Chapter 6 - The Whispering Town
Scranton at seven in the morning was shrouded in grey mist and the smell of damp pine. Birch Street looked exactly as it had when I left for Annapolis fourteen years ago: modest two-story colonial homes, manicured lawns, American flags fluttering from porch railings. A quiet, suburban picture of middle-class respectability.
Except this morning, Birch Street was not quiet.
As I pulled the car onto the curb two houses down from number 412, I noticed several cars parked along the street. Neighbors were standing on their front lawns with coffee mugs, whispering to one another. Across the street, old Mr. Henderson—a retired Marine master sergeant who lived on the corner—was staring at the Whitaker house with an expression of dark disgust.
"What is happening?" I murmured, putting the car in park.
Julian smiled, a cold, sharp flash of teeth. "I told you I made three calls from Bahrain, Nora. I lied. I made four."
"Julian, what did you do?"
"I called Commander Davis at the Scranton VFW. He was my recruiter when I enlisted ten years ago. I told him that Commander Nora Whitaker was promoted yesterday, that she was arriving home today with family historical documents, and that he might want to send an honor guard to verify the provenance of the Captain Thomas Whitaker collection on Howard’s wall."
My breath hitched. "You didn't."
"Howard wanted to hide behind the military community to build his social standing," Julian said, opening his door. "It’s only fitting that the military community watches him give it back."
We stepped out of the car. We were both wearing our summer dress whites, immaculate and blinding against the grey morning light. The golden commander oak leaves on my collar and Julian's gold trident caught the morning sun as we walked side by side toward the front walk of 412 Birch Street.
The whispers along the street died down. Mr. Henderson snapped a crisp, stiff nod in my direction.
"Morning, Commander," he called out across the lawn. "Heard you made brass yesterday."
"Thank you, Master Sergeant," I called back, my voice clear and authoritative.
The front door of 412 Birch Street swung open before we even reached the porch steps. Beverly stood in the doorway, her hair unbrushed, wearing an oversized floral housecoat that made her look older, frail, and utterly disheveled. The composed, dismissive woman who had stood in her kitchen peeling an apple three days ago had completely evaporated.
"Nora... Julian," she gasped, her hands trembling as she clutched the lapels of her robe. "Please. Come inside. Don’t stand out there. People are looking."
May you like
"Let them look, Mom," Julian said, his boots thudding heavily up the wooden steps. "Where’s Howard?"
***
