Wayne Jr. paid only casual attention to the lifeless bobber. He tugged his hat farther down.  What a bummer. I have some cool shades back at home. A lot of good that does me here, He squinted against the flaming bright sunlight; his focus pinned on an Eagle circling the lake high above.  It was just a tiny black dot in the vast cloudless summer sky.  He wondered if the predatious bird could see any big fish from way up there, and thought, My bad ass uncle will catch a primo before that bichin Eagle does.

Both the boy and the old man settled back in the boat. Their minds wandered different paths as the rocking boat and the warm afternoon lulled them into reveries. 

On the Fourth of July Junior's eyes sparkled with excitement as each unit marched onto the Fairgrounds.

"This is a blast, Uncle!" Junior cried jumping up and down in front of his seat. "Thanks for bringing me. These bands are the greatest!" Uncle Bob is so cool for an old fart, he thought.

"Hey Uncle! Check out those chicks in the black and gold. Sissy should see these." The boy's gaze danced from unit to unit as they circled the arena. "Man, that band has awesome uniforms! I'd like to be one of those dudes. Playing that music would be the best. When I get in high school, I'm gonna play drums in the band." He pantomimed drumming and marched in step with the music as the band strode by.

The crowd stood when the American flag paraded by. Young Wayne thought about  how special men his father's age were; how they stood out in the crowd. Those old guys are heavy into it. They really pay attention; so quiet and respectful. They probably all were soldiers. My uncle Bob, and every one of the older guys, stand at attention with their hats off and hands over their hearts. Old soldiers passed wearing parts of uniforms from their days in the military. An emaciated old man waved to the crowd from his wheelchair. The crowd cheered. The flag and the soldiers who were in the war were special to everyone.

Dad won't talk about it. Neither will uncle Bob. But I want to be a soldier. Something really bad must have happened to dad in the war to make him so crazy sometimes. But being a soldier, it's the righteous thing. I know that freedom is not free. Didn't dad tell me how dangerous it was for the founding fathers; how righteous heroes like Samuel Adams and Thomas Jefferson could have lost their lives when they had the cojones to pull America loose from England?  Dad was proud of those awesome dudes in the American History books. He said that raunchy, rat-finks like Hitler would rule the world if good men stood by and did nothing. Dad and uncle Bob are proud because men in our family fought in all the wars. Those old guys know all about patriotism. Didn't they all stand up, and be quiet when the National Anthem played before the football games? I want to be like them.

He thought,"Someday I'm going to be special like them. I'm going to fight to keep America free just like they did.

"Junior, pass me those night-crawlers."  Uncle Bob's voice pulled Jr. back to the present.

"The Crappies chew these wigglers off faster than I can re-bait my hook." Before reaching for the worms, Uncle Bob spat a stream of  tobacco juice. Most of it went over the side of the rowboat, some added to the brown stain coating blistering green paint.

On that hot, dead-still afternoon not a sigh of cooling breeze came over the lake. Junior was deep in thought, still and silent for a long while. Most ten-year-old boys would be checking their bait twice every minute. "Hey uncle, what did you do in the war?"

"Where did that come from?"

Junior was kicked back, the rod propped loosely in his lap ."I was just thinking. I found your stash of medals and some pictures in a stogies box with dad's books.  Grammy says you were awesome in the war. That's why the army gave you the medals. When I get in the army, I'm gonna be brave bad ass too, just like you and dad."

Bob grinned. If only Junior knew the way it was,he thought.

As young men, Junior's uncle Bob and Wayne, Junior's dad, spent many fond afternoons on this very same lake, and in this very same boat, before WWII called them both away. As a boy, Junior's father was full of hope and pride when he told the family he had enlisted to fight the Germans.

The baking sun helped Bob drift into a daydream. A subtle grin played across his face as he recalled that day. Mom was like an old hen mothering her chicks. On every special occasion she cautioned us to be careful with her prized Irish linen table cloth. This day was no different. Again she reminded us that Grandmother Dugan had worked every evening  for a  year crocheting the delicate lace border as a cherished wedding present for her. She didn't want any 'rowdy boys' spilling gravy on it. The family dining table was never covered, nor was the heirloom China, crystal and silverware set out. But that day, Wayne's eighteenth birthday, the table was elegant

Aunt Lily, Mrs. Felde's older widowed sister was always present for special occasions. He recalled the laughter of that trio of females coming from the kitchen, the clinking of dishes and the rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk as Lilly or Junior's younger sister smashed the potatoes. The aroma of freshly baked bread was nothing new in their home, but he recalled the scent of baking ham on this day. Bob salivated as he recalled her festive specialty encrusted with brown sugar, pineapple slices and cloves. He recalled how Wayne always requested '...an extra slice of pineapple please, and don't forget the cherries." This favorite was reserved for the family's Easter dinner tradition. But there was no meal dad, Junior and I liked better than mom's special ham. Mom, Aunt Lily and Sissy shared the kitchen most of that day bringing our favorite dishes to the table.

