Ghost Eyes
The end of the day. An entire day of work and she proudly walks out of the police station with neatly tied brunette hair, carrying as much energy as when she went in. Melissa was always like that, when she loves something, nothing can make her bored of it, not even for a second. I do wish she loved more things like she does her work. She never admitted that she concealed a hatred for her last job. I’m happy I could give her this gift- I know she only joined the academy due to my death.
She never left my sight since that day- well, that’s not completely true- I do also look after my other special girl. Tomorrow is her first school day. I'll have to keep an eye on her. I know how hard the first day can be. Melissa knows it too, she has been drowning in stress for a week; the first thing she took out of her locker was a pack of gum and chewed them all like it was her first meal of the day. It doesn't take long for them to lose their bland taste. Eventually, she checks on our girl as she pulls out her phone on the way to the parking lot.
"Hi Mum," her voice is usually quite deep to assert dominance, but she never puts on that facade with family. "How's everything? Is she nervous for tomorrow?"
"Everything's lovely." Maybe because I'm from a rural part of England to me her mum- Eleanor- always seemed to have a sort of 'posh' British accent. "We've been playing games, like match the cards. I'm knackered, she's giving me quite the struggle. She will be the student with the best memory in her year."
"To be fair Mum, how hard can it be to win against a sixty-year-old?" While she takes out her car keys, I see something move inside her car- the arm of a man- hidden behind the driver's seat. "Ok Mum, could you please pass it to Ellie."
"Hi Ma'!"
"Hi, Sweetheart." The sound of the door closing brought a flinch upon him. "Are you nervous for tomorrow?" I get a glimpse of the man's knife as he slowly pulls it out of his pocket.
"No, Nan says I'll be the most smart girl of the school."
"Yes, ya' will be!" She casually puts the keys in the ignition and turns on the engine.
"Nan's saying fo' you not to talk with me when you're drivin'."
"I'm not." She laughs, and the man stands a bit straighter.
"She sayn' she can hear the vrrm vrrm."
"Ok, fine. I'll see ya' at home darling. Bey, Sweetie."
She hangs up the call and looks up to the mirror to see the man quickly trapping her hair with his big bear hands, as she tries to open the door, but he's able to bring both her arms above her head and holds them with one hand while bringing the knife to her throat.
"You scream and I'll kill you." He cut off her shirt with the knife, she tries to fight it and the bastard brings back the knife to her throat. "Don't move, b*tch." As he pulls his hand, she bends forward and bites his hand deep, her teeth scratch his bone and disarm him. The knife tumbles next to the seat. He stiffly moves forward as he tries to reach the lost blade, she frees her arms and grabs his shirt by the chest and hits him- head to head. He gets dizzy from the hit and again she attempts an escape, but his fist strikes her face, and again. I try to give her strength. It's the only thing I can do. He grabs her throat with both hands. "I can't trust you now!" She tries to reach the knife next to the seat but it's too far. She won't reach it! She can't even see it, I try to tell her: more left, further, further! She's almost there. "Now you have to die."
With a struggle, she finds strength to say what could be her dying words: "You too." She immediately engages the gear and moves the car briskly through the park and crashes into a street light- they both fly out of the window!
Their bodies just lay there, dying the floor red. I know she's alive. Her soul has not yet joined me, neither has his- I will personally escort him to Hell if need be. Now, I can only wait and hope that someone will hear the silence of my cry for help.
*
The voices around me are dead whispers failing to arouse my attention, my only focus is on her face, illuminated by the light of the young morning. She's resting so peacefully, being purified by the whiteness of the blanket embracing her.
Please, don't give up, you're going to be alright! I won't leave you until you 're awake. Remember? 'Until death do us apart.' Not even then.
"It seems someone is waking up," said the Doctor as she gets closer to the next bed, where He rests. "No, sir, don't get up yet. You need to rest."
"Where am I?"
"You're in a Hospital, sir. Can you tell me your name?"
"Ralph. My name is Ralph."
She then proceeded to ask several questions about his identity and what happened.
"Sir, do you remember what happened last night?" Ralph's eyes rapidly searched the room, he tries to contain his grin in seeing Melissa sleeping next to him.
"Yes, me and my girlfriend were... having fun, you know? And she accidentally stepped on the throttle."
"Your girlfriend?" Says an old man in a bed in front of him. "Aren't too old for her? What are you? 50?"
"Mr Johnson, please."
Ralph looks around the room to see who else is in it- just a nurse on her way out.
"I apologise for him. I should also inform you that we contacted Miss Campbell's mother, she said she's coming today."
I can hear his cracking voice whispering "Miss" and then responding "Oh... That's good to hear. Hum... could I be left alone with my girlfriend? This was very emotional and I want to... express myself." He starts getting up.
"No, no, sir. You need to rest, please, just relax, we'll take care of her..." A beeping sound interrupts her. "I have to leave, please, just rest." Not even a second after her disappearance into the empty corridor and Ralph starts getting up.
"What are you doin', you inbred?" Said the old man "Get back to bed. A kiss ain't wakin' her up- she ain't sleeping beauty."
"What would you know about waking things up with your old m*nge." He closes the curtains around Melissa's bed and cautiously pulls the pillow from where her head lays.
I reach her pale hand and try to imagine the smoothness of her skin, with a desire for her soul to hear my words: 'Seeing your beauty everyday suppresses my grief, not the beauty of your now grey eyes or of your tender hair, but the beauty I fell in love with- your passion and fighting spirit. You're not going to let it end like this. You're going to fight for justice, you're going to fight for you, you're going to fight for your daughter!' I believe my words were heard as I see her fingers twitching as if sparks of energy were running through her arm.
Ralph holds the pillow near to her face, the whiteness of the pillow swallows her nose. The sound of the curtains being pulled banishes the deadly white cloud from her skin.
"I was just fluffing her pillow!"
"Hello Mr Hancock," Said an old doctor with a frown sharply carved in his mouth, "Having women problems again, I see. Please go back to your bed. You know, most people I meet are very forgettable, even when they're dying they can be very monotonous; but you and your idiocy will always persevere in my memories. Please go to bed." Ralph finally complied. "Just last week I was laughing about your situation." He gives a mocking smile. "First, you're mysteriously stapled in the genitals and now, you had a car crash while trying to be 'playful'." A group of nurses comes in and starts taking Melissa's bed away.
"Hey! What are you doing?"
"Calm down, Mr Hancock. We're just taking her away to ask her a few questions about what happened when she wakes up- it was my suggestion."
"I told you what happened!"
"I have no right to doubt you, but seeing that you're on the sex offenders register and how last time your story was... dubious, to say the least... I find it better if no misleading factors influence her memory, to gather the best recall of what happened." Ralph stands up again. "Mr Hancock, go back to bed!" Says the doctor while blocking Ralph's way to her bed.
"This is not your job! You can't do this!... Hey! She's waking up." He pushes the doctor out of the way and grabs the bed.
"Where am I?"
"You're in a hospital, Miss Campbell, we're just going to take you away to ask you a few questions. Actually, can you tell me if you do know this man?" He leans forward to hear the answer while Ralph tries to pull his head away from her view.
"Miss who?" She asked- leaving the room in complete silence, soon interrupted by the doctor.
"Do you not recall your name?" She shook her head. "Can you recall anything about yourself? Address, family, friends..." She repeated her answer.
Ralph leans forward and caresses her cheek. "Don't worry, I'm here. I'll help you remember, sweetheart."
This Is Where We Are
It is 6am in northeast Portland and my father is complaining about old people.
At eighty-one, my father complains about everything.
Tattoos, strangers, yogurt. Life annoys him.
The rest of the family has given up, preferring to stay out of his cross hairs.
This requires effort since he takes aim at everyone.
