The Redemption of Michael Hollister

by Shawn Inmon

  “And in the end, there were only Turtles standing. In the fifty-year history of the Hartfield Game, no first-year competing team has ever won. Hell, let’s be honest: none has ever come close. All rise, please, and salute the victors!”

  The rest of the cadets shuffled to their feet, faced the Turtles and snapped off a salute.

  “As is our tradition, I’ve had Lieutenant Ignovich make a feast worthy of the day. Please proceed to the mess hall.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The Turtles, exhausted but happy, ambled into their bunks an hour later. The older cadets had been quiet through dinner, but the first-, second-, and third-year students had looked at them with a certain awe.

  Dominick said, “Okay, Turtles, it’s great that we won and all, but you know what? Tomorrow is still Monday, and that means classes—and lights-out.”

  Five minutes later, all the Turtles were stripped down and three of them were already lying across their beds, sound asleep. Michael was just climbing into his own bed when he heard Billy Guenther say, “Officer present!” loudly as Captain Peterson entered the room.

  The cadets who were not asleep scrambled to their feet, stood at attention and saluted. Peterson returned the salute, said, “At ease,” and walked straight to the back of the barracks, where, by tradition, Michael and Dominick bunked. “Cadets Hollister and Davidner. Get dressed immediately.”

  Dominick and Michael scrambled for their clothes and threw them on. As soon as they slipped their boots on, Peterson said, “Follow me.”

  He led them out of the barracks, across the quad and into Commander Hartfield’s office. Hartfield sat behind his desk, still in the dress uniform he always wore on Game day. Standing to the side were three Hawks—Brant, Tanner, and Morgan.

  “Sit down, cadets.”

  Dominick and Michael sat.

  “I have a few questions I’m going to ask you, but before I do, there are a few things we need to talk about. What you boys accomplished today was remarkable—something to be proud of. However, if you look at our flag,” he nodded his head toward the Hartfield flag in the corner, “you’ll see there are three words on it: Honor. Brotherhood. Duty. ‘Honor’ is the first word on the flag, because without our honor, there can be no true victory. If we lose our honor, we lose ourselves. Understood?”

  What the hell is this all about? Michael risked looking away from Hartfield and let his eye slide toward the three Hawks at the side of the room. They all stared straight ahead, expressionless.

  Michael and Dominick nodded.

  “Good. Now. These three officers of the Hawks have come forth with a serious accusation, and it is important that you tell me the truth. If you do, there will be repercussions, but the situation will be salvageable.” Hartfield cleared his throat. “The Hawks are maintaining that the Turtles won by cheating today.”

  “Bullshit!” Michael burst out, coming out of his chair.

  “This will be your only warning, cadet. You will sit and listen, and you will not speak unless I ask you a question.”

  Michael sat back down, put his eyes on the flag and was silent, but his cheeks were splotched with red.

  To the side, Morgan smirked.

  “Now, the Hawks are claiming that the Turtles stole their strategic planning guide and used it to win the war. What do you say to that, Cadet Hollister?”

  I say they can’t beat us by being bigger, faster, and stronger, so they’re pulling this bullshit. Typical. Where the hell is their honor?

  “Sir, we did not cheat in any way. We never saw their guide.” Michael glanced at the Hawks. “Think about it, sir. Their strategy was to put the fastest cadet in the school in the middle of the biggest cadets in the Game and then stand by the flagpole. I didn’t need to steal anything to unwind that particular mystery.”

  Morgan flushed.

  “True enough. However, if you had taken their guide prior to the Game today, you wouldn’t have known just how ham-handed and strategically inept their plan would be.” He looked at Dominick. “What do you have to say, Cadet Davidner?”

  “We didn’t cheat, sir. We didn’t need to. Michael had been planning this for years. We didn’t rely on being bigger or faster, we just relied on being smarter than them, which we were.”

  Hartfield turned to the Hawks at the side of the room. “What proof do you bring? I’m not going to convict these cadets of cheating on your word alone.”

