The Redemption of Michael Hollister

by Shawn Inmon

  A titter of conversation rippled through the crowd.

  “I was the first Turtle to do so, and I was assigned to carry my soaking sheets. First, Dominick Davidner, our brother who is not here, stood up for me; then Michael peed on his own sheets and carried them with him, so I wouldn’t be alone. Think about that for a minute. How easy is it to stand by and watch someone else be punished when you are innocent? How difficult is it to put yourself into the line of fire? That’s what Michael did for me, and I know he did things just like that for every single Turtle. He did that nine years ago. I’ll never forget it.”

  Will took one step back from the podium and, in a voice that carried to every corner of the Academy, said, “Turtles! Attention!” All the Turtles jumped to attention. They all faced Michael. “Salute.”

  As one, the Turtles raised their rigid right hands and held the salute for a three-count, until Michael, with tears in his eyes, saluted them back.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  The day after graduation, Michael was in Peterson’s office, helping him catch up on filing and organizing the applications for the new First Years, when Hartfield said, “Michael, are you out there?” from his own office.

  Michael walked to the connecting door, stuck his head in, and said, “Yes, sir. Do you need something?”

  “Come in, Michael, sit down. At ease. I just want to talk to you.”

  Michael sat in the chair he had sat in so often—sometimes when Hartfield was grilling him, like after the incident in town with Curt, or often, these past few years, just to sit and talk.

  “So, now that you’ve graduated, what’s next? Do you want to stick around here, or are you off to see what the world has to offer? You’ve been a tremendous help to us, Michael, and we’ve never paid you a dime, so if you want to go see what’s around the next bend in the road, the school will buy you a car and give you some money to explore. Or, is college next for you? I’ve been so busy with the Academy, I haven’t kept up with that. I am happy to write a letter of recommendation for you.”

  “Thank you, sir, Captain Peterson already did. I think he may have signed your name on it.”

  “Ha! That sounds right. I think most people believe his signature is the real one, not mine.”

  “The truth is, sir, when I first got to the Academy, I was looking forward to the day I would be able to leave, be on my own.”

  Hartfield nodded. “I understand.”

  “But now, I see what you do here. You make a difference to so many people, just like you have to me. I wasn’t a good person when I arrived—”

  “We never saw you that way.”

  “—and I know I’m still not perfect, but I think I’m a lot further along, now.”

  “It meant a lot to me that you gave me a chance to find my footing. You, and the Academy, were the first to give me a chance to be a good person. If there’s room, I’d like to maybe stay here and help out at the Academy.”

  “If there’s room. You kill me, kid. You just don’t assume anything, do you?” Hartfield pushed up from his chair with a wince, then closed the door to the outer office. He came back and sat down in the chair next to Michael. He lowered his voice. “Captain Peterson already knows everything I’m about to tell you, but I don’t want anyone else wandering by to hear.”

  Michael nodded.

  “You may have noticed I’ve dropped a few pounds here lately. Not that I couldn’t have used that, but it’s not for a very good reason.” He drew a deep breath and leaned forward slightly. “I’ve got cancer, Michael.”

  Michael leaned back away from Hartfield, absorbing the blow.

  “Cancer. Okay, cancer. They’ve got treatments for that these days, don’t they?”

  “They do, if you’ve got the right kind, and if they catch it early enough. I missed on both of those. It’s bone cancer, and it’s in my spine. I’m dying, and the day’s not far off.”

  “But ...”

  “I know it’s a lot to absorb. I hate dropping all this on you...”

  “I get it. Not a lot of time.”

  “My problem is, what do I do with the Academy?”

  Of course. Curt was going to take over when you retired in ten or fifteen years. But now, Curt’s dead, and you will be before too long. So, who could take over? Peterson, maybe? One of the other instructors? They wouldn’t just shut the whole thing down, would they?

  “I don’t have a lot of options. I talked to Peterson about taking over, but he’s too old, and he’s looking forward to a retirement of his own. He’s dreaming of fly-fishing at his cabin in Montana. I sure don’t blame him for that. He’s kept this place running for years. I can sell it to an outfit that runs an Academy down in New Mexico. Or, I can give it to you.”

  Michael’s head snapped around. “What? Me?”

  Hartfield raised a hand, stopping any further objections. “I know, it’s crazy, isn’t it? You’re only eighteen, you just graduated yourself. But, we both know you’re wise beyond your years, and I’ve asked Peterson if he would be willing to delay his own retirement for at least a few more years to let you get your legs under you. Plus, you know Max, and he loves you. It’s a package deal—the Academy and Max go together.”

  Of course. Max. He’s going to lose everything, especially if the Academy gets sold to someone out of state. They won’t know how to take care of him. They won’t recognize all the things he can do, if someone just gives him a chance.

  “You know how I feel about Max, too.” Michael couldn’t bring himself to say, “I love Max.” He’d never told anyone he loved them. “But I need to think about this, sir. You understand?”

  “Of course I do. If you just jumped at this, I’d be worried about you. But ...”

  “Right. I understand. Can I borrow one of the Jeeps again? I want to go for a drive and think about things.”

