A Fateful Trip Copyright 2011 by B. K.

Dell
www.BKDell.com

Published by Patriot Books

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
coincidental.

Cover art Copyright 2011 by B. K. Dell

If you enjoy A Fateful Trip, please check out my Goodreads page where you can leave a review for this
title and others. Info at www.bkdell.com

A Fateful Trip

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale…

The first few notes grated on my nerves, even before my conscious mind could identify the cause of the irritation.
“Can you turn this garbage off?” I shouted to the man behind the counter. I told myself not to do it. It shouldn‟t
have been hard to predict what would happen.
“Did you just call Gilligan’s Island garbage?” Kristin asked.
See. Here it comes.
“Yes, I hate Gilligan’s Island, okay?”
“You hate Gilligan’s Island?” asked the man behind the counter.
“You hate Gilligan’s Island?” echoed Kristin.
I looked back and forth trying to decide to which one I should respond. I turned to the man behind the counter and
said, “My tastes in TV shows shouldn‟t concern you. Now can you please turn it off?”
“Other patrons are watching.”
I turned my head to examine the rows of empty booths in the small, desolate café. “What other patrons?”
He must have taken my comment as a critique of his establishment because he answered, “Well, you didn‟t see
my lunch rush earlier, pal.”
“I‟m sure it was fearsome,” I said condescendingly.
“How could you hate Gilligan’s Island?” asked Kristin, trying to get back to the original question.
“Yeah, what kind of a Commie doesn‟t like Gilligan’s Island?” the man chimed in again, uninvited.
“Can you just turn it off please? We are the only ones here.”
“Maybe I‟m watching it.”
“Whatever happened to „the customer‟s always right?‟”
“You lost that privilege when you went bad-mouthing Gilligan’s Island.”
“What‟s the big deal? It‟s not like I insulted this swill you call coffee,” I snapped to the man.
“Hey, if you don‟t like it, you can leave.”
“Oh, that‟s rich, a café owner who likes his alone time. Great business model. Where can I invest?” I sassed as I
stood up. “C‟mon, Kristin, let‟s let him watch his TV in peace.”
 Kristin stood up too, but it was clear she had no intentions of walking out the door with me. Instead she grabbed
me by the wrist and began to pull me toward a booth in the back – away from the TV and away from the owner. She did it
with so much confidence and good-natured charm that it was hard for me to resist. She didn‟t for a second take my empty
threat of storming out seriously. As she pulled me away, she turned to him and said, “I think your coffee‟s yummy.” I
turned back to him and sneered, “Spoiler alert. I‟ve seen this episode… They don‟t make it off the island!”
He shot me a crude gesture.
When we reached our new booth, I felt confident the whole Gilligan’s Island debacle would be dropped, but
Kristin pronounced one final word. She said, “For most people, Gilligan’s Island reminds them of a simpler time. Even
just the theme song recalls something innocent and virginal in our hearts…and not just from our childhoods, but even a
simpler time in our nation‟s history.”
Okay, I pictured myself saying warmly, I can’t argue with that. But instead I grunted, “Innocent and virginal? Are
you kidding me?”
“Aww, c‟mon,” she protested. “Everyone has a memory of staying home sick from school and watching daytime
TV all day. Those days were special, a break from routine. You got to see all the shows you didn‟t have a chance to see
since summer.”
“Not me. I never had that. There never was a time I was innocent.” I wore my pain like a merit badge, like it was
the only thing in my whole worthless life that made me special. And I believed that it was. “I never had anyone to come
and take my temperature, put their hand to my forehead, and force me to take my medicine. There were no special days
for me.”
Translation: My childhood sucked; now I’m going to make you pay for it. Why you? Because you’re the only one
foolish enough to come too close.
I could see the light in her eyes go dark. We sat in silence.
I tried to be cool, but the knot in my chest was getting tighter and the pain of my unhealed wounds compelled me
like a sharp spur in the side. I spat with all my pent-up venom, “Fine, maybe you should just…run. You‟re going to run
anyway. You‟re going to turn your back and leave me. You might as well do it expeditiously. Better for it to end here in
this café all at once than through a dozen screened calls and unanswered emails, followed up with some drunk dialing and
then a restraining order.”
She shook her head in disgust and got up to leave. I realized, just then, that by “a simpler time,” she must have
meant a time before she knew guys like me existed, before she was sickly compelled to turn them into charity cases.
“Wait!” I yelled. She turned back to look at me. I laughed and said, “I was just kidding about the restraining
order.”
She didn‟t budge.
“I‟m sorry. Please don‟t go,” I implored. “Have a seat. Please…Please?”
She continued to stand there sizing me up, her eyes burning an angry hole in me. But she acquiesced and returned
reluctantly to her side of the booth. I did my best to sound sincere and apologetic, though I could still hear the strain in my
voice. “It‟s just that I don‟t like being reminded of my brother, okay? Gilligan’s Island reminds me of my older brother
Stevie.”
“Is he on a deserted island?” she snapped, but then her own joke made her laugh. She was trying so hard to act
tough, but blew it when she accidentally tickled herself. I can‟t deny…it was cute.
“Maybe…” I said mournfully. “My brother‟s lost at sea.”
Her hand shot to her mouth. “Oh, Andy, I‟m sorry I-”
“I‟m kidding!” I laughed.
“You‟re horrible.”
“No, we know where he is,” I told her. “He just watches TV all day long.”
She laughed and said, “I have a brother like that.”
“I doubt it,” I scoffed. “Stevie watches TV all day. All day. Twenty-four hours a day.”
“He couldn‟t possibly.”
“Well, every waking hour. But they have to leave it on at night in case he wakes up.”
 “Who are they?”
“The nurses at Clear View.”
“Ah,” she said simply, although I could see her mind was searching. I‟ve heard all kinds of strange guesses about
Stevie‟s condition. Is he autistic? Is he an idiot savant? To how many digits can he recite Pi? I‟ve heard them all.
