An Ethereal Man

An Ethereal Man

By FireWire

Story No. 4

It’s a summer night. In the small lobby of a motel next to an airport, a man and a woman sit across from each other. The woman is reading a magazine. The man is considering the situation.

Nothing extraordinary. Nothing stands out. Just a beautiful, perfect package. A Grace Kelly package. Probably waiting on some guy who’s flying in. Room already booked. Nice simple dress. Nice complexion. A touch of lipstick. Maybe the guy won’t show, but she’s not worried. There are plenty of others. All she has to do is smile. Her phone is ringing . . . that’s probably him calling to tell her he’s landed and will be here in a few minutes. Telling her he can't wait to see her . . . hold her . . . touch her . . .

“I can hear you fine,” the woman says. “I’m glad you could call through. The weather channel said all flights were confused, and the airline’s automated attendant kept asking for my ticket number, so I didn’t know where you were. I came to the motel in case your flight wasn’t canceled . . . . Trust me, Darlene. Everything will be fine. Sue Benson said she would co-chair this time and you can co-chair in Minneapolis . . . . That’s wonderful. Thanks for the call.”

The woman puts the phone in her purse, stands up, and starts walking towards the door.

The man stands up. “Pardon me ma’am.”

The woman is startled—as if she was not aware the man had been sitting across from her.

The man pauses for a moment. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I’ve been waiting here in the lobby for almost an hour, and you’re the only person who has come in. I’m a Sergeant in the U.S. Army. Tonight is my last night of leave. I’m trying to get to Lavelle Avenue and wondered if I could get a ride if you’re going near there.”

“I’m not going that way,” she says.

The man quickly pulls an ID card out of his front pocket. He points to the picture. “As you can see, that’s me. And here, it says I’m a Sergeant. And here’s my name. James D. Rollins. But it’s a misnomer, everybody calls me Frank.”

“Frank?”

“That’s right. The “D.” stands for Dean. Shortly before I was born, my mother saw a poster of the actor James Dean and decided if she named me after him, I might grow up to look like him. Then, about a month after I was born, she found out he was juvenile delinquent in the movie “Rebel Without a Cause,” so to avoid the risk of my growing up like that, she always called me “Frank.”

“But why Frank?”

“She liked it better than Fred. Look,” he says, pulling a folded piece of paper out of his front pocket and unfolding it, “here are my leave orders,” and points to a spot on the paper. “EOL” means “End of Leave” and here beside it is today’s date, 15 July. It would be very patriotic of you if you could even take me to within marching distance of Lavelle Avenue.”

“It’s the least I could do, I suppose, given this is your last night of leave,” she says, “and it is getting late. Where did you say you were going?”

“I’m going to a club on Lavelle Avenue.”

“There’s no club on Lavelle Avenue—only warehouses,” she says. “I’ve spent summers here since I was born and know every club in town. There certainly isn’t one on Lavelle Avenue. You must have the wrong street. What’s the name of the club?”

“It doesn’t have a name.”

“It doesn’t have a name?”

“That’s right. It’s an ethereal club.”

“An ethereal club. Now that’s a new one. Are you Cinderella?”

Frank chuckles. “Hardly. Whenever warehouse space is available on Lavelle, an illegal from El Salvador named Omar Sursa rents the space for the night. He gets a band, puts boxes from the warehouse around the parameter for seats, then, at the end of the evening, turns it back into a warehouse. And there you have it. A pop-up club which vanishes in the night air. A club that never was. An ethereal club.”

“How do you know there will be one tonight?”

“I went to one on Wednesday and got a telephone number to call. Tonight’s the night.”

“They must be pretty good to be able to operate like that,” she says.

“They are. And one thing is for sure. Those Salvadoran women are hot. When they dance, it’s a meltdown. Who knows? I might get lucky.”

“You . . . might . . . get . . . lucky,” she says slowly. “Did you get lucky Wednesday?”

“No. But if you want something, you have to do something, so I’m going dancing.”

