The Return of the Purple Heart Recluse

John Hanley lived through much in his lifetime. Perhaps, too much.

In 1941, he was conscripted into the army just as FDR was saying he would not get the country into a foreign war.

John completed the grueling basic training under a dictatorial training commander and not two years later, he would be among the men sent to Germany.

Near the end of his fourth year in the military, John Hanley was wounded when the Luftwaffe began dropping chemicals from planes.

John led ten men in his troop to safety the minute he sensed the sound of the planes whirring in the distance. As he returned to retrieve an artillery launcher, he heard the whine of more planes and felt a burning sensation on his face and neck. The left side of John's face was shriveled in seconds.

He was returned home to his little town of Grey Bridge, population less than 4,000 over twenty square miles of open land, large farms, a roughly hewn coastline with sandy beaches and here and there, small enclaves of residential homes. An aerial view of Grey Bridge produced an uneven patch quilt appearance.

To his shock, his parents Rudy and Constance Hanley died in a fire that demolished the family home. The home once stood on about thirty acres of land. All that remained were ashes and a barren cement square where the foundation once supported the home. John felt as if his world caved in around him.

At first he relied on his veteran's benefits to help him find a place to live. Soon though, he realized the sight of his disfigurement was going to prevent him from ever working again.

He did try...at a local gas station, as a night watchman at the Grey Bridge Savings and Loan and the factory in a neighboring town on the night shift. No matter where John went, his scarred face was such that he was let go at one job after another. Even employers who felt sorry for him and hired many other vets had to let him go when coworkers complained about his disfigurement.

John had a plan. He knew that the property that had once been his parents was prime land and would bring a decent price. He arranged with a local real estate agent to sell it.

Once the real estate saw the condition of John's face, he realized the property could be sold for a good price and John would take whatever was offered. What he offered John was far less than actual market value.

John never was much for taking the time to study the value of land and he did need money to get by. In those days, selling property for $12,000 when it was worth twice that was a kind of unspoken scam people less knowledgeable of property values foolishly accepted.

The street John lived on since childhood was Marlboro Road. It was at the farthest end of the eastern part of town. Marlboro Road in the 1920s was like a remote outpost. There were only three large farms on the entire expanse of the one and a half mile long dirt road.

By the 1930s, Grey Bridge officials realized there were enough children in that part of town to build a one room school in the direct center of Marlboro Road to be called "Brookside School."

The problem with that was there wasn't access to the school except by horse and buggy or for children to walk through the wooded area. The north and south ends of the road were basically overgrown with scrub pines and wild shrubbery.

The Hanley farm was about a half mile from the school John was to attend as soon as he was old enough. There was the Pontrick farm near the south end of the road and the Miller farm at the north end. All three farms grew vegetables and fruits to be sold at the open air market in Lareston, eight miles west of Grey Bridge.

By 1940 there were a total of fifteen children attending Brookside School.

There was another oddity on Marlboro Road in 1944, when automobiles became more affordable, Stan Sekowski turned an old run down house into a combination general store and apartment for himself, his wife and their three boys, Jimmy, Roy and Alex. Stan stocked his shelves with things farmers on Marlboro Road were unable to provide from their farms. He sold, milk, butter and an array of home baked goods his wife Basia prepared.

The school was named Brookside School due to the large brook that ran horizontally across Marlboro Road, spilling into a small lake in the woods. Rudy Hanley had closest access to the lake. So, he decided to take advantage of the high water table beneath his farm land. He dug a long ditch from the back of his property, as much to prevent flooding, as to create a cranberry bog adjacent to the lake.

John spent many hours each harvest season with rake in hand culling the dark, tart red berries his mother turned into juice, jellies, jams and spritzed into cupcakes and muffins he thoroughly enjoyed. The remainder was taken by his father to market or to Stan's general store to make a tidy little sum, especially before each Thanksgiving.

By 1946, Marlboro Road saw an influx of new homeowners able to buy small, two and three bedroom homes on three quarter acre properties that lay between the three farms. Trees where cut down and single dwellings swiftly appeared. With it, Grey Bridge sliced into wooded areas across town to create new roads.

Shortly before John entered the military, his last memory was of his father feeling the bite of Grey Bridge's development when he was told he could no longer run his irrigation ditch from the lake to the farm. That meant the end of the cranberry bog and with it a shortfall in the Hanley family income.

Soon after John was sent to Germany, properties were re-evaluated and all of the farmers on Marlboro Road were forced to sell off some of their acreage to pay tax increases.

Rudy and Constance were barely getting by when Constance had the first of two serious strokes. Rudy tended to his beloved wife and watched their savings disappear. On the night of October 14, 1943, Rudy and Constance ate their dinner and retired to their living room.

Rudy thought he smelled the acrid odor of something burning in the kitchen. Within seconds, the metal stove pipe that had been overheating burst into flames. By the time Rudy reached the kitchen the smoke was already wending its way into the living room.

He tried to reach Constance but the smoke was so thick and burned his eyes. By the time the neighbors called Fire Company No. 6 which Stan Sekowski and the rest of the neighbors had organized long before; they were able to pull Rudy and Constance out of the burning home.

The two were taken to St. Albert's hospital, the only hospital nearest to Grey Bridge, more than eight miles away. Constance died one day later due to her poor health and the condition of her heart. Rudy lived for one week when death claimed him from a massive heart attack.

The Hanley farm lay untouched. Daniel Pontrick tried to contact John about his parent's untimely deaths. But by then, World War II was already in full swing from the moment Pearl Harbor was attacked in 1941. The U.S. Army told Daniel they would try to contact John as soon as they could get through.

John received the letter while he was in an army hospital in France. He wanted to believe it was a mistake. When he was released from the veteran's hospital in the states, he hastened back to Grey Bridge to find he was all that remained of the Hanley family.

