Jun 27

Jun 27 Beyond The Crack In The Sidewalk

Beyond The Crack In The Sidewalk - book excerpt

Going Back

With a low, steady rumble, the last train of the night rolled out of the station and lumbered down the track. Now the station was deserted except for the lone man who stood smoking a cigarette and staring at the train as the lights from passenger cars slipped into the darkness. Mike was always amazed that the short two-hour train ride from Dallas could be so much like stepping back into time. Any minute he expected a bunch of outlaws to come tearing out of the night on lathered horses and stop the train before it rolled out of sight. The setting was very much Old West, and he even remembered when a movie company had filmed a train robbery right there in the early sixties.

That had been an eternity ago.

Now it was April 14, 1970, and Mike O'Leary was fresh out of Vietnam. He was far removed from the excited, young kid who’d watched the filming of that western. And he was far removed from the boy who’d listened to his dad talk about his homecoming from the Big One. That's the way he always talked about World War II, "The Big One."

"That was the one that made every man a hero," his dad would say, slapping him on the back with a great amount of bravado. "Boy, I can still remember the cheering crowds as the troop ship docked. And the ticker tape parade. And all the excitement. All those people cheering and waving to show how much they appreciated what we did for them."

Mike had always liked to hear those stories, but that's all they were to him. Stories. They weren't any more real than the adventure books he used to read, and he hadn't thought about them in years. Until his own homecoming.

There were no parades. No cheering crowds. Not even a friendly face as he got off the plane at L.A. International. People took one look at his uniform and turned away. Some in disgust and some in simple dismissal, much like some people do when they look at a child. No one greeted him, or shook his hand, or said one kind word to him as he made his way halfway across the world to come home.

He wanted to shout at them, "Look at me! Talk to me! Make me believe that all those lives weren't wasted over there in that jungle. Make me believe in something, anything ... myself."

But he didn't shout. He just continued his solitary trip home, an angry, bitter, disillusioned man who couldn’t make up his mind about where to direct his anger.

Should he be angry at the ironic twist of fate that had always kept him from measuring up to his father? That same ironic twist of fate that had made his war one that lacked all the clarity of purpose his father's war had enjoyed. Or should he be disillusioned with the people who set up the standards by which men were measured? Or with himself because he still found it so difficult to stand up for the man he was, still trying so hard to be the man his father had always wanted him to be?

Or should he be bitter about the stroke of luck that had brought him through eighteen months of combat unscathed, while all around him good, decent men left their lives and their blood on that battlefield? Perhaps the guys who died over there were the lucky ones after all. There were no survivors from war. Just men who came home in a uniform instead of a green plastic bag.

Mike knew his father would be proud of his war record and the medals in black boxes, hidden away in his duffle. Two pieces of silver that stood in mute testimony to his courage and manhood. But would his father understand the reality of the gut-wrenching fear and the trembling uncertainty that denied that manhood?

Or perhaps he should be bitter about his relationship with John that had sustained him through it all, revealing a part of himself that Mike had carefully denied from the day he was fifteen?

As Mike stood there breathing deeply of the cool, clean air, he knew almost instinctively that the thin shred of relationship that bound them together, father and son, hung in the balance of this homecoming.

He ground out his cigarette on the creaky, old planks of the platform, hoisted his duffle bag over his broad shoulders, and headed for the station house. As he drew near, he recognized the battered pickup parked in front. It was the same pile of rusty, dented metal that had carried him and his friends around the cow town of Comanche for years. Then Mike made out the figure of a man casually leaning against the side of the truck. There was no mistaking the man either. Even in the darkness, Mike recognized the powerful presence of Tom O'Leary.

The older man, clad in Levi’s, Stetson, and boots rose to his full and impressive six-feet four as he watched his son approaching. For a minute, he wasn't sure it was Mike. He’d changed, grown taller and added some muscle. And Tom wondered what horrors had caused the harsh lines on Mike's face. Or was it more than that? Was it that something intangible that had troubled him for as long as he could remember? Tom's friends had always respectfully ignored Mike's lack of enthusiasm for 'manly endeavors', but Tom knew what they’d been thinking. With this homecoming, Mike could prove himself once and for all, and Tom knew he had just as much at stake as Mike did.

"Mike ... Mike ... it's so good to have you home," Tom said. "You'll never know how much we worried about you. How are you?"

Mike shook his father's calloused hand. "I'm fine, Dad. Just fine."

