The French Doors

Military Fiction - Human Interst

Timothy G Davis

Tom started out drinking a six-pack of Great Lakes Beer in the dark blue can.  Then a twelve-pack.  Then it changed to rum.  He was soon drinking every night.  He drank until he couldn’t swallow anymore and then he’d go outside, running through the yard, screaming at the top of his lungs that the Italians were double crossing them and Cat was suppose to be on his helicopter and to be careful because the skinnies were everywhere.  Visions of the Black Sea neighborhood of Mogadishu flashed in front of his eyes, forever a part of his memory.  A memory he wanted to forget. 

He would start drinking in the house and then hike into the woods at dusk. The darkness was his friend. It covered him and hid him from the world. And then, when he thought he couldn't take anymore, she would come to him in his dreams. His fiancée, Marta, who disappeared in Panama four years before.

Sometimes Tom drove the desolate gravel roads around Lake Mille Lacs. He figured out a way to drink and drive but keep the liquor hidden. He pulled the windshield wiper tubes out from the wipers and shoved them under the dash and filled the windshield wiper container with rum and Coke. He drank from paper cups he kept in the glove box.

The windshield wiper button became his New Best Friend.

By the end of September it was getting chilly and the geese were on the move south. Tom woke up to the sound of a muffled shotgun blast and breaking glass. Not again, he thought. He threw back his quilted comforter. The furnace didn't work, so he slept in a gray sweatshirt, sweat pants and white cotton socks. Tom ran downstairs to the opposite side of the house. They always shot at the west end. That's where a gravel road, rarely used by anyone, twisted through a large overgrown field of prairie grass. The second floor of the farmhouse, what was left of it, could be seen from the road. There was a fence in there somewhere, but you couldn't see it. Tom knew it was there because one day while out exploring he bumped into it.

Tom jerked open the door. He could see his breath as he stepped outside onto the dilapidated porch. He quickly stuck his head around the corner of the house and pulled it back. That's all I learned from the army, he thought. Stick your head out into harm's way to see what you can see but pull it back before it can be blown off.

He wished he had a gun and a cup of coffee.

Another blast echoed over the field. Tom felt the rotting wood of the house shutter as it suffered yet another wound. He cringed for a moment and then thrust his head around the corner, his hands cupped to his mouth.

“Hey! There's someone living here. Hey! Do you hear me? Stop shooting. Someone lives here.”

He waited and listened. Sometimes they didn't hear and shot again. After a few seconds he heard two doors slam and an engine rev. And then there was nothing. He glanced across the yard at the thick brush that he kept telling himself he would clear out someday. But that someday never came and now he wished he had.

Tom took a cold shower, got dressed, went downstairs, boiled some water and made a steaming cup of Folgers instant coffee. He didn't have any sugar or milk so he drank it black. But that was okay. It was coffee and it was warm and that was all he needed. He strolled out onto the porch. The frost had melted away. The sky was robin-egg blue and cloudless. He took a deep breath. There was nothing like the smell of autumn, the changing of the season as things died, only to renew in the spring.

Tom inspected the overgrown bushes and shrubs that had invaded the yard and tried to decide where to begin. He walked across the dirt driveway and stopped by the fallen windmill. It was about halfway to the barn. It lay on its side in two pieces, probably broken when it hit the ground. Now it was encased with an armor of vegetation. Tom was positive there was a poisonous snake or maybe even a badger hiding in there. He walked back to the house and made another cup of coffee.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of an engine. This one was very close. Out in the Middle of Nowhere you get used to your surroundings. It's amazing how quickly you can pick up on sounds that shouldn't be there. Tom thought it might be his uninvited guests from earlier, so he stayed inside, crouched down by the sink with his head barely visible above the chipped windowsill, his eyes surveying the driveway. The sound of the engine drew closer until it was right outside the front door. The breaks squeaked and the car stopped.

It was a Yellow Cab. A man got out and hunched over the driver's door. He stood up and the cab pulled ahead, made a U-turn by the barn and disappeared the way it came. An old man dressed in a tweed jacket, brown pants and a brown felt hat stood in the driveway, arms at his side, staring straight ahead. He looked to be in his late seventies, maybe early eighties. The old man turned and looked around at the yard. Tom opened the door and walked out.

