Steve McGill Online

The Rested

         This chilling independent/adult reader will be available for purchase in early 2011.

The Rested Chapter One     

January had been tough.  The rain was enough to depress anyone, and on the days when no rain fell, fog. To the residents of Sirenia, fog was just another season, so with no rain in the forecast, the presence of fog wasn’t a surprise.  And it wasn’t the thick, blotchy kind, either. At least that had some character. This was rather the kind that only made everything look as if it were in hibernation.  It kept folks in, so the outdoors was quiet.  Less traffic clogged the streets, businesses, though open, almost seemed as if they longed for closing hour just to get to the kind of warmth that only home can bring, biting cold temperatures being what they were. Not exactly the kind of day for a pleasant walk, but Tom Crafton had been sitting in the public library for going on four hours, and his bones ached.  

Tom was 62.  His salt and pepper gray hair, while showing more salt than pepper, almost fully covered his head, thanks to a slightly receding forehead.   He wore fairly thick glasses with plastic frames.  His skin was younger than his years, Tom attributing this to the ultraviolet filters from gallons of sunscreen for over four decades. He’d worked hard to stay in good shape, and at 165 pounds, he still enjoyed the contours of many men decades younger. Having shrunk slightly, he now stood five foot nine, but on a frigid day like this, shrugging shoulders revealed a man of shorter stature.

He stepped out the double glass doors, slipped his gloved hands into his grey wool jacket, and took a deep breath, steam pouring from his nostrils.  Not a soul in sight, and few cars were on the streets.  He made his way up the dozen or so steps to the sidewalk and began to walk southward toward the old courthouse.        Ice had replaced the once-moving water in the gutters.  The sidewalk seemed harder, less giving, Tom thought.  Now feeling at least a bit more vigor, his pace increased.  I should do more walking; take Misty along.  At fifty he had been forced to stop running--knee problems.  And now, twelve years later, a brisk walk, though certainly doable, was a struggle. Since his retirement, he had made attempts at a daily stroll, but the weather often dictated whether he got out or stayed put.  Misty, however, was always in the walking mood.  She’d nudge his arm until he finally looked into her eyes.  Golden tail wagging, she’d trot over to the front door and paw it a couple of times.  To Misty, weather, shmether, she always wanted to get out.  Tom felt guilty when he failed to overcome the urge to stay in the warm house, and he’d drag himself into the kitchen and grab a couple of treats for her.  “Sorry, girl, it just isn’t a great day for a walk.”  She’d devour the morsals then look up sadly at her best friend as if to say, “A poor substitute for a getaway, but thanks just the same.”        Misty, Tom's 70-pound Golden Retriever, was now six years old.  At three months of age, amongst six other golden siblings, Misty's gaze had met Tom's, and from that moment on, they were pals.  At 56, Tom had known that retirement was just around the corner, and he had dreamed of having a canine buddy for quite some time.  Misty had turned out to be even more amazing that he’d dreamed.        Tom paused to look out over the landscape of the once-shoddy downtown waterfront.  Modern structures and beautifully landscaped parks now surrounded the port waters.  An outdoor stage faced an open grassy knoll upon which thousands of last year’s city residents sat, oohing and ahing the fireworks show in July.  In the background, Van Morrison belted out “Days Like This,” “Brown Eyed Girl,” “Brand New Day” and more.  Tom remembered how he had told his wife that sitting in the middle of “that craziness” was the last thing in the world that he wanted, that he’d much rather spend the 4th on the front patio with her, enjoying a glass of red.  As it turned out, the music was easily heard by the two of them, and the evening was certainly magical.  The fireworks only accentuated what they had together.  And thinking of her caused Tom to forget all things.  Suddenly he was back on the front porch with his bride, discussing politics or the weather or their daughter, or nothing at all.  After 38 years of life together, it didn’t take conversation to confirm their love or compatibility.  Again, Tom marveled at that.      A car alarm sounded and brought him back to the here-and-now.  He turned and continued toward the courthouse.  A small group of people gathered at the foot of the two-dozen or so steps to its large oak doors.  Some were holding signs that Tom couldn’t read, repeating some sort of chant, and others simply huddled in small groups, doing their best to stay warm.  One woman stood with three or more children, arms tightly wrapped around the smallest of them.  Few were vocal, at least from Tom’s perspective, and it didn’t seem that their presence had stirred much response or even attention on a day like this.  Traffic was light, and most drivers were more likely focused on staying warm and getting home.        One man held a sign that announced, ‘Bolan has no soul.’  And another, ‘Scoffer of Death—Dean Bolan.’  Tom vaguely recognized the name on the signs, but he couldn’t place it.  Dean Bolan…where have I heard that name? He quickly dismissed the thought and continued toward the other side of the courthouse to one of the busiest streets in town, though not so much today.  He stopped at the signal, pressed the button, and waited for the light.  Dean Bolan…Dean Bolan.  Where the hell have I seen that name?  

On signal, he crossed the street and entered the large park just on the other side of the walk. Amazing to Tom that developers hadn’t strong-armed city officials into acquisition of this land.  But he was certainly glad that it was still open as a park and not another upscale mall or Super Walmart.       

