An Artist’s PrerogativeKate Harper stared at the massive canvas leaning on the easel. She took a step away from the bold strokes of blues and whites, tried squinting and tapping her chin with her finger to take it all in. Something was wrong, yet she couldn’t pinpoint the flaw. Undoubtedly, she was biased.
Squinting, she tried to see the image as a stranger might. She set the brush on the paint-splattered table and picked up the mug of cold tea. Kate seldom drank hot tea. Each time the kettle whistled, she poured scalding water into the pot and then got carried away on the steam only to return when it was too late and the tea cold. The painting was a commission. Her first paycheck and the pressure to get it right was immense. A month ago, when the person sent an email, deposited five-hundred dollars into her PayPal account to cover the expenses of canvas and paint, she’d been so eager. Whomever this patron was, somehow influential and associated with the Artist Guild, remained a mystery. The insignificant hints she gathered led to a dead end. Besides, what did she care? They paid. And mother had been so proud. Kate printed the email and pinned it to her easel. “Dear Ms. Harper,” blah blah blah, platitudes which Kate had memorized, but, today, she skipped to the guts of the note. “My only stipulation hinges on the design. You must complete the painting in blues and whites. Complimentary hints of yellows and greens are acceptable. And please, it must be inspired and in the style of Monet.” Her specialty. She walked in the legend’s footprints for years, now it was time to test her skill. Her friends teased her endlessly that the patron was a secret admirer. After graduating, she had been invited by the Guild to hold an exhibition. She sold three of her pieces to promises that fell flat after the event. People said things and didn’t follow through. The disappointment was immense and crippled her emotionally. Even today, the lingering effects crept like a fungus on the fortress of her fragile security system. Taking a long draft of the tea, Kate realized she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten since seven, and that had only been to swallow a mushy banana. And time had done that vanishing act again, it was now two o’clock. As an artist, she understood the strict rule of walking away from the work in progress to get an overview and clarity, but she’d been so obsessed with spreading the first layers on the canvas that she overruled her sense of wisdom. It had taken three weeks just to bring the painting to this stage. From the kitchen, which was just an alcove in the wall, like a random afterthought, with just a small bank of cupboards and counter space, she had the optimal view. Her studio apartment wasn’t about size, instead, it was a stage production of light. But her stomach made demands. With her back to the easel, she rummaged in the small fridge and surfaced with an unopened package of cheese and an apple. Her favorite combination. She hadn’t done the dishes since yesterday, and since she only had two of everything, she had to make do with a paper towel and a dirty knife. Skittish like a deer, she pranced around the easel, stirring the dustmotes into a waltz because she wouldn’t allow herself a sitdown lunch. Her eyes were loath to leave the woman, who clothed in volumes of summer gauze strode across the beach scene, the image that her inner artist was trying to capture. Kate wanted whoever was looking at the painting to feel the breeze, the gentle caress of the sun, and hear the squawk of a seagull, the surf breaking and falling apart on the sand. The noise of a small ding on her cell phone alerted her to a message. Kate could go for hours and sometimes days without checking on the incoming texts. It was a habit her friends found annoying but Kate didn’t give a darn, she only cared about painting and getting the emotion and setting of her work as if she were composing an epic novel. She often thought she was building a character from scrap, as a novelist might, only she had just one shot to get it right. A writer had approximately three-hundred pages, and a delete function, for the reader to fall in love with their creation. With a painting, the artist had one shot. She scrolled with her thumb, nibbling on the cheese, taking bites of the crisp apple. It was a text from her mother reminding her to surface. “Remember to eat!” it said, a smiley face and heart signed off. But who could under this sort of pressure? Staring at the painting, Kate knew she had done the unforgivable. She had fallen in love with the muse. It was a reflection of herself painted on the canvas. There was no mistaking the symmetry of the woman walking on the shore. Kate had unknowingly done it. “Shit! I’ve painted myself into the corner.” The End
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Polyamorous Family UnitPete and Dee Myers spent fifteen years building their family. It took them less than two months to destroy it. If they’d known the devastation that was coming, they never would have called their children—Lyle, Dan and Abby—into the living room the third week of summer vacation to tell them about the changes they were about to bestow upon their home.
Dan sat next to Lyle on the floor and they stared up at their parents on the edge of the couch, holding hands. The television that was turned on in the morning and stayed on throughout the day was off, making the room eerily quiet. “We’re adding a new member to the family,” Dee said. She was smiling the way she did when telling them how much fun they were going to have when visiting their crazy grandmother and her ten cats for Christmas. “Are you having a baby?” Lyle asked. As soon as he said it, Dan thought it, too. Being fourteen, almost four years older, Lyle was usually a couple steps ahead. “We’re not having a baby,” Dee said, “we’re having a Kent.” “What’s a Kent?” Abby asked. “Kent’s a who. He’s going to live with us as part of the family.” Dan looked to his dad who just smiled and nodded. “Do I have to give him my room?” Dan asked. At the end of the school year, he and Lyle had moved into the basement where Pete had built them their own rooms. Dan chose blue for the walls. He loved the way the sunlight came through the two windows near the ceiling, his small desk in the corner, his books neatly lined up on the small bookcase behind the door. It was the first space he could call his own. The thought of losing it made his hands sweat. “Kent will be sleeping with me and Daddy.” “We’re adopting a baby?” Dan asked. “Kent’s an adult. Like us,” Dee said, pointing to herself and Pete. They waited to see if she was going to add more. Lyle broke the silence. “Your bed’s not big enough.” “We’re getting a bigger bed,” was the first thing Pete said. “This is silly,” Abby said. At six, silly was her favorite word and she used it to describe anything from having to go to bed to being hungry. Dan and Lyle nodded in agreement. “Nothing’s going to be any different,” Dee said, her smile faltering for the first time. “We’re just going to have a new person in the family, that’s all.” Pete smiled and nodded. Kent had red hair and beard. He was tall. He had to bend his head down to clear the kitchen doorway. “You look like a Viking,” Dan said when he first saw him. He was reading about the Vikings and could picture Kent with a bull’s horn helmet, pillaging villages. Over time, he would add taking other men’s wives. Kent threw his head back and laughed, exposing straight white teeth, three silver fillings and a bright red tongue. Pete and Dee joined in. “You must be Daniel. Your mom said you’re funny.” “It’s Dan,” he mumbled as he shook his hand. “Dan it is. Your dad said you like to read. I do, too. Maybe we can go to the bookstore sometime.” He shrugged and went downstairs to Lyle’s room. His brother was sitting on his bed playing his Nintendo DS. Dan lingered in the doorway until he noticed him. “What’s he like?” Lyle asked. “He looks like Leif Eriksson.” “Who’s that?” “A Viking.” Lyle rolled his eyes. Dan picked at some loose paint on Lyle’s door. “They’re going to have to get a much bigger bed.” Lyle didn’t respond. “How long do you think he’s going to stay here?” “I don’t know. Just don’t tell anyone. They’ll think we’re weird.” “Why?” Lyle looked up from his game. “Do you know anyone else’s family that has two men to one mom?” The anger on his face made Dan take a step back. “Where did he come from?” Dan asked his dad. Ten years had passed, he was a junior in college and the question plagued him, made everything else in his life seem trivial. “We met him at your mom’s shop. He’d just moved from Asheville.” He knew his dad didn’t like talking about that time, none of them did, but it was important to Dan. He needed to fill in the gaps so he could find a place for it. “And she just invited him to live with us?” “There was more to it than that.” “Like what?” He was frustrated with his dad’s evasiveness. Pete sighed. His hair was peppered with gray and he was getting a paunch. “Just more. It was a long time ago.” Dan wanted to tell him that it wasn’t such a long time ago for him, how he could see that time clearer than any other in his life. “I want to understand,” he mumbled at his hands. “Me, too,” Pete said. He went to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. Dan knew that after his dad filled his cup, he would add a heaping spoonful of sugar, lick the spoon and put it in the sink. He would look out the small kitchen window with the same yellow curtains his mom made when they moved in and stare out at the backyard. His dad’s sadness reached Dan through the walls. It took all of his willpower not to leave without saying goodbye. Dan started seeing Lauren in the university’s therapy center after that visit home. His academic advisor encouraged him to go. He was failing two of his classes because he skipped most of them. The first three sessions were spent talking about classes and motivation, what was keeping him from taking advantage of the amazing opportunity of receiving a first-rate education. Abby called when he was on the way to his fourth appointment. “I saw him, Danny,” she said. “Who?” “Him. Kent.” He gripped the phone. “Are you sure?” “I’m pretty sure it was him. He was in the coffee shop on Main. I saw him after school when I was with Missy.” “You were in the coffee shop?” “I was on the street. He was sitting by the window.” Dan reached the Psych building. “I have to get to class,” he lied. “I’ll call you after.” “What should I do if I see him again?” “Nothing. Don’t go near him. Promise?” “I promise.” He hung up and tried to calm himself. His hands shook as he pulled the door open. Lauren was in the waiting area. Her smile faltered when she saw him. “Come on back.” In her office, he sat on the couch and put his head between his knees. His chest was tight and he had trouble pulling in a breath. Lauren handed him a bottle of water. He finished it and she gave him another one. “Feeling better?” He nodded. “Take your time.” She sat across from him and waited. “My sister called.” “Your younger sister, right?” “Abby. She was upset.” “Is she okay?” “I don’t know.” Lauren waited. “My family’s kind of strange,” he said after the silence became too heavy. “In what way?” “The strange kind of way.” “Strange is a relative term.” “No pun intended.” Lauren smiled. “Most people think their family is weird. What makes yours different than others?” He took a drink of water. “We’re a Greek tragedy.” She waited to see if he was going to add more. When he didn’t, she asked, “What does that mean?” Dan thought if he didn’t speak about that time, he could leave it behind. He could become someone new. The problem was he hadn’t yet figured out who that new person was he desperately wanted to become. He was floundering. He said, “I love my family.” “Loving your family and understanding them are two very different things.” Dan nodded. “When you first started coming to see me, you said that you have a brother and sister. You didn’t mention your parents.” “Abby is my younger sister and Lyle is my older brother.” “Are you close?” “Abby and I are closer now that I’m in school. Weird, huh? I had to move out to have a better relationship with my sister.” “That happens more than you think. All the little day to day annoyances are gone. What about Lyle?” He looked above Lauren’s head at the picture of a woman sitting in the lotus position and the words JUST BREATHE floating above her. He took a deep breath and said, “He’s in prison.” “That must be hard for both of you.” “Pretty sure it’s harder for him.” “Do you want to tell me why he’s in prison?” Dan forced the words out from around the lump in his throat. “He killed our mom.” For years, Dan held tight to the belief that his family was like all other families before Kent moved in. A decade later, he was no longer sure that was true. Dee had been a free-spirited mom. She wore long flowing skirts and colorful scarves, rarely wore shoes when she was home and only wore sandals when she went out. She had a small shop downtown called The First Chakra where she sold Aromatherapy oils, crystals, local artists’ jewelry and paintings, homemade soaps and jams, estate items thrown in if she knew the person who wanted to sell. Dan liked stocking shelves and checking out customers on the weekends. Pete was a woodworker. Their garage was his workshop where he made one-of-a-kind kitchen tables and cabinets. On weekends, he opened the double-doors on the garage and people filtered in throughout the day to buy his pieces. Even as a kid, Dan knew what his dad created was good. Beautiful, even. The care he put into his work was evident. Each piece had intricate details that people couldn’t help but reach out and touch. Pete let the kids come out to his workshop whenever they wanted. He insisted there was no horsing around. “These tools can be dangerous,” he reminded them if they started to bicker. He tried to teach Dan how to use the table saw once. His warnings of the hazards that lurked in the fast moving machine made him anxious. Dan was so nervous he couldn’t lift his arms to guide the wood. “Get out of the way,” Lyle demanded, stepping in front of Dan. The saw went through the board like a shark fin through water. Lyle started helping in the workshop after school and on weekends. Dan would venture in when the doors were gaping open and strangers peppered in. He liked to watch their faces as they ran their hands over the smooth cherry and white oak tables and the designs hand-carved into the table legs. He felt proud that his dad had made the pieces that made people smile. Even though they weren’t rich, Dee reminded them regularly how important it was to do what they wanted to do, not what the world demanded. She used herself and Pete as examples of the freedom that could be found in following your passions. “People like to put other people in boxes. It makes them feel safe. Resist getting in that box, even if others don’t like you for it.” That last year, the Myers family ended up inside a box. Dan blamed Kent for putting them there. Kent moved his things in the Saturday after the family meeting. He didn’t have much: four boxes that were stored in the basement, stacked on one wall in the open area between Dan and Lyle’s rooms, two suitcases, and an old white Smith Corona typewriter. The Corona was put on the small desk in the laundry area and the suitcases disappeared into Dee and Pete’s room. That first night when they sat down to eat, Kent sat across from Dan. He was so tall his knees bumped the table whenever he shifted in his seat. Kent and Dee talked while the rest of them ate. Dan watched his dad push his food around on his plate, not joining in the conversation. “Don’t you think so, Pete?” Dee asked him. He didn’t reply, just stared at his plate. “Pete?” He looked up and shook his head like he was clearing away fog. “What?” “I asked if you thought the town could use another yoga studio? Kent and I were discussing the empty space near the shop and how it would be perfect.” “I’m sure it would be.” “I’ll take a look this week. Get an idea of how much they’re asking.” Dee and Kent kept discussing the space. They didn’t seem to notice when Pete left the table. Lyle followed him out, leaving Dan and Abby. Dan wasn’t sure what to do. Typically, they had to ask to be excused. The rules he’d lived with most of his childhood were becoming malleable. He liked knowing what was expected of him, it was his nature. Not knowing made him feel unsettled. “May I be excused?” he asked. His mom and Kent kept talking. He asked again. When neither responded, he slipped from his chair and left the dining room. He went out the back door and sat on the steps. It was his favorite time of day. The bright Florida sun was almost down, leaving just enough light to see by. He listened to Pete’s saw slicing through boards until the sun went down and the mosquitos started to bite. When Lyle turned thirteen, he started not wanting to have much to do with his younger brother. Dan’s attempts at getting him interested in anything were usually met with a closed door or a string of insults. After that first dinner, Lyle, who never ventured across the 30 feet that separated their bedrooms, wandered in. Dan was reading. After meeting Kent, he’d left the Vikings behind and moved on to the Greek gods. Lyle picked a book from Dan’s bookcase, carried it around the room, then put it down on the dresser. “Dad’s really mad,” were the first words he said. “About what?” “What do you think? Kent being here.” “He should tell him to leave then.” It seemed like an obvious solution to Dan. “Then she might go with him.” “Who?” Lyle shook his head in disgust. “You know you’re an idiot, right? I mean, I don’t want you walking around not understanding just how stupid you really are. It’s my job, as your big brother, to make sure you realize that you’re a half-wit.” He left the room without closing the door. Dan put the book back in its proper place. He marched over to Lyle’s room and went in without knocking. His brother was sitting on his bed looking at a magazine that he quickly shoved under the covers. “It stinks in here,” Dan said, wrinkling his nose at the sour smell. “Then get out.” “Who would go with him?” “Who do you think, asswipe?” “She wouldn’t do that.” “Wanna bet?” “You’re an asswipe.” “Good comeback. Now get out.” Dan grabbed Lyle’s blanket and tried to pull it off his bed. Lyle held on to it. “Knock it off.” “Take it back.” “Fine, I take it back. Now let go.” The magazine slid to the floor. Dan picked it up. A topless woman was on the front. Lyle lunged at him and tried to take it. “Where’d you get this?” Dan asked. “Give me it.” Dan danced back. “I’m telling.” Lyle pushed Dan against the wall and pried the magazine from his hands. “If you don’t tell, I’ll show you.” Without waiting for a response, Lyle went to Kent’s boxes and opened the top one. It was filled with the same kind of magazines. “Why does he have so many?” “Who knows. If you tell, I’ll say you were going through the boxes first.” Dan took one out and flipped through it. He put it back. “You’d better make sure Kent doesn’t know you’re in his stuff.” “Want one?” Dan was curious but didn’t want to look at the magazines in front of Lyle. He said no and went back to his room where he tried not to think about what Lyle said about their mom leaving and what was in the cardboard box so close to his room. When Dan went upstairs the next morning, Kent was wearing one of Dee’s aprons that said Cook Like No One Is Eating and showing Abby how to flip pancakes. “Where’s my dad?” he asked. “He and your mom went out for breakfast. They’ll be back in a while.” Lyle came in behind Dan. He didn’t say anything, just poured a glass of orange juice and left. Dan sat at the table and waited. He usually helped his dad by getting the butter and syrup, pouring milk, putting out the silverware, but the table was already set. “Look at what I made, Danny,” Abby said. She held up a pancake that looked like a heart. “Do you want one?” He shrugged. He didn’t want Kent to know he was impressed. “When will they be back?” he asked Kent. “Soon. Do you need something?” Ignoring him, he opened the back door. “Don’t you want any breakfast?” “I’m not hungry.” The day was already hot. He stopped on the steps and waited for his eyes to adjust to the bright sun. Lyle came out of their dad’s workshop still drinking his orange juice. “You’re not supposed to be in there,” Dan said. Lyle came over to the steps and sat down. “Where did he say they were?” “Breakfast. They’ll be back soon.” “Abby shouldn’t be left alone with that guy.” “Why not?” “Because we don’t know him. He might be a perv or something.” “Dad wouldn’t let a perv live with us.” Lyle handed him his empty glass and stood up. “I’m going to Ben’s house.” Ben was Lyle’s best friend. Dan wanted to ask if he could come, but knew Lyle would say no. The last time Ben hung out at their house, he and Lyle were playing Resident Evil and Dan overhead him say, “Your brother walks like he has a stick up his ass.” He then heard the sound of a punch landing and Ben saying, “Dude, that hurt.” He hadn’t been over since then and Dan doubted Lyle would bring him around now that Kent had moved in. “Keep an eye on them, okay?” Dan watched him walk away. He waited until sweat trickled down his back before going inside. The kitchen was clean except for his place where a plate of pancakes waited. He coated them with syrup and ate them quickly. He didn’t want Kent to see him enjoying what he’d made. “Where were you?” Dan asked his parents as soon as they were in the door. Dee brushed the hair off his forehead. “Did you have breakfast?” “Just cold pancakes,” he mumbled. Kent came into the room carrying Candy Land. “Abby and I are about to have fun. Care to join us?” “I will,” Dee said. “I have some work to do. Want to help?” Pete asked Dan. “Go on, it’ll be fun,” Dee told him. Dan followed his dad to the workshop and waited while he turned on the lights and the small window air conditioner. “Where’s your brother?” “Went to Ben’s.” Pete laid out boards for a table he was making for a lady in Orlando. “Lyle said Kent’s a perv.” Pete laughed. “He did, did he? Hand me the measuring tape,” he said, indicating the one closest to Dan. “I’m going to show you how to measure properly.” Pete measured then made a pencil mark on the board. “The rule of thumb is to measure twice, cut once. If you’re ever in doubt, cut on the side of caution. Do you know what that means?” Dan shook his head. “It means that you can always cut extra if you need to, but it’s harder to add more if you’re too short.” After the first few boards, Pete left the measuring to Dan and started cutting. It was the first time Dan felt comfortable in his dad’s workshop. They worked until after one. When Pete turned off the saw, Dan’s ears rang in the quiet. Pete removed his goggles and wiped the saw dust off his face with a towel. “I want you to know that I would never let a perv near you guys, okay?” “That’s what I told Lyle.” His dad patted him on the back and said, “Good boy.” Lyle spent most of his time at Ben’s house and hanging out with friends. When he was home, he stayed in his room with the door closed. If he had to spend time with the family, he only spoke if asked a direct question. If the person speaking to him was Kent, he ignored him altogether. At the end of the fourth week, Pete and Dee asked Lyle to stay at the table after they ate. Abby went to the living room to watch television. Dan went into the kitchen and stood by the door to listen. Dee spoke first. “Lyle, we know that there have been a lot of changes. You can talk to us about what you’re feeling.” Lyle didn’t respond. Dan could picture him glaring at the wall across from him, refusing to make eye-contact. “Tell us what you’re thinking, son,” Kent said. “We can talk about it.” Lyle said something that Dan couldn’t make out. “What was that?” Kent asked. “I’m not your son.” “We’re all family,” Dee said. “He’s not part of our family,” Lyle responded. “We invited him to live with us and that makes him family.” “You invited him. Not dad.” “You mother and I made this decision.” “Bullshit.” “Watch your mouth,” Pete said. “It is bullshit. You don’t want him here any more than I do.” “You don’t get to speak for me.” “Lyle, your parents and I are choosing to have an unorthodox relationship. Just because it’s not traditional, doesn’t make it wrong.” “You’re so full of shit. You just want to fuck my mom.” Dan looked around the corner as their dad banged his hand down on the table. “You will not speak about your mother in that manner. Do you understand?” His face was red. Dee started to cry. Kent patted her arm. “You don’t have to approve of our decision, but you do have to be polite to other members of this family. Do you understand?” “I don’t have to do anything,” Lyle said, pushing himself away from the table. “This family is fucked up.” Kent reached out to grab him as he went around the table. “Get off me,” Lyle yelled and started punching him. Pete and Dee rushed toward Lyle. His arms were flailing. Kent covered his face and turned away. Lyle kept swinging. Abby stood across the room, her eyes round, grasping her stuffed unicorn. Kent, trying to avoid Lyle’s punches, fell out of his chair. Pete wrapped his arms around Lyle from behind. Even that didn’t slow him down. He kicked at Kent and tried to break free from their dad. Kent crawled to the end of the table and stood. “Go,” Dee yelled at him. He hurried out of the room. Dan heard the front door open and close. Only then did Lyle start to calm down. “If I let go, will you sit down?” Pete asked him. Lyle nodded. He was crying so hard snot dripped from his chin. Dee tried to wipe his face. He shoved her hand away. She handed him the napkin and told him to wipe. Dee went to Abby crying in the doorway and picked her up. “It’s okay, baby.” Abby cried harder. They went in the other room. Dan was afraid to move. He knew Lyle would be angry if he knew he’d seen him melting down. “Take a drink,” Pete said, handing Lyle a glass of water. Dan could see his dad’s hands shaking, something he’d never seen. He said that a steady hand coupled with patience is what makes a good woodworker. He hurried downstairs to his room. He pulled his covers over his head. He stayed that way until he heard Lyle come downstairs and close his bedroom door. Only then did he get up and change into his pajamas. Years later, Dan would tell Lauren that even more than having Kent move in with them, Lyle’s outburst felt more like the beginning of the end for the Myers. At least the family they’d always known. The next morning, Dan went upstairs where his parents, Kent and Lyle were sitting in the living room. “Come here, Dan,” Dee said. “We’re having a family meeting to discuss some things.” He glanced at Lyle who sat at the far end of the couch, his shoulders hunched, picking at his fingernails. He looked defeated. “We want to explain to you guys what having Kent here means,” she said. “Kent’s not just staying with us for a while, he’s now a part of the family.” “You adopting him like a dog?” Lyle mumbled from his corner of the couch. Dee ignored him. “We are now a polyamorous family. Do you know what that means?” Dan shook his head no. Lyle stared at his hands. “The word poly means many and the word amorous means love. So it means many loves. And that’s us, right? We have many people to love in this family and now Kent is someone we love.” “I don’t love him,” Dan said. Lyle laughed. “I love you, buddy,” Kent said. Dan didn’t know how to respond. A stranger had never told him they loved him before. “You guys don’t have to love anyone, yet,” Pete said. “But you do have to be respectful. Do you understand?” Lyle and Dan nodded. “Can we go now?” Lyle asked. “Be back by dinner,” Pete said. Dan followed Lyle out the back door and watched his brother get on his bike. “They’re so full of shit,” he said then rode away. Dan went back inside and poured a bowl of cereal. His parents and Kent were still in the living room. “Give him time,” Pete said. “It’s a big change.” “I just wish I could make him understand how amazing this is,” Dee said. “He’ll understand one day,” Kent added. Dan shook his head, knowing that Lyle would never understand. “Danny and Abby are fine with it,” Dee said. “The younger ones are always more accepting,” Kent said. “They just feel all the love they receive and embrace it.” Dan rolled his eyes. He wondered what kind of love he was supposed to be feeling. Later that morning, Dan looked up p-a-u-l-y in the dictionary. He then looked under polly, thinking it was spelled like the girls name. He narrowed down the options and found what he was looking for. Polyamorous: many loves. Just like his mom said. He wondered why his parents needed more love. Didn’t they get enough from each other? From them? Dan’s birthday was July 17th. He hated that he was born in the summer and couldn’t take cupcakes to school for his classroom and only celebrated with his family every year. That summer, Kent took it upon himself to give him a special birthday week. He told the family about his plan during one of the rare dinners Lyle attended. He’d started missing family dinners after his meltdown and the ones he did show up for, he ate quickly then sat, sullen and withdrawn, speaking only when spoken to. His parents ignored his behavior. They seemed to have taken the path of least resistance. Dan knew Dee and Pete believed that if they gave Lyle enough space, he would come around. He knew his brother never would. “You only get one day for your birthday, silly,” Abby said when Kent shared his plan. “One day is never enough. I think everyone should have a whole week just for them, where they get to do all the things they want.” The Myers were never one of those over-the-top birthday celebrating families. Dee baked them a cake and, as a family, they went out to a restaurant chosen by the birthday boy or girl. Dan was intrigued. “What kind of things?” “What do you like to do?” “I don’t know.” “Then let’s ask your parents. What does Dan like to do?” “He likes to go to the bookstore,” Dee said, wearing the same overly-large smile she’d worn the morning she announced that Kent was joining the family. “He likes to wash the car and take out the garbage,” Pete added. “I do not,” Dan said, making everyone laugh. “I like to go to the beach.” “We have the bookstore one day, the beach the next.” Kent went into the kitchen and came back with pen and paper. “Keep thinking. Five more things and we have a birthday week.” “He likes to eat the special pancakes I make,” Abby said. “Special Abby pancakes are now on the list.” “He likes to ride bikes with me,” Lyle said. They all turned and stared at him. In the quiet, Lyle’s face turned red. “That’s four things,” Dan said, trying to get the attention off Lyle before he blew. “And I like going out to eat and then have Mom’s birthday cake. That’s five things. Do I need to pick them all now?” “Just let us know the week of your birthday. It starts that Sunday and will last until the next Saturday.” “We’ll go out to eat on your birthday and I’ll bake the cake,” Dee said. “You pick the place.” “Cool.” He’d never been the center of attention for an entire week. He tried to hide his excitement. Time dragged before Dan’s birthday week. He lay awake at night trying to decide what his last two days should be. He didn’t want to waste them, but nothing seemed big enough. The evening they talked about his birthday plans was the first time all summer they felt like a real family again. He wanted to recreate it. After much deliberation, he decided on movie night. Everyone liked the idea. He chose Transformers because he knew Lyle liked it. The Saturday before the special week, Kent asked him what his last day would be. “I thought maybe, if it’s not too much, we could all go to the fair.” “All of us?” Lyle asked. “It’ll be fun. We can go on the rides like we did last year and eat cotton candy.” “The fair it is,” Pete said. “Can you read us the list, Kent? So we know what Danny’s birthday week entails.” “Will do, Pete. Tomorrow, we start off with Abby’s special pancakes, then on Monday, Dan and I will head to the bookstore. On Tuesday, we go to the beach, Wednesday is movie night, Thursday Lyle and Dan ride bikes. Friday, the big B-Day, will consist of dinner out and Mom’s birthday cake, and then the piece de resistance, the county fair.” “I’m exhausted just hearing them read out loud,” Dee said. “Does Thursday work for you?” Kent asked Lyle. “If not, we can switch it to another day.” Dan had never heard an adult be so cordial to a kid before. “It’s fine,” Lyle said, tearing his napkin into pieces and piling them on his plate. “What do you think, Danny?” Dee asked. “Sound like a fun birthday week?” He nodded, trying to ignore Lyle’s mood. He was irritated with his brother and his antics. Why couldn’t he just let it go, play along? They didn’t get to make the decisions, so it was best to find a way to be happy. At least that was his thinking then. Abby made her heart-shaped pancakes on Sunday. Dan’s chair was decorated with green and blue balloons and Abby had drawn him a picture of the family. Dan tucked it into his pocket before Lyle could see Dee sandwiched between Pete and Kent. On Monday, Kent drove him to the bookstore. It was Dan’s first time in Kent’s silver BMW with black leather interior. “As soon as I got to Florida, I had the windows tinted as dark as I could get them. I feel like a movie star, but at least the seats aren’t so hot you can’t touch them.” Dan had never been in such a nice car before and he imagined that people were impressed. Kent turned on the stereo, a “first-rate sound system” is what he called it. Dan nodded his head to the beat, even though he didn’t know the song, and checked to make sure the twenty dollars his dad had given him was still tucked into the front pocket of his jeans. The night before, Pete came to his bedroom. Seeing his dad lingering in the doorway looking nervous was unsettling. The last time he’d seen him in the basement was when he was finishing the remodel. “Still like your room?” Dan nodded. “You got enough light to read by?” “Yes.” “Let me know if you need more. I can always run some wires to add a couple of sconces.” “Okay.” “Here.” Pete handed Dan the twenty. “This is for your trip to the bookstore. Get whatever you want.” “Thanks.” “Don’t stay up too late, you have a big week ahead.” Pete went back toward the stairs. Dan watched him stop next to Kent’s boxes. The one with the magazines had one flap pulled partially up and Dan wondered if he could see what was inside. His heart beat fast as his dad reached over, pushed it back into place and went upstairs. Dan loved everything about bookstores. From the moment he walked in the door, he felt the tension in his shoulders release and the tight feeling in his chest that he’d carried since Kent moved in and Lyle started growing angry, dissolve. He particularly liked this bookstore. The building was long and the shelves were well-spaced, making the books easy to reach. A cat named Hemingway lurked in the aisles and on the shelves, never in the same place twice. Hemingway was impossible to find when you were looking for him, but as soon as you stopped, there he’d be, cleaning himself in the non-fiction section or sleeping near the ceiling on one of the tallest bookshelves in Science Fiction. The woman behind the counter waved. “Hey, Kent. Who’s your friend?” She was pretty with dark hair that had purple on the ends. “This is Dan. He’s a good friend of mine,” Kent leaned on the counter, looking like he’d leaned on that same counter a hundred times before. “His birthday is Friday and this is one of his birthday wishes, to hang out at the bookstore.” “Happy birthday, Dan. How old are you? Twenty?” She laughed and Dan saw a gold stud in her tongue. “Eleven. Or I will be on Friday. I’m still ten.” “Ten and eleven are good ages. My name’s Stef. Let me know if you have any questions.” Dan wandered into the nearest aisle and watched Kent talk to Stef like they were old friends. Stef was the type of person that came to his mom’s store and talked to her about art and religion, sometimes discussing the best herbal teas and aromatherapies. A lot of them smelled like Patchouli. He liked the animated way they spoke even though he didn’t always understand what they were talking about. He took his time finding the fantasy section. Kent and Stef’s voices floated through the aisles and slowly faded as he moved to the back of the store. Dan found three books he wanted. He only had enough money for two. Kent came down the aisle, hands tucked in his pockets, a big smile on his face, while Dan was debating which ones to buy. “Did you find anything good?” “I can’t decide.” “A Sophie’s choice, huh?” Dan didn’t know what that meant. He nodded anyway. “How much money do you have?” “My dad gave me twenty dollars.” “Let me cover the rest. It can be my birthday present to you.” Dan hesitated, uncertain if his parents would approve. “You brought me. I thought that was my present.” “And a book is part of the bookstore experience.” Kent took the books and said, “Let’s go. I need a cup of coffee.” Dan followed behind him, gripping the twenty tight in his hand. Stef was finishing up with a customer when they got to the front and she gave Dan a wink when Kent placed the books on the counter. “Did you have fun?” He nodded and blushed. She checked out the books. “All three of these are good. Maybe you should work here.” “Can I?” he asked, excited at the idea. Kent and Stef laughed. “In a few years. We’re always looking for smart, well-read employees.” He tried to hand Kent his money. He told him to keep it. “My dad gave it to me for books.” “You can use it at the coffee shop.” Dan knew that Lyle would say Kent was trying to buy him. He tucked the money back into his pocket anyway. They went to a coffee shop that Dan had passed a hundred times before but never been in. The workers knew Kent there, too. “The usual?” the guy behind the counter asked him. “And whatever my friend Dan wants.” “I don’t drink coffee,” Dan told him in a quiet voice, overwhelmed by the activity and the newness. “They have other things. How about an iced Chai?” “What’s that?” “Try it and if you don’t like it, we’ll get you something else.” They went outside to the patio where a group of teens was sitting at a table on the far end. They were louder than any other table and the other customers kept glancing in their direction. Kent’s back was to them. Dan had a direct view. He saw Lyle’s friend, Ben, before Ben saw him. He watched as he lit a cigarette and took a drag. That summer, Lyle smelled like cigarettes. Dan had assumed it was because Ben’s mom smoked. A tall guy from the group went inside the coffee shop and that’s when Dan saw Lyle. He was sitting in a chair with a girl on his lap, a cigarette gripped tight between his lips. The girl said something and Lyle laughed, the cigarette falling from his mouth. She screamed and jumped up as Lyle juggled the lit cigarette. Kent turned to see what was causing the commotion and when he did, Ben noticed him. “Hey, dude, isn’t that the guy who’s banging your mom?” His voice carried above all of the other noise. Lyle froze, the lit cigarette forgotten at his feet, and stared at them. It was the last time Dan would see him outside of a locked facility. The Chai Dan had been enjoying suddenly tasted too sweet and his heart started to pound. Kent stood and said, “Why don’t we go now? You can bring your drink.” Dan followed behind Kent. He glanced back. Lyle was gone. The girl was still there. She was already sitting on another guy’s lap, whispering in his ear. Lyle called on Monday night to say he was staying at Ben’s house. Dee insisted he join them for the trip to the beach the next day. He told her no and hung up. They went to the beach without him. Dan tried to act like he was having fun, but all he could think about was Lyle sitting at the coffee shop, smoking cigarettes, instead of at the water that he loved. Dan had never been to the beach without his brother. Lyle was the one who took him out to the buoy, the farthest he’d ever been, and he was the one who taught him how to body surf the waves two years before. He had no memories of the beach that didn’t include Lyle. After listlessly jumping into oncoming waves, he joined Dee under the large umbrella Pete had lugged from the car. “Having fun?” she asked as she reapplied sunscreen to his back and shoulders. Dan shrugged. “I heard Lyle was at the coffee shop yesterday. That must’ve been surprising, to see him there.” Dan didn’t say anything. “What Ben said, you know it was disrespectful, right?” He hesitated, then asked, “Does Kent hit you?” “Of course not.” “Ben said that he was banging on you. And that means hitting.” She didn’t say anything, just kept smoothing sunscreen on his back. They watched Pete and Kent toss Abby back and forth in the waves. Their laughter rose above the sound of the surf. “Your father, Kent and I have made a lifestyle choice. We’re not doing anything wrong. Do you understand?” “I want to get back in the water.” “Do you want a sandwich?” Dan ran down the beach away from his family and all he didn’t understand. “I thought you’d never get here,” Abby said. She was 16, almost 17, and she looked more and more like Dee each passing year. She wore her red hair long and curly like their mom and even preferred long, flowing skirts over the tight jeans most of her friends wore. She tucked her hair behind her right ear. Dan noticed she’d added another piercing near the top. “Where’s Dad?” “In his workshop.” “Have you said anything to him about Kent?” “You told me not.” “Good. Let’s not upset him unless we have to.” She carried Dan’s duffel bag downstairs to his room. It still looked the same. “Have you seen Kent again?” he asked her. “Once. He was going into a restaurant near the south pier.” “And you’re positive it was him?” “I looked in one of the newspapers in your closet. He’s lost some hair, right here,” she waved her hand over the crown of her head, “and he looks older, but it’s him. Why do you think he’s back?” “Who knows?” he said, unpacking his clothes so she couldn’t see his face. Dan had a pretty good idea of why Kent had returned. “Dad’s excited you’re home.” “How do you know? Did he crack a smile?” “He bought groceries and rented a couple of movies. He only does that when he’s feeling good.” Guilt started at the top of Dan’s head and worked its way to his feet. It was easy to forget when he was living in his one-bedroom off campus that Abby was still with their dad who wore all that happened ten years before like a cloak of gloom. She’d taken over the household chores Dan had done without missing a beat. She cooked the meals, went to the grocery, and did the laundry. She even had Pete add her to the banking account so she could pay the bills after the electricity was shut off for the third time. Abby told Dan she was going to make pancakes. “Just like you like them.” After everything happened ten years before, the only thing that calmed Abby when she started to cry was making pancakes. They’d eaten a lot of pancakes. He didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d sworn never to eat another one after he moved out of the house. Dan stepped outside and listened to the sound of the saw. It took Pete months before he was able to go back into his workshop. The day Dan saw his dad open the garage doors, he was able to breathe a little easier. Dan had wanted to help clean it. Pete told him absolutely not and forbid him to enter the space until he gave him permission. Pete spent the day removing the black fingerprint dust that covered the saws and tools that lined the walls. He used bleach to clean the large, dark stain near the side door and the splatter marks that ran up the far wall and spotted the ceiling. He painted the walls with primer followed by a dark green, ensuring no other color would come through. It took him a better part of a week. Once it was done, he went back to work. There was even an increase in sales—everyone wanted to see where the tragedy had taken place, but didn’t want to be crass about it, so they ended up making a purchase to ease their conscience. Dan waited for the saw to stop before going in. “There you are,” Pete said, removing his goggles and wiping the saw dust from his face. “Did you make good time?” “Traffic was light.” Dan ran his hand over the large piece of brown maple on the saw platform. “What’re you making?” “A curio cabinet for a woman in Orlando. Her mother left her a collection of music boxes and she needs something special to display them. I got the job because I told her I could make the legs look like a piano’s legs. She loved the idea.” He laughed. “Now I just need to figure out how to do it.” “You’ll do it. You always do.” “How’s school?” “Good. Hard. You know.” “Keep at it. You can get a good job and work with your head, not your hands, like your old man.” Dan nodded. His dad had been saying the same thing for as long as he could remember. “Abby stocked the fridge and insisted we get some movies to watch while you’re here. You up for a movie night?” Pete asked him. “I need to study this afternoon. Tonight I’m free. I’d better get back in, Abby is making me her famous pancakes.” “I swear that girl is going to open a pancake house. Tell her I was too busy to come in. I can’t choke down one more flapjack.” Dan left the workshop and waited for the saw to start back up before going inside where Abby was reading at the table. “It’s about time. They’re getting cold.” “Doesn’t matter. Hot or cold, they’re delicious.” He sat down and coated them in syrup. “He does seem different. Chipper, even.” “He’s been that way for weeks.” “Before he knew I was coming home?” She tilted her head to the side and scrunched up her face, thinking. She looked so much like their mom that Dan had to look away. “I guess so. He’s also been going out in the evenings after we eat.” “Where’s he go?” he asked, shoving a fork full of pancakes in his mouth. “I don’t ask.” He emptied his plate and took it to the sink. “Don’t you want more?” Abby asked. “I’m stuffed. They were good, though.” “I’ll make you more tomorrow.” She stood and hugged him, her head resting on his chest, like she used to do when they were kids. “I’m glad you’re home. Things always feel better when you’re here.” On his way to the coffee shop, he drove through the neighborhood, taking the route he and Lyle took when they rode bikes together. He’d sat for hours on the back porch the Thursday of his birthday week and waited for his brother to come home. Ten years later the ache was still there, lurking beneath his ribs, when he thought about the waiting, believing in his heart that his big brother would honor his promise. When the sun started to go down, Dee came outside, handed him a glass of lemonade and sat down beside him. “You know it’s not you, right?” He didn’t know how to express how the hurt belonged to him so it must somehow be about him. “Your dad and I have been talking about making another change that might make Lyle more comfortable.” “Are you going to make Kent move out?” “He’s offered to leave the family. What do you think? Should he?” “We were Lyle’s family first.” Dee smiled, took the glass of lemonade from his hand, took a drink and handed it back. “That is very true. With that logic, you and Abby shouldn’t have been allowed to stay since he was here first.” “No way. That’s different.” She laughed, pulled him close and kissed his cheek. “I know it is, baby. I’m just teasing.” Nothing else was said on the matter of Kent leaving so Lyle would come home. They sat on the back porch, passing the glass of lemonade back and forth, watching the sun go down until Pete opened the back door and told them dinner was ready. It was the last time Dan would be alone with his mom. If he’d known, he would’ve made it last longer. He wouldn’t have resisted when she pulled him close. He would have let the cool kiss stay where her lips planted it, not wiped it away. Dan went to the coffee shop where Abby had seen Kent. He took his books with him, under the guise of studying, and set himself up at a corner table that had a direct view of the door. Whenever a man came in that resembled Kent, he sat up straighter and studied his face. After Lyle’s trial was over, Kent left town, his boxes still in the basement, the Corona in the laundry area. When Kent lived with them, he would sit at the child’s desk that had been in Dan and Lyle’s room before Pete built their new ones and work on what he called his opus. Dan asked him once what it was about and he said that it was a story about “man’s struggle to break free of society’s chains.” Kent’s things stayed where they were, untouched, until a little over a month after Lyle’s trial. Dan had been microwaving pizza for their dinner. Once people stopped bringing covered dishes and casseroles, meals consisted of microwaved dinners, sandwiches, and cereal for breakfast, Abby’s pancakes whenever she had a bad dream or missed their mom. Pete spent most of his time in front of the television, eating anything Dan put before him. The microwave was running and Pete had the TV turned up full volume, something else that was new. Dan wondered if he was trying to tune out his thoughts, block the images. Forget. Dan knew, even at eleven, his dad was fighting a losing battle. When the microwave stopped, Dan heard the sound of the typewriter keys and froze. The volume on the TV went down. Pete stepped into the kitchen and motioned for Dan to stay where he was and walked toward the laundry area. Dan leaned against the counter, his legs weak. When Pete got to the door, he slowly pushed it open. The typing stopped. “What the hell are you doing?” Abby said, “Writing a story.” Dan let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I don’t want to see you touching this thing ever again.” Pete’s voice shook. “Do you understand?” Abby started to cry and ran to Dan. Pete picked up the old typewriter and threw it through the glass storm door. A noise that wasn’t completely human came from some deep part of him. He shook his hands at the ceiling and the sound got worse. Dan grabbed Abby’s hand and pulled her down the basement stairs. In his bedroom, he knocked the books from the bookcase and moved it in front of the door, barricading them in. He put Abby in his closet, climbed in after her, closed the door and waited. They heard the front door open and close. They waited. Dan counted to a thousand. He opened the closet door and listened. When he was certain his dad was gone, he stepped over the mound of books and moved the bookcase. Abby followed close behind as they made their way back into the kitchen. Since the night when everything changed, Dan had kept the innocent belief that they were okay because they still had Pete. Their family might have been cut in half, but as long as their dad was there, he and Abby were protected. He looked at his sister, not even seven, and realized that without Pete, they were two kids alone, parentless. “Is he coming back?” Abby asked. “He’ll be back,” Dan reassured her, even though he wasn’t confident. He removed the pizza from the microwave and cut it into four pieces. Abby carried the milk to the table and poured two glasses. They ate in silence. They were both bone-weary tired, motherless, their brother was in jail and their dad had lost his mind. There didn’t seem to be anything to say. Dan had woken that night to the sounds of Pete cleaning up the broken glass. He listened to his footsteps above him as he checked on Abby, then as he came down the stairs to his room. Dan turned away from the door and pretended to be asleep. Pete then went to Lyle’s room. As far as he knew, his dad hadn’t been in there since Lyle went away. As Dan lay in the dark, he listened to his dad cry and apologize over and over to his wife and oldest son. He was too afraid to go to his dad. In the morning, Dan went to Lyle’s room and found Pete asleep, clutching Lyle’s pillow like a lifeline. When Kent didn’t show at the coffee shop, Dan staked out the restaurant near the south pier. It was a seafood place that had been there for as long as Dan could remember. In high school, a lot of the students liked to go because the bartenders played loose with checking IDs. He sat so he could see the other customers in the mirror behind the bar as he milked a couple of beers then ate a late lunch. Dan watched a table of women, tipsy on afternoon drinks, celebrate one of their birthdays. After their plates were removed, a server carried a large cake glowing with candles to the table. The last birthday cake Dan had was that summer. On his birthday, while his cake was baking, he overheard his mom talking on the phone to Ben’s mom. “Thank you, Erin. We’ll be at Ted’s Pizza at seven. Just tell him that it’s not for me or his dad, it’s for Danny.” Dan spent the evening watching the door of the restaurant, hoping to see his brother walk through it. When the server brought out the cake Dee had made to look like a book, he’d closed his eyes and wished for Lyle to come home. He never did. Ten years later, he was still watching the door of a restaurant. He resisted covering his ears when the women at the table sang Happy Birthday at the top of their lungs. The afternoon lull set in and he was left with only the staff who eyed him out of curiosity and boredom. He’d decided to leave when Kent came in. A couple of the waitresses greeted him by name. He came to the bar where the bartender shook his hand. “Good to see you, man. The usual?” “You bet,” Kent replied, sliding onto a stool at the other end of the bar. “Good business today?” “Really good. Your coffer is full.” “What’s good for me is good for you. We all win.” It took Dan a minute to realize that Kent was somehow involved with the restaurant. Dan stared into his beer. He wanted to force Kent to look at him, make him see him. He waited. His hands were clammy and his heart pounded. He’d imagined this scenario a thousand times and each time he was fearless, demanding answers to all of his questions. Now that the moment was there, he felt like the boy he’d been whose once solid foundation had crumbled. The bartender walked to his end of the bar and asked him if he wanted a refill. Dan nodded. He felt Kent’s eyes on him. Then he saw him walk his way. Dan stood and turned toward him. Their eyes locked. Kent stopped. “Danny?” Dan nodded. Kent stepped forward, looking like he might try to hug him. Dan stepped back. Kent stopped and said, “I can’t believe it’s you.” “What’re you doing here?” Dan asked. “What do you mean?” “Why’re you back? No one wants you here.” “I’ve been back for over a year. Didn’t your dad tell you?” Dan was confused. “Why would he?” Kent held his hands out in front of him. “I think you need to talk to your dad.” “If you’re here to try and keep Lyle in jail, you need to think twice.” “Danny, listen, there are some things you need to understand.” “I understand all I need to. You destroyed my family.” Hurt settled on Kent’s face. “I never meant to hurt you or your family.” Rage rose up inside of Dan. “You got my mother killed,” he shouted. The bartender stepped out from around the bar. “You need to calm down, man. Why don’t you sit and I’ll get you a cup of coffee.” Dan’s chest hurt and he had trouble breathing. “I’m leaving.” He went toward the patio so he wouldn’t have to go near Kent. When he was at the door, Kent called out, “Talk to your dad, Dan. And to Lyle. They’ll explain everything.” “Fuck you.” His stomach was upset from the beers and the adrenaline rush. He drove away from the city to the beach where his family, minus Lyle, spent one of their last days together. Lyle had been sent to a juvenile detention center after the trial and, when he turned eighteen, he was sent to the Florida State Prison. Pete visited him weekly when he was in the detention center, taking Dan and Abby once a month. They would arrive at nine in the morning on the first Saturday of the month and wait in line with mothers and siblings who were there to see someone they loved. Pete was usually the only man in a sea of women and children. The visiting area was white and orange with fluorescent lights. When they sat at the orange tables, the color would reflect onto their faces and arms, giving them a strange earthy glow. Lyle’s hair was shaved down to the scalp and the inmates were dressed in blue t-shirts and thick jeans that no one in school would’ve been caught dead in. The last time Dan saw him, a week before Lyle’s eighteenth birthday, he’d grown tall enough to look their dad in the eye and his once skinny arms were ropy with muscle. Abby had made him a birthday card and Dan had brought him books. Lyle had completed his GED the year before and had told Dan that he wanted to finish college. Dan asked his English teacher what books he should read before college and she’d given him a list. He’d spent every last penny he had buying Lyle all the books on the list. “What’s up, Squirt?” Lyle asked Abby. She smiled shyly at him and then looked to Pete for reassurance. “You holding up?” Pete asked him. Lyle shrugged. There were dark circles under his eyes and Dan noticed a faded bruise on his right cheek. If their dad saw it, he didn’t mention it. “I talked to Tom and he wants you to see the psychiatrist before next week. He thinks some medication might help.” Tom Swenson was Lyle’s lawyer. Pete checked in with him weekly to see how the appeal was going. It’d been Pete’s goal to keep Lyle out of the state prison. His efforts had failed. “I brought you some books,” Dan told Lyle. “Ms. Hayley said you’ll need to read them before starting college work.” “Thanks, Bro. You keeping your grades up? You’re the family’s great white hope.” Lyle had started saying things like “great white hope” and “you have to redeem the family name.” It made Dan uncomfortable and the pressure made his chest tight. “You’ll finish college before I do,” he told Lyle. “Not the same, Bro, not the same.” Dan didn’t know how to respond. Pete started talking about the appeal. Dan looked around the room at the other families just like theirs. These guys were no different than his brother. They’d made one bad decision that had changed the trajectory of their lives. The certainty about life he’d felt that summer before Kent moved in was a fleeting memory. He ached to get it back. When the hour was up, Pete hugged Lyle, even though they weren’t supposed to touch. One of the guards shifted on his heels and kept his eyes on his brother. “I guess this is it, Bro,” he said to Dan. “I’ll see you next month.” “I don’t want you coming to the State Pen. That’s no place for a growing boy like you.” “But I want to come.” He looked to their dad. Pete kept his eyes down. “I’m coming.” “I’ve already talked to Dad. He understands.” “I don’t.” Tears filled Dan’s eyes and he covered them so Lyle wouldn’t see. “It’s better this way.” “No, it’s not.” “We can still write. Then I can reread your letters when I’m bored.” “I want you to come home.” Dan knew as the words left his mouth how ridiculous they were and how selfish he was being. Lyle stared across the room at the wall. “Me, too.” He looked like the fourteen year old he’d been when first being sent to the detention center. Dan cried harder. Abby started to whimper. Pete picked her up and hugged her. Pete squeezed Dan’s shoulder and told Lyle to keep his chin up. “Tom’s working on it. I’m not going to let up on him. You just need to keep your nose clean and think good thoughts.” The alarm sounded, letting the visitors and prisoners know that visiting hours were over. Lyle and the others lined up and were led from the visiting area. None of the families spoke as they watched their boys, one behind the other, walk through the heavy steel door. Once the last one was through and the door shut behind him, the room erupted in shuffling feet and mothers shouting instructions to the brothers and sisters who’d sat patiently while their mothers tried to convince their brothers locked behind brick walls and iron bars that all would be okay. Dan wandered up and down the beach until the nausea subsided and he was calm. He’d been certain when Abby first called to tell him that she’d seen Kent that he was back to speak at Lyle’s parole hearing. Lyle had been given twenty years, but due to overcrowding and good behavior, he was up for parole after ten. Dan had convinced himself that Kent was going to try and keep his brother inside by talking to the parole board. Now he wasn’t sure. Dan and Lyle had corresponded until he went away to school. Dan was afraid that someone in the dorm would see the return address on the letters. He’d asked Lyle to send his letters to Abby who then sent them on to Dan in a new envelope. Lyle said he understood. His responses became sporadic then stopped altogether. Dan stopped writing and only sent birthday and Christmas cards each year. Pete filled him in on anything he thought he should know. Dan sat on the sand, every bone in his body missing his mom and brother, and watched the setting sun bounce on the surf. He slept in his car, waking every couple of hours to the ebb and flow of the water. The last time he woke, the tip of the sun was showing itself and his mouth was gritty with sleep and yesterday’s beers. He walked to a 7-Eleven for a toothbrush and coffee. “Donuts are two for a dollar,” the cashier told him at checkout. He was a heavyset guy with a tattoo of a dragon running the length of his right forearm. Dan left his items at the counter and got two glazed donuts. When he went to pay, the cashier asked, “Need anything else, Danny?” Dan stopped and looked him in the face, trying to place him. “Don’t recognize me?” He shook his head. “Ben. Lyle’s friend. I used to come to your house.” He looked out the window as if he was watching the hours at the Myers’ place unfold right outside the glass. “I remember. How’re you doing?” “Not bad. Still living at my mom’s. Saving up for a place of my own.” “Good for you. “You back?” Ben asked him as he put his things in a bag. “Just for a couple of days. I have another year of school.” “You were always smart. Lyle would brag about how many books you read in a week.” “I didn’t know that.” “He would go on and on about how you were a genius or something.” Dan laughed. “Far from it.” “How is he? You see him much?” “Going today, actually.” “Tell him I said hey.” “I will.” Dan paid and picked up his bag. “Take care, Ben.” Dan sensed that if he ran into Ben in another ten years, he’d still be living with his mom, saving up for a place of his own. When he got back to the car, he ate the donuts and drank his coffee. He’d turned his phone off the night before and when he turned it back on, text messages and voice messages flowed in. They were all from Pete and Abby. The prison was two hours from the city. When he arrived, he drove under a large arched sign that looked like something you would see at an amusement park. He’d always imagined the prison to look like the detention center. It wasn’t even close. It was a massive structure with high fences topped with razor sharp wire. Guards were positioned in guard houses and as he got closer, he could see the guns they held at the ready. Dan waited almost an hour before they brought Lyle in. They were separated by a thick sheet of plastic. Lyle’s shoulders were broad and he was a head taller than Dan. Where Dan still looked like a larger version of his boy self, Lyle had grown into a man. Dan wondered if he would’ve looked the same if he’d never been sent away. Lyle sat down and picked up the phone. Dan picked up his. Lyle didn’t smile, just waited for Dan to speak. “Thanks for seeing me.” Lyle nodded. His hair was shaved. Dan could see his scalp. His blue eyes held Dan’s with an intensity Dan knew he would never have. LOVE was tattooed across the fingers of Lyle’s right hand. HATE his left. “Are Dad and Abby okay?” His voice was deep and he sounded a lot like their dad. “They’re okay. Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.” Lyle’s shoulders relaxed. He waited. Dan cleared his throat. “I ran into Kent. He told me to talk to you.” “So talk.” “I think he meant for you to talk. To tell me something.” “What do you want to know?” “Why he’s back.” “That’s a question for him.” Dan was confused and frustrated. “What the hell’s going on, Lyle?” Lyle shook his head. “They never told you, did they?” “Told me what?” “About any of it? What happened that night?” “I know what happened.” “What do you know?” Dan hesitated, realizing that all he had was the memory of an eleven year old boy and what he’d read in the newspapers to fill in the gaps. “I know you hated Kent and you tried to kill him. And Mom got hurt in the process.” “And you never pieced any of it together? I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.” “Kiss my ass.” Lyle smiled for the first time. “Looks like my little bro finally grew some balls.” “We don’t have time for you to start blowing me shit. Tell me what happened.” “Don’t get your tighty-whiteys in a twist. To be honest, I didn’t remember everything. Dad and Kent filled in the gaps for me, after the trial.” Dan watched the pained look on Lyle’s face as he started telling him about the night that changed both of their lives forever. “I came home that Saturday to go to the fair. I felt like an asshole for having stood you up for our bike ride and then missing out on your cake. I didn’t think anyone was home. All that birthday week bullshit and then no one was even there. Dad told me later that he’d taken you and Abby out for ice cream. Mom and Kent waited at the house, just in case I showed up. Then everyone was going to meet at the fairgrounds.” Lyle hesitated then took a deep breath and kept going. “Do you remember the magazines?” Dan nodded. “I’d told Ben about Kent’s magazines and he dared me to bring some to his place. I’d already looked at most of the ones on top so I dug down and pulled out a few.” He looked away from Dan. “They were different. They were men. The ones on top were women, but underneath, there were men. I heard voices and footsteps upstairs. I heard Kent. I don’t have to tell you how pissed off I was that summer. I was pissed at Mom and Dad for turning us into a joke. I was pissed at Kent for just existing. Anger was just below the surface and I didn’t seem to have any control of when or how it showed itself.” Lyle marched upstairs with the magazines. Dee and Kent were in the kitchen. They were laughing. They stopped when they saw him at the top of the stairs. “Lyle, you’re here,” Dee said with a big smile on her face. “I’m not staying here if you’re going to let him keep living here.” Lyle threw the magazines on the table. “Are those yours?” Dee asked Kent. “They belong to a buddy of mine. They’re in a box. I didn’t think he would go through them.” “You need to get your shit and leave,” Lyle screamed at him. “Lyle, we discussed this. Kent is part of the family now.” “He’s not family. Stop saying that. Either he goes or I go.” Dee laughed. “Don’t be silly. You’re not going anywhere.” Lyle pushed past her to get to the back door. Kent and Dee followed him out. Trying to get away from them, he went to Pete’s workshop. “I don’t know why I went in there, why I didn’t just leave,” Lyle told Dan. They both knew that if he had left, their mom would still be alive and he wouldn’t be locked away in a prison cell. “I tried to close the side door behind me but Kent pushed his way inside. Mom was right behind him. I remember they were both talking at once. I couldn’t understand what they were saying. My anger was so intense it felt like one of Dad’s saws, you know the one that vibrates all the way to the bone?” Dan nodded. “Kent moved toward me and I picked up one of Dad’s straight blade carving knives. I backed up and he stepped forward. I remember hearing Mom say, Put it down. That only made me angrier. Why are you here? I asked Kent over and over. I heard, Your dad and Love each other. Do you understand, Lyle? Mom asked. Kent said I stopped moving and looked at her. She said, Your dad and I love each other. Kent and your dad love each other. This way we get to keep our family together. Do you understand? “Kent said that was when I swung at her.” Lyle’s hands started to shake and his voice broke. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.” Dan knew from the newspaper accounts that Lyle had stabbed their mom in the throat, severing her jugular. She bled out in minutes. “Kent tried to help her and that’s when I started stabbing him.” Kent had twelve stab wounds in his chest, back and hands. After Lyle ran, Kent was able to crawl to the door and that’s where Pete found him. Dan and Abby had watched from the back porch, forgotten, as EMTs loaded up their mom and Kent and drove away. Dan still woke up from nightmares in the middle of the night, his walls painted in flashing red emergency lights. Dan studied Lyle as he tried to process what he’d been told. He could see a few gray hairs peppered through his brother’s short dark hair. “Kent and Dad?” Dan finally asked. Lyle nodded. The guard indicated that Lyle’s time was up. “Come back again, Bro. It was really good seeing you.” When the door closed behind his brother, Dan started to cry. The sun had moved behind the clouds while Dan was in the prison. He drove until he found the cemetery. After his mom died, Pete would take Dan and Abby to her grave when they asked. For Dan, watching the pained look on his dad’s face was too much and he stopped asking to go. It took a while to find her. Since going away to school, Dan hadn’t been back once. When he found her headstone, he was surprised that there were daisies, her favorite flower, in a little vase and a handful of fresh mint held together with a purple ribbon. He’d forgotten how much she loved to rub mint leaves between her hands and then place them over her nose and breathe in deep. She would hold her hands out to them and say, “Smell.” Dan pulled off one of the leaves, rubbed it between his palms and inhaled. He placed his hands on his mom’s headstone and said, “Smell.” He missed her so much that it made his knees buckle. He sat down and leaned against her headstone. Dan closed his eyes and let the quiet wrap around him. Lack of sleep from the night before was catching up with him. He was starting to drift when memories surfaced of Kent patting Pete on the back whenever he walked past and how they would sit at the dinner table after everyone was finished and talk late into the night. Then he remembered how his mom started sleeping with Abby. She would come out of his sister’s room, her hair wild. When questioned why she was in there, she’d insist that Abby had been waking up during the night with bad dreams. In Dan’s mind, the last few months of his mom’s life had been happy ones, except for the problems with Lyle. His parents and Kent would share a beer on the patio in the evenings, Dee’s feet propped up on Pete’s lap. Their laughter floating through Dan’s open windows while he read. Now that he knew the truth, he saw how his mom had put her wants away as she tried to save her family. She loved his dad and didn’t want to lose him. She put her heart in that box she always warned them about. Dan wanted to be angry with his dad. He couldn’t find it in him. Possibly it was there, buried beneath fatigue and shock, but he couldn’t locate it. Pete had paid for his cowardice, as had the rest of his family. He’d suffered enough. He didn’t need Dan’s indignation piled on top of his guilt. Dan knew that when he returned to his childhood home, Kent would be there. He’d returned to be with Pete, to the man he loved. Dan also knew that Lyle would be back in the house soon. That Kent would speak on his brother’s behalf, tell the parole board that he forgave him for his bad acts. Abby would finish high school, happier than she’d been in over ten years, for no other reason than her family was no longer stuck in the mire of poor decisions made long before. He saw it all as his back rested against his mother’s forever marker as she lay in her forever home. And what about him? What would become of him, the boy witness? Now that all the pieces to the puzzle of his family were in place, Dan knew he would have to take a hard look at himself and what he wanted. When he first started going to see Lauren, before the focus of their sessions shifted onto his family, they discussed his love life. Or lack thereof. During his second session, she had asked him if he dated much and Dan responded with, “Define much?” “You date a lot?” “Not a lot.” He looked around the room, avoiding eye-contact. “How many dates have you been on this year?” Dan didn’t respond. “Five?” she guessed. “I’ve been really busy with classes.” “The classes you haven’t been attending?” He felt cornered. “I don’t date, okay.” “What about in high school?” He shook his head. Even though no one knew that he was still a virgin, he was embarrassed. “I don’t think this is relevant to why I don’t go to classes,” Dan said. “Maybe it is or maybe it isn’t.” “How could it be?” “I don’t know, that’s why we should talk about it. Whenever there’s a strong reaction, I think it’s best to see where it takes us.” Dan glanced at the clock. “Time’s up.” The next week Abby saw Kent and they never returned to the topic. If they had, he would’ve told Lauren that the thought of loving another person made him feel like he was under water. And the thought of letting another person love him was like having someone with a tight grip on his legs, keeping him from reaching the surface. He realized he could now choose the life he wanted for himself. He was no longer yoked to the past, to the choices his parents made as they tried to hold onto what they wanted life to be. Dan stood and read the quote engraved on his mom’s headstone: Turn your face towards the sun and the shadows will fall behind you. It was her favorite. As he turned to leave, the clouds parted. The smell of mint filled the air and followed him to the car. It surrounded him all the way home. Jahnavi Enaganti is an aspiring Indian-American writer who enjoys writing short contemporary fiction stories. When she isn't glued to her computer writing she enjoys reading a good book, going on long walks, and painting. Jahnavi currently lives in India and dreams of exploring new places and cultures to inspire her stories Painfully Green |
Alison Waller was born in the Trenton, New Jersey hospital without a doctor present. Immediately impacting her parents with quite the bam, Alison has always been interested in the way people impact each other. Though she has the reading comprehension level of a brick, she is wildly passionate about writing, which she plans to study at Franklin and Marshall College. She has been actively writing poetry for five years and loves to focus on how people affect her life and the emotional responses that surface from her relationships. Alison has studied six styles of dance, four instruments including voice, and acts in both dramas and musical theatre. Through these multiple avenues of creativity, she can truly convey who she is to her audience. |
Lightswitch
“It’s not in here!” he projects through the crane of his neck, burying his eyes deeper in the drawer.
