Wopple! Wopple! Wopple! Wopple!
The irritating sound of an errant wheel lurched from the plastic magazine cart and echoed against the hall of the veterans’ hospital.
The man took a deep breath from pushing the cart, paused in front of Room 337 and with a grin, tenderly knocked on the door.
“Good morning. Magazine Man!” He entered without acknowledgment
The patient lay on the bed, shrunken from his malady. As a Marine gunnery sergeant, he had once been an imposing figure — 6-foot-2, a harden gladiator of 190 pounds. But now, he was struggling to survive, weighing only 143 pounds. Pancreatic cancer had consumed his body, as if a hose had been inserted into him and sucked half the air from his frame.
“You’re new,” wheezed the patient.
“You’re right,” said the Magazine Man with a beaming smile. “Ms. Logan’s on vacation. I’m helping out.”
The “Gunney” gazed at the black man before him. He was a broad shouldered, squatty guy with a beefy face and a permanent smile that caused his eyes to squint. Gray tinted the tips of his tight afro, giving him the appearance of a halo.
“You know why I figured you were new?” Gunney asked. “Because I told the woman I didn’t want to see her face in here again, or I was going to sling my bedpan at her.”
The smile never left the face of the Magazine Man. “Now, that wasn’t nice. But I bet she never visited you again. My name is Winters.”
“You’re right. She left me in peace. I don’t want visitors. I don’t need visitors. I don’t like visitors. They’ve given me no more than a week to live. One of the few benefits of dying is I don’t have to be nice to anyone — including you.”
The Magazine Man nodded. “No, you don’t. But at least you ought to enjoy your last days. I just thought a magazine or two might brighten your remaining times.”
“I want nothing,” the Gunney said defiantly.
Winters flipped through the various magazines on his cart. “Here. I bet you’d like this — Sports Illustrated. It’s about the baseball division playoffs. I bet you played baseball in your younger days. Right?”
The guess caught Gunney off guard. “Yeah, I did. How did you know?”
Winters shrugged in a deprecating manner. “I figured you were an athlete in school. Played either football, baseball or basketball.”
“I played football and baseball.” Gunney’s eyes drifted as he reminisced about those years. Then the eyes focused. “Got drafted in ’69 by the Chicago Cubs. But I also got drafted by a higher authority — Uncle Sam. So I joined the Corps and ended up in ’Nam.”
“Man, tough break.”
“No, not really. I was good at baseball, but never good enough to make it to the Majors. War has a way of making you examine what’s important in your life. I decided to stay with the Corps.”
“But you still enjoy baseball?”
Gunny shifted in the bed as best he could, released a painful sigh. “Hell, yeah. I appreciate the craft. It’s a subtle game. When I was stationed in Lejeune, the family and I used to drive over to Durham and watch the Bulls play. Those were some good times. Wow.
“When you’re young, you’re so focused on your career, not your family. But those moments with my wife and child are more important now than my medals and my achievements.”
Winters approached Gunny, laying the magazine on his emaciated chest. “Then enjoy it. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Before Gunny could refuse, Winters was gone.
Gunny shook his head, flipped through the pages of the magazine, and said to himself, “I should have asked for the swimsuit edition.”
• DAY TWO:
“Good morning. Magazine Man!”
Gunney was declining, but still ornery enough to reply. “I thought I told you that I didn’t want you or anyone else to come in here.”
The smile never left Winters’ face. “Sorry, Gunney, but I had to pick up the magazine I left with you. Another patient down the hall would like to have it.”
Gunney weakly grabbed the control on the bed next to his thigh. Pressing a button, he raised the bed to a 45-degree angle. “You know, you remind me of a corporal I had in ’Nam. His name was Hivers. It didn’t matter what happened, he always had this goofy smile. I’d chew his butt out over an infraction and he would stand there, with that smile, and thank me for making him a better man.”
“What happened to him?”
“He transferred out of my unit. I heard he died in a helicopter accident.” Gunney pointed to a magazine on the table next to the bed. “There’s your Sports Illustrated.”
“Oh, good.” Winters took the magazine and placed it on his cart. “Gunney. Yesterday, you mentioned that you had a family. Went to the Bulls games together, remember? What happened to them?”
“The Marines have a saying, ‘If they wanted you to have a wife, they would have issued you one.’ Foolishly, I got married and had a wife and child — a girl. It was OK for awhile, but I had to decide which was more important — the Corps or the family. I chose the Corps.”
“Where are they now?”
