Okinawa
Part Six
September 1966
A Hitch in my Giddy-up
My desperation was growing dramatically as I drove into the quaint little town of Duncan, Arizona, population 550, that sunny Sunday morning in 1966. The noise coming from the left rear-end of the car was getting worse and the further I went, the less I had to use my brakes to slow down. As soon as I pulled my foot off the accelerator, the car would immediately begin to slow down. Even with my limited knowledge of automobiles, I knew that wasn’t a good thing.
The whole town looked completely closed: restaurants, gas stations and convenience stores all stood dark and deserted—and I had yet to see a living soul anywhere as I drove down the main street. My panic level was growing by leaps and bounds as I passed block after block of dark store fronts. Even the diagonal parking spaces in front of the various businesses were vacant—their respective parking meters standing sentry-like, each guarding the empty strip of scarred asphalt laying before them.
Stopping at a lone blinking red light signal hung in the middle of an intersection, I thought I saw movement to my right. Looking in that direction, I saw what appeared to be a small gas station that a large red pickup truck was pulling away from. I flipped my right turn signal and made a quick turn heading in that direction.
It was an off-brand gas station–two non-descript gas pumps standing on a small concrete island. The building was old and weather-beaten, with a wooden sign hanging over the two-bay garage that read: “Mac’s GaS & OiL”. The sign was obviously hand printed, black letters on white board, and the ampersand was written backwards. Under the main header was written, “minor car repares to” in lower case letters.
I drifted in and stopped the car in front of the garage’s two doors. After turning the engine off, I got out and walked toward the main building next the garage. I noted an acrid burning metallic smell coming from the rear of my car as I stepped into the small office. A large man, long graying red hair pulled into a pony tail, dressed in striped overalls and greasy brown boots was sitting behind a very old and worn metal desk with his crossed legs up on top. He was in the process of lighting a cigarette as I walked in.
“Hi. I was wondering if you could help me?” I asked.
“Sure buddy! What’s aching ya?”
“What?”
He took a long drag off his cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Uh, what…what’s your problem?” He blew out a long blue-gray stream of smoke, and spit out a stray piece of tobacco.
“Oh, uh…well…I was driving a while back and my back window started getting misted over with some kind of gook…like oil, or something. Then I heard a noise coming from what I think is the right rear wheel. And now, it feels like it’s dragging…you know.”
“That so?”
“Yes sir, it is.”
“You need some gas?”
“Gas?”
“Yeah, like go juice…get it?”
“Oh sure. I could probably use some—but I need someone to take a look to see what may be wrong with my car.”
He dragged his feet off the desk and rotated his large body in my direction in his squeaky wooden rolling chair. “Say you got oil on the back winder, huh?”
“Yes sir. Uh, the back window, yes.”
“Hmm. How’d you know it’s oil?” (Sounded like he said ‘earl’).
“Well, it looked like oil—it’s greasy and brownish looking. Can you come take a look?” He wrinkled his brow and took another humongous drag off his cigarette. He held the smoke in while he pondered my question. Finally, he exhaled.
“Well, don’t know what I can do about that, but sure, lemme take a gander.” He pushed himself upright and rubbed his belly. “You know it’s Sunday, right?”
“Yes, yes I do.”
“And, it being Sunday they ain’t nothin’ open. You know that?”
“Well, I was hoping maybe it wouldn’t be too serious. Maybe just an adjustment or something.”
That struck him really funny and he burst out in a loud phlegmy laugh that ended up in some kind whooping-like cough. He walked out, coughing and shaking his head, and headed toward my car.
“Adjustment?” He finally said. “Maybe I can just clean off your back winder and ever-thing’ll be awright!”
“Well, that would be nice.” I said, half truthfully. For some reason, he found that comment extremely funny and went into another prolonged fit of coughing and laughing.
“Sto…stop…you’re killing me.” He said, wiping his mouth with an oily rag he dug out from the backside of his overalls. He stood by the left rear fender and reached over to wipe the back window with his big greasy index finger. Bringing the finger up to his nose, he took a big whiff.
“Ah hah! Just as I thought.” He turned to me, showing me his finger now smeared with fresh oil off my window. “That ain’t motor oil…that’s rear-end oil. Got a different smell, you know, and it’s thicker.”
“Oh, no I didn’t know that.”
“Yup! You say you heard a sound coming from the wheel here?” He pointed at the left rear wheel.
“Well, I think so. It was hard to tell from inside the car.”
“Sure! I’d venture t’say you went and burned up an axle bearing on this wheel—and blew the seal out too. When the seal gave out, the oil that’s in the differential, lubricating the gear assembly in there, started leaking out. When it hit the wind it sprayed up onto your rear-end. If you looky here,” he wiped the fender with his hand, smearing it with oil, “you’ll see that it hit the fender before it got to the glass. You just didn’t see it ‘cause the paint’s black.”
I wasn’t sure what all of that meant, so I ventured a question. “Is it serious?”
He looked up slowly, wiping his oily finger on the leg of his overalls. “Well, it could be—but, then again, it may not be. All depending on what damage you all did to the axle. If the axle’s scarred, then you’re out some money for sure. But if it’s only the bearing and the seal, then it ain’t so bad. Either way, looks like you ended up with a hitch in your gitty-up.”
“A hitch in my giddy-up?”
“Yup. That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
“Uh, I don’t know what that means, but can you think you can fix it?”
