Redemption: A Novel

By James Gregory Maynard

Imagine: you’re the All-American boy: Accomplished and awarded high school athlete, a great student, wonderful son, loyal friend. You follow your father’s example and join the Marines, then spend two and a half years immersed in clandestine warfare in Cambodia and Laos, when no U.S. troops were supposed to be there. You watch friends and foe die ghastly deaths or suffer terrible wounds. Some by your efficient hands. While in the midst of this war you are summoned home to attend the funeral of both of your parents, killed in a tragic accident. After the funeral, the love of your life, your high school sweetheart tells you she’s moving on. So, you return to the war. You suffer wounds to the body and mind. The body healing, leaving scars, but the wounds to the mind are sliced deep and picked at by recurring nightmares, waking you in cold sweats. Unwanted memories festering on. Discharged from the Corps, you return to a country where many thought of you as a criminal. You return to your home town in a last ditch effort to redeem a nugget of your past life. A life with unresolved issues.
This is where Jon Marzetti’s story begins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483565415

Book preview

Acknowledgements

2:00 a.m. Friday, April 21, 1972

This cache is too big to leave in the hands of the gooks. The Lieutenant whispers to Deke, "Can’t radio in an air strike without giving up our position. They’ve got big plans for this stuff. We’ve got to light it up.

You and Jon work your way down there. Set the claymore timers for ten minutes. The Lieutenant looks down at the camp, estimating the distance. Should be enough time to get back. The explosion will have these bowlegged little assholes running around like ants thinking it’s a bombing strike. Should give us cover to get back to the landing zone."

Deke takes the lead. He and Jon stealthily work their way around the hillside under the cover of the early morning’s moonlight, slinking downward toward the tunnel opening. Their camouflaged uniforms and faces blend in with the foliage and when motionless, impossible to identify. Each step and movement is slow and deliberate, careful not to break branches or stir the grass or leaves, giving away their descent. Moving at this pace requires patience and concentration. One mistake and the camp of over five hundred North Vietnamese will be aroused and on their tails in a matter of minutes.

As they approach the entrance of the manmade cave carved into the shallow hillside, Deke raises his hand, signaling Jon to stop. He motions with two fingers toward his own eyes, then points to the cave, holding up two fingers, telling Jon he sees two enemy. They’re sitting half asleep at the opening of the cave. Deke uses his suppressed Walthar Pk pistol to silence both sentries. Headshots topple the sentries where they sit. Jon and Deke stand silent, watching the nearby camp for movement suggesting that someone heard Deke’s shots. With no sign, Deke and Jon step out of the jungle thicket and drag the sentries into the mouth of the cave. They prop the lifeless bodies against the wall, making it appear they’re sleeping, in case their brethren stop by to check on them.

Deke and Jon work with the efficiency of well-trained demolition experts to inventory the cache, placing claymore mines to maximize their effect. The cave is damp, smells of mildew and musty soil hang heavy on their senses. Claymores wired to the timing devise, Deke sets the timer for ten minutes, and motions for Jon to go. They pause inside the shadows of the cave mouth then, with no sign of activity in the camp, slip back into the jungle.

The ascent through the mountain’s dense underbrush is much faster, with less caution than their descent. By the time anyone figures out what’s happening, the whole side of the little mountain will go up in a big fireball.

Jon pauses, checks the rear. Early sunrise and clear skies allow him to see to the roadway below the tunnel entrance. Movement draws his attention. He makes out two faint figures moving toward the tunnel opening, one much shorter than the other. Squinting, he makes out long-haired figures and realizes it’s a woman and a small child. Local villagers, perhaps, or someone related to a Vietcong in the camp. Jon whispers to himself, What in god’s name are you doing here at this time of the morning? He looks at his watch knowing they’re walking right into the blast zone.

Deke, now thirty feet ahead of Jon, turns to see him stopped, staring back at the cave area. Deke mutters, Shit, what the hell are ya doin’, Jon? He doesn’t shout to Jon, fearful of giving away their identity and location to the sleeping camp below. Instead, he runs back to him, grabs Jon’s arm and whispers, what the fuck you doin’, sightseeing? We have to get some distance between before that cache blows. Come on, let’s go.

