Chapter Three
Ryan
days later I was ordered to report to the office of Commander Harold Marks. I assumed that he wanted to hear the details regarding the mission and find out why it had resulted in the deaths of five of our men. I wasn't sure I had the answers he wanted to hear, but in the days after the mission I'd spent a lot of time going over what had happened in my mind as I tried to decide whether Opie's death was my fault. In my estimation, I'd been responsible for him and his death was the result of my inability to do my job properly. I was here to take responsibility for my failure.
I had arrived on schedule and been told to wait in the outer office while the Commander wrapped up a phone call that had taken longer than expected. I sat down in one of the vinyl-coated chairs and focused on trying to keep from sweating through my uniform. The air temperature had soared into the high nineties and there was no breeze, so the fans that had been placed in strategic locations around the room were doing little more than moving hot air between them. It was brutal, but as a SEAL I was used to far worse conditions.
I thought back to the rescue mission and tried to focus on how to explain what had happened to Opie. It had been a rookie mistake on his part, but since my job had been to protect him, I would be held accountable for failing to do so. It didn't seem fair to have to suffer any more than I already had, but I understood the need to hold people accountable for their actions and as a result, I was ready to accept the punishment for failing to keep my charge safe. That was one thing I appreciated about the military, there were always consequences for one's actions.
I breathed deeply as I focused my attention on the Commander's door and waited to be called in. Fifteen minutes later the door opened and I was waved into the office by the Commander's assistant. I marched in and stood at attention in front of Commander Marks' desk waiting.
"At ease, Lieutenant," he said without looking up from the papers that were spread across his desk. I relaxed my stance and continued to wait. Finally, he looked up and said, "Why don't you have a seat, son."
As I took a seat in the chair across from his desk, the Commander removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Replacing them, he looked at me and asked, "Son, do you know why I called you here?"
"Yes, sir," I replied. "I'm here to report on the rescue mission we undertook, sir. And I'm here to receive the punishment for failing to successfully carry out the mission, sir."
"Is that what you think, Lieutenant?" he asked. He seemed surprised by my answer to his question.
"Yes, sir," I said. "I was in charge of the mission and I failed to bring everyone home alive. There will be consequences for my actions."
"Lieutenant Powell, how long have you been in the Navy?" the Commander asked.
"Twelve years, sir," I replied uncertain where this line of questioning was heading. Suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps the punishment would be a dishonorable discharge, and I felt a twisting sense of dread wash over me.
"And how many of those years have you been a Navy SEAL, Lieutenant?" he asked.
"Seven, sir," I replied before swallowing hard and waiting for his next question.
"And in all this time have you ever seen someone disciplined for leading his men into a fight in which he was asked to do the impossible?" he asked.
"I'm sorry, sir?" I replied bewildered by the direction this conversation was taking.
"Don't be a jackass, Lieutenant," the Commander said. "I'm not going to punish you for doing your best to carry out a mission that had, at best, a ten percent chance of succeeding."
"Then why am I here, sir?" I asked.
"I've got the unpleasant task of delivering bad news, Lieutenant," he said as he stood up and walked around the desk and sat down in the chair next to mine. My heart sank as I wondered how bad news had to be for a Commander to deliver it this way. "Son, I'm sorry to tell you that your father passed away two days ago."
"Wait, what?" I said confused. "I'm not being discharged?"
"No, why the hell would you be discharged, Powell?" he said as he looked at me. "Is there something you haven't told me about the mission?"
"No, sir!" I replied. "I was just..."
"Lieutenant, do you understand that I am telling you that your father died?" the Commander asked.
"Yes, sir," I nodded. "I understand. How?"
"What?"
"How did he die?" I asked.
"They told me it was a heart attack," the Commander said. "He died in his private car on his way to work."
"I see," I said.
"Lieutenant, are you all right?" he asked looking very concerned.
"I'm fine, sir," I nodded.
"Then you also understand that you will be shipped stateside in the morning, don't you?" he asked. "Representatives of your father's estate have asked that you be sent back, and I'm sure you'll want to plan a funeral and see your family."
"No, sir," I said. "I have no family except for my father, and he wouldn't have wanted his death made into a public event. I'll go back and deal with his business and then return to the team, sir."
"Lieutenant, are you okay?" Commander Marks asked in a concerned tone. I could see the look of worry on his face and knew it wasn't only because I was reacting so calmly to being told that my only living relative was now dead, but also because I didn't seem to be too terribly broken up about it.