Tom looked at his son for a long time. The dark circles under Mike's eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks didn't escape his shrewd scrutiny. "Are you really? You look awfully tired and thin."

"I'll be all right with a little bit of rest and some good food."

"Then we'd best be going. Toss your gear in the back and climb aboard."

The two men bounced along the rutted gravel road in silence. Mike sensed that his father was just as uncomfortable as he was, and he hesitated to encroach upon the older man's privacy.

"Well," his father finally said, his rough voice cracking the silence like a whip. "Some of the boys thought we could have a barbecue tomorrow night. Sort of celebrate your homecoming, and give you a chance to tell us all about it."

"That’s nice, Dad, but I don’t think I'm ready for that."

"Sure. If you're too tired, we could make it another night."

Mike hesitated a moment then said, "It's not that. I just don’t want to talk about it yet."

The dismissal in Mike's voice made Tom curb his next response and drive on in silence.

As they passed the outbuildings of the Lazy L Ranch and neared the main house, Tom saw it all with pride, and a sense of belonging filled every fiber of his being. It was like coming home from church and putting on his boots and jeans. There was something proper and fitting and comfortable about the ranch, and it was the only place Tom ever felt completely at home. His only regret was that his wife, Mattie, gone now for ten years, hadn't lived to enjoy it with him.

Mike saw it all as if he were a stranger just visiting.

The house was just as he remembered; tall and stately, resembling the huge mansions that graced southern plantations, and he was touched by the peaceful beauty of it all. But he never thought of it as his, that it belonged to him or he to it. Not the way his father did. The only place that gave Mike a sense of belonging was on the range working the cattle. The other things considered manly left him feeling like an outsider.

Tom turned off the engine. The only sound to be heard was the night wind rustling through the cottonwoods that were just beginning to leaf out. It was a peaceful scene, and neither of the men seemed to be in any hurry to go into the house. They sat there in the silence for a few moments and then Tom turned to Mike. “If you don't want to have a barbecue at all, we don't have to. You're calling the shots."

Mike glanced quickly at his father. "Am I, Dad? Am I really?"

"Of course. You're a man now, and you earned the right to be your own boss. I understand what you've been through, and if you want a few days— "

"It's more than that," Mike said. "Not just the war."

Again, there was a harshness in Mike’s voice that seemed to be warning Tom off, but this time he spoke up, "What do you mean?"

"The differences. The conflicts. The barriers that have always stood between us."

Tom shook his head. "I never wanted it that way," he said, his voice hard. "I tried to make things work between us."

"Some things aren't as easy to manipulate as others," Mike said, careful to keep his voice from rising. "You can't control life the way you do this ranch."

Tom shot his son an angry look. "Do we have to start an argument on your first night home?"

Mike sighed. "I don't want to argue, Dad. I never did in the past either. But it's time we understand each other. The only way we can do that is to talk to each other. No anger. No shouting. Just talking."

Tom seemed to ponder Mike's words for a few minutes, then he got out of the truck and walked around the yard with his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his jeans.

After a moment, Mike got out and went over. “We could at least go in and have a drink.”

“Sure, Son.” Tom turned to Mike with obvious relief. “You must be awful tired after all that traveling.”

Tom smiled, but Mike noticed his father’s eyes were still troubled. He touched the older man lightly on the shoulder, then grabbed his bag out of the truck and headed inside. He took his things to his room on the second floor. It was still the same as when he’d left a little over three years ago, and the sameness made him smile.

After a stop in the bathroom, Mike went back downstairs and joined his father in the den. The large, comfortable room held heavy, rich leather furniture, and hunting trophies were mounted above the stone fireplace. Definitely a man’s room, from the well-stocked bar to the oak gun cabinet in the corner with enough weapons in it to outfit a good-sized posse, if there were such things anymore.

Mike sat down in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace, and Tom came over to hand him a glass with a generous amount of straight bourbon. “Here’s to your safe return.” Tom raised his glass and took a hefty swallow. Then he set the glass down on the table, sat down opposite Mike, and took a cigar out of the humidor.

“Nothing in the world like good Kentucky bourbon and a fine cigar.” Tom snipped the end of the cigar and tasted it. He pushed the box toward Mike. “You want one?”

“No thanks, I’ll stick with cigarettes.” Mike shifted in his seat, wishing he could feel more comfortable in the room, but he’d never liked it here. Everything was too large and too overpowering, but it seemed to suit his father. As the man had fixed the drinks and prepared his cigar it was as if the very essence of the room seeped into him and made him a whole person.