I thought I‟d save her the trouble, so I said, “His brain is damaged.” The line was tired and worn from repetition.
This is why I hated getting to know new people.
“How did his brain get damaged?” she asked.
“Never mind how,” I knew I was being rude. “Forget I brought it up.”
“You say Stevie is your older brother?” I was discovering that she wasn‟t the type of girl to drop anything.
“He‟s 26.”
“And you still call him Stevie?”
“Yeah, sure. I mean, there‟s a chance he would, by now, prefer us to call him something like Stephen or Steve,
but he hasn‟t spoken since he was ten.”
“Oh, that‟s awful.”
“Well, he speaks, but he doesn‟t really communicate. You can‟t have a conversation with him; he only repeats
things that he has heard on television. He doesn‟t answer questions or even acknowledge your existence, really. While
sitting beside his bed, he won‟t even look at you. He‟ll only stare past you at the TV. You could tell him about your day
and he‟ll quote some product slogan. You could tell him, „The hospital is on fire! We have to leave,‟ and he would
respond with, „Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don‟t.‟ I remember when I came to him and told him I was
dropping out of med-school. All he said was, „It takes a tough man to make a tender chicken!‟”
I had forgotten to take off my Copy ’n’ Go name tag before coming and when I mentioned med-school, I could‟ve
sworn I saw her eyes dart down to it. Embarrassed, I quickly removed it and shoved it in my back pocket.
“What happens if you turn the TV off?” she asked, pretending not to notice what I had just done.
“Don‟t ask.”
Kristin‟s eyes became very sad. She said softly, “It sounds like he really is on a deserted island.”
“No, I see him every day,” I said.
“Every day?”
“Well, yeah. Someone‟s got to visit him, right. I go every day.”
I could see a slight change in the way she looked at me. My commitment to my brother was a clue that I wasn‟t a
self-focused jerk, after all. It somehow slipped through.
“I meant deserted inside his mind,” she said. “I mean, if there‟s no meaningful interaction, right? It sounds like
you don‟t even exist to him.”
“Yeah, we once worried about that, but we think a part of him really can understand what we say to him. It wasn‟t
until I brought him the news that our adoptive father had died that he showed any recognition at all. It was a terrible day,
obviously. I went straight to Stevie after I‟d heard. I sat down beside his bed and told him what had happened. He didn‟t
move; he just sat there watching a Gilligan‟s Island marathon.” I saw Kristin‟s eyebrows tick up slightly. “I was so upset.
It angered me that he could still watch television, unaffected, even after I delivered news like that. He appeared to care
more about some stupid show. Frustrated, I shouted the news at him again and again, trying to provoke him to respond.
„He‟s dead,‟ I yelled. „He‟s gone!‟ But Stevie showed no reaction. Finally, I broke down and began to cry. I climbed into
his hospital bed beside him and wrapped my arm around him. I clung to him like he was all I had left, but he just
continued to blithely watch TV. My whole world fell apart that day. I lay there beside him crying for what must have been
3 hours; I know because I heard the stupid theme song 6 times.” I gestured toward the TV.
She nodded slowly. Her face showed compassion, probably more than I deserved.
I continued, anxious to get to the good part, “Finally, after I pulled myself together and stood up, he turned to me
– actually turned his head – and said, „We have only one chance to leave this place, but we‟ll never make it until we find
that peace.‟” I smiled.
“Wow. That‟s amazing.”
“That one line changed everything. To this day, it‟s the only evidence I have that suggests he can hear me,
understand me, that he‟s even aware of me at all. It took a moment as significant as Dad‟s death for him to try to make
contact.”
“What do you think he meant?”
“I‟m not sure. My father struggled so hard with his cancer and suffered so much, yet even in his final days we
could see something wonderful return to his eyes – it was peace. My father had always had it before, but when it left his
eyes, we thought it would never return. Maybe somehow through all of my brother‟s suffering, Stevie was able to hang
onto that same peace. Maybe he understands that at least.”
“How long has he been like this?”
“About 16 years. He went to physical rehab after...” I stopped. I thought I had gotten out of the habit of beginning
sentences like that. What is it about this girl that makes me want to open up to her? “Just after,” I said bitterly. “Anyway,
that‟s when he got to know our adoptive father. Dad played such an important role in helping him. There seemed to be no
limit to his encouragement and patience. We weren‟t used to that kind of attention. He showed the two of us a whole new
way to live. I...I know that Stevie could understand things then. Stevie loved Dad so much. I know he did. I just wish he
could have met Dad when he was still...” I frowned and shook my head, unwilling to finish the sentence.
“Innocent and virginal?” she asked sweetly, but with a touch of feistiness.
“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of…not a vegetable.”
“Oh.”
I looked away. “Well, anyway, his body recovered but his mind never did. At first I was happy to hear him
quoting TV, just to hear him using complete sentences again.”
“What about your adoptive mother? Is she in the picture?”
“Mom‟s great. She‟s a kind, gentle woman. But my mom never took center stage. She found her identity in our
father – just like the rest of us. We were like three children huddled under a big umbrella. And the more it rained, the
tighter we clung together.”
“And your dad was the umbrella?”
“Yes. It was my father‟s idea to adopt older children. We were only in that state home for three months. Three
months for an eight-year-old and a brain damaged ten-year-old! That‟s amazing. He must have marched right in there and
told them, give me your least wanted.”
“No, I‟m sure that wasn‟t it,” Kristin said graciously, thinking I was just being hard on myself.
“Actually, I think that‟s exactly what happened. At least that‟s how I always picture it – him walking up to a
counter and saying, „you got a real hard case back there for me?...Better yet, make it two.‟”
Kristin smiled.
