The Reunion at Heaven’S Gate and Other Stories

By Shel Weissman

The Reunion at Heavens Gate and Other Stories continues in the examination of the collision and complexities of survival, redemption, and change. The author reveals the dark corners of characters and their immense desire to rise above what appears to be insurmountable odds. Their burdens are deep, yet their courage to triumph brings hope and revitalization. Weissman is an optimist and is revealed through the veil of his characters, which often appear in danger of losing it all. Their need to move forward becomes greater than the twisted circumstances they have difficulty relinquishing. The stories overflow with excitement, compassion, and truthfulness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546219811

Shel Weissman

Shel Weissman was born in 1942, in a multi-generational family of immigrants. He lives with his family in Northern California since the 1970’s. His life experiences provided an opportunity to form his curiosity, imagination, and storytelling skills. The author’s writings developed from a lively and rewarding childhood and stimulating grown years. His published works include: The House on the Hill The Reunion at Heaven’s Gate Brooklyn Sunset Midnight Train to Trieste Day of Reckoning Harold’s Garden A Resilient Soul

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© 2017 Shel Weissman. 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 12/15/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1982-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1981-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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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

Preface

Deception

Scars of the Past

The Reunion at Heavens Gate

An Uncommon Time

Borscht Belt Follies

Better Late Than Never

Unsung Hero

Living with Remorse

Carla’s Sorrow

Running Naked Through Hell

Clay’s Good Fortune

Something to Remember Me By

Mending a Broken Heart

The Championship Season

A Great Catch

Broken Dreams

Just One More Thing

New Beginnings

DEDICATION

Claire Weissman

My awe-inspiring luminous love.

Each day brings me closer to you.

Your support drives my passions.

Hopefully, I do the same for you.

PREFACE

Streams of Consciousness

Ah, a blank page, much like an artist’s canvas awaits to be cultivated to become something to which life has been given. The starkness becomes a portal through which a world has been formed, filled with incomplete scenery, settings, characters, things that germinate into clarity, or disjointed visions.

The composer of prose becomes part of a process using inspiration, imagination, and fantasy to shape what will appear in a cohesive story. Ultimately, the journey will unfold and truth will win out. The writer should be prepared for elements that go awry, be trusting that the process will come together despite writer’s block, overwriting, and conflicting thoughts. Finding the right words, phrases, ideas, and descriptions is challenging and unique in the creative world of storytelling.

In the final analysis, the work is a reflection of the writer. It is the stuff that dreams are made of. The stories in this collection are about people who are dealing with broken relationships, and in they are in search of ways to improve their situations. The issues are contemporary, often complex and distressing.

DECEPTION

DECEPTION

May arrived and it started to get intensely hot even at seven in the morning. The dusty town of Galeto, in the middle of the backwaters of New Mexico, quietly stirred when two cowboys pulled up in their buckboard by Cecil’s Hardware across the street, Slimboy Red was shoeing a couple of horses in his livery stable. Hank Tillerson stepped outside, looked at his watch, shook his head, and ambled into his office. The Las Vegas stagecoach was late again. The two-hour short haul had never made the trip to Galeto on time.

Four lawmen high above Main Street waited patiently with loaded rifles at hand. It wasn’t every day that this prairie town, half an hour from Santa Fe, was getting set to incarcerate a well-known gunslinger. Sheriff Bill Warner had a man at the hotel window, top floor, overlooking the jailhouse, two on the rooftops of the courthouse, and one in the alleyway between the saloon and bakery. The sheriff learned from the last time they had the kid awaiting trial, a detail of sharp shooting fearless men were needed to guard against another breakout.

In the distance you could see the dust churn on the road from Las Vegas, New Mexico. The stagecoach, with a team of six horses, was speeding toward the town. The men tightened their hold on their rifles. The two on the roof got the brunt of the hot sun with the already muggy, slushy, slow moving air. Sweat ran down their foreheads and rivulets of perspiration down their armpits, along their torsos, and collected on the upper part of their trousers. The wind began to appear, blowing tumbleweeds and dirt across Main Street. As the coach with overworked horses came into town, the sheriff and two deputies stood in front of the jail. Warner was a tall hunk of a man, with a gray handlebar mustache, blue eyes, and thin lips. His two pearl-handled guns were safely stowed in his holster ready to be used at a moment’s notice.