“Good morning, sir. Can I help you?”

The old man didn't move. He stood there like a statue facing the barn.

“Hello,” Tom said again, this time a little louder. “Can I help you?” Tom waited patiently, taking a few more steps. The old man turned around. Tom waited, a smile on his face, a cup of coffee in his hand. “See, I'm completely harmless,” he wanted to say without having to really say it. He stared into the stranger's eyes and for a moment there seemed to be a brightness. The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile.

“Ernie--” the old man started to say, and then abruptly stopped himself, shaking his head slowly as if scolding himself for making a stupid mistake. Tom knew what it was like to mistake someone else for a friend.

“I'm sorry,” the old man started again. He smiled, but this time it was the smile that you give a stranger. “I thought this house was abandoned.”

“You're not the only one. I rent it from Mr. Kittelson.”

“Kittelson,” the old man said. “Would that be, Jared Kittelson?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know. I've only met him a couple times. My name is Tom, Tom Daniels.” He stuck his hand out.

“Glad to meet you young man. I'm Jack Crawford.”

“What can I do for you? Need to call someone? Need a ride somewhere?” He was fishing for information. It was not just unusual but downright strange for the old man to be there.

“I'm a little thirsty. Could I trouble you for some water?”

“Sure. C'mon in.”

They walked into the kitchen and Tom opened the refrigerator. “Let's see, I have some bottled water. It looks like I have some apple cider left, Coke, or I could make you a cup of coffee. What would you prefer?”

Tom looked up but Jack was gone. He walked into the dining room and saw him standing by the French doors that divided the dining room from the living room. Those doors were an oddity. Out of all the items in the house they were the only things that remained intact. Not one window was broken or cracked. Jack ran his trembling fingertips down the length of the doors, stopping every now and then to caress a certain spot. Tom kept the doors closed because the windows in the living room were broken and it helped to keep the bugs out. Jack gingerly touched the brass handle, turned and pushed the doors open. He ran his fingertip down the inside edge until he got about halfway down, and then he stopped and smiled. He turned and did the same thing on the inside edge of the second French door, nodding approvingly. Afterward, he stepped into the living room and looked around at the walls.

“Mr. Crawford?”

He turned his head. “Yes?”

“I have your water. Would you like a glass?”

“Straight out of the bottle is fine.”

He pushed the right half of the French door over until it nudged the Lazy Boy. He sat down and reached out and held onto the door like a crutch. He took a sip of water, laid back in the chair and closed his eyes for a moment.

“I used to live here, Tom, a very, very long time ago.” He opened his eyes and stared. “It's been thirty-three years since I left. That's a long time, isn't it? A long time to be away from home.”

“It sure is,” Tom said.

“My father built this house. We lived in another, maybe a mile or two from here, one that grand pappy built. It was pretty much destroyed by the big twister of thirty-one. My father used to say a big one always came around in this neck of the woods every thirty years or so. He didn't like where the house was anyway. 'It isn't close enough to the lake,' he used to say. So, he built this one. When I came back from the war, I moved in.”

“You were in World War Two?”

Jack nodded.

“So was my father. He was on a submarine chaser called the Gray Ghost. It patrolled the English Channel during D-Day.”

“I was there, but on the ground,” Jack said.

“During D-Day?” Tom said.

Jack nodded. “I envied the swabbies like your dad. No matter what happened, they always had a warm bed to sleep in and hot chow. Not for us. We slept where we could whenever we could. In between D-Day and the liberation of Paris, I only had one hot meal.”

“I spent a little time in France myself, and Italy and Germany.”

“I was there too,” Jack said, thinking about some long forgotten memory. “But only for a few weeks. You know,” he said with half a laugh, “it was in Paris where I first met him.”

“Met who?”

“Ernie Hemingway.”

“You met Ernest Hemingway, the writer?”

Jack bobbed his head up and down. “He was there as a reporter to cover the war, but what he really wanted to do was help liberate his favorite bar from his lost generation days.”

