Diamondhead

by Patrick Robinson

Anne smiled. “I’ll get him. But don’t wear him out. I don’t think he should be asleep when the doctor sees him. He never used to get this tired.”

  Mack pulled two baseball gloves out of the basket in the corner of the porch. He picked up a couple of baseballs and walked out onto the front lawn. Tommy came running out and joined him, pulled on his glove, and walked out to his regular spot, fifteen yards from his dad.

  “Okay, big guy,” said Mack. “Lemme see what you got.”

  Tommy leaned back and threw the ball straight at his father’s right shoulder. Mack whipped his left arm across his chest and snagged it neatly. He threw the ball back to Tommy, nice and easy, on his left side. Tommy caught it in the middle of the glove, and then threw a high one straight at his dad. Mack raised his glove high and snapped the catch.

  “Thought you’d catch me by surprise, eh?” Mack spoke and threw at the same time, sending the baseball low toward Tommy’s left thigh.

  The kid snagged it, looked up, and said, “I’ll get you, Daddy.” And he leaned back and hurled one with all of his strength high and wide. Anne, standing on the porch, heard the ball whack into Mack’s glove.

  “Hey, that’s a pretty good arm you got there,” said Mack. “And you’ve been practicing, waiting to get me.”

  Tommy laughed again. “I’m gonna get you, Daddy,” he said, crouching down, ready to receive. Mack threw one to the right this time, medium height but needing a stretch. Tommy brought his glove over and reached. He caught the ball but fell backward, clumsily, landing on the grass with more of a thump than necessary.

  Anne looked concerned and immediately walked over to him. Tommy climbed to his feet, looked at his father, and said, “I don’t want to play anymore.”

  “I thought you were gonna get me,” said Mack. “C’mon, big guy, you’re tougher than that.”

  For a moment father and son stood and stared at each other, Mack with a quizzical expression on his face. The ball had not been thrown hard, and it was not that wide. He’d seen Tommy catch a baseball a yard farther, with his quick feet and fast glove. But that was six months ago, and this was different.

  “Okay, Daddy,” said Tommy. “I’ll play. Sometimes I’m not as good as I was. Can’t get the wide ones.”

  “You’ll get ’em,” said Mack. “We can get some big practice in, now I’m home.”

  Anne watched them throw the ball back and forth another ten minutes and noticed that Mack never threw the ball wide, always at the glove, and Tommy always caught it.

  Just before they came in, Mack missed the ball altogether, and the little boy jumped in the air. “Told you I’d get you!” he yelled. “I can always get you, Daddy!”

  Mack picked him up. “You’re my rookie, kid. You’ll always be my rookie.”

  He carried Tommy inside while Anne fetched the car from the garage, ready for the drive to the Maine Coastal Hospital on the outskirts of Bath. Anne said she’d drive and turned the Buick station wagon north toward the shipbuilding city. Tommy fell instantly asleep in the rear passenger seat.

  They reached the hospital at five minutes before noon. The receptionist said Dr. Ryan was waiting and would see them right away in his consulting room down the corridor. When they walked in, there was a nurse waiting with the doctor. She took the little boy’s hand and said, “C’mon, Tommy, I’ve got some things to show you in the playroom.” She led him outside, and Dr. Ryan turned to face Anne and her husband. He offered his hand to Mack, whom he had never met, and said immediately, “I am afraid I have no good news whatsoever. The test results are back, and it is as I had always feared.”

  “ALD?” whispered Anne, her hand flying to her mouth.

  “Almost unmistakable,” he replied. “I’m seeing some visual impairment, and there is some weakness, and numbness, in the limbs, especially on his right side.”

  He turned to Mack and said flatly, “Lieutenant Commander, this is a disease invented in hell. We can’t cure it, and we mostly can’t even slow it down. The whole thing is involved with Tommy’s inability to process long-chain fatty acids in the brain. It nearly always shows up in males between the ages of five and ten.”

  “Is it rare?” asked Mack.

  “Very. It all comes down to some stuff in our bodies called myelin. It’s a complex fatty material that somehow insulates a lot of nerves in the central and peripheral nervous systems. Without myelin the nerves cannot conduct an impulse. Tommy’s myelin is being destroyed, and we can’t do anything about it. We’re trying—God knows we’re trying. The National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke is dedicated to finding a cure. But so far, there has not been a breakthrough.”

  “Will Tommy die?” asked Mack.

  “Yes, he will. As things stand at present he is unlikely to reach his tenth birthday.”

  “You can tell us, Doc. How long has he really got?”

  “At his present rate of degeneration . . . six months.”

  Anne Bedford finally broke down and wept uncontrollably in her husband’s arms.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Dr. Ryan. “But don’t lose hope just yet. We are on the case, and there is a chance of prolonging Tommy’s life with dietary adjustments. Though the real hope may be in Switzerland, where they are claiming a complete bone marrow transplant may yet be the answer, just as it often is with leukemia.”

  “Can it be done here?” asked Mack.

