“‘That’s right.’
“‘It was me,’ the reverend said, staring out over the rice expanse. ‘Only me. I stood there and opened fire. And I fired and fired, and I slaughtered them all. Everyone last one. I killed Quan’s grandfather. And uncle and aunt.’
“Tears streamed down all of their faces.
“‘War is hell. Everything about war is hell. It doesn’t matter,’ said Quan.
“‘I never even got a reprimand. My commanding officer reported that the VC slaughtered the villagers in the dead of night for providing assistance to us. It was one big lie after another which covered up the whole incident. I walked out of the army a decorated war hero, but I couldn’t face anyone when I arrived back home. I swore I would make it right.’
“He wiped his face of all the sweat and tears.
“‘It’s been my obsession. All those times I was away on conferences, I was tracking down information about this village. I scrimped and saved and shaved off earnings and went out of my way to help the people I hurt. I worked my way onto the board at Mt. Goshen College simply for the reason of setting up a veteran’s scholarship fund. That’s how I found Quan. Nicki, I’m sorry for not being completely forthright with you.’
“‘Did you know Quan was going to be here?’
“‘Yes. We planned it.’
“‘And does Mom know any of this?’
“‘No. I was going to tell her, but she decided not to come, so I didn’t.’
“‘Dad, what is going on here?’ Nicki snapped at her father. She couldn’t imagine her father doing things behind her mother’s back. ‘Where did you get the money to send him to school? What about me? Why did you even want me to come? Was it just to get me on your side?’
“Reverend Taylor looked down. The hardest part remained; the good intentioned secret that would shatter the trust his family had in him. But the timing was finally right.
“‘Nicki, Quan is my adopted son.’
“She looked at him, tilting her head slightly as if to defend herself from his bluntness.
“‘Not my biological son. But I adopted him when he was seventeen, so he could have the advantage of an American schooling.’
“‘And Mom doesn’t know this?’
“‘No.’
“She peeled back a few steps, nearly staggering to comprehend the scene which crashed down around her.
“‘Nicki, let me explain.’
“‘No. I don’t want to hear your explanation.’
“The reverend had tears in his eyes. He felt sorry for Nicki. He knew that she would probably find out on this trip, and he was willing to live with the consequences. In a way, he felt relieved to get everything out in the open. He had spent too many years obsessed with hiding his action on the ridge and his desperate maneuvering to cover up his attempt to make-up for his past.
“‘And you,’ she said, looking at Quan. ‘How could you go along with this? You pretend not to know me when you’ve been stalking me from a distance for years? This is just too weird. Do whatever you need to do here, Dad. Don’t let me get in the way of your cathartic soul cleansing. I’m going back to the hotel.’ She turned toward the taxi on the other side of the village but swiftly recoiled in her father’s direction. ‘Mom has been nothing but supportive of you all these years. She’s been understanding. She’s been the good preacher’s wife, willing to endure a lot of pain and ridicule because of a husband who had a scarred past. But you’ve broken her trust. How could you do that?’
“He finally understood. There in the sun and sweat it finally made sense. There by the miniature plastic stools where a westerner’s knee comes mighty close to his jaw, it came to him like an upper cut from a heavyweight boxer. He felt as if he had, for the first time, stepped outside himself to view his surroundings as the foreigner he was. Nicki, his dear, sweet Nicki. She was real; she was what he yearned for. He had spent so many years chasing after a demon ghost that didn’t exist except in his own mind. He had lived too many nights replaying the ridge games, the dangerous games that toy with emotions and make one yearn for things that were never there for the taking. The palm trees, the dirt paths between the houses-on-stilts, the banana leaf-wrapped rice cakes, the stools—the tiny little plastic stools which sat next to the green tea seller—the bitter pungent green tea—all of it twirled in his mind and vanished when he thought of Nicki getting into the taxi and driving away. His life had been going through the motions on its own without him for far too long. It was time to let go of the past. It was time to make things right with his own family.
“‘I have to go after her,’ he said to Quan. ‘Can you get me some transportation?’
“‘My uncle can take you on his motorbike.’
“‘All right. Please hurry. I must go after her.’”
* * *
Margaret felt a little more melancholic than usual—a little more self-aware. She stood at the large window pane overlooking the street, her arms lifted high, covering the glass like a potted plant with two sprouts trying to take root and grab hold of the curtain rod. Her chest leaned hard against the glass, so tightly that a gentle breeze behind her might send her crashing through the shards which barely held together. She wondered if this was it. She was used to being alone, but for the first time she felt alone—alone in her head and trapped in her mind. She didn’t feel anything behind her. There were no words to express what she felt about this night. All she had were her stories, and they haunted her with the truth. They provided no escape, no magical adventure, no moment of solace. They provided her with only a new perception of reality—a bolder one that made her the embodiment of self-pity.
* * *
“Janice. The light. It’s too bright. It’s piercing my eyes. Blinding light. Bright. Bright that blots out all darkness and all shadows and all shades. A brightness so clear that figments no longer exist—distinction obliterated. A brightness that makes darkness a well-lit noon.
