Gabriels Promise

Prologue

(Trust in the Lord and do good......and he will give you the desires of your heart)…Psalm 37

September 5, 2005…5:00pm GMT

We were so close to making a clean get away! The escape route was actually more doable than I had originally thought, and the first leg from the old prison on the Isle of If had gone off without a hitch. Once through the corridor that separated Corsica and Sardinia, the island of Sicily was dead ahead. According to the meteorologists, conditions were calm and we’d be zooming across waters of glass. It would be smooth sailing once through the narrow strait into the deep blue on blue waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea, all the way to Sicily where I’d scuttle Jeckle and swim to shore near Trapani. It should have been easy, but it wasn’t. Do you know when you ought to be the most uneasy? When you think you’ve thought of everything! At the end of the day I’d managed only to move from the frying pan into the fire.

La Maddalena, Sardinia, Monday, September 5th, 2005…6pm

Beads of sweat dripped steadily onto the old wooden table where I sat uncomfortably shackled to one of two splintered benches arranged on either side. My head hung low and my posture was poor. I was exhausted, weary and defeated, just waiting for whatever happened next. Rivers of perspiration ran the length of my forearms and dripped steadily through the gaps on the tabletop. I cradled my aching skull in my two callused hands and let it sink to the rough planks below me. I lay there motionless composing myself and sighed audibly. I lifted my head up just enough to survey the room. The cold sweat running down from my scalp stung me as it seeped into the corners of my eyes while I panned the room slowly. I was taking inventory of every voice, every door, and every window, searching for any way out of this mess. Sure, it was an act of pure desperation, but what the hell, I was desperate. A frustrating moment later I closed my eyes and lowered my head, surrendering to the fact that the jig was up. There weren’t any escape routes; at least none that wouldn’t require far more strength than I had left. I was played out man, physically, mentally, and emotionally. I knew it, and so did my captors.

I’d been in this stinking cellar for hours now with the hot sun beating down on me from a lone window perched high above me. Squinting I rolled my eyes away from the harsh glare and admired my profile in shadow on the wall across from me. For no apparent reason I considered the simplicity of shadows. They reveal so few details and yet there is no mistaking their origin. The shadow you cast is yours and yours alone. It begins and ends with you. I read somewhere that in some cultures the shadow is thought to be a glimpse of the Holy Spirit, who knows, maybe so? I lifted my head slowly and pushed myself up from the hard surface of the table, and reached high toward the ceiling with both arms, as I stretched my aching back. That turned out to be a mistake because as soon as I moved two men in wrinkled un-pressed uniforms burst through the iron door and rushed to where I stood; taking up positions on either side me. One of them jabbed at my ribcage sharply with a black baton, hard enough to force me to gasp audibly. The harsh blow broke one of my short ribs and I doubled over, quickly lowering an arm to shield myself from further attack.

"Penso che voglia dire qualcosa, (I think he wants to say something)," said the smaller of the two men, snickering at the unarmed man whom he had just struck. He sneered wickedly at his partner and pointed at me, painfully struggling to compose myself. The other guy, a whole head taller than the little shit with the nightstick, leaned forward and studied me. His breath reeked of whatever fish he had just eaten, and he chuckled gleefully at my predicament.

"Non so Carlo, somiglia a egli piangerebbe piuttosto (I don’t know Carlo, he looks like he would rather cry like a child)," the larger jailer replied, laughing boisterously, revealing a face full of rotting teeth. Thoroughly pissed at this point, I straightened up and looked over at the open door, ignoring their insults and provocations.

"Vous sont les singes par jouer? (Are you monkeys through playing around)," I asked sarcastically, replying in French out of habit

.The smaller jailer placed the baton under my chin. He pulled it up slowly but firmly, letting me know who was in charge. I looked up, careful not to antagonize the little bully.

"Non la capisco. Che lei ha detto? (I don’t understand you. What did you say?)," the small man asked me dryly.

I raised my hand, intending only to wipe away a small trickle of blood that oozed from my nose. The larger jailer reacted swiftly, and came up behind me, yanking my arms roughly behind my back. I writhed in pain, my broken rib stretched beyond its limit to flex. Drawing in several short, shallow breaths I tried to relax as best as I could. I needed to convince these two bastards that I had no intention of trying anything stupid.

"Hey, hey, wait a minute, wait a minute!" I shouted, switching to English. Neither responded; they just stared at me with blank expressions, no surprise.

"OK, OK, do either of you guys speak any English," I asked hopefully.

