“BOB”
Jacqueline Druga
BOB
By Jacqueline Druga
Copyright 2003 by Jacqueline Druga.
Published by GreatoneAS at Smashwords
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For hands that touch, but never meet.
For hearts that are meant, but missed their beat.
For realms that others will never seem to know.
For bringing me to a world, I always want to go.
. . . this story goes to Frank
November 20, 1943 - 10:13 a.m.
Red Beach 3
Betio Island in Tarawa
The strap from his helmet dangled and hit against the unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth. Sergeant Lee Garret, Second Division United States Marine Corp., reloaded his rifle. His gruff voice barked out orders, trying to be heard over the heavy artillery and explosions that filled the air of that beach. He was a big man, well over six-feet tall and a brawny body that matched. His face was as hard as his voice, unshaven, worn from his years of service prior to even fighting the war he battled.
“Second squad! Move it out!” he called out, trying to gain leverage in the wet sand as he turned his body belly down, getting some protection from the slight grade in the beach. Protection from the opposing forces not far from them on a beach they had barely taken ten yards of.
Strength was what Sgt. Garret always projected. Cold. Hard. And he hid his cringing face of pain with every grunt and scream he heard coming from his men that fell.
He aimed his rifle, firing continuously at the enemy well hidden. The cold water seeping under him that crashed forth from the ocean, went unnoticed as he concentrated ahead, trying with others to protect the men who stormed with diligence to take the front lines that were waiting for them.
How many men would they have to lose in order to take out that trench that was holding them back in the drive forward? Sgt. Garret watched his first squad go down, then his second, and as he had to, he sent out his third.
“Damn!” He dropped his head, and heard the high ricocheting noise of a bullet that seared by his helmet. Just as he lifted to fire once more, he saw the grenade sail in and he watched it land not far from him. His reaction was quick, holding his helmet and rolling fiercely to his right, seconds before the ground rumbled and he felt the spray of dirt and sand that covered him. He looked up from his protective roll only to see five more of his men . . . gone.
Regaining his position and continuing his fight, Sgt. Garret also saw something else. Private Joseph Morris, in his move toward the enemy trench, took a shot, then another. His young body spun around landing twenty feet from just over the small grade where Sgt. Garret lay.
The young soldier, taken for dead, lifted his head slightly, and his hand reached out as he desperately tried to crawl to safety. His eyes made contact with those of Sgt. Garret.
All Sgt. Garret could think about as he looked at Private Morris, was that new baby the private had just received word from home about. And with those thoughts and the thought that he was only twenty feet away, Sgt. Garret lifted himself from his protection and charged forth. As he made it over the small grade, getting ready to drop in a crawl to the private, he felt the burning hit as a bullet careened into his left shoulder. A big man, not taken down, Sgt. Garret, hit the ground and crawled, arm over arm, bleeding, to Private Morris.
“Sarge,” the soldier squinted in pain, barely able to speak.
“What the hell you doin’, Morris, takin’ a break?”
The right side of Private Morris’ mouth raised in a smile, and he closed his eyes again.
“Let’s get you out of here.”
There wasn’t much choice as far as Sgt. Garret could see. Gunfire surrounded them, explosions from grenades. He could either leave Private Morris and crawl himself to safety again, or take a chance and carry him back. To Sgt. Garret there wasn’t a second thought to what he would do. Bringing himself up slightly, he slid his huge arms under the body of the thin man. As he stood to his feet lifting Private Morris, his legs weakened. Not from the weight of the man he carried, but from the intense pain Sgt. Garret experienced when he felt the ripping of bullets sear into his chest.
He looked down only briefly, closed his eyes for a second, and turned, still carrying Private Morris in his arms. He fought the pain and the blood that flowed from him and trudged that twenty feet to safety as if he never were hit.
He fell in a roll over the small grade to the side of his own lines, dropping Private Morris from his arms, as he himself fell to his knees. He opened his mouth to call out for a medic, but the words never emerged. He pulled away the hand that covered his chest and looked down to his wounds. When he saw them, he knew the reason he couldn’t breath. He knew the reason for the sounds of fading gunfire and voices. The disappearance of the battle that surrounded him like the departing of a bad dream. Sgt. Garret knew at that instant, he was dying.
The tremendous pressure to his chest began to lift, a peaceful feeling took over him as he watched everything slowly happen around him. He could hear the medic that worked on Private Morris call to him. But Sgt. Garret could not respond. He could only breathe and watch more death fall around him as bodies of his men sailed backwards from hits that they had taken.
Sgt. Garret had seen many battles, he had been on many front lines. He fought side by side with his men ensuring their victory over those who tried to take them down. And he vowed that this time, knowing it would be his last, would not be any different.
Weakened, he rolled himself to peer over the grade to the hidden enemy that strongly held them back and stopped Sgt. Garret and his men from proceeding any further. An enemy the men of the Second Division died trying to take. An enemy Sgt. Garret knew he would take.
Digging his fingers for support into the dirt of the grade, Sgt. Garret lifted his body to a stand and charged forth the route that many others tried but died in their efforts.
Fifteen yards to the trench he lifted two grenades from his belt. Thirteen yards he took another hit, this time to his leg. But he didn’t feel it, he didn’t think about, he kept on going.
From the beach’s edge, his men watched him, trying to cover him, but failing. Watching as Sgt. Garret paid no mind to the bullets that hit him. Blood sprayed forth like rain from each hit, none of them making him flinch, none of them stopping him.
Sgt. Garret pulled the pins from the grenades when he saw it. The stunned faces of the enemy in the trench who tried with diligence to stop him. He merely smiled at them. And with every ounce of fortitude he had left, gripping tightly to the grenades, Sgt. Garret dove forward, leaping into the trench and ending the fierce struggle for his men once and for all.
