Brother's Keeper. Joaquin De Torres
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“Between you and me,” Marrion had texted earlier, “they don’t think this will get past phase one.” But like good admirals, they masked their doubts and reservations with practiced optimism.
He put his laptop and notes into his briefcase. He grabbed his rental car keys and room card, and headed out of the hotel and into the parking lot. He checked his MapQuest directions and was thankful that he needed to go less than three miles to his destination. He took a deep breath and turned on the ignition. As he pulled out onto Concord Avenue, a feeling of impending disappointment washed over him. He shook his head.
“What the hell am I doing here?”
2458 Olivera Villa Apartments
Jason took his time eating, and actually enjoyed lunch, his final meal on Earth courtesy of Szechuan Village. He ate slowly, washing down the tangy sweet and spicy items with a bottle of Riesling wine. He ate everything, finished the entire bottle and cleared the table. He threw the food containers, chop sticks and bottle in the plastic trash bag, tied it and set it outside in the complex’s community trash bin.
He checked his mailbox one last time and saw that an envelope was inside. It was from Southwest Airlines; he was expecting this for weeks. He came back inside, but as planned, he left the door slightly ajar so that Mr. Sebastiani could come right in. He had one more look around to see if he had missed anything. Everything was in order.
He placed the envelope on the table next to familiar items he had put there before: the framed photos of his family members, the half-bottle of Hennessy, two shot glasses, a face towel and his Glock. He sat down and immediately filled the glasses with the cognac. He downed each in quick succession then refilled them. He picked up the envelope and closed his eyes.
“This is it. This can change it all right here.” He slid his fingertips over the sharp corners and took a deep breath. “Don’t worry Jason, it’s only your life.” He opened the envelope and stopped reading after a few words.
Dear Mr. Li,
After careful consideration of your application and other documents, we regret that-
“FUCKERS!” he hissed. It had been his tenth airline rejection letter. Despite having graduated in the top 10 percent of his naval aviator class, and despite the Bachelors of Science with honors from UC Berkeley, the “other documents” the letter referred to represented the guillotine’s blade in every case. These were the negative fitness reports, the mental health evaluations, and finally the officer dismissal due to psychological concerns. There was no way he would be hired by any company that did a background check; more depressing was that he’d never fly again. He pushed the letter aside and turned his eyes to his family one last time.
“You may not agree with what I’m doing,” he said softly. “But it seems there’s no other way for me. There are no more reasons I can think of to keep this going.” His lip began to quiver as tears began to blur his vision.
“I’m so lonely! I miss you all so much!” His hands shook as he brought them up to his face. “I’m so sorry I failed you. I’m so sorry.”
It took him several minutes to compose himself. He dried his eyes with the face cloth then wrapped it around the barrel of the gun. He deactivated the safety and held the gun in his right hand, and curled his fingers around the towel-wrapped barrel. He raised it up and under his chin. He did this slowly, methodically. There could be no mistake or misfire; the bullet had to go straight through his chin, the roof of his mouth and through his brain on this once and only try. He looked down at Jordan’s face.
“I promise you, Brother, we will meet again. It may take me an eternity, but if Mom is right that the dead still live spiritually, searching for those they love, then I’ll find you. I’m going to look for you. I promise.” He closed his eyes, took several quick, courage-generating breaths, and began to tug on the trigger when the doorbell rang. He pulled the gun away.
“What the fuck?” he whispered.His eyes flew open; his finger lifted.
The bell rang again. He remained still, the gun still under his chin. It rang once more. Then he heard the front door creak open.
“Hello?” a voice called. He put the gun down quietly on the table and threw the face cloth over it. “Hello?” The voice was low in tone, and getting closer. This was not Mr. Sebastiani whose booming baritone rattled the rafters. This voice was calm, professional. Jason stood up and turned around, crossing his arms defensively across his chest. Around the corner a figure tentatively emerged at the living room doorway.
“May I help you?” asked Jason coldly. The stranger, dressed in an open blue blazer, white dress shirt, and black slacks smiled cordially.
“Hello, my name is Scott Rivers. I’m looking for Jason Li.”
“Jason didn’t mention any visitors. I’m his roommate.” Jason’s eyes remained cool as he gauged the stranger.
“I’m here on behalf of the U.S. Navy; specifically, the aviation community. I’ve come all the way from Japan to speak with Mr. Li.”
“Well, you just missed him. He probably won’t want to see you anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, it’s been two years since the Navy ruined his life.” He uncrossed his arms and shoved his hands into his jean pockets, leaning back and feigning mild interest. “What’s he done this time?”
Rivers considered the man he was talking to, knowing full well who he was. He decided to let the game play out a few moments longer, if anything, to get to know the man.
“Well, actually, I wanted to talk to him about something we could do for him. May I come in?” Jason nodded indifferently. “Nice place,” Rivers acknowledged as he slowly moved towards the table. He looked at the stacks of boxes. “You guys moving?”
“Yeah. Rent’s too high in Concord. Movers will be here in a few minutes, so if you want to leave something for him, I’ll make sure he gets it. I really don’t know when he’ll come back. He said he was going to visit some friends, or something.”
Jason moved to the window, pretending to search outside. This gave Rivers a few seconds to sweep the room as he stood next to the table. With his falcon-like eyes he noticed the counter with the stack of bills and IDs; the boxes all labeled “GOODWILL”; the Southwest Airlines rejection letter; the framed photos of family members; and an object under a face cloth. A portion of that object protruded from one end of the cloth, causing his analytical mind to jolt to an immediate conclusion: I got here just in time!
“So, what could you do for him?” Rivers turned his head to see the young man looking at him sternly, his head cocked as if issuing a challenge. He glanced back to the object under the face cloth and took the challenge immediately.
“I know it’s hard, Jason,” he said sympathetically.
“What!? What did you call me!?” Jason moved threateningly towards the table.
“Losing your family, your career, your life. I am—”
“Full of shit is what you are! Who the fuck are you!?” he shot back.
“Jason, I am here to offer you—”
“STOP CALLING ME THAT!” he bellowed. “JASON’S NOT HERE!”
Rivers quickly opened his leather case and took out three 5X7 photos. He laid them down on the table. Jason came to the table and silently regarded the photos of a young man posing in his flight suit. He picked them up and studied them.
“You remember these scenes? VFA-122 in Lemoore. Commander Jesse Leon Guerrero stated that you were the top aviator in the squadron.” Rivers waited for a response, but Jason only gazed at the photos. He went into his case again and produced two documents and laid them on the table as well. He pointed to them.
“These are your last two fitness reports from Commander Leon Guerrero