The Collectibles (30 page)

J
oe was happy to bring the
Mountain Stream
back to Marsh Harbour after spending a few days in Nassau, then three more weeks fishing with his buddies. Before pulling into his slip, Joe stopped at the end of the dock to fuel his boat and chat with Ed, the dock master. After the crossing, Buck was eager to jump on the dock and spend time on land before he plunged in the harbor for a cool swim.

With the boat back in his slip, Joe gave Buck a fresh water bath and cleaned his ears, and gave his boat a thorough wash-down and cleaning. With the boat finally clean, Joe began to dry it with a shammy, starting at the bow. Buck sat in the shade of the cockpit and watched him work. It was hot, and Joe was working up quite a sweat, but the labor felt good and island music coming from the speakers on the bridge added a bounce to the shammy.

When he got to the cockpit, Joe dropped the shammy, smelling the strong and distinct odor of electrical wires burning. He figured he must have a fire in the engine room. He ordered Buck off the boat and shouted, “Fire!” to the dock master, worried about the fuel tanks at the end of the dock and wanting to give him time to react. Then he grabbed the large fire extinguisher in the salon, knowing that water would not help if the diesel fuel ignited.

He carefully opened the door to the engine room, staying to one side to avoid any flames bursting out. He hoped to get to the electrical wires before that happened. The dock master and two others came running to his boat as he opened the door. He yelled for them to stay back. The door opened, and he was relieved to see no flames. He rushed into the engine room with a flashlight in one hand, fire extinguisher in the other. He searched for the smoke and burning wires. He could not find either, but he knew they were there from the strong smell. He called for help, and the dock master hopped on the boat.

“I've got electrical wires burning somewhere in the engine room, Eddie,” Joe said, “but I can't find them. Would you have a look?”

“I don't smell anything,” the dock master said, climbing into the engine room. After about five minutes, he came out and joined Joe in the cockpit. He looked confused. “I don't smell anything, Joe, anywhere in the engine room or on your boat. Your batteries look good, all the connections look good, the wires look good. I think you're in good shape down there.”

Joe jumped back in the engine room again, this time just with the light. He stayed in there ten minutes. Then he came back out. The dock master was still on his boat.

“You're right, Eddie,” he said. “Sorry I yelled fire. I just wanted to be careful, because I was sure we had an electrical fire, and that's part of the drill.”

“Well, I'm glad you don't,” Eddie said. “I'm glad you're in good shape. No problem, Joe.” He went back to the end of the dock, where he was working on another boat. The others had already left. Joe stood there alone with Buck. He ruffled the old boy's ears and stared off over the water.

“Well, Buck, my boat's in good shape. I'm not.” He picked up his cell phone and punched Red's number.

“Hi, Joe. What's up?”

“Red, it's time. Come now,” Joe said and hung up.

 

Joe packed a small bag with a few things, including his wallet, computer, the file that contained his will, his passport, and Buck's papers. He went through his boat and cleaned out the refrigerator and freezer, carefully stacking all the food, frozen lobsters, fish, and drinks in cardboard boxes. He carried the boxes off the boat and down the dock to the Jib Room and into the kitchen, where he found the owner, whom he always called Buddy.

“I'm going to be gone for a while,” he said, “and I want you to have all of this. Go ahead and use it, eat it, or sell it to your guests.”

“You sure you don't want some of this, Joe? These lobsters look great, and there's a ton of fish here. I'll be glad to keep this for you in our freezers.”

“No, Buddy, I want you to have it. I want you to use it. I'm not sure when I'll be back. Please use it up. And I want to thank you for all the wonderful meals I've had here, the great service. We've had some outstanding times, and you've always made me, and Buck, too, feel at home.”

“Hey Joe, you're part of the family. So is Buck. You know that. Stop acting like you're never going to see us again. We'll be waiting for you when you get back. We'll do it again.”

“That sounds good,” Joe said. “Nothing I'd like better than to do it again. I've got to shut the boat down now, and Buck and I have to get to the airport. I'll leave the key to my boat on the counter. Call us a taxi, would you?”

“You got it, Joe. Have a great trip.”

At the airport, Joe checked with Continental and learned the next flight would not be in until 3:30 p.m. That meant he had more than four hours to wait. He sat down with Buck. He tried to keep calm, employing the same techniques that had served him well in his Navy days. The discipline was there, but this time seemed different.