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE
December 1, 1943
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Charles Garret:
We regret to inform you that your son, Sergeant Lee Garret, Second Division, United States Marine Corp., was killed in the line of duty on November 20, 1943. Due to his acts of heroism above and beyond the call of duty, Sergeant Garret, by order of the President of the United States, will be awarded posthumously the highest recognition of his efforts, The Medal of Honor.
Very truly yours,
General Howard P. Steinmen
ONE
PRESENT DAY
“Would you mind helping out here?” Howie Conner called out so aggravated as he struggled with the last roll of insulation in the dusty attic. Alone he carried it, alone he shouldn’t have. He stared at his partner in crime, Bill Hayward, who was much more occupied with going through the contents of that attic instead of earning the fifty dollars Howie was going to pay him. “Bill! You’re supposed to be helping, not rummaging.”
“Huh?” Bill lifted his head from the box he peered into. He adjusted his glasses and sniffed. “This is some great stuff here. I love old stuff. Check out this broad.” He held up a photograph. “Is this your mother’s stuff?”
Howie shrugged. He honestly didn’t know. He never really went into the attic much as a kid. It frightened him, and now it annoyed him because he had to insulate the place before the new tenants moved in. Hard working labor wasn’t Howie’s ball of wax. A businessman, an accountant and he looked and acted every single bit the stereotype dictated. “Can you help me, Bill?”
“Huh?” Bill looked up again. “This is some great stuff. Hey, who’s Belle Garret? This is her stuff.” Bill held up papers. “Your address is on some of these old envelopes. This looks like a life . . .”
“Bill!” Howie pulled at what little hair was on his own head. “Put the stuff down and help me. Obviously it’s not my mother’s. Her name was not Belle Garret.”
“Must have been here before you guys moved in. Shame.” Bill sifted through the box some more.
“Am I, or am I not, paying you?’
“All right. All right.” Bill reached blindly to place the items back. “I’ll help you roll that out. Gees, Howie, have a fit, why don’t you.”
“I will. And you can take that box home if it interests you so much. But right now, insulating this attic interests me.”
“How come you’re not keeping this house? Why are you renting it out?” Bill stood up from his seat on the rafter and he grunted then twitched his leg. “Shit. I’m caught up on a nail or something.”
“Can anything else hold you up?” Howie tossed one hand in the air while the other gloved hand stayed firm on the insulation roll.
“Another nail maybe.” Bill snickered at his own bad humor, twisting his leg, twisting his body, avoiding bending over. Then as he freed himself with great force, his leg kicked outward, hitting into the box, toppling it and spilling the contents of it.
“Can you be any more pathetic, Bill?”
“Sorry.” Hating to do it, because of the tightness of his jeans against his large gut, Bill bent over to scoop up the spilled contents of the box. “Hey, what’s this?” Bill stood up straight, holding a small felt covered box. “Looks like a jewelry box.” Holding it in the palm of his hand, he slowly flipped the lid open. “Whoa,” he commented looking down at the medal. “It’s a . . .” Bill suddenly shivered. “Hey, did you feel that?”
“Feel what?” Howie asked.
“That cool breeze.” Bill shuddered. “Went right through me.”
“That’s why we’re insulating, asshole. Now what is it that you found? Bring it here.”
Like he had done so many times before with the opening of his medal, Sgt. Garret emerged from the other side. He looked oddly around. His attic? What was he doing in his attic? Usually it was his mother’s bedroom or living room, but now he was in the attic? He placed his hands on his hips. “Who the hell are you two?” he asked loudly, knowing full well he wasn’t heard. “And what are you doing with my medal?”
Howie whistled as he picked the medal from the box. “This is nice.”
“Put that down!” Garret ordered. “Now.”
Bill leaned into Howie, teetering a balance on the rafter. “You know what? You probably could hock that.”
“No!” Garret screamed. “Just put the medal back in the box . . .”
“I probably could.” Howie admired it. “Probably some collector would pay a hefty price for it.”
Garret rolled his eyes. “I don’t believe this shit.” He shook his head, perturbed. “Put the medal back in the box. And what did you do with my mother?”
Howie, for the first time in over an hour, smiled. “You know . . .” He raised his eyebrows a few times. “I’m keeping this. If I get something for it, I’ll give you a tip.”
“Thanks.” Bill grinned.
“Where’s the case? Let’s put this away,” Howie said.
Garret tossed his hands in the air. “Thank you. Send me back. I was fishing.”
“I’ll get it.” Bill shifted his heavy body in a turn, and as he did, he bumped into Howie who was already balancing himself on the edge of one of the floor beams. He tried not to laugh when Howie grunted.
From his hand, the medal flew. It fell deep in the old rafters of that attic. “Shit!” Howie yelled and knelt down.
“Sorry. What did you do, drop it?” Bill asked.
“Yeah.” Howie twitched his head.
Garret bit his bottom lip. “You better pick that up.”
Bill leaned closer to Howie as he searched below. “Do you see it?”
“Nope.” Howie shook his head.
Garret pointed. “It’s right there. It’s right there. See it. Pick it up.”
“Wait, there it is.” Howie struggled, reaching his hand in. “I think I . . .” He grunted. “I can’t get it.”
“Yes, you can!” Garret yelled. “Get it.”
Bill watched his friend desperately try to retrieve the medal. “Try harder.”
“Damn it.” Howie pulled out his hand. “Forget it. It’s probably worth nothing anyhow.”
“No!” Garret called out. “Get the damn medal. Put it back.”
Howie ran his hand under his nose, it itched from the dust. “Let’s just lay this last roll and go get that drink.”
“I’m with you on that one.” Bill joined him at the end of the roll. “I think I will take that picture of that Belle person though.”
“Take it.” Howie grabbed the insulation.