The stagecoach driver and brakeman rode on top. They stopped next to the hotel. At the same time, Warner and his deputies crossed the street to greet the passengers.

Howdy George, go okay in Vegas? he asked congenially.

We moved the kid before sunrise and not a stir, not even a buzzard came by. ’Bout fifteen miles out we ran into some of the kid’s gang, dodged a bunch of bullets, they tried to block the road, George said, his face flaring, and eyebrows squeezed together.

If it weren’t for Cal on top and the two inside the coach, we might have been done fur. Bullets flying all over, why I don’t get paid enough to nearly get killed.

Well, George, we’ll take over from here. You and Cal have a whiskey on me.

Right kind of you, Bill, he replied with a wry smile.

I’ll arrange for the horses to be fed and cleaned. Let’s get the kid out of the coach.

The sheriff opened the first door, and a short husky bearded man climbed down and they introduced themselves. Next came a young man with curly blond hair, mutton chop sideburns, and small features. Randle McCabe, the deputy Marshall from Las Vegas, slowly guided him down from the coach. Chains bound the young fella up to his waist. Warner and McCabe shook hands and chatted about the prisoner.

Morning Pecos seems like you must like our hospitality. You’re back for another stay, this time for a longer haul, he grimaced.

There ain’t no jail that’ll hold me fur long, he said in disgust.

Well, we’ll see about that, Mr. Pecos Kid. Your days of shootin’ people up, robbin’ banks, and terrorizing law-abiding folks are over. Come on, let’s take this no good sidewinder to his cell.

As they crossed the street, people came out of the stores and houses to catch a glimpse of the notorious Pecos Kid. Warner knew the kid’s gang may be nearby planning to attack the jail and set him free. The townspeople got agitated, shaking their fists in the air. They began to shout String ’em up, the no good killer!

Look at him, he’s just a young buck, doesn’t look so tough now!

The kid turned and spat in the direction of the town folks.

Cut, cut. Where does the script say you spit on the people? asked the disgruntled director.

Sorry, Dirk, it felt like the right thing to do.

Larry, you’re not paid to think! Stick to the script so we can make it through the dang scene the way it was written. Holy Joseph and Mary! said the director, whose voice was filled with venom.

Boss, you want your pills?

No, Phil, what I want is another actor to play the kid! he said in a low voice, talking into the ear of his assistant director. This is my twelfth production out here on the Eaves Ranch, and it’ll be my last, I hope. Just look at this place, it’s fallin’ apart like an old lady on her last leg. When the place was built a movie ranch back in the 1960’s, we were one of the first productions to shoot out of here. The wooden boardwalk flanking the facades smelled of new wood. The false fronts looked like a real western town, like a set on a Warner Brothers lot. I remember John Ford, the famous Hollywood director, coming by to watch us work on our film about the Earp Brothers fightin’ at the O.K. Coral. We’d go into Santa Fe and have a few drinks, talk about the old days when westerns were big box office. I was the AD on one of his great movies starring John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara. Ah, those were the days. Now I’m directing two-bit B films with actors who think they know somethin’ about making good films.

A ravenous silence blanketed the film crew. Phil Kestner listened attentively while trying to keep the peace between the crew, actors, and the second unit out of Albuquerque. Dirk Ramsey was an aging, leather-faced man with nothing left to prove. Phil knew his director was close to washing out of the movie business. The short haired, unshaven director hadn’t had a profitable film in his last five tries. Dirk had taken a slash in salary to do this garish production, and most people in the industry knew this was his swan song.

Phil Kestner was thirty-eight and had a promising career in the business. The stocky, tanned, handsome man with a bristling mustache began as an assistant film editor and bounced around several studios learning his craft. Phil’s mentors were Wes Anderson on The Royal Tenenbaums, known for being a quirky, firm man; Ang Lee, Sense and Sensibility, his organization, humor; Steven Soderbergh, Erin Brockovich, an intellect, and a man who taught him how to balance pleasing studio executives while holding down production costs; and David Lynch, Mulholland Drive, very crafty, and he knew how to build a suspenseful scene.

