Two Words



As I have grown more mature (not "older,") June the Sixth has taken on much more meaning for me.  The remembrance of D Day, June 6, 1944 affects many people very deeply.  I've come to be one of them. 

Imagine, if you will…

It’s been raining for days, but the weather has finally broken.  In the foggy mist, however, it is still cooler than you had expected.  You now find yourself hunkered down in a long, steel landing craft with the rest of your platoon… guys you have come to know quickly over the last several weeks.  The craft is being piloted over the choppy waters of the English Chanel which seems filled with more floating vessels than you ever knew existed.  Ahead, you see in the distance a sandy beach guarded by high cliffs that appear insurmountable.  The cliffs loom larger as the petty officer guides the craft ever closer.  The bombardment of the beach and cliffs has been underway for as long as you have been able to make them out. 

You glance around.  Your buddies all look just like you even though you may be a farm boy from the mid-west and the fellow next to you is a barber from Brooklyn.  You have come to know and appreciate each other.  You trust one another.  You have to.

Your lieutenant looks like he is still in high school as he moves about the craft slapping your pals on their shoulders… bucking them up.  He seems to be shivering.  Is he shaking from the cool of the salty spray that blows up from the waves and over the sides of the craft?  Surely he is not scared… not afraid of what lies ahead.

Nearer to the shore now.  The bombardment from the ships far behind has stopped.  The crafts have begun landing on the beach, disgorging their troops.  Splashing through the shallows they go, charging the beach.  There are flashes from the cliffs above.  Gunfire is pelting down on the beach like a strong summer’s rain.  You see soldiers fall.  Some stumble, continuing to move forward.  The noise from the battle is deafening but you can still discern what may be soft weeping.  Your buddies lean forward, anxious to dismount and do what they have been trained to do.

You feel the abrupt halting motion as your craft runs aground.  It throws you forward and to your feet.  The ramp at the front of the craft drops to the beach.  You watch as your platoon sergeant leads the way off of the craft, motioning with his arm for all of you to follow.  Your lieutenant, now moving forward beside you looks to either side, to you, and to your buddies. 

“Courage, men… Courage,” he says.

 

Off the craft and onto the beach those brave men did go.  They scratched and they clawed their way across the beach, up the cliffs and across Europe.  The liberated the oppressed under the tyrannical Nazi regime.  They freed human beings who had been kept in conditions worse than animals.  And, when it was all over, they staked no claim.  It was not a conquest.  They returned what they had freed to those to whom it belonged and gladly returned home.

And it all began, for Europe, on D Day… June 6th.

I’m told that General Dwight D. Eisenhower, on the evening before this largest invasion in human history, sat down and wrote a letter. In his letter, he stated that the decision to conduct the coming operation was his and his alone.  In it, he stated that, should the maneuver be deemed a failure, the blame should be placed squarely on his shoulders and nowhere else.  In this modern time in our nation, what a refreshing notion it is for a leader to step forward asking to be held accountable for something that may not have gone well. 

My two words on this anniversary of D Day:  "Courage," and "Leadership."  Indeed. 

A Wedding on Key Biscayne

 

Douglas Blasingame had a headache.  He was also sleep deprived, fatigued, and more than a bit dehydrated.  Okay, Doug Blasingame was hung over.  He was grateful for the wraparound sunglasses that hid his condition to some small degree, but also, he believed, saved him from hemorrhaging through the eyes. 

“Douglas.  Would you go start the car, please?  I’ll be ready in just a minute and I don’t want to arrive at the wedding perspiring.” 

The fact that he had been out intolerably late was clearly indicated by Elaine’s use of ‘Douglas,’ rather than ‘Doug,’ or ‘Honey.’  As he pulled himself from the club chair in which he was sitting, he tried to recall precisely when he had arrived home.  It seemed like minutes ago, rather than hours.  The shower that he had stood under for as long as the hot water lasted had done little to improve his condition.  

He walked outside into the south Florida sunlight and stepped quickly into the shade of the large carport.  He opened the door on the driver’s side of his Mercedes and was immediately struck by the stale smell of cigars mingled with the unmistakable scent of a woman.

“My god,” he muttered.  He slipped into the car and started the engine.  He rolled down all of the windows and turned on the fan of the air conditioner as high as it would go.  He then retreated back into the house.  Stepping into the guest bathroom, he opened the medicine cabinet and found a bottle of mouthwash.  He drew in a mouthful and swished it for a full minute.  He lifted the sunglasses, peered into the mirror, then quickly put them back in place.  When he emerged from the bathroom, Elaine was descending the large circular stairway into the foyer.  Doug’s gaze followed her down.  She looked like a goddess.

Douglas Blasingame had been such a swordsman in college that he was known around his fraternity house as “Zorro.”  The label followed him through B School at Wharton and even into his early, productive years at the brokerage.  He earned it.  The difficulty had nothing to do with the name, of course.  The difficulty was that the name still fit and Doug was now well into his eighteenth year of marriage.

It was the very beautiful Elaine Kaplan who had agreed to become Mrs. Douglas Blasingame when he offered no argument to Abe and Sophie Kaplan’s desire that the nuptials be performed by a rabbi from their congregation.  Doug loved Elaine deeply and he tried, he really did, to remain faithful.  But shortly after they became man and wife, Zorro, however discreetly, once again saddled up and rode.  Elaine had her suspicions as to some of his activities, but she chose to push them aside, electing instead to support her hard-charging career-minded husband.  As an investment broker to “high net worth individuals,” a certain amount of entertaining was expected.  So he said.

She looked at her husband giving him more of a smirk than a smile.  “Are you off the critical list?” she asked.  She reached up and removed his sunglasses.  “Oh my.…” She handed them back to him.    “Put them back on.”

“Are you ready to go?” he asked. 

Doug followed Elaine out to the car and held her door as she slid inside.

“Real smart, Douglas,” she said.  “You’ve got the air conditioner cranked up with all the windows down.  Do you expect to cool all of Miami?”

“No, Elaine… just the part of it that you are in.”

He got in behind the wheel and raised the front two windows.  Then, feeling that he had adequately cleared the air, raised the rear windows.  He backed out of the drive and accelerated out of the neighborhood.  He found Dixie Highway and took it north, toward the Rickenbacker Causeway.

“This wedding ought to be beautiful,” said Elaine.  “Right on Key Biscayne with the bay in the background.”

“Mm-hmm,” he said.  Doug’s thoughts were trying to piece together the events of the previous night and what had gotten him into the shape he was in.

“The Hadleys are loaded and you know Myrna is going to make her little girl’s wedding the event of the year.”

It had started out innocent enough, he thought.  Just a couple of beers after work over in South Beach with Mikey Tinkov.  That’s Mikhail Tinkov of Tinkov Software.  Since Doug had snagged Mikey’s business just seven months ago, it had been worth $46 thousand already in commissions.  If Mikey wanted a beer in South Beach, by golly Doug would be there to pull the tap.

“I wonder what Myrna will be wearing.  I hear that black is really popular for bridesmaids’ dresses this year.”  Elaine was chattering away as if Doug were answering and hanging on every word.

