From the Publisher: “When only-child Sam Bingham leaves for Marine boot camp, his parents instantly become empty nesters.
John and Trixie at one time had a typical American marriage, but cracks have appeared in the foundation, and Sam may have been the only thing holding the family together.
As Sam endures the physical and mental grind at Parris Island, his parents wage their own unspoken battle back home.
The Binghams seemingly have just one thing in common — Sam — and as they wait daily for his letters, they grow ever further apart.
‘This place sucks,’ Sam writes in his first letter home. It’s a sentiment both of the older Binghams might silently believe applies to their own lives.
But is the situation bad enough to lead one of Sam’s parents do the unthinkable? And, if so, what potentially deadly series of events might follow?
In his third novel, Ken McCarthy delivers the intense, real-life drama his readers have come to expect.”
More info About the Author: “Ken McCarthy lives in western Pennsylvania with his wife, Chris, and two cats. They also have four grown children. To Fill The Void is his third novel. Ken has been sober since 2007.”
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Sam left for boot camp on a cold, cloudy day in February. I had tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat as I watched him walk away.
He followed my wife and I out of the Marine recruiting station that sat at the end of a sad little strip mall to say one last goodbye. The recruiter also asked him to sweep the thin layer of snow that had fallen earlier that morning from the steps in front of the building. The three of us stood there inspecting our shoes, breath visible in the chilly air. Cars came and went from the Super Walmart across the road.
I had no idea what to say. For the last 19 years it had been the three of us. Now it would just be the two of us. I tried to tell myself this new arrangement was only temporary, but it sure didn’t feel that way.
“It’s only 13 weeks guys.”
Sam seemed to read my mind as he stood there making half-hearted sweeping motions with the broom. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to reassure us or himself.
“Well, not exactly,” I said.
“You know what I mean.”
And I did. Because I had become a bit of an expert on the U.S. Marines — and especially its notorious boot camp – after Sam shocked us four months earlier with the news that he was enlisting. I watched more YouTube videos than I could count, and they all filled me with dread for what awaited Sam in the low country of South Carolina. I was not a Marine myself (or any other kind of veteran) and had virtually no knowledge of the Corps or its operations until I started doing a little research. Little of what I found lifted my spirits.
Boot camp in Parris Island, South Carolina would last for 13 weeks. After graduation, Sam would spend another two months at school of infantry and then join the fleet God-knew-where for the next four years.
So technically Sam was right. We’d see him again at the graduation ceremony in May.
If he made it that far.
I remember when I told my brother, Peter, that Sam signed up. We were standing at the end of a smoky bar late one Saturday night in October. There was a college football game playing on the TV overhead. I was absently watching a field goal attempt when Pete asked me how school was going for Sam, and I realized I forgot to tell him Sam dropped out and was now taking his future in a different direction.
Or maybe I had been avoiding telling him.
“Parris Island?” Peter said after I told him Sam’s new plan. He looked at me like I said Sam volunteered to clean the tiger cages at the zoo. While the tigers were still inside.
I nodded.
“That’s no joke man,” he said. “Those guys are crazy. Did you see that episode of 60 Minutes?”
“No and please don’t tell me. I’m already freaked out by what I’ve seen online.”
“Did he see it? That thing with the Crucible?”
“I don’t know,” I said. And I didn’t.
I honestly wasn’t sure how much Sam actually knew about what he was getting himself into. It wasn’t for a lack of trying. I asked him on several occasions if he had watched this video or that, or visited any number of the websites that were dedicated to Marine life. Most of the latter claimed to tell “the real story” of life in the Corps, the stuff those shiny brochures sitting in the recruitment offices conveniently left out. I was hoping most of it was just urban legend, but who knew?
One thing that was all-too real was the Crucible. It was the final test for all Marine recruits. A 54-hour slog with little sleep and less food. It was supposed to be the culmination of everything the recruit had learned up to that point. Survive it and you were in their little club. But what if you didn’t? Pete hinted that’s what the 60 Minutes expose was about.
But whenever I asked Sam what he’d heard about the Crucible or anything else I’d uncovered in my online sessions he seemed disinterested. He’d say something like “yeah, I think I saw that” or “you can’t believe all that stuff” and would quickly change the subject to hockey or Star Wars or some other safer topic.
It was Trixie, my wife, who eventually pointed out what should have been obvious to me from the start.
“He knows it’s going to be hell so he’s trying not to think about it, John. Just let him enjoy the time he has left here and stop freaking him out.”