Phil cherished their uniqueness and immense command of a set. They taught him editing techniques, camera angles, how to revise scripts, and collaboration with the actors. Lesser-known filmmakers helped to sharpen Phil’s rudimentary skills and gave him the necessary experience behind the camera as a cinematographer, gaffer, and second unit director. By his early thirties, Phil was on contract with Columbia Pictures and had met and married Peg Ryman, a young, attractive script girl from Tulsa, Oklahoma.

This was Peg’s second marriage. The first was to a stuntman who was rough, egocentric, and used sex to control and manipulate women. Their volatile relationship lasted eight months when Peg filed for divorce for irreconcilable differences. Two years later she met the vividly respectful, good looking part-time film editor. She and Phil worked closely over long hours on the productions. They fell in love and wanted those moments to last forever. However, in Hollywood very little lasted a long time. Mostly, happily ever after played better on the screen.

At the Eaves Ranch the day loomed heavily. Dirk was displeased with the lighting, and threw tantrums at the actors for sleepwalking through the scenes. The threat of rain was a welcome sight in the mournful middle of the steamy afternoon Southwestern sky. Dirk called for a break and everyone skedaddled to their air-conditioned trailers. Dirk asked Phil to join him in his customized rig.

Here, Phil, have a frosty beer with me.

They sat on the sofas gotten from props. Dirk began to get philosophical with his young protégé.

What we shot today sucks, and the studio guys are going to eat our lunch. The scene should have more tension, I’m not feelin’ it. How ’bout you?

I agree Dirk, it’s your basic western, going by the numbers, there aren’t any surprises, or enough suspense.

Yeah. You know kid; I used to love the process of making movies. When everything is goin’ right, you just feel it in your bones that this is good work. Take the movie I was the assistant in, 3:10 to Yuma. It just kept building the tension between the rancher in desperate need for money, willin’ to put his life on the line and get the desperado onto the train to take him to court in Yuma. I served under Sam Nelson, the AD, and an unheralded director, Delmar Davis, who never settled for second best.

I remember the lead actors, Glen Ford as gunman Benjamin Wade, and Van Heflin, rancher, ex-soldier, who needed the $200 to save his land. On the trip from Bisbee to Yuma they ran into an Indian ambush and Wade’s gang. It was the intensity between good and evil that made the picture successful with the critics and the public.

That’s what we’re missing in our movie, something impending with an edge.

Dirk, what if the stagecoach comes into town and we pan up to the hills and see the kid’s gang watching everything going on, kinda scoping out the town and the jail. We’ve got some music that adds to the mystery of the outlaws trying to spring their leader before daybreak.

I like that, Phil. Then they slip into town early the next morning, waiting when the kid is to transfer to the courthouse. Dirk takes another swig of beer, and a look of pleasure comes over him.

Think about it some more, and give me another treatment. I can read over it in the morning. I can’t believe the Pecos Kid spit at the townspeople. Maybe he was showing displeasure over his part. Either way, he didn’t look tough enough. Our actor couldn’t hold a candle to Glen Ford! he remarked sternly.

Phil drove his old Chevy station wagon into Santa Fe. At night the picturesque capitol glistened with small lights coming from adobe residences perched on various hillsides as if they were planted there by a higher power. Phil rented a room in an older two-story reddish adobe overlooking a small Catholic Church. He fumbled with the key while carrying the script and his notes. It was going to be another long night of rewrites and plot changes to punch up the tired story line. He reached for a beer and stretched out on his lounge chair with a Pendleton blanket for company.

The sun had fallen out of heaven like a stone. The stillness of the darkened sky was a savior for him. He stared at the morbid script, and everything around him was deadly silence; the nearby houses, the empty streets, the solemn Sangre de Cristo mountains. Writing usually came easily when there were no interruptions.

Phil recalled when he was a boy in Pasadena; he delivered papers at four in the morning. The solitude and emptiness was a welcome relief from the city noise. To keep him company he had a transistor radio rigged to his handlebars. One early morning, with summer waiting for light, he heard the news report. Singer Roy Orbison had died and the station played Only the Lonely. Phil had seen him on television, a round-faced dark-haired man with glasses, dressed in black with a silver pattern cowboy shirt. He stood straight and sang almost without movement, and yet his voice riveted the listener. The words sung in a falsetto, and then dropped a few octaves, were unique and enchanting, inspiring the audience to join in the singing.

