Fade to Black: Sometimes the Truth Really is Inconvenient

PROLOGUE

Two childhood friends torn and separated by betrayal are reunited in the US Marine Corps thirteen years later. Clay, the lead character, sets out to atone for his past indiscretion and seeks out his best friend who survived a horrific accident. Their reunion takes a twist when Clay’s friend emerges from the accident a changed man from Traumatic Brain Injury—a person with interesting new talents and diminished capabilities.

Clay agrees to help his friend bridge the former life to the present. He soon realizes that what could help restore his friend’s life might also sabotage their revived friendship. Clay has two choices, disclose a past dark secret and accept risk or be selective with the truth and protect a valued brotherhood.

Life is always about choices. Will he make the right one?

CHAPTER 1

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

12 May 1991 7:30 a.m.

Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, California

Welcome to Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, Staff Sergeant Thompson, the First Sergeant said as he handed me my check-in sheet.

This was my second tour at Camp Pendleton and it was nice to return to the familiar Oceanside area where I still owned a condo just off College Boulevard. I was renting to a tenant who was a mortician but her lease up at the end of the month. Needless to say, I would be moving in. I was just hoping she didn’t take her work home with her.

I was directed to sit outside the Executive Officer’s office down the hall, as it was the XO’s policy to personally greet all newly joined Marines. I sat down on the wooden bench against the wall and began reading the base paper I had picked up at McDonald’s.

As I flipped through the pages my eyes were drawn to the obituary section. I saw a familiar name. Too familiar. I grabbed my briefcase and hurried back to the admin office.

First Sergeant, First Sergeant, I called out from the back of the line.

He glanced over at me but ignored me as he spoke with a junior Marine. I called him again. He wasn’t very happy but he met me at the front counter anyway.

What do you want, Marine? he asked in a gruff tone.

Excuse me, First Sergeant, but the Marine in the obituary …

Yes?

I think this is the same Mike Jordin that I grew up with. I didn’t even know he joined the Corps.

So what makes you think it’s him, Devil Dog?

It says here he’s from Bellwood, Illinois, and his next of kin is Barbara Jordin. Was he about thirty years old, six feet tall, blue eyes and dark hair?

That’s him, all right. He won’t be missed around here, I can tell you that much.

I was taken aback. There wasn’t a shred of sympathy in the First Sergeant’s voice.

The Mike Jordin I knew was the nicest guy you could ever hope to meet; in fact, he was my best friend … until our senior year in high school.

The First Sergeant crossed his arms over his chest. We must be talking about two different Marines, because the Mike Jordin we knew around here was nothing short of an asshole. In fact, in a room full of assholes, he would be the one everyone hated. He shook his head. If he’d survived the roadside bomb in Iraq, the Commanding Officer was gonna court-martial him out of the Corps for assaulting the Operations Officer over there. He was a drunk.

The person he described could not have been more unlike the Mike I knew growing up. It didn’t make sense.

Back in the fifth grade, Mike and I had made a pact to join the Marines under the buddy program. But I betrayed Mike our last year in school—and lost my best friend. Even though it had been over a decade since we last spoke, the pain in my gut was every bit as sharp as it had been in the summer of ‘78. Now, all the guilt I thought I had put behind me started to resurface. I had hoped to say sorry to Mike someday. I thought he might return, but he never did. He just took off and I never saw or heard from him again. Now that I knew he was gone, my unfinished business with Mike would stay with me for the rest of my life.

As I concluded my conversation with the First Sergeant he asked me a favor.

Staff Sergeant, since you guys were such buddies, I’d like you to do me a favor regarding Staff Sergeant Jordin.

Sure, anything, I agreed.

Well, I’ve been asked to organize a memorial for him but I can’t find a soul who has anything nice to say about the guy. Would you do the eulogy?

I lowered my head as grief began to consume me.

Yes, I replied with a heavy heart. I’ll do it.

There was one more request forthcoming. Would you mind going to his apartment off base and inventorying his personal effects? the First Sergeant asked. We have to ship everything off to his next of kin. You can take one of my Corporals to help box everything up.

My mind drifted for few moments. I could see the First Sergeant’s mouth moving but I didn’t comprehend what he was saying. He had to repeat himself and add a few instructions, which he gave me in his private office.

Staff Sergeant Thompson, when you go through his apartment I want you to do a thorough job. But …

But what? I asked, sitting across the desk from him.

He leaned across the desk and said quietly, Anything that would even remotely denigrate his character further needs to disappear … out of respect for his mother. I call these things … the unmentionables.

I drew a blank. I asked for clarification, which irritated the First Sergeant.

For crying out loud, he hissed. Do I really need to spell it out for you?

I shrugged my shoulders and nodded yes.

"Damn. Okay, then. Don’t bring back no whips, chains, butt plugs, or vibrating dildos. No porn, no letters that infer infidelity. Shit like that. Comprendes, amigo? All that mess goes in the incinerator out back."

Crystal clear, I assured him. What if I find a firearm?