Garret’s eyes widened as he watched the two men. “What are you doing? You can’t leave that medal there. Ass!” He spoke closely to Howie who didn’t hear him. “Get the medal. You can’t . . . Aw! Son of a bitch!” Garret watched as they placed the insulation over the spot the medal was at. He stomped his foot wishing with all his might, the two men would hear it, they wouldn’t. No one ever heard Sgt. Garret when his spirit was summoned with the exposing of the medal. “Gentlemen!” he called out watching them laugh. “Gentlemen, get the medal.” He watched Howie and Bill pick up the box, stuff the contents in it and toss it in a corner. “No! You can’t leave me in this world!” Garret charged after them and straight through the door they had just closed. He followed them down the attic steps. “Go back up there.” He kept hollering, but the two men kept going.
Garret kept up with them, kept trying to reach them, even as Howie and Bill cleaned up and walked through the large, old house. And he followed them all the way through the hallway to the front door. “Gentlemen, you can’t . . .” He cringed when the front door closed. “. . . leave me in this empty house.” Tossing his hands up, Garret looked around. It was his old home. One he grew up in. And even though empty, one that looked completely different from the last time he saw it. No more were the walls covered with that rose wallpaper, but now they were white, boring and painted. Gone were the hardwood floors his mother worked hard to keep a shine to. And what had happened to the fireplace his father built? Realizing at that moment there was nothing he could do, he was stuck, Garret returned to the attic. At least there, he had a sense of familiarity. The only thing that changed, was the pink stuff that the two men just used to cover his only key back to the other side.
TWO
It never ceased to amaze Garret, as he picked through the box that Howie and Bill had tossed, how he could touch things when no one else was around. Move things, feel things. Anything he could do when he graced the earth with his presence, he could do when no one was around him. But the instant someone entered the room, the object he held would drop. Almost as if it were an unspoken rule he had to find out for himself. And he did, many a times when someone would open the lid to his medal box and forget to close it. It took Garret about four trips back, whisked away from the afterlife pleasures he enjoyed, to figure out his key was his medal. But never did anyone leave that medal out of its case for that long. Never more than an hour or two was Garret stuck behind, and certainly it was never the length of time he was experiencing in that attic.
Pushing three days, Garret figured by the rise and set of the sun. And as the empty hours of doing nothing passed him by, he fast was resolving himself to becoming one of those ghosts that when he was alive, never believed in. He’d end up haunting his own house for all eternity because no one was going to get that medal. Especially not Garret, he tried. But as another unwritten and unspoken rule, he could not control his own spirit. Unlike the photograph of his mother he held in his hand, he couldn’t even lift the insulation that covered it.
And what happened to his mother? Had she moved? What caused her to sell the house to some tall, skinny guy and not take her stuff? It hadn’t been that long to Garret since he had seen her last. At least he didn’t think so.
Pulling out a movie magazine, Garret whistled when he flipped open to Rita Hayworth. “Now there’s something ya’ just don’t see on the other side.” He shook his head with a smile, thinking how nice it would be whenever Rita showed up there. Of course at the rate Garret was going, he would never see that day. He’d only hear about it through gossip he listened to from those who lived in the house. But would anyone ever live in the house?
As soon as that thought hit him, his head sprang from the magazine when he heard the front door shut. “They’re back.” He stood up. “Maybe they’re coming for the stuff. Find the medal. Find the medal. “He walked down the attic steps.
It was on his entrance to the second floor hall that he heard the female voice. It was deep and loud, yelling from the first floor.
“Quit running in the kitchen, Emmie!” she blasted. “Right now!”
“Swell.” Garret shook his head and walked down. “A nagging mother.” Perturbed he felt, not only did he have an annoying mother moving in but a child who was rambunctious as well. Garret never found himself a child person even in life. He was even more upset when he saw the mother. He had to close his eyes at the bigger woman who stood in the dining room. A billowing flower dress like he had never seen, her hair pulled up tightly. “Loud and not so attractive,” he commented.
“Emmie, come on!” she yelled again.
“Yeah, Emmie, settle . . .” Garret stopped griping to himself when Emmie came from the kitchen. She wasn’t the little girl he expected to see, but a full grown woman, petite, long blonde hair, dressed like a man, but pretty. A whistle, long and loud came from Garret as he approached, checking her out. “Tell me you’re living here.”
Emmie laughed at her friend. “The floor is great in there,” she spoke with high exuberance. “You can really get a good slide in your socks, Duncan.”
“Duncan?” Garret laughed and looked at the woman in the flowered dress. “Your name is Duncan? What the hell was your mother thinking when she named you Duncan?”
“I’m sure it is, Emmie,” Duncan said with sarcasm. “However, when you hit our age, you kind of have to stop sliding across the linoleum.”
Emmie waved her hand at Duncan. “No, you don’t.” She shook her head. “See that’s your problem. That’s why your knees hurt.”
“Because I don’t slide on the floor?”
“Because you refuse to think young.”
“I don’t want to think young. I did young. I hated young.”
“And you’re still young. Check out the hall, Duncan.” Emmie pointed and moved across the dining room.
“I saw the hall, Emmie.”
“Watch how fast you can run right down it to get to the door. Time me.”
“No.”
“Come on.” Emmie took off running right through the dining room and right through Garret.
Garret’s arms flung out and his body moved back as she did so. “Whoa.” He spun to her only to see Emmie stopping in her stride.
“Did you . . .” Emmie drew up an odd look. “Does it feel cold in here?” She rubbed her arms. “Weird.” She shrugged. “Oh, well.” She ran to the door, touched it and ran back down the hall, again through Garret and again she stopped. “This is really odd.” She backed up.
He just stood there. Garret watched Emmie make her way back to where he was. And he waited, hoping she would pass through him again, because he felt it. He felt every inch of her when she moved through him, and in all the times he had crossed over, that was a first. She moved near to him, but not completely through him. Garret was mesmerized as he just stared at her. He looked at her hands that moved about, looking for a ring on her left hand that wasn’t there. How beautiful she was, and Garret kept thinking how much more beautiful she would look if she just wouldn’t wear those dungarees. That could explain why she wasn’t married.
