A Hero's Homecoming

by Havel, Carlene;

  A handsome young athlete on a twenty-four hour news channel crossly defended his decision not to report to training camp. He scoffed at his team’s offer to pay him only eight million dollars in the coming year. That paltry amount was not only unacceptable, it was downright insulting. Furthermore, their expectations for his physical conditioning were unrealistic, and he took exception to some of the head coach’s public comments about his attitude.

  The enchilada plate looked, smelled, and tasted exactly as Rich had imagined. He savored every bite, especially the three soft, succulent flour tortillas.

  A group of men entered the restaurant and sat at a table near Rich. From their uniform shirts, he guessed they all worked for the same company. Must be the night shift. They ranged in age from retirement to recent high school graduates. Nonetheless, the men laughed and joked with each other in the soft South Texas patois derived from grafting English words and American slang onto a grammatical root of Spanish. Rich figured these guys would probably drive used cars all their lives and struggle to get their kids through school. Still, they seemed to be enjoying themselves a great deal more than the angry young millionaire spewing hostility from the TV screen.

  When the ancient waitress asked if he wanted anything else, he replied, “No. Gracias.”

  “No problem,” she responded.

  Rich left the waitress a substantial tip. The service had been ordinary, but there was something bothersome about a woman her age waiting tables at night in a truck stop restaurant. He hoped the server was still working because she wanted to, not because she had to. I’ve been around that Charlotte woman too much already. She was starting to rub off on him.

  Rich still wasn’t sleepy when he returned to the house. He took out his credit cards. Calling the toll-free number listed on the back of each card, he systematically cancelled each one. He did a telephone check of his bank balances. As expected, his checking account had less than ten dollars more than the paycheck that would have been automatically deposited the past week. The savings account number could not be located. Thanks, Rita!

  He made a note to visit the bank first thing Monday morning. Those monthly military pay and retirement checks had to be redirected to a new account where Rita wouldn’t be able to get her grubby paws on them. Monday, he would also go to Randolph and send Rita some email. She might be dumb enough to answer, maybe tell him where she was. Jerry’s office could help him trace whether or not his house and car really had been sold. It would be interesting to see what else they could dig up at the courthouse. Rich wanted to find out if any of his Air Force buddies knew anything about Rita. With no close friends in the area anymore, he would have to stroll the halls at the Military Personnel Center. Somebody he knew from somewhere would turn up.

  Rich let Buster in the back door and fed him. Only a small quantity of dog food remained. He would go to the grocery store later, get some supplies for Buster and something to cook for himself. It had been quite a while since he had cooked a good dinner and he found the thought most appealing.

  There was nothing worth watching on TV. A couple of preachers, people selling jewelry and women’s clothing, and the same news he had seen at Tia Maria’s. No point trying to transact financial business on a Sunday. Though he would go to the hospital after a while and sit with his dad, this was shaping up to be a long lonely day, and it wasn’t five a.m. yet.

  With Buster right behind him, Rich went upstairs. He would kill some time unpacking, maybe wash a load of clothes. A small brown object lying in the middle of the bedroom floor caught his eye. It had the name of Charlotte’s church on it...well sort of. The card didn’t use the word church. Instead, it said “fellowship.” Early service, eight a.m.; study groups, nine-thirty; main worship, eleven a.m. There was a map on the back.

  Rich couldn’t decide whether Charlotte was the real deal or some phony little tramp trying to get her hooks into his father’s money. She seemed so genuine. So had his ex-wives.

  If there was one lesson he had finally learned, it was that he couldn’t trust his instincts where women were concerned. Hadn’t he persuaded himself Rita was home baking chocolate chip cookies, eagerly awaiting his return from overseas? So many things had happened—his dad, his marriage, his finances. Could it be all the uncertainty and stress had robbed him of the capability to think clearly?

  “Hmm...” Maybe he would go and see what this holier-than-thou bunch was up to. At least there would be people there at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. If he did go to this fellowship, which he had no plans to do, he could go from there to the hospital, then the grocery store. Visit with the Longorias, possibly drop in on the Robinsons. There would be pre-season football on TV later. Monday morning there would be a jillion things to do.

