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He heard her sigh.
“Did you tell that to your father?”
Johnny shook his head, as if she could see him through the phone.
“No,” he whispered, “I couldn’t. I told you, it’s what Alden wanted. And my father. He wants this, too.”
“But what about you? What do you want?”
“I don’t know. Not this. Not—”
“John.” Amos’s hand fell heavily on Johnny’s shoulder. “It’s time to say goodnight to your guests. You have an early flight tomorrow, remember?”
“John,” the voice in his ear said with urgency, “it isn’t too late. You need to forge your own path, to follow your own dream—”
Amos Wilde took the telephone from his son’s hand and hung it up.
“Come along, son,” he said, and Johnny rose and followed his father from the room.
* * * *
He hated West Point.
Just as he’d figured, it was all about discipline and obedience.
From Beast Barracks—the endless, grueling summer that was mandatory before a cadet began his plebe year—through the first few months, life was sheer hell.
Give way to upperclassmen Walk to the side of the hall. Obey. Obey their dumbest orders.
Christ, he despised it.
The only place he felt free was on the football field.
Nobody said so, but he was the best receiver they had, maybe the best they’d had in a while. He could tell by the way the coaches watched him, the way the other players treated him.
That improved things.
And, gradually, he realized that he could hold his own in a classroom. He was as smart as damn near anybody else, including those who’d gotten into the academy strictly through merit and hard work, not through the efforts of powerful fathers and the politicians they could influence.
By the end of his first year, he could hardly wait for the next group of plebes to arrive. It was going to be someone else’s turn to suffer.
He went home for part of the summer.
Life was good.
Girls crowded around him and he discovered he’d regained interest in fucking. Guys looked up to him. They always had, but it was different now. He was the hometown hero, back from the wars.
He considered calling Miss Cleary, but why stir up the past? OK, so he felt a twinge of guilt when he remembered all she’d done for him, but hey, life moves on. He felt a similar twinge when he bumped into Connie one evening. He was going into the movies with a blonde cheerleader hanging on his arm; Connie was part of a group of girls just coming out.
She gave him the kind of look he’d once seen a dog give to an abusive master and there it was, that little stab of guilt, but what was there to feel guilty about? What had happened hat night had been as much her idea as his and anyway, this was the seventies.
Virginity was no big deal.
Amos did a lot of boasting about him whenever people were around, not so much when they were alone.
One night, Johnny came home late and saw a light in Amos’s den. He heard what sounded like voices; curious as to who’d be visiting at two in the morning, he went quietly down the hall, his footsteps muffled by the silk runner.
The door to the den stood ajar.
Johnny looked past it.
His father was standing before an enormous photo of Alden, a glass of bourbon in his hand. From the looks of the bottle on the desk, he’d been drinking pretty steadily all evening.
“You’re gone and I still I miss you, son,” Amos whispered thickly. “You were my dream for the future of the Wildes and El Sueño, and nobody can ever replace you.”
Johnny closed his eyes, then quietly backed away.
His father was right.
No matter how many football games he won, what grades he scored, how good an officer he became, he could never replace Alden.
The next morning, he woke early and packed his things.
He didn’t have to be back at the academy for another two weeks, but he didn’t want to be at El Sueño any more. The ranch was a dream, all right, but not his.
Somewhere along the line, West Point had become home.
* * * *
The next years went by at lightning speed.
John—that was now how he thought of himself—did brilliantly.
His senior year, he was inducted into three academic honor societies.
He scored the winning touchdown in the most important game of the year, the battle between the Point’s Black Knights and Annapolis’s Midshipmen.
He requested placement in Military Intelligence and, on graduation, he was assigned to that branch of the service.
Sometimes he thought about how his life had changed. He’d found his place in the world, though he’d never imagined it would be in an officer’s uniform. One terrible night had turned him from a boy into a man.
Amos, of course, flew up for John’s graduation. After, they went back to Texas together.
