He reached a bookshelf near his door which was piled high with medial reference books and paper. It was the last major shit heap in his office, and was one he’d been avoiding cleaning up because it was so daunting. Laying on top of it was an unmarked manila envelope. He picked it up and looked inside.
The first thing he pulled out was a military ID card for Petty Officer William Dunham.
Cote took the envelope to his desk and dumped it out.
He had, he could soon see, the personal effects of Will Dunham, the items that were with him when he arrived at Tripler. Somehow they had ended up in his office. He knew he’d never seen them before, he had too much of an interest in Dunham, had thought about him too often, to forget that he had this trove of information about the young man. Someone, probably on that first day, had probably heard that Cote was involved in the case and had dropped off the envelope in his office. Maybe they’d meant to remind him later and forgot, who knows.
His name tag was in there, with the crest of the USS Boise to the right of the word DUNHAM. Two standard issue black navy ballpoint pens, the type that hadn’t changed in Cote’s entire career. Another unchanging artifact of a naval career: one of the small green notebooks designed to fit in a back pocket, to record everything that needed to be done: his first chief had called his a “paper brain.” Dunham’s was filled with neat script, observations from his watch, notes from training, several phone numbers in back with Honolulu area codes. The heaviest object in the envelope was a “leatherman” in its leather sheath, a foldable tool that every mechanic carried on his belt, containing a knife, screwdriver, and, handiest of all, needle nose pliers. Cote would have to submit it all to a heartless bureaucracy where it would, at some point and after a thorough and pointless examination and inventory, end up in the mailbox of a grieving parent, just in time to reopen the wounds of their loss.
Cote was almost ready to put it away when he found a small envelope at the bottom, addressed and stamped. It was addressed to a girl.
The envelope was unsealed. He opened it and pulled out a single piece of stationery.
Dear Ashley:
So this is the letter I promised you.
We’re getting ready to pull out soon, as you know. It looks like they’re not sending me to the brig, which is good news. Although at least there I would be closer to you.
I am working my ass off in the galley, scrubbing pots and busting suds. Although tonight I got a few minutes and went topside to watch the sun set over the ocean, it was beautiful. Out here you can actually watch it move, sink below the ocean until it disappears, us spinning around that thing all these millions of miles away. We’re so far away, but it means everything, day and night, winter and summer.
I’ve noticed before sometimes when I’m really tired I think of things from my childhood. Not always super happy things, sometimes really boring things like my dad’s old car or the way my brother would sometimes cook us ramen for dinner when my parents were working late.
But now all I do is think of you. Maybe the nicest thing you’ve done for me is change the way I think, the way I look at the world now as a place where great things can happen to me. Even when I think now about the times before we met, I like to think about how that event, that decision, led me to you.
You are the sun that all my memories orbit around.
