Page 39 of A Hero Comes Home

Jake’s lips twitched with a grin. “An emergency, huh? Okay. Lead the way.” Jake tossed off the other vinyl glove, grabbed for the cane he’d placed against the grill, and took Luke’s little hand in his big paw and proceeded to walk with him up the stairs to the back porch. When he got there, he told his father, “The first batch of burgers and dogs are ready. Can you serve them and turn that new batch?”

“Sure,” his father said, and both he and Old Mike started down the steps.

In the bathroom, he stood Luke on the closed toilet seat and worked out the snag in the zipper, then waited while the boy took care of business. Afterward, they both washed their hands. Luke looked up at him and flashed a gap-toothed grin at him. “I love you, Daddy,” he said.

And Jake’s heart about cracked with emotion. “Love you, too, short stuff,” he said, ruffling his bristly hair.

“Chow’s ready!” they heard his father’s shout from outside.

And Luke ran off.

Instead of returning to the backyard, Jake headed down the hall toward the front door. On the way, he hesitated and went into the living room, which was similar in layout to his own home. On the fireplace mantel and on the built-in shelves on either side, he saw a series of framed photographs which drew him closer.

On the mantel, there was his parents’ circa-1970s wedding picture, his dad in a formal black suit and his mother in a big fancy white gown and veil, standing outside Our Lady by the Sea Church. His dad had a serious, nervous expression on his face as he stared ahead at the camera. His mother’s head was tilted toward her new husband in a teasing, intimate manner, the way it often was when his father was all grumpy after a bad day on the water.

Next to it was a photo taken outside city hall in New York City, Jake in his full dress uniform and Sally in a white suit with matching high heels. She carried a bunch of daisies which he’d purchased from a street vendor on the way. Sally had been four months pregnant by then, but you’d never know it by her slim figure. The way she was looking at him in the photo clearly showed that the setting didn’t matter to her a bit. She was happy. And in love.

Jake couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at him that way.

Over on the shelves, the framed photos were arranged by event. His birth: a newborn baby being held by his mother in a hospital bed with his father sitting on the edge of the mattress, beaming with pride. Then the birth of Jake’s three sons. Sally and the newborns were featured in these three, of course. He was in one, wearing a blue hospital gown and cap, holding baby Matthew. Jake had tried his best but had been unable to make it home in time for the deliveries of his other two sons. A sore point between him and Sally, to say the least.

On other shelves were pictures of christenings, first communions, kindergarten graduations, PeeWee and Little League baseball, birthday parties, Christmases, first bicycles, fishing off the Bell Cove wharf . . . dozens of them. Jake had seen all these, or most of them, before, of course. Sally had been religious about sending him digital photos of his kids. Still . . . seeing all of these in one collection, he realized how much he’d missed of his sons’ lives. And of Sally’s, too. There was one particular one he noted showing her standing with a giant pair of scissors about to cut the ribbon on a storefront with a sign boasting “Sweet Thangs,” the grand opening of her bakery.

All water under the bridge now. And, really, no different than any other soldier’s wife or family.

“Jake? Food is ready,” Sally called out, and then he heard her footsteps approaching.

“I’m in here,” he said, not wanting her to think he was hiding out or anything pathetic like that. He was pathetic enough without being that kind of wuss, too.

She arched her brows when she saw him standing before the photos. “A walk down memory lane?” she asked, leaning against the archway leading to the hall.

“Sort of,” he said.

“You gonna come and eat?”

“In a minute,” he said, sinking down into his dad’s recliner.

Instead of taking the hint and leaving him alone, she sat down in his mother’s rocker on the other side of the fireplace, facing him. “You’ve seen all these photos before,” she reminded him.

“Not all. The one in front of your bakery is new,” he pointed out.

“Right,” she said. “Speaking of which, there’s something I need to discuss with you.” She rocked a little faster now. With nervousness?

Uh-oh. Was this the beginning of the uncomfortable questions he wouldn’t be able to answer?

“This will sound really morbid, but I used your death benefit to buy the bakery. Will I have to pay it back now?”

Ah. He relaxed visibly. “Don’t worry about that. Uncle Sam won’t be knocking on your door looking for a payback. They owe me too much.”

“Do you mean back pay?”

“No, I mean leverage.” As soon as the word left his mouth, he knew it was a mistake.

“Leverage?” She pounced on the word.

“I mean, how would it look if they sicced a collection agency on one of its POWs—I mean, MIAs?” Man, I am screwing up here big-time.

He could tell she wasn’t convinced but, luckily, she moved on to another subject. Well, unluckily, considering the subject.