He began to fall into a very serious depression shortly after he was relieved of his position as a night watchman. He felt as if his entire world had ended and he was a zombie. He began to have strange delusions that he was still in Germany fighting the war. The vets he saved from the Germans visited him in the one-room apartment the Sekowski's rented to John above their garage.

Perhaps, it was in 1950 that John Hanley's life veered too far to the edge of the cliff. Three Italian businessmen moved into Grey Bridge and began to build taverns one in the west end of town, the south end and one on Marlboro Road.

John had never been a drinking man. He offered to clean the bar for the owner, Silvio Bonacetti. Silvio was the middle of the three Bonacetti brothers. Paulo was the oldest and owned the tavern on Monique Street in the west end of Grey Bridge and Alberto owned the more upscale bar on the south end.

By the 1950s, Grey Bridge was definitely a blue collar town. The only difference was that they were able to afford cars and trucks. Grey Bridge saw that the unpaved roads would never do with the number of cars getting stuck in muddy ruts after rain storms or the pervasive cakes of ice in winter that seemed to be the normal traffic condition. So, the roads were paved and with that came the need for stop signs and traffic lights. The only area of Grey Bridge ignored was Marlboro Road. Mostly because, the county was responsible for its condition or lack thereof.

John got along well with Silvio and his wife Anita. His disfigurement wasn't a problem because he only cleaned the tavern after closing at 2 AM. He was most always done by 6 AM, one hour before the bar opened. It was true enough to say Silvio and Anita avoided eye contact with the maimed man.

There was just one downside to John working at "Silvio's Bar." He got a taste for liquor he never had before. His father and mother never allowed liquor in the house.

"The house is gone. Why not?" John said to the empty tavern.

John's life was fairly predictable. He rose every day at noon. Showered and changed his clothes, walked down to the new laundromat that just opened to do his laundry and prepared his lunch and dinner. He listened to the radio before taking another short nap and heading to Silvio's to his job.

Most people saw little of John, other than when he climbed the stairs to his room above the Sekowski garage. He spent time reading the day old newspapers he neatly bundled and tied for Stan Sekowski. Stan appreciated the man's help. He was getting on in years. His sons were all married and his wife, Basia had trouble getting around their apartment behind the store during to phlebitis in her legs.

Most of his vet friends had lost touch with him. They met once a year as they all vowed to do at a Veteran's club over in Sandiston. That was a trip for John that took more time than he wished. Sandistown was thirty miles away. He didn't see the need to buy a car or take a test to get a driver's license.

He read in the newly published Grey Bridge town paper that a new Veteran's Memorial home was to be built at the railroad junction just three miles from Marlboro Road. It was within walking distance. The article was encouraging all vets to join.

Out of curiosity, he decided to walk down to see it. It was actually an older home that had once been owned by the mayor of a neighboring town. It was a two-story affair that the veterans had remodeled.

"You a member?" the man raking the lawn around the building asked.

"No. I am a vet though. Served in Germany," John said.

"I served in the Far East. Looks as if you had more damage than I did. I just came home with a gamey leg," the man said.

"Yes. Chemical gas the Gerries dropped from planes back in '43. I was hoping to stay in...you know...make a military career of it," John said.

"My name is Charlie Pattenow. You?"

"John Hanley."

"What branch?" Charlie asked.

"Army. You?" John asked.

"Navy," Charlie said.

"How'd you get injured in the leg?" John asked.

"Stupid injury really. We were on watch when we heard the planes overhead. The gunner on the ship got a little too hasty with the ammo. The rocket did a retro and landed on my leg," Charlie said.

"Ouch!" John replied.

"Say John, why don't you join us...become a member. There's no cost to injured vets like us, you know."

"Let me think about it. I'm not the prettiest sight to see with this face," John said.

"Tommy Albersen had a badly scarred face...not as scarred as yours. The VA paid for his facial surgery. There's a lot of things you might be eligible for," Charlie said.

John was glad for the opportunity to speak with another vet.

"I have some of my old buddies from my troop who meet once a year," John started.

"Well, tell 'em to come on down and you guys can meet here," Charlie said.

"How do I become a member?" John asked.

"Just show up. We do the rest. We'll even help you with any medical assistance you need. And...there's a bar inside, a TV and all the sports on the TV you can watch with the guys," Charlie said, with a grin.

For the first time since he returned home to Grey Bridge, John Hanley felt as if he "belonged." He'd kept a virtually reclusive life to hide his disfigurement. But now, he felt he had men who understood him and his feelings of estrangement from the big world outside.

He was welcomed at the first meeting at the Veterans' hall by Charlie who introduced him to several men, some who had been in World War I and the Korean War. None made any remarks about his face. He saw men who'd lost limbs and others who had been in prisoner of war camps. He couldn't wait to tell his old Army buddies.

The men met once a month for formal meetings, but they were able to enjoy watching sports together and having drinks and snacks at the bar.

John walked to the meeting hall two or three times a week in addition to attending the monthly meetings. At one meeting, a representative of the Veterans Administration in Washington DC presented a program on veteran benefits. There were a few assistants to help vets complete forms for various medical and military benefits.

John was drawn to the young woman sitting at a table. There were several types of brochures neatly arranged.

"Are you interested in our educational program, sir?" she asked.

John wasn't but the woman was the first female who wasn't scared to death of his scarred face.

"Well, I might be. What type of study courses are there?" he asked.

"Well, let's start at the beginning, shall we?" she asked.

"Your name, rank and term of service?"

"John Haley, Sgt., four years, Germany," he answered.

"And how were you injured?"

"Chemical spray from planes. Got my men out of harm's way and went back for the launcher when the second contingent of planes flew overhead dropping the chemicals," John said.

"What type of study courses are you interested in?"

"Well, I've always loved working with numbers. Was pretty good in math in school too," John said.

"What was your grade average in your last year of school?

"Not too bad. It was a 4.1. But, I was always an "A" student in math. That's how I got to the rank of sergeant. They needed a guy with good math skills for tacticals," John said.