“Yes, it is! It’s always--” she pauses. “I’ll be right there!” she calls back, rolling her eyes as she laces the used hand towel through the silver ring on the wall. She spits her toothpaste over her shoulder into the sink.
He closes the drawer and places his weight into his elbows on the floor as he inches his torso closer to the ground. Agitated, he opens the drawer beneath the previous one.
“Not in this one either, Lin!”
“Well yeah, you didn’t listen to me. Typical,” she mutters under her breath as she closes the door to the master bathroom.
“Where are you?” he calls, exasperated.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” she ensures.
She flicks the lever of the lightswitch upward, illuminating the bedroom.
“You could’ve at least turned the light on,” she laughs.
“Shut up.” He replies, clearly acknowledging that she’s right.
Standing above him, she reaches down and playfully pinches the side of his ribs, causing him to yelp mercilessly and rollover.
“Stop!! Stop!!! Please!!” He pleads through his grin. She giggles as she sits on the warm patch of the carpet and shuts the bottom drawer. She pulls the handle to the middle drawer above the one she closed.
“See? It’s not in there” he exhales as he stands up, adjusting his shirt.
She begins to laugh as she pulls out a navy blue binder, “You mean this?” She grins.
“You said blue!” he exclaims.
She stares at him, confused. “This is blue.”
“No, it is not! That’s black!”
“It’s navy!!” She chuckles, “Are you going colorblind? We may need a new healthcare plan.”
He scrunches his face at her. “Look. When someone says to me, ‘it’s blue,’ what am I supposed to think? Usually, they would specify light versus dark blue. But you-- you just said ‘it’s blue.’ That says to me that it’s just regular bl--”
“You sound just like your father,” she teases.
“Hey!” He retorts defensively.
“Rich, I’m teasing,” she reassures, placing a small peck on his lips.
She sinks into the loveseat and opens up the binder, revealing pages of laminated photographs.
“Oh my gosh, look at you!” she cackles, pointing at a photograph.
“What?” He asks, scurrying to the sofa.
“What on earth were you wearing?”
“Hey! Those were my good pants!” he pouts.
“Oh please, the only good part about those pants is when I took them off,” she grins and turns the page.
“I’m… not gonna argue with that,” he smiles.
She examines closely on another picture, incomprehension splattered all over her face.
“When was this?” she asks.
“That…” he pulls the binder closer to him. “That looks like my parents’ old house.”
“Oh definitely,” she replies, peaking over his shoulder. “But when? And why did my hair look like that?”
He laughs. “It probably was some family birthday party. And no, you looked beautiful.”
“Looked?” She retorts, sarcastically shocked.
“Correct. Now you’re old,” he chuckles.
She punches his arm and snatches the binder back.
“Not only are you colorblind, but you’re also blind blind” she bites, looking back at the photos.
He laughs even harder, which triggers an enormous coughing fit.
“Who’s old now, sucker,” she smirks.
He glares at her, teasingly.
She continues to flip through the pages of the binder, growing more frustrated with each turn.
“What about that one?” He reaches over her to point to a photograph.
“Hmm. I don’t know how my mother will feel about that one,” she replies.
“Why? They look great!”
“Oh, I know. But she didn’t exactly… like my father’s parents,” she says with slight laughter in the foundation of her voice.
“Well, how many pictures do we need?” He asks, pulling the pillow out from behind his back and sitting it on his lap.
“Probably about 10,” she says with uncertainty.
“And how many photos of your parents do you have here?”
She holds back a grin, responding, “... Probably about 10.”
“Exactly, we don’t really have the room to be nit-picky.”
She nods in agreement and slips the photograph out of the sleeve. She hands it to him with her eyes still fixated on the other photos.
“Put this on the desk” she demands.
“No ‘please?’” he chuckles.
She rolls her eyes, “would you please do as I say?”
He proceeds to roll his eyes as well as he gets up off the sofa.
She continues to study each photograph, stopping after looking at one in particular. She immediately bursts into hysterical laughter.
“Rich!” She giggles.
“What?” He calls from the opposite side of the room.
“Remember Tim’s birthday party?” She asks, her eyes wide and full of amusement.
In an eruption of laughter, he hunches his back as his creased forehead collided with the top of the wooden framed desk. He chuckles through his crooked teeth, smacking his hand against the surface of the desk. He can hear his wife’s cackle swirl around him from the sofa. As his posture straightens, he laughs into his hands, which proceed to smooth over the bare skin on his balding head.
“I haven’t thought about that in at least a decade.”
He has another coughing fit as she closes the binder.
“Remember his face?!” She says, barely able to squeeze the words out between the thick laughter.
His feet drag behind him as he laughs and hacks up a lung, making his way to the couch.
“His face, Rich!!” She practically yells.
He plops his body on the sofa next to her as his laughter slowly dies down.
“Can I at least see the picture?” He asks, regaining strength.
“Yes, yes.” She replies, opening up the binder and flipping through the pages of photographs that she has already scanned.
She points to a photo at the top of the page, and he leans down closer to see it.
“Who is that in the background?” He observes.
“Oh crap… His name starts with a C.” She taps her fingers against the binder as she thinks.
“Chris?” He looks back at her with enthusiasm.
“No, you’re thinking of Chris Fredding,” she dismisses.
“Right” he sinks a little into his seat.
“This is going to kill me,” she says, putting her head in her hands.
“Well that’s not saying much, you’re pretty damn old,” he snickers.
“I’m 53, Rich!!” she snaps.
“That is over half a century, you know,” he grins.
“You little-- Clark!” She shouts.
“I’m a ‘Clark?’” He replies, confused.
“No! Clark Jacobson!” She says confidently.
“Yes! That’s it!” He replies, sitting back up.
“That’s hilarious.” She sighs as she turns the page.
“This yours?” He asks, gesturing to a glass half empty of water on the coffee table in front of them.
“From hours ago.” She snorts.
“Good enough.” He takes a sip of her water while looking off into the wall, zoning out, as she examines another photograph.
She laughs again, nudging him with her elbow, causing the meniscus of the water to tremble. He looks over at the photo that she is pointing at.
“I can’t believe I put in a picture of me and Brett,” she shakes her head in amusement and begins to turn the page.
He puts his hand on the page to restrict her from turning it.
“Who?” He asks in a low, hushed tone.
“Rich--”
“Who’s Brett?” He asks again, colder, looking intently at the washed-out photograph. It featured a tall, handsome man in a red basketball jersey; it brought out the orange in his coiled hair. His perfectly straightened teeth shine in the flash.
Through the picture, he can simply smell the extensivity of cheap cologne oozing from his pores as he sings his arm around a small and thin woman-- his wife.
The glare of the ceiling light conceals her identity, only revealing an oversized men’s sweatshirt draping down her bare mid-thigh.
There is an overwhelming amount of commotion in the background, he can practically hear the thunderous music accented by all the drunken slurs and obnoxious laughter.
The handsome man and the skinny woman hold red solo cups together, hers with pink lipstick smattered around the ridges.
“Brett Todrick, don’t you remem--” She stops the sound of her voice while turning the page, exasperated. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m sorry for pointing it--”
“Who is Brett Todrick?” He asks with his tone growing more stern, standing up.
Intimidated, she repositions herself and puts the binder on the coffee table.
“Please Rich, this was decades ago.”
“Who the hell is Brett Todrick!” He shouts again, nudging his foot against the base of the coffee table, causing the water to spill all over the binder.
“Shit!” She reaches for the binder.
He snatches the binder out of her reach and throws it across the floor. “I don’t give a damn about that binder.” He sneers through his teeth.
She slowly stands up, “You need to relax, right now.”
“Relax?! You’ve kept this from me. And you were with me then.” He jabs, getting in her face.
“I told you about Brett! We sat and cried and yelled and apologized and… and everything!” She assures, taking a step back.
“You’re delusional. Then why do I not remember a goddamn moment of that, Linda?!” His knuckles turning white.
“I- I don’t know?! We’re old, remember?” She says, trying to make light of the situation.
“Don’t you fucking laugh at me--”
“No! I--”
“Tell me every goddamn detail of this ‘Brett’ of yours or I swear I’ll--”
“Are you threatening me?!” She takes another step back.
“WERE YOU CHEATING ON ME?!”
Each syllable spewing out of his mouth strips away every inch of saturation on her face.
Silence peels apart the walls of the room, shred by shred.
He begins to pace the room, bursting with emotion.
“Linda…” He presses his hands against the wall.
“I can explain.” She pleads, looking at the blue veins bulging through the tough skin on his hand by his side.
He sits down and rests his feet improperly on the coffee table. He gestures to her with his arms that it’s time for her to talk; she has the floor. She slowly takes a breath, regaining her strength.
“Brett was a Theta Chi, whom we partied with a lot--”
“What year?”
“Rich, please just let me talk--”
“What year?”
She sighs and looks down again.
“Sophomore.”
“Your first year in a sor--”
“Yes, I know I was stupid okay?! Just, please. Let me talk.”
He stares intently at her.
“We were good friends, as a lot of my sisters were with the guys--”
“Stop trying to justify--”
“Richard!!” She screams as she stops her foot. “Please. Let me speak. I know what I did was wrong, but do you want to know or not?!”
He says nothing.
“We spent a lot of time together at our parties, but he clearly wanted to be more than just friends,” she says, her voice starting to shake.
She brushes her hair behind her ear.
“But, I was not interested in him. I was very invested in my relationship with you, despite what you may believe. However, I…” she crinkles her nose, “I did find him to be… attractive. Very attractive.” She pauses. “All my sisters wanted me to be with him, but I wanted to be with you.”
He repositions himself on the couch, avoiding eye contact.
“One night, I was extremely drunk and…” her voice trails off.
She huffs and looks at him, ”Rich we’ve already talked this through years ago I really don’t want--”
“No, we did not! You--” he sighs, the steam puffing out of his ears smears defeat across his face. “Just tell me, please,” he mumbles through his hands, bathing in the sweat on his forehead.
She says nothing.
“Linda!!” He stands up.
“Sit down,” she growls.
He angrily obliges.
“One night, I was drunk at a party, and he was there. And… And we talked. A lot. There was so much conversation and music around us though that it was difficult to hear one another… so we went into one of his frat brother’s bedrooms and continued to talk. About college, life, a lot. And before I knew it… we… “ she bites on her lip, eyes fixated on the old and stained carpet.
“We were kissing. And… one thing led to another and…” she wraps her left arm around her torso, as her right-hand rubs her temple. “I… I slept with him.”
The remaining oxygen in the turned stale, inconsumable.
She stares at the lightswitch on the wall, focusing on the fingerprints plastered all over the white frame.
He lifts his head from his hands and releases them against his thighs. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but he refrains and bites down on his lip.
Slowly, he stands up. He walks right past her without even looking at her. He slams the door behind him.
“Yes, it is! It’s always--” she pauses. “I’ll be right there!” she calls back, rolling her eyes as she laces the used hand towel through the silver ring on the wall. She spits her toothpaste over her shoulder into the sink.
He closes the drawer and places his weight into his elbows on the floor as he inches his torso closer to the ground. Agitated, he opens the drawer beneath the previous one.
“Not in this one either, Lin!”
“Well yeah, you didn’t listen to me. Typical,” she mutters under her breath as she closes the door to the master bathroom.
“Where are you?” he calls, exasperated.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” she ensures.
She flicks the lever of the lightswitch upward, illuminating the bedroom.
“You could’ve at least turned the light on,” she laughs.
“Shut up.” He replies, clearly acknowledging that she’s right.
Standing above him, she reaches down and playfully pinches the side of his ribs, causing him to yelp mercilessly and rollover.
“Stop!! Stop!!! Please!!” He pleads through his grin. She giggles as she sits on the warm patch of the carpet and shuts the bottom drawer. She pulls the handle to the middle drawer above the one she closed.
“See? It’s not in there” he exhales as he stands up, adjusting his shirt.
She begins to laugh as she pulls out a navy blue binder, “You mean this?” She grins.
“You said blue!” he exclaims.
She stares at him, confused. “This is blue.”
“No, it is not! That’s black!”
“It’s navy!!” She chuckles, “Are you going colorblind? We may need a new healthcare plan.”
He scrunches his face at her. “Look. When someone says to me, ‘it’s blue,’ what am I supposed to think? Usually, they would specify light versus dark blue. But you-- you just said ‘it’s blue.’ That says to me that it’s just regular bl--”
“You sound just like your father,” she teases.
“Hey!” He retorts defensively.
“Rich, I’m teasing,” she reassures, placing a small peck on his lips.
She sinks into the loveseat and opens up the binder, revealing pages of laminated photographs.
“Oh my gosh, look at you!” she cackles, pointing at a photograph.
“What?” He asks, scurrying to the sofa.
“What on earth were you wearing?”
“Hey! Those were my good pants!” he pouts.
“Oh please, the only good part about those pants is when I took them off,” she grins and turns the page.
“I’m… not gonna argue with that,” he smiles.
She examines closely on another picture, incomprehension splattered all over her face.
“When was this?” she asks.
“That…” he pulls the binder closer to him. “That looks like my parents’ old house.”
“Oh definitely,” she replies, peaking over his shoulder. “But when? And why did my hair look like that?”
He laughs. “It probably was some family birthday party. And no, you looked beautiful.”
“Looked?” She retorts, sarcastically shocked.
“Correct. Now you’re old,” he chuckles.
She punches his arm and snatches the binder back.
“Not only are you colorblind, but you’re also blind blind” she bites, looking back at the photos.
He laughs even harder, which triggers an enormous coughing fit.
“Who’s old now, sucker,” she smirks.
He glares at her, teasingly.
She continues to flip through the pages of the binder, growing more frustrated with each turn.
“What about that one?” He reaches over her to point to a photograph.
“Hmm. I don’t know how my mother will feel about that one,” she replies.
“Why? They look great!”
“Oh, I know. But she didn’t exactly… like my father’s parents,” she says with slight laughter in the foundation of her voice.
“Well, how many pictures do we need?” He asks, pulling the pillow out from behind his back and sitting it on his lap.
“Probably about 10,” she says with uncertainty.
“And how many photos of your parents do you have here?”
She holds back a grin, responding, “... Probably about 10.”
“Exactly, we don’t really have the room to be nit-picky.”
She nods in agreement and slips the photograph out of the sleeve. She hands it to him with her eyes still fixated on the other photos.
“Put this on the desk” she demands.
“No ‘please?’” he chuckles.
She rolls her eyes, “would you please do as I say?”
He proceeds to roll his eyes as well as he gets up off the sofa.
She continues to study each photograph, stopping after looking at one in particular. She immediately bursts into hysterical laughter.
“Rich!” She giggles.
“What?” He calls from the opposite side of the room.
“Remember Tim’s birthday party?” She asks, her eyes wide and full of amusement.
In an eruption of laughter, he hunches his back as his creased forehead collided with the top of the wooden framed desk. He chuckles through his crooked teeth, smacking his hand against the surface of the desk. He can hear his wife’s cackle swirl around him from the sofa. As his posture straightens, he laughs into his hands, which proceed to smooth over the bare skin on his balding head.
“I haven’t thought about that in at least a decade.”
He has another coughing fit as she closes the binder.
“Remember his face?!” She says, barely able to squeeze the words out between the thick laughter.
His feet drag behind him as he laughs and hacks up a lung, making his way to the couch.
“His face, Rich!!” She practically yells.
He plops his body on the sofa next to her as his laughter slowly dies down.
“Can I at least see the picture?” He asks, regaining strength.
“Yes, yes.” She replies, opening up the binder and flipping through the pages of photographs that she has already scanned.
She points to a photo at the top of the page, and he leans down closer to see it.
“Who is that in the background?” He observes.
“Oh crap… His name starts with a C.” She taps her fingers against the binder as she thinks.
“Chris?” He looks back at her with enthusiasm.
“No, you’re thinking of Chris Fredding,” she dismisses.
“Right” he sinks a little into his seat.
“This is going to kill me,” she says, putting her head in her hands.
“Well that’s not saying much, you’re pretty damn old,” he snickers.
“I’m 53, Rich!!” she snaps.
“That is over half a century, you know,” he grins.
“You little-- Clark!” She shouts.
“I’m a ‘Clark?’” He replies, confused.
“No! Clark Jacobson!” She says confidently.
“Yes! That’s it!” He replies, sitting back up.
“That’s hilarious.” She sighs as she turns the page.
“This yours?” He asks, gesturing to a glass half empty of water on the coffee table in front of them.
“From hours ago.” She snorts.
“Good enough.” He takes a sip of her water while looking off into the wall, zoning out, as she examines another photograph.
She laughs again, nudging him with her elbow, causing the meniscus of the water to tremble. He looks over at the photo that she is pointing at.
“I can’t believe I put in a picture of me and Brett,” she shakes her head in amusement and begins to turn the page.
He puts his hand on the page to restrict her from turning it.
“Who?” He asks in a low, hushed tone.
“Rich--”
“Who’s Brett?” He asks again, colder, looking intently at the washed-out photograph. It featured a tall, handsome man in a red basketball jersey; it brought out the orange in his coiled hair. His perfectly straightened teeth shine in the flash.
Through the picture, he can simply smell the extensivity of cheap cologne oozing from his pores as he sings his arm around a small and thin woman-- his wife.
The glare of the ceiling light conceals her identity, only revealing an oversized men’s sweatshirt draping down her bare mid-thigh.
There is an overwhelming amount of commotion in the background, he can practically hear the thunderous music accented by all the drunken slurs and obnoxious laughter.
The handsome man and the skinny woman hold red solo cups together, hers with pink lipstick smattered around the ridges.
“Brett Todrick, don’t you remem--” She stops the sound of her voice while turning the page, exasperated. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m sorry for pointing it--”
“Who is Brett Todrick?” He asks with his tone growing more stern, standing up.
Intimidated, she repositions herself and puts the binder on the coffee table.
“Please Rich, this was decades ago.”
“Who the hell is Brett Todrick!” He shouts again, nudging his foot against the base of the coffee table, causing the water to spill all over the binder.
“Shit!” She reaches for the binder.
He snatches the binder out of her reach and throws it across the floor. “I don’t give a damn about that binder.” He sneers through his teeth.
She slowly stands up, “You need to relax, right now.”
“Relax?! You’ve kept this from me. And you were with me then.” He jabs, getting in her face.
“I told you about Brett! We sat and cried and yelled and apologized and… and everything!” She assures, taking a step back.
“You’re delusional. Then why do I not remember a goddamn moment of that, Linda?!” His knuckles turning white.
“I- I don’t know?! We’re old, remember?” She says, trying to make light of the situation.
“Don’t you fucking laugh at me--”
“No! I--”
“Tell me every goddamn detail of this ‘Brett’ of yours or I swear I’ll--”
“Are you threatening me?!” She takes another step back.
“WERE YOU CHEATING ON ME?!”
Each syllable spewing out of his mouth strips away every inch of saturation on her face.
Silence peels apart the walls of the room, shred by shred.
He begins to pace the room, bursting with emotion.
“Linda…” He presses his hands against the wall.
“I can explain.” She pleads, looking at the blue veins bulging through the tough skin on his hand by his side.
He sits down and rests his feet improperly on the coffee table. He gestures to her with his arms that it’s time for her to talk; she has the floor. She slowly takes a breath, regaining her strength.
“Brett was a Theta Chi, whom we partied with a lot--”
“What year?”
“Rich, please just let me talk--”
“What year?”
She sighs and looks down again.
“Sophomore.”
“Your first year in a sor--”
“Yes, I know I was stupid okay?! Just, please. Let me talk.”
He stares intently at her.
“We were good friends, as a lot of my sisters were with the guys--”
“Stop trying to justify--”
“Richard!!” She screams as she stops her foot. “Please. Let me speak. I know what I did was wrong, but do you want to know or not?!”
He says nothing.
“We spent a lot of time together at our parties, but he clearly wanted to be more than just friends,” she says, her voice starting to shake.
She brushes her hair behind her ear.
“But, I was not interested in him. I was very invested in my relationship with you, despite what you may believe. However, I…” she crinkles her nose, “I did find him to be… attractive. Very attractive.” She pauses. “All my sisters wanted me to be with him, but I wanted to be with you.”
He repositions himself on the couch, avoiding eye contact.
“One night, I was extremely drunk and…” her voice trails off.
She huffs and looks at him, ”Rich we’ve already talked this through years ago I really don’t want--”
“No, we did not! You--” he sighs, the steam puffing out of his ears smears defeat across his face. “Just tell me, please,” he mumbles through his hands, bathing in the sweat on his forehead.
She says nothing.
“Linda!!” He stands up.
“Sit down,” she growls.
He angrily obliges.
“One night, I was drunk at a party, and he was there. And… And we talked. A lot. There was so much conversation and music around us though that it was difficult to hear one another… so we went into one of his frat brother’s bedrooms and continued to talk. About college, life, a lot. And before I knew it… we… “ she bites on her lip, eyes fixated on the old and stained carpet.
“We were kissing. And… one thing led to another and…” she wraps her left arm around her torso, as her right-hand rubs her temple. “I… I slept with him.”
The remaining oxygen in the turned stale, inconsumable.
She stares at the lightswitch on the wall, focusing on the fingerprints plastered all over the white frame.
He lifts his head from his hands and releases them against his thighs. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but he refrains and bites down on his lip.
Slowly, he stands up. He walks right past her without even looking at her. He slams the door behind him.
The Converted
Every morning, “Ricky” the rooster stood underneath my bedroom window and screamed, “Time to wake up!” Today, I was awoken by a disturbing dream, louder than a thousand roosters or alarm clocks. I could only make out faint images of a family in the darkness but the dream was punctuated by the sounds of a door bursting open, screams of children, and a blood-curdling cry of an old woman yelling, “Come home to us”. This dream would haunt me for years to come, growing more intense with each visit, and unraveling a story I didn’t understand nor welcome. Little did I know the dream would be a prelude to a life long journey of self discovery.
I grew up on a small ranch in Wyoming outside Casper. It had been decades since it was a working ranch and the only crops were sage brush and the only animals were gophers. Casper was near the oil and gas fields where my father drove an oil tanker. My older brother was killed driving an oil tanker during a snow storm. My father worked hard to provide for the family. No sooner than he would arrive home for supper, he’d be up and gone to clock in for the graveyard shift, eager for overtime. My mom was a waitress at the town diner. Not long after I began primary school, she ran off with a traveling salesman. I remember the morning I ran into the kitchen looking forward to a hug and kiss from mom and finding only my father sitting alone at the breakfast table, smoking his Camel cigarette, with a faraway look on his face. I asked, “Where’s mommy?” He calmly said, “Your mom is gone and never coming back. Now get ready for school. You don’t want to miss the school bus!” That was it. No explanation, no consolation, no opportunity to cry and share our grief. My family was blue collar, paycheck to paycheck, working poor, and simply didn’t have the resources or knowledge about the psychological intervention necessary for processing grief, particularly in the case of children. I remember feeling “emotionally numb” by the end of the school day. I emotionally buried mom’s desertion choosing never to revisit the experience again. My grandfather was widowed and moved in with us. He was an avid reader of Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour and enjoyed minor success writing country western songs. He recognized within me an untamable, restless sprit, and did his best to fill the emotional void left by mom. He was kind, loving, and enjoyed reading to me. He became my shoulder to cry on and always offered sound advice. We weren’t a religious family.
I grew up fiercely independent, like a wild mustang running free, unwilling to be corralled by anybody. I’d skip school often and wander off into the woods and revel in the solitude of nature which calmed me. I was taller and stronger than my classmates and always eager to fight anybody. I had briefly entertained the notion of becoming a boxer but wouldn’t commit to the discipline necessary to become a professional boxer. I wasn’t ambitious and was the type of kid who would be fired by his own lemonade stand. I presumed I’d get a job like my father and brother at one of the oil companies when I graduated from high school.
The dream I had this morning, put me on edge all day long. I didn’t need the PE coach shouting exercise cadences to us, as our class struggled to complete fifty pushups in the cold Wyoming snow, “Down, Down, Down.”
The coach resented me because I rebuffed his invitations to join the football team. He placed his big tennis shoe in my face as he stood above me. I spit on it and his sneaker met my jaw. I leaped to my feet and first with a left jab, followed by a right cross, put the fat, old coach flat on his back. The principal offered me an expulsion versus an assault and battery charge. I chose expulsion. Dad was at work and Grandpa picked me up from the Principals office. I asked Grandpa for career advice and he suggested I join a rodeo, find work on a ranch, or enlist within the military. The oil companies only hired high school graduates.
A rodeo circuit is much like a traveling carnival. Instead of ferris wheels or painted horses on a merry-go-round, men risk their lives on ornery bucking broncos or steers, putting on a show for the paying fans. Behind the scenes, low paid employees work the concession stands or pick up trash and manure. That was my job and how I came to know Harmony and her toddler son, Jakie. The “DRC” known as the “Dirksen Rodeo Circuit” was well known and a springboard for many promising rodeo stars. The DRC circuit traveled Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, and Colorado throughout the spring and summer. I took a job as a wrangler which was the name given to a general laborer. If I wasn’t cleaning out stalls or feeding livestock, I was emptying out trash cans and cleaning filthy, portable plastic toilets. I was given the nickname, “Mustang Mickey” by my boss, the owner’s son, Rance Dirksen, who was a big talker promising me a chance to become a rodeo star like a molester teases children with candy.
Harmony sold burgers, hot dogs, cotton candy, deep fried Twinkies, and sugary drinks from a trailer at inflated prices. She was a cute, blue eyed, blond who wore her hair short, and, except for a tattoo of a rose on her shoulder, resembled an All American high school cheerleader. She wore skin tight pants, and a tight tea shirt, calling attention to her curvaceous twenty year old figure standing just over five feet tall. Her most ardent admirer was Rance. Harmony was a young, unskilled, single mom providing for her five year old son, Jakie who was a handsome, blond haired, blue eyed, innocent little boy who would be the darling of any casting director scouting child stars. Harmony was trapped in a nowhere job and looking for a way out. She harbored fantasies of stealing Rance from his wife and gave into his sexual advances.
As the rodeo day came to an end, it became quiet at night and you could hear the owls and crickets. A cool breeze blew through the rodeo grounds cleansing the dust, dirt, grime, and sweat from our clothes. Closing time also provided us the opportunity to laugh, and vent about the drudgery of the rodeo’s long hours. Harmony befriended me like a sister or a mother. I could give into the testosterone raging through my body but I didn’t want to cross the line and ruin the relationship. She probed about my mother asking if I “missed her” and “what was she like”? I told Harmony, “I didn’t remember much of mom and was uncomfortable speaking about her.” She said it was “traumatic” for a boy to lose his mother holding Jakie close to her. I wasn’t ready or able to ponder how mom’s desertion affected me emotionally or psychologically, but speaking to Harmony made me feel good about myself. She convinced me that my mistakes didn’t “define me” and, I was a “good man”, who would find a “loving woman and happiness”. Harmony sparingly talked about her life and I believe she also had too much pain to speak about it in detail. Harmony loved her son and she would protect him at all costs. Harmony confided in me that Jakie feared Rance, but remained silent when asked “Why do you fear Rance?” I suspected Rance’s interest in Jakie was more than friendly. Jakie was approaching school age and enjoyed living in a trailer at a traveling rodeo because it was like living at Disneyland. Harmony was too busy making ends meet to think beyond the next pay check which included Jakie’s schooling. She claimed she would enroll him in school when the “future looked brighter”.
Rance spent many evenings visiting Harmony after closing time. I knew Rance wouldn’t leave his wife for Harmony but enjoyed having her as his mistress. Rance also enjoyed spending time alone with Jakie under the guise of treating the boy to “ice cream and treats”. I also took an interest in Jakie, introducing him to the rodeo stars, and teaching him to ride the tame horses. My buddy, the manager of the shooting gallery, made certain Jakie always won a prize. When Jakie fell asleep during our outings, I carried him back to the trailer, placing him in bed while Harmony slept off an alcohol, pot, or barbiturate induced deep sleep.
One evening, I couldn’t sleep so I walked over to Harmony’s trailer to see if she was awake and wanted to talk. The light was on and as I approached, I heard screaming. The door flew open and Rance stumbled out. As I ran past him to check on Harmony and Jakie, he drunkenly muttered, “Well now, rodeo trash coming to the rescue of rodeo trash. You’re too late; I took what I wanted and will be back for more and there’s nothing you can do about it, Mustang Mickey”. Harmony had a black eye and was cradling Jakie who was weeping. Jakie stared at me with a look that had only one unmistakable meaning; his life was scared forever. I feared he, too, would be visited by terrible dreams that only immediate and intensive psychotherapy might treat, but Harmony could never afford to provide. Harmony cried, “I stepped away to check on the laundry, and found Rance fondling Jakie”. I stormed out of the trailer and confronted Rance who attempted to sucker punch me. I hit him hard with a right cross and he fell on his back. I imagined his face was the salesman who took my mother and all the rage I harbored about losing mom, and the endless nights crying in my pillow, flowed through my arms into my fists landing firmly in his face. The screaming family still vivid in my dream enraged me further and I beat Rance for their suffering. It felt good to release my pent up rage and I couldn’t stop punching Rance until his face was a bloody pulp and toothless. He was motionless but had a stupid grin on his face as if enjoying the beating. Harmony pried me off Rance, crying, “He’s hurt badly, Mickey. He’s not breathing”. I felt his carotid artery and there was no pulse. The moon cast an eerie spotlight on his corpse. I was terror-stricken and frozen with fear. Harmony and Jakie placed their arms around me like a family. Harmony pleaded, “You have to run, Mickey. Don’t worry about us. We’ll be ok”. They hugged and kissed me. For the first time, I knew what it felt like to be loved like a father. I reached into Rance’s pocket, removed his wallet, and found three hundred bucks which I gave to Harmony. I told her to get a jar of honey or syrup and bring it to me along with some clean cloth to wrap up my bleeding knuckles with. When she returned, I doused the corpse from head to toe with honey and maple syrup. I ordered Harmony and Jakie into the trailer after farewell hugs and kisses. I dragged his body into the woods hoping the syrup and honey would entice the bears to eat the corpse. I ran for home assuming I’d spend my life in prison but also prayed life would be kind to Harmony and Jakie.
I returned home and found grandpa and dad watching TV whilst drinking beer. From the expression on my face and bandaged hands, they knew I was in serious trouble. My pop shouted, “What did you go and do son?”
“I killed Rance Dirksen because he was abusing Priscilla and Jakie. I couldn’t help myself. What do I do?”
My father rose from his lounge chair, grabbed me by the shoulders saying, “Did you have to defend yourself, son?”
“Yes, dad”.
The subject of defending my actions in court never came up. We didn’t have the money to hire a skilled attorney to defend me and knew the Public Defender’s office couldn’t get me off the hook. Dad paced the living room before coming up with a suggestion, “You got to get to Mexico!”
Grandpa interjected saying, “Mexico has extradition laws, son. You have one choice and that’s to find a country with no extradition laws. I read about Cole Porter’s life in the French Foreign Legion. If you’re accepted, the Legion will give you a new identity and a second chance at life as a French citizen.”
Dad argued, “Come on pop, this isn’t the movies. He doesn’t speak French, and never travelled outside the US. He doesn’t even have a passport. Besides, he’s only seventeen.”
I think Grandpa had anticipated this calamity and said, “Grab your brother’s passport in my night stand and the roll of money under my mattress. You resemble your brother and the passport shows you as 21. The Legion will take you if you pass their physical and psychological tests, no questions asked, providing you with a new identity. They’ll want five years of your life and it will be hell. They’ll work you hard and send you into some tough scrapes. You may not make it back alive but it’s better than facing a manslaughter charge which will become Murder One at the hands of the Sheriff whose primary election donor was Rance’s father.”
Pop agreed, “Son, dad’s right. Leave for the Denver airport now and catch the first flight out of the country”.
Grandpa added, “Board the quickest flight to Paris. Ask the Parisian cab driver to drop you in front of the French Foreign Legion Battalion. Leave your identification with us and from now on, use only your
brother’s passport. Memorize his date of birth, height, weight, color of his eyes, and anything else you remember about him. Do what you’re told and don’t volunteer any information. The less they know the better. Forget about packing and take only the clothes on your back. There can’t be any communication between us for the next five years. Not even a post card. Now leave before the cops come looking for you.”
As I stepped onto the porch to waive goodbye, grandpa shouted, “Boy, I don’t know how this will end up for you but you’re in for one hell of a bronco ride!”
Dad stood motionless and waved goodbye. He was the same stoic father I remember at the breakfast table when he said mom wasn’t coming home. Not a single tear flowed from his eyes but he had that faraway look as if he’d never see me again.
The passport was a gift from my dead brother I could never repay. We both had brown hair, brown eyes, and were close in height and weight. Along with a new identity and a second chance, I would face new obstacles and opportunities, if, I survived the Legion. I drove four hours to Denver International Airport, careful to obey the traffic laws. I arrived in time to find a Delta flight to Atlanta where I bought a ticket on an Air France flight to Paris. The entire trip would take about twelve hours flying overnight and dropping me in Paris in the morning. I was nervous purchasing the tickets but all went well as the cute ticket agent flirted with a young cowboy. Passing through TSA wasn’t a sure thing. The TSA agent looked me up and down before asking me, “What day and year was I born?” Fortunately, I answered correctly, and was passed through. I took in a big sigh of relief when the Airbus lifted off for Paris.
We landed on a rainy, early morning in Paris, and I was wearing only my denim jacket, jeans, boots, and cowboy hat inviting stares throughout Charles de Gaulle Airport. Passing through French Customs was a cinch because the early morning lines weren’t long. The French Customs official was a matronly older woman who quickly looked me up and down, glanced at my passport, and waved me through, chuckling, “Enjoy your stay, Midnight Cowboy.’’
I hailed a taxi and told the driver who was an immigrant to “take me to the French Foreign Legion”. He couldn’t understand English. An elderly Parisian man, wearing a World War II battle ribbon, standing at the taxi stand overheard my conversation, poked his head into the cab, and instructed the driver, “Take him to the French Foreign Legion at Fort Nogent.’’
The driver pulled away from the curb and I waved goodbye to the helpful veteran. The drive was punctuated by loud music from the radio which prevented me from sleeping. I managed to doze off and was awoken by the driver poking me, and pointing to a fortress resembling a prison named, “Foreign Legion”
It was drizzling and the fort was closed. I found a position outside the gates and slept. Some time during the morning, I was awoken by the pitter patter of a young man running back to his mother after leaving off a croissant and cup of coffee for me. He reminded me of Jakie. I tipped my hat in appreciation. I fell back asleep and was revisited by my dream. I dreamt of people herded like cattle onto box cars and a husband and wife gripping a little boy and little girl’s hands as they were ordered to board by shouting soldiers. I awoke to the heel of a boot striking me in the face, and immediately leapt to my feet ready to beat my PE teacher, but found the baton of a Sergeant of the Foreign Legion thrust into my groin pressing me to the gate. He placed his face close to mine, and with glee asked, “You here to join the Legion cowboy?’’
