The Visitor

“Erik,” Stephanie’s voice echoed down the foyer of their single-story beach rambler. “There’s a man at the door asking for you.”

“Coming…” Erik put down his evening scotch and walked towards the door, placing his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Can I help you?”

What immediately caught Erik’s attention was the man’s eyes, which betrayed his age. The deep lines along his face, the weathered skin around his fingers, the slight hunch in his shoulders… all depicted a man in his early seventies. Yet his eyes were a youthful, piercing ice blue. He spoke in measured words with an extended hand.

“Erik Paulson, born in Philadelphia on August 4th, 1974?”

Erik tentatively stepped in front of his wife and shook the man’s hand. “Yes, what can I help you with?”

The old man adjusted the well-worn leather satchel held under his arm. “Forgive my intrusion so late in the day. I’m here because of your father.”

Erik’s face tightened. “I assume you mean my birth father, because my dad lives about four miles south of here with my mom. James stepped in when my birth father left us. I was barely out of the hospital.” His voice was direct, matter of fact. Stephanie noticed her husband rub his ear and give the lobe a tug, something he did when he felt stressed or anxious; he’d done that as far back as she could remember. She put a consoling hand on his shoulder as he continued, “When I was ten, my mom showed me the obituary from years earlier. He died shortly after leaving us. I never met him, never knew him. I’m sorry, but you are wasting your time, Sir.”

The old man’s eyes were kind. Understanding. “If it’s all the same, would you mind if we sat and talked for a few minutes?”

Stephanie broke the few seconds of awkward silence, “Sure, please come in. I’ll put on some tea.”

The old man followed Erik to the living room and sat in one of two leather seats. Erik held up what was left of his drink. “Care for something stronger than tea?” The old man smiled and nodded, as Erik poured two fingers of brown liquid before sitting back in his chair in silence.

The man’s words were soft, measured, confident. They were the words of a man who rehearsed this conversation time and time again. “Tell me, what do you know about your father?”

“Not much more than what I’ve already described. My mom met him a few years before I was born. He was a banker of some sort for a private firm in the city. He traveled a lot, and they were not married, but I know my mom loved him. According to her, he was happy when she learned she was pregnant. He was present throughout the pregnancy but broke off the relationship after I was born. It devastated my mom. Within a year, she learned he died. She tried to hide her sorrow from me, but I could tell. She met James when I was two. Again, I have no memory of my father other than a picture my mom gave me, taken shortly after they met.

“May I see it?”

The old man smiled when Erik handed him the photo.

After a few seconds of studying the old man, Erik said, “Look. Sir. I don’t mean to be rude, but can we cut to the chase? Why did you come to my home at 8 o’clock on a Wednesday evening to ask me about my father?”

‘Not ask, Erik…tell.”

The old man reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pill bottle, fishing out two small greenish tablets, putting them in his mouth and followed with a long sip of scotch. “Pancreatic cancer. Inoperable. This is just to manage the pain.”

Erik nodded, not knowing what to say.

“What I’m going to tell you, Erik, may be difficult for you to understand. I knew your father very well.” Erik sipped his drink, his face revealing years of disappointment and anger over a man he never met. The man responsible for breaking his mother’s heart and abandoning a son. “You could say my career mirrored his. First in the Army, then doing…other things. We served together for decades all over the world.”

Erik grinned in slight disbelief. “I’m not sure what you mean. My father was a banker. And he died in Spring of 1976.”

The old man waved a dismissive hand, “Nonsense. Your father died just a few days ago.” He opened the satchel and produced three items. He set each on the small end table between them. A tattered black notebook. A well-worn watch. And a key.

Stephanie walked into the room with a tray holding two mugs of scalding water and a small assortment of teas. The old man smiled as Erik studied the items. “I think we’ll have another glass of scotch if you don’t mind.” He pulled out a crisp envelope wedged between the worn pages of the black notebook and handed it to Erik.

_______

Erik. My son –

I have struggled to write this letter for nearly a year. How does a man tell his son that he failed as a father? What’s worse, how does a man tell his son that he is a liar? Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

You were so precious the day you were born. Those big bright eyes, wide and taking in the world around you. Your mother exhausted, her sweaty hair matted to her forehead – she was more beautiful that day than ever before. And the moment I first held you in my arms, my heart was full.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you the man I was before I met your mother.