For decades, I stayed away, worn down from being insulted in the driveway.
Now I visit five or six times a year. Never for more than a day or two.
We know our limits.
I am an only child. He is alone. This is where we are.
“The way they drive,” he says as I make coffee. “They go too slow.”
My father drives ten miles an hour in a 1987 Ford pick-up truck. It has dual tanks and a gun rack. The rack is empty now but could easily be filled with a threat. To get in the vehicle, I have to hoist myself in and up, grunting like I am birthing a hernia.
My father slides into the driver’s seat without a struggle.
The steering wheel is molded out of oil and anger. The interior is flattened plaid, black bleeding into blue like a manufactured bruise. The dashboard is smooth. The cab is clean. My father puts on ski gloves because “the controls can get sticky."
Underneath the passenger’s seat is a sawed-off axe handle.
My father says it’s for people who ask too many questions.
When my father creeps through the street, drivers honk and swerve.
Strangers give him the finger. My father ignores the gesture.
When I tell him he should go faster—there is a minimum speed limit after all—he guns the truck through the intersection before pumping the brakes to slow back down to his preferred speed.
“Paid cash for this,” he says to anyone who compliments his property.
The truck is in pristine shape, not a dent, not a scratch. He cleans it from bumper to bumper every Wednesday. He washes the truck more than himself.
If I cut him—which I have thought about more often than not—he would bleed Turtle Wax and Armor-All. But when I remind him he should bathe more often, he snorts and says, "Why? My time on the stage is over."
This is a dig at me. I was the one on the stage, acting in New York.
My father thinks this was a failed effort. He does not like the arts, equating anything creative to “crap.” He says I was smart when I went to college then I got “tangled up in that art mess.”
Now I write. Luckily, my father does not read unless it is a mechanics manual.
He does not ask what I do or how I do it.
"You drive slow, too,” I say to him as I scoop the grounds.
He grunts, eyeing me like I took a shit in the seat.
As my father takes his insulin, I stare at the coffee maker. It is from the 80s and sounds like backed-up plumbing when it percolates.
Folgers shoots through the spout into a carafe that is only available on eBay.
Despite my offers to buy a new coffee maker or better coffee, my father refuses anything current. He is suspicious of anything new, including clothes.
“This outfit is better than when I bought it,” he says.
He is wearing his United Airlines mechanics jacket. He retired twenty-two years ago. The outerwear is in museum shape, spitefully preserved despite decades of daily use. The thermal shirt, however, should have been washed last week. The sweatpants would be refused by the homeless. His tennis shoes are a pity gift from a cousin who works at a sportswear giant near our house. I try not to think about the state of his boxers or his socks or the ski cap on his head that sits like someone threw it there by mistake.
It says “Yahoo” across the front.
Under the hat, there is no hair. My father has been bald since before I was born. This style started in the army when he shaved his head on the draft line before anyone official could retrieve the razor. They gave him kitchen duty but the action did not kill the attitude.
Shortly after boot camp, my father was promoted to drill sergeant, rewarded for his bark, barely punished for his bite. He then volunteered for military patrol where he served his country by hunting the haunted. Then he got bored with the battle.
He returned home angry, smooth head intact.
His eyebrows are the only things that give away his age. White and wiry, they are trying to break free from his black face.
“Where’s the coffee?” he barks.
I point at the pot.
From the kitchen window, I can see the garage. It is bigger than the house.
The tractor, the ’51 Buick, the go-cart and the truck fit comfortably inside.
On several floor-to-ceiling shelves, the oil and other lubricants face the same direction, in alphabetical order. My father has a system.
No dust, no dirt.
Here, everything has its place and nothing is broken.
The garden tools hang in designated spots, next to several Hazmat suits and three Kevlar vests. The welding tanks are bookended by industrial toolboxes.
My father could build an army here and hang his squad from the reinforced cathedral ceiling like a mobile of menace. The entire system is locked and coded as if a stranger could make it past the six-foot steel perimeter without being destroyed in the driveway.
This is where we are.
A Shade Within a Murder of Crows (S&S Version)
Crow perched upon a high branch, drawn to the fresh corpses below by his gluttonous hunger. He wanted to feast on the pungent flesh, was desperate to do so, but Crow had a wariness toward a dangerous-smelling man sitting at a fire nearby. Instead, Crow pondered if the delicious corpses were some form of trap to catch unclever crows, which he was not. So Crow watched and waited.
Caw!
The dangerous-smelling man looked up and smirked at Crow, as if he was waiting for him. Crow studied the man suspicious, and how the shadows surrounding the man seemed angry. Crow’s desire to steal a taste from the fresh bodies ended up trumping his distrust though. Crow glided down and settled on the human corpse, wings taunt, poised to burst into flight if the man indeed tried to trap Crow. Crow spoke a warning to the man.
Caw! Caw!
The man laughed as if he could read Crow’s thoughts and cawed back, “Go ahead, clever crow. Feast! Leave nothing behind but his fuckin’ bones!” Shadows flickered violently.
Crow responded to the man’s invitation by ripping off a morsel of the sweet flesh from the wounded neck. As Crow ate, slowly another crow flew in to join his feast, then another. In time, the corpses were being devoured by the full murder; the man laughed his awful laugh, and cawed back at them all, “Yes! Leave nothing behind...”
The murder of crows cut off the rest of his words:
Caw-Caw-Caw-Caw…
---
Detective Elliot spat in defiant disgust, as he looked up into the trees, never believing so many damn crows could cluster together; cawing their collective rage.
It was ominous to witness. It was damn irritating to listen to. It made the crime scene feel even more grim. Between the morbid display of the bodies and how the lighting threw queer shadows that seemed unbound, the scene didn’t need any help with its sense of grimness.
“Is there anything we can do about the damned birds?”
“Sorry Detective, we figured just working the scene would have eventually driven them all away,” Investigator Kelly responded, leaving the rest of what he wanted to say unsaid.
Detective Elliot gave him a slight nod and turned his focus back to the two corpses. Both more bones than flesh now. The John Doe was left embracing the killed deer. Before Elliot could ask his next question, Kelly answered as if he read the thought.
“Not sure the motive behind the placement, detective. However, it definitely attracted the carrion feeders quicker, surprisingly.”
“Anything of note?” Elliot queried.
“The victim’s ring finger is missing and the bone appears to have been cut.”
“Hmmmm,” Detective Elliot took in the scene, so much familiar, yet so much uniquely out of place. Odd pieces to an otherwise all-too-familiar puzzle. The puzzles compelled him forward. He had a talent making the pieces fall into place. That was as much his drive as seeing justice done.
Caw-Caw-Caw-Caw…
Detective Elliot looked forward to solving this twisted puzzle and finding the bastard that committed this murder. He savored finding the culprit.
Caw-Caw-Caw-Caw…
“Can someone do something about these damned crows?”
---
I can still feel the echo of my throat being slit, as I watch the detective and the other’s study my lifeless body. A body I do not even recognize at this point, no small thanks to the crows.
I can still recall how the blood spilled from my neck as the investigator probes what was once a simple gash.
I can still recall the feeling of trying to take a breath but drowning on my own blood instead.
I can still recall the exact moment of my death. My soul suddenly watching my killer hold my lifeless form, a feral smile of satisfaction on his smug, bastard face. To think I pitied him. To have agreed to take him with me on my usual solitary hunting trip as an act of kindness and fellowship.
The bastard lied about it all! He lied about me being one of his few friends, about his lack of hunting expertise, and about never being to this spot before. Watching him now as a shade of what I was, it was obvious he had an intimacy with this place, with my particular hunting spot. I still shiver at the thought of how long he must have stalked me. He didn’t just have a moment of passion; my murder was something planned, over a long period of time.
