The Spirit of Christmas Passed (A Longmire tribute story)
By Ry Brooks ( With apologies to Craig Johnson)
Wyoming in winter is a challenging proposition under the best of circumstances, and what with a late December storm followed by a hard freeze, the good folks of Absaroka County could be forgiven for thoughts of more southern latitudes and warmer environs. Coming as it had this close to Christmas, the bad weather would be a trial for Kris Kringle himself, but one denizen of the county seat of Durant habitually did his best to live down to the already low standard of holiday mood that I had been accustomed to seeing since succeeding him as Sheriff.
Lucian Connally didn't exactly hate the Christmas season, but he surely didn't have much enjoyment for it either, except in the opportunity to be an even bigger pain in the ass than usual. At long last, however, contempt had bred familiarity, that is, having endured his past escapades on one too many otherwise happy occasions, his fellow residents and staffers at the Durant Home for Assisted Living unconsciously conspired to extricate him from what was already shaping up to be a less-than-stellar holiday by enlisting the aid of an unwitting fall guy.
The call came in over my radio, and I was so distracted by the effort to keep the Bullet between the ditches that without thinking, I keyed the mike and said, "What's that again, Ruby?" Big mistake.
"Walter, we have a call of a disturbance out at the Home." No need to say which Home. Not A home, THE home, so with a sigh, I keyed the mike again. "Need I ask who the architect of this disturbance might be? Never mind, I'm on it."
Of course, I had been on the way back to the warmth and relative safety of my office, so gingerly coaxing the four-wheel drive through a slow- speed U-turn, I dutifully headed back out to answer the call. Without a doubt, Lucian could be a trial even when he was sober and relatively decent (for him). If he was creating a "disturbance", then he would be neither, and this was going to be a long day indeed.
To make matters worse, I had no backup. Having judged the weather conditions as precarious at best, I had remanded Dog to the protective custody of my dispatcher Ruby. He was no doubt lying by her feet and warm as toast from the little space heater she kept under her desk. The bastard.
Victoria Moretti, my undersheriff, had taken a rare and well-earned vacation to spend the holidays with her family back in Philadelphia. She had employed every excuse under the sun to beg off and work but her mother, being the brains in the Moretti family, outmaneuvered her and played the guilt card.
The Ferg was over on the other side of the county working an accident involving a tractor-trailer and a bull buffalo. We had not yet received an assessment of which party was at fault and which had gotten the worst of it.
Deputy Saizarbitoria had the prescience to be at home when the blizzard struck and so was hors-de-combat until the snowplows could get around to his area.
My best friend and sometimes conscience, Henry Standing Bear was busy assisting families on the Cheyenne Reservation that had been snowed in by the pre-Christmas blizzard. On horseback, no less. Showoff.
So it was just me. In the past, I had dealt with Lucian drunk and shooting his TV, setting fire to his furniture while drunk, even with him getting drunk and being poisoned and almost dying on me. Truth be told, that last one was not entirely his fault, unless you count him drinking the evidence in a homicide case. Lately, though, he had been noticeably more mellow, perhaps owing to his chronic seasonal depression, and I had tried without success to cheer him up by losing our weekly chess matches. Not that I had to try to lose.
Something had been weighing on him for a while, though he was loathe to talk about it, preferring to self-diagnose and self-medicate from the bottles of Pappy Van Winkle Family Reserve bourbon that he hid in the a/c return vent and various other secret spots in his room at the Durant Home for Assisted Living, and for which, despite my best efforts, I had never discovered his source. It was not my place to judge the man. He had been Sheriff of Absaroka County in tough times and had taken me on as deputy when me and my young family desperately needed it. And, when he decided his time in the job should be over, convinced me to run against him and did all he could to throw the election my way. Mine was a debt to be never fully repaid.
So, it was with a mixture of dread and resolve that I rolled up to the retirement facility. I was met at the door by Lucy Red Thunder, who peered at me quizzically, but said nothing.
"I have to say, Lucy, this is the quietest disturbance I can remember around here", I told her. "Is this a prank call, or did I get the address wrong?"
"No, Sheriff, we just didn't expect you so soon."
"Pardon me?"
"It hasn't started yet. We thought with the snow and all, it would take you awhile to get out here.."
"Excuse me, what hasn't started?"
