A Tame Deer: Undiagnosed Mental Illness

By R. Warren Schuenemann

In the late 1970s, President Jimmie Carter promoted community mental health centers, and Americas prison population dropped for the only time in our history. His vision was undone by the next administration. Human behavior is motivated from within by emotion, the bad as well as the good.
Matt Granger struggled for four decades with perplexing, disgusting misbehavior, indecent exposure, and sexual agressiveness, not knowing why he lived with general dissatisfaction and the unholy urge to do something. He even tried eight years in prison, idealistically believing that the American Department of Corrections did as advertised and the nation had corrections professionals.

Realizing that the justice sysytem and Corrections are shams, he managed himself as best he could, acting-out anonymously, since courts and prisons did not do any good. Nobody knew what he did at random, except for innocent victims.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524689827

R. Warren Schuenemann

Marine Corps Sergeant R. Warren Schuenemann received the Purple Heart and medals for valor in Vietnam. Graduating summa cum laude from the University of Houston he worked as a licensed plumber in two states and with a Secret Security clearance on military bases. His marriage solemnized in the Salt Lake Temple produced one son. The American Correctional Association published an article of his on sex offender treatment in a criminal justice textbook. Twice put in prison, Warren first received a 99 year sentence for burglary from a Dallas jury, overturned by the Texas Supreme Court due to prosecutor misconduct. After seeing the state's antics, the witness refused to testify again and told prosecutors to go to hell. Warren, however, spent eight years in the Department of Corrections without rehabilitation or a diagnosis of his behavior problems. The second incarceration: a police chief promised on videotape emphasis on reformation and named the state school doctors. Relying on promises, Warren pled no contest to everything prosecutors filed. The judge labelled him a 'career criminal' and 'worst offender' although he did not come up to average offender criteria. There was not so much as a scratch or a dirty word. The judge made up a state record 69 year sentence, cute in media headlines for a sex offender. Appeal judges ignored his exceptional rehabilitation potential, major mental illness, and post-traumatic stress disorder, not just from Vietnam, but from severe childhood abuse, as they focused on the type of crime. The case and videotape went all the way to the US Supreme Court. After 26 more years in prison, Warren came up for parole. The Board in the hearing said all he had to do was retake the sex offender school he had graduated from 21 years earlier. Three hours later, a smirking parole officer handed him the Board's official ten year sentence.

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© 2017 R. Warren Schuenemann. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/09/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5246-8983-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-8981-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-8982-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017906605

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Matthew Oliver Granger, blessed with intelligence, industriousness, talents, spiritual strengths, and a good education does his best in life, not knowing he is handicapped by undiagnosed, therefore untreated childhood abuse, a major mental illness, and post-traumatic stress disorder. Doing his best fulfilling societal expectations in family, home, work, and community service, he is unaware of underlying flaws and weaknesses. To cure himself of disgusting misbehavior, he takes radical steps, enlisting in the US Marine Corps at the height of the Vietnam war, confesses to police to receive advertised benefit of the Department of Corrections, majors in psychology in college, and struggles to maintain a family, his primary responsibility. Conscientiously he does the best he can, including looking for competent medical help, unaware of what he does not know.

Because of his intelligence, education, and admirable accomplishments due to obsessive-compulsive strengths, judgmental authorities expect him to properly manage himself. They attribute his failings to incorrigible character and criminalize the misbehavior. Their faulty attributions overlook the situational correctable flaws not of his making. It is widely and falsely assumed that sex offenders cannot help themselves, cannot learn how to manage themselves.

Some can, if given diagnosis and treatment.

CHAPTER ONE

The Adolphus Hotel, downtown Dallas, buzzed with major remodeling. Tradesmen swarmed through hallways, offices, and rooms with tools and materials. A gutted first-floor office looked out through a picture window to sidewalk traffic. Pedestrians glanced through the long display window into a room cluttered with lengths of copper pipe and boxes of cast-iron fittings. Sent there by journeyman plumbers to chase necessary supplies, apprentice Matt knew, I shouldn’t be here now. I should be working on the upper floor. But compulsion held him as surely as any jail cell.

One more minute. Nobody will miss me. Over the past week he had done this a dozen times. Women walking down the city sidewalk had variously ignored him, laughed, pointed, giggled, or gawked. It’s just for fun. There’s no harm. But every time, afterwards, I feel like less of a man for giving in to the urge.

Bright lights in the room made it easy for curious pedestrians to see inside. He bided his time. Minutes stretched into a wasted half hour as he waited for the right combination of circumstances. There it is! The sidewalk was empty except for two approaching young female office workers. This is perfect. His spirits rose. Lightly he touched himself. Moving into the best light, he pretended to be preoccupied with changing his jeans, boxers, and socks, never looking in their direction. One finally noticed, nudged her friend, and pointed into the window. Catching it out of the corner of his eye, he grinned.

