Muttering to Myself

Nowhere Man--Part 6

2007-07-12T20:50:58Z

Part 6

They flew me to Germany last night and it was like being in a time machine. Back from Eden and into—what? Hell? Concrete everywhere, dirty air, people in hideous clothes looking angry and harassed. I've been pricked a hundred times as they take blood, given at least a gallon of piss so they can check for parasites, tapped and prodded and asked if "that" hurts.

But finally they seemed satisfied, done. Tomorrow I go home. I'd requested that my family not be notified of my miraculous survival. I wanted to do that myself. I wanted to see Sandburg, find out if he was all right, if dad found someone to teach him, if Sally liked him. She had to like him, he was very likeable.

Six hours after hitting American soil, I was dropped off in front of the house. It was mid-afternoon and I knew dad was probably at work, but I had hope of catching Sandburg at home. I wondered if he liked living here or if he felt as lost as I had?

No one answered and I checked under the planter where Sally always left a key. It was still there and I let myself in, stupidly surprised to find that the house had changed in the years since I'd been in it. The dark drapes had been banished and the heavy oak furniture had been replaced by sleek modern pieces.

I raced up the stairs, irrationally hoping to find Sandburg waiting for me in my room. The door was open and looking in, I saw no trace that he lived there—or had ever lived there. His absence hit me like a kick in the gut and I realized how badly I'd wanted to—needed to—see him.

I wandered through the rest of the upstairs, looking in every room for some sign of Sandburg. In the master bathroom, something sheer languished across the shower rod.

I snatched it down and looked at it. Dainty and delicate, it reeked of seduction and sex. On the vanity, exotic bottles filled with mysterious lotions and perfumes shared space with my father's Dial soap and Crest toothpaste. None of us enjoy contemplating our parents as sexual beings, but that wasn't what bothered me.

What bothered me was the suspicion that Sandburg had somehow interfered with my father's dalliance and had been banished to who knew where. Some institution where he was ignored and warehoused? Picking up one of the bottles, I fondled its sensuous form, wondering about what kind of woman appealed to my father, then slammed it against the tiled wall. The room was filled with a complex scent that was both earthy and citrusy and which unaccountably reminded me of the way Sandburg had smelled after his shower.

Suddenly exhausted, I retreated to my old bedroom and threw myself down on top of the bed.

I hadn't intended to sleep, but almost immediately I fell into a dream.

The dream.

The one with Sandburg. The one I’d been having for 18 months.

At first when I'd awakened from the dream, I'd been horrified. Sandburg's brain injury had left him with the mental capacity of a child and it seemed to me that that made me a pedophile.

But dreams weren't real. They were churned up bits of reality mixed with the debris of our memories. My dream couldn't hurt or corrupt Sandburg and as I would never allow the dream to escape the confines of sleep, Sandburg was safe.

This dream was nothing more than an alternative reality, a what might have been played out in the shadows of my mind. If Sandburg had not been hurt, if we'd met differently, if he were inclined to love a man…many ifs, but not too many for a dream.

As always, it was just so damn good to see his face again. Smiling, he welcomed me into this space we shared, which neither existed in time or place. Arms open, he beckoned me to him, and without hesitation, I moved toward him. As I touched his face, a woman screamed—

A woman screamed, and I snapped awake, bolting up in bed. Real or dream?

Real.

A woman stood in the doorway, her hand over mouth, clearly shocked to see me. "You're alive," she said, stating the obvious.

"Who are you?" I asked, then realized she had to be the owner of the sexy wisps of clothing in the bathroom.

"Oh," she said, her hands fluttering around her face. "I'm—"

"Let me take a wild guess. My father's latest lady friend."

Her blush went all the way up to the roots of her red hair.

"No," she said with a slow shake of her head. "Actually, I'm a little more than that. I’m his wife and—"

"His wife?" I shouted, stunned by her announcement. "When did this happen?"

"Just a few months ago," she said, waving her hand as if it was unimportant. She stared at me hard, and I was shocked to see tears in her eyes. "What happened? We were told you were dead." She slowly approached me as if she thought I might evaporate.

"It's a long story, and I don't want to get into it right now. There was a boy living here for awhile. Do you know what happened to him?"

"Do you mean Blair?"

"Blair?" What—who was she talking about?

"Yes, Blair Sandburg. My son."

I dropped back down on the bed, stunned. "Your son?"

As she nodded, she sat down next to me and took my hand in hers. "Yes, my son. And I can't tell you how grateful I am to you for looking out for him and getting him away from those two men."

"Where is he? How is he?"

Her smile was luminous as she reported, "He's good. He has his memory back."

His memory was back. I wondered what changes that had brought for him. "That’s great.” It was great. But was he still the boy I’d known, or a stranger that would see me as a stranger. “Where is he?"

Her smile faded. A new fear gripped me. "He—he had a hard time accepting your death. Getting back to his life." She looked out the window, then back at me. "We tried to help him get readjusted, back into school, but Blair—just couldn't."

It wasn’t a good sign that she wasn't answering my question, but I waited quietly, holding on to the fact that she'd smiled when I first asked how he was.

Her grip on my hand tightened as she said, "You have to understand, we didn't want to, but we had to let him go—"

"Let him go? Let him go where? Where the hell is he?"

Dropping my hand, she sighed. "He moved back to Seattle—he moved into the house you had been renting."

"He what?” The Fringe was no place for a kid like him. “And you let him?"

She actually jerked back as if I had hit her then took a deep breath and said, "Jim, you didn't know him when he was whole, but he is now, and he's an adult. He needed to do this and nothing your father and I said could dissuade him. He said it was home."

"He called that dump home? Why didn't he feel this was his home? What happened between my father and—" I found myself unable—or unwilling to say his name. I hadn't gotten used to the idea his name was Blair. Blair Sandburg.

His mother didn't need me to say his name to know I was talking about him. "Nothing happened. William adores Blair, would do anything for him."

Leaning in close, she surprised me by placing her hands on my face. "Everything's going to be all right now. You're here, you're living and breathing and Blair—" she stopped talking as a hiccup escaped her, followed by a sob. Then my shirt was being drenched with her tears.

I didn't know what to do with her—I'd never been good with crying women, but she wasn't stopping, so I patted her shoulder clumsily and murmured sounds I hoped would calm her down. It didn't work. It made it worse. Her sobs deepened, becoming rougher and I started to get alarmed. Wrapping my arms around her, I pulled her close, hugging her tightly.

"It's going to be all right. Shhh, now, shhh," I droned over and over, slowly rocking her until her sobs eased up and she pulled away, saying, "Wait until William gets home and sees you. He'll be so ecstatic."

Ecstatic? I didn't know my father was capable of ecstasy, but I didn't correct her. They hadn't been married all that long and she had plenty of time to learn of his limitations.

I pulled my shirt out and used the shirttail to dab away her tears. "I'm sure I'll see my father soon, but first I'm going to Seattle and retrieve…Blair." There, I'd said his name. I'd made it—him—real.

"Can't you wait until William comes home?"

"I hate the idea of Sandburg—Blair—being alone in that house, in that neighborhood. It's only two hours there—we'll be back in five and have a real family reunion."

Jumping up, she twirled around like a five-year old girl. "I can't wait to tell your father! And Blair will be back tonight!" she paced to the door, then swung around and came back towards me. "You will hurry back won't you?"

Before I could reassure her, she gripped my shoulders and shook me. "But don't speed. And if you're too tired, pull over. We don't want to lose you again."

Her vehemence shocked me. My well-being seemed to be every high up on the list of her concerns and it was a little disconcerting. I didn't even know the woman.

"I will hurry, I won't speed and if I'm tired, I'll pull over. Now you promise me something. Don't call and tell Sand—Blair—I'm coming."

"But…" She started to object, but then her voice trailed off in acquiescence. "All right. You go ahead and surprise him."

Part 5

2007-07-12T20:49:54Z

Part 5

keeping going while I can....

They flew me to Germany last night and it was like being in a time machine. Back from Eden and into—what? Hell? Concrete everywhere, dirty air, people in hideous clothes looking angry and harassed. I'd been pricked a hundred times as they took blood, given at least a gallon of piss so they can check for parasites, tapped and prodded and asked if "that" hurts.

But finally they seemed satisfied, done. Tomorrow I go home. I'd requested that my family not be notified of my miraculous survival. I wanted to do that myself. I wanted to see Sandburg, find out if he was all right, if dad found someone to teach him, if Sally liked him. She had to like him, he was very likeable.

My father, if he remained true to form, would have kept his distance, maybe checking in now and then on the kid. But maybe I was doing my father a disservice. He might have found some of Sandburg's family and cleared up the mystery—he was an excellent lawyer and he'd be motivated. Finding Sandburg's family would get him off the hook of looking after someone so—different. My dad wasn't keen on people being different.

It was weird, I suppose, that after a year and half, all I wanted to do was see a brain-damaged guy I'd known for all of two days. Saying that I wanted to see him didn't really describe it. I don't know if I could describe what I was feeling or why I was feeling it.

Blue eyes framed by dark lashes had haunted my dreams all these months until they had become the beacons bringing me home. Home to a manchild. Who had needed me, but wouldn't need me now.

But I needed him.

How ironic was that?

There was some chance my father had not found any family, and that there was a place for me in Sandburg's life. As his guardian, or if not that, as a big brother.

The dreams I'd had of him in the jungle had made me want so much more, but I knew looking after him, making sure he was safe and happy, was all that could be, and I'd be lucky to have that.

I slept on the plane taking me home. Sandburg came to me in my dreams, as he always did. Beautifully whole and strong. In my arms, close to my heart, saying my name, welcoming me home.

The steward's grip on my shoulder scattered the dream and I worried I'd cried out in my sleep. I quickly turned away, scrubbing the evidence of tears from my face.

As anxious as I was to track down Sandburg, I was the last one to disembark, suddenly unsure of my impulse to insert myself in Sandburg's life. He didn't need me, probably didn't remember me. He'd be confused if he saw me, maybe even alarmed. If his family had been found, they would view my continuing interest in him as suspicious.

But if no family had been found…

The first thing I had to do was find out what the last year and a half had held for Chief.

***

I was chasing a soccer ball, my motions quick and fluid. I captured it, stopped it with my toe, making an incremental shift to change its direction, looked up, and kicked it straight at the goal.

It was going in low, but it was gonna go wide and the crowd's yells reached a crescendo as one of my teammates pierced its trajectory and with precision, angled it right in. We'd won. I bent down to catch my breath as the fans left the stands and streamed onto the field.

I saw Jim leap over the fence and run towards me, smiling and yelling, "Way to go, Chief," And then he was sweeping me off my feet and into a bear hug and I was cupping his face and bringing my lips down to meet his.

The electricity I felt as they met jerked me awake to reality—Jim was dead and his body was decaying in South American soil. My head ached—residual damage from Jack and Dick's beating, and I got shakily out of bed. That was the other reality I had to face—I might dream of playing soccer and making deft moves, but in real life, despite all the physical therapy, I still moved with awkward tentativeness.

The faint light from my computer called me to my desk and I pulled the chair out and settled down. On the screen in front of me was yesterday's entry.

February 19, 1989

When I ran my idea of moving to Seattle, back to the Fringe, maybe see if I can rent your old house, my mother was, understandably, against it.

The idea that I would voluntarily put myself back where the memories of Dick and Jack live horrified her—but I don't care about that. The memories I care about are the ones of you, which are rapidly fading.

To help me know you better, your dad made me copies of the scrapbooks he's kept about you. Did you know he did that? He's a funny one, your dad. I think he's a bit like those parents we talked about—the ones who didn't name their babies until they were sure they were going to live.

I mean it's weird, Jim. You should see these scrapbooks. So much love for you there and yet he bypassed the chance to spend time with you. The army called off the search for you. When your dad heard that, he started knocking back the bourbon. I took the bottle away when I saw how drunk he was getting, but Naomi gave it back. She said he needed it.

