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

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Great Expectations Chapter XLII

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

Chapter Forty ─ Two






They never did figure out who put together the front page of the Upstart Gazette that day. Lester Jenkins who ran the presses had to be involved as did Pamela Mason. She was the one who shredded documents, and she was probably the one who had rescued the letter that appeared on the front page on December 17th. Lissa Caldwell had been Ivan Buncheski's personal secretary for fourteen years. She had opened his mail, and now provided the same service for Gerald Vance. She was probably in on it too.



The Upstart Gazette

Evil wins when good men and women sit silent.



A hundred thousand people died to keep me rich. My country paid me billions for doing worse than nothing. But if you met me, you’d probably like me. You see, I’m a liar, and a very good one. I can make you believe anything. I can feed you vomit on a stick, and you’ll swallow it and ask for more. It’s a gift that I have, or maybe it’s really a curse.

And I work in the White House.

America, you need to wise up. We’re a country that focuses too much on P. R. – on appearance – and overlooks substance. And meanwhile, democracy in America is dying. You’re giving up your freedom, your goods, and even your safety in the name of national security.

The world’s best hackers work for Homeland Security. We’re bugging everyone, not just terrorists or even suspected terrorists, but senators, congressmen, and anyone who questions what we do. Just watch – senators and congressmen who stick their necks out usually get caught on the wrong end of a scandal. It’s what Nixon tried to do when his men were caught breaking into the Watergate hotel. It’s how we passed the Patriot Act.

Hitler said that the memories of the masses are short. That’s what I was banking on – that you wouldn’t remember enough to compare yesterday’s statements with today’s news. And it’s safer and more comfortable to forget. But you must remember and use the brains God gave you.

For example, consider the Iraq war. Dictators have used war as a diversion for centuries. And they’ve gotten rich by attacking weaker nations. We invaded Iraq on a lie. Remember the speeches before Iraq’s invasion? Remember the threats of a mushroom cloud?

After 9/11, we rounded up hundreds of suspected terrorists, and we just held them for two years. The United States doesn’t do that. Americans have rights. And if these people can be imprisoned without due process so can all of us. Are they guilty of terrorism? Or are they political opponents? But that’s not all. They’re not just being interrogated – they’re being tortured. Tortured!!! Since when has our country condoned torture?

I am responsible for many dirty tricks. I am responsible for the anthrax letters, and, with them, I tried to assassinate Senators Thomas Daschel and Pat Leahy.

I created phony scientific societies to convince Americans that global warming is only a myth.

I had voting machines rigged to produce the biggest election frauds in history.

And probably my worst dirty trick of all – I manipulated your news. I made you hate and I made you fear. I fed you the emotions opposite of all that’s good and holy on this earth.

Remember the long fight for the rights of all minorities−the marches and the protests. Some died defending human rights. Fifty years of progress could disappear in the wag of a camel’s tail. Prejudice against one minority sets a precedent for discrimination against any minority.

When you fly the American flag, remember what it stands for: human rights, freedom of speech, freedom of worship. When you say “God Bless America,” pray for our nation – for justice, for peace, for freedom.

Because of my dirty tricks, and deep tax cuts, and financial manipulations, and because of the wars, American economy has taken a huge hit. (You see a few hundred dollars from the tax cuts. We see billions, and we’re using them to buy elections.) Our bad real estate management will have millions facing foreclosure. In a few years, the whole thing will come crashing down around us. Someone else will deal with the consequences. Don’t blame him for the mess.

And don’t give up on democracy. It’s the best defense against the likes of me. In a dictatorship, everything I’ve done would be considered normal.



By Alexander Lidecker

Friday, October 14, 2011

Great Expectations Chapter XL

The officer hesitated. He called over his partner. Then he began the words of the Miranda Rights. “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right…”


Alex knew this was coming. They cuffed his hands behind him, ducked his head under the doorframe, and sat him down in the back of the patrol car. Alex wondered if he would regret his honesty after the liquor had worn off the next morning.

They took him back to one of the police stations on Martha’s Vineyard, and he found himself in a small gray room with the only door locked. Alex had the disoriented sensation of not knowing exactly where he was. He stared at his hands. It all seemed so strange. Funny, Alex thought, he should be terrified, but he wasn’t. In a dazed sort of way, he felt like he’d just come home. Maybe it was the liquor, because Alex didn’t believe that it could be God.

Two sergeants walked in – officers Maxwell and Dugan according to their name tags.

“So how did all of this happen?” asked the one called Maxwell. He had pepper gray hair and a slightly darker mustache.

“You’ll forgive me if I talk slowly,” Alex said. “I’m used to lying, so it’ll take some doing to come up with the truth.”

‘Got to be the liquor,’ thought the officer.

“And I need a lawyer, but first, let me tell you about tonight. And, listen, can you let me know when you find my wife.” Alex told his story slowly, and the sergeant caught it all on tape. The easiest interrogation he’d had in months.

A third policeman walked in. “Your wife is in Martha’s Vineyard Hospital.”

“Is she going to be all right?”

“There’s concussion and some swelling, and she’s still unconscious,” he said. “That’s all they know right now.”

When he thought about Vivian, all he could remember were the manipulation and the anger. Surely there were good times too. Why couldn’t he remember them? “She really is the best part of me,” said Alex to himself. “And I really treated her like a heel.” His head throbbed and his mind bounced around as if on springs. But one thought kept surfacing, and he said it out loud. “If she dies, I’ll be charged with manslaughter, won’t I?” He looked at the officer.

“Not necessarily. Cooperate. Tell them everything.”

Alex smiled wryly. “If I tell them everything, I’ll never get out of prison.”

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

Chapter XXXIX pgs. 270-271


‘It’s got to be the liquor,’ thought the officer.

The next day dawned amid iron and concrete for Alex. A pale yellowish light illuminated a sink and toilet in the left corner of the cell. Not even that is private, he thought.

Alex took a deep breath. His head ached, and it made his other senses more acute. Somewhere off to the right, metal clanged against metal, reverberating harshly off the hard surfaces with no rugs or curtains or pillows to soften the sound. It was so strange, having no control over himself or his surroundings. A mysterious “they” determined where Alex would be and what he would do.



Alex sat on his bunk staring at the blanket. He set about removing all the lint bumps with his fingers. There was precious little to occupy his time. He had no watch, and no way to know how long before something would happen – breakfast, lunch, exercise – any break from the monotony would be welcome.

“Visitor, Lidecker.” Even the guard’s voice was harsh, and the unexpected sound jerked Alex to his feet. Nothing seemed real. It was as though his mind were in some pathetic movie. Head throbbing, he stood waiting for his body to be processed by a uniformed jailer. No one appeared quite human in here.

The visitor was Abraham Franklin, “the best lawyer money could buy” if you could believe his business card. Weasel had made the arrangements. Alex had never needed a criminal lawyer before. Alex eyed the business card through a thick plate of glass.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Great Expectations Chapter XXXIX

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

Chapter XXXIX pgs. 264-266


The solution was obvious. He’d go home. Tomorrow he’d call the sheriff. The alcohol would be out of his body by then. If she were alive, no harm no foul. If she were dead, he’d be distraught. “It’s all my fault. We had a fight, and she jumped out of the car.” Alex began practicing his story. “I started to follow her but it was dark, and she was running. She’d had a lot to drink, and she was stumbling about something terrible. ‘Keep away from me,’ she said. And she was taking awful chances running full tilt through the brush. I was afraid that if I kept chasing her she’d fall and hurt herself.” No−better yet – “she told me ‘if you don’t leave right now I’ll drown myself.’ She kept screaming ‘I’ll drown myself. I’ll do it. Don’t think I won’t!’ She kept shouting it over and over. So I told her ‘Okay, have it your way. I’m leaving. You don’t have to run anymore.’ I said to her, ‘Call me tomorrow, and I’ll pick you up.’ I thought she’d be okay. There was a house just a few hundred feet down the road from where I left her. She was acting so weird and it scared me and I just wasn’t thinking very clearly.”


He saw it all. It was simple, really. He’d never be blamed. Maybe he’d answer a few difficult questions, but there’d be nothing more than that. And Alex sighed bitterly. “God, help me. I won’t do it,” he said. Instead, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed “911”.

They arrived in minutes−instantly, it seemed to Alex. First a lone patrol car with two cops. When Vivian didn’t answer their shouting, they called for backup. Several more cars arrived, then a search and rescue unit, and some volunteers with dogs. They set up floodlights bright enough to illuminate a football stadium, and began combing the area where Alex said he’d last seen Vivian. All this fuss seemed strange. Oh, he’d had plenty of fuss poured over his head during the last several years, but it was never because of something stupid that he’d done. None of these people even knew Vivian, and yet they searched as though she were someone important.

One of the first two officers drew Alex aside. He’s just a kid, thought Alex. Red hair, freckles; he could have been Opie.

“What happened here, sir?” the cop asked.

“We had a fight.” Alex wondered if the cop had a hidden microphone. And he wondered how much he was slurring the words. Was it obvious that he was drunk? He didn’t feel drunk. Suddenly everything was clear and amazingly simple. Vivian could be hurt. She could be in danger. Or she might be dead. Nothing else mattered. And that’s why people came with their dogs to climb through the brushy banks of the pond when they’d rather be sleeping. Because nothing else mattered.

“She stormed out of the car.”

“She stormed out?”

“No.” Alex stopped, shaking his head helplessly. “Wait a minute.”

“Take your time,” said the officer.

“We fought. I said, ‘maybe she’d rather walk.’ She said, maybe she would. So I pushed her out of the car.”

“Why did she say she’d rather walk?”

“Because I was trying to scare her.”

“Scare her?”

“I was…I swerved the wheel. The car fishtailed. I slammed on the brakes. I sent it skidding. It almost jumped the side of the bridge.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I was very drunk.”

The officer hesitated. He called over his partner. Then he began the words of the Miranda Rights. “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right…”

Alex knew this was coming. They cuffed his hands behind him, ducked his head under the doorframe, and sat him down in the back of the patrol car. Alex wondered if he would regret his honesty after the liquor had worn off the next morning.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Great Expectations Chapter XXXIX

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

Chapter XXXIX pgs. 257-258

He drove slowly until he came to the end of the road. Then he swung the car around. Damn! He must have passed her on the road. But why hadn’t she yelled? Maybe she didn’t recognize him in the dark. Or, maybe she was playing games too. So he u-turned the car and backtracked one more time looking for Vivian. This time he called to her in the darkness. “Game’s over. Where the hell are you?” Then “Damn it, Vivian, tell me where you are so we can go home and get this friggin’ evening over with.” He honked the horn. “Fine, if that’s what you want, I can just leave you here. Go ahead and spend the night in this muck. See if I care. Someone’s sure to find you tomorrow and you can get a ride home in a tuna truck or something.” And, finally, “Hey, Vivian… okay, I’m sorry…Where are you?”


