Far from Newark

By Warren Lieberman

Lee Gregory, a naïve college dropout, leaves Newark in search of a new life. Without direction or guidance, he spends one summer at the Jersey shore before joining the army. He learns of his father’s secret life, his mother’s psychological problems and copes with his Aunt’s death. Lee finds and loses his first love at the Jersey Shore.

Before his first overseas assignment he spends some time in San Francisco where he learns of the anti-war movement and becomes entangled in one demonstration incident that tests his character.

His hopes of avoiding combat by training in electronics go awry and he ends up in a transformative situation. Lee embraces the local Thai life, befriends a local young man and begins a new chapter in his life. Later he finds himself ill-prepared for combat and captivity. A surprise savior appears and he begins a spiritual adventure during his escape.

His return to the States is also a physical and spiritual journey and continued mental confusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Warren Lieberman
• Release date: May 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463627365

Warren Lieberman

I am a transplanted Yankee (Newark N.J.) living in San Antonio Texas since 1977. I am a Vietnam War veteran with service in Thailand, and have been a school teacher, a V.P. of a large wholesale plumbing supply company, a self-employed salesman, an administrator of a large non-profit organization and now an administrator for an engineering consulting company. In addition to these career positions, I worked as a substitute teacher, truck driver, factory worker, newspaper delivery boy, parking-lot attendant, and clerk in an old-time drug store. Jack of many trades and a master of a few. I have put in many-many hours as a volunteer for various organizations helping the hungry and homeless, working for United Way and San Antonio Blood Bank. I am also a cancer survivor, more about that some other time. Since early in 2011 I have lost over 30 pounds and started a walking regime which includes a 5K walk several times a month, have participated in the 2012 and 2013 Texas Senior Games (not old people fooling around) and several charity 5K events. I have been a member of the Sun Poets Society of San Antonio since 2004 and have had several pieces published on-line. In addition, I have had several non-fiction articles published during my time as a non-profit administrator.

Book preview

Part I

Chapter 1

A solitary bulb barely illuminated the twelve-by-twelve cubicle.  A metal bunk bed with a dirt and sweat stained mattress leaned against the wall, a small pile of foul linens piled in the middle of the bed. Graffiti adorned the dirty plaster walls along with messages from recent American prisoners.  Previous prisoners chiseled their fears, hopes and curses on the walls.  Stone and metal writing implements littered the floor.  

A partially filled metal bucket with human excrement passed for a toilet.  Water dripped unremittingly from the faucet into the bucket.  A metal cup hung from a wooden peg above the faucet.

Random and sometimes unrelated thoughts filled Specialist 5th Class Lee Gregory’s head as he sat on the metal bed.  His mind and body ravished by the events of the last few weeks Gregory sat quietly.  The wounds that he thought healed now bothered him. Not enough food or sleep.  Parasites invaded his body.  Frequent chills made him suspect malaria. 

He retched several more times and then lost control of his bowels. 

Noise filled his existence. 

Does the noise emanate from my head or from the nearby electric generators? 

His head ached from the cacophony.  He hoped machines caused the din.  He pulled the blanket over his head and lay prone in a futile attempt to muffle the noise and comfort his aching body.

The room swirled and nausea forced him off the bed.  He reached for the bucket and puked.  He retched once more and finally a third time.  Vomit dripped from his chin.  Without energy to get back into the bunk he just sat on the floor, the filthy pillow clutched to his stomach.  Vertigo and nausea passed painfully slow. 

Whatever will happen, will happen.  Mai bpen rai.

No problem, a common Thai phrase barely audible rolled off his lips.

His mind remained somewhat lucid despite his weakened physical condition.  He sighed and soon drifted off to sleep on the floor.  He slept curled into a fetal position with the dirty pillow pressed against his torso.

Troubled dreams occupied his sleep.  Rain and noise mixed with gunfire and screams.

Sunlight peaked through the window slits high in the room and roused him out of his lethargy.  He couldn’t muster the strength or desire to stand on the bunk to look outside.  The cell filled with a brilliant luminescence. 