The bigger jailer removed his knee my back and relaxed his hold on me a little. He looked over at his buddy and frowned, and then nodded in my direction, as if to say ‘well, what do you know’. The smaller jailer pulled the baton out from under my chin, easing the tension for a moment while he contemplated this new development, allowing me to relax.

"Yeah, I pretty good speak English. What your name is, huh?" he asked, staring at me smugly.

"Patrick...my name is Patrick Bouchard," I answered, deciding that hiding my identity was useless, especially since I had already been betrayed, which by the way was how I ended up here in the first place.

But I’m getting ahead of myself; suffice to say that avoiding the long arm of the law had proved to be way harder in this new age of forensic sciences then we had bargained for. With the advances in fields like DNA and spectrographic whosie-whats-it shit and whatnot, we could only stay on the run for so long. Getting caught was inevitable, we knew that going in. It’s just that we were still way ahead of the law dogs. We were only caught because I fucked up! Like I said earlier, just when you think you have it all figured out, right?

"You are French, no?" the small guy asked impatiently.

No, I only speak French, I’m an American, I replied quietly, thankful for the break.

Your papers, where they are? he demanded suddenly, swatting my arm with the baton, hard enough to raise a welt (so much for the break in the action).

Owwww!

"You little shit! They’re under water man, maybe a thousand meters, at the bottom of the freaking Mediterranean!" I shouted, trying to rub away the pain from my bruised bicep! I really wanted punch this little prick’s lights out.

You not fisherman, the small man observed, sneering at me as he admired my Ralph Lauren polo shirt. He felt the soft fabric, questioning my manhood with his smug expression.

I stared up at the man; "Did I say I was a fisherman Guido?" I snarled as sarcastically as I could. The little jailer stared back at me blankly, tapping his chin with the end on the baton.

"Your boat, it sinks, no?" he asked, pressing for details.

What do you think Einstein, I replied sarcastically.

The room became silent for an uncomfortable moment. The small jailer seemed to be thinking hard about what to do next, and looked agitated. He stepped toward me, raising his baton, as if preparing to strike me good and hard.

"Fermata! (Stop)!" shouted a loud voice from just behind the little bastard. The small jailer tripped over his own feet as he halted in mid-swing, his momentum nearly causing him to tip over.

"Ahh, il capitano spiacente, non l’ho sentito entra! (Sorry captain, I didn’t hear you enter)," the little man said, stammering a quick apology, quickly doffing his cap toward his superior.

"Lasciare andare di lui stupido! (Let go of him stupid)," the captain shouted harshly at the larger jailer.

The big man reluctantly released his hold on me, kicking at the chair as he did so. I watched my tormentor walk slowly across the room to stand beside his partner, glaring back at his boss the whole way. The police captain wasn’t in uniform like the other two. He was in fact, dressed rather stylishly in a finely tailored suit, purchased perhaps in Rome or Milan, from any number of fine haberdasheries. Fashion is a passion in Italy. I shifted my eyes to the slender, well-dressed newcomer as he walked over to where I was shackled. The man stopped beside me and dropped a manila file onto the table, then walked around to seat himself across from me. He studied me intensely for a moment before speaking.

I am Captain Gianetto, he said, sniffing loudly with an overt air of self-importance.

You are a very popular man Mr. Bouchard, he said in perfect English, his native accent softly in the background but still noticeable.

A lot of important people are anxious to meet you in person Senori, according to Interpol that is, he continued, studying my face for a weakness or tell as my poker playing buddies would say. I allowed myself to relax somewhat, and stared back at my new pal.

Is that right, I replied, clearing my throat audibly.

He spoke to the two jailers without turning toward them, Do you know who we have here my friends, he asked, standing and waving his arms dramatically in my direction?

"Look at him!" he ordered gruffly.

Do you not recognize such a celebrity? he continued, shaking his head and snickering.

The two buffoons stepped a little closer and looked at me curiously, as if they were buying livestock. They shook their heads and shrugged, looking back at their captain with blank expressions.

"Il mio Dio, sono circondato dagli imbecilli! (My God, I am surrounded by imbeciles)," the captain lamented, looking dramatically to the heavens above. He walked briskly out of the room and returned just as quickly with a small poster clutched in his fist. He unrolled it on the table in front of me.

"It is you, no?" the captain asked, holding the poster close to my face. I leaned back as much as my broken rib would allow, inhaling deeply and painfully.

"Could be? Looks a little like me, I suppose," I muttered.

Please, don’t be modest! Captain Gianetto pleaded sarcastically.

"The Jack of Broken Hearts!" he loudly announced to the small room, his words bouncing off of the stone walls surrounding us with an unexpected volume.

