The One Who Grumbled Read online

  Musaki leaned toward the glass and said: “I believe it did happen, and I think you do to. If not, why did you write the letters?” he asked. Holland did not reply. Musaki continued. “Why you have been chosen to communicate with the spirits is not for me to know. But you have. You have hardened your heart, but you cannot deny this.” Musaki reached into his briefcase and extracted several tattered envelopes, yellow from age. From one he took a piece of paper, carefully unfolded it, and pressed it against the window so Holland could see what it said. When he finally took it away from the window, Holland’s face was wet with tears.

  Holland wiped his face on his sleeve, then sat quietly, head down. Musaki waited patiently. After a while he spoke into the handset. “Mr. Holland,” he said. “Mr. Holland! Please pick up your handset.”

  Slowly Michael Holland brought the handset to his ear. Without looking up, he whispered into it. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Holland, I realize you have no place to go.” Said Musaki. “I have purchased a small home for you, and have set up a trust fund in your name. These things are yours, whether you help me or not. Your life has been hard. You deserve to be honored because you have found favor with the spirits. Yet, you have been treated with cruelty. You are free to live the rest of your life in comfort. I require no restitution.”

  Holland remained still. He stared at the floor as if he had not heard. Musaki continued. “My grandfather is trapped by his hatred, but he no longer hates. He only wishes to be with the ancestors. I will ask once more, then I will leave you in peace. Please, will you help me?”

  Holland looked up at Musaki’s face for a moment, then said: “He was your grandfather.”

  “Yes.” Replied Musaki.”

  Holland nodded his head. “What do you want me to do?” he asked. Musaki smiled. “You must somehow return to Kaga, Mr. Holland. You are needed there.”

  ~~~~~

  Holland looked out over the sea from the balcony of his hotel room on Sand Island at Midway. When he and Musaki arrived here two days before he was very ill. Musaki stayed at his bedside the entire time, occasionally napping on the floor and ordering their food through room service. This was the first time Holland had gotten out of bed since their arrival.

  Musaki had been kind to Holland since his release from prison. He helped him settle into his new home, set him up with appliances and furniture, stocked the refrigerator and pantry, and got his utilities going. The two met each night at Holland’s house. Musaki told Holland that the dreams of his grandfather were becoming less frequent, and when he did have them they were harder to understand. As each day passed, Holland grew ever more frustrated. He could not contact Musaki’s grandfather. He didn’t know how. Finally, in desperation, he suggested to Musaki that they travel to Midway to be closer to the wreckage of Kaga.

  Now that Holland felt better, Musaki stepped out of the hotel room for a walk. Holland turned on the radio that sat on a nightstand next to the bed. It took him a while to figure out the digital controls, but he finally found a station that played the swing music he liked. The signal faded in and out, but it was better than nothing. He found a newspaper that Musaki had left laying on the table and rummaged through it until he located the crossword puzzle. Then he let his pencil dance across the grid.

  Minutes passed unnoticed by Holland as he concentrated on the structures of the words, eliminating possibilities, calculating probabilities. He filled in block after block, almost randomly. Yet, there was a pattern emerging. It was just a feeling, but when it came to patterns he always trusted his feelings. His pencil slowed, then stopped. He looked at the grid he had filled with graphite symbols. The pattern was not there. He listened. In the air Count Basie’s ‘One O’ Clock Jump’ wafted from the small radio speaker. It flowed like a series of waves fading from music, to static, to music. Slowly, in his mind, he eliminated sounds from the pulsating signal. First the horns, then the woodwinds, and so on until he had eliminated the music entirely. The pattern was in the static, he realized. He went to the radio and adjusted the tuner until he could hear only static, then sat down on the bed and concentrated. He was underwater.

  His body hovered above Kaga. Everything was blurred. The light was weak. Its intensity flowed and ebbed like the Count Basie song on the radio. He could make out that Kaga had changed. It no longer looked like a warship. Only small areas of rusted metal were still visible. He could barely see the gaping hole in the flight deck during the moments when the light pulsed at its highest intensity. Deep inside of the hole he saw a very weak glow. It too pulsed bright, then dim. Holland tried to call out but he couldn’t. His body shook, then Kaga disappeared.

  “Michael! Michael! Wake up!” Holland opened his eyes. Musaki’s worried face hovered above him. Musaki had found him lying on the floor, and was gently shaking him. “Michael, are you okay?” Asked Musaki. Holland sat up. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You had me worried,” said Musaki. “Why are you on the floor?”

  “I don’t know,” said Holland.

  “I think you should see a doctor.”

  “No! No, please, I’m fine”

  “Michael, I’m worried about y…”

  “Shut up, Musaki.” Interrupted Holland. “I saw your grandfather.”

  “You saw him? Where?”

  “He is still on Kaga, but I don’t think he can last much longer. He is weak. We have to go to him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we have to get on a boat, and go out to the wreck.”

  “You can’t be serious, Michael! You’re in no condition to do that. Besides, no one knows exactly where Kaga sank.”

  “We just have to get closer,” said Holland. “I read somewhere that they’ve found a stern section of the ship. It broke off before she sank. We’ll go there. That will be close enough.”

  “How did you find him?” asked Musaki.

  “Static... something about static radio transmissions. I don’t understand it, but that’s the communication medium.”

  “Try again,” said Musaki.

  “No. It’s no use. We’re not close enough.”

  “But, Michael...”

  “Musaki, time is not on our side. I need to leave as quickly as possible. Are you with me or not?”

  “Of course, Michael.”

  “Good! Let’s go find someone who can get us out there.”

