A Return

Author: Leo

Author Introduction: What I am by profession does not matter, for I am a writer by choice, and by interest. Without words, there is no passion in my writing. Without passion, there is no hope in my writing. Without hope, I cannot chase my dreams. Without my dreams, I cannot live. Without words, I cannot live. My thoughts, in verse and in stories, breathe at I Rhyme Without Reason.

The story:

The pale, cold moonlight drifts in through the open window and falls on my bare skin as I wake up with a start. My hands go immediately to my neck as I feel the heart shaped pendant that hangs there from an old silver chain.

“Oh Tom,” I sigh, as a tear slides down my cheek.

I remember it was a knock that woke me up - three short raps on the knocker. But I can’t hear a thing now, other than the content little snores of my son Matt through the walls. Even the breeze that usually rustles through the branches of the old oak is silent today.

“Imagining things again,” I whisper.

I lie down again, and stare at the ceiling. Five years… it has been five long years since I last heard from him. They say he’s dead, that he’ll never return to hold my hand again. If only he had called one last time to say goodbye. I had so much to tell him, so much love left to give him, so many memories left to make with him. If only he had called one last time, so I could have said how much I loved him, and missed him…

I hear the sound of knocking once again and jump up, alert. The bedside clock shows 1:11.

Who can it be at this unearthly hour? The news had reported a burglar in our neighborhood. Could it be him? I had latched every door, shut all the windows downstairs. Maybe he’s trying to trick me to opening the door so he can do his business. Maybe I should call the cops. But if he runs off, they’ll think I’m mad. They already think I’m mad. They won’t come. Even Mrs. McCarthy next door will not think anything if I call for help. I’m alone… all alone in this world, except for Matt. Do I wake him? No. He’s only fourteen. The burglar would just push him aside, maybe even hurt him or hold him hostage. What do I do?

I feel beads of sweat hurriedly kissing goosebumps on my arms. Tiptoeing out of my room, I grab hold of Matt’s baseball bat and go downstairs. The knocking is persistent.

“Who… who is it? I… I… Identify yourself now!” I call out.

The knocking stops for a moment, but I don’t hear footsteps going away. Is it my imagination playing tricks on me again? I wait, poised to strike if something happens. The person knocks again… a long knock, followed by three quick ones, and then two more long ones. It couldn’t be. Could it be? I know that knock well, and the last time I heard that was five years back.

My heartbeats race as I open the three bolts quickly and throw the door open to see him standing there.

“Oh Tom,” I sigh, as a tear slides down my cheek.

**********

It has been five years since I last saw my Jenny. I remember sitting together in the shade of a huge umbrella, watching the waves try to touch our feet. Matt was making sandcastles. He loved sandcastles. We had kissed, knowing Matt wouldn’t notice then. I had told her that I was thinking of returning home. I missed her. I missed Matt. I had been in the Marines since before our marriage. I was a decorated war-hero, and I refused to get promoted to one of those high paying positions that had you sit behind a desk and bark orders, or pass on the baton to younger cadets as a teacher. No. I belonged in the battlefield. The smell of gunpowder was like my cocaine. Jenny knew it as well. She used to say I was married to the Marines more than I was to her. I had told her I wanted to change all of that.

When we had returned to the hotel, the receptionist had given me a letter. There was no postmark, and she had said a soldier had delivered it personally. I had opened it to see that I was being summoned for duty. When I had looked at Jenny, she had walked away without saying a word. It was like her world had collapsed. And it was my fault. I had raised her expectations. That evening, she had watched me pack my bags, and kiss her on the forehead. As I had walked away, she had run behind me, hugged me tight, and pleading me not to go. But I had. And it hadn’t worked out for the best.

It's late when I reach home, but I can't wait to see them, so I knock anyways. When I hear her frightened voice call from inside, I know she’s worried. Paul had told me that she was told the worst, and that she spent months in therapy after that. So hearing knocks at night would have possibly scared the bejeebers out of her. I knock how I usually do… a long one, three short ones and two more long. I know that’ll get her attention. Sure enough, the door flies open, and she’s standing there, in a long t-shirt, her hair tousled and eyes glued to me, not wanting to believe what they are seeing.

Jenny glides toward me like a ghost, and with both hands, cups my face. I smile at her.

“No. No. No. I’m dreaming all of this. It can’t be real. He’s dead. Goddammit, he’s dead. He can’t be standing in this doorway, looking right as rain. He’s in a goddamned casket buried six feet under,” I hear her shout, turning away from me, and pinching herself.

“Jenny, I’m not dead. Honey, I’m fine. I was a prisoner of war. I know it’s a shock after so many years, but it’s for the best. I’m back now, and I won’t leave. I promise. Don’t hurt yourself. Please?” I plead with her.

