The Reunion (3 page)

4

“Oh come on, you big baby,” his wife pleaded. Marvin had never been one to dance, but he put up only mock resistance as his wife Felicia dragged him onto the floor. His strong, substantial frame could not be disguised by a navy blazer, khaki slacks, and a striped tie. He was still physically intimidating.

Felicia hadn't seen her husband this well dressed since their daughter's wedding some twenty years earlier. She liked the feel of Marvin's hand around her waist as he guided her around the room. It made her feel light on her feet and young again, if only for a night.

Derek Hudson also appreciated the rarity of the moment, and for the first time started to feel the reunion was worth the effort. He knew this would be the first and only time he'd see his good friend spinning on the dance floor, and it made him laugh out loud. “Your cameraman should be rolling on this,” he said, pointing to the happy couple. “Now that is a rare sight!”

Sally joined in the laughter. “You and Marvin are pretty close,” she observed.

Hudson's eyes twinkled as he laughed. “He's like the big, grumpy, black uncle I never had,” he mumbled, staring down into his beer.

Sally smiled. The flash of vulnerability and his sense of humor only made him more attractive. “You can joke, but it's nice to see a younger man take time for somebody like Marvin.”

“I wouldn't have been able to write my book without Marvin,” he admitted. “He was there. He saw it all.” Hudson leaned forward on the table. “Contrary to what you may have learned in school, there was plenty of action along the Carolina coast. In 1942, a day didn't go by that a body didn't wash up on the outer banks.”

Sally looked only mildly interested. “Really?”

Hudson abruptly stood and did a quick scan of the room. “Rolf!” he shouted. He clasped his hands to form a megaphone. “Rolf, come over here please.”

The old man was hard of hearing. It clearly pained him to wobble over to their table.

“Yes, Dr. Hudson? What can I do for you?” he asked in perfect English.

“Rolf, I'd like you to meet Sally Jamison. She's with NBC News.”

She extended her hand. “Hello, nice to see you again. We met on the boat this afternoon, didn't we?”

“Yes, I believe we did.”

Hudson gestured for both to sit. “You can join us for a moment, can't you, Rolf?”

“Certainly, I'd be delighted,” he replied.

“Rolf's been in this country for what, thirty-five years now?”

Rolf nodded in agreement.

“He has his own contracting firm on the west coast—strip centers, things like that. His boys are running it now, so Rolf moved back home to Bonn.”

With the occasional bob of the head, Rolf silently affirmed the listing of his credentials. Sally thought the old man seemed groggy and unaccustomed to drinking so much alcohol.

Hudson took a swig of his Corona. “My reporter friend here doesn't believe how much action we saw on our coast. Tell her about your first sinking.”

Sally glared at Hudson. She shook her head, raising both hands to acquiesce. “No, that's not necessary, really. You're here to have fun.”

“You don't mind, do you, Rolf?”

Rolf savored a long puff of his fat cigar. He had no qualms about talking. “The first was in mid-January of 1942, in the early morning,” he said. “We were fifty, maybe sixty miles off Cape Hatteras. A big oil tanker crossed our path. She sat low in the water. We knew she was full of crude.”

Hudson's eyes darted between them. “The
Allan Jackson,
Standard Oil's biggest tanker at the time, more than seventy thousand barrels of crude, near capacity.”

The old sailor ignored the interruption, using the break in conversation for another sip of bourbon. “We had intercepted radio traffic. The tanker had been loaded in Cartagena, Colombia. It was headed to New York. I don't know how many men were on the crew.”

Hudson held up his fingers behind Rolf and mouthed the number, “Thirty-five.”

“We fired two torpedoes in quick succession. Boom, boom!” he said, thrusting his fist forward twice for effect. “The first torpedo struck the forward tank on the starboard side. It must have been empty because there was no explosion. The second hit the bow. Boom!” he shouted, gesturing again with his hands to describe the explosion.

The old man paused and his eyes wandered upward in thought. “Actually,” he pondered, “it was more like a series of explosions. It took about twenty minutes, but eventually the tanker split in two.”

Sally was engaged now. She hung on every word. “Did anyone survive?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders. Pulling the cigar from his lips he said, “Who's to know? We were in a submarine. We had no room to take prisoners,” he stated matter-of-factly. “We surfaced about a mile away. I could hear the screams. Some of the crew must have made it off alive.”

Hudson had verified much of the old man's story with the Navy. “Thirteen of the thirty-five made it to lifeboats, including the captain,” he said. “At least that's what the Navy records say.”

Rolf seemed to fade. The story had drained him. He stood carefully, clutching his chair for support, apparently dizzy from all the alcohol and tobacco. “Can I offer you some advice, young man?” he asked, gently squeezing Derek's shoulder. “Don't sit around and listen to these grisly tales all night. They'll haunt you. Go dance with your pretty lady friend here,” he said, pointing to Sally. “If you become obsessed with the past, you all but destroy your future.”

