Hart's Liberty

By Eugene Szalla

In 1944, on the eve of the Normandy Invasion, sailors John Hart and David Beal savor their last stint at liberty in London. There they meet Sally, a beautiful artist, who brings them together in ways the sailors never thought possible, allowing their friendship to deepen into a soul-searing love. But in the chaos and carnage of D-Day, John and David are separated, both believing the other is dead.

For more than sixty-five years, they lead lives of quiet desperation. But fate has other plans for these heroes, and the men, now octogenarians, find themselves with a remarkable second chance to recapture what they lostif they can overcome the forces determined to stand in their way.

This tender and uplifting love story shoots right to the core of bigotry, tolerance, and diversity, examining with a fresh perspective the public and private wars we all fight and illuminating the triumphant resilience of love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503563544

Eugene Szalla

In addition to Hart’s Liberty, Gene Szalla is in the process of completing a novel highlighting the life of an American Indian in the late 1800s. Gene has had a long and successful career in commercial space planning and interior design. He lives on the North Shore of Massachusetts with his partner, Jeff. An avid outdoorsman and conservationist, he enjoys architecture, carpentry, and filmmaking. He has never met a dog, or for that matter, any animal he didn’t like. After a succession of many pets over the years, he has recently acquired a thirteen-year old rescue, Lady. They are all very happy.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE CONFLUENCE

Behind the mist-covered, etched glass panes, the lights inside the Hubert Class Gallery glow brightly. As John Hart approaches, he lifts his face to feel the soft drizzle drifting through the air. It glazes the cobblestones forming a geometric carpet of tiny puddles in the low spots between the uniform mounds.

He feels, for a brief moment, transported back to his time in England during the war. He luxuriates in the reverie, then pulls himself back to the present, to this night in Rhode Island, and continues on toward the gallery doors. Glancing down the charming Newport lane, with its irresistible mix of rich history and contemporary chic, he thinks about the irony of urban renewal: how artists, attracted by cheap rents, become pioneers, the veritable canaries in a cultural coalmine, only to be shoved out when wealthier young professionals drive up property values and drive out the artists. Well, he thinks, if the artist is no longer in residence, at least the galleries remain. He stops at a shoulder-height A-frame easel that stands below the unlit marquee of the former theater-turned-gallery. It announces:

ALEX POOR: MORTAL SKIN

He’d read a review of the exhibit that morning in the Daily News Arts section, which described the large-format photographs of elderly nudes as controversial. Even at—or perhaps especially at—the age of 80, he was drawn to controversy. A rebellious spirit had taken hold of him in the last few years. Was it newfound courage, or loss of fear? In old age so much matters less. There just wasn’t time to waste.

He was already familiar with Alex Poor’s work. She liked to push the limits of conventional mores. Her last show consisted of photographs of people who were severely deformed. It was polarizing, too. Critics debated whether it exploited the subjects, or humanized them. He fell firmly in the latter camp. What he saw was a compassionate depiction of human beings that society prefers not to see at all.

Though John had a fairly impressive art collection, he’d never purchased any of Alex Poor’s work. He preferred non-representational pieces, finding them more intellectually and emotionally challenging. He felt that when an artist suggested life, rather than more literally depicted it, the viewer was compelled to look closer and was drawn deeper into the work and ultimately into their own being. Still, he admired Alex Poor. There was no denying that her work was compassionate and courageous.

Before John reaches the galley door, now refurbished to near-perfect ornateness, two young men accompanying a fair-haired young woman enter. One of the men courteously holds the door for John, who flashes him his irresistible smile. He knew the effect it had on people and he wasn’t afraid to deploy it, especially to polite and handsome gents.

John stands inside the threshold for a moment. He runs his hand from forehead to chin, feeling the dampness on his skin. He closes his eyes and remembers an evening like this, far away and long ago. The night expands…

Laughter from a far corner of the room pulls him back to the present. He takes a hanger from a portable rack and slips his rain jacket onto it, then hooks the hanger back on the bar. He puts his hat on the shelf above and he reaches down to remove his galoshes, then chuckles—who wears these any more, he thought, rolling his eyes. Ah well, nothing to do about that now. He slips off his boots and sets them conspicuously by themselves on the worn amber oak flooring beneath the coat rack. He realizes his shiny wing tips are going to be just as out of place among all the casual loafers and cutting-edge water-proof sneakers.

