PW01 - Died On The Vine Read online

  Nancy was predictably surprised to hear from me. “Why, Cissy! For heaven’s sake, how are you, hon?” I couldn’t just ask for Chuck’s number and hang up. We wound up chatting for over half an hour, covering Jack’s retirement and Chuck’s job at the Pentagon and his chances for promotion.

  I described Winslow’s visit and Nancy was scandalized. “That vulture! Just wait until Chuck hears about this!”

  “Actually, Nancy, I wanted to talk to Chuck about it myself. May I have his office number?”

  Nancy gave me the number and we rounded off the conversation with mutual resolutions to

  “get together real soon”.

  At Chuck’s office, a protective aide was unwilling to disturb the Admiral who was reported to be “in conference”, but in the quarter-century since I’d left the Navy family, I had lost my awe of rank. Within minutes, I had Chuck on the phone. Even after all these years, I recognized his booming voice immediately.

  “Conference? Hell, Cissy, I was in the can. What can I do for you today?”

  “Chuck, this may sound crazy, but is it possible that Jimmy could have survived that crash?”

  “Survived? Only if Scotty had beamed him out about a microsecond before the plane hit the dirt.”

  That took me back. Every Friday night the Hoopers used to go over to the Grahams to watch Star Trek on their 19-inch color TV. (Yes, children, we had a 12-inch black-and-white in those days.)

  Chuck went on. “Look, Cissy, we had this conversation back in ’69. Jimmy was my best friend and I would have given anything to see him survive that crash, but I saw it with my own eyes and it just isn’t possible. Now, what’s happened to make you start wondering again?”

  I told him about Winslow’s visit. Chuck sighed. “I wish there was something we could do to stop that man, but it’s a free country. Cis, this guy has made a living feeding the impossible hopes of widows and orphans. Every few months, he shows up with some new photo or old bone and starts howling about high-level cover-ups. The conspiracy theorists love him. I don’t know why he’s picking on you, though. Maybe he’s run out of MIA families to con and is moving on the KIAs. Honey, you go on down to the Wall and have a good cry, and then give that husband of yours a big hug. Jimmy’s dead. It’s sad, but true. And I’m going to talk to some folks I know and try to find out why you’ve been targeted by this jerk.”

  Getting off the phone, I grabbed a cup of coffee and went to the office. Time to see how my other sources were coming through for me.

  Signing on to the internet, I found a number of very different answers to the question I posted the night before. The responses were addressed to “Cecil” or “Serpent”. My nom de plume for Usenet is based on an old cartoon about a boy named Beanie and his friend “Cecil The Sea-Sick Sea Serpent” – if you remember it, your age is showing.

  Unlike other cyberspace groups, the writers don’t use aliases as a cloak for their identities. Try finding a writer who can keep from bragging about a sale or a byline! Even I am unable to keep from identifying myself as the Cecilia Rayburn who authored the players manuals for the “Kingdom of Qu’aot” fantasy adventure series. When Dan, my youngest, was in high school, it was my one claim to fame. Our aliases are more a matter of nicknames, so I’m familiar with the background and real names of the chattiest of the net users.

  I printed all the responses to show to Jack later. There seemed to be two opinions about Colonel Obie Winslow, which were best expressed by Cincinnatus and Wizard.

  Cincinnatus is a right-wing gun nut and Tom Clancy wannabe. Based in Colorado, he writes techno-thrillers. I’ve checked him out of the library and discovered that his mediocre success is the logical outcome of mediocre talent.

  Remembering what Chuck said about conspiracy theorists, I wasn’t surprised to find Cincinnatus firmly in Winslow’s corner. “Obie Winslow is an AMERICAN HERO,” he wrote, “who will take on anyone, whether it be the North Vietnamese or the US Government, to bring OUR BOYS BACK! He is a man of DEEP FAITH and COMMITMENT who has never wavered from his task and deserves more support from the INDIFFERENT AMERICAN PUBLIC!” On the internet, capital letters are considered rude, a form of shouting. But the group has given up trying to teach manners to Cincinnatus.