"The disturbance. We were pretty sure it would begin by the time you could get here. We misjudged."
"Uh, I was close by, but do you mean to tell me there's no emergency but you expect one? Can you tell me what's going on?"
"There have been uh, concerns. About Mr. Connolly."
"Sheriff Connally. He's due that. Even lost a leg in performance of his duty."
"Sheriff Connally. I'm sorry, it's hard sometimes to imagine him as a sheriff. Especially when he is drinking too much. And if he is drinking, it is always too much."
"Point taken. Has he caused another riot, or just an embarrassment of drunken profanity?"
"Oh no, he hasn't done anything."
"Nothing at all?"
"Just so. We are very concerned. So we called for you, since you seem to have a way with him. You are his family."
"No, I'm not."
"Not in the white way. We see "family" as more than blood. It is not easy to explain to someone who is not...not..."
"Cheyenne?"
"Spiritual. No offense, Sheriff. You don't strike me as a spiritual person."
"You might be surprised. I've had more than my share of...incidents...I don't always understand. Not so as that fits your meaning. But, just so you know..."
"You sonsabitches! Where is it?" Lucian. Now I was beginning to think Lucy Red Thunder was some kind of psychic. How in hell could she have known..."
"I better have it back by the count of ten...or else...aw shit. Why the hell bother?" And just like that the tempest subsided. This was not normal behavior for Lucian Connally at all. Discharge of firearms was predictable at this point, but he had gone silent. Lucy looked at me again as if to say, "Well, what are you waiting for?"
"What?"
"I didn't say anything", Lucy chided.
"Right, um, but I thought..."
"Sheriff, you are his friend. His only one, maybe. He isn't himself. And it is getting worse. He won't let any of us in on what's bothering him, and he isn't taking his medication."
"You mean, the, uh..."
"No, his prescribed medication. It's like he has given up. We didn't say anything to you before because he's much easier on the staff this way, but it is worse, and we are worried. We see this in our older residents sometimes, especially at the holidays. But this is Mr... Sheriff... Connally, after all. And, well, you know...". Lucy suddenly looked away and I could swear there was moisture in her eyes. I'll be damned.
"Yeah, the old bastard grows on you. Like a pit bull with a bad temper. I've noticed myself the last few weeks, he was uncharacteristically bad at chess. I darn near beat him a couple times. But I have to tell you, making a false police report is illegal, regardless."
"But we were just trying to prevent him hurting himself. Or anyone else. You know, like the last time. And before that...well, I was pretty sure he would be uncontrollable when he found out about...well, I better let Jared tell you."
Right on cue, Jared Rawls, an orderly, strode up with a look of sheer panic on his face. "I'm really sorry, Sheriff, this was my idea to call you. I just KNEW when he discovered it was gone, he would take out that shotgun and shoot his tv again, or do something worse. Lucy told me it wouldn't happen, but I couldn't take the chance."
Not for the first time, I felt like I had arrived late to class. "I'm a little confused here. What is gone?"
"His contraband. The whiskey. Maintenance was working on the air ducts while he was out of his room and found it. We removed it, of course. Considering his history and all, we were afraid of another drunken rage. Residents aren't supposed to have intoxicants in their rooms. We need to watch out for medicine interactions. Some of his prescriptions could be a problem combined with alcohol. Then we got worried he might find it missing and go berserk. So I persuaded Lucy to call it in. Considering the weather..."
So that was it. "O.K., I understand. Lucian has not exactly been Mr. Congeniality here. But he has other places...uh, I mean, redeeming qualities." Boy Howdy, Walt. You almost stepped in a fresh one. Lucian, of course, had more than one hiding place. I didn't know them all, but I knew of a couple. But what the staff of the Home didn't know about already, I sure didn't need to draw them a map to. A man has his dignity, and getting away with breaking rules was Lucian's way of keeping his.
It was at this point that I finally realized what was wrong with the scene. There was still no noise coming from Room 31. Not a whimper. The old bastard must have had a stroke or worse. I turned on my heel and made a dash for his door. Or would have, but I had come in from a snowstorm covered in the stuff, and had stood in one spot just long enough for most of it to achieve 33 degrees fahrenheit and metamorphose into a puddle of liquid around my size 13 Sorels. Which, considering they are designed to provide superior traction in the snow are not so much in the wet, so my heroic charge was more like a Saturday morning cartoon character running in place. The saving grace was the ubiquitous placement of handrails throughout the facility. I managed to grab hold of one as I pitched forward and arrested my fall, about midway to the floor. At least I got to arrest something on this call.
