The Reunion

By Thomas Conrad

After a thirty year absence, Bobby Gallagher returns to his hometown to say goodbye to his dying mother. Back in Kalamazoo, he faces haunting memories of a tragedy involving his high school sweetheart, and her brutal father. Having been unjustly accused of being responsible for that tragedy, Bobby is presented with an ultimatum by a corrupt judge-- Vietnam or jail. Back home, he finds a letter from his deceased father that offers clues to what deputy sheriff Ted Dorn discovered about Bobby’s alleged crimes. Tough questions from his mother, and guidance from a Catholic nun help him piece together the circumstances that led to his banishment. Bobby renews a difficult relationship with his lawyer sister, and rekindles the fire of his pubescent first love Rita, the girl next door. He reunites with Jack Dooley, the leader of the RECON team he served with, and watches the dismantling of the smuggling operation that’s been run with mob-like efficiency since it began in Vietnam. Bobby relives in vivid detail his military experience, and the dangerous and often out of control life of an infantry soldier in 1969. The memories of his youth and home surround him, and with the help of these characters he orchestrates a long overdue justice, and changes their lives in the process.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781684096268

Book preview

1

I never sleep well before having to get up early. So getting the news from my wife that she and our daughter would be gone when I got home from visiting my ailing mother pretty well sealed my fate. I considered adding alcohol to my nightly melatonin but didn’t want a hangover contributing to the next day’s expected fatigue. Not only did I not sleep, after an hour of restlessness, I didn’t even try. I went to my office but avoided the temptation to turn on the computer. I flopped into an overstuffed chair, turned on the lamp, and grabbed a pen and legal pad.

She hadn’t said much other than she needed time to think about us, and this would be a good opportunity. She told me she wanted to talk to a lawyer, and we could discuss things when I got home. A lawyer! I pressed her for reasons. Julie was a list person, and I knew somewhere she’d itemized things that were wrong with me, our marriage, and probably both. I offered to cancel the trip, but she was adamant. We’d talk when I got back, and that was it.

I wrote our daughter’s name at the top of the yellow pad and inability to communicate beneath it. I could have my own list when I returned, but not knowing what hers looked like, I was at a loss for anything to add. I wanted to defend myself and our sixteen-year marriage, but from what? I steeped in anger for this imposition to our ordered life. Phase two of the grief cycle, I thought. I’d studied it in a sophomore psychology class in college. It was a concept that focused on a series of emotions I could expect to experience as this thing played out. I felt the anger now, after the shock and denial I’d experienced earlier. If the rule followed form, I would also move through dialogue, and depression, to acceptance. I knew the transition was not necessarily an orderly one, and it could be unhealthy to get stuck in one stage along the way. Maybe it would be a good idea for me to get away from here for a while.

I awoke still in my chair after several hours of restive sleep with a stiff neck and aching eyes. I showered, shaved, and moved through our bedroom quietly. Julie was awake, I knew, silent but listening, her plan unfolding with me playing my part as if under her direction. I wandered through the house, taking the long way to Nadine’s room. Standing beside her quietly, I listened to her breathe, feeling her presence in the objects and atmosphere of the room. I shuddered knowing how vulnerable our relationship was. Whatever her mother was doing, she knew she held cards I could not match. She could take Nadine out of my life and charge me for the privilege of seeing her. I cautioned myself against the building resentment I felt toward Julie and vowed to react slowly to her in the future. I bent down to kiss Nadine’s cheek, and she stirred briefly as I whispered good-bye.

Descending our bumpy mountain road, I regularly glanced at the coffee as it sloshed around the top of the insulated GoCup between my legs. The caffeine kept my eyes open but did nothing to help organize a myriad of troubling thoughts. I was fairly consumed with melancholy to be leaving my home and family on such uncertain terms, so I focused on the landscape. In twenty-five years, I’d never taken for granted the scenic glories of this place. The aspens and cottonwoods were well into their peak color and shone brilliant yellow where the sun broke over the ridgeline and lit them like lamps in darkness. The day had a typical Indian summer beginning—a basic and undeniable quality that could attach itself to anyone who had the good sense to notice it. I had to resist the urge to pull over and soak it up.

