A Hero's Homecoming

by Havel, Carlene;

  It was amazing how much Jerry was able to accomplish in one day’s time. Clearly, he had dealt with similar situations before and seemed to have thought of everything. Johnny Lopez, Dick’s business partner, would manage things at work. Jerry had faxed the bank what they needed to allow Charlotte to sign Dick’s checks. All that remained was for her to go by and complete a signature card. Jerry assured her the operating checking account would withstand whatever the hospital charged beyond Dick’s health insurance. He had contacted the company that monitored Dick’s home security system and arranged for someone to meet Charlotte at the house that afternoon to reprogram the access code. He had faxed documents to the hospital business office to allow Charlotte to claim Dick’s personal items, have access to medical information on Dick, and to make any necessary healthcare decisions the patient could not make for himself. Finally, he had called Dick’s long time neighbor, Ernestine Longoria, and asked her to take care of Buster until Dick’s situation settled down.

  “Who’s Buster?” Charlotte asked.

  “Dick’s dog. Well, sort of. Actually, Buster belonged to Junior.”

  Charlotte was grateful for Jerry’s efficiency. She made a list of the places she needed to visit. It would be good to get this business finished soon enough to arrive at the hospital by the time the doctor checked on Dick. She informed Jerry she was hoping to see Dr. Stephens around seven that evening.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” she asked. “You may need to ask Dr. Stephens some questions. And we can see Dick together.”

  Jerry rearranged his wrinkles into a wry smile. “I’ve already talked to Dr. Stephens a couple of times,” he confessed. “And I don’t think Dick is going to know whether I’m there or not. But I’ll have to admit my friend was right about one thing—I’m too danged old for this. I’ll be in bed by seven o’clock tonight. Not asleep, of course. No, I’ll be propped up reading a good cowboy adventure book. So I’d appreciate it if you’d call and let me know what you find out.”

  He handed Charlotte a card with his private phone number on it. She tucked it into her card holder and set out to get Dick’s business squared away.

  Again no luck reaching her mother. She made a mental note to swing by Lottie’s house and check things out on the way to her first stop at the bank. Then Charlotte called Anita to check in.

  “Your mother called again,” Anita told her. “She wants to know if you can give a talk on something to her ladies’ group next week.” Anita was chortling now. “In Houston.”

  “Houston?” Charlotte asked, unbelievingly. Houston was four hours away by car and almost the same by plane considering the airport waiting time.

  “Of course, Houston. That’s where she’s going to be. At a convention called the Loyal Doves of Texas. She said to remind you that she’s in Dallas right now and she might have forgotten to tell you she was going.” Anita chuckled again. “I’ll book a flight for you to Houston on Wednesday, if you want to go. You could fly over early in the morning and back that same evening. It would be a long day, but I can make it work.”

  “Thanks, Anita. I’ll think about it. If Mom calls again, please ask her to call me on my cell phone. By the way, how did you know Dick had a dog?”

  Anita laughed. “Because he was always complaining about what he called ‘that filthy animal’. Dick hated finding a dog hair on his clothes. Every so often, he would threaten to find one of his son’s ex-wives and unload Buster on her. He joked that it would serve them right.”

  On Wednesdays Charlotte did not see patients. That was the day set aside for the massive paperwork connected with her psychological counseling firm. Anita knew to make speaking engagements or emergency appointments for Wednesday. As for Mom, well, she was just being Mom. Charlotte smiled enough to show off her dimples. If it would make her mother happy for her to go to Houston next week, why not do it? She could always catch up at the office the following Saturday.

  Charlotte drove by her mother’s house without stopping now that she knew Lottie had flitted off to Dallas. She finished up at the bank and went to Dick’s house to keep her appointment with the security company representative.

  Arriving a few minutes early, she walked around the house to make sure the dog was all right. He was a large, beautiful golden retriever with a fine, shiny coat. Buster took great exception to having a stranger peer over the fence, barking a series of loud, ringing arfs.

