Stern's Stories

Looking for an Old Photograph

2011-07-05T16:54:00.000-07:00

(This story was posted previously; however, when I tried to link with it "the powers that be" had placed a blocker on it; claimed it had offensive material. Here's the link to the original.)

Looking for an Old Photograph

I spent the morning looking for an old photograph. I wanted to find a group picture of my 1976 Point Control softball team to send off to an old friend. We would play in his backyard, tossing a worn out baseball for hours on end; pretending we were at Yankee Stadium. Forty years later we are comparing notes and catching up with each other.

I went through stacks of old pictures; finding all kinds of vacation shots in the mountains, our kids in various stages of growing up, cars we had owned (or had owned us); everything except the team picture. I found some photos from when my dad and I flew up to Chicago to take in a game, the Cubs at Wrigley Field, close but no cigar.

I rummaged through my desk, a study in creative disorder. I found my first rough draft for Chapter One of “Pecaw’s Gift”, a novel length work that I tried to get published. To save money I’d printed it on the back of my locksmith company letterhead; might as well since it had our old address. I wonder where I put the rest of that manuscript.

Maybe I could scan a copy of the plaque given to us for sponsoring my son, William’s, baseball team. They came in second place that year and each boy earned a trophy. Trophies are an important part of growing up. I still have the trophy from my Little League days. Thinking back, every kid who put on a team shirt got some kind of trophy just for being a member of the team, any team. It didn’t matter if they ever won a game, you got a trophy to put on the fireplace mantle. That trophy was a solid piece of evidence that you existed on this Earth. In time, at least in the back of your mind, that first trophy would be the start of many worldly awards; Rookie of the Year, National League MVP, two or three World Series rings, and the dreams roll on.

I played high school ball long enough to figure out that my chances of getting to the next level were slim to none. I did get my “letter sweater” and it hangs in the closet next to a light blue shirt with four hash marks on the left sleeve; the shirt I wore when I retired from the police department. Some trophies never make the fireplace; they hang in the closet.

I imagine that some time later in the day I may stumble over that team picture I was hunting for. It would be nice to have a look at some of the faces, young police officers taking a few moments in the middle of the night to play softball together. It was the “midnight league”, at least that’s what we called it. We all worked the evening shift and would get off duty around ten or eleven. The teams were made from various divisions within the police department. Ours was Point Control, the guys who directed traffic during rush hour, later to become Special Operations,. We came in third place that year; gave that trophy to our division commander to show off in the office. Point Control didn’t have too many trophies. There was the Safety Award Plaque that hung on the wall; the one that accidentally got nicked by a stray bullet, but that’s a whole other story.

I’ll keep looking for the picture; it’s become a challenge now. I did find a picture taken the day Lucy and I got married. We’d only been married a few minutes as we confidently marched back up the isle; my arm crooked around hers. I have to admit, that picture grabs my interest even more than the Point Control team photo. Trophies come in various shapes and sizes, this one still holds my hand on our Saturday night date.

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The Haberdasher

2009-06-13T12:42:00.000-07:00

Part One The Haberdasher

On the edge of town, in an older section known as The Village, there were several shops that had lasted the test of time. Stores of a by gone era; a real Five and Dime with metal tiled ceiling, an old fashioned ice cream parlor next door to a picture frame shop and each had saved a portion of history, a longing to remain unsullied by the present. Mortimer Hershiser’s Haberdashery was one of the lesser known clothing stores in Houston. He had never once advertised in the Yellow Pages; perhaps because his shop had never had a telephone.

Mortimer’s shop was nearly invisible as it had no store front display windows, only a narrow door with his numerical address stenciled apologetically on the glass. The layers of paint and caulking that held the glass in place had become brittle and cracked over the years, as bark around a very old tree trunk. It would be safe to say that it looked more like the back door to one of the other businesses than a front door to his own. Mortimer, even his name seemed lost in the past. It was an accident, possibly a miracle that Frank Collier found himself standing in the small alcove directly in front of the Haberdashery; holding his broken umbrella in an attempt to stave off the wind and rain.

Frank Collier was starting his career as second assistant manager in charge of inventory with Wilson’s Big and Tall, a national chain store for men’s clothing. In actuality, Frank was a sales clerk who’s duties included restocking the shelves and closing up three nights a week. It wasn’t as if he was complaining; it was however, difficult to see much of a career ahead. One of the reasons that Frank had taken the job was because the company had a flexible transfer system whereby he could pack up and move to any number of other cities across the country and continue in the same capacity.

“Won’t you step inside, please Sir?” Frank looked behind him as the door was pulled into the darkness of the shop. Aside from being mildly startled, Frank managed to see the advantage of waiting out the gale inside the sanctuary of the shop rather than standing with the lower half of his trousers being pelted with rain.

“Thank you, the rain seems to be getting much worse.”, holding the remains of what used to be his umbrella at arms length.

“If its getting worse it’s a sure sign it’s almost over.” Mortimer replied, almost as if it were a tune. “Let me take that”, relieving Frank of the twisted shaft that was dripping on the floor, “It would seem that it has seen better days.” Frank released his grip and watched as it was tossed into a trash barrel at the edge of a counter where a huge bronze colored cash register presented itself for view.

“I know that line, from My Fair Lady, am I right?” Mortimer was a good six or seven inches shorter than Frank as he smiled up and nodded affirmatively. “I thought so.” Frank was about to continue his thoughts regarding the weather; or rather, the musical’s line when he realized that he was in some kind of clothing store. It was not like any he had ever been in; all the same, it had similarities to make him feel that he was on common ground with the stranger.

“Mortimer Hershiser,” reaching out his hand, “owner and operator of the Haberdashery.” Frank extended his hand reflexively while studying the diminutive features of the man before him. Mortimer stood about five foot seven inches tall and might weigh all of a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet. His bony hand grasped coldly yet quite forcefully around Frank’s, causing him; no, forcing him to share a short exchange. The idea that came across Frank’s mind was somewhat morbid while at the same time funny; “If this man were taller, quite a bit taller as a grin crept onto his own face, he could pass as twin for that fellow Caradine, the one who used to play the mortician in all of those old Westerns.” Mortimer wore a dark wool suit, not cut the way modern clothiers design them, instead its proportions tended to run long, as if made for the early 1900’s.

“Frank, Frank Collier.”, returning the singularly abrupt motion, a placement of the hands too rigid to be considered a warm greeting.

“I have no appointment for anyone by that name.”, never letting go as his scrawny fingers touched the cuff of Frank’s shirt. “Who sent you?”

“Nobody sent me. I was standing there to get out of the rain is all.”, his voice automatically became defensive. It made no sense; why would a shop keeper coldly antagonize a prospective customer? It violated everything he had been taught. Had he accidentally stumbled into some kind of illegal operation? Frank noticed that the man was examining his clothing, inspecting each fold of cloth. “Hey, what give’s old man?” Frank wished he had kept his mouth closed as the words vaulted out and attacked the stranger’s ears.

“Excuse me, sonny. I must have mistaken you for someone with manners”, withdrawing the offered hand. Mortimer glared coldly back.

“I’m sorry, Mr.”, stumbling for his name, “Mr.?”

“Hershiser, Mortimer Hershiser. I own this store.” Frank’s demeanor was that of a schoolboy who had been sent to the principle’s office. “Maybe it’s a good thing you happened in today; could be just what you needed.” Mortimer stepped back a full step and continued to examine the packaged man before him. “I might be able to help you.”

Mortimer led Frank to where he was standing on an oval piece of worn out linoleum tile. The rest of the floor was covered with some kind of industrial carpet that was so dark as to defy dirt. Originally it must have been a deep maroon with some darker pattern of black diamonds. There against the wall was a familiar full length tri-fold mirror. Above his head a pair of spot lights focused on the oval upon which he stood. Off to his side, where Mortimer was continuing his examination, stood a chest of sorts. On top of the chest was an old fashioned pin cushion shaped like an apple. There was an assortment of cloth chalk in various colors in a small tray that also was full of straight pins and a couple of cloth tape measures.

“Stand up straight for me.” A simple instruction and yet Frank had a terrible slouch of a posture, something that reflected his self esteem or lack of discipline. “Come on now, shoulders back, square them, that’s a little better.” Mortimer shook his head slightly as he wondered what had happened to the world that would allow a young man to stand in such a manner; had he never been taught deportment? It would be difficult to fit him for a success unless Frank learned to wear it properly.

“I didn’t come here to buy a suit. I was just getting in out of the rain.
Don’t misunderstand; I appreciate your letting me stand inside until it quits.”
Awkward as he sounded, Frank was saying thank you.

“Be quiet and turn to the side.”, measuring the outer seam line down to Frank’s shoe tops. “You call these shoes?”, his Yiddish accent creeping in, “Oiy!”

“What’s wrong with my shoes? They’re the latest style and I paid right at a hundred for them.” Frank lifted his trousers slightly and looked down to make sure he was talking about the same feet.

“Head straight, back straight if you don’t mind?” It was a mild chastisement for having bent down. “How am I going to get you headed for success if you keep twitching?”

“Look, I know you mean well; but, I haven’t any money to buy a suit from you. Besides, I work at a clothing store; if I wanted to buy a suit, that’s where I would go.” Frank had the good sense to stand still while he went on to explain about his employee discount and how it might appear disloyal if he showed up for work in clothing purchased elsewhere. Mortimer continued to measure and take notes.

“The suits I make are customized and complete. The one I make for you today costs you nothing. Does that “suit” you?” Mortimer could have smiled at having made a clothing pun; but he didn’t. I never charge for the first suit and I have been in this business long enough to know what I’m doing.”

“Let me get this right; you’re making me a suit right now and it won’t cost me a thing?” There was a touch of larceny in his words, something for nothing, naw; even that was too much to swallow. “What’s the hitch?”

“I assure you, there is no hitch, as you say. This suit is free. I will have it for you, what’s today? Tuesday, it will be ready Thursday. You come by here Thursday around lunch time and I will complete the fitting.”

“I don’t have any say so, color or style? You’ve got to be insane to think I would. . .”, Mortimer cut him off before he could continue.

“As I said, if it doesn’t suit you then leave it and walk away. Either way you will owe me nothing.”

“I suppose, since you put it that way, I would be a fool to pass up a deal like this.” He lifted his head slightly and tilted his chin as he looked into the mirrors.

“That, sir, you already are. It is my intent to improve on that.”

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Part Two It Suits You

Thursday afternoon came around quickly enough. The cold front that brought rain on Tuesday had cleared out the skies. It was a rare day indeed when the air above Houston was crystal clear, deep blue and cloudless with no trace of the smog. There were only a few days a year when the afternoon temperature peaked in the mid fifties, this was an infrequent treat. Frank often would kid folks visiting from out of town by telling them, “Winter was the first Monday in January, but only if the sun didn’t come out.”

Oh, Houston had its share of cold weather; in fact just last year he remembered that it got to the freeze mark or below, eleven times to set a record. His uncle from New York would chide him about living in the tropics. He’d start going on about having to walk his dogs through Central Park in blowing snow with gale force winds; kind of like his father having to walk six miles to school in a blizzard when he was a kid and there weren’t any side walks.

It was two in the afternoon as Frank went to the back of the store, picked his time card from the slot and shoved it into the time clock for his break. Kathunka! His time was his own and he needed to drive from Greenspoint to the Village, try on and have his suit fitted and then get back; all within a one hour time frame. He wondered what his boss would think, having gotten a new suit at some place other than Wilson’s Big & Tall; no matter, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Traffic into town was light and he was able to reach the Village in less than half an hour. It took him a few minutes to find a place to park that was close to the Haberdashery. He was about to go around the block a second time when he noticed a car’s tail lights flash, then the back up lights came on from a car only a half block up.

A large black Cadillac maneuvered its way from the curb and into traffic. Frank took advantage of the opportunity and slid right in; noting that there was still half an hour left on the meter. “Must be my lucky day.”, talking to himself as he let natural gravity slam the door shut. The Haberdashery looked even less like a real store in the sun than it had the other day in the rain. Frank paused briefly, a smirk half crossed his right cheek as if to exclaim his disbelief. He peered into the dark window that pretended to be a store front. The front door opened and Mortimer Hershiser presented himself at the entrance.

“Your suit is ready, please come in for the final fitting.” There was a chill in the air, more so than had been brought by the Canadian front. Frank had begun to lift his arm prior to what he assumed would be perfunctory hand shake except that Mortimer was already stepping back into the shadows of his shop.

“Now, to make sure one last time; the suit is mine at no charge? Frank leaned a bit, hesitating prior to passing the entry way.

“A deal’s a deal. You don’t like the suit, you leave no charge. You like the suit you leave no charge.” Mortimer pointed to the curtain that separated the dressing area from the fitting area. “You going to stand there all day or what?”, impatiently prodding the young man to get on with life.

“Just making sure, that’s all. It still sounds too good to be true.” Frank pushed the curtain back and glimpsed the Navy Blue suit that was hanging on the hook. Having a little knowledge about clothing in his limited time with Wilson’s Big & Tall, he could tell that the workmanship was as good; no, better than anything he’d ever seen. The material was a light weight wool blend that spoke of elegance. He had been to one of the better men’s stores while on a training session and seen suits made for upper echelon corporate executives. This was the kind of suit they would have purchased. He calculated how much a suit, such as he was slipping his leg into at the moment, might cost; six or seven hundred dollars maybe a thousand or more? He was glad that he had put on a new pair of thin dress socks as his foot made it through and out the open cuff. He was about to slip his shoes back on when he heard Mortimer clearing his throat.

“Uh ah, leave the shoes, leave the shoes please.”, as if there had been no curtain at all between them. The cuffs did appear to be cut to the proper length as he also noticed that the waist band fit perfectly. There were no belt loops, only a set of buttons on the inner band. Sure enough, on the hanger was a set of suspenders. These were a soft Italian leather similar to the ones that had come with a tuxedo he had rented for a friend’s wedding. It took him a few moments to figure out how to attach them, not being accustomed to them as a daily function; all the same, they did make the line of the trousers appear much more streamline. The jacket was a work of art; the silk lining was a pale Robin’s egg blue with fluted piping at the inner pocket’s lips. The letters M and H appeared as a mosaic pattern, a part of the fabric; similar to a watermark on bond paper, not especially loud and yet noticeable even in the dimly lighted confines of the changing room. Frank carefully pushed his arm in, first his left arm and then his right.

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?” Mortimer confidently remarked. “Okay, you’ve had enough time in there. Have I got all day?” The little man’s timer was on the move. “Put these shoes on and let me have a look at you.” As if by some magic trick Frank’s posture was no longer slouched; instead he was standing, as if born into royalty and making ready for that evening’s courtly business. Frank was not aware that he would have a new pair of shoes to go along with the new suit. Again, shoes such as he was putting his feet into where not to be found at the local shopping mall. These had to be the most comfortable pair of dress shoes he had ever the pleasure to enjoy. As he looked inside the soft leather he noticed the familiar M and H pattern on the soft leather heal pad.

“Are these hand made too?” Frank quietly blurted out.

“You think these came from Tom McCann’s? Oiy!” Mortimer laughed and sighed while shaking his head in disbelief on such a stupid remark. “Stand up straight for me, let the suit wear you properly.” The words sounded strange, “…let the suit wear you?”

“Mr. Hershiser, I know you went to a lot of work, too much.” Franks finger tips glided down the lapels admiring the perfection. “Are you sure you want to…” He was cut off in mid sentence.

“A deal’s a deal! Turn to the left, now right. Very nice, yes it suits you very well.” Mortimer grasped his own chin while letting his brow arch slightly, approvingly. “It suits you. Now go and knock ‘em dead.” Frank was about to reach inside the curtain of the dressing area for his clothing when he felt a bony hand restrain his own. “Leave them. You’ll never need them again.”

“I still need my wallet; you know, driver’s license and . . .”

“You afraid I’m going to take your seventeen dollars and pretend to be you when I go to the movies?” Mortimer picked up the pair of trousers that had been hastily draped over the chair in the changing room. He then reached into the pocket and pulled out Frank’s wallet, “This, no, this will never do.”, he placed the wallet in Frank’s hand. “Hold this for a moment and promise that you will not attempt to place it inside this.”, gently tugging the edge of the exquisitely tailored jacket. Mortimer waited for the proper response.

“Oh, ah, no sir.” Frank looked at the billfold and thought what could be wrong with it. Mortimer slid open a drawer and sifted until he found exactly what he wanted.

“Here, this is what you will use from now on..” He handed him a long thin piece of fine grained leather about the size of a check book cover. “This is what a gentlemen wears; something that won’t ruin the lines of such a fine garment.” Frank emptied the seventeen dollars from his wallet, his driver’s license, insurance card and his two credit cards.

“Hey, how’d you know I only had seventeen dollars?” Frank counted the money twice to be sure, looking up to see the reaction from Mr. Hershiser.

“Is that important? I should think you would be more interested in why the suit fits you so well.” Mortimer never did answer the question directly. “No slouching, stand up straight, that’s better. Now square those shoulders and remember how this feels. It’s a lot like learning how to swing a golf club properly. Once the basics are learned the rest follows naturally.”

“Yes Sir.” Frank’s jaw hung a little lower, not sure how to proceed.

“Ah, right on time.” Mortimer looked out the window as a limousine stopped in front of the Haberdashery. “Remember, let the suit wear you properly and it will take you anywhere.” The front door to the shop opened and a well dressed middle aged man wearing a chauffeur’s cap entered.

“I’m to pick up a gentlemen; a Mister Franklin Collier.”, taking off his cap and looking at the two men.

“I’m Frank Collier.”, looking at the chauffeur, at Mortimer and back again.

“Then you’ll be coming with me. The mayor is expecting you for lunch in half an hour.”, holding the door to the shop open as a gesture towards the awaiting limousine.

“I have you down for your next fitting Tuesday, a week from now, Mister Collier. That is correct, is it not?” Mortimer’s steely eyes reached out and grabbed Frank in such a way as to halt his bewildered mind. It was as if Mortimer was reassuring Frank that all was as it was supposed to be and to go with the flow; his eyebrows flickered one time.

“Oh, ah, that’s fine, next Tuesday it is.”

********************************************************************

Part Three A Little Taste

“Franklin, Thank you for coming on such short notice.” The mayor rose from his chair at the Houstonian Club, all six feet three inches, and held out his hand. “Franklin sounds so formal; what do your friends call you?”

“Frank is fine, please, call me Frank, Sir.” He leaned over the table and took the mayor’s hand. The short drive had given him at least a few moments to contemplate the unanticipated meeting. He had not forgotten that he was due back from his break and working at Wilson’s Big & Tall. There had been a phone inside the limousine which he had used to explain an “unexpected emergency”, leaving it at that for the moment. His boss would never have believed the truth. Mayor Crawford had a firm grip, developed from years of political events and vote gathering. Frank wondered how long such a handshake was intended to last and waited for what seemed an interminable amount of time to be released.

“Frank it is then. I want you to meet some of my advisors, Ms’ Appleton is my personal secretary, Ms’ Higgins my Police Department Liaison, Ed Hoak my Fire Department Liaison and Bill Rumsey my Transportation Liaison. I’ve called them all here to meet the newest member of our team.” Frank took a moment to acknowledge each as the mutual admiration society took turns around the table. It had not occurred to Frank that he was the new member, waiting to find out who the new member was.

“Pleased to meet all of you.” Frank waited until the mayor took his seat, the others followed in order. He could not but admire the strong features and the stunning red hair that brought his gaze back for a second look at Ms’ Higgins. There was a confidence that came from her eyes as she looked back at him. It gave her power, something about the way she accepted his being taken by her as if it happened all the time without appearing to be snobbish. It were as if she had said thank you for noticing.

“I’ve been given your name as the next Youth Affairs Liaison, Frank. You come highly recommended, I might add.”, the mayor placed his napkin in his lap and glanced around the table to make sure that each of his team members gave Frank a proper smile of recognition. Each one in turn responded with a nod or a smile as the ritual of introduction continued. “You will find the offer not only challenging; but, quite gratifying.”, the mayor held his hand out as he rubbed his fingers together and grinned knowingly. “The rewards of public service, especially to those in just the right places, are very lucrative.”

Frank could not help notice that the fellow sitting directly to his right, Ed Hoak, had a suit with a hauntingly similar silk lining. Only a small portion of the jacket was exposed and yet, there, at the edge where the front panel came in contact with the inner lining; the mosaic pattern of M’s and H’s could clearly be seen. Frank wondered if they had all been to the Haberdashery or was it merely a coincidence. Frank did not believe in long odds or coincidence and his mind began to review pieces that were floating randomly in his head.

The waiter placed a plate of arranged leaves, some kind of fancy salad. There were ribbons of carrot placed on top of deep greenish purple spinach; maybe it was spinach, he wasn’t too sure. As soon as the others began to enjoy it he followed, not wishing to be the first. Between bites he looked around to take in the surroundings. The Houstonian had a reputation as one of the more exclusive clubs in town, having the honor of being President Bush’s favorite stopping off place while in town; Bush 41 that is; Bush 43 preferred the ranch just outside of Waco.

The dinning area looked much like any other private club, not that Frank had an extensive knowledge in that area. Each table had fine linen cloth, heavy weighted silver service, and there was no mistaking the Lennox pattern on the bottom of each plate. He’d been to a fancy dinner one time at the home of some well to do folks. It had been a pot luck dinner; Frank remembered flipping a dinner plate end over end on his finger tips to pass the time as he’d gotten bored waiting to be served. The Lennox emblem registered as it flashed before his eyes; the plate cost more than he made in a week. He casually refrained from any more twirling of the plate. He happened to look around and noticed the look of relief and gratitude on the hostess’ face, complimenting him on his regaining his senses. She never said a word about it; quite remarkable self control.

It didn’t take long to clean off the salad plate, not much to work with even if it was attractive to look at. The wait staff hovered all around making sure that the water glasses were topped off, bread crumbs were whisked off and empty plates removed quietly. The main entrée was brought out; a choice cut of steak that hardly needed a knife to cut into it. The flavors were an olfactory delight, causing his eyes to gently close and savor each consumed morsel. Fresh green beans that had been steamed only slightly, leaving them slightly crisp yet soft enough to distinguish them from raw. The flavor of each slender green bean, mixed with warm butter sauce that had been copiously added, was a perfect compliment to the steak. There were new potatoes with their thin red skins to round out the plate. Frank could not remember having treated his taste buds so well in one sitting. He tore a small piece of bread, dipped it in the natural juices left from the steak and drew it across a puddle of melted butter and popped it in his mouth to complete the gesture.

“I know it might take some getting used to Frank.” Mayor Crawford remarked with a tone of sarcasm as he looked across the table through his “no-line” bifocal glasses.

The mayor was cognizant of each facet of his outward appearance to include his eyewear. The little lines that separate the varied focal lenses in a standard pair of corrective lenses made him look several years older and so he had opted for the variable lenses to appear more progressive, as the manufacturer had promised in their literature. Mayor Crawford also wore a pair of “in the canal” state of the art digital hearing aids. They were almost invisible compared to the bulky units that he had avoided. Those young voters might make the difference in a close race; no need to alienate them by appearing to be an old goat, too old to relate to.

“I see what you mean.” Frank looked at his plate which now totally cleaned off. He had planned to grab a burger on the way back to Wilson’s; that was before … How long, he thought, before the limousine turned back into a pumpkin?

“I have some appointments.”, pushing himself away from the table Mayor Crawford touched his napkin to his chin and placed it on the table. “…y’all stay seated.”

Ms’ Appleton quietly stood and whispered to him and he nodded with his eyes as the words reached his ears. She might as well have been wearing curtain fabric as she blended into the background without effort.

“Frank, if you would find a way to be at my office, say around three fifteen or there about this afternoon, I would be privileged to explain your responsibilities.

“Three fifteen is fine with me, Sir.” It would be exceedingly wise to have a slim knowledge of his expected duties and his rate of pay, assuming there would be some form of remuneration other than the title.

“Only one Mulligan per hole, Sir.” There was a slight hesitation between the words “hole” and Sir, followed by a clearing of the throat and a muffled laugh. Bill Rumsey had played golf with Mayor Crawford enough to know how to bend the rules after a particularly bad hook was followed by an equally poor bunker exit. Bill stood even with the mayor and a good thirty pounds lighter. His thin features given to a lifetime of keeping in top form; he’d placed in the top five one year in the Iron Man competition. The two laughed; but only mildly as it was not prudent to remind the mayor of his inability to keep a proper score card, at least not with so many listening.

“Mind you; keep those traffic lights timed so I get to my meetings in a timely manner, ‘ ya follow?” The chastisement was equally mild, the smile on Mayor Crawford’s face would keep the best poker player guessing. Bill Rumsey nodded and looked to see how many had heard exactly what had been said.

“Enjoy your game. It’s a rare day this time of year.” Ms’ Higgins drew in a deep breath, wishing she were out in the open spaces with a chill breeze to dance with. The mayor was already out of ear shot, waving behind his back and on the way out the door.

“I wish my husband had taught me the game of golf. I’d enjoy something like that on a day like this.” She eyed the window, the grand view of the golf course, with a sigh of remorse for having to be inside.

“Make sure to be a few minutes early, just a thought.” Ed Hoak smiled and took a sip of coffee, the others parting and going off in different directions.

******************************************************************
Part Four City Hall

Frank was sitting in the outer office at ten after three, looking at his watch and comparing it with the large grandfather’s clock directly across the room from him. Having never been in the Mayor’s office, or anteroom, it never would have occurred to him that it would be furnished after the manner of an old English pub or possibly the local Steak and Ale restaurant. About the only thing missing was the salad bar as he looked around. The greeting secretary’s desk was crafted to look like something out of a Dicken’s book. She dipped a quill pen into an antique ink well as she entered, calligraphy style, each character neatly and painstakingly into the daily calendar log sheet. Regardless of how inefficient the use of time, there could be nothing but admiration for the artistic touch that such an artist produced.

“The Mayor will see you now.”, pointing to a solid oak door.

“Thank you, and your lettering”, not sure how to give a proper compliment, “uh, very nice.” The young woman smiled and accepted the awkward flattery that she had become accustomed to. Frank noticed that the secretary had pushed one of the buttons that was built into the desk as he walked toward the door, whereupon the door automatically swung open. He supposed, correctly, that there would be other buttons to lock it shut by way of a strong magnet and to alert security in the event of trouble.

“Have a seat Frank.”, Mayor Crawford barely looked up as he motioned to a Victorian style arm chair with a floral print, a course fabric that was had a deep blue background with touches of green twisting vines adorned by maroon flowers that spoke of Autumn. There were two identical chairs next to each other, separated by a free standing floor lamp made of dark mahogany. About a third of the way from the floor was a small oval table built onto the candlestick base of the lamp, even with the arm rests of the chairs. Before sitting Frank acknowledge Ms’ Appleton, sitting in the chair with the lamp to her left, affording her a comfortable well lighted position where she could take shorthand.

Thank you, Sir.”, watching as Mayor Crawford finished going over a form that was then placed into a manila folder and handed to Ms’ Appleton.

“I think we can skip to the middle and get you started without any needless delay.”, looking at Ms’ Appleton and then at Frank. “I need more data, a flow of information back and forth, between your generation and city hall. The way I see it, there’s a whole generation of folks out there, your age give or take a couple of years, who think that they have no say in how things get done around here.”, the mayor tapped his index finger on the center of his desk for effect. “Your job will be to open up that line of communication, tap into that vast block of voters.” The two looked at each other, the mayor tilted his head down one time and back up as Frank nodded that he understood.

“There are no set hours, no time clocks to punch every day. I’ll start you out at four thousand a month, plus expenses.” Frank never was very quick with figures, all the same he knew that four thousand a month; well, Wilson’s Big & Tall would have to find a new Second Assistant Sales Manager. A boyish smile found its way onto Frank’s face. “The city provides you with a car from the pool; something sporty perhaps, all gas and maintenance.” Frank had always associated city rides in generic terms; white four door sedans with half moon wheel covers. Was it possible that the “something sporty” might include the letters “BMW”? “Ms’ Appleton has a list of your appointments along with a few simple guidelines to keep us out of trouble, and the rest is up to your imagination.”

“Here’s your day planner, the directory in the back has been updated to accommodate your itinerary.” Frank glanced at the neatly highlighted entries for lunches, dinner and other social meetings with various local leaders. He observed that he was to have several luncheons at the University of Houston, Rice and the Houston Community College staffers. While he was glancing at the schedule before him, Ms’ Appleton continued, “Your membership card to the Houstonian, the Rotary Club and the Lions Club.” These had been placed in the front portion of the day planner along with a Master Card with the city seal boldly taking center stage, an American Express card and a Shell Oil Company card. “Tuesday and Thursday evenings at North Harris Community College you are enrolled in Public Speaking 101. If anyone asks; you are working toward your Masters and leave it at that.” The mayor nodded and smiled while listening; the information all aimed at grooming a particular image of the mayor’s staff members.

“This shows that I’m to attend a basketball game this evening at the new Toyota Center; is that correct?” Frank was never much of a basketball fan, all the same it would give him an opportunity to visit the brand new state of the art facility.

“You will be the guest of “Mattress Mac” and sit in his luxury box. Mac has a lot of influence with the younger generation, sports and young people, you know.” It did make sense, in a general sort of way. It might even open the door to meet with some young female voters. “No need in reading all this to you at once. You go down to the motor pool and pick out something. You can go over this,” pointing to the list, “when you get home.” Frank thought large for a moment, “What, no mid town townhouse with a hot tub?”

Nothing would have surprised him with all that had fallen into his lap over the past couple of days. He had been living in a rented house on the near north side, sharing the rent and utilities with two roommates. Working forty hours a week with occasional overtime provided barely enough income to cover his regularly occurring debt. After adding up the rent, car payment, car insurance, one third of the electric, water and sewer along with a very modest food allowance; there wasn’t much left over. He thought it an extravagance to have cable television; non of the HBO or Cinemax packages, only basic cable. His roommates, Brandon and Chris, thought he had gone to work; much like any other day and here he was sitting in the mayor’s office. He could hardly wait to share his good fortune with them, not that they would believe any of it.

“Thank you, Sir. I’ll work hard.” Mayor Crawford reached over and patted Frank on the shoulder.

“I know you will Frank.” The mayor paused and then struck a pose, as if he had forgotten something essential. “What am I thinking?”, passing a sheet of paper, some kind of form letter to Ms’ Appleton. “Have him sign the highlighted areas.”

“Yes, Mr. Mayor.” Ms’ Appleton glanced at the form and placed it before Frank, pointing to the three lines that had been spotted with a florescent yellow marker.

“This puts you on the City’s payroll and outlines all of the deductions for medical coverage, legal and…”, his voice tapering off almost imperceptibly, “…clothing allotment.” Frank hardly noticed as he signed off on the three paragraphs, that he had promised a full third of his current salary, to include present and all future entitlements, to an agency in charge of taking care of such benefits; Deposited Entitlements Valued Initiative Load. “Its kind of an inside joke around here. You look down at your take home pay and ask, “Where in the Devil did all that money go?”

There was a muffled laugh from Ms’ Appleton. Frank wondered why she had looked up toward the ceiling; a missed prayer drifted in the air. She reflected on the comment; a quiet acceptance that indicated a fair amount of disappointment as her countenance lost a portion of the sparkle from the moment before.

The mayor broke in, “Don’t forget that you have another fitting at the Haberdashery on Tuesday. Part of that deduction covers the suits you will be required to wear.” Mayor Crawford cocked an eyebrow and Ms’ Appleton was reminded with the same force as would slam doors shut.

“That has been penciled in…”, flipping the page ahead, “…there.” Ms’ Appleton pointed. Her facial expression returned as it had been; her momentary remorse dissolved into a smile. “If I am not mistaken you will have a choice between a Jeep Cherokee or a Ford Focus.”, looking at the mayor apologetically for her miscue seconds before.

“Either one will be fine with me.” Thinking to himself that an SUV might be a little more macho.

********************************************************************

Part Five The Cost of Doing Business

“Frank, it’s nearly time to lock up; will you get the front door?” Jake Farmers pushed a canvas walled trash container full of empty cardboard boxes ready to be tossed into the dumpster towards the main entrance to the store. Jake was completing his senior year, getting credit for working as one of the second assistant store managers at Wilson’s Big & Tall; part of the young business achievement program. “Frank…will you get the front door?”

“Sorry, Jake; I was thinking back about something from a long time ago and wasn’t paying attention.” It had been twenty years to the day when Frank had walked away from his “opportunity of a lifetime” at City Hall. He reached down for a key ring attached to his belt while walking from the cash register toward the front door.

“That’s okay, Boss; no big deal.” Jake paused for a moment before completing his thought, “Did you ever want to be more than just a store manager, something; I don’t know, something more important?” Jake felt a bit uneasy as the words left his lips; acknowledging how it must have sounded. He’d not intended for his question to come off as disrespectful; but felt sorry for the man he worked for, his never advancing very far in the business world.

“Tell you what, when you get through with putting that away; come back to my office. There’s something I want to show you, something I take out every year to remind myself of how lucky I am to be working as the store manager here at Wilson’s.” Frank smiled thoughtfully and took in a deep breath of air, a satisfying reflection of his life.

Frank’s office wasn’t much to look at, not much bigger than a modest walk in closet that had been expanded enough for a desk and computer. There were a few picture frames placed strategically on the edges of the deck next to the computer monitor; Frank and his wife Lulu, a family group shot of their children and grandchildren taken on Thanksgiving Day and a picture of the Houston Temple where he was an ordinance worker each Wednesday evening.

“What’d you want to show me, Boss?” Jake glanced around and didn’t notice anything in particular was different; his having used the computer in Frank’s office many times while performing his duties. Frank reached into his wallet and carefully lifted the leather section where he kept his driver’s license exposing the edge of a key. Pulling it carefully from its hiding place, Frank handed it to Jake.

“I want you to open that small closet and share a moment with me, might be important you hear what I have to say.” Frank wasn’t used to being mysterious; but his tone of voice set the mode for a serious exchange. The door to the closet, if it could truly be called a closet, being only six inches wide with only a file cabinet styled lock to keep it shut, was nearly invisible as it blended with the rest of the wall.

“Sure thing, Boss.” There was a slight hesitation as the key changed hands and entered the keyhole. Jake looked over his shoulder and found Frank smiling, almost laughing; but without a sound and much more serious.

“Now, take the garment bag from off the hook and open it, carefully, mind you.”

“Wow! This is some kind of piece of work!” Jake felt the material of the exquisite suit and observed the craftsmanship required. “…This yours?”

“Yes, Sir. The one and only time I wore it was twenty years ago to the day.” Frank stood silent while he put his thoughts together. “I wanted it so bad I could taste it.”

“Wanted what, Boss?” Jake didn’t have a clue because Frank had never mentioned anything to anyone about what had happened or what might have been.

“I could have had a closet full of suits just like that one; but the catch was I’d have to sell my soul to the Devil himself. I realized, just in time, that working here at Wilson’s was where I was supposed to be; not some fancy pants political “gofer” with an expense account and take home car.”

“What, you used to be in politics?”

“I guess you could say that; hum…for about half a day I was sitting on at the table with the big boys.” Frank explained all about the suit, the visit with the mayor; right up to the part where he was going to sign for a fancy fully equipped Jeep Grand Cherokee at the motor pool.

“So what happened to make you walk away from all that?”

“The cost of doing business was more than I was willing to pay; pure and simple, it was more than anyone should have to pay. I walked back up those steps, my feet felt like they had hundred pound weights dragging behind me with each step. I tore up my contract and tossed it in the trash, the mayor’s secretary sitting at her desk in disbelief.”

“That’s it; you walked away, that’s it?”

“Look at it this way; I found a wonderful lady who loves and puts up with me. I have three children who are all grown up and on their own, a couple of grand children and life if good; what else is there? I get to work at the temple every Wednesday and feel the Spirit of the Lord; compare that with selling your soul to the Devil and which would you chose?” Frank put the suit back into the garment bag, carefully zipping it shut and placed it back on the hook before locking the door.

“Thanks for showing me that, uh, suit, Boss.” Jake paused before leaving the office as he turned back, “…You think anyone would mind if I showed up at your church to find out what makes folks like you so happy just being plain and simple working folks?”

“Be there, Sunday, 8:30; I’ll save you a place.”

The Blue Marble

2006-11-20T08:47:00.000-08:00

My grandfather gave me a spyglass on my eight birthday so I could see the heavens. I called him Pecaw from a time before language skills developed and the name stuck. He didn’t mind; maybe there’s a rank above “grandpa”, something that only a child notices. I would point my simple telescope, a sturdy cardboard tube painted black with some shiny brass rings to hold the lenses, at the moon. Through it I would wonder about life.

It never occurred to me that one day I would have a grandson to walk with; to point out the stars, the moon and the planets. The wonderful thing about walking with JJ is I become eight years old again and enjoy the night sky with renewed spirit of awe. I certainly never expected to be called, “Peapaw”, an honor to hear; for all I know it means “silly old fart who talks on and on”.

“StarzS, Peapaw, StarzS,!” Jay pointed to the planet Jupiter as the sunset faded into late evening. A jogger approached and quietly acknowledged the special moment we were having; possibly thinking about his own family as he smiled.

“Evenin’. . . nice night.”, his words measured his paced breathing as he continued by us.; glancing upward while Jay pointed at the brilliant object above the horizon. I nodded and returned the smile, a proud knowing smile, while kneeling to sit on the curb next to my grandson.

“Jay, that’s the planet Jupiter.” Jay was two and a half years old and it would be awhile before he would understand the distinction between a planet’s reflected light from that of a distant star’s generated light. The darkening sapphire evening comforter had only a few minutes left, the night’s darkness close to taking over as his young face sparkled back at me. A mockingbird swooped across the street and disappeared into the canopy of a large tree’s branches for the night. It was that magical time when trees lost their green color in favor of the shadows, their having absorbed any light attempting to betray their secrets. The only birds flying above were Purple Martins taking advantage of a swarm of mosquitoes that had volunteered to be a snack.

“Moon!” He pointed to my belt buckle, “Moon! Moon!”. He was right; my belt buckle featured a turquoise shaped moon set against various shades of hardwood mountains with a pitch black sky sprinkled with sterling silver stars. It was all held together in a solid brass frame.

I remember the day I bought that belt buckle. It was 1975 and I was an evening shift police officer assigned to work one of those art fairs at the edge of downtown. It was a hot summer’s day in Houston. I had a given area of the fair grounds to patrol on foot, mainly to be seen in uniform. The crowds, though rather large, were a friendly sort, happy to see a police presence as they enjoyed the flea market atmosphere. There were vendors hawking all manner of semi-artistic items; beads, wind chimes, handmade jewelry, paintings, and custom made belts. I’d passed one particular vendor’s stand several times over the course of the day. Each time I had been captivated by the beauty of his belt buckles. I talked with the fellow, he was from Albuquerque, and he was pleased that I enjoyed his workmanship. He polished and buffed one of them, tempting me to purchase and knowing that each time I stopped his odds of completing a sale improved. Fifty dollars was a lot of money for a belt buckle and I was reluctant, knowing that I would have to admit my weakness as soon as I got home with my new purchase.

“Is that an airplane I hear Jay?”, cupping my ear and exaggerating my anticipation until he too was honing in on the approaching noise that was hidden from view. Jay loved to watch airplanes as they settled into the invisible roads that led to the airport. I wondered if Jay would always look into the skies and appreciate the miracles around him. The moment had been trapped in time as we were both enjoying eternity. In the blink of an eye he would be sitting, pointing into the night sky with his own grandchild wondering how perfect moments happen.

I had been interested in astronomy even as a small boy. I would enjoy the night sky while walking the dog. I can’t remember how many times my grandfather, Pecaw, would direct my attention, pointing up into the heavens, “There is my favorite . ..”, as it cleared the tree line of the early autumn sky, “. . .Orion. See there, his belt with the sword hanging down?” He would draw his finger in the air, “That is where the great nebulae of Orion is found.” He would then talk about the Creation and how God had planned all this, the planets with their individual orbits, the Sun to provide us with energy and the moon to reflect on. Pecaw had a special gift for making the cosmos sound familiar and friendly as opposed to the cold reaches of space as defined by my science teachers. “Its all part of God’s plan.”, He would say, “All part of God’s plan for us to appreciate what we have been given. You ask your Dad, he’ll tell you.” Pecaw died when I was very young and so those walks remain as important memories and my link with him.

Dad had a special marble that he kept on his desk that had belonged to his grandfather. It was a deep cobalt blue marble about three quarters of an inch in diameter. When he wasn’t looking, or at least I thought he wasn’t, I would pick it up and hold it to the light. The lamp on his desk was a miniature Sun and I was holding the Earth between my index finger and my thumb, looking at the oceans completely covering the planet. One day while I was day dreaming, holding the Earth and not paying too much attention, I suddenly noticed that I was no longer alone.