“She saw her there—standing as the hatch began to crack open. She saw the observatory behind her—reinforced glass with electro-chromatic elements that shielded the general and other onlookers.
“But all the high tech gadgetry in the world couldn’t stop the blinding force of the light. The on-lookers cringed in pain like a dog wailing from a high-pitched tone. Janice felt weak in the knees. She was ready to give up. It was the only thing left to do.”
* * *
Margaret immediately removed her arms from the window, went over to the couch, put her head between her knees, and started to cry softly.
Chapter 9
The Light Calls
Three p.m. Margaret jerked straight out of her sleep, covered her eyes, and cowered down into the comforter as a shrieking noise like a bulldozer ripping through walls of glass reverberated throughout her bedroom.
“Red Hat!” she cried in response.
Horns beeped; voices bellowed below the balcony, signaling a disturbance on a great scale. She rocked back and forth for a moment, trying to drown out the craziness below, but she eventually jumped out of bed just in time to glimpse Cheevers attending to an accident victim who was pinned inside a car by an SUV. He wore his familiar red cap.
* * *
“The Yo-Yo Yoghurt truck nearly keeled over as it ran a red light on Soho Avenue and turned towards Midway Park, which stood just two blocks in the distance.
“‘Almost there. Almost there,’ Red Hat said as he caught a glimpse of two pursuing police cars in his rear view mirror.
“The Chester Waltz Bank lay snug between the Catway Bakery and the Spare Change Landromat directly across from the park. Red Hat, yoghurt doors flying in the wind, was on a perpendicular street and would have to make a sharp left turn to get to the bank. But he knew that wouldn’t work, not with two police cars on his tail. Plus, he was two hours behind schedule, thanks to the aching bruise on his head, planted by that flying flower pot, courtesy of his long lost ‘aunties’. In a moment of panic, he decided what he must do.
* * *
Margaret watched as an ambulance showed up. It looked like no one was seriously hurt, but a lot of broken glass lay on the pavement.
* * *
“He revved the engine one last time, shifted into drive, and took off directly towards the officers. They waved at each other and retreated back behind their vehicles ready to shoot as soon as Red Hat came within range. Suddenly, he veered sharply to the right and headed for an open parking spot—a clear path to the Chester Waltz Bank. He picked up speed as he whizzed towards the opening, pedal to the floor, all the power and get-with that could be mustered from a yoghurt truck. The front end jolted down as he came off the curb. The tires hit hard as he bumped up over the other cement curb in front of the bank. Within a second, the Yo-Yo Yoghurt truck, headlong, full bore, top speed, all force, smashed through the stone walls and the picturesque glass display, barreling into the bank, spraying glass and stone chunks in all directions. The van ripped right through the service counter and clanged to a stop against the massive vault door, which led into the safety deposit box area. Tellers told a different story that day. Several of them lay in pain on the floor. The security guard had shrapnel down his leg reminding him of a VC attack in ‘Nam. The bank manager stood in his office, untouched and detached by the scene as if watching a movie. He immediately hung up his phone call with the CEO who, feeling miffed on the other end, would soon enough understand the abruptness. Red Hat, doubly groggy, moaned as he stumbled from the panel truck. The second concussion of the day made him feel weak, but his resolve remained. He grabbed the first employee within his reach, a woman in a business suit, who had been forcibly sent to the floor by the breaking of the service counter.
“‘You. Do you have a key to the security deposit boxes?’
“She breathed heavily under the weight of a pending panic attack.
“‘You! Keys! Now! Unless you want to die.’
“Red Hat pretended he had a pistol in his jacket pocket and pointed it at the lady. Everyone in the bank, who was coherent enough to grasp reality, let out a series of disconcerted gasps and shrieks.
“‘Yes. I have the keys here.’
“She looked down at the front of the shattered counter.
“‘I had the keys. Now, I can’t get at them. You knocked over the counter.’
“‘Get them now! Someone! I need the safety deposit keys, or she dies.’
“‘I have them,’ said the bank manager, holding up a large metal ring which held dozens of keys.
“‘You,’ Red Hat pointed at the man. ‘Come with me.’
“The manager made his way through the maze of debris over to Red Hat, who constantly rubbed his head and wanted nothing more than a bottle full of aspirin.
“‘Come on! Come on!’ said Red Hat, as the ring-bearer reached the scene of the misplaced truck. As they turned to walk around the back of the truck to the vault opening, two officers appeared in the cavernous wall opening, guns raised, pointed at the stoic Red Hat, seemingly unconcerned.
“‘Freeze! Stop right there!’
“Red Hat grabbed the manager and put him in a choke-hold, pointing his pretend gun in his pocket back at the two cops who dared to stand in the line of fire.
“‘Back away, coppers. If you want someone to die here, that’s up to you. I suggest you go back outside and take a gander down to that coffee shop on the corner. I hear they have great fried dough.’
