Temporary Address

Temporary Address

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Great Expectation - the end

I hate to post this.  It's the ending. I hope you've read the rest of the book, and you're not just going to read the last two pages.  Anyway, for good or bad, here it is.


To read from the beginning, click the photos on the right.

The end.



Alex put the paper down. His face flushed at the thought of thousands of people reading his confession – and the number could swell to millions when other papers ran the story. Poor old Abraham Franklin would be sputtering geysers when he found out about Alex’s piece. The funny thing was – Alex didn’t feel scared, even though he knew he’d have to pay for what he did with years in jail, and a lifetime of shame. It was as if he were being carried through it all by a God who loved him. “I’m very disappointed with you, son,” his father’s words sounded inside his head, but the words had lost their power over him. ‘Maybe you’re disappointed, Dad,’ he thought, ‘but I’m pleased and proud.’ For the first time in his adult life, Alex felt truly free.


He re-read the article twice more. The powers in Washington would call him a traitor, but Alex knew he’d finally earned the right to call himself honest. Then he documented as much evidence against himself as he could remember. He implicated Pomerleau, Snavey, Efendi, the Weasel, and all the rest whose approval he’d courted so doggedly – was it really only a couple of years ago? And he made copies of all the evidence – two hundred and sixty eight copies to be exact, and he sent them to two hundred and sixty eight different law enforcement agencies, newspapers and television stations– just in case the United States attorney general failed to prosecute him and his cronies.



The Upstart Gazette fired Lester Jenkins and Lissa Caldwell, figuring they were probably in on it. Most of the staff walked out the same day. The Gazette hired scabs and tried to put out an edition, but no one could get the presses to work. Probably Lester’s doing, but they weren’t sure. The following day, a few other newspapers all across the country ran the Upstart Gazette’s infamous front page article. Slowly, more newspapers followed suit.

Ivan Buncheski had put aside a sizeable nest egg. With the help of his former staff and a good credit reputation at his bank, Ivan was able to borrow enough money to launch “The New Upstart”. He hired back all his former employees.



In preparation for her trip, Johanna bought a backpack, a toothbrush, a couple of changes of clothing and underwear, and a one-way Amtrak ticket to Vancouver.

The train trip was soothing. She stared out the window at the pleasantly changing scenes. Desert, city, mountains, forest, more cities, small towns. She read and worked crossword puzzles, and sometimes just rocked back and forth with the motion of the train. She ate nutrition bars and apples and packets of juice. There was only one nightmare during the whole trip, and she told the passenger next to her that her skin had somehow gotten pinched in the zipper of her backpack and that was why she had screamed. Panic attacks happened as well, but she managed to stifle the urge to shout.

Johanna got off the bus in Vancouver, bought a map, and, fingers crossed, she navigated the city hoping to find Sandy Pumpkin’s house.

She hesitated a moment, then knocked at the door of 247 Elm Street, a modest, beige stucco cottage, surrounded by huge terra cotta pots sporting splashes of bright red geraniums. The man who opened the door was slightly stooped with silver hair pulled behind his ears into a ponytail. His face was lined, and his skin was the shade of sawdust. First Nation, thought Johanna, maybe Cree. He was in his sixties or seventies, or maybe older. It was hard to tell. In fact, the old man reminded Johanna of a tree, gnarled and stately, someone who had stood silently and observed much of the world.

Johanna cleared her throat, not knowing how to explain. There was no guarantee that the address Sandy Pumpkin had given her was the correct one. She was too trusting, too quick to believe. But maybe he lived in this house with the old man. Johanna suddenly felt scared and foolish. “My name is Jody, and I’ve been exchanging e-mails with someone at this address.” She hoped the old man wouldn’t be shocked.

“Oh, my dear girl,” he said. And tears threatened to overcome him. “I am Sandy Pumpkin!” He wrapped his arms around her and brought her inside, and his touch was light and tender, as if carrying a wounded bird in his arms.

The End

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