"Oh, si, Senori, si!" the smaller jailer exclaimed, excitedly pantomiming as if he were dealing a deck of cards.

The two prison guards smiled stupidly at one another then looked back at Capitano Gianetto. Their superior smiled broadly, revealing two freakishly large gold incisors, the kind that would have made Count Dracula himself jealous. He gestured toward me, stamping his left foot hard on the ground.

"Idiots!"

"You see what I must put up with Senori, do you see?" lamented the police captain apologetically as he sat back down across from me.

"Forgive us, we are, how do you Americans say, star struck, no," he explained with just a trace of sarcasm. I nodded, and remained silent, looking down at the tabletop trying to think.

"Oh dear me, my manners, you are uncomfortable, yes?" asked Captain Gianetto, genuinely concerned.

"Mama Mia! Such hosts we are!"

Carlo, bring Senori Bouchard some water at once! he shouted to the small jailer, motioning with a snap of his fingers for the man to make haste.

Bring a towel as well Carlo, the poor man is sweating like a pig, Captain Gianetto added, shouting over his shoulder as he continued to study me. His tone and his demeanor had changed, and I had to fight the urge to relax. For all I knew the ‘bad cop’ would walk in any minute and pummel me.

You are not what I expected, he said, leaning in close, his chin perched on his folded hands.

You’re not exactly catching me at my best, I replied looking up and holding the man’s stare.

"Touché, I appreciate the humor in that statement," he replied, leaning back quickly and gently placing his hands to his lips as if in prayer.

"The playing cards, I must ask you. Why do you leave one behind at each of your, forgive me, crimes?" he asked genuinely curious. I remained silent.

"The Jack of Hearts, with a jagged line through the heart at the corners, what does it mean?" he persisted, watching me struggle with whether or not to answer.

He seemed to be good, and I don’t mean good as in skilled interrogator good, but good, as in a good man. I sensed it right away, and the good angel on my shoulder kept whispering my ear that I could trust him. I studied him for what seemed like a long time. I could feel the tears welling. Anyone who’s been on the run for as long as I have will tell you that there are nights you dream about the sweet relief of confession. Captain Gianetto watched me study him. I had the impression that he was trying his hand at mind reading.

A woman perhaps? he asked.

I looked directly into his brown eyes, they were amber colored actually, and I wiped at a tear before it fell onto my cheek, hoping that it went un-noticed, but of course it didn’t.

No, not a woman, not exactly, I replied.

"Well then, what does it mean?" he implored.

"Please, Senori, enlighten us, there is plenty of time before the authorities arrive, I assure you."

Until then you are my guest. No harm will come to you, I swear to you on the Madonna. Come now, confession is good for the soul is it not?

There really isn’t much to tell, I muttered, stalling to consider my options.

"Don’t be modest Senori, I’m certain that is not true! The Jack of Broken Hearts is a legend in the Mediterranean! My own children pretend to be you when they play with their friends in the streets."

"Pease, please, indulge me," he pleaded!

"Oh, but wait, you must be starving, let me arrange for some food while we talk, like old friends, no?"

I shrugged, what did I have to lose? The time for secrecy had passed. My only hope for protecting the good things accomplished with all of this piracy rested in shielding myself with the truth. It was time to come clean, repent, and rely on God’s grace to help them see things as I did.

It’s a long story Captain, are you sure you want to sit through it?

Carlo returned just as he was about to reply.

"Here it is, the water il Capitano," he announced, gently setting the pitcher and glass on the table. He tossed a fresh dry towel to me; actually he threw it at me and then quickly looked back at his Captain to see if he noticed.

"Grazie Carlo, grazie," Captain Gianetto replied, smiling reassuringly.

"Ah, and now the food!" he exclaimed.

Roberto, go and see my wife. Tell her to send over my supper, and make sure that she sends enough for everyone.

"Go on now, velocemente (quickly)!" he said excitedly, shooing the man off with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

"Si Senori! Andiamo Carlo, andiamo (let’s go)," Roberto replied, dragging his small partner along as he rushed out of the room.

I watched the two comedians exit, and stifled a laugh. I took one more look around the room an contemplated a split second overpowering my new fan, but the thought passed quickly. It was time to live in the light again.

Ah, what the hell, I muttered.

"Perdonarme (pardon me)?" Captain Gianetto asked.

Sorry, it was nothing, I replied apologetically.

Where would you like me to begin?

At the beginning, of course! he replied, smiling broadly, his gold teeth glistening in the beam of sunlight coming from the window above us.