“I can‟t possibly guess his motive. He just gave, and gave, and gave.” I looked out the window as I trailed off in
my own thoughts. In the background I could hear Thurston Howell the Third say something, but I couldn‟t make out what
it was and didn‟t care. I turned back to Kristin and said, “There are two men to whom I completely owe my life, and if I
lived a million years I could never repay. My late father is one of those two.”
***
“I met a girl,” I told my brother as he watched television. I headed straight to the hospital after I left the cafe. It
was still the middle of the day, so Three’s Company was on. “Nothing will become of it though. Nothing works out for
me. I tell you, you are lucky not to have to deal with women, they‟re nothing but trouble.”
I could hear the canned laugh track from the television mocking me.
A thought hit my mind just then: did Stevie, at age ten, ever have a crush on anyone, a little girl in the
neighborhood maybe? I bet he did. The idea brought me pleasure. I wonder if he still thinks about her. I wonder what she
is doing now. She’s probably off married to some guy, starting a family, loving life, curled up under the covers with
him…kissing him…whispering in his ear…laughing... Suddenly, the pleasure disappeared as fast as it came in, leaving
only the usual resentment.
“I‟m so tired,” I told him. “I‟m tired of meeting people. I‟m tired of hearing their stupid opinions. I‟m tired of
trying to get them to hear mine. They judge. Everyone judges – women especially. They judge you on everything...
Although, she did listen to me, I guess... She was very patient…” I shook off the idea, then said more forcefully, “She‟ll
say I‟m not good enough for her. Just you watch; she‟ll say I‟m not good enough. I bet she‟s saying it right now. „I‟m too
good for Andy. He‟s messed up. He‟s jaded.‟ Forget her! …Sure, I‟ll call her ...She won‟t call back. Why should she call
me? She can see I‟m broken, so why should she bother? And why should I? There‟s nothing to be gained but more pain.
You see, Stevie, it‟s just all so hard. It‟s just too hard.”
“Give me a break,” Stevie said. His monotone voice almost sounded robotic and his eyes did not move from the
screen.
My heart raced. I leaned in closer to him. “Stevie, are you talking to me?”
“Break me off a piece of that Kit-Kat bar,” he added with no inflection.
I laughed at first, but then sunk my shoulders down low. I looked at his impassive face and brushed aside a
wayward hair. Depleted, I said, “You keep watching TV, Stevie. You just keep on watching.” My voice was soft and
sweet, like it was a prayer of some kind. I kissed his forehead gently.
***
The first few notes came blaring in as I drank my coffee. I cussed. I guess I should have been able to predict it. I
had agreed to meet Kristin at the same place and the same time, so of course the same show was on. I yelled to the man
behind the counter, “You‟ve got a lot of nerve!”
The man behind the counter just shrugged.
Kristin hadn‟t shown up yet and my mind began to convince itself that she wouldn‟t. Desperate for some
distraction, I found myself reluctantly and hypnotically watching Gilligan’s Island.
“Oh, this is a good one…” the man behind the counter told me when he caught me looking at the screen. His
voice was friendly, like he wanted to start things over between us. “They‟re trying to fix the radio because there‟s a
weather plane coming, but they can‟t get it working because they are missing a piece.”
“Let me guess, it‟s Gilligan‟s fault,” I tried my best to sound like a decent fellow, but I am sure my usual sarcasm
came through.
“No, actually a monkey took it,” the man said with a huge grin.
“Lovely,” I chuckled.
“I‟m sorry I‟m late,” Kristin said as she flopped herself down. “Traffic was horrible.”
I quickly turned to her before she had a chance to see that I had been glued to the set. In a moment of vulnerability
I said, “I didn‟t think you would come.”
She deliberated over her next move for a second, then said, “I didn‟t think I‟d come either.”
“Oh,” I murmured.
When she ordered her coffee from the guy, I noticed that she had more of a connection with him than with me.
When he left our table, her mannerisms returned to awkward. The conversation seemed impossible to start. I tried to think
of something light to say, but it was difficult when I always felt so heavy. I went to the account where I keep my
emergency charm, but it had been depleted long ago. The coffee between us cooled. In the awkward silence, we could
hear the incessant yammering of her beloved castaways. I could feel her slipping away from me, but I had no idea how to
prevent it from happening.
Apparently she had no patience for silence because she cleared her throat and asked, “So… how did Stevie‟s brain
get damaged and what happened with your real parents?”
She asked it boldly, like she had the right. I could see it in her eyes – I was some sort of puzzle that she was trying
to crack. What gall!
“My real father died of cancer at age 64. My real mother cried and kissed the top of his casket. Those are my real
parents,” I growled much harsher than I had intended.
“I know. I didn‟t mean it like that,” she said. “I mean, well, how did Stevie get that way?”
I knew what she was doing. She planned to never see me again, but she didn‟t want to spend the rest of her life
wondering – like a bad movie she wasn‟t enjoying, but couldn‟t bring herself to turn off.
“Why do you want to know so badly?” I challenged her.
“I don‟t know. It guess it‟s just tha-” she stopped abruptly. Her jaw dropped and her eyes showed real panic.
It took only the span of those few seconds to collapse my fragile world. It didn‟t have to happen. The terrible
blow almost slipped past my conscience undetected. If she hadn‟t become dead silent, I would have never tried to discover
why she stopped or what had happened. Instead, I rewound the tape in my brain. I looked up at the television and was able
to string together the last sounds my ears had just heard. The Professor was talking to the Skipper, and in desperation had
said, “We have only one chance to leave this place, but we‟ll never make it until we find that piece.”
“I‟m so sorry,” Kristin whispered.
My eyes went blurry. The muscles around my face went slack. I couldn‟t believe it. It felt like the only supporting
structure in my life was just demolished. My self-esteem was a sandcastle being heartlessly stomped to the ground. “It
was gibberish,” I said weakly. “He never heard anything. All these years…he‟s never heard anything at all.”