It seemed the trouble began around ten o’clock when Mikey wanted to hit that Greek Tavern down at the bottom of South Beach.  Yeah, that’s when things got crazy.  Then those women… those school teachers from Mississippi.  Mikey took a liking to the one named Gloria, leaving Doug with Carla.  One thing led to another, and…  Whoa, what is that?  Doug kicked something when he shifted his feet on the floor.  With his right foot, he pushed it over to the left side of the floorboard.  He glanced down.  He discretely lifted his sunglasses so he could make out what it was he had kicked.  A woman’s SHOE.

“Douglas.  Douglas?  Are you listening to me?”

His heart was pounding as he held the shoe pinned next to the door with his left foot.  “Of course I am… black dresses…”

“Douglas, slow down… there’s something going on up there… the cars are stopping.”

Doug looked ahead.  There was a car off the right side of the road.  Traffic was moving, but slowly, as the rubber-neckers set the pace.   Doug remained in the far left lane. 

As they approached the accident, Doug said, “Look over there, Elaine… see if you can tell what happened?”

Elaine slid almost completely sideways in the seat looking out at the commotion.

Doug quickly opened his door, dropped the shoe outside and slammed it shut.  He accelerated with the traffic, now past the stopped car.

“What was that?” she asked.

“My door wasn’t shut good.  What happened back there?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe a flat tire,” she said.

Doug began to feel much better.  His hangover lifted along with the physical angst he had just experienced, realizing that he had just dodged the proverbial bullet.  He eased back into his seat, now enjoying the ride, and turned onto the Rickenbacker Causeway.  He followed it across Virginia Key and onto Crandon Boulevard and Key Biscayne.  He turned right onto Harbor Drive and searched for the Hadley’s waterfront estate.

The gathering looked to be every bit the high society event that Elaine had expected.  Doug wheeled the Mercedes into the driveway under the portico of the Hadley’s mansion.  Uniformed valets stepped smartly over to the car.  Doug emerged, buttoning the jacket to his suit.  He stepped around to Elaine’s side, waiting for her to emerge.  The valet held the door for her.  Elaine was moving about on the seat, to and fro.  She turned, glancing over the headrest.

“Elaine… what is it?” he asked.

She looked at her husband, bewildered.  “Douglas… I can’t find my shoe.”

A Gift of the Past

I wanted to go to Washington, D.C. on December twenty second like I wanted a frontal lobotomy.  Well into the holidays getting in and out of Logan was going to be a nightmare.  Getting in and out of National was going to be just as bad.  And who wants to travel in all that rush?  I’d put in my time, paid my dues.  Why couldn’t one of my partners make the trip?  Well, I knew why. 

When we formed Melidco back in 1979, we agreed that I would handle the sales and marketing and they would deal with the technical stuff… the R & D, the manufacturing processes and so on.  Ted and Jack were both M.I.T. engineers and we all knew that putting them in front of a customer and asking them to make a sale was like asking a yard dog to take the S.A.T.  We might as well chalk it up as a “no” and save the expense money.  Our separation of duties had served us well.  We had taken a risk leaving the security of a good company that had treated us fairly well.  But we saw a niche that we thought we could own.  And, at the time, none of us were married or had family responsibilities.  “Melidco” stood for “measured liquid delivery devices.”  Ted and Jack had developed a micro-processor driven mechanical pump for delivering intravenous fluids.  It offered a number of advantages over the few that were available.  The company wasn’t interested in pursuing it so we took a leap and struck out on our own.  We worked hard and got a few breaks.  Now twenty three years later, we’ve had an offer from a European conglomerate that is too good to pass up.  Each of us will end up with an eight figure wad of cash, more than we ever expected, and a handful of their stock.  They also offered us continued employment.  Ted and Jack accepted and I’m still thinking about it. 

My National Accounts Manager has already checked out for the holidays or I wouldn’t be in this fix.  If the customer wasn’t Bethesda Naval Hospital I’d let it wait until he got back.  But Jamie has worked hard for us and there was just too much at stake.  The hospital staff has just completed a three month trial of our equipment and liked it well enough to request pricing.  If we get the contract it will be worth millions so it isn’t a case of just sending them a quote.  No, this is worth the personal touch.  And I’ve resigned myself to being the one to deliver it.

Debbie Hembree is about the best administrative assistant a Vice President of Sales could hope for.  After preparing my proposal, she booked my flights and a junior suite at the Hyatt and set up my appointment with Admiral Maria Pinelli, the Nursing Administrator for nine o’clock the following morning.  Things went smoother that I had a right to expect and I found myself checking into the Hyatt an hour after landing at 6:15.  The lobby atrium was adorned with the festive greenery of the season.  A huge fir that held more lights and ornaments than most small towns stood to one side, opposite the reception desk.  A grand piano positioned at the periphery of the Lobby Bar.  Its tuxedoed pianist was playing carols and hymns softly in the background.  My early arrival meant that I could get a decent meal from Room Service and good night’s sleep before my meeting with the Admiral.

“Bobby, you’re not going to believe this gal,” Jamie told me after he had met with Rear Admiral Pinelli.  “She acts like it’s her own money she’s spending.”

“Tight, huh?” I asked.

“Well, not exactly.  But she’s tough.  We’ve got to have our shit together and sharpen our pencil.  They ought to make her Secretary of the Treasury.  We’d never run a deficit.”

The following morning, with Jamie’s assessment in mind, I entered the wing of the hospital under a large sign reading “Administration” with a fair degree of trepidation moments before the appointed hour.  I found the office marked “Nursing” and pushed through the large glass door.  I stepped up to the receptionist’s desk that occupied the center of the room.  A mousey little woman who reminded me of Lily Tomlin as “Earnestine,” sat there.  A small Christmas elf leaned against the nameplate on her desk that read, “Ms. E. Sibley,” so I had already figured out what the “E” stood for.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, “I’m Bobby Reeves with Melidco.  I’m here for a nine o’clock appointment with Admiral Pinelli.”

Earnestine looked at me over her reading glasses.  “Yes, Mr. Reeves,” she answered.  “I’ll let her know you are here.”  Thankfully she did not have that snorting laugh that I had fully expected.  She began to rise from her desk just as the door to the Admiral’s office opened.  Through it came a lady that I will describe as “diminutive,” standing no more than five feet tall, if that.  She had black hair with streaks of gray giving her a distinguished look matching well the two stars adorning the collar of her uniform.  Admiral Pinelli stepped nimbly over to me.  She accommodated for the fourteen inch difference in our height, looked me in the eye and offered her hand.

“I’m Maria Pinelli, Mr. Reeves.  Good of you to come,” she said.  “But I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of a snafu and won’t be able to meet with you just now.  The boss has called me to the ‘head shed’ for a meeting with someone from NIH.  I have no clue what it’s about but he didn’t offer my attendance as optional.”

So before I had gotten a word out, my meeting was cancelled.  The disappointment must have shown.

“Ah, but not to worry, Mr. Reeves.  I’m going to have you meet with Captain Bensen.  She is my Deputy and in charge of all critical care areas.  She’s been overseeing the trial of your pumps and will be making the decision anyway.  Frankly, I wouldn’t know how to turn one on.”  I was beginning to like Admiral Pinelli.  She stepped around me and, over her shoulder called, “Please follow me.”

I had to step briskly to get through the door before it closed, then to catch up with the Admiral striding energetically ten feet in front of me.  “Come now, Mr. Reeves.  Don’t dawdle.”

