The Scooter Chronicles: A Novel in Three Parts - Part Three

By Edward Beardsley

Scooter Sullivan is a man not without a country but without a solid rudder. And we all know what happens not only to a ship but even to the smallest boat without a rudderno direction.

Scooter struggles to find his way and his rudder, which turns out to be, simply, love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491777589

Edward Beardsley

EDWARD BEARDSLEY is the product of the Rogers Park section of Chicago and of Sullivan High School there. He dropped out of school to join the U.S. Navy at the end of World War II. He didn’t see the world but did see most of the Pacific Ocean including Hawaii, Japan, American Samoa, New Zealand, Antarctica, California and some of the girls there.

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Copyright © 2015 Edward Beardsley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-7757-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7759-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7758-9 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 09/18/2015

CONTENTS

Foreword

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Acknowledgements

For Roxane

FOREWORD

Dear Reader,

If you were to ask the writer of this book what its point of view is, he would probably say omniscient. This, along with other technical matters, is something most writers learn in class or from craft books, there being some few, however, who operate viscerally in all things literary. Actually, when they talk about omniscience, they are talking about me.

The last thousand years have not been kind to me, figuratively speaking. In what they call the High Renaissance period, Michelangelo, one of my best, painted me as a very old man in The Creation of Adam and in God Separating the Waters. They call it artistic license and, although I issue the licenses, I don’t issue instructions so I guess I shouldn’t complain. Titian, another one I’m quite proud of (in the best sense, of course), made the same mistake with his otherwise laudable work (I prefer not to use the term creation), Assumption of the Virgin, though I commend both him and Michael of the Angels for their themes.

So much for my Italians. Americans further compounded my incorrect and somewhat negative image by adopting as a national symbol a domineering father-figure in a suit of stars and stripes. The beard was shorter and, I must admit, a bit more stylish, but it didn’t help. The figure, actually called Uncle, was used to foster an almost worshipful patriotism in the two great, modern wars.

As a result of all this, great men representing authority have almost exclusively been portrayed wearing beards—with notable exceptions such as Julius Caesar and the British Uncle Sam, John Bull—including, I need not mention, my son. Pea brains, of course, are finite, and the conception of father therefore limited. No more than you, Dear Reader, did Michelangelo know what I look like. He knows now, as will you, but his painting days are over. You are made in my image but you are not I. Books are made in the image of the author but they are not the author.

I write all the books, but the writers decide what to put in and what to leave out.

Yours, truly,

God

ONE

1984, Early Fall

Scooter Sullivan carried his second double martini from the wet bar to the balcony and sat down. The fast-disappearing sun painted the trailing white wing feathers of the pelicans the gold of their heads. Seven stories on the beach below, car lights blinked on to search for ruts as the tide moved in. One of the cars—silver, Scooter thought but wasn’t sure in the fading light—reminded him of his Toyota hatchback. It reminded him, also, of the day seven years before when he drove in pain to the Hojos at US 1 and I-95.

Scooter Sullivan worshiped women (his own daughter said that her dad had never seen an ugly or met an uninteresting woman). Worshiped them mistakenly, it turned out. He saw them as a different breed of man, much as some people see children as simply small adults and God as the wisest, most perfect person, a role Scooter, at that time, and millions of others, could not see belonged to Mary, the mother of God.

But that’s another story and, as Scooter would rationalize later, there was ample reason for his myopia in the Adam and Rib account in the Old Testament, let alone in his genes. At any rate he certainly worshiped the woman beside him.

Inside her car, he hugged her, his face in her straight, blonde hair, the pain of parting now almost at its crest. To go away is to die a little, he said, carefully avoiding the French—doing, avoiding anything potentially negative, as new lovers have always done. I know, Lucy said, "Partir c’est mourir un peu."

It is almost impossible to become sexually aroused while crying. Scooter had started and Lucy’s tears followed the instant they held each other. They weren’t lovers yet, not in the physical sense at least. They’d held hands a few times in his car driving to a meeting. Neither would admit it, even to themselves, but they were already lovers as that means no longer belonging exclusively to one’s spouse. This assignation was not about sex. It was about surgery, about the separation of two people who needed each other more than they wanted each other but didn’t know why except for the feeling that each had met destiny.

John Laskey had come home to marry Lucy in 1972. On March 30 the North Vietnamese crossed the DMZ into Quang Tri Province. Shortly after, the U.S. sent waves of B-52’s over the north for the first time in five years. John Laskey was the pilot of one of the bombers. In spite of his wounds he managed to return the damaged plane to its base in Thailand. He left Walter Reed Hospital in July and married Lucy August 5 in Philadelphia. He was reassigned to Thailand for two years after the war and was on his way home as Lucy and Scooter held each other for what they thought was the last time.

