J. Margos - Shattered Image

It was early morning, when I was startled awake by the word “Mom!”

I looked up to see the sun filtering through the lowhanging branches of my backyard. Initially, I couldn’t remember where I was or what I was doing there. The first thing I realized was that my feet were cold. Then I realized there was a tall, strawberry-blond man standing over me, but I couldn’t see his face due to all the backlighting from the sun. He was wearing a gun in a holster that hung on his belt and the sunlight glinted off of a gold detective’s badge. I recognized my son’s voice, and then I remembered where I was and what I was doing there.

“I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to get the smelling salts.”

I shielded my eyes with my hands and squinted so I could see his face.

“What are you talking about?”

“I thought maybe you had some kind of spell.”

“Don’t be smart. I just fell asleep.”

“Well, how many ‘mature’ women spend the night on the patio sleeping on an Adirondack? Then there are all these mugs and bottles…”

“Root beer, smarty, and you know it.”

He was chuckling now and enjoying every minute of it.

“I’m sure you’ve never done anything like this,” I said as I struggled to sit up straight and regain part of my dignity.

“Mario, you’re not looking so speedy this morning.”

I backhanded him in the leg.

“Watch your mouth.”

Mario was his nickname for me-after Mario Andretti. I had acquired this moniker on account of my love for a fast car with a stick shift and an open road on which to drive it. Sometimes my right foot would become very heavy, especially if the road was really open.

He chuckled. “So, what’s the occasion?”

“I had a bad afternoon yesterday. What are you doing here so early anyway?”

“I came by to see what kind of progress you were making on the bust of our Red Bud victim.”

“I was working on it, and then Irini called.”

“Theia Irini?”

He used the Greek word in referring to his “Aunt Irene.” Irini had been our close friend since before Michael was born, and he had grown up with her around and being a part of our extended family in faith. She was his godmother. He had learned to speak some Greek, too, and he did a pretty good job.

“Yes,” I said.

“What’s wrong? Is Greg okay?”

Greg was one of Mike’s best friends.

“Gregory is fine.”

“What then?”

I sighed and put my head in my hands, running my fingers through my short, graying red hair. I looked up at Michael.

“CILHI thinks it has Ted’s remains.”

Mike sank into the chair next to me.

“Wow.”

We looked at each other.

“So, what’s the rest, Mom?”

“Not enough teeth for a dental ID and nothing to compare the DNA with, but the skull is in decent enough shape.”

Mike looked down at the ground between his feet.

“Whew.” He paused a moment and then looked over at me. “So, what’re you going to do?”

“Well, I’ve committed to it. I have to, no matter how I feel about it.”

Mike nodded. He reached over and squeezed my right shoulder. “It’s the right thing, Mom. Anything I can do?”

“Be here.”

“You got it.”

We sat there a moment in silence.

“Hey, Mom?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t believe you fell asleep on one of these hard wood chairs.”

“Hey, Mike?”

“Yeah.”

“I fell asleep on one of these hard wood chairs.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re welcome.”

After my little campout on the patio, I decided I needed to get my rear into gear before I was going to be able to get my head together. One of the rooms in my house is set aside as a weight room with a bench and rack and a couple of machines for back and leg work, a roman chair for abs and low back and a pulley set up for more arm and chest work.

I suited up in my black cotton sweatpants and racerback top and did a fifteen-minute warm-up on the recumbent stationary bike. Thoroughly warmed up, I did a full set of stretches and hit the weights. I hadn’t been in the gym for days, so I went at it hard, doing a full-body workout, supersetting everything for maximum cardio benefit. When I was done with that, I got back on the recumbent bike and did another thirty minutes.

I was dripping in sweat when I was done, but I felt a hundred percent better-mentally and physically. I got into a steaming-hot shower and washed everything out of my system-at least temporarily.

Refreshed from my exercise and hot shower, I put on a clean pair of jeans and socks, a white cotton T-shirt and my favorite pointy-toed boots and went to the studio.

I sat on the stool in front of my drafting table and began to make a list of everything I would need to take with me to Hawaii. I would need a case in which to carry the cast I would make of the skull. I began to list other tools and supplies to pack.

I sat back and took a deep breath. Who was I kidding? What I would need most of all was the spiritual fortitude to face this task and all that it meant to me. I would need that to go back into the jungles of Vietnam in my mind.

I set my pen down on the drafting board and got the phone instead. It was time to call Reverend Iordani. I needed to walk and talk.

When Jack died from a sudden and unexpected heart attack six years ago, my world came apart like a house of cards. Reverend Iordani used to walk with me along the riverbank under the cypress trees. I don’t remember much of it. Life for me then existed in a fog, but I remembered the cypress trees and their peaceful effect.

I sat on a bench under the great spreading branches of one of those peaceful trees and waited. True to form and ten minutes late-they call it Greek time-Reverend Iordani came strolling down a grassy bank that led from the street to the trail along the river. He beamed at me and waved.

I got up and began to walk toward him. I kissed his hand and then we greeted in the traditional Greek way with the exchange of three kisses. As we began to walk, we talked about my two most recent cases: the woman under the cottonwoods and the one just discovered upriver on Red Bud Isle. Reverend Iordani listened carefully, complimented me on my hard work and efforts and asked me about Mike.

Then he stopped under a large tree and said, “Toni, this isn’t why you called me, so tell me what this is really about.”

“Irini called me the other day. They think they’ve found Ted’s remains in Vietnam.”

The reverend knew all about Ted. Irini lived just outside of town in Dripping Springs, and she came to our church. He knew Irini well.

“Wow,” he almost whispered. He said, “May his memory be eternal.”

He had a hushed sound to his voice-a peaceful, calm demeanor. All of this was part of his normal way, but now it was more pronounced.

“They can’t make a positive ID on his remains for a lot of reasons, but there’s enough of the skull for a reconstruct,” I told him.

“That’s the only way they’ll know for sure?”

I nodded and looked down at my feet, making curlicue shapes in the dirt with the tip of my boot.

The reverend raised his eyebrows, stroked his close-cut beard and said simply, “I see.”

We made our way to a bench a few feet down the trail. Reverend Iordani’s counsel had helped me heal many wounds-wounds from ’Nam, wounds from difficult cases and wounds from Jack’s death. The reverend was twenty years younger than me and still raising his children, but he had spiritual wisdom, and it was wisdom I needed right now. We sat and began to talk about what I had been told about Ted’s remains. When I had finished with all of it, the reverend took another deep breath.