“Andy, wait…”
A burning resentment filled my heart and my fists reflexively balled up tight. “He is on a deserted island.” The
last piece fell and I opened my fists to put my face in my hands. My voice sounded ghostly and weak when I said, “That
means he never even met Dad…he never knew him.”
“We don‟t know that.” I could see that she wanted to comfort me.
I couldn‟t stand for another human being to be around me in that moment. I couldn‟t stand being seen. Her eyes
watching me produced an itchy burning on my skin. I straightened my spine and pulled my hands away from my face, but
I couldn‟t look at her. “Forget it,” I said blinking away tears and presenting a sweeping motion with my hand. “It‟s no big
deal.” I pretended to look at my watch casually, and without waiting for a response I said, “I‟ve got to go. I forgot there‟s
somewhere else I have to be.”
Even as I turned away from her, I was pleading with myself to run back to her and collapse before her. No one’s
buying your act, I said to myself. Don’t pretend to be so tough when you are really so fragile.
***
The next day I called her but she didn‟t answer. So I tried again. No answer. It’s begun…the call screening. With
each hour that passed, my attempts to resist calling her became harder and harder. I knew that hitting that talk button
would only make me look desperate and pathetic. Which I was.
See? Do you see? This is how it always goes. This is how women are. They hurt you. They hurt you and they just
don’t care.
She no longer represented this situation alone, but a deeper pattern in my life, one that I swore would never
happen again, but did. Holding on to her meant breaking that pattern, losing her meant one more piece of incontrovertible
data – you are broken…you are worthless.
That evening as the sun was going down, the rain began to pour. I had no umbrella as I walked to her doorstep. I
tried to stop myself from what I was about to do. By the time I pushed her doorbell, I was already soaked. I was carrying a
cheap bouquet of flowers which were drowning.
“You‟re stalking me,” was the first thing she said from the dry side of the threshold.
“I‟m sorry,” was all I said. It was a line I spent 20 minutes rehearsing. However, at home in front of the bathroom
mirror, there was no rain falling.
“You‟re sorry for stalking me?”
“I‟m sorry for everything,” I insisted, my body starting to shiver. I presented the flowers as if they were my first
piece of evidence – likely to clear me of all charges.
She grabbed the flowers unenthusiastically and said nothing.
“Listen, I can answer your questions now.”
“Not interested.”
“Great! So now you‟re not curious,” I jeered.
She took another look at me, and then stepped aside and made a quick gesture for me to enter. “You said you
were joking about the restraining order,” she snipped.
It must have been the rain that made me sympathetic; I can think of no other reason why she‟d let me in. Once
inside, she found me a towel and guided me to a tall barstool in her kitchen.
“The coffee‟s still warm,” she said.
“Thank you,” I uttered as she poured me a cup.
 There was silence between us as she cut the stems of the flowers and arranged them in a vase. It was amazing to
see how much nicer they looked after receiving just a little bit of attention. She paused to take her first real look at them.
She tried to deny it, but they worked some strange Svengali effect on her and suddenly the ice between us melted…or at
least the first layer. She sat down across from me, on the other side of her kitchen counter. Not exactly close.
“I hated washing his stupid car,” I said finally, hoping she would know who I was talking about. “Even while
scrubbing it, I worried that I might rub too hard and somehow damage his precious red paintjob. I felt such a raw disgust
in the pit of my gut; I knew even at that young age that a child should not envy his father‟s car. But I did; I envied the car.
I resented it because my father loved it in a way that he never loved us. He treasured it and pampered it. Washing it was
incredibly hard work, not just because I had to be so careful not to scratch it, but because the SOB would come and
inspect every inch of it once we were done.
“Stevie and I had spent most of the morning carefully washing his car. The air was crisp that day, but the sun felt
good on our faces. That must have been what prompted one of the few truly carefree moments of our youth. We started to
laugh and play. I had hidden Stevie‟s tank and he had only 30 seconds to find it or he would fail his mission and the whole
world would explode. Stevie would always make up games like that. They‟d always involve him playing the role as the
hero trying to save the world. I guess we had pretty wild imaginations.”
Something occurred to me and as a side note I added, “My father did so much to try to rob us of our childhood,
yet remarkably childhood always found a way to break back through.” I smiled.
“So anyway, I was counting down and Stevie was almost out of time. Five, four, three... My father must have
heard us laughing, because he stepped out to see why we had stopped working. The second I saw him, I froze. Stevie was
looking behind the bushes for his tank, but he could guess what it meant when he heard me stop so abruptly. We knew
we‟d get yelled at whenever my father showed up, even if we didn‟t know what we could possibly be doing wrong. He
always found something. This time it was the fact that I had left the hose out.” I rolled my eyes, bitterly. “I mean, I had
just used it!” I snapped, still trying to fight the battles that I had once been unable to fight. “It wasn‟t like I left it out
overnight. I was going to put his precious hose up, I just hadn‟t yet. I can still remember that perfect hose and the stupid
cart with wheels that he kept it so perfectly wrapped around. It‟s amazing how many sermons he‟d given us about taking
care of his things. So, foolishly I tried to plead my case, but he just started yelling. Then he reached out and shoved me for
being obstinate.”
I paused here.
Kristin must have misinterpreted the pause because she quickly jumped in and said solemnly, “That‟s terrible.”
I stopped to study her face. It amazed me that there were people so privileged, so happy, and so naïve to suffering
that a story about a man losing his temper and shoving his kid constituted a sob story. I gave a sad laugh. “No, that‟s just
where the story begins. That sort of thing was normal. Terrible hasn‟t started yet. I was standing pretty close to the car and
I was just a little boy, so when he pushed me I fell backwards and landed against the side of his car. I was too small to
dent the thing, but I knew exactly what the sound I heard meant – a zipper on my jacket had just scraped against his paint
job. His precious paintjob. From the absence of reaction on his face, I could tell he had not heard it. And I knew he
couldn‟t see it with my body in the way. Damage to his car was the one Cardinal Sin in our house. I knew that he would
blame it on me, even though it was more his fault than mine. My heart sank, my hands trembled, and all I could think to
do was to stay exactly where I was. Several moments passed and I stood there awkwardly leaning on the car.