And I guess she was right. At first he just ranted. About how unfair it was and how stupid you were to put yourself in danger. But after a few more drinks he mellowed out some. Told us about you and Stevie learning to skateboard and how he came home from a trip to find the two of you had emptied out the swimming pool and were using it as a skateboard park, skimming to the top and hanging there, then twisting and plunging back down. Said the pool was never the same after that, and then surprisingly, smiled.

He put his head in is hands and described the day you walked out and joined the army. His voice was a flat monotone. When Naomi said all boys need to find their own way, he stood up and threw his glass into the fireplace, saying "To hell with that. His way just got him killed. My way was much better, much safer."

"A safe path wasn't what Jim was born to tread, Billy."

Yeah, that's right, my mom calls your dad, "Billy". Bet you wish you were alive just to hear that.

"I don't believe in all that predestined crap."

"Then how do you explain us, darling?"

That shut your father up, let me tell you.

He loves her, you know. Your dad loves my mom. And as if that wasn't weird enough, my mom loves your dad. You don't know Naomi, but if you did, you'd know how much this doesn't make sense. Until you see them together, and then it makes complete sense. I can't quite explain it.

February 20, 1989

It's getting close to eight and I have an appointment with Edith at nine, so I have get moving. She says I've fixated on you and it's unhealthy. I don't know about fixated. Even though you're dead, my relationship with you seems to be evolving. Last night I dreamt I kissed you. And all I want to do right now is crawl back into bed and hope I have that dream again and that the dream doesn't end until we're hot and sweaty in bed.

I'd never tell you that if you were alive, of course. You'd probably deck me or worse. But that's my silver lining, thin as it is. You're dead and a boy can dream.

This will be my last appointment with Edith. I'm not about to share my dream about you with her. She'd want to explore my sexuality and then she'd have a field day when she found out I'd never experienced a twinge of same sex attraction until you. Does this mean I have bisexual tendencies now?

Jeez, I hope it doesn't mean I'm attracted to dead people.

Despite scrambling to get to Edith's on time, I was late. As she was quite strict about ending our sessions on time, it didn't make any difference to her and she smiled when I came in. "Good morning, Blair."

I nodded hello as I sank down onto the couch and worked on getting my breathing under control. Edith waited patiently. "I'm going to end my therapy sessions with you," I announced abruptly.

"Have you found someone else to work with?"

"No."

"Do you feel you've emerged from your grief over Jim's death?"

Ah. The 64,000 dollar question. "No."

Edith pulled her feet up. She looked like a five-year old playing at therapist, and I suspected her black glasses, unfashionably huge, were fake. I imagined it was a persona that worked, allowing her to disarm years of defenses in her patients. I wasn’t defensive, just stubborn. She hadn’t found a way around that.

"Then do you think it's wise to discontinue?"

I took a deep breath and slowly let it out, telling myself that I didn't need to explain or convince her—after all, she worked for me. But I answered anyway. "Probably not. But I realized I'm not prepared to give up my feelings for Jim yet."

Edith nodded and started to respond. I cut her off.

"You've said it before, and 100,000 self-help books have said it as well—to achieve change, you have to want change. Other people want me to change—want the old Blair back, want me to go back to school, pick up my life where it left off, get my Masters. But I don't."

"You like being stuck," she stated, as if she could shame me into letting Jim go.

I shrugged, but didn’t argue.

"Perhaps we haven't explored the trauma of what happened in those months you were held by Dick and Jack enough."

"I didn't come here to talk about those months. I came to talk about my feelings for Jim. At some point you decided I was dealing with grief—and while I don't deny that I was—am—I realize that is just a small part of what I was—am—feeling. If grief therapy is all about letting go, then we're doomed to failure, because I have no intention of ever letting go. So I'm done."

"Blair—"

"Edith," I threw up my hands and awkwardly stood up. "Let me go. If and when I'm ever ready to work through this, I'll be back."

Edith stood up as well. "I understand, but—" she stopped herself from saying the useless words that would've come after the but. Reaching out, she took my hands in hers and gave me a wan smile. "I wish you well then, Blair and hope you find peace."

As I walked home, I thought about how to tell Naomi that I wasn't going to be going back to school. She had her heart set on me going back. It would mean I was better, healed, back to normal.

I was better. But normal? Had I ever been normal? Could I be? Did I want to be?

All I knew was I couldn't go back, couldn't sit still in a classroom, listen to theories, and dream about finding a non-existent Sentinel. I couldn't keep living with Naomi and William. They were about to be married and deserved to begin a life together without me underfoot.

Nowhere Man--Part 4

2007-07-12T20:39:36Z

Sorry for the delay. My daughter hi-jacked my computer and I only got it back this afternoon. Onwards!

Part 4

I think the speed and force of the crash wiped out parts of my brain. No, not wiped—more like my brain got coated—coated with some numbing analgesic that allowed me to keep moving as I buried my men. Joe's arm had been torn away, never did find that. Half of Larry's face was gone, stove in. Johnny was all there, but he was just a skin sack, holding all the broken bits inside.

And as I searched and found and dug and buried, I fell away and just let my body do its job. And my body surprised me, it hardly needed any conscious input, it just did—whatever—whatever it had to. In fact, without "me" in there, it worked better—saw farther and heard things miles away. And that was good. Really good.

Wiping the sweat out of my eyes, I wearily tossed the last shovel of dirt on Corporal John M. Delancy's grave, gasping a little at the pain that movement caused. Looking around the clearing, I sighed with relief. Johnny was safe now. They were all safe now.

Despite the fact it was the middle of the day, and the sun shone bright and hot, the clearing was filled with shadows and the implacable coldness of death. It had taken me two days to bury my men and I'd stayed awake all night feeding the fire in order to keep the predators away.

For a moment I shut my eyes, Despite my doubts about God and His power or perhaps I should say, the intent of His power, I said a short prayer. "Let them rest in peace.” I tried to think of something else to say. “Look after their familes and give them peace.” I thought some more, but nothing else seemed right, so I finished with, “Amen.”

I pushed the last marker into the last grave. Despite my weariness and pain, I found it hard to move. These had been my men, I had been charged with their welfare and I was reluctant to leave them to the jungle. When the rain started, rationality asserted itself and gathering up the supplies I'd managed to scavenge, I headed out, forcing myself not to look back.

_______________________________

The jet moved at a steep angle into the night sky. William glanced at the woman sitting beside him, surprised at how calm she seemed. He'd been shocked when he'd first seen her walking the halls of Dunlap Sanitarium. Tall and slim, she'd turned her huge green eyes in his direction, and he had felt caught by them, held by the anguish, and drawn to the beauty he saw in them.

"Naomi?"

She'd blinked at him, but had shown no awareness that she understood her name. Food dotted her clothes, her hair stuck out in all different directions. She began walking away, trailing her hand on the wall, her step unsteady.

"Naomi Sandburg?" he called, a little louder.

She didn't even pause at the sound of her name, but continued tottering down the hallway away from him. William had left immediately.

After a consultation with his old college roommate, Donald Iglinowski, M.D. and a half-day spent at the courthouse, he'd emerged with the authorization to have Iggy examine Naomi and look over her medical records. Taking no chances on Nowack blocking him, they had arrived at the sanitarium at 8:00 at night.

After some dithering and huffing over the irregularities—which stopped as soon as he started handing out hundred-dollar bills—they'd been escorted to Naomi's room. The muffled laugh track of an old sitcom could be heard as they approached and they found Naomi already in bed, curled on her side, facing away from the television. Hearing them enter, she slowly turned to look at them. She still wore the clothes William had seen her in earlier in the day, but now her shirt was decorated with the evening's meal as well.

Naomi looked up at them, confusion in her eyes, but no alarm. William knelt down next to her and took her hand and asked, "Do you know your name?"

She smiled, a radiant, focused smile and William smiled back expectantly, but she said nothing and her smile slowly faded. Iggy asked her some more questions, but she remained mute, her affect now dull and flat.

Iggy took her vitals, lifted her eyelids, and studied her chart. "She's medicated right up to her chinny chin chin, Billy Boy. Somebody doesn't want this little lady making any sense."

William didn't like Iggy calling him Billy Boy, but then Iggy wasn't too fond of William calling him Iggy, so he let it go.

In the end, it didn't take much to spring her. She was, after all, supposedly there voluntarily, and she managed to indicate a great desire to leave the place.

They immediately checked into the Beverly Hills Hotel, taking over one of the garden bungalows, registering under Iggy's wife's name. By the middle of the second day, Naomi was forming coherent sentences, responding to her name and asking questions.

William's answers had stunned her and she had sat unmoving on the bed for so long, William began to fear she had slipped back. Finally she had turned to him, her lovely eyes magnified by tears. "You can take me to him?"

"Yes. Of course. It's why I came."

"Right away? Tonight?"

William lifted an eyebrow and Iggy had nodded an affirmation. Taking Naomi's hand in his, William nodded, saying, "Yes, tonight, I'll call and arrange it."

Soon they'd be touching down. He'd arranged to have a car waiting for them along with a hired bodyguard. Whoever had arranged to have Naomi put away had no conscience, and plenty of money to throw around. He was taking no chances with her safety.

____________________

I found the natives on the fourth day. Well, really, they found me. I was sick—fever. My thigh had been slashed by glass or metal and it was infected. Three young warriors picked me up and carried me to their village. They put me in a shelter where I stayed for a long time. I listened and heard the murmurs of village life, which as the days passed, clarified into voices I began to recognize and speech I began to understand.

Innacha looked after me and as I got better, introduced me to the voices I'd been listening to for so long. He didn't need to. I knew them already. I'd heard their chatter, their arguments, their jokes, their lovemaking, their secrets. I settled in and made myself useful. Innacha accompanied me as I scouted our territory and became my lieutenant on the patrols I led to clear the danger from our land.

In some ways it felt as if the fever never left—I dwelled in that curious delirium where everything was distorted, yet utterly clear. My days were filled with what needed to be done. But at night…

At night, I saw a different landscape. Paved streets and dark alleys. Houses clustered together, nights that never really got dark, days that never really got warm, people who never got close. And out of all that, the kid emerges. Broken, lost, yet shining like a beacon, calling to me.

In my dreams, I could feel the weight of him in my arms, and nothing had ever felt so right. Holding him, I was held; by his need, by mine, feeling the link between us, real, solid and inexplicable. Heat built between us, and his eyes darkened as he reached out and placed his hand on me.

One touch was all it took. I was lost, as lost as he was, caught by a longing so deep it stripped me of everything I thought I was, until I was only one thing. His.

Rationally, I knew this was wrong. He was damaged, hurt, vulnerable and it was my job to shelter and protect him. But dreams existed outside of rationality, building their own realities and while I slept, it had dominion.

As the night came to a close, he faded, disappearing into the morning sun and I woke each morning to find my face wet.

The sun rose, the village came to life, and I took up my position, protecting the tribe. The days were crowded with sights, smells, sounds, all of them crowding me, telling me things, warning me, distracting me. There was no room in the day for dreams or memories.

There was just the job I'd been sent to do. Protect the tribe. And that's what I did, during the day…as another part of me waited for the night.

_____________________

He was being tortured. No, not tortured—punished. His mother's voice kept calling to him, saying his name over and over again. It reminded him he'd once been loved, been a son, had a mother. But he knew that was all gone. He was nobody's son anymore. He was nobody, and he lived here now, in Nowhere Land, where he fought off consciousness and memory.

Despite his best efforts to stay buried, the darkness was breaking up and knew he was surfacing. Panicking, he tried to dive back down into the void, but the voice and the hand on his arm diabolically cut off his retreat.

