Chasing pearl, p.2
Chasing Pearl, page 2
Though dressed in civilian attire, United States Army First Lieutenant Chase Anderson stood behind the red velvet ropes in front of the white marble wall, nearly standing rigidly at attention though he likely didn’t realize it. His eyes stared in the direction of the gilded words “To the Memory of the Gallant Men Here Entombed and their shipmates who gave their lives in action on December 7, 1941 on the U.S.S. Arizona” followed by the long, long list of names and ranks.
Chase stood but did not read the words, did not glance left or right, did not hear the noises of the reporters and camera crews or the sailors alongside him. He stood very still, and the entire world, the solar system, the universe all rotated and spun around him like a cyclone. Chase Anderson remained motionless in the midst of the emotional maelstrom except that he swallowed hard over and over, and struggled to fight back unwanted memories and unmanly tears.
“Lieutenant Anderson?”
Had he looked to his left on the southwest of the white bridge known as the World War II Valor in the Pacific National Monument, he doubtless would have seen six of the nine total 16-inch main guns of the Battleship Missouri that guarded the watery graves of Battleship Row here in Honolulu. Had he spared a glance to his right to the northeast of where he stood, he would have seen the pylon that, like a bone white tombstone, marked the location where the Battleship Nevada had died on that day that will live in infamy, the first of so many ships that found a watery grave.
Beneath his feet, beneath the warm Pacific waves, the national cemetery known as the Battleship Arizona rested on her keel in the warm Pacific sand of Pearl Harbor’s ocean floor. If he had cared to, if he had paid any attention, his nostrils might have even detected the sharp smell of the oil and fuel that still leaked up from the superstructure of the sunken ship and perpetually slicked the surface of the water below the memorial bridge even now, so many decades after the Japanese attack.
While he stood at the epicenter of one of the most bloody and costly military attacks in the history of warfare, right in the very heart of Oahu’s Pearl Harbor, 1LT Anderson’s mind roamed far from the Pacific, far from Hawaii, far from the sights and sounds and smells and the unforgettable and undeniable weight of history that surrounded him on every side. Moments after he arrived at the velvet ropes, his eyes had locked on a single name in the long list; “ANDERSON, C CDR.” The moment Chase read the name and rank of his great-grandfather on this wall for the first time in his life, entirely unexpected and equally inexplicable grief had compressed the very heart in his chest like a tight fist.
Shortly after his arrival at his new duty station, the local news agencies had figured out that a living descendant and namesake of one of the names that adorned this marble wall had arrived on Oahu. They had approached the Army Public Affairs Office and requested permission to do a puff piece whenever Chase visited, just for local color. The Army Marketing Research Group had reached out to the first General Officer in Chase’s chain of command, and that General had ordered Chase to fully cooperate with the press, thus removing any choice he might have ever had in the matter.
Then, the very next morning, the National Park Service had closed the Arizona Memorial to the public “indefinitely” to make needed repairs. Chase breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t realized how much he hated the idea of visiting this place with cameras and uninformed nosy reporters watching his every move until he no longer had to. He went on with the business of minding his own business until that same afternoon when word came down that the US Army, the US Navy, and the US National Parks Service had all come to an arrangement that would allow Chase, the local press, and the PAO representatives to make a special trip. Apparently, as a descendant of a blood relative buried at sea with this ship, the powers-that-be did not consider the namesake of a descendant of one of the fallen buried here a member of the “public” and had granted special dispensation for this visit.
Standing here, now, blindsided by this emotional reaction, Chase could not imagine regretting his participation in the events of this day more. He finally heard the reporter at his elbow. He had no idea how long she had spoken to him.
“Lieutenant Anderson? Lieutenant Anderson do you want me to repeat the question?”
She had a microphone jammed in his face. The cameras were rolling. He blinked to keep from shedding the unwanted tears and turned to face her. Somehow, he found his voice. “Hey, uh, Mahealani right?”
