George Hartmann Box Set Read online

  George Hartmann Series Books 1-3

  Ithaca's Soldier, Subject to Danger, and Places Blue

  Kelly Utt

  Part I

  New Yorkers

  1

  Home

  Only a madman would move to Upstate New York in January. But, here I am in Ithaca. It’s snowing. Hard. And I have two young kiddos and a pregnant wife in tow. My life is nothing if not interesting.

  The family and I have been staying in a hotel the past couple of days while we wait for the moving company to haul our stuff up from D.C. We chose the Hampton by Hilton over on Elmira Road, per my grandpa’s enthusiastic recommendation. John Wendell has probably stayed at Hampton Inns in at least thirty different states back when he and Grandma were in their traveling heyday, and he has the handwritten logs to prove it. He hasn’t been out of Ithaca near as often since she died, but he’s plenty familiar with the local Hampton because he recommends it to everyone who visits and then goes there and hangs out with them while they’re in town. I suspect the hotel’s close proximity of his favorite sandwich shop is also a selling point.

  It’s been nice to relax a bit without anything on the schedule. I love seeing Ethan and Leo’s cute, chubby little faces as they scarf down bagels and Raisin Bran in the crowded hotel breakfast area. At ages four and two, they’ve already been to plenty of hotels, but every single thing is still new and exciting to them. Orange juice machine? Fascinating. Warming plates for the bacon and eggs? Awe-inspiring. It’s a whole world we don’t have at home, so they’re -- understandably-- crazy for it. Aside from the breakfast area, the indoor pool is the other big highlight of the place. Admittedly, it’s pure, simple heaven for a young family like mine. I’m pretty sure I tossed those little boys into the water more times than I could count yesterday, all while eyeing my smoking hot wife Alessandra as she lay sprawled out on a chaise lounge nearby, completely enthralled in some girly novel she picked up at the Walmart next door. I get all sentimental and choked up over this type of scene more than I should probably admit. But honestly, who needs a five-star hotel in an exotic location? Instead, give me a Hampton Inn next to a Walmart in my cozy, snowy hometown where I can admire my wife’s body and throw my kids around in a pool. I’m a happy man.

  I start my new job at Cornell the week after next, and I’m hoping the movers come early so I can swing by and meet the other engineering professors this afternoon before they head out for the weekend. The new gig is a tenure-track faculty position in the School of Mechanical and Aerospace Engineering, with an emphasis on space technology. It should be a lot of fun. I’ve always loved electronics, rockets, and things that are loud and go boom. That’s what led me to the Air Force as a young man. I signed up through ROTC in college and jumped head first into being a legit rocket scientist. Well, a rocket engineer anyway.

  We’re not checking out of the hotel until tomorrow since we figure there won’t be enough time to get beds set up before these boys conk out for the night. Ali and I will do whatever unpacking we can this evening and then pile everybody into the Tesla and head back to the Hampton by bedtime. But first, we’re having lunch downtown with Mom and John Wendell. Four generations! This simple lunch date is the kind of thing Ali and I would get all mushy over when we thought about moving to Ithaca. Mom’s an only child without siblings and so am I, so I imagine it’s pretty special for John Wendell to have his entire family right down to the great-grandkids in one place. The big, warm smile he can’t hide when he sees us walking up the sidewalk tells me I’m right.

  “George!, Ali!, E-boy!, and Leo the Lion!” John Wendell calls out from where he’s standing under the cheerful red and white awning in front of The Cupboard Kitchen. He could have waited inside, but I guess he’s excited. The Cupboard Kitchen usually has an outdoor table and chairs in the spot where he’s standing, but they’ve removed those for winter. We all smile back so hard it almost hurts our cheeks.