  But he wasn’t going to that church. What would he wear? He didn’t have any suits or ties with him. Rich would never fit into his dad’s clothes, though Dick was sure to have some ties somewhere. One of Rich’s old sports jackets was still hanging in his bedroom closet. That might pass, with some decent slacks and a pastel shirt.

  Rich located some detergent and washed a load of underwear. He dressed, put Buster in the back yard, took the card with the map on the back, got in the car and started driving. He’d probably cruise around a while and come home. The map might be inaccurate.

  Thirty minutes later he sat in the car and watched people strolling into the fellowship building. Rich eased out of the sport coat and unknotted his dad’s tie. A few older men were dressed more formally, but the majority of the folks were casual. His dark slacks and blue broadcloth shirt would be fine. If he went in, that is, which he still might not do.

  He wished he could spot Charlotte. At the same time, he didn’t want her to see him here. People kept passing by. It got hot in the car. Rich cursed, got out, slammed the car door, and walked into the building. Why was he was doing this crazy thing?

  At the doorway, greeters welcomed Rich and handed him a bulletin that outlined the activities of the morning. Nearby was a coffee pot and he wandered over. A young couple introduced themselves and chatted about the coffee and the weather. Rich was already glad he had come inside. It was nice for someone, anyone, to extend a welcome to him. He recognized self-pity when he saw it, but with his family situation he felt entitled. Much as he tried not to think of Rita’s behavior as rejection, marriage number four going down the drain was a dreary thought. That, combined with his growing fear he would never talk to his father again, had put him in as low a mood as he could ever remember.

  Rich stood sipping his coffee near a knot of men. One of them turned and motioned for him to join the group. “Don’t be standoffish. Get on in here and help us decide who’s going to win the Super Bowl this year.” Rich was delighted to join in once he realized the discussion was not about the finer points of theology. There were introductions all around, followed by a continuation of commentaries on the merits of various NFL teams. Rich got scornful but friendly hoots when he admitted to being a Redskins fan. The remainder of the crowd was evenly split between Texan and Cowboy supporters, with one Green Bay hold-out who claimed he had no choice, having been born in Wisconsin.

  The debate was raging on good-naturedly when Rich heard a woman’s voice behind him say, “...is, too. I’d know those shoulders anywhere.” He turned to see Lottie and Martha smiling at him. They insisted he simply must sit with them during the service and he saw no cause to resist.

  Rich stepped between Martha and Lottie. He looped an arm around each woman’s shoulders. “It’s my solemn duty to keep an eye on you two lovely young debutantes. You can’t be allowed to run around loose without a male chaperone!” Either woman was old enough to be his mother, but they were familiar faces, and tonic for his bruised ego.

  Rich enjoyed the musical part of the service, which was considerably livelier than he had expected. It had been years since he had been inside a church and his recollection of staid, slow music had almost no resemblance to the happy sounds of this congregat
ion. Happy. He turned the word and the concept over in his mind and examined it. Like the night shift workers he had observed at Tia Maria’s, most people in this crowd were smiling. Many had hugged each other in greeting at the door. Of course they’re happy, he thought grimly. They’re like Charlotte. They think there’s an all-powerful God in charge of this screwed up world. And they are confident He’s crazy in love with them. In fact, He’s so nuts about them He’s decided to let them live forever. I’d be happy, too, he thought glumly, if I could believe a fairy tale like that. He wondered if he might be better off turning in twenty I.Q. points and erasing two decades of his past. Then maybe he could swallow this fish tale about God.

  A casually dressed young man made announcements. He asked for someone named Blaine Carson to stand. The announcer explained that Blaine had recently returned from his Army tour in a Middle Eastern hot spot. He addressed the tall, thin young soldier. “Blaine, someone from this congregation prayed for you every day while you were overseas. We’re so glad you’re back safe and sound with us.” The crowd broke into spontaneous applause. One by one they stood. The returning hero was warmly welcomed with cheers, whistles, and a standing ovation.