I enter the hall and take her into my arms. She’s crying, and her hands pounding my chest, admonishing me for the many years of pain that she had been put through. I kiss her lips, and hold it for a moment, till I feel her respond too. When I let go, she’s calmed down. It’s like a part of her believes I am here now. She falls into my arms again, sobbing silently into my chest.

I hear footsteps, and turn toward the staircase to see him hurry down.

“Mom, where are you? What’s wrong? I heard shouts… a man’s voice… who is it? Are you alright? Mom…”

He stops abruptly as he sees me standing there.

“Hi Matt,”  I say sheepishly.

**********

I’m woken up by Mom’s gasp.

Ever since the visit from Lt. Col. Paul Porter, Dad’s commanding officer five years back to tell us Dad wouldn’t be coming back, she could never sleep well. It was like Dad was everywhere to her. I remember the alarmed shouts of the milkman one morning and running down to see Mom hugging him tightly and kissing him all over his face, muttering how much she missed him and was glad to see him back. I’d find her slinking downstairs in the middle of the night, with my baseball bat in her hand, thinking there was an intruder. I couldn’t stop her. She was obsessed. I kept an eye on her. I was a heavy sleeper before. After that, I started taking shorter naps.

I think the therapy helped her a lot. She stopped sleepwalking, seeing Dad’s face in other people, and calling the cops at odd hours in the night. Once her mourning period was over, she started to wrest control of her life, and guide mine. She was well-educated, but had given up her dreams of corporate life for another dream – becoming a great mother and wife. She dreamt that dream again, and got a job as a data analyst for a software company. She depended on me not to get into trouble, and I did my part. I never got into those habits that other kids are tempted to try at my age. I was the man of the house after all. I had to take care of her as much as she took care of me.

I’m woken up by Mom’s gasp. It has been resurfacing of late, her insomnia. She refuses to admit it, but I can see it in her eyes. I hear her crying. She still misses him. I know I do too. A minute or two passes before I hear her door open slowly, and her shadow slink down the stairs silently. She has my baseball bat again.

“Take Mom to Dr. Perez tomorrow,”  I remind myself, but I hear the knock soon after, and the door being thrown open. I jump out of bed just as I hear her shouts, and a guy’s voice. Her sobs are getting louder.

I run downstairs shouting for her, “Mom, where are you? What’s wrong? I heard shouts… a man’s voice… who is it? Are you alright? Mom…”

And I see him there. It can’t be him. He’s dead. Or at least, I thought he was. I hear him greet me, a half smile on his face. He’s in a sleeveless t-shirt, and jeans. I can see scars on his biceps, and on his cheeks. He’s still hefty, and taller than I remember him to be. But his eyes are the same. They have seen war, but still have that warmth in them; that old twinkle. I see him break away from Mom, and come toward me. He hugs me. I feel his tears wet my t-shirt. I hug him back. It is only then that I believe he’s back. He’s not dead. My dad survived whatever it was that supposedly had killed him.

“How are you, kiddo?” he asks me, “You have grown fast; nearly my height now, eh?”

“Where have you been? What happened? How’d you survive? Who took you out?”

Mom and I bombard him with questions once we’re past the shock of seeing him again. He laughs.

“It’s nearly two at night. I’m tired, and from your eyes, I’m sure you two haven’t got much sleep either. Grilling me for news can wait till morning,”he says.

Mom and I agree. For the first time in five years, we’re happy as we go upstairs to our warm beds, on either side of a man we thought and accepted to be dead.

“Goodnight, Matt,” I hear him say, and I wish him back.

I open my cupboard and pull out my journal.

“Tuesday, August 3rd.

Life is strange. Tonight, I met a ghost. I knew he’d always be with me, but I never expected him to return in this lifetime. Tonight, I believe in miracles. I believe in hope. I believe that life can be survived. My dad did it. He has scars, five years worth of them in his heart. But my hero hasn’t failed me. I’m proud of him today than I ever was before. I’m glad he’s back. I missed him a lot. I’ll just go tell him that, and that I love him.

Matty”

**********

I awaken as usual with the first cock-a-doodle-doo of my alarm clock. My disheveled hair lies on his face. Some things never change. I pull a sheet around my body, and get up from the bed. I give him a kiss, and he smiles in his sleep. It has been five days since he returned. Matt had holidays, and we went back to the beach, where we had last said goodbye. Three days of fun, but Tom keeps muttering in his sleep. I hear him say “Please, not the flame again. My wounds aren’t healed. I beg of you,”, and getting up alarmed. Matt doesn’t know. Even with Tom’s nightmares, I feel the happiness which our family once lost has now returned. I don’t want it to end, but I have to get to office today. Mr. Harwood called to say there is an important meeting with our clients, and that if I miss it, he’ll fire me. I get my morning chores done in a couple of hours and leave for work, telling Matt goodbye and to tell his father.

