Memories Never Die

by C Thomas Cox

  While Scout chased the yellow and black monarchs flying around the potted butterfly bushes lining the edge of the patio, I ventured further away from the house. I couldn't rely on its safety forever.

  Step.

  I had to show myself that my episode wasn't reality.

  Step.

  I had to remind myself of the innocence of the woods.

  Step.

  I had to prove that the episode was just that -- a fantasy that had no bearing on reality.

  Step.

  I had no reason to fear the woods, I told myself. I slid between two tree trunks. Whitetail deer, gray squirrels, and a variety of birds were its only inhabitants. I ventured further, the leaves lining its floor crunching beneath my feet. I looked up at the canopy of green and red leaves that formed its roof. Five more steps. Ten. The sunlight that streamed through the canopy just the day before had diminished, a high bed of clouds blocking the ultraviolet rays. Spinning around deliberately, surrounded by the trunks behind which Viet Cong soldiers hid just a day earlier, the whole world felt like it was tilting off its axis. Or maybe I was just dizzy...I wasn't quite sure. Regardless, I saw no more soldiers behind the trees. The woods was as it always had been -- nature at its finest. A shelter for the woodland creatures, and my escape from the problems -- the strife, violence, and war -- of the manmade world. A hideout from, rather than cause of, the pain that Vietnam left forever engraved on my soul.

  Once I convinced myself that the trees were truly a safe haven, I settled down on the mat of leaves. I wrapped my arms around my knees and looked at the world that my military pension -- as well as the money I earned, after I retired from the Army, while supervising hourly associates at a soda bottling plant -- bought. Although I'd suffered more mental anguish than I'd wish upon anyone, the life with which I was left was far from burdensome. A supportive and devoted wife, a comfortable home, and good friends were more than I deserved. And an over-enthusiastic dog didn't hurt.

  Once Scout realized he was no match for the butterflies, he spotted me sitting in the woods. He galloped over and pounced, knocking me onto my back. He licked my face furiously and, although I tried to push him off of me, I enjoyed every second of his affection. The slobber, however, I could do without.

  The squirrels frolicking deeper in the woods soon distracted him, and he gave chase. I wiped his saliva from my face with my sleeve.

  Other than Scout kicking up leaves as he failed to catch his playmates, the early afternoon was mostly silent. And the silence in the air seemed to permeate the lining of my restless soul. As I reflected on the peaceful life I was living, I thought that perhaps the issue at the ballgame was merely a blip on my sonar screen. A blip that drifted off the screen as quickly as it appeared.

  Perhaps my episode was also such a blip, a one-time occurrence that would never again grace my threshold. An occurrence that I needed more than anything to forget.

  All at once, the sound of tires splitting the sticks that were scattered across the surface of my driveway echoed amongst the trees. Claire's home!

  Excited to see my loving wife and to move past my brief interlude into my terror-driven past, I grabbed onto the closest tree trunk and pulled myself to my feet. Scout dashed ahead of me, overjoyed to see his mother. Before he arrived at the driveway, however, another squirrel captured his attention.

  I was surprised that I didn't hear the sound of the garage door creaking open. Claire nearly always pulled her Corolla into the garage, not wanting to clean off the pollen that would inevitably coat its windshield otherwise. I shrugged and kept moving, more focused on embracing my wife than critiquing her parking.

  When I turned around the corner of the house, however, what I saw nearly caused my heart to burst out of my chest. Claire -- and her Corolla -- were nowhere to be found. Instead, a silver Honda Pilot was parked in my driveway, and its grill was aimed directly at me.

  Chapter Nine

  No matter how hard I tried, I could not lift my feet off the ground. Though I wanted to turn and run, my feet felt as though they were encased in hardened concrete. I even glanced down to make sure I hadn't stepped in a pool of quicksand that my tormenter had somehow plopped in my yard. Instead, freshly cut grass was the only thing that surrounded my sneakers.

