Fall from Grace (a short story)

Part I

            Special agent Bruce Wellington’s stomach soured as he arrived at the home of Mrs. June Howard just after noon outside Annapolis, Maryland. Even after twenty years as an agent, he never got used to delivering bad news. He sat in his car as he studied the brick colonial for a moment. Given the unique circumstances surrounding this case, it was particularly troubling for him.

            In the cool, crisp, winter weather, Wellington approached the front door, scanning the area as he did out of habit. He detected the fragrant smell of wood burning and concluded a fireplace was in use. With the nearly subzero temperatures the East Coast had been experiencing, he couldn’t blame anyone for taking advantage of a fire to provide warmth. From the time he was a Boy Scout, he loved the smell and crackle of a fire.

            Pausing to glance at the folder in his hand, which read Howard, Thomas Sullivan, Captain, USN, he steadied himself and knocked sharply on the door. To him, the sound seemed to echo and reverberate, as if he were in a canyon rather a residential neighborhood. It was more in his imagination than it was real.

             After a few minutes, an elderly woman opened the door. “Yes?” she asked in a voice that was much younger than her appearance. At seventy, June Howard still possessed the hallmarks of good looks despite her age. Her high cheekbones and flawless smile, along with her perfectly combed auburn hair, hinted at a beauty that was just beneath the surface.

            “June Howard?” Wellington asked in a southern baritone draw, as he flashed his identification and introduced himself. “I’m special agent Bruce Wellington, NCIS.”

            “Yes, I’m June Howard. How can I help you?” she asked with genuine surprise.

            “Mrs. Howard, may I come in, please?” he asked.

            “Certainly, agent Wellington,” she responded, as she opened the door and stepped aside.

            Inside, the home was conservatively, but elegantly, furnished. Pictures of a much younger, attractive June, along with her husband and family, lined the mantle above the fireplace that was crackling with life. The fire, Wellington mused to himself, was alive in a way and provided comfort as well as warmth.

            “Please, have a seat, Mr. Wellington,” June said, gesturing to an oxblood leather chair adjacent to the fireplace.

            “Thank you,” Wellington replied, as he took a seat. June sat opposite him on the end of a matching sofa.

            “Would you like some coffee or tea?” she asked.

            “That would be great, Mrs. Howard. Coffee, please. Black.”

            “Certainly. Please call me June,” she said, rose, and headed out of the room. A few moments later she returned and handed him a floral China cup atop a matching saucer.

            “How can I help you?” June asked. It was clear she had no idea why he was there. Over the years, June had spoken with many law enforcement agents about her husband, but that was nearly thirty years ago. She couldn’t imagine what the agent wanted.

            “Mrs. – I mean, June – I’m hear about your husband, Thomas,” Wellington began.

            “Really?” she asked, her voicing rising in disbelief. “I’ve spoken to so many people about him over the years. I don’t know what more I can tell you.”

            “June,” Wellington paused, bracing himself, and then looked directly into her eyes, “we found your husband.” He paused again but still maintained eye contact. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid he’s dead.”

            June sat motionless so long, agent Wellington asked, “Are you alright?”

            She blinked reality back into focus. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. I always assumed he was, especially after almost thirty years. It’s just, well, hearing it adds a certain finality, I suppose…” her voice trailed off.

            “Yes, I suppose it does,” he sympathized.

            “May I ask how he died?” she asked.

            “Exposure,” the agent replied.

            “Exposure to what?” June probed.

            “The elements,” he said. “Extreme cold.”

            “They were able to determine that after all these years?” June asked with genuine curiosity. Her husband had gone missing nearly thirty years ago, and it seemed unimaginable that he was found.

            “Well… yes, he…” Wellington hesitated sensing her confusion. “June, they found his body and performed an autopsy, which is how they know the cause of death,” Wellington stated matter-of-factly.

            “You mean his remains, right?” she asked, her brow knitted and confusion crept into her voice.

            Wellington shook his head in frustration. “No, June. They found his body… last week,” he added for clarification.

            “And he was still in good enough condition to determine the cause of death?” she asked bewildered. She was beginning to get irritated with the agent and his delivery of the news, which to her was thirty years too late. Why had it taken them so long to find Tommy? she wondered.

            “Mrs. Howard,” Wellington said in a tone one used to rouse someone from a deep sleep, “he died last week!”

            She sat, frozen, as the full weight of his words descended over her like a tidal wave. Her stomach soured, and a pang of nausea pulsed in the pit of her stomach. Than just couldn’t be possible, she told herself. After considering the news for several minutes, she blurted out, “You must be mistaken. That can’t be. Tommy disappeared nearly thirty years ago. Where could he have been...?” Her words trailed off, choked by emotion. As she considered the implication of his words, her mind raced. Questions rapid-fired in her mind, the product of an imagination that was now out of control. Tears began to run down her face, and she attempted to compose herself, but the emotional release was too great. This was what agent Wellington had dreaded. This moment – the exact moment she realized her husband, who had disappeared nearly thirty years ago without a trace, had been alive the entire time, living another life, perhaps with another woman. A barrage of questions continued to assault her mind, and the room started to spin. She shook her head to steady herself.