“Still waiting for the dry land to appear?”, he asked in a reverenced hush. The marble was crystal clear all the way through, no cat’s eye or cloudy swaths to interrupt the deep blue cast. I smiled weakly, knowing that I had not asked permission to handle one of his prized possessions. “I remember the day I got that marble. It was at the World’s Fair in, let me think . . ., nineteen. . . thirty three; yes, that was it, nineteen thirty three.” He smiled as he remembered his own youth, “It was my birthday present that year. I’d turned eight and my grandfather thought it would be nice to treat me to see the World’s Fair in Chicago.” Dad may have been in the room with me but his mind was lost somewhere in the past as he recollected his train ride into Chicago, the excitement of having an entire weekend in the big city and having a chance to be with his grandparents.

“I remember going to see some kind of exhibition . . .the Century of Progress Exhibition . . . yes, that was it.”, his voice dropping as he emphasized the importance and weightiness of the times. I had never met Grandfather Copland and yet when my father’s voice would drop into that serious tone it was as if I were hearing him from beyond the veil. There was something about the gravelly voice, the way the words were put together, that of a much older person who had the knowledge of the ages caught in ancient vocal cords pleading with my inexperience and youth.

“You see”, he looked at me, the blue marble catching the light, “Grandfather Copland used to own that very same marble.” He nodded knowingly as we both glanced at its simple beauty. It now became more clear why dad had kept the marble in his coin tray on top of his desk; a constant link with one of his heroes. “Grandfather knew that I was ready to have something of enormous value”, dad’s voice shook with emotions from deep inside of him, “and so he took that marble from his watch pocket and handed it to me. I will never forget the look in his eye, a somber and ominous look that came from the center of his soul, “This is but a shadow of a greater truth and I am placing it in your care.”

It had made for a good story, how much of it was imagination and how much of it was true did not matter; it was something that my dad kept all those years, a gift from Grandfather Copland. “I think Grandfather Copland would want you to have it now that you’re old enough to appreciate what it is.”, dad closed my fingers around it, almost as if he’d given me a hug as the blue sphere became mine.

Dad was a pretty good furniture salesman and he did know the nigh sky; all the same, he was more a dreamer than anything. Dad had no real interest in the mathematical equations that linked one planet’s orbit with another or the chemistry that made it possible to identify which elements had shifted blue or red from distant stars. The night sky was part of his testimony of the Creation and that was good enough for him. I had taken basic science courses in high school, the same ones that everyone did. Later, when I went on to college there were the mandatory classes; Biology, Botany, Chemistry and even Physics. Astronomy was offered; but by then my interests, at least my primary interests, had been geared toward obtaining a business degree. I knew the names of the planets and could find them easily along the equatorial plain along with some of the more prominent stars and their corresponding constellations. I could anticipate the seasonal changes that brought into view different sets of stars. It’s no surprise that my favorite season was autumn; Orion leading the way back to older memories and walks with Pecaw or my talks with dad.

That young fellow who'd jogged by had reminded me of someone; nothing specific and perhaps it was only the fact that he was in his late teens or early twenties. Maybe it was his quiet smile when he looked at me standing next to Jay; no matter. I thought back to one afternoon in my sophomore year at Sam Houston State. I happened to notice a flyer that had been affixed to one of the bulletin boards. It was on the Old Main Building, the oldest and most beautiful structure on the entire campus; a building that, I might add, burned to the ground a few years back.

I remember the ornate stained glass windows and the dark oak wood work; a shame that the sprinkler system had never been installed. Anyway, where was I? John Pratt, an astronomy professor from Utah had been asked to speak regarding his theories on planetary alignment and biblical calendars one Thursday evening. While I read the leaflet my fingers instinctively felt down into the deep recess of my pocket for my marble, the marble I kept with me as surely as my wallet or my car keys. My last final of the semester would be Friday afternoon, Managerial Accounting. I had struggled to keep a low B average and it was important that I do well on the test. In my mind I tossed a coin and never let it land, thinking to myself, “If I don’t know it by now then studying for it all night this Thursday isn’t going to make all that much difference.”

“I sat in the back of the auditorium, the same room that I’d taken Freshman Botany, a mandatory drudgery that most students flunked their first try. It was the same room that the drama club used. The podium was spotlighted in the middle of a moderately sized stage; no microphone was necessary due to the marvelous acoustics fashioned into the hundred year old architecture. There was seating for about a hundred and fifty, a steep grade between successive rows made use of both the first and second floors. The high ceilings and the windows made use of convection currents to keep the temperatures tolerable, there having been no air conditioning considered at the time. The lights in the room were brought down and I had the blue marble in my hand, no longer a simple piece of glass. I held the Creation, as it were, supported on my finger tips where it could float in the vast expanse of space prior to listening to the talk.

“Evening, nice night.”, and with the same breath, “May I have a look at that magnificent bauble?”, from a young man sitting to my right. I had not noticed him, or rather, I’d paid him no regard until that moment. There were five minutes or so until the night’s event. The house lights flickered so that all might take their seats on time. I let the marble roll into the center of my palm, having formed a cup so that it would not fall. I was reluctant to permit a stranger to handle it; all the same, I could see no harm lifting my hand in offering.
“What a magnificent orb!.”, lifting it ever so gently; as if he felt my reluctance in the matter. I saw that as he held the marble, his eye studied each mark that had cankered its once pristine surface. There was a familiarity, a recognition of that which could only be observed with prior knowledge, as he found the various marks on the marble. “God’s fingernail”, a hushed whisper escaped his lips as he pointed to a small indention, a minuscule crease that had been on that marble for as long as I could remember.

“What was that?” Dad had explained the history of the marble, the same way that he had been briefed by Grandfather Copland. The fellow who had given Grandfather Copland the treasure had described all the marks on the marble; the thin indention he had called “God’s fingernail mark”. Dad said that it was the Grand Canyon in miniature, but I think he was checking to see if one of my legs was longer than the other. There was a smile growing across the young man’s face, a pleasant unforced smile.

“You are aware of the significance of this jewel.”, stated with validation and sureness. It was hard to place his accent. His clearly spoken words landed refreshingly crisp on the ear; Mid-west, Iowa or possibly Indiana. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me; when I first had looked at him he appeared to be nineteen of twenty years old at best, then a moment later he had the presence of someone much more progressed, approaching ancient.

“It’s only a marble, a very old marble, that’s all. This belonged to my great grandfather and he’s been dead since; well; before either of us were born”, looking the young man over with a cursory glance. His manner of dress was disjointed; a walking anachronism, more like a “preppie” from the Fifties who’d got warped ahead twenty years. He could easily have come from doing a Bryl-cream or Vitalis hair tonic commercial with his slicked down hair, starched white shirt and pull over sweater vest. The fact remained that the stranger had identified “God’s fingernail mark”, something that would constitute a giant leap in coincidence, were such coincidences possible.

“You’re probably correct.”, handing the marble back with not even the slightest hint of contention. It seemed odd that he would be certain one moment and at once recant.

“How did you know about the mark, “God’s fingernail mark”?”, holding it up for inspection.
“It is a very unique piece of glass; surely you have been given its history?” Dad had never mentioned it in those terms, like it was the Hope Diamond or some such piece of jewelry. Maybe I hadn’t paid enough attention to the wild yarn. Dad told me; on more that one occasion, “Your grandfather thinks that an angel gave him this marble, an angel who knew God.”, or something like that.

“It belonged to my father and before him, his grandfather. I had no idea that it had any value or noteworthy legend.” The small blue marble sitting in my hand was all but black in the dimly lighted reaches of the back row.

“Then you will enjoy this evening’s presentation all the more. Its time to be quiet now.”, placing his finger in front of his lips as the lights in the hall diminished until only the spot light shone on the podium.

“Tonight our guest speaker is John Pratt, noted astronomer and biblical historian. His remarks will, no doubt, be interesting to all as he explains the cosmos in terms we can all relate to. Doctor Pratt will now address us on, “The Planets, Shadows of a Greater Truth”, Doctor Pratt.” There was a cordial yet generous applause as the spot light followed John Pratt from the edge of the stage until he took up his position behind the podium. I had never heard of John Pratt and had never read any of his books when I decided to attend the instructional presentation. My interest was similar to going to a show to be entertained.

Sometimes I would sit on one of the benches in the quadrangle in the late afternoon to listen while the students practiced their instruments; phrases from familiar classics streamed on a light breeze and I knew that many hours of labor had produced those sounds. I had no skills in music other than to enjoy the efforts of those who did. Astronomy appealed to me in much the same way as I sat toward the front of my seat to listen.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen and thank you.” He picked up a pitcher of water that had been placed on the podium and filled a glass, taking a couple of short sips to prime the pump. “Can anyone tell me where the planet Venus was on the day Mary found the stone rolled away from the tomb of Jesus?” John Pratt looked out into the darkness; a few hands went up around the room. “Well, I see that some of you have read my book, that’s refreshing.” He let out a light rumble of laughter and resumed; pointing to a young man in the front row who had mouthed the appropriate answer, inaudible to the better part of the audience. “You are correct, Sir. Venus was in “Resurrection” as it is called to those familiar with its pattern of appearance either in the evening or the morning sky.”

I was distracted now, wanting to hear the presentation while flashes of my own childhood memories interrupted my efforts to concentrate on the talk. How was it that I would enjoy this evening’s lecture more holding grandfather’s marble? Who was this fellow sitting next to me, younger than myself or so it seemed and yet …? The program continued as Professor Pratt had brought slides that were illuminated on a large screen behind him; he continued to explain his ideas.

“The cycle of Venus requires about 584 days to complete, and Mercury requires 116 days. Both of those values are one day short of being a multiple of 13: 585 = 45 x 13 and 117 = 9 x 13. Thus, the 13-day trecena is an excellent unit of time to track both of these planets. In fact, the period of Venus is about five times that of Mercury and 585 equals exactly five time 117. Moreover, the 263-day period that Venus spends as morning and evening stars nearly equals one Sacred Round of 260 days. Because of these coincidences, the Venus and Mercury calendars I have designed are aligned with the Sacred Round. That is, the day of creation, birth, prime, death, and resurrection of both Venus and Mercury always occur on a day "1" of the 13-day trecena. On the proposed Venus calendar, there are always exactly 260 days, or one Sacred Round, between the days of birth and death, which agrees with Native American traditions.” (footnote: The Planets, Shadows of a Greater Truth by John Pratt )

I was listening and watching as the orbits of each planet were shown along with the appointed dates of alignment. Was he making this up as he went along; what the heck was a trecena? Much of what was being discussed had the flavor of a religious ceremony as opposed to a purely scientific proposition. I looked around to see if they were going to start passing collection plates.

“The Lord stated, "And behold, all things have their likeness, and all things are created and made to bear record of me, . . . things which are in the heavens above, . . . all things bear record of me." (Moses 6:63). Thus we see that these words can be taken literally. The planets not only bear record of the times of key events in the Savior's life, they sometimes even bear record of what the event was. For example, the planet Venus was "resurrecting" on the day the Savior did. Truly the celestial spheres are "for signs and for seasons" (Gen. 1:14) as the Lord instructed Moses.” ( footnote: The Planets, Shadows of a Greater Truth by John Pratt)

Pecaw had always told me that the stars and the planets were part of God’s creation for us to enjoy and here was a professor of astronomy, come all the way from Utah, to validate that. There was a warm feeling that came from deep within, something witnessing to me that the information was true. I was not up on biblical history; having avoided going to church most of my life, all the same some of the references were of books; presumably in the scriptures, not familiar to me. The first five books of the bible; Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy, going over them in my head and counting them on my fingers as I named each one, had been delivered by Moses, or at least that’s what I had been taught. I was not aware of a book called “Moses”. The more I listened the more I heard about books I never knew existed.

“Did you ever…”, turning to ask if he’d ever heard of a Book of Moses; he was gone. Maybe he’d gone to the restroom and would return. There would be a chance to ask him after the lecture; at least I hoped to have that opportunity.

“The Lord stated that Abraham knew the set time of the moon. The value for the average length of the lunar month on which the Hebrew calendar has long been based is 29.530594 days. That value is far better than any other used in antiquity, and today's calculation of the average value (29.530593 days) only differs by 0.000001 day, which is less than a tenth of a second. The Hebrew value is so phenomenally good that I've believed for years that it must have been revealed and that the lunar orbit was designed to come out even in Hebrew time units. This revelation to Abraham might explain the origin of this super-accurate value. It is also possible, however, that the value had been known by Enoch, and was contained in the records in Abraham's possession (Abr. 1:31). The revelation states only that he knows it, not that it was being revealed at that time.” (footnote: John Pratt’s article “Abraham’s Three Truths”)

Here was reference to a Book of Abraham; I would have to find these books and read them for myself. I glanced over my program; more had been given in one meal than I could digest. On the back was a brief biography of Professor John Pratt along with information on how to order a soft cover compilation of his writings. I would have to think some more before ordering; twenty five dollars plus shipping and handling was rather steep. My job delivering for Ralph’s Pizza paid almost nothing. They had a small fleet of VW Bugs that could be seen all over campus to advertise and deliver to the dorms; a large pizza logo on every side of the car with Ralph’s Pizza in bold letters. The main reason I had taken it was because I would be guaranteed at least one real meal each day. I was living on the proverbial shoe string and counting pennies, not dollars. Every once in a while I would sell my free pizza to my roommate, take that money and buy a burger just to have a change of pace.

“Interesting stuff, huh?” My new found friend had returned and prodded my thoughts. It was a statement requiring only a nod of agreement, almost as if he had heard this information before.

“’Great, a little deep; but great all the same.” I had never met this young man before, all the same he reminded me of my walks with Pecaw, somehow becoming a familiar spirit by proxy. There was something worth knowing about this fellow, like solving a puzzle in the Sunday Times. The house lights came up as the event came to its inevitable conclusion and I escaped the rigid confines of an uncomfortable chair.

“Come with me, I think you should meet John and get to know him a little better.”, pulling my arm as he moved into the isle. Sitting on the back row had its advantages; one being that getting out of a crowded room was much easier, not so this time. Here we were, a couple of human salmon fighting the current of bodies as we made our way toward center stage. Any reluctance that I had held in reserve evaporated with each passing step.

“John, over here.”, waving to flag his attention. I noticed there was an instant recognition, so much so that Dr. Pratt, who had been engaged in direct conversation with someone else, dropped that person’s hand shake and lost interest immediately. It was the same as when meeting your brother who has been out of the country for several years. Passing time with a total stranger, talking about the latest sports scores up until that moment comes and your brother steps into view; there is no pretense that the earlier conversation was meaningful as you turn away, possibly without even a shallow attempt to conclude with a social pleasantry.
“How long has it been, too long my brother.”, Dr. Pratt could not contain the emotions as he hugged and that hug was returned. I stood respectfully a couple of steps back as the two revived their relationship, mostly by their eye contact and the nodding of heads rather than verbally.

“John, I have someone you need to meet with.”, turning to catch me with his other hand. “William Story, John Pratt.”, arranging that our hands should shake as he introduced us to each other.

“I enjoyed the seminar very much, Sir”.

“Call me John, please. William Story…?”, a momentary hesitation of thought, “…do I know you, somehow there is a familiarity about you?” Call me crazy; but I had to agree; there was a way about him, his eyes maybe or was it something less obvious? From the back row I had only a fuzzy humanoid basic structure; nothing that would have given particulars such as personal features.

“I don’t think so, pleased to meet you, er..a. John.” He had a powerful grip while shaking hands, not like he was trying to show off his strength, more friendly than that; all the same it was plain that he did more than do lectures and write about the stars.

“Show John what you showed me earlier.” There was a brief aside as John glanced over and then back to me as I retrieved the marble from my blue jeans. I could feel that his hand had left my shoulder, the cool air notified me. He was leaving and it dawned on me that I didn’t know his name. Come to think of it, I had never given him mine; how was it that he was able to introduce me so easily?

“Say hello to your brother Jared for me when you see him.”, John extended a wave as I brought the blue marble up higher so that the light would shine on it. The corner spot lights still aimed at center stage made the orb shine magnificently, the beams striking it made the rest of the room disappear in comparison. I know there were still quite a few of the audience by the background noise; and yet there was a distinct silence in that two or three foot circle where we stood. John Pratt breathed in and stood erect upon recognizing the object; something which most folks would have simply assigned to be an ordinary glass marble; it was similar to what I had experienced earlier in the evening.

“My goodness, so we do have something in common.” His voice was clear and hushed as he reached into his own pocket. When his hand came out there was no mistaking that he too had a marble, only his was a clear amber color He handed it to me, making a point to hold it a certain way so that as I took it from him I would have a particular view. “Interesting mark, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Huh, oh my!” It was the same indention, God’s fingernail mark.

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 42 Lemons or Lemonade

2005-06-26T08:40:00.000-07:00

“Officer Dosilmeyer, I’m Lt. Rayford. Since you’ve been away from the station there’ve been a few changes; I am now your night shift commander.” Sinclair did not know the man or anything about him. He appeared to be one of the spit and polish types; his uniform was immaculate right down to his plastic leather look alike shoes. His manners seemed to match up to the same high standard. Sinclair quietly waited; not having sufficient data to evaluate, but temporarily impressed none the less.

“My last duty assignment, before requesting a change of stations was I.A.D.” Sinclair’s left brow shot up, the mere mention of those letters brought dark thoughts to his mind.

“It figures.” Sinclair slipped momentarily, allowing his true feelings to be expressed; knowing all to well that he should have keep his mouth shut.

“Now wait just a minute before getting yourself all cranked up about me.” Lt. Rayford had a pleading in his voice which struck a cord with Sinclair. “I know a fair amount about your situation, more than most of the command staff. It may come as a surprise to you, but not everyone in I.A.D. is the total and complete asshole you’ve conjured up in your mind.”

“Hurmph !”, unable to contain the automatic response.

“I suppose that covers your opinion of I.A.D.”

“Why are you here, not to be rude or anything?”, but at the same time showing questionable manners. Sinclair glared out in his general direction, forming a scowl as his lower lip became tighter.

“I came to clear the air on a few issues that might help all concerned.”, reaching to his shirt pocket he removed a gray metal canister and unscrewed the end. Sinclair’s old partner had bought many cigars; these were not cheap.

“Go on, Sir.” Sinclair remained cautious, having been “helped” by the Department on other occasions.

“I wasn’t assigned to your specific investigation; however, some of the information I had from another complaint crossed over and so I had a chance to review your file. I read about everything you ever did or that they thought you did.” His hands spread to emphasize the thickness of Sinclair’s personnel folder. “Your a peculiar type of guy. It’s unusual to find that you are still with the Department, not that I find fault with what you’ve done as an officer; but, that you would manage to put up with the way things are done here.”

“I suppose that could be taken as a compliment. Was that your intent?”

“It was.”

“You still haven’t explained why your here. I mean, I must have talked to every supervisor in this Department; what could I tell you that you haven’t already heard about or read?” For a few moments the two men looked at each other very seriously, not sure of how to proceed. Lt. Rayford carefully relaxed himself as he began explaining his intentions to Sinclair.

“Dosilmeyer, it would have pleased the Captain no end to have you fired, for any reason. Its no secret that the two of you don’t get along; never have from what I’ve read. He reviewed every aspect of the your incident and subsequent responses to the Internal Affairs people.” Lt. Rayford paused as he studied Sinclair’s reaction. “As far as I’m concerned you acted properly, but the Captain; well he said that you acted out a hostility based on a racially motivated dislike for Hispanics. As he put it; “ I got him fired once and can do it again.”

“Wouldn’t put it past him.”, looking at a spot on the ceiling as he spoke. “So, where does that leave me? They’re keeping me here under observation; supposedly until they can figure out what’s goin’ on inside my head.” Sinclair wasn’t sure how much Lt. Rayford knew as he tossed the explanation out. “I’d like to get out of this place and back to work.”

“Not much chance of that. I’ve read all the medical and psychological reports. It will be the Departments contention that you are no longer able to act in the capacity of a police officer. Like I said earlier, I can find no fault in any of your actions relating to the incident that has taken place; but there are several other members of the command staff who are not sure how to close the book on this. I have recommended that you to pick up a full medical pension.” Lt. Rayford sat back as he took the cigar and played with it, never intending to light it. Had he been in the military it would’ve been a swagger stick instead. “You need to accept the fact that your not going to return to the Department.” Sinclair breathed out heavily as each word repeated itself inside his mind.

“You really don’t think I can make it back to full duty status then, do you?” Sinclair had been building his endurance up with the expectation of resuming some semblance of a normal life. He thought he would always be a police officer or at least for as long as he wanted to remain in that position. The idea of being run off was repugnant to his being.

“As I told you, I took the liberty of going over your medical charts. These unexplained departures from reality would make it nearly impossible . . .”, rolling the cigar as if it had been laden heavy with ash, “. . . the Department could never assume such a risk; that’s why they’re have to let you leave with a full medical pension.”

“I only have six years more to achieve pension status. I could work the desk or disappear into some quiet place like uniform supply division. There wouldn’t be much of a risk to the City there, would there?”

“Why would you want to hang around here six more years?” Lt. Rayford pointed the cut end of the cigar at Sinclair to make his point. “So you stick it out and get the minimum pension at forty five percent of base pay; why do that when you can leave now and pick up a full pay check under a medical release? You think about it for a minute; but its already a done deal.”

“When I first realized the extent of the injuries I had to overcome, well; I entertained the notion of a medical pension. It would have been easy to lay back and not go through the pain of rebuilding these muscles. I quit taking the pain pills a long time ago just to see if I could get through the day without help. I wore the edges off my molars the first week, but I got off them.” Lt. Rayford listened politely and let Sinclair continue without interruption.

“I did it so that one day I could get back in that damned blue and white police car. I’ve paid my dues and want to go on with it.”

“You’re not listening. My recommendation has already been approved. The Chief ran it by the pension board; starting Monday you are no longer to be carried on the roster.”
Getting up from his chair, Lt. Rayford stood and walked over to the edge to look out the window. “That’s where Sgt. Perry got hit the other night, isn’t it ?”, placing the cigar in the corner of his mouth as he continued without waiting for Sinclair to make any kind of response. “In case you’re wondering; the answer is yes. I was working a case up on Perry. From all the evidence, it appeared that he and his partner were making a sizable income by helping undocumented laborers obtain fraudulent papers.”

“So, Perry WAS in that apartment!” Sinclair found some more of the pieces beginning to fit.

“We were never able to actually tie him directly to that apartment, but it does fit. He was making regular deposits to his checking account and all the money came from the same management company that ran those apartments. We were able to trace the money to some fairly prominent crooks; but that is not important now that he’s dead. The other night when he was killed in the parking lot, we had been following him. I don’t want to needlessly upset you; but, I feel quite certain that he had come here, under instructions from his other employer, to finish you off.”

“So I’ve been told.” Sinclair matter of factly responded.

“How did you know? It has not been made public and there are only a handful of people who are aware of this.” Sinclair smiled as he thought of how to explain his source.

“I just knew; go on.”

“As I was saying, only a select few have been made aware of these findings; the Chief, Doctor Chatterly, and myself. We have decided that it would be safer for you to complete the rest of your recuperative efforts away from here.”

“You mean that I can get out of the hospital?”

“Yes, Dr. Chatterly felt it was a waste to have kept you here for the last month as it is; he’ll be along within the next half hour to go over the necessary forms.”

“This is too good to be true.”

“Actually we have reason to believe that this is the best way to prevent another attempt on your life. The way we see it, by rendering your testimony as “unreliable”; these guys will have no reason to worry about you anymore. You would no longer be a liability to them.”

“So I’m some kind of lunatic; is that what your putting down?” Sinclair was not thrilled at what he was hearing.

“Would you rather be a live lunatic or a dead cop?”

“I ahhhh. . .”

“We will make a statement to the press explaining your medical retirement from the Department. It will include a brief account of the irreparable damage in your brain to
certain reasoning functions, as a result of your valiant efforts in the line of duty.” Lt. Rayford stopped for a moment as he noticed Sinclair’s shoulders droop slightly.

“So that’s it? I just sit around and play dumb for the rest of my life?”

“Not exactly; that is unless that’s what you want. Well?” Lt. Rayford again pointed the cigar at Sinclair. “I had the idea that you might want to continue to help, sort of put your special talents to good use.”, raising the corner of his smile half an inch as an inducement.

“What talents would you be referring to, Sir?”

“We’ll work on that after your free and clear of this place.” Lt. Rayford opened the door and nodded the he had completed what he had come for. Turning back to Sinclair, “I did forget one thing.”, a broad smile broke across his face. “The station took up a collection. They all figured it would be used for flowers or something dumb like that.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an plain white envelope and handed it to Sinclair. Looking at the bills and making a rough guess, he figured it to be about two or three hundred dollars. Lt. Rayford held the door open as Bev came into the room. She had been given a briefing of everything only moments before Sinclair himself. It was a dream come true for Bev; no longer would she have to wait up wondering about the welfare of Sinclair as he rode around the streets all night. As she walked past Lt. Rayford she thanked him with a quiet smile.

“I don’t know what to say, which is not like me at all.”

“Why don’t you and your wife take a weekend trip, you know, get back together.”, Lt. Rayford exaggerated his smile.

“What do you think, Hun?” Bev waited as Sinclair closed his eyes in thought.

“We could take that trip up to Dallas like we planned last Spring. Yea, that’s a good idea.” Bev had already packed an overnight bag for him.

“The car’s all gassed up and ready, Bek’s watchin’ the kids for the rest of the week and I called the Dallas Temple as soon as I found out we could go.” Bev reached into the depths of her purse and pulled the family group forms that had been put on hold since the accident.

“Guess that about does it. You don’t need me in here.” Lt. Rayford gracefully extricated himself from the room and let the door close behind him.

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 41 Loose Ends

2005-06-26T08:20:00.000-07:00

Sinclair had been asleep for a couple of hours while Savat was sitting across the street. He was light years from reality; having enjoyed a mountainous helping of Devil’s Food cake prior to going to bed. The shielded walls had minimized the outside world’s constant bombardment, but had not eliminated it totally. Streams of random data continued to flow through the unobstructed window and there was the intentional gap directly above him. Moe continued to observe and report the daily activities as the siphoned bits highlighted not only Sinclair’s progress; but marked, all too vividly, his weaknesses.

"Boss, our boy is off on one his trips again.” Moe watched as the vast amounts of illogical characters paraded across the monitor.

“Thank you for calling. I was just about to come down and check on that file.”, talking into the receiver as he postured himself to his audience. He rolled the end of his cigar at the edge of a large brass tray. The last half inch of ashen leaf parted and fell quietly as it collapsed on itself; the finely compacted structure being unable to support itself. “I’ll get back with you later. I’m in a very important meeting with the Chief of Police”, he casually placed the handset down while continuing to hold eye contact with his guest.

“Sorry to have bother . . .”, the click of the phone being cradled ended the conversation, “ . . . ‘ed you, Boss.” Moe did not mind having been hung up on; it was part of the job. He lighted another cigarette and wrote down another entry on the “file”. He watched as Sinclair’s ramblings became even more absurd.

“LKDAFS034IKJNVDF98G3OI4LHKJANSDHN Pecaw . . .
Is that you Pecaw? 98747523UI45YOUIQYQET87SDGFY4399878
394597459Y245SDFGAHJ
012778kpk What are you doing there outside the window?
F114888888888888
34754513745173451735471253471253475147545RGC34
961346736416348666^^
679*8H2HHh567*9856*784**657*84999296736187864 -E1
Pecaw ?”

The conversation was mixed with the enormous avalanche of mixed characters; which
made it easier to pick out his thoughts.

“Hush up Chowder Head. I’m trying to concentrate.” Pecaw often let loose a mild scold in such a way that it came out as a hug. He turned only slightly to wink in Sinclair’s direction.

“KHhhkjhkHHIYYrrtrdfdDGFDGHJJgjggjgFFJHUgUGU
guguugGugu
GgUGj ioquweqlkj I hjhkladsfhkaj love keruihydiuhviahiwkj
hefkjhna you fhjakhfkabhyi too. uioiokadshfkhkh adjhfkjla_huiuyyyyyiuyllkl;====asodjfiquhqhhhwhwnamahjkh
Pecaw
ahkh1212424242141424144535353152515155245redqtrwr. . .”

“I know you do.” Pecaw was watching the activity in the parking lot below. “Looks like your old friend Sgt. Perry had some bad luck; yes Sir, some bad luck.”

“ . . guygugGGUuiuipoiIIHJOUIQKJHOElHLHAKAKJkhjkhkGHJKGA SHAKHKJAjhjkhkKHZHHihhIUHIhHhhhHUIETETReyPIP;HJGSRED
ghjkl;lKJHTYf

.. .. Good! hajsgdjgajGJKSKGHKHJGAHGHJASDJHQUIRI
UIOOPWEIOPL..MWE

That jalkjklj adjksjlakjfl sorry lkajsldjfljaljsdljfassholehasjkdhf hadskfjh . . .”

“Such foul language; I won’t have you talking about the dearly departed in that manner. It shows a lack of respect for the dead.” Pecaw was not one for swearing. The only thing that kept him from getting angry with Sinclair was the fact that Pecaw had been stationing himself nearby as a sentry. He looked back through the glass that separated his “being” from the room and chuckled to himself as he saw the reflection.

The lamps from the parking lot bounced beacons of light blue from his forehead. His hair was jet black with a regal sash of stunning gray to the sides. The squared edges of his brow peaked, “I suppose so.”, turning as the spirit of Sgt. Perry left his earthly body. Pecaw laughed to himself, “That’s one less sorry asshole after my grandson!”

Pecaw then thought for a moment as he glanced toward the window ledge and the room
directley above him, “You getting all of this Moe? ‘ Wouldn’t want you to miss anything
now.”

“I felt that thought.”, Sinclair rebounded as the idea passed his mind. “What did you mean when you said that Sgt. Perry was one of the dearly departed dead? What’s going on out there? Sinclair’s mind was still reeling from the chocolate rush as the thought process kicked into gear.

“Mr. Sanderson, sorry to bother you again. Something you need to know about just developed.” Moe had come to rely on the information that flashed out from Sinclair’s head. The words splashed onto the screen faster than a Wall Street ticker tape.

“Any time now you should be getting a call from security to inform you that a police officer, Sgt. Perry to be specific, has been run over and killed in our parking lot.” Moe continued to watch Sinclair’s thoughts as he held the phone to his ear.

“Thank you again, and yes my telephone line just flashed.” Sanderson picked up the other line and listened as the emotional guard gave an account of the terrible accident; nodding and acting surprised. Chief Denson’s driver, Officer Fernandez, knocked and entered without waiting, then walked purposefully to where the Chief was sitting. He leaned over and whispered the dread news, all at the same moment.

“I need to excuse myself Jack; one of our officers has just been involved in a terrible automobile accident.”

“Yes, I was just given the same information. It happened in the east parking lot a few moments ago. That was one of my security guards on the telephone. He was pretty upset by it all. Charlie, if you don’t mind, why don’t I go down there with you?”

Chief Denson looked to his driver who nodded his head with a short bobbing motion;
indicating the information was accurate.

“I’d rather you didn’t Jack. I will need to focus all of my attention on the investigation. Let me get back with you after I’ve had a chance to assess the situation.”

Chief Denson held eye contact as the two executives acknowledged the need to carry out
their respective responsibilities.

“You’re right; I’d only be in the way. I’ll make sure that all my people cooperate in the fullest. Let me know if there is anything . . .”

“Thanks Jack; I will.”, turning to Fernandez to change the subject. “Who’s in charge at this time?”

“I was told that an off duty Homicide unit was the first unit; a Sgt. J.D. White is holding the scene for now.” The two exited the executive offices and made their way to the parking lot. Several marked units had set up a perimeter as they made it across to the crime scene. A steady tide of blue uniforms came by as if to bid farewell, not really having an official reason to be in the area. A few more minutes passed and the investigative units from Homicide and I.A.D. began to filter in, polyester suits holding clip boards and tape measures mapped out the entire area.

“Chief Denson, I’m J.D. White. I was the first unit here. He had just been run over and the suspect was leaving as I pulled in. I put out the G.B. and tried to follow; but he was already out of sight by the time I figured out that anything had happened to begin with.” J.D. felt uncomfortable as he continued to brief Chief Denson. “I was here to visit a friend of mine. I never got a look at the suspect, only that he was in an old white Chevy Caprice; looked like a Caprice, or something similar.”

“Did you have any conversation with Sgt. Perry before he died?”

“Not really much that he said. He did comment that he had gotten rusty, that’s about all he said. I don't think he saw much.” J.D. paused for a moment then added, “He didn’t look like he was in much pain. I know that sounds improbable under the circumstances, but he had a look about him that just . . . I don’t know . . . peaceful, something like that.”

“Sgt. White, I know this has been a stressful event for you too; but I want you to go over this with Lt. Stromberger as well as the I.A.D. team. You can come in tomorrow and type up your official statement.” Chief Denson patted J.D. on the back as he walked over to where the body lay covered with a pale blue paper sheet. A pool of thick blood crept out and away from the under the edge of the body blanket. There were flashes from the investigator’s cameras. The Chief pulled back the corner of the blanket. The television news teams were close enough that the whole grizzly scene was brought into focus. The early morning news casters would have some fresh garbage to splash across the screen.

“We’re ready to load the body now. Who’s in charge of the personal effects?” The Medical Examiner looked to the Chief.

“Lt. Stromberger is in charge of the Homicide investigation and will take an inventory of those items.” Chief Denson turned to make sure that the suggestion was understood.

“I was just about to do that Chief.” Lt. Stromberger bent down and began removing items while talking into a micro-mini tape recorder. “Top left suit pocket contained one silver tone Cross ball point pen, two cigars in metal canisters . . .” Each item was listed on a sheet of paper by another detective; I.A.D. looked on and kept notes of their own. “ . . . one five and a quarter inch computer data disk, one Day Planner, assorted papers of a personal nature . . .” The inventory continued as each item was listed and bagged.

“Was Sgt. Perry working on an assignment or was he here on his own?” Chief Denson's question was directed toward Lt. Davis who represented the Internal Affairs Division.

“I don’t have any information on that at this time Chief. It will take a while to go through his files before that can be determined.”

“He may have been.” J.D. broke in hesitantly, not wishing to speak out of turn.

“Go ahead Sgt. White, we’re listening.” Chief Denson and the respective investigative heads waited for his reply.

“Well. . .”, clearing his throat and wishing he didn’t have to speak, “ . . . I was coming here to visit officer Dosilmeyer, an old partner of mine. He’s here recovering from an injury on duty that Sgt. Perry was investigating.” The Chief looked at the body being loaded into the black Suburban body car.

“It would be nice for his family if we could cover this as a duty related death.” He pondered for a moment as the situational requirements fell into place.

“Sanderson here, did anyone visit the file room tonight Moe?”, tapping his fingers.

“That’s kind of hard to say, yes and no.” Moe was having a hard time trying to explain Pecaw’s Spirit.

“Moe, this is not like you. I want to know who, if anyone, entered the room and what they did while they were there.”

“No. . .body , that is nothing with a body entered the room boss. I think there was a ghost of something, but nobody.”

“Then Sgt. Perry never went in to the room?”

“Sgt. Perry? Oh, no sir; I’d have seen him for sure. No, Sgt. Perry never went in the room.”

“What’s this nonsense about a ghost?”

“It’s all on the tape sir; honest.” Moe was still working on a way to explain what he had observed.

“I’ll be up there in a while. Try not to go off the deep end.” Sanderson clicked the phone off and immediately called another number. There was a subtle change, his confidence level was not as high. He waited for a moment as the line was picked up on the other end. A familiar beeping tone alerted him that he had reached a recording machine.

“ . . . please leave a short message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Beep. . . beep.”

“Lou this is Jack. That file is still open and the I need to talk regarding how to proceed. Get with me in the morning.”

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 40 Rusty

2005-06-12T09:19:00.000-07:00

Savat waited in the parking lot as the hours passed. The radio played a list of golden oldies as the local FM jock made fun of the hard rock station between songs. Savat had rented a six year old white Chevrolet Caprice with no distinguishable features or markings. The people at Wrent a Wreck did not ask for any identification; only a cash deposit in advance. The emptiness of the night hung in the air as the time past. He watched as the Metro bus dropped off and picked up, each half hour then only each hour. Nurses and orderlies, secretaries who had worked late in their offices downtown, sales clerks and car wash attendants all made their way to their respective homes past the rusted white Chevy parked across from the hospital. They did not notice the reflection from Savat’s cold stare or that he was continually polishing the blue steel revolver that he held hidden in the shadow created by the dash board. He sat motionless behind the wheel watching the nearly vacant parking lot as the sodium lamps cast their imperfect light across the concrete. He lighted another cigarette; a plume of blue smoke escaped the half rolled down window. He reviewed the file and memorized the pictures that it contained while he waited.

J.D. made his way down the deserted freeway as he chomped away on the end of a stubby cigar. Now and then he would laugh; thinking of things he and Sinclair had done in the line of duty. They had been good for each other and it was no trouble at all to make the trip out to see him. He saw the Kroger store up ahead, “Almost forgot to pick up that bar of dark chocolate.”, as he steered into one of the spaces up near the front. He quickly made his way inside, picked up the item and went to pay for it at the check out stand.

“You were in the other night. You must like that cooking chocolate a lot.” The young girl at the register was testing her ability to carry on a conversation. J.D. just grunted in his own objectionable way.

“Not really; I just like to watch it melt in the trunk of my car.” J.D. had no idea what it meant. He took out his money clip and peeled off a pair of ones.

“No need to be rude.” The girl rang up a dollar fifty nine and hit the total button. “Your change is forty one cents, Sir.”, handing him a lump of coins with his receipt.

“Another nickel, you said forty one, where’s the other nickel?”, holding his palm out for her to see the quarter, dime and penny.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”, reaching into the tray and picking up the rest of his change. “It was an honest mistake. Please, don’t say anything to the manager.”

“Not a word.” J.D. headed out the door and was back enroute to see Sinclair.

Sgt. Perry was also on his way to the hospital; his left hand on the wheel while he kept the other fidgeting in his coat pocket. He came to a stop at the light two blocks from the hospital. When it turned green he paused, not seeing it until the guy behind him blasted the horn. His foot lunged awkwardly onto the accelerator as his thoughts were far from driving. Lou had suggested that he enter Sinclair’s room, insert a needle full of air into his arm and that would be the end of it. His right hand fondled the instrument of death deep in his pocket. “Up yours too you creep.”, forming the one finger salute as the car past him by, honking his horn and yelling obscenities at him.

Savat observed the Ford LTD at the corner. The solid blue car did not have a vinyl top like most of the Crown Victorias. It had black side wall tires instead of white walls, plain hub caps and a nearly invisible second antennae on the rear deck; a city ride. He watched as it pulled into the hospital parking lot and turned off its head lights. The driver’s door swung open; a pair of legs hit the ground as Sgt. Perry got out of the car.

Savat watched him cover the short distance to the back door of the hospital. Sgt. Perry was beginning to break out into a cold sweat as he considered the action he was about to take. He passed the receptionist on his way to the elevators.

“Hope you get to feeling better.”, the words caught him as he took a handkerchief from his pocket. The pale chalky color of his forehead announced the sickening feelings that had welled up in his stomach. He looked quickly for a restroom where he could regain control and without looking back, held his hand out as a mild acknowledgement.

He found the door to the men’s room just as the burst of vomit forced its way out; spattering across the small square tiles. He washed off at the sink, looking into the
mirror and wondering what kind of cop he had become.

“What the hell am I doing here?” He was talking to himself as the finality of what he was about to do surfaced. “I can’t go through with this!” He reached into his pocket and fumbled for the syringe that he had planned to kill Dosilmeyer with. He grabbed a couple of paper towels, wrapping them around the tools of death. “I just can’t do it.”, throwing the small package into the trash. He stood in front of the mirror and let the water run for a while longer as the color returned to his face. He felt the weight lift from his shoulders, having taken a new path. A few minutes later he walked out of the restroom.

“Your looking much better now.”, the receptionist commented as he walked by.

“Yes, thank you. Oh; you’d better call for a janitor. I’m afraid I made quite a mess in there.”

“Not to worry. You just take care of yourself sir.”

Perry headed across the parking; his burden of poor choices having been momentarily lifted. He never saw the car gathering speed as it closed on his position. Reaching for his keys, he unlocked the door and opened it. Savat had the pedal floored; believing that Sgt. Perry had finished off Dosilmeyer. The hood ornament lined up the target. There was a slight crumpling sound on impact as the door and Sgt. Perry became enmeshed with the front left fender. Savat’s car sped quickly out of the parking lot and down Hollister; flicking the high beam lights as he came to an oncoming car.

“Blind me; why don’t ya’? You ignorant Son of a . . .", J.D. swerved to avoid the pale white and rust Chevy barreling past him. He turned into the hospital parking area, unaware that Sgt. Perry had just been run over and left for dead. The security guard wasn’t sure what to do as he left his station and got into an improvised golf cart to investigate the disturbance. He puttered at five or six miles per hour across the lot; a single head light aimed skyward. Upon finding Sgt. Perry sprawled on the ground the security guard flagged down J.D. as he pulled in.

