“Hai! Yes, very good. Remember, it will take a thousand cranes to get your wish.”
Moiraine began in earnest to make the cranes. “Moiraine honey, why don’t you take it into your room.” Mo picked up her paper and finished crane and went to her room. After she left the room, I said, “That was kind of you. Thank you, but my wife’s doctor has said there is no hope, short of a miracle, my wife will never return to us.”
“It is said while there is life, there is always hope. Do you not hope for a miracle?”
“Hope has abandoned this house,” I could feel myself slipping into deep despair.
The two men talked back and forth for a short time. The younger man said, “Hai.” They both stood then Masafumi Asahara spoke to me while his great granduncle slowly worked his way to the front door. “My uncle wanted me to tell you a car will come for you in three or four days. I will call you the evening before, so you know to be ready.”
“Ready for what exactly?”
“My uncle makes katana, the samurai sword, in the old traditions. He has mastered all aspects of the craft from smelting the iron sand to polishing the blade. He is the only man alive today who can do the “whole enchilada” as you Americans say. My government considers him a living national treasure. They were most hesitant about letting him travel all the way here. My uncle appealed personally to Tenno Heika, His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor.
“Wow. Your uncle has Tenno Heika’s ear.” Wow is right. This man can ask for and receive an audience with the Japanese Emperor. That is like me asking to hang with the president.
“I am impressed you said it perfectly without accent.”
“It’s a gift. Thank you.” I escorted Masafumi Asahara to the front door. The gentlemen turned toward me once they were on the front porch. They bowed. I bowed back. They each shook my hand. As they turned around, I asked, “What is the adventure anyways?”
Nobuharu Makiyama said back over his shoulder, “You will help us to forge a new sword. One who’s like has not been known in living memory,” they continued to the limousine and drove off.
Moiraine made herself scarce for the rest of the day. I am sure she is working diligently on her cranes. She must have felt some comfort in her labors because I heard her sing. Mo sings whenever she is happy. Until recently it has been an everyday event. It made the whole house seem almost normal. Then the other shoe dropped.
“Mr. Embers, we need to have a talk about your daughter,” Ms. Barton said with finality in her voice. “She is disrupting my routine with my pati… Charlene. I would like her to remain out of the room when you are not there to supervise.”
“Tell me, exactly what it is she is doing.” Oh, I don’t like where this is going.
“Well, frankly, she won’t leave when I have to attend to things like bathing your wife and the like. She disturbs the quiet of the room with her talking. It is a deathbed, Mr. Embers not a therapy session for your daughter. If you don’t do anything about this situation, I will have to end hospice for your wife. My job is difficult enough without having to babysit a child.”
“I had no idea this was going on. Don’t worry. I will take care of it. Moiraine, come here please.” Moiraine came into the living room and stood next to me and looked up. “Honey, we need to talk.” I listed all the offenses Ms. Barton had levied against her. “Is all this true?” Tears welled up in her eyes.
“She is mean to me. She’s always saying I am in the way and go play in another room. Daddy, I wasn’t playing in mommy’s room. I was just – and then I – and one time-.” She is crying so hard I couldn’t understand any more of what she is telling me. With an explosive outburst, one statement came in loud and clear. Looking straight at Ms. Barton Moiraine blurted out, “I don’t like you, and I don’t like your shoes!” I nearly flew into a fit of laughter, but I caught myself. I hugged my daughter and told her to go back to what she was doing in her room.
In a reasonable tone, I said, “I will see to it my daughter doesn’t upset you any longer, Ms. Barton.”
“Thank you, Mr. Embers. I am glad you can see reason,” she turned around and went back into the bedroom.
After a few hours, the doorbell rang, and I answered it. I took this latest visitor back into the bedroom. The look of surprise on Ms. Barton’s face was almost worth this nightmare. “Mary, why are you here? I didn’t call for a relief nurse.” Mary is a grandmotherly figure. Her hair was gray and styled in what my mother would have called a roller set. Mary had lost her figure over time. She has no apparent curves. I hope her attitude is as grandmotherly as she appears.