Hands on his face anchored him and then he heard his mother's voice saying clearly, and painfully loudly, "Blair Sandberg, you come back here. Do you hear me? I know you hear me." Boy, was she mad, Blair thought, but not as mad as she should’ve been. Didn’t she know what he’d done? His mother spoke again, but this time softly, sweetly. Wake up now, darling, "she entreated.

He was going to have to obey and then the pain would really begin. He’d have to tell her—and when she knew—she’d—

But wait. She was dead, past knowing—as he wanted to be. He opened his eyes, flinching, expecting something dark and decayed. Instead he saw his mother. Whole. Smiling. Gazing at him lovingly. Happy with him.

This was just like the non-dreams he’d had before. Showing him what he’d once had and lost. Not lost—destroyed. Showing him what he could never have again. It was cruel punishment—exquisitely cruel. And he knew he deserved it.

He stared at her, and she stared back. Her face was wet. She’d been—she was—crying. She was clean. Whole. Not covered in blood, not dead. He waited for the vision to change. The dreams had never allowed him to see her alive and well for so long before. He wondered if he should try to explain to her that she was dead. That he’d killed her. He didn’t want to, but it only seemed right that she know.

“Mom,” he tried to say, but it only sounded like a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You’re dead.”

She blinked, then touched his face, a funny little smile on her face. “Reports of my death have been grossly exaggerated. I am very much alive, Blair—and now so are you, thank God.”

Just when Blair thought his dream couldn’t get any more bizarre, Jim’s dad appeared next to his mom and put his arm around her shoulder.

His mother turned her head and said to him, "Our prayers have been answered, Billy."

His mother had just called William Ellison, Billy? Blair knew he was officially in the Twilight Zone now. But it was way better than where he’d been before.

“Are you for real?"

Grinning, she reached over and gave him a quick pinch.

"Ow." Man, she could really pinch hard.

"Don’t I feel real?"

He rubbed his arm, as he said, "No. That only confirmed I’m real."

"Oh, well," she held out her arm, "then go ahead and pinch me."

He did and her "ouch" sounded almost as sweet as the word Jim. He looked at her and realized she looked good. Healthy. Glowing. Alive. So different than the last time he'd seen her.

"You're—all right?"

She nodded, smiling and squeezed his hand. "I'm very fine." Blair's eyes widened when he saw William's arms came around her from behind in a hug. His mother leaned back, clearly comfortable with his support. "Better than fine," she said, as she looked up at William, the glow around her increasing.

Was he crazy? His mother and Jim's dad? Jim…Blair's heart stuttered as he remembered Jim and that Jim was lost to him. He pushed that loss aside as he tried to understand that his mother was alive—and well…and apparently in love.

"The last time I saw you—you were at the bottom of the stairs." It was clear in his mind, the horrifying scene. "Bl—blood was all…over…"

The pain was pushing, trying to overwhelm his memories, sweep them—and him—back into Nowhere Land. He pushed back, clearing a space in his mind so the memories could take up residence there. "I pushed you down the stairs—I made you fall. I remember the sound, the sound of your screams and the terrible sound your head made as it hit the stair. And then the blood. And you so still. And Jack yelling, ‘My God, Sandburg, what did you do?’’

His mother's face had lost all color, and her mouth was open in shock. "No," she seemed to be trying to say more, her mouth was moving, but no sound coming out.

“We argued. I was angry at you. I don’t know what happened. Dick and Jack heard us and came out of their apartment. They saw everything.”

His mother stopped him by putting her hand over his mouth. "Those fucking bastards." Had his "Always greet the universe with love" mother actually called someone a fucking bastard? She looked angry enough to kill.

She held that expression for a moment, then released a cleansing breath and said, "No, Blair. That's not what happened." Placing her cool hand on his forehead, her fingers gently tracing a circle, and he knew she thought she was activating his third eye. "Try to remember, darling, think past the words."

Not what had happened? But Dick and Jack had seen him…closing his eyes, he tried to remember, but the image of his mother lying so still at the bottom of the stairs filled his mind and with that image came the pain, the punishing pain that wrapped around his skull. As the pain built, all memory fled in front of it. The horrible image of his mother twisted and dead, and in the face of that horror, the hospital room began to fade, as well as his name, and who he was….(JimJimJimJimJimJimJim).

And Jim's face was there, he could see it, almost touch it, and because he couldn't bear the thought of losing sight of it, he fought the pain, fought the return to Nowhere Land.

"You're right." He said slowly, ignoring the lies that had been twisted so tightly around him—and just remembered. "It di—didn't happen like that," Blair paused as he tried to make sense of the new images flooding his brain.

"Dick and Jack didn't come out because they heard us arguing. They had cornered me in the hallway before you arrived. They were ticked because they'd seen Joanna Boxley leaving."

The pain smoldered, its tendrils twisting and flickering sharp jabs of agony through his brain, telling him to stop, to shut up, that wasn't what happened—"you're the one who did this, it's your fault, don’t try to duck the responsibility—" the pain told him, squeezing out the other memories until all he saw was him pushing his mother away, and then she was falling….

{"C'mon Chief, fight back. I know you didn't do it, you know you didn't—fight for the truth…"}

(JimJimJimJimJimJimJim…)

His mother's voice broke in, prodding him, anchoring him. "Why did Joanna what’s-her–name leaving make them angry with you?"

He tried to speak and couldn't. Then a strong hand took his and he latched onto it. Taking a breath, he defied the pain. "Joanna's like—unattainable, you know?" He realized the pain was falling back and he continued in a rush. "She's beautiful, rich, smart, funny—you know—perfect and everyone on campus is in love with her. I was just tutoring her, but they thought somehow I'd managed to get a date with her."

Blair clutched his head, as the pain fought for its existence, trying to bully Blair into forgetting.

(JimJimJimJimJimJimJim)

{"I've got you, go on, kid.”}

Taking a deep breath, Blair continued. "Dick was still angry with me for refusing to let him use my paper in his history class. They thought it all came too easy to me, that I had an obligation to share."

Dick had swung his fist, and Blair sucked in a breath as he remembered it landing hard in his gut, doubling him over, Jack grabbing him from behind and holding him while Dick hit him again and again and again until he could barely see out of swollen eyes or catch his breath as everything faded in and out.

"Blair, look at me." With an effort, he pulled himself away from the beating and opened his eyes. No hallway, no Dick or Jack. Just his mother and William by her side. Not fists pounding him, but gentle hands stroking his arm.

"You can do this, Blair. Keep going, remember," Jim's dad said, urging him on.

Blair swallowed and closed his eyes again, going back to that night. "You came, mom, and you were screaming at them. Jack let go of me and I fell to the floor."

His mother was nodding.

"I tried to get up—"

"And one of them kicked you." Naomi filled in. "And then what happened?"

Eyes shut, Blair took in a shaky breath, forcing air into his lungs." You were yelling at them, and then—nothing—just nothing."

"I think you passed out, Blair. What's the next thing you remember?"

Blair stared hard at his mother and the pain made its move. "No, can't—" Heat swept through his skull, a dry, scouring heat that blasted his nerve endings and he was screaming and falling, everything was falling away, memory and words—everything was being sandblasted into bits, tiny bits of nothing and the nothingness was growing and filling him…

….and he was back there, being picked up of the floor and dragged to the head of the stairs. His mother lay at the bottom, looking tiny and broken—and Jack was saying, "My, my. What a temper you have, Sandburg. Just look at your poor mother."

"I didn't—I wouldn't—"

"You did, Sandburg.” Jack was holding him tightly, forcing him to look. “We heard you arguing. She told you she was getting remarried and you lost it.”

Jack’s voice changed, imitating Blair. "Why, Mother? We've never needed anyone else in our lives. Please don't do it.”

Dick shook his head. “It’s hard to blame you, Blair, what with her saying stuff like ‘Grow up,’ and ‘I’ve finally found love. Don’t you be a spoiled brat and spoil it for me.”

Jack’s laugh was nasty. “I guess you couldn’t face the fact your mama wanted a real man in her bed. Your face went beet red—man, I thought you were gonna burst a vessel—and then you reached out—I dunno, maybe you just meant to shake her—but instead, you pushed her.”

Dick nodded, and completed the picture. “For one second she teetered, and if looks could kill, you’d be dead, Blair buddy. Then she fell backwards, screaming and—man,” Dick shuddered. “It was awful."

In the hospital bed, in the here and now, Blair doubled over as the pain assaulted him, working to claim its territory, trying to wipe him out.

(JimJimJimJimJimJimJim)

{"All lies, kid. Come on, finish and get that garbage out of your head."}

William held him down and said, “Keep going. You have to finish.”

Blair gasped for air. His mother was crying, but nodding, urging him on.

"They dragged me down the stairs and there was blood on the wall and then they threw me on top of you. Blood everywhere, on your face, on your dress, and there was a puddle under your head and Jack pushed my head into it and it got in my mouth and in my nose and I was breathing your blood, choking on it, swallowing it and you were so still, still as death, and then—then—"

His mother's hands stopped his head from shaking back and forth, "Shh, shh, it's all right. That's enough, now, just rest."

But Blair didn't stop—couldn't stop. "And then Dick said, 'You'd better get lost, Sandburg, before the cops come and haul your ass in for matricide.' He laughed and he made this motion with his hand that meant—"

Blair blushed and looked at his mother. She didn't look mad or even embarrassed, so continued—to speak it all out—to get it out of his brain.

"Jack just kept talking— talking and talking. He said stuff like, 'She was a one sexy bitch—for a mother, Sandburg. No wonder you didn't want to see some other guy fucking her.' And 'Man, what a sweet upbringing you musta had, til she shipped you off to college'…and I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, everything hurt and you were lying beneath me, so small and still and I was afraid I was crushing you and I tried to get off, but Dick pushed me down and said, 'Give your mommy a goodbye kiss' and he—he—lifted my head and put my face on yours—and—"

"Shhh, Blair, it's all right, I'm all right, see?"

But Blair couldn't see, he could see only what had happened back then, when his mother's blood was everywhere and he had been forced to kiss her dead lips. And the pain surged forward and Blair fell backward into the dark.

Nowhere Man-Part Three

2007-07-10T17:21:07Z

As long as the tribe is still at bay, I thought I'd get part three to you.

Nowhere Man

In the middle of my plans, the phone rang. "Ellison."

It was my CO, pumped. "It’s a go, report to the base by 0100. We leave at 1400."

When I didn’t answer immediately, Davis barked, "You too busy to answer me, Captain? We have our orders."

I focused and answered, "Yes, sir!"

That was that. I had to find someone to take care of Sandburg and fast. For the next hour I made phone calls, but nothing panned out. I really didn’t want to drive him to a government building and hand him over—I wasn't sure if he’d be able to understand that it wasn’t jail.

So finally I did the thing I'd planned never on doing, I phoned my father.

I was surprised when I heard his familiar, "Yes?" I'd expected Sally to answer. He never says hello like a normal person, it’s always, "Yes?" in that frigid butler tone that dared you to have a reason for calling that he’ll find adequate.

"Hi dad, it’s Jim."

Silence.

"I’m shipping out tonight and I need a favor."

More silence, which lasted five beats and then finally he said something. "Yes?"

I wanted to put my hand through the wires and throttle the son of a bitch. It was always like this, always this hard and I hadn’t even begun to ask the favor. I came damn close to putting the phone down, but then I considered my options and got on with it.

"I need help—well, I have a friend who needs help—he’s a little slow and I need someone to look out for him until I get back—maybe find his family."

I waited for the shock, the questions, the protests, the "I’m William Ellison and I can’t believe you want me to expend time and energy on your behalf" speech. Not that he ever said that in so many words, but that was generally the message.

"Is he your lover?" I hadn't been expecting that, but I should’ve been, knowing my father. His tone was dry, almost amused and now I was really getting pissed.

