by Bob Purssell
Tommy resumed. “Your father crawled underneath the fence. To do this he had to get through the wire. You can see the two broken strands. How he did this is amazing.”
Trying to satisfy my own amazement, I said, “The cold would make the wire brittle.”
“That would help,” replied Tommy, “but it wouldn’t be easy. I tried flexing the wire. It broke eventually, but it took a lot of effort.”
“Getting through the wire,” the coroner added, “caused your father additional injuries. He cut both hands. The lacerations, while not life-threatening, were severe.”
I imagined him desperately struggling. He was strong, particularly his hands. A thought came to me. “Did he have his cell phone with him?”
“Yes. We checked that out. The lab said there was still a 27 percent charge left on the battery.” Tommy stopped and took a notebook from his pocket. “Did he recharge his cell batteries as a rule?”
I thought of the old cell phone, now many years obsolete. I had encouraged him to get one of the new communicators[41], but he refused, saying, “Being old isn’t so bad; look at me.”
I answered Tommy’s question, “He always checked the batteries. He was careful that way.”
“That’s what we figured,” replied Tommy as he wrote my answer into his book. Putting the book back into his pocket, he said, “Here’s the problem. You can see it on this unit.”
He held a cell phone in front of me. There was only one bar showing.
“Sometimes we get one bar; sometimes we get no bars. The reception out here is poor.”
“You think he tried to call for help?”
“We checked with the cell people. They have no record of his placing any calls the day he died. I think he tried, but he just couldn’t get service.”
* * *
We continued following my father’s trail through the snow. About one hundred yards on, the trail stopped.
“Your father crawled ninety-eight yards from the fence. This is where he stopped. This is where we found his body.”
“Who—I mean …?”
“Your father had made an appointment to play bridge with some friends. When he did not show up, they called him. Of course, he didn’t answer, so they went over to your place to make sure nothing had happened. They found his car in the driveway, but nobody home. They called the police.”
“That’s when you got involved?”
“Yes, I took the call. That’s why I’m the investigating officer.”
“Did you find him?”
“No, it was Jimmy McGovern. You remember him?”
“He was a freshman when I graduated.”
“Well, anyway, he’s a volunteer fireman now. He made the discovery.”
There was an awkwardness. I had a question I wanted to ask, but didn’t. The coroner must have understood my reluctance.
“Death from hypothermia is not a painful death. You shiver; your extremities lose feeling. As the core body temperature falls, you feel extreme fatigue. Eventually, you drift off into a coma-like state. Then you succumb.”
“Was he in …?”
“At the moment of death, he was unconscious. He felt no pain.”
“How long was he out here?”
The coroner answered first. “His body was frozen, minus thirteen degrees Celsius. His digestive track indicated his last meal was bread and cheese.”
“He liked to have a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch.”
Tommy wrote this down in his notebook. Then he said, “We checked the phone records. His last call was at 1:43 on Friday. The answer machine had an incoming call at 3:42. He emailed a friend at 2:03. All this leads us to believe he started his walk between 2:03 and 3:42.”
“When did you get involved?”
“The police department received his friends’ call at 1:37 on Saturday. I got to your place at 1:48. Jimmy found the body at 1:53.”
“You reacted quickly.”
“In this weather, you can’t waste time.”
That was it. Utterly logical. Utterly horrible. Like a car running out of gas, his energy reserves gone, he stopped moving. Froze and died.
If only his cell had had another bar.
ARLENE RIVERS
If you had asked me before my father’s death how I would react to that event, I probably would have said that I would go to pieces, what with our being so close. However, human beings are resilient. Like billions of children before me, I too came to grips with my new reality. Life goes on, and I, like those before me, went on. Yes, I had a couple of bad nights in which I cried my eyes out, but for the most part, I just went ahead and did what I had to do.
As I went through the experience, I wondered why I had not fallen apart. Reflecting on my reaction, I came up with four reasons for my ability to cope. First, I was busy. I had funeral arrangements to make. Then, after burying my father, as my father’s executor, I called upon the family’s attorney, and we began the process of probating the will. Later, when I discovered that Elizabeth Sue was looking for a place, I rented her my house. Second, since my father was seventy-nine years of age, I had prepared emotionally, to some degree, for his passing. While the timing of his death was a surprise, its possibility was not. Third, being a naval officer prepares one to deal with crises, so that is what I did. Like so many things in my life, I just handled it. Finally and most importantly, I had no guilt. My father and I had shared; we were close. There were no words left unsaid; there were no pains yet to be assuaged.
* * *
Leaving just before dusk, I began my flight to Hawaii so I could rejoin the Reagan, which would arrive six days after I did. This gave me some time to see the sights, to go to the beach and most importantly, time to think about the future. Therefore, my hiatus wasn’t a vacation but rather a time out, an opportunity to assess where I was going and to make some decisions.
One of these concerned the navy. On my flight to Hawaii, I pondered my career. Was I to be a short-termer, in for a tour of duty and then into the reserves, or would I become a lifer? As the plane crossed western America and the eastern Pacific, I went through the pros and cons, but this was mostly a pro forma exercise. By the time the plane landed, I knew I wanted to rise up through the service and, with luck and hard work, get my admiral’s stripes.
