The Magical Stranger

by Stephen Rodrick

  He was not amused. Still, he installed some snap traps around the apartment. I came home a few nights later to a black rat flopping like a salmon on the deck of a fishing boat, his neck pinned by the snap trap. I shrieked some more and went for a three-hour walkabout hoping the rat would die while I was out.

  I ventured back around midnight and found the rat completely still. Thank God! I took a shot of vodka and impaled the rat with a broom handle for disposal. This merely reanimated the rat. This time, it was the rat that shrieked as his little legs did a bicycle pump. I puked in the sink.

  I opened my back window and hurled my rat-on-a-stick into the back alley. I hoped it might serve as a visual deterrent to his brothers, much like the Romans crucifying Christians along the Appian Way. Still, the rats came.

  Times like that made me miss Dad so badly. I’d come a long way, but there were so many things I couldn’t do, so many things I didn’t understand. I could cold-call senators and lawyers, but simple things left me petrified and useless. Things a boy should have learned from his father.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Tupper was two weeks from home when the Goat Locker told him that Seaman Cruz Roblero had stolen an iPod belonging to another sailor. Roblero was an East LA kid who joined the Navy to escape the gang violence that killed his brother, but he was constantly chafing at the Navy’s discipline. He had a sneaky smile that made him look guilty even when he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

  Tupper had been patient through some of his earlier screwups—malingering, petty theft on shore—but stealing from shipmates was a near capital offense. The sailors slept in rows of stacked bunks with only a glorified high school locker to stash their gear. Stealing in such close quarters led to fistfights. It was unforgivable.

  Tupper might have gone easier on Roblero earlier in the deployment, but he was sick of carrying dead weight. He met with Roblero and the sailor cried and told him he was just borrowing the iPod. Tupper told Roblero it was just a pathetic attempt to save his skin. There would be no mercy. Tupper went at him hard. He wanted him court-martialed, a move that would earn him a dishonorable discharge and cost him all his veterans’ benefits. If convicted, Roblero could do a year in the brig, military jail, once the Black Ravens returned to Whidbey.

  This wasn’t a popular move with his men. Roblero was a crappy sailor, but he had his friends and they wouldn’t look kindly on someone doing jail time for stealing an iPod. The Nimitz’s lawyer and his own officers weren’t on board either. Tupper thought it was just because they didn’t want to do the work. A court-martial meant a three-day investigation by the Nimitz’s military police followed by a trial with a jury of chief petty officers. A half dozen of Tupper’s men would have to submit to lengthy interrogations—both time-consuming and nerve-racking—as they tried to get the planes ready for the fly-off. The Nimitz’s lawyer leaned on Tupper to take Roblero to captain’s mast, a move that would end his career but would avoid a trial and carry no jail time. She suggested it would be easier on everyone. But Tupper wouldn’t budge. Captain’s mast was for work screwups and dereliction of duty. This was a criminal act. Besides, it was his squadron. If he thought Roblero warranted court-martial that should be it.

  The next day, the lawyer told him it wasn’t his decision anymore. There would be no court-martial and there would be no more arguing about it. Tupper was furious. Was it really his squadron? If so, why was he taking orders from a pissant lieutenant lawyer?

  He took his frustration out on Roblero the next morning. At 8:30, the squadron was assembled below deck. The sailors were in their blues, their hands behind their backs. The officers were in khakis and flight jackets. Tupper entered in his dress whites and everyone stood at attention. Roblero was brought in from the brig by two MPs. You could hear him before you could see him. His arms and legs clanked as he shuffled in. He was wearing leg and arm irons. The MPs undid Roblero’s shackles and he stood in front of the skipper. Tupper began to speak.

  “Seaman Recruit Roblero, I want to be clear about why you are here, and why you are not here today in an open mast before the Black Raven team. You are not here to be publicly humiliated, degraded, or embarrassed.”