  “Get the keys from Captain Peterson. Take a few days. Drive the coast. Peterson will give you some money from petty cash. Let me know what you want to do when you get back.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Michael left the top on the Jeep but rolled down the windows to let the warm summer air rush in. He drove without a plan, without a goal. A small part of his mind kept an eye on traffic, but most of his thoughts were on the future—both immediate and long-term.

  I’m at home at the Academy, but is this what I want for the rest of my life? If I accept, I’m tied down. But what happens to Max and the Academy if I don’t? Could I just take Max with me wherever I go? Maybe, maybe not. What about the others? Peterson wants to retire soon, but how about the rest of the staff and all the instructors? What about the classes that are coming along behind me?

  Michael turned in to a gas station, handed the attendant a five-dollar bill and said, “Fill ’er up.”

  The pump jockey said, “Yes, sir.” A few minutes later, he returned and dropped a few coins into Michael’s hand.

  Michael looked around to see where he was. He had just been driving for hours, not paying attention to where he was going, but his internal homing device had brought him to what was once home—Middle Falls.

  Michael chuckled and shook his head. Now what? I still have no idea what I want to do. No answers. Turn around and drive home?

  “Home,” he mumbled to himself. “That’s where home is, now.”

  One more piece of business here, first.

  He drove to the house he grew up in, which still looked the same as it ever did—the grass was green and neatly edged and mowed, the sidewalks swept, and there were flowers blooming in the beds. Michael turned in the driveway and experienced an odd feeling of déjà vu. As if in a dream, Michael walked up to the front door and knocked. He waited a few long moments, then rang the doorbell and heard it bong deep inside the house.

  The door opened wide. A woman wearing a maid’s uniform said, “Yes?”

  “Is Clayton home?”

  “Yes ...”

  “I’d like to speak to him, please.”

  “Can I te
ll him who is here to see him?”

  “I’m Michael. Michael Hollister.”

  No recognition showed on the woman’s face.

  “His son.”

  “Oh! Oh, my! Why, yes, of course. Michael.”

  “It’s fine. I would guess he doesn’t speak of me often, or kindly. I’d like to speak to him, though.”

  “Of course, come in, come in. Would you mind waiting here?”

  “That’s fine,” Michael said, but as soon as she left, he wandered through the downstairs. It was immaculately clean, and most of the furnishings were the same as the last time he had seen them, but it felt different in the house. It had never been warm, or cozy, but now it felt hollow and cold, as if whatever life had once been there had been sucked away.

  He wandered through the kitchen, lightly touching the fine, bone-handled knife he had once used to kill his father, again and again. He went to the dining room window, which looked out over the backyard. At the rear of the yard, he saw the stump of the tree that had held his tree house in the long-ago. He looked to the left. The low, white fence that had marked the property line between the Hollisters and James Cranfield had been replaced with a tall cedar fence. The gate was gone.

  Michael smiled to himself. Like closing the barn door after the horse has gotten out, isn’t it, Father?

  “What do you want, Michael? What trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”

  Michael, lost in his thoughts, jumped a bit, then turned to see his father. He had aged terribly over the past ten years. It wasn’t just that his hair had gone gray, or that he had gained weight; he looked like a corn husk left in the field to dry.

  I’m taller than him, now. I should have known, but it still feels odd.

  Michael held his gaze but didn’t speak.

  Clayton glanced away.

  Is he afraid of me now? How ironic.

  “If it’s money you’re looking for, go talk to your mother. I’ve sent her enough money over the years to take care of everything.”

  “I don’t want anything from you, Father. I didn’t know it until just now, but I came here to forgive you.”

  “Forgive me? For what? Putting a roof over your head? Feeding you? Clothing you? Come on, Michael, you’re nearly grown. Time to start acting like a grownup. Get over yourself. The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

  Michael drew in a deep breath, held it, then let it blow out between pursed lips. He nodded to himself.

  “You know, you’re not the only person something happened to. It happens to a lot of us. But we grow up, we forget it, and we get on with life. That’s what I advise you to do, Michael.” The words rang bitter and resentful. “Kids today think everything’s about them.”

  Of course. That makes sense. Sorry, Father, the cycle ends here.

  “I want to thank you for sending me to Hartfield Academy. I know you did it because you thought I would hate it, and that I would be bullied, or worse, but it’s changed everything for me. I’ve learned about the importance of unselfishly giving yourself, without expecting anything in return. About brotherhood, and hard work. I owe you for that, so thank you.”

  Clayton snorted. “Big ideas and pretty words don’t do much in the real world. Good luck to you with your honor and brotherhood, now that you’re out there.”

  “A friend told me that before you can forgive someone, you have to forgive yourself. I don’t know if you’re capable of that, but it’s what I’ve been working on. And now, I feel like I can forgive you.”

  Clayton Hollister took two fast steps and raised his hand, rage blotching his complexion. “To hell with you, you little shit.”

  Michael didn’t move, but Clayton lowered his hand.

  “I don’t need your forgiveness. All I ever did was take care of you.” His breath was coming in ragged gasps.

