Kansas
Conclusion
April 1965-October 1965
Joy
From the viewpoint of a casual observer, my relationship with Joy looked a whole lot different than it really was. Yes, she was one of the most beautiful and highly intelligent women that I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, possessed a sharp and inquisitive wit with a special ability to gauge even the most complex ambiguities; but for the most part ours was a nothing more than a very close platonic relationship.
Born and raised in the small farming town of DeSoto, Kansas, she had always been blessed with high cheekbones, crystal blue eyes, a perfectly oval face and hair the color of bright sunshine. Without even trying, she embodied all the positive attributes that most women would kill for, long legs, flawless complexion, and a natural walk that models had to practice for years before perfecting.
Tall for women of that era; when wearing high-heeled shoes, she stood scant millimeters short of six feet; but perhaps her most amiable quality was her genuine sense of modesty. She never used her beauty or sharp intellect to attempt to embody who she was; instead, she always projected a relaxed and confident demeanor and preferred to stay in the background.
She graduated from high school at the age of sixteen, two years early—having been allowed to skip the ninth and eleventh grades—something that is unheard of nowadays. She went on to college and majored in Nursing, completing her studies well ahead of time. Her nursing counselors urged her to switch her major and cross over to instead pursue a Medical degree, but because of her parents’ lack of funds and support, along with a shortage of scholarships in that day and age, she decided to continue with Nursing.
During her last year of schooling she married the son of her mother’s best friend, a roguish and unscrupulous fellow named Jack. They’d known each other since childhood. His parents owned and lived on about two acres of land just west of Joy’s parents’ property, and ran an auto junkyard on the property.
Jack was a natural-born bully, known for his short temper and a proclivity for picking on younger and smaller boys to harass and beat. Spending the bulk of his high school years on suspension for fighting or petty thieving, he graduated a year late. For a few years he worked at his parents’ junk yard, as he was unable to successfully hold even the simplest and most menial of jobs.
Joy’s mother, probably afraid that her only daughter would graduate from college and seek a brighter future far away from DeSoto, did everything she could to encourage a more than neighborly relationship between Joy and Jack, finally eliciting a positive response from Joy.
As Joy explained to me one day, “It was hell listening to my mother every day, berating and accusing me of wanting to abandon her and dad and ‘high-tailing it to California, or God forbid, New York to marry some Yankee and never coming back to DeSoto again.
Jack had stopped drinking and was on his best behavior for a year or so, while his mother and Joy’s mother plotted to try to get them together. In the end, Joy relented, and although she liked Jack well enough, she confessed that she didn’t love him. The best part of their marriage, she related to me one day, was that after their two-day honeymoon spent at the exotic Olathe Motel (Free TV and Free Long Distance Calls), Jack resumed his ne’er-do-well behavior and disappeared for a couple of weeks. Not long after, he was arrested for car theft and began a long, slow descent into alcoholism and the committing petty crimes.
After a particularly stupid attempt to burglarize a local drug store, the judge gave Jack a choice of a year in prison or signing up for military service. Of course, he chose the Navy, and after basic training was assigned to NAS Olathe, where he worked as a cook.
“So,” Joy said to me one evening over a couple of drinks, “it’s been less than a dream marriage for either of us. I know he suffers from a severe lack of self-esteem mostly because of me, but I can’t help regretting that I ever agreed to marry him.”
“Do you guys argue a lot?” I asked.
“Surprisingly, no. In fact, we rarely speak to one another, and that’s the way I like it. The people he hangs around with are mostly losers, hicks and rednecks, and for a while last year he never even came home for a couple of months. Since I didn’t much care if he ever showed up again I didn’t go looking for him, but his mother went crazy wondering where he’d gone. After she followed him home from the base one day she discovered that he’d been living in LaCygne (a small town south of Olathe) with some drug-addicted prostitute. Since then I won’t let him come near me for fear of him infecting me with some dreadful venereal disease.”
She told me that he forced her to deposit her salary into a joint bank account where he withdrew most of his and her money every month for his own entertainment. She’d kept her job at the Playboy Club secret from him and opened an account for herself at another bank where she eventually saved enough money to pay off the small trailer that they’d been renting-to-own for the past couple of years. The trailer was located on a small plot on his parents’ property.
“Well, at least you drive a nice car.” I joked.
“Yeah, well that’s another story. I was tired of driving cars that he and his dad had put together from junks that they’d taken in, so one day after seeing a ‘For Sale’ sign on the Impala that one of the doctors at the hospital was selling, I looked him up and asked how much he wanted for it. After he told me I said that I couldn’t afford to pay that much, but after some negotiating he agreed to finance the car for me at almost no interest. So, I made the deal.
When I told Jack about it, he insisted that the note be put into his name so that he’d own the title when the car was paid off. After about six months I had enough money saved up to pay it off, so I wrote the doctor a check. I agreed to title the car in Jack’s name as long as I could drive it. If he’d refused to that agreement then I told him I would sell the trailer, since that’s in my name, and he could go back to living with his whore in LaCygne. He reluctantly agreed, so he still drives junks from his dad’s junkyard and I drive the Impala. Besides he can hardly afford to put gas in his junkers, much less my V-8 Impala.”