‘’Yes, sir.’’
He removed the baton from my groin, unlocked the gate, and chided me further, ‘’You’ll learn to respect a Legionnaire!’’
He motioned for me to follow him to his spartan office with concrete walls adorned with photos of French battle campaigns. A lone, squeaky ceiling fan, cooled the office, and the French flag proudly stood erect behind his desk. The Sergeant was French, stocky, short, and looked to be nearing retirement age. His head was shaved bald, and he wore a neatly trimmed, Van Dyke style beard. His face had a knife scar. I knew he was a battle hardened soldier He motioned for me to sit saying, ‘’The Legion shall teach you to speak French!’’ He demanded my passport, inspected it, and further questioned me, ‘’This isn't you cowboy. Perhaps your brother or relative? It doesn't matter, I've seen all the tricks. We'll give you a new name before you leave here.’’ He reached for my hands and examined them carefully. My hands showed a hard life of work and fighting. He looked me in the eye, and asked, ‘’Why are you running cowboy? Kill somebody?’’
He pounded on a bell atop his desk and I heard the boots of a man running towards the office. A young Eurasian corporal entered, stood at attention, and shouted, ‘’Yes, Sergeant. Corporal Pham at your service!’’
.
I suspected he was the company clerk to the Sergeant. His khaki uniform was impeccably pressed; boots shined like mirrors, and he wore his white Kapi hat proudly. The corporal couldn’t have been older than twenty one. He was about 5’7”, slightly built; his jet black hair was shaven close on the sides and allowed to grow thick on the top of his head which he combed back. He was handsome. His hands weren’t so attractive. They were scarred, and his knuckles enlarged, suggesting a life of fighting. The Sergeant kept my passport, handed me an enlistment paper to sign, and motioned for me to strip naked. The corporal photographed me from every angle possible with particular attention paid to my hands scarred by a life of fighting. The Sergeant commented, “You're circumcised. You don't look Jewish but I will name you after Jewish nobility. I chose, "David Kohan". The Kohan's were Jews of the priestly class. Your new identity will serve you well during the next five years.’’ The Sergeant ordered the Corporal, ‘’Get this cowboy situated. You’ll be his guide through the examination process.’’ The Sergeant motioned us out of the office.
It was humiliating walking naked through the Spartan bunkhouse, greeted with “cat calls” and whistles by the inductees playing cards or laying in their beds. It didn’t matter to them that Pham was a Corporal who didn’t stop the taunting. I suspect he didn’t want to show any favoritism, which I respected. Pham led me to a storeroom where he provided me underwear, sweatpants, sweatshirt, socks, and sneakers. He also provided me soap, deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, and shampoo. He told me I would be housed and fed within the barracks for a week while I underwent physical, psychological, and medical tests.
The barracks was a just an open room with rows of bunk beds, ceiling fans, and walls with Legionnaire posters whose purpose was to motivate the recruits. In the center of the barracks, there were tables where we would sit, take our meals, read, or play card games. Similar to a prison, the tables were occupied by “gangs” of sorts. One table was occupied by “badass” Russians and Eastern Europeans with prison tats suggesting former gang affiliations and hard prison time; one table was “owned” by Middle Eastern Muslims; one table for the Asians; one table for those from Spanish-speaking countries; and another table for citizens of the former British colonies including, Australia, Canada, and South Africa. An old splinter-ridden table and bench, located at the back of the barracks, were for the Blacks. There were no women in the Legion and I was the only American.
Pham suggested I not leave the base as I might be apprehended by Interpol or ripped off by thieves. He was a very thoughtful and unusually sensitive man to be in the Legion. Pham and I began spending our leisure time together and I suffered taunts from the other recruits suggesting a sexual relationship between Corporal Pham and I which wasn’t the case. Given Pham’s status as a corporal, he enjoyed a private bedroom. I admired the many photos of Pham engaged in martial arts contests and trophies which adorned his room. He took notice, and commented, “The day I photographed you, I noticed you had the scarred hands of a fighter like me. We’re brothers of sorts both fighting for survival on the streets of life.” He taught me to play Vietnamese card games, “Tien Lien” and “Catte”. We enjoyed French wines, champagnes, caviar, and pate’. Pham befriended me much like Harmony, kindly and tenderly probing for information in an attempt to understand me as a man. I developed a friendship and respect for him. I suspected he was homosexual or bisexual. He knew I was straight and harbored no expectations other than friendship. He was eager to teach me French, the history and traditions of the Legion, and provided me with a speedy course in the life of a Legionnaire which would serve me well when I entered basic-training known as “The Farm”.
Pham was fascinated with the American west asking me about cowboy life, Wyoming, riding horses, herding cattle, and the rodeo. He dreamed of living in San Francisco or L.A. where he would learn to style hair and become a makeup artist for the stars. Our bond as friends grew stronger because we were both abandoned by our mothers. Pham was saddened when I told him I was abandoned by my mother, and became melancholy when he told me his mother threw him out of the house. He didn’t say why and I didn’t want to hurt him by asking. Because he never knew his father, Pham was very interested in learning about my father, and all I said was, “He’s a hard working, strong, silent type”.
Pham exclaimed, “Ah, like John Wayne?”
I replied, “Not exactly, and not paid as much!”
In later conversations as Pham came to trust me, he related to me that he was born to a prostitute mother and her Legionnaire trick in Hanoi. His mother threw him out of the house at age twelve because she couldn’t afford to feed him and thought he could make a life for himself on the streets of Hanoi as a male prostitute. Although he never knew his father, Pham idolized him and chose to join the Legion in his honor while escaping the poverty of Hanoi.
It didn’t take long for the Sergeant naming me “David Kohan” to have its desired effect. It was commonplace for me to be called a “Kike”, “Hebe” or “Jew boy”. One evening as I prepared to sleep, I found my pillow case marked, “Israel belongs to the Palestinians”. The verbal taunts were annoying but nobody wanted to pick a fight with me, because it would destroy their chance of joining the Legion and they all feared Corporal Pham.
I discussed the anti-Semitism with Pham who opened my mind to the situation. He suggested, “The easy way out for you Mickey is to let the dumb bastards know you’re not Jewish, maybe they’ll believe it, and stop taunting you. Like it or not, your beautiful new name and identity bestows upon you a duty to honor the memory of those defenseless Jews throughout the ages who suffered. You’re an honorable man and would never disavow your duty.”
Pham struck a nerve in me. I could only imagine the homosexual taunts he endured yet he was the most “spit and polished”, perfect example of a Legionnaire, the French could deserve. Pham said, “Mickey, become the best example of a Legionnaire. When you find yourself fighting for your life, those anti-Semitic jerks will have your back. Let them taunt you now because one day they will depend upon you to have their backs.” Pham was wise, and I decided from that moment on, to wear my name, David Kohan, proudly.
It was a hot, sticky, Paris night, and our last day before we received our assignments in the morning. I was alone in the barracks as everybody else was in Paris partying. I fell into a deep sleep but was awoken by Pham gently sitting on the edge of my bed dressed in a smartly pressed Legionnaire bathrobe. Pham was always conscious of his appearance in uniform and out. He brought two cognac snifters and a bottle of cognac, pouring each of us a drink. Pham apologized for waking me, “You passed all of the tests and will be assigned to basic training tomorrow. I can arrange for you to be assigned here to the Regimental Administration office. It will be an easy five year enlistment and we can remain friends. I show you France and when our enlistments are up, you’ll take me to America, yes?”
I couldn’t stand being cooped up any longer, and hungered for adventure. I told Pham, “Thank you, my friend. My nickname is “Mustang” because I can’t be corralled. I need to wander free to run, explore, and fight. I want to join a kick ass infantry brigade.” Pham looked disappointed and reached into the pocket of his robe removing an intricately braided, handmade, leather necklace adorned with a silver elephant and gold Star of David. He gently raised my head from the pillow and placed it around my neck. He then placed each of his hands on both of my cheeks, and kissed each cheek which was customary in France. Pham told me, “Wear this necklace always, Mustang. The elephant will protect you and bring you good fortune. The Star of David will remind you of your duty to lost, suffering souls. I will remember you fondly and you’ll always be in my prayers. I hope one day we meet again in America.”
Pham raised his snifter glass, I followed, and we repeated together, “We drink to the Legion, France, and to our friendship.”
We both downed our cognac. It tasted beautiful and warmed my throat. I asked, “By the way, Pham, whatever happened to my western wear I arrived with?”
“They’re burned along with the rest of the filthy recruit clothing, but I did save your beautiful boots thinking you’d want them back”.
“Keep them as my gift to you, my friend. I hope they fit. ”
Pham was humbled, proud to own a piece of the American west, and could only muster a subdued, “Thank you, Mustang. It’s the most wonderful gift I’ve ever received.” He was touched and made a hasty retreat from the barracks with the bottle of cognac I presumed he would finish easing his emotions. My friendship with Pham made me a stronger and wiser man.
The following morning, we stood at attention within the barracks in our starched, camouflage uniforms, and eagerly awaited our orders to basic training consisting of four months of grueling training at “The Farm” which was the 4th Foreign Infantry Regiment in Southern France. I stood at attention until each soldier was read his orders to report for training. I guess the Sergeant left his favorite recruit for last. Pham read my orders, “The 2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment”.
The Sergeant approached me, stared me squarely in the face, and told me the reason for his hostility towards me, “I’m grateful for the American’s liberation of France from Germany, and I pay tribute to the fallen American soldiers every year at the American Cemetery in Normandy on the anniversary of D-Day, but I have a love-hate relationship with America. I hate Americans, especially cowboys, because the French fought alongside the colonists against the British, we gave you democracy, the Statue of Liberty, and you repay our generosity with slavery, theft of Indian lands, Jim Crow laws, and want to close the doors to immigrants.
“Your western films are garbage. It took the Europeans to accurately depict the American west. Americans use of white hats and black hats depicting good and evil is absurd. There is only grey in battle.
“You’re going to learn to jump from planes, fire sophisticated weapons, drive armored vehicles, and kill for Mother France. In a sense, cowboy, you’ll repay the debt America owes to France.
I wish you good luck, Legionnaire David Kohan.”
The Sergeant saluted me, leaned in, and kissed me on both cheeks. I caught a glimpse of Pham with teary eyes before shouting, “Regiment dismissed. Gather your gear. The bus to “The Farm” leaves in thirty minutes.”
It was a quiet eight hour bus ride to “The Farm” as everybody envisioned their respective fates: Were we courageous soldiers or simply the damned?
The four months of basic training was difficult, but I had a tough upbringing in the wilds of Wyoming, and was familiar with firearms. In fact, I considered it a four month holiday compared to the specter of a prison stretch for murder back home. Firing the high powered weapons was like grabbing the ears of a dragon, and I enjoyed watching the fire and death pour from its muzzle. It helped me release pent up hatred, anger, and made me a stone cold-killing machine winning praise for my marksmanship. The marches were long, tedious, and I’d place the rigors of my basic training on “The Farm” up against any in the world including the Marines. Many of my fellow recruits were unable to finish the training and returned to their home countries.
The 2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment was considered the most elite division within the Legion. It was always first into a fight, and the last out. I was a standout recruit and never encountered anti-Semitism again. Skydiving was a job I loved and I couldn’t believe I was being paid to do it. All my living expenses were paid for by the Legion including a salary of about 2000 Euros per month which would leave me with a nest egg at the end of five years of approximately 80,000 Euros, after taxes, which I might use to start a business.
It was in the black of night when our Regiment parachuted into Kharkush, a high mountain in Afghanistan, dotted with caves. I leapt from the plane into the cold night air excited to see action and meet Americans again. We were to join forces with an American SEAL team who had already taken position at one of the caves wherein a Taliban spy was believed to have been hiding. He was given only a number, “DOA#2”, which was short for, “Dead or alive, number two”. Working as a translator for the US Army, he had fingered the position of French and American troops at a “FOB” (Forward Operating Base) resulting in the death of many soldiers at the hands of the Taliban.
Daylight broke, and we communicated with the SEAL team who was stationed within the bowels of the cave. There were twelve of us and I was one of only six sent into the cave while the others stood watch at the entrance. I prayed no Taliban was watching with his finger on the switch of an IUD, exploding the mouth to the cave and entombing us forever. We entered the dark cave and managed to find our way to the SEAL team with night vision glasses mounted to our helmets. The farther and deeper into the cave we marched, the more claustrophobic it felt. It was like being within a dead woman’s womb. There was no life inside and fortunately no Taliban resistance. We spent hours walking the twisting and turning cave. I had another dream that night.
It included the same family being herded off a boxcar, and a crying little boy and girl, snatched from their parents’ hands, forever separated. The screams of the parents were horrifying and I awoke in a cold sweat. The shock of my dream was interrupted by a SEAL operator shouting,
“We got him!”
We ran about one fifty yards into a bedroom size opening where DOA102 had been living alone for months. The cave was strewn with garbage and smelled of urine and excrement. I was surprised to find DOA102 to be an old, frail man, with a long grey beard, dirty long hair, and a torn robe. He was relieved to meet fellow humans again like a prisoner being released from solitary confinement. A SEAL team operator searched him and found no weapons. Other SEAL team operators searched the cave thoroughly and found no booby traps. The commander of the SEAL team was a Lieutenant, and told us, “We can take him dead or alive. All I need is a DNA sample and a photo of the corpse. Let me see a show of hands for taking him alive.”
I remembered the white hat/black hats sermon of my Sergeant and knew there was no right or wrong in battle. Only grey. I regretted killing Rance despite the atrocities he committed. I’d rather see the old Taliban, like Rance, face a court of law. Not a single hand rose but I held my hand high which was met by the Lieutenant commenting, “Ah, one “Frog” has a conscious. I’m sorry but the nays have it.”
Just as a SEAL operator pointed his rifle at DOA102’s forehead, the old man dropped to his knees, weeping, and spoke in broken English, “I’m sorry we were enemies. I hope we meet in the after-life as friends. I ask only that you take my life quickly and dispose of me by Muslim traditions. Allah 'akbar.”(Allah is the greatest).
A single shot rang out hitting the old man between the eyes throwing him backward with a gruesome look of horror on his face and wide open eyes. The Lieutenant asked if there was a Muslim on the team to assist with the burial, and fortunately, it was a Legionnaire who stepped forward. He did his best to cleanse the corpse with water from a canteen, pointed the body toward Mecca, and covered it with shreds of white clothing mimicking a shroud. The Muslim Legionnaire gently closed the old man’s eyes and mouth before reciting a Muslim prayer, "We belong to Allah and to Allah we shall return."
The Lieutenant plucked hair samples and placed them into a plastic bag before taking pictures of the corpse. DOA102 was quickly buried and we all left the cave.
The SEAL’s and Legionnaires decided to camp outside the mouth of the cave for the evening after we permanently closed the entrance with rocket propelled grenades. We shared rations; the SEAL’s preferring the French “MRE’s” (Meals Ready to Eat) to the American equivalent. Later in the evening, I was approached by the SEAL Lieutenant who introduced himself as, “Lieutenant Jonathan Hirsch from Montauk, New York”.
I introduced myself, “David Kohan from Casper, Wyoming”.
Hirsch lit up, “You American? What the hell is a nice Jewish boy from Casper doing in the Legion?”
“It’s a long story.”
Hirsch was sharp and intuitively surmised, “The less I know the better. Want to go home after your tour?”
“I’d like to Lieutenant but I’m in serious trouble back home.”
Hirsch leaned in close to keep our conversation confidential and suggested, “The Legion gave you a new identity. You don’t look Jewish but I consider you a member of the “tribe” having the guts to wear the Star of David around your neck, so here is my advice. When your tour is up, apply for a visa to the US. Did you ever have your fingerprints taken, a DNA sample, or retina scan?”
“No Sir. I never even had a driver license.”
“Good. You’ll arrive in the States under a French passport with no DNA or fingerprint identification showing you were an American. Go to a Navy recruiting office and tell them you want to enlist. I recommend Navy because of your Legionnaire experience. They’ll fast track you into BUDS training if you request it. I think you have the grit to make it through SEAL training, serve your time, get an honorable discharge, and you’ll live as David Kohan on a permanent visa issued as a gift for your military service to the United States. You’ll likely earn your citizenship back.”
It all made sense to me and I was flabbergasted by the possibility of a new start in America with the money I saved in the Legion. I just had to stay alive. The Lieutenant was preparing to leave for his team but I had to ask, “Thank you for the advice Lieutenant, but why the hell did a nice Jewish boy from Montauk join the SEALS?”
He answered, “When those towers came crashing down in flames, it reminded me of the stories my grandparents told of the smoke stacks of Auschwitz. I wanted revenge, so I left a cushy job which is waiting for me and joined the SEALS. If you make it back to the States, look me up. By the way, I admire you for raising your hand to save the old man’s life”. He handed me a business card reading, “David Hirsch, Attorney at Law”.
Four and one half years had passed since I joined the Legion. The days consisted mostly of drills with occasional deployments. The Legion wanted me to re-enlist, promising to promote me to Sergeant but I was eager to get home. I missed my pop and grandfather and wanted to reunite with them somewhere outside Casper where I couldn’t be recognized. I had gotten in touch with Lieutenant Hirsch who had returned to the practice of law, and assured me he would smooth over the Navy and SEAL recruitment process with high level Navy contacts he had cultivated. I was excited about returning home and was counting the days.
With one month left on my five year enlistment, my team was called into duty to rescue a notable French journalist with an Israeli film crew working near the border of Iraq and Iran. Their chopper inadvertently crossed into Iranian airspace and forced to land in a terrible sandstorm clogging the propeller system of the chopper. It wouldn’t be long for the Iranian’s to seize a valuable “bargaining chip” with Israel and France. We mobilized immediately and flew into Israel to meet up with the IDF to coordinate the rescue. We all stood as the “commander” of the mission entered the room. It was a woman wearing no military insignia except for the standard green IDF duty uniform. She introduced herself as “Rebecca” and admitted to being a Mossad agent. She was short with flaming red, wavy hair, physically fit, and a tough as nails, no nonsense woman in her late twenties. The IDF soldiers were a mixture of Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jews, most wearing yarmulkes and beards denoting they were orthodox Jews. My team were handpicked Legionnaires I trained with for years and could count on in a fire fight. The briefing was simple. We’d fly in taking two stealth helicopters, extract the living and the dead, fight if necessary, and return home. Rebecca concluded by saying, “Mossad intel indicates the Iranian Revolutionary Guard is also racing to the crash site.”
At the conclusion of the briefing, Rebecca approached me in the hallway. She was curious about me, asking, “David Kohan? French Foreign Legion? Casper, Wyoming? Quite an eclectic resume you have, David. Have you learned any French?”
“Enough to keep me alive”.
She broke a smile and said, “I’ll keep my eyes on you, David!”
I sarcastically replied, “How many languages do you speak, “Red?”
She didn’t appear offended by the nickname and quickly recited, “Hebrew, English, Farsi, Arabic, French, Italian, and many more. If we get out of this alive, maybe we’ll discover more about each other over dinner.”
Rebecca reminded me of the strong but womanly cowgirls back home. My dad told me mom also had a quick wit and sharp tongue. I wanted to see her after the mission, knowing she was a very special woman.
Time was of the essence and we had only two practice missions before departing. As the sun set, we boarded the helicopter, buckled in, and took off. Rebecca was riding in the back-up copter so it was just my team and the IDF in the lead helicopter. We made small talk, exchanged cigarettes, and talked about our home towns. A couple of the IDF soldiers took out boxes with leather straps, prayed, and wrapped them around their arms. I asked, “What’s that all about?”
I was rebuffed by the commander of the IDF squad, pointing to the Star of David on my collar, reading my name-plate, and chastising me, “You’re a Kohan! You don’t know?” I was embarrassed, but admitted the name was given to me by the Legion as a “joke” to make my life in the Legion more difficult. Another IDF soldier asked, “So, how is life as a Jew treating you?”
“Difficult at first but ask me at the end of this mission.” Everybody laughed knowing our mission was dangerous.
We landed in a terrible standstorm. Each soldier jumped from the helicopter taking up a position forming a perimeter in case there was resistance. Fortunately, the French female journalist and her Israeli crew were still alive, huddled inside the downed chopper shielding them from the standstorm. Rebecca was first to approach them, and quickly identified each of them, lest it be an ambush. She led them to her helicopter where one of my Legionnaires trained as a paramedic administered IV liquids and other medical treatments. Both helicopters safely took off and headed back to Israel through Iraq under the protection of a US Air Force escort.
During the flight back, both teams were exhausted, quiet, and some chose to nap. I learned each of the members of the IDF had relatives who fled Nazi occupied Europe and many never made it out alive, perishing in the concentration camps. Their families arrived in Israel with nothing, and were grateful to make a new life in a thriving, young democratic nation. Many of the soldiers had relatives in the States, and I was besieged by a multitude of questions about American popular culture, Wyoming, cowboy life, until I fell asleep.
The little boy from my dream reappeared. He stood in line as his clothes were ripped from him. He stood naked with other little boys and grown men who cried for their mothers, wives or loved ones. Each boy or man was rudely examined by a Nazi doctor and marked with an “X” or an “O”. The little boy had a black “X” placed on his back and was led outside naked, shoeless, into the cold, snowy day, and towards a large building marked,
Duschen und Cafeteria
(Showers and Cafeteria)
There were cries of hope that food and a hot shower awaited them but the unfortunate men and boys found only an empty chamber with no room anywhere but to stand. The little boy cried looking for his sister, mother, and father. The doors slammed shut and a hissing sound came from the ceilings. As it became apparent to the adults that it was no shower or cafeteria, they screamed and ran for the doors and walls trampling the children. The room filled with poisonous gas and bodies began to tumble with vomit, urine, and feces flowing from the dying.
I woke to the pilot handing me a headphone which I placed on my head and heard the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard softly say, “David, your team did a wonderful job today. See you on the ground in Israel and we’ll plan our dinner.“ I handed the headphones back to the IDF soldier who remarked, “David, you had one hell of a dream. Please share it with somebody who understands you because nightmares can get the best of you over time.“ He was right. I’d share it with Rebecca.
We landed safely in Israel. The journalist and Israeli camera crew were taken to the hospital. Rebecca held a short debriefing, thanking us for a job well done. As a gesture of gratitude, the State of Israel had arranged a week-long pass for each member of the team including hotel, meals, tours, etc. My time in the Legion would be up in a week and my thoughts turned to my future.
Rebecca approached me after the debriefing saying, “I arranged for you to stay at the “King David Hotel“ in Jerusalem. It’s a five star hotel and within walking distance to many of the treasures of Israel. I would like to be your personal tour guide. May I?“ I grabbed her, held her close, and passionately kissed Rebecca. It was primal. My kiss was met by the most sensual, loving, response I had experienced in my life. It felt like we had known each other our entire lives. We eagerly awaited our meeting in the lobby of the hotel in the morning. An IDF driver was assigned to take me to the hotel in Jerusalem about an hours drive away.
We met in the lobby as planned. Rebecca was beautiful. Her flaming red, wavy hair, hung beneath her shoulders and her white cotton dress accentuated her athletic physique. We greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek, and her perfume was lavender but not overpowering. We sat for coffee and enjoyed a light breakfast before heading out for a whirlwind tour of Jerusalem, she had arranged. Our driver, Shlomo, had the stature and look of a Mossad bodyguard. He and I exchanged a firm handshake signifying we were both warriors.
We spent the day visiting both old and new Jerusalem; the Western Wall; The Jewish quarter and the Christian quarter. I wasn’t raised with religion, so much of the religious history was lost on me , but I was mesmerized to be in the company of Rebecca as she explained the relevance of the many historical sites we visited. Shlomo had packed a bag of drinks and snacks to see us through the long day. The day passed quickly and Shlomo delivered us to a romantic, roof top restaurant above a hotel on King Solomon Street with a commanding view of Old Jerusalem. It wasn’t lost on me that Shlomo took a table just far enough away to provide us privacy but close enough to leap into action, if necessary. He didn’t order alcohol. Rebecca was a high level Mossad agent, and a lowly Legionnaire from Casper, Wyoming was fortunate to be her dinner date.
Rebecca politely asked if she could make the dinner selections, assuring me I would enjoy the variety of foods she selected. We began with a bottle of Kosher wine, and, as the alcohol took effect, we both let our guards down, speaking to each other earnestly. Rebecca told me she was an only child growing up in an extended family. Her parents were both high-level government officials and her ancestors were leaders in the formation of the State of Israel back in the late forties. She attended Harvard, returned home to join the IDF, and was recruited by the Mossad. Rebecca said she had a wonderful career including travel and adventure. I asked her, “Why didn’t you get married?“
Rebecca took a sip of wine and answered, “I had plenty of suitors but I’m picky despite pressures from my parents to marry and raise a family.“ Rebecca appeared melancholy about being single and childless explaining, “For now, I’m married to the Mossad. Tell me about you. What was it like growing up in the wild west like a cowboy?“
“Like anywhere else, but more freedom and fewer people. More time to just be a kid and take life as it comes. I was always restless and resented authority, which got me into trouble and led to my leaving the States.“
“But you’ve adjusted to authority by becoming a Legionnaire?“
“Yeah, but when you have no where to run, you make the best of any second chance afforded you. I love the Legion and will always be grateful to it.“
“What will you do when your enlistment is up, Mickey?“
“I’d like to return home to see my dad and grandpa. We’ve been out of touch for almost five years , but I’m afraid of being recognized and arrested. Let’s face it, Rebecca, as a Mossad agent, you know my life’s story so don’t make me rehash it“.
Rebecca held my hand and asked, “Do you think about your mother, Priscilla, and Jakie?“
I became sad and was choking up. “Yes, I do. Kids deserve to grow up with two parents including myself, although dad and grandpa did their best.“
“Do you miss your brother?“
“He was about ten years older so I barely knew him. He enjoyed fishing, hunting, and driving around in his truck“. Rebecca apologized, “Mickey, I ask so many questions because I want to know you intimately. Your background investigation made mention of a recurring terrible dream you have. Tell me about it, please?“
“I’ve been plagued by a dream of a Jewish family pesecuted by the Nazis. It started in Wyoming in high school when I dreamt about a family’s home being broken into by soldiers. Throughout the dream, an old woman cried out to me, “Come back to us!“ I grew up in the wilds of Wyoming and never knew a Jew. So why do I have these dreams, Rebecca?“
“You were witnessing a holocaust tragedy.“
“In the Legion, the dream continued to haunt me depicting a well-to-do family being herded on to box cars, delivered to a concentration camp, then separated.“
I was becoming tense and my hand was shaking. I reached for my glass of wine and downed it quickly. “Take your time, darling,“ Rebecca calmed me.
“There was a little boy who had been stripped, examined by a hack doctor, an “X“ painted on his back, and placed in line with a group of men and boys who marched to a building they thought was a shower room and cafeteria“. I covered my eyes to shield my teary eyes from Rebecca. “I can’t go on, Rebecca, it’s too painful.“
“Please finish, Mickey. Talking about it is good for you.“
“The line of boys and men were led into a room, the door slammed closed, and they were gassed to death. The adult men trampled the boys in a desperate attempt to flee.“ I was visibly shaken.
Rebecca brought my face to her bosom and stroked my hair, saying, “ Do you still have the nightmare?“
“I fear it’s return every night. Why do I have this terrible dream, Rebecca?“
“We’ll never know, darling, but sometimes in life we’re visited by messengers who lead us to our destinies. I believe your destiny was to live in Israel and do good work with the skills you’ve learned“. She dipped the napkin in the water glass, wiped my teary eyes, and said, “That’s enough for now“. Rebecca knew it was time to break the somber mood, and suggested,“Let’s enjoy a light desert and after-dinner drink“. From the corner of my eye, I saw Shlomo wipe a tear from his eye.
We returned to the hotel and proceeded to my suite with a commanding view of Jerusalem. We held each other and kissed passionately on the balcony. Soon, we were locked in a loving embrace in bed. I was making love and not having sex for the first time in my life. As we fell asleep in each others arms, we soon would come to learn, we conceived a beautiful son.
I received my Legionnaire pension and stayed on in Jerusalem. Rebecca invited me to move into her flat in the beautiful old quarter of Jerusalem. It felt nice being domesticated. We frequented the markets together, cooked, visited the many historical sites, and I was happy.
Rebecca arranged a family picnic where I met her parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles all of whom liked me. Many of the men were former IDF officers who respected my service, and the women feigned over Rebecca’s cowboy friend. When we had a moment alone, Rebecca told me she was pregnant, “Mickey, you’ve provided me a wonderful gift and I’m pleased to raise the child by myself. I don’t expect you to marry me, but I’m certain you’ll want to be a part of your son’s life, won’t you?“
“Of course.“
“I‘ll have to retire from the Mossad because I can’t raise a baby with the demands of the job but there’s a need in Israel for a professional, private security team for hire to protect foregin journalists, high net-worth tourists, and corporate chieftains. Between my Mossad contacts and your experience in the Legion, we can start a successful business here in Israel, if you stay.“
I knew the necessity of being raised by both a mother and a father. I loved Rebecca and said, “I’ll marry you but won‘t convert to Judaism. I’ve come to respect the Jewish religion, admire it’s people and traditions, but I’m not a Jew and won’t pretend to be one.“
Rebecca held me tight and whispered, “You’re a wonderful man and only need to be a loving father and husband you’re capable of being. My parents will insist on a traditional Jewish wedding, but no pressures for you to convert, I promise. You wear the Star of David and I think the dream was somebody communicating to you from beyond the grave leading you to me and Israel. I believe you already are Jewish but don’t know it.“
We were married at Trask, a beautiful wedding venue adjacent to the port of Tel Aviv. I was busy mingling but caught a glimpse of the Prime Minister of Israel paying respects to Rebecca’s parents. It was the most wonderful day of my life next to the birth of my son months later.
Through Rebecca’s Mossad contacts, our security firm had more business than we could handle. We named our company after the national flower of Israel, “Cyclamen Protection Services”. Our business model was to move quickly, intelligently, with stealth, and to avoid shedding blood whenever possible. I hired a dozen of my former Legionnaires, including Boris, one of the anti-Semite Russians from my barracks who turned out to be the hardest working, most dependable mensch of the team. I remembered Pham’s promise to me that they would “have my back”. The security team was rounded out with handpicked former IDF soldiers Rebecca highly recommended.
The phone rang at home one evening, and we were told by the Mossad that the President of an Israeli bank, his wife, infant daughter, and elderly mother-in-law had been abducted outside a restaurant in Tel Aviv. They were driven into Damascus, Syria, and held for ransom. The Mossad concluded the four kidnappers were amateur criminals not finding no terrorist links. The Mossad believed the motivation for the kidnapping was financial, not political, and concluded that sending in a private team to complete the rescue was politically expedient. Rebecca sprung into action working her many Mossad and IDF contacts which revealed the exact whereabouts of the hotel the family was being held. Our team was assembled of mostly Sephardic, former IDF soldiers so as to blend in with the Syrian hotel staff. They took jobs as room service waiters and a maid. The former Legionnaire team members proceeded to the hotel checking in as “French tourists”. Like the old west not being black or white as depicted by my Sergeant, neither is the Middle East. The Syrian owner of the hotel was friendly to Israel, and would profit financially by cooperating with us. The hotel owner confirmed the four kidnappers and family had checked into the penthouse suite of the low-rise hotel located in the center of Damascus. Our team checked in one floor below the penthouse and positioned listening devices to the ceiling to monitor the penthouse above, confirming the number of kidnappers to be four, confirming all family members were alive, and inside the penthouse. Although the intelligence report on the kidnappers concluded they were “amateur” criminals, we came prepared with a lethal arsenal capable of quashing the most formidable foes. The Sephardic IDF team blended in well as room service attendants and a maid, speaking fluent Arabic, and knowing the local customs. They quickly learned every way in and out of the hotel and produced an extraction plan. Demands for ransom were made over the following week and the family members were being treated well. The meal schedule was consistent with dinner arriving at 9:00, including a child’s dinner consisting of Mac “N “Cheese, pizza, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The Sephardic female team-member, assuming the role of a housekeeper, would arrive at the penthouse and offer maid service. It was necessary to cleverly manufacture a reason for entry because the hostage takers wouldn’t permit anybody into the suite. It had been days since the suite had been cleaned and the hostage takers welcomed the housekeeper who knocked and announced,
“Maid service, sir. May I enter and freshen up your suite?”
A young kidnapper unlocked the door, and invited her to enter with her cleaning cart which wasn’t searched. Secreted within it were both lethal and non-lethal weaponry. She quickly located the mother, father, child, and elderly grandmother who were watching television in the master bedroom. She didn’t leave them, pretending to clean the room with the goal of providing protection to them when all hell broke out. It didn’t take long.
Another knock at the door was heard and the young kidnapper peered through the eye hole identifying three room-service attendants with serving carts of food. He opened the door allowing them to enter with their carts also hiding weaponry. A shout was heard from the commander of the kidnappers, who took his eyes off a soccer match,
“You fool! I told you nobody to come inside. All of you leave immediately!”
He reached for an assault rifle but was quickly shot by a tranquilizer gun by one of the room service team who quickly moved with the others throughout the apartment locating kidnappers. Two kidnappers were sleeping in one of the bedrooms and sedated just they were awoken by the commotion. My operator, Boris, took pride in sedating a fourth kidnapper as he sat on the toilet reading the newspaper. The kidnappers were gagged and tightly bound. No blood was shed. The sedative would keep them asleep for hours. Our team instructed everybody to leave just with the clothes on their backs as not to overburden the escape helicopter with extra weight. An air ambulance helicopter with the Muslim Red Crescent landed on the roof to extract us. The young kidnapper who opened the door permitting our team to enter was a paid Mossad informant, and chose to maintain his “cover”. After receiving a self inflicted black eye and other evidence of a struggle, he too, was sedated, gagged, bound, and left for the authorities to interrogate with the others.
The hotel owner had reported the heart attack of a VIP guest to the hospital which sent the air ambulance helicopter immediately to the rooftop. We knew the police would soon arrive providing us only precious minutes to climb the stairwell onto the roof, enter the helicopter, and take off before the unsympathetic Damascus police arrived. We all boarded, as our pilot gave the “wheels up” signal, and we flew into Israeli airspace within thirty minutes.
As was our Company’s policy and that of the Israeli government, there was no press coverage of the incident. We were invited to the bank President’s lavish Tel Aviv home for a celebratory dinner. Throughout the meal, the elderly mother-in-law wouldn’t take her eyes off me. Even Rebecca noticed it asking, “Have you met before?”
I shrugged my soldiers saying, “Never”.
Rebecca whispered, “You may have seen the end of your dreams”. As the evening ended, our hosts said goodbye, and I was taken aside by the mother-in-law who wrapped her frail arms around me, and cried, repeating, “You came back to us. You came back!” She kissed me and placed something in my coat pocket.
The bank President arranged for limousine transportation for my team and a separate car for Rebecca and me. I reached into my pocket and found a vintage wooden dreidel along with a faded photograph showing a little boy and girl spinning the dreidel at Hanukah sometime around World War II. I didn’t mention the gift to Rebecca. I’ll never understand the connection between the little boy in my dream, sent to his death in Auschwitz, and meeting, possibly, his sister who was rescued by our team. Maybe I was just providing closure to an old woman mistaking me for her brother? Closure is important in our lives. I don’t think I’m supposed to know the connection but this Mustang found redemption, love, and purpose in what started out as a trail to nowhere. I never had the same dream again.
Life was good for Rebecca and me. We were deeply in love, enjoyed raising our growing family, and were fortunate to own a thriving business, providing us the independence to spend time together on our terms. We enjoyed a romantic, one year anniversary dinner, in Jerusalem on a warm spring evening with our one year old son, Benjamin, sitting in a high chair. We were also celebrating our soon to be born daughter who would be named “Sarah”. Rebecca was a loving, nurturing, and doting mother and I marveled at her ability to be both a remarkable mother and businesswoman. I was a lucky man, indeed. I delighted in knowing Benjamin and Sarah would grow up in a two parent, loving family, encouraging the children to be good, decent people, and follow their hearts in whatever directions their talents would take them. Benjamin already had Rebecca’s red wavy hair but he certainly had my father and grandfather’s eyes. He could be a little testy at times which I suspected he inherited from me. Looking into his eyes made me determined to contact my dad and grandfather.
Rebecca reached for my hand saying, “I know you miss your father and grandfather, darling. We’ve talked about returning to Casper and worries of being recognized, but we can bring them here to meet their grandson and reunite with you.”
“They’re not sophisticated travelers. Neither has flown and I don’t think either ever left the States nor has a passport”.
“Let’s worry about the logistics later. Its important Benjamin meets his father’s family. I’ll use my intelligence contacts to ascertain the condition of your family and we’ll take it from there.” I had told Rebecca about Harmony, Jakie, and Corporal Pham previously. She continued, “Would you also like to know about your other friends?”
“Yes”, fearing, sometimes the truth is painful, and letting “sleeping dogs lie”, may be best.
About a week later, as we were preparing to sleep, Rebecca moved in close to me with her arms around me saying, “Mickey, I have the answers to your questions, darling. Sometimes memories are best left alone because the truth can hurt”.
“Tell me like it is, Rebecca!”
Rebecca stroked my hair and related the results of her intelligence findings, “Cops made it hard on grandpa and your dad, who was fired from his job at the demand of Rance’s father. Your dad died from emphysema. Your Grandfather passed away in his rocking chair on the porch with Louis L’Amour’s, “Mustang Man” in his lap, a bottle of Jack Daniels nearby, and a cigar in his hand. There was an article in the local paper about the death of a cowboy song writer. The article mentioned his two beloved grandsons who your grandfather referred to as “wild mustangs running free through life”. I was choking up but couldn’t cry. “Want me to continue, sweetheart?” Rebecca asked. I nodded affirmatively. “Harmony was fired from the Rodeo, worked as a stripper, prostitute, and became an addict succumbing to an overdose of heroin laced with Fentanyl. Jakie was handed over to Child Protective Services”. I covered my eyes to hide the flowing tears and turned my back to Rebecca. Rebecca turned me back towards her and said, “There is redemption, Mickey. Jakie was adopted by a retired Colorado couple who operate a dude ranch high in the Rockies with ski slopes. Jakie is almost thirteen now and already an accomplished skier and member of the Ski Patrol. Last but not least, your friend Pham is living in San Francisco, married to a handsome man, and together, they operate a successful hair, nail, and make-up salon in a trendy neighborhood.”
I reached to turn off the light and kissed Rebecca good night. I was thankful for the closure. I thought of the elderly mother-in-law and hoped she was sleeping peacefully having found closure. Rebecca fell asleep with her head on my chest. I held Rebecca close, and reflected. The revelations were bitter sweet, and, although I was saddened by the loss of my dad, grandfather, and Harmony, I was happy for Jakie and Pham. Most of all, I was happy for myself because although my journey from Casper to Jerusalem was “one hell of a bronco ride” like grandpa suggested, my life wasn’t black or grey as the Sergeant suggested, but a brilliant white.
I grew up on a small ranch in Wyoming outside Casper. It had been decades since it was a working ranch and the only crops were sage brush and the only animals were gophers. Casper was near the oil and gas fields where my father drove an oil tanker. My older brother was killed driving an oil tanker during a snow storm. My father worked hard to provide for the family. No sooner than he would arrive home for supper, he’d be up and gone to clock in for the graveyard shift, eager for overtime. My mom was a waitress at the town diner. Not long after I began primary school, she ran off with a traveling salesman. I remember the morning I ran into the kitchen looking forward to a hug and kiss from mom and finding only my father sitting alone at the breakfast table, smoking his Camel cigarette, with a faraway look on his face. I asked, “Where’s mommy?” He calmly said, “Your mom is gone and never coming back. Now get ready for school. You don’t want to miss the school bus!” That was it. No explanation, no consolation, no opportunity to cry and share our grief. My family was blue collar, paycheck to paycheck, working poor, and simply didn’t have the resources or knowledge about the psychological intervention necessary for processing grief, particularly in the case of children. I remember feeling “emotionally numb” by the end of the school day. I emotionally buried mom’s desertion choosing never to revisit the experience again. My grandfather was widowed and moved in with us. He was an avid reader of Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour and enjoyed minor success writing country western songs. He recognized within me an untamable, restless sprit, and did his best to fill the emotional void left by mom. He was kind, loving, and enjoyed reading to me. He became my shoulder to cry on and always offered sound advice. We weren’t a religious family.
I grew up fiercely independent, like a wild mustang running free, unwilling to be corralled by anybody. I’d skip school often and wander off into the woods and revel in the solitude of nature which calmed me. I was taller and stronger than my classmates and always eager to fight anybody. I had briefly entertained the notion of becoming a boxer but wouldn’t commit to the discipline necessary to become a professional boxer. I wasn’t ambitious and was the type of kid who would be fired by his own lemonade stand. I presumed I’d get a job like my father and brother at one of the oil companies when I graduated from high school.
The dream I had this morning, put me on edge all day long. I didn’t need the PE coach shouting exercise cadences to us, as our class struggled to complete fifty pushups in the cold Wyoming snow, “Down, Down, Down.”
The coach resented me because I rebuffed his invitations to join the football team. He placed his big tennis shoe in my face as he stood above me. I spit on it and his sneaker met my jaw. I leaped to my feet and first with a left jab, followed by a right cross, put the fat, old coach flat on his back. The principal offered me an expulsion versus an assault and battery charge. I chose expulsion. Dad was at work and Grandpa picked me up from the Principals office. I asked Grandpa for career advice and he suggested I join a rodeo, find work on a ranch, or enlist within the military. The oil companies only hired high school graduates.
A rodeo circuit is much like a traveling carnival. Instead of ferris wheels or painted horses on a merry-go-round, men risk their lives on ornery bucking broncos or steers, putting on a show for the paying fans. Behind the scenes, low paid employees work the concession stands or pick up trash and manure. That was my job and how I came to know Harmony and her toddler son, Jakie. The “DRC” known as the “Dirksen Rodeo Circuit” was well known and a springboard for many promising rodeo stars. The DRC circuit traveled Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, and Colorado throughout the spring and summer. I took a job as a wrangler which was the name given to a general laborer. If I wasn’t cleaning out stalls or feeding livestock, I was emptying out trash cans and cleaning filthy, portable plastic toilets. I was given the nickname, “Mustang Mickey” by my boss, the owner’s son, Rance Dirksen, who was a big talker promising me a chance to become a rodeo star like a molester teases children with candy.
Harmony sold burgers, hot dogs, cotton candy, deep fried Twinkies, and sugary drinks from a trailer at inflated prices. She was a cute, blue eyed, blond who wore her hair short, and, except for a tattoo of a rose on her shoulder, resembled an All American high school cheerleader. She wore skin tight pants, and a tight tea shirt, calling attention to her curvaceous twenty year old figure standing just over five feet tall. Her most ardent admirer was Rance. Harmony was a young, unskilled, single mom providing for her five year old son, Jakie who was a handsome, blond haired, blue eyed, innocent little boy who would be the darling of any casting director scouting child stars. Harmony was trapped in a nowhere job and looking for a way out. She harbored fantasies of stealing Rance from his wife and gave into his sexual advances.
As the rodeo day came to an end, it became quiet at night and you could hear the owls and crickets. A cool breeze blew through the rodeo grounds cleansing the dust, dirt, grime, and sweat from our clothes. Closing time also provided us the opportunity to laugh, and vent about the drudgery of the rodeo’s long hours. Harmony befriended me like a sister or a mother. I could give into the testosterone raging through my body but I didn’t want to cross the line and ruin the relationship. She probed about my mother asking if I “missed her” and “what was she like”? I told Harmony, “I didn’t remember much of mom and was uncomfortable speaking about her.” She said it was “traumatic” for a boy to lose his mother holding Jakie close to her. I wasn’t ready or able to ponder how mom’s desertion affected me emotionally or psychologically, but speaking to Harmony made me feel good about myself. She convinced me that my mistakes didn’t “define me” and, I was a “good man”, who would find a “loving woman and happiness”. Harmony sparingly talked about her life and I believe she also had too much pain to speak about it in detail. Harmony loved her son and she would protect him at all costs. Harmony confided in me that Jakie feared Rance, but remained silent when asked “Why do you fear Rance?” I suspected Rance’s interest in Jakie was more than friendly. Jakie was approaching school age and enjoyed living in a trailer at a traveling rodeo because it was like living at Disneyland. Harmony was too busy making ends meet to think beyond the next pay check which included Jakie’s schooling. She claimed she would enroll him in school when the “future looked brighter”.
Rance spent many evenings visiting Harmony after closing time. I knew Rance wouldn’t leave his wife for Harmony but enjoyed having her as his mistress. Rance also enjoyed spending time alone with Jakie under the guise of treating the boy to “ice cream and treats”. I also took an interest in Jakie, introducing him to the rodeo stars, and teaching him to ride the tame horses. My buddy, the manager of the shooting gallery, made certain Jakie always won a prize. When Jakie fell asleep during our outings, I carried him back to the trailer, placing him in bed while Harmony slept off an alcohol, pot, or barbiturate induced deep sleep.
One evening, I couldn’t sleep so I walked over to Harmony’s trailer to see if she was awake and wanted to talk. The light was on and as I approached, I heard screaming. The door flew open and Rance stumbled out. As I ran past him to check on Harmony and Jakie, he drunkenly muttered, “Well now, rodeo trash coming to the rescue of rodeo trash. You’re too late; I took what I wanted and will be back for more and there’s nothing you can do about it, Mustang Mickey”. Harmony had a black eye and was cradling Jakie who was weeping. Jakie stared at me with a look that had only one unmistakable meaning; his life was scared forever. I feared he, too, would be visited by terrible dreams that only immediate and intensive psychotherapy might treat, but Harmony could never afford to provide. Harmony cried, “I stepped away to check on the laundry, and found Rance fondling Jakie”. I stormed out of the trailer and confronted Rance who attempted to sucker punch me. I hit him hard with a right cross and he fell on his back. I imagined his face was the salesman who took my mother and all the rage I harbored about losing mom, and the endless nights crying in my pillow, flowed through my arms into my fists landing firmly in his face. The screaming family still vivid in my dream enraged me further and I beat Rance for their suffering. It felt good to release my pent up rage and I couldn’t stop punching Rance until his face was a bloody pulp and toothless. He was motionless but had a stupid grin on his face as if enjoying the beating. Harmony pried me off Rance, crying, “He’s hurt badly, Mickey. He’s not breathing”. I felt his carotid artery and there was no pulse. The moon cast an eerie spotlight on his corpse. I was terror-stricken and frozen with fear. Harmony and Jakie placed their arms around me like a family. Harmony pleaded, “You have to run, Mickey. Don’t worry about us. We’ll be ok”. They hugged and kissed me. For the first time, I knew what it felt like to be loved like a father. I reached into Rance’s pocket, removed his wallet, and found three hundred bucks which I gave to Harmony. I told her to get a jar of honey or syrup and bring it to me along with some clean cloth to wrap up my bleeding knuckles with. When she returned, I doused the corpse from head to toe with honey and maple syrup. I ordered Harmony and Jakie into the trailer after farewell hugs and kisses. I dragged his body into the woods hoping the syrup and honey would entice the bears to eat the corpse. I ran for home assuming I’d spend my life in prison but also prayed life would be kind to Harmony and Jakie.
I returned home and found grandpa and dad watching TV whilst drinking beer. From the expression on my face and bandaged hands, they knew I was in serious trouble. My pop shouted, “What did you go and do son?”
“I killed Rance Dirksen because he was abusing Priscilla and Jakie. I couldn’t help myself. What do I do?”
My father rose from his lounge chair, grabbed me by the shoulders saying, “Did you have to defend yourself, son?”
“Yes, dad”.
The subject of defending my actions in court never came up. We didn’t have the money to hire a skilled attorney to defend me and knew the Public Defender’s office couldn’t get me off the hook. Dad paced the living room before coming up with a suggestion, “You got to get to Mexico!”
Grandpa interjected saying, “Mexico has extradition laws, son. You have one choice and that’s to find a country with no extradition laws. I read about Cole Porter’s life in the French Foreign Legion. If you’re accepted, the Legion will give you a new identity and a second chance at life as a French citizen.”
Dad argued, “Come on pop, this isn’t the movies. He doesn’t speak French, and never travelled outside the US. He doesn’t even have a passport. Besides, he’s only seventeen.”
I think Grandpa had anticipated this calamity and said, “Grab your brother’s passport in my night stand and the roll of money under my mattress. You resemble your brother and the passport shows you as 21. The Legion will take you if you pass their physical and psychological tests, no questions asked, providing you with a new identity. They’ll want five years of your life and it will be hell. They’ll work you hard and send you into some tough scrapes. You may not make it back alive but it’s better than facing a manslaughter charge which will become Murder One at the hands of the Sheriff whose primary election donor was Rance’s father.”
