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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-05
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1,314
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How Many Robins?

Summary:

Jim Ellison's past and the future meet in Montana.

Work Text:

How Many Robins?
by akablonded
***

I didn't know it then.

Well, maybe I did. I just didn't want to admit it.

A prisoner extradition had brought me and my partner, Blair Sandburg, to a small Montana town called Whitefish. During the season, you can't get near the beautiful little community because of the spectacular trout fishing in the surrounding lakes and rivers.

Much to the surprise of Simon Banks, my boss at Major Crimes, I volunteered for the assignment. He'd thought my largesse was because of a new handmade fly rod I'd gotten as a gift, and wanted to baptize in the icy waters of a mountain stream. I couldn't share the real reason, even with a good friend like Simon. Only with Blair. I told him because, well, I knew he'd understand. He said as much, as I packed my old Army uniform to take along. It still fit, even if the Ellison *land masses* had shifted somewhat southward since the last time I'd put it on.

There's nothing novel about the story. It happened more years ago than I'd care to admit, when everything in my life was more black-and-white, and I had more hair and less compassion than I do now. A wet-behind-the-ears 2nd Lieutenant, by the name of Ronald Custer Barone, was assigned to my unit at one of the Army's bases situated northwest of God's backside.

Barone had rotated in sometime during early spring. After his arrival, the kid became de facto low man on the officer totem pole, assigned to pretty much every shit detail that came down the pike. The list included being assigned as an adjutant to a certain aggressive, gung-ho, spit-and-polish captain from Cascade, Washington. Civilian translation for the Barone's military position: Captain James Ellison's personal go-fer, driver, lackee, and sometimes whipping boy, when I was feeling particularly piss-and-vinegarish. But you couldn't *not* like him. 22-year-old Barone was a big, red-headed puppy. Expressive brown eyes. A winning smile. So damned eager to please.

I never knew much about Ronny's (as he liked to be called) background, except that he was raised by some distant relative. After she'd died, Ronny joined the Army to see the world. And find a place to belong.

I'd come across "orphan" mentality soldiers like Barone before. They all thought that their comrades-in-arms would become just that: family -- like the commercials, the posters, and the recruiting officers promised. That's why Ronny used to bore the pants off anyone who'd listen about his home state, going on and on about Whitefish. When we went out for a few drinks together, a buzzed-on-two-beers Barone would always end up promising if any of us were ever near his hometown, the door would always be open.

His door is. The gates of the little cemetery don't close. You can visit plot #230, where Ronny's buried, any time you're in the neighborhood.

The "how" he died doesn't much matter. After it happened, there was nobody to write to, or receive the "the U.S. Government regrets to inform you ..." letter.

I don't know if anybody else from the unit ever made it to Whitefish to say ... whatever. I only know that I *had* to. I'd told Sandburg he could skip this visit, take in the local sights instead, maybe visit some of the Native museums, you know, touristy stuff. He said he'd rather come with me. "But only if it's OK. I mean, if you need to be alone, I'll understand."

Alone? I've spent the bulk of my adult life alone. And look where it got me.

Actually, truth be told, what got me to where I am now - in control of my heightened senses, able to do my job as a detective better than I ever thought possible - is another kid named Blair Sandburg. Although he isn't that much of a kid anymore. The wide-eyed, long-haired, excited, brilliant student I first threw against the wall in some dank Rainier basement office has grown up to become my best friend, my roommate, and my official partner on the Cascade PD Force.

So that's how we found ourselves on a cloudless, blue Monday afternoon, not too many weeks away from Memorial Day, silently standing graveside in the military section of a Montana cemetery. I was uniformed; Sandburg came dressed in a neater version of the flannel shirt and jeans he still favors, and the new overcoat I'd bought him, as a birthday present, to ward off the unexpected chill of the day.

After a few minutes, I finally spoke. "You were right, Ronny. Whitefish is a beautiful place. I'm sorry I haven't gotten here before. Rest now, soldier." Then I saluted him for his sacrifice and said my final goodbyes, and turned to Blair who had on his old wire rim glasses, instead of the contact lenses he now wears. They made him look young and somehow vulnerable.

"What are you thinking, chief?"

"Huh? Sorry, Jim. I ..."

"Spit it out, Sandburg." I sounded annoyed, but I wasn't.

"I was just wondering ..."

"Wondering what?"

"I was just wondering how many robins have sung since your friend came back home."

I looked at Blair, who was looking down at Ronny, and I knew, in that instant, Sandburg had encapsulated the essence of Memorial Day: what would Barone have done with his life, what future would he have been part of, what songs would he have listened to, or written, or had played at his wedding, if he'd not joined up to be a protector of his country. How many robins have sung since the day Ronald Custer Barone was consigned to this small patch of earth?

In the beginning, a lot of people in my "Dirty Harry" world looked at Blair Sandburg but didn't *see* him. Now, they see someone who earned his chops as my partner being roughed up, stabbed, kidnapped, and shot at on a fairly regular basis.

What I see is a true warrior. Not the gung-ho, "kill 'em all, and let Heaven sort 'em out later," automaton, but a disciplined mind, body, and spirit housed in that sturdy, 5'8" frame over there. Above and beyond that, he's decent, dedicated, and fucking loyal to me. He's looked for the good in people when it was hard to find. He's forgiven readily, when he could have turned his back on the halfwits and jackasses that took pleasure in hurting him. He's the strongest person I know.

Because Sandburg was an anthropologist before he became my cop-partner, he knows a lot about ceremonies and rituals. So, in keeping with time-honored tradition, Blair brought flowers to the gravesite - something I'd forgotten to do. Actually, not flowers, but a little bonsai tree of the herb, rosemary. He said it symbolized "remembrance."

I looked at Blair Sandburg again, as the bright sunlight backlit him, and was lost, not for the first time, in the undeniable beauty I saw there. I focused in on the sounds of the wind brushing his cheek where the five o'clock shadow was more than evident. It was like a whole new music I'd never heard before ... Suddenly, I felt Sandburg's hand resting gently on my arm, bringing me back to the present, the way he's done it a thousand times. Yet, here and now, it was somehow different.

Maybe because, this time, I understood what all the gestures, all the kindnesses, all the words said and left unsaid between us over the past four years have meant. Sometimes, family and home are defined by blood. Or blood spilled. And sometimes, family and home are rolled in up one person.

And now I know for sure. I love Blair Sandburg -- my family... my home.

***

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