            Clearing her throat she managed to ask, “Where?”

            “Philadelphia,” he responded flatly. “I’m sorry,” he added, looking down and studied his coffee. He stared at it, searching, as though it would provide the right words, any words, but they didn’t come.  

            Wiping the tears from her face and collecting herself, she said, “You said he died of exposure. What does that mean? I mean, how did it happen?”

            “His body was found on the street by a local cop…”

            “On the street?” she interrupted.

“Yes, the officer thought he was sleeping or passed out. After several attempts to rouse him from what the officer thought was slumber, they called an ambulance. He was pronounced dead at the hospital.” Wellington paused. He was very familiar with the details of this case. After Howard was positively identified from fingerprints and DNA, he spent hours reading the file and case notes. He should probably have counted himself lucky to be handling such a unique case, one that gone unsolved for so long, but he didn’t. He didn’t look forward to saying what he knew would follow.

“Why would he be sleeping on the street?” she asked.

Wellington hesitated. “June,” he took a deep breath, “he was living on the streets.” He paused, took a sip of his coffee, and swallowed hard. “He was homeless, I’m afraid.”

            “What?” June cried with a look of complete exasperation. “That can’t be. We have money. Tommy comes from money and never wanted for anything. What in the world was he doing living in Philadelphia anyway? I can’t believe he was homeless? Where was he for the past thirty years, living on the streets? Is that what you’re saying? This doesn’t make any sense,” she said, anger rising in her voice, followed by weeping. “It can’t be, true” she muttered. “It just can’t be.”

            Wellington sat, staring at his coffee cup, then at the floor, and finally back at June. “Is there someone I can call for you?” he asked with genuine concern.

            June shook her head. “No, thank you.” Remarkably she collected herself, rose, and said, “I have to call my daughter, if you don’t mind.”

            “Not at all. I understand,” he replied solemnly. She left the room and he could hear her on the phone.

            “Becca? Hi, it’s mom. Could you come over, please? There’s an agent here who has some news about your dad. Yes. Uh-huh. Just come over. Okay. See you soon.”

            June returned to the living room and sat. “She’ll be here soon, only lives a few miles away,” she explained.

            Wellington just nodded.

            “Homeless,” June muttered to herself, as she shook her head. “Are you sure it’s him?” she asked in just above a whisper.

            He nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

The enormity of the news was slowly sinking in and taking its full effect. “Where have you been all these years, Tommy?” she asked to herself, as she stared off into space.

            Wellington sat motionless. He never knew what to say in these situations, so he said nothing. Glancing at June, he noted she had seemed to age in the short time he had been there. Her auburn hair seemed to have turned grayer since he arrived. A few moments later, he heard an engine’s crescendo before it was silenced, followed by the thud of a door shutting. The back door opened and shut. A moment later what looked like a younger version of June entered the living room.

            “Hey, mom,” Becca said, walking over and hugging her mother. Noticing she was visibly upset, she asked, “What is it?” and turned to face Wellington and gave him a look as though he had accosted her mother.

            June provided, “Agent Wellington, this is my oldest daughter, Rebecca, but we all call her Becca.”

            Wellington rose and extended his hand. “Ma’am,” he said with a nod.

            “Hello,” Becca responded, shaking his hand. She sat next to her mother and looked at agent Wellington intently for answers. Just as he was about to explain, June filled her daughter in on the details. As she spoke, the color drained from Becca’s face, and she backed away as though she were contagious. Abruptly, she turned to Wellington. “You must have made a mistake.” Her voice rose. “There’s no way my father was alive all this time, living away from us – and especially homeless,” she said, a tinge of vehemence in her voice. Rising she continued, “My father was an amazing man, a naval officer, a man of honor. You’re insinuating he abandoned us,” she gestured toward her mother. “What kind of man does that to his family?” she pleaded. “Not my dad! No way! You’re wrong,” she shouted.

            “Becca,” June said in a firm, parent’s tone in an effort to calm her, “we don’t know what happened. Why don’t you let the agent tell us what he knows? I’m sure there must be some explanation.” She turned to Wellington for help.

            Taking his cue, Wellington was about to explain when the front door opened. A woman who was clearly her father’s daughter, judging by the photos on the mantle, strode into the room. She was tall like her father and had a mane of blonde hair that bounced when she walked. There was a family resemblance of sorts, Wellington noted.

            “I called her on the way over,” Becca offered to her mother.

            “Agent Wellington, this is my other daughter, Cathy,” June explained.

            “Mom! What’s going on?” Cathy asked, taking charge, ever the protector, and ignored the introduction. She was used to getting her own way, Wellington observed.

            “Agent Wellington was just going to explain, Cat,” June said. “Have a seat.” June’s eyes turned to steel and reproved her daughter. This wasn’t the time for Cathy to be assertive and overbearing. Cathy joined her mother and sister on the sofa.

            Wellington faced the Howard ladies, all lined up on the sofa, staring at him. “Normally when a service member is deceased, a CACO (casualty assistance calling officer) is typically present, but due to the nature of this case, I thought it would be best if I came alone,” he prefaced. June simply nodded awaiting his explanation.

