Memories Never Die

by C Thomas Cox

  "He pissed me off," I said. "Not only did he act like he was better than me, he knew it. I felt like he was spitting in my face each time he shot a glance in my direction. I was ready to tackle him to the ground." I sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "But when he started to pull that knife out of his jacket pocket, I reconsidered." I closed my eyes and clearly saw the remainder of the altercation unfold. "He looked at the crowd around him as he began to remove the knife. I think the number of witnesses spooked him, though. He shoved his hand back into his pocket, and then pulled out a handkerchief instead. He blew his misshapen nose at me and shoved the handkerchief back in.

  "Toward the end of the game -- after it became apparent to me that he didn't have the guts to attack -- I poured on the pain with a strike three call on the boy I had assumed was his son."

  Isaiah chuckled. "I r'member that call. You yelled so loud the slumberin' deer 'hind me woke right up and took off."

  As I replayed the events in my mind's eye -- and ears -- I did vaguely recall the sound of crunching leaves just after the game ended. My focus after the game, however, was squarely on Half-Ear. I didn't care about background noises.

  "After I called strike three, the nutcase took off toward his car like one of those deer. And he didn't look back until after he climbed into the driver's seat."

  "Did you see all this?" Liz asked Isaiah.

  "I'm not so sure 'bout that, lady" he said. "Pretty rare to see a grown man runnin' from a baseball diamond. I reckon I'd r'member that."

  "Are you sure?" I asked. To this day I can still picture Half-Ear racing toward his Pilot as if it just happened last week. He nodded. "Just how much did you drink that day?" I asked. I wanted more than anything for someone to corroborate my story.

  "Just the usual," he said. I wasn't sure what that meant, but if his breath was any indication, the usual would've made it illegal for him to sit behind the wheel of a car.

  "Isaiah," Liz said. "Do you remember anything else from that day that might help us track down the man?"

  He shook his head. "Just saw him from behind, that's it. And I don't r'member any distinguishin' charact’ristics. Honestly, I don't even know for sure that I was lookin' at the guy who gave you a hard time." He looked at me with sad eyes. "Wish I could help you, man. But maybe you’re just seein' visions of the demons inside you." He patted my back. "It's okay, man. I got the same problem."

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  "Who the hell does he think he is?" I said as I pounded my clenched fist against the dashboard. "Visions? Really?" I didn't tell Liz, but I had hoped Isaiah would've offered me a guzzle from the stash of booze I was certain he maintained inside his tent. His lack of hospitality just added to my frustration.

  Although I felt the previous few days had showered me with a great deal of unjust suffering, I wasn't sure if anything I'd endured stung quite as sharply as Isaiah's assertion. Ever since that ballgame, a cloud of dread had hovered over me…a cloud formed from the tears that Half-Ear had forced out of my eyes. How dare Isaiah assume that I'd imagined Half-Ear's existence.

  "Where to?" Liz asked.

  "Don’t you know? You usually have a plan."

  She pulled over to the side of the unlit road that led out of the park. "What do you think?" she asked

  "What do you mean?"

  "What Isaiah said...that you imagined everything. That you seeing Half-Ear was a delusion caused by a disturbance inside your mind...or perhaps your heart."

  "Damn," I whispered as I shook my head. "Not you, too."

  "Guess I'm just asking, seeing as how we don't exactly have any solid leads. Unless, of course, talking to Isaiah triggered some enlightening memory."

  Talking to him triggered something, all right, but I'd classify it as anger rather than memory.

  "So you don't recall anyone -- maybe some demon, as Isaiah said -- from your past who might've shown up in your mind. Someone whose memory was so strong that you believed he was actually standing just a few feet away from you."

  "From my past?” I furrowed my brow. “He said something inside of me...like an emotion. At least that's how I took it." I looked up at the crescent moon, and wished I was sitting on it, thousands of miles away from my earth-bound troubles. "Why do you think I might've imagined someone from my past?"

