The Last Reunion
By Craig Gridelli
He wakes to the first sign of dawn, pale in the East. As he always does. It takes him a few moments to gather himself. And then he swings his legs over the side of the bed where his feet find his worn old slippers.
He stands. His back and knees crack in a chorus of complaint. And yet he must stand. What else is there to do? He trundles across the small upstairs bedroom and out into the woodpaneled hallway.
It is quiet in the cabin. Outside, the morning birds, too, are going through their rituals of awakening.
He goes down the hall to the bathroom and he empties his bladder and he wets his hair and he rinses his mouth with luminescent green liquid from the travel-sized Listerine bottle.
He goes back to his assigned room, throws on a Washington Redskins hoodie, a pair of socks, and then heads down the creaky wooden stairs.
The stairs land in a small foyer which gives way to the dining room. A big, blocky wooden table dominates the room. It remains empty and untouched. He passes it by.
On the other side of the dining room is the cabin’s little kitchen. Not much more than a fridge, an oven and a microwave. But on the counter is a coffee pot, which is more than half full. And beside the coffee pot, Jake stands with a fresh cup steaming to his lips.
“Mornin Frank.”
“Mornin Jake. Sleep okay?”
“Yea. You?”
“Like a baby.”
Frank pours himself a cup, taking one of the big mugs from the cabinet above the pot. The mugs are a mismatched collage of sizes and images. He picks the one with an American flag that says LAND OF THE FREE BECAUSE OF THE BRAVE. He takes a long sip. The coffee is almost too hot to tolerate but it feels good burning the mouth. It is a good way to start a morning.
“How long you been up?”
“Just came down right before you.”
“Thanks for makin the coffee.”
“Been a while since I made a pot. We got a Keurig at home now.”
“Me too.”
“But somehow I like it better in a big pot.”
“Me too.”
They drink their coffee quietly, standing there in the little kitchen. The sun is begging to shaft in through the big downstairs windows and through the glass of the sliding door that lets out into the backyard. Small birds play on the grass of the yard beyond the door. And beyond that, the big, crystal blue lake. The surface is marbled with the white of its modest waves, rising and falling upon each other in a quiet dance. And, on the edge of the lake, the small dock where the boat bobs patiently.
“You ready to head out?”
“Just let me get my shoes.” Frank tops his mug off and goes over to the backdoor where his sneakers await. He takes them up, sits down on the soft cloth couch and slips them on. Then he looks back to Jake. “Ready when you are.”
“Should probably take a leak first. Gonna be out on the boat a while.”
“As if I’ve never seen you take a leak.”
“Could be other boats out there.”
“There haven’t been all weekend.”
“There could be some today.”
“Well go take a leak then. I can load up the boat.”
“Already done. I put the poles out there and I stuck the last of the beers in the blue cooler.”
“How many we got left?”
“Six I think.”
“A little light.”
“I gotta drive later anyway.”
“When are you plannin to head out?”
“I think we need to check out by 11.”
“Didn’t realize it was that early.”
“Yea. You need to pack up or anything?”
“Nah. Travel pretty light these days.”
“Okay. Well let’s get some fishing in while we can. Meet you out there in a minute.”
“Okay.”
Frank stands, wincing, and pauses for a moment to look down at the coffee table which serves the couch. On its dull wood surface, the big, maroon scrap book sits beside a Polaroid camera. A small, sad smile finds its way to Frank’s lips. Then it is gone and he goes out and unties the boat from its mooring on the dock’s rusted metal cleat.
Jake follows him out and together they wade out into the shallows, pushing the little boat free of the shoreline. The two old friends then hop gingerly into the wobbling vessel, careful not to spill their coffee mugs.
Frank is in the rear so he leans back and starts up the outboard, which kicks and spits and seizes and then turns over, propelling them out into the lake. The sun is risen fully now above the hills in the East and it warms the coolness of the morning breeze on the water.
They sit quietly in the tide and drink their coffees without speaking. Frank finishes his and then shortly after Jake empties what’s left into the water.
“It’s gone cold.”
Jake then takes up the two fishing poles and hands one down to Frank.
“You think we’re deep enough?”
“Hell if I know. Sure.”