I thought I was going to have to jog to catch up with this little dynamo but luckily we only had a short distance to cover.  Admiral Pinelli pushed through another glass door and into an office similar to her own.  Passing through it, I noted the plate on the door:  “J. Bensen, Captain” and below it “DEPCON; Critical Care.”  The Admiral strode right past J. Bensen’s assistant announcing, “She’s expecting me, Darby.  I just spoke to her.” 

By now I was a mere two steps behind and gaining as I endeavored to keep up with Admiral Pinelli.  She burst through the open door into the inner office.  The Admiral did not slow down, strolling right up to the large mahogany desk.  When she took a seat in one of the two arm chairs facing the desk, I gained an unobstructed view of the woman standing behind it.  It stopped me dead in my tracks.

“Mr. Reeves, this is Captain Julie Bensen…”

I stood mute.  Then, I muttered, “I know Captain Bensen.”  The contact that our eyes made was almost audible.

“Oh, well, of course you do,” said the admiral.  “This evaluation has been going on for months.”  She turned to Captain Bensen.  “Julie, please deal with Mr. Reeves.  I’m not sure how close to making a decision you are on this project but I’m going to leave it in your capable hands.  We need to wrap it up in the next few days, if possible.”

Captain Bensen’s eyes were locked on mine.  The spell was momentarily broken and she turned to the admiral.  “Yes, ma’am.  Of course.”

Admiral Pinelli turned to me and offered her hand.  “Terribly sorry about this, Mr. Reeves.  I would like to see you after you’ve worked things out with Captain Bensen.  It may not be today, though.  How long are you in D.C. this trip?”  She was already backing out of the door.

  “As long as I need to be, Admiral.” 

“Good,” she said.  “Well, there’s Christmas…,” she said.

“As long as I need to be, ma’am,” I repeated.

“Okay.  Until then…”  And she was gone.

I stood transfixed, looking into the pale blue eyes of Julie Bensen.  They were the kind a man could get lost in.  I knew because I had occupied that place years earlier.

“Please,” she said, “have a seat.”  Recognition showed in her expression as she discretely looked me over.  “We have met, haven’t we?”  It was a statement rather than a question.

I was mesmerized.  “Clark Air Force Base hospital, the Philippines.  Intensive Care Unit.  September and October, 1970.  You were Navy Lieutenant Julie Bensen and you took wonderful care of me.”

“Bobby Reeves… yes.”  She smiled and nodded.  “Our surgeons pretty much rebuilt your right leg and mended some pretty massive internal injuries.  You were an Army lieutenant serving with the 1^st Cavalry Division in Vietnam and got airlifted to Clark.  Is that close?”

“Not close…  You’re exactly right.”  I was touched that she remembered me after more than twenty years and God knows how many other wounded soldiers she had cared for.

“Quite a coincidence, eh?” she asked.  “So, you work for Melidco, do you?”

“Yes.  I am one of the founders.”  I now cared nothing about my primary reason for being in Washington as the past came rushing back.  What I knew at that moment was that I was sitting across the desk from the woman whose face was the first thing I saw when I awoke in her intensive care unit after being almost blown to bits in the central highlands of Vietnam.  At the time that I regained consciousness, I thought I was looking into the face of an angel.  It was a full six days after I had been hit until I awoke and I honestly thought that I had died.  Over the following seven weeks, I realized that I was not in heaven by any means.  But I had not changed my belief that this woman was an angel.  She cared for me with a tenderness that I had never known before or since.  I fell in love with her then and there.  And I told her so.  But she dismissed my pronouncements as the ramblings of a wounded soldier.  She may have been right to do that but I meant it.  From Clark I was shipped to Tripler Army Hospital in Hawaii where I had another operation, the surgeons continuing to repair my leg.  Then I was transported to Walter Reed in D. C. for my fifth operation and six months of rehab.  By the time I was released from medical care, my service obligation was up.  I was honorably discharged and returned home to Boston. 

“Well, I must tell you, Mr. Reeves, we are very…”

“Please.  My name is Bobby.  You know that.”

She tilted her head at an angle, one that I had seen before, long ago.  “Yes.  I do.”  She shifted a stack of papers on her desk, I believe, to somehow suspend the electricity that was forming across her desk.  “I was about to tell you that our staff really does like your pump.  I’m afraid of what’s going to happen if we have to return them.”  She tried to maintain an air of business.  But my career in sales had taught me to read people and recognize emotions when they were present.  I believed that I saw fondness in her recalling the time that we spent together.  There were long conversations about the times we were living in and those we hoped to come.  I had told her just days before I was shipped to Hawaii that I loved her.  She dismissed me, but her eyes poorly hid what I hoped was affection that she had come to feel for me as well.

“So, you’ve stayed in the Navy all these years?” I said.

“Yes.  It’s been good to me.  I have a little over twenty five years of service now and can retire any time.  But why?  I still enjoy my work... and, what would I do if I stopped?”

“Ever married?” I had looked for a wedding ring and saw none.

“No.  Uh, look… Bobby.  I’d like to catch up on all this.  But, we, uh… the project.  Admiral Pinelli is going to want…”

“Yes, of course.  Let’s make a deal,” I suggested.  “We can quickly get the business out of the way.  I have a full proposal with a number of options for the Navy’s procurement.  I will spell it all out for you right now if you will agree to have dinner with me this evening.  I really would like to hear about you and how life has treated you.  So… deal?”

She watched me while considering the offer.  She scrunched her mouth, chewing on the inside of her cheek.  It was a habit I remembered seeing her use when in thought.  “I don’t know,” she said.  “Why should we...”

“Are you involved with someone now?”  I prayed for the answer I wanted.

“Well, sort of.”  Wrong answer. 

“Julie, it would mean a lot to me.  I’ll make the business proposal work.  Why not renew a friendship?”

She looked out of her office window into a courtyard for a long moment.  Then she turned back to me and smiled with resignation.  “Sure.  Why not?”

 

“Excellent,” I declared.  “Can we meet at Fratelli’s at seven?  Or, shall I pick you up?”

“I can be there by seven,” she said.  She seemed to warm to the idea.  “That sounds good.  Now, Mr. Reeves, about the pumps…”

I opened my folio and produced the documentation I had prepared for the acquisition of our products by the U. S. Navy.  I took an hour and twenty minutes, going over our proposal line by line.  Captain Bensen followed along intently, asking pertinent questions along the way.  I watched her as she delved deeply into the matter seeing some of the old gestures and mannerisms that brought back thoughts of her at my bedside many miles and years ago.  As we leaned close over the pages I had prepared, I caught the scent of her.  It was a fragrance I had not encountered in years; not since Julie, in that hospital in the Philippines. 

I felt myself slipping…

We concluded our business and I rose to leave.  She accompanied me into the outer office where Darby handed her a fistful of pink call slips.

“Your lawyer boy has called twice,” Darby said.  “Something about Kennedy Center tonight?”

Julie’s gasp told me that she had overlooked something.  She turned back to me.  “Uh, Mr. Reeves…”

I held my breath.

She smiled.  “Never mind.  We will proceed as you suggested then.”

“Yes, Captain Bensen,” I replied.  “I look forward to it.”