I joined the Army out of high school. While in the Army, I learned things about myself that I never knew. I learned that when things got tough, I never quit. I was a capable marksman. I could solve complex problems quicker than my peers. I quickly progressed through training, eventually going through both Ranger and Special Forces school. As a young 23-year-old, putting on that Green Beret for the first time was an incredible feeling. I enjoyed nearly everything about serving in Army Special Forces. The work was important. We always got the best equipment. We got the most important missions. The only frustration was our leash that led all the way to Washington, DC. Bureaucrats that had not the stomach or resolve to let us do the MOST important work.

It was during a deployment to South Africa where a team simply known as Yankee recruited me. For the entire year-long recruitment process, I thought I was being recruited for work in the CIA. Once accepted, I learned the CIA didn’t even know of our existence. An independent group of special operatives working directly for the Vice President. We did those necessary things that were not written in reports for Congress to scrutinize. To everyone but the Vice President, former Vice Presidents, and a few key staffers around Washington DC, we didn’t exist. Not even the President knew of our existence.

I met your Mom at a bar in DC. I was in town for a few weeks debriefing the Vice President about our latest operation. She was going to grad school at Georgetown. I knew it was a bad idea to date her, but her personality was so infectious, I broke the unspoken rule. We were to be loners. Our only allegiance was to the team. But there your mother stood, that quirky smile of hers, those green eyes, that blonde hair sweeping across her eyes. She made me question everything. The day she told me she was pregnant my life changed. When you were born, I held you in my arms and decided. I would leave Yankee and dedicate myself to be a husband and a father. One last mission, then I’d find a respectable job. I did not know what that was, but I would do whatever it took for you and your mom.

Things went badly in Romania. The details are not important. What is important is that a terrorist cell learned of my identity. From that moment on – I knew our team's mistake ruined everything. These terrorists would not stop. They would find me. Maybe in a month. Maybe in a year. But eventually they would find me. And when they did, they would destroy everything around me. I knew I could never go back to you and your mom. I had only one option. Disappear. Sadly, I knew how to do that well. My organization faked my death, and I slipped into obscurity. I took part in and led operations for Yankee my entire adult life.

My life’s work made a difference. I lived with the pain of only two regrets – you and your mom.

Fortunately, my skills afforded me the luxury of being in places I should not be. So, though you were unaware – I want you to know – I was there.

I was there, watching from afar when you walked across your high school graduation stage. When you graduated from college. As you pledged your love to Stephanie in a beautiful ceremony, just another collared shirt serving red wine to guests. When your son Jackson was born, you barely noticed when I held him for a moment, just another face in nurse scrubs. And again a few years later when beautiful Madeleine was born.

I’ve been there, son. Loving you from a distance.

I have very little to show for my work. This Rolex was on my wrist for most of my adult life. It is your inheritance. That key, locker 342 at Union Station. There you will find a duffel with an untraceable $20,000. The notebook – an attempt at describing to you the man I am.

Burn this letter. Nobody will know what I’ve revealed to you – but you can never be too safe.

I love you son. I have always loved you.

______

Erik set the letter on his lap and took a slow sip of his scotch. His eyes turned to the old man.

“Why now? Why not reach out to me earlier? Better yet, why reach out at all?”

The old man rubbed his chin. “When you get to be my age, you realize what is important. Your father spent a lifetime in secrecy, but in the end days, I guess he thought it was more important for you to know the truth. Even if that truth came with emotional baggage.”

Erik sat, blankly processing the letter. A few minutes passed. The old man took a breath and stood. “Erik, your father loved you. More than you’ll ever know. In his last days, making sure you knew that was his only priority.” He reached for his glass, draining the last sips of scotch, and extended his hand to Erik, still sitting in a mild shock. Looking squarely into Erik’s eyes, “Take care of yourself and your beautiful family.”

The old man then turned to Stephanie. “Thank you for letting me into your home so late in the evening.”

“I think we are the ones who should thank you.” She said as she led him to the door.

He shook her hand, smiling as he turned and walked away.

She stood in the doorway, watching as the old man walked down the sidewalk. In the streetlamp's light, Stephanie saw the old man bring his hand to his ear and rub it a few times.

And like a shadow in the night, he was gone.