OBLIGATION Read online




  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One

  Hero

  Matty

  Grandfather

  Peter

  Golf

  Coping

  Goodbye

  Marine

  The Test

  Will

  Part Two

  Becoming Something Else

  Sanity

  Obligation

  Keeping a Promise

  Light

  Returning a Favour

  Something Else Comes To Call

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Copyright 2010 by Donald Stilwell

  All rights reserved

  Edited by Gina Minar

  Cover design by Travis Pennington

  Epub production by John Potter

  OBLIGATION

  Donald Stilwell

  OBLIGATION

  A story of Honor and Love, and the depths of both, as only the human heart can know

  For Alicia,

  If there were no you, there would be no reason for me

  PART ONE

  Hero

  John took aim when the first of them got within eight hundred yards. He pressed back, aiming for the center. There was no time to change the dope, just press. John’s rifle bucked and he was unable to determine if his round had hit or not, it was a long way. He worked the bolt of his Remington and fired again. It wasn’t precision marksmanship when firing upon a swelling mass so far away. The enemy was clumped close together and he was taking dead aim at the middle of it. John worked the bolt until all of his rounds were gone. Now he was loading them combat style one at a time; bolt open, throw a round; bolt open, throw a round; over and over until spent.

  Will was beside John, firing his M-16 into the folds and pockets of the massive swarm. John couldn’t keep up with them, there were just too many. The platoon John and Will were assigned to was pinned down below them. John was close to the end of his ammunition when the first mortar round dislodged a Buick sized piece of earth close by.

  "Go Will, get the fuck out of here,” John screamed.

  "Not today, Anderson,” Will replied.

  The second mortar hit; both men felt the sting of the blast as pieces of earth rained down upon them.

  "Do you have any ammo?” John was on his side yelling to Will with his face pressed tightly to the earth.

  Will was as flat as a man his size could be, “Do you?”

  "Yes, and I’m going to keep shooting these greasy fuckers until I’m out; now one of two things are going to happen here Will, and both are pretty shitty. I have the rifle, I have the ammo, I’m the shooter. You’d be lucky to hit me from where you’re lying, so get the fuck out of here.”

  Will had been partnered with John Anderson for ten months. He had been through the newly structured sniper/observer school with him before that. They had been on countless missions, just the two of them, and had seen some pretty hairy shit. Through all of it, John had been Will’s brother. No color difference divided them, and when one of the other guys, perhaps a white soldier, born and raised in a state where white men had owned black men not so long ago, made a questionable remark, it was John, not Will, who introduced them to a life with a few less teeth. Will was raised in a house with four sisters. John was the only brother he had ever known. Will would not abandon his brother now.

  "You stay; I stay, simple as that John.”

  "Fine, then listen to me, go below and get our boys on the right path out. They think the shits coming from everywhere. Lead them east; I’ll be in route as soon as I’m empty.”

  Will hesitated, John urged, “Son of a bitch, Will, go!”

  Will reached out and touched his friend and partner on the arm. He squeezed it once then ran away from the fire to assist their platoon.

  John Anderson focused all of his attention on the tree line where the big guns were hidden. With resolve even he was unaware he’d had up until that point, he found the one responsible for the most trauma. His figure as an enemy was recognizable through the scope and not much else. He loaded the next mortar shell, the one that undoubtedly would be dialed in closer to John’s unit. John breathed out, took aim - god damn it was a long ways away - and fired. The man didn’t budge. He wasn’t hit, and John cursed quietly. One more baby, give me one more second, John thought to himself. The man had loaded the shell, pulled back hard, the mortar was away.

  John took aim again, let out a breath, and smoothed back the trigger just as his father had taught him so long ago. It was a fine pull; the enemy fell lifeless some thousand yards away. No more mortars, he thought. Some of his men, Will, would survive. John had never been a religious man. He had shared himself with very few people, but those closest to him knew they had been loved. John held no hope for the future. His future had been determined by a belief he held dearly. Seconds, perhaps just one, remained.

  John relaxed and closed his eyes and pictured his wife’s face; she was standing before him, her hair radiating the sun’s warmth, her smile genuine and far reaching, her love and strength finding him thousands of miles from where he had last touched her. It wasn’t so bad, he thought with his final breath. Her love was all around him and would surely follow him into the dark.

  Matty

  For as long as I can remember, I knew three things.

  1). My brother Matty and I had always shared a room.

  2). Matty was not like other kids.

  3). I was supposed to look out for Matty.

  Matty was eleven and I was ten when we moved to San Jose, California. The walls in our bedroom were the color blue all little boys know and grow accustomed to.

  It was a typical Saturday morning. The house was quiet. After helping Matty put on his socks, I pulled down two bowls from the cabinet while Matty grabbed the cereal box from atop the fridge. Cereal poured, we sat down next to one another on the shag carpet. Bugs Bunny was having his way with the less intellectually gifted Elmer Fudd.