I stepped through the door and out of the light snow at twelve minutes until seven.  Several strands of Christmas lights outlined the window fronting the street.  I offered my topcoat to the coat check attendant who was wearing a Santa Clause hat then greeted Lenny, the maitre d’.  I told him that I was expecting a lady to join me and that I would be in the bar. 

Fratelli’s was one of my favorite eateries in the District.  The times I had been in Washington on business allowed me to enjoy many of its fine restaurants.  Fratelli’s consistently offered a warm and friendly atmosphere and superb cuisine.   Without fail, every time I checked in with Lenny, he always called me by name and acted as if he knew me.  There was no way on earth that he did but the fact that he acted the part so well drew me back time after time.

I was settled on a stool at the bar and halfway through a Dewar’s on the rocks when I saw her push through the door.  The clock over the bar showed seven, straight up.  A sparse veil of snow quickly vanished into her pale blonde hair that fell over her shoulders when she leaned to allow Lenny to help her off with her wrap.  When I stood, she saw me and stepped over to the stairs leading up to the bar.  She wore a black dress with a fitted skirt of some shiny material that could have been silk.  I held out my hand.  She accepted it and moved into me with an unexpected hug. 

She looked stunning.

“You are as beautiful as ever, Julie,” I said.

She blushed with modesty and said, “You must have been well drugged while in our unit, Bobby.  And, women don’t normally improve with age.”

“That would have been difficult,” I countered, “but you just may have.”

Lenny looked at me questioningly and I nodded.  He stepped up into the bar.  “Your table is ready, Mr. Reeves.  If you will follow me…”

“Yes, of course.”  I assisted Julie down the steps and followed her to the table that Lenny had saved for us.  It was in a secluded nave close to the fireplace that gave off a warming aroma of oak.   It overlooked busy Connecticut Avenue whose shoulders were now beginning to show a slight accumulation of snow.  Lenny held Julie’s chair.  I seated myself across from her as she settled in.

“Bon appétit,” Lenny said.  And then departing, “May I say that it is good to have you back with us, Mr. Reeves.”  That sly dog.

We sat for an awkward moment, just looking at each other.  I was first to break the silence with a chuckle that came straight from my heart.  “I just can’t believe I’m sitting here with you,” I said.

She allowed a smile and said, “It’s good to see you, Bobby.  I really didn’t think I would ever see you again when you passed through our unit at Clark.”  She seemed to drift back in time.  “So many young men.  Such pain and misery…”

“It’s been just over twenty three years, as I figure it.”  I reached across the table and placed my hand on hers, just for a moment.  “I’m flattered that you remember me.”

She looked at me with suspicion.  “You are kidding, right?  Of course I remember you.”

Our waiter approached, interrupting a line of conversation that I wanted to pursue.  “Good evening, Mr. Reeves, madam.  My name is Sergio and it will be my pleasure to serve you this evening.”  He handed us menus and described the evening’s specials.  “May I offer you a beverage or perhaps a glass of wine while you decide on dinner?”  Julie expressed a preference for wine and I ordered a bottle that Sergio suggested.

 

 “You were saying?” I prodded.  “I know there were literally thousands of soldiers that you must have treated.”

“It was long ago,” she said, seeming to dismiss that path.  “Now, tell me about yourself.  Your autobiography for the last two and a half decades. ” 

“Work.  And more work,” I said.

“Surely there is more,” she said.

“My partners and I left a fairly comfortable situation when they developed a product line that you’ve become familiar with.  We took a chance.”

“Must have been risky,” she said.

“I suppose.   But we had no responsibilities… you know, wives or families… at the time.  So, we jumped.  It has worked out well for us.”

“And now?” she asked.  “Wives?  Families?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Oh?”

“For them, I mean.  Jack married his high school sweetheart from Quincy and they have seven daughters.  Yes, seven.  He has begged me to take him on some of my trips just to get out of the house.  Ted finally broke down and married a waitress that used to work at one of the student hang-outs in Cambridge.  He was a student at M.I.T. and told her daily that when he got a decent job he was going to come back and steal her away.  And, he did.”

She smiled at the thought.  A moment passed.  “And you, Mr. Reeves.  Is there a Mrs. Reeves?”

I looked into the face of Julie Bensen sitting across from me and experienced a déjà vu.  I saw the face with those kindly eyes, exactly as I had seen it when I awoke on that day in September of 1970.  I paused for a moment… a minute or maybe two perhaps, I don’t know how long.  And then I answered her.  “No.  There never has been a Mrs. Reeves.”

Sergio returned.  He refilled our wine glasses and took our dinner orders.  She ordered some kind of veal dish and I opted for Fratelli’s fried lobster tail.  Even for a man from Boston, Fratelli’s had conjured up a treatment for lobster that New Englanders could only envy.

“And, now, Captain Bensen,” I said, “your turn.”

“Well, obviously I’ve been in the Navy the whole time.  I was able to transfer from Clark to the hospital ship Repose in ’71, and I remained with her until she rotated out of the Pacific fleet.  Then I was assigned to the Naval Hospitals in Portsmouth, Virginia, San Diego and spent several years in Italy.  I’ve been stationed at Bethesda twice previously.  It’s been interesting.”

“No husband?  Well, I guess the Navy would make that difficult, huh?” I asked.

“Not really.  Most of my colleagues are married.  Admiral Pinelli is married to a guy who works in one of the defense department think tanks.  They’ve been married for over twenty years.”

Sergio arrived with our meal.   

We ate.  Conversation tacked away from our personal lives to other things.  How would Clinton’s stance on gays in the military work out?  (She saw no major difference than business as usual.)  What did she think of the new Supreme Court Justice, Ruth Bader Ginsberg?  (Far too liberal for her liking.)  What about that bombing of the World Trade Center back in March?  (A random act we’d probably never hear of again.)  The downing of the Black Hawk in Mogadishu?  (Tragic.)

“What are your plans for Christmas,” she asked.

“Nothing special, really,” I said.  “Dinner with my brother’s family, and the parents, of course.  You?”

“I’ve always scheduled myself to work a few shifts on holidays.  It allows more of the staff to spend the time with their families and I certainly don’t mind.  I still enjoy the patient contact.”

Sergio cleared the remains of our meal.  “Can I offer you a dessert?  They are excellent tonight,” he said.

 “Sergio, we are old friends and have a lot to catch up on.  Bring us a Frangelico and leave the dessert menu.  We may be here a while.”  I watched Julie for a reaction and was delighted to see her suppress a smile.

Maybe it was the wine, but I had to ask.  “As I was leaving this afternoon I heard that ‘your lawyer boy’ had called a couple of times.  Something about the Kennedy Center tonight?”

“Oh.  Uh…  It’s nothing really.  Nothing at all.”  She avoided my eyes.

“Captain Bensen?”

“We’re being honest, aren’t we?” she asked.

“I certainly hope so,” I said.

“John Drew.  He’s a law partner with some highfaluting firm on K Street.  We’ve been seeing each other for a while.  There was a benefit at the Kennedy Center tonight.  I really didn’t want to go.”  She acted as if she didn’t want to discuss it either.  But I couldn’t help it.

“Anything serious?” I asked.  “You and John Drew?”  Again I said a quick prayer for the answer that I wanted.

She looked away.  “He’s asked me to marry him.”  My prayers for right answers were clearly not working today. 

