Two Lost Souls

by Scott D Wagner

Something else again.

  Pamila:

  July 9, 2010

  For several years now, years that on a daily basis have challenged who Daniel Rengaw is, Atticus M. Finch has been a large woven piece amongst his puzzled afghan of life. A jigsaw that he has so deliberately been sewing together. Each piece that he finds to fit, adds to its strength. When finished, although doubtful to me that it ever will be, the picture will be in an album that only he can truly appreciate. Yes, it is true that those of us that share him will see the portrait displayed. However, only he will know all the labored details of its making.

  Selfishly, I am glad that I have nestled his fellowship with Atticus in the crib of my heart. He shares it only with me. I keep it warm in darkness. It only sees light in one of those attachment moments. An unseen path of emotional time that only husband and wife travel. This being, his being, my being, being ours.

  Patterned in white, but mostly black, his words were never harsh; never would they kill a mockingbird. Tom’s Atticus knew no law. Tom’s Atticus had never crossed on Harper’s Ferry. Moreover, he certainly had never been in Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia.

  The lifetimes pre-Danny, a different lifetime, I had been so alone with my Framers. No one, with me, helped me. Danny rigid and exacting, as he is with all his understandings, calls them Significant Life Experiences. Me, I prefer the term Frames. A life-book, I will always prefer over a textbook. Personal, Frames square us. The painted picture of us, not the undeveloped us.

  Back several years ago, the Thrice Framed Years, Danny was squared three times with rapid repeat. More Frames than some have in a lifetime. It was during this time that exercising his body was renewed and brought about a dedicated regiment. A product of his exuberance in this undertaking, was a new interest in mountain hiking. Specifically, the Fourteeners. This of course sent him to Mountain Climbing web sites. It was on one of those sites that he met Atticus Maxwell Finch.

  Black and decorated with white, Atticus is a twenty-pound Miniature Schnauzer. Atticus was a natural climber, an unnatural for his breed. I knew that a family pet of Danny’s had been a schnoodle named Luna. Danny knew it was not a travel down memory lane that had him enamored with Atticus. Not this time.

  Little Atticus and his owner Tom Ryan are legendary on the East Coast climbing scene. Famous for their climbing of the Whites of New England. I will leave it for Tom Ryan to tell you of Atticus’s exploits. Their story is delightfully told in ‘Following Atticus’.

  What Danny found, embraced, and put into action from little Atticus, was Soul Work. It was Atticus’s strength of body and soul. It was what Tom Ryan called Atticus’ Soul Work. It was work that Danny wished to make his own. A Mantra? I do not think that quite defines what it is. That little guy’s essence was mental toughness and strength of body. Danny borrowed it for will of heart and mind strong. For Danny, this was the simple of this Dumb Friend.

  For A. M. Finch, the means to reward was Soul Work. Means given, and opportunity accomplished, Atticus’ reward was what enveloped him. Atop of every completed mountain plateau, Atticus would sit high on haunch and survey the view from his accomplishment. Yes, this was his reward, but it was more. His taking-in was a need of his being. Not a part of Atticus, Atticus. So in him was it that it was not a thing. Without Danny’s Soul Work, Danny would not be Danny.

  From this littlest of dogs, Danny took the biggest part and forced himself always forward. Danny never turned back. On occasion Danny would look back; only when he needed to revisit a lesson not quite learned. Pushing forward was always an effort for Danny. He understands that only when it is no longer an effort, will he stop pushing. Forward took time; time that he swore he would never waste again. Never to be beaten again was the direction that he willed forward. A mantra? Yes! Danny’s mantra; “I have no choice but to be rewarded with a view.”

  Danny’s Soul Work pushed him forward past an addiction. He battled and won a fight over diabetes. He was blessed with a new Kidney. My Danny had been framed three times. Each time, his Soul Work vigilantly squared him. He was a vision of determination rarely seen. His drive not to be beaten again, his wish to be better than before, his will to be happy, I know I had not known.

  Danny told me once in a candid Danny way, that he felt lucky for his trials. He said he had never seen things clearer.