“Sure, leave the car here with me and I’ll take off the wheel and check it out. If it’s what I’m thinking, then I can get you the parts tomorrow at the parts house. If it’s the axle, then you’ll have to wait a couple of weeks, ‘cause then I’d have to order that from GM.”
“Wait, wait, wait! I can’t do that. I’m in the military…and I’m on emergency leave. I’m on my way to visit my parents, but I have to be back by next week…to Reno…for my…my son’s birthday. Besides, I don’t have money to stay anywhere. I gotta get back on the road today…this afternoon, by the latest!”
He put his big hands on his hips. “Son, that’s the saddest fucking story I’ve ever heard. You’re in a real pickle, seems like to me.”
“Well, yes.” He just stood there in his overalls staring at me. Just when I thought he was never going to say anything else again, he spoke. “Tell you what. It’s your good luck that Chuck married my ugly sister, or else you’d really be in a jam.”
“Chuck?”
“Yep, my brother-in-law. Damn fool went and married Ruthie, he did. Now, after a couple of kids, who happen to be uglier than her AND him combined, he’s stuck. Drinks like a fish, he does.”
“OK, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. Why should you? I don’t understand it either. She’s coyote ugly. Shows you what pussy’ll do to a man.”
“No, I mean…”
“Come on. I’ll try to get his dead ass out on a Sunday. Chuck owns the only parts house in town, see? So if he tells me he’s got a seal and bearing for your car then I’ll pull that wheel off and check to see what’s what.”
“Oh, OK.”
“If the axle’s scarred you’re fucked. But let’s just do this one thing first.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“Hey!” He stopped suddenly, making me almost run into his large rear end. “Did you say you didn’t have any money?”
“Well, yes…I mean, no. I mean, I do, but not much.”
“Hmm. Lemme call Chuck. Come on in and have a Coke on me.”
I followed him into the office. He opened the lid on what looked like an old chest freezer. It was full of chipped ice covering dozens of bottles of various bottles of Coke, 7Up, Hires Root Beer, and Nehi orange sodas. He dug a Coca-Cola bottle out and handed it to me. “Opener’s hanging off that string on the wall. Help yourself.” He fell into his squeaky chair and pulled an old black rotary phone from under some invoices. “He’ll probably be glad to get out of the house today.” He chuckled under his breath and dialed the number. “By the way, Mac’s the name,” he said, looking up from the rotary dial.
“Frank…my name’s Frank. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise, I’m sure.” He cleared his throat, then yelled into the receiver, “Hey Chuck! How’s it hanging buddy? Mac here!”
***
Apparently, Chuck was OK with leaving the house on a Sunday and heading out to his auto parts store to conduct a search for a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air left rear axle bearing and seal.
“I knew he’d do it!” Mac said, chuckling under his breath as he hung up the phone. “He’d do anything to get away from my sister and those shitty kids.” He pulled himself up from the messy desk and started to head out the door of the office. “Lemme have them keys so I can pull her in the garage and onto the lift. Won’t take but a few minutes to find out how deep in trouble you are.”
I dug the keys out of my pocket and handed them to him. He rumbled out of the office and got into the car. A few minutes later he had the car up on the lift and was busy taking the left rear wheel off.
Walking back into the office I sat down on an old metal chair and took a couple of swigs off my Coke. Just then, the thought of money crossed my mind. I wondered exactly how much I actually had in my pocket, so looking through the side door I saw that Mac still had his back to me and was now busy dismantling the brake drum. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. Holding it close to my body I opened it and took stock of what I had. I counted out one twenty, a ten, a five, and two one dollar bills. Reaching into my pockets I found thirty-two cents. So, that was it: thirty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents. A cold chill passed through my body, as I realized that I would probably be coming up short regardless of what Mac found to be wrong with the car.
“Well son!” Mac said loudly, and shocking me half out of my skin. “You are one lucky bastard!”
“I am?”
“Yup! Come out here and take a look.” I followed him into the garage as he walked up to the car. The right rear tire and brake drum were gone, and all I could see was a long black solid metal rod sticking out where the tire should’ve been. “See here?” He said, pointing at the rod. “This here’s the axle.” I saw that it went into a large metal ball centered just about where the spare tire was in the trunk. “If you look at the end of it here…” He rubbed the end of the rod, and I noted how shiny it was, “…see how smooth it is? That means the bearing didn’t score the axle.”
“And that’s good?” I asked.
“Damn good! That means that whenever my worthless brother-in-law finally calls me we’ll be overjoyed if he tells us he’s got a new bearing and seal for your car. Since she ain’t scored, the seal will go on there nice and smooth right behind the bearing and keep the oil from leaking out! Yup, you’re one lucky bastard!”
“Oh, that is good news. So, if your brother-in-law has the parts then you can replace them and I can be on my way?”
“Kinda looks that way. Shit, let me call his ass over at the parts store.” As he started to walk over to the office, the phone rang. “Well, hells-bells—that’s gotta be him!”
I stayed in the garage studying the car’s axle and differential. I noticed he’d taken a plug off the differential and inserted a small plastic hose into the hole. The hose led to an old five-gallon paint bucket that had about two inches of thick black oil at the bottom.
“Yup!” Mac yelled behind me, making me jump just a little. “I had to drain the rest of the oil outta the differential. That’s no sweat though, we’ll just put some fresh oil in when we’re done. It don’t take much anyway.”
“Uh, did he have the parts?”
