But the fact was Johnston wasn't good at that, at the documenting thing. He had his skill set: as a planner and a leader, and as a man whose military background had turned out to be a far better qualification to lead their town in this post-apocalyptic world – and against New Bern – than anything that had driven the townsfolk away from the senior Green in the polls and convinced them that Gray Anderson was their new man of the hour.
How wrong they had been, though Johnston lying bleeding beside the tank might tell a different story.
It wasn't that Johnston Green didn't have troubles of his own, but that had almost always been a private thing, a personal failing in his relationships with his sons. His wife had watched from the sidelines, not quiet, not without her own opinion of how her husband had dealt with the difficulties of raising their children. She had tried her best to step in when it was necessary, to provide some clarity, some calm when situations – particularly where Jake was concerned – had devolved to a point where neither her son nor her husband were able to see beyond the deep chasm they had jointly chiseled between them. It was one of the many things Johnston loved so very much about his wife. But she had also lived with him long enough to know when her own words, or her looks of disappointment in the disagreements, couldn't make a stitch of difference.
Besides, five years of near silence between the two men had played a far greater hand in the distance between Johnston and Jake than had the acrimonious arguments of the couple of years leading up to Jake's departure.
Johnston tried to remain calm as they carried him in to Stanley's house. The thought that he was leaving this world with things so unsettled with his first born burned as deeply as the damage caused by the bullet in his chest.
Johnston and Jake had yet to sit down and talk out their differences. Many would say that there was no longer a need, that things had changed far too much since the bombings to bother to hold any grudges from that time. The before time. It was truly meaningless, in this new world that they now found themselves in, to care about the whys and wherefores of Jake's absence. The young man had proven over and over and over again since his return home that Johnston had been very wrong about his son when he'd shown up that day so many months ago. A virtual lifetime ago. Johnston Green's preconceived idea of what his son was had been far from the reality of what Jake Green had become.
He had known, somehow, in his heart that this would be the case. Why had he not told Jake so?
It was Johnston's greatest failing in these months that he hadn't bothered to replace the conversation that he'd thought they needed to have – the one about where Jake had been and what he'd been doing these last five years – with the conversation that said how very proud he was of him. The one that said what a good man he thought Jake had grown into. The one that said that Jake Green's place in the hearts of all of the people of Jericho, and most especially in his father's heart, was no longer dictated by past ills that were best left in the past.
That the realization came as Johnston breathed his last breaths as he and his sons fought together in defense of the town they loved so dear was such bitter irony to swallow. Such cruel and bitter irony.
Johnston saw his life…well, maybe 'saw' was the wrong word. He thought back on his life, his youth, when his father had taught him his first meaningful lesson: right from wrong. He remembered his father's teachings about leading an honorable life, about making and sticking to his commitments. That commitment was the most important word he would ever learn. And his father's advice about duty. His father had begun that lesson, but Johnston had learned more about duty on his own; he learned about what it meant to feel such a thing for something other than his family and friends. Duty to country. Duty to his buddies in war.
Love. He so wished that he could see his wife one last time. Gail had not been the first woman in his life, but she had been the only one with whom he wanted to share his life. And it had been a good life. The birth of his children had brought joy to his life. And some sorrow. And his position as leader of his town; Jericho had come to mean as much to him, more to him, than anything other than his wife and his sons. Gail had said over the years that Jericho was his first love. He knew that he had, at times, forsaken his family in his efforts to do right by the town in his role as mayor. He had always rationalized his choice of time spent at town hall over time spent at home; that what was good for Jericho was good for his family. That he felt a twinge of regret at this particular moment said so much about how right, or wrong, he had been.
His absence at home had certainly had what by most measures would be judged a negative effect on his sons. One, the oldest, had grown frustrated, ambivalent about his hometown, something that Johnston had been unable to abide in anyone, let alone in one of his sons. Jake had also manifested his dissatisfaction with his father and what he stood for, or what in his youth and anger he thought his father stood for, in the worst possible ways.
And then Jake was gone.
Eric had been different. Whereas Jake was like the fiery heat of a volcanic island, Eric was more the mild boredom of a summer day during early growing season in Kansas. He was reliable. Even more than that, he was loyal. Certainly Eric's reserve could date back to watching his father and his brother at odds; a lesson well-learned, but not the greatest lesson for a second child to be taught. What Johnston had learned these last months was that both of his sons were as reliable as any man in Jericho.