Within a few weeks, John found himself immersed in filling out forms for the newly built community college in Twin City. He could easily take the new bus that ran along the highway that was under construction past his room atop the garage.

His only problem was being in public where he was bound to cause problems because of his disfigurement.

He mentioned it to Charlie and Tommy Lanigan.

"Johnny, you need to get that facial surgery done. It won't take more than a few weeks to heal. If you do it now, you can enroll in those school courses before the next semester begins," Tommy said.

The vets got all of the medical forms he needed. John was just not so sure he wanted to put himself through facial surgery.

"What the hell? What could be as bad as the burns that caused these scars?" he asked.

He was scheduled for facial surgery in two weeks. He had to first see the surgeon who would be performing the procedure. He brought a photograph of himself as the surgeon's nurse requested. It was the one taken in the army on the day he completed basic training. There weren't any others because of the fire that took his parents home.

John arrived at the hospital intake desk as he was told to do. He was quickly taken to a dressing room where he was given a key to store his belongings in a locker. Next, a doctor came to advise him that his surgery would be performed as soon as the anesthesiologist was finished "prepping."

John was under anesthesia when he was wheeled into surgery. After that, he remembered nothing. As his anesthesia started to wear off, he barely remembered the recovery room nurse administering to his IV bottle.

He must have slept for quite some time because when he felt more alert, he saw that the drapes in his new hospital room were open and it was already quite dark.

"Mr. Hanley, you'll be unable to have solid food for another four days until the doctor is sure your facial muscles are healing. We will provide a straw and some nourishment that is not quite solid food. Mostly thick shakes. How are you feeling?" the nurse asked.

"Like my face has rivets being drilled into it," he replied.

John remained in the hospital without looking in a mirror until he was allowed to return home. When he arrived home, he hurried to the bathroom mirror. He couldn't believe his eyes. There was still a little bit of scarring but his face looked nearly normal again.

He was thrilled. Now, he would be able to get a decent job without fear that his face would cause others to turn him away.

John continued to go to the Veterans Hall after he was fully recovered. The vets at the hall couldn't believe the difference in his face. John had the strongest urge to give something back for the good fortune he'd been given. He began to volunteer to help other vets as often as he could.

He became a regular sight on Marlboro Road as he walked to the bus to his college classes. He finished two years and decided to continue to get a full degree in accounting. He figured if he had to, he could create a personal accounting business in a town like Grey Bridge where there were lots of small business owners.

"I wouldn't do too badly," he told Charlie and his friends at the Hall.

He invited his old vet friends from his troop to visit the Hall. It was funny how veterans seemed to exchange military talk so easily.

Charlie asked one of the men in John's troop what they recalled most about their "Sergeant Hanley." Tommy Pinckett recalled the day John Hanley noticed the whirring sound of planes and gathered up the troops and led them to safety.

"The Sarge went back out of duty to get the launcher so we could take down those planes. That's when he was sprayed. He saved all ten of us and was himself the one who was badly injured. Some of us hid our tears when we saw what happened to him," Tommy said.

About two years after Tommy and John's other vet friends from his troop visited the Veteran's Hall, John heard a knock on his door.

"John? Two men downstairs to see you," Mr. Sekowski said.

"Did they give you their names?" John asked.

"No, siree. They are pretty official looking. Dressed in Army uniforms," Stan Sekowski said.

John hurried down the long steps to his room above Sekowski's garage. He followed Stan Sekowski into the storefront.

"John Hanley?" the first man asked.

"Yes sir. You here to re-enlist me?" John asked shyly.

"No sir. We are here to tell you that you have are to be awarded the Purple Heart."

John saw that the two men were highly decorated and knew they were from the Department of Defense.

"There is to be a ceremony for you in Washington, D.C. at the White House. Here is the information you will need and your security clearance to gain entry to the Oval Office where your ceremony will take place."

The first man handed John a manila envelope and both shook his hand and saluted him before they left in their military van.

Stan Sekowski and John Hanley stared out the window of Sekowski's General Store.

"My, that was some news!" Stan Sekowski said.

"You can say that again!" John said.

"Did you know you were eligible for the Purple Heart?" Stan asked.

"No, I never even thought about it. I guess it was due to my injury," John said.

"Well, I must say, John Hanley, I am proud to have you as my tenant," Stan said, shaking John's hand.

The next day, John was surrounded by newspaper people all looking for his "story."

John was taken aback at their interest. Reporters from the state and two local newspapers were all vying for his story.

"Will you write a book about your experience?" one reporter asked.

"I wouldn't know where to begin such a project," John answered smiling.

Later that evening, he walked down to the Veteran's Hall and the minute he opened the door, a crowd of veterans, including all of the men in his troop, yelled, "Surprise!"

He was surprised to say the least. Men shook his hand and slapped him on the back with well wishes. In his entire life, he never had such attention.

He attended the ceremony in Washington D.C. two weeks later. He discovered there were two other men, one Marine and another a Naval officer who also served in World War II who were Purple Heart recipients.

He enjoyed all of the fuss and bother the War Department went through to make his trip exciting. He was given a tour of parts of the White House that were not open to the public. He was especially pleased with the accommodations in a nice DC hotel and the formal dinner where several top military commanders sat at the table at the front of the room and later gave speeches.

A special military and played military marches. When the evening ended, John returned to his hotel room and plan for his return to Grey Bridge early the next morning.

Back home in Grey Bridge, John enjoyed the spotlight for a few weeks and realized he preferred his "alone time" in his little apartment above Sekowski's General Store.

He tucked the Purple Heart into a bureau drawer and thought about his life thus far.

At a Christmas Party at the Veteran's Hall a few months later, he was approached by Jane Warbrough. She was a member of the Ladies Auxiliary and a war widow. John and Jane hit it off immediately.