“Stop that car! Stop that car! It just ran over this guy and kept on going. Stop that car!” , pointing in the direction from which J.D. had just come.

“Wha’d it look like? Was it that dark colored Datsun that just went by?”, knowing that it wasn’t.

“No, it was all white and had some rust, yea lots of rust along the bottom at the doors.”, still pointing down Hollister.

“That’s the same car that hit me with the high beams just a few seconds ago.” J.D. cut a donut in the driveway and sped off in pursuit. He had not looked at the fallen driver and could not have known yet that it was Sgt. Perry. When he got back onto Hollister the street was empty. He raced down to Hammerly and glanced both ways. He pounded the dash once and headed back to the scene. By the time he got back a small crowd had gathered around. A couple of nurses who had been walking to their cars were busy applying their skills. J.D. looked down and recognized him. “Did ya’ get a good look at the guy who did this to ya”?

“No, never saw it coming. I must be getting rusty.”, his head being supported on the lap of one of the nurses. He was in bad shape; the blood was thick as it stained the starched white material of the uniform. J.D. reached into Perry’s car for the mike.

“Twenty Nora Thirty Eight, Days to dispatcher; put out a pick up on a white and rust colored Chevy Caprice, just left the area of Hollister and Hammerly. It will be wanted for FSRA.”, He looked over to Perry, “and I will need a supervisor for an officer down at eighty eight fifty Long Point.”

“Unit calling, I was on public service. Could you repeat that last transmission?” J.D. looked angrily into the mike as he bit his tongue.

“Twenty Nora Thirty Eight Days . . . put out a pick up on a white and rust Chevy Caprice that just ran over an officer. Last seen Hollister and Hammerly. I will need a supervisor at eighty eight fifty Long Point. Did you get that this time, Dearie ?”, still shaking his head at the marvelous abilities that some of the new dispatchers had.

“Clear. All units; just occurred in the area of eighty eight fifty Long Point, an F. S. R. A. involving a white and rust Chevy last seen Hollister and Hannibal.”

“Hammerly! That’s Hammerly!”

“Correction on that last location, make that Hollister and Hammerly.” Turning her attention back to obtain additional information, “Twenty Nora Thirty Eight Days do you have any other details such as a license number or driver information on the suspect vehicle?” J.D. looked to the security guard and within his own memory of the brief encounter.

“Not at this time.”, pausing as he tried to understand what one of the nurses was trying to tell him over the commotion at the scene. “Standby for a moment.. . . He’s dead.” Holding Perry’s lifeless head in her arms. “Twenty Nora Thirty Eight Days . . .That suspect will be wanted for murder of a police officer.”, dropping the mike to the floor of the car. He had never liked Perry; but all the same he was a police officer.

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 39 Norbert's Jewelry

2005-06-12T09:08:00.000-07:00

J. D. finished off another cup of coffee while sitting in his chair at the top of the stairs where he had a view of the sales floor. There were several ancient wooden desks stored on the second floor along with forty six years worth of tax forms stacked in rows of boxes. The gray boxes faded into the darkness as the dust blended the edges one to another. Norbert’s Jewelry Store had been J. D’s extra job for the past eight years. It had started as only a Christmas Season job, standing around in his uniform all day to add an air of dignity to the small jewelry establishment. It was toward the end of Main Street; looking more like a pawn shop than a fine jewelry store. Sal Norbert was exactly what one would have expected; pushy, loud and very very Yiddish. J. D. would smoke his cigars as he walked around the store talking to the salesmen; now he only chewed on them. Each year J. D. purchased a piece; a gold nugget neck chain, a watch or something for his wife. It was good business for the store to keep him on.

“I need to be getting along now Solly.” J.D. mumble as he eased himself out of the chair; reaching down for a half empty paper lunch sack that was on the floor at the edge of the desk.

“Did you see those new diamond stick pins that just came in. Come, I want to see which one you like the best.”, Sal tugged the air in J. D’s general direction. Sal half stepped and slid himself toward the display case. He knew that at least one would be sold before the night was done. “Oh yes!”, pausing to admire the sparkling points of light as they danced off the end of the golden shaft. “This one will look nice on that tie. Come now, let me see, Oh yes this is the one.” Sal talked on and on, never for a moment was there a doubt that the sale was already rung up. “Of course I can knock off, say , fifteen; no, make that a full twenty percent.”

J. D. smiled and grunted through his cigar as he made his tie more accessible. “Such a deal. . .”, sarcastically, “I’ll settle with you on Friday.” The glitter caught the light from the showroom as J.D. walked across the floor towards the front door. Stopping for a few seconds at the full length wall mirror to admire his newest acquisition, “Solly, I don’t think I ever take home any money from this place. It all ends up back in your safe.” There along the back wall of the office were three old vaults. They were turn of the century jewelry safes. The doors had ornate gold trim designs and inside were individual locked compartments for keeping items separated. J.D’s grumbled a nod of approval as Sal wrote up the sale.

“Did I tell you? . . . That diamond came from the same mine as the ones in those earrings that you bought your wife. How is she doing? When are you going to get her that matching necklace?” Patting J.D’s back as he stood next to him at the mirror. “Just like it was made just for that tie! You two will look so good with her wearing that beautiful necklace.”

“Not tonight Solly.” Shaking his head, but smiling at having been set up so well. “I need to see an old friend of mine at the hospital. I’ll be in around noon for lunch; your buying this time.”, reminding Sal of the profit margin on diamond stick pins. J.D. crumpled the edge of the sack tighter in his hands. The brown paper was worn soft from being used for the third day in a row. He still had an apple and a wedge of cheese to snack on later. J.D. locked the several bolts on the front door and walked to his car, talking to himself about having bought the trinket.

“Tomorrow then; and have a nice visit.” Sal dismissed him and walked to the front counter where he had been arranging the diamond rings. He reached to his shoulder and adjusted the elastic suspenders. His thin body made even slimmer as the long stripe of the band sliced down a crisp cotton dress shirt onto a pair of brown slacks.

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 38 Conversions

2005-06-05T16:31:00.000-07:00

“Some interesting data here.” Scott looked over at Sinclair. Reaching up subconsciously with his hand he brushed his eyebrow a couple of times, “Very interesting.”

“Anything in particular?”

“You’re quite a remarkable person.” Scott stopped as he made an effort to phrase his thoughts. “I have . . . never been . . .sold on the idea of religion.” He tried to sound philosophical as he grabbed for words. Most of his adult life he had been surrounded by a scholastic environment. He felt the awkwardness of entering new territory. “I thought that it was a form of escape for those to weak to face the realities of the real world. I . . . could not . . . accept the concept of God. I have always been uncomfortable with things that I could not explain through logic.” His words came out almost as a pleading.

“What are you driving at? Was there something in last night’s ramblings? I haven’t had a chance to read the log. They had me in for blood tests since sunup.”

“Here on page seventy one, where you began thinking about your blessings. . .”, Scott read the lines to himself. He pointed to the middle of the page as he handed the massive accumulation of green bar paper across to Sinclair. “You pray differently than I did as a child. Your prayers are more like conversations, open ended dialogue. Its as if you almost expect to receive an answer from . . .God Himself.”

“Would it surprise you to hear that I do expect answers?”

“Yes, quite frankly it would. I say that. . . how should I put it? Yesterday I would not have had this conversation at all. There is something here in your transcript that begs me to stay a little longer.” Scott had printed out the first hour or so of the transcript, seven hundred forty five pages. The amount of information was awesome. It was the only way to insure that the data was kept in its purist form. Scott turned a few more pages to an image that was staring back at him.

“How did you get this picture mixed in?”, noticing that the pages ran continuously end to end. Sinclair didn’t know he could do that.

“Turn it around; how did You get that in there? I’ve seen it before, or at least something very similar.” He opened the leather brief that was on the desk and pulled out an old copy of the National Geographic Magazine. On the cover was a photograph of the visitor’s center on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. The picture was taken at night and in the center was the famous marble statue of Jesus Christ; His arms extended inviting all to enter His peace. The feature article, “The Mormon Experience”.

“When I first saw the image I knew right away that I’d seen it before. I had to go back several years into my library of old Geographics to find this issue. Fortunately I have them all cataloged and cross referenced.” Scott carefully placed the printed image next to the one from the magazine and waited for Sinclair’s response.

“You got me there.”, studying the two side by side. “It sure looks the same though, doesn’t it?”

“You think that’s strange. . .”, flipping another page of the transcript, “ . . . take a look at this one.” The two eyes came off the paper as if alive. The detail was exquisite, as their gaze followed; no matter where the page was held.

“Do you know who that is; . . . without me telling you?”

“Yes. . . but; I wanted to hear it from you. Its Jesus, the Christ?”

“It’s how I see him when I pray. Does this bother you?” Scott continued to hold the paper with the image in front of him; first from one side and then another as he let his soul escape the prison in which it had been locked. Tears found their way into his eyes, gently running down his cheeks.

“This is the most spiritual experience I’ve ever had. Do you see him often?”

“I can see him almost anytime of the day; that is if I take the time.” Sinclair was embarrassed that sometimes his thoughts often took him into places that the Lord would not go.

“And he really does answer your prayers?”, Scott let the question roll out; cautiously avoiding the part of the transcript a few pages further ahead’

“Yes, sometimes its not the answer I want to hear; but its always what’s best. Sinclair watched as Scott folded his arms.

“Let me ask you this; how can you justify being a cop with all of your Christian beliefs?” Scott’s cynical approach to life had led to his wariness of policemen. “I guess what I mean. . .is . . . do you believe, that its all right to kill?” Sinclair sat back in his chair for a moment as he let the words sink home.

“One of the nurses asked me almost the same question. At first I didn’t know how to answer her. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but for some reason it made me angry and frustrated; kind of caught me off guard.” Sinclair looked at the floor for a few extended moments as he carefully pulled his thoughts together.

“Policemen have so much . . . “, gathering the air with his hands as words tried to express his fears, “. . . potential for the abuse of power.” Scott’s apprehension was not without some merit. “I’m not so sure that I like the idea of giving the all powerful decision of life or death to some kid fresh out of high school.”

“Let me ask you a question. Would you feel any better if you thought that most officers out there working the streets had searched their own hearts on a regular basis?”, pausing as he took in a breath and looked directly into Scott’s eyes. “I know I have the highest regard for the gift of life. I feel sure that most officers do.”

“But what about the ones who don’t ? Can you guarantee that they won’t . . .”

“No guarantees in this life Scott. . .”, Sinclair interrupted, “ . . . you should know that.” Scott conceded the point.

“I suppose your right. Doesn’t it get to you; the job with all the miserable assholes you have to put up with?”

“It does, but only a little at a time. I sometimes wish I’d never joined. I find myself enjoying jokes that are crude or laughing when I shouldn’t. Bev will look at me once in a while to let me know that I’ve gone too far.”

“I’d like to hear more about what you believe. For some reason; I can’t put my finger on it just yet, I want to know more.” Scott picked up the pages once more, gazing at the eyes of the Lord.

“Have you ever read the Book of Mormon Scott?”, as they continued Sinclair had the computer load directly from the hard disk. Vern had bought him the computerized
Scriptures as a “get well” present; nineteen individual disks in all.

“No, but I understand that you Mormons use it instead of the Bible.” Scott had not done too much reading along the lines of religion. He read from the monitor as it brought up one of Sinclair’s favorites.

“And behold, I tell you these things that you may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.” He found himself appreciating the simplicity and wholesome nature of the advice. Scanning over the text at random he would stop once in a while to take in a passage.

“I would like to see more. Can I borrow a copy?”

“I can do better than that. Why don’t you let me Lap Link onto your personal computer. That way you can have all of what are known as the Standard Works; The Bible, Book of Mormon, Pearl of Great Price and Doctrine and Covenants. They are all cross referenced and I think you will find them easy to access.”

“You say that you use the Bible too? I can remember having to stand up and read aloud in my Sunday School class. At the time my reading skills were not very good. I felt awkward and never enjoyed going to church. I don’t think I’ve picked up a Bible since then.” Scott’s eyes never left the monitor as he talked.

“Your not alone; I didn’t get serious until I was in my late twenties. I started studying the New Testament and then the Book of Mormon. At the time about the only thing I knew about the Mormons was that they crossed the prairies in wagons. We had just started having children and in the back of my mind there were so many questions that I had no answers for. I figured it was time to . . . “ The door to the room opened slightly and Vern Rylan poked his head in.

“Am I disturbing anything? I can come back later.”

“No, come in.” Sinclair was always glad to have Vern in for a visit. “Scott Bartel this is Vern Rylan, my computer Guru.”

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Your work here has impressed me.” Scott pointed to the voice synthesizer unit and nodded with genuine favor. “What I would do to get you into my department at the University?” Vern accepted the compliment graciously.

“You’re the one who has been reviewing Sinclair’s ramblings. He sure can manufacture some data, can’t he?” Vern opened his palms as he measured the thickness of printed paper and tried to imagine having to read through it all.

“So, what brings you up here today?” Sinclair cocked an eyebrow in Vern’s direction.

“I need to get some of this stuff out of here.” Vern picked up the Nintendo screen that was no longer needed.

“What’s that for?” Scott noticed the game company name painted clearly on the border.

“We were using it to translate sign language for Sinclair’s roommate. There’s no need for it now.” A silence crept over Vern as he thought about how he missed working to communicate with Mr. Alejandro. They had created a voice to go along with his cheerful personality. Mr. Alejandro would have been proud to have heard it, if he could have. Sinclair looked over to Vern and the two remembered their friend with respect.

“Why don’t you show Scott how it works. He might enjoy it?” Sinclair reached out to help open the screen and plugged in the adapter jacks. “You’ll have to turn on that lamp.”, pointing in Scott’s direction and involving him at the same time. Vern stood in front of the screen and without talking made a few simple signs. The voice synthesizer immediately began the process of converting it into audible English.

“That’s nothin’, watch this.” Sinclair read the bold print from the front page of the newspaper. As he spoke there came a flurry of signs across the monitor of his computer. “Not bad. huh?” Sinclair was showing off Vern’s work to someone who was capable of truly appreciating it.

“How much did you say they were paying you to work here?” Scott’s question was much more direct this time.

“Actually they didn’t pay me to do this at all. I did this on my own.” Vern had not done it for the money anyway.

“No, I mean what kind of a salary do you make here at the hospital?” Vern looked upwards as he visualized his pay stub.

“About twenty five hundred a month, give or take. Why do you ask?”

“I think you might enjoy working for the University if you could learn to live on three thousand a month; plus expenses.” Scott sat back in his chair knowing that his challenge had landed on the mark.

“Three thousand would be nice.” Vern let the idea wander about. “Does that include medical insurance for my family too?” Scott nodded along as he waited to complete the conversion.

“What kind of duties would we be talking about?”

“For starters, I’d have you working to refine this gadget. That should hold your interest for a month or so.”

“Sounds tempting; let me think it over and talk to my wife; before I give you my answer. Is that all right with you?”

There’s no rush.” Scott reached into his pocket and took out one of his business cards. He scratched out the phone number that was printed on the bottom. “I seldom have a need for these. The number’s been changed twice since I had these printed up.” Vern accepted the card and put it in his shirt pocket; then took it out and thoughtfully placed it in his wallet.

“Ya’ see, I told you it was good.” Sinclair smiled as he saw something very positive about to happen for his friend. Vern started to unplug the Nintendo screen from the synthesizer.

“Would it be okay to leave it on?” Scott quickly asked. “I was just starting to consider some of the applications that such a device could be targeted for.” Scott put his hands into the light; casting shadows onto the screen. The computer was not able to merge the random figures with the compendium of known signs.

“Please repeat your last sentence.” The computer flashed the message simultaneously.

“Well I’ll be switched.” Scott laughed as he tried to make the shape of a rabbit.

“You think that’s funny?”, Sinclair quickly signed the word YOUR onto the screen. He could hardly contain himself as the instant reply came out.

“Body blow !”

“I’m still working the bugs out.” Vern looked at Sinclair scornfully. “It was originally part of a boxing game.”

“Don’t apologize; I think you’ve done quite a job here.”

“Quite a JAB too.” Sinclair couldn’t resist.

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 37 Logged On

2005-06-05T14:59:00.000-07:00

Sinclair turned off the voice synthesizer for the night as he quietly said his evening prayer and readied himself for bed. He wondered what kind of thoughts he would find recorded in the morning. Each word instantly ran onto the screen and as the text neared the bottom it was automatically sent to the hard disk for storage. Vern had given the computer a simple command that would repeat every twentieth line so that it was no longer necessary to manually save anything; it All went into storage.

“I guess this is one sure fire way to keep my journal up to date. ( Hahaha. )” Sinclair watched the added on laugh that was not part of his original thought. “The purpose of this, what is this anyway; oh yes, this documentation is to help Scott Bartell find out what is going on inside my head. Sounds like a kind of fruity alcoholic beverage; Scott Bartell. Sorry, just came to mind. I’m naturally crude sometimes.”

Sinclair could see a four pack of cold twelve once bottles filled with translucent grape colored wine. The impact of advertising permeated every part of society. Sinclair had not always been a member of the Church. He had played the fool more than once after having had too much to drink. He reached back to when he was in the Army. A special weekend pass had allowed him the chance to go home to Bev and his folks. It was all a blur excepting the trip back to Georgia. He was at the window looking out at the airplane he was about to board. There was a man standing on a tall triangular based ladder that reached all the way up to the engines. He had the shroud lifted out of his way and with his finger he was following a diagram that was on the inner part of the shroud. He then would turn and follow the same basic line on the engine until he got to a particular area; stop, shake his head and look back at the diagram. After having observed the same exasperated look on the mechanic’s face from several attempts to complete the line, Sinclair was not at all pleased to see the man slam the shroud back into place and tighten all the bolts. There was something wrong and nothing done to fix it.

“I’m not getting on until I have a chance to talk with that mechanic!” Watching the man as he came up the external stairway and into the main building, Sinclair cornered him and conveyed his concerns.

“Nothing to worry about. These newer jets can fly just as well on three. I wouldn’t let it bother you.” The answer was not at all what he had expected. Sinclair boarded the plane with the idea that it was time to get good and drunk. The booking agents must have been on his side; having over booked the flight, Sinclair was given the only seat left on the plane. He had never flown in First Class before, but he did know that he was going to get a proper meal and all the drinks he could swallow on the way to Atlanta. If it was to be his last meal he at least would have a good one. It didn’t matter that the plane was taking off two hours late and that he would miss his connection in Atlanta back to the base. Heck, he might not get there at all.

“ Another one, please and some olives if they’re are any?” The jet stream was much farther south than usual and the pilot found it pushing them, hurtling as it were, toward record matching speeds. The lost time was most nearly made up as the pilot’s voice broke the air.

“Ladies and Gentlemen this is your pilot speaking. We have taken advantage of some very strong tail winds and will be making our final approach into Atlanta within the next ten minutes. We are aware that many of you will be making connecting flights. Most of the flights out of Atlanta have been delayed because of the rain and you will more than likely be able to make your next flight. Please have the Flight Attendant assist you as you exit the aircraft as needed. Once again thank you for flying Delta.”

Sinclair took a moment to glance at his watch as he tried to figure out how much time had been made up. “Houston to Atlanta in an hour and a half?” It didn’t make sense. “Just think what they could have done with all four engines working. We could have gotten here before we took off. Hahahaha.”

The pilot had been correct, his connecting flight to Augusta was still waiting on the ground; it too had mechanical problems. As he boarded the aircraft he noticed right away that the air was hot and stuffy. There were three men in overalls going down the isle checking the over head luggage bins.

“Something wrong with the air conditioning?” , Sinclair asked one of them as he felt for air movement out of the square port just above his seat.

“Yea, we’re working on it now.”

“It’s no big deal to me, can’t we just get going? I’m late getting back as it is.”

“It’s not as simple as that. Without the air conditioning you wouldn’t be able to breath.”

“Take all the time you need.” Sinclair wondered how long it would be before he could order another drink. An hour later the plane made its way down to the end of the runway. It was now late into the evening as the rain fell from the sky. Sinclair was past worrying about being late. He was wondering how much trouble he was in. “I’d like a drink please; make that two!”

“You’ll have to wait until the plane is in the air, Sir.”

“Oh, I thought we were.” Laughing to himself was a sure sign that he had already had one too many. The short flight into Augusta and the ride back to Fort Gordon ended the miracle weekend. Sinclair stumbled into the company office and explained his situation. The sergeant behind the desk listened as the story came full circle.

“I suppose it wasn’t entirely your fault. Tell you what; you stand guard duty tonight while you sober up and we can forget all about it.” Sinclair had been given a reprieve.

The memory danced across the monitor and became part of his recorded thoughts for the night as he fell off to sleep.

“Scott Bartell; still sounds like some grocery store brand wine to me. Hahaha, sorry.” He read the words and laid himself down; closing his eyes as the pillow contoured itself around the base of his neck.

“Mild pain requiring attention one and a third inches above the left knee.” Sinclair reached down and rubbed his leg. The monitor registered his activity. As he rubbed the area he was reassured that he had sufficiently attended to the need. “You may resume pre-sleep preparations.” He had not yet reached the point of slumber and he noticed the slight change of light in the room caused by the words jumping onto the monitor. He looked at them through one eye.

“That’s interesting; I didn’t think those words.” Sinclair thought for a moment and then realized that he had just been rubbing his leg. “I guess this quiet time could get to be interesting. Its even getting the neuromuscular activity. “He rolled back and practiced a ritual to help himself relax. He would think about a specific part of his body and instruct that area to relax. Then one part of his body after another would work the kinks out and in a matter of a few short minutes he was totally relaxed.

“Arms; relax and allow the bed to support you. Elbow; bend a little more; that’s better, much more natural. Wiggle your fingers and let them relax too. Okay, now the muscles in your face are still trying to hold their tension. Your jaw is stiff; swallow and let your tongue settle. Now relax your lips and take a more natural breath. That’s better; now the wrinkles on your forehead need to soften along with your eyebrows. Look out into the eternities as you think about how peaceful it is here. Your shoulders are still too tight. Let them fall to the sheets as you feel the tension leave your body. It feels much better now.”

“Good night, Sir, and thank you.” Sinclair looked upwards with his eyes still closed, to a place inside his head as he contemplated the many blessing that he had been given. “Thank you for my lovely wife, my children who are always in my thoughts, the professionals here at the hospital who are tending to my every need, the chance to examine my thoughts on this marvelous contraption. . .” The edge of sleep mixed with the fading fabric of reality as he reported each and every impulse. Sinclair had not mastered the art of inserting graphics into his text recordings; however as he continued to dwell on his many blessings, he could see a clear image of his Father in Heaven.

“. . . Thank you for the Gospel and my chance to improve each day. Thank you for my Savior who has done so much for me.” The computer began to accept the thought much the same way that a printer accepts one line at a time; the entire image formed on the screen. Starting at the top and working down to the eyes, the eyes that looked back at Sinclair as he focused on the eternal nature of his own soul, the monitor began to record the image. Most of the features were incomplete at best, but the eyes were almost three dimensional as the detail of his thoughts became fixed on the screen.

Sinclair had no way of knowing that this particular vision was being saved onto the computer’s hard disk. He had passed into his first level of sleep and was moving rapidly into his first dream period.

“In . .the name. .. . of ... ....Jesus . .. ..Christ, .. ... .Amen.”, Sinclair’s thoughts came so slowly. He knew that it was impolite to start a conversation with the Lord and not wait for a reply. His mind struggled as he repeated parts of his prayer, not sure where he had drifted off in sleep. The moments became minutes as his day came to an end.

“Good night Sinclair, I Am with you.”, the computer recorded the response that Sinclair’s mind heard. The illumination from the computer cast a ghostly glow across the room; much the same as a television set left on after the late late show. Line after line being recorded as his every thought, his every internal command found its way across the darkness. Pleasant dreams and nightmares, flights of fancy together with passions of the flesh surfaced on the back lighted screen.

“Five Frank Twenty Five . . .”, the familiar voice of his regular dispatcher rambled into his thoughts. He was lying on his back on the cool ground. His mind replayed the event and his body responded by lowering his temperature slowly. There was a moment of panic as he felt himself slipping from control. The night air filled his nostrils as he lay in a broken heap.

“Five Frank Twenty Five . . . Five Frank Twenty Two what is your E.T.A.; Five Frank Twenty Five is not responding?” As the units got closer he could hear the wailing sirens. He looked up to where the railing had broken away just moments ago. He studied the faces of the men looking back at him. For a moment he recognized one of them. Straining harder to see, his body not keeping pace with his desire to remain alert, the figure faded into the shadows. The muscles in his neck, exhausted from the battle with gravity, relaxed as Sinclair fell into his pillow.

“Are you all right Mr. Dosilmeyer?” Launa the night shift nurse stood over him as the beads of sweat rolled off.

“Ummmm . . . Huummm . . .” Sinclair vocalized his need for human intervention as the nightmare replayed once more. She had heard his moaning and stayed with him, holding his hand much the same way a mother clutches a sick child. The computer continued to record his thoughts and she was able to understand what he was experiencing. The nightmare was there, his fears and his emotions mixed one after the other. Every word he had heard came back time and time again, certain parts of the event were played over and over.

With each successive replay the detailed graphics that he was able to generate took on a more representative likeness. Launa could almost make out the forms of persons frozen at the edge of the balcony even though the images were broken. There would be a quarter inch of graphics, then a line of instructional data, then another fourth of an inch of graphics as a continuation of the original thought. It was like the back page of the old “Mad Magazine”. She looked at each line; all the while trying to imagine how the picture would look if the alternating lines were folded or removed. Once in a while a face would appear on the screen, then just as quickly it would sink into the shadows.

“It’s all right, it’s all right.”, stroking the top of his hand more vigorously as she began to feel his tormented spirit. Tears began to fall from her cheeks with each passing moment. He had recycled the dream; not from the start, but only the part where the men were looking down at him. Over and over he looked into their faces as he tried to see the one face that he knew; their images being manufactured on the screen one at a time. The imperfect sketches were passed on to the hard drive.

“You can’t hide from me now. I know you are there. Come out where I can see you.” Sinclair’s mind sorted through the stored memory relentlessly. “I see you there behind the post.” There on the screen was a fairly clear picture of a man half way behind a post. He was trying to blend in with the rest of the people and yet somehow he just didn’t fit in. He was different in appearance.

“Can you look at him again?” Launa coached Sinclair as he continued the dream.

“Look at the man in the business suit again for me. I think I know that face too.” Launa watched on from her front row seat. She wondered to herself how she could have recognized part of Sinclair’s dream; it was a dream, wasn’t it? He had gotten better at sending images to the monitor. At first he had tried to get the whole image, now he was scanning only parts of the image at a time. The lines scooted across the top of his head forming a hair line. Then after the four or five lines would hit the monitor, a few lines of text before the next part of the image was sent. There was much more detail as his eyebrows were painted into position this time. The bridge of his nose and his angular cheeks fell into place as Sinclair fed the memory out one line at a time.

“Sgt. Perry?” Sinclair wondered to himself how Sgt. Perry could have gotten into his dream.

“That’s the one. Yes I have seen him here at the hospital.” Launa read the name of Sgt. Perry as it too had been sent to the computer. Launa was familiar with most of the accounts relating to Sinclair’s injuries. She watched the two struggle for a gun, the image presented was a whirling of shadows as only Sinclair could have seen it. The imperfect transmission was not the same as watching a video tape. The figures being generated darted by so quickly as Sinclair’s memories pulled and twisted along.

From the apartment door came the man in the business suit. He came toward Sinclair in a hurry. She watched as the two men crashed past the confines of the railing. Sinclair sent his thoughts as patches of reality mixed with strong emotions. The muscles in his body wrenched as once more he tarried in mid air.

“What would Sgt. Perry be doing at that apartment and why; after the you fell to the ground, did he not respond to your need for immediate help?” Launa couldn’t conceive of a rational or logical reason how another police officer could shirk his given responsibilities; it was unthinkable. “Maybe this just some wild nightmare that has combinations of reality mixed in to fit?” Launa continued to watch as Sinclair tossed and turned through each successive moment; he could hear her comments.

“I don't think so; but my memory could be playing tricks on me. Thanks for staying with me. I feel better now and will get back to sleep.” Sinclair’s answer joined the rest of his thoughts and became part of the transcript.

“You get some sleep now; its all over.” Launa continued to massage his hand.

“Muuurrrrppppphhhh.” Sinclair drifted off.

“Sweet dreams until morning, rest now.” She placed his hand back onto the sheets. He acknowledged with a slight nod. Launa kissed his forehead as she would one of her children who had been awakened by a bad dream.

***********

“Julie, this is Moe, I need to talk with Mr. Sanderson.”

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 36 Frazetta

2005-05-25T15:23:00.000-07:00

“You're making fine progress. It would seem that your trips to the Physical Therapy Department have been very productive.” Dr. Chatterly pulled and twisted on Sinclair’s legs as he talked, observing the extent of improvement along with the pain level that presented itself in mild grimaces and flinches.

“It is nice to be able to move about. You could use some time up there too.”, reminding Dr. Chatterly of how attractive Eva was. It was purely coincidence that Sinclair reached a pain threshold and let out a yelp as Dr. Chatterly pushed on the knee joint. “Hey! That hurt!” Sinclair waited a moment as the muscles in his jaw released their tension. “Was that a hint or are you still checking out the knee?”

“The knee looks fine.”, his hands guiding the lower half of the leg out and then back again. He stopped in mid sentence; his own awkward thoughts infiltrated the open wound of his soul. He could see Eva’s face crisp and clear, floating pleasantly in a forbidden corridor of desire. Taking a deep breath in through his nostrils; he could extract her scent from out of his memory, he closed his eyes.

“I didn’t know you felt that way about me Doc.”, oozing his words sarcastically. Chatterly recovered slowly from his mind trip to find he had been softly massaging Sinclair’s leg.

“I . . . uh . . .”

“Your stuck on her, big time.”

“Can’t get her out of my head. It wouldn’t be so bad if I were single; but I’m married and love my wife. For a while it was just a simple fascination; now I have a hard time picturing my wife’s face when I close my eyes. All I see is Eva’s face, her dark hair swept back forcing me to focus on her eyes and her totally disarming smile.” Chatterly closed his eyes again as he began describing the vision. His voice broke as he admitted to himself that he was in a real jam. Opening his eyes as he turned to look directly at Sinclair, “When I realized that I was becoming too familiar I ran away. I’ve stayed as far away from her as possible here at the hospital. Now, all you did was mention her name and my mind instantly was pursuing some wild delusion that she might care for me. What am I going to do?” Chatterly sank deeper into the chair.

“Maybe you better carry a picture of your wife and look at it during the day. I keep a picture of Bev in my wallet.”, reaching over to open the drawer and grab is wallet. The black leather covering had worn a distinctive outline from the badge rubbing against it from within. Sinclair opened it, smiling to himself as he looked forward to seeing the photograhs of his family, “Have a look; these are my kids. The oldest is Bonnie, then Jennifer and the chuckle head is William.” A great feeling of accomplishment filled Sinclair as he flipped through the pages of his life. He paused just long enough for Chatterly to nod before going to the next picture. “You’ve met my wife, Bev. This is how I see her. The two had been to Olin Mills all dressed up and feeling very much in love. The image had captured their feelings for each other on paper. The red dress complimented her winter colors and the large silvery buttons seemed to act as pointers to her smile. Sinclair was looking at his young bride and for the moment he was inside the picture. Chatterly sat up as he saw a transformation taking place before him. The wrinkles were melting away one by one from Sinclair’s face as if time itself had been reversed.

“I see what you mean. She is a fine looking woman.”

“Hard to believe that picture was taken over ten years ago; seems like only yesterday.” Sinclair let his breath out slowly as he held the picture out for Chatterly to see once more.

“You paint a good picture of how life should be. I wish it were more like that for me.”, a hint of self pity surfaced as he complimented Sinclair’s family life and simultaneously found the holes in his own.

“Think about the day you married your wife. What kind of thoughts did you store away?” Chatterly looked off into space as the question focused on a particular day. Forgetting that he was a medical professional, his thoughts quietly searched and sifted the files of life. He rambled peacefully through fields holding hands with his new bride on their way to a secluded lake. They had rented a cottage for their honeymoon. A smile found its way onto his face as he too was remembering his favorite moments.

“There’s hope for you yet.”

“I suppose you’re right. I think its time for me to take some time off and get my head screwed on straight; which brings me to the other reason I wanted to talk with you.”
Chatterly picked up Sinclair’s chart subconsciously. Glancing over his notes and picking
up where he had left off, “I see that you’ve been having some interesting experiences.”

“Anything in particular or just the usual patient who talks to his computer type of stuff?”, as Sinclair waited for a more specific direction.

“I’m not going to try and tell you that I understand all the stuff that is going on with you. I’ll be the first to say that I’m at a loss trying to give you a medical explanation for the way you can communicate the way you do. My specialty is fixing bones and muscles, not . . .” Chatterly could not find the right combination of words.

“Let me guess; you want me to visit the shrink again?” Sinclair had been visited by just about every specialist that was on staff.

“Not this time; I already know that your crazy.”, looking across the page and laughing. “I read the results of your tests from the last time. Your interpretations of the ink blots were interesting. I particularly liked the one that you said reminded you of Frazzetta’s art work. You must have blown Dr. Laramore away with that one.”

“Well, it did look an awful lot like one of his posters; it was called, “The Mammoth”. Are you familiar with his work?”

“Yes, in fact I have a couple of books at home that show several of his better posters. I went back over them and I’d have to agree with you; it did look very similar to the ink blot picture.” Chatterly was moderately impressed with Sinclair's wide range of interests.

“So, who is it that you want me to see?”

“His name’s Scott Bartell, he’s done some extensive work in the area of brain function abnormalities at Baylor University. He’s expressed an interest in your particular challenge. He wants to put you in one of his test tubes for awhile.”

“ Hey, why not; he’s not into electric shock stuff or anything, right?” Sinclair waited for a moment.

“Never on the first visit.”, as Chatterly contained his laugh. “He told me that one of his classmates had done some work with plants back in the early sixties that made waves in the accepted sciences. He was cutting leaves in half and placing them on specially treated photographic paper.” Sinclair sat up as he listened more closely.

“The energy released by the leaf was enough to present a crisp image. The interesting part was that even though there was only half of a leaf on the plate, it would imprint the image of the entire leaf; not a mirror image of the half that was left, but the original whole leaf. Kind of weird stuff, huh? Anyway, the unanswered questions that came about have led him looking for similar type situations in other life forms.”

“This is gonna sound strange, but I remember having read about that a long time ago. It was in the Academy of Science monthly publication. My grandfather was a member and had me put on their mailing list.” Sinclair enjoyed being able to jump into the conversation and felt a surge of excitement. “Once I read all about some kind of sail boat that had a rigid sail made out of corrugated tin or a fiberglass. This boat . . “, Sinclair made the shape of a triangle with his hands as he explained, “. . . would go faster than the wind that was pushing it.”

“Sinclair, there are very few things about you that would surprise me.”

“So when do I get to meet your friend?”

“I was thinking that the two of you could have lunch; say, tomorrow? I went over some of the aspects of your condition; your ability to project thoughts directly into the computer along with your inability to screen out all the rest of the garbage. He was eager; more like hungry, to meet you and get started as soon as possible. Who knows, maybe you will make it into next month’s Academy of Science as a feature article.”

“Sounds good to me; but who’s paying for all this?”

“Its on the house, no charge. When I mentioned what you had already accomplished he was quite impressed.” Looking over to the computer, “He did suggest that we keep a transcript of your communications. Will that be any problem?”

“None at all; in fact all my thoughts are automatically entered into the computer. It would be just a matter of saving them onto disk.” Sinclair thoughtfully considered that the content of such a disk would reveal not only his conscious thoughts but his inner ramblings also. “I hope this guy has a good sense of humor and doesn’t get bored to easily.”, he threw in hesitantly.

“Relax, this is all confidential.”, realizing that more was involved by the concern in Sinclair’s tone.

“So far so good.” Sinclair smiled as he made believe he was watching something outside the window.

“So far so good; what do you mean?”

“Nothing in particular, just that this reminded me of the office secretary who worked on the thirty fifth floor. That’s what she heard the man say as he fell past her window on his way to oblivion.

“Uhhhh, right.” Chatterly conjured up a series of pictures to fit the story. “Isn’t that just a little too much like the story of how you got in here?”, raising his brow as he spoke.

“Have you always been this quick?”

“What’s in that stuff your drinking? Maybe I should have them lower your sugar intake. You keep this up and I will”

“So I start tomorrow with this guy Scott, what did you say his last name was?”

“Bartell, Scott Bartell. He suggested that we send all the data to his office. That way he can print it all out and have some of his lab rats sift through it for him.”

“He wants it all sent by way of the modem?” Sinclair shook his head as he tried to imagine the mountains of goble-de-gook.

“That’s what he said. He has three under graduate aces on full time. This is how they make points.”

“I don’t want to sound ungrateful or anything; but when do you figure I’ll be going home? I mean. . .”, his face winced as he tried to phrase his thoughts, “. . .I can’t see much reason for being cooped up here now.”

“I’d like to say you could go home anytime. Your healing very nicely. Chatterly pursed his lip as he looked at the last few pages of charting. “What concerns me the most is how you fall out of touch; just drift off to who knows where. I know it scares the hell out of the floor nurses. Last Tuesday after you had breakfast your vitals went off the scale; stayed that way for almost three hours. When you came out of it all you could say was how tired you were as you went back to sleep for the rest of the day. We tried to tap into that computer of yours, but it was just a maze of jumbled letters and numbers.”

Chatterly flipped a few pages more, “Tell you what; you keep your numbers level for the next few days and I’ll see about getting you home soon.”

“Is that anything like a traffic ticket quota?”

“I don’t think I quite understand. What has your staying healthy got to do with writing traffic tickets?”

“Not a thing Doc, not a thing. I was just reminded of some my frustrations with the Department.” Sinclair had been at odds with his immediate supervisors over their insistence on the issuance of a minimal amount of traffic tickets. Over the past few years
it had become blown out of proportion. They would push him to write tickets and he would bristle, reminding them that it was a violation of State law.

“Well, I still don’t see the correlation.”, shaking his head.

“Never mind. I never said a thing.” Sinclair didn’t want to rehash the subject.

“What ever . . . “, walking to the door. “. . . I’ll be in later this evening to set up that telephone link.

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 35 Fill It Again, Please

2005-05-25T14:58:00.000-07:00

“Time for another sample Mr. Sinclair.” Maime held a small clear collection cup in one hand while reaching to draw some blood with the other.

“Why can’t you just attach a spigot to my arm? That way all you’d have to do is turn the lever.” Sinclair looked at the list of fresh holes assembled along the crease of his inner arm.

“I know just what you mean Mr. Sinclair. Its getting’ hard to find a spot that hasn’t been stuck.” Maime extended his arm as she prepared the area with a Betadine scrub.

“There’s a spot; no, you got that one last week.” It was difficult to tell where the discoloration was from the bruises or from the Betadine stain. Sinclair accepted the situation and looked the other way as the prick of the needle entering caused a momentary flare of heat sensation.

“As often as we do this, why are you always lookin’ off? A grown man afraid of this little needle.” Maime made light of his inherent fear of needles.

“Never have gotten used to it I suppose.”, looking back as the blood was being sucked out by the vacuum container attached to the needle. “It doesn’t really hurt, sort of stings and gets hot, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“Don’t pay no attention to me Mr. Sinclair. I was messin’ with you is all.”, catching his attention as she looked him in the face.

“I know.”, changing the subject, “Looking at all the used up places reminds me of a dog we had when I was growing up. His name was Gritz. . We got him in the dead of Winter. He was a mixed breed of unknown origin, maybe some Setter and St. .Bernard. We paper trained him in the kitchen. As he got larger, which he did rather quickly, he adjusted easily to the outside stage. The Lord had provided a similar atmosphere. The snow was a little colder than the newspaper, but it was white. Gritz made the trip outside and accomplished the desired results; content within his limited faculties, having followed the instructions.

“That should do it.” Maime slid the shaft of the needle out and covered the hole with a square of dressing material while listening politely and occasionally nodding or smiling. Sinclair continued his reflection. “Hold this in place while, like I have to tell you what to do.” Sinclair automatically put light pressure over the gauze packing.

“Things went along and as Spring approached the patches of snow began to disappear. Gritz began to wander in search of an acceptable location. The patches of snow became harder to find; after a while they vanished altogether. Gritz went out one day and was quite perplexed when he could find no newspaper. The poor beast finally gave in to nature.” Sinclair laughed as he thought of the expression on the dogs face.