The shadows began to shorten as I drove over Lost Trail Pass and dropped into the Bitterroot Valley. I thought about turning off my headlights, but the added visibility to oncoming traffic on this winding road could be a plus. I called Nadine from my cell phone when I got to Darby, Montana, and was again able to get a signal. My timing anticipated that she’d be up and in the bathroom, applying light dabs of Clearasil to whatever blemishes were visible on her pretty fourteen-year-old face. After a brief Good morning conversation, I told her I loved her and I’d call her later in the day. Julie had said our only child knew nothing of her plans to leave. My eyes welled, and my heart ached as I tried to imagine what this would mean to her. I didn’t doubt that she would choose to stay with her mother during the separation. Though she and I were close, she and Julie had a singular bond that I had always accepted as having priority over mine. I supposed she was now old enough to have a say in her custody if this separation turned into divorce, and was confident she would be fair with me. Still, if Julie decided to go far away . . .

After Nadine, I called my best friend, Frank, to be sure he could get to the house to feed the dogs, cats, and horses if Julie and Nadine left. Getting his answering machine, I mentioned there was some trouble in our home that I didn’t understand and would talk to him about when I got back. I said I’d give his mother a call when I got to our hometown.

The drive to Missoula for my noon flight to Minneapolis and on to Kalamazoo was uneventful, albeit fraught with anxiety. My thoughts seemed to ricochet off one another—present to past, sadness to anticipation. I’m a sentimental sort and am easily caught up in my own history, especially by thoughts of things that might have been. For example, I’ve always had difficulty dealing with my forced exile from the home of my youth. It’s a long story, but this trip to see my mom would also be a journey into a painful past.

My mother was in the final throes of a rapidly advancing form of leukemia (six months from diagnosis), and this would be my last opportunity to see her. I would also reunite with my only sibling, who would be waiting for me at the airport. Younger than me, Denise is the bossy type, with a no-nonsense outlook on life and an unforgiving memory. Her two former husbands, both of whom I liked, would describe her demeanor in less generous terms. In spite of a staid relationship, we’d managed to stay in touch. We understood each other. So well in fact as to often know what the other was thinking, though that would have implied a closeness to which neither of us would confess. Denise and I would, in a few days, shut down the logistics of the seventy-two-year life of our mother and bury the remaining evidence of our family. Once she was gone, we would lose most of what we had in common.

I arrived at the Missoula County Airport with time to spare. After checking my duffel bag at the Northwest Airlines ticket counter, I slung my backpack over a shoulder and sauntered to the restaurant for another caffeine infusion. Though not really hungry, a glance at the menu and the clock convinced me that a few calories might not be a bad idea. I ordered breakfast from a worn-out-looking waitress with a pencil stuck in her poufy, tinted hair.

You look tired, I said, taking a chance with an unflattering comment.

Been here all night and still got a couple hours to go. Pullin’ a double shift. Her shoulders sagged as she spoke.

I was up most of the night myself. The coffee’s good, I said, taking a sip with an unintended slurp. She smiled at me and moved gracefully to the next table to refill cups, wearing the same weary expression. For a woman that I guessed to be about my age, she was remarkably well preserved, with nice legs beneath a short tight skirt. My eyes followed as she sashayed toward the kitchen in a practiced fashion. I wondered whether she worked at keeping trim or came by it genetically. It occurred to me then that my motivation toward women might soon be different. I could be a player again. I surprised myself with this launch forward to the end of my marriage so soon after discovering it was in trouble. At this time yesterday, I was just a middle-aged guy with a buried past and a dispassionate outlook on the future.