Pop agreed, “Son, dad’s right. Leave for the Denver airport now and catch the first flight out of the country”.
Grandpa added, “Board the quickest flight to Paris. Ask the Parisian cab driver to drop you in front of the French Foreign Legion Battalion. Leave your identification with us and from now on, use only your
brother’s passport. Memorize his date of birth, height, weight, color of his eyes, and anything else you remember about him. Do what you’re told and don’t volunteer any information. The less they know the better. Forget about packing and take only the clothes on your back. There can’t be any communication between us for the next five years. Not even a post card. Now leave before the cops come looking for you.”
As I stepped onto the porch to waive goodbye, grandpa shouted, “Boy, I don’t know how this will end up for you but you’re in for one hell of a bronco ride!”
Dad stood motionless and waved goodbye. He was the same stoic father I remember at the breakfast table when he said mom wasn’t coming home. Not a single tear flowed from his eyes but he had that faraway look as if he’d never see me again.
The passport was a gift from my dead brother I could never repay. We both had brown hair, brown eyes, and were close in height and weight. Along with a new identity and a second chance, I would face new obstacles and opportunities, if, I survived the Legion. I drove four hours to Denver International Airport, careful to obey the traffic laws. I arrived in time to find a Delta flight to Atlanta where I bought a ticket on an Air France flight to Paris. The entire trip would take about twelve hours flying overnight and dropping me in Paris in the morning. I was nervous purchasing the tickets but all went well as the cute ticket agent flirted with a young cowboy. Passing through TSA wasn’t a sure thing. The TSA agent looked me up and down before asking me, “What day and year was I born?” Fortunately, I answered correctly, and was passed through. I took in a big sigh of relief when the Airbus lifted off for Paris.
We landed on a rainy, early morning in Paris, and I was wearing only my denim jacket, jeans, boots, and cowboy hat inviting stares throughout Charles de Gaulle Airport. Passing through French Customs was a cinch because the early morning lines weren’t long. The French Customs official was a matronly older woman who quickly looked me up and down, glanced at my passport, and waved me through, chuckling, “Enjoy your stay, Midnight Cowboy.’’
I hailed a taxi and told the driver who was an immigrant to “take me to the French Foreign Legion”. He couldn’t understand English. An elderly Parisian man, wearing a World War II battle ribbon, standing at the taxi stand overheard my conversation, poked his head into the cab, and instructed the driver, “Take him to the French Foreign Legion at Fort Nogent.’’
The driver pulled away from the curb and I waved goodbye to the helpful veteran. The drive was punctuated by loud music from the radio which prevented me from sleeping. I managed to doze off and was awoken by the driver poking me, and pointing to a fortress resembling a prison named, “Foreign Legion”
It was drizzling and the fort was closed. I found a position outside the gates and slept. Some time during the morning, I was awoken by the pitter patter of a young man running back to his mother after leaving off a croissant and cup of coffee for me. He reminded me of Jakie. I tipped my hat in appreciation. I fell back asleep and was revisited by my dream. I dreamt of people herded like cattle onto box cars and a husband and wife gripping a little boy and little girl’s hands as they were ordered to board by shouting soldiers. I awoke to the heel of a boot striking me in the face, and immediately leapt to my feet ready to beat my PE teacher, but found the baton of a Sergeant of the Foreign Legion thrust into my groin pressing me to the gate. He placed his face close to mine, and with glee asked, “You here to join the Legion cowboy?’’
‘’Yes, sir.’’
He removed the baton from my groin, unlocked the gate, and chided me further, ‘’You’ll learn to respect a Legionnaire!’’
He motioned for me to follow him to his spartan office with concrete walls adorned with photos of French battle campaigns. A lone, squeaky ceiling fan, cooled the office, and the French flag proudly stood erect behind his desk. The Sergeant was French, stocky, short, and looked to be nearing retirement age. His head was shaved bald, and he wore a neatly trimmed, Van Dyke style beard. His face had a knife scar. I knew he was a battle hardened soldier He motioned for me to sit saying, ‘’The Legion shall teach you to speak French!’’ He demanded my passport, inspected it, and further questioned me, ‘’This isn't you cowboy. Perhaps your brother or relative? It doesn't matter, I've seen all the tricks. We'll give you a new name before you leave here.’’ He reached for my hands and examined them carefully. My hands showed a hard life of work and fighting. He looked me in the eye, and asked, ‘’Why are you running cowboy? Kill somebody?’’
He pounded on a bell atop his desk and I heard the boots of a man running towards the office. A young Eurasian corporal entered, stood at attention, and shouted, ‘’Yes, Sergeant. Corporal Pham at your service!’’
.
I suspected he was the company clerk to the Sergeant. His khaki uniform was impeccably pressed; boots shined like mirrors, and he wore his white Kapi hat proudly. The corporal couldn’t have been older than twenty one. He was about 5’7”, slightly built; his jet black hair was shaven close on the sides and allowed to grow thick on the top of his head which he combed back. He was handsome. His hands weren’t so attractive. They were scarred, and his knuckles enlarged, suggesting a life of fighting. The Sergeant kept my passport, handed me an enlistment paper to sign, and motioned for me to strip naked. The corporal photographed me from every angle possible with particular attention paid to my hands scarred by a life of fighting. The Sergeant commented, “You're circumcised. You don't look Jewish but I will name you after Jewish nobility. I chose, "David Kohan". The Kohan's were Jews of the priestly class. Your new identity will serve you well during the next five years.’’ The Sergeant ordered the Corporal, ‘’Get this cowboy situated. You’ll be his guide through the examination process.’’ The Sergeant motioned us out of the office.
It was humiliating walking naked through the Spartan bunkhouse, greeted with “cat calls” and whistles by the inductees playing cards or laying in their beds. It didn’t matter to them that Pham was a Corporal who didn’t stop the taunting. I suspect he didn’t want to show any favoritism, which I respected. Pham led me to a storeroom where he provided me underwear, sweatpants, sweatshirt, socks, and sneakers. He also provided me soap, deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, and shampoo. He told me I would be housed and fed within the barracks for a week while I underwent physical, psychological, and medical tests.
The barracks was a just an open room with rows of bunk beds, ceiling fans, and walls with Legionnaire posters whose purpose was to motivate the recruits. In the center of the barracks, there were tables where we would sit, take our meals, read, or play card games. Similar to a prison, the tables were occupied by “gangs” of sorts. One table was occupied by “badass” Russians and Eastern Europeans with prison tats suggesting former gang affiliations and hard prison time; one table was “owned” by Middle Eastern Muslims; one table for the Asians; one table for those from Spanish-speaking countries; and another table for citizens of the former British colonies including, Australia, Canada, and South Africa. An old splinter-ridden table and bench, located at the back of the barracks, were for the Blacks. There were no women in the Legion and I was the only American.
Pham suggested I not leave the base as I might be apprehended by Interpol or ripped off by thieves. He was a very thoughtful and unusually sensitive man to be in the Legion. Pham and I began spending our leisure time together and I suffered taunts from the other recruits suggesting a sexual relationship between Corporal Pham and I which wasn’t the case. Given Pham’s status as a corporal, he enjoyed a private bedroom. I admired the many photos of Pham engaged in martial arts contests and trophies which adorned his room. He took notice, and commented, “The day I photographed you, I noticed you had the scarred hands of a fighter like me. We’re brothers of sorts both fighting for survival on the streets of life.” He taught me to play Vietnamese card games, “Tien Lien” and “Catte”. We enjoyed French wines, champagnes, caviar, and pate’. Pham befriended me much like Harmony, kindly and tenderly probing for information in an attempt to understand me as a man. I developed a friendship and respect for him. I suspected he was homosexual or bisexual. He knew I was straight and harbored no expectations other than friendship. He was eager to teach me French, the history and traditions of the Legion, and provided me with a speedy course in the life of a Legionnaire which would serve me well when I entered basic-training known as “The Farm”.
Pham was fascinated with the American west asking me about cowboy life, Wyoming, riding horses, herding cattle, and the rodeo. He dreamed of living in San Francisco or L.A. where he would learn to style hair and become a makeup artist for the stars. Our bond as friends grew stronger because we were both abandoned by our mothers. Pham was saddened when I told him I was abandoned by my mother, and became melancholy when he told me his mother threw him out of the house. He didn’t say why and I didn’t want to hurt him by asking. Because he never knew his father, Pham was very interested in learning about my father, and all I said was, “He’s a hard working, strong, silent type”.
Pham exclaimed, “Ah, like John Wayne?”
I replied, “Not exactly, and not paid as much!”
In later conversations as Pham came to trust me, he related to me that he was born to a prostitute mother and her Legionnaire trick in Hanoi. His mother threw him out of the house at age twelve because she couldn’t afford to feed him and thought he could make a life for himself on the streets of Hanoi as a male prostitute. Although he never knew his father, Pham idolized him and chose to join the Legion in his honor while escaping the poverty of Hanoi.
It didn’t take long for the Sergeant naming me “David Kohan” to have its desired effect. It was commonplace for me to be called a “Kike”, “Hebe” or “Jew boy”. One evening as I prepared to sleep, I found my pillow case marked, “Israel belongs to the Palestinians”. The verbal taunts were annoying but nobody wanted to pick a fight with me, because it would destroy their chance of joining the Legion and they all feared Corporal Pham.
I discussed the anti-Semitism with Pham who opened my mind to the situation. He suggested, “The easy way out for you Mickey is to let the dumb bastards know you’re not Jewish, maybe they’ll believe it, and stop taunting you. Like it or not, your beautiful new name and identity bestows upon you a duty to honor the memory of those defenseless Jews throughout the ages who suffered. You’re an honorable man and would never disavow your duty.”
Pham struck a nerve in me. I could only imagine the homosexual taunts he endured yet he was the most “spit and polished”, perfect example of a Legionnaire, the French could deserve. Pham said, “Mickey, become the best example of a Legionnaire. When you find yourself fighting for your life, those anti-Semitic jerks will have your back. Let them taunt you now because one day they will depend upon you to have their backs.” Pham was wise, and I decided from that moment on, to wear my name, David Kohan, proudly.
It was a hot, sticky, Paris night, and our last day before we received our assignments in the morning. I was alone in the barracks as everybody else was in Paris partying. I fell into a deep sleep but was awoken by Pham gently sitting on the edge of my bed dressed in a smartly pressed Legionnaire bathrobe. Pham was always conscious of his appearance in uniform and out. He brought two cognac snifters and a bottle of cognac, pouring each of us a drink. Pham apologized for waking me, “You passed all of the tests and will be assigned to basic training tomorrow. I can arrange for you to be assigned here to the Regimental Administration office. It will be an easy five year enlistment and we can remain friends. I show you France and when our enlistments are up, you’ll take me to America, yes?”
I couldn’t stand being cooped up any longer, and hungered for adventure. I told Pham, “Thank you, my friend. My nickname is “Mustang” because I can’t be corralled. I need to wander free to run, explore, and fight. I want to join a kick ass infantry brigade.” Pham looked disappointed and reached into the pocket of his robe removing an intricately braided, handmade, leather necklace adorned with a silver elephant and gold Star of David. He gently raised my head from the pillow and placed it around my neck. He then placed each of his hands on both of my cheeks, and kissed each cheek which was customary in France. Pham told me, “Wear this necklace always, Mustang. The elephant will protect you and bring you good fortune. The Star of David will remind you of your duty to lost, suffering souls. I will remember you fondly and you’ll always be in my prayers. I hope one day we meet again in America.”
Pham raised his snifter glass, I followed, and we repeated together, “We drink to the Legion, France, and to our friendship.”
We both downed our cognac. It tasted beautiful and warmed my throat. I asked, “By the way, Pham, whatever happened to my western wear I arrived with?”
“They’re burned along with the rest of the filthy recruit clothing, but I did save your beautiful boots thinking you’d want them back”.
“Keep them as my gift to you, my friend. I hope they fit. ”
Pham was humbled, proud to own a piece of the American west, and could only muster a subdued, “Thank you, Mustang. It’s the most wonderful gift I’ve ever received.” He was touched and made a hasty retreat from the barracks with the bottle of cognac I presumed he would finish easing his emotions. My friendship with Pham made me a stronger and wiser man.
The following morning, we stood at attention within the barracks in our starched, camouflage uniforms, and eagerly awaited our orders to basic training consisting of four months of grueling training at “The Farm” which was the 4th Foreign Infantry Regiment in Southern France. I stood at attention until each soldier was read his orders to report for training. I guess the Sergeant left his favorite recruit for last. Pham read my orders, “The 2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment”.
The Sergeant approached me, stared me squarely in the face, and told me the reason for his hostility towards me, “I’m grateful for the American’s liberation of France from Germany, and I pay tribute to the fallen American soldiers every year at the American Cemetery in Normandy on the anniversary of D-Day, but I have a love-hate relationship with America. I hate Americans, especially cowboys, because the French fought alongside the colonists against the British, we gave you democracy, the Statue of Liberty, and you repay our generosity with slavery, theft of Indian lands, Jim Crow laws, and want to close the doors to immigrants.
“Your western films are garbage. It took the Europeans to accurately depict the American west. Americans use of white hats and black hats depicting good and evil is absurd. There is only grey in battle.
“You’re going to learn to jump from planes, fire sophisticated weapons, drive armored vehicles, and kill for Mother France. In a sense, cowboy, you’ll repay the debt America owes to France.
I wish you good luck, Legionnaire David Kohan.”
The Sergeant saluted me, leaned in, and kissed me on both cheeks. I caught a glimpse of Pham with teary eyes before shouting, “Regiment dismissed. Gather your gear. The bus to “The Farm” leaves in thirty minutes.”
It was a quiet eight hour bus ride to “The Farm” as everybody envisioned their respective fates: Were we courageous soldiers or simply the damned?
The four months of basic training was difficult, but I had a tough upbringing in the wilds of Wyoming, and was familiar with firearms. In fact, I considered it a four month holiday compared to the specter of a prison stretch for murder back home. Firing the high powered weapons was like grabbing the ears of a dragon, and I enjoyed watching the fire and death pour from its muzzle. It helped me release pent up hatred, anger, and made me a stone cold-killing machine winning praise for my marksmanship. The marches were long, tedious, and I’d place the rigors of my basic training on “The Farm” up against any in the world including the Marines. Many of my fellow recruits were unable to finish the training and returned to their home countries.
The 2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment was considered the most elite division within the Legion. It was always first into a fight, and the last out. I was a standout recruit and never encountered anti-Semitism again. Skydiving was a job I loved and I couldn’t believe I was being paid to do it. All my living expenses were paid for by the Legion including a salary of about 2000 Euros per month which would leave me with a nest egg at the end of five years of approximately 80,000 Euros, after taxes, which I might use to start a business.
It was in the black of night when our Regiment parachuted into Kharkush, a high mountain in Afghanistan, dotted with caves. I leapt from the plane into the cold night air excited to see action and meet Americans again. We were to join forces with an American SEAL team who had already taken position at one of the caves wherein a Taliban spy was believed to have been hiding. He was given only a number, “DOA#2”, which was short for, “Dead or alive, number two”. Working as a translator for the US Army, he had fingered the position of French and American troops at a “FOB” (Forward Operating Base) resulting in the death of many soldiers at the hands of the Taliban.
Daylight broke, and we communicated with the SEAL team who was stationed within the bowels of the cave. There were twelve of us and I was one of only six sent into the cave while the others stood watch at the entrance. I prayed no Taliban was watching with his finger on the switch of an IUD, exploding the mouth to the cave and entombing us forever. We entered the dark cave and managed to find our way to the SEAL team with night vision glasses mounted to our helmets. The farther and deeper into the cave we marched, the more claustrophobic it felt. It was like being within a dead woman’s womb. There was no life inside and fortunately no Taliban resistance. We spent hours walking the twisting and turning cave. I had another dream that night.
It included the same family being herded off a boxcar, and a crying little boy and girl, snatched from their parents’ hands, forever separated. The screams of the parents were horrifying and I awoke in a cold sweat. The shock of my dream was interrupted by a SEAL operator shouting,
“We got him!”
We ran about one fifty yards into a bedroom size opening where DOA102 had been living alone for months. The cave was strewn with garbage and smelled of urine and excrement. I was surprised to find DOA102 to be an old, frail man, with a long grey beard, dirty long hair, and a torn robe. He was relieved to meet fellow humans again like a prisoner being released from solitary confinement. A SEAL team operator searched him and found no weapons. Other SEAL team operators searched the cave thoroughly and found no booby traps. The commander of the SEAL team was a Lieutenant, and told us, “We can take him dead or alive. All I need is a DNA sample and a photo of the corpse. Let me see a show of hands for taking him alive.”
I remembered the white hat/black hats sermon of my Sergeant and knew there was no right or wrong in battle. Only grey. I regretted killing Rance despite the atrocities he committed. I’d rather see the old Taliban, like Rance, face a court of law. Not a single hand rose but I held my hand high which was met by the Lieutenant commenting, “Ah, one “Frog” has a conscious. I’m sorry but the nays have it.”
Just as a SEAL operator pointed his rifle at DOA102’s forehead, the old man dropped to his knees, weeping, and spoke in broken English, “I’m sorry we were enemies. I hope we meet in the after-life as friends. I ask only that you take my life quickly and dispose of me by Muslim traditions. Allah 'akbar.”(Allah is the greatest).
A single shot rang out hitting the old man between the eyes throwing him backward with a gruesome look of horror on his face and wide open eyes. The Lieutenant asked if there was a Muslim on the team to assist with the burial, and fortunately, it was a Legionnaire who stepped forward. He did his best to cleanse the corpse with water from a canteen, pointed the body toward Mecca, and covered it with shreds of white clothing mimicking a shroud. The Muslim Legionnaire gently closed the old man’s eyes and mouth before reciting a Muslim prayer, "We belong to Allah and to Allah we shall return."
The Lieutenant plucked hair samples and placed them into a plastic bag before taking pictures of the corpse. DOA102 was quickly buried and we all left the cave.
The SEAL’s and Legionnaires decided to camp outside the mouth of the cave for the evening after we permanently closed the entrance with rocket propelled grenades. We shared rations; the SEAL’s preferring the French “MRE’s” (Meals Ready to Eat) to the American equivalent. Later in the evening, I was approached by the SEAL Lieutenant who introduced himself as, “Lieutenant Jonathan Hirsch from Montauk, New York”.
I introduced myself, “David Kohan from Casper, Wyoming”.
Hirsch lit up, “You American? What the hell is a nice Jewish boy from Casper doing in the Legion?”
“It’s a long story.”
Hirsch was sharp and intuitively surmised, “The less I know the better. Want to go home after your tour?”
“I’d like to Lieutenant but I’m in serious trouble back home.”
Hirsch leaned in close to keep our conversation confidential and suggested, “The Legion gave you a new identity. You don’t look Jewish but I consider you a member of the “tribe” having the guts to wear the Star of David around your neck, so here is my advice. When your tour is up, apply for a visa to the US. Did you ever have your fingerprints taken, a DNA sample, or retina scan?”
“No Sir. I never even had a driver license.”
“Good. You’ll arrive in the States under a French passport with no DNA or fingerprint identification showing you were an American. Go to a Navy recruiting office and tell them you want to enlist. I recommend Navy because of your Legionnaire experience. They’ll fast track you into BUDS training if you request it. I think you have the grit to make it through SEAL training, serve your time, get an honorable discharge, and you’ll live as David Kohan on a permanent visa issued as a gift for your military service to the United States. You’ll likely earn your citizenship back.”
It all made sense to me and I was flabbergasted by the possibility of a new start in America with the money I saved in the Legion. I just had to stay alive. The Lieutenant was preparing to leave for his team but I had to ask, “Thank you for the advice Lieutenant, but why the hell did a nice Jewish boy from Montauk join the SEALS?”
He answered, “When those towers came crashing down in flames, it reminded me of the stories my grandparents told of the smoke stacks of Auschwitz. I wanted revenge, so I left a cushy job which is waiting for me and joined the SEALS. If you make it back to the States, look me up. By the way, I admire you for raising your hand to save the old man’s life”. He handed me a business card reading, “David Hirsch, Attorney at Law”.
Four and one half years had passed since I joined the Legion. The days consisted mostly of drills with occasional deployments. The Legion wanted me to re-enlist, promising to promote me to Sergeant but I was eager to get home. I missed my pop and grandfather and wanted to reunite with them somewhere outside Casper where I couldn’t be recognized. I had gotten in touch with Lieutenant Hirsch who had returned to the practice of law, and assured me he would smooth over the Navy and SEAL recruitment process with high level Navy contacts he had cultivated. I was excited about returning home and was counting the days.
With one month left on my five year enlistment, my team was called into duty to rescue a notable French journalist with an Israeli film crew working near the border of Iraq and Iran. Their chopper inadvertently crossed into Iranian airspace and forced to land in a terrible sandstorm clogging the propeller system of the chopper. It wouldn’t be long for the Iranian’s to seize a valuable “bargaining chip” with Israel and France. We mobilized immediately and flew into Israel to meet up with the IDF to coordinate the rescue. We all stood as the “commander” of the mission entered the room. It was a woman wearing no military insignia except for the standard green IDF duty uniform. She introduced herself as “Rebecca” and admitted to being a Mossad agent. She was short with flaming red, wavy hair, physically fit, and a tough as nails, no nonsense woman in her late twenties. The IDF soldiers were a mixture of Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jews, most wearing yarmulkes and beards denoting they were orthodox Jews. My team were handpicked Legionnaires I trained with for years and could count on in a fire fight. The briefing was simple. We’d fly in taking two stealth helicopters, extract the living and the dead, fight if necessary, and return home. Rebecca concluded by saying, “Mossad intel indicates the Iranian Revolutionary Guard is also racing to the crash site.”
At the conclusion of the briefing, Rebecca approached me in the hallway. She was curious about me, asking, “David Kohan? French Foreign Legion? Casper, Wyoming? Quite an eclectic resume you have, David. Have you learned any French?”
“Enough to keep me alive”.
She broke a smile and said, “I’ll keep my eyes on you, David!”
I sarcastically replied, “How many languages do you speak, “Red?”
She didn’t appear offended by the nickname and quickly recited, “Hebrew, English, Farsi, Arabic, French, Italian, and many more. If we get out of this alive, maybe we’ll discover more about each other over dinner.”
Rebecca reminded me of the strong but womanly cowgirls back home. My dad told me mom also had a quick wit and sharp tongue. I wanted to see her after the mission, knowing she was a very special woman.
Time was of the essence and we had only two practice missions before departing. As the sun set, we boarded the helicopter, buckled in, and took off. Rebecca was riding in the back-up copter so it was just my team and the IDF in the lead helicopter. We made small talk, exchanged cigarettes, and talked about our home towns. A couple of the IDF soldiers took out boxes with leather straps, prayed, and wrapped them around their arms. I asked, “What’s that all about?”
I was rebuffed by the commander of the IDF squad, pointing to the Star of David on my collar, reading my name-plate, and chastising me, “You’re a Kohan! You don’t know?” I was embarrassed, but admitted the name was given to me by the Legion as a “joke” to make my life in the Legion more difficult. Another IDF soldier asked, “So, how is life as a Jew treating you?”
“Difficult at first but ask me at the end of this mission.” Everybody laughed knowing our mission was dangerous.
We landed in a terrible standstorm. Each soldier jumped from the helicopter taking up a position forming a perimeter in case there was resistance. Fortunately, the French female journalist and her Israeli crew were still alive, huddled inside the downed chopper shielding them from the standstorm. Rebecca was first to approach them, and quickly identified each of them, lest it be an ambush. She led them to her helicopter where one of my Legionnaires trained as a paramedic administered IV liquids and other medical treatments. Both helicopters safely took off and headed back to Israel through Iraq under the protection of a US Air Force escort.
During the flight back, both teams were exhausted, quiet, and some chose to nap. I learned each of the members of the IDF had relatives who fled Nazi occupied Europe and many never made it out alive, perishing in the concentration camps. Their families arrived in Israel with nothing, and were grateful to make a new life in a thriving, young democratic nation. Many of the soldiers had relatives in the States, and I was besieged by a multitude of questions about American popular culture, Wyoming, cowboy life, until I fell asleep.
The little boy from my dream reappeared. He stood in line as his clothes were ripped from him. He stood naked with other little boys and grown men who cried for their mothers, wives or loved ones. Each boy or man was rudely examined by a Nazi doctor and marked with an “X” or an “O”. The little boy had a black “X” placed on his back and was led outside naked, shoeless, into the cold, snowy day, and towards a large building marked,
Duschen und Cafeteria
(Showers and Cafeteria)
There were cries of hope that food and a hot shower awaited them but the unfortunate men and boys found only an empty chamber with no room anywhere but to stand. The little boy cried looking for his sister, mother, and father. The doors slammed shut and a hissing sound came from the ceilings. As it became apparent to the adults that it was no shower or cafeteria, they screamed and ran for the doors and walls trampling the children. The room filled with poisonous gas and bodies began to tumble with vomit, urine, and feces flowing from the dying.
I woke to the pilot handing me a headphone which I placed on my head and heard the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard softly say, “David, your team did a wonderful job today. See you on the ground in Israel and we’ll plan our dinner.“ I handed the headphones back to the IDF soldier who remarked, “David, you had one hell of a dream. Please share it with somebody who understands you because nightmares can get the best of you over time.“ He was right. I’d share it with Rebecca.
We landed safely in Israel. The journalist and Israeli camera crew were taken to the hospital. Rebecca held a short debriefing, thanking us for a job well done. As a gesture of gratitude, the State of Israel had arranged a week-long pass for each member of the team including hotel, meals, tours, etc. My time in the Legion would be up in a week and my thoughts turned to my future.
Rebecca approached me after the debriefing saying, “I arranged for you to stay at the “King David Hotel“ in Jerusalem. It’s a five star hotel and within walking distance to many of the treasures of Israel. I would like to be your personal tour guide. May I?“ I grabbed her, held her close, and passionately kissed Rebecca. It was primal. My kiss was met by the most sensual, loving, response I had experienced in my life. It felt like we had known each other our entire lives. We eagerly awaited our meeting in the lobby of the hotel in the morning. An IDF driver was assigned to take me to the hotel in Jerusalem about an hours drive away.
We met in the lobby as planned. Rebecca was beautiful. Her flaming red, wavy hair, hung beneath her shoulders and her white cotton dress accentuated her athletic physique. We greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek, and her perfume was lavender but not overpowering. We sat for coffee and enjoyed a light breakfast before heading out for a whirlwind tour of Jerusalem, she had arranged. Our driver, Shlomo, had the stature and look of a Mossad bodyguard. He and I exchanged a firm handshake signifying we were both warriors.
We spent the day visiting both old and new Jerusalem; the Western Wall; The Jewish quarter and the Christian quarter. I wasn’t raised with religion, so much of the religious history was lost on me , but I was mesmerized to be in the company of Rebecca as she explained the relevance of the many historical sites we visited. Shlomo had packed a bag of drinks and snacks to see us through the long day. The day passed quickly and Shlomo delivered us to a romantic, roof top restaurant above a hotel on King Solomon Street with a commanding view of Old Jerusalem. It wasn’t lost on me that Shlomo took a table just far enough away to provide us privacy but close enough to leap into action, if necessary. He didn’t order alcohol. Rebecca was a high level Mossad agent, and a lowly Legionnaire from Casper, Wyoming was fortunate to be her dinner date.
Rebecca politely asked if she could make the dinner selections, assuring me I would enjoy the variety of foods she selected. We began with a bottle of Kosher wine, and, as the alcohol took effect, we both let our guards down, speaking to each other earnestly. Rebecca told me she was an only child growing up in an extended family. Her parents were both high-level government officials and her ancestors were leaders in the formation of the State of Israel back in the late forties. She attended Harvard, returned home to join the IDF, and was recruited by the Mossad. Rebecca said she had a wonderful career including travel and adventure. I asked her, “Why didn’t you get married?“
Rebecca took a sip of wine and answered, “I had plenty of suitors but I’m picky despite pressures from my parents to marry and raise a family.“ Rebecca appeared melancholy about being single and childless explaining, “For now, I’m married to the Mossad. Tell me about you. What was it like growing up in the wild west like a cowboy?“
“Like anywhere else, but more freedom and fewer people. More time to just be a kid and take life as it comes. I was always restless and resented authority, which got me into trouble and led to my leaving the States.“
“But you’ve adjusted to authority by becoming a Legionnaire?“
“Yeah, but when you have no where to run, you make the best of any second chance afforded you. I love the Legion and will always be grateful to it.“
“What will you do when your enlistment is up, Mickey?“
“I’d like to return home to see my dad and grandpa. We’ve been out of touch for almost five years , but I’m afraid of being recognized and arrested. Let’s face it, Rebecca, as a Mossad agent, you know my life’s story so don’t make me rehash it“.
Rebecca held my hand and asked, “Do you think about your mother, Priscilla, and Jakie?“
I became sad and was choking up. “Yes, I do. Kids deserve to grow up with two parents including myself, although dad and grandpa did their best.“
“Do you miss your brother?“
“He was about ten years older so I barely knew him. He enjoyed fishing, hunting, and driving around in his truck“. Rebecca apologized, “Mickey, I ask so many questions because I want to know you intimately. Your background investigation made mention of a recurring terrible dream you have. Tell me about it, please?“
“I’ve been plagued by a dream of a Jewish family pesecuted by the Nazis. It started in Wyoming in high school when I dreamt about a family’s home being broken into by soldiers. Throughout the dream, an old woman cried out to me, “Come back to us!“ I grew up in the wilds of Wyoming and never knew a Jew. So why do I have these dreams, Rebecca?“
“You were witnessing a holocaust tragedy.“
“In the Legion, the dream continued to haunt me depicting a well-to-do family being herded on to box cars, delivered to a concentration camp, then separated.“
I was becoming tense and my hand was shaking. I reached for my glass of wine and downed it quickly. “Take your time, darling,“ Rebecca calmed me.
“There was a little boy who had been stripped, examined by a hack doctor, an “X“ painted on his back, and placed in line with a group of men and boys who marched to a building they thought was a shower room and cafeteria“. I covered my eyes to shield my teary eyes from Rebecca. “I can’t go on, Rebecca, it’s too painful.“
“Please finish, Mickey. Talking about it is good for you.“
“The line of boys and men were led into a room, the door slammed closed, and they were gassed to death. The adult men trampled the boys in a desperate attempt to flee.“ I was visibly shaken.
Rebecca brought my face to her bosom and stroked my hair, saying, “ Do you still have the nightmare?“
“I fear it’s return every night. Why do I have this terrible dream, Rebecca?“
“We’ll never know, darling, but sometimes in life we’re visited by messengers who lead us to our destinies. I believe your destiny was to live in Israel and do good work with the skills you’ve learned“. She dipped the napkin in the water glass, wiped my teary eyes, and said, “That’s enough for now“. Rebecca knew it was time to break the somber mood, and suggested,“Let’s enjoy a light desert and after-dinner drink“. From the corner of my eye, I saw Shlomo wipe a tear from his eye.
We returned to the hotel and proceeded to my suite with a commanding view of Jerusalem. We held each other and kissed passionately on the balcony. Soon, we were locked in a loving embrace in bed. I was making love and not having sex for the first time in my life. As we fell asleep in each others arms, we soon would come to learn, we conceived a beautiful son.
I received my Legionnaire pension and stayed on in Jerusalem. Rebecca invited me to move into her flat in the beautiful old quarter of Jerusalem. It felt nice being domesticated. We frequented the markets together, cooked, visited the many historical sites, and I was happy.
Rebecca arranged a family picnic where I met her parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles all of whom liked me. Many of the men were former IDF officers who respected my service, and the women feigned over Rebecca’s cowboy friend. When we had a moment alone, Rebecca told me she was pregnant, “Mickey, you’ve provided me a wonderful gift and I’m pleased to raise the child by myself. I don’t expect you to marry me, but I’m certain you’ll want to be a part of your son’s life, won’t you?“
“Of course.“
“I‘ll have to retire from the Mossad because I can’t raise a baby with the demands of the job but there’s a need in Israel for a professional, private security team for hire to protect foregin journalists, high net-worth tourists, and corporate chieftains. Between my Mossad contacts and your experience in the Legion, we can start a successful business here in Israel, if you stay.“
I knew the necessity of being raised by both a mother and a father. I loved Rebecca and said, “I’ll marry you but won‘t convert to Judaism. I’ve come to respect the Jewish religion, admire it’s people and traditions, but I’m not a Jew and won’t pretend to be one.“
Rebecca held me tight and whispered, “You’re a wonderful man and only need to be a loving father and husband you’re capable of being. My parents will insist on a traditional Jewish wedding, but no pressures for you to convert, I promise. You wear the Star of David and I think the dream was somebody communicating to you from beyond the grave leading you to me and Israel. I believe you already are Jewish but don’t know it.“
We were married at Trask, a beautiful wedding venue adjacent to the port of Tel Aviv. I was busy mingling but caught a glimpse of the Prime Minister of Israel paying respects to Rebecca’s parents. It was the most wonderful day of my life next to the birth of my son months later.
Through Rebecca’s Mossad contacts, our security firm had more business than we could handle. We named our company after the national flower of Israel, “Cyclamen Protection Services”. Our business model was to move quickly, intelligently, with stealth, and to avoid shedding blood whenever possible. I hired a dozen of my former Legionnaires, including Boris, one of the anti-Semite Russians from my barracks who turned out to be the hardest working, most dependable mensch of the team. I remembered Pham’s promise to me that they would “have my back”. The security team was rounded out with handpicked former IDF soldiers Rebecca highly recommended.
The phone rang at home one evening, and we were told by the Mossad that the President of an Israeli bank, his wife, infant daughter, and elderly mother-in-law had been abducted outside a restaurant in Tel Aviv. They were driven into Damascus, Syria, and held for ransom. The Mossad concluded the four kidnappers were amateur criminals not finding no terrorist links. The Mossad believed the motivation for the kidnapping was financial, not political, and concluded that sending in a private team to complete the rescue was politically expedient. Rebecca sprung into action working her many Mossad and IDF contacts which revealed the exact whereabouts of the hotel the family was being held. Our team was assembled of mostly Sephardic, former IDF soldiers so as to blend in with the Syrian hotel staff. They took jobs as room service waiters and a maid. The former Legionnaire team members proceeded to the hotel checking in as “French tourists”. Like the old west not being black or white as depicted by my Sergeant, neither is the Middle East. The Syrian owner of the hotel was friendly to Israel, and would profit financially by cooperating with us. The hotel owner confirmed the four kidnappers and family had checked into the penthouse suite of the low-rise hotel located in the center of Damascus. Our team checked in one floor below the penthouse and positioned listening devices to the ceiling to monitor the penthouse above, confirming the number of kidnappers to be four, confirming all family members were alive, and inside the penthouse. Although the intelligence report on the kidnappers concluded they were “amateur” criminals, we came prepared with a lethal arsenal capable of quashing the most formidable foes. The Sephardic IDF team blended in well as room service attendants and a maid, speaking fluent Arabic, and knowing the local customs. They quickly learned every way in and out of the hotel and produced an extraction plan. Demands for ransom were made over the following week and the family members were being treated well. The meal schedule was consistent with dinner arriving at 9:00, including a child’s dinner consisting of Mac “N “Cheese, pizza, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The Sephardic female team-member, assuming the role of a housekeeper, would arrive at the penthouse and offer maid service. It was necessary to cleverly manufacture a reason for entry because the hostage takers wouldn’t permit anybody into the suite. It had been days since the suite had been cleaned and the hostage takers welcomed the housekeeper who knocked and announced,
“Maid service, sir. May I enter and freshen up your suite?”
A young kidnapper unlocked the door, and invited her to enter with her cleaning cart which wasn’t searched. Secreted within it were both lethal and non-lethal weaponry. She quickly located the mother, father, child, and elderly grandmother who were watching television in the master bedroom. She didn’t leave them, pretending to clean the room with the goal of providing protection to them when all hell broke out. It didn’t take long.
Another knock at the door was heard and the young kidnapper peered through the eye hole identifying three room-service attendants with serving carts of food. He opened the door allowing them to enter with their carts also hiding weaponry. A shout was heard from the commander of the kidnappers, who took his eyes off a soccer match,
“You fool! I told you nobody to come inside. All of you leave immediately!”
He reached for an assault rifle but was quickly shot by a tranquilizer gun by one of the room service team who quickly moved with the others throughout the apartment locating kidnappers. Two kidnappers were sleeping in one of the bedrooms and sedated just they were awoken by the commotion. My operator, Boris, took pride in sedating a fourth kidnapper as he sat on the toilet reading the newspaper. The kidnappers were gagged and tightly bound. No blood was shed. The sedative would keep them asleep for hours. Our team instructed everybody to leave just with the clothes on their backs as not to overburden the escape helicopter with extra weight. An air ambulance helicopter with the Muslim Red Crescent landed on the roof to extract us. The young kidnapper who opened the door permitting our team to enter was a paid Mossad informant, and chose to maintain his “cover”. After receiving a self inflicted black eye and other evidence of a struggle, he too, was sedated, gagged, bound, and left for the authorities to interrogate with the others.
The hotel owner had reported the heart attack of a VIP guest to the hospital which sent the air ambulance helicopter immediately to the rooftop. We knew the police would soon arrive providing us only precious minutes to climb the stairwell onto the roof, enter the helicopter, and take off before the unsympathetic Damascus police arrived. We all boarded, as our pilot gave the “wheels up” signal, and we flew into Israeli airspace within thirty minutes.
As was our Company’s policy and that of the Israeli government, there was no press coverage of the incident. We were invited to the bank President’s lavish Tel Aviv home for a celebratory dinner. Throughout the meal, the elderly mother-in-law wouldn’t take her eyes off me. Even Rebecca noticed it asking, “Have you met before?”
I shrugged my soldiers saying, “Never”.
Rebecca whispered, “You may have seen the end of your dreams”. As the evening ended, our hosts said goodbye, and I was taken aside by the mother-in-law who wrapped her frail arms around me, and cried, repeating, “You came back to us. You came back!” She kissed me and placed something in my coat pocket.
The bank President arranged for limousine transportation for my team and a separate car for Rebecca and me. I reached into my pocket and found a vintage wooden dreidel along with a faded photograph showing a little boy and girl spinning the dreidel at Hanukah sometime around World War II. I didn’t mention the gift to Rebecca. I’ll never understand the connection between the little boy in my dream, sent to his death in Auschwitz, and meeting, possibly, his sister who was rescued by our team. Maybe I was just providing closure to an old woman mistaking me for her brother? Closure is important in our lives. I don’t think I’m supposed to know the connection but this Mustang found redemption, love, and purpose in what started out as a trail to nowhere. I never had the same dream again.
Life was good for Rebecca and me. We were deeply in love, enjoyed raising our growing family, and were fortunate to own a thriving business, providing us the independence to spend time together on our terms. We enjoyed a romantic, one year anniversary dinner, in Jerusalem on a warm spring evening with our one year old son, Benjamin, sitting in a high chair. We were also celebrating our soon to be born daughter who would be named “Sarah”. Rebecca was a loving, nurturing, and doting mother and I marveled at her ability to be both a remarkable mother and businesswoman. I was a lucky man, indeed. I delighted in knowing Benjamin and Sarah would grow up in a two parent, loving family, encouraging the children to be good, decent people, and follow their hearts in whatever directions their talents would take them. Benjamin already had Rebecca’s red wavy hair but he certainly had my father and grandfather’s eyes. He could be a little testy at times which I suspected he inherited from me. Looking into his eyes made me determined to contact my dad and grandfather.
Rebecca reached for my hand saying, “I know you miss your father and grandfather, darling. We’ve talked about returning to Casper and worries of being recognized, but we can bring them here to meet their grandson and reunite with you.”
“They’re not sophisticated travelers. Neither has flown and I don’t think either ever left the States nor has a passport”.
“Let’s worry about the logistics later. Its important Benjamin meets his father’s family. I’ll use my intelligence contacts to ascertain the condition of your family and we’ll take it from there.” I had told Rebecca about Harmony, Jakie, and Corporal Pham previously. She continued, “Would you also like to know about your other friends?”
“Yes”, fearing, sometimes the truth is painful, and letting “sleeping dogs lie”, may be best.
About a week later, as we were preparing to sleep, Rebecca moved in close to me with her arms around me saying, “Mickey, I have the answers to your questions, darling. Sometimes memories are best left alone because the truth can hurt”.
“Tell me like it is, Rebecca!”
Rebecca stroked my hair and related the results of her intelligence findings, “Cops made it hard on grandpa and your dad, who was fired from his job at the demand of Rance’s father. Your dad died from emphysema. Your Grandfather passed away in his rocking chair on the porch with Louis L’Amour’s, “Mustang Man” in his lap, a bottle of Jack Daniels nearby, and a cigar in his hand. There was an article in the local paper about the death of a cowboy song writer. The article mentioned his two beloved grandsons who your grandfather referred to as “wild mustangs running free through life”. I was choking up but couldn’t cry. “Want me to continue, sweetheart?” Rebecca asked. I nodded affirmatively. “Harmony was fired from the Rodeo, worked as a stripper, prostitute, and became an addict succumbing to an overdose of heroin laced with Fentanyl. Jakie was handed over to Child Protective Services”. I covered my eyes to hide the flowing tears and turned my back to Rebecca. Rebecca turned me back towards her and said, “There is redemption, Mickey. Jakie was adopted by a retired Colorado couple who operate a dude ranch high in the Rockies with ski slopes. Jakie is almost thirteen now and already an accomplished skier and member of the Ski Patrol. Last but not least, your friend Pham is living in San Francisco, married to a handsome man, and together, they operate a successful hair, nail, and make-up salon in a trendy neighborhood.”
I reached to turn off the light and kissed Rebecca good night. I was thankful for the closure. I thought of the elderly mother-in-law and hoped she was sleeping peacefully having found closure. Rebecca fell asleep with her head on my chest. I held Rebecca close, and reflected. The revelations were bitter sweet, and, although I was saddened by the loss of my dad, grandfather, and Harmony, I was happy for Jakie and Pham. Most of all, I was happy for myself because although my journey from Casper to Jerusalem was “one hell of a bronco ride” like grandpa suggested, my life wasn’t black or grey as the Sergeant suggested, but a brilliant white.
Judith Goode went to Bard College and majored in Languages and Literature. She was named John Bard Scholar in her sophomore year. She received a Fulbright Scholarship to Italy and a full fellowship to the Iowa Writers Workshop. Her short stories have been published in numerous literary magazines. Goode was born and raised in New York City, and lives in Saugerties NY.
Making It Work
Her vision of a small but powerful company guided Lenore Taylor-Bart in the founding of LTB Incorporated. She situated it in Westminster, Colorado, just forty minutes from her one big client, Bell Labs in Denver, Colorado. She hired her staff by picking and choosing from the personnel files given to her by friends of friends in telecommunications companies’ Human Resources departments in the Denver-Boulder area. The technical writers she picked to interview were often casualties of Bell Labs’ big layoff in the late nineteen-eighties. They were writers who typically knew their telecommunications. Her choices were based on the recommendations of supervisors in the Technical Publications departments at the telecom companies from which she had the personnel files. It was nineteen ninety-two.
Lenore and her husband Jay and their son Lance lived in Boulder, Colorado, so it was an easy thirty-minute drive to the LTB office in Westminster. Jay was a commercial artist and Lance, at twelve, was a child with behavioral problems. The three of them saw a therapist on Saturdays and Lance saw the therapist by himself during the week after school. Lenore was a permissive parent; Jay less so. Lenore sometimes let Lance roam around the office, disturbing the writers at their work. Lenore didn’t notice this and no one said anything.
Lenore was a high energy person and her company reflected this. There was always an air of excitement in the big room where they worked. The office was in an historic house with a garden in the back. There was a fireplace in the room where they worked. Lenore was a handsome woman of forty-five, although quite overweight. She made no attempt to lose the weight, however. Her husband Jay was tall—a big man. Lance still had his baby fat and his hands were always sticky from eating candy bars.
When LTB’s contact at Bell Labs came to the office to meet with Lenore, there was a flurry of activity to make sure that all the documents were ready for Roberta to take back to the Labs with her. LTB had a history of missing deadlines because of Lenore’s tendency to take on too much for her client. She expected more from her staff than they were able to give. LTB also had a complex quality process, which slowed down the production of documents. But quality was what they were known for at the Labs and it was in large measure why the Labs contracted out their work to LTB. Despite the quality process, LTB produced their documents quickly by comparison to other consultants to telecom companies. LTB was at the top of the list of consultants to Bell Labs—and with good reason. They had a stellar reputation.
Sometimes the staff had to work late to finish the documents in time to meet the deadline. It was not uncommon for most of the writers and the editor to be at the office until three in the morning. At times like these, there was a real esprit de corps among the staff. All except Ginny, that is. Ginny was LTB’s one technical person, although she was a terrible writer. But Lenore needed her as a SME (subject matter expert). Otherwise they would be on the phone to the Labs to get answers for their technical questions. This would be bad for their reputation.
Ginny thought she could do no wrong. She was superior and often rude, especially to the tech editor who was responsible for cleaning up Ginny’s mess of a document. Ginny didn’t take well to the editing of her work. She refused Madelyn’s’s request for a conference when there were problems with her document and just scrawled “No!” on the document and threw it on Madelyn’s desk. Madelyn was as diplomatic as anyone could be and yet Ginny was rude and uncooperative. It was a constant worry of Lenore’s how to handle Ginny without alienating their SME and upsetting the rest of the staff. Jane, Lenore’s friend and longtime employee, said Lenore should fire Ginny, that she was more trouble than she was worth. Jane didn’t mince her words: she was up front and fearless about her views. She was also usually right and Lenore knew it. Jane was friends with Madelyn and Ginny’s rudeness particularly bothered Jane because Madelyn was sensitive and had exquisite manners. She was not about to confront Ginny.
Another person whom Ginny rubbed the wrong way was Alicia. She was outspoken and didn’t tolerate bad behavior. Jane and Alicia disliked each other when they first joined the company but as they got to know each other they became the best of friends. Alicia too urged Lenore to fire Ginny. Lenore dragged her feet on this issue, hoping she could find another SME to replace Ginny. From a business perspective firing their SME without replacing her would be prohibitive.
Ralph and Don were the two male employees at LTB. Ralph always took Ginny’s side and the two were buddies. Don was neutral about the SME problem. He typically arrived in the morning and sat down at his computer. He liked to get going on his work right away, regardless of any intrigue in the office. Lenore appreciated Don for his professionalism. She knew she could depend on all of her staff but especially Don because he didn’t get involved in personnel problems.
Lenore often went out to lunch wiith Jane, Alicia, and Madelyn or some other combination of employees. Lenore was delightful company. She had a musical laugh and laughed often. Jane viewed the world with irony. Alicia and Madelyn were sophisticated big city women, Alicia from Chicago and Madelyn from New York. Jane had a long-term boyfriend on the western slope, Alicia was recovering from a failed marriage, and Madelyn was single after a bad breakup.
***
One afternoon Roberta came in with an unhappy face. One of the developers at the Labs had found a technical error in a DTB document. Lenore immediately traced the document to Ginny. But she knew that Madelyn would have queried it in her editing. It turned out that that document had bypassed Madelyn and hadn’t been edited. How did it get out the door? Lenore pacified Roberta and promised that DTB would correct the error and return it to the Labs post haste. When Roberta left, Lenore called Ginny and Madelyn to the conference room across the hall. Both looked at the document.
“I never saw this before,” Madelyn said. “But if I’m reading it right, according to the comment in the margin from the developer, I think the convoluted prose obscures the meaning. So it’s not actually an error.”
“Ginny, why didn’t this document go to Madelyn for editing?” Lenore said.
“I looked for her but she wasn’t here,” Ginny said.
“…It must have been the day I had to leave early because of a doctor’s appointment,” Madelyn said.
“Well, I had a deadline to meet,” Ginny said, defensively.
“Ginny, why didn’t you give it to me so I could messenger it to Madelyn at home?”
“I didn’t think it was such a big deal.”
“It was a big deal,” Lenore said, “We angered the client. It’s a black mark against us—a serious flaw in our process…let me stress this: every document must go through our editor. There are no exceptions to this rule—”
“—Okay, I get it!” Ginny said. She stood up and left the room.
Lenore just sat shaking her head.
“I’m sorry this happened, Lenore.”
“Madelyn, it’s not your problem. I just have to think about it and make a decision…. Let’s go back to the other room.”
By the end of the day, Lenore knew what she had to do. She had to hire another SME. She called Roberta and told her that they had solved the problem but that she needed to hire another SME. Did Roberta know of anyone?
“I do. There’s a developer at the Labs who writes beautifully and would like to use his talent. Here’s his info….”
Lenore called Justin right away and offered him a job. He accepted it. In two weeks DTB had a writer-SME. Lenore fired Ginny. Everyone except Don was relieved. Don didn’t care. But Ralph, Ginny’s buddy, resigned in protest. No one missed him.