I reigned in my impulse to set him straight and just answered the question. "No, dad, we’re not lovers. He’s a kid. He lived across the street from me and—look—if you say yes, I’ll give you all the details, but if you’re going to say no, I have to get off the phone and find some—"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Yes. I’ll look after him—or more accurately, Sally will, and I'll search for family. Give me your address, I'll be there in two hours." I did and he hung up, just like that. Yes, address, he hangs up.

Now I had to get Sandburg awake and hope I can make him understand what’s going on.

My men were strapped in, the equipment stashed. The sound of the cargo engine was loud, and all of us sat silent, knowing it would be useless to be try and communicate until we land in Peru. I looked out the window as Seattle became invisible, wondering if Sandburg was in my room right now with Sally fussing over him.

I told myself he’d be all right until I got back.

Sitting in the belly of the plane, surrounded by twenty men, the vibrations and noise created a sense of isolation that I welcomed. A smile tried to surface, and I tamped it back down. There was something about the kid, a sort of infectious wonder he carried with him, which surprised me. Touched me. I wondered what he'd been like when he'd been "the whiz kid". Obviously smart, but what else? Was he serious or funny? Boring or charming? Straight or Gay?

Where the hell did that last thought come from? What difference—I mean, he's beautiful, sure, but—I can't think about him that way, he's a child.

Well, not a child. A boy. Even without the damage, possibly underage, though clearly his hormones had kicked in and he was well on his way to becoming a man.

A man who had the mind of a child. I sighed, and Mack looked sideways at me. Shrugging, I leaned back and shut my eyes, indicating weariness. I didn't need any of my men tuning into the fact I had something on my mind. That would be disturbing enough as they needed and expected a commander who was totally focused. It would really freak them out if they knew what was on my mind.

So I was curious about his sexual orientation—curious was all right, interested wasn't. I clamped down those thoughts and moved on to others. It shouldn't be hard to find Sandburg's people—if he had people. It was damn odd that he'd been in Jack and Dick's keeping and no one seemed to be looking for him, and when I got back, I planned on getting to the bottom of that mystery.

As the hours wore on, and I thought about the kid and his options, something became clear to me. If I couldn't find his family, I'd petition the court to be his guardian. My tour will be done in three months and I'd planned on re-enlisting, but if the choice is some institution or me, Sandburg was going to get me.

___________________________

Part 2

I watched Jim through the back window, watched him get small and that scared me. I knew things looked small and smaller the farther away they got. I don't know why, but I know that's the way it is. But seeing Jim grow smaller and smaller felt real, like he was getting smaller and smaller and I didn't want that. I liked Jim being big. Big and strong and sure. If he got small he'd be like me. Scared. Because when you're small, anything can happen. Course, if you're small, hiding is easy—but Jim wasn't not a hiding kind of guy.

Jim had introduced me to his father as Chief Sandburg. He was asking me questions and it was weird to hear someone call me a name, even if it's not my name.

"So Chief, how did you meet Jim?"

I thought about Jim pulling me out of the wall, and thought maybe that would sound really weird and I didn't want Jim's dad to think I was weird. "We're neighbors." That was true.

"Neighbors, huh?" Mr. Ellison looked at me quickly and then looked back at the road. "Known him long?"

"No."

Mr. Ellison seemed to want to ask more questions, but he didn't and the rest of the ride was quiet. He pulled up in front of a big house, a mansion, I think, heck, maybe a castle, and a lady opened the front door and stood there, waiting. Mr. Ellison gestured for me to go ahead of him and I did. It was a really nice house—mansion—whatever.

"Chief, this is Sally, my housekeeper. She looked after my boys when they were young and she'll be looking after you."

She smiled and came close to me, taking my hand in hers. "It's nice to meet you, Chief. Let me show you your room."

Mr. Ellison nodded when I looked at him, so I followed Sally up the stairs to the room. It was huge, all different shades of blue, and the bed was huge, with a fat, fluffy, white blanket and about ten pillows.

The lady who was to take care of me asked, "So, Chief, where's your suitcase?"

"Suitcase?"

"Or a box with your clothes and belongings."

"I don't have any."

"None?"

"No—" I started to shake my head, then realized I was trying to say yes and nodded my head. "I mean yes. None, I have none." I felt confused.

Sally didn't look confused. She was looking at me with her eyes narrowed. "You look close to Steven's size, just a few inches shorter. I'll see what I can find for you. The pants will be a little long, but they'll work until we get you some clothes of your own."

"Okay." I didn't understand why she would worry about my clothes but clean clothes would be nice. I was still wearing Jim's sweat pants and his t-shirt and they were pretty big on me.

"Are you hungry?" I shook my head no.

"Tired?"

"Yeah, sorta."

"Why don't you take a nap?" Sally said, as she pulled the cover down.

"In the bed? Under the covers?"

"Well, of course." She said, as she sorted through the pillows, tossing some to the side and choosing two for me. "Take your shoes off and get in."

I kept watching her face as I climbed in, waiting to see if she would realize this wasn't a good idea, but she just nodded and pulled the covers up over me.

"There you go. Have a nice nap and I'll wake you before dinner." She closed the curtains and the room became full of blue shadows. "Sweet dreams, Chief," she said, as she closed the door.

The soft bed made me feel like I was lying on a big cloud, and soon I was almost asleep. That was a dangerous time, that just before sleep time. I saw things then. Bad things.

Not memories, not dreams. Maybe half-memories, half-dreams, I dunno. Flying, falling. Blood, screams, the smell—swimming in blood, screaming in the water, and the water comes in my mouth, and in my lungs and I can't breath…My eyes flew open. The shadows were very dark blue now and moving in towards me, about to suck me in and carry me away. "jim,jim,jim,jim.jim…" I repeated his name over and over and it worked. The shadows backed away as the door opened.

"Jim?"

"No, sweetie, it's just me." Sally crossed the room and opened the curtains. Orangy light from the sunset came in. "How was your nap?"

I didn't want to lie to her so I didn't say anything. She kept talking. "Are you hungry? I made Chicken Pot Pie. It was always one of the boys' favorites."

"A pie with a chicken in it?"

"Yes. Haven't you ever had one?" She didn't wait for me to answer and I thought I liked that about her. "It has chicken and carrots and onions and celery and potatoes and gravy."

"I'm hungry," I admitted.

"Good, we'll soon have you fattened up."

***

Last week Jim's dad called me downstairs. He looked—different. His tie was all crooked and his hair was messy like he'd been sleeping or running his hands through it.

"Sit down, Chief."

I looked at him closely to see if he was mad at me. I worried that he'd found out about me…but he didn't look mad, he looked sad.

"Tell me about my son."

That seemed like an odd question. He was Jim's father, he would know all the important stuff about Jim already, wouldn't he?

"Well," I said, "he's tall and his hair's real short. He—" What else did I know? "He can cook and—" I almost blurted out that he snored, but I didn't, cause I said I wouldn't tell.

Mr. Ellison looked disappointed. "No, I mean, tell me about you and my son. How did you meet him?"

Jim had told me he'd take care of things when he got back and not to talk about my brothers, or that I had done something terrible that would send me to jail. "Um, well, we were neighbors."

"Yes?"

I nodded my head, but he seemed to want to hear more. "And he—" I couldn't think of anything to say except the truth. Jim's dad leaned forward as if I was about to say something really important.

"Go on, son. Tell me how you and Jim became friends."

Mr. Ellison called me son, and he looked so sad as he asked, that I decided to tell him "I lived with my brothers, Dick and Jack. In this house. Across from Jim's house."

"I see. So one day you and Jim met."

"Yes." To explain how Jim and I met, I had to tell Mr. Ellison about being in the wall and why Dick had made me hide, but I didn't want to tell him. But I had to. I looked away and pressed my hands together.

"I did something bad and the police want me to go to jail, so my brothers put me in the wall to hide and nailed it shut. But then they didn't come back and I was in there a long time and couldn't get out. But then Jim found me and got me out."

Mr. Ellison didn't look mad at me or very shocked. He looked kind of surprised. "What did you do?"

I let out a long breath. "I don't know," I admitted. "I can't remember and Dick and Jack wouldn't tell me."

"Hmm…" He pursed his lips together and hummed, looking like he was thinking hard and he reminded me of Jim right then and I felt a bang in my heart, wanting Jim back. "Did Jim tell you I'm a lawyer?"

I shook my head no.

He got to his feet, looking like he was in pain and came over to me. Sitting down next to me, he said, "Well, I am, and a darn good one." He smiled a little and took my patted my hand.

"So you don't have to worry." His head dropped down and he sighed, then looked back up at me, "I know Jim told you he'd be back soon, but—" Mr. Ellison closed his eyes and shook his head and I could see him swallow hard. When he opened his eyes again, there were tears in them and I knew.

"He's not coming back, is he?" I whispered.

Mr. Ellison didn't say anything for a long time. "I—don't know. It doesn't look like it. The helicopter he was in—well, they just don't know."

Jim dead? Jim couldn't be dead. Couldn't. No way. Not Jim. Not dead. Jim wouldn't die, he said he'd be back. He'd be back. He'd be back. Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim come back come back come back come back come back please come back.

Mr. Ellison shook me and then pulled me to his chest in a hug. "Shhh, calm down Chief, we don't know, he might have survived. We just have to wait to hear."

__________________

William Ellison sat in the Physician's Lounge waiting to hear the results of the MRI. His son had left the kid in his care, and now that Jim was gone, it felt like his last link to him. Putting his head in his hands, William rubbed his temples, trying to release the headache from the cage of his head.

He knew this might happen—that Jim might go off on a mission and not make it back. Jim's choice of professions had been putting him in the line of fire for years, but for some reason he'd always thought someday his son would come back to him, they'd talk and get all the old stuff squared away. But Jim was stubborn. And so was he.

And so now here he sat looking out for someone else's son after not looking out for his.

William felt a familiar surge of anger at Jim, at Jim's choices that had taken him away from the life he'd been born into and into a life of danger. His decision to join the army had come out of nowhere, shocking them all.

There had always been something—off—different—about Jimmy. It had made William uncomfortable and had been one of the things he and Grace had fought about. She had wanted to have him tested; she thought Jimmy was special.

William had known where that would lead. If people had tuned into what Jimmy could do back then, his son would have become a guinea pig, a freak, something to be dismantled to see how it worked.

He'd been relieved when Jim quit saying he heard things no one could else could hear, or saw things no one could see. But Jim had not only shut out his freakish abilities, he'd also shut out his father. At the time, he'd put that down to Grace leaving and Bud dying. He'd thought time would heal those wounds, but they never had healed and now it was too late.

Getting up, William walked over to the window and stared down at the traffic. Jim was gone and the young man he'd befriended was now William's responsibility. He didn't understand what had inspired Jim to take "Chief" under his wing, but he had and William took his promise to Jim to watch after the kid seriously.

It was the last thing he could do for his son, and he planned to do it to the best of his abilities.

________________

We were crashing, free-falling to earth and the shrill sound of ripping metal and screaming men filled my ears. My men were flying through the air, and I had no sense of up or down. Blood, body parts, guns and equipment spun around me, and I knew I would soon be dead. Suddenly I was sucked out into space, falling into green arms that held me for a moment, then tossed me down to earth. I hit hard and blacked out.

I opened my eyes to see sunlight filtering through the trees, and I could hear the birds singing again. The bulk of mangled helicopter squatted twenty feet away, with pieces of it scattered carelessly everywhere.

I could see Miskin laying half in and half out of the skewed door. I tried to get to my knees, but my body refused the command and I lay where I had been thrown.

"Sarris!" I yelled, but there again, my body maintained its insubordination, and my yell came out as a choked croak. I tried again, "Peters!" then listened, hoping to hear a voice, a grunt, even a whimper, but heard only the raucous voices of birds.

I drifted, pain taking me to the edge of consciousness.