Now I was afraid to ask.  But… “And?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Bobby.”  She paused a moment, looking out, watching the snow.  “Look, we’re having a nice time.  I’m glad to hear about your life and all that you’ve done.  Let’s not drift from that, can we?”

“Fair enough,” I conceded.  I paused, trying to think of some benign topic.  “Have you kept in touch with any of the other nurses that were at Clark?  I seem to remember one named Talley? And Tift?”

“Wow, you do have a good memory,” she chuckled.  “It was Tulley, actually.  And Major Taft.  They were both Army nurses.  Very good ones, too.”  She went on to describe several exchanges she had had with Tulley and a visit with Taft, and a few others along the way.   I let her talk and I enjoyed everything she had to say.  She asked me about other times in my life.  She asked me about my parents and my brother.  I was flattered by all that she remembered about me from two months in 1970. 

“Julie… uh.”  I had interrupted her in mid-sentence and had not even realized it.  “I’m sorry… what were you saying?”

“No, please… go ahead.”

“I want you to know that I asked how I could contact you at every hospital they sent me to after Clark.  They told me that it was strictly against policy to divulge the information of medical personnel.”

“Yeah.  They won’t do that,” she said.  “Rightly or wrongly, they think that wounded soldiers easily become enamored with those who care for them.  And they think it is safer for everyone to maintain that privacy.”

“I meant it, you know.”

“Meant it?  You told me a lot of things, Bobby.  You were in bad shape.  We pumped you full of drugs to relieve the pain and…”

“It wasn’t the drugs, Julie.  I meant it when I told you I loved you.”

“Please, Bobby.”

The restaurant had cleared out.  There was another couple at the bar but the other diners were gone.  I looked around, knowing that we should leave.  But I didn’t want the evening to end.

I swallowed hard.  “Julie, I have a suite at the Hyatt.  Would you consider coming over?”

She paused.  Looking through the window I could clearly see her searching her soul.  And I saw a tear roll down her cheek.  She turned back, facing me.  “I can’t, Bobby.  It’s… it’s been so long.  I never expected to see you again.  Please.  Try to  understand?”  Her eyes now welled with tears.

I felt the dull thud of a brick falling to the bottom of my heavy heart.  But how could I argue with her?  Just this morning I had shown up out of the blue and somehow managed to have her join me for dinner.  But the feelings that were so strong in 1970 were overtaking me again… with a vengeance.  I did not know what to say.

“I suppose we can conclude our business in the morning, huh?”

She nodded.  I could see an internal battle being waged.  She brushed tears from her eyes and said, “I spoke with Admiral Pinelli this afternoon.  We are to meet with her tomorrow at ten to finalize the trial and begin the procurement… if that suits your schedule?” 

“Of course.  Whatever works for you,” I said.  “Can I see you again tomorrow night?  I’m booked on the shuttle back to Boston at seven o’clock but I don’t have to go.”

“Oh, Bobby.”  She seemed in agony.  “I can’t… Really, I can’t. It’s Drew’s firm… their Christmas party…”

“You call him Drew?  Not John?” I asked.

“He can be a bit pompous,” she said.  “I call him by his last name to keep him grounded.”

I could see Sergio looking our way before approaching us.  “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Reeves?” he asked.

“No, Sergio… just the check.  I’m sorry we are keeping you late,” I said.

Julie excused herself to the ladies’ room.  I took care of the check and was standing near the door when she returned. 

“Please allow me to see you home,” I said.

“No, it’s okay.  I live in a brownstone on Capitol Hill and that’s well out of your way.”   

We were standing at the coat check.  The attendant had left for the evening and Lenny stepped forward with both of our coats.  I took mine and he helped her on with hers.  She turned and came close reaching for my hands.  “I’ve had a wonderful time, Bobby.  It was so good to see you again.”

I held her hands in mine and said, “I still love you, Julie.”

With tears welling in her eyes, she nodded, let go of my hands and turned quickly away.  I watched her move through the door and into a waiting cab. 

When Earnestine showed me into the small conference room the next morning, Admiral Pinelli and Julie were already seated and apparently, hard at work.  Julie had my proposal spread across the table and was going over the various options that I had offered.  They looked up as I entered.

“Good morning, Mr. Reeves,” said the Admiral.

I nodded to her and shook her hand.  “Good morning, Admiral,” I said.  I offered my hand to Julie, “Captain Bensen,” I said.  The Admiral motioned me to a seat opposite them at the table.  I looked across at Julie and made eye contact.  She dropped her gaze and directed her attention to the proposal. 

“Captain Bensen has broken down your offer for me, Mr. Reeves,” said Admiral Pinelli.  “It looks in order and we’ve decided on your first option which I will approve and pass along to the people in procurement.  You should have a government purchase order within thirty days if the wheels are running smoothly.”

“Thank you, Admiral.  We certainly appreciate your business,” I said.

“Well, I hope you still feel that way after you’ve dealt with us for a while,” the Admiral smiled.  “If things don’t go well, you are going to have Captain Bensen here to answer to.”

I put on my most businesslike face.  “We’ll do our very best to keep her happy,” I said, daring to glance at Julie.  In order to keep her composure, she chose to stare at the table.

“Okay,” said the Admiral, “I’m off to another meeting.  Feel free to remain here to work out any questions or details.”

“Thanks again for your confidence in us, Admiral,” I said.  I stood and we shook hands as she walked out the door.  I closed the door behind her.

Julie looked over at me.  “Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“Rough night.  I didn’t get much sleep,” she said. 

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“We have coffee here.”

“Look Julie… the offer is still open for tonight.  After all these years, we have another chance…”

“Bobby… please don’t make this any harder than it already is.”  Tears began to fill her eyes. 

“I’m sorry.  It’s just that…”

“I know.  Believe me.  I know,” she said.

Every good salesman knows when he has given it his best shot and lost.  “Maybe later… after the holidays?”  It sounded like a plea but it was all I was able to manage.

She dodged the idea.  “I guess you can catch an earlier flight back to Boston, huh?”

“No,” I said.  “As long as I’m here I’m going to stop over at Walter Reed.  They’ve made some inquiries and Jamie asked me to see them if I had time.”  I stood to leave.  “And I will go down to the Mall to check in with some old friends.”  I decided to make this fast, not wanting to prolong the agony.

She came around the conference table and took my hands.  “Bobby.  I wish…”

“Julie… for one last time…”

“Merry Christmas, Bobby.  I’m so sorry,” she said.

I tried, but I just couldn’t answer.  I released her hands and walked out of the room and out of the hospital. 

The visit to Walter Reed sounded like a good idea, but I decided that what I really needed was to clear my head and sort out what I’d gone through in the last twenty four hours.  I hailed a taxi and had him drive me down to the National Mall.  It had become a habit of mine to visit “The Wall” whenever I came to Washington.  I had spent hours there.  There was something about that monument, the power of that angle of stone that beckoned to me as it does to all who see it and understand.

