Two Lost Souls

by Scott D Wagner

Princess and Gallant in the car.

  “That was amazing! I don’t know what to think. Wasn’t it?” Pami asked. If it was indeed an asking. As previously mentioned, we were in the car, heading to the airport. ‘Amazing’; perhaps my emotional concept of that word was a bit different from Pami’s. However, my thoughts had not chosen a word yet. Pami’s was as good as any. The interview that really was not, was still ripening in my melon. More so, it seemed a Harry cleansing tale. But maybe that does not pen well either. Harry did not think of it as a tale. He did not want me to think of it as a story either. Was it a spiritual confession? Perhaps, close, perhaps very close.

  I did not give Pami anything and she did want me to. “Nothing? That’s it! You are not going to say anything.” She was looking steady at me. Glancing to her then back, I did not speak. I was trying to get it right. I was not sure what right was. When I do not know, I always fall back on what I do know.

  “Well… some of the details, all of the details that I knew of, they were all spot on. They were absolutely perfect. But any student with the internet could find those details. But it was all the details that I didn’t know. That is what got me. You know. Harry would not know that unless he had been there. There is no way you could know those things unless you had been there. So I guess I don’t know. I can’t confirm much of what he said. But… but in the same way, I can’t dismiss them either.”

  My princess kicked aside, she would have none of that royal bullshit. “What?” She shouted. Pause for crowned affect. “The great Daniel Rengaw can not confirm nor deny a historical supposition? Really?” No pause.

  “Oh I’ll find out alright!” I knew I couldn’t, but I wouldn’t leave her with hand. The last word her’s? Not happening.

  As with the in-car reading that you have done reader, surely plane event reading has gotten redundant as well. I am happy, and you will be ecstatic, our return flight home was without mention. However, as the pay-attention-reader may be aware of, I tend to say nothing happened, and then not-so-smoothly launch into a happening. What follows is that not-so.

  Pami finished her read of Catch 22. Pami loved Catch 22. Pami wanted escape. Rationalizing this, I pushed aside her words as a passive aggressive Danny damaging lie.

  A Daddy Bear hug is one of those father daughter personal’s that Rebecca and I have shared since she was a toddler. Now home, thanking them for the airport pickup, I gave, and she got. “Easy Daddy,” Rebecca said. She hushed this out loudly as she squirmed away from me. I questioned what had changed in our relationship. Why I did I did not know, but I looked to Wade for an answer. He did not give me an answer. He added to my wonder with a face that looked wondering itself. Reaching to him for a thank you departing shake, he seemed tentative in taking my offer.

  Dusk had fallen upon Morrison more than an hour earlier. Because of delays with our flight, our walk to Dennis and Tina’s invite was in a darker light. In reality, very little lite was able to push through an overcast March sky. With a happy to be home Pami in hand, and a happy that Daddy was home Bubba leashed, we headed the several blocks to their home. Our path took us past Mister Frick’s house. Michael did not seem to be at home. His house held no lite either.

  “Thanks for dinner Tina. I’m glad not to have to cook tonight. The meal was delicious.” Pami thanked and complimented.

  “Like you were going to cook tonight,” I said. I gave a Buddy look to Dennis. Probably shouldn’t have done either. Pami was quick in coming back.

  “Were you going to?”

  “No! But that’s not the point.” I looked to Dennis to make sure he appreciated the risk I was taking for his enjoyment. He did. Tina, softer, laughed as well. Pami exaggerated a glare of infuriation. One, two, three; the chuckle that Pami so did not want out, got out.

  You know that pause, the one that gets awkward after it is noticeable that no one is speaking, that happened now. For me it was a little more awkward as I suddenly became aware that my arms were crossed upon my chest. Body language that I have been told tells of several personality traits. None that I particularly like, none I will admit to. Noticeably unnatural, I rush dropped my hands flat atop the table.

  Pami tried to bridge the gap that was still to nowhere. “How is Jill?” A harmless opening to conversation; good. No, not harmless, not good; bad, bad was about to be. Tina’s face lost all of the easy that had been our dinner. In his chair, Dennis squirmed as if he didn’t want to be here anymore. Tina was on her feet. Her chair made a wood on wooden floor slide, followed by a knock of a wall-unit stopping its slide. Pami made a soft questioning sound. I pulled my hands off of the table. It seemed the safe move as Tina jerked my plate. Without a word, she grabbed other dinnerware, stacked them into a leaning tower, and headed to the kitchen. Her pace was as quick as her Pisa allowed. Pami glanced to me and then peered at Dennis.

  Dennis was still unsettled in his chair as he answered the question that had set his ass on fire and endangered porcelain. “She’s doing well.” Okay… Profiling 101; Dennis is lying. ‘She’s doing well’, means no she’s not. It was a far too simple answer. Even CBI Department Head Greg Tillman knows this.

  (I haven’t bashed Tillman for some time. It just felt right.)

 

  Dennis left that not-enough answer hanging. I so wanted his answer to be enough, but no! “Dennis?” Pamila had to go there. This set my ass on fire.

  He leaned to the table and rested elbows. He said to neither of us; “Oh… she’s alright. Jill… it’s just that… it’s just that she’s kind of-”

  “She’s an idiot!” Tina finished whatever Dennis was about to say. A mother’s disgust was smothering a mother’s love. Her face was embarrassed by where she was headed. Nonetheless, her wanting us to hear this had pushed embarrassment aside. I was sure it was more for Pami to hear.

