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Narrated by Pamela Klein
Gary W. MooreUnabridged — 5 hours, 19 minutes
Narrated by Pamela Klein
Gary W. MooreUnabridged — 5 hours, 19 minutes
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"The Final Service is a song of pain and grief and life and death. Author Gary W. Moore highlights the impact of war not only on the combatants themselves but on their families. Decades of sorrow, loss, and guilt erode human connections, but loyalty, understanding, and memory are the magical ties that reach beyond the grave. The parable of Sandy and her father Tom celebrates the complexities of love. Bravo to Gary for touching my crusty old heart."
"The Final Service is a vivid reminder that the hand of God is in all things."
"Gary W. Moore has a knack for telling our stories. Whether it’s a dream interrupted in Playing with the Enemy or a personal journey of discovery in Hey Buddy, Moore tells us about ourselves while writing about others. Never is that more true than in The Final Service, where a father’s misunderstood love nearly tears his daughter apart. Love doesn’t always come in the shape we expect. If we’re lucky, we realize that before it’s too late."
"A poignant story of redemption, the power of forgiveness, and the wisdom that comes later in life when we see our parents as they really are."
"A compelling and endearing story about what matters most in a time when it matters most of all."
"The Final Service is a vivid reminder that the hand of God is in all things."
"A compelling and endearing story about what matters most in a time when it matters most of all."
"Gary W. Moore has a knack for telling our stories. Whether it’s a dream interrupted in Playing with the Enemy or a personal journey of discovery in Hey Buddy, Moore tells us about ourselves while writing about others. Never is that more true than in The Final Service, where a father’s misunderstood love nearly tears his daughter apart. Love doesn’t always come in the shape we expect. If we’re lucky, we realize that before it’s too late."
| BN ID: | 2940172158810 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Oasis Audio |
| Publication date: | 09/20/2016 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
CHAPTER 1
April 13, 1995
Sandy Richards looked at the face staring back at her from the bathroom mirror. She had dreaded the arrival of this day for months, and now it was here. Turning forty wasn't the end of her world. At least, that is what she had been telling herself for months.
Dressed in a gray VanderCook College of Music T-shirt over green plaid pajama bottoms, she leaned closer to the mirror and touched her left temple. Was she imagining it, or were the lines around her eyes more pronounced? She took a step backward and studied herself. She was still thin and shapely where it counted, but not what anyone would call skinny. Her hair was now a washed-out blonde, a semi-successful effort to mask the gray that had begun lacing through her hair the previous year. Her youthful appearance had always been important to her. She wasn't vain. At least, she didn't think she was.
She stepped closer until her tummy once again touched the sink. Through the eyes of a child, people forty and older seemed ancient. Even her own mother looked elderly when she turned the big 4-0. A quiet chuckle caught in her throat when her thoughts turned to her music students at Walton Center Middle School. She probably reminded them of an old schoolmarm, the kind she used to watch in old Western movies. Had the inevitable occurred? Had she become old?
Her gaze dropped down to the yellow note stuck in the lower right corner of the mirror and froze there. Her father had just been admitted into Riverside Medical Center in Kankakee for testing, and she had an appointment to meet with the doctor later that afternoon to go over the results. She wasn't expecting anything too serious. Her dad was more fatigued lately than usual, and, when pressed by her mother, admitted he didn't feel like his normal antagonistic self. And he was coughing a lot.
She rolled her eyes, sighed deeply, and looked back into the mirror. Her left index finger traced the line running from the bottom corner of her nose to the end of her lip. She had never noticed how pronounced it had become. Her father's face had the same line on either side of his nose. Great, she thought. Just what I need. To look like him.
Sandy turned away from her reflection to begin the morning ritual of showering, applying make-up, dressing, and heading out to bring the joys of music to her students. Every morning she sang while getting ready for school.
On this morning, she did not.
* * *
"How's your dad, Sandy?" asked Rodger Jones. The Walton Center Middle School's assistant principal was standing at the front desk reading the morning sports page when she pulled open the door and walked into the office.