As soon as they passed, he rushed to finish dressing and returned to where he should be working. Relief infused him, but he also felt dirty. At least I made the most of the opportunity, he congratulated himself for creating excitement out of nothing.

An hour later an Adolphus security guard approached asking, Excuse me sir, but would you please come with me? The chief wants to ask you a few questions.

Matt’s thoughts raced. How can I refuse? There’s no avoiding it. Suddenly sick to his stomach, he feared the worst. Walking with the security man towards administrative offices, he saw the same two women sitting in the lobby and his guts wrenched. Oh, no. This is the end of my world.

Ushered straight into the security manager’s office, he braced for the worst.

You’re Matthew Oliver Granger? the manager asked. Were you in the side street office earlier?

He knew better than to try to deny or play innocent. Mentally he assessed the predicament. Two witnesses are sitting right outside. They identified me. I’m caught. Humiliated, his stricken conscience grasped the array of penalties and punishments. Viewing himself as degenerate in comparison to other working men, his self-esteem crumbled.

Under questioning, he broke down into blubbering tears and a runny nose and acknowledged his guilt. Why do I do such things? In anguish, he berated himself. Nothing the veteran manager could say, no threat of dire punishment, cut deeper than his own shame and blame.

You have to leave the property right now, the manager said. His voice and manner dropped the overbearing condemnation. And agree to never come back. That’s as far as I’ll take action.

You won’t call the police? Matt stated his greatest fear. On probation for burglary, he worried that a report would get him revoked and sent to prison.

No need for police, the manager wearily explained. That would only cost me more wasted time and effort. Indecent exposure isn’t that big of a deal compared to other things going on in the hotel in an average day. But you’ve got to go.

Mere expulsion came as a relief. Emotionally raw, spent, and mangled, he collected his tools in a deep funk while avoiding people’s eyes and questions. A hotel security guard notified the plumbing superintendent. No doubt he’s telling him everything. All the men are going to be snickering about me. This is so embarrassing. Hope I never see any of them again. Ashamed of himself and totally whipped, he drove away in his white Rambler American.

Serious minded, he obsessed over the natural consequences. Lost my job, a good paycheck, vocational training with a promising future, and the respect of those men. Got to find work somewhere. Late summer jobs for teenagers are hard to find. I need to make money for my half of the rent, groceries, and utilities. What am I going to tell Del, church members, my mother, and friends? How can I explain losing the job? What if a prospective employer calls this one for references? The thought of his last boss, Calvin, caused him to kick himself all the more. I really let him down, big time. Calvin owned the plumbing company and was a close friend of Liz, his mother.

At home in the apartment, he searched the newspaper employment section and saw a Brown Parcel Service want ad. After calling to make an appointment, he wore a suit, white shirt, and tie to the interview. The supervisor explained, It’s only a part-time job from 3.30 to 8am on weekdays.

I’m used to those hours. All through high school I worked as an early-morning paperboy.

Anxious due to the recent firing, he felt expansive relief. Brown is hiring me! He appreciated the good-paying manual labor stevedore job, loading and unloading freight trucks in the terminal.

Next, he found a regular daytime job as a lifeguard at a private swim club. A graduate of the Red Cross lifesaving course at the pool on the Dallas Naval Air Station, he was qualified and licensed. At nine am every morning he unlocked the swim club gates, tested the chlorine in the sparkling blue water, added chemicals to achieve the right Ph balance, then mounted the lifeguard stand.

After hours, he found evening employment as a stocker at the neighborhood A&P grocery store. I don’t mind working by the hour around the clock at menial jobs. I’m grateful for an opportunity to make the hours of the day productive.

One evening as he closed the swimming pool, a lingering matron suggested, Let’s go to the Circle, pick up a bottle of Bacardi, or whatever you’d like, and go over to my place. The 1960’s pill gave women wings. He took her up on the offer, but later declined in part. No thanks, I don’t drink.

The next week a different matron, Mrs. Jones, spent an inordinate amount of time around the pool before extending her invitation. She outlined the plan. He supervises the graveyard shift and is gone by midnight. Feel free to drop in whenever you’re up to it. The patio door is always unlocked. Temptation was hard to resist because it played and replayed, looping around in his mind.

His same-age girlfriends knew he was a Mormon. I don’t want to do anything against church standards with anybody who knows I am a member. As a result, he only went so far with dates, including Del, his high school sweetheart, who was away at the university in Austin. They had dated since before he joined the church at age fifteen.

