boasting about him whenever people were around, not so much when
they were alone.
One night, Johnny came home late and saw a light in Amos’s den. He heard what sounded
like voices; curious as to who’d be visiting at two in the morning, he went quietly
down the hall, his footsteps muffled by the silk runner.
The door to the den stood ajar.
Johnny looked past it.
His father was standing before an enormous photo of Alden, a glass of bourbon in his
hand. From the looks of the bottle on the desk, he’d been drinking pretty steadily
all evening.
“You’re gone and I still I miss you, son,” Amos whispered thickly. “You were my dream
for the future of the Wildes and El Sue ño , and nobody can ever replace you.”
Johnny closed his eyes, then quietly backed away.
His father was right.
No matter how many football games he won, what grades he scored, how good an officer
he became, he could never replace Alden.
The next morning, he woke early and packed his things.
He didn’t have to be back at the academy for another two weeks, but he didn’t want
to be at El Sue ño any more. The ranch was a dream, all right, but not his.
Somewhere along the line, West Point had become home.
* * * *
The next years went by at lightning speed.
John—that was now how he thought of himself—did brilliantly.
His senior year, he was inducted into three academic honor societies.
He scored the winning touchdown in the most important game of the year, the battle
between the Point’s Black Knights and Annapolis’s Midshipmen.
He requested placement in Military Intelligence and, on graduation, he was assigned
to that branch of the service.
Sometimes he thought about how his life had changed. He’d found his place in the world,
though he’d never imagined it would be in an officer’s uniform. One terrible night
had turned him from a boy into a man.
Amos, of course, flew up for John’s graduation. After, they went back to Texas together.
John would stay at Wilde’s Crossing for only a few days; he was due to head for Italy
as the very junior member of a hotshot general’s staff. It was a plum job, especially
for a brand-new second lieutenant, and though he joked that it probably would involve
sussing out where the general could find the best veal Marsala in Rome, he was thrilled
with the assignment. He’d turned out to have a feel for languages; he was fluent in
Italian, and now would be his chance to put it to good use.
Amos threw his usual over-the-top welcome party, a Sunday afternoon barbecue.
John was uncomfortable.
He had little to say to his old high school friends. There was a world of difference
between them now, and he hung around just long enough to shake dozens of hands and
slap as many backs. Then he sneaked upstairs, changed from his uniform to jeans and
a T-shirt, clattered down the back staircase and took his graduation gift from Amos,
a shiny black Thunderbird, for a drive.
He’d thought it was an aimless drive, but half an hour later he found himself on Agnes
Cleary’s street.
He slowed the car as he approached the house.
It looked the same as ever: Small. Neat. Flowers growing in the yard.
Before he could overthink it, he pulled to the curb, stepped out of the Thunderbird,
smoothed down his jeans, marched briskly to the front door and rang the bell.
By the time the door swung open, he’d almost given up hope that Miss Cleary was home.
“Yes?” a voice said.
“Miss Cleary. It’s John…”
But it wasn’t his old benefactor, it was a middle-aged woman with a dust mop in her
hand.
He took a half step back.
“Is Agnes Cleary home?”
The woman frowned.
“Who are you?”
“John Wilde, ma’am. Miss Cleary was my teacher a long time ago.”
“Ah. I know your name, young man. My aunt often spoke of you.”
“Spoke?” John said.
“My aunt passed away in April. I’m here to try and put things in order before the
house goes on
they were alone.
One night, Johnny came home late and saw a light in Amos’s den. He heard what sounded
like voices; curious as to who’d be visiting at two in the morning, he went quietly
down the hall, his footsteps muffled by the silk runner.
The door to the den stood ajar.
Johnny looked past it.
His father was standing before an enormous photo of Alden, a glass of bourbon in his
hand. From the looks of the bottle on the desk, he’d been drinking pretty steadily
all evening.
“You’re gone and I still I miss you, son,” Amos whispered thickly. “You were my dream
for the future of the Wildes and El Sue ño , and nobody can ever replace you.”
Johnny closed his eyes, then quietly backed away.
His father was right.
No matter how many football games he won, what grades he scored, how good an officer
he became, he could never replace Alden.
The next morning, he woke early and packed his things.
He didn’t have to be back at the academy for another two weeks, but he didn’t want
to be at El Sue ño any more. The ranch was a dream, all right, but not his.
Somewhere along the line, West Point had become home.
* * * *
The next years went by at lightning speed.
John—that was now how he thought of himself—did brilliantly.
His senior year, he was inducted into three academic honor societies.
He scored the winning touchdown in the most important game of the year, the battle
between the Point’s Black Knights and Annapolis’s Midshipmen.
He requested placement in Military Intelligence and, on graduation, he was assigned
to that branch of the service.
Sometimes he thought about how his life had changed. He’d found his place in the world,
though he’d never imagined it would be in an officer’s uniform. One terrible night
had turned him from a boy into a man.
Amos, of course, flew up for John’s graduation. After, they went back to Texas together.
John would stay at Wilde’s Crossing for only a few days; he was due to head for Italy
as the very junior member of a hotshot general’s staff. It was a plum job, especially
for a brand-new second lieutenant, and though he joked that it probably would involve
sussing out where the general could find the best veal Marsala in Rome, he was thrilled
with the assignment. He’d turned out to have a feel for languages; he was fluent in
Italian, and now would be his chance to put it to good use.
Amos threw his usual over-the-top welcome party, a Sunday afternoon barbecue.
John was uncomfortable.
He had little to say to his old high school friends. There was a world of difference
between them now, and he hung around just long enough to shake dozens of hands and
slap as many backs. Then he sneaked upstairs, changed from his uniform to jeans and
a T-shirt, clattered down the back staircase and took his graduation gift from Amos,
a shiny black Thunderbird, for a drive.
He’d thought it was an aimless drive, but half an hour later he found himself on Agnes
Cleary’s street.
He slowed the car as he approached the house.
It looked the same as ever: Small. Neat. Flowers growing in the yard.
Before he could overthink it, he pulled to the curb, stepped out of the Thunderbird,
smoothed down his jeans, marched briskly to the front door and rang the bell.
By the time the door swung open, he’d almost given up hope that Miss Cleary was home.
“Yes?” a voice said.
“Miss Cleary. It’s John…”
But it wasn’t his old benefactor, it was a middle-aged woman with a dust mop in her
hand.
He took a half step back.
“Is Agnes Cleary home?”
The woman frowned.
“Who are you?”
“John Wilde, ma’am. Miss Cleary was my teacher a long time ago.”
“Ah. I know your name, young man. My aunt often spoke of you.”
“Spoke?” John said.
“My aunt passed away in April. I’m here to try and put things in order before the
house goes on
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