A Soldier Finds His Way (33 page)

“How’s it looking, ol’ chap? Think she’s ready for us to take her down?” Mr. Whitehall approached from the direction of the worksite’s temporary office building, his British lilt coloring his words with hopeful expectation. Rubber boots slip-slapped against bird-thin calves until he came to a stop at the threshold of Hank's sliver of shade. Sunlight penetrated the weave of Whitehall’s pith helmet and painted a crisscross pattern across his nose and cheeks. His teeth appeared as nuggets of white-hot coals as his lips parted and stretched into a smile.

Sweat drizzled down Hank’s temple and marched into his beard like an army of ants. He scratched his chin against his shoulder. “I know you’re the site manager, but it’s not safe to be out here without a hard hat, safety glasses and sturdy work boots.”

“Right you are. Sorry about that. I suppose this does set a bad example for the rest of the crew. Shall we go into the office where it’s nice and cool to discuss your findings?”

“Sounds good to me.” Hank fell into a slow walk beside the boss. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like an hour or two to go over my data before giving you an official report. I’d also like to run it through a couple of computer simulations for verification.”

“I wouldn’t mind at all. In fact, I appreciate your thoroughness.”

The initial chill of cool air inside the building tingled the skin on the back of Hank’s neck and brought immediate relief from the sweltering heat. At the open door to the first office, he paused and nodded a hello to the Bracket brothers who stood hunched over a plywood table looking at a set of blueprints. Three of their associates sat near the window sipping soft drinks. The London-based team acknowledged him with a flick of their eyes and nothing more. Their less-than-enthusiastic response came as no surprise. They’d made it clear Hank’s “so-called” expertise wasn’t needed or welcome.

“Bunch of no-accounts,” Hank mumbled. “Who cares what they think.”

“What’s that you say, my good man? I’m afraid my hearing is getting a bit squidgy these days,” Whitehall said from behind Hank.

“Just talking to myself, that’s all.” He entered the next room and nudged the door closed with his foot.

* * * *

Cindy Giordano hurried across the parking lot, threw open the door to Wallis and Jameson Architectural Designs, and stepped inside. A glance at the wall clock brought a sigh of relief. Even with traffic nearly gridlocked, she’d managed to arrive at work a few minutes early.

The receptionist didn’t return her smile.

“Good morning, Chloe. I thought I’d be late for sure. A tractor trailer was overturned on Parkview and...”

The usually cheerful and perky Chloe sat chewing her bottom lip, and worry lines creased the area between her brows. Her fingers strangled a number two pencil with a nervous twisting motion as she rose to her feet.

“Is something wrong?”

“Ricky said to send you to his office as soon as you got here.”

Next to Chloe’s desk, a corridor passed through cubicle city, to the far wall where the passageway split into a T. The table that held the coffee urn, stacks of Styrofoam cups, and fixings stood strangely silent. A man peeked over a white partition in her direction, but turtled his head back into concealment when his eyes met hers.

“What’s going on? Why is it so quiet back there?”

Chloe’s pencil snapped in half with a pop. She flinched. “You’d better go see Ricky.”

“Okay, I’ll do that now.”

Rick Jameson’s door stood slightly ajar. Cindy gave a light rap with her knuckle and pushed it open more. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, please come in, close the door, and have a seat.” He motioned to a leather armchair.

Cindy sat with hands folded atop her purse. “What’s up, Ricky? Why the hangdog look, and why’s everyone so quiet this morning? It’s like a tomb out there in the cubes.”

The boss ran a hand over his salt and pepper hair. “There’s no decent way to segue into this, so I’ll just come out with it. You’re a good kid, and I like you. But, I’ve got to cut back on staff, and I’m going to have to let you go. Sorry, kiddo.”

“Have I done something wrong?”

“This has nothing to do with your performance. I couldn’t be more pleased. We’re in a bit of a slump and not making enough money right now. We decided to lay off the person with the least seniority. Unfortunately, that happens to be you. Let me know if you need a reference for your next job.” He slid an envelope across the table.

Cindy picked it up. “What’s this?”

“It’s your final paycheck and a little something extra to let you know how sorry I am.”

She tucked the envelope into her purse, stood and extended an arm across the desk.

Sadness filled her boss’s eyes as he cupped her hand between his.

“Thanks for giving me a job, Ricky. It’s been nice working for you. You’re a good man.”

His lips lifted into a frail smile. “Right now, I don’t feel like such a good guy.”

“Well, you are.” Cindy went to the door, opened it and looked back before stepping through. “Take care.”

* * * *

The silver hatchback’s tires crunched through the gravel as Cindy pulled up to the duplex she shared with her neighbor, Mrs. Baker. The older woman rose from the wooden rocking chair on her side of the porch, set her knitting aside, and stood with a quizzical look etched on her face.

“I lost my job, Mrs. B.” Cindy tossed up her hands as she climbed the steps.

“They fired you?”

“No, nothing like that.” She sat on the porch railing. “They aren’t doing well, so they had to give someone the ax. I just happened to be the last one hired, so my neck ended up on the chopping block.”

Mrs. Baker wagged her head. “You should have kept your secretarial job with the police department. Security, benefits, pension plan. I don’t know why you ever—”

“If I’d stayed with the P.D., I would’ve had to look at that ex-fiancé of mine every day and be reminded of how he...” Cindy ripped a splintered sliver of wood from the rail and flicked it to the ground. “It makes me mad just to think about it.”