Duncan, perplexed, brought her hand to her own forehead. “Emmie.” She watched her friend spin slowly about the hall. “What are you doing now?”
“It’s refreshing here, Duncan. Tingly.” She giggled. “What if this exact spot is a channel for the underworld winds and that would explain the draft.”
“The house is old, that explains the draft.”
“But think if I’m right.” Emmie pointed at her own temple. “This could be a really great spot to stand in during those hot summer days.”
“Emmie, you’re weird. No wonder your kids ignore you.”
Kids? Garret immediately checked out her build. “She has kids? They have to be little. Poor girl.” He followed her back to the dining room. “Wonder if her husband was killed in the war.”
Emmie plopped down on the dining room floor waiting for Duncan to slowly join her. “My kids don’t ignore me. How can they?”
It was when she sat down, that Garret saw the answer to her statement. Emmie’s shoes. She wore bright purple, high top sneakers. “Basketball shoes.” He cringed. “She has to be poor. Really poor.” He moved closer to hear conversation.
With a struggle and a grunt, Duncan sat down next to Emmie. “This is a great house.”
“Isn’t it?” Emmie leaned against the wall and extended her legs. “I love it. It has great character don’t you think?”
“Sure.” Duncan nodded, then rolled her eyes. “Any plans on where you’re setting up your writing space?”
“I was thinking about setting up in the corner over there.” Emmie pointed across the dining room. “I hate being back in the corner. But I write while they’re in bed anyway.”
“I told you to get a four bedroom.” Duncan spoke motherly.
Making a scoffing face, Garret sat down on the floor. “She doesn’t need a four bedroom house. This house is big.”
“I don’t need a four bedroom house. This house is big.” Emmie smiled.
Garret immediately looked at her.
“I get good vibes with it when it comes to my writing. . . . Oh!” Quickly Emmie, excitedly flung herself forward on her knees like a child getting ready to tell a big secret. She swung around her legs, her shoes going through Garret.
He cringed. “I don’t mind you. But those sneakers can not go through me again. And why are you wearing shoes in the house anyhow?”
Emmie began to untie her shoes as she spoke with excitement to Duncan, “I have my new printer.” She raised her eyebrows. “A good one too and . . .” She grinned. “I can start on my wall. I finished Bob.” She slipped off her tennis shoe. “I love casting my characters. Did you see my choice for David?”
“Yes. And why are you taking off your shoes? How long are you staying?”
“Not long.” Emmie tossed off the second one. “And really, should we be wearing shoes in the house? As soon as the creepy landlord gets here I’ll head home. Getting back to what I was telling you . . .” Emmie stood up and walked to what would be her corner.
Garret watched her. “This woman moves too fast for me.”
Emmie’s hands spread out. “I’ll partition this off as my corner. Put my little shelf right here.” She indicated down. “My music player on it and I think . . . right here behind my computer and printer will be my wall. Complete with Bob. You know I have been waiting to be able to do that.”
“What actor did you end up casting as Bob?”
Emmie rolled her eyes. “None. He’s a bit of this guy and that guy.” She shrugged. “Oh, did I tell you I found a great Kevin. An actor, not too well known. He’s going on my wall.”
Garret was lost. All these men they talked about. Actors and such? Emmie’s wall? A computer? Printer?
Emmie continued, “Using a movie, I’ll be able to get shots of him off that one program I have.”
Program? Garret shook his head. Who was Emmie training?
“And . . .” Emmie enthused, walked over and plopped on the floor. “He’s Japanese. Because you know I want him to be Japanese.”
“Whoa!” Garret shouted. “What are you, un-American? The whole country is collecting tin cans and you need a Japanese man. No.”
“Oh, Duncan,” Emmie rambled more, “his picture will go right on my wall.”
“No!” Outraged, Garret shouted. “Absolutely not. Don’t you even think about putting that on the wall. Hello? Are you forgetting who we are fighting?”
Excited Emmie sat. She folded her legs Indian style. “I’d like to get my wall up as soon as I unpack. I have the house to myself this weekend and I plan on starting the third book.”
With a look of amazement, Duncan shook her head. “I cannot believe you actually are doing that.”
“You suggested it. You said you needed more after the first book. It just felt right doing a series instead of a sequel. I love writing my Carlton series.” Emmie drew up a peaceful look. “I love Bob.”
“Emmie.” Duncan shook her head. “Weren’t you supposed to kill him in the second book?”
“Oh, my God.” Emmie seemed offended. “Can you believe that even crossed my mind? I feel so guilty over that. I do. He’s like the hero. You hear the charge of the calvary every time he saves the day.” Emmie tossed her closed fist in the air as she rambled. “And I know when I print my picture up of him, he’ll inspire me even more.”
“You think you have his picture down?” Duncan asked.
“I worked too hard on it,” Emmie said. “Too hard. I see Bob in my mind.” Emmie pointed at her own temple. “I see what he looks like. I feel like I know him so well. I dream of him when I’m writing my Carlton books. I do.”
“Emmie . . .”
“No, Duncan.” Emmie rolled onto her side. “Do you suppose I knew him in a different life?”
Garret laughed. “Emmie, there is no different life. There is this world and the next, sweetheart.”
Duncan had to chuckle at her friend. “You’re too wrapped up in that character. Bob is a character in your books. Bob isn’t even a nice character. The only thing Bob has going for him is he is big and strong and saves the day. Other than that, he can care less about anyone but the character of Liz.”
Emmie scoffed with a toss of her hand. “I like Bob. And I think I’ll challenge him this book. You know, last book he did some things I didn’t think he was capable of.”
“Oh, my God.” Duncan exclaimed. “Listen to you. And, I have to go.” Duncan tried to pick herself up from the floor, having a little difficulty, she rolled to her side and brought herself to her knees before finally standing. “What time are the movers coming tomorrow? I need to know what time to be here.”