“Chuck? Yeah, he’ll be bringing ’em over here in just a jiffy. Yeah, you’re one lucky shit, I’ll tell you! I’da bet my ass you burned up that axle with that bearing in the shape it’s in.” He shook his head, as if he still didn’t believe it. “And then,” he continued, “to have them parts in stock! Whew, you must have some guardian angel looking out after you!”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but I appreciate you doing this on a Sunday.”
“Shit, son. I didn’t have anything to do anyway. Notice how there ain’t been no gas customers pull in all this time? Probably just spend my day here napping anyway.”
A few minutes later I heard a vehicle pull into the station and a door slam. A tall and very skinny man wearing jeans and a western shirt came bouncing into the garage. This was Chuck. If his wife was anywhere close to her brother’s height and girth, I could see why Chuck preferred to stay away from home. Although well over six feet tall, he must’ve weighed no more than a hundred and thirty pounds.
Chuck had a couple of very small white boxes in his hand and gave them to Mac. “We’ll be done here in just about thirty minutes so why don’t you go back into the office and wait?” Mac suggested.
Chuck didn’t hang around very long—his red Ford dually pickup pulling out of the station and back onto the main road a few minutes later.
***
I glanced at the old black and white clock hanging crookedly on the wall and saw that it was well past noon. I figured I had about another twelve hours of driving to do before I hit Houston’s western city limits, so that would put me there sometime after midnight. I got up and peeked into the garage. Mac had just reassembled the brake shoes and was pushing the outer brake drum cover onto the axle. I assumed he was almost done and my heart jumped when I thought that the unknown and scary part was yet to come. How much was all this work and parts going to cost.
At about a quarter to one, Mac strolled into the office wiping his gigantic hands on a gray shop rag. “OK, buddy—she’s all done.”
“OK, thanks. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been open.”
“Ah, that wasn’t anything.”
“Well, I appreciate it all the same.”
“OK, lemme total up the damage.” He opened the main drawer to the desk and took out a large receipt book. He sat down and searched around the drawer for something to write with. Finally finding a capless ball pen he began to write down some figures.
“OK, look. I told you I didn’t have a lot of money, so I hope the bill isn’t too much.” I said, tentatively.
He stopped writing and looked up from the pad. “Well, you know all this work, plus the parts, ain’t gonna be cheap.”
“Oh…well, how much do you think it’s gonna be?”
He put the pen down and turned in his chair to face me. “Well son, you know I ain’t doing this for free.”
“No! I don’t mean that. But I’ve only got so much money…and I still have to get to Houston.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, well…and I also need some gas.”
He stared at me quizzically, and I couldn’t tell if he was angry, amused, or confused.
“Awright, let’s just do this. How much money you got?”
“OK, I counted it all a while ago, and I got thirty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents. That’s all the money I got, honest.”
“Hmm…” he said. Turning back to his pad he wrote a few more figures, then made a grand gesture with his pen—drawing a big circle around a set of figures. “Well, ain’t this your lucky day! Your bill comes to exactly, thirty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents. Ain’t that a fucking coincidence?”
“Yeah…but…that’s all I have. And like I said, I still have to drive to Houston.”
“I hear you, but that’s what the bill is. Now, pay up or neither you nor your car are going anywhere!”
Seeing no other way out of this, I dug out my wallet and pulled the bills out, handing them to him. He kept his hand out while I stuck my wallet back into my back pocket.
“You’re thirty-two cents short.” He said, flatly.
I reached into my front pocket and pulled the change out. Without another word, he stuck the money into his front pocket and walked out of the office and into the garage. He lowered the car off the lift, started the engine and pulled it out into the drive.
“There you go, son.” He said, as he got out of the car. “Good as new! Happy trails!”
I didn’t say a word—instead, I just got into the car and put pulled the gear lever into reverse.
“Oh!” Mac suddenly said, “I’d suggest you drive across the state line, into New Mexico, and into the next town—that’s Lordsburg—and it’s bigger than Duncan. Find yourself the Western Union office, look for the big five and dime store on Main Street, and it’ll be right next to it. Then, you go in there and have them wire your folks a collect telegram, asking them for money. When they get it, they can give the delivery boy some money back, and for a small fee, he’ll wire it back to the Western Union there at Lordsburg. It may take some time, but at least you’ll then have money to get home.”
I didn’t know what else to say, so I just said “Thanks.” Pulling out onto the highway I glanced at the gas gauge and saw that I had a little less than a quarter tank of gas. My stomach was cramping and I was getting a hell of a headache. I remembered I hadn’t eaten all day.
As I drove east, I wondered just how far Lordsburg was.
Sometimes You Gotta Swallow Your Pride
The road sign said, ‘Lordsburg – 35 miles’, and I hoped it was right. I didn’t think I had enough gas to go much farther.
It seemed larger than Duncan, but not that much. What made it different was that it seemed to have more life. Everything was open: gas stations, convenience stores, fast food restaurants, and grocery stores. Personally, I was hoping the Western Union was open.
About a mile inside the city limits I spotted what appeared to be a large store on the right side of the street, so I took a chance and found a diagonal parking spot near the front of the building. I shut the engine off and looked for something that resembled a telegraph office. I saw nothing.
After walking up and down the block and not finding anything, I decided to go into the large variety store and ask someone. It was packed with shoppers, but as I scanned the interior I saw a “Customer Service” sign and headed straight for it.