John hadn't given much thought to marriage. He felt it just wasn't for him. But, he didn't mind have a female companion to talk to and spend a little time with.

"So, you are taking accounting courses? Do you plan to take the CPA test too?" Jane asked.

"I suppose so. I have only four more months to decide whether I want to work as an accounting staff member or I want to study for the CPA test," John said.

"I could help you with your studies. I'm an administrative assistant; but, I also do the accounting at our office," Jane said.

"Where do you work?" John asked.

"At Langer's in East Bernards," Jane said.

"That's quite a trek every day...almost an hour away," John said.

"Well, it's not that bad. I leave for work at 5:45 AM and I'm back home by 5 PM," Jane said.

"That's a long day. I hope they pay you well for all that time," John said.

"I've been working there for five years. The pay is okay. I wouldn't mind a little more, if you know what I mean," Jane responded.

John and Jane saw little of each other due to frequent snowstorms that dropped a lot of snow. John helped Stan shovel the snow so Stan's customers could get the bread and milk they'd need.

"Stan, you know. I can shovel this for you. You are getting on in years. I don't mind helping out," John said.

"I wouldn't mind. I do seem to get short of breath a lot lately."

"Best to see the Doc then. How is Basia managing with this seemingly endless winter?" John asked.

"Her health is not so good. You know...her legs...the phlebitis keeps her in pain night and day. Her doctor also thinks it may be affecting her heart."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

John shooed Stan indoors and finished the shoveling. It really wasn't much. He hurried upstairs to his apartment. The phone rang.

"John? Hello...It's Jane. How are you doing in all this snow?"

"As well as anyone I guess," he answered.

"Well, maybe this will be a breath of spring for you. I won two tickets to Pennsylvania Flower Festival in March. I thought maybe you'd like to go," Jane said.

"That sounds good. What about transportation?" he asked.

"Well, we could drive to the festival grounds," Jane said.

"Jane, I don't have a car," John answered.

"No problem. I have a car. I'll drive," Jane said.

John felt ambivalent about such a trip. It was a two hour drive from Grey Bridge and he had a lot of studying to do. The date of the trip coincided with the date of his exams. He glanced out the window and saw the snow was falling again. He felt an odd sense of being "hemmed in" even though he loved his apartment. He knew the reason: Jane. He really didn't feel the need for a woman in his life. Now or ever. That relationship just slowly dissolved after a few months and many of John's rejections of offers to spend time with Jane.

He donned his winter coat, boots, scarf and cap and decided to walk down to the Veteran's Hall. Someone was bound to be there.

As he walked down Marlboro Road, he thought he heard a car motor in the distance. The snow was falling pretty hard. John continued walking. Sure enough, a car was slowly making its way out to the highway from Marlboro Road, sliding on the slippery roads the town had not yet plowed.

What on earth could be so important to take a car out on icy roads, he thought.

The car ended up in the long ditch Marlboro Road was so famous for. Marlboro Road, although it had finally been paved, still had two endlessly long ribbons of ditches on either side of the road. These were deceivingly deep as John learned through observation.

Silvio's Bar patrons often chose to leave their vehicles on the bar parking lot rather than chance driving home after drinking a little too much. Those who decided to chance it were rewarded by getting themselves stuck in one of the two ditches, depending on how drunk they were.

This day, though, John hoped it was one of Silvio's drunken patrons. The thought came too late as he turned to see the car headed his way. He leapt across the ditch to avoid being hit by the car. But now, the car was stuck in the ditch. Its two front wheels were hopelessly stuck hanging over the edge of the ditch.

The driver got out and yelled at John.

"What the hell are YOU doing? I nearly hit you," the man said.

"Why are you driving in this storm?" John asked.

"I've driven in worse," the man said.

John saw that the man had been drinking quite a bit.

"Help me get me car unstuck!" the man demanded.

John knew it wasn't a good idea to argue with a drunken man. So he leapt back across the ditch.

"I'll put 'er in reverse and you give the back end a hard yank," the man commanded.

"Okay."

John knew that wasn't going to work. When he was on the opposite side of the ditch, he saw that the two front wheels were hanging over the edge. Unless one of the two men were willing to get into the ditch and push the wheels as the driver put the car in reverse, the car was going to remain until they could get a tow truck to remove it.

John yanked at the rear of the vehicle to no avail.

"This isn't going to work. One of us needs to get into the ditch and push the front end as the other puts the car in reverse," John said.

The man went silent.

"There's ice in that ditch. How deep is it?" the man asked.

"These ditches are deceiving. The soil is soft under the ice and water," John said.

"I'll pay you whatever you say if you help me get my car unstuck," the man said.

John did his best to push from the front end while the man put the vehicle in reverse. This went on for a few minutes until John had an idea.

"Wait. We aren't getting anywhere like this. John dug his hands into a mound of snow and kept digging until he got to some stones, scrub brush and bits of twigs.

"Here, put these under the back wheels," John said.

The two men tried again. This time the vehicle spun backward enough toward the middle of the road.

The man took off without ever rewarding John as he said. John just shrugged. He was too cold now to go the Veterans Hall. He returned to his apartment, put on a kettle of tea and turned on the radio. He fell asleep in his favorite easy chair. Around two in the morning, John awoke to the sound of a loud thud on the roof over his kitchen.

Just snow falling off the roof, he thought. He hurried to the kitchen to see that the old roof over the Sekowski's garage was caved in. Tiny flakes of snow were gliding slowly onto the kitchen floor.

John hurried to find a large covering for the hole. The only thing he found were several old military magazines. He nailed this into the rest of the ceiling.

The next morning, he showed the hole in the ceiling to Stan Sekowski.

"I'm awfully sorry about that. That garage roof hasn't been replaced since before the War. I'll call someone to repair it as soon as the storm has passed," Stan said.

"I can repair it for you. You just need to buy the materials. That'll save you a little of the cost," John said.