"At the beginning…"

(Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God)…Matthew 5: 3-12

Chapter One

Long Beach, California, November 24, 2002

Old man Schuler tugged firmly on the leash, letting Winston, his twelve year- old English bulldog know that he was through being dragged around the neighborhood on their evening constitutional. Winston gagged slightly, stopping obediently but reluctantly. The squat, muscular little beastie turned his fat head and gave his master the stink eye. Carl Schuler ignored the dog’s little rebellion and came to a stop himself, grateful that the mutt had decided to take pity on him and cooperate.

Good boy Winston! he exclaimed, overtly praising his pet in hopes the animal would stay still long enough for him to catch his breath. Carl wiped at the sweat beaded on his brow with the sleeve of his windbreaker. He exhaled long and deep, and drew back in an equally deep lung full of cool, crisp oxygen.

"Doggie detail is a helluva way to treat a veteran!" he muttered to the empty sidewalk.

On the plus side, these little walks did get him out of the house daily. Which, short of the sweet release of death, was pretty much his only chance of escaping the shrill sound of Edith’s constant chattering. Only in death, his or hers, at this point in his life he no longer cared which, would he again know peace and quiet he sarcastically imagined. Lord above, how that woman loved the sound of her own voice! Of course he had stopped paying attention years ago, but goddamn this healthy body, he was still cursed with having to listen!

The day had been warm, typical for Southern California. Nobody knew what a real winter felt like around here. Hell, the people around here bundled up like Eskimos as soon as the mercury leveled off below sixty degrees. Secretly Carl missed the east coast lifestyle. The older he got the more he longed for the snow and cold of his youth. But it was nearing 5PM and the cool ocean breeze brought a familiar chill. Edith would never leave this place; he’d surrendered to that fact many, many, many years ago. California born and raised, she and Carl had made a life together in the ‘Golden State’ raising five sons and four daughters.

They had met during WWII while he recovered at the VA Hospital in Long Beach from wounds he received at Guadalcanal. Edith Laurel Harper was the cutest nurse on the whole second floor, and after a solid year of corny jokes and even cornier love notes he won her heart. He would bemoan that accomplishment daily later in life. But hey, life’s ‘a crap shoot at best’ he always said. People either grow together or grow apart, it was that simple as far as his secular self was concerned. His spiritual self, the one he hid from everyone but his Edith believed that love never fails, just like the scriptures promise. It’s people who fail to love. Goddamn free will poppycock! He imagined life would be pretty sweet if the Almighty would take that little gift back.

Carl zipped up his lightweight jacket with one hand and stuck the other into the fleece-lined pocket. He started to tug at Winston when a sudden movement from the house they were standing outside of distracted him. He looked over quickly at the row of houses on his left and fixed his eyes on the large bay window of his neighbor’s home. The long drapes fell closed, but not before Carl spotted a small boy duck down beneath the windowsill. Not much of a hider though, the kid’s little fingers were still visible holding onto the drapes. Carl could clearly see his pointed little head covered with thick brown hair through the freakishly clean glass. The child’s mother, Michelle Bouchard was a pleasant young Vietnamese woman and a real neat freak, an endearing trait that Carl wished would rub off on Edith. She and Patrick, her husband were a very nice Amerasian couple, and their son Gabriel was a wonderfully precocious five-year old. He had the happiest eyes and a smile to go with it. The boy was a beautiful hybrid, a warm blend of cultures physically and socially. Gabriel never failed to make Carl smile, even when he didn’t feel much like doing so, like when his sciatica acted up or when Edith put him in the doghouse.

The Bouchard’s had moved in next door to the Schuler family only a couple years ago, when Michelle was pregnant with their second child. Carl remembered fondly how she and Edith had bonded, which wasn’t hard to understand given Edith’s vast experience at childbirth. This pregnancy had been more difficult than Gabriel’s, and Michelle was constantly running to and from the OBGYN. He and Edith had stepped up and helped the young couple, providing meals, babysitting, and taxi services, right up to the night that Patrick dropped off a soundly sleeping Gabriel in the wee hours while he rushed Michelle off to deliver his little sister. Carl sighed, recalling the next day when Patrick phoned to tell them that there had been complications. The baby girl had been stillborn, and Michelle ended up having an emergency hysterectomy as well.

Carl wasn’t fond of remembering that night; it had been tough on everyone, especially Edith. You would have thought that Michelle was her own daughter by the river of tears that flowed. He shuddered, thinking of it and shook off the memory by clearing his throat loudly. Carl waived to the boy in the window and instantly five little fingers appeared, wiggling like tiny snakes in response to his gesture. The old neighbor smiled and tugged at Winston’s leash. Let’s go old boy, he said sternly. Let’s see what mother has for supper tonight!