Uncle Bob frowned as he stepped through the door. The dead quiet and shade-drawn dark made the place feel like a tomb. He paused and looked around. This grand old house used to be filled with light and laughter and radio music, he thought. It was a busy, noisy home with people coming and going all the time. Mouth-watering aromas from Mom and Aunt Lilly's cooking and baking invited everyone to come in, sit down and enjoy a tasty treat. Mom's lady friends stopped by every day for coffee and gossip. Those women whispered and giggled through every bit of the town's news and scandal. "I miss that," he whispered to the ghosts of past joy.

"Mom? Are you up there, Mom?"

"Is that you, Robert?"

"Yeah mom. Okay to come up?"

"Of course."

Mom was still in her chenille bathrobe. She didn't bother to get dressed anymore. The Bible was in its usual place near the window, but the shade was down. The room was dark. Her sewing projects were neatly stacked. She had not been sewing, nothing was out of place. Mom's eyes were dark shadowed, reddened and deep set. She'd been weeping again. She seemed almost asleep, her Rosary beads in her lap. She surrendered into the pillowed Amish rocker. A few months before he committed suicide, Junior and Sissy and I were amazed that our dad brought that rocker all the way from Lancaster for her birthday. That was one of those rare, wonderful times when he was sober and in a good mood.

Bob thought, She's depressed even more now than right after dad died.  I know Wayne's behavior is taking a toll on her. She is so worried about how nasty he is now with Marge and his kids, especially Junior. She wants the old happy-go-lucky Wayne back, but that isn't going to happen. He ignores me when I suggest that he should talk to Father O'Brien, or even the Minister down at the First Presbyterian. Sometimes he claims he doesn't have a problem. He doesn't care about anything anymore except taking another drink. Damn it!  Wayne Jr. doesn't understand why his dad's so mean sometimes, and why he's always depressed or drunk.

Bob cast his fishing line a few more feet from the boat.  Ker-plop, the red and white bobber breached the shimmering mirror. Concentric circles rushed rippling across the placid surface

"Watch your bobber Junior, I think you have a bite."

Junior gave his line such a yank the bobber came flying out of the water. "I guess I missed him this time Uncle."

"Well you better check your bait now."

"OK." Junior reeled in the line.

"Does your leg hurt a lot?"

"No."

As Junior baited his hook, Uncle Bob was silent, his eyes were slitted against the bright sun and fixed far beyond the forest of maples and oaks and the distant rolling hills. He reminisced of days long past.

Cpl. Robert Felde recalled splinters blown from the rocks above rattling off his helmet as he and his squad hunkered down to avoid the German's machine gun fire. Sounds of automatic fire and explosions filled his consciousness...

"Uncle! Uncle Bob! Look at your bobber. It's down. It must be a primo."

"Oh yeah! Here we go." Uncle Bob quickly snapped the rod upward before it bent, and the tip dove toward the water. The line tensed and played off the reel for several seconds before he tightened the drag a bit. He allowed the fish to take more line before beginning to reel.

"Far out! Reel him in uncle Bob!"  His uncle was his hero, and Junior clamored  encouragement.

"Patience Junior. We'll get him. Let him get a little tired before we put a lot of pressure on him. He's well hooked. We don't want to break the line and lose him.

"Is he a big'un, uncle?" An elated grin radiated from Junior. His voice was pitched higher and vibrated with excitement as he watched the line knife through the water angling away from the boat.

"Yeah, he feels like he's got some weight to him; maybe a Bass." A little more line stripped off the reel as the boy's uncle kept the rod tip held high.

"Are you gonna get him uncle? Is he coming in?"

"No he's not ready to be landed yet, but hold your pants on.  We'll get him if we just take our time. There's nothing out here for him to snag the line. Here. Take the rod."

"Me?" Junior asked in amazement.

"Sure. Just hold on to the rod with both hands and keep the tip high.  Keep the line tight.  Don't worry about reeling yet."

The little boat rocked side to side as Junior took the rod with trembling hands.

"Grip it with both hands, Junior, keep the tip high."

Squealing wheels and vibrations announced the event. She woke from the dream as the plane touched down. As the Freedom Bird taxied to the terminal, Lynda raised her seat to the upright position, and like a swarm of attacking hornets, painful images  stung her arrival to the world. She shuddered as she remembered the good times with  Vincent, her best friend since grade school. He was one of the first casualties in Vietnam. But they all reminded her of cousins and boys she dated in high school. Remnants of the nightmare, flashes of the "Expectants," pierced her reality. "Expectants," young men, their bodies destroyed, set aside to die with no more care than massive doses of morphine for the pain. Expectants died, and joined the long lines of gray body bags beside the chopper landing pads. They could not save so many casualties. They could not even provide adequate care to them all.