  It might sound unusual for a grandson and his family to have such a close relationship with his ninety—five-year-old grandfather, but it’s a reality for us. Ali and I share lots of common interests with John Wendell. We did with Grandma too, and we miss her terribly. Back before the boys were born, the four of us-- Ali, me, John Wendell, and Grandma-- would travel together as often as we could. We’ve been cruising in the Caribbean, sightseeing on the East Coast, and we’ve enjoyed waterfront dining and dancing to Big Band music under the stars in too many places to count. It’s a shame so many years separate us and that we couldn’t spend more time together.

  I aim to make the most of the years John Wendell has left now that we’re going to be living nearby. He’s in fantastic shape for his age. Hopefully, he’ll live another five or even ten years. He sure seems like the perfect candidate to be one of the lucky outliers who live past one-hundred. He’s pretty sharp mentally. He doesn’t walk with a cane or walker, and up until last summer, he was driving himself around. Mom had to intervene when a neighbor called to report him going fifteen miles per hour the wrong way on Green Street. He didn’t seem to realize anything was out of the ordinary and was pretty torn up about it, both because driving has always been so important to him and because he would never want to put others at risk.

  The Cupboard Kitchen was named by the owner’s grandfather who passed away a few years ago. He was known for cooking amazing dishes using ingredients from his kitchen cupboards and wanted the restaurant to have the same homey feel. Seems only fitting that it’s the first place we get together with John Wendell now that we’re officially Ithaca residents. The small, dim dining room is brimming with people when we walk inside, and Frank Sinatra’s voice is crooning over the speakers with It Had to Be You. I thought maybe people would have stayed home given all the snow, but I guess winter weather is par for the course in a place like Ithaca. I remember once during my senior year of high school when we had so much snow over the course of a few days that it brought the city to a standstill. Today, though, people seem relatively unfazed.

  Ever since I was a kid, John Wendell has done this thing where he stands beside me and sort of holds my elbow for a minute while my arm is bent. I don’t know if he does it with everyone, or if it’s our special thing. It’s sort of like a squeeze of a hand or a pat on the back, I suppose. He’s doing it now while we walk to our table and he whistles along with Frank’s song. Ali sees and flashes me a knowing smile. It’s good to be home.

  “So, George,” John Wendell says as he gets situated in his chair and hangs his coat carefully over the back. “How in the world are you, son?” I wonder if the waitress who just walked by thinks I’m really his son. Hey, I’d take it if she did. John Edgar Wendell is an incredible man.

  He started calling me “son” around the time my dad died. I was sixteen, and even though we never really talked about it, I’m pretty sure John Wendell consciously decided to be a key source of stability in my life. Mom and I moved from Brooklyn to Ithaca a couple of months after the funeral, and it was John Wendell who attended my basketball games, helped me tie my tie for senior prom, and did all of the miscellaneous dad things which inevitably needed to be done. I’ll never forget him showing up for me like that. When I was hurting, John Wendell stood by me. I mean literally stood by me. He’d seem to appear out of nowhere and I’d notice him sitting by me or standing by me as if to physically reassure me that I wasn’t alone. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. Sometimes all you need in the world is one good person who will simply stand beside you.

  I suppose strangers might find it odd that I call him John Wendell instead of grandpa or grandfather. Mom calls him John Wendell as well, with a “Dad” or two added in every once in awhile. That tradition got started before my time, so I’m not sure
how it came about. I mean, not only do we call him by his first name, but we use his last name, too. He’s a guy who has a larger than life presence about him. I don’t mean that he’s a big man. In fact, looking at him now in his brown Mr. Rogers sweater (as I like to call it) and his crisp, starched, button-down collared shirt with tiny blue and white checks, he looks small. He’s always been strong and healthy as an ox, but with a lean build. His spirit and big, warm presence seem to take up more room than his physical body does. This man can find the positive in any situation. He was a kid during the Great Depression, and when you ask him about the poverty and difficult conditions he experienced, he’ll tell you about how his mom used the tiny bits of extra money his family had to bake bread for anyone who wanted a loaf, and how he had the best parents. He doesn’t focus on the negative. I’m not even sure the man holds negative memories in that little bald head of his. We’d all do well to take a page from his book.