“It’s been what? Four months now? Isn’t it time for you to let go of the anger?”

“Let it go? Mrs. B, are you forgetting that Eric cheated on me? With my sister, no less.”

“She was a foster sister, wasn’t she?”

Cindy slid onto her feet and turned her back to her elderly friend. “Foster, biological, it made no difference to me. Belinda and I had been together since before we started school. I loved her.”

“You still do. Even with the mountain of anger hiding it from view, you still love her. But you need to forgive her for what she did. The Lord would want that, you know.”

“Easier said than done.”

Mrs. Baker’s voice floated over Cindy’s shoulder. “Maybe you should take a look at the bright side of your situation, dearest.”

“Bright side?” Cindy made an abrupt about-face. “My fiancé got my sister pregnant, I left a job I loved because of it, and now I’ve joined the ranks of the unemployed. I wouldn’t be surprised if lightening struck my car right this red-hot minute. I’m sorry, Mrs. B, but I fail to see the silver lining in my cloudy life.”

“Eric did find the information you wanted so you could track down that brother of yours, the one you never met, didn’t he?”

Cindy sucked a quick breath. “You’re right, he did.”

Mrs. Baker lifted her chin and pressed her lips into a smug smile. “Now do you see the silver lining?”

“Mrs. B, you’re a genius.”

Mrs. Baker buffed her fingernails on her blouse. “I know.”

“Now I can afford to devote some time to finding Edward. Why not? I paid September’s rent a few days early, the utilities are up to date, and I even have enough money in the bank to last a few months, if takes awhile to find another job. Being laid off also makes me eligible to receive unemployment benefits. Oh, Mrs. Baker, you just made my day.”

In the kitchen, Cindy tossed a large manila envelope onto the bar and set about the task of putting together a pot of coffee.

Mrs. Baker perched herself on a stool and turned the envelope over. “This package is still sealed. You mean to tell me you never bothered to open it?”

“Eric gave it to me the day I found out about him and Belinda. I was upset, and for a long while I didn’t even want to touch anything he had his hands on. Afterwards, in the funk I was in, I was so stressed out I couldn’t concentrate on anything but living from day to day.”

Cindy pressed the coffee maker’s start button and joined her neighbor at the bar.

Mrs. Baker pushed the envelope over to her. “Today your funk is officially over. Open this, and let’s take the first steps in finding your big brother.”

Cindy slid a finger under the flap and pried the envelope open and slid the contents onto the countertop. “Here, you take half, and I’ll take the other. Let me know when you see something interesting.”

Mrs. Baker hunched over a stack of papers with half-glasses positioned near the tip of her nose. Cindy sat elbow to elbow with her and started examining another pile. Across the kitchen, the coffee maker bubbled and hissed, filling the air with enticing aromas while pages crinkled and swooshed with every turn.

Cindy tapped Mrs. Baker’s hand. “Listen to this. It says Mom gave birth to Edward on December thirty-first, and then threw him in a trashcan in an alley. Poor baby, how terrible.”

“Oh, my. Was he okay? Did somebody find—”

“Hold on, let me read ahead.” Cindy read the rest of the page, flipped it over and finished a short paragraph on the reverse side. Her shoulders slumped. “Unbelievable.”

“What’s unbelievable? What happened?”

“By the time he was found and brought to the hospital, Edward had frostbite and had to have the little toe on his left foot amputated.”

“Good heavens. What about his mother? I mean, your mother. Oh, you know what I mean. What happened to her?”

Cindy gathered her waist-length hair, pulled it over one shoulder and stroked the length of it a few times. “Says here she started hemorrhaging shortly after giving birth and ended up at the same hospital as Edward. Then, let’s see...” She turned the page. “Mom named him Edward Levi, gave him her last name, Giordano, and refused to identify Edward’s father, just like she did when I was born.”

“You mean you don’t know who your father is?”

“Nope. No idea.”

Mrs. Baker rubbed Cindy’s back. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“It’s okay.” Cindy willed her lips into a smile. “I may never know who my father is, but at least I have hopes of finding my brother. Let’s move on and see if we can uncover a clue as to how to find his present whereabouts, shall we?”

“I’ll pour us some coffee, and we’ll sit here until we dig up the answers you’re looking for.” Mrs. Baker went to the cabinet, pulled out two mugs and filled them. “Cream and sugar, Cindy?”

“Yes to both, Mrs. B. Oh, and there are cookies in the narrow cabinet next to the fridge if you’d like some.” Cindy rose from her stool. “I’m going to get a couple of pens and pads so we can take notes. I’ll be right back.”

Cindy found two lined yellow pads in the draw of her nightstand and started back to the kitchen. As she passed the dresser, she did a double take and paused for a look in the mirror. Would Edward have steely blue eyes and dark brown hair like her, or would they look nothing alike? With a little luck, she’d soon find out.

Irene Onorato was born and raised in Bronx, New York. Her father, a first-generation American whose parents were born in Italy, was an Army veteran who had served with the 178th combat engineers during WWII. He told numerous stories of battles, hardships, tragedies and triumphs. The glimpses he gave into the hearts of many American warriors would later become the inspiration for much of Irene’s writings.

In 1972, a few months after graduating high school, Irene met James Onorato, a soldier who had just returned from Vietnam. After dating two weeks, they married, raised three children, and are still happily married today.

Irene and James, both radiation protection technicians, retired from the nuclear power industry in 2014 and now reside in Louisiana. Readers can visit Irene’s website at ireneonorato.com, and find her on Facebook.