PAT RILEY'S LATEST NOVEL
Thousands of American families have lost loved ones to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. For those left behind, these losses are devastating, life changing and have far-reaching consequences. Th death of a single soldier affects a multitude of family and friends. Every family has a different take on their loss, and fledgling North Carolina reporter Rudy Ryan is crisscrossing the state to get their stories. Throughout Rudy's five-week assignment, several violent events unfold that at first seem random. Eventually, it becomes obvious that those who started these wars, and think they are immune to the ravages of it, have become easy targets for a grieving widower bent on his own form of justice. |
Those familiar with Pat Riley’s work will recognize the trademark struggle of
good vs. evil in this novel, the characters he carefully crafts--who seem like
people we know--and the humor, even in the midst of tragic circumstances.
good vs. evil in this novel, the characters he carefully crafts--who seem like
people we know--and the humor, even in the midst of tragic circumstances.
See excerpt from The Cook Out below:
1
"There are certain rules about a war, and rule number one is young men die;
And rule number two is doctors can't change rule number one."
- Colonel Henry Blake, M*A*S*H (TV series)
Landstuhl, Germany
"There are certain rules about a war, and rule number one is young men die;
And rule number two is doctors can't change rule number one."
- Colonel Henry Blake, M*A*S*H (TV series)
Landstuhl, Germany
Imaginary letters ricochet off the gleaming green tile walls. At times, the letters team up with each other to make words. The bouncing around reminds him of his dad’s antiquated video game, PONG. The letters rebound everywhere in perfect symmetry. They continually smash into the adjoining walls only to be shot off in another direction. The sound they make hitting the surfaces is similar to an overinflated basketball on a blacktop driveway; at first, a high-pitched ping followed by a hollow drone, a friendly sound that Bobby grew up with. He liked to pump up his basketball to the max pressure. To him, especially against taller opponents, it meant faster dribbles and many more rebounds away from the rim. The steady bombardments of letters and words appear in every font and every color of the rainbow. Enormous amounts of letters travel solo and are scattered, but make perfectly good sense to Bobby. A fixed drip of morphine can do this.
A childhood snapshot of him and his parents joins the mix of gibberish words. The photo was taken at the Dean Dome in Chapel Hill. It has hung in the hallway near his bedroom door for a dozen years. The original photo was taken in color, but this one darts in and out in sepia. Seeing himself young, with his mom and dad, makes him happy. He was whole in that photo. His dad smiles down with pride with his right hand resting on Bobby’s small shoulders. He believes the event, the basketball game, occurred around his tenth birthday. He wonders how he got so big. When did all this growing happen?
Bobby’s imagination has a scenery change, and now he witnesses cartoon captioned words flowing from his dad’s prideful grin of years past. He not only reads the words, but has the pleasure of hearing his dad’s voice saying the words. He so welcomes the sound. His dad tells him, “You never have to go anywhere, son. We have it all here in Carolina.” Along with other meaningful words from his childhood memories, his dad’s words of bragging appear friendly and eventually float through the room as if printed on gas-filled balloons. And yet he didn’t listen, nor did he really believe that his dad didn’t want him to explore what lay beyond their North Carolina boarders.
The visual treats continue, and Bobby hears an enthusiastic dad going on and on about their native North Carolina. “Bobby, we have ourselves a great blue ocean and plenty of snow-topped mountains. Actually, we have the highest mountains in the east. That’s a fact, Jack.” Then his dad spewed out statistics about the Carolina lakes, rivers and forests. Bobby repeatedly told his dad that he should have worked for the North Carolina Tourism Bureau and both would laugh hard. The more Bobby laughed, the harder his dad would try to keep him laughing.
Bobby was just a joy to be around. He was the child every parent yearns for. His mom and dad were both sports fans, and Bobby was all that and more; he was a gifted athlete. When he was a kid at family gatherings, a usual joke by an aunt or uncle would be, “Did Bobby walk first or shoot a hoop?” Before he could walk, he had an 18-inch ruler which he used to whack a tennis ball around the hardwood floors and between the legs of chairs. His goal was a vertical standing shoebox across the dining room. His dream in grade school was to play for Carolina, in Chapel Hill. And he could have. There was plenty of interest. He would get court time, but not as much as he wanted.
During his junior year of high school, he and his parents started the college application process. The most aggressive recruitment came from The United States Military Academy at West Point. This got his attention, and that of his hard-working parents. His college education at this prestigious university would cost nothing. The scouts also promised him he would probably start his second year. As it turned out, they were wrong. After the Christmas break of his first semester, he came back as a starter. His coach, Coach McDonald, would address him from time to time as “Flash,” or “Mr. Hustle.” McDonald would comment to his assistants in private, usually while reviewing the films of the previous game, “If the play could have gotten done, Schrader would have done it.” Bobby Schrader was elected captain his sophomore year and held the honor until graduation. He was their playmaker, their point guard, and was regarded as the best in the Patriot Conference. Bobby embraced West Point basketball as the fans embraced him. He was their six-foot-two, Army Black Knight.