  As I stood there, helpless and hopeless, I closed my eyes and prepared for the worst...for the Pilot to mow me down. I was certain that, after it crashed into me, Half-Ear would complete the job by driving his oversized tires directly over me, unconcerned about the blood that would splatter onto his vehicle's shimmering silver paint. He would then back up and crush my bones beneath his elevated chassis.

  When he revved his engine, I flipped open my eyelids and braced for the impact that I was unable to avoid. Staring through the pollen-coated windshield at pupils that appeared as black as roof tar, I could detect no redeeming qualities. Instead, I felt as though he was the human embodiment of my past hell, sent to remind me of the flames of war that had haunted me ever since. He was definitely the man I saw at the baseball field.

  Once I heard him release the emergency brake and shift the car into drive, my feet became unshackled from the ground. I dashed toward the side of the house as quickly as I could, just around the corner from him and out of his sight. Hugging the clapboard siding, I listened intently. And when I heard the wheels spin, I was certain the Pilot would soon take off around the corner and barrel toward the house -- and me.

  Strangely, however, the screaming of the Pilot's tires seemed to grow fainter as I waited, panting. I assumed that, instead of driving over the vegetable garden that provided a slight barrier between us, he decided it was best to drive around the opposite side of the house before slamming into me. Either that or he was backing up in order to hurtle through the garden and into the side yard. Regardless, I felt compelled to peak around the corner. He knew I was there, so my brief appearance wouldn't hurt.

  When I poked my head around, however, I was surprised by what I saw. Instead of driving in my general direction, the Pilot was racing backward out of my two-hundred-foot-long driveway. Why in the world did he stop by if he didn't plan on hurting me? Unless, of course, he hoped I was not home.

  Perhaps, instead of causing me direct harm, he intended to steal every item of value from my house while I was away. Maybe he was the one following me earlier, and, thinking I was still out, he decided to break in. Regardless, what appeared to be his third appearance was too much for me. I needed to put an end to his harassment.

  I grabbed a two-inch diameter stick that lay on the yard -- I picked it up for my defense only -- and took off as fast as my arthritic knees would allow. I was going to confront him before he escaped my property.

  Although the loose asphalt caused me to lose my footing a couple times, I maintained my balance and closed quickly. Backing out of a driveway as curved as mine is far from an easy -- or swift -- process, and the Pilot's departure was no exception. Though I was old enough to receive a senior discount at the Cineplex, at the time I believed I was decades away from the grave.

  As I approached the truck, I stared at the enemy inside the cab. He was focused on retreating rather than engaging, so he didn’t seem to notice my glare.

  Suddenly, he slammed on the brakes and lowered his gaze from the rearview mirror. With a glower matching that of the creepiest reality show boss, I was certain he wanted to end my life. Although I was only twenty feet away from the Pilot's grill, however, I found myself caught in an unrelenting staring contest. He would not turn away.

  Then, while I was still caught in the tractor beams shooting from his eyes, I heard a sound more frightening than the loudest clap of thunder. He had shifted the Pilot into drive.

  Chapter Ten

  My stick was no match for the two-ton Japanese export. I took a step back and prepared to dash to my right, where the eighteen-inch trunk of an Elm awaited to provide me much needed shelter. My feet, however, were no match for the loose gravel beneath them. They flew out from under
me, and I unceremoniously face-planted on the driveway. When I regained the wherewithal to push myself up, I saw a half dozen drops of blood on the asphalt beneath my face, and my cheek felt as though it had been licked by a bonfire's flames. My palms, which I used to try to slow my descent, didn’t feel much better.

  With no option, I used my burning hands to shove myself up onto my knees. This also put me at eye level with the grill. I didn't have the strength or time to do move out of its way.

  He gunned the ignition and surged forward. With no way to escape, I grabbed the stick with both hands, raised it over my head, and bashed in his headlight as soon as it was within striking distance. The plastic housing protecting the bulb gave out, and the bulb itself shattered, turning the Pilot into what looked like a one-eyed monster. A Cyclops with its eye on the right side of its face instead of horizontally centered. A creature that appeared ready to end my life.