Lee filled the metal cup with water and spilled half.  He put the cup to his lips and swallowed the contents in one long gulp, strangely warm and sweet.  He took another slug of water, swished it around his mouth and spit into the bucket.  A sense of calm and acceptance engulfed him.

It’s over now.  They’ll come for me soon. 

He rinsed his face with the tap water and slicked his hair back.  He took off his tattered robes and splashed his upper body with water cupped in his hands.  Lee dried himself with the soiled linen.  He put his faded yellow robe on.  He actually felt better and braced himself for whatever would come.

The guard knocked on the door and spoke with a strange Oriental accent.  Prisoner, stand away from the door. 

Lee did as ordered.  A knot twisted in his stomach.  Stoicism of the previous few minutes evaporated.  He heard voices outside. 

A solitary guard led him outside. He thought of the circumstances that led him to this jungle prison and to an apparent fatal end.

Chapter 2

Lee and Ray Grillo found themselves on the roof of the old Bergen Street tannery, bored as usual one hot summer afternoon.  They chucked pieces of bricks and nails into the alley behind the factory.  The rooftop water tower became the next target for their missiles.

Bet’cha five bucks you won’t go in, Ray said thoughtlessly.  The metal ladder from the roof to the top of the tank was an invitation to climb.  Lee acted on Ray’s dare and climbed the ladder.

A rusty wire held the door closed.  It was the only obstacle to the next adventure.  A cool blast of air almost knocked him off the precarious perch when he opened the hatch.  From this high vantage point he gazed towards downtown Newark and the outline of the Pulaski Skyway in the distant east.  Another ladder led down inside.  Meager light streaked in from the door and a few beams of light peeked through cracks in the top of the tank, water glistened below.  He slipped out of his shirt and sneakers and dropped them to the roof.  Clad only his pants, he climbed into the water.   Rancid water, cooler than he anticipated, irritated his eyes.  The darkness unnerved the normally calm Lee.  He quickly returned to the safety of the ladder; he hadn’t ventured far from security of the hatch.  While adventuresome, Lee knew when to be careful.

What’s it like?   Ray stammered.  He could hardly contain his awe as Lee descended.

First gimme the five bucks we bet.

Ray gave Lee a few crumpled bills from his pocket.

Rats, rats, full of rats, Lee lied and laughed as he scampered off with his reward.  Lee never did anything without the chance of gain or the likelihood of a laugh at someone else’s expense.  That day he had both.

That night he dreamt of the water tower.  He couldn’t find the ladder as the light faded.  Lee never climbed onto the warehouse roof again.

***

Ray Grillo moved away from Newark a year or two later.  The mischief diminished, but never quite disappeared.  It just became more controlled and somehow determined the path he would travel for many years.

Often he grabbed the number twelve bus and went downtown, instead of the number six to school.  There he roamed the Broad Street business district.  The stores showed him a view of a larger world.  He loved the Italian and Oriental markets and restaurants.  The shopkeepers came from lands as far away from Newark as he could imagine.  Pictures on the calendars in these stores didn’t look like any places he’d ever seen, not like any place in Newark. 

Sometimes he got a bus transfer and rode to the industrial part of the city, near the old Ballantine brewery and the junkyards.  Down Neck, the old Dutch name for the neighborhood, introduced Lee to even more diverse cultures.  Poles, Greeks, Slovaks and Cubans.  There he tasted strange foods and spices, not the plain vanilla served up at the A & P on Avon Avenue.

His first trip to the junkyard opened up new avenues of adventure.

Whatcha’ looking for kid?  A voice boomed from a loudspeaker attached to the top of a pole near the entrance.

Lee thought it was foolish to answer the pole so he looked for an office.  Not too far from the entrance three trailers butted against each other and formed an office.  A handwritten sign sloped at a forty-five degree angle over a door on one of the trailers was the only indication of purpose. 

A large black man approached him with a broad smile and outstretched hand.  Watcha’ need?

I dunno, maybe some tools. 