Growing up in a home with liberal parental role models, he yearned for sexual romps, but his strong conscience knew that was wrong. At ease around permissive people, he took up with Claudia at summer school in California. Her second-generation Swedish openness and early experiences made her a comfortable companion. He fondly remembered two years back to their nightly beach towel rendezvous in the orange grove on sultry summer nights and how she guided her hand. Aching with adolescent hormones but not wanting to take advantage, he made no effort to cross the line.

Unable to completely contain his urges, he gave himself permission with a compromise. As long as a woman doesn’t know me, my name, or that I’m a member of the church, it’s okay to indulge. And there were exceptions to that rule. Acting somewhat anonymously, he gave himself license. At the end of a Friday night date, he took his girlfriend home after midnight and drove to Mrs. Jones’ house. Her patio garden door was unlocked so he let himself in.

One night she asked, You’re so smart and thoughtful. Why aren’t you in school?

Most of my friends are in college, he started explaining, but was too ashamed to disclose the full story. The year before, his emotional problems and practice of entering apartments at night had netted him a probation in the Texas justice system. Prior to that, he had qualified for admission to Harvard, or for an appointment to the US Naval Academy. The conviction, however, stripped away those opportunities.

After months of working three jobs, he questioned, I could keep doing this for the next ten years, but then where would I be? Just a manual laborer? Besides going out on late night misadventures, I can’t stop indecently exposing myself. The wretched habit had plagued him ever since he was four years old. Over time, he had learned to do it anonymously, away from home, at places where he could not be linked by name to the deed. I don’t want to get caught and go through all those hassles. One of these days I’ll be able to stop it for good. I’ll grow out of it.

A Reader’s Digest article offered hope. It says here that if a person goes for a year without repeating a bad habit, then he’s considered cured. To date, however, he could not resist for a month.

An inveterate self-improver, he thought, I don’t have money for college. I don’t expose myself to guys. Maybe an enlistment in the Marines would solve everything? Vietnam can’t be as bad as the TV pictures. Newspapers, magazines, and the six o’clock nightly news hype up everything to boost ratings to sell advertising space to American corporations. We learned all about the dollar-driven sensationalized press two years ago at the California university summer school. After enlistment, I’ll be able to go to college on the GI Bill.

Saturday morning, he walked into the recruiting office and filled out the dozen necessary forms. In the box for criminal conviction, he duly reported, Burglary, five years’ probation, and the name of his probation officer.

We’ll have to see about getting a waiver on this conviction, the Marine recruiter said, standing eye to eye with Matt. Both stood six feet tall, athletically lean, and clean cut. Since Matt wore a flat-top, even their hairstyles looked alike. Matt’s eyes, intelligent expressive face, and rosy cheeks set him apart.

At home in the apartment, his mother asked, Hon, are you sure this is what you want to do? Her older brother Quentin and half-brothers were Marines in World War Two.

It looks like the best decision of my life, he assured her.

Well then, she spoke with a pronounced Texas twang, this Thanksgiving may be our last time together as a family. Maybe we can get together with your father, Cutter, and do something?

Like what? You sure the fashion center can get along without you?

I’ll take a few vacation days. They don’t need me teaching modelling or cosmetics over the holidays. One of our slack times.

Over the telephone, she broached the idea of a Thanksgiving visit to Cutter in Wisconsin. Since retiring from the navy, he had made a living selling and servicing law books in conjunction with the nation’s leading legal publisher. That’s a great idea! he declared. Let’s go deer hunting. White tails in Wisconsin are twice the size of those in Texas and grow bigger racks. Why don’t you and the boy fly up to Milwaukee and we’ll go hunting in Horicon Marsh or up in the north woods.

Cutter met their plane at Billy Mitchell Field and drove them straight to an army-navy surplus store where they bought cold-weather gear and hunting licenses. The next day, north of Rhinelander, they found an abandoned farm that one of Cutter’s clients had recommended. Scouting fields and woods, they located deer trails before checking in to the closest motel at sunset. After dinner at the town café, they returned to their motel room.

With nothing better to do, Cutter launched into a story about his client, one of the state’s leading judges who had grown up on the farm. "He said that when he was a boy, he had two orphan deer, twin bucks, as pets. He fed and played with them both the same and could hardly tell them apart. They continued coming in to the house even after their horns started growing. Then one day his mom got mad at them for eating butter and salt off of her dining room table and chased them out with a broom, threatening to turn them into venison stew.