I recall when that crow finally chanced to feast upon my dead corpse. Choosing mine over the deer’s. I recall the rage that filled me when I felt the words, “Go ahead, clever crow. Feast. Leave nothing behind but his fuckin’ bones!” How I raged. My rage seemed to ground me. Build until vengeance seemed my only thought.
I think I will follow this detective for a time. Maybe I’ll have a way to nudge him toward my killer, how though, I have no idea.
I recall the haunting sound of the murder of crows when they feasting on my former form.
Caw-Caw-Caw-Caw…
How I would love to deal with the bastard myself though.
---
Detective Elliot exhaled as he listened to Mrs. Losstrum sob as she left his office. Elliot’s John Doe turned out to be her husband, a Mr. Stephen Losstrum. He replayed the conversation he had with her in his head, confirming what his gut already knew. She wasn’t involved.
She didn’t provide much to follow either. Steven was well loved. She couldn’t imagine him having any enemies. She only showed surprise when Elliot suggested it was not a random murder. Supposedly, Mrs. Losstrum didn’t even know where her husband’s secret hunting spot was. He always went alone. A secret from her, but a known secret.
The only tangible clue she did give him was the description of her husband’s wedding band. A simple silver band, marked with only two tiny sapphires. It wasn’t much, but at least he knew what the trophy that was kept looked like.
Elliot exhaled again, pondering his only other memory of the conversation. How the shadows played on the wall, almost as if another shadow was trying to comfort hers.
The illusion gave him a chill down his back and for the first time since visiting the crime scene, he thought about all of the crows and their shrill song, but it came out as:
We know-We know-We know…
---
“...and how well would you say you knew Mr. Losstrum?” the detective asked.
“Not well,” the man lied, while imagining how beautiful it would be to slice open this bastard cop’s neck wide open. The bastard deserved it for interrogating him in Steven’s old office. It was dangerously shrewd, a cruel genius to do it in a room with so much...familiarity. Easy to lie, harder to lie with the feeling of a ghost watching you. “I mean Steven and I obviously worked together and tended to be the last ones out of the office, but we really never socialized outside of the office.”
“Did Mr. Losstrum mention his hunting trip at all in one of those late nights?”
“No,” he lied easily again. Although, it took effort for him not to smile thinking about that first crow eating Steven’s corpse and telling that crow to leave nothing behind but the fuckin’ bones!
“Did you know his wife?”
“No,” he lied again, even as she bloomed fully into his imagination, a forbidden fruit almost in reach now, the last piece of Steven’s life to claim. Steven had everything he ever wanted. Now everything Steven had was slowly becoming his. The wife was the last prize and was only a matter of time, even if she was to be a singular taste.
The detective’s shadow seemed to dance violently.
A picture frame on Steven’s desk suddenly fell over, brushed only by the shadow. The fall drew both of their stares to it. It was a picture of the wife. It was impossible not to look at her for more than just a moment, his final prize, to taste her sweet flesh just once. His lust flowed.
“I mean, I met her briefly at office parties, but that was about it,” the man said, trying to reign in his momentary wave of desire.
“I see,” said the detective, “I suppose there is nothing else to ask. Thank you for your time, Mr. Gilmore.”
“Anything to help,” Gilmore replied, shaking the bastard cop’s hand while dreaming again about slicing his throat. The detective left him wary. So many shadows seem to haunt him lately. Now the detective’s taunted him as well. It made him think the crow cawing:
He knows-he knows-he knows...
Yes, this bastard cop just might know. I may need to rectify that soon, thought Gilmore, followed by imagining slicing the bastard's cop neck clean open.
---
Detective Elliot looked at the body crumpled like a ragdoll at the bottom of the stairwell. If the poor bastard didn’t die of a broken neck, thought Elliot, he died from every other bone being broken. The wall was nearly as broken as the man. The head resembled a smashed fruit. It was as if someone shot the poor bastard out of a canon from the top of the stairs. It was a scene of disbelief.
“Detective! You’ll want to see this!”
Elliot turned and followed the officer to the landlord’s office. There, they replayed the close-circuit security feeds of the stairwell and the hallway leading to it. He watched the victim leave his apartment alone.
“Pause it! Yeah, right there!”
Detective Elliot studied the face. He knew that face. It was that Don Gilmore that he interviewed a week or so back regarding the Losstrum murder. He got an odd feeling about the man, he seemed a bit taken with Losstrum’s wife. It was a motive. Elliot was planning to have a second interview with him, but had a number of people that seemed to have more motive to weed through first.
“Detective?”
“Oh, sorry. It is just I met this man not too long ago. Go ahead, and continue the video.”
Elliot watched as Don Gilmore got to the top of the stairway. Then, he saw something unbelievable.
“Go back. Play that again!”
“I told you that you needed to see it, detective!”
They played the scene a second time. A third in slow motion. Don Gilmore’s body flails at the top of the stairwell as if he was suddenly pushed impossibly hard from behind. Yet, after his body starts to fly down the stairs, his shadow seemed to stay behind at the top of the stairs.
They watched each feed dozen more times, to see if there was anyone else there. The videos seemed to show no one else, just Gilmore and his queer shadow.
Elliott recalled how shadows seemed to actively haunt the Losstrum case. His gut suddenly screamed a suspicion.
“I would like to look in his apartment, please...”
The landlord lead Elliot and the other officers into Don Gilmore’s small apartment. It didn’t take long to find what his instincts suddenly urged him to look for. Sitting naked, alone on Don Gilmore’s nightstand was a simple ring of silver. Looking closer, a simple ring of silver with two tiny sapphires.
Elliot had a vibe go up his spine. He could almost hear a crow caw:
See...see...see...
Elliot solved one case in that moment. He also believed this was a homicide as well, and who the killer was. Yet, he knew this new case would always be a mystery. Who would believe that a man was killed by a shadow pretending to be his own? A shadow belonging to a man already dead?
Colors
Dim afternoon sunlight trickled through the cracked shutters, casting bright spots on the bed. He was lying on his back, head resting on a tattered pillow. I let my eyes drift over his bare chest, pale skin stretched over jutting bones and ribs. His jawline was dotted with black stubble.
“I’m sure he loves you. After all, he’s your brother,” I told him as I snatched the half-finished joint from his fingers.
He watched me take a drag and exhale the smoke into the air. We hadn’t opened a window in hours and it was beginning to smell badly, a mixture of weed and used bedsheets.
He scratched his chin. “My family was never the loving kind. Mother was only interested in her career. I doubt she ever realized there was a life waiting for her behind the cameras.”
I lifted the joint to my lips a second time, but he yanked it out of my hand, placing it between his own lips. He inhaled deeply, filling his body with the substance. In these short moments, when his entire being was soothed by the drug, he looked completely blissful. Broken as he was, there was still beauty in him. His eyes, even though red-rimmed, were a clear blue, like one of those marbles that I had collected as a child.
“You’re staring at me again,” he said.
“What?” I hadn’t noticed; I never did.
“Fuck it, you’re still doing it! Stop it!” He launched off the bed, flipped the finished joint into a mug that served as an ashtray, and staggered across the room. He had to avoid tripping over unwashed laundry and empty containers of instant noodles. “You know I don’t like to be stared at,” he said, not looking at me.
I shifted on the bed, trying to see what he was doing. He was opening every drawer of the dresser, rummaging through them and muttering under his breath.
“I am sorry for staring at you,” I said. “I was just trying to -”
“Don’t you dare say it!” he cut me off. Again he didn’t look at me, but continued his search through the drawers. “I don’t need your pity.” He cried out in triumph, holding a fist above his head. I bent forward a little to see what he had retrieved from the drawer. I shuddered.