  Dennis; “Do you have any idea what you just did Pami?” He did not say this aloud, but he wanted to. Dennis slowly sat back. His chin dropped. He knew he was finished. Tina was starting.

  In presenting my rendition of this evening, I suddenly realize that I have opened an information hole. I should take the time to go back and close it. But it seems like a lot of work. It is the time that it would take. It is the effort and all. Does this make me a lazy writer? I guess what I want, does not matter. Dear Reader, you need to have this. You’re welcome.

  Jill, their daughter, had been married for less than two years. She was married to… What follows is less than flattering to him, so he would rather go through this part anonymous. The light does not shine well on Jill either. But she has already been named as a witness. So her identity is in your eyes.

  (See how easy that was. Now I have time for Sportscenter and lunch.)

  Okay I am back. First though, I feel the need to digress.

  Does anyone else find ESPN’s ten-year love affair with Tony Romo nauseating?

  Tina, now standing at the end of the table, has us surrounded. “Pamila did I raise an idiot?” (That is twice.) With a dishcloth, with angered fervor, Tina was desperately trying to wipe disgust from her wet hands. Her eyes went all Helter Skelter as she waited for an answer. Pami’s nervous shifting said that she did not want to play anymore.

  Pami; “I don’t think that you-” Tina, the scarred X on her forehead surfacing, did not let Pami finish.

  “That man! He infuriates me. I don’t understand that dip-shit Hipster. Why does she listen to him like he is some kind of... of… a prophet. She always does this. She has always done this. Every asshole that she’s ever gone out with, she does the exact same thing.” Perhaps Tina felt her insides coming outside. With no less meaning, but wanting to soften its escape, she retreated a bit in her verbal assault. She pulled a breath, another deeper, she sat. Her face was in full rose bloom and her lips white thinned tight. Dennis now attempted an escape. Grabbing only those dishes that would not s
low his departure, he left me. With an obvious Man-law broken, I held my stare of him on his departing back. The coward did not look at me. He would hear of this later. Him gone, I snapped a look to Pami. She knew that he had broken.

  With Dennis’s departure, witnessing Tina’s face, watching her fortify her sitting, Intel told me this assault would be brutal. Diplomatic end scenarios to this siege flashed immediate in me. None came to me that might work now without later being Pamila assaulted. With no viable option, I would have to take my beating.

  I sat back in my chair and audibly pushed air. Pami’s searing eyes burnt into me. My shoulders lifted, with my palms off the chair’s arms and open, I asked the ultimate question. “What?” Pami’s head slowly turned to Tina. Again I snapped; “What?” Good for me, it was a silent snap. I am not an idiot. That is Jill’s husband’s job.

  Tina opened the onslaught. “Why does Jill do this? Every time she gets a man in her life, she changes. She becomes… she changes her personality to be whatever he is. To be whatever the idiot wants her to be.” (Three.) “We didn’t raise her to be anyone’s puppet. Shit Pami what the hell is wrong with her.” Tina’s expletive modifiers were unusual for her. They uncomfortably fell from her hurting heart. Uncomfortable for her and us.

  She paused. Both hands worked the sides of her neck. I hate Dennis. As she gazed into the tablecloth, she saw the face of her son-in-law. Her estranged by stupidity son-in-law. “He infuriates me so. God he makes me so mad. He’s just such a… I don’t know what to call him. He thinks that everyone else in the world is doing it wrong. Everything! Everyone is doing everything wrong and he does not understand why. You know… everyone works and everyone has a job to pay their bills. Nope! Nope! That’s wrong! That’s not the way it should be. According to him that is wrong. We are all doing it wrong. That idiot!” (Four.) “Most people, normal people, think in real terms. Nope! That is wrong. We are all doing it wrong. Logical! Most people are logical. Nope! We are all killing this planet. He’s not. Just everyone else on the planet is. Damn it he makes me so mad. He is…he’s so-”

  “Befuddled?” I so wanted to help her with her word choice that I did. Tina jumped to her feet and punched an affirming finger toward me.

  “Yes! Yes! He is befuddled. He is a Befuddled!” She said this happy that I had given her, and she now had a title. “And he is making my daughter exactly like him. A Befuddled. He is turning her brain into befuddled mush. She is becoming a Befuddled.” Tina paused briefly and then continued. “My daughter is bright, she is educated, and she is turning into an idiot.” (I’m done.) “How the hell did this happen!”

  Tina’s question I assumed was rhetorical. I hoped so, I was not going near it. Her face went expressionless. Posture poured from her. Tina’s angry solid fell into a sullen hole. I am not sure what brought on this quick giving up. Perhaps neither of us answering confirmed her worry. Perhaps it was the barely heard awkward chuckle from the Hated in the kitchen. However, it could have been as simple as today’s battle was over. All that she had within, thus being let out, she had nothing left. Darting eyes settled into a calm glisten. Paleness replaced rose, shoulders softened as her lips began a quiver. Her transformation was at end. The sobbing was at its beginning. Tina was gone, disappearing down the hallway. My biological emotional system got instantly ill. The prognosis was treatable, but the recovery would be painful. I knew; why is it when a tearing woman runs from my presence, it is my fault.

  “Tina!” Pami called to her. Her glare was to me. “Daniel!” Bam!

  “What?” Reflexive, my defense was weak. “How is this my fault?” Better. I punched hard my second defense in order for the Mad, Sullen, and the Hated, to hear. Particularly the Hated. In afterthought, my punch was the foundation of my future defense. It was weak. I was going to marriage prison.

