The Turnaround

Seventeen

Raymond Monroe leaned against his Pontiac, watching Alex Pappas, wearing a blue cotton oxford and Levi’s jeans, emerge from the Fisher House. Monroe wondered how Alex would take the information he was about to give him. The man did seem reasonable.

“Ray,” said Alex, shaking Monroe’s hand.

“Alex. You look clean for a man been working all day.”

“I went home and changed. I wanted to talk to my wife. Explain what I was doing with you and all that. I don’t get out much.”

“It’s not like we’re gonna be clubbin. I just think it would be good for you to meet my brother. He’s working this evening.”

Alex shrugged. “Let’s go.”

Pappas drove his Jeep off the hospital grounds and parked it on Aspen, the street that ran alongside Walter Reed. He got into the passenger side of Monroe’s Pontiac and settled into the seat.

Monroe drove down Georgia, past a small Civil War graveyard, and hooked a right onto Piney Branch Road. It soon became 13th Street, and Monroe took it south.

“I’ve been seeing a lot of contractors and construction guys on the grounds of the hospital,” said Alex.

“They’re making upgrades and repairs. Now we’re hearing that they’re not going to close Walter Reed down. For the time being, anyway.”

“Because of those articles in the newspaper?”

A series in the Washington Post had detailed the subpar physical conditions of the facility, the misplacement of paperwork and attendant benefits delayed to soldiers, the denial of compensation to those suffering from PTSD due to questionable claims of preexisting conditions, and a general climate of incompetence. The revelations had made world headlines and had precipitated the firing of many high-ranking officers and managers.

“Those articles caused a whole lot of things to happen,” said Monroe. “Improvements that should have happened a long time ago.’Cause people knew what was going on. Took some newspaper articles to shame them into taking action.”

“But I see good being done there.”

“Well, that’s the thing. The reporters, it wouldn’t have hurt if they had done one more article, talking about the good. You got committed people, army and civilian alike, working hard to make the lives of those wounded kids better. And those young men and women, considering what they’re facing, they’ve got positive attitudes for the most part. What I’m sayin is, people at Walter Reed are trying. They got caught shorthanded, is what it was. No one knew the war was gonna last like it did. No one knew the number of wounded that were going to be flooding in.

“But you wanna know the real story? The one they should be talking about? Ten, twelve years ago, before my father died, I took him down to the veterans hospital off North Capitol Street. His leg had swelled up, and my mother was worried he had a clot. So we go in there, and after the security guard shakes us down and makes us jump through all kinds of hoops, we go to the waiting room. My father was the oldest one in there, probably the only veteran of the Big One. The rest were Vietnam vets and guys who’d served in the Gulf War. And, I’m not lyin, they sat there for hours without getting any kind of help. Dudes hooked up to machines, in wheelchairs, Agent Orange cases, and no one would give them a straight answer or the time of day. I mean, these veterans got treated like genuine dogshit. And that’s what these Iraq war vets are gonna be looking at twenty-five years from now. They’re going to be the Vietnam veterans of their day. By then I suppose we’ll be on to the next war, and those folks will be forgotten.”

“That’s not new.”

“But it’s not right.”

“Just pray that your son comes back whole.”

“I do. When your boy’s over there it’s all you can think of.” Monroe looked at Pappas. “I’m sorry, man.”

“It’s okay,” said Alex. “Your boy’s in Afghanistan, right?”

“He’s at the Korengal Outpost. They call it the KOP. You heard of it?”

“I haven’t.”

“Basically, it’s a fortified camp surrounded by rough terrain and the enemy. The Taliban, namely. About as dangerous an environment as you can be in. Kenji’s light infantry. Which means he’s mostly out on foot patrol, carrying an M4 and looking for hostiles.”

“Do you hear from him much?”

“When he’s in the camp. They got a couple of laptops, and he sends me e-mails when he can. If the bad weather rolls in, the signal, or whatever you call it, goes on the fritz. He’s pretty good about staying in contact. But I haven’t had mail from him in a while. I’m guessing he’s out on patrol.”

