A Few Things Tips for Those Who Are Considering Writing
I'm often asked for tips on what it takes to write a book. I'll begin by saying if you asked ten writers how they develop their stories you'd probably get ten different answers. So here's one of the ten.
Once I get a concept in my head I'll drive it as far as I can without writing anything. I'm talking only about the premise, not the structure. When I begin to write I won't worry much about particulars such as names or location. I may put a temporary one in, knowing I'll change it later, but I use one to begin the process without potholes. Then I simply begin to type as fast as I can, trying to keep up with my brain. (There are several points in a book where thoughts flow fast, particularly in the beginning and near the end.) I worry about spelling and punctuation later. I just want to get the thoughts down before they float away.
Further along, but still toward the beginning, I'll need to develop the character... his or her demeanor, temperament, quirks, etc. When I get to this point I'll visualize the character as though watching that person in a movie. I may even use an actual actor to begin with, someone similar to my character. Let's say for example he goes into a diner late at night, and let's say I use Harrison Ford as the template. I'll try to imagine what he'd would do while sitting in a booth. Would he fidget with the salt shakers while waiting? Would he interact with others or would he want solace? Within a chapter or two the character takes on voice, as it's called. That is he becomes his own person. He becomes predictable to the author and the template is no longer needed.
I have never used an outline. (Not that I advocate not using one.) In fact in most cases I don't know where the book is going to go...as if I'm reading it as I'm writing. If I'm in the middle and I do have the ending flash into my head, I will skip forward and jot it down while the idea is fresh. I'll actually do that with any thought that will need to be further into the story.
Here are a few standards I employ:
1.) I never write when I don't 'feel it' as it's most likely a waste of time.
2.) I believe to write well one must get into a habit of speaking well. (Dialogue aside, where colloquialism enriches the characters.)
3.) I like to write when I'm tired. Some of my best work has come between two and five in the morning. Also by that time all the chores of the day have been taken care of and there is less to distract you. I realize there are many variables here (work, kids) and it may not be practical for most people.
4.) Keep the main characters stable, unless it's a murder mystery with a monomaniacal psychopath. Go back to the template. Don't have him or her be a genuinely nice person throughout the book then all of a sudden turn inexplicably mean. Yes, there are times when nice people get mad. That's not what I'm talking about.
5.) Think twice about compromising your language. If the character steps on a nail he will probably say fuck and not darn-it.
6.) In modern fiction many rules go out the door. Put commas where you want pause. Don't worry about ending a sentence with a preposition. Basically, write using your inner voice. After all, it's your story.
7.) Pay attention to what you see along the path of life. You never know when you may want to draw from it. Sometimes profound events come from ordinary places.
8.) Watch for impediments to your flow, be it from structure or content. Picture your words as a river; the more debris in the water, the slower it moves. Too many bends will slow the river as well. Keep the writing crisp.
I hope this was helpful
*****
Once I get a concept in my head I'll drive it as far as I can without writing anything. I'm talking only about the premise, not the structure. When I begin to write I won't worry much about particulars such as names or location. I may put a temporary one in, knowing I'll change it later, but I use one to begin the process without potholes. Then I simply begin to type as fast as I can, trying to keep up with my brain. (There are several points in a book where thoughts flow fast, particularly in the beginning and near the end.) I worry about spelling and punctuation later. I just want to get the thoughts down before they float away.
Further along, but still toward the beginning, I'll need to develop the character... his or her demeanor, temperament, quirks, etc. When I get to this point I'll visualize the character as though watching that person in a movie. I may even use an actual actor to begin with, someone similar to my character. Let's say for example he goes into a diner late at night, and let's say I use Harrison Ford as the template. I'll try to imagine what he'd would do while sitting in a booth. Would he fidget with the salt shakers while waiting? Would he interact with others or would he want solace? Within a chapter or two the character takes on voice, as it's called. That is he becomes his own person. He becomes predictable to the author and the template is no longer needed.
I have never used an outline. (Not that I advocate not using one.) In fact in most cases I don't know where the book is going to go...as if I'm reading it as I'm writing. If I'm in the middle and I do have the ending flash into my head, I will skip forward and jot it down while the idea is fresh. I'll actually do that with any thought that will need to be further into the story.
Here are a few standards I employ:
1.) I never write when I don't 'feel it' as it's most likely a waste of time.
2.) I believe to write well one must get into a habit of speaking well. (Dialogue aside, where colloquialism enriches the characters.)
3.) I like to write when I'm tired. Some of my best work has come between two and five in the morning. Also by that time all the chores of the day have been taken care of and there is less to distract you. I realize there are many variables here (work, kids) and it may not be practical for most people.
4.) Keep the main characters stable, unless it's a murder mystery with a monomaniacal psychopath. Go back to the template. Don't have him or her be a genuinely nice person throughout the book then all of a sudden turn inexplicably mean. Yes, there are times when nice people get mad. That's not what I'm talking about.
5.) Think twice about compromising your language. If the character steps on a nail he will probably say fuck and not darn-it.
6.) In modern fiction many rules go out the door. Put commas where you want pause. Don't worry about ending a sentence with a preposition. Basically, write using your inner voice. After all, it's your story.
7.) Pay attention to what you see along the path of life. You never know when you may want to draw from it. Sometimes profound events come from ordinary places.
8.) Watch for impediments to your flow, be it from structure or content. Picture your words as a river; the more debris in the water, the slower it moves. Too many bends will slow the river as well. Keep the writing crisp.
I hope this was helpful
*****
CHAPTER ONE
I remember, when I was young, how long it took for a year to pass. One year until I got my driver's license, one year until graduation; it didn't matter what the occasion was, a year was simply too long to wait. In my teens time passed lazily and toyed with me. I wanted to be an adult and do what adults did, but instead I waited out an unending series of yearlong periods. Time can be quite the jokester when it chooses, bending and shaping itself and belying the exactness in which it is purported. As time passed and I entered my prime, the year that once seemed like an eternity seemed like a month and left me pondering the perplexity of our eternal foe. Now, nine years out of a divorce, the consistency of the hourglass sand has changed to that of winter molasses, leaving me to chore my way through each day, each week, and each month.
I have always been fascinated with death and now I'm dying. "One year." I can still envision the doctor's mouth form the words as though he said them in slow motion, then adding something about an abdominal aortic aneurysm--an inoperable condition which would have me bleed to death. After a pause he patted me consolingly and asked what I wanted from him. "I want to enjoy myself," I said, and asked how much of the time left would be good. "With the condition of your heart you should feel fine most of the time. It could be a year; in rare cases it could be as many as three. Then one day you'll feel a strange sensation and that will be the beginning of the end," he answered. And that's what I had pictured whenever I thought of the end, which was something I did frequently as of late. Emotionally, my heart suffered a fifty percent blockage nearly a decade ago, as it's been over nine years since Maggie had left. During the first year I maintained hope. After several months I began to hear, here and there, that she and her new interest, Dr. Shaw, were having problems as well, and those who said this assured me that when it ended she'd come back to me. Eventually their relationship did end and I decided to give her a few weeks before speaking of any reunification, not expecting her to be with someone else within three days. That's when I began to give up; not just on our relationship but on life in general. During that first year I enjoyed my newfound freedom. I moved from Virginia to Ohio and welcomed the change of scenery. Then gradually, life became a drudgery and I felt increasingly alone as the years went on. I often reflected upon the life Maggie and I had led--how long we'd been together, what we had been through, how we'd seemingly been perfect for each other, and how different my life would be had we stayed together. Yet in reality, hope for even simple contentment was running thin. Now I think of the years which will be stolen by the lying entity called time.
I couldn't handle being close to Maggie if she was with someone else, and our daughter Jenny was in the process of moving to Oregon, thus the reason I chose Ohio. It was to cushion myself from the occasional times I would see Maggie, but more than that, to make it impossible to take a drive past our old house, hoping and dreading to catch a glimpse of her.
As I considered the move to Ohio I knew I had enough money to live decently, and a life insurance policy to ensure Jenny would be financially sound. All I lacked was the lust for life. Still, I found a job in my field and now I've been working there for nearly eight years. During this time I've gone on a few dates; yet all but one bored me, as they were nothing like Maggie, and the one who didn't was so much like her I felt weird in the way one might feel about dating an ex-wife's sister. Such was the case with Amber. She and I lasted four months or so and we had a great time whenever we were together. It was only after I would take her home or leave her place that the ghosts of the past would come and stay the rest of the night. Eventually I found her falling in love with me, and more frightening I was either falling for her or back in love with my ex-wife, and I knew if our relationship progressed my perception would be a strange conjoining of two Maggies I brought Amber to a fine-dining restaurant. She tried to hide her tears as I explained as well as I could. After that I realized the paradox. I couldn't have a serious relationship with anyone unless she had a little Maggie in her, and those similarities would ultimately end things.
*****
I have always been fascinated with death and now I'm dying. "One year." I can still envision the doctor's mouth form the words as though he said them in slow motion, then adding something about an abdominal aortic aneurysm--an inoperable condition which would have me bleed to death. After a pause he patted me consolingly and asked what I wanted from him. "I want to enjoy myself," I said, and asked how much of the time left would be good. "With the condition of your heart you should feel fine most of the time. It could be a year; in rare cases it could be as many as three. Then one day you'll feel a strange sensation and that will be the beginning of the end," he answered. And that's what I had pictured whenever I thought of the end, which was something I did frequently as of late. Emotionally, my heart suffered a fifty percent blockage nearly a decade ago, as it's been over nine years since Maggie had left. During the first year I maintained hope. After several months I began to hear, here and there, that she and her new interest, Dr. Shaw, were having problems as well, and those who said this assured me that when it ended she'd come back to me. Eventually their relationship did end and I decided to give her a few weeks before speaking of any reunification, not expecting her to be with someone else within three days. That's when I began to give up; not just on our relationship but on life in general. During that first year I enjoyed my newfound freedom. I moved from Virginia to Ohio and welcomed the change of scenery. Then gradually, life became a drudgery and I felt increasingly alone as the years went on. I often reflected upon the life Maggie and I had led--how long we'd been together, what we had been through, how we'd seemingly been perfect for each other, and how different my life would be had we stayed together. Yet in reality, hope for even simple contentment was running thin. Now I think of the years which will be stolen by the lying entity called time.
I couldn't handle being close to Maggie if she was with someone else, and our daughter Jenny was in the process of moving to Oregon, thus the reason I chose Ohio. It was to cushion myself from the occasional times I would see Maggie, but more than that, to make it impossible to take a drive past our old house, hoping and dreading to catch a glimpse of her.
As I considered the move to Ohio I knew I had enough money to live decently, and a life insurance policy to ensure Jenny would be financially sound. All I lacked was the lust for life. Still, I found a job in my field and now I've been working there for nearly eight years. During this time I've gone on a few dates; yet all but one bored me, as they were nothing like Maggie, and the one who didn't was so much like her I felt weird in the way one might feel about dating an ex-wife's sister. Such was the case with Amber. She and I lasted four months or so and we had a great time whenever we were together. It was only after I would take her home or leave her place that the ghosts of the past would come and stay the rest of the night. Eventually I found her falling in love with me, and more frightening I was either falling for her or back in love with my ex-wife, and I knew if our relationship progressed my perception would be a strange conjoining of two Maggies I brought Amber to a fine-dining restaurant. She tried to hide her tears as I explained as well as I could. After that I realized the paradox. I couldn't have a serious relationship with anyone unless she had a little Maggie in her, and those similarities would ultimately end things.
*****
CHAPTER TWO
I have always been impulsive; it's how I finished the contemplative stage so quickly. I realized how capricious this action seemed, but knew if it had remained in the back of my mind all these years, it must hold worthiness. I began to pack, knowing I'd be spending the rest of my days in the lonesome wilderness. I didn't know if this was what I deserved, or simply what life had scripted for me. All I knew was I had to keep moving. I retrieved an old trunk from the basement, wiped off years of dust and opened it. The felt-lined inside smelled of must. I scrubbed it with a soapy cloth, sprayed it with one of those deodorizers that's supposed to neutralize odors, then left it to dry as I began to gather everything. After it dried, I began to fill it with books, photographs, and other memorabilia. I held a picture of Maggie; seeming so pure, yet so distant. I put it with the other photos. I added a Bible that hadn't been opened since she left, then finished packing the trunk with sheets and blankets to keep everything tight enough where the contents wouldn't shift. I filled two other suitcases with clothes, then cleared a spot in the center of the living room where everything would be stored until I was ready to load. I added jackets, shoes and hiking boots, a box of dishes and cooking utensils, along with one box of canned and unopened boxed food from the cupboards. Having morphed into a minimalist since Maggie's departure, it only took a couple hours of gathering. I'd leave in the morning.
I made a few calls to people who would worry if they didn't hear from me after a certain amount of time. I told them my intentions, but modified it by saying it was to be closer to my daughter; not mentioning I'd never see them again. Several more tasks took me to seven o'clock. I decided to take one last stroll through the little town I had called home for the last nine years, with perhaps a stop at a pub or two before retiring for the night. I walked the tree-lined street, past familiar shops which dotted Main Street. I went to the park in the center of town where all the roads began their directions: north, south, east, or west. As II watched the American flag gently ripple in the light breeze, I found it obligatory to search for reasons to stay. "Why start over when you're in such a condition? Why even bother taking care of yourself?" The second question answered the first. I turned and walked back to the street. It was Thursday evening; a perfect time for frequenting nightspots. With the weekend approaching, there would be more people out than on other weeknights--and I did want to see a few people--but there wouldn't be the crowds of a Friday or Saturday. As I opened the door to The Main Street Bar And Grill, I found the people I knew waiting for me. I spotted Annie and shook a finger at her.
"You didn't expect to get out of town without proper farewells?" she asked coyly.
"I did," I said into her ear as I hugged her, "but thank you."
Mike One (as I called him whenever the two Mikes were together) ordered a beer for me. Randy asked if I was hungry, and without waiting for an answer, shouted to the bartender to get me a burger or something. I realized how these people made me feel: real, Midwestern, uncomplicated and able to enjoy life in its most basic form. They were working class folk with utilitarian names that matched the lot life had cast for them. I could tell they weren't about to let me pay for anything for the duration of the evening, so when the bartender asked what I wanted to eat, I asked for a hamburger instead of the steak I'd longed to have one last time. We stood along the side bar which ran parallel to the main bar, with the walkway between the two. People who knew me but weren't part of the inner circle sensed there was some sort of occasion and would stop to chat with the assemblage on their way in or out, and any secret to my departure was gone. I didn't want to answer questions; I just wanted to appreciate this sendoff and enjoy the company of these people one last time. I talked with Mike One and Gary about sports. I discussed politics with Emily. I revisited the past as Jerry and I talked about music. And with Annie...I talked about everything real in the world to me. I told her I'd call after I got established--perhaps the lone contact I would keep, even though I knew I would eventually relegate her to memory. When it came time to leave I hugged them all, inwardly wishing a farewell wasn't occurring but knowing it was. (Another side effect of the divorce was I had come to hate farewells.) As I walked home, I felt the dichotomy of warmth and sadness.
*****
I made a few calls to people who would worry if they didn't hear from me after a certain amount of time. I told them my intentions, but modified it by saying it was to be closer to my daughter; not mentioning I'd never see them again. Several more tasks took me to seven o'clock. I decided to take one last stroll through the little town I had called home for the last nine years, with perhaps a stop at a pub or two before retiring for the night. I walked the tree-lined street, past familiar shops which dotted Main Street. I went to the park in the center of town where all the roads began their directions: north, south, east, or west. As II watched the American flag gently ripple in the light breeze, I found it obligatory to search for reasons to stay. "Why start over when you're in such a condition? Why even bother taking care of yourself?" The second question answered the first. I turned and walked back to the street. It was Thursday evening; a perfect time for frequenting nightspots. With the weekend approaching, there would be more people out than on other weeknights--and I did want to see a few people--but there wouldn't be the crowds of a Friday or Saturday. As I opened the door to The Main Street Bar And Grill, I found the people I knew waiting for me. I spotted Annie and shook a finger at her.
"You didn't expect to get out of town without proper farewells?" she asked coyly.
"I did," I said into her ear as I hugged her, "but thank you."
Mike One (as I called him whenever the two Mikes were together) ordered a beer for me. Randy asked if I was hungry, and without waiting for an answer, shouted to the bartender to get me a burger or something. I realized how these people made me feel: real, Midwestern, uncomplicated and able to enjoy life in its most basic form. They were working class folk with utilitarian names that matched the lot life had cast for them. I could tell they weren't about to let me pay for anything for the duration of the evening, so when the bartender asked what I wanted to eat, I asked for a hamburger instead of the steak I'd longed to have one last time. We stood along the side bar which ran parallel to the main bar, with the walkway between the two. People who knew me but weren't part of the inner circle sensed there was some sort of occasion and would stop to chat with the assemblage on their way in or out, and any secret to my departure was gone. I didn't want to answer questions; I just wanted to appreciate this sendoff and enjoy the company of these people one last time. I talked with Mike One and Gary about sports. I discussed politics with Emily. I revisited the past as Jerry and I talked about music. And with Annie...I talked about everything real in the world to me. I told her I'd call after I got established--perhaps the lone contact I would keep, even though I knew I would eventually relegate her to memory. When it came time to leave I hugged them all, inwardly wishing a farewell wasn't occurring but knowing it was. (Another side effect of the divorce was I had come to hate farewells.) As I walked home, I felt the dichotomy of warmth and sadness.
*****
CHAPTER THREE
I left my Midwestern home several minutes before nine the following morning. One last stop as I handed the keys to my rented house to the owner, telling him to keep the security as I hadn't had time to properly clean the place. Another surprised face, but now I was on my way. I passed through the familiar series of small towns which connected the dots to the Indiana border. I began the ascension from larger state to larger state as I proceeded with my westward heading. I stopped for the night in Kearney, Nebraska. As I lay awake on the hotel bed, alone and heading for a pre-death exile, I further appreciated Annie's efforts in seeing I received my proper good-byes.
