The black officer, Jack Warren, was the first Beau exchanged warm greetings with. Slightly taller than Beau, he was extremely muscular. Dressed in a white tank top, sandals, and rainbow-colored baggy shorts, he grinned as his shaved head glistened in the sun. Dark sunglasses shaded his eyes. When Ruben, Beau, and BJ first met at flight training school, Ruben had started calling him Black Jack. Eventually everyone started calling him BJ, but the name Black Jack stuck, becoming his call sign.
“BJ, you black sumbitch,” mumbled Beau. “How are you?”
Speaking in the most eloquent Bostonian accent, something most did not expect from such a rugged man as Warren, he replied in mock seriousness, “It feels rather good to once again be in the fine company of such a notorious bandit as you.”
Beau turned to greet his old high school friend, Sully. “Good ‘ol Sully. Ya still look like you did in high school. You doing plastic surgery?” Beau hadn’t seen Sully in five years and he hadn’t changed a bit. They had all attacked Afghanistan and Iraq together: Sully, BJ, Ruben, Jimmy, and himself. Only Jimmy Galloway was missing from the original bunch.
“Hell no. It’s my Italian blood,” Sullivan beamed.
“How’s Natasha?” Beau asked.
“The little wife is just fine,” he said.
Sully had met Natasha on a trip to the Ukraine just after the China-Taiwan incident in 2003. “Little wife” was a joke as Natasha was taller than him, standing in at nearly five-feet eleven inches with long blond hair and velvet blue eyes. She was an excellent athlete and runner and was capable of outrunning half the men in the group.
“Beau,” interrupted Ruben. “The gang is going to the Island. You going with us?” The Island was Padre Island, the eighty-eight mile-long barrier skirting the coast of Texas from Corpus Christi to Brownsville at the mouth of the Rio Grande River.
“I’d love to, but I need to get some wheels first,” he said. The comment met with a chorus of laughter from all.
“What’s so funny?” Beau asked.
“Come with me,” said Garrett, a big smile plastered on his face. “I have something to show you.”
Ted led Beau and his three friends across the parking area, near the bluff overlooking the bay. They continued along a path past rows of tall palm trees and around a concrete block building where they startled a dozen seagulls, sending them into flight squawking. The seagulls were not nearly as surprised as Beau. Before him, in all its glorious wonder, shining bright in its black enamel paint was his old ‘63 Corvette.
“Damn,” Beau gasped. “How’d ya find it?” He rubbed the glossy black car with loving wonder, peered through the window, and checked the interior.
“Didn’t find it,” said Garrett. “I bought it at that God-awful mess our government called an auction.” He laughed. “Actually, I made a pretty good deal on it and it paid your back taxes.”
“It looks terrific.”
Garrett waved his hand in the direction of Beau’s three friends. “The boys deserve the credit; they did all the work.”
“Here, catch,” said Ruben, as he threw Beau the keys. “We’ll meet ya at Shanghai Pete’s around 1800 hours. Don’t be late. Krysti will be there.”
“He hasn’t met Krysti?” asked Warren. He turned to Beau. “She’s a very nice woman.”
Opening the door Beau slid behind the steering wheel, coming to rest in the old familiar seat. Then he put the key in the ignition. For a moment he squeezed the wood grain steering wheel slowly in his hands. He reached for the ignition and turned the key. The old car came to life instantly. The familiar rumble brought back pleasant memories. He watched the tachometer resting on the dashboard above the radio respond to the slightest movement of his foot.
Garrett extended his hand and said, “There are things I have to take care of. You enjoy the boys tonight and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Forget it. Your eyes have said it all.” Garrett chuckled and with those words he spun about and walked away. Beau closed the door and gazed at his old car.
Squatting, Ruben rested his arm in the window and asked, “You want to follow us?”
“No, I need to do something first.”
“You remember where to go?”
“Are you kidding?” Beau laughed. “It’s hard to miss that old rundown shack they call a restaurant.”
“Still serves the best seafood and margaritas,” said Ruben, admonishing his friend with his finger.
“I’ll be there,” Beau promised. He slipped the Corvette into gear and gently engaged the clutch. He had a mission, and it was one he had to do alone. The day was humid and hot, and the old Corvette had no air conditioning, but once again Beau enjoyed the thrill of driving his old car. The Corvette responded to his every command. He drove along the shoreline and his old boyhood haunting grounds. So much had changed and yet he could still remember it all. He passed the old Baptist church behind where, as a small boy, he had caught frogs, snakes, and tadpoles from the ditch they had called “Boy’s Canyon.”
The Corvette rumbled to a stop in front of a flower shop. After selecting a beautiful arrangement of daisies, he resumed the trip to his predetermined destination. He turned away from the shoreline and headed inland. After a few blocks, he found the familiar street, Santa Fe, leading to Seaside Memorial Park. The old cemetery had become much too familiar to him as a boy.
The curbless streets of the cemetery were lined with friendly palms and ligustrums. Beau pulled the Corvette to a gentle stop when he recognized the spot. He walked slowly to the graves of his mother and father, stopping but for a moment. A solid hedge of ligustrums lined the back of their plots.
An empty space lay to the left of his mother’s marker. Next to it were two new stones marking graves he had never seen before, but he knew they were those of his wife and son. His throat tightened as he stood next to his son’s grave. He moved slowly to the empty space bordering the grave of his wife on one side and his mother on the other, a space reserved for him. Taking his cap from his head, he knelt beside the marker and laid the flowers gently before the granite stone bearing the name “Rebecca Gex.”
Invisible fingers closed on his throat as he tried to speak. “Becky… I miss you… I… I’m sorry I lied to you. I love you. God knows I love you.” Tears rolled from his eyes and he wiped them with the back of his hand. “Becky, I hope you understand, you see I… I have to let you go. Becky, I have to pick up the pieces and go on with my life.”
The words stopped. For a few minutes Beau was motionless as a cemetery statue; then he raised himself heavily from his knees. Slowly he backed from the grave. Still facing it, he stopped and the tightness released from his throat.
“Thank you, Angel Eyes. I love you!” he said, somewhat relieved at finally saying what he had been waiting to say over her grave for years. It had also been a long time since he had used the words Angel Eyes, his pet name for his wife.
The mental burden he carried for those five torturous years was suddenly gone. Relief. Freed from the torment he had forced on himself through the guilt of the lie he told Becky, letting her believe their son was still alive as she died. Still, he felt responsible for their death. That would never change.
Once again in the Corvette he headed toward his next destination, the Naval Air Station. The drive was the first time he had relaxed and felt at peace in nearly five years. Beau wanted to get out of his uniform before meeting his friends at Shanghai Pete’s.