Jon points toward the woman and child. Deke squints through the early morning mist and spots them. Christ. They both want to yell for them to get the hell out of there, but know the pedestrians will only stop at the sound of their voices and there’s only seconds left. Turning, Deke grabs Jon’s arm and starts up the hill, pulling at Jon, saying, Wrong place, wrong time, that’s the story of this war. Jon doesn’t budge, paralyzed by the reality of what is about to happen to this innocent woman and young girl. He whispers, Go, go, go.

Curled against the door of the tractor cab, Jon fidgets in his sleep, mumbling, Go, go. Frank Bentley, owner-operator of the semi-tractor-trailer rig, takes his right hand off the wheel and shakes Jon’s arm. Hey, wake up, man. You’re having one of those freaky nightmares again.

Startled, Jon sits up, grabbing Frank’s hand in a firm grip.

Frank bares his teeth in a grimace. Hey man, relax. I’m not the enemy. What’s the matter, man, those nightmares hauntin you again? I know what it’s all about, man. Anyone who saw any real shit over there has them. Frank rubs the palm of his right hand on the steering wheel. Which one was it this time?

The two women we buried alive. Probably conscripted camp workers. Innocents. Somebody’s sister or wife. Never had a chance.

We did what we were ordered to do. The instruments. The Generals were the players. You can’t blame the guitar if the asshole playing it fucks up the song. Know what I mean?

I know, but I saw and did bad things over there. People died because of it. Some were the enemy, some collaterals, some, were our guys. Hard to get those ghosts out of your mind. Especially, those two women.

"I figure I’ll never get married because of ‘em, or else we’d have to have separate bedrooms. Scares the shit out of women when you sit up in bed in the middle of the night screaming, Burn in hell you mutha fucka’s. Know what I mean, man?"

I suppose. Haven’t had many experiences to test that yet, Jon says, rubbing his eyes. Sorry about the hand.

That’s ok, man, I should know better. You’ve got to come out of your shell a bit, start enjoying life. Know what I mean? Get hammered drunk and laid more often. Then you’ll put all this shit behind you. Frank backhands Jon’s shoulder.

Fuck all those commie liberals that bailed on the war, spittin on us troops returning home from the war. When we headed home, our C.O. suggested we change into civilian clothes before landing in L.A. Don’t attract attention from demonstrators, he said. Some troops did, most of us didn’t. Proud of our uniforms, having served Frank looks at Jon. One of em launches a big luggie and hits me right on the airborne patch. I looked at the shit on my sleeve, dropped my duffel bag and grabbed the first one of those bastards by the beard. Smacked him right in the mouth. Knocked him right on his ass in front of those commies. They stood there staring at him, twitching, eyes a flutterin. Out cold. I stared at those assholes, yelled at them to look at me, and told them, don’t care if you call me names. Don’t care if you protest. Your right. That I’d just spent the past year putting my life on the line to defend their rights to call me names and protest. But, I said, if you ever disrespect this uniform again, I’ll kick every one of your asses. Frank laughs at his reflections of the moment, Bet they never spit on another Airborne Rangers uniform.

I came home through Pendleton. Didn’t see any protestors. Mustered out and hit the road, Jon sighs and looks out the open window.

Look man, you’re a good guy. You got to get your life back together. You’ve been riding with me for, what, over a month now? It’s plain to this fried brain-- Frank points to his baseball-capped head. —you’re a standup guy, someone I trust, and a work horse. Plenty smart too. You need to shake off the ghosts of that war and get on with your life.

I know. I’m heading home to try do that. I’ll be leaving you when we get to Route 2.

Where’s your home town? Hell, man, I’ll take you there. Owe you that much, after all you’ve done for me. Least I can do.

Jon stares at Frank for a few seconds, contemplating Frank’s offer. Thanks. That would help. I live in Mt. Hope, north off 40.

Faint grey ribbons line the Eastern horizon as they approach Saunders county line, heading toward Mt. Hope. Familiar turf for Jon. In the dim light Jon recognizes the bridge crossing the Grand River. He’d driven over it too many times to count, going to Cedarville.