The man pointed Lee in the direction of a lean-to-shed with shelves of tools of all sorts and conditions. 

He didn’t know the word nirvana, but if he did this would be it.  He left with a dented and slightly rusted toolbox full of small tools, all for five bucks and a promise to Cleveland that he would be back with another five later.  He came back the next week and paid up.  The dealer soon became his friend and teacher.  Cleveland taught him how to wheel and deal and make a few bucks from trash. 

Lee never thought about Cleveland’s race.  Lee didn’t fully understand the reality of 1961 Newark, a de facto segregated city.  His working class family lived in a transitional neighborhood sandwiched between the blacks and the rich Jews and the clannish Italians, who would soon flee to the Oranges and even more distant suburbs. 

On weekends he often took the number twelve bus downtown and then rode the Trans Hudson train to New York City.  His visits to the City opened his eyes to an even larger world that lay over the Hudson River.  The multitude of stores, museums, parks and people confused him at first; but later they drew him in like a moth to a flame.

He discovered Radio Row, an area of several square blocks filled with countless electronic, radio and TV shops.  New and used electronic gadgets galore filled the shelves.  Police receivers, short wave and ham radios.  Any electronic device imagined or needed could be found on Radio Row.  

Lee scrounged the basements of the nearby apartments for discarded radios and televisions.  These treasures he sequestered in an empty storage area in the basement that became his spare parts depot.  An oak door and some cinder blocks were transformed into a workbench.

He replaced a few broken tube sockets and got an old short-wave radio operational.  He felt like Marconi when he turned the radio on and received a signal from England.  He tuned into foreign language stations for hours, even though he couldn’t understand a word.  He stayed up late with his short wave radio listening to stations from distant countries.  Broadcasts from BBC and Radio Moscow, news from foreign places and strange people filled the evenings.  He longed for the day he would leave Newark and visit them.

 Lee, honey I need your help.  Mrs. Clancy yelled down the stairwell at him in her scratchy voice, like a BBC broadcast.

She was always after Lee for one thing or another.  Sometimes she’d ask him if he could rewire a lamp, another time she wanted him to fix a broken vacuum cleaner.

My husband bought an Admiral television off the back of a truck, if you know what I mean.  He’s having trouble getting it to work.  We ain’t got no instructions.  Can you help us set it up?

Lee took a quick look and figured out that the antenna terminals were broken.  He went to his storeroom of parts and fifteen minutes later he had them watching the six o’clock news.

Two bucks for the rabbit ears and two bucks for my time. 

She paid, his first customer.  He never lacked pocket money when word got around the neighborhood about his repair skills.

Chapter 3

Lee and Ray kept in touch throughout high school.   They often met at the Coit Street Bowling Alley in Irvington.  The bowling alley situated halfway between Lee’s Clinton Ave apartment and Ray’s new place in South Orange made a great place to meet. 

Let’s hang out awhile.  Lee suggested when league play prevented them from bowling one summer night. 

Yeah, sounds good.  I’ll get us a few beers and we’ll watch chicks.

We can’t buy beer here.  We ain’t twenty-one.

Don’t worry.  My dad knows the manager.  My family’s got connections.

Ray’s family had connections, like many 'upwardly mobile' Italian families.  At first Lee didn’t know what that meant.  Elliott Ness's hero role soon ended and was replaced by Ray’s older brothers and father when the beer arrived.  For a moment Lee wished he was Italian, not poor Irish.

 You boys go over to the far corner and have your beer quietly.  Can’t have you sitting up front.  Maybe the Liquor Board fellows are around.  With that advice the manager left two beers and went back to the cash register.

It turned out to be a slow night for girl watching.  Most of the girls they saw were the wives and girlfriends of the bowlers.  Some looked old enough to be their mothers.

They bumped into a girl they knew from eighth grade who moved to Irvington before they started high school.  Emboldened by the beer they spoke to her.

Hey, Cynthia.  What’cha doing?  They both chimed together and looked at each other foolishly.

Well if it ain’t two Madison Avenue School losers.  Are youz guyz still getting into trouble? 