  I glanced at Liz and saw a tear streaking down her cheek. "My dad...I see him all the time, especially when I'm ready to fall asleep. Usually it's just after I turn off the lights and pull up the covers. He sneaks into my room, belt in hand, ready to do his worst. It's hard for me to understand that it isn't really him. That it's merely a vision of the man I haven't seen since I was six."

  I placed my hand on the back of hers, and a few of her tears fell onto my skin. "I know what it's like to be haunted by demons -- real demons -- from the past," she said. "Day after day, you're afraid they're going to come back to taunt you...to threaten you. Sometimes it's almost impossible to tell that they aren't real. That they live inside your head and appear whenever they choose. That they, little by little, drive you to madness."

  She pulled her hand away and used it to wipe her tears. She turned her head toward me, and the moonlight shone on her bloodshot eyes. "But your demons aren't real," I said. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm sure Half-Ear's a real person."

  "That's what I'm trying to tell you," she pleaded. "Although you sincerely think this Half-Ear is real, he might only be real inside your mind."

  I clasped my hands together and closed my eyes. It's not possible. I couldn't have imagined Half-Ear at the ball game. My mind couldn't have concocted him chasing me in his Pilot or killing my dog.

  Then I remembered his appearance at Thomas's shack. I was sure I saw him walking toward us, but then he was gone. Liz didn't see him, and I couldn't fathom any way he could've tracked me down at such an isolated location.

  Although I believed I could've imagining him outside of the shack -- being imprisoned by a serial killer, after all, is a lot of stress -- I couldn't reconcile my imagination with the rest of his appearances. Besides, I couldn't recall ever seeing him prior to the game. And how could I repeatedly imagine a man who never existed?

  "No," I said, shaking my head. "He is real. I'm certain that I didn't see him before Friday evening. He wasn't in my life before. He just entered and wrecked it."

  To my surprise, she said, "I believe you." She placed her hands back on the wheel and drove out of the park.

  Although I was relieved that she believed me, I wasn't sure that her faith in me was well placed. In fact, I had more doubts than ever. Nonetheless, I couldn't allow her to doubt me. I needed her assistance if I was to find Half-Ear -- if, indeed, there was anyone to find.

  As I closed my eyes and let Liz drive me to a location that we hadn't yet determined, I searched my mind for any recollection of Half-Ear. For if she was right -- if I'd, in fact, imagined everything -- I was sure that I'd run across this strange Vietnamese man somewhere deep in my past. If only I could remember...

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  "What if Yen Nguyen's lying? What if she knows Half-Ear?" Liz asked.

  I sat on the edge of one of the two full-sized beds in the room of the Deep Woods Inn, a sixteen-room motel just outside of Dairy. After we left the park, Liz decided it best for us to regroup overnight. And I suggested the Deep Woods Inn, a motel whose location doesn't match its moniker. It is, however, separated from the street by a row of sycamore trees. And it's parking lot, which only one lantern illuminates, is set behind its two buildings.

  I scratched my unshaven chin. Though I loved a clean shave, I figured my unkempt appearance would make it less likely for strangers to recognize me -- to recognize Mr. Silver. Just to be safe, Liz had checked us in so that no one working at the motel saw me.

  "Doubt it. Ms. Nguyen seems like an honest lady," I said. "Though I understand why she'd want to protect a relative."

  "It's unfortunate Isaiah didn't see him."

  "Yeah," I said. "The bo
oze probably screwed up his vision…or his memory." Or perhaps my memory was the one at fault, I thought.

  "Definitely possible. I could smell the alcohol on his breath and clothes." She picked up her smart phone and started typing. "So let's assume that his observations are useless. And let's assume the Nguyen's lied."

  I nodded. I almost hoped that was the case. That Ms. Nguyen and her compliant son were hiding the existence of a man that really did exist. That explanation was better than considering that my brain was playing tricks on me.

  "But why would the Nguyens lie?"

  "Think about it," Liz said as she grabbed a slice of the pizza she picked up from the shop across the street. "Let's suppose she knows the guy who harassed you. Maybe he's her ex. Maybe he's her brother. It doesn't matter."

