Home is a Long Time Ago Read online

  Martha Raye, who Sean had met in Vietnam several times, and who came to visit him here at Balboa when she was passing through on her way back east, had invited him to come see her when he got out. She's rehearsing for a show, No No, Nanette, that she will be starring in on Broadway. When he told her he would come see her in New York, she arranged a party for him with members of the cast and other show business friends.

  A close friend at the nearby Recruit Depot, young Lieutenant Nick Lottie, is going to meet him here at the hospital, take him to Lindbergh Field, and see him off from the Corps and San Diego. The same city he had left from for Korea many years ago which was the same time he started becoming frugal, or miserly as many would say.

  Lieutenant Lottie pulls up to the hospital entrance in his new '71 maroon Dodge Charger. An appropriate car for a hard-charger like Nick. He leaps out of the driver side, opens the trunk, and fronts Sean. Snaps to attention and salutes. "Good morning, Major."

  Sean, now in civilian clothes returns the salute nonetheless and says, "Lottie, I'm a civilian now. A handshake will do." Sean's eyes take on that warm, malleable, subdued hue.

  "Not to me, sir. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Besides, the name Sean sticks to my tongue. And using Mister is for you to use with us young bucks, Lieutenants. So, it's goin' to be Major or Sir, sir."

  "Okay, I don't feel like a Mister or a Sean anyway. Give me a hand with these bags and we'll move out. I should have bought my pick-up here and driven home across this country instead of having it delivered in Harvey Cedars. When you get right down to it, I've not seen much of our country. Actually, I've spent more time in shitholes like Korea, Vietnam, Okinawa --"

  "And Parris Island." Nick laughs at the thought when he says it.

  "Yeah, and Parris Island."

  They get in Nick's Dodge Charger and head for downtown and the airport. There, Gallagher checks in; checks his baggage; gets his ticket, boarding pass and gate number and the two head for an airport watering hole.

  Walking down the concourse, Nick says, "We should have stopped at the Bomb Shelter and had a drink. Would have been more meaningful, and we could have one last chat there and share some time with the ghosts."

  The Bomb Shelter is a bar outside the airport near Pacific Coast Highway and is on the landing glide path at Lindbergh Field. Hence the name. And the inside looks like a bunker. The two of them had spent many hours propped up on the bar stools there, sipping good bourbon, telling sea stories . . . or could of or would of been tales.

  "Yeah, you're right. But the place isn't open yet, and I'd prefer to remember it as we knew it, not as I leave it. Besides, I don't want the ghosts to know where I'm going. Let 'em stay there. They'll have plenty of Marines to talk to or hover over drinks or whatever ghosts do."

  They arrive. Sit. Both look at their watches and both simultaneously start to say, "Well, it's Happy Hour . . ." Both laugh, then finish, "in Dublin town." Sean adds, "I'll buy." Nick mocks an exaggerated shocked expression. Sean grins and growls, "Stow it."

  The bartender slides down in front of them dropping a bar towel in a well behind the bar. "Whatta ya have, Lieutenant, and . . . Mister?"

  Nick places both hands on the bars, palms down. Proclaims, "Major, since this is finally on you, I'm going to have a Bloody Mary. Hold the blood, hold the Mary, and hold the garbage."

  The barkeep, not humored, stares at him. Nick shrugs. "Jack Daniels, double, on the rocks."

  Sean shakes his head. Laughs. "Make it two . . .Sir."

  The barkeep, muttering to himself, moves down the bar a few steps and Nick says, "Major, do you remember the time . . ."

  The yarns go on. Always will.

  * * *

  His flight is airborne. Point Loma disappearing out the starboard side, the Port of San Diego passing under the port wingtip, Sean pushes the button, the seat back eases to a comfortable position, and he relaxes. His eyes get misty. He mumbles, "It's all over, Marine. Goin' home. Damn, that was a long time ago."

  "'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far

  And grace will lead me home"

  John Newton

  CHAPTER 2

  The plane descends on final over Flushing Bay and sets down hard, as they often do at LaGuardia. After debarking, Sean collects his baggage, is directed to a cab and tells the driver, "The Waldorf-Astoria at 301 Park Avenue."