There isn’t an obvious beginning to the exhibit, so he arbitrarily turns to his right. Might as well start here, he thinks. He steps in front of an imposing, unframed portrait that is as tall as he. Staring back at him is a slightly overweight woman who could have been anywhere from 80 to 100 years old. She sits on a wooden chair wearing nothing but an enigmatic smile. Her thin, scraggly grey hair falls to her shoulders, her large pendulous breasts dangle to just above her belly button. Her hands are clasped in a sort of relaxed prayer position on her lap, discretely covering her pubic area. John knows that if her feet had been included in the portrait, she would have most likely had at least one hammer toe.

The next portrait shows a woman lying in a fetal position on a bed, gazing at the camera. John finds himself drawn to her lucid, light-blue eyes, which contrast with the leopard-print sheets under her. This woman, he feels sure, was in her early 80s, like him. He looks closer at her body, noting the almost translucent quality of her fair skin, her small breasts only slightly wrinkled, her bent legs hiding the pubis, the gnarled fingers of her hand resting on her upper leg.

Bette Davis had famously said, Getting old isn’t for sissies. The woman in the photo surely knew she was right. John knew she was right, too. Living alone was lonely. He spent too much time reflecting on his life—the decisions he made and how he would have fared if he’d made different choices. He didn’t have a lot of regrets, but nevertheless, he felt a deep emptiness and he had carried it for some 65 years. Tonight, it was suffusing his mind like the dense mist hanging in the air outside.

Glass shatters behind him. A lanky androgynous figure has dropped a tray of champagne-filled flutes. John catches her eye and she lets out an embarrassed giggle. Gracefully adjusting the gardenia in her hair and kneeling above the broken glass, she begins placing the larger shards on the tray. John would have helped her, but several patrons were already assisting and another server was sopping up the liquid with towels.

John recognizes Alex Poor standing further across the gallery, surrounded by a small, chattering group. She’s stunning, probably in her mid forties, John guessed, noting her bohemian Coco Chanel style. A Boho Coco, he thought, grinning. He heads in her direction, detouring around the accident scene. At six feet two inches tall, only one inch gone to bone loss (a point of pride, thank you very much), John was still an imposing presence, owing in no small part to the way the Navy taught him to carry himself. As he approaches, the circle of people around Alex Poor automatically opens up to include him.

He extends his hand purposefully toward Alex. I just wanted to congratulate you. John Hart. We met last year at the opening of your ‘Freaks’ exhibition. I am a big admirer of your work.

Yes, John, I remember you, she replies. Thank you for coming. She turns to the handsome thirtysomething black man in neat cornrows and a natty Italian suit standing next to her. This is my boyfriend, Andrew Houper, she says.

Andrew, nice to meet you, says John, shaking his hand.

I’m Christine, the woman to John’s right says. He immediately pegged her as being from money. It was a mix of her demeanor (authoritative yet utterly relaxed, a nothing-to-prove ease) and her exquisitely embroidered Prada dress. John had seen it in the window of a tony downtown boutique just the other day. The man next to Christine introduces himself with a firm handshake, the callused grip of an athlete. I’m Vincent, Christine’s husband and Alex’s attorney. We were discussing the lawsuit against Alex and the gallery.

Oh? This is the first I’ve heard of it, says John.

Vincent nods. It’s all about one photograph in the exhibit. Do you mind if I tell, Alex?

Alex laughs and shakes her head, but John can see her underlying concern.

Vincent continues. The daughter of the subject is upset about her father’s nude portrait and she’s threatening to sue. She sent a letter demanding the portrait not be included in the exhibit.

Andrew jumps in, adding, She says it violates her father’s privacy and dignity as a World War II veteran.

John thinks it best to try a positive spin. Well, there’s nothing better than controversy for an art exhibit, he says. It’ll certainly bring in the people.

That’s how everyone keeps framing it, says Vincent, but this could be a serious problem for Alex and the gallery. If the daughter prevails on her claim that her father’s privacy was violated, she could get a substantial judgment that Alex and the gallery would have to pay, not to mention a lot of legal fees.

Alex massages the back of her neck and says with a sigh, "I had the subject’s permission when I took his photograph. He was of sound mind when he agreed to be in my project, and he still is."

So what’s her motivation? That’s what I keep asking myself, asks Christine. I mean, is it just money? She may think she can get you to cough up some dough if she bitches loud enough."