"John, that roof is quite high. Slightly higher than the roof of my store. You sure you want to do this?" Stan asked.

"I'll borrow a ladder from one of the vets at the hall. He's a fireman at the new firehouse on Grey Bridge Road. I'm sure he'll let me borrow it. If I were you, I'd get enough shingles to replace the whole roof, if we want to do this right," John said.

"Sounds fine to me. Any improvements are bound to be a blessing," Stan said.

"Mean time, I'll go up on the roof and tarp it for the time being. You have a tarp large enough?" John asked.

"Why yes. I have a good, sturdy canvas one with grommets even in the back room of the garage. I'll go and get it," Stan said.

As snow fell and John's gloved hands worked hard to cover most of the garage roof, Stan held the ropes they'd threaded through the metal grommets. After the tarp was secured at ground level, the two men were exhausted.

"We worked hard enough in this storm for one day. Come on it. I'll get Basia to make us some sandwiches and hot coffee," Stan said.

Basia was already one step ahead of the two men. She laid the kitchen table out with an array of ham, bologna and spiced ham sandwiches, some dark brown mustard and mayo and two large coffee mugs.

"My Stan takes milk and sugar with his coffee, John. How about you?" Basia asked.

"I'm taking my coffee like my liquor..."neat," John said.

"Oh. That isn't a bad idea. I've got a pint of aged Polish brandy. Basis? Would you fetch it?" Stan asked.

The two men toasted the success of their repair mission and by six that morning, John returned to his apartment over the Sekowski's garage.

He heard the whine of a car engine as he walked the short distance from the front of the store to the steps of his apartment.

When he turned to see the vehicle, he recognized it was one of Silvio's early birds. Probably one of the men who worked the midnight to dawn shift. The roads were as treacherous with a coating of ice topped with at least six inches of snow.

He saw the car swerving and trying to avoid the ditches.

Must be a regular if he knows to avoid those ditches, John thought.

He continued to climb the steep steps to his apartment. The warmth inside was comforting as he removed his snow packed boots, coat, gloves and hat. He headed for his bed.

I'll sleep like a log after this adventure, he thought.

He peered out of the bedroom window and saw the car was nearly to Silvio's parking lot sliding and skidding all the way. John shrugged.

What fool has to have a drink in this storm, he wondered.

He awoke mid morning to the sound of wheels screeching and a loud bang. He rose quickly and looked out his bedroom window. Two cars headed for Silvio's must have skidded into each other. He hurried to dress and ran down the stairs to see if anyone was hurt.

He craned his neck and saw two men arguing.

"Not going to get into that one," John said aloud.

"Fools!" Stan said, joining John.

"One day, one of these drivers are going to kill someone. Two or three times a week, the speeding on this road causes some minor accident. It's a miracle none of the farmers on the road have been one of those hurt or worse," John said.

For the next three years, John occupied his time studying his accounting courses and taking on part time work to supplement his military pension. When he received his accounting degree, he decided to go on and take the CPA test. He felt euphoric that he was reaching goals he never thought possible before the war.

Grey Bridge didn't have much in the way of accountants. John realized his best shot lay with taking on some neighbors and asking them to make referrals of their families and friends to increase the number of customers.

In 1958, Stan Sekowski told John due to Basia's failing health; they needed to move closer to a hospital. Grey Bridge in 1958 still didn't have a hospital of its own.

"What are you going to do with the store?" John asked.

"I think I'm going to rent it. We'll need the money to pay for Basia's care. The doctor thinks she may not last another six months. Her heart is very weak," Stan said.

"You know they built several new grocery stores along Route 10 and the number of houses on Marlboro Road keep growing. We have nearly half a dozen new neighbors now. I got run through the mill when I sold my parents' farm. That housing developer is making millions from that property. I got taken," John said.

"I should say you did. Would you want to move into our rooms and rent the store? With your new business and all, you're going to need a place of business sooner than you think," Stan said.

John hadn't given it much thought. But, he had to agree. It was a good idea. The general store didn't have much in the way of business now that the grocery stores were going up all around Grey Bridge. And, the store was big enough for him to spread out.

"Stan! That's a great idea. Tell you what. I'll do all of your accounting work for free for the rest of you life to show my appreciation. How much rent do you think you'll need every month?" John asked.

"Let's decide that after you move in. Your apartment rent is already paid up for the month and you still have some money in escrow on your deposit. I'm planning on having a "close out" sale on whatever goods still remain, mostly canned goods. If you want any of that, come and get it, while the getting is good," Stan said, wistfully.

"It sure is going to seem odd without the general store on the road," John said.

"Well, you still have Silvio's until the town decides to close it down," Stan said.

"You think they will?" John asked.

"I've lived in Grey Bridge over five decades, nearly my whole life. This town is like all towns...full of cliques who stick together like glue. It's not above them to get their palms greased if a housing developer comes along and wants any small business gone. Best you check with the town to see if they'll allow you to rent the store for your accounting," Stan said.

Within six months, Stan and Basia were gone. John thought that being a wounded military vet and a Purple Heart recipient would make getting the business permits and certificate of occupancy easy. He didn't realize there were men on the Council who had "friends," who could make a "better" offer.

The dickering about the permits went on for nearly a year. John still had the right to live in the rooms Stan and Basia occupied. But, it infuriated him that Pasquale Contino, a stocky Sicilian and Council President, wanted the place torn down so the town could connect the property to Route 10 just across from Marlboro Road.

Contino was a member of the Veterans Hall where John spent his weekends with other vets watching sports. John avoided Silvio's and was still a Marlboro Road regular sight walking to the Vets Hall. John avoided using the late model car he finally purchased two years earlier because of the drivers speeding up and down from the newly paved Route 10 highway to get to Silvio's.

Charlie Pattenow told John that Pasquale Contino was the brother-in-law of the owners of Silvio's Bar.

