by Shawn Inmon
“If it’s a matter of meals and such, I could easily make do with MREs for a few weeks. It might be good training.”
“As I say, it’s impossible, cadet. The entire school is shut tight for two and a half weeks. Even Commander Hartfield won’t be here. The gates will be locked; the lights and heat will be turned off. It’s unfit for human habitation during those two weeks. The idea of leaving a first-year cadet here is, as I say, impossible.”
Michael stared out the window into the blackness for a long moment, then met Peterson’s eyes. “Thank you, Captain. My parents will not be coming to get me. Is it possible for someone to give me a ride to the bus station?”
“I’ll check the bus schedule and make arrangements for you,” Peterson said, making a note in an open notebook. “Dismissed.”
Michael saluted, snap-turned and left.
Shit. Two and a half weeks with Father and Mother. They thought this place would be hell, but it’s been better than home in every way. Is there any way I could pretend to leave, then sneak back in here?
He turned the idea over in his mind but saw almost immediately that it was useless.
I’ll be home for Christmas.
Shit.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The canopy was on the Jeep as Curt and Michael reversed the path of their initial meeting five months earlier, but it was still teeth-chattering cold for the ten-minute drive through the early morning mist. When they arrived at the gas station to meet the bus back to Middle Falls, it was only 6:30 a.m. and the station was still locked up tight.
“Seems like this place is never open, doesn’t it?” Curt asked.
Michael didn’t answer, but reached into the back for his suitcase, preparing to jump out and wait. Curt put a hand on his shoulder.
“Hang on, what’s your hurry? I can sit here with you for a few minutes until your bus gets here.”
Michael nodded but still didn’t answer.
He had rarely seen Curt since their summer scuffle with George. Curt was in his final year, was head of the student tribunal and prefect of the Ninth Years. It was widely accepted that in another ten or fifteen years, he would return and become commander of Hartfield Academy, like his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. Michael was a Turtle. There was very little reason their paths would cross at school.
“I get the idea that you’re not thrilled with heading home for Christmas.”
Michael turned to look at him, and for once, let his eyes remain unguarded. “Peterson talk to you?”
Curt shrugged. “Not exactly. You want to tell me why?”
“No, and it wouldn’t matter if I did.”
“You don’t know that.”
I do. I tell you my father has been molesting or trying to molest me over two lifetimes, then what do you do? Nothing, because there’s nothing you can do.
“There’s nothing you can do. If I could have stayed at the Academy, that would have been great. But I understand why I couldn’t, so now I’m going home.”
Just then, the bus rolled into the parking lot. Michael jumped out of the Jeep, grabbed his suitcase, and said, “Thanks for the lift, sir.”
“Merry Christmas, Michael.”
Michael didn’t hear. He was halfway to the bus.
MICHAEL HAD NO IDEA who, if anyone, would be waiting for him when the bus pulled in to Middle Falls.
It’s a Thursday, so Father will be at the office. Tess, maybe? Would Mother try to sober herself up enough to drive to the seedy side of town?
The bus trip home was much less eventful than his ride down. No hippies in sight, no sacrilegious songs, no near fist-fight between old lady and said hippy. Michael spent the ride reading Catch-22, an unusual book to be stocked in a military academy’s library. The librarian, Mr. Snell, had directed him to it. “I think you’ll like this one, Cadet Hollister.”
Snell was right. He loved it, and his only regret was that he had almost finished it by the time the bus pulled into Middle Falls.
I kind of feel like I’m living a Catch-22 of my own right now. Don’t really want to be living this life, but if I choose to not live this life, I get to start over and live more of this life. Lovely.
Michael stepped down off the bus and waited for the driver to unload his suitcase. When he did, he grabbed it, turned around, and almost walked right past his mother.
“Michael!” she said, with a wave.
His eyes widened. Her hair, always perfectly set at the beauty parlor, was more relaxed now, hanging down to her shoulders. The heavy makeup she’d always layered on before leaving the house was absent.
She tried to hug him, but he turned his face away and disengaged as quickly as he could.
“Oh, Michael, it’s good to see you. You’ve grown. And your hair! Your beautiful blond hair is all gone. You do look smashing in your little uniform, though.”
That’s probably more words than you’ve spoken to me at one time since I woke up back here.
“Where’s the car?”
“Oh. Of course. Right over here.”
He waited at the rear for his mother to open the trunk so he could put his suitcase in. A teenage girl walked by, saw Michael in his uniform, smiled and flashed the peace sign at him. “Peace, little soldier man.”
Michael ignored her.
On the ride home, his mother chatted more than he could remember her ever doing. She talked about what they were having for dinner—roast beef—what book she was reading—Diary of a Mad Housewife—and about the classes she was taking at the local community college.
For most of the trip, Michael stared out the window, ignoring her. Finally he turned and looked at her. No makeup, no stiff curls hairsprayed into place, no vacant look hidden behind sunglasses. Who are you, and what have you done with Mother?
She glanced away from the nonexistent Middle Falls traffic and said, “But how about you, Michael? How awful has that school been?”