Alex nodded. He remembered those long periods when he hadn’t been in contact with Gus. During that time, Alex had lost sleep, weight, and hair. He and Vicki had stopped making love. He’d been constantly aggravated with Johnny and often short of temper with customers and the help.

“I’m talking your ear off about my son,” said Monroe. “Where was your boy serving?”

“Gus was in the Anbar Province, west of Baghdad. He was nineteen years old.”

They drove through the Arkansas Avenue intersection and went up a long grade.

“What happened to your brother?” said Alex.

“What happened to him?” Monroe shook his head. “Not much good.”

“How long was he in prison?”

“James did the full ten years for the shooting and then some. He didn’t handle it well on the inside. He got challenged and he took the challenge, if you know what I mean. He got in fights. Finally, he stabbed a dude with a triangle made out of plastic. I don’t know how or why it went down. I imagine he got pushed to the wall,’cause he wouldn’t have initiated it on his own. James is not the violent kind. I know what you’re thinking, but he’s not. Anyway, he did it, and he paid. It was twenty years before he came out.”

“And then?”

“Then he hooked up with Charles Baker, and things kept getting worse. You remember Charles.”

“Yeah.”

“Charles is trouble. Always was. He had been in and out himself, in Jessup mostly, and prison just made him worse. He and James got to gaming, kiting checks and the like. Then Charles got James involved in a burglary thing, breaking into houses in Potomac and Rockville during the daytime while folks were at work. Fella name of Lamar Mays was with’em. James was the lookout and driver, since he was always good with cars. Charles thought their action was foolproof. They timed themselves in the houses, in and out quick, hit the bedrooms only, picked the Jewish names out of the phone book, Charles thinking that the Jews like to keep their money and jewelry close at hand. But Charles was wrong, like he always been wrong. They got caught. And Lamar, stupid as he was, had a gun on him when the police arrested them. What with the charges heaped on top of charges, and his record, James drew another big sentence.”

“He’s been out how long?”

“Couple, three years now.”

“And Baker?”

“He’s out, too.”

“I don’t get it. What you’ve been telling me is, your brother is basically good. So why would he keep going down the road with a guy like Baker?”

“It’s way too complicated to explain tonight,” said Monroe. “What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s it been like for you? Your life.”

“Normal, I guess,” said Alex. “My dad died when I was nineteen. I took over the business and I’m still there.”

“That’s it?”

“Work and family.”

“No dreams?”

“I thought I wanted to write a book, once. And I tried it, quietly.” Alex bit on his lip. “I’ve never told anyone this. Never even told my wife. I got a few pages down on paper and I knew, reading it over, that I didn’t have the talent for it. You gotta admit who you are, right? You’ve got to be realistic.”

“So you’re sayin that you’re happy in your work.”

“Not exactly. I wouldn’t say happy. Resigned to it. I mean, what else am I gonna do? I didn’t graduate from college. I know how to run a small operation, but other than that I have no skills.” Alex shifted his weight in the seat. “Anyway. I guess I’m gonna find out what else is out there for me. I plan on handing over the reins of the coffee shop to my older son sometime soon.”

“The nice-looking young man I saw in the store?”

“Yeah, him.”

Alex hadn’t told Vicki yet. He hadn’t told Johnny. This was the first time he’d said it aloud, and it surprised him. He had no close male friends. He didn’t know why he was telling Raymond Monroe these things, except for the fact that he was comfortable with him. The man was easy to talk to.

“We’re near James’s job,” said Monroe. “He’s got a little apartment around here, too.”

Monroe cut the wheel. They were in Park View, between 13th and Georgia, going east on a side street. Monroe pulled the Pontiac to the curb, near a break in an alley, and let the car idle.

“Why are we stopping here?”

“I want to talk to you before we see James. The garage where he works is just down that alley.”

“But this is all residential.”

