Authors: Stephen Rodrick

The Magical Stranger (31 page)

“Sometimes, I can't believe I used to do that,” said Tupper, his voice barely a whisper. “It already seems so long ago.”

I
was scheduled to fly off the
Lincoln
a couple days later. At the last minute, I tried to extend my stay. I wanted to keep Tupper company, but I also knew this was going to be my last trip on an aircraft carrier. I mourned a connection to Dad that was about to end forever. But I only had a seven-day visa to travel in and out of Bahrain, and the Navy refused to pick up the phone and ask for an extension. I packed my bags with a better understanding of American subservience to an oil conglomerate. Tupper walked me down to the COD office the next afternoon. He'd done 840 days at sea in the last five years and talked like a prisoner doing short time.

“I can do six months, no problem. Piece of cake. Sometimes, I feel like I could stay out here forever; this is the life I know.” He smiled a little. “But I'll see you down the road.”

We said good-bye quickly, before either one of us could go weepy. He headed back up to the tower. About a half hour later, I was led out onto the flight deck toward the COD. I looked up and gave Tupper a final wave. But Tupper wasn't looking. I waited a second longer, I wanted him to see me saying good-bye. But then deck personnel politely pushed me into the COD. I strapped myself into my seat and thought of a boy waving good-bye to his father. He didn't look back either.

M
om called me while Tupper was at sea. She wanted to come out to Whidbey for her first visit in over thirty years. She asked me to be her guide. I told her I'd be honored.

She brought along her old friend Ulla. We met at Sea-Tac and drove up I-5. We crossed over the Deception Pass Bridge, which was shrouded in fog, just as it had been on August 10, 1974. The next day, we hit all the old places. We drove over to Crosswoods, and she and Ulla snapped pictures of their old homes, tsk-tsking at cars now parked on their once pristine lawns. We headed over to NAS Whidbey past signs welcoming squadrons home. Mom happily chattered through it all. Sherm gave us a tour of the VAQ-135 hangar, and Mom grinned that old forgotten smile, excited at the planes and the men and women running through a building that was once presided over by her one true love.

We crossed the street and she put her hands on Dad's name at the Prowler memorial. We stopped at the chapel where the memorial service was held and lit a candle for my father. I waited, but her eyes never filled with tears. She conquered all the stops that even now, after many visits, could bring me low.

That night, Steamer and Pam Danielson had us over for dinner. It was typical Whidbey craziness; kids coming and going, wine flowing, Steamer still in his flight suit. Everyone talked happily about all that had changed and all that had remained the same in the town we used to call home.

But then Ulla's face went white. She grabbed Mom's hand.

“Barb, I don't feel right. Something isn'tÂ .Â .Â .”

Ulla's eyes rolled back in her head and she fell to the floor. There was momentary silence before the room erupted in noise. Steamer called 911 and Mom dropped to her knees and held up Ulla's head.

“Ulla! Ulla!”

I couldn't believe it. Was Mom's best friend going to die just a mile from the house where Mom was told her husband was dead? It seemed cosmically unfair. Mom kept talking to Ulla and stroked her face. Ulla opened her eyes after a minute or two and Mom helped her sit up. Mom held her hand.

“Ulla, everything is going to be fine. You passed out but you're okay now. Paramedics should be here any minute.”

Ulla was more embarrassed than ill by the time the paramedics arrived. They took her blood pressure, pronounced her okay, and blamed her fainting on low blood sugar and jet lag. All the old feelings of loss and pain came back and made my legs wobble. I sat down for a minute in the back bedroom of Benjamin, Steamer's oldest son.

There were Lego towers and
Star Wars
gear, all the signs of a teenage boy not quite ready to surrender his childhood. Then I spotted a framed picture sitting on the desk. It was Steamer in his flight suitâjust back from cruiseâtossing his boy skyward. The picture catches Benji at his highest point, arms and leg splayed, a giant smile on his little-boy face.

For a moment, I concentrated on the sadness of what was missing. I thought of Steamer not ever being tossed in the air by his own dad. I thought of my father never knowing how much his only son missed him, how much he wanted him to be proud of him, how much he wanted to be worthy of being called Peter Rodrick's son.

But then I thought of what was there: the son Steamer was raising, Benjamin Danielson IV, proudly carrying his grandfather's name. I thought of the son I hoped to have some day, the one I would name after my father. We had become good men, worthy of our fathers' names, and that was no small thing. We had survived. We had not been lost. There were mothers to thank for that. Mothers we battled. Mothers we sometimes hated. Mothers who had done the best they could when their bright worlds fell black. We were their only sons too.

I took a breath, stood up, and went back into the kitchen.

I had to make sure Mom was okay.

Afterword

On the morning of March 11, 2013, a Whidbey-based EA-6B Prowler on a low-level training mission crashed in a field about fifty miles west of Spokane. There were no survivors.

The crew members were Lieutenant Commander Alan Patterson, thirty-four; Lieutenant Junior Grade Valerie Delaney, twenty-six; and Lieutenant Junior Grade William McIlvaine, twenty-four.

I hope that this book, in some small way, honors their memory and the sacrifice of all who loved them.

Acknowledgments

This book would not be possible without my family. My uncles, aunts, and cousins endured their private lives going public, gave me endless encouragement, shared old photos and painful memories all with good cheer and grace. I cannot thank them enough. My sisters, Terry and Christineâand their partners, Bari Liebowitz and Kevin Bessertâgave me love, forgiveness, and understanding when I needed it the most. I cherish them.