"I'm fine, sir," I assured him. I thought about explaining, but then thought better of it. There were some things that were better left unsaid. "Thank you, sir."
"Son, is there anything you need? Is there any way I can help?" he asked in a quieter voice. He looked weary; his face deeply etched with lines caused by bearing the weight of responsibility for the men under his command. We all carried such a weight, and while I appreciated his care and concern, there was nothing he, or anyone else, could do to help me now. I was going to have to return to the states and deal with this entirely on my own.
"No, sir," I shook my head. "My father and I had a...difficult relationship, but I'll go back and make sure his last wishes are carried out and that his business is taken care of before I return to the team, sir."
"Take all the time you need, Powell. I'm not going to expect you back for sometime," he said as he clapped my shoulder. "And if you find yourself in need of anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to contact me and ask. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," I nodded. "I understand, sir."
"And Lieutenant Powell?"
"Sir?"
"Lieutenant Morgan's death was not your fault," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have approved him to join the team, but every day I have to make close calls on things I'd rather not have to and this one was a mistake. He was too green. His death is on my shoulders."
"Yes, sir," I said knowing better than to counter his admission.
"You are dismissed, Lieutenant," he said.
"Hoo-yah, sir," I said standing and saluting him before making a sharp turn and marching out of the office.
#
-four hours later, as my plane touched down at JFK International, I thought about how I hadn't been entirely honest with Commander Marks. My father's second wife, the woman he'd chosen to replace my mother, lived in the apartment my father had bought after my mother had died. I steeled myself as I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me to 820 Park Avenue.
At the curb, I pulled my duffle bag over my shoulder and looked up at the monstrosity of a building. I'd always hated this place, but my father had loved it because he loved Eva and he'd wanted to prove himself worthy of her. I had always believed that she was after his money, but my father had insisted that it was a true love match.
Eva Grant had blow into his life at a charity function thrown by Claire Baines, Julian's wife. At this point, my father had been a widower for more than ten years and after I joined the Navy and left home, he got lonely. I didn't blame him for wanting company, but Eva was a bad choice —or at least that's what I always thought. He waited two years to propose, but when he did, it was a big deal and he agreed to a huge wedding since it was Eva's first (not counting the elopement with a Russian prince, when she was eighteen, that had lasted all of three months before she realized he'd lied and that he was only after her money).
She was in her late thirties when they met, two decades younger than my father, and she came from a line of rich socialites who did little except lunch with each other and spend the rest of their time trying to bring their body fat as close to zero as possible. She was an exquisite beauty, without doubt, but her beauty was cold and brittle; the kind one looked at but did not ever touch. I couldn't understand what my father saw in her since she was nothing like my mother, but then maybe that was the point.
At first she tried to be nice to me and win me over, but I thought she was frivolous and silly, and I didn't do a very good job of hiding my resentment. The relationship soon plateaued in a grudging tolerance on both sides. A large part of the problem was that my father didn't see any need to try and help bridge the gap. He was a retired Marine who was good at strategic planning, but not so good at the human side of the plans.
My mother had been the one who had bridged the gap between my father and I making sure that we never drifted too far outside each other's orbits. She would pull us back toward one another by teasing my father into taking us for a drive or on a picnic. He adored her and did everything she asked.
I was their only child. A son to follow in my father's footsteps, but he was never terribly interested in me or my activities. My mother told me it was because he was a man with a lot on his mind, but I knew better. It was because he saw me as weak. I didn't play sports as well as he did nor did I develop a large circle of friends, preferring instead to immerse myself in a book or spend hours walking the streets of New York City observing the people and making up stories about who they were and where they were coming from or headed to. My mother loved my stories and she'd often seek me out after dinner to have me recount the observations I'd made during the day. It got to be a ritual for the two of us; so much so that I began to carry a notebook in my pocket and outline the story I'd tell her as the day passed.
My father was not interested in my stories. He was a man of numbers and results, and my tales of the city did not contain either of those. The dinner table was the place where I'd report exam scores, paper grades and be drilled on spelling words or mathematical formulas for the next day's tests. I endured it only because I knew that once I'd passed my father's grilling, I'd be able to curl up on the couch next to my mother and weave colorful stories about the places I'd visited and the people I'd seen. It was my reward for performing well.