Justin turned out to be a gift. Not only was he an excellent writer but his technical acumen came right from the horse’s mouth, so to speak: Bell Labs. He was gracious about answering questions from other writers and explained concepts clearly and rationally. Lenore was delighted. She called Roberta to thank her. Justin was also a goodlooking man, divorced, with no children. Everybody liked him. One day when Madelyn was sitting on the back steps for her smoke break, Justin came out to join her. Madelyn asked him if he’d like a cigarette and he said no, he had stopped smoking. He just came out for a breath of fresh air.
They chatted about books and movies. Both were readers and viewers. Justin asked if Madelyn would like to go to a movie some time. She said she would. Did he know what was playing in the Boulder movie theaters? He said no but he would find out. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and googled.
“’Hiroshima, Mon Amour.’ Have you seen it?” he said. “There’s also….” And he listed several other mvoies that neither of them was interested in.
“Of course, but I’d like to see it again,” Madelyn said.
“How about tonight?”
“Sure. It’s Friday today, right?”
“Right,” he said. “It’s on at seven…dinner after?”
“That would be nice,” Madelyn said, getting up. Justin followed her inside.
“Email me your address and I’ll pick you up at six forty-five.”
“Done,” she said
***
The movie was heartbreaking as Madelyn remembered it. Justin said he was moved. They talked about it over dinner at the one of the better restaurants in Boulder where Madelyn l ived. Justin lived in Denver. They talked about movies, since both were avid movie goers. They also talked about Lenore and LTB.
“Do you prefer writing to develping?” Madelyn said.
“For now. I needed a change of pace and a change of venue. I like working at a small company. It feels less corporate—”
“—Although LTB is technically a corporation—”
“—But a small one…and Lenore is inspiring,” Justin said.
“Yes, she’s a firebrand….. The SME we had before you rubbed everyone the wrong way except her sidekick,” Madelyn said.
“So I heard.”
After dinner they took a stroll around downtown Boulder and the outside mall. It was a pleasant May evening and the trees were just leafing out. Justin said he was thinking about moving to Boulder—that is, if he stayed at LTB. He was basically trying it out.
“So you might go back to the Labs?” Madelyn said.
“I might….”
“I hope you don’t. it’s great having you at LTB.”
Justin drove her home and kissed her on the door step. It was a wonderful kiss.
“Come in,” Madelyn said.
Inside, more kissing, more of everything else, and bed. The sex was terrific. Justin stayed the night. In the morning they showered together and he made breakfast. He said he loved her thoughtful view of things and most of all her long hair. Madelyn was small and slight; Justin was tall and thin. They shared politics and literature. Justin said he thought the renovation she’d done on the old house was perfect. Sunlight flooded in the kitchen windows and outside lilac and tulips and other early flowers were blooming. Madelyn’s cat jumped in his lap.
“She doesn’t do that with everyone. Just a chosen few. And you’re one of them,” Madelyn said.
“That’s because she knows that I’m an animal person,” Justin said.
***
Justin called her on Sunday to see how she was. Madelyn told him that she had a great time with him. Likewise, he said. On Monday at LTB everything looked different to her. She and Justin exchanged glances that told a story. At lunchtime he joined her on the back step where she was sitting smoking a cigarette.
“What’re you doing tonight?” he said.
“Come for dinner,” Madelyn said.
“I’d love to.”
“Seven o’clock.”
It was a long day. Madelyn was editing a difficult and poorly written document from one of LTB’s outside freelancers. She spoke to Lenore about it and said she didn’t think they should use this freelancer again. Lenore asked if it was technically correct. Madelyn said it was but she would ask Justin for his review anyway.
“Good plan. But I’ll take her off the list going forward,” Lenore said.
When Madelyn showed the document to Justin he said it was okay technically.
“But I see you had to use a lot of red ink on it,” he said. And then, in a low voice, “Your perfume is driving me crazy.”
“Sorry. I’ll try to stay away from you at work.”
“No, don’t. I like it….”
When Justin came in the door that evening he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. He undressed her slowly and then himself. The sex was again terrific.
“I hope I haven’t ruined your dinner by delaying it,” he said.
“No, it’s the kind of thing that can sit,” Madelyn said. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Love one.”
They sat under the grape arbor drinking their wine. It was a balmy evening.
“…I trust we’re not breaking any rules at LTB by seeing each other,” Justin said.
“Not that I know of…Lenore’s pretty relaxed about things like this,” Madelyn said.
Over dinner they talked about the political situation in Washington and found that they agreed on just about everything. Then they talked about Lenore’s use of freelancers for LTB documents.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. They’re isolated from us and don’t have the benefit of technical oversight,” Justin said.
“I think it’s because she has too much work for the staff to handle.”
“Then she should hire more staff.”
“Tell Lenore what you’ve just told me, Madelyn said. “She should hear this from you…she respects you and your insights,” Madelyn said. “…But I want to know more about your life—for example, can you talk about why your marriage didn’t work? Or do you not like talking about it?”
“No, I’m fine talking about it…We were very young and didn’t know much about relationships for one. And two the sex was never good. My wife had a lot of inhibitions. She saw a shrink but it didn’t really help. She was afraid to let go—which is what it’s all about,” Justin said.
“That’s a shame…did you have a committed relationship after your marriage?” Madelyn said.
“No, not really. I never met the right person—until you came along.”
“Am I the right person?”
“For me, yes…so far…. Now you go.”
“I’ve had one committed relationship and I was devastated when he broke it off. I never understood why,” Madelyn said. “Except I think he was afraid of getting in too deep.”
“And were you?” Justin said.
“Were we what?”
“Getting in too deep.”
“For him, yes. For me, no,” Madelyn said.
“…There’s no such thing as ‘getting in too deep’ in a good relationship, is there?” Justin said.
“Not to me there isn’t. Depth is what you want as you get closer to someone.”
“Exactly…. Dinner was delicious, by the way. Did you cook or your housekeeper?”
“I cooked. She’s off today.”
Justin began putting the dishes on the tray Madelyn had used to bring dinner out. He carried the tray to the back door, which Madelyn held open for him.
In the kitchen he put the tray on the counter, turned around, and kissed her. “Let’s go to bed,” he said.
“Yes, let’s,” Madelyn said.
They undressed each other quickly upstairs: both were ready. As before, sex was terrific. Madelyn felt fully satisfied when they finished. So did Justin. They lay in each others’ arms for quite a while, talking.
“We’re lucky,” Madelyn said.
“Because this is working.”
“Right…. I think you should move to Boulder.”
“I think I will. Can you help me look at houses?”
“Of course.”
***
At DTB Madelyn and Justin were having a hard time not touching each other and maintaining a professional distance, especially since Justin’s desk was right behind Madelyn’s. Lenore was perceptive and had figured out that they were together. She didn’t say anything to them or any one else. People who gossiped had linked their names. Otherwise, nobody knew.
DTB was having another Bell Labs-related crisis. Once again a writer failed to send her document to Madelyn because she was past her deadline. And again a poorly written sentence had resulted in a technical error. Roberta was livid. DTB was on thin ice and Lenore was worried. The writer had also missed Justin’s review, which typically came after editing and the consequent revision by the writer.
Lenore called a writers’ meeting. She said at the meeting that it was the writer’s job to have their document edited and, once corrected, sent to Justin for his review. Writers who failed to do this would be put on probation, as was the writer who just missed these two steps. This was not a preference—it was a requirement and could not be taken more seriously. It was a grim meeting. The situation with their client was dire.
“Pay attention!” Lenore said.
Lenore met with Roberta and told her that she was enforcing two steps in the writer’s process and would prevent errors from cropping up again. Roberta was somewat pacified. The relationship with the Labs calmed down and so did Lenore. Still, she dispatched Justin to the Labs to speak with Roberta’s boss and reassure him that DTB had the situation under control. Justin told Madelyn when he came in the evening that some feathers had been ruffled at the Labs but that the whole thing had blown over. So Madelyn should relax and forget about it: DTB was not in danger of being fired.
“Good because if we lose the Labs we lose DTB. Lenore should really cultivate some new clients, don’t you think?” Madelyn said.
“I totally agree and I don’t understand why such a savvy businesswoman like Lenore hasn’t done so,” Justin said. “It’s suicidal. What if the Labs has a business crisis and cuts back on expenses? What if the Labs decides to relocate the unit in Denver? Anything could happen and DTB could be left in the lurch.”
“…I don’t always understand Lenore. Maybe she has a fatal flaw in her thinking and doesn’t realize these possibilities. Could that be?”
“I guess so…but it seems unlikely, given that she’s gotten this far in business,” Justin said.
They were again having dinner under the grape arbor.
“What about HP and Anheuser Busch? Why not approach companies like that on the Front Range?” Madelyn said
“Maybe she tried and had no luck…not all big companies use outside contractors,” Justin said.
“True. But those are only two of a raft of companies on the Front Range.”
“You should talk to her and see if she’ll tell you what her strategy is—” Justin said.
“—No, I think you should talk to her. You’re more senior than I and she idolizes you, Justin.”
“I don’t know about any ranking system…but I will talk to her. Maybe being from the Labs gives me some clout, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yes,” Madelyn said. “It definitely does.”
The next day at DTB Justin asked Lenore if she would have lunch with him and Madelyn and Lenore said yes, she’d be delighted to. Madelyn was surprised to be included but remembered that Justin was always fair.
“I’ve known Roberta for years and she encouraged me to start DTB,” Lenore said over lunch. “Once I founded the company I saw that we would be kind of a satellite to the Labs and that other clients would be unwelcome competition. As Madelyn knows, I worked for the Labs myself in New Jersey so it was a natural fit between the Labs and DTB.”
“Lenore, what Madelyn and I are concerned about is what if the Labs drops LTB?”
“…Well, then we would go under,” Lenore said.
“But there’s no safety net this way whereas if you had other clients…” Madelyn said.
“I see your point and I’ve thought about it…I’ll scout around and if I find something I’ll consider changing my business plan…by the way, you two are a couple, aren’t you?” Lenore said.
Justin and Madelyn laughed. “We are,” he said.
“…I hope you don’t mind, Lenore,” Madelyn said.
“Not at all. You’re a cute pair!”
Lenore made some calls to the telecom companies in the Denver-Boulder areas from which she had hired her staff. Two out of four showed interest and Lenore told them she would send DTB’s SME and tech editor to talk to them about the telecom documentaton company and what DTB offered. She gave DTB’s sales portfolio to Justin and Madelyn and the contact info for the companies that were interested in meeting them. Justin took one, Madelyn the other, and they made appointments for the following week. Justin and Madelyn told their contacts what their process was at DTB, beginning with the visit from the client’s representative: research, writing, editing, and SME review. They displayed the portfolio with sample documents and left a glossy brochure with the client.
Both new clients called Lenore to follow up and said they would send their representative to DTB at Lenore’s convenience. The representative would bring developer notes and be available for interview by DTB writers. Lenore sent around a memo with the news. She gave special thanks to Justin and Madelyn who did the footwork. Then she looked into hiring more staff.
***
On the weekend, Justin and Madelyn went house hunting for Justin in Boulder. The realtor they’d hired warned them: housing costs had gone through the roof in Boulder. It was true and the houses they saw weren’t even that nice. They looked at a half a dozen, including condos, and called it a day. As they were drinking a glass of wine under the grape arbor Madelyn said,
“Justin, why don’t you move in here with me?”
“Are you ready, I mean do you want me to?”
“I’m ready if you are.”
“Yes!” Justin said.
He leaned over the table and kissed her. So it was resolved and Sunday they moved him in. They combined some of their kitchenware and furniture and Justin put the rest in storage until they decided what to do with it. The furniture Justin brought included a slipper chair for the bedroom and a sofa for the loft. They celebrated by going out for sushi at Boulder’s sublime sushi restaurant. That night they went to bed in what was now their bedroom.
***
Justin and Madelyn were happy living together. They each had the right kind of energy to share a house. DTB was doing really well with the new clients and expanded staff. Lenore’s management skills were shining a bright light on the company.
Then a bombshell hit: the Labs suddenly terminated their contract with DTB. When Roberta came to give Lenore the news, she had no explanation. The decision had come down from upper management. She was sorry, she said; she had enjoyed working with DTB. It was a blow. The Labs were the major part of DTB’s income. They couldn’t survive on what the two remaining clients brought in. Toward the end of the day Lenore called everyone into the conference room. She said,
“It’s been a pleasure and a privilege working with all of you but DTB is closing its doors as of today. Thank you for all the effort you’ve put in to make DTB thrive…. Justin and Madelyn, stay on for a few minutes, please.”
Everyone left except Justin and Madelyn. Lenore offered them a deal. For the two remaining clients, Lenore would do the writing, Madelyn the editing, and Justin the tech review.
“What do you think?” Lenore said. “You would work from home and we would send the documents back and forth via email.”
“Would you keep us busy full time?” Justin said.
“Pretty close,” Lenore said. “Depending on how many hours you want to put in, you could have other clients.”
“Could we think about it and tell you tomorrow?” Madelyn said.
Once again over their evening glass of wine Justin and Marilyn discussed Lenore’s proposal. Justin said he thought he would do better by going back to the Labs. Madelyn was undecided.
“I think I’ll take it since I don’t have anything else right now…maybe you could go back to the Labs and do this on the side. It probably doesn’t take you more than an hour per document to do your tech review, right?” Madelyn said.
“Right.”
“While we’re hanging out here after work, you could be doing your review.”
“Exactly.”
Madelyn said she would email Lenore for both of them. The loft was already set up for work. They would just need another desk and chair for Justin.
The arrangement with Lenore worked well for about a year when Lenore began getting more clients than the three of them could handle. Lenore started up DTB again and Madelyn joined the company. Justin, however, stayed at the Labs where he was secure.
***
Justin and Madelyn had been living together for two years when Madelyn found out she was pregnant. They were both thirty-five. Justin knelt in front of her and held out a velveteen box, the cover open.
“Will you marry me?” he said.
“Yes!”
He slipped the ring—a diamond in a delicate setting—on her finger. They both cried and laughed simultanously. They were married by the Justice of the Peace in the Town Hall. Lenore and a friend from the Labs were their witnesses. They had a small reception in the old hotel. The whole staff from DTB were there, plus two good friends of Madelyn’s and some of Justin’s friends from the Labs. Madelyn was having morning sickness—which was actually evening sickness because it came on at dinner time—so they kept the celebration to a minimum.
When they got home, Justin picked her up and carried her over the threshold, depositing her on the sofa. He sat down beside her and said,
“And soon we’ll be three….”
o0o
Lenore and her husband Jay and their son Lance lived in Boulder, Colorado, so it was an easy thirty-minute drive to the LTB office in Westminster. Jay was a commercial artist and Lance, at twelve, was a child with behavioral problems. The three of them saw a therapist on Saturdays and Lance saw the therapist by himself during the week after school. Lenore was a permissive parent; Jay less so. Lenore sometimes let Lance roam around the office, disturbing the writers at their work. Lenore didn’t notice this and no one said anything.
Lenore was a high energy person and her company reflected this. There was always an air of excitement in the big room where they worked. The office was in an historic house with a garden in the back. There was a fireplace in the room where they worked. Lenore was a handsome woman of forty-five, although quite overweight. She made no attempt to lose the weight, however. Her husband Jay was tall—a big man. Lance still had his baby fat and his hands were always sticky from eating candy bars.
When LTB’s contact at Bell Labs came to the office to meet with Lenore, there was a flurry of activity to make sure that all the documents were ready for Roberta to take back to the Labs with her. LTB had a history of missing deadlines because of Lenore’s tendency to take on too much for her client. She expected more from her staff than they were able to give. LTB also had a complex quality process, which slowed down the production of documents. But quality was what they were known for at the Labs and it was in large measure why the Labs contracted out their work to LTB. Despite the quality process, LTB produced their documents quickly by comparison to other consultants to telecom companies. LTB was at the top of the list of consultants to Bell Labs—and with good reason. They had a stellar reputation.
Sometimes the staff had to work late to finish the documents in time to meet the deadline. It was not uncommon for most of the writers and the editor to be at the office until three in the morning. At times like these, there was a real esprit de corps among the staff. All except Ginny, that is. Ginny was LTB’s one technical person, although she was a terrible writer. But Lenore needed her as a SME (subject matter expert). Otherwise they would be on the phone to the Labs to get answers for their technical questions. This would be bad for their reputation.
Ginny thought she could do no wrong. She was superior and often rude, especially to the tech editor who was responsible for cleaning up Ginny’s mess of a document. Ginny didn’t take well to the editing of her work. She refused Madelyn’s’s request for a conference when there were problems with her document and just scrawled “No!” on the document and threw it on Madelyn’s desk. Madelyn was as diplomatic as anyone could be and yet Ginny was rude and uncooperative. It was a constant worry of Lenore’s how to handle Ginny without alienating their SME and upsetting the rest of the staff. Jane, Lenore’s friend and longtime employee, said Lenore should fire Ginny, that she was more trouble than she was worth. Jane didn’t mince her words: she was up front and fearless about her views. She was also usually right and Lenore knew it. Jane was friends with Madelyn and Ginny’s rudeness particularly bothered Jane because Madelyn was sensitive and had exquisite manners. She was not about to confront Ginny.
Another person whom Ginny rubbed the wrong way was Alicia. She was outspoken and didn’t tolerate bad behavior. Jane and Alicia disliked each other when they first joined the company but as they got to know each other they became the best of friends. Alicia too urged Lenore to fire Ginny. Lenore dragged her feet on this issue, hoping she could find another SME to replace Ginny. From a business perspective firing their SME without replacing her would be prohibitive.
Ralph and Don were the two male employees at LTB. Ralph always took Ginny’s side and the two were buddies. Don was neutral about the SME problem. He typically arrived in the morning and sat down at his computer. He liked to get going on his work right away, regardless of any intrigue in the office. Lenore appreciated Don for his professionalism. She knew she could depend on all of her staff but especially Don because he didn’t get involved in personnel problems.
Lenore often went out to lunch wiith Jane, Alicia, and Madelyn or some other combination of employees. Lenore was delightful company. She had a musical laugh and laughed often. Jane viewed the world with irony. Alicia and Madelyn were sophisticated big city women, Alicia from Chicago and Madelyn from New York. Jane had a long-term boyfriend on the western slope, Alicia was recovering from a failed marriage, and Madelyn was single after a bad breakup.
***
One afternoon Roberta came in with an unhappy face. One of the developers at the Labs had found a technical error in a DTB document. Lenore immediately traced the document to Ginny. But she knew that Madelyn would have queried it in her editing. It turned out that that document had bypassed Madelyn and hadn’t been edited. How did it get out the door? Lenore pacified Roberta and promised that DTB would correct the error and return it to the Labs post haste. When Roberta left, Lenore called Ginny and Madelyn to the conference room across the hall. Both looked at the document.
“I never saw this before,” Madelyn said. “But if I’m reading it right, according to the comment in the margin from the developer, I think the convoluted prose obscures the meaning. So it’s not actually an error.”
“Ginny, why didn’t this document go to Madelyn for editing?” Lenore said.
“I looked for her but she wasn’t here,” Ginny said.
“…It must have been the day I had to leave early because of a doctor’s appointment,” Madelyn said.
“Well, I had a deadline to meet,” Ginny said, defensively.
“Ginny, why didn’t you give it to me so I could messenger it to Madelyn at home?”
“I didn’t think it was such a big deal.”
“It was a big deal,” Lenore said, “We angered the client. It’s a black mark against us—a serious flaw in our process…let me stress this: every document must go through our editor. There are no exceptions to this rule—”
“—Okay, I get it!” Ginny said. She stood up and left the room.
Lenore just sat shaking her head.
“I’m sorry this happened, Lenore.”
“Madelyn, it’s not your problem. I just have to think about it and make a decision…. Let’s go back to the other room.”
By the end of the day, Lenore knew what she had to do. She had to hire another SME. She called Roberta and told her that they had solved the problem but that she needed to hire another SME. Did Roberta know of anyone?
“I do. There’s a developer at the Labs who writes beautifully and would like to use his talent. Here’s his info….”
Lenore called Justin right away and offered him a job. He accepted it. In two weeks DTB had a writer-SME. Lenore fired Ginny. Everyone except Don was relieved. Don didn’t care. But Ralph, Ginny’s buddy, resigned in protest. No one missed him.
Justin turned out to be a gift. Not only was he an excellent writer but his technical acumen came right from the horse’s mouth, so to speak: Bell Labs. He was gracious about answering questions from other writers and explained concepts clearly and rationally. Lenore was delighted. She called Roberta to thank her. Justin was also a goodlooking man, divorced, with no children. Everybody liked him. One day when Madelyn was sitting on the back steps for her smoke break, Justin came out to join her. Madelyn asked him if he’d like a cigarette and he said no, he had stopped smoking. He just came out for a breath of fresh air.
They chatted about books and movies. Both were readers and viewers. Justin asked if Madelyn would like to go to a movie some time. She said she would. Did he know what was playing in the Boulder movie theaters? He said no but he would find out. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and googled.
“’Hiroshima, Mon Amour.’ Have you seen it?” he said. “There’s also….” And he listed several other mvoies that neither of them was interested in.
“Of course, but I’d like to see it again,” Madelyn said.
“How about tonight?”
“Sure. It’s Friday today, right?”
“Right,” he said. “It’s on at seven…dinner after?”
“That would be nice,” Madelyn said, getting up. Justin followed her inside.
“Email me your address and I’ll pick you up at six forty-five.”
“Done,” she said
***
The movie was heartbreaking as Madelyn remembered it. Justin said he was moved. They talked about it over dinner at the one of the better restaurants in Boulder where Madelyn l ived. Justin lived in Denver. They talked about movies, since both were avid movie goers. They also talked about Lenore and LTB.
“Do you prefer writing to develping?” Madelyn said.
“For now. I needed a change of pace and a change of venue. I like working at a small company. It feels less corporate—”
“—Although LTB is technically a corporation—”
“—But a small one…and Lenore is inspiring,” Justin said.
“Yes, she’s a firebrand….. The SME we had before you rubbed everyone the wrong way except her sidekick,” Madelyn said.
“So I heard.”
After dinner they took a stroll around downtown Boulder and the outside mall. It was a pleasant May evening and the trees were just leafing out. Justin said he was thinking about moving to Boulder—that is, if he stayed at LTB. He was basically trying it out.
“So you might go back to the Labs?” Madelyn said.
“I might….”
“I hope you don’t. it’s great having you at LTB.”
Justin drove her home and kissed her on the door step. It was a wonderful kiss.
“Come in,” Madelyn said.
Inside, more kissing, more of everything else, and bed. The sex was terrific. Justin stayed the night. In the morning they showered together and he made breakfast. He said he loved her thoughtful view of things and most of all her long hair. Madelyn was small and slight; Justin was tall and thin. They shared politics and literature. Justin said he thought the renovation she’d done on the old house was perfect. Sunlight flooded in the kitchen windows and outside lilac and tulips and other early flowers were blooming. Madelyn’s cat jumped in his lap.
“She doesn’t do that with everyone. Just a chosen few. And you’re one of them,” Madelyn said.
“That’s because she knows that I’m an animal person,” Justin said.
***
Justin called her on Sunday to see how she was. Madelyn told him that she had a great time with him. Likewise, he said. On Monday at LTB everything looked different to her. She and Justin exchanged glances that told a story. At lunchtime he joined her on the back step where she was sitting smoking a cigarette.
“What’re you doing tonight?” he said.
“Come for dinner,” Madelyn said.
“I’d love to.”
“Seven o’clock.”
It was a long day. Madelyn was editing a difficult and poorly written document from one of LTB’s outside freelancers. She spoke to Lenore about it and said she didn’t think they should use this freelancer again. Lenore asked if it was technically correct. Madelyn said it was but she would ask Justin for his review anyway.
“Good plan. But I’ll take her off the list going forward,” Lenore said.
When Madelyn showed the document to Justin he said it was okay technically.
“But I see you had to use a lot of red ink on it,” he said. And then, in a low voice, “Your perfume is driving me crazy.”
“Sorry. I’ll try to stay away from you at work.”
“No, don’t. I like it….”
When Justin came in the door that evening he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. He undressed her slowly and then himself. The sex was again terrific.
“I hope I haven’t ruined your dinner by delaying it,” he said.
“No, it’s the kind of thing that can sit,” Madelyn said. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Love one.”
They sat under the grape arbor drinking their wine. It was a balmy evening.
“…I trust we’re not breaking any rules at LTB by seeing each other,” Justin said.
“Not that I know of…Lenore’s pretty relaxed about things like this,” Madelyn said.
Over dinner they talked about the political situation in Washington and found that they agreed on just about everything. Then they talked about Lenore’s use of freelancers for LTB documents.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. They’re isolated from us and don’t have the benefit of technical oversight,” Justin said.
“I think it’s because she has too much work for the staff to handle.”
“Then she should hire more staff.”
“Tell Lenore what you’ve just told me, Madelyn said. “She should hear this from you…she respects you and your insights,” Madelyn said. “…But I want to know more about your life—for example, can you talk about why your marriage didn’t work? Or do you not like talking about it?”
“No, I’m fine talking about it…We were very young and didn’t know much about relationships for one. And two the sex was never good. My wife had a lot of inhibitions. She saw a shrink but it didn’t really help. She was afraid to let go—which is what it’s all about,” Justin said.
“That’s a shame…did you have a committed relationship after your marriage?” Madelyn said.
“No, not really. I never met the right person—until you came along.”
“Am I the right person?”
“For me, yes…so far…. Now you go.”
“I’ve had one committed relationship and I was devastated when he broke it off. I never understood why,” Madelyn said. “Except I think he was afraid of getting in too deep.”
“And were you?” Justin said.
“Were we what?”
“Getting in too deep.”
“For him, yes. For me, no,” Madelyn said.
“…There’s no such thing as ‘getting in too deep’ in a good relationship, is there?” Justin said.
“Not to me there isn’t. Depth is what you want as you get closer to someone.”
“Exactly…. Dinner was delicious, by the way. Did you cook or your housekeeper?”
“I cooked. She’s off today.”
Justin began putting the dishes on the tray Madelyn had used to bring dinner out. He carried the tray to the back door, which Madelyn held open for him.
In the kitchen he put the tray on the counter, turned around, and kissed her. “Let’s go to bed,” he said.
“Yes, let’s,” Madelyn said.
They undressed each other quickly upstairs: both were ready. As before, sex was terrific. Madelyn felt fully satisfied when they finished. So did Justin. They lay in each others’ arms for quite a while, talking.
“We’re lucky,” Madelyn said.
“Because this is working.”
“Right…. I think you should move to Boulder.”
“I think I will. Can you help me look at houses?”
“Of course.”
***
At DTB Madelyn and Justin were having a hard time not touching each other and maintaining a professional distance, especially since Justin’s desk was right behind Madelyn’s. Lenore was perceptive and had figured out that they were together. She didn’t say anything to them or any one else. People who gossiped had linked their names. Otherwise, nobody knew.
DTB was having another Bell Labs-related crisis. Once again a writer failed to send her document to Madelyn because she was past her deadline. And again a poorly written sentence had resulted in a technical error. Roberta was livid. DTB was on thin ice and Lenore was worried. The writer had also missed Justin’s review, which typically came after editing and the consequent revision by the writer.
Lenore called a writers’ meeting. She said at the meeting that it was the writer’s job to have their document edited and, once corrected, sent to Justin for his review. Writers who failed to do this would be put on probation, as was the writer who just missed these two steps. This was not a preference—it was a requirement and could not be taken more seriously. It was a grim meeting. The situation with their client was dire.
“Pay attention!” Lenore said.
Lenore met with Roberta and told her that she was enforcing two steps in the writer’s process and would prevent errors from cropping up again. Roberta was somewat pacified. The relationship with the Labs calmed down and so did Lenore. Still, she dispatched Justin to the Labs to speak with Roberta’s boss and reassure him that DTB had the situation under control. Justin told Madelyn when he came in the evening that some feathers had been ruffled at the Labs but that the whole thing had blown over. So Madelyn should relax and forget about it: DTB was not in danger of being fired.
“Good because if we lose the Labs we lose DTB. Lenore should really cultivate some new clients, don’t you think?” Madelyn said.
“I totally agree and I don’t understand why such a savvy businesswoman like Lenore hasn’t done so,” Justin said. “It’s suicidal. What if the Labs has a business crisis and cuts back on expenses? What if the Labs decides to relocate the unit in Denver? Anything could happen and DTB could be left in the lurch.”
“…I don’t always understand Lenore. Maybe she has a fatal flaw in her thinking and doesn’t realize these possibilities. Could that be?”
“I guess so…but it seems unlikely, given that she’s gotten this far in business,” Justin said.
They were again having dinner under the grape arbor.
“What about HP and Anheuser Busch? Why not approach companies like that on the Front Range?” Madelyn said
“Maybe she tried and had no luck…not all big companies use outside contractors,” Justin said.
“True. But those are only two of a raft of companies on the Front Range.”
“You should talk to her and see if she’ll tell you what her strategy is—” Justin said.
“—No, I think you should talk to her. You’re more senior than I and she idolizes you, Justin.”
“I don’t know about any ranking system…but I will talk to her. Maybe being from the Labs gives me some clout, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yes,” Madelyn said. “It definitely does.”
The next day at DTB Justin asked Lenore if she would have lunch with him and Madelyn and Lenore said yes, she’d be delighted to. Madelyn was surprised to be included but remembered that Justin was always fair.
“I’ve known Roberta for years and she encouraged me to start DTB,” Lenore said over lunch. “Once I founded the company I saw that we would be kind of a satellite to the Labs and that other clients would be unwelcome competition. As Madelyn knows, I worked for the Labs myself in New Jersey so it was a natural fit between the Labs and DTB.”
“Lenore, what Madelyn and I are concerned about is what if the Labs drops LTB?”
“…Well, then we would go under,” Lenore said.
“But there’s no safety net this way whereas if you had other clients…” Madelyn said.
“I see your point and I’ve thought about it…I’ll scout around and if I find something I’ll consider changing my business plan…by the way, you two are a couple, aren’t you?” Lenore said.
Justin and Madelyn laughed. “We are,” he said.
“…I hope you don’t mind, Lenore,” Madelyn said.
“Not at all. You’re a cute pair!”
Lenore made some calls to the telecom companies in the Denver-Boulder areas from which she had hired her staff. Two out of four showed interest and Lenore told them she would send DTB’s SME and tech editor to talk to them about the telecom documentaton company and what DTB offered. She gave DTB’s sales portfolio to Justin and Madelyn and the contact info for the companies that were interested in meeting them. Justin took one, Madelyn the other, and they made appointments for the following week. Justin and Madelyn told their contacts what their process was at DTB, beginning with the visit from the client’s representative: research, writing, editing, and SME review. They displayed the portfolio with sample documents and left a glossy brochure with the client.
Both new clients called Lenore to follow up and said they would send their representative to DTB at Lenore’s convenience. The representative would bring developer notes and be available for interview by DTB writers. Lenore sent around a memo with the news. She gave special thanks to Justin and Madelyn who did the footwork. Then she looked into hiring more staff.
***
On the weekend, Justin and Madelyn went house hunting for Justin in Boulder. The realtor they’d hired warned them: housing costs had gone through the roof in Boulder. It was true and the houses they saw weren’t even that nice. They looked at a half a dozen, including condos, and called it a day. As they were drinking a glass of wine under the grape arbor Madelyn said,
“Justin, why don’t you move in here with me?”
“Are you ready, I mean do you want me to?”
“I’m ready if you are.”
“Yes!” Justin said.
He leaned over the table and kissed her. So it was resolved and Sunday they moved him in. They combined some of their kitchenware and furniture and Justin put the rest in storage until they decided what to do with it. The furniture Justin brought included a slipper chair for the bedroom and a sofa for the loft. They celebrated by going out for sushi at Boulder’s sublime sushi restaurant. That night they went to bed in what was now their bedroom.
***
Justin and Madelyn were happy living together. They each had the right kind of energy to share a house. DTB was doing really well with the new clients and expanded staff. Lenore’s management skills were shining a bright light on the company.
Then a bombshell hit: the Labs suddenly terminated their contract with DTB. When Roberta came to give Lenore the news, she had no explanation. The decision had come down from upper management. She was sorry, she said; she had enjoyed working with DTB. It was a blow. The Labs were the major part of DTB’s income. They couldn’t survive on what the two remaining clients brought in. Toward the end of the day Lenore called everyone into the conference room. She said,
“It’s been a pleasure and a privilege working with all of you but DTB is closing its doors as of today. Thank you for all the effort you’ve put in to make DTB thrive…. Justin and Madelyn, stay on for a few minutes, please.”
Everyone left except Justin and Madelyn. Lenore offered them a deal. For the two remaining clients, Lenore would do the writing, Madelyn the editing, and Justin the tech review.
“What do you think?” Lenore said. “You would work from home and we would send the documents back and forth via email.”
“Would you keep us busy full time?” Justin said.
“Pretty close,” Lenore said. “Depending on how many hours you want to put in, you could have other clients.”
“Could we think about it and tell you tomorrow?” Madelyn said.
Once again over their evening glass of wine Justin and Marilyn discussed Lenore’s proposal. Justin said he thought he would do better by going back to the Labs. Madelyn was undecided.
“I think I’ll take it since I don’t have anything else right now…maybe you could go back to the Labs and do this on the side. It probably doesn’t take you more than an hour per document to do your tech review, right?” Madelyn said.
“Right.”
“While we’re hanging out here after work, you could be doing your review.”
“Exactly.”
Madelyn said she would email Lenore for both of them. The loft was already set up for work. They would just need another desk and chair for Justin.
The arrangement with Lenore worked well for about a year when Lenore began getting more clients than the three of them could handle. Lenore started up DTB again and Madelyn joined the company. Justin, however, stayed at the Labs where he was secure.
***
Justin and Madelyn had been living together for two years when Madelyn found out she was pregnant. They were both thirty-five. Justin knelt in front of her and held out a velveteen box, the cover open.
“Will you marry me?” he said.
“Yes!”
He slipped the ring—a diamond in a delicate setting—on her finger. They both cried and laughed simultanously. They were married by the Justice of the Peace in the Town Hall. Lenore and a friend from the Labs were their witnesses. They had a small reception in the old hotel. The whole staff from DTB were there, plus two good friends of Madelyn’s and some of Justin’s friends from the Labs. Madelyn was having morning sickness—which was actually evening sickness because it came on at dinner time—so they kept the celebration to a minimum.
When they got home, Justin picked her up and carried her over the threshold, depositing her on the sofa. He sat down beside her and said,
“And soon we’ll be three….”
o0o
Vati Sreiberg has always loved the written word. She co-founded and was the prose editor of Stone Walls II, a literary journal based in the Hilltowns of Western Massachusetts, where she resides with her partner and cat, surrounded by wildlife, woods, and her flower gardens. She is actively seeking an agent for the publication of her first novel. She hopes "Gorham's Cave" will inspire readers to consider our early evolution as well as how human actions can imperil those with whom we share this planet. |
Gorham’s Cave
I
Grace Myerson, assistant librarian at Keyes Elementary School in rural Vermont, stands before a wall of windows, her back to the students who wait impatiently for their lesson to begin. Outside, thickening bands of dark, low-lying clouds race across the valley, forcing Caribbean warmth into the cold October air. Watching the gusts of wind sweep burnished leaves across the sport's field, Grace remembers how, as a child, she imagined hearing the voices of her dead parents reaching out to her through the wind of every storm.
“A wall seems like a good idea to me,” Josie pipes up. A smart, opinionated student to whom most of the other students defer, Josie is distressed with the growing unrest in the room. Grace turns and faces the children, recalling their project on the President's border wall: an enormous structure intended to stop immigrants crossing from Mexico into the United States. She grabs a notebook from the belly of her shoulder bag and sits on the floor in the center of the room.
“But wait, listen to this,” Grace says with enough volume to draw their attention to her. Just then, there is a bright flash followed by a loud crack of thunder and a rumbling boom. The overhead lights flicker; the students move in closer, forming a loose circle around Grace, who feels the comfort of their presence as they do hers.
“It's from an article in Science, written by a well-respected conservationist.” She lifts the magazine and reads. “With the help of several environmental groups, we are developing a project to create a continuous corridor of secured areas from British Columbia in Canada all the way to Belize. Along this route, animals will be free to migrate from one protected park or forest to the next, without confronting the dangers of highways and unsafe, privately-held land.”
“I don't understand. What does this have to do with the wall?” a boy asks from a more distant corner of the room.
“You will,” she says and continues. “However, if the wall suggested by the government is constructed as stated, west to east along the Rio Grande, we believe thousands of animals could be stuck on one side of their feeding range, unable to cross to the other side. Hunger would likely force many onto farms or the streets of cities and towns where they would risk being shot scavenging for food; others would surely starve.”
To Grace's delight, the students immediately understand the implications of the article. As the thunder passes and the rain slows to a steady beat on the school’s roof, the children gather together at their work tables and write letters to the President of the United States. In the direct language of sixth graders, they tell him what they have just learned: the continuation of his wall is a very bad idea, even if it means that illegal immigration increases over time. Animals, in their opinion, will be the innocent victims, and some, who are already struggling, might even become extinct. And that, they write, is unacceptable.
As she reads and approves their letters, Grace seriously considers for the first time in her life the concept of extinction—of a species dwindling so low in number, it no longer has a sufficient population to reproduce and survive.
That night, in her apartment on the edge of town, as the storm dissipates and is replaced by blustery winds from the north, Grace is restless. She can't sleep. Her mind is troubled by images of singular animals in every shape and size, sitting or lying in their various environments, dying alone. After endless tossing in a cocoon of bedding, she throws her pillows onto the floor, wraps herself in the down comforter, gets up, and hurries barefoot along the cold pine boards.
At the kitchen table, she hunches over her laptop and begins to research contemporary animal extinctions. For hours, she reads the data streaming across the screen. The statistics are appalling. All across the planet, animals are struggling in a world where the loss of habitat, changes in climate, and most devastating of all, the overpopulation and greed of human beings threaten their very survival. With her neck stiff, her lower back aching, and the shocking realization of what has clearly been happening (without her awareness) for some time now, she slowly raises her head and squints at the stove clock on which she notices specks of splashed grease. As if marking this moment in time, a shaft of light shoots through the small window above the aluminum sink, reflecting a yellow square onto the pale purple wall. It is 7:40 a.m., and she is already late for work.
#
Rose Pearson, the head librarian and Grace's boss, is a broad-boned, tall woman in her early sixties with short, spiky gray hair, deep-set gray eyes, and wire-rimmed glasses that sit tentatively on the bridge of her narrow nose. She is an extremely private and pragmatic person, her life outside of the library a mystery to the teachers with whom she has worked side by side for more than twenty years. Yet in Grace, Rose has found an unlikely companion. With little precaution on her part, as if mitigating some deep-seated need, Rose feels compelled, at the oddest times, to confide deeply personal fragments of her life to Grace—which is exactly what she did on the very first day they met, two years earlier, when Grace walked into the library, newspaper in hand, hoping to interview for the advertised job.
It was late June and the students were on summer break, the building empty except for the two of them. After offering Grace a cup of tea, which she politely refused, Rose asked her all of the routine questions, to which Grace answered with a straightforward and almost naïve simplicity that Rose found compelling, especially in someone aged thirty-two. When Grace explained that she did not have a cell phone because of the distraction and gave the number of her landline, Rose believed she’d met a kindred spirit. As the interview proceeded, Rose felt an unexpected tenderness for this woman and an increasing urge to share something of herself, some secret she had told no one else.
And so, on that day, Grace became the only person to know that several years earlier, when the doctor informed Rose of her husband's fatal illness, she disappeared for three weeks. Just before dawn on the day following his diagnosis, Rose drove up to the woods of northern Maine, where she rented a small cabin on an unpopulated lake. There she spent her days sitting in a rickety old rowboat that was docked on the property and fished, something she hadn't done since she was a girl. Rose spoke to no one (though she did leave a message for her husband so he wouldn't call the police) and barely ate, picking at bits of the few fish she managed to catch and fry in the rancid oil she found on a shelf.
“Can you imagine, all I brought from home was a set of clean sheets?” Rose shook her head as if still wondering what she had been thinking that day when she allowed impulse to override rational thought. Rose looked directly into what she thought were astonishingly beautiful eyes: spring grass green, outlined with black lashes. It was the first time they looked at one another, eye to eye, and although each had the urge to look away, their gazes remained steady. Rose wondered with some embarrassment if she had already said too much. However, there was something about Grace, the way she sat in the chair, her body so very still, rapt attention focused entirely on her that encouraged Rose to continue, perhaps seeing in Grace, the daughter she'd never been able to have.
“Somehow, I thought, or perhaps hoped, if I spent some time alone coming to terms with the reality of the situation, I would gather the courage needed to face what would happen next.”
“Did it work?” Grace asked as if nothing in that moment mattered more.
“I suppose, at first, when he wasn't so sick, but it took eleven long months, and in the end, in those last few weeks before he died...it was very hard. I don't think anyone can really be prepared to watch that amount of suffering in someone they love.” Rose remembered the way her husband's face became a mask of pain; the way it eventually sank into itself as his skin rolled off the sharp angles of his bones, his breath thin and raspy until it finally stopped. Rose stood up quickly from her chair as if in doing so, she might leave those images behind. She leaned against the wall, and for several minutes the two women remained unmoving, sharing in a silence that ought to have felt uncomfortable but strangely didn't. Then, as if in response to that silence or perhaps to the intensity of the story just told, something in Grace pried itself loose and burst free. Her breathing quickened; a flash of heat flushed her cheeks. Without any attempt to hold back, her head held aloft, her eyes staring straight ahead now rather than at Rose, she spoke the word that summed up all of her own unspoken grief.
“Orphan,” Grace said in a thin whisper. This surprised Rose. This was something she had not expected.
“I'm an orphan,” Grace repeated more resolute this time, the word more solid and unforgiving, coalescing into an image in both of their minds of a girl alone in the world, a girl abandoned, severed from all family, now grown into a woman but still carrying within her that girl.
From somewhere unseen, a cold draft slipped into the warm room, and both women shivered. Rose wanted to move in closer, to touch a shoulder or a lock of Grace's feathery dark hair but sensed that like a deer spotted in an open field, she might bolt; and so she kept her arms down, her hands flat against her thighs.
“I'm so sorry. If I may as ask, if it's not too painful to recall, how did you lose them?”
Grace didn't turn to face Rose but continued to stare straight ahead at the wall behind the desk, her eyes resting on the warm cream color, the rough seam that ran from ceiling to floor.
“It was a January night,” she began. “There had been a weird thunderstorm in the middle of a short burst of snow, creating icy hail. My parents were returning home from a symphony concert in the city when their car, which my dad was driving, hit a patch of black ice. The station wagon skidded off the road and ran full speed into a deep gulley where it rammed into a tree. They were dead before the ambulance arrived.
“I had just turned ten and was spending the night with my best friend, Annie.” She paused and looked over at Rose. “I've always thought it so strange that I didn't know, didn't feel that something terrible had happened to my mom and dad, that I just slept right through the night.” There was a catch in her throat, but she continued. “After the funeral, I was sent to live with Alice, my only living grandparent. My mother had been her only child. I think she loved me and tried to give me the things a girl needs, but she was too tired and too broken by the loss of her own daughter to raise another child. For years, she cried most every night behind her locked bedroom door.”
“I'm so sorry,” Rose said, not knowing how else to respond, not knowing how to lessen the apparent pain in the core of this woman. She experienced the same damn helplessness as during her husband's illness. It maddened and frustrated her, but there was one thing she could do. “The job is yours,” Rose said as she returned to her desk, her demeanor slightly more professional.
“Even though I have no library experience?”
“Well, you applied knowing that, so I trust you must think you can learn what is necessary. And I do as well.”
“Thank-you, Mrs.?”
“Just, Rose.”
“Thank you, Rose. I'll try not to disappoint you.”
“I know.”
#
Now at 7:45 a.m., after a quick shower and no breakfast, Grace rushes into the library, her wet hair stiff from the cold, circles under her bloodshot eyes.
“Is everything alright?” Rose asks as Grace hangs up her coat.
“I was up late doing research,” Grace offers with some reluctance as she prepares to walk into the main room, not ready to share her troubling thoughts with anyone. Not even Rose.
“Well, take your time, and when you're ready, the fourth graders will be in after lunch, needing help with their project on the agriculture of central Canada. Please pull some age-appropriate materials to get them started, but let them do most of the research themselves.”
Later that day, when the students have gone and Rose is in the office reading journals in preparation for the next ordering cycle, Grace pulls dozens of magazines published by various conservation and environmental groups, hunkers down on the green carpet with her back against the stacks, and reads. Scheduled to close the library, she stays well after the last teacher has left the building, lost in the mounting evidence that the earth is in grave danger, that the animals with whom we share the planet are dying off in frightening numbers. And for many, it is already too late. She copies address after address of the organizations to which she intends to send donations in order to save the whales and dolphins, polar bears and seals, elephants, eagles, tigers, gorillas, chimpanzees. The list is endless. After hours of furious writing, her hand cramping, and a profound sadness threatening to paralyze her insides, she remembers the first day of school after her parents died, the way she had to keep going despite the pain. On a scrap of paper, Grace calculates in tiny scribbles how many groups she can afford to help if she sends ten dollars to each one every month. It seems so little given the enormity of the situation, but it’s the best she can do.
Finally giving in to mental and emotional overload, she tips her head back and closes her eyes, but one of the photos she's just seen in a wildlife magazine has burnt an imprint on the screen of her mind and refuses to be erased: a magnificent polar bear in open water, bright white against blue, struggling to swim to solid ice. As the Arctic glaciers melt, Grace imagines all of the polar bears drowning, as this one looks to be, until there is only one left alive. The last one. She sees the bear’s black, glassy eyes searching outward, the icy sea between her and the safety of the white expanse of glacial ice at a distance impossible for her to reach. Does she know, Grace wonders, that she is the very last polar bear, that when she perishes, her species will disappear from this earth forever? Will any of them know when they are the last of their kind? And what of those already lost to us, those we have so easily forgotten? Did they know before they died that they were the last ones?
#
As late autumn rusts and reds are buried in the glittering white of snow, Grace spends every free minute in the library gathering the most recent data and copying it into her notebook. On a world map tacked to her kitchen wall, she writes the name of the latest recorded extinction in red ink or threatened extinction in blue. She cuts out and pins a photo of each animal in the place it last lived. She thinks of these last ones as orphans like herself.
On a blustery January day, deep in thought while hiding out between the tall stacks of library books, Grace comes to believe—feels sure of it—that as the last member of any species experiences its final days, whether in the heat of the desert or the depths of an ocean, under the steady mist of rainforest or the brittle cold of mountain snow, something within its consciousness understands the truth: I am the last of my kind, and when I am gone, there will be no more, no--
“And who have we lost today?” Rose says, unintentionally surprising Grace, whose heart races as if caught in some forbidden act. Rose, however, has given her blessing to the extinction project, as long as all of the library books are shelved, the tables cleared, materials pulled and prepared for the next class—and they always are, for Grace is nothing if not conscientious.
Grace looks up into the older woman's kind yet serious eyes. She admires, even perhaps envies, how physically solid Rose appears with her muscular calves and wide hands and feet, unlike her own long and languid limbs, her narrow feet. “The Western Lowland Gorilla and the Sumatran Orangutan have both been added to the Red List,” Grace says, imagining the bulk of the large primates, their all too human eyes staring back at her with grief and blame.
“I'm truly sorry, though it doesn't surprise me.” Rose, having become a pessimist over the years or, as she would correct, a realist, has little hope for the salvation of the human race, and no hope at all (though she would never say this to Grace) of us saving anyone else. “Well, when you finish here, I have an exciting project for you. Take your time, not much else is happening today.”
Grace picks up what she's been reading, steadies herself, brushes off her skirt, and heads for the Reference desk.
In her apartment that evening, while sitting on the floor with her cereal bowl, Grace contemplates the new project: collecting articles for the sixth-grade class on Prehistoric cave art. Before leaving school, Rose handed her a recent copy of The New Yorker magazine. Grace chews as she reads. Near the end of the article, she comes across a brief reference to the last known Neanderthals and their suspected final migration from the steppes of central Europe, through France, Portugal, and Spain, eventually reaching Gibraltar and a place called Gorham's Cave. She puts down her bowl and goes over to the world map—now a memorial with hundreds of colored circles and photos upon it—and finds Gibraltar, that narrow ridge of land that extends out from Spain like a finger of stone stretching across the Mediterranean, yearning to touch the North African coast. Why would they want to go to such a warm, dry place, she wonders and then remembers that the climate would have been different thirty thousand years ago, that the area might have been fertile and green, temperate compared to the chilling cold farther north. Of all the extinctions she has imagined, Grace never considered the Neanderthals, an entire branch of early humans who died out while another branch flourished—the branch from which modern humans would emerge. What did she know about them? What did anyone know?