  She bit into the pie and chewed. "Okay, I buy it," I said. "So what's the next step? How are we going to track down this mystery man?"

  She finished chewing, set the slice on her paper plate, and picked up her phone. "I bet a web search of Yen Nguyen gets us started. Usually the online white pages list close relatives."

  "And we know Half-Ear's not her boyfriend." I pictured her emerge from her home with a Caucasian man in tow.

  "Ah, here we go," she said, pushing the phone toward her eyes. "Yen Nguyen. This is exactly what I was looking for."

  She walked over and plopped herself beside me. She held out the phone, and I took it. Beneath Yen’s name and address I found the Related subheading. Beneath the subheading, the website listed four names.

  First, unsurprisingly, was Bradley. I ignored him and moved on. Next was Cynthia Nguyen. Again, irrelevant to our search. We needed to find a man's name. Beneath Cynthia, however, were two names that piqued my interest. The first was Anthony Spencer.

  As soon as I put my finger on his name, Liz spoke up. “Shouldn’t we focus on the Vietnamese names?”

  I shook my head. “What if Anthony Spencer, AKA Half-Ear, is Yen's cousin? Perhaps he has a Caucasian father -- a man brought into the family by marriage -- but his mother is Yen’s Vietnamese aunt.”

  She hesitated. “Good point.” The way she mumbled, though, told me that she thought I my conjecture was a stretch.

  At the bottom of the list we found another male. This guy, however, had a name that seemed more appropriate. Edward Nguyen.

  “Let's start with him.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  A web search for Edward Nguyen yielded fifty-three results, which was fifty-two more than I expected. Liz narrowed the search by adding Pennsylvania. We were down to two results, both of which pointed to the same individual.

  The first result was a white page listing. Liz clicked on it, and a page with Edward's information displayed. We confirmed that Yen was listed under Related, and I jotted his address down on the cheap motel stationery. Luckily, he lived just two miles from Deep Woods.

  "What’s the second link?"

  Liz’s click revealed a sparse social networking page that indicated that Edward had no children, one Pit Bull, and a worked as a golf caddy at Hickory Hills Golf Course. Unfortunately, he posted no pictures.

  "That has to be him," I said. I pictured him in his preppy golf shirt and wanted to ring his well-dressed neck.

  "You're probably right," she said. "But I think we should still take a minute to check out the other fellow."

  I nodded, and she initiated another web search. As I expected, Anthony Spencer Pennsylvania yielded a much greater number of results than Edward Nguyen. So many results, in fact, that Liz had to reduce the number by appending near Dairy between Spencer and Pennsylvania.

  Once she did so, three Anthony Spencers displayed. The first -- Anthony M. Spencer -- had a social media page in addition to his white pages entry. The image of him at the top of the social media page was enough to convince us that he wasn't the one for whom we were looking. Half-Ear was a one-hundred-fifty pound Viatnamese man, not a three-hundred pound African American.

  Our second option, Anthony P. Spencer, was the Caucasian pastor of Resurrection Pentecostal Church, per the Church's website. Next.

  The white pages was the only indication of the existence of Anthony V. Spencer, the final potential Half-Ear. I jotted down his address and hoped we didn't need to track him down.

  "Looks like we'll be golfing in the morning," Liz said as she wandered back to her pizza. The volume of food that she was able consume amazed me. Either Thomas had starved her, or she had the highest metabolism in the history of the world. I grabbed a handful of the flab hanging over the waist of my pants and wished I could eat without repercussions.

  After a quick shower, I changed back into the same clothes I'd been wearing since I'd showered at Thomas's place. I hoped that before long I'd be back at home, changing into clean clothes and sleeping beside Claire in my own bed.

  I pulled back the sheets from the motel bed, checked for bed bugs, and climbed in. I closed my eyes and imagined I was back at home. I slid one of the pillows beside me and wrapped my arms around it. I caressed it and pulled it close. I pretended it was Claire and, before long, drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  The unmistakable florid scent of the jungle filled my nostrils, and I jolted awake. Instead of lying in bed, I was again standing face to face with the Vietnamese farmer.