  Just as the wood struck the Pilot, its driver slammed the brakes. Although I had no clue as to his motivation, I knew that he could have easily murdered me if he so choose. Besides, all of his actions up until that point confirmed that I was dealing with a lunatic -- a man out of touch with the morality that dwells within all sane humans. If he didn't kill me then, he could easily do so in the not-so-distant future.

  While the SUV was stopped, I grabbed onto the H adorning its grill and began to pull myself up, hopeful that the driver would keep his foot on the brake pedal long enough that we could chat. He had a different idea. He threw the Pilot in reverse, pulling me toward it. I let go as soon as I realized what he was doing, but by then it was too late. He had yanked me far enough forward that I again lost my footing and slammed face first into the asphalt. I summoned just enough energy to glance at him as he pulled out of the driveway and shot down the street.

  The second fall did more than just scratch my face and hands. This time my forehead bounced off of the pavement, causing a wave of vertigo to wash over me. At the same time, a jackhammer assaulted the inside of my skull. My eyelids involuntarily fell over my eyes. I was helpless, and I was starting to lose hope. Even though Scout finally gave up catching the squirrels -- likely after he realized he couldn't climb trees -- the drool that dripped from his lips onto my forehead couldn't keep me awake.

  Suddenly, a nearly fifty-year-old scene arose inside my brain -- as though the impact with the driveway somehow jarred it loose. While my squad of soldiers was picking ears of corn from a farm next to the dirt road on which we marched, the farm's owner emerged through the front door of his modest home and demanded, in broken English, that we stop stealing his produce. Most of my troops just laughed. The man, however, did not take the matter lightly. He shouted even more viciously and, as he moved closer, I got a good look at his face. With dark, piercing eyes, he looked almost identical to the driver of the Pilot.

  As this impossible realization struck me like a second jackhammer, the sound of an approaching vehicle startled me. Unable to open my eyes, and praying that he wasn't back for more, I drifted out of consciousness.

  Chapter Eleven

  "Ouch!" I yelled as what felt like a stinger from one of Skull Island's enormous insects puncture my right arm. A small hand held onto my left. I shook in an unsuccessful attempt to jar the hand loose, and I opened my eyes. Claire sat at my left, and a nurse fastened medical tape to my right arm to keep the IV needle in place. "Huh?" was all I had the energy to say.

  "Honey," Claire said as though she was my mother. "It's going to be okay." She patted the back of my bandaged hand.

  What the hell was I doing in a hospital room? An African American nurse in blue scrubs, after inserting an IV, was now attaching a bag of saline solution to, no doubt, ensure I remained hydrated.

  Based on my location -- and the fact that I was still alive -- I deduced that Claire's tires must've been the ones I heard just before blacking out. She must have either hoisted me into her car -- no small feat -- or called an ambulance. I didn't care which, though. My left cheek felt as though flames were still licking it, as did my palms. What good was this place?

  I pulled my elbows back as far as possible, and attempted to use them to prop myself up. But as soon as my head left the pillow, the jackhammer returned with a vengeance. Seeing the pain in my face, Claire and the nurse helped to ease me back down. "You might want to stay still until the meds kick in, sir. You had a nasty spill." She smiled broadly, as though her fake grin would somehow make me feel better about the pain that plagued me. She was wrong.

  "I need to get out of here, Claire." I carefully shook my head. "I’ve got things to do, Claire."

  She patted my hand again, and her smile mirrored that of the nurse. "Nothing's more important than your health," she replied. Little did she know that staying in the hospital room would do nothing but put my health -- and life -- in jeopardy. At least if I was on the outside, I'd have the chance to outrun and outwit Half-Ear. He undoubtedly saw my injuries before he sped off, so he could have assumed that I would pay a visit to the hospital -- the one hospital within twenty miles of my home. He knew my address, and he could easily perform a web search to determine my name -- if he didn't already know it.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Although I wanted more than anything to rip the IV out of my arm and rush out of the hospital, I knew that I wasn't up to the task. I couldn't even raise my head. I was, therefore, stuck in the room with Claire -- at least temporarily. And I wasn't ready to answer the overly probing questions that I was sure were about to fall out of her mouth.

