Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

I often wondered what became of Tom. I would hope that he is off sailing the world somewhere. After I left for the west I only ever got second or third hand news about him. He would be at this or that persons place for thanksgiving or Christmas, then, no one sure exactly whose place he had been to for Christmas, until, eventually, no one had heard from or about him for a long time. Then the answers to how Tom was doing became "I don't know." The last I had heard was that no one had any idea where he had gone off to. Years passed and no one ever heard from him again.
Tom's life was one of hardship, after being drafted for the Vietnam war as a young teenage boy, he learned that he was going to be sent into the worst battle zones of the war if he did not sign up for a second tour. Tom did not respond well to such black mail, and while back stateside he ran into a group of Mennonites who had a way of getting Americans across the border into Canada.
He was only a boy, barely able to shave, and real world adult pressures were upon him. The Mennonite groups made it all seem so easy, and so right. Tom was very impressionable; he had seen how the US was not even trying to win the war. He had seen them put grown men on the moon, while sending boys to die in the bloody rice paddies of Vietnam. It angered him that the United States had it attentions divided, going to the moon was fine, but he felt it was owed to those boys that were sent to kill and to die, that they should at least get full undivided attention of the nation that sent them. They could go to the moon anytime.
It was all set up; it was so easy, But Tom was uneasy about it all. But they were persistent, and when they drove up to him on that rainy Chicago morning they told him "All you got to do is get in…it's all set." With it all brought down to that one simple decision it didn't seem like any big deal. The choice was to either get in the car, or not. Getting into the car seemed like no big deal he had gotten into lots of cars. He knew he did not want to go back to Vietnam, the thought sickened him, and the prospect of it hung over him like a dark cloud. Yet he did not want to turn his back on everything he knew, his friends, his family, his country.
In his mind he was fully prepared to go back to Vietnam, until he ran into these people he had not even considered anything else. Perhaps it was the rain; perhaps it was that all it seemed like was that he was just getting into a car, out of the rain and cold. Whatever it was, he was surprised to see his arm reaching to slam the car door shut as he sat down. The car immediately sped off, as if to imply that there was no turning back now. Tom tightened his grip on the door armrest and turned towards the rain swept window and rested his forehead against the glass. He was terrified.
They approached the Canadian border, Tom was now more unsure than ever; he wanted out in the worst way, and he made them stop the car. He got out and leaned over with his hand on the left rear quarter panel of the old Ford Fairlane. He could not hold his stomach and began throwing up, he had never been so nervous in all his life.
They coaxed him back into the car and continued toward the crossing. "Stay cool" the driver instructed him. This made Tom even more nervous, he knew he was anything but cool now, he was sure he couldn't pull this off. "Hold on…something doesn't look right….who are all those guys? There are way too many people at that border house…this isn't right, this can't be right…something's up…." The driver warned.
"Get me out of here!" Tom screamed in as demanding a voice as he could muster.
"No wait…there is no place to turn around…"
"Damn you! You son of a bitch! You turn this car around now! Drive right over that curb! Do it! Do it now!" Tom was freaking out big time. He was sure that they knew he was coming that it was all some kind of set up. "Go!" Tom reached over the back of the seat and cranked the wheel hard to the left. "Floor it!" he shouted.
The car jumped and bounced over the curb, and they sped away from the border crossing. Tom had decided it was a bad idea and wanted to forget it all. But they calmed him down and convinced him that they knew of another crossing where the guards were sympathetic to their cause. They drove all night, and made to a border crossing some where in New York State that led to Quebec. Tom was asleep when they crossed the border; they woke him up as they crossed the Saint Lawrence River at Laval. "You’re officially a deserter now!" they told him. Tom never felt so dirty in his life than he did right then.
He looked back and watched the American sky disappear over the horizon behind him. He could never go back. If he did, it meant Leavenworth prison for sure. If he turned back now all it would be is absent without leave, but he was not sure where he was or where he was going, he was committed now, whether he liked it or not. He was just a young kid, still in his teens. These were older people, he had been taught to respect his elders, he was sure they knew what was best for him.
Tom never grew to love Canada, the only good thing he found here was Nancy, and now she was gone. Since we have lost contact with him we all feared that he was rotting in some prison cell in Leavenworth, but I hoped he was sailing the world in some beautiful little skiff, and in my heart, that is where he is. I’m glad he doesn't know that I am in here.