Unlike most of my contemporaries, I had money. The family attorney had informed me that my parents, who lived well but frugally, had accumulated considerable wealth. While I knew we were well off, the actual size of their investment portfolio was, to me, staggering. Of course, being a bachelor officer, the navy covered many of my financial needs (e.g., health care, housing). In the tiny space allotted to one on a ship, where could I keep the possessions one usually acquires in civilian life? However, the money from my parents’ estate would allow me to do things that many of my fellow officers could not afford. Therefore, I counseled myself to avoid any public display of wealth, best not to be the source of others’ envy. Still it was comforting to know that I was secure financially.
* * *
Still tired from my trip, lying on a bed in the Navy Lodge, I began wrestling with my sexual proclivities. My habit, my behavior of rushing out and having sexual flings with some stranger, could and would only end in any number of personal disasters. I had tried to stop, but I could not. I thought of myself as the sexual equivalent of an alcoholic binge drinker who goes long periods without a drop and then has a lost weekend.
Therapy was an option, but I was leery of telling a navy doctor about my problem lest it get into my record. I contemplated going to a civilian psychiatrist. Money was not a difficulty and seeing someone outside the navy would address my confidentiality concerns. Unfortunately, the transient quality of navy life, my postings to different bases and ships, precluded this option.
I had never been a deeply religious person. While I believed in God and went t
o church with some regularity, I had never truly embraced the faith, and consequently, there was a distance between my religion and me. Back and forth in my mind, I tossed the positives and negatives of seeking help from my church. Could I tell a pastor? Could I tell anyone about my sexual escapades? Could I afford the risk of not telling someone? Finally, desperate to get my problem under control, I decided to give religion a chance. In a loud voice, which I hoped did not go beyond the walls of my room, I declared, “Just do it.”
* * *
The next day I visited the Pearl Harbor memorial and the wreck of the Arizona. In the afternoon, I went to a state park intent on snorkeling, lying on the beach, reading a novel, and most importantly, continuing the contemplation of my future.
After snorkeling for an hour or so, as I lay on my blanket tanning myself, I looked about. Since it was a Sunday afternoon, there were many people around me. Most of my fellow sunbathers were families consisting of children, men with oversized bellies, and women in need of liposuction. However, not every adult was corpulent. Fifty feet from where I was lying there was a gorgeous woman in her thirties with her two young children. Surreptitiously, I studied this beauty as she put on her sunblock and caressed her body in the process. Others were also watching. Pudgy men all over the beach were sneaking a peek; young boys in their puberty stared more openly; and several women cast envious glances. I contemplated the Gorgeous Woman’s trim, infinitely feminine body and smiled as I mused, Girlie, you’ve got to get yourself one of those.
* * *
If you had asked me at that moment what the possibilities of my having any relationship with the Gorgeous Woman were, I would have answered, “None.” However, I would have been wrong. Sometime later, while I was emerging from the ocean, snorkel mask in hand, I heard a young boy’s voice say, “Mommy, that lady knows how. She can help us.”
I looked in the boy’s direction and saw Mommy, aka the Gorgeous Woman, and her young daughter. I went over and asked, “Do you need some help?”
“The answer is yes, but I don’t wish to impose,” replied Gorgeous Woman.
As I adjusted the little girl’s mask, the Gorgeous Woman and I exchanged introductions. When Arlene Rivers appeared to be comfortable with me, I offered, “Would you like me to take them snorkeling?”
“Would you? I’m not much good at this sort of thing.”
When we returned to the beach, Arlene gushed, “Thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver.” Then to her children, she asked, “What do you say?”
The two kids immediately said, “Thank you.”
Figuring this would be the end of our encounter, I replied, “The pleasure was all mine.”
Arlene suggested I join her. I started to beg off, but the children, as children do, insisted I stay. Relenting, I moved my things next to Arlene’s. Soon the boy, Christopher, had me helping in the construction of his sandcastle while the daughter, Kimberly, recounted how she was learning to ride her horse, Belle Star.
The mother tried to stop her children from monopolizing my afternoon, but I told her everything was fine, that I was enjoying my day at the beach.
Suddenly Arlene announced, “Your rescue is at hand.” Then waving in the direction of a distinguished-looking older man, she called out, “Darling, over here.”
The man was her husband, Gerald Rivers, and Arlene immediately informed him that I had “saved the day.” After thanking me profusely, he gathered his two children and took them off on an adventure. After they left, Arlene engaged me in one of those woman-to-woman talks about our lives. We had talked for quite awhile, when she said, “I envy you.”
“Moi?”
“You’re the dashing navy officer sailing about the globe, and I’m the hausfrau.”
“I can assure you I’m no Errol Flynn[42] type. Most of the time my days are pretty routine.” Then I added, “Speaking of envy, what about you: beautiful children, handsome, considerate husband, and—to really rub it in— extremely attractive. You know, we ordinary women hate all that, particularly the last part.”
