Copyright 1994(c)
                          MIKE'S LEGACY
                        By Sharon Skelly
 
     My cousin Mike and I have been close since we were 
babies. Born a week apart in l947, we grew up together on 
the same block in Point Place, a lower-to-middle class 
section of Toledo. Our fathers are brothers and my Aunt 
Denise and Mom are best friends. I guess that even as babies 
and toddlers we were absolute hellions, and the taller we grew 
the worse we became in behavior and the closer we grew in 
spirit. We've always shared everything--friends, books, 
toys, confidences, and experiences. We were so alike in our 
looks and personalities that Dad and Uncle Kevin always joked 
that we were cloned rather than conceived. Grandma Riley, 
bless her soul, said we were a pair of banshees. Our 
beleaguered mothers simply shook their heads in despair as 
they commiserated over coffee about the fate of their 
first-born children. Mike and I adamantly refused to conform 
and "be good." Our innocent, albeit devious, kindred spirits 
seemed eternally bound and even then we knew that we'd always 
be a source of strength to each other. 
      How could we have known that an ill-placed land mine in 
Vietnam would end his life at age twenty-two, and I would be 
standing a seemingly endless vigil next to his flag-draped 
coffin with our families? We couldn't have, of course, so 
I'm here, outwardly maintaining a calm I can't begin to feel, 
wondering how I'm going to survive the future without his 
wise, witty counsel and sympathetic ear, and I stare at 
Mike's picture in his Marine dress blues as images flash 
through my brain like a Fellini film as each caller, most of 
whom are a part of both our pasts, pays his respects. Father 
Marconi, the spiritual advisor of our childhood, knelt 
reverently, prayed, and offered a blessing before approaching 
my Dad and me. 
     "Such a sad, sad world! We've lost too many of our fine 
young men. He was such a lively boy! I'm truly sorry and my 
prayers and sympathy are with all of you. As I recalled him 
this morning, I remembered how much you and Michael added to 
our school, Mary Margaret. The two of you were quite a 
team!" 
     What he meant was that for eight years Mike and I were 
the bane of his existence. Our pranks, like putting yellow 
food coloring in the holy water fonts, more than once nearly 
caused our expulsion from St. John's, and only Dad and Uncle 
Kevin's generous donations to the building fund saved us from 
the damnation of public school and kept us firmly in the fold 
of the Holy Mother Church. 
     Throughout our growing up years the words, "I've got an 
idea! Let's . . . ." could precipitate just about anything. 
One Saturday morning when we were ten and in total awe of the 
Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, we sneaked out of our houses just 
before dawn, trudged three miles to the pier at the Yacht 
Club where our great-uncle Alec kept his commercial fishing 
boats, and stowed away. When Uncle Alec discovered us, he 
paddled our backsides soundly, turned the boat around, and 
returned us to our frantic, angry parents who administered 
more spankings and even worse punishment: we were grounded 
for two whole weeks! 
     I keep thinking about Father Marconi's words about our 
country losing so many fine young men. Mike often told his 
brother, Dennis, an ardent anti-war activist, that the real 
tragedy of Vietnam was that the men--boys, really--who were 
dying there were usually too poor, too black, or too dumb for 
a 2-S deferment, while guys like Dennis and his friends, the 
so-called "best and brightest," were busy burning their draft 
cards and making placards and slogans protesting the war. 
That many of these young men were attending school with 
federal funds compounded the irony, and Mike often observed that 
if it hadn't been for the G.I. Bill that paid for our fathers' 
education after World War II, we'd still be blue-collar kids 
with minimal chance of anything better than our parents had 
when they were growing up. 
     Mom nudged me to interrupt my reverie. I raised my eyes 
and saw Dave and Susie Kovago. The best way to describe our 
relationship is that we went to different schools together, 
that is, Dave and Mike were at St. Francis de Sales while 
Susie and I attended the Ursuline Academy. At the end of 
eighth grade, our parents sold their small bungalows on 103rd 
Street and both families moved to more commodious quarters in 
affluent Ottawa Hills--not on the same block, but within 
walking distance--and we started high school enormously 
innocent and eager to grow up. We'd calmed down considerably 
and discarded much of our youthful exuberance in favor of less 
flamboyant pursuits--or more simply, we still were up to our 
old tricks but didn't get caught as often because we had begun 
to understand the value of subtlety. Besides, the pains of 
adolescence were of far greater concern, and we often found 
ourselves immersed in long discussions with our friends about 
Jack Kennedy, the Beatles, and such profound moral questions as 
"Is French kissing a mortal sin?" The group varied in its 
membership, due to broken romances more than philosophical or 
political differences, but Dave and Susie remained constant 
throughout our four years of high school and afterward, and Dave 
especially added a new dimension to our Midwestern, middle 
class mentality. 
     Dave had come to Toledo, like many others in the late 
Fifties, as a refugee from Hungary -- a short, dark, serious 
boy whose fine European education and firsthand experience 
with war and oppression gave him an awareness of the world 
beyond Toledo that we could only begin to guess. His father 
had been a professor of philosophy in the University who had 
joined the Freedom Fighters. When the Russians caught and 
executed him, his wife and only son fled to America. Dave 
showed us what being an American was all about as he 
transferred his idealism, respect, and patriotism to his new 
home. Susie, on the other hand, represented the Conservative 
element of old Toledo money. Her mother was a Brandon and in local
society the name carried a lot of clout. Susie really didn't give
a damn about her society background, and seemed more comfortable
in our less formal homes, as we rarely went to her house. Most of
the kids at school thought us pretty nerdy, except for Mike, a
"jock" who lettered in both football and basketball. We teased him
unmercifully about the glory he got on the field and court and he,
in turn, would call Susie, Dave, and I "debate team egg-heads" even