He opened the file he had carried in with him and provided the specifics of the case. Thirty years ago, Captain Thomas Howard got up and went to work at the Naval Academy, where he had attended school some twenty-six years ago. He never came home. Authorities found his vehicle in the Academy parking lot, no evidence of foul play. Security cameras last placed him in his office building. Witnesses recalled seeing him on campus prior to lunch but not afterward.

 The usual missing person procedures were followed and yielded no results. He hadn’t acted unusual prior to his disappearance, family and friends hadn’t seen him, and he didn’t make any unusual transactions. Investigators pursued the idea of an extramarital affair but ran into a brick wall. Colleagues all painted a picture of him as a staunch family man and devoted husband. No one had a bad thing to say about him.

Howard was in the twilight of his naval career, serving as the Commandant of the Naval Academy, and was due to retire in two years. During his career as a Surface Warfare Officer, or SWO as it was known in Navy parlance, he held various leadership posts including command at sea, twice, and on shore. He was an extremely distinguished and decorated naval officer. Due to Howard’s post at the Naval Academy, the case quickly made national headlines. Both the Secretary of Defense and Secretary of the Navy got involved, and NCIS felt the pressure to resolve the case quickly, which, much to their dismay, didn’t happen.

Because no body was ever found and there was no evidence of foul play, there was no reason to believe he was dead, so no life insurance was ever paid. NCIS conducted an exhaustive investigation but never turned up anything. They monitored and tracked his credit cards, bank accounts, and ATM. Investigators sifted through his service record and examined his career with a fine toothcomb for signs of espionage. Although he had top-secret clearance, he hadn’t been privy to any information that was considered valuable to a foreign source, at least not significantly enough for espionage. No transactions from that day until now.

A BOLO was issued. Over the years a few unconfirmed reports were made, but they never panned out. NCIS was at a loss to explain his disappearance. It was true people went missing all the time, and it often took years to locate them. And when they were found, they were usually dead and had been for quite some time. This case was different. Thomas Howard had completely vanished, yet had been alive the entire time. The questions that plagued investigators were why and how? How had he traveled to Philadelphia without anyone recognizing him?

            In a day of technological proliferation where everyone left a digital fingerprint, one man had managed to remain invisible and completely disappear. Thomas Howard had gone off the grid. Biometrics hadn’t detected him. Internet activity gave no indication of his presence. No one had seen him since that day at the Academy. Authorities were baffled. Until now. If, for whatever reason, he had been living on the streets that would explain why he had gone unnoticed and left no trace. Perhaps he suffered some form of amnesia, dementia, or had a stroke or seizure of some kind.

            His family was left to wonder what had become of him. At the time, his daughters were ten and eleven years old. They grew up without their father, raised by a now single mother. Fortunately, Captain Howard had been a saver and shrewd investor. The family was financially secure. However, what they had in financial security they lacked in a father and husband.

            June had to learn to be more than a mother, a challenge to be sure, especially during the girls’ teen years. Cathy was a self-starter and needed to be reeled in more than controlled. She had her father’s intellect and drive. The Ivy League welcomed her with open arms, and June sent her off gladly.

Becca, though, had turned out to be a handful. She had been the apple of her father’s eye. His absence in her life resulted in extreme rebellion, the evidence of which was still tattooed on her arm. The piercings only lasted a few years, and by the time she went to college, she had outgrown much of her antics and wild behavior.

Thomas’ brother, Richard, had walked the girls down the aisle at their weddings. Becca’s wedding was a relatively simple affair, while Cathy’s was along the lines of a Royal Wedding. Ever the outspoken one, like her father, Cathy had written a heartwarming tribute to her father and toasted him. Becca had given a simple “I love you and miss you” toast. Friends and family were moved to tears at both receptions.

Wellington concluded, “Based on our initial investigation, it appears your husband had been homeless for a long time – years, in fact, which explains why we could never find him.”

“What do you mean by that?” Cathy asked. “My father? Homeless?” She flung her arms opened for effect. “As you can see, he has a home!”

Wellington ignored the jibe. “Well, when people go missing, typically after a period of time, they run out of money. So they pop up on the radar when they use their ATM or credit card; or a security camera picks them up somewhere. Most people follow patterns of behavior that we can track. Usually we find them that way – alive, that is. In cases where someone is dead, there isn’t any activity that we can trace. Someone finds a body, and, well, that’s it. But this case,” he shook his head in bewilderment, “this case was different because it resembled the type of case where we wouldn’t expect the victim to have been alive this whole time. It was the exception to the rule, you could say.”

“I see,” Cathy said with disdain. She didn’t care for his explanation.

Wellington was at a loss for words to explain what would make someone seemingly walk away from what appeared to be a loving family and live as a homeless man. Perhaps he just snapped. Friends, family, and colleagues all described him as fun loving, happy, and mentally stable. There was nothing in his service record that led investigators to believe he was stressed or otherwise unhappy. He wasn’t on any medication, nor had he suffered any type of trauma. June had told authorities they were happily married. Sure, they had had their rough spots, she said, but what marriages didn’t? There was no conceivable explanation. Authorities were baffled.

June broke the silence. “I’d like to see him,” she announced. Both of her daughters gave a look like she must be mad.