She had to hear him. The small stretch of road just wasn’t that long. Why didn’t she answer? It wasn’t like Vivian to hold a grudge – to play games, to make Alex stew. No, that was his style, not hers. Besides, he held all the cards. He had the car, with its warmth, a stereo, and transportation home, while she was crouching somewhere in the bushes. So why didn’t she answer?

It took a while for Alex to admit the possibility that Vivian couldn’t answer him. That she had hit her head or had fallen into water. But it seemed so unlikely. No one ever passed out from a bump on the head, except in the movies. He dug through the car’s glove compartment, and then through the trunk looking for a flashlight, but there wasn’t one. So he set the headlights on high beam and pointed them at the stretch of bushes ahead. Then he climbed out of the car and began examining the road bit by bit. There had to be a simple explanation. Surely Vivian was okay. She hadn’t fallen that hard.

But this was Chappaquiddick. And the bridge was already home to one ghost. And Alex sensed evil in the air around him. He was cold and scared, as scared as when he’d been an eleven-year-old boy running away from home, and realizing that he didn’t have the resources he needed to run away.

Disheartened, Alex sat down on a rock. Puddin’ Creek all over again, he thought. Back then he had run away from a whipping. How simple that would have been compared to this! His wife was missing; he was responsible, and he was very drunk, and he had very unforgiving partners. They would forgive him for driving drunk, or for losing or hurting or even killing his wife. But they would never forgive him for getting caught. Suddenly he shivered violently, chilled by the misty air and the thought of his partners.

And just as on that night long ago, he was sitting by swampy water with darkness, caused more by evil than by the night. He could see himself holding that book of spells. “Remordia,” he said aloud.

The solution was obvious. He’d go home. Tomorrow he’d call the sheriff. The alcohol would be out of his body by then. If she were alive, no harm no foul. If she were dead, he’d be distraught. “It’s all my fault. We had a fight, and she jumped out of the car.” Alex began practicing his story. “I started to follow her but it was dark, and she was running. She’d had a lot to drink, and she was stumbling about something terrible. ‘Keep away from me,’ she said. And she was taking awful chances running full tilt through the brush. I was afraid that if I kept chasing her she’d fall and hurt herself.” No−better yet – “she told me ‘if you don’t leave right now I’ll drown myself.’ She kept screaming ‘I’ll drown myself. I’ll do it. Don’t think I won’t!’ She kept shouting it over and over. So I told her ‘Okay, have it your way. I’m leaving. You don’t have to run anymore.’ I said to her, ‘Call me tomorrow, and I’ll pick you up.’ I thought she’d be okay. There was a house just a few hundred feet down the road from where I left her. She was acting so weird and it scared me and I just wasn’t thinking very clearly.”

He saw it all. It was simple, really. He’d never be blamed. Maybe he’d answer a few difficult questions, but there’d be nothing more than that.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Great Expectations Chapter XXXIX

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

Chapter XXXIX  pgs. 256-258


He gunned the engine in neutral, engaged the motor, and the car lurched forwards. And he turned sharply towards the right.


“Please,” said Vivian.

“What?”

“Please.” He was heading in the wrong direction. Surely he knew it. He was doing it on purpose to scare her. Well, it was working. “Please take me back home.”

He raced the engine driving as fast as he dared in the direction of the inky darkness. Because he had a plan. After ten minutes, he slowed the car, looking for a road that was little more than a footpath. Finally, he saw it and turned sharply towards it. Vivian didn’t dare say anything. The path led to the infamous Ditch Bridge on Chappaquiddick Island. Now Vivian’s breath came sharply as she realized where he was taking her. After all those years of marriage, he knew how to punish her. Alex chuckled recalling the newspaper headlines about Ted Kennedy’s car driving off of the road. And he swerved the car sharply causing it to skid sideways.

They were approaching the Ditch Bridge now. The night was still. The mud-brown supports − stubby post-people − cast shadows and reflections like specters in the inky waters below. They were alone on the bridge, the same bridge where a very drunk Ted Kennedy had driven off of the road, and where Mary Jo Kopechne had died on an evening much like this one.

For a moment, Alex chilled, sensing the stillness, as if ghosts inhabited the waters. He remembered an evening very long ago sitting on the bank of a creek. He had been a scared eleven-year-old back then on Halloween night, believing himself surrounded by ghosts and wicked spirits. He remembered clutching the book of spells to his body, and finding the mysterious word, Remordia, inside.

He looked over at Vivian, and he could see how pale her face was, even with the very limited amount of light. And her fear fed his courage.

“Did you say something?” he smirked and gave the wheel a quarter turn.

“Nothing. Just forget it.” She stared at the road ahead and breathed a relieved sigh as they passed the last upright, leaving the bridge and its ghost behind.

“Maybe you’d rather walk.” The road was a worn out path with a pond on one side and the ocean on the other. He swerved the car again.

“Maybe I would.”

Alex leaned across Vivian and pushed open her door. The car lurched drunkenly. He pushed at the button keeping her seatbelt fastened, but his hands shook, and he couldn’t undo the buckle.

“I’m sorry.” Vivian was reaching for the door, trying to close it. “It’s been a long night. Can we please just get home?”

“All night you made me look stupid…. Now you’re trying to tell me how to drive….”

“I’m sorry, Alex. I didn’t mean any of it.”

“You’re damn right you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be.” At last his fingers found the button. The seat belt flew loose, and he shoved Vivian out of the car. “See how well you like it walking solo.” He laughed and gunned the engine. He gunned it again, and, as Vivian grabbed on to the doorframe, he started forward, slowly at first, then faster until Vivian was almost running to keep up with the car.

“Please, Alex, I can’t see.” Her foot twisted, and the car jerked free of her grasp, leaving Vivian staggering, and then falling backwards.

Alex drove on for another couple of minutes, letting Vivian stew in the darkness. He stopped the car, turned off the engine and listened. One cricket chirped – a forlorn rattle far, far away. Had she learned her lesson yet? The gloom sent shivers down Alex’s back, and he restarted the engine and turned back to pick up his wife.

He drove back slowly with his lights in high beam. And he turned on the radio for company against the disturbing stillness. ‘You ready to behave yourself?’ That’s what he’d say. And he’d generously forgive her for behaving foolishly. He avoided calling Vivian’s name. No sense in letting her know that he was looking for her. Let her worry a few minutes more.

But there weren’t many remarkable landmarks on that dark stretch of road, and, anyway, Alex hadn’t been paying much attention to the scenery. He came to the bridge and turned around. Minutes stretched by, and still he hadn’t found Vivian. He had counted on spotting Vivian walking along the road but, in the gloomy blackness, she was nowhere in sight.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

Great Expectations Chapter XL

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

Chapter XL



The dinner had begun on a horrible note. Alex and Vivian were dining with Vernon and Sophia Pomerleau and the Smythe-Huntingtons. They’d rented a private house on a tiny island just off of Martha’s Vineyard and hired a caterer. It was meant to be a posh, yet intimate party. Liquor had started flowing before the food, and Alex and Allen Smythe-Huntington were already talking loudly as the salad arrived. Vivian, Sophia, Vernon and Allen’s wife Gloria, though not as inebriated as Alex and Allen, were nevertheless working on their second cocktail.

Raising his highball glass, Allen sputtered out a toast. “We need to get out of Iraq – so that we can get on with invading Iran and Syria. We look much better bombing and winning than we do pissing on guerrilla warfare.”

Right then Vivian lost her appetite. While the rest of the table cheered, she put down her glass and dropped her eyes towards the table.

Allen’s voice was rough. “What’s the matter, Sweetheart? Is the scary old conversation too rough for you?” Here everyone at the table burst into unchecked laughter.

Vivian just stared unsure what to say. The laughter died down and everyone at the table turned to watch her discomfort. “I can’t see toasting death,” she finally said.

“Your wife sweet on Muslims, Alex?” asked Allen.

“Sweetheart needs an attitude adjustment.” Vernon pointed at Vivian with his highball glass. The ice cubes clinked in emphasis. Alex laughed. He’d drunk enough liquor that anything seemed funny, especially his wife’s discomfort.

“You’re all disgusting when you’re drunk,” said Vivian.

“Hey, Alex can’t you handle your woman?” This came from Vernon. And again the table laughed. Alex had been sipping Wild Turkey neat. As the conversation turned on him, he downed the rest of his drink with one swallow and slammed the glass on the table.

“God damn it Vivian. Shut your foul mouth and behave yourself.” He smacked her cheek with his open hand in a display of bravado.

“You show her,” said Vernon.

“Now shut the fuck up, you understand! Just don’t say anything else for the rest of the evening or you’ll know what sorry means.” Alex picked up the empty glass and slammed it hard on the table. “Barkeep! Another drink over here! Customers are dying of thirst.”

From that point on the evening deteriorated. Their conversation became more vicious, dragging itself out until two in the morning.

As Alex drove home Vivian sat silent willing Alex to stay on the road as if her concentration were steadying Alex’s driving.

And out of the corner of his eye, he could see the tension in Vivian’s face. He sensed her fear and it fed his bravado. Suddenly Alex was amused. And he swerved the car, then righted it making the back wheels spin into fishtails.

Vivian gasped aloud, and Alex laughed. “When are you going to learn to trust me?” he asked.

She didn’t answer, and Alex jerked the wheel one more time chuckling as the tires squealed. “Let’s just get home,” Vivian said finally. “We’re both tired and angry and slightly drunk. We can talk tomorrow.”

“You self-righteous cow,” said Alex. “Do you know…do you...do you have any idea who those people are? Compared to them, the President is a…a…a slimy-toad lackey. These are the ones who really run the country. Hell, they just about run the whole damn world. And they can make me very rich and, and very suc…successful or they can have my ass on a sling if my dumb-ass wife offends them, and I’ll spend the rest of my life scrubbing toilets.”