I evaluated the friendships I had left behind as I continued my drive the following morning. I knew only Annie would fall into the friends-for-life category. I had time on the straight ribbon of Nebraska highway, so I deciphered where the others would be placed on the landscape of my life. Those who were friends from my youth through my early twenties were untouchable--especially David, who had since taken on his African tribal name of Hakim Jami. He was the one who held me nape-of-the-neck style in front of a mirror, forcing me to see what I was becoming as a drug habit was about to ruin me. Had it not been for his intervention, Maggie would never had married me, and my daughter Jenny would never have come to be. Furthermore, he was the glue that bonded the four of us who hung together in those days. He was the one you could pull aside and ask the most embarrassing question, knowing you'd get the truth without ridicule. My friends in Ohio would not have the same lingering effect. I thought about the friends I had after college and before leaving Virginia for Ohio. After I was married, Maggie, Jenny, and I did most everything as a family. The other adults with whom we associated were friends of mutual convenience. We'd go to parks with them and their children when Jenny was young. Or there would be those we'd invite to a party, or attend one of theirs, whenever a social occasion was in order. My memories of them were vague. I went back to the Ohio friends. Although I knew they would rank in-between the aforementioned groups, I would miss them more than anyone, including my daughter, for the next several days at least. My contemplation had taken me into western Nebraska, and from there my thoughts ran wild. How can a mountain goat keep its footing on a steep incline? What was the name of that Romanian leader who was shot in the head? Chowchesku? I remember it was fun to say. Man, the foothills up ahead look cool. Damn, you're getting hungry, George. George...George...George. My name sounds stupid if you say it enough. George...George...George. I spotted a roadside cafe which ended my mind's extemporaneous exposition. I went inside. My meandering mind had neutralized monotonous miles of highway, as the waiter told me I was only seven miles from the Wyoming border. I wanted to at least make it into Idaho by nightfall, so I ate heartily to eliminate the need for a mid-afternoon meal. I ordered a farmers omelet with a side of breakfast sausage and mini flapjacks and downed two cups of coffee with the meal. I was good to go as I walked out the door.
As I entered Wyoming I couldn't help thinking about canvassing these roads some nine years ago. It was my random passage...my quest to reinvent myself after the divorce. I thought of the similarities between that voyage and this one. In the first, I was devastated and thought my life was over. Now, I find myself accepting the fate awaiting me.
*****
I evaluated the friendships I had left behind as I continued my drive the following morning. I knew only Annie would fall into the friends-for-life category. I had time on the straight ribbon of Nebraska highway, so I deciphered where the others would be placed on the landscape of my life. Those who were friends from my youth through my early twenties were untouchable--especially David, who had since taken on his African tribal name of Hakim Jami. He was the one who held me nape-of-the-neck style in front of a mirror, forcing me to see what I was becoming as a drug habit was about to ruin me. Had it not been for his intervention, Maggie would never had married me, and my daughter Jenny would never have come to be. Furthermore, he was the glue that bonded the four of us who hung together in those days. He was the one you could pull aside and ask the most embarrassing question, knowing you'd get the truth without ridicule. My friends in Ohio would not have the same lingering effect. I thought about the friends I had after college and before leaving Virginia for Ohio. After I was married, Maggie, Jenny, and I did most everything as a family. The other adults with whom we associated were friends of mutual convenience. We'd go to parks with them and their children when Jenny was young. Or there would be those we'd invite to a party, or attend one of theirs, whenever a social occasion was in order. My memories of them were vague. I went back to the Ohio friends. Although I knew they would rank in-between the aforementioned groups, I would miss them more than anyone, including my daughter, for the next several days at least. My contemplation had taken me into western Nebraska, and from there my thoughts ran wild. How can a mountain goat keep its footing on a steep incline? What was the name of that Romanian leader who was shot in the head? Chowchesku? I remember it was fun to say. Man, the foothills up ahead look cool. Damn, you're getting hungry, George. George...George...George. My name sounds stupid if you say it enough. George...George...George. I spotted a roadside cafe which ended my mind's extemporaneous exposition. I went inside. My meandering mind had neutralized monotonous miles of highway, as the waiter told me I was only seven miles from the Wyoming border. I wanted to at least make it into Idaho by nightfall, so I ate heartily to eliminate the need for a mid-afternoon meal. I ordered a farmers omelet with a side of breakfast sausage and mini flapjacks and downed two cups of coffee with the meal. I was good to go as I walked out the door.
As I entered Wyoming I couldn't help thinking about canvassing these roads some nine years ago. It was my random passage...my quest to reinvent myself after the divorce. I thought of the similarities between that voyage and this one. In the first, I was devastated and thought my life was over. Now, I find myself accepting the fate awaiting me.
*****
CHAPTER FOUR
I entered Idaho mid-morning Sunday, gauging the towns as I entered them, searching for nothing more than one with the right feel. I knew it wouldn't be a day for business, so I took my time and meandered on my westerly heading. Cabin searching would be a Monday task. The day was turning to dusk and colors softened into subtle hues as I entered Priest Lake. It was exactly what I was looking for, which was, paradoxically, a setting I hadn't envisioned. Sans the absence of a cabin, this would be the town. I took a hotel room and rung out the wear of the road.
I tend to evaluate my life on Sundays: consider options, ponder direction, review past decisions, and look at the overall quality of the life I'm living. I think about what I've accomplished: academically, financially, and socially. And on occasions where I hear stories of adventure or conquest, I measure them to mine. All of this I do to validate my existence--my post-Maggie existence, that is. Now with time dwindling, this Sunday's contemplation was more purposeful than it was introspective. My mind drifted through my body of work; yet, memories from long-gone days were faint enough where they seemed like vicarious experiences. Good memories were offset by negative ones, making them as tangible as sand running through my fingers. After several hours of thinking, gazing at the ascending treeline as I looked out the window of the hotel room, I tired myself and went to sleep.
I slept soundly for the first part of the night, and woke for a brief period around three. When I finally drifted off again, it was a restless sleep. It was a semi-conscious state; a quasi-altered state, filled with surreal images that morphed into a most bizarre dream. It was a dream one might have when amidst unfamiliar surroundings. It was a dream one could have if he knew he wouldn't have long to live. And with the two elements combined, it was a dream so vivid I recalled every nuance:
The setting seemed nuclear winter at first. People stood in queues and passed vendors as they slowly proceeded down a series of cement ramps which led them to their dwellings. I can best describe this as being a strange amalgamation of a college dorm and a parking ramp, as nothing of the like exists in the world in which I live. I found a set of stairs, offset from the ramps, that took me down the final three levels and to my abode: a log cabin which I couldn't say was dirty, but was open to uncleanliness as there was no front door, leaving the opportunity for whatever to run in and out as it pleased and crawl over one's face as they slept. The window facing the cabin next to me had draw-down shades which were mounted a third of the way from the top, leaving partial privacy. The bed was too soft, and although it didn't smell of animal I again looked toward where a door should have hung and wondered what nocturnal creature had called it it's home before my arrival.
I went outside onto a wooden walkway and ten or so paces to my right and sat on a wooden which was not painted nor stained, but the same weather-worn gray as the boarded path. As I sat and stared, my eyes followed the walkway past the graveled beach and down to the lake. I heard the sound of girls moving into the cabin that lay a mere thirty feet past mine, as they were bringing in bags of food and boxes filled with pots, pans, and other cooking supplies. I hadn't brought anything of the sort, and with the open-door-to-nature I pictured myself ascending the cement ramp through the quasi-parking structure and to one of the series of vendors for nearly every meal. After several trips to their car I could hear the girls settling in. Their place seemed cleaner, though I hadn't seen the inside; the perception from the fact they were girls and would probably decorate more than I, and that there were four of them. I was about to go for my first hot dog when one of them came and sat beside me. There was a familiarity to her...that of an old friend or former lover. She said her name was Sandy. I couldn't place the connection, but I knew it hadn't been long since we had hung out. I felt comfortable with her by my side, even though she was the type of girl I'd moved on from; the domesticated sort with only casual interest in what didn't apply to day-to-day life. We talked until my restlessness took me up the cement ramp and out to the rest of the new world. She was twenty percent less than perfect, which for most people would be ten percent more than acceptable but for me was fifteen percent from adequate, yet I looked forward to seeing her again. A growing part of me was willing to supplant a girl who could create art or music for one with a non-bourgeois utilitarianism. Someone who could do useful tasks and bring joy without brooding complication.
It's late, perhaps a little after midnight. I'm watching TV in my living room as I hear people on the sidewalk outside my cabin. Within a few seconds I see a long line of them heading along the side of my cabin where there is no walkway. There's a cataclysmic feel to the night; yet, the crowd is festive. I get up and stand in the would-be doorway. The people parading by are young, perhaps high school seniors, and I greet several of them as they pass and they respond cheerily. Confusion sets is as I look into the night sky and see the glowing orb of Planet Earth as one sees it from space, oceans deep and blue and as celestial as any of the other planets. The Americas are facing me as I wonder where I am and how I arrived at such a place. A sense of understanding comes that I can't change whatever the situation may be, so I relent on further contemplation and become one with the events of the nighttime. I join the line and follow it to the middle of town. A fire is burning where the basement of a municipal building once lay. Down the street running perpendicular to the one I'm on is a gathering of people standing along a waist high stone wall. They're looking down, observing a commotion in the square below. In what now is a medieval setting a man surrounded by other men in cloaks is being told not to threaten a woman, yet he only continues his rant that he's going to kill the whore. He's warned one final time, if he doesn't relent he'll have his tongue cut off. He repeats his threat anyway and a man with a broad-blade knife cuts off his face, striking from bottom to top. The man wails, unable to speak, and I feel his no-way-to-undo-this pain. Across the street a party is forming around the burned-out building. The young people are drinking cans of beer while laughing and storytelling. I've moved to the side of the street across from the festivities, standing alone at the base of a hill of bare topsoil and with a lone tree standing at the top. The girl from the cabin next to mine sees me and approaches. Now she not only looks familiar, but I know who she is and I love her. We talk, occasionally lulling to watch the youngsters, but with the passing minutes it's becoming more and more just her and me. A kiss is imminent and as we talk I can feel her lips upon mine before they touch. Within sight is a horse-drawn trailer sitting in front of a bar. There are only a handful of patrons and none look like they'll be coming out soon. The horses are at ease as we approach and we lay in the hay on the trailer. Being inside her takes me away from wherever this place is and the surroundings turn to color as I close my eyes and watch.
*****
I tend to evaluate my life on Sundays: consider options, ponder direction, review past decisions, and look at the overall quality of the life I'm living. I think about what I've accomplished: academically, financially, and socially. And on occasions where I hear stories of adventure or conquest, I measure them to mine. All of this I do to validate my existence--my post-Maggie existence, that is. Now with time dwindling, this Sunday's contemplation was more purposeful than it was introspective. My mind drifted through my body of work; yet, memories from long-gone days were faint enough where they seemed like vicarious experiences. Good memories were offset by negative ones, making them as tangible as sand running through my fingers. After several hours of thinking, gazing at the ascending treeline as I looked out the window of the hotel room, I tired myself and went to sleep.
I slept soundly for the first part of the night, and woke for a brief period around three. When I finally drifted off again, it was a restless sleep. It was a semi-conscious state; a quasi-altered state, filled with surreal images that morphed into a most bizarre dream. It was a dream one might have when amidst unfamiliar surroundings. It was a dream one could have if he knew he wouldn't have long to live. And with the two elements combined, it was a dream so vivid I recalled every nuance:
The setting seemed nuclear winter at first. People stood in queues and passed vendors as they slowly proceeded down a series of cement ramps which led them to their dwellings. I can best describe this as being a strange amalgamation of a college dorm and a parking ramp, as nothing of the like exists in the world in which I live. I found a set of stairs, offset from the ramps, that took me down the final three levels and to my abode: a log cabin which I couldn't say was dirty, but was open to uncleanliness as there was no front door, leaving the opportunity for whatever to run in and out as it pleased and crawl over one's face as they slept. The window facing the cabin next to me had draw-down shades which were mounted a third of the way from the top, leaving partial privacy. The bed was too soft, and although it didn't smell of animal I again looked toward where a door should have hung and wondered what nocturnal creature had called it it's home before my arrival.
I went outside onto a wooden walkway and ten or so paces to my right and sat on a wooden which was not painted nor stained, but the same weather-worn gray as the boarded path. As I sat and stared, my eyes followed the walkway past the graveled beach and down to the lake. I heard the sound of girls moving into the cabin that lay a mere thirty feet past mine, as they were bringing in bags of food and boxes filled with pots, pans, and other cooking supplies. I hadn't brought anything of the sort, and with the open-door-to-nature I pictured myself ascending the cement ramp through the quasi-parking structure and to one of the series of vendors for nearly every meal. After several trips to their car I could hear the girls settling in. Their place seemed cleaner, though I hadn't seen the inside; the perception from the fact they were girls and would probably decorate more than I, and that there were four of them. I was about to go for my first hot dog when one of them came and sat beside me. There was a familiarity to her...that of an old friend or former lover. She said her name was Sandy. I couldn't place the connection, but I knew it hadn't been long since we had hung out. I felt comfortable with her by my side, even though she was the type of girl I'd moved on from; the domesticated sort with only casual interest in what didn't apply to day-to-day life. We talked until my restlessness took me up the cement ramp and out to the rest of the new world. She was twenty percent less than perfect, which for most people would be ten percent more than acceptable but for me was fifteen percent from adequate, yet I looked forward to seeing her again. A growing part of me was willing to supplant a girl who could create art or music for one with a non-bourgeois utilitarianism. Someone who could do useful tasks and bring joy without brooding complication.
It's late, perhaps a little after midnight. I'm watching TV in my living room as I hear people on the sidewalk outside my cabin. Within a few seconds I see a long line of them heading along the side of my cabin where there is no walkway. There's a cataclysmic feel to the night; yet, the crowd is festive. I get up and stand in the would-be doorway. The people parading by are young, perhaps high school seniors, and I greet several of them as they pass and they respond cheerily. Confusion sets is as I look into the night sky and see the glowing orb of Planet Earth as one sees it from space, oceans deep and blue and as celestial as any of the other planets. The Americas are facing me as I wonder where I am and how I arrived at such a place. A sense of understanding comes that I can't change whatever the situation may be, so I relent on further contemplation and become one with the events of the nighttime. I join the line and follow it to the middle of town. A fire is burning where the basement of a municipal building once lay. Down the street running perpendicular to the one I'm on is a gathering of people standing along a waist high stone wall. They're looking down, observing a commotion in the square below. In what now is a medieval setting a man surrounded by other men in cloaks is being told not to threaten a woman, yet he only continues his rant that he's going to kill the whore. He's warned one final time, if he doesn't relent he'll have his tongue cut off. He repeats his threat anyway and a man with a broad-blade knife cuts off his face, striking from bottom to top. The man wails, unable to speak, and I feel his no-way-to-undo-this pain. Across the street a party is forming around the burned-out building. The young people are drinking cans of beer while laughing and storytelling. I've moved to the side of the street across from the festivities, standing alone at the base of a hill of bare topsoil and with a lone tree standing at the top. The girl from the cabin next to mine sees me and approaches. Now she not only looks familiar, but I know who she is and I love her. We talk, occasionally lulling to watch the youngsters, but with the passing minutes it's becoming more and more just her and me. A kiss is imminent and as we talk I can feel her lips upon mine before they touch. Within sight is a horse-drawn trailer sitting in front of a bar. There are only a handful of patrons and none look like they'll be coming out soon. The horses are at ease as we approach and we lay in the hay on the trailer. Being inside her takes me away from wherever this place is and the surroundings turn to color as I close my eyes and watch.
*****
CHAPTER FIVE
I woke tired, drained, and perplexed. I wanted to find the reason for such a dream. I dressed quickly and went onto the balcony for some cool morning air, breathing deeply as though the air itself would purify me. I began to ponder the dream's components, and once my mind relaxed the interpretation came quickly. The fact that the setting was strange was understandable, as I was in unfamiliar territory. The cataclysmic aspect stemmed from thoughts of dying, how it would come, and what it would feel like. Then came the phantom girl, Sandy. "Maggie, of course!" I said aloud, then looked to see if anyone was around to hear my odd vocalization of thought. There wasn't, but I went back into the room anyway. Maggie was becoming obscure to me in several ways. She was aging, and as infrequently as I saw her, the process was quite evident to me. The sound of her younger voice, the voice of my Maggie, had changed a little, too. Plus, the simple fact that she was becoming a different person who did things other than the ones we did as a couple. Sandy supplanted Maggie through her vagueness. The only component left to decipher was the glowing orb of Earth. I sat in a chair and worked though it, then, yes! It had something to do with afterlife--an otherworldly view which I would only see from the vantagepoint of death. The interpretation left me satisfied, but depressed. I gathered my belongings and checked out of the hotel.
I decided to pick up a newspaper, drive through town and look for a place to eat. I wanted to take my mind off the dream with a little conversation, but wondered what to say in a town of unknowns, without resorting to, "Brisk morning, isn't it?" or any of the traditional weather related initiators. However, I did realize I might pick up some knowledge of the area if I found the right person. I spotted a little restaurant, David's Diner, with a newspaper stand outside. I pulled into the parking lot along the side of the building. The place had round tables in the center of the dining area, flanked on each side by booths, and a fifties-style counter with eight stools which faced the kitchen. "It's seat yourself," a waitress said as she whisked past me. I headed for the counter. There was only one fellow there, a guy roughly my age, and I took a stool one space from him. The same waitress came up to me moments later, pad in hand and a bit out of breath, and I ordered what was now a late-morning BLT and a cup of coffee. I noticed she was wearing an off-yellow uniform dress; the kind waitresses wore when I was young, not the modern tee shirt or polo which bore the name of the franchise or establishment. The guy to my right was buried in a paper he'd been reading since I came in, and without altering his focus from whatever article, he said, "My name is Bob. You can call me Bob."
In my head, I twice replayed what I thought I'd heard before responding. If he was trying to be funny, it seemed he would have popped his head out of the paper to take in my reaction, but he hadn't, so I was left to conclude he was either an oddball, or someone with such an esoteric sense of humor that he was only amusing himself. "Hello, Rob," I replied with a fusion of humor and a stubbornness which wouldn't allow me to be duped or played.
"Bob," he said, not sternly as with one who corrects, and still not taking his eyes from the paper.
"Pardon me. Hello, Bob," I said in an equally even-keeled voice. "My name is George. George Mills. Do you live here or just passing through?"
"Listen, George George Mills, you have to drive fifty miles out of your way to be passing through here, so I'm not passing through and neither are you." Though he stayed in the paper, his tone was now fast and snappy.
"Bad day?" I asked.
"Actually, today is like the Tuesday of all Mondays, and in just nineteen more days there'll only be two hundred fifty-two days till Christmas."
I came to the quick conclusion that this man, with his head steadfast his his paper and his sharp voice and slight Bostonian accent, was definitely a wing-nut. Yet, before the cement of my opinion had dried, he put the paper down and turned to me. He looked normal enough, about my height and build, with black hair which grayed at the temples. He didn't have reading glasses with a string looping them around his neck, or a Einstein hair style, or anything else that would make him look out of the ordinary. His expression was relaxed and lacked the edginess of someone psychotic or socially dysfunctional. I realized he was reading my evaluation of him, so I focused and asked, "So this is the place to come for a good meal?"
Stupid question. I had resorted to the type of comment I vowed not to use. "You realize you're asking someone who's actually sitting here, don't you?" he quipped.
The waitress came with my BLT and coffee. I thanked her, then said to Bob, "Yes, but you could go somewhere else, too."