I arrived in Kalamazoo at 9:47 p.m. after a rough ride across the plains. I have a fair amount of flying experience, so turbulence, though unsettling, is nothing I complain about. It still amazes me that this trip that took three months 150 years ago can be done in as many hours today. Even the drive, though more than a little mind-numbing, pales in comparison to the walk. I try not to take things for granted. My sister, Denise, did not like to be taken for granted, a mistake I never made. Coming down the tube from the plane to the terminal, I knew better than to expect flowers or balloons. In fact, Denise was nowhere to be seen, yet I knew she was there. She has always been punctual and efficient, qualities I appreciate and apply as much as possible to my own life.

I spotted her standing well out of the way, looking smart in a sweater, jeans, and oxblood Weejuns. Denise is the type that draws glances when she enters a room. She’s never played into it though, often dressing down to deemphasize her beauty, but she is striking by anyone’s standards. I’ve always felt enormous pride to be seen with her, knowing that since there was no shared physical resemblance, the casual observer would think she was my date.

I approached her with a genuine smile. We embraced, and I dutifully kissed her cheek. You look lovely tonight, Denise.

Her small smile faltered, but she recovered quickly. How was your flight?

Two flights, I said. One bumpy, and one dark. Both were fine.

I held her at arm’s length and stared into her eyes until she looked away. Don’t be obnoxious, she said.

I feigned pain as she took my arm and walked me toward the baggage conveyer. We stood at the fringe of the crowded room while Denise brought me up-to-date on our mother’s condition, which was stable at critical. I asked if she’d like to stop off for a drink, but she said there was wine waiting at Mom’s, where I’d be staying. She left me for the ladies’ room, and I wandered around the terminal, looking for things familiar. I’d left town through this portal thirty years ago and, as if emerging from a time machine, was returning—a lifetime removed.

I ended up in front of a wall of windows looking out at runways and drifted back to the November day I left for Vietnam. There have been many days of significance in my life, and my last day in Kalamazoo was one of them—still vivid over these many years. Somewhere out there on the tarmac, we’d stood in our awkward little group, holding on to the last few minutes of our time together. It was the only time I’d ever seen my mother cry, and the last time I would see Claire, my high school sweetheart.

My two best friends were there. We made short jokes about all the warm beer we’d consumed while driving through the Michigan countryside. They were good guys, and I hoped to track them down while I was here. Denise was next, and I lifted her into the air with my hug. You better write to me, or I’ll come back and rip the heads off all your Barbies.

You do and I’ll tell Dad you keep rubbers and cigarettes in his file box, she whispered.

I held her out in front of me, and she giggled at the look of surprise on my face. That dusty old cabinet was full of stuff that hadn’t shown any sign of movement since I was big enough to pull open its drawers. I would have felt safe hiding a fortune of jewels in it. Don’t underestimate this kid, I remember thinking.

A handshake with my dad. We exchanged an awkward glance, the emotion strong, but neither of us would speak. I would have plenty of opportunity to hurt this good man in the next few years, and I always came through.

Claire was a vision. She was strong and would not cry. She held me close for a full minute, and we whispered to each other of our love. Ah, Claire . . . We were something weren’t we? There’s so much I’d like to say to you if only I had the chance. If only I had one more chance.

Youthful love has a residual purity, having never been polluted by the rigors of real life. Though perhaps not fair, it does well compared with later relationships. I’ve always kept Claire on a pedestal and never felt such love for Julie. The sanctity of the life Claire and I dreamed of kept me sane through moments of panic, when the extremes of reality threatened to push me beyond what I could tolerate. Two psychologists have told me I must give up my fantasy, but I cannot.

This reverie was cut short by the light pressure of Denise’s hand on my arm. I spoke to her without looking. I was just thinking about the last time I was here. Do you remember it?

Of course I do. I was only twelve but had a fully developed brain by then. We watched a tug pull a train of baggage carts from the plane I had just exited. I smoked those cigarettes, you know.