"Stubborn as ever, Rodger," she said with her lips stretched thin. She walked around her colleague to the wall of cubbyholes that doubled as mail slots. Hers was jammed with announcements, most of them useless. "Why do you ask?"
Rodger folded the paper and waited until Sandy looked over at him. "I heard he was at Riverside for tests. I'm praying for good results."
"Thank you," she replied, glancing down and pretending to study papers and envelopes clutched in her hand. "Have a nice morning," she concluded as she pushed open the door and stepped quickly down the hallway toward the band room. "Small towns," she muttered to herself.
Walton Center was the sort of place where everyone knew everyone — and all the details. The lack of privacy was bad enough, but no one was shy about asking the sorts of questions requiring answers most people didn't want others to know anything about.
Advances in communications and transportation had drawn the formerly sleepy little northern Illinois town into the gravitational clutches of Chicago. Truth be told, what was once a country village was rapidly becoming little more than a bedroom community for the Windy City. Its population was increasing, and strangers were more common here than ever. But it was still the kind of place that harbored few secrets.
Sandy paused outside her classroom to recall something she had overheard her older daughter Emiley remark to a friend: "Hey, I found your nose. It was in my business again." That pretty much summed up life in small-town middle America. The thought nearly brought a smile to her face, the hint of which just as quickly vanished. Smiles came rarely these days. When they did, Emiley and her younger sister Sarah were usually the cause.
She was about to open the door to her room when one of her students came bounding toward her, his arms outstretched for a hug. "Mrs. Richards!" It was a daily routine they both enjoyed.
"Hi Tyler! How's it going?" Sandy tousled the tow-headed boy's mop of wild hair with one hand while reaching into her pocket with the other to pull out a dollar bill. When she was sure no one was looking, she let it slip through her fingers onto the floor.
"I'm going to join band next year, Mrs. Richards. I'm going to play the drums!"
"I know, and I bet you'll be the best drummer ever!" She glanced at the floor and pretended to be surprised. "Oops, did you drop your lunch money, Tyler?"
Tyler glanced toward the crumpled dollar lying at his feet, scooped it up, shot her a wide grin, and took off down the hall.
Tracey Shirk, Walton Center's choral instructor, walked up next to Sandy and watched Tyler hoop and holler his way through the throng of students beginning to pour into the school and crowd the hallway. "That kid just always has money falling out of his pockets," she said to her best friend before lowering her voice and adding, "You can't feed them all, you know."
"Most of them feed themselves just fine," replied Sandy with a gentle nod. "With Tyler's broken home and a mom working third shift ..."
"She usually forgets his lunch money." Tracey finished the sentence for her. "Do you think his mother ever wonders who's feeding him, or if he's even eating lunch?" she continued. "And how about those new sneakers you bought him? She has to notice."
"I don't care if she does. He's a good kid. I'm sure she works hard, and she's a single mom. It doesn't hurt to give a little help," replied Sandy.
"You're a saint, girlfriend," Tracey whispered in her ear as she slipped one arm around Sandy's shoulder and hugged her. "Not to change the subject, but ... how's your dad doing?"
Sandy stepped away a few inches, just enough for Tracey's arm to fall away. "My father's sure getting a lot of attention today."
"People are concerned. You know that. How is he?"
Sandy took a deep breath and exhaled. "I think he's fine. He's tired. He drinks too much. He's still busy trying to start some kind of business." The words shot out like a machine gun. Cold. Rapid. Empty. "As for his other business projects, if you can call them businesses," she added before stopping herself. "Never mind," she shook her head. "I'm sure he's OK."
Tracey remained silent for a few seconds, cocking her head to one side as she always did when contemplating whether what she was about to say next was a good idea. "Well, Shadow, you need to come to grips with him. He could be gone faster than the Cubs can blow a 10-game lead in September. You two have unsettled business. You shouldn't leave it unfinished." When Sandy raised a hand to object, Tracey raised hers a tad faster, and they met palm to palm, a high-five frozen for several seconds at eye level. "We've been friends since grade school. I know you. I understand what you've gone through," continued Tracey. "I know what your family has gone through with your dad, but he's still your dad. And you only get one. And you were his shadow, Shadow." Tracey grinned at her play on words.
