Homecoming Pt III
Bill woke up with a start, disturbing Thomas as he sat up straight. Looking up at Bill, Thomas rolled over with his belly up, waiting for his owner to rub his belly. Looking around with somewhat wild eyes, Bill could not locate the sound that had awakened him. There were many times when he did not know if the sound was real, or something in his dreams. Actually they were rarely dreams like others had, they were more like re-enactments of events in his life. Most times they were pleasant and he lingered half awake enjoying the dream. Sometimes he woke up in a cold sweat and got up quickly to get out of the nightmare he was stuck in. This dream was some where in between. Thomas reached up and put his paw on Bill’s arm to remind him that he needed his belly rubbed, right now. Bill looked down at the cat and grinned, “Well Thomas, did you have a good nap?”
The cat just wiggled a little and purred. Reaching down Bill rubbed the cat’s belly and stroked his head, pulling his ears down flat when he did that. Thomas swiveled his head around and caught Bill’s hand in his teeth. Knowing full well that Thomas would never bite him, Bill moved his hand back and forth taking the cat’s head with the movement of his hand. Thomas reached up with his front paws and grabbed Bill’s wrist and pulled down hard. Bill laughed out loud and both he and the cat looked up quickly at the strange sound. Startled, Bill shivered a little until he realized it was he who had made that unfamiliar sound. He had grown accustomed to the house being silent except for the rare times he actually talked out loud to Thomas. Bringing the recliner upright, Bill stood up with Thomas trying to stay in his lap as he did so. Bill gently held Thomas until he was upright and then turned and placed Thomas in the recliner. “Just because I got up doesn’t mean you have to. Enjoy your nap old boy.”
Crossing to a door in the living room Bill opened it and looked in. He reached around the doorjamb and flipped the light switch. The inside of this room was in stark contrast to the two rooms he and Thomas shared. It wasn’t a large room but it was set up to be as efficient as possible. The room actually was Bill’s real world, the place he spent most of his time and where he could truly relax. The walls were covered with newspaper clippings, some old and brown with age, while others were from recent papers. There did not appear to be an order to the articles, but Bill knew where each and every one of them was and would lift the corner of one to reveal the next, neatly thumb tacked beneath. With one exception, all of the articles pertained to some aspect of America’s armed conflicts around the globe. There were articles on medical advances which had arisen from techniques proven on the battlefield and perfected in civilian hospitals, others on latent medical conditions now recognized as arising from chemical exposure overseas, and still others posing open ended questions about such things as the burning of toxic and medical waste outside of military bases in the Middle East. Others on the opposite wall were primarily about significant changes in military equipment, and still others about futuristic weapons still in the design and concept phase. If Bill had given it any thought, he would suppose that others might find his interest in things military and especially medical somewhat macabre. But in truth, Bill did not give much thought to what others might think, primarily because he really didn’t care much what others thought and never solicited others opinions of his interests.
The wall opposite the door had only one article tacked up neatly and it was actually an obituary dated March 24, 1985. The accompanying picture was of a car smashed almost beyond recognition, and a young woman with two children under a headline, which read, “Local family killed in fatal car crash.” Standing in front of it, Bill reached out slowly and lightly touched the woman’s face. His head bowed and his eyes filled with moisture that leaked down his cheeks. Shaking his head he looked up again and reached out to touch the two children in the picture. His eyes took on a far away look as though he were looking back through the years that had passed since that day. Sitting down heavily in the chair facing that wall Bill shook his head and picked up a small piece of wood laying on the workbench he was seated in front of. Caressing it lightly he turned it over in his hands searching for any hidden defect in the material, or in the workmanship it had taken to arrive at this point in its transformation. Bill seemed transfixed by the piece of wood while in reality he was reliving that fatal day. Many minutes passed as Bill continued to shift the small piece of wood in his hands. Finally, giving a shudder and sighing deeply, Bill turned his attention to continuing the project he had started a few days prior.
Even Bill did not know how many days had passed since he had started this latest project. He had no real recognition of the passage of time and did not really care about time in the manner most folks did. He was a simple man who saw things in black and white, having decided long ago that gray was the area of life occupied by those incapable of making decisions and standing by them. There were two times in Bill’s life; daytime and nighttime, awake or asleep, working or not working. It made little sense to him to concern himself with the in between times. The times in between were without importance in Bill’s life. He ate, bathed, slept, cleaned or shopped for supplies when he needed to. Setting the piece of wood down, Bill flipped the switch on the miniature belt sander on the bench at which he was sitting. The sander, like the other tools in Bill’s shop, were high quality precision tools designed for working with small pieces of wood or metal and took little space on the benches lining the walls of the room. Some of the machinery was of Bill’s own design, or had been adapted from available designs when they did not exactly serve Bill’s needs. It never occurred to Bill that he could profit from the design he implemented, or that he had violated patent law when he modified tools for his own use. When he needed a tool, or could modify one for his own use, that was all that mattered. He was not attempting to profit from anything he designed, altered, or from the miniatures he created using the tools in his shop. What he produced was important, not how he managed it.
