Miller Time for Bitsy (Gin?)

I walk out into the warm night. I can see Mercury well ahead of me, heading for the Riverside. I don’t want to be late for Miller.

Because, you see, you don’t find a better support system than Miller.

And he is a system – fully encapsulated in one human. A servant leader, a visionary, a person who appreciates finer things, but doesn’t outwardly covet them. They are add-ons to an already spectacular life.

And what a life this man has had.

Miller is a son of the Chickotee, a contemporary of mine, born and raised on these riverbanks. He harbors the same values and interests for this town as anyone with 10 times the influence.

It wasn’t until after Vietnam that I got to know him.

Miller served as a convoy driver, moving massive amounts of fuel, food, and ammunition from the coastline inland to bases along the main highways. He never sat still and had regular stops along his route where he’d sleep, eat, and relax. Naturally, being a young man, there were women involved, but none of them, it seemed, had stuck.

Immediately on his return to the States, being a Vet himself, Daddy hired him as a concierge at the Golden Pillar where he thrived. In the beginning, he lived in the hotel while he saved money and looked for his own place.

Then came the telegram.

It was from a hospital. One of the women, Marissa, an American nurse still in country, had given birth to a boy, and the boy belonged to Miller.

At first, he panicked. How will I ever know my son? I don’t have the money to get there!

And his second thought was of my father, who, he was sure, would fire him when he found out.

That’s the day he became my family.

I told Daddy that Miller needed to return Upstate to finish a few things with Uncle Sam, then I gave him the money to get to Vietnam and meet his baby boy. Off he went.

Two days later, I accepted the charges on an international call from Vietnam.

“Mrs. McMurtry, I cannot believe this … I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“Spit it out, Miller,” I told him.

“There are four of them,” he said. “Two girls, two boys. And they’re all mine.”

“ALL of them?” I asked. I mean, really, even the most fertile of women couldn’t keep up that pace for long.

“All of them,” he said.

“So you two were a bit of a thing. I take it?” I said.

“I guess,” he said, crying. “Two girls, then two boys,” he repeated. “Two sets of twins.”

“She didn’t tell you before you came home?”

“No, she didn’t,” he said. “The girls were born before I left. She has a nanny for them, never even told her parents. That telegram you saw? That was from a nurse friend of hers after the boys were born a few weeks ago. Marissa didn’t want to tell me, but the friend thought I should know … thought she might need help.”

He paused on the other end to catch his breath, then inhaled.

“What do I do?”

What to do, indeed. I had to help him get them here.

Without telling anyone, I paid a visit to the bank president, Mr. Dares, an old friend of Daddy’s. I knew I could trust him – he had the goods on everyone, after all, and no one ever heard a peep from him. After assuring me of his discretion, I had him wire money to Miller for six plane tickets, even for the mother, whom I had already decided I did not like. How could she do this to him?

I digress.

So Daddy was easy enough to fend off – I told him that Miller might be a bit longer, but that he was on his way home, that I would cover his duties (and his paycheck) in the meantime. Then I called Scott Realty, Shirley’s father’s firm, and found them a cottage on the North side of Middle Valley.

The children were all under 10 when Marissa passed unexpectedly from a virus.

Somehow, Miller kept them in food and clothing on the salary of a hotel concierge, even sent them all to college. Two of them are in New York City – one on Wall Street and one in the arts. The other two are scattered – one in Seattle, the other in Silicon Valley. All brilliant, educated, well-rounded.

He never accepted another ounce of help from me, or anyone else, to my knowledge. But he always accepted my challenge to a game of gin rummy, and a pitcher of gin in its honor.

This night is no different – only it’s me doing all the talking.

“Cassie has a sister,” I tell him. “Jill something. Divorcing, needs a leg up,” I say as I discard. “She’s coming here to work at the Riverside.”

“Let me guess,” he says. “She’s moving in with you.”

“Honestly, you and Mercury are so … annoying.”

Miller laughs. “It’s predictable, Madam. You should start a club.”

“Mercury said the exact same thing,” I tell him, looking at my cards. “Oh, by the way. Gin.”

I display my hand in front of him and he chuckles, taking another sip, then hands me his glass.

“Guess that means you’re buying.”