Exhilarated to sadness at being home at last, she dabbed the scalding tears which burned at the corners of her eyes. She thought again of Vincent and remembered the bleeder. Her mind recalled his unconscious, boyish face, handsome and innocent, much like Vincent's. The bleeder's face was  unscathed by the mine that leaped from the jungle floor before detonating. The blast sent metal shrapnel flying in all directions. His torso and groin became a sieve of shredded flesh filled with piercing wounds from the unforgiving metal fragments. She stripped the blood-soaked fatigues from his torso to see the hundreds of small wounds oozing his life away.

The large pile of blood saturated gauze pads continued to grow as the surgeons discovered the extent of his wounds. She recalled replacing both plasma drips with whole blood, and the surgeon calling for two more units stat. Four units pushed into his body every fifteen minutes while the surgeons perspired over him to stop the bleeding. Twenty pints of precious whole blood weeped out, and drained from the gurney like the slow drizzle of honey from a spoon.

The surgeons struggled more than an hour to save him. Frustrated, they  finally surrendered to the futility, realizing that their time might better be used to prolong another's life.  They moved with care, their feet sliding on the bloody floor, to the next victim of the sanguinary war machine. When she thought of the bleeder, she remembered Vincent, his perfect, innocent face, and the soft, reddish, fuzz on his chin, every time her thoughts flashed to the horror of those days.

Cosmetics and toiletries were scarce items in the Medevac Hospital. Even items like Tampax and shampoo had to be shipped from the states. Lynda was deprived of any form of self-indulgence for so long that she delighted in getting "the works"  in a well-known spa in Tokyo. But, Lynda was attractive and confident without all that. In her tailored military uniform, men always noticed her.

On arriving home, Lynda felt uncomfortable as she passed through the terminal. Three old ladies, women her grandmother's age, quickly diverted their eyes. She did not understand why. Men refused to acknowledge her as well.  What is the problem? She wondered.  Resting momentarily, she placed her khaki duffel bag on the floor near the entrance to the rest rooms, but she felt too self-conscious to go in. Instead, she moved on. They just don't know me, she thought.

From her naive perspective before she enlisted, she saw the United States pursuing a course that President Kennedy talked about in his Inaugural Address; we are saving the country from Communism and thwarting the expansion plans of the Soviet Union. We can win the hearts and minds of the Vietnamese people and offer them the advantages of Democracy. We must stop the cancerous epidemic of Communism from spreading throughout Asia. Lynda knew that there were brave boys fighting and dying for Democracy, and before going to Vietnam thought, if our boys are being blown apart, then somebody had better be over there putting them back together again. Maybe that someone should be me.

After she arrived in Vietnam, her illusions of the golden ideal tarnished like base metal before fading. They vanished as she labored long tortuous hours in ill-equipped, understaffed operating rooms. She found the basis for her noble thinking changing daily. Her optimism became despondence as she witnessed the catastrophic injuries of war. She held hope in her heart for so many whose deaths were preordained to serve the needs of the military arms industry. There was nothing the medical staff could do to save so many whose draft numbers had been called.

As she placed her duffel bag next to the curb, and waited to catch a taxi into town, a noisy VW mini-bus covered with anti-war stickers and slogans pulled up beside her. The long-haired, bearded young man in the front passenger seat leaned out.

"Hey soldier, want a ride?"

"Sure, thanks," Lynda said.

"Welcome home. We have a peace offering for you."

Rewarded with her first taste of friendship from a fellow American back in the world, her spirit brightened. Lynda picked up her bag to climb in, but was stunned as he handed her the rose, then cleared his throat, and spat a bolus of slime across her pretty face.

"Baby killer!" he shouted. She heard the flower children in the van laughing victoriously as the VW hurried away.

A strained animal sound, a near silent scream of hopeless anguish erupted  from deep in her soul as Lynda questioned her sanity.

Sarge and Wayne sat in their apartment getting stoned as the rain pounded Philadelphia.

Mrs. Felde dreaded driving in the rain, but she and Wayne's sister drove across town to beg Wayne to seek help from the VA. They had been going to Mass daily, saying Rosaries, and praying for Wayne to get over his anger and drinking. They were so frightened he might commit suicide like his dad.  They wondered if he would ever again become that wonderful boy they were so proud of before he joined the Army. 

As they stepped around the garbage in the hallway, Mrs.Felde remarked, "My God, Sissy, what a terrible place they live in."

