In the corner of my eye, I saw the maître d' coming toward our table. People were pointing and staring at us, in well-deserved disgust.
"Andrew, stand up! Stop this behavior right now!" Kay yanked the boy up by the arms. "I have never been so embarrassed in all my life!"
"I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!"
"Andrew, stop it!"
"No! You can't make me!"
"Marcus, I'm terribly sorry, but I think I better take the kids home in a cab." Quickly, she gathered her purse together and, pulling Andrew by the arm, left me to ponder what life would be like with my future stepchildren.
Chapter 7 Kay
I took no perverse pleasure in noting Paul's will had not been changed before he died, that everything reverted to me and not some other woman. The hardest thing to do was to pack up his stuff. His commander, Col. Schiripa, took leave and brought his personal belongings back.
Col. Schiripa stood ramrod straight in my entryway, a huge box covered in brown paper and masking tape at his feet, but there was no mistaking the pain that filled his craggy face. I thought his graying hair made him look a little older than his forty-seven years, especially when twenty-five of those years had been spent in the cockpit of one fighter plane or another. He was wearing his blue uniform with the leather fighter pilot jacket, holding his flight cap in his hands.
“He was a good man,” Schiripa said, as we hugged briefly.
“I know.”
“We’re still looking into the hydraulic failure that caused the accident. I want you to know that this will not be blamed on pilot error.”
I nodded. “Good.”
Schiripa shifted from one foot to the other. “Kay, we all knew why Bear came to Korea. It was pretty much an open secret that he was looking for that little boy.”
“You knew?”
“Everybody did. He was obsessed about finding that kid. It couldn’t have made things very easy for you.”
I sighed. “No, it didn’t. When he was home at Christmas, we decided to split up. I was to file everything, and then we’d finalize it before he went on to his next assignment.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t know why he behaved like that, when he had somebody like you at home.” Schiripa twisted his flight cap in his hands.
“I never understood it either, Colonel.” But I’ll bet you never sat down with him and said that, I thought.
“You let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“I’m fine.”
He nodded and, placing his flight cap on his head, saluted.
“Take care,” he said, and he was gone.
I sat on the floor beside the box, folding my legs beneath me. What was in here? How much of the man remained?
I tore the brown paper off the box and opened the cardboard flaps. I picked up each shirt, each pair of pants and smelled it, hoping for one final scent of the man, but someone had washed them before packing them. Who? His Korean lover? Another female officer? All I smelled was soap and dryer sheets.
His own personal collection of knickknacks broke my heart. There was a picture of the kids and me together at Virginia Beach that had been in his locker; a picture of a signpost in front of the on-base officers’ quarters he lived in, with arrows pointing to cities in all directions: Moscow (3627 miles), Mifflin, PA (6866 miles), Mount Holly, NJ (6964 miles), Pyongyang (131 miles); the Myung Jin bus schedule; a small American flag; a box of cheap, Korean souvenirs for the kids; and a few tattered paperbacks, westerns by Louis L'Amour.
Nothing to indicate he was anything but the perfect officer, the perfect gentleman, the perfect family man.
Quietly, I closed the box and took it up to the attic. Later, I would pack up the ‘I Love Me’ wall and the photograph of him kneeling on the wing on his plane at Eglin. Scrapbooks and mementos of our life together, hidden in the corners of the attic for the year he would have stayed at Osan, held memories I could only thumb through and wish they had been different.
How many women had he slept with over the length of our marriage? Had I known about all of them, could I have been as forgiving as I wanted to be now? I looked at our wedding portrait: a young officer beaming with all the promise that his future in the military held and his blushing bride crossing under an arch of sabers as they exited the church. This picture was once my favorite, because we were looking into each other’s eyes with complete trust, bound to each other for what would only be a love-filled and glorious life. It had been the one I had thrown at him at Eglin. He had it repaired and bought another silver frame to put it in.
At Langley Air Force Base when things went sour, I took it from the wall above the couch in our living room, saying my pupils were red from the camera flash and it ruined the whole effect. It wasn't the light in my eyes, it was the tears. But Paul knew what I was saying.
The trust was gone.
Everything else had been stored here in Jubilant Falls, in anticipation of our next move, or mine.
Was this what it all boiled down to? A collection of personal effects and a stack of clean laundry no one else would ever wear? Maybe someday, I could go through them with the children, but not now. For now, they would be relegated to the attic with the remainder of Paul's life. One day, I would pull out the leather flight jacket and the tall green flight suit tailored to accommodate his muscular shoulders and his tiny waist and tell the children about their daddy, when he could be the hero again.
I had hated him so much then and regretted that hate so much now. I had hated everything he did to me, but not what he stood for. Maybe that meant I wasn't such a bad military wife after all. My heart still skipped a beat when the jets from nearby Symington Air Base went overhead, but I never knew if it was in fear or excited anticipation. I had been looking for a hero and found Paul; something inside me still believed in the myth, just not the man. Had I been wrong to do that?
In the end, only the I Love Me wall remained.
Work was a chore, but in the end, it drowned me, too.