Vivian laughed − a nervous laugh. “I scrubbed toilets back in college.” The wrong thing to say, but there were no right things, and silence wasn’t working either. Alex’s speech alarmed her. Usually Alex could hold his liquor, but on this night, he was shouting and slurring words.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He stomped hard on the brake, enjoying the high-pitched scraping and the car’s crazy jerk reaction to his foot. He turned off his headlights. The road was dark.

“I’m sorry. Please let’s just get going before someone rear-ends us.”

Friday, October 7, 2011

Great Expectations Chapter XXXVIII

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


Chapter XXXVIII pgs. 251-252


Sandy Pumpkin: She couldn’t have been on that plane at 2:18. Especially the way airports are these days. You have to get down there one to two hours ahead of flight time to make it through security. And the way Spiderman talked – or typed – she was with him for a while. It sounded like they talked throughout the afternoon and into the evening.


Big Bad Wolf: Let’s say her bags were already packed and in her car, and she’d bought the ticket ahead of time. She’d need about an hour to drive from Berkeley to San Francisco Airport – that’s on a good day with no traffic. And it would take her at least another half hour to park the car and catch a shuttle to the terminal. She should get to the airport one to two hours ahead of flight time. At a bare minimum she’d need a half an hour to make it through security. Security for a flight to Tehran has got to be more stringent than to other cities. And she’d have to board fifteen minutes ahead of flight time, at the very least, or they wouldn’t let her on the plane. That gives her a few minutes to meet Spiderman.

Sandy Pumpkin: It doesn’t sound right to me.

Brat: I have a bad feeling about this.

Big Bad Wolf: I wonder if she got her inoculations and a passport. I’ll have my staff do some more checking.

After he’d turned off his computer, Ivan made a note to have one of his staff check for traces to corroborate the Spiderman story, but, actually, he’d already made up his mind. Johanna was either dead or in terrible danger, and he couldn’t imagine a common criminal being able to fake Johanna’s departure to Iran.



Feeling scared and helpless, Brat Googled “United Religions” and was surprised to find a link to a prayer chain:

Allah, Your name be praised, have mercy on your child, Jody and be with her in her peril.

Comfort and bless and save, dear Lord, all those in peril, our soldiers, Iraqi and Afghani men and women and children, and especially our friend, Jody.

Keep watch, dear Lord, for those who work or watch or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep.

Great Jehovah, God of Israel and Isaac and Jacob, I ask your blessing for all your children. Keep them safe this night and the next.

May the power of the Buddha protect all in danger.

My Lord Ganesha bless and protect.

The prayers and blessings continued. They numbered in the thousands.



Worlds away in Mississippi, Martha Jacobson knelt before her statue of Mary thumbing the rosary, feeling God’s touch in the beads. She’d prayed the prayer every night since she’d been told that Johanna had run away to Iran. “Keep watch over Johanna, and bless her and keep her safe.” She pressed the rosary to her heart, and, weeping, stroked it, wishing she were holding her daughter instead of glass beads. “Please, Lord, for the sake of my love, for the sake of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, please, Lord, return Johanna in safety. Amen.”

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Great Expectations Chapter XXXVIII



This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
 



Chapter XXXVIII

Maria couldn’t stop praying – as if the thoughts in her head had a will of their own. She finished her chores as quickly as possible, then ran back to Johanna’s room to peek in through the doorway to see how she was doing. Maria didn’t dare actually walk in – in case Dr. Heckleweit was there. She’d been told to stay away. Disobeying orders, thought Maria. Guilt came easily to her. She slowed to a walk and softly pushed at Johanna’s door. Maria practiced what she’d say to the doctor. “I’m so sorry, Doctor. I think I might have left an earring in here.” She wasn’t good at telling effective fibs. But Dr. Heckleweit was no longer in the room. Maria looked at Johanna’s monitor. So little movement! Only a few shallow blips to show that any life remained. Why wasn’t someone here? Where was the doctor? He said he was going to stay with Johanna. Terrified, she reached for the button to call Code Blue – a patient in crisis, but she held back. She wasn’t supposed to be in the room.


Just then, two men in smocks opened the door startling Maria. She wheeled around. The larger man spoke. “We understood that the patient in this room has passed.” And they entered with a stretcher to take the remains.

“But…” Maria wasn’t sure what to do. “But she’s not dead.”

The man grabbed Johanna’s wrist and felt for a pulse. “Close enough for government work,” he said, and he elbowed Maria out of the way and unhooked the I. V. drip and monitors.

Maria felt so very small and inadequate. “Into your hands, oh Lord, I commend her spirit,” she said, then made the sign of the cross over Johanna. She watched the men roll Johanna’s body onto a stretcher. “What will you do with her,” Maria asked softly.

“According to Dr. Heckleweit, she doesn’t have any family so the institute will dispose of the body. There’s a small crematorium about thirty miles away from here.” He nodded towards his partner. “We’ll take the body as far as our morgue. As soon as someone has to drive into town, they’ll take the body the rest of the way.”

“May I come with you?” She asked. “Johanna was my first patient here.”

“Suit yourself,” he said. “I’m Stanley. My partner here is Vince.”

They wheeled Johanna’s body into a waiting van, and drove about a mile down an overgrown path to a metal Quonset hut about thirty feet in length. The men had to pull hard to get the door to open, and, when it did, the creaking groan made Maria jump. Inside, dust, spider webs, and mouse droppings littered the floor. Maria’s eyes adjusted slowly. The only light came from two tiny windows on the right wall. Here and there a Styrofoam cup or a candy wrapper gave evidence that humans had also used the shed. Then she blinked as Vince flipped a switch to turn on a naked light bulb that dangled in the center of the shed.

The building seemed to be a back-of-the-lot storage area housing a metal closet resembling a meat locker. Row upon row of shelves lined the walls, holding medical and mechanical odds and ends – plastic and metal tubing, switches, old smocks and blankets, and various strange metallic gadgets unknown to Maria. A stack of cardboard boxes, each about three feet wide, seven feet in length and two feet tall were stacked against the far wall, and Maria shivered, realizing that the boxes were coffin-sized. Without ceremony or deference, the men dumped Johanna’s body into one of the boxes and lugged it inside of the metal closet and slammed the heavy door shut.

“May I stay with her a minute?” asked Maria.

“Better not,” said Vince. “We’re really not supposed to bring people out here.”

So Maria prayed a quick prayer, and left with the men.

Outside, Maria paused. Vince locked the shed, checking the lock, and the two men waited for her to get into the van, Vince stamping his foot impatiently. “I’d rather walk back,” she said, turning her steps toward the institute.

“Suit yourself,” Stanley huffed.

“We really shouldn’t let her…” Vince started to say.

“What’s she going to do? Steal the body? Just get in the van.” A minute later, Stanley gunned the engine, and the Maria watched the van passing her on the dusty road.



Johanna’s mind burst out of its oblivion as a new hallucination followed:

The house was old with many rooms and Johanna wandered through them unafraid, opening doors and peering into cupboards.

The boards on the steps creaked under her feet, and an icy chill flew up the stairway as she climbed it. She shivered as wind brushed her soaked skin, and she considered turning back but knew that she had to go on. In the attic, a canopy of oak branches formed the ceiling, and shaggy, moss -covered rock hugged the wall. And Johanna sat on a rock not wanting to get up ever. But she had to. She had to see what was below, and so she descended, dreading the rooms in the basement.

There was only one door and it had a smiley face next to it, and Johanna felt revulsion touching the knob, but went inside. It was that office, with bare cement blocks replacing the chair and couch. And she stared at Dr. Heckleweit but couldn’t see his face – only shadow.

He spoke with a Middle Eastern accent, and the words blurred like runny Jell-O. “In here, Johanna, you’ll find that God is dead.” Johanna’s mind exploded with impressions of burning pain. The cement melted into oily pools. And she stared. One of the pools caught fire. A hose lay just outside the door. And she stared as paper and drapes jumped alive with orange flame, and now she saw his face clearly. The blaze caught at the fringe of his coat, and still she sat watching. The sound of running water jingled just outside the door.

Flames caught her gown. She felt the heat and the burn, and still she sat not moving, willing them both to be consumed. Fire burning around the two of them, consuming both, the doctor and Johanna, and she couldn’t make a move towards the water.

And God said, “Johanna, get the water.”

And she heard and sat, stubborn, wallowing in the pain that was now more her own creation than his.



Maria kept walking towards the institute until the two orderlies were out of sight, then turned back towards the shed at a brisk trot. The sun hung low on the horizon, and the sky burst into pink and orange and red flames. As she jogged down the path, thankful that her uniform included sensible nurses’ shoes, she thought about all the things she had seen at the institute. Something was very wrong. Certainly their methods differed from what she had been taught in nursing school. Even criminals were treated with more dignity than Johanna had been.

And why, if Johanna were Muslim, did she talk about God and not Allah? That didn’t make sense. Of course she could have been hiding her religion, but, as drugged as she was, she couldn’t have kept up the pretext of Christianity for long.

Maria was scared. She didn’t know everything.

And who had called the orderlies? Maria was the only one who could have known that Johanna had died.

The door to the building was padlocked. She examined the lock and checked the door for gaps or weak spots. She examined the windows. Maria was reluctant to break the glass, but she finally managed to pry one of the windows open, squeeze herself inside, and get the light turned on. Fearfully, she opened the door to the metal closet. A blast of cold made her shiver. Slabs of beef and pork hung in a row speared on thick hooks. So it was a meat locker.

Maria knelt next to the box on the dirty floor of the shack. It was mostly an act of respect−a wish to commend Johanna’s soul to God, with some final act of reverence.



The jostling motion nudged Johanna, continuing the dream:

Inside the burning room, Johanna sat, stubborn, unforgiving – with both her body and the doctor’s twisted in pain. And the hose lay just outside the door.

“You let me down, Lord. You abandoned me. You asked me to hang the sign, then set me down in the middle of hell on earth and I called you, and you did not answer.”

“I was there.”

“But I didn’t see. I didn’t know. And I was scared and hurting and I called you and asked you to help me, and you didn’t. And I never did anything to deserve all the pain.”

“Johanna.”

“And now you want me to forgive.”

“Johanna!”

Reluctantly she rose and quenched the flames with water, water that laughed as a children running through lawn sprinklers in August. And, through the splashing water, she saw the doctor’s face, shining golden, all but hidden by black, oily smoke. Before, all she’d seen was the smoke. But now, shining through all that, Johanna caught a glimpse of what she’d never seen before – the soul – pure essence – the part of him that God loved. Like the part of her that God had loved and had forgiven all those years ago.