"Lift the bread off your sandwich," he told me. I did. "Look at the bacon. No grease," he said. I put the bread back atop the BLT and picked it up for a bite. "No grease," he repeated, then buried his head back in the sand of his newspaper.
I finished my meal without further discussion. When I left the restaurant, not only did I realize I was no longer thinking about the dream, but I found myself ready for the business of the day. I had circled three phone numbers for cabins to check out. The first one I visited was quite like what I had imagined; so close, in fact, that I felt no need to look at the other two. I looked out the window at the pine forest. The view I had brought the essence of my surroundings into the cabin and profoundly told me I was not in Ohio anymore--exactly what I wanted. The owner showed me the interior, then took me for a walk down a pine needle covered trail which led to a quick-running brook at the edge of the property line. I was sold. He wanted a background check, but I wanted to get into the place immediately, and we reached an agreement when I said I'd give him six month's rent up front.
By the middle of the evening I had everything out of my vehicle and pretty much placed where it was going to be, with the exception of the trunk, which I left off to the side. I checked the furniture. The couch and chair were comfortable, the mattress on the bed was firm and clean, and the kitchen table was adequate for my needs. The process of finding the place, talking the owner into allowing immediate occupancy, and moving and organizing had been tedious. I went out for a brief sniff of the forest air, then retreated, tired, but satisfied. "George George Mills." I expressed aloud."Today was the Tuesday of all Mondays."
*****
I decided to pick up a newspaper, drive through town and look for a place to eat. I wanted to take my mind off the dream with a little conversation, but wondered what to say in a town of unknowns, without resorting to, "Brisk morning, isn't it?" or any of the traditional weather related initiators. However, I did realize I might pick up some knowledge of the area if I found the right person. I spotted a little restaurant, David's Diner, with a newspaper stand outside. I pulled into the parking lot along the side of the building. The place had round tables in the center of the dining area, flanked on each side by booths, and a fifties-style counter with eight stools which faced the kitchen. "It's seat yourself," a waitress said as she whisked past me. I headed for the counter. There was only one fellow there, a guy roughly my age, and I took a stool one space from him. The same waitress came up to me moments later, pad in hand and a bit out of breath, and I ordered what was now a late-morning BLT and a cup of coffee. I noticed she was wearing an off-yellow uniform dress; the kind waitresses wore when I was young, not the modern tee shirt or polo which bore the name of the franchise or establishment. The guy to my right was buried in a paper he'd been reading since I came in, and without altering his focus from whatever article, he said, "My name is Bob. You can call me Bob."
In my head, I twice replayed what I thought I'd heard before responding. If he was trying to be funny, it seemed he would have popped his head out of the paper to take in my reaction, but he hadn't, so I was left to conclude he was either an oddball, or someone with such an esoteric sense of humor that he was only amusing himself. "Hello, Rob," I replied with a fusion of humor and a stubbornness which wouldn't allow me to be duped or played.
"Bob," he said, not sternly as with one who corrects, and still not taking his eyes from the paper.
"Pardon me. Hello, Bob," I said in an equally even-keeled voice. "My name is George. George Mills. Do you live here or just passing through?"
"Listen, George George Mills, you have to drive fifty miles out of your way to be passing through here, so I'm not passing through and neither are you." Though he stayed in the paper, his tone was now fast and snappy.
"Bad day?" I asked.
"Actually, today is like the Tuesday of all Mondays, and in just nineteen more days there'll only be two hundred fifty-two days till Christmas."
I came to the quick conclusion that this man, with his head steadfast his his paper and his sharp voice and slight Bostonian accent, was definitely a wing-nut. Yet, before the cement of my opinion had dried, he put the paper down and turned to me. He looked normal enough, about my height and build, with black hair which grayed at the temples. He didn't have reading glasses with a string looping them around his neck, or a Einstein hair style, or anything else that would make him look out of the ordinary. His expression was relaxed and lacked the edginess of someone psychotic or socially dysfunctional. I realized he was reading my evaluation of him, so I focused and asked, "So this is the place to come for a good meal?"
Stupid question. I had resorted to the type of comment I vowed not to use. "You realize you're asking someone who's actually sitting here, don't you?" he quipped.
The waitress came with my BLT and coffee. I thanked her, then said to Bob, "Yes, but you could go somewhere else, too."
"Lift the bread off your sandwich," he told me. I did. "Look at the bacon. No grease," he said. I put the bread back atop the BLT and picked it up for a bite. "No grease," he repeated, then buried his head back in the sand of his newspaper.
I finished my meal without further discussion. When I left the restaurant, not only did I realize I was no longer thinking about the dream, but I found myself ready for the business of the day. I had circled three phone numbers for cabins to check out. The first one I visited was quite like what I had imagined; so close, in fact, that I felt no need to look at the other two. I looked out the window at the pine forest. The view I had brought the essence of my surroundings into the cabin and profoundly told me I was not in Ohio anymore--exactly what I wanted. The owner showed me the interior, then took me for a walk down a pine needle covered trail which led to a quick-running brook at the edge of the property line. I was sold. He wanted a background check, but I wanted to get into the place immediately, and we reached an agreement when I said I'd give him six month's rent up front.
By the middle of the evening I had everything out of my vehicle and pretty much placed where it was going to be, with the exception of the trunk, which I left off to the side. I checked the furniture. The couch and chair were comfortable, the mattress on the bed was firm and clean, and the kitchen table was adequate for my needs. The process of finding the place, talking the owner into allowing immediate occupancy, and moving and organizing had been tedious. I went out for a brief sniff of the forest air, then retreated, tired, but satisfied. "George George Mills." I expressed aloud."Today was the Tuesday of all Mondays."
*****
CHAPTER SIX
I didn't leave the cabin for the next three days. Each morning I would go outside, lean on the deck railing which spanned the length of the cabin, and get acquainted with the land, the smells, and the immensity of the setting. This was enough until Friday; the first day where the view wasn't enough to pacify me. Something was missing--something the glory of the great outdoors wasn't providing. I began to get a bit restless and realized I needed a slice of social interaction. I tried to recall the place where I had eaten, shortly before I found this place. I knew it was something Diner: Don's Diner? Debbie's Diner? Hell, it didn't matter; it was a small downtown and I'd find it immediately. I thought back to the Ohio people. Though they were friends of convenience--that is, friends who were friends simply because they were there, not because of vast expanses of common interests--they still occupied my time and engaged my mind. I brewed some coffee and made toast for a kick start, then took my coffee with me down the needle covered forest floor path to the stream, found an old stump to sit on, and my contemplation turned to a mindless following of water making its way downstream as I waited for eleven o'clock to approach.
I looked at the sign out of curiosity rather than need: David's Diner. I waled in, hoping not to see the quirky Bostonian; yet there he was in the same spot. I thought about taking a table or booth, but recalled how Jenny, during her pre-college stint as a waitress, would yell at me for taking up all that space for one person. A smile came to me as I thought of my feisty-yet-sweet daughter. I looked back at the counter. This time there was a woman sitting there, too, which perhaps would taper his uniqueness. However, she was sitting at the end, to I took my same spot, one stool away from Bob.
There were two mustard-yellow uniformed waitresses this time, both clearing off and wiping down tables. Bob had been working on a bowl of soup when he turned and said, "Good morning Mr. Mills," sounding more normal than last time.
"Morning, Bob," I replied, then looked at the woman sitting next to him.
He tapped her shoulder with the back of his hand."Holli, this is George George Mills."
Well, normal lasted a good five seconds, at least. The woman turned and extended her left hand behind Bob, and I spun the stool to meet it. "So you're George," she stated, and Bob interjected, "I had asked her if she had seen the newcomer named George but looked like his name should be Steve."
In less than a minute Bob had not only sidestepped normalcy, but had gone into his bunker of subterranean existential humor. Holli must have read my expression as she said, "You'll have to get used to Bob being Bob." She turned to him and added, "He really is an all right guy."
"I'm exceptional," he corrected.
I didn't know if that was what he actually thought of himself or if he was still being quirky, but for the first time in my life I realized I could be annoyed and entertained simultaneously. Holli seemed cool, so I decided to take this Bob guy for what he was and give him a chance. "Where are 'you' from, George?" she asked.
"Virginia via Ohio," I told her. I noted her emphasis on the word 'you' and asked her about it.
"There are four of us who meet here most every day," she began, "and none of us are from Idaho. Bob here is from the suburbs of Boston, Sam and Trish, whom you'll meet if you stick around long enough, are from Iowa, and I hail from New Mexico. Being outsiders in a community of people who embrace their own, we end up moving to a table once everyone arrives. This time of day seems to suit everyone's schedule and you're welcome to join us."
"I just might do that from time to time, thank you."
"A suburb," Bob said.
"Huh?" I asked. I don't know why.
"Holli said I come from the suburbs of Boston. I just came from one, not the implied all of them."
I think he said he was from Brookline, but by that time a waitress had come for my order, and I tuned Bob out as I ordered an omelet. Holli tapped me and pointed to an arriving couple who I assumed had to be Sam and Trish, then pointed and mouthed "Table." I mentioned this to the waitress and she replied, "I'll find ya, darlin'." The couple came up to the other two, Bob jumped at another opportunity to introduce me as George George Mills, and we all moved to one of the freshly bussed tables in the center of the dining area.
After we were seated, the curiosity was about the new guy, so I gave them the much rehearsed thirty second version of my life story, which I rattled off with the rapidity of a school child reciting a passage of words learned but not contemplated. I've come to learn impulsive decisions or capricious actions often lead us to where we are more than education or planned life directions, and this theory held true with the people I was meeting. We had all come to this town as a result of something unscripted. At least all but Bob admitted to this, and I assumed it applied to him more than any of us.
We finished our introductions. "Welcome to No Man's Land," Sam said.
*****
I looked at the sign out of curiosity rather than need: David's Diner. I waled in, hoping not to see the quirky Bostonian; yet there he was in the same spot. I thought about taking a table or booth, but recalled how Jenny, during her pre-college stint as a waitress, would yell at me for taking up all that space for one person. A smile came to me as I thought of my feisty-yet-sweet daughter. I looked back at the counter. This time there was a woman sitting there, too, which perhaps would taper his uniqueness. However, she was sitting at the end, to I took my same spot, one stool away from Bob.
There were two mustard-yellow uniformed waitresses this time, both clearing off and wiping down tables. Bob had been working on a bowl of soup when he turned and said, "Good morning Mr. Mills," sounding more normal than last time.
"Morning, Bob," I replied, then looked at the woman sitting next to him.
He tapped her shoulder with the back of his hand."Holli, this is George George Mills."
Well, normal lasted a good five seconds, at least. The woman turned and extended her left hand behind Bob, and I spun the stool to meet it. "So you're George," she stated, and Bob interjected, "I had asked her if she had seen the newcomer named George but looked like his name should be Steve."
In less than a minute Bob had not only sidestepped normalcy, but had gone into his bunker of subterranean existential humor. Holli must have read my expression as she said, "You'll have to get used to Bob being Bob." She turned to him and added, "He really is an all right guy."
"I'm exceptional," he corrected.
I didn't know if that was what he actually thought of himself or if he was still being quirky, but for the first time in my life I realized I could be annoyed and entertained simultaneously. Holli seemed cool, so I decided to take this Bob guy for what he was and give him a chance. "Where are 'you' from, George?" she asked.
"Virginia via Ohio," I told her. I noted her emphasis on the word 'you' and asked her about it.
"There are four of us who meet here most every day," she began, "and none of us are from Idaho. Bob here is from the suburbs of Boston, Sam and Trish, whom you'll meet if you stick around long enough, are from Iowa, and I hail from New Mexico. Being outsiders in a community of people who embrace their own, we end up moving to a table once everyone arrives. This time of day seems to suit everyone's schedule and you're welcome to join us."
"I just might do that from time to time, thank you."
"A suburb," Bob said.
"Huh?" I asked. I don't know why.
"Holli said I come from the suburbs of Boston. I just came from one, not the implied all of them."
I think he said he was from Brookline, but by that time a waitress had come for my order, and I tuned Bob out as I ordered an omelet. Holli tapped me and pointed to an arriving couple who I assumed had to be Sam and Trish, then pointed and mouthed "Table." I mentioned this to the waitress and she replied, "I'll find ya, darlin'." The couple came up to the other two, Bob jumped at another opportunity to introduce me as George George Mills, and we all moved to one of the freshly bussed tables in the center of the dining area.
After we were seated, the curiosity was about the new guy, so I gave them the much rehearsed thirty second version of my life story, which I rattled off with the rapidity of a school child reciting a passage of words learned but not contemplated. I've come to learn impulsive decisions or capricious actions often lead us to where we are more than education or planned life directions, and this theory held true with the people I was meeting. We had all come to this town as a result of something unscripted. At least all but Bob admitted to this, and I assumed it applied to him more than any of us.
We finished our introductions. "Welcome to No Man's Land," Sam said.
*****
CHAPTER SEVEN
Several weeks passed and I was settling into a comfortable routine. I really liked the cabin and the seclusion it provided. But, seclusion isn't everything, and I became an eleven o'clock regular at the table of five at David's Diner. We were roughly the same age, and our lives seemed to parallel each others' in many ways. The conversation ranged from philosophical to nonsensical and everything in-between. Between the comfort of the cabin, exploring the area, and this new group of friends, I was giving my brain a break from the muse of impending death. But that thought couldn't escape my mind completely, and after another several weeks, I decided these people would be the first to learn of what awaited me. In a way I felt it was unfair to Jenny and Maggie that folks I had just met would learn of my condition before they did, but I needed a practice run--a test to see how I would handle other people's reaction. Besides, I did like them, and it wouldn't be fair to have a day come where I would never again show up at eleven, leaving them to perhaps think I was a crass, self-centered individual who skipped town and didn't find it necessary to say goodbye.
I came in late on the day I'd break the news so everyone would be there. I didn't want to sit around, joking and making the usual small talk while waiting for the table to be full, then blurt out, "Oh, by the way, I'll be dead soon." Pam (I had come to know the mustard-garbed waitresses by name) came to the table and cocked her head; her way of asking "The usual for everyone?" to which we usually complied. It was a wordless way of ordering that can only be achieved with familiar patrons in a small restaurant, and an act which made me feel even more at home.
"Just a coffee for me today," I said, and when one of the others jested that I must be under the weather it provided a perfect segue for what I had to say--that was until Sam asked if I was still going fishing with them on Sunday, which forced me to focus on staying on topic. "No..." I slowly began. "I have a meeting with my landlord that day."
"He must be kicking you out," Bob said, straight-faced.
"No, but I do have some arrangements to make with him," I said, and as soon as I said it, I thought it might not be a bad idea to clue him in, too. Then I wondered if he wouldn't want someone staying in his cabin as he was about to die. I felt like I was getting sidetracked again until Holli saved me.
"You're not leaving us now, are you?"
Another bridge. I smiled a bit as I thought Holli could have a job with the Corps of Engineers. I felt the urge to stay on the safe side of the river, but blurted out, "Yes," to assure I wouldn't let this chance pass. Everyone stopped and looked. even Bob. I paused for a moment, sighed, then told myself to let the trial run rip. "Well, not right away, and you're the first people I've told this to so bear with me if I stumble through this, but I don't have too much longer to live." Sam smiled as though waiting for a punch line, then relented when I didn't deliver. I noticed Trish leaning back a bit, slightly turning her head, then folding her hands in what she thought was an inconspicuous manner over her nose. I knew she wondered if I had something contagious. I kept going. "Roughly four months ago I was diagnosed with an inoperable heart condition. The doctor said I could live as many as three years, but said more likely it would be one. Trish removed the pseudo mask from her face, Sam stared with a saddened, furrowed brow, I felt the hand of Holli, who was sitting to my right. Bob unemotionally looked at his cup and took a sip of coffee, and for that I gave him a verbal shot. "Before long George George will be dead dead." I felt the hand of Holli put a squeeze on my arm.
I left the diner feeling relieved. I had finally told someone! I knew harder disclosures were to come. I would go to Oregon and tell my darling Jenny in person. I reflected upon how my dad had told Maggie and I the same news; how he told me I always had to be strong, for Jenny's sake--no matter what happened in life. And I would have to tell Maggie, too. After the experience I'd just had, I felt I was ready.
*****
I came in late on the day I'd break the news so everyone would be there. I didn't want to sit around, joking and making the usual small talk while waiting for the table to be full, then blurt out, "Oh, by the way, I'll be dead soon." Pam (I had come to know the mustard-garbed waitresses by name) came to the table and cocked her head; her way of asking "The usual for everyone?" to which we usually complied. It was a wordless way of ordering that can only be achieved with familiar patrons in a small restaurant, and an act which made me feel even more at home.
"Just a coffee for me today," I said, and when one of the others jested that I must be under the weather it provided a perfect segue for what I had to say--that was until Sam asked if I was still going fishing with them on Sunday, which forced me to focus on staying on topic. "No..." I slowly began. "I have a meeting with my landlord that day."
"He must be kicking you out," Bob said, straight-faced.
"No, but I do have some arrangements to make with him," I said, and as soon as I said it, I thought it might not be a bad idea to clue him in, too. Then I wondered if he wouldn't want someone staying in his cabin as he was about to die. I felt like I was getting sidetracked again until Holli saved me.
"You're not leaving us now, are you?"
Another bridge. I smiled a bit as I thought Holli could have a job with the Corps of Engineers. I felt the urge to stay on the safe side of the river, but blurted out, "Yes," to assure I wouldn't let this chance pass. Everyone stopped and looked. even Bob. I paused for a moment, sighed, then told myself to let the trial run rip. "Well, not right away, and you're the first people I've told this to so bear with me if I stumble through this, but I don't have too much longer to live." Sam smiled as though waiting for a punch line, then relented when I didn't deliver. I noticed Trish leaning back a bit, slightly turning her head, then folding her hands in what she thought was an inconspicuous manner over her nose. I knew she wondered if I had something contagious. I kept going. "Roughly four months ago I was diagnosed with an inoperable heart condition. The doctor said I could live as many as three years, but said more likely it would be one. Trish removed the pseudo mask from her face, Sam stared with a saddened, furrowed brow, I felt the hand of Holli, who was sitting to my right. Bob unemotionally looked at his cup and took a sip of coffee, and for that I gave him a verbal shot. "Before long George George will be dead dead." I felt the hand of Holli put a squeeze on my arm.
I left the diner feeling relieved. I had finally told someone! I knew harder disclosures were to come. I would go to Oregon and tell my darling Jenny in person. I reflected upon how my dad had told Maggie and I the same news; how he told me I always had to be strong, for Jenny's sake--no matter what happened in life. And I would have to tell Maggie, too. After the experience I'd just had, I felt I was ready.