“I’m meeting them at the old house at seven. Everything is ready.” Emmie stood up. “I had to get movers. I didn’t want to be alone on this one. I can’t do it myself. Can you believe he’s gone. He was supposed to be here for this.”
Oddly, Garret looked at Emmie. “Her husband must have died recently. Aren’t you a little too happy about him being gone?”
Duncan moved down the hall toward the front door. “But you know you’re loving this alone thing.”
“What!” Garret was shocked by this. “This guy gives his life for his country in the war and you’re happy? No wait, wait. You also want pictures of Japanese men on your wall.”
Emmie followed Duncan to the door. “I’ll go out with you, I have two boxes in the car I want to bring in.”
“Why aren’t the movers bringing them?” Duncan asked.
“Are you kidding? It’s my writing stuff. I want to make sure that is here.”
“What about your shoes?” Duncan looked down to Emmie’s feet.
Emmie shrugged. “I don’t need them.” Clad in socks that dangled two or three inches over her toes, Emmie walked outside with her friend to the car, waving to a neighbor man she hadn’t met. Smiling as she looked back at her new house, Emmie reached her car and opened the back door. She grabbed for the first of the two boxes, as she did, she saw Howie pull up. Knowing it was the perfect opportunity to play the damsel in distress, Emmie put on her struggling face and waited for Howie.
Garret could see through the window, Emmie playing Howie. The sight of Howie irked him, this was the man who dropped his medal and now made a woman carry a box. He stepped out of the way when they walked in the house. Emmie going through him was one thing, Howie . . . he was a completely different story.
“Over here.” Emmie trudged in front of Howie. “Thanks so much for your help.”
“This is heavy, what’s in here?”
Garret tossed his hands in the air. “None of your business. And look at you complaining about a little box.”
“My writing stuff.” Emmie set her box down. “Right here will be fine. Those are some of my books.”
“A writer?” Howie smiled at her. “Are you published?”
She cringed inside at the question asked of her every single time she said she was a writer. “No.” Emmie held up crossed fingers. “But I’m hoping.”
Howie grunted as he set down the box. “I bet you’re good.” He leaned with his elbow on the wall and his hand sliding back over his head.
“Look at this guy.” Garret said with such disgust. “She’s a widow, pal, quit flirting.”
Emmie tossed her head back, laughing. “I try.”
“And she’s flirting too.” Garret moved to behind Emmie. “Knock of the flirting, your husband died for our country.”
Emmie’s head flung forward with a serious look. “Did you, um . . .” She cleared her throat. “Bring the other papers for me to sign?”
“Right here.” Howie reached into his thin coat pulling them out and a pen. “May I?” He indicated to the two boxes stacked on each other. Receiving a nod from Emmie he set them down. “Just sign right here and here.” He handed her the pen with a smile and stepped back as she bent over to sign them. Howie smiled even wider as he crossed his arms watching her.
Garret tried, with all his might he swung forward to hit Howie in the back of his head, but his hand only went through. “Knock it off.”
Howie shivered. “Drafty.”
“Yes.” Emmie handed him the pen. “You get a nice little air flow going in the hall.” She grabbed the papers. “Done.”
“Thank you.” Howie moved back. “The insulation we laid the other day should help.” He stumbled a little in his steps while walking backwards. “I guess we’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll walk you to the door.” Emmie moved to him.
“Staying to work?” Howie asked as they walked down the hall.
“No, I’m just gonna grab my shoes and go too. I wanted to bring those boxes in.” Emmie opened the door for him. “Thanks again.” Waiting for Howie to leave, she let out a breath of relief, landlords always made her nervous. Turning from the closed door, she nearly skipped down the hall back to the dining room.
“Just you and me,” Garret said with such a smirk watching Emmie look around. “Missing something?”
“Where are my shoes?” She peeked behind the boxes set down. “I took them off right over there.”
“Guess you’re stuck. You really can’t go anywhere without your shoes.”
Scratching her head, Emmie looked again at the stack of boxes. She lifted one as if the shoes mysteriously slipped in between the two boxes. “Oh, this is weird. What the hell did I do with my shoes?” She lifted her shoulders then dropped them. “Oh, well.”
The smile dropped from Garret’s face. “Hey . . . where are you going?” He darted to catch her as she walked down the entrance hall. “Wait . . . you can’t leave. Don’t leave. You don’t have your shoes.” The front door closed. “Damn, I thought it would work.” Shaking his head and realizing that Emmie would be back, Garret made his way to the dining room closet and pulled out her shoes that he put in there. Setting them on the floor, he saw her two boxes both predominantly marked ‘writing stuff’. Figuring if he was stuck in the house and he was going to be close to Emmie, he might as well get to know her.
Settling himself on the floor, he carefully opened the first box. A smaller square one lay on top. “Rejections?” He opened it and the stack of letters nearly popped out at him. “Hell, Emmie.” He began to read them. “You really do have your fingers crossed.” It was on the third letter that Garret noticed the date. “Oh shit.” His hand released them. “I’ve been dead that long?” It took him aback. Why didn’t he know this? Why didn’t he feel this? And most of all, if he was dead that long, Rita Hayworth certainly had to have been up there when he was. Why did he miss her?
He moved on to the second box after placing everything back the way it was, and that second box surprised him. Manuscripts, bound together white paper, lined that box. Garret pulled one out, flipping open the paper cover and reading the title and her name underneath. “Emily Stevenson.” He nodded with wide eyed approval. “Romance, Emily?” He flipped open a few pages really not having much desire to read a love story, and the name ‘Bob’ caught his eyes. “So you’re Bob.” Garret read the paragraph and he chuckled. “You don’t seem that bad to me.” Reclining to lay on his side, Garret began to read more of the words than he anticipated. And little did he know, if he wanted to get to know the woman that was moving into his home, he was doing it the best way possible.