Finally, a bad case of bursitis forced me into a short leave of absence, keeping me on the couch with hot and cold packs to reduce the pain in my shoulder and, now and then, a bit of scotch to reduce the pain in my heart.
Sometimes it hurt even to see Marcus.
Andrew treated him horribly, but who could blame the kid, really? Here was this man who was not his father coming around the house, paying attention to his mother.
Things had changed, since that disastrous dinner at the Emmett House Inn. I’d warned Marcus it was all wrong. Little kids don’t appreciate that kind of place, and it was too soon for them to accept another man in their mother’s life.
Things were changing with Marcus and me, too.
Marcus kept his feelings to himself, especially since that brick came sailing through the window. I refused to talk about it anymore, but I kept an eye on my surroundings every time I was in public with the children.
The whole situation and my refusal to share it with Marcus had become very wearing on the two of us.
But especially since Paul's death, Marcus had become very tentative with me, leaving some space between us that often left me feeling more adrift. I don't know if it was just to give me space to grieve, or if he had fears about the brick coming through the window. Certainly Elizabeth Kingston's story was ongoing. Despite my absence from the office, she was never far from my thoughts.
When Marcus’s first story ran, the municipal housing authority had been quick to act. Aurora Development had thirty days to get repairs going. Nothing was ever done. As more and more tenants came forward with many of the same complaints, Rathke asked for—and got—extensions on that original thirty days.
After a while, the housing authority got fed up and turned the final extension request down, then turned the case over to the courts. Still, Marcus felt defeated.
"He's paying somebody off somewhere. He's got to be." Flopping down in one of my kitchen chairs one eve
ning after work, Marcus rubbed his hands over his afternoon stubble.
"Why do you say that?" I sat a stoneware mug in front of him and poured him a cup of coffee, then sat across from him.
"The scope of these repairs would put anybody else behind bars, like that." Marcus snapped his fingers. "But there's some connection somewhere, some small town political schmoozing somewhere that I can't put my finger on. You know, we had the AP do some digging in Delaware where the incorporation documents are filed. And we couldn’t find out who’s behind Aurora. I don't think the owners of Aurora Development are from out of state. I think they're local, and whoever set this corporation up knew enough about what was going on to make a paper trail that leads anybody who’s looking in the wrong direction. Somebody, somewhere in this town has connections to this company, and Rathke's covering them up."
"You'll find them. I know you will."
"I don't know anymore, Kay. I just don't know."
"Why don't you stay for supper, and we can talk about it some more." I cupped my hands over his.
“No, I don’t think so. Not tonight.”
The kitchen door slammed, as the kids came charging into the house, tracking muddy snow across my linoleum.
"Ma, Lillian says she's going to hit me with a snowball in the face!" Andrew bellowed. He stopped short and stared at Marcus. "Oh, it's you."
"Andrew, that's rude. Say hello to Marcus nicely."
"Andy chicken! Andy chicken!" taunted Lillian, in the background. “Hi, Misser Marcus!"
"Hi, Diamond Lil." he smiled at her. "Hi, Andrew."
Andrew remained sullen and silent. Lillian squealed, the door slammed again, and the two barreled back out into the snow before I could catch them.
"I’m sorry he’s so rude. One out of two isn't bad. Do you want to stay for supper?"
Marcus stared into his coffee cup. "No, I think I'll go grab some fast food and head back to the newsroom. Maybe if I go through my notes again, I'll see something I missed." He rose and swallowed the last gulp of coffee. “See you later, my dear."
"Marcus, just give him time. He'll come around." I wrapped my arms around him confidently.
"I hope so." He kissed me on my forehead, but there was no mistaking the doubt in his voice.
* * *
I have never doubted the ability of small things to make a huge difference in someone's life. A few days later, a small yellow envelope with a Korean postmark arrived at the house, forwarded just two days after Paul's death. It was a letter from one of the nun's at St. Vincent's Orphanage in Songtan City. I volunteered there, when we were stationed at Osan the first time, but something told me this letter was more than just a note to keep in touch or beg for donations. With quivering hands, I tore through the envelope and began to read:
Dear Major Armstrong:
Enclosed are the final papers needed to complete the birth certificate forms. With them, we can then move on to the U.S. Embassy in Seoul, where he can be declared a U.S. citizen.
As you know, Koreans do not have birth certificates. Instead, there are long genealogical records for each family. As an Amer-Asian because his father is a GI, your son would be denied an education, a future or even a past.
I was deeply grateful when I finally met you last month. Your efforts to locate your son and bring him back to the U.S. with you have truly been the main topic of conversation here at St. Vincent's. I have seen too many GI's go as far as locating the children they father, but then either in fear or arrogance they never go through with their plans to support their babies.
Your wife must be an exceptional woman; I remember her when she volunteered here several years ago, and she was well loved by both the staff and the children.
But this shows her as the child of God she truly is. Even if the child had not been of another race and culture, which certainly plays a part, few wives would open their hearts and homes to the children of their husband's mistress. May God bless you both, for your love of this little boy.