“Remind me to tell you about the time Gritz was attacked by a room full of balloons at my little sister’s birthday party.”

“I’ll excuse myself while you ah . . .”, handing Sinclair the clear urine specimen cup.

“Hold it a little lower.”, letting his laughter punctuate the statement. Sinclair was a big fan of the James Bond movies and couldn’t resist.

“Bev must be some kind of woman to put up with the likes of you Mr. Sinclair. Now would you please behave yourself as best you can and I’ll forget that you said that.” Maime smiled and would have blushed if her skin wasn’t so dark.

“This is the third time today that I’ve had to pee in the cup. I hope I’m up to the challenge.” The words came out and he could feel a hidden anger start to resurface. When the Police Department had developed their Drug Testing Program, Sinclair had been one of the first ones chosen at random by the computer to be a “volunteer”. He had a keen awareness of man’s free agency and the struggle to balance the needs and wants of the individual with the demands of society as a unit. He didn’t mind so much the idea of having to be held accountable; it was a necessary part of the job.

What Sinclair found to be repugnant was the Department’s attitude. He had been ordered to supply a sample of his body for an in depth chemical test; however, the form that the City had designed made it look like his signature was totally voluntary. Sinclair had signed the form and added the words, “under protest” directly under his signature. He drove to the testing lab after he got off. Some eager young men hoping to become police cadets were sitting on a bench waiting to be tested ahead of him. “You guys sure you want to join?” He shook his head and laughed; knowing that their choice had already been made and that his rotten attitude towards the Department would not sway them from the path. He completed the forms listing all the chemicals that he had taken in the past month; aspirin, nasal spray, antibiotics for an ear infection and some over the counter back pain tablets.

He was led into a small room where he could be assured that only he and God would fit. He was handed two fairly large containers. One was so the lab could test for illegal chemical substances like cocaine, heroine and marijuana while the other was to be tested for steroids. Each had a strip of temperature sensitive tape to insure that the sample was fresh and not contrived. Sinclair filled the first one about two thirds to the top when his well went dry. Standing inside the cubicle for a spell it became apparent that there was nothing left to give. He placed the lid on the container and handed it to the overseer.

“This is not a sufficient amount to run the test.”, looking at the sample that he handed her.

“Sorry but that’s all I have at the moment.”

“Wait here while I make a phone call.”, as she handed him back the test samples. “You may as well dump this. We cannot accept a partial testing sample.”

“Suit yourself; but I can’t stay here all day. I still have to get home and get some sleep.” She had already turned and gone to her desk. Sinclair sat on the bench as she talked into the telephone. She motioned for him to come over.

“He wants to talk to you.”, handing Sinclair the handset.

“This is Officer Dosilmeyer, who’s this?”

“Lieutenant Masters, Internal Affairs Division. I have been informed that you are not cooperating with the test. Is this a refusal on your part?” The words came over mechanically; as if someone had opened a refrigerator. Sinclair took the phone away from his ear and looked at it. Maybe he had heard him wrong or had missed something.

“Excuse me, would you say that again.” Sinclair had been in the military. The word “repeat” meant that another round of artillery was desired so he purposely used “say again” when he wanted to hear something a second time.

“Is this a refusal on your part?”

“You have got to be kidding me, right? I mean, here I am at this lab when I should be home sleeping. I gave them what I had and they had me pour it out because it wasn’t enough. Does that sound like a refusal to you. Give me a break! Geeezzzzz ! You can’t be serious, , , , can you?” Sinclair had dealt with I. A. D. on many occasions and knew only too well that he was not kidding. The Department made sure that humor and I. A. D. would have no common ground.

“If you do not complete the testing it will be entered as a refusal. Are you going to cooperate and be tested?”

“I don’t have much of a choice now do I?” Sinclair made it a point not to let his tongue get the better of him. He thought to himself, “And they wonder why my attitude is so bad.”

“That will be all, officer.” Sinclair put the handset back on its cradle.

“Looks like I could be here for a long time. Have you got a soda machine in the building. I could use some Dr. Pepper; make that a couple of Dr. Peppers.”

“There’s one in the lobby. Just let me know when you think you are ready to complete the test.”

“Its a shame you can’t take a core sample. This is pure bull shit you know, pure bull shit!” Sinclair was fighting off being totally offensive. “I’m sorry about that last remark; you're just doing your job.”

“No offense taken. I’ll be back here whenever your ready.”

“Mr. Sinclair, where are you off to now? Are you okay Mr. Sinclair?” Maime watched as the anger spilled into his jaw. The muscles tightened and his teeth ground firmly as he thought.

“I’m all right Maime. I was just going over . . .”, he thought for a moment. “ . . . no need to bring up that. Let me have that cup; but only because you said, please.”

“They finally got the lead shielding to put in the walls of your room. They got tired of doing all the routine stuff on paper; you know like they did a long time ago, before they installed the computers. Ever since you started up its been a real test.”

“I’m sorry Maime; I missed something. What’s this about lead shielding?”

“That’s a laugh. All you do all day is send us messages on the computer so’s we can’t get in a lick of work and you want to know how come.” Maime went on to explain to Sinclair the amount of chaos caused by his random transmissions. “Every time you start to dreaming all the computers go wild. The first time it happened we might as well have shut the place down. You were goin’ on about the morning you and Bev went down for breakfast at the Hotel Galvez . . .”, Maime was grinning from ear to ear, “. . . at two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Hold on now, I never told anyone about that. You mean to tell me that . . .” Sinclair was still not aware of how far reaching his thoughts had become.

“Every nurse on the floor stopped by to keep up with your first day of marriage. You two must have set some kind of record for late breakfast. We had to start keeping the daily reports by hand. You should see some of the charts that got filed. What a mess you made, whoooweeee!”

“So what else has made it to the “General Hospital” crowd that I should be blushing about?”

"You got nothin’ to be ashamed about. . .”, Maime got right up into Sinclair’s face, “ . . . A man is supposed to be wild in love with his wife. You got a wonderful woman to love too.” It was like Maime was proud to be with him.

“How long ‘till the shielding goes in? I’m not so sure I like being this intimate with the entire staff.”

“The first layer was put in to keep you from messin’ with the computers down stairs. They had already drawn lots to see who was going to get to do you in. We had them put up a small temporary one at the desk to protect all the monitors just to make sure it would work.”

“I bet that spoiled the fun.”

“Sure did Mr. Sinclair, but I got to say it was a whole lot better than readin’ the paper; yes a whole lot better!”

“I think I should go fill this up.”, backing slowly in the direction of the bathroom. Sinclair looked down to make sure he was wearing his pajamas.

“Oh, yes sir Mr. Sinclair. I’ll just wait out here.”

“Right.” Closing the door behind him as he concentrated on the task at hand. They had been running tests on his blood and comparing the results with his urine hoping to find out how his metabolism was effected with different medication and diet. He thought that after so many tests that there must be some kind of clue, a correlation that would advance their understanding; but as yet it had not been observed.

“Did you say something Mr. Sinclair?” Maime had not heard anything; it was her way of checking on his progress.

“No, still waiting.” Sinclair breathed out as he tired of looking at the empty cup. “Hold the presses, yes, there may be a winner yet.” A mild wave of physiological sensation focused itself in the proper area. He closed his eyes and thought more intensely as the feeling grew towards fruition. “Ahhhhhh!”

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 34 Astros

2005-05-15T08:44:00.000-07:00

“Got some tickets for tonight’s Astro’s game. Thought you might like a chance to escape this place.” Vern pulled the paper carrots from his shirt pocket and slowly waved them in front of Sinclair. Vern’s smile was impossible to ignore, expressing the youthful spirit that was bottled up inside him.

“Sounds good to me; but I sort of doubt that they . . .”, leaning toward the nurses station, “ . . . will go for it.” The problems that Sinclair was having with his “reception” limited his mobility.

“I already took care of that. They made me promise to take you in a wheel chair. You can sit in a regular chair at the game, but they didn’t want to take a chance on you over exerting or falling.” A flash of white sprang from Vern’s teeth as the depth of his smile increased.

“When do we leave; before I wake up and this is just a good dream.” Sinclair was already at the edge of the bed and started to get up.

“I knew if I twisted on your arm hard enough that you’d come around. It would help if you got out of those pajamas and put some street clothes on.”

“Yea, guess your right.” Sinclair eased himself back as he kicked off his slippers. “Reach in there. . .”, nodding toward the closet, “. . . and hand me a pair of pants and a shirt. Time’s a wastin’.” Vern looked in the narrow upright closet. There was a blue terry cloth bath robe, a white long sleeve shirt, a bright red Hawaiian print short sleeve shirt, a pair of gray dress slacks and a well worn pair of blue jeans.

“We’ll be sitting in the mezzanine . . .”, quietly talking to himself, “ . . . wouldn’t want to get to too dressed up” He looked back at Sinclair, who was already pulling off his pajama shirt.

“The red one. . . “, without looking up Sinclair blurted out, “. . . and the gray slacks.” Sinclair reached up and felt the day old growth on his face. “I better not wear my Detroit Tiger’s ball cap.”, laughing just enough to require a response from Vern.

“Okay, and just why wouldn’t you want to wear the cap?” Vern looked back into the closet, “ ‘' and I don’t see it up here anyway.”

“Never had one to begin with. I figure the confusion it might cause . . . , you know. . ., all those women thinking I was Tom Sellick.” A deep belly laugh caught Vern just above the cheek bone.

“I suppose I’ll have to put up with that kind of stuff the rest of the night?”, holding his one eye shut as if a punch had landed the mark.

“What did you expect; and if your real good I’ll even let you buy the ‘ dogs.” Sinclair was arranging the material of his garments so that they reached down to the knees. Vern watched on, amused at the strange looking underwear.

“Ahhhh . . .”

“Some other time Vern. For now can you just accept that I wear them as part of my religious belief.” Vern quietly held his stare; then shook it off, realizing that he had invaded some very personal part of Sinclair’s life.

“Hey, no problem. I wasn’t meanin’ to stare.”

“They are kind of long, ‘ took a while for me to get used to them myself.” Sinclair zipped up his fly and put the shirt on, leaving the square ended shirt to hang outside.

“Forgetting something?” Vern questioned a numb looking Sinclair. “ . . . Shoes, you know, they go on your feet?”

“Oh, yea. I was thinking of getting away from here so much that I kind of . . .”

“Glad I’m driving.”

“Rats! What’s a matter; don’t you trust me?” Sinclair had to laugh himself.

“I would like to see the game. Yes; I’m driving.” Vern showed Sinclair the ring of keys at arms length and exaggerated the motion of placing them back into his pocket.

“No faith at all, none!”

“Go ahead, you’re not gonna’ hurt my feelings.” Vern took a look back to the night stand. “You supposed to take any kind of medicine or anything?”

“No, I don’t think so. Let me ask at the nurses station, just to make sure.”

“Wouldn’t want you freakin’ out on me half way through the game.” Vern pointed an accusing finger at Sinclair.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Your welcome.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who talks to airplanes as they pass overhead.” Vern chided a little further.

“I only listen in, and what has that got to do with the price of eggs?” Sinclair thought for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. “ Would be kind of neat to talk back, wouldn’t it?” His expression absorbed the thought as he tied the shoe laces. “This is the painful part.”

“Your just getting old.”

“There you go again, making fun of old people. Someday your gonna get yours and I hope I’m around to watch.”

"If its worth anything, I hope your around too.” Sinclair stopped for a moment as he listened to the words. Vern really was his friend.

“Comment noted and logged.” The two of them walked down the hall to the nurses station. Vern checked out a set of wheels for Sinclair and signed the book. The three to eleven crowd had just taken over and were busy checking over the paper work. Sinclair exchanged greetings in passing. Inside he was still not quite sure that they were going to let him go out of the hospital. He held his breath as Vern wheeled him to the elevator. It wasn’t until after the doors closed and they were on the way down that he felt comfortable about the escape.

“ Made it!” Sinclair breathed out cautiously. They made it across the short distance across the parking lot to Vern’s car with only one airplane winging by. Sinclair looked up, only for a moment as he tuned in on their frequency.

“Anyone you know?” Vern was only kidding as he pulled on the invisible strings.

“No, just Southwest Flight Five Seventy Two asking for confirmation on some traffic in the sector.” Sinclair let the words out nonchalantly as Vern continued to guide the wheelchair.

“Can you really listen in on them . . .” Vern studied the lines on Sinclair’s face. “ . . .or is one of my legs getting a little longer. Yes I can feel the tendon being stretched even as I walk.”

“Right on both counts. Yes I can hear; . . . or should I rephrase that . . . receive their radio messages and yes, I was pulling your leg. This time of day my reception is not at peak. Its the best time of day for me to relax. I don’t have all that excess noise getting mixed up with my conscious thoughts.”

“Well here we are; not much to look at, is it?” Vern’s nine year old Chevrolet station wagon was well on its way to being used up. The tan paint had faded and most of the fenders had small door dings.

“You must not have seen my old pick up truck yet. Maybe you have a kindred spirit hidden under the hood, we probably got some parts from the same junk yard. I recognize, . . .yes . . . the El Cheapo Deluxe hub caps.” Sinclair was having a good time.

“No, these are all original. I don’t make enough to shop at the junk yard.”

“Your pay scale sounds just like the one we have at the Police Department.” The two of them laughing at their modest income levels. Sinclair adjusted himself to fit the seat as he snapped the seat belt into place. Vern inserted the key in the tail gate lock. The electric motor whirred as the rear deck window lowered itself. He placed the wheel chair in the back and slammed the tail gate back into place. On the third attempt the latch mechanism caught hold.

“I don’t know about you, but I think we should stop by the store and grab some chips on the way. The prices at the Dome are Astronomical.” Vern was in a grove.

“Good one Vern.” Sinclair loved the challenge of coming up with one pun after another. “Having been cooped up in that hospital so long; I’ve Lasorta lost touch with things.”

“Ouch, not bad.” Vern guided the car onto the street and down to the local “Stop and Rob” store. The Vietnamese clerk looked at Sinclair as the two went to stock up on junk food.

“I know you. You are policeman who work here on nights and visit me. Where you been; I not see you in long time?” A look at the name tag, quickly enough that his poor memory would go undetected and Sinclair returned the salutation.

“Vu, yes, its been a while. When did you start working the evening shift?” Vu was hard to gauge. His smooth features made it difficult to figure his age. Sinclair estimated him to be in his late forties, possibly even mid fifties. He had rich black hair slicked back and neatly parted. It did not appear that he ever had to shave. His frame was light, topping off near a hundred and twenty.

“I got robbed too many times. The last time they tied me up with cords and put a gun to my head. I can no longer work at night.” Vu was shaking his head, not really looking up while he was talking, as if it were his fault that the store was robbed.

“I know what you mean.” Sinclair had made a few of the robbery reports. Vern had picked up several sacks of Cheetos and a large bag of peanuts, already salted in the shell.

“This ought to do it.”, laying the glutinous bounty on the counter next to the register. “You do like Cheetos, right, Sinclair?”

“Sure, they’re fine with me.” Sinclair could eat almost any kind of chips. The trouble with Cheetos was they left his fingers a funny looking orange color, but on the other hand, they were just about the only kind of real cheese product that he would eat. He could eat pizza as long as the cheese wasn’t too thick and every now and then he would sprinkle a small amount of Parmesan cheese on his spaghetti. He could hardly stand the sight of a casserole that was covered with a zig zag of melted cheese.

“Sinclair is your first name?” Vu smiled as the strange sounding name rolled off his tongue.

“It was my grandfather’s last name.”

“It is nice name. Vu is my grandfather’s name. Things are very same.” Vu continued to smile as the idea of having something in common settled in.

“Yea, I think I heard of that guy. Wasn’t he some kind of famous electronics guy or something?” Vern was wearing a grin that begged for more.

“No, grandfather was rice farmer. You must be thinking of a different Vu. It is very common name in Viet Nam.”

“This guys last name was Meter, Vu Meter.”, containing his laughter as Sinclair tried to figure a respectable way out of the pun.

“You take care of yourself. We’re on the way to see the Astros beat the Dodgers.” Sinclair jabbed quickly as Vern was paying for the snacks.

“In your dreams.” Vern just happened to be wearing a Dodger blue pull over shirt.

The ride to the stadium wasn’t too bad. They had left early enough that the rush hour traffic had not built up. Once in a while Sinclair could feel the coded information from the motors of cars that were in close; but it was not nearly as excruciating as when his reception was at its best. He reached into the bag and opened a sack of Cheetos. The first one was always the best.

“Hey! Save some for the game!” Vern snapped off then added, “How about passing a few my way.”

“That’s a good idea; can’t you get this bucket to move past these guys?” Sinclair tightened up as he shouted in the general direction of the red car that was ahead of them. “learn how to drive on your own time clown!”

“Houston’s Finest seems a little hostile towards the public today.” Vern quietly commented as he put his blinker. He looked for a way to get out of the lane.

“Your right; I should be more laid back.” Sinclair looked toward the driver of the red car who was oblivious to the rest of the world. “That jerk’s doin’ his check book.” Turning to Vern and then back at the other driver, Sinclair began to boil. “You know what you can do with that check book?” , leaning out of the window as he glared at him.

“You always this much fun in the car?”

“ Just getting warmed up. Bev says I need to ease off a little too.” Sinclair sat back as Vern managed to move on down the road far enough for the red car to get left behind.

“Hey, how many of those are you going to eat?” Vern reached for what was left of the Cheetos. “Leave me some, will you?”

“Sure.” The two of them devoured the small treat and were both licking their fingers as they entered the gates to the parking lot at the Dome.

“Three dollars.” The attendant held out his hand as one of the other attendants clicked another digit into the counter.

“Three dollars ! Cripes !”, reaching into his wallet and pulling out a five. He handed the bill to the attendant who had read the bill and was counting back his change.

“Two dollars, your change sir. Follow that row of cars ‘till you see the next attendant down on the right.” Vern drove to the next attendant and quickly judged the remaining walk to be about a quarter of a mile.

“Hey buddy, I have this guy on loan from the hospital. Is there a way you can get us up a little closer?” The attendant bent over as he listened; his hands cupped to fight off the glare of the late afternoon sun as it reflected off the roof of the car. Vern bent his body back, pointing out the wheel chair.

“Well, I’m not supposed to; those spaces are reserved for the season ticket holders.”, pausing momentarily as he tried to place himself in their position. “Just tell that next attendant down there that Joe said it was okay. If he gives you any static I’ll square it with him.”

“Thanks, I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this.”

“No problem. Enjoy the game.” The attendant went back to funneling cars down the row to the next attendant. Vern parked; having to explain once more about the medical need to be close to the front. Sinclair reluctantly got into the wheel chair and let Vern shuffle him across the street. The lines at the ticket windows were longer than usual because the Dodgers were in town.

“Glad I got these tickets in advance.”

“If you hadn’t. . . I know some of the officers out here. We could have sneaked in the back door.”

“I wish you had said that before I forked out eighteen bucks a piece for these tickets.”

“I like it better with a reserved seat anyway. Sometimes I end up sitting up in the cheap seats; not that I mind. Some of the best baseball fans sit in the cheap seats.”

“Then we both qualify, this is the only time I’ve ever had tickets close enough that I didn’t need field glasses to see the player’s numbers.” They went past turn stiles via a side gate so that the wheel chair would make it through. The ramps to the mezzanine level were filled with people hurrying to their seats.

“Programs ! Get your Official Proo-Grammms right here!”

“You want a program?”, reaching into his wallet again.

“Save your money Vern. I never was much on keeping up with the line; distracts too much from the game.” Returning the money to his wallet they continued in the procession of fans.

“Programs ! Get your Proooo-Grammms folks !” The sound echoed off the concrete walls and blended with the rest of the familiar ball park sounds. Sinclair felt the peaceful arms of his favorite sport embrace him as the doors to the main corridor opened. Vendors calling out, young kids darting in and out of the pressing crowd, the lingering cloud from a fat cigar all hit his senses at once.

“This is really great. Thanks for having me along Vern.”

“My pleasure; now where the hell are our seats?”, as he tried to make out the information printed on the ticket’s edge.

“Take a right and head for the security office. I want to leave this chair and see a ball game. If you won’t tell I won’t.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Why don’t you . . .”

“Look, the wheel chair ramps are only a couple of isles away from the security office. We can leave it there where it will be well taken care of and I’ll only have to walk that little bit.” Sinclair was convincing; he got out before entering the office, not wishing to make an appearance in the chair. He had worked the Dome as an extra job for several years and did not want any of the officers to see him that way. Call it macho or pride, Sinclair was going to walk into the security office on his own legs.

“This is dumb, really dumb.” Vern was mumbling to himself as he stood close enough to catch Sinclair, crossing the beer slick that covered the entrance to the office.

“Oh be quiet, and let go ‘ my arm.” Sinclair took in a deep breath as he pushed the folded up chair into a corner behind the front desk. A red, almost a silvery red haired officer sat at the desk and eyed Sinclair as he entered.

“Dosilmeyer you old fool; how’re you doing. Heard about that deal you were in. Nice to see you getting around. Are you back to work yet?” Ned Sheffield had been working the desk almost as long as there had been a Dome stadium. He had twenty four years with the Department and hadn’t been on the street for at least the last ten. He worked up in Juvenile Division, day shift with Saturday and Sundays off. It didn’t hurt that the Dome jobs were run out of his lieutenant’s office.

“Not yet, but pretty soon if I have any luck.” Sinclair did not want to spend the evening going over war stories as he nudged Vern toward the door. “Keep an eye on it for me. We’ll come back for it when the game’s over.”

“Sure thing; good to see you up and around.”

“Yea, ‘ later.” Sinclair bit his tongue as he recalled how much he loathed the worthless excuse for a police officer. How was it possible for a man to show up for so many years and do absolutely nothing. The worst thing that bothered Sinclair was that somehow Sheffield had managed to convince the lieutenant, along with most of the Department, that he was a model officer. Maybe it was because he never got into any trouble; of course its hard to get complained on if you never do anything.

“Nice guy, you work with him?” Vern tossed in as he too waved gingerly back at officer Sheffield.

“What’s the isle number again?” Sinclair avoided Vern’s question entirely.

“Two forty one, row C , seats one eleven and one twelve.” They were standing next to one of the “Red Suits” who glanced at the tickets. Taking the tickets in hand as he walked down the short blocked steps to row C ; he pointed to a pair of bright orange seats and asked the occupants to show him their tickets also. The two simply got up and left via the next isle, not having any tickets to show him.

“Those are your seats.”, handing back the stubs as he continued to watch the young men who were searching for two more empty seats further around towards right field.

“My turn to buy; how about a soda to go along with a couple of hot dogs?”

Sinclair could hardly contain his desire to pitch in his share; handing Vern a twenty.

“Sounds like a winner. Speaking of winners, the Dodgers are coming out to take infield.”, Vern never missed stride.

“You call third place, Winners ; fine with me.”

“The season is still young.”

“So’s my Aunt Tilly; Vern, its the middle of August!”

“Plenty of time; after they win tonight they’ll only be ten games ‘back of Cincinnati.”

“How long have you been taking drugs Vern?” Sinclair chortled as he flagged down the soda vendor. Holding up two fingers and passing the money, the young man stopped and sent a couple of sodas toward them. “Before we inhale these; why don’t you run get us those dogs?”, handing Vern the change. “Glad I wore my brown shoes.”, grabbing the money as he vaulted out of the chair and up to the main corridor. Several minutes passed as Vern was waiting in line for service. He got four hot dogs; no sense in going through the line twice. On his way back he stopped at the junk stand and bought a couple of caps; a Dodger cap and a Detroit cap.

“Took you long enough. What you got in the sack?”

“Just something to cover up a genetic defect. Mind you now, it was all I could find on short notice.”, placing the dark blue Detroit cap on Sinclair’s head.

“That’s one more for you, and thanks.”

“You look better all ready.”, Vern had to swallow a chunk of hot dog to keep from choking as he began to laugh.” By the way . . . did you notice that while I was away that short while. . . that my Dodgers found a hole in your defenses. Is that a three spot? Yes, it looks like the Dodgers scored three in the top of the first.”

“How come you put mustard all over this? You probably got carried away in euphoria and couldn’t help it.” Sinclair was hard pressed for a positive response. They were bombing Knepper pretty hard. In the bottom of the second the Astros picked up a run on a solo shot from Glen Davis. The game progressed and they enjoyed salted peanuts and finished off the Cheetos. The more Cheetos Sinclair ate, the more relaxed he became. He did not understand what was happening. All he knew was that the extra noise inside his head seemed to abate. The game ended with the Dodgers on top three to one. The Astros left men in scoring position in the last three innings.

Sinclair was exhausted from the intensity of the game. Vern made sure that they were the last to leave as the stands were cleared after the game. They made a slow walk to the top of the stairs and waited a while for Sinclair to get his breath back. He was at peace within himself as he could only hear the normal sounds of life, just like anyone else. He could hear the kids stomping the empty beer cups with their feet to make the loud popping echo across the great spaces of the Dome. He could here the officers blowing their whistles as they herded the last remnants of the crowd out the doors. He could not hear the radio transmissions of passing airplanes or the microwave carrier waves that emanated from the announcers both. It was wonderful as the night air greeted him outside the doors and on the short trek to Vern’s car. He caught his second wind and was alert the entire way home.

“How about a burger, fries and a shake before we get back to the hospital?” Sinclair didn’t want to let the night end.

“You sure your up to it?”

“Go for it. I can sleep in as late as I want tomorrow.”

“Glad one of us can; I have to work.”

“I’m sorry; here I am keeping you away from your family ‘till all hours of the night and . . .”

“Just giving you a hard time. A friend of mine is a wheel at Jack in the Box. He’s always giving me these coupons to try out the latest sandwiches. There’s one on Long Point just a few blocks from the hospital.” Vern’s station wagon panted its way toward the exit gates of the Dome parking lot. Twenty four thousand people were in front of them as they inched forward.

“Hey lady, I know you probably spent a lot of money to get through driving school. I just want to know on what planet you got your license?” His voice bellowed as he sarcastically attacked the woman in front of them.

“Here we go again.” Vern breathed out slowly as he avoided telling Sinclair exactly how irritating it was becoming.

“Your right; I’m being an asshole again.” Vern smiled as he ignored Sinclair’s childish lashings. Fifteen minutes later they were on the Loop and breezing along. Traffic was heavy, but moving along at a good clip. It wasn’t long before they had made the Katy exit.
“Take Wirt, if you would.” Sinclair wanted to show Vern the edge of his police beat on the way.

“No problem guy.”, finding his way over another lane as he set up to exit the freeway. Sinclair pointed out the chicken shack where he had caught a burglary suspect many years before. Vern was enjoying war stories as each location held a memory, a tale of embellished un-glory. Sinclair would have made a great fisherman the way he lavishly recounted even the simplest events.

“Burger alert, Jack in the Box coming into range.” Vern turned the bill of his ball cap up as he simulated looking into a submarine range finder scope.

“Only thing better than a late night snack is a late night snack that’s free. What’re you waitin’ on?” Vern pulled up to the drive in speaker and placed the order while Sinclair looked all around the area that he was so familiar with. He could feel the street, not some weird vibration or anything like that, but he had a working knowledge of the area. He was at home working the night shift.

“Here’s your sandwich.”, handing Sinclair an old fashioned patty melt.

“ More cheese! Jeezzzzz!”

“What’s a matter, I thought the way you scarfed all those Cheetos down that you liked cheese?”

“I guess it will be okay. I’m just not used to so much of it at one time. I guess I shouldn’t complain; my head hasn’t been this clear in months. Maybe the cheese has something to do with it.” Sinclair was just spouting words, not really putting any stock in them as he shrugged his shoulders and took a bite out of the sandwich. “Not bad, not bad at all.”

“So how long have you worked this area?”

“It will be seven years this September.”

“All of it nights?”

“Yea, I was downtown for several years before coming out here. I like this much better; its more relaxed.”

“Except when your falling off balconies.”

“Yea, except when I’m falling off balconies. It happened just a short way from here. I haven’t been there since the night of the fall. Would it be all right to drive by so I could . . .”

“No problem, I would like to see the place myself.”

“Take a left at the light; its the first group of apartments on the right.” Sinclair sat alert in the passenger seat as the old station wagon approached the scene. It was all changed. There was a large chain link fence surrounding the whole complex; it had never been there before. All the apartments were vacant; there were no lights on, not even in the court yards. About the only thing that remained the same were the piles of trash that lined the shallow drainage ditch as Vern parked the car next to the hastily erected fence.

“I wonder what’s going on here. None of this used to be here.” Sinclair looked around for a way into the complex. The chain link had been poorly fastened to the upright standards; it was easy to pull it away and slid through the gap. “Wish I had my flashlight.”

“Hold on a sec’, I have one in the glove box.” Vern went straight away and found the old two cell Ray O Vac. Sinclair was accustomed to the ten thousand candle power beam from his police flash light; he had forgotten that most of the world was still using the antiques like Vern had.

“So when are you gonna’ turn it on?”, a faint yellow beam apologized quietly into the darkness as Vern handed it to him.

“Very funny, just hold the wire back so I can get in too.”

“What’s the matter Vern? Having trouble getting all those hot dogs around the fence post?” Sinclair aimed the light at Vern’s stomach and measured the opening in the fence with it.

“How about a soda?”, reaching into his pocket for some change. “ ’ Give you something to keep you quiet for a while.”

“Not from the Killer Dr. Pepper machine; anyway we just had some.” Sinclair had not told Vern the story about the machine.

“The Killer Dr. Pepper machine? Ooooookaaaaay.” Vern let the topic drop as Sinclair laughed sinfully to himself.

“I want to go around the corner and try to walk myself through. Maybe it will clear up some of the fragments that still have me wondering.” Vern was still looking back at the lifeless soda machine as Sinclair eased his way up the first couple of steps. The stillness of the night air did not have the stress hanging with his every move. It was very peaceful. There were no gun shots echoing off the brick walls, no muffled voices from behind closed doors, no chatter from a police handi-talkie mounted on his side. Sinclair was not threatened by the situation, and yet he could feel a slight desire to be somewhere safe.

“You shouldn’t be going up stairs; you want some help?” Vern awkwardly tried to assist Sinclair. The two of them made it to the second floor. Sinclair waited for the pain in his legs to ease before letting go of the rail on the last step. The night air was heavy with fog, much the same as the night that he was trying to remember. It hung lazily from the roof as the distant lights became saucer shaped blue and white dots on the morning canvas.

He walked to the door where the fight had begun and looked at the peeled veneer, just as it had looked that night. He tried to imagine the man coming out the door, pistol in hand and how he had wrestled him for it. He spun around and noticed the railing was gone. The concrete was broken where it had been anchored. He looked back into the apartment. He remembered seeing another figure, a husky male come out and . . .

“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Are you okay?”

“I think we were pushed off that balcony. I remember seeing a man come out of the apartment just as I was getting control of the gun. We didn’t just lean up against that
railing and fall. I can almost see his face.” Sinclair closed his eyes as he concentrated.
The crow’s feet accentuated the intensity of Sinclair’s attempt to reconstruct portions of
the incident.

“Do you know what you’re saying? That makes it murder.”

“Yea, it does.” The two stood silent for a moment as the significance of the idea sank in. Sinclair looked out over the barren lot as he pondered the implications. Half a block away on the Moritz street side of the complex a car was parked, backed in. Sinclair hardly noticed at first; it was an ordinary car, nothing conspicuous. Once in a while there was a brief glint of light that would sparkle from the darkness that cloaked the general area.

“What ‘ you looking at?” Vern watched as Sinclair peered out into the darkness searching for the source of the light.

“Over there, see; there it was again.”, pointing towards the dark blue Buick. “I think we’re being watched by who ever is in that car. The light reflecting from his binoculars gave him away. There is was again; did you see it that time?”, still pointing.

“Yea, now that you mention it. Who do you suppose it is?” Vern studied the car; its lack of chrome, black wall tires and the tell tale wire on the back fender.

“Three guesses and the first two don’t count.”

“You think its a cop; but why?”

“You tell me.” Sinclair waved and smiled, a big toothy smile that reeked of sarcasm.

“Who ever it is must have seen all he wants.” Vern cackled as the two continued to wave. Off in the distance a temporary blur of red leaped from the tail lights onto the wall behind the car as the break pedal was tapped. The back up lights winked for an instant as the shifter passed from one gear to another. A splash of bright light broke through the night air and the car sulked off down the road.

Pecaw's Gift Chapter 33 / Empty

2005-05-08T16:41:00.000-07:00

In the morning, as Sinclair awoke, he rolled his head around at the base of the neck; grinding out of the last vestiges of sleep. The motion was part of his daily return to life. Taking a few deep breaths and holding them until his chest filled to its limit, releasing each one deliberately. He sat up straight at the edge of the bed as he called to his room mate.

“Good Morning.” Sinclair greeted him aloud, knowing full well that Mr. Alejandro could not hear him. It did not matter, it made Sinclair feel more alive.

“Did you have another bad night? It sounded like you were hurting earlier” Sinclair continued the conversation as if at any moment he would get a reply. “I do wish they could increase your pain medication. I can hardly stand it to hear you in such pain.”

Sinclair carefully planted his feet solidly before standing. His own knees gave out a familiar pop.. The noise bounced around the room, laughing at him as he began his limbering up exercises. “Did you hear that last one? Sounded like the old fighter jets of the Fifties when they first broke the sound barrier.”

His thoughts were quite vivid as he remembered his youth. He and his brother had heard the roar of the engines being tested at the military base. They rode their bikes to the edge of the fence, chain link and barbed wire as far as the eye could see. A tall solid metal wall kept them from seeing the actual testing area. It was the mid Nineteen Fifties; Korea was still a hot topic. There were uniformed guards posted with fierce looking German Shepherd dogs. Then, without any notice, from the other side came a thundering that shook the ground. The air became filled with dust as the blast of power strained to free its land locked experimental engine. A few moments later the test ended and the two went home. It would take several hours for the test to be analyzed before they would start the engines again; no sense in standing around for hours.

“I got to see the Blue Angels fly over one time. No, it was some other group; Grumman, I think. I can’t remember what they called themselves. At the time they must have been about the fastest planes up there. They screamed across the sky in formation and the air exploded behind them. I still look up with a certain amount of fascination when a plane passes over; just something that gets me excited.” Sinclair continued to stretch; bending to touch the floor. He was still a good six or seven inches from accomplishing the feat. He pulled the curtain back so that he could talk face to face, but the bed was empty.

“No wonder it was so quiet.” Sinclair had been talking to himself all along. Laughing to himself as he continued the slow process of retraining his body. He pulled his stomach muscles in tighter; twisting first to the left then to the right. Each time he would look in the mirror as his own image blurred back in unison. As a cadet in the Academy he had been in top condition. The daily exercise program barely broke a sweat back then; but it was much more difficult now. It was bad enough growing old, it was doubly hard with the injuries from the fall.

“Morning Dear.” Bev brightened up the room automatically as she entered. “Are you getting a new room mate? I saw Maime take Mr. Alejandro’s card from the door. I hope everything is all right. He’s been looking so, . . . what’s the word? So tired.” Sinclair turned, then walked to the door and touched the empty window plate a couple of times.

“He was in a lot of pain last night. I bet they had to go back into that leg. By the smell, I’ll bet it was infected.”

“I’ll ask Maime on my way out. He always looks so lonely. I wish his family would come to visit him. Most of the time he just lays there in his bed with an empty stare. His eyes are so sad that I hurt for him.” Bev pulled the sheets up as she made the bed. She had watched Maime many times, it seemed so natural as she tucked the corners in hospital style.

“Speaking of empty, I could sure use some breakfast. Let’s you and me go down to the cafeteria and get some sausage and eggs?”

“Sounds good. I could use a bite myself.”, Bev quickly added as she fluffed the pillow and placed it at the head of the bed. They walked down the hall, Sinclair carrying the walker more than leaning on it. In the morning he had extra energy and the pain didn’t seem to bother him as much.

“Morning Maime. How’s my favorite black woman today?” Sinclair smiled as he greeted her from a distance. Maime avoided him for a moment, then forced a smile as she nodded back to him.

“Morning Mr. Sinclair, Ms’ Bev.”

“What's the matter? Bev knows all about us by now.” As if there were a day time “Soap” in the wings. All the while he could tell that something was wrong. Maime was too quiet.

“Nothing Mr. Sinclair. I was meanin’ to come by and talk with you later, but I guess it won’t keep.” Maime looked into the stack of fresh linens that was on the cart in front of her as she spoke.

“Is it about Mr. Alejandro? I heard him last night. He was in quite a bit of pain. Did they have to operate on him again?” Sinclair studied her features. For sixteen years he had watched human expression; it was part of the job. What he saw was her intentional avoidance. She didn’t want make eye contact.

“Is he in surgery now Maime?”, feeling around for a clue as the probabilities seemed fair.

“Yes and no Mr. Sinclair.”, looking away as she took a set of sheets off the cart.

“Maime. . .”

“They took Mr. Alejandro in like you figured. . .” Maime took a breath., “. . . but he didn’t make it.” Tears welled up in her as she choked out the words.

“I knows how the two of you had become friends these last months.” Maime cleared her throat, sniffled and wiped the corners of her eyes with a corner from the sheet in her hands.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that Maime.” Bev had become a quiet friend of Mr. Alejandro’s too. Whenever she came to visit Sinclair, she made it a point to take a few minutes with him.

“Now look what I’ve gone and done.”, pointing to the folded sheet that had been used as a handkerchief. “Now I’ve got to get another one.” Maime tried to regain her composure by scolding herself. Sinclair leaned on his walker as the truth of the matter hit home.

“I don’t know what to say.” Sinclair mumbled to himself. The excess of energy that had manifest itself moments earlier was now gone. He felt the weakness take over as he transferred his weight to the frame of the walker. Slowly he picked up and made his way back to the room. Bev walked cautiously beside him as with each step he breathed laboriously.

“Why don’t we go on down for some breakfast like you said earlier. I think it will make you feel better, Dear.” Bev wanted to wrap her arms around and hold him tightly.

“Maybe later Hun’. . .” Sinclair fought off a few tears as he plodded his way down the hall. He looked into the room that he had shared for so long. There against the far wall was where his friend Alejandro had been only the night before. The sheets were perfectly made up. The night stand was devoid of clutter. The small waste basket had been emptied and a new plastic liner was in its place.

“ . . . right now I’m just too empty to eat.” Sinclair laid himself on the bed and looked out into the endless eternities of his soul. Quietly, ever so quietly he whispered out into the air, “Alejandro, are you out there where you can hear me?”

“Did you say something dear?” Bev saw his lips moving but could not discern the sounds. Sinclair either did not hear her or was ignoring her as he continued to stare straight ahead.

“He isn’t here you chowder head. He’s dead and moved on.” “Pecaw? What are you doing here?”

“Nothing much, I’ve been here for a while. I have no idea how long; time doesn’t mean much now.”

“Am I dreaming this or are you really here in the room with me?” Sinclair began to doubt his own sanity as the thoughts came out of his mouth.

“I’m here in a manner of speaking. It would cause quite a stir if I were to show myself. You can hear me because you’ve developed a very special talent. Bev can’t hear me for the same reason.”

“Who are you talking to? Sinclair are you all right?”

“I’m not sure, let me alone for a while so I can work my way through all this.” Sinclair thought his response to Pecaw, “Does she think I’m going nuts?”

“She loves you Chuckle head. She’s worried about you, that’s all. Smile, that’s it. Let her know that your okay.”

“Do you want me to let you sleep for a while Hun? I can get the nurse if you want. Oh please tell me what to do.” Sinclair opened his eyes for a moment as he walked the thin line between body and spirit. He looked thoughtfully back at Bev as she grasped firmly to his hand.

“I’m better now, I just need some sleep.”, closing his eyes and reaching out to feel of his departed grandfather’s spirit.

“Now don’t you worry about your friend Alejandro. I had a chance to talk with him right after he died. He and his father had a bunch of catchin’ up to do. His family was waiting for him and were so relieved that his pain was over.

“How did you talk with him; he’s deaf?”

“Not here he isn’t. Its like he never was deaf, never had pain, never lost his legs. Don’t you see?”

“I . . .”

“You can hear me pretty good; right?”

“Yes sir; but this is a dream, isn’t it?”

“Guess again. How is it that you can gather all that information from the computer with just a thought? Did you think that was just a dream?”

“I haven’t got that part figured out yet, but it’ll come.”

“Then tell me how you can talk to those stupid ants. Yes, I know all about the morning chats you have.”

“I still don’t know how that works either.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t claim to know how to do it either. It just is and your going to have to accept it.”

“Pecaw, now that Bev has left the room; could you . . .”

“No reason why I couldn’t.” The room quickly illuminated as the spirit of Pecaw became visible to Sinclair. His hair was perfectly ordered. When Pecaw had died of cancer, his body was withered and used up; now he stood as strong and fit as any man could hope to be. His waist was slim and his chest solid as a rock. His eyes flashed with a sparkle of confidence as they held Sinclair’s astonished gaze.