Gabriel Bouchard jumped up from his crouch beneath the windowsill and rapped at the glass with his tiny knuckles. Goodbye! he shouted in his little voice, waiving at Carl and Winston as they walked up their drive next door, but they didn’t hear him. The boy took one more look up and down the street to see if he could spot his Daddy’s car coming, and then scurried off to the kitchen where his mommy was busy preparing supper. He could hear her voice, she was humming a familiar tune; she was always humming or singing a tune. Hitting the ceramic tiled floor at full speed he skated over to her, sliding effortlessly across the floor in his stocking feet.

"GABRIEL LUC BOUCHARD," his startled mother shouted!

Michelle turned quickly to face him, her hand over her heart as if to keep it from flying out of her chest. She picked up the ever-handy wooden spoon, the pow-pow spoon she called it, and unconvincingly threatened him gloom and doom. Gabriel froze like a statue, as if he were playing freeze tag out in the yard. Michelle tried her best to remain stern, but the goofy look on her son’s face and his ridiculous pose, forced her to look away before he saw her smile. It was her intention to scold him but first she had to swallow her giggles.

Listen here young man! You know better than to scare me like that, don’t you?

What if I had something hot in my hand, I might have burned you honey! Please be more careful, OK? she said to him as she turned to look at him, her stern warning erasing the smile on her face.

Gabriel didn’t answer her because he was still playing freeze tag. Michelle shook her head slowly and walked over to where he stood frozen and touched him on the shoulder, instantly unfreezing him as per the rules, and ending the game. The little boy hugged her hard, wrapping his short little arms around her leg and burying his head between her knees like children do. From this vantage point he could see the see the stove and the kitchen counter behind her, as well as Newton. Sir Isaac Newton was the family’s crazy, terrorist cat who was currently curled up near the sink waiting for mommy to hand him a piece of cheese or whatever she might be cutting up for supper. Michelle wriggled her way out of Gabriel’s embrace and turned him back toward the hall.

"You go and wash up for supper; daddy will be home any minute. Go on now, scoot!" she said, giving him a little push on his tushie with her foot.

OK Mommy, replied Gabriel, as he sprinted off to the bathroom down the hall.

"NO RUNNING IN THE HOUSE," she hollered belatedly, squinting at the sound of the slamming bathroom door.

I swear, I don’t know who listens least, Gabriel or Patrick, she muttered as she resumed preparing the evening meal.

Michelle picked up a large knife and started cutting a pile of red rose potatoes that had been soaking in a mixing bowl in the sink. She thought about Gabriel versus Patrick for a moment and then grinned, muttering to Newton, well, at least Gabriel remembers to leave the seat down. She softly hummed a tune as she ran a stream of tap water over the freshly cut spuds. Rubbing her nose with the back of her wet hand she looked up at the clock above the stove. It was just after five, and I would be home any minute. Michelle frowned; she hadn’t even started boiling the potatoes. Oh well it had been a trying day, what with Gabriel being home sick and all. He had complained about being tired and achy this morning. Actually, he had been complaining about being tired a lot, and he’d had several bloody noses lately as well. Doctor Phillips said that he was probably just going through a growth spurt, and suggested that she watch him closely for a few days to make sure he wasn’t just picking at his nose like kids do.

She wasn’t exactly crazy about his diagnosis, but he was the doctor after all, and Gabriel did seem to be feeling better today. So she decided to accept his explanation and recommendation not to worry. She was relieved when he prescribed some Children’s Tylenol and a day of rest, assuring her that her son would be up to his old tricks in no time. He was probably right, but still, Michelle was always nervous whenever Gabriel seemed out of sorts. It was probably just a mild case of a mother’s paranoia, she knew that, but ever since the miscarriage she had become a tad over protective of the only child she would ever give birth to. That was an occasional issue between her and I, mostly because I just didn’t get it she would say. I probably didn’t, after all, I wasn’t a mother and a man can never really understand what it means to be one, to be so thoroughly connected with another human being.

Michelle looked down at a mewing Newton and took pity on the sad little thing. She wasn’t much of a cat person, but the little dickens had grown on her during the year since they rescued him from the pound. She reached over and cut a small wedge of cheese from the block she was preparing to grate. Newton had this drill down pat and was already standing on his hind legs, reaching up with an orange marmalade colored paw to take delivery of his snack.

There you go you little beggar, Michelle said sweetly, reaching down and scratching the top of his furry head while he chomped at the cheese with his sharp little teeth.

"HEY, how does a workin’ man get some attention around here?" I shouted from the living room.

IN HERE HONEY! she replied, drying her hands with the dishtowel on the counter.

