by Shawn Inmon
Margaret stepped forward and held him tightly against her for a moment. Michael did not pull away. She held one hand against his chin, and he saw her tears.
I’ve never seen her cry.
CHRISTMAS IN SEATTLE was a somber affair that year. Madeline and Carol did what they could to keep all their traditions alive, but without Curt there, everything rang hollow.
Even Max, perpetually happy Max, couldn’t manage to yell “Canasta!” when he made a huge laydown. They didn’t purposefully leave a chair empty at the table for Curt, but it was there.
Chapter Fifty-One
1974
For thirty-six more months, the Earth spun.
In January 1972, a Japanese soldier named Shōichi Yokoi was found living in a cave in Guam, twenty-seven years after the end of World War II. In June, five burglars were arrested in the Democratic National Committee’s headquarters in the Watergate Hotel. In November, Richard Nixon won re-election in one of the biggest landslides in American political history.
In January 1973, Nixon announced that the war in Vietnam was over, having achieved “Peace with honor.” In May, Skylab—the first U.S. space station—was launched. Meanwhile, televised hearings into the Watergate break-in began.
In February 1974, Patty Hearst was kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army. In April, she was photographed wielding a rifle while robbing the Hibernia Bank in San Francisco. In August, Nixon announced his resignation as president. In September, Cadet Hollister of the Hartfield Military Academy celebrated his sixteenth birthday, making him eligible for a state-issued driver’s license in California.
WILL SUMMERS AND THE rest of the Turtles emerged from Lieutenant Iggy’s kitchen, holding a single cupcake with a candle burning on it. They sang, “Happy Birthday, dear genius,” and presented the pastry to Michael. Dominick Davidner had never returned to Hartfield, but the nickname he had tagged Michael with endured.
Michael waited until the last, off-key note was sung, then blew out the candle, removed it, and stuck the entire cupcake in his mouth—another great Turtle tradition that was met with cheers of approval.
When I first woke up in this life, this is the day I was pointing at. This was the day I could get my own license and make my own way in the world—to escape—if I had to. But, now, I don’t have to. He grinned at the Turtles, who were thumping him on the back and laughing at the chocolate frosting smeared across his face. Now I have the Commander, and Max, and the Turtles. We are not always born into our real families.
The next day, he made an appointment with Commander Hartfield. Captain Peterson showed him into the office, and he stood straight and tall just inside the office. Hartfield spent another few moments poring over the file on his desk before he looked up.
“Michael,” he said, a smile warming his face. “Good to see you. At ease. Sit down, son, sit down.”
“Thank you, sir,” Michael said, sitting. “I’d like to ask a favor.”
“Within reason, if it’s mine to offer, it’s yours.”
“I’d like to borrow one of the academy Jeeps this week. I’ve been practicing my driving here on Academy grounds, but now I need to take my driving test. One of the Falcons who already has his license said he would drive me into town.”
Hartfield leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. “Sixteen already?” He shook his head slowly. “You boys grow too fast. Max, too. He’s twenty now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Although Max was twenty, he would never leave the Academy until his father retired. Now that Curt had been killed, Michael had no idea when that would be, as he had no other heir capable of running the Academy.
“I’m afraid that I’m going to have to deny you the use of the Jeep.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Michael stood to leave.
“Hold on, cadet, sit down. Don’t be in such a hurry. You don’t want to take one of our Jeeps to take your test in. They’re not exactly built for parallel parking maneuvers. When did you want to take the test?”
“I’ve got permission from my instructors to be away from campus tomorrow, sir.”
“Good. Let’s do this. Max and I need to attend to a few things in town, so we’ll all head in tomorrow, you can take your test, and if you pass, you can chauffeur us all home.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you.”
Hartfield looked at Michael for a long, silent moment, then said, “Dismissed, cadet.”
It was an absurdly odd feeling for Michael the next day, as he slipped behind the wheel of Hartfield’s Lincoln Continental. He had driven for years, of course, and loved his Karmann Ghia, but that was literally another lifetime ago.
Still, he was able to pass both the written and driving sections of the California Driver’s License exam, and after waiting so long, he was once again legal on the road. Another odd thing was, although he hadn’t thought about leaving the Academy grounds since he first arrived, now that he had a license tucked in his pocket, a desire to make a trip grew inside him.
Finally, after a month of struggling with himself, he went to Hartfield’s office again and asked for permission to take one of the Jeeps on a trip over two days in October. This time, Hartfield granted the request.
On a chilly Tuesday morning, Michael buttoned down the top of the Jeep, topped off the tank at the Academy pump, and set out north on I-5 toward Middle Falls. He kept to the right lane and drove at or just below the speed limit, as though he were in no hurry to actually arrive.
He had thought about, planned, and wondered about making the trip for a month, but now that it was here, he was unsure of how to proceed. He turned off at the first Middle Falls exit and, without a plan, drove to his old neighborhood. Fall was in full swing, and what few leaves still clung to trees were gold, yellow, or brown. Here and there, Halloween decorations dotted the yards.
