CHAPTER 26 - NOW WHAT?

            Well, I'd found him, and it had been frighteningly simple. The simple part had been Googling his name. The frightening part was being reminded just how much of everyone's life was now a matter of public record. And realizing how easily accessible those records now were to the rest of the world. Oddly enough, though, the web site where I located him had nothing to do with Vietnam or veterans as I had anticipated. It was a college web site. It seems that Michael James Donovan was now Dr. Michael J. Donovan a professor of Literature at Montgomery Methodist University in Conroe, Texas. I bookmarked the web page and turned on the printer.

            MMU had an extremely informative web site. Clicking on the first link took me to an abbreviated version of Michael's curriculum vitae, which included a picture, so there was no doubt that I had the correct Michael Donovan. According to the accompanying blurb, he'd received his BA from UT Arlington, and his MA and Ph.D. from UT Austin. The dates indicated that he'd gone back to school shortly after our summer together.

            Knowing Michael's affinity for music, I could understand why he might have gravitated to the state capitol to complete his education. During the 1970's, Austin was the location of the infamous Armadillo World Headquarters, a musical Mecca for everyone from Hoyt Axton to Frank Zappa. It was also the era of the Outlaw Country Music movement and home to a burgeoning live music scene which, of course, inspired the nationally famous Austin City Limits music program. Michael would have been in his element.

            I studied the picture. Yes, the years had wrought a few changes in Michael, but they had definitely not been unkind. He was always a handsome devil, and he had only improved with age. It's so unfair, I reflected, men get more distinguished, and women just get old. The sweet-faced youth was now a mature, sophisticated gentleman. Still clean-shaven as he'd been when I first knew him, his brown hair was shorter now, but still fashionable and graying at the temples. The once smooth forehead was now gently furrowed, and I noticed a faint hairline scar horizontally bisecting the brow above his right eye. Far from being disfiguring, the barely perceptible mark only served to accent his rugged handsomeness. The face was older, with a few faint lines and creases around the eyes and mouth, but no more than could predictably be expected from 30 years of living. Still, I only had to look at those clear blue eyes to recognize the young man I'd known so long ago.

            The list of courses that he taught sounded interesting: English Literature from the Anglo-Saxon Invasion to the Early Romantic Period, The Bible as Literature, and American Literature from 1500 to the Present. I clicked the link for the English Literature syllabus. Listed prominently at the top of the page was all the pertinent information required to contact Dr. Donovan including his office location, hours, telephone, fax, and e-mail. Skimming through the rest of the syllabus with its list of required texts and schedule of assignments, I caught glimpses of Michael's innate humor even in something normally so dry and straightforward. This surprised me not at all. I had spent many hours listening in rapt fascination as Michael discussed books he'd read or movies he'd seen. If anything, Michael was a born teacher, one of those rare individuals who actually made learning an exciting experience. On the other hand, most of the teachers I remembered from my own school days seemed to have attended special classes in the art of sucking every bit of life out of a subject.

            Going back to the curriculum vitae, I glanced though the list of his published papers, articles and essays. They included the expected collection of esoteric academic stuff such as Revisionist History in the plays of William Shakespeare. Now, I liked Shakespeare well enough, but that topic sounded like a guaranteed snoozer. A couple of titles sounded slightly more interesting such as The Bardic Tradition: History and Social Commentary in Popular Music from the English Broadside Ballad to the Protest Songs of the 60's. That title must be nearly as long as the actual paper, but knowing how important music had always been to Michael, that's one I could at least understand. From Poe to Stephen King, the Evolution of the Horror Genre, on the other hand, was a mild surprise. I could picture Michael reading Poe, but I wouldn't have pegged him for a fan of Stephen King. I liked some of King's short stories well enough, but tended to lean more toward the novels of Dean Koontz.

            A back issue of the Journalism Department's online magazine included a feature article on MMU's most popular English professor. The interviewer, obviously female and just as obviously smitten, waxed rhapsodic about Dr. Donovan's passions for music and the written word. I couldn't help feeling smug and superior because I already knew this. And, I'd known it since before the reporter was born.

            The pictures accompanying the piece were what really captured my interest, though. First was a shot of Michael on the steps of his home, an artfully rustic-looking two-story log cabin on the shores of Lake Conroe. Michael looked pretty artfully rustic himself in his suede jacket, western shirt and jeans. The bolo tie, belt buckle, and sterling silver cuff bracelet he wore all sported large hunks of turquoise. He still preferred cowboy boots, but he'd traded his ropers for full-quill ostrich, and these boots didn't look like they'd come off the shelf at Sears. Dr. Donovan appears to be doing rather well for himself, I mused.

            Another photograph showed Michael standing beside the cherry red 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible that he'd restored himself. There was a picture of him sitting on a Mission-style sofa in his living room playing the guitar. Another photo showed him lounging on his patio, reading a book. More pictures showed him puttering around the kitchen or grading papers in his office. It was the usual parade of carefully-posed-to-look- informal shots, and from the expressions on his face, Michael was enduring the photo session with characteristically indulgent good humor.