As he sat there, he could not help but play his life out in his mind. He thought of his Uncle Howard, his Aunt Lettie, and the mountains. Playing baseball, his teachers, getting into Annapolis, his time there. Then his submarine duty and meeting Ashley that night in Charleston.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. “How you doin', Cap?”

“How did you get here, Red?” Joe said, standing up. “The plane's not due in for another three hours.”

“You said now, Cap. I've got a private plane waiting, a Lear jet. Let's go.”

Joe hugged Red, and Red introduced him to the captain.

“Right this way, sir. You don't have to go through the normal procedure or security. We're ready to take you and your dog right now. Our plane's right over there,” he said, pointing and reaching for Joe's bag.

“Thank you, but I'd rather carry my bag.” Within ten minutes, they were in the air, headed for Charleston.

“Thanks for coming, Red.”

His friend simply nodded.

“I've drawn up a will, Red.” Joe showed it to him. “I'd like to ask you and the captain to witness my signing it.”

Red nodded and went up to the cabin, put on headphones, and told the captain what Joe wanted to do. The captain nodded. Red came back and told Joe to go ahead and sign the will. Joe did. Then Red signed over one of the witness lines, and took the will to the captain. The captain took off his headphones, turned to Joe, and asked him if it was his signature on the will. Joe said yes. The captain saluted and signed his name over the other witness line and handed the will back to Red.

“Would you keep this original, Red, and give it to Alice as soon as you can. She'll know what to do with it. And I need to talk with you about a few things.”

Buck, who had been sitting in his seat looking out the window, turned and looked at Joe. His ears perked up and he slowly climbed down from the seat and edged over to Joe, sat down, and leaning against his legs, put his head on Joe's lap.

“I figured that, Cap. Are you up to it now?” Red asked, the pain showing in Joe's face.

“This is a good time,” Joe said, petting Buck's head and then leaning down and kissing him. “And I'd feel better having the conversation while I know I can. First of all, thank you for being my friend. Thank you for all you've done. For always being there.” Joe stopped talking for a while. Joe and Red heard only the muffled sound of the jet.

Then Joe continued. “I promised Ashley I would have a full Navy funeral and burial service. I never dreamed she would go before me. I don't really care about the ceremonial part, you know. But I told her I'd do that. I don't know if I can still do that now. Can you try to arrange it? If you can, for Ashley, I'd like our Navy guys to do what they do at my funeral. I'd also like them to do what they do at the gravesite. I don't want an open casket. But I would like a casket made of fine wood. Cherry, if possible. The one to talk to is Clayton Anderson at Anderson Mortuary in Braydon. He'll know how to handle everything at the funeral. Except that the formal Navy ceremonial component will be different. Just tell him that's the way I want it. Also, Red, if you can pull it off, I'd like Buck involved, somehow.”

“You've got it.”

“Oh, Red, there's one other thing. There are six people I have sort of looked after in some ways, tried to be a friend to, helped them do what they couldn't do. In one way or another, they needed a hand.”

Joe fell silent again and stared out the window of the plane, seeing nothing. After a few minutes, he looked back at Red.

“Alice is the executrix of my will. She's done it many times before, and she'll know what to do. You should be in touch with her, because you're one of the beneficiaries. She'll handle that. She's going to look after Buck, too, and my house, so none of that's a problem. I'm leaving you my boat and my fishing gear, among other things, but don't feel you have to keep it if you don't want to use it. You can either use it or sell it and use the money, whatever works for you. The same with my truck. I guess that's it, Red. Do you have any questions?”

Red was silent for a while with that confident serenity that was their common legacy from their Navy days. Then he looked at Joe and said, “No, I don't. Everything understood. I'll get it done. Would you like something to eat?”

“There's food on this plane?”

“Yes, sir. Nothing but the finest,” he said, handing Joe a large tray of gourmet sandwiches, cheese, fresh fruit, pickles, and potato chips. Then Red reached in a cooler and brought out a cold bottle of Sam Adams for Joe and a bottle of Bass Ale for himself.

 

Before long, they landed at the private airfield at Charleston, where a limo was standing by. They went directly to Joe's office, where Alice was waiting.

Joe entered with Red and Buck behind him. Alice appeared to be worried. “Joe, it's good to see you. Are you okay? All Red told me was that you had decided to come home, and he thought you might want to see me. Do you have some work you want me to do?”

“I do want to see you, Alice. Let's go in my office and have a talk.”