  In his under-developed country dialect and scented with his newly acquired New "Yawk" City accent, the driver snaps, "I know where eet is, Mon."

  Sean growls back, "And take the Queensboro Bridge . . . Mon." He's following Martha's explicit instruction to take that bridge, also known as the 59th Street Bridge, so the hack won't take a more fare-gouging, circuitous route. The driver grumbles an indistinguishable guttural response. Sean doesn't know the hyphen in the name Waldorf-Astoria has a history. It is recalled by an old popular expression and song, Meet Me at the Hyphen. The cabbies of yore would have recited that fact. And also that former Postmaster General James Farley, now the Chairman of the Board of Coca-Cola's International Division, occupies two adjoining suites in the towers and has since 1940. Presidents and gangsters alike have resided here, and for the most part cabbies aren't the same anymore.

  When he arrives, the cabbie remains seated in the taxi not helping Sean with his bags. This and his surly attitude during the ride bring about a meager tip. The driver hurls an insult out the window as he drives off. Something to do with camel dung. Sean levels the Ice Man stare at the cab. He wishes now he had remained in the back seat when he paid so he could have grabbed the driver by his stacking swivel and shook him like a rag doll. When the taxi turns the corner, Sean's stare settles on the city as it is but that hometowners tend to ignore. Horns honking. Traffic snarled. People scurrying, jammed shoulder to shoulder, on the sidewalk. A street-person standing on the corner of 50th screaming obscenities at no one in particular. His only listening audience is a homeless man in his raggedy two layers of grimy clothing pushing a shopping cart filled with life's possessions. This is New York for sure, thinks Sean.

  He's startled by a voice from behind. "Just some of our more distinguished citizens. Those two are probably Vietnam veterans. Let me get your bags, sir." The doorman smiles.

  Sean snaps, "I'm a Vietnam vet and if they are, go thank them for your friggin' freedom. I'll carry my own bags, asshole." He snatches up all three. Stares at the man again, says, "Incidentally, a veteran is someone who at one point in his life wrote a blank check made payable to The United States of America for an amount of up to and including their life." He strides inside to the front desk leaving the doorman with his mouth gaping open. He registers, goes up to his room, settles up handsomely with the polite younger man carrying his bags, and immediately calls Martha. It's early evening. Gets her answering machine; leaves a message that he's in town and will see her at the party at nine. Returns to the lobby and goes out the Lexington Avenue exit. Taking the advice of the concierge, walks a few blocks down 50th to Knickers Restaurant on 1st Avenue to get something to eat. He hasn't eaten since morning shunning the meal on the plane opting for a couple glasses of merlot that weren't high-quality but better than airline food. He's decided to refuel, then return to the hotel and clean up, then be off to the Plaza Hotel and the party.

  * * *

  Freshly scrubbed and dressed, Sean feels casual but well attired in his blue blazer, sharply creased tan slacks, pale, yellow shirt with yellow and blue striped tie. Brown belt and spit-shined loafers finish his attire. He takes a cab to the Plaza rather than a perspiration-inducing walk. The thick-necked cabbie with graying hair in a crew cut sees the Marine Corps lapel pin Sean is wearing and asks, "In the Crotch?"

  "Yes. Twenty years. Just got out. You?"

  "Yep. Did about four during WW Two. Shoulda stayed in. Would have been a Top Kick, maybe better. Now I got a nag for a wife and my cab. The cab is warmer, quieter and costs less." He shrugs. "But, whatda ya do?"

