Just Beyond 17

A black cloud of exhaust billowed over the sidewalk bench where she sat as the bus pulled away from the curb. It mirrored the cloud of disappointment that hung over her like a shroud. He wasn’t on the bus.

Mildred pushed herself to her feet off the cold metal bench and shuffled her way down the sidewalk. She had been at the bus stop once a week since she had gotten the letter from the Marines in 1970. He would be older than the age she was then when he left. Gone to the jungle to fight in a War that nobody won, and he was one that never came home. But, she waited.

The ninety-three year old mother had never given up hope because MIA didn’t mean the same as KIA, not every single time. She didn’t think he would be sitting on a beach somewhere, but she thought just maybe that he didn’t have enough plane and bus fare to get all the way home from around the world. It might take him just a little while longer than some, but she was convinced that he would scrape enough money to come home before she crossed over into the great beyond so that she could see his face just one last time.

She had kept the small black notebook in her pocket. The leather cover of the little black notebook was buttersoft. She had memorized the letters he had left for her. He had written 31 letters to her, one for every day of the month since the day he received his Order to Report.

The week after she had been notified that he was MIA, she had opened a savings account. Faithfully, every month she had made a small deposit. The total was up to $20,000. It wasn’t much by some standards, but to her, it was a fortune.

On that fateful day, 7 June 1970, Kurt was a pilot of the downed plane. He had crawled out of the wreckage and passed out. He wasn’t sure if the child-sized visions who surrounded him were angels or human, but the touch and foreign voice woke him from the sleep of the wounded and exhausted.

They helped him to his feet, and he leaned heavily on them. The wreckage just beyond was more than he could bear to face. He never looked back as they led him away to the safety of a cave hidden in the Marble Mountains.

After he had mended enough to limp alone, he had gone back to the plane’s wreckage and left a coded note. He watched and hoped to hear Pedro, the faithful rescue helicopter, and see the PJ, the pararescue jumper, coming to his rescue. But, he had to assume that the locator had been destroyed upon impact. His memory of the moments leading up to the impact were sketchy at best. From the moment his RIO had ejected until impact were blessedly blocked from his memory.

Over time, he regained his strength, but his leg didn’t mend properly.

The walk over the mountains to the airfield was still too dangerous. The Viet Cong were vigilant in stalking the top of the mountain. The family that had taken him into their cave were hiding for their own safety from the raiders of the Viet Cong. They were a peaceful family, and they welcomed Kurt in as one of their own. He kept count of the days as his comrades in arms always had, with a crude calendar drawn on his helmet.

The remainder of his 365 day tour of duty passed slowly as if he were slogging through the rice paddies that he had flown over.

After years had passed and peace returned to the skies, Kurt walked to the airfield to find all of the familiar US planes gone. He was a broken soldier. He feared he had been declared a deserter, but he had been faithful to the uniform and the country he served. He had no way out, and he was in a country that was no longer welcoming his own.

Wandering the city, he found out that they were evacuating and relocating Americans to Guam with no questions asked. Undoubtedly, he should have had hero status for surviving a plane crash, but it seemed that nobody really missed him or wanted to know his story. A limping MIA pilot was just another warm body in the crush and madness of evacuating refugees.

Upon entering Guam, he was lost in the crowd, just another number on a piece of paper. So, he wandered the streets and found himself lost yet again, but this time, he was on American soil.

The white sandy beach beckoned to him. He camped, fished, and survived, keeping mostly to himself. It was a lonely life, but it was soothing and a balm to his wounded soul because he no longer had to fear the Viet Cong.

Kurt learned to catch fish and became an entrepreneur of sorts. He offered the best catches to the restaurants. It became his livelihood, and he was able to save enough money to put a roof over his head and better food on his table. He put money aside intending to save enough for a plane ticket home. He became comfortable with his routine, and he began to put down roots in paradise.

As the days folded into years, his thoughts wandered back to his childhood. He wondered if anyone still missed him, and if anyone did, it was probably his parents. He had only been a child when he was drafted, inducted, and taken away from all that was familiar.