“The divorce was no fault. Hell, I didn’t have any money the wife could grab. Last I heard, my ex moved up to Chicago. She died three years ago from a stroke. Amazing! I out lived her. I have no clue where my daughter is.”
“How did you like being a dad?”
He chuckled weakly. “It scared the crap out of me. Battle didn’t bother me. You point the weapon, pull the trigger, and move on. I couldn’t tell you the number of people I’ve wasted. You try not to remember.
“But to bring another life into the world? Whew. It’s a different responsibility. I can still see her now, when she learned to walk, staggering around liking a drunken Marine, trying to get her bearings, then plopping down on her cute little rump wrapped in Pampers. Those times when I read her bedtime stories, like ‘Green Eggs and Ham.’ Or washing her in the tub and playing peek-a-boo behind the shower curtains.” He paused, nodding, reliving the moments. “It was a different feeling that I simply can’t describe.”
“Why didn’t you stay in touch with her?”
“Hell, I don’t know. I guess I was too tough. I was a Marine sergeant. You never admit you’re wrong.” He paused, trying to gather strength to continue. “Winters, when I look at my regrets in life, it’s not about what I did. It’s about what I didn’t do.”
Winters nodded, confirming Gunney’s last statement. “Gunney, my job is to help you make your last days better. Be it magazines or finding a daughter. Would you like to see her before you pass on?”
“Bull. You’re full of it. Do you think you can find her in next few hours?’
“No. But I can try.”
• DAY THREE:
“Good morning. Magazine Man!”
Gunney shook his head, barely an inch to each side in disbelief. If he could have shouted, the bellows would have rattled the halls. “Do you understand English? I told you not to come back.”
The grin and confidence remained with the Magazine Man. “No. I had an assignment. To find your daughter. She lives in Wisconsin. Is married in fact.”
“You’re kidding,” Gunney said nervously.
“Nope.” He reached into his pocket and handed Gunney a slip of paper. “Here’s her telephone number. Give her a call.”
“No. No. No. No. You’re out of line.”
“Gunney, you said you wanted to see her before you passed on.”
“No, I never said that.” Gunney licked his lips. They were getting dry now. “How did you find her so fast?”
There was that grin. “The two best intelligence networks are the medical and banking communities. People get sick and people have to move money. It took a couple of hours, but I found her.”
Winters approached the bed and placed his hand on Gunney’s shoulder. “Remember what you said about regrets? Allow her to see her father.”
“No!”
“I’m not asking this for you. You’ll be gone soon. I’m asking you to do this for her. She needs a positive memory of her father.”
Gunney raised the slip of paper to his eyes and read the telephone number. “I —.” Winters was gone. He looked at the telephone on the bedside table. Said to himself, “Why did I ever let him in my room?”
He studied the number, wondering what kind of father he would decide to be. With a painful exhale, he reached for the telephone.
• DAY FOUR:
The early morning hours were rough. The pain increased and his demanding cries brought in the night nurse. She checked his vitals and summoned the doctor on staff.
Fifteen minutes later the doctor arrived and examined Gunney’s chart. “Jesus! Has anyone been giving him morphine?”
“Doctor, this one’s a hard case. He’s been refusing most of our medications. We gave him a morphine pump and he won’t use it.”
“Shoot him up,” the doctor ordered. “He doesn’t have long left. At least give him a comfortable passing.”
The nurse complied and she slipped the syringe into his vein. As he calmed, she wasn’t sure whether Gunney’s cries were a result of pain or anguish. Gunney rambled and ranted, mentioning names unknown: Winters, Hivers, Jenny, and Joan. The nurse dismissed his mumblings as one under the influence of drugs. He finally relaxed, finding rest, and she left him to his fate.
He slept deeply. Better than he had in the past 10 years. The eyelids rose slowly, and he saw her, standing at the foot of his bed — tall, majestic, the back straight, the eyes and brows like his. But the bearing was instead hesitant, apologetic. A young boy, maybe higher than her waist, stood next to her, the head pressed inside the curve of her frame.
“Daddy?” she said, her lips quivering.
The hard sergeant smiled, seeing his daughter for the first time in more than 20 years. He knew her immediately, as only a parent would know. “Oh, Jenny...” He tried to speak, but what could he say? Emotions irrupted inside of him, rising like a geyser. He resented his lack of control, clinching his jaws. But a sob escaped from his mouth.
Jenny approached her father and gently kissed him on the cheek. “Daddy, I want you to meet your grandson. Nathan, come here.”
The boy waddled to his grandfather, standing next to Jenny.