“‘There is no way out of here. Just put down your weapon, and we can talk about this.’
“‘Fat chance, losers. I’m going to walk right out of here. You’ll see.’
“Red Hat backed right into the vault with the manager in-tow. Once inside, they turned toward the safety deposit room, and Red Hat let go of the man, who wanted nothing more than to phone his wife and tell her to gravely worry.
“‘What do you want?’
“‘Just a little personalized service.’
“‘You want me to break into a box for you? I can’t do that. I only have one of the keys.’
“‘I don’t want to break-in, and I’m offended at your tone. What do you take me for—a common criminal? I have a key. Here. 217B.’
“‘You didn’t have to crash through the wall. If you have a key, I would have opened it for you, no questions asked.’
“‘Let’s just say I’m a little behind schedule and didn’t have time to wait in line. Stop with all your questions and open it.’
“The wiry manager, who thought he would die, inserted both keys into 217B, unlocking its contents, which had remained untouched for quite a few years. Red Hat couldn’t believe it was all coming to an end. He never would have thought that yoghurt would have played a supporting role.
“‘Hurry up.’
“‘There. It’s open.’
“‘Good. You can leave. Just leave. I don’t need you anymore.’
“The manager looked at him incredulously.
“‘But, aren’t I your hostage?’
“‘What are you, an idiot? I gave you a free pass out of jail and you are questioning it? Do you have a death wish?’
“‘No, no.’
“‘Then what is it?’
“‘Why don’t you want me as a hostage?’
“‘Look, buddy. Don’t get all psycho-analytical on me. You can either leave on your own accord, or I’m going to shoot you in the arm so that you go get medical treatment.’
“‘Okay, okay. I’ll leave.’
“As the manager turned the corner, the two cops, who had made a perimeter in the outer room of the vault, pulled and pushed the confused boss out of the crime scene and came in close to Red Hat, who had just removed two items from the safety deposit box—a key and an odd looking metallic device about the size of a loaf of bread.
“‘All right. We have you surrounded. There is no way out,’ yelled the cops. ‘Let’s not have any more bloodshed. Put your hands in the air.’
Red Hat felt cocky. He smiled through the pain of his smashed-in head. He finally had it. After all this time, he finally had it in his hands and nothing the cops said would matter anymore. No amount of prison time would be too long, if he did indeed end up in prison.”
* * *
The computer chimed familiarly, notifying Margaret of incoming mail. She lazily slid over and glanced at the sender.
“Mr. Tomsey.”
She didn’t open it and went over to the window, looking down at the motoring souls below—everyone in their own way fulfilling their dreams and desires whether voluntarily or forced. Margaret had neither. She had no destination, no planned vacation around the corner that made the mundane tasks bearable. She only had stories that haunted her.
The twins, both sets, wouldn’t leave her mind.
In the apartment down the hallway, Pam and Sam felt bad about their escapade that had made everyone on the second floor of their building leery towards Margaret—or at least more leery than usual. They wanted to make it up to her, but they knew that their plan must be fool-proof.
One evening, when their mother was out at a PTA meeting, they decided to make their move. Once their mother cleared out of sight into the bustling city, both of them w
ent over to Ms. Pritcher’s and rang the doorbell. Margaret peaked through the spy-hole and suddenly swung the door wide-open, like a mother hen greeting her chicks. She almost had a smile on her face.
“Ms. Pritcher,” Sam started. “We just wanted to apologize for last week. We didn’t mean to get you into trouble.”
“Yes,” added Pam. “We really enjoyed ourselves.”
“And the ice cream,” added Sam to which Pam glanced over, rolling her eyes. “Didn’t we, Pam? Didn’t we enjoy the ice cream?”
“Yes, of course.”
Margaret remained unmoved but happy. She could have stared at these two all day long. Their lovely faces entranced her but also twirled her into that familiar melancholic mood.
“And we would love to hear more of your story.”
“Yes,” said Pam. “We’re very worried about poor Benjamin laying there by the tree. I can only imagine what Georgia and Gwen are thinking.”
“But I don’t understand,” added Sam. “Why didn’t Gwen see her father? Was he really real? Or did Georgia just imagine it? I’m quite confused about the whole thing, and I’ve been thinking about it all week.”
“Ice cream. Come in,” said Margaret.
The delighted girls glanced once more down the hall to make sure no one saw them, and then they walked in, closing the door behind them. They had two full hours until mother was expected home, and they planned on one long, sweet night of cream and storytelling. They sat in their familiar spots, and mere seconds later, each had a pint of chocolate-cherry-swirl in their hands. They clinked their spoons in a high toast, which made Margaret chuckle as she sat down in the easy chair across from them.
“Thanks for the ice cream, Ms. Pritcher,” said Sam. “This is way better than what we had for dinner.”
After having their heads attentive to their pints for several seconds, Sam glanced over at Margaret and asked, “Can we hear the story now?”
The Recluse Storyteller Page 9
