Charles Sheehan-Miles

Home | Media/Speaking Events | Order | Blog | About Charles | Activism | MySpace | Subscribe

Republic: Chapter Four

Republic

Charles Sheehan-Miles

Chapter Four

Order

Back to Table of Contents

Chapter Four
May 27



“Kenny, it’s time to go,” Murphy called. He’d had his coffee and his shower, but the horror of a nightmare the night before still clung to him, though he could no longer recall the specifics. Dreams featuring Martha—sometimes real freak-show dreams—were sometimes a staple in his life. The last couple years, they’d come even more frequently than the sometimes bizarre dreams he still occasionally had about Iraq.

Kenny didn’t answer his call. Murphy stood, balancing on a cane, and walked to Kenny’s room. The boy had crawled under the sturdy oak bed Murphy had built for Valerie twenty-five years ago. He leaned over just far enough to see Kenny’s face.

“Come on, kiddo. It’s time to get going to school.”

Kenny shook his head. “Why do I have to go? I want to stay home!”

The squeal in Kenny’s voice was like fingernails scraping across a chalkboard. Again.

“We’ve been through this a hundred times, Kenny. Come on.”

“No. I’m not coming out.”

“Kenny. We’ve both got things to do, and I have to get you to school. I’m counting to three. One. Two. Three.”

“No! Not coming out!”

Damn it. Murphy reached under the bed and grabbed the boy’s arm. He pulled, hard, and Kenny slid out from under the bed.

“Ow!” he shouted, “You hurt me!”

“Kenny, come on.”

“Mean Daddy. I’m not doing anything with you!” Kenny tried to twist away. Murphy tightened his grip on his wrist and dragged him into the living room.

“Kenny is this for you, or is it for me?”

“You just want to hurt me.”

Murphy stopped. Breathe. Calm down.

“Kenny, I do not want to hurt you.”

Kenny screwed up his face. “Daddy’s fault!” he shouted.

Murphy looked his son in the eye, bending so there were about three inches between them. “You’re right. It’s my fault. I want to hurt you. I practice every night, thinking up new ways to torture you.”

Kenny backpedaled. “No you don’t. That’s silly.”

He finally settled down for breakfast while Murphy began making his lunch.

Kenny had been diagnosed with cerebral adrenoleukodystrophy, ALD, about eighteen months after Martha died. The disease caused fatty-acid chains to build up in his nervous system, triggering an immune response that was slowly destroying his nerve tissue. It had been getting progressively worse, and the only treatment—administering oil composed of saturated fats—only helped if it was introduced before the onset of symptoms. It was too late for Kenny. As the long chains of fatty acids built up in his nervous system and adrenal glands, he slowly deteriorated, had more and more seizures, and one day they would kill him.

A daily exercise regimen, combined with vitamins and drugs to control seizures, acted together to hold back the deterioration and hopefully prolong his life. Maybe one day there would even be a real treatment, or a cure. A good number of studies were underway, but Murphy knew of none that were making any real progress.

No work for Murphy today, but he got dressed and prepared regardless. His closet was still organized the way Martha had set it up years before, his casual and work clothes within easy reach, the dress uniforms and suits high to the left. The spare leg, socks and gel padding occupied a box below the suits. Her side of the closet stood empty, even after three years; he had given the clothes to the Amvets Thrift Shop in Harpers Ferry, but he couldn’t bring himself to hang anything there.

Murphy carefully changed the sock and padding on the stump of his left leg, then dressed in a coal grey suit, a gift from Martha on their twentieth anniversary. After he dropped Kenny off at school he would drive to Charleston—a three-hour trip since they built the new 340 Extension—to see Major General Harris Peak. Samira would pick Kenny up from school. They still had heard nothing about the whereabouts of Ahmed and Hayder, though Valerie had promised him the night before that Congressman Clark would look into it.

It had been well into the evening before he’d finally reached her. He was well aware that only on the rarest occasions did she have business across the river at the Pentagon, all the same, for hours he’d dialed her office and cell phone numbers trying to get through, in a half-panicked daze. He’d never really gotten over the loss of his wife, and he knew it. To lose one of his children—that would be unbearable.