She returns to the article. This specific cave art was not created by Neanderthals but instead by early Homo Sapiens, yet this author proposes that Neanderthals might have been the first creators of European cave art, and this excites Grace though she's not sure why.
#
That year, winter gives up its icy grip on the land earlier than is usual. By mid-March, crocuses, hyacinths, and daffodils are exploding blue and yellow everywhere, arousing a new generation of bumblebees. Grace doesn't notice any of this, doesn't seem to see anything outside of the library, and her small apartment that's piled high with books and magazines she's gathered during the past three months. While continuing with her extinction project, she also reads everything she can find on the Neanderthal people and learns that they had adapted well to the cold temperatures of the last Ice Age and for what must have seemed like an eternity, had survived in parts of western Asia and across most of Europe. Their population was never large, not like that of the burgeoning, more nomadic Homo sapiens, but it had remained stable. Then something happened, and slowly over time, their numbers steadily declined. Changes in climate and vegetation were proposed as possible causes as well as competition from Homo sapiens who had begun migrating into their lands. Some scientists believed that violent interactions occurred regularly between the two groups and that the tools and weapons of the Homo sapiens were superior to those of the Neanderthals who simply couldn't compete with their longer-legged, migratory cousins.
Grace is unsure what she believes, but the more she reads, the more she wants to know. She thinks about the Neanderthals throughout the day, every day, like a song she can't shake out of her head. By spring, they have infiltrated her sleep. At first, she sees many of them roaming robustly across an unfamiliar landscape, a whispery place of wavering silvery greens. One night in late April, she dreams of an old man who falls to the ground and dies; the next night, two small children, running toward the forest, ignite into puffs of smoke. A week later, she drifts off to the rhythm of rain and dreams of a woman standing over several bodies, wailing.
As she lays in bed the following morning, unable to get up for work, Grace is overcome with a sense of doom. She takes a sick day, telling Rose she has a bad cold. Throughout the day, as she moves from the sofa to the bed and back again to the sofa, one thought permeates her mind like a prophecy or a warning: more are dying than are being born. And though logic tells her this must be a reference to the present-day animals in peril, she can't let go of the recent images from her dreams and convinces herself that it's a statement about her Neanderthals.
A couple of weeks pass without dreams; work sparks her interest once more as the students busy her with research for their school year's final projects. Piles of books, maps, and magazines are spread across the tables on subjects from the goddess statues of early Greece to the accumulating garbage circling the planet in space. Many of the students ask for material on climate change.
After a particularly exhausting day, the air thick with pollen and moisture, Grace returns home and falls asleep on top of her bed. As waking consciousness gives way to a hypnogogic state, she finds herself standing at the edge of a vast plain. At a short distance from her, in the waist-high swaying grasses, stands the wailing woman, sunlight bouncing off the bronzed skin of her broad shoulders, muscular arms, and wild auburn hair. Grace yearns to hold the woman, to try and soothe her pain, but when she stretches out her arms to touch her, she wakes up. Disoriented and unsure where she has been, Grace wonders if it's possible to cross over into another world—a world long disappeared into the past.
#
A few days later, during their lunch break, when the library is empty of children, and the two of them are sitting together chatting about new books, Grace tentatively broaches the subject of a trip to Gibraltar and asks Rose for a small loan.
“Why, Gibraltar?” Rose asks.
“I have to find out more about her...about Ultima.” Her fingers fidget, twisting the buttons on her cotton dress.
“Ultima? That's Spanish, isn't it? The last or final.” Rose looks up from the catalog page, where she has been circling the titles of books.
“Yes. It's what I've named her, the last one. Ultima, the last Neanderthal. I need to find her, and I believe she's there.”
“Where?”
“In Gibraltar.”
“But Grace, the Neanderthals died out, what, 40,000 years ago?” Rose tries not to raise her voice in concern. “You know this, right?”
“Yes, of course, I know that,” she answers, unsettled that Rose doesn't seem to understand.
“Are we talking about archeological remains?”
“Not exactly. They haven't yet found any bones in Gorham’s Cave, just implements.”
“I'm sorry, but I still can't quite make sense of what you're hoping or expecting to find in Gibraltar?”
“I can't explain it.” Grace says, remembering the torment of trying to explain to her grandmother how she heard the voices of her parents during storms. They're dead, gone, not floating around in the wind, Alice would scream and walk out of the room.
“Well, you need to try.”
“OK.” Grace steadies herself and decides to tell Rose everything, trusting it won't be the wrong thing to do. “I’ve been having dreams of them, Ultima and her people for a while now. At first, they were always alive, but then I watched as they died: the old ones, the children. All of them all except her. In every dream, she is alive, and we have this…connection, as though I am with her some of the time. I’ve read everything I can find, which isn’t much. I want to go there to see the place where she lived. To find who she was. It's as if the trajectory of my life has led me to her, to Ultima, the last Neanderthal.” Grace takes a deep breath. “I know it sounds crazy, and maybe I’ll go and find nothing, but I have to try. And I promise I'll pay back every cent.”
“My concern has nothing to do with the money. I know you'll pay me back. The truth is, I'm worried about you. The way you've focused on these extinctions, and tried to do something to save the dying animals is commendable. A bit obsessive, but full of compassion. I can understand that. But now this Neanderthal, this trip to Gibraltar…I think, perhaps, it's just too much.”
“I have to do this.”
“I can see you believe that.”
“I'll be fine.”
“Will you?”
Grace says nothing and turns to look out the window. The day is summery, the sky a patchwork of blue and gray. Thunderstorms have been predicted later that afternoon. Rose stands next to her, aware that Grace is slipping away. Against the rising tide of her anxiety, Rose quickly attempts a hook she hopes will pull Grace back.
“If you think you really must go, then I insist on two conditions: You take only two weeks off from work, not one day more, and you stay in touch with me while you're gone. Hotels have public phones,” she adds, knowing Grace will refuse a cell phone.
“I promise. Two weeks and not one day more and staying in touch. Thank-you. I can't...I...” Grace can speak no more. Every inch of her skin is hot and tingling. She feels suddenly light-headed as nausea rides up her throat.
“Why don't you go home for the rest of the day,” Rose says. “It's quiet today, and you look like you might be getting sick. I'll bring you the check tomorrow.” As Rose heads into the main room, the pressure over her eyes already spreading out into a full-blown migraine, she stops, turns, and faces Grace, “Please don't make me regret this.”
“I won't,” Grace says as she hurries out of the office, past Rose, through the stacks, and out onto the school lawn where she gulps at the fragrant air, steadying herself against the flag pole. Blood pulsates along the sides of her head; a low hum permeates her ears. I'm going, she thinks, I'm really going, and this both excites and terrifies her. She walks dizzily along the edge of the parking lot and hears the rushing stream, swollen from late melting snow further north. A few feet from her car, she bends down and throws up her lunch.
#
When the day comes to leave, Grace packs lightly. More critical than clothes are her notebook in which she has drawn a map of the places she—on Rose’s strong suggestion—plans to visit, her Spanish-English dictionary, solid walking shoes, her water bottle, journal, and several new pens. She drives herself to the airport (refusing Rose's offer), leaves her car in a long-term lot, and sticks the ticket in the glove compartment with seventy dollars, enough for the parking fee if the rest of her money gets spent. She has never flown out of the country before, and with rumors of long lines at security, she arrives at the airport with two hours to spare. She's nervous, the underarms of her white silk blouse quickly smelling of sweat. Just before boarding, she dashes into the Women’s bathroom, changes into a fresh, sleeveless t-shirt, washes her hands and face for the third time. She finds a bookstore and buys a best-selling thriller, something Rose would surely consider junk.
The flight is comfortably unremarkable. She attempts unsuccessfully to ignore the teenage boy under headphones to her left who has a blue tattoo snake that crawls out from his shirt and slithers up his neck, its cobra-like head partially hidden under his earlobe. When she is not sneaking looks at him, she stares dreamily at the vertical clouds that float like weightless worlds beneath the plane, easily imagining them as the domain of beings who look down upon the earth, watching us. She wonders if the spirits of the dead have a physical place where they live or if we reincarnate soon after death, back on the fast track to yet another life. She hopes for the former, a realm where all who have been lost will be waiting for her, the way her mother once waited for her, no matter the weather, sitting on the front porch every afternoon when she returned home from school.
II
From the first moment the hot dry air assaults her lungs, through the long day of dusty train rides out of Madrid and across the plains of Spain, Grace senses the presence of Ultima urgently pressing her southward. She spends her first night in Cordoba in a warm, dark hotel room, fitfully tossing on the hard bed, never reaching a state of deep sleep. The next day she visits the number one place on Rose’s must-visit list: the Mezquita—the Mosque-Cathedral of Cordoba—where she wanders for hours in the cool shade under its high vaulted ceilings and red and white stone arches. From there, she sends Rose her first postcard and heads back to the hotel. Her second night of sleep is no better than the first.
On the morning train to Granada, she falls into a semi-conscious state, lost in the blur of passing blues and browns; and later, in the glow of dusk by the reflecting pool of the Alhambra, she lays down and surrenders to the fatigue. Standing to her left is a group of English tourists, who listen intently as their tour guide tells the story of the Alhambra's near-destruction in 1812.
“After looting and damaging large sections of the palace, Napoleon's retreating forces set explosives to blow up the entire complex and would have been successful, had it not been for the bravery of one man. A soldier, crippled in the war, chose to remain behind and despite his disability, removed every fuse, saving what could still be saved.”
Hypnotized by the rhythm of the storytelling, the heat, and the blue water that spreads out before her like a reflected carpet of sky, Grace closes her eyes. Soon the guide's male voice is replaced by a woman's, not a familiar voice, not speaking in words exactly but rather in waves of sound or song and within its flow come images of a distant horizon of blue-green sea; of a vast, wet, grass-covered plain dotted with dunes of sand; of a man and a child bending into the tall plants, pulling them up from their roots, the movements of their bodies sharp and precise. That was before, the voice somehow tells her, before I was alone. With a bundle of greens in one arm and the child lifted up into the other, the man walks to the sea.
Grace wakes with a shudder. A man is standing over her.
“The palace is closing,” the guard says, then moves on and continues his announcement in Spanish and English, “everyone, please leave through the front gate.”
#
On the fifth day of her journey, Grace wakes to another dry, cloudless day and eats a light breakfast of coffee and toast in the hotel café. At the front desk, she buys a postcard of the Alhambra's Fountain of Lions, its alabaster basin held up by the backs of twelve white marble lions, jets of water streaming out of their mouths. She mails it to Rose, noting a reference to the poem by Ibn Zamrak that was carved onto the rim of the basin, knowing full well Rose will enjoy researching both the history of the fountain and the poem. Making her way to the bus station, she conjures the smell of stacked books and magazines, the hushed voices of the children and Rose, surprised by how much she misses them.
When she finally reaches the bus station, she secures a window seat on the bus to La Linea de la Concepcion, the border-crossing town to Gibraltar on the Spanish side. Once there, she intends to spend the remainder of the day resting, perhaps walking along the beach, using the time to plan the critical, next few days.
Hoping to break up the monotony of another long bus ride, she opens her journal to the last entry and realizes with a shock that today is the first of July, her mother's birthday. Had she lived, she would have turned sixty-six, making her dad sixty-nine. How did she not realize that this day would fall during her trip? Every year, on the anniversary of their death, she has taken out the one envelope of photos given to her by her grandmother and stared, sometimes for hours, at the fading images, trying to recapture the few memories not yet lost with time. But today, the envelope is not with her; it lies as always in her top bureau drawer at home, wrapped in the violet silk scarf her mother wore the night of the accident. Disturbed by the break of this ritual, she presses her face against the window glass and stares out as the world grows hillier and greener, reviewing in her mind the photos she can remember.
Hours later, as the bus nears La Linea, Grace summons to mind her favorite photo of the group. In it, she is two years old, dressed in a pale blue pinafore and white shoes. Her mother is wearing a buttercup yellow, sleeveless sundress; two braids of chestnut hair fall like coiled ropes across her chest. Her mother kneels next to her, looks up at the camera, and smiles as Grace grabs for a braid.
The metallic squeal, as the driver hits the brakes, lurches Grace into the present. Before the bus comes to a full stop, people clutch their belongings and scramble to the front. Remaining in her seat, she watches the sweating bodies push past her, scrutinizing each face as if searching for that unexpected someone she just might know, but she recognizes no one, and so with a plunge into the familiar waters of aloneness, she collects her things and stands last in line, finally stepping down and out into blindingly bright sunlight which penetrates through her sunglasses and half-shut eyes.
For the next hour, Grace rambles aimlessly through La Linea. She doesn't recognize the town—the buildings and streets—but there is something about the smell in the air that reminds her of the white sandy beaches of Cape Cod, where she spent two weeks every summer with her parents when they were alive. Meandering along the narrow streets, a few blocks from La Playa de Levante, she eventually finds her hotel, which she recognizes from the brochure: a white stucco building with baby blue shutters, one block from the sea. After getting her key from Miriam, a dark-eyed, dark-skinned woman who sits at a small desk exuding the smells of garlic, fish, and cigarette smoke, Grace climbs the endless flights of stairs.
Once inside, she drops her belongings on the narrow bed and opens the French doors to the fourth story balcony attached to her tiny room. Before her is a panoramic view of the sea. A light breeze leaves a briny taste in her throat. In a flash of memory, she sees her father, tall and tan, the summer he taught her to swim, making it a game as he did with so much in their life, his patient laughter, so loud and infectious. She looks down at her hands and remembers that like her, his fingers were long and slim with oval nails.
All the travel finally catching up with her, Grace spends the afternoon napping and wakes to find her body burrowed under a mound of damp sheets. She steps back out on the balcony and sees that it’s dusk. Mist blows inland like an exhalation from the sea, condensing on her skin and hair. As the wind strengthens, the sun bobs atop the waves, coloring them golden green, the sky indigo blue. She wonders if this is what the sea looked like thirty thousand years ago; if this is what Ultima might have seen. Grace goes back in, closes the doors against the bright sounds of local nightlife beginning to bubble up from below, undresses, and slips her body back under the sheets.
The next day, her Sierra Club pack secured on her back, Grace walks with renewed determination across the border into the British Territory of Gibraltar just as the sun is rising up its eastern face, suffusing the stone with pinkish light. A shuttle bus takes her to the first stop on her list, the Gibraltar Museum, where a young woman describes the most recent findings from Gorham's cave: chunks of charcoal and flakes of stone from tools recognized to be Neanderthal, possibly from as recent as 32,000 years ago, though she admits that the date is still in dispute.
“But if the date is accurate,” she adds with subdued excitement, “this changes the Neanderthal timeline and means they survived longer than anyone thought, though perhaps it was only a small group, and only this far south. By that date, we believe that the south of Europe had become inhabited by the ever-encroaching Homo sapiens coming from the north and the east, and the ability of the Neanderthals to survive much longer, with so much competition, was probably quite slim.”
The woman answers a few questions, and then, as she turns from the group and begins to walk away, Grace catches up with her and lightly touches her arm.
“Is the cave open to the public?” she asks.
The woman takes a step back. “Oh no, it's much too delicate a project to open to the public. Really, they have only just begun their work in this archeological layer. But you can go to St. Michael's cave, up on top. It's not the same as the lower caves, certainly, but it will give you a feel of being inside the Rock.”
“Thank you,” Grace says, but the woman has already turned and is walking away.
The visit to St. Michael's Cave is fascinating yet disappointing. Inside, surrounded by enormous stalagmites and stalactites, the air is cool and wet and smells like boiled eggs. Tourists fill the cave. Several young couples hide in shadowed corners kissing. Grace walks around the cavernous space and tries to imagine Neanderthal families finding shelter in these caves, protected from heat and cold, rain and snow, making a last stand against whatever forces had pushed them here, but the echoing cacophony of so many voices is too distracting. Irritated, she leaves, emerging from the soft coolness, out into the sharp heat. Under the hot haze of sun and sky, she sits and reads the pamphlet she was handed at the museum. Gorham's Cave, discovered in 1907 by Captain A. Gorham, is one of many along the eastern face of Gibraltar and the southeastern coast of Spain. It is one of eight caves in Gibraltar believed to have had a Neanderthal occupation. The ocean, which now comes right up to the mouths of these lower caves, was once considerably farther away; for miles, a fertile plain filled with wildlife and plants had lain between water and rock.
Could that fertile plain be the place where she saw the man and boy foraging for plants or hunting for small game? The place she saw Ultima standing alone, crying out to the world? To answer these questions, to answer all of her questions, Grace knows she must get closer, for why had she come all this way if not to see Gorham's cave—and that, according to the pamphlet, can only be accomplished by boat.
Early the next morning, she bathes, dresses, and heads to the port side of Gibraltar, both mesmerized and appalled by the excesses of its modernity. Multi-decked cruise liners glide past just beyond the inner bay while ropes and masts of the many docked yachts bob bright white against a bleached out blue sky. Along the coast, tall narrow houses with orange tile roofs face the bay, greeting those who come from the sea and watching those who sail away. It disturbs her how easily humans can live in the pretty shine of all these possessions and forget the actual state of crisis in a world where so many species are dying. Refusing to be side-tracked, she hurries past the marina, the outdoor cafes, the tourists lined up for pleasure cruises until she discovers a partially obscured side cove where a handful of men sit on folding chairs drinking coffee and playing cards. Scattered among them are hand-painted signs stating the fees for tours around the peninsula and up the Spanish coast to the posh beach towns. To her left, a middle-aged man with longish thick black hair pulled back into a ponytail stands up and approaches her. When he smiles, she sees that he has two gold front teeth.
“My jewels,” he says to her, broadening his smile.
His schooled English accent surprises her. She imagines his ancestors might have been Moors from Spain.
“Can you take me to Gorham's cave?”
“I can take you in close, but we aren't allowed to dock there. It's a Restricted Area.”
“How much will it cost?” she asks, wanting to settle the price first.
“Just to the caves? No beaches or joy rides out to sea?”
“No, just Gorham's cave.”
“Not my usual run, “but for you, thirty pounds.”
Grace knows he is overcharging, taking advantage of her, but urgency allows her to accept it without protest. She follows him, like a child behind a father, to a brightly painted, four-seater motorboat.
Fifteen minutes later, with everything damp from sea spray, the boat slows as they approach the east face of Gibraltar. Grace is drawn to several large openings, gaping mouths of rock barely above the level of the sea, and immediately she knows which one is Gorham's cave. Her hands shake with excitement. She believes this was Ultima's final home.
“That, Madame,” the boatman says, “is the infamous Gorham's Cave.” He stretches out his arm, fingers pointing to the cave she'd mentally chosen. “The spot of recent archeological findings that have led some to believe that the very last of our ancestral cousins, the Neanderthal, lived and eventually died out on our beloved rock.”
“Yes, I know. Actually, that's why I'm here,” Grace says, needing to tell someone why she has come. “I believe they are right, that the last Neanderthal did live here before she...I mean, before they became extinct.”
“And are you an archeologist?”
Suddenly she feels foolish in front of this strange man, and though she hears the condescension in his words, his face softens when she looks straight at him and implores confirmation that she hasn't made this whole story up.
“You wouldn't be the first nor the last one to come here, drawn by the caves, hoping to discover the secrets of our distant past.”
“Thank you. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by what I imagine and the actions I—”
“No need to explain,” he says, brushing his hand through the air as if giving her absolution. “We all have our unique obsessions that drive us to do strange things, sometimes with unexpected and surprising results.”
“Yes,” she says slightly calmer but embarrassed still. She turns away from him and faces the sea; the sun, now almost overhead, whitewashes the landscape, cleansing it with its heat. Grace feels the man's dark eyes on her back as the boat sits rocking in water that once was a rich, grassy plain teaming with life.
“And to your right,” he says, returning to the more impersonal tone of tour guide, “we have the coast of Morocco, our other long-lost cousin. Did you know that we were once connected at the hip until the earth shook, and we slipped apart, no longer able to touch? Yet even after so much time separated, we still feel a profound connection.”
“Exactly, a profound connection,” she says quietly, mostly to herself, as her body twists to face Africa. Grace feels the boatman's eyes following her movements, then lingering when she stops. She turns back to Gorham's Cave.
“Are you certain I can't interest you in a longer trip?” he says. “There are some very romantic beaches further north along this coast in Spain.”
Grace does not answer because she is not listening to his words. Instead, she is seeing what Ultima would have seen standing out on the edge of the plain, all sea and sky in myriad shades of blue, the shadow of Africa in the distance. As the sun nods past its apex, beginning its descent to the west, the man turns the boat, and after a clearly audible sigh of disappointment that he won't be taking her further on, and silently returns them to port.
On her way back to the hotel, Grace buys several postcards of various sights on Gibraltar. She scribbles a few words on one and addresses it to Rose, insisting to the postal person that despite the cost, it be sent airmail express.
#
For the next three days, Grace remains in her hotel room or takes walks along the beach, the rock of Gibraltar always looming in sight. With little appetite, she nibbles on buttered toast and drinks a mild brew of English Breakfast tea which Miriam offers to guests in a small downstairs café. Sleep, like a capricious friend, overtakes her randomly at unexpected times. She wakes from dreams of her parents waving to her from a car just as it is consumed by a dark storm cloud; of polar bears paddling endlessly in the open water; of Neanderthal women cradling dying babies in their arms. Of Ultima singing into the wind like one of Odysseus’s sirens. Sometimes when she wakes it's dark outside, sometimes it's light. For hours at a time, she sits on the balcony, struggling to regain her composure from the emotions stirred up by the disturbing dreams and from the disappointment of not being able to get closer to Gorham's cave. Her trip almost over, she still is doesn’t understand what she had hoped to discover, what Ultima wanted her to know.
On the last night before her scheduled trip back to Madrid, while staring out over the rippling expanse of sea—the sky moonless and black, stars tumbling across the darkness like thousands of pinholes of cold white light—the world around her dissipates, and another fills the space. A small clearing; in the center, fire burns in a deep pit. The air smells of meat and smoke. She sees the familiar man and boy as if they are right there in front of her. Soon they’re joined by several men and women, and children of different ages, and for the first time, she sees their faces, each with the recognizable brow ridge, broad nose, and full lips; the bright eyes and prominent lower jaw. Only this time, she is not just watching but is with them, as if inhabiting one of their bodies. All around her, they are laughing and singing, holding rocks and sticks with which they are making rhythmic sounds, some of them dancing. They are no longer strangers but her family, her tribe. She claps her hands in delight until, in a distant shadow, hidden behind a clumping of low trees, she first hears then sees them: the Other ones with their high foreheads, narrow necks, and long limbs; the ones who have been seen hunting to the north. As she watches them, they watch her people...and she is afraid.
And then they disappear, all of them, except one tall man who comes out from behind the trees. He looks at her, not with hate or fear but with curiosity. In a flash of comprehension, she knows that he is not looking at her but at Ultima. And with that understanding, shapes and colors waver and then go dark. She is back on the patio; the man and Ultima gone. The world grows cold. Silent. A bank of fog settles in and obscures the sea. She wraps her arms around her legs and gathers them to her chest. Shivering, she pulls her sweater on, and with her head slumped down upon her knees, sets each face she saw to memory before falling asleep.
In the early hours of the morning, Grace wakes suddenly and knows that she must go back to Gibraltar one last time before leaving. She looks at the small, round, silver-bodied clock that sits ticking away precious time. It’s 4:30, the sun not yet up. She rustles through the papers in her pack and pulls out a map, unfolds it on the floor, and kneels down to get a closer look. Her eyes are repeatedly drawn to the peninsula's east coast and the complex of ancient caves. She feels both anger and longing for that which has become impossible to attain: entering Gorham's cave, stepping into the ancient darkness that once surrounded and protected Ultima and the ones she loved. Their last home. But if not the cave, then where should she go? Where else did Ultima go? Where did she walk? Where did she stand and stare out at the sea? Her index finger runs across the length of the map as if it were her childhood Ouija board, her hand the planchette. Her eyes concentrate as her fingers trace the squiggly line from the caves southward, and there at the very tip, she sees it and knows it’s right. She quickly gathers a few things into her pack, grabs a jacket, and runs down the four flights of stairs onto the empty street.
Hours before dawn, in a mist that seems to rise up through cracks in the ground like steam from the center of the earth, Grace makes her way to the border crossing, her goal clear—to reach the southernmost tip of Gibraltar: the lighthouse at Europa Point. Her train doesn't leave until early afternoon though she is no longer sure she will be on it. She feels mildly feverish; sweat dampens the neck of her cotton shirt. Too early for the shuttle bus, she walks across the border, across the open airstrip, and into the center of town where the only person she meets is the night guard at the museum who gives her directions to a taxi that will take her to Europa Point.
Past the Ibrahim-al-Ibrahim Mosque and the Shrine of Our Lady, the taxi stops at the base of the red-striped lighthouse that seems to jut into the middle of the sea. Grace steps out of the taxi and onto a walkway of flat stone. Seeing no other people, she follows the path just beyond the lighthouse, climbs over the railing, then over a small stone wall and onto a ledge that faces southeast. Though she has never been here before, she knows this place, remembers the feel of the stone ledge, the force of the Rock of Gibraltar rising up behind her like a sentry. To her right, in the distance across the Straight, the Riff Mountains are a vague purple mystery that divides sea from sky in the predawn light. Seagulls lift and dip along the edge of the surf, and in front of her, where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Mediterranean Sea, the early ferry to Morocco sends up its first-morning call. Around the bend of land to her left, she imagines Gorham's cave opening to the warm African air.
She is convinced that Ultima will join her, that one last time she will see them all—the man and boy, the men by the fire, the dancing women and children, and so she waits. And waits, but they don’t come, not in vision or dream. They are gone. Everyone she has loved is gone. And suddenly, it is so clear to her that this is how it feels to be the last one. Abandoned. Desolate. Alone. Without connection to the past or the future and with no reason to remain.
Grace stares out, forlorn, hardly seeing the immense beauty that surrounds her. When the first rays of morning light blaze across the water, without warning, as if rising up with the warm wind, the urgent presence of Ultima surrounds her. Her vision blurs, and she is there at Gorham’s cave. Next to her, Ultima sits and across from Ultima is the tall man, his right-hand palm up, offering a piece of cooked meat. Ultima takes it, chews it, and he offers another, this time inching closer to her. They begin to waver, to fade. Against mounting vertigo, Grace focuses, and they return. This time Ultima is handing the man a wrapped bundle which he refuses, so she places it in his arms against his chest. Ultima turns away, tears in her eyes, and runs.
The sea returns. Grace is standing on the ledge, the back of her legs pressing against the stone wall. She feels Ultima so close now, it’s as if she is under her skin. This is the place where Ultima came when she could no longer bear the loss and survive alone but wanted to follow her husband and son, her daughters, brothers, sisters, and friends. When the time of her people—her time—had come to an end.
Together now, they stand and watch as the quickly rising sun lavishes surreal colors across the east. The wind picks up and sings to them, a song they both recognize. They breathe in slowly, deeply, as if testing the substance of the air. Grace feels Ultima lean forward--
“Grace?” a voice says.
“Ultima?”
“No, it's Rose. I'm here with you.”
—her body now unhinged from all that sorrow--
“I have the last postcard you sent me,” holding up the photo of the striped lighthouse, aiming it at Grace like a magnet or a wand. Rose moves cautiously to Grace and takes hold of her hand.
—her arms wings, her heart reaches out--
“If I don't return, forgive me,” Rose recites, having memorized the postcard’s words, “perhaps I will have found what I came for.” Rose wraps her arms around Grace’s waist, snatching her from the grasp of the open space.
—and she flies.
“Ultima!” Grace cries, reaching out, pulling against the unexpected restraint. “Wait!” and again, “wait,” and then the enormous silence and the same wrenching ache she felt when her parents died. Grace moans and weeps, and then as if announcing her certainty to the world, “She’s gone.”
“No, she is not gone,” Rose says, still holding onto Grace, who turns in her arms. “Rose?” Grace says, finally seeing her.
“Come,” Rose says and helps her climb back over the stone wall and the white railing. They fall onto the hard ground under the shadow of the lighthouse, both breathing heavily. A faint smell of lavender intermingles with the sea air.
“You're here?” Grace says, confused.
“Yes, I came to find you. I went to the hotel and the museum, then I remembered the last postcard.
“But why?”
“To tell you something astonishing. They discovered Neanderthal DNA in human beings. They’re not gone because we carry them in us. They are part of who we've become. The very essence of who we are.”
Something like wonderment fills the hollow inside Grace's being. She remembers the man and the bundle. The bundle was a child. She sits up and reaches for Rose's hands.
Rose's mouth hints at a smile. “It seems that you were right. Ultima and her people have been with you all along.” Rose gives Grace a few minutes to absorb this. All around them, the world is awakening with heat and sunlight and the sound of a bus coming along the coast road.
“There’s something else I’ve brought you.” She pulls a card out from her shoulder bag and hands it to Grace. On the face of the card is a watercolor print of a small elephant. Inside is written in neat cursive:
To Miss Myerson, for all that you taught us, the sixth-grade graduating class raised
$200.00 this year and adopted 4 orphaned elephants living at the Sheldrake Trust Orphanage in Nairobi, Kenya, in your name. One day, they will be released into the wild. Perhaps together, we can save them. Josie and the sixth-grade gang.
#
That night in the hotel room, as Rose’s breath lifts and falls in the rhythms of her sleep, Grace lies restless upon a cot, her bed given over to Rose. Quietly, she gets up and goes out on the balcony, the night sky tremendous and grand, stretching out into a mysterious eternity. For the first time since the death of her parents, Grace doesn’t feel alone but senses her connection to something larger, something expansive that includes everyone she knows and has known, including her parents, the lost animals, and the Neanderthals. So much has happened that remains difficult to understand, but for now, it’s enough. She lies supine on the balcony floor and stares up at the beating starlight of Gibraltar one more time and feels almost whole.
I
Grace Myerson, assistant librarian at Keyes Elementary School in rural Vermont, stands before a wall of windows, her back to the students who wait impatiently for their lesson to begin. Outside, thickening bands of dark, low-lying clouds race across the valley, forcing Caribbean warmth into the cold October air. Watching the gusts of wind sweep burnished leaves across the sport's field, Grace remembers how, as a child, she imagined hearing the voices of her dead parents reaching out to her through the wind of every storm.
“A wall seems like a good idea to me,” Josie pipes up. A smart, opinionated student to whom most of the other students defer, Josie is distressed with the growing unrest in the room. Grace turns and faces the children, recalling their project on the President's border wall: an enormous structure intended to stop immigrants crossing from Mexico into the United States. She grabs a notebook from the belly of her shoulder bag and sits on the floor in the center of the room.
“But wait, listen to this,” Grace says with enough volume to draw their attention to her. Just then, there is a bright flash followed by a loud crack of thunder and a rumbling boom. The overhead lights flicker; the students move in closer, forming a loose circle around Grace, who feels the comfort of their presence as they do hers.
“It's from an article in Science, written by a well-respected conservationist.” She lifts the magazine and reads. “With the help of several environmental groups, we are developing a project to create a continuous corridor of secured areas from British Columbia in Canada all the way to Belize. Along this route, animals will be free to migrate from one protected park or forest to the next, without confronting the dangers of highways and unsafe, privately-held land.”
“I don't understand. What does this have to do with the wall?” a boy asks from a more distant corner of the room.
“You will,” she says and continues. “However, if the wall suggested by the government is constructed as stated, west to east along the Rio Grande, we believe thousands of animals could be stuck on one side of their feeding range, unable to cross to the other side. Hunger would likely force many onto farms or the streets of cities and towns where they would risk being shot scavenging for food; others would surely starve.”
To Grace's delight, the students immediately understand the implications of the article. As the thunder passes and the rain slows to a steady beat on the school’s roof, the children gather together at their work tables and write letters to the President of the United States. In the direct language of sixth graders, they tell him what they have just learned: the continuation of his wall is a very bad idea, even if it means that illegal immigration increases over time. Animals, in their opinion, will be the innocent victims, and some, who are already struggling, might even become extinct. And that, they write, is unacceptable.
As she reads and approves their letters, Grace seriously considers for the first time in her life the concept of extinction—of a species dwindling so low in number, it no longer has a sufficient population to reproduce and survive.
That night, in her apartment on the edge of town, as the storm dissipates and is replaced by blustery winds from the north, Grace is restless. She can't sleep. Her mind is troubled by images of singular animals in every shape and size, sitting or lying in their various environments, dying alone. After endless tossing in a cocoon of bedding, she throws her pillows onto the floor, wraps herself in the down comforter, gets up, and hurries barefoot along the cold pine boards.
At the kitchen table, she hunches over her laptop and begins to research contemporary animal extinctions. For hours, she reads the data streaming across the screen. The statistics are appalling. All across the planet, animals are struggling in a world where the loss of habitat, changes in climate, and most devastating of all, the overpopulation and greed of human beings threaten their very survival. With her neck stiff, her lower back aching, and the shocking realization of what has clearly been happening (without her awareness) for some time now, she slowly raises her head and squints at the stove clock on which she notices specks of splashed grease. As if marking this moment in time, a shaft of light shoots through the small window above the aluminum sink, reflecting a yellow square onto the pale purple wall. It is 7:40 a.m., and she is already late for work.
#
Rose Pearson, the head librarian and Grace's boss, is a broad-boned, tall woman in her early sixties with short, spiky gray hair, deep-set gray eyes, and wire-rimmed glasses that sit tentatively on the bridge of her narrow nose. She is an extremely private and pragmatic person, her life outside of the library a mystery to the teachers with whom she has worked side by side for more than twenty years. Yet in Grace, Rose has found an unlikely companion. With little precaution on her part, as if mitigating some deep-seated need, Rose feels compelled, at the oddest times, to confide deeply personal fragments of her life to Grace—which is exactly what she did on the very first day they met, two years earlier, when Grace walked into the library, newspaper in hand, hoping to interview for the advertised job.
It was late June and the students were on summer break, the building empty except for the two of them. After offering Grace a cup of tea, which she politely refused, Rose asked her all of the routine questions, to which Grace answered with a straightforward and almost naïve simplicity that Rose found compelling, especially in someone aged thirty-two. When Grace explained that she did not have a cell phone because of the distraction and gave the number of her landline, Rose believed she’d met a kindred spirit. As the interview proceeded, Rose felt an unexpected tenderness for this woman and an increasing urge to share something of herself, some secret she had told no one else.
And so, on that day, Grace became the only person to know that several years earlier, when the doctor informed Rose of her husband's fatal illness, she disappeared for three weeks. Just before dawn on the day following his diagnosis, Rose drove up to the woods of northern Maine, where she rented a small cabin on an unpopulated lake. There she spent her days sitting in a rickety old rowboat that was docked on the property and fished, something she hadn't done since she was a girl. Rose spoke to no one (though she did leave a message for her husband so he wouldn't call the police) and barely ate, picking at bits of the few fish she managed to catch and fry in the rancid oil she found on a shelf.
“Can you imagine, all I brought from home was a set of clean sheets?” Rose shook her head as if still wondering what she had been thinking that day when she allowed impulse to override rational thought. Rose looked directly into what she thought were astonishingly beautiful eyes: spring grass green, outlined with black lashes. It was the first time they looked at one another, eye to eye, and although each had the urge to look away, their gazes remained steady. Rose wondered with some embarrassment if she had already said too much. However, there was something about Grace, the way she sat in the chair, her body so very still, rapt attention focused entirely on her that encouraged Rose to continue, perhaps seeing in Grace, the daughter she'd never been able to have.
“Somehow, I thought, or perhaps hoped, if I spent some time alone coming to terms with the reality of the situation, I would gather the courage needed to face what would happen next.”
“Did it work?” Grace asked as if nothing in that moment mattered more.
“I suppose, at first, when he wasn't so sick, but it took eleven long months, and in the end, in those last few weeks before he died...it was very hard. I don't think anyone can really be prepared to watch that amount of suffering in someone they love.” Rose remembered the way her husband's face became a mask of pain; the way it eventually sank into itself as his skin rolled off the sharp angles of his bones, his breath thin and raspy until it finally stopped. Rose stood up quickly from her chair as if in doing so, she might leave those images behind. She leaned against the wall, and for several minutes the two women remained unmoving, sharing in a silence that ought to have felt uncomfortable but strangely didn't. Then, as if in response to that silence or perhaps to the intensity of the story just told, something in Grace pried itself loose and burst free. Her breathing quickened; a flash of heat flushed her cheeks. Without any attempt to hold back, her head held aloft, her eyes staring straight ahead now rather than at Rose, she spoke the word that summed up all of her own unspoken grief.
“Orphan,” Grace said in a thin whisper. This surprised Rose. This was something she had not expected.
“I'm an orphan,” Grace repeated more resolute this time, the word more solid and unforgiving, coalescing into an image in both of their minds of a girl alone in the world, a girl abandoned, severed from all family, now grown into a woman but still carrying within her that girl.
From somewhere unseen, a cold draft slipped into the warm room, and both women shivered. Rose wanted to move in closer, to touch a shoulder or a lock of Grace's feathery dark hair but sensed that like a deer spotted in an open field, she might bolt; and so she kept her arms down, her hands flat against her thighs.
“I'm so sorry. If I may as ask, if it's not too painful to recall, how did you lose them?”
Grace didn't turn to face Rose but continued to stare straight ahead at the wall behind the desk, her eyes resting on the warm cream color, the rough seam that ran from ceiling to floor.
“It was a January night,” she began. “There had been a weird thunderstorm in the middle of a short burst of snow, creating icy hail. My parents were returning home from a symphony concert in the city when their car, which my dad was driving, hit a patch of black ice. The station wagon skidded off the road and ran full speed into a deep gulley where it rammed into a tree. They were dead before the ambulance arrived.
“I had just turned ten and was spending the night with my best friend, Annie.” She paused and looked over at Rose. “I've always thought it so strange that I didn't know, didn't feel that something terrible had happened to my mom and dad, that I just slept right through the night.” There was a catch in her throat, but she continued. “After the funeral, I was sent to live with Alice, my only living grandparent. My mother had been her only child. I think she loved me and tried to give me the things a girl needs, but she was too tired and too broken by the loss of her own daughter to raise another child. For years, she cried most every night behind her locked bedroom door.”
“I'm so sorry,” Rose said, not knowing how else to respond, not knowing how to lessen the apparent pain in the core of this woman. She experienced the same damn helplessness as during her husband's illness. It maddened and frustrated her, but there was one thing she could do. “The job is yours,” Rose said as she returned to her desk, her demeanor slightly more professional.
“Even though I have no library experience?”
“Well, you applied knowing that, so I trust you must think you can learn what is necessary. And I do as well.”
“Thank-you, Mrs.?”
“Just, Rose.”
“Thank you, Rose. I'll try not to disappoint you.”
“I know.”
#
Now at 7:45 a.m., after a quick shower and no breakfast, Grace rushes into the library, her wet hair stiff from the cold, circles under her bloodshot eyes.
“Is everything alright?” Rose asks as Grace hangs up her coat.
“I was up late doing research,” Grace offers with some reluctance as she prepares to walk into the main room, not ready to share her troubling thoughts with anyone. Not even Rose.
“Well, take your time, and when you're ready, the fourth graders will be in after lunch, needing help with their project on the agriculture of central Canada. Please pull some age-appropriate materials to get them started, but let them do most of the research themselves.”
Later that day, when the students have gone and Rose is in the office reading journals in preparation for the next ordering cycle, Grace pulls dozens of magazines published by various conservation and environmental groups, hunkers down on the green carpet with her back against the stacks, and reads. Scheduled to close the library, she stays well after the last teacher has left the building, lost in the mounting evidence that the earth is in grave danger, that the animals with whom we share the planet are dying off in frightening numbers. And for many, it is already too late. She copies address after address of the organizations to which she intends to send donations in order to save the whales and dolphins, polar bears and seals, elephants, eagles, tigers, gorillas, chimpanzees. The list is endless. After hours of furious writing, her hand cramping, and a profound sadness threatening to paralyze her insides, she remembers the first day of school after her parents died, the way she had to keep going despite the pain. On a scrap of paper, Grace calculates in tiny scribbles how many groups she can afford to help if she sends ten dollars to each one every month. It seems so little given the enormity of the situation, but it’s the best she can do.
Finally giving in to mental and emotional overload, she tips her head back and closes her eyes, but one of the photos she's just seen in a wildlife magazine has burnt an imprint on the screen of her mind and refuses to be erased: a magnificent polar bear in open water, bright white against blue, struggling to swim to solid ice. As the Arctic glaciers melt, Grace imagines all of the polar bears drowning, as this one looks to be, until there is only one left alive. The last one. She sees the bear’s black, glassy eyes searching outward, the icy sea between her and the safety of the white expanse of glacial ice at a distance impossible for her to reach. Does she know, Grace wonders, that she is the very last polar bear, that when she perishes, her species will disappear from this earth forever? Will any of them know when they are the last of their kind? And what of those already lost to us, those we have so easily forgotten? Did they know before they died that they were the last ones?
#
As late autumn rusts and reds are buried in the glittering white of snow, Grace spends every free minute in the library gathering the most recent data and copying it into her notebook. On a world map tacked to her kitchen wall, she writes the name of the latest recorded extinction in red ink or threatened extinction in blue. She cuts out and pins a photo of each animal in the place it last lived. She thinks of these last ones as orphans like herself.
On a blustery January day, deep in thought while hiding out between the tall stacks of library books, Grace comes to believe—feels sure of it—that as the last member of any species experiences its final days, whether in the heat of the desert or the depths of an ocean, under the steady mist of rainforest or the brittle cold of mountain snow, something within its consciousness understands the truth: I am the last of my kind, and when I am gone, there will be no more, no--
“And who have we lost today?” Rose says, unintentionally surprising Grace, whose heart races as if caught in some forbidden act. Rose, however, has given her blessing to the extinction project, as long as all of the library books are shelved, the tables cleared, materials pulled and prepared for the next class—and they always are, for Grace is nothing if not conscientious.
Grace looks up into the older woman's kind yet serious eyes. She admires, even perhaps envies, how physically solid Rose appears with her muscular calves and wide hands and feet, unlike her own long and languid limbs, her narrow feet. “The Western Lowland Gorilla and the Sumatran Orangutan have both been added to the Red List,” Grace says, imagining the bulk of the large primates, their all too human eyes staring back at her with grief and blame.
“I'm truly sorry, though it doesn't surprise me.” Rose, having become a pessimist over the years or, as she would correct, a realist, has little hope for the salvation of the human race, and no hope at all (though she would never say this to Grace) of us saving anyone else. “Well, when you finish here, I have an exciting project for you. Take your time, not much else is happening today.”
Grace picks up what she's been reading, steadies herself, brushes off her skirt, and heads for the Reference desk.
In her apartment that evening, while sitting on the floor with her cereal bowl, Grace contemplates the new project: collecting articles for the sixth-grade class on Prehistoric cave art. Before leaving school, Rose handed her a recent copy of The New Yorker magazine. Grace chews as she reads. Near the end of the article, she comes across a brief reference to the last known Neanderthals and their suspected final migration from the steppes of central Europe, through France, Portugal, and Spain, eventually reaching Gibraltar and a place called Gorham's Cave. She puts down her bowl and goes over to the world map—now a memorial with hundreds of colored circles and photos upon it—and finds Gibraltar, that narrow ridge of land that extends out from Spain like a finger of stone stretching across the Mediterranean, yearning to touch the North African coast. Why would they want to go to such a warm, dry place, she wonders and then remembers that the climate would have been different thirty thousand years ago, that the area might have been fertile and green, temperate compared to the chilling cold farther north. Of all the extinctions she has imagined, Grace never considered the Neanderthals, an entire branch of early humans who died out while another branch flourished—the branch from which modern humans would emerge. What did she know about them? What did anyone know?
She returns to the article. This specific cave art was not created by Neanderthals but instead by early Homo Sapiens, yet this author proposes that Neanderthals might have been the first creators of European cave art, and this excites Grace though she's not sure why.
#
That year, winter gives up its icy grip on the land earlier than is usual. By mid-March, crocuses, hyacinths, and daffodils are exploding blue and yellow everywhere, arousing a new generation of bumblebees. Grace doesn't notice any of this, doesn't seem to see anything outside of the library, and her small apartment that's piled high with books and magazines she's gathered during the past three months. While continuing with her extinction project, she also reads everything she can find on the Neanderthal people and learns that they had adapted well to the cold temperatures of the last Ice Age and for what must have seemed like an eternity, had survived in parts of western Asia and across most of Europe. Their population was never large, not like that of the burgeoning, more nomadic Homo sapiens, but it had remained stable. Then something happened, and slowly over time, their numbers steadily declined. Changes in climate and vegetation were proposed as possible causes as well as competition from Homo sapiens who had begun migrating into their lands. Some scientists believed that violent interactions occurred regularly between the two groups and that the tools and weapons of the Homo sapiens were superior to those of the Neanderthals who simply couldn't compete with their longer-legged, migratory cousins.
Grace is unsure what she believes, but the more she reads, the more she wants to know. She thinks about the Neanderthals throughout the day, every day, like a song she can't shake out of her head. By spring, they have infiltrated her sleep. At first, she sees many of them roaming robustly across an unfamiliar landscape, a whispery place of wavering silvery greens. One night in late April, she dreams of an old man who falls to the ground and dies; the next night, two small children, running toward the forest, ignite into puffs of smoke. A week later, she drifts off to the rhythm of rain and dreams of a woman standing over several bodies, wailing.
As she lays in bed the following morning, unable to get up for work, Grace is overcome with a sense of doom. She takes a sick day, telling Rose she has a bad cold. Throughout the day, as she moves from the sofa to the bed and back again to the sofa, one thought permeates her mind like a prophecy or a warning: more are dying than are being born. And though logic tells her this must be a reference to the present-day animals in peril, she can't let go of the recent images from her dreams and convinces herself that it's a statement about her Neanderthals.
A couple of weeks pass without dreams; work sparks her interest once more as the students busy her with research for their school year's final projects. Piles of books, maps, and magazines are spread across the tables on subjects from the goddess statues of early Greece to the accumulating garbage circling the planet in space. Many of the students ask for material on climate change.
After a particularly exhausting day, the air thick with pollen and moisture, Grace returns home and falls asleep on top of her bed. As waking consciousness gives way to a hypnogogic state, she finds herself standing at the edge of a vast plain. At a short distance from her, in the waist-high swaying grasses, stands the wailing woman, sunlight bouncing off the bronzed skin of her broad shoulders, muscular arms, and wild auburn hair. Grace yearns to hold the woman, to try and soothe her pain, but when she stretches out her arms to touch her, she wakes up. Disoriented and unsure where she has been, Grace wonders if it's possible to cross over into another world—a world long disappeared into the past.
#
A few days later, during their lunch break, when the library is empty of children, and the two of them are sitting together chatting about new books, Grace tentatively broaches the subject of a trip to Gibraltar and asks Rose for a small loan.
“Why, Gibraltar?” Rose asks.
“I have to find out more about her...about Ultima.” Her fingers fidget, twisting the buttons on her cotton dress.
“Ultima? That's Spanish, isn't it? The last or final.” Rose looks up from the catalog page, where she has been circling the titles of books.
“Yes. It's what I've named her, the last one. Ultima, the last Neanderthal. I need to find her, and I believe she's there.”
“Where?”
“In Gibraltar.”
“But Grace, the Neanderthals died out, what, 40,000 years ago?” Rose tries not to raise her voice in concern. “You know this, right?”
“Yes, of course, I know that,” she answers, unsettled that Rose doesn't seem to understand.
“Are we talking about archeological remains?”
“Not exactly. They haven't yet found any bones in Gorham’s Cave, just implements.”
“I'm sorry, but I still can't quite make sense of what you're hoping or expecting to find in Gibraltar?”
“I can't explain it.” Grace says, remembering the torment of trying to explain to her grandmother how she heard the voices of her parents during storms. They're dead, gone, not floating around in the wind, Alice would scream and walk out of the room.
“Well, you need to try.”
“OK.” Grace steadies herself and decides to tell Rose everything, trusting it won't be the wrong thing to do. “I’ve been having dreams of them, Ultima and her people for a while now. At first, they were always alive, but then I watched as they died: the old ones, the children. All of them all except her. In every dream, she is alive, and we have this…connection, as though I am with her some of the time. I’ve read everything I can find, which isn’t much. I want to go there to see the place where she lived. To find who she was. It's as if the trajectory of my life has led me to her, to Ultima, the last Neanderthal.” Grace takes a deep breath. “I know it sounds crazy, and maybe I’ll go and find nothing, but I have to try. And I promise I'll pay back every cent.”
“My concern has nothing to do with the money. I know you'll pay me back. The truth is, I'm worried about you. The way you've focused on these extinctions, and tried to do something to save the dying animals is commendable. A bit obsessive, but full of compassion. I can understand that. But now this Neanderthal, this trip to Gibraltar…I think, perhaps, it's just too much.”
“I have to do this.”
“I can see you believe that.”
“I'll be fine.”
“Will you?”