  ‘You the most honorable members of the jury. Guided by your truest moral compass, within the legal requirement of Without-a-doubt, am I to be convicted of Marriage Derelecti? Is it true that stupidity may have been in play? That answer would have to irrefutably be yes! However, am I to suffer slings and arrows for the emotional state of another? That answer would have to irrefutably be no!’

  Now, I could compare what might be the response from some female readers, with what would be the response from all male readers, but perhaps no. I do so hate kneeling to political correctness, but I am sure that my publisher would instead want me to present the ‘Ice cream in the water story’ instead.

  It was a summer evening several years past. I had prepared a delicious meal of roasted Game Hens, fresh corn on the cob, and roasted garlic mashed potatoes. It was just Pamila and I. We enjoyed the meal and were now finished. Well… the bowl of ice cream that I was enjoying on the back porch would finish it for me.

  Bowl in hand; I could hear sounds from the kitchen of what I perceived as Pami preparing a bowl of her own. It was then that I heard a splash. Vulgarity at my expense immediately followed. ‘That stupid son-of-a-bitch.’ With her tone, her loudness, and the fact that she repeated these words, I knew several things. First, it was not life threatening. However, it was one of those things that she really wished had not happened. Lastly, I could tell that she really did not know what to do about what had just happened. Oh… whatever had just happened, there was no doubt that it was somehow my fault.

  “What happened?” I yelled. Being one of the truly caring people on earth, I asked this with the deepest of concern. What I heard was mumbling. This was followed by these words; “I dropped the ice cream into the nasty water. I dropped the ice cream carton in the water!”

  On the floor, at the end of one of our counters, is Bubba’s water-dish. Ice cream floating in Mervin’s water bowl is what I pictured. Responding probably not with the deepest caring, I said; “You dropped it into Mervin’s bowl?” Not for her to hear, I chortled with the thought of this picture. Probably where I went wrong; probably she heard. But come on! My mind’s picture of Pami standing over Mervin’s water dish, staring down at a half gallon of peach ice cream half submerged in water, that’s funny!

  She mumbled something. I am pretty sure she called me another name. I’m pretty sure I knew what it was. However, not being certain, I will not pass it on to you. Then there was this. “No! Not the dog bowl! Your nasty ass water in the sink. That disgusting water that you always have in the sink.” It was, my fault.

  My defense: Always, when I am working in the kitchen, I have the right sink full of CLEAN antibacterial dish-soap-water. Hygienic and sanitary; not disgusting, not nasty ass. I use it to wash my hands, prevent cross contamination, and clean things. Not nasty ass.

  My reprimand from within as she continued to do whatever she was doing continued. I will not go into details, as it adds nothing to the story. The story, my point, is that it was my fault for being sanitary in my work. Sanitary in food preparation; the same way that I had done forever. You see it now don’t you.

  So that is the ‘Ice cream in the water story’. Oh yeah, there is this: Minutes later, a large bowl of peach ice cream in hand, Pamila joined me on the porch.

  Tina run off, Pamila in pursuit, Dennis still hiding, I sat alone at the table considering my injustice. With a timid search of the world, which was my world, Dennis peeked form within his black hole. A raising brow put my eyes to a face that swallowed nervously. Thinking all clear, trying to loosen a tight everything, Dennis stepped into the room.

  “I’m sorry Danny.” He placed it as a feeler. I was feeling but gave him only a blank face. “Tina has been upset about this thing.” I did not care about her thing and I told him so. My words stumbled across an awkward meaning. They gave him a considering halt.

  It was not that I wanted to, I had to thrash him. Intentionally I punched hard punctuation. Dennis… you… bailed… on me.” These words may not seem much of a thrashing. However, the
y firmly let him know of his wronging. And wronging was always wrong.

  At this point in this stupid game, he knew he had to give an explanation for his wronging. We both knew that it would be meaningless. We both also knew that it was the next play. I waited. He had nothing. Not allowed. He had to say something, anything. ‘I did not get a skateboard for my eleventh birthday.’ That would have worked.

  “Well!” I said. He looked away from me. Oh hell no! “You coward!” It needed saying. I went too far. Dennis instantly looked a pitiful tired. A man with no more fight in him. A Hemingway fish. Dennis gave still a different look. The same look I had seen before from Mervin. It said; ‘I’m sorry. I know I was bad. Please forgive me. Just love me.’

  With his beaten-ness, with his asking for a forgiveness, I said exactly what he wanted to hear. I said nothing more about it. I kind of felt sorry for him. I will never admit to it, but I may have in the past been weak, scared, a runner. Perhaps my past was the cause of a gentler forgiving me. This is how I choose to rationalize it.

  (Now Dear Reader, do you see how trying men relations are. Women think we are ridiculous; stupid even. But the gentle balance that we constantly have to walk is so very tentative. We are indeed so delicately sensitive.)

  After more incredibly stupid gentler banter on the topic of Jill, we migrated to the living room. Our new conversation was mostly a stereotypical cliché; we talked sports. It was all easy for the two of us. However, I, and I assumed Dennis, could hear the passing of each minute. The minutes with missing wives. Forty-three in all.

  Tina’s cheeks were pink and puffy. Although not as visible on her face, Pamila had been crying as well. Noticeable only to me, Pamila was very reserved. Husband knowing, very reserved came right after very angry Pami. I went to DEFCON 3.

  However, even with the increased threat level, I knew I was good. You see… when Pami is angry with me, reserved is not next. Well… there was that one time when we were first married and I wrecked her classic GTO. But that was more ignoring. I swear I wasn’t racing.