  Morgan coughed slightly, then said, “Lieutenant. Brant, the Turtles’ prefect, brought it to my attention, sir.”

  Hartfield raised his eyebrows. “Cadet?”

  Brant shuffled his feet, glanced at Michael and Dominick, then said, “Yes, sir. After lights-out last night, I was doing my final check, and when I passed Cadet Davidner’s bunk, I noticed a piece of paper sticking out from under his mattress. Initially, I was concerned it might be some type of contraband, so I looked closer and saw that it was just a few sheets of paper. Technically, I knew the cadets should not stash anything under their mattress, but it was a minor point, so I let it go.”

  “And ...” Hartfield said.

  “And, that was it. Until tonight. After the Game was over, I was first back into the barrack. Something about what I had seen the night before stuck in my head. I went to Cadet Davidner’s bunk, lifted it up, and found this, sir.” Brant reached in his back pocket and pulled a sheaf of folded pages. He took two steps and handed them to Hartfield.

  The Commander took the pages, unfolded and laid them on the desk. He looked at Michael and Dominick. “This is, indeed, the strategic plan for the Hawks, such as they are. Cadet Davidner, what do you have to say?”

  Confusion was etched across Dominick’s face. “Sir? I don’t know, sir. I have never seen that before in my life. If it was under my mattress, I have no idea how it got there.”

  “Cadet Hollister?”

  “Sir, I have never seen that, either. I think it’s a setup, sir. I think they didn’t like being beaten by a first-year team, and this is their way of getting back at us.”

  “Those are serious accusations, cadet, as is the one facing you. Captain Peterson, do you have the records of Brant, Tanner, and Morgan?”

  “Of course, sir.” Peterson disappeared into the outer office and reappeared moments later, carrying three file folders. He handed them to Hartfield.

  With all eyes in the room on him, Hartfield opened all three folders and took his time examining each one. The second hand on the clock behind him swept five cycles before he looked up again. “All three of these cadets have been here since first year. None of them have any black marks or honor issues.” He sighed, closed the last file. “I don’t like to delay decisions like this, but I need to contemplate what is right. Cadets Hollister and Davidner, I will see you back here at oh-eight-hundred.”

  Michael and Dominick dawdled a bit after they left Hartfield’s office, wanting to let Brant get well ahead of them. When they felt they were alone, Michael looked meaningfully at Dominick, raising his eyebrows.

  “Nope. It’s a setup.”

  “Right. I don’t get it. The Academy preaches honor, honor, honor. So, why risk so much for so little gain?”

  “No answer.”

  They walked back into the barracks and found that Brant had made himself scarce back in the showers. The Turtles smiled and laughed, waiting to see what the good news was.

  Michael held a hand up. “It’s not good, guys. The Hawks are accusing us of cheating. They say we stole their strategy essay.”

  The barrack exploded in indignant questions and cries of “Come on!” and “No way!.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about it now. We told them the truth. We didn’t cheat. It’s up to Hartfield now. He’ll either believe us or he won’t. Either way, we know we didn’t do anything wrong. We know we won fair and square. That might have to be enough.”

  The electricity in the air was gone. All the life was sucked out of the room. Quietly, the Turtles prepared again for lights-out.


  Michael lay in his bunk and turned the events of the day over in his mind.

  Will it always be this way? Work hard, play by the rules, then run into someone who lies and cheats to get ahead? Maybe it was easier when I didn’t care about anyone or anything.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Michael didn’t sleep at all that night, but Dominick had no such problem. Michael could hear him breathing deep and rhythmically, just as he did every night.

  If he’s got a guilty conscience, he’s doing a hell of a job of covering it up.

  Both boys decided to skip breakfast and were waiting in the hallway outside the offices when Peterson walked in at 7:45. “Morning, boys,” Peterson said.

  “Morning, sir,” they replied. Michael looked at him carefully. If he knew what the Commander’s decision was, he had an excellent poker face.