  Michael nodded, then walked past Clayton. As he did, he laid one hand on his shoulder. “Goodbye, Father. I won’t need to come back.”

  Michael walked out the front door.

  Inside, Clayton Hollister watched his son’s retreating back. He went into his office and sat in the deep quiet. After a minute ticked by, he shook his head vehemently. “Damned, stupid kids.”

  Outside, Michael climbed into the Jeep and drove off into the sunshine.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Two months later, Curtis M. Hartfield III lay in his bed, covers pulled up tight. The doctors at Crescent City Hospital had insisted he be hospitalized so they could manage his pain. The Commander told them to go to hell.

  He was at home, in his quarters at the Academy. Michael sat at his bedside.

  “I think you could still bounce a quarter off that bed, even with you in it,” Michael commented.

  “Max,” Hartfield said. The rich baritone was gone, replaced by an old man’s rasp. “He wraps me up like a cocoon.”

  “He wants to do whatever he can to take care of you.”

  “I know he does. I hate to leave him. I’m so glad we found you, Michael. I don’t know what would happen to him if not for you.”

  “You don’t need to worry about that for one minute.” Michael paused. “I love him, you know.”

  “Of course you do. I knew that the day you got into that fight in town.”

  Michael returned to the book he had been reading aloud, The Face of Battle, by John Keegan. He was reading a section about the Battle of Agincourt, and how the British longbows changed military strategy, when Hartfield interrupted him.

  “Sorry, my mind wandered. Can you read that last passage again?”

  Michael turned back one page and read to the same spot.

  “Did you get it that time?” he asked.

  Hartfield’s eyes were staring blindly at the ceiling.

  “Oh.” Michael wiped his hand across his mouth, then his eyes.

  He touched Hartfield’s wrist, then his throat, searching for the thread of a pulse. There was none.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Carrie feathered her pyxis to a stop. In the frozen picture, Michael sat with his forehead pressed against the blankets of a bed. Beside him was what had once been the man she knew was his friend and father figure. The edge of the picture glowed white with grief.

  She had seen many dead bodies as she watched over her charges. The bodies themselves were not a cause of any emotion for her. She could watch the moment the spark of life left the earthly body that had contained it and went on. She knew that life itself was invulnerable.

  Still, the impact of someone’s departure on one of her people was difficult for her to see.

  Detach was her mantra, but detachment had proved elusive for her. All around her, other Watchers did their jobs, unemotionally spinning, twisting, and maneuvering their pyxis to gather the most emotion.

  Michael. I hate this pain for you.

  She allowed the picture to start moving forward. Another man, whom she knew to be called Max, came into the room. He stopped, shook his head, his hand over his mouth. He lay down on the bed with the body and held it for a long time. Michael stood beside him and hugged him.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  1977

  The Earth made another revolution around the sun.

  In September 1976, Mao Zedong, chairman of the Communist Party of China, died of a heart attack. In January 1977, Gary Gilmore was put to death by firing squad in Utah—the first execution since the death penalty had been reinstated by the Supreme Court. President Jimmy Carter gave a blanket pardon to Vietnam War draft evaders. In August, David Berkowitz was arrested for the Son of Sam murders.

  Michael Hollister, the first non-Hartfield to ever run Hartfield Academy, marked an odd anniversary.

  MICHAEL TURNED THE desk calendar to August 22 with a shock.

  Today’s the day, then. I don’t think they make a Hallmark card for “You finally reached the point in time when you killed yourself in your last life,” so I won’t expect a big celebration. Maybe I’ll have two servings of mashed potatoes to go with Iggy’
s meatloaf tonight.

  His first year running the academy had gone smoother than he had expected. There were a few bumps along the way, as he was now overseeing cadets that had been just a year or two behind him. He didn’t have the gravitas of Commander Hartfield, but as young Commander Hollister, he quickly showed an affinity for strategy, not just in war games, but in human interaction. The cadets had learned that it was no easier to put something over on Michael than it had been the old Commander.

  Curtis Hartfield III had been buried right next to his son in mid-November the previous year. Max had managed to get through playing Taps one more time. When the last note faded, he turned to Michael and said, “I don’t want to play that song anymore.”

  Michael had nodded softly, put an arm around Max, and said, “You don’t have to.”

  Even though he wasn’t the Academy bugler any more, Max was invaluable. It turned out that no one could give a tour of the grounds like he could. Among the many attributes of the Hartfield Academy, he never failed to point out that the library was the best military strategy and reference library outside of Washington DC. He charmed every family that came through.

  Michael had initially been hesitant to move into the Commander’s quarters after Hartfield had died, but he did so at Max’s request. They now lived there like the two young bachelors they were. As Michael had suspected, there was indeed a television tucked away in the quarters, and they never missed Max’s favorite shows: Happy Days and Little House on the Prairie.

  Captain Peterson had been serious about being ready to retire. Michael asked him to stay for two more years, then begged Will Summers to forgo whatever plans he had and to help him run the Academy. It didn’t take much arm-twisting, and Will became Peterson’s shadow. Between Michael and Will, the Academy would be in good hands going forward.