I continued to look out over the acres of pavement but knew she wore that smug grin of hers. I smiled too and spoke my lines as if from a script, And the condoms? Are they still in the drawer?

Nope. All used up. She looked up at me innocently. I took them to school and sold them for a buck a piece to sixth graders.

Nice, I said. The Sisters of Saint Joseph must have been terribly proud. I’m glad you didn’t use them yourself.

What would I do with them? I don’t have one of those nasty things you guys are so proud of.

After a long pause she said, You know, Mom couldn’t talk about you without choking for a week after you left.

Yeah. I sighed.

I turned back to the window and remembered going to Mom, my last good-bye before getting on the plane. I looked dashing in my uniform that day. Tall in spit-shined jump boots, my recently earned sergeants stripes hanging proudly on the uniform that had been too large when I got it. I was determined to keep my anguish in check and maintain the aura of the fighting man. The son off to war. How many times had this scenario played through mothers and their boys in the last fifty thousand years? Too many, I supposed, a precedent well established. My mother, a practical yet compassionate woman, hugged me hard and exploded into tears. She would send me off with a piece of her heart, not knowing if she would see me again. A precedent well established . . .

My composure disintegrated so that I could say nothing. I fell into one of those sobbing cries that kids get into where they can’t stop. And that’s how I boarded the plane, gasping for air, tears falling in a torrent. I took my seat by a window, looked out to the sad row of faces, and shuddered. The stewardess and other passengers tactfully avoided looking at me as I bawled uncontrollably.

Denise drove us through the humid evening toward our family home. The drive took twenty minutes over roads that seemed to have few of the landmarks of my memory. I questioned her on the changes I saw, and she gave me approximate histories. It was like watching the remake of a favorite film, and I wasn’t sure I was going to like it as much as the original.

It was dark when we pulled into the driveway. I got out then stepped back to look up at the basketball hoop I had spent so many hours beneath so long ago. It had held up under three decades of exposure fairly well. The paint on the backboard had faded away, but the bits of wire I’d used to attach the net to the rusty rim were still in place.

I’ll be in in a minute, I said and walked around to open the trunk of the car. I carried my bags to the front of the house and set them down on the cracked pavement of the walkway. The house had been well maintained and seemed unchanged, but thirty inches of annual rain for thirty years can do a lot to a domestic landscape. After living in the high desert for so long, it impressed me to again see such lush growth. I believe planting trees leaves a legacy on land we occupy but can never own, so I’ve left a trail of shade everywhere I’ve lived. It began in this yard with the red maple I planted behind the garage in 1967. I knelt beneath the thirty footer now and laid both hands on the egg, a hundred-pound rock I’d rolled into place at the base of the tree after my dad’s funeral. As far as I could tell, it was undisturbed. Unknown was the status of what was buried beneath.

I circumnavigated the house and entered through the garage door into the kitchen. A bottle of merlot and a chilled chardonnay stood side by side on the kitchen table, a corkscrew and two wine glasses nearby. Tupperware containers of cut-up vegetables and fruit had been opened and their contents displayed on a crystal platter. Denise was near the sink and looked up from a cutting board on which she was slicing cheese. Open the wine, would you, please?

Which one? I replied, examining a corkscrew with unfamiliar mechanics.

How about both. I’d like a glass of each. The white first.

Yeah? I do that all the time. I like the white to quench the thirst and the red for its medicinal value.

She smiled. Must be in our genes. Nothing we learned from Mom and Dad though.

I laughed and nodded, grappling with the opener. Our parents weren’t teetotalers, but they never overimbibed. Mom was good for a half-glass of Mogen David most nights before bed, and Dad would have a couple of beers with Ted Dorn on weekends. Ted D. lived next door to us on Ira Avenue and followed us out of town after tipping us off to the coming of waste treatment ponds near the old neighborhood. Our houses were sold, and new ones bought in a huge move for both families in 1966. He and Dad never tired of congratulating themselves on their timing and shrewdness. Ted D. was a deputy sheriff and would regale my father with police stories once a week over those beers. I would hang silently on the fringe, hypnotized by tales of occasional car chases or gunfire, enjoying the smell of Ted’s Winston cigarettes.

