Walter's Heart by Bohdan Yuri - Short Story

Walter’s Heart
A short story
He looked around, coughed into his hand and looked at the spit. “I guess
I don’t have to die yet,” he said, trying to lift a smile. “Thanks Danny.”

Bohdan Yuri
Bohdan Yuri
Walter’s Heart
A short story
An Ovi Magazine Books Publication
C 2021 Ovi Project Publication - All material is copyright of the Ovi magazine & the writer
Ovi books are available in Ovi magazine pages and they are for free.
If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately.
For details, contact: submissions@ovimagazine.com
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise),
without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book.

Walter’s Heart
I’d just gotten in. The sun was about an hour away. I flipped on the
light switch and smiled, the familiar space of a soothing friend I
call home, my 4th-floor apartment in Boston.
I threw my gear against the closet wall and went to the fridge. Nearly
empty, but nothing spoiled. I grabbed a Miller’s, an American beer. Almost
two months away and everything had become a luxury. I pulled
back the balcony curtains and opened the sliding door just a bit.
Here, the winter still holds its place in March, a relief from the oozy
aromas of Carnival in Rio. I’d shot a piece for National Geographic:
“Before, During, and After Carnival”. The party was like organized
mayhem steamed into servings of passionate, lusty processions, with
musty memories to carry into next year, so I craved a crisper feeling.
I stuck my head outside, a deep inhale. It was American air, I affirmed,
there’s no other air like it. So I sat on the sofa, sipped my beer
and waited for sunrise to announce my return.

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Tracing the cab ride from Logan, there was construction everywhere.
Buildings, highways, and public works projects are a mandatory nuisance
in Boston. I knew that just one car ride and I would hate it again,
but for now, I waited for the sound of an old (American) symphony.
The pace on Storrow Drive was hastening the growth of moving
headlights, which in time would crawl into a rush hour standstill.
Commuters, in costume, will honk and rave at every moving violation.
And yet, Boston, like most American cities, will play its daylong patterns
in a most accommodating fashion, and so unlike most of the rest
of the world. It was a time to relish... the American way.
And so came the spark of dawn, finally; kissing the highest structure
across the Charles, the crane on the new dorm building at MIT. Five
new floors were added while I was gone, six more to go. And when
that’s done, a new donor will no doubt seed another high-rise flower.
The world changes everywhere, even in one’s own back yard. Perhaps
that’s why we try to hold on to our pasts, I mused, to remember the
unbroken innocence where even the old was new.
Anyway, I finished the beer and headed to the kitchen for another
one. I wondered what mail Harry, my agent, was holding for me.
I flipped on the message recorder. The usual: “Danny, got some new
assignments. Get in touch --- Harry.” Four times, that meant a lot from
which to choose. Then a few calls from friends, and Billy, captain of
our softball team, “...Practice starts April 1st, be there if you can. We
should have a great season this year...” (The man wished he could play
year round.), ...and finally, a message from my Mother.
I was surprised. She’d usually wait for me to call first after an assignment.
But this one was important to her, and as I listened it become so
for me as well, “...Walter died,” she informed me, about a month ago,
from heart failure. She’d also relayed on the tape, the message that Walter’d
left behind on his computer.

Walter’s Heart
One more sip of beer and then an hour, or two, of mirrored reflections
dawning the city. Then I got up and readied for the journey. I was
glad I’d managed to sleep during the flight back.
Walter was buried in California, where he’d lived the last twenty-five
years, but my destination, instead, was Bluefield, New York. It was what
he’d remembered.
So I showered, packed a clean set of clothes and took off for the garage.
The crisp morning air wasted no time in evaporating the frosty
dew. I wiped the garage dust off the windows and headed out. A quick
stop at Dunkin’ Donuts, (and yes we do take such things for granted),
and then the six-hour drive: Mass Pike, south on the Thruway, the Rt.
23A exit, and then on towards the heart of the Catskills
I could have flown, but this was the only way for me to get there. I
needed the time and space to restore my thoughts. If I’d chosen the
Bosnia assignment, I would have been home that day. Would I have
gone to the funeral had I’d known? I don’t know. Death has no friends
but it calls all friends. And Walter was my friend.
I suppose I’d also needed the time that a long drive provided, to reaffirm
the closeness of our shared spaces. As always though most friendships
are usually weighed more heavily on only one side. Such was ours
as time progressed. His message however had tipped the scales and I
sought to make amends for my neglect even if it were to ghostly memories.
Odd, the things you think about while driving. Sometimes trying to
avoid the obvious, only to find it centered in another form.
I was on the Thruway, heading south, wondering how I’d gotten here
from there. And was I even watching the road I’d traveled?
I was seven when my parents first took me to Bluefield in 1954. Aunt