  Charlotte retreated to the front door. When the security company representative arrived, she made sure the situation had been explained. As soon as she opened Dick’s front door, there was an ear-splitting noise that could likely be heard for miles. The technician quickly turned off the alarm. He showed Charlotte how to program the system and set the keypad to accept a four digit code only she would know. What’s the big deal, she wondered, as the technician made an elaborate show of turning his back to avoid seeing her code.

  After the technician left, Charlotte decided to check all through the house and assure everything was normal. She did not count the rooms, but it took a while to make sure every exterior door was locked, each window was closed, and every plant was watered. She switched off a lamp in what must have been Dick’s bedroom, wondering if the woman smiling from a picture on the bedside table was his late wife Nancy. It must have been. Next to it was another picture, a much younger Dick and a beaming Nancy on either side of a tall, extraordinarily handsome young man. Could that be Junior? Nancy and Dick each pinned a second lieutenant’s rank insignia on the youth’s crisp Air Force uniform. Charlotte picked up the picture and studied it.

  “Lord,” she whispered, “there are so many things I don’t understand. Dick has suffered so much loss. Please let him survive long enough to hug his granddaughters.”

  Charlotte copied numbers from a neat list she found near the kitchen telephone. The housecleaning service, lawn service, exterminator, and pool maintenance were among them.

  Rummaging through the refrigerator, she tossed out what would be spoiled in a couple of days—the milk, some tomatoes, and a few plastic bags of vegetables that already looked a little iffy. She wrapped the sliced turkey and moved it to the freezer compartment. Then she took out the garbage and turned the air conditioner up from seventy-six to eighty degrees. After locating a grocery bag, Charlotte took most of the dog food. She set the alarm, locked the front door, and thought about finding Ernestine Longoria.

  Charlotte stood on Dick’s porch with her purse and the bag of dog food. She knew the Longorias were next door neighbors, but which next door? Left or right?

  I have a fifty percent chance of being right either way, she told herself and walked to the left.

  A balding barefoot man wearing a sleeveless undershirt and faded Bermuda shorts answered the door. “Mr. Longoria?” Charlotte asked.

  “Yes,” he replied noncommittally.

  “I’m Charlotte Phillips. I wonder if I could speak with Ernestine Longoria, please?”

  “Yes,” the man said and swung the door open wide into the house.

  Like Dick’s and every other house in this exclusive Alamo Hills neighborhood, the Longoria home was a small mansion. The furnishings were exquisite, Victorian and totally at odds with Mr. Longoria’s casual appearance. Charlotte heard a series of repetitive sounds echoing down the tiled hallway. Click, step, scoot. Click, step, scoot. Someone was slowly approaching, using a walker, dragging one foot.

  Presently, a small, regal-looking woman with completely white hair appeared in the large foyer. Charlotte estimated her age to be at least ninety. The woman had a quick exchange in Spanish with the man and he retreated down the hallway.

  “I am Ernestine Longoria. Please, call me Ernestine. You must be Charlotte Phillips. Jerry said you would be at Dick’s house this afternoon.” Charlotte was always surprised to hear someone speak softly flowing Spanish then instantly shift gears into English with a South Texas twang.

  Charlotte thanked Mrs. Longoria for taking care of Buster, handed over the dog foo
d, and told the neighbor as much as she could about Dick’s condition. She promised to keep Mrs. Longoria—Ernestine—posted on the medical situation. Charlotte wrote down the garbage pick-up schedule and made a note to stop delivery of Dick’s newspaper.

  At the hospital, Charlotte signed for Dick’s belongings from the business office. His wallet, eyeglasses, watch, and wedding ring were handed to her in a small plastic bag. Grabbing a tasteless sandwich, she noticed it was already six-thirty. Where had this afternoon gone? She hurried to the critical care unit.

  Dick was lying perfectly still on his back with his eyes closed. Only the beeps, blips, and jagged graph lines of his monitoring devices showed any signs of life. Charlotte put her hand over his wrist, being careful not to disturb any tubes or wires. She bowed her head and prayed for her friend.

