Braided Gold

by Glen Roylance

  BRAIDED GOLD

  BRAIDED GOLD

  A Story of the Healer’s Art

  Glen M. Roylance

  © 2020 by Glen M. Roylance

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 9798648959828

  This work is dedicated to Elizabeth, whose goodness and faith inspired the story told in the pages that follow.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Foreword

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  FOREWORD

  “The 60’s, a time of tremendous forces and changes, will be analyzed and argued about for years to come. But we suggest that this decade, in terms of American life and the American scene, breaks into two fairly distinct parts. In the first, there was a brisk feeling of hope, a generally optimistic and energetic shift from the calm of the late 50’s. Then, in a growing swell of demands for extreme and immediate change, the second part of the decade exploded - over race, youth, violence, life-styles and, above all, over the Vietnam War. These explosive years will carry over into … (the future), and it is impossible to predict when they will end.”

  – Life Magazine, December 26, 1969, p. 8

  This stormy era, sometimes referred to as the seedbed of a countercultural revolution, may well have precipitated the kind of social change normally seen as it evolves through the better part of a century rather than a decade. Nothing was quite the same following the questions, doubts, and shrill clamor for free thought and conduct that dominated these important years. The story presented in this book draws its life from the contradictions and controversies of this period. The noise, irreverence, and disdain for cherished values that festered in some levels of society have been distilled into the lives of the people portrayed in this novel. The counterpoint of resolute idealism and abiding faith, likewise, emerge in this story and shine brightly against a dark backdrop.

  It is important to remember that many of the revolutionary ideas characterizing this period had not yet found their way into social legitimacy. Abortion was still illegal — a reality that has much to do with the drama portrayed in “Braided Gold.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Although this novel is based upon realities that existed in the time period described, there are many elements in the story, particularly those involving San Diego State University, that are pure fiction. In the telling of this story, no offense is intended to this great university.

  In the interest of historical accuracy, it should be noted that San Diego State University was known as San Diego State College during the time period described in this work. An official name change occurred in 1974. Nevertheless, this institution functioned as a state university long before its name was officially changed. Thus, the name, San Diego State University, is used throughout this book.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA, 1968

  The sun had set and the lights along Eighth Street dimly lit the road ahead of Paul as he drove towards his home in a fashionable subdivision just south of the San Diego State University campus. He slowed as he threaded his way through the network of small residential streets and then stopped in front of a late model Mercedes that was blocking his driveway. Immediately its lights went on. Paul could tell that a man was at the wheel but could not make out his identity. He waited for the car to move, but nothing happened. Impatiently, Paul sounded his horn a couple of times, but still there was no movement. In exasperation he got out of the car and circled around to the driver’s side of the other vehicle. The window was down, and a middle-aged man sat alone in the front seat. Paul spoke with obvious frustration.

  “Hey, what’s the big idea? If you don’t mind, I’d like to get into my driveway.”

  The other man slowly drawled a response without making eye contact. “Dr. Kirkham … that’s who I came to see … been waiting about an hour! … know where I can find him?”

  “I am Paul Kirkham, and now if you’ll please move your car …”

  The man spoke with a baiting, taunting edge in his voice. “Hold on boy; you and I just need to have a little chitchat right now.” Still he refused to look directly at Paul, choosing instead to stare at nothing out the front window. “The word is that you’re the darling of the campus riffraff; is that the way it is?”

  Combative feelings rose up in Paul as it became apparent that he was being drawn into a confrontation. “Look, I don’t know who you are or what you want, but you’d better get that car out of my way right now or …”

  “Settle down, boy! … we got some important things to talk about … like Jill Fairclough … recognize the name, son?” The stranger now turned and looked directly at Paul. There was bitter determination in his voice and anger in the lines of his face. His bearing had now become authoritative as he took complete command of the situation.

  Paul’s first inclination had been to dismiss this man as a crank, but at the mention of Jill’s name, the stranger’s calculating manner suddenly seemed more ominous to Paul. Instinctively he sensed the need for caution. “That name means absolutely nothing to me,” he said, feigning ignorance as to the girl’s identity.

  “Oh yes, you know who I’m talking about. She sat in your psychology class for a whole semester; isn’t that right? … Thought you were some sort of guru who had all the answers. Yeah, she was all mixed up and you knew just how to straighten her out … told her how she could solve all her problems … just a quick fix without anybody knowing. Isn’t that the way it went?”

  Paul stiffened, but managed to hide his wary feelings. “I haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re talking about. Now I’ll thank you to get your car out of my driveway; or should I just go ahead and call the police?”

  “Jill’s dead, boy! You got that, JILL’S DEAD! Killed herself! Yeah, you forgot to warn her about all that guilt, didn’t you?” Without giving Paul a chance to respond, the man brought his menacing litany to its forceful conclusion. “Oh my, yes, just too much guilt for a little girl; just too much guilt to handle, so my daughter KILLED HERSELF!” The stranger’s manner now became explosively hostile. “Yeah, she killed herself, but you and I know what really happened, don’t we? You’re the one that killed her. Oh, she did it all right, but you made it happen. You killed my daughter and now, you miserable ‘puke’ of a man, I’m going to make you pay for it. Just wait and see!”

