from Mary. The letter was tender, beautifully written. It was also irreversible, brutal. For four long years, the war topside had been tolerable only because of the letters he received from home. It had been two years since Mary wrote informing him that their only child had been diagnosed as severely mentally retarded and would require constant institutional supervision. Working his way out of his personal ennui was a battle he knew he would never win, but he had looked forward to going home. He had no training and very little knowledge about mental retardation, but he was confident he could somehow help. Now, the anticipatory fuel that had allowed him to meet each day head-on since his son’s diagnosis was suddenly gone. He would soon be home, but the son that he watched take his first step on the day he left for the war would not be there to greet him. The letter in his hand was mailed July 17, 1945. The cause of his son’s death listed as undetermined.
While Trent shared Mary’s opinion that the formal statement about the cause of their son’s death was a very cold and distant, for him the words triggered an additional and far different reaction. Until he had a definitive answer for his son’s death, he would never rest until the causation issue was answered. He needed resolution, something that would bring a far more definitive closure than undetermined.
At 3 A.M., Trent still lay awake. General MacArthur’s closing words kept resurfacing. “It is my earnest hope, and indeed the hope of all mankind, that from this solemn occasion a better world shall emerge out of the blood and carnage of the past….”
After agonizing for hours over his own private fear he had quietly carried within for over sixteen years, Trent finally fell asleep just seconds before first light. His past had come back to haunt him. In his quest to create a better world, he had made a mistake. He was convinced that he had indirectly caused his son’s death.
Chapter 11
November 25, 1989
Angels Camp, California
At precisely 2:21 A.M., Samuel Clemens Crockett felt his passion for life take a positive spike for the first time in years. He was about to become a grandfather for the first time but he felt a void he could not quash. He was in the middle of his third two-year term in the U.S. House of Representatives when he lost his wife after a two-year battle with cancer. After Shirley’s death, running for a fourth term lost all its appeal. Every day, her absence still weighed heavily on his heart. They had prayed together for this day.
Two hours and twenty minutes later, near the end of his one hundred thirty mile drive from home, Crockett crossed the Bay Bridge, took the first San Francisco exit and headed north on California Street to Children’s Hospital. Minutes later, he found himself as the lone occupant in the maternity waiting room. For the moment, he had his own private sanctuary. Congress taught him that patience and waiting were sometimes formidable assets, so a few more anxious hours were not going to get in the way if welcoming his first grandchild into the world. He could wait. He closed his eyes, reflecting on his long life as another was about to begin the process anew.
Outside of the six years he spent in Congress, he had spent most of his leisure time studying every facet of Samuel Langhorne Clemens’ life. Born in 1922, twelve years after Clemens death, Crockett’s mother gave him his middle name in honor of her friend Nina, Clemens’ granddaughter, who lived next door to her when she was a child. In the eight years since his wife’s death, he frequently found himself diffusing his ennui by spending even more of his time further honing his scholarly mastery and impressions of the man also known as Mark Twain. The diversion helped take his mind off a grief that only one who has lost a lifelong partner could understand. Even his advancing years cooperated. When his black hair turned white, he grew a gringo moustache that eventually matched his hair giving him an uncanny physical resemblance to Clemens. Taking poetic license, he even found himself unconsciously sharing much of Clemens caustic philosophy by offering opinions or answering questions by quoting Clemens while adding in a little originality of his own. In Angels Camp, he was just called Congressman. Nationally, he had become moderately famous, being called by some as the reincarnation of Mark Twain. He was happy to have the diversion. There was no doubt in his mind that his euphoria was not exclusive. In his heart, he knew he was not alone. He could feel Shirley’s presence. They would share this moment together.
Ninety feet down the hall, her husband at her side, Elena Crockett-Robbins was in the final stages of labor and her usual optimism was being put to a severe test. She managed to breeze through her pregnancy on a cloud of elation, but all that had suddenly came to a screeching halt with each contraction. Giving birth was going to be far more difficult than her pregnancy. Minutes earlier, her doctor informed her and Terry that she wanted to do a C-section due to cephalopelvic disproportion. Elena needed no explanation, but the look on Terry’s face was familiar. He had no idea what was happening.
“The baby’s head is too big to fit through the pelvic cavity,” Elena explained, her voice strained.
Six years as a practicing attorney taught Elena never to walk into a courtroom unprepared for any emergency, and she had treated her pregnancy the same way. She was well aware one in four births was caesarian. It was just her turn. She was prepped and wheeled toward the operating room with Terry at her side. When they reached the OR door, Elena couldn’t resist one more parting thought. “Now you understand why I’m so tight down there when we make love!”
Terry just shook his head and pointed himself toward the waiting room. Exactly one hour later, Crockett was awakened by Terry’s voice. He had a new grandson.
It was late afternoon when Crockett finally pointed his car east and headed home. He remembered the first few days after Elena’s birth. He and Shirley spent many happy hours trying to chart every step of their daughter’s new life. As hard as he tried to do the same for his grandson, to envision what might be ahead, he could not do it. He had no idea why, but a sense of fear was overwhelming his senses.
Chapter 12
January 25, 1990
San Diego, California
On the morning that baby Scott Robbins turned two months old, Celia left home early. She pointed her car south on the San Diego Freeway, mentally rehashing a monologue she knew she had delivered far too many times to too many men. She was twenty-seven years old and had always placed her career as a pharmaceutical representative ahead of casual romance, frequently terminating many potentially promising relationships. She was on her way to do it once again.
She met Dr. Emil Lundgren weeks earlier, during a company sponsored holiday party onboard a small cruise ship sailing the San Diego shoreline. When one too many glasses of wine precipitated a rise in her libido, her inhibitions disappeared, and she started looking for a potential single night partner. A half inch short of six feet tall, she was athletic, demonstrably intelligent and had dark blond hair randomly accented by lighter neutral slices. For her, finding a partner had never been a problem. When she spotted Lundgren, she moved in. He was a moderately handsome thirty-four year old pediatrician and, according to his mild protests that evening, he was a happily married man. The fact that his wife was not aboard suddenly made him a personal challenge. He was fair game. Sex had been on a seven-month hiatus from her life and, while she knew how to pleasure herself, it was time for the real thing.
Using every professional salesmanship skill in her arsenal, it took her less than an hour that night to convince her prey to toss any cautions he may have overboard and follow her home to her La Jolla apartment. He had two things she wanted, a penis and what looked to be a very sensitive mouth. For her, it was pure, wonderful sex and neither left anything to the imagination. When she audibly declared what she wanted, he obliged her every whim, eventually introducing one of his own by turning her over abruptly and positioning himself behind her on his knees. She surprised herself when she remained still. Her