“The man who owns the garage got it zoned commercial through a grandfather clause. It’s not much of a shop. Unheated and un-air-conditioned. James only works on old cars’cause that’s the only kinda car he knows how to fix. He never did get updated on the new technology, computer diagnostics and the like. His boss knows he can’t get a job anywhere else and he treats him like it. James doesn’t make much more than minimum wage. But he’s working; that’s the important thing. The man needs to work.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“He still makes all kinds of bad decisions. He drinks too much beer, like our father did, and it alters his judgment. He stayed in contact with Charles Baker. And Charles… well, Charles got an influence on him.”

“Where is this going?”

“Charles had James help him write a note to your old friend Peter Whitten. Well, James kinda edited the note, see?”

“What kind of a note? ” said Alex, hearing the impatience in his own voice.

“The kind asks for money. Charles wanted Whitten to know that if he didn’t pay, he was going to let that law firm he works at know all about his past. I’m talking about the incident in Heathrow Heights. Matter of fact, Charles had an appointment to meet with Whitten today. I don’t know how that went.”

“This is bull shit. How stupid is Baker? Pete’s not going to give him money to hush up something that happened thirty-five years go. I doubt Pete Whitten even cares if anyone knows about it.”

“I agree. But if Charles gets turned away, he might just come to you next.”

Alex nodded his head rapidly, coming to an understanding of something he did not care for. “You told me you reached out to me for some kind of closure.”

“I did. But now there’s this problem here I’ve got to deal with, too. I’m just being straight with you, man.”

“What do you want? ”

“I want you to meet my brother. I want you to see what he’s about. Once you do this, you’re gonna know that he’s not wrong. That he deserves a chance out here to find some peace.”

“Speak plainly, Mr. Monroe.”

“If Charles was to come to you and ask the same thing he’s asking of Whitten, I would hope that you wouldn’t go and get the law involved. Because of that note, that would land James right back in prison. And he cannot go back. He’s doing his best to stay right, Alex. He is.”

“You’re forgetting something,” said Alex. “Your brother killed my friend.”

“That’s right. Your friend is dead. Don’t think I’m brushing that aside or that I ever will. What I’m asking is for you to try and forgive.”

Alex looked away. He touched the wedding band on his finger and made a careless hand motion toward the head of the alley.

“We’re here,” said Alex. “Let’s go see your brother.”

“There’s no room in that alley for us to park,” said Monroe. “We’ll walk in.”

After locking the car, Monroe and Alex went down the alley on foot, along row house backyards, some paved, some grass and dirt, passing freestanding garages, shepherd mixes and pits behind chain-link fences, trash cans, and No Trespassing signs. They made a turn at the alley’s T and came to what looked like another residential garage showing an open bay door with a hand-lettered sign nailed above it. Written in red paint that had dripped, it read “Gavin’s Garage.” It looked like one of those Little Rascals signs, a clubhouse thing made by kids.

Inside the garage, crowded with tools and just large enough to hold one car, was a first-series, unrestored, gold-colored Monte Carlo, its hood up, its engine illuminated by a drop lamp whose cord was knotted on the bay door rails running overhead. Beside the Chevy stood a big man with a belly to match his size, in a blue work shirt, matching pants, and thick Vibram-soled shoes. On the shirt, the man’s first name, James, was stitched inside a white oval patch.

Raymond and Alex entered the garage. James Monroe stepped up to meet them. Alex noticed a bit of a limp in James’s slow gait. He had seen it in others who had bum hips.

“James,” said Raymond, “this is Alex Pappas.”

Alex put his hand out. James shook it weakly, looking Alex over with large bloodshot eyes. Alex did not speak, knowing that anything he said would sound trite.

“What are we supposed to do now?” said James to Raymond. “Sit around the campfire and sing a song?”

“Talk a little, is all,” said Raymond.

“I got to get to work on this MC,” said James. “Gavin gonna be in here any minute, asking why it’s not done.”

“Can’t you talk and work?”

“Better than you.”

“Go ahead, then. We won’t bother you.”

“There’s beer in that cooler,” said James, pointing to an ancient green metal Coleman set on the concrete floor. “Get me one, too.”

Raymond went to the Coleman to get his older brother a can of beer. James turned his attention to the car.