“Are you a good dancer?” she asks.

“I can hold my own.”

“Thanks for the ride. It was very patriotic of you to go out of your way to bring me here.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, “but are you positive this is the place? There’s only one other car here.”

He looks at his phone. “I’m early. That is probably Omar’s car. In a half hour, the only parking will be two streets over. Well, thanks again,” he says and reaches for the door.

“I’ll go in with you for a look around,” she says. “It may be a club my friends would like to hear about.”

Looking her straight in the eye, he says, “This club is not your kind of club. We’ll be the only ones speaking English. You’ll be the only woman wearing a dress. In this club, the jeans wiggle and the tops jiggle. This is where we part ways.”

Looking him straight in the eye, she says, “I can handle it. Can you handle it?”

“I can handle it.”

“Then let’s go and get a good box.”

“What’s your name?”

“Monica.” She smiles. “The same as on my birth certificate.”

Two hours later, Monica and Frank come out of the club.

“What a night!" Monica says. “Packed. Body-to-body the whole time. I was sweating like a pig, and I loved every minute of it. I’m so glad you invited me to come with you.” She puts her arm around his and presses against him for a moment. “Thank you so much.”

“It was fun. By the way, where in the hell did you learn to dance like that—you turned that dress into a deadly weapon and blew the Salvadoran cuties out of the warehouse.”

“Mrs. Johnson’s School of Ballroom Dance.”

“Wait a minute now. That was no box step when you put your hand around the back of my neck and did the slow roll against me.”

“Well . . . we did have homework.”

He laughs. “I’ll say.”

“And where did you learn Spanish?” she asks. “You were rattling it off tonight like you were from El Salvador.”

“I’m an interpreter. That’s my job in the Army. I went to school sixteen weeks to learn Spanish. Total immersion.”

“I’m impressed,” she says. “How many languages do you speak?”

“A few.”

After driving Frank back from the club, Monica parks in front of the motel.

“I want you to know I had a great time tonight,” Frank says. “It’s funny how things work out isn’t it. To meet somebody I like on my last night of leave.”

“I guess for a soldier it is pretty bad. Having to go back to your post and not go anywhere until your next leave.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty bad.”

“We can stay in touch,” she says, “and the next time you get leave, we can get together. It won’t be that long I’m sure.”

“It’s going to be a long time.”

“What do you mean?”

He pulls his leave orders out of his pocket and points to a spot on the paper. “You see the “DS.”

“Yes.”

“DS means Duty Station and right beside it you can see the word “Afghanistan.” I am flying to Afghanistan tomorrow for a tour of duty which will last for at least a year with no R&R.”

“What’s R&R?”

“R&R means rest and relaxation—a vacation. Normally, I would get a week of R&R, but I’ve heard Dari interpreters like me aren’t getting R&R because the strategic need is so high.

“What’s Dari?”

“It’s a Persian dialect used by different Afghan ethnic groups to talk to each other. It’s close to being a universal Afghan language.”

“You know, you don’t look like someone who can speak a foreign language. You look like a regular old American guy . . . like . . . James Dean. Your mother was right the first time.”

They sit in silence for several minutes.

“I guess we could write each other,” he says. “Cell phones don’t work where I’m being deployed. I’m outside Sprint’s network. With the mountains and all. But it won’t work you know.”

“I know. A year is too long.”

There is long pause before he looks at her and says, “I guess it’s now . . . or never.”

Monica is silent. She is looking at Frank, but he knows she isn’t seeing him. He watches her face, trying to discern some brief subtle emotion.

Finally her eyes focus on his.

“May I look at that paper again please?” she asks.

He hands it to her.

She reads it very, very slowly and hands it back.

“It’s now.”

In the morning, Frank wakes and looks around the motel room.

I wonder where Monica is; her purse is on the nightstand. She had better come back soon. I have a plane to catch.

The motel door opens part way and Monica peeks in. “Darn! I was hoping you were still asleep, so I could wake you.”