*****
CHAPTER EIGHT
I decided I would drive to Oregon. Nine years earlier when I was on my random passage, I learned the therapeutic properties the road possesses. By driving, I could assimilate thoughts, dissect and sharpen them, and hopefully be prepared for the most difficult task of my life. Since the divorce, I would talk to Jenny twice every week; whether it was before I left Virginia, while I was in Ohio, or since I came to Idaho. Our conversations are usually upbeat, and after my diagnosis I made sure I was in good spirits before I would call her. In a way I wish I would have had a couple of calls which would have given her concern--something to condition her for what she was about to hear. After the divorce, Jenny had become my peer in many ways, but in times of weakness she was always my child. I thought again about my dad, and how he broke the news with Maggie and me sitting on the couch; Mom leaving him alone and doing chores in the background. Dad liked Maggie from the first time I brought her to the house when we were eleven. I didn't feel the same about Jenny's husband. He treated her well enough and had a decent job, though. I guess it came down to the fact that I accepted him as a good husband for my daughter, but there was something indiscernible in his relationship with me I didn't care for. It was like he was Jenny's family, but not my family, and it was that intangible which made me decide I'd break the news to Jenny without him around.
I made good time and got to Medford in the evening before the morning I was scheduled to arrive. I called her from the road and said it looked like I was about twenty minutes away from where she lived, and she gave me directions which took me off the highway and to an easy-to-find grocery store where I would meet her. I came alive at the imminence of seeing my little girl; yet I followed her directions carefully so not to miss a turn, as there were only three of them and I'd look quite inept if I screwed up.
I spotted her standing outside her car as I entered the parking lot. She waved when she saw me, but it was a casual wave--a rather nonchalant wave, as if I'd just seen her the day before. I parked and went to her.
"How are you, Daddy?" she asked. I felt my initial impression slip away as she addressed me as she often did, even as an adult.
"I'm doing well, darling. How are you? You look good."
She smiled. "Okay, get in your car, old man, and follow me." My little girl still had her feisty side.
We went zig-zagging for fifteen blocks or so before we came to her house; a yellow one story house with shrubs in front of the porch, in the middle of a block of one story houses of similar design. We went inside. It was quaint and had a homey feel, and I was proud I had raised a daughter who came to own such a place. We entered the living room and her husband, Troy, was sitting in a recliner watching television. He reached up a hand and said hi. I noticed Jenny shoot him a look, and he got up, shook my hand and asked how I was. He went back to his chair, while Jenny took me for a tour of the house. She showed me the bedroom where I'd be staying, and after the tour I went to my car, grabbed my luggage and took it to the room.
After we settled in, we sat in the living room and caught up on things. Troy was polite but didn't have much to say, and after an hour he told us he was heading to bed. I was a little road weary myself, but I liked the opportunity to have some time alone with Jenny. However, as I began to tell her about the cabin and my new town and friends, I found her to be uncharacteristically aloof. I went on talking, but it became increasingly noticeable as the night progressed. Her answers became shorter and her responses to my tales were muted. Finally I asked her if everything was all right.
"Everything's fine, Dad," she said. "It's just that you said you'd be here tomorrow morning, not this evening."
My throat tightened. It was the first time it appeared that she didn't want me around. There were times when she was a teenager, of course. But in her adult life, she had always been happy if not ecstatic to see me. I knew I couldn't pout, so I asked, "Is it a problem that I'm here early?"
"It's not a problem, Dad. It's just that we were supposed to have a few people from work over tonight."
"I wish you would have told me. I could have taken a room," I told her.
"It was going to be the first time we hosted anything since we bought the house, that's all." She stood and kissed me on the cheek. "Okay, dad, I'm going to bed. There's food in the refrigerator if you're hungry," she said, and she went upstairs.
I scavenged through their refrigerator, though I wasn't hungry. As I sat at the kitchen table with a slice of cheesecake, I wondered why Jenny would go to bed so early while I was here--especially seeing she would've been up late had they had their party. I finished the snack, rinsed the plate and put it in the sink, and went to bed, feeling like a stranger in my daughter's home.
I woke to bright sunlight in my eyes; unrestrained by the curtains of the spare bedroom. I sat on the side of the bed, stretched, dressed, and went downstairs, hoping the new day would usher a new mood. It didn't. Jenny was cool to me in a way she had never been before. "Sorry again about last night, Jen," I offered.
"It's over now and there's nothing we can do about it," she told me. "What do you want for breakfast?"
I wanted to say I wasn't hungry, but again, I didn't want it to appear that I was pouting. I told her whatever she was making for herself would be fine with me. After we ate, I actually hope she would tell me she had something to do and would be gone for a while. I wanted to be alone myself, now; perhaps go for a walk. I needed to evaluate things and collect my thoughts which were now scattered all over the floor. I knew Jenny loved me, and I didn't want to tell her what I had come here to tell her when she was mad at me. She would never forgive herself for the way she was acting, especially after I was gone. I needed to be tactical and maneuver her into a better place before I told her. We needed to have a few laughs first. I told her I wanted to take a walk with her sometime in the afternoon. She told me she'd check and see when Troy was available, and I had to work to explain that I didn't dislike Troy when I said I wanted it to be just her and me. I had pacified her to an extent, and she said around one would be a good time, but left me at the table and said she was going to take a shower.
I didn't at all like the way this was going. Any words I had thought to use during the drive here had evaporated. I had no idea why Jenny was still sore at my early arrival. The self-pity I was hiding from my daughter was beginning to consume me, and I hoped my death would come as soon as I got back to Idaho. I thought back to when she was a toddler; a time when I never would have imagined my little Jenny not having time for her dad. I felt disregarded, and if it were anyone but her I would have been angry. Now I was just hurting.
Then it hit me. This would be the final time I would see my daughter! It floored me that I hadn't looked at it in that light before. I gathered myself. I knew she loved me, and the sum of our shared experiences immeasurably outweighed the discomfort of the past twelve hours. I had to do my last fatherly act before springing the news. I had to guard my child from feeling guilty in any way, which meant I had to lighten her mood before I told her. There had to be once more scene before the climax of the play: the one which would make everything all right.
When she came downstairs I told her I wanted to take our walk early. I asked if she was ready now and she nodded in a why-not fashion I was so accustomed to. We were about to stroll down the thoroughfare of our lives; a walk so memorable it would purge all transgressions of my visit, and form her final memories with her dad so they would be nothing but warm.
We started down the block and through various neighborhoods. We set a pace as leisurely as the tone I was setting. I began with when she was a little girl and used a 'remember when' manner to get old memories flowing. It didn't take long for a smile to come to her, and in a few short blocks we were laughing and sharing memories. She said she was sorry about the cold shoulder and that the party really wasn't a big deal, but I shrugged it off and stayed on the memory path. Not all we talked about was pleasant, as we did revisit how we both felt after her mother and I divorced. We talked about our ride home from Denver shortly after Maggie and I split ways, and how we still managed to find things to laugh about during that period. We came to a park. I knew the time had come.
I led her to a tall tree and we sat beneath it. I took her hand. "Jenny," I cleared my throat. "Jen...you are my pride and joy! And you're also quite the young woman now. You're strong--you always have been--." I looked into her curious eyes--those eyes that had always been curious--and it killed me to continue. "I need you to be strong for me, now." I felt her grip tighten. "Honey...I have and inoperable..."
She slapped my face. "Daddy! No!"
My eyes were welling up. I was not my dad. I was not stoic in this situation. I was me. I let myself cry but continued to talk. "An inoperable heart condition, honey. I most likely only have a few more months to live." She buried herself in my chest, and the daughter who had become a woman once more became a child. We stayed in that position for the longest time. Then I pushed her chin up with my finger, the way I would do when she was a child, and I smiled softly. "You'll be all right, Jenny. I promise you that."
The shadows from the sun painted our path with color as we slowly walked back to the house. We held hands all the way back, except for the times I pulled her into a shoulder hug. Jenny would be strong enough to handle this when the time came. I knew that. Shortly after we got back to the house, Troy came downstairs and told me Jenny had told him. He said he understood that neither of us knew each other very well, and that he thought he should stay with his brother and leave Jenny and I to our memories for the rest of the weekend. It was a side of him I hadn't seen before, and I felt good knowing my girl was married to someone considerate. I told him to take care of Jenny. This time he looked me in the eye and promised he would, and for a moment I thought I sensed him getting a little choked.
Jenny came downstairs shortly after he left, and we treasured the rest of the weekend. I told Jenny she was getting to look like her mother more and more each day. We talked about her plans for the future. I told her more about the cabin in the woods of Idaho, and this time she listened intently. I promised I would call her every day from now on. She had a neighbor stop by to take pictures of us together. And when Sunday came and it was time to leave, I couldn't call any look my last one. I would look at her, form the mental picture, go to leave, then turn to look at her, again, one last time. Finally we both began to laugh and the laugh turned into a cry.
*****
I made good time and got to Medford in the evening before the morning I was scheduled to arrive. I called her from the road and said it looked like I was about twenty minutes away from where she lived, and she gave me directions which took me off the highway and to an easy-to-find grocery store where I would meet her. I came alive at the imminence of seeing my little girl; yet I followed her directions carefully so not to miss a turn, as there were only three of them and I'd look quite inept if I screwed up.
I spotted her standing outside her car as I entered the parking lot. She waved when she saw me, but it was a casual wave--a rather nonchalant wave, as if I'd just seen her the day before. I parked and went to her.
"How are you, Daddy?" she asked. I felt my initial impression slip away as she addressed me as she often did, even as an adult.
"I'm doing well, darling. How are you? You look good."
She smiled. "Okay, get in your car, old man, and follow me." My little girl still had her feisty side.
We went zig-zagging for fifteen blocks or so before we came to her house; a yellow one story house with shrubs in front of the porch, in the middle of a block of one story houses of similar design. We went inside. It was quaint and had a homey feel, and I was proud I had raised a daughter who came to own such a place. We entered the living room and her husband, Troy, was sitting in a recliner watching television. He reached up a hand and said hi. I noticed Jenny shoot him a look, and he got up, shook my hand and asked how I was. He went back to his chair, while Jenny took me for a tour of the house. She showed me the bedroom where I'd be staying, and after the tour I went to my car, grabbed my luggage and took it to the room.
After we settled in, we sat in the living room and caught up on things. Troy was polite but didn't have much to say, and after an hour he told us he was heading to bed. I was a little road weary myself, but I liked the opportunity to have some time alone with Jenny. However, as I began to tell her about the cabin and my new town and friends, I found her to be uncharacteristically aloof. I went on talking, but it became increasingly noticeable as the night progressed. Her answers became shorter and her responses to my tales were muted. Finally I asked her if everything was all right.
"Everything's fine, Dad," she said. "It's just that you said you'd be here tomorrow morning, not this evening."
My throat tightened. It was the first time it appeared that she didn't want me around. There were times when she was a teenager, of course. But in her adult life, she had always been happy if not ecstatic to see me. I knew I couldn't pout, so I asked, "Is it a problem that I'm here early?"
"It's not a problem, Dad. It's just that we were supposed to have a few people from work over tonight."
"I wish you would have told me. I could have taken a room," I told her.
"It was going to be the first time we hosted anything since we bought the house, that's all." She stood and kissed me on the cheek. "Okay, dad, I'm going to bed. There's food in the refrigerator if you're hungry," she said, and she went upstairs.
I scavenged through their refrigerator, though I wasn't hungry. As I sat at the kitchen table with a slice of cheesecake, I wondered why Jenny would go to bed so early while I was here--especially seeing she would've been up late had they had their party. I finished the snack, rinsed the plate and put it in the sink, and went to bed, feeling like a stranger in my daughter's home.
I woke to bright sunlight in my eyes; unrestrained by the curtains of the spare bedroom. I sat on the side of the bed, stretched, dressed, and went downstairs, hoping the new day would usher a new mood. It didn't. Jenny was cool to me in a way she had never been before. "Sorry again about last night, Jen," I offered.
"It's over now and there's nothing we can do about it," she told me. "What do you want for breakfast?"
I wanted to say I wasn't hungry, but again, I didn't want it to appear that I was pouting. I told her whatever she was making for herself would be fine with me. After we ate, I actually hope she would tell me she had something to do and would be gone for a while. I wanted to be alone myself, now; perhaps go for a walk. I needed to evaluate things and collect my thoughts which were now scattered all over the floor. I knew Jenny loved me, and I didn't want to tell her what I had come here to tell her when she was mad at me. She would never forgive herself for the way she was acting, especially after I was gone. I needed to be tactical and maneuver her into a better place before I told her. We needed to have a few laughs first. I told her I wanted to take a walk with her sometime in the afternoon. She told me she'd check and see when Troy was available, and I had to work to explain that I didn't dislike Troy when I said I wanted it to be just her and me. I had pacified her to an extent, and she said around one would be a good time, but left me at the table and said she was going to take a shower.
I didn't at all like the way this was going. Any words I had thought to use during the drive here had evaporated. I had no idea why Jenny was still sore at my early arrival. The self-pity I was hiding from my daughter was beginning to consume me, and I hoped my death would come as soon as I got back to Idaho. I thought back to when she was a toddler; a time when I never would have imagined my little Jenny not having time for her dad. I felt disregarded, and if it were anyone but her I would have been angry. Now I was just hurting.
Then it hit me. This would be the final time I would see my daughter! It floored me that I hadn't looked at it in that light before. I gathered myself. I knew she loved me, and the sum of our shared experiences immeasurably outweighed the discomfort of the past twelve hours. I had to do my last fatherly act before springing the news. I had to guard my child from feeling guilty in any way, which meant I had to lighten her mood before I told her. There had to be once more scene before the climax of the play: the one which would make everything all right.
When she came downstairs I told her I wanted to take our walk early. I asked if she was ready now and she nodded in a why-not fashion I was so accustomed to. We were about to stroll down the thoroughfare of our lives; a walk so memorable it would purge all transgressions of my visit, and form her final memories with her dad so they would be nothing but warm.
We started down the block and through various neighborhoods. We set a pace as leisurely as the tone I was setting. I began with when she was a little girl and used a 'remember when' manner to get old memories flowing. It didn't take long for a smile to come to her, and in a few short blocks we were laughing and sharing memories. She said she was sorry about the cold shoulder and that the party really wasn't a big deal, but I shrugged it off and stayed on the memory path. Not all we talked about was pleasant, as we did revisit how we both felt after her mother and I divorced. We talked about our ride home from Denver shortly after Maggie and I split ways, and how we still managed to find things to laugh about during that period. We came to a park. I knew the time had come.
I led her to a tall tree and we sat beneath it. I took her hand. "Jenny," I cleared my throat. "Jen...you are my pride and joy! And you're also quite the young woman now. You're strong--you always have been--." I looked into her curious eyes--those eyes that had always been curious--and it killed me to continue. "I need you to be strong for me, now." I felt her grip tighten. "Honey...I have and inoperable..."
She slapped my face. "Daddy! No!"
My eyes were welling up. I was not my dad. I was not stoic in this situation. I was me. I let myself cry but continued to talk. "An inoperable heart condition, honey. I most likely only have a few more months to live." She buried herself in my chest, and the daughter who had become a woman once more became a child. We stayed in that position for the longest time. Then I pushed her chin up with my finger, the way I would do when she was a child, and I smiled softly. "You'll be all right, Jenny. I promise you that."
The shadows from the sun painted our path with color as we slowly walked back to the house. We held hands all the way back, except for the times I pulled her into a shoulder hug. Jenny would be strong enough to handle this when the time came. I knew that. Shortly after we got back to the house, Troy came downstairs and told me Jenny had told him. He said he understood that neither of us knew each other very well, and that he thought he should stay with his brother and leave Jenny and I to our memories for the rest of the weekend. It was a side of him I hadn't seen before, and I felt good knowing my girl was married to someone considerate. I told him to take care of Jenny. This time he looked me in the eye and promised he would, and for a moment I thought I sensed him getting a little choked.
Jenny came downstairs shortly after he left, and we treasured the rest of the weekend. I told Jenny she was getting to look like her mother more and more each day. We talked about her plans for the future. I told her more about the cabin in the woods of Idaho, and this time she listened intently. I promised I would call her every day from now on. She had a neighbor stop by to take pictures of us together. And when Sunday came and it was time to leave, I couldn't call any look my last one. I would look at her, form the mental picture, go to leave, then turn to look at her, again, one last time. Finally we both began to laugh and the laugh turned into a cry.
*****
CHAPTER NINE
I had never been as depressed as I was when I left Jenny's. My heart ached as I tried to navigate my way back to the highway while reading a map in my little girl's handwriting. It wasn't fair for either of us that I'd never be able to hold children she would have; to see them grow, and to see my daughter in their little faces. For the first time I was angry with death. I was angry that I wouldn't be there for my daughter when she needed her dad. I was angry there had to be a goodbye and a last look. I connected with the highway. I had driven for around two hours before the cell phone rang. It was Maggie. As soon as I saw the number, I knew the one thing I had forgotten to tell Jenny.
"Why didn't you tell me, George?" she sobbed. Neither of us spoke for seemingly minutes. "Damn-it! You know I never stopped loving you and I never will!" Another long pause. I cleared my throat so she knew I still had a signal, but it was all I could do. "And I could have been better prepared to help Jenny through this had I known."
"I was going to tell you soon," I mumbled.
"I want to see you, too...before...this..."
"I want to see you again, too, Maggie."
"How long do you have, George? Jenny said it could be only a few months."
"The doctor had originally told me possibly up to three years, but probably only one. He told me what to watch for: shortness of breath, sweating with angina," I sighed, "and I'm beginning to experience all of them."
I could tell she was crying and trying to hide it from me. "Well, make plans to get here. And fly. You shouldn't be driving as far as you are now. And, I'll make sure Ron goes somewhere while you're here. You can stay in Jenny's room and she can..."
My heart lifted. "And she can what?" I asked hastily.
"Shit, George. Jenny is going to come--she doesn't want to miss any moment she can spend with you. Anyway, she can sleep on the couch...goddammit George, why couldn't you have told me?" Did you actually think I wouldn't care? We've known each other since we were eleven. We were a couple for thirty-five years, married for twenty-four, and linked with one another forever."
I had a lot buzzing through my mind. I was wishing this would have ended the way it was meant to end--with Maggie and I together. "Of course I'll be there," I said as I continued to think. "I'll make arrangements the morning after I get back. Unless there's a time that doesn't work for you."
"We'll make it work. I'm flying Jenny in, so you don't have to worry about flight costs for her. And do you have enough money?"
"I'm actually glad you brought money up. Yes, I have enough. I should bring my life insurance policy with me. I've made sure Jenny will be taken care of."
There was another long pause. "Fuck, George! Neither of us were supposed to die young."
"I half-chuckled for the first time. "I'm too old to die young, sweets. I hope you don't mind me calling you that, but like you said earlier...always."
"I know, George...always. Drive safe and call me when you get home.
I told her I would. I was glad that she called. My situation enabled her to say things she hadn't said in a long time. I missed hearing them in recent years and it was good to hear them now. It was good to know where I would stand with her after I was gone.