  It was a year ago on a warm spring evening; four of us were sharing a quiet evening. We were mellow on the back porch sharing the slow approach of thinning stretched shadows. There was a break of words and Danny’s father fixed it. “You’ve changed. You are a different person.” This he said to Danny while looking skyward. Danny’s eyes and thoughts turned to his father. Danny pondered as if there had been a question. Danny’s mother and I waited. Neither of us looked to Danny’s face for what it might hint. Gordon wanting a reaction, he did look to his son. Danny huffed light and uncomfortable. His father’s words were a sincerely proud exclamation to his son. Danny could not just accept what it was.

  This part of Danny, this analytical and over analytical part, was sometimes, as in now, a blemish of his personality. It was who he was, but sometimes it would be nice if he could just put it aside.

  Danny’s face smoothed round all the edges that preceded a Danny exclamation. His mother saw it and made a soft here-it-comes sound. Danny made a deep thinking sound. “You think so Dad.” Danny’s head centered and his eyes looked away. His tone was polite and his words were meant to inform. “I don’t really think that I have changed. Who I am has long ago been ingrained in me. At my age I am who I am. I am what I was made. You made me; and you and you. All that I have interacted with over the years. All I’ve experienced. That is what made me. However, I do think, that when you become a certain age… I don’t know what age that is, but younger than I am now, you’re done! You’re done. You are who you are. Your morals, your faith, your personality, they’re all fixed, all engrained. I don’t think you can change them. You are who you are. Now…” We all knew what ‘now’ meant. “I do believe that you can strengthen good traits and subdue bad traits. You know… I mean long ago the clay was shaped and kiln fired. It is burnt and hard set. It can still be painted, but it is what it is. You can present more of what makes you good and hide what makes you bad. We all have them both, bad and good. I guess it is how hard you work on them. I mean it’s like anything else, practice makes perfect. Don’t you think. And I think that is what I have done. Change no! Grow? Yeah I’ve grown. I wanted to grow. I needed to grow and I have tried to grow. Don’t you think.” Danny finished and held on his father.

  “You’re welcome.” With Gordon’s words, his wife laughed a good motherly moment. Danny’s father smiled with a Dad victorious face. I shook my head at Danny. Danny looked to Mom and me for an answer to a Dad victory that he could not see.

  That is what I mean by leaving it alone. He could have just taken the compliment and said nothing. However, to me, his informing was one in the same. But to Danny, in Danny’s little mind, they were very much different. A textbook versus a life book; Significant Life Experiences versus Frames. In the end, it was all Soul Work.

  ‘I have no choice but to be rewarded with a view.’ Danny had more work to do. Optometrist to Ophthalmologist to Retinal specialist, Retinopathy was the peak Danny now would have to scale. Poor blood flow due to diabetes had caused the damage. Irreparable and permanent, he had lost fifteen percent of his vision in his left eye. His right eye was less damaged. Both were going to get worse.

  In Danny’s case, poor blood flow to the retina caused his eyes to respond. They tried to fix the problem by creating new blood vessels. Doctor Pitman called these vessels Dysfunction-ally stunted. The new vessels were a bridge to nowhere. These misplaced blood vessels had no tissue to feed. Like an overstrained dyke, the vessels eventually burst. This leaked blood into the retina. It had gone undiagnosed and
been happening for years. Now, the inability of the eyes to drain the blood quickly enough, and the scaring from the dead blood vessels, Danny was noticing a vision problem.

  We had gone to the Optometrist thinking that his eyes were showing their age. Much like the Hubble Telescope, we thought he needed an optical re-clarity. We left the Retinal specialist with a new Frame, and another Significant Life Experience.

  Danny and I listened intently to Doctor Pitman’s diagnoses and prognosis. The Doctor finished. A rushing of what the future held crushed me. My tears, though fighting them, were beginning to corner. Danny shifted in his chair and lifted himself to a stiff sit. Looking to me, there was a sadness. My throat tightened and I lost my tears fight. His face was flush with too many questions. My Danny forced a smile. Barely noticeable, he shook his head. He looked to the doctor. He sat back softer. I am not sure if he knew that he did, but he said; “Remarkable. The human body is remarkable in its trying to fix itself.” A tear fell from his cheek. He took a slow deep breath. He looked up. “Okay Doc so what do we do now?” Danny found my eyes. His cheeks lifted. He found my heart. His work had begun.