“I thought you weren’t taking them any longer!” I was moving to get up. I didn’t know what I was thinking of doing. He was way too strong for me to wrest the pills out of his hands, even in his present state of health.
He swirled back at me. “I wasn’t, but it’s just not working without them.” And he popped a pill in his mouth before I could say another word. A smug smile plastered onto his face, he slumped down on the bed next to me.
“I know it’s none of my business…” I began cautiously.
“Damn right it’s none of your business.” He was lying there, with his eyes closed, seeming entirely calm. But I knew that the drug would kick in soon.
“I am just…concerned.”
“Oh, you are? What about then?”
It unsettled me that he was still not looking at me. But something kept me going nonetheless. “You are on a downward spiral. You don’t eat properly, you don’t sleep. It’s just… I just wanna -“ and, without thinking, the forbidden word escaped my mouth, “- help.”
Before I could brace myself, I was hit in the face with a pillow. The impact threw me backward a few inches and I fell off the edge of the bed.
“What the hell?” Glaring up at him from the floor, I rubbed my sore elbow. His once vivid blue eyes were no longer lively, but dull and gray, and every color had vanished from his face. He was nothing more but an empty shell, and I realized he’d gone too far.
I inched backward just as he leapt off the bed and on top of me. I squirmed as the first punch hit me in the stomach and screamed as the second hurt my lowest rib. “Get off me, get off me!”
But he was in a rage. Fists flying, he kept punching me, hard. I wriggled and writhed underneath his body, but there was no escaping him. Eventually, I tried some fist-throwing myself. I was surprised when I felt a satisfying crunch under my knuckles.
“Ah!” He crawled off me, clutching his nose. “Get out! Now!” The words were muffled by his hands and the blood from his broken nose filling his mouth.
I scrambled to my feet and staggered through the room. My hand felt sore from the punch and it was shaking on the doorknob, but I managed to yank the door open.
“And don’t you ever come back! I don’t need anybody’s help!” he yelled after me.
Later that day I stood in front of the mirror in my room, inspecting all the bruises. It seemed as though every inch of my body had received its share of the punching, but one of my eyes had gotten the worst of it. I had been watching it change colors over the last few hours, and I shuddered at the current image. The skin around the eye was now blue.
I didn’t cry about the fact that he had thrown me out. It wasn’t the first time, but it would certainly be the last time. I would not allow him to lay hands on me again. It would break me, the way it had shattered my life the night I had ran away from home.
There was a picture we had taken a year ago glued to the corner of my mirror. I pulled it off, holding it in my hand as though it was something poisonous. Even back then his pupils had been dilated, his cheeks hollow, and his bright blue hair dull.
Now it was fading to grey, as was the photograph crumbling in the flames.
Battle Scars
My thoughts keep me awake tonight. Snippets of conversations I had with friends and co-workers ebb and weave their way through my consciousness.
I probably shouldn’t have told my boss about that concert I went to last weekend. She probably thinks I’m all about the sex, drugs, and rock and roll now… Katherine’s birthday cake was so delicious, I wonder how Amber made the icing so fluffy… William definitely needs to leave Jenny – he deserves so much better…
My phone buzzes quietly next to my head from the bedside table. The screen glows faintly. I push myself up onto one arm and reach for my phone, wondering who would be texting me this late. Last time I checked, it was close to midnight. Jake’s name appears on the screen under the words “Text Message Received,” begging to be read. I hesitate for a moment.
It’s late… He will know if I open and read his text… If he really loved me, he would be here right now…
A moment of weakness overtakes me and I unlock my phone.
“Hey!”
Seriously? That’s it? It is 12:22 and all you say is “Hey”?
I run my fingers through my hair, untangling the knots that have already begun to form. I look down at the screen again, wondering if Jake was even worth a response. I lose myself in thought, debating the consequences of responding to the text, absent-mindedly stroking my hair. A soft tingling sensation slowly makes its way up my arm breaking my trance. I am back in my bed, alone in the darkness. I look down at my arm, and in the faint glow of light, a black coin moves towards my hand.
I try to calm myself, rationalizing that I’m just being paranoid. I move my other hand slowly-the hand holding my phone-and open the flashlight app, bathing myself in the blinding white light. It is not a coin on my arm after all. As my blood turns to ice, the pounding in my chest blurs my vision. For a moment I cannot move – I freeze in fear. Then as quickly as the paralysis takes hold of me, it evaporates, leaving me with the energy to furiously flick it off my arm.
Adrenaline kicks in and I sit up straight, eyes darting back and forth, seeking out my attacker. I find him perched on my pillow, and we lock eyes. For a moment neither of us moves. We stare each other down, daring the other to make the first move. He moves - hurtling his body full speed towards me. I jump back horrified. He doesn’t quite reach me, but he does not have the height advantage my pillow provides either. He stops. We both pause, trying to anticipate the other’s next move. Still holding my phone in my right hand, flashlight aimed at him, I slowly reach back and grab a handful of blanket. I swiftly flick my wrist, casting my blankets off the bed and onto the ground. I am not going to allow him the satisfaction of seeking refuge between my sheets. My two eyes never leaving his eight.
He charges again and I jump off the bed, arms raised in defense. The light illuminating from my flashlight app bounces around the bed and he follows. In that moment, it dawns on me that he is hypnotized by the glow, like a cat chasing the little red dot of a laser. From a safe distance, I move the flashlight around, testing my discovery. Sure enough, he follows my lead, every twist and turn. Fear slowly gives way to fascination. Perhaps this monster is not here on an assassination assignment, but rather an explorative expedition.
As the seconds, turn to minutes, my anger and fear returns. As perplexing as this situation is, it didn't change the fact that I am now standing in my underwear in the middle of my bedroom. He is conquering new territory - my bed. Without thinking, I throw my phone onto the bed, distracting him as I run to the bathroom for my glasses. The war has begun.
On my way back, I grab one of my new white and gold sandals. He may have won the opening battle, but I will not let him win this war. I take a deep breath and walk back into my room, sandal poised. He has moved closer to my phone, inspecting the source of the light. I slowly and silently inch my way closer to the bed. Squeezing my eyes shut, I swing my hand down with all my might, a high pitched squeal escaping from my lips. I jump back and open my eyes in time to see that I have missed. He crawls under the sandal, now discarded on my bed. He has won again.
I step back and shake out my trembling hands. This is not how the plan was supposed to go! I glance around the room, searching for anything that I can use as a weapon. I see a plastic blue clothes hanger lying in the corner of my room, sticking out from the jeans and t-shirt I had worn earlier. I pick it up with my left hand. I also pick up one of my black ballet flats in my right hand, desperately wishing I had bought the bottle of Raid like my mother had suggested weeks ago. I clear my head and focus on him again. This time, victory will be mine.
I turn on all the lights. He cannot hide in the shadows anymore. Using the hanger, I coax him out from his hiding place. He doesn't cower. He emerges confidently, ready for the fight. Once again, we lock eyes. His eight beady eyes make my skin crawl and I stifle the scream threatening to take me hostage. I take another deep breath. This time I keep my eyes open as I swing my shoe, never losing sight of my target. I am fast. He is faster. He moves away and bounces off the bed. I retreat hastily, eyes searching everywhere for him. He is gone. He has won the third challenge.
I am ready to admit defeat. Naked, alone, and afraid I slowly back out of the room. I pause at the doorway, looking back –hoping or dreading - to see him one more time. He is wise and does not let me see his victory celebration. I close the door behind me, acknowledging his conquest. Bowing my head in humiliation, I stumble to the couch and curl up under the tiny fleece blanket. I lie motionlessly on the couch, replaying the war in my mind. Body aching, I slowly drift to sleep, waiting for the morning light to rescue me - but morning never comes.
