American Hero

    They first met in the Van Gogh room at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  She was focused on a set of the painter’s self-portraits when someone approached from behind.

    “A bit full of himself, don’t you think?”

     Kira turned to find a handsome, muscular man at her side.  Dressed in a black T-shirt, blue jeans and sandals, his dark hair and angular features suggested an Italian heritage.

     “I think he just wanted us to see his sadness,” she said.  “Just look at those eyes.”

     “I’d rather look at yours,” he said.  “Irish eyes, I suspect.”

     “The red hair and pale skin must have been clues.”  She smiled and extended her hand.  “Kira Egan.  I’m a grad student at Columbia.”

      “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Egan,” he said, kissing the top of her hand.  “Tony Geraci, fireman, cook and patron of the arts.”

     Within an hour, they were sitting on a bench in Central Park, finishing their hot dogs and sodas.

     “You must come over this weekend and I’ll put together one of my special dishes,” he said.  “You like Italian food, I hope.”

     She accepted the invitation, ended up spending the night and, within another month, she was engaged.

     Vows were exchanged at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, witnessed by his huge, extended family, almost all of whom lived in New York, and a sizable contingent of her own family and friends, down from Boston and Providence.  The entire day was a dreamy blur of ceremony, food, wine, dancing, family, friends and happy children.  After a night at the Waldorf they left for a week in St. Thomas.

   Over the months that followed, Kira and Tony settled into an idyllic life in his large, open apartment that overlooked the Hudson.  On his off days, she’d return from classes to find a gourmet dinner waiting, complete with a bottle of red, Italian wine.  When he had to work, Kira would visit the firehouse, bringing dessert for Tony and his mates.  Free weekends took them to museums, the Park or plays in the city and, on every Sunday, an afternoon dinner at his parents’ home.  Always warmly greeted by Tony’s family, she looked forward to these noisy, vibrant gatherings and, within a few months, had acquired a limited ability to converse in Italian.

   A dramatic change would begin the following year, soon after Tony’s mother succumbed to a stroke.  Drinking more than usual, he became belligerent at times, often declining to join her on weekend excursions.   Physical abuse soon followed and makeup became a necessity, hiding bruises from family and friends.  Of course, Tony was always remorseful when he sobered up but, within days, he would be on another binge.  When a broken wrist sent her to the Emergency Room, police were called by a suspicious physician but, as Tony’s friends and acquaintances, they steered her away from filing a complaint.

   Staying with friends on weekends, she managed to avoid confrontations by returning late from school.  Nevertheless, injuries continued and rape soon followed.  On a Tuesday morning, she had secretly packed her belongings and prepared to escape as he slept off the previous night’s booze.  But, before she could leave, a phone call roused him from sleep and he was soon heading for the door, stuffing his shirt into his jeans.

   “Where are you going so fast?” she asked, attempting nonchalance.

   “Shut the fuck up and turn on the TV,” he said.  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

   Ignoring his advice, she finished packing and nearly ran down the stairs.  But chaos greeted her at the door and she never got off the island.  Tony died in Tower 2, forever an American hero.   

A Final Mission

      The snow had intensified when Captain Jack Crawford stepped from his Toyota pickup and began a two-mile walk to the bus station.  Having served in both the military and the Intelligence Service, he had one final mission to complete.  Wearing a sock hat, a black, hooded sweatshirt, a heavy coat, old jeans and hiking boots, he doubted that he could be identified should any video cam catch his movements; extra cautious, he had shaved his beard before leaving the house.  A small backpack, slung over his shoulder, contained all the equipment he would need.

   Paying for the bus ticket with cash, he took a seat near the rear of the vehicle and waited for the other passengers to hug their relatives and climb onboard.  Just a few minutes behind schedule, the bus rolled from the depot and headed west toward the mountains, now obscured by the heavy snowfall.  An hour later, at the second stop, Jack got off the bus, certain that there would be no surveillance in this small mountain town.

   He then walked to a faint trail that entered the woods near the edge of town and, since darkness had fallen, he easily reached the trailhead without attracting attention.  Heading into the forest, now coated by six inches of fresh snow, he picked up his pace, knowing that a two-hour hike was ahead.  Several creek crossings posed a bit of a challenge but he pushed onward, thankful that a full moon, now emerging from the last of the storm clouds, was lighting his path.  Finally, right on schedule, he reached his destination, a wooded meadow with a spectacular view of a broad river valley, far below.  He had visited this scenic spot many times over the years and had never encountered other hikers.

