The Reformed Reaper

August 15, 1986

Rob stepped off the airplane and stood at the top of the boarding stairs to take in the night sky of his hometown. He took a long, deep breath and gazed up at the stars glistening in the clear sapphire sky, what a perfect summer evening. He purposely waited for the other passengers to exit the aircraft before him. Taking his time and leisurely descending to the tarmac was important to him. Tonight was the first night of the rest of his life. He made it.

Not many people would understand what he’d just gone through, and he was prepared for that, as much as he could be anyway. He'd been aptly warned about how familiar, yet unfamiliar life back home would feel and not to be reckless with his newfound freedom. But he looked forward to making his own plans like a normal person again. Sometime last month his uncle had phoned in a big favor to a longtime friend who owned a security company downtown. As luck would have it there was a third shift position available and he agreed to hold it for Rob, he starts Monday night. Rob kept picturing his mother’s warm smile and chestnut brown eyes, which were glossy with tears the last time they saw each other. How he hated hurting her. But he’s different now; everything is different now.

Rob marched towards the sliding airport doors. The echo from his steel-toe-boots stomping the asphalt broke the silence that surrounded him just a moment ago. His eyes rapidly searched through the faces of strangers on the other side of the glass for the people he loved most. When the doors slid open, he locked eyes with Bob first. The quick glint from his grandfather’s thick glasses and the fleeting look of anticipation caused Rob to quicken his pace. Noreen’s fingers were interlaced and held up over her mouth as if she were just in deep prayer, and knowing his mother she probably was. Grandma Judy stood almost a foot shorter than his grandpa and she was wearing what he recognized as one of her floral church dresses.

Rob flung the strap of the canvas bag off his shoulder, and it hit the airport floor in a heavy thud as he lunged into his mother's embrace. Noreen's feet lifted into the air as she was pulled in for the tight bear hug she’d been longing for. Her audible sobs were mixed with laughter as she held her only child. When her feet reunited with the floor, Bob and Judy both wrapped their arms around their daughter and grandson until they were all one big human glob swaying and hugging. Rob was home at last.

June 3, 1982

Rob lay on the hospital bed, mostly awake with a pounding headache. His eyes slowly fluttered open, still feeling hazy from the pain meds. There was a wooden food tray table left by the side of the bed. His breakfast plate was covered with a plastic beige dome next to a cup of ice water and a box of generic apple juice. He carefully slid his body up against the stack of pillows behind him and slowly reached for the cup. As his body shifted forward his other wrist suddenly jerked back and clinked against the top metal bar of the hospital bed frame.

"What the hell?" Rob uttered aloud, his throat scratchy and parched. The last thing he remembered about the night before was hearing two paramedics frantically shout medical terms as well as the blaring sound of the ambulance siren as they raced down 27th Street to the county hospital. Although his friend Craig had taken off his T-shirt and applied it to Rob's stomach, he knew he'd lost a lot of blood and still felt a little dehydrated. As he slid back down to rest, a couple of the scattered voices outside suddenly sounded clearer and were now accompanied by footsteps that were getting closer. He recognized his grandpa Bob's voice and walking behind him was Sgt. Randall, holding his service cap in front of him.

"Rob, how're you feeling, son?" Sgt. Randall asked.

"What're you a doctor now? And I'm not your son.” Rob snapped.

"Robert Michael!" His grandfather warned.

Rob took a breath and held it as he boosted himself back into a seated position. "I'm a little sore but I'll be fine.” Rob said, looking only at his grandfather as though he asked the question.

"You're very lucky, Rob. Doc said if it weren't for that leather vest you were wearing the outcome could've been a lot worse." Sgt. Randall explained.

"Yeah, where's J.R.? And Craig?" Rob asked with sudden urgency. Sgt. Randall exchanged a weighted glance with Bob before looking down at the floor.

"Robbie" Bob took a deep breath, "Craig's all right." He took another breath. "But J.R. didn't make it." Bob's voice cracked. His mouth stayed open as if the physical pressure of the words he just spoke were forcing his lips ajar. Rob's dark brown eyes flashed with shock and then anguish.

"What do you mean he didn't make it?! What do you mean?! What the hell do you mean?!" Rob's voice rose louder each time he asked. His free arm slammed against the bed frame and then the food tray, sending it to crash into the nearby wall.

"Robbie, Robbie no." Bob rushed to the side of the bed. He cupped the back of his grandson's head and pulled him close. Bob looked over at Sgt. Randall. "Give us a minute here, will you Sam?" Sgt. Randall nodded in agreement and quietly left the room. "I know." Bob would whisper periodically as his namesake wailed uncontrollably into his chest. But he didn't know. He didn't know the pain of losing his lifelong best friend and without the chance to say goodbye.

June 4, 1982

Bob and Sgt. Randall met at the nurse’s station where the doctor on duty provided an update on Rob’s condition and then the two men headed to his room. The officer posted outside Rob’s door looked to be in his early 20’s with thick blonde hair and a very bony frame.

Rob lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his right wrist still bound to the bed frame. His breakfast plate covered and untouched. Bob and Sgt. Randall stood at the foot of the bed. Bob let out a short sigh, he hated seeing his grandson this way. Injured, bereaved, shackled. It weighed heavily on his heart, but he wasn’t going to let him know that - it was time for a serious wake-up call.