Phil went to see the film, Pretty Woman, less for the good acting by Richard Gere or Julia Roberts, but to hear Orbison’s original tune, which practically set the mood for the story. Phil was smitten by the powerful influence of films. He began to study set and costume design, the intricacy of camera shots, script writing, he even tried some acting. Unfortunately, Phil could not remember the lines or relate to the other actors.

He burned the midnight oil, but only came up with trite dialogue and some forgettable plot changes. Phil was due on the set at seven in the morning and he had zero to give to Dirk. Somebody up there must have been looking out for him. An hour before he had to return to the set, it began to rain, and at times it came down in buckets. Phil quickly changed, made a cup of coffee, jumped in his car and speedily drove to the ranch.

The light in the cameraman Kevin Beattie’s shop was on. Phil ran straight to Kevin’s place and knocked vigorously on his door.

Phil, I doubt we’re gonna have the lighting we need to transfer the Pecos Kid to the courthouse. Maybe Dirk wants to shoot some interiors.

Well, I hope not, Kev, ’cause I don’t have the rewrites ready. Dirk is gonna have my head.

Aw, don’t give it a thought. We’re well within budget and we can use a day off. Besides, most of us need a break from this crummy movie. It’s loaded with clichés, and hard to get it looking respectful.

Well, I’m not much of a help.

Suddenly there’s a knock on the door. Kevin opened it, and Dirk was in the doorway with water pouring down his cowboy hat rim onto his long raincoat. Dirk took a few steps into the trailer, and with his steely gray eyes he announced the set would be closed for the day. He did an about face and departed, never asking Phil for the revisions. It seemed like nothing mattered that morning.

I guess we’ve got another day to waste.

Waste not, want not. Let’s get some of the guys together and drive up to Santa Clara Lake. I still have the key from my old friend’s cabin. We can play cards and get soused.

Count me in, I can use some fun about now.

I’ll get our soundman, Gus, he’s got some good pot and there’s a shit load of whisky and beer in the cabin.

Let’s get outta this God forsaken barren place with its film ghosts and head to the mountains, leave the ranch to the likes of John Wayne, Robert Ryan, Dan Duryea, and start making our own adventures.

Within a short time, six of the crew hijacked a studio truck and drove it up a muddy, slick road to the bluish lake, then onto a narrow road that had a few well-placed wooden cabins within the pine and groups of Aspen. The men dodged the rain and unloaded their provisions.

What a place to die, shouted Walt, the cameraman-photographer.

Eric, who was Walt’s best man at his wedding, agreed. On the lot Eric was the gaffer, electrician and sometimes carpenter.

Rounding out the group was Arnold Goldsmith, known to all as Smitty. He was in charge of editing and did some stunt work.

The men mixed whiskey with sodas and smoked pot. Outside the cabin the rain poured straight down in sheets. They were happy to leave the set and stay in the hills.

I hope the fuckin’ rain shuts down production for a week. I can stay here and get shitfaced.

Amen to that, Eric. The film is goin’ nowhere. I don’t think it’ll see a screen, probably off to Netflix, or the can. Rex isn’t believable as Pecos, and the acting is wooden. If only we had some good-looking women on the set to make it a little more interesting, remarked Gus as he drew down on his cigarette laced with marijuana.

Remember the starlet, you know, that nymph Cecelia. She was bangin’ that stuntman Carl Jennings, the one with the muscles and big pecks.

Gus, you mean Cecilia with the pecks? They all laughed.

Laugh away, but she had this fantastic body, a great ass. They got drunk one night, and he had me come over so she could get her wish and have a three-way. My God, this went on for the month we were on the set, remarked Gus with a lusty smile.

She was pretty young? questioned Phil.

Bout twenty, but she grew up in a hurry. She had a thing for stuntmen. She did two, three films in a row and hand-picked all the stuntmen. The directors felt she gave a better performance on screen when she got laid the night before.

I’m gettin’ hard just thinkin’ about it, said Walt.

Okay, let’s get the cards out and play some seven card poker.

The men gathered around the old mahogany table and, standing, ate cold cut sandwiches washed down with Corona and Heineken beer. They cleared the table, sat down and produced the cards.