  The engine revved and the Mercedes lurched forward, veering past Paul’s car. It sped down the street to the next intersection where it turned and was gone. Paul stood alone in the night, dumbfounded. Preoccupied with this unanticipated exchange, he parked his car and let himself into his house. In the kitchen he mechanically went about his evening ritual of fixing himself something to eat. But his mind was elsewhere as he moved about his meticulously organized kitchen. The fastidious order of things was a little uncharacteristic of the disheveled way most single men lived, but then Paul was decidedly not typical. At some point as the evening wore on, he found himself standing in front of the full-length mirror at the end of the hallway leading from the kitchen. As he stared
at himself his mind raced from one thing to another.

  He was a handsome man with heavy masculine features, well-defined jaw and cheekbones, a protruding brow, and deep-set dark eyes. His gaze was penetrating. Indeed, some found that gaze to be intimidating. He was lean, well proportioned, and had a full head of wavy, black hair. Physically imposing, Paul stood over six feet in height. Even in private or casual times he was well groomed, and his clothes evidenced good taste. Paul’s personality was multi-faceted. Always self-assured, he was capable of good-natured humor, but also biting sarcasm. At times he was silent, introspective and moody, but as social circumstances required he could be charming and ingratiating. In the intellectual arena he portrayed a magnificent bearing, without affectation or pretended brilliance. His dominant and independent personality was self-willed with a determination that refused to yield to others or to be threatened by challenging circumstances.

  But beneath this veneer there were conflicts and uncertainties Paul always sought to hold in abeyance. Tonight, however, he was undone. He knew a great deal about the man who had accosted him outside his home, far more than he had acknowledged in that brief but disturbing exchange of words. For some reason the allegations and threats of this man, Julian Fairclough, had left him in the throes of self-accusation, and now painful thoughts and memories intruded their way into his feelings, demanding self-examination. Once again he reluctantly considered the possibility of a fundamental flaw in his nature.

  His thoughts transported him back to Ann Arbor, Michigan, where he had completed his doctoral studies at the University of Michigan. There were uncomfortable memories of Cathy – Cathy with her beautiful golden hair – the wife he had loved and mistreated – the wife he had lost to premature death. Could he have spared her those dark days leading to her demise? Then it came again – that question which had gnawed at him for eleven years. Had he been responsible for Cathy’s death?

  Paul wondered why Jill Fairclough’s father had so successfully unnerved him and why his taunting words had awakened such unwelcome memories. He mentally reviewed what he knew about this man. “Just who did this half-baked lawyer think he was anyway?” He replayed their exchange and anger dismissed the self-inquisition that had consumed him for the past couple of hours. “Well, if this is to be a game of hardball. then bring it on!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Elizabeth Russell was a woman in her fifties but seemed younger despite her snow-white hair which she kept short – a sort of radiant crown to her refined image. She was slight of build, energetic, and fully engaged with the people in her life. To speak with Elizabeth was to receive her undivided attention and to sense her sincere interest. She liked people. Her palatial home placed her among the well-heeled of Ann Arbor, Michigan, but she chose to avoid class-consciousness or the slightest show of ostentation in her manner.

  It was 8 p.m. and Elizabeth was watching the conclusion of a weekly TV program featuring Dr. Paul Kirkham, who had become something of a celebrity among viewers who chose to watch programming fare on Channel 12, the University of Michigan public television station. Channel 12 programs provided an alternative to commercial TV viewing. And though they appealed to a relatively small audience, the program Elizabeth had been viewing was part of a series that had become surprisingly popular and seemed to strike a chord of interest with many of her acquaintances. “Being Your Best Self,” the name of the series, was produced at San Diego State University and was syndicated by “National Educational Television” which had subscribers among many public TV stations. It was more than “pop psychology” and, owing to the genius of Paul Kirkham, approached daily living adjustments and challenges with insightful clarity and a spicing of sarcastic humor. Those who watched enjoyed the unpredictable format of the program and the meaty issues Paul approached in a non-academic manner and with unvarnished candor.

  Today’s program had featured several guests whose marriages were in disarray and asked the question, “When do you ‘bite your tongue’ and at what point does ‘eating crow’ make you emotionally sick?” Although Elizabeth had taken exception to Paul’s conclusions as he poked fun at what he called sandbox or play-yard morality which says, “Be nice and don’t hit,” she nevertheless regarded his irreverent humor as both harmless and entertaining.