Hudson looked hurt. “Thank you. You're right. Enough stories for one night,” he said as he stood to escort Rolf back to his table.

“Miss, you'll excuse me,” Rolf said, holding on to Hudson's arm for balance.

“A pleasure,” she said, her brown eyes twinkling.

Sally was gathering her things when Hudson returned to their table. “You ready to call it a night so early?” he asked, fearing that he had missed his shot.

Sally nodded and glanced at her watch. It wasn't even eleven o'clock, but she and Gregg had to get the story written and edited for Sunday morning. “Yeah, I've got to be in front of a computer by nine o'clock tomorrow morning. How about you? You're sure you're not ready for a lift home?” she asked.

An eyebrow went up. Was she implying he was too drunk to drive? “Yeah, I guess I'll call it a night too. Thanks for the offer, but I have a car here.”

She smiled. He was cute even drunk. “I'd feel better if you let me drive you.”

“I'm fine!” Hudson scoffed.

“I'm sure you are, but I'm driving you back to Morehead City,” she stated, extending her hand for the keys.

He had no energy to fight. He hugged Marvin and Felicia, offered a warm goodbye to the remaining guests, and followed Sally and her photographer out the door.

Hudson stood mesmerized by the twinkling lights in the harbor as Sally walked around to unlock the passenger door. He heard the key turn and the lock pop, but before the door opened an explosion knocked him to his knees.

The three of them tumbled together into a bed of azaleas. Tiny pieces of glowing debris danced around them. The angry flames roared and snapped loudly, devouring the old structure like kindling. Screams could be heard over the thunderous crackle of the fire.

Gregg scrambled to his feet. “My cell phone's in the glove box. Call 911!” he shouted.

Sally repeatedly slapped the dashboard, unable to find the latch. There was no need to call the fire department. The flames were visible from miles away. She could already hear the wail of the sirens in the distance.

Instinctively, Gregg powered up his camera and ran toward the Inn in a full sprint with Sally in tow. The photographer stopped in his tracks. “Wide shot first,” he told himself. The flames were shooting high into the air from the wood-shingled roof. He didn't think it possible, but the fire looked even more imposing in his viewfinder. As he focused the camera, Gregg knew this would be his most prized video. Even though he and Sally were a good twenty yards away, the flames reddened their faces. His metal camera now felt hot to the touch.

A wave of nausea suddenly overwhelmed the reporter. Sally felt light-headed and placed her hands on Gregg's back to steady herself.

“What's the matter?” he asked, his alarm evident.

Sally pressed both of her palms to her face. “I feel like I'm going to pass out.”

Gregg put down his camera and scanned the street. There was an antique wooden bench in front of the dress shop across the street. He slid his arm around her, taking on most of her weight, and guided her to the chair. “You sit here and don't move,” he commanded. “You'll be fine.”

Still dizzy, Sally leaned back in the bench and rested her head against the rough brick wall. She nodded in agreement. “Go. I'll be okay,” she mumbled just before losing consciousness.

“Marvin! Marvin!” Hudson screamed. The professor put his arms up over his face and ran toward the front porch of the Beaufort Inn, but the unwavering heat sent him backpedaling. He never made it closer than thirty feet.

“Move away, now!” a fireman shouted.

Hudson turned around to look but stood frozen in his tracks.

“Now, goddamn it!” came the scream again.

Hudson did as he was told. The three men in yellow slickers and orange helmets opened their hoses on the Inn, but the water did little to calm the angry flames.

The sounds of breaking glass could be heard from the third floor. Gregg zoomed in just in time to catch the silhouette of a burning figure leap from a window. The cries and screams they heard immediately following the explosion had now been silenced. Everyone left inside was now dead. Even the firemen seemed to move with less urgency.

People from the neighborhood filled the streets, many in pajamas and bathrobes. Children stared in awe of the flames, unaware of their cruelty. All of the buildings on Front Street were over one hundred years old. As more pumpers arrived, the firemen aimed the hoses at the surrounding structures in hopes of keeping them from becoming the next course for this ravenous blaze.

Hudson could hear the shriek of more sirens in the distance. He continued to stumble backward, eventually falling into a sitting position in the middle of the street. Emergency personnel scrambled all around him. The asphalt absorbed the heat from the fire. It stung the back of his legs and ass, but Derek didn't have the strength to stand. It was the last thing he remembered before passing out.

5

Deaconess Hospital
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

A ten-foot-tall chain link fence topped with razor wire surrounded the Ambulance Authority's maintenance garage, a series of three oversized galvanized steel Quonset huts tucked away in the far southwest corner of the hospital grounds. The policeman padlocked the gate as the last mechanic left for the day. The lone key was on his ring, assuring that a long-awaited rendezvous would go undisturbed. He parked his pick-up between the back of the garage and a thick hedge of crepe myrtle that ran the entire length of the fence. He and the woman were well out of sight of anyone that might drive by.

