Michael Langlois - Bad Radio

I had to laugh at that. Getting grabby with Patty’s granddaughter would have led to quite the exciting evening for her dates, just not in the way they imagined.

“That’s a great idea, but I don’t think that’s really why he did it. I think that the old bastard knew all along that you had his gift. He was preparing you to do what he used to do, if it came down to that. Patty was pretty good in a scrape himself, but of course he got his training from the Brits at Achnacarry with the rest of us. Maybe he didn’t go through the whole course, but he did enough.”

“Achnacarry?”

“Scotland. It’s where all of us were trained, back in the ‘40s. The British had real commandos and we didn’t, so Uncle Sam pulled a bunch of us from the 34th Infantry and gave us to the Brits to train. Your grandfather and the Professor showed up at the end. They were more honorary Rangers than anything else. We had four head-kickers plus those two, whom we were assigned to protect.”

“My grandfather was in for his nose, right? Why Henry?”

“Doesn’t do much good to find the bad stuff if you don’t know what it is or what to do about it when you get there. Didn’t Patrick ever tell you any of this?”

“He didn’t like to talk about it.”

“Me neither to tell the truth.”

“Oh. Sorry.” And just like that, she turned on the radio and dropped it. I was both surprised and grateful for the gesture.

Austin Straubel International Airport was originally named for the first aviator from Brown County to die in the war, back in 1942. I didn’t know if the stream of people that swirled around us like we were a rock in a current knew that, but it was kind of a big deal back then. No matter what branch you served in, or where you lived or fought, he was one of us. It was satisfying to see him remembered, as if that remembrance were for us as well.

Of course, the noble history of the airport didn’t make up for the reality of modern air travel. We spent the next five hours in a cramped flying bus full of people studiously ignoring the undignified accommodations and each other.

I received fifteen cents worth of soda in a tiny plastic cup while trying to keep my knees from rubbing the seat in front of me. It was like being in a dog kennel one size too small, but without the ability to lie down.

I remembered taking trips with Maggie back in the ‘60s to visit friends, and it seems like with so many other things, in my memory those trips were more elegant and comfortable. Of course, fewer people could afford to do it back then, so I guess I shouldn’t complain.

Coming out of the airport into the soft, fragrant night air of North Carolina was worth the ordeal. I took a deep swig of the heavy air and felt my shoulders and face relax right away. It was warmer here, as if even the seasons were more relaxed.

We had to take a shuttle bus to get to the rental car center, which was a quick way to get to a slow moving line, where I rented the cheapest SUV they had.

I’m not a fan of SUVs for most things, since I expect a truck to work hauling manure and hay on the farm and I’m not interested in sharing cabin space with a hundred pounds of cow shit, but I figured the extra room and ground clearance couldn’t hurt for what lay ahead.

It took over an hour to reach Henry’s place from the airport, much of it down dark and deserted blacktop roads, past the outskirts of the small town of Linwood. The lonely plot of land that Henry had purchased after the war was situated on the edge of a large stand of pine trees far back from the highway.

The only indication that someone lived here was a break in the endless line of trees along the highway and a massive brick mailbox with an iron plate on top with the word “Monroe” stenciled on it in white paint.

He ended up living on the backside of nowhere for the same reason that I had moved back to the farm after the war. Walking through the destruction of Europe, literally climbing over chunks of masonry from buildings five hundred years old, or around the smoking remains of a newly built cafe, had changed the way we viewed civilization.

Buildings looked like pre-ruins when we got back, and the teeming masses that inhabited them seemed fragile and temporary. Only the mud and trees and hills seemed permanent and reliable.

I turned into Henry’s carefully raked, quarter-mile-long gravel driveway and stopped after about twenty yards, leaving the lights and engine running.

“Why are we stopping?” asked Anne.

“Because we don’t want to get shot.” After a few seconds of sitting in the dark, a powerfully built black man in dark sweatpants and a black T-shirt materialized out of the shadowy tree line to my left. He moved in that classic easy trot that spoke more of military service than the M9A1 pistol that he was holstering. I rolled the window down.

“You must be Abe.” He was fairly young, but he had a deep, wide voice. Beads of sweat stood out in his scalp-close hair. “Expecting anyone else?”

“Nope. And you are?”

“Leon Moss.” He reached into the car and shook my hand. His grip was hard and quick. “Henry is my great-uncle.”

“Nice to meet you, Leon. Want a ride up to the house?”

“No, thanks. I’m gonna check the perimeter a few more times and see what might come in behind you.”

“Okay, thanks.” We started rolling slowly up the drive, the gravel cracking and popping under the tires. When I looked into my rearview mirror, Leon was gone.

The old place looked much like the last time I saw it, decades ago. A huge oak tree dominated the front of the house, now just a black fractal silhouette against the floodlight over the porch.

The gravel drive went straight up to the tree where it became a wide circle around its trunk. I drove around until I was pointed back down the drive and then shut off the engine. Yellow light from two of the front windows painted long rectangles across the wooden porch, spilling out into the yard.

I walked around to the SUV’s rear hatch, listening to the crunch of my footsteps and the wind slithering through the oak’s high branches. Those small sounds underscored the thick silence. I put both of my duffels over one shoulder, and Anne’s over the other and then locked the car.

“Thanks, but I can carry my own bag,” said Anne as we walked to the porch.

“I got it.” I knocked on the door.

“I said I can carry it.” She yanked her duffel off of my shoulder and slung it over her own.

“Take mine, too, if you like carrying bags so much. I’m not that big a fan.”

The door swung open with a long creak from the steel spring bolted to the top of it, revealing Henry ‘The Professor’ Monroe. He looked pretty good to me for a man in his eighties. The deep wrinkles and sagging, parchment-thin skin did little to distract from his clear and steady gaze.

“Abraham. Come on in.” His smile was bright in his dark face, and warm.

We followed him into a small but neat kitchen. He wore gray work pants, heavy black shoes, and a sleeveless wife beater undershirt.

“It’s been a long time, Henry,” I said. Then I dropped my bags and hugged the guy.

“It’s great to see you, Abe.” He slapped me on the back a few times, and I’ll be damned if my eyes weren’t a little moist when we were done. We grinned at each other for a few moments in silence. “And who is this?” His voice was deep and measured, each word enunciated precisely in his round-edged mellow tones. It was this mannerism, more than his role as our portable scholar, that earned him his nickname.

“I’m Anne, sir. Pleased to meet you.”

“She’s Patrick’s granddaughter.”

“Is that right? Well, I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Anne.” Henry smiled and shook her hand with both of his. “Can I get you two some coffee?”