  Matty didn’t speak for the first thirty minutes. The cereal, the cartoons, this manner of being was consuming enough. Our mother would be home that afternoon. Since our father had died, she had found two jobs to keep the family together. A picture of our dad in his uniform adorned the top of the television. Next to it lay a velvet lined box with a medal inside. Matty thought the medal was handsome. It was light blue with numerous stars.

  Our mother used to look at the medal and cry at night. Matty and I would lie silently in our beds, close our eyes, and try not to hear what was only a room away. It was better now. For the first couple months, she was incapable of saying or hearing my father’s name spoken aloud. Now she would speak of him from time to time and explain to us that we should be proud of him, for he had given his life in defense of his country. I wouldn’t understand what that meant for some time to come.

  It had been a year since the older man in the uniform had come to our house, had said the words that made our mother collapse. We had lived on base then.

  We were still in California; however, the new home, the new city, seemed a world away.

  I finished my cereal and made sure Matty finished his. The only cartoons Matty liked were over. After washing out our bowls, I helped Matty dress in his outdoor clothes. To look at us from a distance, you would only notice two lean and athletic looking boys; we got that from our father. Up close, the subtleties were apparent. Matty didn’t talk much. What few words he said that were recognizable were the things he favored. “Juice, milk, hot dog, outside”.

  The rest of his speech was a litany of sounds strung together which resembled more a long ago tribe speak rather than English.

  This Saturday was not unlike any other Saturday. I g
rabbed the football in one hand, took Matty’s hand in the other, and then headed for the park. On our way, I would lob the football to Matty. Sometimes he would catch it, other times not. It was still early, only a few other kids inhabited the field.

  Jeff and Paul, brothers who resembled each other not at all, were ready to join in on the game of catch. Before my father had died, he had taught me a few things about fighting -- where to hit a guy to make it hard for him to breathe, where to strike to make the eyes water and therefore render him blind for a couple seconds. He had cautioned against doing these things unless it was absolutely necessary. He added, sometimes, through no fault of your own, it would be.

  Some choices are made for you, before you’re even born; I know this now, as I knew it then. Jeff had learned this the hard way. Jeff and Paul lived three houses down from Matty and me. A month ago, when we had first moved in, our mother suggested we go outside, explore the new neighborhood, and make some friends. Jeff, along with his younger brother Paul, were the first to make our acquaintance. Jeff and I sized each other up as all boys and men do. I introduced myself, as well as my brother Matty. Upon hearing my brother’s name, Jeff laughed and remarked, "Matty? Like Madeline? Parents think you were a girl?"

  Matty was incapable of explaining that his name was short for Matthew. It didn’t matter to me at the time that Matty took no ill will from any remark meant to hurt or disrespect him. Understanding such a gesture was beyond his capability. It wasn’t beyond mine.

  Jeff never finished that chuckle. I had socked Jeff squarely in the mouth and the fight was on. We worked things out the way boys did during my childhood. Hurt feelings, interrupted by brief physical combat, soon replaced by handshakes. In no time we were all friends. After Jeff had cleaned himself up, and I had made sure Matty was alright, I explained to both boys the untitled affliction that plagued my brother. The doctors had no name for it then. They told my mom he was retarded, or had some form of retardation. She didn’t buy that, but didn’t know what else to do. Matty went to a special class, with kids no one knew what to do with. I saw my mother cry when she believed I wasn’t watching. It was only when she was alone with Matty. He looked so much like my dad, you just wanted him to talk to you, engage in a conversation about anything. He didn’t, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t.

  While explaining all of this to two relative strangers, and kids at that, my mind flashed to the way my Mom would hold Matty sometimes, hold him as long as he would allow it. I thought of her this way, and with brilliant clarity, I remembered her face, and how it would be eclipsed with sadness.

  I recalled the facts about Matty were merely observations of two people who loved him. Everything about him was just a guess, because nobody, even the doctors, actually knew. His affliction, and my mother’s process of acceptance, was never further than the next stranger’s insensitive remark, or lingering glance. As a boy, I only knew one way to protect Matty, and for now it seemed to work. Like children do, I stuffed the memory back into the closet next to all of the others, both long ago, and newly formed, and continued on with the promise of new adventure.

  Today was exceptional, sunny but cold, perfect football weather. An hour had passed to find the rest of the neighborhood boys engaged in the game that had begun with two. I played, only after making sure Matty was seated near the field and was occupied. Today, I had brought along a special comic book for him. Matty seemed to enjoy the pictures, and would look at the book over and over while I played. In the end the day had belonged to me. The opposing team would later blame it on my getting first picks; I insisted my quarter-backing abilities were the key. Game over, we walked the two blocks home, me dirty and tired, Matty just hungry.

  The house was still ours. Mom would return home soon; however, neither of us could wait. I turned on the gas, lit the burner, and instructed Matty to pull the hot dogs from the fridge. Matty was good in the kitchen. Matty would generally fetch the items. I, in turn, would prepare them. There were no buns so I pulled four slices of Wonder bread from the loaf Matty had handed me. Matty was a bread and dog man, while I enjoyed mine with ketchup and mustard. There was only one Coke left. I let Matty have it. I was fine with milk. The dogs gone, I wiped both of our faces and watched Matty smile. The Saturdays of childhood were a magical thing.