Without giving them a chance to answer she continued to talk.  There's nothing to do in Irvington.  It sucks.   All my old friends go to Westside High School or moved down the Shore.  My parents thought moving would solve their problems.  Well, my father still drinks like a fish, has a shitty job and there are blacks at Irvington High, just like Westside High.

Ray joined in the tirade about blacks. There ain’t any in South Orange, except a few by the railroad tracks.  And they work for the Jews.

 My old man says they are moving into Irvington faster than you can believe.  They ought to stay in Newark, let ‘em have the dump. 

Lee remained quiet.  Blacks lived on his block.  He didn’t understand their mistrust and hate.

Cleveland's great.  But his silence implied agreement.

Cynthia turned and left without any other comments.  Moments later Cynthia came back screaming at the top of her lungs.

There’s some black guys in the parking lot stealing a car.  Her face lost all its color.  She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

The manager and a dozen of the bowlers scrambled outside.  Ray and Lee followed them.  In the far corner of the parking lot they saw three black men pushing a ’53 Ford. 

Hey!  Stop right there.  Without a further word or warning the manager and the bowlers pounced on the three.  They beat them without mercy for five minutes.  Fists first, then kicks as the men fell to the ground and covered their heads. 

Stop.  Stop.  It’s our car.  We’re stuck.  The black men pleaded, but to no avail.  The kicks and blows came like a summer thunderstorm.

Lee stood to the side, frozen by the violence.  He never saw or heard of anything like it before.  Blood stained the parking lot.  It agitated him, but he couldn’t drop his gaze.  An approaching siren’s wail drowned out the screams of the three helpless men.  The bowlers scattered into the night; some ran back into the bowling alley, the rest got into their cars and drove off into the darkness. 

Only the moans from the beaten men and the bright police lights disturbed the deceivingly calm evening. 

It turned out the men worked at the dairy on Vauxhall Road near the bowling alley.  Their car had broken down and they pushed it into the parking lot to make repairs.  Bad timing; wrong place, wrong time.

It served them right.  They shouldn’t be around here at night.  That was the only comment the manager made to the bowlers as the black men were taken away in an ambulance.  The bowlers told the police they didn’t see or hear anything.  Later a few bowlers pushed the old Ford further down the street, away from the bowling alley. 

The manager and Ray spoke for a few minutes.  Then Ray called his father and told him of the incident.

My Dad says he’ll call the chief.  Don’t worry.  But that will cost you an extra C note next week.  Lee began to understand the importance of connections and the cost.

Disturbed by the evening’s encounter Lee remembered something Cleveland told him, Golden Rule, money makes the rules.

Lee didn’t like it, but accepted it as how the world worked. 

The morning edition of the Star Ledger ran a page four story about three men mugged by unknown assailants near the bowling alley.

Chapter 4

Lee drove his black 1955 Pontiac Chieftain to Long Branch the week after graduation from Westside High. 

The car wouldn’t start when he bought it from old lady Clancy in Apartment 3C in April.  With Cleveland’s help and junkyard parts he had the car in top-notch shape in less than two weeks.  Cleveland sent him to another salvage yard and for fifteen bucks he had four low mileage tires from a wrecked De Soto.  Another fifty at a body shop for a paint job and the car looked new. 

He never told Cleveland about the bowling alley incident last summer.

The Jersey shore epitomized the perfect place for a teenage boy with a car and a few bucks in his pocket.  Almost every little town up and down the coast had a boardwalk with rides and an amusement center. He hoped to make the most of his first road trip.  In September he would attend Steven’s Institute of Technology.  Steven’s Institute in Hoboken had the benefit of being close to New York.  For less than a buck you could catch the train and be there in fifteen minutes. 

But this summer Lee hoped to fish off the West End Pier in the early mornings and sleep in the afternoons.  He would cruise Ocean Ave at night.  He’d start in Long Branch then work his way to Asbury Park and wind up in Seaside Heights, the best place for action.  People from all over New Jersey and as far away as Philly would be there.  The guys never knew whether they would score with the girls or meet some old friends and just hang out.  The anticipation of action became the motivator to cruise.  To be part of the scene was the only thing that mattered.