"Rumors around town say Contino wants the property where the general store was located to prevent any business competition," Charlie said.

"How would an accounting business be any competition?" John asked.

"Figure it out for yourself. A business that deals in cold, hard numbers and a bar that keeps more than one set of books?"

John saw the hand writing on the wall clearly. Contino would sabotage any chance of Sekowski's property from becoming a business rental.

"You know that old one room school on that road? Contino had it rezoned. It's going to be torn down too," Charlie said.

"The school just across from Sekowski's is to be torn down?" John asked.

"Yes. It's slated for demolition in August," Charlie said.

"And what will replace it?" John asked.

"He and the Council decided the land was more valuable to the state where the town could lease it for a government building," Charlie said.

"How do you know this?" John asked.

"Some of the vets here regularly attend the Council meetings when they are open to the public," Charlie said.

"But that damn Silvio's Bar poses more of a danger with all those drunks driving at top speed at all hours. A lot of the new neighbors have young kids," John said.

"True. But in order for Silvio's Bar to shut down, it would have to get past Contino. He installed three relatives on the zoning board and two in the water authority," Charlie said.

"How does he get away with that?" John asked.

"Contino has money. You know the deal. Money talks and you know what walks," Charlie said, smirking.

When John saw Stan Sekowski for the last time, it was on the day the town slapped a legal notice on the door of the store.

"I'm so sorry Stan. I hope they gave you a better price for the property than I got from that housing developer for my parents' land," John said.

"Fair market value for all ten acres. It doesn't matter. I'll lose it to medical bills. Basia doesn't have much time left and I'm not doing much better. I'm sorry it didn't work out for you, though. Where will you go from here?" Stan asked.

"I have to be honest. I really don't know. I have thirty days to vacate according to Grey Bridge town officials," John said.

"That's all? How are you supposed to find a place in thirty days?"

"I'm going to look for another room like I rented from you," John said.

"I just thought of something. You know the old firehouse at the end of this road? It's empty. There's no electric or heat. But, the Council can't get its hands on it because it was land bought by the Marlboro Road Farmers Association," Stan said.

"What is the Marlboro Road Farmers Association?" John asked.

"It's the Hanley, Pontrick, Miller and Sekowski Farmers. When the farmers first moved here, we were scared to death of all of the woods and possible fires if there was a drought. So, we pooled our money, bought that three acre property and got the town to donate a fire truck. You boys who grew up here must have seen that old fire truck," Stan said.

John realized what Stan was saying. He had seen the old cement building with the 1930s fire truck inside. He always thought the town built the place and forgot about it.

"But, aside from you and Basia, none of the original farmers who owned properties are still living," John said.

"True. Old Henry and Bess Pontrick died after the war. Hans and Gertie Miller sold their farm to build those six new homes there when they couldn't take the idea of being surrounded by neighbors. You remember how they always kept to themselves? Well after they moved, Hans died and Gertie was in a nursing home. She'd be dead by now. So you see? That building is going to be there for a long, long time because the original owners are all dead," Stan said.

"The town will take the property for back taxes owed," John said.

"Can't. The property was sold for $1 because the town had to provide some fire services for the taxes we paid. That's what the Grey Bridge Council did all over town. That's why there are so many sports fields, historical buildings and the like all over town. They sold those mostly abandoned properties for $1."

"So they could get tax credits and grants from the state," John put in.

"Yep. Those properties can't be touched now because it would open up a huge can of worms Grey Bridge Town Council wants sealed permanently. So, you go on ahead and make it your new home till you can find better," Stan said.

John Hanley moved into the old firehouse unknown to nearly anyone. The old firehouse was next to impossible to heat in winter and stifling hot in summer. Worse, Marlboro Road had become exceedingly dangerous. 

In just one year, a young boy of fourteen was killed at Division Lane, the cross street that was the access to the Grey Bridge South housing development built just two years earlier. One of the older men who was a regular patron of Silvio's was also killed by a speeder exiting that development. 

John no longer walked to the Veteran's Hall. He drove his car because he felt it was safer. Unfortunately, that proved him wrong when a teenage boy came off the southbound access of Route 10, spent several hours at Silvio's and was traveling down Marlboro Road at nine o'clock one night when the daughter of one of the new neighbors was backing out of her driveway. It was as if he just didn't care enough to slow down. 

The young man was driving a modified pickup that belonged to his father when he sped down Marlboro Road after a bar brawl with another patron at Silvio's. The girl's vehicle was flipped 200 feet into the air and landed on the apron of Route 10. She was dead instantly. 

John and the other vets tried to help, but the car was flattened like a pancake. The driver of the other vehicle took off like a jet plane into the housing development while the girl's parents called police and the ambulance. The EMTs who removed her body knew she died instantly.

Now, Marlboro Road had claimed two lives. Most of the people in Grey Bridge were superstitious and believed there would be a third life claimed. 

When no accidents occurred for nearly three years, there was a sense of relief. By 1962, John Hanley knew his days in the old firehouse were numbered when he saw several large utility trucks relocating telephone poles and electric wires nearby. 

He asked the utility workers what they were doing. 

"Well, the town's decided to create a safer road. Must have been a few accidents on this street. We have to tear down that old firehouse and create a wider access off Route 10 South. The road will have a large bump to slow down traffic that exits the highway to this road," the man said.

"They are going to tear down the firehouse?" John asked.

"Yes. It belongs to old timers but none have responded to the town's request to demolish it and they got the state to okay the demolition for right of way," he responded.

"But, the most accident was caused by that bar in the center of the road. It's always been a sore spot with neighbors here," John said.

"You live here?" the man asked.

"I did...well my parents did. They were one of only three farmers on the entire road back in the 30s and 40s. When is the demolition supposed to start?" 

"According to our work orders...in about one month."

Once again, John was to be ousted from his home. He became so emotionally attached to the area where he grew up that the idea of moving away was just not possible. He looked for single rooms all over Grey Bridge. None were to be had. Most people lived in relatively small sized homes of no more than 1500 square feet and few had more than two or three small bedrooms for their growing families. 