I can’t wait for this production to end. We all know the quality ain’t there, and no quick fix is gonna make a difference, said Smitty. Most of the guys shook their heads in agreement.

Besides, I promised my wife a romantic get-away after we strike the set.

Smitty, where are you and Eileen off to? asked Walt.

We’ve got a rental on St. John’s where the beaches are fine and the fishing is even better. The kids are staying with her parents. Remember, I almost messed up my marriage, and I ain’t getting that close again.

You mean that tryst in Canada, where we shot exteriors around Vancouver? That catering service young lady, well, she was a sexy thing.

Wrap it up, Kevin. Every one of us knows, what with our schedules, pressures, close working relationships we get kind of lonely and bored, retorted Smitty.

Look what happened to Dirk. He’s not just hangin’ on for the movie making, he’s got debts to deal with.

What do you mean exactly? asked Eric.

Tell ’em about it, Gus, you was there, said Smitty.

Well, Dirk had a rocky marriage, and he was drinking on the set. He met this talent agent on the 3:10 to Yuma set. She was delivering some paperwork to Van Heflin and they got introduced. Dirk fell for her like a ton of bricks. Her name was Colleen, very attractive and bright. They took to each other like a moth to a flame. Colleen had a place in Tucson and Dirk would steal away and be with her.

So he had his wife and a mistress, not unusual, said Phil.

To keep his wife in the dark, and for legal reasons, he had a fake driver’s license made using a name and background of a guy he found in the L.A. Times obituary. Only Colleen knew, and Dirk set up a joint bank account in a Tucson savings and loan. This went on for a couple of years. Colleen must have been good for Dirk ’cause he was doing really good work and pullin’ down seven figures.

So why did they break-up, Gus? asked Eric,

I heard just as Dirk fell out of her good graces, Dirk’s wife got a typed note about his affairs.

From an angry Colleen? asked Smitty.,

I don’t know, ’cause Dirk’s drinking and womanizing got worse. When he went to patch things up with Colleen, there was a for sale sign in her front yard. Colleen had closed their account, taking a couple hundred thousand. Dirk came running to his wife with his tail between his legs.

Well, he’s an old dog, and ready to bail out of everything, Kevin replied wistfully.

I think Dirk is running out of gas, and I can relate.

How do you mean that, Smitty? asked Phil.

I’ve been working my ass off for years. Maybe it’s time to go into the private sector and then retire out. I’ve seen our industry change from studio monopolies to take-over by other companies: Sony, Netflix, soon foreign investors from the Chinese to Arabs. Unions will be useless and the individual will become trade bait. It’s ironic ’cause individuals used to be loaned out, traded, and branded at one time to suit the needs of the studios.

Smitty, what you’re saying is awfully depressing, and each of us dinosaurs need to step aside for the stark world that’s coming to a theater near you," stated Walt, shaking his head in anguish,

Sound advice for the ages. We’re all goin’ to hell in a hand basket. I for one will march on, because this business puts bread on my table, feeds my three kids, and makes my third wife feel proud when she sees my name on the roll of credits, said Kevin.

I feel sorry for the Dirks of our industry. They came close to the top of the mountain, then plateaued, eventually burning out and falling into the black hole. When you know you’ve fallen out of favor, you either fight like hell to maintain a level of decency and deceive yourself that you’ve still got it, or you collapse into despair.

Eric, you’re so black-or-white kind of a thinker. There are those that come back; look at Chaplain, Bette Davis, and directors like John Huston, Otto Preminger, and.

Sure, there’s always the exceptions, but for each one you name, Gus, I can give you dozens whose fame and stardom got tarnished and plunged into celluloid obscurity. We’re all expendable and have a piece of film or a trophy to be remembered by, remarked Eric.

Let’s not stop the card game on that note.

You’re right, Phil, John Ford once said it’s better to die with your boots on than in bed.

Walt, it depends on who’s in bed with ya! They all laughed loudly and toasted Walt for the quote.

After several more rounds of cards, drinks, and gossip, the group halted the gambling. The rain continued but began to let up. Phil was concerned about his attempts to bolster the script, but he was more nervous about the despondent director.

Does anyone have a suggestion on how to deal with Dirk and maybe improve the story? The plot is loaded with clichés, said Phil anxiously.