After she picked me up from my freezing phone booth in Kansas City, Kansas, we found that we were naturally gravitating closer to one another. I enjoyed her great sense of humor and her endless optimism, but mostly her grace and beauty won me over. Even though we were spending a lot of time together, for some unknown reason, that I still wonder about to this day, we were never romantically or sexually involved. Not that we didn’t try.
The closest we ever got to actually being intimate was during one evening, a few months after the phone booth incident. We had made some plans to go to Kansas City for a night out with another couple, and because I had left the Dart with Sharon, I caught a ride with one of my friends and his girlfriend and headed to the Anchor Inn where Joy was waiting. The four of us took off in Joy’s Impala, with me driving.
We club-hopped for a few hours and as the evening wore on I noticed that Joy’s attitude seemed a little off. It turned out she and Jack had had an argument over something trivial and she’d stormed off. He threatened to follow her and find out who she was going out with and “end it forever for both of them”. She wasn’t sure what he meant, but she was sure he hadn’t followed her. However, she was still on edge, thinking that Jack might try to hunt her down at the clubs by trying to find where she’d parked her ‘hard-to-miss’ car. So deciding to park her car on the street at 10th Street, we all walked over to 12th Street to hit the clubs. Her plan was to walk by herself back to the car when we were done then drive back to pick us up.
I guess she was more worried than she let on because she was drinking heavier than normal. The more she drank the merrier she got, and to my surprise, the more romantic she seemed. When we were dancing she held me tight and a few times nibbled on my ear and kissed my neck. Since we’d never been intimate, nor even participated in any kind of ‘make-out’ session, I assumed the alcohol was making her act more forward than usual. Her romantic overtures were turning me on but I was hesitant to follow-up because I was sure she was just a little drunk and acting out.
When the evening finally came to a close around two in the morning, Joy could hardly stand. Instead of letting her walk back to her car by herself we all insisted that we’d go back as a group. If Jack did show up and wanted to start any trouble, we all agreed that my buddy and I would be able to take care of him.
Luckily, when we go to the car Jack was nowhere to be seen. Joy suddenly suggested that my buddy drive the car with his girlfriend in the front seat because she, “wasn’t feeling too good, was tired, and wanted to snuggle” in the back seat. I certainly had no intention of vetoing that idea.
I sat on the right side of the rear seat with my right shoulder up against the right rear window. As promised, Joy got in and slid over on my left side—hugging me tightly with both arms and laying her head on my chest. We drove for a while, and when she didn’t change her position I assumed she’d gone to sleep, or worst case scenario, had passed out.
Suddenly, she raised her head and looked dreamily at me. “God, Frank, you are so wonderful. I think I’m really falling in love with you…I want you to kiss me.” She partially opened her lips and moved her head up to kiss me. Not wanting to ruin the moment, I bent my head down and met her lips. She opened her mouth inviting me to French kiss her. Of course, I complied.
About three seconds into the kiss I thought I heard her make a low moaning sound deep in her throat. The sound excited me, and I pushed down harder on her mouth. I heard another moan, this one a little louder and a little deeper followed by a sudden tightening of her lips.
Before I knew what happened, a gush of vomit came rushing up from her throat and right into my mouth! She threw her head back and yelled, “Oh God!” Then, preceded by a loud and very angry sounding burp, another gush of vomit instantly splashed onto my face as I was trying to pull back and spit out the first volley as fast as I could.
“Holy shit! What the fuck’s going on back there?” My buddy yelled. “Holy shit! She’s puking all over the back seat!” To say nothing about all over me.
I pushed Joy off of me and she rolled over to the left side of the seat—depositing another load of puke on the floor.
“Pull the fucking car over, for Christ sake,” I managed to gurgle out—on the verge of generating my own vomit. “Jesus, hurry up!”
Fortunately, we were within a block of a gas station. It was closed but the water hose, located between the two gas pumps, was working. I jumped out and rinsed out my mouth and splashed water all over my head and chest. Meanwhile, Joy was pulled out from the other side of the car and carried over to where I was taking an impromptu fully clothed shower—she, all the while gagging and heaving.
The rear of her car was a disaster and we did the best we could to wash out as much of the vomit as we could. After doing our best to clean her up we dragged her back to the car and dumped her into the back seat. She curled up and within seconds she fell asleep and began snoring contentedly, her beautiful frilly white sleeveless dress soaked in water and puke.
We drove with all the windows open back to the Anchor Inn, but the stench was still overwhelming When we got there our friends made haste to get out and all but run to their car to go home. I was left there with a few choices—all bad.
I could leave Joy in her car to sleep it off while I drove home stinking of puke. Or I could drive Joy home in her car and hope that Jack wasn’t there—but then I’d be stranded. I could drive Joy home in my car, again hoping that Jack wasn’t home, then drag her into her trailer—finally hurrying back to my car to make a quick escape.