Wellington nodded. “Sure. In fact, even though we have a DNA and dental record confirmation, we’d still prefer a visual identification,” he added.

“Are you sure, mom?” Cathy asked, turning toward her mother, eyebrows knitted. “Yes, dear. I need to see Tommy. I need to be sure.”

Becca just sat motionless as she absorbed the information. She thought about the last day she had seen her father. Her father stopped in her room and kissed her on the head before leaving for work. It was early, and normally he just peaked in on them. But he entered her room, and her sister’s, and kissed each of them on the forehead and whispered, “I love you.”

Over the intervening years, she often talked about the times she and her father would play catch in the backyard. Ever the Tomboy, she loved sports, much like her father. Every day after school she would coax him into tossing the football around. He was proud of how well she could throw and catch. She gave some of the neighborhood boys a run for their money. Becca would watch football with dad every weekend when he was home.

Deployments were especially rough for her, and the first thing she wanted to do when came home was play sports with him. Becca played little league soccer and eventually played in college. For a while, she thought she might go pro, but a torn ligament in her knee during her junior year put the kibosh on that idea.

June continued, “I’d also like to see where he spent the last thirty years of his life.”

This comment snapped Becca out of her daze, and she said, “Mom, are you serious? Why?”

“Becca,” June began, “your father has been missing for thirty years, presumably as a homeless person, which I still can’t fathom knowing him and his appreciation for the finer things in life. I need to see where he lived, how he lived. I need to figure this out for my sanity.”

Becca just nodded. Agent Wellington broke the silence. “June, I can arrange for you to identify your husband, and due to the special circumstances of this case, I can provide transportation to the area where he was found.”

June leveled her gaze at him and said, “That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome,” he responded. “Would tomorrow be a good time to come down to headquarters and identify your husband?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, nodding.  

“A CACO representative will be in touch with you in the next day or so to make funeral arrangements and go over the details of your benefits,” he offered.

She merely nodded acknowledgement. Agent Wellington exchanged goodbyes with the Howard women and left, saying he’d be in touch. He sat in his car for a few minutes, and let the frigid winter air pierce his nostrils. Why had Thomas Howard disappeared and lived as a homeless man? he wondered. Was he involved in some deep undercover operation that went south, so he abandoned his family in order to safeguard them? He shook his head. We may never know, he concluded.

Part II

            Agent Wellington picked June and her daughters up the next day and drove them to NCIS Headquarters in Washington, D.C. The drive was long and uneventful. Wellington didn’t feel the need to make conversation, nor did June and her daughters. They rode in silence as they contemplated what lay ahead. It was difficult to imagine their father living on the streets of Philadelphia, his hometown.

June wondered if the body she was going to identify was in fact her husband. DNA wasn’t infallible and mistakes happened. How many people had been wrongfully imprisoned as a result of mishandled evidence? Part of her hoped it wasn’t Tommy. Then there was still a thread of hope, tenuous, as it was after all this time. But if it was him, well, then he was really gone forever. Over the years she had hoped he was still alive and would come walking through the front door calling out, “June Bug,” his pet name for her, “I’m home.” She missed hearing him report his return, a Navy custom, and calling out to her.

As they drove, she hoped the body she saw belonged to a stranger, that somehow Tommy was still alive. Seeing him dead would mean all hope was gone, though after all this time it seemed unlikely he’d return to her, but she could always hope.

            The girls sat in the back seat, each lost in their thoughts. Growing up without a father had put strain on them in different ways. Becca took her father’s loss the hardest. She had been particularly close to her father and emulated him, particularly in sports. She kept a picture of the two of them on her nightstand. The photo was taken at the first race they had run together when she was seven. She stared out the window and thought about her father’s zany antics. He loved a good time. Whenever she remembered him, she always recalled his laugh. It was full and hearty, the kind of laugh that made others join in. He’d laugh at his own jokes. She wiped a tear from her eye.

Once over the initial shock, Cathy moved on and accepted her new ‘normal.’ Full of determination and strong-willed since birth, she didn’t let her father’s disappearance slow her down. She excelled academically and went on to become high school valedictorian. Subsequently she received a scholarship to Dartmouth. Although she didn’t show it, she had missed her father’s presence in her life. More importantly, she missed his approval. He had high expectations of himself and his daughters. Cathy possessed his intellect and wanted desperately for him to know how much she had achieved. She knew he would be proud of her. When she got into Dartmouth, she stared at the letter and cried. He would have been so proud of her, and she desperately wanted to hear him tell her he was proud. Damn you, she thought. Why did you have to leave?

They arrived at the headquarters located in the Washington Navy Yard. Agent Wellington showed his identification to the guard at the gate, informing the uniformed young man that he was escorting visitors. NCIS was located in a nondescript, red brick building inside the large compound that had at one time been the Navy’s epicenter. Once inside, Wellington led June and her daughters to the autopsy area. He excused himself for a moment, returned, and gathered them. As they proceeded en masse, June turned to her daughters, “You two wait here,” June said with a degree of finality. “I need to do this by myself.”

Surprisingly, they didn’t question her, not even Cathy.