THREE
About thirty pages from the end of one of Emmie’s manuscripts, Garret had to slam it shut when he heard the voices and the opening of the front door. “Shit.” He tossed the book back in the box and closed the flaps, hearing Emmie walking closer and he recognized the other female as Duncan.
“So they should be here soon enough.” Emmie walked into the dining room. “We have a few minutes to . . .”
“What’s wrong?” Duncan asked.
“My shoes.” Emmie bent down to them. “I must have missed them yesterday.”
“I put them back,” Garret spoke. “It was mean.”
“Carpet picnic?” Duncan asked as she held a brown bag in her hand.
“Carpet picnic.” Emmie sat down on the floor. “We’ll use one of my boxes.” Her speech slowed down as she reached for the one. “The flap is lifted.”
“Probably the draft loosened the tape.”
“Probably. It’s just . . .” Emmie peered inside.
Garret saw the look on her face. “What is it? I messed up. Shit.”
“Odd.” Emmie couldn’t remove her views from the box. “They’re out of order. My manuscripts.”
“She knows this?” Garret was shocked. “How does she know this?”
Duncan didn’t put much thought into it. “Oh, you know you packed in a hurry.”
“Yeah.” Garret commented. “Packed in a hurry. That’s it and what the hell are you two eating?” He hunched down to their little picnic as they pulled yellow paper wrapped sandwiches out of the bag. “That doesn’t even look good. Is this what they eat now?”
Duncan opened a package of mayonnaise, squeezing it on her take-out breakfast sandwich. “So have you decided what you are going to do about Craig’s stuff?”
“Don’t mention his name,” Emmie told her.
“Is it packed up?”
“Yes.” Emmie took a bite of her food. “And it will stay that way.”
“Emmie, you can’t leave it in boxes.”
“Watch me.” Emmie nodded. “I will not be able to bring myself to touch it. I’m so pissed off right now.”
“Whoa!” Garret’s eyes widened. “Quite the mouth there, little lady.”
Emmie set down her sandwich harshly. “He shouldn’t have left. He shouldn’t have. He should be here.”
“I know,” Duncan told her. “And I won’t bring his name up again.”
“Thank you. The mention of it right now really upsets me.”
“I’m sorry I brought it up.” Duncan reached over and laid her hand on Emmie’s.
Garret studied the look on Emmie’s face, it shocked him. “Boy, you have a lot of hostility toward the man.” He quickly turned his head to the sound of a truck. “Movers are here.”
Emmie sprang up. “Movers are here.” She quickly gathered her sandwich. “Oh, this is gonna be great. Wait until you see the one guy, Duncan. He is so cute.” She hurried from the dining room.
“Cute?” Garret followed the two women. “Which one?” He saw Emmie snickering and pointing. “Oh, he’s got a baby face. He’s a pup. And why are you so flirtatious?” Seeing the four movers open up the back of the truck, Garret decided to step back and hide away somewhere. With all the activity that would be going on, the last thing he wanted was to be ‘moved’ through. Unless of course it was Emmie, and that to Garret, wasn’t all that bad.
<><><><>
The hectic day was over with and Garret knew the safety factor when he heard the slamming of the doors. It wasn’t like he cared a lot for the attic that he wanted to stay up there. It was just that he really didn’t care much for Duncan and her mouth, yelling at the moving people loudly that Garret could hear her in the attic. And Garret stayed in the attic until he no longer heard any remnants of Duncan’s voice. He was beginning to think she would never leave.
Was Emmie still there? Garret hoped as he came from the attic. Hearing the shuffling from the bedroom, he walked there and saw Emmie straightening the bedspread. She was settling in. Emmie was there to stay. Why he liked the idea of it so much, Garret couldn’t put his finger on it. Emmie looked tired to him, and rightfully so. The sun had started to set, she had been going since early in the morning and she had things pretty much in order. A lot of work, Garret thought, for a woman to do on her own.
He watched her as she stared at the four boxes shoved in a corner. Boxes marked ‘Craig’s clothes’. Garret wondered what was going through her mind, she had a slight smile on her face. Was she having happy thoughts of this man? This man whom Garret deducted--finally--hadn’t died in the same war he did. But he had to have died, definitely. If he had ‘up and left’ Emmie and her children, would she still have his clothes? And if he wasn’t dead, then at that moment, with a bright smile on her face, Emmie would not have been adding moth balls to the boxes and sealing them back up. Garret figured perhaps Emmie was finally putting him to rest. She was high spirited and she seemed to move on. After all, she had moved into a new house.
Standing in her bedroom, Garret watched as Emmie opened up her dresser drawer and pulled out a tee shirt and another pair of blue jeans. He was beginning to wonder if she owned anything feminine at all.
She laid the clothes on her bed then grabbed a robe that protruded from a box on the floor. Right there, Garret debated if he should leave the bedroom. He thought more so his presence shouldn’t be there when he saw her undo the blue jeans she wore and let them drop to the floor.
Legs don’t hurt. Garret thought, watching her legs stick out from under the long shirt she wore. He could look at her legs and maybe . . . His hand immediately, in a gentleman fashion, covered his eyes when she lifted her shirt. “I should leave,” he said as he spread the fingers on his hand, peeking as she reached for her bra straps. “Oh, I can get used to this. No.” He shook his head. “This isn’t right.” Turning his back, he walked from the bedroom and stood in the hall, wanting badly to look back inside. To Garret it hadn’t been all that long since he had left the earth and it had been even longer since he saw a half dressed woman. The last time he saw one was when the enemy dropped flyers down to play mind games. Flyers that contained a woman undressing while a man in the background took off his tie. Words across the flyer reading, ‘while you’re away’. Insinuating to the men at war that their women at home were being less than faithful. Garret didn’t have a woman at home, so the flyers didn’t bother him. But he took them anyhow, for the pictures.
