The Road Home by Patrick E. Craig Page B

menus.
    â€œHi ya, Sheriff,” she said with a quick wink. “Any place special you two want to sit?”
    â€œOver by the window would be fine, Jolene,” Bobby answered.
    They made their way to the back of the restaurant, Jolene leading the way like a pilot dolphin. As they passed tables, people nodded and smiled, reached out to shake Bobby’s hand, or nodded at Reuben.
    â€œPeople here know you, Reuben,” Bobby said.
    â€œThat’s from growing up here. I used to cut a pretty wide swath through Wooster when I was younger.”
    Jolene got them to their table, dropped the menus and, after asking whether they wanted coffee, headed off to the kitchen.
    â€œDo you ever miss those days, Reuben?” Bobby asked, setting down the menu.
    â€œWhat days?”
    â€œYou know, the days when you were cutting a wide swath through Wooster,” Bobby said.
    Reuben looked at his friend and smiled. “Bobby, you became my friend at a very difficult time of my life,” he said. “I wouldn’t be baptized, my family wouldn’t speak to me, and I was pretty sure that God didn’t even exist. I was finished with being Amish. When I joined the Marines with you, I did it because I believed you when you said that everyone had an obligation to stand up and defend the country that provided them with blessings found nowhere else on earth. I don’t regret serving my country. What I deeply regret is killing the men I faced across those trenches. They were men just like you and me, and they deserved to live out their lives with their wives and children.”
    Reuben reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. In the back section was a piece of paper. He pulled it out. It was a photo of a young Japanese man in the uniform of the Imperial Army. He was standing beside a lovely Japanese woman. She was dressed in a traditional kimono and holding a small boy. The man was stiff, very military in his bearing, and looking straight at the camera. The woman was looking up at the man, and it was plain that she loved and admired her husband.
    â€œI found this picture on the body of the sniper I killed that day you and I and Thompkins were on patrol. This man had a family—a wife who obviously loved him and a son who grew up without ever knowing his father. Bobby, this man could have been me or you or any of us who fought in that war. I’ve kept it with me all these years to remind me that it’s wrong to kill other men. I’ve never been able to forget the surprised look on his dead face when I turned him over on that jungle floor. So no, I don’t miss any of that. And as for the wide swath I cut, some of it with your able help I might add, I just chalk that up to sheer stupidity. And if you think about it, I’m sure you’ll agree with me.”
    Bobby smiled ruefully and then glanced around. “Don’t tell any ofmy old drinking buddies, Reuben, but I have to admit you’re right. The only good thing about the good ol’ days is that they’re gone.”
    Jolene glided back to the table with two cups of hot coffee. She put them down on the table and then pulled a pad out of her apron pocket and a pencil from behind her ear.
    â€œWhat’ll it be, boys?” she asked.
    Bobby picked up the menu. “You’re going to have to give me some more time. We got to talking.”
    â€œSure, take your time,” Jolene said, and then she left.
    Both men perused their menus for a few moments. Bobby peered over his and asked, “So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
    Reuben closed his menu and looked over at Bobby. “I need to ask you some questions about the car Jerusha found Jenny in, and I need to find out what you know about the man they discovered in the pond.”
    â€œThat’s a long time ago, and remember, I wasn’t sheriff yet.” Bobby said, looking back at the lunch menu.
    â€œWell, did you ever do any