I walked in through the dining room doorway and scooped up my wife in my usual bear hug, twirling her around a full 360 degrees before putting her down gently. I kissed her on the end of her pointed Roman nose and then jumped up onto the counter and sat beside the stove. Leaning over the burner, I lifted the lid of the stewpot and took a deep whiff of the meal she was preparing. She hated when I did that, and always scolded me about teaching Gabriel my bad habits!

OH MAN, I’m starving babe, this really smells great though! What is it? I asked enthusiastically.

GET DOWN FROM THERE PATRICK! How many times do I have to tell you that Gabriel copies everything you do? You don’t want me to have to take him to the Emergency Room again, do you? Once is good enough for today, thank you very much! Michelle said, scolding me. I hopped down quickly, doing as I was told. Sorry honey, my bad, I apologized.

Yeah, well…

So what’s in the pot?

It’s Mulligan Stew, she answered.

Do I like that?

You will. Why don’t you go wash up and I’ll call you and Gabriel when it’s ready, OK?
Sure. Hey, why did he have to go to the doctor today? I asked.

Michelle tensed up visibly and I could sense that she didn’t want to have another ‘discussion’ about the frequent doctor visits. I tried to keep it light but I was worried that she was overreacting every time the little guy had the sniffles. I assumed it was because of our stillborn daughter, Rebecca. I really didn’t want to upset her any more, but goddamn it, this had to stop. It wasn’t healthy for anyone, for her, for me, for Gabriel, for anyone. I really wanted us to see someone, maybe through the church, and get some help, but she was pretty stubborn, especially when she got her Irish up.

"Oh, he just had trouble getting up this morning, that’s all. And he had another bad nose bleed too. I wanted to check that out. Besides, we have good insurance honey, and everyone at the HMO is really nice. I just wanted to make sure, OK?"

I swallowed the response that had already formed in my brain and was sitting perched on the tip of my tongue. There was no good reason to make a mountain out of a molehill. Mothers will be mothers. And she was right, we did have good insurance. So it wasn’t a money issue for me. I was worried we were giving Gabriel the impression he wasn’t normal. None of his friends spent so much time in doctor’s offices. My face must have given away what I was thinking in the few seconds it was taking me to reply.

Please don’t make a big thing about it Patrick, let’s have a pleasant evening and enjoy each other’s company, I really don’t want to bicker tonight, OK babe? she pleaded softly, studying my face for a clue as to where this talk might be heading.

What could I say? When the one you love is hurting it’s easy to capitulate. So, I sighed and looked down at the floor, put my hands on my hips, and assumed my usual surrender posture. I knew that Michelle had prepared herself for a fight, but it I didn’t let it start. The high road is usually the best path according to Father Michael, so I followed and placed my hands behind me, jamming them into the back pockets of my jeans.

It’s alright babe, better safe than sorry, right, I said, gently biting on the flesh inside my mouth. It’s alright, really, I reiterated.

Michelle exhaled deeply and jogged over to where I stood. She knew I was lying but she was grateful for the loving gesture and hugged the stuffing out of me, kissing me repeatedly all over my face. I pushed away from her to escape the flurry of butterfly kisses.

OK, OK, enough already! I’m gonna go wash up and see what the little monster is up to, I said snickering, as I broke free.

She chased me for a step or two, pinching at my butt as I made my escape. I can’t think straight when she does that, no fair! Then, turning on her heels she went back to the stew that was simmering on the stovetop. I paused to watch her a moment as she tossed the red rose potatoes into the stewpot. She looked back suddenly and caught me staring and picked up the pow-pow spoon. I met her mock warning with a grin and left the room. Before I cleared the doorway I heard her whisper, God I love that man.

("Photographs and memories, all the love you gave to me, somehow it just can’t be true, that’s all I have left of you") …Jim Croce 1974

Chapter Two

San Pedro, California, November 25, 2002

The two large brass bells perched atop an old round faced alarm clock waited patiently for their cue. As the hands aligned north and south to read 6am the dutiful timepiece clanged to life with the subtlety of a wrecking ball. It vibrated wildly on the nightstand, the hammer striking the large brass bells relentlessly, vibrating so ferociously that it actually began to ‘walk’ toward the edge of its perch. Slowly, very slowly, a large hand, calloused from a lifetime of hard labor, rose from underneath a rumpled mound of blankets on the bed beside the nightstand. Thick fingers wrapped carefully around the blaring instrument, and ever so gently depressed the small lever in back, silencing the old clock a split second before it fell from the stand to the hardwood floor below.