“Then I’m not going crazy?”

“No, maybe later on; but right now your doing just fine.”

Pecaw's Gift Chapter 32 / Great Legs

2005-05-08T16:17:00.000-07:00

Laura, from X-ray, came into the room around midnight with the portable. Sinclair had been asleep for about six hours, or at least his outwardly appearance gave that impression. The roar of digital information continued to bombard his senses as Laura prepared to shoot some pictures of Mr. Alejandro’s leg. Not wishing to expose Sinclair to unnecessary radiation, she took one of the shielding jackets and draped it over the desk chair. The chair was then placed in between the two patients and Laura was able to proceed.

“Thank you!”, the words rolled gratefully across the room as Sinclair’s mind was granted a brief reprieve. He sat up and let his head gyrate on his shoulders for a few moments as the cob webs of noise vanished.

“Hu ?”, not sure of any particular deed that she had done that would warrant any thanks.

“Thank you for shutting off all that noise. It’s been so loud that I couldn’t even think.” Sinclair poked a finger in his ear, as if by doing so would help.

“Yea . . .”, Laura rolled her eyes sarcastically in their sockets as she nodded her head, “ . . . right.”

Sinclair peered over the top of the protective jacket and immediately felt the blast of information that was ever present. He ducked his head quickly and the noise diminished just as quickly as it had started. He raised up again, more slowly this time, as he gauged the amount of noise that he could handle before it began to hurt.

"Okay! So what’s with the peek-a-boo routine?”

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to . . .”

“No problem. I’m just not used to it. Most of the time I come through, take my pictures and go without anyone noticing me at all.”, straightening her posture just a little.

"It was the noise, or I should say the lack of noise. I was trying to figure out what you did to shut it off. It must be that flack jacket.”, pointing to the chair.

“So . . . the sleeping beauty has been awakened.” Pat from the nurses station was making the rounds. She enjoyed heckling Sinclair, mostly because he was a cop, but down deep she kind of liked him. She took his pulse and studied his skin color. The data was charted as she continued to talk without breaking stride. “So . . . Laura . . . has he been behaving himself or is that chair there to keep him off of you?” Her laugh was fun to hear as she tried to embarrass both of them.

“Give me a break.”, pulling a few strands of graying hair from her curled tresses. Sinclair thought carefully of what to say; his own wife had about the same delicate mixture of spent youth on display.

“I kind of like the view.”, clearing his throat as he made sure to nod a vote of admiration towards Laura.

“Cops . . . they’re all the same.”, Pat spun off. “If they’re not writing you a traffic ticket they’re lookin’ up your dress!” She smiled and pranced a little as she breathed out a deep raspy sort of laugh. Sinclair leaned back, his arm bent neatly to support his head, as he watched Pat strut by the end of his bed. He was glad to have the screeching noises out of his head, or at least most of it. He was still picking up a fair amount of noise from the airplanes that passed by every now and again.

“You still hot about that cop that wrote you last week?” Pat had been ticketed for speeding, sixty in a fifty mile per hour zone. Actually she had been going closer to sixty eight and had been given a small break. Pat was miffed anyway; nurses were supposed to get a better deal than that.

“I’m not angry at all.”, her brow taking a bend as it made an arch , “He just better not get shot while I’m on duty. It might take a while longer . . . You know . . . doing everything by the book.”

“She’s still pissed off.”, Laura injected the obvious.

“Not that I’d let something like a traffic ticket interfere with my professional duty . . .” Pat let a naughty smirk rest momentarily as her eyes flashed the hidden fantasy of sweet and total revenge.

“Yea, I think your right.” Sinclair looking down to the linoleum as he muffled his laughter, only slightly.

“Maybe I should have gotten out of the car; you know, to let him get a better view. . .”, pausing at the chair. She tugged at her greens, allowing a portion of natural skin to gradually appear. The white tube socks didn’t help; she continued to draw the loose fitting material higher until it cleared the lower calf.

“Point made, nice legs.”, Laura tossed in; wishing to move past the subject quickly.

“I da’ know, look a might thin to me.” Sinclair jabbed directly; having found a weak spot in her armor.

“Thin? What do you mean thin?”, pulling even more of the light green scrubs up over the knee as she flexed and displayed the nearly perfect limb from side to side.

“I guess I’m used to a more firm type”, making sure to cast a generous flirt in Laura’s direction.

“Thank you.” Laura smiled, an air of renewed confidence managed to ignite the roses in her cheeks.

“Delta seven five nine’r moving to fifteen thousand; have visual on Southwest’s seven thirty seven at eleven oh clock.” Sinclair’s mouth moved and the sounds came out. He could not understand why he had spoken the words; they just were there in his head.

“Say what?” Laura did a double take, extra body English as her hands accentuated the move. Her fingers curled in unison, the nails flickered as they came to rest on her hips.

“Oooooowheeeeeoooooohhh !” Sounding like a stage prop for the Kraft Mystery Hour, Pat chimed in. Sinclair tilted his head and raised his eyebrow slightly as the echo of his words reverberated in his mind.

“I tell you . . . I just heard that from an airplane that was passing by . . . Honest!” His hands flexed meekly as he tried to convince them of the truth.

“I need to get the rest of my portables done. Why don’t I just leave you two in here to sort this all out?” Laura moved away from the bed and engaged the motorized wheels of the X-ray machine. The electric motor quietly whirred as Laura guided it carefully out of the room and down the hall.

“Could you switch that computer on for me?” Sinclair could have done it easily, but wanted to include Pat while he struggled within himself.

“Sure, no problem.” Pat toggled the power on, watching his every move. She studied the shaking of his hands, ever so slight, and the serious stare that fixed his eyes to the monitor.

“Come on, come on ! Come on, come on! Why does it take so long?” Sinclair was impatient with the few seconds that delayed his viewing of the monitor, views of his own thoughts as the screen began to glow. The computer completed its power up and the information danced across the screen.

“Come on, come on ! Come on, come on! Why does it take so long?” His most recent thoughts displayed themselves quickly and neatly, light blue letters on a black background.

"I love it when you do that. I mean . . . that’s . . that’s the word? Neat, . . . no better than neat. Weird or something. How the hell do you do that anyway?” Pat had only seen him express his thoughts on the computer a few times. Most of the time he left the monitor off and let the voice synthesizer do all the work. Her words instantly appeared on the screen as quickly as they were uttered.

“I was hoping that it would catch that sound I was hearing in my head, but it’s gone now.” A distant look, a longing for peace enveloped Sinclair as he tried disparately to regain the lost moment.

“What did it sound like?” Pat quietly pushed for some clue that would let him return to the real world. “Was it the airplane or something else?”

“No. . . It was a warm feeling. . . kind of like a hug or something like that; only it came from out of the blue, mixed in with all the other transmissions.” Sinclair could not put his finger on it. He kept his eyes closed and tried to block out all his thoughts. It was like being awakened from a dream too soon. He wanted to slide back into the warm covers and prolong the feeling that had just escaped him.

“Earth to Sinclair . . .”, Pat quietly interrupted. The muscles in his face had began to relax. Each line on his forehead became smooth as the tensions of life disappeared systematically and he faded into himself. She watched as his jaw line unclenched and dropped half an inch or so. His shoulders dropped back and his arms fell to his side. Sinclair had learned to use small amounts of free time to relax. He found that even a ten or fifteen minute break, when properly directed, could be just as relaxing as a two hour nap.

“Well at least the noise has stopped.”, opening one eyelid and panning the room. The blur of color entered but did not register reality to Sinclair’s relaxed attitude. The chocolate had run the course and his system was no longer super sensitive. “I feel like I could sleep for a week and never get up. Could you turn the lights off on your way out the door?” Sinclair lay his head on the pillow; adjusting its shape slightly for a more perfect fit.

“So what do you think? Have I got a great pair of legs?” Pat was talking to herself. Sinclair was fading out of it and there she was, wanting to talk; wanting a little reassurance. She shrugged her shoulders and once again pulled up the material, just enough to clear the calf of her leg. “I got good legs . . . yea!” The screen came back on, her back to it as she continued to fantasize. She longed for someone to flatter her, to whisper soft romantic words in her ear, to peel away the course defensive veneer and find the fragile woman that was hiding inside of her.

“They really are nice. Now go away and let me sleep.” The words appeared momentarily then disappeared as his thoughts turned to other areas of expression. Pat had not seen; it might have helped her feel better about herself. She let the green cotton cuff fall back as she regained her composure.

“Hey Laura, wait up. Did I tell you about the guy at the Post Office?” Pat quickly got out the door and was back in the grove, boisterously depicting the real and imagined antics of life as it passed her by.

Chapter 31 / Short and Sweet

2005-04-03T12:25:00.000-07:00

“Chirp . . . Cheerip . . . Chireap.” The muted sound came around the corner into Sinclair’s room. It was a familiar noise; J. D. had one of those Audubon Society bird calling devices. One year while on vacation Sinclair had picked it up; just a small gift to bring back to let J. D. know that he had been thought of. It became one of those little annoyances; a chirp in roll call to disrupt a bulletin being read, a cheerip in the hall while waiting for his pay check, or a chireap when the mike was open. J. D. had kept it in his pocket all through the years.

“Come on in; the door’s open J. D.”

“How’d you know it was me ?”, a smile and laugh made its way across the rounded face. J. D. never had trouble finding his way to the dinner table. His hand was still twisting away as the chirping continued.

“One of these days your gonna’ turn a corner and a three hundred pound robin will be looking back at you. What are you gonna’ do then?”

“ ‘Hope like hell its already had dinner. So, how ’re you doin’; don’t look too bad to me?”, J. D. giving him the once over. “You never was too good lookin’ to begin with. Why ‘ you in here?”

“They’re still doing some tests; a few more days of this and I’ll be talking to myself.” Sinclair was already nearing the “expert” level when it came to talking to himself.

“ ‘ Know what you mean. They had me stay an extra week just to keep a check on my blood cell count after the operation for my throat cancer. Hell, its always been . . .”, his face turning red as the vessels in his neck swelled.

“Take it easy.” Sinclair was reminded of the time the Blood Bank turned J. D. away because his blood didn’t sink to the bottom of the little blue test tube. He had stormed out, vowing never to give blood again; his ego having been bruised. The two would stop in while walking the beat at least three or four times a year to donate. Sinclair had presented them with a wooden plaque to hang on the wall; nothing fancy, just a shoulder patch from an old shirt glued to a polished crest of wood. A small brass plate had been added to make it look more official. “H. P. D. Watering Hole # 5”

“ . . . good; always been good.” Sinclair was the only one who knew about the blood donor deal. J.D. figured he needed to defend his blood just one more time.

“Hey, its no big deal. Why don’ you take a look at that letter I was tellin’ you about?”, reaching over to the desk and handing him the envelope. The muscles relaxed allowing the veins to drain. J. D. let the moment pass; growling under his breath as he got in another expletive.

“This looks interesting.”, his voice tapering as he turned the paper at an angle, letting the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminate the minor indentions made in the paper.

“What’s that?”

“Who ever wrote this used his off hand. See?”

“No, I don’t see. Show me.”

“See there, how the line pushes unevenly into the paper; and there, where the curve of that loop . . .” J.D. pointed to the letter O as he tried to teach Sinclair some basic rules to analyzing handwriting.

“If you say so; but it just looked to me like some idiot with little or no education wrote it.”

“It was intended to. See how the ink smeared right there? That was caused by the palm of a left hand as it was dragged across the paper. Who ever wrote this used their left hand, intentionally to make it look crude, as if some ignoramus had did it.”

“Done it.”

“Yea, and quit correcting me; I never did like it when you did that.”

“Sorry, go on. How can you tell that the person normally writes with the other hand?”

“The pen would have indented the paper much more evenly.”, grabbing a piece of paper to illustrate. “First, with my right hand . . .” J.D. wrote a few words on the paper. “. . . now with my left. See where the paper almost tore when I used my left hand; and I was trying hard to keep it smooth.”

“Okay, I see what you mean.”

“Who did you say was working your incident ? Dribble, wasn’t it?” J.D. putting the paper aside as he conjured up Dibble’s features in his mind.

“That’s right; why? You know something about him that I should?”

“Not really; just some rumors.”

“So what kind of rumors?”

“Nothing much; something about his having friends linked to organized crime. He’s been under investigation for the past several months; nothing solid has come of it.”

“He always did have lots of fancy jewelry hanging around his neck.” Sinclair looked over at the large chunks of nugget gold on J. D’s wrist and fingers; waiting momentarily for an explanation for the apparent windfall.

“Now just a second. When I quit smoking those damned cigars I had three and a half dollars a day that I could spend on something else; that’s a hundred dollars a month.”

“Not a bad way to quit smoking. Looks nice, now all you need to do is go on a diet and you’d be driving a Cadillac too.”

“That reminds me. I stopped off at the store and picked up a bar of that German Chocolate; the kind you like so much. I figured you could use a change of pace after eating all that hospital stuff.”

“All right !” , reaching his hand out as J.D. withdrew the large kitchen size bar from his brief case. Sinclair took the green outer wrapper off carefully, not wishing to destroy it. The deep cut letters in each square spelling B A K E R S petitioned his indulgence.

“ Want a piece ?” , breaking off the row of B’s.

“Just one square, thanks.” J.D. accepting the offer even though he wasn’t much of a chocolate fan. Sinclair was, on the other hand, already dissolving the first chunk in his mouth. The warmth of his tongue unlocked the chocolate opiate’s aroma. His eyes rolled all the way back in their sockets as he received the “fix”.

“Ohhhh; That’s good!”, taking a second to digest. He let the vapors reserculate through his nasal passages; breathing the memory of the last swallow, arousing the subtle brain functions of pleasure. Most people gulped their chocolate too fast to enjoy the sensory ecstasy offered by the curious confectionery.

“Sorry you didn’t like it.” J.D. laughed as he watched his ex-partner wallowing in boyish delight.

“Yea, that first piece was no good; ‘ better try another to get that taste out of my mouth.” Sinclair reciprocated as the next square made it past his lips.

“Didn’t Dribble and some other guy get into some trouble a few years back; something about improper use of the Department’s computer information?”

“I wouldn’t know about it unless it hit the papers.”

“This never made it outside; ‘ got hushed up. He was selling background files or something to some security company. I think the whole thing stunk to high heaven. The investigation was pushed through by one of his old partners. You know the guy, Perry, works Internal Affairs.

“I remember now; Fletcher, yea, R.D. Fletcher was his partner when all that was going on. He retired and moved to Florida.”

“Retired my foot, they had him against the wall. It was leave or get fired.”

“I suppose; but it still don’t seem right to . . .”

“To what?”, J.D. cocking his brow as he chomped at the imaginary cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“I was only trying to give him the benefit of the . . .”, being cut off as J.D. continued to burn.

“To hell with him; he was as dirty as they come.” J.D. was red faced and puffing as he tramped around the room.

“Doesn’t.”, Sinclair injected the one word sentence and grinned.

“Doesn’t what? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Earlier; I said it don’t seem right; shoulda’ been doesn’t.” Sinclair laughed as J.D. stood dumb struck.

“Enough of this; I gotta’ get back to work.” J.D. didn’t like the word games that Sinclair played. He always felt he was being made fun of.

“Don’t run off yet; I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“Naw, I got to. . .”, stopping momentarily as he caught himself, “I’ve got to work on some of these files or my butts in the ringer.”

“I guess a short visit is better than no visit at all.”

“I’ll come by again later, after I find out what the heck is goin’ on with this investigation.” J.D. latched his brief case and grabbed his umbrella.

“Glad you got to come and thanks again for the chocolate.”

“Any time; partner, anytime.”

“Good thing you brought your umbrella, huh?”

“Well would you look at that? Its pourin down rain out there. How’d you know it was gonna rain?”

“One of my ants . . . “, Sinclair whipped as he began to drift out of the conversation. He was distracted by a sudden infusion of digital information.

“482169775311kpslmxx1255556”, shaking his head to clear the steady stream of unrelated data, seemingly random bits of data passed through the air and landed in his consciousness. Garbled and unrecognizable as they bombarded his faculties all at once; it made him dizzy and nauseated.

“Your aunt? How’s she do it?” Sinclair could not hear the words. It was like having twenty or thirty stereo units on full blast, each one playing a different station. He heard the waves of computer codes, intended to make modern cars run smoothly, crashing relentlessly on the shores of his sanity. Reams of electronic data; thousands of individual spark plug firing instructions, emission valve orders, and temperature monitorings of each car that passed. Every radio wave that passed through his room; citizen band, police, mobile telephone conversations, commercial broadcasts, even the pulses from Mr. Alajandro’s quartz crystal watch buzzed in Sinclair’s head. What had been filtered out was now an interminable blasting on his nerves. The roar was intense; he reached to cover his ears.

“I’m sorry. . .”, believing that he was talking too loudly, “ . . . Once in a while I forget that I'm the one who’s hard of hearing.” J.D. reached to adjust the flesh colored hearing aid that was neatly tucked away in the recess of his ear. Sinclair slumped lifelessly into the pillow; having lost control of his auditory environment.

“Hey . . . ‘ you okay?”, leaning over to appraise the sudden change; J.D. saw that Sinclair was not responding. He found the call button that was attached to the edge of the bed and pushed it, several times in rapid succession.

Inside Sinclair’s head the coded instructions bounced and ricocheted as the seemingly random instructions could find no place to rest. His mind was trying desperately to assimilate the information.

“34560-43579034759273458-98598528672
7698729672734597234967340957973457
b8549793457971 0jnvnbhfcn180979875
iplkwerf9-q0703i51
85749179384uo1u2i359817235y08roielsfghq2
93845712309p5i1ltq2499187
80495iotlfa70u8iosrkjtuqj;l2i3rf09ioq24y508ou
ik23jrf08iqio094
904uilqwje08thouhqo4u-pe9toijfp9uj
198rfp;i3qp;i4tou4jo. . .”

“Can I ask you to wait in the hall?” The nurse tapped on J.D’s shoulder as she motioned for him to exit the room. She saw that Sinclair’s breathing was not hampered and reached to take his pulse.

“Is he all right?” J.D. asked quietly, not wishing to interrupt and yet anxious.

“Please, wait in the hall. I’ll be with you in a few moments.” She counted silently to herself while taking his pulse. There was nothing to indicate a problem. His breathing rate was well within limits as were all the rest of his vital signs. She leaned out the door and asked J.D. to come back in.

“Is he all right?”

“I think so. What happened that made you think he was in some kind of trouble?”

“We were talking and all the sudden he grabbed his ears as if he were in pain; then he just fell back and was out of it.” J.D. acted out the part; holding his own ears for effect.

“Did he tell you what was causing the pain or anything?”

“No, he just fell back into the bed and had a blank look on his face. That’s what got me worried.”

“Well he seems to be sleeping comfortably now. He did have a very strenuous day. The sleep will do him good.”

“I guess so; but he sure fell out in a hurry. Could you keep an eye on him?”

J.D. let the last words fall more slowly as he looked to the nurse for the proper response.

“He just needs some sleep. You go on and I’ll stay for a while; go on now.”, letting her hands sweep him out of the room.

In the room just above Sinclair’s there was a man making a telephone call. He sat quietly holding the receiver to his ear as he watched the computer screen in front of him. “Good evening, Mr. Sanderson’s office; how may I help you?” The voice of the secretary was coldly professional. The call had come in on a private line that wasn’t common knowledge.

“Yea this is Moe; I need to talk to Mr. Sanderson.”

“ Mr. Sanderson has gone for the day; may I take a message and have him get back with you tomorrow?”

“I know that’s your standard answer to give; but if he’s still back in his office, tell him that there’s a change in the status of file number sixty one.”

“Mr. Sanderson has gone for the . . .”, being cut off as she was in the middle of her response.

“Cut the crap sister and just give him the message.” Moe hung up the phone and returned to watching the computer screen. The numbers and letters flew across the monitor in flashes of mumbles and gibberish. Once in a while a recognizable word or two would stand out; but for the most part it was a mass of pure confusion. The phone rang and he picked it up.

“Moe here.”

“My secretary tells me that you were rude and that I should fire you.” There was a hint of laughter as the words hit the receiver, “ So; what has you calling me at this late hour?”

“Hey, I’ve no complaint with the way she does her job. If your happy; I’m happy.” Moe blurted out with no emotion, “That file you had me working on has some new pages that may be of interest. Why don’t you come take a look?”

“Thank you Moe. I’ll be over in a few minutes; and try to be a little nicer to Julie. She’s a very good secretary and is only doing her job the way I’ve instructed her to.”

“No problem here, boss.” Moe had been performing odd jobs for Mr. Sanderson for several years. Moe’s job was to follow instruction without asking too many questions, anything from shining shoes to polishing cars. He had no special talent that would be listed on a resume; but he was loyal past the point of doubt to Mr. Sanderson, and that alone was his meal ticket. If Mr. Sanderson asked him to kill somebody, Moe would probably do it without a second thought.

“Then I’ll see you as soon as I finish with what I have here. Thank you for calling Moe.” Mr. Sanderson handed the phone to Julie who was standing at the end of his executive desk.

“Will there be anything else, Sir?”

“If you would, have those papers ready regarding that property acquisition for the hospital. I will need to have them in the morning.” He paused for a moment as he looked over to her, “I’ve instructed Moe to be more considerate. I don’t think he meant to make you angry. Try to remember that he hasn’t the benefit of a formal education and is apt to be annoying once in a while.” He smiled, more of a reminder than a smile as he completed the suggestion.

“Yes sir; I understand. The file on the Moritz property is nearly complete now. It will only take an hour or so to finish.” Julie backed out of the room while she nodded acceptance of her employment role.

“Then I leave it in your capable hands.”, his attention returned to the items on his desk as Julie closed the door. He unlocked one side of his desk from underneath and opened the file drawer that he alone had access to. Scanning a small array of off white folders, he grasped the one labeled, “File Sixty One”. He leafed through it momentarily, catching up on the major points of interest. He rolled his finger tips a couple of times on the edge of the mahogany trim to break the silence of the large room. Returning the folder to its place in the file drawer he secured it to the locked position and got up from his chair. There was a brass coat rack off to the side of his desk; his right arm went back instinctively for his suit jacket. It was a dark navy with gray pin stripping accents, summer weight wool of the finest quality with silk lining. The suit was hand tailored; not the department store variety. His wallet was slender and long, holding only a few necessary items without causing the line of the material to bend. He exited the office via a back door and walked to a service elevator at the end of the corridor.

“You’re looking very smart today Mr. Sanderson.” One of the porters bowed as he continued mopping the right hand side of the floor.

“Thank you Reggie. I’m always pleased with the quality of your work here at the hospital.” Reggie had been a porter at the hospital for twelve years. The floors were always clean and polished to perfection. The elevator door opened and closed leaving Reggie to continue the never ending task.

“If they’s so good; how ‘bout a raise?”, talking to the floor; careful to insure that he was not overheard. He swabbed over the foot prints that had just been left.

The elevator stopped on the fifth floor and Mr. Sanderson strode with authority past the nurses station. He did not slow down to allow time for them to greet his presence; only a casual nod in their direction, “Good evening, ladies.” During the day it was common for the Director to be seen on the floors; but late in the evening, his presence caused a mild stirring. He made his way to room five sixteen and knocked as he opened the door.

“Evenin’ boss. Have a look see.”, pointing to the screen that continued to flash reams of data at a lightning fast pace.

“How long has this been going on?” Mr. Sanderson fixed his eyes on the computer monitor.

“I noticed it started about twenty minutes ago. I checked all the other readings too. All his vital signs show to be all right. What do you make of it?”

“Was there anyone in the room with him just prior to this change or did the nurse give him any medication that might have triggered this?”

“Some cop friend of his was visiting with him. I have it all here on the tape recorder. I don’t think they gave him any drugs or anything like that. He just got real tired and fell off to sleep.”

“You did just fine Moe. I’ll take the tape and you start another one.”, removing the reel from the large professional style recording unit.

“This guy is some kind of wierdo, huh boss?”

“Something like that. I have a dinner engagement to attend downtown. If you need me you have my pager number.”

“Okay boss.” Moe put a new recording tape on the machine and continued his vigil. He had followed targets before; it was much easier having one a room directly under him.

Chapter 30 / Saved

2005-04-03T11:55:00.000-07:00

Sinclair turned on the light and left the door partially open as he led Eva into the room. He waved to Mr. Alejandro to let him know that he was back and had a visitor. Simple gestures like waving and greeting people as he walked had taken on added dimension. He was more than aware of his having been given a second chance at living. He attacked each moment will all his energies; often to the point of collapse.

“Let me close the door for you.”, Eva moved to push it.

“No, that’s the way I would prefer to have it; wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. You know how hospital rumors get around.” Sinclair took the opportunity to take in the full beauty of her figure, head to toe. “Yes, leave it open.”, as he turned away, nodding to himself; he switched the computer on.

“Okay.”, not really grasping at first, then blushing as she measured his glance. Sinclair waited for the orange glow of the monitor screen to come on before explaining how it all worked. While he had taken it with him to therapy sessions many times, he had never gone into any detailed explanation of how the unit worked. Eva sat patiently in the chair as he pointed to the various components; describing the function of each one.

“This is the heart of the synthesizer. It makes the words that are in the computer sound like human sounds. We spent several hours programming the individual qualities that make it sound like a specific human being.” He switched the screen to display the Attribute Selection Menu.

“You said we; who’s we?”

“Oh, you mean Vern, Vern Rylan. He’s a friend of mine; works on all the electronic stuff here at the hospital.

“So the two of you just fiddle with the sound until it matches what your hearing?”

“In a nut shell, yes.” Let me surprise you with some data that is saved to memory.” Sinclair thought for a moment; the computer paused, then immediately played back the selection that had been stored away.

“ ‘ Be right with you; gotta’ finish up with this first.” It was Eva’s voice, as if recorded by a hidden microphone.

“That sounds like me. So where’d you get that?”, exhibiting bewilderment. Sinclair put his finger to his lips as he motioned for her to be quiet, turning his attentions to the sounds that were being created by the computer. No “recording” had been made, at least no tape recording in the usual sense. The words spoken had been heard by Sinclair and redirected into the computer’s memory. The playback continued.

“Okay, so where’s this cop; or is he invisible?” Her face responded favorably as she recognized the conversation. Waiting for the next words, her ear bent slightly toward the speaker, anticipating her own words. She mouthed them, precisely only a moment before the sound came out. “Dr. Chatterly . . .”

“I’m sorry . . . he’s just outside.” Looking over to where Sinclair sat on the corner of the bed, applauding with her eyes. Eva listened; the synthesizer mimicked the original sound of Dr. Chatterly's voice very well.

“That’s Dr. Chatterly all right! Even the hesitation as his words got caught in his throat sounded the same.” The more she listened the more she wanted to hear.

“Mr. Dosilmeyer I’m Eva. Dr. Chatterly tells me that you are here to use our facilities.” Sinclair extended his hand as he too remembered how inviting the first meeting had been. The computer had given Eva’s voice a silkiness. It landed on the ear gently, almost lovingly. Eva picked up on it and wondered how many hours Sinclair had spent to create the effect. It was very flattering to have been “saved” in such a pleasant way.

“That is remarkable. How many people did you say were; how did you put it, saved to memory?” Sinclair was unaware that by spending so many hours manipulating and creating certain specific voices; intricacies of his own personality had surfaced. He was like an open book for all to read.

“Like I told you earlier, there’s Bev, Maime Stuart, Vern Rylan, Dr. Gwyne, Dr. Chatterly and you.” Sinclair had explained that to her just a short time ago. He wondered how she could have forgotten so quickly.

“Could I here some more? Something different; something from Dr. Gwyne. I used to work in the E. R. when I first started here. I’d like to here what you think he sounds like.”

“I not think that American’s treat minorities with respect; make things difficult for us.” The oriental snapping off at the end of certain words, almost silencing the last two letters, was pretty close; but lacked something. He had stereotyped all Orientals who had learned English as a second language.

“ I know, it sounds kind of flat. I didn’t spend that much time on his.” Sinclair discounted the lack of effort. He had not intended to play back that particular voice, at least not for someone who was listening so intensely.

“How come my voice sounds so . . .”, thoughtfully reaching for words that would describe what she perceived to be almost a flirtation of sound. “. . . how do I put it?”

“Sexy?; that’s because the first time I heard you talking with Dr. Chatterly that’s what I heard too. Does it bother you that I included that tonal quality? I could change it; make it sound a little less romantic.” Sinclair thought for a moment; the computer screen flashed and it was done.

“How come my voice sounds so . . .”, only now the voice was bland, having virtually no appeal of any kind. Eva listened to the adjusted voice; her face devoid of expression.

“I like it the other way too.” Sinclair changed it; only his time taking it just one notch short of afternoon delight.

“How come my voice sounds so . . .”, a sultry provocative sound oozed across the room.

“That’s what I call the Kathleen Turner sound. Great huh?”

“I think you’ve made your point. Could you adjust it back to where it was?” Eva smiled as she envisioned a secluded isle covered with palm trees, water falls and a beach to lay on as the summer sun ducked behind evening clouds on the ocean.

“A penny for you thoughts.” Sinclair waited as the distant look faded from her and she was again in the same room.

“Not for sale.” Eva looked at the computer as if it were alive. Realizing that the computer was only an extension of Sinclair’s thoughts, Eva avoided looking at him.

“Something the matter?”

“No, I was just wondering when your wife was coming. I need to get home to get dinner started.” Eva felt uncomfortable as she stood up and went to the window.

“Would you like to talk to some ants?” Sinclair was not sure what he had done.

“What?” Eva had rested on the window sill, looking out across the parking lot, where her car had been only a short while ago. She heard something that didn’t fit, something about ants.

“Ants, would you like to talk to those ants on the other side of that window?”

Eva looked; sure enough, there was an endless track of ants marching along an invisible
corridor at the edge of the brick work.

“Sure, right.” Eva looked back over her shoulder. A smile, similar to the one that hit Dr. Chatterly the first time that Sinclair had been to the pool, beamed from her face. Her child like enthusiasm wishing to believe the impossible and at the same time skeptical of such a preposterous feat.

“Good afternoon.” Sinclair concentrated on the line of ants.

“Give me a break. You expect me to believe that the ants just said that.” Eva rolled her eyes back exaggerating her total disbelief. “They told me it was the other guy who landed on his head.” Eva knew immediately that she had said the wrong thing. Sinclair closed his eyes and took in a breath as his insides chewed on him. Defending himself automatically, his words came out sharply.

“I don’t expect you to believe anything.” Eva looked at Sinclair and then back to the ants. The column had come to a halt. One of the ants had walked up on the window, away from the rest.

“We must be going now. Enjoy the sunshine for tonight it will rain.”

“You are putting me on, right?” Eva watched as the lone ant returned to its position and the line again moved forward. She studied Sinclair as he answered; hoping that he would forgive her careless remark.

“They never stop very long. It’s their military way of life.” Sinclair was not sure how to explain how the ants knew about the change of weather. Scientists had studied insects and how they acted strangely before earthquakes. There were many things that the lower life forms could teach the human race.

“Goodbye.” Eva quietly breathed out, not wishing Sinclair to hear.

“They said thank you.”, relaying the ants reply.

“So who’s this that you have talking to the ants?” Bev walked in; having found the door open, she didn’t knock.

“Hun, this is Eva; I’m sorry, but I don’t know your last name.” Sinclair was blank as to how to proceed as he turned back hoping that Eva would finish.

“Eva Fiarona, I work in the Physical Therapy Department. You must be Bev. He has told me so much about you; I feel as if we were already friends.” Eva felt more at ease having Bev in the room.

“Bev Dosilmeyer.”, reaching to shake hands. Bev felt a twinge of rivalry; wondering how to compete with such a young and attractive woman. The hospital issued skirt and blouse looked as if it had been tailored especially for her; matching her olive skin tones perfectly. Bev completed the greeting; smiling only after Sinclair’s eyes met with her own. Sinclair’s wink gave Bev the confidence needed to confirm the love stored in his heart.

“Hun, Eva needs a ride home. They repo’d her car from the parking lot this afternoon. Would you mind?”

“I’d be glad to. Where do you live?”

“Not too far from here. I could try my brother again.” Eva went to pick up the phone.

“Nonsense; I’m already here. It won’t be any trouble at all. You can tell me what you do for my Sinclair on the way there.” Bev made it a point to be possessive as she structured her reply.

“Hun . . .”, handing Sinclair a letter that had been left, “. . . I found this in the mail today. I thought it looked a little odd; not having a stamp on it and no address either. See . . .”, pointing to letter with only the name Dosilmeyer .

Sinclair held the envelope up to light but could see nothing. He slit the top off and removed the one page letter. Sinclair read to himself and folded the letter carefully, placing it back inside the envelope.

“Well, what did it say?” Bev watched as the lines on his forehead deepened.

“Eva, could you wait out in the hall for a moment? I need to talk to Bev.” A serious look, his “policeman’s face” found its way back from the long vacation it had taken.

“Sure, no problem.” Eva wasn’t sure what had been in the letter; didn’t want to know. The door closed quietly behind her.

“Where did you say you found this letter? Its important.”

“It was in with the rest of the mail. I found it on the floor under the mail slot. Is anything the matter?”

“Here, take a look.” Sinclair made sure to hold the letter exactly as he had before; not wishing to disturb any finger prints that may have been left. “Don’t touch! Just look.” The letter had been hand written on plain white paper, no ruled lines.

“It should have been you that died in the fall.”

“Oh my, who would send you such a hateful letter?”

“I don’t think it was sent. I think it was hand delivered. How else would it have gotten there, no stamp, no address?”

“It was on the top of the stack, now that you mention it.”

“Let me call that Sargent in Homicide Division. Maybe he can offer some help.” Sinclair dialed the number without even a glance at the phone, having called it so many times.

“I think you should spend some time with your father this week. Why don’t you and the children go fishing or something.”

“That didn’t sound like a question. You don’t want me to stay at the house; do you?” Bev waited for an answer but Sinclair had gotten through to Homicide.

“Let me speak with Sgt. Dribble, please; this is Officer Dosilmeyer.” The desk clerk quietly looked over the roster.

“He’s not in today. I think he started his vacation; let me check . . . Yes, he took the next two weeks off. Would you like to talk with one of the others?”

“Who’s there today; could you read me the list?”

“Let’s see; there’s Abernathy, Bowles, Cook, Franklin . . .”

“Keep going.”

“Givens, Kennedy, McDade, Needlhalter, Pearson, Tucker and White.”

“Let me talk with White; he knows me.”

“Just a moment while I ring his office.”

“I know this guy from a long time ago.” cupping the phone, “He’s okay.”

“White here. What can I do for you?” Sinclair listened to the voice, not recognizing it.

“Is this J. D. White; worked Point Control years ago?”

“Yea, who’s this?”

“M.S. Dosilmeyer, remember me?”, glad to have hit the right one.

“Oh yea; heard about your accident. Sorry to hear about it. You back to work yet?”

“I’m still trying to get out of this danged hospital. Hey, I hardly recognized you at first, what’s with you?”

“I know, hardly recognized myself after they cut that cancer out of my throat; damned cigars ate a whole in me.”

“You always did have one of those ugly green ones hanging out the corner of your mouth. Didn’t know; did they get it all out, the cancer I mean?”

“Yea, had to quit smoking though. Hey, I know you called to talk about something other than my cigars. What’s on your mind?”

“I just got a strange letter, more like a threat. I wanted Dribble to take a look at it since he was the one assigned to work the case.”

“Oh, what’d it say?”

“All it says is, It should have been you that died in the fall. That's all. My wife found it with the rest of the mail on the floor below the mail slot. There was no stamp and no address on it.”

“No stamp, no address; you say it was on the floor with the rest of the mail?”

“That’s what she said.” Bev was nodding as she listened intently. “As soon as I saw what it was I put it away. Maybe there could be some finger prints . . .”

“Yea, sounds like you better have him take a look at it; but before you do, why don’t you let me look at it too. I just transferred over from Forgery; maybe I can help.”

Changing the subject and laughing before he spoke, a devious little boy at the heart of it,
“Farted in any elevators lately?” J. D. was crude to the bottom line. He would wait until the doors were closed and the elevator was jammed full before expelling any gas that had built up.

“I knew there was a reason for my wanting to work alone.”

“Hey, you take care of yourself and save that letter for me; before that jerk Dribble gets his paws all over it; okay?”

“Sure thing J. D.”, then adding, “Why don’t you take a lunch break out this way; I’ll even buy you a cup of coffee.”, thinking of the first time they had been assigned as partners. There had been a major restructuring of the Department. Officers were given new partners and new areas to ride. It had been a cold Winter morning, Sinclair was driving with J. D. as shot gun. J. D. never did like to drive; Sinclair, on the other hand was never too comfortable when someone else was at the wheel. They had gone to the local Stop and Go for a hot cup; Sinclair a hot chocolate and J. D. for his coffee. Each took a sip, sitting in their respective positions as Sinclair threw it in gear.

“Son of a . . .” Each word highlighted as J. D. hit a higher octave. The fresh coffee, still steaming, hit the dark blue material of his trousers. Looking at Sinclair as if there was a motive; some plot to rid himself of a lousy partner; J. D. ranted and raved.

“Any officer with as many years on the force as you should certainly be expected to hold a simple cup of coffee while the car is moving.” Sinclair had laughed at J. D. as he showed him the technique of holding the Styrofoam cup, thumb at the top and ring finger on the bottom; the cup gently bobbing as the car eased on down the road.

J. D. was angry; he’d been shown up. He clamed up for the next couple of days; the silent treatment. After a few days, Sinclair found a way to buy J. D. a cup of coffee,
sort of a peace offering. From that day on they got along well enough to put up with each other.

“I still have a red mark from the first cup. Let me grab a folder from the “Lew’s” desk; make it look like I’m working.”

“Great, haven’t had too many visitors. You’d think I had the plague.” Sinclair was glad to have an old buddy; someone he could depend on for an honest reaction.

“Oh yea; take your umbrella. Its supposed to rain.”

“You always did kid me about my umbrella.”, looking out the window. The late afternoon sun baked the air into delirious waves of bent blue vapor. J. D. was the only beat officer in the history of the Department that ever used an umbrella while walking a beat. He had kept one stored behind the soda machine where he could easily get to it at the newsstand. It gave him an opportunity to visit with the old woman there. He called her “ Negs”, not because it was her name; but each time they would talk she would tell him about all the rotten things in her life. “Negs” could top any sad song. If J. D. told her that his back was sore; she’d remind him that she had a ruptured disk and had no money for pain medicine.

“See you when you get here.”, hanging up the phone as he remembered the past.

“What did he say?” Bev waited as Sinclair reminisced.

“J. D. is on his way out here now; no sense in you waiting. Call your Dad and see if you and the children can spend the night there; maybe stay the rest of the week. Why don't you and Eva Grab a bite on the way home?”

“Okay . . .”, unable to put her fears into words.

“It’ll be fine; I’m just a little paranoid, remember?” He closed his eyes as he leaned back against the pillows.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay. I can always call a cab for Eva?” Bev watched Sinclair as he struggled to remain awake.

“No, you go ahead. I need some time to think; I’ll be all right, honest.”, curling up and wrapping his arm around a pillow.

“Good night, Dear. I love you.”

“ Love you too.”

Chapter 29 / The Path

2005-04-03T11:35:00.000-07:00

Walking the halls of the hospital was about the only chance Sinclair had to exercise, excepting his regular visits to the therapy room. He had a “walker” very much like the kind that little children or old men use, an aluminum frame that encircled him and gave him support between strides. There were springs within the wheel housings that provided sufficient resilience to accommodate his body weight and at the same time pushed the frame away from the floor as Sinclair adjusted his balance between steps. If he should move the walker ahead to fast the wheels would lock into place automatically.

He got to roam about anywhere he wanted as long as he didn’t exit the hospital grounds. He particularly enjoyed the sidewalk that led behind the service area. There were some large old pecan trees that had escaped all of man’s attempts to eradicate them. The expansive parking lot had grown around them, leaving each with a portion of breathable ground; massive ornamental iron gratings protected each hallowed plot.

Twice a week the yard man would place canisters of fresh chrysanthemums along the red brick pathway that snaked its way around the trees. It was like a concrete oriental garden. As Sinclair would scoot along, always mindful of exactly how many steps he had taken in his effort to regain full use of his legs, the breeze rushing by the leaves acted as a tranquilizer. He was able to enjoy the beauty that was all around him. He would look up as jets streaked on their last leg toward Hobby Airport. The thundering of the engines as they began to power down was exhilarating.

Once, after having been to a Cub’s game in Chicago, he and Bev had flown over basically the same path and they were able to identify many of the ground locations. He didn’t really like to fly, but the ability to do so was high on his list of marvelous wonders. The perspective from the air was a humbling experience. It forced him to realize how small men’s works were in comparison to the world.