“I called Geneva’s Hospice and told them to send someone else, anyone else before I had you arrested for trespass. You are no longer welcome in my home. Please leave.”
“I am not going to stay where I am not wanted.” Ms. Barton packed up her things and started to leave, then turned back, went to my wife, and bent down to kiss her on the cheek. After seeing her display, my anger level dropped a notch. She cared far more than I thought. Maybe I could have done things differently, but I couldn’t invest the time to try and find a kinder solution. She will think of me as a bad guy. I don’t care. I think I may need to be a bad guy a little more often.
After an awkward pause, I asked Mary, “Is there anything you need?”
“No, Dearie. I’ve brought everything I need,” Mary said as she put her things down by the chair next to my wife’s bed. She began looking to Charlene doing all those things medical types do to patients. She checked Char’s blood pressure, listened to her heart, and several other things, including checking the dressing on my wife’s chest.
While Mary attended to my wife, she showed my wife caring tenderness. It was not unlike how Charlene would see to our daughter when she was sick or even me when I suffered from one of my migraines.
Moiraine came into the room, “Are you mommy’s new nurse? You aren’t mean like the other lady, are you?”
“Yes, Dearie. I am your mother’s nurse. Ms. Barton isn’t exactly mean. She has a different way of doing things.” Mary looked at me and said, “She is a bit of an odd duck, though.”
Moiraine piped up with “Yes, and she kept quacking at me.” Mary busted out with a huge laugh. “I like her, Daddy. She can stay.”
“I’ve worked with her at Geneva’s Hospice close to ten years, and she has never told me her first name. Standoffish that one. We have some theories at the office as to why, but it’s only gossip. You know, if you can’t say something nice about someone, come here and sit next to me and give me all the dirt,” Mary giggled a bit as she finished.
It is dinnertime, and the air has an aroma almost as delightful as I remembered my mother’s beans made. I went into the kitchen to put the finishing touches to the beans. I removed the ham hock and stripped off all the meat and returned it to the pot. I gave the whole batch a stir. I took a small spoonful. It tasted superb. It tasted of home, comfort, and family. I would give anything to be able to remember exactly how my mother’s home cooking tasted like. The idea of waking up on a weekend morning to the aroma of biscuits and country gravy warms my heart. The spaghetti she made was her own creation. It would set my mouth watering when I would come home and inhale that perfume. During the holidays, she would make macaroni salad. It was the only salad I would eat without complaint. Thinking about these delicacies set my stomach growling.
Enough with this trip down memory lane as I have hungry mouths to feed. I put cornbread to bake. If I can manage to save a slice for the morning, I will have cornbread and sweet milk for breakfast. The combo is another food memory from mommy dearest. It is one food memory I can recreate exactly like my mom. She used the boxed kind. You crumble the cornbread into a tall glass pour cold whole milk over it and eat it with a spoon.
“Moiraine, time to set the table,” I yelled. Charlene hates it when I would yell for my daughter instead of walking the dozen or so steps to call for her in a normal voice. The cornbread is ready. I cut a healthy slice and put it
on a plate. I put a heaping helping of my lima beans in a bowl and took it to Mary.
Mary’s eyes grew wide as she watched me bring in her dinner. “Oh, Dearie, I was hoping you were going to offer me a bowl,” she reached out and took up the plate and bowl. I stood back and watched as she tried her first spoonful. “Oh, this takes me back to the farm when I was no older than Moiraine. Thank you so much. Most families don’t think to offer us nurses anything from their kitchens.” She took another spoonful and said, “They're not rude. They have other matters on their minds besides manners.” I turned away to fix my supper when she broke in with, “Might I have another bowl when I am done with this one?”
“Please do. It is the greatest compliment you can give a cook to ask for seconds.” I left her to her meal, and I headed towards mine. Dinner was eaten, the placemats cleared, and dishes washed. Moiraine continued with her project in the living room next to Blossom as I watched some nonsense on the television.
