Murder On The Base
Ch 35 - It’s Good to be Home (OWB)
“Yeah, I thought I’d told you. They’re Rakiri, Mom,” Bill tried to explain quietly to his mother while the Rakiri Pack, including Michael, stood between the Transit they’d ridden to Bill’s mom’s house and herself and her house. Bill saw the look that his mother was not removing from her face, “And they’re my friends.”
The short woman didn’t roll her eyes but it seemed like her whole body shifted in a manner similar to rolling eyes: a short dip down, then up and back to center; Bill’s mother shifted back into host mode, “Yes, of course, now what are your names?”
Before they could start, an old but spry man came out through the inner door of the garage to approach the garage entrance in earnest. “Hell of a tranny you got there, Willy!” Before lifting his eyes he added, “What? Did you bring the whole damn football team?” Bill’s mother shrank into the background.
Fala exclaimed, “Who are you calling a tranny, sir!?”
The old man’s smile dissolved for a moment before it grew anew. He removed his flat cap to place it on his chest with his left hand then extended his right to his accuser, “Oh, my dear, I did not mean to offend!” His hand extended further toward the Transit behind them, “I was referring to your vehicle there. Please excuse me, but I would never confuse a marvelous countenance such as yours with such a dreadful moniker.” He returned his hand to Fala and bowed his head. “I’m Bill. Enchantée.”
Fala gave this Old White Bill her hand with equal parts confusion and polity, “Oh, the pleasure is mine.” She looked at Bill snubbingly, “This is more like it.” Bill leveled his lips in disgust.
Michael cut the tension, “Hey Bill, uh, nice to meet you.” He reached his hand out to Old White Bill, “I’m Bill’s roommate. I’m pretty used to calling him Bill, what should I call you to avoid confusion?”
Old White Bill clasped hands with Michael, “I’ve been going by ‘Bill’ since I got off the ship after Dubya Dubya Two.” He released his grip and craned it over to Bill to shake his hand as well, “We’ve been calling him ‘Willy’ at home. I guess Sharon has called him ‘William’ to be formal with y’all.”
Bill’s mother reemerged from beside Bill, pointing at him, “This is my baby boy, Willy.” She stepped over to join Old White Bill’s side, “This is my big boy, Bill.” She shimmied and bumped hips as best she could with their height disparity.
Linnet offered her hand, “I’m Linnet. Um, hi White Bill?” Old White Bill looked at Linnet with a measured combination of confusion and offense. Linnet squirmed, “Bill? Hi Bill.”
Michael squirmed a bit himself. Uh oh.
Old White Bill’s façade broke quickly after he looked at all the shocked faces in front of him. Laughing, he took Linnet’s hand, “My girlfriend is Filipino, you aren’t the first one to call me ‘White’ or even ‘White Bill’.”
Michael took the moment of broken tension to put his hand on Old White Bill’s forearm to get his attention away from Linnet’s embarrassment and his own guffawing. He then pointed out the rest of the group to the old man. They all gave some degree of salutation to the old man.
“Well, I’m not going to remember any of your names. I hope you don’t take offense. The old steel trap,” Old White Bill said while tapping his temple, “Is a little rustier than it used to be.”
“None at all, sir.” Michael shook the hand of the forearm he was holding. When he let go, he was surprised to see Old White Bill give a sturdy salute to the company.
Unsurprised, the Pack all saluted him back.
“It’s been a long time since I was enlisted but we get some practice out at the VFW.” He winked at Bill then looked back at Michael, “I take it you didn’t serve.”
Michael didn’t enjoy being the odd man out but it had happened enough times that he wasn’t phased. “No sir, but I work on the base up in Jax, does that count?”
“I heard that you and Willy had racked up in the base. Have you discharged a firearm?”
“Not in battle.” Michael felt his neck crane a little lower.
“Have you been dressed down by a drill sergeant?”
“Not exactly.” Michael’s neck craned lower.
“How many laps have you run around the base?”
Michael’s head couldn’t get any lower.
Old White Bill slapped Michael’s back making Michael’s head bob up reflexively. “Citizen soldier is enough for me. Why are we standing out in the heat? Let’s go inside. Sharon, lead the way!”
Bill’s mom shimmied then turned in place to let everyone in through the garage. Michael noticed that the garage was well organized. Plenty of room to maneuver the cobalt Buick Enclave beside a car that was blanketed by a University of Florida Gators car cover. He assumed it was Old White Bill’s sports car. Corvette? T-bird? Micheal didn’t know anything about brands or models of cars except he knew when he saw something pretty.
The garage door led them straight into the kitchen. There was a very large pot stewing on the stovetop. The smell made more than Michael’s mouth water. There was a machine that looked like a miniature R2-D2 on the island, and there were various stirring implements neatly arranged here and there. From the front of the house in the kitchen to the back of the house, a large beam was the only thing supporting the ceiling; the rest was all open space. The beam held several white porcelain statues of various shapes, mostly koi and cats. A hand-cast and hand-painted statue of a bald eagle interrupted the flow of more tasteful figures. The dissonance led Michael’s eyes from the beam to the living room.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The living room had plenty of seating for the group. There were also more potted plants than Michael cared to count. It felt like someone had put living room furniture in a jungle. Other walls closed up the length of the ceiling on either side, framing the kitchen and living room as a unified space.
There seemed to be just enough room for everyone. How? Michael thought, immediately followed by Why? Who is Bill’s mom that she needs this much room? He was just about to sit down on one of the large white leather couches when he noticed he was the only one in the living room. Everyone else had formed a huddle around the island in the kitchen. Almost everyone; Old White Bill had slipped away to another room. “Hey, what’s up?” Michael asked with the caution of someone who was out of the loop.