The sound of the guard bringing my food was enough to bring me back to reality. I was probably never going to see more than a pint of water at a time again for the rest of my life, let alone a river or a lake, or an ocean. It was good to let my mind wander like that, I had resisted it at my first coming to this place, it seemed wrong for some reason then, but now, it was a new friend. The years of letting my brain vegetate in here had taken its toll, and so my little reminisce caused me to need to sleep. I slept better that night than I had in a long time.
But then when I awoke I found myself slipping into the depression of my reality. I spent the day resisting any memories that might distract me from what was real. It was a false sense of well being that I got from retreating into my mind, and some how it bothered me, as if it was a tease. Besides it took time from my wallowing in self-pity. At some point even wallowing in self pity gets old, and so I found myself day dreaming about days gone by so long ago and so far away from this place.

My sister Nancy had a soft spot for me, I’m sure of that. One time, I wanted to get this bike that a kid in my class was selling, but my mom said that there was no way I could get it. One weekend we came home from the cottage, and Nancy and Tom were there at the Milliken house when we arrived. Behind the living room curtain was that bike, it was a wonderful surprise. Nancy and her boyfriend Tom had gotten me the bike. Or rather, Nancy made Tom buy it for me. So Tom, wanting to impress Nancy bought it for me.
The image of Nancy's pretty face beaming with a big smile as she pulled the curtain back to unveil the bike is burned into my memory forever. It is one of the few contexts I can recall her in that I can picture her face. She became immortal in that act, at least to me, her memory lives more vivid on that day than any other. If she had not done that, I may not be able to recall her face so well. So it was two gifts in one.
My dad had died in May, and Nancy played guitar at his funeral and sang for him. She played some of his old favorites, and several new songs that Nancy had wrote. My dad’s health had failed rapidly due to the onslaught of diabetes. He had been neglecting his medication for many years, opting rather for faith that God would heal him, I am sure God healed him of something, but it wasn't diabetes, and it slowly and mercilessly killed him.
Less than a week later, Nancy fell into a coma, caused by a cancerous tumor in her head. She had cancer for several years, ovarian cancer, and it was malignant. In the seventies medical science had little success with this kind of cancer. Myself, I knew little of her plight. I only knew what I had overheard as I walked into a room where my sisters and mom were talking. Upon my arrival they would cease their discussion. I would ask what was up, but they would say nothing, or that it was none of my business.
I never pressed the issue; it was not my style to do so. But, when Nancy died I felt cheated somewhat. I learned post mortem what she had been going through, I never had the opportunity to offer any support or even prayers; I had no idea that her condition was so grave. I knew she was somewhat ill at times, but I was always told that she had been sick, but God had miraculously healed her. I took those words at face value, and so I was unprepared when I heard she had died. Again, I am sure that God healed her of something, but it wasn't cancer.
As a family we were unprepared to accept the fact that such a tragedy could happen to our family. We were the family that saved others; we were the ones who the bullets always missed. We were the ones who were exempt from death, we always came through; it was our thing. While the rest of the world got killed slipping on banana peels, we were defeating the dark forces of nature it self. This could not happen to us.
It was decided that Nancy's death was only a test, that God was testing us. My sister Margaret and her husband and a few of my other sisters and some new church people they had met all went to the hospital morgue to get Nancy and raise her from the dead. I can only imagine the kind of scene it must have been down there. Thankfully, I was not allowed to go with them. The hospital staff must have been very troubled, but were gracious to the grieving family and took it all in stride. I actually expected them to arrive home with Nancy, all happy and alive.
Tom who had not missed a minute by her bedside was now conspicuously absent. This was perhaps for the best; I don't know how he could have handled the madness. Tom had no one to turn to; his sister and mom were in the states, so I don't know where he went off to. Tom's mom had never met Nancy, and now she never would, this compounded Tom's pain.
A few weeks after she sang so beautifully at dad’s funeral, she was back at the same funeral home again, this time in the casket. Yet still we were not ready to let her rest; in the funeral home the effort to try to raise her from the dead continued. Hours and hours of calling on God to restore her to life, but she was dead, and it seemed she was going to stay that way. I’m sure God raised some part of her to life, but it was not anything that was still in that casket.