The lady working the counter was on the phone so I waited patiently while she worked out a problem with an unsatisfied customer concerning a broken iron.
Finally, she hung up and smiled at me. “Hi,” I said pleasantly, “I’m looking for a Western Union office. I was told it was next to your store but I can’t seem to find it.”
“Sure, honey,” the lady said in an artificially sugar-sweet voice. “See that door over there?” She pointed over her right shoulder.
“Uh, yes ma’am.”
“And do you see the sign over the door?” I looked, and it was a dark, natural wood, highly varnished sign that said, “Western Union”.
“Oh, it’s in your store. I’m sorry, I was told it was next to it.”
“Used to be, but that’s now a jewelry store. They moved in here about a year ago.”
Since the door was closed I had to ask, “So, just knock on the door or should I just go in.”
“Oh no, honey. You don’t have to knock. Just open the door and go right in. They have a little waiting room in there for their customers.”
“OK, thank you very much.” I walked to the door and opened it. Sure enough, it was a rather large room with three long benches that I assumed were for the customers. The operator was housed behind a glass window—like a cashier at a movie house, and was wearing a cap with a green plastic visor…like an accountant. He was young, maybe early thirties, and had a cigarette hanging precariously from his mouth. He seemed preoccupied with whatever he was reading, so I walked up to the window and stood there until he finally looked up at me.
“Can I help you?” he asked, without much enthusiasm, the cigarette bouncing up and down, flinging ash all around.
“Yes sir, I need to send a telegram to someone…to…uh…well, I need some money.”
He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and violently smashed it into an already full glass ashtray. “So, you want to send a telegram to someone, asking them to send back a MoneyGram?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“OK, outbound telegrams are priced according to zones. Look at the map there,” he pointed at a map to my right that had been placed under glass, “and find the city you’re sending the telegram to. The zones are marked in red.”
On my drive from Duncan to Lordsburg I had, after much internal debate, decided that I would contact Sharon, instead of my parents, and ask her for money. I knew that if I sent a telegram to my folks they would probably think it was some practical joke and chase the delivery boy away. To my knowledge, they’d never received a telegram in their whole life, but what I did know for sure was that they had very little tolerance for strangers who appeared out of nowhere and knocked on their door. I could only imagine how they’d react to a Western Union delivery boy telling them they had to sign and pay for a telegram.
So, swallowing my pride, I decided that Sharon would have to be the one for me to contact. I wasn’t sure how she was fixed for money, but at least she’d hear out the delivery boy, and maybe even read the telegram.
“OK, I said,” finding Reno on the map. “The telegram’s going to Reno, and it looks like that’s zone three.”
“Hmm…” zone three. OK, that’ll be five cents a word, with a limit of twenty words.”
“Oh! Uh, is there any way I can send that…collect? Like a phone call?”
“Collect? You mean you want the receiving party to pay for the telegram?”
“Yes. That’s why I need to send the telegram—I don’t have money and I need some to continue my travel…uh, trip.”
“I see. OK, there are pads at the table over there.” he pointed with a nicotine yellowed finger. Print out your message, legibly, minding the number of words you use. Then fill in the information at the bottom of the form regarding the receiver—name, address, and so on. When you’re done, I’ll send it to the Reno office. Bear in mind, the person who receives this will be paying for this telegram before they can read it—and if you want them to send you back a MoneyGram, there’ll be a charge for that too. Plus, of course, the amount of money you’re asking for.”
“I understand.”
“What I’m saying, is that if you intend to wait for the return message, it may be a few hours—if at all. Most of the time people who send these never get back a response, or the receiver refuses the telegram. If that happens you’ll have to pay.”
“Oh, but I don’t have any money on me.”
He looked at me with a look that said, ‘Oh, how many times have I heard that?’ “OK, let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”
I walked over to the table and grabbed one of the several telegraph pads. There were several short pencils, so I grabbed one of those too. I never thought I’d feel as humiliated as I did then, just by sitting down and writing a short note. But I did.
It took three tries before I was satisfied that I wrote what I wanted to say in the shortest number of words. In short, I had car trouble and I needed fifty dollars. I promised to pay her back when I returned.
After I gave the completed sheet back to the operator I took a seat on the hard bench. I looked up at the large clock on the wall. It said, two twenty-five. Somewhere in the building, probably just outside the door, was a cafeteria. I could smell the food and the coffee. I was famished beyond belief.
At five thirty-five, I heard my name being called. I had dozed off and thought I heard my name several times before I came to.
“Yes! Yes! I’m Frank DeLeón.” I tried to jump up off the bench, but my right leg was numb, and I couldn’t feel my butt. I hobbled over to the window. To my surprise, there was now another operator there: an older black man.
“You Frank?”
“Yes sir, I am.”
“Need to see some ID, please.” I pulled my military ID out and showed it to him. He studied it carefully, comparing the picture on the front to the real me standing in front of him. “OK,” he said, as he handed the card back to me. “Got a MoneyGram for you here in the amount of fifty dollars. Is that what you expected?
“Yes sir.”
“OK, you can take it to a bank and get it cashed with your ID.”
“Bank? It’s Sunday! I doubt that any banks are open today.”
“You can take it first thing tomorrow.”
“I need it today! I’m traveling to Houston!” He looked a little annoyed.
“OK, I can cash it here, but it’ll be a dollar to do so.”
“A dollar? OK, I guess that’ll have to do.”
“OK, tear off the MoneyGram at the dotted line, turn it over and endorse it.”