He planned to stay with his Aunt Bea for a few weeks.   She lived alone in a large house two blocks from the beach.  The breakers and jetties could be seen from the second floor balcony of her home.

Grandma Ruth left Bea the house when she died three years ago.   Grandma’s wake started a binge for the Gregory men, who promptly drank or gambled away their inheritance in a year. 

The house remained a vacation place for his uncles and cousins.  They gave Grandma Ruth money when she was alive.  They continued to give Aunt Bea a few bucks to help cover extra expenses.  Bea just took over operating the Gregory clan summer hangout.  Only the host changed.  Every year Lee’s family would spend a week or two at the Long Branch house.  The Gregory family tradition.

Every now and then his grandfather’s old fishing gear came out of storage.  The men always cleaned and put the equipment away after they used it, out of respect for Grandpa Greg’s memory.  Most of the fish, cleaned and filleted, went into a large freezer on the back porch. 

Regular or Cajun style? Aunt Bea asked when she cooked huge platters of fish and fries.

****

Hey, Aunt Bea.  Lee bound up the front steps to be embraced in her soft arms.  She displayed more affection in that one moment than his father or mother squeezed out in a month.

How’s my boy doing?  She grinned ear to ear.

The pair sat on the porch swing for forty-five minutes as he told her of school, the junkyard, Cleveland and his dreams for college in the fall.  Mostly, he spoke of his desire to leave Newark and see more of the world.

A cool steady wind blew in his face.  The salty air reminded him of the idyllic past summers.  Sand drifted against the curb and crept into the house.  Although Long Branch was only fifty miles from Newark it was a different world. 

I wish I’d followed my dreams.  Instead, I stayed here and took care of Grandma Ruth when Dad died and the house and family that came with it.  For a moment her smile waned.

She loved all the nieces and nephews as if they were her children.  She showered them with gifts at Christmastime, cards and letters for birthdays, Communions, or just a call to say hello.  A new five-dollar bill accompanied each hand written letter.

The nieces and nephews reciprocated with love and attention when they were young.  She possessed unbounded love that none of her brothers possessed or showed.   College, life, marriage and the hardship of distance made the trip to Long Branch inconvenient and as time passed by her nieces and nephews visited less often.  Despite their physical separation they continued to call and write.  Bea saved every card and letter; the back bedroom had boxes filled with these mementoes from her ‘kids’. 

 You are the only one coming this summer.  I want you to promise me something.

He looked at her in anticipation of some strange request, as she habitually asked. 

You know I’m going to die in the upstairs bedroom, just like my folks.

Are you sick?  Lee turned pale and gasped.

She ignored the question.  Someday it’ll happen and no one will be here.  I’ll be alone, the mail and the newspapers will pile up.  Maybe the mailman will notice something strange and… Without completion of that sentence, she proceeded to give Lee detailed instructions for her funeral.  She wanted lots of flowers, all kinds.  Only fresh flowers, all colors and no droopy ones.  She listed the songs she wanted the choir to sing. 

I want music just like in New Orleans.  Did I tell you I lived there for a few months?  Then she continued with more instructions on what to do with the things in the house and a reminder to take care of Claire, the cleaning lady. 

Don’t worry, I got it all written down in my will.  But your father and uncles will try to screw it up, do it cheap and keep the money for themselves.  Well I fixed them.  I paid already.  Oh, they’ll try, but they can’t change a thing.  You promise?

I promise Aunt Bea.  Lee sat still and tried to imagine her laid out in a casket and his uncles drunk at the wake.  A solitary tear trickled down his cheek.

Deep down he knew Bea would die soon.  Lee stayed the whole summer.  He fished but only cruised Ocean Avenue a few times and he never saw Ray. 

Bea died in her sleep in late August.  Bea had her funeral the way she wanted.   Her brothers sold the house by Thanksgiving, another year of booze and ponies for the Gregory men.  Each of the nieces and nephews got a thousand dollars and one last letter from Aunt Bea. 

