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professionally. But it is my dad, so I don’t see why I can’t follow up on my end.”
“You know the Army doesn’t make distinctions like that. When you wear the uniform you don’t have a ‘personal’ life. It’s Army green all the way.”
“I’m still going to talk to her.”
“And she’ll tell you that she believed that Dad killed Mom. So why bother?”
“I want to hear it from her, Bobby. The letter was the watered-down version, or so Stan told me.”
“So you’re going to interrogate a terminally ill woman about events from three decades ago?”
“I’m just going to listen. And she was the one who brought it up.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t really formulated a plan yet.”
“The Army might formulate one for you. As in a court-martial.”
“I haven’t disobeyed any orders because I haven’t been given any orders. I’m on leave, free to do what I want.”
“As long as you’re in uniform you are not free to do what you want. You know that!”
“Thanks for the lecture,” barked Puller.
“John, I’m just telling you to be really careful about this—”
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Puller said, interrupting. “Do you believe that Dad did it?”
“How the hell am I supposed to answer that question? I don’t know!”
“I think you suspect him.”
“What do you think?”
“I think our parents loved each other and Dad would never have laid a hand on her.”
Robert didn’t answer this right away. In fact the silence drew on for so long that Puller thought he might have disconnected.
“Bobby? Did you hear wha—”
“I heard, John.”
“And?”
“And time has a way of selecting memories we keep and memories we discard. At least for most people. The way I’m wired I remember pretty much everything as it actually happened, I guess, for better or worse.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” said Puller sharply.
“I thought it was fairly straightforward. I gotta go, John. I’ve got three-stars waiting on me. Just try not to crater your career, okay?”
The line went dead.
Puller stared down at the phone.
Selecting memories? What the hell was that about?
* * *
An hour later Stan Demirjian called. And three hours after that Puller was walking down the hall in the facility where Lynda Demirjian had come to die. A nurse escorted him.
Stan Demirjian had elected not to attend this meeting. Puller could not blame him. The old sergeant probably would have elected to try to retake Hamburger Hill over hearing his wife tell Puller his father was a murderer.
The nurse opened the door and ushered Puller in before leaving. Puller looked over at the bed. There was an IV stand and a monitoring unit and lines running from them to the shrunken form lying in the bed. The passage of three decades plus the terminal cancer had taken their toll on the woman.
Puller looked around the small room. It mirrored the one his father was currently occupying. He wondered what was worse: knowing that you were dying, or being oblivious to it?
He pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed.
“Mrs. Demirjian?”
The woman moved a bit, her head turned toward him, and her eyes opened.
“Who are you?” she said in a croaky voice.
“John Puller, Junior.”
Her eyes opened wide for a moment and then returned to slits, as though the lights overhead were too painful to fully engage.
“Last time I saw you, you were just a little boy.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Puller glanced at the bags on the IV stand and watched the liquids from them trickling through the lines terminating at a port in Demirjian’s arm. From there they went into her bloodstream. He felt sure one of them was morphine.
“You’re here…about…my letter.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I loved Jackie very much. I respected her more than anyone I’ve ever known.”
As did most with that name Jacqueline Puller had gone by Jackie. She also physically resembled Jackie Kennedy.
“And I know she liked you.”
“I…I’m sure you aren’t happy about what I’ve done.” Her words marched slowly out of her mouth. Puller assumed that was just the way it would be with all the meds she was probably on.
“I would just like to understand it better.”
“Did you read…it?”
“I did.”
“What would you like to know?”
“You said in the letter that my parents fought a lot.”
“They did.”
“But I don’t recall any of that.”
“Do you remember when your mother would bring you and your brother over to my house?”
“Yes.”
“That was so you…wouldn’t see them fighting.”
“How do you know that?”
“Your mother would tell me.”
“But how would she know beforehand that they were going to fight?”
“Because your father was coming home from deployment. They always fought then.”
Puller leaned back in his chair. “What would they fight about?”
“Mostly, your father wanting to control every part of her life.”
Her voice had grown stronger the more she talked. She even boosted herself up a bit on her pillow.
She turned her head to the side and looked at him. “I know you don’t want to hear this. I can imagine that to you, your father walked on water.”
“My dad had faults,” Puller said uncomfortably. “He could be rough.”
“Yes, he could be. He was rough with Jackie.”
“He never abused my mother.”
Puller had raised his voice and then felt incredible guilt. The woman was dying.
“I’m sorry.”