After that, one deer wouldn’t come in the house any more. He hung further and further back on the property until finally he returned to the woods and went wild. But the other one was so tame he rarely left the yard. He hung around the barn all year long, eating corn, the cow’s grain, and whatever he could get to in the garden. With all the nutrition over a few years, he grew a monster rack, the best-looking set of wicked horns anybody had ever seen, a whopping state record. But he was still so tame that the judge could walk up to him with a gun and pet him. The deer wasn’t afraid at all, just trusted everybody. Judge said it reminded him of the scripture where it talks about the wolf, lamb, fatling, and a little child all together. Where they shall not hurt nor destroy. Because this deer didn’t expect anybody to try to hurt him. It was like he came from that future enlightened time.

What happened to him? Liz asked.

Well one day, it was hunting season, the family heard a shot but didn’t think anything of it until a city guy ran up to the house all excited about this fantastic deer he’d just shot. The judge, he was still a boy back then, ran out to the other side of the barn and, sure enough, it was his pet. They let the hunter take the trophy horns, that’s all he wanted, and buried the tame deer at home on the property.

She commented, Too bad the hunter couldn’t have done a better job of sorting out wild ones from the tame. There has to be a way to tell the difference.

You’d think so, Cutter agreed. But when a guy’s out hunting, all he wants is one with big horns to tag.

Eventually Cutter tired of telling stories and excused himself to the bathroom with the newspaper and a handful of girlie magazines. She quipped, Won’t see him for another hour.

Entertaining herself, she tried on different combinations of the recently purchased cold-weather clothing. Pretending to model the latest in sizzling Hicksville fashion, she stepped into oversize white bunny boots, donned a greenish furry cap with earflaps and a visor that stood out at crazy angles, exchanged her robe for a plastic orange vest, and swung a purple muffler around her neck.

Quick, take my picture! she laughed at Matt, like a little girl playing dress up. And call me Elsie while we’re goofing around.

Obediently he picked up the handy polaroid camera and snapped noisy whirling pictures as she mugged, making zany faces like the village idiot. She took everything off and knelt on the bed for a cheesy pin-up pose, then moved around for another nudie picture. Then Elsie started over again, trying on long johns and different combinations while waving a skinning knife. Every time she struck a pose and smiled, he took her picture, as expected.

Okay, it’s your turn, she drafted him into her play.

Oh, no. I can’t, he protested in good humor.

Be a good sport. Don’t be a party pooper, she overrode his objections. Here, give me the camera.

What do you want me to do? he laughed, giving in.

Ummm… put on the black ski mask, she directed. And pick up the hatchet like you’re a wild man. She loved playing photographer almost as much as she loved playing the camera’s darling. After taking pictures of him looming over her, menacing with the raised hatchet, she coached another scene.

Get ready, she said, headed towards the bathroom. When I say so, grab the door knob, open it fast, and I’ll get Cutter’s picture before he reacts. Ready? Go!

Matt did as he was told, opened the door, and she snapped pictures of the surprised man on the commode. Unflappable, he waved her away with a swipe of his arm up in the air with a cigarette dangling from an amused grin. Seeing that was as much of a reaction as she was going to get, Liz closed the door, leaving her husband in peace.

Turning her attention to the colorful polaroids, she picked up a pair of scissors and cropped a few. Handing two to Matt, she merrily explained, Here’s good ones for your wallet.

Since it would be impolite to refuse, he accepted. One showed him wearing the black ski mask, brandishing the hatchet. The other was a pinup pose of her kneeling on the bed showcasing her natural red hair and milky white curves in between outfits. He slipped both risqué pictures where they would never be seen, behind regular wallet photos, and made a mental note, I’ll throw them both away as soon as nobody’s looking. It had been a serendipitous occasion, spontaneous fun, and thought nothing more of it.

After two days of hunting in the cold woods and seeing nothing, they drove back to Milwaukee. Thanksgiving weekend ended in high spirits as Liz and Matt flew home to Dallas.

The recruiter called Matt’s probation officer and then Headquarters Marine Corps, Washington, DC which issued an official waiver. Acting for the State of Texas, the probation officer and judge dropped the probation on the condition of Matthew Granger’s enlistment. He felt relieved. A brand new fresh start! On the flight to California, he hoped and prayed, once more, Dear Heavenly Father, please help me leave all of my misbehavior, every kind, far behind.

At San Diego International, they were herded into a military cattle car that soon spewed them out at the Marine Recruit Depot. Fanatical drill instructors screamed at raw recruits tumbling from the bus, On the yellow footprints, you slimy pukes!

This is it! I’m on my way. This is what I volunteered for, to protect my country and constitution from all enemies, foreign and domestic. He mulled the words of that morning’s oath.