What’s Behind the Door
The stranger knocked upon the door,
A creaking, wooden throb,
And someone on the other side
Unlatched and turned the knob.
Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"
And, "May I use your phone?"
The person on the other side
Appeared to be alone.
An observation taken in,
No pictures on the wall.
He pointed somewhere down the way-
"Go on and make a call."
The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled
As wires were cut instead.
The gentleman began to sense
A subtle hint of dread.
A conversation thus ensued-
"So what has brought you out?
The rain has flooded everything,
And wiped away the drought.
Say, did you walk, or did you drive?
Why don't I take your coat?"
The stranger slowly moved his arms,
A sentimental gloat.
The water from the pouring skies
Enveloped cloth and shoe.
"Say, would you like a place to sleep?
I'll leave it up to you."
The person on the other side
Discarded his mistrust.
The stranger said his tire was flat,
And shed the muddy crust.
"The phone won't work," he also said.
"It could just be the storm.
Perhaps I will stay here tonight,
To keep me safe and warm."
The patron of the house agreed.
He hadn't seen the wire.
The chilly dampness prompted him
To quickly build a fire.
"You have a name? They call me Ed.
My wife was Verna Dean.
She passed away five years ago
And left me here as seen.
I guess it's really not so bad.
We never had a child.
I loved that Verna awful much,"
He said and sadly smiled.
"No property to divvy up.
The bank will get it all.
Say, do you want to try again
To go and make that call?"
The stranger grinned and left the flame
As to the phone he strode.
Within his pocket, knives and twine
In hiding seemed to goad.
A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;
Eviscerate him whole.
The twine would keep him firmly held;
The knife would steal his soul.
A lusty surge erupted hence;
A wicked bit of sin.
The stranger hadn't noticed yet
That someone else came in.
About the time a shadow fell,
He spun to meet a pan.
The room around him faded out
As eyes looked on a man.
A day or two it seemed had passed,
And when he woke all tied,
The stranger gazed upon old Ed
Who simply said, "You lied."
Reversing thoughts, the moment fled
And Ed said in a lean,
"No worries, stranger. None at all.
Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"
He looked upon a wraith in rage;
It seemed his little lie
Combusted in a burning fit-
He didn't want to die.
So many victims in his life,
Some fifty bodies strewn.
And now he was the victim; now
The pain to him was known.
The stranger fought against the twine,
And noticed by his bed
The knife once in his pocket left
A trail of something red.
A bowl filled full of organs sat
As Verna poured some salt.
She exited with all of them.
"You know, this is your fault.
We demons wait for just the day
The guilty take the bait
And play with matches one last time-
I simply cannot wait
To taste the death within your flesh;
The venom in your gut.
So now you know the way they felt-
Hey, you've got quite a cut!"
The person on the other side
Removed his human skin-
Before his wife came back for more,
He offered with a grin:
"Say, stranger, is there anything
You'd like to say at all?"
I looked at all the blood and said,
"I'd like to make that call ... "
Part of one of the first chapters of Broken Memory
Tim opened his eyes. A clammy cold covered him like a blanket. Dazed, he wondered how on earth he’d been able to fall asleep after his bizarre talk with his in-flight neighbor.
He looked sideways, making his cervical vertebrae scream in protest because he’d fallen asleep with his head against the wall. The cabin was plunged in darkness, but by the spooky light streaming in through the small windows, he could see that the seats next to him were once again unoccupied.
His body felt incredibly stiff – almost heavy. He pricked up his ears as he stretched his arms and legs. Nothing. No murmuring fellow passengers or crying babies. No humming engines or the quiet hiss of the AC.
He carefully hooked his hands around the headrest in front of him and hauled himself to his feet. The seat squeaked quietly. With a frown, he looked around him. No one in here, as far as he could tell. He bent down and peered out through the small window next to him. Outside, it was dark – almost evening. It took him a while to focus on the shapes and contours before he realized why he didn’t hear anything. Have we landed?
From where he was standing he could see a landing strip. The gray, artificial runway cutting through the landscape looked abandoned. A bit further away, square buildings looked dark against the backdrop of the night sky – he couldn’t see lights anywhere. It had to be cloudy, because even the stars were invisible. Why had no one woken him up? Had they forgotten about him? That seemed unlikely. A plane was always submitted to a thorough final check before the cabin crew left the plane. They had to clean up. Besides, a landing always entailed quite some noise. He couldn’t imagine sleeping through all of that.
Eyes wide, he slipped out of his seat and stood there, in the aisle, completely disoriented. An eerie feeling came over him. He felt dizzy. One second he was hot, the next he was freezing cold.
A flash of pain lanced through his head. He cowered, pressing a hand against his temple. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. He took a few deep breaths. Slowly, the black spots dissipated, and so did the killer headache. With a relieved sigh he straightened his back.
He needed a smoke. His hands patted his pants pocket as if on cue. Smoking on a plane was forbidden, but it didn’t look like there was anyone left to stop him. His pants pockets were empty. No pack of smokes, no lighter. Which made sense, he realized. He’d put them away in his carry-on. Then again, his phone and wallet seemed to have disappeared too.
He cast a look around again. Not only was his stuff nowhere to be found, it also looked as though the plane had never carried any people. No baggage, no plastic bags, no pillows, no food waste. He stalked down the aisle and popped open a few overhead baggage compartments. They were all empty, which was ridiculous. If they made time to clean this plane, they couldn’t have missed him, asleep in his seat.
He noticed his hands was beginning to tremble, and he wondered whether it was caused by the whole absurd situation or the lack of nicotine. His knees buckled, and he slumped into a seat sideways. In order to calm himself down, he breathed deeply in and out through his nose. Somehow, he was hoping to catch a whiff of something. A lingering perfume, the smell of candy. Some kind of proof that he hadn’t been the only goddamn passenger on this plane.
He didn’t smell anything.
“Calm down,” he told himself out loud. “There’s a reasonable explanation for all this. The plane landed and everyone got off, that must be it.” His voice sounded hollow and echoed off the walls like it didn’t belong to him.
He cast a look out of a window facing the opposite side of the airfield. This time, he could see the terminal. Strangely enough he didn’t see any other planes on the runway. Startled, he stood up, painfully bumping his head against the overhead baggage compartment. He swore, rubbed his painful head but kept staring outside incredulously.
This plane – the 737 he’d boarded – had been traveling from Miami to San Francisco. He was going to board another plane here in order to get home, like he’d done a thousand times before.
This was not San Francisco.
A shrill cry came from the front part of the plane.
With a jolt he turned around. Everything was quiet, but just when he thought he must have imagined the high-pitched sound, it came again, from the direction of the cockpit.
He ran forward through the aisle, steadying himself on headrests to his left and right, and tumbled down, sitting in front of the cockpit on his hands and knees.
A sound came through the cockpit door before it opened on squeaky hinges. The hairs in his neck stood up.
A girl appeared. She was slim, dressed in leggings and a red dress, and she had blonde hair down to her shoulders. She was protectively cradling a tiger cuddly toy against her chest, which stared at him with its black, beady eyes. Letting out a sigh of relief, Tim scrambled to his feet in the darkness.
The girl inched out of the cockpit one step at a time, stopping at a safe distance from Tim and eyeing him suspiciously. “Who are you?”
Tim took a few halting steps toward her. The girl back away. “Don’t be afraid.” He stopped, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “My name’s Tim. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
More light was streaming inside because of the cockpit windows. It lit up his hands, right in front of him. “Jesus!”
His hands! They didn’t look like his at all. His fingers were smaller than he was used to. His nails had a white edge, which was odd because he was a notorious nail biter. But that wasn’t even the most bizarre thing…
He completely forgot about the child as he staggered backward into the aisle. His left foot caught on one of the seats and he fell over. He was trying to break his fall, but his limbs were out of his control. Like a heavy log, he thumped down on the floor, his head hitting the armrest. Stars danced in front of his eyes.
