2010
I stymied a chuckle between bites of my sandwich. It was nearly 10:40 p.m. and we were roaring with laughter. An Airman chimed in, “Wallis, you’re not really going to eat that third KFC Double Down, are you?...I mean, don’t hurt yourself.”
I knew I had to make good on the promise. Killing time on another long night shift, we had declared an absurd challenge: Who could eat more than anyone else within 10 minutes? Everyone was looking at me now, and since the stakes were high on the field of nonsense, I didn’t want the rest of the night to be anticlimactic. Despite my best go, two sandwiches and a few paltry bites of the last gut-bomb was all I could bring myself to eat. After the room exploded into laughter, I excused myself to go wash up. Naturally, there was some good-natured ribbing and sarcastic applause on my way out the door.
THOCK, thock, THOCK. My footsteps echoed in the lonesome hallway, dimly lit by energy-saving bulbs that gave off about as much warmth as a frigid lover. At least camaraderie was high tonight, I thought to myself. Perhaps the shift would fly by? I pulled my cell-phone from the cubby. No new text messages, two voice-mails. COMMAND: Call Voice-mail.
The androgynous operator finished announcing the time, and immediately a lump began to form in my throat.
8:47 p.m. New Message. “Brandon, this is Chris, I need you to call me right away, it’s important man.”
8:53 p.m. New Message. “Brandon, call me right away, it’s about Monty, we’re at the hospital.”
I leaned against a doorway. My son, my son, oh God no, my son. What is wrong with my son? He’s in another state, I’m at work, is there something serious going on? Why did Chris call? Why did he call twice? Why was his voice cracking? What, what, wh….?
“Is something wrong, Wallis?” A coworker spotted me from an adjacent break room, and his brows furrowed as he puzzled at the look of distress on my face.
“My son, my son, something…” I leaned against a doorway for support, and tried to reach Chris to no avail. Again. Again. Finally, my phone rang through.
“Brandon, you need to get here, man. Monty’s hurt. I, I, …Monty’s hurt. [My world began to reel.] Just come.”
“Chris, what’s wrong, tell me.”
“I don’t know the whole story, I’d rather you hear it from them. (THEM?) You need to get down here as soon as you can.” CLICK.
“Wallis, have a seat.” The coworker walked me to the nearest chair and ushered me to sit, then ran down the hall to grab a supervisor. My brain surged violently, as time both fast-forwarded and paused with staggering halts…my stream of thought a jumbled ball of yarn.
I would have to leave, cram effects into a night bag at the house while the vehicle idled. A 10-hour drive…perhaps would flying be faster….no, not enough red-eyes available in the area. Enough manning to have someone able to drive me? Not likely. Monty. Monty. Monty.
I had to find out what was wrong. Once I reached a doctor by phone, which occurred at some point during the night, keywords constructed a horrifying crossword puzzle: The New York Post’s Nightmare Edition.
Son. Hurt. Trauma. Come. Uncertainty. Police. Coma. Custody. Brain. Response. Come. Come. Victim.
"I have to leave. My son is hurt." I recall somber shaking heads, and my keys shaking in my grasp. Somehow, fueled by caffeine, rage, fear, and anguish…I arrived at the hospital parking lot.
2011
A year has passed. Daily, I remember those events and the diagnosis of my son. He would be four this year. A visceral flaming poker stabs my heart every time I pass the children’s section of Target, or get an invite to a baby shower. I overhear coworkers at my new unit laugh. Accomplishments of their children bring smiles as they share fatherly advice. Father. Am I a father, now? I was a father. What is a father without a son?
At the courthouse, I stare at the back of his alleged murderer’s head.
JACKSON, Miss. -- Montgomery Beauregard Wallis "Monty Beau," age 3, of Shaw Air Force Base, was born March 10, 2007, and died surrounded by family on June 2, 2010, at the University of Mississippi Medical Center in Jackson.