Wayne answered their timid knock. "Hi Mom, Sis, What a surprise. What are you doing here?"  The smile on his face betrayed his dismay. He was shirtless and holding a beer. "The place is a mess, but come on in. Why don't we sit here at the table. Sarge, you remember my Mom and Sissy."

Sarge stood. He cleared some empty beer cans and other debris from the table. "Nice to see you both again.  It's been quite a while."

As they sat, Sissy said, "We thought since you and Sarge weren't working today, you might come on over to have a nice home-cooked meal with us. Mom's got a ham in the oven."

Wayne's mom had that poor baby look on her face, but her words dripped with self-pity.  She said, "Honey, we don't ever see you anymore. You have been so distant since you came back." She looked over at his sister, "Sissy says she talked with your wife.  She and you might even  get together again. Wayne, we're worried about you. You just can't keep on like this."

The spatter of rain on the window sounded like distant automatic weapons firing. Thunder boomed like artillery, and lightning flashed like close in exploding mortar bursts.

Bottles and dirty dishes rattled on the table as Wayne slammed his fist and roared, "Damn it! Leave me the fuck alone!"

Wayne's mom was crushed. He had always been respectful. Now he behaved as his father did when he returned from WWII. She felt helpless then as a wife, now a hopeless failure as a mother. She wept softly as she and Sissy drove back home though the storm.

Even before his family departed, Wayne became silent. His jaw was clenched, his muscles rigid. His eyes focused in that hundred mile stare. He recalled a rest break the team took in Nam.

The heat was oppressive as usual. The team was tired.  We had been walking for hours but made no enemy contact.

"So what do you think, Chopper? What's happening?"  I dropped my gear beside Chopper's.

My foxhole buddy, Chopper, was checking his feet for hot spots and blisters. He was so cool. I can remember like yesterday. He was worried about my feet.

"How ya fixed for socks, Wayne? Need a clean pair?"

"Nah, I'm OK, thanks. What do you hear from Laurie?"

Chopper's grin lightened the moment.

"Check this out, Wayne." He beamed as he fished the photo from his pocket. "Little John is getting teeth already! God, I can't wait to get back to the world."

"Ain't he something?" I punched his arm and told him, "Good thing he don't look like you."

I remember wondering when I seen his picture, why did I ever decide to get married?  Sometimes I feel guilty about it. Barb was confused and angry because I enlisted only a month after we  got married. The sex was great.  I wanted a kid, but she was afraid to get pregnant. For God's sake, she wanted to get a cat instead.  She didn't write me no more. She wrote about the cat in the last letter I ever got. I carried it for six months before it got so ragged and dog-eared I couldn't read it. Like, that didn't matter anyways. I wondered how it was  gonna be with us if I get out of there alive?

I think Chopper knew it was coming.  He's the one who told me, "Dunno, Wayne, I got a bad feeling. I heard we're going north to the Central Highlands and defend Pleiku.  They are taking a lot of heat  from North Vietnamese regulars coming through Laos and Cambodia."

Chopper was right, That's where he got blown in half. I tried to put Chpper's guts back inside after he was hit by the mortar round, They was quiverring, and so slick they just kept sliding through my fingers before his screaming stopped, and he was dead. He never did get to meet Little John. The little guy won't even have a memory of  his daddy, but I won't forget him.

That's when I started smoking grass. The captain smoked, the lieutenant smoked, everybody smoked. I'd get up in the morning and have a pipe with my coffee. We'd be on patrol and I'd fire up the pipe. Seven or eight times while we were on patrol a fire fight  would break out ahead of me or behind me. Guys would get shot and I'd be stoned, walking along, maybe reading Playboy.I wasn't paying attention.I didn't care anymore. Why I didn't get it sooner?  Who knows?

"Good morning Mr. Felde. Won't you please come right in? I am Lynda Scott, a counselor here at the VA.  Please call me Lynda."

Wayne was reluctant to enter. Wary and alert, his eyes swept the room. The office was appointed with a few serviceable chairs and a simple wooden desk. The space provided a feeling of comfort and security, but lacked anything personal.

He thought, this is ridiculous, I don't need to see no damned shrink, but at least this honey is good looking.

A flash of surprise crossed her face as she appraised his clean-cut, healthy appearance.  Wayne was tanned and well-developed from doing construction work. She extended her hand. Lynda's firm grip indicated a confident welcome.  Wayne's attitude began to soften.  He expected a delicate handshake and a cooler, much more distant reception.

"Please have a seat." 

"Thanks," he said, as he eased into a chair. Lynda moved around the desk, and sat facing him.

"Mr. Felde, may I call you Wayne?"

"Why not?"

Wayne gave only brusque answers to Lynda's questions about his sleep, appetite, and alcohol or drugs use. Lynda sensed his tension as the muscles of his face tightened and his body became rigid. 