  The remains of our evening together was as long as it took to say goodbyes. There was a lot of thanking and some hugs. Dennis did not get a hug from me. One last stupid thing. I kind of felt bad about it, but it had to be done.

  Throughout this ending, Pami was over selling the ‘It will all be okay’. I am sure Dennis caught me staring at her cheerleader like chipper. Right then it slapped my legs and ached my head. I was tired and ready for my bed. It had been a long day. All of me was ready for it to end.

  With the late evening dropping into an early spring cool, with Bubba leading the way, our pace home was brisk. Without any transition in a non-existent conversation, Pami scared the silence away. “Tina is really very upset about Jill. I was very surprised by how upset she is and some of the things she told me.” She paused only briefly. “When we were in the bedroom she cried so hard it scared me. I have never seen her cry like that. I am not sure I have ever seen anyone cry like that. She would be sobbing one moment and then so angry with him the next. At both of them really. Tina said some things that…” She stopped mid-sentence. I turned to her. She looked straight ahead. “Tina kept saying that she wished he would just go away.” Pami’s presentation turned lighter as she continued; “She kept calling him a New Age Hipster Wanna Be.” Pami smiled. “In the end she called him a Befuddled. Jill liked that. Befuddled! She giggled a little when she said it.” Pamila remembering Jill’s giggle shared her light moment.

  With all of everything that she has for me, Pami pulled my hand and took me to her side. She pecked my cheek. “I wish I could help her. I’m not sure how.” She did not know, but she was going to think about it. I pulled her eyes into question. “What?” she asked. I held my stare.

  “I know you Pami.” She knew.

  Pine lake, my Grandparent’s home and adjoined marina. The place where I semi-annually spent my summers. A wonderfully special place for me. The smell of two-cycle gasoline; to this day it is an odor that always brings a smile in my mind. So many memories. So many vivid memories.

  I am very much aware that I tend to prattle on about such places; in this instance, I will not. You only need to know the following: It is here, sitting at my Grandmother’s kitchen counter that I was allowed to fill hundreds of books with Green Stamps. It was during one of my Grandparent’s annual Holiday visits to Jersey that she brought a unique Christmas memory.

  Perhaps they have not been left in centuries gone. Perhaps wonderfully special family moments have changed form in the new. Let us go back to the old. It was at her annual Christmas visit that my Grandmother ceremoniously unveiled a wonderful. She presented to gathered family, the way Grandmothers will.

  As my Grandmother will, she said; “Isn’t it lovely!” Hands clasped, she was beaming. “I got it with S&H Green Stamps,” she added. It lay presented on the living room rug. The wrapping paper that had protected it lay aside. Which my Father immediately tossed into the burning fireplace. Which was his Christmas morning job. A job he took very seriously. The way fathers will.

  Amidst her grandmotherly boasting, I understood that I was a part of it. All those hours pasting stamps, all that time at her kitchen counter, it was I. I had filled those books, I was a part. This part, now, is a part I wish to hold on to. There then, a memory. Here now, a family treasure. A treasure that I unwrap every year. The wrapping paper that I toss into the fireplace. A missed loving that I place on the rug in our living room.

  The unveiled was, and is still, a Twelve Days of Christmas home. It is delicate porcelain and beautifully hand painted. Each closed shutter, when opened, pictures a different day. Before any shutters have been opened, it leaks square candle lite. This now, is Michael’s house.

  My curious friend’s home was lit and candlepower was bulging all seems. Twelve windows were blinds shaded and leaking square white-yellow. Both porch lights were on, as was the garage, as was the walkway. If it could be lit, it was. I stared with curious questioning. “Huh!” Pami said with questioning of her own. I stared at Michael’s house until our walking took it from me.

  Bubba nearing his home excitedly crisscrossed our path. I had to fight the pulled tight leash. His head lifted as his excited whining changed to a low growl. I noticed. He stopped firm and held ground. Pami noticed. He stood square, chest out, primal warning. I knew there was a coyote that I had not noticed. I pulled to shorten the leader-leash. Both of us searched where Mervin had found. Seeing nothing, I listened for any sound that might SONAR me in. I had closed the leash to where I was now feet from him. “Danny!” Her warning startled me. Pami jerked hard on my arm to stop me. Her warning was now fear. “There is someone on our porch.” Mervin reared up tight against the leashed hold. Three snapping barks. Our un-lit porch, one large shadow, was not there to my eyes. I understood how diminished my night vision was. Part of the reason I soon would be seeing a doctor.

  Something slid, darkness moved. Pami standing pat, my arm pushed her to a stop that already was. Protective and pissed, my Bubba wanted a piece. Again I saw the gray move. Bubba hard on point, we slowly moved to reconnaissance the porch. Pulled to the start of the walkway I shouted; “Who’s there?”

  Mervin barked; “Who the #!%^ is there?” Soles were heard quick and light across the wood planks. A man’s outline headed toward me with three bangs down and off the porch. Rather diminutive was the outline; I was feeling much bigger. I was just about to release Mervin, but my increase in size ended that.

  “Danny?” The voice that came from the shadows I did not attach a name to. But it did lessen the threat more. Mervin stopped advancing but was still tight in my hand. “Is that you Danny thank God?” Bubba barked kinder but still with doubt. Pami had been quick to my side. Still approaching faster than I thought he should, he asked; “Where have you been Danny? I’ve been here over an hour.�
�� His words were rapid; his tone concerned if not scared. I couldn’t get it out any faster as I pulled Mervin back.