Reflecting, Arlene thought before responding. “I am blessed. They are good kids. And I’m lucky to have Gerald.”
This launched us into a discussion about marriage, her talking and me listening. Finally, she asked, “What about Lieutenant O’Leary?”
“There doesn’t seem to be much demand for plain Janes.”
“You’re no plain Jane. What’s wrong with those young men on that ship of yours?”
I mumbled something about being career oriented, to which Arlene replied, “No excuses. Time for you to get going, young lady.”
* * *
Because I had helped their children, that evening Gerald and Arlene Rivers insisted on taking me out to dinner at what they described as a casual restaurant. Coming from the unpretentious Great American Plains, I have some pretty firm ideas about what constitutes casual dining. Seated in the upscale restaurant, I concluded that the Rivers and yours truly moved in very different circles.
Midway through the main course Gerald asked me, “What is your specialty?”
I replied, “I’m in communications,” and thought that would be the end of that conversation.
Instead, Gerald asked, “Do you work in the Reagan’s communication center?”
“Yes.”
“I’m much impressed. We mere mortals do not often meet someone who has access to the holy of holies.” He then moved onto another subject, and I again thought that would be the end of his interest.
It wasn’t. When Arlene left to visit the ladies room, Gerald almost immediately said, “I contract with the navy. We’re doing some pretty interesting things that are right up your alley. If we can work out the clearance issues, I’d like to tell you about our work.” Then, handing me his business card, he added, “We’re always happy to talk with important people, like you, who are making such a valuable contribution to the nation’s defense.”
Never having dealt with a contractor, never recognized as an important person, I did not know how to reply, so I mumbled something like, “I appreciate your kind words and the friendliness that you and your wife have shown me. We should stay in touch.”
* * *
Outside the restaurant Arlene asked, “Barbara, when does your ship arrive?”
I replied, “Is that a philosophical enquiry or a practical question?”
We all laughed, and then Arlene explained, “Actually, I meant are you available tomorrow?”
“My physical ship, the Ronald Reagan, arrives Tuesday.”
“Well, if you’re available, if you’re willing, we could do some shopping?”
“Arlene,” I replied, “where I shop and where you shop may not be on the same planet.”
“Oh, stop,” replied Arlene. “I look for bargains.”
“You do?” interjected Gerald. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Of course I shop for bargains. Why just three years ago…”
Laughing, happy to accept her offer, I said, “Okay, I’ll join you as an observer.”
* * *
Monday morning, on my way to Arlene’s house, I decided to buy a suit. While I did not need one, I like suits and I had the urge. After selecting the rationalization that I had been through a lot and deserved a reward, I felt comfortable about making the purchase.
Arlene had told me to wear something comfortably casual, so I did. When she opened the front door, I realized that her idea of comfortably casual and mine differed, substantially. She looked like she had just stepped out of Vogue. In comparison, I felt like a Beverly Hillbillies rerun. So much for keeping up with the rich and famous.
We took her expensive sports car to a very upscale shoe store. Arlene bought two pairs of heels; I salivated. After informing me that she was going to “pounce on a bargain,” we went to a store that specialized in crystal. From the greeting Arlene receive
d, I gathered this was not her first visit. When we left with her bargain stowed in the trunk, I think I heard the strains of “Happy Days Are Here Again”[43] emanating from the store.
Lunch was appropriately upscale; there was no “shit on a shingle”[44] on the lunch menu. Arlene insisted on picking up the tab. I protested, but not all that strongly. I have a strong reluctance when it comes to committing financial suicide.
Our final stop, and the main event of the day, was the clothing store. After glancing at the prices, I considered the option of downsizing my intended suit purchase; did they sell handkerchiefs? The store was one of those conservative places that sold stylish, well-made clothes intended to fit real people. Unfortunately, these desirable qualities came at a price … a big price.
My favorite color is yellow and—wouldn’t you know it—they had what I was looking for in lemon. And—wouldn’t you know it—the suit actually fit me. And—wouldn’t you know it—I liked the suit. The price—as they say—don’t ask.
Emerging from the fitting room, I walked toward Arlene, intent on asking her opinion. Before I could speak, she ordered, “Turn around; I want to see the back.”
Doing as I had been told, I turned. As I did, she asked, “The color flatters you; do you like it?”
When I replied, “Yes, but—” Arlene interrupted and told the saleswoman, “We’ll take it, but I want some alterations.”
With the alacrity of a recruit in Basic, the seamstress appeared. Barking out orders like some martinet, Arlene instructed the woman to lengthen this, tighten that. When we were finished, I headed back to the fitting room contemplating the damage I had just done to my finances. I was going to need a whole host of rationalizations for this excess.
Credit card in hand, I returned with my new suit. When I approached the saleswoman, she informed me, “Mrs. Rivers has taken care of this.”
I’m no chiseler, so I immediately took Arlene aside. “You can’t pay for my suit.”
“Actually, I just did.”
Correcting my grammar, I said, “I cannot allow you to do this.”
