. Geez, I thought. Did that sound as stupid to him as it did to me?

I plunged ahead. I was driving with my headlights on when I spotted this logging trail that took me down through the trees until it ended here, near this stream. Oh, Lord. I caught my breath. Welcome to stupid again.

Then I stopped. There was no change in the expression in his eyes. 

And made camp. I heard myself swallow.

Somewhere far above me, an eagle decided to move her nest. I waited, aware of the lateness of the afternoon. I found myself pondering the sound of the stream gurgling over rocks below. An awareness and appreciation for the life in the very rocks and forests around me seeped within. I don't know when I had slipped away from the unfriendly chair, but I too was sitting Indian style, feeling contentment with the way nature was adjusting to the vanishing heat of the day. 

Groaning is hurting. His words were soft, and they were carried on the whisper of sadness in his voice. It is not good to hurt.

I had missed it all. It did not matter by what means I had arrived there. To the quiet man beside me, it was a matter of what had caused me to be there. I would learn later that the Indian way would differentiate arriving, or being, from being here. It was to them a matter of the heart.

In a moment I was alone. He had simply stood and turned away, disappearing into the brush pine in one easy motion.

I busied myself in gathering the notes and tablets, disregarding their order as I folded them back into their bag. The light from the lantern was soon pushing the darkness from my temporary home as I dug through one of the boxes salvaged from the back of the Bronco. Well, what will it be tonight? I inquired of no one, as I scattered cans on the dirt floor of my A-frame tent, Van Camp's or Campbell's? I was not a fussy eater.

I sat on the edge of my cot and used my spoon to flick the white fatty stuff from the top of the pork and beans out the open flap of my tent. Damn, this is pretty good! My complements to Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, where ever you are.  I devoured one can of beans and remembered a sack of Fig Newtons that had begun the trip with me. After rummaging through the remaining cans and accidentally tearing a hole in a five pound bag of flour, I remembered seeing a Newton fly out from under the seat during a sudden application of the brakes in one of the quick turns on the logging road. And now I know why I brought you, I spoke to the flashlight, as I finally located the remaining Newtons at various points around and under the front seat. Many of them failed to make the short trip back to the tent while the remaining joined their friends in a gastrula delight as I lounged on my cot.  It was time to sleep, as there was nothing else to do, but I lay awake for what may have been hours. I needed to pee and I knew I should brush my teeth but, for a long time, I simply became part of the deep quiet around me, feeling good. Yes, Lord, I whispered so as not to disturb the forest, You are good. I slept.

Only a beer-drinker would have appreciated the urgency and preciseness of my moves when I burst from my tent hours later. With a sharpshooter's pride, I directed the stream onto a hapless trail of red ants that had already begun the days toil. Sorry, little dudes, I stated with complete insincerity as I attempted to flood whatever they were building. Remember, God gave man dominion. Why not blame someone else, I thought, as I shivered in the cold of the beginning light of day, wearing not one damn thing but a t-shirt and a pair of well-worn blue boxers. I thought I was surely going to freeze before my bladder finally released its control over my life and I fled back to the tent and the warmth of my cot.

A driving need for the smell and taste of coffee finally dressed me and put me to work over my two-burner Coleman. Five scoops of Folgers looked about right with water slopped from my thermos as I snapped the lid on my tarnished steel coffeepot and set it on one burner. Yesterdays oatmeal was still with me, at least in my mind, and I had a real hunger for pancakes, so I scrounged in my bottomless box until I emerged with my greatest breakfast treasure: Hungry Jacks just add water pancake mix. And that’s just what I did, in a proven old pink plastic mixing bowl. After wiping out my only skillet, and grabbing the Wesson oil, I was soon turning pancakes over the remaining burner. Man, I only need some bacon to make this a perfect breakfast, I admitted to a small ground squirrel that was chirring loudly and flipping its short tail with delight after discovering the white stuff from last nights beans. I soon lost count of the syrup-coated pancakes that were washed down with steaming hot coffee as I hovered over the Coleman from my folding chair. After breakfast I sat at my bare table, feeling enormously wealthy, as I surveyed my canvas castle and savored the coffee smell mingling into the pines in the crisp mountain air. I realized that since yesterdays encounter with the Indian, I had shed any concerns I might have had about camping so far away from the more frequented camp sites in the area.