  The opposing view was articulated by Wizard. Wizard is a fourteen year old boy from California who gained admittance to the group by virtue of being “the first freshman newspaper editor in the history of Westlake High.” He’s also president of the Science Club and was just awarded the position of editor of the yearbook.

  Wizard labeled Winslow “either a nut or a con man, maybe both. He talks a lot about evidence, but have we seen any MIAs returned through his efforts? I think not! His latest ‘rescue mission’ was a total fiasco, with a bunch of nutty Soldier of Fortune types winding up in a Laotian jail. He was profiled a few months ago in USN≀ you should look it up.”

  You’ve got to like a kid who reads US News & World Report.

  And Steve, a food columnist from D.C. who has so far been too diffident to coin a flamboyant alias, advised me to “look up Mary Nguyen. She’s done a lot of research on Winslow. I think she’s freelance, but I’ve seen her stuff in the Post, so they probably know how to contact her.”

  I logged off and wandered out to the kitchen. Professionally, I’m in the middle of a lull. I’d long finished my least favorite annual project, writing the user’s manual for a tax preparation software package that’s updated annually. I know a lot more about taxes than I really want to know as a result, and don’t ever let me get on the subject of the inequities of the tax code on the self-employed.

  In a month or so, if the kids at EveryWare would ever finish the coding, I would start on the manual for Qu’aot VIII (The Archbishop’s Revenge).

  For now I could do projects that I have been putting off, such as landscaping, building shelves, or trying that crocheted sweater pattern than my friend Julia swears is not as hard as it looks.

  Or not. I decided on not. Calling Polly, I decided to go down by the river and see if the bald eagles had yet returned to the loblolly pines and then go to Julia’s for a chat.

  It was a chilly day, but definitely spring. Polly thundered through the underbrush, glad for a run.

  Polly is my dog. I first met her several years ago when I went to the vet’s office to get shots for McCavity, our old tabby. I found the vet and the receptionist cooing over a tiny pup which was being fed from a baby’s bottle. The puppy was just days old, her eyes were barely open. Doc Harding told me she’d been found in the dumpster.

  She didn’t sound surprised. I guess vets are used to finding unwanted animals dumped somewhere on the property. But I was outraged. And such a sweet little puppy! Doc Harding knew a patsy when she saw one, and immediately began talking mournfully about how hard it was going to be to find a good home for this wonderful little dog. “She’s going to be a big one – look at those feet. Most people who want big dogs want purebreds, and whatever this little love is, she certainly isn’t purebred.” She handed me the fuzzy bundle, who emitted a high-pitched bark and licked my chin.

  Of course I wound up going home with an angry old cat and a happy little puppy. Jack was silently astonished at the new addition, who even required midnight feedings until she got bigger. I named her Pollyanna, after the Glad Girl of children’s literature, and as Doc predicted, she grew into a monster.

  Polly is now a long-legged, multihued creature with a stand-off coat in various shades of black, brown, and red. Her tail curls jauntily over her back in a northern manner and her ears start out standing up straight, until folding down just at the tips. The vet now speculates that her pedigree is “part shepherd, part husky, and part pony.” And true to her name, she is ninety-five pounds of galloping optimism.

  We reached the river and Polly showed every sign of preparing to dive. “Polly, come!” I commanded, and she raced back to me and sat in front of me obediently, panting happily with her brown eyes shining. I gave the good girl a pie
ce of freeze-dried liver, and then scanned the pines.

  No sign of life yet. Eagles return to the same nest every year, unless a strong wind blows it down, not unheard of since the nests are as big as dog houses. That’s why nesting pairs are never satisfied with one nest, but also work on a second, an emergency backup home. Both the primary and smaller secondary nests were still in place from last year, and still awaiting the return of their tenants.

  I hadn’t really expected them to be back yet. I called Polly to heel and started along the river to Julia and Bob’s house.