While I certainly do not condone adulterous acts, I understand probably better than most of the other sisters here why a service man far from home seeks refuge in the arms of a woman. You see, I lost my younger brother in Vietnam in 1970. The few letters home that he sent spoke of the stench of battle, the loneliness, the tropical heat, and his search for something that would obliterate the ugliness and horror his 19-year-old eyes could not shut out.
After his death, there was a child born of this search, a little boy like your son. His mother was tortured, raped, and killed by the Communists when Saigon fell, and the child, then five years old, disappeared into the refugee camps of Cambodia. My family back home in Boston instituted a fruitless search; either typhoid or the Khmer Rouge had killed him.
By taking little Paul into your home, you will be preventing the waste of another innocent life. His green eyes clearly mark him as an Amer-Asian. If your son was to remain in this country, he could be guaranteed nothing: no name, no future, no past, and as time goes by, no citizenship, no education, and no job. If you had not been determined to find this small child, he would have nothing to look forward to but a life of crime, drugs, and an early death.
Little Paul is an exceptional child. In the last 15 months that he has been with us at St. Vincent's, I have seen a tranquility and peace in his little face like no other child I have ever known. Oh, he's stubborn at times, but by and large he possesses a calmness very few children can claim. Every afternoon, before his nap, I sit watching him play with his blocks in the day room, patiently stacking one atop the other until exhaustion sets in, and he comes to me rubbing his sleepy eyes as he lays his head in my lap.
I look forward to meeting you after the holidays, but it will be a bittersweet meeting. I'll miss rocking him, Major. I'll miss the sweet baby smell of him and the soft sigh of deep contented sleep that he makes when he rolls over in his crib.
But for the grace of God, this little boy could have been my brother's child. Knowing that you will give him the love and care he so richly deserves makes it a little easier to let him go, but I will still miss him as I miss the nephew I never knew.
May God keep you, and may his blessing be forever with you-
Sister Michael Mary
In the last fold of the letter, there was a small photograph. It was Paul, Junior, or P.J. as I already christened him, smiling into the camera from the lap of an elderly nun. The picture wasn't very much different from the one I had seen before. He was a little older now. His eyes were still green, just like Paul's, and his dark brown hair, cut like a bowl atop his head, was streaked with blonde. Across the back was written Paul Pak, age 3, and Sister Agnes.
Carefully, I folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope. The morning sun had begun to filter through the kitchen curtains, falling onto the counter tops and the small table, where I sat too astounded to think or speak, even in this empty room.
Oh, God. So this nun thought I was wonderful to take this little boy into my home. I laid my head on the kitchen table, as guilt rushed over me.
Yeah, I’m wonderful. I’m so wonderful I could vomit.
"Mommy?"
It was Andrew. What if the situation was a little different, and it had been Andrew I had been forced to give up? I would want someone to care for him as this nun was now caring for P.J. If any member of my family, even my spouse if I were dead, were able to provide for Andrew, I would want them to. I would want them to take Andy into their homes and love him like I had been unable to.
It was clear in my mind now: I had to bring P.J. here to the States. I had to bring P.J. home.
"Mommy, why are you crying?"
I stood and drew my son to me. "Andy, what would you say to having a little brother?"
"Are you crying because you’re going to have a baby?"
"No honey, I'm not going to have a baby." I steered him to the dinette. "Sit down, honey. I want to tell you a story."
*****
I wrote back to Sister Michael Mary later that same day, telling her of Paul's death and my own decision to bring the boy here where he really belonged. The children were thrilled about having a little brother, particularly one who was already big enough to play with. As Andrew told Lillian, "Not just a tiny one who cries and messes in his diapers all the time. This is a real boy."
Marcus hadn't planned on coming over that night, but soon after dinner the telephone rang. Andrew jumped to answer it.
"Hello, Mr. Marcus." The excitement that had filled his voice all day suddenly disappeared. "Yeah, she's here. Did you want to talk to her?" He was very somber for a moment. I gestured to the food in my mouth and indicated I needed a little time to chew and swallow.
"Mom's got her mouth full. I'll talk to you for a minute, I guess, if you want." The boy's eyes narrowed. "Did you know we're going to have baby?"
I snatched the receiver from him, gulping down my food. "Marcus, hi! Hello!"
"What is he talking about, Kay?"
"Hey, at least he's talking to you."
There was an uncomfortable silence.
"You're not pregnant are you?"
"God, no!" I had to laugh, but Marcus didn't share the humor. Another uncomfortable silence hung between us.
"You've decided about the major's boy, haven’t you?"
"Yes, I have."
He didn't respond.
"Marcus, I need to talk to you face to face about this. I have to show you this letter and P.J.'s picture."
"Kay, you know how I feel about you."
"And I love you, too. But this little boy needs a home."
"This is what you really want?"
"This is what I really want."
He sighed. "You shouldn't have told the kids so soon. I'm sure that there are piles of paperwork to be done. It might take years."
"Paul had paternity tests done before he died, and most of the paperwork to get him an American birth certificate was already completed when the accident occurred. Once Paul is listed on his birth certificate, he’s already considered an American citizen. Half of what we need to do is done."
The Major's Wife (Jubilant Falls series Book 2) Page 13