The sweet smell of freshly tilled soil wafts through the truck’s windows. Cool, damp, spring air lift Jon’s hair in swirls around his neck. Jon tells Frank, You can drop me off at the next road. It’ll take me into town. Half-mile walk.

Where you going?

To my Aunt Bess’s.

Sure you don’t want me to take you to her house? Won’t be any trouble, no kidding. I’ll take you right to her house.

Nah. Thanks. I want to walk, take my time.

Frank stops the semi at the corner of US 40 and Highway 2, and sets the parking brake. Ok, Jon. As he shakes Jon’s hand, Frank puts two hundred dollars in his palm. Man, you’ve been a great help. Get a haircut, shave and some new clothes. You’ll feel like a new man. It’ll be a good way to start your new life.

Jon says with some hesitation in his voice, It’s been nearly two and a half years since I was last home. Jon grabs his duffle bag out of the sleeper, slips on his fatigue jacket and climbs down from the truck.

Take my business card. Give me a call if you’re interested in going on the road with me. We’d make a helluva long-haul team. I can teach you to drive this beast and help get your license. We’d be a money makin’ team.

Might do that, Frank. Just might, but I need to do this first. He looks toward the night lights of town.

Good luck, partner. Frank shifts the truck into gear as Jon shuts the door. The truck lurches forward, rolling west down US 40. Frank honks the horn and shifts again as the Cummins diesel roars, pulling the truck away.

Jon watches the truck’s taillights until they disappear over a hill. He’ll miss Frank. There’s a kinship of Nam warriors between them. Frank’s quirky sense of humor and their long discussions while crisscrossing the country helped Jon realize it was time to try rebuilding his life. Although Frank wanted him to stay on the road with him, Jon knows the rebuilding has to start by going home. Unresolved matters need tending to.

Jon pulls on a black stocking cap, loops the duffel bag strap over his shoulder, and walks North up Highway 2 toward Mt. Hope, his home town. Jon stops halfway to the city limits and stares at the city’s lights, as he had done several times in the past year. A twinge of trepidation tempers the warm comfortable feeling he’d had about returning to the familiar source of nearly his full lifetime of experiences. Jon’s been gone a long time and hasn’t talked to hardly anyone from Mt. Hope since. Those years have changed him and will have surely changed his hometown. But, he’d promised himself that he will not turn and walk away this time.

5:20 a.m. Friday, April 21, 1972

Early morning sun breaks over the horizon, casting a golden aura over the town. Jon walks down Highway 2, the main street through the city, his duffel bag bouncing off his hip to the rhythm of his stride. Entering the city limits, he sees a few headlights and tail-lights lazily flowing from the cross streets. Mt. Hope is awakening.

Jon clicks off the names of friends he plans to see, but wonders how many are still around. Hilary VanSlooten and Maddy (Madeline) O’Rourke, his best friends from early childhood, are a high priority. He must also see Tommy Morrissey’s parents. Tommy, his best pal in high school, a teammate in football, wrestling and track, had been killed in Vietnam, in 1969. Jon knows Tommy’s parents well and regrets he was unable to be home for Tommy’s funeral.

Marni Mortenson flashes painfully into his thoughts. Jon and Marni had been sweethearts since junior high school, but their relationship ended awkwardly less than a year after he deployed to Vietnam. It had been a long relationship, deep with emotions etched into his psyche. She was Jon’s first real love and they were each other’s first love. The scars from the ugly breakup were deep, but over the years since they’d last seen each other his feelings for her had faded to a distant memory, until now. Jon realizes if she still lives in Mt. Hope, they will eventually bump into each other. How to deal with the situation, should it occur, is a sobering thought. With no interest in rekindling a relationship with her, he hopes Marni feels the same.

Shake that thought off and get on with it, Jon says to himself as he walks into the umbrella of the first streetlight at the edge of town. Jon understands he’s going to have to deal with this issue and many others in order to get his life back.