  We’d had many near silent car rides over the years; this was not that. Our trip crosstown was deafening silence. From my heart outward, there was a slow traveling tightening. My thoughts tracked a continual loop of Pitman’s prognosis. At the end of each loop, I knew I should begin a spoken purge of my thoughts. With each cycle ending, another began in silence. My mind’s pantry was bursting stocked. Yet it was empty of words.

  ‘Daniel’s vision will continue to degrade. I can do laser treatments to destroy the bad blood vessels. There will be scarring. The scarring is the big issue. If necessary, I can do fluid replacement surgery to remove the built up blood. The blood may drain itself. We will have to see. All of this will help to keep Daniel’s vision at the best possible level. Unfortunately, his sight will not be good. Severe and irreparable scarring has already been done to the retina. It will get worse. Within the next ten months or so, Daniel will have less than thirty percent of his vision left. His vision loss will be gradual in the beginning. Then… it will crash. No later than twelve months from now Daniel will only have ten to thirty percent of his vision left. Nothing can prevent it. I am sorry that I have to tell you this. You need to know.’ These words looped continual.

  Denny was a restless subdued. His thoughts wandered to a resolve that he could not find. Physically, he was motionless. I only imagined how numb he must be. Passing through urban Denver, suburb Lakewood, and into foothill’s Morison, he may as well been ocean adrift for all he saw. His car stare I had seen countless times before; not this one. Sadly though, I had been here for this moment before; more moments than any two should share.

  Our car had slowed but not yet stopped, outdoor sounds entered the interior. Danny was out and headed away directly. He was twenty yards away before the car was fully parked and I was out. “Danny?” Again and louder; “Danny where are you going?” His right hand lifted into a backwards wave.

  In a weak attempt to explain himself, and without turning to me, he said; “I’m going for a walk.” I held him until he had disappeared behind the pines.

  Mervin dashed passed me through the open door. With attached panic that pet owner’s use in an attempt to stop their pet from possible impending harm, I screamed; “Mervin!” He stopped at the car, sniffed, and looked for his Daddy. Not finding, he turned his head to me looking for an answer. I had no answers.

  Mervin’s question became mine. Why didn’t my Daddy take me with him. A flare of panic, normalcy left away from me. Danny did not take his always with him buddy. Wanting him to be there, I looked to where Danny had rounded the trees. Taking three quick steps in that direction, I turned back for Mervin’s leash. Entering the house and grabbing a leash, I dropped to one knee at dog level. Searching for black eyes behind his shag that covered them, the day’s doings, and the now happening, finished me. Dropping my head tears flowed freely. Quick and loving Mervin twice licked my forehead. Going around my scared, I chuckled and hugged the only composed being in our house. ‘All would be good.’ Our Dumb Friend told me so.

  Pushing time forward was not without effort. Not really being able to concentrate on anything else, I did mindless tasks that one does while anxiously waiting. I reset the time on the coffee maker; it was a minute slow. I purged the far left kitchen drawer; the one that you put stuff in that you are not sure if you will ever need. My cell toned a text: RIVER, BACK SOON. I dusted off the top of the fridge. I arranged the glassware cupboard by glass type and size. My cell toned a text: ‘ON WAY HOME. I refilled the basement bathroom soap dispenser; it was not low. I grabbed Mervin’s leash and we were out the door to find my husband.

  Veering off the last walkway that was useable to get to the river, Mervin’s pull and tail first told me Danny was there. He was just paces out of the woods and walking the single-track that was cut through the thick summer mix of weeds and wild flowers. Within my sight, my husband was safe.

  Like a day’s gone and successful hunter, the returning raised a stick high above in victory. Unclipping his buddy, Mervin sprinted to and played the jump game with his buddy. The felt bumping of my heart slow calmed to unnoticeable. All was good.

  “Danny I’ve been scared to death.” A dozen or so yards apart I said this. Mervin was circling Danny, dashing to me, and then repeating. Again Danny held high his weapon. My worried words had breezed through him without a wisp of meaning. He gloated of his caught prey.