"Rob, you should really try to eat something." Sgt. Randall suggested.

"It'll help you heal faster." His grandfather added.

"I'm fine." Rob answered in a flat uninterested tone.

“You know what they say, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” Sgt. Randall offered.

“Give it to Barney Fife out there, little twerp could stand to gain a few pounds.” Rob retorted.

“That’s enough, Robbie.” Bob commanded.

"We're charging Luiz with J.R.'s murder. There's a warrant for his arrest and the other Alley Vipers that were involved that night. We'll track them down soon enough." Sgt. Randall assured.

"Not if I find him first." Rob’s eyes piercing with disdain at the mention of Luiz’s name.

"Well, that's what we're here to talk about, Rob." Sgt. Randall said.

"What's there to talk about? They started this war, but I'll finish it." Rob said.

"Now Rob, there's nothing for you to finish, let us do our job." His tone firm but understanding.

"Those cowards brought switch blades to a fistfight! Luiz and his crew jumped J.R. on our block Monday night. That’s Two-Seven territory and they know it." Rob’s voice was deep and rageful.

"No, that's my territory." Bob snapped. "And every other hardworking person that lives in that neighborhood and we're tired of this nonsense. Robert, you are not coming back into my home." Rob's eyes flashed at him in shock. "The buck stops here. Either you go to jail and pay your debt to society, or you enlist in the armed forces and learn how to be a man. Those are your options."

"The armed forces?" Rob questioned. His eyebrows wrinkled in confusion.

"Craig chose the Army. On his way to Fort Jackson as we speak." Sgt. Randall stated proudly.

“He is?” Rob couldn't believe his ears. The fearless leader of the 27-Street Reapers sporting a buzz cut and marching around an army base? Unreal.

“You're almost 19 now, you're not a kid anymore.” Bob’s voice was stern and unwavering.

“The Marines." Rob answered. "I'll join the Marines."

“The Mari– wait, are you sure, Rob?" Sgt. Randall asked with concern in his voice. “I've got some pamphlets in my squad for the different branches, the programs they offer and– "

"I don't need any pamphlets. If I'm joining the military then I'm joining the best branch, the hardest one. And that's the Marine Corps." Rob stated his reasoning with such certainty one would think he’d considered this avenue before, but he honestly hadn't.

“Well, I know there’s an entrance exam and it’s tough but–” Sgt. Randall began to explain.

“I’ll pass the exam.” Rob stated flatly.

“He will.” Bob agreed. “He may act like a bonehead but he’s actually quite smart.”

“Thanks grandpa.” Rob said facetiously as he reached for his cup of ice water.

“Very sharp in math and science.” Bob doubled down. “He’ll get in.”

August 17, 1986

Rob stood in front of the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the door in his childhood bedroom. He adjusted the black tie of his security uniform, freshly washed and pressed, compliments of his Grandma Judy. The last time he stood in this spot he was wearing a plain white T-shirt under his black leather vest with a black and white patch of the Grim Reaper holding a pointed scythe on the left side. That felt like a million years ago, a whole other lifetime. He thought about his arrival at Parris Island, and what it felt like to be so green.

“Say goodbye to the person you are today because that person will no longer exist once we get done with you!” One of the drill instructors called out to the new recruits as they filed off the military bus and into the thick South Carolina air. And how true that statement turned out to be. Rob was no longer the angst-filled punk teenager with too much time on his hands and looking for nothing but trouble. He was a respectable man now. He knew how to live his life right, with integrity and pride. The thought of going back to street life was almost laughable.

He slid his black leather belt through the loops of his uniform pants and reached for his wallet that sat on top of the mahogany dresser. He opened the top drawer and an old, frayed photo of him and J.R. caught his eye. They sat on a large log in the woods in their cub scout uniforms roasting marshmallows over an open campfire. His arm hung loosely around J.R.’s shoulders as they posed for the picture. Rob looked as though he was in the middle of saying something and J.R.’s head was slightly tilted back, his face lit up with laughter. The image accurately summed up their friendship. Rob had thought about him all the time and even imagined what his tour of duty would be like if they could’ve enlisted together. J.R. would’ve made one hell of a Marine.

It was just after 11pm when Rob grabbed the brown paper bag lunch along with his thermos filled with black coffee and quietly crept out the front door. As he locked the door behind him, he noticed a long shadow along the driveway in the shape of his grandfather. He walked to the side of their duplex. “What’re you doin’ out here?” Rob asked. “I thought everyone was asleep.”

“Here.” Bob held out his hand; an old Swiss Army Knife rested across his palm. “It belonged to J.R. His mother dropped it off a few months after he passed, she thought you might like to have it.” They stood under the orange hue from the city streetlight. Rob took the knife, his mind flooded with memories of how often J.R. used it, even when the situation didn’t call for it.

“You okay?” Bob asked.

“Yeah, sure, it’s just been a while since I’ve seen it. He used to carry this thing everywhere”. Rob shoved the knife into his front pants pocket. “Thank you. See you tomorrow when I get home”.

“Have a good first day. Be safe.” Bob stood with his arm raised in a wave as Rob backed out of the driveway. He let out a long, heavy breath. His grandson made it back. In more ways than one.