  A slender young woman sang an old song even Rich recognized—Amazing Grace. The singer’s rich, powerful contralto rang with soulful emotion. When she finished applause rippled through the crowd and Rich joined in enthusiastically. He had paid for concerts where the music wasn’t nearly this good.

  Time to pay for my thrills, Rich thought as the minister turned and faced the congregation. Much to his surprise, Bob Dawson was something of a spellbinder, nothing like the evangelists Rich occasionally watched for a minute or two while searching TV channels. He said you and me instead of “thee” or “thou”. He was thought-provoking, almost intellectual, and had an irrepressible sense of humor. If this fellow wanted to give up preaching, he could make a decent living as a stand-up comedian. The man talked in very plain, every day English about Jesus Christ’s love for mankind, and the open offer for anyone to accept free gifts from this Jesus—gifts of internal change, forgiveness, peace, and everlasting life. When the sermon ended, people were invited to walk to the front of the sanctuary and make a commitment of belief. Rich knew he would never walk that aisle. Why then did he feel as if something or someone were tugging at him, physically? He was relieved when the service closed with a final prayer.

  Lottie startled Rich out of his reverie by asking, “Are you going to Charlotte’s class?”

  “Uh, yes,” he heard himself saying. “Yes, I am. Can you show me where it is?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lottie and Martha left Rich in a place that looked like a small conference room. About fifteen people, including Charlotte, sat around a table. Rich took a vacant seat on the same side of the table as Charlotte, separated from her by three occupied chairs.

  Charlotte leaned forward enough to catch Rich’s eye and said, “Good morning.”

  A man at the head of the table introduced himself to the group as Raul Luna. Raul spoke for about a half hour about his mission work in Mexico. He talked about the desperate need for his people to learn about God’s love. He also addressed practical community concerns such as poverty, health care, literacy, malnutrition, and education. The group listened with rapt attention.

  When Raul finished talking, several people asked questions about the church and grade school he operated. Rich was stunned to learn Raul and his wife Rosa were raising three little boys in the mountains of Mexico. The purpose of their summer in San Antonio was primarily to reacquaint the Luna children with their U.S. heritage. In September, the family would return to Mexico to begin the new school year. They asked for donations of used clothing, books, school supplies, canned food—anything—to be distributed in the villages they served.

  People separated in small groups after the class was completed. A dentist spoke earnestly with Raul and Rosa about coming to their mission during his Christmas vacation. Did they think he could be of any help with nothing more than portable equipment?

  “How nice to see you here,” Charlotte said to Rich.

  “The house was closing in on me,” Rich replied.

  “Are you staying for the worship service?” She smiled.

  “No, I came to the early service. I think I’ll get on over to the hospital, see what’s going on with Dad.”

  “I understand,” Charlotte said. “I’ll be there later this afternoon. Would you please call Anita, my office manager, tomorrow and set up a time for us to talk about my sessions with your father?” As Rich started to grin, she quickly added, “I’ve really wrestled with this, Rich. I can’t do what you asked. I’m sorry. It wouldn’t be right. I’ll try to explain more fully as part of our discussion. However, there is some information I can share, and I believe it will help you. This is the best compromise I could reach.”

  * * *

  On the way to her office on Monday, Charlotte thought how she dreaded this overbooked week. As soon as Anita poured her coffee, Charlotte made a cup of tea and they sat down for their weekly planning conference.

  “I’ll apologize in advance, Anita,” Charlotte said. “I volunteered you to coordinate Dick’s visitor schedule. The doctor wants him to have lots of company, people talking to him or conversations going on around him at least three or four hours every day. Jerry, Dick’s attorney, has a list of volunteers already, but someone needs to keep track so they’re not all there at once.”

  Anita added an entry to call Jerry in her daily “do” list and said, “I can handle that.”

  “Thank you.” Charlotte’s gratitude was heartfelt. Once Anita took over a task, it would get done, no doubt about it.