As he approaches the intersection of Highway 2 and Seventh Street, Jon’s attention is drawn to a car racing toward the intersection. Driving a white Cadillac, Derek Swenson pulls his Seville to the corner and stops, as Jon steps to the curb. Derek and Jon had been classmates since the fifth grade, when Derek’s father bought the Reary Manufacturing plant and moved his family to Mt. Hope. Although longtime classmates and years of playing sports together, Derek and Jon never became friends. There remained a lingering tension between Derek and Jon. Jon assumed it was prompted by Derek’s jealousy of Jon’s athletic achievements, and county and state wide recognition Jon received as a home-town hero in many sports. Derek was not shy about letting people know he felt his family’s position in the community bestowed upon him equal if not greater recognition. Jon believed this was one of many sources of tension between Derek and Jon, fueled by Derek’s ego, not Jon’s.

Derek is on his way to the Airport in nearby Cedarville to catch a plane to visit a customer in Germany. Derek notices Jon, but the angle of the street light and rising sun rays shadow Jon’s face. Derek doesn’t recognize him. Jon’s long raven black hair, scruffy beard, the duffel bag, tattered old fatigue jacket help mask his identity. He stares into Jon’s eyes and hesitates before pulling South onto Highway 2. Something in those eyes causes Derek to search his memory. Where have I seen those eyes before?

Jon nods, which Derek interprets to mean he has the right of way. Derek mutters, I have a plane to catch, so why are you wasting time sitting around pondering some bum’s eyes. Derek turns the corner thinking, Christ, the riff- raff that comes into this town these days. He punches the accelerator, speeding up the highway toward the airport.

Jon watches Derek speed away, wondering where he’s going at this time of the morning. Jon never cared much for Derek. There was an edge about him that made Jon uncomfortable being around him. Although he wasn’t afraid of Derek, Jon simply was not fond of being around uptight pompous assholes. Besides, he was very much aware of Derek’s longing for Marni, another source of tension between them throughout high school, mostly of Derek’s making. Thankfully, I won’t have to deal with that anymore, Jon thinks with a crooked smile as he walks across the intersection to the next street, then turns West down Pierce Street, heading for Bess’s.

5:40 a.m. Friday, April 21, 1972

At the gate to the sidewalk leading to the front porch steps, Jon’s been staring at the front door with uncertainty for what seems an hour. A year ago he’d been at this same spot but turned away, walking back out of town, unready to confront the emotions and issues this town represented. He loves Bess dearly though, and is now ready.

Jon steps onto the porch, lays his duffel bag down, and sits on the old porch swing hanging from chains at the East end of the porch, a porch he remembers fondly from his childhood.

A slight mist clings in air as the sun continues its opening. Jon leans back against the arm of the swing and puts his right foot up on the seat, pushing the swing back and forth with the other, allowing the stillness of the morning calm his anticipation of seeing Bess again. It’s a beautiful sunrise.

The sound of the front door opening startles Jon. He stops the swing. His heart beats a tick up and he breathes in deeply. Bess pushes the screen door open toward Jon and steps out on to the porch to retrieve the morning paper, totally unaware of Jon watching her. As she walks to the steps, Jon says, Aunt Bess.

Recognizing the voice, Bess turns and sees Jon sitting on the swing. She crumples to her knees, puts her right hand over her heart and her left hand to her mouth, gasping as if seeing a ghost, Jonnie.

Jon rushes to her and kneels before her, holding her tightly. They remain embraced for minutes. Bess sobs, quietly nestled in his arms.

You’re home. Bess whispers into his neck. I thought you were dead. I thought you’d been killed.

I’m home. Jon replies, fingers of painful regret gnaw at his throat. He hadn’t kept in touch with Bess or anyone else except the family attorney since the last time he left town two and a half years ago. Seeing her reaction, he now realizes the effect this negligence has had on this wonderful woman, a person who has been such an important part of his life.

Regaining her composure, Bess sits back on her heels and begins fussing with her hair. Oh my, I must look a fright, having just gotten out of bed and all.

Jon smiles, knowing Bess’s great pride in her appearance. He gently cups her face in his hands, and wipes the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. Yeah, you’re a real sight, all right. He laughs, knowing this will get a rise out of her. Jon and Bess have a long history of poking fun at each other.

Oh, you snot. You’re not so much to look at either. When’s the last time you shaved? Bess shoots back with look of disgust. And look at this hair. She pulls a lock a hair off his chest and away from his head. What are you, one of those hippies or something?

