The Colonel

by Beau North

  Richard shrugged. “Charlotte thought Anne might come here.”

  Kelly sniffed and turned around, leaving Richard standing at the door.

  “Close the door if you’re coming in.”

  The sergeant’s apartment was one cramped room with furnishings that had seen better days. Against one wall, a percolator sat on a hotplate, still steaming. The smell of fresh coffee was almost intoxicating to Richard’s sleep-deprived mind.

  “It’s not the Ritz,” Kelly said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  Kelly sipped his coffee. He hadn’t offered Richard a cup. “You didn’t have to say anything. Your mug says it all.”

  “Why do you live here?” Richard asked, more out of curiosity than anything else. “You’re a sergeant. Surely you can afford…I don’t know, another room?”

  Kelly shrugged. “Me mam.” There was a strong hint of Irish in the words. “She needed to be somewhere where she could be looked after. It doesn’t come cheap.”

  “No,” Richard agreed. God knows he knew all about that. “It isn’t.”

  “I don’t like you much,” Kelly said, out of the blue. “I never have.”

  “The feeling is more than mutual. But I’m not the guy I was that night you hauled me into your godforsaken precinct.”

  “It isn’t just that,” Kelly said, taking another long sip of his coffee. It was tantamount to torture. “You’ve been a pain in everyone’s ass for as long as I’ve known you and your people. The drinking, the women…getting yourself blown up and then sitting around for months feeling sorry for yourself. And now,” he trailed off, letting the thought hang.

  “And now?” Richard prompted. His patience was running thin.

  “And now you just settle in between two people like you belong there. You’re pushing Annie out to make your little family unit.”

  “I thought that would make you of all people happy. You’ve been in love with her for years now.”

  Kelly raised his brows. Richard could have punched him in his freckled face.

  “I want her to be happy because I love her, you spoiled ass. Even if that means she’s with someone else. Even if it means she never gives me a second glance as anything more than a friend.”

  Richard ran a hand through his hair, his last frayed thread of patience ready to snap. He didn’t want to admit—not even to himself—how true Kelly’s words sounded to his ears.

  “Look. Is she here or not?”

  Kelly smirked and pointed to the open window, and beyond that, the fire escape. “Try the roof. She says she likes the light up there.”

  Richard bit back a retort as he climbed out of the window. He clung to the iron railing as a wave of dizziness swept through him. There were times when his monocular vision couldn’t quite adjust, like looking down from any kind of height. Slowly, carefully, he climbed the iron steps, holding the railing in a death-grip until he stepped onto the roof, shaking with the effort.

  “Took you long enough,” Anne’s Southern lilt called out from where she sat in the middle of the wide, flat roof. She was seated in a flimsy folding chair, the kind someone might take to the beach for an afternoon, with her legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, smoking a cigarette.

  “Well, it takes me twice as long to look now,” he said, plopping down on the bare blacktop next to her. Wordlessly, she handed him her pack of Kents and a lighter—silver engraved with the initials M.L.DB. Mikhail Louis DeBourgh, Anne’s father, a man Richard barely remembered. She had inherited his mahogany hair and long features, and the air of mystery that set her aside from the other Fitzwilliams. They smoked in silence, watching the sun sink lower in the sky as day turned to violet evening.

  “Charlotte’s worried sick about you,” he said finally, grinding his cigarette out.

  She looked pale and tired, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.

  “I’m sure she is. I meant to call. I just…didn’t know what to say.”

  He sniffed. He was tired, thirsty, and already dreading climbing back down the fire escape in the diminishing evening light. “How about the truth?”

  “I’m not sure either of you wants to hear it.”

  “Try me.”

  Anne turned to him, chewing on her lip. “It’s like this. Maybe it’s better”―she took a deep breath and then continued in a trembling voice―“maybe it’s better if I wasn’t around. You and Charlotte and Ben have your little family, and I’m the man out.”