Look, Phil, how are we going to make plot changes when all Dirk wants to do is plow through the story and wrap it up quickly, get it done and stay within budget, retorted Gus in a disgusted tone of voice.

I agree with Gus, this is Dirk’s swan song so let’s give it a proper burial, said Kevin.

Guess who I saw at the Park Adobe? It was Dirk sittin’ in a small, dark room with, I could swear he was with Colleen.

Are you sure, Smitty: asked Walt.

Well, the lighting wasn’t all that great, but when she leaned over the table, the candlelight caught her necklace. It was the same Indian beaded one Dirk got for her in Phoenix. I was with him when he bought it as a surprise for her birthday.

You think he went back to her even though she burned through so much of his money?

I dunno, but love can be emotionally more powerful than money. I think he wants to finish this picture and take off with Colleen. Getting old is tough on us all. Colleen must give him what he needs, and to hell with anything else, said Smitty.

He’s an old fool who needs a woman to lean on. If he dies in her arms, maybe Dirk would see that as a satisfying way out. By the way, Phil, I think Dirk gave you that revision assignment just to get you out of his hair. He might have gone into one of his moods when he doesn’t feel like going on, said Eric.

He learned that strategy from Otto Preminger, when he wanted some alone time, especially when he was cutting the film, he would give Dirk some meaningless tasks with deadlines. When Dirk worked most of the night to revise some scenes, he gave the revisions to Otto who promptly shoved the material in his inside pocket. They never saw the light of day, said Smitty.

Yeah, after Dirk sees Colleen, his juices start flowing again. Besides, Dirk has enough experience to invest his way out, you’ll see, replied Gus.

Well, you guys know him better than me. So you think he’s keeping company with Colleen?

Phil, she’s probably shopping in Santa Fe while we’re on the set. Stop jumping every time he barks out an order He’s putting on his directors act for you, and for us, insisted Smitty.

Kid, you’ll last longer in this business if you can separate fact from fantasy. You’ll see, in the morning Dirk won’t even ask you for the revisions. His car is parked in the back lot, and a half hour before we break for the day, he’ll have the motor running and the two of them will be high tailin’ it to Tucson, said Kevin with a big, wide smile across his face.

The following morning on the set, the Pecos Kid was led across the street to the courthouse. His gang jumped out from the alleys and the stores, opened fire on the sheriff and his deputies. Sheriff Warner got a bullet in his shoulder and his deputies hit the ground.

In the mayhem, the kid got swooped up on a gang member’s horse and they bolted out of town. The stuntmen did a fine job and Dirk yelled, Cut. Phil pulled the equipment out of the street. Within a short time everything was clear and the old ranch set returned to normal. The set would be on lockdown over the weekend.

Phil heard a familiar sound behind the livery stable. It was the motor of Dirk’s sports car. With the top down, he roared out of the ranch location in the direction of Santa Fe. Phil took his revisions from the script girl, folded it and put the document in his back pocket. He walked passed Smitty and Gus and revealed a slight smirk on his lips. He tipped his baseball cap, saluting the men and acknowledging they got it right. The Pecos Kid sat in his folding chair with crossed legs, smoking his cheap cigar. A second-hand jeep pulled up and drove off with some of the actors and the sheriff’s assistants. They stared at Phil, and he stared at nothing. He wore no coat, just the cap to shade him from the bright sunlight. Phil thought what a business he was in, everything was disposable, even the truth. But he loved it all, and could not wait for the Monday morning callback.

He returned to his office, the sole member of the production staff. Phil looked out of his window at the western facades, a ghost town in search of a reason to keep going. It was twilight and the deep blue sky fell prey to the setting sun. As it lowered behind the nearby hills, shadows stretched across the helpless hillside. Phil thought of Dirk, who seemed anxious to be stroked in his mistress’ arms, unwilling to renounce his role and turn it over to another director. Dirk’s staff had more or less given up on their leader and seemed content to go through the motions and keep their jobs for the next production. The actors had little invested in each other and themselves.