A thoughtless individual had tossed a cigar butt to the ground defiling the spirit that resided there. The pale greenish brown stub had also been “heeled”, leaving a stain of soot on the stark white concrete. Sinclair was reminded of the many times he had seen Pecaw reach down to pick up a discarded candy wrapper or a soda can as he walked through the courtyard of their apartments in New York. It was not enough to have yard men and janitors, it was important that everyone do his part. Sinclair was prompted to retrieve it; but was painfully reminded of his body’s limited ability to respond. For a moment he was stymied, unable to figure out how to accomplish the simple act of bending; in the therapy room pool it had been so easy.

“Well . . . are you going to stand there the rest of the day or what?” He turned slowly to see who was harassing him; the voice was familiar. Eva was standing at the rear entrance to the hospital watching to see what he was about to do. She had taken off a little early to take her car in for repairs before the shop closed. The motor had developed a menacing noise. The employee’s parking lot was on the other side of the air ambulance landing pad. Her genuine concern echoed in her tone, it was not sarcastic or harsh. It was more like soft laughter that made him feel better.

“Oh . . , ah . . , I was just trying to figure out whether that was a domestic or an imported variety of cigar.” Blushing, but at such a distance that it could not be seen, “I think its terrible that someone would mess up such a beautiful garden.” Many times on her way into work she had walked the short brick path from her car to the back door; not once had she thought of it as a garden. Letting the words bounce around for a moment and at the same time pausing to look around, Eva had to admit that it truly was a fine garden. It bothered her that she had never appreciated it before.

“See there . . .”, pointing with his index finger, “ . . .over there, just past the light pole?” Sinclair had spotted one of the community cats; one that all the nurses liked to feed and take care of. The furry white cat was crouched low on its belly behind some creeping jasmine; stalking a small green lizard. The short wait was fruitful as the cat’s lightning fast paws reached out and snared it. The cat’s tail whipped back and forth in triumph as it carried the prize off in its mouth. The garden was full of interesting sights, for those willing to watch.

“How terrible, that poor little thing!” Eva did not enjoy seeing the cat destroying the lizard with such enthusiasm.

“Terrible, . . . for who; the cat or the lizard?” Sinclair wanted to turn the question inside out. He had conceded the laws of nature and could find no fault with the cat’s ability to find a meal on its own. He waited as he watched the angle of Eva’s head change ever so slightly; pondering his remark.

“Well I guess if you put it that way . . .” She continued to watch the cat dismember the remains of the lizard. In a few moments the cat was done; taking a few quick strides toward the automatic double glass Emergency Room doors. The cat deposited the lizard’s head and scurried off.

“A prize left at your door step; what an honor.” Sinclair had found many lizard heads, bird wings and rat tails on his way to get the morning paper. His own cat was quite a hunter.

“I still think its cruel.” Changing the subject back to Sinclair’s walking mode,

“You’d better be careful or I might find that the cat has left your head at our door step. Are you having trouble? Do you want me to get you a wheel chair?”

Sinclair could feel his defensive side bristle; then relax, realizing that her questions were only out of regard for his best interests. He did not like having to admit to anyone that he was not yet in total command of himself.

“Let me help you back inside.” Eva walked up beside him not waiting for him to either accept or decline her offer. The two walked methodically along the path. Sinclair’s steps were marked with a metallic clicking as one of the rubber end caps had worn through.

“Sounds like I’m a quart low; better check under the hood.” Sinclair made fun of himself as he breathed a little harder. He had just about run out of energy for the day. He stood, arms stiff and locked, as he searched for the last few drops at the bottom of the tank.

“More like your out of gas. Wait here while I pop inside to grab a wheel chair.” Eva disappeared around the corner. It was only after she was gone that Sinclair let his face feel the pain. His teeth clenched firmly as he muscled up, trying to take some of the weight from his legs. The breeze felt good as it hit the beads of sweat that had formed across his brow.

“What took you so long?” Sinclair heckled her as she came back with the chair. She eased up behind him, guiding the foot supports past the walker, thereby eliminating the possibility of his falling.

“Just lean back. . .”, placing her hand on his shoulder, “. . .and let me do all the work.” He sank back into the chair; his eyes closed momentarily when he relaxed his grip on the walker. Eva folded the aluminum frame and placed it on his lap.

“Your timing was perfect; thanks.” Sinclair hung his head as he worked to overcome the moment. His shirt was soaked clean through with perspiration. He felt a bit of nausea welling up as his head became light.

“I think we need to get you inside; you don’t look so hot.” His skin tone was a pale olive/gray and cold to the touch.

“I’ll be fine. Just let me sit for a moment.” Taking a deep breath to steady himself. Once, when he was with William in one of those four seater airplanes for a special birthday gift, he had become air sick. He knew that if he concentrated all his efforts that he could get past it. As the plane bounced and bobbed along on the invisible currents, Sinclair played back the music that was stored away in his mind. He carefully eliminated the noise of the engine, the notes of each instrument played on. When the plane landed he sat for a bit, not wishing to upset the delicate balance that had been established. William wanted to go up again; adding that it was okay for Sinclair to stay on the ground.

“There is a green field far away . . .”, his mind wandered to a place within himself as he listened to one of his favorite hymns.

“Mr. Dosilmeyer are you okay ?” Eva pushed the chair into the emergency room. “ . . . Mr. Dosilmeyer?”

“ . . . with out a city wall . . .”

“Could you give me a hand?”, stopping in front of one of the rooms where a nurse was stocking one of the crash carts.

“ . . . but we believe it was for us . . .”

“He was walking out there and I think he over exerted. When I got him to sit in the wheel chair he just collapsed.”

“ . . . and try his works to do.”

“His color is coming back. I think he’ll be okay.” The nurse took his pulse; counting off the sweep of the second hand as it ticked its way across the dial of her watch.

“That’s good to hear.” Sinclair sarcastically babbled as he raised one eyelid to peer out.

“You scared the bejebers out of me.” Eva brought her arm up to hold her stomach.

“I’m sorry; didn’t mean too.”

“I just now realized. . .”, looking at the wheel chair that had been borrowed, “ . . .you don’t have your gizmo thing.”

“It weighs too much, and besides I don’t really need it.”

“But your voice; its the same; well, almost.” Eva watched carefully as Sinclair formed his words. After having accepted the computer generated voice, it seemed somehow odd to have him talk without it.

“What did you expect, Perry Como?” Sinclair forced a smile while still battling the nausea.

“Oh, that’s good. I like that.” The E.R. nurse had no idea what Eva was talking about.

“You have a very nice voice. Why do you still use that . . . “, pausing slightly, “. . . computer thing?”

“I guess I’m just lazy. With the computer I can edit what I say before it goes out. It saves me from saying things I might regret later on. It also stores all my conversations so that later on I can replay them when I’m by myself.”

Eva wasn’t sure if he was pulling her leg or telling the truth. She looked over at the nurse to see how she was reacting to the tall tale.

“Right.” Letting the word extend to express her disbelief.

“ ‘ For real. I even have your voice; well almost yours, matched up in the synthesizer. It will hold up to eight separate and distinct voices.”

“I’m flattered.” Eva wanted to hear what characteristics had been assigned to her voice. “Who else do you have locked away in that box?”

“Well, let’s see. There’s me and Bev, Vern Rylan, Dr. Gwynn, Maime Stuart, Dr. Chatterly and you. I had a real hard time with Dr. Gwynn’s voice; but I had to get his down first. I used his voice to get authorization to order food from the Burger King. They were a little suspicious at the nurses station so I had to use Maime Stuart’s voice to verify the orders.”

“Who’s next; John Wayne?” Eva shook her head; quite sure that he had made the whole thing up.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Should I ?”

“Well, I guess it does sound a little far fetched.”

“A little?. . .”, raising her brow for emphasis. “. . . a little? This qualifies for the brown shoe award.”

“Why don’t you wheel me up to my room and listen for a few minutes? It won’t hurt to do that; now will it?”

“I’d like to; but I need to get my car to the mechanic and I’m already running late as it is.”, remembering that she was on her way to the parking lot when she stopped to help.

“Was it that black Cutlass; the one the wrecker was hooking onto?”

“What do you mean? What wrecker?” Eva had a panicked look as she thought about her past due car note.

“While I was out for my walk I saw a wrecker back up to a car and latch onto it. When you said that you were having car trouble; well I just assumed that . . .”

“Damn!” Eva ran out the door to the parking lot. She had a gut feeling that the car would not be there; she was right. It had been snatched up by the “repo” man. Walking slowly back to the emergency room, a few tears trickled down her cheek. “They got my car; they got it. What am I going to do now?”

“What do you mean? Did they steal it?”

“No, I’ve been late on my payments. The bank told me that if I quit paying on the insurance that they could take it at any time. Its my own fault.”

“Oh . . .”, Sinclair was familiar with how the wreckers would follow a “target”, waiting for just the right moment to retrieve a car. “. . . I see.”

Wiping away a stray tear and sniffling to clear her nose, “Well I guess I can spare a few minutes to listen to what you have in that computer voice machine while I wait for my brother to come get me.” Turning to the nurse to get permission to use the telephone, “Is it okay?”

“Use that one.”, pointing to the one on the wall. Eva punched in the numbers and waited. She looked at the floor, the ceiling and the walls as she avoided looking at either Sinclair or the nurse. She was embarrassed by the situation.

“Any luck?”, the nurse asked as the phone continued to ring. Eva ignored her and let the phone ring a few more times.

“Answer the phone, dammit!”, talking to the piece plastic handset. A few more tears formed as it became apparent that there would be no answer. Eva hung up the receiver and thought for a few moments. She had no other family that she could turn to.

“My wife will be here around five thirty.”, looking at the large wall clock in the emergency room. “She might be able to give you a lift home.”

“You don’t think she’d mind?”

“Of course not, Bev would enjoy the company.”

“I don’t live too far from here.”

“Consider it done.” Sinclair felt good at having offered to help. It had been a while, too long, since he had been able to offer help to another.

“I guess you can take him on to his room now.”, the nurse was satisfied that Sinclair was reasonably stable now.

“I’ll have the nurse upstairs check him out when I get up there; thanks again.”
Eva pushed the wheel chair out and down the hall toward the elevators.

Mock Sprint Cell Phone Ad

2005-04-02T08:34:00.000-08:00

Chapter 28 / The Funnies

2005-03-27T11:26:00.000-08:00

Sinclair listened to the tape recordings from the night of the incident. He looked over the transcripts of the computer messages along with the notes that MacDougal had given him. With all the information at his finger tips, Sinclair was still in the dark as to what he should put in his letter. He wanted to be truthful while at the same time protect himself from not only the Department; but also from any possible civil retaliation that might stem from the incident.

TO: Chief of Police FROM: M. S. Dosilmeyer

Via Chain of Command Police Officer

Northwest Patrol

Night Shift

DATE: July 7, 1986

SUBJECT: Response to Internal Affairs Investigation # H - 85584

I, Officer M. S. Dosilmeyer Badge # 908, am assigned to the Northwest Patrol night shift. On the night of March 12, 1986; I was dispatched to a disturbance at the Tropical Grove Apartments located 1600 Pech near apartment # 80 J. The call went out at about 05:50 hours. Upon arrival at 05:53 hours I heard four gunshots at that location.

I notified the dispatcher, requested back up units and advised that they should approach with caution. My attempt to locate the source of the gun shots was difficult at first
because the sound echoed off the walls of the apartment buildings. I heard another shot go off and was able to determine where the shots had come from. Before any back up units arrived I was forced into a confrontation with the suspect who had come out of his apartment with a pistol in his hand. After a short struggle for the gun the railing on the second floor gave way; the suspect and I fell to the ground. Upon impact the suspect’s head was crushed, rendering him either unconscious or dead.

The fall broke both of my legs and I lost conscious. At this time I have a limited memory of what transpired and
have depended on the use of the Departments recordings of radio transmissions and computer related documentation of the incident.

On the evening of June 22, 1986; I was visited by Sgt. Perry and Sgt. Nichols of the Internal Affairs Division. At the time of their visit I was unable to answer any of the
questions because of physical limitations. They instructed me to write this letter and to include an answer to the following issues.

Did I at any time refer to the suspect as a Son of a Bitch or any derogatory racial slur? No.

Did I punch or kick the suspect at any time prior to or during the arrest? No.

Did I consider the increased danger level applied to the situation based on established Departmental guide lines? Yes.

While making the arrest, which take down techniques did I use in accordance with departmental procedures? I used the old "falling from the second floor" trick.
( Not listed as a primary take down technique by this department at this time.)

“That should get a laugh out of my attorney; just before he red lines it out of this letter.” Sinclair laughed; sarcasm assisted him as he struggled to contain his disgust.

He went on with the letter.

After noticing that the suspect was injured, did I attempt to use any of the First Aid that had been taught at the Department’s In Service School? No.

Why did I not call for an ambulance when I noticed that the suspect was injured and needed immediate attention? At the time, I was myself injured to the point that I could not move and I was later informed that I had been unconscious.

Prior to this incident, did I have any confrontations with this suspect either on or off duty? Not to my knowledge.

I issue this letter with the stipulation that I continue to have a loss of memory regarding this incident due to the injuries that I sustained during this incident. Any facts
which have been omitted are unintentional and do not reflect an attempt to hinder the investigation by this Department.

I further submit that I was ordered to write this letter, via the chain of command, by Sgt. Nichols and Sgt. Perry as a condition of employment. In view of possible job forfeiture, I have no alternative but to abide by this order. It is my belief and understanding that the Department requires this letter solely and exclusively for internal purposes and will not release it to any other agency. It is my further belief that this letter may not be used against me in any other subsequent proceedings other than disciplinary proceedings within the confines of the Department itself.

For any and all other purposes, I hereby reserve my Constitutional right to remain silent under the Fifth Amendment to the United States Constitution and any other rights prescribed by law. My compliance with this order shall not be construed as my giving up my right to remain silent.

M. S. Dosilmeyer

Sinclair reviewed the letter several times prior to shelving it. He knew that he should call his attorney before handing the letter over to the Department. He then turned on the computer and read the letter to himself; the words were immediately recorded to disk. Breathing out his frustration; he picked up the newspaper that Nurse Stuart had left at his bedside table.

The front page headline, “OFFICER RAPES JUVENILE ON DUTY “. Sinclair read the details of how the officer had been found molesting a fifteen year old. According to the story, it had happened while the officer was on duty in the back seat of his patrol car. He allegedly had stopped her for hitchhiking on the freeway and instead of taking her to the station he had driven to a secluded part of Memorial Park. It had been reported by a member of the District Attorney’s special investigative staff who had been out jogging and thought it odd that a marked patrol unit would be parked so far off the road in the bushes.

“ ‘ Must have just transferred to night shift. Any fool knows that we never set up on bushes, only buildings.” He laughed to himself; some officers had very elaborate specialty pillows. They were inflatable and conformed to the neck making it possible to sleep upright and avoid painful nerve pinches. His thoughts returned to the issue as it was presented, more like an indictment than a news feature. Sinclair did not like the way the press painted the issue.

“Another of the BLUE has placed himself above the law !”, the implication shot gunned the entire Department. Sinclair had no facts other than what was in the paper. He did not know the officer and yet he had no reason to doubt the authenticity of the article.

“Just what we need, another front page embarrassment!” The remarks instantly appeared on the computer screen; Sinclair had forgotten to switch it off. He glanced over at the words on the screen; “ ‘ Must have just transferred to night shift. Any fool knows that we never set up on bushes. . .” The corner of his mouth bending to indicate his contempt for officers who defile the uniform. Reading more of the screen, “Just what we need, another front page embarrassment!”, he erased the comments and closed the file.

“Let’s catch up on the comics.”, turning to the end of the entertainment section. Sinclair enjoyed the word scrambles and trivia quizzes that appeared daily. His favorite was the one box cartoon of Dennis the Menace. He always found William hiding within the inked borders, a salute to youthful adventure and life. The Phantom continued to exact justice in the jungles. The four panel strip featured the hero smashing the evil ones with his Phantom’s Head ring. The mark indelibly embedded on the bad guy’s chin as a reminder of how justice prevails.

“I wonder what the Phantom would think of an I. A. D. investigation. I bet he’d put a robe on and never leave the cave again.” Sinclair had a hard time putting the “letter” to bed as he glanced over the rest of the comics.

Nancy bested Slugo at eating cookies. Sinclair began to grit his teeth; forgetting about he comics. He still held a grudge, a painful memory of how the Department had taken issue with him for enforcing some very minor traffic ordinances.

“Everything you observe always has to be black and white!”; he remembered the words of the Deputy Chief, painting gray areas to illustrate the need for compromise. The statement was true; most everything that Sinclair observed was eventually taken apart within his mind to find out the truth or fiction of it. Sinclair questioned just about everything; how else was he to know the truth for himself. It made things difficult when dealing with supervisors. Sinclair stood his ground and never backed down. He was the first officer to ever receive a forty day suspension for insubordination. About the only consolation was that he was still a policeman. The Civil Service Commission was forced to overturn each and every line of the Department’s trumped up issue. He had acted fairly and within the scope of his position. There was no justification to imply that he had been at fault; that is except the charge that he had no respect for supervisors.

Sinclair had never argued that point; what bothered him was that they should not have
pursued the issue. He felt cheated; there was no inner satisfaction for having the knowledge that he was right; only a bitter stone that rubbed him raw occasionally. Sinclair wished that he had held his tongue; that he had never argued with them.

Crankshaft backed over another mailbox with the school bus, Snuffy Smith was playing checkers with Lukey, and Fred Basset was relaxing in his masters chair. The tension that had built up in his shoulder relaxed some more. All was well with the world. The funny papers were important to Sinclair; they distracted him long enough to forget reality. Letting the paper fall to the floor, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Chapter 27 / Borrowed Genius

2005-03-27T10:32:00.000-08:00

“Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home!” The evening meal was just on its way to the table as little Julia shrieked out the joyful tune. Running to greet him as he got his lead
foot into the house, she forgot all about the show that was on the television.

“How’s my girl today? Did you color me any pictures to take to work for my art
collection?” Vern encouraged her to develop her talents. He had lots of crayon
masterpieces in a folder at his desk that he often showed friends.

“Not today; I got to play on my friend Marcy’s Nintendo. It was fun watching the little man jumping all over. Can you get us one too?” Julia had asked many times
for an Nintendo; all the same she asked again.

"I don’t think so, honey.” Vern was not a big fan of the “Children’s Game” computers; having the opinion that kids should not be entertained by such expensive toys. He felt that they would be better off if they actually played; got down in the dirt themselves. “Can you give me a big kiss anyway?”, as Vern bent over to accept the enthusiastic hug from his daughter.

“You should see the one Marcy has! You don’t even have to touch the buttons”
Julia was moving her hands rapidly, as if to finger paint the air. “It does what I do and makes all those funny noises.”

"Sounds like fun.” Vern had no idea what she was talking about as he walked with Julia to the table and greeted his wife, Sherry. He was ready for a sit down meal
with his family.

“Why don’t you tell me about it during dinner?”

“Good to be home; they had the left lane torn up all the way from Bammel to
Nineteen Sixty. I like to never got past the light there by the Park and Ride. Some little old lady was half way out in the left turn lane blocking a bus that cut wide. She was afraid to back up and he couldn’t . . .”

“Glad your home, I know how frustrating it can be.” Sherry handed Vern one of the children’s plates for him to take to the table. She wanted him to forget about the outside world as quickly as possible; the steam from the spaghetti sauce passed under his nose and he forgot what he was going to say. The limited time they had together was too valuable to waste on reliving rush hour traffic.

“Smells good, you know how I love spaghetti.” Vern drew in a deep breath as he let the plate hang a moment longer.

“Mitchell had a rough day. I think he has another tooth coming in. I gave him some Tylenol. He had a light fever most of the afternoon. Poor dear; he’s sleeping now.”

“Did you put some of that stuff on his gums? You know. . .” Vern had rubbed his thumb across Julia’s gums many times as the need arose. It seemed to help; but the
ointment was much more humane. It had a minty taste and numbed numbed the tender buds that were inflamed.

“Yes dear.” Sherry looked at Vern, reminding him who it was that maintained the house while he was at work.

"Just asking.” He knew it was time to sit down and be quiet. Sherry smiled and the sarcasm left her face. “Julia. . .,” his head turning, but his eyes still held for a
moment on his wife. “. . . your turn to say the blessing on the food.”

Folding her arms and bowing, “Father in Heaven . . .”, the words tapering off as she whispered and mumbled the next words; not quite sure of how to properly offer up
the prayer.

“Thank you for this meal.” Vern supplied the next line waiting for her to hear and repeat them.

“Thank you for this meal.”

After a few silent moments, “Thank you for our family and bless Mitchell that his
teeth won’t hurt him.”

"Thank you for our family and bless Mitchell’s tooth.” Vern was about to add
another line as Julia quickly added, “. . . in Jesus Name. Amen!”

“That was very good Julia.” Sherry glowed with pride. Her little girl was growing up so quickly.

“Mommy, will you cut mine for me?”, pushing the plate to her right.

“Sure.” A few quick strokes and the job was done. It was much easier for Julia to spoon up short strands than to attempt twirling them onto a fork. Vern attacked his plate, twirling mouth size portions at a time.

“I wish I could do that.” Julia pointed at Vern just as he engulfed a monstrously
large fork full; one strand unfurled, dangling onto the plate. Vern slurped it in; eyeing Sherry as he felt the two of them watching.

“Vern Rylan. Is this what your supposed to be teaching your daughter?” Sherry
scolding, but not really pushing.

“Tell me some more about your friend’s game.” Vern kept his eye on Sherry as he worked quickly out of the jam. Sherry let him off the hook and grinned.

“Mario runs and hits the coins, gets the mushrooms to get big, flowers to get fire
balls and jumps up and down under the bricks hitting them with his head.” Julia’s hands flashed across the table in small arcs as she talked.

“What does that do?” Vern was not familiar with the game enough to understand
the correlation of movements.

“It makes Mario do things. You know; jump up and down, run and . . .” Julia’s hands jerked and bolted as she continued to illustrate how the game was played.

“Looks. . ”, Vern thought, “. . . interesting.” He glanced over to Sherry to find her reaction. Her eyebrows peaked and sank; it meant nothing to her either.

“Can we have one too; please?”

“I’ll talk to your Mommy about it later. Finish your dinner.” Vern did not want to commit; and yet at the same time he wanted to know more about it. He had not played with computer games in a long time. He had several floppy disks of Share Data games. He just didn’t have that much time to spend on them.

“I saw something like what she’s talking about at the mall last week. There was a
young boy standing in front of some kind of electronic board. He was flailing his arms as if shadow boxing. Every time he would throw a punch; the cartoon boxer on the television would emulate his move. It was a lot of fun.” Sherry recounted the event throwing a mock punch; then pointing to an imaginary monitor screen, outlining the image a foot or so in front of this unknown device, as if Vern could see it also.

“That’s it Mommy, that’s just like I was ’splainin.” Julia began the game once more; her hands darting in and out above the table.

“Well I’ll be . . .” It wasn’t often that something new in the computer market got
past him. “I guess I’d better start going to the mall more often.” The rest of the meal was for the most part uneventful. Vern finished and helped clear the table. The dishwasher was broken so he and Sherry helped each other wash and dry the dishes. Julia got ready for bed; taking a book from the shelf and then grabbing her Teddy. Each evening prior to the night prayer, Vern or Sherry would read a short story to her. It was a relaxing time.

“Read me this Daddy.” Julia had picked up one of her favorite books,

“The Berenstain Bears In The Dark”.

“We read that only last week. Wouldn’t you like to hear a different story?” Vern tried to pick out another from the twenty or so odd books on the shelf.

“I like this one.” Julia had made up her mind.

Vern began, “The Bernestain Bears In The Dark, by Stan and Jan Berenstain.” He held the book open to let Julia enjoy the pictures as he turned each page. The story
explained that Brother Bear had picked out a book at the library. Vern played the part of Papa Bear; making sure to act out all the story. As the story progressed, Papa Bear took Sister Bear up to the attic to show her the shadows on the ceiling. Vern formed his in the shape of a fist. He had intended to make the shadow look like a man’s face on the wall behind Julia; instead it just looked like a blurred fist.

“A, that’s the letter A”. Julia exclaimed as she recognized the first letter of the alphabet. She had seen it on Sesame Street. “See Daddy, A”. Julia formed her hand
into a little fist; thumb firmly planted on top of the index finger. The two watched the
shadows on the wall. Vern still wanted to make his look like a man’s face. Julia rattled off half the alphabet with ease before he gave up. The idea occurred to him that it might not be so hard to pick up “Signing”. He watched as she zig zagged the letter Z ever so quickly in the air with her index finger.

“Finished! Can you make the giraffe again for me?”

“What are you two up to in here?” Sherry had dished out a small bowl of ice cream for them all to enjoy. “Are you still trying to show your Daddy how that game works?”

“Bingo !” Vern leaped up and clapped his hands as all the pieces came together in his head.

“I’m sorry; but I think I missed something there.” Sherry stood wide eyed as she
watched the “touch down dance” complete with slamming the ball into the end zone.
Vern had either lost his mind or was taking the Berenstain Bears to a new dimension.
“I CAN have it by Friday !”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain. I need to get to the mall before it closes.”, grabbing the car keys and his wallet from the kitchen counter. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.” Vern ran out the door, locked it and was gone.

“Is Daddy going to buy us an Nintendo?”

“I’m not sure.”, Sherry stood bewildered, “I’m not sure”.

A few short miles and Vern was at the shopping mall. He went straight away to the toy store. Sure enough, there in the display window was the latest addition to the
Nintendo game system. It was a hands free game controller. Vern quizzed the salesman for a few minutes and had him demonstrate it. It only took a few minutes to write up the sale. Vern wrote out a check and handed it to the clerk.

“I’ll need to see a driver’s license, Sir.” Vern handed him the license. The clerk studied the picture, glancing at the date of birth and then again at Vern.

“You look much younger.”

“Yea, I’ve been told.” Vern rolled his eyes as the high school aged clerk held onto the license for a moment too long.

“Here’s your receipt; enjoy.”

“I will.” Vern was tempted to add, “Party on dude.”; but held his tongue. He was tired of the casual abuse inflicted on the language. Movies had made every effort to
glamorize the style, as if by doing so it would make it acceptable.

The drive home seemed to drag. The same road was somehow much longer as his
thoughts turned to assembling his project. He had read the owners guide while at the store. His knowledge of computer components and his wild imagination had pieced all of the intricate and necessary parts together as one. He felt confident that by morning’s light he would have a functional unit. While at the mall he had purchased a book on basic sign language for the deaf. He could spend the rest of the night learning sign language. Sherlock Holmes had learned to play the violin, or at least would have us believe that he had mastered it in a matter of hours. Vern had only to learn an entire language in one night; make that half a night. The rest would be needed for programming the information into a usable package.

“I’m back. Could you help me with this?” Sherry was almost afraid to look.

“How much did all this stuff set us back?”

“Don’t worry, its for work and I can get reimbursed on it.”

“Since when did they start buying Nintendo games at the hospital?” Sherry was
more than a little skeptical as she queried Vern.

“Its not what it looks like, at least not yet.” Vern took each piece out and removed the protective wrapping. Placing them on the dining room table and hooking them all together, they looked just like they had at the toy store. He turned it on and walked himself through the basics. After he was satisfied that all the components worked he turned it off.

“Well. . .” Sherry was waiting to here the explanation, something that would convince her that he was not off his rocker.

“You know that I’ve been working with that guy, the one who was in the coma?” Sherry nodded, not saying anything, as she turned her ear for the rest of the story. She knew that Vern had spent several hours; off the clock, working on some special project.

“Well, he has a roommate that is a deaf mute. I think I can put together a way for
the computer to read his signs. This game controller board can be hooked up to my lap top. I can write a program that will recognize and convert those signs into English.”

Vern was talking faster than Sherry could hear.

Vern stopped long enough to get his portable computer from the desk. He looked at the connection configuration on the game controller and was able to match it with one of the printer ports on the back of the computer. He started up the computer and with a few simple commands, convinced the computer to accept the new device.

“Here goes nothin’ !” Vern stood in front of the new game controller screen. As he had done earlier in the evening with Julia; he signed the letter A . They looked over
to the monitor to see the result. There on the screen was a fuzzy image that esembled the shape he had made.

“Honey, could you direct that lamp shade this way to back light my hand as it passes in front of this screen?” Sherry made the adjustment and he tried again.

“That ought to do it.” He typed in another command line, then another and then another.

Sherry knew that it was time to leave him to his work. “Good night Dear.”

“Good night; I’ll only be a while. This is working better than I had expected.”

Sherry knew better; but decided to let him continue without pointing it out. He would be up all night as she set the alarm and went to bed.

Vern paged through the signing book and was able to get all the letters of the
alphabet into the memory of the new program. He would stand in front of the screen, the light behind him gave it extra contrast. Then he generated the image onto the monitor, giving the computer a command to recognize it as whatever he had signed. Then he would go back and make a sign that was already in memory. He tried the letter M .

The computer flashed the sign and cleared the screen as commanded by the program. The monitor then displayed the letter, M , while at the same time
pronouncing the letter. The voice was from a standard computer board, not as clear as the VSP synthesizer. It had no depth or tonal qualities, just a flat monotone expulsion resembling a human sound.

“It works, by golly it works. Now all I have to do is hook it in with the voice synthesizer. I won’t be able to do that ‘till tomorrow.” Vern talked to himself while he
was working.

“Now let’s see what this thing will do with some of these other signs.” Vern looked through the front of the book for something simple. He made both his hands form
what looked like the letter A and brought them together until they touched. He instructed the computer to recognize the sign as the concept “with”. He then made the sign and waited for the computer to respond.

“WITH”.

“All right !” Vern entered a few pronouns as he read from that part of the book.

“I , They, That. . .” After making each sign he would type in the necessary recognition
commands and test the computer for accuracy. It was going smoothly until he entered the word “Himself”. He formed the letter A and, as the book directed, pushed it toward the screen in several short jabbing movements.

“Body blow! Body blow! Body blow!”, the tiny speaker blurted out before Vern could enter a recognition command. Some kind of built in code had been triggered in the game controller screen.

“What the . . .”

The alarm clock went off in the master bedroom at precisely the same moment. "Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding . . .”

Vern laughed, “I must have one heck of a right jab. Lucky for him the round ended.”

“ ‘ You still up?” Sherry wandered down the hall holding the alarm clock. “It’s time for you to get ready for work.”

“Huh, okay. I guess this can wait.” Vern blinked a few times and realized that he had spent the entire night working.

“Does it work like you wanted?” Sherry was almost afraid to ask.

“It has a few bugs in it; but for the most part, yea. It works great.” Vern put a few signs to the test and the computer spit out the corresponding words.

“What was that about a body blow?”

“Just a minor bug that I’ll figure out later.” Vern had a grin on his face as he
threw “himself” into his work.

“Body blow!”

Our Thurbie Tree

2005-03-07T11:14:00.000-08:00

I read where Mover Mike's dog had died the other day and he had written a poem while involved in his loss. We had a dog named Thurbie a while back. You may be familiar with the works of James Thurber. He was almost blind and did his work up close, very close. He drew a picture of a dog, well almost a dog; that was our Thurbie.

Thurbie was mostly black, low to the ground and he might have had four legs; we were never sure about that. Thurbie looked more like a black rug that moved around and so we just assumed that he had legs. We had him for several years, Thurbie having shown up like most of the others, after finding the hobo's "X" on our front door. We never really knew how old he was, middle aged puppy or there about. When he died he took our hearts away with him. Lucy took him to the vet and he never made it back home. I went to the local garden store, it being spring, and wanted to buy a dogwood tree to plant in the yard. I spotted what I thought was a dogwood tree, and asked the nurseryman about it.

"Oh, that's not a dogwood tree at all. It's actually a variation of the red bud, only with white flowers. Some folks call it a "False Dogwood" because it looks so much like one."

"That's perfect then, I'm planting it to honor a false dog", how much better could it be. So I planted the Thurbie tree in the front yard and each year about this time it comes into bloom, beautiful white flowers that last about a week or so and then blow off to who knows where. The tree has never flourished much, remaining kind of low to the ground, more like a bush than a tree. I suppose its only right since Thurbie was kind of low to the ground too.

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 26 - Pools

2005-02-27T07:56:00.000-08:00

"Physical Therapy, Eva; may I help you?” The soft friendly voice sparkled into the phone. Dr. Chatterly listened for a moment, smiled inside himself; then made arrangements for a schedule, tailored especially for Sinclair.

“I have a patient coming down in about half an hour. He will need to have someone with him at all times for the first two or three days. Will that cause much of a problem?” He knew that their staffing was already stretched to the limit. The new hospital budget had sliced away most of the service oriented personnel. They had laid off half of the house keeping staff, records, and were looking for others “pink slip”.

“How are you doing Doctor Chatterly?”, Eva recognized him and continued, “ ‘haven't heard from you in a while. You need to take me out for lunch. You know; a sizzling steak with all the trimmings sure would taste good.” She laughed to let him know that it was all in fun; that there was no obligation. “Now who is it that rates getting this special favor?” Her voice tapered off; she quietly worried that she might be slated for the unemployment line. The secretary who had been helping out in the Emergency Room by writing the log entries and making the plastic patient ID cards was told that she was no longer needed; the nurses could do that job in their spare time. It was only a matter of time that Eva would be looking for a new job. Maybe she could be a receptionist in a doctor’s office. She was an exceptional employee. He wished his practice was large enough to justify adding on a clerk.

“I have a policeman who’s hankering to get back on his feet. Check with the therapist and see how he can fit another one in. This guy wants to get back to work.” He turned to Sinclair; placing his hand over the phone as he redirected his attention.

“That’s a good one.” Sinclair shook his head and chuckled back. The idea had not occurred to him that one day soon he would be back at work. His goal up until now had been simply to survive.

“A cop, huh? Well I guess we can make room for him. Is he . . .”, she thought hopefully for a moment, “ . . . by chance, single?”

“Sorry my dear; this one’s out of reach.”

“Can’t hurt to ask.” She breathed out the missing portion of her life into the receiver.

“A pretty girl like you? . . . There must plenty of young men lined up outside your door.”

“Yea; but they’re, . . well you know. . .”, a hint of disappointment crept into her voice as if to infer the quality of her pursuers.

“Hey; one of these days the right man will. . .”

“I know; I just hope its soon and that he has some money. ‘ just got another card from the bank. The car note is two months late. I dropped my insurance last week so I could pay the rent.” Stopping to collect herself and feeling ashamed at having scattered her problems to the wind, “Didn’t mean to bend your ear so much. Wheel him up here and he can start today.”

Dr. Chatterly wasn't sure if he should say anything. He had a pretty good idea of how hard life was on Eva. It wasn’t easy being a single parent and he knew that her income was below the poverty level. Many times he wondered how he could make room for her on his own staff. He had several friends; one of them surely must need a good worker.

“I’ll have him there in a few minutes”, hanging up the phone. He stood quietly as he thought to himself; a sort of inventory of blessings. How was it that his life was so well off while those around him, those he cared for, were on the edge of disaster? Was there a ledger book containing a list of those who would be successful, another for those who would struggle? Considering the thought; he tossed it aside. He had sweated out many hard years of schooling; it had been no picnic. He hoped that things would work out for Eva; concerned in brotherly way.

“So how long will I be assigned to the torture chamber?” Sinclair had a firm recollection of the misery involved when he had torn his knee ligaments. The intense exercise program he had undergone three times daily had been painful; painful to the point that he had begun to limit his softball involvement. He grimaced at the thought of having to put himself through it again.

“Just relax and enjoy it. The first week is in the pool. You only have to float around and look like your walking.” Dr. Chatterly wanted to take most of the weight off Sinclair’s legs and get him accustomed to natural movement. The buoyancy would make the adjustment tolerable.

“Sounds good to me. I suppose it was no accident that Bev left these swim trunks?” Sinclair slipped into the pale blue shorts and noticed the extra fabric. Months of avoiding donuts and midnight hamburgers had left him several pounds shy of his former self.

“Stay away from the diving board.”, not that there ever was one; but it was clear that such activity would strain the limits of decency as Sinclair gathered the draw string tighter.

“All this time I thought it was sugar water in those IV's. Now I come to find out I was on the liquid grapefruit diet.” In his own way Sinclair was providing the best medicine, laughter.

“Is this how Tommy Lasorda lost all his weight?”

“Who ?” Dr. Chatterly casually ignored the name.

“You gotta be kidding. . .”, a blank expression along with a shrug of the shoulders seemed to give him away. “You really don’t know who Tommy Lasorda is, do you?”

“Sorry, the name sounds familiar; but I don’t know that many police officers.” Dr. Chatterly continued to dead pan, then slipped on a smile; unable to keep a straight face.

Turning his head slightly to watch the subtle changes, the patient/doctor relationship fell aside. The serious facade dropped away, momentarily exposing the human side of Chatterly. It was a curious, almost angelic transformation that permitted the youthful smile to grace the rigid lines of age. The strain of responsibility and position removed itself and the exuberance of life escaped. It hung in the air between them for only a few seconds; shared moments that they had long ago relished in their separate yet similar experiences.

“Yes, I know who he is.”, still laughing as he helped move Sinclair into the wheel chair. “Will you be wanting to take the computer with you? I can put it here.”, pulling a
pouch like fold of heavy Naugahyde on the back panel.

“Please, it has become so much a part of me.” Sinclair was more than accurate as he described his dependence on the small portable electronic box. Carefully packing the
several odd units into the pouch as the patch of wires continued to activate the speech
synthesizer, Dr. Chatterly checked to make sure that all was in order. He was himself
amazed at how much technology was crammed into such a small space. It had not been
that many years ago when the first practical computers took up the entire floor where his
father had worked. They were heavy, bulky, slow and had a very limited use in those
days. His father had helped to usher in the new age of computers. Were he still alive, it
would have blown him away to see the impact that computers had on the world?

“Could you cover it with some plastic wrap? Being near the water . . .”

“I’m way ahead of you.” Dr. Chatterly eyed a dress that Bev had brought back from the cleaners. Peeling the thin plastic cover from the hanger and at the same time admiring the tailoring of the dress, he carefully stretched the protective layer over the computer.

Sinclair reached down and lifted his legs onto the metal foot plates. The effort of lifting them as individual units continued to be far beyond his ability. As the two made their way down the hall to the elevator, Sinclair felt the adrenaline rush at the thought of once again being free. He looked at everything, the fluorescent fixtures, gauges recessed in the enamel gray tile walls, and all that had been out of his reach for the past few months. He peered into each room in passing, catching a glimpse here, a glimpse there. Like the little boy on his train ride, the vignettes of other people’s lives paraded in front of him. His momentary presence made no difference; each continued to exist within his own sphere. In one room a nurse was changing sheets on a bed, oblivious to his attentions. She had half the bed made while managing to move the patient at just the right moment to allow completion of the chore. Moving down the hall, Sinclair watched as the janitor collected a mountain of soiled linens. The charge nurse stopped from her paper work to wave at him, acknowledging the general feeling of accomplishment that she was witnessing. He nodded back, not speaking; not needing to.

Dr. Chatterly pushed the “up” button as they waited for the elevator. A couple of doctors walked by; involved in their thoughts, greeted Dr. Chatterly professionally, and then walked into one of the several rooms down the corridor directly opposite the elevators. Sinclair looked over his shoulder and noticed that Dr. Chatterly had lapsed back into his professional mold; the iron face of dignity once again cloaked the man. The doors opened and they made their way to the back of the elevator. Sinclair again felt the excitement from within as they waited for it to reach the eighth floor. Sinclair was glad to have a robe on; quite sure he was the only one wearing a bathing suit.

“Remember what I told you; just relax and enjoy yourself. There will be plenty of time in the weeks ahead for you to work those muscles; today is just a freebie.” Dr. Chatterly kept it very low key as he wheeled Sinclair down the hall and parked him at the main doors of the Physical Therapy Department. As the double wide doors opened, exposing the glassed in atrium style room, Sinclair was surprised to see so many tropical plants and hanging baskets. Dr. Chatterly walked in, letting the door close behind him. Sinclair felt a little slighted by having to wait in the cold hallway.

Eva was sitting at the front work station talking on the phone as Dr. Chatterly walked in. She looked up, motioned with her hand and smiled at him; continuing to write down a few short notes on the top corner of the desk pad. It was a most pleasant way of being told to wait.

“ ‘ Be right with you; gotta finish up with this first.” There was a freshness, something delightsome in her attitude that most people had lost in the way they handled their everyday chores. Watching her as she sat, one leg crossed under the other; he wished that he had more time to spend in that area of the hospital. There began to be some confusion in his mind regarding his association, his feelings toward Eva.