“If I didn’t have to board a plane shortly, nothing would make me happier than to get back into bed and give you that opportunity. What’s in the bag?”

“A surprise. Do you want me to get you a cup of coffee from the lobby while you are getting dressed?”

They don’t talk while waiting for Frank’s plane to board. Finally Frank stands up. “I guess it’s that time,” he says.

Monica opens the paper bag, takes out a red rose, and hands it to him. “I wanted to get you something to remember me by, but there was no time. I recalled the roses in the park across the street from the motel, so I went there this morning and picked this one for you.”

He takes the rose, turning it around and around, and touching each petal. “It's beautiful.”

He says, looking up at her, “You're beautiful.”

Looking into her eyes, he says, “You have been totally honest with me. You held nothing back.” He puts his arms around her and holds her tight against him. “I will to miss you so much. I’ll carry this rose in my heart wherever I go. It will never fade.”

She whispers, “Please come back . . . to me.”

“I will,” he says. “I promise.”

He steps back, pulls a pen from his uniform coat and his leave orders from his pants pocket. “Quick. Write your full name, address, and telephone number on the back of this. I’ll write you as soon as I’m in-country.”

“I’m writing two addresses. Connecticut is where I live from September to June.”

The flight attendant has come over from the gate. “Sergeant, the gate is closing.”

Frank gives Monica a quick kiss on her cheek and says, “I’ll be in touch.”

Over a year has passed, and Monica is browsing in a small, upscale, home furnishings shop. She is looking at a lamp near the front of the shop. She hears the tinkle of a bell as the shop door opens. She hears the door close. No footsteps. Silence.

Turning away from the lamp, Monica glances towards the door. A man is standing by the door with hands clasped together in front of him. His face shows no expression. He is perfectly still—staring at her. She looks at him for several seconds before she presses her hand hard against her chest and inhales sharply.

The man walks slowly to her, not taking his eyes away from hers. “Do you remember me?” he asks.

“Yes. It took a moment though. You are so dark . . . like one of those desert nomads in National Geographic.”

He chuckles. “A lot of other people thought so too, including the desert nomads.”

A man holding two figurines comes into the room and stands close to Monica. “Hon, how do you like these? They would look nice in the hallway.”

“They would look nice in the hallway,” Monica says. “Jack, this is Frank Rollins. Frank’s a friend of mine from prep school days. He is in the Army and has just returned from Afghanistan.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jack says. “Monica, sugar, aren't these statues great. Should I get them? I’m not taking them home unless you like them.”

Glancing at the figurines, Monica says, “They will look nice in your hallway.”

“Janette! Janette!” Jack calls out.

A woman comes into the room. “I’ll take these Janette.”

“I’ll wrap them for you,” the woman says.

“No. We’re on a tight schedule, so I’ll just take them as they are. We’re giving a party tonight, and the guests will be arriving shortly.”

“Frank,” Monica says. Why don’t you walk out with us.

When they are outside, Monica says, “Jack, I want to talk to Frank for a moment. I need to find out what happened to some of our mutual friends.”

“All right, but I’ll be keeping my eye on you. Being just back from Afghanistan, Frank here probably hasn’t had any free stuff for quite a while. Right soldier?”

Frank says nothing.

“Make it snappy hon. We have to get back. I don’t want the caterers to do the greeting.”

Monica and Frank sit on a bench outside the shop, and Monica says, “I guess you know this is a big surprise. You never wrote me like you promised—not even one letter—so I wrote you off —a long time ago. I forgot about you completely.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t by choice. When I hit Kabul, I went through processing and boarded a chopper all within an hour of landing. Not long after that, I was leaving my point of departure, a firebase on the edge of the Korengal Valley in Kunar Province, when my chopper took a hit and went down. When I woke up, I was in a Chinook with an intravenous in my arm and nothing on but my skivvies. The first thing I thought about were my leave orders with your addresses on the back, so I asked the medic to hand me my pants. The medic said, ‘You’re wearing them. By the time we landed, the locals had stripped the wreckage of everything including your uniform. But consider yourself lucky. The crew didn’t make it. Whoever stripped the chopper thought you were like the others, or they would have finished the job. In fact, I thought rigor mortis had set in when I tried to pry your hand open.’”