There was no one to sing and play guitar for her, all the talent in the family died with her. People came from miles around, lots and lots of people. She was well loved far and wide. I had no idea that she was so popular, although it was not surprising; she was beautiful in so many ways. The death of my father was easier, he was old, his best years were far behind him, but Nancy had so much ahead of her. Over the rest of my life I would often catch myself missing her at family get- together's.
I wonder even now how she would be like, where she would have fit in to our family if she were to have lived. What kind of things would be said of her, where she would be living, or how many children she would have, who would they be most like? But these things could never be, her children's voices have never screeched above the din of our holiday crowds. I would never hear her laugh at any of my jokes.
I had driven Dads Cadillac at his funeral leading the procession, and I was doing it again, this time following behind my sister’s casket. I didn't even have my driver’s license yet. It was a cold gray day; the wind was whipping the snow in snake like wisps over the surface of the road. Things like this were not supposed to happen to us, it all seemed so unreal. I think I truly believed that we would raise her from the dead, if I hadn't, I don't think I could have functioned as well.
We all arrived at the grave site, it was cold and windy, and patches of snow were still on the ground. There were some words spoken. I don’t know what, and she was lowered into the ground. There was a plan to come back later in the day to try to raise her from the dead right through the dirt. And they did just that, but at some point in the cold dark, they decided that it was not going to happen and gave up.
Tom never came to his wife's funeral; he later told me that he couldn't face it. I was always afraid that he never has faced it. He never remarried or even dated again, I am sure Nancy approved. It was probably for the best that Tom never witnessed the madness around Nancy's death. But I am sure he is sad that he was not there when we laid her to rest. Losing Nancy left a hole in Tom that he never even wanted to fill.
How life twists and turns, Tom was just a young teenage kid, he bought himself a sixty seven GTO and souped it all up, and so he was now the cool dude in his town. Life was looking good. He loved his country, and when his draft notice came he was anxious for adventure and gladly came to serve. As with all young solders, the romance of battle becomes lost in the heavy smell of blood. Tom was no different, all he wanted was to do was finish his tour and go home. His commanding officers were beginning to pressure him into signing up for another tour. He had seen it all before, a soldier comes short, and they want him to sign up again, so they blackmail and murder him by sending him into the thick of the worst battle if he refused.
The decision Tom made that day changed the course of his life forever. He lost his life that day. He was as much a casualty of that war as any other dead soldier. A large part of him died that day, and he never recovered. Nancy was the only bright spot in an otherwise painful existence. Now with her gone, he rallied, he tried to make the best of it, but he seems destined to eat his meals in sorrow, till he sinks back into the dust from whence he came. All he ever wanted was the chance to grow up while cruising around in his goat.
Living alone and in his fifties, the promise of the pilot light of youth long since discouraged, he suffered a stroke. Paralyzed he lay rapt in his own feculence for days before any one found him. At least that’s what I heard, but in my heart he is still off sailing the world somewhere in his triple mast schooner. Perhaps if I believe that hard enough and long enough it will be true.
I although I never stopped thinking about Nancy, I suddenly realized that I could not recall the last time I had seen her, what I had said, or what she had said to me. I was around when she died; I think she was staying at the cottage with us. But I can not recall what she was doing on her last healthy day of life. I tried to strain my brain to think of it; however my memories would not reveal it to me.
All I can recall is visiting her in the hospital. When we found her room I thought it odd that it seemed to be rather out of the way compared to other rooms. It was not on the main ward; instead it seemed to be down an unfinished hall way, we had to walk around an open steel studded partition through some large unfinished vacant dark and dusty room, and then on the other side of all this; far away from the regular hospital activities was Nancy’s room.
Once inside the room it seemed like a normal hospital room; one could easily assume that there were other occupied rooms on either side of it. But in actuality it was all alone, surrounded by empty utility rooms and closets. The separation seemed deliberate, and knowing Nancy, I think that she would have abhorred it. However she was in a coma, I do not know if even knew we were there. We did not stay long; I don’t know where else we had to go.
So that was the last time I saw her. Still after all these years I could not stop the weeping. Tears flowed down my cheeks and my nose began to stuff up. It was a familiar experience. When someone close to you dies; at first you are in shock, fear and sorrow, but you have no comprehension of what you really have lost. If you did it would be much too overwhelming. Only time reveals how much has been lost, and only a fraction of it at that. Hopefully someday we will all meet again, and hopefully when we do everything we meant to each other while here on earth will count for something.