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Helen, Mom’s sister, and Uncle John had just bought a house there.
They’d had no kids so we were always welcome. That year Dad had also
bought his first new car, a powder blue Mercury coupe with white and
dark blue, pleated leather seats and trim.
Rt. 23A, next exit, another two hours or so on the mountain highway
and I would be under the shadow of Bluefield Mountain.
Somehow one never forgets the old roads one travels. Sure there are
changes, and landmarks are sometimes razed but they are never forgotten.
Like Sid’s combination Shell station and Trading Post, where I’d
gotten my first wooden tomahawk.
Dad had made that our routine stop. We’d all get out and do our
things, Dad conversing with Sid on any easy topic, Mom and I checking
out the toys and crafts.
After Mom would buy her postcards we’d all meet at one of the picnic
tables in back. Then after spreading out our packed lunch Mom would
write her postcards to her friends back home, informing them that our
vacation had officially begun.
Sid often came by; Mom would offer Sid a sandwich or chicken leg.
He’d always accept it; usually taking the food with him, (along with
Dad and his unfinished thought), as he tended to the pumps. Then just
before leaving, Mom would mail the cards at the Post Office across the
street and we’d all say good-bye to Sid, waving as we drove off.
I once asked Dad, “Why do you make the car heavier if we have to go
up, and down, and sideways on all those hilly roads?”
His answer, “It makes the car grip the road better on all those turns,”
and still unable to admit his own needs, he’d added, “Beside you mother
likes having a picnic there, overlooking the valley,” and that part was
true. But I also remember swaying a lot in that back seat.

Walter’s Heart
That first summer, though, Dad had actually wanted to take his
new car for a leisurely drive along the coast to Nova Scotia, to
“...break the car in properly.” It was Mom’s idea to visit her sister.
I was glad. I’d already seen the ocean but these mountains held a mystical
world that was new to me, exciting, and enchanted.
That first time, I remember thinking to myself, this place is magic:
mists, like floating spirits travelling as fog along the high ridges, and
castle walls covered by dark green hues, or the sun exposing the hidden
spaces underneath. Whatever was offered, I took in. So did Mom,
always pointing out what she saw.
The only one who’d missed the story was Dad. It seems that after we’d
passed Dillon Falls, the road became steeper, up and down, and the
curves sharper. In city driving that simply meant more gas or more
braking. And that’s how Dad saw it too until the car told him otherwise.
Calmly, at first, he asked, “What’s that smell?” Mom looked around for
campfires while Dad scanned from side to side, up and down, a bloodhound
on the curious trail.

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Finally, the smoke had filtered in. “It’s the car, Millie. Stop looking
outside, the smoke’s in here.” He quickly pulled over and leaped out
of the car. He knew immediately, “It’s the brakes,” he screamed. His
temper swelling, and released, “A brand new car! No, we couldn’t stay
where it’s civilized.... We coulda’ been killed, Millie,... Darn..., a brand
new car.”
Mom didn’t respond. Instead she looked at me and asked, “Are we
dead yet?”
Dad looked at me, then the car, and cleared his head before admitting,
“I guess I shoulda’ put it in a lower gear. It was my fault,” he said,
finally looking at Mom. Once the brakes had cooled, we were on our
way again, going uphill.
Although Dad’s anger was shoved aside, his lament endured. The
new car glow had vanished. He was once again driving a wounded veteran,
trying to survive the wasteland of worry. Dad wouldn’t say much
at first but Mom found a way to bring him back.
She reached into her travel bag and pulled out a peach and offered
it to Dad. He refused it. So she sliced a small portion and gave it to
me, and then another. And again she’d asked Dad, offering a slice, “...
They’re good, the kind you like.” He glanced at the offering and gave in,
he always did. From there on it was only a matter of time before words
would flow. By the time we’d reached Bluefield, Dad was his old self.
Her techniques are still the same, an understated beauty.
But the changes that we do regret are usually the ones that unsteady
the foundation of memory. Like Sid’s, now replaced by a Cumby; or the
old Post Office, moved for efficiency, it’s small building now housing
auto parts. I wondered about Bluefield as the road leveled off. Another
hour or so and I’d find out.
Walter’d lived two houses away on the same graveled road as Aunt
Helen’s. The first day we’d arrived, we were all invited by Walter’s Moth-