"Wayne, this may sound blunt, but we need to clear up some things right away. I understand that you have been troubled with depression. Have you considered killing yourself?"

How would she know about that? He thought, but said, "No, not for a long time, but I don't care if I die either."

"I need to know if you have thought about killing or injuring anyone else."

Hell yes, he thought, some assholes really piss me off, and that SOB Landscape Foreman who fired me should have his ass whipped. Some of those smart-ass hippie punks need a lesson too...

"No, not really," he lied.

Trying to help Wayne feel more comfortable, she leaned forward, and turning her head  to the side, concentrated her gaze on his eyes.  She was searching for his soul.

"You seem angry, Wayne. Are you angry now?" she asked.

"Not really", Wayne said, jaws tight, but he thought, what the hell. Is she reading my mind? Why don't she just get me some pills so I can get out of here?

"How about normally, Wayne? Do you find yourself becoming angry easily?"

"Sometimes."

"Me too," she said with a gentle voice, and leaned back a little in her chair. "What do you think makes it happen for you?"

"I dunno, probably the same thing that makes you angry," Wayne's tone was gruff. He was becoming more uncomfortable, more impatient.

He thought, people like you make me angry. Always wanting to know what is wrong, always wanting to fix me, always trying to get me to open the damned vault. Believe me woman, you do not want me to open that vault. You do not want to push the red button that opens the vault.

"Depression is anger, Wayne. We get angry when we are hurt. Is something going on; are you remembering something that hurts?" she asked empathetically. "It's O.K., Wayne, it is safe here. You can tell me what's hurting you. It helps to talk about the things that hurt you, the things that make you angry."

Silence prevailed as Wayne struggled mentally to sort his feelings. Never trusting anyone was a principle that helped him survive. Part of him wanted to believe the feelings he felt from this woman were genuine.  His history with women told him otherwise. He was always hurt by people he trusted.

"Wayne, I realize that you have had a lot of anguish in your life. You are very tense. Why don't you just sit back; try to relax.  Take some deep breaths."

Wayne remained silent, but as he slid back in the chair, and breathed deeply, some of the tension drained away.

Lynda's voice was hesitant, her tone full of empathy. "I can't know how you might be feeling, Wayne, but, I know how I have felt when others have hurt me. Partly I felt sorry for myself, but also very angry. Is that the way you feel, Wayne?"

"No! I don't feel sorry for myself, and yes, I get damned angry."

"You seem angry now. Are you angry with me?"

Her jasmine fragrance formed diaphanous strands that linked Harry's memory to women he used in Nam. He had reasons not to trust women. His shoulders tensed.  His belly muscles formed a knot. The brutal recollections began. His left hand tightened white knuckled on his brow in a vain attempt to interrupt them as his wife screamed again and again from the vault in his mind, 

"You bastard! You gave me Syphilis, Wayne. You brought me that damned disease from some filthy whore in Vietnam."

Wayne felt Lynda pushing the red button, trying to open that vault which he must keep closed.

"You ain't no different from all the know-nothings who think something is wrong with me, and they know how to fix it. There ain't no fixing it! You don't have no idea about the shit that I am mad about. You never been shelled by no mortars. You ain't felt your friend's brains splatter your face or never picked up the bloody half of some poor bastard to load on a chopper. You never had your own guys dropping napalm on you. You gonna help me forget that shit? You got some pills to make me forget that?"

Lynda felt such empathy with Wayne. She understood his anger and sarcasm. She wanted him to be helped as she had been helped.  Lynda wanted to convince Wayne to join the weekly group meetings of vets, all with PTSD issues. Much like Alcoholics Anonymous, many of  them were able to face their past, and live in the world again. He might also be helped as she was with individual counseling if she could motivate him.

She controlled her angst before she asked, "I'm hearing that you are angry because I can't understand what you experienced, how helpless you felt?"

"How would you know what living in hell was like?"

In a calm clinical voice, Lynda began to speak.

"You're right, Wayne, there is no way I can understand how much those gruesome memories torture you. But for the most horrible thirteen months of my life, I felt the helplessness and the anger."

The words began to catch in her throat and tears pooled in the corners of her eyes. "Memories haunt me too. It was hell for all of us working in that Medevac unit. Sometimes mortars exploded in our compound while we were doing surgery. I saw boys die because we couldn't help them." Tears smeared her mascara as she reached for a tissue.

Wayne could barely hear her say, "After her shift while she was walking to our hooch, my best friend was killed by a sniper."

Wayne sensed  tumblers turning the lock in his vault. The vault was filled with terrifying memories. He was not about to allow that vault to come open. He redirected the conversation.

"Yeah, really, it was a bitch for everyone. We should not have been there. Win their hearts and minds? What a damned joke!" He said.