As I drove through one stretch of road I remembered to be particularly miserable, my mind became flash-flooded with thoughts to the point where I couldn't keep up with the deluge. When I visited Maggie, it would also be the last time I saw our house; or, her house, now. Where would I be buried? Virginia seemed to be the appropriate state, but where in Virginia? Would it still be proper to ask Maggie to be buried next to her? Should I be cremated and have my ashes scattered near the cabin in Idaho? It has become a comfortable and purposeful place for me. I should bring pictures and other keepsakes back for Maggie and Jenny to disseminate. Or would that be too morbid? Decide and make a list. Don't forget anything! Should I go right away, or stay a week in Idaho so I'm rested? After all I did just see Jenny. But what if I died during that week; I wouldn't see Maggie.
It came to the point where my inner thoughts sounded like someone rapidly turning the radio dial through AM stations and I was only getting snippets of information from each bandwidth. I had to turn the radio off. My thoughts had taken me through the tedious stretch of road and well beyond, so I tried to appreciate what really was awesome scenery. Finally I gave up. Death was never as real or seemed as imminent as now. I went into drone mode--a self imposed cruise control of the mind--and I didn't take it back to manual until I saw WELCOME TO IDAHO.
By the time I got to the cabin I was road weary and my mind was overloaded with decisions which needed to be made. I didn't even bring my luggage inside. I just wanted to get some sleep. It came quickly. My mind has tired itself out. There were no meandering thoughts as there had been on the road. I slept hard--until around three in the morning, when I was again wakened by an apocalyptic dream:
I was living in a construction trailer which rested upon a copious sheet of asphalt, across from the Victorian home where Maggie, Jenny, and I had lived some twenty-odd years ago. The abode was satisfactory; even comfortable--until Maggie arrived. She came through the metal door holding a young Jenny in one arm and a bag of groceries in the other, carrying herself with a pride one would have upon entering a luxurious Manhattan flat. When she placed Jenny in a crib, stationed in the living room against the pseudo-oak paneled wall, I looked around and noticed the lack of niceties and proper aesthetics my wife and daughter deserved. I went outside and stood on the metal grated steps and looked past the monumental disbursement of blacktop. Ahead was a home improvement chain store with a fenced-in lumber yard off to its side, and the space between it and us constituted the parking lot, now empty, but with a capacity to hold some three hundred vehicles. There were no trees on the property; only mounds of coal near the entrances where a landscaped setting would usually be. I had the sudden realization that we were squatting on the property and had no right to be there, and if anyone saw us we would be expelled to the streets. Yet, I remained on the metal step and looked across the street at the Victorian house with poplars and white birch rimming a plush lawn, and a pleasant creek which flowed down a slight hill. Between the trees I saw Maggie pushing a slightly older Jenny on a swing. They were dressed nicely and there was laughter. Then I saw another man catch Jenny as she jumped from her swing into his arms. I went back inside. Maggie was there, but she looked old and weary. I went over to Jenny's crib. She was asleep, but wore the ratty clothes of a homeless child. I drew back the curtains and looked across the street and saw them all looking my way and laughing, with the man whom I didn't know pointing toward me in a taunting way. I turned, but Maggie and Jenny were no longer in the trailer.
I woke up. This time I wasn't confused, I was angry. I was angry I would have this dream now, after just having such a memorable time with Jenny. I was angry I had this dream just as I was planning to visit Maggie in the Victorian house where we in real life had raised our daughter. But mostly I was angry with myself, for I knew what the dream represented. I had failed to keep our family together. Even though Maggie left me, it was I who had failed.
*****
"Why didn't you tell me, George?" she sobbed. Neither of us spoke for seemingly minutes. "Damn-it! You know I never stopped loving you and I never will!" Another long pause. I cleared my throat so she knew I still had a signal, but it was all I could do. "And I could have been better prepared to help Jenny through this had I known."
"I was going to tell you soon," I mumbled.
"I want to see you, too...before...this..."
"I want to see you again, too, Maggie."
"How long do you have, George? Jenny said it could be only a few months."
"The doctor had originally told me possibly up to three years, but probably only one. He told me what to watch for: shortness of breath, sweating with angina," I sighed, "and I'm beginning to experience all of them."
I could tell she was crying and trying to hide it from me. "Well, make plans to get here. And fly. You shouldn't be driving as far as you are now. And, I'll make sure Ron goes somewhere while you're here. You can stay in Jenny's room and she can..."
My heart lifted. "And she can what?" I asked hastily.
"Shit, George. Jenny is going to come--she doesn't want to miss any moment she can spend with you. Anyway, she can sleep on the couch...goddammit George, why couldn't you have told me?" Did you actually think I wouldn't care? We've known each other since we were eleven. We were a couple for thirty-five years, married for twenty-four, and linked with one another forever."
I had a lot buzzing through my mind. I was wishing this would have ended the way it was meant to end--with Maggie and I together. "Of course I'll be there," I said as I continued to think. "I'll make arrangements the morning after I get back. Unless there's a time that doesn't work for you."
"We'll make it work. I'm flying Jenny in, so you don't have to worry about flight costs for her. And do you have enough money?"
"I'm actually glad you brought money up. Yes, I have enough. I should bring my life insurance policy with me. I've made sure Jenny will be taken care of."
There was another long pause. "Fuck, George! Neither of us were supposed to die young."
"I half-chuckled for the first time. "I'm too old to die young, sweets. I hope you don't mind me calling you that, but like you said earlier...always."
"I know, George...always. Drive safe and call me when you get home.
I told her I would. I was glad that she called. My situation enabled her to say things she hadn't said in a long time. I missed hearing them in recent years and it was good to hear them now. It was good to know where I would stand with her after I was gone.
As I drove through one stretch of road I remembered to be particularly miserable, my mind became flash-flooded with thoughts to the point where I couldn't keep up with the deluge. When I visited Maggie, it would also be the last time I saw our house; or, her house, now. Where would I be buried? Virginia seemed to be the appropriate state, but where in Virginia? Would it still be proper to ask Maggie to be buried next to her? Should I be cremated and have my ashes scattered near the cabin in Idaho? It has become a comfortable and purposeful place for me. I should bring pictures and other keepsakes back for Maggie and Jenny to disseminate. Or would that be too morbid? Decide and make a list. Don't forget anything! Should I go right away, or stay a week in Idaho so I'm rested? After all I did just see Jenny. But what if I died during that week; I wouldn't see Maggie.
It came to the point where my inner thoughts sounded like someone rapidly turning the radio dial through AM stations and I was only getting snippets of information from each bandwidth. I had to turn the radio off. My thoughts had taken me through the tedious stretch of road and well beyond, so I tried to appreciate what really was awesome scenery. Finally I gave up. Death was never as real or seemed as imminent as now. I went into drone mode--a self imposed cruise control of the mind--and I didn't take it back to manual until I saw WELCOME TO IDAHO.
By the time I got to the cabin I was road weary and my mind was overloaded with decisions which needed to be made. I didn't even bring my luggage inside. I just wanted to get some sleep. It came quickly. My mind has tired itself out. There were no meandering thoughts as there had been on the road. I slept hard--until around three in the morning, when I was again wakened by an apocalyptic dream:
I was living in a construction trailer which rested upon a copious sheet of asphalt, across from the Victorian home where Maggie, Jenny, and I had lived some twenty-odd years ago. The abode was satisfactory; even comfortable--until Maggie arrived. She came through the metal door holding a young Jenny in one arm and a bag of groceries in the other, carrying herself with a pride one would have upon entering a luxurious Manhattan flat. When she placed Jenny in a crib, stationed in the living room against the pseudo-oak paneled wall, I looked around and noticed the lack of niceties and proper aesthetics my wife and daughter deserved. I went outside and stood on the metal grated steps and looked past the monumental disbursement of blacktop. Ahead was a home improvement chain store with a fenced-in lumber yard off to its side, and the space between it and us constituted the parking lot, now empty, but with a capacity to hold some three hundred vehicles. There were no trees on the property; only mounds of coal near the entrances where a landscaped setting would usually be. I had the sudden realization that we were squatting on the property and had no right to be there, and if anyone saw us we would be expelled to the streets. Yet, I remained on the metal step and looked across the street at the Victorian house with poplars and white birch rimming a plush lawn, and a pleasant creek which flowed down a slight hill. Between the trees I saw Maggie pushing a slightly older Jenny on a swing. They were dressed nicely and there was laughter. Then I saw another man catch Jenny as she jumped from her swing into his arms. I went back inside. Maggie was there, but she looked old and weary. I went over to Jenny's crib. She was asleep, but wore the ratty clothes of a homeless child. I drew back the curtains and looked across the street and saw them all looking my way and laughing, with the man whom I didn't know pointing toward me in a taunting way. I turned, but Maggie and Jenny were no longer in the trailer.
I woke up. This time I wasn't confused, I was angry. I was angry I would have this dream now, after just having such a memorable time with Jenny. I was angry I had this dream just as I was planning to visit Maggie in the Victorian house where we in real life had raised our daughter. But mostly I was angry with myself, for I knew what the dream represented. I had failed to keep our family together. Even though Maggie left me, it was I who had failed.
*****
CHAPTER TEN
I lazed around the cabin for most of the morning; not taking my usually walk to the creek or taking in the coniferous smell from the railing of the deck. Again, I had to clear my head from a disturbing dream. I knew myself well enough to know I wouldn't be content until I figured out why my subconscious produced such guilt. Maggie, Jen, and I lived in the 'nice' home, after all. I had a good job and provided for them well. Our divorce wasn't a drawn out battle. Maggie and I had even gone to our thirtieth class reunion together after we separated. By ten thirty, hunger was beginning to trump contentment of thought. I hadn't seen the crew at the diner in a few days, so I figured I'd go.
After Trish had watched me fiddle with my food long enough, she asked what was bothering me. I wasn't looking at anyone; only the plate in front of me as I thought, "They already know your situation. Why not tell them about the dream?" So I did. I told them in great detail, and I made sure to tell every nuance of how it ended. As soon as I finished, before I could even ask what they thought it could represent, Bob piped in. "You're dying and you feel like you're letting people down--especially your daughter."
I stared at him. He had fucking nailed it in five seconds.
"You're not going to be around. Thus you'll have no control, and you're already feeling guilty for anything bad that might happen."
Again! I sighed. From past experiences I've found quirky people like him to be quite smart. I shook my head and told him he was exactly right.
"Sometimes you need to take a look through the eyes of someone else," he said. "All right...problem solved. Is anyone going fishing tomorrow morning?"
Everyone either said or shook their head no to Bob's question. We wrapped up our gab session and left in time to avoid the noon rush. I felt revived now that the unfinished business of the dream was settled. I needed to make some calls and set things up for my trip back to Virginia. I stopped at the Priest Lake library, went on the internet and checked flight prices and which airport would be best. I called Maggie from outside the building, and we set everything up for a week from this coming Friday. I was actually glad to have a little down time to prepare for the weekend; both the emotional high the visit would bring, and the emotional devastation which would follow.
It was late in the evening when my land line rang. I picked up a handset. "Good, you're still awake," the voice said. "You don't know how much trouble I had to go through to find your number."
The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't isolate it.
"Anyway, the fish were really biting today. Are you sure you don't want to hit the river tomorrow morning?"
Bob! Damn-it! I thought. There was an uncomfortable pause before I said,"Okay, why not?" I had never done anything on a one-on-one basis with any of our group, and now I had just agreed to with Bob, of all people. Yet, how awkward could trout fishing be? Plus, it would occupy my time and eliminate a half-day of waiting to get to Virginia. "Morning comes at different times to different people," I told him. "What time are you thinking about going?"
"I want to be there at the break of dawn," he said.
"Shit, then why are you up so goddamn late?"
"I told you...it took some work to find your number. Just be parked in Dave's lot at five."
"Wait, I don't have any fishing..."
"I have an extra pole, tackle box, and waders. Five o'clock."
I grudgingly told him I would and hung up.
I made it on time and hopped in his SUV. We went five or so miles down a county road and onto a half-mile stretch of two track. We parked where the road ended with an uplifted burm of earth from a fallen tree, then walked another five hundred yards on a barely discernible trail. Our arrival at the river came with the confluence of the rising sun and the stirring of forest life. We arranged our gear on the bank with barely a word, slipped into our waders and stepped into the cool mountain water. We cast our lines and reeled with asymmetrical timing and an intense focus which made null any need for words, and when the time for speech did come, it was orderly, natural, and reasonable, if not substantive. It was a good morning in many ways: We had each caught one trout within a half hour, I felt the altruistic fulfillment of spending time with a social misfit, but more than anything, Bob was letting life's realities leak out from his nefarious facade. It had actually begun when we took to the bank for the first break--a single episode of Bob being Bob, followed by a chastisement. He had asked on what day of the week I'd been born, and when I sniped that I didn't have a clue, he answered he had a genuine dislike for anyone born of Fridays.
"Okay, Bob...what's behind the quirkiness?" I asked with a directness which obliged him to talk to me straight.
"What do you mean?"
"It's a simple question, Bob. What's with all the cryptic and nonsensical crap?" I asked with a directness which obliged him to talk to me straight.
He opened his thermos and drank coffee before replying, and only after a long pause which I didn't find as uncomfortable as I would've expected. The discomfort, however, came with his next words. "My kid died...my boy, my son. I was mowing the lawn...I was supposed to be watching him but I was mowing the lawn." He turned his back to me and sat. I stayed where I was as he continued. "It was a Saturday and his mother was at work. He was bouncing all over the house that morning so I told him to go outside and play. I thought he would stay in the yard. I thought he know that. But he was only four. I had forgotten how capricious a four year-old could be. He was kicking his blue ball around when I started the mower. I heard the screeching of brakes and by the time I turned he was already on the pavement...dead." He paused for a long time. Neither of us moved. "Obviously I never forgave myself, and my wife didn't either--didn't speak to me for six months. Then one morning I went downstairs, getting ready for a workday at a job I could no longer stand, and I saw her suitcases lined up by the door. 'Stay,' I told her. 'You should have everything. I won't contest. Send the papers to my office and I'll sign them.' I couldn't look her in the eye; hadn't been able to since I saw the contempt in them at our son's wake. I didn't take anything from the house. I just took the keys off my chain, placed them on an end table, and walked out...never to see her again. I looked over the papers from my lawyer when they arrived at my office. Amongst them was a handwritten note from her saying she was leaving me half of what was in our savings, telling me to take it and get out of town, far away from her, for the sight of me made her ill. So I did." He planted his head in his hand and pivoted toward me, but still looking down at the leaf-strewn dirt. "I moved here." He paused lengthily again. "To answer your question specifically, I guess my quirkiness, as you call it, is a diversion. My mind's racing all the time, so I need to occupy it with the easiest thing...nonsense."
"I'm sorry," was all I could manage to say.
"No...no need to be sorry. It was a legitimate question." He stood. "I'm going to go now." He took his pole, tackle box, and thermos, and began walking up the trail alone.
"Are you going to be all right?" I shouted. He didn't answer.
I didn't know what to do. I wished I would've followed him out here in my car. I felt bad for him, now that I knew. Yet, selfishly I suppose, I didn't want to be at the river for an unknown period of time.
It was nearly two hours later when I saw him walking back. I noticed he didn't have his gear. He got within thirty yards of me and stopped. "I want to thank you for listening," he said. "And for not criticizing. And for not changing the subject, like everyone else I've tried to tell this to." He turned his gaze toward the river, then back at me. "I'm sorry. There will be no more fishing today, but I wanted you to know you're a good, salt-of-the-earth type guy." He nodded and smiled a tight but real smile, then reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pistol and put it to his head and pulled the trigger. His body dropped to the moist dirt and rolled down the bank and into the river.
*****
After Trish had watched me fiddle with my food long enough, she asked what was bothering me. I wasn't looking at anyone; only the plate in front of me as I thought, "They already know your situation. Why not tell them about the dream?" So I did. I told them in great detail, and I made sure to tell every nuance of how it ended. As soon as I finished, before I could even ask what they thought it could represent, Bob piped in. "You're dying and you feel like you're letting people down--especially your daughter."
I stared at him. He had fucking nailed it in five seconds.
"You're not going to be around. Thus you'll have no control, and you're already feeling guilty for anything bad that might happen."
Again! I sighed. From past experiences I've found quirky people like him to be quite smart. I shook my head and told him he was exactly right.
"Sometimes you need to take a look through the eyes of someone else," he said. "All right...problem solved. Is anyone going fishing tomorrow morning?"
Everyone either said or shook their head no to Bob's question. We wrapped up our gab session and left in time to avoid the noon rush. I felt revived now that the unfinished business of the dream was settled. I needed to make some calls and set things up for my trip back to Virginia. I stopped at the Priest Lake library, went on the internet and checked flight prices and which airport would be best. I called Maggie from outside the building, and we set everything up for a week from this coming Friday. I was actually glad to have a little down time to prepare for the weekend; both the emotional high the visit would bring, and the emotional devastation which would follow.
It was late in the evening when my land line rang. I picked up a handset. "Good, you're still awake," the voice said. "You don't know how much trouble I had to go through to find your number."
The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't isolate it.
"Anyway, the fish were really biting today. Are you sure you don't want to hit the river tomorrow morning?"
Bob! Damn-it! I thought. There was an uncomfortable pause before I said,"Okay, why not?" I had never done anything on a one-on-one basis with any of our group, and now I had just agreed to with Bob, of all people. Yet, how awkward could trout fishing be? Plus, it would occupy my time and eliminate a half-day of waiting to get to Virginia. "Morning comes at different times to different people," I told him. "What time are you thinking about going?"
"I want to be there at the break of dawn," he said.
"Shit, then why are you up so goddamn late?"
"I told you...it took some work to find your number. Just be parked in Dave's lot at five."
"Wait, I don't have any fishing..."
"I have an extra pole, tackle box, and waders. Five o'clock."
I grudgingly told him I would and hung up.
I made it on time and hopped in his SUV. We went five or so miles down a county road and onto a half-mile stretch of two track. We parked where the road ended with an uplifted burm of earth from a fallen tree, then walked another five hundred yards on a barely discernible trail. Our arrival at the river came with the confluence of the rising sun and the stirring of forest life. We arranged our gear on the bank with barely a word, slipped into our waders and stepped into the cool mountain water. We cast our lines and reeled with asymmetrical timing and an intense focus which made null any need for words, and when the time for speech did come, it was orderly, natural, and reasonable, if not substantive. It was a good morning in many ways: We had each caught one trout within a half hour, I felt the altruistic fulfillment of spending time with a social misfit, but more than anything, Bob was letting life's realities leak out from his nefarious facade. It had actually begun when we took to the bank for the first break--a single episode of Bob being Bob, followed by a chastisement. He had asked on what day of the week I'd been born, and when I sniped that I didn't have a clue, he answered he had a genuine dislike for anyone born of Fridays.
"Okay, Bob...what's behind the quirkiness?" I asked with a directness which obliged him to talk to me straight.