“Really? Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing very exciting. Real war never is. It can be sadder than anything and funnier than anything. On this day it was funny.”

Tom pulled up a plain wooden chair and sat down in front of Jack. “I've read some of his novels, you know, like, A Farewell to Arms, The Sun Also Rises. I knew he lived over there for a while but I didn't know he was there during World War Two. What happened next?”

“When we got to Paris, we weren't the first troops in. We knew that the Germans had left about four hours before. The French Resistance was passing on information for us. By the time we arrived, there wasn't much left to do. Ernie was attached to our company and he talked our battalion commander into taking a Jeep and going to his favorite bar. He grabbed the first soldiers he could find. There was Ernie, the colonel, me, McDowell and Adams. It was tough going. Parisians were celebrating in the streets, but we finally got there. Ernie wanted to do something dramatic, but there were no Germans to do anything dramatic with. So, Ernie pulled out his .45 and fired a bullet in the air and started to yell, 'Viva le France,' when a clothesline fell on top of him covering him with ladies underwear.”

“I never heard that one before,” Tom said, grinning.

“And you won't. It wasn't exactly what Ernie had in mind when it came to liberating his favorite watering hole. We had a good laugh and went inside and drank champagne cocktails all night. We got drunk together and Ernie passed out. I did too, but before I did I made sure we had a place to sleep. When we woke up, Ernie went off to report on a story, and my unit continued on to Germany. But before Ernie left, he gave me his phone number back in the states and told me to stay in touch.”

“Did you ever see him again?”

“Oh yes, several times. In fact, right here in this very room.”

“Here?” Tom said, half standing up.

Jack nodded. Tom sat back down. It was a good story up to this point, but now, Tom thought, he didn't know if he believed him.

“What else happened?” Tom said

“You don't believe me.”

Tom paused and was going to say, “Of course I do,” but Jack stopped him.

“You don't need to patronize an old man. No one believes me. Those that knew the truth are all dead. But I will do as you ask and tell you more.” Jack took a sip of his water and then readjusted himself into the folds of the chair.

“I was fortunate enough to be stationed in Paris after the war. I stayed there until forty-six. I was young and reckless, and we were told that the best place to pick up beautiful French women was at the University. They would be studying English and so we would have something to talk about, if you know what I mean,” Jack said, and then he winked. “And that's where I met my wife, Katherine.”

“You married a French woman?”

“Not just a French woman. A Parisian. They consider themselves completely different. She wanted to come to America and see everything new. I wanted to stay in Europe and travel and see everything old. I had never traveled before, outside of Parker County. I knew there weren't many chances for a farm boy like me to see places like Paris. So we compromised and traveled for six months before boarding a ship and eventually made it here.”

“It must have been a big change for her--Paris to the Prairie.”

“I thought it would be too, but she seemed to love it. Everything was new and different. We moved in here. Upstairs. After about a year, my father was killed when his tractor rolled over on top of him. My mother moved in with my sister and her family down in York, Nebraska. I stayed here with Katherine, working the land.”

“What about Ernie? You said you saw him when you got back.”

“He'd invite us out to his ranch in Idaho, a beautiful place called Sun Valley. It reminded me a lot of the Black Hills. We would hunt quail and grouse and sometimes antelope. And then he would come here and we would hunt pheasant right outside the front door. When I told him that Katherine and I were planning a trip back to Paris in 1950, he asked if he could go along. We had a wonderful time together. That's when I bought these,” Jack said, rubbing the French doors.

“They're beautiful,” Tom said.

“We stayed in Paris and Ernie and his wife Mary traveled on to San Martin and then we all flew back together. I had the doors shipped ahead. Ernie helped me frame up the doorway so they would fit. Not many people know how handy he was as a carpenter.

“I can't tell you how much Katherine loved these doors. They were from her hometown. Sometimes she would sit right here in the dark and stare at them. I know she got homesick, but she never complained.”

“Is she still alive?”

Jack shook his head. “She's been gone for a long time. A long time.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Tell me something. Did Ernie ever talk about his writing when you were with him?”