  Matty was a better cleaner than I. Somewhere along the way, Mom had taught Matty to wipe the crumbs into his hand and deposit them into the trash. I still believed the crumb swipe off the table and onto the floor was an acceptable measure of clean. We were racing back out the door when our mother returned.

  She walked us back inside, obviously some mothering business to attend to.

  "You two eat something today?"

  "Yes mom, we had cereal for breakfast and hot dogs for lunch." I spoke on our behalf.

  Our mother looked us over. I never said anything, but I knew she looked at Matty differently than me. Matty looked more like our dad; I didn’t know if that made her love him more or not. I hoped not.

  "I wish I was here more, boys. I hate not being here to feed you."

  "It’s okay Mom we understand." I said it as if I actually meant it. I watched my mom walk to the fridge, her step that of someone much older than her thirty-three years.

  "Do we need anything boys?"

  I confessed we had drank the last coke and added that the milk might need replacing as well. I stood by as Matty was pulled in close by our mother. She lingered a moment, kissing the top of his head, while simultaneously pushing the hair back from his brow.

  She held a hand out to me then, bringing me to her as well. "You’re both growing up too fast." She kissed both of us, then gave us a couple of dollars and a short list for the corner store. As we left, she told us to be careful and to get one candy each with the money that was left.

  I purchased soda, milk, bread, peanut butter, and bologna. As instructed, I picked out a candy for each of us. Matty’s was a Hershey’s bar, and mine was a jaw breaker, larger than the opening of my mouth would accommodate.

  I placed the groceries on the kitchen table and then went to ask permission to ride bikes. I found my mom asleep and left her as such. Matty helped put the few grocery items away, and then we walked quietly out of the house.

  Bike secured, I put Matty on the back half of the seat; his feet rested on the make shift pegs my father had built for us. We rode to the northern most portion of the neighborhood. There we found Jeff, Paul, and Timmy, all riding their bikes off of a make shift jump. Timmy was another kid from the block; he was ten, and his father was a cop. Timmy told us he had heard his father talking about a rope swing some older boys had built over at Meadows creek. Everyone knew of Meadows, it was a medium size stream where once in a while you could catch a trout if you were lucky, and in the summer months it offered a reprieve from the heat. In the fall and winter months it went vacant except for the hippies who ate granola and smoked dope. He’d heard his dad say that too.

  In a flash we were on our way, intrigued by the idea of swinging high above the stream. In ten minutes or so we had arrived. As promised, there was a thick rope tied to a tall eucalyptus tree. An older boy was swinging from one side to the other. It looked dangerous, but fun all the same.

  Everyone grounded their bikes and took in the spectacle the older boys had created.

  A tall lank blond boy was flying across the chasm some forty feet above the nearly dried up stream. He shouted as he went, running off the twenty feet or so of dirt pulling hard and traversing the unknown. I was hooked.

  The boys looked to one another, each mustering the courage it would take to employ little boy nerve into the big boy world. "Who’s going first?" The words were Jeff’s. I said I would go, if the older kids would let me have a turn.

  Jeff did the asking. The bigger kids seemed all too ready to allow the younger boys a shot at this heroic endeavor.

  While I was talking Timmy into watching Matty for a minute, Jeff took my place at the rope. He held it; it was larger in his hands t
han it had appeared when the older boys were going. He walked to the edge and looked down.

  Down seemed something altogether different as well. It was too much for him. I watched as Jeff gave the rope back to the older kid, thanked him, and walked away. I shrugged.

  "What’s up?"

  "No way man, look over the edge, it’s too far. What if I don’t make it across? I’ll be stuck until I drop."

  I agreed. "Yep, it’s a long way down; I don’t blame you for backing out."

  Jeff took this as an insult. "If you’re so tough, you try it."

  I looked to Timmy, "You’ll watch Matty for me while I go?"

  Timmy shook his head in the affirmative.

  I took Matty’s hand. He looked at me and then looked away. "I’m going to swing on the rope, Matty. I’ll only be gone two seconds. You stand with Timmy while I’m gone, and I’ll be right back."

  Matty said the word rope a couple of times, nothing more.

  I grabbed Timmy’s t-shirt. "Don’t say you’re going to watch him if you’re not."

  Timmy pulled back and told me to relax. "Yes, Kevin, I will watch him. Just hurry up, I wanna try too."

  I looked to Matty one last time, made sure Timmy was right next to him, then ran for the rope.

  The older boy gave me some advice. I held on tight, pulled the rope back as far as it would go, then ran for the edge. In a second I was flying. No thoughts interrupt a moment like this - it’s just sheer panic and sheer joy. I was on the other side before I knew it.

  I had let go a tick too late. My butt hit the hard dirt before my feet had a chance to get under me. It didn’t matter, I was laughing like a crazy man.

  I never heard Timmy yell.

  I was told later that Matty tried to follow me. He moved faster than anyone had ever seen him move before. He ran to the edge and jumped. I didn’t see my older brother fall to the rocks and shallow water below.