Ignoring the pain, he inspected his body, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and pulling up his pant legs next. His mouth fell open.
All his life he’d been black. And now, he was as white as that girl.
“Are you okay, mister?”
The world spun on its axis. A silhouette looked at him, sitting a few seats down. It took him a while to recognize the girl. He put a hand on his forehead. Gradually, everything stopped spinning and the world went back to its usual shape.
He stood up and clambered over a row of seats to check his reflection in the window. The dull light didn’t help, but what he could see made his soul go cold. Apart from his black skin color, he’d always had a black beard. That had disappeared, too. And true, he’d had a receding hairline for quite some years now, but right now he was completely bald! His nose was bigger than he was used to and he didn’t just seem skinnier, but also taller.
Touching his clean-shaven face with both hands, he stepped out into the aisle again.
“Am I okay?” he repeated. “No, I guess not, little girl.”
“I’m nine,” she quipped. “I’m not a little girl.”
Tim loathed shrieking, overactive or know-it-all kids. “Whatever.” The words came out haltingly. “What’s your name, Little Miss Smartass?”
“I’m not a…” she started out, then anxiously took a step back while her gaze darted here and there, seemingly searching the plane. “Ella,” she finally replied. “My name is Ella.”
“Ella who?” Tim asked. “What’s your last name?”
The girl shrugged.
“You don’t know your last name?”
“Where are we?” the child interrupted him. “And where are the other people?”
Tim sighed, sitting down in one of the aisle seats again. “I don’t suppose you happen to know what’s going on here.”
Ella shook her head. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I woke up in the cockpit, but I have no idea how I got there,” she replied. “I know my name and how I am, but everything else…” She looked at the tiger in her arms, as though to find strength in its eyes. “I don’t remember a thing from before I woke up here.”
“You can’t be serious.” Tim shot her a baffled look.
The girl dejectedly sank down on an armrest, hugging the cuddly toy to her chest even closer. “What happened?” Her voice was like a whisper.
In the silence that followed, his gaze drifted from the girl to ‘his’ white skin, which couldn’t belong to him. He came to the conclusion he must still be dreaming.
A plaintive cry interrupted his train of thought. Tim looked sideways and saw that Ella had pressed her hands against her forehead. She was rocking back and forth. He felt the urge to get up and comfort her, but he didn’t know how to go about it. How do you calm down a frantic child? What to say? “Just take it easy,” he tried, his voice catching. “You’re not alone. We’re in the same boat here.” Only after the words left his mouth did he realize that they didn’t exactly sound comforting.
With a sigh, he got up and slogged over to the child. He slowly lifted his hand, gingerly placing it on the back of her head before pulling her into him. “Ssh,” he hushed. “Everything will be all right.” To distract her a bit, he kneeled down in front of her and pointed at the cuddly toy. The girl was holding the tiger so tightly she almost squeezed him to a pulp. “Who’s this?”
Ella lifted the toy away from her chest and caressed its head. “I found him in the cockpit. He was next to me on the floor.”
Tim wondered how a cuddly toy could possibly end up there, but he forced a smile. “And what’s his name?”
The girl genuinely seemed to ponder the question. She frowned and stared at the tiger searchingly. “Tiger,” she decided.
Tim pressed his lips together and nodded. “A fierce name.”
The silence between them turned awkward. Tim wanted to say something else to comfort the girl, but the words were lodged in his throat. After a few uncomfortable seconds he heard Ella whisper something quietly. She patted the tiger’s back and avoided Tim’s eyes. “Thank you.”
He looked at her curiously. “What for?”
“For being here, with me. Without you I’d have been all alone. I thought I was. That’s why I screamed like that. Because I was scared.”
He grimaced, taking her hand and pumping it lightly. He didn’t want to admit he was just as happy with her presence here. “This has to be some kind of misunderstanding, you’ll see.” But even as the words left his mouth, the shivers running down his spine called him a liar.
Chapter One
Linda Hughes-Reed owed me big time, and I was about to collect. My wide-bottomed, rear end lodged deep in the leather passenger seat of a triple-black ’86 Corvette convertible; top down, music blaring; heater cooking my deck-shoed, sockless feet; cool, misty midnight October air waving wildly through what was left of my thinning brown hair. Flying low on I-4, eyeballing the Bee Line Expressway. Heading to a near-mystical place called Eckler’s in Titusville on Florida’s East Coast. Going to the 1992 version of “The Reunion,” a gathering that this year would celebrate “America’s Sports Car” reaching a milestone: the one-million mark. Thinking to myself, “Life is good” . . . and it was.
My pilot for this ground-level flight was Martin (pronounced Mar-teen) Gonzales, a Tampa native who’d parlayed his late father’s failing Spanish AM radio station into an all-talk, all-English, powerhouse that featured (among others) a controversial syndicated host named Rush Limbaugh. Ybor City’s Cuban community hated that Marti had dropped the money-losing, Spanish-language programming that had railed against Castro and Communism. Tampa’s media elite hated that he broadcast Limbaugh’s fiery brand of conservatism. He casually dismissed the criticism.
Cada cabeza es un mundo," Marti said, translating (for me) this Cuban proverb as, “Every head is a world of its own.”
I’d met Marti as a result of an article I’d done for Florida! magazine—an article Linda nearly spiked. I wondered how things would have turned out if she hadn’t listened when I told her to push off her annual hurricane edition until the September issue. She thought I was crazy and said so—in that earthy, slice-and-dice way that only a former cop-shop reporter can convey. But I pushed back (I’d shoveled through a few miles of police logs myself.) Sold her. Cajoled her. Won her over to a cover story called “When the Big One Hits,” convinced it would sell issues of her magazine, and, after all, I asked, “Isn’t that why you became a publisher in the first place?”
In the end, she agreed, but not before threatening to throw me off the St. Petersburg Pier if the idea flopped. I ended being right—and lucky. It wasn’t the first time I’d been either.
When Linda’s September issue hit newsstands in mid-August, nature had yet to produce its first named storm of the hurricane season, which runs from June 1 to Nov. 30. The magazine cover featured a stunning, computer-generated illustration of a massive storm bearing down on South Florida. The graphic, done by a student at the Ringling School of Art in Sarasota, had a wonderful trompe l'oeil quality: It seemed to float above the page.
The day after Florida! hit shelves, Tropical Storm Andrew hit radars, following the same path as the magazine’s faux storm, which I had christened “Zoey.” Issues of Florida! were tossed into shopping carts along with shrink-wrapped batteries, bottled water, and duct tape. For the first time in the publication’s history, it sold out.
People dubbed Ms. Hughes-Reed a journalistic genius. Shrewd. Crafty. Prescient. Fans of Florida! (her hip, breezy state rag) wined-and-cheesed her. Critics, who had smirked at the idea of publishing a hurricane edition halfway through the season, just whined. It didn’t matter. She’d made the right call. Gutsy. Now she basked like the Florida Gator she was, even though her success had come about because she’d listened to an FSU drop-out like me.
All I asked in return was for Linda to accept from me (her favorite freelancer) a trinket of a story titled “Fantastic Plastic, Florida’s Corvette Connection.” It was a serendipitous by-product of my meeting Marti. He’d read my hurricane article and hired me as a commentator during his around-the-clock Andrew coverage. (When I noticed framed photos of his beloved six-speed “Belleza Negra” plastered around the studio, I sensed a story.)
“If you like Belleza, you should join me for a little party I’ve planned,” he said.
I did not know, at the time, the party was for a car.