Frank takes the pole and they lower their lines into the water. There are two metal anchor points for the rods and each man slips their rod into an anchor point. They drift very slowly against the tide, the outboard working only a little.
Frank, eyeing the blue cooler, reaches down. “Too early for a beer?”
“Never.”
“You want one?”
“Yea.”
Frank unzips the cooler top and withdraws two Coors Lite cans. They are cool but not cold. Their silvery metal skins are covered in little droplets of water. Frank pops one open and hands it to Jake, who takes it with a nod. Then he opens his own and falls back into his seat on the opposite end of the boat.
“Cheers to another successful reunion.” Frank takes a long drink from the somewhat tepid beer.
“To another successful reunion. May there still be a few more left in our future.” Jake holds up his own can and drinks. “Shoulda put ice in there.”
“Eh, it’s not my first lukewarm beer.”
“Shoulda got some more of those Budweisers from Quang Tri.”
“You remember that? When they shipped those in? For the battalion staff dinner?”
“Course. You got so drunk you tried to steal a jeep.”
Frank laughs. A deep hearty laugh from his belly that also hurts his chest. But it is worth it. It’s a good kind of laugh that only comes around so often. Especially these days.
“Couldn’t find the keys.”
“You kept insisting you dropped the keys. The keys were locked up in the motor pool.”
“That was just bad luck. We never locked the keys up!”
“We did before shipping in a thousand beers to a bunch of marines straight outta a month in the bush.”
“Yea.”
They both laugh now. Then it’s quiet again. Frank peers down at his line. “You got any action on yours?”
“No, nothin.”
Frank drinks some more of the beer and looks up at the sky. Some whispy white clouds have moved in and are crossing quickly. He thinks that might mean a storm is coming. Then he wonders why he thinks that. He doesn’t know anything about storms or clouds.
Jake finishes his beer and reaches down, placing the empty in the cooler and taking a fresh one out. “Grandson has his first day of kindergarten tomorrow.”
“That’s great, isn’t it? Good school?”
“Yea, really good school. So John tells me anyway. He’s pretty on top of that stuff.”
“I bet. He was always sharp that way.”
“True.”
“Your wife’s son. Not a grunt like us.”
“Thank God.” Jake drinks from his second beer and Frank quickly finishes off his first so he can keep up. He takes out a second and pops it and it hisses in the quiet morning, some foam bubbling up and out. Frank drinks the foam and the beer within.
Another long stretch of quiet ensues, the two men drinking occasionally of their beers and watching their lines as they drift across the surface of the lake.
When he finishes his second beer, Frank puts the empty in the cooler and takes a third. He looks up at Jake. “I talked to Syd, did I tell you that? Right after.”
“You did. But you didn’t go into it. What did she say? She doin alright?”
“As well as can be imagined. The kids are lookin after her.”
“Did she say anything about Hector?”
“Not really. What is there to say?”
“Maybe a clue. I didn’t even know he was struggling. Not like that, anyway. Did you?”
“No one did. That’s always how it goes, I guess.”
“Not always.”
“No, not always. But Hector was tough.”
“I know. But, if he felt he had to, I get it. I guess I trust him.”
“Even in this?”
“Even in this.”
“Yea, me too I guess. Sad, though.”
“Very sad. I feel for Syd more than anything. And their kids. That’s the worst part of it, don’t you think? Making the kids sad.”
“Yea.” Frank takes a sip of the beer and looks out at the water. “You’re not thinkin about anything like that, are you?”
“Me? No. Humped it out this long I think I’ll see it through to the end now. You?”
“Same. All good here.”
“You sure?”
“Yea. Nothin to worry about.”
“This reunion won’t work if there’s only one of us left.”
“Gonna be that way soon regardless, I think. One way or another.”
“Yea. You’re right. I plan to keep enjoying them till the end, though.”
“Right there with ya.”
“Should we toast him, you think?”
“That seems like an appropriate thing to do.”
Jake holds up his beer. “To Hector Mendez. A good man. A good marine. A good friend. Whatever his suffering, it is now ended. May he rest in peace.”
Frank raises his own beer. “May he rest in peace.”
They both drink.