The two young staffers, being unencumbered by a slick floor, size thirteen Canadian footwear, and the twenty or so pounds of excess weight from drinking too many cans of Rainier, were way ahead of me. By the time I collected myself and had regained my footing, they were already standing in his doorway. I steeled myself for the worst; after all, the old man and I had been through a lot together. While I wasn't at all sure it was returned in kind, I did have a soft spot for the rascal.
"Well, what the hell are you idiots staring at?", Lucian muttered in a low voice, almost as though talking to himself. He was sitting in his favorite recliner, his prosthetic leg propped against the wall next to his bathroom door. But far from being in a rage over the confiscation of one of his stash bottles, he was subdued. Heck, he was downright calm. I had the ridiculous notion to want to check the room number again, but fought it down. It was Lucian, all right, but then it ...wasn't. No fire, no feisty profanity, nothing. Just like a normal person his age. Something was seriously wrong with him.
"What's going on, Lucian?", I asked, mostly for my own benefit, not really expecting an answer.
"Ah, this place is crawling with thieves. Thieves and liars. I ought to bring charges. Ought to. Wouldn't matter, though. Not a bit. None of it."
Now, I've seen some things, bad things, things that no one should have to see, and not lost a wink of sleep over them, but this version of the old man startled me. I had to do something.
"Jared, Lucy, do you have Sheriff Connally's Pappy Van Winkle?"
Lucian started, glanced quickly toward the hidey holes where I knew he stashed his prized bourbon, and one I didn't even suspect, and for a second, I thought he had something to say. Instead, he just dropped his chin and made a point of studying the space where his real leg used to be.
"No sir, we don't have anything like that. We removed an old bottle of something I've never heard of, Old Mork, or something like that", said Jared.
"MOCK! Old Mock, you idiot! Damn children can't even read anymore!" And then, for a brief flicker, Lucian was back. "So you admit you're the thief! I want it back! NOW! And there better not be a drop missing. Not a goddamn drop!" He started to reach under the couch where he kept his Parker double barrel, realized it was just beyond range and would require him to hop on his one good leg to retrieve and, choosing not to show weakness, abandoned the idea.
In hindsight, the timing was perfect. Standing just outside in the hall with a startled expression on his face was the spitting image of George Armstrong Custer, albeit a bit thinner on the top than the General of Little Big Horn, but with the same steely blue eyes and perfect goatee. Omar Rhodes, bon vivant and big game guide extraordinaire, was trying his best to retreat unnoticed, but he had no chance.
"Omar?", I puzzled, "Are you here to visit Lucian?"
"Uh, umm." Lost for words. Another first.
Lucian growled, "Later, Horney Toads. Can't you see I've got company right now?" Lucian enjoyed making up funny names for people, a habit I had always suspected to be a mnemonic crutch for a failing memory, but could as easily have been a stab at derision or endearment, take your pick.
Sometimes, I can be a little slow on the uptake, but even I couldn't miss the paper sack Omar was clutching, and owing to the general shape and size, there was no doubt I had solved a minor mystery that had nagged at me for some time. Omar was Lucian's Pappy Van Winkle source. Near as I knew, they didn't much like each other. I hadn't even realized the two were on speaking terms.
Omar was almost fast enough, but not quite. "Hey, that's OK, I'll come back later."
I caught up with him a ways down the hall. Omar, being unencumbered as I was by ungainly clodhopper pac boots, almost made his escape.
"I think you and I have some business to clear up. Private sale of alcohol is a misdemeanor in Wyoming. But that's not what's going on here, is it, Omar?"
"Aw, hell, Walt. What are you doing here on a Tuesday night? I mean, I didn't expect anyone..."
"So, you've been bringing Pappy Van Winkle Family Reserve to Lucian? First , why? Second, how do you even find it, and third, WHY?"
"I owe him. A lot more than the occasional gift of a fine bourbon. 'Course I prefer a certain tequila, but he likes this and it's the least I can do for the old pain in the ass. As to the WHY, well, if he wants to tell you, that's up to him, but let's just say I'm keeping a promise."