John would stay at Wilde’s Crossing for only a few days; he was due to head for Italy as the very junior member of a hotshot general’s staff. It was a plum job, especially for a brand-new second lieutenant, and though he joked that it probably would involve sussing out where the general could find the best veal Marsala in Rome, he was thrilled with the assignment. He’d turned out to have a feel for languages; he was fluent in Italian, and now would be his chance to put it to good use.
Amos threw his usual over-the-top welcome party, a Sunday afternoon barbecue.
John was uncomfortable.
He had little to say to his old high school friends. There was a world of difference between them now, and he hung around just long enough to shake dozens of hands and slap as many backs. Then he sneaked upstairs, changed from his uniform to jeans and a T-shirt, clattered down the back staircase and took his graduation gift from Amos, a shiny black Thunderbird, for a drive.
He’d thought it was an aimless drive, but half an hour later he found himself on Agnes Cleary’s street.
He slowed the car as he approached the house.
It looked the same as ever: Small. Neat. Flowers growing in the yard.
Before he could overthink it, he pulled to the curb, stepped out of the Thunderbird, smoothed down his jeans, marched briskly to the front door and rang the bell.
By the time the door swung open, he’d almost given up hope that Miss Cleary was home.
“Yes?” a voice said.
“Miss Cleary. It’s John…”
But it wasn’t his old benefactor, it was a middle-aged woman with a dust mop in her hand.
He took a half step back.
“Is Agnes Cleary home?”
The woman frowned.
“Who are you?”
“John Wilde, ma’am. Miss Cleary was my teacher a long time ago.”
“Ah. I know your name, young man. My aunt often spoke of you.”
“Spoke?” John said.
“My aunt passed away in April. I’m here to try and put things in order before the house goes on the market.”
John stared at her.
“She’s…she’s dead?”
“You didn’t know? I’m so sorry… Are you all right? Do you want a glass of water?”
He felt numb. Numb, and shaken.
“No. No, thank you. I’m just…I’m just surprised. I never thought—“
“Neither did I. She always seemed indestructible.”
Jesus. Things were spinning. Agnes Cleary, dead? He remembered all the times he’d thought of her, the times he’d meant to phone her…
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in and sit down for a minute?”
John blinked.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Positive.” He stood straight, dredged up a smile. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.”
“Good day, ma’am. Sorry to have bothered you.”
* * * *
Half an hour later, he found himself at the lake.
He hadn’t planned on it, but it was the right place to be. It was quiet and peaceful; damn near the entre town was at his old man’s barbecue.
There was only one car in the lot, a black VW Beetle. He parked near it, got out of his car, tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and took a narrow footpath through the magnolias to the shore of the lake.
He walked slowly, thinking back to how good the old woman had been to him. She’d damn near saved his life and how had he thanked her? By ignoring her. Forgetting her.
Dampness blurred his vision. Sweat. It had to be sweat…
“John?”
Startled, he looked up. There was a bench a few feet ahead, and Connie was seated on it.
He stared at her.
Nothing about her had changed. Her hair was still frizzy, still that same dull color midway between blond and brown. She wore no makeup; her cotton shorts and blouse were dowdy. She was the same mouse she had always been, but his heart swelled at the sight of her.
“Connie. How are you?”
“I’m fine. How about you?”
“Good,” he said. “I’m good.” He cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I come here sometimes. It’s a pretty spot and—and…”
Color rose in her cheeks. He knew what she was thinking.
“It was a long time ago.”
“I, ah, I know. But I—I owe you an apology.”
“You don’t.”
“I do. I mean—”
“I wanted what—what we did.” Her color deepened; her voice fell to a whisper. “I’d thought about it, you know?”
“About you and Alden. Sure. But—”
“Not Alden!” Her face flamed. “About you. You and me. I mean, I knew you’d never look at me that way. You could have any girl you wanted, but—” Embarrassed, she turned her head away and fell silent.