I did all of that, and in a matter of minutes I was walking out into the early New Mexico evening with forty-nine dollars in my pocket.
Now, I needed to get gas for the car and I needed to eat. After pulling out of a gas station with a full tank of gas I spotted a fast food restaurant with a drive-thru window. Before I drove back out onto the highway, I consulted my now ratty-looking roadmap and plotted my route to intercept Interstate 10 East.
I would reach the outskirts of Houston at six-thirty in the morning. Exhausted and barely conscious, I pushed on until I pulled into my parent’s house early Monday, September 19, 1966.
A Discovery
My dad was just getting ready to leave for work as I was arriving that morning. They had moved a couple of times since I’d left home in 1960, he no longer pastoring a church, and this one happened to be located in the old neighborhood where I’d lived as a kid on Kashmere Street. Because they had no idea what car I was driving home, they were a bit suspicious—peering out through the front window—as the black Chevy rumbled off the now newly-paved street, onto their dirt driveway.
As I stepped out of the car, my mom ran out to the porch making little screeching sounds and waving her hands in the air. Dad eased out of the door and stood on the porch smiling, hands on his hips.
After many hugs and kisses, I was able to finally disengage myself from my mom and climb the stairs to greet my dad. After a bit of a bear-hug, he asked me about the car.
“Oh, that’s Sharon’s car. She got it from her mom.”
“Hmm, looks like a good one,” my dad said knowingly. “Those fifty-seven Chevys are hard to beat. Did she run well all the way down from Reno?”
I recounted my adventure in Duncan, but left out the part about the Western Union telegram. After a last cup of coffee, my dad said he had to go to work. I moved my car from the single drive to let him roll his blue 1955 Ford Fairlane out onto the street and roar off to work. Before he left though, he promised to take a couple of hours off around noon to take us all out for lunch. Although I was starving, I was much more interested in laying down and getting a few hours’ sleep, so I suggested that instead of lunch maybe he could just take off a couple of hours at the end of the day and we could go out to dinner instead. That way, I told him, I could feel free to sleep most of the day if necessary. He gave me a thumbs up and took off for work.
Mom wanted me to tell her all about Okinawa, but I told her I would be happy to do that after I got some sleep. Reluctantly she agreed, and after helping me bring my luggage into the house and putting fresh sheets on their bed, she quietly closed the door and gave me the privacy that I sorely needed.
I undressed and collapsed on their bed. For a few minutes my mind was so shocked with the sudden cessation of activity that I actually tossed and turned restlessly for a while before my body finally surrendered to the blissful silence and coolness of the freshly-laundered linen.
I fell into a deep and shadowy slumber, interrupted periodically by flash dreams replaying the angst and stress that my mind had been under for the last few months. At times I found myself wandering a horrifying landscape populated by lifeless unhuman-like beings laying scattered on the grayish-black ground in grotesquely twisted positions. As I passed each corpse-like form it would come to life, reaching out to touch me—toothless mouth agape, and unseeing black holes where eyes used to be, beseeching me soundlessly and reaching out, begging me to stop.
Try as I might, I could not quicken my pace. My legs, seemingly powerless to move faster would not allow me to escape the touch of their fleshless fingers; where they did touch, a black moldy mark would appear and grow.
Another dream found me floating helplessly, neck deep, in a large body of bottomless water. Unable to move my arms and legs to assist me in staying afloat, I would flail my head to and fro, trying to keep my mouth and nose from going under. Finally, my efforts useless, I would slowly sink into the wet darkness knowing that once I was no longer able to hold my breath, my lungs would fill and explode.
Just as the instinct to breath in the watery darkness took hold, I heard a sweet voice in the distance call my name.
I jerked violently, almost throwing myself off the bed.
“Frankie?” It was my mom calling just outside the door.
“Um, mom? Just a minute.” I found the top sheet coiled around my legs, and the light comforter pushed off onto the floor. “OK, mom! I’m getting up,” I said, groggily. “What time is it?”
“Oh, mijito, it’s almost five. Your daddy’ll be home anytime now.” My mom’s muffled voice came through the closed door.
“OK, let me wash up a bit and then I’ll be out.” I said, now a bit more cognizant of where I was.
“Bueno mijito. If you want to take a shower, there’s clean towels in the bathroom.”
Sitting up on the edge of the bed I thought that would be a great idea. “Sure mom! Are my bags still out there?”
“Uh…yes, they are. I’ll just open the door a little bit and push them in.”
The shower was invigorating, and although I was still a little dopey from the long drive and lack of sleep, I felt almost human. By the time I dressed and came out of the bedroom, dad was just pulling into the drive. A few minutes later he came into the house through the back door, in his usual style: whistling some jaunty little tune, like he always did, that he’d just made up on the spot.
While dad took a shower, mom and I sat at the kitchen table and had a cup of coffee.
“So mijito, how’s Sharon and the boys?”
“Oh…they’re fine.”
“Did you spend any time with them? It seems to me like you just got to the states and the first thing you did was drive down here to see us.”
“That’s pretty much it, mom.”
“So…is everything OK between you and Sharon?”
“Uh, well no, not really.”
“Is that why you came home?”
“Yup.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“No, not really, mom. I know it’s unfair…and I know you deserve to know…but, I don’t really have any answers right now. That’ll have to wait until I get back to Reno.”
“Well, as long as the boys don’t suffer.”