though he was one as well. 
     Dave and Susie, perhaps inevitably, fell in love the 
summer after graduation. When we "went East" to college, 
Susie to Manhattanville and I to Barnard, she was so homesick 
for Dave, who had stayed in Toledo to put himself through U.T. 
by bussing tables at Packo's, that when she came home at 
Thanksgiving, she scandalized her family by announcing that 
she was dropping out of college and that she and Dave would 
be married at Christmas instead of making her debut. Mike 
and I thought it wonderfully romantic and joyously served as 
best man and maid of honor respectively. 
     I greeted Dave and an obviously pregnant Susie with hugs 
and took them to the other room where we could sit and talk 
for a few minutes. 
     "We're shocked, Marnie." Dave whispered, his eyes 
tear-filled and voice cracking, "I don't know what to say or 
how I can help, but I'll do anything you ask. I owe him--and 
you--so much. A lot of the guys at de Sales made fun of my 
accent and clothing, but not Mike! He helped me with my 
English and took me to his home. I never really understood 
why he chose to go to 'Nam. We talked before he left and 
he'd only laugh and tell me that he had to go. I told him to 
cut the John Wayne bullshit and give me a real reason, but he 
wouldn't say anything except that I, of all people, should 
understand. Tanks in the streets of Budapest, I understand, 
but not Vietnam! What was he thinking, Marnie?" 
     "Mike was always saying that the only way to stop idiocy 
was to let non-idiots run the show. Maybe that's what he was 
doing," I replied. "I tried to talk to him too, but he'd 
made his decision and you know that trying to talk either of 
us out of anything once we had made up our minds was virtually 
impossible!" 
     "That's true," Susie giggled, "I remember when Mike's 
Dad wouldn't let us use his boat to go picnicking on Turtle 
Island and you and Mike decided that we'd go anyway. We all 
wound up grounded--again!" 
     "It wouldn't have been so bad if the Coast Guard hadn't 
caught us," I smiled wistfully, "and if picnicking there 
hadn't been prohibited. What the hell, we had fun, didn't 
we? Mike always made sure we had fun!" 
     As they nodded their agreement, my sister Kathy came in 
to tell me that Simon Berger had arrived and needed to be 
saved from Dennis's dogmatic raving. I excused myself and 
hurried to Simon's rescue. Simon had been Mike's roommate, 
fraternity brother, and best friend during the three years 
they'd been at Lehigh before Mike enlisted. A nice Jewish 
boy, born and bred in Manhattan, his psyche somehow matched 
that of Mike and me, and we made a zany triumvirate on the 
weekends when they came to New York or I went to Bethlehem. 
At that time in our lives we'd all become candidates for the 
Beer Drinker's Hall of Foam and believed that Hedonism was a 
viable philosophy. As usual, we really didn't take life too 
seriously. 
     Simon had his back to me, but as I drew near he turned, hugged
me tightly, and said teasingly, "Still buying `Shalimar' by the
gallon, eh, Marnie?" 
     "Yep, sure am--weekly! Excuse us, Dennis--it's been a 
awhile." I eased Simon away from Dennis as I told him, "I 
didn't think you'd be able to get away." 
     "How could I not come, Marnie?" Simon answered, "If not 
for Mike, for you. We were too close and shared too much for 
me to stay away. Besides, Pop liked Mike too much not to 
give me time off. His only worry was that I might take up 
with you again. Imagine his horror when I told him that it 
wasn't a bad idea! Now that I see how great you look it 
sounds even better!" 
     I smiled, recalling the comfortable romance we'd drifted 
into after Mike shipped out for 'Nam, and said, "It wasn't 
meant to be, Simon. What we had wasn't love, it was 
loneliness." 
     "It could have been great and you know it. Chanukah and 
Christmas--what fun our kids would have! Mike liked the 
idea." he reminded me. "If you hadn't come back here, everything 
would have worked out just fine. Although I must admit that 
being here agrees with you--you look fantastic." 
     I shook my head wearily. "Not that again, Simon. You 
know I love you, but not that way, no matter how much Mike or 
you wanted it. I'm really glad you're here. Please don't 
spoil it." 
     "Okay, but I still think you're wrong."  Simon curtly 
turned and approached the casket. I followed him, knelt, and 
joined him in prayer. After a few minutes, I felt his hand 
on my elbow as he helped me up and led me into the other room 
and I began to cry. 
     "I'm sorry, Simon. I've missed him so much and I know 
that you have, too. Now he's lost to us forever! Why did he 
leave us and go to Vietnam? He didn't have to--he was on the 
Dean's List, for God's sake. I'll never understand it." 
     "Marnie, my love," Simon began solemnly as he took my 
hands in his and kissed them, "Mike went through agony over 
the war before he enlisted. Whenever we talked about it at 
the house, he'd get so frustrated over the radical nonsense 
that some of the guys were spouting that he'd leave the room. 
You knew Mike better than anyone else so you should understand 
that he had to go. The great-seeker-of-truth, Mike Riley, just 
had to go see for himself if the press, the protesters, and 
Dennis were right and enlisting was the only way to find out. 
The idea was not "My country, right or wrong," but a question: 
Is my country right or wrong? He always admired Sir Edmund 
Hillary and maybe 'Nam was his Mount Everest. I do know that 
he died without regrets. I could tell from his last letter that he
was in good shape. I only hope that he got to say that prayer that
you two always kidded about." 
     "The Act of Contrition," I answered woodenly, "The good 
Sisters always told us that the most important thing when we 
died was that we make a good Act of Contrition. Simon, do 
you really think you're right about why he went? I wish that 
later you would talk to Uncle Kevin and Aunt Denise and my 
parents, too. Dennis's ranting has them all so upset. I can 
understand the reasons you've given me so perhaps they can, 
too. Thank you, Simon. I love you." 
     He smiled ironically and went to talk to Mike's Grandma 
Blanche, Aunt Denise's mother. I collapsed in a chair and 
thought about Mike and what Simon had said. It made sense--a 
sense that I could live with--but I wasn't sure if I could 
live without his being there to listen to my problems and 
make me laugh in spite of them. 
                               ***
 