With no clear good choice, I had no idea what to do.
Finally, as I was pondering our situation, Joy woke up. Hoping she was conscious enough to appreciate our predicament I explained to her our options.
“Oh honey, I’m sorry I got sick. But I feel better now…although I do have a pounding headache.” She straightened up in the seat and yawned widely.
“OK, but you understand that anything we do, we’re fucked!”
“Let me think…” she said softly, looking down at her dress, wiping the front of it with her hand and letting out a little groan. “OK, this is what we’re gonna do. Let’s drive up to the hospital.”
“What? You’re crazy! What’re we gonna do there?”
“Ouch…don’t yell. My head really hurts. Just listen. We’ll drive my car to the hospital, OK? I’ll go in and talk to my night shift supervisor and explain what happened. Then you can come in and we can take a shower to get all this puke off. As far as the car is concerned, we got stuff…a powder…that we use when a patient vomits. It neutralizes the acid and deodorizes. Also, it dries the stuff up so it can be vacuumed. Tomorrow I’ll take the car to get it all cleaned up. See? Easy.”
“So I’m supposed to take a shower with you? At the hospital? What, are you crazy? What about my clothes?”
“We’ll both put our clothes in a plastic bag and I’ll get everything dry cleaned. We always do that with patients’ clothing. Then I’ll get us a set of hospital scrubs to wear. Then you can drive me back to the Anchor and I’ll drive myself home. I’m OK now…and I’ll get us some stuff to take that’ll help with the hangover.”
I thought about it, and as freaky as her plan sounded it trumped all the ones I’d thought of all to hell. “Well, I guess. But Christ, what are your nurse friends gonna think?”
“Oh, they all know about Jack and they all know about you.”
“What do you mean that they all know about me?!”
“They know what an asshole Jack is, and they know I’m crazy about you. So, it’ll be fine.”
She’s crazy about me?
“I don’t feel comfortable taking a shower in your hospital.”
“Silly boy, it’ll be fine.”
And so we drove to the Olathe General Hospital. A couple of hours later, as the sun was coming up I drove back to my apartment. Dressed in a set of gray scrubs and dress shoes, I walked in quietly. It was still and when I got upstairs I found Sharon and the boys sound asleep.
I quickly and quietly retrieved my pajamas and went into the bathroom to take my second shower of the night. I put the scrubs into the dirty clothes hamper where I would retrieve them later that day and dispose of them.
Joy and I would never speak of this incident again.
Sharon Gets Her Revenge
The communications between Sharon and me had now deteriorated to almost nothing. Sometimes when I spent time at home she would take the car and leave for hours at a time; at times returning with groceries or small items she’d purchased, other times coming home empty-handed. No doubt, we were now at the lowest point ever in our relationship.
When I left home to go to work or go out I would no longer say goodbye to her or give her a guesstimate on when she could expect me back. I stopped giving her these after she had told me, “Look, please don’t bother telling me anything. I don’t care when, or if, you come home. And don’t think I’m just sitting here hoping you’ll be home at a certain time. So when you’re ready to go do whatever it is you do, just fucking leave.” So, I did.
During those days I never gave much thought to how often I was gone from home or how long I was gone. In fact, I actually felt relieved when I did leave because when we were together the tension between us was so great it was almost unbearable. We would avoid making eye contact with one another, and actually leave a room when the other entered. So after she’d made the statement that she didn’t care if I left or not, I felt pretty much vindicated.
When I think back and try to remember what my thoughts were about what I was doing or what I expected Sharon’s reaction to be as a result of my behavior, I come up empty-handed. So I can only assume that I wasn’t doing much thinking about anything other than my own feelings. It was selfish and thoughtless of me, and I just can’t imagine how I expected Sharon to feel about, or react to, my loutish conduct. But I was soon to find out.
One day while on a break at the Air Force detachment I overheard a couple of guys talking about attending a baseball game in Kansas City that evening. In those days the professional baseball team that played in KC was named the Kansas City Athletics, (They eventually moved to Oakland), and was owned by a glitzy insurance businessman named Charlie Finley.
The team was usually outfitted in outlandishly bright uniforms and had, as a mascot, a mule named Charlie-O. He made the team play with orange baseballs and bases, and introduced the concept of using a “designated hitter” instead of letting the pitcher bat. Of all his crazy ideas, that was the only one that stuck. Going to a Kansas City home game was never about watching baseball, it was all about seeing what outrageous innovation Charlie Finley had thought of next.
It so happened that the guys whose conversation I’d overheard had scored some free tickets for that night’s game, and still had two left. Since I’d never been to a professional baseball game, I jumped at the chance and asked if I could come along.
“Sure,” one of the guys said, “but we still have one ticket left. Know anybody who might be interested?”
I immediately thought of my next door neighbor, Samuel. He was a rabid baseball fan, usually rooting for the Brooklyn Dodgers, but I thought he might enjoy going to a local game. Further, if he came along to verify that I had indeed gone to a game that night and not out to some club, it would look better, and maybe Sharon would cut me some slack. I ran to the public phone and called Hilda, asking her to have her husband call me as soon as possible. A few minutes later after Samuel had called me back, we had our five for the game that night.