When I was nine, my mother had been taken to the hospital after she'd fainted on the bathroom floor and cut her head open. I remember the blood that pooled under the edge of the cabinet where she'd fallen. And I remembered mopping it up with a paper towel wondering if my mother was still alive. I'd asked my father when he returned from the hospital, and he'd given me a funny look before assuring me that my mother was fine and that she'd be home in the morning.
"I don't know where you get all of your wild ideas," he said shaking his head. "But you need to learn to keep those thoughts to yourself, Ryan. Decent people don't want to hear your crazy theories or made-up stories."
"Yes, sir," I said looking down at the carpet.
"Chin up, son," he ordered. "No man in this house lowers his eyes to the floor. Chin up, back straight and eyes straight ahead."
"Yes, sir!" I said as I adopted an at-attention pose the best I could. I waited until he left the room before I went to my bedroom, crawled into the back corner of my closet and pulled the door shut behind me. There I let my frightened tears flow and thought about how much I wanted my mother to come home.
Two days later, my father took me to see her in the hospital. She looked small and very pale laying in the hospital bed, but she flashed me a brilliant smile as I ran across the room and threw my arms around her.
"Careful, honey," she winced as she loosened my hold on around her waist. I pulled back and looked up at her.
"What's wrong, Mom?" I asked.
"Come sit here next to me and tell me a story about what you saw today," she said patting the bed. I climbed up and rested my head on her shoulder gingerly laying my arm across her stomach. She wrapped her arm around me and smoothed my hair as I told her about the guy I'd seen in Union Square and how his dog looked just like him.
"You know how much I love your stories, don't you, Ryan?" she asked after I'd finished telling her everything I'd recorded in my little notebook.
"Uh huh, why?" I asked.
"Ryan, I'm very sick," she began. She tightened her arm around me as she spoke, trying to squeeze out the pain she knew I was going to feel. "I think I've been very sick for a long time and didn't know it, but now I do."
"Then the doctors are going to have to fix you," I said matter-of-factly.
"This isn't something they can fix, sweetheart," she said as she bent and kissed the top of my head.
"Then what's going to happen?" I asked.
"Ryan, I want you to listen to me," she said as she gripped my arm. "Your father loves you. I know he doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve, but he tries as best he can, and you have to believe that."
"Dad doesn't like me," I grumbled. "I know he doesn't."
"Yes, he does," she smiled as she smoothed my hair. "He just didn't get a lot of love himself when he was growing up, so he doesn't know how to show people he cares other than to make sure they have a roof over their heads and lots of food on the table. He loves you so much more than you know, Ryan."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I'm going to tell you a secret," she said as she reached down and tipped my chin up so that I was looking at her. "Can you keep a secret?"
"Of course, I'm the best secret keeper on the planet!" I said.
"Good, then I need you keep this secret," she said as she bent her head and dropped her voice to a whisper. "I have to go on a very secret mission, and I'm going to be gone a long time. It's not going to be easy for you and your father to adjust, but I need you to help him. He doesn't know where anything is, and he needs to be reminded to take his vitamins every morning. Can you do that for me, Ryan? Can you take care of your dad just like I would?"
"I can do it," I nodded solemnly. "I don't know if he will let me, though."
"He'll let you," she smiled. "He'll have to let you. He needs you."
"How long before you'll be back, Mom?" I asked.
"Ryan, I'm not coming back from this mission," she whispered. "I'm going to be gone forever."
I stared at her for a long time memorizing the look on her face, the way her hand felt as she smoothed my hair, the way her smile tipped the corners of her mouth upward and made her whole face look warm and welcoming. I thought about how she made everything warm and safe, and I wondered if I'd ever feel that way once she was gone.
"You're gonna die, aren't you?" I said quietly.
"Yes, Ryan. I'm going to die," she nodded as she squeezed my arm tightly and kissed my head.
"It's not fair," I said as the tears began to well up in my eyes. "Why couldn't it be him?"
"Ryan! You must never ever say such a thing ever again!" she cried as she gripped me tightly and shook me. "Your father loves you, and he would be heartbroken to hear you say such an awful thing."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I just don't want you to go away."
"I don't want to go, either," she said. "But I don't have a choice."
"I'm going to miss you so much!" I cried forgetting how much pain she was in and throwing my arms around her. I heard her cry out in pain and quickly pulled back. She covered her mouth with her hand to try and hold back the pain, but I saw it in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Mom! I'm sorry!"