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As a girl at home in Dallas, Alisha promptly did chores and looked after responsibilities, keeping possessions and herself neat and clean. By doing her share plus a little more, she occupied the peaceful eye of their domestic hurricane. Although her colonel father was retired from the army, he worked with the Pentagon and they were still a military family. Having spent five years in Germany, three at the Air Force Academy, and more in duty stations from Mississippi and Texas to Alaska, they remained a close unit. Around and around the house swirled her older sister Trixie and two younger brothers Evan and Howard. Trixie, the bossy type, rode herd on them and appeared to have always been in charge, certainly since the car accident that left their mom Ursula disabled. Trixie enforced ancient and obscure orders from mom for the boys to do this and avoid doing that. The boys teamed up on everything. With all the commotion going on at home, Alisha slipped into the background. She simply did her household chores and whatever was asked of her, then faded back, keeping to herself with books and magazines.

What are you reading now? asked Evan as he paused in mid-zoom.

Howie asked, What happened to the book you were reading yesterday?

I finished it and the others and took them back to the library, she explained, answering the last question first. Checking titles, she said, These are about astronomy, President Jefferson, and positive thinking.

Why do you do so much reading on the carpet at the end of the sofa? asked Evan. Howie added, You never make a sound.

Before Alisha had a chance to say anything, Trixie piped up. She reads there because the light’s good under the lamp and because you two aren’t likely to run her over in the corner. Now get along, you two. Have you brushed your teeth yet?

Comfortable at home in the only family she had ever known, Alisha felt no need to raise a fuss, certainly not any contention that might provoke the terrible nightmare, her recurring dream of a blazing car wreck. Instead, she willed herself to relax, to still her pounding heart. Resorting to self-talk, she repeated, I’m just like everyone else, or everyone is about the same as me, so there’s no need to call attention to myself. She was only a few inches taller than most girls at school but corrected that with a slouch. There was not too much of anything in her mild personality and physical proportions; they were just right. Soft brown hair and hazel eyes matched everybody’s in her family. Her clothes were ordinary enough, like those that other girls wore to school. Being so nearly average in face and form made Alisha the classic girl next door. Only her habitual height correction detracted from a lovely appearance, unless hair style counts. Hers was more easy to manage than stylish, and could have been another subconscious dodge to avoid attention. I don’t want to waste time with the beehive look, or big night curlers, or teasing. As a result, people had to look at her, really look, in order to see her adolescent natural beauty, unadorned by makeup or much of a smile. Those big dreamy eyes of hers avoided contact and veiled passion about her teenage desires. Coming and going essentially unnoticed, she preferred it that way.

Kids in her high school clotted in cliques according to mutual interests: socials, ropers, dopers, Baptists, jocks, politicians, but she was not so inclined. Unrequired groups are senseless, she believed. Classes and mandatory pep rallies were the extent of her weekday conglomerating, Sunday School and sacrament meetings on weekends. Assigned homework and making top grades received priority. Isn’t that what school is all about? she shrugged. Right after classes she was expected straight home, like her sister and brothers. I don’t want to be late or give Mother any reason to make a scene. Anything to avoid criticism and contention.

Twice a week she rushed to finish her homework in order to claim the carpet seat directly in front of the television set where she insisted, I was here first! so she could watch her favorites, The Cartwrights and Andy of Mayberry. She loved the shows for themselves and sighed, Isn’t Little Joe just dreamy? He’d make the perfect husband. While watching the other program, she indulged in whimsy, I’d love to mother a little boy of my own, or a string of them, just like Opie, who’s nothing at all like my hyper brothers.

From the first introductory typing class, it was plain she had a gift. A hundred words a minute on any beat-up classroom manual came as simply as breathing. Can’t anybody do it? In that year’s high school Texas Interscholastic League competition, she placed third in state without making any special effort. Practicing might be construed as some form of cheating, she thought.

It was her typing teacher who planted the idea of getting a job when he brought in the employment section of the Dallas Morning News with a full column seeking typists. Recognizing National Home Insurance as the tall office building down Central Expressway only a few miles from the house, she went there, took their standard typing test, and finished before the buzzer rang. With hands folded quietly in her lap she sat waiting another thirty seconds for the timer, then turned in her page with the other girls. The proctor never noticed that she had finished early. Nevertheless, she had the highest rate and zero mistakes, which led to one of six summer openings at the main office. Before joining the payroll, she had to provide a social security number. At the post office, she filled out the requisite form. On the card where it asked for full name, she signed: Alisha McKinley Kohler.

This is just a summer job, the supervisor at National Home made that clear at the beginning of June. But at the end of August, before Alisha’s senior year started, the supervisor broached a new arrangement. Honey, would you like to continue in the typing pool on a part-time basis, two or three hours after school, and if you want, Saturday mornings? You get way more done than the other girls.

