Second Chances

Second Chances

Pt. 06

by G. Lawrence

This novel is a sequel to Diminished Capacity. Like the first book, it contains romance, mystery, war, criminals, mild sex, and humor. There are ten chapters and an epilogue. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: Jack's origins as a baby kidnap victim and street waif have been exposed after his aunt appeared before a grand jury. The publicity and criticism from the press may be getting to him.

Authors note; readers will have noticed by now that each chapter begins with Jack being held prisoner by a terrorist organization in Iraq with the rest of the story being told in flashback. The two timelines will eventually come together.

* * * * * *

Mr. Daniel Palmer

Palmer Media Building

New York, New York

Dear Mr. Palmer,

In retrospect, it should not be a surprise that Jack reacted to events as he did. Having spent his life avoiding attention, he was suddenly thrust into a media storm from which there was no escape. Perhaps, one day, I will be able to write about our friendship, but it's still too soon. Respectfully, Alex McGuire, Senior Agent, United States Secret Service

* * * * * *

Chapter Six

DREDGING THE PAST

The winter in Sar'ret was hard. The nightmares were back in force. Heavy gunfire. Torn bodies. Walking dead. I'd wake up soaked in sweat, sometimes bruised from thrashing around my cell, afraid to go back to sleep. It made me wonder when Abari was coming back. How much longer did I have? Every time a truck came up the mountain road, I knew it was the end.

My deteriorating condition was not a secret. When Khillan and Ishan escorted me to the fields, they'd notice me staring into the distance with a growing sense of detachment. I rarely ate. My weight dropped. Those in the village who cared about their prisoner were worried. Ma'amet was so concerned that he moved me from the storage room into his own home where Lalia could feed me. When the coldest of the winter arrived, I was sleeping on cushions before his fireplace.

"These are for you," Ma'amet said one morning, sitting next to me on a bench among the trees overlooking the lake. He handed me a bottle.

"Cyanide?" I asked, not bothering to read the label.

"It is your medication," Ma'amet said.

I squinted, able to make out some of the Persian letters. It was my prescription for PTSD. Or something very much like it.

"How did you find this?" I asked.

"We sent to Baghdad."

"This drug is rare in this part of the world. Wasn't it expensive?"

"We were able to trade. It was a fair bargain," Ma'amet said.

"I don't understand."

"There is little we can do for you, my friend. But this we can do for you. Everybody agreed."

"Your people are generous, Ma'amet," I said.

I took a pill, then sat under a tree, attempting to meditate. That night, I had better sleep than I'd had in months. As my way of saying thank you, I helped prepare the fields for winter wheat and carried baskets for the women. Ma'amet was pleased, my behavior rewarding the risk he'd taken.

A few weeks later, it was Christmas Day. I bathed early in an icy creek, mended the fur gloves generously donated to me by a grateful farmer, and spent the morning sitting quietly by the lake. I had been a prisoner now for nearly nine months, and though it had not started well, my treatment steadily improved. I hoped Kassan Abari would not make the villagers pay a price for that. Ramood gave me a candle, and when lighting it, I prayed to God for Abari's demise.

Christmas had mixed memories for me. Old Da had not celebrated it, except as a way to exploit tourists. When I was ten, in New York, I nearly froze to death in a cardboard box. On a Christmas Eve in Afghanistan, I was wounded at Katana Bridge and watched helplessly as comrades died only a few yards away. Francie and I had one Christmas together, and three months later she was dead.

But there were a few good memories. The Brothers at St. Mary's served a fine meal. We sheltered the poor, distributed clothing, and sang carols. The Brothers sought to instill Christian values in their young troublemaker. Not the hypocritical values I'd seen too often in the world, but a genuine love that transcended pettiness and ego. And I had struggled to embrace their philosophy ever since. It was why I became a medic, and a first responder. And in prison, an enforcer. For to make life better for many, sometimes a few need to make sacrifices.

"You are quiet today. Is it your Lord's Day?" Lalia asked, coming down to the lake with hot broth and wheat bread. She was in her early fifties, long black hair turning gray, with gentle eyes and an abundance of wisdom.

"It's a holiday back home. One where families gather," I said, grateful for her thoughtfulness.

"Would you be with your family today?" she asked.

"I have no family. I would have gone for a walk, and sat by a lake, just as I am doing now," I replied.

