Woody felt stymied. How was he to argue with the facts or with her twisted logic, to plead his case, to show that he wasn’t some cursed soul who carried bad luck with him wherever he went? He looked at Nellie wistfully and saw that her eyes had watered. He started to move closer, thinking she might be wavering, but she shook her head no and raised two fingers to her lips. “Please, Woody,” she said sadly and quickly walked out of Pudge McFadden’s.
WOODY MEACHAM WAS gone from Old Town a few days after that fateful meeting with Nellie Birdsong. Nothing that the Irishman could say would dissuade him from his impetuous departure. Pudge’s saloon was now a place of infamy for the scorned lover.
Before he left, Pudge gave Woody an anthology of Yeats’ poems. “They’re full of Irish and Greek mythology, with symbols I won’t pretend to understand, kid. But many of them are beautiful and some of them comfort me when I have dark days. You’ll find favorites and I’m betting you’ll read and re-read them for years to come.”
Woody started to shake hands but Pudge grabbed him and wrapped him in a bear hub while patting his back. “Luck to you, lad” were the last words Woody heard as he walked out the door. His eyes were watery and he didn’t dare look back. If he had, he would have seen Pudge tearing up as well.
ON THE DRIVE to Thorndyke College, Woody rummaged through the major events of his life as if he was already an old man and now was the moment for summing up, for a tallying of the good and the bad. He remembered fondly most of his youthful years in Parlor City, his early morning paper route and the final, ritual stop at Lattimore’s Bakery before heading home. He relished the adventures, both picayune and momentous, with his best friend Jerry Kosinsky who was still roaming the world hiding from the draft board. Boy, did he miss him now.
Woody blocked out the painful events, including that summer after college spent in Parlor Harbor when he first met Nellie Birdsong. He was approaching Thorndyke and would have to unpack those parts of his history at another time.
Walking across campus to Prof. Humboldt’s office, Woody marveled that Thorndyke had not changed – as if he had been gone for ages and everything should be altered. Here he was back in what he remembered as an idyllic cocoon, isolated from the mayhem of the outside world. Certainly, Thorndyke had taught him to think critically but it hadn’t prepared him for what lurked outside the ivy-covered gates that served as a temporary reprieve from a chaotic universe. His rejection by Nellie Birdsong had produced a cynicism that was alien to him only a few days earlier.
Woody stopped in front of the library and looked across the quad where he had seen Ralph Birdsong in a crowd of war protesters. His friend was laughing and shouting anti-war slogans in unison with his comrades as Woody stood on the fringe. Birdsong had chided Woody about his support of the war and one of the protesters had mocked him. And what had changed since then? Nixon was blitzing Hanoi, trying to bomb the Viet Cong into submission, the protesters were more violent than ever and radical groups like the Weathermen were blowing up buildings all over the country. Maybe it had been a lark back then, something to be part of, but Ralph Birdsong was dead now and his cousin had just dumped him.
In that moment, Woody was overcome. He choked up and tears streamed down his cheeks as students rushed past him with nervous glances.
It took Woody a few minutes to regain his composure but when he did, he had made a decision. He walked rapidly back to his car and drove away before he had the chance to change his mind. He would stop on the road to Parlor City and call Prof. Humboldt to inform him that he would not be applying for the teaching assistant position in his department. He had personal business to attend to and would not be returning to Thorndyke College any time soon.
IT HAD STUCK with Woody, that comment by Nellie about the importance of family. He had been neglectful, even selfish, since his discharge from the Army. He owed not an explanation but simply unfettered time to a mother and stepfather who had given so much to him over the years. If any meaningful dialogue took place when he got home, it would not be compelled by him but flow naturally as the moment dictated. He would give it time. Only one topic was taboo – Nellie Birdsong – and since neither of them knew that they had met again, it was an easy vow to keep.
Gwen was now a senior administrator at the Parlor City Institute, having given up her nursing duties around the time that Woody left for boot camp. Billy Meacham, Jr. was a middle-aged police chief but the “wonder boy” moniker bestowed on him years earlier was how many locals still viewed the man who had solved two murders as a young detective.
Billy enjoyed listening to Woody’s description of Det. Hank Willoughby and how he solved the Scatcherd murder. When Woody mentioned the “Cannon” tv show, Billy exploded in laughter. “I love that guy, Woody. You say this Willoughby and Cannon could be twin brothers?”
Billy and Woody went to Lattimore’s Bakery and reminisced about the bullet fired into the ceiling by would-be thug Rudy Gantz and about the regular Saturday morning “boys only” rendezvousing there with Jerry Kosinsky and his father.
“Have you heard anything from the Kosinskys?” Woody asked. “Well, yes. A postcard arrived a few days ago. No message just the Kosinsky’s address in block letters – like all the others. He’s alive, thank god, but it’s a living hell for his parents,” Billy said, shaking his head.
“Where was it postmarked?” Woody asked. “I didn’t ask, son, and they didn’t offer. Nothing has changed. I’m no longer on the draft board but I’m still the law. Friends that we are, they have every right to be skeptical about sharing any information.” Woody’s brow furrowed but he said nothing.
The next evening, Woody visited the Kosinskys. He sat in the living room across from Jerry’s parents and there was an uncomfortable silence after the hellos were out of the way. Woody brought up the postcard he had received over four years ago from Katmandu. It was a few weeks after Jerry disappeared. No message, just Woody’s address in block letters, he reminded them.
“Jerry had perfect penmanship but he won’t even address the postcard in script, as if it would give him away. It would give me peace of mind,” Mrs. Kosinsky said bitterly, as if the Army had spies at the Post Office checking post cards. How could you respond to such paranoia, Woody said to himself, so he let the comment go?
After a few moments, Woody said cautiously, “I’d like to go find him if you’ll help me. If you just tell me the postmark, you have my promise that it won’t be shared with anyone,” Woody said, thinking about what his stepfather had said the day before. “He has to come home sooner or later. Someday, there’s going to be amnesty, believe me.”
Mrs. Kosinsky stared at Woody and shook her head no. When Mr. Kosinsky shrugged, Woody knew that he would learn nothing unless they both agreed.