Jake casts a glance back toward shore. “Should we head in?”
“Probably about that time.”
“Yea.”
They take up their lines, reeling them in and hooking the lures onto the metal rings through which the lines pass. They stow them in the bottom of the boat. Frank turns back and takes hold of the rudder, steering them back toward the shore.
It’s getting warm out so Frank takes off his hoodie.
“You can’t wear that anymore, gonna get cancelled.”
“I know. I haven’t gotten around to getting a Commanders one yet.”
“Better hurry. I’d hate to see a social media campaign launched against you.”
“Wouldn’t that be a sight. I’d need my kids to show me how to find it.”
“Technology is ruining everything.”
“I know it.”
They come up to the dock and they climb out of the boat. Jake ties it off on the cleat, using a knot he learned way back in the corps, and Frank takes the cooler and the coffee mugs and the fishing poles out and brings them up to the cabin. Jake trails him in.
“I’m gonna grab my bags. We need to do anything cleaning wise?”
“I think we’re in good shape. Instructions say to put the bedding in the hamper.”
“I can do that.” Frank goes back upstairs, gripping the banister with an old arthritic hand and climbing on pained knees. He clears out his room, packing up and closing his small grey suitcase and removing the bedding. He doesn’t feel quite safe holding the bedding and his suitcase at the same time going down the stairs, so he makes two trips. Once he’s dropped the bedding off, he rejoins Jake in the kitchen.
“We all set?”
“I think we’re all set.”
“Oh, wait, the picture!”
“Oh right! That woulda been a fuck up.”
“Alls well the ends well, c’mon.”
They go over to the coffee table and Frank takes up the Polaroid. Jake comes in and Frank puts his arm around his old friend. Since it’s a Polaroid there’s no selfie screen and Frank has to do his best just by intuition. But he holds up the camera and counts off. “Three, two, one, smile.”
The Polaroid flashes and coughs out the developing image.
“It was great seeing you, buddy.”
“You too, Jake.”
“Give me a call in a few weeks. We’ll start planning next year.”
“I will. Safe drive home.”
“You, too.”
They hug. Not the quick, polite hug of casual social gatherings among adult friends. It’s a more ancient kind of hug.
And then just like that, Jake is gone. Frank waits and watches the image develop. Two old men. White, scraggly beards. Unkempt hair. They look very old, now, he thinks. They have gotten very old.
He opens up the maroon scrap book and begins to flip the pages. Taped onto the first page is an old, faded photo of four young men. They are in marine utilities, standing in front of a jeep on some long lost late afternoon. They are all smiling and young and full of life in their eyes. Below the picture, in careful pen, is scrawled: “Last Day Before Vietnam”
Frank flips on. The pages that follow contain a series of similar pictures. Four young men, now in civilian clothes. Now slightly older. Then in suits and ties. Then in tuxedos.
That was my wedding, Frank thinks.
Then two other weddings. Then Jake holding a baby. Then Frank holding one. Then the babies begin to multiply. On and on, but each time the four of them, standing in the same position as that original picture.
Then, about half way through, the pictures change. Now there are only three of them. Beneath this first picture of three, the inscription “RIP Billy”.
Frank wipes his eyes and flips on. Now the three that remain each with their wives. Then three with their wives and their kids. Now the three are starting to look old.
There is the one from when they all went to Vietnam for a vacation. That one from about ten years prior. That’s the first one in a while where the family members are absent and it’s just the three old marines, standing where they once stood when they were but boys.
And on. And on. Till last year, at the dude ranch in Wyoming. Three old, bearded men. Getting fat, men. But happy men, or so Frank had thought.
Poor old Hector. What was he hiding inside all those years? What do we all hide?
Frank takes the new picture. He flips to the first blank page and he places it there, where it will go. He didn’t think to bring tape but the picture will stay till he gets home with it. He knows what he’ll write for this one, when he gets it back to Virginia. “RIP Hector”.
He closes the book and heads out of the cabin to start the long drive home.
****
Craig Gridelli is a former Army Ranger who deployed to Afghanistan in 2008. He received a Bronze Star, Combat Action Badge and Army Commendation Medal. Craig left the Army in 2010 and currently lives and works in NY.