His motions were darting and devoid of intimacy. He forced his tongue past her tightly closed lips as his probing fingers moved under her cotton top to tug roughly at her brassiere clasp.

Carolyn Baker reluctantly played along. As she kissed him, she periodically let go with a make-believe moan to let him believe his clumsy groping was having the desired effect. He was a tall, handsome man, with a full head of wavy black hair and a well-toned physique. Another woman might have enjoyed this foreplay, yet she was numb to his touch.

Carolyn tensed as his thumb and forefinger fiddled with the top button of her jeans. Determined not to let this charade go too far, she placed her hand over his.

“We can't. We're too exposed here.”

Even with the windows rolled down the air was still. His face was flushed. Beads of perspiration collected at his hairline. “What do you mean?” He had expected no resistance. “We had an arrangement.”

She shot him an icy stare. “And you told me that you found what I need.”

“Calm down, calm down,” he said. He reached across her, his wedding band catching the light as he pulled a scrap of paper from the glove box.

She snatched it from his hand. “How did you find her?”

The policeman smiled. “My wife works over at the DMV. I had her run a check. It wasn't easy, you know. You just had her maiden name, and she's been married three times.”

How ironic,
Carolyn thought, trying to hide her disgust.
His wife doing the legwork so her husband can impress his girlfriend. She must be as dumb as he is.

She studied the paper. “Her last name is Thomas now?”

The cop was on her, forcibly pulling her hand to his zipper. “We can talk about this later.”

Carolyn sensed his impatience. She swung a leg over both of his to straddle him, seductively wiggling her bottom as she settled in his lap. “Avondale in Nichols Hills?” She brushed her lips along his neck. “Are you sure that's the right address?”

“Jesus Christ, Carolyn, I'm a cop! Yes, I'm sure it's right! I followed her home from the mall last night.”

Carolyn's eyes grew wide. “What does she look like?”

He brusquely clutched the back of her blue jeans to pull her against his growing hardness. He lowered his head to her neck and began to nibble. “Nothing like you, baby, nothing like you,” he whispered.

Carolyn rolled her head back and seductively wet her lips with a wickedness that surprised her. She started to grind. “You want that?”

He grunted his appreciation.

Although she'd thought herself capable of paying for his information in any coin, even the sex he craved, she was struck by a momentary flash of fear and began to tremble. It was a quake the policeman would misjudge as passion, but she knew it to be a jolt from the depths of her subconscious—a physical reminder of the person she had allowed herself to become to satisfy this cruel obsession.

“Does the woman live there alone?” she asked as she pushed herself against him more deliberately now.

The cop's face was still buried in her neck. “No. There's two of them,” he replied in a husky voice. “The husband's a doctor. Ear, nose, and throat is what it said in the phone book.”

Her hands were wrapped around his neck. His shirt was drenched. She could feel the muscles tensing in his shoulders.

“If it's Nichols Hills, it must be a big spread.”

His breath was erratic. “Yeah. Mansion. Big iron gate, real money.”

***

An hour later, as she left for work, Carolyn rolled down the car window, letting the cool evening air shake the last trace of dampness from her long blonde hair. She could quit her job now; there was no reason to stay. She counted the days in her head. It was Friday, but after five o'clock. They wouldn't get her two week notice until Monday. That would put her last day in the third week of May. She shook her head. No, that was too long. She couldn't last another day in that mindless clerical job. She would quit, effective immediately.

Carolyn pulled into her numbered slot in the employee's lot behind the hospital. Deaconess was a hodgepodge of wings and additions, but the only structures of any interest to her were the ones that were no longer there. For those who knew where to look, the foundations were still visible in the empty field adjacent to the hospital, six barren slabs of cement, cracked and long-hidden by the creeping strands of Bermuda grass. Those slabs were the last remnants of the Deaconess Home for Unwed Mothers, the place where Carolyn was born.

Before 1969, the boot camp-style medical facility was Oklahoma's only clearinghouse for single girls who found themselves in a family way. A young woman could stay in the barrack-style dormitories during the final months of pregnancy, away from the glaring, accusatory eyes of family and neighbors. The Free Methodist order promised each of the young mothers peace of mind, and an assurance from God that every baby would be placed with a loving family. For Carolyn, it didn't quite work out that way.

It was the summer between second and third grade that Carolyn noticed the change. Her adoptive mother became an insomniac who clanked around the house at all hours of the night. She cleaned, did laundry, anything to keep away the monsters that stalked her dreams. By Thanksgiving, her mother was a glassy-eyed stranger, slipping ever further into her own dark world, a place too terrifying to be shared with a little girl.

