Chapter 13

Four and a half years of healing were erased in one day, as the news of the deaths of his mother and sisters devastated Jerry. To add insult to injury, Doctor Harrell would not allow him to attend the funeral because the good doctor discovered Jerry’s family had been burned beyond recognition in the wreck. When the doctor explained everything, Jerry just nodded numbly. Nurse Carter put Jerry on suicide watch because of the depth of his depression.

Ironically, the third medical board that convened at the four-and-a-half-year mark — three weeks after the accident — recommended Jerry be discharged instead of permanently medically retired. It took four months for the paperwork to move through the system but one day the new Admin Sergeant called him down to her office. The Sergeant First Class that replaced Master Sergeant Pappas was an attractive woman with a sunny disposition.

When Jerry walked in, she stood up and stuck out her hand.

“Sorry for your loss, Sergeant Donavan. I’m SFC Bassett, the new Administrative NCO.”

Jerry shook her hand but didn’t bother to identify himself. Bassett looked at Otis who gave her a shrug.

“He don’t talk a lot,” the big man said.

Bassett frowned and with a drawn out “Ookaayy”, she sat back down behind her desk and picked up a manila folder.

“Sergeant Donavan, the Under Secretary of the Army for Personnel has directed that all involuntary commitments be reviewed and lifted as required. As a result of the recommendation of Doctor Harrell, you fit in that category. Doctor Harrell thinks you would be capable of returning to civilian life with periodic outpatient follow ups.”

Jerry finally spoke, “You mean I can go home?”

Bassett nodded. “Yep,” she said.

“When?” Jerry asked, incredulously.

“It should only take a few days to square away your finance and personnel records and draw your final pay. Then you can start terminal leave or sell back your leave and be immediately discharged. You are maxed out with sixty days of accrued leave so you can either take two months’ pay now or get paid once a month for two more months.”

Jerry opted for the two months’ pay and Bassett annotated his file. She took a form out of the folder. “I have a draft copy of your final DD-214, Read it over and initial it and I will type up the real deal. You have impressive awards and decorations Sergeant, and you are the first person I’ve met who was involuntarily extended on active duty in a combat zone. I don’t think that’s even legal.”

Jerry shrugged her off because he had discovered there were a lot of things that were not exactly legal in Project Kappa and Joint Task Force 17. He told Bassett he wanted the money and the discharge as soon as possible.

“I don’t want to spend a minute longer in the Army than I have to,” he said.

A week later Jerry was standing outside the Trailways bus stop at a gas station in Buckhannon, West Virginia. He had about the same amount of luggage he had when he reported for active duty seven years ago, namely a gym bag with a pair of socks, a change of underwear and the clothes on his back. He was dressed in some civilian clothes that Otis Wright bought for him at Kmart and the same pair of boots he’d worn for the last three years. Yesterday was the first time in five years he’d put on anything but the ubiquitous hospital green uniform.

Jerry slept most of the seven-hour trip from Chillicothe in the cramped bus seat, so he stretched, rolled his head around to limber his stiff neck, and then set out walking and hitchhiking towards Cokerville. It was a mild April day, ten days until official Spring, and a week before his 26th Birthday.

Jerry caught a ride with a truck driver who took him all the way to the big truck stop on Highway 19. The truck stop was only thirteen miles from Coker County and twenty miles from Chaney Hollow. It was close to noon, and he had missed breakfast, so he went into the truck stop’s restaurant for lunch. Ordering off a menu was a surreal experience for Jerry after five years of eating whatever the hospital was serving.

He walked about a mile towards the county line before he snagged a ride with a feed store delivery truck. For the second time that day Jerry had to make conversation with a gregarious trucker. It turned out that this trucker was a former paratrooper and a Korean War veteran. He had a tattoo to prove it: a pair of jump wings on his bicep with Death From Above inked under them.

The driver let him out at the edge of Chaney Hollow Road and Jerry walked the half mile to his house. He was mildly surprised to see his Grandfather Hatchett. Wearing faded jeans and a green shirt, his grandfather was perched on a rocking chair smoking his ever-present pipe. Jerry walked up on the porch and Hatchett stood up and they awkwardly looked at each other, neither one of them big on displays of affection.

“Hello, Jericho. It’s good to see you,” the taciturn old man said.

Jerry nodded. He couldn’t help the tears that sprang into eyes.

“You too, Papa,” he replied.

After some more awkward conversation Jerry got around to asking about his mother and sisters.

“How did this happen, Papa? Mom was always such a careful driver, and no one would tell me anything.”

Hatchett gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know much, either. The sheriff said she lost control going around that sharp ‘S’ curve on County Road 16 over by the mine. The car rolled over once and caught fire. He said they died from the crash, so they didn’t suffer from the fire.”

Jerry shook his head in confusion. “Mom drove that road a thousand times and always slowed down going by there. That’s where Carl Blanchard and my father ran off the road when I was ten. They were drunk and couldn’t find Carl’s old Rambler for three days.”

Jerry laughed at the memory. “I remember how mad Mama was. She didn’t let Carl in the house for months.”

Hatchett nodded his agreement. “Your mother was one of the sweetest natured people I ever knew ... until she lost her temper. Then it was time to run.”

“Yeah”, Jerry sighed, “I don’t know how I can live without her or the girls. That’s why I need to know what happened. Where’s the car?”

