My
Journal
By
Harriman Nelson
~In
God We Trust~
23
I
had no doubt after I’d finally awoken this morning that all hands by now knew
I’d had a late night call from Mrs. Crane. And I was proven correct as I was
greeted with worried, compassionate looks from everyone I passed.
The
Wardroom was especially noisy for breakfast, even for the second seating. Until
I stepped over the threshold, that was.
“Is
the skipper okay, sir?” Ski asked, which was greeted by a kick to his shin
under the table by O’Brien.
“He’s
fine,” I lied. It wasn’t questioned, but I knew they knew he wasn’t exactly
‘fine’ as my still reddish and somewhat puffy eyes told on me.
Will couldn’t help raising an eyebrow at me.
“Later,”
I mouthed, as I grabbed some pancakes, slathered peanut butter on them, topping
them with syrup. Just as Lee liked them. Lee....
“Oh,
gawd,” I gulped, and raced out, leaving everyone bewildered. Of course Will dashed
out following along with Jiggs who almost managed to close the door behind him.
But it was too late. Everyone who had crammed into the doorway saw me hunched
over throwing up a couple of feet down the companionway.
Before
I knew it, I was being helped to Sick Bay, a barf bag in hand in case I wasn’t
really finished being sick.
Soon
Will drew blood, checked my BP, my pupils, and had the
clean-up crew bring a swab of the vomit on the deck to Sick Bay for
analysis.
“All
right, out with it,” Will said shorty as I sat on the edge of a bunk while Jiggs
poured me a glass of water. “Nothing’s wrong with you physically.”
“Breakfast
reminded me of the late night call from Lee’s mother. She made pancakes while I
spoke to Lee and I just couldn’t handle what he’d said....”
“Go
on,” Will demanded.
“Mrs.
C. called because Lee’s been having...dreams....nightmares and he wouldn’t tell
her about them. Didn’t even tell Joe. Anyway, she wanted me to speak to him,
and we talked. His dreams have been almost the same as mine... Lee doesn’t know about them, and I didn’t tell
him. Anyway, he thinks his dreams aren’t just dreams, but premonitions. And now,
well, I know
mine have been too...about his death.”
“Premonitions?”
Will asked.
And
so I told them, every sordid detail. Lee’s dreams, my dreams, and Abe Lincoln’s
dreams.
“Lee’s
not afraid of dying, just saddened that he still has so much he wants to do...there
was nothing to indicate the ‘when’. Except no new star on the flag that Puerto
Rico will get if it gets statehood. So it’s before then. Lee...he was upset
that he didn’t see me in the rotunda to see me off. I promised him I’d try.
That made him feel better somewhat.
Anyway
I had a really bad night after the call. Bawled my eyes out. Abe Lincoln had
premonitions of his death, and when he asked someone who was in the coffin in
the White House, he was told ‘the president’ and you know what happened in his
case.”
“Harriman,”
Jiggs said, and sat beside me, putting his arm around my shoulder, “It could
simply be coincidence...you’re both fans of Lincoln. But, if the dreams are
premonitions, you’ll just have to accept it.”
Kowalski,
entering without permission, walked over to Will’s office desk and turned off
the intercom, and left without a word.
“What
the hell?” Jiggs fumed.
“Sorry
about that,” Chip interrupted, entering, “Sparks tried to shut down the
intercom remotely but there wasn’t any access. Doc’s intercom is on alpha code
precluding any interruption.”
“Shit!”
Will groaned. “I’m sorry, Admirals, Captain. I forgot to make any adjustment.
Or that I’d left the damn thing open when I called for the clean-up crew to
scoop up some vomit.”
“Perhaps
a statement to the crew is in order?” Chip asked.
“No,
Lad,” I sighed, “the damage has been done.”
“Perhaps
some of the death threats against Lee triggered both of your dreams. But if
they are premonitions, how do we stop Lee’s death from happening?”
“If
they’re premonitions,” I sighed, “there’s nothing we can do.”
“Breaking
news, sir,” Sparks said over the PA and Sick Bay’s wall monitor came to life....
“...It’s
a blustery day here along Crab Lane in Cape Cod,” the reporter was saying in
yellow rain gear from under a CNN news van’s awning. “Crab Lane, as you can see
down the ramp to the beach front homes, is where Mrs. Crane lives and former
president Nelson-Crane is staying for now. While the police have set up barricades
requiring ID’s from visitors and residents, no one has actually gotten upset
about the extra security. In fact, several of Mrs. Crane’s neighbors have dropped
by to speak with us.”
“...I
don’t have a problem with the blockade,” an elderly man in a slicker and rain
hat was saying, his dog, attired in a matching doggie coat and booties at his
side, “Good to have Crane back home. I still have a problem calling him
Nelson-Crane, but my God, what a brave boy.”
“...How
long have you known him?”
“...Since
Edward Crane brought him home. It was to foster him at first. To think I
actually told the Cranes they’d live to regret taking in a juvenile delinquent,
well, what would you call a street urchin who picked your pocket?”