They had kissed, passionate but not sexual. The windows were down in relief from the heat of their bodies and of midday August. They wore shorts and tee shirts, her body brown from the beaches she loved, his from hours of running. Scooter had asked Lucy about her favorite beach spot. She told him and, feigning coincidence, he found her at the Silver Beach approach one afternoon after school about halfway through his afternoon run to the lighthouse. They talked of school-kids and problems, managing pretty well to avoid with their eyes the obvious between her two-piece swimsuit and his damp, nylon running shorts. He couldn’t stay long, he explained. Alice was to pick him up at the inlet. She said she understood, seeming, he was pleased, to be more disappointed than relieved.

Now she twisted a wrinkled handkerchief and Scooter wondered if she always bit her nails. Why Charleston? Scooter said. I was hoping for Patrick Air Base so we—so you could stay on at school. You’ve got your place in Port Orange. It’s an easy commute from the Cape on weekends.

Lucy twirled the dial knob on the radio without turning it on. She sighed for breath and ended up with tears. I asked, almost begged him to put in for it. He said he did; I don’t know. Before he went over the first time, he wanted to know, as he put it, if I could hold out for him until he got back. I asked him in return if that was something we needed to talk about, reminding him that beautiful women come with eyes other than round. We made love the night before he left, but we didn’t talk about that. Actually, we got married without talking about it. I have a feeling that this time it’ll come up for sure. I really don’t want to know, but I sense that he’ll push me on it.

Will he tell the truth?

Probably, but he’ll make me go first. Lucy grinned. You know how guys are.

He and Jean hadn’t had much time or opportunity, and he and Alice, well, Alice had had her music and faith to keep her warm and he’d had the cold pool at the Y. But what about Carol and Lori? No holds barred, you might say. This woman, Scooter sensed, was the perfect amalgam of softness and strength, of concupiscence and chastity. She knew what she was doing as John left for war, knew of the inevitable accounting, and knew, also, that he would come home to marry her, chaste or not. And if not that she would be able to put that behind her, too. Scooter knew somehow that Lucy’s love for John was a decision more than an emotion, and one that she’d stick by. Yes, Scooter said, I know how men are. He knew as well that Lucy would tell John the truth and wondered if that truth would include what she and Scooter felt for each other. Was that necessary, he wondered. Were they cheating?

Actually, it’s not Charleston, at least not right away, Lucy said. John’s been assigned to Shaw, outside of Sumter, South Carolina. He wanted Charleston Air Force Base—one of his buddies from ’Nam is there. He’ll be instructing at Shaw, and he’s not happy about that, but they promised Charleston after a year. Lucy dabbed at one eye with her handkerchief and continued fiddling with the radio dial. John will commute on weekends. It’s only about a two hour drive. I went up last week for an interview at the College of Charleston. I’ll be teaching counseling in the elementary education department. And I found a place on just the second try. It’s on Ashley River Road. She handed him a slip of paper with the address on it. I’ll send the phone number as soon as I get one. Scooter studied the address as he might a jail sentence.

Where’s the college? he said.

Just across the river, about five miles from the house. I think it’s King Street. I’ll send you the address.

Is that where I write?

I’ll get a box. What about you?

Me, too.

Lucy took a package from her purse. It was wrapped in white tissue paper held by a thin, green ribbon.

Scooter smiled. Green, he said, your favorite color. He unwrapped the small package. A gold Cross pen, he said.

I hope you’ll use it, Lucy said.

Every day, I promise. Maybe just a scrap, a match cover, but something.

She smiled. I’ll match your cover.

I see you on a beach. Will you miss that?

It’s a few miles from the ocean, but they say the best beaches are on the bay, just a couple of blocks from the college. I’ll send you a picture.

In your swimsuit?

Sure. Why not? Unless, you understand, I put on a bunch of weight. She laughed. They both looked at her well-tended figure. She put her hand against her stomach. He put his hand on hers and they kissed, this time tenderly sexual but without the rush of passion. They seemed both to know that if there was more it must wait, no questions asked.

It’s about three hours, she said.

I know. It’s time.

More tears?

More tears.

It’s okay. Plenty of time to dry.

Surgery, Scooter said.

I know, Lucy said.

Will there be scars?

More than likely, she said, turning the key in the green Volkswagen. The evidence of life lived.

Scooter got out of the car. He leaned into the open window. Be careful on the road. I love you, you know.

Through her tears she saw his. I know. I know.