  Richard shook his head. “Charlotte would be heartbroken.”

  “Would she? Because you two have been awfully cozy since…you know.”

  “I do care about her,” he admitted. “Maybe I even love her a little, but none of that matters, because she loves you.”

  Anne put her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. “I just can’t do it, Richie. I can’t just stand by and watch the three of you.” He rubbed circles on her back, trying not to show how alarmed he was by her tears. He’d had no idea all of this had been weighing so heavily on her.

  “I thought I could handle it,” she said, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “Not just…you know, that, but everything that would come after. I wanted Charlotte to have what she wanted. But what about what I want? God, that sounds so selfish.”

  “I think there’s an obvious answer to this problem,” Richard said. He knew it was the right choice, even though it felt like he was being ripped in half. “I need to give you two your space.”

  Anne sniffed, looking miserable. “But, Ben―”

  “Ben has the two of you,” he assured her. “And I’ll come visit on holidays, his birthday. I can still be a part of his life.”

  “I don’t want you to make any rash decisions you’ll regret later,” she said, but he could tell that just the idea of his leaving had put her at ease. He set aside the pain he felt at that. The anger and resentment. He owed Anne better than that, for all that she’d put up with from him. There had already been enough hurt passed around to last a lifetime.

  “I’ve actually been thinking about it for a long time. Since before the baby came. I’ve been going stagnant here. The businesses only need me once or twice a year, for board meetings. I won’t be missed.”

  Anne’s face crumpled. “Don’t say that,” she said, her sobs coming hard and fast again. “Don’t you think it tears me apart inside to even say these things to you? I love you, Richie.”

  “Hey, hey.” He knelt next to her chair, ignoring the grit digging into his knees, his own exhaustion. He pulled her into an embrace. “I love you too, you know. You saved me from myself, many times over.”

  They clung to each other like that until twilight faded into evening.

  Part IV

  We Are Fine

  32

  June 5, 1955

  Dear Mrs. Darcy,

  Thank you and Will for the birthday wishes. I hope you’re well. Your husband told me congratulations are once again in order, and that you’ve given up the tour in favor of time at home. You’re brave to have carried on as long as you did, and I couldn’t be prouder of you.

  I’ve decided to pull up stakes, for a while at least. My heart’s set on California, maybe Arizona. I want to feel the sun on my face again. I know what you’ll say, that Florida is much closer, but I promised myself I’d never set foot in that mosquito infested hellhole ever again, and this time, I intend to keep it. I need big skies and painted hills, movie stars who will drown me in champagne and scandal. The house in Annapolis doesn’t need me. Gramercy Park certainly doesn’t need me, nor its occupants. Anne and Charlotte need to be a family now, and I’ll come back to see Ben as often as I can. It’s time I became the vagabond I’ve been pretending to be my whole life. Knowing I’m going to live and choosing to do the thing is altogether new to me, but thanks for your kindness and patient friendship. I think I’ll try and make a go of it. So think of me, soaking up the sun.

  All the best,

  Richard


  “He really is impossible,” Elizabeth said, handing the letter to her husband. She was perched on the edge of his desk, her hand resting on the small swell of her growing belly. Darcy took the note, reading with his usual thoroughness. He handed it back to her with a sigh.

  “I suppose I should be happy for him. Lord knows he deserves to be happy.”

  Elizabeth had her doubts about Richard finding contentment in aimless wandering, but anything was possible with him.

  “He’s a bit of a child still.” That wasn’t quite the way she felt, what she knew about her erstwhile lover. What she knew was that his romantic nature would never allow him true serenity.

  “I suppose a change of scenery couldn’t hurt,” Darcy said, handing the letter back to her and kissing the top of her head.