He looked out at the expanse before him.  A large concrete pond surrounded a marble fountain in the shape of a mermaid, its right arm stretched toward the sky, holding a large leaf upon which sat a ball.  Water shot out of the ball and made its way down the perfect upper torso.  Tom often wondered why a mermaid was chosen.  “Let’s see,” he mumbled, “Sirenia…mermaid…hmm.  Gotta research that sometime.” He took a sip from the drinking fountain at the entrance to the blacktop trail then looked out at the open space before him.  Trees dotted the park throughout, mostly maple and oak, and park benches were placed at the trail’s side every hundred yards or so.  Tom hadn’t reached the first bench when he felt his phone vibrating in his back pocket.  He pulled it out and looked at the screen.  It was his wife.

“Hello dear.”     

“Tom, did you look at the paper this morning?”  She seemed out of sorts.     

“I did. Why”     

“Did you read the front page story?”     

A bit annoyed, Tom replied, “Why wouldn't I?  Something about a scumbag who’s sewing the family of the child that he himself killed.  Why?  What’s up?”     

Peggy paused.  “Tom, did you recognize the name...it’s Dean Bolan.”      

Tom, unaware of what it was that his wife was getting at, if at anything at all, replied, “Ah! That’s where I saw that guy’s name.”     

“What are you talking about?” Peggy asked.     

“Oh, I walked by the court house just a few minutes ago.  There were a group of protesters out front with signs.  I knew I had seen the name somewhere but just couldn’t place it.”  By now Tom had reached the first park bench along the trail and sat down.  “I thought I had seen it somewhere else at some other time…guess not.”     

Peggy breathed heavily into the phone then spoke.  “Honey, Dean Bolan is our new neighbor.”     

Tom now recalled having walked across the street several weeks ago when he noticed the new resident mowing his lawn.  He sighed,  "Oh, gees."     

Peggy replied, "When you told me he seemed like a nice guy, I said to myself, don't let first impressions fool you."     

"At the same time, we don't know the whole story here, either.  Rushing to judgment is equally as bad as being fooled by first impressions.  We'll just have to keep our ears and eyes peeled.  Keep an eye on the paper...keep an eye on his house. Chances are he won’t stick around for long.  His type don’t know how to stay still.”    

“Let’s hope so, Tom.”  Peggy sighed, “You coming home soon?”  

"Yup." Tom glanced at his watch.  "I'll be back before four.  What's on the menu?" 

"French onion soup." 

Tom imagined himself sitting across from Peggy, staring into the bowl of soup, its rich aroma causing his mouth to water.  Then he remembered the more undesirable side of this delicious meal.  He giggled a bit. 

"What?"  Peggy enquired. 

"Oh, just recalling my last bout with French onion soup.  You know I love that stuff, Peg, but be prepared..." 

Peggy interrupted him, "I know, dear, you'll clear the neighborhood." 

This time Tom laughed aloud.  "Yup."  He sighed, "Oh boy, there is a price for everything good, even if it is harmless." 

Peggy smiled, "Don't worry about it, dear, it's just you and me tonight, and I can deal with it.  See you soon." 

Tom stood and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He thought about a premature return home, but then, nothing was pressing, and the outdoors was a fresh change from the stale surroundings of the public library.  And there was a very good chance that upon his return, he would plop down in his leather lounge, open a book, and fall asleep.  This wasn't appealing to him, so he kept walking, fully intending to cover the entire circumference of the park.   

The stillness of the park brought Tom's mind back to the quietness of the library.  He’d been reading The Killing Zone: My Life in the Vietnam War.  The author had effectively recounted his months in the fields of Vietnam. The memories of horror and sadness that Tom had himself experienced an uncountable number of times were clarified through the pages.  Tom had served from 1967 to 1968, and he still wondered whether or not his service had been service at all.  For decades, since the close of his time as a soldier, he had pondered the efficacy of the conflict. His hunch was that it was, by and large, a waste of human life.  The circumstances that led up to the involvement of the United States in the war were those which could certainly have been altered by decisions a bit less, well, less stingy by those in power at the time. Tom’s preoccupation with a war that had long since been stranded by the collective mind of America had become a bit of a project for him.  He’d studied every facet of it, from the events that led to the war to treatment of veterans today.  

Lasting friendships with former war buddies had benefited him of the kinds of stories that Only Viet Nam veterans could tell first-hand.  Tom had put together an informal club amongst these friends, and once monthly they would meet with no specific agenda, only to sit down, enjoy a few drinks, and converse about whatever came up.  Inevitably, talk of the war and all things post Viet Nam would become the focus of the discussion.  It was from these conversations that Tom obtained most of his information on post-war treatment of Viet Nam vets.  

At first, it was difficult for most of the men to talk about the war.  References to trivial facts would occasionally make their way into the talk, but the more emotionally related topics were rarely mentioned.  Over time, however, the men began to engage in more meaningful discussions.  They learned to become vulnerable in the presence of one another, and this led to an increased peace with the past. 

The chill in the air was intensifying.  Tom pulled the jacket zipper until it fully covered his neck and chin.  Steam pored from his mouth and nostrils.  He pulled his arms in closer to his sides and shivered a bit then mumbled, “Gees, I miss the sun.”  He thought for a moment about the warmth of home, his comfortable leather chair, and his furry buddy.  It was just enough to convince him that spending more time in this cold was something that he really didn’t want to do, after all.  He turned west and headed for the street.  
           

"The Rested"-- 2011.