“Okay, so where’s this cop; or is he invisible?” Her whole face was fun to watch as she tugged at his professionalism. He found that when he was listening that her eyes accentuated each word. He was afraid to look into her dark brown eyes, as if by doing so he might find her soul looking back. His feelings, though honorable from the start, had drifted past a mere casual interest. He had to admit to himself that she was an
attractive person; it wasn’t just her striking appearance. Had he been seeking a meaningful relationship, which he wasn’t, then Eva would certainly qualify. He quickly considered how important his lovely wife and his marriage meant to him as he fought to keep his thoughts pure.

“Dr. Chatterly. . .”

“I’m sorry . . . “, for a split second he found himself lost for a valid reason to be at her desk, like a school boy who had a crush on the teacher; “. . . he’s just outside. I wanted to go over this schedule with Eugene. Is he available?”

“Eugene’s in the back working with that patient that has the burns. You remember that car wreck from the freeway last month? The one where the tanker loaded with gasoline blew up?”

“So he made it; that’s great.” , relieved to change the subject to a professional topic.

“Yea, he don’t look so pretty, but he made it.” Eva’s countenance diminished as she absorbed some of the pain into her own life. She had such a simple way of expressing her thoughts; it was disarming.

“About the only thing that might cause any problems. . .”, thinking of a way to explain Sinclair’s use of the portable computer, “. . . will be keeping his electronic stuff from getting wet. Other than that. . .”

“What kind of electronics are we talking about? Is there a way we can wrap them?”

“He has this computer pack . . . uhhh, why don’t you take a look. He doesn’t have to be hooked up to it, only near it.”

“Near it ?” Eva could not visualize how it would help. Hearing the words as they bounced off her forehead and trying to imagine how it must sound, “Does that make any sense?”

“Not really, why does he have to have it if he’s not hooked up to it? What’s it do?” She had seen many patients come in with all manner of gadgets; but in every instance the device had some physical connection to the patient.

“It’s his voice synthesizer; but on a much grander scale than I can explain in just a few minutes.” Actually it was a miracle and couldn’t be explained at all.

“We could put it on a table while he’s in the pool. Would that be okay? How close to it does he need to be?”

“Anywhere in the room is fine; as long as you can hear the speakers.” He was having trouble explaining Sinclair’s ability.

“I gotta meet this guy.” Eva got up and walked out from behind the desk. Dr. Chatterly opened the door and held it as Eva encouraged the courtesy. “Thank you, Sir.”

“ A pleasure.”, thinking to himself how dangerous it was to be so close to her.

“Mr. Dosilmeyer I’m Eva. Dr. Chatterly tells me that you are here to use our facilities.”, extending her hand gracefully to show off the comfortable surroundings.

“Nice to meet you.” The voice throwing routine was one of his best; the words sprang from the back panel of the chair.

“Oh, I like that.” Eva held her smile, trying to figure out how Sinclair had enunciated his words so well, never having moved his mouth at all.

“I can do it while drinking a soda too.” Sinclair winked at Eva. He opened his mouth, exposing the fact that his tongue was clinched between his teeth the whole time he was talking.

“Pretty neat trick, huh?”

“I thought you were a co . . . policeman?”, changing words in mid sentence as she reminded herself to choose the proper title out of respect for his profession.

“He is; but once in a while one slips past the psychiatrist and makes it on the force anyway.”

“Thanks a lot Doc. I’ll remember that when it comes time to pay the bill.”, Sinclair ribbed back.

“Wheel him over there.”, pointing to the edge of the pool where there was a sling suspended from a stainless steel support beam. “Why don’t you just leave your
electronics package in there?”

Sinclair thought for a moment, “Sure; why not. No reason why that shouldn’t work.”

Eva had worked with the patients almost as often as Eugene; about the only difference was the pay scale. She reached over and had the harness in place, snug and secure, quicker than an eight year old can tie his shoes.

“If he gives you too much trouble, dunk him.”

“He looks pretty tame, but I’ll keep that in mind.” The sling lifted Sinclair out of the wheel chair effortlessly and lowered him gently into the luke warm water.

“Ahhhhh! That feels so good.” Sinclair closed his eyes as the water swirled and lapped at his withered body.

“Let your legs move about as if they were supporting you. That’s it. The harness will keep you from bearing any weight on them.” Sinclair looked into the pool at his legs; the image being dispersed by the moving water.

“You want to see something strange?, pointing to his legs as the ripples bent and broke their natural symmetry. The sun danced in the water as it spilled past edge of the bent glass solarium.

There was no reply at first and as Sinclair glanced up he noticed Dr. Chatterly standing off to the side, studying her every move. When Eva spun around, catching him off guard, there was no place to turn. He found it hard to breathe as he was swallowed by the deep brown pools of her eyes.

“She is kind of nice to look at, isn’t she Doc?”

“Is it that obvious?”, thinking to himself; yet not fully understanding. He had not intended to fall in love; fighting off the unwanted feelings that battled within his heart.

“I thought you were supposed to be relaxing; so, relax in there!” Dr. Chatterly tried to avoid the spot light of attention as he heckled Sinclair.

“My legs are messed up; not my eyes Doc.” Needling him for a change.

“I didn’t mean to stare, honest.” Dr. Chatterly was beside himself on what to say next. Tossing her head back as she removed a kink from her neck and letting her dark wavy hair softly settle onto her sweater; he looked once more into her eyes. It was time to leave quickly, to escape before it was too late.

Eva sensed that something was wrong as Dr. Chatterly backed away from her; his eyes looking only at the mosaic tile floor. He stumbled into a large ceramic potted philodendron plant and almost lost his balance at the edge of the pool. He managed to right himself; trying desperatley to avoid falling. He got to the doors, pushed them open and slipped out. Dr. Chatterly leaned thankfully against the cool grey wall; his legs trembling.

“Thank you Sir; it won’t happen again.” He looked up, past the suspended ceiling tiles, past the steel supports of the roof and into the eternities.

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 25 - Right as Rain

2005-02-27T07:31:00.000-08:00

Bev rounded up the children for the ride into town. They had planned to spend the day at the park for an old fashioned Fourth of July celebration. Bev had loaded the back of the truck with an ice chest full of soda and fresh fruit. She didn’t want to have to pay exorbitant prices to the vendors while at the park. The night before she had fried some chicken and made a huge bowl of potato salad. Bev waited for the light to change as she entered the outer drive. At the entrance to the park there were several antique automobiles on display. A group of policemen were directing traffic and answering questions as she drove past; half way hoping to recognize a friendly face among them, she had the children wave.

“Just follow the markers to the main parking area. Follow the markers . . . “, the officer barked out in cadence as each car made its way to him. The heat of the day coupled with the heavy moisture laden air of summer wore quickly on the officers; their light blue shirts rapidly soaked through with perspiration.

Bev looked for a place under one of the ancient oaks, all the good spots were taken. Had she gotten to the park several hours earlier it may have been possible; the only places left were in the middle of an over flow lot. She rolled the windows down, but only an inch, to let the air flow through the cab; speculating that a late afternoon thunder shower was probable.

“William, you take the potato salad. Jenny, you get the bag that has the chicken. Bonnie, grab the other handle and we’ll take the ice chest.” Bev organized the crew before they could wander off.

“Aw Mom, . . .” William kicked some loose gravel with his sneakers. A cloud of dust settled as the pebbles scattered.

“ . . . And stop that before you kick those rocks into some car!” Bev handed William the yellow Tupperware bowl as she closed the door and locked it.

“When is the concert?” Bonnie’s interest in music was much greater since she had started playing the clarinet. She had spent several hours practicing the scales and learning some simple arrangements for the Beginner Band Concert. Sinclair had not been able to attend that one. Bonnie hadn’t said much about it; but there was a look on her face. When all the other parents were there, taking pictures and dotting on and on, Bonnie just sort of slinked back within herself, not wishing to draw attention.

“According to the schedule. . .”, flipping through the pages of newspaper, “’. . . there are to be several small concerts all day long. Tonight, after the sun goes down, there will be a final concert followed by the fireworks display.” Bev was just as excited as the children. She had played the trombone in her school band. She enjoyed the uniforms, bright splashes of glitter as the sun reflected off polished instruments and the sounds that came from a group of hard working young musicians. Sour notes were just as much a part of the band as the overall sound. When a squeak or blurt escaped it only meant that there was a human being learning to play.

“I want to go home; its too hot.” Jenny whined as she walked along dragging the paper sack that had the chicken, paper plates and napkins.

“Be grateful that you didn’t have to cross the plains with the Mormon Pioneers. Most of the time they had to walk along side the wagons in the hot sun.” Bev could always find a suitable topic to emphasize a point.

“How come they don’t let us pop fire crackets?”

"That’s, fire C R A C K E R S , William; and they don’t want anyone to get hurt.” Bev led them along the edge of the road, following the hundreds of families that headed for the center of the park. A large stage had been built in the shape of a gazebo which acted as a focal point. Banners of red, white and blue bunting hung at its base.

The Heritage Society was hosting the event and the ushers sported “turn of the century”
clothing. The men wore pin striped suits topped off with brimmed straw hats. A few even had handle bar mustaches, waxed on the tips to hold them to a point. The women had long dresses with lots of extra material covered with beads and lace; very Victorian.

One vendor had a stand where people could rent bicycles built for two, complete with an old fashioned thumb lever bell ringer. He stood at the corner of his booth, the sleeves of his shirt gathered by a blue silk garter, hawking his wares. The distortion of his voice as it came out of the tiny megaphone, held tightly to his mouth, made it irresistible; a long line formed waiting for a chance to rent bicycles.

The closer they got, Bev heard singing. It was a group of Barber Shop Singers pouring out their music as they strolled among the crowd.

“Lida Rose . . .oh”, a beautiful tenor broke followed by a stunning base that bellowed the harmony.

“Lida Rose, I’m home again Rose.”, the blending and contrasting of voices was wonderful.

“Mom. . .”, William tugged a few times on Bev’s long dress. She had made it from some material that was on sale; a small print reminiscent of the kind that the pioneers would have worn.

“What is it? Can’t you see that I’m listening to the song?” Bev wanted to hear one song, one piece of music without an interruption at least once before she died.

“Mom, that’s my primary teacher singing.” William eyes were lighted upas he pointed and waved. “Hi Brother Evans!” Bryce Evans continued to sing, pausing momentarily as he winked over to acknowledge William.

“Ding Dong Ding I can hear the chapel bells chime. Ding Dong Ding . . .”

About the only thing missing was Professor Harold Hill trying to sell band uniforms. The quartet shuffled and bobbed in unison as they made their way down the hill.

“ . . . How everyone knows that I am hoping your the same . . .”, the exquisite tenor topped off the trailing lines of verse. Bev found herself humming the other half of the musical’s duet; remembering how the camera work had panned from the quartet to Miss Marion as she sang a companion song. Sinclair had promised to buy the movie on Laser Disk and add it to their collection.

“Dream of love, dream of love . . .”, Bev filled in with some of the words that she could bring to mind. Humming as she inserted herself into the momentary fantasy.

“. . . So hear is my love song . . .”, the barber shop tones rested evenly between each line.

“. . . Dream of a love song that might have been. . .”

“. . . Not fancy or fine . . .”, Brother Evan’s voice came through clear and crisp as the song began to come to its close.

“. . . Do I love you; oh yes I love you . . .”, Bev pictured the young librarian rocking on the porch, singing the desires of her heart; now she had become Miss Marion.

“ . . Lida Rose. . oh. . won’t . . you. . be. . .”, the deep base held his notes as the rest of the group ran ahead to the next line.

“My Lida Rose oh Lida Rose.” The crowd gave them a resounding hand of applause for a fine performance. Bev waved once more to Brother Evans as they tipped their hats and bowed. Bev had the children take sections of newspaper so that they could sit on the
grassy slope of the amphitheater hill. The paper kept them from direct contact with the
ground and could be easily disposed of. The band was already warming up as they seated themselves. A piccolo went through his practice scales piercing the air.

“I know that scale. That's the “Concert B flat” scale. We do that one everyday.” Bonnie was feeling very pleased with herself at having recognized what he was doing.

“That’s right Bonnie. We used to warm up like that before half time when I was in the band.”

“What are they going to play? Does it say in the program?”

“Let me look.” The band director made his presence known and the crowd hushed as he turned to face the musicians. He raised his arms, a slight bend in the elbows, holding the baton high in the air. His white summer suit stood out against the cool green background of the park, reminiscent of Sousa. With no time wasted, he tucked his right arm down and the concert began. The audience quickly recognized the National Anthem and rose to its feet. The band director looked over his shoulder and smiled as the spirit of the music blessed the air.

“Take your ball cap and place it over your heart William.” Bev quietly suggested as she bent over and positioned the cap for him. After the National Anthem the band played some marches from Sousa, “Summer Time” from Gershwin’s “Porgy and Bess”, and closed with a powerful “Stars and Stripes Forever”. As the last note triumphantly swirled past the edge of the stage, the crowd let loose with whistles and cheers; worthy of a at least a few extra bars. The band struck up the last sixteen bars; the roar of clapping of hands kept pace to the end.

“That was great! I can’t wait ‘till we get to play that.”

“I know what you mean.”, wiping the tears away as soon as she finished clapping. Bev’s knowledge of the human struggle to gain freedoms and keep them was close the surface as she wept. It was important to pass along the resolve, the sacred worth of our country’s freedoms to the children.

“Momma’s crying again. It must have been a good concert.” Jenny knew how to gage Bev’s spiritual and emotional status.

“Time to eat! Right William?” Bev knew that William would respond favorably. Opening the lid of the ice chest and at the same time motioning for Bonnie to start passing out the paper plates. Bev reached in, “Who wants a Delaware Punch?”

“I do!” William instantly grabbed it.

“I wanted that.” Jenny began to protest.

“There’s another one here for you; now stop that.”

“ ‘ Better be!” Jenny tightened her lips as she scowled at William.

“Jenny’s bein’ mean to me.”

“Stop it; both of you! I want no more of that. Do you hear me?” Bev slapped a glob of potato salad onto a plate and shoved it toward Jennifer.

“Can I have a thigh since Dad’s not here?” Bonnie knew that she had better make her bid before one of the others beat her to it.

“Okay.” Bev nodded without looking up. She closed her eyes for a few seconds; thinking of the simple changes that had influenced the family habits. While the meal progressed, the chairs that the band had used were rearranged on the gazebo. A podium was centered and a short row of chairs was lined for the V.I.P’s.

“There’s the Mayor, and the Police Chief. I think that the guy next to the Mayor is the Park's Director.” Bev pointed out each of the dignitaries on the stage to the children.

“Boring.” Bonnie injected her standard rejection of social grace.

“Yea, boring.” Jenny jumped in trying to emulate her older sister.

“Let’s have no more of that. Let’s show a little respect.” Bev silently echoed the children’s sentiments to herself. She did not want to hear another “up beat” political
message from the Mayor on how well “This” administration was running the city. There was a technical problem with the microphone and the Mayor stood by, smiling and waving while the electrician checked for the bad connection.

“I can’t hear anything.” William pointed out the obvious.

“Boring.”

“Yea, boring.” The pop of speakers signified a successful repair as the Mayor stepped back to the podium. A few ominously dark clouds had closed in over the park; rumbles in the distance signaled the approaching weather. The wind picked up blowing bits of paper and dust as the air temperature cooled measurably.

“Time to head for the truck!” Bev didn’t have to tell the children twice. They had already started to toss their plates into the sack.

“At least we don’t have to listen to a bunch of boring old people talk.” Bonnie signaled Jennifer with a smirk.

“Are we gonna’ stay for the fireworks?” William became alarmed at the prospect of missing the most important part of the whole trip.

“We’ll see, we’ll see.” Bev hurriedly guided them towards the truck; hoping to beat the deluge. A flash of pink lightning raced across the charcoal sky followed quickly by a thunderous rumble and crash.

“That was close; only a couple of miles at best.” Bev was counting to herself, “One one thousand, two one thousand. . .” As the crew got within fifty yards of the truck the heavens poured out upon them. The four all got soaked to the bone as Bev opened the back of the truck.

“Let’s just sit here and see if it passes.” Bev looked at William who was next to tears, thinking of how much he had looked forward to the fireworks display. Another flash of lightning and an even louder clap of thunder disrupted the moment. The rain beat harder than ever as the storm centered itself over the park.

“Glad we only left the windows down a little.” Bev tried to think of something positive to say. Bonnie parted the small row of curtains that covered the window separating the camper shell from the cab of the truck. The window fogged from her breath but she was able to see the rain pouring in as the wind was blowing it sideways.

“How’s it look?”, Bev asked; not really wanting to hear the truth.

“Looks like Noah better finish the boat pretty quick.”

“Are the seats getting wet?”

“Yea, I mean, Yes Ma’am, they’re soaked.”

“Well, not much we can do about it. Who wants a piece of chicken?” Bev was determined to make the best of it. The storm had cooled things off nicely and there was no real damage done. The seats would dry and the holes in the floor boards wouldn’t let the water stand.

“William ! Get back in here !” William had opened the door and was looking up, letting the large rain drops splash onto his face.

“When the rain stops will they still do the fireworks?” William had a singular purpose for attending the park and nothing could discourage him.

“When your father and I were dating . . .”, a distant look came over Bev as she pleasantly was reminded of her youth.

“Was that before or after Noah built the boat?” Bonnie saw an opportunity to have some fun. Bev glanced unflinchingly in Bonnie’s direction, never stopping to correct the minor flaw of Bonnie’s chronological record.

“ . . . he took me to a concert in this very same park. It had rained on the Fourth, very much like it is doing right now.”

“Did they shoot off the fireworks?”

“No William; the weather was so bad it forced them to cancel so we went to the concert on the following week.” Bev continued, having set the ground work just in case the fireworks got canceled. “Where was I? Anyway, we sat on the hill in the evening waiting for the music to begin. Nothing else in the world mattered. We were young and enjoying each others company, oblivious to the clouds of mosquitoes buzzing all around us.”

“Here comes the mushy stuff.” Jenny giggled as she jumped ahead of the story.

Bev smiled; acknowledging the warm feelings that had been held in her heart.

“They played the 1812 overture and at the end, when the cannon fire is played, they had timed the fireworks to all go off at once. It looked like the stage was on fire with rockets and smoke. It was so exciting, so unexpected. We had forgotten about the rain out from the week before.”

“Did you . . .”, Jenny still waiting to hear the mushy stuff, “kiss and hug?”

“A little.”, blushing, not for guilt; but for having been reminded of how much she loved Sinclair and how the children should know how important that feeling was and continued to be.

“Kissy kissy !” Bonnie blushed too, looking at Jennifer; implying that even the old people did that kind of thing. The rain began to let up; the storm having passed. There were leaves scattered over the truck on the side that was to the wind. Small branches had been snapped off and lay in the fresh puddles of the crushed oyster shell lot. The air was fresh and clean smelling. People were getting out of their cars; looking around at one another. They all had the same question on their minds as William bellowed out in raw excitement.

“Great day for a fireworks display !”

“Right as rain William, right as rain.”

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 24 - Handle It

2005-02-27T07:16:00.000-08:00

In the back office area, out of the public view, officers worked on their investigations in their respective cubicles. The open space above the partitions let conversations bleed over as different voices conducted business. Sgt. Perry and two other detectives were going over final plans for a fishing trip that was to begin when they got off at the end of shift. The phone rang; Perry pushed a button converting it over to the speaker function, resting back in his arm chair.

“Sgt. Perry, what can I do for you?” He rested his chin on his chest. The extra fold of skin flattened out and spread across the monogrammed dress shirt.

“What’s the status on that project you were working?”, the raspy voice penetrated the room.

“Hold on a sec’. . . “, switching the phone off of speaker to maintain the privacy of the conversation and at the same time turning to the other officers in the room.

“Could I get you to step outside?” He cupped the receiver; his countenance changing to reflect a more serious attitude.

“Sure, no problem. We have some reports to review.” The two detectives backed out of the office; closing the door while Perry kept his hand on the phone.

“Okay, I can talk. Now what’s the deal with calling me at the station? You lost your mind or what?” Perry was more than a little upset as he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He inserted his fingers at the base of the tie, pulling it away from his neck.

“As long as your on my payroll, I’ll call you anytime and anywhere I damn well feel like it”

“What if someone had recognized your voice and started to put things together? Did you think of that?” The veins in his neck had already begun to swell.

“I’m not the one who was in that apartment; you were. Why should I worry about being on the phone with one of my people?” There was a sarcastic tone in his voice.

“Very funny Lou. I still have a couple of years to go here. Did you think of that?” Perry was closing in on twenty years with the Department. The thought of losing it all didn’t set well with him.

“That’s your problem. I pay you very well to keep things operating smoothly. So, what have you been doing to justify your supplemental salary?”

“It’s all under control. By the end of the week my report will be on the Chief’s desk and there will be enough confusion generated . . .”

“Under control! You call a Five Million Dollar Civil Suit Under Control?” Perry had to move the phone away from his ear as the decibel range went past tolerable.

“What are you talking about? I was in to see him just the other day and he was still border line vegetable.”

“Well your vegetable’s lawyer has been nosing around pretty good then. Maybe you aughta’ go back and talk with that officer and see how he’s doing.”

“I was headed there this afternoon; as a matter of fact.” Perry shot back into the phone as he thumbed through his daily planning schedule. Actually he had planned to take off a few hours early to go fishing.

“Glad to know you’ve got a handle on all this. I would hate to think that you were . . “

“Have I ever let you down?”

“That’s not the point. I want this taken care of before it gets to court; you got that?”

“Don’t worry. They’ve got nothing solid. The officer is a blank and there were no other credible witnesses.” Donaldson and Perry had been helping to supply illegal aliens with fraudulent documents for quite some time. He knew where most of the run down apartment projects were and how to recruit. His knowledge of how things worked made it easy for him to get them. He had also gotten used to the cash payments that went unreported on his income tax return each year.

“Then I will leave it with you. Sorry to have bothered you.”, as the phone went dead. Perry sat for a few moments and stared at his shoes. Collecting his thoughts, as if the answers were hidden under the dull shine on the tips of his Florshimes, he reached into the top file drawer of his desk and removed the “Dosilmeyer” file. He rubbed his hand over his beard, noticing the mild stubble that had grown since he had been at work.

“Damnation . . .”, turning the pages of the file, “. . . what does he think I can do?” He wasn’t really reading, having read the file many times already; it was more of a support for his hands as he thought of how to work past the pending issue.

“ We still on for this weekend?”, Donaldson ducked his head around the corner and asked.

“It doesn’t look good. Maybe you guys better go on without me this time.” Perry closed the folder as he levered his way out the chair’s grip.

“You sure. That deposit for the boat isn’t refundable.” Donaldson had put up eighty dollars to hold a place for him on the boat. All the fishing gear, sandwiches and beer would be included.

“You go ahead; catch one for me. I have some interviews that won’t wait; maybe next time.” Perry scrunched up the edge of his mouth as he threw the words out. He had been looking forward to a trip into the Gulf on a large boat. He had once been out on his brother’s sixty footer. A storm had roughed up the water, making the trip a nightmare. The weather had been mild this week and the water would be more friendly.

The panoramic view of the city spread out from the edge of the executive suite. Fifty seven floors above the traffic was as peaceful as riding in a hot air balloon. Thick deep forest green pile carpet was bordered by dark oak wood flooring in the main entrance to the office. The receptionist greeted a slender built man wearing a three piece businessman’s special. There was a slight bulge under jacket that was hardly noticeable.

“Please go in Mr. Savat; Mr. Gotlieb is expecting you.”

“Thank you.”, as he placed his hand on the massive brass door handle. The solid cypress wood doors were as impressive as the rest of the office; ten feet high and four inches thick. He passed through into the inner office. An alarm, not very loud; just a mild humming, went off as he passed the metal detectors that guarded the entrance. From the corner of the room another man got out of his chair and drew a pistol from under his coat.

“It’s all right George; Mr. Savat is here at my request.” Quietly and without hesitation George holstered his weapon and took his seat.

“The standard fee?”, in a casual business like manner.

“Here’s your folder Mr. Savat. You’ll find it all in order.”, handing the plain manila folder across the desk. Savat paged through the folder while standing.

“A cop? That’s another twenty thousand.”

“Check the envelope; you’ll see that I’ve already included the bonus.”

“That’s what I like about working with you Lou; you always have the paper work in order.” Savat took the envelope, placing it inside his jacket. He shook hands and turned without another word walking away from the enormous desk.

“I want this by Monday.”

“No problem; I can handle it.”

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 23 - Suits

2005-02-27T07:08:00.000-08:00

Bev picked up the pile of mail that lay on the floor at the base of the door. It as Wednesday, food coupon day. She always waited for the specials before shopping. Thumbing through the stack, her eyes quickly focused on one of the envelopes. It was addressed to Sinclair. The return address was from the law firm of Downey, Chilton and Howser. Thinking of the morning DJ's on her favorite radio station, she could hear them as they made fun of law firms in general. “From the law firm of Dewey, Cheatem and Howe . . . “, their voices would chortle as they prepared another salvo of fun in the morning.

“I better open this now; Sinclair would want me to.”, Bev thought out loud to herself as she felt the woven texture of the envelope. Hesitating as she held the letter opener, Bev thrust the clear plastic blade into the crease along the back seam. The neatly folded letter was menacing in a cold impersonal way. Bev studied the form, not sure how to take it. It was clear that she should show it to Sinclair’s attorney. The phone number was easy to remember; it was almost the same as Sinclairs badge number, 222-0908. Dialing the number slowly, she tried to calm her nerves. It wasn’t everyday that Sinclair was named in a million dollar law suit.

“Good morning, Leonard and Associates; hold please.” Bev didn’t want to hold please; but she had no choice. A couple of minutes past and the receptionist got back to her. “How may I help you?”

“I would like to talk with James Leonard please; he is my husband’s attorney.”

“Who may I say is calling?”

“I’m sorry, tell him its Mrs. Dosilmeyer.”

“One moment while I ring his office; hold please.” Bev had only met Mr. Leonard once. He was a young man, possibly in his early thirties. He and Sinclair seemed to get along all right.

“Leonard here, what can I do for you Mrs. Dosilmeyer?”

“Sinclair is still in the hospital and today, in the mail, I got a notification that he was being sued for a million dollars from the lawyers that are representing the family of the guy that died.”

“Slow down a little. Start at the top and tell me what it says.”

“Well, it says that they . . .”

“Who is they?”

“The law firm of Downey, Chilton and Howser.”

“Okay, so they sent you a notice that they were filing a suit against you husband. That’s to be expected. I, myself, have already drafted a suit against the owners of the apartment project for failing to properly maintain the premises. I even took the liberty of including the family of the deceased in the wording of the suit to share equally in any actual or punitive damages that may be rewarded.” Bev listened and felt a little better just hearing James rattle his saber.

“Will you need a copy of this letter?”

“Not necessary, I’ll get Bill Downey to send me a copy; he and I were both Assistant District Attorneys together. You just take care of Sinclair and let me do all the worrying.”

“Thank you Mr. Leonard; I was just so upset when I saw it that I . . .”

“Its all right; nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of it. By the way, I have those tapes
along with a complete copy of all the computer messages that were sent by any of units the night of the accident. I’ll have one of our couriers drop them by for you later on today.”

“Sinclair has been waiting for them. He’ll be wanting to have them as soon as possible; thank you.”

“I think it will help us in our suit against the City also, so make sure that he understands that he is not to talk about the contents of them to anyone; especially the news media.”

“What about those people from Internal Affairs? Should he talk to them?”

“They already have a copy of everything so it really doesn’t matter as long as he keeps it short and simple. He’s had a few go rounds with Internal Affairs; I’m sure he will handle himself well.” James thought for a moment, “On second thought. . .”, remembering how Sinclair had articulated his thoughts regarding insubordination to his supervisors, “Have him call me after he writes his rough draft letter to the Chief; just to go over a few things.”

“Thanks again, bye.”

“Your welcome Mrs. Dosilmeyer, goodbye.”

Pecaw's Gift / Table of Content

2005-02-17T18:32:00.000-08:00

(It never occured to me that some of you might want to know "how much longer is this going to last?", or something like that. I wish it could all be put down in one lump; but I don't think that would transfer very well, but then the page numbers would work; oh well.)

Pecaw's Gift

Chapter 1 The Sounds of Silence 4 - 10

Chapter 2 Love at Home 11 - 16

Chapter 3 Night Shift 20 - 29

Chapter 4 Falling 30 - 34

Chapter 5 Dreamsville 35 - 42

Chapter 6 Grand Central Station 43 - 50

Chapter 7 The Cavern 51 - 55

Chapter 8 Inchworm 56 - 61

Chapter 9 Crosstalk 62 - 63

Chapter 10 Stat 64 - 66

Chapter 11 Cluster 641 67 - 71

Chapter 12 Time Out 72 - 74

Chapter 13 If At First . . . 75 - 81

Chapter 14 " A " is for Apple 82 - 87

Chapter 15 Sgt. Who? 88 - 90

Chapter 16 Itching to Tell You 91 - 94

Chapter 17 Positively the Greatest 95 - 100

Chapter 18 Mr. " C " 101 - 106

Chapter 19 Internal Affairs 107 - 113

Chapter 20 What Nerve? 114 - 118

Chapter 21 Piece of Cake 119 - 126

Chapter 22 Adopted, Again 127 - 133

Chapter 23 Suits 134 - 136

Chapter 24 Handle It 137 - 141

Chapter 25 Right as Rain 142 - 151

Chapter 26 Pools 152 - 162

Chapter 27 Borrowed Genius 163 - 173

Chapter 28 Funnies 174 - 179

Chapter 29 The Path 180 - 188

Chapter 30 Saved 189 - 200

Chapter 31 Short and Sweet 201 - 213

Chapter 32 Great Legs 214 - 220

Chapter 33 Empty 221 - 227

Chapter 34 Astros 228 - 247

Chapter 35 Fill It Again, Please 248 - 254

Chapter 36 Frazetta 255 - 260

Chapter 37 Logged On 263 - 272

Chapter 38 Convert 273 - 380

Chapter 39 Norbert's 281 - 283

Chapter 40 Rusty 284 - 289

Chapter 41 Loose Ends 290 - 297

Chapter 42 Lemons or Lemonade 301 - 304

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 22 - Adopted, Again

2005-02-15T14:15:00.000-08:00

The afternoon drifted into evening as another day marked the seemingly endless calendar of slow progress. Sinclair grew more frustrated with himself. He was accustomed to having things go his way; this was not in his plans. It had been two weeks since they let him start breathing on his own. He had weaned himself away from the respirator for only an hour and fifteen minutes. His body was reminded of the first time he had tried chopping wood in the mountains of Colorado. His arms were limp at his side and just looking up was exhausting him. He felt worthless and out of shape.

How long was it going to take him to relearn walking? Pat, the evening shift nurse, made small talk while she checked his blood pressure. She had gone through some rough times herself and could, even if it was only for a few moments, make him forget about his own rotten batch of apples.

“Pretty neat the way you can talk with that computer gizmo. Have you talked to the two girls on night’s yet? You know that they have damn near adopted you?” She talked on while squeezing out the excess water from a wash cloth. Sinclair was not yet able to stand in the shower. Most of the required daily duties to maintain his outward cleanliness were done by Bev; Sinclair being very conservative in his personal habits. Pat was so used to taking care of people that she continued to unbutton and wash, dry and rebutton the entire time.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met them.” Sinclair found that he was enjoying the fresh tingling sensation on his chest. There was just a hint of peppermint in the soap. His nose picked up the scent as the warm water evaporated and carried the fragrance throughout the room. He hardly noticed being bathed at first, then became more and more self conscious with each pass of the cloth. He seemed intimidated by the situation. Before his accident, the only women in the entire world that had seen his nakedness were Bev and his mother, and that was when he was very young. He blocked out the lack of privacy. Such formalities, he reasoned, had to be overlooked. He fixed his attention on a small spider’s web directly above him where the ceiling met the curtain track unit.

“What do you mean, adopted?”

“Well, there's this one, Launa. She worries for all the cops on the street. When ever one comes in all broken up like you, she gets all her maternal instincts into high gear. That oil painting on the wall; that’s her work. She put it up there just for you.” She talks and carries on like she was your mother hen. Sinclair eyed the picture. The use of colors was good, dark ominous clouds mingling with the ocean at sunset; but the picture was lacking a focal point. It wasn’t finished.

“Did she paint that? It looks very nice.” Sinclair did not want to criticize the work. He had tried painting and knew how frustrating it was to get his own thoughts to melt into the canvass.

“When Launa comes in she. . . well, she just wants the best for you. Working night shift is hard for the average “normal” person to understand. Launa uses those long quiet hours to make all of her patients feel special.” He had worked on all the different shifts as a police officer. Day shift had all the administrative type people; Captains, Lieutenants and twice as many Sergeants. They had little room for anything but statistics and protocol. Evening shift was too busy to let personalities mingle for any amount of time. By the time one “fire” had been put out, there was always another waiting around the corner. Pat was right, night shift let people cut through all the red tape and get their feeling out much quicker.

“Thanks; I’ll make it a point to stay up and visit some with her. Who is the other one that you mentioned?” It was nice to know that he was thought of, even if he didn’t know them.

“You mean Jody , she’s a perfectionist of sorts. While you were just on the border; you know, living or dying, she stayed hours on end to make sure that all your vitals were right on the money. She would sit here in this chair doing her cross stitch work. You know, flowers and things like that; they’re beautiful. I’ll bet she finished at least three of them while you were off in “Lala Land”. She told me that she couldn’t afford frames for them; she puts them in her cedar chest. Some day she’ll marry a rich doctor and they can have “instant nostalgia” on the walls of their home.

“I think she was in the other night. Is she kind of thin with dark hair; and real quiet?

“That’s her. She just got back from two weeks away at Army Summer Camp. It sure will be a surprise when she hears your voice coming from that speaker; sure threw me the first time. She’ll be so glad to see the progress you’ve made.”

“I suppose it is kind of a strange set up. I always wanted to be a ventriloquist.” Sinclair was still nervous as he started off, “I was in the Army for a while too. It wasn’t for me though; I was just eighteen or so and Vietnam was still in full swing. I joined the Reserve Unit. It was about the only way to go to college and not worry about the draft. It was okay, I guess. When I got out I joined the Department.”

“Yea, when I was just. . . what was it? Eighteen or was it seventeen? Anyway I was downtown with my kid.” Pat was very vocal with her gestures as her hands made large exaggerated swirls in the air. “He was only about a year old and had just started to have a mind of his own. Well he was pulling me this way and that while we were waiting for the bus. He kept wandering off.” Pat rolled her eyes back, pushed her hip out and slapped it all at the same time. “I was at my wits end. Some guy who was waiting there next to me; he was up to here with my kid too.” She was good at telling stories. With each thought a matching gesture accompanied her words. “Anyway, he suggested that I just pick him up and hold him. I still had my “permanent hip.” She animated the way mothers hold kids all day while doing their chores by shoving her hip out in front of Sinclair.

She had it perfect, the image was without flaw. “I was wearing one of those tube tops, you know the kind, from back in my hippie days. Well I had my huge purse on the one side and him on the other. Next thing I knew; well, there I was standing in front of a Foley’s Department Store in downtown with my boobs hanging out for God and everyone else to see. I was so embarrassed. I turned around to hide myself from the people at the bus stop, only to find there were at least eight or nine more watching me from inside the store.” Pat continued to recount the entire story. Her face was full with the delight of having entertained Sinclair. “I didn’t know what to do; drop the bag, the kid or both. It was terrible. The guy who had first suggested that I hold the kid pops off, “I guess that wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

Sinclair could feel the awkwardness of the moment as the air moved across his wet skin and quietly evaporated his self confidence. He dared not look away from the web. Her boldness was only a shield, but he did not know it at the moment.

“When’s the last time you got any?”

“Any what?”

“A big guy like you, come on man. . . “

A blush came over Sinclair; it was like a blast furnace had hit him in the face. “Its. . . ahhhh . . . been a while.” Not wishing to say anymore, he tried to change the subject; but couldn’t think of anything at all.

“Its okay, I wasn’t trying to get personal, Hun.” Pat had a course raspy voice from years of smoking. Her sarcasm made it sound more like one of the guys at the station. Then after a short pause, it softened and momentarily she let her true self emerge; vulnerable and very much afraid of life. “I just start talking and I never know what’s gonna come out. I’m sorry if I bothered you with that last remark.”

“No harm done, it just caught me off guard, that’s all.” Sinclair wasn’t accustomed to discussing such an intimate topic with a total stranger, much less a female. He studied her for a few more minutes and began to relax, just a little, but enough to know that his “being” wasn’t threatened. If anything she was helping him talk about something that was bothering him. He had not mentioned his concerns to Bev. His body was as good as useless and he didn’t know when “normal” function would return. He wanted and needed a complete relationship with Bev. At night he remembered all the romantic moments of his life. A look of despair took over his countenance.

“Hey, don’t worry about it” Her voice brushing his fears aside like a seasoned bar tender, “Bev won’t let you off for too much longer. Just remember that you love her and she loves you. The rest will take care of itself sooner or later.” The basics had never sounded so unattainable before.

Pat glanced at herself in the mirror as she propped his head and fluffed his pillow. The image of her youth was no longer there, “Thirty three isn’t as much fun as twenty Three”, as she reflected on her own short comings. It had not been an easy life. She had raised her family of three without the benefit of a husband. She had picked herself up by the boot straps at a very young age. Not wishing to ring up hamburger orders the rest of her life, she made it a goal to finish high school. She then went into nursing and made it a point not to stay in one area too long. She didn’t want any part of her life to become boring. Whenever she started to feel too comfortable with any one aspect of the job she would immediately transfer to some new field. She hated regular shift hours, they made her feel trapped. She worked as a floater, one or two nights in the Emergency room, a week in SICU or whatever else became available.

The idea of being “stuck for good” made her feel claustrophobic. Pat never wanted to be that closely associated with normality. She was doing it her way and damn proud of the results. The world may not be perfect; but what the hell, she took what ever it gave and made it work

“Looks like I could use a little make up to hide some of this shine.”, talking out loud to herself and not really asking for any comment in return. Reaching into her lab coat pocket, she took out a small plastic compact, placed it on the edge of the desk and brushed some of the soft pastel powder onto her cheeks. The irregular shape of the dark brown tortoise shell container did not balance well and slipped off. She tried in vain to grab it. Sinclair watched, unable to offer any help as the micro-fine powder separated itself from its container upon impact. His reaction was not to be expected from such a simple accident. Beads of cold sweat formed immediately on his forehead and he began to tremble. He slipped away from reality as the small clump of tan facial dust disintegrated, forming a cloud of tiny free hanging particles.

He closed his eyes to block out the thought, but found that he was watching still more of the same explosion. No; not the same cloud of dust, it was different. This was the edge of the railing that had broken loose just before he fell. He could see the rusty piece of steel as it tore away the fragments of cement. The precise moment was frozen, locked away in his memory as if on “still stepped” motion picture film.

“ ‘ you ok? Hey, its okay, just some dime store make up.” Pat knew that the make up case was only part of a much greater whole; pressing the “alert” button at the same moment. She thought to herself, hoping that nothing had sprung loose, at least nothing physical. She suspected some kind of severe mental disturbance, brought about by the falling make up case; but dared not be so foolish. The nature of his injury, the blunt trauma head wound, made such a simplistic diagnosis tantamount to a group of witches stirring toad skins in large black cauldrons to cure warts.

For a moment his speaker was silent as Sinclair was lost in the past. Then as the fear in his soul found a clear channel, a direct line to the computer, it screamed out the terror that had laid claim to him for so long. Pat covered her ears, trying to shut out the pain. Not that the hundred plus decibel range that was pounding her drums wasn’t fierce; it was the primitive howl of an injured animal. Her heart grieved as the panic from within him escaped.

The room filled with SICU staff, all busily engaged in checking Sinclair. Pat had half a moment to remove herself from the professional situation. “Its all right; you’re safe now.”, wringing her hands as she rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. Pat joined the list of those who had adopted Sinclair.

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 21 - Piece of Cake

2005-02-15T13:48:00.000-08:00

It was hard to believe that the man in the bed next to him had not made any attempt to start up a conversation. About the only thing Sinclair knew about him was that the guy had been in a terrible car wreck and lost his leg. Twice while he and Vern were working the bugs out of the speech program they had tried to include him in their chatter.

Sinclair had assumed that it was a language barrier. He had Bev call down to the nurse’s
station and ask that an interpreter who spoke Spanish be sent down so that they might be
more neighborly.

“I’m sorry; but I don't think it would do much good. You see, Mr. Alejandro is a deaf mute. I wish we could do more for him; he has no family as far as we know.”

“Oh, I see. Thanks anyway.” Sinclair pulled the nylon mesh curtain back so that he could see his roommate. The movement caught his attention and Mr. Alejandro turned to see what was going on. The two were able meet face to face. Sinclair started it off by talking very slowly.

“My name is Sinclair. Can you read lips?”