“All the time. It seemed that anything could spark his interest. We would sit in this room and play a game. We'd pick out an object, say, a picture on the wall, and make up a story about it. He could tell some good ones. But so could Katherine. Sometimes I thought he was jealous of her. Being the type of man that he was, he tried not to let it show.”

Jack laid back and closed his eyes again. All of the talking seemed to make him exhausted. Tom went into the kitchen and made another cup of coffee. He still hadn't decided if he believed him or not. It was a good story. Maybe he had been in WW II, and maybe he had even seen Hemingway. But that was the extent of it. Tom walked back into the living room and sat down.

“Young man, may I use your bathroom?” Jack said.

“Of course, but only if you call me Tom. I'm not exactly a young man any more. I'll show you where it--”

“I think I know where it is,” Jack said, pushing himself to his feet. He walked through the doorway and turned left. Tom waited for several minutes but he didn't return. He checked the bathroom. It was empty.

“Jack,” Tom called. He went to the stairway and called. Then the kitchen. He looked outside and saw him standing by the shattered windmill. He ran outside.

“Jack. Jack! Stay away from there. There's some kind of creature in those bushes.”

Jack turned and smiled. “Probably just an old queen snake. It wouldn't be the first one I saw.”

Tom felt silly. Jack took his fear of some deadly, invisible creature, put a name to it and made it harmless. Not only that, but he walked into the weeds covering the windmill, searched the ground, stopped and knelt down on one knee. Tom followed him.

“This is where it happened.”

“Where what happened?” Tom wanted to know, but then, something in Jack's voice made him hesitate.

“It was the summer of sixty-one. A hot summer. Ernie was calling all the time, sometimes talking incoherently. Every time Mary took him to the Mayo Clinic they would stop by. I knew that Ernie was concerned about not being able to do some of the things he loved, like boxing and skiing and mountain climbing. But more than that, I think he was devastated that he couldn't write. We would sit in the living room and try and play the old game of picking out an object and telling a story about it. Ernie would rarely participate, and when he would, it was always about something morbid that ended in death.

“One evening Mary called from Rapid City. On their way through the airport, Ernie tried to walk into the propeller of a small plane. Katherine was about eight months pregnant and could hardly move. We would have gone to see him, but there were too many things going on here. A few weeks later when I came back from the field, Katherine was waiting on the porch. She told me the news. Ernie had killed himself. I called Mary and told her we couldn't come to the funeral. She understood.”

“That must have been awful.”

“I told her we would come later, when the baby was born. After a hard week, I finished working in the field early. I tried to help Katherine as much as I could. We were sitting down to supper when something strange happened. Something that hadn't happened since I was a boy. Everything in the world just seemed to shut itself off. Katherine walked into the dining room and said, 'It sure has gotten quiet all of a sudden.' And then it hit me. I walked outside and stood on the porch. The crickets had stopped. The birds had stopped. Even the wind itself. It was completely still. Up behind the barn was a wall of clouds unlike anything I had ever seen. They were black and gray and green and lightning flashed inside making everything glow. I saw a black hand reach down to the earth and start to twist it.”

“A tornado?”

“Yes. I told Katherine to stay inside and I ran to the barn to close the doors and suddenly the wind picked up and the horses bolted. I had my head down so I couldn't see but I heard a scream and looked up and dived out of the way just in time from being trampled. I saw Katherine on the road. I waved her back. The horses hit the windmill and it seemed to sway for a moment. The wind did the rest. I yelled at her, really I did, but with the wind . . .”

“What happened, Jack?”

“This part crushed her shoulder,” Jack said, touching the windmill. “Here she lay, with one arm trapped, and the twister passed by, right over there,” Jack pointed with his finger. “There was a grove of elm trees. Now, they're all gone. Katherine was tough, tougher than anyone gave her credit. I knelt right here and with her last breath, her last blood, she gave birth to our son.”

Tom fought back the tears that had been swelling. He could picture Katherine lying there, dying, and Jack trying to save them both. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“I buried her not far from here, in the same plot where my father rests. And then I packed up and left with my boy. I haven't been back since.”

Dark clouds had moved in while Jack was talking and the temperature felt like it was dropping fast.