  “No, you’re right,” she said, leaning into him. “I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”

  November 5, 1955

  Dear Evie,

  I think I wanted Los Angeles to be home, but for such a busy city it feels strangely haunted. People flit in and out of town and disappear like ghosts. It isn’t all palm trees and cactus gardens, but lots of the same seedy Greyhound Stations and low rent hotels whose doors stand open like gaping mouths against the heat. I wonder if it was all a big mistake to come here. Maybe it’s wrong to see a town—a house, a place—as home. Maybe home can only be found in the heart.

  And maybe I’m drunk and talking out of my ass. Maybe next year I’ll see what San Francisco has to offer.

  Richard

  March 19, 1956

  Havenhurst Avenue

  Los Angeles, California

  The wind in his hair did nothing to cool the sun beating down on his head, baking his already-reddened skin. The constant sun had turned his sandy hair lighter, hiding the threads of silver he’d begun to see. He’d just had to get the newest model of the Bel Air convertible, a big, cherry-red monstrosity that was as unwieldy as it was showy. He didn’t just love the car, he adored it the way one would adore a lover. Driving with the top down along palm-lined boulevards made him feel young, vital, alive again, after years of the drudgery of his recuperation, and everything that had come before.

  Moving to California had given him new insight, or rather forced him to face the truths that had for years been staring him in the face. He would sit for hours and hours on the porch of his house on the hillside, listening to the dry Santa Ana winds rustle the leaves of the trees, thinking that New York would be just waking up, the city coming alive at night, and wondering if his son was asleep, tucked away in his nursery in Gramercy Park under the watchful eye of his mother and Anne. The long, quiet evenings had given him time to reflect on the last decade of his life, the experiences that had weathered him, reshaped him over and over, the way hurricanes reshaped the coastline. He thought of Abigail, and Elizabeth, Evie, and even Charlotte. Even after he went to bed, he’d lie awake thinking of all the women he’d loved and all the ways in which he’d loved them. Especially Elizabeth. He understood at last that the desperate reverence he’d held on to for so long had been a byproduct of the terrible things he’d endured. He’d found a hopeless sort of salvation in her, and while the root of that love had been pure, over time the branches had twisted themselves inexorably with his own trauma.

  The block of old storefronts and parking lots was faded and shabby, but Richard had noticed the gleaming new hotels and apartment buildings, swanky restaurants, upscale shops, galleries, and performance spaces creeping into the edges of West Hollywood. He knew it would be smart to start scooping up property along Havenhurst Avenue before the area was completely revived.

  He parked his Bel Air and got out, surveying the crumbling pavement, the empty storefronts staring back like vacant eyes, some with signs that declared “For Sale” or “No Trespassing.” Richard walked toward one particular sign that caught his interest, peering in the window of what looked to have been a grocers in another time.

  He spared a glance for the man sleeping against the recessed door. He wasn’t afraid of the poor creatures that didn’t have the means or the will to secure lodging. On the contrary, he knew that ordinary people could be as devilish to those less fortunate than Old Scratch himself. He’d seen men beaten for asking for change, or worse, for work. These people were simply trying to exist, and that was—to some men—a punishable offense, a stark reminder to the comfortable and well-fed that their fortunes could always turn. America was, after all, a land of opportunities, for good or ill. Fortunes rose, but they fell too.

  “Spare some change?”

  The man in the doorway was sitting up now, holding a hand outstretched toward him. The face, scruffy with hair and smudged with dirt, stared straight ahead. Richard dug into his pocket for the bills he kept loose for moments like this. He took out a few bills, extending them toward the beggar. There was some flash of familiarity in his expression that Richard couldn’t quite place, a face lodged stubbornly in the recesses of his memory, refusing to budge.

  The man looked up, saw him. His lip curled, a small, disdainful twist, and Richard knew in that instant why the face was so familiar.

  “Bert. Teo Bertram.”

  The man turned away from him, putting his face to the door. Richard was stunned. The last time he’d seen Bert, the man was riddled with bullets and strapped to a stretcher in Monte Cassino in the bitter winter of ’44. He’d not spared a second thought for the Louisiana Loverboy in all that time, assuming he’d died from his wounds. Richard crouched on the balls of his feet, putting his hand on the other man’s shoulder. He tried breathing through his mouth as Bert was rank with the smell of cheap wine and an unwashed body.