________________________
.

The darkness gave way to gray as I inched up out of the paralyzing hold of anesthesia. Slowly, knowledge seeped into me. I realized I knew my name. I was Blair Sandburg. I knew my mother. She had been Naomi Sandburg.

And I remembered what I had done. What had happened. I think I screamed. I know I ran back to the infinite darkness that stretched behind me. I knew I had to wrap the unknowing around me again, had to bury myself deep. Or I had to die.
________________________

William Ellison shuffled the papers in front of him, looking at the pieces of Blair Sandburg's life. The surgery had gone well, and yet Blair had been in an inexplicable coma for two weeks. William despaired, as each day passed and the boy's condition remained the same. It seemed there were to be no happy endings after all.

Focusing on the page in front of him, he read the details Mother: Naomi Sandburg. Father: Unknown. No siblings. Mother currently living in Los Angeles. Blair had been home schooled by his mother, entering the university at fourteen, receiving his Bachelor's degree at seventeen, beginning his graduate studies at nineteen after returning from an expedition in Indonesia.

Richard Hanlon and John Warner were third year graduate students who lived in the same apartment building and had disappeared on the same night Blair had vanished. Naomi Sandburg had been found at the bottom of the stairs, unconscious, her skull fractured, left arm broken in two places.

William paged through the notes on the mother. She'd had surgery in Cascade, but two days later had been airlifted to Los Angeles. A lawyer named Daniel Nowack had authorized the move. William's detectives had discovered that she was living in Dunlap Sanitarium on West Boulevard.

According to the report, she had suffered some brain damage, which manifested in disorientation, agitation, some slight speech aphasia and lack of coordination. Nowack paid the bills and made all medical decisions. The only reported visitor was Daniel Nowack, who came once a month to check on her condition.

Reaching behind him, William pulled out the Directory of California Lawyers. Nowack was a partner in the Williams, Hibrook and Taylor law firm, a law firm that specialized in estate planning, asset protection, and trusts. He'd heard of them; they were reputed to be dogged Pit Bulls when protecting their clients accumulated wealth, taking on probate courts, disinherited heirs and the IRS. They rarely lost.

His detectives had been unable to find a connection between Blair's mother and Nowack, but he had presented a legal power of attorney. William speculated on the possibilities. Naomi's estranged and very wealthy family. Blair's father. Perhaps he was her current (married) lover who had kept to the shadows. William looked down at Nowack's listing. His date of birth was 9/14/1959. A bit young to have been her lover, but possible. Much too young to be Blair's father.

It didn't make sense to William that Naomi Sandburg had been moved to a Los Angeles nursing home when there were plenty of excellent ones right here in Cascade. He didn't want to leave Blair, but William felt he owed it to the boy to find his mother and reunite the two. Disorientated or not, she'd want to be with him.

Nowhere Man Part Two

2007-07-10T16:53:53Z

Ahhh, you guys....I didn't really expect anyone would be paying attention to this blog after all this time. Than you for waiting patiently for me all these years.

Nowhere Man-Part 2

The sounds were coming very close now and I held my breath, hoping they'd go away and Dick would come back.

A little while ago Jack's phone had rung and he'd picked it up, listened for a minute and then yelled, "What? How the fuck did they find out? Okay, okay, don't panic, we’ve got a plan."

Then Dick took me to the kitchen, telling me, "Remember what I told you, dog-face. Not a peep. You know what you did. The cops'll put handcuffs on you and drag you away and throw you in prison. And there you'll stay, no more going outside, ever. And they might even decide you're so bad that they'll lock you up in dark room by yourself"

Then he pulled away a piece of the wall and told me to get into the hollow space. I don't think anyone was ever meant to go in that space—it was hard to squeeze into.

When I was finally in, Dick put his finger to his mouth and said, "Don't make a sound, don't move a muscle. And when they leave, I'll come and get you."

I tried to remember what I had done, though it hurt always to remember. I did something bad, really bad and my head started to hurt, it hurt really bad, it was gonna break it hurt so much my head pounded every time my heart beat and the dark filled my head till it was overflowing with dark and when it's dark like that sometimes I see things, things I don't ever want to see. And all I could do was push it away, push it all away, as hard and deep as I could.

The pushing made everything fade away for a time, like being asleep without dreams. It was good not to dream.

But then I was back and for a minute I thought I was blind and paralyzed and then I remembered I was hiding in the wall. I didn't know how long, except I really had to pee and my mouth was so dry my tongue couldn't move around in it and the place where the bugs bit me hurt more now and my legs hurt really bad, so bad I broke my promise and made a sound.

"Please?" I whispered, even though I know that's stupid. No one could hear me and anyway, Dick or Jack never ever do anything when I said please.

I listened, but I couldn't hear anything. Something was crawling on my leg, but I couldn't shake it to make the bug go away. The crawling thing bit me, but I bit my lip and didn't make a sound, I won't and soon the cops'll go away and Dick will come back. I didn't want to be taken away, didn't want to go where I'll have to live inside forever.

I wait for Dick to come and get me out. He promised. Didn't he? Did he? I can't remember. But he doesn't come and it's dark. What if they've taken Dick and Jack away? Maybe I should go out and take a look. Dick'd be mad if I come out before he gets me out. But if they're gone? I wait and wait, but the muscles in my legs are going charley on me and it hurts. I think the dark makes it worse.

My legs gave out but I didn't fall down. The walls held me up. Out, I had to get out… I didn't care if Dick got mad—I didn't care what he did to me, I didn't care if the cops took me away—nothing could be worse than this.

I pushed at the narrow piece of wood that led to the outside. It was stuck I pushed harder. Nothing happened.

Oh, yeah, I remembered. The pounding sound. I think Dick nailed it shut.

I didn't want to cry. There's no point, there's never a point to crying, and now there was even less of a point, with no one to hear me. But it was hard to keep it in and my throat felt all closed up.

I really couldn't stand it anymore, not another minute, not one more second, and I threw myself against the wood that was keeping me in the dark again and again and again.

***

Coming home, I wondered if my phone call did any good. The front of the house was dark, but then, that was often the case. Crossing the street, I ambled to the back and checked the kitchen and saw that it too was dark.

Good. The police must've come and picked them up and 'Sandburg's been found. Now the authorities will straighten it all out—find more of the kid's family, find out why the old man is shelling out five grand and why those two were relieved that no one knew what had happened.

Walking back across the street, I was kind of surprised to find I didn't feel any better about my good deed. Instead I felt sort of flat and edgy. Too much time waiting, that's all it was. I was primed for Peru and stuck in Seattle. So I expected to feel good about making a phone call? Beating those two into the ground might've felt good. But a phone call?

What next, Ellison, rescue a kitten stuck in a tree?

All evening I kept an eye on the house. It remained dark. I felt restless, like I had missed something, was missing something. Finally I called the phone of the woman I had contacted in Social Services. I didn't really expect her to answer, it was 7:30, after hours, but she did.

"Captain Ellison, of course. I was going to call you tomorrow and update you."

"How's Sandburg? Confused? Did you arrest the two men in the house?"

"I'm sorry. Jim, may I call you Jim?" She didn't wait for my consent but continued in a weirdly flirtatious bureaucratic tone. "We sent a team out there this afternoon, but there wasn't anyone home. We did see the padlocked closet and you're right, that's a definite fire code violation. We'll just have to try again tomorrow."

"Tomorrow…" They could be anywhere and there was no doubt in my mind they'd taken off and taken the kid with them. Shit, I didn't expect them to be quite so prepared, didn't expect two drunks could get it together so fast.

"Yeah, okay—let me know—" Had to get off the phone and over to the house to see if there was anything that would tell where they came from and where they might go.

Scouting the perimeter, I entered through the front door, then took the steps to the second floor two at a time. The disarray was worse than before and jerking open the closet, I would've done anything to see Sandburg sleeping there. It was empty aside from the rumpled blankets.

One suitcase was gone, and there was nothing lying around to give me a clue.

I heard a thump. Inside the walls. Mice, squirrels, bats…. And then heard it again, and it seemed to have more weight behind it than a rodent.

The overhead light cast the room in a sickly yellow light and I closed my eyes in order to pinpoint where the sound was coming from.

Another thud and I realized it was coming from downstairs. Racing down the steps, I paused, waiting for the noise again. There, in the kitchen. The door to the basement was open and I could see where some molding had been crudely hammered into place.

Son of a bitch. Those fucking bastards.

How long had the kid been walled in? I hadn't asked what time social services came to the house. I got home at 6—it was 8:00 now. How long had he been alone and in the dark?

Making a sound even I don't recognize, I grabbed the edge at the top, and pulled on it. It didn't budge. The fuckers used two-inch nails and a lot of them and as I searched for something to use as a crowbar, I kept calm by formulating my plans to use a bag of two-inch nails and an air hammer on them.

Goddamn them to hell. They never planned for Sandburg to get out. They weren't coming back. My gut ached like I'd just taken a punch as I imagined what the kid was going through.

Tossed in the corner, under some newspapers, I found the hammer they'd used. As I tore the board away from the wall, it made a groaning sound as if it was hurting for Sandburg, too.

As soon as I could get a handhold, I yanked on it with all my strength, prying it free. The kid was right there, but wedged in tight and blinking like the dim light hurt his eyes.

"Come on, let's get you out." It was like he was frozen and I reached in got my arm around his shoulder to pull him out.

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled as he fell into my arms. He was coated with dust and cobwebs and he fell into my arms when his legs couldn't hold him.

"It's okay, kid, you're okay." I eased us both down to the floor. He was shuddering uncontrollably and I pulled him closer to me and held him tight.

"Here, let me get my jacket on you." I started to gently push him upright so I could get my jacket off, but Sandburg looked alarmed and tightened his hold on me.

"No, don't go," he said, his voice thick with dust.

Okay, so that wasn't going to work. "No, I won't go. Here, lets get you in front of me and then I can get my jacket around you."

He looked up at me as though he was trying hard to focus on my face, but his eyes were glassy with confusion. "Here," I kept hold of him and pulled him onto my lap, so he was facing me. I cupped the back of his head until he rested it on my chest and then I pulled the jacket around the two of us. I could feel his chilled body absorbing my body heat and slowly the shaking became shivering.

"You smell good." His voice was a little muffled and I thought I heard him wrong.

"What?"

"Smells good in here. Nothing— ever— smells good 'round here."

He thought I smelled good? "Oh, you like my aftershave, eh?"

"No, you, you smell. Good." He lifted his head up and sniffed my throat.

"Watch it, kid, I can be lethal by the end of the day."

He just smiled at me and pressed his nose into the crook of my neck. "No, you smell the way dirt and grass smell good." That many words took him awhile to get out.

"Well, uh, thank you."

"You're wel—welcome."

"What were you doing in there?" I wondered what they had told him, what he thought was going on.

"I was hi—hi--hiding." I could only see the top of his head, a layer of dust and cobwebs coating his hair. I picked a spider out of it and flung it away.

"From what?"

At that question, Sandburg hugged me tighter. "Pe--people who wo—wo—would t—t--take me away. But I think they're gone now." He lifted his head and peered around the kitchen as if to reassure himself that we were indeed alone.

"Ah, I see. Where are the people you live with?" Where were those soon-to-be mutilated-or-dead bastards that nailed you in?

"My—my brothers?" Those two were his brothers? I didn't think so—they didn't look remotely like each other and nothing like the kid in my arms.

"Yeah, your brothers."

"Um, I think they're hiding, too."

They'd better be hiding, hiding deep. "But not in a wall, somewhere else," I said, hoping to prod something out of Sandburg that would help me find them.

"Yeah, I guess, somewhere else."

"Any ideas where?"

Sandburg shook his head slowly and shrugged. "I think they'd hide in the car." He shook his head and added, "I mean, they'd hide in the car and hide the car. Probably."