Sandy managed little more than a shrug and was about to speak when the school buzzer signaled it was time for the first class to begin. As she turned enter her room Tracey blurted, "Hey, I haven't forgotten."
Sandy furrowed her brow and turned to look at her friend. "Forgotten what?
Tracey mouthed the words, "Happy birthday!" grinned, winked, and turned away.
Sandy grimaced. Why couldn't everyone just forget that nasty little fact?
Her day continued like all the others: woodwinds first period, brass next, followed by her dreaded hour with the percussionists. Of all musicians, drummers were a different breed. She would never really understand them. Today, however, the drummers knew all about her little secret, and as soon as she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her, belted out Happy Birthday as only those who make music by striking things can do.
After the rambunctious serenade fell away to fitful silence, she thanked her students, ignored their requests that she tell them her age, and continued her class as she always did. Forty-five minutes later, when she waved them into silence and told them to pack their gear, one of the drummers raised his hand.
"Yes, Elijah?"
"Were you in The Vanguard, Mrs. Richards?" he asked the question slowly, as if he wasn't exactly sure what he was asking or whether there was such a thing.
"Yes," she replied. "I was indeed. The Des Plaines Vanguard." She knew what was coming next. Everyone in the room knew. Bill Sanford, Elijah's father, had marched with The Cavaliers. The Park Ridge Cavaliers and The Des Plaines Vanguard were fierce competitors during her teenage drum and bugle corps years.
"My dad was a Cavalier."
"Yes, I know. He was playing with the enemy."
"He said they were better."
"Really? He said that?" She pursed her lips in something that wasn't a smile, but might have been mistaken for one. Usually the exchanged stopped here. None of the ways she really wanted to answer were appropriate. On this day, however, she could not stop herself. "Well, you tell your dad The Cavaliers wore green for a reason." She paused for effect. "Envy is a powerful thing."
Elijah frowned and looked at a friend. "Huh?"
The buzzer sounded.
"Saved again," she muttered under her breath as the kids scurried out of the classroom banging their sticks against the walls and slapping a beat along the white board.
Drummers.
* * *
Jazz band rehearsals passed in a bluesy haze just before lunch, and her concert band class early that afternoon marched by. When the clock hit 3:30 p.m., she made a beeline out the door straight to her car. For a moment she felt guilty, fumbling in her purse for her keys and then dropping them on the pavement as if she were a nervous petty criminal accused of doing something wrong. Music was her calling — not her vocation. There was nothing she loved more than lingering, as she nearly always did, in the band room with some of her favorite students. There, Sandy would spend an hour or more strumming her guitar, singing with her "kids," and teaching them everything from music theory and harmonies to why the Beatles were better than the Stones. But not today.
Sandy was unlocking her blue Dodge Caravan when a woman's voice shouted, "Mrs. Richards!" She turned to her right and watched as a woman she did not know walked quickly toward her from two rows away. "Hi, I'm Marilou Sanford, Elijah's mom," she said rather breathlessly when she stepped within a few feet of Sandy, using one hand to brush back the long strands of raven hair that had fallen across her cheek. "He is one of your percussion students. I think you knew my husband Bill years ago."
"Sure, hello, Mrs. Sanford," replied Sandy, who marveled at the woman's youthful appearance. How could she be that young and fit and have a teenaged son Elijah's age? Sandy prepared herself for what was coming next. Parents don't chase teachers down in the parking lot to extol their virtues in the classroom. The flippant exchange she had with Elijah about The Cavaliers and The Vanguard leapt to mind. "What can I do for you?"
Marilou hesitated, smiled, and then bit her lip before replying, "I — we — my husband and I, and of course, Elijah ... just wanted you to know — our family is praying for you."
Sandy tilted her head back slightly and raised her eyebrows. "Praying? For me?"
"I know how close I am to my daddy, and we heard yours is in for testing," she continued. "We're praying God will place his healing hand on him and make him healthy again. And that He will pull you close and relieve your anxiety regarding your daddy's health."