CHAPTER TWO
A crowded donut stand, a country block from the Eckler warehouse entrance, would have been an ideal place to stop, had there been parking, but Marti, who I’d long since learned to trust regarding planning ahead, was prepared: He stopped behind a beat-up trailer that appeared abandoned beside the unadorned, whitewashed building—then hopped out of the Vette, flipped down the fold-up ramp, and drove aboard, wisely letting me disembark first, for he knew that coordination was not one of my gifts-on-loan from God.
We headed inside.
A thin, golf course-tanned, hyper-manicured man who’d been saving a table for us stood up and waved. He wore a pastel creamy-green Polo shirt, perfectly ironed white Bermuda shorts, a toasty-brown, intricately knotted belt with a wrought-iron buckle, and fancy air-friendly shoes that look like they’ve been wicker-woven by fussy elves.
“Here’s Jack Sanders,” Marti said. “They call him Smilin’ Jack. He used to do PR for GM. He’ll answer all your questions.”
“At least some of them,” Jack said, “And you must be Sam, Marti’s writing friend.”
“The very same . . .”
“What’ll you have?” Marti asked as he headed to the counter, where a long line corkscrewed through the aisle.
“Plain cake donut. Black coffee,” I said
I pulled out two pens, a small notebook, and my portable tape recorder.
“Do you mind?” I asked.
“Not at all,” Jack said. “Marti prepared me for your interrogation tactics. Plus, I spent time in a German prison camp, so I can endure just about anything.”
I understood why they called him “Smilin’ Jack.” He bore an uncanny resemblance to Zack Mosley’s World War Two cartoon strip aviator, right down to the square jaw, pencil-thin mustache, and slick-combed hair, neatly parted in the near-middle. The only difference: Jack’s turf had long since turned Dover white. And he was more on the wiry side than his pen-drawn counterpart, but even at age 71, he looked formidable.
“Where do we start?” he asked.
I flipped on my recorder.
“Wherever you like.”
* * *
On September 30, 1938, Neville Chamberlain talked of “Peace with honor” and “Peace in our time.” The Sanders family pondered those words as they crackled through the cloth-covered speakers of the large, majestic, wood-encased, Silvertone radio that dominated the living room’s north wall of his Indiana home.
While the broadcast commentators droned on about what the Prime Minister’s Munich agreement with the German Führer might mean, Jack’s eyes shifted from his father’s tense expression to the radio’s ornate, softly lit, golden dial, with its stylized numbers grandly surrounding an Art Deco sun and stars. Three elegantly scripted words on the Silverstone’s face jumbled inside his head: “American,” “Foreign,” “Aviation.” It seemed a cryptic puzzler. What apocalyptic vision might this trinity foreshadow?
“The commentators all sound hopeful,” Jack said.
“Means war,” his father growled, puffing on his well-worn, hand-crafted, walnut root Castleford pipe. “You can’t surrender to a bloody lunatic like Hitler.”
Then he puffed, deeply.
“Means war,” he repeated.
Jack knew better than to disagree with his father, a veteran of The Great War, and a successful businessman whose Buick dealership had survived the Great Depression.
Though Jack was American by birth, the family had deep roots in England. His paternal grandfather was born in Cardiff, but his ancestors were all Devonians. Jack’s father left Great Britain just after the First World War for reasons unstated, but it had something to do with his having no desire to undertake a career in civil service. (He was the only Sanders with a keen entrepreneurial spirit.)
John worked his way to the States as a cook on a decrepit freighter, saved enough money to buy a fine suit, then trudged around trying to find a job before walking into a Buick showroom just as the Roaring ’20s unfurled. The Englishman’s handsome looks and dignified manner belied a slim purse, but he had determined that the streets of America were paved with gold, and he would mine the former colonies to their depth. The Buick would be his shovel—and an able tool it proved.
By the time Alfred P. Sloan, Jr., took over as GM president and writer/traveler Lowell Thomas was traversing Afghanistan’s tough terrain in a Buick circa 1923, the popular marquee’s top salesperson was a Brit. Within five years, he opened the doors of Sanders Buick, bankrolled by shrewd business maneuvers, not the least of which was marrying the daughter of a banker, one of his customers.
Jack saw in his father the foundational strength he knew England would need if war came. He felt he had an obligation to defend a homeland he never knew. But how?
The following year produced answers.
* * *
Harley J. Earl, GM’s first design chief, created a concept car called the Y-Job. Thanks to his father’s friendship with Earl, Jack feasted on it firsthand.
Y-job was like nothing he’d ever seen: It was long and low—20 feet from stern to bow, yet less than five feet tall. While other cars were square and boxy, Y was curved, black and beautiful. The crisp chrome grill was horizontal with thin, vertical bars. Headlights were hidden and power-driven, as was the convertible top, cleverly covered by a wide, smooth lid that slipped into a space behind the passenger compartment. It had electric doors and windows. Recessed taillights. Power steering. No running boards. An advanced braking system. Plus, it boasted just two seats.
“How do you like my baby?” an obviously proud Earl asked.
“It’s beautiful,” Jack said, exhaling the word in a way typically reserved for Hollywood starlets.
“Would you like to take it for a drive?”
Jack nodded.
“Jump in.”
Jack could not remember where they drove, only that he felt like a character in a Jules Verne novel who'd slipped into the future.
“Can I tell my father he’ll be selling these, soon?”
“No,” Earl smiled. “But tell him he’ll being seeing details from the Y here and there.”
Earl asked Jack about his future—and if he’d considered a career at General Motors.
“After the war, perhaps,” Jack said.
Earl’s face tightened.
“Years away, if at all,” he said.
“Not for me,” Jack said. “I’m trying to find a way to go to England. Fight the good fight.”
Earl’s smile returned.
“When you come back, see me.”
“I will,” Jack said.
On September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland. Jack’s father was right. War came and, by May 10, 1940, Chamberlain was gone, a victim of his appeasement policy. As Sophocles wrote, “The greatest griefs are those we cause ourselves.” Meanwhile, Jack was encouraged by the reassuring words of Winston Churchill, the new Prime Minister:
"Arm yourselves, and be ye men of valor, and be in readiness for the conflict; for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our nation and our altar."
Jack vowed that day to become a “man of valor.” It took awhile to make good on that promise.
By Thanksgiving, through his father’s contacts, Jack learned that Americans were covertly being recruited for the Royal Air Force at the Grand Central Aerodrome in Glendale, California. With his father’s support, but against his mother’s wishes, he headed West. (She would die before his return, a passing whose pain never fully healed.) RAF pilot testing was collegial, sprinkled with nods, winks, and humor. No mention of the mission was made. (America was, after all, neutral.)
There were British instructors as well as Americans; Jack scored well with both.
“You’ll do fine,” quipped Clyde Becker from Sutton Bridge, an Operational Training Unit on England’s east coast. “At least you shouldn't have much trouble with the language.”
The Storyteller and the Flea and the Princess and the Djinn
There once was in Al-Qahira a poor storyteller, Aban bin Qusay. He told his stories on squares and streets, in coffee shops and markets, in all the places where people came and were willing to donate money for stories about wizards and caliphs, djinns, sayings of the Prophet, long journeys and whatnot.
And with each of those stories Aban bin Qusay had a secret listener. Hidden in his clothes was a flea. This flea did not bite, she tickled not, she did nothing of those things normal fleas used to do. She listened. For every story that came out Aban storyteller’s mouth, the flea listened intently.
* * *
“Are you already listening to that guy?” Nervig asked as he came in with two mugs of coffee.