  “Mike no!” Scaring the hell out of him, as was my intent, he froze, as was my intent. “Michael take it easy Mervin is still unsure. Easy!” He brushed by Mervin with little concern. Still with concern but less, Bubba grumbled as he passed.

  Pami moved past me to Michael. She did not seem angry, she was angry. Her right hand raised and caught his attention. He leaned back. “Michael what the hell is wrong with you? You scared the hell out of us!”

  With Pamila just a flinch from releasing a right-cross slap, Michael looked past her and said; “It’s bad Danny it’s bad it’s really bad.” Not the choice I would have made.

  Following his spitting sputter, I asked; “What’s bad Michael?” Instantly, so instantly that science would find it difficult to measure, I knew this question would be the most regrettable of the day. A day that had walked to cliff’s edge, and was now looking down into the presuppose of sleep, now would almost certainly step back.

  “Danny you have got to come to my house I need to show you something I have got to tell you something. They know about it Danny and they know that I know. They know that you told me. Danny they know! You have got to come with me. I have to show you something. I have to tell you something.” Son-of-a-bitch!

  Although these passing minutes were a bit off for Michael, it was not a huge stretch. His current going off was hugely out of time’s place, but not so strange. Now bent, it was this now that had me bent.

  Pami kissed my cheek and pulled back to find my eyes. Her lips drew a picture of a married sorry-about-your-bad-luck smile. She sarcasm’d away; “See ya!” Turning from me, she paused long and hard on Michael. He was out of striking range but still necked backwards. Lips now tiny, brow mean down, her face said; ‘I should beat your puny ass’. I fought to keep the moment inside. Good for Michael, sad for me, she turned and headed down the walkway. “Come on Bubba. Daddy has a crisis.” She chuckled. Mervin looked to me.

  “Go on Bubba,” I said. He glanced once to Michael and then back to me before running to the porch. I watched Pami walk away from me. I understood what I would not get.

  There were so many reasons for my sigh. It was very Soap Opera-ish. My chin dropped. Again, daytime programing. I saw a bit of dirt on my left Converse. The patience that I did not have, forced a fake caring as I lifted to Michael.

  Whatever there was of an angler in Michael, it told him that the hook was not yet set. Not so hard as to rip the hook from my mouth, he offered with inflection soft solid; “Okay? Danny, can we go now?” I only stared. This was a yes. He spun and headed off. With one last glimpse of my wife getting ready for bed, I began my follow.

  So as Pami and Mervin were preparing for sleep, and no doubt talking shit about me, I was heading for Mister Frick’s house. Steps ahead of me and moving briskly we passed the walk in silence. Homing in on the shining beacon of his house, Michael suddenly went full stealth.

  Hedges ran the length of his front yard. They were three or so feet high, they were bursting early buds, and they were rarely trimmed. Here at the corner is where Michael stopped and dropped quick. He lifted to one knee. I stood! ‘What is this?’ I thought. Michael peeked above the hedge, peered briefly, and began scuttling on all fours along the sidewalk. ‘I do not need this shit’, I thought. Lit by a sudden moon, I followed with slow steps. Where his walkway met the bushes, he again stopped and peered. Michael saw me and reached up. He grabbed for whatever he could grab. “Get down Danny!” It was so 60’s TV show Combat. Combat was my father’s favorite TV show.

  I went all in. Dropping to a knee, I adjusted my steel helmet. In case you want to know, it was camouflage meshed. Confused by my in-the-moment ridiculousness, he stared. This made me feel better; he was hovering around reality.

  “Are you alright Danny?” he asked. He asked me? He again peered over the Howitzer left rubble. His neck swiveled in a search pattern and then he pulled back down to cover. He jingled, peered one last time, and took off. Still hunched over he dashed to the front door in a serpentine pattern. Perhaps I exaggerate.

  He unlocked the dead-bolt, did the same to the handle’s lock, and pulled the door open. Light, blinding light, poured into my eyes. Michael grabbed my arm, and forcibly without me resisting twisted me inside. Behind me, wood slammed wood. Metal tumbled twice to lock.

  Millions of lit crystals poured into my eyes. Prism blended light overwhelmed. All that I could not see was everywhere. I flinched with a sound to my left. The sound was movement. “Turn off some of those lights Michael.” I said this vulnerable and hurried. Movement of sound was scraping and clicking. A hunger screech was added to a cat’s claws on a wooden floor. I presumed it was hunger, but who knows. Cats?

  One of those brain sores that never heals is my inability to remember which is which, Rods or Cones. Whichever is which, they were slowly adjusting. Less concerned, I again asked; “Michael the lights?” Switches snapped and lamps de-clicked as he turned off half a dozen. Better!

  Of all the neurological data I was currently processing, what came to the forefront was that I had never before been inside Michael’s house. His home, his inside house, it all was damp in a mid-20th century motif. There was no furniture that you had to put together yourself. All the furniture was solid and much was overstuffed. There was heavy tables and heavier hutches. All lamps were topped with paper shades and were made of porcelain and brass. The walls that were wallpapered were textured. The floor was dark wooden planks. The decorations on the walls risked nothing. I profiled; the gender of the home was female. I thought gender neutral, and then I didn’t. This was a woman’s home. A woman of a previous generation.

  With me still wandering through the room’s profile, Michael dashed the distance to the stairs and called from halfway to the top. “Come on Danny up here. It’s up here.” As I was spiraling around in a Hitchcock visual, ‘it’s’, sounded don’t-go-up-there creepy.