Alisha’s exemplary productivity was due to no-nonsense efficiency when away from her IBM Electric. Extremely conscientious, she did not feel comfortable wasting company time in chit-chat, or on extended breaks. National Home Insurance is paying me by the hour, so they’re entitled to a full sixty working minutes as metered on the time clock. For another thing, as a good member of the church, she did not smoke cigarettes, or drink coffee, which precluded conventional excuses for breaks. Furthermore, she had no distracting anxieties of supporting and raising a family common to so many working women.

Coworkers enjoyed Alisha’s prim freshness. Their mothering instincts inclined them to take her under their protective care, since they, more than her, sensed their separate worlds. As they envied her youthful innocence and tabula rasa, she idealistically coveted their babies and assumed domestic bliss with loving husbands. Within the bonds of matrimony, married women must know what joy is, Alisha romantically daydreamed, but not on the job. Insulated from her coworkers by life circumstances and a significant age difference of only a few years, she poured a steady stream of completed forms and accident reports from her typewriter with a serious mindedness matched by her God-given manual dexterity. Nothing frivolous here. Precisely because she was the youngest and the only part-timer she felt, I have to prove myself every day, every hour, every page. Nobody’s going to think I’m a token charity case like so many of National Home’s community involvements.

Two dollars an hour that summer was first-rate pay and nearly all of it was saved since Alisha caught rides to work with a National Home secretary who lived in the neighborhood. Getting to work in the afternoon after school, however, was a different story. Her mother’s heavy sigh at having to provide more chauffeur service led to her dad’s begrudging approval. Okay, it’s your money. You can buy the car, but your grades better not slip.

The used Renault Dauphine was advertised to be in good running condition and at a low price, just what she could almost afford on her summer savings. A loan from her folks covered the balance and insurance. She promised I’ll pay you back in weekly installments with my paychecks!

That semester as she hurried from school to work, signaled and slowed for the exit ramp from Central Expressway to National Home, a barreling eighteen-wheeler clipped the tail of her ultralight Renault, sending it whirling through the air like some loose LD Bell helicopter rotary blade. Thrown from the car she flew through the air onto the grassy median strip for a limp hundred-yard roll.

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At Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Matt’s platoon caught a week of mess duty. Sixty recruits worked in the mess hall peeling potatoes, washing trays, cleaning tables, chopping vegetables, and filling a host of manual labor jobs under the thumb of Marine cooks. Because Matt had scored the highest in academic and IQ testing, he was assigned to the warehouse, a Quonset hut about ten yards away from the mess hall building. There, he did menial paperwork and kept perpetual inventories on canned goods.

The mess sergeant outlined Matt’s duties in no uncertain terms while pointing to the wire cage and padlock. Under no circumstances, Private, will you ever let anyone into this wire door unless you get authorization from me, or from the officer in charge, or from the head cook. Don’t let anyone else in here, not even President Johnson, without my express permission. Keep this wire door locked on the inside at all times.

Yes, sir, said Matt.

Four afternoons later a full bird colonel rushed up to the wire mesh and blared, Let me in. I need to check in the back store room!

Immediately on his feet at rigid attention, Matt said, I’m sorry sir, but the private can’t let you in. Only the mess sergeant, head cook, and the OD are allowed inside, sir.

What? demanded the high-ranking officer, who acted agitated and annoyed. You’re telling me I need a sergeant’s permission to get in? Can’t you see who I am? I eat sergeants for breakfast. Hurry up! I haven’t got all day!

Sorry sir, but I can’t do it.

Do you see who and what I am? the colonel blustered. If you don’t open this door right now, and that’s a direct order, I’ll have you sent back to day one of training and you’ll have to take the past six weeks of this hell all over again!

Sorry, sir, the private can’t let you in. Matt stood his ground.

Enraged and swearing, the Marine colonel turned heel and marched out of the Quonset hut into brilliant California sunshine. In five minutes, he returned with the mess sergeant running close behind.

Lemme in, growled the sergeant.

Yes, sir, piped Matt, as he sprang with his key.

Damn good job, Private, beamed the colonel in another persona. That was a test and you did exactly right. You’re going to make one helluva Marine.

Sir, thank you sir, Matt responded from attention. Later that afternoon when conditions were calm and he was by himself, he reflected on the incident. Wow, the colonel was only acting angry and overbearing, just play acting, to see how I’d react. His threats were empty, just a bluff, but his bull rush seemed so real. I almost went for it. How many people would fall for an act like that?