She was probably right, but it still pissed me off. I didn’t like her talking to me like she was the wise, enlightened mother while I was the bumbling, idiot dad.
I still don’t.
But I couldn’t argue with her logic, and after that I never again asked Sam what he was expecting to find on Parris Island.
He brought it up once himself, though.
At that point we were living in a strange dead time between Sam dropping out of community college and that morning we dropped him at the recruiter’s office. He was still working part time at the pizza shop during those months, but you could see he was just going through the motions. All his energy was focused on what lay ahead.
I can’t speak for Trix (although I’m pretty sure she felt the same), but I was disappointed that he quit school and was terrified of what he’d encounter in the Marines. But I couldn’t — or at least wouldn’t — tell him any of that. I didn’t want to put more on his plate than was already there. We couldn’t talk about the recent past or the rapidly approaching future, so the three of us rattled around our house on Lancaster Street and pretended all was fine with the world, never addressing the huge camouflage-colored elephant in the room.
Until one Sunday in early January.
We had just taken down the Christmas decorations, and Sam and I walked the fading, brittle tree to the curb. The township had a recycling program and would turn the sugar pine (I think that’s what it was) into mulch free of charge.
The needles jabbed my forearm in two or three places, and I was inspecting the damage on the walk back to the front porch when Sam stopped me.
Neither of us had bothered to put on a coat (that would have at the very least protected my forearms), and I just wanted to get back inside where it was warm. I was ready to shake him off, but one look at Sam’s face and I knew it was serious. He had his hand on my arm but just stood there looking at me.
“What’s wrong Sam?” The first crazy thought that entered my head was that he had gotten his girlfriend pregnant. He looked that shaken. But there was no girlfriend. My mind was whirling.
“I’m scared dad,” he said. I didn’t have to ask what he meant, but I did anyway.
“You mean boot camp?”
I had to be careful. I wanted to be supportive without blowing smoke up his ass. Because I didn’t blame him. I was scared too, and I wasn’t even going.
“No. I mean yeah. I mean I don’t know.”
“Come over here. Let’s sit.”
Trixie was inside putting the tree decorations into their boxes. I’d haul them to the self-storage unit later in the week. I was hoping she wouldn’t come out to see what was keeping us.
I sat down on the cold cement porch, and Sam sat beside me. He started absently brushing the snow near his feet into a little pile. I wasn’t going to rush him. I knew the number of days he still had at home was quickly dwindling, and I was trying to enjoy every second we had alone.
I got excited for a second thinking (crazily) that maybe he was going to back out of the commitment and stay home. But even if he wanted to that was no longer an option. He belonged to the Marines.
“It’s not boot camp or at least not exactly. I’ve seen some of that stuff online. But I figure dumber guys than me have made it through.” He looked over at me expecting a typical dad joke – and I was thinking about it — but I bit my tongue. It wasn’t the time.
“No doubt,” I said.
“But what if I can’t cut it? Not everyone who signs up makes it. I already found out I’m not cut out for college. Then where does that leave me? I don’t want to be delivering pizzas when I’m 40.”
Trix and I were stunned when Sam told us he was enlisting because it came out of the blue. We didn’t even know he had talked to a recruiter. I assume he figured that we’d try to talk him out of it, even though at 19 he could do as he pleased.
But after we calmed down, the one positive we kept focusing on was the G.I. Bill. After his four years of active duty, Sam would be able to go back to college virtually for free. It was a hell of an incentive.
Every parent thinks their kid is bright, and I was no exception. I knew Sam had his issues with formal education – heck he barely had enough credits to graduate high school and skipped the ceremony altogether – but I chalked it up to him simply being a little peculiar. The kid always moved to the beat of a different drummer. I knew he had the smarts to get through college. Medical school? Maybe not. But he could get a four-year degree.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Free pizza for the rest of my life sounds good. But will you still be living here at 40?” I just couldn’t help myself.
He shook his head like he was expecting nothing less.
I put my arm around his shoulders. He didn’t pull away.
“Listen,” I said. “Let’s take this one step at a time. The Marines wouldn’t have accepted you if they didn’t think you have what it takes. It does them no good to make that huge investment and then have to send you home. Have a little faith. They’ve been doing this for a long time. Maybe they know a Marine when they see one.”
He nodded his head but didn’t seem fully convinced. I knew what I was going to say next, but I would have to choke back my emotions to get through it. I gritted my teeth. Sam was still playing with the snow near his sneakers.