“Impressive. Most newcomers don’t pronounce it right on the first try.” She smiled a bleached white smile.
“Yeah. Mahealani. Listen. I just got here a few days ago, and I’m still a little jet-lagged. I think I’m just a little scattered and not quite ready to go on the record just yet. Can you give me a few minutes to get myself together, please? I’d really appreciate it.”
To his surprise, she nodded and waved to the camera crew to shut down. “Of course, Lieutenant. Take your time.”
They all stepped back a respectful distance. The camera crews started snapping stills of the surroundings and Mahealani performed a redundant sound check and started nagging the National Parks guy about plans for repairs and reopening. Chase turned back to stare at his great-grandfather’s name on the wall.
“Who can I talk to?” Chase whispered. His voice spilled out so softly it sounded like a prayer.
As a very young child, he remembered his grandfather telling them about the attack that took place here. In November 1940, his great-grandfather Navy Commander Chase Anderson had left his family in Boston and traveled to College Station, Texas, to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with his son, Bartholomew, who attended Texas A&M as an Army ROTC cadet. On December 27th, CDR Anderson left Texas and traveled on to Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, assigned to the USS Arizona in the Pacific Fleet. Less than a year later, word reached Bartholomew, Chase’s grandfather, that his father, CDR Anderson, had died in the attack. His grandfather talked about receiving the news that his father had died and how hard it was to stay in school and finish his training instead of just dropping out and enlisting. Instead, he worked through the grief and graduated in 1942, accepting his commission as a second lieutenant in the United States Army.
After going through Airborne School in Georgia, Chase’s grandfather had received orders assigning him to the 11th Airborne Division, and he fought in the Pacific Theater. After serving twenty years and serving in combat in both World War II and Korea, he’d retired from the military. Grandpa Bart then became an unassuming accountant in a small firm in Boston, never giving a hint to anyone who didn’t know better about his past service to the United States.
Chase closed his eyes and breathed, “I really don’t know what to do, now.”
His own father, Barry, had not followed the family tradition of attending Texas A&M and joining the military. Strongly influenced by his fiancée, his father had pursued different goals. He had played professional football, including playing on the winning team in a Super Bowl, and then headed up one of the most prestigious law firms in Boston. Chase knew that his father, a prayerful man of God, had never felt any calling for the military life.
“Am I just supposed to keep stringing one day after another like some beaded necklace until I run out of string?” Chase whispered. “What’s the point?”
Chase accepted a football scholarship offer to the family’s university. As soon as he stepped foot on campus, he felt a calling to the ROTC department. The first time he put on the uniform, he knew he’d felt complete. Unlike his father, he did not pursue a professional football career after graduation. Instead, despite many offers, he headed to Fort Knox, Kentucky and the US Army Officer’s Basic Course. He graduated at the end of the summer and accepted his commission as a second lieutenant in the United States Army. Within less than a year, he found himself in Afghanistan.
“Daddy,” Chase choked.
Even though they’d recently celebrated his 75th birthday, everyone thought of Chase’s father, Barry, as young and fit. Six months ago, toward the end of Chase’s second deployment to Afghanistan, Barry had unexpectedly died. Leaving the funeral to return to a war zone let him compartmentalize and keep his father’s death compartmentalized. Since then, Chase had felt like he operated in a strange fog, just going through the day to day motions without any real passion behind them. He felt so very discontent about everything in his life right now and didn’t know what to do next.
He didn’t realize how much he’d pushed the grief to the back of his mind until he’d arrived in Fort Shafter, Hawaii, earlier in the week. Everywhere he looked he noted something he wanted to talk about with his dad. But his dad would never answer another phone call, email, or text message in this world. That silence, that absence, left a gaping hole in his life and in his heart.