François Bouchard, my old man, turned lazily onto his back and stretched, rubbing the crust from his ice blue eyes. Out of habit he reached over beside him, feeling around for the where my mother’s sleeping form should have been. He stroked the cold empty space beside him, sighing deeply, and caressed the sheet as if she were still there. Turning his head on an old, weathered feather pillow he stared at the undisturbed linen beside him. This was Papa’s routine, every morning he reminded himself that she was gone, each and every morning for a couple of years now. Giselle Bouchard died the summer of 1999 from complications with an acute case of emphysema. Her death wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t quick, it was a bitter, bitter memory, one he wished he could just forget. Whoever coined the phrase absence makes the heart grow fonder clearly had never had their heart broken. Sometimes absence just makes the heart grow harder.

It takes a special kind of courage to forgive without being vindictive. To be able to see past the bitterness that blinds you to the purity of the love you push deep into a vault where it can no longer be shared. My mom never meant to hurt my father, in fact I doubt she realized that she did. But I tell you this much, were the roles reversed she would never abandon her love for him, no matter what passed between them. My mother believed in love and she lived like she did, every day that I can remember.

"Goddamn cigarettes!" François muttered.

Papa had pleaded with her to stop smoking their entire life together; it was really the only thing they ever bickered about. And when she was officially diagnosed with her dire condition in January of 1995 his pleas turned to demands, which naturally disintegrated into bitter arguments, followed by days of silence and weeks of frustration. François prayed daily for Divine intervention, he was convinced that if Giselle humbled herself and stop poisoning her body, that God would show mercy. She didn’t, and neither did God, and so François was forced to suffer the agony of witnessing her slow, horrible death. At the very end my mother suffocated while she was attached to a full tank of oxygen. Her lung capacity had deteriorated so much, that she could no longer draw breath enough to sustain her life.

It had been like watching a candle flame die out, the red glow fading to orange, then yellow, then blue, and then eventually to black, cold and final. He was bitter and felt he had the right to be. Only his faith kept him from mourning himself into rash decisions after her passing. He was grateful that her suffering was over, but secretly cursed her stubborn pride. Were it not for that she might still be with him.

"Je vous aime mon Cher (I love you my dear)," he whispered.

Tenderly he caressed the space beside him where she lay for forty-seven years. He imagined it was still warm to the touch, his memories defying the laws of physics. His glanced over to the nightstand on her side of the bed and noticed a gaudy, gold framed photograph of the two of them in happier times. It was a picture taken on their last real holiday together, before they were aware of the hell yet to come. François vividly remembered that day. They had been walking all morning, window shopping and visiting some old friends of Giselle’s, when they decided to stop for a quick lunch at one of her favorite cafés on the Boulevard Malesherbes. It was a quaint little place in the financial district, not far from the Madeleine Church and the Metro station. He had uncharacteristically asked the waiter to take their photo. The two of them posed like a pair of silly teenagers, all kissy faced and grinning from ear to ear.

Papa took in a deep breath and sighed, imagining he could still catch the faint scent of her skin in the cooling blankets. Paris was her city; she had been born and raised there. And Giselle had remained every bit a Parisian, even after moving to the United States with him at the tender age of nineteen. Ten years her senior, François had met Giselle shortly after mustering out of the French Navy in the winter of 1948. He had gone to Paris to reunite with his own family, only to discover that they had not survived the German occupation. And after a night of feeling sorry for himself and drinking beyond his limitations, he awoke early the next morning, face down in the tall grass of a local schoolyard. A pretty young girl kicked at his feet, and tried to rouse him.

"Excuser moi Monsieur?"(Excuse me sir) a sweet voice had asked him gently.

"Excuser moi! Vous sont bien monsieur?" (Excuse me, are you alright sir) the voice asked again more insistently, inquiring if he was OK.

François recalled squinting in glare of the morning sun, his head aching from the wine the night before, and seeing the face of an angel. He fell in love the instant he saw her. Or perhaps he fell in love with the notion of being in love, who could say for sure. All he knew for certain was that his heart had been touched, and the light in this girl’s eyes had somehow dulled the pain of his family’s fate. He recalled her puzzled and amused expression. She was totally unaware of the wheels she had set in motion by her random act of kindness. In that moment, without really understanding why, he unconsciously began his campaign to win her heart. As it turned out, Giselle needed little coaxing, as she had been equally smitten, as hungry as he was for life to return to normal.

