A Summer's Angels

HOLE

CHAPTER I

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1980

Two men were bent over the proofing table next to the Heidelberg's control console. With one eye pressed to a magnifier eyepiece, Jamie Ferguson, the older of the two, inched the eyepiece across a full-color, double-page spread that introduced the new 1980 Buick line.

16 years earlier Jamie had been one of four in his Marine platoon that survived an ambush in Vietnam and that no one could get him to talk about. Now married and a parent, when pressed about it, all he would say was that waking up each morning was a bonus.

The younger man next to him was Brian Kurtz. Gawky, with traces of adolescent acne still hanging on, he was being mentored by Jamie and hoped to earn a reputation as an expert Heidelberg operator on a par with Jamie.

How's it now? Brian said, bending closer to the press-proof.

After a studied moment, with his eye still pressed to the magnifier, Jamie bobbed his head, satisfied with the 4-color registration. Go 'head Brian, fire it up, he said. Then standing erect and bending back to relieve stiffness, he twisted his earplugs back into place as the huge machine's raucous, start-up warning bell clanged.

The Heidelberg's gears groaned, meshed, and rotated sluggishly before its pulsating action accelerated and added its throbbing beat to the reverberations of other machines across the plant.

Satisfied, Jamie crumpled up the Buick Ad's press-proof and pitched it into a nearby waste bin heaped with previous proofs. Crossing his arms he watched the pristine, white sheets of paper plucked from the stack loader, whipped into the Heidelberg's maw, and streamed through the press to exit at the far end -- trimmed, folded, collated, bundled, and shrink-wrapped as the newspaper's Sunday magazine section.

Harry, the office manager came up behind Jamie and tapped him on the shoulder. He cupped his hand close to Jamie's ear and shouted that he had a phone call. With the flash of apprehension in Jamie's eyes, Harry assured him it wasn't trouble at home. Jamie motioned to Brian to continue the run.

On the stairs to the plant's office Harry turned to Jamie following him. The guy on the phone said if you're the same Jamie Ferguson he's been looking for, who grew up in uh - I think he said Eastwood -- he's got good news for you.

We left when I was a kid, Jamie said. Can't imagine anything good coming out of that town.

Sitting on the edge of Harry's desk with the phone to his ear, Jamie was skeptical. The caller introduced himself as Aaron Zimmerman a lawyer from Eastwood, Jamie's old hometown.

Sure this isn't some kind of joke, Jamie said, or maybe you got me mixed up with somebody else?

On the other end, Zimmerman patiently responded in an orderly, lawyer-like tone: "You were named after your father -- Jim Ferguson, a widower. Right? He raised you on

his own. Right? And you knew the junk dealer here in town: Willy Jackson. He bought stuff you collected from around the neighborhood. Right?"

As Jamie had anticipated, Zimmerman was stirring up unwelcome memories. He responded reluctantly. Guess you're talking about Junky - black guy -- owned uh, a --

Zimmerman stepped on his words. Yep. Yep. That's the guy. Owned the Junkyard on the edge of town. Then, bursting with laughter, Zimmerman howled. Damn. Let me tell you Ferguson, it wasn't easy finding you, but you got yourself one hell of a junkyard. Zimmerman hesitated and cleared his throat. And, by the way, it's a terrific piece of property . . . Maybe you don't want to be in the junk business, he said. Maybe you'll want to sell it. If you like, I can help with that. Heck, maybe we can talk about it when you get up here.

Yeah, maybe we can, Jamie said. But I still don't get it . . . don't understand why he --

Hey Ferguson. Remember the saying about not looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Zimmerman jabbered on and on while Jamie only half listened while a shadow of foreboding darkened his face. Okay, okay, Jamie said. I'll drive up there soon as I can get away. Hanging up, he looked over at Harry and shrugged. Sorry Harry. Looks like I'll need a couple days off.

On his way home, weaving his van through the heavy late afternoon traffic, Jamie reflected on what Willy Jackson's surprising generosity would mean. Their lives would be changed. Of course, Mary and Cathy would greet the out-of-the-blue gift horse, as Zimmerman had called it, with bubbling exuberance. Obviously, he'd sell it and the money would be great. But over the years, he had buried most memories of that last summer with his father. Now, going back to Eastwood, he'd have to relive those half forgotten incidents. After his talk with Zimmerman memories were already stirring up regrets and haunting guilt.