“„Well, put it up!‟ he barked at me about the hose. But I did not move. At that point I felt a hot sharp pain on my
ankle. I looked down to discover that I was standing on a mound of fire ants. „What are you waiting for? Put it up... now!‟
Not obeying was the other sin in my house. Still I did not move. I knew damaging his car was a far greater offense than
disobeying. More ants began to bite. They were swarming my feet. I could feel them already inside my shoes, between my
skin and my socks, but I knew that if he saw that scratch, it would produce a fate worse than fire ants. You know, that was
the thing with him – there was never a good option. We made every choice as kids on a balance beam, only hoping to
minimize our pain, never hoping to avoid it. At that point Stevie ran over to put the hose up, but my father stopped him.
„No, I told him to do it.‟ Stevie was obviously scared for me, but there was nothing he could do. I did not move. Finally,
my father yanked me away from the car by the wrist…” I trailed off.
“He saw the scratch?”
 “Yes.”
“What…what did he do?”
“Nothing. Not then. Because at that very instant, Mrs. Swanson from down the block came jogging into view. I
remember she was wearing matching pink sweats and carrying small purple weights in each hand. When she passed, she
took a look at his bright shining automobile and said to all of us excitedly, “What a fancy clean car you have!” She must
have imagined some idyllic family scene, straight out of Norman Rockwell: boys cleaning their father‟s car as a token of
their love, a chore done together as a family and as a team. My father waved to her and smiled – a façade of a smile
covering gritted teeth. I thought that day that his anger would betray him. I could tell that he was having a hard time
resisting the urge to rage, even if it meant blowing his meticulously kept secret. That moment pinpointed in our young
minds what Stevie and I had so far only vaguely sensed. My father ruled as the exclusive dictator inside the walls of our
house, but outside there was another authority, one we could barely understand. Unbelievably, there were people that my
father didn‟t control…maybe even situations that he feared. I remember how Stevie just stood there watching Mrs.
Swanson get progressively smaller as she ran down the street. His eyes had that long-distance stare, like he had just
discovered a crack in the walls of our silent prison. As soon as she was gone, my father pulled me inside.”
“What happened inside?”
“Inside was different. Inside was always different. It was the third time one of us had to go to the hospital that
year.”
“Didn‟t the doctor know?”
“Are you kidding me? They were drinking buddies. That‟s just how things went in our town. Our father would
bring us in, tell a couple of his lies and soon they would be cracking jokes with each other. When we ran into the doctor
later, we would have to put up with his offhanded remarks about how clumsy we were, always wondering if he had been
truly fooled by my father, or just pretended to be. Either way we felt helpless. That may have been the worst part of it –
the helplessness. We were all alone and too young to fight. Meanwhile, everyone in our neighborhood loved our father.
He was a totally different person in front of them.”
“I‟m sorry,” she said softly.
“We had no home. Out in public – that was our safe turf, our hallowed ground. But once we got home, that was
when the trouble started – our silent prison. It was like a stone wall separated two different worlds. It wasn‟t until later
that I discovered how great a real home could be.”
Kristin got up from her seat and came to sit on the stool next to me. I continued, “I don‟t even remember what the
doctor had bandaged on me that day. I think I had to get stitches here on my scalp.” I pointed to the back of my head. “But
I could just be confusing that with a different day. However, it was what happened that night that I will never forget.”
Kristin couldn‟t understand why I had just smiled so big. I said, “In the dark house, when we were supposed to be
asleep, Stevie crawled over to the side of my bed and whispered, „Hey Andy, where did you hide my tank?‟” I laughed
when I told her this, then repeated, “Where did you hide my tank?” It‟s one of my favorite memories of my brother. “It
was supposed to rain that night and we knew what rain meant for metal; we had received enough beatings for leaving
metal tools out in the rain. I told him where the tank was and he said simply, „I‟m going out to get it.‟ I couldn‟t believe it.
I knew he wanted to be a soldier, but this was a suicide mission. He made his way to the window and began to open it. I
tried to plead with him to not be so stupid. In my head I was shouting and begging and sobbing, but in reality I was scared
to raise my voice above a soft whisper. The window squeaked. We both turned our heads to the opened door that led out
to the hallway. We saw no light and no movement, so Stevie raised the window open some more.
“In the dark room, I kept fearfully swiveling my head. I looked at the opened window that Stevie had just slipped
through, then over to the clear shot of my parents‟ bedroom door that lay in the distant darkness. Back to the window.
Back to the darkness. „What‟s taking so long?‟ my mind kept repeating. I could hear the crickets outside getting louder
and theorized that my father was smart enough to know that louder crickets meant an open window. My heart began to
race and I saw a light come on from underneath their bedroom door. I instantly sunk down into my bed. The last thing I
wanted to do was close my eyes, but I had to pretend to be sleeping. With my eyes closed tight, I could hear their door
opening, but could not make out the sound of any footsteps. I imagined my father standing over me furious, with the
window open and his oldest son missing, and me cowardly pretending to sleep. I mentally prepared myself to be awoken
by a hard slap and then God only knows what else to follow.
“A small sound indicated that someone had placed a glass in the kitchen sink. At first I took it as a sign of hope,
but I opened my eyes to see that the lights on that side of the house were on. If Stevie had followed my directions, he
would be right outside those windows, possibly mere feet from my father. The crickets seemed to be getting louder. The
wind from the open window chilled me. I waited to hear the front door fly open. I waited to hear the sound of a wallop, or
perhaps a bone breaking, followed by a scream. But it didn‟t happen. The lights in the kitchen went out and I saw my
father rounding the corner back into his room. He turned out his bedroom light and the entire house was dark again. After
another few seconds, I saw Stevie sneak back in through the same window undetected.” I exhaled as I had been reliving
the memory.