  “Not yet. There are complications in performing such an operation on someone this young. And we’re not yet ready to undertake that high a risk of mortality. But the Swiss claim to have solved some of the problems.”

  “How much would it cost?”

  “One million dollars. They won’t conduct life-or-death surgery on a child for less. Tommy would be there for at least a month, maybe six weeks.”

  “Does that operation bring back the myelin?” asked Mack.

  “They claim it will stop the destruction of the myelin—if the patient survives.”

  “What kind of a place is it?”

  “It’s a highly specialized children’s clinic, somewhere near Geneva, overlooking the lake. These places normally have a flat rate to include room and board for one parent, and an open-ended treatment center, post-op. Even if they have to reoperate, the price remains all-inclusive.”

  “But the American insurance companies don’t provide coverage for foreign treatment?”

  “Not on that scale. And I’ve only had one patient where the parents were prepared to risk everything to send their son to the clinic. They even sold their house.”

  “What happened?”

  “The kid made it. He was in Switzerland for six months. But he made it.”

  “We couldn’t raise even half the money.”

  “Lieutenant Commander, most people can’t,” replied Dr. Ryan. “But don’t lose heart. We could get a breakthrough at any time. And if we do, I’ll make sure we move very fast. Tommy’s a great kid, and you’re well covered by the navy insurance.”

  Tommy came back into the room, and they said their good-byes and left. Before they did, Dr. Ryan took Anne aside and said, “I’d like to see him in a week, and I want you to watch for memory loss. That’s very important. And let me know if you see any signs.”

  They drove home almost in silence, unknowingly moving into a very dangerous zone, common to many families that face the onset of a major tragedy. Mack, the breadwinner, was conscious that he was not able to provide the means to take Tommy to Switzerland. He was at once fearful of Anne’s ultimate resentment and assailed by a thousand terrors that she would in the end blame him.

  Anne drove faster than usual. Her normally quiet, logical mind was in turmoil. She had suffered a mortal blow, the pain of which only a mother could possibly understand. Her little boy was dying, and would go on dying because no one could help. And there was no refuge in her family, not even in the arms of her husband. Not even he, the great SEAL commander, everyone’s hero, could save Tommy. Anne Bedford was on the brink.

 
; Right now, their personal troubles unspoken, one to another, the little family was on the verge of tearing itself apart. Tommy again fell asleep, and Mack could think of no words to comfort his wife. There were no words. If Tommy died, he was not sure his beautiful wife would ever recover.

  They reached home, and while Anne put the car into the garage, Mack carried his son into the house and rested him on a sofa in the living room. When she returned, she quietly awakened him and took him into the kitchen for some lunch, just a grilled hamburger, which he loved, and some chocolate milk, and then she steered him upstairs to take a nap. Tommy never minded being led up to bed in the middle of the afternoon. Not these days. Every step to the second floor almost broke Anne’s heart.

  “I invited your dad around for a cup of coffee later,” she said. “I don’t think we’d better bother him too much about his grandson.”

  “How much does he know?” asked Mack.

  “He knows Tommy has an illness that may be complicated, but no more. I don’t really want to worry him, unless you feel he has to be told everything.”

  “I think we’ll leave it for a bit. The old man’s only just retired, and he and Mom are doing a few things together. Let’s not spoil it all, because you know they are going to take it very badly.”

  And so they waited. Shortly after four o’clock George Bedford turned up, resplendent in a violent blue-and-silver Hawaiian shirt and a white Panama hat. He came straight into the house with the confidence of a man who had put down the initial deposit on the place for a wedding present. George kissed Anne and shook hands with his son. “Welcome back, kid,” he said. “Hear you’ve had kind of a rough time.”

  “Wasn’t too good, Pop. One of those quasi-political things. They never found me guilty of anything, but I wasn’t going anywhere in the navy. Not after a trial like that.”

  “You got a plan, son? New career and all?”

  “Not yet. I’ve only been home for about eight hours.”

  “That’s okay, but you need a plan. Normally I’d say go and see Harry. He’ll fix you up. But I’m hearing some weird things about the shipyard, and ain’t none of ’em good.”

  “Oh?” said Mack. “What’s up?”

  Anne came in and announced she had made iced coffee. She asked if Mack and his dad would like to sit outside on the porch. George said that would be just fine, and they sat on the big wicker chairs, relaxed on the blue-and-white cushions, sipped their coffee, and pondered the fate of Remsons Shipbuilding.

  “It’s only rumors, mind you,” said George. “Nothing but rumors. But when you hear ’em often enough, you start to wonder. The fact is, everyone’s saying the French frigate order is going to be pulled.”

  “Jesus Christ, Dad. After all these years? How come?”

  “I hear it’s all political. There’s a new man running for French president, for the Gaullist Party.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “That’s bad, son, real bad. Because the Gaullists are basically isolationist in terms of the French military. They do not wish to have one item of military hardware made anywhere outside of France. Especially fighter aircraft, tanks, and warships. They believe these compulsory military machines should provide jobs for French people, not Americans or anyone else.”