When I got home that afternoon I told Sharon about the game, and made sure to mention that Samuel from next door was also going. I stressed that she could have the car that night because one of the Air Force guys was going to pick up me and Samuel.
“So what time are you leaving?” She asked, matter-of-factly.
“About five-thirty. The game’s at seven, and it’ll take us about thirty minutes to get there. We’ll want to get there early to get something to eat at the stadium.”
“And, what time do you think you’ll be home?”
“Oh, probably around ten or ten-thirty, I guess. They’ll drop me and Sam off first since the guys we’re going with live on the base.”
She seemed not to take very much interest, and just shrugged.
About an hour later I saw a car pull up to the front of our apartment and assumed it was the guys. Sam and I came bounding out of our apartments at the same time and jumped into the car. Since there was only the driver I asked where the other two guys were.
“Oh, they’re back at the base,” the driver said. “We’ll have to swing back there to get them ‘cause they had to work late and weren’t ready when I pulled up. I thought I’d just pick you guys up first. It’s no problem though, we have reserved seats anyway.”
We circled around and went back to the base and pulled up to a bachelor quarters building. We sat there for about fifteen or twenty minutes and still the other two guys didn’t come out.
“Fuck, those assholes are going to make us late for the game,” the driver groused.
“Do you know what floor their rooms are?” Sam asked.
“Yeah. Let me go up and see what the hell the holdup is.” And he got out of the car and hurried up the entrance walkway.
Sam and I had sat there for what seemed to be at least an hour when we spotted the three come running out of the building.
“Sorry guys, we had an emergency with one of the bombers and he had to land at Richards-Gebaur Air Force Base. We had to wait to fill out all the damn paper-work. Sorry.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Shit, it’s almost seven!” the driver said. “We’ll have to kick-ass to get there at least by the second inning.
We pulled out of the parking area, careful to stay under the speed limit on the base, then roared on to Interstate 35 north.
As we drove under the Santa Fe overpass in Olathe, one of the guys asked, “Hey Frank, don’t you work at some gas station around here?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just about a mile up look for a green building with a big yellow sign that says, ‘Quality Oil’. It’s on the right…on the service road.”
About a minute later, Sam, who was sitting in the front seat said, “Yup, there she is right over there!” He stuck his hand out of the door window and pointed to the station.
All five sets of eyes turned and focused on the green building.
Before I had a chance to say anything, Sam exclaimed, “Hey Frank! Ain’t that your car?”
Parked on the south side of the gas station, facing the highway, was my dark blue Dodge Dart. The hood was up.
“Holy shit!” Sam said. “Looks like Sharon had some car trouble and pulled into the station. She’s got the hood up. Is Billy working?”
“…N-n-no…” I said as I concentrated on my car. “Randall’s working the night shift today.”
“Shit.” Sam said softly. He turned in his seat and said, “You wanna go back and see what may’ve happened?”
“Well guys,” I said reluctantly, “I hate to make us later than we already are, but I need to see what happened. Obviously, there’s something wrong with the car since the hood is up.”
“No sweat!” The driver said. “If it’s serious we’ll just drop you off and we’ll get going.”
“OK,” I said. “That’ll work.”
We took the next exit off the freeway and turned left taking the overpass. We swung down to the southbound lanes and headed back to the Santa Fe exit to turn back northbound on the service road.
It was getting dark so we had our headlights on. As we pulled off the service road on to the station’s entrance driveway we turned our high beams on.
Slowing down to about ten or fifteen miles an hour, my Dart now flooded in light by the high beams, we all saw the same thing at the same time.
The Dart was parked on the south side of the station pointed toward the freeway with its hood up. Sitting in the driver’s seat was Sharon, with her back to the door, in a full embrace with Randall. Hanging slightly out of the left rear window was Ricky. He was apparently standing on the back seat looking out at the traffic as it drove by. No doubt, Beebe had to be laying down on the back seat.
The five of us were mesmerized by what we saw.
“Holy fuck!” The driver said as we drove through the station and by the gas pumps. “Who was that in your car?”
Before I could say anything, Sam said, “That was Sharon, Frank’s wife.” Then he quickly put his hand up to his mouth.
We accelerated out of the opposite side of the station and pulled back on to the service road, northbound again.
No one said anything.
As we again approached the turn-around overpass that we’d turned on earlier, someone asked if I still wanted to go to the game.
“You fucking idiot!” Sam said angrily.
“Well, I thought I’d just ask…” the same voice said meekly.
Regaining my composure somewhat, I managed to say, “Take me home.”
We took the overpass and got back on I-35 south. In less than five minutes we were pulling back up to my apartment. The whole trip back, no one said a word.
“You want me to come in with you?” Sam asked quietly.
“No Sam, you guys go on ahead and enjoy the game. I have some business to take care of.”
Choices
Before we left on our drive from Houston to Olathe the year before, my father had taken me aside as if to tell me a secret.