  Before she was able to ask anything else, though, the nurse spoke up. "You're lucky your wife found you when she did, Mr. Richmond. Your lacerations would surely have become infected if we hadn’t cleaned them up so quickly." I nodded gingerly, certain that he was right. "Now rest up."

  After he left the room, Claire spoke up -- just as I expected. "So how'd you get your face and hands all torn up?" This was an easy one.

  "Last thing I remember was slipping on the loose asphalt on my way to the mailbox." Since men my age fall much more easily than those thirty-years my junior, I was confident in my response. She nodded, and I thought I had escaped her questioning. I should've known it wouldn't be that easy.

  "Must've been an awful fall," she said, and I swore I heard a hit of sarcasm in her voice. Regardless, I wasn't planning on explaining further. "But why were you carrying that big stick in your hand?"

  I ground my teeth hard. I had completely forgotten about the stick. "Just getting ready to play fetch with Scout." Though the fallen limb was larger than one I'd usually ask Scout to retrieve, that was the only excuse that popped into my mind. After all, I didn't plan on passing out. If I hadn't lost consciousness, I would have chucked the stick into the woods before Claire returned home.

  She patted my hand again. "Okay, honey." She wasn't directly calling me out on my lie. Instead -- and even worse -- she looked at me as though she thought I believed what I was telling her...but that what I was telling her was not true. That, instead, I was on the verge of madness.

  "By the way," she continued, "several minutes before you woke you started jerking your body around." She leaned in closer. "You screamed, 'Leave me alone!' and appeared to be swatting at the air with an invisible something -- maybe a stick -- in your hand." She paused, and I lay completely still, careful to avert my eyes from hers. "Do you remember having a bad dream?"

  I shook my head. Although I was confident that I must've dreamt about my latest altercation with Half-Ear, I honestly didn't recall the dream itself -- which didn’t surprise me. While watching a public television program years ago, I learned that nearly ninety percent of dreams are forgotten. I couldn't recall whether Claire saw the same program, but I hoped she believed me. Based on her blank stare, I couldn't tell.

  "You hungry?" she asked. I nodded, hopeful that she'd leave my room to find me something to eat. I needed a break from her questioning. I also needed time to think about a new way to track Half-Ear down.

&nbs
p; "Why don't you get yourself something, too?" I added just before she walked out. She kept moving.

  After a quick glance at my heart rate monitor -- ninety-five powerful beats per minute -- I closed my eyes. In addition to hoping that doing so would allow me to nod off in the near future -- after I determined how to find my nemesis -- when Claire returned I wanted her to think I was asleep. She wouldn't want to wake me, therefore I wouldn’t have to come up with any more lies to fend off her inquisition.

  In between episodes of pounding inside my skull, I decided to double-down on my decision to keep Claire in the dark. In addition to the near certainty that she would not believe me, I still didn't want her to worry about my mental or physical wellbeing. Therefore, instead of asking for her help -- or calling the police myself, which would undoubtedly get back to her -- I would be ready for the Vietnamese man the next time he hurled himself into my life. And I knew just what I needed to do -- and it included borrowing a one of Gene's many hunting rifles. I’d do so as soon as I was released from the hospital.

  Just then, I heard footsteps cross the threshold of my private room. Claire's voice was the first sound to break the monotony of the heart monitor. It was followed by a male voice that I didn't recognize.

  "None of this makes sense, doc," she said, assuming I was asleep. "Concussing himself while walking up the driveway? Holding onto a stick large enough to fuel a fire? Screaming while unconscious? All this after he lied to me about fishing this morning." How in the hell did she know? I wanted to refute her, to somehow convince her that I wasn't lying. But maybe that wasn't possible. Maybe she forced the truth out of Gene. After all, I didn't ask Gene to keep my visit a secret.

  "Are those the only reasons you want me to evaluate him?"

  "Mm-hmm." She paused for a few moments. "Well...and he's starting to remind me of who he used to be."