Grace says nothing and turns to look out the window. The day is summery, the sky a patchwork of blue and gray. Thunderstorms have been predicted later that afternoon. Rose stands next to her, aware that Grace is slipping away. Against the rising tide of her anxiety, Rose quickly attempts a hook she hopes will pull Grace back.
“If you think you really must go, then I insist on two conditions: You take only two weeks off from work, not one day more, and you stay in touch with me while you're gone. Hotels have public phones,” she adds, knowing Grace will refuse a cell phone.
“I promise. Two weeks and not one day more and staying in touch. Thank-you. I can't...I...” Grace can speak no more. Every inch of her skin is hot and tingling. She feels suddenly light-headed as nausea rides up her throat.
“Why don't you go home for the rest of the day,” Rose says. “It's quiet today, and you look like you might be getting sick. I'll bring you the check tomorrow.” As Rose heads into the main room, the pressure over her eyes already spreading out into a full-blown migraine, she stops, turns, and faces Grace, “Please don't make me regret this.”
“I won't,” Grace says as she hurries out of the office, past Rose, through the stacks, and out onto the school lawn where she gulps at the fragrant air, steadying herself against the flag pole. Blood pulsates along the sides of her head; a low hum permeates her ears. I'm going, she thinks, I'm really going, and this both excites and terrifies her. She walks dizzily along the edge of the parking lot and hears the rushing stream, swollen from late melting snow further north. A few feet from her car, she bends down and throws up her lunch.
#
When the day comes to leave, Grace packs lightly. More critical than clothes are her notebook in which she has drawn a map of the places she—on Rose’s strong suggestion—plans to visit, her Spanish-English dictionary, solid walking shoes, her water bottle, journal, and several new pens. She drives herself to the airport (refusing Rose's offer), leaves her car in a long-term lot, and sticks the ticket in the glove compartment with seventy dollars, enough for the parking fee if the rest of her money gets spent. She has never flown out of the country before, and with rumors of long lines at security, she arrives at the airport with two hours to spare. She's nervous, the underarms of her white silk blouse quickly smelling of sweat. Just before boarding, she dashes into the Women’s bathroom, changes into a fresh, sleeveless t-shirt, washes her hands and face for the third time. She finds a bookstore and buys a best-selling thriller, something Rose would surely consider junk.
The flight is comfortably unremarkable. She attempts unsuccessfully to ignore the teenage boy under headphones to her left who has a blue tattoo snake that crawls out from his shirt and slithers up his neck, its cobra-like head partially hidden under his earlobe. When she is not sneaking looks at him, she stares dreamily at the vertical clouds that float like weightless worlds beneath the plane, easily imagining them as the domain of beings who look down upon the earth, watching us. She wonders if the spirits of the dead have a physical place where they live or if we reincarnate soon after death, back on the fast track to yet another life. She hopes for the former, a realm where all who have been lost will be waiting for her, the way her mother once waited for her, no matter the weather, sitting on the front porch every afternoon when she returned home from school.
II
From the first moment the hot dry air assaults her lungs, through the long day of dusty train rides out of Madrid and across the plains of Spain, Grace senses the presence of Ultima urgently pressing her southward. She spends her first night in Cordoba in a warm, dark hotel room, fitfully tossing on the hard bed, never reaching a state of deep sleep. The next day she visits the number one place on Rose’s must-visit list: the Mezquita—the Mosque-Cathedral of Cordoba—where she wanders for hours in the cool shade under its high vaulted ceilings and red and white stone arches. From there, she sends Rose her first postcard and heads back to the hotel. Her second night of sleep is no better than the first.
On the morning train to Granada, she falls into a semi-conscious state, lost in the blur of passing blues and browns; and later, in the glow of dusk by the reflecting pool of the Alhambra, she lays down and surrenders to the fatigue. Standing to her left is a group of English tourists, who listen intently as their tour guide tells the story of the Alhambra's near-destruction in 1812.
“After looting and damaging large sections of the palace, Napoleon's retreating forces set explosives to blow up the entire complex and would have been successful, had it not been for the bravery of one man. A soldier, crippled in the war, chose to remain behind and despite his disability, removed every fuse, saving what could still be saved.”
Hypnotized by the rhythm of the storytelling, the heat, and the blue water that spreads out before her like a reflected carpet of sky, Grace closes her eyes. Soon the guide's male voice is replaced by a woman's, not a familiar voice, not speaking in words exactly but rather in waves of sound or song and within its flow come images of a distant horizon of blue-green sea; of a vast, wet, grass-covered plain dotted with dunes of sand; of a man and a child bending into the tall plants, pulling them up from their roots, the movements of their bodies sharp and precise. That was before, the voice somehow tells her, before I was alone. With a bundle of greens in one arm and the child lifted up into the other, the man walks to the sea.
Grace wakes with a shudder. A man is standing over her.
“The palace is closing,” the guard says, then moves on and continues his announcement in Spanish and English, “everyone, please leave through the front gate.”
#
On the fifth day of her journey, Grace wakes to another dry, cloudless day and eats a light breakfast of coffee and toast in the hotel café. At the front desk, she buys a postcard of the Alhambra's Fountain of Lions, its alabaster basin held up by the backs of twelve white marble lions, jets of water streaming out of their mouths. She mails it to Rose, noting a reference to the poem by Ibn Zamrak that was carved onto the rim of the basin, knowing full well Rose will enjoy researching both the history of the fountain and the poem. Making her way to the bus station, she conjures the smell of stacked books and magazines, the hushed voices of the children and Rose, surprised by how much she misses them.
When she finally reaches the bus station, she secures a window seat on the bus to La Linea de la Concepcion, the border-crossing town to Gibraltar on the Spanish side. Once there, she intends to spend the remainder of the day resting, perhaps walking along the beach, using the time to plan the critical, next few days.
Hoping to break up the monotony of another long bus ride, she opens her journal to the last entry and realizes with a shock that today is the first of July, her mother's birthday. Had she lived, she would have turned sixty-six, making her dad sixty-nine. How did she not realize that this day would fall during her trip? Every year, on the anniversary of their death, she has taken out the one envelope of photos given to her by her grandmother and stared, sometimes for hours, at the fading images, trying to recapture the few memories not yet lost with time. But today, the envelope is not with her; it lies as always in her top bureau drawer at home, wrapped in the violet silk scarf her mother wore the night of the accident. Disturbed by the break of this ritual, she presses her face against the window glass and stares out as the world grows hillier and greener, reviewing in her mind the photos she can remember.
Hours later, as the bus nears La Linea, Grace summons to mind her favorite photo of the group. In it, she is two years old, dressed in a pale blue pinafore and white shoes. Her mother is wearing a buttercup yellow, sleeveless sundress; two braids of chestnut hair fall like coiled ropes across her chest. Her mother kneels next to her, looks up at the camera, and smiles as Grace grabs for a braid.
The metallic squeal, as the driver hits the brakes, lurches Grace into the present. Before the bus comes to a full stop, people clutch their belongings and scramble to the front. Remaining in her seat, she watches the sweating bodies push past her, scrutinizing each face as if searching for that unexpected someone she just might know, but she recognizes no one, and so with a plunge into the familiar waters of aloneness, she collects her things and stands last in line, finally stepping down and out into blindingly bright sunlight which penetrates through her sunglasses and half-shut eyes.
For the next hour, Grace rambles aimlessly through La Linea. She doesn't recognize the town—the buildings and streets—but there is something about the smell in the air that reminds her of the white sandy beaches of Cape Cod, where she spent two weeks every summer with her parents when they were alive. Meandering along the narrow streets, a few blocks from La Playa de Levante, she eventually finds her hotel, which she recognizes from the brochure: a white stucco building with baby blue shutters, one block from the sea. After getting her key from Miriam, a dark-eyed, dark-skinned woman who sits at a small desk exuding the smells of garlic, fish, and cigarette smoke, Grace climbs the endless flights of stairs.
Once inside, she drops her belongings on the narrow bed and opens the French doors to the fourth story balcony attached to her tiny room. Before her is a panoramic view of the sea. A light breeze leaves a briny taste in her throat. In a flash of memory, she sees her father, tall and tan, the summer he taught her to swim, making it a game as he did with so much in their life, his patient laughter, so loud and infectious. She looks down at her hands and remembers that like her, his fingers were long and slim with oval nails.
All the travel finally catching up with her, Grace spends the afternoon napping and wakes to find her body burrowed under a mound of damp sheets. She steps back out on the balcony and sees that it’s dusk. Mist blows inland like an exhalation from the sea, condensing on her skin and hair. As the wind strengthens, the sun bobs atop the waves, coloring them golden green, the sky indigo blue. She wonders if this is what the sea looked like thirty thousand years ago; if this is what Ultima might have seen. Grace goes back in, closes the doors against the bright sounds of local nightlife beginning to bubble up from below, undresses, and slips her body back under the sheets.
The next day, her Sierra Club pack secured on her back, Grace walks with renewed determination across the border into the British Territory of Gibraltar just as the sun is rising up its eastern face, suffusing the stone with pinkish light. A shuttle bus takes her to the first stop on her list, the Gibraltar Museum, where a young woman describes the most recent findings from Gorham's cave: chunks of charcoal and flakes of stone from tools recognized to be Neanderthal, possibly from as recent as 32,000 years ago, though she admits that the date is still in dispute.
“But if the date is accurate,” she adds with subdued excitement, “this changes the Neanderthal timeline and means they survived longer than anyone thought, though perhaps it was only a small group, and only this far south. By that date, we believe that the south of Europe had become inhabited by the ever-encroaching Homo sapiens coming from the north and the east, and the ability of the Neanderthals to survive much longer, with so much competition, was probably quite slim.”
The woman answers a few questions, and then, as she turns from the group and begins to walk away, Grace catches up with her and lightly touches her arm.
“Is the cave open to the public?” she asks.
The woman takes a step back. “Oh no, it's much too delicate a project to open to the public. Really, they have only just begun their work in this archeological layer. But you can go to St. Michael's cave, up on top. It's not the same as the lower caves, certainly, but it will give you a feel of being inside the Rock.”
“Thank you,” Grace says, but the woman has already turned and is walking away.
The visit to St. Michael's Cave is fascinating yet disappointing. Inside, surrounded by enormous stalagmites and stalactites, the air is cool and wet and smells like boiled eggs. Tourists fill the cave. Several young couples hide in shadowed corners kissing. Grace walks around the cavernous space and tries to imagine Neanderthal families finding shelter in these caves, protected from heat and cold, rain and snow, making a last stand against whatever forces had pushed them here, but the echoing cacophony of so many voices is too distracting. Irritated, she leaves, emerging from the soft coolness, out into the sharp heat. Under the hot haze of sun and sky, she sits and reads the pamphlet she was handed at the museum. Gorham's Cave, discovered in 1907 by Captain A. Gorham, is one of many along the eastern face of Gibraltar and the southeastern coast of Spain. It is one of eight caves in Gibraltar believed to have had a Neanderthal occupation. The ocean, which now comes right up to the mouths of these lower caves, was once considerably farther away; for miles, a fertile plain filled with wildlife and plants had lain between water and rock.
Could that fertile plain be the place where she saw the man and boy foraging for plants or hunting for small game? The place she saw Ultima standing alone, crying out to the world? To answer these questions, to answer all of her questions, Grace knows she must get closer, for why had she come all this way if not to see Gorham's cave—and that, according to the pamphlet, can only be accomplished by boat.
Early the next morning, she bathes, dresses, and heads to the port side of Gibraltar, both mesmerized and appalled by the excesses of its modernity. Multi-decked cruise liners glide past just beyond the inner bay while ropes and masts of the many docked yachts bob bright white against a bleached out blue sky. Along the coast, tall narrow houses with orange tile roofs face the bay, greeting those who come from the sea and watching those who sail away. It disturbs her how easily humans can live in the pretty shine of all these possessions and forget the actual state of crisis in a world where so many species are dying. Refusing to be side-tracked, she hurries past the marina, the outdoor cafes, the tourists lined up for pleasure cruises until she discovers a partially obscured side cove where a handful of men sit on folding chairs drinking coffee and playing cards. Scattered among them are hand-painted signs stating the fees for tours around the peninsula and up the Spanish coast to the posh beach towns. To her left, a middle-aged man with longish thick black hair pulled back into a ponytail stands up and approaches her. When he smiles, she sees that he has two gold front teeth.
“My jewels,” he says to her, broadening his smile.
His schooled English accent surprises her. She imagines his ancestors might have been Moors from Spain.
“Can you take me to Gorham's cave?”
“I can take you in close, but we aren't allowed to dock there. It's a Restricted Area.”
“How much will it cost?” she asks, wanting to settle the price first.
“Just to the caves? No beaches or joy rides out to sea?”
“No, just Gorham's cave.”
“Not my usual run, “but for you, thirty pounds.”
Grace knows he is overcharging, taking advantage of her, but urgency allows her to accept it without protest. She follows him, like a child behind a father, to a brightly painted, four-seater motorboat.
Fifteen minutes later, with everything damp from sea spray, the boat slows as they approach the east face of Gibraltar. Grace is drawn to several large openings, gaping mouths of rock barely above the level of the sea, and immediately she knows which one is Gorham's cave. Her hands shake with excitement. She believes this was Ultima's final home.
“That, Madame,” the boatman says, “is the infamous Gorham's Cave.” He stretches out his arm, fingers pointing to the cave she'd mentally chosen. “The spot of recent archeological findings that have led some to believe that the very last of our ancestral cousins, the Neanderthal, lived and eventually died out on our beloved rock.”
“Yes, I know. Actually, that's why I'm here,” Grace says, needing to tell someone why she has come. “I believe they are right, that the last Neanderthal did live here before she...I mean, before they became extinct.”
“And are you an archeologist?”
Suddenly she feels foolish in front of this strange man, and though she hears the condescension in his words, his face softens when she looks straight at him and implores confirmation that she hasn't made this whole story up.
“You wouldn't be the first nor the last one to come here, drawn by the caves, hoping to discover the secrets of our distant past.”
“Thank you. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by what I imagine and the actions I—”
“No need to explain,” he says, brushing his hand through the air as if giving her absolution. “We all have our unique obsessions that drive us to do strange things, sometimes with unexpected and surprising results.”
“Yes,” she says slightly calmer but embarrassed still. She turns away from him and faces the sea; the sun, now almost overhead, whitewashes the landscape, cleansing it with its heat. Grace feels the man's dark eyes on her back as the boat sits rocking in water that once was a rich, grassy plain teaming with life.
“And to your right,” he says, returning to the more impersonal tone of tour guide, “we have the coast of Morocco, our other long-lost cousin. Did you know that we were once connected at the hip until the earth shook, and we slipped apart, no longer able to touch? Yet even after so much time separated, we still feel a profound connection.”
“Exactly, a profound connection,” she says quietly, mostly to herself, as her body twists to face Africa. Grace feels the boatman's eyes following her movements, then lingering when she stops. She turns back to Gorham's Cave.
“Are you certain I can't interest you in a longer trip?” he says. “There are some very romantic beaches further north along this coast in Spain.”
Grace does not answer because she is not listening to his words. Instead, she is seeing what Ultima would have seen standing out on the edge of the plain, all sea and sky in myriad shades of blue, the shadow of Africa in the distance. As the sun nods past its apex, beginning its descent to the west, the man turns the boat, and after a clearly audible sigh of disappointment that he won't be taking her further on, and silently returns them to port.
On her way back to the hotel, Grace buys several postcards of various sights on Gibraltar. She scribbles a few words on one and addresses it to Rose, insisting to the postal person that despite the cost, it be sent airmail express.
#
For the next three days, Grace remains in her hotel room or takes walks along the beach, the rock of Gibraltar always looming in sight. With little appetite, she nibbles on buttered toast and drinks a mild brew of English Breakfast tea which Miriam offers to guests in a small downstairs café. Sleep, like a capricious friend, overtakes her randomly at unexpected times. She wakes from dreams of her parents waving to her from a car just as it is consumed by a dark storm cloud; of polar bears paddling endlessly in the open water; of Neanderthal women cradling dying babies in their arms. Of Ultima singing into the wind like one of Odysseus’s sirens. Sometimes when she wakes it's dark outside, sometimes it's light. For hours at a time, she sits on the balcony, struggling to regain her composure from the emotions stirred up by the disturbing dreams and from the disappointment of not being able to get closer to Gorham's cave. Her trip almost over, she still is doesn’t understand what she had hoped to discover, what Ultima wanted her to know.
On the last night before her scheduled trip back to Madrid, while staring out over the rippling expanse of sea—the sky moonless and black, stars tumbling across the darkness like thousands of pinholes of cold white light—the world around her dissipates, and another fills the space. A small clearing; in the center, fire burns in a deep pit. The air smells of meat and smoke. She sees the familiar man and boy as if they are right there in front of her. Soon they’re joined by several men and women, and children of different ages, and for the first time, she sees their faces, each with the recognizable brow ridge, broad nose, and full lips; the bright eyes and prominent lower jaw. Only this time, she is not just watching but is with them, as if inhabiting one of their bodies. All around her, they are laughing and singing, holding rocks and sticks with which they are making rhythmic sounds, some of them dancing. They are no longer strangers but her family, her tribe. She claps her hands in delight until, in a distant shadow, hidden behind a clumping of low trees, she first hears then sees them: the Other ones with their high foreheads, narrow necks, and long limbs; the ones who have been seen hunting to the north. As she watches them, they watch her people...and she is afraid.
And then they disappear, all of them, except one tall man who comes out from behind the trees. He looks at her, not with hate or fear but with curiosity. In a flash of comprehension, she knows that he is not looking at her but at Ultima. And with that understanding, shapes and colors waver and then go dark. She is back on the patio; the man and Ultima gone. The world grows cold. Silent. A bank of fog settles in and obscures the sea. She wraps her arms around her legs and gathers them to her chest. Shivering, she pulls her sweater on, and with her head slumped down upon her knees, sets each face she saw to memory before falling asleep.
In the early hours of the morning, Grace wakes suddenly and knows that she must go back to Gibraltar one last time before leaving. She looks at the small, round, silver-bodied clock that sits ticking away precious time. It’s 4:30, the sun not yet up. She rustles through the papers in her pack and pulls out a map, unfolds it on the floor, and kneels down to get a closer look. Her eyes are repeatedly drawn to the peninsula's east coast and the complex of ancient caves. She feels both anger and longing for that which has become impossible to attain: entering Gorham's cave, stepping into the ancient darkness that once surrounded and protected Ultima and the ones she loved. Their last home. But if not the cave, then where should she go? Where else did Ultima go? Where did she walk? Where did she stand and stare out at the sea? Her index finger runs across the length of the map as if it were her childhood Ouija board, her hand the planchette. Her eyes concentrate as her fingers trace the squiggly line from the caves southward, and there at the very tip, she sees it and knows it’s right. She quickly gathers a few things into her pack, grabs a jacket, and runs down the four flights of stairs onto the empty street.
Hours before dawn, in a mist that seems to rise up through cracks in the ground like steam from the center of the earth, Grace makes her way to the border crossing, her goal clear—to reach the southernmost tip of Gibraltar: the lighthouse at Europa Point. Her train doesn't leave until early afternoon though she is no longer sure she will be on it. She feels mildly feverish; sweat dampens the neck of her cotton shirt. Too early for the shuttle bus, she walks across the border, across the open airstrip, and into the center of town where the only person she meets is the night guard at the museum who gives her directions to a taxi that will take her to Europa Point.
Past the Ibrahim-al-Ibrahim Mosque and the Shrine of Our Lady, the taxi stops at the base of the red-striped lighthouse that seems to jut into the middle of the sea. Grace steps out of the taxi and onto a walkway of flat stone. Seeing no other people, she follows the path just beyond the lighthouse, climbs over the railing, then over a small stone wall and onto a ledge that faces southeast. Though she has never been here before, she knows this place, remembers the feel of the stone ledge, the force of the Rock of Gibraltar rising up behind her like a sentry. To her right, in the distance across the Straight, the Riff Mountains are a vague purple mystery that divides sea from sky in the predawn light. Seagulls lift and dip along the edge of the surf, and in front of her, where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Mediterranean Sea, the early ferry to Morocco sends up its first-morning call. Around the bend of land to her left, she imagines Gorham's cave opening to the warm African air.
She is convinced that Ultima will join her, that one last time she will see them all—the man and boy, the men by the fire, the dancing women and children, and so she waits. And waits, but they don’t come, not in vision or dream. They are gone. Everyone she has loved is gone. And suddenly, it is so clear to her that this is how it feels to be the last one. Abandoned. Desolate. Alone. Without connection to the past or the future and with no reason to remain.
Grace stares out, forlorn, hardly seeing the immense beauty that surrounds her. When the first rays of morning light blaze across the water, without warning, as if rising up with the warm wind, the urgent presence of Ultima surrounds her. Her vision blurs, and she is there at Gorham’s cave. Next to her, Ultima sits and across from Ultima is the tall man, his right-hand palm up, offering a piece of cooked meat. Ultima takes it, chews it, and he offers another, this time inching closer to her. They begin to waver, to fade. Against mounting vertigo, Grace focuses, and they return. This time Ultima is handing the man a wrapped bundle which he refuses, so she places it in his arms against his chest. Ultima turns away, tears in her eyes, and runs.
The sea returns. Grace is standing on the ledge, the back of her legs pressing against the stone wall. She feels Ultima so close now, it’s as if she is under her skin. This is the place where Ultima came when she could no longer bear the loss and survive alone but wanted to follow her husband and son, her daughters, brothers, sisters, and friends. When the time of her people—her time—had come to an end.
Together now, they stand and watch as the quickly rising sun lavishes surreal colors across the east. The wind picks up and sings to them, a song they both recognize. They breathe in slowly, deeply, as if testing the substance of the air. Grace feels Ultima lean forward--
“Grace?” a voice says.
“Ultima?”
“No, it's Rose. I'm here with you.”
—her body now unhinged from all that sorrow--
“I have the last postcard you sent me,” holding up the photo of the striped lighthouse, aiming it at Grace like a magnet or a wand. Rose moves cautiously to Grace and takes hold of her hand.
—her arms wings, her heart reaches out--
“If I don't return, forgive me,” Rose recites, having memorized the postcard’s words, “perhaps I will have found what I came for.” Rose wraps her arms around Grace’s waist, snatching her from the grasp of the open space.
—and she flies.
“Ultima!” Grace cries, reaching out, pulling against the unexpected restraint. “Wait!” and again, “wait,” and then the enormous silence and the same wrenching ache she felt when her parents died. Grace moans and weeps, and then as if announcing her certainty to the world, “She’s gone.”
“No, she is not gone,” Rose says, still holding onto Grace, who turns in her arms. “Rose?” Grace says, finally seeing her.
“Come,” Rose says and helps her climb back over the stone wall and the white railing. They fall onto the hard ground under the shadow of the lighthouse, both breathing heavily. A faint smell of lavender intermingles with the sea air.
“You're here?” Grace says, confused.
“Yes, I came to find you. I went to the hotel and the museum, then I remembered the last postcard.
“But why?”
“To tell you something astonishing. They discovered Neanderthal DNA in human beings. They’re not gone because we carry them in us. They are part of who we've become. The very essence of who we are.”
Something like wonderment fills the hollow inside Grace's being. She remembers the man and the bundle. The bundle was a child. She sits up and reaches for Rose's hands.
Rose's mouth hints at a smile. “It seems that you were right. Ultima and her people have been with you all along.” Rose gives Grace a few minutes to absorb this. All around them, the world is awakening with heat and sunlight and the sound of a bus coming along the coast road.
“There’s something else I’ve brought you.” She pulls a card out from her shoulder bag and hands it to Grace. On the face of the card is a watercolor print of a small elephant. Inside is written in neat cursive:
To Miss Myerson, for all that you taught us, the sixth-grade graduating class raised
$200.00 this year and adopted 4 orphaned elephants living at the Sheldrake Trust Orphanage in Nairobi, Kenya, in your name. One day, they will be released into the wild. Perhaps together, we can save them. Josie and the sixth-grade gang.
#
That night in the hotel room, as Rose’s breath lifts and falls in the rhythms of her sleep, Grace lies restless upon a cot, her bed given over to Rose. Quietly, she gets up and goes out on the balcony, the night sky tremendous and grand, stretching out into a mysterious eternity. For the first time since the death of her parents, Grace doesn’t feel alone but senses her connection to something larger, something expansive that includes everyone she knows and has known, including her parents, the lost animals, and the Neanderthals. So much has happened that remains difficult to understand, but for now, it’s enough. She lies supine on the balcony floor and stares up at the beating starlight of Gibraltar one more time and feels almost whole.
Robert Walton is a retired teacher and a lifelong rock climber withascents in the Sierras and Pinnacles National Park. His publishing credits include works of science fiction, fantasy and poetry.Walton’s historical novel Dawn Drumswon the 2014Tony Hillerman Prize for best fiction. Heco-authored “The Man Who Murdered Mozart” with Barry Malzberg, which was subsequently published in F & SF in 2011. “Do you feel lucky, Punk?” received a prize in the 2018 Bartleby Snopes dialog only contest. Most recently, his story “Duck Plucking Time” was awarded first place in the Saturday Writers short fiction contest.
His website: http://chaosgatebook.wordpress.com/
His website: http://chaosgatebook.wordpress.com/
SOCK 1-20
Star Saloon, April 14th, 1865
John Wilkes Booth
John Wilkes Booth
Booth scraped 10th Street’s perpetual mud from his boots before entering the Star Tavern. He strode between busy tables with the poise of a man who is used to being noticed. Indeed, his good looks caused young women to flutter wherever he went, though there were no young women in the Star. Several men looked up from their drinks and recognized the youthful actor as he passed.
He motioned to Peter Taltavul, owner of the tavern. “I’ll have whiskey and a glass of water. Leave the bottle.”
“You usually have brandy, Mr. Booth.
“Not tonight.”
Taltavul placed a glass of water, an empty glass and a brown bottle in front of the actor. “Enjoy, sir.”
Booth poured whiskey into the empty glass, set the bottle down and touched his jacket’s right pocket. It concealed his derringer. He’d loaded it most carefully in his room, fitting a brass percussion cap on the nipple beneath its hammer. He would take one shot, one perfect shot.
He sipped whiskey. A sheathed, horn-handled dagger - his backup weapon- shifted uncomfortably in his waistband.
A drunken man down the bar called out, “Mr. Booth, you’ll never be the actor your father was!”
Booth raised his glass. “When I leave the stage, I will be the most famous man in America.”
He motioned to Peter Taltavul, owner of the tavern. “I’ll have whiskey and a glass of water. Leave the bottle.”
“You usually have brandy, Mr. Booth.
“Not tonight.”
Taltavul placed a glass of water, an empty glass and a brown bottle in front of the actor. “Enjoy, sir.”
Booth poured whiskey into the empty glass, set the bottle down and touched his jacket’s right pocket. It concealed his derringer. He’d loaded it most carefully in his room, fitting a brass percussion cap on the nipple beneath its hammer. He would take one shot, one perfect shot.
He sipped whiskey. A sheathed, horn-handled dagger - his backup weapon- shifted uncomfortably in his waistband.
A drunken man down the bar called out, “Mr. Booth, you’ll never be the actor your father was!”
Booth raised his glass. “When I leave the stage, I will be the most famous man in America.”
Ford’s Theater, April 14th,
Almira Martin, Lieutenant Thompson
“Is the President here yet?” Light gleamed from the polished buttons of Lieutenant Thompson’s uniform jacket.
“He’s coming now.” Almira - tall, dark-haired - turned as President Lincoln, Mary and a young couple entered the dress circle’s side aisle . Like breeze passing over a grassy field, news of Lincoln’s arrival spread through the crowded theater. Actors on stage stopped dead as applause rippled through the crowd and then swelled. The band struck up “Hail to the Chief”. Lincoln strode on.
As he walked, he glanced across the upturned faces. Almira waved. Lincoln’s eyes met hers and he smiled in greeting. She beamed in return.
“You know the President?”
Almira’s eyes followed Lincoln and his party as they entered their box. “I do.”
“How?”
“We met on the battlefield last year.”
“Yes, you were a nurse when I first met you.”
“One of Clara Barton’s helpers.”
“Where did you serve?”
“Spotsylvania Courthouse, Cold Harbor and the siege of Richmond.”
“My God!”
Almira looked into Thompson’s eyes. “I saw rivers of blood and suffering that humbles me still.” She looked down. “President Lincoln took it upon himself to see all of that and much more. He offered what solace he could.”
“The President visited the wounded?”
“Every last man, even the Confederates.”
Thompson nodded. “He is a great man.”
“The greatest I shall ever meet, Lieutenant.”
Actors onstage resumed “Our American Cousin”.
“He’s coming now.” Almira - tall, dark-haired - turned as President Lincoln, Mary and a young couple entered the dress circle’s side aisle . Like breeze passing over a grassy field, news of Lincoln’s arrival spread through the crowded theater. Actors on stage stopped dead as applause rippled through the crowd and then swelled. The band struck up “Hail to the Chief”. Lincoln strode on.
As he walked, he glanced across the upturned faces. Almira waved. Lincoln’s eyes met hers and he smiled in greeting. She beamed in return.
“You know the President?”
Almira’s eyes followed Lincoln and his party as they entered their box. “I do.”
“How?”
“We met on the battlefield last year.”
“Yes, you were a nurse when I first met you.”
“One of Clara Barton’s helpers.”
“Where did you serve?”
“Spotsylvania Courthouse, Cold Harbor and the siege of Richmond.”
“My God!”
Almira looked into Thompson’s eyes. “I saw rivers of blood and suffering that humbles me still.” She looked down. “President Lincoln took it upon himself to see all of that and much more. He offered what solace he could.”
“The President visited the wounded?”
“Every last man, even the Confederates.”
Thompson nodded. “He is a great man.”
“The greatest I shall ever meet, Lieutenant.”
Actors onstage resumed “Our American Cousin”.
John Wilkes Booth
Ford’s Theater
The stars align for me! Both Lincoln’s man Parker and his driver Burns were at Star’s, drinking. No one guards him! After I’ve pulled the trigger, I shall pin the moment to history. Sic semper tyrannis! So it goes with tyrants! Ease the door open. Slip in. Secure it behind me so none can interfere. There he is, to my left, in his rocking chair. The pistol warms to my touch. The play’s laugh line approaches. “Wal, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, you sockdologizing old man trap!” - Now!
Abraham Lincoln
It was a pleasant surprise to see Almira Martin in the audience. Such a bright face! One of Miss Barton’s angels - our country can never repay their service. Ah! Mary is laughing as I haven’t seen her do in ages. Tears of laughter, even! That line sounded humorous, but whatever does “sockdologizing” mean?
Almira Martin and Lieutenant Thompson
“That was a gunshot!”
Thompson turned. “Surely not.”
“Look!” Almira’s white-gloved finger pointed. “In the President’s box!”
A cloud of blue smoke billowed over the box’s red, white and blue bunting. “Two men are struggling in the shadows! Who accompanied the President tonight?”
“A Miss Harris and her escort Major Rathbone.”
A tall man leapt upon the railing.
Thompson pointed. “Who’s that?”
“It looks like Booth, the actor.”
Booth climbed over the railing, lowered himself, hung from his arms and jumped toward the stage. The spur on his right boot caught on the American flag bunting, causing him to land badly on his left foot. He rose, his left foot turned sideways, and ran limping toward the wings.
A piercing scream came from the President’s box.
Thompson turned. “Surely not.”
“Look!” Almira’s white-gloved finger pointed. “In the President’s box!”
A cloud of blue smoke billowed over the box’s red, white and blue bunting. “Two men are struggling in the shadows! Who accompanied the President tonight?”
“A Miss Harris and her escort Major Rathbone.”
A tall man leapt upon the railing.
Thompson pointed. “Who’s that?”
“It looks like Booth, the actor.”
Booth climbed over the railing, lowered himself, hung from his arms and jumped toward the stage. The spur on his right boot caught on the American flag bunting, causing him to land badly on his left foot. He rose, his left foot turned sideways, and ran limping toward the wings.
A piercing scream came from the President’s box.
John Wilkes Booth
I’ve broken my foot. I can’t let it slow me.
“Stop that man!”
Never. Into the green room! To the stage door, but someone blocks me! It’s Withers, that idiot bandleader. The knife for him! Take that and that.
Out the door - where’s Spangler? He’s supposed to be holding my horse. The horse is there, but that wretched urchin Johnny Peanuts is holding the reins. I smash his face with the butt of my knife and seize the reins. Up! Up and away!
“Stop that man!”
Never. Into the green room! To the stage door, but someone blocks me! It’s Withers, that idiot bandleader. The knife for him! Take that and that.
Out the door - where’s Spangler? He’s supposed to be holding my horse. The horse is there, but that wretched urchin Johnny Peanuts is holding the reins. I smash his face with the butt of my knife and seize the reins. Up! Up and away!
Almira Martin and Lieutenant Thompson
Mary Lincoln’s second scream ripped through the theater. Fear leapt like an electric spark from shocked face to shocked face. A man shouted: “He has shot the President!”
Voices cried, “No! No!” Pushing, jostling, the audience suddenly boiled like a kettle on high heat and poured into the aisles.
Lieutenant Thompson rose. “I must gather soldiers and help bring order to this theater. I will escort you to safety first.”
“You will not!”
“Pardon me?”
“I am a nurse. I’m going to the President’s aid now!”
“But . . . ”
“But nothing!” Almira stood. “Please move. Time may be of the essence.”
Thompson stepped aside. Almira slid by him into the aisle. He called, “When will I see you?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Call in the afternoon.”
Almira slid between confused men and so came quickly to the President’s Box. Major Rathbone sat leaning against its wall, a pool of blood at his elbow. A short, handsome man - Dr. Leale - leaned over him. Rathbone said, “I’m bleeding to death.” Leale inspected him briefly and stepped into the box. Almira came forward. “I’ll help you, Major Rathbone.” She knelt beside him and removed his jacket. Blood poured down his soaked sleeve onto the floor. She glanced at the men around her. “I need your handkerchiefs, gentlemen - all of them.”
Within the President’s box, Mary lay with her head pressed to Lincoln’s breast. Dr. Leale lifted her gently. She seized his hand. “Oh, Doctor! Is he dead? Can he recover? Will you take charge of him? Oh, my dear husband! My dear husband!”
“I will do what I can.” Leale motioned for men to take Mrs. Lincoln to the sofa in Box 8. He turned to the President. “Get a lamp. Lock that door back there and admit no one except doctors. Someone hold matches until the lamp gets here.”
Men lit matches. Leale studied the President. There was no breathing, no sign of a wound. He motioned to soldiers in the corridor. “Get him out of the chair and put him on the floor.” They did so.
Leale lifted the President’s head and lowered it again. His hands came away wet. He opened Lincoln’s right eyelid and saw evidence of a brain injury. He ran his fingers through Lincoln’s hair and found a bullet wound behind his left ear. His touch loosened a blood clot. The President took a shuddering breath.
Other medical men arrived and crouched next to the kneeling doctor and reclining President. Leale spoke to them, “A bullet is in his brain. The wound is mortal. If we try to take him to the White House, he will die before we get there.”
Dr Taft protested, “But we can’t let the President of the United States lie bleeding on the floor of a theater!”
Leale nodded. “Is there somewhere nearby where we can take him?”
Dr. Taft turned to Lieutenant Thompson. “Find us a house, Lieutenant, something suitable for the President. We’ll follow along.”
Two soldiers held Lincoln’s thighs. Two supported his torso. Dr. King held his left shoulder. Dr. Leale cradled his head. They lifted him, carried him head first out of the box, up the aisle, down the stairs and through the lobby.
When they pushed open the theater’s front door, they found a sea of wild faces looking up from Tenth Street. Shouts of woe and rage rose like torch flames from the darkness:
“God help him!”
“Hang the man who did this!”
“Hang all the rebs!”
A short captain of infantry approached Leale. “Surgeon, give me your commands and I will see that they are obeyed.”
Leale glanced at the houses across the street. A man holding a candle stood on his porch. He motioned for them to come to him. Preceded by soldiers, they carried President Lincoln up the steps of 453 Tenth Street, Mr. William Petersen’s home.
Voices cried, “No! No!” Pushing, jostling, the audience suddenly boiled like a kettle on high heat and poured into the aisles.
Lieutenant Thompson rose. “I must gather soldiers and help bring order to this theater. I will escort you to safety first.”
“You will not!”
“Pardon me?”
“I am a nurse. I’m going to the President’s aid now!”
“But . . . ”
“But nothing!” Almira stood. “Please move. Time may be of the essence.”
Thompson stepped aside. Almira slid by him into the aisle. He called, “When will I see you?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Call in the afternoon.”
Almira slid between confused men and so came quickly to the President’s Box. Major Rathbone sat leaning against its wall, a pool of blood at his elbow. A short, handsome man - Dr. Leale - leaned over him. Rathbone said, “I’m bleeding to death.” Leale inspected him briefly and stepped into the box. Almira came forward. “I’ll help you, Major Rathbone.” She knelt beside him and removed his jacket. Blood poured down his soaked sleeve onto the floor. She glanced at the men around her. “I need your handkerchiefs, gentlemen - all of them.”
Within the President’s box, Mary lay with her head pressed to Lincoln’s breast. Dr. Leale lifted her gently. She seized his hand. “Oh, Doctor! Is he dead? Can he recover? Will you take charge of him? Oh, my dear husband! My dear husband!”
“I will do what I can.” Leale motioned for men to take Mrs. Lincoln to the sofa in Box 8. He turned to the President. “Get a lamp. Lock that door back there and admit no one except doctors. Someone hold matches until the lamp gets here.”
Men lit matches. Leale studied the President. There was no breathing, no sign of a wound. He motioned to soldiers in the corridor. “Get him out of the chair and put him on the floor.” They did so.
Leale lifted the President’s head and lowered it again. His hands came away wet. He opened Lincoln’s right eyelid and saw evidence of a brain injury. He ran his fingers through Lincoln’s hair and found a bullet wound behind his left ear. His touch loosened a blood clot. The President took a shuddering breath.
Other medical men arrived and crouched next to the kneeling doctor and reclining President. Leale spoke to them, “A bullet is in his brain. The wound is mortal. If we try to take him to the White House, he will die before we get there.”
Dr Taft protested, “But we can’t let the President of the United States lie bleeding on the floor of a theater!”
Leale nodded. “Is there somewhere nearby where we can take him?”
Dr. Taft turned to Lieutenant Thompson. “Find us a house, Lieutenant, something suitable for the President. We’ll follow along.”
Two soldiers held Lincoln’s thighs. Two supported his torso. Dr. King held his left shoulder. Dr. Leale cradled his head. They lifted him, carried him head first out of the box, up the aisle, down the stairs and through the lobby.
When they pushed open the theater’s front door, they found a sea of wild faces looking up from Tenth Street. Shouts of woe and rage rose like torch flames from the darkness:
“God help him!”
“Hang the man who did this!”
“Hang all the rebs!”
A short captain of infantry approached Leale. “Surgeon, give me your commands and I will see that they are obeyed.”
Leale glanced at the houses across the street. A man holding a candle stood on his porch. He motioned for them to come to him. Preceded by soldiers, they carried President Lincoln up the steps of 453 Tenth Street, Mr. William Petersen’s home.
Beantown, April 15th
Dr. Samuel Mudd, John Wilkes Booth
Dogs howled, breaking the night’s deep silence.
“You’ve awakened every dog within miles, it seems.”
“Please hurry, Dr. Mudd. I only need temporary relief from the pain.” Booth grimaced as Mudd slit his left boot open with a glittering knife.
“I’ll do my best, young man.”
“Yes, thank-you, Doctor.”
A bloodhound next door bayed like a hound of hell.
“You’ve awakened every dog within miles, it seems.”
“Please hurry, Dr. Mudd. I only need temporary relief from the pain.” Booth grimaced as Mudd slit his left boot open with a glittering knife.
“I’ll do my best, young man.”
“Yes, thank-you, Doctor.”
A bloodhound next door bayed like a hound of hell.
William Petersen’s House
Almira Martin
Soldiers, rifles posted, guarded the entrance of William Petersen’s house. Almira walked up the steps and stood in front of the corporal in charge.
“The President needs me.”
The corporal’s eyes rose from the blood-soaked front of Almira’s dress to meet her commanding gaze. He came to attention. “Pass.”
Almira entered and walked down a narrow hallway. She passed a parlor on her left, its black horsehair chairs and settee groaning with seated officials, and a stairway on her right. Beneath the stairway was a small bedroom. She stepped through its doorway.
Oatmeal colored wallpaper covered the walls. A red rug covered part of the wooden floor. A maple bureau stood to one side. She saw a washstand with a white porcelain bowl and a bed. President Lincoln lay on the bed.
He lay diagonally - his head against the wall and his feet hanging over the bed’s side - for he was too tall to fit on it otherwise. His head was propped up with pillows, his chin upon his chest. Three ladies - Laura Keene, Clara Harris and Mary Lincoln - sat nearby on three straight-backed chairs, silent. Almira went and stood beside Mary.
Many men whose faces she would never remember came and went. The steadfast doctors remained, easing the President as they could. Light grew in the room. After seven in the morning, the President began to moan - deep, disturbing, frightening moans. His breathing became shallow and swift. Then it slowed to a whisper. Suddenly his chest heaved upward, paused for a long moment and finally relaxed.
The doctors awaited Lincoln’s next breath. It never came. The time was twenty-two minutes after seven. One of the doctors bent over and listened for the President’s heartbeat. The moment stretched until he straightened, removed two silver coins from his pocket and placed them on the President’s eyes.
Abraham Lincoln was dead.
“The President needs me.”
The corporal’s eyes rose from the blood-soaked front of Almira’s dress to meet her commanding gaze. He came to attention. “Pass.”
Almira entered and walked down a narrow hallway. She passed a parlor on her left, its black horsehair chairs and settee groaning with seated officials, and a stairway on her right. Beneath the stairway was a small bedroom. She stepped through its doorway.
Oatmeal colored wallpaper covered the walls. A red rug covered part of the wooden floor. A maple bureau stood to one side. She saw a washstand with a white porcelain bowl and a bed. President Lincoln lay on the bed.
He lay diagonally - his head against the wall and his feet hanging over the bed’s side - for he was too tall to fit on it otherwise. His head was propped up with pillows, his chin upon his chest. Three ladies - Laura Keene, Clara Harris and Mary Lincoln - sat nearby on three straight-backed chairs, silent. Almira went and stood beside Mary.
Many men whose faces she would never remember came and went. The steadfast doctors remained, easing the President as they could. Light grew in the room. After seven in the morning, the President began to moan - deep, disturbing, frightening moans. His breathing became shallow and swift. Then it slowed to a whisper. Suddenly his chest heaved upward, paused for a long moment and finally relaxed.
The doctors awaited Lincoln’s next breath. It never came. The time was twenty-two minutes after seven. One of the doctors bent over and listened for the President’s heartbeat. The moment stretched until he straightened, removed two silver coins from his pocket and placed them on the President’s eyes.
Abraham Lincoln was dead.
Maryland Shore, April 22nd
John Wilkes Booth
Wavelets slapped petulantly against the side of our rowboat. A damp breeze pushed against my face. The smell of mud, heavy and rich weighed the air down. A thin streak of grey light crossed the eastern sky. “David, where are we?”
David ceased rowing and peered at me. “Not sure - the tide is against us.”
“Not Virginia?”
“Not Virginia.”
“Then turn toward shore. We must be hidden before dawn.”
“Right.”
“We’ll try to cross again this evening when the tide is with us.”
“Right.”
“Many love the South in Virginia. They’ll applaud what we’ve done and help us when we get there.”
He began rowing. “Yes, I’m sure of it.”
David ceased rowing and peered at me. “Not sure - the tide is against us.”
“Not Virginia?”
“Not Virginia.”
“Then turn toward shore. We must be hidden before dawn.”
“Right.”
“We’ll try to cross again this evening when the tide is with us.”
“Right.”
“Many love the South in Virginia. They’ll applaud what we’ve done and help us when we get there.”
He began rowing. “Yes, I’m sure of it.”
On President Lincoln’s funeral train, April 22nd,
Lulu Garlic, Almira Martin
“Are you awake now, Honey?”
Almira stretched. “Almost, Lulu.”
“Scoot over a bit. Look out that window.”
Almira moved sideways across the Pullman coach’s hard seat. “My!”
Hundreds of people - farmers, workmen, wives, children, shopkeepers, teamsters - stood in the roadway alongside the train tracks, staring at the slowly rolling cars.
Lulu nodded. “It’s been like that the whole time you’ve been sleeping. There are black faces like mine out there, too.”
“Many.”
“They’ve come to see their President pass.”
“It’s a tribute like no other before.”
“It is.”
The faces of America drifted by their window with only the clack and rumble of the train’s wheels to break the silence.
Almira stretched. “Almost, Lulu.”
“Scoot over a bit. Look out that window.”
Almira moved sideways across the Pullman coach’s hard seat. “My!”
Hundreds of people - farmers, workmen, wives, children, shopkeepers, teamsters - stood in the roadway alongside the train tracks, staring at the slowly rolling cars.
Lulu nodded. “It’s been like that the whole time you’ve been sleeping. There are black faces like mine out there, too.”
“Many.”
“They’ve come to see their President pass.”
“It’s a tribute like no other before.”
“It is.”
The faces of America drifted by their window with only the clack and rumble of the train’s wheels to break the silence.
Richard Garrett’s Farm, Virgina, April 26th
John Wilkes Booth
Booth crouched over a stubby candle, a battered book open in his lap, a pencil in his hand. He pursed his handsome lips and wrote. “David and I made it to the Virginia shore nearly three days ago. It has been small comfort to us. Instead of fierce joy at our penultimate act, we’ve encountered dismay and actual grief for Lincoln among Virginians. My refuge is a tobacco barn. My victory feast is stale cornbread and salt pork. Federal cavalry search for us everywhere. I fear they are near.
“I hear horses, the thump of hooves, the jingle of harness - cavalry!”
“I hear horses, the thump of hooves, the jingle of harness - cavalry!”
Richard Garrett’s Farm, Virgina
Lieutenant Edward Doherty
I kicked the dusty barn door. “Surrender now and I will assure your safety.”
Someone answered. “For whom do you take me?”
“It makes no difference. Come out.”
“I am a cripple and alone.”
“I know who is with you and you had better surrender.”
Booth sneered. “I may be taken by my friends, but not by my foes”
“If you don’t come out, I’ll burn the building.” I turned to Corporal Hicks. “Pile dry hay by the wall and light it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Booth’s mocking voice called. “Oh, Captain! There is a man here who wants to surrender awful bad.”
“You had better follow his example and come out.”
“No. Draw your men up fifty paces off and give me a chance for my life.”
“I did not come to fight, but we can take you.”
The barn door opened a crack. David Herold peeked out. “I’m here.”
“Hand out your weapons.”
“I have none.”
“Let me see your hands.”
He shoved them through the partly open door. “Don’t shoot me!”
I seized his wrists, pulled him out and handed him over to Hicks.
Booth shouted, “I prefer to come out and fight!” A shot blasted from behind the barn. I threw open the door and saw Booth, crutch in one hand and carbine in the other. The hay behind him burned with small red flames. He began to fall. I caught him beneath the arms, half-carried and half-dragged him to the Garrett home’s veranda. Blood flowed freely from his neck.
Colonel Conger inspected Booth’s wound. “Who fired this shot?”
Corporal Hicks volunteered, “Sergeant Corbett, sir. He said Booth was about to fire.”
Conger cursed. “I wanted Booth alive. So I could hang him!”
“He’s still alive,” I offered.
“Shot through the neck, paralyzed - he won’t see noon.”
Just after sunrise, Booth asked me to raise his hands. I did so, holding them before his eyes. He gasped, “Useless, useless!”
Sunlight flooded the farmyard. Birds sang. John Wilkes Booth breathed his last.
Someone answered. “For whom do you take me?”
“It makes no difference. Come out.”
“I am a cripple and alone.”
“I know who is with you and you had better surrender.”
Booth sneered. “I may be taken by my friends, but not by my foes”
“If you don’t come out, I’ll burn the building.” I turned to Corporal Hicks. “Pile dry hay by the wall and light it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Booth’s mocking voice called. “Oh, Captain! There is a man here who wants to surrender awful bad.”
“You had better follow his example and come out.”
“No. Draw your men up fifty paces off and give me a chance for my life.”
“I did not come to fight, but we can take you.”
The barn door opened a crack. David Herold peeked out. “I’m here.”
“Hand out your weapons.”
“I have none.”
“Let me see your hands.”
He shoved them through the partly open door. “Don’t shoot me!”
I seized his wrists, pulled him out and handed him over to Hicks.
Booth shouted, “I prefer to come out and fight!” A shot blasted from behind the barn. I threw open the door and saw Booth, crutch in one hand and carbine in the other. The hay behind him burned with small red flames. He began to fall. I caught him beneath the arms, half-carried and half-dragged him to the Garrett home’s veranda. Blood flowed freely from his neck.
Colonel Conger inspected Booth’s wound. “Who fired this shot?”
