The FBI filibuster delayed the bus for nineteen minutes and thirty-seconds, but Hubert Corker—AKA, The Torch—was going away for a long time, or so Jinny supposed. She checked her watch then stared through neon OPEN sign in the convenience store window as Bella and Mag dragged Curly’s dad across the pavement–his arm taped to his body, his head bowed– and buckled him into a back seat of the white panel truck. “Southern Star Gas, just like in the movies.” Jinny shuddered before dumping coins into her hand and paying for another package of Oreos. Outside, a horn honked twice and minutes later the bus rode over the gutter and headed for the freeway.
After debating for an hour—the majority party pointing fingers from left side of the aisle, the minority casting aspersions from the right—most commuters, like Congress, fell asleep. Sitting alone, Jinny wished she’d never left home. To lift her spirits she skillfully tongued apart an Oreo cream sandwich, licked off the frosting, a downed both cookies in three bites. Satisfied that her nutritional needs had been met for the day, she unzipped up the leather satchel. “What?” A puzzled look zig-zagged across her mouth. Jinny leaned and looked. “Is this the surprise? Oh, Mama, I can’t believe it: Papa’s reading glasses. I don’t need glasses but what a treasure. Wait, is there more in this pocket?” Anticipation drizzled, pooled, and beckoned her to dip down further and salvage a single sheet of paper. It had been torn from a diary and folded neatly in half. Papa’s journal? I didn’t know he kept . . . THE SURPRISE.”
Spectacled chocolate brown eyes teared up. Pupils enlarged. Water-colored handwriting blurred. Jinny blinked, blinked again, and hurried the tears away. But not too far away.
05 July 1996. Before details dim– Following a difficult pregnancy, my dear Gemma gave birth to our second-born child and first-born baby girl, Virginia Diana O’Dwyer, born yesterday, the Fourth of July, at 02:00. Everyone in the hospital heard her greeting break the sound barrier. What a reunion.
I say reunion because of my belief that the Llewellyn-O’Dwyer clan knew and loved one another before coming to earth. Jinny inherited both the bright, fiery disposition and good looks of her mother. Gemma held the baby up and smiled at Conor through the nursery window. He had a runny nose, squirmed , pressed his nose to the glass, and pounded the window. His penetrating blue eyes just stared, but his lips spoke pig-Latin.
29 August 1996. And thus we may see: I’m not a faithful journalist; how time files—but tonight while reading, I felt a prompt to reconnect, to write about what I’ve been reading. I hope it will benefit someone someday down the line.
Two hundred and twenty-one years ago today, General Howe’s superior British professionals and Hessian mercenaries, bayonets fixed, advanced through the Long Island woods, confident that they would soon stain the rocky shore with rebel blood and vanquish the American dream forever. George Washington—half his men having either died in battle or deserted and gone home—found himself trapped against the Brooklyn shore. So, you may ask, what were Washington’s options? Turn and be cut down on the beach? Surrender? Or take to the water and like sitting ducks be riddled by the guns of five British warships anchored nearby?
Out of options, on the eve of August 29, 1776, 997 men commenced loading into small boats and barges in hopes of being ferried across the wide East River to temporary refuge in Manhattan–an untenable choice save they should rely on the ambient oars of seafaring men like the Marblehead mariners and the outstretched arms of Divine Providence.
Dear posterity, here ‘s what struck me as I read from David McCullough’s book : 1. Howe’s foot soldiers, slowed by heavy rain and poor decision making, arrived in time to fire but an ineffectual volley at the fleeing flotilla. 2. A rolling, unusually dense fog kept five British frigates floating blindly until the all the American army had been ferried to safety. To any who might read, I add my witness that even in our day, no, especially in our day, God’s hand still reaches down to sustain and rescue the faithful of his children. Caleb O’Dwyer, 4 a.m. Since it just my diary, I guess I didn’t need to sign off.