“You know, it’s gonna be a really long drive up to Kansas, right?” He’d cautioned.
“Yes dad, it is. But not as far as the one we just took from Nevada.”
“Yeah I know. But you were lucky, you know.”
“How so?”
“Well, nobody tried to attack you.”
“What?”
“Look,” he said, now putting on his serious face. “There’s a lot of stuff that can happen on the highway…especially to a couple of young kids like you and Sharon. I oughta know, I used to be a long distance truck driver.”
“Dad, look. Nothing’s gonna happen. We don’t stop for hitchhikers and we’re careful when we stop for gas and bathroom breaks.”
“Even so, you don’t have any kind of weapon to defend yourself with if something were to occur, do you?”
“Weapon?”
“Yeah, a gun.”
“Of course not! Dad, I don’t need a gun, OK?”
“Well, you’re gonna take one this time around. I insist on it.”
Since he was not about to be talked out of this idea, I followed him outside where he popped open the trunk of his car.
Under a heavy blanket he had a virtual arsenal of rifles, shotguns and pistols. “OK, pick one.”
“Pick one? I don’t know what I need. You’ve got enough guns there for an army!”
“OK, shhh. I don’t want your mother to hear.”
“Why should she care?”
“Because she didn’t want me to give you a gun. But you gotta have one for the trip. So, pick one.”
I looked around but couldn’t determine which one I should pick. “Look, I don’t know which one to choose. You pick one out.”
“OK, let’s see…” He said, pushing rifles and shotguns this way and that. “OK, here’s what I was looking for.” And he pulled out from under the pile what appeared to be a shorter rifle, but it was in a soft leather case. “Here you go.”
He unzipped the case and pulled out a really nice looking lever-action carbine.
“This here’s a 30-30. It’ll stop a buffalo if you hit it square on.”
I took the rifle and noticed that the action was engraved. It was a “Winchester Buffalo Bill Centennial – Special Edition”.
“Dad, I can’t take this. It’s brand new…and it looks expensive. Besides, I won’t be running into any pissed off buffalos on my way to Kansas”.
The joke went right over his head as he dove back into the trunk to find some ammunition. He retrieved a box of twenty-five cartridges. “Here, it takes six in the chamber, so that’ll be more than enough.”
I took the box and slipped the rifle back into its case. “OK dad, I’ll put it into the trunk of my Chevy”.
Since the first day we moved into our apartment, the 30-30 carbine rifle had been in the living room closet. I told Sharon that I’d loaded it with six rounds, so if she ever needed to use it all she had to do was to pull the lever all the way down, then back up to the stock. That action would insert a live cartridge into the chamber, then all there was to do was to point it in the direction of the target and pull the trigger. If she missed, or if the target refused to go down, repeat as often as necessary.
She smiled and said, “I doubt we’ll ever have to take it out of its case.”
***
I opened the back door and walked in to the dark kitchen. I was about to turn on the light but decided that the dark environment matched my mood. Walking straight into the living room I sat down heavily on the couch. I honestly can’t recall even one thought going through my head—just the picture of my son Ricky, looking out of the rear window while his mother made out with Randall in the front seat. They must’ve thought that by having the hood up it would shield them from prying eyes.
I sat in the dark for a long time. Since I wore no watch I had no idea what time it was or how long I sat there.
Then, as if in a dream I saw myself get up and walk over to the closet. I felt around the jackets and coats until my fingers touched soft leather. I pulled the heavy case out and laid it gently on the coffee table.
Sitting back down, my vision, now accustomed to the dark, danced over the dark brown case and my mind began to review the military lessons I learned on sighting down on a target.
Rifle stock would have to be snugly placed in the space between my shoulder and collarbone. Right cheek hugging the wooden stock, left arm balancing the weapon resting in the palm of my left hand. Right hand lightly gripping the stock right behind the trigger-guard, index finger extended above the trigger-guard but ready to drop onto the trigger to begin the firm squeeze that would release the firing pin. Recognize and acknowledge the lazy 8 motion of the front sight and line it up with the rear sight. Focus on the front sight, leaving the target slightly out of focus, and squeeze gently. Let the explosion surprise you.
Still sitting, I bent at the waist and unzipped the case. The faint aroma of metal and gun oil floated up into my nostrils as I slowly slid the rifle out. I reached my right hand into the lever-action, quickly pushing it down then back up rapidly—sending a live round into the chamber. I set the rifle on my lap and waited.
***
It wasn’t that I was angry about her going out and looking for affection. I understood that our relationship had deteriorated to the point where most, if not all, affection for one another had been all but destroyed. To me, the problem was who it was she chose, and who she decided would tag along when she finally perpetrated the act. Our sons.
Randall. He was a sniveling, whiney, punk coward who hated anything or anyone military. I could understand his reasoning for picking Sharon out of the herd: she was vulnerable, lonely, angry, and probably looking to strike back at her wandering husband. If he ended up fucking her then he’s by proxy, fucking everyone and everything he despised. Understandable.