Joe disclosed his situation, explained the will, and reviewed all of the arrangements. He told Alice how much he appreciated her always being there for him and his clients and his friends. When he informed her he was leaving her his home, and Buck, Alice could not hold back the tears. She reached for him, grabbing and squeezing his arm.

“Joe, there are not words . . . or if there are, I don't know what to say. I admire you so. May I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” he said.

“You are always so calm, even . . . now. Have you ever been afraid of anything your entire life?”

“I'm not going to be able to give you a long answer – what that question deserves, Alice,” Joe said, knowing that he was beginning to have a seizure, starting to see flashes of bright light. “Actually I'm a little scared right now. I've experienced fear in big ways and little ways all my life. When I've been able to beat it, in the end, I've felt exhilarated. But there was always fear, mainly of the uncertainty of life.” As Joe talked, he felt weak and strange, like he was listening to himself from another place. He saw his Aunt Lettie, heard her voice, felt himself slipping, then saw Ashley. He kept going, but his voice was fading: “In terms of living the only thing I have feared is living life without meaning and love, and you made that fear go away. When you died, a part of me died, too.”

 

Alice knew he wasn't talking to her anymore. “God bless you,” she whispered, squeezing Joe's hand as if willing him not to go. But she let him gently push her back as he closed his eyes, and fell flat on the floor, fading away.

P
reston approached Anderson Mortuary, holding Marcia closely at his side. He'd been shocked when Alice had called to say that Joe was gone. He could neither believe it nor accept it. Joe was such a major, unselfish force. How could he be dead?

Two men in black suits at the front door bordered by a white column on each side greeted Preston and Marcia. Once inside, they were directed to a room on the right. Before entering, Marcia walked to the registry laid out on a small stand with a light, glanced over at Preston, and signed their names. The room was large and rectangular with pastel green walls, lighted by several tasteful lamps and further illuminated by six windows bordered by heavy dark green velvet trim. In the front was a pipe organ attended by an elderly woman with short gray hair, wearing a black robe.

The wall-to-wall carpeted room was divided by a five-foot-wide, thick runner, which formed an aisle between neatly ordered straight-backed armchairs. To the left at front was an ornate pulpit. In the center and two steps up was a platform. Even though Preston and Marcia arrived early, so many people were already seated that Preston worried whether they would find seats. As they walked in, he immediately surveyed the room but did not see a casket. He wondered why there were no ushers at that moment, but they were finally able to settle in near the back.

Joe's in-laws were seated in the front row on the left, joined by Alice, Red and Reverend Barrett. Trying not to look too obvious, Preston scanned the room. He recognized Casey and Alex, sitting together. He questioned why there was a block of empty seats in the right front. In a moment, a group of lawyers from the Braydon County Bar filed in and sat in that section. Preston thought he saw Corey with Barbara, but he was not sure. He couldn't see everyone, and he wasn't sure whether Missy and the others were there.

At last, the room was packed and quiet except for the soft but unfamiliar music coming from the organ. That, too, ended when an eight-man Navy color guard entered the room. Each member wore a crisp, white naval uniform with a black silk tie folded at chest level, a white belt fastened by a shiny brass buckle, and a white cap perched on his head. Two sailors carried flags – the U.S. flag, and the Navy flag – each held in front by a blue leather strap and a shiny brass holder. The flag bearers marched smartly down the aisle, with three other sailors on each side of a closed cherry casket covered by the American flag. Everyone in the room stood, eyes fixed on the color guard as they proceeded down the aisle, all in perfect step. The casket was followed by Buck. As the casket went by, several people softly cried. At the front of the room, the guardsmen carrying the flags did an about-face, with the bearer of the American flag standing on the right, that of the Navy flag on the left. The six sailors carrying the casket carefully placed it on the stand. They then joined the flag bearers, three on each side, where they remained at attention. Buck lay down directly in front of the casket, putting his head between his extended front paws.

Reverend David Barrett rose, turned, and faced the audience. He ran his hand over what hair was left on his head, looked out over the room through thick, black-rimmed glasses, smiled warmly and for a few moments said nothing. He then opened the memorial service with a prayer, followed by warm sentiments about Joe and Ashley.

“It was not long ago that we were gathered here in shock and grief for the passing of Ashley Hart,” Reverend Barrett reminded everyone. He spoke of their obvious love and devotion, how caring and sensitive each was, not only to each other, but through their generosity of spirit and contributions to the community of friends and loved ones, all of whom they reached in one way or another. Preston was struck by how Reverend Barrett continuously referred to Joe and Ashley together, in essence combining them.