Yesterday was a mostly forgettable Sunday. Tom made a fuss about going to church. He reluctantly tagged along with us though. Matt wasn’t happy at all. Mrs. McCarthy let slip that I had a job now. That didn’t go down well with him either. He’s kind of old fashioned, my Tom.

“No wife of mine needs a job as long as I, Tom Trueberry, am alive!” he declared when we reached home after.

I didn’t want to remind him that until two days ago, we all thought he was dead.

**********

“Sunday, August 8th.

People change. My dad certainly has. Today being Sunday, Mom and I told him to come to church. He made a scene for that, shouting that he doesn’t want to, telling us it was none of our business to ask why. Mom was nearly in tears. When he finally agreed to come, I saw him load a pistol and put it his coat pocket.

Everyone in our congregation was happy to see him back amongst us, quiet hardworking Tom Trueberry, a hero to them too. All of them greeted him, asked him if he was well, but he didn’t say a word. Holding our hands tightly, he pulled Mom and me inside the church, and sat at the very last row. I couldn’t see love in his eyes then, just fear. His beady eyes hovered around the church, one hand placed precariously inside his coat pocket, as if he was expecting the pastor to start a morning mass massacre.

Afterward, he didn’t let us linger at the Church Bake Sale or even eat a piece of Mrs. McCarthy’s chocolate fudge cake (which used to be his favorite). In the afternoon, he threw to me as we played ball in our backyard. When Mr. Falkman’s Chevy backfired, he shouted and dived into the bushes. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. When I turned around, my friends were pointing at me and laughing. Dad went to Mr. Falkman and made a scene, telling him to get his fucking car fixed. When Mom questioned him, he yelled at her too.

I was happy he came back. But this is not him. I accept his scars. But he’s lost the love he had for us. Yesterday morning, it seemed like all was back to normal and nothing had changed in five years. But from the evening, he seems edgy. Just when we were beginning to accept that he was gone, and would never come back, he came back. I’m beginning to wish that he hadn’t.

Matty”

**********

It is noon when I wake up. After five years of not sleeping much at all, it seems a shame to just wake up early. I think Matt and Jenny understand that. I wish they understood that yesterday when they made me get up early to go to church. I can’t understand why God matters to them so much. I didn’t see God help me in those five years. It was me. I had the will to survive. God didn’t give me that. He only watched as I was tortured.

The house is silent. I call for Jenny, but I don’t hear her answering me. I go down, looking in various rooms. No one is home. There is a pot on the table and a note beneath it.

“Didn’t want to wake you up. Am off to school. Mom’s at work. Brunch is in the pot, your favorite sweet corn soup and freshly made croutons. – Matthew”

Why does she not listen to me? She doesn’t need to work. I can earn for our family. I should be the one doing that, not her. It’s like I’m invisible now. They can’t see me, or hear me or obey my wishes. When I was a captive, I used to think only of them. It was their voices I heard, telling me all would be okay when I was screaming as their blades cut me shallowly. It was their faces I saw smiling, telling me not to give up on my smile. When they told me that my country thought I was dead, and wouldn’t welcome me back, it brought down my morale. In the dark dungeon where I was held, every blood-curdling scream I heard broke my will, and I began to wilt. But I told myself that Jenny and Matt wouldn’t have believed I was dead. It took me four years, many attempts at escape before I finally succeeded. But my own kith & kin, the Marines, handed me to the government. They held me for another year, questioned to see if I had betrayed my country. They sent me to therapy after that. I waited to see my family. But my family can’t even spare some time for me in their lives. They seem like strangers.

I sit down on my old rocking chair. The soup spills over as the pot falls to the floor with an almighty crash.

**********

When I return from work, I find Tom seated on his favorite rocking chair near the dining table. I’m surprised to see he hasn’t washed up, or changed from yesterday’s clothes. The pot of soup is near the kitchen door, its contents all over the floor. His eyes are red and he stares vacantly at nothing in particular. He brushes my hand off when I place it on his shoulder.

“Darling, what’s the matter?”

He’s still silent, but I bend down and give him a hug. He pushes me away again.

“Why are you acting so difficult? Don’t be so angry, Tom,” I tell him softly.

“I was captured by merciless terrorists. I was cut open, my fingers exposed to flames, hung upside down. But it was you and Matt that I thought of. When I return, I find you are working and won’t give that up for me. He doesn’t have exams, but Matt can’t take a few days off for spending time with me. Can’t I be angry for that? If I can’t understand that, is it difficult for you to understand that?” he yells at me.