From across the gap that separated them, Sinclair watched the man’s shoulders come
together as Mr. Alejandro indicated that he was wasting his time. Not only did he not hear, he did not understand English. The distance between them seemed almost beyond measure. Sinclair only knew enough Spanish to fill out a traffic ticket or an arrest blotter.

He knew a little sign language; even then he wasn’t that good at it. He had taken the signing course at the Houston Community College a long time ago. The first day of class Sinclair had walked in, not sure if he was in the right room. He approached a couple seated towards the front of the class from the rear and asked, “Is this the Sign Language Class?” There was no response from them until he tapped one of them on the arm. Sinclair chuckled to himself as he took a chair, “Must be.”

Hoping that the man knew the basic alphabet and that some of the “signing” patterns would be universal; Sinclair put his open hand to his chest and then slowly finger spelled his name, “S. . . I . . . n . . . c . . . l . . .a . . . I . . . r”. He then made the sign for “Cop” by forming the letter “C” and touching the left side of his chest, as if to pin an imaginary badge on his pajamas. Mr. Alejandro’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he closely watched Sinclair’s feeble attempts. At last there was someone to talk with.

Alejandro quickly flashed some letters from his hand back at Sinclair. The blur of letters did not register. It had been a long time since he had talked with a deaf person. He motioned for him to repeat as he rolled his hand in a circular motion; slowly and then even more slowly, hoping that the exaggerated motion would encourage the desired response.

Once Sinclair had taken Bev with him to a club that catered to the deaf community. They had a chance to see a short play. All the actors were deaf, along with most of the audience; the exception being a few students from the signing course. What impressed him the most was their ability to express feelings through facial changes.

They had the ability to capture each human concept; like, hate, warmth, love and all the rest of the complex emotional traits that hearing people so imperfectly try to grasp with words alone. Sinclair tried to follow the play as the actors would also finger spell the dialogue. It might have been easier, had it not been that all the characters had Russian names. Sinclair had trouble keeping up with words like “that” and “blue”; he didn’t have a chance when they started spelling names like “Rostokovich” at full speed.

Mr. Alejandro watched Sinclair as each letter was carefully formed; waiting for a nod or a wink before continuing to the next. “F . . . E . . . R . . . N . . . A . . .N . . D . . . O.”

“Fernando? You’re Fernando?”

“Fernando; yes!” His smooth fist bending at the wrist several times. “Yes.” The smile on his face as he patted his chest let Sinclair know that he had found a friend. Then there were many signs flashed to him that Sinclair did not understand. Sinclair put both his hands up and started shaking his head at the same moment. It was no use; Sinclair just did not have the necessary skills to continue. Pointing to his wrist as if there were a watch on it; Sinclair made his fingers look like watch hands and motioned that he would get back to him later. Fernando looked back, saddened by the short visit and acknowledged with a nod of his head. Sinclair waved and closed the curtain as he realized how hard it must be to live in such isolation.

It did not take long for Sinclair, looking at the computer, to draw upon his imagination. “What if we got a language disk and then programmed it to print both Spanish and English on every other line. That way he could read. . . No I still wouldn’t be able to read his signs.” Sinclair slumped back momentarily. His idea would not work unless the computer could read Fernando’s hand signs. That was going to be the hill to climb.

Picking up the phone was an ordeal in itself as he managed to punch up the operator, “Could you get me the extension for Vern Rylan?” Sinclair had a thought in his head that was almost possible; maybe Vern could make it happen.

“That number is four seven six six.”

“Got it, thanks.” Punching the numbers in before he could forget them and talking to himself, “Four, seven, six and six.” The ringing on the other end was a pleasing sound. On the third ring Jack picked it up.

“Maintenance, Go ahead it’s your quarter.”

“Is Vern Rylan there? This is Sinclair Dosilmeyer up in room four sixteen.”

“Dosilmeyer?. . . Oh yea, your the guy. . .yea . . just a minute. He’s across the hall. I’ll go get him, hold on.” Sinclair listened to the muffled voices come through the line. He could hear, “Hey Vern, its that guy from upstairs. You know, the cop you’ve been helping. He’s on the phone.” Then in a few moments the phone was picked up again, “Just a sec’ while I transfer to him, okay?”

The internal switching was made and Sinclair waited for his friend to come on the line. “Hey, how’s my buddy today? Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. It works even better now that I’ve had a chance to practice with it.” Sinclair hedged as he tried to come up with a way to ask for another favor. The list of favors was already beyond measure. It would be impossible to pay back a tenth of them; but this wasn’t for himself.

“Well, what’s on your mind. I was planning to come see you a little later on.”

“I have a new challenge for you; that is if you think your up to it?” Sinclair never gave him a chance. He threw out the lure knowing that Vern would never pass on it, regardless of the risk.

“Okay, so what are we going to do now? I’m only good for one miracle per month you know.” Vern laughed as he silently patted himself on the back.

“That’s a shame. I was hoping you would make a career out of coming by my room to solve the impossible.”

“Must be good, can you give me a clue?”

“Yea, tell you when you get up here.” Sinclair hung up on him, just for effect. He figured that it would take somewhere in the neighborhood of four, maybe five minutes for Vern to run the course. It was sort of fun to put out the bait and reel in the fish. He had a Lieutenant once who had a dry sense of humor. Back then he and his partner did their very best to avoid being around the office. As rookie cops it was smart to stay away from the “brass”. Once in a while the Lieutenant would “jack” with the troops. Most of the time it was a harmless prank meant to embarrass or amuse the office crew. Sometimes they pushed the limits of good taste. There had been one officer; he had a kid type face with a smile that wouldn’t quit. Apparently there was a bet on of some kind, a wicked bet to see what it would take to change the enormous smile into a frown. The desk officer called him on the radio and told him, “Report to the office.”

The sound of those words was enough for most rookies to get worked up over just about any of the many things they might have done wrong. They had one of the Sergeants play the bad guy roll, handing him a fake pink slip, as if he had been fired. The Lieutenant waited in his office for the young officer to turn in his badge. The officer walked in, tears running down his face with his head hung low. His life was dragging the bottoms of despair and yet through it all that smile, that wonderful boyish smile never left his face. The Sergeant reached into his bill fold and pulled out a dollar. As he handed it over to the Lieutenant, “Guess you were right, here ya’ are.” It was a terrible joke to play on anyone. Word got around so fast that the officer had a hard time for weeks.

Aware of the power a Lieutenant had to make or ruin young officers; Sinclair still thought of a way to take the bull by the horns. One day that same Lieutenant sent Sinclair on an errand. It seemed that he had been planning a trip to Florida for his family vacation. All Sinclair had to do was pick up one of those maps, the kind with the main route marked out and all the points of interest highlighted. Sinclair got the maps as requested. He also picked up a complete travel guide for a trip to Oklahoma. He stashed the Florida maps in his pocket and casually laid the Oklahoma brochures on the Lieutenant’s desk. Walking slowly down the hall, giving him time to figure out that something was afoot, Sinclair cautiously smiled. His partner, Bob Linden, knew what was going down and was not very enthusiastic about the potential for disaster.

“Dosilmeyer! Just a minute. Get in here!”

Smiling like a Cheshire cat, “What’s the matter sir?”

“You know damn good and well. Okay, you’ve had your fun. Now tell me how come you put all that stuff on my desk about Oklahoma? There has to be a good reason, right?” There was the slightest twinkle in the Lieutenant’s light blue eyes that gave Sinclair an even chance of pulling it off.

“Oh, I must have gotten those by mistake. I’ll run down there and get the ones on Florida like you wanted.” The bait was out there. All the line was run out as Sinclair continued walking down the hall.

“There must be something to this fishing”, Sinclair thought to himself as the blood in his veins flowed with the surge of adrenaline.

“I’m not buying that. Why did you get me the travel guide for Oklahoma Dosilmeyer?” The Lieutenant had swallowed it hook line and sinker. Bob could feel himself flinching as Sinclair opened his mouth.

“Oh, I just figured that with your dry sense of humor, well, I thought you might enjoy Oklahoma.” Sinclair waited the appropriate amount of time and let a hopeful grin grace his lips. It must have worked; he didn’t get fired. From that point on they kind of respected each other. Sinclair didn’t mess with the Lieutenant for a long while after that.

“What took you so long?” Sinclair had timed it to within thirty seconds as Vern came bolting into the room. “Four minutes and twenty nine seconds. What’s the matter? You sound winded.” A friendly smile echoed the words that came from the speaker.

“Very funny, you try walking to the bathroom and I’ll sit back and laugh at you for a while.” Vern took a few cool down breaths in the chair. “So, what’s the deal?”

“Like I said, I don’t even know if it can be done.”

“Give me a break, I’m already here. You know I’m a sucker for that kind of challenge. What is it this time; a trip to the moon or just a casual romp on Venus?”

“Can you get a program that will translate from English to Spanish and back again?” Sinclair knew that such a program was already on the market. All Vern had to do was go by the local shopping mall to pick one out.

“You’re not going to tell me that I ran up here for that, are you?” Vern saw the mile wide grin on Sinclair’s face and knew that there was a plot back behind those off white teeth.

"Well, we need that to get started. Actually . . .” Sinclair had learned a long time ago that the word “Actually” was a trigger word for computer type people. It was the one word that caused them to come to full focus on what ever words followed.

“Well? . . .” Vern was growing impatient with the cat and mouse game.

“I was wondering what we could do to integrate the your speech synthesizer program and the foreign language stuff so that I could talk with the guy in the next bed.”

Vern ducked his head around the curtain. Fernando nodded and smiled as Vern did like wise. “Piece of cake, piece of cake.”

“Yea, but he’s deaf too.” Sinclair waited for some kind of reaction.

Vern looked over his shoulder at Sinclair, “He’s what?”

“You know, deaf; as in, can’t hear.” Sarcasm was part of Sinclair’s personality. It had gotten him into trouble, it had gotten him out of it.

Vern looked at the floor, his head would change position as he thought, then bob occasionally as he thought some more.

“I suppose that I could hook up a cam-corder and . . . the basic signs and write a simple recognition program to identify them by grid squares. Kind of like a fax machine. . . yea ,. . . I could tie it directly into the . . . uh huh. . . yea” Vern smiled and looked back at Sinclair. “It won’t be easy; but I can do it. Let me work on it for a few days. Will Friday be all right?” Vern was consumed with being cocky as he got up from the chair.

“I was hoping to have it this evening; but I guess that was too much to ask. Yea, Friday; if that’s the best you can do.”

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 20 - What Nerve?

2005-02-15T13:27:00.000-08:00

The morning light found Bev still crowded halfway into bed with Sinclair’s arms wrapped around her when Maime walked in. Not wishing to intrude she eased her way back out the door and said nothing. There was a smile that lighted up Maime’s whole face as she strutted down the hall. “There’s hope for us all yet. Yes indeed, there’s hope for us all.” Maime chortled to herself as she went to notify the Charge Nurse of the change in Sinclair’s progress.

The closing of the door was just enough to bring Bev out of her fairy tale sleep. Rubbing her eyes as she stretched the cramp out of her side from sleeping in such an awkward position, Bev wondered if she had dreamed it. Sinclair was slowly working his fingers across the curve of her side. The touch felt so natural it was hard to believe that it had taken three months, nearly to the day, for him to accomplish such a simple task.

Bev slipped out from under the weight of Sinclair’s arms as easily as a child sneaks out at nap time. A few minutes in the bathroom to freshen up and change her dress. The months of visits had taught her long ago to keep a change of clothes and a few simple toiletry items there in the room with Sinclair. There was nothing much worse than having to go all morning without having first brushed her teeth, taken a shower and changed into some fresh garments. She sat down at the desk and reluctantly read the questions that had been left by the I.A.D. officers the night before. The list was very specific and would require careful thought prior to answering any of the questions.

“Did you at any time refer to the suspect as a “Son of a Bitch” or any derogatory racial slur? Did you punch or kick the suspect at any time prior to or during the arrest? Did you consider the increased danger level applied to the situation based on established Departmental guide lines. While making your arrest, which of the “take down” techniques that you were taught did you apply? Support your arrest procedure in accordance with the Officer’s Standard Field Operations Manual. After noticing that the suspect was injured, did you make any attempt to use the techniques as taught in the Department’s First Aid In Service Training? Why did you not call for an ambulance when you noticed that the suspect needed medical attention immediately? Prior to this incident, did you ever have any other confrontations or dealings with the suspect either on duty or off duty?”

Bev could hardly believe the questions that had been asked. Was this what Sinclair had to put up with on a regular basis or was this reserved especially for when an officer was involved in a homicide investigation? The questions were so, so negative in their design. Her thoughts about the Department were not very favorable at the moment.

“Good morning, what cha’ reading?” Bev was momentarily startled by the voice that came from the speaker. When they had fallen asleep the computer had been left on inadvertently. The moment that Sinclair formed his thoughts, his words instantly became audible. The hours spent working the bugs out of the speech synthesizer had paid off with some remarkable dividends. The voice that came out was so much like his own that Bev found herself looking to see if his lips had made the sound.

“Just looking at this horrible list of questions that they left for you. I was tempted to throw them away. The implied guilt that each question hides is preposterous. It really galls me to think that you have to put up with these innuendoes and out right accusations.”

“Well, there’s not much to say to their questions. I don’t have any recollection of the incident. I suppose it will come back eventually; but as far right now goes, well let’s just leave it alone. I’ve found that they can’t hang you unless you give them the rope; and I don’t know what this rope even looks like.” Sinclair was almost glad that he had a blank spot in his brain. Bev read him the list and he thought about each question.

“They wouldn’t ask me to comment on this unless they had some information which would lead them to believe that some, if not all of these allegations were true.” Sinclair reasoned that one of the complaints must be from either a relative or a friend of the dead man; that would make him a biased witness. Sinclair wanted to see the letter of complaint and to hear the radio transmissions that were kept in the communications tape room. Maybe if he could jog his memory just a little; at least he would have an idea of what had happened to him.

“What’s bothering you, dear?” Bev wanted to help; but was not sure if she could.

“Get a hold of that lawyer; you know, the one who helped me with that insubordination deal. I want him to get me a copy of the dispatcher’s tapes for that night. You’ll have to go by the Association offices first; to get permission to retain him. Tell him I want everything from the time the call was received on the phone ‘till at least four hours later; and I want everything that was on the back channel and on the MDT units as well. They keep all that stuff, it’s just not common knowledge. That’s why its not too smart to be blabbin’ your personal business, even on the computers. They can hang you with any of it if they want to.”

“Wait, what was that about back channel and MDT ?”

“Back channel is like a private line for officers to use when they are in close proximatie to each other. It’s supposed to keep the news media from picking up stuff; but if they’re in the area. . .”

“Oh, I see; then there may be information that hasn’t been put out in the news papers. What was that about the MDT ?”

“That’s what we call the little computers that are in the police cars. Its all sent via radio waves; so it can easily be recorded onto a tape, just as a voice can be recorded. Each unit has its own identifying code built into each transmission. At the beginning of each shift we have to “log on”. That’s when the system codes all the rest of the messages for that shift.

“So he’s to get a transcript of all the MDT activity along with the tapes?”

“Now your cookin’ with gas.”

“I’ll do that this morning; right after I go by the bank, since the Association offices are just across the street anyway.”

“Now let me see the manual on this new toy.” Sinclair was refering to the speech synthesizer. “I want to have some fun.”

“Okay, . . .”, a reluctance to help him based on his past history of juvenile delinquency when given the opportunity. The dental assistants used to duck whenever they passed the room that Sinclair was in. He would get bored waiting for the novocaine to fully do its work. Sinclair had consumed more than his fair share of soda and candy while growing up. The consequences for such activity was a mouth full of silver. As the years had gone past, the original work had to be replaced from time to time. The art of dentistry had improved considerably; but Sinclair was still scared of the dentist. The first time he had a filling put in as a boy was by some guy resembling Boris Karloff. That guy thought that pain was a lesson to keep kids from getting more cavities. Sinclair never forgot; some day that guy was going to have to answer for all he had done.

“The nerve of that guy!” The built in squirt gun, designed to wash out the patients mouth, would be transformed into the mega-galactic alien zapper. Any and all aliens, which included nurses, clerks and especially dentists; would have to pass the portals of doom. “ . . . but please don’t get carried away and get into trouble this time.”

“Who?, me?” Sinclair knew that Bev was onto his antics. “Why I can’t believe that . . .”

“Don’t give me that innocent look.” Bev handed him the software manual. It was good to see his hands working again; even if they were not yet at full ability.

“You promise me that you’ll behave before I leave or I’ll turn off that fool computer and then what would you do?” It was an empty threat and Sinclair knew it.

“Yes Ma’am.” Sinclair had one of those eight year old faces that gave away his conniving ways. The harder he tried to hide his devilish way, the broader the smile on his face became.

“Don’t you , “Yes Ma’am” me and think you have me fooled, Mathew Sinclair Dosilmeyer.” Bev was scolding him just like he was one of the kids.

“Oh, all right then; I won’t get into too much trouble.”

“Please, just behave for a while, okay?” Bev knew that he was going be hard to manage now that he was starting to feel better. She could hardly wait for Dr. Gwynn to wean him off of the respirator.

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 19 - Internal Affairs

2005-02-13T16:55:00.000-08:00

“Two men are here from the Police Department and want to visit with Mr. Dosilmeyer. They said they’re from Internal Affairs and only want to ask him a few questions now that he is alert and awake.”, the nurse at the front desk spoke to Bev on the telephone just as Vern was leaving. “I told them to wait here at the desk and that you would come out in a few minutes. I had them show me their identification since they were in business suits; they're both Sergeants.” She paused and looked back at the two officers as she held her hand over the receiver. “Please, go ahead and have a seat over there.”, pointing to a small reception area.

There was a small table with two modern design wooden chairs. On the table were some magazines that some of the nurses had brought from home to help pass the time for whoever was forced to wait. They both thumbed through the small stack. Not finding anything that was interesting to them, they sat impatiently looking back at the nurse’s desk every couple of minutes; as if to imply that they were in a hurry.

“Well, what do you want me to tell them, Hun?” Bev wanted to protect Sinclair as much as possible. He still did not recall the details of the accident; that the suspect had died the night that Sinclair fell off the balcony.

“I have nothing to hide from them; but I would prefer that they didn’t know about my ability to use the computer, if you get my meaning? Tell them that I am not prepared to talk with them; that I still have this damned thing in my throat and that it should be out by next week and that I will talk with them at that time. Let’s turn this off.”, his eyes targeting the computer as he blinked. “Go ahead and usher them in so that I can at least be polite; that way they won’t think that we are being evasive.”

Bev winked back and simultaneously flipped the power switch off and put the computer on the small desk by Sinclair’s bed. As she got up, she leaned over and kissed him on the lips. It was a wife’s kiss that, combined with her open eyes that were fixed on his, meant that she was not comfortable. She wanted them to leave him alone; but knew that because Sinclair was a policeman, that he was always accountable to the Department. She closed her eyes for a few moments and quickly offered a prayer.

“Father, who knows my thoughts before I speak them, thank you for sparing the life of my husband. Thank you for giving him this marvelous ability to conquer the silence that has taken his voice. Protect him from the cold world that waits down the hall. Provide them with sufficient answers, through my own mouth, that they will not inquire too strongly about those things which might be harmful to Sinclair at this time. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.” Bev opened her eyes and felt confident that she would handle it alright. After all, just the other day she had run off a very persistent aluminum siding salesman. She had even thanked him for his attempted presentation.

Walking down the hall, she glanced up at the nurse behind the desk. Then as she cleared the edge of the short hall and made her way to the desk, the two officers got up and their movement caught her attention. She watched as they smoothed out the imaginary wrinkles in their clothing, flexed and squared their shoulders in unison.

“Mrs. Dosilmeyer? I’m Sergeant Nichols and this is my partner Sergeant Perry. We’re from the Internal Affairs Division and would like to talk with your husband; if its all right with you. We heard that he was conscious now and there are some details that we need to get from him regarding his accident. We won’t stay long.” He reached for some papers that he had inside the right pocket of his suit as he talked.

Bev smiled but reserved her true thoughts. “Sinclair asked me to come visit with you. He still cannot talk with you; he has a respirator hooked up to help him breath. I’m sure that he would like for you to come in and at least make your presence felt. He doesn’t get very many visitors. The doctor said that they would be taking him off the respirator a little at a time, starting next week. He should be able to hold a short interview at that time.” Bev could hardly believe how well she was doing. She led them down the hall and knocked quietly, then entered the room. She had turned the lights down, leaving only the desk lamp to set the proper mood.

Sinclair looked up and slowly winked to let them know that he was awake as the pair followed Bev to a spot at the end of his bed. He raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Hey guys, no sense in asking me any questions yet; I can’t talk.” If he could have pulled his shoulders together and raised his hands, palms up; he could have done no better.

“Good to see your healing up. We just wanted to let you know that the Department takes care of it’s own. We know that you can’t give us a statement. All we want to do at this time is leave these questions for you to think about so that when you are able . . .”

“You can give them to me, he still has no feeling in his hands.” Bev reached out, not waiting for him to agree with her stipulation. He hesitated; but only for a moment as he handed them to her. Bev eyed them, then put them out of view behind her dress.

Clearing his throat and not quite sure what to do next, Sgt. Perry looked over at Sinclair. “Hey, aren’t you the officer that used to dance while you directed traffic? Yea, I know you. You really had some moves out there.” He had driven by many times while Sinclair was working and waved. They did not know each other; but it was natural for Sinclair to wave when he recognized a city ride go by.

Sinclair looked hard to remember. The blank response showed, even on Sinclair’s face.

“Well, ah, we need to be getting along. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Dosilmeyer. You won’t forget to show those papers to . . .”

“Nice to meet you too.”, as she nodded to both of them and at the same time opened the door. “ . . and no; I’ll make sure he gets to look them over. Good night and y’all be careful out there.”

“Good night Ma’am.”

Bev watched them as they walked away. The tall one pulled out a cigar and began to light it, remembered that he was still in a no smoking area, and jammed it back into his pocket. The two waited for the elevator and occasionally looked back to where Bev was standing as they talked. They both waved weakly, not meaning to wave; but wanting to have some reason to be looking back that way.

Bev smiled and waved back, thinking to herself how hard it must be to work for a place where the jackals were so well dressed. It was hard to tell the good guys from the bad.

When Bev closed the door behind her, glad that she had done her job, she could feel herself relax just a little. She sat in the chair next to Sinclair; took hold of his hand and began to lightly stroke it. For a few minutes there was a calm in her life. She glanced over at Sinclair and realized that she needed to turn the computer back on. He had an unsettling look on his face. He was not happy about something. She typed the commands and waited for the voice synthesizer mode to engage.

“What’s this about some guy dying the night I fell? Why didn’t anyone, why didn’t you, tell me?” Sinclair’s new voice was able to elicit the emotional blur that was occurring in his mind.

“I didn’t want to burden you with that. You’re just now able to handle the simplest of human functions. I thought it best that since you didn’t remember. . . well, I saw no need to impede your recovery.” Bev knew that Sinclair was disappointed with her. His eyes looked clear on through to the middle of her soul. He exposed the little girl in her.

Only once, since they had been married, had she ever lied to him. She had wanted him to quit smoking cigarettes. He was in the hospital after having a collapsed lung and she saw the opportunity to do a number on him. She told him that he was under doctor’s orders to quit the habit. The doctors had not told her this; she had made it up to fit the desires of her heart. Sinclair had to quit and he knew it. Several weeks had past; with each day Bev felt the guilt of her deed. Finally it was too much for her to bear. She poured out the plot to him and asked for his forgiveness. Sinclair, after having listened to the woman who loved him enough to lie such a wonderful lie, laughed out loud. He explained that the doctor had told him that very same thing; that it was funny that she had lied when she didn’t have to. It made for a stronger bond in their marriage.

“So that makes it all right? Some guy I don’t even know died while I’m supposed to be arresting him and I can’t even remember it. I wish you would have told me, that’s all. I just wish you would have told me.” Sinclair closed his eyes and tried to recall the incident and find a way to feel some remorse for the man who had died.

“How did you find out? They never said a word about it, and I was holding their damned question sheet the whole time.” Bev waited a moment as Sinclair continued in his search for an answer.

“The tall one, what was his name? Sgt. Nichols had the whole file on a floppy disk in that pocket he kept fidgeting with. They all have their own personal computers in I.A.D. It keeps their information out of the main system. I suppose that its a form of security; keeps the masses from getting into their files. I only got to scan part of it; he kept moving so much once I realized what it was, time had run out.”

“I’m sorry I kept it from you. I just . . .”

“I’m not angry, well . . , just a bit maybe. Give me a hug and try to fill in the gaps for me.” Sinclair wished he could turn on his tactile sensory units as easily as he could manipulate the computer. Bev cuddled up carefully to the his side, making sure not to
disturb the breathing hose. Several minutes past as she tried to organize the details of that horrible scene.

“You went on a call and heard gun shots. You could tell where they came from; but before anyone could come to help you, the guy came out and the two of you struggled for his gun. The railing broke away and both of you fell backwards to the ground. He landed head first and was dead before the ambulance arrived. You, well, you know the rest." Bev was sobbing uncontrollably into Sinclair’s side as she blurted out the last few words.

“Its all right, its all right. I’m here with you and its going to be all right.” Somehow the message was important enough and his arm escaped the months of neglect as it moved to hold and caress Bev. “See there, next thing you know I’ll be asking for a private room.”

Bev stopped crying long enough to notice that Sinclair had made a significant move towards recovery. She took his hand once again, like she did the day they were sealed at the Salt Lake Temple so many years before. “It’ll be okay, just hold me.”

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 18 - Mr. "C"

2005-02-13T16:38:00.000-08:00

“I found a software program that will run on that lap top to allow us to hook up a speech synthesizer. It should only take a few moments to check it out.” Vern took the cover off the computer and exposed the inner workings. Everything was neatly arranged; beautiful dark green wafers with silver mazes had been snapped into place. Each one represented a function that the computer was capable of handling. Vern found an empty slot, and with a turn of a screw, had removed a rear panel tab. He pushed a new wafer into place and it was done. Replacing the cover and plugging a male jack connector into the newly added female port, Vern had completed the addition of the synthesizer, the speaker box and the built in software.

“Will this really work?” Bev asked, but was all ready pretty sure that she knew the answer. She wanted to have a conversation, of nearly normal parameters, with Sinclair. As it was, she would have to turn away from him to read all of his replies. Bev was glad that he could respond at all; but if it were possible to restore, or even simulate the human voice, then Bev was ready for the chance.

“How about a test run so I can adjust the tonal qualities of the synthesizer? It may sound somewhat distorted at first; but according to the data that came with this unit, It can be set to emulate just about any characteristic of the human voice. It has male/female, alto/tenor/base, full/diminish and it even has a selection for foreign language accents. The more Vern read the more excited he became. “Okay, it says here that. . . yea, enter VSP as a subdirectory in any of the popular word processors.”

Bev watched as Vern typed in, “CD \WS5\VSP” and hit the enter key. “What do the letters VSP mean?” Bev had already become familiar with the “Word Star” program. She was aware that the “5” designated which generation of the program, with its improvements since the very first “Word Star”, was being used.

“They stand for Voice System Procurement, which is the name of the company that produced it. A friend of mine works in their product development division and he sent this as a chance to work the kinks out of it. If it works as well as he seems to think it will, then Sinclair may never want to use his own voice again. You might even get him to sing in the choir at church.”

“That would be interesting. The only time he sang in the choir was when he first joined the Church. If they had heard him sing first; well, they never would have asked him to . . .”

“I resEMBLe tHAT remARK.” Sinclair’s words jumped out of the little speaker. It was a harsh mechanized voice. The first letter of each word was nearly silent; then as the volume peaked, the middle of the word crackled and distorted the sounds.

Vern quickly glanced over the list of adjustments on the control board. “Ah ha, Metering and Gain controls.” He turned the miniature knobs in opposite directions as indicated on the quick reference flip chart.

“I resemble that remark? Let me guess. . . You died and came back as Henny Youngman? Ok, let’s try the musical scale, if it’s all right with you . . . Mr. Pavoratti?”, Vern chided Sinclair into the next stage of the equipment checks. He wanted to get as much out of the opportunity as he could. “Come on; and a one, and a two . . .”

“ dOEe

tEA

lAaaa

SoooE

Fa

meee

rey

doe”

“Very cute, but I think that will do for now.” Vern turned to Bev still shaking his head as he enjoyed the light hearted spin that Sinclair had taken. "Better not book Carnage Hall just yet. Mind you now, this synthesizer won’t kick in until you get into “Word Star”. According to this”, Vern pointing to the small owner’s manual, “I can get the software to analyze the results of the voice tests that we just did and it will offer its own adjustments based on the default settings.” Vern continued to read the “Setup” instructions. “It says here to type in the command “VOICE.ADJ” and a secondary menu screen will appear on the command line.” Vern hit the enter key and a window appeared in the top right corner of the monitor. There were several boxes with different headings. One box was highlighted and blinking. “Voice Gender: “M” or “F”.

“Ever been to Denmark? . . . ; never mind.” Vern punched in the letter “M”. Each box in the window had its own set of simple questions for specific qualities of the voice. “Age: 20 - 30, 31 - 40, 41 - 50, 51 - 60, 71 +.”

“How old would you like to be Sinclair?”

Bev jumped in, “Let’s try 20 - 30. It might be nice to have a younger man around.”

“iS aLL thIS reaLLY nECeSSaRY ?”, the speaker crackled.

“I don't think there’s an attitude adjustment command, but if there is it must be set on Testy”. Vern continued to read without looking up. “This is almost like the graphic equalizer on my car stereo; as a new menu popped up on the screen.” He glanced at the command line that was once again flashing. “F-1 controls frequencies 31.5 (Hz) db, F-2 controls 63 (Hz) db, F-3 controls 125 (hz) db, etc.”, until all the audible adjustable frequencies were covered. “Press ^S to store and assign values. The VSP software has been designed with the ability to store as many as eight distinguishable voices.”

“This is awesome ! If I understand this right; we can program just about any file in Word Star to come out as a personality.” Vern flipped to the back of the booklet. “I was right! All we have to do is assign a given area of the file a “dot command” and it will be interpreted by the synthesizer just like the printer accepts font changes.”

“sO I coULD beCOMe thE rICH liTTLe Of tHE nexT deCADe ?”

“Pipe down while I read, so far you still sound like the warning buzzer in my wife’s car.”

“I alWAYs wanTED TO sOUNd lIke peRRY cOMO.” As Sinclair connued talking, Vern adjusted and customized the resulting voice until it came reasonably close to human.

Bev sat quietly in the chair and listened. With her eyes closed, she tried to match the voice she was hearing with the one that filled her heart. “Have him say a few words that will make it easier for me to compare; words that he uses a lot.”

“How about some peanut butter and jelly, open face on toast and a large glass of chocolate milk?” Sinclair’s basic voice pattern was smoother; but lacked personality.

“Oh, its so hard to describe . . . maybe a little more F-3, I don’t know.” Bev took the booklet in hand and read over the pages while Vern and Sinclair worked through minor adjustments to the over all sound.

“You know, I haven’t had real food in three months. I wish I hadn’t thought about that peanut butter and jelly.”

“That’s closer.” Bev heard something in the tones that softly touched her. “I could live with that.”

“I still want a little Perry Como. Try some more power to the middle bands.” Sinclair’s voice began tailing off at the end of words and showed signs of powering up for emphasis when certain phrases came into play.

“Give me a break. Let’s settle for acceptable and later on you can fiddle with it all you want.”

“Vern’s right, Dear. I can stay and enter the changes and let him get back to work.”

“I really do have to get back to work. Jack, the guy I work with down in Maintenance, lately he’s been asking a bunch of questions. So far the only people I’ve told are my wife and my friend at VSP. If word got out that you had this rare gift; well, it might make things very difficult. I’m so glad that the people here at the hospital have been able to keep a lid on this.

“Hey, glad you had some time to visit.” Sinclair stopped and listened to his voice. “Not bad, not bad. Still needs a little. . .”

“I know, a little Perry Como.” Vern smiled with a feeling of accomplishment. Turning slowly back to look Sinclair square in the face, “I love you,” clearing his throat and then looking at Bev, his voice returning to a less strained octave, “the both of you.”

A warm rush of blood fought its way to his face, the tension of speaking his heart bothered him. “I have to go now”, looking away to avoid direct eye contact, “ . . .get with you later.” Vern was not sure how to exit the room. It had suddenly gotten cluttered and seemed much larger. The distance to the door was no longer proportional as he hastened to leave before his words might be heard, or understood.

Sinclair’s eyes were moist and when he strained to look over at Bev he noticed that she was welling up also. Straining his eyes to focus on a point higher on the ceiling, and trying to keep the moisture from dripping down his cheek; Sinclair sniffled out, “I love you too Vern.”

Pecaw's Gift / Chapter 17 - Positively the Greatest

2005-02-13T16:21:00.000-08:00

“Hold the mirror a little more to the side, yea , there.” Sinclair was not able to move his head or neck and had Bev extend the visible world for him. He had been listening to the medical reports each day for the past three months and was now having his first glimpse at the handy work that had been done to his body. He was glad that he had not been able to feel the pain as he studied the misshapened leg, potholed and mottled, pitted and scared. The skin where the cast had been was a pale lavender color with angry red edges where the stitches had been recently removed. Bev was struggling to maintain her composure. She had seen pictures of men who had been prisoners of war. It was hard to imagine that Sinclair’s legs had once been healthy and strong.

“I’d like to meet this fellow, Vern. I need to thank him and get to know him now that I can look him in the face. I want to meet Maime too.” The desire to catch up with his life wore heavily on him as he tried to think of what to do first. Bev had become “computer friendly” over the past month and was no longer afraid to start it up.

She wanted to show off her newly acquired talent to Sinclair. She took a floppy disk out of the file box that Vern had left for her. When she would visit, sometimes Sinclair would be asleep. She had typed in all of her daily diary entries and saved them to the disk. Bev was about to bring up the menu to show Sinclair what she had done.

“I’m impressed; you have done a lot of work.” Sinclair was reading the information.

“The least you could do is wait ‘till they show up on the screen. Can you really read all those files so quickly?”

“Actually, I read the whole disk while it was still in the file box. I was bored yesterday and there was nobody to talk to.”

“Come on . . . You’re going to . . . That’s not possible. . .Is it?” Bev knew that he
had learned to do something pretty fantastic by just making his thoughts print out on the
computer; but this was too much.

“Why don’t you pull up last Monday’s entry? Sinclair continued to send his thoughts, “Well, go on. Didn’t you write, “I will be so glad when I can look into his
beautiful blue eyes and give him a big kiss?”

“Word for word, did you just read that or did you hear me talking to myself as I wrote it. You know how I can’t write a thing without talking to myself.”

“The night that Bob came to the front door to tell me about Sinclair’s accident at work was my worst nightmare come true. I thought the day would never end. I called Daddy and he told me to stand tall and ride it out.” Sinclair continued to access the disk for random entries, “Sinclair’s heart stopped today but they were able to revive him.”

Bev continued to read her personal journal that she had put on the disk. There it all was, just as she had written it. Somehow it didn’t seem fair that Sinclair could read it without going through all the proper computer procedures. “Ok, Mr. Smarty pants, since you have the ability; why don’t you tell me what’s on the disk that’s still in the file box?”

Sinclair closed his eyes for a moment to concentrate as he read the files. The information lined up row upon row for him to scan. “This is a game. I still have trouble with graphics; but it has something to do with city planning and budgeting. It’s called “Simcity”. According to the rules I can start building a city from scratch and with proper planning I can make it grow until it covers the entire screen. I like the part where the monster eats the city. I still need to figure out how graphics come across. I can even hear the noises that are built into the program for effect. One of them is like a scream, another is a boat horn and the best of all is the traffic helicopter giving the latest tie ups as he hovers overhead.”

“This is like being in the Twilight Zone; how can you read all of that so quickly?”

“Its all arranged in patterns of twos, all I’m doing is going through and matching those patterns to the ones I recognize as either number patterns or letter patterns. I tried to read music patterns off the cassette you played lots of times. It gave me a terrible headache.”

“But how do you do it so quickly?”

“I really don’t know. How is it that we can be driving down a busy road with a thousand cars, traffic lights and signs all over the place, the music blasting in our ears, buildings and trees, the sky above with birds flying lazily across a perfect sunset, and in the blink of an eye we can see a child’s ball about to bounce into the street. Its just a gift I found since I had that bad fall. Maybe part of my brain got scrambled and this is just temporary.” Sinclair carefully thought as he sent his next thought. “Part of my blessing from Patriarch Larson promised me that as long as I did my part, I would be protected from harm on my job. That has always been a comfort to me as I walked into a dark building or went to settle a disturbance. I guess that this is all part of the game plan.” Sinclair had a tear forming in the corner of his eye as he looked at Bev. “I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

“What did it say about talking to computers? I suppose this is just like learning a foreign language?”

“You said it; not me. For all I know this is the perfect language that we were all meant to learn. It sure is simple enough to pick up. This morning I said “Hello” to some ants that were walking on the window sill. They said “Hello” back and said that they would like to stop and visit but that they had to complete the job they were assigned to do.”

“Okay, so now you want to pull on my leg just because I can’t tell when you’re telling the truth or when I’m being set up.”

“I’m not kidding, I can understand what they said. I read about this in a novel. It was all about King Arthur and Merlin. Once they turned into ants. Anyway, in the story they talked to the ants in very straight forward “yes and no” type sentences. They really don’t talk in words, more like thought groups that activate different chemical responses. Like, “Positive” means all forms of “Yes, I will, accepted, etc. “Negative” covers thoughts that are unacceptable. So when I said “Good morning” to the ants, it as translated as a “positive” and they were not threatened. They were busy and so they sent back a positive acknowledgement followed quickly by a negative of the first power which I was able to translate to mean, “were too busy to stop and visit.”

Bev could only listen in disbelief; the words were arranged so thoughtfully, so intelligently. She knew that at one stage in her life that she was so gullible that many subtle jokes had caught and embarrassed her. Was this another well planned joke that Sinclair was playing on her? She could not tell; but was ready for just about anything at this point.

“It works best in the morning when I’ve had a good sleep. I can feel the answers much better and I have been told, by the ants, that I have articulated my thoughts very well.” Sinclair smiled with his eyes “It must sound like boasting to you, and I suppose it is a little prideful; but I have no other way of letting all that has been trapped inside me escape. I wanted to jump out of bed and start kicking that worthless nincompoop that calls herself a nurse, the one who works evening shift. She acted like I was some Congress Street wino just taking up space. When she came in I would start to boil. I guess she thought I couldn’t hear, well maybe when I start recounting it back to her it will make her stop and think the next time.

“I think you should just be thankful that she does her job and let it alone. I have met her, and yes, she is not a very friendly sort; still she has done a lot for you.” Bev didn’t like her at all either; but didn’t like to talk about people.

“You wrote that my heart had stopped and that they revived me. Well I went to visit Pecaw that day. It was the strangest thing. One minute I was inside a broken body and the next thing I was there standing in the air over myself looking down. It was wonderful. I got to ride on a train that took me to see Pecaw and he was all dressed up in his white Temple clothing. He said I need to get his Temple work done. He bought me a hot dog and an orange soda. I got to meet his father and all of his brothers and sisters. Being dead wasn’t so bad, except for the nagging feeling that I had not done all that I was sent here to do.”

“And how are my two favorite people doing?” Maime poked her head in the door. A beaming smile took over all her face as she looked over to see Sinclair looking back at her. “Its about time you opened those peepers Mr. Sinclair.” Maime came over and turned on her best. “Well, am I the best looking black woman you has ever seen or what?”

“No doubt in my mind. I’ve been wanting to thank you for such a long time. I think your positively the greatest.” It wasn’t like Sinclair to just give away a flattering statement like that.

"Maime, I want to introduce you to my husband, formally.”

“Howdy Mr. Sinclair; I’m Maime Stuart.”

“I know, I’ve been here all along waiting to get in a word edge wise. You two talk so much it took three months to get this far.”

"Is he like this all the time, or did he learn how to be that way while he was here?” Maime was laughing and talking as she waited for Bev to reply.

“I think he’s feeling almost normal now; from here on out it gets worse.” Bev was glad to read the “classic” Sinclair that were appearing on the screen.

“I’ll get Dr. Gwyen over here first thing and get you off of that respirator. Oh, its so good to have you coming out of that long sleep.”

“When will the feeling come back to the rest of my body? So far all I can feel is my face.” Sinclair poured out his hopes and fears all at once.

“I can’t say for sure, but it looks like your doing fine for now. Just you lay there and let us worry about the rest.” Maime couldn’t give any good answer. There just was no real time frame that she could put on such a miracle. Sinclair could tell that there was an avoidance of sorts in Maime's manner. It was a chemical response, like the ants had for when they were unsure of which path to choose. He didn’t say anything; but he wondered if he would ever walk out of the hospital on his own two legs.