Tearful, Lynda leaned forward to catch his gaze. "That's the thing, Wayne. We need to get past allowing that kind of crap to make us angry. It's in the past; it's over; it's a done deal. We are here learning to get over it. We want to help you too-- help you learn how to live with your pain and anger.  But it will only help you if that's what you want. Wayne, our MHS team has helped a lot of vets like us. Helping other Nam vets here has helped me. It will be good for you. I want you to join our next group session."

This was more interaction than Wayne expected or wanted, "The Doc told me he'd give me some pills to help,"

"He has prescribed some meds for you. You can pick them up downstairs. They should help with your mood swings, but we also need to re-learn how we have been thinking about what has been affecting us. That's why talking with the doctor and the group sessions help so much. Will you join us on Wednesday?"

"Maybe. Let's see what the pills do."

"Those meds may take a few weeks before they are fully effective, so don't expect immediate results. I'm looking forward to seeing you again on Wednesday... and we are always available by phone if you need to talk to somebody... or, just come in.  We have to wind up this session because I have another appointment, but I want you to come back. Will 0900 next Wednesday be OK with you?"

"Yeah, O.K., uh... thanks."

"Great! See you then. Make it a great day, Wayne."

After Wayne left, Lynda connected to her higher power. She stopped what she was doing for a moment to pray.

Lord, am I doing all I can to help to help guys like Wayne? Oh dear God, I sure hope so. I know you must have placed me here to help them. I thank you, Father.  Helping them helps me deal with all my traumatic memories, to lower my stress.  But Lord, it's not all about me. You know I care about them too. They hurt just like me. Father, please show me how to help them.

She realized she might never see Wayne again; that would not be unusual. However, it was well within her experience to realize that sometimes it does not matter what you do. 

After a week of warm spring weather to heat the concrete and bricks in an older section of downtown Denver, it rained. That morning a damp, misty, fog-like ambiance prevailed.  Harry had told Jim about the miserable rainy conditions in Vietnam. They didn't fight much in the rain, but the enemy used the sound of the rain to approach their positions.  He would never leave his apartment in the rain. Their boss on the construction site warned Harry not to miss any more work, so Jim rapped loudly on Harry's apartment door to rouse his friend and work partner.

"Come on, Harry, open the damn door!"

His hesitant voice came from inside. "It's raining.  I ain't working today."

"No, it's not.  It quit. Come on Harry, get up, and let me in."

The chain on the door rattled. Harry opened the door, and Jim stepped inside.

"Good God, Harry, you look awful.  What happened to you?"

"Me and Larry and some guys was down at the bar last night. Hang on a minute, I'll put some coffee on.  Man, Jim,  I don't want to go to work today.  You know how I feel about going out in the rain."

"Yeah, and I know what Gary said too.  He's going to fire your ass if you don't start coming to work regular. Besides, it's not raining any more, it's just a little foggy."

"Always something bad happens when it rains, Jim."

Jim drew the side of his hand under his chin. "I'm telling you Harry,I know Gary wasn't kidding.  He's had it up to here with you missing work. He doesn't care why. Besides, I really need your help installing some windows and a door in from the alley."

After much prodding, Jim convinced Harry to come to work. Jim was right.  A new tenant was due to move in. They needed to go do the job.

As Jim and Harry stacked framing lumber in the alley, they looked up to watch the non-union bricklayer and his helper working on the cold damp scaffold twenty feet above. The masons removed the small original wooden windows, and prepared cavities for Jim to install larger, modern, steel ones. As the masons removed the old windows, they also removed several feet of the old brick walls in every direction. In the mild, misting rain, the men on the scaffold replaced the old bricks with newly laid ones. Jim knew it was unusual for masons to work in damp conditions, but he knew better than to question decisions his boss had made.  After all, he thought Gary is a college graduate.  He gets the big bucks. As the bricklayers finished, the Construction Supervisor leaned out of one of the new openings in the second floor.  He shouted down.

"Jim, I want you and Harry to take down this scaffold, and replace that old door with the new steel one. It's in the tool room. You two can get that done before you leave, can't you?"

The door he wanted replaced was located directly below where the bricklayers were working.

Jim  wiped the mist from his forehead with an old bandanna. "Sure, Gary. We should be able to do that. Should we work over if we run into trouble?"

"We need to keep the building secured, Jim.  Let me know if you are going to have a problem."

"OK, Gary. Come on Harry, lets get this scaffold down."

Harry seemed nervous. After Gary popped back into the building, he came close to Jim and spoke softly.

"Jim, This is really pissing me off. you know I really didn't want to come to work. You know how I hate the rain. It reminds me of Nam. I always get real anxious and feel like something bad is gonna happen. Let's just knock off today and hit it tomorrow. Gary is always in such a big damned hurry."