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Rushed unconscious to Baylor Hospital in a flashing ambulance, Alisha walked out three days later with nothing more enduring than a cut on the back of her shoulder. Her sundry bruises, scrapes, and black eyes lost their purple, green, and yellow coloring over the next two weeks. In light of my recent accident, the recurring car wreck nightmare might have been a premonition.

Just like Trixie’s two years earlier, Alisha’s high school graduation present from Grandmother Kerry Kohler was a round-trip airline ticket to visit her in New York City. But Alisha had her heart set. I want to start working full time with National Home and make as much as I can.

Her father stepped in saying, It won’t hurt you to honor your grandmother’s wishes. We know you’re eager to start working, but you’ve got the whole rest of your life for that. On the other hand, my mother’s not getting any younger. This is a golden opportunity. You don’t have to visit for long, just a couple of weeks to make your grandmother happy.

Alisha’s tender heart was touched and she relented. Over the phone with Grandmother Kohler, she agreed. Okay. Two weeks starting right after graduation.

Grandmother explained. At the beginning of every summer, sweetie, I’m scheduled for volunteer work at the fish hatchery in Catskills State Park. But there’s no reason why you can’t come. I’ll be busy at the hatchery during the day, but you could come with me. It’s a beautiful place.

Grandmother picked up Alisha at John F. Kennedy Airport and whisked her away to a brownstone flat. Alisha called home to let everyone know she had arrived safely. After a breezy tour of the city Grandmother pointed her Cadillac west to the Catskills and her rented cabin in the woods.

On Monday morning, she rode to the hatchery as Grandmother told her what to expect. I’ll be busy in the two hatchery buildings during regular working hours, but they are open to the public and people stroll through there all day long. So, you can find me anytime you want. At the park entrance, Grandmother waved at the uniformed forest ranger before continuing. The hatchery raises trout and is just part of the public recreation area at that end of the lake. You’ll love the beach.

Emerging from the car, Alisha could see the beach was way more than advertised. It’s beautiful, picturesque, from every angle, surrounded by tall stately pines. One end of the shimmering green lake was fully developed with yellow-white sand, roped off swimming areas, springy diving boards of varying heights, lifeguard stands, wooden lawn furniture, restroom facilities, showers, snack bar, and a shack for canoe rentals. At any time during her workday, Grandmother could stroll from the hatchery and visit on the grounds, finding Alisha at the same umbrella table which she homesteaded first thing in the morning, along with a recliner, before the crowd arrived.

Under blue June sky, Alisha sunbathed drowsily. A light teasing ran up and down her lower leg. It had to be deliberate and her grandmother was the only one she knew there.

Don’t tickle, Granny! she laughed, abandoning the relaxed position on her front. Twisting around good-naturedly, she brushed at the annoyance.

Granny? spoke a male voice, kind of smart-alecky, with a city accent. That’s kind of close. Try Paulie. That’s what my friends call me.

Turning all the way over, she connected the tickle to the voice and now to a trim smiling face with black shiny eyes, as inky dark as his slicked-back hair. He could have been a gang member from West Side Story if only he had a black leather jacket, which he did not, just blue boxer-style swim trunks that looked baggy due to thin hairy legs. All of him was on the thin side. She remembered seeing him around the day before with a couple of other guys who also looked undernourished.

Flattered by the attention, she did not pause to consider that no complete stranger had ever dared approach her so boldly. No one prior to this summer had ever seen her in a two-piece bathing suit. Bright yellow with green dots, her swimwear sported a skirt-like ruffle encircling her hips, enhancing her femininity, and matching ruffles around her bust. Fabric modestly covered, but material could only hide so much. Swelling curves and lush promise pleased the natural senses, including those of men with a practiced appreciation for natural beauty. Through her long, young, curvaceous length, Alisha was appealing.

Feeling badly for calling the stranger a name, she explained in a hasty fluster, I thought it… you… were my grandmother.

I’d be pleased to be your grandmother but would rather be closer kin. Isn’t there some kind of a ceremony we need to go through first? He sat down beside her on the recliner.

Scooting her full hips over to make room, she said the first thing that came to mind. I always heard you Yankees were fast talkers. Never before had she sounded more like a southern belle and was amazed at herself. Am I flirting? This was nothing at all like her usual reserved character.

Yankees? Yankees? Do I look like the type who swings a bat? Oh! You mean them ‘Damn Yankees’ who burned Atlanta. Look, baby, I’m not here to rumble. This is a social call, see, good relations with the new neighbors, you know? I’m kind of like the welcome wagon in this here stretch of the woods. From your class, I can tell you’re not from these here parts. Me neither, not really. But you and me, baby, we’re two alike fish in this little pond. I could see that right from the first.