"It's...it's...okay," she gasped as she reached out and grabbed the button on her other side and pressed it. She closed her eyes and lay back on the pillows. It took a few moments for the pain medications to kick in, but once they did, she opened her eyes and smiled at me. "I'm going to miss you, too, Ryan. You're my special boy, and I love you so very much."
"Mom, don't go!" I wailed as she hugged me weakly.
"Don't stop watching and recording, Ryan," she whispered. "You know things that no one else does because you observe. And you speak the truth, my beautiful boy. I love you."
She faded off into a drugged sleep, and I stayed with her until my father came to tell me visiting hours were over. Reluctantly, I untangled myself from my mother's arms and followed my father to the car. He didn't say anything, but I could tell he wanted to and I remembered my promise to my mother.
"She's going on a long trip and she doesn't know when she'll be back,” I said pulling myself up straight and looking out over the dashboard. "So we're going to have to take care of each other while she's gone."
Aside from the day we buried my mother, that was the only other time I ever saw my father cry.
It all came flooding back as I knocked on the door to the apartment. I heard movement inside, and then the door swung open to reveal my stepmother, dressed in a thin robe and obviously drunk.
"Oh, it's you," she slurred as she stumbled back to the sofa and grabbed the bottle she'd set on the floor.
"Yeah, it's me," I replied. "I told you I was coming back to take care of my father's business."
"I can't believe he's dead," she said as she took a long drink from the bottle and then collapsed into a sobbing heap. "He said he'd never leave me alone! He promised!"
"Eva, get ahold of yourself," I said as I put my duffle bag down and looked around. The place looked dim, as if it hadn't been cleaned in a while. "I'm sorry you're so sad, but he is gone, and we have to deal with it."
"God, you're cold," she spat at me. "I always knew you'd celebrate the day your father died. Heartless bastard."
"Money grubbing, bitch," I muttered under my breath.
"What did you say?" she slurred. "Did you say something?"
"I said, I'm an orphan and you're a widow," I said. "We need to figure out how to get through the next couple of days and then we never have to see each other again. Can we do that?"
"I suppose," she grudgingly admitted. "But I'm going to need clothes for the funeral and a car to drive me."
"Didn't my father make all of that available?" I asked wondering why she was telling me about things that didn't concern me.
"He cut up my credit cards," she said in a morose voice. "He said I spent too much on frivolous things and that there needed to be more to life than lunching with friends, shopping and getting my hair and nails done. He told me to go a month without any of and find something meaningful to do."
"Interesting," I said. "That doesn’t sound like him. When was this?"
"Earlier this week," she said. "I told him I'd do it next month, but he insisted that it be now, and he closed my accounts."
"And then he just dropped dead?" I asked.
"I didn't kill him!" she shouted. "I know everyone thinks I married him only for his money, but I loved Alan! I really loved him! I'm not a black widow!"
"Uh huh," I nodded not entirely convinced.
"You don't believe me either," she grumbled. "I should have known. You never liked me."
"It's not a matter of like or dislike, Eva," I said. "You and I have had our differences, but now is the time to come together and make sure this gets taken care of properly."
"What am I supposed to do?" she asked. "I'm nothing but the widow. I knew nothing about his business."
"You need to get yourself together," I said. "Don't you wonder how a healthy sixty-six year old man just drops dead of a heart attack in his car on his way to work? Sounds a little fishy to me, but then I'm just his son."
"I resent that," she shot back as she lifted the bottle again. I grabbed it and set it on the table behind me before she could take another swig. She protested, "Hey! That's mine!"
"Stop it, Eva," I scolded. "You need to get yourself sobered up and act like the widow of the man you claim to have loved. Wallowing in the sadness and alcohol will not do you any good. Chin up and eyes forward."
"God, you are his son, aren't you?" she said shaking her head. "If I had a nickel for every time he said that to me. Yes, I do think it's fishy. He just had a check up last month and everything had come back totally normal. "
"Eva, are you going to sober up and help out or are you going to disappear into that bottle?" I asked nodding toward it. I was angry with her, but I was angrier with my father for dying and leaving her behind. "We need to make some calls and find out what happened. Do you know where his body is?"
"It's still at the morgue," she grumbled. "I'll get showered and make some calls."
She pushed herself up off of the sofa and stumbled down the hallway to the master suite where, a few moments later, I heard the shower water running and my stepmother drunkenly singing "My Way."
If he'd been in his grave, my father would have rolled over.