At home with dinner over, and the table cleared, his wife, Mary, poured coffee. They had met when he returned from Vietnam. At the time, she was a reporter for the local newspaper. With her youthful, naive imaginings of winning a Pulitzer, she intended to write a dramatic human-interest piece about Jamie's nail-biting escape from that Vietcong ambush. But with his unbending resistance to talk about it, the interview went nowhere and the article was never written.

However, their meeting did spark a budding relationship that led to marriage and their chirpy 15-year-old-daughter, Cathy, whom at that moment was loading the dishwasher.

Mary slid a packet of low calorie sweetener across the table to Jamie then opened a packet for herself. We could make it a short vacation, she said, as she sprinkled the sweetener in her coffee. Maybe, go over the GW, and see some Broadway shows.

Never been to New York, Dad. Cathy chimed in. It's a perfect chance. Mom and I could --

Sorry ladies, I've got to do this on my own, he said with his head bowed and he fixated on his coffee.

Got to? Alone? What's the mystery? Mary said, gently teasing.

Jamie, tight-lipped, avoided looking at her as he maintained his intense concentration on his coffee.

Jamie? she said.

Behind them Cathy stopped loading the dishwasher and looked over, anxious to hear his reply.

Not looking up, Jamie sighed and shook his head.

Mary sat back in her chair and folded her arms. Tell us Jamie, she said, raising her voice and hoping that by showing impatience he'd open up. What is it?

Cathy closed the dishwasher and came over to sit beside him. Dad? she said and gently placed her hand over his. What is it?

Mary reached across the table and placed her hand over Cathy's. Hey Hon, what's it about? she said. I know... I mean... I can understand not talking about your Nam years, but what could have happened when you were uh... what were you? Doing a mental calculation she said, just nine, ten years old. What was so serious?

Jamie raised his head, looked at each of them in turn, reached with his hand to cover both of theirs, and spoke just above a whisper. Can't tell you everything. Hell I don't remember all of it anyway. He stared down at his cup again and wavered for a moment before continuing. Kids can do stupid, naive things, sometimes even cruel things, he said. When you grow up you can't believe you did them. Tapping his temple he added, No matter how long ago ... it's always there.

Geez Dad, you're scaring me, Cathy said.

It's Okay honey, nothing to be scared about, he said while gently squeezing both their hands. After a moment he eased back in his chair. If that lawyer hasn't goofed, I'll tell him to put it up for sale, and be back real quick. Then, what the hell, when he sells it we can have a real vacation.

Not sure how to respond, Mary tentatively raised her cup in a toast. Well, anyway, she said, here's to uh, uh --

Willie Jackson . . . but everybody called him Junky, Jamie said.

Well, here's to Junky, she said with her cup in the air as a toast. I'm sure St. Peter knows about his generosity and gave him a warm welcome.

Maybe, Jamie whispered and slowly raised his cup. Maybe.

It had been years since Jamie drove that far north up the New Jersey Turnpike. To the right flat meadowlands stretched east to border the old Route 1&9 truck route. The shallow bluff paralleling the north, south highway was dense with tenement buildings partly masking the hazy, spiked silhouettes of Manhattan's distant skyscrapers across the Hudson. Further on, he exited through the tollbooth onto Route 3, the busy artery to the gateway in and out of the Big Apple: the Lincoln Tunnel.

He drove west in the opposite direction for a few miles and reached the turnoff that took him to Eastwood. He rolled slowly down the main street and was stunned by the decay. What he had known as an Andy Hardy downtown was now a sorry stretch of worn out, graffiti-marred buildings with gaudy bodegas; storefront ethnic eateries; and vacant spaces with hand-painted For Rent signs.

When he came abreast an empty store with a faded facade sign reading PETS, he stopped. He peered between parked cars and could see deep into the store's hollow darkness. His eyes glistened; My God, he thought, how terribly naive I was.

It wasn't long before the honking of a truck he was blocking behind him and the angry driver's howling brought him back to the present.

He moved on and found himself turning onto a rundown residential street. He crept slowly past a shabby, Victorian style rooming house with a weather beaten wooden sign, The Maples. It hung askew on its peeling, picket fence. A half block further on, he pulled over. His fingers drummed the steering wheel. Do I really want to go back and take a look at that dump? Torture myself? Am I nuts? He glanced back at the rooming house for a long while, then took a deep breath and turned the van around.

On the porch, Jamie cranked the old fashioned