Corporal Hicks volunteered, “Sergeant Corbett, sir. He said Booth was about to fire.”
Conger cursed. “I wanted Booth alive. So I could hang him!”
“He’s still alive,” I offered.
“Shot through the neck, paralyzed - he won’t see noon.”
Just after sunrise, Booth asked me to raise his hands. I did so, holding them before his eyes. He gasped, “Useless, useless!”
Sunlight flooded the farmyard. Birds sang. John Wilkes Booth breathed his last.
*
Springfield, Illinois - May 4th
Lulu Garlic and Almira Martin
An immense hearse, drawn by four horses, entered the Oak Ridge Cemetery. Eight tall, black pompons swayed above the carriage’s ebony roof. Gold filigree, silver chasing and polished crystal all darted sunlight from its flanks.
Lulu nudged Almira. “I wonder what President Lincoln would have to say about that fancy wagon he’s in?”
“St Louis shipped it here to be used for him. It’s gaudy - I know - but the sentiment is real.”
“The sentiment is too late.”
Almira looked at her friend. “How can you say that?”
Lulu squinted at the dazzling hearse. “Folks should have honored him and praised him when he could still hear them.”
Almira sighed. “I hope he can hear them, even now.”
Lulu dabbed at sweat on her brow with a red kerchief. “Have you got your fan, Almira?”
“Yes, right here.”
“You’ll need it soon.”
Almira shaded her eyes and looked up at the sun. “It’s past ninety already.”
Lulu nodded. “A scorcher.” She glanced at the long train of mourners. “I’ll wager, too, that several men who never saw President Lincoln in a hospital as we did will make us stand in the sun and listen to them carry on about him for too long.”
Lulu nudged Almira. “I wonder what President Lincoln would have to say about that fancy wagon he’s in?”
“St Louis shipped it here to be used for him. It’s gaudy - I know - but the sentiment is real.”
“The sentiment is too late.”
Almira looked at her friend. “How can you say that?”
Lulu squinted at the dazzling hearse. “Folks should have honored him and praised him when he could still hear them.”
Almira sighed. “I hope he can hear them, even now.”
Lulu dabbed at sweat on her brow with a red kerchief. “Have you got your fan, Almira?”
“Yes, right here.”
“You’ll need it soon.”
Almira shaded her eyes and looked up at the sun. “It’s past ninety already.”
Lulu nodded. “A scorcher.” She glanced at the long train of mourners. “I’ll wager, too, that several men who never saw President Lincoln in a hospital as we did will make us stand in the sun and listen to them carry on about him for too long.”
Springfield, Illinois - May 6th
Lulu Garlic and Almira Martin
“I think your train is boarding now, dear.”
Almira glanced up and saw a line of people mounting steps into a Pullman coach. “You’re right. I’d best go.”
“You’ll keep working for Miss Clara?”
“Yes. I think she has big plans for her Red Cross and I wish to be part of them. It’s good work, Lulu.”
“It is, but you take care.”
“The war is over.”
“One war is over. There will be others.”
“I’ll take care.”
“And please greet that young Lieutenant Thompson for me.”
Almira blushed to the roots of her hair. “Yes, of course.” She took Lulu’s hand. “What of you, Lulu?”
“Well, I’m free now. President Lincoln saw to that. And I’m not poor. Clara Barton saw to that. She made the Army pay me for our hospital work.”
“Where will you go?”
“I’ll go south from here. You recall that I have younger brothers and sisters that got sold before the war?”
“Of course.”
“I must find them if I can."
Tears welled in Almira’s eyes. "We will meet again, Lulu.”
Lulu squeezed her hand. "God willing."
“God willing.”
“But first I’m going to California.”
Almira smiled. “To find gold?”
Lulu laughed. “Because I can.”
Almira glanced up and saw a line of people mounting steps into a Pullman coach. “You’re right. I’d best go.”
“You’ll keep working for Miss Clara?”
“Yes. I think she has big plans for her Red Cross and I wish to be part of them. It’s good work, Lulu.”
“It is, but you take care.”
“The war is over.”
“One war is over. There will be others.”
“I’ll take care.”
“And please greet that young Lieutenant Thompson for me.”
Almira blushed to the roots of her hair. “Yes, of course.” She took Lulu’s hand. “What of you, Lulu?”
“Well, I’m free now. President Lincoln saw to that. And I’m not poor. Clara Barton saw to that. She made the Army pay me for our hospital work.”
“Where will you go?”
“I’ll go south from here. You recall that I have younger brothers and sisters that got sold before the war?”
“Of course.”
“I must find them if I can."
Tears welled in Almira’s eyes. "We will meet again, Lulu.”
Lulu squeezed her hand. "God willing."
“God willing.”
“But first I’m going to California.”
Almira smiled. “To find gold?”
Lulu laughed. “Because I can.”
Anthony Zambrano is a 19 year old writer who has been writing since the age of 11. He will be attending a university in the fall to further study filmmaking.
DIG
Buried under the front lawn of the White House is a golden, metal box packed with a stash of documents. Two senators buried those documents there, they were evidence. Evidence that showed just how many crimes their colleagues across the aisle have actually committed.
They waited until the perfect time to release these documents, and when that night came they both headed to the White House, avoided security with their faces, and reached the front lawn with a small duffel bag packed with two hand shovels. After twenty minutes of digging, they became worried.
“Are you sure this is the spot?” the first senator asked the second.
“It has to be,” the other answered.
“Fuck!” he threw the shovel to the ground, “ I bet they found it!”
“Maybe we dug deeper?” the second said, picking up the shovel beginning to dig.
Just about a minute passed before the shovel connected with something and made a CLINK.
“I think I got it,” the second senator said.
Both celebrated quietly as they knelt down next to the hole. The first senator dipped his head down into it, attempting to retrieve the box. He expected dirt to flick up into his eyes, but it didn’t. He got a pain near his lower back, but kept going.
He struggled against something that felt like cloth against the top of his head until it gave way. He looked around, and for a second, thought, Where is that light coming from down here?
He focused his eyes, and seen the second senator take a giant step backwards, shouting, “What the fuck!” That’s w hen he realized the strangest thing had happened: his head went into that hole, and came right out of his own ass.
They waited until the perfect time to release these documents, and when that night came they both headed to the White House, avoided security with their faces, and reached the front lawn with a small duffel bag packed with two hand shovels. After twenty minutes of digging, they became worried.
“Are you sure this is the spot?” the first senator asked the second.
“It has to be,” the other answered.
“Fuck!” he threw the shovel to the ground, “ I bet they found it!”
“Maybe we dug deeper?” the second said, picking up the shovel beginning to dig.
Just about a minute passed before the shovel connected with something and made a CLINK.
“I think I got it,” the second senator said.
Both celebrated quietly as they knelt down next to the hole. The first senator dipped his head down into it, attempting to retrieve the box. He expected dirt to flick up into his eyes, but it didn’t. He got a pain near his lower back, but kept going.
He struggled against something that felt like cloth against the top of his head until it gave way. He looked around, and for a second, thought, Where is that light coming from down here?
He focused his eyes, and seen the second senator take a giant step backwards, shouting, “What the fuck!” That’s w hen he realized the strangest thing had happened: his head went into that hole, and came right out of his own ass.
Russell Richardson lives with his wife and sons in Binghamton NY, the carousel capital of the world. His publishing credits include Fabula Argenta, Crimson Streets, Jitter Press, and others. His story, "Death Reel," appeared in Scarlet Leaf Review, April 2018. He is also illustrator of "Poems for Children," by Larry H. Richardson; and, for charity, the books "Super Cooper Saves the Day," "Abel's Way," and "The Many Adventures of Mya." All books are available at Amazon.com. |
Number 32 Speaks to Me
Orin Kincaid, wearing a gaudy checkerboard suit, stood beside the sandwich board propped on the sidewalk outside his gallery. The board’s advertisement read, “Seniors’ Night.” For one evening, the elderly residents of Pondlily Nursing Home were exhibiting works they’d painted in art therapy classes. Orin flicked his cigarette at the street and edged into the gallery’s hot doorway. He grunted to himself. The gamble had paid off. A sweaty, shoulder-to-shoulder crowd packed the converted firehouse.
Crowds were a necessary evil. They meant profit, but people repulsed him. Slipping through the party, Orin offered a deflecting smile to those who recognized him. He avoided the slack-skinned nursing home residents who’d been shuttled in for the spotlight. But he couldn’t evade the chunky woman with a purple crew-cut who sought him out and pressed upon him. She was Magda, the art therapist who had phoned Orin’s assistant a few weeks earlier to propose the event.
“Bless you, Orin,” she gushed. “You’ve done our seniors a splendid service.”
The woman’s pawing and rancid breath made Orin squirm. “If only I could do more.”
The woman’s moist hands gripped his wrists. “Could you host this monthly?”
Orin tugged against her. “We’ll see how tonight goes,” he said. “Excuse me.”
He escaped any further lathering. Slithering through the multitude, Orin mourned the bygone days when respectable aficionados patronized salons. He reached the rear of the gallery, where he kept a small bureau. Seated at this desk, his assistant, Beverly, had their metal moneybox open and was about to tally the door’s gross. As he approached, Orin snapped his fingers, directing her attention to the gallery’s front.
“Go find out who painted number 32. It’s gathering a crowd.”
Fuming, Beverly went round to check. She sassed, in passing, “You seriously can’t do it yourself?”
Orin shrugged. In her absence, he acted fast. He stepped to the desk stealthily, reached into the cashbox, and pocketed a wad of bills into his jacket. From the door's collections, percentages were due to Beverly and Pondlily, and the rest went to him. He had agreed to the terms but never intended to play fair. When Beverly returned, Orin was coyly hovering beside the desk.
Beverly sat heavily enough to spin the chair. She had slovenly tendencies and a Frida Kahlo unibrow. “Charlotte Cutler painted number thirty-two,” she said. Beverly opened the box and began counting the money. When finished, she lowered that caterpillar brow and riffled through the money again. She glowered at Orin. “This isn’t right.”
Orin bared his teeth. “You’re positive you collected everyone’s admission fee?”
Beverly shot daggers. “If I missed any, it would be due to lack of help.”
To change the subject, Orin craned his neck and surveyed the crowd. “It's criminal we can’t sell anything, but this is great P.R. Perhaps some of this rabble will return for a proper exhibition.” Abruptly, he became perplexed. “Strange——more people are squeezing around that damned painting.”
Smoldering, Beverly was sealing the divided proceeds into three envelopes. “It’s a moiré painting, just messy squiggles. Not my thing.”
Obscuring Orin’s sightline, the crowd elbowed each other with increasing vigor, each person jockeying for a superior view. Tension steamed the gallery. “But it is theirs, apparently,” he murmured.
From the crowd, a woman, dressed in a shiny blouse, sauntered toward Orin. Locked in her gaze, Orin adjusted his ascot and groomed his graying hair. He received the woman with a confused head tilt. Hot blood flushed her cheeks.
“Are you the gallery’s owner?” asked the woman.
“At your ser——”
“What’s that painting cost?” She meant the work that had drawn such interest.
Before Orin could open his mouth, Beverly intervened. “The paintings are exhibition only.”
The woman ignored her. She focused on Orin instead. “I’ll pay one thousand dollars,” she said, her voice a buttery purr.
“Sorry,” said Beverly. “Exhibition only.”
“Let’s not be hasty,” said Orin.
The woman fingered the collar of her blouse and stepped up to the man’s chest. Her eyes were glazed as if mesmerized. “Two thousand dollars,” she said.
“Exhibition only——”
Orin coughed, hard. “We can make an exception this once,” he said. He scowled at Beverly. She threw up her hands and sank in her chair.
The woman's tremulous hand produced a checkbook from her handbag. Orin eagerly provided a pen. Nearby, a clammy man in a collarless shirt came shuffling at them. Orin cringed at him.
“Is she b-buying the painting?” the man stammered.
“She is,” said Orin. “Number 32. It’s quite popular.”
The man gasped. “She can’t. Whatever her offer, I’ll d-double.”
“Double?” Orin asked, intrigued. But the woman shoved the new man aside. “Back off,” she growled, spraying spittle like an unmuzzled pit bull.
The man roared and launched upon her, grabbing her coat. They crashed first into the desk with a painful thud and then to the floor. Beverly and Orin leaped from the fray. Horrified, they looked from the skirmish to the painting in question, where patrons had begun to strike each other.
“What the hell?” asked Beverly, reaching for her phone. “I’ll call the police.”
Orin stood motionless and sneered devilishly. “We don’t need the police,” he said. “We need more paintings from Ms. Cutler.”
***
“Imagine living at the mercy of these brutes,” said Orin.
They were in the Pondlily Nursing Home’s lobby, awaiting Magda, the art therapist. Orin gestured to the front window, beyond which a tattooed orderly pushed a resident in a wheelchair on the patio.
Beverly patted his back. “I’m sure you’ll never grow old.”
Orin's thoughts had already fluttered on. “Nevermind. Let’s hope the old bitty’s been productive, eh?”
Beverly frowned. “Do you have a conscience?”
Orin’s lips peeled over a repellent grin. “I don’t carry it with me.”
Beverly rolled her eyes. Orin took her by the arm, indelicately. “If you want our gallery to pay its bills,” he said, “remember to be persuasive.”
“Your gallery,” she said, prying free. “I’d make more at Dunkin Donuts.”
“Then go do so, sweetheart,” hissed Orin. Then he straightened and waved his hand. Magda was waddling down the hall. “Salutations,” he bellowed. “How wonderful to meet again.”
Moving cautiously, Magda narrowed her gaze as she came upon the visitors. “You’re a surprise after Friday night’s fracas.”
“An unfortunate event.” Orin attempted a seductive smile, which looked more like stomach discomfort. “But great art inspires passion.”
Beverly abhorred his slimy charm. She interrupted. “Orin wants to hold another event.”
Magda shook her head. “As I said on the phone, it’s impossible. The brass has canceled art therapy groups. Only individual counseling is allowed, due to——”
Orin’s raised a finger. “Actually, our interest is limited to one particular artist. Ms. Charlotte Cutler, who so moved Friday’s audience.”
Magda laughed. “No way. There are many reasons why not, least of all how hard it is for her to produce anything.”
Beverly and Orin exchanged glances. “That was her painting at the exhibition?” Beverly asked.
“You don’t know?” asked Magda. “Follow me.”
Through corridors cluttered with wheelchairs, medical equipment, and the occasional cot——occupied by sheet-covered, birdlike creatures——Magda led the visitors to the residential rooms. At one doorway she beckoned them to enter. They did and saw in the room, alongside one of two beds, an old woman. Beneath a frizzled nest of white hair, she sat slumped in a wheelchair by the window, gazing at the blue sky. Wet drool glistened on her chin.
“I present Ms. Charlotte Cutler.” Magda folded her arms upon her massive bosom. “She’s catatonic.”
Beverly and Orin were open-mouthed. Magda chuckled.
“Charlotte’s a vegetable. An unpleasant term, but true. What’s amazing, however, is that if you put a brush in her hand, she’ll paint. Her arm will move, and she’ll cover a canvas.”
Orin’s brow furrowed. “I don’t follow. If she’s like DeNiro in Awakenings, how could she——?”
Magda nodded. “It’s confusing, yes. First, I prop the canvas beside her, set out paint cups, and squeeze the brush into her hand. Then, slowly, she works. When the brush needs cleaning, she taps the canvas. The whole time, there’s no change of demeanor or spark of consciousness. But she paints. Honest to God.”
Orin stepped toward the old woman. Magda squared to block him and continued: “The problem is that we’ve had incidents here, similar to what occurred at the gallery on Friday. Until your exhibition, I chalked them up to senility. But now. . . .”
Catching on, Beverly asked, “What happened?”
Magda gazed at the room’s second, unoccupied bed. “Charlotte had a roommate who bullied her. Pulled her hair, poured water on her. Then I was hired to start art therapy groups. Everyone loved our sessions. And to see Charlotte paint shocked us all. I hung her first canvas right there to celebrate.” She pointed to a bare wall. “On the night the painting went up, screams came from this room. Charlotte’s roommate was found beside the painting, dead from a seizure.”
Orin’s smirk revealed his skepticism. Magda’s eyes slit. “It sounds nuts, but the painting caused that woman’s death. I just didn’t connect them at first. Our groups continued, and she painted a few more pictures. Then, one day, two male residents grew obsessed with her work. Each insisted they must have the picture. By the time we separated them, those two codgers had clawed chunks out of each other.”
Beverly was listening assiduously. “You really believe her paintings trigger these responses?”
“There’s evidence to support my hypothesis.”
Orin’s grin persisted. The profits were mounting in his mind. “So she’s produced a few paintings, including the one from our exhibition. Where are they?”
“In my office,” said Madga.
Orin’s chest swelled. “Okay. You go grab those for us. We’ll prepare to exhibit on Friday.”
Magda batted the air. “Are you crazy? Not a chance.”
“A woman offered $2,000 for Ms. Cutler’s work before being deterred by a man who sought to double that.” Orin rubbed his palms together. “Barring police interference, we’d have been well compensated for her piece.”
“A piece not for sale,” Magda clarified.
Orin ignored Beverly’s vigorous nods beside him. He sized up the stout art therapist. “You’re a . . . a handsome woman,” he said, trying and failing to sound alluring. “Can’t you and I——?”
Magda cackled hard enough to sprout tears. “No way, José,” she managed to retort.
Beverly murmured, “He’s completely lost his mind.”
But Orin clapped with a loud smack. “Don’t be rash. A substantial amount could find its way to both your pockets.”
Magda wouldn’t budge. “No dice.”
A pitiful expression creased Orin’s face. “Please. Our gallery is struggling. But one successful show could secure us for a year.”
Declining again, Magda wrinkled her nose.
“Fine.” Orin pointed at the oblivious Ms. Cutler, who forever swept her mental hallways. “Deny an old woman her therapy, you philistine. Your employer will want to hear this.”
Magda showed incredulity. “Tell them. They don’t cotton to bullies, either.”
Growling, Orin stalked out. Beverly apologized and then followed her boss down the corridor. Until they reached the walkway outside, he muttered incoherently.
“This is nonsense . . . a catatonic woman’s paintings incite violence?”
Beverly kept pace at his elbow. “But if it’s true?” she asked. “Would you want that on your conscience?”
Wickedness flickered across Orin’s features. “You’ve questioned my morals twice. I won’t tolerate a third.” He huffed as he scanned the yard. “No, I suspect Magda, herself, is the painter. Improvable, I suppose. Nevertheless, the work will surely sell.” He punched the air. “But how to acquire it?”
He halted and curled a grin.
“Go wait in the car,” he said. He set his rump against the waist-high stone wall that lined the walkway, and he watched the distant, tattooed orderly who now lounged near the patio’s picnic tables. Orin studied the man while feeling his pockets for a cigarette pack. “I need to smoke.”
“Don’t you dare,” hissed Beverly. “Don’t do what you’re thinking about.”
Orin flicked his hand at her, shooing her away.
***
10 o’clock. Gallery’s rear entrance. Bring the paintings from the Art Therapist’s office. These were instructions any idiot could follow. So where was the idiot?
Orin crouched inside the gallery’s back door, peering through the window glass and gouging his overlong pinkie nail in the window’s frame, impatient for Lurch’s arrival.
That’s what the orderly called himself: Lurch. He exceeded six feet, wore homemade tattoos over his frame, and possessed intense eyes that hadn't blinked during their conversation at the Pondlily facility. Now Orin consulted his watch. Fully half past the hour. What if Dude didn’t show? Orin would be without recourse, an annoying and frightening outcome.
Suddenly, staring at Orin through the window were those obsidian eyes.
Orin jumped. He fumbled to open the door. The goliath slipped past, grumbling, with the stolen paintings wrapped in a black garbage bag and clutched in a bear-hug. Orin grimaced at the man’s body odor and clasped his nose. “You frightened me.”
Lurch grunted as he laid the paintings against the nearest wall. He turned to Orin. The man’s scattered teeth were yellow when he smiled. He jerked his thumb toward his delivery. “Hundred bucks.”
“Yes, we agreed to one hundred dollars,” said Orin. “A drop in the bucket compared to what they’ll fetch.”
He bit his knuckle. Orin, the insuppressible braggart, should have known better than to disclose his potential profits. He handed a few bills shakily to Lurch and winced a wavering smile.
“Drop in the bucket, eh?” Lurch pocketed the money, assessed his foppish host, and scratched his bristly scalp. “Grabbed 'em too fast to look ‘em over. Mind if I take a peek?”
Sizing up Lurch’s swollen biceps, exposed by his short sleeves, and recalling the chaos of Seniors’ Night, Orin stammered. “You wouldn’t like them. Primitive stuff.”
Lurch flashed his tombstone teeth again. After a moment, he snorted. “Whatever, man.”
He stepped toward the door. Orin cleared his throat and said, “Wait.” The goliath stared down at him.
“When these sell, I’ll need more,” said Orin. “Can you help with that?”
“It’ll cost you,” said Lurch.
“Money’s no object.” Orin knitted his fingers together and grimaced, lamenting his second mouthful of foot.
But Lurch simply shrugged. “Tell me what I gotta do.”
***
The next day, Magda stormed into the gallery. “Give them back, you thieves!” she cried.
It was mid-afternoon, and Beverly was framing paintings while Orin sat with his laptop at the desk. Beverly flashed confusion and then her icy gaze leveled on Orin.
He looked between the women. “To what do we owe——”
“Quit the act,” barked Magda. At the desk, she slammed her palms upon the surface. “You stole those paintings, and you’re gonna return them.”
Orin’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Stolen paintings? Whatever do you mean?”
Magda balled her fists. “You have them, and I’ll find them!”
She flew to the canvases that Beverly had stacked for framing. The crazed woman threw each painting aside, frantically hunting for Ms. Cutler’s missing works.
Leaving his chair, Orin said, “Madam, these accusations insult me. You’ll have to leave now.”
Magda stopped and fumed. Her chest heaving, she snapped at Beverly. “Do you know?”
The other woman shook her head.
“Well, my next stop is the police station,” said Magda, wheeling on Orin.
“Let them search the premises,” he said. “They'll find nothing.”
She charged at Orin, who shrunk timidly, pinned against the desk. Magda’s finger prodded his chest. “You’re playing with fire!”
“Leave, troll!” screamed Orin, covering his head. Beverly waited in the wings, unable to decide who deserved her help.
At last Magda flung up her arms and thundered to the door, crashing it closed behind her.
Regaining his composure, Orin smoothed his shirt. “The nerve of that heifer.”
A light bulb ignited above Beverly's head. “You did it, didn’t you? You got that orderly to steal the paintings.” She paced the floor. “You’re too smart to display them here. I bet you’re trying to unload them online.”
Orin produced a greasy grin. “Clever girl.”
Beverly scanned her remaining work, those frameless paintings now strewed across the floor, and she growled at Orin, “I quit.”
“Over the paintings?” he asked.
She spun on her heel and followed Magda’s fresh tracks to the door. Lingering at the entrance, she snorted at the man one last time.
“Get back here,” Orin demanded. It made no difference. She didn’t stay. He found he didn’t care. All that mattered was the small fortune to come from the online bidding war currently underway.
***
Orin was waiting again, this time for the buyer of the last painting.
Charles Wingblutt, the online auction’s winner, was due shortly, pending traffic between Des Moines and Orin’s city. Based on the man’s intense desire for the work, Orin expected him post haste. This customer was even more passionate than the previous three with whom Orin had dealt online, and was determined to collect the painting in person. Orin knew nothing else about him.
He did know, however, that this was the last painting for now. Per their agreement, the orderly had better be helping to generate more. In fact, Orin thought, let’s kidnap the golden goose and be done with it. Then she’d create paintings at his command. He could sell prints, too, and t-shirts——a whole enterprise.
Orin smoked a cigarette with relish, absorbed in his fantasies.
From the front window, he scanned the rainy night. Fog fluffed the glassy streets. No sign yet of Mr. Wingblutt.
Unable to sit, Orin paced the parlor and drank wine. Dave Brubeck’s piano tinkled from a turntable. Snapping his fingers in time, Orin paused here and there for a soft-shoe flourish. He felt wealthy——and considering the Cutler money collected thus far, he would soon be rich, too.
A few, interspersed candles illuminated the room, and one bright lamp spotlighted the final Cutler painting, propped on an easel, center stage. Occasionally, Orin examined the work, searching in its haphazard lines for what magic others saw but which was inaccessible to him.
Orin was at the easel again when the doorbell pierced the room’s placidity. He nearly lost his slippers in his hurry to answer. However, upon opening the door, he found not the man, but Beverly.
Orin cleared his throat. “Well, well. The rain’s brought out the rats.”
Beverly’s drenched clothing clung to her body. “Can I speak to you inside?” she asked.
Orin flicked his wrist. “Not welcome.”
Beverly leaned in urgently. “The orderly——did you pay him to help Ms. Cutler paint?”
Orin took a casual sip of wine. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Well, he did,” said Beverly. “And now he’s dead.”
Interested, Orin rested his shoulder against the doorframe. Beverly continued, chattering from the cold rain. “He brought paints into her room, set up a canvas, gave her a brush. She painted. And sometime after that, he killed himself.”
Orin swirled his wine glass. “It’s unfortunate that you’re susceptible to magical thinking, but it's not my concern.”
Beverly reached for him and reconsidered. She peered through the doorway, to the painting. “He stuck a broken paintbrush handle through his eye, into his brain. Because of her painting.”
“Enough,” sighed Orin. “Run along, please. A guest is expected.”
“Orin——”
He kicked his foot at her, threateningly. “Go.”
He slammed the door. He returned to the parlor and tried sitting on the duvet, but was quickly pacing again, rubbing his temples, drinking more wine. Beverly had rattled him. The orderly was dead. Orin scrutinized the canvas. How could this unsophisticated work, an idiot’s red rectangle with yellow and orange swirls, endanger him? This asymmetrical, illogical thing, painted with less skill than that of a child? No. Packaging the paintings and counting cash would be his only inconvenience.
More time elapsed, which felt like half the night. Just when Orin had reached the brink of his patience, the door rang once more.
Opening the door revealed a smallish man with receding, unkempt hair who stampeded past Orin’. “Mr. Wingblutt, I presume?” asked Orin. The impudent visitor stank of cigar smoke and wore an untucked, half-unbuttoned shirt, and his manic, red-rimmed eyes were fixed on the easel. He charged it like a bull.
Orin scoffed as Mr. Wingblutt grabbed the painting by the sides and bent his nose close to it. “I see you’re not one for small talk,” said Orin. “Let’s do business then. I’m ready for your check. $12,000, please, made out to cash.” Orin stood behind the man and extended his palm.
Obsession, however, deafened Mr. Wingblutt. Orin repeated himself, adding, “If you please?”
Still nothing. Orin tapped the man’s shoulder. Ragefully, Mr. Wingblutt lashed out and struck his fist into Orin’s chest. Orin toppled backward, over the duvet.
As he climbed to his feet, Orin saw that the maniac’s face once again hovered inches from the painting, as if sniffing it. Orin stuttered in shock. “S—sir——this is unacceptable——”
Mr. Wingblutt pivoted again. Fury shook him; his snarling mouth foamed, exposing teeth. He lunged forward and howled, intent to kill. Orin dove from the man’s path and scurried to the corner table. As Wingblutt charged a second time, Orin grabbed the first sharp thing found on the table——a pair of gleaming, steel scissors. Turning, he thrust the weapon into the air and drove it into the man’s chest.
Briefly, the men froze, staring at each other. Then, bellowing, Mr. Wingblutt ripped the scissors from his torso and stabbed them into Orin’s throat.
Orin sank to his knees. He clutched at blood spurting from his neck. He saw Mr. Wingblutt limp to the painting, his altar; he saw the man sway before the easel; and finally, both men collapsed upon the floor.
Reality strobed in light and dark patterns. The horizon reversed, and the floor descended, sloping at an angle toward Cutler’s painting, to which gravity seemed to pull. Orin heard the doorbell, a swirling, murky sound; he heard the door open and feet scuffling. Policemen. Beverly and Magda.
Sideways, he saw Magda cry in horror, though her sound came out as a torpid slur. Beverly was pushed back by a cop. Her hand cupped her mouth, stifling a gasp.
Orin laid akimbo, blood soaking his linen shirt, expanding in a circle beneath him, chugging from his neck gash. Life’s last throbs twitched in his extremities. The room stunk of his blood.
He heard Beverly, begging the officer, “Over here! He needs your help!”
And, as Orin’s vision permanently flickered out, he saw the cop pass her and approach the canvas on the easel, and heard the man murmur, “This painting . . . it speaks to me.”
Crowds were a necessary evil. They meant profit, but people repulsed him. Slipping through the party, Orin offered a deflecting smile to those who recognized him. He avoided the slack-skinned nursing home residents who’d been shuttled in for the spotlight. But he couldn’t evade the chunky woman with a purple crew-cut who sought him out and pressed upon him. She was Magda, the art therapist who had phoned Orin’s assistant a few weeks earlier to propose the event.
“Bless you, Orin,” she gushed. “You’ve done our seniors a splendid service.”
The woman’s pawing and rancid breath made Orin squirm. “If only I could do more.”
The woman’s moist hands gripped his wrists. “Could you host this monthly?”
Orin tugged against her. “We’ll see how tonight goes,” he said. “Excuse me.”
He escaped any further lathering. Slithering through the multitude, Orin mourned the bygone days when respectable aficionados patronized salons. He reached the rear of the gallery, where he kept a small bureau. Seated at this desk, his assistant, Beverly, had their metal moneybox open and was about to tally the door’s gross. As he approached, Orin snapped his fingers, directing her attention to the gallery’s front.
“Go find out who painted number 32. It’s gathering a crowd.”
Fuming, Beverly went round to check. She sassed, in passing, “You seriously can’t do it yourself?”
Orin shrugged. In her absence, he acted fast. He stepped to the desk stealthily, reached into the cashbox, and pocketed a wad of bills into his jacket. From the door's collections, percentages were due to Beverly and Pondlily, and the rest went to him. He had agreed to the terms but never intended to play fair. When Beverly returned, Orin was coyly hovering beside the desk.
Beverly sat heavily enough to spin the chair. She had slovenly tendencies and a Frida Kahlo unibrow. “Charlotte Cutler painted number thirty-two,” she said. Beverly opened the box and began counting the money. When finished, she lowered that caterpillar brow and riffled through the money again. She glowered at Orin. “This isn’t right.”
Orin bared his teeth. “You’re positive you collected everyone’s admission fee?”
Beverly shot daggers. “If I missed any, it would be due to lack of help.”
To change the subject, Orin craned his neck and surveyed the crowd. “It's criminal we can’t sell anything, but this is great P.R. Perhaps some of this rabble will return for a proper exhibition.” Abruptly, he became perplexed. “Strange——more people are squeezing around that damned painting.”
Smoldering, Beverly was sealing the divided proceeds into three envelopes. “It’s a moiré painting, just messy squiggles. Not my thing.”
Obscuring Orin’s sightline, the crowd elbowed each other with increasing vigor, each person jockeying for a superior view. Tension steamed the gallery. “But it is theirs, apparently,” he murmured.
From the crowd, a woman, dressed in a shiny blouse, sauntered toward Orin. Locked in her gaze, Orin adjusted his ascot and groomed his graying hair. He received the woman with a confused head tilt. Hot blood flushed her cheeks.
“Are you the gallery’s owner?” asked the woman.
“At your ser——”
“What’s that painting cost?” She meant the work that had drawn such interest.
Before Orin could open his mouth, Beverly intervened. “The paintings are exhibition only.”
The woman ignored her. She focused on Orin instead. “I’ll pay one thousand dollars,” she said, her voice a buttery purr.
“Sorry,” said Beverly. “Exhibition only.”
“Let’s not be hasty,” said Orin.
The woman fingered the collar of her blouse and stepped up to the man’s chest. Her eyes were glazed as if mesmerized. “Two thousand dollars,” she said.
“Exhibition only——”
Orin coughed, hard. “We can make an exception this once,” he said. He scowled at Beverly. She threw up her hands and sank in her chair.
The woman's tremulous hand produced a checkbook from her handbag. Orin eagerly provided a pen. Nearby, a clammy man in a collarless shirt came shuffling at them. Orin cringed at him.
“Is she b-buying the painting?” the man stammered.
“She is,” said Orin. “Number 32. It’s quite popular.”
The man gasped. “She can’t. Whatever her offer, I’ll d-double.”
“Double?” Orin asked, intrigued. But the woman shoved the new man aside. “Back off,” she growled, spraying spittle like an unmuzzled pit bull.
The man roared and launched upon her, grabbing her coat. They crashed first into the desk with a painful thud and then to the floor. Beverly and Orin leaped from the fray. Horrified, they looked from the skirmish to the painting in question, where patrons had begun to strike each other.
“What the hell?” asked Beverly, reaching for her phone. “I’ll call the police.”
Orin stood motionless and sneered devilishly. “We don’t need the police,” he said. “We need more paintings from Ms. Cutler.”
***
“Imagine living at the mercy of these brutes,” said Orin.
They were in the Pondlily Nursing Home’s lobby, awaiting Magda, the art therapist. Orin gestured to the front window, beyond which a tattooed orderly pushed a resident in a wheelchair on the patio.
Beverly patted his back. “I’m sure you’ll never grow old.”
Orin's thoughts had already fluttered on. “Nevermind. Let’s hope the old bitty’s been productive, eh?”
Beverly frowned. “Do you have a conscience?”
Orin’s lips peeled over a repellent grin. “I don’t carry it with me.”
Beverly rolled her eyes. Orin took her by the arm, indelicately. “If you want our gallery to pay its bills,” he said, “remember to be persuasive.”
“Your gallery,” she said, prying free. “I’d make more at Dunkin Donuts.”
“Then go do so, sweetheart,” hissed Orin. Then he straightened and waved his hand. Magda was waddling down the hall. “Salutations,” he bellowed. “How wonderful to meet again.”
Moving cautiously, Magda narrowed her gaze as she came upon the visitors. “You’re a surprise after Friday night’s fracas.”
“An unfortunate event.” Orin attempted a seductive smile, which looked more like stomach discomfort. “But great art inspires passion.”
Beverly abhorred his slimy charm. She interrupted. “Orin wants to hold another event.”
Magda shook her head. “As I said on the phone, it’s impossible. The brass has canceled art therapy groups. Only individual counseling is allowed, due to——”
Orin’s raised a finger. “Actually, our interest is limited to one particular artist. Ms. Charlotte Cutler, who so moved Friday’s audience.”
Magda laughed. “No way. There are many reasons why not, least of all how hard it is for her to produce anything.”
Beverly and Orin exchanged glances. “That was her painting at the exhibition?” Beverly asked.
“You don’t know?” asked Magda. “Follow me.”
Through corridors cluttered with wheelchairs, medical equipment, and the occasional cot——occupied by sheet-covered, birdlike creatures——Magda led the visitors to the residential rooms. At one doorway she beckoned them to enter. They did and saw in the room, alongside one of two beds, an old woman. Beneath a frizzled nest of white hair, she sat slumped in a wheelchair by the window, gazing at the blue sky. Wet drool glistened on her chin.
“I present Ms. Charlotte Cutler.” Magda folded her arms upon her massive bosom. “She’s catatonic.”
Beverly and Orin were open-mouthed. Magda chuckled.
“Charlotte’s a vegetable. An unpleasant term, but true. What’s amazing, however, is that if you put a brush in her hand, she’ll paint. Her arm will move, and she’ll cover a canvas.”
Orin’s brow furrowed. “I don’t follow. If she’s like DeNiro in Awakenings, how could she——?”
Magda nodded. “It’s confusing, yes. First, I prop the canvas beside her, set out paint cups, and squeeze the brush into her hand. Then, slowly, she works. When the brush needs cleaning, she taps the canvas. The whole time, there’s no change of demeanor or spark of consciousness. But she paints. Honest to God.”
Orin stepped toward the old woman. Magda squared to block him and continued: “The problem is that we’ve had incidents here, similar to what occurred at the gallery on Friday. Until your exhibition, I chalked them up to senility. But now. . . .”
Catching on, Beverly asked, “What happened?”
Magda gazed at the room’s second, unoccupied bed. “Charlotte had a roommate who bullied her. Pulled her hair, poured water on her. Then I was hired to start art therapy groups. Everyone loved our sessions. And to see Charlotte paint shocked us all. I hung her first canvas right there to celebrate.” She pointed to a bare wall. “On the night the painting went up, screams came from this room. Charlotte’s roommate was found beside the painting, dead from a seizure.”
Orin’s smirk revealed his skepticism. Magda’s eyes slit. “It sounds nuts, but the painting caused that woman’s death. I just didn’t connect them at first. Our groups continued, and she painted a few more pictures. Then, one day, two male residents grew obsessed with her work. Each insisted they must have the picture. By the time we separated them, those two codgers had clawed chunks out of each other.”
Beverly was listening assiduously. “You really believe her paintings trigger these responses?”
“There’s evidence to support my hypothesis.”
Orin’s grin persisted. The profits were mounting in his mind. “So she’s produced a few paintings, including the one from our exhibition. Where are they?”
“In my office,” said Madga.
Orin’s chest swelled. “Okay. You go grab those for us. We’ll prepare to exhibit on Friday.”
Magda batted the air. “Are you crazy? Not a chance.”
“A woman offered $2,000 for Ms. Cutler’s work before being deterred by a man who sought to double that.” Orin rubbed his palms together. “Barring police interference, we’d have been well compensated for her piece.”
“A piece not for sale,” Magda clarified.
Orin ignored Beverly’s vigorous nods beside him. He sized up the stout art therapist. “You’re a . . . a handsome woman,” he said, trying and failing to sound alluring. “Can’t you and I——?”
Magda cackled hard enough to sprout tears. “No way, José,” she managed to retort.
Beverly murmured, “He’s completely lost his mind.”
But Orin clapped with a loud smack. “Don’t be rash. A substantial amount could find its way to both your pockets.”
Magda wouldn’t budge. “No dice.”
A pitiful expression creased Orin’s face. “Please. Our gallery is struggling. But one successful show could secure us for a year.”
Declining again, Magda wrinkled her nose.
“Fine.” Orin pointed at the oblivious Ms. Cutler, who forever swept her mental hallways. “Deny an old woman her therapy, you philistine. Your employer will want to hear this.”
Magda showed incredulity. “Tell them. They don’t cotton to bullies, either.”
Growling, Orin stalked out. Beverly apologized and then followed her boss down the corridor. Until they reached the walkway outside, he muttered incoherently.
“This is nonsense . . . a catatonic woman’s paintings incite violence?”
Beverly kept pace at his elbow. “But if it’s true?” she asked. “Would you want that on your conscience?”
Wickedness flickered across Orin’s features. “You’ve questioned my morals twice. I won’t tolerate a third.” He huffed as he scanned the yard. “No, I suspect Magda, herself, is the painter. Improvable, I suppose. Nevertheless, the work will surely sell.” He punched the air. “But how to acquire it?”
He halted and curled a grin.
“Go wait in the car,” he said. He set his rump against the waist-high stone wall that lined the walkway, and he watched the distant, tattooed orderly who now lounged near the patio’s picnic tables. Orin studied the man while feeling his pockets for a cigarette pack. “I need to smoke.”
“Don’t you dare,” hissed Beverly. “Don’t do what you’re thinking about.”
Orin flicked his hand at her, shooing her away.
***
10 o’clock. Gallery’s rear entrance. Bring the paintings from the Art Therapist’s office. These were instructions any idiot could follow. So where was the idiot?
Orin crouched inside the gallery’s back door, peering through the window glass and gouging his overlong pinkie nail in the window’s frame, impatient for Lurch’s arrival.
That’s what the orderly called himself: Lurch. He exceeded six feet, wore homemade tattoos over his frame, and possessed intense eyes that hadn't blinked during their conversation at the Pondlily facility. Now Orin consulted his watch. Fully half past the hour. What if Dude didn’t show? Orin would be without recourse, an annoying and frightening outcome.
Suddenly, staring at Orin through the window were those obsidian eyes.
Orin jumped. He fumbled to open the door. The goliath slipped past, grumbling, with the stolen paintings wrapped in a black garbage bag and clutched in a bear-hug. Orin grimaced at the man’s body odor and clasped his nose. “You frightened me.”
Lurch grunted as he laid the paintings against the nearest wall. He turned to Orin. The man’s scattered teeth were yellow when he smiled. He jerked his thumb toward his delivery. “Hundred bucks.”
“Yes, we agreed to one hundred dollars,” said Orin. “A drop in the bucket compared to what they’ll fetch.”
He bit his knuckle. Orin, the insuppressible braggart, should have known better than to disclose his potential profits. He handed a few bills shakily to Lurch and winced a wavering smile.
“Drop in the bucket, eh?” Lurch pocketed the money, assessed his foppish host, and scratched his bristly scalp. “Grabbed 'em too fast to look ‘em over. Mind if I take a peek?”
Sizing up Lurch’s swollen biceps, exposed by his short sleeves, and recalling the chaos of Seniors’ Night, Orin stammered. “You wouldn’t like them. Primitive stuff.”
Lurch flashed his tombstone teeth again. After a moment, he snorted. “Whatever, man.”
He stepped toward the door. Orin cleared his throat and said, “Wait.” The goliath stared down at him.
“When these sell, I’ll need more,” said Orin. “Can you help with that?”
“It’ll cost you,” said Lurch.
“Money’s no object.” Orin knitted his fingers together and grimaced, lamenting his second mouthful of foot.
But Lurch simply shrugged. “Tell me what I gotta do.”
***
The next day, Magda stormed into the gallery. “Give them back, you thieves!” she cried.
It was mid-afternoon, and Beverly was framing paintings while Orin sat with his laptop at the desk. Beverly flashed confusion and then her icy gaze leveled on Orin.
He looked between the women. “To what do we owe——”
“Quit the act,” barked Magda. At the desk, she slammed her palms upon the surface. “You stole those paintings, and you’re gonna return them.”
Orin’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Stolen paintings? Whatever do you mean?”
Magda balled her fists. “You have them, and I’ll find them!”
She flew to the canvases that Beverly had stacked for framing. The crazed woman threw each painting aside, frantically hunting for Ms. Cutler’s missing works.
Leaving his chair, Orin said, “Madam, these accusations insult me. You’ll have to leave now.”
Magda stopped and fumed. Her chest heaving, she snapped at Beverly. “Do you know?”
The other woman shook her head.
“Well, my next stop is the police station,” said Magda, wheeling on Orin.
“Let them search the premises,” he said. “They'll find nothing.”
She charged at Orin, who shrunk timidly, pinned against the desk. Magda’s finger prodded his chest. “You’re playing with fire!”
“Leave, troll!” screamed Orin, covering his head. Beverly waited in the wings, unable to decide who deserved her help.
At last Magda flung up her arms and thundered to the door, crashing it closed behind her.
Regaining his composure, Orin smoothed his shirt. “The nerve of that heifer.”
A light bulb ignited above Beverly's head. “You did it, didn’t you? You got that orderly to steal the paintings.” She paced the floor. “You’re too smart to display them here. I bet you’re trying to unload them online.”
Orin produced a greasy grin. “Clever girl.”
Beverly scanned her remaining work, those frameless paintings now strewed across the floor, and she growled at Orin, “I quit.”
“Over the paintings?” he asked.
She spun on her heel and followed Magda’s fresh tracks to the door. Lingering at the entrance, she snorted at the man one last time.
“Get back here,” Orin demanded. It made no difference. She didn’t stay. He found he didn’t care. All that mattered was the small fortune to come from the online bidding war currently underway.
***
Orin was waiting again, this time for the buyer of the last painting.
Charles Wingblutt, the online auction’s winner, was due shortly, pending traffic between Des Moines and Orin’s city. Based on the man’s intense desire for the work, Orin expected him post haste. This customer was even more passionate than the previous three with whom Orin had dealt online, and was determined to collect the painting in person. Orin knew nothing else about him.
He did know, however, that this was the last painting for now. Per their agreement, the orderly had better be helping to generate more. In fact, Orin thought, let’s kidnap the golden goose and be done with it. Then she’d create paintings at his command. He could sell prints, too, and t-shirts——a whole enterprise.
Orin smoked a cigarette with relish, absorbed in his fantasies.
From the front window, he scanned the rainy night. Fog fluffed the glassy streets. No sign yet of Mr. Wingblutt.
Unable to sit, Orin paced the parlor and drank wine. Dave Brubeck’s piano tinkled from a turntable. Snapping his fingers in time, Orin paused here and there for a soft-shoe flourish. He felt wealthy——and considering the Cutler money collected thus far, he would soon be rich, too.
A few, interspersed candles illuminated the room, and one bright lamp spotlighted the final Cutler painting, propped on an easel, center stage. Occasionally, Orin examined the work, searching in its haphazard lines for what magic others saw but which was inaccessible to him.
Orin was at the easel again when the doorbell pierced the room’s placidity. He nearly lost his slippers in his hurry to answer. However, upon opening the door, he found not the man, but Beverly.
Orin cleared his throat. “Well, well. The rain’s brought out the rats.”
Beverly’s drenched clothing clung to her body. “Can I speak to you inside?” she asked.
Orin flicked his wrist. “Not welcome.”
Beverly leaned in urgently. “The orderly——did you pay him to help Ms. Cutler paint?”
Orin took a casual sip of wine. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Well, he did,” said Beverly. “And now he’s dead.”
Interested, Orin rested his shoulder against the doorframe. Beverly continued, chattering from the cold rain. “He brought paints into her room, set up a canvas, gave her a brush. She painted. And sometime after that, he killed himself.”
Orin swirled his wine glass. “It’s unfortunate that you’re susceptible to magical thinking, but it's not my concern.”
Beverly reached for him and reconsidered. She peered through the doorway, to the painting. “He stuck a broken paintbrush handle through his eye, into his brain. Because of her painting.”
“Enough,” sighed Orin. “Run along, please. A guest is expected.”
“Orin——”
He kicked his foot at her, threateningly. “Go.”
He slammed the door. He returned to the parlor and tried sitting on the duvet, but was quickly pacing again, rubbing his temples, drinking more wine. Beverly had rattled him. The orderly was dead. Orin scrutinized the canvas. How could this unsophisticated work, an idiot’s red rectangle with yellow and orange swirls, endanger him? This asymmetrical, illogical thing, painted with less skill than that of a child? No. Packaging the paintings and counting cash would be his only inconvenience.
More time elapsed, which felt like half the night. Just when Orin had reached the brink of his patience, the door rang once more.
Opening the door revealed a smallish man with receding, unkempt hair who stampeded past Orin’. “Mr. Wingblutt, I presume?” asked Orin. The impudent visitor stank of cigar smoke and wore an untucked, half-unbuttoned shirt, and his manic, red-rimmed eyes were fixed on the easel. He charged it like a bull.
Orin scoffed as Mr. Wingblutt grabbed the painting by the sides and bent his nose close to it. “I see you’re not one for small talk,” said Orin. “Let’s do business then. I’m ready for your check. $12,000, please, made out to cash.” Orin stood behind the man and extended his palm.
Obsession, however, deafened Mr. Wingblutt. Orin repeated himself, adding, “If you please?”
Still nothing. Orin tapped the man’s shoulder. Ragefully, Mr. Wingblutt lashed out and struck his fist into Orin’s chest. Orin toppled backward, over the duvet.
As he climbed to his feet, Orin saw that the maniac’s face once again hovered inches from the painting, as if sniffing it. Orin stuttered in shock. “S—sir——this is unacceptable——”
Mr. Wingblutt pivoted again. Fury shook him; his snarling mouth foamed, exposing teeth. He lunged forward and howled, intent to kill. Orin dove from the man’s path and scurried to the corner table. As Wingblutt charged a second time, Orin grabbed the first sharp thing found on the table——a pair of gleaming, steel scissors. Turning, he thrust the weapon into the air and drove it into the man’s chest.
Briefly, the men froze, staring at each other. Then, bellowing, Mr. Wingblutt ripped the scissors from his torso and stabbed them into Orin’s throat.
Orin sank to his knees. He clutched at blood spurting from his neck. He saw Mr. Wingblutt limp to the painting, his altar; he saw the man sway before the easel; and finally, both men collapsed upon the floor.
Reality strobed in light and dark patterns. The horizon reversed, and the floor descended, sloping at an angle toward Cutler’s painting, to which gravity seemed to pull. Orin heard the doorbell, a swirling, murky sound; he heard the door open and feet scuffling. Policemen. Beverly and Magda.
Sideways, he saw Magda cry in horror, though her sound came out as a torpid slur. Beverly was pushed back by a cop. Her hand cupped her mouth, stifling a gasp.
Orin laid akimbo, blood soaking his linen shirt, expanding in a circle beneath him, chugging from his neck gash. Life’s last throbs twitched in his extremities. The room stunk of his blood.
He heard Beverly, begging the officer, “Over here! He needs your help!”
And, as Orin’s vision permanently flickered out, he saw the cop pass her and approach the canvas on the easel, and heard the man murmur, “This painting . . . it speaks to me.”
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