  “Who’s the guy?”

  “I don’t know his name. But he’s supposed to be in the arms business, which in France is massive—multinational outfits all somehow tied up with Aerospatiale. But a lot of people think if he gets elected, the game will be up at Remsons.”

  “Won’t affect your pension, will it?”

  “No. Harry’s been real careful protecting that money. But it will affect the rest of the town, because if there is no further order for those guided-missile frigates, Remsons cannot survive.”

  “What happens if the guy doesn’t get elected? Are we still dead?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. It’s this one guy, but apparently he can’t lose, because the French have had it up to their eyeballs with left-wing semicommunist governments. Brought ’em nothing but problems and a virtual static standard of living.”

  “So he’ll win and steer France to glory?”

  “That’s what he says. I just wish I could recall his goddamned name . . . But I can remember something he said a month ago: ‘A rich nation can survive anything, except for civil war and socialism.’”

  “Sounds like the kind of guy who will get elected. Is everyone sure he’ll freeze Remsons out?”

  “Oh, he’s been in the French parliament for a while, and he gets up and starts ranting about any major commercial orders going overseas, like coal and steel from eastern Europe. He’s never going to stand for a five-hundred-million-dollar warship being made in the USA.”

  “GRANDPA!” Tommy was making a comeback. He came charging onto the porch and climbed all over George Bedford.

  “And how’s my little tough guy today?” said the patriarch of all the Bedfords.

  “Good. I’m very good now that Daddy’s home.”

  “He’s staying home, too, eh? And that’s even better.”

  “Yup. That’s a whole lot better. We’ll probably go fishing tonight, ’cept I didn’t ask him yet!”

  “You want me to ask him for ya?”

  “Sure. That’d be good.”

  “Okay, Mack, what about taking this boy fishing tonight? I’ll come too for a while.”

  “Okay, let’s all go. Meantime, Pop, I’ll show you something real good. Because right here we got a baseball player, a kid with a great arm and an eye like a hawk. Wanna see him?”

  “Sure I do. And if I like what I see, I’m gonna fix a tire on a rope from that old maple tree out there. That’s the way to get some real training.”

  “Okay, Tommy, let’s go. You fetch the gloves and baseballs, and we’ll show Grandpa what you’ve got.”

  Tommy looked a bit doubtful. And then he said, “Hey, baseball. That’s a real good idea. We haven’t done that for a long time. Which hand was the glove?”

  None of them saw the blood drain from Anne Bedford’s face as she turned around and retreated into the house, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  CHAPTER 4

  Tommy seemed better on the weekend, as if the arrival of his father from the battlefields of the Middle East had provided some kind of tonic, or at the very least an uplifting experience, comparable perhaps to a local sighting of the Deadheads.

  After his rest, he and his dad went fishing off a promontory above the ebbing tide of the river, a favorite place for the Bedfords for generations. They landed a couple of striped bass, one a keeper, twenty-eight inches long. Tommy caught it, and Mack expertly made a sharp cut along its shoulder, right behind the gills, then another in front of the tail before stripping the large tender fillets off the bone. He cut off the skin, discarded it, and packed the white fish sections on a tray in the cooler. This took care of supper for the Bedfords, and for a couple of circling black-backed gulls that instantly dived on the remains of the bass as it floated downstream.

  Back at home Mack salted, peppered, and buttered the fillets, then wrapped them in aluminum foil, and cooked them on the barbecue with the lid closed. He’d been doing this since he was Tommy’s age.

  Meanwhile, Anne made some french fries and salad, and waited for her sister, the slim but much less beautiful and older Maureen, who was coming for supper and staying over to look after Tommy on Sunday. Aunt Mo was a local schoolteacher, and made a point of reading to Tommy from an inexhaustible supply of children’s literature she had collected over the years. Tommy loved her.

  But there would be no reading tonight. The little boy was out on his feet as soon as supper was over. Mack carried him up to his room, where Mo put him to bed.

  The following morning, Mack and Anne went to the tall white-painted First Congregational Church of Dartford where both of them had worshiped since they were children, and in which they had been married. This would be the first public outing for Mack, and it would be
the first time many local people had seen him for almost a year.

  After a six-month tour in Afghanistan, leave had been cut short for all SEALs, and they had deployed rapidly to Iraq, to yet another insurgent emergency, scarcely having time to visit home. But now he was back, and back for good. And a lot of people he had known all of his life smiled greetings at him and Anne as they took their seats in the family pew, occupied by Bedfords for nearly one hundred years, third row from the front, right side.

  At the conclusion of the service they walked outside to the place where Harry Remson and his wife, Jane, normally greeted parishioners, most of whom either worked for him or had some strong connection to the shipyard. Everyone in Dartford did.

  When he saw Mack, Harry’s face lit up, and he walked over to the big SEAL combat commander and said, “Hey, Mack, I heard you were home. I’m very glad to see you and really look forward to a nice long chat in the next few days. We got a lot of catching up to do. How ya been?”