Standing in the hall, Emmie came out of the bedroom walking by him, removing the band that held her hair in a ponytail. He couldn’t stop looking as she freed her hair, swaying it back and forth while she walked into the bathroom. Her failure to close the door all the way allowed for Garret to see her. He heard the water turn on, then he saw her begin to drop the robe. Turning his sight quickly, he moved to the steps. He would just wait downstairs. That instance in time was just as good as any to finish the story of Emmie’s he was reading. Only this time he would put the manuscript back right where he got it from.
<><><><>
The third picture graced what Emmie called ‘her wall’. Casting the characters in her stories to inspire her to write. Using the expressions on their faces to help with different scenes. Of course, her wall was dedicated mainly to the people in her little series she started. It was Emmie’s world, and anyone that knew Emmie, knew that. Emmie sometimes guessed that she was the only one who understood the story. But that was fine with her, those people in that series, the ones who lived in Carlton, they were her escape.
Her finger moved pleasingly over the face of the picture of Kevin. His name wasn’t really Kevin. What it was exactly, Emmie didn’t know and Emmie didn’t care. To her he was Kevin.
“See.” Garret stood behind her. “I still don’t like this.” He looked at the picture. “I mean granted, I’d say this is Kevin, it looks like him. But does he have to be on this wall. And what about this?” He pointed to another picture. “This has to be David. I don’t like him. He’s weak. And . . .” Garret watched Emmie bend down to the half typewriter and half picture box on the small desk. He heard the ‘snap’ of a power surge and he looked up to see the screen on the picture box light up. “Hey, am I finally gonna see this thing work? We need another chair in this small . . . where are you going?” Garret followed her from her partitioned corner.
Emmie picked up a half a sandwich from a plate that sat on the dining room table.
“It’s no wonder you’re thin, Emmie. You don’t eat right.”
Emmie took a bite, then hesitantly reached for a stack of mail. “I might as well do this.” She flipped through the letters and her shoulders dropped. She pulled out three envelopes, they all looked the same. “I guess even the little yellow stickers don’t slow down the rejections.”
“Don’t open those,” Garret told her wishing to take them from her hand.
“Rejection.” She tossed a letter aside, and opened the next envelope. It didn’t take much reading for Emmie to see. “Rejection.” She grabbed the next one. “Rejection.”
“Don’t pay attention to those. I read two of your books, Em.” Garret wanted her to hear him. “They’re good. Cheer up.”
“Bob.”
“Huh?”
Emmie smiled. “Forget these. I know what will make me feel better. I’ll print up Bob.”
“Yeah, you do that.” Garret stayed behind her as she grabbed her sandwich and walked back to her writing space. “I want to see . . . whoa.” His eyes widened at the cartoon-like picture on the screen in front of Emmie. “This thing is great. Beats a typewriter.”
Emmie drew the mouse near her, staring at her computer. She pulled up a program. “Let’s get you on my wall, Bob.” Emmie waited on the picture to load. One of many she had worked hard to conform to what she envisioned in her mind as ‘Bob’. A picture of a man with similar features. Features she changed and added to, and kept working on until he no longer looked like himself, but like ‘Bob’.
“This is going to be interesting. I wanna see your big hero. What you have him pictured like. I know what I think he . . . Oh, my God.” Garret moved closer to the screen. “Emmie, is that him?” He saw the bright smile on her face. “Oh, my God.” Garret looked at the picture. Bob’s dark eyes, the short black hair. “Is this the man you see?” He pointed and stared in such awe. “Emmie . . .” His voice dropped. “This looks . . . this . . . Emmie . . . this is me.”
<><><><>
A fake diamond broach. Letters from Garret to home. Even the money he sent his mother, went unspent, and still wrapped tightly in a scarf in that box in the attic. Perhaps his mother was saving it for him. But that wasn’t what Garret searched. He saw it the last time he was in the box, and rummaging though some more, he saw it again. A picture, taken on a beach somewhere. Garret tried to recall when and where. Him and two other men, shirtless, smiling. Why was he smiling? It was the middle of war. But he did. And smiling was not something he did often in his life. Not intentionally. It wasn’t the photograph or the memory, but his face in that picture. That was why he searched for it. He looked at his face. So eerie. So much like the picture Emmie created of Bob. He thought maybe it was his imagination. But looking at the photo told him it wasn’t. Garret didn’t know how to feel about that, except for the fact that he knew there was a reason he liked Bob so much. If Garret was a man who believed in fate, he would believe right then and there, that fate played a big reason for his medal, his key being lost, and most of all for Emmie coming to the house.
Emmie.
Garret tossed the picture back in the box, he’d seen enough. He left his attic. It had only been maybe an hour since he left Emmie. Staying by her side enjoying her fast moving fingers on the half-typewriter. Reading the words as she wrote them. Watching her as she bit her nails staring at the screen waiting for the words to come to her. He enjoyed it all with the exception of that one song she kept playing over and over. It was nice at first, bothersome about the eighth or ninth time.
How quiet the house was as Garret made it to the second floor. He stood by Emmie’s bedroom, hesitating before going in. She had finally fallen asleep, and the room was lit slightly by the sun that just started to rise. Peaceful she slept, laying on her side, strands of hair tossed across her face. Garret walked inside and to her bed. He brought himself down to be closer to her level as he stared at her, watching the still look on her face.
He reached out his hand, slowly, running his fingertips with the slightest of touch across her strand of hair, trying to feel the softness of it. As his finger moved, so did the hair, and Emmie, let out a soft moan, nuzzling her face deeper into the pillow. Garret retracted his hand, clenching it away from her. Then he looked at her once more, said goodnight within his mind and he went back to his attic for the night.
FOUR
It was the single biggest step Ash Caulfield had taken in his entire life. It was even bigger than that marriage he was far from ready for, yet got himself into four years earlier. A stout man in his mid forties, graying blonde hair, slightly balding. Not as tall as he would like to be. Ash walked straight, giving him the appearance of ‘big’ he needed in the cut-throat world of business he had been in since he was a mere novice of twenty-two.