CHAPTER TWO

After completing months of basic and advanced infantry training, Matt received West Pac orders along with nearly every man in his outfit. Orders to the Western Pacific theater did not automatically mean Vietnam. Marines had duty stations in Okinawa, Japan, Guam, Korea, in the Philippines, and aboard naval vessels. Vietnam was the ultimate destination for most, and where he wanted to go. I want to see what it’s like.

At Staging Battalion at Camp Pendleton, Vietnam-bound Marines charged through a final month of training, stressing booby traps, camouflage, and ambushes. Lectures and field exercises conducted by Vietnam veterans conveyed firsthand practical knowledge gained from harsh experience. New Marines were conditioned to believe everything superiors told them. Lives could depend on unquestioned obedience to orders. Few infantry Marines, most still teenagers, had any basis of comparison to know if this or that were true, especially when it came to the reasons they were given for being sent over there to fight. Most were innocently ignorant of their own country’s meddling with foreign politics and economics, such as America’s role in the Chinese Boxer Rebellion, where the United States backed British sales of heroin from India to Chinese people. Marines knew almost nothing of the history and politics of Southeast Asia. They believed what they were told in the name of the President of the United States and other duly elected or appointed government lawyers, including the secretary of defense. They were told by instructors, The North Vietnamese Army, the NVA, are communists and we have to fight them over there, or else communism will take over the world. They were not told that Vietnamese fighting between the North and South was an intermittent civil war stretching back for a thousand years, long before the bogeyman of communism was ever invented.

Instructors declared, The reason why the NVA make suicidal frontal assaults is because they’re high on drugs. Fresh-faced Marines were not told that NVA soldiers were motivated by patriotic nationalism akin to George Washington and Abraham Lincoln’s fervor to establish and maintain the Union.

From El Toro Marine Air Station in California, the replacement troops flew to Hawaii. From Hawaii to Okinawa was the next leg. In early morning darkness, they boarded a plane at Kadena Air Base on Okinawa, bound for Vietnam. For some, it would be their last flight. In Da Nang, Republic of South Vietnam, the young Marines landed and hustled into buses taking them from the airstrip to a field tent which covered a half-dozen tables. The green canvas tent protected them from the morning’s drizzling rain falling from a gray, leaden sky and dark clouds. In front of the tables, they lined up at random in single files. A clerk seated at each table reviewed the service record book of the man in front of him and assigned the Marine to one of numerous units scattered around the country. Dawn was breaking.

Zzeee cush! Zzeee cush! Zzeee cush! The sound of mortar shells zinging through the air and exploding 500 yards away provided background music as they waited in line.

When it was Matt’s turn at the table, he asked the lance corporal clerk, What’s that? and pointed in the direction of the perimeter shelling.

Aww, the lance corporal dismissed it with a wave of his hand. They’re just shooting at us again.

Nobody under the tent showed any sign of alarm. Matt stood equally calm and collected, thinking, Oh, really? So that’s how it is.

A bus took most of the men back to the airstrip, and two hours later he flew aboard a C-130 Caribou to Quang Tri where he was directed to the Quonset hut headquarters of the 4th Marine Regiment. A clerk there assigned him to 2nd Battalion. From that Quonset, he was directed to Fox Company. That late afternoon, approaching the company office, he saw a sergeant leaning in the doorway wearing a fresh bandage around his head and a scowl on his face. The company clerk examining Matt’s service record book filled him in. Sappers got through the wire this morning and fragged our tents. The first sergeant was killed. The sergeant just got grazed by shrapnel. That’s why he’s in such a bad mood. Three privates were boxed up in body bags and sent to Graves Registration. The sun was not down yet on Matt’s first day in Vietnam.

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Alisha found it impossible to get rid of Paulie, but she only half tried. He’s kind of amusing, a real character. From the way he talks, combs his hair straight back, and struts around the beach, he looks just like a banty rooster. There’s not a whole lot else to do but put up with him during Grandmother’s working hours. The next day evaporated in the hissing steam of his non-stop patter beneath the umbrella. On the third day, he asked her out for that night.

Well of course it’s alright with me if you go out on a date, Grandmother Kohler reassured her. You’re of age and young women like you are expected to date. Paulie looks like a nice enough young man.

He’s not really that young, Alisha confided, half afraid to disclose even that much. He’ll be thirty soon and I’m almost sure he’s been married. I’m only going out with him because he asked.

The next day Paulie asked Alisha out again.

After five days of talking and two dates, Alisha knew for sure. "I don’t want anything more to do with him. I don’t like him, not at all. It feels like I’m letting Grandmother down by allowing him to monopolize my time. After all, this is supposed to be our time, Grandmother and me, our two weeks to get to know one another. Darn Paulie, conjured up from out of some pit and won’t