I managed the sophisticated corkscrew without shredding the corks into the precious liquid and poured the wine. We sat at the kitchen table sans its ever-present oilcloth covering. I never knew this was made of wood, I said, tapping the oak surface.

Don’t tell Mom I took it off, Denise replied, setting the feast before me.

Would she know if I did?

Yes, she has lucid moments, but her hand is never far from the morphine pump.

It must be bad. I’d have figured her for high pain tolerance. She’s pretty tough.

Denise sat across from me and looked into her wine. She twisted the stem of the glass in her hand. I wonder what you do know. Apparently, you have no idea how she’s agonized over your life.

Her comment loomed over our first drink like a thunderstorm. I climbed to the roof and grasped the weathervane. Yeah well, my life’s news hasn’t improved in the last twenty-four hours. Julie told me last night she’s leaving.

Denise lifted her eyes and brought her glass to mine. I guess we’d better get started.

Unsure if she meant the wine or the issues at hand, we touched glasses and liberated both in a three-hour conversation. By the time we finished around 2:00 a.m., we’d dug into our family history and made some plans for its future. Our surviving parent was dying, but we decided to wait until it was over to settle her affairs. Denise had been her fiduciary for a year, and I trusted her judgment in all matters. We scheduled a late-morning visit to the hospital and said good-night.

I was beyond tired and a little drunk when I staggered downstairs to my old room. The salt-and-pepper carpet on the stairs was unchanged though torn and frayed at the edges, the creak of each step still familiar. I moved slowly, smiling at the pictures and vacation souvenirs on the basement walls that appeared to have been undisturbed through the years. The house smelled the same, its dulcet sounds recognizable. The toilet flushed upstairs, even that was as I remembered it. The house had aged, but its personality had not. It would survive my family and provide shelter for other families in other lifetimes. My eyes welled as I laid my head on the pillow, overwhelmed by sentiment and the fruit of the vine.

Dark, cool, and quiet, this basement was a sleeper’s dream. I crashed hard for six hours, only waking because of the throbbing in my head. My bare feet recognized the cold tile floor on the way to the bathroom, where I was happy to see a future expiration date on the aspirin bottle. At least something in the house had changed.

I loved this place during the fourteen months I lived here. The basement was finished when we moved in, with a family room, bathroom, barroom, and its own entrance. I commandeered the bar for a bedroom and installed an inexpensive pool table in the family room, making it a favorite hangout for my friends. We weren’t a rowdy bunch, so my parents didn’t mind the constant comings and goings. Knowing where we were kept them from worrying, making it worth the commotion that followed us around. I had a couple of rules about smoking and drinking in the house that were never abused, and everyone treated my folks with respect. For these and many other reasons, I loved my high school years and always thought I’d relive them again gladly if given the chance.

Back in the barroom, my bed had been replaced by a futon, and all traces of teenage life in the sixties had been removed for a more utilitarian environment. Though I didn’t believe much drinking had gone on here in the last thirty years, there was a standard assortment of bottles aging peacefully on a shelf beneath the countertop—fifths of bourbon, scotch, Canadian whiskey, vodka, rum, and gin; only the vodka and bourbon had even been opened.

2

Denise and I met back in the kitchen for coffee, cereal, and toast. I can’t drink like I used to and brought my hungover eyes drooping to the table. Denise looked none the worse for her half of the wine and smiled when I commented on her perky image. Perky does not describe her, and my attempt at a bullyrag went unrequited.

We worked the kitchen well together, no collisions and never in the other’s way. There would be no meals prepared here in the next few days, but Denise had the refrigerator well stocked with the basics so any appetite could be easily satisfied. "I called