“Hoke Purnell has it. The sheriff called him to tow it. Hoke identified the car as Ester’s, and the sheriff sent a deputy for me.”

Hatchett sadly shook his head, “I couldn’t identify anyone on account of how bad they were burned, but I agreed it was your Mama’s little station wagon.”

Jerry winced. “Jesus, that’s awful, Papa. I don’t know why exactly, but I need to see her car for myself.”

His grandfather nodded. “Okay, but I gotta warn you, son, it ain’t a pretty sight.”

Jerry nodded grimly. It would be just one more horror for his floundering brain to bear.

Papa Hatchett put on his black leather hat — with its rattlesnake hatband and eagle feather — and they hopped into his old cream-colored Plymouth Valiant sedan. His grandfather kept the ugly but reliable old Plymouth in excellent condition.

Lottie and Hoke Purnell were both thrilled to see Jerry and saddened by the circumstances. Lottie gave Jerry a firm hug and then Hoke doffed his old, stained, high crowned John B Stetson and laid his gnarled hand on Jerry’s shoulder.

“This ‘tain’t how I wished you to come home, Jerry. Yer family is like my own kinfolk,” Hoke said sadly.

“Thanks, Mr. Purnell, I appreciate it,” Jerry replied. Then he asked, “Where’s Mama’s car? I want to see it myself.”

Hoke led him around back of his three bay repair shop and pulled a blue tarp off the burned-out Ford Falcon station wagon.

Jerry was startled by the damage, even after his grandfather’s warning. The outside of the car was not that badly damaged from the crash. Instead, the only outward damage was the smashed windshield and the partially caved in roof. The real damage was the completely burned-out interior. Jerry walked around the car and tried the doors – only the driver’s side rear door refused to open. He rolled down the tailgate window and opened the drop-down tail gate ... it worked smoothly.

“Why didn’t anyone get out of there? It’s not that messed up and all the doors but one work,” he asked.

“Don’t rightly know, my boy; but Billy Lewis — the undertaker what come for the bodies — said they was still sitting in their seats, pretty as ya please. Said it was the dangdest thing he ever laid eyes on. The Sheriff sez they musta been knocked out,” Hoke explained.

“What became of their bodies?” Jerry asked.

His grandfather scuffed his feet and looked at the ground, “They had to be cremated, Jerry, there was no way to embalm them.”

Jerry acknowledged his understanding with a sad nod. The three men stood in awkward silence until Hoke Purnell asked, “Ya takin yer truck back today?”

It took a few seconds for the statement to register.

“My truck is still here? I woulda thought it was worn out and junked by now,” Jerry replied.

“Nope,” Hoke said. “Yer Ma asked me to keep it ready for when ya come home. It took longer than any of us figured, but here you are. It could use a wash, but elsewise it’s ready to go.”

Jerry smiled for the first time in months.

“I figured you hired someone else to drive the truck to make deliveries considering all the time and expense you put into it,” Jerry said.

Purnell replied, “Nah, I weren’t gonna do that to ya, Jerry. I just fixed up my tow truck and delivered with that. Course now-a-days I needn’t worry about any such as that.”

Jerry gave the old man a questing look, “Why’s that? Did you finally retire?”

Purnell flashed a crooked grin, “Nope, even better. Now Sheriff Thompson buys all my shine. I run off a batch and call him. Twenty minutes later a deputy shows up with cash on the barrel head.”

Jerry didn’t know what to think about the Sheriff being involved in bootlegging, but it was none of his business, so he kept his mouth shut about it. Instead, he circled back to the wreck.

“I need to know more about what happened to my family because something doesn’t feel right about this. I guess I need to talk to your partner the Sheriff next,” he said.

Jerry and his grandfather left — with Jerry driving his truck — and went back to the Donavan house. Jerry walked up onto the porch, but he didn’t go inside. For the life of him he couldn’t force himself through the door. As soon as he set foot on the threshold, eighteen years of memories bombarded his already fragile psyche.

Jerry mumbled an apology to his grandfather, ran out to his truck and sped off down Chaney Hollow Road. He left nothing behind him except a confused old man and a plume of dust.

Jerry didn’t have a destination in mind when he drove off, he just knew he couldn’t stay there. What had once been a happy, vibrant home was now ashes in his mouth. Rightly or wrongly, Jerry blamed himself for the death of his mother and sisters. In his mind, had he been home and not in a hospital ward for the criminally insane, they would still be alive.

Jerry drove aimlessly for an hour figuring out what to do next. His first thought was suicide ... an idea he quickly rejected. He was covered in guilt and grief, but suicide was the quitter’s way out, and a quitter was the last thing he was. Jerry ended up driving to the Highway 19 truck stop where he’d eaten breakfast seven hours earlier. He pulled up to the pump island. There a cheerful attendant checked his oil and tires, washed his windshield, and topped off the tank. Jerry flinched at the price of gas. It was sixty-two cents a gallon. When he had left home, it was less than half that.

After a nice fried chicken dinner, Jerry went into the retail section of the truck stop. The retail area carried a nice selection of personal care and comfort items geared toward truckers. Jerry bought a pocket knife with a can opener, two cans of SpaghettiOs, a blanket and a small travel pillow. He cadged a plastic spoon from a waitress and carried his loot to his truck.