“Shh, he’s almost ready.” Jill closed her eyes to hear the story better. Of course, she could just record it all, but she wanted to hear the stories as soon as they were told, live. Nonsense, of course. Aban was already more than a thousand years dead. But for Jill it was as if he lived. And in a way that was true. Within Temporal Studies (specializing in 11th century Arabia) she was a purist. She did not jump back and forth on the time lines. No, Jill followed the line entirely chronological. With serious studies that was often difficult, but in her private projects she stuck to this principle. And Aban bin Qusay was her most beloved private project.
* * *
The years came and went. Aban bin Qusay lived his life and told his stories. Of all the storytellers of Al-Qahira, he was considered one of the best. Nobody told the great deeds from the past as passionate as Aban, no one could tell more miraculous stories as he did. It brought money in his hands and bread in the mouths of him and his family. It was never much money, or a lot of bread, but it was enough. Aban lived and told his stories.
The flea kept listening and watching. Year in, year out. She never bit him.
In a fairy tale, the flea would have told Aban the hiding place of a secret treasure, one with a lamp with a djinn, or one that made him rich enough to marry a princess, or more so. History, however, was not a fairy tale. No secret treasures, no lamp with a djinn, no almond eyed princesses who married poor storytellers.
Only a listening and watching flea that never bit.
* * *
Jill was crying. Aban was dying. Nearly fifty years was very old in the Arabia of the 11st century. Now it was nothing, an instant. People died no longer if they did not want to. That made the death of Aban so much harder. And that while Aban was already dead for many centuries.
With red eyes Jill stared at the old man lying in his deathbed and fought for breath. She saw everything, heard everything, smelled everything, felt everything. The data wire was large enough for all the input that she wanted and a billion times more. There was no limit.
Could people travel to the past? Absolutely, but only so long as they do not disturb the past. To observe was possible and to be observed, as long as history was not altered: someone who appeared on a deserted mountain and eventually departed without leaving a trace was possible, or an artificial flea that was ignored by all was possible. Someone who suddenly appeared out of nowhere at the bedside of a dying storyteller was technically impossible. Equally impossible as to have a dying storyteller disappear from his deathbed, or spraying the dying man full of super drugs by, for example, an artificial flea.
Aban would die, it was history, there was nothing Jill could do to prevent that.
* * *
The flea crawled into the ear of Aban bin Qusay, the storyteller who was on the verge of death. And for the first time ever the flea bit Aban. He felt nothing, he was dying.
“Aban,” said the flea. She did so with a voice in his head. It had to do with super thin tentacles into the mouth of the flea that firmly knotted at the ends of nerve … Ah, it was just magic.
The flea sounded like a young woman.
“Yes?” Asked Aban surprised. Was he already dead? Had he reached paradise? He still felt his old body, and saw the same hazy darkness as before.
“You’re not dead,” said the flea who could read minds, magically. “But you will die soon, Aban. Your body will die, but you yourself can live …”
* * *
Death was death, but it was not difficult to create lifelike simulations (virtual they once called it). Especially if you had already captured a large part of the life of the person. And certainly not when all his thoughts, all his memories could be read and loaded.
There was no limit on the data wires.
* * *
There once was a princess in a distant land with a djinn, a creature without a soul.
Every night the djinn told her a story, just as he had done during his life.
There were no fleas.
Half of Me is Missing (excerpt)
“Jasmine was such a beautiful baby with her ivory complexion, pretty rosebud mouth, rosy cheeks and stunning green eyes. Her hair was so black and lustrous with soft curls. I couldn’t believe that she was our child!” Ann Stewart’s body seemed to elongate as she sat up straighter in her chair. Obviously, she had once been proud and thrilled by her daughter.
“I noticed that she didn't really seem to bond with me, although I held her and rocked her and tried to do everything I thought I should do to nurture her. This was our first child so I thought that her reaction to us might be normal for a young baby. She never seemed to cry or smile or show any emotion. I became upset, fearing that she didn't like me, but I was so overjoyed at having a kid after so many years of trying that I overlooked her responses. My friends and relatives all cooed at her in admiration of her beauty but she didn’t seem to care. Her pediatrician told me not to worry since she appeared perfectly normal. He advised us both to spend a lot of time with her, holding and touching her. I wondered why she did not smile like other babies did. I began to wonder if it was my fault that she was not developing as I thought she should. Because she was my first child, I had little experience in child development and began to doubt my abilities. I could tell that she was intelligent as she explored her immediate area and watched those around her. She talked very early but her words were not really directed toward anyone. She seemed to be carrying on conversations with herself or with some unseen person. The only time she seemed somewhat happy is when she looked into the mirror on one of her crib toys and babbled at her reflection as if it were actually her own self instead of a reflection.”
I noticed that tears were coursing down Ann’s cheeks as she described her child. I could see that she loved her but was perplexed since she was unable to reach her. She appeared to have almost given up on Jasmine and was now beginning to direct her attention toward her other children who did interact with her.
I turned toward George Stewart and asked him, “How do you feel about your daughter? Do you have anything to add to what your wife has advised? Do you agree with her observations?”
“My wife and I are simple people,” responded George. “We own and operate a mom and pop grocery store here in the outskirts of Portland. I always thought that my daughter, Jasmine, would join us in our business after high school. If it’s good enough for me, it should be good enough for her! But, oh no, she wants no part of our business. She thinks she’s too good to do this type of work and refuses to even discuss it. I admit that she was an excellent student in high school, right at the top of her class. She graduated early when she had just turned 17. I thought she had the brains and ambition to eventually take over as manager of my store.” George pulled strands of hair nervously up from the top of his head as he vented his frustration. His face turned red in frustration as he showed his disappointment.
“I understand how you feel,” I sympathized with George. “But, tell me how Jasmine was as a child to your best recollection.”
“She was such a beautiful baby and I was so proud of her. However, she never seemed to care much about me. I tried to play with her and get her to laugh but I never felt she was on my wave length. My wife and I took her into our shop and put her in a small playpen behind the cash register. Every customer that came in remarked on her loveliness, wanting to hold her and interact with her. We actually did allow some of our long term customers to pick her up to see if she would be stimulated by someone else. We always felt guilty that she did not seem to like us. But she never responded to all the attention she received. I thought maybe she was just shy and would develop later but she never did. When she began to talk early, she would just ask for things that she wanted. She never seemed to give us any reaction no matter how hard we tried. I just hoped that she would become more loving when she became older.” When Jasmine was almost three, we finally were able to have another child, a wonderful little boy we called George, Jr. He was the polar opposite of Jasmine and loved us with all his heart. He often tried to catch Jasmine’s attention as he smiled and cooed, but she couldn’t care less. Jasmine was always looking around, searching for the other half of her body. She insisted, even then, that part of her was missing. I could not understand it! Later, we had two more children whom we adored. Jasmine might have felt left out but she never seemed to resent the lack of attention because of our other children who needed and appreciated our encouragement.”
“Is there anything else that you feel is significant?” I asked George.
“Well,” he reluctantly replied, “I noticed that she seemed to be flirtatious with the younger boys and I felt she was too seductive. My wife said that I was crazy because such a young child would not be doing this. She said that all little children played ‘doctor’ and that it was a normal part of growing up. But one night, both of us went into George’s bedroom to kiss him goodnight, as was our ritual with all the children. We were both absolutely horrified to find Jasmine, naked, rubbing up to little George. We did discuss this with their pediatrician who advised us that we shouldn’t put too much significance on this act because it would just draw attention to something that was probably a temporary thing. He told us to explain to Jasmine that we knew that she was a good little girl but we did not allow this experimentation in our family. George was only three at the time and too young to understand. And, Dr. Engel, can you guess what Jasmine said to me when I reasoned with her?”
“What did she say,” I asked with curiosity as I was taking my notes.
“She said, ’It wasn’t me that did it. It was my other part that I can’t find. If I
can find her, I will tell her not to do it anymore!’ ” Tears filled George’s eyes as
he related this to me.