Wellington led June through a pair of stainless steel double doors. The sterile, antiseptic smell of alcohol and formaldehyde filled her nose. An older gentleman with a white beard and mustache in a lab coat stood waiting for them.

“June,” the agent began, “this is Dr. Spiels, our medical examiner.”

A portly older gentleman, who was partially bald with bushy, gray eyebrows approached. Had it not been for his lab coat, he could have doubled as Santa Claus. He extended his hand. “Mrs. Howard, if you’ll follow me, please,” he said and led the way into the main autopsy area. She followed him with Wellington in tow. The room was brighter than June expected. Given the nature of those who occupied this room, she imagined it would be dimly lit, appropriately, she concluded.

Dr. Spiels stopped at a center table upon which laid a body draped with a white sheet. “If you’re ready, Mrs. Howard,” he said with contrition, obviously developed over years of practice.

June stared at the body and nodded. She braced herself, hoped and prayed that this had all been a grand waste of time. Dr. Spiels gently pulled the sheet back and revealed a man with long, disheveled hair and an equally long, unkempt beard. His face resembled weathered leather more than it did skin. Life on the streets and exposure to the elements had taken its toll. She studied him for a minute, as though he were a stranger. In a way, he was. Despite his impoverished appearance, she could still make out what were once the facial features of the man she fell in love with and married.

She began to sob and nodded. Dr. Spiels moved to replace the sheet. June touched his arm, stopping him. “No,” she began. “It’s okay. May I have a few minutes alone with him, please?”

“Certainly,” he said.

Wellington added in a soft, consoling tone, “June, I’ll be right outside when you’re done, okay? Take all the time you need.”

When they had gone, she turned and faced her husband. For several minutes, she stood and stared at him, trying to see the handsome Naval Academy quarterback she had been gaga over so many years ago. She reached down under the sheet and held his hand, the hand that had once born a wedding ring. “Oh, Tommy,” she began, as tears ran down her face. “I’ve missed you so much!” She placed her head on his chest and wept freely. “What happened to you, my love?” she pleaded. Lifting her head but still holding his hand, she continued, “Your girls are here, Tommy, Becca and Cat. They’re right outside. I don’t want them to see you this way. I want them to remember you the way they knew you, the way we all knew you.”

She smiled as she looked down at him. “You’d be so proud of them. Becca missed you almost as much I did. It’s been so tough on her, Tommy. She still points to her eyes and tells me that’s where she was with you – the apple of your eyes.” She paused to wipe away the tears. “Cat missed you too, of course, but you know how she is,” she said with slight laugh. “Nothing slows her down. Oh, Tommy. I wish you could see them. The both have children now. Can you believe it? Remember how you said you wanted to live long enough to see grandchildren so you could watch them torment the girls the way they tormented us?” She laughed at the recollection. “They’re wonderful children, Tommy. We did a good job raising the girls. They turned out to be pretty amazing. You have two grandsons and three granddaughters.” She stopped talking and just held his hand and stared at him for a long time. “I missed you so much over the years, my love. I kept waiting for you to walk through the door and call out to me.” She looked down at him and studied him, unable to fathom his living on the streets. “Where have you been? What happened to you?” The door opened slightly and agent Wellington stuck his head in to check on her. “Are you okay, June?” he asked in a just above a whisper.

She nodded. Turning to face him, “Yes. I’m fine. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Okay,” he responded.

“I have to go, Tommy. The girls are waiting. I have to be strong for them.” She bent forward and kissed him on the forehead as tears gushed from her eyes. “Rest in peace, my love,” she whispered, “until we meet again.”

Part III

The next day agent Wellington picked June and her daughters up and drove them to Philadelphia. They took Interstate 95 all the way to the city. Philadelphia was a bustling town full of historic landmarks. Not only was it the birthplace of our nation, it was also the birthplace of Thomas Howard. He grew up in Center City and had attended Central High School, followed by the Naval Academy. His father was an attorney, who later worked in the Public Defender’s Office, and his mother had been a nurse until he and his brother came along.

Wellington took the exit for Route 76, better known as the Expressway. He got off and headed down Broad Street. While he drove, he explained that a big city like Philadelphia had its share of homeless people. At Vine Street, he turned right and headed toward 16^th Street. Once there, he switched on the SUV’s blue and red grill lights and double-parked. Looking over at June, he said, “We’re here.”

June studied the scenery for a moment. It wasn’t what she expected. She could see City Hall straight ahead and Hahnemann Hospital on the corner. “Okay,” she said at last. She and her daughters exited the vehicle. The city was alive and brimming with activity. Cars, trucks, and buses screeched by in all directions. Wellington walked around the front of his vehicle and led the way. As they walked the short distance, June and her daughters were engulfed by the hustle and bustle that epitomized city life, which was filled with exhaust fumes. Just down from the hospital in a wooded area lied a homeless camp.

Wellington stopped short of the camp and motioned toward it. “This is one of many homeless camps in the city,” he explained. He indicated the area where her husband had been found, pointing to an area along a concrete wall. “Police found your husband next to that wall,” he said.  June simply nodded. She was befuddled by all of this, and words failed her. She noticed several people wandering in the area. She assumed they were homeless by their destitute appearance, but in such a big city, who knew?