I told Mo, “Now, Honey, it is getting late, and it has been an interesting day. Why don’t you get ready for bed?” She went to start her bedtime routine. I went into my wife’s bedroom, “Mary, I will be doing some work in the garage after my daughter is asleep, so don’t worry if you hear some strange noises.”
“No worries, Dearie. My late husband used to putter around in the garage our whole marriage. Hearing the noise will most likely bring back some fond memories to me.” I left the room to tuck Mo in and then to my labors in the garage.
I cleared a space on the workbench. Other than putting boxes of old crap on the bench, I had never used it the whole time we’ve lived here. I have never been a handyman. I prefer to use my head. Out of the gunnysack came all the bits and pieces for the rifle. I held up the barrel and examined it to see where I should begin.
Flash.
I am no longer in my garage. I am a passive witness behind another’s eyes.
We came upon the valley. It was right open. We are to clear out them Germans.
Sergeant Early, “You men spread out.” He motioned with his hands for our unit to go up the right. Right then those Germans opened up with everything they had.
I saw our boys get torned up bad. It reminded me of how our mower back home would cut down the grass. I hit the ground hard. I tried to peek at where them machine guns were. Them Germans hided those guns right good. Big shells started peppering us too.
Sergeant Early started barking out commands, “York, you and your men follow me back down to cover. Smith, Mathers, and Able you and your men make your way down, too.”
We crawled on our bellies down to the ditch by the road. We all got there right away. “Sarge, what’s you fixin’ to do?”
“We are going to circle round and infiltrate their lines and take out those guns.” We got a going keepin’ out of sight of them Germans.
We were able to get behind them and overrun their headquarters. Those boys got surprised right good. We managed to capture a whole mess of men getting’ ready to counterattack our boys in the valley. We were fixin’ to march those guys to rear when a machine gun opened up on us. Six of us dropped dead right then and three other were wounded bad. I took count there was just eight of us in fightin’ form left. I was the only one who had any stripes left on his arm, so I had to give the orders. “Alright you seven stay here with those prisoners. Make sure they don’t start no mischief.” I started workin’ my way to get at them Germans when they got a sight of me movin’. That gun started spitting at me. I had no time to get to cover so I just dropped down. They were tearing up the ground all about me. I started yelling up to them Germans, “Give up that gun and come down I don’t want to kill you.” I was in a good spot to pick some of them off sharpshooting. Okay, I tried. One, two, three of them Germans got what for. I hear them boys yelling orders at each other. “Come, you guys, give up.” I started picking them off. They couldn’t get a shot on me, so I just kept it up. I ran out of ammunition for my rifle. I drew my 45. Just then the machine gun stopped. I peaked my head up a bit and there was six Germans jumping out of a trench and coming at me with a pig sticker at the end of their rifles. As they charged me, I got them one at a time with that 45.
“Halt, Halt. We surrender,” that voice said some more words of that German talk and the remaining Germans up that hill started coming down with their hands up. I told them boys to go on down to the rest of my men. After the last of them march by me, I headed back down myself.
“Well boys, how many of them Germans do we have here?” I asked.
“Well York, you got 132 of them.”
“No, it wasn’t me. The Lord was guiding and protecting me all the way.”
Flash.
What the hell? All these images of other people’s memories are a little disconcerting. What is happening to me? It is like a whole new world is opening up. If I am not cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, I need to learn how to control all these abilities. I only hope they can help me save what is left of my family.
I need to begin. I looked down, and the rifle is already restored. I must have restored it while I was strolling down someone else’s memory lane. I’ve heard of multitasking, but I have never before been able to master the technique. I even have to turn down the radio while I’m searching for an address in the car.
It is late, and time to get some shuteye. But first, I cleaned up my workspace. I stored the rifle in an old sports bag. All is prepared for my nefarious deed. All this prep has me thinking. Will this endeavor make me a villain? Don’t all villains begin by doing what they think is moral? They try to change the world as they think best or avenge a wrong which befell them?