  Meeting him top of the stairs, Michael turns and starts down the long hallway. My tired mind still vising a Hitchcock parallel universe, the hallway runs from me. Endlessly it flows away from my end seeking sight. Doors sweep past me with a repeating whoosh. The hallway’s end distancing itself without shrinking in size. I shake my thoughts vigorously side to side. As I am allowed to play with it in this exhausted realm, reality is once again in my toy box.

  This upstairs is not that downstairs. I think to profile and choose do not. I do not think I will like what I think. Letting my brain rest, I only look. The hallway is a mix of unique decorating and a hallucinogenic motif. Black in color of a natural dark that I have never seen, the wood floor pulls my eyes down to it. From there I go up and away. Delicately sculpted baseboards of the same tone run the length. The painted walls are such a subtle shade of white that it is if they are not there. There are six doors in all. Three on each side. They are the walls. Five wooden doors were decoratively carved. Each one is darker than the previous one. They were all from a distant place. A single door, the first on my right, is solid and highly polished metal. I imagined it was from Pittsburgh. The Crown molding was again elaborate in its carving and different in its darker. The ceiling was unique. It was also a scheme gone horribly awry. It was black against white, it was iron trying to float on water, it was wrong pummeling right. ‘One of these things is not like the other.’ Perhaps it is this Sesame Street flashback that sent me chasing Alfred.

  The ceiling directly above me was brilliant white. As the ceiling moved down the hall away from me, it slowly morphed in shade. It smoothed bright white to ash, ash to gray, gray to charcoal, and charcoal to Black Hole. I do appreciate creativity as much as the last guy, but this mixing of 18th century provincial with 20th century Twilight Zone, would have sent Trevor into convulsions.

  Pamila, my Mother, my friends
, and most of you, would predict where my curiosity went. Directly to and fixated on the single metal door. Unfortunately, the cause of the metal door, and what was behind it, was not going to happen. “Here Danny.” My fingertips slid across the width of the Pennsylvania product. ‘But what about this single conspicuous metal door?’ I said to myself.

  Under the Black Hole, it hung on the left side of the hallway. Michael stopped in front of it. My adoration for all things pristine was warmed as the crafting of this beautiful door was not blemished by a modern lock. Before opening it, Michael seemed to pay the mahogany door homage. He stared at the tight grain with respect. “I got it in Olangapo. Philippines. Outside of Clark Air Force base. When Clark was still there.”

  “When were you in the Philippines?” I think I said. I know he said nothing.

  Heavy was it as Michael pushed it inward. Warm was it as air pushed outward. The rhythmic cycling sound of an electric fan blended with the lesser sound of humming electrons. Within was Michael’s playground. A mix of old and new school. Analog, which I had once tinkered with, and digital, which I knew how to use.

  A fist size bundle of cables ran along the back wall and branched out to gizmos, gazmos, and guzmos. Two laptops, a single PC, a router, several modems, I recognized. Mostly smaller, other equipment that I did not.

  Both laptops and the P.C. were running. The first laptop was rolling through a series of four displays: two different pie charts, one multi-lined graph, and the last was a report of some sort. Organized numbers that I did not try to sum. Each was cycling every ten seconds.

  The other laptop was awash in a screen-saver of tropical fish. No creativity, but exactly as I would have guessed. The tower fed LED displayed a portion of a global map. Northern Africa, Central America, and northern South America, were the regions. An insert on the bottom left displayed Nicaragua. I knew it was Nicaragua because it said so. The only other text on Nicaragua was the number 757. It digitally clicked to 758.

  I am not sure how long I surveyed what the room was, but it was long enough to recognize one thing; Michael was calm and quiet. He was safe and comfortable surrounded by the world. He was silent and still. He did not want to spook me from taking it all in. From creepy crawling, loud and paranoid, to motionless calm, I noticed. His slowed breathing, his face of normal color, his calmness, they all seemed biologically impossible.

  “Daniel!” It was not oud but I flinched. “Do you know what that is Daniel? Do you recognize that? You should!” He pointed to the map. I glanced at him and then back to the world.

  “A map,” I said flatly. He smiled.

  “You do not. You don’t see any of it do you. You should Daniel.” He paused, waiting for a revelation from me. I was looking hard into his eyes. “Daniel it is your vision.” Pause again. “You wrote about it.” His words forced me to analyze and find what I should understand. I did, and I did not. I rubbed my eyes quickly, hoping to get them to work one last time.

  My mind was racing for the answer that God willing, would mercifully end this. Looking at him my peripheral saw change. The insert was now Libya and 1013. I stared at it still searching for what I should. My eyes were overtired aching. My look said I was going home. I turned. “Five Kings!” I stopped. “It is Five kings Daniel.” He said this factually.

  God had not been merciful. I did not want to, but slow and low I asked; “Five Kings? Michael please… I don’t see it.”

  “You predicted it Daniel. You wrote it and you e-mailed it to me. I read it. This is the beginning of Five Kings.” His calm tone became a little ruffled as he said this.

  He touched Libya. “Libya, 1013, that’s an increase.” He jumped over to the laptop and click clicked to the report. His finger scrolled downward as he leaned into the screen. “That is an increase of 212% in 88 days. 212% increase in less than 90 days Daniel.”

  I must have hit the wall at that moment as I was done with whatever this was we were doing. I turned to the door and started off.

  “I’m going home Michael can we please finish this tomorrow?”