And through the same smoke she saw the rest of them, the nameless faces who had sacrificed her country and her freedom for their greed.

The smoke was there. Corruption, lies, murder. All there. But, shining through it all, God’s divine spark and the souls that God so loved. Amazed and humbled, Johanna found that she could love them too.



Maria looked at the coffin. It seemed such a pathetic end. “Dear God in Heaven.” Shivering, Maria sat down on the floor of the meat locker and made the sign of the cross. “I offer prayers for the soul of Johanna Jacobson. Grant her an entrance into your land of light and life. Please, Lord, I don’t know what she’s done or how she came to be here, but she’s suffered so much. May she find your love and your peace at the end of it all. Then, Maria was weeping, strangely caring about this person whom she barely knew, whom she’d never seen except in a deeply drugged state. And she opened the box to hold Johanna’s hand one last time.

The hand quivered. It was just a reflex and meant nothing. Maria knew this from her training. But she felt for a pulse nevertheless, and she found it beating stronger than it had back at the hospital room. She touched Johanna’s nose and felt a slow steady stream of air. She shook Johanna, but Johanna remained unresponsive.

“Get up. Wake up. If you want to live, get up.” Maria prodded and jostled and screamed at Johanna, but Johanna remained still. “I need your help. I can’t get you out of here by myself.” She dragged the box out of the locker and scooted it towards the padlocked door. She examined the walls looking for sheets of metal that could be peeled back. She looked up at the window through which she had crawled, so high off the ground. Maria tugged at the box, sliding it toward the window, all the time doubting she’d be able to get Johanna out. And she propped up the box containing Johanna’s limp body and pushed it towards the window’s opening, grateful that Johanna couldn’t feel what Maria was doing to her. She got Johanna’s body halfway out the window, then realized that what she was planning was impossible. She might be able to get Johanna out through the window, hopefully without major injury, but she could never carry Johanna the mile or so back to her car. Johanna’s body only weighed about ninety pounds, but it was still more than Maria could manage by herself, even if Johanna came to and could stumble. And if anyone caught her walking with Johanna… Maria didn’t even want to think of the consequences. She needed a way to get Johanna out through the window. She needed to think.

So Maria dragged the box back towards the shelves where the other crematory boxes were stored, and pushed it against the wall below the bottom shelf. Then she chose another box and moved it to the spot in the locker where Johanna had originally been placed. She loaded the box with four pork loins, hoping that their weight was close enough to that of Johanna’s body. Then she climbed out the window and jogged back to the parking lot at the institute where she’d left her car. Had it only been that morning? It seemed like an entire lifetime had passed in the course of that day.



Jasper and Dakota were tired. Delivering the body for cremation and picking up a package for Dr. Heckleweit were their last tasks for the day. After that, it was beer, pool, and, if they were lucky, company for the night. Jasper pulled a fat ring of keys from his pocket, and jingled them looking for the one belonging to the lock on the shed’s door. Meanwhile, Dakota rolled a dolly from the truck bed onto a hydraulic lift gate, then lowered it to the uneven crushed-rock path. “Come on, already. It’s way past quitting time, and I’m starving.”

“Don’t stroke out, man,” Jasper answered. “I’ve just about got it.”

From inside the box, Johanna heard the door creak open. The squeaking was loud, like a peacock’s cry, and Johanna startled from the sound. “Help! Help! I’m in here.” She thought she was screaming, but no sound came out. She thought the words, but could not make the sounds. A noise, she thought. Any noise. Her left hand rested on the bottom of the casket, and she scratched the cardboard with her nails. Her hands were weak, as weak as her voice. She scratched again.

“Do you hear anything?” Dakota shivered. He didn’t like being around cadavers.

“Probably mice.”

“Let’s just get out of here.”

“No,” Johanna’s mind yelled, but her mouth stayed quiet. It was too hard, too foggy. She tried to move her arm, but it stayed limp. She heard the men shuffling about the shed, and she heard the locker door click open. With all the strength in her body, she willed her hand to scratch the cardboard. She opened her mouth to scream. A groan, almost silent, finally escaped her throat.

Dakota jumped. “We’re out of here – right now.”

Without bothering to load up the dolly, they picked up the coffin that Maria had left in the meat locker and hauled it out to the waiting truck. Johanna heard the sound of the door pushed shut, and the noise of the lock clicking into place. “Please, help me. Help me.” Her mind thought the words, but her throat stayed silent. She heard the motor grumble to a start, then the sound of tires spraying gravel. And the sound grew smaller and stiller as the truck drove into the distance. And then there was nothing−the inside of a box and nothing else.

At first Johanna’s dream came in flashes appearing and vanishing like movie teasers. Then the impressions slowed and gelled into a dreamscape below a blood-red sky: Cauldrons reeked and smoked, while horned creatures−almost human−chanted, and writhed and screamed and groaned till Johanna thought her soul would burst.

The smoke snaked outwards−calling, enticing. Street gangs were the first humans to respond and gather – Bloods, and Crypts, Skinheads, and Arian nations, their tattoos and bandanas defining allegiances. Knives flashed. Shots rang. Some shrieked and fell. Still, their numbers grew.

Others arrived. An army gathered−some in tatters, some in business suites, and some in death-white hoods. They marched through time as well as space, some swathed in robes and tunics, others in uniforms, their medals and sabers glowing bright. Some could barely stand; others strutted power. Some wore armor; others were clad in priests’ robes. Some wore street clothes, and some were merely naked.

From man to man to woman to child they passed a smoking torch, that carried no earthly fire, but rather that spirit of hatred residing in the hidden reaches of the soul where most humans dare not look. And they passed it along, one to another, and it seemed the passing would not stop.

The devil laughed – large and black with a drowning roar.

Johanna saw anger, a smoke- brown flame, flashing in gun muzzles and mirrored in the eyes of both victim and oppressor. Fear was there on icy tendrils. And pride−steel gray−it rode as a knight on stallion, and, with a mighty belch, transformed the noble into manure.

The devil’s laughter bellowed inside of her. He’d won the world. He’d won the souls of all−victims and conquerors alike. Some souls, he torched with hate; others he drowned in fear, or poisoned by pride, or froze in despair. It didn’t matter how they died. The devil had them. His rumbling laughter shook Johanna’s stomach and in her dream she cringed from fright.

From one to the next, they passed the torch. Those humans, they were merely carriers, serving the devil as his jeeps and horses.

Johanna watched the furies uniting, like winds twisting into a tornado while she stood naked before the devil’s armies.

And hate filled her heart too. She reached for the words, but shuddering anger appeared instead. And she wanted to destroy the fire and every being that had helped to create it.

But he stepped forward. Johanna thought it was her father at first, but no. He was Jesus, the Good Shepherd, healing and forgiving. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” he said, “for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

And he was Jesus the rebel, overturning tables in the temple where greedy men used God’s name to turn a profit.

And he was Jesus the man, kneeling in the garden of Gethsemane, “If it be possible, take this cup from me. Yet, not my will but your will be done.”

And he was Jesus the Divine King, a soul in agony condemned to death on a cross, then rising from that cross into glory… And then he was gone.

“I choose love,” Johanna said.

Rumbling laughter shook her like palm branches in a hurricane. “Join us and live,” the evil one roared. “Save yourself from torment. I am stronger than you.”

“I choose love.” Standing alone−so small, so weak−she waited to perish.

“And I choose love,” said a nameless voice behind her.

“And I,” said another.

“Christ’s blessings.”

“Shalom.”

“Allah be praised.”

The chorus swelled from six to thousands, to legions upon legions−the soldiers, the street gangs, the children and beggars and kings−a living hymn to God. And in their midst a voice rang out: “Come! All who are thirsty, let them come. Let them take the free gift of the water of life.” It was the image of Christ pouring water from an urn. Johanna stooped under it and drank and was washed clean. The water filled her spirit and quenched her thirst and dried every tear.



It was almost dark when Maria returned in her car. She pushed the window open and began to crawl into the warehouse, trying in vain to see inside. She clambered back out, turned on the car’s engine, and pointed the headlights towards the shed, and again pushed her head through the window. Afraid of what she’d find inside, Maria hesitated on the sill, then jumped down and made her way, stumbling, towards the light switch.

She searched out the shelves where the cardboard coffins were kept, then dragged out the one on the floor, thankful that it was heavy. At least the body was still inside. Hopefully, it was still alive.

Maria was trembling now, afraid of being alone, afraid of someone discovering her, afraid that Johanna was already dead, afraid of ghosts, afraid that Johanna would pull out a gun and shoot her, and afraid of so many other things. But she opened the lid, and gingerly reached inside and touched Johanna’s cheek. Then she felt under her nose for the warm air that would indicate breathing. Johanna did not move. Her skin was cool, and there was no breath coming from her nostrils.

No, Maria thought. She began to rub Johanna’s cheek, gently at first, then harder. She wanted to shove the box back under the shelf and run. “Please,” she said out loud. “Johanna, you have to wake up. She pulled Johanna’s arm, and found it pliable, not rigid. Again she felt for breath under Johanna’s nostrils, and was rewarded with a faint puff of air. She felt at Johanna’s neck for a pulse, and found a slight thumping – weak and very slow, but also regular.

Maria cried.

She breathed into Johanna’s mouth – two breaths. “You just cannot die now, Miss Johanna, not after all of this. You made it this far and against so much. Please, stay alive just a little longer.”

Panicking all the while, she pulled at Johanna’s arms to get her upright, but the body was limp and uncooperative. With frenzied, jerks Maria tried to boost Johanna up towards the window, but the body always ended up back in the box on the floor, and Maria despaired of ever getting her out of the warehouse.

And finally her nurse’s training took over. If there’s one thing they taught us, thought Maria, it was how to move a limp body. And she breathed slowly and deeply to calm herself. Maria rolled Johanna from the box to the floor and onto her side, and slung Johanna’s upper torso across her back−the fireman’s carry. Using her legs and back, Maria staggered upright, then made her way towards the window, and leaned Johanna over the sill with Johanna’s head lolling outside. “I’m sorry, Miss Johanna. This will probably hurt you, but I don’t know how else to do it.” She climbed outside, squeezing her own body through the window past Johanna’s limp form, and bloodying her shins as she scrambled over the sill. I must open the car’s back door first, she thought. Then she knelt on the hood of her car and, pulling on Johanna’s arms, scraped her over the sill. Johanna’s body thudded headfirst onto the hood where Maria caught Johanna’s arms. Squatting next to the car, Maria was able to sling Johanna across her shoulders, and stagger around to the open door and drop her inside. Johanna ended up flopped on the floor, and Maria gunned the engine and drove away praying that she wouldn’t be stopped at the gate.