“How did you find me?” Monica asks.

“I’ve been here ten days hoping and praying you were in town. During the day I went from store to store looking for you. At night, I hit the clubs. I remembered your saying you knew every club in town, so I figured I might come across you in one of them.”

Monica looks away from him. “I don’t believe you.”

Frank pulls a thin wallet from his front pants pocket and takes out the only thing in it—a clear plastic card, yellowed and ragged. “This was what was in my hand. The medic said he thought it must mean an awful lot to me because I was holding on to it so hard, so he saved it for me.”

He hands the card to her. “The minute I was discharged from the hospital, I bought this plastic card to protect it.”

She stares at the plastic card for a few moments. When she looks up, tears are in her eyes. “It’s a rose petal. From the rose I gave you. I remember the color like it was yesterday.”

She wipes her eyes and hands the plastic card back.

“Are you married?” he asks.

“No. Jack is just someone I’m seeing.”

“I promised you I would be back. I thought about you every day and night. Ever present in my mind was the thought to default on my contract—go AWOL—and come back early, so you wouldn’t think I had lied to you.”

“Aren’t you still in the Army?”

“I have another six months, but I’m living off base. In a townhouse. Would you like to join me?”

“I would.”

“How about tonight. After the party.”

“I can’t tonight. I want to prepare my dad for this sudden, out-of-nowhere, life-change. I didn’t tell you this before, but I live at home. If I didn’t go home tonight without telling him about you, he would be so alarmed he would have the police out looking for my car.”

“Wasn’t he alarmed when you spent the night with me?”

“I called him when you went into the 7‑Eleven and told him I had a flat tire. He understood.”

The door of the shop opens, and Jeanette comes out. She pauses beside the bench and says, “It was nice seeing you again Monica. When you have some free time, do stop by so we can chat for a while. We haven’t had a long talk all summer.”

After Janette leaves, Monica looks at the empty parking lot and says, “Don’t you have a car? I though Janette’s car was your car.”

“Mine is parked behind one of the other shops.”

“Jack is starting his car,” she says. “Do you have a piece of paper? I want to give you my number.”

“Just say it. I’ll remember.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me. Just say it.”

“631‑924‑0517”

“Got it.”

“Say it back just to be safe.”

“An interpreter never forgets a good-looking woman’s number.715-042-9136.”

“What! That’s not even close! Give me your hand. I’ll write my number on it.”

“You’re right. I had it backwards,” Frank says. “How about 631‑924‑0517?”

Monica is taken aback; regains her composure; gives Frank a hard look; and smiles. “That’s better,” she says.

Jack’s car stops in front of the bench. “Come on hon. We’ve got a party to go to. Ours.”

When Monica is in the car, Jack says to Frank, “Sorry we can’t invite you to tag along friend, but it’s a sit-down and all the chairs are taken.”

Frank walks to the car, puts his hands on the edge of Jack’s door, bends down, and looks Jack in the face. He smiles, moves close to Jack’s ear, and whispers, “Count the fingers on your right hand.”

Still smiling, Frank straightens up, and walks away.

Driving out of the parking lot, Jack looks in his rearview mirror. “There’s something wrong with that guy,” he says.

When Janette arrives to open her shop, she finds Frank sitting on the porch steps.

“Hi Janette. Do you remember me from yesterday? We weren’t introduced, but my name is Frank Rollins.”

“Of course. You’re Monica’s friend.”

“Janette, I’m in a very awkward situation. I can’t remember Monica’s last name. I’m sure you can imagine I don’t want to ask her what it is.”