  ~~~~~

  They had been on the fishing boat for ten hours. It was cramped, and uncomfortable, and smelled like dead fish, but this was the only boat they could get. A squall was forecast to come in from the northwest, and no other boat captain would leave the marina until it passed. The location of Kaga’s stern was common knowledge among fishing captains at Midway. It was adjacent to a favorite fishing spot, about one hundred miles offshore. They were not making good time.

  The swells had started about ten miles out. It got worse from there. The boat climbed the crest of each wave, then smashed down heavily on the trough of the next. Musaki watched Holland's face grimace with pain from the beating. Several times Musaki had to catch him before he fell to the floor of the wheelhouse. Finally, Musaki laid some raincoats on the floor so Holland could lie down. Another hour passed, then the captain said, “We’re here.”

  Holland opened his eyes. “Musaki,” he whispered, barely able to speak. Musaki crouched next to him. “Yes Michael.”

  “Ask the captain to find an open channel on his ship to shore, something with static.”

  “Yes.” Musaki’s request amused the captain, but he did as he was asked. “We can’t stop,” said the captain. “The waves will tear us to pieces. I’ll have to circle around.”

  “That’s fine,” said Musaki. The captain moved close to Musaki and spoke quietly. “Your man isn’t looking so good. Is he going to be okay?”

  “I don’t know,” said Musaki.

  There was a lot of noise in the wheelhouse. Michael Holland concentrated on the static from the ship to shore radio
. It was hard. His guts were churning, and he was dizzy. He didn’t tell Musaki, but he had cracked a rib a few hours before when he was slammed against a bulkhead by a large wave. For some reason he could not stop thinking about Oahu, and HYPO. He hadn’t thought about these things for more than thirty years, but here were all of these vivid memories streaming back in from wherever he had locked them up so long ago. He loved that job. Life was good then. Now, his pain was gone. He floated above Kaga.

  He could see clearly. Kaga teemed with life of all kinds. Schools of fish swam in and out of openings that were once portholes, now barnacle ringed vestibules for marine animals. Kaga was adorned with corals and anemones of every shape and color. Just like the first time he saw her, Kaga faded into the darkening water creating the illusion that she stretched on forever. He looked to the hole in Kaga’s deck.

  A butterfly glowed and hovered just inside of its rim. Its luminosity vacillated from dark to light, as if it could blink out forever at any moment. It didn’t move from its place. Holland thought it might be studying him. He considered trying to speak, but he knew from previous experience that wasn’t possible. Finally the butterfly approached. Its wings undulated gracefully, slowly up and down until it was directly in front of him. It spoke in Japanese. “You have grown old, American.”

  “You’re no spring chicken either.” Thought Holland.

  “Is that a joke?” asked the butterfly.

  “You heard that?” thought Holland.

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry,” replied Holland.

  “Don’t be, It was amusing, and very relevant,” said the butterfly. “What is your name?” it asked.