Again, it was the white-hot sun that eventually stirred me from my Eden. I gathered the utensils and scrub gear and headed to the stream for the morning clean-up chores. I don't know if I expected to see my native host at his watch site, but I was disappointed that he was not there. Back at camp, I cleaned and secured my home away from home, trying to think like a bear might think if seeking the source of the food smells. I had at least temporarily shelved my struggles over my self-imposed writing assignment, and decided to try to add some protein to my diet. Dropping the tailgate, I crawled around the back of the Bronco, finally untangling my fourteen-dollar Zebco rod and reel from its marriage to the carpet flooring.

OK fish, think about my skillet. Get out of the water. Ready or not, you're coming home with me today. I don't know why, it just sounded like a good thing to say as I slid down the bank toward the stream. Loading my hook with the only thing I could find that might be confused as bait, I closed the lid on the rest of the olives and tucked the jar into my pocket. I soon gave myself to the joy of fishing, while working downstream, stopping often to sample the stream and tease the hidden trout with the green hors d'oeuvre. To my surprise, the stream widened, pushing into a lake not much further than a mile from my campsite. It was not a big lake, perhaps a quarter-mile wide, but its length disappeared in a curve around the foot of the mountains before me. It was here that I again found my friend, knee deep, fishing in the blue-black water.

Buenos Dias, I waved as I trudged from the tree line, completely unsure of how to greet an Indian. He nodded in greeting as I crouched behind him at the water edge. He was shirtless, bent with his back to me, working with something in the water. He was lean and muscular and I tried to guess his age.

Any luck? I asked, with what I hoped was the standard greeting between fellow fishermen. He turned toward me to display the contents of the wire cache lifted from under the water. Damn! What else could I say? There were several cutthroat trout of the exact dimensions of my skillet. It was then that I saw the scars. His torso and left arm were badly marred with old wounds that looked like ragged tears. I tried not to stare as he stepped from the water and carried his gear to a nearby log partially immersed in the water. There he retrieved his shirt and buttoned it close around him as he settled on the dry end of the ready-made chair. I was learning to not rush any attempts at conversation with him, so I waited, as he appeared to contemplate this interruption of his solitude.

Any luck? he finally returned the greeting.

I shook my head and lifted my non-performing rod and reel.

What are you using for bait? he inquired in the proper questioning sequence of all good fishermen.

Olives, I gestured at the green glob on my hook. From the look on his face I thought olive might be an Apache word for pumpkin.

It took him a moment and then he sputtered, What?

I pulled the jar from my pocket. Olives, I offered.

So help me, I wish I could have recorded what happened next on videotape; I would view it again and again forever. I'm convinced that spontaneity was a word that had never ever been used to describe my Indian friend. But the instant transformation from solemn, serious, silent warrior; to warm and welcome confidant, was and is forever my greatest memory. And it was all done with a smile, a chuckle that was birthed deep in his guts, and a twinkling in his eyes. Whatever reservations Jack Little Bear might have had about sharing any of himself and his world with this outsider vanished instantly. I joined in, and chuckled with him, although I didn't really understand the joke. I like olives.

After again finding support from the dry end of the log, he swallowed the instinct to perhaps gloat that fish won’t eat that shit, and chose instead to fake interest as he asked, Do they work?

I shook my head. No, but they may work here, right here where you caught those. Nothing wrong with the bait, I reasoned, but it must not work well in shallow streams. Besides that, these were damned expensive olives. They had to be good. Jack made a gurgling sound.

Finally regaining his composure he appeared to measure me as he asked, How long has it been since you've had a good meal?

I may have looked a little lean and possibly a little scruffy. I had pancakes this morning, I said proudly, eyeing his catch. And beans last night. Fish would really be good about now.

I'm Jack McClure, he extended his hand in greeting. Your camp is close. What say we put some fire under these.

I introduced myself and fell in beside him as we retraced my path from the morning. I learned that he was camped in the tree line, further down, where the lake narrowed. His people as he always referred to other members of his White Mountain Apache tribe, lived near Whiteriver, about a day's hike to the west.  As we walked, Jack mentioned the numerous paths that crisscrossed the valley and foothills that were known only by the native Apache. These paths were not well worn enough to be happened upon by an outsider, but could be located by certain markers and sightings. I happened to have set up camp right on the edge of one of these trails.