"Well that's how he makes money for Allen. You know, man, time is money. It's just a little mist, Harry. It won't slow us down. You know, you are kinda on Gary's shit list anyway. Just suck it up, okay? Why don't you climb up, and hand down those scaffold sections. We'll be careful."

As Harry took the scaffold apart, he handed the damp slippery sections down. Jim stacked them out of the way against the brick wall.

As Harry handed down one of the last sections, he asked, "Hey, Jim. How's about we break early for lunch?  We could beat the crowd. We can do that door when we get back. We got plenty of time to finish it after lunch, right?"

"Sure, that would work out OK. But once we start on it we have to button up the building before we quit."

"How about Jose's? I got a hankering from some of his green chili."

"Yeah Harry, I could go for a big, wet burrito myself."

Usually the Mexican workers kept to themselves.  But before Jim and Harry finished their lunch, Jesus, the lead man on the Mexican crew, scurried into Jose's  restaurant in a panic.

Jim! Jim!  the building fell into the alley!  All the new bricks fell in front of the door. Gary sent me to get you."

They hurried to meet Gary in the alley.

"My God, Harry! That whole damned wall came down.

"Yeah, We would have been right under all them damned bricks. I told ya."

Gary stood, hands on hips, and shook his head, "I was sure worried about you two. You sure are a couple of lucky campers."

Harry said just loud enough for Jim to hear, "I knew I shouldn't have come out in the rain. Always something happens."

There was not much Jim could say about that. He knew Harry had survived the conflict in Nam and lots of scrapes after he came back. Jim did not believe in coincidence, and felt Harry must have been saved for a purpose.  He was lucky to be with him this time.

For months the carpenter and his wife were Harry's only social contacts.  But, he began to associate with a group of bikers who boozed every night, and used cocaine, heroin, and other drugs. Jim and Marilyn began to see less and less of Harry. Many times Jim tried to prod him to come to work. Although their renovation work was inside, he refused to leave his apartment-- especially on rainy days. Eventually the foreman replaced Harry on the job.

Marilyn and Jim lost contact with Harry when they moved back to Michigan. They were stunned to receive a letter from Harry's attorney.  Graves Thomas requested them to testify as character witnesses at Harry's trial in Louisiana.  Attorneys Thomas and  Wellbourne Jack were defending Harry. Wayne Robert Felde  was accused of murdering a Louisiana Police officer.

"Hey Harry, I ain't seen you for a long time."

Harry looked up from his shot, and saw his biker buddy from Denver standing in the shadows created by the bright light above the pool table in Riley's Bar.

"Hey Snake, what's up? What are you doing in Shreveport?"

"I heard you was in town." Snake stepped closer and lowered his voice. "I been looking for you."

Harry straightened and took a firm grip on the pool cue stick. Snake had a shady reputation.

"What for Snake?  What's that all about?"

"We got a big load of stained glass windows and antique brass hardware Allen wants delivered to Denver. I figured you and me could pick up some blow and make a few bucks while we are there.  Maybe you want to ride along with me and Jack?"

"Nah, I would Snake, but, mom's funeral is tomorrow."

Yeah, I heard.  Sorry man."

"Thanks, Snake, but maybe it's a good thing.  She was sick a long time.  I used to call her all the time, you know, since we all left Philly. I shoulda visited her, but I was worried somebody would know  I'm on the run and narc me out."

"Well, Bud, we could wait and leave tomorrow night if you want to come along."

"That'd work. Could you and Jack meet me here?"

"Sure, we'll load up and meet you tomorrow night for a few beers here at the Dragon before we head out."

Snake and Jumpy Jack never showed up at the bar the next night. 

As the hours dragged on, Harry kept popping Bennies and drinking shots of Jose Cuervo while he waited. He was normally cautious, alert to his surroundings, but the booze and the speed caused him to lose his edge.  This night he was not the quiet careful man.

Harry chuckled. "An easy shot, Bro. Eight in the side, one rail." Harry stroked. The cue ball made solid contact. The ebony sphere rocketed across the table, bounded off the opposite rail, and dropped into the side pocket with a satisfying clack. The cue ball rolled on and dropped into the corner pocket.

"Pay up man, you scratched on the eight ball. That's another twenty bucks." The black man retrieved his crutch and limped toward the table.

"You was just lucky I scratched, Bro, shoot me another one double or nuthin."  Harry pointed the end of his pool cue at the dapper black man for emphasis.

"Just pay up. You think you're some kinda pool hustler? Damn, you lost the last two games. You cain't hardly stand up. You staggerin' round worse than me, and I got a broke leg."

"What are you, a pussy? You know I can whup your ass. You was just lucky." Harry's speech was slurred and his voice was loud enough to be heard over the din in the bar.