June and her daughters stared in silence at the area along the wall that was occupied by a few inhabitants. They lay motionless under makeshift blankets. It was beyond difficult to imagine the man they had known sleeping in such a place. Wellington broke the silence. “June, I don’t think we should go in there. I doubt anyone is dangerous, but it’s wise to stay here,” he said.

June and Becca nodded. Cathy simply said, “Yeah.”

He waited several minutes and then announced, “If you’ve seen enough, I’ve arranged to meet with the police officer that discovered your husband.” This was a surprise to June and her daughters. Becca and Cathy exchanged glances, and June responded, “That’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

As they walked back to the SUV, June observed it was warm in the city that day. Wellington swung out into traffic and headed to 21^st Street to the 9^th District Station. Although it was a short drive, Cathy filled the time talking. “How many homeless people live there?” she asked Wellington.

“I’m not sure, Cathy,” he responded. “The police will be able to give us more information.”

“I just can’t imagine in our day and age, with all the wealth we have in this country that we still have so many people living on the streets,” she continued.

Wellington remained silent as they approached the police building. He parked in a reserved space for visitors around back. Everyone exited the vehicle and followed Wellington inside. He approached the front desk and asked for Officer Barnes. A few minutes later, a tall, athletic looking Hispanic man emerged from the recess of offices. The officer behind the desk motioned to Wellington. Barnes introduced himself, and Wellington introduced June and her daughters.

“Please, follow me,” Barnes stated and let the way down the hall to what appeared to be an interrogation room. Gesturing with his hand, he invited them to sit and asked if they wanted coffee. They all declined. Barnes got right to business.

“Mrs. Howard,” Barnes began, “I knew your husband. That is, during my time on the force I encountered him several times.” June nodded. “He was a good guy, never gave me, or any of the other officers, any trouble.”

“Why would anyone give you trouble?” Cathy asked.

“There are times when we have to rouse homeless people and move them out of certain areas. These people don’t have anywhere to go, and some get pretty attached to their location. It’s all they have. If they resist, well, we have to arrest them. But your husband never argued with me – that was my beat for a while. He was articulate, well-spoken; really seemed out of place, if you know what I mean.”

“He was,” June said, almost to herself. “He was.” Becca and Cathy nodded at her proclamation.

Wellington took over the conversation. Turning to June and her daughters he asked, “Is there something specific you’d like to know that Officer Barnes could provide?”

Clearing her throat, June asked, “Do you know why he was here?” she asked. Leaning forward, she continued, “Why was he homeless? Did he ever say what brought him here?”

Officer Barnes shook his head. “I’m sorry, no. My interactions weren’t that personal, I’m afraid. He didn’t give us any trouble and seemed like a good guy – carried himself well, you know, chest out, shoulders back, which was a little odd for someone in his circumstances. Like I said, he didn’t seem like he belonged there. If not for his disheveled appearance, he was out of place.”

Cathy chimed in, “Did he seem like he knew who he was?”

The question took Barnes off guard. He cocked his head to the side and said, “What do you mean?”

“I mean did he seem like he was with it, like he knew where he was? Did he fully understand his predicament?”

“As far as I could tell, yes. I never smelled any alcohol on him, and he always looked me in the eye. He was very aware of his surroundings,” Barnes answered. “Like I said, he looked the part, but he didn’t seem like he belonged there, if you know what I mean.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us about him, Officer Wellington?” Becca asked her voice desperate for answers.

“I’m afraid not,” Barnes said. “I only encountered him a handful of times during my beat. I remembered him because he always seemed out of place, like he didn’t belong living on the streets.” He paused and looked at June. “I’m very sorry for you loss,” he said. He exchanged glances with Wellington, who nodded. “If you have no further questions, I need to get back to work,” he said as he stood.

June rose, followed by her daughters. She extended her hand, “Thank you, Officer Barnes. I appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule to talk with us. You’ve been a big help and a great comfort. I feel a little closer to him now that I’ve spoken to you.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Barnes said. He nodded in the direction of Becca and Cathy before exiting. Wellington and the Howard women followed him. In the lobby of the police station, agent Wellington informed June, Becca, and Cathy that there next stop was a homeless shelter her husband frequented.

The drive to the Brotherhood Mission, a homeless shelter for men, only took a few minutes. Inside, they were greeted by a pleasant young woman who introduced herself as Jan McCord, the assistant director. Jan led the way to her office, which was a small room in the back of what resembled a military open berthing area. Cots were lined up along each side of the walls with only a foot or so between them. The weather was fairly nice, so the beds were empty, Jan had explained. The reality of being homeless, of not having a place to call one’s own, was sobering and disconcerting to June.

They were cramped in the small office, but no one seemed to mind. Wellington had briefed Jan ahead of time, so once seated Jan began, “Mrs. Howard, let me begin by telling you how sorry I am to hear about Sully.”

“Sully?” June asked quizzically.

“Yes, that’s what we all called him,” Jan supplied. A slight smile creased June’s face at her husband’s use of his middle name. Oh, Tommy, she thought, you were always the clever one.

“I see,” June replied. “His middle name was Sullivan, so I guess that makes sense,” she explained with a smile.