I smiled and continued, “I mean, how could a ten year old be so brave? Even to this day, I imagine them standing
just a few feet from each other in an odd staring contest, one looking in and the other looking out. My father stares out
into the darkness, thinking that he heard a noise, but sees nothing. While Stevie stands bravely, seeing our father‟s
wretched face in full color, hoping to be as invisible as he suspects. I imagine Stevie had watched him like a wild animal
in a zoo, once so fierce, but now just defenseless and caged. I don‟t know if that moment ever happened, but I do know
that Stevie came back through that window unharmed, with tank in hand.
“He must have really loved that tank,” Kristin said.
“Yes. Being a soldier was all he talked about. I always pictured him behind the controls of a real tank, so
protected, so powerful, crushing our enemies under its unstoppable tread. That thought always made me happy, but not
him. He would always talk about wanting to help people. He told me once that all he really cared about was that the good
guys win.” It felt good to be talking about my brother as I knew him once. It felt good to remember the good times.
I smiled nostalgically, “I literally can‟t remember a time when he did not talk about joining the Army. It was just
a fact of life around our house. He took that toy tank everywhere he went. That was back when toys were built to last. It
was made of that type of solid metal that has since been replaced by plastic.” I smiled a peculiar smile, one that she didn‟t
yet have enough information to interpret. I said, “That thing was as solid as a real tank.” Then suddenly, I felt sad. She
didn‟t know it, but I was standing on the precipice of revealing something that I had spent much effort to keep tucked
away. There was a war inside my head. The fear of reliving old memories was battling that strange elation that comes with
laying everything out on the table and being for once truly seen.
If she had said just one word, the conversation would have gone on in another direction, but as if prompted by
some rare intuition, she stayed perfectly silent. I began, “There was this one time...” I took a warm sip of coffee. “They
had just opened a new Wal-Mart in the nearby town. So, that was really something, you know – new Wal-Mart!” I
laughed. “It had been a planned trip all week – Thursday’s the day that we’ll all go to Wal-Mart. I even remember that it
was on a Thursday.” I also remember that it was May 7th, about a quarter after two, but I wasn‟t going to tell her that.
“We walked through that parking lot like a family of ducks, my father with his obnoxious strut, followed by my
mother, who really did walk like duck, followed by us. I always used to walk with my shoulders slumped over and my
head hanging down low, but Stevie walked erratically, his head darting back and forth, taking everything in. He must have
seen something because his whole demeanor changed. He took one long look back at me. His face was sphinx-like,
completely serious and a little afraid. It wasn‟t the face of being plagued by fear; it was the rare and glorious face of
feeling fear, but completely ignoring it. I couldn‟t interpret the expression at the time, but I remember thinking that I‟d
never seen him look so grown up. Without warning, he turned and ran back to the car. He ran fast, with all his might, the
way that ten-year-olds can release sudden bursts of energy. Because they were ahead of us, it was a few moments before
my parents realized he had broken formation. I remember my mom crying out his name and my dad taking off after him.”
As I told the story, I could feel a burst of energy in my own chest. “When Stevie reached our father‟s clean red
car, he drew back the solid metal tank he was holding and, with more force than anyone could have predicted from a small
child, buried it deep into the side! The car frame had lost against the toy tank, and the paintjob did not stand a chance.
Then he drew back his skinny arm and he smashed it again. The next blow landed on the passenger-side window which
promptly shattered. Just as my father was about to grab him by the scruff of his neck, Stevie ran around to the other side
of the car, dragging his tank though the paintjob as he did. My father went to chase him, but Stevie kept running around
the car!”
 I could not believe that I actually started laughing at the very story I had been so apprehensive to tell. The
memories unfolded in my mind like some classic comedy. “When my father would turn to run the other way, Stevie
would just turn and run the other way too, smashing paint and taillights as he went. And there was, amazingly, nothing
that could be done to stop him. My father kept hissing his demands through his teeth, but that only made my brother
smash more. My mother and I just stood there with our mouths hanging open and our eyes bugging wide!” At this point in
telling the story I was giddy. I exclaimed, “Man, he did a number on that car!”
My tone changed when I remembered what came next. “Stevie stopped. It was so strange – he just stopped. He
drew back his tank to smash one last time, but froze. He paused long enough for my father to catch his thin little wrist.
And in that second, Stevie turned abruptly to look, not at the car, not at the tank that had done all that damage, not at my
looming father, but solemnly over his left shoulder.” My eyes began to tear up. “I was too young to fully understand, but
when I turned my head to look in that same direction, I saw what Stevie must have seen. Mounted on the lamp pole was a
small black box with a round glass lens. Wal-Mart‟s security cameras covered every corner of their parking lot. From the
vantage I had in that moment, I looked into that lens and saw white clouds and blue sky. But when Stevie looked into that
lens, he saw Heaven. He saw salvation.”
I cleared my throat. “In almost no time at all, the parking lot was crawling with police and Wal-Mart security, but
it was already too late.”
Kristin‟s fingers were covering her chin. “What did he do?” she asked, but I could tell as soon as she asked that
she regretted it. I was trying to find a way to avoid answering with specifics when it dawned on her. “Oh, that was... the
day,” she said.
“That was the day,” I confirmed quietly.
She leaned in close to me, reached over and touched her palm to the side of my face. I placed my hand on her
hand and leaned my face firmly against her touch. I thought that I was going to break down, but I didn‟t. Somehow I held
it together, if only just barely.
“I think I understand now,” she said after a long moment of silence.
“How his brain got damaged?” I said, nodding.
“How yours did.”
I could not believe what she‟d just said. I knew I never should have opened up to her. “What are you talking
about?” I asked defensively.
“The way you sabotage your own happiness. The way you intentionally do not live up to your own potential,” she
accused.