  “Michael Holland.”

  “And your rank?”

  “I no longer have any rank. I used to be a Lieutenant.”

  “An officer, good. Are we still enemies?”

  “No.”

  “That is good.” A comfortable silence passed, then the butterfly asked. “Did my grandson bring you here?”

  “Yes, he is a good man,” said Holland. “He brings honor to your family’s name.” At this, the butterfly brightened for a few moments, then dimmed again.

  “You are like me, Michael.” Said the butterfly. “My time is short, and I have slept for far too long.”

  “Yes,” thought Holland. “I am like you.”

  “I would like to go home now,” said the butterfly.

  “That is why I’m here,” thought Holland.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Michael Holland,” said the butterfly. Holland bowed. The butterfly dipped gracefully, then spoke. “My name is Miroku Musaki. My family lives at 4-15-5 Tsukui, Chigao-Sta, Yokohama 115 (, Japan).” With that, the butterfly turned, and descended into the hole on Kaga’s deck. Soothing light emanated from Kaga, illuminating the entire ship. It was the most beautiful sight Holland had ever seen. Then, the light vanished. Holland opened his eyes.

  Pain wracked his body. He saw Musaki staring down at him. “Michael?” said Musaki.

  “Musaki.” Whispered Holland.

  “Yes Michael?” Musaki leaned close to Holland so he could hear him speak.

  “Your grandfather doesn’t grumble any more, Musaki. He is proud of you.” Musaki turned his head away for a moment. When he turned back to Holland, tears ran down his face, and dripped onto his shirt. “Thank you Michael,” he said. “How do you feel?”

  “I’ve been better,” whispered Holland.

  “We will get you to a doctor,” said Musaki.

  “Don’t worry about me, Musaki,” groaned Holland. Musaki turned to the captain and told him to return to Midway as quickly as possible.

  “Musaki.”

  “Yes, Michael.”

  “My heart,” Said Holland. “… it’s not hard.”

  “No Michael, it is not,” said Musaki. Michael Holland smiled, then closed his eyes.

  ###

  About the author:

  Jeff Miller is a Saint Petersburg, FL based author and artist. This is his first published book.

  To learn more about the author please visit his website at:

  https://jefferymiller.webs.com

  If you enjoyed "The One Who Grumbled", read Jeff's story, "Canady Park". What follows is a sample of the first few paragraphs:

  Canady Park (excerpt)

  by Jeff Miller

  Kevin Landstreet, ex-computer programmer, climbed the stairs to his apartment with his head down and his hands in his pockets. At the top of the stairs he saw a piece of paper taped to his apartment door that screamed “Notice of Eviction” in bold black letters, facing outward so that everyone who passed by could read this declaration of irresponsibility. Kevin snatched the notice from the door, shoved it into the pocket of his jeans then rushed inside his apartment, locking the door behind him. He exhaled, groaned, then wondered how long it had been there. He was gone most of the day so it was conceivable that he was the pariah of the apartment building by now.

  He ran a mental inventory of the residents on his floor. There was the older lady in apartment two-twenty-three, and a young couple in two-twenty-seven. These, at least, were certain to know of his shame by now. And the pretty young lady in two twenty nine probably saw the notice too. He didn’t know any of these people. He only saw them when they passed in the hallway, coming or going.

  Technically, homelessness posed a greater threat to Kevin’s well-being than the threat of derision from his nebulous neighbors. Strangely though, Kevin was not concerned with technicalities at the moment. He just wanted to be liked. He could have let it go at that. It was a well-defined conclusion. However, Kevin's brain thrived on crafting paradoxes from incomplete data and creating enigmas out of the obvious. His mind acted like a supercomputer generating bad data due to faulty programming. With his backside planted firmly against the inside of his apartment door, he stared blankly into his living room and pondered.

  Before long a new paradox thrust itself under the electron microscope of his analytically conscious mind to be reverse engineered until it was dis-assembled into its constituent parts. This paradox took the shape of the following circular statement: “The harder I work to make people like me, the less they do.” Thus, his thoughts devolved into even more convoluted circularities, each one based upon the one preceding it with only occasional permutations or new data sets introduced into the flow. If it were physically possible for one’s head to explode from too much thought, Kevin would have been a very dangerous person to be around.

  ###