“Sam,” I said, forcing him to look up. “I am so proud of you. Nothing you do will ever change that. If for some reason you don’t make it, I don’t care. But honestly, I have no doubts at all. You are going to be a U.S. Marine.”
Trix and I gingerly crossed the snow-covered parking lot and got in the car. I started the engine and turned on the heater and the windshield wipers. With the snow removed, we could see Sam standing just outside the recruitment office holding the broom. He was looking at us. I knew this was it. Once we pulled out, we would not lay eyes on him again for more than three months. The recruiter dropped that bomb on us while we were inside.
I don’t know if Sam legitimately forgot to mention it or just didn’t want to add fuel to our anti-enlistment fire (we never once told him we were against it, but I think he knew we weren’t crazy about him joining), but the recruiter casually mentioned we would be taking Sam’s cellphone home with us that morning. He would not need it because he would not be allowed to use it during basic training. No phone calls. No texts. No tweets. For 13 weeks.
The only communication we would have with him – other than a very brief phone call once he arrived at Parris Island – would be via letters. The recruiter did add that we would “probably” be able to mail the phone to Sam toward the end of boot camp.
I’m sure during, say, the 1950s this letters-only communication was not such a big deal. There were no cellphones and there was certainly no Facetime. And writing letters to stay in touch was much more common.
But in this day and age when I was used to an almost-constant stream of communication back and forth with Sam, the idea of being cut off cold turkey was alarming. I would exit the parking lot and then not hear his voice or see his face until spring.
To be honest, it was hard to wrap my head around.
I asked the recruiter what the reason was for the communication blackout.
“He’s gonna be a little busy Mr. Bingham,” was all he said. He smiled and walked over to break the news to the other set of parents in the room.
I looked up and noticed a collage of Marine action shots adorning the wall behind us. It showed sweaty green-clad Marines climbing over towering obstacle-course walls and muddy Marines climbing under foot-off-the-ground cargo nets.
I knew exactly what the recruiter meant.
Thirty minutes later, I put the car in drive and started out of the parking lot. Against my better judgement, I took one final look over my shoulder at Sam. There he was, in his grey fleece jacket and pressed blue jeans, one hand on the door that led to the Marines’ offices, the other holding the broom. I tried to lock that image of him somewhere deep in my mind. I thought I might need it in the weeks to come.
And I would have been ok even then, but he saw me looking and gave a little salute as I drove off. My breath caught and my eyes stung. I tried to fight back the tears.
And I was almost successful.
A song was playing on the radio that had been getting heavy airtime that February. I had no idea what it was called or who the artist was. But I heard the lyrics “…it’ll be okay. It’s gonna hurt for a bit of time so bottoms up, let’s forget tonight…”
I found out later it’s a break-up song by Dean Lewis, but at the time the somber tone combined with those prescient words were a gut-punch and pushed my emotions over the edge.
I tried to turn away, but Trixie saw the tears marching down my cheeks.
“John, are you crying? Jesus, get ahold of yourself. You heard Sam. We’ll see him in May.” She shook her head and turned back to her phone.
After everything that’s happened, it’s probably stupid for me to put all of this in writing, but I don’t know when I’m getting out of here, and I want my side of the story told.
So I’m going to be as truthful as I can, and there are no truer words than these: I hate her.
Excerpt of a letter sent from John Bingham to his son, Sam:
Good morning Sam! So what I’ve decided is that I’m going to keep a tab open on my laptop all the time for my letters to you, and I will just add to it as I think of things that I want to tell you. I’m probably not going to let anyone read this. These letters are between you and me. This whole ‘being totally out of communication’ thing with you is really strange. I’m so used to being able to reach out by text or Snapchat or whatever any time I want.
There is so much I want to say that I don’t know where to begin. First of all, we will write you all the time but please don’t feel any pressure to write back any more than you can. I know you will be under tremendous time constraints. Write when you want but please don’t worry about it. Mom thinks I’m going to write more than you will have time to read, but I’d rather give you too much than too little. She’s gonna write her own letters.
There is something else I need to say right off the top. I was a little unsure when you first mentioned joining the Marines because I have no experience with the military. It’s scary because it’s an unknown. But the more I have read about it, the more comfortable I have gotten with it. And the more excited I’ve become about it for you. If 19-year-old John Bingham had even remotely considered joining the service, I would have looked for the easiest path. But you did the opposite. You took the toughest challenge, and that fills me with pride.
This excerpt is published here courtesy of the author and should not be reprinted without permission.
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