the disc jockey wants to go on the volume.”
“That,” she replied, “will be reflected in your tip.”
“I can live with that,” he deadpanned.
The couple chatted some more. Kenny mostly listened, nodded his head in agreement. The woman paid the tab and, true to her word, left Thibeault only two dollars for a tip. They went outside to her car, started the engine, but didn’t drive away.
Back inside, Thibeault and Guy laughed and laughed about Thibeault’s quick comeback. It really wasn’t like him to mouth off to customers, not unless his blood pressure was up. Guy, who, as a morning radio disc jockey, once convinced gullible listeners that a moose on an ice drift was floating down the Merrimack River, liked a good laugh.
The pair noticed that the mismatched couple had gotten in the car but not left the parking space. Watching through the great picture window of the lounge, Thibeault and Guy looked at each other and cracked up some more. They knew the young man and the brash woman were having sex in the black car under the streetlights.
If Kenny had thought this would be a turning point in his life, he was correct. But not one of joy. One of horror and unspeakable pain. A turning point that would soon lead to the end of his life in a manner of evil design and of wicked intention.
Had he left the restaurant five minutes sooner, he might never have met Sheila LaBarre.
By all accounts, Kenny was a sweet, unassuming young man. He grew up with his parents in Tewksbury, Massachusetts, not far from Boston. He graduated from a technical high school as a mason. He was best known for his talents on the ice hockey team and as someone who walked the school wearing his purple team jersey with pride.
Kenny loved many of the things normal boys growing up in New England loved. His family was drawn to the ice. His mother, Carolyn, was a figure skater. Kenneth, Sr. was a youth hockey coach and Kenny picked up both the passion and the skill for the game from him. He loved music and sang with an enthusiasm that surpassed his pitch.
“You can’t wear that hat,” his mother told him of the Yankees ball cap he owned. She knew little about sports, only vaguely aware when she said it that the Red Sox and Yankees were in some kind of death struggle for a championship. “You live in Boston, Kenny. People are going to give you trouble for it.”
“Don’t worry, Ma,” he told her. He knew she worried about him dearly.
That’s because Kenny Countie was not a normal boy growing up in New England. He was never formally diagnosed with a handicap; teachers said he was “a tad slow.” Kids were crueler. They called him “stupid” or “retard.” But he was neither. Kenny had a developmental disability. The experts told his mother his mental capacity was around that of a twelve-year-old.
His mother suspected Kenny might have a form of autism. He had an exuberant smile, but he wasn’t overly affectionate. He had trouble reading others’ social cues.
“Come here and give your mum a hug,” she often said.
“Oh, Ma!” he moaned as she tried to put an arm around him. He wouldn’t cuddle or hug or offer an unsolicited “I love you.”
Years before, Carolyn Countie had gotten into a terrible car accident that left her in a coma. She was left unable to walk or talk, with both a hole in her head and a hole in her throat. Two-year-old Kenny was temporarily left without a mother. Through therapy and sheer will, Carolyn Countie was able to recover and eventually return to her family. When she became pregnant again the doctors were dead set against her carrying to term. They feared for both her life and the life of the child. She’d have none of their protestations. She gave birth to her second son, who was physically and mentally strong. But for years, doubts nagged her about Kenny’s development during her recovery. “Two years old is when a child bonds with his mother,” she said, worried the boy’s reluctance for affection was a result of her car accident.
His mother was the most formidable presence in Kenneth Countie’s life. Carolyn Countie remarried and moved to Billerica, Massachusetts. Gerald Lodge, her new husband, was born in the United Kingdom and moved to the States. After a few years of living together, Carolyn Lodge started speaking with a British accent herself.
Like any parent struggling to let their firstborn go free in the world can attest, Carolyn and Gerald and Kenneth Sr. had ambivalent feelings about Kenny’s desire for independence. Kenny’s special needs had to be addressed, the balance found between holding a hand and gripping it.
“Kenny, you gotta be careful,” Carolyn pleaded with him. “There are crazy people out there who will eat you alive.”
“Mom, don’t worry about me. I can do it.”
“No, honey. You can’t.”
It was Kenny’s idea to join the Army. Carolyn put her foot down, yelled and screamed at her son. But Kenny wouldn’t listen to her.
She invited the recruiter over to her house. “Are you bloody mad?!” she railed at him. “You signed him up for four years? He won’t last a week.”
The man in the green uniform and gold buttons simply said, “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”
Kenny shipped off for Basic Combat Training. Carolyn and her husband made the trip to Georgia for Family Day. The separation seemed more like months than weeks to his mother.
Several buses pulled up to the gathered relatives, and dozens of uniformed trainees poured out. They all looked the same in their black berets, blue shirts and polished boots. People started darting left and right, seeking a familiar face. Amid the happy chaos, Carolyn Lodge could not find her son and began to panic. She tapped the first solider who walked her way.
“Do you know Kenneth Countie?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Do you know where he is?”
The soldier stared back. “Ma. It’s me.”
She was breathless. She peered deep into the eyes of the man standing in front of her. “No, it’s not.”
Kenneth Countie was standing up straight, making eye contact. He had bulked up and his thin face looked fuller. He had a presence that was undeniable. He looks wonderful, his mother thought.
Gerald and Carolyn took Kenny to a restaurant. The young man did something he’d never done before. He reached out and opened the door for his mother. She thought it was some kind of joke.
“Are you going to close it on me?” she pried wryly.
“No, ma’am,” he replied. Then he waited for his mother and stepfather to sit at the table before he took his own seat. Mrs. Lodge realized the Army had made a man out her boy.
Kenny’s graduation from Basic was to be a major family event. Carolyn had paid for in-laws in Great Britain to fly to Georgia and attend. It was only two days before the ceremony when the phone rang in her Massachusetts home.
“Is this Carolyn Countie?”
Responding to the name from her previous marriage, she knew instinctively