"What do you mean?"
"It's a simple question, Bob. What's with all the cryptic and nonsensical crap?" I asked with a directness which obliged him to talk to me straight.
He opened his thermos and drank coffee before replying, and only after a long pause which I didn't find as uncomfortable as I would've expected. The discomfort, however, came with his next words. "My kid died...my boy, my son. I was mowing the lawn...I was supposed to be watching him but I was mowing the lawn." He turned his back to me and sat. I stayed where I was as he continued. "It was a Saturday and his mother was at work. He was bouncing all over the house that morning so I told him to go outside and play. I thought he would stay in the yard. I thought he know that. But he was only four. I had forgotten how capricious a four year-old could be. He was kicking his blue ball around when I started the mower. I heard the screeching of brakes and by the time I turned he was already on the pavement...dead." He paused for a long time. Neither of us moved. "Obviously I never forgave myself, and my wife didn't either--didn't speak to me for six months. Then one morning I went downstairs, getting ready for a workday at a job I could no longer stand, and I saw her suitcases lined up by the door. 'Stay,' I told her. 'You should have everything. I won't contest. Send the papers to my office and I'll sign them.' I couldn't look her in the eye; hadn't been able to since I saw the contempt in them at our son's wake. I didn't take anything from the house. I just took the keys off my chain, placed them on an end table, and walked out...never to see her again. I looked over the papers from my lawyer when they arrived at my office. Amongst them was a handwritten note from her saying she was leaving me half of what was in our savings, telling me to take it and get out of town, far away from her, for the sight of me made her ill. So I did." He planted his head in his hand and pivoted toward me, but still looking down at the leaf-strewn dirt. "I moved here." He paused lengthily again. "To answer your question specifically, I guess my quirkiness, as you call it, is a diversion. My mind's racing all the time, so I need to occupy it with the easiest thing...nonsense."
"I'm sorry," was all I could manage to say.
"No...no need to be sorry. It was a legitimate question." He stood. "I'm going to go now." He took his pole, tackle box, and thermos, and began walking up the trail alone.
"Are you going to be all right?" I shouted. He didn't answer.
I didn't know what to do. I wished I would've followed him out here in my car. I felt bad for him, now that I knew. Yet, selfishly I suppose, I didn't want to be at the river for an unknown period of time.
It was nearly two hours later when I saw him walking back. I noticed he didn't have his gear. He got within thirty yards of me and stopped. "I want to thank you for listening," he said. "And for not criticizing. And for not changing the subject, like everyone else I've tried to tell this to." He turned his gaze toward the river, then back at me. "I'm sorry. There will be no more fishing today, but I wanted you to know you're a good, salt-of-the-earth type guy." He nodded and smiled a tight but real smile, then reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pistol and put it to his head and pulled the trigger. His body dropped to the moist dirt and rolled down the bank and into the river.
*****
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I was still dazed as I watched Bob's body floating downstream; now as meaningless to the river as the branches, leaves and other debris it carried. I felt frustrated that it had happened so quickly and I didn't have time to react. I knew what had to be done, but was frozen by not knowing what to do first. I looked at the pistol laying on the last spot of high ground, then back at Bob's slow procession. His body was hung up by a fallen tree, yet the current was tugging and trying to reclaim him. As my mind raced I broke loose of the shock-shackles. I kicked the gun into the undergrowth so no kid would stumble upon it, but also in a manner to keep my fingerprints off it. I looked toward the fallen tree and Bob's body had come free and was nowhere in sight. I began running down the riverbank, scanning both sides for any sign of his body. I recalled his story and it haunted me as I ran, and I wondered if his action was a result of ghosts once chained now released, or an unburdening which left him at peace and ready to exit the world. His story had me thinking about Maggie and how amiable our breakup was, and just as antithetical, the enduring care we still hold for each other. As I stopped to get a breath, I intrinsically punched a tree as I thought of the every-day misery Bob must have endured, and how I had chided him for employing the only outlet he had to deal with his torment. I began to run again. After awhile I wiped my face and saw the red blood and sweat mix on my palm. I looked at my hand, and only then did I feel it throbbing. It had been some time since I saw Bob's body and I was getting to where the trail was overwhelmed with forest growth. It was time for a different course of action. I had to go to the police eventually, and now was probably the time. I wished I could have told them without the suspicion which would be raised by my swollen and bleeding right hand. At the same time, I didn't regret punching the tree. As I turned and began the trek upstream, I let out a painful moan for the loss of the man who, until a few hours ago, I couldn't stand.
I hoped Bob's keys were in his car. I was beginning to wheeze, and I began to worry about my heart giving out before I had the chance to see Maggie and Jenny again. I worried about having to walk, or even getting a ride with a bleeding fist. I got to the car and looked inside. "Damn-it!" I shouted aloud. I looked on the floorboard. "Shit!" aloud again, even though this time I don't know why I said it...I said it for a reason I didn't understand, because the keys were there. I went to the sheriff and told his detective the whole story, including what had happened to my hand as soon as I saw him glancing at it. Maybe Bob had been right with his salt-of-the-earth description of me, or maybe he was looking out for me from an unknown somewhere, for when the detective and another officer took me to show them the scene of the incident, I wasn't questioned in a manner where I perceived suspicion. I located the gun; telling them I hadn't touched it, merely kicked it, and within twenty minutes another crew had found the body downstream.
I went to the diner at the usual time the next day. Everyone had heard the news about Bob, but didn't know I had been with him. I told them the details of what happened at the river the previous morning. I wanted to tell them what Bob had told me. I wanted the others to know his plight. In the final five minutes of Bob's life, I felt I had come to know him better than anyone had since his son was killed. I felt an obligation to ask the others to view him for what he really was: a tortured soul who hated every moment of life, but tried to trudge his was through his earthly existence. I told them how much I was troubled by what I had witnessed, and how the diner could only be a reminder of a horrible day. It was time to tell them goodbye.
I called Maggie and postponed my visit. Too much had happened in a short period of time. It was nearly May and life was springing from the forest. I was weary of death and needed to observe this rebirth. I sat on the cabin's porch much of the next day, and continued to do so as the days grew longer and spring turned to summer, then dwindled into autumn.
*****
I hoped Bob's keys were in his car. I was beginning to wheeze, and I began to worry about my heart giving out before I had the chance to see Maggie and Jenny again. I worried about having to walk, or even getting a ride with a bleeding fist. I got to the car and looked inside. "Damn-it!" I shouted aloud. I looked on the floorboard. "Shit!" aloud again, even though this time I don't know why I said it...I said it for a reason I didn't understand, because the keys were there. I went to the sheriff and told his detective the whole story, including what had happened to my hand as soon as I saw him glancing at it. Maybe Bob had been right with his salt-of-the-earth description of me, or maybe he was looking out for me from an unknown somewhere, for when the detective and another officer took me to show them the scene of the incident, I wasn't questioned in a manner where I perceived suspicion. I located the gun; telling them I hadn't touched it, merely kicked it, and within twenty minutes another crew had found the body downstream.
I went to the diner at the usual time the next day. Everyone had heard the news about Bob, but didn't know I had been with him. I told them the details of what happened at the river the previous morning. I wanted to tell them what Bob had told me. I wanted the others to know his plight. In the final five minutes of Bob's life, I felt I had come to know him better than anyone had since his son was killed. I felt an obligation to ask the others to view him for what he really was: a tortured soul who hated every moment of life, but tried to trudge his was through his earthly existence. I told them how much I was troubled by what I had witnessed, and how the diner could only be a reminder of a horrible day. It was time to tell them goodbye.
I called Maggie and postponed my visit. Too much had happened in a short period of time. It was nearly May and life was springing from the forest. I was weary of death and needed to observe this rebirth. I sat on the cabin's porch much of the next day, and continued to do so as the days grew longer and spring turned to summer, then dwindled into autumn.
*****
CHAPTER TWELVE
It's a widely known adage that one's life flashes past them before they die, and now I'm having flashes from my past regularly. They come from all stages of my life. As I walked past the wildflowers toward my cabin, I thought back to when Jenny was five. She wanted to know if she cold pick a tulip, and whimsically I told her she could because humans were smarter than tulips. She looked up at me and smiled her smack-lipped mischievous grin, the grin she used when she sensed I would try to pull one over on her, and I asked, "And do you know why that is?" Without letting a second elapse, she said, "That's because humans have brains and tulips have pollen." It was such a goddamn cute answer from a little kid that I knew I would never forget it. Hours later I was having dinner and thought back to my own childhood, when Dad took me to my first high school football game. I didn't understand football, but as it progressed I realized it was better for the guys in the red uniforms to push the guys in the white backwards. I remember Dad shouting things like, "Come on kids!" or "What are you kids thinking?" I looked at all the players standing along the sidelines with their helmets off--nearly all of them as tall or taller than my father and looking very much like adults to me, and wondered who were the kids my dad was yelling at. And yesterday I found myself thinking about the evening party we had at the river, several hours after I had proposed to Maggie at the wading pool upstream. I drank in the memory; painted with the perpetual sound of rushing water, sweet, static-laden music emanating from someone's transistor radio, and the still-damp-from-swimming smell of Maggie's 1972 length hair. Now, I had to manage my meandering mind through its mid-morning montage.
Summer had been good, but with the extra walking one takes on beautiful days, my symptoms were becoming more acute. Now it was mid-September and time to make my trip back to Virginia. It was a trip I looked forward to as much as I dreaded. I wanted to see the two people I loved most, but ached when I thought of the finality the visit would bring. Finality for me, at least, and it saddened me to think of the true finality Maggie and Jen would have to experience. Maggie had come back into my life since Jenny's call after I left her place in Oregon. We called each other several times a week, and after a while she came to understand, if not agree with, my reason for canceling the previous trip. I gave her a call.
"Hey," I said when she answered. "I'd like to come visit soon." I hated the way it came out so casual. "I'd like to visit," as though it were one with many more to follow.
"Good. Finally!" she breathed. "When do you want to come?"
"When is it good for you? And what about Jenny?"
"I know you don't like to even hear his name, but Tom is in Brazil on business for another eleven days, so how about this weekend. Jenny will do anything for her dad, George, so she'll make any needed arrangements." She paused, then said, "I'm not supposed to tell you this, George, it's supposed to be a surprise, but I don't know if surprises are good for, well, for your heart."
"Suspense isn't good for it either. Lay it on me."
"Well okay...grandpa!"
"Huh?"
"Act surprised when she tells you, but our daughter is three months pregnant."
I smiled a smile which dissipated quickly when I realized I might not be around to see my grandchild. Maggie had to prompt me to say something, so I told her what I was thinking--the high and the low.
"Would it be easier if we came to see you?" she asked.
"Easier, yes. Acceptable, no." I'm sorry if it's weird for you, but I want to see all of us together in our old house."
"Completely understandable, George."
"Okay, Maggs. Call Jenny and set it up for this weekend. I'll get on the phone with the airlines now."
"Try to get in Thursday if you can. It'll give us an extra day."
I told her I would, then again went down to use the library computers to check for flights. I found what I needed, and when Maggie called to confirm it was a go with Jenny, I booked my flight.
Over the next three days, I placed a temporary stay on the slide show of my life and resumed the contemplation from the planned spring visit. I had had much time to think over the course of the summer; thus, I was better prepared. I had matters which needed to be discussed with Maggie. I had some thoughts for things we could do together. And I decided it was time to relinquish most of the memorabilia, sans a few pictures of the three of us at different stages of our lives, which rested on the mantel of the cabin's fireplace. Anything they would cherish would come with me. The rest I would abandon, leaving no reason for either Maggie or Jen to visit the scene of my death.
I arrived at Reagan National late Thursday afternoon. Maggie spotted me looking for her and emerged from the crowd. She smiled sadly. "You look too good for this to be happening," she said, still bearing her subtle smile. She put her arms around me and I held her tightly. She released and looked at her watch. "Let's go grab a bite and catch up," she said. "Jenny will be arriving in an hour and fifteen minutes."
I got my luggage and placed it in a locker, then Maggie and I sat in the cafe and brought ourselves up to date as we talked over a light sandwich and coffee. She looked radiant, and again memories of our past came flashing back. For the first time in recent memory, she seemed as happy to see me as I was to see her. She never came out and said it, but I got the feeling her marriage wasn't in a good state at the time, and selfishly, I reveled inwardly. Yet, I cared for her and worried how the remaining years for the love of my life would be. I didn't prompt her, and soon we were talking about the upcoming weekend. An hour passed quickly. We went back into the terminal to wait for Jenny.
When she saw us she came running up to me and dropped her carry-on to the floor. "Daddy, look at you," she cried, and hugged me gingerly. I had seen myself in the mirror and hadn't noticed the change, and I would guess with Maggie being older she handled my appearance better. Though my heart disease had no direct degenerative effects on my body, the stress and reduction of appetite did. "How are you feeling?" she asked, still holding me lightly.
"I feel okay, Jen," I lied. "How are you?"
I could see the glow of expectant motherhood in her cheeks, but she only said, "I'm fine, Daddy," then wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
"Hey, let's get out of this airport and back to the house," Maggie said, and Jenny picked up her carry-on and the girls followed me to the locker where I grabbed my luggage. We went out to a silver SUV, and I sat in what I assume was Maggie's usual seat, for it smelled like her. I steered all conversation into small talk. Tonight would be a happy evening of reminiscing. Friday would be a day of fun, and if Jenny didn't volunteer her news, I'd get Maggie to talk her into it. Saturday would be the tough day; the day we talked about what would happen, make arrangements, and the day I would pass out the mementos I had brought. Sunday, like the one at Jenny's, would be the day I would once and forever, until life hereafter, say goodbye to my family.
*****
Summer had been good, but with the extra walking one takes on beautiful days, my symptoms were becoming more acute. Now it was mid-September and time to make my trip back to Virginia. It was a trip I looked forward to as much as I dreaded. I wanted to see the two people I loved most, but ached when I thought of the finality the visit would bring. Finality for me, at least, and it saddened me to think of the true finality Maggie and Jen would have to experience. Maggie had come back into my life since Jenny's call after I left her place in Oregon. We called each other several times a week, and after a while she came to understand, if not agree with, my reason for canceling the previous trip. I gave her a call.
"Hey," I said when she answered. "I'd like to come visit soon." I hated the way it came out so casual. "I'd like to visit," as though it were one with many more to follow.
"Good. Finally!" she breathed. "When do you want to come?"
"When is it good for you? And what about Jenny?"
"I know you don't like to even hear his name, but Tom is in Brazil on business for another eleven days, so how about this weekend. Jenny will do anything for her dad, George, so she'll make any needed arrangements." She paused, then said, "I'm not supposed to tell you this, George, it's supposed to be a surprise, but I don't know if surprises are good for, well, for your heart."
"Suspense isn't good for it either. Lay it on me."
"Well okay...grandpa!"
"Huh?"
"Act surprised when she tells you, but our daughter is three months pregnant."
I smiled a smile which dissipated quickly when I realized I might not be around to see my grandchild. Maggie had to prompt me to say something, so I told her what I was thinking--the high and the low.
"Would it be easier if we came to see you?" she asked.
"Easier, yes. Acceptable, no." I'm sorry if it's weird for you, but I want to see all of us together in our old house."
"Completely understandable, George."
"Okay, Maggs. Call Jenny and set it up for this weekend. I'll get on the phone with the airlines now."
"Try to get in Thursday if you can. It'll give us an extra day."
I told her I would, then again went down to use the library computers to check for flights. I found what I needed, and when Maggie called to confirm it was a go with Jenny, I booked my flight.
Over the next three days, I placed a temporary stay on the slide show of my life and resumed the contemplation from the planned spring visit. I had had much time to think over the course of the summer; thus, I was better prepared. I had matters which needed to be discussed with Maggie. I had some thoughts for things we could do together. And I decided it was time to relinquish most of the memorabilia, sans a few pictures of the three of us at different stages of our lives, which rested on the mantel of the cabin's fireplace. Anything they would cherish would come with me. The rest I would abandon, leaving no reason for either Maggie or Jen to visit the scene of my death.
I arrived at Reagan National late Thursday afternoon. Maggie spotted me looking for her and emerged from the crowd. She smiled sadly. "You look too good for this to be happening," she said, still bearing her subtle smile. She put her arms around me and I held her tightly. She released and looked at her watch. "Let's go grab a bite and catch up," she said. "Jenny will be arriving in an hour and fifteen minutes."
I got my luggage and placed it in a locker, then Maggie and I sat in the cafe and brought ourselves up to date as we talked over a light sandwich and coffee. She looked radiant, and again memories of our past came flashing back. For the first time in recent memory, she seemed as happy to see me as I was to see her. She never came out and said it, but I got the feeling her marriage wasn't in a good state at the time, and selfishly, I reveled inwardly. Yet, I cared for her and worried how the remaining years for the love of my life would be. I didn't prompt her, and soon we were talking about the upcoming weekend. An hour passed quickly. We went back into the terminal to wait for Jenny.
When she saw us she came running up to me and dropped her carry-on to the floor. "Daddy, look at you," she cried, and hugged me gingerly. I had seen myself in the mirror and hadn't noticed the change, and I would guess with Maggie being older she handled my appearance better. Though my heart disease had no direct degenerative effects on my body, the stress and reduction of appetite did. "How are you feeling?" she asked, still holding me lightly.
"I feel okay, Jen," I lied. "How are you?"
I could see the glow of expectant motherhood in her cheeks, but she only said, "I'm fine, Daddy," then wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
"Hey, let's get out of this airport and back to the house," Maggie said, and Jenny picked up her carry-on and the girls followed me to the locker where I grabbed my luggage. We went out to a silver SUV, and I sat in what I assume was Maggie's usual seat, for it smelled like her. I steered all conversation into small talk. Tonight would be a happy evening of reminiscing. Friday would be a day of fun, and if Jenny didn't volunteer her news, I'd get Maggie to talk her into it. Saturday would be the tough day; the day we talked about what would happen, make arrangements, and the day I would pass out the mementos I had brought. Sunday, like the one at Jenny's, would be the day I would once and forever, until life hereafter, say goodbye to my family.
*****
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The view of our old house was an infusion of life, as Maggie guided the SUV down the shrub-lined drive. Inside was a cornucopia of memories. I looked past what had changed--the new furniture, royal blue carpeting, and flat screen television--and focused on what hadn't. The stairway held ghosts of Jenny excitedly running down its steps on Saturday mornings, pajama-clad and cartoon-anxious. As I set my suitcase against the wall, I remembered shimmying back and forth against the door jamb to scratch my back, with my chiding wife reminding me how ridiculous I looked. The memories became floods, saturating my mind with every glance from every angle. It could have been twenty years ago as it could have been ten, and I was instantly aware the last days of real living would come this weekend.
