Burning Bridges
By reinbeauchaser
Author's Notes: For those who have already read the first chapter, I changed the title, made some minor corrections and enhancements, but nothing that strays from its original format. The next update will not have reference to the original title.
For those reading this for the first time, this is a prologue to a much larger story, one that I have been working on for some months, now. It can stand alone, but – as they say - there is more to the tale.
Originally, this was supposed to be a one-shot, but – as oftentimes happens – that one shot took on a life of its own. My muses are fickle things these days. :0)
I will not promise quick updates, either, but I WILL update. I have enough written already to supply a submission every week for about a month (approximately 15,000 words so far), so if I keep adding to this, you, the reader, should not have to wait around too much for subsequent chapters. That's my plan, anyway, writer's block notwithstanding. :0)
Anyway, enjoy and let me know what you think!
Prologue:
"The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there."
author unknown
After what I've written so far, I'm not so certain anymore if this is a good idea. I'm thinking that maybe I should just burn the whole thing, all three-hundred and fifty-seven pages. It has been cathartic in a way, to get it all down and in print, but my family thinks my tales are just imaginary. They could rightly use journal as an excuse to commit me to that old folk's home.
Yet, nothing can be further from the truth. It really happened, all of it, but maybe with putting it into print and giving it permanence, I am as senile as I've heard some members of my family whisper from time to time. They might be right, but I am also too stubborn to care.
They might also toss my book away, but I have faith that my granddaughter will hold on to it. After all, it represents a tough time in her life when she was very sick. Yes, my stories distracted my namesake quite well and it's because of her that I write. So, my dear granddaughter, in case you read this journal, it is my ode to you.
Still, the act of chronicling my experiences has made me wonder: Am I doing the right thing? There are so many ways that this could go wrong and on so many levels. At my age, though, if I am remiss with sharing about them, I may not have a second chance.
Of course, I wonder if any of them are still alive. What if they're all gone and some excavation project discovers their remains? What would people think? Would they label them as monsters? Would they display their bones in a museum? No, I couldn't let that happen. I would want the world to know, then, just how special they are; not just to me, but to the city in general. I've lost count with how many would-be victims they rescued from muggers, kidnappers, and rapists. The city needs to know who it was who hand-delivered trussed up wanted criminals to the authorities, not to mention why orphanages and other charitable organizations found bags of money - most of which was drug-related - dropped off in their collection boxes.
There are so many good things that my friends did, it would take as many pages as what I've written so far to list them all. I want to make sure that if they are discovered, there is an account of their exploits. It would pain me if they just faded away and disappeared into some anthropologist's backroom, or ended up in some weird and whacky museum. My friends deserve medals and statues. They are heroes, the reptilian equivalent to Superman, Batman, and Spiderman all rolled up into four unique and brave individuals. Despite their shadowy life of living unobserved from the general population, I feel they deserve some recognition, even if it is post mortem.
Mostly, though, I want my granddaughter to understand and appreciate the full depth of my friendship with these special people.
Yet, as I'm nearing the end of this marathon of a journal, second-guessing myself surprises me. I mean, I promised them that I would never share their secret with anyone. And I haven't, at least not until now - my granddaughter and family notwithstanding of course. They think I'm nuts, though, so they don't count.
Nevertheless, I feel driven, as if my next breath – or stroke against the keyboard – might be my last. After all, I am eighty-two years old - which is young in my opinion, but nonetheless geriatric by everyone else's. Still, who knows how much time I have left? I should be spending it with family and not with writing my journal. I've spent so much time on it, though, I'm sure my daughter is planning to have me committed. But, I am driven; I have to get it all down. I have to have some account about what happened so many years ago. I'm not the same woman I was back then. Being as old as I am gives me a clearer view of things. If only I knew then what I know now, maybe I wouldn't have made such a drastic decision.
Yes, a part of me is still mad at them; another larger part pines to forgive them face to face – and ask for forgiveness in return. I can't imagine how they must have felt back when…IT all happened. Goodness, despite HOW he died and how unnecessary it was, I still love the guys. I wish I could take back the words I had said to them, take back the vow I made. I truly regret my very angry and resentful decision, one that clearly told them to stay away and never contact me again. How stupid was that, anyway?
Yes, April, go ahead and burn those bridges. Goodness, what was I thinking?
Honestly? I was thinking that I had just become a widow, with a baby on the way who would never know their father. I had never felt such grief before, not even when my own dad passed away. Then again, I shouldn't have been so surprised by the outcome; Casey lived dangerously. I guess I was in denial about that and the reality of it finally woke me up.
Mostly, though, I worried that my child would end up orphaned. I knew that as long as I kept close to my friends, I would always be in the line of fire. I would always be in danger. When it finally hit me that my baby would be, too, that was my epiphany.