I was rattled back to reality by the sound of the guard bring me some food. Well what passes for food around here; I not really sure if it is even edible. The bucket of slop contained a rotted fish head and fish spine attached, some kind of greasy mash cooked together with what looked like soggy paper and field grass. The meals were getting smaller and smaller and worse and worse with each passing month. It had been some time since I heard them beating or torturing any of the other prisoners. Perhaps they had gotten lazy and only wanted to torture us with the food.
I tried to eat the gruel that had been prepared for me; I was so hungry that I knew I would finish it. I just had to be careful to chew the sharp fish bones to as small of pieces as possible with my last two opposing teeth. They could easily get stuck in my throat and choke me to death if I was not careful. Although the fish head was obviously beyond its expiry date, it had been well cooked, boiled in bleach of some kind by the taste of it. I think they did this to keep the rotten meat from killing us. Hopefully the bleach had killed any bacteria that were growing in the rotten fish.
As the years passed I hated that damn guard more and more. What kind of man works in a place like this? Sure he was a soldier or something like that just taking orders, but still, how can he treat us so thoughtlessly? This slop that he feeds us, does he think it is fun to watch us suffer? He starves us to the point where we will eat anything. If I could I think I would kill him. I can picture myself reaching through the slot in the door and grabbing him by the neck and choking him to death.
But I was no longer able to muster that kind of strength; I was old, weak and feeble. He had stopped picking up my honey bucket long ago and now my cell was a disgusting filth pit, my sense of smell no longer capable of detecting the foul odor of putrefaction. I think this made the food go down better though. How can they treat us like this? I seethed in anger and hatred of them, it was hard not to.
At first I had tried to be forgiving, I tried to love them like God had commanded us to. “To love our enemies” is part of what was to separate the heathen from the good. For even the heathen love those who are good to them, so to do this is no gain in Gods eyes, but to love ones enemies, that is divine. But the years had worn me out; this test was more than I could bear. But my situation was no test; it was just the way it was.
I don’t know when it happened; I had tried to love my captors, I had tried to be obedient and love my enemies. On the outside I would always say that I loved them, no not to them, but they never talked to me anyhow. When I got fed the slop the fed me, I would try to be thankful, even cheery; on the outside. On the inside, little by little I could not help but feel a little angry or offended at my treatment. But I would cover it up by saying that “oh it’s not so bad.” The truth was that it was so bad, denying the truth does not amount to love or forgiveness.
So slowly but surely the root of bitterness had taken hold. Now it had grown into a strong tree. Even though I recognized it I was powerless to overcome it. It had been too long, it had been too bad; even when I tried to let it go I could not, I did not really want to. Satisfaction was not something that was familiar to me anymore; I had envied this guards freedom. He was not locked up in here; he could go home anytime he wanted. Perhaps it was this envy that had given bitterness such a strong root.
I don’t know and I don’t care, I had heard of the Stockholm syndrome and at first, I think it might have applied to me, but they had no contact with me so it either never developed or had long since died. Perhaps that is it, maybe it was the fact that they had no contact with me; to them I had nothing they wanted to know about, I was not even worth them accusing me of anything. Some how that peeved me more than anything else; “Who the hell do they think they are?”
Did they not know that everyday that I was in here was a tremendous waste? If they knew me, really knew who I was I could do so much for them, but no, they just assume I have nothing to offer them. How can they do that? If I could get my hands on them I could show them a thing or two….whatever that means… I used to imagine testifying against them in a court of law when I got out of here, but now I just imagine killing them; preferably with my bare hands.

How far I have fallen, perhaps God has tested me beyond my breaking point, perhaps it is his fault.

These prison walls could hold my body, but it was my own stubbornness that imprisoned my mind and my heart. My new reality was whatever I wanted it to be, eventually all that time I spent looking at the walls and being annoyed by the flickering light seemed like a lot of wasted time. I could live again, with in my own mind. On the outside this could lead to insanity perhaps, but in here it might be the only thing that will keep me sane.
After several weeks of searching through the cobwebs of my mind looking for long lost memories I found that it no longer seemed to be entertaining me like at first. I was finding that the reality of my circumstance would seem to be contrasted against the daydreams and memories making my predicament seem even worse. It was like it all was backfiring on me. I feared that like a house of cards I might collapse into a state of irretrievable depression.