  Of course, this wasn’t true. The whole point of a captain’s mast was to publicly shame a sailor and persuade his fellow shipmates not to screw up lest they suffer the same humiliation.

  “You have had a tough life before the Navy. I could say that about dozens of sailors in this audience. But you are the one who did wrong. The Navy was your ticket out of the barrio, the street gangs that claimed the life of your brother.”

  A couple of officers exhaled and shifted on their feet. Another rolled his eyes. Tupper had pronounced “barrio” with an over-the-top guttural inflection, like a Caucasian news anchor saying “Nicaraguan contras” back in the 1980s.

  His officers were exhausted; they just wanted to do their jobs and go home. They were tired of Tupper’s speeches. But Tupper wasn’t done. His cadence moved to controlled shouting. Small flecks of spittle radiated from his mouth as he spoke.

  “YOU HAVE AN HONOR PROBLEM. Maybe you can fool a bleeding heart, game a sympathetic ear from someone in religious ministries or medical, but not here. You won’t fool the Old Man. I’m a sailor. And these are all sailors. You can’t fool your own.”

  A woman in the ranks began sobbing. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she fought to remain at attention. Tupper looked at her with disgust and kept speaking.

  “The only expectation that I ever had for you was the same expectation I have for every Black Raven: do your best, do the right thing, and take care of shipmates. You not only did not take care of shipmates, you tried to HURT shipmates. And for that, you’re going back into the box. You don’t like the box? Don’t steal. I am sorry you failed. But I am not sorry to see you leave. May you forever regret what you have lost here today.”

  Roblero shuffled forward and gave Tupper a stiff salute. The MPs chained his hands again and he was led back to the brig, his chains clanking behind him. He would receive only bread and water until the Nimitz pulled into port.

  Tupper knew his sailors were mortified. Roblero was a fuckup, but few thought he deserved the full disgrace of Tupper’s words. He tried to win them back.

  “Ravens, do not be discouraged! This squadron is a winning team, and for every bad sailor, there are 167 others striving for excellence. Keep your eyes on the prize: safe, up aircraft, and caring for each other. The tide is turning, and it turns in our favor!”

  But the tide wasn’t turning in Tupper’s favor. That evening, I was in my room with Stoli, Wolf, and Lil Chris. They had decided to have a final Date Night of the cruise. We all watched Colin Farrell misplay Alexander the Great on the screen while we feasted on goodies sent from home. Lil Chris produced a giant packet of smoked salmon and Stoli rustled up some gourmet crackers. We drank some awful Bahraini fake beer and laughed at Farrell’s attempt at gravitas. Wolf was in a better mood, but he thought Tupper had been wrong.

  “That didn’t have to go like that,” said Wolf. “He put on that whole show for your benefit. He loves an audience. He can’t help himself.”

  We bullshitted for a while, and then there was a knock on the door. Lil Chris jumped up. He’d become my protector of sorts, warding off the Nimitz’s public affairs guys who kept checking up on me, wanting to see if I wanted to tour the nuclear reactors or some other godforsaken part of the boat.

  “If that’s the freak public affairs officer again, I’m going to tell him to fuck off.”

  But it wasn’t the public affairs guy. It was Tupper. He looked pale and uncertain, the exact opposite of this morning’s command performance. He asked me if I could come down to his room.

  I thought I’d done something wrong. I followed him down the dimly lit hallway. He pushed opened his door, and I took a seat on his couch. Tupper slumped into a chair.

  “CAG shot me. I’m done.�
��

  Tupper’s phone kept ringing that afternoon while he was meeting with one of his chiefs. He finally picked up. It was CAG asking him to stop by his office as soon as possible. Tupper headed down a few minutes later. CAG offered no small talk. He told him he wasn’t going to get one of the top two fit reps among the squadron skippers. Tupper just nodded, expressing no emotion. Finally, he asked a question.

  “If there’s an area I haven’t seen or an area I should have focused on, can you let me know what that is?”

