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Then he shaved. Brushed his teeth. Showered. Combed his close-cropped hair. Put on his uniform. His dress uniform, the four stars on his shoulders as bright and shiny as buffing with a polishing cloth could make them.
He stood before the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. Frowned. Adjusted his sleeve. Smoothed back his hair.
Good.
He looked like the professional soldier he was.
He went to his closet.
Took down a small box.
Unlocked it.
Took out his Beretta M9. He owned other handguns, but the Beretta, the look of it, the feel, had long been his favorite.
He rubbed it briskly with the same cloth he’d used to buff his four stars. Then he slapped in a loaded magazine, held the Beretta in his outstretched hand and stepped before the mirror again.
He pointed the gun at his image.
Fine.
Excellent.
His hand was steady, his posture straight and proud. He looked like John Hamilton Wilde, even if Johnny Wilde still lived inside him.
He went briskly down the stairs, the Beretta held against his thigh, and went straight to the den. Lorena had been there. She’d disposed of the empty Jack Daniel’s bottles, straightened the chair cushions.
The elk leered at him, glassy-eyed, from the wall.
A silver tray stood on a small round table. It held a small pot of coffee, a white mug, a small pitcher of cream, a small bowl of sugar, a linen napkin, a silver teaspoon, even a small plate with a muffin centered on it.
She had thought of everything.
Almost everything, the general thought, as he shut and locked the door behind him.
He went to his desk. Took a single sheet of stationery engraved with his name and rank from a drawer along with a matching envelope.
He picked up a pen.
And paused.
What was he going to say? He chuckled.
He’d never written a suicide note before.
He sat down at the desk. Thought. Thought some more, and then he wrote three simple sentences.
I love you all. I loved your mothers. I never, ever meant to harm any of you.
He signed it General John Hamilton Wilde. Then he scratched that out and signed it, instead, Your father.
Done.
He folded the paper into three neatly creased sections. Tucked it into the envelope. Sealed the envelope. Hesitated, and then addressed it To my beloved children.
He laid the envelope on the desk, neatly centering it, and put a round into the chamber of the Beretta.
It felt comforting in his hand.
He felt…he felt calm. Serene. Ready for what had to be done.
It was the right thing to do. He was—he was supposed to be—an officer and a gentlemen.
His hand was steady as he raised the Beretta to his temple.
An officer and a gentleman. A code of honor—and he had never lived up to it.
He had lied. Cheated. He had indulged his own appetites and ignored the needs of others. He had used the women who’d loved him, made a mockery of the vows he’d made to his God, his country…
To the memory of his brother.
His hand shook.
And now he was telling himself what he was about to do was honorable.
A fist thudded against the door.
“General,” one of his sons bellowed.
“General,” one of his daughters said. “We know you’re in there.”
General. Not father. General.
“Open the door,” another son demanded. “You can’t hide from us forever.”
But he could. One pull of the trigger…
Johnny, a voice inside him said gently, I know you’re better than this.
The general blinked. “Alden?”
You have to face them, Johnny. You owe them answers. You owe them something better than taking the coward’s way out.
“I can’t. I can’t face them. What can I say to them? Dear God, what can I say?”
You can tell them what you wrote in that note, Johnny, that you love them, that you loved their mothers, that you did the very best you could.
The Beretta trembled in Johnny Hamilton’s hand.
He bowed his head. Tears filled his eyes.
Then he ejected the round from the gun and put it and the gun in the bottom desk drawer.
“Father,” one of his daughters called out, one of his beautiful, bright daughters. “Please. You have to talk to us. We need you to talk to us.”
He tore the envelope and the note inside it into small pieces. He leaned toward the fireplace and scattered the bits of paper on the kindling that always stood ready on the hearth, struck a match and set the paper on fire.
He took a steadying breath, got to his feet and walked to the door, head up, shoulders back, spine straight, the way he had on the parade ground at the Point dozens of years before.
Good, Johnny. That’s good. You know you’re doing the right thing.
Johnny smiled.
“What a strange road we’ve traveled, Alden,” he said softly. “I’m just glad we’ve always been together, you and I.”
General John Hamilton Wilde wiped the tears from his eyes.
“I love you, Alden,” he said, and then he reached out, unlocked the door and opened it to his sons and to his daughters, and to the long-buried truth that was his life.
THE END