  “No!” He grabbed my arm turning me to see a once again reddening face. “Stay with me please Danny just a few more minutes.” His words were quickening. He quick stepped to the laptop and clicked a key. Back to the PC. “See Libya and that number, I did that.” He was leaning in and down to the screen as he continued; “I created a program that keeps track.” He stood up and faced me. “You see… almost every country has a program that monitors and keeps track of ships coming into port. Taxes, tariffs, graft, you know. I created a program that gathers this information and compiles it so that I can see it.” He points to the monitor as his eyes stay on me. “Libya. One thousand and thirteen. That is the number of boats that are currently in port. Not boats really, ships, sea going vessels.” Again, he rapidly and repeatedly thrust a pointed finger at the monitor. “One thousand and thirteen boats represents an increase of two hundred and twelve percent in less than ninety days. Libya has two hundred and twelve percent more sea faring vessels in port right now than it did eighty eight days ago.”

  The insert switched to Argentina. He saw it and dashed back to the laptop. “See! Argentina has increased two hundred and eight percent in one hundred and one days. It is happening just as you predicted.” He paused and squared me. Still getting more and more worked up, he did say with clarity the following. “Daniel, during the past two months, six countries have shown me a steady buildup of sea ships capable of ocean sailing. Significant numbers of significant craft.”

  “Significant?” I asked.

  “Stellar Wind,” he shouted.

  “Stellar Wind. Is that even still in effect. Is it still lawful?” I asked. Michael nodded slowly. He was silently emphatic.

  I mulled over what Stellar Wind was. With one of those cool names that our security agencies attach to programs, Stellar Wind was one of those. Shortly after that attack of September, the President signed a National Security Order; Stellar Wind. Basically, Stellar Wind gave the FBI and all of our national security agencies carte blanche. They could use all of their technology to monitor all of ours. It was J. Edgar Hoover’s dream. Big brother was listening. Moreover, most importantly here and now, I was sure that Michael was concerned of their listening to his e-mails.

  I guess I did not want to waste my remaining thought strength, but I didn’t try to remember when I had sent 5 Kings to him. He said I did, and I accepted his word.

  He again nodded trying to convince. “It is happening Daniel. Right now! You e-mailed it to me and it is happening. They know it is happening and they will want to know how you know. They will come for us.”

  “Five Kings is just a story. Something I created.” This time I refrained and only said this to myself. As if suddenly enlightened, Michael took four quick steps to a shelf and grabbed something. He reached it out to me.

  “Here!” he said. I took the flyer and briefly looked at it. My eyes lifted to his.

  “Yeah?” I asked.

  “You know what that is right Daniel.”

  “Yeah Michael. It is a pamphlet from the National Student Funding Association. So?” He slapped a finger on the pamphlet’s selling line.

  “Daniel it says right there; ‘We need your help’.” He said this and looked for a reply from me.

  “Michael this is a foundation for student scholarships. They want money.”

  “No! It is from the NSA.”

  “No! It is from the NSFA. The National Student Funding Association. Not the National Security Agency. I am pretty sure that the NSA does not bulk-mail pamphlets Michael.” Michael looked blankly at me. “Michael, I got one of these at my house.”

  “You did!” His words were frantic. A sound downstairs. Michael’s first step was World Class athlete. Down the stairs two steps at a time and stumbling. At the bottom he nearly fell. He froze momentarily. What w
as he going to do against armed NSA agents. Or for that matter, armed NSFA administrators.

  Taking one more glance into the Batcave, I headed toward the stairs. Partly because I was tired, mostly because this was so stupid, my walk down the stairs was slow. Michael was running a search pattern. “You’ve got to go now Daniel,” he yelled. I did not know why, but I did not move. I tossed my head up the stairs.

  “What’s up with the metal door Michael?”

  Michael’s face was easing from a cat sound fright. Cats! He was inner battling. Safety versus me staying even a second longer; me leaving or he showing; should he or shouldn’t he. He dashed up the stairs. And yes… I followed.

  Both of us standing in front of the silver door, he felt I had sufficient security clearance as he once again jingled. Dear Reader, you certainly know by now that I find many things strange. This was strange; the keys were in his left front pants pocket and he pulled them with his right hand. Who does that?

  Twice he rolled a solid turn of finely machined interlocked iron. With keys still hanging, he turned the knob and pushed the door inward. The slight sound of pressure normalizing, released the aroma of spring at Monticello. However, it was synthetic spring at Monticello.

  The room was lite lit as I looked inside. I stared at what there was. Surprised by what there was, the time of the stare crossed the uncomfortable line. Bewildered and not wanting to be, my eyes found Michael’s. His back was flat against the open door, his right arm extended with an open and presenting palm. With lifted brows and a full smile, Michael was a proud child presenting Mother a cleaned bedroom.

  “It has been almost six years. I have been getting ready for this. Every week I would buy one, more if I could. Every week for six years. I never wavered. Vigilant! I knew this day would come. Now… now I am ready. Danny I am ready for whatever will happen next. I’m ready!”

  Like a refrigerator packed full and high, light cascaded down from above. A waterfall of soft white light. The contents of the large room both sparkled and hid the source of the ceiling’s light fixture. From floor to ceiling, only inches separated the contents from the walls. Geometrically stacked and balanced, perfectly rectangular, Egypt’s Pharaohs would be proud.

  I looked at Michael. I glanced back into the room and then back to him. He was in a moment proud. I would say here that I did not want to ruin whatever elevated plane he was on. But really, I did not know what to say. What does one say about six years’ worth of toilet paper?