"Yeah, that sounds about right." I considered my options, then asked, "Do you know where your mom or dad is?"

He'd been nearly limp in my arms but now he stiffened and his grip on my arm tightened as he shook his head. "No—I—no."

There was panic in his eyes and I pushed the hair away from his eyes. "Don't worry about that now. Just take it easy." He nodded and his eyes started to close as exhaustion caught up to him.

I had to admit, I'd expected that answer—or, "They're dead." Couldn't imagine how he would've been in the care of men like Dick and Jack otherwise.

He squirmed around in my arms briefly, sighed, and his breathing grew deeper. He'd fallen asleep. Leaning my head back, I rested as well, curiously comfortable with a man lying in my lap. Hell, I was more than comfortable. I felt—anchored—in a good way. Held by him as I held him. It was baffling, but I didn't feel baffled. I felt grateful.

When I realized my leg was going numb, I knew I hade to make my move. I pushed against the wall behind me and slowly got the two of us levered upright.

I held him easily. He should've weighed 150 or so, going by height and muscular development, but he weighed at least 20 pounds less. I knew how to cook—and between my food and a little weight training, he'd be back up to 150 in no time. Despite the brain injury, the kid was sturdy.

I left by the back door, glad of the moonless night that cloaked the street in darkness. The kid didn't stir, lying in my arms as naturally as if I were a four-poster bed. I got in the door and placed Sandburg on the couch, covering him with the afghan, the one bright color in my otherwise drab house.

Looking down at the sleeping kid, I knew I was in trouble. Instead of calling Social Services, I told myself he was sleeping, he didn't need strangers poking at him, asking him questions, locking him in some room so he couldn't wander away.

Instead of calling the police and reporting that a crime had been committed and directing them to search for a Lexus SUV with the license plates TBGR8. I told myself Sandburg was safe with me and catching those two could wait a day.

I'd found Sandburg and I was keeping him. At least for tonight.

___________________________

A few hours later, I heard Sandburg get up. He was moving around the living room, muttering to himself.

I hurried out of bed to see what had disturbed the kid's sleep. The clouds had drifted away and a full moon shone brightly through the windows. Sandburg was pacing up and down in the middle of the room with his arms crossed in front of his chest and his head down.

"What's up, kid?"

Sandburg's head shot up in surprise. "I—my leg—" Stopping was a mistake, as the cramp got to him, and with a cry, he went down.

I took his index finger and placed it on the dip in his upper lip. "Put your finger here and press." Old trick for dealing with Charley horses. Then I took his leg in my hands and running my hands up and down it, warmed the muscle. Gently I kneaded his calf, trying to get the hard lump of abused muscle to release. Looking up, I had to smile. The kid had his finger pressed o his lip and his eyes were wide in disbelief.

"Works, huh?"

"Yeah, and that feels—ahhhh---good, mostly," and I knew what he meant. Sometimes the way pain feels as it's worked over does feel good—mostly. I dug my thumb in to the softened muscle and the kid practically oozeed onto the floor with a satisfied groan.

I noticed he had five or six red bumps on his leg. "What happened here?"

He lifted his head up to see what I was talking about. "Bugs, I think."

"Bit you?"

"Yeah, they musta been hungry."

"Like you?"

"Yeah," he laughed, "but I didn't bite them, though spiders are considered good protein in some—" he stopped as if confused and then groaned and clutched his head.

"Headache?"

He tried to nod his head, but that seemed to make it worse. Patting his leg, I got up and fetched a glass of water and three aspirin. He had to be dehydrated, and that could give a person a killer headache.

When I came back into the living room, I saw that he was curled up, his hands on his head and he was shaking. Kneeling down, I pulled him into my arms and brought the glass to his mouth. "Drink a little."

He did, eagerly, the shaking making the water splash down his chest. Before he could finish, I put an aspirin in his mouth and he swallowed it, then two more. Propping him against the couch, I ran back to the kitchen and got another glass of water. This one he drank more slowly and between that and the aspirin, the pain seemed to ease.

"I—I—get headaches. Some—sometimes."

"Suddenly like that?"

"It's always there—just sometimes it gets worse."

Sitting down next to him, I pulled him close and put my arm around him. The shaking was easing and I pressed the glass of water into his hand. "You were a little dehydrated I think. Finish the glass."

This time more of the water went into his mouth than down his chest. When it was empty, I took it. His body was unwinding and before he could fall asleep again I ask, "What’s your name?"

He jerked and pulled away from my hold, brought back to full consciousness by the question. His eyes slid away from my scrutiny and his face was pink from blushing. "I know it’s weird—but I don’t remember."

"Well, what do your brothers call you?"

His face turned an even deeper red. "Names." His hands were in his lap as he contained himself from me. "Bad names."

The power of words—one of the reasons I didn’t much care for them. Tugging at his sleeve, I tried to bring him back to me, but he resisted, his hand up.

"You need to understand—Um—there's something wrong with me, with the way my brain works. I'm really lucky to have Jack and Dick to take care of me and not be in a place they put people like me—or leave me to take care of myself. But sometimes they get tired of taking care of me and they say stuff, but that's what brothers do."

"Is that so?" An electrical rage sparked through me at the knowledge that they've convinced Sandburg they're taking good care of him.

And then a part of me backed up and asked "And who else would take care of him? Some kind of nursing home? An institution? You?"

Yeah, right, me.

Why not me?

Because you haven't so much as kept a houseplant alive, that's why.

Hey, I look after my men.

What? You call barking orders, checking their equipment, and listening to the dear John letter they got from home taking care of them? This kid is gonna need someone to see that he gets three squares a day, that he gets to doctor appointments, maybe gets some training and finds something meaningful to do. He needs someone who'll be there in the a.m, saying "Good morning" and "What do you want for breakfast?" and someone in the p.m. saying, "Good night. Sweet dreams."

And that ain't you.

It could be me.

Not from a thousand miles away in Peru it couldn't.

"So you've seen other brothers act like this and call each other names? Your brothers call each other names?"

Lying on the floor he frowned thoughtfully. "Yeah, they do, they call each other names. Dick sometimes calls Jack, Jacko and Jack sometimes calls Dick, Dickie."

"And what do they call you?"

He looked at me intently and then slowly shook his head. "No, I don't want you to know."

I realize I don't want to know either, I already wanted to kill them.

"Okay, I'll call you—"

His eyes brightened with anticipation. "What? You'll call me what?"

"I'll call you Chief."

"Like a Native American?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because that's what someone used to call me. And I liked it and I thought you might, too."

"Chief…"

"Yeah, so your leg feeling any better, Chief?"

He smiled and I saw a spark in his eyes, a flash of intelligence that made me hold my breath, it was there for a beat and then it faded. I had to turn away so he didn't see how much it hurt to catch sight of what he once was.

It was as if he understood because he looked away and then said, "I need to go."

"The bathroom's down the hall."

"No, I mean I need to go." He paused, shook his head a little, and then added, "Oh, uh, and I need to go, too."

I was officially confused and let go of his leg to help him up.

"Translation, chief?

"I have to, you know, go—to the bathroom, but then I have to go back and wait for Dick and Jack."

"You can stay here, I'll leave a note on the door."

Sandburg looked hopeful for a second, but then he shook his head. "They're already gonna be mad that I came out before they said. It'd be better if I was there."

Over my dead body. "I don't think they're coming back. They're in trouble, that's why the police came. I think they ran away."

Sandburg looked at me and then away and then his eyes come back to mine. "I'm the one who's in trouble, they've been protecting me."

I didn't believe it, but he did. "What did you do?"

His hands flew to his head as he squeezed his eyes shut. My question seemed to have brought the headache back again, but before I could ask, he screamed, a long jagged sound of fear and despair and I didn't have any idea what—what set him off, what to do, what to say.

What? What should I do? What might work?

Yell? No.

Slap him? Hell, no.

Hug him? Worth a try.

I approached him slowly, but he backed away. He looked like he was seeing a ghost—but not one that scared him—just one he didn’t believe in and wasn’t about to truck with. He kept retreating and I kept advancing and pretty soon his back was against the wall allowing me to captured him. He didn't fight my hold, but the screams didn’t diminish, so we were 0-0..

In desperation, I maneuvered us into the bathroom where I stripped the filthy clothes off his body. He let me, utterly passive aside from the energy expended for screaming. It was like his voice was the only thing present. Every other part of him was far away—out of my reach. The tiled walls amplified his wails, making my ears ring and my head ache. I did the only thing I could think of. I hauled him into the shower and turned the water on full blast.

As soon as the cold water hit the back of his head, he went silent. Reaching around him, I quickly adjusted the temperature so that the water warmed. I was holding him up, and even though his eyes were shut, I knew he was conscious. He just sort of hung on, exhaustion so profound it was all he could do to stay on his feet.

With care, I got us both down to the floor of the tub. His face was against my chest and I pushed the wet hair away from his eyes. Leaning forward, I snagged the soap and ran it up and down his back, using long even strokes, partially washing and partially massaging. His body molded infinitesimally more to mine as he started to relax. After awhile, I lifted up his arm and washed it, moving to his armpit, then the crease in his elbow, then his hand. His fingers were long, the fingernails bitten and jagged.

I murmured, "It's okay, kid, everything's gonna be all right," and other phrases equally vacant, but after awhile I just concentrated on the job at hand. I took my time removing the dust and grime from his body, finishing one side and starting on the other. Then I rolled him over so his back was to my chest, being careful not let the water hit his face, and began on his chest, his stomach, and his genitals.

I managed to pull his legs up and clean as far as his knees. His hair needed washing, but that seemed too complex for right now and when the water started to cool, I turned it off and got us out of the tub.

He was limp, but conscious enough to stay on his feet and I lowered him to the toilet seat, wrapping a towel around his shoulders. Then I got out of my wet clothes and dried off, leaving massive puddles on the bathroom floor. I wrapped a towel around my hips and then finished drying the kid off.

When I pulled him up, he moved straight into my arms and I could tell sleep was just moments away. Lifting him up into my arms, I carried him back to the couch, got the sheet and blanket from my room and covered him, found some dry clothes for both of us and dressed. My sweatpants were huge on him, but I tied the string and figured they'd stay on for the night.

This was where it would've been good to have a girlfriend, or a mother, or hell, even a father I could talk to. I needed advice and there was no hotline that I knew of for this kind of thing.

They'd all tell you the same thing, Ellison, and you know it. In the morning you needed to call what's her name and tell her you found Sandburg and hand him over to be cared for by the people who've been trained to do it.

Yeah, that's what I should do. As I settled down to sleep I tell myself again that that was what I should do.

The hell I would.

***

There was light when I woke up. And I there was a pillow under my head that felt like a funny kind of pillow, but that was new, too. I heard a little snore and looked up to see Jim, asleep, his head back and his mouth open a bit. His arm was around me and it was a nice weight. I was sleeping on him. I laughed before I could stop myself, it just seemed funny to me and Jim woke with a snort that was also funny.

"Wha? Wha?" He asked, looking around all worried but not.

"You were snoring."

He rubbed his eyes with one hand, but kept the other one on my chest. "I don't snore, Chief."

"Yes, you do."

He looked down at me and his eyebrows were low and he was trying to make his eyes look mean, but I knew he didn't mean it. "Take it back," he said and it reminded me of before when I was younger, but smarter, or at least more here.

"Make me." And I knew that answer came from before, a certain ritual game playing I once did with…? I didn't let myself search for an answer, because that only meant pain. Instead, I watched Jim's face scrunch up in a ferocious mask and the anticipation built.

"Oh, you're in trouble now, kid." He reached for me and the dreaded and expected tickling began, his hands lightly searching for my tickle spots. I squirmed and laughed as he growled and repeated, "Take it back," a lot and I didn't because it was nice to have someone's hands on me, touching me in a nice way, but then I did because that was how you played that game. "I take it back," I gasped, out of breath from laughing so hard.

