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- 06/17/2018
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A Soldier's Guide to Single Parenting - 11. Epilogue
Rizzo was the only one who knew what happened that night; although I always believed the kids suspected I had something to do with it. After what Darcy did, it was the only way it could have ended. They must have known that. It was, after all, what I had been trained to do. After that day, however, I never felt the need to own or fire another gun.
Despite how it ended, the fact is I went there intending to kill him. It was a simple act of revenge for what he did to Simon and David. Maybe that makes me no better than him but I had to make sure justice was done and that was by no means certain.
David’s recollection of what happened was vague but he remembered being hit by Darcy and the preacher was charged with attempted murder. The church, anxious to exonerate one of their elders and avoid damaging publicity predictably threw their weight behind Darcy. He was provided with the best defense team, character witnesses and he had a watertight alibi.
When news reached me he had been released on bail, I called Rizzo. I was concerned for David’s safety and I couldn’t bear the thought of Darcy being acquitted and the impact it would have on my son knowing that Simon’s murderer was free.
I knew he killed Simon even before he confessed to me but it was only after a couple of the witnesses changed their stories that the police were able to name him as the murderer. I wasn’t going to tell them about his confession and the police never questioned me. I guess they weren’t overly enthusiastic about finding the hitman of a child killer and Darcy’s murder was never solved.
He was a madman; a psychopathic killer but I was convinced he hadn’t acted alone. There were people who must have helped him from within the church. The police launched an investigation but the religion closed ranks and no one was ever charged.
The church never openly condoned Simon’s murder but as far as they were concerned, the path he chose was unacceptable and his death therefore unavoidable. His name was removed from their records and no one in the congregation was allowed to mention him. It was as if he never existed. In a sickening show of disparity, they held a memorial service for Darcy, attended by most of the elders.
They believed he was right and the system was evil. There was little respect for human laws or rules which undermined their instructions. The world and all governments would soon be destroyed by God who would save only them and their reward was a perfect world and everlasting life.
By resisting Darcy’s attempts to bring him into line and refusing to accept a religious doctrine which had been forced on him since birth, Simon had ultimately signed his own death warrant. He may have even known it too. As unthinkable as it would sound to any parent. Darcy killed his own son rather than allow him to live as a homosexual.
He must have believed David was dead when he was left in a doorway in the notorious ‘Combat Zone’, an area downtown used by prostitutes and drug addicts. After disposing of the only witness, Simon was killed the following day. Dead on arrival at the hospital following a drug overdose. The ambulance picked him up from the same house in Roxbury where he had been staying after I threw him out.
David remained in the hospital past the summer break and after a period of convalescence at home, returned to school before Thanksgiving. The only physical reminder he carries is a thin scar down the side of his cheek. It will never go away and neither will the memory of Simon, the quiet boy who stole my son’s heart and paid the ultimate price.
There is a bronze plaque in the corner of a cemetery on the edge of town that marks a grave David and I used to visit two or three times a year but now it’s only me. I go whenever I can to pay my respects. Simon is only a few hundred yards away from Kate, which means I can visit them both on the same day and I will do this for as long as I’m able.
As an outpatient, David had to undergo two further operations and extensive physiotherapy before he was able to make a full recovery. Sometimes, however, good things come out of bad and during his final stay in the hospital, he met a very special young man named Michael. He was a nurse from New York and a Yankees fan but that was the only thing I didn’t like about him.
He spent a lot of time helping my son recover both mentally and physically and the friendship they formed eventually turned into something much more.
Today is Father’s Day in the US and after twenty-eight years living with his dad, David finally left home to move in with Michael. Bobby, Jon, and Suzanne helped their brother move while I stayed at home to look after my two grandchildren. Last night, I sat proudly with my daughter, her husband, my three sons, and future son-in-law at Fenway Park to cheer the Red Sox as they beat the Yankees.
It was a special night. Before the game, David and Michael were presented with a check for $10,000 a donation from both teams to the Simon Morrison foundation. In the twelve years since his death, the charity they founded in his name had supported hundreds of young men and women across the country desperate to escape the clutches of religious cults they were born into. It was perhaps a fitting tribute to Simon that the organization which bore his name would play such a pivotal role in helping people like him avoid a similar fate.
It was a night to remember and most importantly, a night I was able to remember. I still haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the day I was drugged by Darcy and I never will.
Being shot by my next door neighbor definitely helped and it’s Fred who I’m probably most grateful to. It was his story that finally made me realize homosexuality wasn’t to be feared. If Fred could be gay—a patriot who fought for his country and landed on Omaha Beach—then so could anyone.
Except he wasn’t. It turned out Fred wasn’t gay at all, he just made that story up, probably to help David. He didn’t witness Kennedy’s assassination either or work for the Queen of England and he was never the world record holder at 1500 meters. Instead of landing on the beaches at Normandy, he spent the war in Louisville Penitentiary serving time for fraud. He confessed all of this to me on his deathbed before making a full recovery the following day.
Poor Fred wasn’t able to cheat death for very long though and died of a heart attack the following month. He didn’t have much in the way of money but he did own his house and with no family or children, he left it to me. I probably didn’t deserve such a slice of good fortune but there was a condition he wrote into his will.
First, I had to fix the hole in the fence and they made me do it too.
I knew Kate would have been proud of our children and maybe after everything that happened, she would have been proud of me too. I was still a work in progress. I had bad days as well as good and needed professional help to deal with my memories from Vietnam.
History may not remember me as a particularly good person. I went to war and killed people, I made a lot of mistakes, neglected my children and allowed hatred and bigotry to come between my son and me. In my mind, it was going to take a hell of a lot to put it right, but I was prepared to give it my very best shot.
Special thanks you to TimothyM, Carlos Hazday and Sweetlion for their help with this story.
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