  Colleagues would occasionally tell Charlotte her office manager’s wages were too high. “She’s worth twice what I pay her,” Charlotte always said. She did not think it was anyone else’s business that her profit-sharing plan also gave Anita a fat annual bonus on top of her salary.

  “I need all the files we have on Dick Martino. There won’t be time to go through them thoroughly enough here in the office. If you would, box them up for me to take home. And you know me, so don’t let me walk out the door without them tonight.”

  Anita smiled. “Let me have your car keys. I’ll get the files ready and put them in your trunk, with a sticky note on your steering wheel to remind you to look at them. How is Dick doing?”

  “About the same, I guess. Poor Rich was all excited last night because his father was moaning. Then Dr. Stephens got there and said moans mean nothing. He reminded us Dick is in a coma, a whole different state from being asleep. He said we could see thrashing movements, hear sounds, or even see him open his eyes, and that wouldn’t necessarily mean Dick was any closer to consciousness than when he was quiet and still. Then the doctor said he wanted to delay Dick’s move to Altoville a few days, probably into next week. I thought he was evasive when I asked why, but Rich let it go, so I didn’t press the issue further.” Charlotte thought for a moment. “When you talk to Jerry, make sure he knows about that delay. I’m assuming the ‘talk-a-thon’—as he calls it—will continue at Altoville, but they may have different rules from the hospital concerning visitors and visiting hours.”

  The women discussed how Anita had rearranged cancelled counseling sessions from the previous Thursday and Friday. Work hours would be extended every day this week except Wednesday. Charlotte was scheduled to leave the office in time to get to Methodist Hospital by seven p.m. each day. Anita would lock up.

  “Thirty minute lunch breaks, except for Tuesday,” Anita said, looking up from the schedule book. “I didn’t have the heart to cancel your haircut. Knowing you’d help your mother out, I tried unsuccessfully to get a reservation for a flight to Houston on Wednesday. There’s a merchandising convention in town. Twenty thousand people are leaving San Antonio Wednesday morning, half of them with connecting flights out of Houston. The only possibility would be stand-by and that’s too risky. I reserved a rental c
ar, with a free upgrade to a luxury vehicle. I know you hate that long drive, but there’s no option unless you leave Tuesday and spend the night in Houston. Which, as you can see, your schedule can’t tolerate. Time-wise there’s not much difference. Round trip to Houston shoots the whole day whether you drive or fly.” Anita picked up a sheet of paper. “These are the leftover appointments it was impossible to make up, who declined working with one of the counselors you always recommend. I’ve smoothed things over with these clients. They all liked the ten percent discount you’re giving them for the next month as compensation for their inconvenience.” Anita looked over the top of her reading glasses and grinned. “Your mom left a message on the office answering machine reminding you to wear something nice Wednesday. You know this, I’m sure. Friday is your mother’s birthday.”

  Anita finally took a breath and a quick gulp of coffee. “First appointment in ten minutes. Mrs. Polunski. File’s on your desk.” With luck, Charlotte and Anita would have a few minutes together at lunchtime. Otherwise, the end of the day would be their next chance to talk.

  At five after noon on Tuesday, Charlotte raced out of the office to her hairdresser. The beautician snipped the off the single long braid in a one quick motion. Charlotte sealed the hair in a plastic bag and dropped it into a padded envelope along with the completed donation form. Mission accomplished! In response to the question of how she wanted her hair styled, Charlotte gave her standard reply—whatever would require the least amount of care.

  Charlotte ran back to the office just in time for her next client. Not missing a beat in her telephone conversation, Anita did an exaggerated double take, pointed to Charlotte’s still-damp head, and gave a thumbs-up.

  Everyone who saw Charlotte that afternoon commented on her changed appearance. One elderly gentleman blurted out she looked ten years younger. Mrs. Simpson asked what kind of perm she’d had. Most stared for a moment and said how nice her new hairstyle was. At six-thirty, the last client of the day left. Charlotte and Anita sprawled in the waiting room chairs drinking sodas.