  The boys sat in Peterson’s outer office while he unlocked cabinets and drawers and began organizing his day. At exactly 8 a.m., he stood and opened the door to Hartfield’s office, motioning the boys to go in.

  Inside, Hartfield sat at his desk, folders spread open before him. The boys took their seats across from him without saying a word.

  At least I’m tall enough to sit in the chair without having to crawl up into it. Gives me some small amount of dignity, anyway.

  Hartfield looked up at them, and Michael’s stomach sank.

  Shit. He’s gonna take it away from us.

  “Cadet Davidner. Refresh my memory. How was it that you came to be with us here at the Academy?”

  Dominick sighed. “I stole my dad’s car, took it for a drive and crashed it into our neighbor’s shed.”

  Hartfield nodded. Like any good interrogator, he didn’t ask questions unless he was already certain of the answer. “This car of your father’s—did you have his keys?”

  Dominick looked out the window, flushed. “No sir.”

  “How did you manage to start the car, then?”

  “I hotwired it.”

  “Hotwired it.” Hartfield’s mouth twitched. “Eight years old, unable to see over the steering wheel and reach the gas pedal at the same time, but you knew how to hotwire a car. Is that correct?”

  Dominick shuffled his butt around in the seat. “Yes, sir.”

  “How did you gain this unusual skill so early in life?”

  Dominick shrugged. “I guess it’s just part of what we learned in the neighborhood.”

  “I see. Does this neighborhood education extend to an ability to pick locks at a young age, as well?”

  Dominick held Hartfield’s eyes for a long moment, then broke off and looked back out the window.

  “Yes, sir, but—“

  “Peterson,” Hartfield called, interrupting Dominick in mid-sentence.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Where do you keep the strategy reports that the boys turn in ahead of the Game?”

  “Locked up in my desk drawer, sir.”

  “And the outer office door is always locked when you’re not here, is that correct?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Thank you, Peterson.”

  “If I asked you to, could you pick the lock and gain entry to Peterson’s office?”

  “Yes, sir, but I wouldn’t.”

  Hartfield took a deep breath, held it for a long moment, then released it.

  “All things considered, including the testimony of three senior boys, the strategy guide being found in your barrack, and given your preternatural abilities in the arcane world of picking locks, I have no choice but to rule in the Hawks’ favor and declare them the winner of yesterday’s Hartfield Game.”

  Nothing to be said, then, is there?

  “Michael, you can head off to class. Dominick, I need you to stay here.”

  Michael snapped off a salute to Hartfield, laid a hand on Dominick’s shoulder and quietly said, “See you in class, Dom.”

  Michael Hollister never saw Dominick Davidner again.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Carrie sat at her desk, chin resting in her palm. If she’d had gum to snap, she would have been the picture of a bored office worker. In front of her was an image of an older Michael on his bunk. The indicator glowed white, showing he was feeling something, but Carrie couldn’t tell why he was feeling so emotional.

  Bertellia appeared beside her, consulting a mini version of a pyxis.

  “Your early reports are in. You’re doing okay, but nothing exemplary. Your scores aren’t going to get you universal recognition.”

  “Is that important?”

  “In other words, ‘What’s in it for me,’ right?”

  Okay, I’m being petulant.

  “It’s just that this ...” —Carrie gestured at her pyxis—“is so boring. So repetitive.”

  Bertellia reached out one manicured hand, hovering over her device. “I could always shake things up for you. Or, you could, if you’re so inclined.”

  Carrie shrank back. “Thank you, no. Last time I did that, I sent Michael sprawling. I’ll just sit here and risk not dying of boredom, since I’m immortal.”

  “This isn’t unusual, you know, this sense of ennui.”

  “Really?”

  “Your skill level has surpassed what your workload is at the moment.” She straightened, touched her own device. Immediately two new people appeared before Carrie. “There. That will keep you busy for a bit.”