I stepped out of the taxi at the west end of Constitution Avenue near 21^st Street.  I winked at Robert Berks’ bronze statue of Albert Einstein as I crossed over and onto the lawn.  Somehow, in my fantasies I always expected Albert to wink back at me… one genius to another.  I passed by makeshift booths of veterans selling pins and memorabilia from the Vietnam era and offered them a salute that was returned, as always.  I stepped onto the walkway closest to the Lincoln Memorial, turned, and slowly strolled east toward the Washington Monument.  The names begin there, on the western end and are listed in chronological order from the first soul lost in the conflict to the last, listed on a panel some 493 feet distant.  58,191 names were inscribed into the stone when the memorial was first completed and more were added as they became known. 

I walked… I read names…  I walked.  I slowed, then stopped when I reached the panels listing those who perished in 1969 and 1970.  I reached up and allowed my fingertips to trace the names… Smithwick… Burgess… Barber… then, Pallana.  Jackson.  We had eaten breakfast together in the mess hall in Pleiku before being airlifted into the bush that morning.  “Eat up, Bozos,” Barber had said.  “It may be a while before we taste anything like this again.”  Six hours later, my world went dark and their world ended.  I saw nothing again until my eyes opened in a hospital in the Philippines.  My fingers moved over the ridges in the stone that defined those five lives that will forever be the young men they were that September morning. 

“There but by the grace of God…”

I walked back toward the western end and followed the path to the statue of the Three Soldiers.  Day in and day out, summer or winter, rain or shine, like the guards at the Tomb of the Unknowns at Arlington, these soldiers, memorialized in Frederick Hart’s bronze look expectantly toward the wall, toward their fellow soldiers.  I’m always touched by Hart’s detail.  The bottle of mosquito repellent held in the elastic band of the helmet… the ever-present towel that most African-American soldiers wore around their necks… the gas mask… the veins in the weathered arms… and the detail of the M-16.  For some of us, it is natural to stand beside this likeness and be transformed back in space and time.  I distinctly recall, while standing nearby, hearing the sound of helicopters, many helicopters, their rotors beating the hot tropical air only in my mind and memory.

I moved on.  I walked farther to the east searching for an addition to the memorial that had been added only days ago in November.  It was the Vietnam Women’s Memorial.  It depicts three women caring for a wounded soldier.  I had never seen it before and in view of what I had been through in the recent past, it stopped me in my tracks.  It was easy for me to transpose my own torn and youthful body into that of the soldier and to visualize Lieutenant Julie Bensen leaning over me, caring for me and my wounds.  I found a bench facing the image and sat.  I hardly noticed the snow when it began to gently fall.  Other visitors moved away as darkness fell, leaving me alone in the company of these memorialized warriors and my own sketchy thoughts.

I don’t know how long I remained there.  But at some point I realized it was time to leave.  Washington rush hour traffic, even in this shortened holiday week, was in full session.  I walked back over to Constitution Avenue to hail a taxi for the airport.

A Yellow Cab pulled to the curb and I got into the back seat, tossing my overnight bag and briefcase in before me.  The driver was a large jovial black man sporting a Santa Clause hat that was stretched over his massive head. 

“Where to, mon?” he asked.

“You must be from Jamaica, mon,” I answered.  “National Airport, please.”

“No, mon.  I’m from Ghana.  A common mistake,” he chuckled.  “You’ll be leaving town for Christmas?” he asked.

“Unfortunately so.”

“Lots of Christmas parties tonight.  You will be missing them.”

The image of Julie dressed for John Drew’s office party came to my mind and struck at my heart.  I found myself hating Ghana and this man who came from it.

“Yes, I suppose I will.”

He wished me a Merry Christmas, dropped me at the terminal and I went inside.  I located the gate for the Washington-Boston shuttle and found a seat in the waiting area that backed up to the window.  There was time before we would be boarding so I allowed my head to lean back against the window and I closed my eyes.  The cool window felt good to the back of my head.  The foot traffic and flight announcements in the terminal created a white noise that drained whatever energy was left in me and I drifted… drifted…

“Bobby… Bobby Reeves?”  The sound came from the distant end of a tunnel.  “Lieutenant Reeves… Bobby?  Bobby?”  The lids of my eyes raised just a bit… enough to allow light to pass.  “Bobby...” 

There she was.  This is just so unfair, I thought.  I tried…

“Bobby, I love you, too,” she said.  My eyes opened fully.  I lifted my head and looked around.  I was at the airport.  And in front of me, leaning over me in an all too familiar scene was Julie Bensen.  Tears were streaming down her cheeks.  “Oh, Bobby, I lost you once and I don’t ever want to lose you again…”

Like that very same moment so many years ago, I couldn’t speak.  My arms wrapped around her and I pulled her to me with no intention of ever letting go.

“Bobby… it is Christmas Eve.  Come home with me.”

The Affair at Plummer's Crossing

Nate and Bertha Plummer left St. Louis, Missouri shortly after they were married in June of 1932.  Nate had worked setting type for the St. Louis Gazette until he had saved enough money to ask Old Man Daker for Bertha’s hand in marriage.  At 28, Nate was ten years older than Bertha and if not fawningly in love with her, he felt it was time to take a wife and make his way in the world.  Nate's Uncle Troy, on his mother's side, had beckoned him west, to Cheyenne, Wyoming, claiming that the American west needed men who had ambition and drive.  It would, Troy said, reward those who seized the opportunity by moving west and becoming a part of it.  Bertha welcomed any circumstance that would take her away from a domineering mother and found the thought of moving to the frontier, as it were, enticing.  When they arrived in Cheyenne, Uncle Troy welcomed the two with open arms, but within days directed them farther west, to the town of Cody where he thought Nate might start a newspaper.  Without saying so, Uncle Troy reckoned that the other end of the state was close enough for kin to live. 

So on they travelled, with Bertha beginning to question the wisdom of their first life altering decision as a married couple.  Once there, Nate was able to stake claim to a piece of land at the intersection of two dirt roads just north of town.  It was by then the spring of 1933.  His plan to start a newspaper as Uncle Troy suggested was quickly put to rest when he learned that the Cody Enterprise, founded by none other than Buffalo Bill Cody himself, and one Colonel John Peake in 1899 was already there, alive and well.  So, under Bertha’s close supervision, Nate singlehandedly constructed a building with their living quarters in one end and space for a general store in the other.  He opened the business and called it “Plummer’s Crossing.”    Nate chose that particular location reasoning that once those roads were paved, he would capture all the tourist traffic bound for Yellowstone National Park’s eastern entrance.  And he figured he’d corral all the north-south traffic heading from Utah and Wyoming up into Montana.  Bertha kindly pointed out that if he made five cents, a reasonable sale in 1933, from every car that drove into Montana from Utah and Wyoming, he wouldn’t have enough to buy a can of paint that, she also pointed out, the establishment sorely needed.  Bertha stayed on until 1938 at which time she decided that she had given Nate and the enterprise time enough to succeed.  The couple had different ideas of what defined success, and compared to the Spartan life of a homemade shack in Wyoming, well, even life near her mother seemed an improvement.  So, in the fall of that year, before the first snow, Bertha returned to their native St. Louis. 

