The Homecoming (10 page)
Shawn turned in his chair to face the man. “What’s your name?”
“Harrison James, sir. Friends call me Harry.”
Shawn held out his hand. “I’m Captain—well, Major Shawn Collins. You can call me Shawn.”
As they shook hands, the porter looked around nervously. “Don’t think I can do that, sir. But we’ll pretend your first name’s Major. How about that?”
Shawn smiled. “I understand. Well, Harry, looks like I better get used to riding trains. I’m going to be doing a lot of this over the next few months.”
“Trains is wonderful, sir. Been working on ’em for near twenty years, this one here almost ten. Know it like my hometown.”
“Bet you got a lot of great stories.”
“That right, Major. But I better get moving. Got some errands to run a few cars up ahead. Just passing through, saw you there, thought I’d say hello.”
“Glad you did, Harry. Maybe I’ll see you in a few weeks.”
“Don’t know about that,” said Harry. “They fixin’ to reassign me to some big USO train coming up soon.”
“No kidding,” said Shawn. “Got a lot of Hollywood stars on it?”
“Yessir, I believe it do.” He smiled extra wide at that.
“Then we might see a lot of each other. See this folder here? I just found out the army’s putting me on that same tour. Start off in Boston?”
“Yessir.”
“Got to be the same one.”
“I declare,” said Harry. “Then we will be seeing each other a bit.”
“Hey, darkie, how long you gonna just stand there yakking? Refill my drink.”
Harry froze, still looking at Shawn; his smile quickly evaporating. Shawn looked across the aisle toward the loud voice. A white businessman about his age was holding up an empty glass from the bar in Harry’s direction. It was clear he’d already downed quite a few. A few of the nearby passengers stopped talking and turned to face the scene.
“Hey, George, or whatever your name is, I’m talking to you. Get me another drink.”
Harry turned toward the man and said politely, “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t work here in this car, but I will get you a waiter directly.”
“I don’t wanna hear excuses. Just go to the bar and tell the boy there to put another gin and tonic in this glass.” His voice was getting louder. Now most of the tables in the dining car were watching.
Harry hesitated for a moment, then reached out for the man’s glass.
Shawn stood up and got in between Harry and the drunk. “Sir, you’re disturbing all the nice folks that came in here for a quiet meal, me included, and you’ve just insulted this gentleman.”
“Gentleman? I don’t see no gentleman. Just this darkie here gabbing when he should be working. Just go back to your chair, army man. This isn’t any of your business.”
“I’ll go back and sit down as soon as you apologize to my friend Harry here, and to all of the rest of these folks for upsetting their dinner.”
“Apologize? Why you—” He stood up quickly and took a swing at Shawn’s face.
In one instant Shawn ducked the fist, grabbed the man’s wrist, and twisted, sending his face crashing to the table.
“Ow . . . ow, you’re hurting me!” he screamed, his face mashed into his napkin.
“It can hurt a lot more than this,” Shawn said, and twisted an inch more.
The man screamed again. “Let me go.”
“I’ll be happy to, sir. Just as soon as you apologize to Harry here, and the rest of the dining car.” Shawn heard a commotion at the front end and looked up to see a waiter and another Pullman porter who rushed in to see what they could do.
“It’s all right, Johnny, Willie,” Harry said. “We all right in here.”
“I ain’t gonna apologize to no negro,” the man said. “I didn’t do anything to apologize for.”
Shawn twisted his wrist another half inch. The man yelled again in agony. “One more turn, and you will hear a loud popping sound,” Shawn said in a menacing voice.
There was a brief pause, and the man said, “All right, all right. I’m sorry.”
“Who are you apologizing to?” Shawn asked.
“Your friend Harry here.”
“And . . .”
“And to everyone else.”
“A little louder, please.”
“AND TO EVERY ONE ELSE.”
Shawn released his grip, and the man’s arm flopped to his side. He instantly grabbed his shoulder and started rubbing it. He shot Shawn a glance, half hatred, half fear. Then stood up and staggered toward the back of the train. As the doors closed behind him, the dining car erupted into applause.
Shawn smiled and nodded and went back to his seat.
“Thank you, Major,” Harry said. “No one ever done anything like that for me.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Harry.”