After Casey's burial and the one run-in with that lone Foot soldier (who promised revenge), I had to make that hard choice to break ties, just to avoid attracting the wrong kind of crowd. I seemed to be very good at doing that. Why that soldier didn't kill me then, I don't know, but I suspect he had at least some honor in not dispatching a very pregnant woman. I guess I should thank him, though in my heart I could only blame him for what happened afterwards.
I knew that leaving would hurt my friends, but I had to do it, if not for me, or my child, then certainly for them. With us out of the way, it meant their enemy would not have an advantage. Frankly, they could kidnap me, or my baby - or both of us, and take us hostage. My friends would surely try to rescue us, too. That's why I had to move, why I had to get away and burn my bridges - to protect them, while also protecting my baby and me.
To get out of town unseen by the Foot, I used all of the diversionary tactics my friends had taught me. Buses, trains, and taxis never ask for ID, only enough money to pay the fare. I ran opposite from where I wanted to end up, doubling back by thumbing a ride. Of course, I made sure that the pick-up driver was a woman. With my pregnancy and luggage, my story of fleeing an abusive husband worked beautifully.
In any event, after two days of travel I finally made it to the family farm.
Moving into the old place helped my grief and my anger somewhat, but it also made things worse. It reminded me of the good times when we were all together as one happy, though very unique, family. I did my share of crying those first few weeks, too.
Casey's old truck still worked, so at least I had transportation to get to the store – and a month after moving in, I drove myself to the hospital when I went into labor. That was a fun ride. NOT!
Before I went into labor, I had dyed my hair the first chance I had. Red hair stands out far too easily. I was sure that the Foot would look at various hospital records and had the means to find anyone with such notable characteristics as my hair color.
When asked about family, I told them I was an only child and my parents had died years ago. When asked about the father of my baby, I had to lie. I told the admittance receptionist at the hospital that I didn't know where he was. He had disappeared soon after I told him I was pregnant. I had to bite my tongue when the woman mumbled 'dead beat father' under her breath. Casey was anything but. He was looking forward to becoming a daddy.
When they put me in the birthing room, they kept someone with me at all times. I so wanted to cry, but I didn't want to have someone preening over me, either. So, I shoved it down and tried to focus on my labor pains.
Labor was hard, but it was made worse for me emotionally. When I finally popped my daughter out and they presented her to me, I finally cried. No one questioned me, either. Many women cry when they see their firstborn child. I was grateful for the normalcy of my outburst.
Two days later I went home with Kathleen bundled tightly into her carrier. No suspicious shadows followed me, no cars trailed my truck. I even pulled off the road at one point where it snaked through the forested countryside. I hid myself, the baby, and the truck in among the thick brush, just in case I did have someone tailing me. I waited a good two hours. Fortunately, my daughter slept soundly. Once convinced I was free and clear, I made it back to the farm without a hitch. Once there, for the first time in many years, I began to relax.
Every day was a blessing. It was so peaceful, so carefree. Kathleen reminded me how precious life was, how fragile it can be. Yes, I know firsthand about death, but new life brings it all into razor sharp focus.
Then, a month after Kathleen's birth, I had a brief glimpse at sundown of something amid the trees out back. One hundred acres separated that part of the yard and my nearest neighbor. Quite honestly, the presence frightened me. If I had to scream for help, who would hear me? I was all alone with a newborn baby. How could I keep her safe if the Foot had found me? I thought of taking Casey's truck and running again, but if it was indeed my enemy, then they would have already compromised it, maybe rig it with a bomb that would blow up the moment I started the engine.
I couldn't take that chance.
So, I kept my head down and waited. I kept Kathleen fed, diapered, and entertained, just so she wouldn't squawk too much. Fortunately, she was a quiet baby. Splinter would have been proud. It helped that I had just stocked up a good supply of food, too, and had plenty of diapers, so I didn't have a need to leave the farm. With good locks on the doors, I knew it would take more than a simple kick to break in. Several years ago, when we remodeled the farmhouse, Casey and I had replaced all of the exterior exits with steel-re-enforced doors, and all of the windows with nearly unbreakable, triple-paned, polycarbonate glass. It was just a precaution, really, since we never had any kind of assault there, and it helped to insulate the house, too, but we lived uncertain lives, where the next battle could come to our rural farm.
In any event, I felt much safer there than I would have if we hadn't made all of the improvements.
After a month went by and nothing happened, I relaxed a little. I checked the truck and found it unmolested, yet I still 'felt' someone watching the house every morning. After six months went by, I knew it couldn't be anyone from the Foot, the Foot didn't wait that long to attack. They might scout a place for a week or two, or even a month, but after six? They would be long overdue for a visit.