Bertha's train had probably not yet ground to a halt back in Missouri before Nate held a sale on bolts of calicoes, ginghams, fabrics of all descriptions and anything that could even remotely be identified as a "notion."  He aimed to discontinue selling “female dry goods,” as he called them.  It was part of his effort to purge Bertha and her influence from his mind and memory.  He used the floor space to accommodate a bar, as fully stocked as could be found in Wyoming in 1938 and a few tables for his guests.  (He no longer referred to them as "customers," as Bertha had.)  He even used some of the gingham with which to fashion tablecloths, an idea of his own that brought a smile to his face every time a guest commented on them.  The business flourished with local support.  The following spring, Nate added “home cooked” food and his business grew even more.  So, when some state politicians had other ideas as to where the road into Yellowstone should go and it bypassed Plummer’s Crossing altogether, the locals continued to support Nate’s business well enough to keep the doors open and afford him a decent, if not lavish, living.

It was an evening in late October of 1954 and the first dusting of snow made its way down to the foothills and Plummer’s Crossing from Heart Mountain.  Twilight came in the late afternoon that time of year and by seven o’clock, it would be as dark outside as it was going to get.  There was just a sliver of a moon that night and it would hide itself behind the peak of the mountain causing an eerie, craggy silhouette that dominated the sky more than it deserved.  It was cold.  The few who were gathered in Plummer’s Crossing were glad to be inside and thankful for the ample firewood that had been split and stacked during the summer and fall months.  The burning of the Aspen and Cottonwood logs gave off an aroma that was as welcoming as the fire was warming.

Nate had hired Jenny Cooper, the lovely wife of “Big Dan” Cooper, and mother of young Bradley Cooper to do the cooking and take care of the kitchen.  He tended bar and ran the general store which was still the money maker of Plummer’s Crossing.  It was a workable arrangement for both Nate and Jenny.  She would arrive at five o’clock every morning driving a beat up and worn out old Ford pickup with six year old Bradley in tow.  On days when he would need the truck, Big Dan would deliver his wife and boy to the store.  She would cook breakfast for the cowhands and other locals then see Bradley off on the school bus, the Crossing being the northern limit of the Cody school bus route.  In the late afternoon the bus would drop Bradley back at the Crossing and he would do his homework while his mother prepared the evening meals for Nate’s guests.  After her duties were complete, Jenny and Bradley would be on their way back to the modest horse ranch that Big Dan hardly kept running twelve miles north of the Crossing.  Nate paid Jenny $25 a week plus food that included Bradley’s breakfast, a sack lunch that she’d prepare and dinner.  He encouraged her to take leftovers from the kitchen home, which she did with gratitude.

Big Dan Cooper was an angry and jealous man.  After taking over the meager ranch that an uncle left him for the payment of taxes owed, he sank what little additional money he had saved from working rodeos handling the livestock into a quarter horse mare that was overpriced and proved to be barren.  He then borrowed money from the Cody Farmers and Ranchers Bank to buy a stallion that he called “Thunder” for stud.  But, alas, Thunder showed no interest in mares causing Big Dan to declare him “queer.”  His horse buying decisions had dug a financial hole that he was yet to crawl out of and he acted as though the answers to his problems were printed in the bottoms of whiskey bottles.  He hated that Jenny worked at Plummer’s Crossing.  And he hated the men whom he thought hung out there just to be around her.

On this chilly night, Buck Cafferty sat drinking a cup of coffee at a table near the big stone fireplace that occupied most of the wall at the end of the room.  His son DuMont was two years older than Bradley Cooper and rode the bus to and from school in Cody with him.  The boys had become close friends and spent their afternoons together playing and doing their homework at the Crossing.  Buck’s wife had died in childbirth, leaving just him and the boy.  Nate and Jenny didn’t mind having DuMont around.  It helped Buck out and gave Bradley someone to play with while his mother worked.  Buck and DuMont ate at the Crossing most every night to return the favor.  Buck was a livestock broker and had advised Big Dan against the two mistakes that had cost him dearly.  And in the spirit of no good deed going unpunished, Big Dan never forgave him for it.

Truth be told, Buck Cafferty was in love with Jenny Cooper.  He had not intended it and tried like hell to never let on that he did.  He fought mightily not to stare at her as she went about her work.  She had a natural beauty that needed no help from make up or cosmetics.  Her hair was coal black that shone with a luster giving it the appearance of silk like strands of onyx.  Whether she wore it cascading down her delicate back, or pinned up on her head, it was flawless and lovely.  Her eyes were a deep blue that could only be compared to the big western sky on a cloudless day.  They were always smiling and kind.  Looking into them, for Buck, was often embarrassing.  He would lose his thoughts and stumble on his words.

Of course Jenny knew that Buck was attracted to her.  But she had a jealous and demanding husband.  She knew that Big Dan disliked Buck.  She knew that he resented Buck’s ability to make a fair living selecting and selling good livestock.  Still, there stirred in her a tingling of sorts when she saw Buck’s long and lanky figure stride into the Crossing.  He had a full head of chestnut hair that filled his Stetson and spilled over ears and onto his collar.  His natural expression was a subtle smile that framed his dark brown eyes.  She found it appealing, especially given his circumstance.  He spoke kindly, he treated her gently, and he displayed a love for his son that would melt a mother’s heart.  He treated her son just as well as he treated DuMont.  Buck and Jenny had a respectful admiration that went beyond the physical.

“Will Dan be picking you up tonight, Jenny?” he asked as she wiped clean the oilcloth spread on the table next to his.  “I didn’t see your truck outside.”

“Yes,” she answered, checking the clock over the bar.  “He should be here soon, I expect.  He had to pick up some posts and fencing from Cargill’s down in Cody this afternoon.”  In fact, she had expected her husband before then and silently hoped that he hadn’t stopped off at Muddy’s Saloon.

Bradley and DuMont were over in the corner of the room playing a pinball machine.  A salesman out of Laramie had come through back in the summer and talked Nate into buying it.  “It’ll bring people in and keep ‘em here longer,” he’d said.  When the weather was cold or rainy, Jenny would give the boys nickels that she kept for that purpose but only after they finished their homework.  The boys competed for high score on the old machine and when they had exhausted their supply of nickels, Nate gave Jenny more knowing that they would go right back into the machine.

Jenny continued moving about the room, making work to pass the time as she waited for her husband.  Bradley and DuMont lost interest in the pinball machine and came over to sit with Buck. 

The last of Nate’s bar guests left, smiling and tipping their hats to Jenny as they moved out the door.  Only she, Nate, Buck and the boys remained.  Nate looked up at the clock and motioned Jenny over.

“Shouldn’t Dan have been here by now?” he asked.

“I would have thought so.” she answered, unable to hide her concern.  “Cargill’s closes at five but there was no answer when I called home.”

Nate was aware of Big Dan’s fondness for drink and suggested, “Why don’t I give Muddy’s a call?  See if he’s there.”

Nate picked up the telephone and waited for the operator.  “Bea, hey, how ‘bout ringing Muddy’s Saloon for me, will ya?”  He waited a moment.  Then, “Hey, Muddy… Nate Plummer, here.  Say, is Dan Cooper there this evenin’?”  He paused.  “No?  Okay.  Thanks, hear?”  Nate put the phone back in the cradle.  “They haven’t seen him, Jenny.”

Jenny didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried.  She looked at the clock and back at Nate.  She glanced over at Buck.

“It’s quarter to eight, Jenny,” Buck said.  “Why don’t you let DuMont and me drive you two home?”

Nate said, “It’s time to close up, Jenny.  You know you are welcome to stay.  But it might be best to let Buck take you.”