Daddy. Sandy caught a trace of a Southern accent and recalled something about Elijah's mom being from Alabama. "Yes, well. Thank you, but ..."
"And that God uses this challenge with your daddy's health to pull you both closer to Him."
"My daddy," Sandy stumbled on the word. "Right, well ..." She really didn't know what to say. She shifted the books she was carrying from her left arm to her right and stood ramrod straight, her rigid body language screaming her discomfort to anyone paying attention. "Thank you, Mrs. Sanford, but my father is fine. He's like a tank. He's old and battered, mostly from self-abuse, but I'm sure he'll be okay." She flashed a fake grin. "If I were you, I wouldn't waste prayers on Tom Loucks."
For an uncomfortable moment Elijah's mother stared without replying or moving, processing the chill buried within Sandy's response. "Mrs. Richards," she began softly, "prayers are never wasted. God hears them. All of them."
"I'm sure he does."
"And He can use all things for His good purpose."
"Yes, well, thank you. I appreciate your concern, but I have to run."
Sandy climbed into her Caravan and drove away, glancing into the rearview mirror to catch a final glimpse of Elijah's mom, mouth agape as she drove away. Her facial features spoke volumes: how could her son's teacher be so cold and rude? When she caught her own reflection Sandy quickly looked away. The bags under her eyes were dark and pronounced. Stifling back a sob, she eased her Caravan to the side of the road, shifted into park, and flipped down her visor to study her face in the mirror. It was all she could do to keep from crying. "Am I depressed?" she thought, looking deeply into her own eyes as if they might hold the answer. "What is wrong with me?" she asked aloud. She was never rude or short with anyone, let alone a student's parent, but something had changed. And this was the first time she fully recognized it.
Sandy dabbed a white Kleenex against the tears gathering in her eyes and blew her nose. When she glanced at her watch and realized the time, she eased her way back into traffic, heading out Route 102 toward Kankakee. It was time to meet Tom Loucks' doctor.
She arrived at Riverside Medical Center hoping to secure a parking place close to the entrance. Finding none, she pulled into the adjacent lot and walked the long path to the building housing the physicians' offices. "Why can't they just tell me the results over the phone?" she mumbled aloud as she stepped around an elderly woman heading in the same direction.
"What my dear?" asked the woman. Sandy waved the question away without breaking stride, passing through the automatic doors to stand in front of the tall black sign with white lettering on the lobby wall boasting an over-sized list of physician names. Her frustration level mounted when she realized the names were organized by floor rather than alphabetically. Her father's doctor, Andrew Albright, MD, was on the fourth floor.
"My name is Sandy Richards," she said once inside the office. "I'm here to see Doctor Albright about my dad's test. His name is Tom Loucks."
"Yes, Mrs. Richards, the doctor is waiting for you," answered the young receptionist. "You can go inside." She gestured toward a door just beyond the desk.
"Waiting for me?" she said in surprise, and more loudly than she had intended. "Since when do doctors wait for patients?"
"The doctor will see you now, Mrs. Richards. He is right through there."
Sandy stepped toward the door, which opened on cue to reveal a nurse, who escorted her down a long hallway to an office at the end. "Mrs. Richards to see you, Doctor Albright."
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Richards," said the doctor, who stood from behind his desk and extended his hand. Sandy shook it briefly. "Please, have a seat," he continued, gesturing toward a fauxburgundy leather wingback chair facing his own desk. With his full head of hair, soft round face, and white medical coat, he looked strikingly like Doogie Howser. "Great," she thought as she settled into the chair.
Dr. Albright pulled his own chair up, rested his arms on his desk, and laced his fingers together. His lips were pursed, tightly. "Thank you for coming, Mrs. Richards," He sighed before continuing. "I am sorry your mother wasn't able to make it, but your dad authorized for me to speak with you." He paused to clear his throat. "This is hard, so I'll get right to the point. Your father has lung cancer. I've already brought in another colleague for a second opinion."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Final Service"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Gary W. Moore.
Excerpted by permission of Savas Beatie LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