This evening would be light by nature; yet I knew it was up to me to set the mood. The image of a four-day wake came to mind, and I let out a slight chuckle. Maggie shot me a curious look, but I gave her the same not-in-front-of-our-daughter shrug I'd used when Jenny was little, and the reanimation of time prevailed as Maggie flashed back a quick smile. As I brought my luggage up to Jenny's old room, I couldn't help but look into Maggie's bedroom. I thought about nights of moaning passion where love and pleasure were fused into one. I thought of how forever Maggie and I were. I thought of how singular we were. But mostly, I thought of how alive we were.
Jenny and I sat on the sofa as Maggie scrambled eggs in the kitchen. I began nudging her playfully and persistently until she nudged back. After her cautious hug at the airport, I wanted her to know I wasn't breakable. I was messing up her hair as Maggie called her into the kitchen. She came back to the couch after a few minutes and took my hand.
"Hey, Dad," she squeezed my hand a bit, "I've got some kinda good news I want to share."
Her glow became a proud beam. I prepared myself to act surprised.
"Well...you're..." She began crying uncontrollably. Maggie fast-stepped into the room and sat next to her.
"Tell him, sweetie," she said.
"How can I tell him?" she quivered. "It's not fair to him."
I knew what she was feeling--that I would become a grandfather posthumously. I got up and knelt in front of her. "It's okay, Jenny I know." I paused. I didn't want to blow cover on Maggie, but knew I had to. "I know. Your mother told me...and it's okay. I'm a grandfather already. I can see the baby in your eyes."
Jenny leaned down to me and wept, and as she cried into my chest, I felt a kiss on my cheek.
Maggie and I talked to Jenny for the next hour, then made her eat some eggs and toast. Spent from the flight, and emotionally drained, we convinced her to call it an early night, and Maggie brought her a pillow, sheet and a blanket.
We went into the kitchen and sat in dim lighting as our daughter slept. We had been so instinctively parental in soothing Jenny that it seemed we both forgot about my condition, enabling Maggie to talk to George, not some poor unfortunate soul. As she held my hand across the top of the kitchen table, the sentiment resembled that of the class reunion we had attended as a pseudo-couple. We talked until one in the morning--seemingly going through our history chronologically. The conversation came to a lull and we made our way upstairs. I was about to set up in Jenny's room when Maggie tugged at my shirt. I had no qualms, felt no guilt, nor did I hesitate, and for the second time in her life, Maggie made love to someone other than her husband.
I was the first one up the next morning. I peeked into Maggie's room before heading to the shower. She was sleeping comfortably and may have had a smile on her face, though I couldn't tell for sure. Jenny was still asleep, too, and I stroked her hair softly as I made my way toward the kitchen. I was beaming inside. I didn't care about the man on business in Brazil. I was in my house with my wife and my little girl. I marveled at the realization that one of the top four moments of my life would come this weekend. I was soaring above the clouds I would soon view from above. And just as quickly, I felt devastated that I would have to leave them. Maggie came downstairs as I sat sipping coffee. "Morning, Sunshine," I said proudly.
She came and wrapped her arm around me from behind. "Good morning, you spunky bastard."
I turned. We were both radiant. "Hey now, who spunked who?" I asked.
She went for coffee before she answered, then sat across from me and said, "I don't care, George. I don't care at all. It's going to be a good day."
*****
This evening would be light by nature; yet I knew it was up to me to set the mood. The image of a four-day wake came to mind, and I let out a slight chuckle. Maggie shot me a curious look, but I gave her the same not-in-front-of-our-daughter shrug I'd used when Jenny was little, and the reanimation of time prevailed as Maggie flashed back a quick smile. As I brought my luggage up to Jenny's old room, I couldn't help but look into Maggie's bedroom. I thought about nights of moaning passion where love and pleasure were fused into one. I thought of how forever Maggie and I were. I thought of how singular we were. But mostly, I thought of how alive we were.
Jenny and I sat on the sofa as Maggie scrambled eggs in the kitchen. I began nudging her playfully and persistently until she nudged back. After her cautious hug at the airport, I wanted her to know I wasn't breakable. I was messing up her hair as Maggie called her into the kitchen. She came back to the couch after a few minutes and took my hand.
"Hey, Dad," she squeezed my hand a bit, "I've got some kinda good news I want to share."
Her glow became a proud beam. I prepared myself to act surprised.
"Well...you're..." She began crying uncontrollably. Maggie fast-stepped into the room and sat next to her.
"Tell him, sweetie," she said.
"How can I tell him?" she quivered. "It's not fair to him."
I knew what she was feeling--that I would become a grandfather posthumously. I got up and knelt in front of her. "It's okay, Jenny I know." I paused. I didn't want to blow cover on Maggie, but knew I had to. "I know. Your mother told me...and it's okay. I'm a grandfather already. I can see the baby in your eyes."
Jenny leaned down to me and wept, and as she cried into my chest, I felt a kiss on my cheek.
Maggie and I talked to Jenny for the next hour, then made her eat some eggs and toast. Spent from the flight, and emotionally drained, we convinced her to call it an early night, and Maggie brought her a pillow, sheet and a blanket.
We went into the kitchen and sat in dim lighting as our daughter slept. We had been so instinctively parental in soothing Jenny that it seemed we both forgot about my condition, enabling Maggie to talk to George, not some poor unfortunate soul. As she held my hand across the top of the kitchen table, the sentiment resembled that of the class reunion we had attended as a pseudo-couple. We talked until one in the morning--seemingly going through our history chronologically. The conversation came to a lull and we made our way upstairs. I was about to set up in Jenny's room when Maggie tugged at my shirt. I had no qualms, felt no guilt, nor did I hesitate, and for the second time in her life, Maggie made love to someone other than her husband.
I was the first one up the next morning. I peeked into Maggie's room before heading to the shower. She was sleeping comfortably and may have had a smile on her face, though I couldn't tell for sure. Jenny was still asleep, too, and I stroked her hair softly as I made my way toward the kitchen. I was beaming inside. I didn't care about the man on business in Brazil. I was in my house with my wife and my little girl. I marveled at the realization that one of the top four moments of my life would come this weekend. I was soaring above the clouds I would soon view from above. And just as quickly, I felt devastated that I would have to leave them. Maggie came downstairs as I sat sipping coffee. "Morning, Sunshine," I said proudly.
She came and wrapped her arm around me from behind. "Good morning, you spunky bastard."
I turned. We were both radiant. "Hey now, who spunked who?" I asked.
She went for coffee before she answered, then sat across from me and said, "I don't care, George. I don't care at all. It's going to be a good day."
*****
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Morning announced itself to my daughter with streams of sunlight beaming onto her face, coaxing her to meet the day, and with the aid of a few stretching yawns, she joined us at the kitchen table. She had always been intuitive, even as a child, and I wondered if she'd pick up any vibes Maggie and I may have been emitting. I found such speculation useless, though, and dismissed the thought. My top priority was to set a positive tone for the day. I wanted Jenny to tell me about her impending motherhood, but thought it better to cheer her first. We needed to plan something for the day--not simply go out to eat or go to the park--but do something memorable and lasting. Maggie and I talked it over while Jen went upstairs to shower. We came up with a scenario we knew Jenny would dig, and with it, she would learn something about her parents.
A half hour later she came back into the kitchen. "What's up, kids?" she asked. She had a cool way of phrasing things. She always had. Yet, though I loved her and her mother equally, and for as cool as she was, it was one thing she didn't have over her mother. I thought back to a recent quote from a Detroit author, Tom McGuane, who said we were the only generation to be cooler than our kids. Jenny was a product of her times; we were children of the sixties. And as my mind imaged back to 1969, there was no one cooler than my Maggie. Jenny pulled out a chair and sat next to me.
"We have an outing planned," Maggie told her.
"Humph, interesting. What kind of outing?" Jen prodded.
"It's a wait-and-see outing," I answered.
"What am I...eleven again?"
"For the day you are," Maggie teased.
Jenny rediscovered her eleven year-old pout as I got up and fixed breakfast for her while Maggie made sandwiches for the afternoon. When Maggie went upstairs to change into jeans, I said, "No crying today, you hear?"
"But Dad..." she started.
"You can cry Sunday if you want, but today will be all about good times and good memories."
She reluctantly agreed, and I could tell she was fighting off her sadness. Again I thought back to when she accompanied me on the sojourn from Denver to Virginia. Her advice back then had been solid, and at times she seemed more like my peer than my daughter. Yet, I could see the effect this weekend could have on her if not steered properly. Just as I needed her to be an adult back then, she needed me to be a father now. Thoughts veered back to my emotions--how the events of the night were skewing my own reality. I would have to guard myself from retrograding to an unachievable and Pollyannish paradigm.
By noon we were in Maggie's vehicle and heading toward the neighborhood where she and I were raised. It was a neighborhood I hadn't seen in over ten years. Memories, vivid and multicolored, splashed my mind as we entered this time portal. They ranged from my youth, to age eleven when Maggie's family moved in, to our early adolescent crush, to consummated love, to days of drug experimentation, and finally to a commitment which took us from our homes and into a mutual life, filled with rounding curves which only now had formed themselves back into a circle. Maggie drove directly to Riverfront Park. I grabbed the picnic basket and a grocery bag while Maggie grabbed a blanket, and I led us down the old trail, now less used and overgrown with underbrush. We fought through the saplings until we reached the wading pool. The disbursement of shadow-altered sunlight seemed to restore Maggie's graying hair to brunette and made her skin appear free of age. We found a flat patch of earth and the three of us spread out the blanket.
The river flowed into the pool and carried with it the sound of life. As we sat, I recalled the farewell advice my father had bestowed upon me. Yet, he was a more straightforward man; I preferred a deliberate approach.
Maggie set the stage, strengthening our daughter by exposing our own weaknesses. "This is where your dad proposed to me, you know." Jenny looked around and grinned. She had heard of the setting, but had never been to this place. Maggie continued with Jenny, talking with her in an adult-to-adult manner I had never witnessed. "We both were using drugs in the late sixties," she began, staring ahead as she spoke. "I was the first, just grass, but then your father followed. Only he didn't stay there." She looked at me and I gave her a quick nod. "Soon he was doing everything short of heroin: reds, ludes, acid...then one night it all came to a head. I was ready to leave him. That's when Hakim, David as we knew him then, stepped in. I think he was the only one who had a chance of getting through to George."
Maggie paused and I took the baton. "David was not only my best friend, but was from a military family. I had fallen into the bonfire while tripping, and while everyone else laughed, your mother had had enough. David brought me to his house from the beach, telling the others to bring your mother back to her house. Once we got upstairs he grabbed me by the back of my shirt and stood me up to a fell-length mirror. He made me look at myself until I saw what he saw. Then he turned back into the gentle guy he was and sent me to the shower while he made something for me to eat. He poured coffee in me until around five in the morning..."
"And he gave you some of his clothes."
"Yes, I forgot about that. Mine were stained with soot from the fire pit. He had some waiting for me when I got out of the shower. I walked home, but stayed outside to watch the sunrise. I knew then and there I had to change, and I was ready. Your mother was at my side when I awoke that afternoon. I felt shitty, but invigorated--if that makes any sense."
Jenny nodded several times. She was listening intently as she learned of things she wouldn't have imagined.
"I brought your mother down here. From the moment I saw her at my side, after all that we had been through, I knew what I was going to do. We undressed and skinny dipped into the pool." I laughed. "Your mother was a bit sheepish about it, but I talked her into it. Anyway, while we were in the pool, I promised her I would stay clean. Then I asked her to marry me. She said yes and we made love in the water. In a way, I felt we owned this pool after that, and it remains sacrosanct to me to this day."
I looked at Maggie. We had the same look we had worn that day, and the same look we shared last night. I know Jenny saw it and she kidded, "Should I go to the car for a while? Listen to the radio or something?"
I love-smacked her lightly on the head.
"Crazy hippies," she laughed and drew the three of us into an embrace.
"It's good to be home," I said. Thanks to both of you."
We finished stayed at the river until the first signs of twilight, then went for another ride, revisiting old sights and hangouts. We ate at a restaurant and went to the cinema for a flick. On the way back to the house, Jenny talked more about her pregnancy. I was so proud and so happy. By the time we got home it was nearly nine. Jenny was tired and just entering her second trimester, and Maggie told her she should call it a night and get her rest. Then, once again, Maggie and I went up to her room.
*****
A half hour later she came back into the kitchen. "What's up, kids?" she asked. She had a cool way of phrasing things. She always had. Yet, though I loved her and her mother equally, and for as cool as she was, it was one thing she didn't have over her mother. I thought back to a recent quote from a Detroit author, Tom McGuane, who said we were the only generation to be cooler than our kids. Jenny was a product of her times; we were children of the sixties. And as my mind imaged back to 1969, there was no one cooler than my Maggie. Jenny pulled out a chair and sat next to me.
"We have an outing planned," Maggie told her.
"Humph, interesting. What kind of outing?" Jen prodded.
"It's a wait-and-see outing," I answered.
"What am I...eleven again?"
"For the day you are," Maggie teased.
Jenny rediscovered her eleven year-old pout as I got up and fixed breakfast for her while Maggie made sandwiches for the afternoon. When Maggie went upstairs to change into jeans, I said, "No crying today, you hear?"
"But Dad..." she started.
"You can cry Sunday if you want, but today will be all about good times and good memories."
She reluctantly agreed, and I could tell she was fighting off her sadness. Again I thought back to when she accompanied me on the sojourn from Denver to Virginia. Her advice back then had been solid, and at times she seemed more like my peer than my daughter. Yet, I could see the effect this weekend could have on her if not steered properly. Just as I needed her to be an adult back then, she needed me to be a father now. Thoughts veered back to my emotions--how the events of the night were skewing my own reality. I would have to guard myself from retrograding to an unachievable and Pollyannish paradigm.
By noon we were in Maggie's vehicle and heading toward the neighborhood where she and I were raised. It was a neighborhood I hadn't seen in over ten years. Memories, vivid and multicolored, splashed my mind as we entered this time portal. They ranged from my youth, to age eleven when Maggie's family moved in, to our early adolescent crush, to consummated love, to days of drug experimentation, and finally to a commitment which took us from our homes and into a mutual life, filled with rounding curves which only now had formed themselves back into a circle. Maggie drove directly to Riverfront Park. I grabbed the picnic basket and a grocery bag while Maggie grabbed a blanket, and I led us down the old trail, now less used and overgrown with underbrush. We fought through the saplings until we reached the wading pool. The disbursement of shadow-altered sunlight seemed to restore Maggie's graying hair to brunette and made her skin appear free of age. We found a flat patch of earth and the three of us spread out the blanket.
The river flowed into the pool and carried with it the sound of life. As we sat, I recalled the farewell advice my father had bestowed upon me. Yet, he was a more straightforward man; I preferred a deliberate approach.
Maggie set the stage, strengthening our daughter by exposing our own weaknesses. "This is where your dad proposed to me, you know." Jenny looked around and grinned. She had heard of the setting, but had never been to this place. Maggie continued with Jenny, talking with her in an adult-to-adult manner I had never witnessed. "We both were using drugs in the late sixties," she began, staring ahead as she spoke. "I was the first, just grass, but then your father followed. Only he didn't stay there." She looked at me and I gave her a quick nod. "Soon he was doing everything short of heroin: reds, ludes, acid...then one night it all came to a head. I was ready to leave him. That's when Hakim, David as we knew him then, stepped in. I think he was the only one who had a chance of getting through to George."
Maggie paused and I took the baton. "David was not only my best friend, but was from a military family. I had fallen into the bonfire while tripping, and while everyone else laughed, your mother had had enough. David brought me to his house from the beach, telling the others to bring your mother back to her house. Once we got upstairs he grabbed me by the back of my shirt and stood me up to a fell-length mirror. He made me look at myself until I saw what he saw. Then he turned back into the gentle guy he was and sent me to the shower while he made something for me to eat. He poured coffee in me until around five in the morning..."
"And he gave you some of his clothes."
"Yes, I forgot about that. Mine were stained with soot from the fire pit. He had some waiting for me when I got out of the shower. I walked home, but stayed outside to watch the sunrise. I knew then and there I had to change, and I was ready. Your mother was at my side when I awoke that afternoon. I felt shitty, but invigorated--if that makes any sense."
Jenny nodded several times. She was listening intently as she learned of things she wouldn't have imagined.
"I brought your mother down here. From the moment I saw her at my side, after all that we had been through, I knew what I was going to do. We undressed and skinny dipped into the pool." I laughed. "Your mother was a bit sheepish about it, but I talked her into it. Anyway, while we were in the pool, I promised her I would stay clean. Then I asked her to marry me. She said yes and we made love in the water. In a way, I felt we owned this pool after that, and it remains sacrosanct to me to this day."
I looked at Maggie. We had the same look we had worn that day, and the same look we shared last night. I know Jenny saw it and she kidded, "Should I go to the car for a while? Listen to the radio or something?"
I love-smacked her lightly on the head.
"Crazy hippies," she laughed and drew the three of us into an embrace.
"It's good to be home," I said. Thanks to both of you."
We finished stayed at the river until the first signs of twilight, then went for another ride, revisiting old sights and hangouts. We ate at a restaurant and went to the cinema for a flick. On the way back to the house, Jenny talked more about her pregnancy. I was so proud and so happy. By the time we got home it was nearly nine. Jenny was tired and just entering her second trimester, and Maggie told her she should call it a night and get her rest. Then, once again, Maggie and I went up to her room.
*****
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cracking thunder and stinging chest pains took me from sleep to the edge of Maggie's bed. I looked at her clock; it said 3:37. A slight panic came upon me. I didn't want to die here and now. Any day after I returned to Idaho would be fine, but I was enjoying the contentment the weekend was bringing. I saw the wall illuminate, followed by another heavenly roar. The rain followed seconds later. It was an instant downpour; nothing gradual in its buildup. I knew it was best to lay back down until the angina dissipated. I had pushed myself Friday like I hadn't in some time, and I thought about those commercials where they say, "Make sure your doctor tells you you're healthy enough for sex." Twenty minutes passed before the pain went away. I looked at Maggie. She still looked angelic when she slept. Then, as I had the night before, I returned to Jenny's old room to finish the sleep-night.
I thought the rain would have stopped by morning, but as I pulled back the curtain, the sky had the look of a daylong drizzle. Perhaps it was just as well. I knew I needed to slow down. Plus, it may be better to go through all the tough topics today. Saying goodbye would make Sunday difficult enough. As soon as the thought of Sunday entered my mind, the magnitude of finality began to hit. I swore without speaking. I never wanted to say goodbye to my wife and daughter and I prayed to God that He was real. I didn't want to be the first one up, waiting alone for whomever would rise next, so I stayed in bed until I heard the television.
Jenny was sitting on the couch with her blankets pulled back diagonally. I sat down, put my arm around her, and we watched TV without saying a word. It wasn't until I heard Maggie stir that I spoke. "I want you to be..." I redirected. "I need you to be ready for today, honey. It may be a little tough." I gauged her before continuing. She was all right. "I want you to do anything you must to protect this little one here," I said as I gave her belly a slight rub, "and if that means you need to step away, then step away."