The Reverend finally finished and said, “And now, we will hear from a few close friends.” Preston was jarred by the word “friends,” immediately feeling annoyed at himself.
I should be up there speaking. But I don't think I can do it.

Reverend Barrett called selected people, who came forward to the small lectern. It was as though they picked up Reverend Barrett's theme, or perhaps in their minds Joe and Ashley simply could not be separated. Preston was surprised that this was not the case when it was Ashley's father's turn. He spoke eloquently about Joe as a husband, son-in-law, friend and former Navy commander. One comment especially struck Preston: “Joe treated my daughter and the death of my daughter, not surprisingly, with honor and dignity. What made Joe unique was not only his sense of duty, but his humor and his humanity. Men like Joe are certainly not common.”

Red spoke briefly, clearly upset. When he finished, he turned to Joe's casket, raised his right hand to his head and gave a slow, final salute.

As each person spoke, the common thread was how generous Ashley and Joe were, how they cared, and how they now finally could be resting together in peace. A few spoke of personal experiences they'd had with one or the other, and some tried lamely to interject humor. It seemed all bases were covered.

As each man and woman spoke, Preston felt another heavy weight on his chest. He was not certain exactly what he felt, but he knew the list included remorse, regret and guilt. Remorse for what he and so many others were losing. He was sure that many would not at first, or maybe ever, know the extent of their loss. But Preston knew that Marcia would not forget Joe, even though she had never met him. Hell, he'd saved their marriage and the man she loved.

Then there was regret. To begin with, the regret of having Joe gone. And for not getting to meet his last two collectibles before Joe died. To develop a relationship with each of them, help them. And for Joe to see, or at least know, that it was being done. At the same time, he was well aware that Joe had never once asked him how he was doing with his commitment, how he was getting along with the collectibles. He imposed zero accountability upon Preston and gave him 100 percent faith and trust that he would keep his word. Preston wondered if that was why Joe's Navy buddies held him in such high respect. He already knew the depth of feeling that Tommy Greco, Johnny, Missy, and Corey had for Joe, and their connection with him. And he knew he would find the same with the other two.

And guilt. Good old guilt. Something Preston had sidestepped for years but had fostered in others with a passion. Guilt was a tool in his toolbox, a capital M in his manipulation of others. Preston knew well the value of well-administered guilt, the assistance it had provided in shaping and molding conduct and enhancing his ability to control the behavior of others. He knew how it could help him get what he wanted and, to him, it had been natural to use it. After all, he had learned from two masters. He watched his mother and father use guilt in a million ways. He remembered well how his father controlled him in the same fashion, could hear his father's words,
“What do you mean, you are not going with me to the mountains, Preston? How can you not go? You know that I have set aside this week for you and me to be together. You know how much this costs me. You know that I had to twist your mother's arm to get her to go along with letting you go with me, knowing the dangers of being up there. Don't you want to be a man? Are you afraid of the bears? Are you afraid you won't be able to cut it?”

Preston had quite naturally learned the art of administering guilt. Only he'd raised the bar, used it as an art form with his department heads and managers. When they didn't respond fast enough to his emails and text messages, he fired off rebukes, demanding to know why he was being ignored, intentionally forgetting that his messages were not even hours old. He knew his employees were afraid of being fired, and more importantly, he knew that they would feel guilty about letting him down, inasmuch as he continuously played on that theme. He'd extended the same treatment to his friends when they wouldn't visit him at his house, or play golf at the country club. “What do you mean you're not coming? Marcia and I were really hoping to see you. What do you mean we can't play a foursome this Friday? We were counting on that.” But in the last year, the guilt tables had slowly turned. He increasingly felt the guilt himself, and he hated it. He hated it enough to try his best not to let others feel what he did. He understood that he was gaining, growing, that it was working.

Preston was suddenly jarred into the reality that the service was over, that the last of those chosen to speak had said their kind words, and Reverend Barrett was standing before the assembly again, about to close the ceremony. Preston looked up to the top of the room, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Joe.

He saved my life as a kid, he saved my life as a man, and he taught me how to live the life he saved.
I promise, Joe, I will remember you for the rest of my life.