Walter’s Heart
er for a game of volleyball in their back yard after supper. Mom and
Dad were reluctant, but it turned out that they’d had a great time. So
thereafter, the games became a nightly ritual of gathering.
But I remember the first time I’d seen Walter that day, while unloading
the car. I thought to myself, he looked weird, and he did. His lips
were purple, skin white, hair scattered. I imagined he looked like a
vampire should look. And his fingers were so long and his purple nails
elongated. There was definitely something wrong with him. I guess
that’s why I’d played by myself mostly that evening, pushing my Dick
Tracy Police car in every direction away from Walter until he finally
gave up and watched the game.
Later that night, Mom told me the story: Walter’s Mom had had a
rough time in Europe after the war, and Walter had been born with a
very weak heart. “It was a miracle that he’s even alive,” Mom told me.
“Just think of it,” she’d added, “not many of us get the chance to be near
a miracle.”
Years later, I’d overheard our moms talking. “I cherish every day with
him,” his Mom told mine. “Any day, he could be dead, and I’ve been
lucky enough to have had these years with him.”
“I know,” my Mom replied, “When Danny’s heart had stopped beating
after he was born...” she teared, “You know, I couldn’t have any
more either. To think that...” she could have wiped away my tears as
well. “I was so glad, that the nurse had noticed that Danny was turning
blue...” and the two mothers hugged for the comfort of their gifts. And
I was glad too, that Walter and I’d become best of friends.

Bohdan Yuri
Walter and I were in the same grade but he was a year older
than me, so he was always smarter; but physically we were
almost the same size throughout our meetings, only I was
more athletic.
Our early play years were spent exploring, mostly our surrounding
nature, and trying to fit our playthings into the scheme of time and
space: from toy cars and boats to bicycles. Sometimes hanging out with
Boris, Walter’s older brother, and his friends, we were always the convenient
runts to be toyed with.
Then, the summer before starting 7th grade, I’d come across some
old stuff way in the back of Aunt Helen’s garage. There were three neatly
bundled stacks of old newspapers, (The New York Times) from the
1940s. And tucked behind them was an old Brownie camera. I told
Walter about it.
Walter and I were then into serious model building. Well, the rest was
history. We’d read every page, more than once, as if those times were

Walter’s Heart
surrounding us. People, places, and things, with photographs of heroes
and victims, the end result was inevitable --- our own War Games. Our
yards and surrounding terrain became our battlefields.
We had built the models: plastic tanks, trucks, planes, and for the
stream below the ridge, we had every kind of boat used in World War
II. We had everything needed for fun and glory. And to record our efforts,
I took snapshots of each battle with that old Brownie.
But it was also the scene of our first major argument. We didn’t speak
to one another for three whole days. He’d said that his plane could hover
over my tanks and shoot and bomb all my forces. I told him, planes
couldn’t do that. He said, “Then they should invent a plane that can
fly like that.” I told him he’d cheated. Some more name-calling and we
gathered our forces and retreated to our separate homes.
How, ironic, I thought, that fifteen years later, he’d helped Lockheed
design their version of the Harrier Jet for the Marine Corps.
Anyway, a week before I’d left for home and school that year, we’d
decided to blow up all of our models with firecrackers. Except for the
boats, we let them escape downstream. It was a cool way to end an era.
And there it was up ahead, the second highest peak in the Catskills
--- Bluefield Mountain.
I’d noticed a lot of skiers still on the slopes, and a lot of new trails.
Though still outside of town I already knew that much had changed.
Driving through town, on Main Street, I realized that Bluefield was
now just another hip place, basking in its own trendiness. No more
sane bucolic charm. The old values were replaced by glitz and affluent
sparkles that had settled on every valuable spot of land. Even the blue
field of flowers that had given the town its name, gone, covered by a
growth of new condos. Right then I felt like turning back. But I kept on,