Janette pats Frank on the arm. “Oh, what a predicament, but I’ll save you. I watched you and Monica from the window before I came out. I could see there was something special between you two, so I know she won’t mind. Monica’s last name is Overbrook. How do you know her?”

“We met about a year ago; just before I left for Afghanistan. Yesterday was the first time I had seen her since my return. We’re just now getting reacquainted.”

“Are you in the service?”

“The Army.”

“Have you met Winston, her father?”

“No. Monica and I just met briefly. I really don’t know anything about her.”

“I take it you don’t read the society section of Town & Country.”

“The magazine?”

“If you did, you would know Monica is a civic-minded young lady who spends quite a bit of time organizing and attending galas and balls to raise money for charity. She is very social, very high society.”

“Oh.”

“If you read Town & Country, you might notice she is never pictured with the same man twice. It’s a shame. She’s a beautiful girl with such a pleasing manner.”

“What's the problem?”

“I suppose I can tell you since it’s common knowledge.”

Frank nods.

“The men she goes out with are known as “90‑day wonders.”

“90‑day wonders?”

“She is notorious for going out with a man for two or three months and then dropping him for no apparent reason. Jack Watson, the man you met yesterday, has dated her for about two months, so his turn is coming up. She stops the show before it can get started. And the men keep coming. It’s amazing.”

“Oh‑oh. I think I’m in trouble.”

“Maybe not,” Janette says. “But I’ll give you a warning. Her father is a tough old bird who runs background checks on her “90‑day wonders,” and, if he has even the slightest suspicion they are out to take advantage of Monica, he runs them off in a flash.”

“Background checks on a child’s lover by wealthy parents seem to be standard procedure these days. Could it be her dad wants to be the only man in her life?” Frank asks.

Janette shakes her head. “No. Winston is a widower and would love to have grandchildren to keep him company. Monica is the problem. There is a lot of speculation as to why she is the way she is. Personally, I think she was hurt badly somewhere along the line and doesn’t trust men.”

“Could be,” Frank says, “or else she enjoys changing partners.”

“I don’t think so. She told me last summer she would gladly trade all her pictures in Vanity Fair and Town & Country for a color in the Times.”

“What does that mean?” Frank asks.

“The New York Times is where the society ladies announce their weddings. She’s searching for someone.”

One morning, about a month after Monica had moved in with Frank, she tells him it's time he met her father. She says she is at fault for not introducing him sooner, but it can't be put off any longer. Her father has insisted they come to the house that afternoon.

As Frank parks the car, he says, “Nice place your dad has.” He pauses. “You haven't been delaying this introduction because I'm a sergeant in the Army have you?"

"No. I told him upfront.”

"What did he say?"

"Nothing. Even though he didn't pursue the subject, I could see he was surprised. But it doesn't matter. He'll come around when he gets to know you. “

"Why the delay then?"

She takes Frank's hand and holds it tight. “These past few weeks have been the happiest of my life. I didn't want a single thing to change. But now I want you to know I love you, and, no matter what is said or what happens, I will go where you go. I will never leave you as long as you want me. You are deep inside me.”

He leans over, kisses her, and smiles. “Don't be afraid fairy princess. You're not alone.”

They enter the house and find Mr. Overbrook reading in the library. He puts his book aside and stands up.

“Dad, this is Frank.”

Winston Overbrook extends his hand. “We finally get to meet. I’ve been looking forward to it. Although I don’t see much of Monica these days, I had the feeling she was trying to keep you under wraps. What’s it been—a month since you encountered Monica at Jeanette’s?”

Frank takes Winston’s hand and says, “Yes. It’s been about a month.”

“Why don’t we go into my study,” Mr. Overbrook says. “Something arrived yesterday which I would like to share with both of you.”

They walk into a spacious, wood paneled room. “Sit in those chairs,” Winston says pointing to two leather chairs facing a desk. He points to some pictures on a table. “The pictures beside Monica’s are of my wife, Kate. She passed away when Monica was eleven, and it’s just been Monica and me since then.”

