Reunion

It was easy enough to walk out of Los Prietos Boys Camp  and Nick could have done so. He stayed put because he had nowhere to go and, frankly, he liked it there. However, this institutionally friendly life changed one afternoon and, as he leaned against a rake in the yard, he watched a sedan with government plates pull up with an oddly familiar older man in a crew cut, coat and tie. Nick's eyes were fixed on the man as he shook hands with the Supervising Officer. The Soup, who was usually most confident around probation officers and staff, was most cordial and, to Nick’s overly sensitive radar, submissive to this character. His radar was confirmed when Nick was called into the visitor’s area... what the fuck, it wasn’t even visiting hours for the camp.

Rescue

The Soup left them at the table. The man’s hand closed on Nicks in a firm clasp. This was one of the few hands, even adult hands, that diminished his own. He had the same grey-blue eyes and his features could have been his own in twenty years.

“Harry, Harry Baker, Nicholas,” he offered, as the two of them scrutinized each other.

“Uh, same last name… who are you?” Nick found himself wanting to take a leak… maybe to just get away. He wasn’t ever this nervous around anyone, including adults.

“Take a deep breath Nick. I have some news for you…” it was over 95 degrees. He took off his coat revealing, not only the sweat stains on the light-blue dress shirt, but, an empty shoulder holster, as he reached into his shirt pocket and took out a pack of smokes.

“You can’t smoke here.” Nick at once felt awkward for his uncustomary reflex to enforce the rules. "Hey, are you a cop or something?"

Harry lit it regardless, "Or something..." Nick was delighted. Even the Soup, standing off to the side in the shade, had nothing to say.

“You got some sand, eh?” Nick tried to sound cool.

“Nick, I’m your dad.” Harry let out a puff of smoke from the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

“Fuck you, man, I got no dad.” His heart felt like the blood was boiling in it and his stomach ached… the smoke... those three words... but he kept his poker-face.

“I didn’t even know where you might be until I found your mom a few weeks ago.”

“My mom? Now I know you are bull-shittin’ me.” He got up to walk away but this Harry character just reached over the table, put his massive hand on Nick’s shoulder and sat him back down. Nick wanted badly to throw that hand off of him and follow through with a right-hook but thought better of it. The guy was old but he was huge and emitted an aura about him that only a fool would fuck with.

“I found her in Bethesda Maryland a few days before she passed away.”

“Passed away?”

“Yeh, Walter Reed,” flicking the coal off the end of his cigarette and putting the butt back in the pack, he continued, “She had to give you up when you were born. It is a long story and I can tell you all about it but we have more important things to take care of.”

Nick’s head was swimming, “You could have passed that butt to me, Dad.”

Nick’s sarcasm wasn’t missed but Harry was proud of his son. Hell, how would have he taken such news under similar circumstances?

“What the hell do you expect me to do with this information, pa?” Again, there was no affection in the use of the hillbilly expression for paternity.

Harry’s expression didn’t change. His poker face was as stoically unmoved as anything Nick could pull off. Nick hadn’t even noticed a folder Harry had carried to the table. He opened it to several pictures… one was a newspaper clipping showing a young woman with dark curls flowing out from under a beret holding an odd shaped dagger upright in front of her face. The caption was in Spanish and Nick could read some of it. Words like “Basque bandoleros” were easy enough figure out. “detenida”, "Iniga", “Gotson”, and "smatchet-daga", maquisard", "guardari", were words he was not familiar with. Before he could get lost in that image a few others were shown of what looked like the same woman… much older… gaunt… weary and frail. Another was a glossy Eight by Ten that had a red ink Top Secret stamped across its face of her with the same hair but snowy white though looking much healthier. Both sat in silence…

“Your mother was a hero of sorts, you know, depending on whose side… that knife is a smatchet, designed to drive through a NAZI helmet like butter.” 

"She was bad, eh?" Nick felt a taste of pride well up in the form of a lump in his throat.

Harry stood up, “You want to go home, son, or, do you like it here?”