  CAG nodded. He quickly ticked off the cruise lowlights: Seaman Headden’s accident, the Midway Island fiasco, and Crapper’s botched accident report.

  Tupper didn’t respond. There wasn’t anything to say. CAG told Tupper to call Beth and let him know in the next forty-eight hours his preference for his next duty station.

  Tupper knew this was a farce. He was destined for Navy middle management, which meant more sea duty. He would retire with full benefits and there was even a chance he could still make captain if he stuck it out for another five years. But he’d never run his own ship or command sailors again. He had gone from Top Gun to Willy Loman in five minutes. Two hours later, he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

  “I thought I was going down for I don’t know what. It was literally like a drive-by shooting.” He referenced the ill-fated Black Raven flight over Midway. “I can’t believe Hot Carl and some below-average electronic countermeasures officers are going to sink my career.”

  I could see he regretted trashing his guys the moment after he said it. But he was crushed. He had already called Beth. She was pissed about the timing. Couldn’t they have waited a week? Couldn’t they let him enjoy his fly-in and his homecoming? But they both knew the Navy didn’t work that way. Timing, feelings, and emotions were civilian luxuries. All he could do now was catch his breath.

  “I think CAG underestimated how far we’ve come,” he said quietly. His eyes were glassy. “I’m completely unprepared to deal with this.”

  I asked him who he thought was going to get the top slot between the COs. He let himself slip back into bitterness.

  “It’s going to be Mongo Koss, the Hornet guy next door. Everyone always knew he was the golden child. He’s a great guy, but he’s got the newest jets on the flight deck.”

  A thousand thoughts were rushing through Tupper’s head. Should he apply for an IA slot in Afghanistan or Iraq? Maybe he could do that for a year; that would bring him right up to twenty. That would allow the girls to stay in the same schools. Or maybe a ground job in Pax River? But that place had so many bad memories from back when the girls were small and Beth was sick. Should he tell Vinnie? Or maybe that just made him a lame duck.

  I tried to make him feel better. I told him of jobs I didn’t get, contracts not renewed, assignments killed. I didn’t think it was much solace, but Tupper was touched. It wasn’t until later that I realized it wasn’t anything specific that I’d said, but just another man admitting failure wasn’t something he was used to hearing from the Navy.

  We talked until there was nothing else left to say. It was midnight and Tupper still needed to pack up his room. I told him to get some sleep, but I knew he wouldn’t.

  I walked back to my stateroom. The combined stench of smoked salmon and American men in an unventilated room hit me the second I opened the door. It was strangely comforting. Stoli, Lil Chris, and the Wolf were all asleep in their bunks, dreaming of wives just a few days away. I lay in my bunk thinking of all the sacrifices Tupper and Beth had made. All the time away from the girls. I wondered if Dad had reached this moment of diminishing returns. Would he have returned from that last cruise, seen me a head taller, and said, “My God, what have I missed?”

  Tupper woke up to emails from Caitlin and Brenna, telling him they’d love him promotion or no promotion. The messages simultaneously lifted his spirits and pissed him off. He thought he’d told Beth he wanted to tell the girls himself when he got home. It was just another in a long line of misunderstandings.

  Tupper’s face was gray by the time I saw him at lunch. It was only twelve hours since he got shot and his body had already dropped its pack.

  “I’m coming down with the ship crud. I’m losing fluid from both ends.”

  I asked him if he was well enough for the fly-off the day after tomorrow. It seemed overly cruel—even by Navy standards—that he’d miss flying home with his men. He told me he was going to be fine. Walking off the boat when the Nimitz pulled into Bremerton was an indignity he couldn’t take. He then excused himself and raced for the head.