It didn’t take long to earn enough for a plane ride, but the sinking feeling in his gut every time he looked at a plane flying overhead was enough to give him pause. It would be a long flight over the ocean back to the mainland. He just didn’t know if he had enough intestinal fortitude to set foot on another plane. The only pilot he had really trusted had been himself, and look how that had turned out. . . a nose dive onto the Marble Mountains.

He had thought about sending a telegram or something back home, but it was almost as if the first 19 years of his life had been only a dream. It was a step out of time that he could barely touch in his memory if he tried really hard when the sun and moon were on the edge of night. Then, he could smell his mother’s Sunday perfume and hear his father’s rich laughter. For a fleeting moment, he could almost smell the pot roast in the oven.

He was on the brink of another birthday, and when at the edge of night just before drifting off to dream, he realized just how much he missed his childhood home and the life he left behind.

Early the next morning, he determined that at well over 40 years old, it was time to make at least one last trip to his childhood home. He set his mind to the task and made the travel arrangements.

Kurt packed his bag and trudged to the airport, the knot in his stomach was the same as the one he felt during the first flight away from home and into the unknowns of the war of Vietnam. He hoped the gnawing ache would go away once the bird was in the air.

He settled into his seat and fastened his seatbelt. He closed his eyes and took steadying breaths. He could still see the proud look on his mother’s face when he’d left for war. “I’m finally coming home, Mama,” he whispered.

The plane landed, and he wended his way out of the bustling airport. He debated a rental car, but opted instead to find the bus station. He was going back the same way he left, on a slow bus to Dry Creek.

The bus stopped in every community, and the whine of the engine and the whir of the wheels soon had Kurt drifting off to sleep. He woke when the driver hollered, “Dry Creek is the next stop!”

The bus rolled to a stop, the door whooshed open, and the air brakes sighed. Kurt pulled his duffel bag out of the overhead compartment and sidled down the aisle. He stepped off the bus.

An old woman was seated with a forlorn look on her face. She looked up when his boots tapped the pavement.

She gasped.

“Kurt.” The name was a whisper. Tears spilled down the woman’s face. She recognized him.

He caught a whiff of the Sunday morning perfume that he’d dreamed of on Marble Mountain and on the sandy beach of Guam.

“Mama, how did you know I’d be here?” he asked as he gathered the frail woman into his arms.

“You’re still the spitting image of your daddy,” her voice was muffled against his chest.

He set her back down to look at her carefully. He had imagined his homecoming, but he’d never expected to find his mother waiting at the bus station.

“Welcome home, son,” she said. “I’ve been waiting here every week since 1971. Let’s go home.”

He followed her to her car, and she handed him the keys to the Plymouth Gran Fury. He settled behind the wheel and took in the sights of the small town he had grown up in. So many things had changed, yet it was as familiar as the melody of a favorite song.

He turned down the street and into the driveway. The tree had grown. The garage was enclosed. The porch had a fresh coat of paint, but there was no doubt, Kurt was finally home.

He followed her into the garage and was shocked to see the car he had left behind, the 1966 Ford Fairlane, still polished a brilliant turquoise green, the color of the North Pacific.

Once he was seated at his favorite chair at the kitchen table with a heaping helping of pot roast and apple pie, Mildred handed a bank book to him. “I’ve been saving this for you,” she said.

He opened the booklet. A tear left a trail as it traveled down his dry cheek. “$20,000, Mama, you didn’t have to do this. You could have used this money for yourself and Daddy.”

“Oh, but I knew you were coming home, and Son, it’s all the gifts I didn’t get to give to you.”

Kurt stood and folded Mildred into his arms. “Thank you, Mama.”

Mildred waited for Kurt to tell her of his life away from Dry Creek, but she didn’t ask. Time was far too fragile to worry about the days they had missed. It was enough that he was home. And, for Mildred, time had kept Kurt somewhere just beyond the age of seventeen.

It was at the edge of night while laying in the bed of his childhood that Kurt wondered if the sandy beach and the ocean water on his toes were just a fleeting dream.

He closed his eyes and with a smile, he said, “In my hometown, I’ll always be somewhere just beyond the age of seventeen.”