  Tomorrow, well rested, in this moment, moment perfect, I would have said; ‘Holy shit!’ But no, it is perfect missed. Of course in future telling of this story, that is exactly what I said.

  “Daniel you are the only one, no one else knows. You need to keep it that way please.” What did I know? I knew I needed sleep. “You can’t tell anyone Daniel! No one. If you tell anyone, I will be overwhelmed. Robbed! Maybe even killed. I mean after it happens.”

  His moment be damned, I was done. “It’s shit paper Michael! A shit load of shit paper.” Wanting to ding ding ding the beginning of the last round, my words were said with a tone of emphatically done.

  “Toilet paper? That is all you see here Daniel. Toilet paper. I thought you were future looking. A man of vision.” My descent of the stairs was two steps from being done as he addressed the future. My path continued toward the door as I went back to the future myself.

  “Your Crapper is the only future for that room,” I said. His words bouncing off the stairwell walls told me he was still atop as he rambled along his sales pitch.

  “Sheets of gold! I see thousands of sheets of gold. This room is gold. Half a ton of gold”

  I badly wanted to walk upon the dew of this chilled night. Reaching to the door, my hand lay on the handle but did not twist. I was so close. He saw this. He flew down the stairs. Disappointed in myself, I slowly turned. He walked to me confidently slow. His demeanor was a single move from checkmate. I wanted for the move. “Think about it Daniel.” He paused for affect. “When the attack comes; the battle, the overthrow, Five Kings, it will all change everything. Everything will end. Government, rule, industrial production, and toilet paper production, all over.” His smile changed and waited for me to have the epiphany that he was sure I would.

  He continued; “The rich people, the ones with all the gold, they will run out of toilet paper. And they’ll want it bad. Toilet paper addicts, they’ll be gotta-have-it frenzied. Paper Junkies jones-ing. What’s the current price of gold, sixteen hundred dollars an ounce. But there won’t be any toilet paper; only what I have.”

  His smile again changed. He looked like the Grinch looking down on Whoville. Rubbing his chin, he was satisfied with what he had done. “I will have plenty of TP. Plenty to trade for gold and enough for myself. What’s the term. The one percent. They’ll have all the gold and they’ll want the Good-stuff. Per roll I’ll get a thousand dollars’ worth of gold.” Pulling his thumb’d left hand back over his shoulder, he exclaimed; “I’ve got over twenty thousand rolls of TP. They’ll want it; they all will want it and they will pay plenty for it. When it happens, only gold will be more valuable than toilet paper. And I will have plenty of both.”

  I had never seen this person in Michael. He was the ultimate dreamer, the Gold Rusher, the Con Artist looking for that one big score, the in the end loser. If it were a movie, it would slowly build anxious pain. You knew it was stupid, you knew it was coming, and you couldn’t look away.

  This was not a movie, and I would look away. I disturbed the outside with a senseless cackle. I describe the sound so, because it was a release of all the day’s emotions. Kind of creepy actually. Michael lost his Mojo. I knew his smile as well.

  “Good night Michael,” my parting words. Good departing words I thought. They were literal and yet softly placed, snotty in my thought and yet not so in his taking. All that mattered, was that they brought ending.

  I did it, I was gone; porch, stairs off the porch, and down the walkway. From Michael there was only silence. Turning left on to the sidewalk and toward home, he broke Radio Silence. “Darnel I don’t think we should speak again. No communication of any kind. Nothing! Ever!” Michael wanting to both ensure that I heard his final words, and not wanting ‘them’ to hear, his volume wavered throughout his words. My pace remained steady, I did not turn, I tossed a disgusted wave. It was a leave-me-alone type. From behind was heard wood on wood and two metallic latching’s.

  At the ending edge of the bushes, I looked back to a house that was putting the day’s life asleep. It was a practiced sequence. Perfectly timed, each window lost its light. I paused briefly deciding what category to file this under. The last second floor lite lost, the house went quiet.

  Turning to home, I did not start to it. The moment was boiling and held me. The only way out was through. Through meant a chuckle of release. For the late time that it was, and amongst the neighbors that I was, my release was too loud. I hope ‘them’ did not hear.

  It was so very dark. It had not been this dark last year. I was missing my lead dog. He was fast asleep on my side of the bed. My mind was so everything that the walk home seemed without time spent.

  The day that had fought so valiantly was finally giving up. Time with Harry and all that that was, the dormant mount Tina that unexpectedly erupted, weird scenes inside Michael’s goldmine, they were all going into the toy box for this day.

  After securing the house, I climb the stairs and enter a bedroom that I can only feel and hear. Bubba’s tail thumps the comforter repeatedly. The bathroom night-light is my beacon as I sail on. Pami, maybe now awake, maybe close to sleep, groans with a roll to one side. The switch’s click fills the bathroom a soft white. In a voice that did not care and showed this with its lack of effort, Pami asks; “What does Michael need?”

  “A padded room,” I answered.

  Every night the sam
e routine: “Mervin get down.” This I say without emphasis. No movement. “Mervin! Get down!” He jumps quickly down finding his place on the floor. Once he is comfortable but not happy about it, he lets out an emphatic huff of disgust. Cats!

  The final end, settled and ready for that end. Pami rolls toward me dropping a hand to my chest. With intended inflection of sarcasm, I offer; “He’s got half a ton of toilet paper.”

  “That’s nice.” Sarcasm wasted.