Omar had inherited acreage and, better yet, mineral rights that would make him one of the wealthiest men hereabouts even without the phenomenally lucrative world-renowned hunting guide enterprise he had built from scratch. It wasn't a mystery that Omar could well afford regular gifts of a bottle of 23-year-old bourbon that retailed for $250.00 or more but commanded far higher prices on the gray market. The mystery was why he would bestow it on Lucian, who as far as I knew, had never said anything to Omar that wasn't wrapped in profanity and finished off with insult. Stranger things than that are hard to imagine, but there it was.
"Sheriff?" Lucy, who I had completely forgotten about. "I think this is what Mr...Sheriff ...Connally was upset about. We only meant to keep him from overindulging what with his medicines and all, and you know that's fairly a given with him." She held out a dusty bottle of something brown, and sort of odd-looking with strange print, hard to read at first but I made out the words "Old Mock". The government tax seal was intact. The thing looked to be from the thirties, maybe older.
"I think it's best you just give it back to him, Lucy."
"The letter too?"
"Letter?"
"A maintenance man found it in a cloth sack with a letter inside. The sack was filthy, but we saved the letter. We didn't read it, but it looked as old as the bottle. Do you think the letter could have something to do with his depression?
Bingo. So far, I had not been a shining example for the investigative arts. Of course, his low mood had some physical or psychological origin, and I was guessing the latter.
"You bet. I'll be your backup if he goes ballistic. Literally or figuratively."
Give her credit, at the mention of "ballistic", admittedly a poor choice of words on my part, Lucy's eyes widened but she nodded and went in with a smile.
"We're so sorry for all the trouble, Sheriff Connally (with a glance my way and an almost imperceptible wink) I hope you can forgive us for intruding on your, ah, privacy."
Lucian held the bottle carefully and stared at it warily as though it would disintegrate in his hands. He took the folded letter and stuck it in a shirt pocket. I watched him closely enough to make out that he was silently mouthing something, but what he said was between him and the bottle. After a minute, he set it on a lamp table next to his recliner and peered at me under lidded eyes. "You stay, Walt. Everybody else get the hell out."
To his credit, Omar stood his ground. He was as curious as I was to hear what Lucian would say next. The old man simply ignored him, as though he was invisible. Lucy and Jared, on the other hand, rightly understood they had a slim window of opportunity to escape unscathed and took it.
"Ain't any reason now to keep it to myself. You got caught up in this, and it stands to reason you have a right to answers. Not all, just some, and not all of them are mine to give, but what the hell."
He was looking my way, with a thousand-yard stare and the air in his room seemed thin and still. Lucian was reaching back, way back, for memories he would as soon not have, but were there nonetheless. He stood on his one leg and hopped over to where he'd propped his prosthetic. As he attached it, I could not help but be reminded of old westerns, where the gunfighter straps on his rig before a shootout.
"April 18, 1942", he began. "U.S.S. Hornet. Sixteen Army Air Corps B-25 Mitchell bombers stripped of armament and every space save the bomb rack filled with fuel drums for maximum range. We were heading straight for Japan, Col. Jimmy Doolittle's crazy-assed idea to launch bombers from a Navy carrier and bomb the hell outta Tokyo to show the Japs we weren't gonna take Pearl Harbor lying down. No escort, and no possibility of landing back on the Hornet. Plan was, we'd get close to Tokyo as possible, launch from the carrier, hit our targets and high-tail it to free China. Suicide mission, they said, but we were young and stupid and indestructible, so not many saw it that way. We were angry young pups who'd been bloodied and were itchin' to take the fight back to 'em.
"Problem was, a Jap trawler spotted the carrier group 600 miles out from Japan. Destroyer sunk the sonsabitches but there was a good chance they got out a message. It was go now or call it off, so we went anyway. We only had fuel to reach the target and maybe, just maybe get far enough to ditch in the ocean or reach the occupied Chinese coast. So it was a suicide mission after all.