“Well, I gotta go ’fore I get in some more trouble.” He started walking down the aisle, then turned. “When we on that tour, Major . . . you need anything, anything at all, I’m your man.”
“Thanks, Harry.”
And off Harry went down the narrow aisle.
A moment later, the waiter took Shawn’s half-eaten plate of food away and set a fresh plate down. “My compliments, sir. The name’s Willie. Look like your food got a bit cold.” “Thank you, Willie.” Shawn looked up at the much younger man’s smiling face.
“That man you helped . . . Mr. Harry. He’s my dad. You ever need anything while you on this train, you just ask, sir. You hear? You just ask.”
“Thank you, Willie.”
At that Willie walked down the aisle to attend to another table.
Shawn looked down at the fresh new pork chop and sawed off a bite. It was cooked just right, nestled in a puddle of piping-hot brown gravy. He followed it with a forkful of mashed potatoes and a swig of Coca-Cola. He looked around the dining car again, everything back to normal. It was quite a place as he thought about it, as if someone had put together a fine, upscale restaurant then stuck it in a big hallway. Linen tablecloths and napkins on every table, a nice vase of flowers, elegant curtains framing every window. He turned and looked out his window, past his reflection to the sun already setting in the west, thinking about what he’d just read a few minutes ago, the details of his new assignment.
They were giving him two more weeks to get his affairs in order, then he was to report to a military office near Boston for a briefing. An aide to Colonel Simmons, some lieutenant— he’d already forgotten his name—would serve as his personal secretary throughout the four-month tour. He read something about the possibility of the assignment being extended beyond that, but no specifics. All his expenses would be covered. When not on the train, he would be staying at the same hotels as the Hollywood stars, eating at the same restaurants. He was told to expect to give newspaper and radio interviews. He would receive briefings instructing him what to say and, more importantly, what
not
to say.
Only one part of all he’d read kept replaying in his mind, though, the part about being gone for four months. That would kill Patrick, he thought. Patrick already struggled when Shawn was gone a single day. And what would he do with Patrick all that time? He couldn’t see his father taking care of him, even with their relationship doing better. Shawn could tell he wasn’t well. You could see it in his face and his eyes; they looked so tired and worn, even in the middle of the day. How could he possibly endure four months of feeding Patrick, cleaning his clothes, getting him back and forth to school?
Maybe he could bring Patrick along with him, hire someone to watch him. Immediately, he realized it was a dumb idea. This was no kind of life for a little boy, especially one who’d been through all Patrick had been through. He needed order and routine. School, recess, playing ball in the neighborhood. A normal kid life. He stared out the window, searching for an answer.
Then it came.
A nanny.
Someone who could do all the work, so his father could just be the grandpa. And Shawn could afford it; he wouldn’t need any of his military pay while he was gone. He suddenly remembered a conversation at dinner the other night. Miss Townsend had said something about losing her job at Child Services. She needed a job; Patrick needed a nanny. She was clearly fond of Patrick, and he seemed to adore her. So much so, that it annoyed Shawn. Elizabeth had always quoted that verse in Romans about God working all things together for good. Maybe Shawn was looking at this the wrong way. Maybe God had brought Miss Townsend into the picture for this very reason. If she agreed to become Patrick’s nanny, that might ease the blow about Shawn being gone four months.
But where would she live? Certainly not in his father’s house. It was obvious that Dad just barely tolerated her.
Mrs. Fortini.
She seemed to really like Miss Townsend, and she had two spare rooms right next door. This might just work, Shawn thought. He took out a sheet of paper and began to hammer out the details.
Shawn arrived at the Philadelphia station at 8:30 p.m., then rode another train out to Allingdale. Walking home in the bitter cold, he turned onto Chestnut Street forty-five minutes later. He decided to stop by Mrs. Fortini’s first and tell her the plan. If she didn’t agree, there’d be no point in taking it any further.
He neared the house, glad to find lights on in the living room. Mrs. Fortini as a rule was in bed every night by 9:00. He walked onto her porch and knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” she yelled through the door.
“It’s me, Mrs. Fortini. Shawn.”
“Shawn?” she asked as she opened the door. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine, I just had something I need to ask you before tomorrow.”