She questioned the wisdom of bringing Johanna home with her. What if Johanna awoke and became violent! Or suppose a neighbor came by and saw her, and called the police! But Maria couldn’t think of any safer place to leave Johanna, and so, with much misgiving, she drove home thankful that night had fallen, and that she’d probably be able to get her into the house without attracting any attention.

Maria’s home was a converted army barrack, which she shared with her father, mother, and two younger brothers. Her father hauled debris and did what odd jobs he could find. Her mother cleaned houses and baby-sat. They had all made sacrifices to send Maria to nursing school in the hope that she would make good−would raise herself and her family out of poverty. Well, thought Maria, that dream is over. And, she cried bitterly for losing the American dream, and for shaming and disappointing her parents. And she cried because she was so frightened of what could happen next.

Ordinarily she shouted a greeting to her parents when she entered the house. This time, Maria entered silently. And she laid Johanna on her own bed, limp and unresponsive, but with a slightly stronger breath and pulse.

What have I done, Maria asked herself staring at Johanna’s limp body. What, in God’s name am I doing now? Maria had never bent rules before. She’d never questioned superiors. And now−and now she’d flagrantly disobeyed orders and ignored the ones in authority. She felt trapped as if walls of water were about to drown her.

Someone else had done this, someone reckless, foolish, someone in Maria’s body who was not Maria, and now she, Maria, was left to deal with the consequences. For Maria was sure that sooner or later she would be caught, and maybe jailed as a traitor. And what if Johanna were to die in her apartment? This was more than she could deal with.

Maria bent over Johanna’s body checking her pulse one more time. It seemed the only thing she was capable of doing. Why had she done it? Johanna was in all likelihood a terrorist, a cruel and dangerous person, and an enemy of the United States of America. And she, Maria, had let her loose to prey on innocents, to wreck havoc.

Maria shuddered thinking about the country she had just betrayed. She remembered swearing her allegiance to the United States. She thought about everything that this country had given her – an education, an opportunity for her family to have a comfortable life, a life that she couldn’t have aspired to in the Philippines. She remembered how large and brilliant the flag had seemed the day she pledged her loyalty to the United States of America. And now, now she’d thrown it all away. And for what?

Gently she passed her hands over the welts and bruises on Johanna’s body. A few places were still infected. Some scars ran deep – great ropes of reddish, thickened skin knotted over her stomach and the insides of her arms and legs – the sensitive, tender parts of her body. And Maria understood−the country to which she pledged her loyalty would not allow this to happen. The United States that she loved, that she had promised to defend, was a country that did not condone torture. Whatever Johanna did, she was not entitled to such treatment. And whoever did this, whoever condoned this, was an enemy of the United States.

Maria startled as her mother entered her room. She wiped at her tears. Her mother tipped her face quizzically. “What happened?”

“She has been hurt. Maybe killed. I didn’t know what to do.” Maria’s mother left the room. Quietly she came back with a small bottle of antiseptic. And she kissed her daughter.

“I have been…fired,” said Maria.

“We will make do.” She handed the antiseptic to Maria. “You were kind, and honorable. Hold your head high.”

Maria swabbed the weeping sores with antiseptic and covered them loosely with bandages. She had one small bag of saline solution, which she injected into Johanna’s vein a small dose at a time. She hoped it would help displace some of the poison from her body. She gave Johanna the best of her nurses training. And tending Johanna, for the first time that day, she felt herself a patriot.









Chapter Thirty ─ Nine





Fairytalesfortherestofus−the chat room.

Big Bad Wolf: It’s true. Johanna was a passenger on Swissair flight 472 leaving San Francisco International at 2:18 on Saturday.

Brat: Then she really left. The way U guys were talking I thought she’d been kidnapped like in some spy movie. I guess we just have 2 wait & see if she gets on line from wherever she’s going 2.

Sandy Pumpkin: Half a minute. This is all wrong. How could she meet Spiderman at 12:00 and board a plan at 2:18?

Shadow: This has the feel of my country – the worst of my country. People disappear and are usually not heard from again. Sometimes a body is found. Sometimes they languish in prisons and sometimes they just disappear.

Sandy Pumpkin: She couldn’t have been on that plane at 2:18. Especially the way airports are these days. You have to get down there one to two hours ahead of flight time to make it through security. And the way Spiderman talked – or typed – she was with him for a while. It sounded like they talked throughout the afternoon and into the evening.

Big Bad Wolf: Let’s say her bags were already packed and in her car, and she’d bought the ticket ahead of time. She’d need about an hour to drive from Berkeley to San Francisco Airport – that’s on a good day with no traffic. And it would take her at least another half hour to park the car and catch a shuttle to the terminal. She should get to the airport one to two hours ahead of flight time. At a bare minimum she’d need a half an hour to make it through security. Security for a flight to Tehran has got to be more stringent than to other cities. And she’d have to board fifteen minutes ahead of flight time, at the very least, or they wouldn’t let her on the plane. That gives her a few minutes to meet Spiderman.

Sandy Pumpkin: It doesn’t sound right to me.

Brat: I have a bad feeling about this.

Big Bad Wolf: I wonder if she got her inoculations and a passport. I’ll have my staff do some more checking.

After he’d turned off his computer, Ivan made a note to have one of his staff check for traces to corroborate the Spiderman story, but, actually, he’d already made up his mind. Johanna was either dead or in terrible danger, and he couldn’t imagine a common criminal being able to fake Johanna’s departure to Iran.

Feeling scared and helpless, Brat Googled “United Religions” and was surprised to find a link to a prayer chain:

Allah, Your name be praised, have mercy on your child, Jody and be with her in her peril.

Comfort and bless and save, dear Lord, all those in peril, our soldiers, Iraqi and Afghani men and women and children, and especially our friend, Jody.

Keep watch, dear Lord, for those who work or watch or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep.

Great Jehovah, God of Israel and Isaac and Jacob, I ask your blessing for all your children. Keep them safe this night and the next.

May the power of the Buddha protect all in danger.

My Lord Ganesha bless and protect.

The prayers and blessings continued. They numbered in the thousands.



Worlds away in Mississippi, Martha Jacobson knelt before her statue of Mary thumbing the rosary, feeling God’s touch in the beads. She’d prayed the prayer every night since she’d been told that Johanna had run away to Iran. “Keep watch over Johanna, and bless her and keep her safe.” She pressed the rosary to her heart, and, weeping, stroked it, wishing she were holding her daughter instead of glass beads. “Please, Lord, for the sake of my love, for the sake of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, please, Lord, return Johanna in safety. Amen.”



By morning, Johanna was showing the faintest signs of consciousness. The next day, her body began to twinge and shake – the first symptoms of withdrawal from the heavy medication she’d been subjected to. Maria gave her an electric blanket−turned it up high, then turned it off as Johanna vacillated between cold and hot. As soon as she thought it safe, Maria began feeding fluids to Johanna, first sugar water, then a little soup.

Sometimes Johanna moaned. Sometimes she cried out.

“I wish I could help the pain,” said Maria.

“I’ve known much worse,” said Johanna through chattering teeth.

Maria gently touched her shoulder and Johanna jerked back startled. “You are safe here, Johanna, for the time being,” she said. “And I will give you food and shelter until you are strong enough to leave.” Johanna held her arms crossed over her heart as if protecting herself, and she rocked back and forth. Her eyes had a hunted look, resembling those of a wild animal more than those of a human. And Maria winced imagining what must have happened to make Johanna behave this way.

Johanna did trust Maria. She trusted her because Maria made no demands on her. And she trusted her because she had nothing else to hang on to.

Johanna stayed with Maria and her family for almost a month. At night she woke screaming from nightmares, and in the day she screamed with panic attacks. She rocked back and forth incessantly, as if calming herself from unseen terrors, and she jumped, startled after even the simplest, most benign noises. She spoke, but in halting, sentences, each thought carefully coaxed from her throat.

Towards the end of the month, the panic attacks lessened, and her behavior approached normal, although Maria could tell that Johanna was still a very troubled soul. And finally, one evening after dinner, Johanna looked at Maria sighed and told her, “I need to go now.”

“You’re still not well.” Maria knitted her brows in concern. She felt as if she were losing her sister. But she also knew that Johanna was right. For everyone’s safety, Johanna had to leave.

That night she put some money next to Johanna’s bed. “Three hundred and twenty-five dollars−it’s all I can spare,” she told Johanna. “And I put a map next to the money. There is a green star next to the bus station. Take the money and buy a bus ticket anywhere. It’s best if you leave the country. They think you are dead. They will not come to look for you. They say you are a terrorist, but I do not believe it. I hope I am right. I wish you well.”

As the tears cascaded down her cheeks, Johanna began to rock back and forth. “Thank you for everything. When I can, I’ll repay the money.”

Johanna’s words caught Maria by surprise. “Keep the money,” she said. “And it is best if I do not know where you go. God speed.”











Chapter Forty





The dinner had begun on a horrible note. Alex and Vivian were dining with Vernon and Sophia Pomerleau and the Smythe-Huntingtons. They’d rented a private house on a tiny island just off of Martha’s Vineyard and hired a caterer. It was meant to be a posh, yet intimate party. Liquor had started flowing before the food, and Alex and Allen Smythe-Huntington were already talking loudly as the salad arrived. Vivian, Sophia, Vernon and Allen’s wife Gloria, though not as inebriated as Alex and Allen, were nevertheless working on their second cocktail.

Raising his highball glass, Allen sputtered out a toast. “We need to get out of Iraq – so that we can get on with invading Iran and Syria. We look much better bombing and winning than we do pissing on guerrilla warfare.”

Right then Vivian lost her appetite. While the rest of the table cheered, she put down her glass and dropped her eyes towards the table.

Allen’s voice was rough. “What’s the matter, Sweetheart? Is the scary old conversation too rough for you?” Here everyone at the table burst into unchecked laughter.

Vivian just stared unsure what to say. The laughter died down and everyone at the table turned to watch her discomfort. “I can’t see toasting death,” she finally said.

“Your wife sweet on Muslims, Alex?” asked Allen.