“Oh,” was all that Jan could manage. She continued, “We here at the Mission were very sad to hear about his loss. He was a decent person.”

“Was he here much?” Cathy asked, taking the lead.

“Yes,” Jan replied. “He was something of a regular, for meals mostly. We provide a free meal each day and a place to sleep at night, but we only have so many beds. When the weather gets cold, the shelters fill up quickly. We hate to turn people away, but by law there’s only so many people we can take.”

“Did he ever discuss how he came to be homeless?” June asked.

Jan nodded. “A little, as I recall. I try to get to know the regulars, learn their story. What people don’t realize is the majority of homeless people once had normal lives. Unfortunately, due to untoward circumstances they ended up on the street. It could happen to anyone,” she said, a hint of melancholy in her voice.

“What was his story?” Becca probed.

“I remember him saying he made a mistake,” Jan responded.

“A mistake?” June asked. “Did he say what the mistake was?”

“No,” she said shaking her head. “I asked him on a few different occasions, and all he ever said was he made a mistake. I always thought he was referring to something financial.”

“Why did you think that?” June asked.

“He was very articulate. I got the impression he had a college education of some sort, so considering he was homeless and the recent economic downturn, it seemed like a logical conclusion. Do you know what mistake he was referring to?” she asked.

“No,” June answered. “But I wish I did.”

After a long pause, Jan said, “I wish I could tell you more. Like I said, I try to get to know some of regulars, but there’s only so much they tell anyone. For what it’s worth, I can tell you Sully was a good guy. He’d give up his bed for another and did several times during the time I’ve been here. Again, I’m sorry for your loss,” she offered.

“Thank you, Jan,” June said. “I appreciate your information.” Taking their cue, they rose and passed through the rows of neatly made cots. June studied them as she walked, imagining her husband spending the night in such a place. For a moment, she could him curled up on one of the cots. She blinked and the image was gone. As they arrived at the front door, June stopped abruptly. She turned to Jan and said, “I’d like to make a donation. Can I do that? Can I give you a check?”

Taken aback, Jan stammered, “Well… I… yes, but you don’t – ”

“No, I insist,” June cut her off as she retrieved her checkbook from her purse.

“Mom,” Cathy started to protest, but June reproved her with a piercing stare. They all stood in silence while June filled out her check. She tore it off and handed it to Jan, whose eyes widened as she read it.

“Mrs. Howard,” she began to protest.

“Don’t say another word, dear,” June commanded. “Call it the Sully memorial fund,” she said with a genuine smile.

“Thank you,” Jan said. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re quite welcome, dear,” she said tapping her forearm. “Put it to good use.”

“I will,” she offered. “I will.”

June turned and followed Wellington and her daughters outside and got into the SUV. The way back was filled with deafening silence. June, Becca, and Cathy sat motionless, lost in their own thoughts, as they tried to piece together the string of events that had led their father to a life on the streets.

Part IV

A week later, on a crisp, overcast morning, the bugler played Taps, the honor guard rendered a twenty-one-gun salute, and the flag of our nation was presented to June Howard as Captain Thomas Sullivan Howard, United States Navy was buried with full honors at Arlington National Cemetery. Friends, family, and former shipmates gathered to mourn the strange loss of Thomas Howard. After the funeral, June’s house was overrun with a myriad of guests, all of whom went out of their way to accommodate and console her and her family.

The day after the funeral an envelope arrived by messenger. It was from their attorney’s office. June thought it was something that pertained to her husband’s will. She opened the large envelope, which contained a smaller envelope addressed to her in her husband’s handwriting. It read: Deliver to June Howard upon my death. This seemed a bit strange to her. Obviously it wasn’t anything to do with his will. She took the envelope and sat in the kitchen, where she had fixed herself some tea. The girls were due to come over and take her to lunch to take her mind off the events of the past few weeks.

June opened the envelope. It contained a handwritten letter from Tommy.

My Dearest June:

If you’re reading this, it means I’ve left this world and gone to the one that awaits us all. It pains me to have to write what follows, but you deserve to know the truth. Please know, my darling, how very much I love you and the girls! When I married you, I strove to be a good husband. I fell in love with you the first time we met. Your love meant the world to me, and I wanted to be worthy of it. And when the girls came along, I wanted to be a good father, the standard by whom they would judge all men. June smiled at this, as she recalled many conversations during which he uttered that sentiment.

But I failed, June. I failed you, and I failed the girls. I failed as a husband and as a father. I succumbed to temptation. I gave into desire one time. Her name and who she was isn’t important. I felt so terrible, so riddled with guilt that I couldn’t look at you the same way. I betrayed you, June, and I betrayed your love. I’m so very sorry. I always thought you deserved better than me. The girls deserved a better father. I tried to move past it, June, to forgive myself, but I couldn’t. I hated myself more and more every day. I couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror. My whole life I always thought I knew myself and knew who I was, but I suppose none of us ever really knows until we’re tested. I was tested, June, and I failed miserably. This wasn’t who I was, or was it? I couldn’t make sense of it, of me, of who I was.

June began to cry. Her hands shook as she held the letter, but she continued reading.

