[Not Just Any Other] Ghost Story

Chapter 27

August 1941

Arthur Tuffin scrubbed his hands, letting the water flow freely from the faucet as he worked up the lather. His skin burned from the soap as it seeped into the cuts and bruises, but he tolerated it with barely a flinch.

He had no regrets. What was done was done.

He scrubbed harder.

In the long run, it was better this way. He could now be his own man and answer to no one. Start fresh and all that. Yeah. There was nothing to fret about. And yet . . . Arthur felt a pang in his gut. Was it guilt? Impossible. He'd done nothing any other man in his position wouldn't have done. It was just jitters from what was going to come next. Opening a new chapter in his life was exactly what he needed.

The possibility of joining the boys defending Europe from them Nazis didn't cross his mind until recently. Hell, no one thought this war would even involve the good old US of A, and now Roosevelt was actively encouraging Americans to serve, as if something really was looming on the horizon.

Putting his hands underneath the spigot, Arthur let the hot water wash him clean. He chuckled at the metaphor or whatever damned thing it was called that suddenly occurred to him. What was that passage from Isaiah? "Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your deeds from before my eyes; cease to do evil."

If only it were that simple. Getting rid of traces of the past was one thing. Repairing his soul was something quite different. And if he was going to heal by defending his country and maybe even by killing a Nazi or two, then would that remove his prior evil deeds?

Arthur shut off the faucet and looked at his hazy reflection in the mirror.

If his god would offer salvation for one atrocity in exchange for another, then he wasn't sure that was a god worth following. But then again, he was just a salesman from Massachusetts standing in his bathroom with sopping wet hands.

Shaking his head at his increasingly absurd thoughts, Arthur lifted his right hand and touched the cool mirror. He hadn't drawn on one since he was a kid, scribbling lewd images on the foggy surface after his showers before wiping them away so his mama wouldn't see.

But today, his finger didn't trace the usual twig-and-berries. For some reason, Arthur was compelled to leave a more direct message: hello. He didn't know why he picked that word when he was just about to leave. Perhaps it was for the comfort he wished to get from greeting those who'd come after rather than from bidding goodbye to those who'd already gone.

H-E-L-L . . .

He didn't get to write the final letter when a noise from downstairs drew his attention away. Was there someone else in the house? He wasn't done yet and the unknown threat made him act.

After quickly drying his hands on a towel, Arthur left the bathroom and ran down the stairs. His boots thumped on each riser, the last board creaking ominously. At least he wouldn't have to worry for a while about fixing that.

In the great room, he was met with a surprise because no one was there. The porch was also empty, as was the entire perimeter. It had been his imagination playing tricks. Only the fire crackling in the hearth broke the silence.

The weather wasn't cold enough yet to warrant the flames. In fact, Arthur was beginning to sweat while standing too close. But he needed to make sure that the entire contents burned, so he took a poker and rearranged the fabric. The previously shielded polka dot pattern was now exposed, catching fire almost immediately and quickly turning into charred ash. He was lucky that cotton burned so easily. Otherwise, getting rid of her clothes would have been more complicated.

With the flames dying down, Arthur pulled a folded piece of paper out of his uniform's breast pocket. Taking one of the two identical bus tickets, he threw it into the fireplace and watched it burn.

Confident that now everything was properly disposed of, Arthur straightened his tie, picked up his packed duffel bag, and headed out the door. The walk to the bus stop cleared his clothes of the smoky smell and dried the sweat on his brow. By the time he boarded the Greyhound bus to North Carolina, he looked and felt like a new man.

Over fifteen hours and eight hundred miles later, Arthur Tuffin had completed the first leg of his journey. Camp Lejeune would be his home for the next few months, but then who knew where the War Department would send him.

"What's your name, marine?" asked the soldier at the desk checking in the new arrivals.

"Tuffin, sir!" he replied proudly, pulling himself straight. "Arthur Tuffin from New Bedford, Massachusetts."

The soldier flipped a few pages in his ledger before putting a note next to one of the entries.

"I appreciate the enthusiasm, Tuffin," he said, looking up with a grin. "You got a date of birth and marital status for me, as well?"

"December 5, 1909 and single, sir," Arthur said to the sound of soldiers marching in unison the background.