  He reached out, grabbed my shirt and dog tag, and started to yank me toward him. After he glanced at the armed squadron behind me, however, he released me from his grip and stumbled backward.

  Although I inhabited my body, I couldn’t control anything I said or did. I felt my body walking toward the farmer, rifle drawn and aimed at his face. The scene was suddenly familiar.

  When the tip of bayonet that was fastened beneath the muzzle grazed his forehead, he reconsidered his decision to protect his corn. He shut his mouth and took two more steps backward. I told my body to leave him be, but my body didn’t listen. Instead, I followed him, step for step, and kept the blade pressed against his skin.

  "Come on, Jim," yelled one of the members of my squad.

  "Leave him alone," yelled another. I shook my head. "Well, we're moving on." They marched forward, and I was left to confront the farmer on my own.

  He's innocent, I tried to convince my former self. My body didn’t listen. I shoved the blade into his forehead until it punctured his skin and caused a stream of blood to trickle over the bottom of his brow, across the bridge of his nose, and onto his upper lip. As it seeped into his mouth, he tasted it and spat in disgust. Although he was likely trying to spit onto the ground, his ball of blood-tinged saliva landed squarely on my combat boot. "What the hell?" I shoved the bayonet deeper. "You Vietnamese bastard!"

  He lurched back, just out of striking distance, and then turned and took off toward his house. I glanced at my boot. I wasn't sure what my old self was thinking. But, as the scene played out like a horror movie, I remembered -- with the fog that a half century caused to settle over it -- the act that was about to unfold. This wasn't just a dream. Instead, a deed that my brain had long repressed -- and a deed for which I was never punished -- came flooding back like Noah's deluge. Unlike Noah, however, nothing could keep me afloat.

  I felt like I was drowning in an ocean of sorrow...a lifetime of secret pain. Unable to change the outcome, my finger pulled the trigger and struck the innocent farmer in the back of his head. He collapsed, face first, on the damp earth.

  As I watched to make sure he didn't show any signs of life, beyond him I again saw the boy. Tears raining down his cheeks, he watched in horror as the man I assumed was his father lay dead.

  Without thinking, I raised the rifle again. My squad passed by that farm frequently enough that I couldn't leave an eyewitness to the murder. I was sure that I'd be court-martialed if I was caught...I couldn't risk my career over an impulsive decision. I pulled the trigger, watched in what felt like slow motion as the bullet erupted from the barrel and flew toward the boy's head.

  Just as I pulled the trigger,
the boy drifted a few inches to his left, preventing the bullet from hitting him flush in the center of his face. Still, as it hit him, he crumpled to the ground. I turned and ran, terrified that his mother or someone else inside their shack might see me.

  Confident that I left no witnesses to my horrid acts, I ran to meet my squad. Breathlessly, I said, "Sorry for the delay." When they pressed me for details on my encounter with the farmer, I simply said that I'd, "put the fear of God into him." And when they asked about the shots that rang out, I said that "I just fired a couple warning shots in his direction. We're fixing his goddam country, after all."

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  I woke with my arms hugging my body. Sweat soaked my white tee-shirt, and I felt my right-hand reaching for an object that I felt should've been hanging from my chest. I wasn’t quite sure what that object was.

  I turned to my left and saw, with the aid of the red light thrown off by the clock radio that sat on her nightstand, Liz asleep in her bed. Unlike my agitated state, she appeared as peaceful as ever.

  I laid on my back and stared at the ceiling. Although I tried to close my eyes a few times, each time I did so I pictured the farmer's dead body lying on his own soil. I never wanted to see that image again.

  I wasn't quite sure how my mind was able to repress that image for so long. It'd been nearly fifty years since I'd killed that man, and I couldn't recall the last time I'd thought about it.

  After my squad's brief interrogation, I couldn't recall any further discussions about the farmer or his boy. Either my fellow soldiers believed my tale, or they didn't want to know the truth. Regardless, the outcome was better than I'd expected -- at least better than I'd expected at the time. Although shrapnel ended my service shortly thereafter, I was honorably discharged.