Chase had thought that the extreme difference in Hawaii versus his old duty station in northern Virginia would help pull him out of his grief, but it had just compounded everything. No longer going through his days with the sense of hypervigilance living in a war zone requires, his brain suddenly allowed all those repressed thoughts and emotions to flood his mind and heart until the grief felt like he’d just heard the news this morning. Functioning from one day to the next became harder by the moment, and he thought maybe he needed more of a change than just his location on the globe.
“I miss you, Dad.” He closed his eyes again and silently prayed, asking God for the direction he sought. He wanted to make the right decision but didn’t know how. He knew, without a doubt, that God had a very specific plan for him, but he just didn’t have the clarity to see what that meant.
“Ready Lieutenant Anderson?”
Chase opened his eyes and painted a polite smile on his face. “Sure. Ask your questions, Mahealani.”
The group around him came to life. The Army and Navy had both sent photographers and representatives from their PAO offices, and the local press team numbered about half a dozen people. Cameras and microphones came to life, and trained experts aimed them at his head like weapons, hoping to get the best shot.
“Aloha. Today we’re here with special permission standing on the ‘closed to the public’ USS Arizona Memorial bridge with Army First Lieutenant Chase Anderson, a direct descendant of Navy Commander Chase Anderson, who lost his life so long ago during the Pearl Harbor attack. Lieutenant Anderson, you’re not in uniform today. Can you tell us why not?”
“Yes, Mahealani. I wanted to come here today and pay my respects as a citizen. I’m representing my entire family today, and that felt more personal than professional to me.”
To Chase’s astonishment and in spite of his guarded suspicions, Mahealani kept the remainder of her questions professional and respectful as well, very unlike most of the public he had encountered since arriving on the island and very different from the reporters his father had routinely dealt with outside of courtrooms all of Chase’s life. The interview also went faster than he thought. In less than half an hour, they wrapped up and headed back to the boat.
Pacific sunshine beat down on the back of Chase Anderson’s neck as the boat made way back toward the Pearl Harbor National Park dock. No other boats could use the dock. The US Navy was the only authorized entity to operate watercraft here. Only US Sailors could make this particular trip since the site was a national cemetery.
“Lieutenant Anderson? If you don’t mind my saying so, you did really great back there.”
Still guarded, Chase said, “Thanks.”
Mahealani hadn’t asked any hard questions. Should he stay in or get out? Should he pursue a civilian career doing what he loved, or should he take the upcoming promotion from to Army Captain and continue to serve? No easy answer.
“Lieutenant Anderson?”
Chase glanced down, realizing that Mahealani had continued speaking. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you. What?”
She grinned. “I said, ‘you don’t like reporters much, do you?’”
Chase kept his expression blank. “Nothing personal. Encountered a few worth disliking in my time.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You should probably know something, sir.”
Sir? Chase gave her his full attention. “What should I probably know?”
Mahealani jerked her head in the direction of the Arizona Memorial behind them. “You should probably know that my great-grandfather’s name is on that wall, too.”
Chase blinked. “I didn’t know that.”
“I know.” Her bleach-white smile gleamed even brighter against her tan skin in the direct sunlight. “It really has been great to do this with you. To tell the truth, I feel like you spoke for me, too.”
Chase started to feel a little guilty for his earlier suspicions. “I hope I honored you and your family, Mahealani, as you have honored mine.”
They pulled into the dock, and the sailors operating the boat moored them up and helped them to shore. He walked back to the bus stop that would take him to the parking lot. On the very short bus ride, he checked his phone. He’d missed a call from a Texas number.
A couple of screen taps later, he heard the voice mail. “Mr. Anderson. It’s about noon your time. I was hoping to catch you at lunch. Name’s Jacob Riley. I manage our local faith-based pee wee football program here in College Station. We’re holding a summer camp at Texas A&M for the kids, and our coach fell through. I was calling to see if you might be interested in helping coach. I sure would love to say we have Chase Anderson, quarterback for the Aggies, as our draw this year. If you’re interested, please call me back. Don’t concern yourself over the time of day.”
