‘Perspective looking in, from without.’
Turning on to Sunny Dell, we pull up to 746 and park at the Way’s curb. Exiting the vehicle I look towards Patrick’s home. An open garage door shows a red SUV. I head up the driveway towards the pathway that leads to the front door. “Come on Rojer we’re burning daylight.”
“Damn Adams chill out.” A rare non 20th century historical quip from Rojer. I gave him a look that I’d surely given Pami thousands of times. He looked disgusted and said nothing. A look I surely had received thousands of times.
With Rojer in tow I was nothing but long strides towards the path. Looking through the widow of the second garage door, I could see the top of what appeared to be an early 60’s Mustang. It was jet black. The color doesn’t mean anything to the story. Just thought you might want to know.
In few steps I was headed on to the porch and up to the front door. Ringing the doorbell, one of those percussionist chimes that seem to go on forever, I turned my head and looked to the left side of the porch. Two wooden rocking chairs surrounded a small glass-top table. Four hanging planters were filled with new flora. Rojer asked; “Were those flowers there yesterday?”
Not hearing any noise from within and witnessing the two vehicles that were not here yesterday, I set the chimes loose once again. More seconds went by than my lack of patience allowed. I questioned the lack of happening. “There are two cars here there has got to be someone home.” A dead-bolt clicked and unlatched. The door knob turned with a smooth action and the wooden door swung inward. Expecting Patrick and realizing that it was not, I hesitated with any greeting. A face that was asking for one, got what was due her. “Hello ma’am. Sorry to bother you this morning. Is Patrick at home?” I silenced; “Can Patrick come out and play?”
Door-handle well covered by her right hand, standing square in the entrance, her body language was not speaking of an entering invite. She was a diminutive woman. Size deflected, I grabbed her to be a person sturdy in stature. Mmm… mid-fifties. But please be advised that guessing a woman’s age is not one of my strengths. Her hair was what I thought a natural dark brown. There were numerous gray strands that were gasping for air of their own. She was home from work for lunch. The mid-day hour and her business ware suggested so.
She curiously thought about my inquiry of Patrick longer than seemed needed. Her head angled a single degree. “I’m sorry who?” She didn’t pause with her asking. “Patrick? A Patrick Thomas?” She looked passed me to Rojer. “I think you gentlemen may have the wrong house. There is no one here by that name.”
Rojer, who as you know has better social skills than I, and sensing a bit of uneasiness in her, offered comfort; “I’m sorry ma’am how rude of us. My name is Rojer Ousten the Curator and Monticello. And this is my friend Doctor Daniel Rengaw.” Throwing in titles was an attempt at making her more accepting of two strange men standing on her front porch. She went back to me with a stare.
“The Writer,” I said. My attempt was met with a continued blank stare. “Anyways… Rojer and I are here on behalf of the foundation that maintains Monticello.”
Studying us more, looking for a hidden clue that she should trust, she added; “There is no one by that name living here. It is only me and my twenty three year old son here.” Her head tossed inside. “He is in the kitchen.” Her words told us that trust had not been found and a twenty three year old help was just steps away.
The steps were even less now as he appeared and steadily headed towards his mother. With all that bravado shit that an immortal twenty three year old man has, he was on us. Passed over me, his wide warning eyes locked into Rojer’s. I’m not sure why Rojer came to this, but he found this protectionist moment to be an opening. Leaving son for mom, he offered; “May we please come in for just a solitary moment? We’d love to have a word with you.” His so un-Rojer-like words nearly chuckled me. Now with backup, or more so forefront, mom felt safer. It didn’t sound like trusting, there was apprehension in her tone as she asked us in to have a solitary moment with her.
Entering the front room I knew we were not at the wrong house. All furniture and décor was the same. The white Wingbacks and couches were as before. I looked to where the Hutch was, it was. The Tea Set sat pristine within. All was as the day before. However, Joseph Langkamp’s book was not on the Coffee Table. I noticed but didn’t conspire.
Rojer opened the conversation; “Ma’am….”
“Elizabeth please!” she corrected. We were now first name. Pointing at her son she added; “This is Derrick.” Expressionless, Derrick nodded. He was still soldiering the protector role. He didn’t want us to forget that he would kick our asses. Good boy!
Elizabeth turned to the seating area and asked if our comfort could be improved. “Would you gentlemen like to have a seat?” Her opening demeanor had clearly eased of us. I chose the same Wingback as yesterday. Rojer settled into the Love Seat. Elizabeth and Derrick took a position on the couch across from Rojer. Rojer seemed comfortable. I was rigid on her Patrick denials.