  Julia and Bob Barstow are also retirees. They’re a bit older than Jack and I, in their early sixties. The two of them seem to have this retirement business down pat. Bob makes wooden toys in his shop and he and Julia sell them at craft fairs.

  Julia and I have the same commonalities of interest that made Nancy my best friend a generation ago. Instead of tots in diapers, we had empty nests with grown children scattered around the country. Instead of fighter jock husbands, we dealt with retirees starting new and more laidback careers.

  Julia also raises vegetables and an occasional litter of Labradors, so she’s a good source of advice for my new avocations.

  I had Polly heeling smartly as we approached the house from the back. Julia does believe in well-behaved dogs.

  Julia and Bob live in a sprawling woody type of house that looks like it grew out of the side of the hill. Huge sheets of glass looked down to the garden and the river beyond.

  As Polly and I crossed the yard, I saw that Julia’s garden was already plowed. The soil looked utterly pristine, being warmed by the sun. The garden was huge, split into quadrants by two neat paths surfaced with shells.

  My own tiny garden was still at the mercy of last year’s weeds, while I tried to decide whether to plow it myself or hire Buddy Haines to do it.

  “Polly, heel,” I reminded the dog, keeping her to the path. I didn’t want to be responsible for paw prints in that immaculate surface.

  Julia saw me from the window and hailed me with relief. “Cissy, thank God you’re here! This damn computer ate my letter! Come and make it spit it back out!”

  “Be right with you,” I replied. I let myself into the house by the back door and wiped off Polly’s paws with the rag left in the mud room for that purpose. Polly and I went through Julia’s marvelous new kitchen and found our hostess just off the great room still fuming at her computer. Polly went over to join Beau, the World’s Laziest Labrador, on the sofa. She put her head on his back and heaved a loud sigh of contentment.

  Unlike our house, Julia’s sprawling new ranch-style home was build around the Great Room concept. Dining in one area, conversation and general living in another, with a pass-through from the kitchen and Julia’s ‘office’ in a corner nook.

  In the model home, this sort of office probably seemed a model of efficiency, with the built-in cabinets and desk space. As used by Julia, the cabinets never seemed to be closed, and inventories piled precariously atop ledgers. Somehow, Julia seemed to make enough sense of Bob’s toy business to keep the IRS happy. Or maybe they don’t want to tackle that mess either.

  In the midst of the debris was a new personal computer, Julia’s Christmas gift from her daughter. My ambition is to get Julia knowledgeable and confident enough to transfer her records to the computer. A stack of floppies would be a definite improvement to the current décor.

  Julia waved me over. “Come talk to this thing, Cis, it won’t listen to me.” Julia is small and busy, the kind of woman who looks good with gray hair. (If I thought mine would look that nice, I’d stop improving on nature, but I know better.) She dresses almost exclusively from the L.L. Bean catalog and today looked spiffy in a denim jumper.

  “Scoot over,” I commanded, and took her place at the computer. “What are we looking for?”

  “My letter to June. I left it right there last night,” she said, pointing to the computer screen accusingly, “and now it’s gone!”

  I cruised through Julia’s file structure, discovering it to be as disorganized as the desk. Eventually, in a directory I had created called “Sales” (and which Julia never used), I found a file called “juneltr”.

  I moved it to the directory named “Letters”, telling Julia, “It’s in the wrong directory, doofus.” My vocabulary has been enriched by my children.

  “How did it get there?” Julia asked in amazement, as if the computer were playing tricks on her.

  “You put it there. This is not a puppy. It only does what you tell it to do.”

  “Well, that’s certainly not what I meant to do. I don’t know, maybe I’m too old for this.”

  “It’s only been a couple months. This time next year, you’ll wonder how you lived without it.”

  Julia snorted in disbelief. “Well, print that letter before it gets away. The main thing I want to be able to do with this machine is write letters to June, so she’ll know I’m using her present.”

  I sent the letter to the printer. “You might appreciate this more if you’d had to spend a few years dealing with a slow, noisy old monster of a dot-matrix printer before you got this. When I got my laser printer, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

  As I spoke, the letter eased smoothly and quietly out of the printer. “Some people just don’t know how good they have it,” I added.