I needed an activity, something that I could do that was ongoing, challenging and constructive, but I could not think of what it could be. I did not have much to work with, a nail, and that was about it; I had no other possessions within my cell. You can't build much with just one nail. It was the quill I used to mark time on the wall, it was my fork at mealtime, it was my toothpick, and it was my q-tip when my ear was itchy. I don't know how I would have got along with out it; it had greatly improved my standard of living in this cold damp hole.
The paint and mortar on the wall made an excellent pallet to write on, it was smooth and soft, if I was careful, and didn’t scratch too deep, it didn't chip, and so I could write words legibly. It was over twenty years ago now that I had made that first mark on my cell wall; scratching each word carefully into the mortar. It is what has kept me sane and alive all this time. It took me nearly a year to carefully carve the words of even one chapter into the walls of my cell. I carefully visualized and crafted each word, and each sentence, to minimize errors, since I had no way of erasing anything. The mental discipline that this required was like medicine to my soul, without it the sensory deprivation would have been deafening.
The nail, my favorite tool and friend, is now worn down to the nub, and my fingers no longer can grip its polished head. I am now too old and too weak to attempt pulling another nail from my bed frame. The rest are all driven in flush and tight; there is no way that I will ever get another one loose. So this is the end of the line. I can hardly scratch each one of these words out with what is left of my nail; I am dropping it at each letter, and then spending hours searching for it through the slime and excrement built up on the floor. For the last three years it has been like this, and I think I have been writing on these walls for over thirty years since then.
But I don’t know for sure, time is just a rubber band in here, I have no way of measuring it accurately. Perhaps it had only been half that time, at any rate it felt like at least thirty years. The food seemed to be getting better; well actually, my standards and expectations had probably just gotten lower. Writing on my cell walls had at least been a distraction from my hatred towards the guard, now I was merely indifferent towards him.


It has been seven years since I last wrote on this wall. I have read and reread my story hundreds of times; it has sustained me all this time. But now I am too weak to stand anymore. I know that my life is draining out of me each day, and what is worse, the guard has not brought me food for over a week. I can here the cries for food from the other cells as well. It is the first sounds I have heard from them since the torturing had stopped. I don’t know why we were never able to communicate with each other, I had yelled out many times but never got any answers back; well nothing I could understand anyway.
So, feeling the end is near I decided to make one last entry on my wall. For these seven years I have cherished what is left of my nail and like it; I to am worn to the nub. But now hopefully it will serve me this one last time. First let me say that I have learned to manage my feculence build up in this place. At first it seemed unmanageable, but after a while I was able to use the decayed and dried feces to make a levy to contain the fresh stuff. And after a while it just turns to dirt. This in turn can be used to absorb more of the fresh stuff. I don’t know why I felt the need to tell anyone that, except that I didn’t want you to think that I was some slob who just wallowed around in his own filth.

Now I lay on my wire frame mesh and dream of having a mattress and a blanket, that would be pure heaven. My love of irony is fulfilled in these writings, for these very walls that entombed me provided the pallet that set me free. But now I am no longer able to read them, my eyes worn out by that damn light bulb that seems to flicker forever, I never thought that the light was going to out last me, but it still flickers and buzzes after all these years. If I am the only person who ever has read these words then that is enough. For in writing these words and in the reading of them I have been set free.
Old age is consuming me, my mind is no longer able to recall my life except for what I have written; time age and malnutrition has taken its toll. For the last few years it has been as if I was reading about someone else’s life, as my memories have faded so much that I had forgotten almost all. But now my eyes have failed me, I can neither read nor add to this script anymore. It is with great difficulty that I scratch these letters into the mortar of my cell. I don’t know how I will cope living much longer. It was the writing and the reading of this book, which sustained me, but now, that has been taken away.
I have even forgotten what all I have written on these walls, I know what I had written, a documentation of all my memories, but I can’t even recall that much. Now I spend my time day dreaming about my only memory that remains vivid in the cobwebs of my mind.
I am a little boy just five or six, I am sitting on the concrete steps of our house on Kennedy road. The sun is high and hot, and I am playing with a small dinky toy car on the sun baked concrete. I know that I would have rather been anyplace else at the time, but I don’t now know where that would have been. To me, looking at it now, that hot sun beaming down on my back would feel pretty good. That is now my only memory that I have, and so I will relive that moment over and over as long as I have it.