Quilt Pattern
Flash fiction
A black mass belching smoke and hot gases appeared on the tracks in the distance. As it neared, it screamed and clanked its way to a stop at the crossing where a mother and child waited to board. The child, Harry Simmons, stood in slack-jawed awe that the monstrous machine would stop in its pursuit for mere humans.
He remembered that day each time he rode the DART train to his office downtown. His love of rail travel stayed with him for seventy-five years. He rode the rails again on the day of his retirement party at Stott-Carter Architects. That day, like every work day, he rose from his bed and gave a nod to the quilt that hung over his bed as a salute to the memory of his mother, who made the quilt from scraps of cloth that accumulated over the years. There was a patch made from the shirt he wore in the earliest days of memory; and there, a bit of Madras from the days when it was all the rage; and near the center a bit of olive drab accompanied by the chambray of a sailor’s work uniform and a piece of denim from his father’s jeans.
His grandfather fought at the Battle of Belleau Wood. His father fought at Normandy Beach and then drove into Germany. Harry had fought in forgotten and unnamed jungles in Vietnam. His son served in Afghanistan. Each had contributed an article to the quilt. Every geometrical shape carried with it a memory.
The office closed an hour early to give Harry a send-off. Stott-Carter Architects provided party fare and a bonus check for his forty-nine years of service to the company.
“I hate to see you go,” William Carter told him. “But I hope you understand that we have to cut back, and you are well beyond retirement age, so, well…”
It was the same speech he had given two weeks earlier after failed banks and incompetent politicians caused an economic recession that had businesses eliminating jobs. Harry expressed agreement, though he had planned on dying at his desk. The death of his wife years earlier had taken away any desire or motivation to quit working. The choice was taken out of his hands. I will travel, he thought as the train carried him to the suburban station where he had left his car. I’ll take Amtrak to all the places I’ve wanted to see but was too busy to take the time.
The train entered the tunnel at the edge of Downtown and stopped at the CityPlace underground station. Harry watched hordes of office workers fill yellow railcars. In the crowd stood a homeless man carrying a cardboard sign: “Disabled Vet. Please Help.”
The man looked up toward the train as it began to move forward.
It was Will Parsons! The world spun. Harry felt his stomach drop and his heart race. Colors turned into surreal tones and hues. His mind stopped its mental chatter and dropped Harry back into Vietnam, back to the day the man with the cardboard sign pulled him out of his terror-stricken panic and hurled him back into the inferno.
The platoon leader, Sergeant Jankowski, signaled for a “peel” maneuver in which each man advanced one at a time toward an enemy position, and each covered the movement of the man who followed him.
Suddenly a large caliber gun opened fire. It was Harry’s turn to “peel.” He froze. Will yelled over the din of combat for him to move! Harry’s legs wouldn’t obey. Blind panic seized him. Will left his protected position to confront him, to force him forward. Sergeant Jankowski, too, raced back to harass the straggler when a bullet caught him in the back. He died instantly. Will grabbed Harry around the neck and dragged him forward through a hail of tracer fire. Will was hit. Harry collected his senses, stepped over will’s bleeding body, and staggered forward to the cover of a hut in the deserted village.
The arrival of helicopter gunships and a medivac chopper saved the men from certain slaughter. Will was taken to a field hospital, Sergeant Jankowski to a morgue, and Harry was relieved of any further front-line action. That was the last time he saw Will Parsons.
The commuter train sped north, away from the man who had saved his life and witnessed his shame. At home, Harry sat on the bed and rehashed events that led him to this moment: unemployed, purposeless, and steeped in shame and guilt. Depression sat in. He looked up at the wall-hung quilt. His eyes fell on the olive-drab square that was once a part of his uniform.
He sat at his computer where he reviewed Amtrak schedules and destinations and purchased a ticket through an online payment portal. Then, he removed the quilt from its place on the wall, stuffed it into a trash can, and prepared his apartment for a long absence.