Gunney weakly reached for his daughter, clutching her sleeve. “Oh Jenny, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I’ve been a crappy father.”
Jenny glanced down at her son. “Daddy, I understand. But please watch your language.” She leaned over and hugged him, inhaling his scent, feeling his soft, frail body. “Thanks for calling me.”
Gunney weakly reached out to his grandson. “Hey, Nathan. Nice to meet you.”
“Are you my granddaddy?” the boy said, looking at him with wide blue eyes and apple cheeks.
“Yes, I am.” Gunney licked his lips. He was having trouble concentrating. “You have a wonderful mother. Mind her. She’s very wise.” He paused. “Much more than I.”
The boy only nodded, not sure what to make of this man in the bed.
“He’s just like his grandfather — stubborn, hardheaded, but good.”
Gunney nodded. “Thanks. This means a lot.”
“Dad, how did you find me?”
“A guy named Winters. He delivers magazines to the patients. He tracked you down.” Gunney’s voice weakened and trailed off. “Jenny, I...” Gunney’s voice thickened and his mouth froze. He tried to reach for his daughter, but no limbs responded.
“I’ll be back, Dad,” she said, escorting Nathan from the room.
Jenny walked to the nurses’ station. “Ma’am. Would you look in on my dad? He’s in Room 337.”
Jenny lifted Nathan, kissed him, and they walked to the waiting room at the end of hall. Nathan found a Highlights magazine and Jenny read to him. A nurse approached her.
“Ma’am. Are you Gunney’s daughter?”
She nodded.
“Uh, I’ll stay with your son if that’s OK. He’s about to go.”
Jenny returned to the room. A doctor and nurse were standing beside the bed. “He’s my father,” she announced. Without asking, she moved next to Gunney and held his hand. His eyes met her’s. In that moment, she saw him, saw his soul, saw his character and knew him. His chest rose, once, twice, and then, she felt a faint tug from his fingers, and it ended.
Jenny stepped back, allowing the doctor and nurse to do their jobs, removing the tubes and needles.
The nurse hugged her. “He was a good man.”
“You gave me and my son a wonderful moment,” said Jenny, a tear trickling down her cheek. “I want to thank you and your staff, especially Winters. Without him, neither one of us would have had this closure. Thank you.”
“Winters?” the nurse asked.
“Yes, the one who delivers the magazines to the patients.”
The nurse shook her head, not understanding. “Ma’am, there is no one named Winters who delivers magazines here. Ms. Logan is our volunteer who delivers magazines. She’s been on vacation for the past week. We haven’t had anyone delivering magazines during that time.”
Jenny gazed down at the body of her father with a grateful smile. She nodded and understood.
Wopple! Wopple! Wopple! Wopple! The irritating sound of an errant wheel, lurched from the plastic magazine cart, and echoed against the hall of another floor of another hospital of other city. The man took a deep breath from pushing the cart, paused in front of another room, and with a grin, tenderly knocked on the door.
“Good morning. Magazine Man!”
The Albany Herald plans to start taking entries in January for its 10th annual Southwest Georgia Fiction Writing Contest.
PREVIOUS CONTEST WINNERS
• 2007 — Julie Hilburn of Colquitt, “Don’t Close Your Eyes.” Quick read: An abused teen finds her identity in a new friend.
• 2006 — Sherry Branch of Albany, “The Most Inconvenient of Places.” Quick read: A woman driving alone at night picks up a stranded motorist and finds redemption for both.
• 2005 — Stacy Worth of Albany, “A Key Turning.” Quick read: A father and son — separated for years — are reconnected by an old lock and key.
• 2004 — Ray Mitchell of Camilla, “The Legend of Tango Man.” Quick read: A man leaves a strong impression throughout the country with his dance moves, along with a sense of deep mystery.
• 2003 — T. Gamble of Dawson, “With Love Always, Lois.” Quick read: An elderly woman visits Normandy, the site where the man she loved was killed during the World War II Allied Invasion.
• 2002 — T. Gamble of Dawson, “The Legend of Boogerbottom.” Quick read: The descendant of a Civil War veteran finds the family legend of a pot of gold in a swamp may be true after all.
• 2001 — Chris Wood of Albany, “The Lunch Box.” Quick read: A schoolgirl’s lunchbox becomes the center of contention between her and a school yard bully.
• 2000 — Chris Rice of Albany, “My Mother’s Eyes.” Quick read: A guy going nowhere hopes to avoid living the pain reflected in his mother’s eyes.
— Compiled by staff