Bohdan Yuri
embracing my memory as I drove it near the outskirts of town, towards
Lexington. I’d needed to know if Walter’s church was at least still there.
But along the way, another landmark was erased from the present,
the Twin Towers Drive-in, now, a pit of new construction. That last
summer, though, Walter and I’d taken our first “dates” there. I remember
the four of us scrunched in the back seat of a Buick. Boris and his
date, now seniors, were sitting in the front seat. Walter and I’d learned
from watching them. It was the time of my first kiss. It was also when
I’d first realized that drive-ins were no longer meant for watching movies.
And there it was, perched on a ridge, St. Volodymyr Ukrainian
Catholic Church. It had been built entirely of wood, no nails. It was
still magnificent though smaller than I’d remembered. Yet still a cameraman’s
delight, showing off its mystical, lyrical edges of shadows and
highlights, and history. I wondered if Walter’s parents had helped to
build it to preserve their own memories? Reinforced, I headed back to
Bluefield.

Walter’s Heart
In town, I turned right on Oak Street and parked my car next to
King’s Superette, (formerly Paulie’s Sweet Shoppe). The bridge was
just a few yards away. I would approach it on my terms, as it once
was.
I got out and surveyed the days of a thousand steps, some filled with
joy, excitement, and most of all youth; and now, with too many regrets.
I walked on to the bridge and leaned against the railing, facing upstream.
Further up, and out of sight, was where it’d happened.
The place is about 300 yards upstream, past the still waters and just
before the flow where fly fishermen waved their rods. In a curved section
that cut into the stream’s granite base there are a number of pools,
the deepest being at least three feet over our heads.
All summer it was daring us, ever since we’d heard that it was called
“Dead Man’s Pool”, because about five years earlier a body had been
found near it. That knowledge tested our budding logic, and stretched
its mortal curve.
It was our second summer together. Neither of us had yet learned
how to swim. We were both still tube movers. Although, I’d practiced
some underwater swimming in the shallow stretches with my new
goggles, but Walter still had trouble with water getting in his nose. An-

Bohdan Yuri
yway, on that particular day, Walter and I’d wandered off while Boris
was busy with his friends.
We’d reached “Dead Man’s Pool”, still carrying our tubes as if they
were a part of our wardrobe. It was deserted. We looked at each other
as danger filled our senses. And with what can only be described as
eight and nine year old brilliance we challenged our bravery.
Walter took off his tube and tossed it into the pool. “I’ll bet you I can
jump into that tube and swim back.” We’d never ever tried anything like
that before.
I ran the idea through my own head. Made sense to me: feet first,
arms outstretched to grab the tube, float, and safe... “Yeah, I could do it
too,” I told him. It set us off.
Walter jumped first, holding his nose and yelling, “Bullseye!” He disappeared
under the water.
His tube, he’d forgotten to grab it. It took awhile for me to understand
that Walter wasn’t coming up, I could see him still on the bottom. I
now had to jump in and rescue Walter. I threw my tube next to his, and
changing the mission: I’d make sure that I held on to the tube with my
arms, then sink a little, grab Walter, and the tube would bring me back
up, with Walter in my hands.
Sure, I think back now, Robert Burns knew it all along, “...the best laid
plans....” I jumped in, but my arms might as well have been greased. I
sank just like Walter did.
I opened my eyes under the water, even without my goggles. I could
see Walter’s form curled against a nearby wall, the darkest corner of the
pool. He’d bottomed, near eternity. I swam towards him and grabbed
him by the arms, pulling, but going nowhere. I looked up at the blue
sky’s watery distortion, our tubes, like floating wreaths. My chest was
exploding I had to get out.

Walter’s Heart
Finally realizing that my feet were touching bottom, I had one last try
left. I wrapped my arms around Walter’s chest and with the strength of
life pushed myself off the bottom. My head came out first. Air... then
I started to sink again. I kicked my feet and surfaced once more, this
time grabbing my tube.
Once secured, I raised Walter above water. “Breathe!” I yelled at him.
He didn’t. I made for the water’s edge. I still don’t know how I’d managed
to pull us both out.
Walter was lying on his back. He still wasn’t breathing. His skin color
had ghostly bleach to it and his lips darker than I’d ever seen them,
black, and cold.
Okay, so now I panicked. Walter was dead, I thought.
I grabbed him by his shoulders and shook him. “Come on, wake up,”
I yelled at him. “We’re out of the water, you can start breathing now.”
Still nothing. I grabbed his head and screamed louder into his face,
“Wake up, wake up wake up.” That didn’t work. So I resorted to using
an eight year old’s frustration, hitting him: his chest, his stomach, even
his face, screaming for him to get up, and crying all the time.
Then, as I let go of failure’s impostors I’d figured that if I stood him
up, that he might miraculously start walking. So I turned him over and
lifted him by his waist, only to fall. He was too heavy to straightened.
I tried again. His body bent, its life hanging on my grip. I shook him.
Crying and begging this time, “Please, come on Walter, walk. Walk...
and Breathe!” I pleaded.
It seemed like forever, each second became eternal. My tears stretched
beyond fear and failure, and into sorrow and guilt. What would our
Moms...? Suddenly, a gush of water left Walter’s mouth. And more water,
then lunch; he coughed, and threw up some more. I swung him
towards a drier spot and let him down. “Are you all right?” I asked him,
wiping away my tears with happier motions. “Can you breathe now?”