“Elizabeth, we were in this house yesterday and met with a man named Patrick Thomas. We spoke for around thirty seven minutes. It was two thirty-three in the afternoon.” I listened to Rojer and watched her. Edging forward she became rigidly upright.
“I’m sorry but you must be mistaken.” She turned to her right. “Derrick were you home yesterday afternoon?”
“Mom you know I was at school yesterday afternoon.”
Trying not to sound confronting, I interjected; “Elizabeth we were definitely here. This room appears almost exactly the same.” Rojer gave a concurring nod. “We even had tea served on that tea set.” I pointed to the hutch. She did not flinch towards the hutch.
“That tea set is priceless! It has not been used for over a century.” With a hint of protectionism, she informed me of that impossibility.
I spoke on toward reason; “Patrick was a man in his late forties. He was a tall slim and energetic man.” She stared at me. Her stare dented my shield of self-worth.
“Doctor Rengaw…” She took a deep breath. I felt a scolding coming. “No one lives here by that description. Or by that name. It is just me and my son. And no one physically could have been here except one of us. And at that time neither of us were.” Without relinquishing her visual grasp of me, she directed; “Derrick please go get Dad’s picture from the hutch.” She re-directed to me; “Doctor Rengaw, it does sound like you are describing my late husband.” Derrick returned and placed the framed picture into her hand. Elizabeth looked deep into love that had passed. Her eyes glazed. She reached across the table and handed her loss to Rojer. I watched Rojer as he examined the photo. Finished, with a concurring nod, he handed the frame to me.
My briefest of inspection brought excitement. “Yes! This is the man. This is Patrick.” So delicately and so swiftly she took the photo back.
She looked into it again and said; “This is my husband Thomas! His name is not Patrick!” She raised her eyes and looked into mine. “Thomas passed away years back.”
“I’m sorry.” My regretful reply was automatic. Elizabeth sighed of missing. Derrick, with his mother starting to become upset, determined that our time was up. Puffing his chest as square as a young man can, he stood walled to Rojer. I understood it, but still I felt slighted. Why was it that Derrick had determined Rojer to be the biggest threat? Almost funny, like a William Shatner over-act, Derrick gave both of us Tasmanian-Devil eyes. This made me feel a little better.
Roger recognized our not so subtle invitation to leave. Non-confrontationally Rojer eased to a stand. Graciously to our inviters he said; “Thank you for your time. Sorry to have bothered you. Elizabeth you have a lovely home.”
Not being whatever I wasn’t being at that moment, I was not so convinced that our conversation was at end. Therefore I di
d not ease anywhere. But with all three of them active in the goodbye ceremony, I understood we were indeed leaving. Oh I wasn’t happy about it; but what you gonna do?
Elizabeth extended her hand. I took it and thanked her for her time. We all turned and headed for the doorway. Being whatever I was being at that moment, I thanked them one more time and stepped onto the porch.
Walking across the porch I stepped down to the first of three steps. It hit me hard. I stopped, turned, and asked; “I’m sorry Elizabeth but I did not get your last name.” I saw her face being somehow different. A bit lighter. Elizabeth paused only long enough to create a beautifully subtle smile. She looked into my eyes and retrieved a file from my mind. One word, she said; “Paine.” She directed this name with proud exclamation. Rojer audibly gasped. It was sudden and brief. Into her blue eyes I was held. I was seeing her. “My husband’s Great, Great, Great Grandfather, was an immigrant new to this county when he wrote Common Sense.” She paused teasingly. “You’ve heard of it Doctor Rengaw?”
Her words were a hurricane. The calm eye I knew to be true. The frantic winds of the outer bans tossed me about. Still looking intently at the source of the tempest, I heard; “Let’s go Danny.” Rojer’s words broke and wavered. Far too deep in thought, my self-preservation kicked in. Firmly grasping the rail for the last two steps seemed best.
I wanted to speak, but I had not a beginning. Less scared but more loud; “Let’s go Danny!” Turning my back to Elizabeth I successfully navigated those two steps and headed down the pathway. I tried to process but lacked a baseline for these events. Rojer was drunkenly stumbling to the Falcon’s safety. He wanted to sober himself; from her, from here, from this.
A sense of knowing that I couldn’t explain, I was waiting for it. The it that there was one thing more. Elizabeth called to me in a solemn tone. “Mr. Rengaw…” Rojer’s eyes peered at her over the roof of the Ford. The one more thing. Mentally bracing I turned slowly. With my full attention confirmed by my eyes finding hers, she popped out; “Forty three.”