“Sweetheart needs an attitude adjustment.” Vernon pointed at Vivian with his highball glass. The ice cubes clinked in emphasis. Alex laughed. He’d drunk enough liquor that anything seemed funny, especially his wife’s discomfort.

“You’re all disgusting when you’re drunk,” said Vivian.

“Hey, Alex can’t you handle your woman?” This came from Vernon. And again the table laughed. Alex had been sipping Wild Turkey neat. As the conversation turned on him, he downed the rest of his drink with one swallow and slammed the glass on the table.

“God damn it Vivian. Shut your foul mouth and behave yourself.” He smacked her cheek with his open hand in a display of bravado.

“You show her,” said Vernon.

“Now shut the fuck up, you understand! Just don’t say anything else for the rest of the evening or you’ll know what sorry means.” Alex picked up the empty glass and slammed it hard on the table. “Barkeep! Another drink over here! Customers are dying of thirst.”

From that point on the evening deteriorated. Their conversation became more vicious, dragging itself out until two in the morning.

As Alex drove home Vivian sat silent willing Alex to stay on the road as if her concentration were steadying Alex’s driving.

And out of the corner of his eye, he could see the tension in Vivian’s face. He sensed her fear and it fed his bravado. Suddenly Alex was amused. And he swerved the car, then righted it making the back wheels spin into fishtails.

Vivian gasped aloud, and Alex laughed. “When are you going to learn to trust me?” he asked.

She didn’t answer, and Alex jerked the wheel one more time chuckling as the tires squealed. “Let’s just get home,” Vivian said finally. “We’re both tired and angry and slightly drunk. We can talk tomorrow.”

“You self-righteous cow,” said Alex. “Do you know…do you...do you have any idea who those people are? Compared to them, the President is a…a…a slimy-toad lackey. These are the ones who really run the country. Hell, they just about run the whole damn world. And they can make me very rich and, and very suc…successful or they can have my ass on a sling if my dumb-ass wife offends them, and I’ll spend the rest of my life scrubbing toilets.”

Vivian laughed−a nervous laugh. “I scrubbed toilets back in college.” The wrong thing to say, but there were no right things, and silence wasn’t working either. Alex’s speech alarmed her. Usually Alex could hold his liquor, but on this night, he was shouting and slurring words.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He stomped hard on the brake, enjoying the high-pitched scraping and the car’s crazy jerk reaction to his foot. He turned off his headlights. The road was dark.

“I’m sorry. Please let’s just get going before someone rear-ends us.”

He gunned the engine in neutral, engaged the motor, and the car lurched forwards. And he turned sharply towards the right.

“Please,” said Vivian.

“What?”

“Please.” He was heading in the wrong direction. Surely he knew it. He was doing it on purpose to scare her. Well, it was working. “Please take me back home.”

He raced the engine driving as fast as he dared in the direction of the inky darkness. Because he had a plan. After ten minutes, he slowed the car, looking for a road that was little more than a footpath. Finally, he saw it and turned sharply towards it. Vivian didn’t dare say anything. The path led to the infamous Ditch Bridge on Chappaquiddick Island. Now Vivian’s breath came sharply as she realized where he was taking her. After all those years of marriage, he knew how to punish her. Alex chuckled recalling the newspaper headlines about Ted Kennedy’s car driving off of the road. And he swerved the car sharply causing it to skid sideways.

They were approaching the Ditch Bridge now. The night was still. The mud-brown supports−stubby post-people−cast shadows and reflections like specters in the inky waters below. They were alone on the bridge, the same bridge where a very drunk Ted Kennedy had driven off of the road, and where Mary Jo Kopechne had died on an evening much like this one.

For a moment, Alex chilled, sensing the stillness, as if ghosts inhabited the waters. He remembered an evening very long ago sitting on the bank of a creek. He had been a scared eleven-year-old back then on Halloween night, believing himself surrounded by ghosts and wicked spirits. He remembered clutching the book of spells to his body, and finding the mysterious word, Remordia, inside.

He looked over at Vivian, and he could see how pale her face was, even with the very limited amount of light. And her fear fed his courage.

“Did you say something?” he smirked and gave the wheel a quarter turn.

“Nothing. Just forget it.” She stared at the road ahead and breathed a relieved sigh as they passed the last upright, leaving the bridge and its ghost behind.

“Maybe you’d rather walk.” The road was a worn out path with a pond on one side and the ocean on the other. He swerved the car again.

“Maybe I would.”

Alex leaned across Vivian and pushed open her door. The car lurched drunkenly. He pushed at the button keeping her seatbelt fastened, but his hands shook, and he couldn’t undo the buckle.

“I’m sorry.” Vivian was reaching for the door, trying to close it. “It’s been a long night. Can we please just get home?”

“All night you made me look stupid…. Now you’re trying to tell me how to drive….”

“I’m sorry, Alex. I didn’t mean any of it.”

“You’re damn right you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be.” At last his fingers found the button. The seat belt flew loose, and he shoved Vivian out of the car. “See how well you like it walking solo.” He laughed and gunned the engine. He gunned it again, and, as Vivian grabbed on to the doorframe, he started forward, slowly at first, then faster until Vivian was almost running to keep up with the car.

“Please, Alex, I can’t see.” Her foot twisted, and the car jerked free of her grasp, leaving Vivian staggering, and then falling backwards.

Alex drove on for another couple of minutes, letting Vivian stew in the darkness. He stopped the car, turned off the engine and listened. One cricket chirped – a forlorn rattle far, far away. Had she learned her lesson yet? The gloom sent shivers down Alex’s back, and he restarted the engine and turned back to pick up his wife.

He drove back slowly with his lights in high beam. And he turned on the radio for company against the disturbing stillness. ‘You ready to behave yourself?’ That’s what he’d say. And he’d generously forgive her for behaving foolishly. He avoided calling Vivian’s name. No sense in letting her know that he was looking for her. Let her worry a few minutes more.

But there weren’t many remarkable landmarks on that dark stretch of road, and, anyway, Alex hadn’t been paying much attention to the scenery. He came to the bridge and turned around. Minutes stretched by, and still he hadn’t found Vivian. He had counted on spotting Vivian walking along the road but, in the gloomy blackness, she was nowhere in sight.

He drove slowly until he came to the end of the road. Then he swung the car around. Damn! He must have passed her on the road. But why hadn’t she yelled? Maybe she didn’t recognize him in the dark. Or, maybe she was playing games too. So he u-turned the car and backtracked one more time looking for Vivian. This time he called to her in the darkness. “Game’s over. Where the hell are you?” Then “Damn it, Vivian, tell me where you are so we can go home and get this friggin’ evening over with.” He honked the horn. “Fine, if that’s what you want, I can just leave you here. Go ahead and spend the night in this muck. See if I care. Someone’s sure to find you tomorrow and you can get a ride home in a tuna truck or something.” And, finally, “Hey, Vivian… okay, I’m sorry…Where are you?”

She had to hear him. The small stretch of road just wasn’t that long. Why didn’t she answer? It wasn’t like Vivian to hold a grudge – to play games, to make Alex stew. No, that was his style, not hers. Besides, he held all the cards. He had the car, with its warmth, a stereo, and transportation home, while she was crouching somewhere in the bushes. So why didn’t she answer?

It took a while for Alex to admit the possibility that Vivian couldn’t answer him. That she had hit her head or had fallen into water. But it seemed so unlikely. No one ever passed out from a bump on the head, except in the movies. He dug through the car’s glove compartment, and then through the trunk looking for a flashlight, but there wasn’t one. So he set the headlights on high beam and pointed them at the stretch of bushes ahead. Then he climbed out of the car and began examining the road bit by bit. There had to be a simple explanation. Surely Vivian was okay. She hadn’t fallen that hard.

But this was Chappaquiddick. And the bridge was already home to one ghost. And Alex sensed evil in the air around him. He was cold and scared, as scared as when he’d been an eleven-year-old boy running away from home, and realizing that he didn’t have the resources he needed to run away.

Disheartened, Alex sat down on a rock. Puddin’ Creek all over again, he thought. Back then he had run away from a whipping. How simple that would have been compared to this! His wife was missing; he was responsible, and he was very drunk, and he had very unforgiving partners. They would forgive him for driving drunk, or for losing or hurting or even killing his wife. But they would never forgive him for getting caught. Suddenly he shivered violently, chilled by the misty air and the thought of his partners.

And just as on that night long ago, he was sitting by swampy water with darkness, caused more by evil than by the night. He could see himself holding that book of spells. “Remordia,” he said aloud.

The solution was obvious. He’d go home. Tomorrow he’d call the sheriff. The alcohol would be out of his body by then. If she were alive, no harm no foul. If she were dead, he’d be distraught. “It’s all my fault. We had a fight, and she jumped out of the car.” Alex began practicing his story. “I started to follow her but it was dark, and she was running. She’d had a lot to drink, and she was stumbling about something terrible. ‘Keep away from me,’ she said. And she was taking awful chances running full tilt through the brush. I was afraid that if I kept chasing her she’d fall and hurt herself.” No−better yet – “she told me ‘if you don’t leave right now I’ll drown myself.’ She kept screaming ‘I’ll drown myself. I’ll do it. Don’t think I won’t!’ She kept shouting it over and over. So I told her ‘Okay, have it your way. I’m leaving. You don’t have to run anymore.’ I said to her, ‘Call me tomorrow, and I’ll pick you up.’ I thought she’d be okay. There was a house just a few hundred feet down the road from where I left her. She was acting so weird and it scared me and I just wasn’t thinking very clearly.”

He saw it all. It was simple, really. He’d never be blamed. Maybe he’d answer a few difficult questions, but there’d be nothing more than that. And Alex sighed bitterly. “God, help me. I won’t do it,” he said. Instead, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed “911”.

They arrived in minutes−instantly, it seemed to Alex. First a lone patrol car with two cops. When Vivian didn’t answer their shouting, they called for backup. Several more cars arrived, then a search and rescue unit, and some volunteers with dogs. They set up floodlights bright enough to illuminate a football stadium, and began combing the area where Alex said he’d last seen Vivian. All this fuss seemed strange. Oh, he’d had plenty of fuss poured over his head during the last several years, but it was never because of something stupid that he’d done. None of these people even knew Vivian, and yet they searched as though she were someone important.

One of the first two officers drew Alex aside. He’s just a kid, thought Alex. Red hair, freckles; he could have been Opie.

“What happened here, sir?” the cop asked.