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Walter opened his eyes and looked at me, and all around, lungs
pumping to recapture his place. Finally, he spoke, “Wow, that was really
stupid. Boy, I hate being stupid.” Then as a proof of his fiber, he
asked, “Did you hit the Bullseye too?”
“Yeah,” an accomplishment.
He looked around, coughed into his hand and looked at the spit. “I
guess I don’t have to die yet,” he said, trying to lift a smile. “Thanks
Danny.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“You know, Danny,” he said still coughing, “We can’t ever, ever tell anybody
about this.” I agreed with my own fear. We then locked pinkies
and swore. By the end of that summer we’d both learned how to swim,
Yes, each summer, told a story. In our next to last summer, Walter and
I’d tried out for the summer baseball team. I’d made it as an outfielder,
Walter as the equipment manager. He loved it though. Our coach
even let him pinch hit in some games. Struck out each time. Then, the
following year, after having practiced with his brother, he’d made the
team as a first baseman. Even got some clutch hits. But that was also
the last summer we’d spent together. And the last time that we’d seen
each other.
I know, you can ask yourself, how does that happen. Fate and Destiny
are always easy excuses but the truth is that I was entering a new social
phase back home, high school. And I didn’t have the time to be compassionate
or caring. Those years didn’t allow for such frailties.
My Mother had suggested that since I was working summer jobs and
couldn’t visit him that maybe we should invite him here.
Naturally, I declined, with a million excuses in my head. Besides, I’d

Walter’s Heart
felt that I was probably doing him a favor by not exposing him to my
friends. They might not understand, and we all knew how to blindly
hurt each other at that age. And so time stretched each truth into whatever
excuse fit. Yeah I know I could have been stronger. But at that age,
it was better not to feel your heart’s journey.
Through the years though, Mom had kept corresponding with Walter’s
mother. So I’d always been kept up to date on his life: Graduated
from Cornell with a degree in Aeronautics, worked for Lockheed, numerous
design awards. He’d also gotten married and had two daughters,
both in college. It’s amazing how far his heart had taken him.
In fact, Mom once told me that Walter’d once refused a heart transplant
because, “...someone younger, more deserving should get the
heart instead.” I suppose that he’d gotten more out of his heart than
anyone’d expected, except Walter of course. Yeah, all in all, quite a man,
and I’d once known him.
Walter’s Mom had asked my Mom what his last message could have
meant. She’d said that she didn’t know. But I think I know what he’d
meant and I knew that I would have to step into their house once more,
to explain it all.
They said that they’d found Walter slouched over his computer, with
his finger still pressing a key. It was the message that he’d left, the last
thing he’d wanted to say. It broke my heart to understand it, and then
I finally smiled.
The message read:
“DANNY, THANKS FOR THE TIME.............................................”
the end

Bohdan Yuri
Bohdan Yuri
Walter’s Heart
A short story
An Ovi Magazine Books Publication
C 2021 Ovi Project Publication - All material is copyright of the Ovi magazine & the writer
Ovi books are available in Ovi magazine pages and they are for free.
If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately.
For details, contact: submissions@ovimagazine.com
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise),
without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book.

Walter’s Heart
Walter’s Heart
1st edition: January 2008
2nd edition: July 2021
Bohdan Yuri
Ovi magazine
Design: Thanos

Bohdan Yuri
A short story
He looked around,
coughed into his hand
and looked at the spit.
“I guess I don’t have
to die yet,” he said,
trying to lift a smile.
“Thanks Danny.”