Have you ever asked me about anything I’m doing before?
“It’s fine, Mother. Fine.” He turned to look out the window again.
“They send us reports, every month, you know—your teachers? They all say such wonderful things about you. They say you are one of the brightest students they’ve ever had, and that you work so hard. And that you are even tutoring some of the other boys. I’m so proud of you.”
Michael nodded slightly. You don’t get it, Mother. You don’t get to ignore me my entire life, then have some sort of attack of conscience and suddenly be my best friend. You can go to hell.
The car pulled into the long driveway and parked outside the garage. Michael stood silently by the trunk, waiting for his mother to open it. He retrieved his suitcase and headed for the back door. He quickened his step as he approached the door.
Tess. It will be good to see Tess at least.
He opened the back door and burst into the kitchen, a small smile on his face.
A woman was standing in the kitchen. She wore the same gray uniform that Tess always did, but she was her opposite in every other way. Tess was short and round; this woman was tall and angular. Tess was maternal; this woman was distant, if polite. Tess was well into late middle-age. This woman, young.
“You must be Michael. Are you hungry after your trip?”
Margaret hurried in after him. “Oh, I see you met Missy. Missy, this is Michael.”
“Pleased to meet you, Michael,” she said, then turned her back and went back to work.
“In all that talk in the car, you never thought to tell me that Tess is gone? The one person in this house that cared about me. She’s gone, and that’s not important enough to mention?”
“Michael! You know that’s not right. Your father and I love you very much.”
Michael just tilted his head to the side in the universal sign that said, Oh, really? He felt tired. Tired all the way through.
“I’ll be in my room.”
After sleeping in the barracks for so long, his room felt small and suffoc
ating. It was slightly discomfiting to be all alone, with no other breathing, sweating, farting brothers nearby.
He lay down in his bed but couldn’t stop his mind from wandering over the months that had passed since he had woken up here in this bed.
So crazy. When I first got here, I didn’t know how I would survive the first week. Now, six months have gone by and somehow this all feels normal. Whatever that is.
He looked around the room. Childish things. Pooh. Mickey Mouse. Toys in the toy box.
He closed his eyes. His last thought before sleep was, I wonder what the other guys are doing?
Chapter Thirty-Six
Cmdr. Curtis Hartfield sat at his desk, which was almost cleared of paperwork. Captain Peterson and Curt sat facing him. Both had adopted a relaxed attitude. Peterson even leaned back in the chair.
“So, we’ve got a puzzle on our hands, don’t we. He came to you,” Hartfield said, nodding to Peterson, “asking if he could stay here, even if it meant being alone and eating MREs. Curtis, were you able to get anything out of him when you took him to the bus?”
Curt shook his head. “No sir. Something’s there, I could tell, but he wouldn’t talk about it.”
Hartfield leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “I don’t like it. I feel responsible for this boy. We’ve taken him in, he’s done everything we’ve ever asked him to and more, and he seems scared to death to go home.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s do this. Get Morton to dig into his home life. Take a look at both parents. Dig deep. My gut tells me there’s something amiss there.”
Peterson made a note on his ever-present clipboard. “Yes sir. I’ll do it before I leave.”
“Good. Tell him I’d like a full report in the next two weeks. I want to get to the bottom of this.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The next morning, Michael awoke at 6 a.m. sharp. He no longer needed reveille piped in through the speakers. He got dressed in the unfamiliar civilian clothes, went downstairs, fried two eggs, made toast, poured himself some orange juice, and ate. He had already done his dishes and retreated back to his room before anyone else was awake.
He heard his father go downstairs, get his coffee and leave for the office, but he stayed in his room reading Midway: The Japanese Story by Mitsuo Fuchida and Masatake Okumiya. He glanced at the small pile of books on his bedside table and realized he would be done with them well before he returned to the Academy. He would need more to read.
I don’t think I could stand to read Mother’s trashy books any more.
He went downstairs, slipped his Hartfield Academy coat on and walked to the very back of the yard. He looked at the stump where the tree that had held his tree house once stood. His fingers rubbed the ridges the chainsaw had left behind. The cut was no longer fresh and had begun to gray over.
He tried to summon up some of the anger he had felt that day, but it had dissipated. Destroying the stamp seemed so long ago. Another lifetime, almost. He glanced at Jim Cranfield’s porch, hoping to see him there, perhaps performing tai chi, but all was quiet. It was a typical western Oregon December morning—temperatures in the mid-forties, completely overcast, not with rain so much as just moisture hanging in the air, waiting for you to walk into it.
He walked through the gate into the neighboring yard and onto the patio, but saw that the table and chairs had been tucked away somewhere for the winter. Inside, the house was dark.
Shit. How inconvenient that you’ve got a life, Jim, and are off enjoying it with friends and family.
He returned home and found his mother downstairs in the kitchen—another unusual occurrence. She’d rarely made it downstairs before late morning. Things had been distant between them since his outburst the day before.
“Good morning, Michael.”
“Mother,” Michael nodded. “Can you take me to the library this morning? I need to get some more books to read.”