Four years after that chance meeting they were wed, it was the winter of 1952. Shortly afterward, François and his child bride immigrated to the United States of America, to begin their new life together. Like so many immigrants before them, they settled at first in New York City. Their first home together was a tiny apartment at the top of a six-floor walkup located on the Lower East Side of the city. There was barely enough room for the two of them, but Giselle was young and anxious to start a family. She begged and pleaded with him to promise that they would try as soon as they were settled. He had tried to reason with her, attempting to explain that they needed to prepare a little nest egg before incurring such responsibility. But Giselle was still a girl in many respects, and had an enormous faith in the unwritten proverb that ‘good things happened to good people’ so as far as she was concerned, there was no reason for worry, they would be blessed, she was certain of it.

François remembered thinking many times after these discussions, how could one argue with such optimism? After countless such talks she wore him down and they reached an amicable compromise. Mother agreed to wait until Papa found a decent paying job, and they set aside at least enough to cover the expense of bringing a new life into their new world. With that as inspiration, François ventured out amongst the throng of post war job hunters and searched for a place to hang his tool belt, and seek his fortune. And wouldn’t you know it, just as Giselle had predicted, good fortune smiled upon them and within a week he had found the perfect job. A diesel mechanic by trade, François had managed to find work in the vast expanse of the New York shipyards, at a thriving marine dry dock located right on the East River. It was a natural fit for him, given his years of service in the French Navy where he tended to the maintenance and repair of the huge diesel engines propelling the destroyer he had served aboard during the war, Defiant.

Papa had spent five years aboard that vessel, patrolling the icy cold Atlantic Ocean hunting devil fish, a term commonly used to describe the deadly German U-boats that lurked along the coast of his homeland. The experience had molded him into a fine craftsman in his own right, and thus into a valuable commodity in this post war industry. Outwardly he credited his steadfast perseverance for their good fortune, but inwardly and secretly he acknowledged Giselle’s mantra that ‘good things come to good people’. He started that new job on the first Monday in May, just before the real heat of summer arrived in the Big Apple. And in no time he and Giselle had squirreled away a tidy little sum. Not a fortune mind you, but enough for him to keep his promise, and they began trying in earnest to start their family.

Their luck continued when in March of 1954 Giselle beamingly announced that she was with child. She was of course, ecstatic, but for some unknown reason François felt uneasy, perhaps it was just the pre-papa jitters or maybe it was the significance of the news; that their lives would change forever. He did his best to hide that from Giselle, the terror and pressure he felt, but she was far too sensitive to miss such obvious clues, his quietness, his pensiveness, his far away stares. She suspected that he was just doing what all men did, make a mountains out of molehills; creating all sorts of havoc within their minds about futures that were yet to be realized. Why couldn’t he just trust in God as she did? After all, hadn’t he provided this moment exactly as he had promised?

François frowned as he recalled that time of his life. Given the way he had wallowed around in a blue funk that he created with his brooding, it didn’t take long for his bad attitude to start chipping away Giselle’s initial enthusiasm. But, to her credit, she never threw that back at him. Mother never let Papa’s lack of faith reduce her own. Her mother had raised her well, and taught her that in marriage nothing was unforgivable, that when one of you is weak the other must be strong, that is your bond, and that is your duty unto God. Papa had pouted and moped right up to the day mother went into labor, two weeks early mind you! And with little fanfare, she gave birth to a daughter, stillborn, the day after Christmas, December 26, 1954. They named the baby Marie, and buried her quietly in a brief ceremony at St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was just the two of them in attendance. They would never speak of her again.

Papa blamed himself for the tragedy, and tried his best to keep from sinking into a deeper depression with his guilt. He didn’t have to try too hard as mother would have none of that! Her faith was tremendous and she knew that God worked in his own time. When the time was right, if she was faithful, he would grant her heart’s desire, just as he promised in the Psalms. Her husband was easy to forgive; he was merely acting like a child, but forgiving herself would be harder, in her mind she had somehow failed her child. That never made sense to Papa, but he knew that she believed it, and she prayed to St. Gerard, the patron saint of expectant mothers, for strength the next go around. As fate would have it though, the path to the next conception would prove to be a difficult one. They tried earnestly but fruitlessly, year after year, for the family that she so passionately yearned for, there seemed to be no hope. But isn’t that when God’s gifts are the most glorious?

Giselle stubbornly refused to surrender her spirit to self pity or misery, never losing faith or her joyful spirit. And in the last days of the infamous summer of love, in early September, 1969, they were once again with child. Mother was convinced that it was a reward for her unwavering faith. And so, nine uneventful months later I arrived, a son, Patrick Henry Bouchard. I came screaming into the world without incident in the wee hours of June 7th, 1970. I would be their only child in this life. Mother had actually gone into labor as she and Papa stood in a hot crowded room downtown waiting to take their oath of citizenship.

As the large group new citizens