In her a note to Lee she wrote, Follow your dreams and heart.  With the note came the Praying Hands medal she always wore.

Chapter 5

Lee only lasted at Stevens Institute until March of the following year.  It didn’t make any sense to stay any longer.  Physics, Calculus, Western History, Aunt Bea’s death, Newark, it just became too just much for him. 

I quit school, he told his father the first weekend in March.

Well, what are you gonna’ do now?  He casually answered.  His mother remained silent, and smiled weakly.

For now I’m going to the shore.  There are lots of places off West End Avenue with rooms for rent.  Should be something available this early in the season. 

Lee already took his some of his grandfather’s fishing gear.  For now, fishing would be enough.

***

Lee quickly found a furnished cottage near the jetties on the north end of Long Branch for thirty-five bucks a month, with a bump to fifty during the summer.  It had a bedroom, kitchen, a living room and a garage for his tools and car.  The back porch faced the Atlantic. 

By April he landed a part-time job with the Monmouth County maintenance department fixing small machines and office equipment.  They were gearing up for the increased summer workload.  That job would be over by the end by Labor Day.  He didn’t have plans after past the summer.

His Uncle Mike introduced him to the manager of the Gospel and R & B radio station in Asbury Park.  Two weeks later he began to work part-time at the station.  He helped the station engineer with the World War II surplus radio equipment one or two nights a week.  When something went wrong he was supposed to call the chief engineer.  Once he couldn’t wake the chief engineer from his drunken sleep, so he fixed the problem himself.

He fished in the mornings and the early evenings off the jetties and piers on the ocean around Monmouth County.  He explored the numerous rivers and inlets that dotted the coast from the Highlands down to Toms River.  His grandfather’s fishing gear included an old notebook with maps and notes about the best places and times to from the Highlands to Belmar.  There were lists of the best places for Blue Fish and Striped Bass, bait shops, and places to rent small boats for the day.  Lee found a second notebook with phone numbers and first names.  Inside the notebook he found a house key taped to the last page.

He spent most of the spring in a quest to find these spots.  Some were devoid of human presence, others crowded, and a few just didn’t exist anymore.  One spot in Red Bank was a parking lot for the Lobster Shack.

Lee kept his own notebook.  Where he’d been, who was there, what the place looked like.  He filled his car with fishing gear, notebooks, sodas and crackers.  He munched on the crackers while he fished or cleaned the day’s catch.  He relaxed, but still looked ahead to other things and places.

The Shore came alive a few weeks before Memorial Day.  Business owners cleaned the winter debris around the shops and businesses.  They applied fresh paint and repaired shutters and doors.  Cottage owners had other tasks to keep them busy.  They repaired damage from last summer’s tenants and winter storms.  The garbage men remained busy for the next few weeks as the curbs filled with old furniture and trash that accumulated after weekend repair surges. 

One rainy Saturday he took a break from fishing and called a few of the numbers in the book and asked for those mysterious first names.  There were two surprises.  The book wasn’t his grandfather’s, it belonged to his father.  Most were fishing buddies or drinking friends.  Mary and Carole’s names surprised him.  It didn’t take long to figure out that his father had a secret life.  His father managed to transform a traveling salesman’s job into two lives, one in Newark and another in Long Branch. 

Lee realized everyone knew about his second life in Long Branch, except him.  Aunt Bea knew, Grandma Ruth, Uncle Mike, everyone. 

Damn-it.  Damn-it.  He yelled in the empty cottage when he first discovered his father’s secret life.  Then he laughed.  His father didn’t like Newark, or his life there. He found a better one or at least a different life someplace else.  Now Lee looked for a different life, in the same place.

He never was able to locate Mary but he eventually connected with Carole.  He spoke to her at great length about his father.  He thought it strange to hear him called Paul, his given name.  Everyone, even Grandma Ruth, called him Little Paulie or just Paulie.  Paul was a different person.