"Long story short, all sixteen planes launched, we hit the targets and skedaddled towards China. Most made it to the beach, but my plane ran out of fuel and I ditched her in the sea. My co-pilot drowned. Me and the rest of my crew were captured by the Japs. Two of my guys were summarily shot and that left me and Eddie Dillon, our bombardier, to spend the rest of the war in a prison camp
"It was hard, real hard, and tough as I think I am, I reached a point where I just didn't care anymore if I lived or died. Then seeing how low I was, I guess, Dillon made a pact with me. If we survived the war, we'd get hold of the oldest, finest bottle of Kentucky bourbon whiskey we could and share it. I swear, there were a lot of days the thought of just one taste of that stuff kept me from throwing in the towel.
"Eventually, Truman dropped the A-bombs and that was that. The Japs surrendered and we were sent back home, except of all things Eddie volunteered to stay and serve in the postwar occupation forces. I could never understand why. Years later, he married a Japanese girl and made his home there. Imagine that, after all he'd been through. I couldn't have done that."
The pain on Lucian's face made me uneasy. I glanced over at Omar, still standing in the doorway, staring at his feet. I had forgotten he was there.
After a bit, Lucian continued, "You know how it is, we were buddies for life but never saw each other again. He would write now and then and we'd pretend to make plans to meet up, but it never worked out for one reason or another. I had no hankering to set foot over there ever again, and finally, Dillon was too old to make the trip back to the States."
Lucian held up the bottle and waved it toward me.
"This is the bottle we were going to share. Eddie got it from somewhere after the war - I haven't a clue just where - and got it back to Japan with him. I think he had some notion he could lure me back over there, said I had demons to vanquish, damn fool stuff like that. Really pissed me off at the time. Truth be told, I was scared. Scared how close I'd come to giving up in that prison camp. We never did share that drink and I got word a few years ago, Dillon had passed on, not long after his Japanese wife died. There aren't but a few Raiders left, and the group keeps a bottle of brandy for the last two to share. Maybe they got the idea from me and Eddie, but I missed my chance to make good on our pact."
"Then, last month, I got a package. Seems an American working in Japan was renovating a house and found an old cloth sack hidden in one of the walls. Turns out, it had been Eddie Dillon's house, and this bottle here was in the sack with a letter addressed to me. The young fella who found it had real class. He could have sold this bottle of pre-prohibition Stitzel bonded bourbon for a pretty good price, but he tracked me down and shipped it out here. Said it was only right I should have it, seeing as how it was meant for the survivor to have. He misinterpreted the pact, but here it is, and I don't rightly know what to do about it."
Lucian reached in his shirt pocket, extracted the yellowed letter addressed in a spidery script and unfolded it gingerly.
"His letter says, 'Lucian, you pig-headed bastard. If you're reading this, you won out. Did my best to make this right but you're more hard-headed than smart and I'm sorry for that. I hope one day you can let go of all that anger and mend your fences. I've had a good life here with Keiko and I miss her since she passed, but she was the bridge to my redemption. You can't move on until you get over the past. I hope you do before it's too late. Your pal, Eddie'."
Omar was digging at something in the corner of his right eye, and I was just noticing how hot it had become in the small room. Sweat or something was accumulating on my cheek.
We were silent for what seemed like minutes, and then Lucian appeared to have an epiphany. He stood and ambled over to a cabinet and brought out three glasses, in various states of cleanliness, used his shirtsleeve to wipe off the rims and set them in a row next to the bottle of Stitzel Old Mock bottled in bond bourbon, the precursor to the Pappy Van Winkle that sustained him these days.
"Wait", I said, "aren't we forgetting somebody?"
Lucian stared for just a second, nodded, and brought out another glass, this one clean as new, and set it beside the others. He twisted the top off the bottle, with some effort got it open, and poured a couple of ounces in each of the four glasses.
He handed one to Omar. "This makes us even. For all of it." Sometime, I would have to find out what that was about, but this wasn't the time.
He handed one to me. "You look like you could use a drink." No argument.
Then he raised the third, leaving the last untouched. "Here's to you, Eddie Dillon, and all the men who flew with Col. Doolittle and those who didn't make it back. Here's to those who've gone on and those of us left behind. May God help us. And screw everyone else". Wonder of wonders, he was his old self again. A Christmas miracle of sorts. Or something like it.
With that, we lifted our glasses and imbibed. In all honesty, it was a little musty and not all that tasty. But it was maybe the most satisfying drink I'd ever had, considering the journey it had taken, and the lives it had touched, perhaps saved, along the trail.