His old house was the same as ever—white, stately, and unHalloweened. It looked unchanged from the last time he had seen it, almost eight years earlier. He rolled right past it.
No need to deal with you today, Father.
He turned west and drove to Middle Falls High School by memory. Like everything else about Middle Falls, it matched his memory perfectly. He parked directly across the street and stared.
I am a stranger in my own familiar land. Last time around, I would have been in there, getting more and more isolated every day, and becoming more and more pissed off at the world.
A scene ran through his memory. A small church, lit only by a few candles, and a young girl waiting inside. When she heard him open the door, she turned, with a look of anticipation on her face. When she saw it was him, that looked changed to consternation, then fear.
I didn’t go there to kill her. I just wanted to scare her. Then, things went black.
Michael blinked away tears. I’m so sorry, Carrie. You never did anything to me. You were an outcast, just like me, and I killed you.
The bell rang and a flood of teenagers burst through the double doors at the front of the school.
Would she even be here? Shit, I killed her, but I killed myself, too, and I’m here now.
Michael sat and watched as the flood turned into a stream, then a trickle.
I don’t recognize anyone. How can that be?
A small group of four boys pushed out into the autumn afternoon. One of them, an average-looking boy with shaggy hair and a pale complexion, caught Michael’s eye.
Tommy Weaver. You little bastard. You put the dog shit in my sandwich. I know you had something to do with my being arrested. Michael’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel of the Jeep tighter and tighter. The boys walked to the bike rack at the front of the school and two of them unlocked their bikes. They pushed their bikes while the other boys walked alongside. They crossed the street right in front of Michael.
Tommy Weaver glanced inside the Jeep. For the briefest of moments, his eyes met Michael’s. There was no hint of recognition, and he and
the other boys pushed on past.
Michael watched their retreating backs and waited for his pulse to return to normal. The boys were talking, shoving each other and laughing. Michael turned back toward the school.
I don’t even know what I’m doing here. What will I do if I see her?
A tall girl wearing a muted plaid skirt and a baggy green sweater came out of the school. She was alone, holding her books in front of her like a shield, her eyes cast downward. Her long, dishwater-blonde hair was straight and her bangs hung down over her eyes.
Michael’s breath caught in his throat, and his hand instinctively reached for the gearshift of the Jeep.
Carrie Copeland walked straight toward him but turned left when she got to the sidewalk. Three boys on bicycles with banana seats and sissy bars approached from the opposite direction. The boys were standing on their pedals, pushing hard. At the last minute, they swerved around Carrie, but the last boy swung his arm out, sending her books flying in one direction and her in the other.
The boy laughed maniacally, shouting, “Hey! Didja see that?” to the other boys ahead of him.
Michael jumped out of the Jeep. Carrie had sat down hard on her backside, but was already scrambling to her knees, picking up books, folders, and papers that were scattered around the sidewalk. Michael ran to her and picked up her algebra and biology books.
He held them out to her. “Here.”
“Thanks,” she said quietly, not meeting his eyes.
Michael reached out and touched her elbow. “Don’t pay attention to them. They’re just ... I don’t know ... thoughtless, I guess.”
Carrie pushed the hair away from her eyes and finally met his look head-on. Michael felt a small frisson—an electric shock of memory, recognition, and nausea, all at once. She pushed partway past Michael once again, but he took half a step to partially block her.
“Carrie ...”
Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know me?” She looked at him more carefully, from his tan Hartfield Academy uniform to his perpetual buzz cut. “I don’t know you.”
“I know,” Michael said, and stepped back. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? You didn’t run me over.”
“I know. I can’t explain. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”
For a moment, the veil of non-expression fell away and a flash of good humor crossed her face. “Very well. You’re forgiven.”
She pushed past and strode quickly away.
Michael stood rooted on the sidewalk.
She forgave me.
Michael hustled back across the street, clambered into the Jeep and turned toward the freeway. He drove a little over the speed limit all the way back to Hartfield Academy.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Carrie tilted her pyxis and moved it slightly counterclockwise. She let the scene play forward, then moved it back, again and again. It showed a tall boy standing on a sidewalk, talking to a girl. Talking to herself. But of course, she was herself.
It’s so unbelievably strange and confusing to watch yourself, to see yourself as others see you. From this perspective, it’s easy to see why people felt comfortable bullying me. It was a horrible cycle. Someone made fun of me, I pulled into my shell, which made me an even better target. And the beat went on.
She stopped the rotation and froze the scene. And Michael. He’s tried so hard.
As she watched, she heard Michael say, “I’m sorry.” The color of the surrounding frame was bright white with emotion.
Carrie closed her eyes and did her best to reach out and commune with the young Carrie standing on the sidewalk. They weren’t the same person, as each had their own unique spark of the life force inside them. However, they shared a common past, which formed an unbreakable connection.
For a brief moment, she saw two perspectives simultaneously—the view through the pyxis and the view through Earth Carrie’s eyes. That dizzying feeling passed, and for a moment, she saw Michael only through Earth Carrie’s eyes.