“Forty three?” I asked.
“We have had forty three different men as our president.” She gave me this, paused, and then unwrapped the gift. “The former Governor of Ohio, the man Cleveland Ohio was named after, Grover Cleveland, he was both our 22nd and 24th president. Forty-three!”
Both pleased and confused, I replied; “Yes! That is perfect. But how did you…” There; all of her was the contentment of oxygen molecule’d with the empathy of hydrogen. This was the acceptance that she compounded for me. This was the still water that she wished pooled within me.
With this, Elizabeth was no more. There was a metallic click.
On our way to the airport, silence was our communication of choice. This of course was partly due to my lack of vehicle etiquette. But mostly, revisiting the past seventy two hours was not somewhere that either of us wanted to go. We no doubt would have to come back. But for now, we were out of here.
I knew, or I thought I knew, that this visit to Monticello was reality without substance. It was an allusion that veered hard from the path of anything. But future time would bring a change. An understanding of allusion that would create a reality. A reality that never before had been real.
Pulling up to the drop-off area, my mind was decompressing. It seemed that my imminent departure was allowing my questions to be without attempted answers. I had become reflectively passive. My three hour flight would surely deny my passivity. But for now I was free.
Still, one concept had my full attention. Wherever my thoughts were going to travel, they better have arrived by wheels down. I better have had full reflection before joining and enjoying my wife. My Pamila, my soon to have adventure at The Brown Palace, deserved reflection complete. Or at least shelved. The Incident would have to wait.
Rojer and I got out of the Flying Falcon and made our way to the trunk. Rojer opened it and grabbed my traveling gear. He looked into my eyes and asked for a single slice of clarity; “Danny, what the hell?”
“I don’t know Rojer. I guess we’ll figure it out.”
We hugged like two soldiers that had survived the Normandy landing on D-day. I had turned and was heading towards the entrance. Rojer called; “Danny I love ya buddy!” I looked back at my best friend. “But Danny, I don’t think I want you to come back here again.” It was perfect.
“No problem Rojer. You’re getting fired anyways remember.”
“Oh yeah! I guess I’ll have to come live with you and Pami.” It was our final laugh.
Just as I started to turn Rojer gave me a gift; “Danny, pull down your pants and slide on the ice.” Doctor Sydney Freidman’s words never held more meaning.
I watched as he started climbing in. “Rojer?” His head popped back out of the Falcon. Looking into his anticipating face, I riddled; “What has four upon. That in time are one, three, sixteen, and twenty six?” Rojer’s wheels were spinning. Aggravation was in the shake of his head.
“You suck Danny.”
“Yeah I know. Get back to me on that.” He smiled.
“I always do Danny.”
He got back in the car and pulled away. Back home to Monticello. A place that history holds as most reverent. A place that I no longer do. Not this day.
After getting a quick bite to eat and checking in, I found a seat next to an elderly woman. As soon as I sat I questioned my choice. Remember my recent track record. It hit me hard. Sunny Dell Way; S D W; they were, messing with me.
A few minutes into my choice, the woman asked; “Are you going to Colorado?”
“Yes I am. After a brief stop in Denver I’m going home.”
“Where is home Honey?”
“Morrison Colorado.” She seemed to be running this through her thoughts.
“Oh yeah! Morrison. I’ve been to Morrison. Quaint little town.” She thought for a moment and enthusiastically added; “Morrison is in Jefferson County isn’t it?” A smile of irony eased onto my lips. Maybe afraid to, I did not look at her.
“Yes it is,” I answered.
“What do you do there?”
“I chase a feather in a breeze.”
This is the end; of the beginning.
Words From the author.
What… ninety seven thousand three hundred and thirty words are not enough? However, The Big Book of Writer Courtesy, tells me that I must marvel you with deep philosophical thoughts, or enlighten you with my wisdom. (I hate that stupid book.)
The truth being that I am not that bright and only about half as deep as Mervin’s empty water-bowl.
I do however hope that you enjoyed this book, and maybe learned a thing or two. And now that you are about to put the story aside, I hope that you will miss the friends that you have met. If you will miss, you are in luck. Daniel, Pamila, Rojer, others, and new others, will all return in early Winter of 2015. The second part of this tale, ‘Two Lost Souls’, will bring them all together again.
(Shameless Plug.)
I’ll leave you with one last piece of advice. When that person who’s had their left turn-signal on for the last five miles finally cuts you off, pull down your pants and slide on the ice. (Deep huh?)
Speak with you soon.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends