Save One Love

"Its unsportsmanlike, I think," Jack said.

Hattie whirled her arm. Strike.

"She's fast," Sharon said.

"Yeah."

"You know," Sharon went on, "she might be good enough to play varsity next year."

"We'll see. I'm not sure I want her around juniors and seniors," Jack said, as the batter popped up weakly to first.

Sharon nodded. "Being good enough is not necessarily the most important factor."

Hattie struck out 9 in a six inning game. She had one hit, two walks, and three stolen bases. Her team won handily.

*

Chapter 4: August, 2015 School Days

This is Hattie.

It was my first day of high school, my first day at Merciful Saviour with a u, as if we're British or colonials or something. I had to pay attention as the teacher got to the middle of the alphabet.

"Mike King," she called.

"Here. I'm called Mickey," a boy to the right said.

"Okay," responded the teacher, writing it down. She acted like she wanted to know us.

"Sarah Leslie."

"Here. People call me Hattie," I said.

"Got it. Hattie?" she asked.

"From my middle name. Haddad," I said.

Mrs. Rinker looked up at that one-I think I have the only Arab middle name in Sky Grey. My birth father was Syrian, so I'm probably a mix of lots of things. She looked at me as though she wanted to remember my face, but it was the first day of school and she had a lot of faces to remember.

"Thomas Madden," she called out next.

"Here," said T.J. in the front.

It went on, almost forever.

We might be freshmen in high school, but some of us were still pretty small. A lot of the girls had shot up now that they were fourteen, taller than a lot of the guys. Unfortunately, I was still just an inch over five feet, thin, and my hair might be wavy but it could become a rat's nest for any provocation: wind, humidity, too much tossing. Dad wanted me to cut it short but I liked having it to my shoulders, anyway. Grandma liked the longer hair, too. She liked it when I put it in pony tails or braids when it hangs down my back. No matter how long the hair, I was still short.

The roll went on, and in every class, as the teachers assigned seats and tried to memorize names. It dominated the first day in every class in every school, probably. I knew most of the kids in this history class from past years. Grandma talked Dad into sending me to the Catholic schools, so here I was at Merciful Saviour High now. She didn't like that the public school had dropped cursive writing because keyboarding was dominant, so the choice was made before I was in first grade. I guess it seemed important to them way back then. I didn't mind, really, but it would have been nice to go to school with some of my other friends. I have lots of them at both schools, but I've always been with the Catholic kids. They were familiar.

I noticed Mrs. Rinker was talking about our first assignment and I had to listen in. She was giving us a written assignment the first day of high school! She's a battle axe, I can tell. She's real thin-she said she runs for enjoyment, and that's always a bad sign. It's going to be a long year if this is any indication.

Interview a parent, guardian, or grandparent and find out the circumstances of your family. Go back one generation at least. What significant events did your grandparents take part in, or your parents? What historical events of their lives were most memorable or important to them, even if they were not directly involved? Explain what those events were, why they were important to your mom or dad or grandma. Were they part of social trends or traditional, like did they join Hell's Angels in the '60s or dodge the draft or something else cool?

I dreaded that; my family is dull. Dad and Grandma and Grandpa are from Sky Grey, and what is duller than a small town even if big things are happening out in the world? Dad writes or reads all the time-he doesn't even date. He did get shot in the war, so maybe I could ask about that. He never talks about it, and I know it's connected to my adoption, so maybe he'll tell me that story. Finally.

In some other classes I had to describe my summer vacation. In science I have to find a fossil by tomorrow. The kids were all panicky about that, but then I laughed and said they are all over any roadcut or bridge or even hills, just find some rocks and look carefully. In English she handed out To Kill a Mockingbird; we have to read some chapters by tomorrow.

Dad was home by supper as usual, and Grandma had it ready. Home in this case meant my grandparents' house; Dad and I live down the street on our own. Grandpa came in and sat at the head of the table and I sat across from Dad. We usually ate supper at Grandma and Grandpa's during the school year since I don't have a mom.

"How was your first day of high school, Hat?" Dad asked.

"Okay, I guess. I have algebra first bell, an old guy named Mr. Milkin teaches it. He seems alright. Second bell is American History with Mrs. Rinker. She's the softball coach. She gave us homework already. I need to interview one of you about significant historical events in your lives, or anything. I have biology then, and I can't remember the lady's name...," I said.