I’ve got some sad news for you.  Carole paused.  You had a half-brother, Ryan. He’s dead.  Carole sobbed softly.

Paul and I stopped seeing each other right after that.  I don’t think he could bear the thought of not being able to help me.  That was probably when his father went on a weeklong drinking binge.  After that he became more quiet and withdrawn.

Lee had thought he followed his grandfather’s footsteps all spring.  The path belonged to his father.  His carefree life suddenly became more confused and more complicated.

Can I see you?  Carole asked.

Carole had a place in Keansburg, just a few miles from Long Branch.   She owned a small home with a well-kept lawn, set back from the street and hidden by tall bushes and a number of trees.  Figurines and glass decorations filled every available shelf and table.  Cabinets filled with angels, elephants and crosses. Just like the gift shops on Broad Street.  Pictures of Jesus and Pope Paul VI adorned the walls in every room. Pictures of President Kennedy, cut from the newspaper, were framed and on display on a large oak table in the dining room.

I knew your father in high school.  We dated for awhile and then Paul moved to Newark to find work before the war.

We met again during the war when he drove a produce truck back and forth from local farms to Newark.  Later he got a promotion to produce buyer for All State Grocers and he made trips throughout the state for weeks at a time. 

She had a son, Ryan, who was four years older than Lee.  Pictures of Ryan were all over the living room.  An ornate frame on the coffee table displayed Ryan’s high school graduation picture.  A big picture of Ryan in uniform held a place of honor next to Jesus in the front hall. 

He was coming home from Fort Bragg for Thanksgiving.  He got rear ended by a bus driver who fell asleep at the wheel.  On Route 1, south of Philly.  I pray that he didn’t suffer.  I miss him so.  She sobbed softly, but quickly composed herself and continued her conversation with Lee.

She reminded him of Aunt Bea.  She talked to him like she’d known him all his life.

I think I want to go back to college.  I want to get a place near school, definitely not in Newark, he lied.  The news of the death of his unknown sibling upset him.

Your plans better include more than just leaving a place.  Otherwise you’ll drift and lose your way. 

It may have been very logical, but at nineteen his plans didn’t stretch too far into the future.  Earlier he thought he would fish off the Brielle pier in a day or two.  But now, those plans seemed kind of trivial. 

I’m going to fish this summer.  He still fumbled for words or sentiment to reach out to Carole.

Fishing might fill your time, but can it fill your life?  Lee didn’t and couldn’t answer her question.

Can I come by and visit again? 

Oh, I’d love that.  We have something, or rather someone, in common.

Chapter 6

Spring raced on, like the ponies at the Monmouth Race Track.  Carole’s revelation that Lee had a dead brother created a desire to learn more about him and his father.  Carole encouraged his visits and he saw Carole as often as he could.  She offered him a place to stay.  Perhaps she thought it was a way to have a son again. 

Who knows?  God, perhaps.

Ryan, as he soon learned, was a lot like him.  He had a wanderlust quality that motivated him to leave Long Branch.  At seventeen he joined the army and then returned only sporadically and just for brief visits.  He sent his mother gifts from California, Germany and the Philippines.  Carole showed Lee jewelry, china figurines, and postcards from those far places.  Her remaining connection to Ryan was his gifts and photos of Ryan, now icons that Carole transformed into a memorial for Ryan.

Let me show you his work.  Carole led him to a small workshop behind the garage.

Ryan’s workshop was more like an art gallery than a workshop.  Ryan worked with his hands in a self-taught manner.  Woodcarvings and welded metal artwork filled the space.  A sketchpad filled with plans for future pieces was still on a drawing table near the window.  Finished and unfinished projects on and under the workbench and hung from the ceiling and walls.  Carole left his art intact, untouched since Ryan’s last visit home.

He only joined the army because of the GI Bill.  He wanted to attend art school but we couldn’t afford it.

Lee remained silent.  Ryan’s urge to leave home was parallel to Lee’s actions.  Lee had demons and dreams that drove him also.  He left Carole, as she stood mute in the workshop, lost in her own purgatory. He knew more about Ryan and less