Wicked Intentions. Kevin Flynn
your name?”
“Captain Pasquale, ma’am.”
Considering there were over 100,000 soldiers, civilian workers and family members who lived and worked at the fort, this was quite a coincidence. “You’re just the bloke I’m looking for.”
The Lodges accompanied Pasquale into the base and found an empty room. “Tell me why my son will not be graduating with his class.”
“In all honesty,” the captain started, “he can run the two miles in full gear. That’s a requirement. He can do all the push-ups. That’s a requirement. But he can’t do the sit-ups.”
“What?” Her son had never excelled academically, but he did well in sports. She was incredulous that the boy couldn’t do seventy-five sit-ups.
“If you want,” Pasquale offered, “come out to the parade field at five o’clock tomorrow when the unit is taking PT. You can see for yourself and decide whether he passes.” The parents looked at each other and agreed they’d show up. “And ma’am, that’s five A.M., not P.M., in case you didn’t know.”
The next morning, with the grass still wet and orange streaks in the sky, Kenny trotted out to the field. He was wearing sneakers, shorts and a gray T-shirt that said “Army.” The first exercise was a run around the track. From a distance, Carolyn Lodge watched her son glide effortlessly. He was nearly done when he slowed down and doubled-back.
What’s wrong? Lodge thought.
Kenny pulled alongside one of his fellow trainees who was lagging. He began clapping and shouting encouragement to him, wishing him forward to the end.
What a wonderful thing my son just did.
After the run, the unit dropped down for push-ups. Again, Kenny had no problem. He looked even stronger than he had at Family Day. Then, the young recruit began his sit-ups and Carolyn Lodge saw the problem right away. Kenny began the sit-up flat on his back, level with the ground.
“No, Kenny. Not like that. You’ll never be able to get up and do a sit-up like that.” An exercise instructor herself, Carolyn Lodge knew the proper technique required going back only part of the way and pulling the torso forward. She watched as her son struggled to pull himself off the ground and make it to his knees, flopping and failing. He’ll never do seventy-five like that.
Later that day, while the rest of his class was graduating, Kenneth Countie was directing traffic on the base. His mother caught a glimpse of him before they left. The shoulders that were once straight sagged. The eyes that met others now avoided contact and searched the ground. The confident smile had disappeared, his chin pinned to his chest.
It looks like he sank one million feet under the ground, she thought.
Everything the Army had done for him seemed to vanish all at once.
Back home in Massachusetts, Kenny attempted to gain as much independence as he could. In January, he moved to Wilmington, Massachusetts, with a friend. It was the first time, aside from the Army, that Kenny Countie lived away from home. He got a job at a car wash. His co-workers liked him because he was pleasant and dedicated to the job. He showed up for work a half-hour early every day. However, his colleagues noticed Kenny had trouble filling out his W-4 and the other paperwork needed on the job.
Carolyn Lodge appeared frequently at the car wash, checking on her son. On the days she didn’t show up there, Kenny came to the health club where she worked. He’d beg her for something sweet to eat. She’d oblige by giving him the candies she carried in her pocketbook in case he asked.
Kenny had a cellular phone, pre-paid by his mother. He called every day, sometimes more than once. “Yes, love. Yes, love.” To some of Carolyn Lodge’s friends the calls seemed excessive, but she was determined to prove her devotion as a mother and nurture him.
Kenny called his little brother, too. Sometimes it irked the teen to get a call from his older brother, asking stupid questions, passing on lame observations. It was hard enough finding his way in high school (girls, sports, studies, friends) and being attentive to two sets of parents wanting to know his business. He didn’t want to have to deal with his older brother.
In February 2006, a depressed twenty-four-year-old Kenneth Countie attempted suicide. For all the talking he did on the phone, he didn’t share many of his inner demons. The thought of losing her oldest son unnerved Lodge. She pledged to redouble her efforts to watch over Kenny.
The young man had a hard time meeting women. He wasn’t the most confident and approaching a woman face-to-face seemed frightening. He rang up a dating service and got a voice mailbox. After punching a few numbers to set up his profile (“Press one if you are playful; press two if you are shy…”), he recorded a message about himself and listened to the other postings. He exchanged voicemails with a woman with a Southern accent. She liked the sound of his voice. It reminded her of someone. Dinner on the seacoast was her idea. She would pay.
Four days later, Kenny’s roommate, Eric, was awakened by a truck that pulled up in his driveway and tooted the horn. He heard his roommate banging around in the other room, so he knew the ride wasn’t there for him.
“Kenny, what’s going on?”
“I’m leaving with Sheila,” he said.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Eric stammered back, still half asleep.
“I’m going to spend the weekend on her farm in New Hampshire. She has horses and rabbits, and I’m going to help her take care of them.”
“Yeah? When you think you’ll be back?” Outside, the horn honked again.
“Tomorrow. Sunday.” Then Kenny squealed in the little boy voice that reminded his roommate he was mentally deficient. “We’re going to be so happy together!”
Kenny bounded down the stairs, grabbed his overcoat and jumped into the waiting truck. Sheila LaBarre never got out or acknowledged Eric, and after they left he realized Kenny hadn’t packed any personal belongings. His van was still in the driveway.
On Monday, February 20, Carolyn Lodge got a call from her son.
“Yes, love,” she began in Anglican tones.
“Mommy…”
Kenny was crying. Still reeling from the recent suicide attempt, Lodge started to panic. “Kenny! What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Eric’s brother called Sheila a bad name.”
“Who? Susan?”
“No. Sheila.”
Now Lodge was confused. Surely this wasn’t a life-or-death situation, but her son was upset about something. “What do you mean?”
Kenny had not returned to his Wilmington apartment on Sunday as expected. And not on Monday either. His roommate was worried; he and his brother called Kenny’s cell phone. The young man was meeting their inquiries about when he might be home with some indecision. Sheila, sensing the problem, took the phone and started arguing with the men. When Kenny took the phone back, the brothers were calling Sheila a “bitch” and a “cunt” and every other name they could think of.
In between sobs, Lodge was having trouble piecing together most of this. She had no idea from where Kenny was calling. Lodge tried to press her son for more information when she heard Sheila in the background.
“Kenny, give me the phone,” she ordered. From the tone of her voice, it sounded as if she was unaware he’d made a call.
Who are you and what are you doing with my son, was what Lodge wanted to say when a lightning bolt of rage came out of the earpiece of the telephone.
“He