I went on through my day, and I noticed Dad and my grandparents giving each other looks. They had a secret or something they weren't letting me in on, like the time I got a new bike and it was hidden in the garage, or the time my cousin Mike was almost killed in a car wreck but then he finally was okay. They had something to tell me and they couldn't keep it secret. Maybe about THE ADOPTION. Finally. What's the big deal?

"What?" I said. "I know you have something to tell me."

Dad had that serious look on his face and I was suddenly scared.

"I think when we finish the roast beef, we should go sit in the living room. I promised you I'd tell you about your family, what little I know. It's also about how I adopted you. I think your teacher will approve your essay if you choose to write about it."

I felt funny. "Finally, you're going to tell me now? I don't know how to feel," I said, smiling.

We went into the living room and I sat between Dad and Grandma on the couch, and Grandpa sat in the overstuffed chair that doesn't go with the couch. Everyone was so serious all of a sudden, as if this terrible burden had been placed on them and now would be placed on me, too.

Dad said, "I waited until now because it is not an easy story to tell or hear. It is a part of you, a legacy, a story I think you should tell your children. Not everyone has a story like this in their history. It's not a happy story, in itself, except that I became father to you."

He spoke on for thirty minutes. Shortly after it started, Grandpa came over and sat next to Grandma, and when I became upset and changed position onto Grandma's lap, he rubbed my back some.

It was as if my life meant something and had purposes I'd never realized. It involved Dad, my birthparents, and I found out I had three brothers once. It had Navy SEALs (I found out what those were), Islamic extremists, murder, courage, helicopters and probably dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of people who risked their lives or worked together to save me. And some died doing it, or like Dad were crippled for the rest of their lives, or wounded. I cried, softly. Dad kissed my hair a few times between his sentences. I could not help the tears. Men were shot, helicopters flew to help me. My feet were in Dad's lap, and he would squeeze them sometimes. Nobody but Dad said anything. Grandma kissed my forehead some.

Dad finished.

How do you keep your poise when you discover your family was slaughtered saving your life?

We sat for a while in the dark living room. A few minutes later, Grandpa got up and went to get a pop. Dad picked me up and held me like I was a little kid, my arms around his neck. Grandma got up and got ready for bed.

Finally, after I was calm and some time had passed, I asked Dad for advice on how to start, meaning my essay for class, and he said, with a story this heavy, "you might want to lean into it. Slide into it. Find a humorous or amusing anecdote related to it, and then gradually explain" the awesome tragedy of the experience. He called it "emotional power."

I wrote then, starting over several times, but finally I started like this:

We were at a church picnic two years ago, and some man was making fun of Dad for his limp-nothing really mean, but almost inappropriate. Dad smiled, and someone told the guy Dad was shot in the back of his right thigh in the war. I knew that much, a lot of people did-his leg has a lot of scarring and his limp is noticeable. The man said, "In the back of the leg? Probably running away!" I remember the man laughing and a few people feeling uncomfortable at the insinuation of cowardice, all of them sneaking looks at Dad.

Dad just laughed along and said, "As a matter of fact, I was." I think Dad knew he was not a coward.

He spoke truly at the picnic, but not completely. He WAS running away because people were shooting at him-and I was in his arms.

*

Chapter 5: Laeesha

Labhaoise Rinker went by Louise or Louisa, the English equivalent of her Gaelic name. She had argued with her parents about their insistence she keep the Gaelic spelling, and now that she was many years a history teacher she had developed a fondness for the pronunciation discussion. She and most of the world pronounced it close to the Gaelic: Laeesha. Ignore the bh, they are decoration. To most people she was Louise, and so be it. She'd never been to Ireland, and Patrick Pearse was just an historical figure to her, not an inspiration. She didn't take sides in that long dispute.

It was the second day of school and she was early, as always, with a mass of things to do and so still in a hurry, her arms full of posters and papers and four textbooks stuffed in a bin. She climbed the stairs directly to her room, not stopping in the mailroom-she'd check in once she had these things in her room. She turned the corner in her hall and was brought up short.