Jinny wore blinders on her self-imposed headstall, indifferent to whether or not anyone had seen or been bothered by her tears. She folded and stashed her father’s testament in a pocket over her heart. Alone but not lonely, wary but not worried, she thumbed a button, reclined her seat, folded her arms, and let the rhythmic hum of the diesel lull her to sleep. It was as if General Washington, Caleb, and God had together laid hands on a patriot’s head and reawakened her resolve, with Rick as witness, watching through a looking glass, pondering what might lay ahead for his pensive passenger.
“Folks, ten minutes to Lawton, Oklahoma.” He yawned. Rick’s mouth opened wide enough to swallow an apple whole.
Jinny awoke. “Wo. Are we here?”
“Ten minutes, soldier. Any more questions?”
“Someone in the back with a megaphone for a mouth waved a hand. “What do you know about the guy arrested by the Feds?
“Nothing.”
“Okay. Are you at least cleared to tell us about Ft. Sill, or is that above your pay-grade, too?”
Rick proffered a hearty thumb up. “Thought you’d never ask. As I remember it, Ft. Sill is listed on the national historical register because it’s the last operating fort on the Southern Plains, and today it’s an Army training school. Only those with appropriate background checks are allowed on base, but a beautiful museum, built in the 1930s, stands adjacent to the Fort and is open to the general public. To be honest, General Public is the only general I’ve ever met. How about you?” Jinny smiled. Rick smiled at Rick, then paused to wet his whistle. “Mano-mano, look at it rain. Hope you all have umbrellas.” He squoze the steering wheel, stomped the brake, and leaned into the horn. “No! No! You’re too sm-a-a-l-l. Confound it. Don’t do that. Can’t you see I’m a bus?” After honking like a goose and cursing like a sailor, Rick veered away from puddled profanity and apologized.
“Let’s see, where did I leave off speaking the King’s English? . . . Fort Sill is the original home of the army’s airfield and tactical combat aviation division. Soldiers from here have fought in every war since the Philippine insurrection of the 1880s, I think, but don’t hold me to it.” As promised, he kept his monologue short: “One more thing: Posthumously, Staff Sgt. Jared Monti, who trained at Fort Sill, received the Medal of Honor for his bravery while on patrol in Afghanistan in 2006. He was from my home town.” The bus slowed; the turn-signal click-clicked; the brakes exhaled; everyone stood at once and a few clapped.
“Here we are folks. Fort Sill’s gated entrance is two hundred yards that-a-way.” Rick wiggled his left shoulder and sprang to his feet. Hope you have an umbrella.” Jinny did not.“Thanks for riding on . . .? Duh . . . Silver Bullet Lines. I need some shut-eye.” He climbed from the bus to unload the baggage. Jinny rubbed her eyes and stared through the dirty, rain streaked window while passengers, anxious to disembark, tailgated one another toward the door. Jinny waited her turn, collected her thoughts, and was the last one off the bus.
“Thank you, Rick.” She took her bag and turned to go.
“Say, wait just a second, I got something for you. He reached into the cargo hold and pulled out an umbrella. “Somebody left this behind a while back. I want you to have it.” Pushing a small lever, he popped up the resilient canopy and handed it to Jinny. “Call it a parasol if you like.” Smiling, Rick saluted her with two fingers.
“Thank you. Thank you, again! I’ll never forget you.”
“God bless you, soldier.” Rick swallowed twice. Embarrassed, he turned away, wiped his eyes, and locked the bus. After regaining a modicum of composure, he reeled around and, in an attempt to mask his stare, blew warm air between his cupped hands and whispered, “There you are, little princess.” His hushed words resonated as if uttered through a temple veil. The parasol swayed and bobbed; Jinny splashed like a doe fleeing up Thrush Hollow; but before crossing the street, she paused, looked back, and waved; then she was gone from sight. Outside, Rick felt wet and cold. Inside, for some reason he just felt grateful.