Bill’s workbenches were filled with neatly lined up rows of miniatures. There were cars, boats, planes and trains on one bench, while the one next to it had miniature furniture pieces, boxes, trunks, beds and appliances. Another bench held animals of all kinds. Each of the types of animals were made in pairs, some of wood, some metal, some plaster, while others were of ceramic and had been painted in exacting detail. If one were to watch Bill work, it would have seemed that the shaking of his hands would make such exacting work impossible, however Bill like others before him, paid little attention to his limitations and simply persevered in his work. Actually Bill did not think of what he did as work at all. He was performing his life function: to create and to build. It never occurred to Bill that he could share what he created with others, as he had no living relatives to give things to, and had little contact with the public beyond shopping trips to get supplies, or replenish his household items. He ate little and shared what he ate with Thomas so shopping for food was accomplished quickly. The odds and ends of wood and metal he could get by simply picking items from the alleys around town, which he did with regularity. He never opened any of the trash bins, believing it to be an unconscionable violation of privacy to do so, limiting himself to picking from the inevitable piles next to the trash bins. The items he picked up were usually in such good shape that Bill had a hard time believing folks were actually discarding them, but then Bill had given up trying to understand why people did what they did. Life outside of his own house and shop was pretty much a mystery to him. There was a time when he had made an effort to understand what was going on with people but had gotten so confused with all of it he just didn’t bother anymore.
The one exception in his creations he did share were the miniature flag presentation cases he made and gave to the military men who came to town on the bus. Those were very special to him and he gave each one his undivided attention. He had first gotten the idea when he went to a military funeral. The honor guard had presented a full size flag carefully folded and fitted into a case to the mother of the young man who had been killed in action as though it would somehow make up for her loss. It occurred to Bill it would make more sense to honor the living than to attempt to honor the dead. That was the beginning of his years long attempt to honor all of the young military men he came into contact with. He wanted them to know how much he appreciated their dedication and devotion to serving their, his, country. He didn’t care much for how the government handled things, and in many cases downright detested when and where the young men of the U.S. were sent overseas. None of that really mattered when it came to honoring the men. As long as he could help them know that the people of the country stood behind them he would keep building the little cases he had created. Each one he presented to a young man somehow helped him heal a little. That big empty place where his heart used to be was filling in with each one he handed out.
As Bill sat before the bench he heard something he couldn’t place. He turned off the sander and turned his head to listen closer. At first he thought it might be Thomas trying to get up on the table in the kitchen, but it didn’t seem like what the cat would be likely to do. Bill got up and headed toward the kitchen to locate the sound when he realized it appeared to be coming from the front of the house. Since he hadn’t been up there in a long time, he couldn’t imagine what would be making noise up there. Walking toward the front he realized that someone was knocking on the front door. No one ever came to the front of his house. He had a P.O. Box where he got his mail and had not given his street address to anyone. The front gate was latched on the inside so the kids couldn’t get in and cause any mischief and he had a NO TRESPASSING sign on the fence just in case someone thought they wanted to sell him something. Annoyed by the interruption he walked more quickly up the hall. Muttering to himself he fumbled with the locks on the door and realized he didn’t have the key to the deadbolt with him. Bill shouted “Hold on a minute would you, I’ll be right back.”
Turning around he stumbled slightly and put a hand out to support himself. Who the hell would be pounding on his door? was his thought as he retraced his steps to get the key. It hadn’t better be anyone trying to sell him something or one of the neighbor kids playing a trick on him. He would give them a piece of his mind if it were. Picking up his keys and his 1911, Bill hurried back up the hall to the front door. Inserting the key in the deadbolt, Bill unlocked the door and cracked it slightly so he could look outside. Keeping his hand with the 1911 down at his side and slightly behind him, Bill opened the door wider to get a better look at whoever was standing outside.
“Mr. Casey, may I talk with you for a minute? It’s about this present you gave me.” Startled, Bill looked out to find the young man from the bus stop standing on the stoop outside his front door. “I don’t want to bother you but you walked away so fast I didn’t have time to thank you. I had to ask around a bit to find out where you live. Is it ok if I come in?” Numb with shock and surprise, Bill stepped back and allowed the young man in.
To be continued. GS April 24, 2011