Sitting on the floor outside her room, reading a book, was a huge man of perhaps 40. He looked up and saw her, smiled, and with a little difficulty got to his feet. He was even bigger than she'd thought. He must have been 6'3", and he was not thin. Not fat, but a big man.

"Mrs. Rinker? May I help you with that?"

"Yes, thank you." She handed him the bin, fumbled for her keys and unlocked her room.

"I'm Jack Leslie, Hattie's dad." He followed her in and put the bin on a student desk. "I did stop in downstairs. Sharon and I go back a few years. She said I could wait up here."

"I didn't expect a parent conference so soon," she said, not sure if this was a good visit or not.

"I understand. I just need a minute of your time and I'll go. Last night, Hattie explained about her assignment in your class, to discover historical connections with her family's past."

He spoke slowly, quietly, not as if reticent but as if trying to parse his words so he used those most appropriate. "Yes, I get some wonderful stories from the students every year I've done it."

"I think it's a great assignment. I took advantage of it and for the first time told her the story of how she came to America. I wanted to wait because it is violent and sad and overwhelming, but she's 14 and we were all together-her grandparents and me, I mean. She was upset by the story. I don't know if she's finished the essay yet. I know it's not due until tomorrow. If you could keep your eye on her, let me know if she's upset in class?"

"Of course. You have me wanting to read her story very much, though with trepidation. I didn't mean to cause emotional distress."

Leslie was shaking his head. "No, it was my decision to tell her. She needed to be told. I had promised to tell her when she reached high school. It's one of those stories a family should never forget. I look forward to your reaction when you read it. If she writes it all." He paused. "I'll be going," he finished.

She listened to him carefully. "It's been nice meeting you, Mr. Leslie."

"Jack, please. Thank you again."

He turned and left, and she noticed a serious limp-probably aggravated by sitting on the floor waiting. She shook her head. She'd never had a dad ambush her before school worried about the emotions of his daughter.

She went to the mail room and collected twenty or thirty papers for the second day of school. She stopped in Mrs. Martin's office.

"Mrs. Martin, what can you tell me about Jack Leslie?"

Sharon Martin was behind her desk, fiftyish, thin, sharp, and with a pleasant disposition that did not mean easy.

"You met? Good. He's a good one, Louise. Completely devoted to his daughter."

"What about her mother?"

"Jack adopted her as an infant. He's never been married."

"Wow. A man adopting a girl..."

"I don't know the whole story, I don't know anyone who does. He said he wanted to tell Hattie when she was older, and no one until then. As far as I know, no one knows. Probably her grandparents. Anyway, it goes back to his days in the war, I know."

"He limps, I saw."

"He was going to make a career in the Marines, but the wound ended that. He has a Ph.D. in history, by the way. You must have seen his books. Caleb and the Colonel? Mary's Mind? Jacob Leslie. That's all I know. Never married... Hint." Sharon was smiling.

Mrs. Rinker hesitated a moment. "Come on, Sharon, you should know that the tall, handsome, degreed, gimpy, ex-Marine-with-a-heart-of-gold-for-his-adopted-daughter is hardly my type."

"Your standards may be a little high. Hattie is striking, isn't she?" Sharon said.

"Yeah, she is. She'll find some boys here."

"She's a pitcher. Softball."

Laeesha smiled and headed back to her room. Coaches always needed more pitchers.

Laeesha, assuming it was Leslie, was pleased when her classroom phone rang about 4.

"Mrs. Rinker? Jack Leslie. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Not at all. Call me Louise. Or Laeesha, like my folks."

"Good. I had no idea how to pronounce Labhaoise. Gaelic I guess."

"Yeah, my parents wanted me to connect with the old country."

She went on. "Anyway. I noticed nothing difficult with Hattie. She had red eyes this morning, as if she'd been crying or missed a lot of sleep. But she said nothing when I asked how the papers were coming along."

"I thought so. I guess that's better than weeping and all."

"Jack, what is it in her story?"

"A massive tragedy. I'll let her tell you in the essay, if she has the guts. If not, I'll tell you myself next I see you. I'll let you go. Thanks, Labhaoise," he said, butchering her name at the end. He hung up.

Leslie picked Hattie up after school and drove to his parents' home for supper. His parents were very close to Hattie. His mom loved having her around and mostly tolerated Jack.