Isn’t she a religious zealot? Andrew asks.

Fanatical Evangelical Christian, Vincent says.

Which photograph is it? John asks.

It’s the middle one on the far wall, says Alex, pointing to some male nudes that John can’t quite see from here due to the crowd.

Well, I sincerely hope everything works out with that, said John. I’d better get back to the show. You are fabulous photographer, Alex. She gives him a grateful smile.

He moves away and pauses to take in another photo, realizing that Christine and Vincent have broken away from the group as well and are now a few paces behind him, whispering. He can’t help but eavesdrop.

I get it, insists Vincent. I do! But it’s still 85-year-old genitalia. Who really wants to see that?

"Genitalia, Vince? You really don’t get it."

Vince puts his arm around his wife’s waist and draws her closer.

"Old pussy, OK. Culture obsessed with youth—yeah, yeah, yeah. I do get it. But, I mean, do the pictures have to be so big? Does it have to be huge old pussy?"

Hopeless, says Christine, laughing in spite of herself. "When my pubes turn grey, are you going to look for something young and cropped? You’re going to get old, too, Vincent my dear. It’s going to be withered dick and saggy balls for you. And not huge old dick, I’m sorry to say."

Honey, Vincent says through a chuckle, I know someday I’ll be living this. There will come a time when each erection is my Everest and I’ll need someone to wipe the soup from my chin. And I choose you to do the wiping, grey pubes and all.

Be still my beating heart, Christine says.

Vince’s phone rings. He checks its screen. It’s Dom again. I have to take it. He must be out of chambers. He answers the phone. Hey Dom! Hang on a minute. Vincent kisses the side of Christine’s head.

I’ll meet you out front, she says. I want to tell Alex that her brilliant show just saved our marriage.

Vince backs away sheepishly, says, Tell her it’s the best show I never want to see again.

Christine shakes a fist at him.

Brown, grey or bald, I’m your man, he says before slipping out the door.

Christine turns back to look for Alex. Her search takes her out of John’s view.

When he reaches the contentious portrait they’ve, he almost loses his breath. It’s of a man with caramel skin and exotic features, an arresting blend of indeterminate ethnicities that all come together quite handsomely. The picture is cropped to show the body from the neck to slightly below his knees. His left arm has been amputated just above the elbow. John stares in disbelief at the old man’s age softened tattoo, on his left pectoral: one half of a jagged heart with a banner centered over it bearing the name Sally.

John is unable to move.Simultaneously, as John’s hand rises to his heart, the drizzle outside swells into a thundering rain storm. Above him is a massive skylight that the gallery must have added when it was converted from the original theater. The rain drops explode like bullets against the thick glass.

If there was ever a time to believe in such weather as ancient Gods being awakened, this would certainly satisfy. John’s pounding heartbeat fills his ears. He almost doesn’t see the African-American woman next to him repeating his name.

John! John, are you all right? It’s Thelma, John. She steps in front of him. Forgive me for being late. I had to take a taxi and we hit awfully slow traffic. Please, let’s go home. You don’t look well. John? You’re scaring me.

Thelma takes John’s arm, leads him to the desk at the front of the gallery, and asks the staffer stationed there to please call them a cab.

John, still shaken, assures Thelma that he is all right. But she holds off on any more questions for the moment. She wants to get him home and settled.

CHAPTER 2

1944

The ocean, black and roiling, violently shifts the Naval Destroyer USS Corry from side to side, pummeling her course across the Atlantic. Inside the cramped aft quarters, petty officer John Hart reads a water-survival manual by flashlight, listening to the tin can groan beneath the sounds of his shipmates praying and puking. On the floor, vomit swirls from side to side with every smashing wave. The stench makes John almost miss the earlier smell of body odor and perspiration, which was almost pleasant in comparison. He is hoping the distraction of reading might help to combat the wretched sounds and choking odors. But alas.

Lying above him, his arm limply dangling over the side of the upper bunk, a young seaman named Jimmy Flick cries out, Hart! Am I dying? I think I’m dying.

John slips his book under the mattress to keep it from slipping off the bed and stands to talk the southern farm boy who lies pale and seemingly lifeless. His bedding is drenched with sweat and vomit.

You’re not dying kid, says John. Come on, let’s get you to sick bay. Boo Boo will have something you can take, and he’ll get you cleaned up.

The ship rolls again and suddenly Flick forcefully vomits over the edge of the bed.