  But Elizabeth had other feelings regarding Paul Kirkham that ran deeper and dealt with bigger issues. She had made herself something of a listening post in Paul’s behalf for several years. As a matter of fact, she probably knew more about him than most other people on the planet. Her interest in Paul had commenced in 1957 when she had shared a hospital room with his wife, Cathy. In an all-night vigil she had given her heart to this blond-haired beauty who bore a striking resemblance to the daughter she had lost to a tragic boating accident many years earlier. During the slow-moving hours of that night in Ann Arbor’s University Hospital, she had taken on the role of surrogate mother to Cathy, whose distraught emotional state made Elizabeth’s presence seem vitally important. Cathy had reached out for comfort as she sensed that her life was slipping away. In her precarious frame of mind she hung onto Elizabeth’s reassuring words as she fought against the feeling that she stood on a frightening precipice and that she was about to fall into a gaping abyss of oblivion.

  Elizabeth had listened to Cathy’s ramblings with sincere compassion and had plied her gift with words in a way that opened a door to the world of faith for Cathy. The ensuing experience had brought a union of sentiment for the two women that was enormously significant. It was during these quiet hours of the night that Elizabeth had learned of Paul and his strengths and weaknesses – attributes that had critically injured Cathy emotionally. As Cathy confided the details of her marital impasse, Elizabeth had felt the desire to reach out to Paul. This desire grew into a sense of mission following Cathy’s death. She had patiently waited and prepared for a day when providence would provide the opportunity for her to do what she felt impelled to do. She sensed that she held the keys to Paul’s ultimate encounter with reality and justice. Moreover, she knew that when the time was right, she would use those keys without hesitation.

  Elizabeth moved to a desk in the sunroom of her expansive home, and from the top drawer she took a small notebook filled with phone numbers and addresses. Her index finger moved down one of the pages and stopped at the name, Frank Russell. It was time to talk with him and make some inquiries about Paul.

  Frank Russell was Elizabeth’s nephew, a student at San Diego State in his early twenties. Following her husband’s death she had left the family business in the hands of Frank’s father, who was Elizabeth’s brother-in-law. In essence, she employed him to look after the company her late husband had nurtured from an idea to a major private aircraft design and construction enterprise. His son, Frank, was the “heir apparent” to the family business, Russell Aviation. Although Frank was young, he had that same resourcefulness that had been a stroke of business genius in Elizabeth’s husband, Isaac. He would undoubtedly do well when his time came.

  At present, however, Frank was preoccupied with other things: finishing a bachelor’s degree in business, following his hobby as a staff writer for the Daily Aztec (the campus newspaper), and cultivating relationships with the fairer sex. These were the priorities that shaped his daily life – in the reverse order, that is.

  After suggesting that Frank enroll at San Diego State University and providing him with good justifications for doing so, Elizabeth had willingly covered the expense of Frank’s college education. But there had been a subtle caveat in her generosity. He was to pay personal attention to the activities of a young professor in the Psychology Department, Paul Kirkham, providing Elizabeth with inside information on the good professor as she requested it. Frank had no idea why Dr. Kirkham was of such interest to Elizabeth; in fact, he was uncertain as to whether she was his friend or foe. He had asked her directly in the matter but her answers were evasive, suggesting that this was not the time for a detailed explanation.

  S
o it was that Frank had happily left his home and family in Palo Alto, California, to sample student life at San Diego State. His phone visits with Elizabeth had come sporadically during the last two years. They seemed casual at first, but as time wore on it had become apparent to Frank that Elizabeth’s interest in Dr. Kirkham was keen and highly focused. He sometimes felt that he was filling the role of a private detective in some compelling drama.

  Today he was expecting her call in response to a message he had left earlier. “If you could call back tonight I have some information that would be of interest to you.” Frank had been reluctantly wrestling with an economics assignment when his phone rang. “Well Elizabeth, I’m sure you have nothing better to do than talk to me.” There had been a mutual agreement involving that salutation. At some point in recent years the formal, “Aunt Elizabeth,” had seemed a little unnatural for both of them. Ultimately all formality was dropped. “Just call me Elizabeth,” she had said.

  “Right you are, Frank. I always have time for you, but especially when you have some news for me. What’s up?”

  “Something that could mean big trouble for your man. It’s all a little complicated.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Frank launched into what was obviously going to be a detailed rendition. “Well, I’ve been writing a story on some service projects that one of the campus sororities is sponsoring.”

  “And your interest definitely involves the service projects rather than the sorority girls. Isn’t that the case?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way, I had a great visit with the chapter president and we did finally get around to discussing what the girls are trying to accomplish. The interesting thing is that one of their new members committed suicide a few days ago. It’s big news because of who she is. It seems that her father is a mover and shaker in the San Diego legal community; I mean he’s kind of a who’s who among lawyers here. The guy’s name is Julian Fairclough. He’s big on traditional values – ‘sticky good’, if you know what I mean. He’s a popular speaker for women’s clubs and civic groups. Well, you may wonder what all this has to do with Paul Kirkham but hang on, I’m getting there.”