Maybe they had changed their mind, but I doubt that.
It didn't take much reasoning, then, to figure out whom it might be. I decided that it had to be one of the guys, probably checking up on me, making sure that I'm all right. Most likely, it was Raph or Donnie.
Maybe they just wanted to see what Casey's kid looked like. That wouldn't surprise me.
Well, she looked like him, no auburn-headed girl to represent me. Just as well, really, all things considered. Her dark locks and square jaw-line certified her as her father's daughter in a huge way. Birth records would say nothing about having the gene for red hair. I had to wait for a granddaughter to see that.
Anyway, I realized that my friends would not cease in their protection of me. I had to appreciate their perseverance. Of course, considering how persistent their enemy was, I wondered if they did have to intervene at times. How many battles took place beyond my line of sight and hearing? Ninja fight silently, they make very little noise...except for Mike, but only if he and his opponents are out of earshot of the everyday person and especially if he's winning.
Just the same, though, I was tired of the snooping. I didn't want to sell the farm, but I felt it was the only way that I could permanently break ties.
I also needed the money to move.
I took a chance that someone from the Foot might be searching the 'net for any reference to Casey or April Jones, so, I made sure to keep the sale private and price the property cheap enough for a quick sale, and then get out of town Dodge. It worked.
As it turned out, the people who bought the farm and all of its acreage also bought some of the neighboring farms. They ended up turning it all into a neighborhood of fifteen-hundred homes. I was kind of sad about that when I found out, but I realized it was better for the guys. It would act as a dead end in our friendship. It was better this way.
After I moved to Philadelphia, it cemented that break. I knew they could track me if they really wanted to, but after I sold the farm, I think it finally penetrated their thick skulls that I was serious. I never felt someone watching me ever again.
Of course, I made a regular habit of keeping my new hair color fresh, just so the obvious red never showed through. I seriously kept Clairol in the green. I thought about using a different color from time to time, but decided against it. Consistency creates normalcy and I was determined to fit in and not draw attention to myself.
Yes, there were moments when I missed my friends. I can't deny that. Still, when my life became as normal as my neighbors' did, when my only worries were about potty-training Kathleen or when she started school and had to deal with homework deadlines, I realized then just how crazy a life I had led before Casey died. I don't know if Case would have appreciated my new way of living, he was certainly a very restless sort, but I sure did.
It's amazing when you are under duress all the time, how unnatural 'peace of mind' can feel. You're always wondering when the next 'shoe' will drop. But, that other shoe never dropped and I got used to it. I liked it!
As the years went by and as Kathleen grew up, got married, had children of her own, got divorced, when I began telling my granddaughter about my life as a young woman, the reality of what I had truly lost hit me like that proverbial ton of bricks. I had made a vow, though, and I was determined to keep it.
Yet, in hindsight, I missed my friends. I still do. Truth be told, I would want them to enjoy the kind of life that I had enjoyed. I would want them to share in such things as watching my child grow up, to see the wonder of grandchildren, to reminisce about the 'good ol' days', even if there was some bittersweet to that good.
When my granddaughter came down sick with the flu – she apparently got a double dose of it, I shared my stories with her. The more I talked about my friends, the more I began to regret my decision from so long ago.
It's true what they say: the mouth is like a feather pillow opened up on a windy day. Like feathers, words fly out and drift along on the wind of time, out of reach. They are always irretrievable. Yet, I have found that what we do in response to them - no matter how long it takes - either justifies us or fills us with regret. I know that everyone has regrets; you can't really live life and not acquire a few. Nevertheless, of all that I have, none was worse than knowing that I had hurt the four people who cared about me the most – other than Casey, of course. They were people who would protect my child and me with their very lives. Yet, they cared so much that they stayed away when asked to.
There were many times when I wished they had ignored my request and made pests of themselves. They did, initially, which is why I moved. Still, I think that in giving me space, it was their way of appeasing my grief.
It does make me wonder how they handled theirs.
After my granddaughter got better, I thought that never talking about them again might help. Yet, watching her and her brother grow up and move on with their lives, as I grew older and realized my mortality, I knew I had to make sure that someone remembered them.
Another truth I've discovered: Regret will make you do things that you've sworn never to do. So I guess the moral to the story is, don't make vows and best not to swear! Yeah, that's a truth!
In any event, I know that the family thinks I'm nuts. So be it. I'm an old woman, for pity's sake, what do they expect? I'm allowed a little grace, I think, a little trip down that Yellow Brick Road. That doesn't mean that I'm ready for the old folk's home, though. They can categorize my ramblings as fiction if they want to, but I have a quest and a goal. I have to right my wrong.
Maybe one day...if my friends are still alive...they may even read this journal and know my change of heart; that is, if it ever finds its way to them...
TBC