With any luck, General Peak would be able to get the battalion activated to help deal with the emergency in Arlington, Virginia. If nothing else, activation would help some of the guys with immediate income needs while they tried to figure out what to do. And ladies, he thought. Even after five years, he couldn’t get his mind around the idea of having women in tank companies. Of course, he still only had to deal with one.

It’d be easier if Karen Greenfield were ugly. Then at least half his officers wouldn’t be chasing after her. But she wasn’t, and rumor had it every captain and lieutenant in the battalion had hit on her at least once since she’d joined the unit. It was the same at the Saturn Plant. Had been the same, anyway. So far as he knew, she’d never dated anyone local. He knew the scuttlebutt—the managers at Saturn said she was a lesbian. Sounded like a case of sour grapes to Murphy. Dressed, he went back downstairs.

Kenny was sitting at the oak kitchen table. An angry red handprint on his wrist marked the spot where Murphy had yanked on his arm to pull him out from under the bed. Murphy swallowed, hard. He had never done anything like that when Valerie was a kid. He’d never done that before Martha died. A wave of shame and sadness washed over him, and for just a moment, he wished he could just sit down and quit.

He sighed and looked at his son again, eating his breakfast and reading a book about Mars exploration. Time for Kenny to go to school, and for Murphy to go, hat in hand, begging. There would be time to sit when Kenny was taken care of.

At an outside table overlooking the sluggish Kanawha River, swollen with mud from last week’s rain, Major General Harris Peak, Commander of West Virginia’s National Guard, sat across from Murphy. The sky was clear and blue, wispy clouds high above, and a light breeze carried the smell of blooming flowers to them from the landscaped garden next to the river. They were eating at one of the several outdoor restaurants overlooking the plaza in downtown Charleston.

“Look, Ken, I understand what you’re saying. I just don’t think there’s much we can do. The Army’s already decided what units to activate. They don’t need tank battalions for this. It’s all rescue and security work. The only Army force deployed right now is an infantry battalion out of Fort Meade, and the DC National Guard.” A slight breeze from the river ruffled Peak’s steel-grey hair.

Murphy leaned forward as he spoke, his hands flat on the table.
     “General, this could make all the difference in the world to the people in Highview—the folks in my battalion. Almost every last one of them lost their jobs, sir. They’ve got no means of support. You understand what this will do to our retention, our combat readiness? I won’t have fifty percent of those folks in eight weeks; everyone will be leaving town to find jobs.”

“I know, Ken, but the Guard isn’t a jobs program. Besides, where do you think they’re going to go? Where the hell are they going to find jobs? It’s no better in Charleston. It’s no better anywhere, from what I can see. The whole damn economy is tanking. Look, I promise you if anything comes up anywhere in the world that looks like it will require activating Guard units, I’ll get your name up there. But more than that I can’t do.”

 “Thank you, sir.”

It was as much as he could expect, he supposed. Not enough. He took a sip of his coffee and sat back, eyes scanning the river.

“All right, enough of this,” said the General, his eyes glancing at the wedding ring on Murphy’s left hand. “How is your family? Isn’t your daughter working up on the Hill now?”

“She is, sir. She’s working for Al Clark now. It took a while, but I finally got a hold of her last night. All the phone lines into DC were tied up all day yesterday. They’re going pretty crazy with the bombing.”

“I imagine. Al Clark—he’s a democrat? Well, I can’t hold that against her; that is great, just great. Look, we’ll talk again in a couple weeks, all right?”

“Yes, sir,” Murphy said.

Peak wiped his face with his napkin and placed it on his plate, then stood. “Well, I’ve got a one o’clock meeting. Keep me informed, Murphy. I want to know right away if people from your unit do start to leave town.”

Peak marched off.

Murphy frowned. He’d known General Peak twenty years, and had hoped he would be more helpful. Not this time.

Murphy settled with the waitress, then went back to his car. What was he going to do? It had been twenty years since he’d conducted a job search.

The drive back to Highview was slow, and Murphy found himself thinking in circles, frustrated, and especially afraid for his son.

Two hours into the drive, the phone rang, interrupting his thoughts

“Mr. Murphy, this is Sarah Hughes at Highview Country Day School.” Sarah was the administrator at his son’s school.