He rode his bike through the streets of Honolulu all the way back to his apartment. By the time he got home, sweat had soaked his hair beneath his helmet, and his breathing had increased along with his heart rate. Chase grabbed a bottled water and crossed the room, lowering himself into his leather recliner. He looked out the balcony window at the palm trees waving in the ocean breeze and the white clouds floating in the impossibly bright blue sky.
Pee wee football. He chuckled, thinking back to the days when he wore shoulder pads wider than his height, and how his mom and aunts had gushed and cooed about how cute he looked and how much he looked like his father in his football uniform.
His throat threatened to choke him again as he thought of his dad. He cleared his throat and thought about the days ahead.
If he took Riley up on this offer, it would burn up all six weeks of leave he’d accrued. He could spend a few weeks in College Station, reacquaint himself with his old college stomping grounds. Maybe he could reconnect with his church there and the friends he’d made through Bible studies. That could help him find some balance and focus in his life. Maybe he’d come out of there with a decision made about a certain email he’d received.
He pushed himself out of the chair and picked the phone up off the counter. Before he could change his mind, he dialed. Jacob Riley answered on the second ring. “Hello, Mr. Riley? This is Chase Anderson returning your call.”
CHAPTER 2
In an effort to open more rooms up to guests, Violet’s grandfather had converted the basement of the house into a suite of bedrooms for the family with a centralized family room. Her grandparents had a bedroom suite with a bathroom, Violet’s parents had a suite when they were alive, and Violet and Scarlett shared a bathroom that sat in between their bedrooms. Uncle Drew lived in an apartment he had built above the garage.
Her grandfather had set the rule to never allow guests into the family living quarters. As teenagers, each girl had broken that rule after making friends with the children of guests, and their grandfather had come down hard on them both times. He stressed the family space provided a sanctuary from guests, a place where the family members could recharge their energy drained from serving the public.
During the daytime, after breakfast and before supper, whenever she could, Violet escaped to the family room. In her mind, she actually considered it escaping. The older she got, the more interacting with the public drained her, emotionally and mentally, and she wished she could tell her grandfather how much she appreciated his foresight with his no guests rule.
Usually, she took that time to either sleep off an all-night writing sprint, or to pick up her computer and write. This afternoon, though, she sat on the couch with Drew and went over the guest list for the coming week. “The coach for Jacob’s pee wee camp arrives today,” she said, making a notation on the computer printout. “His name is Chase Anderson.”
Drew’s bushy black eyebrow shot up. “Chase Anderson? Really? You mean like ‘quarterback for Texas A&M,’ Chase Anderson?”
Despite growing up in College Station, Texas in a family of Aggie fans, Violet had no interest in sports. Ever. At all. Except for the Olympics. She loved the Olympics. “Whatever greases your wagon wheels.”
“Well, I reckon you’re a fan of his sister. You watched her in the Olympics.”
“His sister?”
“Yeah. Jade something. Played volleyball.”
“Jade Elliott is his sister?” She looked at the name Chase Anderson again, picturing the tall dark-haired woman who won the silver medal two Olympics in a row. “Well, put the little pot in the big pot.”
Drew laughed and slapped the couch cushion. “Girl, you crack me up. That boy there took us to three national titles, and you’re all goo-goo over a girl who plays volleyball in a swimsuit.”
Violet grinned. “Well, we all have our own priorities.” She stood and tossed the guest list onto the couch. “I’m going to go Weedeat the parking lot and the front of the house. I have Wilma cleaning room 6 right now for Jacob’s Mr. Anderson. When she’s done, can you pay her?”
“Sure. Do you have her check?”
She walked over to the little desk against the wall and pulled up the spreadsheet on her laptop. “We owe her for cleaning six rooms and turning over three.” She wrote out a check and signed it. “Tell her Gran wants some more pre-mixed bags, too. Another week’s worth. She can come any time this week to do it. I wrote up the recipes for each bag.”