“When did you become such a bookworm? Six months ago, I couldn’t get you to do your ten minutes of reading for school. Now you’re devouring books like they are going to disappear.”
“No television or anything at the Academy. Gotta do something to pass the time.”
“I knew you would be different when you got home, but all these changes ...” She shook a cigarette out of a pack of Kools that sat on the kitchen table and lit it. “Yes, I can take you to the library. Let me get my purse and we’ll go now.”
As they pulled out of the driveway, Michael said, “Can you just drop me off for a few hours?”
“At the library. You’d like me to leave you at the library for a few hours.”
“Yes, please.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Michael did his best to avoid his father altogether and was mostly successful. They ate meals together, but there was little conversation around the Hollister dinner table.
Christmas morning was awkward. Michael awoke at six, made his breakfast and retreated to his room. At nine, his mother tapped at his door.
“Michael, honey, come downstairs. We’re going to open presents.”
Presents. Sorry, Mother, Father. I didn’t get you anything. Let’s see. What I’d really like is the freedom to never have to come home again. Can you wrap that up and put it under the tree for me?
He followed his mother down to the living room. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, where it could be seen through the tall windows at the front of the house. A rotating light sat on the floor beside it, turning the white flocking red, then blue, then yellow. There was a small pile of presents neatly stacked beneath it.
Margaret picked up a small package and handed it to Clayton, who accepted it wordlessly. She put a present on Michael’s lap, then returned for one of her own.
Clayton opened his, which turned out to be a bottle of some European cologne. He set it on the table beside him, took out his pipe and began tamping some tobacco into it.
“Michael, honey, I just wasn’t sure what to get you. You seem so grown up now that buying you toys didn’t seem right. I thought this might be better.”
The package was pretty big, but didn’t weigh much.
Michael tore the wrapping away from one end and pulled out an olive drab duffel bag.
“I hope it’s all right. I just had no idea.”
“Actually, it’s perfect. Better than taking a suitcase back to the Academy. Thank you.”
Margaret looked relieved and smiled tentatively.
Clayton Hollister finally spoke. “You’re not going to need it.”
Both Michael and Margaret’s heads snapped around.
“What do you mean?” Margaret asked.
“Just that. He won’t need ... whatever that is. He’s not going back to that place.”
To Michael, it felt like the floor was falling away from him. The color drained from his face.
No way. No fucking way you get to do this to me.
“I was a little upset after the incident with the stamp, and I acted hastily. I’ve changed my mind. Margaret, I want you to get on the phone and do whatever is necessary to get him re-enrolled in school here.”
He stood to leave, but Michael jumped up and stood in front of him.
“Come on. Be honest. You sent me there because it was the worst thing you could think of to do to me. You sent me there so you didn’t have to see me anymore. Now, you get reports from my teachers that I’m doing well, that I’m fitting in, that I have friends, and so you want to yank me back here. I ... I ...”
“You’ll what, Michael? Kill me in my sleep? I had a security door and new locks installed on our bedroom while you’re away. It’s a shame to have to do something like that, but it’s the price of having a mentally ill child.”
Clayton smiled.
Michael turned and ran through the kitchen, up the stairs and into his bedroom. Tears of frustration and rage ran down his cheeks.
Now what? Just now what?
Chapte
r Thirty-Nine
Curtis Hartfield III turned the car off Highway 101 and into Hartfield Academy. Max was asleep in the back seat; Curt looked out the window at the trees lining the long driveway.
“It’s good to get away, but I’m always glad to get back,” he said.
Curt nodded and smiled. “Let’s be honest. You’re never really happy unless sitting behind your desk, making things run smoothly.”
“True enough, I suppose. Ever since your mother died, the Academy and you boys are all I care about. I’m sure the shrinks would tell me that’s not healthy. That’s why we don’t have any shrinks on staff here. Besides which,” he waved his hand expansively at the grounds and buildings, “I want to leave this for you, just as my father left it for me, if not maybe a little better.”
“Grampa’s spinning in his grave, just hearing you say you could do something better.”
Hartfield pulled the car around the darkened concourse and parked in front of the Great Hall. “Can you help get Max into bed? I just want to pop into the office and see if there are any messages.”
“Sure Dad, ‘pop in’ and do five or six hours’ work.” Curt met his father’s eyes and said, “It’s no big deal. I’ll take care of Max. Go to work.”
Hartfield smiled an acknowledgement and unlocked the heavy door that led into the hall. A swirl of mail had been pushed through the mail slot. He gathered it up and made his way to the door to the outer office. Inside, he flipped the light switch, blinked, and walked to Peterson’s desk. He started to set the pile of mail on his desk but noticed a large white envelope with a label that read “Morton Investigations.” He plucked that one out, dropped the rest, and went into his own office.
Out of long habit, he did a quick walk-through of the room, making sure everything was undisturbed. He tossed the envelope on his desk, then sat down and tore off two weeks of the desk calendar’s pages, leaving today’s date: December 31. A white light on his phone blinked steadily, indicating messages were waiting. He picked up the receiver, heard a stuttering dial tone, then dialed the number to retrieve the messages.