“Let's go inside. I'll make us some lunch,” Tom said.

“You've had a windmill in your life, haven't you, Tom?” Jack said.

Tom nodded.

“What's her name?”

“Marta.”

“They begin to fade on you. The ones that you were closest to. Sometimes I can't see her face. It's there, but just out of reach.”

Tom jerked his head up. “That's right.”  

Jack put his withered hand on Tom's arm and squeezed. “I know,” he said. “You're still fairly young. Don't be in such a hurry to join them.”

Jack sat down in the Lazy Boy while Tom made tomato soup and ham sandwiches. When he checked on him, Jack was asleep, his head turned toward the French doors. Tom covered him with a blanket and ate in the kitchen. A heavy rain passed over. It sounded like someone was throwing handfuls of sand at the windowpanes. Streaks of water poured down the glass. The shadows of the rain covered Tom's face like gray worms. He chopped some wood into kindling and made a small fire in the wood stove. Afterwards, he poured two fingers of rum into his coffee and gulped it down.

Jack woke up in the late afternoon. He said he wasn't hungry but Tom talked him into eating a sandwich. They chatted for a little bit and then he wanted to see the house. He went to every room, telling Tom about events long past. Tom felt as if he had a chance to look through a hidden window at a glimpse of events that would have otherwise been forgotten. As it grew dark, he lit the kerosene lanterns. Tom asked Jack to spend the night and was glad that he accepted. He suddenly realized that Jack had no bag or suitcase. Only the clothes on his back.

Tom laid awake for hours, pondering on everything that had happened and wondering how much of it was true. Finally, he drifted off as he heard soft raindrops fall on the roof.

His bladder woke him up. He tried to ignore having to go to the bathroom for as long as he could. He was warm and comfortable and didn't want to move. He crept downstairs and relieved himself. He poked his head into the living room to check on Jack. He could make out a silhouette on the sofa and turned to go. But something didn't look right. He touched the sofa. What he had seen was a blanket with no one under it.

“Jack,” Tom said softly. He turned on a light. He went from room to room but there was no sign of him. Tom got dressed and checked the barn. Nothing. And then he remembered what Jack said about where Katherine was buried. He had never seen a graveyard during his explorations but maybe it was covered up by vegetation.

The sun was just coming up. He searched behind the barn and found a path leading into a patch of briars. Tom followed it for about a hundred yards until his knee bumped into an iron fence. He walked around the perimeter until he found the gate. It was open, undergrowth pushed aside. Inside, he found Jack. He was laying on his side, curled up like an embryo. Tom lay down next to him and touched his face. It was cold and stiff. In front of him was a plain wooden marker with worn letters.

Katherine Crawford, Beloved Wife and Mother.

Tom carried Jack's body back to the house and called the sheriff. They didn't make it out for two hours. They asked a few questions and then left with Jack's remains. Afterwards, Tom noticed something sticking up on the side of the Lazy Boy cushion. He pulled it out. It was a black and white photograph. He picked out Jack right away. Young, good looking, smiling from ear to ear. His arm was around the shoulder of another man he knew, but only from pictures. Ernest Hemingway. They were standing in front of French doors.

Tom walked over to those doors and inspected them more closely now. He ran his finger down the inside edge as Jack had done. There was something carved into the wood. He squinted his eyes to make it out. It was a heart and inside it read, J + K. Tom checked the other door. There he found three letters. EMH. Ernest M. Hemingway. Tom grabbed a bottle of rum and headed for the woods. He built a fire and poured a drink.

“Death just keeps following me around, doesn't it Jack? Well, from one old soldier to another, here's to you, on the conclusion of your last mission.” Tom raised the glass in a toast and then swallowed the rum. He poured what was left in the bottle on the fire. Then he lay down and drifted off to sleep while staring into the coals.

It was a story that he never expected. Most things that are very good or very bad are like that. They come unexpectedly. Tom told this story to anyone who took the time to listen. He came to understand how Jack felt when he said no one believed him. After all, Tom had been one of them. The response was always the same.

Skeptical.

But Tom knew the truth, and he knew that some things in this world needed to be remembered.

So did Jack.