As soon as he stopped, I jumped away from him and said, "Yes, you do," waiting for him to start again.

He threw himself back against the cushions of the couch and said with a sigh, "Yeah, I know, but keep it to yourself, it could hurt my image."

I thought about the way he looked when I woke up and I could see how he might not want that to get around.

"Okay." I was wearing his pants and they were about to fall off. I hung on to them with one hand as I bolted to the bathroom. I really had to pee now.

From outside the door Jim yelled, "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Whadya got?"

"Eggs, toast."

"I'd like eggs and toast."

"How do you like your eggs?"

That was a funny question.

"Cooked."

He laughed. I knew it was a funny question.

"Scrambled okay?"

"Yes." I was almost done.

"Take a shower and go ahead and wash your hair, there's time before the food'll be ready."

As the water hit my face, I remembered last night. Jim's question had taken me to the hole. That's what I called the place I go when I tried to remember what my name was, what my mom looked like, what life was like before I woke up in the kitchen, what terrible thing I had done. It was dark and cold in the hole with no walls and the air had pain in it, and when I'm there, all there is darkness and pain.

I think I forgot and made the sound I was never supposed to make, but instead of a sock shoved down my throat, I'd felt water and Jim's hands washing the sticky dirt away.

Nice hands, strong, lifting my arm and scrubbing, his hands rubbing my back, and my chest. His hands pulled me out of the hole. I didn't know there was a way out, but Jim found it.

Jim. Short for James. Jimmy. Jamie. Jim. It's a name you can slide into, you can stretch it and wrap it around you and wear it. It springs back up when you squash it down. It has the sound at the beginning that's like taking a dive and then the mmm at the end that's like falling into a soft bed. A soft bed with pillows. JIM.

***

He came out clean, hair plastered to his head, and clean-shaven. Shirtless and wearing only my sweats, I could see the lack of density in his bones that told me again he was young. He'd been underfed, and everywhere there were bones, there were shadows some of which were bruises. His hands and wrists were large and sturdy and I could see the man he'd grow into, the way you could see a full grown dog in the size of a pup's paws.

He had angry, red welts on his chest and arms. More spider bites.

"I didn't want to put those clothes back on—they're—"

"Filthy, yeah, good call. I'm gonna see if I can get your clothes clean."

"Thanks." He sniffed the air and said, "Hey, it smells great." As he came closer to the table, he looked at me with surprise. "What's on the eggs?"

He moved past me to the table, hunger overwhelming manners and took a piece of toast.

"It's salsa. I like to experiment."

His mouth full of toast he tried to whistle. "You musta used a dozen eggs."

"Ten. Hey, I'm hungry and you must be, too. Pull up a chair, sit down."

We fell silent and concentrated on getting the food into our stomachs. When there was only a bit of egg to mop up with the last crusts of the toast, I felt fortified enough to take up where we'd left off last night.

"Chief—" I got that smile again, the smile that contained Sandburg's past. He liked having a name. "Do you know what your brothers' last name is?"

He shook his head. "No. I don't seem to have a very good memory for names."

"Your last name is Sandburg."

He looked up from wiping his plate with the toast. "Sandburg? Really? You know this, it's not just a name someone called you that you liked?"

"No, I know this. I heard Dick and Jack talking about you and that's the name they used."

"My name is Something Sandburg." He said that with awe, as if he’d just been knighted.

"You know," he began, "People didn’t use to name their babies until they got to be one or older." His hand went to his head and I knew the headache was coming back in full force.

"Th—they didn’t want t-to love the child too much—in case—they—so many died—so they—"

I finished his sentence as every word seemed to be making him hurt more. "They tried not to get attached to the baby so they didn’t give the child a name until they were pretty sure they would live."

He nodded, his pain evident in the lines around his eyes, and I leaned in and began rubbing his shoulders, hoping to keep one of his killer headaches at bay. When he sighed and his muscles eased, I pulled him off his chair and said, "Come on, it’s Saturday and we deserve a nap."

We carried our plates to the sink and put them in soapy water, then I led Sandburg back to the couch and got him tucked in.

Stretching out on my bed, I made a mental list. Gotta get the kid some clothes, shoes, toothbrush, all those things. Start a search for some more of his family—wonder how common Sandburg is?

Type your cut contents here.

Nowhere Man--Part One

2007-07-09T01:38:54Z

Yikes!! !

2004 was my last post? Very bad.

My only excuse is that for these last few years, my head has not been in the fandom world.

Bowing to outside pressure, (i.e. my husband) I've been trying to write in the real world and finding it--way hard. My beginnings are rollicking, but then I lose steam and flounder as I peck at the logic and fabric of what I've written. I keep hoping that one day it will all suddenly make the same kind of sense that fanfiction does to me and that writing will become a joy again.

In the meantime, my rights to a zine story came back to me--Nowhere Man. Before I post it, I wanted to dive in and clean it up a bit.

And so was reintroduced to the lovely pleasure of writing fan fiction. Sigh.

Makes me want to get back to work on the Alchemy and Second Chance Series.

I thought I'd post Nowhere Man here before I get it to Susan's site or the archive.

So here's part one:

NOWHERE MAN
by Calista Echo

"He's back." Cynthia said, peering out the window. It was hard to tell if she was scowling at the grey drizzle or the young man shambling their way.

Margaret stepped closer to the window and studied the approaching boy. Head down, he seemed to be mumbling to himself. He wore several layers of clothes, all of them dirty and ragged. Hair fell about his face in matted curls as he shuffled along, hunched over.

Poor little nowhere man, she thought. How did you get so lost?

"You really shouldn't encourage him, Margaret. He scares away the other customers."

Margaret didn’t respond—they’d had this conversation before. Looking through the window, the boy caught Margaret's gaze and a slow, brilliant smile lit his face. That's why I let him come in, Margaret admitted to herself, as she absently stirred a generous dollop of honey into the cup of hot tea. To see that smile.

It was a dazzling smile, full of intelligence and shy joy, and it replaced the boy's usual expression of uncertainty and confusion. But his eyes dimmed almost immediately, as the window to that other self that lurked slammed shut once again.

"Morning..."

"Morning, ma'am," he mumbled, edging in through the door as if afraid the cold rain might follow him in.

Pressing the tea into his trembling hands, she made sure he had a good grip on it before she released her hold.

Eyes closed, he inhaled the scent. "Mint with…" he paused, then opened his eyes and stated confidently, "orange."

"That’s right. Do you like it?"

He sipped, smiled, and said, "It's good. Hot. Sweet. Hot."

Handing him a gingersnap cookie, she gestured into the store and told him, "There's a new book about the Inuits that just came in that I think you might like." She'd noticed how he gravitated toward books about other cultures. She wasn't sure what all he comprehended, but clearly he loved books. He approached them reverently, as if they held a holy power.

Which they did, she silently agreed, but you have to actually open the book.

Wandering up and down the aisles, he would stop to read the titles, study the covers, and occasionally took one off the shelf to look at the illustrations. Cynthia insisted he couldn't possibly comprehend the kinds of books he looked at, but Margaret was convinced he could.

Cynthia kept her distance, tucked behind the till; protecting the money, with one hand on the phone in case she needed to call 911. As soon as the boy left, she would once again tell Margaret that the punk was coming in each week "to case the joint," a phrase she'd picked up from reading every crime book in the store.

Margaret remembered the first time she'd seen him. It had been a dreary day, rainy and cold, much like it was today. She'd been crouched on the floor, unpacking a box of books to stack in the window. When she stood up, she'd dropped the books, startled to see a bum pressing his face against the window. Then she’d noticed the expression on the bum’s face. He’d looked like a kid who’d just stumbled downstairs at Christmas.

Despite the fact he looked nothing like a paying customer, she'd felt compelled to go outside and invite him in. That had surprised her. She'd always been a practical woman, one who bypassed soulful-eyed beggars rattling cups, confined her charity outreach to writing checks, and had never been particularly prone to feeling maternal.

Coming in diffidently, he'd acted as if he’d just entered a church. She’d half-expected to see him genuflect any moment. Rain had dripped from his sodden hair, pooling on the wood floor and he'd smelled a bit like—well, he'd smelled a bit. Through the scruff darkening his face, she'd seen fading bruises on his jaw and cheek, and a healing scrape on his forehead. His clothes had been dirty, his hands had shook, and his balance had been off.

These days his hands didn't shake as much, though his coordination still seemed erratic. His beard had grown in, his hair had become even more matted, his clothes were the exact same ones he'd worn every week, now even dirtier. He was thinner, and every once in a while she spotted fresh bruises and once a black eye.

Margaret had tried to get the police interested, but they had no record of a missing person matching his description and the streets were filled with mentally and emotionally disturbed people. She'd been informed that unless she thought he was a danger to himself or others, there was nothing they could do.

“He is in danger.” She’d protested.

“Maybe, but from what you describe, not from himself,” the desk sergeant had said, not unkindly. “Our hands are tied by the system, lady.”

***

I'd been living in the "Fringe" for nearly three months. The neighborhood has a mix of people in it; some working their way up, and some on their way down, plus the senior citizens who sat in their front windows and watched the parade go by.

I'd found this house a week after I'd been discharged from the hospital and had rented it for the duration of my rehab. Although a dump, it had a few things going for it. Being a rambler, it had no stairs, which had been an important feature at first. It was also quiet, cheap, and furnished.

I’d replaced the bed, the rattle in the furnace, and settled in.

I’d found living on base after my injury unexpectedly unbearable—too many people, too much noise, too many smells. I had no appetite and I couldn’t sleep. My C.O. noticed and suggested a few months off base might do me good.

It had been awhile since I'd lived alone, and I’d looked forward to it. I’d lived alone in college after the first semester and that had suited me very well.

I still had some duties on base and physical therapy every day, but I soon found myself bored and restless. I realized how much I'd come to depend on the structure and action of the army to create context for my life. There was an order in the army that went beyond tidiness. A sense of purpose permeated everything, even the simple, repetitious actions, even exhausting, stupid, and seemingly pointless actions.

The hierarchy of command made relationships clear and simple. We worked together, we fought as a team, we had absolute trust in one another and at the end of the day, we drank a beer and went our own way.

I say all this to explain the interest I started to take in the house across the street and the people who moved into it. I'm not normally nosy—hell—I actively avoid knowing anything personal about the people around me, not wanting to get pulled in to their dramas.

But I was used to processing information and taking in details, so I couldn’t help but notice the Infinity SUV parked in front of the dilapidated house across the street. I started seeing two young guys go in and out, but no one else, so I figured they weren’t pimping or dealing drugs and didn’t pay too much more attention.

Then a week or so after they moved in, on a freakishly warm February day, I caught sight of someone leaning out the second story window. Out of boredom and curiosity, I got my binoculars out and trained them on the stranger.

He was looking down at the old tomcat stalking a Blue Jay. Long dark hair hid his face at first. But when the jay escaped with a screech, he looked up and I saw an angular and beautiful face framed by a disheveled riot of curls. As I looked closer, I saw that the beautiful face had a black eyes and a bruised jaw.

I also saw the look I'd seen on the faces of men coming back from a certain kind of mission. Missions that had gone wrong, and in the process, had ripped a piece of their soul out.

What had happened to that kid to make him look so shell-shocked, and what—no, who—had put the bruises on his face? His roomies? Or were they sheltering him?

I told myself to stop that line of thought. He wasn't a child, and it was none of my business. The neighborhood was filled with sad people and their sad stories, and I didn't have a magic wand to wave over anyone to fix their lives.

But that night, I found myself thinking about the kid as I chopped onions and carrots and wondered again what he was doing living with those two men.

Calling them "men" pushed the definition—but at some point age had tipped them into that category, even when it was clear no actual maturing had occurred.