"We had Christian missionaries here once. They called themselves Latter-day Saints," Lalia remembered. "They spoke often of their faith, but they also helped build the infirmary, planted the fields, and brought medicines for the babies. They were nice, even if their religion made no sense."

"Christians like to do good works," I agreed.

"Are you not a Christian?"

"During the Freedom War, it was said the Americans had come to Afghanistan to impose their culture on the people. And there was some truth to this. I will not speak of my faith here. It's not my place."

"Our faith is not so weak that we cannot hear of yours," Lalia said. "The Kurds believe differently than we do. And the Turks. And the Persians. If you wish to share your thoughts on a special day, you have the right."

"Thank you so much for saying so," I answered, taking her hand. "But I'm not sure what's left of my faith. Everything feels so long ago. Thinking of the past only makes me sad."

____________

It was time to consider the future. With my lack of formal education, I wasn't going to medical school, and I didn't want to go back in the Army. Speaker fees were large but might disappear once my novelty wore off. And I had few appreciable skills that didn't involve blood and heartache. I decided to see if Skylla College still wanted teachers.

I rode the train to Manchester and splurged on a cab to Skylla Falls. Mrs. Walters had still not rented my cottage, making it available for a few days. Jeff offered me a ride, but I decided to walk.

The town was quiet, but when I spotted a reporter loitering near the Roasted Duck Saloon, I thought it best to use my secret route. Going up Cabot Avenue, I entered the Taylor estate using a small gate at the lower end of his property, planning to exit through another small gate in the woods above the lake, with minimal trespassing. Mr. Taylor was sitting on the steps of the ancient colonial mansion and flagged me down.

"Youngster, hold up a minute," the septuagenarian shouted. Though thin and walking with a cane, the old gray-hair still had a vibrant energy.

"I'm sorry, sir. You gave me permission before. I thought it was still okay," I said, walking up the broad green lawn.

Down by the lake was the modern ranch house built by his late son, dead from cancer five years before. I had been in Zachery House once, a rambling structure with a vaulted living room ceiling, five bedrooms, and a large patio for parties. Zachery Madison Taylor had been an entrepreneur who used the estate for entertaining business clients. There was a pool, tennis courts, a basketball court, and a putting green. At one time, he even considered building riding stables.

On a hill overlooking the property was the mansion built by a Taylor ancestor in the 1760s. Two stories high, quaint but expensive to maintain, it looked like a smaller version of Mt. Vernon. Better suited to tours by school children than a residence.

"Not mad at you, son. Not mad at all," Mr. Taylor said. "Been readin' on your adventures. What are you doin' back in Skylla Falls?"

"I'm going to ask Dr. Johnson about teaching next spring," I said. "Also thinking of buying a home in case I get married someday."

"Married, huh? The cute little redhead?" he asked.

"I shouldn't say until she hears it from me first, Mr. Taylor," I replied.

"Figured as much. How about buying my place?"

"Sir?"

"With my son gone, only got a few relatives out west, and none of them gives a flying fuck about Taylor Place. Probably tear it down for timeshares. But I've been watching you. You care about tradition. And you're an up and comer, like my Zach was. This estate is a fine place to entertain the high and mighty."

"Don't know that I'll be hanging out with the high and mighty, sir. Isn't Taylor Place worth millions?"

"Maybe not millions, but worth preserving," George said.

The twenty acres, most of which was forest, didn't just have the two main houses. There was also a gardener's cottage and a 1920s garage used as a workshop. And best of all, there was an ivy-covered brick wall along Cabot Avenue screening it from prying eyes. It was the sort of home that a street kid like me could only dream of.

"Sir, I've made a little money from speaker fees lately, and from the college. I love Taylor Place but I don't see how I can afford it."

"I've set up a trust fund," he cagily revealed, looking very pleased. "Whatever you pay for the estate will go back into maintenance. On a modest income, you'll pay the mortgage off in eight years. And I've been watching you. Your modesty, and love of tradition. You need Taylor Place, and Taylor Place needs you."

I was numb. Could any of that really happen? It would be a fantasy come true. My own home. Mine. A bastion of history. Beautiful beyond belief. I reacted without thinking.

"You'll need to keep living here, sir. It will be a few years before I can settle down, and then you'll need to teach me how to manage it," I offered.

"Let's go up to the house and talk," George said with a big smile.