The trauma of her mother's illness climaxed in December, during Carolyn's class Christmas party. A voice on the school paging system ordered her to report to the main office. The teacher looked puzzled, but Carolyn knew. She didn't wait for permission. She gathered her things and left, the knot in her stomach tightening with each step down the empty corridor. She could see her two older brothers through the glass, standing, waiting for her at the front desk.

“It's Momma, isn't it?” she asked, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Her oldest brother nodded and took her hand.

That day certainly altered her life's journey. It may have even been the motivation to get into the healthcare field. But at Deaconess hospital, it was a job in accounting that gave her access to the hospital computer system, the one tool she needed to find the names of her birth parents. The position didn't pay as well as nursing, but money wasn't an issue anymore.

Despite her below-average clerical skills, it took only three months to find her birth records. Cooper was her mother's maiden name. The birth certificate listed her father as unknown. But finding the paperwork proved much easier than finding real people. That's when the off-duty cop came along. He was there as security, supplementing the meager wages the Oklahoma City Police Department paid him.

It started innocently enough—flirting during their cigarette breaks behind the hospital on the loading dock. Soon after, there were movies, dinner dates, and heavy petting in his pickup truck. Eventually, a deal was struck, but that debt had been paid. She made a mental note to have her telephone number changed. She didn't need any reminders of that humiliation. It was a chapter of her life to be forgotten and never repeated.

Carolyn made her way through the emergency room entrance and then up one flight of stairs to accounting. Her cubicle was orderly and uncluttered. The only evidence that anyone actually worked there was a three-by-five color photo of Kenny in a porcelain frame that spelled out
I LOVE MY MOMMY
in childlike script. Just a glimpse at his delicate features was enough to perk up her disposition.

Carolyn placed her fingers on the keyboard and pounded out her letter of resignation in less than five minutes. Twenty minutes later she was at the daycare center. Kenny's face brightened when she arrived unexpectedly early.

They played for an hour and a half in the park near their apartment. Dinner was served from a cardboard box delivered through the drive-thru window at Taco Bell. With droopy eyes, Kenny halfheartedly nibbled on a piece of her soft taco.

As she fought the crosstown traffic, Carolyn glanced back at him in the rear view and couldn't keep from laughing. He was asleep, his angelic face smeared with taco sauce. A sprinkling of lettuce and grated cheese had collected in his lap.

The unexpected quiet time gave her the chance to go exploring. She had committed the address to memory and had no trouble finding it. She drove past the stately brick home a dozen times. It wasn't the biggest house on the street, but the address said it all. Nichols Hills was a fully incorporated township, an affluent island surrounded by a sea of lower and middle-class homes. It was a small haven from Oklahoma City's ever-growing urban sprawl.

Nichols Hills was reserved for the old money. Their names could be found engraved on plaques outside museums, theaters, and dormitories, public places that distinguished families took great pride in endowing.

She slowed the car to a crawl and parked across the street just to stare. It was just as the cop had described. A black Mercedes was parked in the driveway, not the low-end model the wannabe's drove, but the big sedan. The backyard was concealed by a tall brick and wrought-iron fence. She was sure there was a swimming pool, maybe even a tennis court, back there.

She had been parked across from the house for about an hour, hoping her mother would come out to catch a glimpse of them. In Carolyn's fantasy, Stephanie Cooper-Thomas would casually glance across the street and see them sitting in the car. The quick look would evolve into a stare. After a few moments, her biological mother would run across the street and embrace her, just like all the mother-daughter reunions on
Oprah.

But the longer she sat in the car, the more her euphoria gave way to a twinge of anger and doubt. By all rights this should have been her house too. The occupants certainly had the financial wherewithal to care for one little girl. The birthday and slumber parties that never were now started to make her temples ache.

A thousand questions raced through her head. Were there brothers and sisters in the house too? Certainly she'd be the oldest, she rationalized; her mother had been just nineteen and unmarried when she was born. She pictured a half-brother—tall, handsome, with perfect teeth, probably moving up the corporate ladder at one of those downtown law firms. Maybe there was a half-sister too. She'd be spoiled and beautiful, a girl who belonged to the best sorority, drove a sporty convertible, and spent spring break basking in the sun with friends on Padre Island.

“Stop it!” she told herself aloud. She had to cast the negative thoughts from her mind. There was a reason for everything. Surely her mother would explain why she had given her up for adoption. Besides, Carolyn was just thirty-six, still young enough to become part of the family—a real family. It wasn't too late to become the young woman she always knew she could be.

A policeman drove by, rattling Carolyn out of her daydream. He didn't stop, but glared suspiciously. A Chevy Lumina wasn't exactly a common sight on this side of town. Carolyn decided it was time to go home, crawl in between the sheets, and dream about her mother.