He feels his throat swell and his eyes turn wet. Now the sound of the dribbling basketball is annoying. No, he thinks, it’s excruciatingly painful. His head feels like it’s in a steel drum and he’s wearing headphones at full volume. “Never have to go anywhere, son.” His visuals of those words just a few moments ago were friendly and calming. Now they’re being jumbled. The letters are blood color, large, jagged and scary. They’re making no sense to him with their sharp frightening edges. Several of the previous friendly words are being shot across the room encompassed in human body parts and fiery flesh. They collide with the walls and explode into mucus green and bright yellow piss. Bobby grows fearful and begins to cry; he’s trapped. He knows it’s only a dream, and he can usually wake himself up. He wonders why it doesn’t work this time.
Sounds of his screams finally do wake him, with terror and confusion. Bobby looks up with his one undamaged eye and sees what he thinks is a ghost in a perfectly fitting crisp military nursing uniform. She’s injecting a needle into an existing tube inserted in the back of his left hand. His crying stops, his breathing slows, his thirst is quenched. He thought he felt a kiss on the bridge of his nose. His one eye and his nose are the only two places on his face that aren’t swathed in bandages. Touch, he thinks, what a wondrous feeling, even when it’s a kiss from a ghost.
A childhood snapshot of him and his parents joins the mix of gibberish words. The photo was taken at the Dean Dome in Chapel Hill. It has hung in the hallway near his bedroom door for a dozen years. The original photo was taken in color, but this one darts in and out in sepia. Seeing himself young, with his mom and dad, makes him happy. He was whole in that photo. His dad smiles down with pride with his right hand resting on Bobby’s small shoulders. He believes the event, the basketball game, occurred around his tenth birthday. He wonders how he got so big. When did all this growing happen?
Bobby’s imagination has a scenery change, and now he witnesses cartoon captioned words flowing from his dad’s prideful grin of years past. He not only reads the words, but has the pleasure of hearing his dad’s voice saying the words. He so welcomes the sound. His dad tells him, “You never have to go anywhere, son. We have it all here in Carolina.” Along with other meaningful words from his childhood memories, his dad’s words of bragging appear friendly and eventually float through the room as if printed on gas-filled balloons. And yet he didn’t listen, nor did he really believe that his dad didn’t want him to explore what lay beyond their North Carolina boarders.
The visual treats continue, and Bobby hears an enthusiastic dad going on and on about their native North Carolina. “Bobby, we have ourselves a great blue ocean and plenty of snow-topped mountains. Actually, we have the highest mountains in the east. That’s a fact, Jack.” Then his dad spewed out statistics about the Carolina lakes, rivers and forests. Bobby repeatedly told his dad that he should have worked for the North Carolina Tourism Bureau and both would laugh hard. The more Bobby laughed, the harder his dad would try to keep him laughing.
Bobby was just a joy to be around. He was the child every parent yearns for. His mom and dad were both sports fans, and Bobby was all that and more; he was a gifted athlete. When he was a kid at family gatherings, a usual joke by an aunt or uncle would be, “Did Bobby walk first or shoot a hoop?” Before he could walk, he had an 18-inch ruler which he used to whack a tennis ball around the hardwood floors and between the legs of chairs. His goal was a vertical standing shoebox across the dining room. His dream in grade school was to play for Carolina, in Chapel Hill. And he could have. There was plenty of interest. He would get court time, but not as much as he wanted.
During his junior year of high school, he and his parents started the college application process. The most aggressive recruitment came from The United States Military Academy at West Point. This got his attention, and that of his hard-working parents. His college education at this prestigious university would cost nothing. The scouts also promised him he would probably start his second year. As it turned out, they were wrong. After the Christmas break of his first semester, he came back as a starter. His coach, Coach McDonald, would address him from time to time as “Flash,” or “Mr. Hustle.” McDonald would comment to his assistants in private, usually while reviewing the films of the previous game, “If the play could have gotten done, Schrader would have done it.” Bobby Schrader was elected captain his sophomore year and held the honor until graduation. He was their playmaker, their point guard, and was regarded as the best in the Patriot Conference. Bobby embraced West Point basketball as the fans embraced him. He was their six-foot-two, Army Black Knight.
He feels his throat swell and his eyes turn wet. Now the sound of the dribbling basketball is annoying. No, he thinks, it’s excruciatingly painful. His head feels like it’s in a steel drum and he’s wearing headphones at full volume. “Never have to go anywhere, son.” His visuals of those words just a few moments ago were friendly and calming. Now they’re being jumbled. The letters are blood color, large, jagged and scary. They’re making no sense to him with their sharp frightening edges. Several of the previous friendly words are being shot across the room encompassed in human body parts and fiery flesh. They collide with the walls and explode into mucus green and bright yellow piss. Bobby grows fearful and begins to cry; he’s trapped. He knows it’s only a dream, and he can usually wake himself up. He wonders why it doesn’t work this time.
Sounds of his screams finally do wake him, with terror and confusion. Bobby looks up with his one undamaged eye and sees what he thinks is a ghost in a perfectly fitting crisp military nursing uniform. She’s injecting a needle into an existing tube inserted in the back of his left hand. His crying stops, his breathing slows, his thirst is quenched. He thought he felt a kiss on the bridge of his nose. His one eye and his nose are the only two places on his face that aren’t swathed in bandages. Touch, he thinks, what a wondrous feeling, even when it’s a kiss from a ghost.