We reached a price that was more than fair, and I gave him a substantial down payment using my speaker fees. I called Mrs. Blair's attorney to arrange the details, for if anything ever happened to me, Patricia Blair would inherit my folly.

I moved into Zachery House that afternoon, my friends from the Roasted Duck helping me dust, purchase bedding, and set up the kitchen. I made spaghetti for Jeff and his mother, Sally Ann, joined by Dwayne, Big Solley and Chubby. Thanks to Chef Guevara's training at Northfield, I didn't screw it up too bad. I didn't tell my guests they were eating a prison recipe.

"This is amazing. I haven't been here in years. Not since my 7th grade field trip," Dwayne said, mixing drinks on my new patio as we looked at the red sun setting over the lake.

"Yes, I have my own kingdom now," I agreed.

The next day I walked down the hill to the college intending to get my job back. And buy a bicycle. Dr. Johnson was very nice, giving me a tentative approval, but I would need to interview before a board first. By Friday afternoon, I was back in New York.

"You bought a house?" Jenny said.

"Three houses, twenty acres, and a pier," I elaborated.

"Without talking to me first?" she asked in a hurt tone.

"I was going to find a small place for when I was teaching, but Mr. Taylor made a generous offer."

"But we live in New York. It's where we work," she protested.

"I don't really work anywhere, and I don't live anywhere. I never have. But I want to teach at Skylla College," I responded, annoyed with her. "I haven't heard you complaining about growing up at Blair House. Which is nicer than a cardboard box, last I heard."

"Let's not fight," Jenny wisely reconsidered. "Let's eat. I'm hungry."

We met Bobby at our local restaurant, Kiwi's Grill on 49th. He was surprised, too.

"Can you afford a large estate?" Bob said.

"There are subsidies, and I have money coming in. The speaking fees. Some from the concerts. And my lawsuit," I answered.

"They won't be able to pay you a hundred million dollars," Bob said. "Mom's investigator says the Houser family is only worth about fifteen million. Twenty, at most. And most of that is tied up in property."

"Then they better find a good real estate agent," I said.

Jenny and Bob fell into an uncomfortable silence. I didn't care. It wasn't their life that was stolen.

"Your San Antonio trip is coming up soon," Bob said.

"Yes, I'm speaking at the Roddenberry Hotel," I confirmed.

"Talking about the war again?" Bob pressed.

"The topic is holding a hopeless position. Appropriate, being down the street from the Alamo," I said. "I hear River Walk has great food."

"Let's make a joint project," Bob suggested. "Come to Philadelphia for my book signing, then we'll both go to San Antonio for your speech. Good chance to spend some time together."

My first instinct was to say no. I liked Bob, but he was a bit refined. Which was my way of saying a snob. But who was I to judge?

"Sounds good," I agreed.

_________

I gave a concert with the 144th Band Friday night, then took the train with Bob to Philadelphia first thing Saturday morning. His publisher got us a private compartment. A car picked us up at the station, driving straight to Roman's Bookstore on Main Street where Bob was scheduled to sign copies of his new book.

"You lived here for several years, didn't you?" Bob asked, looking at the city as we passed. A cobblestone street took us in front of Independence Hall. I had visited there once.

"Yes. I was fourteen at the time. The Brothers at St. Mary's took me in after I got beat up by some local thugs."

"Attended Farragut High School. Straight A student majoring in biology. Played baseball," Bob recounted. "There's a rumor that you were offered a minor league contract with the Orioles. Two years undefeated in the Golden Gloves."

"Has someone been checking up on me?" I asked, not that my biography hadn't been leaking out for some time.

"As a matter of fact, someone you know," Bob said.

We were dropped off behind the store, entering through the back door. There was already a line waiting, and the moment the crowd saw me with Bobby, they started texting their friends. I discovered that Bob wasn't signing books by himself.

"Rafael? What's this all about?" I asked.

"Same publisher. They thought a joint event would be good for sales," Rafael Martín said. "You being here won't hurt, either."

That quickly became obvious, and though I was under no obligation, I hung around signing copies of The Sarge, The White Mountain War, An American Hero, Fountain Blues, and other titles they were pushing. The four-hour event stretched to seven, when the store finally managed to close down the lines. The manager was very grateful, especially with the live media coverage their event had gathered. It's good for people to read books.

I let the young authors pay for dinner at Mariano's that evening, ordering a thick steak and an expensive bottle of wine.