At this very moment, though, he recognized that he had realized it too late. And as he watched Eric bear this pain on top of the still open wound of April's death, his regret seemed almost too much to take. But there, right before him, were the two best reasons that he would bear it for these last moments.
Jake was a leader, that had been revealed early and often since the bombs had destroyed so much, as Jake went from dilemma to dilemma, identifying problems, fixing others. Fixing so many problems. Johnston had worked close enough with Eric these last years to see him for the follower that he was. He regretted making the comparison; he hated the judgment he felt in adopting that word to describe his youngest son. But the fact was that the followers were needed, too. Eric had proved his worth over the years in that role. The senior Green felt some satisfaction in knowing that Eric would be there to help support Jake. Johnston's thoughts, knowing that he could do nothing to save himself but needing to assure himself that he had done right over the years in preparing his sons, drifted to his favorite founding father. John Adams had said something about there being two types of people in the world: those that could make a commitment and those that required the commitment of others. He focused on that as his thoughts became more scrambled, as his inability to get enough air took him closer and closer to the end. But he felt that Adams' words on commitment well-described his sons. He thought that it bode well for Jericho that the Green boys survived to continue the fight. And he knew that he could trust Jake to lead that fight. There was no one else who could lead Jericho through the long, dark road ahead.
Jake was the one.
Why had it taken Johnston so long to get here, to get to this point? To understand that through all of their troubles, through all of the lessons taught to his son, and the ones that he'd feared that Jake had not learned at all, that it was this moment when he finally realized that it was only his letting Jake go all those years ago that would make the next part possible, and would make his own death not seem so bad. That he could himself let go knowing that he was leaving the town of Jericho and its people in good hands.
He didn't fear death. He never had. Its nearness, though, gave him pause for all that he would leave undone. His fear was not in the dying. His fear was in knowing that the work that lay ahead would be so hard. His fear was in knowing that he was leaving his sons to do such work without him. His fear was in leaving Jake when he knew that Jake would stand by him readily and do the work with him. Together, as it should have been.
He wished that he had more time. It was too late now. There was nothing left to give Jake, no way to give him the words of praise that he deserved; the words of gratitude that he'd so desperately earned; the words of understanding that Johnston had been so wrong to withhold; the words of forgiveness that Johnston prayed Jake saw in his eyes. This moment was all that was left. He told him how proud he was of him.
And then it was time for the letting go.
Oh this son of mine I love so well
And all the toil it takes
I'd give to him a garden
And keep it clear of snakes
But the one thing he most treasures
Is to make his own mistakes
He goes charging on the cliffs of life
A reckless mountaineer
I could help him not to stumble
I could warn him what to fear
I could shout until I'm breathless
And he'd still refuse to hear
But you cannot close the acorn
Once the oak begins to grow
And you cannot close your heart
To what it fears and needs to know
That the hardest part of love
Is the letting go
As a child I found a sparrow
Who had fallen from its nest
And I nursed him back to health
'Til he was stronger than the rest
But when I tried to hold it
It would peck and scratch my chest
'Til I let it go
And I watched it fly away from me
With its brightened self resolve
And part of me was cursing
I had helped it grow so strong
And I feared it might go hungry
And I feared it might go wrong
But I could not close the acorn
Once the oak began to grow
And I cannot close my heart
To what it fears and needs to know
That the hardest part of love
Is the letting go
And it's only in Eden grows a rose without a thorn
And your children start to leave you
On the day that they were born
They will leave you there to cheer for them
They will leave you there to mourn ever so
Like an ark on uncharted seas their lives will be tossed
And the deeper is your love for them
The crueler is the cost
And just when they start to find themselves
Is when you fear they're lost
But you cannot close the acorn
Once the oak begins to grow
And you cannot close your heart
To what it fears and needs to know
That the hardest part of love
And the rarest part of love
And the truest part of love
Is the letting go
The End.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The song is Hardest Part of Love from Stephen Schwartz's stunningly beautiful musical based on the Book of Genesis, "Children of Eden". I am among the least religious people I know, but I can say without qualm that this musical is one of the greatest ever written. Check it out if you can. The soundtrack (complete version) from the Paper Mill Playhouse production is available on CD.