  That night, the air wing held Focs’l Follies, an end-of-cruise series of skits and awards ceremony. It didn’t go well for the Black Ravens. They didn’t win anything and CAG’s staff, fearful that I would see something shocking, ejected me. Afterward, Tupper briefed the flight crews on the fly-off. He told a funny story about spinning a Prowler while taxiing on an icy runway in Colorado, emphasizing that unsafe flying this close to home could be deadly.

  But he didn’t take his own advice. The next morning, Tupper made it to CAG’s daily meeting but then went back to bed. No one saw him for the rest of the day. Around dinnertime, Doc stopped by his stateroom. She took one look and sent him down to sickbay, where he got hooked up to an IV. His flight was a half day away and he could barely stand up. But he would fly anyway.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I’d finally found something that I was good at with magazine writing. Stories about everything from John Kerry to teenage killers to New Kids on the Block reunion tours tumbled out of me. The rats disappeared, but Boston never felt like home. I was lonely and Boston was full of eggheads and indie rockers on the make. If you weren’t part of their scene, you didn’t exist.

  Then a friend told me she had someone she wanted me to meet: an Australian woman of Lebanese descent, dark-haired and olive-skinned. Like me, she came from nowhere. She was at Boston University on a Rotary scholarship and was wide-eyed and ravenous for her new country. We made each other laugh, but that was it. I walked her home after our first dinner and nothing happened. (Her sisters called me No Zing for years because of our initial lack of chemistry.) This went on for a couple of weeks until we went to see The Piano. I’m not sure if it was the antipodean story or Harvey Keitel’s dangling member, but something happened that night.

  After that, we were inseparable. She was charismatic and would go to any extreme to sell a joke, once stuffing an entire orange into her mouth and then trying to speak. This mattered. We walked home on a December night and leaf-size snowflakes began dropping from the sky. She began dancing and skipping down the sidewalk. “I know I’m acting like a girl in a douche commercial, but I can’t help it,” she told me through happy tears. It was her first snow. An hour later, we lay on the ground and made snow angels.

  We fell in love. We were both essentially fatherless, broken people, but broken in the same way. Her dad had walked out on his wife and five children. He only gave money to his one son. Her mom tried to make a living the best she could by working at bars and restaurants. Somehow, my girlfriend earned a degree while working collecting debts for a department store. Her three sisters had proven less adept at throwing off the family trauma. One was married to a sketchy businessman; the other two were permanently single. I was the first man in the family’s history not to be seen as a total asshole.

  I can honestly say I never gave her personal history and the impact it might have on our relationship a single thought in the first six years we were together. Our past was not prologue. But her dad’s abandonment and my father’s death had left understandable scars; any attempt by either of us to negotiate our relationship was met with accusations that we were trying to take things away from the other. She said the thing she lov
ed most about me was that I never let her go to bed mad. It was true. No matter what the dispute, I’d be there with a joke or an elaborate gag to make her laugh before the lights went out. These were skills I learned as a boy.

  Boston became our battleground. For her, it was manageable and offered a sense of security that she lacked as a child. I was bored senseless. I was freelancing for national magazines and my home and work life separated at a ridiculous rate. On the road, I had great adventures with no-hope presidential candidates and boxers on their fourth comeback.

  At home, I was a regular at the 10:50 a.m. Friday showings of every new movie that played on the postage stamp–sized screens at Boston’s Copley Place. The Navy brat in me grew restless. Things got bad enough that I moved for work first to Philadelphia and then to New York and commuted home on the weekends. I told myself the moves were for better jobs, but I was now thirty and repeating Dad’s life in another way: 100 percent faithful in a part-time relationship.

  So we decided to get hitched. Why? That was my bright idea. I was a good Catholic boy. And I guess I thought once we were contractually bonded she would understand my commitment to her and would be amenable to moving somewhere else. We were married in an Australian Navy chapel with giant windows on a bluff overlooking Sydney Harbor. (Her father wasn’t invited.) We exchanged vows as a military jet passed outside the windows and, according to the Harrisons, waggled its wings as we said “I do.”