Tears of Abraham

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Redemption Song

The July sun slipped below the western bank of the St. Johns River. The glassy water shimmered orange and pink, and Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song” floated down the dock from the patio speakers.

“I had a bite,” Taylor said. Her bare feet dangled over the side of the wooden dock.

Henry grinned at Taylor. “Better check your line,” he said.

She cranked her little blue rod, and the hook came up clean, bereft of the shrimp Taylor put there.

“He got me,” she said.

Henry heard footsteps and felt the dock shudder. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Margarita?” Suzanne said, armed with a pair of glasses clinking with ice. Her hair was short now, and dyed red. She was beautiful and radiant, and Henry felt his heart swell when he saw her, a feeling of amazement and gratitude in him.

“You read my mind.”

She sat down next to him and handed him a chilled glass. The lights of downtown Jacksonville winked beyond the Buckman Bridge.

“I like it here,” she said, slipping an arm around his waist.

“Me too.”

“Tell me honestly,” she said. “Do you miss it?”

“Are you joking?”

“Come on, Henry, I know you, remember? Be honest.”

“I miss the brotherhood,” he admitted. “I’d rather be here with you and Taylor.”

“I’ve seen you training,” she said. “If you’re thinking about going back, you can tell me. It’s all right.”

“I’m just trying not to get fat,” Henry joked. “A little bit of PT is good for a man of my advancing years.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously,” Henry said. “I’m done. After what we’ve been through as a family? No. I’m content being a househusband.” He chuckled.

The home they lived in was a gift, along with new identities, from Colonel Bragg. Henry did not ask how the colonel had pulled it off. He received a handsome check every month in the mail. Suzanne was halfway through with another novel, this one a serious piece of literature, written under a pen name.

“Is that who you really are, though?” Suzanne said. “A kept man?” She kissed him on the forehead.

“It is now,” he replied. “It’s not who I’ve been. But, a man can learn from his mistakes, can’t he?”

“Sure,” she mused. “I’m not sure you made that many mistakes, though. Maybe it only felt that way. Maybe that was the mistake. Feeling like that. I blamed you, you blamed yourself. You were doing what you thought was right. We lost each other along the way.”

“I made plenty of mistakes. It would take an act of Congress to pry me off this dock, though.”

They both laughed.

The war was over, but Congress was still a joke. Politicians squabbled and jockeyed for power and position as they always had. The American people had less tolerance for that now than before, though.

At the Constitutional Convention, a new group of leaders emerged, replacing many of the old guard. Healing was a slow process.

While the nation remained divided over many issues, the people recognized war was not the solution. Grassroots rallies and patriotic protests sprang up all over the country in the immediate aftermath of the fighting. A lasting peace was emerging, not because of the politicians, but because of the wisdom and strength of the American people. A nation built on compromise and values, remembering its roots.

“The world is still a dangerous place,” Suzanne said. “When the Pack comes calling again, and they will, what are you going to do?”

“I’ll say I’ve done my duty.” He said it. He wanted to believe it.

War in Europe looked imminent. The news was depressing, and Henry generally avoided it. So far, it was angry rhetoric. The United States, reeling from self-inflicted losses, had little will to engage in another war. There were rumors that the nuclear blasts that leveled Washington and San Francisco were not the work of domestic terrorists. China and Russia denied any involvement. Henry felt safer knowing that people like Colonel Bragg were tracking down the perpetrators. Sometimes in the middle of the night, Henry would walk out onto the dock and wonder what his friends were doing at that moment, wishing that he was back in the fight.

The Directors were on the run, at least. Hounded by hackers, Interpol, the CIA and FBI, the shadowy group of criminals who had inflicted untold pain upon the world for personal gain faced the wrath of an angry world. Their names and faces were plastered over the news all around the globe. Two of them were tried, convicted, and after a speedy trial, executed.

A crisp, black, sport utility vehicle bounced down the long dirt driveway, sending up plumes of dust and pebbles as it came on.

Abraham saw it coming. He wished he didn’t but there it was. A dull ache spread from his heart through his limbs while he rocked in his chair with a glass of lemon iced tea.

The glass was slick in his hand and threatened to fall. He stood up, aching. Bent with the yearning and the earning.

Two neatly folded flags. Damn them.

Abraham wept.

“Well,” Suzanne said. “I’ll enjoy you while I have you. Happy Fourth of July.”

They sat on the dock together until the stars emerged and the air was sweet and smelled like hope.

Fireworks exploded across the river, red, white, and blue, stark and brilliant against the darkness.