A large man in his late-forties wearing a white shirt, gray tie and black jacket with gray trousers high around his waist and carrying a large manila envelope and easel in his left hand stood up and walked down the aisle to the podium. Reverend Barrett was as surprised as everyone else. Preston wondered who he could be. The man approached the podium and set up the easel directly to his right, facing the crowd.

“My name is Harry Klaskowski,” he said in a booming, clear voice. “I have known Joe for many years, and I have only two things I would like to say today. First, Joe and I had a lot of good times together. Second, he's the reason I'm alive.” Harry then took a photograph out of the large envelope and placed it on the easel. There was a soft murmur and audible gasp in the room. The picture showed Joe on the bridge of his boat looking forward with a relaxed smile on his face and an expression of hope in his eyes. The sun was shining down on him. Harry said, “I thought you might like to see this picture.” With that, he returned to his seat.

So that's Harry Klaskowski,
Preston thought.
What a good guy. I'm going to enjoy getting to know him.

Then Tommy Greco, sitting behind Preston in the back of the room, abruptly stood up.

Oh, God, here it comes,
Preston thought. Tommy walked as only Tommy could, in a burst, straight to the end of the aisle, up the two steps to the podium, head bent slightly to the side like he was about to whack anybody who stepped in his way. He bent the mike over with his large, beefy right hand, and with his hand still covering the mike, looked up briefly and then down again.

“I want to say something here about Joe. Nothing is certain about nothing, if you know what I'm saying. And this problem with Joe going is no exception. Who would have thought it? What're the odds of a guy like this catching it like this and bam! It's over. I have to tell you, I was shocked when I got the call from Alice. And why him, for Christ's sakes? Of all the guys, he never did nothing to nobody, except try to help them out. That's all he ever done. His whole damn life, if you'll excuse my French.” Then Tommy looked out over the people and jabbed his pudgy right index finger straight at them. “I'm here to tell you, Joe's going upstairs. If anybody's getting in, it's him, you get what I'm saying? I lay it nine to one, he gets in, and I'm not afraid to say it right now. I love you, Joe.”

Preston felt the muscles in his throat tighten, and he tried to fight the tears. He was holding his own in the battle until he realized Tommy was not quite finished.

“And there's one more something I want to say. This is not pertaining to Joe directly, but in a way it is. I want to thank you, Joe, for Missy, a classy lady, and for Preston. He was a real case in the beginning, but I have to tell you, he's got a heart. And that's all I have to say.” Then Tommy in one continuous series of movements climbed down the stairs, wiped his eyes, walked down the aisle and straight out the back of the room and outside.

Next Johnny stood. He was so short most people couldn't see him, but he pushed his way out from his seat on the left, and waddled down the aisle to the podium. He climbed up, but his head still was lower than the top of the podium, and there was no way he could reach the mike.

It was apparent that everyone but Johnny, Alice, and Preston felt awkward about the situation, and most verbally wondered who in the world this weird little man was.

None of this seemed to faze Johnny. After all, he had lived with it all his life. Besides, it was Joe who'd convinced him that it didn't matter what people thought about the way he looked, that what mattered was how he acted and how good he was. Joe had taught him to smile and laugh along with the people who laughed at him, to just keep doing his job, and it would work out, and it had. But Johnny apparently wasn't accustomed to speaking to a group of people. He was sweating profusely, the perspiration dripping through his new dress shirt, a shirt Preston had taken him to buy, and through his jacket, too. The room was silent. After a while, he spoke in a soft, low voice.

“My name is Johnny. I wash dishes. Do it good. Joe a friend of mine. Joe loves Johnny. Joe talks to Johnny – that's me – like there was nothing wrong with Johnny . . . with me. Joe has Buck,” Johnny said, looking back and down at Buck, who, hearing his name, perked up his ears and looked at Johnny.

“Buck a friend of mine, too. Buck loves me. Johnny takes care of Buck. Buck takes care of Johnny, too. Bad man afraid of Buck. Buck don't like bad man. Johnny takes care of Buck, Joe. Don't worry, Joe. Johnny takes care of Pressdon, too. Pressdon not bad, Joe. Pressdon doing better now. Don't worry, Joe. Johnny be okay. Johnny, oh . . . Johnny, . . .
I . .
. going to
school
. Joe gone now. Not like movies. Joe not living anymore. Joe died. Bye, Joe. Johnny loves Joe.” And with that, Johnny waddled back to his seat and sat down.

Reverend Barrett looked over the gathering, seeming to sense there were others who wanted, needed, to say their goodbyes to Joe.