   Jack took a seat in the meadow and listened to the bugling of elk that echoed up from the valley.  The mountain air was cold and dry and he knew from weather reports that a low of minus ten was expected at this elevation.  Pulling a bottle of wine from his backpack, he unscrewed the cap and took a few swigs, anxious to experience its calming effects.  He then took off his boots and coat; using the latter as a pillow and lied back, scanning the bowl of stars overhead.  There was no doubt in his mind that this was the right spot, perhaps his favorite location on the planet.

   The diagnosis had come six months before and he was informed that no effective treatment was available.  Experimental treatment had been offered but Jack had declined.  He informed his ex-wife, his daughter who lived in Boston and a few close friends but otherwise kept the death sentence to himself.  He had decided to wait for the symptoms to worsen and then take action.

   So this was his final mission.  He soon began to shiver and took another swig from the bottle, accepting the fact that death would arrive before sunrise. 

Bluebird

   I love this view, our broad lawn sweeping down to the river, framed by stately pines and backed by the high spine of the Elk Creek Mountains, snow-capped much of the year.  Maggie and I bought the house back in sixty-five, three years after our marriage and a year before David was born.  I moved my practice into its east wing and we’ve never given a thought to leaving.

   Of course, my parents were very impressed with the place, having come from modest backgrounds and never aspiring to leave Wichita.  He was a conductor for the Santa Fe Railroad and she stayed home to raise the kids.  I was the second of their four sons and, in the end, the most successful.  Jack, my older brother, must have changed careers a dozen times, ending up in the insurance business, last I heard, and Darryl followed in my father’s footsteps.  Thomas, the youngest, was killed in Vietnam not long after we bought this house.  Vietnam nearly killed my mother as well.

   Now, looking out at our idyllic view, I’m not sure why I lost touch with Jack and Darryl.  Dad died in seventy-six, three years after his retirement, and mom followed in eighty-three, having moved in with Maggie and me after my father passed.  I had admitted her to St. Joe’s a week earlier with pneumonia.  She rallied at first but then slipped into sepsis.  Besides my brothers, I’ve managed to lose contact with old friends as well, even with Jane Byers whom I nearly married.

   I often think of Jane.  We met at Arizona State and lived together our last year of college but, when I went off to medical school, she took a job in Boston.  I visited a couple of times, once in the summer and another time over spring break, but our relationship gradually fizzled.  She was a firecracker though and I’ll never forget some of her antics, especially that August night we snuck into the campus pool.  Maggie doesn’t know it but I have Jane’s old letters in a box somewhere.

   When I finally retired, the week after 9-11, Maggie and I traveled quite a bit, including trips to Europe and Australia.  In recent years, though, we’ve become homebodies.  She still gets together with her friends but I’m content to putter around the house.  Maggie hired an aide, Tamara, to help with the chores and, I suspect, to keep an eye on me when she’s away.  She’s pleasant enough but I’ve told Maggie I could manage just fine on my own.

   To be perfectly honest, Tamara is forgetful at times.  It’s now getting close to noon and she’s yet to serve my breakfast.  Fortunately, I’m not terribly hungry and my attention has been focused on our fabulous view.  In fact, there’s a mountain bluebird hanging around the deck this morning, the first I ‘ve seen in years.

   Focused on the bluebird, I didn’t hear Maggie enter the room and she sneaks up to give me a kiss on the cheek.  She’s brought a visitor, she says, and a tall, handsome young man appears to my left.  He asks how I’m doing but I’m too interested in the bluebird to answer right away.  Maggie asks if I know this stranger and I respond that we’ve never met though, in fact, he does look somewhat familiar.  To be honest, with his long nose and sandy hair he looks a bit like my brother Darryl.

   But when I ask if it’s Darryl, Maggie shakes her head and tears well in her eyes.  She says he is our son, David, but I know she must be kidding.  David is much younger than this gentleman in a pinstripe suite.  Wouldn’t you know, he joins in, insisting that he is David and asking if I remember his visit last summer.  He says we took a hike down to the river and tried a bit of fly-fishing.  I tell him that he must be mistaken and turn back to my view, just as the bluebird flies from its perch.  I comment on the bird’s rare appearance but Maggie says it’s out there every morning.  She says Tamara calls it Dr. Tom’s bluebird.  I scoff at that comment and advise Maggie that Tamara did not yet bring my breakfast.  She just pats me on the shoulder and asks what I’d like to eat.  When I turn back to the window, she and her friend head for the kitchen where someone begins to sniffle.  I look for the bluebird again but it is gone.