  “I’m good, John Wendell. Really good. It’s a little strange to be living in Ithaca after so many years away, but it feels right,” I say as the waitress drops off a bread basket and some paper and crayons for the boys. “It’ll feel a lot better once we get moved into the house and settled.”

  “I hear that,” he says with a smile. “Your mom took me out to see the place last week and it is a looker. Our magnificent Cayuga Lake is right in your backyard. The views are stunning. You are going to be very happy there.”

  “You think so?”

  “I sure as hell do.”

  “It’s a little showy, especially for a place like Ithaca,” I say, leaning in closer so the people next to us don’t overhear. “I mean, I don’t want to come across as pretentious.”

  “Now you sound like your mother, George. Your dad worked hard all his life and earned the money he left you fair and square. You shouldn’t be ashamed of that.”

  Mom is sitting at the other end of the table near Ali, and I see her grimace out of the corner of my eye. Mom feels even less comfortable than I do with Dad’s money.

  “I know, John Wendell, but it still feels funny. I’m not sure I’m cut out to be the wealthy type.”

  “And why not?” he asks. I can tell he sincerely wants to know. “Nothing wrong with being wealthy so long as you’re a good man and you help others when you can.”

  The waitress is back and wants our drink order. Ice waters all around for the adults, and milk for the boys.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’d feel better if I’d earned the money myself. I know Dad worked incredibly hard for it though.”

  “He wanted you to have it. Everything Alec Hartmann did was for you. He was self-made in every sense of the word, and he did it all for his family. Remember now, I was around for the whole thing from start to finish. You know,” he says as he leans back in his chair and puts a hand down gingerly on the edge of the table, “I remember your dad’s friendly eyes. They were an awful lot like your own. I remember the first day I met him. He was a scrappy go-getter and a little rough around the edges compared to your mom. He’d survived because he had to. He didn’t have a close family to come up with. But I could tell from a mile away that he and your mom belonged together. There was a synchronicity between them. Even everyday movements like washing dishes or opening a car door, when done together, had an ease and beauty which, plain and simple, transcended this world same as what you see when you go to the ballet. They had real, true love, George. And you’re the living, breathing result of that love come to life. Rest sure in that, son.”

  And now I’m all choked up in The Cupboard Kitchen. We’ve been here less than ten minutes.

  Ali and Mom see what’s happening from the other end of the table, but they don’t interrupt. They know this is how it is with me and John Wendell. We go right to the meat of meaningful discussion almost immediately. Ali gets our drinks from the waitress and orders a buffalo turkey dip for the table. Ethan looks up from his coloring long enough to flash me a big smile, and Leo’s lips curl ever so slightly upwards even though he doesn’t make eye contact. They must feel the love in the room even if they don’t understand everything we’re saying.

  I was away with the Air Force so damn many days over the past twenty years-- days when I didn’t have the opportunity to sit with my family and feel the positive energy bursting right out from each one of them. I know I keep saying it, but I sure do love my people. I look around the table and into their eyes, and I’m smitten. I finally have a home that feels like a home where I belong. It’s been a long time coming.

  My eyes are still moist as John Wendell reaches into the breast pocket of his coat on the back of the chair and pulls out a folded section of The Ithaca Journal. “Have you seen today’s front page?” he asks. John Wendell is a huge lover of newspapers. He reads them every day without fail and mails us articles he thinks we’ll find interesting. He even wraps Christmas and birthday presents with the comics sections. But the look on his face tells me this goes beyond his usual level of interest.

  “Not yet. What is it?”

  “See for yourself.”