     Father O'Rourke, our parish priest, finished the prayers 
for the soul of Michael Sheamus Joseph Riley, the Marine honor 
guard fired its final farewell to one of its own, and I stood 
between Simon and Dennis, trying not to cry. Mike hated tears. 
When the burial was over, the three of us walked in somber 
silence to Simon's rental Chevy. As we settled ourselves, Dennis
finally spoke with the strident vehemence that, incongruously, 
had come to characterize his speech since he'd become a pacifist. 
   "Well, the pigs got another human sacrifice!" 
     "Dennis, it's been a long time since I called anyone an 
asshole to his face and meant it, but you've just won that 
dubious honor. Can't you even try to understand that Mike 
did what he felt he had to do, that Mike always did what he 
had to do, and that he wouldn't have been Mike if he hadn't? 
It's really easy for you and your SDS buddies to sit on your 
deferments and sanctimoniously pass judgement at age twenty. 
You're all so damned wise in the ways of the world!  None of 
us really knows why Mike enlisted, but at least we have the 
common decency to try to make some sort of sense of his choice 
and enough brains not to go trampling everyone's feelings. All 
you've done since we got word of his death is bitch about the 
government and quote Jane Fonda. I doubt you've given Mike's 
convictions any thought at all, you selfish little bastard," I 
screamed. 
     "He was my brother, Marnie, and I loved him," he countered 
angrily. 
     "Then, damn it, why can't you at least show some respect 
for his decision even if it got him killed?" 
     "Okay, you two," Simon interjected, "Calm down and put 
the gloves away until after the wake. And Dennis, try to cut 
the SDS jive to a minimum--not for me, not for Marnie, but 
for the rest of the family." 
     Dennis and I mumbled agreement and rode the rest of the 
way to Uncle Kevin's in stony silence while Simon, trying to 
break the tension, delivered a monologue about this being his 
first Irish wake. 
    When we arrived at Uncle Kevin's house, my brother met us in
the foyer. He handed me an Air Mail envelope and I immediately 
recognized Mike's angular script. Brian explained that he and 
Bridget, his twin, had stopped at our house to pick up food for 
the wake and found the letter with the mail. He added that he 
knew that I'd want it right away so he brought it with him. I 
thanked him profusely and hurried to the den, Simon at my heels.
I dropped into a chair, tore open the envelope, and began to read:

Dear Marnie, 
     Sorry I haven't written in a while. I can't 
tell you what I've been up to but I can say that 
I'm tired but okay. It's not easy here but we Rileys 
are tough. If I've learned nothing else over 
here, I've learned how much I love my people--not 
just the family, but all my friends, too. When I 
get back, I'm going to let everyone know how important 
they are to me. If I sound corny, this place can do 
that to you. I'm due for R&R and I definitely want 
to spend it with you and Simon. You decide where-- 
I've no preference as long as I'm not here. I hope 
you can get away from work. 
     Is Dennis still waving his "Hell no, I won't 
go banner?" I envy him his conviction and respect 
it. Nothing's ever been so clear for me. There are 
too many gray areas and hard questions for me. 
Remember how I always used to tell Sister Ligouri 
"but Sister, that doesn't make sense ..."? I'll 
bet she's still praying for my soul. You may feel 
that I regret enlisting. I don't. What I'm saying 
is that Dennis has always been a better altar boy 
than I. When we were kids, he bought Father Marconi's 
spiel, I questioned it. Now he buys the SDS spiel, I 
question it. He changed altars, that's all. Go easy 
on him, okay? (Don't even say, "Who me?" I've seen 
you at your bitchiest.) 
     Congratulations on dumping Martinelli! He was 
such a jerk at school that I doubt even Notre Dame 
could help him. You have to improve your taste in 
men so I can stop worrying about you. I just wrote 
Simon the same thing. He dumped the JAP his mother 
was pushing, by the way. Speaking of dumping, I 
still think you blew it. Friends can be lovers, 
dummy! He'd be back in a minute and even leave his 
beloved New York for you, you idiot. I'm pushing, 
I know. Sorry--sort of. 
    The mail's going out soon so I'll close. Hope 
your job at the Museum is going well. Tell the 
Mummies that I said "hey" and don't date any more 
jerks. I miss you a lot. 
 
                       Love, 
 
                       Mike, USMC 
 
P.S. Call Simon if you need help. 
 
    I looked up, tears rolling down my cheeks, to see Simon 
watching me intently from a chair near the fireplace and I 
held out the letter to him. He crossed the room to get it 
wordlessly and stood reading it, smiling as he read. When 
he'd finished, he gave it back to me and said, "Only Mike would try
to settle quarrels and matchmake all the way from 'Nam. Let's go
find Dennis and bury the hatchet or, in his case, the placard. You
and I can straighten out our problems later." 
     "Okay, but I still don't think that you and I have 
anything to talk about," I snuffled. 
     "We shall see, Mary Margaret, we shall see." he chuckled 
as he took my hand and led me from the den. "You've 
forgotten about Mike already." 
     Forgotten what? I thought. How could I have forgotten 
anything about Mike? Suddenly I understood what Simon meant 
and I looked from our entwined fingers to his shining eyes 
and laughed. He was absolutely right. I'd forgotten that 
Mike Riley always--but always--gets what he wants. And his 
legacy to me was love. 
                               END