“That‟s absurd,” I said reflexively.
“Okay then, what‟s the longest relationship you‟ve ever been in?”
“That‟s none of your business,” I said as my eyes quickly dodged hers. “Okay…so maybe I have some issues.”
“You do, but I wonder if they‟re the ones you think they are.”
“What do mean?”
“I think you feel guilty.”
“No.”
“Yes, you do. I know because I went through the same thing. Oh, I don‟t mean I have a story as weighty as yours.
In fact, mine‟s the exact opposite. I had a beautiful childhood, so beautiful that in it inevitably meant hitting a terrible
wall. I don‟t know how to describe that wall… It was the moment when I discovered that life was hard, the moment that I
learned my ideal existence was exceedingly rare and that there is real pain in the world…”
“The moment you no longer saw the world as innocent and virginal…”
She nodded. “The moment after which I would forever long to watch classic sitcoms all day long.”
“Hm,” I grunted pensively.
“I learned about concentration camps, slavery, genocide, war, gulags, pogroms, death marches, starvation... The
world has been soaked down to its bedrock with blood and tears! Did I say that my childhood was rare? That is an
understatement. On a global and historic scale, pampered lives like ours are like diamonds, nestled in a bed of pebbles and
mud.”
 It struck me that she included me in that analogy…even after the story I had just told her.
“The reality of this world hit me hard in my young sweet face. Soon I spiraled downward and began to feel guilty
about everything. I felt guilty that so many people have to die, but I – through no greater virtue – get to live. I felt guilty
because they all have to suffer and I – by pure luck – never have to. I felt guilty for every single second of happiness that I
experienced. It wasn‟t fair. How dare I be happy when so many can’t? Look at me, I actually felt – while living in the
freest, most prosperous country in the history of the world – that it was my moral obligation to feel unhappy.
“Finally as I got older, I realized how much I was insulting not just the slaves, the prisoners, and the victims, but
everyone who‟d ever suffered. Yes, there is pain in the world, but it is an insult to real victims to claim victimhood in
vain. Listen, I don‟t know why I was born here as opposed to somewhere else. I don‟t know why I got this shot at the
good life, while another soul was born to face insurmountable pain. But I do understand this: Life is a gift.
“I have been given so many gifts. And they are gifts! Life is a gift. Liberty is a gift. And Andy, the pursuit of
happiness is a gift as well – given to us by God and courageous soldiers. Soldiers like your bother. Never feel guilty for
embracing these gifts; feel guilty for letting them sit unopened on the shelf. An unimaginable price has already been paid
for them.”
At first I said nothing. How could her intuition about me be so accurate? She was right, but I wasn‟t ready to face
it. I hid behind that old reliable shield of pain and self-pity. I said, “Yeah, and what about Stevie? What am I supposed to
do about him? I have to go in there…and I can‟t lie to him. So, what do I tell him? Something like, „I‟m a success now.
I‟m happy. Oh, but I‟m sorry – you? – you‟re just a mental patient.‟ Do you want me to tell him something like that? Or
that I met a girl and she‟s the woman of my dreams?” I didn‟t mean to let that slip, so I added quickly, “...and a total
know-it-all! How could I be that mean to him? He‟s stuck in that bed with nothing but bad TV. Do you think he really
wants to hear how happy I am?”
She squirmed at first, but let out a timid, “Yeah, probably.”
“Well, he‟s wrong. He was wrong. He tried, but it didn‟t work. He failed.” I couldn‟t believe I said it out loud. I
hated myself in that moment.
Kristin pressed on, “But don‟t you see he did it for your happiness?”
“He failed. It was worse than he planned.”
The look that she had in her eyes for me, the same look she gave the flowers, was suddenly gone. She looked at
me sternly and said, “He didn‟t fail. You failed him.”
I left.
***
It‟s hard to re-evaluate everything in your life while trying to block out the inane chatter of morning talk shows,
but I felt like I had to see Stevie. It was 7:00 am and I had already been at his bedside for over an hour.
Watching Stevie while he was sleeping caused a rare peace to wash over me. For about eight hours a day he was
visibly indistinguishable from any healthy man. I wondered what his dreams were like – if he was talking normally, if he
was his real age or still young. Perhaps in his dreams he had the kind of freedom to pursue happiness that he had given to
me.
It was a gift. A gift, I admit, that I had wasted.
I told myself that Kristin did not understand. I did not ask to be the one who was healthy, who dates, who laughs. I
know that it’s not fair to him. I know it is so horribly unfair. He deserves a healthy mind; he deserves the opportunity to
seek out happiness and love. I deserve...nothing. I deserved to have been hospitalized by that monster that day. He
deserves to be happy, not me.
Suddenly, I realized just how many years I had been repeating this very sentiment, even if never before aloud: I
don’t deserve to be happy.
It made no sense. Is that why Stevie did what he did? Because he felt that I don’t deserve to be happy? It sounded
so foolish.
I had not been there to watch Stevie wake up in years, so when he stirred my heart jumped. I guess for a second I
thought that he would acknowledge me. Perhaps between sleep and waking there might have been a moment where he did
not yet remember that his brain was damaged. But that moment didn‟t happen and his gaze rested comfortably on the TV
screen.
I watched his eyes, now visible. Could Kristin be right? Could I have failed him? I knew that it would take every
strength in me to sit beside the man to whom I owe everything and brag – selfishly brag – about my own happiness. It just
felt so wrong.
A tear ran down my face. Kristin was right. I thought about the sacrifice my brother made for me and I suddenly
knew as clear as a bell – being happy was never selfish. Stevie wanted me to be happy. I had been selfish up until that
point.
I decided right then, without proof, completely on faith, that he could hear me. He has heard every word I have
ever said. I spoke, “Hey Stevie...I met a girl. I met a girl and she‟s the woman of my dreams.” I smiled, “...and a total
know-it-all. I think I love her. I love her, Stevie! And I think she loves me – although I have no idea why. My chest is full.