  “I got a stick! You like it?” Danny’s child face was now. Not a color, a promise to himself, his eyes sparkled carefree blue. Of this dead stick, his new Work was born.

  The river stick was where his work began. Over the next three weeks, this working man cut and shaped, sanded and sanded, filled and glued, stained and sealed. The river stick had become a walking stick. It had a meaning that would become an Icon of his work. A walking stick that he had plans for. It was the first tool of several that he would gather for the time that would come.

  When Daniel was working, there was a way; that way was silently alone. This was his choice, but I have never sensed that he thought it one. He could not emotion where he was going with what he was doing. To him it was personal and it had to be left so. If his work were shared, it would not work. This was the way he was with all his work. I understood, but I did not understand.

  Danny was blind as he worked the stick. Sleep mask on and using only an undeveloped sense of touch, he made the most beautifully functional walking stick that his eyes had never seen.

  “The key is repetition!” He told me this as he presented me the finished product. Be sure, only after it was finished. “See… repetition ensures its integrity. Sanding it perfectly, staining it without missing a spot, sealing it completely. It is simple repetition. That’s the key.”

  On this presentation day, I’ll admit that I did not get it. I couldn’t really grasp how proud of it he was. But what I really did not understand, was that to Danny, hope streamed from this river stick. Hope now that there would be a future then.

  Every day, Danny tweaked his normal writing routine and put aside space for his work. As the weeks went the way of half the summer, he was repetition simple. He stripped down, rebuilt, sanded, stained, and sealed a wooden highchair that he bought at a discount store. He did the same with a coffee table, and a cedar chest that we bought at an estate sale. Each, when finished and presented me, was skilled artisan magnificent. He had developed his sense of touch. A sense not lost on me.

  His work continued; as he would walk the house with eyes closed. He counted paces, placed things where he wanted them placed, counted stairs, and learned to control stride length. Repetition. He was preparing himself for living a grey life.

  With the first level on Rengaw’s hierarchy of needs learned, he moved up the pyramid. Danny
identified everyday tools that he used every day; he began placing them in specific places. Specific places, always they must be there. This was a norm that I as well needed to grasp. Honestly, at first, I did not appreciate what he was doing. We shared many words that we had not in the past. ‘Where is…’ ‘No! It belongs here!’ ‘It has to be here!’ My learning curve was steeper than his was. Months of frustration later, we met on top of the curve. I do want to say this though; IT WAS ONE OF THE GREAT PLEASURES OF MY LIFE THAT I WILL NEVER FORGET.

  He, we, were, and are learning the sightless life. This home schooling included new methods and existing technology that he would have to adapt to keep writing. Danny was very concerned about continuing his walks with Bubba. Of all he had to think about, this he thought about most. Relearning simple tasks with eyes closed was taking time. However, that time was getting shorter. Danny’s work list was long and getting smaller. Each day he walked further from sight. Each day he understood more.

  At times it was frustrating for him. All the time it was hard for me to watch. His frustration showed less than my hard to watch felt. Frustration aside, his work made him happy. He knew that this work now, made him happy now, because he would be happy later. His life would be the same done differently.

  ‘Bigger than the Beatles.’ Billy’s words may have motivated, probably they did not, but it did not matter. Danny and Billy wrestled with egos, and silently criticized each other’s writing. Emotions settled as much as they could be, they got it done. Their twelve week run in the Trib was complete. Each week’s posting was read more than the previous one. Other news agencies picked up and ran their Op Eds.

  ‘’Op Eds! That’s crap! They really aren’t you know. I don’t know what they are.’ Danny wanted me and everyone else that cared to know this. I still do not know what he means by this. As far as I am aware of, Danny has never tried to explain what he means by that. It was much like him hating the Saint Louis Cardinals because they are the Saint Louis Cardinals.