“But honey, we have lives too. We want you here. We’re happy you have returned, but we can’t be with you all the time,” I pacify him.

“Ha! Don’t try to convince me, Jennifer. I know you don’t. Matthew doesn’t. I can see it in his eyes. He’s waiting to pick a fight with me. He’s embarrassed to be with me. He wishes I never returned.”

“How dare you?”

I turn around and see Matt standing at the door.

**********

“Ha! Don’t try to convince me, Jennifer. I know you don’t. Matthew doesn’t. I can see it in his eyes. He’s waiting to pick a fight with me. He’s embarrassed to be with me. He wishes I never returned,” I hear him say, and I know he’s done it. It makes my blood boil.

“How dare you?” I spit out, locking eyes and approaching him.

“How dare you read my journal? You’re my dad, but my journal is off limits to anybody. They are my private thoughts. If I wanted the world to know, I’d scream it out loud, not write it in there.”

“I’ve not done anything like that, Matthew. Don’t you dare use that tone with me,” he says.

“You can’t know I’m embarrassed by seeing my eyes, Father! You can’t know I wish you hadn’t returned by seeing my eyes either. Don’t try to hide it. You want my attention, you have it. You had it from the moment you returned. I was happy. I was proud of you. But you know that too. It was there in my journal, right before yesterday’s entry that you read. Right before you broke the trust I still had in you, the trust I still had that you will change again to being the fun, loving dad I once knew!” I tell him, unable to stop the tears.

“What you do IS my business too. You’re too young for secrets. Kids are of your age when they begin to go astray. I don’t want my son to be one of them. Look into my eyes, Matthew! I’ve seen sights you cannot even imagine. I’ve seen children shot dead inside a church, hardened men turn into jelly, beg for mercy as they were hung over crocodile pits and put nude in glass cases filled with fire-ants. I’ve been drowned in pools of water to within an inch of my life, brought up till my energy returned and then put through that again. I’ve been force fed bread filled with fire-ants and cockroaches. I can’t be the old happy-go-lucky soldier I once was. I nearly died, but I returned for you. But you don’t want me here. That makes me wish I had died,” he says.

He’s not shouting. I can feel the sadness in his voice, but I can’t agree with him. I can’t agree with the way he has judged me. I can’t agree with the way he’s stolen my privacy.

“Matt…”  he calls as Mom watches on silently. She’s crying as well. It was she who taught me not to hide my true feelings from anyone.

“Dad, I too wish you had died,”  I hear myself say as I walk away from him.

**********

“Dad, I too wish you had died,”  I hear him say.

Was I wrong in reading his diary? Why can’t he understand that life isn’t as rosy as he thinks it is? I only want to protect him. The young man who guarded me in that dark dungeon lit by torches, he was just fifteen. I couldn’t imagine Matt turning into one of them. I risked my life to get out of there, so I can return and guide him away from any wrong paths. But he wishes I was dead.

“He doesn’t mean it dear. He’s just angry,”  Jenny says, holding my hand, “I’ll take a few days off, we can be together. We want you here.”

But I know Matt means it. I could understand his tone. I sink back into my chair, as Jenny starts to clean up the mess I made earlier. Hours pass, but Matt doesn’t come downstairs. I hear the phone ring and Jenny’s footsteps as she comes downstairs to answer it.

“Darling, it’s for you,”  she says, and I wonder who it can be.

“Trueberry speaking, who is this?” 

“Tom, this is Paul. How are you now?”  I hear him say, addressing me like old friends.

“Fine, Paul. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Captain Trueberry, you are the best I know. There’s a mission afoot, and I need you on it. Will you come?” 

He’s never been one to beat around the bush, Porter. I don’t think twice.

“I’ll be at Gremington within the day,”  I tell him and keep the phone.

“You don’t have to run away from this battle here you know,”  I hear Jenny whisper and turn around.

“This is a losing battle I feel, Jenny. I’m just making things worse. Besides, the battlefield is where I belong, remember?”  I ask her, and she gives a half nod.

I go upstairs and stuff my clothes into a duffel bag. Perhaps it is for the best. I take the picture of Matt and Jenny from the bedside table, and put that there too. As I descend, I see Matt at the foot of the staircase. I hug him, and I’m happy that he hugs me back.

“Take care of your mother okay? She’s fragile,”  I tell him, and he nods.

I hug Jenny too, as she cries.

“It’s for the best,”  I tell her, and walk to the door before I can change my mind.

“Dad, will you return again?” 

********** THE END **********