“We had a fight.” Alex wondered if the cop had a hidden microphone. And he wondered how much he was slurring the words. Was it obvious that he was drunk? He didn’t feel drunk. Suddenly everything was clear and amazingly simple. Vivian could be hurt. She could be in danger. Or she might be dead. Nothing else mattered. And that’s why people came with their dogs to climb through the brushy banks of the pond when they’d rather be sleeping. Because nothing else mattered.

“She stormed out of the car.”

“She stormed out?”

“No.” Alex stopped, shaking his head helplessly. “Wait a minute.”

“Take your time,” said the officer.

“We fought. I said, ‘maybe she’d rather walk.’ She said, maybe she would. So I pushed her out of the car.”

“Why did she say she’d rather walk?”

“Because I was trying to scare her.”

“Scare her?”

“I was…I swerved the wheel. The car fishtailed. I slammed on the brakes. I sent it skidding. It almost jumped the side of the bridge.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I was very drunk.”

The officer hesitated. He called over his partner. Then he began the words of the Miranda Rights. “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right…”

Alex knew this was coming. They cuffed his hands behind him, ducked his head under the doorframe, and sat him down in the back of the patrol car. Alex wondered if he would regret his honesty after the liquor had worn off the next morning.

They took him back to one of the police stations on Martha’s Vineyard, and he found himself in a small gray room with the only door locked. Alex had the disoriented sensation of not knowing exactly where he was. He stared at his hands. It all seemed so strange. Funny, Alex thought, he should be terrified, but he wasn’t. In a dazed sort of way, he felt like he’d just come home. Maybe it was the liquor, because Alex didn’t believe that it could be God.

Two sergeants walked in – officers Maxwell and Dugan according to their name tags.

“So how did all of this happen?” asked the one called Maxwell. He had pepper gray hair and a slightly darker mustache.

“You’ll forgive me if I talk slowly,” Alex said. “I’m used to lying, so it’ll take some doing to come up with the truth.”

‘Got to be the liquor,’ thought the officer.

“And I need a lawyer, but first, let me tell you about tonight. And, listen, can you let me know when you find my wife.” Alex told his story slowly, and the sergeant caught it all on tape. The easiest interrogation he’d had in months.

A third policeman walked in. “Your wife is in Martha’s Vineyard Hospital.”

“Is she going to be all right?”

“There’s concussion and some swelling, and she’s still unconscious,” he said. “That’s all they know right now.”

When he thought about Vivian, all he could remember were the manipulation and the anger. Surely there were good times too. Why couldn’t he remember them? “She really is the best part of me,” said Alex to himself. “And I really treated her like a heel.” His head throbbed and his mind bounced around as if on springs. But one thought kept surfacing, and he said it out loud. “If she dies, I’ll be charged with manslaughter, won’t I?” He looked at the officer.

“Not necessarily. Cooperate. Tell them everything.”

Alex smiled wryly. “If I tell them everything, I’ll never get out of prison.”

‘It’s got to be the liquor,’ thought the officer.

The next day dawned amid iron and concrete for Alex. A pale yellowish light illuminated a sink and toilet in the left corner of the cell. Not even that is private, he thought.

Alex took a deep breath. His head ached, and it made his other senses more acute. Somewhere off to the right, metal clanged against metal, reverberating harshly off the hard surfaces with no rugs or curtains or pillows to soften the sound. It was so strange, having no control over himself or his surroundings. A mysterious “they” determined where Alex would be and what he would do.



Alex sat on his bunk staring at the blanket. He set about removing all the lint bumps with his fingers. There was precious little to occupy his time. He had no watch, and no way to know how long before something would happen – breakfast, lunch, exercise – any break from the monotony would be welcome.

“Visitor, Lidecker.” Even the guard’s voice was harsh, and the unexpected sound jerked Alex to his feet. Nothing seemed real. It was as though his mind were in some pathetic movie. Head throbbing, he stood waiting for his body to be processed by a uniformed jailer. No one appeared quite human in here.

The visitor was Abraham Franklin, “the best lawyer money could buy” if you could believe his business card. Weasel had made the arrangements. Alex had never needed a criminal lawyer before. Alex eyed the business card through a thick plate of glass. Then he eyed Mr. Franklin. Thin, balding, and immaculately dressed, he stood out from the surroundings like a Rembrandt in a five and dime shop.

His small eyes studied Alex. “What the hell was in that drink?” He finally asked. His thin lips split into a smile. Alex just shrugged, and Abraham Franklin continued. “The only words out of your mouth last night should have been ‘I want my lawyer.’ You’re no fool. What the hell happened?”

“I can’t really explain. I just felt like I wanted to make a clean breast of it. Needed to confess. So badly. Like cleaning gangrene out of a festering wound. Cleaning out the rotting muck and saving the soul. It sounds so stupid now. I don't know what else to tell you.”

“Well, don’t ever do anything like that again. If you want to confess, talk to your lawyer, or talk to a priest, but for Heaven’s sake, don’t talk to the police.” Abraham Franklin threw his hands up into the air and shook his head. “We’ll suppress everything you said last night. I really am the best lawyer money can buy. Your friend Mr. Scoggins with his connections should be able to help as well.”

Abraham Franklin grimaced like a leprechaun with a stomachache. “Your wife is in a coma right now. If she lives, all they’ll have on you is drunk driving. No problem. We can bargain that down to nothing. If she dies, that’s a whole different ball game. It’s manslaughter and all your boy-scout enthusiasm from last night will stir up some real shit.”

“If she dies…” Alex couldn’t grasp that. Surely Vivian would be fine. She couldn’t die. Not after all that happened last night. “She can’t die,” Alex said feebly.

“We’ll figure something out. You were upset about your wife. The police took advantage of you.”

“The funny thing is…” Alex ran his hands through his hair and grimaced from the hangover. “The funny thing is I don’t want to suppress any of it. This is the first time in years that I feel…I feel like I’m real.”

“As they say on TV, you’re in a heap of trouble, boy. Now be a good little soldier, and shut your trap and let me do my job.”



Alex posted ten thousand dollars in bail. The Weasel had wired it. He stopped at the house just long enough to wash the grime of jail off of his body, and to put on clean clothes. From there he drove as quickly as possible to Martha’s Vineyard Hospital. “Vivian Lidecker,” he told the volunteer at the front desk, and was directed to intensive care.

Inside the enclosure, Vivian lay motionless hooked up to monitors, her face swollen and splotched with purple, yellow, and dried blood. It didn’t look like Vivian. It didn’t look human. Alex walked up to her and cautiously took her hand. He feared touching her, feared that he might break her. Vivian looked so fragile, so vulnerable. But Vivian had always seemed vulnerable. At least she did ever since he married her. Funny she had been so spunky in college, determined, and sure of herself. What had happened between then and now?

He touched Vivian’s hand tentatively, torn between two prisons, the one of steel and concrete and crass bodies, and the other attached to Vivian’s hand – a dead body that hasn’t died yet. He pulled his hand away as if he’d been holding manure. He began to wonder, could Abraham Franklin pull it off? What if he told them to pull the tubes and pumps, and let her go? Could Abraham Franklin beat the charges? No. He had to at least wait it out a respectable amount of time. Alex, more than anyone else on earth, knew the value of appearances. And so he took her hand again.













Chapter Forty ─ One





Ivan’s reporters were able to find records of all the documents Johanna needed to fly to the Middle East. Curiously, none of her friends or acquaintances had known that she was planning to leave the country. And no one had received a letter, post card, e-mail, or smoke signal from her since that day. “Bloody hell!” he said out loud. Would it have somehow made a difference if he’d let her print her columns in the Gazette, he wondered.

“If they can risk their lives, we can bloody well risk our jobs.” That’s what Johanna had said before she created her website. Well, thought Ivan, if she can risk her life, I can bloody well risk my job. And he began to type.

The Upstart Gazette

“Our liberty depends on freedom of the press,

and that cannot be limited without being lost.”



“Dear Readers,

One of my writers, Johanna Jacobson, is missing. If you know anything about her, please contact the newspaper.

Now here’s the worrisome part. According to the police, she boarded a plane for the Middle East; but according to her friends, she was in Berkeley while the plane was taking off. And I know Johanna. She’s done some dingy things, but I’ll bet my diploma that flying off to Iran isn’t one of them. So I’m worried about her.

Johanna wrote the column “Earth Songs,” and she wanted to use her column to protest the Iraq war, only I wouldn’t let her because it wasn’t politically correct. The fables that she wanted to print are on her website www.Fairytalesfortherestofus.com

When you open your paper, you deserve the truth−the best product we can offer. Instead, we’ve been feeding you great drama. But we left out the unpleasant parts and the controversial parts, and the parts that might be costly for the wrong people. We slant the news in favor of corporations, some of whom made 1000% and greater profits in Afghanistan and Iraq.

As to the Iraq war, the United States is clearly the aggressor nation.

The newspapers barely mention petroleum. More than half of our crude oil is imported, and we need Iraq’s petroleum to keep oil companies’ profits high and to keep us driving. And most car commercials are promoting SUVs. Few communities are improving their mass transit systems, or encouraging citizens to drive less.

Thirty percent of you believed that weapons of mass destruction had been found in Iraq, and eighteen per cent of you believed that they had been used against our troops. Not true!

Global warming has begun to melt glaciers and erode coastlines. Climate in Alaska is changing. Stronger storms and rising oceans threaten the existence of some islands and low-lying areas. But no one talks about it – at least not in this country. And no one will−until some massive hurricane devastates a large area of the United States.

Our world is overcrowded. In the sixties, we talked about it. Now it’s a forbidden subject. And, as long as the world is overcrowded and people are greedy, we’ll have wars.

We can’t print the whole truth anymore because censorship happens, more than you realize.

American civil liberties are in danger. Freedom of speech, freedom of the press, and freedom from unlawful search and seizure have already been compromised.

Odds are that I’ll be fired – better to go out in a blaze than a whimper.

Sincerely,

Ivan Buncheski, your editor”



They fired Ivan that afternoon. He didn’t have a chance to get the next day’s edition to press. Gerald Vance, the owner’s son-in-law, replaced him. Loyal Gerald Vance! He could be trusted. He understood how to play the newspaper game.