  They continue their banter, swapping tales of the
Corps and Marines known. No more comments about wives which is good since Sean knows not of that subject. The conversation makes the ten or eleven blocks uptown to the Plaza vanish quickly in a blur of words, car horns and a few well-chosen obscenities by the cabbie directed at wayward drivers and pedestrians. There, after shaking the cabbie's hand, giving him a generous tip and a "Semper Fi", he enters the Plaza. Inside, Sean gets cleared for the elevator ride to Martha's suite. When he enters, she makes a "to-do" about his arrival in the form of a screeching "Sean," and a long, rocking back and forth hug. . . genuine, not a show-business-necessity one. She immediately introduces him to several cast members and some close friends from the entertainment business. He gets a few strange looks. Then she points him to the bar to get himself a drink, and one for her. She says, "Do you remember?"

  "Roger that, Darlin'"

  "Gad, I do love you so. Love all my boys from Nam."

  The suite is large for sure. Formal entryway leading into a living room that is defined by the din of chatter from groups of people engaged in animated conversation. It looks as if Martha's entertainment friends are all performing in small skits throughout the large room with the furniture being nothing but props. Exaggerated hand motions, polite nodding in agreement or seeming interest with one shrill cackling laugh are the draperies of the room. The furnishings of the remaining rooms seem to be more props or stage hands.

  Sean eases his way to the bar through the skits, ducking flaring arms, a few with sloshing drinks. He orders Martha's Gimlet and weaves his way back, handing her the drink while she's engaged in animated conversation. She sweeps her arm by like a low-flying crop duster, and snatches the drink with only minor spillage. Sean returns to the bar, picks up the Bourbon and Seven he had ordered and left sitting there, turns around facing the room, propping an elbow on the corner of the bar and starts to survey his surroundings only to have a tall, stunning blond fronting him. She says, "Well, hello, Sean Gallagher."

  "Hello, yourself."

  "You don't recognize me, do you?"

  "Noooo . . . wish I did though." While answering he quickly takes in her striking five foot ten inch frame with accentuated curves expertly placed. Without the heels, probably more like five seven. Certainly one of God's better creations. All the genes linked together perfectly. The naturally thick, dark brunette eyebrows snatch his attention, and hence he knows the cuffs don't match the collar. Something about that combination always seems sensual to him. She's wearing an expensive looking summer slacks, jacket and blouse outfit; slacks and jacket white, blouse a lavender with ample cleavage showing. His eyes settle there.

  "Do I pass?" Her eyes deliberately explore his body. "You do. Does Rachael J. Waters ring a bell?"

  "Geez, you caught me cold with the eyeballing but I'm still grappling with the --"

  "High School. Harvey Cedars."

  Sean breaks into a wide grin, shaking his head, interrupts, "My God, RJ . . . Jeez. You look great, dazzling. Your hair is . . .ahhh, different. You've changed."

  "I have indeed, and thank you." She leans forward and with a gentle one-armed hug, kisses him lightly on the cheek. Whispers in his ear, "I think old friends can do this anytime and certainly after all these years." Rachael leans back, says, "You're blushing, Marine." Her voice is a husky contralto and only has a trace of the standard New York - New Jersey center of the universe tone of voice and enunciation. More often a hint of a French accent, real or not.

  "How do you know I was in the Corps?" Sean's voice is a deep baritone and warm like a crooner's. His social tone much less harsh than when he barks orders or shouts instructions, or when angry. Then it is sharp and icy, like his eyes can be. However, they are warm now, like his voice.

  "Martha told the guests all about you. My God, a real live hometown hero. I'm thoroughly impressed. From her description, it seems that you're lucky to be alive much less here. However, I must caution you. Some of her liberal show business friends were a little horrified by the verbal resume. So, be careful in your approaches . . . and your, what did you say, eyeballing?"

  More flushed, he says, "Well, not a hero, not at all. But lucky for sure. Did get a little dinged up. Now I'm sorta like an old pick-up truck with a bunch of dents. Don't look too good but can get the job done."

  "I bet, and modest too."

  "Sharp tongue, all the better to . . . never mind. Anyway, thanks for the warning. I'll be wary. Now then, more important, what about you? What have you been up to?"

  She hands him her almost-finished Martini saying, "Sean, could you put this on the bar and get me a glass of ice water? This is my second, and that's probably too many, at least under the circumstances." He turns to the bartender who has overheard their conversation and hands Sean the water. Sean nods a thanks, and hands it to Rachael saying, "And?"