All the same, he would have to pay.
And Sharon. Why take the boys along when you’re planning to fuck somebody? What, Hilda wasn’t available to watch the boys while you go do your thing? No, I know she was, because I had been with Sam, and I’d seen her as he’d left her home alone.
Well, those issues would be dealt with soon enough, I thought. Randall would be at the station until eleven—and that would be more than enough time for me to take care of business here, then make the ten-minute drive to the station to pay him a quick little visit and settle the score.
A sudden calm warmness enveloped me when I understood that this had to be my only solution.
Her, him, then me. So clean. No more problems. No more guilt.
I closed my eyes and laid my head back on the cushion of the couch. It was so quiet and peaceful I could actually hear my heart beat. Boom. Boom. Boom. The sound of eternal silence. Down deep, I yearned for peace. It would come soon enough.
***
The roar of the Dart’s engine as it pulled into our little drive next to the building pulled me up from a shallow slumber. Rolling my head to the left I saw the sharp glare of the headlights as their light penetrated the black kitchen and slid along the wall.
The lights went off and the engine sound stopped. It was ghostly quiet again.
I sat up, reached for the rifle, and waited.
The sound of a key being inserted into the kitchen door lock was my signal. I stood up, cradling the rifle in the crook of my right arm and gently pushed the coffee table away from me with my right leg.
The door lock clicked and the knob turned.
I took a step forward and pivoted to my left—bringing the rifle up to my right shoulder and swinging the barrel in the direction of the kitchen door.
In the darkness, I could see the outline of her body as she entered the kitchen. Slightly hunched over she carefully stepped through the door, turned and very quietly pushed the door shut with her hip.
I brought the rifle to bear—centering the front sight directly on center mass. My right index finger, extended comfortably just above the trigger guard, would stay there until I was ready to take the shot.
My legs, perpendicular to the target, were slightly spread—my right leg back, relaxed and ready to absorb the recoil.
She paused and stood stock still—almost as if she were scenting the air—some sixth sense telling her that danger was imminent.
I stood motionless, concentrating on the shot.
She moved slowly forward, taking a step that put her not more than ten feet away from me.
So easy, I thought…and I felt my lips curl slightly into a smile.
My index finger dropped into the guard and hugged the trigger snugly. I began to exert a steady pressure, waiting for the surprise.
I saw her bend down slightly, and I followed the movement with the barrel’s front sight.
And suddenly! The room was flooded with light!
Caught slightly off-guard, I squinted to shield my eyes, but continued to concentrate on the trigger-pull and the front sight, now clearly pointed directly at her chest.
She stopped, frozen in place.
By the weight of the trigger on my finger I knew the explosion was imminent.
A cry!
My eyes, without wanting to, darted just to the right of the front sight! And my son’s face came into sharp focus. Another cry, and a little arm shot up, covering his eyes.
My tunnel vision expanded, and for the first time I saw that Sharon was standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen with both of my boys—one in each arm—both balanced on her hips. Ricky’s screams, caused by his having been awakened by the sudden flash of light had broken my concentration.
My eyes darted back to Sharon. I saw her eyes open…wide…her mouth agape. I curiously saw that she was trying to say something, but no sound was being generated by her heaving throat.
A bolt of pain and panic flashed through my chest as I suddenly came to recognize what I was about to do. A wave of heavy sorrow passed through my body and an intense bout of trembling began to rack me from the inside out.
Time seemed to stand still. The barrel of the rifle began to waver wildly.
An inner voice shrieked into my brain, screaming and trying to make me understand that I was about to unleash a 30-millimeter lead slug directly into my wife’s chest…while she held my two boys.
The inner voice shouted, “NO!” NO!” NO!” NO!” And I looked up.
My index finger reflexively pulled off the trigger and took up its safety position on the side of the trigger guard. Afraid that the rifle’s hammer was about to release—slamming the firing pin into the cartridge’s primer and igniting the propellant—ultimately sending a bullet on its deadly way, I slowly and carefully raised the rifle barrel to the ceiling, and with my right thumb I disengaged the hammer lock and gently rested it back into its slot.
Separated by a little more than three yards, Sharon and I both stood and stared at one another.
Far away, I could hear Ricky crying plaintively.
A wave of nausea suddenly rose from the pit of my stomach. I threw the rifle on the couch and darted by Sharon, racing into the kitchen. I bent over the sink and disgorged a bitter stream of bile. Tears flooded my eyes.
***
I rinsed my mouth and washed my face—drying off with a dishcloth.
Looking around I saw that Sharon and the boys were no longer there. In the relative quiet of the apartment I heard Ricky and Beebe upstairs as Sharon was talking to them, apparently putting them to bed.
Re-entering the living room, I saw the rifle on the couch where I’d dropped it. I picked it up and unloaded it completely. After storing the cartridges in a small pocket on the side of the leather case, I slid the weapon back into it and carried it over to the closet—slowly returning to sit on the couch.