Frank picks up one the pictures of Kate and says, “Monica bears a strong resemblance to her mother.”

“She does,” Winston says. “I’m often reminded of Kate when I look at Monica.”

Winston leans against the edge of his desk and crosses his arms in front of him. “Monica tells me you are a gifted linguist who speaks several languages.”

“That’s correct,” Frank says.

“She says you are a sergeant in the Army who has just returned from a year in Afghanistan.”

Frank says nothing.

“The reason I insisted on this meeting,” Winston says, “is I want Monica to know who you really are.”

“Dad! What are you doing! What are you saying!”

Frank puts his hand on Monica’s arm and says, “It’s all right.” He looks at Winston and says, “Go on.”

“Jack Watson’s background check got to me first.” Winston picks up a folder from the top of his desk. “Jack was very concerned about Monica’s well-being, so he passed his agency’s report to me. His agency says James D. Rollins is a professional criminal who spent the last year in an Arizona prison for extortion. The reason it was only a year was because the witnesses against you disappeared just before the trial.” Winston takes a page from the file and hands it to Monica. Without looking at the picture, she hands it to Frank. Frank looks at the picture and says, “The mug shot does bear a strong resemblance to me—minus the tan of course.”

Winston says, “It’s not a resemblance; it’s you.” He puts the folder down and picks up another. “This is my agency’s report on your background. It says James D. Rollins is an up-and- coming insurance executive from Milwaukee with a wife and a baby who recently returned after a year in Europe with his company’s Swiss subsidiary.” Winston takes a picture from the folder and hands it to Monica. Once again, Monica hands the picture to Frank without looking at it.

Frank looks at the picture and says, “The little fella has my ears wouldn’t you say?”

Winston shouts, “Who are you!”

“Why don’t you take sit down Mr. Overbrook. I’ll explain everything.”

“You sure as hell better if you know what’s good for you.”

When Winston is seated, Frank walks to the desk, picks up the first folder, and hands it to him.

“On page three, you will find a copy of an article from an Arizona newspaper, the Nogales International. The fifth through the ninth lines are highlighted. They say James cut off three fingers from the right hand of a rival in a dispute over a woman.

“It’s here,” Winston says and hands the folder back to Frank.

Frank hands him the second folder. “On page 11, four lines from the bottom. It says James’ wife, Bitsie, was a debutant from a wealthy Boston family who prefers raising a family to being in high society.”

Winston nods his head. “That’s what it says.”

Frank places the folder back on the desk and sits down. “Mr. Overbrook, my name is not James D. Rollins. It’s Frank Keen. If your agency were to give you a report on Frank Keen, it would be a blank piece of paper. Frank Keen doesn’t exist—no tax return, no credit card, no DNA. Google has no links to him.”

Frank leans forward and says, “I’m an independent contractor who performs intelligence and counterintelligence services for a number of NATO countries. My father started the company after working for the federal government in a similar capacity. I learned the business from him and took over his contracts when he retired.

Frank looks at Monica. “Sorry to put you through this dear, but I wanted you and your father to have absolutely no doubt whatsoever as to who I am.”

There is long silence before Winston says, “Are your parents still alive?”

“Oh yes. Right now they are touring Turkey and Greece in a motor home.”

After another long silence, Frank says, “Mr. Overbrook, my annual income is in the high sevens when NATO is at peace and low eights when it is at war. If I hadn't met Monica, I would still be in the field, cashing in on troubled times. But now forever being on the road and in extreme danger has lost its appeal. The thrill is gone. I'm going to open an office and hire others to do the fieldwork.”

“That would be a smart move,” Winston says, “given the multitude of terrorist organizations in today’s world. When do you think you might make the switch?”

“I should know in a couple of months. However, whether it’s sooner, or whether it’s later, one thing is certain. It will be announced in The New York Times . . . with a color.”

Frank glances towards Monica. She seems puzzled. Suddenly, she gets up and walks to him. She puts her arms around him and whispers in his ear, “It’s now.”

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