"Man, you're nuts? Look, you just pay up the twenty you owe, and I'll shoot you again for forty. I don't mind taking your money."

"Hell yeah! Rack 'em, I gotta take a piss."

The well-dressed black man shook his head in disbelief as Harry regained his balance and weaved between the tables to the restroom at the rear of the lounge.

As Harry teetered up to the urinal and swept his shirt aside, a man washing his hands noticed the large revolver tucked into Harry's jeans. He recalled what a jerk Harry had been at the pool table. The man finished washing and hurried to tell the bartender about the gun. The bartender grimaced.  He had already noticed how loud and aggressive Harry was becoming. The stress began to show in the tightness of his jaw as he polished rings of moisture from the glistening bar. 

Harry lurched from the restroom and leaned on the corner  of the bar.

"Gimme another double Cuervo and a beer for the crip at the pool table."

With a cajoling tone, the barkeep replied, "I'm sorry bud, You've already had too much booze tonight. Why don't you just take it easy for awhile.  Go home and sleep it off."

"You shutting me off!" His shout caused everyone in the bar to look his way. "You can't shut me off! I odered a drink. Serve it up, damn it."

The barkeep responded with more conviction than he felt. "Look Mister, we don't need to make a fuss here.  I can't serve you no more; you just better leave."

"I ain't going nowhere!" Harry weaved over to the pool table and reclaimed his stick. "What the hell are you looking at? It's my break, ain't it?"

"Sure is, after you pay my twenty bucks and put forty more on the table." The dapper man on the other side of the table was icy cool, but spoke politely.

"Hell no! We was gonna shoot double or nuthin." Again Harry's loud obstinate voice got everybody's attention. Bottles and glsses rattled as the group at the table closest to them got up and moved to the bar.

The bartender knew that trouble was brewing. He called the police to report a disturbance. 

The young rookie City Patrolman arrived alone to deal with the problem. He never learned Harry was armed. He assumed he would just be transporting a drunk and disorderly person to jail to sleep it off.

Everyone at the bar stopped what they were doing as the policeman entered and spoke to the bartender. Their total attention was on the officer.

"What's the problem?"

"It's the little white punk in the flowered shirt over there at the pool table. He's drunk and won't leave. I shut him off and he's pissed off about it."

Harry turned, and saw the rookie stride up.

"C'mon buddy, we're going for a ride."

"I ain't going nowhere!" Harry's butt was against the pool table.

With practiced moves, the rookie manipulated Harry face down on the table as the pool cue clattered to the floor. His cuffed his hands behind him, like a caged jungle beast, Harry roared over and over again, "I ain't going to jail! I AINT GOING TO JAIL!" The bar crowd watched in awe as "Who'll Stop the Rain" blared from the jukebox.

The young officer dragged him stumbling to the patrol car. Harry was still shouting and growling.  The officer forced him into the back seat.

As the black and white drove away Harry's bestial growl and violent movements behind him began to unerve the officer.

"What the hell are you doing back there.  Settle down!"

Harry put his body through contortions he recalled from the confining tunnels in Vietnam. Bending and twisting, shoulders pressed back, arms extended to the fullest, knees touching his chin, he brought his cuffed wrists under his heels to the front of his body. Desperate with panic he groped to grasp the .357 still tucked into his waistband.

"Pull this car over and let me out or I'm gonna kill myself right now."

By a glimpse in the rearview mirror Officer Thompkins  realized that Harry was struggling to retrieve a revolver from his belt.

"Oh my God!" He slammed on the brakes, rose and twisted round in the front seat.

The patrol car swerved off the road. Simultaneous with the sounds of the car careening off the metal guard rail, one deafening round exploded and filled the car with the smell of gunpowder.

The officer was found hanging at an angle from the open door of his patrol car. His service revolver was lying on the street beside him. He was dead.  A bullet had passed through the seat and split on a spring, The officer's life pumped from the  artery the shrapnel severed in his upper thigh.

When the police rounded the corner of a building in an industrial park near the vacated police car searching for Harry, they found him sitting in plain view, in the center of an alley, with the revolver resting on his knees.  He was in position, and he had the opportunity to fire on them. But, Harry never fired another round.

He was wounded eleven times from police buckshot and bullets. Unconscious, Harry was critically near the death he hoped for, but skilled surgeons saved his life. After surgery, he spent many months recuperating in a prison hospital awaiting his murder trial. A policeman was constantly at his bedside.

Attorney Thomas told the jury that  Officer Thompkins reached over the seat and struggled with Harry when he tried to kill himself. The shot that killed the officer was an accident.  He told the jury that Harry never fired at the police attempting to apprehend him because he wanted the police to kill him.  He was determined not to return to jail.