Shattered Image. J.F. Margos
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sites like archaeological digs. They trowel slowly and carefully within the dig and “exhume” each and every little piece of anything that looks as if it might have belonged to a human or one’s body. They tag everything, bag everything and ultimately bring it back to American soil. They bring it all back to the U.S. Army CILHI labs at Hickham Air Force Base in Hawaii. There, forensic anthropologists, forensic odontologists, DNA lab technicians and, sometimes, forensic artists come together to help identify the remains of the missing. We are all the new undertakers of the post-Vietnam era. You don’t need a real undertaker just to put “rocks” in a box. Sadly, that’s what most of the remains look like.
That was what was eating at me now—rocks in a box. Now they might be someone I knew. It’s one thing to put your hands on the skull and bones of a stranger and try to ID them and bring them some level of peace, and their families some level of closure, but it is something else altogether to contemplate placing your hands on a skull that may have housed the thinking brain of a friend—a skull that held his eyes, ears, mouth and the nose through which he breathed the breath of life itself.
Teddy Nikolaides used to tilt his head back and laugh out loud with absolute joy. Did the skull I would cast in Hawaii once reverberate with that laughter? The burden of determining that answer now lay solely with me. If I determined the remains belonged to someone else, it would be a huge blow to me and to Teddy’s family. If I determined the remains belonged to Teddy, we would all have to deal with the reality of his death. Since that fateful day in Vietnam, his death had not been confirmed in any tangible way. There had been no real closure. He just flew off one day and never came back. I sighed and polished off the rest of the root beer that was in the bottom of my mug. I had another frosted mug in the freezer and it was time for a third.
It was early morning, when I was startled awake by the word “Mom!”
I looked up to see the sun filtering through the lowhanging branches of my backyard. Initially, I couldn’t remember where I was or what I was doing there. The first thing I realized was that my feet were cold. Then I realized there was a tall, strawberry-blond man standing over me, but I couldn’t see his face due to all the backlighting from the sun. He was wearing a gun in a holster that hung on his belt and the sunlight glinted off of a gold detective’s badge. I recognized my son’s voice, and then I remembered where I was and what I was doing there.
“I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to get the smelling salts.”
I shielded my eyes with my hands and squinted so I could see his face.
“What are you talking about?”
“I thought maybe you had some kind of spell.”
“Don’t be smart. I just fell asleep.”
“Well, how many ‘mature’ women spend the night on the patio sleeping on an Adirondack? Then there are all these mugs and bottles…”
“Root beer, smarty, and you know it.”
He was chuckling now and enjoying every minute of it.
“I’m sure you’ve never done anything like this,” I said as I struggled to sit up straight and regain part of my dignity.
“Mario, you’re not looking so speedy this morning.”
I backhanded him in the leg.
“Watch your mouth.”
Mario was his nickname for me—after Mario Andretti. I had acquired this moniker on account of my love for a fast car with a stick shift and an open road on which to drive it. Sometimes my right foot would become very heavy, especially if the road was really open.
He chuckled. “So, what’s the occasion?”
“I had a bad afternoon yesterday. What are you doing here so early anyway?”
“I came by to see what kind of progress you were making on the bust of our Red Bud victim.”
“I was working on it, and then Irini called.”
“Theia Irini?”
He used the Greek word in referring to his “Aunt Irene.” Irini had been our close friend since before Michael was born, and he had grown up with her around and being a part of our extended family in faith. She was his godmother. He had learned to speak some Greek, too, and he did a pretty good job.
“Yes,” I said.
“What’s wrong? Is Greg okay?”
Greg was one of Mike’s best friends.
“Gregory is fine.”
“What then?”
I sighed and put my head in my hands, running my fingers through my short, graying red hair. I looked up at Michael.
“CILHI thinks it has Ted’s remains.”
Mike sank into the chair next to me.
“Wow.”
We looked at each other.
“So, what’s the rest, Mom?”
“Not enough teeth for a dental ID and nothing to compare the DNA with, but the skull is in decent enough shape.”
Mike looked down at the ground between his feet.
“Whew.” He paused a moment and then looked over at me. “So, what’re you going to do?”
“Well, I’ve committed to it. I have to, no matter how I feel about it.”
Mike nodded. He reached over and squeezed my right shoulder. “It’s the right thing, Mom. Anything I can do?”
“Be here.”
“You got it.”
We sat there a moment in silence.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t believe you fell asleep on one of these hard wood chairs.”
“Hey, Mike?”
“Yeah.”
“I fell asleep on one of these hard wood chairs.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome.”
Chapter Five
After my little campout on the patio, I decided I needed to get my rear into gear before I was going to be able to get my head together. One of the rooms in my house is set aside as a weight room with a bench and rack and a couple of machines for back and leg work, a roman chair for abs and low back and a pulley set up for more arm and chest work.
I suited up in my black cotton sweatpants and racerback top and did a fifteen-minute warm-up on the recumbent stationary bike. Thoroughly warmed up, I did a full set of stretches and hit the weights. I hadn’t been in the gym for days, so I went at it hard, doing a full-body workout, supersetting everything for maximum cardio benefit. When I was done with that, I got back on the recumbent bike and did another thirty minutes.
I was dripping in sweat when I was done, but I felt a hundred percent better—mentally and physically. I got into a steaming-hot shower and washed everything out of my system—at least temporarily.
Refreshed from my exercise and hot shower, I put on a clean pair of jeans and socks, a white cotton T-shirt and my favorite pointy-toed boots and went to the studio.
I sat on the stool in front of my drafting table and began to make a list of everything I would need to take with me to Hawaii. I would need a case in which to carry the cast I would make of the skull. I began to list other tools and supplies to pack.
I sat back and took a deep breath. Who was I kidding? What I would need most of all was the spiritual fortitude to face this task and all that it meant to me. I would need that to go back into the jungles of Vietnam in my mind.
I