I’d seen a lot of punks like that enter the army. They usually signed on when they were drunk, or in response to a dare.

You could tell the guys that had been brought up with expectations. They swaggered in, full of assumptions about the army, life and themselves. The army was good at shattering them. It didn’t care if your daddy had money, you were handsome and charming, made straight A’s, won the big game or had fucked Amy Sue in the boy’s locker room.

It didn’t care if you’d been drunk and made a mistake by signing up and then found out that you hated bunk beds, mess hall food and grunting men.

Men like that joined, got the tattoo, tried every charming trick that had ever worked with mommy and daddy in the past to get out of doing what the army demanded and when that failed, they got mean. And drunk.

They picked fights, shirked their work, and generally fucked up everything they touched until daddy’s money got them honorably discharged as a nut case or they really fucked up and even daddy’s money couldn’t save them from having their asses thrown in the brig.

I hated them being in my army. Hated the noise they made and the mess, hated the havoc that got left in their wake. And now I had two of those yahoos living across the street from me. With a damaged kid—one I suspected they had damaged—on the second floor.

I found myself watching them carefully for a few days—noting when they came and went, what they brought in and took out, their body language and demeanor. They often came home late at night, drunk and loud, but the kid was never with them. Then one day I realized what I was doing was reconnaissance and made myself put the binoculars down.

Who the hell did I think I was? Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window?

If so, where was Grace Kelly when I needed her, bucking up my spirits by pulling scanty negligees out of tiny purses? But forget Grace. The woman I really wanted was Thelma Ritter. She didn't take any nonsense, was steady in a crisis, could knock back the bourbon, and gave massages.

I worked hard not to think about the house across the street and got some help on that from the difficulties at work. Though I was temporarily living off base, I still reported in every day.

We had a mission coming up and there were plans to be studied and revised, equipment to be ordered and tested, and personal to evaluate. And true to form, Miskin was using my injury to make a play for command.

One night sleep fought me, despite my exhaustion. Giving up, I’d gone into the living room and poured myself a scotch. And so had a front row seat when the Frat Boys rolled in drunk

They slammed the car doors loudly, which was usual for them. Then they added a new routine, staggering around the yard, singing a college fight song at the top of their lungs. For percussion, they kicked the garbage cans. Lights went on in the houses up and down the block and five or six dogs joined in the chorus, yapping and barking.

The bozos were so loud this night they even managed to wake the nearly deaf guy up who lived next door to them. Mr. Johansen shuffled out of the front door, shaking his fist, his white hair standing on end. At that point, I opened my door and stepped into the shadows to watch.

"Didn't your mothers teach you any manners? People are trying to sleep!"

Early on I’d started thinking of the two as Beevis and Butthead. Now the one I’d dubbed Butthead careened toward the old man, sticking his chin out pugnaciously, as he said, "Can it, Pops. You can sleep all day, so what're you complaining 'bout?"

Johansen stood his ground, pulling his skinny shoulders back and standing straighter. "I don't want a can of pop! I want you to be quiet and respect your neighbors!"

“Beevis” '' zigzagged his way over to join Butthead and said belligerently, "Whataya gonna do 'bout it, old man?"

The old man frowned. "You've been drinking,” he said, as if that hadn’t occurred to him before.

"S' wat? Ish there a law 'gainst it?" “Butthead” thumped the old guy's chest, hard enough to make Mr. Johansen totter back. He managed to keep his feet, but as soon as he regained his balance, he did a stupid thing. He put his fists up.

I moved, and before Butthead could deck a senior citizen, I rushed him. Grabbing the fist he'd cocked back, I spun him around and yanked his arm up behind his back.

"You want to deal with someone's complaints, deal with mine. You've been waking all of us up long enough.” I jacked his arm up just a bit more to help my complaints register.

He tried to fight my hold, but soon found how much worse that made the pain. His screams had brought out a few more neighbors in bathrobes, who watched with open mouths.

“From now on, I want you two to come home quietly, close your car doors softly, and you keep your mouths shut until you get inside. Is that understood?"

He whimpered, but didn’t answer, so I repeated, "DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" I pushed his arm up a fraction, knowing I had it right at the breaking point.

"YES!" he yelped and I let up on the pressure while still holding onto him.

"That's 'YES, SIR!'" I informed him.

"Y-yes, sir," he sobbed. I let him go. He whirled around and glared at me, cradling his arm.

“You gonna behave now?’

He looked at me stubbornly, so I took a step toward him. He immediately said, “Yes.” Then quickly added, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. You’re dismissed.”

The gathered crowd applauded, Beevis and Butthead glared, but went inside. Walking back across the street, I found myself wondering about the kid in the window. Was he there while all the commotion was going on? Why hadn’t he appeared? Would they take out their frustration with me out on the kid? That question nagged at me all night and into the next day.

***

calista_echo @ 2004-06-03T21:37:00

2004-06-04T02:42:52Z

Offer them what they secretly want and they of course immediately become panic-stricken.

—Jack Kerouac

More talk about MediaWest

2004-06-04T02:36:30Z

I missed seeing a lot of the door decorations this year--and there were fewer than last. Felt like there were fewer people as well, just less denisity everywhere you went.

It was worth going just to take in Cindy Walker's panel on writing. She is a delightful teacher--funny, quick, smart, and liquid energy that goes down smooth. I'm envious of her students.

The plays were back and Brook was in one so I went- not expecting much, and I was ever so glad I did.

Written by Paula and using Cindy Walker's Man From Uncle crossed with Escape From New York, AU--it was great--it even had songs. The woman playing Snake was played by Spencer ---(I'll have to track down her last name)and Lucy played a bunch of different characters.

Lucy and she both act professionally and I loved how they stepped so forcefully into their characters.

Spencer said Sofi and could come to LA sometime and crash at her place, which is good, since Steve has kind of withdrawn his welcome mat.

Visual Needs

2004-06-04T02:09:32Z

I've come to realize I'm a visual facist. For someone who spends no time at all on what look like, I could probably spend 40 hours on tweaking the way this journal looks.

And don't even get me started about overhead lighting.

That may explain why I like certain actors--their utter visual watchablity--and how much information they manage to convey with the slightest of muscle movements.

The master is Jeremy Brett in Sherlock Holmes, but Callum, Garret and Richard all have finely honed skills, not to mention undenialable beauty.

Report # 1

2004-06-01T22:14:41Z

Just back from MediaWest. Brook (Henson --writer of the lovliest Jimcentric h/c and angst in all the world) and I roomed together again, but my dear and vital beta, (as well as friend), Sharakh, was not with us this year, alas, and we missed her.

I started out in a grim hotel about 10 miles away, but as I waited for Brook to arrive, someone announced they had an extra room and we got in.

Thank goodness, as the con would not have been at all the same. There's just something about being in the thick of everything and calling it home for those 4 days...

MediaWest is a funny place--it's a Shangri-la that has a door that opens only 4 days a year. (or is that Brigadoon?)

You walk through the glass doors of the Holiday Inn South in Lansing and yippee! find a land where people are a lot like you--(or at least a lot more like you than the rest of the world).

A land where people invest emotionally in fictional characters, get caught up and ponder the health, wisdom and significance of those relationships, then share their thoughts about them as if discussing best friends, lovers, and themselves.

For instance, some of the panels that took place this year:

Starsky & Hutch: How do you separate them from the time in which they lived for fanfic characterization, was it their nature or behavior simply appropriate for the 70s? Free love, etc. (/)

Stargate SG-1: The hair!! An inane discussion on the constantly changing hairstyles (for better or worse), make-up horrors, and other nitpicks. For fun only!

Sentinel: The Advantages and Disadvantages of a challenging childhood a. Why Jim and Blair are the way they are. (/)

I learned some really cool things.

Like:

...there's a drug you can take for restless leg syndrome and it works. (Thanks, Lucy!)

...soy helps hotflashes and can be taken in a pill. (Thanks, April Valentine!)

...about gems and healing and divination. Which so far, in my limited testing—has been accurate.

Back to Martha(who writes in Sentinel and Stargate) , Katherine (who reads) and Saleri (who writes Stargate). Brook and I met up with them on Saturday and Sunday night in the hotel restaurant—The Hummingbird and the craic was very fine both nights.

(Craic-an Irish word—pronounced crack, meaning—hmmm, there's no exact translation, but--atmosphere –but in my mind it's more like atmosphere that is especially conducive to a high old time.)

There's no doubt the fun was fueled in part by Saleri's consumption of Cosmopolitans—which she was already well known for imbibing at the Hummingbird, but also, there was a rare chemistry afoot among all of us—but especially between Martha and Saleri.

It was the kind of chemistry that made me think they had been childhood chums. But no. They had been emailing for some time, but had only met on Thursday.

In fact, I'd say, that was the very most fun I've ever had with girls. Maybe the only real fun I've ever had with girls.

calista_echo @ 2004-05-23T20:19:00

2004-05-24T01:31:23Z

I've been having a week's worth of insomnia and last night I double dosed myself with Nyquil and had hot milk with honey and whiskey.

And I slept.

I woke up at 7, wide awake, but all day I've been on the edge of sleeping and utterly unmotivated to do anything--which just about never happens.

I'm working on Nowhere Man--and get sort of close to being done. And I really need to get writing again on the fourth chapter of Alchemy. It's over 100 pages, but I feel like there's so much more to get to.

And then I need/want to write the next story in the Second Chance Series, because man, I have a lot to write yet.

Maybe I'll post Nowhere man here as I shake the wrinkles out of it.

And hey, four days and I head to MediaWest!

Due Southing it

2004-05-14T16:37:48Z

Due South was my portal into fanfiction. That was--hmmm, four years ago. And started writing, something I had resisted and believed I'd have no aptitude for. And fell in love with it. It went on to wipe out nearly all other loves. I stopped wanting to do anything except write, including reading and watching TV. Every moment away from writing those first 18 months or so, was torture. Gave up Kato Tomato cards mostly to free up my life to write.

These days I'm a little less obsessed. I can once again enjoy doing other things besides writing, though it would be nearly always my first choice of how to spend time. I kind of miss the passionate obsessional high I was on, but mostly I'm glad not to be in pain if I'm not writing and to have some balance back.

So I got out my very first story--The Fall and its sequel, The Winter and submitted them to Bast to be published in a zine. I had rewritten The Fall once, but when I went back, was shocked at how much work it needed. I think I spent--easily--80 hours rewriting those 2 stories.

Hopefully, I wrote/rewrote something that people will get caught up in.

I was going to paste the cover here, but the LJ won't let me. So how do people put photos in their LJ's?

Bast's cover is intense in a scary kind of way. Elena An, who helped beta it as well as a some of other stories, did a marvelous cover for it--which I would paste here if I knew how. It's much more emotionally satisfying.

Ben's been out of town since Wednesday. Which has been nice, though I haven't written much. I don't know why--I think the Adderall and Effexor has a little Stepford Wives componant. I find myself cleaning a lot, making order. But I do love the focus they give me.

Modest success!

2004-05-14T02:55:40Z

I got the dorky icon thingy to kick in! Why am I using it? It always sort of annoys me when I see them. There's something about the implied reduction --and the fact that on the whole, I don't do moods. That's right. I'm one of the least moody people on this planet--as can be testified by my children and husband. Which isn't such a great thing, really. No one ever quakes in their boots around me. And the older I get, the more I'd like to be able to cause some quaking.

First Post

2004-05-14T02:32:54Z

First post and boy, I have no idea what I'm doing or why I'm doing it. I have a heck of time believing anyone would want to hear about what I'm thinking...and hey, maybe no one will, and this will be my own private playground.

I think I actually like the idea of the set-up and the graphics and the dialog more than I like the idea of me saying something. But I have no idea how to make the icon thing happen--I can't even figure out how to make those goofy mood icons to kick in.