  I remember sitting at the kitchen table with Mom, once. I made the mistake of telling her I was bored. By the time I got done with the list of chores she gave me, I forgot what bored was. I guess I can chalk that up as another lesson I haven’t learned yet.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Michael didn’t blame Commander Hartfield for his decision. He knew, with the evidence at hand, it was the only choice he could make. However, that didn’t change the fact that he knew they had been unjustly found guilty and punished accordingly.

  The day the Turtles were stripped of their win in the Game, Hartfield sent Dominick home. His parents arrived and picked him up before he had a chance to say goodbye. His bunk and footlocker were empty by the time the rest of the boys returned to the barrack.

  After that, Michael kept to himself much more. He had trusted Dominick in ways that had constantly surprised him, but he hadn’t yet found anyone else he was willing to completely open up to.

  EVER SINCE MICHAEL had become a full-time resident at the academy, he had spent Christmas break at the Hartfield family home on Queen Anne Hill in Seattle. It was a sprawling Cape Cod house that looked out over downtown Seattle and the Space Needle.

  In addition to the Commander and Max, Hartfield’s mother, Madeline, lived there, along with her former housekeeper, Carol. Mrs. Hartfield was in her mid-eighties, as was Carol. When Carol turned sixty-five, Mrs. Hartfield had insisted that she retire, but had given her a room in the house to live in as long as she wanted, then hired a new housekeeper. Carol agreed and picked up a new hobby—complaining about everything the new housekeeper did.

  When the Hartfields and Michael arrived for the Christmas holidays that year, Madeline noticed something amiss with Michael as soon as he walked in.

  “Well, now, Sunny Jim, what’s got your goat?”

  Michael smiled wanly, hugged Madeline as he had been trained to do over previous Christmases, and said, “Nothing, ma’am. Just tired, I think.”

  “Nonsense. No eleven-year-old boy should be tired and so thin-looking this magical time of year. Curtis!” she said, her voice sharpening. “What have you done to our Michael?”

  The massive man suddenly looked like a five-year-old boy, and did everything but kick the carpet at his feet. “Nothing, Mother. Just Academy business.”

  Madeline’s hawk-sharp eyes narrowed. “I see. All right, we’ll leave that for now. Come in, take your bags to your rooms, then come back down. We’ve got refreshments set out in the parlor.”

  THE DAYS AT THE HARTFIELD home passed quietly. Curtis arrived home from West Point for a q
uick, one-week visit. He, Michael and Max played many games of checkers and Stratego. Max was the reigning checkers champion, but no one could touch Michael at Stratego. In the evenings, everyone played canasta. Michael had never played the game before his first visit there, but he had picked it up quickly. Max was a slow, deliberate player, always considering every card picked up or played. His favorite strategy was to wait until his hands were stuffed with cards, then lay them all down at once, flinging his discard into the pile with a gleeful, “Canasta!”

  Madeline mounted several efforts to find out what was bothering Michael, to no avail. Finally, she cornered her son in the living room. “I’ve never seen Michael like this. What’s happening in school?”

  Hartfield drew a deep breath, then explained about the Game and the actions he had taken.

  “Are you sure you were right?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s the worst part. I’m not sure I was. I know Michael’s doing the best he can to move past it, but it’s hurt him. He doesn’t trust easily, and he feels that I’ve let him down.”

  “And maybe you have.”

  “Yes. If so, there’s nothing I can do now.”

  Madeline reached out and laid her small hand on his large one. “Things always turn out all right in the end. If it’s not all right, it’s not the end.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  When the car returning Hartfield, Max, and Michael arrived at the Academy on December 31, all was dark. They were the first ones back from the holiday. Michael slipped from the back seat with his bag and said, “Commander, thank you for bringing me with you. I know it’s a privilege, and I appreciate it.”

  “Michael ...” Hartfield said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Hartfield seemed to grope for words, but came up short. “Nothing. We’re glad to have you with us.”