The radio was on, now. Anne Murray. You held my hand when it was cold. When I was lost, you took me home. You put me high upon a pedestal, so high that I can almost see eternity, You needed me, You needed me. Lucy let him listen and then inched her way toward the interstate ramp.

TWO

Scooter Sullivan had never been a letter writer. In the service there had been too much to say, too little time, and the fear that the expression would be either inadequate or blurred. At one point, having not heard for months and after the papers reported the death of a shipmate, Scooter’s dad asked a retired commander to see what the hell is going on. The commander radioed Scooter’s skipper and, for the first and last time, Scooter stood before his captain, navy-blue watch cap in hand.

Your folks are worried, Sullivan. Say they haven’t heard in months.

Sorry, sir.

What’s the problem, Son, shootin’ craps?

Nawsir, that’s against regs; besides, they won’t pay us until we get back.

Writing anyone else? Girlfriends? Buddies?

Just my brother. And I usually ask him to share with the folks—you know, the parts that are O.K.

Sullivan, we’ve got a major naval operation going here. I haven’t got time to wipe your nose—or your ass, for that matter. Understand?

Yessir. I understand.

Good. Now I don’t need another, not one, call about whether this crew gets enough to eat or shits regular. Got it?! Scooter nodded. And I want at least one letter a week, sailor. You hear me? The skipper didn’t wait for an answer. Dismissed.

Scooter wrote regularly to his parents after that and, of course, to his brother. His dad had given him a camera to record his travels but he seldom used it. It was the letters to his brother he knew would become his log, the letters he was careful not to reveal to his skipper.

He further honed his missive skills in writing to Alice after Lori died. In the late 50’s it was considered unseemly, if not downright disrespectful, to date within a couple of years of a spouse’s death. So he and Alice wrote, mostly of love at its loftiest, of Cyrano and Browning and Gibran. One night, the children in bed, he fell upon Donne: What if this present were the world’s last night?, he wrote, in the dark of his study and the confusion of death. Alice returned, with Donne: Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls. He knew that he’d have to work harder to accept that than she, but he liked that spiring level of love, he told himself, for now.

They each got a post office box, Scooter and Lucy, and with that simplest of acts began their tangled web. They had promised to write daily, something, and to accept without question as unavoidable those they missed. From the beginning the letters were long, though they dealt mainly with the problems of work. Lucy had been replaced by a man who, Scooter acknowledged, knew the trade if not the transcendence. Scooter was convinced that she was the glue that had held the human threads of the school together through the vortex of the miasma that had been her year there. When he told her that, in the car on that last day, she may have known he was right but she held his hand and smiled in reassurance, saying nothing. As it turned out, Scooter was right.

Lucy wrote: "The College of Charleston is on a peninsula between the Ashley and Cooper Rivers. A couple of miles from the college, down King Street, at the tip of the peninsula is White Point Gardens where the rivers join to form the bay. From the gardens on a clear day you can see Fort Sumter, between Sullivans Island and James Island, guarding the city against roving Atlantic coast pirates—or so it seems easy to imagine. Most of my letters probably will come to you from White Point, including this one. It’s a beautiful spot to unwind after a long day before heading home to an empty house. I’m not sure what I’ll do on the weekends. During the day, John stays busy with his buddy, golfing or hanging out at the air base. Occasionally, we go to the beach together, but he doesn’t read much and we’ll soon catch up on the past. We toured the gardens a couple of weekends ago. He liked them for me. I plan to keep them for us, Scooter.

So far, the College of Charleston is fine. There’s an awful lot of pride here—in the grand old homes, the general beauty of the city, its role in the country’s history. Four months before the start of the Civil War (aka The War Between the States), Charleston signed the first order of secession. The older heads at the school don’t mind letting you know that the college was founded in 1770, a hundred years before Johns Hopkins and twenty years before N.C. State, both of which see themselves as two of the earliest ‘institutions of higher leaning.’ And, Scooter, next time you’re in the Big Apple, you don’t need to mention that this li’l ol’ southern school became the first city college in the country—more than twenty years before New York’s Free Academy!! We may talk slow but they ain’t no grass growin’ undah foot heah, less’n its at a garden pahty, Sugah.

There was, however, a slight problem: "Parents are generally conservative when it comes to their children, Scooter, as you well know. Students, on the other hand, grow more liberal with age until in college they are sure they know more than their parents and that the chief problem of the world is the establishment. Also, generally speaking, the instructors (like me, I guess) run more to the left than the assistant professors and they to the associate professors and on up the line. So it was the Dean who first got itchy about my use of Glasser’s Reality Therapy and Schools Without Failure.

"The former says, in effect (and contrary to Freud), that your past relationship experiences of sex,