  I take the paper out of John Wendell’s hand and slowly open it on the table in front of me. There I am, looking important under huge letters that read “Military aerospace pioneer and Ithaca native George Hartmann joins Cornell’s engineering faculty.” I’m surprised, and it probably shows. That was unexpected. Where did they even get the photo? Most of my career has been spent in special ops working on top secret projects. I’ve never been in the spotlight like this before. In fact, I have carefully avoided drawing attention to myself so as not to jeopardize national security. Although, I must admit, I’d probably be uncomfortable drawing attention to myself even if national security wasn’t an issue. John Wendell chuckles out loud. He knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  “It’s a new world, George. You’re back in your hometown now. You’re Ithaca’s very own soldier. Our guy. The town has a legitimate claim to you, and we’re incredibly proud.”

  “I was born in Brooklyn, John Wendell, you know that. I lived there most of my childhood,” I say. “And generally, members of the Air Force are known as airmen instead of soldiers.”

  “You graduated from Ithaca High School. Your mom’s from Ithaca, just like Grandma and me,” my grandfather assures. “You have roots here. You’re ours, for better or worse, regardless of whether you want to call yourself a soldier or an airman. Back in my day, we didn’t even have airmen yet. You’re all soldiers to me.”

  I appreciate that and understand his reasoning for allowing Ithaca to claim me. I really do. But my work at Cornell is funded by the DOD and will be classified. They recruited me based on my particular knowledge and experience, and although I don’t yet understand the full scope of what we’ll be working on I know enough to realize that the public might not be so enthusiastic about my participation if they knew the truth. John Wendell probably gets that general idea, but even he might not be too happy to hear the details.

  As I ponder that uncomfortable thought, an older lady walking behind us on her way to the door stops and taps me on the shoulder. Her small group takes up a lot of space in the tiny restaurant. Probably eight or ten folks, presumably colleagues, stand around her and listen as she speaks.

  “You’re him,” she says with wide eyes as she points to the newspaper spread out on our table. I can’t immediately tell if her wide eyes are because she disapproves, or if she’s sort of starstruck and in awe because the front page newspaper guy is sitting right in front of her. A jolt goes through me as the reality that this lady might not approve settles in on me. She might know what my new group at Cornell does behind closed doors. She looks kind of like an old hippy. The type they describe as crunchy like granola. Her hair is long and gray, and it’s divided with clips into two long ponytails which rest on each of her shoulders. She wears simple rimless glasses, a thin strand of pearls around her neck, and no makeup. She looks highly intelligent. I wonder if she’s about to get loud and call me out. I can easily env
ision this lady holding nasty signs and screaming at political protests. She probably went to jail a time or two back in the day in support of her political beliefs. Civil disobedience suits her. Ithaca is certainly a bleeding-heart liberal town.

  After what feels like way too long, the lady’s eyes soften and a smile appears, first from her lips and then her cheeks.

  “Hometown hero,” she says as she pats me hard on the back, almost like she’s burping a baby. I force a smile in return and mumble something about how it’s not quite like that, but before I can get anything intelligible out she grabs my hand and shakes it hard.

  “Wonderful to meet you, Dr. Hartmann. Welcome home, sir.”

  The group of colleagues nod in agreement and add a few encouraging words of their own as they walk past on their way out. John Wendell beams with pride. That was close.

  The rest of the lunch is uneventful, other than my noticing a creepy guy who came in after we did and who seems to be staring at us from a table in the back corner of the restaurant. I decide to let that go. Creepy guys are everywhere. What harm could he possibly do us here? We eat, and we talk. Ali and Mom run down a list of places to find necessities: Harold’s for groceries and prescriptions, Glenwood Pines for a cozy atmosphere and an amazing burger, and the Cornell Lab of Ornithology for an educational, kid-friendly afternoon on days when the weather isn’t good for playing outside. Ali has been in town to visit plenty of times, but living here will be a lot different than visiting.

  When our bellies are full of tasty greens and artisan sandwiches, we say our goodbyes and pile into our cars. Mom takes John Wendell back for an afternoon nap, and the rest of us head to the new house.

  2

  Taking Root