I will be no villain, though. No pleasure will I take in the ending of his life. Well, maybe a little pleasure. No, it is only a job to be done. And when it is over, I will smash the rifle and throw the pieces in the bay. Though I can destroy the tool, the memory, the perfect memory, will stay with me always. It will haunt and torment me. Every day I will relive the horror to my shame. I will endure the mental agony. But every day I will look upon my daughter and say to myself, “One more day. You can endure for her, one more day.” And when she is raised, and her life outside my protection has begun, I will travel to some nowhere, someplace where I will never be found, and stick a gun in my mouth. Oblivion. The pain will end. All my pain will end. All I ask is when the deed is done, my family is safe. These thoughts are my promise. These thoughts are my prayer.
The garage is cleaned-up, and it is time to lay down in the, growing all too familiar, recliner with Blossom on my lap and sleep. She thumped her tail a couple of times and drifted. Silencing my thoughts, I drifted off too.
I rose out of my body. These dreams come to me most nights. If they are dreams? Can I project my consciousness? Can I trust what I learn?
Enough is enough. After willing myself to see Mark Galos, I traveled and felt my version of motion sickness.
Chapter Fourteen
I came to be in a house. It had fine furnishings. This home belongs to someone who has more than two pennies to rub together. Touring through the rooms, I examined all the pictures on the walls. This is Mark Galos parents’ home. There is a cabinet with trophies in it. Mark won many shooting competitions. No wonder he hit Charlene in the heart. He is well-practiced. A framed certificate read he was awarded Valedictorian in high school. My sharp whistle broke the silence. A diploma from California Institute of Technology hung on the wall too. He graduated Summa Cum Laude from there. This guy has some major assets in the old brainpan.
Why would he turn to petty crime? I don’t need to know why. What I need to do is find him. He must be asleep somewhere in here. If his parents are hiding him, maybe he is in a secret room. I’m sure the police have searched this place. A well-hidden room is the only explanation for the police not finding him. I feel like I was being watched.
When I turned around, right there in front of me was Mark Galos. I didn’t want to lift him from his sleep. Confronting him now will tip my hand. All I needed wa
s to learn his location. I willed myself back home.
I woke with a start. Blossom yelped and woke too. Sweat covered my body, and my hands are shaking. With any luck, he only saw me as a dream. Of course, why would he think anything else? I had gleaned his address from a pile of mail. Sometime tomorrow I will send a bullet through his psychotic brain. Sorrow touched me. What was it John had said, ‘It’s a hard thing taking a man’s life. Whether you answered the call of your country, protecting the lives of your family, or preserving your own life, no matter the reason, you are never quite the same after. I wasn’t.’ So, I will be different. I can live with it. It won’t be easy, but I can.
I looked at the time. There are a few more hours before I must rise and shine, so I went back to sleep. No dreams found me only restful sleep.
Moiraine got off to school without a hitch. Spending some time with Charlene is how I passed a few hours. “Has there been any change?” I asked Mary.
“Her breathing is slowing. It will be a while yet,” she said as she looked up from her book.
“Thank you, Mary, you are such a blessing to us, to Charlene. I only wish you had come to us first. Ms. Barton was a strain. There is no ill will against her in my heart. She is the wrong piece to the puzzle of our lives.” My cell phone rang, “Sure, John, I can stop by. I’ll head over there in a few.” Turning back to Mary, I said, “I will be leaving, and I will be gone for most of the day. I will return before Moiraine gets home from school.” Mary nodded her head without looking up from her book.
At John’s house, I rang the doorbell and waited for him to answer. “What does he want to talk to me about?” As I began to ponder the possibilities, the door swung open.
“Nate, come in and have a seat.” I walked into the living room and took a seat on the couch. John sat next to me. He opened a photo album which is sitting on the coffee table. “Has Charlene ever talked to you about her mother?”
The Forging Page 20