Daddy's Gone a Hunting

62

As usual, Peggy Hotchkiss attended the daily 8 A.M. mass at St. Rita’s, her parish church on Staten Island. Even though she had not closed her eyes all night, it had not occurred to her to break this habit of forty years. Daily Mass was an integral part of her life and St. Rita, the Advocate of the Hopeless and even the Impossible, was her favorite saint. But this morning her usual prayer to her was even more intense. “Let them find him, please. I implore you. Let them find him. I know he needs me.”

The fire marshals were so kind, she thought. When they came to the house, they had been so careful to say that it was entirely possible that the homeless person in the van had found, or maybe even stolen, that picture from someone else.

“He didn’t,” Peggy had told them. “I will stake my life that Clyde kept that picture. I saw what happened to the Connelly complex on television. I can only imagine if Clyde was sleeping in that van right by the explosion. Of course he would have rushed to get away and wouldn’t have had time to even grab that picture.”

She had observed the skepticism on the faces of the marshals but they had been very polite. She could tell that they did not want to upset her by indicating that the homeless man might have been Clyde, but she had made it easy for them.

“I want to find him,” she had told them. “His son wants to find him. We’re not ashamed of him. He went to Vietnam and he was proud to serve his country. He didn’t give his life there, but because of what happened to him there, he lost the rest of the life he would have enjoyed.”

St. Rita’s was only five blocks from home. Unless the weather was terrible, Peggy always walked. At quarter of nine, she was turning onto her own street when her cell phone rang. It was Fire Marshal Frank Ramsey.

“Mrs. Hotchkiss,” he said, “a homeless man was just brought into Bellevue Hospital in Manhattan. They recognized him in the emergency room there. They had only discharged him yesterday. He gave his name as Clyde Hastings. We think he may be your husband.”

Peggy tried to keep her voice steady. “I’ll be right there and I’ll call my son. I know Bellevue is around Twenty-third Street. Isn’t that right?”

“Where are you right now, Mrs. Hotchkiss?” Ramsey asked.

“A block away from my house.”

“Mrs. Hotchkiss, go home and wait. I’ll have a police car pick you up in five minutes. I am very sorry to tell you that the man in the hospital is dying of pneumonia. If he is your husband, even after all these years, you might be able to persuade him to tell us what he may know about a girl who is missing.”

An hour later, Peggy was in the emergency room of Bellevue Hospital. Skip had arrived minutes before her. “Are you okay, Mom?” he asked, quietly.

“Yes, I am.”

Frank Ramsey was waiting for her. “They have him in a private room down the hall. The doctor told us that he doesn’t have long. We are hoping that we can get him to talk to us about a young college student who may have tried to interview him about living on the street.”

Her throat dry, unconsciously moistening her lips, her hand clutching the steady arm of her son, Peggy followed the tall figure of the fire marshal until he stepped aside to let her precede him into the small room.

Even before she took a second look, Peggy knew that it was Clyde. The high forehead, the slight widow’s peak, the almost invisible scar on the side of his nose. His eyes were closed, his harsh, belabored breathing the only sound in the room. Peggy took his hand. “Clyde, Clyde, dear, I’m here.”

From far away, Clyde heard a remembered voice, soft and gentle, and opened his eyes. Sometimes he had seen Peggy in his dreams but now he knew he wasn’t dreaming. The woman looking down at him with tears slipping down her cheeks was Peggy. He pulled in a breath. He had to talk to her. He managed a smile. “Do I have the honor of addressing the beauteous Margaret Monica Farley?” he asked, his voice weak and tired, then added, “Oh, Peggy, I missed you.”

“I missed you, too. So very, very much. And Skip is here. We love you. We love you.”

Clyde weakly turned his head to see the man standing next to Peggy. Both of their faces were so clear but behind them it was starting to get dark. My son, he thought, and then he heard him say, “Hello, Dad.”

“I’m sorry,” Clyde murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

Frank Ramsey and Nathan Klein stepped forward. Before Peggy arrived at the hospital, they had tried to question Clyde about Jamie Gordon, but Clyde had closed his eyes and refused to answer them. They both could see that his death was imminent. Bending over Clyde, his voice urgent, Ramsey said, “Clyde, tell Peggy about the notebook. Tell her if you saw the girl.”

“Clyde, it’s all right, dear. You would never mean to hurt anyone,” Peggy whispered. “I want you to tell them what happened.”

It was so peaceful now. Peggy holding his hand. It felt so good. “The girl followed me. I told her to go away. She wouldn’t.”

He began to cough. This time his breath wouldn’t come back.

“Clyde, did you kill her? Did you throw her in the river?” Ramsey demanded.

“No… no. She wouldn’t go away. I punched her. Then she left. And I heard her scream…”

Clyde closed his eyes. Everything was beginning to go dark.

“Clyde, she started to scream,” Frank said. “What happened then? Answer me,” he demanded. “Answer me!”

“She screamed, ‘Help me, help me!’ ”

“You were still in the van?”

“Ye…”

He could not finish the word. With a long sigh, he exhaled his last breath. The tormented life of Clyde Hotchkiss, husband and father, Vietnam veteran, hero and homeless drifter, was over.