THEO
DAMP SHEETS CLUNG to my skin. It was four in the morning. It had been two years—still wasn’t accustomed to sleeping alone, no snoring men, no bombs in the distance, no crying children. I dropped my feet to the cold, wood floor and studied my jump gear piled in the corner—folded, stacked, ready. Army-green pants and shirt, black boots, cartridge belt with canteen, headgear and gloves, pocket compass, medical kit, Ek Commando Knife, toggle rope, water purification tablets, and notebooks with jottings of Korea’s bewildering Karst Caves. Thing is, everyday, wearing all that gear, I knew who I was. Had clarity, never wondered why I was there or what I was supposed to be doing. Not once. I wrote it all down when I could, every bit of it.
After two years of solitude, two years of thinking, pondering, and examining every detail of my life like a madman with a jigsaw puzzle, I realized writing it all out gave me a safe place to put the undigested sights, sounds, and images. Then sealing them away shifted the burden so I could move on and be a soldier, do what I had to do. But now what would I do with this Pandora’s box, these letters containing my puzzle, my nightmares?
With sunrise approaching I grabbed the stack of letters and went out back. The wicker chair on the porch moaned against my weight. The full moon hung like a pearl over Manzanita— its milky light played with the shadows of my yard and filtered through the screened-in overhang of the porch. I imagined that full moon shimmering off Andréa’s hair. Living was the hard part.
Solomon’s hammock rocked in the breeze next to the carved cedar totem that towered over his work shed. The orange hue of sunrise filled the mist. His sunflowers tilted their sleeping heads upward to the waking sun, like him, always seeking light.
I propped my feet on the banister and switched on the old torch lamp with a cut glass shade; its vanilla glow cast down. The letters were heavy in my hand.
The top letter, postmarked Kimpo AFB, would be the first letter— after eight weeks’ training—I wrote about finally being a Rakkasan, a paratrooper with the 101st Airborne Division. The Japanese called us Rakkasan, which meant “falling down umbrella men.” It stuck. Thought she’d get a laugh. Mailed that letter the day we shipped out for Seoul, September 3, 1950.
I set the letters down, unable to read, then strapped on my gloves, had a go at the bag.
Ten minutes later the telephone started to ring. By the time I took off the gloves, wiped my face, and made it inside, the ringing stopped. I picked up the bottle of Murphy’s on the kitchen counter, took a good long whiff of the spicy liquor, then re-corked the bottle and put it back on the shelf. The phone rang again, then again. I finally picked up.
“Father Theo,” said Lucy, who managed most calls from in or out of town from the switchboard in her house. “Can you hold for Bishop Doyle?”
“Yes, I’ll hold.” Now what? I looked at the kitchen clock; it was eight-thirty in the morning.
“Father Riley?”
“Yes, your Eminence,” I said. “I’m here.” I took a clean pair of socks from the hutch.
“Father Hugo is not well,” The Bishop told me. “We need you at the prison today.”
“But—”
“Ten a.m. sharp . . . And wear your robes. The mayor will be there for a dedication ceremony. There will be reporters. It would be best if you are seen shaking his hand.”
“I understand,” I said. “And how is Father Hugo?”
“He’ll be fine. He thanks you. Now, God be with you.” The line went quiet.
I doubted that our elderly Father Hugo was even expected to go. The Bishop’s desire for favorable press and forever pushing his fundraising agenda was what mattered. I dropped food into the aquarium, put my white collar on, did not change into my robes, grabbed my hat, and slammed the door. Guess I’d be dealing with Toreck again, sooner rather than later.