I think that’s the most intelligent thing I’ve heard you say. If by chance you find a firearm you’re to transport it to the armory. If it is properly licensed then it will be shipped separately. Any more questions, Bright Eyes?

I had my marching orders. When I arrived at Camp Pendleton earlier that day, I’d had an idea of connecting with old friends—not saying goodbye to my oldest and dearest of friends, Mike Jordin.

Leaving the First Sergeant’s office, I decided I would write the eulogy that very night. I mentally prepared myself for rummaging through Mike’s personal effects. I wondered who he had become after all these years. Drinking? I never saw Mike go near alcohol. What happened to him?

Little did I know that all of my questions would be answered in just over twenty-four hours.

THE NEXT DAY

Corporal Williams and I proceeded to the apartment manager’s office to gain access to Mike’s apartment. The attendant at the front desk never asked for any documentation or ID. She simply led us to his second-floor apartment and unlocked the door to let us in. We stepped inside, where it was filthy beyond belief. Half-eaten microwave dishes and vodka bottles littered the place. I noticed roaches crawling up my leg. Ugh. So nasty.

Staff Sergeant T, how could anyone live like this? the Corporal asked as we ventured further into this three-bedroom den of chaos.

I shook my head, equally baffled, then turned around thinking the manager would be chaperoning the inventory. She was nowhere to be found.

I immediately opened a window to get some fresh air. Lining the wall beneath the window were large black plastic bags holding trash and yet more vodka bottles.

It was painful to see how Mike had lived. The state of his apartment spoke volumes about his addiction to alcohol.

What happened to you, Mike? I wondered sadly.

I handed Corporal Williams a clipboard. We agreed that I would take the bedroom and he would start in the guest room.

Corporal, if you find something questionable, give me a shout before you record it on the inventory, I said as I navigated through the maze of spoiled food and empty bottles.

Roger that, he replied.

There was a part of me that hoped I would find a relic from our past, like a picture of Mike and me as kids. I was uncomfortable going through his drawers and sorting through his mail; it felt like I was trespassing.

Staff Sergeant? the Corporal called out. I need some assistance.

I left the bedroom and saw the only thing that linked this mess of a place to the Mike I remembered. It was a beautiful black upright piano covered in dust. It was the only immaculate room in the apartment. The carpet was clean, and it looked like no one had ever entered the room.

Mike was a gifted musician and had the most soulful voice I’d ever heard. He could sing and play anything. He always closed his eyes when he played, and he sang with such emotion for someone so young. One of my favorite songs he did was Isn’t She Lovely by Stevie Wonder. Music was Mike’s world and I was just glad to be on the sidelines listening. It was nice rewinding childhood memories of us as kids. Because of him, I learned to play bass guitar.

Yeah, the boy tickled the ivories like no one I ever knew. I always thought we would make it as professionals, I replied, as I struck a key on the piano.

Okay, doesn’t look like there’s much to inventory here, but I’ll contact Transportation Management to arrange for collection of the piano.

He nodded. Staff Sergeant Thompson, what was in the bedroom?

Nothing but a mattress on the floor and a steel safe, I replied.

Williams’s query piqued my curiosity. While he began taking the bin bags to the community dumpster, I went back into the bedroom and marveled at the safe.

What would be so valuable that he would keep it under lock and key?

Money? Legal documents?

Curiosity was getting the best of me. I needed to find a way to open the cream-colored steel safe with its black spin dial. It was time to investigate.

The inventory was complete in about fifteen minutes. Aside from a TV,VCR, and some cheap furniture, there was nothing worth boxing up for shipment.

Corporal Williams handed me a green folder to peruse. It was Mike’s medical record.

Looks like Mike was diagnosed as alcohol dependent just before he deployed. Says here they recommended he report to rehab upon his return. I said.

Williams looked around the place one last time. I’m done here, Staff Sergeant. I will let the manager know we’re securing the apartment. I’ll meet you in the parking lot.

I nodded in agreement. As I was closing the bedroom door behind me, I glanced over at the safe one last time. I had an idea. I knelt down in front of the safe and closed my eyes, praying for an answer. I had to know what was in that damn safe.

Mike and I had shared locker D119 freshman year, and I never forgotten the combination. As I approached the last number I was waiting to hear the dial click. It didn’t. I tried Mike’s birthday 6-6-61, but no luck. My last attempt popped the safe door open. I used 2-23-61, Connie’s birthday. She was the love of his life … and mine, too. I was intrigued by my discovery and started to perspire.

An old black book with faded white pages spilled onto the floor. Inside the safe were five other hardbound books. I opened the book on the floor first; it was a journal from about five years ago. The other books were also journals. They dated back to 1973, the year before we met. I put them in chronological order and quickly flipped through the pages until I saw my name.

References to me as Mike’s best friend were poignant, and I started to grieve the loss of our friendship. His references to me changed from his best friend to his brother somewhere around our sophomore year. As I read further I saw his love for