I was surprised…no, shocked, when I first heard, then saw, Sharon coming down the stairs a few minutes later in her nightgown. I had been sitting there trying to decide where I was going to spend the rest of the night.
She quietly padded across the living room and sat down on the recliner across from me. Putting her head down she began picking her nails with her fingers.
“Look,” I said softly, my voice breaking slightly, “I’m sorry for what I did. I know I scared you and it was stupid. I was just really angry and lost complete control of myself.”
She looked up, and in an annoyed tone said, “Well, I hope you know how to iron your uniform for your morning shift, ‘cause I sure as hell ain’t gonna do it!”
I have to admit that this wasn’t exactly the statement I was expecting, and all I could say was, “What?”
“You heard me. Iron your own clothes from now on.”
“Is that all you can say after what just happened? …what just almost happened?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“OK, for starters—how long has this thing with Randall been going on?”
“What thing? What are you talking about?”
It was then I realized that she, in fact, didn’t have the slightest inkling that I’d seen her in a lovers’ embrace with Randall at the station.
“OK, let me tell you what I saw.” And, I began to relate to her what I, and four other guys—including Samuel next door—had seen. To my complete surprise she began to deny the whole incident.
“You’re fucking insane. I don’t even know the guy that well. I’ve only seen him a few times when I took you some lunch. I would never do that! Not with him!”
I sat there in complete disbelief, not knowing what else to say. She was so convincing in her denial that I started to believe that she actually believed what she was saying.
We talked for about thirty minutes, me, admitting that I’d not been the best of husbands and acknowledging past dalliances. But no amount of mea culpa that I threw out shook her from her state of denial. In the end, I told her that for the sake of the children we both would have to commit to living better lives—if not together as husband and wife, then separate as mom and dad.
We never again spoke about the almost tragic incident that had occurred that night, but our marriage would forever be changed.
We’re Not In Kansas Anymore
A few weeks later, in a pointless attempt to try to mend our relationship, I invited Sharon to accompany me to a gig at the SPO club. I had arranged for Hilda to watch the boys after explaining to her and Samuel that I was going to do whatever it took to put our marriage back together. After declining my invitation a number of times, Sharon finally agreed to go.
I made sure she had a table right up front for the evening, and the bartenders at the club promised they’d keep an eye on her and not let her run dry. I laughed and told them not to worry about that because she hardly drank, but she would probably appreciate some snacks.
During our second set, a middle-aged Senior Petty Officer approached Sharon’s table and asked her to dance. She looked up at him, then at me. After a few words she politely declined and turned her head away.
The guy obviously did not like taking ‘no’ for an answer, and he seemed to keep trying get her attention. About that time, our song ended, and instead of walking away he pulled a chair from under her table and sat down next to her.
When he did that I was instantly angered but helpless as I just couldn’t jump off the stage and confront him. About midway through our next song, Sharon finally decided that the guy was not going to go away so she agreed to one dance.
The song was a slow dance song and the guy took full advantage of that. He grabbed her and held her tightly against him. As the dance went on he buried his face in her neck and appeared to be trying to kiss her. When the song ended, instead of walking her back to the table he held her on the dance floor, waiting for the next song to play.
As luck would have it, the next song was going to be the last song of the set. During the song he continued his shenanigans—Sharon vainly trying to pull herself away from his groping hands.
We finished the song and announced that we would be going on break. The SPO walked off the dance floor leaving Sharon standing there. Once I put my guitar up I got off the stage and went over to Sharon’s table.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
“Yeah, that guy was awful. He was drunk and kept asking me if I wanted to leave with him. He was holding me really tight and wouldn’t let me go.”
“All right, I’ll go talk to one of the bartenders and ask him to keep that guy away from you.”
I walked up to the bar and spoke to the head bartender. He told me he’d noticed what was going on and promised he would have a talk with the guy.
About that time the SPO came walking out from the area where the restrooms were. He was weaving as he walked—obviously quite a bit drunk. I was concluding my conversation with the bartender when the drunk SPO noticed me.
“Hey asshole!” He yelled, from about ten feet away. “What’s the fucking problem, huh?”
Before I had a chance to answer, one of the other bartenders stepped out from behind the bar and intercepted him.
“Cool it man, don’t be making any trouble.”
“I ain’t making any trouble. It’s that fucking little weasel that apparently wants to start some shit.”
The bartender holding him back whispered something in the drunk’s ear.
“What? That was his wife? Well, fuck me! Who’d have thought that skinny fuck could keep a woman like that satisfied!” He tried to push the bartender aside, and at that point I’d had enough.
I started to move in his direction when I was pulled back from behind. The drunk was now being restrained by another couple of passing sailors, but he was still yelling at the top of his lungs and with his struggling knocked a couple of bar stools onto the floor.
At that point the head bartender stepped behind the bar and pushed the panic button, summoning the Military Police.
I was pushed back in the direction of the stage as someone quietly said to me, “Walk away or the fucking Marines will haul your ass to the brig too.” I decided at that point that ‘discretion was the better part of valor’.
A few days later I was called to my Air Force commander’s office during my shift.