“Hmm, I think it’s too late for that.” That comment came out before I had a chance to think. I instantly knew that I shouldn’t have said what I said. I looked up at my mom and saw a tear roll off her cheek and land on her freshly-ironed blouse. “Look mom,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Things will work out, but there’s a lot of stuff that’s gone on with her since I left for Okinawa.”
“I know, mijito.” She said softly. “I guessed as much, but the babies will end up suffering regardless of what you and Sharon end up doing. They will suffer so much.” Not knowing what else to say, I concentrated on drinking my coffee and looking out the window.
Dad came out of the bathroom and suggested we go to dinner at a Mexican restaurant that he and Reverend Villa used to go to. While at dinner I tried to explain some of the issues that Sharon and I had been dealing with since I’d left, but it was extremely difficult because I really didn’t want to tell them about her pregnancy, so I was forced to dance around that issue. In the end, I think they realized that what I’d told them was not even close to what was really happening, and that there were a whole host of other issues that I was never going to discuss.
***
I stayed with my parents for the next four days. I think they were anxious to “show me off”, as they wanted to take me to their church services on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings. I declined to go on Wednesday, but because I was planning to begin my drive back to Reno on Friday, I gave in to my mother for the Thursday service. As it turned out, my decision to attend church on Thursday evening ended up being a good thing. My dad had been asked to preach the sermon that evening, and since it was common for the church to take up a collection for the visiting preacher, he made a good haul. On the way home he reached into his pocket and pulled out five twenty dollar bills. “For your trip home, son. I know you’re probably a little thin in the money department, having traveled all the way from Okinawa, so maybe this’ll help you on the way back.”
Since he couldn’t have known that I had been planning to ask him for a loan, I had to believe—maybe just a little bit—that this event may’ve been prompted by just a wee bit of divine intervention.
My trip back to Reno was, for the most part, uneventful. I left early on Friday morning, September 23rd, the back seat of the car full of birthday gifts my parents and my Aunt Janie were sending back for Ricky. I wanted to take my time on the return leg, averting a little bit of wear and tear on the car, and certainly, on myself. My thinking was that, in spite of my decision not to stop anywhere overnight, if I got terribly tired I would just have to pull over and get a few hours’ sleep at roadside stops. Oh, and I was not going to pick up any more hitchhikers.
I passed the city limit signs on Reno’s east side early on the morning of September 26th—the day before my son’s fourth birthday. When I arrived at Sharon’s house I wasn’t sure if anyone was up that early, so after retrieving my baggage from the trunk and stowing Ricky’s gifts, I walked quietly up the stairs and onto the porch. Pulling open the screen door, I knocked softly on the door—thinking that if no one answered I would just drive to a nearby coffee shop and have breakfast. Before I had a chance to knock again, Sharon opened the door.
She was dressed in a terribly undersized housecoat—the terrycloth fabric pulled open between the large white buttons exposing the pink silky material of an underlying slip. And her hair, grown much longer than I remembered before leaving for Okinawa the year before, was piled atop her head in a sloppy bun, a few stray strands hanging limply over her ears. She seemed genuinely happy to see me, and reached out to hug me and pull me into the house. I took a step back, as her hands came to rest on my shoulders.
“Oh hi…” she said, a blush suddenly rising to her cheeks when she realized I wasn’t going to accept her hug. “I didn’t know when to expect you.”
I stepped around her, ducking under her left arm as I entered the room; the move all but nullifying her attempt at a hug. “I told you I’d be back before Ricky’s birthday.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t sure…” she left the sentence hanging as I walked in, looking for the boys.
“Where are the boys?”
“They’re back in their room getting ready to take their morning baths. I was just clearing the table and putting their cereal bowls into the sink. You can go in and say hi, if you want.”
“Sure, I’ll just walk back to their room.” I stepped away from her and entered her bedroom on my way to the boys’ room. They were barefoot and dressed in loose briefs, and were having a noisy tug of war, pulling a faded and ragged-edged light green towel between them. Apparently, both of them wanted to use the same towel, as I noticed that there was a white one lying neglected on the floor.
As I stepped into the room they both looked up and let the towel go. They started to move toward me, Ricky, as always, leading the way while Beebe stood stoically deciding if the trip was going to be worth the effort. I reached down and picked Ricky up and nuzzled his neck. Beebe finally decided to walk over and attach himself to my right leg.
After a few minutes I walked out to the main room and told Sharon that I was going to give the boys their baths while she washed the morning dishes. I asked where their clean clothes were because when I looked through the dresser drawers I’d found nothing but odds and ends. She said that they were in the clothes dryer and would bring them to me directly. As I walked back into their room to herd them out to the bathroom I noticed the Sharon’s closet door was open. I stopped to peruse its contents.
The entire closet was stuffed with what appeared to be at least two dozen matching outfits—most of them with the price tags still hanging off their sleeves. I pulled one of the tags up to read it in the dim light of the bedroom. It said, “Sonny and Cher Original”, and the price of this one particular outfit was equal to about one-third of my monthly pay. All of the outfits looked expensive and very well made, most of the pants cut in the trendy bell-bottomed style that Cher had made her trademark look; and the blouses and jackets were adorned in a colorful frilly lace-like trim. On the floor of the closet were more than a dozen pairs of shoes. I now knew where most of the nine hundred dollars that I’d sent her had gone.