  Danny was pleased with what he wrote. Mister Keefe was ecstatic. Since the final posting, Danny had been on two Denver daytime talk shows. I thought he was good on the shows. He was Danny natural and cleverly humorous. But I don’t think he was what the producers of the shows wanted. It seemed like they expected some kind of twenty-first century historical prognosticative prophet. They weren’t going to get that from Danny. Billy wanted more prophet also. But again Billy was thrilled and thought this only the beginning. “The beginning of what Billy. I am done! I’m done with this Billy. Moving on.” This was Danny’s reply to Billy’s excitement. However, later and for the first time, away from Billy, Danny told me that he was not done. He did not know what done was, but this was not it.

  Still wanting to chase the Beatles, Billy was acting as Danny’s agent. Danny had never gone close to asking Mister Keefe to act in this capacity. Nor was he paying Billy. I did notice however that Danny did not try to discourage Billy. I think it gave Billy something to do. So Billy did and continued booking Danny. The bookings were in front of always-larger audiences. Billy was talking of Prime Time. Danny was okay with it. No! Danny was enjoying it. He would never say he was, but yeah… he was.

  The Chicago Tribune thing came about before Danny’s Soul Work began anew. I don’t think that Danny saw it as a piece of his work, but I did. I saw it as a good timing. His writings closed a black hole that was getting a little… a little scary weird. The appearance of the calm normal Danny was almost always around now. The part of Danny that was not here amongst the rest of us seemed to be gone. There were moments still when I would look into his eyes and see that he was somewhere else. But that was not new.

  The Document, that term, he had not used for some time. The power that it was wielding upon him had withered to a flicker. The document was just that now, another document. It was not mystical. It was only as spiritual as the other thousands of documents that he had. They were just written words. Written words were Danny’s scepter. He once again carried it steadily.

  Speaking of myself now, I am not sure where I am. And in a way, I am not sure that I need to know. I question if it matters. I have been for many years with Danny. That is where I am. Not from the first day that we met, but there was a specific time that I became aware that we were one. Danny forward would protect me. Danny had saved me. That day I began leaving all else behind. What I was leaving behind did not matter anymore. It is not now. That is where I am.

  During the screening process to become Danny’s kidney donor, one stop along the way was to meet with a social worker. It was during this interview that she asked me why I wanted to give Danny my kidney. My reply; “He saved my life; now I want to save his.”

  What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. Cliché as that is, it did hold for our lives together. I don’t want to sound like I have feelings of bitterness… I guess I just did. Psychiatrists would call this a deep-seated something or another. I say that I do not hold anything deep; seated or not. That said, social scientists would describe another socio-neurotic-phobic-psychosis within me.

  Some unfortunate winds have blown through our marriage sails. It is said that good luck is made. If so, our production level has been too low. Whatever has made it, Danny’s newest given challenge sits very heavy in my heart. The unfairness of its yet again has shaken me. I struggle with it more than Danny knows. At least I hope that is the case. It is more than a melancholy. It is opaque. A blackness that I have not felt in many years. The light has once again left me. Darkness has come, I am afraid.

  How much can one person take. How far can one bend before its spirit snaps. Are these questions for me. I believe I ask them of Danny. I am not sure.

  Am I selfish. Is my selfishness Danny’s unfairness. Is it my fear. Is it my problem. My past returning, will I push this on Danny; a man that needs none of it. It is not these rememberings that I fear, it is I placing them again on my husband. I so wish not to overcast his life with my day’s gloom. I rationalize; we are where we are, it is what it is, it is mostly good.

 

  Danny’s writing work was something I did not have a feel for. I did not know where he was with it and I did not care. He was working at it, but since the finish of the Trib articles, I didn’t know what he was percolating. The Harry story was finished; this I knew. Beyond that, I hadn’t a clue. For months, there had not been any Newtons. No meals had come to a sudden Danny inspired end. ‘Here Pami. You gotta read this!’ Not even one of those.

  His writing work had taken a backseat to his Work. I was sitting next to it. All good. When it was time, as always, he would share. However, his Work did include his writing. Not putting ink to paper creatively, but how he was going to do the same in the future. The new different. This writing process was changing. No longer without thought, he was taking baby steps to learn different. It was new technology, different skills, and more ‘Systems in Place’.

  There had never been a thought, let alone a mention of him not continuing to write. I never expected there would be. Danny was bad with change, it interrupted his world. Danny was good at change, it kept his world going. His Work would not, if his work could not.