I hardly think so, Bess. They wouldn’t have the likes of me in their company. Actually, I’ve been waiting for you to cut my hair. You know I don’t trust anyone else to cut my hair. Proprietor of her own beauty shop in town, Bess had given Jon his first haircut and every one since then, until he went into the service.

I suppose not. You don’t smoke that dope and stuff, do ya?

No, but I have grown accustomed to a beer or two.

Ah, just like your poppa. That’s good. Let’s go in the house. Have you had breakfast? I can fix you some breakfast. Bess, recovering from her early morning shock, regains her spunk. Then you can tell me what you have been up to for so long. I’ve been worried about you, you know.

I haven’t eaten since last night and haven’t had any good home cooking in a long time.

That’s your own damned fault, buster. You know that don’t you?

Yeah, about that, but, well, you know. Jon knew Bess was hurt because he essentially abandoned their relationship and he owed her an explanation.

Let’s wait on that until I get some coffee brewing. Bess pats Jon’s cheek. Get my paper for me, and I’ll start breakfast. Put your bag in your room.

Bess and her husband had been Jon’s parents’ best friends before Jon was born. Unable to bear children, Bess and Howard adopted Jon as if he were their own. Jon spent many nights with them throughout his early childhood. Their house had three bedrooms and the bedroom next to theirs was the one he always slept in. Bess referred to it as Jon’s room. She kept many bits and pieces of memorabilia of Jon’s high school sports activities and newspaper clipping of the teams he played on, in Jon’s room.

Jon retrieves the newspaper and his duffel bag, and goes into the hallway that leads straight from the front door to the back of the house. He hears Bess in the kitchen, preparing something delicious. The living room is to his left and, on his right the dining room. In front of him, to his left, is the stairway to the second floor where the bedrooms and bath are. Jon drops the paper on a small table at the bottom of the stairs, throws the duffel bag over his shoulder and marches up the steps. At the top, he walks past the bathroom to the next door on the left. He pushes the door open and surveys the surroundings. The familiarity evokes a warm sensation of belonging, feelings Jon hasn’t felt in many years.

He drops the duffel bag on the bed and walks around the room, surprised nothing much has changed since he was a small child. Guilt-ridden by his failure to stay in contact, he is touched that Bess would keep this room for him all these years. It was the right time to come back, he thinks. Bess may need some help and I owe her. Need to catch up on my responsibilities.

Jon, come to breakfast, Bess yells up the stairway.

Jon smiles, recalling the many times he’s heard her call up the stairway for him. Be right down as soon as I wash up.

Don’t dilly-dally or your food will get cold. How many times have I heard that? Yes ma’am, he shouts back as he walks to the bathroom. Jon washes his hands and face, combs his hair back, and after a brief mirror inspection to assure he’s presentable, scurries down the stairway. At the bottom, he grabs the newel post top and swings around it to the hallway. The smell of bacon cooking saturates the air, stimulating the salivary glands. The gnaw of his stomach reminds Jon of how hungry he is. The emotions of their reunion had dulled this basic life necessity.

Wow, Bess. Smells great. Can’t remember when food smelled this good.

Have a seat. I’m almost done. You still like scrambled eggs?

My favorite. You remembered. Jon sits down at the same old wooden table Bess and Howard had had forever. He sits in the place he usually sat in whenever he stayed with them. He suspects it’s probably the same chair he’d always sat in, and that all the chairs are probably in the same positions around the table they’ve always been.

Bess set the table with her every-day plates and silver ware, the same ones she’d used since she and Howard married. She brings a large cast iron skillet of scrambled eggs with bacon piled on top from the old gas stove and places it on a cast iron trivet, with tiny legs, sitting in the middle of the table. What would you like to drink, dear?

Milk would be good, if you have some.

Sure do. Bess picks a worn red aluminum glass out of the cupboard, placing it in front of Jon. It’s a glass that he’d drunk from on many occasions. Bess turns to the refrigerator and pulls out a half gallon of milk, pours the glass full and sets the carton on the table beside the glass. Bess pours herself a cup of coffee and sits down across from Jon. There, let’s eat.