She seemed much calmer today, and more mature. I think between my visit to Oregon and the events of the last day and a half, along with any realizations she had in her moments alone, she had begun to condition herself. I heard Maggie talking on her phone. I imagined she must be talking to Tom, and I wondered if she felt at all guilty. Suddenly, I really wanted to know if she felt guilty; yet, I heeded my words to Jenny and focused upon what was needed, not wanted.
We all began fixing breakfast together when Maggie came down. It made the morning seem normal. It felt as though Maggie and I had been together all along, and our thirty-one year old daughter had simply come for a visit. When we finished eating I told Maggs it would be a good day to take care of business. She balked at first, then suggested I go through the easiest of the hard stuff until noon, and cover the rest after two o'clock. I wondered why the two-hour window, but didn't think too much of it. The girls went into the living room while I went upstairs and pulled two manila envelopes from my suitcase; one marked Maggie, and the other, Jenny. We took our time going through the memorabilia--especially the photographs--and each one brought colorful moments. I made sure not to mix the contents of the envelopes, and when Maggie handed the latter one back to me, the first reality of how my death would be was realized. I looked at the names, then passed them back. "This one's for you," I said to Jenny, "and this one's for you, Maggie." There was silence. They understood the process had begun.
We took a break from our emotions. Shortly after the clock rang noon, so did the doorbell. Maggie went to get up, but grabbed her back and moaned. "George, can you get that for me?" she asked.
"Sure...you okay?"
"Yes, it's minor. I pulled something last week. I'll be fine in a minute."
I went to the door and shook my head as I opened it. She had set it up well. I grinned broadly. "David!" I exclaimed, and we wrapped ourselves into a hug. "Zoe!" I hugged her, too. "And who do we have here?" I asked, directing my question to a boy of about seven and a girl who looked to be around four.
"George, you're looking well," Hakim said. "And these two are Michael and Mia."
I shook both their little hands and motioned everyone to the living room. Maggie was so smooth, calling David from upstairs and telling Jenny to take her bedding from the couch and bring it to the laundry room. My smile to her was as broad as it was toward David. I thought of how his kids may not know who David is, and thought it proper to call him by the tribal name he chose to use, anyway. "So Hakim," I looked at his two little ones, "darn-it, how have you been? We were just mentioning you to Jenny last night."
He looked at her, "Jenny, how are you, sweetheart? And don't you believe a word he said about me." He laughed a deep and hearty African-American laugh. It was a laugh which had always been infectious, and we all felt at ease. They stayed an hour, and we talked about much of what we had talked about the evening before, only throwing in a few forgotten memories which can only interaction can prompt. And the end of the hour, everyone said goodbye to one another inside, except for Hakim and I, who went out to the porch. I said my farewell to him in a uncensored way that I wouldn't be able to do with my girls.
"So this is what a final goodbye is like," I said to him. "This is what death is like."
"No, George...this is what the beginning of forever is like." And he hugged me and patted my back, then smiled. "Peace be with you, my friend."
I took a nap that afternoon, and when I woke up I resumed the conversation with Maggie and Jen. I handed my daughter my life insurance policy and told her to keep it in a safe place. When Maggie and I were alone, I asked about having a burial plot with her eventually laying at rest next to me. I could tell it was a subject she hadn't considered, and it reaffirmed the love she had for me, as well as my hunch about the state of her marriage to Tom, when she agreed.
Sunday came much too quickly. Even in the morning, I was overwhelmed by everything coming to a close. Yet, my best friend, David, now known as Hakim, had given me the words which would become my mantra. And they were the words I shared at the airport after I held Maggie and then Jenny in long, crying, eye-wiping embraces. I stepped back and looked at both of them, soaking in the last moments, and then said, "This is what the beginning of forever is like." And I turned and went to board my plane.
*****
I thought the rain would have stopped by morning, but as I pulled back the curtain, the sky had the look of a daylong drizzle. Perhaps it was just as well. I knew I needed to slow down. Plus, it may be better to go through all the tough topics today. Saying goodbye would make Sunday difficult enough. As soon as the thought of Sunday entered my mind, the magnitude of finality began to hit. I swore without speaking. I never wanted to say goodbye to my wife and daughter and I prayed to God that He was real. I didn't want to be the first one up, waiting alone for whomever would rise next, so I stayed in bed until I heard the television.
Jenny was sitting on the couch with her blankets pulled back diagonally. I sat down, put my arm around her, and we watched TV without saying a word. It wasn't until I heard Maggie stir that I spoke. "I want you to be..." I redirected. "I need you to be ready for today, honey. It may be a little tough." I gauged her before continuing. She was all right. "I want you to do anything you must to protect this little one here," I said as I gave her belly a slight rub, "and if that means you need to step away, then step away."
She seemed much calmer today, and more mature. I think between my visit to Oregon and the events of the last day and a half, along with any realizations she had in her moments alone, she had begun to condition herself. I heard Maggie talking on her phone. I imagined she must be talking to Tom, and I wondered if she felt at all guilty. Suddenly, I really wanted to know if she felt guilty; yet, I heeded my words to Jenny and focused upon what was needed, not wanted.
We all began fixing breakfast together when Maggie came down. It made the morning seem normal. It felt as though Maggie and I had been together all along, and our thirty-one year old daughter had simply come for a visit. When we finished eating I told Maggs it would be a good day to take care of business. She balked at first, then suggested I go through the easiest of the hard stuff until noon, and cover the rest after two o'clock. I wondered why the two-hour window, but didn't think too much of it. The girls went into the living room while I went upstairs and pulled two manila envelopes from my suitcase; one marked Maggie, and the other, Jenny. We took our time going through the memorabilia--especially the photographs--and each one brought colorful moments. I made sure not to mix the contents of the envelopes, and when Maggie handed the latter one back to me, the first reality of how my death would be was realized. I looked at the names, then passed them back. "This one's for you," I said to Jenny, "and this one's for you, Maggie." There was silence. They understood the process had begun.
We took a break from our emotions. Shortly after the clock rang noon, so did the doorbell. Maggie went to get up, but grabbed her back and moaned. "George, can you get that for me?" she asked.
"Sure...you okay?"
"Yes, it's minor. I pulled something last week. I'll be fine in a minute."
I went to the door and shook my head as I opened it. She had set it up well. I grinned broadly. "David!" I exclaimed, and we wrapped ourselves into a hug. "Zoe!" I hugged her, too. "And who do we have here?" I asked, directing my question to a boy of about seven and a girl who looked to be around four.
"George, you're looking well," Hakim said. "And these two are Michael and Mia."
I shook both their little hands and motioned everyone to the living room. Maggie was so smooth, calling David from upstairs and telling Jenny to take her bedding from the couch and bring it to the laundry room. My smile to her was as broad as it was toward David. I thought of how his kids may not know who David is, and thought it proper to call him by the tribal name he chose to use, anyway. "So Hakim," I looked at his two little ones, "darn-it, how have you been? We were just mentioning you to Jenny last night."
He looked at her, "Jenny, how are you, sweetheart? And don't you believe a word he said about me." He laughed a deep and hearty African-American laugh. It was a laugh which had always been infectious, and we all felt at ease. They stayed an hour, and we talked about much of what we had talked about the evening before, only throwing in a few forgotten memories which can only interaction can prompt. And the end of the hour, everyone said goodbye to one another inside, except for Hakim and I, who went out to the porch. I said my farewell to him in a uncensored way that I wouldn't be able to do with my girls.
"So this is what a final goodbye is like," I said to him. "This is what death is like."
"No, George...this is what the beginning of forever is like." And he hugged me and patted my back, then smiled. "Peace be with you, my friend."
I took a nap that afternoon, and when I woke up I resumed the conversation with Maggie and Jen. I handed my daughter my life insurance policy and told her to keep it in a safe place. When Maggie and I were alone, I asked about having a burial plot with her eventually laying at rest next to me. I could tell it was a subject she hadn't considered, and it reaffirmed the love she had for me, as well as my hunch about the state of her marriage to Tom, when she agreed.
Sunday came much too quickly. Even in the morning, I was overwhelmed by everything coming to a close. Yet, my best friend, David, now known as Hakim, had given me the words which would become my mantra. And they were the words I shared at the airport after I held Maggie and then Jenny in long, crying, eye-wiping embraces. I stepped back and looked at both of them, soaking in the last moments, and then said, "This is what the beginning of forever is like." And I turned and went to board my plane.
*****
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I remember, when I was young, how long it took for a year to pass. One year until I'd get my driver's license, one year until graduation--it didn't matter what the occasion was, a year was simply too long to wait. When I was in my teens, time toyed with me as it passed lazily. I wanted to be an adult and do what adults did, but I had to wait out a seemingly unending series of yearlong periods. Time can be quite the jokester when it chooses. It can shape and bend itself, and belie the exactness in which it is purported. Now, as time has passed, the year which once seemed like an eternity has passed as quickly as a month, leaving me pondering the perplexity of our eternal foe.
By October my breath was getting short, the chest pains were more intense and frequent, and I knew the end wasn't far away. I had resumed the slide show of life flashing before my eyes, but in a less contemplative and more abstract sense. They were not in chronological order anymore, but a random stream of thoughts flowing through my brain like flickering lights. When I returned from Virginia, I resumed the habit I had conquered nearly ten years earlier. Now, I snatched one of the why-the-hell-not cigarettes and went out to the porch. The smoke had a soothing effect and helped me focus. I wondered if the pre-death flashes were a natural purification; a chance to come to terms with all thought--be it perception or reality. I stopped thinking and just stood, watching, spotting mid-air leaves, autumn-turned in color, drop silently to the forest floor. I went in and grabbed a second cigarette and came back out. The breeze had stilled and the sun shone pleasantly as I squinted into the wilderness ahead of me. As I took another hit, I realize I was doing the same thing Bob had done last spring; only supplanting a cold metal projectile through the head with nicotine to constrict my already compromised vascular system. I preferred my way though. No stigma was attached and it didn't have the immediacy.
The weeks which followed removed any uncertainty I had about being ready. Mid autumn had turned to late autumn, mountain flowers had relinquished themselves to the following spring, and in the usual oddity of a paradox, the seasonal dying of the forest pacified me. My health was now deteriorating rapidly. Intrinsically, I knew I wouldn't make it through the week. I exhaled in resignation, then labored to the chair by the fireplace, collapsed into it and went into an introspective mode. I thought in more detail of what was about to come. I thought of how the year I was promised had shortened itself into eight months. And with time closing in, the weeks which composed those months were turning into hours. Soon, I had fallen asleep; tired by my thoughts and the warmth of a fire which would turn to embers by the time I woke. I slowly pushed myself up and went into the kitchen. I was struggling now, and I got a little choked up when I realized the walk I had taken earlier in the day, when I went down to the creek, had been my last. I wished I would have realized it then, but it brought an awareness to appreciate everything else I would be doing--all the last-times I'd be experiencing.
It was time to make the final calls. I phoned Jen first. I told her to be prepared because the time was near. I told her how much I loved her and what joy she had brought me every day since she was born. I asked how she was feeling, and told her she had a duty as a soon-to-be mother to guard her emotions. I told her how much I enjoyed seeing her in Virginia. Then, once again, I told her I loved her. I did not say goodbye.
When I hung up I gave myself five minutes to stop crying, then I called Maggie. I was more direct with her, saying I doubted I would make it through the night, and if I did; certainly not the next night. I gave her the number of the cabin's owner so she would recognize it when he called. I told her how no one ever did nor ever could measure up to her. I told her how good it felt to have shared love with her once again. I thanked her for all the memories through all the years. Again, I would not say goodbye. My goodbye was telling her I would love her always.
I called the owner of the cabin. I had never told him my condition. Now, I asked him to stop by each of the next three mornings. I cautioned him of what I expected him to find. I gave him Maggie's number, asked him to repeat it to me, asked him to assure me he'd put it someplace where he wouldn't lose it. I knew he wouldn't, but it was the time for certainty. He expressed his sorrow and promised he would fulfill both requests.
I wanted to go outside. I struggled to put my jacket on and went out to the porch. I was down to perhaps my last observation of the splendor which surrounded this cottage. I went out and leaned against the wooden railing. As I looked out at nature I thought, "Right now you are a part of this. You are alive." That was my solace; be it solitary and short. I reached into my pocket, and with shaking hands, I pulled a cigarette out of the pack. I inhaled the temptress I had missed so much over the last decade, then exhaled as best I could. I watched a chipmunk scurry from the underbrush to the base of the porch, then back to the brush. With autumn nearing its end, he'd continue filling his underground pantry as soon as I was out of sight; stockpiling for the oncoming winter. A mountain bluebird sang its final song of the evening as an eagle circled the high sky. I took a long, deep hit, and simultaneously felt pleasured and weakened. The soft wind whistling through the conifers felt good against my face, and the clean, fragrant scent melded delectably with my tobacco. I thought back to the chipmunk. Such an insignificant little creature, perhaps one three-hundredth of my body weight, yet, minus the intervention of the circling eagle, it was certain to outlive me. I pondered my labeling of the creature and wondered which of us was more insignificant in the wider scope of nature. I sat on the step and smoked one more cigarette. Then I went to bed.
I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep. I envisioned a squadron of planes advancing toward a military base. Their numbers grew with each passing second and soon filled my field of vision from where I stood to the horizon. I saw the projectiles release and drift peacefully to the earth; their graceful image betrayed by the thunderous ground shaking which, one by one, resonated across the land and into my battered body, and with each delivery my bones hurt and my breath shortened. I awoke with a crushing pain in my chest. I fought it for a moment, then relaxed and closed my eyes and the bombing ceased.
*****
By October my breath was getting short, the chest pains were more intense and frequent, and I knew the end wasn't far away. I had resumed the slide show of life flashing before my eyes, but in a less contemplative and more abstract sense. They were not in chronological order anymore, but a random stream of thoughts flowing through my brain like flickering lights. When I returned from Virginia, I resumed the habit I had conquered nearly ten years earlier. Now, I snatched one of the why-the-hell-not cigarettes and went out to the porch. The smoke had a soothing effect and helped me focus. I wondered if the pre-death flashes were a natural purification; a chance to come to terms with all thought--be it perception or reality. I stopped thinking and just stood, watching, spotting mid-air leaves, autumn-turned in color, drop silently to the forest floor. I went in and grabbed a second cigarette and came back out. The breeze had stilled and the sun shone pleasantly as I squinted into the wilderness ahead of me. As I took another hit, I realize I was doing the same thing Bob had done last spring; only supplanting a cold metal projectile through the head with nicotine to constrict my already compromised vascular system. I preferred my way though. No stigma was attached and it didn't have the immediacy.
The weeks which followed removed any uncertainty I had about being ready. Mid autumn had turned to late autumn, mountain flowers had relinquished themselves to the following spring, and in the usual oddity of a paradox, the seasonal dying of the forest pacified me. My health was now deteriorating rapidly. Intrinsically, I knew I wouldn't make it through the week. I exhaled in resignation, then labored to the chair by the fireplace, collapsed into it and went into an introspective mode. I thought in more detail of what was about to come. I thought of how the year I was promised had shortened itself into eight months. And with time closing in, the weeks which composed those months were turning into hours. Soon, I had fallen asleep; tired by my thoughts and the warmth of a fire which would turn to embers by the time I woke. I slowly pushed myself up and went into the kitchen. I was struggling now, and I got a little choked up when I realized the walk I had taken earlier in the day, when I went down to the creek, had been my last. I wished I would have realized it then, but it brought an awareness to appreciate everything else I would be doing--all the last-times I'd be experiencing.
It was time to make the final calls. I phoned Jen first. I told her to be prepared because the time was near. I told her how much I loved her and what joy she had brought me every day since she was born. I asked how she was feeling, and told her she had a duty as a soon-to-be mother to guard her emotions. I told her how much I enjoyed seeing her in Virginia. Then, once again, I told her I loved her. I did not say goodbye.
When I hung up I gave myself five minutes to stop crying, then I called Maggie. I was more direct with her, saying I doubted I would make it through the night, and if I did; certainly not the next night. I gave her the number of the cabin's owner so she would recognize it when he called. I told her how no one ever did nor ever could measure up to her. I told her how good it felt to have shared love with her once again. I thanked her for all the memories through all the years. Again, I would not say goodbye. My goodbye was telling her I would love her always.
I called the owner of the cabin. I had never told him my condition. Now, I asked him to stop by each of the next three mornings. I cautioned him of what I expected him to find. I gave him Maggie's number, asked him to repeat it to me, asked him to assure me he'd put it someplace where he wouldn't lose it. I knew he wouldn't, but it was the time for certainty. He expressed his sorrow and promised he would fulfill both requests.
I wanted to go outside. I struggled to put my jacket on and went out to the porch. I was down to perhaps my last observation of the splendor which surrounded this cottage. I went out and leaned against the wooden railing. As I looked out at nature I thought, "Right now you are a part of this. You are alive." That was my solace; be it solitary and short. I reached into my pocket, and with shaking hands, I pulled a cigarette out of the pack. I inhaled the temptress I had missed so much over the last decade, then exhaled as best I could. I watched a chipmunk scurry from the underbrush to the base of the porch, then back to the brush. With autumn nearing its end, he'd continue filling his underground pantry as soon as I was out of sight; stockpiling for the oncoming winter. A mountain bluebird sang its final song of the evening as an eagle circled the high sky. I took a long, deep hit, and simultaneously felt pleasured and weakened. The soft wind whistling through the conifers felt good against my face, and the clean, fragrant scent melded delectably with my tobacco. I thought back to the chipmunk. Such an insignificant little creature, perhaps one three-hundredth of my body weight, yet, minus the intervention of the circling eagle, it was certain to outlive me. I pondered my labeling of the creature and wondered which of us was more insignificant in the wider scope of nature. I sat on the step and smoked one more cigarette. Then I went to bed.
I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep. I envisioned a squadron of planes advancing toward a military base. Their numbers grew with each passing second and soon filled my field of vision from where I stood to the horizon. I saw the projectiles release and drift peacefully to the earth; their graceful image betrayed by the thunderous ground shaking which, one by one, resonated across the land and into my battered body, and with each delivery my bones hurt and my breath shortened. I awoke with a crushing pain in my chest. I fought it for a moment, then relaxed and closed my eyes and the bombing ceased.
*****
Photos added on: 13 November 2011 (J, this occurs without your permission, I'm sorry. Please do not be angry. I like the little fingers ... 
)
J, I'm sorry, I did not get to say goodbye to you. But I've fulfilled my wishes to myself about you. If only the fingers did not have time to shake hands, and our eyes could not meet each other, if there were words stringing the lies, the sad imprint steps, a heart full of prejudice, I'm sorry.
*****
(CZ-The third week of March 2011)
)
*****
(CZ-The third week of March 2011)
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