We were soon at the water ledge below my camp and Jack stepped to the rocks that I had been using as my scrub table. He knelt into the water and pulled the trout from the cache that he had carried slung over his shoulder. Grabbing each fish by the tail, he quickly canceled any thoughts they may have had of returning to the swim of things with one strong swing against a rock. Laying them side by side, he pulled his knife from the sheath tied Indian style above the calf of his leg. In quick sequence, he cleaned them, slitting each from their vent to the edge of their jaw. With a tug, all the insides came out in one piece. After washing them, he wrapped them in the large red bandanna he carried tucked into his leather waistband. After throwing the entrails into the stream he completed the process by washing and re-washing his hands and knife in the stream, scrubbing with sand from the waters edge. 

Ignoring the offer of my Coleman, Jack soon had a fire started using kindling placed in a shallow pit he dug in the clearing near my writing table. Small logs were then fed into the rising flames to be later spread around the small pit. I located two large potatoes in my cardboard grocery and placed them in coals pushed to the edge of the fire while Jack pulled the fillets from his red bandanna and arranged them in my pan. I offered my folding chair, but Jack settled into his familiar squat and leveled the pan on his edge of the coals.

Where are you from? Jack inquired as we waited on the heat to do its job.

Dallas.

Are you a writer?

I noticed that he did not make a statement, such as, I see you write for a living. Apparently my labor with the instruments of an author had not been persuasive. I'll bet it had to do with the groaning. Damn.

Un huh. I didn't look his way.

What kind of writing do you do?

I tried not to hesitate. It's just that no one had ever asked me that question. I felt caught. Well, right now I'm trying to put together something for an agricultural magazine. I tried my best to sound enthusiastic. The following pause in our conversation seemed too long.

He took the fork I offered and turned the fish after pulling the pan from the coals. Placing the pan back on the fire he asked the question that I somehow knew was coming.

Have you been published?

Un huh. I thought I sounded more positive that time. Readers Digest!

Jack looked interested.

Well, at least they should have published it. Everyone I shared it with thought it was one damn good joke. I really should have heard back from them. Was I babbling? I just wanted him to know I was not a complete novice. I frankly think the guy that reads those things kept it for himself. You see there was this guy with a really bad tremor in his hands who had developed a bad case of crotch itch. He finally went to see a doctor who, of course, asked him to show him what was wrong. My voice trailed as Jack pulled the pan from the fire.

These are ready, Jack said. What about your potatoes?

Ready or not, let's eat! My stomach was growling. I had two white plastic plates and a package of plastic forks ready for service. Jack emptied the pan equally between the plates and handed me his knife to spear the smoking potatoes. Cleaning them with a spill from my thermos, I planted one steaming potato on each plate. Jack went outside the camp and was soon back, dragging a log behind him that was placed as first-class seating beside the fire. I think that a bond is formed between men who share a hot meal around a campfire. And I was pleased to see the way Jack settled himself after the meal, sitting on the ground with the log as a backrest, his feet near the fire. I wanted to offer something for dessert and finally found a bag of potato chips that had somehow survived the trip. I opened the bag and sat nearby with the treats in easy reach of each of us.

A long line of thin clouds had formed in the sky above us and the setting sun sponged their edges into a soft orange glow. From the contentment within me I finally broke the silence with the question I had wanted to ask earlier. How did you get the scars, Jack? 

I was accustomed to waiting. But now, long minutes passed. The stretching shadows around prompted me to push another small log onto the fire and return to my place against the backrest. Jack finally moved his arms, pushing up his sleeves to uncover the scars as though finally revealing a long kept secret. 

A bear did this to me, he finally spoke. Or at least I thought that's what he said.

A bear? I was almost on my feet.

Lieutenant junior grade Tommy Hebert did this to me, he said. I realized he was pronouncing the last name in French form. To me I had already conjured visions of a man hungry bear, possibly still nearby.

It happened a long time ago.

With those words a shadow crossed his face and I am certain that somewhere in the hidden places of his soul a dark curtain was pulled aside. I had positioned myself across the fire from him and