  “Jesus, Bert! It’s Fitz!”

  “Fuck off,” Bert spat. “This ain’t a sideshow.”

  “Gladly, but you’re coming with me.”

  Bertram cast a withering glare over his shoulder.

  “Go away, Fitz. Keep your money.”

  “You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving here without you. The Thirteenth never leaves a brother behind.”

  A laugh like crackling fire came from Bert. Richard had to fight not to cringe at the sound of it.

  “Where was the Thirteenth when my life went to shit?” he asked. Richard stood, putting his hands on his hips, the mantle of authority settling over his shoulders so naturally he wondered if it had ever truly left him.

  “Bertram! Get off your ass and get in the car. I’m taking you to my place for a shower and a hot meal.”

  Bert made a sound of disgust. “Fine, you son of a bitch.”

  He struggled to get to his feet. Richard held out a hand. At first he thought Bertram wouldn’t take it, only sit there looking at it like it was some strange animal. Finally, he reached up, let Richard help him to stand. It was then that Richard could see why he’d had difficulty standing. His left pant leg hung empty from the knee down.

  Richard swallowed, pulling Bertram’s arm across his shoulders so that he could act as a crutch. They made it down the cracked sidewalk in a short, hopping stride.

  “Was that from…”

  Bertram shook his head, concentrating on the ground. “Work accident. I came out here with the UP.”

  Richard nodded. Union Pacific had brought a lot of jobs west, but it was grueling work. Richard had declined to buy into the company, because he saw the future of moving things not in the railway but in Eisenhower’s interstate road project.

  “Time enough for that later,” Richard said, struggling to keep them both upright. “Were you always this goddamned heavy?”

  “The past lies on the present like a giant’s dead body,” Bertram said, then grinned, suddenly looking very much like the man Richard knew once.

  “Quoting yourself?” They reached the car at last. Richard held the door open and immobile so that Bertram could get himself into the convertible.

  “Bastardizing Hawthorne, actually.”

  “Then you are quoting yourself.” Richard laughed and slid into the
driver’s seat, silently grateful that two wars and life in general had not taken more of him than it had. He felt a hot rush of shame at the months of hiding in the Gramercy Park townhouse, afraid of showing his scarred face, angry at the world for what he’d lost, instead of rejoicing at the fact that he was actually the luckiest son of a bitch in the world.

  Richard had a platter of food ready when Bert emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and wearing a pair of Richard’s sweat pants and a brand new undershirt, brilliant white against his sun-browned arms. Richard had given him the rolling chair from his office to help him get from one room to the other, sensing his discomfort at accepting help.

  “Are those hamburgers?”

  “Nothing fancy, I’m afraid.” Richard directed him to a chair, already pulled out. A paper plate sat empty and waiting for him.

  “I’ve got ketchup and mustard and some relish here. And some iced tea or coffee, if you prefer.”

  Bert’s brows drew down. “Iced tea. Do you put sugar in it?”

  “I don’t, but I can make some fresh if you’d rather.”

  “Sit down and quit fussing over me,” Bertram said irritably. “No sugar is fine. I got too many bad teeth as it is.”

  Richard poured two glasses of tea and took a seat, putting two hamburgers on his plate. Bert, he noticed, had already chewed through two before he even sat down. Richard tried observing him without watching too closely. When they’d been in the service together, Teo Bertram had been broad-shouldered and strong, a handsome specimen with black hair and bright blue eyes. Now he had the look of a light winking out. The broad shoulders were curved inward in a pronounced slouch, the blue eyes were no longer bright but pale and bloodshot. He was painfully thin, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. It reminded Richard of how he himself looked returning from England with a cane in his hand and a monkey on his back.