It’s a game, Phil thought, and sometimes there are no winners. Nicholas Ray, a tough spirited, self-assured movie director, who successfully wrote the movie, Rebel Without a Cause, to great reviews and financial profits, once told him you have to look past the script, not everything is there. By giving the young, gifted, unique actor, James Dean, the latitude to improvise and dig deeply into his character, it changed the dynamics of the story. He encouraged the camera close-ups to reveal the actor’s emotions and imperfections. Phil began to revise the Pecos Kid character, giving him room to breathe and tap into his feelings of isolation, alienation, and need for revenge. He lit one of Dirk’s cigars, examined the facades of the cheerless western town, and burned the script.

SCARS OF THE PAST

SCARS OF THE PAST

It was late Saturday afternoon when he reached Reese’s house. The small Virginia colonial home was set back from the country road that meandered through the bright green landscape. A formal house, but without stiffness, it had a glassed-in porch and a new addition on the side for guest quarters. The wraparound porch had three wicker rocking chairs and a two-person porch swing. Its face yawned open with a large double window. Adjacent to the porch, off the circular dirt driveway, was a bold plaque in large black letters that read Reese Cain. He never got to see any of this. Henry knew how the Virginia homestead appeared because Reese had described it many times when they served together in Vietnam.

Henry was early, so he sat on one of the rockers and enjoyed the fair weather. It was the time of the year when the woods were still bleak except for a smattering of young leaves. He detected an unaccountable sweetness, a perfume of roses and lilac although nothing was in bloom. There was a moisture in the air, a dampness from a nearby small lake where, as a boy, Reese caught baby trout with his bigger than life father, who had taught his son how to hunt, fish, and respect nature. Henry sat solemnly, deep in thought. He wished his Army buddy was sitting beside him admiring the undulating lawn on the soft rise near the house. All the charm and sentimentality the country house possessed had been coldly withheld for lack of the appropriate words Reese often omitted.

Driving up the driveway in an old pickup truck was Toby Cain, the younger sister of Reese. She climbed out of the truck and waved at him. With her bright red hair, freckles, and emerald green eyes, she looked like a young version of actress Maureen O’Hara. Her snug jeans were partly hidden by her checkered flannel shirt. She extended her strong, working hands and clasped them over Henry’s long, thick, soft hand.

I’m honored to meet ya, Henry. I’ve waited ten years for this moment. My directions were okay? She got it all out, quickly and excitedly.

Please Toby, call me Hank. Reese’s description of you does not do you justice. He thought by God, she’s unspeakably gorgeous. Before we go in maybe we can talk a bit. Tell me about yourself and your family, he said in a calm, mellow voice.

Well, I’m now twenty-two. I work as an assistant manager in Roanoke, Lieberman’s Department Store, and I manage this property rental for daddy. It was meant for Reese.

Sounds like you’ve got your hands full, he smiled.

Tell me about you, Hank. How did you fare after your discharge?

Oh, I had some good days and plenty of bad ones. I couldn’t keep a job longer than a couple of months. I was floundering.

There’s been a number of men and some women who came back from Vietnam either all burnt out or struggling from posttraumatic stress disorder. Hank raised his hand. You too? I’m so sorry, I don’t think I really understand that illness.

Well Toby, it’s relatively new, but I’m glad they put a name to it. Before that, I had a short fuse, a quick temper, then got depressed and could never get a complete good night’s sleep. It’s a combination of all the horrific things you’ve seen that you keep inside. Then something sets you off and you lose it.

What happens to you? she asked in earnest.

The first time I had a PTSD attack was in a crowded subway in Manhattan during rush hour. Each time the train stopped, I got pushed further into the car. I was squeezed between a metal pole and a wall of people. Being tall, I craned my neck to get more air. At some point, I was convinced I was gonna die. It seemed like the train was going into the station too fast. We passed it, and I saw the crowd of people raise their hands like a lynch mob. The bright lights became a blur and it seemed like passengers were talking at the top of their lungs. I felt like my eyes were rolling back into my head. When the train finally stopped, I moved with the crowd to get out of the train. I quickly went to a bench and put my head between my legs. My body was shaking and sweat was running down my forehead. I was getting weaker and felt like I was about to pass out.

That’s when you knew.

"Not about PTSD. Soon afterward, I started getting panic attacks. I became irritable and depressed. So I went to the VA Hospital and they suggested for me to see a psychologist. He had me describe in detail my combat experiences, especially our attack on a POW camp in the jungle outside