  Charlotte remembered reading that stroke victims can sometimes hear, even when they cannot speak. In the hope it might give him comfort, she bent near Dick’s ear and recited the twenty-third Psalm. Dick’s nurse introduced herself to Charlotte. She was a large, placid woman who radiated compassion and concern. The nurse checked Dick’s monitors, untangled some tubes, and patted Charlotte on the shoulder.

  “Just keep talking, honey,” the nurse said.

  About ten after seven, Dr. Stephens came into Dick’s curtained cubicle. “We’ve done a lot of tests and they look pretty good. He will have trouble with things like eye-hand coordination, but overall, physically, he’s going to be all right. The next crucial step is for him to come out of the coma. He could do that tomorrow, or next week, or never. Please understand, Mr. Martino is an old man and his body has been through a lot in the last couple of days. Tomorrow morning they’ll have him in a room on the neurological ward. My advice is to encourage the rest of the family to spend a few hours a day with him. Talk to him the same way you would if he were wide awake. And say your prayers. His recovery is in God’s hand now.”

  The rest of the family. The phrase stung her ears. Charlotte thought how sad it was her friend would not have loving relatives around his bedside. But he would have her. With God’s help she would do whatever she could for Dick and she knew she could count on Jerry to help. Crusty old Jerry. She needed an ally and he was going to have to fill the bill. She called him as she walked through the parking lot.

  Charlotte told Jerry everything she remembered of Dr. Stephens’ information and instructions. Cackling, Jerry said he knew some real talkers who would be lots of company to Dick, starting with their golf foursome. Charlotte agreed to obtain a list of Dick’s friends from church. And she would ask Anita to schedule the visitations for maximum coverage.

  “One other thing, Jerry. I picked up Dick’s wallet from the business office. He had more than eight hundred dollars in it. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

  Jerry snorted. “Nah. That’s just Dick. Old geezer never has figured out what credit cards are for.”

  Charlotte smiled to think a man Jerry’s age could call anyone else an old geezer. She knew it was, for him, a term of endearment. She located her car and headed home.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The first thing Rich noticed was that he was in bed. A real bed, soft and luxurious. The sheets were clean, with no rips or tears in them, neatly tucked in at the bottom corners. No mosquito net either. The room was cool and comfortable.

  He gazed upward. All he saw was a smooth white ceiling. No geckos or suction-footed lizards walked upside down over him. Glancing around the room, he saw not a single insect, spider, or scorpion.

  Sitting, he yawned, and stretched. “We Americans have no idea how lucky we are,” he said out loud.

  Rich yearned to lounge in bed for a while, but he had things to do. Placing his feet on the floor, he checked his watch. Two o’clock. Since slits of sunlight beamed through the closed Venetian blinds, he figured it must be two in the afternoon, not morning. He hated to admit it, but adjusting to time zone changes was a lot tougher than it was twenty years ago. He enjoyed the hot shower and relished not having to worry if the water would be cut off before he rinsed the soap from his body.

  While shaving, Rich formulated his plan for the day. First, he would check and see if his dad was back in town. Rich could depend on his father to pick him up and either drive him around or give him the car. Should his dad be out of town still, he could rent a car for a couple of days.

  As soon as he had wheels, Rich was going to find Rita. His wife might be a little ditzy, but there was no chance she had merely forgotten to mention she had moved out of their house. The Indian guy must be lying about buying the house—how could Rita have sold it without his dad knowing and Rich signing anything?

  Much as he hated to admit it, things were obviously over between him and his wife. He had seen it happen to plenty of other guys. They returned from an overseas tour to find they had been replaced and Rich guessed it must be his turn. Rita could at least have the decency to let him know. He planned to give his wife the cussing of her life, load up his dog and a few personal belongings, and start the divorce proceedings.

  At least, Rich reflected, this wouldn’t be like his first and second divorces. At the end of both those marriages, he had given everything to his wife and started over. He had grown a tad smarter by the time he split with Virginia.