“Were you involved in an altercation at the SPO club last weekend?”
“Well sir, not really. I was there playing with my band when some Navy guy got fresh with my wife. We just had words, that’s all—no punches were thrown. But I do know he was taken away by the Military Police and may’ve spent the night in the brig.”
“Well, I don’t know if this is the same guy or not. But the one who called told me he works in the NAS Personnel office, and told me the reason for his call was to request your name and rank. I didn’t give him any information because he didn’t have a good enough reason to ask for it. I told him not to call back, and requested the name of his commanding officer.”
“Why would he want that? I’m in the Air Force, not the Navy.”
“I don’t know, but watch your back—he’s an E-10, and that’s a pretty high rank for an enlisted man. And, he may have friends. Just take care when you’re on the base and keep your nose clean. Oh, and if you see him stay out of his way.”
That incident occurred in late August and I had forgotten all about it by the next time we were scheduled to play at the SPO club. That evening, I was at the bar during a break when a sailor I’d never seen before approached me.
“Your name Frank?” He asked.
“Yes, it is. Why?”
“I have a message from a friend.”
“For me? What is it?” I asked, looking to see if he had a piece of paper.
“It’s this: My friend says not to get too comfortable because you’re not long for this base. And, oh yeah, brush up on your Japanese.” Having said that, he turned and walked away, going out through the front door.
I turned and watched him leave, absolutely sure that I’d never seen him before.
“Who was that?” John, my piano player asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What did he want?”
“He just gave me some weird message from a supposed ‘friend’ of his.”
“So, what was the message?”
“Something about not getting comfortable and to brush up on my Japanese.”
“What? That’s fucked up man. People are fucking weird—come on, our break is up.”
I gave no further thought to this incident, dismissing it as some kind of practical joke.
***
Around the second week of September I was summoned to my Air Force commander’s office again. Hoping I hadn’t done anything wrong, I walked in with a bit of trepidation.
“Airman DeLeón, reporting as requested.” I said, snapping a sharp salute.
“At ease, airman. Have a seat.”
I pulled a leather-bound arm chair to the front of his desk and sat down. The commander was looking at a small stack of stapled papers.
“Well, I’m not sure if this is good news or bad. But let me ask you first. Did you submit a request for overseas duty within the last couple of months?”
“No sir! Why?”
“Don’t know…that’s what I was wondering.” He leafed through the stack with a worried look on his face. Finally, he looked at me. “OK, here’s the deal. I got this set of orders from personnel this morning. Because I was sure we hadn’t processed any transfer requests from you, I made some inquiries. See, these are orders reassigning you to Naha Air Force Base, in Okinawa!”
“What?!”
“But the odd part of all of this is the origin of the orders, and how they’re written. Normally, an overseas assignment request in our career field arrives here in a vacated format—that is, the orders arrive citing a need for a ‘body’, for lack of a better word, but no particular name, to be assigned to a receiving squadron overseas. Then, as commander I assess my personnel roster to see who’s been here the longest and is ripe for transfer. And then I fill in that name.
“Obviously, you’ve just returned from Alaska about seventeen months ago. I’ve got a couple of airmen here who’ve been at Olathe for over two years; and if the orders had arrived vacated, I would have normally picked one of those and submitted his name to Air Force Headquarters in Washington, as the transferee. But in this case, the orders arrived with your name on them already! I called Washington before I called you in to see if there had been some kind of mistake, but they verified that the orders had gone out with your name and serial number on them. And they originated direct from Air Force Headquarters in Washington, D.C.”
“So, I’m being transferred to Okinawa?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Well, since I’m on my second tour of duty, I’ll be able to go accompanied by my family, right?”
“That’s the painful part, Frank. I know you came to us after serving twelve months in Alaska, unaccompanied. But, these orders specify that because you’re still an E-3, you don’t have the rank to take your family. You’ll have to go unaccompanied.”
My heart sank. My mind was spinning in circles and I couldn’t think of what to say. Finally, a question popped into my head. “How long is the assignment?”
“Eighteen months!”
“Eighteen months?!” My hands began to shake. “I just got back from a year remote and now I’m being sent away for a year and a half without my family? That’s…that’s just unfair!”
“Easy airman! There is an option. If you serve for six months in Okinawa first, and then if you sign up for an additional twelve-month extension, you will then be eligible to bring your family over to Okinawa. However, that move won’t be approved until there is adequate housing at the location.”
“So, even if I sign up for thirty months after being there for six, there’s still a chance my family won’t be able to come because there may not be any housing available.”
“That’s pretty much it. I’m sorry. If you don’t have any further questions, then this meeting is over.”
“When am I supposed to leave?”
“Departure date from NAS Olathe, is NLT 10 October, with a reporting date of, NLT 31 October at Naha.”
“That’s less than three weeks away!”
“I know. Strangest thing I’ve ever seen. But those are your orders son. Dismissed!”
I stood up on weak knees, saluted half-heartedly and turned for the door. As I gripped the doorknob I heard the commander say, “Remember, I warned you to watch your back”.