Bess, this is great. Jon butters a slice of toast. So, how have you been? I mean, is everything ok? Jon knows it must be difficult for Bess since Howard’s death five years ago of a massive heart attack. Jon was in his senior year and he and his father paid particular attention to Bess to make sure everything at the house and her shop were being maintained. Jon’s mother also spent time every day with Bess, helping her emotionally and with necessary household chores.

Bess raises her fork full of eggs up and hesitates before putting them in her mouth. Well, Jon, to be honest with you, I’ve been very lonely since your mom. Tears well in her eyes and she sets the fork down, putting her hand over her mouth. I’m sorry I shouldn’t talk about that.

Bess, it’s all right. I know how close you, mom and dad were. It’s ok to talk about it. It’s taken me a long time to get all right with where I am now.

It was such a terrible accident, Jon. They had no chance. Gone just like that. Bess snaps her fingers. I quit going to church. It ain’t right to take two wonderful people from us. I don’t care what the priest says. It wasn’t right. Jon’s parents had been in a catastrophic accident when a driver of a big rig swerved across the center line while crossing the Grand River Bridge on Highway 105, hitting his parent’s car head on. Jon’s father tried to avoid the truck, but on a bridge there was no place to evade the oncoming fourteen wheeler. The police told Jon they were certain his mom and dad died instantly, hadn’t suffered - a small consolation.

How’s your shop doing? Jon decides to change the subject. In spite of trying to put a brave face on the subject, he’s not ready to delve into their deaths. In good time he’ll deal with it, but not this soon after reuniting with Bess.

Oh, just fine. Same old broads coming in every week wanting me to make them into Marilyn Monroe’s.

"Betty and Marguerite still working for you?

They are, and you know, I don’t know if I could have made it these past four or five years if it wasn’t for them. They’ve been great.

I must go down to the shop and say hi.

They’d love to see you, but watch out for that Betty. She’s looking for a new man and after I clean you up, she’ll be all over you like a bitch in heat.

Jon laughs. Hasn’t changed much, eh?

Not that Betty, but she sure is good with hair, that girl is.

I’m thinking about going to see Dan McCarthy in a few days. I told him I’d get a hold of him to go over the estate when I got back to town. He said he wouldn’t start probate until I came home. But, that was many years ago.

Dan has everything taken care of. He is our attorney too, and I told him to make sure nothing was done until we heard from you. Frankly, I thought maybe you got killed in Vietnam. No one had heard anything about you either way, so some folks just thought something bad happened, and, well, you know how that sort of stuff goes around in a town like this. But, I told Dan that until someone heard something, he has to keep all of Anatoli’s and Chloe’s stuff safe for you.

Yeah, I know. I should have called to let you know I was all right, but I was really screwed up, up here. Jon points to his head with the butter knife. I was in Nam until August of 70. When I came back stateside, they released me at Camp Pendleton the first of September. I hung around California for a while with a buddy I had in Nam, then hit the road, until today.

Well, I wish you would have at least called me. I’ve been worried sick about you. Everyone’d ask me if I’d heard from you, but over the years they would ask less. Bess stands up, taking her dishes to the sink and begins to clean them up.

It’s the way I wanted it. Maybe it was selfish, but my world seemed like it’d come to an end when I came home for mom and dad’s funeral. Being in the war was bad enough, then that. Then, Marni laid her shit on me. I felt lost, couldn’t stay here anymore. Had to go. I do regret not calling you, though, so you wouldn’t worry. Selfish of me, I know, but that’s the way it happened. No excuses. Jon pushes his chair back and brings his plate to the sink, I’ll take care of the dishes. You have to get ready for work, don’t you?

Jonnie, you needn’t apologize. You were so young and had no family here to help you. You had such a wonderful life with your folks, then to have that torn away from you so suddenly while fighting that stupid war. Bess shakes her head. Well, no one should have to experience that sort of thing. And, what Marni did wasn’t right. After all you’d been through, what kind of person does such a thing? You’re better off without her, Jon. Mind you, you’re better off without that girl.

Yeah, I guess. It doesn’t matter anymore. Ancient history. Right now, I intend to try get some meaning back in my life. Feel like I belong somewhere.

Bess puts her arm around Jon’s waist and looks