Million dollar deals had been signed by him. Books that graced the bestsellers list for months at a time, all handpicked by him. Agents feared him. Editors cringed at his off the wall suggestions. Authors wanted to be his best friend. Ash would be their best friends if they made him lots of money.
But money wasn’t the issue when he left his fifteen year position at the top publisher in the country. Creative insight was. What happened when the new CEO took over? Suddenly anything that Ash brought to the board as possible new releases was shot down. He was told his ideals weren’t fresh, they were . . . old.
Perhaps his ideas were old, his standard of what he liked to put his name behind hadn’t lowered, and Ash knew what the public liked. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have gotten the respect he did in the industry. His name was just about as well known in the industry as any author was to the public. Perhaps that was what Ash would have going for him when he started it all from scratch.
Ash tightly carried the last box from his car. He stared at the small office building, all his, on that busy street in the small city of Binghamton, New York. It would be a nice change of pace from the hustle and bustle of commuting to the city. He and his wife Camille’s new home was a mere ten minute walk or two minute drive from what would be Caulfield and Truman Publishing.
Camille picked out the town herself. A small town. A place to settle and raise those children she so much wanted to have with Ash. Camille had a love of small towns. Which was odd, because she always seemed out of place in them with her city look. However, Camille really never noticed that.
The aroma of fresh paint and new carpet pummeled Ash as soon as he stepped into the front office of his new business. He looked at his wife as she swiveled her chair around, looking happy behind the huge mahogany desk that seemed too big for the front office. “Where the hell did this desk come from?” Ash asked as he set the box down on it.
Camille seemed extra giddy on that day, tucking her short-styled brown hair behind her left ear. Tilting her head and giggling that young laugh. Though she looked older than her twenty-four years, she certainly acted it at times. “Daddy said that we needed something impressive. So he bought it for me.”
Ash tried not to show his displeasure at the monstrous furniture, after all, ‘Daddy’ was footing most of the bill for the new publishing outfit. “Did you start learning that computer yet, Camille?”
“This thing?” Camille pointed at it. “Oh no, Chumpkins.” She smiled. “But I will. And you watch how good I get.”
“Camille.” Ash closed one eye. “If you’re going to be my secretary, you cannot call me that in the office.”
“Why?”
“People might hear.”
“But there’s no one around.” She looked about the office.
“Yes, dear, I know this. But . . . you may want to get used to not calling me that here.”
“But what if I get used to not calling you that at all? Then you’ll miss it when we’re at home.”
“No I won’t.” Ash shook his head and picked up the box again.
“Sure, you will. You are so funny.”
“No, I’m not.” Ash carried his box to his office. “And, Camille, in a minute come on back here, we’re going to start those letters. I want to get them out as soon as possible.”
Camille looked down at her watch, watching as the second hand slowly went around the face of it. How slow one minute seemed to take when one counted the seconds. Wanting to be the good secretary, an occupation she had never been--actually Camille’s first occupation ever--she grabbed a tablet and pen and walked back into her husband’s office. “Do you like the punctuality?”
“What was that?” Ash pulled files from the boxes.
“I’m punctual. Shall I sit before you? Or should I . . .” She walked over to in front of him sliding on his desk and crossing her legs before him. “Be sleazy like in the movies.”
“Be efficient, Camille.” Ash moved her legs. “Sit in the chair.”
“Did your secretary ever come on to you?” Camille asked.
“I should hope not. Stan never struck me as the type.”
“Oh.” Camille giggled with her hand covering her mouth. “I forgot.” She sat down in the chair. “I wore a skirt.”
“I see.” Ash finished laying the folders on the desk, he then looked at her. “What are you doing?”
“Dictation.” Camille held her pen. “Daddy said his secretary is the best and she is from the old world. Sorry, Chumpkins, no dig on you, but he said if I want to be a good secretary, I have to take a letter.” She shrugged. “Whatever that means. But I’m sure I can do it. I saw I Love Lucy.” She nodded. “Go on.”
“All right.” Ash threw his hands up. “This will be a form letter.”
“A what?” Camille tilted her head as if it helped her to hear better.
“A form letter. You’re going to send this out to about twenty different people. They’ll all get the same letter. The only difference is, you’ll change the name and address on each of them. Got it?”
“Got it.” Camille brought her chair closer to the desk and laid her tablet down. “Fire away.”
Apprehensive, Ash did. “Dear, so and so, Recently . . .”
“So . . . and . . . so.” Camille looked up. “Period or colon.”
“Colon.”
“Go on.” She squirmed with excitement.
“Recently, you submitted your . . .”
“Re . . . cent . . lee . . . you . . .”
“Camille,” Ash called sharply. “Are you O.K. with this? Maybe I should do this since this is all new to you.”
“No, no.” She shook the pen. “The ink was dry. I’m good. Go on. I have to learn, Chumpkins.”
Ash huffed some and tried again. “Continuing . . .”
“Con . . . tin . . u . . .”
“Not that.”
“Not . . . that.”
“Stop.”
“Stop.”
“Camille,” Ash called her sternly. “We’ll try this again. Read me what you have so I know where to begin.”
Camille sat up and began to read. “Dear so and so. Recently you submitted your continuing not . . .”
“Stop.”
“Ash.” Camille tsked. “Stop comes after ‘that’, Chumpkins. Not before. Though I have to say, this letter isn’t making any sense.”
Frustrated was an understatement. “Let’s . . .” Ash ran his hand down his face. “Let’s scratch everything you have after ‘not that’ and ‘stop’ O.K.?”
“O.K.” Camille was chipper. “Oh, it’s making more sense now.”
“Of course it is.” Ash winked at her. “Ready?”
“Yes.” Camille prepared herself.
“Try to write a little faster, O.K.? It doesn’t have to be neat . . .”
“But, Chumpkins, people are going to be reading this,” she sang her words. “Neat is important. I may not have been in the business world for very long, but I know this.”