The face of Grey Bridge had changed significantly since John came home from the war. Now, every family had two cars and were able to enjoy vacations at the nearby lakes. The only lake no one seemed to know existed was the one his father used as a cranberry bog and for some strange reason, there was still the back acres of woodland that abutted the Hanley farm that wasn't bought to build homes.

John had an idea. He decided to do some research. He moseyed over to the town hall and asked to see engineering maps. Sure enough. He discovered that there was an entire horizontal strip of land nearly from the neighboring town west to the border of Grey Bridge out by the Wannsununket Bay that was labeled "Wetlands." 

"What are wetlands?" John asked the township engineering clerk.

"Well, it simply means that under the soil there is a very high water table."

"Is that why no developer has built there?" John asked.

"Well, the Grey Bridge South developer tried but soil six inches down is sopping with water from that stream and lake in the woods there."

"Why not just drain the lake?" John asked.

"The developer did drain the one lake near there to build some of the homes. The homeowners complain that each rain event causes their backyards to flood. The town gave up trying to attract builders there. Now, it might be impossible anyway. The state has a bill to stop anymore building on wetlands. A lot of towns are fighting it. It means less tax revenue added to local tax ratables."

John didn't understand some of what the engineering clerk said. The part that mattered most was that the land that had been his father's cranberry bog was not going to be subject to any construction any time too soon.

John set about visiting various landfills for large pieces of lumber and haunted the town hardware store for nails. He borrowed the tools from his friends at the Vet's Hall. 

By the mid 1960s, John Hanley was nicely settled into his one-room shack deep in the heart of the woods. He salvaged a pot bellied stove to keep warm in winter. The shack wasn't much. It was home and that was all John cared about. John was old school and believed he had a right to live as he pleased. He'd done his civil duty, nearly died for his country and now all he wanted was a place to call home, a place where he could spend time alone with his thoughts. 

He still had his military pension and the few customers he helped to process their annual taxes and other accounting needs. He learned to live without electricity or running water. He laundered his clothes at the new laundromat in the Grey Bridge South strip mall near the highway.

Silvio's Bar had become a rowdy place where bikers met on weekends. The noise of motorcycle engines and the bar could be heard through the woods at late hours of the night. 

I wonder how the neighbors like that, John mused.

When the bikers patronized Silvio's, they brought with them all of the elements of city people: garbage had to be removed from Silvio's parking lot to prevent neighbors' complaints, one of many about the bar. Next, came an influx of hot rodders with their fast cars. Marlboro Road was becoming a nightmare. Oddly, the town blamed the neighbors who lived there, not the invaders who patronized the bar.

John knew why. It was as his friend, Charlie Pattenow had said, "No one is going to ever blame Silvio so long as his brother-in-law, Pasquale Contino was still a big man at Town Hall." 

In spring of 1970, John was in the laundromat waiting for his clothes to dry. He picked up a newspaper someone left on a chair and read the headline in the newspaper: "Grey Bridge Bar Under Investigation." He continued reading. 

It appeared that Silvio's Bar had been allowing underage teens to buy liquor and there had been a biker brawl with two opposing gangs in the parking lot. Pasquale Contino was among those being investigated for refusing to address constant complaints from neighbors. The state was withdrawing Silvio's liquor license. 

"That's the best they could do," Charlie told John when next they met at the Vet's Hall.

"It's better than nothing," John said.

"If you think that will stop the long arm of Pasquale Contino, think again. I predict there will be a Sicilian fire at Silvio's before that place is ever shut down by the town," Charlie said.

"You think so?" John asked.

"I'd stake my life on it," Charlie answered.

Charlie wasn't far off the mark. The few bikers who still hung out in Silvio's parking lot, even though the doors of the place were closed, were constantly chased by Grey Bridge Police in nearly every police car available...just in case things got out of hand. 

In summer 1971, John awoke to the acrid odor of smoke. He feared the woods were afire. He was wrong. He stepped outside his shack in the woods and realized the smoke was curling into the dark night sky from a single source. Four large fire trucks with sirens wailing hurried down Marlboro Road. John walked out of the woods to the road. He saw where the trucks were stopping...at Silvio's.

Charlie Pattenow sure called that one right, John thought.

John Hanley managed in his humble little abode mostly unobserved thanks to the thick woods. It was only in winter when the trees shed their leaves that he worried he'd been seen. He'd built the shack in a thick of scrub pines and wild cedars to avoid anyone nosing around his shack. 

One August afternoon, John took his clothes to the laundromat as usual. He noted the newly positioned "Stop" signs all along the access roads off the highway that spilled traffic onto Marlboro Road. When he drove back down Marlboro Road, he saw a wall of fire from the road into the woods. 

"My shack!" he yelled and hurried to save his belongings.

By some odd quirk of fate, the stream in front of his shack saved it from the fire. Still, with the fire company trucks all out, they'd see his shack for sure. He hurried to move his belongings to the trunk of his car. 

He slept in his car on the Veteran's Hall parking lot for the next two days. When finally he returned to his shack, he was amazed it had no been demolished by the fire fighters. He moved his things back in. 

Other than clothing and his Purple Heart, he had few other personal effects he valued. There was his father's old watch and fob, a locket that belonged to his mother and grandmother before her and a few of his favorite books. He kept a large milk crate always at the ready in case he needed to make a fast move out of the shack. 

"John, you're becoming an old recluse. You know that don't you?" Charlie Pattenow said.

"I know I want peace and quiet more'n anything," John answered.

"But still, living in that one room shack..." 

"Shhhh! I don't want the world to know," John said.

"Not to worry. I'd be the last man to ever deprive a fellow vet of what he wants most," Charlie said.

John knew Charlie would never tell anyone where he was living. He didn't care if he was becoming a recluse as Charlie said. 

