Jack in the Bag

Steven woke in tremendous pain to the steady sounds of beeping accompanied by smells of antiseptic, and something else entirely. He opened his eyes, squinting at first, but aware he was in a hospital bed. He glimpsed at the chair where his slashed harness along with his coveralls and Carhartt coat were haphazardly tossed, costing at least a week’s salary. Steven couldn’t care less about any of it.

"You, child, are lucky to be alive," he heard his nurse echo in his stupor.

“You probably say that to all your charming patients, give them false hope.” Steven said through a drugged, pained grimace.

“There is no such thing as false hope, there is only hope, but being handsome does help.” She winked and left.

He’d sustained a couple of broken ribs, a fractured ankle, and superficial scratches and abrasions covering a third of his body. He lay limp in the bed, grateful for having survived such a freak accident, and thankful for the morphine to help him forget.

The storm the previous night had downed so many trees deep in what's known as Devil's Backbone and for good reason. Towering trees with thick, intertwined canopies stretched high into the sky, blocking much of the sunlight, especially in early fall. Underfoot, the ground was always soft with layers of fallen leaves this time of year in the east, while ferns and shrubs still managed to thrive in the shadowy underbrush. The air was cool that early November morning as Steven breathed in deep the faint scent of earth and wood. The forest felt secluded, peaceful, and untouched by time, with a sense of mystery lurking in its darkened corners.

That sense of wonder was the part of the job Steven looked forward to every day for 10 years. After three tours in Afghanistan, the only place he felt safe was in these woods he’d grown up in, where he and his kid-sister, Hope, used to be fearless. His beloved sister, just 14, had died of leukemia while he was away in Marine boot camp when he was just a teen, barely driving age. Steven never had the chance to say goodbye.

He lived alone in their parent's old homestead, and at 40 and never married, his dreams of a family with that white, picket fence had likely passed. Lumberjacking became his life. Yet, ever since, when Steven entered those woods, his sister was beside him in spirited, dancing shadows. It always forced a melancholic smile. 

That day, he was taking down “swayers” as they were known. The biggest and weakest first. Steven had his eye on a massive oak that had clearly taken a hit of lightening. The top half was leaning at a dangerous angle and had to come down before it fell on its own.

All Steven recalled was the first few cuts into the tree, hearing a sharp crack from above, and something heavy crashed down, knocking him off his feet. His shoulder hit the ground hard, pain shooting through his arm. He was shoved to the ground and his ankle screamed in pain. Steven gasped, trying to catch his breath.

It took a moment to register that he’d been struck by a massive eagle's nest, now shattered, and broken beside him. Steven tried to move but was unable to dislodge his right arm from under the debris. In all his years as a lumberjack, Steven never comprehended the magnitude of these nests. White feathers as long as his arm, stuck out from branches; both raw flesh and petrified carcasses, exuded a smell that made him wretch.

Steven reached his emergency walkie with his free arm, pressing 911. Realization he’d escaped the most dangerous part of the political world, yet he was nearly killed in his own, perfectly familiar backyard, his safe haven.

What began as just another long day of cutting timber in the woods had turned into something far more extraordinary, and not only because of Steven's unusual accident, hours earlier. At the moment, it had much more to do with the strange smelling, soiled paper bag on his tray-table labeled in scrawled black marker, Jack - rm 32.

*****

When the nurse came to check Steven’s vital signs, she reassured him that he’d be discharged home the following day, provided he remained stable throughout the night. Steven gestured to the brown-paper bag with Jack rm 32 written on it. 

“Who’s Jack? Must have the wrong room.”

The nurse brought the tray-table within reach. “You’re jack, silly, as in lumberjack.” She made air-quotes around the last word. “It's so rare, your accident, but it's tradition- when a ‘jack’ gets hit by a nest while on the job, the jack gets to keep everything in that nest. So, this is yours, you’re jack in room 32.”

Steven had never heard of such a tradition but then again, he’d never been struck by a nest. He'd always kept to himself, since returning home. So rarely did he go out with the guys for a beer, they stopped asking. He felt out of place in this world, especially without his sister. He glanced at the paper-bag – at least there’s this, he thought and grunted a painful chuckle.

Only able to maneuver with his left arm, Steven brought the bag to his lap and the stench grew stronger, reminiscent of the shattered nest. He opened the bag and found several items that if Jack would’ve had to guess beforehand what it contained, he’d have been dead wrong.

He figured shiny coins for sure, those totaled $4.85. Several sets of car keys, and there were at least 5 small animal collars, some with bells and tags, names like Queenie and Snowball. This brought tears to Steven’s eyes.