  "Thank you." She glances at the lingering barkeep with daggers for being nosy. Then switches to a warm smile facing Sean and says, "Well, to shorten a career, here goes. Left the Cedars and I went to Fashion School, Parsons School of Design, here in New York. Finished, then went on to Parsons Paris. . ." She pauses, glares at the eavesdropping barkeep. He takes two steps away. She continues as if nothing had happened, "in Paris of course. Worked there for a short time. Returned here, and started my own business. Have two shops here in the city, named "Jez's" of all things. Later opened stores in Chicago, Boston and Beverly Hills. All were successful and lucrative; I got tired of the rat-race after fourteen years here and the traveling, and recently. . . last few days as a matter of fact, sold my businesses and will be heading back to Harvey Cedars or someplace to relax and live a leisurely life. Have a trip planned first. People to see, one in particular."

  "Wow. Jez's? Perfect name, hell, the only name. Strange in a way however because I remember you hated being called Jezebel. Yeah, recall the time you slapped . . . ahhh, what's his name . . . I forget now, but--"

  "Harry Justice."

  "Yeah, that's it. Justice for all. Jerk. Slapped him for calling you Jezebel, which is your middle name, right?"

  "Yes. Then the name seemed to have a negative connotation. I think that had something to do with Frankie Laine's song by the same name."

  Sean's smile grows broader. "On the school bus. Simply got out of your seat, walked right back to where he was sitting, and whapped him. Said, 'It's Rachael, asshole.' Wow."

  "I'd prefer to forget it. It wasn't dignified."

  Sean laughs, "No, but effective. Well, anyway, a great name for your shops. Whatever. And I take it that your outfit is one of your own creations?"

  "Absolutely. Like it?" She briefly mocks modeling it, turning first a quarter turn to her left, then back right, and finally faces him with her free hand propped on her hip, mocking a pose. Then back to normal.

  "Oh yeah. Beautiful. How do you know Martha?"

  "Gee, you put a lot of thought into that. From my shop here, years ago. She stops in every time she's in town. And I saw her in the show, "Hello, Dolly," a few years ago . . .'66 or '67 I think, and the parties that follow shows. So when she invited me to this shindig and told me who it was for, I was shocked. I told her we were classmates once if you were who I thought you were. But then, how many Sean Padraig Gallagher's can there be? She was ecstatic thinking she was perhaps match-making."

  "Match-making?"

  "In your vernacular . . . Ohhh yeahhhh! She told me you're single. You are, right? In fact, never married. Why?"

  "She spilled my beans," shaking his head. Then, "Yes, I'm single, and no, I've never married. Is a difference I'm told. As to why, well, I guess I was never comfortable with the idea based on my lifestyle, moving around and. . . and whatever. And you?"

  "I'm what they call reasonably available. Some say that's not the case. Tag lines like, distant, man-eater and a few other tasteless ones probably don't help. However, or whatever, single. Like you, got caught up in a career I guess. Where are you headed next?"

  "Harvey Cedars. Finally goin' home after all these years. Get on with
life. Start a business. The Corps was my life, my wife or mistress I guess. Have to adjust and start again. Adjusting may be the toughest. Starting over... easy, like changing duty stations."

  Rachael's intended reply is interrupted by the return of a slyly smiling Martha. "Well, have you snared him yet, Rachael? You should have. You've monopolized him over here. Come along, Major. I want to introduce you to some more folks."

  "It's Sean now, Martha, and I may have been grazed by an arrow. Ambushed maybe, but not yet snared." Rachael tilts her head to the side, eyebrows raised and mocks a coy smile.

  Martha tugs Sean by the elbow and leads him to one of the skit groups. Rachael looks after them. She can feel the tugging at her heart. Mouth dry even with the water. The increased pulse. Hard pressed to keep her hand at her side and not reach out. Then collects herself, looks at him again and releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She puts her water down, turns, sees a customer, or more accurately a former customer, waves and heads toward her.