            I found still more pictures of him in the Campus Life photo gallery. If the number of times he appeared in candid photographs of the student body was any indication, he was apparently well liked. Of course, this was not unusual since Michael had always been an engaging person. I found a picture of him chauffeuring the queen and her court in the aforementioned convertible during the last homecoming parade and a picture of him covered in soapsuds at a fundraising car wash. Most interesting by far, though, was a picture of him flipping burgers at a Sigma Tau Delta cookout because the caption read in part, The English Department's Most Eligible Professor . . . Now, that was certainly worth noting. From all indications, Michael was not married or otherwise attached. Hmm . . .

            My heart was pounding as I shut down the computer and sat there staring at the darkened monitor. My emotions had been on a roller coaster since I opened the cigar box, and I was quickly approaching numbed exhaustion. Now that I had all this information about Michael, what in the world should I do with it? Did I dare try to contact him after all these years? Hell, after all these decades! This was the question that consumed my thoughts long after I shoved the printouts into a drawer and crawled into bed. Unable to sleep, I lay there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling while my thoughts roiled and writhed like a ball of snakes.

            Of course, I wanted to see him again. It was as simple as that, but what would it accomplish? I had no idea. What did I hope to accomplish? I was afraid to frame the desire. The gulf between us now seemed even wider than it had when I was sixteen. He was a university professor, and I was a glorified secretary. We'd both traveled such a very long way down an unfamiliar road. Had our two paths diverged too far to meet again?

            I knew how I'd felt about him then, how I felt about him still. But, I was consumed with doubt. What had he really felt? What might he still feel? The passage of time brings changes in perspective. His pledges of forever in my heart and thine, forever thine notwithstanding, would he even remember me? Would he even want to see me? Did I have anything to offer him? Had I ever? Really? From my first impulse to pick up the telephone, my heart and my head began to wage a battle between desire and reason as I vacillated between courses of action and envisioned a myriad of outcomes.

            During the days that followed, my preoccupation with Michael became a full-on gonzo obsession. I was drawn back to MMU's web site every evening until I had memorized Michael's office hours and class schedule. I cringe to admit that I even went so far as to visit the local used bookstore and purchase the few titles that I didn't already own, just so I could keep up with each day's assigned reading as a small way of feeling connected to him.

            I began a score of e-mails to him, but ended up hitting "delete" after composing no more than a few sentences. I picked up the telephone a dozen times, but always hung up before completing the call. Part of me wanted more than anything in the world to make contact with him again, but another part of me was absolutely scared spitless at the thought.

            I became even more withdrawn and reclusive than usual, but no one really noticed. I finally came to the startling realization of how truly alone I was. I'd spent my whole life keeping family, friends, and coworkers at a distance until I looked up one day and discovered that there was no longer anyone there. Michael was the only person I'd connected with after Joey was killed. When I ended up losing Michael too, I had become afraid to risk caring deeply for anyone else. So I cultivated superficial attachments, and in the process I had become totally isolated from the rest of the human race. There was no real intimacy in my life, not with my friends and certainly not with my family.

            I agonized over my dilemma for weeks. I weighed the pros and cons of contacting Michael again. For every reason I could give in favor of doing the deed, I could think of five more reasons against such a foolhardy enterprise. It had been nearly thirty years since I'd seen him last. He had a life of his own, less than three months of which had actually included me. And if I did see him again, what then? I imagined all sorts of scenarios, and they all turned out badly.

            The more I tried to dissuade myself from pursuing the madness which had laid hold of me, the more I came to the inescapable conclusion that I must see him again. After all this time, I had an infinitesimal chance to right the wrong initiated by my father, and knew that I had to try just as surely as I had to breathe.

            Even so, I was terrified. No one wants to be rejected, and there was every possibility that he might reject me. Why should I hope that I might still matter to him after so many years? And what if he did reject me? What if I didn't matter to him anymore? It wasn't as though the world would cease turning. On the contrary, I knew that the world would surely continue to spin quite blithely on its axis and that, I think, was my true horror. No matter what disappointment might lay ahead, life would go on whether I wanted it to or not, and that was the hell of my existence. So, it all came down to one undeniable fact that I had nothing to lose. If Michael sent me away for good and all, I would be no worse off than I already was.

            Once I had made to decision to contact him, the question looming before me was "How?" Telephone, fax, e-mail and snail-mail, were all duly considered and just as duly rejected. No, there was only one way to do this . . . in person. There would be no returned letters, no insulating distance this time around. If Michael didn't want me, I wanted him to have to look me in the eye when he told me so.

            My choice made, I began planning my trip. I had accumulated plenty of vacation time, so I scheduled a long weekend. I deliberately avoided any holidays because I deduced that the odds would be against Michael leaving town if he had regular classes and appointments. Even more deliberately, I decided against telling anyone where I was going or what I was planning to do. If this turned out to be a major fiasco as it very well might, then no one need know about it beyond those immediately involved.