After giving the boys their baths, I dressed them in the clothes that she’d brought me and sent them back to their room. I walked back out to the main room and told Sharon that I was exhausted and was going to take nap on the couch.
“Well, why don’t you just go into the bedroom and lay down on the bed? It’s way more comfortable—and I can pull the blinds so the light won’t bother you.”
“No thanks, the couch’ll be just fine.” There was a small TV, which I hadn’t noticed before, atop a serving tray we used to call a ‘TV tray’, situated next to the dining table. It was on, but the sound was turned down. Some game show was playing.
“OK, then,” she said, in a slightly disappointed tone. “I’ll turn the TV off so you can at least have some peace and quiet,” she said, walking over and turning the set off. “I’ll pull the drapes and close the blinds too. I want to get off my feet anyway, so I’ll go to the bedroom and do some reading.”
“Whatever…” I responded nonchalantly, as I headed toward the couch.
“I’ll bring you a blanket so you won’t get chilled,” she said, caringly.
I had noticed that the house was very chilly, as the outside temperature was in the low twenties with some snow still on the ground.
I slept a deep and dreamless sleep, not waking until late that afternoon. I sat up suddenly and stretched. My back was sore and tight, probably because of the long drive back, and certainly not helped by the sagging cushions on the worn couch.
“Hi there!” I heard Sharon say, before I saw her. She was behind the counter in the kitchen. The boys were perched on their chairs at the dining table, looking at me warily. “I made some soup and sandwiches for me and the boys, and I’ll bet you’re hungry too. Why don’t you wash up and join us in an early dinner?”
I had to admit that I was extremely hungry—my last meal having been consumed the day before, somewhere between Las Vegas and Reno. “Sure, OK. Let me brush my teeth first.”
So for the first time since I’d left for Okinawa the year before, and for the last time ever, we shared a meal as a family. Afterwards, and while she was clearing the table, I walked back to the sofa to read a newspaper I’d grabbed off the counter. As I sat down and looked at my very pregnant and bloated wife as she washed the dishes, I wondered just what she might’ve looked like all dressed up and ready to party in one of her ‘Sonny & Cher Originals’ outfits.
Surprise, Then Another Surprise
After a while, I decided to turn on the TV and see what was on. The boys had put on jackets, which they should’ve been wearing when they came to meet me at the airport, and went outside to play. It was getting dark, but Sharon had given them strict orders to stay in the back yard where there was a chain link fence.
After flipping through a couple of channels I began to feel very sleepy again, and before I knew it I had drifted off. When I awoke again, it was a little before ten. All the lights were on in the main room and in the kitchen, and Sharon’s bedroom door was closed. I got up and paid a visit to the bathroom.
As I was walking back to the couch the bedroom room door suddenly opened. Sharon stepped out, her face ashen. “OK, sorry, uh…we have to go,” she said, in a tone that was both shaky and frightened.
I stopped abruptly. “Go? Go where?” I asked.
“To the hospital! We need to go now.” She was rapidly biting her lower lip. “My water just broke!”
“What!!”
“Yes, please don’t be mad at me, but you have to take me to the hospital right away—please!”
I didn’t know what to say, or what to do. I just stood there mesmerized. “I…I don’t know where any hospital is around here! Are you in pain?”
“I’m getting a few labor pains, but I know I’m due to give birth very soon. Please, I’ll give you directions to the hospital—it’s not too far away. I have a suitcase all packed, but we have to hurry!”
“I…I…what about the boys?” I finally asked.
“I’ll call Brenda right away. She doesn’t live too far away and she already knows what she has to do. Please, go into the bedroom and get the suitcase out from under the bed. I’ll call Brenda while you get it and take it out to the car.”
“So, she’s going to come over to take care of the kids?”
“Yes! Please, hurry!”
Not knowing what else to do I hurried into her bedroom and found the blue-green plastic suitcase under the bed. As I walked out, heading for the door I saw that she was already on the phone. I noticed for the first time that she was dressed in a loose maternity dress, slippers, and had the red coat draped over her arm.
As I walked back up the stairs after putting the suitcase in the trunk, Sharon came through the front door. “We don’t have time to go back in,” she said in a near panic. “I turned the TV off and shut off the lights. Come on, we have to go! Here’s the car keys.”
“Is Brenda on her way? I don’t feel comfortable leaving the boys by themselves.”
“Oh, they’ll be fine. I do it all the time.”
That told me more than I needed to know.
I helped her into the car and ran over to the driver’s side. As I pulled out of the driveway she said, “Take a right at the intersection and then straight for about a mile. I also called the hospital and they’re expecting us.”
Us?
Since I didn’t know what to say I kept quiet—just wondering what was going to happen. Then, she spoke.
“Look, we haven’t had a chance to talk, but just so you know, I’ve made arrangements to give the child up.”
“What? Give the baby up? Why did you decide that?”
“Frank! I have no idea who the father is, and I just don’t want it, OK? And besides, I didn’t think it was right to burden you with a child that’s not yours. It really wasn’t that hard of a decision for me.”
“Don’t you think that should’ve been discussed before you went ahead and made that decision?”
“Quite frankly, no. I did this by myself, so I decided that I shouldn’t involve you.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing for the rest of the drive. In just a few minutes, we were pulling up to the hospital’s circle drive where a nurse and a male attendant were waiting with a wheelchair. They ran to Sharon’s side of the car and helped her out and into the chair. The nurse wheeled her through a set of glass sliding doors and out of sight.