After a short breather, he continued. The tags had identification phone numbers, but Steven knew he could never bring himself to call anyone, better to have the families believe their pet ran away. There were several odd shiny objects, a small hand-mirror, and old watch no longer displaying the correct anything. Lastly, he fished out a faded, pink leather book from the bottom of the bag.

Steven knew right away what it was, his sister had a similar book, Hope's was purple. He gently placed the diary on his lap and put the bag and its contents on the floor. He sat for a moment staring at the tattered, pink diary, its shiny, albeit somewhat rusted, clasp, and the tiny key still in the lock. It made sense that an eagle would spot that shine from a mile away, and lifting a diary was easy, compared to a small animal. Steven shivered; he loved animals as much as people.

It was wrong to read someone's private writings, however, this diary was not new. It’s pages appeared yellowed; lock so rusted, it may not open. If it were his sister’s, he’d be curious, but he’d never ever read it. Then, something, a whisper, his sister’s voice he’d so often allowed guide him through missions, it's okay, Stevie.

Curiosity got the better of Steven. This belonged to a stranger, maybe long gone, so he flipped the lock. The front flap read, this diary is private and belongs to Sally Worthington. There were flower stickers around her name. The yellowed pages spanned a few years of on and off entries, but at the end they became more frequent, longer.

Steven decided to start at the end and read backwards. Oddly, the final entry was in very different handwriting, and signed, like a letter. He skipped to the previous entry, which matched penmanship of the rest of the diary, and Steven began reading from there...

November 1, 1968

Dear Diary -

I don’t know how to write this. I don’t even know how to feel. Johnny leaves tomorrow for Vietnam, and I’ve been sitting here for days, trying to figure out how to tell him the one thing that’s been on my mind since I found out two weeks ago.

I’m pregnant.

I can hardly believe it myself. A baby… our baby. I should be happy, and quietly, I am. But more than anything, I’m scared. How do I tell him now? How do I look into his eyes, knowing he’s about to board a plane for God knows where, and drop this on him?

I want to tell him tonight. I pray the words will be there. He will stand there on my front porch with that brave smile, pretending not to be scared about what’s ahead. Can I do it? Ask him to carry this weight when he’s already leaving to fight a war?

The one thing I know for certain, Johnny loves me. I owe him this.

Maybe, I’ll tell him this afternoon, when he stops by for our private goodbyes, but I don’t even like thinking about that. For now, I just need to put this somewhere—somewhere safe, where I can get it out of my heart. You’ll be with me right here in my handbag, for courage. I wish I could be brave, like him. But I guess that’s why I’m writing this here instead of saying it out loud. Like practicing for the school play next month.

Maybe tomorrow will be easier. Just as he’s getting on the bus, I will whisper this in his ear, “You are going to be a Daddy.” That will surely give him something to look forward to before he leaves. I’ll figure out when I see him in just a few hours from now. And I’ll know. x

____________________________

Hi Sally! It's me. Johnny! 

I don’t know how to start this, so I’ll just say it—I’m sorry. I ain’t good at goodbyes, never have been. I don’t like to see the people l love with sad faces because of me. Now, obviously you also know I found this little pink book.

I know! I know! I wasn’t supposed to look at a girl’s private thoughts, but you left it open inside your bag when you went inside, and I couldn’t help myself. I read it. Not the whole thing, Scout's honor, I ain’t that quick a reader, but if I could’ve, I would’ve – I want to know everything about you going back to fifth grade, but I just read the last entry, so please forgive me.

I read about the baby. Our baby!

I know you’re scared. I am too. But if there’s one thing, I’m sure of in all of this madness, it’s you. You, and me, and this baby we’re going to have, it’s gonna be great, I promise.

I wanted to stay, to tell you that you don’t have to be scared alone, that we’re in this together. But you know me—I’ve never been good at goodbyes. If I didn't leave, I'd never be able to leave. I couldn’t stand to look into your eyes knowing what I know now. I’d not stop holding onto and I'd be AWOL!

So, I’m writing it here. I love you, more than anything. I’ve always known that, but now I know we’re forever. When this damn war is over—I’m coming home to marry you, Sally Worthington. Until then, I will dream about my forever family! You've made me the happiest soldier alive.

Take care of our baby, my love. I’ll be coming back for both of you- my future.

I Love you,

Johnny xo

PS. I’m putting this back in your purse now, didn’t need to read any further back, promise. I sure hope you smile when you find me here in your diary.

___________________________

Steven gently relatched the diary and laid it on his lap. He tried to puzzle together what he’d read. It dated back to the Vietnam War. He didn’t need to read anymore. Clearly stolen by an eagle, Steven needed to return this diary to its rightful owner. He felt an excitement growing for the first time in a long while. A real sense of purpose.