And then there's my mother, Barbara Ann Rodrick. She could have stopped this book with one phone call or one shake of the head, but she didn't, allowing me to tell our story in hopes of others understanding what happens to a military family after “Eternal Father” is sung and the wives go home. Left alone with three young children, she never faltered in making sure Pete Rodrick's kids were taken care of and loved. Her achievement can be seen in our successes. She is the strongest, bravest woman I know. Her friend Ulla Coburn has been with herâwith us, reallyâthrough it all. Thank you, Ulla.

On the Navy side, this book would not have happened without the enthusiasm, kindness, and wry sense of humor of Commander James Hunter “Tupper” Ware. His endless generosity and patience in answering my idiotic questions should earn him another Bronze Star. His friendship is one of the great blessings of my life, and his dedication to his children will serve as a guidepost for me if I am fortunate to have children of my own. A man my father never met taught me more about what it means to be a naval officer, a pilot, and a daddy than the rest of the world combined. I will be forever grateful to Beth Ware for sharing her husband with me on his rare times at home. She and my mother have never met, but they share a selflessness that is at the heart and soul of what makes the Navy great. To Beth and Hunter's daughters, Brenna and Caitlin, I hope your father hasn't embarrassed you too much and I look forward to learning about the great things you do with your lives.

Lieutenant Commander Scott “Sherm” Oliver gave me a home when I needed one, enduring my late-night arrivals and post-midnight raiding of his refrigerator. We shared long talks, late-night Taco Bell runs, vodka cranberries, and several escapades that could have ended with either of us in the morgue or Leavenworth. I regret nothing!

Then there's Commander Brian “Steamer” Danielson; all he did was help me understand my own life in a way I couldn't quite grasp until I met him. Somewhere high above the blue sky, Benjamin Danielson and Peter Rodrick are sharing a cold one and thinking, “Hell, they turned out okay.” I never had a brother, but in Tupper, Sherm, and Steamer I now have three.

There are too many officers in VAQ-135 to thank by name, but special shout-outs to Commander Vincent “Vinnie” Johnson; Lieutenant Commander Todd “Beav” Zenter; Commander Blake “Stonz” Tornga; and my three roomies; Lieutenant Jeff “Stoli” Stodola; Lieutenant Chris “Lil Chris” Sutherland, and Lieutenant Devon “the Wolf” Benbow. To the rest of the World Famous Black Ravens: anywhere, anytime, the first seven beers are on me.

Back in the civilian world, thank-yous to Hugo Lindgren, Sheila Glaser, Jason Fine, and Mark Healy for being patient with me, as I seemed adrift on permanent book leave. My ace agent, David McCormick, navigated me through unfamiliar waters and led me to HarperCollins and Tim Duggan, whose enthusiasm for the book never waned, even when mine did. Emily Cunningham artfully steered me through the editing process with patience and good humor.

Elyse Moody, Eileen Finkelstein, Alex Star, Evan Hughes, David Dyas, Alison Buckholtz, Dan Halpern, Scott DeSimon, Gordon Young, Eliot Kaplan, Bill Gifford, Bob Kolker, Joe Hagan, and Molly Knight all read drafts and/or provided hope when all hope seemed lost. Chris Steffen, my transcriber, became a trusted friend and confidant and fellow hater of the St. Louis Cardinals. Tom Scocca, Jason Gay, and Michael Crowley provided much-needed laughs through email and the stray dinner at Dan Tanas. The Harrison family gave me a second home and more love than this stray Gentile deserved. Then there is my best friend, Mark Aznavourian; he was with me every step of this journey, always willing to listen, plot, and conspire. He is the best man I know.

Finally, my wife, Alix Ohlin. She is as sweet and private as I am loud and melodramatic. She has never ever let me down. This book would not exist without her love and kindness. I am a lucky man.

This is for my father. I wish you all could have met him.

About the Author

STEPHEN RODRICK is a contributing writer at
The New York Times Magazine
and also a contributing editor at
Men's Journal
. His writing has been anthologized in
The Best American Sports Writing
,
The Best American Crime Reporting
, and
The Best American Political Writing
. He lives in Los Angeles.

Visit
www.AuthorTracker.com
for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

Credits

Cover design by Richard Ljoenes

Front Cover photographs: Robert L. Lawson Photograph Collection, National Naval Aviation Museum; Stephen Rodrick and his father courtesy of the author; Map Â© David Rumsey Map Collection, www.davidrumsey.com

THE MAGICAL
STRANGER.
Copyright Â© 2013 by Stephen Rodrick. All rights reserved
under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the
required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to
access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be
reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored
in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form
or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter
invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

Frontispiece courtesy of
the author

Library of Congress
Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rodrick, Stephen.

The magical stranger : a son's journey
into his father's life / Stephen Rodrick.â1st ed.

p. cm

ISBN 978-0-06-200476-5

1. Rodrick, Peter T., 1943â1979. 2.
Rodrick, Stephen, 1966â. 3. United States. NavyâOfficersâBiography. 4. Air
pilots, MilitaryâUnited StatesâBiography. 5. Fathers and sonsâUnited
StatesâBiography. I. Title.

V63.R74R6 4 2013

359.0092âdc23 [B]

2012043637

EPUB Edition May 2013 ISBN 9780062097927

13 14 15 16 17
OV/RRD
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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