The male attendant walked around to my side of the car. “Sir,” he said, pointing to an area to the side of the hospital, “Drive over to that area and park. If your wife brought a bag, please take it out of the car and bring it with you. When you enter the lobby, look for the admitting desk where there’ll be some papers for you to sign. While you’re there someone will be sure to take the bag to your wife.”
I nodded, and drove to the parking area. I sat there for a couple of minutes and wondered what I was going to do. I was confused, had a million questions, and felt a little scared. And what papers did I have to sign? I had nothing to do with this!
As I entered the lobby I saw the admitting desk. I walked up to it, but couldn’t think of what to say or how to even start.
“Are you Mr. DeLeón?” The gray-haired sixty-something lady asked.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Wonderful. And how are you tonight.”
“OK, I guess.”
“Of course. I know you’re probably a little nervous, but we’ll get you through all of this. Now, is this your first?”
“My first? My first, what?”
She looked up from the clipboard and smiled warmly. “Child. Baby. Is this your first?”
“No! I mean, this…that…uh, it’s not mine.”
She glanced quickly at the clipboard. “Oh, are you an uncle?”
“What? No! I’m Frank DeLeón, and Sharon’s my wife. There are no uncles.”
Her smile disappeared. “All right sir. There seems to be some mistake. Is your wife’s name Sharon Lee DeLeón?”
“Yes.”
“And she was just admitted to the maternity ward because she’s having a baby—is that correct?”
“Well yes.”
“OK! So, then you’re her husband and she’s having your child, correct?”
“No!” I really wanted to pee now. “She’s my wife, but I’m not the father! She doesn’t know who the father is!”
The gray-haired lady actually did a double-take. “I’m…I’m sorry. What did you say? Did you say you’re not the father?”
“That’s right!” The woman stared at me for what seemed to be a full minute.
“Wait right here!” She finally said, pushing her chair back and grabbing the clipboard. As she walked away her white shoes made loud squeaky noises on the black and white tile floor.
I sat there for a while until I saw a sign that said, “Restrooms”. I got up and headed for the Men’s Room.
***
I was taken to a private office where another lady, this one younger and reminding me of a fresher version of the actress who played the Wicked Witch of the West in “The Wizard of Oz”.
She was sitting behind the large wooden desk—but before she addressed me she studied a large stack of papers and forms in front of her. Finally, she spoke: “Mr. DeLeón, let me apologize for what happened earlier out in the lobby. We don’t have our best administrative people on the night shift, and apparently, she hadn’t been briefed on your wife’s…um…situation. My name is Mrs. Wilmott, and I am an Assistant Hospital Administrator.”
“OK.”
“But first, let me be clear about one thing. Irrespective of what you may be thinking, according to the laws in the state of Nevada, regardless who the natural father is—when a married woman becomes pregnant, the woman’s husband is, and always will be, the legal father.”
“Wha…what?”
“I’m sorry, but your wife should’ve explained this to you. It’s my understanding, after speaking to your wife, that you arrived from your overseas base last week and spent the last few days in Houston with your parents—is that right?”
“Yes.”
“So, you and your wife never discussed any of this?”
“No.”
“How did you find out about her pregnancy?”
“Well, she wrote me a letter and told me she was seven months pregnant. I’ve been on Okinawa since October of last year, and I got the letter this past July.”
“And in her previous letters, she never mentioned anything?”
“There were no previous letters.”
“You mean she never wrote to you at all since you left last October?”
“Correct.”
A flood of wrinkles appeared between the lady’s eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s really unfortunate.”
“That’s OK.”
“All right. Be that as it may, I’m going to advise you on what decisions your wife made and what your position is in all of this.”
“OK.” She paused a few seconds, took a deep breath, and began to talk.
She explained that a few months after the doctor had confirmed that Sharon was indeed pregnant, she had made the decision to give the child away at birth. Papers had been signed and unfortunately, that decision was not reversible. I asked, that if I was the legal father, why anyone hadn’t asked me what my wishes were. She explained that as the legal father, the only thing I was responsible for, had Sharon decided to keep the child, was raising the child as my own. Then she slid a small stack of papers for me to sign.
I was shocked, confused and angry. How could I be held responsible for the raising of a child that my wife had conceived with someone else? It just didn’t seem fair.
After I signed the forms I wanted to ask a question. “Of course,” she said. “If I can legally answer it, I will.”
“What’s going to happen to the baby?”
“Well…” she paused, leaning back in her chair. “Law requires that the child be taken from her immediately after it’s born. The mother is not allowed to see or touch, or even be told the gender of the newborn. Once it’s determined that the child is healthy, the adoptive parents will be notified. When the time comes, the baby will be released to them.”
“So, the adoptive parents have already been determined?”
“Oh yes, a long time ago. Just after Sharon signed all her rights to the child away.”
“Oh.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Fine, then we’re done here. I’ll escort you to the ‘Expectant Fathers’ wing where you’ll wait until she gives birth tonight. If all goes well, you can see her then. I expect that she’ll be able to go home in a couple of days.”
She walked me to an elevator, then once on the correct floor she took me to a large room furnished with a couple of large couches, some overstuffed leather chairs and many, many, magazines. On a shelf, high up on a corner of the room, was a large TV. I sat down on one of the chairs and noticed that the ‘The Tonight Show’ was playing. On it the host, Johnny Carson, was interviewing the Democratic candidate for president, Senator Hubert H. Humphrey.
To be continued…