"Maria is pregnant," Rafael announced, offering a toast. "If it's a boy, we're naming him John Henry Martín. A girl will be Jackie Henrietta Martín."

"Here, here," Bob said.

"That's a big honor," I uncomfortably remarked, clinking glasses.

"How long have you and Jack known each other?" Bob asked.

"Gosh, it's been seven years now," Rafael remembered. "I was in Windhaven, convicted of selling guns to an undercover ATF agent. Jack straightened me out, taught me to write. Helped make my first sale. I'd still be a street punk if not for him."

"That's not true," I disagreed.

"Yes, Jack, it is," Rafael insisted. "You turned my life around. And I'm not the only one. I've been interviewing other Windhaven inmates. And a few from Northfield. You put a lot of us on the straight and narrow."

"By being cranky, irritable, and demanding?" I asked.

"Those weren't your best qualities, but yes," Rafael answered.

"To second chances," Bob said, calling for another toast. "When I set out to be a military historian, my first work was crap. Jack put me in touch with reliable sources, and then fact checked my early articles, which led to my first book deal."

"I also edited Sarge out, and you put him back in. And now both of you have made Sarge a cottage industry. Do you know there are Sarge comic books?"

"When it was time to put Second Afghan behind us, Sarge was the hero America needed," Bob insisted.

"He still is," Rafael agreed.

"He's also a lot to live up to, which doesn't make my life any easier," I protested.

"And when did you decide to have an easy life?" Bob asked.

"When I started banging your sister, Bob," I replied.

I expected him to be insulted, but Bob and Rafael just laughed.

"How about giving us a tour tomorrow?" Rafael asked. "Fill in a few of your missing years."

"For another book?" I asked.

"Isn't it better to have a friend telling your story instead of a hack?" Rafael suggested.

"There is someone I've been meaning to visit," I admitted.

The next morning, Rafael drove us in his rental car to St. Mary's a mile from the Philadelphia docks. It brought back another time, left behind when I was young, idealistic, and naïve enough to think I could change the world.

It was still a sprawling complex, established two hundred years before. The towering church fronting 15th Street, the seminary, the elementary school, an infirmary for the poor, and housing for the priests and the nuns. And behind the private chapel, a cemetery.

"There they are," I said.

There were four graves in particular, Friar Ramirez, Friar Sebastian, Friar Barragan, and Friar José. Sebastian had been the last to pass away, while I was still in Windhaven, though I had not attended any of their funerals.

"I was a young hooligan when they took me in," I recounted. "They gave me a name, taught me their faith, made me go to school. Father Sebastian said I already had a soul, but he was wrong. They gave me a soul."

I knelt to offer a prayer but was interrupted.

"Hello, Johnny. It's good to see you again," Sister Agatha said, walking down from the convent. I jumped to embrace her.

"Thank you, Mother. It's good to see you again, too," I said, kissing her on the cheek. She was looking good for a nun in her late eighties.

"I read you finally found your family. I'm so happy for you," Sister Agatha said. "It always troubled you so, to have no roots."

"My family was here, though I let you down," I replied.

"You did not let us down. Sebastian said when you went off to war that we might not see you again. You were doing God's work on those battlefields. We were all so proud. We still are."

"Did you know Jack well?" Rafael asked, making mental notes for his book.

"As well as anyone could. He didn't speak much about himself," Agatha said. "He studied very hard all the time. He played baseball with single-minded intensity. But it was the Golden Gloves where he showed the most growth. His early bouts were savage affairs, but with Brother Ramirez's help, he became a man who showed mercy to his opponents. Those were special years, to see God's light growing in his young heart."

"So, you reformed the vicious street thug?" Rafael remarked.

"Reformed who?" Agatha said.

"Jack," Rafael clarified.

"I don't know who you've been speaking with, but the boy I knew was no thug," Agatha responded with indignation. "He stood up for the younger children against bullies. Protected seniors from muggers. Stood guard at the women's shelter. He had rough edges, I know, but he was never a hoodlum."

"May I return another time? Ask more questions?" Rafael requested.

"Of course, young man. And we have a donation box for the church that you can fill, too, Mr. Rafael Martín," Agatha replied with a smile.

After our visit to St. Mary's, I showed Bob and Rafael my old high school. The ballfield where I played in the Babe Ruth League was gone, replaced by apartment buildings. We stopped by the Army recruitment center where I joined fifteen years before. The old white stucco building had needed paint then, and it still did.