First off, Gerald Vance called everyone together for a meeting. "You all know why Ivan was fired. He got creative with the newspaper, and put his own wishes against the good of the paper. Should any of you decide you can’t follow orders, you’ll be fired too. What are these orders? Very simply, everything ready for press goes through me−every article, every advertisement, every obituary, every semicolon, every period. Nothing hits the paper without my approval. Any questions? No? Good. Back to work, everyone. We have a paper to get out.”

Occasionally, Gerald Vance was seen cursing under his breath and tossing a paper in the hopper to be shredded. Otherwise, it was business as usual with an extra helping of glowing praise for America’s leaders.





Alex went to the hospital every day. Fortunately his schedule was busy enough that he could make the visits short.

After the first few days he’d become used to the surreal scene – catheter, IV tube, monitors. And he got used to putting on the mask of a devoted husband. “I’m right here with you,” he said picking up Vivian’s hand. “I’m here baby.”He crooned softly to her, and then stilled his voice allowing his mind to leave the room. Because he needed a plan in case Vivian didn’t wake up.

Meanwhile, Vivian was on life support, buying Abraham Franklin precious time to plan his defense. How unfair his life was!

Two weeks had passed. Vivian’s face was losing its puffiness and becoming more human. Alex took her hand. Well, Vivian, you’re getting your revenge now, he thought. You’re half dead and I’m shackled to you, and we’re going down together like the Titanic.

At home Alex’s mailbox was stuffed with cards. “We’re all praying for you.” “God bless you both. If we can help in any way…” “May God’s peace and love surround you during this difficult time.” And each night a casserole and salad arrived at his house with a hand-written note from someone in the parish.

Most evenings, the casserole went straight into the garbage disposal. Alex preferred eating out. The house had too much of Vivian’s essence – paintings she had arranged in the living room, the China pattern they had picked out after they had gotten engaged, the fragrance of Vivian’s perfume lingering in her side of the closet – the whole house was saturated with Vivian.

But on one evening after a tentative knock at the door, Alex decided he was too exhausted to go out. He accepted the Tupperware dish, its contents still piping hot, and he murmured some appropriate gratitude to a beaming middle-aged lady in a purple coat. He’d forgotten her name, but covered admirably.

She’d baked him a tamale pie, pungent with garlic and peppers. Suddenly Alex was ravenous. After a tentative bite, Alex poured himself a beer, shoveled a mammoth portion onto a plate and ate like a starving man. Doubtless, it was the peppers that made him dream as he did.



Visions flashed, running towards him like ghosts in a haunted house. First, Pastor Woodrow’s voice rang out. ”It’s not a matter of walking miles wearing rags, but a matter of confession and repentance…”

Then Vivian’s bloated face begged, “please, Alex.”

Sand and rubble, and the kind of heat that dried life out of the desert swirled above and below him. Turbaned, olive-skinned shadows shoveled bodies into ditches, and within those ditches, the bodies lay piled high like plague-killed cattle, silent but for an occasional moan or high-pitched scream.

Then Vivian’s face appeared, scratched and bleeding. Her eyes – were they begging, accusing him, or hating him, or were they still in love with him in spite of everything?

“Stop,” his shouting woke him, shaking, crying. In the darkened room, Chesterville’s Complete Book of Spells whirled before Alex’s eyes. He smelled the musty paper. And he heard the words as if spoken aloud. “For a price. For a price.” The words shouted through the darkened stillness over and over: “Dragged by wild oxen. …not a chasm of flames, but in the human mind and heart.”

“It’s not a matter of walking miles wearing rags, but a matter of confession and repentance.”

No future, no hope, nothing inside like a soul, thought Alex. No, Alex had written his path. He had to walk it. He staggered to the bathroom, and rummaged through the medicine cabinet for Vivian’s sleeping pills. With , jittery hands, he shook out a half dozen pills and swallowed them, cupping his hand under the faucet for water with which to wash them down, then staggered back to bed.

Vivian’s bloated face wrapped around him. Her essence, a whispering ghost, lay beside him and blew through him like a chill wind.

“Not a matter of walking miles wearing rags, but a matter of confession and repentance.”

He sat bolt upright, crying out into the night. “Let Vivian live. Let her live. If you just give back her life, if you just let her live, I’ll go to Pastor Woodrow. I’ll tell him everything. Just make this thing be over.”

The next morning, he called the pastor. “I need to talk to you−as soon as possible.”

On the other end of the phone, Pastor Woodrow checked his appointment book. “I have time tomorrow at eleven. Can you meet me at the church?”

“Fine.” Alex’s terror melted. The sharpness drained from his voice. “I’ll rearrange my schedule. Thank you very much.”

Instead of driving to the White House, he searched out the public library – the main branch. He handed a list of literature to the clerk at the desk: the script to the opera, “Faust”, “The Devil and Daniel Webster”, and “Damn Yankee” – the classic stories of lost souls. He read for hours, scrutinizing the Devil’s pacts, and the critics’ analyses. He wrote notes on a Steno pad, but most of the notes were silly, and he scratched most of them out. At the end of seven hours, he had two sentences, two themes that kept showing up in the commentaries: “Love,” and “repent and forgive”.

Hell was real, an actual state of mind like the hell on earth he’d been experiencing for some time now. Finally he wrote a third note “it’s all superstition?” And he left the library.



Early the next morning, Alex got a surprise call from John Holcomb, one of Vivian’s doctors. “We have good news, Mr. Lidecker. Vivian has regained consciousness. She opened her eyes, and she even said a few words. We’re all optimistic. It’s too early to be sure, but given the very encouraging signs, I expect a near-perfect recovery.”



Feeling decidedly awkward, Alex entered Pastor Woodrow’s office. “How’s Vivian doing?” asked the pastor. “We’re all praying for her.”

“She woke up yesterday. She’s able to talk a little. The doctors are hopeful.”

Thanks be to God,” said the pastor.

“The prayers really helped. It’s been rough the last few weeks, but I think the worst is over. Thank you for being here for me. I just needed someone to talk to, but it looks like the sorrow is over, and light is shining. I’ll be fine. I just wanted someone to talk to.” And he left the pastor’s office unhealed.



From the pastor’s office, Alex drove to the White House, with a throbbing headache. He tried to concentrate on a pile of reports, but gave up after a few minutes. “I’m not feeling well,” he told his secretary. “Cancel my appointments. I don’t care who wants to see me. I’m going home.”

He all but ran to his car, and, driving home, he turned up the radio’s volume trying to drown out the words that played over and over in his mind.

“Hell and damnation lie not in chasms of flames but in the human heart.” “I love you. I’ll always be with you.” “Agony not of flesh but of mind and soul.”

On entering his house, Alex headed straight to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a Jack Daniels – neat. He drank it and poured another one. Then he searched through his dresser until he found the pistol and pack of bullets that he’d carried with him since his CIA days. He loaded the pistol’s cylinder and sat staring at the weapon as the words poured through his soul with a will of their own. “I love you. I’ll always be with you.” “Not in chasms of flames but in the human heart.” “Agony not of flesh but of mind and soul.” “Not a matter of walking miles wearing rags, but a matter of confession and repentance.”









Chapter Forty ─ Two





They never did figure out who put together the front page of the Upstart Gazette that day. Lester Jenkins who ran the presses had to be involved as did Pamela Mason. She was the one who shredded documents, and she was probably the one who had rescued the letter that appeared on the front page on December 17th. Lissa Caldwell had been Ivan Buncheski's personal secretary for fourteen years. She had opened his mail, and now provided the same service for Gerald Vance. She was probably in on it too.



The Upstart Gazette

Evil wins when good men and women sit silent.



A hundred thousand people died to keep me rich. My country paid me billions for doing worse than nothing. But if you met me, you’d probably like me. You see, I’m a liar, and a very good one. I can make you believe anything. I can feed you vomit on a stick, and you’ll swallow it and ask for more. It’s a gift that I have, or maybe it’s really a curse.

And I work in the White House.

America, you need to wise up. We’re a country that focuses too much on P. R. – on appearance – and overlooks substance. And meanwhile, democracy in America is dying. You’re giving up your freedom, your goods, and even your safety in the name of national security.

The world’s best hackers work for Homeland Security. We’re bugging everyone, not just terrorists or even suspected terrorists, but senators, congressmen, and anyone who questions what we do. Just watch – senators and congressmen who stick their necks out usually get caught on the wrong end of a scandal. It’s what Nixon tried to do when his men were caught breaking into the Watergate hotel. It’s how we passed the Patriot Act.

Hitler said that the memories of the masses are short. That’s what I was banking on – that you wouldn’t remember enough to compare yesterday’s statements with today’s news. And it’s safer and more comfortable to forget. But you must remember and use the brains God gave you.

For example, consider the Iraq war. Dictators have used war as a diversion for centuries. And they’ve gotten rich by attacking weaker nations. We invaded Iraq on a lie. Remember the speeches before Iraq’s invasion? Remember the threats of a mushroom cloud?

After 9/11, we rounded up hundreds of suspected terrorists, and we just held them for two years. The United States doesn’t do that. Americans have rights. And if these people can be imprisoned without due process so can all of us. Are they guilty of terrorism? Or are they political opponents? But that’s not all. They’re not just being interrogated – they’re being tortured. Tortured!!! Since when has our country condoned torture?

I am responsible for many dirty tricks. I am responsible for the anthrax letters, and, with them, I tried to assassinate Senators Thomas Daschel and Pat Leahy.

I created phony scientific societies to convince Americans that global warming is only a myth.

I had voting machines rigged to produce the biggest election frauds in history.

And probably my worst dirty trick of all – I manipulated your news. I made you hate and I made you fear. I fed you the emotions opposite of all that’s good and holy on this earth.

Remember the long fight for the rights of all minorities−the marches and the protests. Some died defending human rights. Fifty years of progress could disappear in the wag of a camel’s tail. Prejudice against one minority sets a precedent for discrimination against any minority.

When you fly the American flag, remember what it stands for: human rights, freedom of speech, freedom of worship. When you say “God Bless America,” pray for our nation – for justice, for peace, for freedom.

Because of my dirty tricks, and deep tax cuts, and financial manipulations, and because of the wars, American economy has taken a huge hit. (You see a few hundred dollars from the tax cuts. We see billions, and we’re using them to buy elections.) Our bad real estate management will have millions facing foreclosure. In a few years, the whole thing will come crashing down around us. Someone else will deal with the consequences. Don’t blame him for the mess.

And don’t give up on democracy. It’s the best defense against the likes of me. In a dictatorship, everything I’ve done would be considered normal.



By Alexander Lidecker





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