The gathered loop was appreciatively sniffing at the pots covering all four burners of the stove. Bill spoke around the salivating corners of his mouth, “Adobo chicken.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, “I miss being home.”
Bel’a drooled onto the corner of the island. Fala elbowed Bela, “We are guests! Guests don’t drool on the table. Get it together!”
Sharon had a wooden spoon in hand and was within melee range of Bel’a when she saw that Fala had addressed her concerns. Sharon looked sideways at Bill, “I like this one,” pointing the spoon at Fala.
Bill smiled broadly at his mother. He gave Fala a wink.
“I had no idea your mother did magic.” Michael gaped.
“What do you mean?” Sharon asked.
“You’ve entranced everyone in the room with your cooking.”
Sharon scoffed, “Oh please, Willy asked me if I could whip up a little something.”
“A little something?” Michael laughed “I haven’t seen anyone cook something on all four burners at the same time since my own grandmother. You could feed an army with this much food.”
Ssgt Remington tipped his head at Michael and took off his beret. “This may be one of the best smelling meals I’ve had on Earth. It beats army food any day.”
“Thank you!” Sharon gleamed with pride.
Old White Bill came out of what Michael assumed was a bedroom wearing a different Hawaiian shirt. “Well don’t just stand there sniffing, we gotta eat if we’re going to make it to karaoke!”
Sharon clapped with excitement and wiggled a little bit. Michael tried not to stare. Linnet noticed and hip checked him. Michael pursed his lips at her and gladly took a plate.
—
The crew made it out to the VFW as the sun was going down. The Rakiri entered through the foyer and milled about into various rooms designed for gatherings ages ago. Michael could see plywood replacing drywall in some parts of the walls. Faded old posters supporting the American war effort in various wars covered some of the naked walls. Rows of pictures filled the rest of the walls. The membership photos evolved over the years. Some years held a few good men. The next few held more. The membership’s age ebbed and flowed depending on the era. Photos from postwar years filled the assembly halls more than others, Michael noticed. As he walked down a hall he saw the number of members and some of the members themselves had thinned out a bit. The most recent ones held a healthy number of veterans, but not nearly as many as had been in the pictures from previous years. Pictures of VFW presidents stared down at him from just under the crown molding.
They made their way to what amounted to a bar across from what was clearly the chow hall. The bar was dimly lit by various neon alcohol advertisements. “No Red Grail?” Harley balked. Her statement turned heads. A room full of veterans gave the group of Rakiri some of the strongest stink eye Michael had ever seen.
Old White Bill raised his arms to wave and get the room’s attention. “They’re with me, everybody. Everybody,” he turned to his fine furry friends, “Willy’s friends. Willy’s friends,” he turned back to the room of old folks who were already half in the bag, “Everybody.”
Everybody’s demeanor immediately relaxed. In a Norm from Cheers manner, Everybody cried, “Willy’s friends!”
The crew bellied up to the bar and started drinking as well. Eventually the bar merged into one cohesive unit with some liquid courage.
—
“When I got back from the great war, they had me go out to Las Vegas. Didn’t know it at the time, but they had me hanging from the bones of the Hoover Dam!” An old timer named Jack slurred at Harley, who had seemed to cozy up to the Yuengling on draft. Jack updated his Untappd app absently.
“Tell me about it. I’m not really sure what I’m going to be qualified to do when all this Earth settling business gets settled.” Harley spoke circularly, then remembered where she was when she saw Michael’s shocked face, “No offense!”
“Oh, none taken, we’ve all been in an occupation of some kind or another.” Jack looked up, “And look who’s occupying the microphone!” Harley and Michael turned to where the veteran had pointed a crooked finger.
Old White Bill was already swaying to a jazzy tune. He started crooning some Sinatra hit that had faded from popular culture everywhere outside of Old White Bill’s sphere of influence. Michael had heard his father describe some old men’s voices as “pretty good, but you can tell that they used to sound much better”; Michael finally understood what that meant. Old White Bill could crow, but his voice frayed a bit at the end of some lines as though he used to be able to hold the note just a little longer than he could anymore. While he was bringing the hits back from the past, he still couldn’t help but show his age.
Jack’s smile turned back to Harley. The aging veteran asked conspiratorially, “Look, we’ve all been enlisted before and served under some shitty COs; how do you feel about the Shal’vantis?”
“Shil’vantis?” Harley wrinkled up her face in confusion.
Jack looked from side to side, “The purple ones.”
Harley followed his gaze and also noted that there weren’t any ‘purple ones’ around. “Well, I mean we’re Rakiri. We were conquered by them too. I can’t say that we have any particular love for them, but we have learned to live with them.”
Jack nodded with a deliberately muted expression. “I don’t speak for everyone, but it seems to me like those purple Shil’vanti bitches need to get a new perspective on things.”
Michael squinted as he pondered what that could mean. Old White Bill had finished his song and was thanking his throng of drunken fans and walking toward the door. The crew looked at each other and finished their drinks, settled their bills and headed toward the door as well. Old White Bill put on a tweed coat that Michael didn’t remember him bringing, donned a matching trilby cap and waved at everyone. “See y’all tomorrow!”
“Tomorrow?” Michael asked, having already forgotten why they came south in the first place.
Sharon swung away from Old White Bill’s embrace for just long enough to address Bill, “Oh yes, we’re coming back here to watch the race tomorrow.”
“Which race?” Michael asked.
Old White Bill fingered the rim of his hat and pointed at the crowd.
In reply, Everyone shouted, “The Daytona 500!”