Fleet Hospital. Anne Duquette Marie

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      Michael promptly delivered a hard sharp elbow to the artist’s ribs and grabbed the paper with its disgusting picture. The other boy grunted and rubbed his side.

      The Scoutmaster’s voice from the front of the room made Michael and Dennis jump. “What’s going on there?”

      Neither boy answered. The Scoutmaster waved at the sheet of paper in Michael’s hands.

      “Do you have something to share with the rest of the troop, young man?”

      Michael’s face burned. “No, sir!” He crumpled the paper into a tiny ball and held both hands behind his back while everyone stopped filling in blanks and stared at him.

      “He’s drawing dirty pictures,” Dennis Klemko said. “I caught him doing it, but he wouldn’t give me the paper.”

      “You turd! Mom, he’s lying! He’s the one who drew it!”

      The older boy’s taunting grin infuriated him even more. Michael searched for and found the worst insult his parents could deliver to family, friend or foe. “You’re a disgrace to your uniform!”

      His mother and the Scoutmaster exchanged long-suffering looks, then marched his way, hands outstretched. The matching expressions on their faces promised trouble. They actually believed he could do such a terrible thing? Michael bit his lip. He could defy the Scoutmaster, even kick him in the shins if he had to, but he couldn’t do that to his mom. Nor could he let Mom see that picture—or worse yet, let the Scoutmaster see it. Michael had only one choice.

      Retreat!

      He bounded from his seat and alternately ran and leapfrogged on and across the other tables until he got close to the door and big exit sign. He jumped; his red sneakers made a loud smack, and he dashed outside. No one could catch him now!

      “Stop him, boys,” the Scoutmaster yelled. “Get that paper!” The boys, as bored as Michael and as eager to escape, poured out the door after him.

      Michael ran full tilt, looking for a trash can. He had to get rid of the crumpled drawing in his fist. He couldn’t litter—littering was a Bad Thing, a disgrace to the uniform. If the Cubs caught up, they could easily take the paper from him—or from any trash can he’d thrown it in. He had nowhere to hide. This school was the pack’s territory, as well as his own; every boy knew all the good hiding places. And most of them were older, with longer legs. They were catching up.

      Michael made the sidewalk. He was off school property now. His legs and arms pumped, his heart pumping even faster in the tropical heat. The boys closed in. It was no longer a game to them. The honor of their pack was at stake. Already Michael’s side was aching.

      “Daddy!” he screamed in desperation…and was rewarded. Moving along the opposite side of the street was his father’s car, a 1964 steel-blue Plymouth Deuce, headed toward the school to pick him and his mother up.

      Jaywalking was a Bad Thing, too, but his father would understand. Dad said that sometimes a sailor had to break the rules. Dad flew jets where he wasn’t supposed to, drove cars faster than he was supposed to and drank harder than he was supposed to. Dad said it kept lives and sanity intact. He learned that in Vietnam. This was Michael’s day to break the rules. Dennis Klemko, that rat fink who’d started the disaster, was almost upon him—and across the street was a storm drain with bars.

      Michael raced toward it to rid himself of the drawing. Arms flailing, he waved his father down. “Daddy, help! Stop the car!”

      Lt. Commander Patrick Andrew McLowery took in the scene before him in a fraction of a second. He hadn’t survived two tours of bombing the Ho Chi Minh Trail without damn good reflexes. He slammed on the car’s brakes and whipped the steering wheel to the right. The car fishtailed in the gravel. Its front end missed his son by six inches; the back end missed his son’s pursuer by a whisper and skidded away.

      Michael hurled the balled paper at the storm drain even as he avoided the moving car. With reflexes almost as sharp as his father’s, he saw that his aim was true but had no time for a moment’s relief. At the same instant the drawing flew from his hand, his two-year-old sister flew out the open passenger window of his dad’s car.

      The brand-new “latest, safest model” child seat, its plastic and aluminum ends hooked over the top of the Plymouth’s front bench seat, had been no match for the car’s centrifugal force. Baby Anna Mary McLowery’s head was no match for the road. Her blood spread over the scorching black asphalt like lava from a volcano.

      On that hot summer day, despite the presence of a whole troop of Scouts trained in first aid, the troop’s nurse instructor and the nurse’s husband, Michael James McLowery watched his sister die.

      ANNA’S OPEN-CASKET funeral Mass was held in the Navy chapel. On such short notice, none of the relatives from Boston had made it to see Anna for the last time, wearing her new white gown and lacy bonnet. In full dress uniform, Lt. Commander McLowery and his wife, Lieutenant Junior Grade McLowery, sat alone with their son in the front pew. Michael was too scared to look at his sister’s body, although he pretended he wasn’t. He just refused to look. He also refused to pray out loud. A bunch of mumbo-jumbo prayers weren’t going to bring back his dead sister, but Mom said he couldn’t stay home. He was mad at Mom, mad at Dad, mad at Anna, mad at the whole world.

      His fury built, but Michael managed to keep it in check—barely—until his entire Scout troop arrived, dressed in formal uniform, just like him. Right behind the Scoutmaster, leading the line of silent boys, was Dennis Klemko, who’d dared—actually dared—to show up.

      Michael’s fury exploded. Flying out of the pew, he barreled headlong into the dirty traitor, knocking him over. Michael pinned him to the aisle carpet.

      “You killed her! It’s your fault!” Michael screamed again and again, his fists pounding at Klemko before the horrified faces of the chaplain, his parents, the Scoutmaster, even his father’s and mother’s Commanding Officers and Executive Officers.

      It took three strong enlisted men to pull Michael off Klemko. Two female Nurse Corps officers supported his mother while Michael screamed, “He drew you naked, Mom! He drew you and said I did it! Ask him! Ask him! Tell everyone what you did, you fink!”

      Michael again lunged for Klemko. The enlisted men’s hands tightened on his arms, but Michael scored with a hard kick at Klemko’s face. Nose broken, Klemko screamed and collapsed into a wailing lump of agony.

      “He drew it, Mom! Not me! He was going to let the whole troop see you naked! I grabbed the paper so he couldn’t! That’s why I ran away! That’s why Anna got killed! It’s all his fault!”

      His mom took a step, went limp and dropped out of Michael’s sight below her pew. More Nurse Corps officers swarmed around her. Others swarmed around Klemko and worked on his bloody nose and cut eyebrow. The CO and XO rallied to his dad’s side.

      The Navy chaplain came straight to Michael and said, “Let the boy go.” The enlisted men released him. “Come on, son, let’s talk this over.”

      “I’m not your son!” Michael shook off the chaplain’s hand and looked for his mother. “Mom! You believe me, right, Mom? Where are you?”

      She rose from behind the pew. Her arms were wide open and shaking. Michael felt dizzy with relief. His mom wanted to СКАЧАТЬ