I didn’t deserve the life I was living. I was no longer worthy of your love, nor was I worthy to be called ‘dad’ by the girls. I deserved judgment and punishment, and that’s what I finally gave myself. I knew I had to suffer for my sin. I said goodbye to you and the girls on that Friday morning knowing I’d never return. I had to atone for my mistake. June recalled that day and how he had hugged her longer than usual when he said goodbye. Her crying transformed into weeping. “Oh, Tommy,” she wailed, “I forgive you! I forgive you! You didn’t need to leave.”

She wiped the tears from her eyes and continued. I had given this matter some thought. The guilt ate away at my soul. It tore me apart in a way I cannot describe. My actions were a permanent stain on my life that couldn’t be eradicated. I needed to suffer, to know hardship, to experience a life the opposite of what I had. This was going to be my punishment, my cross, and my offering to God. I only pray that He, you, and the girls can forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself. I tried to forgive myself, June, but I couldn’t. For a while, I attempted to move on and bury it deep in my soul, but it always managed to rise to the surface.

It wasn’t my actions that were so unbearable; it was accepting the reality of my true identity. I had been living a lie, like many of us do, believing I was someone I wasn’t. I wasn’t ‘that guy.’ I was a good husband and father, who would never want to be with another woman. But one day that reality was shattered. I became attracted to another woman, and she to me. I found myself thinking about and wanting to be with her. Why, I asked myself. And then I began to question my identity and character. This wasn’t who I was, or was it? The more involved I became, the more I questioned myself. I tried to chalk it up to being human, but I couldn’t accept that. I wanted to turn it off and make it all go away, but I couldn’t. There was more to it than that. And that’s when I realized who I really was. I wasn’t the man I believed I was. I wasn’t the man you fell in love with and married. I wasn’t the man who deserved the privilege of children. For that, I apologize and beg your forgiveness. I’m sure you would forgive me, June, but I cannot forgive myself.

June placed the letter on the table and covered her eyes with her hands, as she wept uncontrollably. She doubled over in the chair and bawled. “Tommy,” she said. “Oh, Tommy, no, no, no….” her voice trailed off, and she sobbed. After a while, she sat up and finished the letter.

I love you, June! I loved you from our first date. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to marry you. We had an amazing life together. I don’t regret a single day of being married to you other than my failure. I only wish I could have been stronger for you and the girls. I’m sorry, June. I’m so very sorry that I wasn’t good enough for you. Please forgive me!

                                                            Love always,

                                                            Tommy

            June wept so loud her voice was barely audible. “I forgive you, Tommy. I forgive you.” She sat for an hour and reread the letter several times and wept. Her tea remained untouched and cold. When her daughters arrived, she was still sitting in the chair with the letter in her hand. She looked up at them with bloodshot eyes from crying and offered them the letter without explanation.

            They stood side by side and read it together. Becca was speechless and began to cry. Cathy took a different direction and expressed her ire. “Are you serious? Is this for real? Why would he do something like that?” she asked to no one in particular. Her voice echoed throughout the house. June was emotionally spent and didn’t respond. She just sat and stared. Becca began to cry harder as the full implication of her father’s words and actions sank in.

            Cathy continued her diatribe. “This is some kind of joke, right? Something dad planned years ago and forgot about?” She looked to her sister for reassurance. This couldn’t be real. Becca turned to her, hugged her tightly, and began to sob, “Daddy!!! Oh, daddy!!!” Cathy joined her, and they sobbed together.

            At last, June broke the silence. “Girls, I knew your father a long time before you were born. While I don’t condone what he did, I do understand, sort of, why he did it.”

            “Why?” they asked in unison.

            “Your father was a man of honor, whose parents set the bar pretty high. His mother was a devout Christian, who got on her soapbox about everything from swearing to drinking. I guess some of it rubbed on your father. He wasn’t perfect, Lord knows, but he was a good man.” She began to choke up and cleared her throat. “You two meant the world to him. He rarely said anything to me about it, but he’d beat himself up when he lost his patience with you two.”

            Cathy and Becca both smiled, recalling the times their father would get angry over something they did, which usually involved fighting with each other. He’d always apologize later and tell them he was a ‘bad daddy’ for getting angry.

            “As much as your dad loved to talk, he was a very private man, who didn’t share his feelings with anyone, even me. Oh, sometimes he did, but he was always guarded. There’s no way he’d ever tell me about something like this,” she said, motioning to the letter. “He might have wanted to, but he would have been afraid I’d judge him and blame him.” Taking a deep breath and shaking her head in disbelief, she added, “And he just couldn’t live with that.”

A few hours later, after she and the girls talked about the letter, their marriage, and cried some more, June retrieved a business card from her purse and dialed the number listed. “Agent Wellington? This is June Howard. I have something that might interest you.”

            Later that afternoon, agent Wellington arrived. Becca and Cathy were sitting with their mother in the kitchen. Their eyes were red from crying. June rose and handed him the letter without saying anything. As he read it, he felt a lump form in his throat. When he finished, he wiped the tears from his eyes. He looked at June, his expression empty, hollow, full of disbelief and bewilderment much like when a child learns the truth about Santa Claus. All he could manage to say was, “He loved you very much.”

            June nodded in affirmation. “He did indeed,” she said. “He did indeed.”