“...Samuel!”
an equally elderly woman scolded. “How else was he going to get anything to
eat, poor baby...”
“...Yes,”
the reporter said, “we all know about this tragic early
life before he was finally adopted by the Cranes....”
“...Oh
my,” another old lady walking her dog interrupted, “Lee could mesmerize you with
his beautiful eyes and smile. Not that’s why they adopted him though. Real good
Christians, the Cranes. And duty turned to love real quick.”
“...He
was a good boy,” another woman said fondly, “but, he could also be a real
rascal!”
The
crowd of neighbors laughed good naturedly.
“...I
was his third grade teacher,” another woman trying to hold on to her umbrella told
the reporter, and then to her friends, “remember when we went on that field
trip to Boston to see Old Ironsides?”
Everyone
groaned and laughed.
“...Well,”
she continued, “it was the day the ship was going to be
towed into the harbor to be turned around. Something about balancing the barnacles.
They do it twice a year and the children were getting bored waiting for the
tugboat to arrive so my teacher’s aide and I took the children down the street
to get some milk and cookies from a little bakery nearby. When I was paying for
the treats we discovered Lee was missing. I left the children in the care of my
aide, and ran back to the dock where he’d been last. But he was nowhere to be
found around the dock. Called the police
and everything.”
“...That’s
right,” a middle aged man in the crowd interrupted. “I was in Lee’s class. It
was hard to watch the tugboat towing Old Ironsides out to the harbor while
everyone thought Lee had fallen into the water and knocked himself out and drowned or something.
But then, the police got a call from the captain on the ship that they had a
stowaway. That’s when we all knew it had to be Lee. It was just something we
knew he’d do. Just how he’d sneaked aboard nobody knew.”
“...Anyway,”
the former teacher said, “we had to wait until the ship returned to identify
him. And as it approached we saw him in the crows
nest.”
“...Yeah,”
the former school mate laughed, “he and the sailors
had to bat some sea birds away that wanted to nest in Lee’s hair! We thought that
was great fun since he was a Crane.”
“...When
we all finally returned to Cape Cod,” the teacher
said, “Mrs. Crane was waiting in the school yard with the other parents,
tapping her foot as the children got off the bus. Lee had gotten off lightly by the Navy. They’d
even given him a tricorn hat and a certificate that he was an honorary crew
member! Still, he had to face the music. I can still remember her telling him, ‘Lee
Beauregard Crane, just you wait till your father gets shore leave!”
Even
I laughed at this revelation of one of Lee’s early adventures.
“...Of
course,” the classmate said, “we kids never did find out just what Mr. Crane
said or did when he came home on leave. But Lee sure had a hard time sitting
down in class after he had,” he laughed with everyone else.
The
camera panned back down toward the Crane cottage. Lee and Joe had just emerged,
in jeans and T-shirts, barefoot, the rain having stopped. They both waved, and
began to toss a Frisbee back and forth for Winston.
“...Maybe
you’d like to join us at City Hall tonight?” the teacher asked the news team,
“Going to be New England Boiled Dinner. It’s open for
everyone for a small donation for the historical society.”
“...And
on Sunday,” one of the old ladies said, “we’re having a beach party complete with
a lobster bake to honor Lee’s safe return. You’ll have to be cleared by the
Homeowners Association for an invite though. The cops want to keep tabs on
everyone. Lee’s a former president and there are still threats against him,
despite his popularity.”
“...Speaking
of the lobster bake,” Lee’s former school mate added, “they’ll
be live lobsters, none of those frozen kind in a grocery store. We’ll be setting out the traps today. Flat
boats and Capt. Al Jr’s. trawler. Just hope Lee
doesn’t fall overboard from whichever boat he decides to join. Oh, yeah, he did
fall overboard once. It was summer and we were in the fifth grade. Lee had
signed on to Capt. Al Sr.’s trawler to lay his own traps. Anyway, he leaned
over too far and fell overboard. Oh, there was no real danger, Big Al made all
us kids wear life vests. Still had to use a winch to pull him up from the
lifebuoy he and the crew tossed out from the winch.
“...Boy,
was Mrs. Crane angry when she found about what had happened. Still, a couple
days later she let him go out again to collect his traps. Got more lobsters than
any of us. Baited his traps with some bad oysters that had been scrapped from
some local restaurants. Didn’t seem make any difference to what his lobsters
tasted like. And nobody got sick.”
Just
then lightning flashed and thunder boomed and everyone took the hint to scatter
for cover. The camera panned to Lee, Joe, and Winston climbing up the stairs to
the covered porch.
“...And
so,” the reporter concluded from under the news van’s awning, “we leave this
little stretch of beach, and hope to report more about the community dinner and
of course the Sunday lobster bake. You can contact our website to put in your
bet as to the number of lobsters our former president may catch.”
As
the broadcast resumed regular programing, and Sparks turned off the monitors, I
found myself disappointed that that there weren’t any more glimpses into my
boy’s early life. And of course, regretted the fact that I wouldn’t be able to
enjoy the lobster bake with him. Perhaps his last.
~***~