  Julia ran her fingers through her hair. “Now, don’t start with me, Cissy. I am trying. Come on and watch me with Mark’s present. I definitely have this one figured out.”

  Ah, the cappuccino machine! We adjourned to the kitchen with our canine outriders following.

  Over the hiss of the machine, we continued a debate which started at Christmas. Do our children’s gifts keep us young, or age us prematurely? I generally support the optimistic side of the argument.

  “Last year when Danny got me that weight training equipment, it certainly made me feel old,” I pointed out. “But look here, I think it’s been more of a youth enhancer in the long run.” I showed off my biceps. We settled down at the butcher block table.

  “What was Danny thinking with that gift, I wonder?” Julia asked as she filled our tiny cups with the frothy concoction.

  “It was one of those 2 AM infomericals. I get sucked into them sometimes when I’ve been working late; they’re just a channel away from CNN. Those things are really seductive. I’ll bet you could run a late night infomercial in New York City and convince thousands of people that they really need a posthole digger.”

  “Or sheep shearing equipment,” Julia offered.

  “Or a camel saddle.”

  “Or a cement mixer.”

  “Thousands of uses!”

  We both laughed. “Anyway, “ Julia concluded, sipping the cappuccino, “this is one gift that is definitely keeping me young. Ah, the gift of caffeine! So, what’s new with you?”

  I thought she’d never ask! “You’ll never believe this,” I prefaced, and told her the story of the strange visit of Colonel Obadiah Winslow.

  I had come prepared for Show and Tell and produced the picture that Winslow had brought, along with an old photo of Jimmy that I had dug out of an album.

  Julia frowned thoughtfully, first at one picture, then at the other. Then she put them on the table side by side and frowned at them both. “Hmm. I wouldn’t exactly call this proof positive. Neither picture shows the ears very well. Too bad. I read somewhere that ears are very distinctive.”

  Julia is full of tidbits and factoids that she “read somewhere”. I tend to use several grains of salt with them.

  She looked up at me. “So. What if it’s true?” she asked in a businesslike manner.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Suppose your first husband is alive. Suppose this Winslow finds him and brings him back. Will you leave Jack?”

  THREE

  I was flabbergasted. “Leave Jack? Are you crazy?”

  Julia shrugged. “I just wondered. Suppose the two of them were right here. Which one wo
uld you choose?”

  “If Jimmy is alive, of course I want to help him all I can, but I’ve been married to Jack for almost half my life.” I could hear my voice getting louder and shriller. “He helped me raise my children, two of them Jimmy’s. Of course I wouldn’t leave Jack.”

  “No problem,” Julia said placidly. She refilled our tiny cups. “I just wondered if you’d ever fantasized about What If. You haven’t told me much about your first husband.”

  “It was all so long ago,” I explained. “We were only married four years and we were just kids. Looking back is like looking at a whole other life. Poor Jimmy never really had a chance to grow up.”

  “And you met Jack after Jimmy died?”

  “That’s right. I was working in the computer shop at his agency. Sometimes it still amazes me that a man like Jack, so quiet and orderly, would want to get involved with a frazzled young widow with two toddlers. It seemed like a miracle. It still does.”

  I was getting misty-eyed. Polly padded over and put her head on my shoulder. When I’m sitting down, we’re eye to eye. I put my arm around her neck and gave her a big hug. “Yes, that’s a good Pol.” She settled down at my feet and closed her eyes.

  “Okay,” said Julia briskly. “So do you believe this Winslow? Do you think he believes Jimmy is alive?”

  “I don’t know. He may be conning me, but he certainly sounded sincere. I think he believes what he’s saying.”

  “Although of course, any successful con man would have to sound like he believes what he’s saying. Otherwise he couldn’t con people.”

  “I guess that’s true,” I admitted. “But whatever he believes or doesn’t, I’m still fairly certain that Jimmy is dead. I just don’t see how he could have survived that crash.”