“It’s a long way for you, Buck,” she said.  “We don’t want to trouble you.”

“You know it’s no trouble, Jenny.  C’mon, let’s all get in the truck.”

Bradley and DuMont slipped into their jackets and picked up their school books.  Jenny went back into the kitchen and got her own jacket and purse.  She had a paper sack with a few pieces of leftover fried chicken and some potato salad that she had set aside for her husband’s dinner. 

Buck and the boys were already outside when Jenny got to the door.  She looked back at Nate.  “See you in the morning,” she said.

He nodded.  “Give me a call when you get home and let me know everything is all right, will you?”

“Sure, Nate,” she answered.  “Thanks for your concern.”

Jenny opened the passenger door of Buck’s Chevrolet pickup.  Bradley and DuMont were already in and sitting on the bench seat.  Buck had started the engine so the truck would warm to ward off the night air that continued to drop in temperature.

The snow was falling harder as Buck drove north toward the ranch.  The flakes fell and swirled in the beams of the truck’s headlights.  Jenny stared blankly through the windshield wondering where her husband could be.  She dreaded another embarrassment if he were off drunk somewhere.

Buck slowed as he approached the entrance to the ranch.  He turned onto the gravel road under the large wooden sign identifying the place as “Circle C Ranch.”  No lights were evident as Buck approached the modest house, though his headlights found Big Dan’s truck that was parked over by the barn.  The door to the barn was open and the tailgate of the truck was down.  When Buck stopped, Jenny opened her door and stepped tentatively from the truck. 

“Let me get the boys in the house and turn on some lights,” she said, looking all the while toward the barn.

“Okay,” Buck answered already out of the truck and walking.  “I’ll check the barn.”

Bradley and DuMont followed Jenny into the house.  She turned on lights and walked back through the kitchen, searching about as she went.  “Dan?” she called.  She found nothing as she continued into their bedroom.  “Dan, are you here?”

Finding nothing, she returned to the living room.  “You boys stay inside,” she said.  “I’ll be right back.” 

Jenny quickened her pace to a trot as she approached the barn.  She saw that Buck had lit a kerosene lamp and was over in front of the stall that held Thunder.  In the flickering yellow light, the stallion stood peacefully with his bridle tied to a hitching ring on the outside wall.  A short rope tethered Thunder’s right rear leg to the post at the stall’s opening and another hung loosely from his left.  Buck Cafferty was kneeling over Big Dan Cooper who was lying flat on his back outside the stall.  He was unconscious and appeared to be bleeding from the head.  

“He’s out cold, but breathing, and alive,” Buck said.  He had found a towel and was wiping away dried blood from Dan’s face.  “Go call Doc Wilson, Jenny,” he ordered. 

Jenny started to kneel beside her husband, then turned and ran back out of the barn and into the house.  Buck Cafferty was able to roll Big Dan Cooper over and support him on his shoulders, carrying the big man over to the house and into the bedroom.  He laid him on the bed where Jenny daubed at the head wound with a warm moist cloth.  She made her husband as comfortable as possible, waiting for Doctor Edgar Wilson to make the thirty mile trip from downtown Cody to the Circle C Ranch.  Big Dan lay quietly breathing as if in a deep sleep.

When Doc Wilson arrived, he acknowledged Buck and the boys with a nod and moved quickly following Jenny to the bedroom.  Under the light of a floor lamp that Buck had brought from the living room, the doctor circled an area above Dan’s left eye with his finger.  “Do you see these indentations?” he asked.  “See this, right here?”

Jenny leaned close and answered, “Yes.  I noticed it while I was cleaning it.”

“Horse shoe.  I’ve seen it a hundred times,” explained the doctor, “but rarely this deep.  The bone is crushed.  That horse kicked the hell out of Dan.”

“Is he going to be all right?” she asked.  “He’s not woken up since we found him.”

“Too early to tell.  He could wake up in an hour or he could stay unconscious for days… or longer.  He could have permanent damage, like a stroke… you don’t ever know.  Just watch over him and if he wakes up, try to keep him quiet.”  With that, Doctor Edgar Wilson stowed his stethoscope back in his doctorin’ bag and stood to leave.  “Call me in the morning,” he said.

 Big Dan Cooper lingered on for three more days, but never woke up.  Buck Cafferty drove out to the Circle C each morning and picked up Bradley Cooper early enough to get the boys to Plummer’s Crossing in time to catch the school bus.  He delivered him home in the evenings.  While Jenny Cooper stayed at his bedside and cared for her husband, Nate Plummer picked up the slack at the Crossing, dreading having to replace her.  Now, he didn’t wish anything bad on poor ole Big Dan, but Jenny was a first rate cook and employee.  In his darkest thoughts, Nate hoped for a speedy resolution to the situation that would allow Jenny’s return.  After three days, he got it.  And after a suitable and respectful burial attended by Nate Plummer, Buck and DuMont Cafferty, Doctor Edgar Wilson, Flint Cargill and a host of the boys from Muddy’s Saloon, Jenny Cooper was back at work.

 It came as a surprise to no one when in the spring of 1956, Buck Cafferty asked Jenny Cooper to be his wife. 

As soon as he heard that Cafferty had popped the question, Nate Plummer took on a paternal air asking, “Buck, what are your intentions?”

“What do you mean, ‘what are my intentions,’ Nate?” Buck asked, bristling at the attitude.

“I mean, you ain’t planning on moving off somewheres, are you?” he asked.

“Well, no, Nate.  You’ll still have your cook.  But you don’t mind if I take her and the boys on a little trip over to Jackson Hole, do you?” Buck responded.  “Kind of a honeymoon?”

“Naw, that’ll be all right, I s’pose.  How long you gonna be gone?”

 Buck Cafferty and Jenny Cooper were married after Sunday morning worship on July 8, 1956 by Pastor Jenkins Brownlee at the only church in Cody.  DuMont Cafferty served as his father’s best man, and Bradley Cooper gave his mother away in marriage.  At the conclusion of the ceremony, the newly formed family filled the bench seat of Buck Cafferty’s Chevrolet pickup truck and drove to Jackson Hole.  They stayed in a small log house that was a getaway cabin belonging to one of Buck’s cattle ranch customers.

With minimal instruction from Buck, DuMont and Bradley took to and spent long afternoons fly fishing in the Snake River.  For the boys’ safety, Buck would remain close by on the riverbank, with his new bride, paying her all the attention that he could muster.  On the Thursday of that week, he was there on the riverbank lying in the summer sun.  His head lay in Jenny’s lap, a picture of wedded contentment. 

“Buck?” Jenny casually asked, stroking his long hair, “What do you suppose caused that horse to kick Dan in the head?”

“Why do you ask, Jenny?”

“Because, Dan was proud of Thunder,” she said.  “He spent a lot of money on him.”

“Well, you know that Thunder didn’t… um… perform as he was supposed to, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I know.  Dan called him the only queer horse he’d ever seen.  But Thunder was still a good, strong horse.  I just wonder why he kicked him.”

Buck leaned up on one elbow, searching for a hint that his wife was kidding with him.  “I don’t suppose you noticed what was lying on the floor of the barn next to him when we found Dan, did you?”

Jenny’s brow wrinkled as she tried to recall the scene.  “No.  What?” she asked.

“Gelding snips.”