“Come in,” she said. “Can I get you some tea? Here, stand over here by the radiator. You want me to take your coat?”
“No, it’s late; this should only take a few minutes.”
She still had a worried look on her face. She sat down as Shawn explained the situation. He left out the detail about the Medal of Honor, simply mentioning them giving him a medal, but told her everything else. Her eyes widened with each new segment. When he got to the part about asking Miss Townsend to be Patrick’s nanny, she jumped out of her seat.
“Shawn, that’s a wonderful idea. I think she will make an excellent nanny. If you could have seen her, the way she cared for him while you were gone. And now that she has no job, I think she will say yes in an instant.”
“Well, Mrs. Fortini . . . there’s a little catch. That’s really why I’m here. The only way I can see this working is if she could . . . live here with you. I’d pay you room and board,” he added quickly. “Whatever you need.”
She sat back down on the sofa. “I see.” She was obviously giving it some thought. “How long did you say it would be for?”
“Right now they’re saying four months. But it is the army.”
She stood back up. “Then that’s it,” she announced. “Katherine will stay here with me. I’m sure we can make it work. She’s a lovely girl.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fortini.” Shawn gave her a hug. “This is such a load off my mind.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” she said as they walked toward the front door. “I can’t believe you’re going to be rubbing elbows with Bette Davis and Greer Garson. Could you get me their autographs?”
“I sure will. The folder they gave me said Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye are also going to be on part of the tour. I’m not sure which part just yet, but—”
“Oh, Bing Crosby. I love Bing Crosby. You’ve got to get me his autograph.”
Shawn laughed. For a moment she looked like a teen girl. “I will certainly try.” Shawn walked out to the porch.
“When are you going to ask Katherine?”
“I’m going to talk to my dad right now. If he’s okay with it, I’ll ask her tomorrow. If she says yes, I’ll tell Patrick about it. He’s the one I’m most concerned about.”
“I understand,” said Mrs. Fortini.
Shawn walked into the vestibule of his father’s house, banging away the mud that had gathered on his shoes. He was bone tired. His father must have heard him, because he came to the door before Shawn unlocked it.
“You’re home, son. C’mon in. I put some more coal on the furnace.” The elder Collins was smiling, the all-familiar cigar hanging out of his mouth.
“Thanks, Dad.” Shawn still wasn’t used to his dad greeting him this way, after all the years of hostility. He set his brief bag down and laid his overcoat across the armchair.
Ian turned the radio volume down and retreated to his favorite chair. “You don’t look too happy,” he said. “I take it they’re not letting you out.”
“Nope, they’re not. But I didn’t really expect they would.” Shawn unbuttoned his uniform coat and sat on the couch.
“So what they say?”
“You’re never going to believe it. It hasn’t really sunk in yet. They’re putting me on the craziest assignment you could possibly think of.” Shawn tried to sound optimistic.
“What is it?” His father let go a long puff of the cigar; the familiar smell actually soothed Shawn’s nerves a bit.
“First, this colonel—the one you talked to on the phone— tells me they are promoting me to major, effective immediately.”
“That’s great, Shawn.” Noticing Shawn wasn’t smiling, he added, “That is a good thing, right?”
“That’s only the beginning. He tells me all the guys in my crew have turned in these reports about me, what we did on that last mission, and now they’re recommending me for the Medal of Honor.”
“What?” Ian’s face lit up. “The Medal of Honor?” He leaned forward in his chair. “My gosh, Shawn. That’s . . . that’s wonderful.” Shawn thought he saw tears forming in his eyes. “It’s a good thing too, I’m telling you. After hearing your story the other night, I went to bed thinking . . . they don’t give my son a medal for what I just heard, someone’s gonna hear about it from me. If only your mother could hear this.”
“Right now, it’s just a recommendation. There’s all sorts of procedures and protocols they gotta go through first. But the colonel felt certain it would happen, said the president would probably put it on me himself.”
At that his father shot right up. “The president? FDR?” He paced back and forth across the living room. Shawn had never seen him so excited. “We’ve got to call somebody. This, this is the biggest thing that’s ever happened to a Collins. To think . . . my boy getting the Medal of Honor. The president. The newspapers will wanna hear about this. I’ll call them first thing in the morning.”