She was able to hold the connection just long enough to take control of the other Carrie’s vocal cords and say, “Very well, I forgive you.” She saw relief and gratitude flood Michael’s face; then she was back at her desk, staring at her pyxis.
She drew a deep, shuddering breath. I do. I forgive you, Michael.
Chapter Fifty-Three
1976
And the world continued to spin.
In April 1975, the Vietnam War officially ended when Saigon fell and South Vietnam surrendered unconditionally. Paul Allen and Bill Gates founded Microsoft in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
In March 1976, Patty Hearst was found guilty of bank robbery and sentenced to thirty-five years in prison. In May, Cmdr. Curtis M. Hartfield III noticed that he was losing weight.
CURTIS M. HARTFIELD had always been a substantial man. As a young soldier, he had been a muscular tank. As he had grown into late middle age and spent more time behind his desk than in the exercise yard, he had become softer—still, never fat, but solid and imposing.
He was surprised, then, one early May morning, when he felt his pants were loose around his waist. He hadn’t stepped on a scale in some time, but when he did, the needle pointed to 215, down more than ten pounds since his last physical.
“Well, I guess my youthful metabolism has kicked in again,” he said, squinting down at the scale.
It was not, as it turned out, his youthful metabolism kicking in.
Over the next few weeks, he lost another ten pounds and had to make another hole in his belt so his pants wouldn’t slide down.
Finally, sitting at his desk one Tuesday morning, he called, “Captain?”
Peterson appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand, pen hovering over it, ready to carry out whatever needed to be done.
“Come in, Phillip, sit down.” The Commander almost never used Captain Peterson’s given name.
Peterson sat on the edge of the chair opposite Hartfield, back straight, still ready to take notes. “Yes, sir?”
“I need you to order me a few new uniforms.”
“Yes, sir,” Peterson nodded, jotting a note.
“And ... I need them to be a size smaller than what I’ve been wearing.”
Peterson noted that, then looked directly at the Commander.
“New diet, sir?”
“No.”
Peterson made another note, which Hartfield questioned with the rise of one eyebrow.
“Just making a note to schedule an appointment with Dr. Crawford.”
Hartfield started to object, but closed his mouth and nodded. “Thank you, Captain. That will be all.”
IN JUNE, HARTFIELD Military Academy graduated its sixty-sixth class of cadets. They had entered as boys, left as men, and were ready to be soldiers, if they so desired. Will Summer graduated number one in the class.
Michael Hollister had been doing college preparatory work or higher since he first arrived at Hartfield Academy. He had topped out what most of the instructors had been able to teach him by his third year and had begun a career as an adjunct faculty member, tutoring the Turtles and other classes as needed. As such, it was discussed and decided that he would not show in the official class ranking, but would simply graduate “with honors.”
Hartfield graduations were held on the front lawn if the weather was willing, and in 1976, it was. The day dawned clear and warm. The stage was set up at the back of the lawn, and the Turtles sat in folding chairs in front of that. Portable bleachers were erected to hold the proud parents, including Margaret and Jim Cranfield, who had married the year before. Clayton Hollister was not in evidence.
Commander Hartfield stepped to the podium, noticeably thinner than he had been even the month before. His baritone voice was still strong. “Good afternoon, cadets, parents and loved ones, and of course,” he glanced down at the fifteen senior cadets in front of him, “Turtles.” Smiles spread across the front row.
“Welcome to another graduati
on ceremony at Hartfield Academy. This is always a proud, yet sad moment. Over the last decade, I’ve had the privilege of watching these boys grow and mature, to become splendid young men, and wonderful examples of the brotherhood we hope for with each new class. Every class is special, of course, but the Turtles are unique. In the entire history of the Academy, they are the only class to ever win the Hartfield Game the first year they played.”
A cheer erupted from the Turtles, along with smiles and pats on the back.
“Enough from me, though. Before we begin handing out diplomas, I’d like to bring up our valedictorian, Will Summer. Will?
Applause rippled through the crowd as Will, now a tall, strong eighteen-year-old, resplendent in his dress Hartfield Academy uniform, stepped to the podium.
“Thank you, Commander Hartfield, and thank you to the Hartfield Academy instructors and staff who have put up with us all these years. I suppose I should also apologize to Lieutenant Pusser and the string of prefects who followed him for all the terrible things we did to them.”
The Turtles cheered again. Staff Sargent Pusser, who had returned to the Academy to see the Turtles graduate, waved in acknowledgement from the podium.
“Seriously, though, every Turtle and every instructor knows that I’m not who should be standing up here, representing our class.” He gripped the podium and paused. “Michael Hollister should be.”
Michael looked up in surprise, but shook his head vehemently.
“Michael was so far ahead of us, he ended up teaching us almost as much as our instructors did. When we were just scared, homesick First Years, Michael was the calming force that held the Turtles together. The only reason I’m up here instead of Michael is that’s the way he wanted it, and that says a lot about him too, doesn’t it? Every Turtle could stand up here and tell a story of how Michael helped them out, but we don’t have that much time, so here’s mine. There used to be a tradition at Hartfield that if you wet your bed, you had to carry your sheets with you all day as public humiliation.”