But even if she doesn‟t love me, I won‟t die. I will hurt, but then I‟ll go and love again!” My eyes were filling with tears
against my will. “I‟m not afraid anymore. That‟s what I am trying to tell you Stevie; I‟m not afraid anymore. I‟m happy.
Oh, and I‟m going back to school. I‟m going to be a success. I know now, that is what you wanted. That‟s what our father
wanted. He suffered so much for us. He‟s a hero. He is an honest-to-God hero. Did you hear that, Stephen? Your father is
a hero and your brother‟s in love!
“You are a hero, Stephen. You‟re a brave soldier – you always were. An eternal soldier. I‟m going to bring her
here to meet you. I‟m going to sit her right here and I‟m going to tell her, „This is the man that saved my life. This man
gave me freedom. This is my hero and now I know how to thank him – I can be happy.‟ You are the success. You
succeeded. Mission accomplished.”
With that, I leaned over him and kissed his forehead. I pulled from my pocket the solid metal tank that I had kept
sacred all those years and placed it by his bedside. I added, “We made it, Stephen, we finally made it. I still wore father‟s
chains long after you freed us from his prison. I would intentionally sabotage my own life. But not anymore.”
I stood up and wiped the tears from my eyes. I had made up my mind to run straight to Kristin and beg for her
forgiveness. I could not prevent the fear from gripping my heart as I set out to take on life, for the first time, with the
purposes of living up to my true potential. But just as my brother had taught me, I ignored that fear.
Before I reached the door, I turned to take one last look at him. To my amazement, he turned his head sharply in
my direction. A deliberate smile crossed his face and he said, “Be all that you can be.”
He did not say it in the sing-song tone of a commercial, but in a heart-felt blessing from a brave man, a noble
soldier, and my older brother.

The End
###

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (excerpt from Don’t Ask – the story of America‟s first openly gay Marine)

*This is a complete scene, enjoyable in isolation. Please enjoy.*

“Test, one, two, three. Test, one, two, three,” Mitch McCarty said into his microphone.
“We‟re good,” said his tech guy in the back of the van.
“No one has gotten this guy to talk,” said Ben, his faithful cameraman.
“We don‟t need him to talk. That is the beauty of ambush reporting. If he talks to us, that‟s great; we will be the
first to get a statement from him. But if he doesn‟t talk, we get footage of the appalled look in his eyes, the evasive
mannerisms, the tight bottom lip, indicating the inner struggle of wanting so badly to rip my head off but knowing he
can‟t do it on camera. Then there‟s the best part – the hurried steps to flee the spotlight and flee honest questions. What
makes a person appear guiltier than that? We can play that again in the background with any narrative we want. Every
time a studio guest or so-called expert mentions his name, we could cut to the same footage.” Mitch McCarty smiled. “I
almost hope he doesn‟t talk to us.”
“But, it‟s just that…”
 “Just what?”
“Well, this guy is an experienced, trained Marine. This guy‟s seen combat. He has killed people. Aren‟t you afraid
that maybe he will rip your head off?”
Mitch McCarty smiled smugly. He looked out the window to the front of Harrington‟s food store. “Perhaps,” he
said, “but that is why this is not a profession for the faint of heart. No, this is a calling for the brave. We are soldiers in our
own rights, Ben, and don‟t you forget it. The difference is, we are not violent.”
A hush came over the van when they saw SSgt Folsom walking out, pushing a cart of groceries. His eyes darted
imperceptibly toward the unmarked van in the parking lot as he strolled casually by. “Not yet,” Mitch McCarty said as
SSgt Folsom continued to pass. “Not yet,” he said again with a voice that revealed the tension he had denied having.
“Now!” he shouted as the van door flew open and Mitch McCarty and Ben the cameraman leapt onto the concrete parking
lot and hit the ground running.
SSgt Folsom did not flinch when he heard the van door. He did not speed up his pace when he heard the rapid
footsteps advancing behind him. Two sets. He did not sweat when he saw the elongated shadow of a man carrying a film
camera stretch out on the ground in front of him, but continued to blithely push his cart. The only thing that Mitch
McCarty happened to notice as he came within feet of SSgt Folsom‟s back was that both of his hands had let go of the cart
and were drawn out of Mitch McCarty‟s line of sight. The camera zoomed in close on the back of SSgt Folsom‟s head and
shoulders as Mitch McCarty reached for him and grabbed his shoulder. “Are you guilty of hate crimes against Caleb
Hertz?” he asked as he aggressively spun SSgt Folsom around to face him and his hostile camera.
As SSgt Folsom turned, the second that Mitch McCarty and Ben should have been able to see his face, they
discovered that he had both hands raised, covering his face with two extended middle fingers. Ben knew right away that
for this to ever air, it would mean the network would have to blur out the offensive gesture, and that by doing so they
would be forced to blur out his face as well. Mitch McCarty, who didn‟t plan for himself to be the one taken off guard,
said, “Um...Did you...How do you explain…”
Before Mitch McCarty could get any further, SSgt Folsom used his powerful drill instructor‟s voice to let out a
loud series of repeated F-bombs, without once stopping to take a breath, thereby guaranteeing the audio would also be
rendered useless.
A frustrated Mitch McCarty raised his own voice. “Are you a homophobe?! Do you hate all gay people?!”
SSgt Folsom continued to cuss at high volume and playfully circled his hand gestures in small strokes that never
revealed his face.
“Forget it!” Mitch McCarty yelled, “Shut it off! Shut it off!”
SSgt Folsom heard the door of the van open and close. He looked past his middle fingers and saw that they had
filed in as quickly as they filed out. The van started and within a few more seconds he was alone.
SSgt Folsom casually pushed his groceries the rest of the way to his car and loaded his trunk.

###

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God bless you.
-B.K. Dell