  Rich thought back to his third wife. Ah, Virginia, with her long black hair, cafe-au-lait skin, and sea-green eyes. Who could have guessed she had a hot temper and a mean streak a yard wide? She looked like an angel. Cursed like a sailor. Deceit came as naturally to Virginia as drawing breath. It turned out she was twelve years older than she had claimed. She also conveniently neglected to mention that she expected Rich to support her no-good brother and pay off the residual taxes from her failed business venture. The final straw came when he discovered Virginia had not seen fit to call it quits with her boyfriend merely because she had married Rich. At least the third divorce had not been a financial disaster, unlike the first two. With the assistance of his dad’s lawyer, Rich kept forty percent of their community property.

  Rich remembered telling Dad and his golf buddies that he was thinking of making Rita wife number four. His father’s grumpy old lawyer friend had come unglued.

  “Why bother getting married?” Jerry huffed. “Tell this woman you hate her guts, buy her a house, and send her a hundred blank checks with your signature on them. Same end result as getting married, except you cut out the middle part where you make each other miserable for a couple of years. Or—” Jerry paused and blew a couple of smoke rings. “If you’re determined to do this dang fool thing, you could get some help from a friend of mine who writes pre-nups that can withstand a nuclear blast.”

  He thought back gratefully to that conversation. Mostly because of his dad’s nagging, Rich had taken Jerry’s advice. The tricky part had been getting Rita to sign the prenuptial agreement. Rich’s success hinged on Rita’s incredible ability to hold her liquor. He had taken her to a bar and bought her one vodka martini after another. When she was good and sloshed, but still walking and talking straight, they went to Jerry’s office. The agreement had been drawn up for weeks, waiting for the right moment. Nobody suspected Rita was drunk out of her mind.

  Dishonest? Yes. Effective? You bet.

  Rich wondered if Rita remembered signing the document or even going to Jerry’s office. What she remembered wouldn’t matter. Rich knew the paralegal who notarized the document would never forget that day. The guy couldn’t take his eyes off Rita’s boobs hanging out of that skin-tight purple dress.

  Rich slapped on some aftershave that shocked him back into the present. He gazed at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  “So that’s the way it is, buddy,” he said. “Goodbye, wife number four. Maybe you’ll be smart enough this time not to get a number five.”

  He went into the bedroom and rang his dad’s telephone number. Still no answer. The clock radio on the bedside table showed the day to be Saturday. Rich knew his dad well enough to be certa
in he wouldn’t be at work on a Saturday afternoon. He had probably played golf that morning and was now out doing errands, although he could still be out of town.

  Rich found a telephone book in the bedside table’s top drawer and chose a rental car company that offered customer pickup. The representative said in about an hour their van would make a stop at the main office of the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, or BOQ, where Rich had spent the night. After repacking his suitcase, Rich walked to the office and checked out. As he paid his bill in cash, Rich thought how a night in the BOQ was one of the best bargains around.

  Rich chatted with the clerk while he waited for the van. He thought again how he would miss the familiarity of the Air Force. Every BOQ office he’d ever seen looked very much like any other. There was something comforting about knowing what to expect, being confident about how to get things done in a military environment. Regulations set out a framework of procedures. And if the regulation didn’t suit the situation, there was always someone in the Pentagon who could rewrite the book. When the rental car van pulled up and honked, Rich grabbed his carry-on and rolled his big suitcase out the door.

  Over the years, Rich had been through the car rental process so many times he could do it in his sleep. He put his driver’s license and Visa Card on the counter.

  “Midsize,” he said, “unlimited mileage, no additional drivers, no supplemental insurance, three days.”

  The young man behind the counter efficiently filled in some paperwork. Rich gave his father’s number and street as his local address. The agent swiped the Visa Card and stared intently into his computer screen. He struck a few keys, swiped the card again, and frowned. “I’m sorry, sir. Your credit card has been refused.”

  “Refused?” Rich heard himself say, a little too loudly. “What do you mean, refused?” he asked in a normal tone.

  “It, uh, I apologize, but the transaction didn’t go through,” the young man said.