When Steven was discharged the following morning, he was well aware he should’ve taken the doctor’s advice and gone home on strict bedrest. Instead, Steven wasted no time, and made his way, crutches, casted-arm, and all, by taxi, straight to the town municipality, where he was given the address of a Mrs. Sally Worthington, residing in Appleton, less than 20 minutes’ drive.

Steven wasn’t sure why he was so determined. Sure, he’d been a decent kid, a decorated Marine, and a hardworking lumberjack, but he was shy by nature, kept to himself. It was his sister, again, giving him some sort of push to follow his heart. So, Steven did just that.

********

A secret is only a secret if never shared. Sally Worthington had lived her life based on that very premise for nearly six decades. At 77 years old, of course she’d never forgotten but she'd long since forgiven him. She was content to spend her waning years alone, where she'd always lived, in her childhood home. Along with being an avid reader, gardening and knitting kept her busy. Guilty pleasures, such as reality-television, a peaceful afternoon nap, and a nip of vermouth while cooking her best dishes, kept her comfortable.

Truth be told, Sally garnered most of her joy, once a week when her only son and grown granddaughter visited for tea. Sally believed she was truly happy. Could a lie we've lived, suddenly become a truth?

Then one day, a man appeared at Sally's door. “Be right there,” she yelled from inside. The door opened a crack, “Can I help you?” She noticed a handsome young man on crutches and a casted arm.

“Oh dear, are you okay, son?” She opened the latch.

“I believe this belongs to you.” The young man stepped back and held out the faded, pink diary.

Sally stared, then she reached for it. The man let her take it, then he gestured to the porch bench.

"Mind if I sit a spell, my leg and all. I'd like to explain why I’m here, bringing this to you.” he said.

Sally stepped over the threshold onto the porch, diary clutched in her hand. She gingerly sat on the seat next to the stranger, then moved towards him. “Oh, pardon my manners, can I get you some water, tea, perhaps?”

“Oh no, thank you so much, please stay. I need to get on my way soon, doctor's orders, and all."

“Where on earth did you find…well, I know this is mine without even opening it, but it’s been missing,” she looked away, “well let’s just say, I believed it was stolen from me, by... well, someone. Wherever did you find it?”

“This is gonna be hard to believe, it was even for me. Ma'am, your diary was stolen but not by a person, but by a bald eagle.”

“A what?” She glanced towards me and gasped. “Like the bird? Well, how…where…?” Her face was flushed, as if memories were flooding in.

“Long story short, I'm a lumberjack. Yesterday, I was struck by a falling bald eagle's nest. Your diary was in the nest. Honest, it was never my intention to be nosey, but I was looking for a name to return it. Then, I saw the last two entries and only because they were so different. I couldn't rest until I was certain you had read that last entry, er, letter I guess I should say."

Sally felt her lips pinch like a sinched purse, as she carefully unlatched the diary and flipped to the last entry. She read in silence. It didn’t take long for tears to well and fall from her eyes. “I don’t know how....what to say, mister, um, I'm sorry, I never got your name.”

“No apologies, I'm Steven.”

She glanced back at the diary. "In case you’re wondering, Steven, I had Johnny's baby. In those days, it was just the way. But even if I believed Johnny didn’t love me, I knew I’d love our baby, regardless.

“For years, I believed Johnny had read my last entry and ran off with it - didn’t want any proof he was a father. Next day, he left for Vietnam. I told Charlie all these years what I believed to be a lie, that his dad loved us and died a hero for his country. I’d only learned several years later that Johnny had been killed in action, was a real hero.

"All these years, I felt sinful lying to my son, but I needed Charlie to believe he was loved by his dad. I held onto such resentment for so long. What an old fool I was to doubt Johnny’s love? Until today, I believed he never loved me.” She looked up at the man, cheeks warm with tears. "Thank you, Steven."

“Well, I best be going now." Steven slowly stood. "I’m happy you finally got your diary back and the true story.” He turned to leave. "Nice making your acquaintance. You have a good day."

“Steven, would you like to come for tea next week, meet Charlie? I want to share our incredible story. Meet the young gentlemen, who mended an old lady's heart in one afternoon.” She opened the diary to the last page and handed the man a pen.

“It would be my pleasure to meet your son, ma’am.” Steven jotted down his cell number in her diary, she noticed his hand shaking. “This world needs more of these stories.”

“Bless you, Steven. You have done more than you know for me today.” She stood as the man made his way down her porch steps. “I’ll be calling on you for tea.”

She held the diary pressed to her chest. "My family really is my gift from Johnny, aren't they, Steven? And I’ll be sure Charlie brings my granddaughter. I believe she’s about your age, now isn't that something." Sally Worthington grinned wide. “You’ll meet my beautiful, Hope.”