"So, what do you think of Mrs. Rinker?" he asked, trying to avoid his real concern. He didn't tell her he'd stopped in and met her.

"I like her. She seems tough, though. Kind of pretty, about your age. You ought to give her a call."

"Hattie," Leslie scolded, shaking his head, "you know I don't date married women."

"She's not married, Dad. She said some people just called her Mrs. and it stuck."

He thought that changed things and smiled. "So how's the essay, then?" he asked right out.

"I finished it this morning. I couldn't sleep. It made me cry."

"Could I read it? It's up to you, though," Leslie asked.

She nodded. "It's on the computer. I think it's pretty good. I'll change a few things probably before I turn it in." She hesitated and then asked, "Do you know where they're buried?" she asked.

He had not realized that she might want to see the graves. Of course she would-they were family. "In Michigan. I can find out the exact cemetery if you want to see the graves."

She looked at him. "I'd like that. They're kind of a part of our family, too. Maybe some weekend?"

"We could go overnight or make it up there and back in one long day, if you'd like. Would you like Grandma and Grandpa to come? They might be interested."

"I would. It's like I want the whole world to know how good these people were, even though I can't remember them."

Jack nodded. "You were only five weeks old, Hat. I don't think you could even roll over yet. I do understand you, though. They definitely are part of the family. They must have been extraordinarily loving of you."

She sent him her essay in an email that he read that evening. It was not long. Five pages, typed with normal spacing, but those pages recounted Leslie's words almost exactly, skipping details but recounting a tragic event and how it led to her adoption. He liked the start, and she'd used the Jewish saying "save one life, save the world" as its theme. The whole thing was far more touching than the usual essay. He wondered what the teacher would think.

The next day, Friday, his phone rang after the school day ended.

"Jack Leslie, please."

"This is Jack."

"Jack, the essay...Hattie's essay. Oh my God, Jack! I've never had such a story from a student. I don't see how anyone with a heart could read it without crying. I can't compare this to others. I mean, some of them are about their grandparents meeting Neil Armstrong in McDonald's or being able to drink 3.2 beer in the seventies. Jack..." There was silence for a few seconds. "It's just outstanding. Such a story. You were lucky, weren't you?"

He nodded and agreed. "Very. And more that they took me seriously when I pursued the adoption, recently crippled and with few real prospects."

"I am astounded, Jack. She's a very good writer," she said. "She understands what makes the story touching." A few moments passed.

"Laeesha, would you like to meet us for some ice cream? At the Aramis parlor, in 15 minutes. I'm meeting Hattie there."

There was only a slight pause. "Love to, see you there."

Hattie was sipping on a pineapple milk shake sitting in a booth at Aramis-just the third Aramis parlor-when Mrs. Rinker walked into the store. Instead of ordering at the bar, Mrs. Rinker found Hattie as if she'd known she were there and made a beeline to her table.

"Hattie, your father asked me to join you, if that's okay."

Hattie looked surprised. "He asked you? ASKED you? Dad never asks women... Sure, have a seat. So Dad knows you?"

They sat there for a minute in silence, not quite awkwardly, not quite easily.

"He talked to me yesterday. I read your essay," Mrs. Rinker said. "It is one of the most moving stories I've ever heard from a student."

Hattie, eyes down for a moment, started to say something but stopped and then looked straight at her teacher, leading Laeesha to notice again the distinctive blue eyes under dark hair. This kid uses emotion and expression as well as any 14-year-old I've ever taught, she thought. She wondered if Hattie used that talent to manipulate her grandparents or father.

"Thank you, it was difficult for me to write. I only learned the story Wednesday talking to Dad," Hattie said.

"It has sacrifice and love and history. You used the scientific method to guide you, didn't you? The conclusion-your hope to find their graves and visit soon, to write the people hurt saving you-you write from the heart and that is such a rare thing in kids or adults. You could be a writer someday."

"I think I'd like to be. Dad writes for a living now." Hattie was smiling-looking over Laeesha's shoulder.

She heard Jack. "Oh no, they're fomenting," Jack said. "I can tell fomentation and this is definitely fomentation. Two women in cahoots."

Hattie smiled, "At least it's not fermentation."

Jack said, "Laeesha, it's good to see you. Scoot over, Scoot, I'll sit by you."

"Scoot?" asked Louise.