Someone deep inside, he knew he felt angry at the unfair things that happened to him. He found his greatest comfort in routine and solitude. He ventured less and less to the Vet Hall now that a whole new group of vets from the new war in Viet Nam were joining the group. The other reason he kept more to himself was Marlboro Road. Every day there was another fender bender. People rushing out of Grey Bridge South as if they were heading to the emergency room of a loved one in danger of dying. 

He drove the newly posted speed limit: 25 mph. The rest of the drivers never obeyed that and were driving twice that speed up and down the road. So, John kept to himself.

Life in the dense depths of the woods wasn't boring. He'd made several pets of moles, squirrels, deer and chipmunks. He foraged for mushrooms and wild blueberries and fell asleep each evening to the sound of the frogs spawning every spring and summer. 

This is probably the safest place I can be. He no longer bothered with his accounting customers. He just wanted to be left alone. His only break from his reclusive routine was to do his laundry and even that he decided to forego and discovered he could use the fresh spring water in the lake in the woods to do his laundry. Now, he didn't need to be bothered with the rat race that was posturing everywhere. 

Lately, the youngsters who lived in Grey Bridge South housing development were no longer little tykes but adventuresome preteens. They roamed the woods behind their homes and a few even saw John as he tended to his daily routine.

"Look guys! It's an old geezer and he lives in that shack!" Tommy Ramsey said, spying John returning from the lake.

"Let's get out of here. He might not be real. Maybe's he's a ghost," Jimmy Lindsay said.

"Go on! Get out here!" John bellowed to the boys.

The four boys ran as fast as they could.

For years, the homeowners in Grey Bridge South were aware that an old recluse was living in a shack. They just didn't believe anyone could live without heat or electricity. John was without neither. His pot bellied stove gave enough heat and a kerosene lamp was enough if he needed to read at night. Mostly, he was up with the sun and slept as soon as darkness fell, safe and secure in the heart of the pine-scented woods.

It was all about to come to an end for John. He went foraging for mushrooms for his lunch and some wild blackberries and strawberries that grew along the side of Marlboro Road. He thought he smelled smoke as he had years before when Silvio's bar burned to the ground. 

He hurried back to his shack. When he got about two hundred feet he saw five boys running from his shack. It was on fire. By the time he reached it, the dry summer weather took the entire shack with everything in it. Now, John Hanley had nothing, not even the Purple Heart he was so proud of. 

He ran to the lake with a bucket he kept outside of the shack and tried to put the fire out before the fire fighters discovered him. All but the bottom one-third of the shack remained. When the fire was finally out, tears streamed down John's eyes. He sifted through the mess of ashes to see if he could find his Purple Heart, his father's watch and his mother's locket. They were gone. He was able to save two of his books. The rest were beyond saving. 

All the fight he once possessed was gone. 

What do I do now? Where do I go from here? I'm too old to find a job and even if I could, all I have left are the clothes on my back. Who's going to hire a vagrant with no address, no decent work clothes and only a car to live in? 

John Hanley waited until dark of night to drive his car down the path he'd cleared long ago to his shack. He slept in his car for the next two weeks. When finally he ventured out to Marlboro Road, it was only to stop at the local Post Office to pick up his monthly military stipend. That was all he had to live on now. 

It was a long time since John took a drink. But, he felt so low that he knew he wouldn't sleep through the night. He would get even with those boys. He knew they'd stolen his Purple Heart. It was no where to be found among the ashes. He'd get even with them if he had to come back and haunt them from his grave.

"I swear I will get my revenge," he muttered to himself.

The faces of those five boys remained in his thoughts every day. They returned now and then to the woods mostly to hide the cigarettes they smoked or to have a keg party. When they occupied his part of the woods, John moved his car to the side of the road, watching them leave by hopping the fences of the properties nearest the stream and the wooded area. 

Five faces of young teens John Hanley blamed for the loss of the only thing he ever really cared for: his shack and the few things he valued most.

Oh yes, I will get even with them, he thought.

By the time these boys were nearly graduated from high school, those woods were their frequent "hangout." John saw some of them had received their drivers' licenses and now they were the ones speeding up and down Marlboro Road. 

John saw four of them enter the woods. He saw the fifth one bringing liquor into their little carved out space near the site of where his shack had been. He often saw the oldest of the group driving down Marlboro Road, obviously buying liquor for his underage friends. 

John parked his vehicle on Marlboro while four boys entered the woods. The fifth boy was on his way back from the bar. John got out of his car just as the fifth boy came speeding down the road. The boy realized he'd hit something. He got out of his car and saw it was the old man they'd seen long ago in the woods.

"It can't be. That old guy would be dead by now. I've got to get out of here," the boy said.

He left John lying on the ground barely breathing. His body was not found until one of the neighbors living on Marlboro Road saw the man lying still. John Hanley was pronounced dead. Marlboro Road claimed its third victim. 

No one in town ever questioned the "hit and run" driver. The newspapers all said the man was dressed in dark clothes and Marlboro Road was "poorly lit." Still, the driver of the car and his four friends thought they'd gotten away with John's death and setting fire to his shack.

In 1975, the five boys were coming home from their high school prom. They'd dropped the girls off and stopped for liquor. They planned to go "one last time" to their "hangout" in the woods. They'd already had a few too many.

There were three young men in the back seat of Jack Longier's car and Chip Corrigan in the front seat with Jack wearing John Hanley's Purple Heart medal on his tuxedo jacket lapel next to a white rose. They were laughing and joking as young men do. Jack look over at Chip for less than one second and when he looked back, he swore he saw a figure ahead dressed all in black. 

"Oh my God! It's that old man I hit....look!" Before the words were out of Jack's mouth, the car careened into a telephone pole that came crashing down on the sports car. 

John Hanley got his revenge. When the ambulance came, the Purple Heart was found on the front seat of the car.