“Hi, ma’am. What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Murphy, Kenny seems to be having trouble—I think you need to get here as soon as you can.” Her voice shook.

 “What’s the problem, Ms. Hughes?” Murphy asked, unable to suppress the alarm in his tone.

“Well, he was holding his arm and wrist and screaming. It was—terrifying. I think they were muscle spasms. He’s in the nurse’s office right now, lying down, but he seems to be in a lot of pain.”

Murphy interrupted. “Ms. Hughes, I am on my way, but it will take me an hour to get back, and that’s if I speed all the way. I need you to call an ambulance and get him to the hospital right now. Right this instant. The nurse has her instructions already; she’s to give him his autoinjector right away, ma’am, you understand? Right now. Then call 911 and get him to the hospital. I’ll meet him there. This could be very serious, even life threatening.”

Murphy disconnected the phone and accelerated.

An hour later, Murphy slammed the door of his car and raced for the emergency room, long familiar with the way there. The first time had been for Martha.

“Excuse me, Miss. My name is Ken Murphy. My son was brought here from school.”

The woman at the desk looked up at him. Her eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles under them.

“Hold on just a moment, Mr. Murphy; one of the nurses will be right with you.”

Five minutes later he stood next to his son. Kenny was wearing an oxygen mask, but at least there was no respirator this time. His eyes were closed. Attached wires and electrodes led to computers that monitored his heart rate, blood pressure, and breathing.

Murphy sat down in the chair next to the bed and touched his son’s hand. He was grateful they hadn’t had to use the respirator this time. Last time, Kenny had awakened with the tubes down his throat and panicked until Murphy could calm him down.

“We’ve given him an anesthetic to help him sleep,” said the doctor, a young man with already thinning black hair. “In the short term, there’s not much we can do.”

“Understand,” Murphy said. “At least he’s comfortable now.”

The doctor looked a bit hopeless. Murphy was familiar with the routine.

“Colonel Murphy.”

Murphy looked up. One of the nurses.

“Can you come to the desk for a moment, sir. We’ve got a small problem.”

“Sure.” He followed her out to the desk.

“Sir, I don’t know how to approach you with this—we got a call from the front office. They indicated your insurance coverage has been cancelled as of yesterday and that they will refuse to pay any claims.”

Murphy felt a sharp pain in his stomach. “That can’t be right. I’ve been laid off, but my insurance is still good, at least through the end of the month. I’ll call them.”

“Don’t worry about your son, sir. We’ll treat him, of course, no matter what. But the front office is going to insist you pay, if the insurance won’t.”

“Can I use your phone?”

Thirty minutes later, Murphy was red-faced and frustrated. The number on his insurance card led to a computer system that seemed to go around in circles. None of the choices led to a human being, but he received the same answer from the computer, over and over again: his coverage had been cancelled.

One of the nurses approached. “Mr. Murphy?”

“Yes?”

“Your son is awake sir, if you want to come see him.”

Murphy hung up and hurried to the room. He’d deal with the insurance later.

Kenny lay in the bed, his face pale.

“Daddy!”

He smiled as he looked at his father and his eyes crossed, the left eye turning inward. Murphy swallowed his anxiety. The crossed eyes were new, and a very bad sign. The disease was progressing. He sat next to his son and smiled, trying to hide his distress.

“Hey, little man. You doing ok?”

“Yes. I’m feeling better now. When I was at school my arm hurt really bad.”

 It was the same arm Murphy had grabbed that morning. “I know. Does it still hurt now?”

“Just a little. Am I going to have to stay in the hospital long this time?”

“I don’t think so.”

“When we leave here, can we go to the toy store?”

Murphy smiled. “Sure. Maybe we can pick out a new train for your set. Would you like that?”

“Yeah, Daddy.”

They sat for a few minutes, and then Kenny said, “Daddy, will you read me a book?”

Murphy wiped his eyes, then answered his son. “Sure, little guy. Whatever you want.”

Related entries

• Worth Checking Out
• NAS finally catches up with 17 years ago
• Republic Podcast conclusion
• Wrong Door Drug Raid
• Times Under Fire for Vets article